I’m sitting here, just thinking. Not feeling very good. I don’t know what’s going on with my mood—unmotivated, stressed—but at the same time, there’s this strange peace in being alone. A battle within me. It’s so peaceful here, yet I question why I would even want to reunite with society. Out there, they’re fighting, battling, forcing people into boxes. There’s no room for individuality, at least not in the world I’m from. I’m not saying that kind of world doesn’t exist somewhere, just that where I’m at right now, I don’t have that kind of support or those kinds of people surrounding me. Everyone is busy, caught up in the cycle of life that society dictates.
I know I’m privileged in some ways. Dylan left me a way to survive and figure out a new way to live, and I’ve been trying to do that. But as I sit here, I struggle with the reality that society will never truly understand. They’re too caught up in the system, too blind to see beyond it. And it’s not really their fault—it’s just how things are. The systems in place keep them trapped.
And then there’s Dr. Washington. I was so excited to see him again. He delivered both of my boys, Dustin and Dylan. I hadn’t seen him in so long, and when I really think about why, it comes back to the insurance companies. Managed healthcare took over, and suddenly, it wasn’t about the relationship between doctor and patient anymore. It was about numbers, policies, restrictions. Nothing about that change made life easier for any of us, even if people believe otherwise. They think insurance companies help because they pay these massive medical bills, but the only reason the bills are so high in the first place is because of the insurance companies.
I don’t want to argue that point right now. What matters is that I saw him, and it was bittersweet. He was the doctor who helped bring Dylan into this world, and now Dylan is gone. That realization hit me so hard, harder than I expected. Sitting in his office, I felt a sadness that I don’t even share with Dylan’s father. This doctor has likely brought thousands of babies into the world, but for me, it was personal.
As I sat on his examination table, I felt the tears come. I talked about Dylan. And I could see it—he was tired. Worn out. Beaten down. I could see what the system had done to him. He wasn’t the same doctor I remembered. Insurance companies have turned doctors into machines, stripping away the time they used to have to truly care for their patients. And yet, even in his weariness, he gave me something I haven’t received from any other doctor: permission.
He asked me, almost hesitantly, "How long has it been?"
I told him, "Two and a half years."
And then he said, "Oh, it’s only been two years," as if reassuring me that it was still okay to grieve. That I wasn’t supposed to be over it yet. That moment was jarring because it was so different from what I’ve experienced with every other doctor. When I tell them it’s been two years, I see it in their eyes—the unspoken judgment. They don’t say it out loud, but I know they’re thinking, It’s time to move on, sweetheart. Get over it already.
But Dr. Washington didn’t give me that look. He didn’t push that expectation on me. Instead, for the first time, I felt understood. I felt like someone in the medical field acknowledged that losing a child isn’t like losing a parent or a partner. It’s not something you move on from just because a certain amount of time has passed. Dylan wasn’t just someone in my life—he was a part of me.
I hate what society has done to humanity. I hate that we are expected to conform to an artificial timeline for grief, for healing, for living. And there’s nothing I can do about it.
But maybe, just maybe, I can do something.
I can share my story. I can give voice to this experience so that other grieving mothers, other people who feel out of sync with the world, don’t feel alone. I can remind people that it’s okay to be human, to not fit into the mold, to not forget what it means to feel.
Because at the end of the day, we’re all just trying to exist in a world that doesn’t always make space for us. And if there’s a norm that tells us we can’t be ourselves, then maybe it’s time to break it.
Liz
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