I didn't cry the night my son died. Some kind of adrenaline kicked in and I was just moving on fumes. However, some friends came over to my house and started cleaning and stuff. Two friends cooked us dinner. I mostly sat in the bed and stared at the TV. When my cooking friend came up and asked me for a potato peeler, I finally burst into tears. Why? Because we didn't HAVE a potato peeler and I was embarrassed to admit that I just used a little knife.
I didn't do television interviews, but I did plenty of other interviews: with KODA for organ donation, with the newspaper, with LE, the coroner, and the countless friends who filed in one after the other to help. For the most part, I was composed, steady-voiced, and articulate. That is, until someone said something off the wall.
I yelled at KODA when, during the interview, they asked me how often my son drank alcohol and smoked. (He was a small child.) I yelled so loudly at them, and used so many choice words, that the police officer standing next to me actually chuckled out loud. It's not something I would do under other circumstances.
Yeah, grief does weird stuff to you.
On the day he died, I had dressed with care, since I was getting ready to go to my book signing when I discovered him. The shirt and skirt combo was one I'd purchased the week before. He'd been with me in the store. It was a whole day of us together. At one point someone, who didn't know what else to say, told me that my outfit was "cute." I felt like I'd been punched in the gut because it immediately reminded me of how much fun we'd had on the day I'd bought it. And how we'd never be able to do that again. I honestly can't imagine preening to the camera, laughing a little, and talking about said outfit like CW did about his T-shirt.
The couple that came over fixed my favorite meal: fried salmon patties, macaroni and tomato juice, mashed potatoes, and cornbread (I'm a southern mountain girl). It was all gorgeously cooked. And I took one bite and threw it all up and had to go back to bed.
I slept all right, but only after they dosed me with lethal levels of Tylenol PM. I hated sleeping. Hated it because there was always this second upon awaking in which I'd forget about what happened. For just a second or two, life would feel "normal" again. And then reality would come sliding in, hitting me in the head like a brick. It was absolute torture.
There are other child loss parents on this board. I am certain that while the details of our experiences may vary, they probably have similar stories to mine.
