Caskets & Sandboxes

How can one moment, a single act change a person. Shake them to the core and rattle loose every part of them? How do you come back after dancing with the devil in a romanticized love story that the interest of his afflictions becomes this addiction? When does moderation become maintenance? How can you break up with the one thing that can make you feel. A break from the numbness, a sliver of hope in regaining some normalcy in the chaos that swallows you? Dancing in the shadows, praying it would end. The torture of giving away a love stronger than any fairytale happy ending. How do you grieve and remember without losing tour fucking mind?

Most people when they turn 18, it's this huge happy celebration. Cake, gifts and everyone you ever met in your life has to know you are legal now. For me, that milestone was completely overshadowed by this daunting task of making plans no mother should have to make.

Parents are supposed to die first, never the child. For me, I know one day I will have parents that have passed on. Circle of life, biological facts, yet my experience defies everything natural in this world. However, my son, just 33 days old will face the God that lent him to me, just for a little bit. I know my son will take his place in paradise. Yet, I am selfish and I want my son with me. I was not ready to give him back.

November 18, 2000 was the worst day of a life that has barely even started. I would never see the day he came home with a good report card, a first crush or even a note from the teacher explaining his bad behavior. He would never say a first word, or take his first steps or even mumble for mom. Instead I would be going through memories to place in a tiny casket, with the soulless body of a tiny boy I called my son, my chipmunk.

It would be the week before my 18th birthday, I was at the funeral home making these very final plans for a life that was gone way too soon. Flipping through books of fancy boxes with satin lining, all these choices. Do I pick the Precious Moments for the inside lid? White or blue lining? Do I want the infant or child size casket? The whole time I am breaking down, losing myself with the undertakers questions. "Fuck! I shouldn't be fucking picking out caskets, I should be picking out stupid turtle sandboxes and damn racecar beds." I snap at the mention of how I want things, his obituary should not be written. He should be writing his damn alphabet, his name, not who he has left behind in passing. I storm out, holding the stupid tip of the bottle brush I had broken, making his bottles last week. Somehow, I start thinking about all those bottles. All of those he will never drink. Runs on to the list of everything; diapers he won't wear, those tiny socks that suck trying to keep together, toys he won't ever play with or that stupid crib he never slept in that I fucking had to have because it matched the changing table, dresser combo. I found that bottle brush stuck to my foot after trying to get ready to go make all the final preparations. It was meaningless to everyone else but to me it was him. He was telling me, "Mommy, it's ok, I'm safe and I will always be with you". So, outside this funeral home, I had tears streaming down my face and was trying to somehow hold my shit together because the people driving by would stare at me. I could feel their eyes watching me, judging me. I know they were thinking I was high on drugs. I was trying to talk myself into being strong. I knew I had to keep control of these emotions that were bubbling up inside, like a tornado gathering strength, picking up power and speed. Waiting on that perfect dream I could rip through, decimating anything within a mile radius of the center. I was now the ground and in dead center of the tornado. I had to become my own refuge, I could not let my parents, see me melting. I had to be strong to show them everything would be ok. "Just do whatever has to be done", I told them as I walked back into the my own hell. This somehow always saved my ass, the psyche out pep talk I gave myself had summoned just enough to get to the next step. I needed them more than ever, I just shut down without the courage to ask for anything more because the pain I laid at their feet was deafening. My dad's little buddy and my mother's first grandbaby was gone. Their baby's baby was dead and they couldn't help me this time. I had to figure out how to contain this grief. Stuck between scared and numb I had to somehow make everyone feel at peace. Shuffled from one bereavement support group to the next, I was a stone cold asshole. I hated the self-help boo hoo, poor me, pity parties with stupid people. All the while I was thinking to myself, "No, I don't wanna share." My kid, my memories and my fucking grief. "Fuck you"."Fuck this", I said often in my head, but always flew from my lips. I walked away from what could have been helpful to me. I refused to give any of it away, I would not share my beautiful boy. My thinking was if I gave it away, I'd have less of him. I already lost him, you won't get the rest. I won't give you what little moments I had, I just wouldn't even attempt it. The way he looked at me as he nursed on his bottle, the trust he had in me to understand his needs. Reading him The Cat in the Hat while he lay blindfolded under the lights at the hospital because his jaundice was at a very high level. The blue lights illuminated his yellow skin, protected in this plastic box that I couldn't climb in and be his comfort. I cried everytime I would have to lay the light blue felt across his baby blue eyes and stick the ends to the velcro tabs affixed to his temples. I would sneak my baby from the incubator and hold him, making these promises that a new mom makes. My moments would be the only thing that carried me through every milestone and meltdown. I knew the other parents in the support group had lost something too. Yet, I saw no problem asking them "miscarriage or what?" Usually their replies were from the woman tearing up over a nameless "peanut" or "bean"as the guy stood there as he were in the tampon aisle; clueless and irritated. My response was always callous and harsh. Not sure if this were my intention, but I made no effort to filter a damn word. "Lady", usually how I knew something that would be completely detrimental to this woman was coming out. "My kid had a face, a name. I can show you fucking pictures. You had a miscarriage, hell, I don't care. You didn't birth it, feed it, dress it or give it a real fucking name. Shit lady everyone has that picture. Bet if I took them all, removed the name you could not pick out your bean. I changed my son, dressed him and sang stupid songs I made up. I stared into his eyes. Did you even know if it was a girl or boy? No? Then you don't know shit." It was horrible. I was determined to keep all this hurt, pain and grief because I alone made a choice to have this baby. I was a baby having a baby. I wasn't even 18 yet and I was turning into the "get those kids off my damn yard" neighborhood ol' lady that was rumored to eat children after tricking them with candy into the oven. I had no idea how to do anything but cry and push away anything that would distract me away from grieving. Basically I took everything that was potentially great about me and became the polar opposite. I pulled away from anyone and everyone. I would only socialize when it came to passing a joint or who had pot. I would stay hidden in my room, hugging that spot he laid last, hoping to smell his scent once more. To feel connected to the boy who shared my body. The viewings came and I would stay until everyone left.

I forced smiles, through unimportant chit chat. I put on a brave face and had thick skin through the mass amount of people coming to pay final respect to my boy. At night I put on his favorite cd and would tell him good night until the day I had to say goodbye. Kissing his forehead and apologizing for not being able to keep him in my arms. Three days before I turned 18, we followed the hearse to the cemetery where my beautiful boy would be laid to rest. Watching his tiny white "Precious Moments" gold trimmed casket being carried by my closest friends and family to a six-foot hole next to my grandmother and my aunt, who knew I would never see him again. Hearing the words of the pastor, the verse about greener pastures echoing my ears while feeling the tears soaking my face are freezing from the Maryland winter. "Greener fucking pastures? Fucking seriously?" In my head this internal conversation tickles the tip of my tongue as I try to hold back what I really want to say, biting my tongue to activate the filter that has been on the fritz. "Moron he's a little baby. He didn't even see the God damned grass. You fucking took him. You selfish bastard. You could have saved him. Left him alone. Him! Why? There's dope fiends and crack heads popping out babies like Pez dispensers. Yet those kids are perfectly fine, looking forward to foster care. My kid was loved. Wanted. Had a fucking chance. Fucking hell. Why him? I deserve that, God? Jesus? Fuck the devil! God, you are the evil one." Three days until I was 18, I walked away from that cemetery, childless, hurt and broken. On that 18th birthday, already grieving my gift to myself, was the gateway to addiction, self-sabotage, and lack of empathy for anyone. I started using designer drugs on that Saturday, November 25, 2000. I would begin my love affair with mood altering substances using "Ecstasy", for the first time ever. Taking not only one green 4 leaf clover but two and chasing the pills with a stiff drink in one hand and a "left-handed" cigarette, begging to be fired up. To another reality, I began a torrid love affair with substances and a vendetta against the world. I challenged my faith in God, tormented my body and soul, using these chemicals to evoke reactions otherwise out of my usual passive attitude. I was beginning a game of Russian roulette with no chance of survival because every chamber was loaded. I knew now, how much power was released when the cold metal was squeezed forcing the barrel to expel the bullet. I controlled the game. I made the decisions and I became trigger happy and completely careless.

Baby Joey & Mommy.

I know I was in a place of regret and fears.

My entire life was now on display. Between the medical examiner and the entire investigation I became exhausted. I was going to do what I needed to do to get through this life.

Party Days:

God, I know this may be a lot to ask, but if Baby Joey was here, I would sit him on my lap and tell him the stories I knew about you. Since, you have him, can you please sit him on your lap and tell him stories about me instead?