Tired

In the weeks since I lost Webb, I have experienced nearly every possible human emotion.  The kind of emotions no one ever thinks they could live through.  The kind of feelings every mother fears.  Most of those have been expressed on this blog: sadness, pain, emptiness, fear, despair, dread, hope, anxiousness, insomnia, just to name a few.  Lately, I am tired.  I guess it should come as no surprise considering the roller coaster my mind, body and soul have been constantly riding.  I have laid awake for 12 weeks, replaying every doctor's appointment, every move we made in the hospital and every "last moment" I spent with all three of my boys.  My days are still comprised mostly with these thoughts, so this tiredness stage is really the first one I am welcoming with open arms.  I so badly want to sleep, sleep and sleep.  I desperately want to fall into a peaceful slumber and wake up one day, recharged and reconstructed and clear headed.  I know that will not happen for a while, but sleeping at 3am sure beats agonizing at 3 am.  I feel the strange need and urge to reach out to every mother who is going through this nightmare.  I want to look at them and see if they have the same unbelieving expression in their eyes.  I want to ask them, "How did our children get cancer?" and share every horrific thought I am feeling.  I feel like we are members of a secret, special club that no one wants to belong to.  No one else truly understands what we feel.  I still look in the mirror every morning and say, "Did this really just happen to us?  Did we actually have a child that died from a brain tumor?"  How in the world did this happen??   What do we do next?  I am a planner.  I like having every step mapped out, and now my future has been rocked in a way I never thought possible.  I was supposed to be adding to our family this year...we were supposed to be going from three to four children, not three to two.  How is it even possible Webb is gone?  I see his hair, his face, his laugh and his eyes every time I look at Whit.  But it is not the same.  He was his own little person with his own unique personality.  Thoughtful and serious and silly all at the same time.  Oh how I miss that little laugh of his.  What I wouldn't give to see him peering at me out of the corner of his eyes and the look of pure joy that came over his face when I would come in his room in the morning to get him out of bed.  I can still see it in my mind, but it's not enough.  It will never be enough.  My mother and I were saying the other day how Webb was the perfect child.  He really was.  I don't think I ever told him "no" once in his 18 months.  He cried like every other child, but he never whined, he didn't complain, he never hit us or bit us or any of the other things toddlers do.  He may have been just about to start the terrible twos, we'll never know.  But when Webb's life ended, he was still perfect.  And now that's how he will always be to us.  Our perfect little red haired baby.  Our "Bear."  We miss you sweetheart.