I hate cleaning my room. Not out of laziness or a dislike for cleaning- I'm relatively indifferent toward cleaning. I hate cleaning my room because it reminds me that it is painfully empty of what was supposed to be in here, of all my hopes and dreams, the corner that was his nursery that now has nothing.
I hate putting away the laundry because Nico's urn and his belongings from the hospital are on the dresser.
I hate dusting because there is dust on top of Nico. Nobody should have to dust their baby off.


I finally took down my Christmas tree two days ago. It was just a small pink tree in the basement...I kept looking at it and thinking I should put it away but then I wouldn't. Taking it down was a harsh realization that Christmas already happened and my arms were empty. Before Nico died and people asked what I wanted for Christmas I said all I wanted was a healthy baby. What a cruel joke. The only thing I've ever wanted, needed, was taken away and I couldn't have it. I couldn't have him. But Christmas is over and I can't go back in time to change things so that I can be joyful in the season. We spent way too much money this year on Christmas trying to chase and capture some semblance of happiness. It didn't work.
I was in the basement looking for something one day and I stumbled on a bag that had wrapped presents for him. Now they are sitting abandoned in a dark corner with all of his other things that I don't know what I'm supposed to do with.

Sometimes I go through the day and it doesn't feel real. But then something happens and the truth hits me like a wrecking ball, throwing me down and destroying the shell of peace that I have created. Then I'm walking around like a corpse- there is a knife sticking out of my heart and it won't stop bleeding but somehow I'm still going. People keep telling me that I'm strong, or brave, as if I had any choice in any of this. I don't feel all that strong, nor do I want to be. I just want to be weak and to not need a reason to be strong. I want to continue going forward with purpose and hope. But instead I feel like I am in the middle of the ocean, sharks circling me, and no life raft in sight. I'm treading water, but my arms are growing weak. Some days I have a burst of optimism and I start swimming towards what I hope is shore.  But it is an endless journey and I have to decide if I keep going, if I stop and try to find some rest, or if I give in and allow myself to go under and let the sharks have me. There is a large black storm cloud that constantly hovers over me called grief and depression. And everyone knows that storms are extremely dangerous when you are in the water. I try to get out from under it, but no matter which way I go, it follows me, taunting me.

I am thin ice. You can walk on me but it won't be safe. The next weight will cause me to crack and I think that crack will be irreparable. I live in constant fear of that foot coming down and destroying the sanity that I have left. I wonder how much my spirit can take before it is completely broken and what becomes of a person when they break. I don't want to know. I don't want anything else that I have to push through and force myself to live with.

Nico's face is forever etched in my memory, and the two brief days I had with him I tried to memorize every feature, each detail that made him unique; the way he felt and smelled. But those memories are fading. I didn't have enough time to build them. When you lose someone, usually you have some memories of your interactions. I have nothing but desperation and I find myself smelling his hat and his blanket trying to find a trace of him, hoping somewhere that some tangible piece of him will remain. I am grasping at thin air.
It's gone. He's gone.
But I'm still here and I don't know what to do with that, with this life without him.