It’s Saturday morning. I didn’t sleep well. Morning came and I am in a dark place emotionally. I didn’t want to get out of bed. I feel overwhelmed. Depressed. I watch some youtube videos on my phone related to the Toronto Blue Jays. Seeing ball fans at the Roger’s Centre having fun sends me spiralling further. The Blue Jays have an exciting team this year, and just clinched a playoff birth. Me and Everett went to the Jay’s last game of last season, and then their home opener this year. He was always so excited when we got to do things like this, and we always had an amazing time together. Now, I have no motivation to try to get tickets. Even watching the postseason on TV feels like it will be at best bittersweet, with a heavy dose of the bitter. Everett isn’t here to enjoy this adventure.

It’s been a morning with sobbing crying. I watched the beautiful tribute video from Everett’s Celebration of Life service and I break down. Normally my crying has been in very short spells. Some tears squeak out and I regain composure. Not so much today.

So many things about Everett’s death feel like they have a cruel irony. We go to the first home game of the Jays season, and it’s the last game I ever get to attend with Everett. We move up north so that our kids can enjoy the outdoors, and only one month in, our careful boy who hates water falls to his death in the water while having fun exploring. We move to a place known for beautiful rocks and water. This is what claimed the life of my son. We loved family camping. Everett died while camping and my memories of camping are now haunted by search and rescuers, boats, strangers calling out my son’s name, a helicopter thumping overhead, divers, sitting stunned around a campfire, and ultimately seeing Everett’s body laying lifeless on a boat.

Hockey season is starting, but it brings me pain. I miss my boy. I loved hearing his observations, questions, and commentary about the game. Saturday mornings are hard. Everett loved waffles, and it was a common Saturday morning breakfast for us. He didn’t want pancakes, he wanted waffles. He knew they were made with the exact same recipe, but waffles were his thing. We would have peanut butter & syrup on his, while I usually opted for syrup & banana or berries. I haven’t made one waffle since he passed. It’s just too painful to pull out the waffle iron. On Saturdays, I think of waffles, but I don’t make them. Maybe someday.

Amberley mentioned that she has been having difficulty with the transition to fall. In the summer, we could still remember summer things with Everett still here, now we are moving into our first season as a family without Everett here. It’s a cold reality that life is moving on for us without Everett. We made it through the entire month of September without Everett. It still feels so surreal.

Piper is still loving school, we are so grateful for that. She is doing well. She isn’t the biggest fan of her 1 hour bus ride and early mornings, but fortunately we aren’t far from the school if Amberley needs to drive her.

I don’t know that there’s a day that goes by that Sage still doesn’t talk about his brother. He definitely is missing him even though he doesn’t express it with tears. He has become so tuned to my emotions he can tell by my face when I am struggling, and will ask me if I am sad even when I don’t have tears. Piper had a good line for Sage awhile ago, “You cry for milk. You don’t cry for serious things”.

I definitely don’t feel the same every day. Last Friday evening, I told Amberley that I was feeling really good. I was. Wisely, she told me to enjoy the feeling. It didn’t last. There is a strange thing with grief that seems to want to associate pain and sorrow with the amount of love, so even the better days you feel guilty. There are moments where I feel like I am seeing healing, and then days like today where the grief roars loud. Someone gave Amberley what seems like good advice: don’t rush grief.

Post funeral is well known to be difficult. The rest of the world moves on. People understandably start to forget about your loss. But the journey for the bereaved is only beginning. Normal life is hard. I am able to smile, to laugh, and even to joke a bit. I can mostly stay composed. I am able to daydream about normal life things without constantly thinking about my boy. I don’t always look like I’m on the brink of tears. I think people can be tricked into thinking you have healed (whatever that means) But even in those moments where I feel strong, within seconds the tears are there again. It’s difficult. Right now we are still very much just fighting to survive.

Hopefully in the future I can find the strength to write on a day I feel a bit better. I think on my better days I would rather avoid writing, as writing here is a confirmation in my mind that my son is gone from this life, and a lifetime seems like so long to wait to see him again.