September 4th marks the day our son Michael officially stopped breathing. One minute we were all packed up and ready to leave the hospital—in the next his lips began to quiver, and we were suddenly marching down a dark road to nowhere.
It was a horrific scene. One of those Grey’s Anatomy moments when everyone comes rushing in. Code blue, red, whatever. Suddenly Michael was their child, no longer mine. I’m shoved out the door—just one more hysterical mom in the hallway, out of the picture, erased from his life.
It’s taken me six years to stop reliving every second of that hour. Still, when I wake on this day I remember that September 4th marks that moment when Michael officially left us.
I’ve hit that empty space of loss again. It’s like a wave that never subsides, only diminishes in shape and form.
Seems I’ve been writing about spaces a lot lately, in-between spaces and sacred spaces. Now, another kind of space has emerged. That empty space of loss where I’m reminded of the awkwardness of life without Michael.
I’ve come to accept these empty spaces. Yet, as we near the anniversary of his passing, I still hunger for the sound of his voice, the touch of his skin, the smell of his hair.
There is good news. After almost six years, my joyful memories of Michael, once overshadowed by the nightmare of his last seventeen days, are now resurrecting.
Still there are moments. . . there will always be, empty spaces.