And Sometimes I Just Cry

Sometimes you can't do anything more than cry.  I suppose that's a normal part of grief, though it's one of the least pleasant.  In the beginning all I did was cry.  I sometimes think that tears ran down my face constantly for days.  I know that's probably not true, but with the fuzzy memories of those first weeks it very well could be ... and if not, it at least felt like it. 

I would burst into tears spontaneously at times.  Every time my milk dropped I cried.  Seeing his room, closed and empty, I cried.  Waking up through the night, thinking I heard him crying for me... I would just sob into my pillow.

A few days after coming home we went out to do some Christmas shopping.  I was comfortably numb and going through the motions.  Until the girl walked by me with her newborn laying on her shoulder.  Sleeping, peacefully, beautiful, and alive.  I just started bawling.  Brian had to hold me up, I could barely stand.  Tears just gushed from my eyes, my heart in my gut, my insides violently convulsing and hurling me towards complete meltdown.  We couldn't get out of the store quick enough.  I went home and cried some more.

Sometimes I still lay down with the blanket from the hospital. It still has the smell of hospital, of the fluids they soaked him in to keep him moist at least long enough to say goodbye, the randomness of smell only a hospital has.  You know, the smells that normally make us gag and wish we could take a breath of fresh air.  For me, though, this is the only smell of my moments with my son and I breath them in ever so deep and for a second can feel him with me again.  And I cry, ever so softly, for the emptiness within that blanket.  And I dread the day I can no longer smell him in there.

The other night at a baseball game the big screen had a "welcome to your first ball game" message ... the announcer welcomed a beautiful five-month old little boy to his first game.  And I cried and cried, silently wiping my tears.  Brian wrapped his arm around me and caressed my head.  "I know", he whispered into my ear.  My five-month old son should have been there too.

Yesterday I passed a church holding a funeral.  So many people around, so much sadness.  And I cried, remembering the day our friends and family joined us and cried for Colton.

My oldest son wanted to see pictures last night of Colton and of the funeral.  The first one started the tears and I held back the sobs that were fighting to break through.  His tiny little box, not even large enough to be considered a coffin.... Jo saying "That was as big as it was?".  Yes ... with room left inside.  Tragic they even make boxes so small.

I don't cry on a regular basis anymore, but I cry regularly. I cry when I see a baby, a pregnant woman, a cemetery, a funeral ... I cry when my breasts still drop milk and each month when my cycle starts, another month with an empty womb.  I still cry sometimes when I go near his room.  And sometimes I just cry because he's gone, no other reason necessary.  I don't cry every time I see these things or these things happen.  Sometimes its a sole teardrop streaming down my cheek; sometimes its a rushing waterfall with no possible end in sight.

Someday I am sure the physical tears will stop.  Controlling those tears, the ones people can see, is getting easier.  The tears that constantly soak my heart and drop through my veins ... those are the tears I'm not sure I will ever be free from. 

And sometimes that makes me cry.. .. ..