I'm Okay

Andreas Mateo Jacquez. Andreas Mateo Jacquez. Andreas Mateo Jacquez. I repeat his name to myself all day long with the fear that if I don’t he will start to slip away. As time moves on, memories fade. It’s only natural. But I never want to forget him. Please. Don’t let me forget how it felt to hold him and kiss his teeny little head. I refuse to forget how he would grasp his tubes and suck on them like a pacifier. I miss rejoicing as we watched him kick his hands and feet to show us that he was feeling good that day. I want to tell the whole world about him, but what do I say? He spent such a short time on Earth and yet he means everything. What can I say that will help others understand? For 12 days he withstood poking, prodding, medication adjustments (surely resulting in headaches and nausea) and isolation. My recovering body could not physically withstand the NICU for long, so my visits were always too short. He was so fragile that no one could hold him. I worry that he felt alone. I can only pray that angels were with him to lift him up and bring him comfort. He was so pure, so innocent- surely he was never left alone.

What am I supposed to say when people ask how I am doing? I know they are asking with a genuine heart, so I want to give a genuine answer. But it’s complicated. Sometimes I notice that people expect me to be feeling better. To be more functional. Usually it doesn’t seem to be in a negative, “Why are you still moping?” kind of way, but in a hopeful, supportive, loving kind of way. The problem is that if you really want a truthful answer, I’m not okay.

On a good day I can spend some time doing a chore or two or three. Maybe talk to a friend or run an errand. Admittedly, making plans with friends is risky because there are days that leaving the house just isn’t possible. Sometimes I push myself to go just to end up in tears at Target. Luckily, when good friends meet good days there is room for some healing. Mario and I have been building a garden together, which has been an outlet for both of us. I am grateful for fresh air and a partner who loves, supports, and grieves with me in his own way.

Many of my days are middle-ground days. On these days the tears flow freely, but only when I am alone. Around others I am skilled at disguising my truth and distracting myself just enough to keep going. Unfortunately, fighting the heartache becomes the most difficult at night. No matter how tired I am, how little sleep I’ve had that week, how many medications I take- I cannot sleep. I think and think and think and think and think for hours. It. Never. Shuts. Off. Help.

More days than I would like to admit are dark days. Can’t stop crying for anything days. Barely enough energy to move from the bed to the couch days. Can’t concentrate for more than 2 minutes at a time days. When it gets really bad, my eyes are forced closed. Suddenly I am back in the NICU reliving holding my baby boy as he takes his last breaths. It feels incredibly real. I can’t get out- and in many ways I don’t want out because I long to be there and hold Andreas again. But something doesn’t feel quite right. I feel trapped- like a prisoner. I can’t catch my breath. I can’t move. My heart races and the room spins. And when my eyes are finally forced open, it takes my mind many moments to adjust to the vision of the actual room that I had entirely forgotten I was in.

When someone asks me how I am doing, how do I explain all of that in one breath? I can’t. Until someone has a better idea I guess I will stick with, “Oh, I’m okay.” But do you know what I am most definitely not? Okay. I am not okay.

Tonight I read a quote from another grieving mother: “Grief feels like homesickness without ever being able to return home.” Even though I know there is a divine plan and I know I will hold Andreas again, the only thing that can cure my everlasting homesickness is to rock my boy in my arms now. I have decided that time will not make this better. Maybe it will become easier to cope and run errands and do homework, but the truth is that Andreas is gone and nothing can bring him back to me in this life.

So This Is Grief

I’m sorry for your loss.

Until recently, I thought those words felt so insincere. Now that I have heard them over and over again I realize that they are more than they seem. Because those that love you, really mean it. Because what else is there to say? Because with a loss so deep, sometimes there are truly no other words.

There is, however, a different five word phrase that has come to mean more to me than I ever could have known: “We will never forget Andreas.” I am terrified that he will disappear. His time on Earth was so short, it’s starting to feel like he was never here. If his own mother feels that way, how quickly might he disappear in others’ memories. But he is loved fiercely. He is a spirit son of God, just as real as you or me or the person that you love most in this life.

Am I a mother? Of course I am. But I hardly feel like a parent. I never heard him cry. Never changed a diaper. Never so much as held him until we knew he was leaving us. In fact, the only parenting decision we got to make for Andreas was whether to attempt resuscitation. And when it came down to it I couldn’t even make the decision, leaving Mario to do it on his own.

Every day I sit in his unfinished nursery to remind myself that he is real. I rock alone where I thought I would rock my sweet boy. I picture myself feeding him, changing his diaper, singing him to sleep, and laying him in his crib. I picture my heart as whole. And those moments are the only time that I feel okay, even for an instant.

There is so much more that we are grieving than I can even put into words. It took us over a year to finally get pregnant with Andreas. He is our miracle. Now we have to wait two more years, they say. What an awfully long time for this crib to sit empty. I don’t know that my mama heart will survive.

Will I ever be okay? Realistically, I know the answer is yes. Right now it feels impossible- like the notion is laughable. Sometimes I wonder if I will wake up from this dream. In the morning I reach for my belly, and it’s a painful reminder that this is real. My energy level is so low that a short trip to the store immobilizes me for the rest of the day and sometimes for the next day too. I grind my teeth so hard that the resulting headache never subsides. The things that used to bring me joy no longer do.

So this is grief. What a dark being you are. You are not my friend. And yet, I can’t let go of you. I fear losing you means losing Andreas more than I already have. So maybe we can try to coexist in harmony. What do you say, worth a shot? No? Okay thanks anyway.