Year 6

Dear Abraham,

I feel like I type the same thing year after year. It’s those days of limbo again. You know, the ones between your birthday and your Jesus Day where my mind is just waiting for you to die all over again. I was so ignorantly blissful during these days when you were alive, but now it’s impending doom every year. It’s so silly, because I know it’s a different year and time, but year after year I feel like I’m back in the hospital by your bedside. Except now, I’m looking at myself from the outside… looking at myself looking at you. Like I’m standing in the doorway. And I’m watching me watching you, but now I know you’ll die.

I pray that one day these days will feel joyous and wonderful. Better luck next year, I suppose.

I was doing pretty well this year. I really thought that year 6 might be the year that things would feel different. Your birthday was wonderful. Your annual blood drive went off without a hitch and we collected 46 units of blood! Our goal was 32! I feel great joy knowing that there will be so many people potentially saved by the blood that was donated in your name. We also collected money by selling craft items that will be donated to the Brayden Buntemeyer Fund after your Jesus Day.

Everything felt so great, then the weather changed. How is it autumn already? In the midst of COVID-19, the last 6 months feel like a blur. My body and my mind are having a hard time connecting time. Your big sister is doing second grade from home half the time and in person half the time. Your little sister is going to The Preschool of the Livingroom and really enjoying learning from home full time but thinks her teacher is like, the worst. I’m working virtually from home most of the time. Momma is tired.

It’s also Pregnancy and Infant Loss Awareness Month.

I feel the people around me unaware that after 6 years, I’m still grieving your death deeply and fiercely. I’ve been told “I’m so sorry we can’t accommodate your grief this year”, like I’m on some fancy vacation and all the good rooms are booked. I give my whole self to whatever I’m doing 348 days of the year, going above and beyond to be my best self and can’t get an ounce of grace for 17 days unless I take it for myself. I understand that childloss isn’t understood. It shouldn’t be, no one should have to feel this. Losing a child shouldn’t be a thing. But it is and everyone should be aware that it doesn’t go away.

Like, after 6 years it shouldn’t hurt this bad and I should gather myself and get on with it. God, I am trying. I thought this would be the year that the autumn breeze didn’t bring with it such great hurt and pain. I thought it would be the year that my PTSD diagnosis may be crossed off my laundry list of mental illnesses. I thought it would be the year that I’d be able to stay on top of things. I thought it would be the year that I would really feel God glorified through the ashes as I rose stronger.

I feel the pressure to keep up and uphold my reputation of taking bites bigger than I can manage, but somehow managing as responsibilities keep piling on top of me. But I can’t. I’m trying, but I’m drowning. You were supposed to start kindergarten this year, lose your first tooth I’m sure, drive me bananas along with your sister…. you should be here.

I’m rambling, but I miss you. I miss you and I’m so heartbroken that I have to. You are still so loved. Year after year the space between us feels like it’s growing further and further apart. Year after year I grab some imaginary string and try to bring you back to me.

Better luck next year, I suppose.