Dear Asshat Fuckwad who told me they came back here to read this blog, hoping that I had found peace. Who told me to go read Heaven Is for Real. Who told me to listen to the radio station KLOVE to find comfort. FUCK OFF. Are you even fucking serious? Because if you are, I would quite possibly like to shove that book and that radio station up your ass.
I did not cremate my dog. I did not cremate my grandmother. I cremated my son. I watched for nine months as my beautiful boy fought with everything he had for his life. I watched him take his last breaths. I watched as he was put on a table and taken away. I will NEVER come to peace with that. And for you to sit back and tell me that I should—you are fucking sick. You are not a good human being. Do not tell me what to do or how to do this. Do not compare me to other mothers. I don’t give a flying FUCK if heaven is for real. That does not diminish my pain, my missing him, or us having to be apart.
NEWSFLASH: THERE WILL NEVER BE A DAY THAT I DO NOT MISS HIM. THERE WILL NEVER BE A DAY THAT I DO NOT HURT. THERE WILL NEVER BE A DAY THAT I WILL COME TO PEACE WITH THIS. THERE WILL NEVER BE ANY WORDS THAT CAN MAKE THIS PAIN ANY LESS. THERE WILL NEVER BE A DAY THAT I AM NOT SAD, ANGRY, HURT, OR BROKEN. THIS IS WHO I AM NOW.
But I am also learning that I can have moments where I truly feel happy. I am also learning that I have the ability to feel love much more deeply now. Watching my twins at a baseball game make a great play can make me feel so happy that I feel like I am floating on air. Every kiss from them, every victory, every hit of a baseball, every basketball shot they make, every spelling test they ace, every smile they smile brings me so much more joy than I have ever known in my life. Every “I love you” means so much more now. And it is all due to his death. I am not okay with that, but I know this is just how this is, so I embrace all of the intense feelings that I now feel more often than I used to. Everything in life means so much more now—even on the days I don’t want it to.
And yes, you closed-minded, but God bless you, little thinker—it may be offensive to some that I would have traded my husband’s life for Ronan’s. Obviously, I would have traded my life first, then Woody’s. If there had been a choice, this is how it would have gone. How the fuck is this offensive? It goes back to our basic animal instinct. Do you find it offensive that a mother tiger would do anything to protect and save her cubs in the wild—even if that meant fighting with her mate or killing him in order to save her babies? I doubt it, because that’s the nature of survival in the wild.
We are not that much different from wild animals when it comes to our babies. I would go so far as to say most mamas out there would save their kids before their mates if given the choice. Some people may be too scared to admit this because it sounds so wrong and fucked up. I really don’t care how it sounds because, for me, it’s the truth. Woody would tell you the same thing. I know he would have chosen Ronan’s life over mine, and I would have happily given it up. I would think there was something wrong with him if he would not have traded Ronan’s life for mine. But we don’t get that choice, so we will stay here and be HONEST with each other about how much we miss him and love him. If that offends you—once again—you can fuck off.
I am proud of myself. I can see the way I have grown from this. I look back at where I was last summer, and that scares the shit out of me. If I were still in that state of mind—not functioning, angry, sad—I quite simply would not be here. I pulled myself out of the darkest place I have ever been in my life, and I did it with the strength and love that comes from Ronan. I did it for myself, for my family, for my friends, and for all the people out there who believe in me. I am a fighter. I will fight for the rest of my life for everything I have, but also for everything that was taken away. I will never stop fighting for good. I may have a day or even a week here or there where I take a break from it all and just let myself feel and give in to this pain. This is my process, my way, and nobody else has the right to tell me that what I am doing or how I am doing this is wrong.
DO NOT CONTINUE TO COME BACK HERE TO CHECK ON ME AND THEN LEAVE YOUR NASTY COMMENTS. YOU DO NOT CARE ABOUT ME, SO GO TAKE CARE OF THE OTHERS IN YOUR LIFE THAT YOU DO CARE ABOUT. I have the BEST people in the world surrounding me. I have no need for stupid idiots who tell me to find comfort in a fucking radio station or a book. The things I will find comfort in are the things in my everyday life—real, tangible things like my twins, my husband, and my friends. In Ronan’s Foundation. In helping others. In trying to live this very wrong life in a way that would make him proud, that would make him smile—in the way I am living it, not the way others want me to live it.
That is such fucking bullshit. I am not here to be a sweet pea little angel who is peaceful and content with my son’s death. It was wrong. It is wrong that this is happening to so many babies, children, and teenagers, yet people are more concerned that somebody threw flour on Kim Kardashian while she was walking the red carpet. It is offensive to me that things like that are splattered all over newspapers, on television, and in magazines. There are REAL problems in the world, and until that world wakes up, I will not stop fighting, kicking, and screaming for all that has been taken away from me and my family—and for all that is being taken away from all the other broken-hearted parents, friends, siblings, and grandparents in the world.
I’ve said it before, and I’ll say it again: go back to your world of unicorns, rainbows, and puppy dogs. Stop coming back here hoping I have found peace and then being disappointed that I have not. If other parents have found peace when it comes to losing a child, good for them. I will never be one of them. I have no doubt that I will find something—but peace will NEVER be the word I use. The only way I will use that word is when I say, “Peace out to you, A-hole.”
I would also like to include a post from my Dr. JoRo that is on her blog. Read it and weep. And then feel like the dumbass that you are.
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