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.