Cussing, Crying, and Coping

The questions started before the sun came up.

Who was driving,
How fast,
Was he drinking,
Why was he out so late,
Why him,
How the actual fuck is this real life?

My brain couldn’t even string a full sentence together, but the questions came anyway, flooding every corner of my mind like a goddamn tsunami of confusion and grief. There were no answers. Just silence, chaos, and ache.

I turned on the morning news, which I now know was a big-ass mistake. There it was, my baby’s accident, laid out in generic language for the masses. Just another tragic story. Another headline. The media didn’t know him. They didn’t know his goofy laugh, his crooked smile, the way he used to sneak snacks like I couldn’t hear the damn wrappers.

And yeah, I knew the comment section was there, sitting below the article like a trap door to hell. But I didn’t read them. I couldn’t. It served no purpose, and it sure as hell wouldn’t change the outcome. The only thing those words would do is drag my alcoholic brain to depths it should not, and cannot, go. Not now. Not ever.

I wanted space, a goddamn minute with my own grief. But grief doesn’t give you minutes, it gives you war zones. Every quiet moment was a landmine.

Today I learned more of the ugly details. Things a mom should never have to know. Things I will carry forever. But my heart found a tiny scrap of peace when the medical examiner told me he died on impact. I clung to that like a life raft. Because as unbearable as all of this is, knowing he didn’t suffer is the only thing that doesn’t make me want to scream until my throat bleeds.

Sleep? What the hell is that? I didn’t close my eyes. Not really. Just laid there in the fog, too tired to cry, too broken to rest. Somewhere between yesterday and today, I lost all sense of time. It’s like everything is happening underwater.

And now there’s the funeral. Because of course, death has a price tag. And nothing says “mourning” like figuring out how to afford a casket. The thought of putting my baby in the ground is more than I can handle, but paying for it? That’s a whole other layer of cruel.

Still… my family has wrapped around me tight. My sober community, holy shit, they continue to show up like warriors. Texts. Food. Someone even brought me toilet paper, which is basically the gold standard of love in a crisis.

And underneath it all, holding me up when I don’t have the strength to stand, I’m leaning hard on something bigger than me. A higher power I can’t fully define. I don’t have all the theology mapped out, but I know this: there’s a heaven, and Kam is there. I know he was accepted, just as he was, imperfectly perfect. I believe that with my whole heart. It doesn’t take away the pain, but it gives me a flicker of light in all this darkness.

Today, I’m not okay. But I’m here. Still breathing. Still sober. Still standing, barely, shakily, angrily, but standing.

This is Day Two.