Cussing, Crying, and Coping

(a.k.a. “Shit you should never have to do for your kid”)

Day 6 was the day shit got real-real.

We met with the funeral home. Kam’s body had finally been released by the medical examiner. Just typing that sentence feels like I’m narrating someone else’s life. But nope. This is mine now. This is my hell.

They asked if I wanted to see him.
I couldn’t. My heart physically couldn’t take it.
Their dad did. And I admire the hell out of him for that. I don’t know how he did it, but he did. And I love him for it. We might not be together, but damn if we’re not both gutted by this in our own ways.

My sober friend—my fucking angel—had set up a funeral fund. Thank God for that, because let me tell you: nothing slaps harder than realizing there’s a literal price tag on death. Like, “Hi, welcome to your grief. That’ll be $6,000 and your will to live, please.”

Then came the preacher.

We met with the pastor from the church we used to live next to. He knew Kam. He remembered him. That mattered. He didn’t speak in generic religious platitudes—he saw my son as the full, flawed, beautiful human he was.

We talked about the questions that were clawing at my brain and heart:
Did Kam know he was loved?
Is he okay?
Does God forgive?
Does he accept someone like my son, someone like me, into the afterlife?

He said yes. Gently. Firmly. Reassuringly.
And maybe I believed him. Maybe I didn’t.
But I wanted to.

Then we planned the memorial service.
We picked songs. Readings. Flowers. All that shit that’s supposed to be meaningful but just feels like you’re decorating for heartbreak.

I should be in a church planning a fucking wedding someday. Or his graduation party. Not a funeral. Not for my baby. Not for my nineteen-year-old.

It was so fucking hard.

There’s no punchline today. Just pain.
But I’m still sober. Still breathing. Still writing.
And somehow, that counts for something.

—Jess
🖤✝️💔