#7. Breathing

"Breathe baby, just breathe." 

the best advice I ever got. It's full of love, and truth. It's the four words that got me through the next few months. 

After the swarm cleared I felt as though my life was punctuated by hurdles that needed to be jumped in order to survive. Each one, insurmountable. There really is no way to explain the way it felt to be me in that time frame. I stood staring as the world went by. The cold harsh reality is, the world kept moving. I couldn't fathom how people could enjoy life. How could they? It seamed like treason to me, and spurred many feelings of resentment and loathing. 

I learned a lot about myself in the McDonald's drive through, on the way to the mortuary. They stopped for food. I was stunned to think that it was even open. I was under the impression that because my world had evaporated, the rest of the world surely didn't keep moving. I realized that was irrational, but none the less, there we were. I shook the anger, and replaced it with the task at hand.

 I sat mentally preparing myself, not for what I was about to see, but for what I needed to say to those in the vehicle with me. What did they need to hear to get through this. I rehearsed a barrage of sentiments I had picked from the million that had been tossed in my direction. Like a pile of hats, I tried them on and selected the ones that fit. Some were ridiculous, some were sensible and logical, some where so far from left field that they provided a sort of mystical comfort. Comfort was few are far between, like a lightening bug you place in a mason jar and hope it shines forever. So quickly, they burn out. 

The mortuary has a smell. It's not death in the way one would imagine, it's chemical and contrived. It's not real. 

I was forced to look at my son, the first time since they took him from me at the hospital when they confirmed the obvious truth. 

I was unsure what I was supposed to say to the mortician while they looked on.

"Thank you?" "He looks great"........so many hats, none of them fit. 

As they raised the lid on the casket I had selected, with the lining I had selected, with the child I had created inside;

I grasped the hands of those next to me and whispered,

"Remember, he's not in there. He's behind us, holding us up."

These words were regurgitated. I heard them when I was sixteen years old and stood in line at a funeral I didn't want to be at. I watched the mother of the boy I had loved since I was five years old, look into my soul with glowing eyes and say "He's not in there, he's standing behind me, holding me up." That hat fit here. 

The truth was, he didn't look good. I don't remember details, I wouldn't let myself truly look. The image I have is burned into me like a brand, I work diligently every day to overcome that sight and work towards remembering the moments before the accident. I struggle to see life. I struggle to remember those times, because in the same breath, I am forced to recall what I lost.

He was cold. My hands worked the way they always had, to button his shirt. The same shirt he had worn to my Grandfather's funeral. The same shirt he wore to his preschool graduation. The same shirt I had bought for him. 

Rewind.....push play.

Tiny socks.

Hiking boots.
Rewind....push play.

What else would he need in heaven?

His fishing pole.

His Lightning McQueen blanket.
Rewind....push play.

His pocket knife. 

I moved quickly, but with grace. Hastening what needed to be done, and knowing it was me that had to do it. I can't let him down now. I won't.
Rewind, rewind rewind...play play play.

I wanted to protect everyone around me from this hurt, shield them. But I knew I would regret being selfish in this task. I had help. My mother in law bravely places his socks on. It made more sense for her to do it, I rarely ever did. He and I danced through life like gypsy children, tough feet and free spirited. We never wore shoes. She had made more than one effort to impress upon me the importance of socks and shoes. More than anything, I think she loved to kiss his toes. That part was hers. His daddy tied his boots, and wrapped his blanket around him. I held them, whispering the sentiments I had rehearsed in my mind, doing my best to be strong. I knew I couldn't afford to break down here, there just wasn't time. It wasn't my time.

"We are done, what do we need to do now?" I asked the mortician. He walked to the wooden box, and slowly closed the door. The hinges were silent, and the smell of formaldehyde wafted in my face as if I was being slapped with death. It's the last time I saw my son. It's the last time I felt his skin. It had to be done. It's what I did.What I did for him.

Had I attempted to prepare myself for that experience, I would have drown. There is no preparation. There is no manual, or guidance. No one to walk you through the proper steps, or what eases the blow. There is only one way to do it. You just do it.