I stayed in bed for a week. I slept, and when I was not sleeping, I cried. A million thoughts ran through my head like, "Did I do the right thing?" or "What could I have done to keep him?". I felt devastated by this loss, and I was inconsolable. My mom, not sure what she could do to ease my heartache, let me stay in bed. She would come in and let me cry in her arms, she brought me food, and shared in my pain. And that pain, oh, it was so incredibly deep. I felt empty, drained, and heartsick and I didn't think it would ever go away. She admitted that even she had entertained thoughts of being able to keep him with us, but believed and reminded me to believe, that we were doing our best for him.
To be honest, I'm not sure how much time passed, everything was a fuzzy mess of hours, minutes, seconds without him. Eventually, however, I got out of bed. My mom and I went shopping, because that is what we do when we are stressed, it's one thing we've always shared for better or worse. Life was no where near normal, and I knew if I survived this that I would never have the same normal. But at least I was out of bed and the pain didn't seem quite so intense. I still cried everyday for him, but my mind and heart were slowly recognizing that he was alive, happy, and well cared for. Those thoughts gave me something to be thankful for, and the thankfulness granted me hope for healing.