Grief sucks. A parent’s loss of a child doesn’t compare to any other loss. I’m telling you it’s true. Right now my pain is worse than ever. May has been hard. This is the second May since Riley died. It feels rougher than the last. Maybe I got better at not concentrating on my grief and it has hit harder. Maybe I got better at keeping myself distracted. Maybe my life has been fuller this past year with my own business, finishing a basement, a birth of a grand-daughter and more. Maybe I am more awake and less numb at the two-year mark of his birthday and his death.

I can’t get away from the grief in my life. It is in my face every time I sit still. If I only could not be still, but I have to be still sometimes. It’s the worst when I try to go to sleep. I lay there and my grief, my loss eats at me and gnaws on my heart. It hurts. It is miserable. I hate it.

In the mornings it can be just as bad when I open my eyes. Some days I have a project or a place to be that I can concentrate on and then, at some point…I have to be still again. And there it is, the black clouds creeping over me and parking themselves on top of me, covering me from the sunshine. Tears like rain fall.

I just want my boy back with his smile, his humor, to hear his voice say, “I love you, Mom”.

In the club of parents who have lost a child we did not ask to be a part of, but were thrown into without permission, we have lost parents who have given in to the pain. They have quit the club to join their children. It is sad. It makes me angry that they quit. Yet, I get it. The pain must stop then. This emotional pain is awful. I have never lived with physical pain that I couldn’t eventually relieve. The emotional pain of grief can be shoved to the side in the midst of a day, but it’s always there waiting for you and it’s not going anywhere.

My son should still be alive. I don’t know why it had to happen to him. Why did Riley have to try LSD that night? Why couldn’t circumstances have been different to keep him from trying it? I don’t know. It happened. There is no rewind.

I spoke a lot this month to adults and teens. Each time I tell his story, I relive how special he was, how much I miss and love him and also the details of how he died. It’s not easy. Knowing a person might be impacted by his story and make a different decision than Riley did keeps me sure that this is what I am supposed to be doing despite the pain.

Grief sucks. Life doesn’t have to suck. I feel that I have to live to tell his story. I have to carry this pain. I have to grieve because there is no way around it. Living means more than grieving. My job is to savor the moments like finding lady bugs on my apple tree leaves and enjoying the site despite also discovering the cedar rust at the same time. That’s life.

I am thankful for that hug that reaches into my soul and lets it rest for a minute. For the hour on a hammock in the dark, under the moon, staring at the stars and feeling a peace that Riley is safely tucked in the heavens. For the sweet grand baby in my arms. For that phone call from my son. For that message from my daughter. Living for dancing in the kitchen, tasting a new food, experiencing something randomly new. For learning something I didn’t know. For the smiles and belly laughs that come to me.

Riley savored new sights and experiences.

I am thankful to be able to hear Riley’s voice in that video, his thrill in the sight of a rainbow on the beach in Hawaii that felt so close that we could touch it. I am reminded to be thankful that there is something else around the corner that will challenge me to be better, do better, grow and thrive in some way. Those are the good things and the reason I am here.

Grief sucks. Life doesn’t have to suck. (Somebody remind me of this later.)

I Love You, Riley.