Elliott is Dead.

My 2 year old son is dead. This is the truth, the horrible truth. Every time I think it or say it my brain revolts. It then plays every image from that evening over. Him laying on the pavement, in the hospital bed, hearing the doctors call for "pulse check" and the response of "no pulse". The sleepless nights, the funeral arrangements, visitation and burial. We always end up back at the same conclusion.... Elliott is dead.

Yet somehow it doesn’t feel real. It feels like he’s napping, or is going to burst into the living room at any moment with his cars. Or he’s just playing outside and I have to go get him. And then my phone will *buzz* and it’s a message from someone somewhere telling me how sorry they are for my loss and that they’re thinking of me/us. And the reality is forced on me again that no, this is real.

And then there’s the parts that feel so real and so final it’s hard to breathe. Folding his last ever clean set of pjs and placing them in the drawer. Riding in the car and having an empty car seat staring back at me in the rear view mirror. Ivy playing by herself at the toddler table, when he should be sitting there with her. The physical pain between my ribs just thinking about it is hard to even put into words.

It doesn’t feel right to only have 2 kids to care for. Only 2 plates of food at meals, only 2 kids to bathe… It doesn’t feel right to only have girls. Every single thing we do all day long is either a “first” or a “last” and there’s no relief from it. Jeff and I both have “grin and bear it, push through” personalities and everyone says that “we’re so strong”. But I don’t feel strong. I feel broken.

We’re now the family that goes to the cemetery. Ivy keeps asking to go visit her brother and we can’t say no… so we go. There’s a playground also associated with the country church so we play at the playground where Elliott is planted. And it makes me angry that he can’t play with his sisters there. He should be there playing on the slides and the giant pirate ship too.

Elliott is dead. And everyone asks if I’m okay, or if they can help. And there’s no answer for those questions. There’s no “okay” right now there’s no “helping”. He’s gone.