- Joined
- May 18, 2016
- Messages
- 5,138
- Reaction score
- 2,125
- Location
- North America
- Gender
- Undisclosed
- Political Leaning
- Other
I was happy. Everything was perfect.
That day, I woke up early and made biscuits and gravy. He was feeling a bit sick, but he still played in the flour. He'd sit on the floor, puffing out his cheeks making noises as he moved the flour. We watched some Backyardigans. Played with Blocks. And went grocery shopping. At the store I bought some cold and flu medicine for toddlers. When we got home, I thought I'll give this to him after his nap.
And then he never woke up.
He died of an upper respiratory infection complicated by the flu. He caught it from his sister, who caught it from school. It was a particularly nasty flu that killed 12 kids in town that year.
I thought that a little sleep would do him some good, so I let him take an longer nap. When I went to check on him. He was face down, and lifeless. I performed cpr immediately. His little eyes were open. He had woken up and choked on his own phlegm.
He died and I was one room away.
I stopped just long enough to call 911. It took them 20 mins to get there. 20 Mins of me trying to breath life into my son. Watching the phlegm come out, hearing the sound of my air leaving his lungs in a death rattle. The way his eyes were glossy.
I see these things everytime I close my eyes. Even two years later. Everytime.
I failed him. It was my job to protect him, and I failed. It doesn't matter that i couldn't have known. It doesn't matter that he likely would've died if I had taken him to the hospital before he stopped breathing.
My son lay dying alone less than 30 feet from me, and I did nothing. All alone. Scared. Not understanding what was happening to him. While I sat at a computer reading a book.
He is never going to have his first kiss. Read his first book. Go to his first day of school. Graduate. Have a family of his own. Because I couldn't protect him. He was robbed of so much. And he would have been magnificent.
No one blames me. And even though my wife and I are growing apart over this thing we can't talk about, she still loves me as much as the day we got married. It's me that's the problem. I can't talk to anyone, not her, it hurts her. Why would I hurt her, just to make myself feel better. So I hold it in.
Her family was there for her. She always getting calls, asking how she's doing. Offering condolences. Checking up on her. The only people to ask me how I was doing, was Nota Bene and MaggieD on this forum. I guess that's what you get when you've been mean as a junkyard dog your whole life.
I'm surrounded by people who love me, and yet I feel alone.
To be honest, the only reason I haven't killed myself, is my daughter. I don't want her to feel anymore loss.
My mother died Feb 7, 1 year after my son. It came as a surprise. We were estranged, last time we spoke was when I was stabbed, well before I married. But, as much as I hated her, I still loved her, and it happened when my emotions were at it's rawest. I almost went home, risking death for her funeral.
I would have killed myself by now, if it were not for my daughter. I have no joy in my life, everything is ash in my mouth. And it all seems pointless. But, my death would make my daughter feel this way. And I love her to much to do that to her.
So I'm not a suicide risk, but I do see the appeal of death. That endless sleep. That relief from hell. I miss when i couldn't feel at all. Sometimes I think, maybe I did die, and I am in hell. What better torment is there than a man building a perfect life, only to take it away on a random day in Feb.
I'm tired of being strong. I'm tired of being the stoic pillar that holds it together for everyone. I'm tired of the sleepless nights and the nightmares. I'm tired of the flashbacks. I'm tired of the slightest thing causing an anxiety attack. I'm tired.
I have to smoke a quarter ounze of weed every night just to fall asleep. But I don't smoke around the anniversary of his death. I want to feel it all, I feel I owe him that. This grief and pain. I need to feel it for him. So I stay sober.
I've come to hate the world. All the people in it, that waste so much. The people that live blessed lives from the day they are born and hold no empathy for others and think only of themselves. I look at the world today, and realize it wasn't worthy of him or my daughter. And it angers me.
It's a level of hate I haven't felt since I was a kid.
I'm broken, and I can't be fixed.
That is some fine story telling..... I am pleased to meet you.
You're not broken, but you're not going to get better. You're simply no longer able to be the person you were. Everything is going to remind you of your son. You're going to have to learn to live with that, and to do it with a smile, because that's what your daughter needs, and deserves. Once she's in her 20s, you get a pass, my permission, if you will, to show your true colors. Till then? Your daughter deserves sunshine and happiness. You have to lie to her convincingly, or the charade won't matter. I knows that's probably not what you want to hear, but I also know that you already know this. You're a smart man. You can do this. What you want, was never an option, never a consideration. Your wants died, 2 years ago. Give your daughter her childhood, see her off to college, see her life started. Yours can't end till then.
I was happy. Everything was perfect.
That day, I woke up early and made biscuits and gravy. He was feeling a bit sick, but he still played in the flour. He'd sit on the floor, puffing out his cheeks making noises as he moved the flour. We watched some Backyardigans. Played with Blocks. And went grocery shopping. At the store I bought some cold and flu medicine for toddlers. When we got home, I thought I'll give this to him after his nap.
And then he never woke up.
He died of an upper respiratory infection complicated by the flu. He caught it from his sister, who caught it from school. It was a particularly nasty flu that killed 12 kids in town that year.
I thought that a little sleep would do him some good, so I let him take an longer nap. When I went to check on him. He was face down, and lifeless. I performed cpr immediately. His little eyes were open. He had woken up and choked on his own phlegm.
He died and I was one room away.
I stopped just long enough to call 911. It took them 20 mins to get there. 20 Mins of me trying to breath life into my son. Watching the phlegm come out, hearing the sound of my air leaving his lungs in a death rattle. The way his eyes were glossy.
I see these things everytime I close my eyes. Even two years later. Everytime.
I failed him. It was my job to protect him, and I failed. It doesn't matter that i couldn't have known. It doesn't matter that he likely would've died if I had taken him to the hospital before he stopped breathing.
My son lay dying alone less than 30 feet from me, and I did nothing. All alone. Scared. Not understanding what was happening to him. While I sat at a computer reading a book.
He is never going to have his first kiss. Read his first book. Go to his first day of school. Graduate. Have a family of his own. Because I couldn't protect him. He was robbed of so much. And he would have been magnificent.
No one blames me. And even though my wife and I are growing apart over this thing we can't talk about, she still loves me as much as the day we got married. It's me that's the problem. I can't talk to anyone, not her, it hurts her. Why would I hurt her, just to make myself feel better. So I hold it in.
Her family was there for her. She always getting calls, asking how she's doing. Offering condolences. Checking up on her. The only people to ask me how I was doing, was Nota Bene and MaggieD on this forum. I guess that's what you get when you've been mean as a junkyard dog your whole life.
I'm surrounded by people who love me, and yet I feel alone.
To be honest, the only reason I haven't killed myself, is my daughter. I don't want her to feel anymore loss.
My mother died Feb 7, 1 year after my son. It came as a surprise. We were estranged, last time we spoke was when I was stabbed, well before I married. But, as much as I hated her, I still loved her, and it happened when my emotions were at it's rawest. I almost went home, risking death for her funeral.
I would have killed myself by now, if it were not for my daughter. I have no joy in my life, everything is ash in my mouth. And it all seems pointless. But, my death would make my daughter feel this way. And I love her to much to do that to her.
So I'm not a suicide risk, but I do see the appeal of death. That endless sleep. That relief from hell. I miss when i couldn't feel at all. Sometimes I think, maybe I did die, and I am in hell. What better torment is there than a man building a perfect life, only to take it away on a random day in Feb.
I'm tired of being strong. I'm tired of being the stoic pillar that holds it together for everyone. I'm tired of the sleepless nights and the nightmares. I'm tired of the flashbacks. I'm tired of the slightest thing causing an anxiety attack. I'm tired.
I have to smoke a quarter ounze of weed every night just to fall asleep. But I don't smoke around the anniversary of his death. I want to feel it all, I feel I owe him that. This grief and pain. I need to feel it for him. So I stay sober.
I've come to hate the world. All the people in it, that waste so much. The people that live blessed lives from the day they are born and hold no empathy for others and think only of themselves. I look at the world today, and realize it wasn't worthy of him or my daughter. And it angers me.
It's a level of hate I haven't felt since I was a kid.
I'm broken, and I can't be fixed.
On Feb 10, 2017, my life changed forever.
My two year old son passed away.
I've never had much of a family. On my mother's side, I was cast out for not conforming. On my father's side, I was told I wasn't even my father's child. My whole life, I didn't have family. No one that cared whether I lived or died. It made me hard, mean. For the longest time, I didn't think I could feel. My parent's went to jail when I was 16, and I had to take care of my brother and myself after that. I finished highschool, went to college, even got myself a scholarship. All on my own.
In college, I partied, drank, did drugs, got into fights, never went to class, and only took the midterms. Graduated at the top. Then I drifted across the States and Mexico. Doing odd jobs, selling drugs, loan sharking, and trying my hand as a bookie. I went to college for the party, not the degree, and it was free.
I was 24, living in a trailer park in TX hiding from the Klan, and working for a car rental agency when I first met my wife. I had dated, I was good with women. But I never felt anything for them.
She is the only truly good person I've ever met in my life. One who has no ulterior motives when she offers to help. Who tries her hardest, and feels the failure most. And she loved me. At the time, you would've found that hard to believe.
With her, I discovered I wasn't a sociopath. I felt an emotion for another person for the first time. And it grew. She became my family. The first one I ever had. And I took her on adventures. I showed her the world. She made me want to be good. And so I stopped hurting people. I started helping people.
And my first child came along, my daughter. And for the first time, I felt what it was like to love something so much you would die for it. I wasn't even there for her birth, I was stuck in the States, while my wife was in Canada with her family. And I missed alot of her first years, working, in sales 100 hour weeks.
And it hurt. By the time my second child had come along, I was the boss. So, I setup my virtual office, converted our entire region to a new digital system that allowed for digital signatures. And I moved to Canada and became a stay at home dad. I worked from home.
I never missed a day of his life. Not one. I changed every diaper. I stayed up with him every night. I fed him every bottle. He was my son. Mine. I taught him how to walk. I taught him his first word. He was my world. My entire world.
It wasn't easy. Society isn't very accepting of stay at home dads. Even though I am wealthy, when my wife decided to go to work because she missed it, I was looked down upon. Our neighbor at the time an old woman would prowl around our house, and call child services and the police on me whenever one of my kids would cry. I once had someone scratch goof on my door. Which in Canada meant pedophile.
But I didn't care. I had my own family.
No.
You, ThoughtEx, need to be OK on the inside. Trying to keep it together just on the outside will not work.
You are allowed to cry. Allowed to cry for a week if you want to. Whenever you want to. You will need proper professional counciling to get through this. It will, probably, work. You will get the map of how to walk this road.
Thanks guys, sometimes you just need to unload all the crap. I don't go to bars, and I don't have a priest, and my psychiatrist just wants to give me drugs. I tried the drugs, the drugs made me see weird cats all the time.
Sounds like you have one of the bad psychiatrists. Try another if that does not work, er, well, good luck. Feel free to unload here if you wish...
Thanks guys, sometimes you just need to unload all the crap. I don't go to bars, and I don't have a priest, and my psychiatrist just wants to give me drugs. I tried the drugs, the drugs made me see weird cats all the time.
It's a remote area, which unfortunately means you are stuck with what you got 10/10 times.
I believe there are on line options, using SKYPE or whatever.
Might be worth looking into.
Here is what You Tube has to offer;
https://www.youtube.com/results?search_query=dealing+with+grief+lost+child
No idea if it is of any value.
That could help, hadn't considered online options. Or even knew that they existed.
Thanks.
That could help, hadn't considered online options. Or even knew that they existed.
Thanks.
I'm broken, and I can't be fixed.
2 years ago as well
I was happy. Everything was perfect.
That day, I woke up early and made biscuits and gravy. He was feeling a bit sick, but he still played in the flour. He'd sit on the floor, puffing out his cheeks making noises as he moved the flour. We watched some Backyardigans. Played with Blocks. And went grocery shopping. At the store I bought some cold and flu medicine for toddlers. When we got home, I thought I'll give this to him after his nap.
And then he never woke up.
He died of an upper respiratory infection complicated by the flu. He caught it from his sister, who caught it from school. It was a particularly nasty flu that killed 12 kids in town that year.
I thought that a little sleep would do him some good, so I let him take an longer nap. When I went to check on him. He was face down, and lifeless. I performed cpr immediately. His little eyes were open. He had woken up and choked on his own phlegm.
He died and I was one room away.
I stopped just long enough to call 911. It took them 20 mins to get there. 20 Mins of me trying to breath life into my son. Watching the phlegm come out, hearing the sound of my air leaving his lungs in a death rattle. The way his eyes were glossy.
I see these things everytime I close my eyes. Even two years later. Everytime.
I failed him. It was my job to protect him, and I failed. It doesn't matter that i couldn't have known. It doesn't matter that he likely would've died if I had taken him to the hospital before he stopped breathing.
My son lay dying alone less than 30 feet from me, and I did nothing. All alone. Scared. Not understanding what was happening to him. While I sat at a computer reading a book.
He is never going to have his first kiss. Read his first book. Go to his first day of school. Graduate. Have a family of his own. Because I couldn't protect him. He was robbed of so much. And he would have been magnificent.
No one blames me. And even though my wife and I are growing apart over this thing we can't talk about, she still loves me as much as the day we got married. It's me that's the problem. I can't talk to anyone, not her, it hurts her. Why would I hurt her, just to make myself feel better. So I hold it in.
Her family was there for her. She always getting calls, asking how she's doing. Offering condolences. Checking up on her. The only people to ask me how I was doing, was Nota Bene and MaggieD on this forum. I guess that's what you get when you've been mean as a junkyard dog your whole life.
I'm surrounded by people who love me, and yet I feel alone.
To be honest, the only reason I haven't killed myself, is my daughter. I don't want her to feel anymore loss.
My mother died Feb 7, 1 year after my son. It came as a surprise. We were estranged, last time we spoke was when I was stabbed, well before I married. But, as much as I hated her, I still loved her, and it happened when my emotions were at it's rawest. I almost went home, risking death for her funeral.
I would have killed myself by now, if it were not for my daughter. I have no joy in my life, everything is ash in my mouth. And it all seems pointless. But, my death would make my daughter feel this way. And I love her to much to do that to her.
So I'm not a suicide risk, but I do see the appeal of death. That endless sleep. That relief from hell. I miss when i couldn't feel at all. Sometimes I think, maybe I did die, and I am in hell. What better torment is there than a man building a perfect life, only to take it away on a random day in Feb.
I'm tired of being strong. I'm tired of being the stoic pillar that holds it together for everyone. I'm tired of the sleepless nights and the nightmares. I'm tired of the flashbacks. I'm tired of the slightest thing causing an anxiety attack. I'm tired.
I have to smoke a quarter ounze of weed every night just to fall asleep. But I don't smoke around the anniversary of his death. I want to feel it all, I feel I owe him that. This grief and pain. I need to feel it for him. So I stay sober.
I've come to hate the world. All the people in it, that waste so much. The people that live blessed lives from the day they are born and hold no empathy for others and think only of themselves. I look at the world today, and realize it wasn't worthy of him or my daughter. And it angers me.
It's a level of hate I haven't felt since I was a kid.
I'm broken, and I can't be fixed.
Thanks guys, sometimes you just need to unload all the crap. I don't go to bars, and I don't have a priest, and my psychiatrist just wants to give me drugs. I tried the drugs, the drugs made me see weird cats all the time.
We use cookies and similar technologies for the following purposes:
Do you accept cookies and these technologies?
We use cookies and similar technologies for the following purposes:
Do you accept cookies and these technologies?