I’m not sure who came up with the phrase, it gets easier as time moves on, but it doesn’t. It gets different. You get different. But it doesn’t get easy. That’s probably the most inaccurate adjective to use to describe this lifelong journey that you’re forced to embark on after the death of your child.

I was going through the notes on my iPhone a few minutes ago, looking for one of the hundreds of quick mental notes that I had jot down to myself. I do this a lot. Both write and reread these little notes. I actually stumbled upon one that my dear friend Justin left on my phone that I hadn’t discovered yet. It made me smile.

But I also saw the notes from Semptember when we were finalizing our list of baby names. And ironically, I saw the name Kamren Grey at the very bottom of one. Funny to think now that it was the last name on the list, but clearly the most important. Hindsight is 20/20.

I also saw I note I made a few weeks after we lost Kam. February 1st, at 9:50 PM. I love that my iPhone automatically catalogs them for me. It was just such a raw and gut wrenching note. To me, from me.

I wonder if this pain will ever stop. If I’ll ever be at peace with losing Kamren. I don’t imagine I will. I’m not sure how it will ever be humanly possible to live life, or enjoy life without my little boy. Nothing in life has meaning anymore. Everything is dark. And when I see the sun it’s just a slap in the fucking face. How can the sun shine?! How can the world around me be so alive, when everything inside of me has died. Everything. I’m not sure why God won’t let me just come home to my son. I’m not sure why he insists on me remaining in this living hell. I’m not needed here. I serve no purpose. My entire purpose died when Kam took his last breath. I can’t wait to take mine. I anxiously await death. I anxiously await the time when I can hold my son again. And cover him in kisses. There’s nothing else I want. There is no longer any earthly treasure that could ever mean more to me. I just want to go home. Please God, just let me come home.  

Even looking at it here, copied from my note pad brings me to tears. And not because I can’t believe that I felt like that. But because most of the time I still do. I think it’s softened a little. Or maybe I’ve softened a little. But this is exactly what my life is. I still anxiously await the moment I’ll be reunited with my son, whenever that time is. I wish I could know an exact date, but it’s probably be better that I don’t. 60+ years is a lot of marking off to do on a calendar.

But no, it hasn’t gotten any easier since that Wednesday evening. Yes, it has gotten different. And no, I’m not sure how I honestly feel about the different. In no uncertain terms do I like it. Although I have come to accept it. My different. My life. My excruciating soul journey. At the end of it all, I just hope my Kam is up there proud to call me his Momma. Because I’m overwhelming proud to exclaim my undying love for him and call him my son.