A Year of Silent Grief

One year ago today, life as we knew it changed forever when Dylan went into emerge for lumps in this neck.

A brief paragraph from George's Compass - How to Navigate Grief

After what felt like eons in the emergency room, he finally got seen. Strep throat, they said. His white blood cell count was at 13, just a tad over the normal range of 11. No biggie, right? He got the antibiotics and off he went.

Sure, the thought of cancer danced on the edges of our minds that week. Could it really happen to Dylan, who was so active, young, and loved by many?

A few days passed with no improvement, just his neck doubling in size. Mother's instinct kicked in, screaming that we needed more answers.

Regrettably, the answers we got were not the ones we wanted. In a blink, Dylan's white blood cell count skyrocketed from 13 to 99.

Four months ago today, we faced the unbearable task of saying goodbye.

Three months ago today, we celebrated his precious life, too brief for this world.

A coincidence that everything happened on the 27th day of the month, with the 27th being his number? A sign?

These anniversaries, each marking a moment of our journey through sickness, loss, and remembrance, are especially hard. They are reminders not just of the loss of my son, but of the world we navigated together in his final months. They remind me of the fear, the hope, and ultimately, the devastating loss.

To the outside eye, I might look like I've managed to move on. But truthfully, a piece of me left with him that day.

I've come to realize everyone grieves differently. For a long time, I hid behind phrases like, "Talking to someone won't bring him back," or "Why do I need medication when I can just hold onto the happy memories?" I convinced myself that by celebrating his life, I could bypass the crushing weight of his absence. It was my way of navigating through the denial phase of grief, a mask over the deep, complex layers of grief.

Smiling, working, engaging with the world—all while carrying a grief that's invisible but ever-persistent. The journey through loss has taught me that grief doesn't adhere to a straight path. It's multifaceted, with highs and lows, moments of peace intertwined with deep sorrow. It's okay to not be okay, to recognize that healing doesn't mean forgetting but learning to live with the love and the loss side by side.

It's said that time heals all wounds, but some wounds merely change shape. The sharp, unbearable pain of initial loss transforms into a deep, aching void. This grief is my silent companion, invisible to others but ever-present in my life.

In this process, I've been humbled by the outpouring of support and kindness from those around me, a beacon of light in the darkest times. Today, as I reflect on these poignant anniversaries, I choose to embrace both the pain and the joy. My son's laughter, love, and spirit continue to be a part of us.

For anyone else walking through the maze of grief, remember you're not alone. Our experiences might be different, but we share a common thread of navigating loss and finding our way forward. Today, let's allow ourselves to remember, to mourn, and to celebrate the indelible impact of the loved ones we've lost