By Tracey Mixon
I remember the day I had to say goodbye to my son. I remember leaving the hospital, absolutely numb. This isn't happening to me.
Why is the sun shining? Why is this such a beautiful day? My world has just exploded into pieces and the sun is shining. Why is everything happening as normal?
I just lost my precious son and the world continues to spin, to go on, and I'm left to pick up my pieces and carry on? Can I just scream and make it all go away? Why won't the world just stop for a minute and let me take in what has happened?
It's been 48 days, my accomplishment: getting out of bed each day. Going to work. Pretending I'm ok, but I'm really not. Forcing myself to eat to sustain myself through the day.
After all, let's not forget, I also have a daughter who is almost due to have my second grandchild. She mourns her brother, I worry for her unborn child, the stress can't be good, but I know she's a mess inside, conflicted, I give her permission to be happy about the new life she's about to introduce to this world.
In my grieving I had to remember I had another child who depended on me. Her time is getting close, so I made two receiving blankets, a diaper cake and a pom pom rug for the new little angel about to enter our family. That's an accomplishment even as my grief and sorrow of losing my son seems to dominate my soul.
I am putting one foot in front of the other, albeit robotically. It's a daily accomplishment.
This post first appeared on the Alliance of Hope for Suicide Survivors forum. Reprinted with the permission of the author. Visit our moderated community of support to those who have experienced the tragic loss of a loved one to suicide.