Friday, April 11, 2014:
Julian and I went to a college honors banquet and came back to the house to find Fiona home for the weekend. I called Hector and texted with James Michael.
I turned out the light and went to sleep.
No warning shots across the bow of life rang out to let me know what was coming.
But that Friday was the last day I spent misunderstanding the awfulness of death and the absolute uncertainty of life.
Those were the final 24 hours when I indulged in silly chatter, playful planning and the mundane tasks that used to take up most of my time.
That Friday was the last night I fell asleep thanking God that all my family were safe and secure.
It was the last night I COULD have called Dominic, but didn’t because he was coming over Saturday morning.
The sun rose for us, but not for him.
I will never forgive myself for not talking to him one last time.
I woke up in the still-dark morning to a deputy knocking on the door to tell me Dominic had been killed.
And my world fell apart.
It’s been [seven] years and it is not yet put back together. Pieces have been picked up and tacked into what remains of the outer shell.
I can function.
I can even laugh.
And I am so, so grateful for the family I have still with me. Together we are working hard to make it through.
But there are no words to help those who have never buried a child understand the depth of the pain, the sorrow and the ongoing struggle to live each day.
I miss my son.
I miss the family we used to be.
I miss the old me.
I miss being blissfully ignorant of exactly how awful death is.
I will not live long enough for this to stop hurting.
My son is gone.
He is GONE.
He is still gone.
And even [eight] years later, I can barely stand it.