So here we go. Initially after all this happened I did not want to go away. Now I think we are all so tired, that we need to and it is really not much of an option. I think about what I want to do, it will probably involve a big boat where cell coverage is minimal.
It is not that unusual, a lot of families do about a month after losing a child. We will have soldiered through about three months at the point we are able to get away, almost an entire season. You are so worn your body needs it. Your mind is sluggish. Exhausted from sleepless nights, the stress of firsts, and the loss of the innocence of living (the belief that the bad can not happen has forever fled and now you see the dangers).You look at what is left and the family has to figure out how to fit together the pieces, like a vase with crucial pieces missing. The result is still ugly. Still not what was intended or achieved for a little while. But maybe it can function, no longer some pretty masterpiece to be admired, but a simple vessel that can hold dandelions.
Up to this point, my husband and I have traded turns visiting Perry's 'hideout' (Emily terminology here) and lighting a candle every day. I think of leaving the candle as a way to leave the porch light on, although I know that one day it will be me and not Perry coming home. To tell Perry I am thinking of him. Chris admitted that to him it has a different meaning, he is trying to 'keep him warm'. These things make no sense to you, I hope. But grieving rarely makes sense.
What this means is that we are willing to let ago a little. I think we will still ask friends to light it for us, but we can leave.
For his entire existance we never left him, except for that horrible time when we were given no choice. To leave is admitting that while we may carry him in our hearts, we recognize the physical bond has been broken... This is a hard horrible truth.
This cruise will be different. We fully expected to have a lot of time to take him with us, and like Emily we intended to get him his passport. Not because of a particular trip, but in the belief that wonderful places awaited us together. We had every expectation that we would be able to introduce him to other countries, see history alive, and watch him delight in new tastes and sights.
We had EVERY RIGHT.
To be able to dress him in little tuxedos on formal night until he left us one day in one. With a new bride, a new family forming to expand the branches of our family. And then, if we were lucky, they would join us again with another child in tow.
This time I am not sure I want to be seated with other families. I want to spend my energy glueing our family together, not avoiding emotional bombs dropped by unsuspecting strangers. I am not sure everything will seem as shiny or lush. The scrutiny of passengers that loudly state they wouldn't take their children will seem harsher, and more ugly. Before it was an affront to a polite little girl who said 'thank you' to the ice cream lady, now it will seem thoughtlessly cruel.
But we need the sun. We need the gentle nudging to tell us that we survive. That this a different, but new day. That we are forging a different family, much as the newly weds will be.