The Hardest Months

I am sitting in a rink, and I want to cry.

The Gala is over. Months of planning, pushing through, holding my breath, making sure everything was perfect in Samson’s name. Now it’s quiet in that way that only comes after something big ends. The adrenaline is gone. The distraction is gone.

Today is Gabe’s birthday.

And all I can think about is how badly I wish Samson were here.

I wish he was in the stands, cheering Gabe on, chirping just enough to make him laugh. I wish he could tell him happy birthday. I wish he could be here, being a big brother the way he always was—the way he was supposed to keep being.

The last few months have been relentless. Samson’s birthday in October cracked something open in me, and everything spiraled from there. The sadness deepened, and then November came, bringing the memory of the accident. I grieve that day more than the day he passed.

Because that’s when we really lost him.

We didn’t lose Samson in the hospital. We lost him at the scene of the accident. The boy who laughed, loved fiercely, and filled every room with light never came back from that day. They tried. We all tried. Doctors, machines, prayers, hope held together by threads so thin they hurt to touch.

But Samson didn’t come back.

I believe with my whole heart that Samson was already with Jesus. That his soul was never confined to the machines or the body that could no longer hold him the way it once did. Still, belief doesn’t silence the questions.

I wonder if the surgery helped at all. Wonder if he felt any pain. Wonder if he knew what was happening. We trust technology so deeply. We believe advancement means control, answers, miracles. I did at least.

This time, it wasn’t enough.

A few days later, we celebrated Gabe’s birthday. It really was great. He had so much fun. There were moments that felt almost normal. But the gap was still there.

“I miss Samson,” Gabe said.

Then, “I wish we had more family… but really, I just wish I still had Samson.”

That broke my heart in a way I don’t think will ever fully heal.

I think that’s what I hate most about this. There is nothing I can do. There was nothing I could do. I couldn’t change it. I couldn’t fix it. And that is supposed to be my job. That’s the point of being a parent—to fix everything.

And I can’t fix this.

Since Samson died, I feel like there’s a beast living inside of me—made of anger, sadness, and helplessness. Anger at the unfairness. Sadness so deep it feels bottomless. I just wish he were here. I feel empty without him, and I worry most about Gabe—for the space Samson’s absence has carved into his life.

To go from having a brother and a best friend to suddenly being an only child is something I wouldn’t wish on my worst enemy.

I hate celebrating Gabe’s birthday without Samson. And now the holidays are coming. If I’m honest, I wish I could disappear for a few weeks. Be unconscious from November 29 to January 2. Living inside these emotions is heavy and relentless.

I can do more “normal” things now. In the beginning, I couldn’t leave the house. I felt like “bereaved parent” was stamped on my forehead. Everything reminded me of Samson—the lakes we pass just to get anywhere, the photos of him fishing, his favorite places to eat, his school, his favorite ice cream shop.

It still does.

But now I drive Gabe to and from school every day. I pass those places again and again, and over time the memories have softened. They still hurt, but they’re also beautiful. There are songs I refuse to listen to, though—because I know I won’t survive the wave they bring.

I keep thinking about the life Samson should be living right now. I should have an 18-year-old. I wonder what his senior year would look like. What his hockey season would have been like. If he’d be dating someone. Who he’d be becoming.

I feel robbed.

But more than that, I feel like Gabe has been robbed.

Sometimes I feel selfish for grieving. Like all of me should be focused on Gabe. I show up. I put on the fake happy face and go to every hockey event. And watching Gabe on the ice is my favorite thing in the world.

It’s also excruciating.

There are families there with older kids the same age Samson would be. Families who still have both of their children. And I stand there reminding myself: don’t cry. Don’t let it show. You’re the one in pain—Samson isn’t.

Slap on a happy face.

Every time I’m in a social setting, Chameleon by Boy George plays in my head. Blend in. Look fine. Act fine. Don’t let anyone see what’s actually happening inside. Chameleon- the perfect description.

How does anyone survive this? How do people survive losing a child?

I know it probably looks like I am. But if you could see inside my mind, you’d know the truth. It isn’t pretty in here.

I don’t have a lesson. I don’t have advice. I don’t have encouragement neatly wrapped in hope.

All I have is honesty.

This is what grief looks like for me right now—messy, heavy, unfinished.

Still learning how to breathe around the absence of someone I love more than words will ever hold.