I honestly have very blurred memories of the hours after Bennett's death. I am not sure who called who, how my entire family got to the hospital at the snap of a finger, or how I even made it back to my parents' house. What I do know is my best friend was at my home within 5 hours. She lives in Alabama and was at the time a single mother to Bennett's best friend. How she managed at 5pm on a Monday night to schedule childcare, book a flight, and pack her bags for an unknown amount of time will never make sense to me. She was walking into my parents' house at 10pm. My other best friend and Taylor's friend were there with us the next day along with our families.
I could not have survived without them. All of them. They distracted me. They comforted me. They planned things I didn't have the strength to even think about. They cleaned my house. They brought me clothes. They provided food. When I say my friends and family let me lean into them and let me cry on their shoulders - I mean it in every possible way imaginable. I was a complete zombie. I needed them so badly. I needed the stories and the distractions, but mostly I needed the love. Those first few days/weeks/months after Bennett died, I didn't believe in a lot anymore. I didn't believe in love. If love was so strong and so undeniable - why was my greatest love taken from me in the blink of an eye? That is when my circle stepped in. They covered me in love and although I could not see it then, I am forever grateful for it now.
About 3 days after Bennett's funeral everyone began going home. They left. They have lives to live. Work to go to, families to tend to, babies to love on. They kept moving forward - of course, why wouldn't they? Their lives were the same while I was stuck in this time warp. This horrible, spinning, black hole of misery and despair. When everyone left it is like a tidal wave hit me - this was real. My son is gone. I will never see him again here on this earth. I went from being a mother one day, changing diapers and making dinner, to nothing. I wasn't even me anymore. I didn't know who I was or whose mind now inhabited my body. So, I shut down. I blocked everyone out. I wouldn't answer phone calls or text messages. I wouldn't leave the chair on my parent's back porch. I literally woke up, got coffee, walked outside, sat down and blankly stared - for weeks until it was time to go to bed. Why would I want to talk to someone? I'm not me. I am now jealous of my friends who get to tuck their babies in at night, I am mad at the world, I am angry that my life is no longer mine. I don't get to live out those little boy dreams with Bennett anymore. I was pissed - at everybody and everything. So, what did my friends do? They kept calling. They left me voicemails. They sent me texts. They called Taylor or my mom to just "check in". They continued to show me love even when I didn't believe in love anymore. In time, I began to come out of that fog. I began to realize that people care about me enough to continue to check in on me even when I was doing everything in my power to push them away. That saved me. Those friends saved me.
So, if you are a friend or family member looking for the "right" way to approach a newly bereaved parent my best advice is to just be there. Be that shoulder to cry on. Be that person that looks at them and just says "I'm so sorry" and gives them a hug. Let them melt into your shoulders. Let them cry. You don't have to make it complicated. You don't have to explain anything, and you don't have to "make it better." You just have to be. You have to continue to give them love. Cover them in it because they are running on fumes and need that extra love to keep them going. If they begin to shut you out, that's ok. Continue to love them. Continue to check in on them. An "I love you so much" text will go a long way - I promise.
Krysten
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