I buried my son in a 36 inch long coffin.

Shalebug was 37 inches tall.

I buried my son in a coffin one inch too short.

I am haunted by this.

I know, heck I knew at the time, it made no difference. Bug’s feet were twisted and curled and even in life he preferred to have his little legs curled up instead of stretched out, but I can’t stop fretting over the fact I crammed my son into a box one inch too small for his wee body.

What kind of mother does that?

Grief is a funny thing. It’s a palpable emotion that will consume every ounce of joy and happiness if you let it. It’s the monster that lives in your closet, a parasite feeding off your love and memories and always looking for your soft underbelly of pain, the chink in your armour.

This week, through a series of events I have had no control over, the monster rattled at my closet door and managed to find a way to slip through a crack to rip my shirt up and expose my garishly pale underbelly.

With it’s plaque covered pointy teeth, this monster leaned over me during my emotional weakness and ripped through my defenses so that I am once more bleeding tears of pain and sadness and loss.

There is no bandaid for this oozing wound, as all the joy I have managed to harvest since my son passed seemed to quickly seep out of my soul and into the monster’s foul, gaping mouth.

Which leaves me struggling with the knowledge once more that I crammed my little boy into a box too short for his small body.

Today I feel broken and hollow as the monster once more recedes into the darkness of the closet I wrestle to keep locked.

Today I exam the past and savour the what-if’s as they roll around my brain.

Today, I try to remember that at the time, it seemed like the right choice. We didn’t have the money to have a coffin custom sized for our boy, and there were only two options available to us. A three foot coffin or the next size up, at five feet.

The thought of my son lying in an adult sized box for all of eternity seemed ludicrous to me. What did he need all that space for? So I chose the smaller version, thinking I would find comfort in knowing he was snug as a bug as he lay beneath the soil.

I can’t for the life of me shake the image of that tiny oak box covered in white daisies being lowered into the ground.

I suppose I would be haunted by this vision still, even if I did choose the larger coffin.

I buried my son in a box because I couldn’t handle the idea of cremating him and the flames surrounding him.

The truth is, today, I can’t handle the knowledge I ran out of tomorrows with my son.

I’m grieving the fact he never had the chance to grow taller, get smarter, become more.

I’m struggling with the fact the only tangible evidence he once existed are the stretchmarks on my body and the stone marker on the ground.

The monster won last night as he terrorized my hard fought peace and bound me tight in the cloak of sadness once more.

Today I grieve; for tomorrow I will have no time to as I once more set out to find joy that is not lost, but eclipsed by this eternal darkness that rolled in like the fog on a gloomy day.

But today, today is for knowing I buried my boy in a box too small.

Stretch marks and stones, reminders of how I miss you so, Shalebug.

His name was Stephen.

He was tall, with long white hair pulled into a pony tail that dipped well into his middle back. I liked him immediately because he wore a black cowboy hat.

My father always wears a black cowboy hat. The similarity made me smile.

He smiled at me and shook my hand, his calloused fingers wrapping around my own. The corner of his watery blue eyes crinkled with humour and as I made eye contact for the first time with him I was surprised to see the depth of sadness and knowledge hidden behind his wire framed glasses.

We sat that night, together, around a circular patio table under neath a warm British Columbia sky. We were united by our mutual love for her, and as we spoke softly as the others came and went we discovered we had far more in common than just the lady who had brought us together.

He was soft spoken next to my brashness and far more reserved than I’ll ever manage to be in my life. I watched him as he gently interacted with his grandchildren and I laughed as he took little J under his wing and tried to teach him to blow stones like one does a fuzzy dandelion puff.

Later that night the two of us found ourselves alone underneath the patio umbrella, while the rain drizzled down around us. The night air was deafening with the quiet swallowing us.

He asked me about my life and how I found his daughter. He was genuinely interested in how an Albertan prairie girl found her way into the very core of his family. His eyes clouded with pain as he asked about my angel son and his paternal instincts flared as he listened to the violent road my new son has traveled in his short life.

We sat quietly for a moment, as he digested the facts of my life, my history before he broke into a smile and told me some of his favorite moments as a father to her and her sister. He chuckled as he told me personal memories and smiled like a proud father when he told me that his grand daughter was a carbon copy of her mother.

The night drew to a close as the rain started pounding around us and together we gathered up all the chairs to try and keep them dry. As we headed into the house to turn in for the night he clasped my hand once more and told me to sleep well.

The next morning  he watched his family and the new generation his children have created and laughed as we all swapped stories and jokes over breakfast. Pictures were taken and memories shared and soon my time with this family,  this family who had welcomed me as one of their own, was ending.

As I stood to leave and find my way back to my own family, with love in my heart and promise to self to one day be able to have moments like this with my own family, he approached me and wrapped his arms around me.

He thanked me. For sharing my story with him, for listening to him as he told me his. He thanked me for being kind to his family and for loving his daughter so. And then he thanked me for something no one else ever had before: He thanked me for simply being me.

I hugged him hard and tears welled up at the corner of my eyes and for a heartbeat I wished he could have been my father.

And then I left.

And now he is gone.

His name was Stephen.

Thank you for sharing your father with me Catherine.

You will be greatly missed Stephen. God Speed.

*****If you are inclined to leave your condolences for Her Bad Mother’s loss in my comment section, I will be sure the family and Cat receives them all.*****

There is nothing harder in the world than having to say good bye to your child.

It is a pain no parent should ever know. Tears that should never be wept.

We enter parenthood in good faith, with dreams of watching our children grow up and become parents themselves. Images of little league games and school pageants, followed with learning to drive and onto dating.

We try to visualize our children’s future all the while breathing in their sweet smells and blowing raspberry kisses on their little bellies.

We moan and groan over potty training foibles and temper tantrums in the grocery store. We dread the teenage years and the rebellion we know which must surely follow. We never think of the possibility of not having another tomorrow with our child.

It’s unfathomable.

We do everything in our power to give our children the tools they need, the love they need to succeed in life, with the hope their lives will be everything they dream it to be.

What we don’t ever imagine is being robbed of that joy, of that promise, of that life we created or adopted.

It is unfathomable to think we can have a child one minute and only a memory the next.

Two of our fellow mommy bloggers and their husbands are facing this reality. Two of our own, in this electronic community we have created online for ourselves are struggling with the knowledge there will be no prom dates, no more raspberry kisses.

Two more families now have to face their new unimaginable reality and deal with the fiercest pain they will ever know.

I’m in Los Angeles to help the Spohr family say goodbye to their beloved Maddie. Meanwhile, I’m sending prayers to Thalon’s family and asking my Bug to play with his newest little angel friend.

I wish I didn’t have to.

I wish I didn’t have an angel of my own to talk to.

I wish I was anywhere else but here.

I wish I could say this was unfathomable.

But I know it’s not.