I am a mother, grieving the loss of her son. We fought from the day he was born for his three years of life. I no longer get to fight that battle. I lost.
We fought so hard and we lost him anyway. It’s been almost a year and my wounds have not healed. I haven’t even managed to slow the bleeding. I am the mangled, disheveled, seeping, infected remains of a tortured and lifeless version of what I used to be before I lost him.
Before. When I still had a spirit in me that didn’t accept defeat. I was a woman, a mom, a warrior, who never showed fear and always faced her enemies with courage and conviction.
And I was not intimidated. Not by bullies, not by unchartered territory and certainly not by a terminal diagnosis. I was a fighter. And I’ve always had an army behind me if I ever had reason to falter or moments of weakness.
But after fighting for the most important, most beloved, most precious life in my world, and losing him, I find myself realizing I’ve lost so much more than my baby, as if that weren’t enough.
I’ve lost myself. I’ve lost my will to fight. I’ve lost an inherent part of my identity. I’ve lost a piece of my heart. I’ve lost patience and I often lose the ability to sympathize and empathize. I’ve lost qualities that made me proud of who I was as a woman, a mom and a confident individual.
I’ve lost a lot. And it’s going to take a lot more fighting and a lifetime of battles to remember how to win again.