The last touch

In the last three weeks I’ve discovered there are things too large for the mind to absorb all at once. My son's death has certainly fallen into that category. I find myself living in two alternate realities; the one where this can all be undone with some act that I’ve yet to discover, and the one where my son’s skin will never again be beneath my fingertips. On the last day I was able to make physical contact with him I ached with love, sorrow and the fear of forgetting.

Josh only stood about 5’4” and it was easy to forget how incredibly firm and solid he was, how male he was, until I wrapped my arms around him. No matter how often I saw him, I was always briefly startled by the concreteness of his body, the sheer strength of his arms as he returned my embrace. On more than one occasion I had marveled at his form, the near perfection of him, not the least surprised that he had been asked to pose for more than one art class. (A task that he accepted, to my eternal gratefulness, since I now have sketches from them)


This time, when I gently touched his arm I was once again startled, but this time it was from the icy chill emanating from his skin. I immediately laid my hand firmly against him trying to transfer my warmth. My poor, poor baby was cold and the mother in me rebeled against leaving him in that condition. The many nights of his life that it was my job to sneak into his room and pull the covers up over his sleeping body flashed through my mind, and it was agonizing to me to not have a blanket to swaddle him in, but merely a thin crisp sheet which only held in the cold. The urge to cover him with my own body, to let my body heat seep into him and warm his core and extremities was nearly overwhelming. At that moment in time, I struggled to grasp the realization that he wouldn’t wake up if only he were warm. His flesh was as eerily familiar to my fingers in death as it was in life. Firm and strong beneath my fingertips, once again jolting in it’s perfection. Death imitating life.

His eyelashes were long and beautiful, the envy of every girl he ever dated, but this time there was a gap in them and it took me a few minutes to understand they had most likely been pulled out from tape. His hair had been cut and looked dull and chopped, but was still silky sliding between my fingers. Each time my gaze began to settle on the cosmetic work around his temple I quickly refocused on something less foreign than the flesh colored putty filling and hiding the damage he had done.

Laying my hand over his chest I could feel the coarse softness of his hair beneath the cotton gown he was wearing. The cushion of air created by his hair allowed his chest to feel less frigid and my hand kept returning to rest lightly just above his heart, longing for a beat to flutter under my questing touch. The blue on white pattern of the gown lacked only a hospital logo and I kept begging the universe to warp back to an acceptable place where he was injured rather than dead. Waiting with futility for him to take a breath, to feel the slightest stir. At one point my mind threatened to crack as it tried to make my fantasy become reality. The finality was unbearable, knowing this would be the last time to touch him, to etch permanently into my memories the feel of this beautiful human being who once resided within my womb.

As I stood there alone with my child, I told him how much I loved him. How grateful I was for his life, how much I already missed him, how lost I felt without him. Somewhere in the midst of my anguish I realized I had one final task to accomplish for him. For twenty six years my only wish for him was to be happy, to be at peace. If the only way for that to happen was for me to live without him, then that is what I would learn to do.

With all the love a mother’s heart can hold, I whispered, “ For you, I can do anything.”

Public Service Announcement

I'm interrupting this blog to make an announcement.

When I first started writing here, I didn't tell anyone about it. It was my private place to spew my thoughts as I tried to survive the best way I knew how. My feeling were raw and exposed. There was no room in my life to deal with family or friends trying to talk to me about what I wrote. I chose a public forum like this because journaling left me feeling cold and isolated. Putting it here was like being able to actually tell someone. Yet I wasn't burdening the people around me, who were also grieving, with trying to listen to what I have written here. Getting it out of me and feeling "heard" has been cathartic. It has helped me lay some of my angst down and move forward without it.

  Some. Not all. Nowhere near all. There is a bottomless pit of sorrow inside of me.

As time has passed, I feel stronger and better able to share this blog with people I know in real life. I even posted the link on my facebook. I don't really know who all has read it, nor do I ask people if they have. I am willing to talk about it, but I'm also willing not to. These are my thoughts and feelings and I will not apologize for having them. If what I write here makes someone uncomfortable then the easiest solution is not to read it. If I get the facts wrong, it's not in an attempt to inflict pain, it's me being human and getting the facts wrong.

This blog is in no way an indication of my entire life. It isn't indicative of how happy or sad I am all the time, or whether or not I feel love or compassion or joy for the other people in my life. It is not an indication of how much I do or don't love my other children. It is not a reflection on anyone's shortcomings or in any way intended to cause pain or sorrow to anyone else.

The fact is, no matter how much I am grateful for the rest of my life, I will never EVER stop loving and missing Josh. Anymore than I would have stopped loving him if he were still alive. This blog is where I deal and cope when I am no longer able to keep it inside. All I ask of anyone who reads is to be respectful of my need to put my thoughts here. If you want to talk to me about it, that's fine, but please remember there isn't a wrong way to grieve.... and there sure as hell isn't a right way to lose a child.

Enough said.

The Nook in the Hall

For seventeen months he sat on my dresser. His picture hung directly above him and when I passed by my thoughts were always pulled in his direction. I envisioned him perched up there kicking his feet back and forth bitching about how bored he was or reminding me his box needed to be dusted.

When I moved I had to find a new place to put him. I don't have a mantle, and the coffee table seemed a little up close and personal for visitors. I don't have a dresser and the nightstand was a little up close and personal for ME. While he was often a fan of hanging out in the kitchen, I don't have a lot of counter space and lining him up with the canisters just didn't feel quite right. Putting him inside the cupboards was out of the question as was a corner of the closet... so what to do?

I live in a little house built in the 40s... there's a small nook in the hall right next to the bathroom which was initially meant for the phone to rest. It was just the perfect size and shape for Josh's ashes to set. Where I will see him all the time, where he's close to one of his favorite spots to hang out. Yes, the bathroom. In typical boy fashion he took great pleasure in a healthy bowel movement and even more pleasure in telling everyone about them. So how fitting that he sits by the bathroom door so I smile everytime I go in there. The only thing lacking is his bathroom reader. He always had one to read while he did his best work. I'll have to get one from storage and set it next to him.

No I haven't lost my mind... or at least no more than usual. I just miss him... and I keep him alive in small ways that get me through the day. He always got my sick and twisted sense of humor and would completely understand his placement.

So there in the nook he sits. At least until I am ready to part with him and scatter him to the winds in Yosemite.  He probably won't need the bathroom reader there, but I may shred a page to scatter with him.... Just in case.

The damn kid still makes me laugh. Even through the tears.

Exquisite

So often, when I post here I feel better for having written, yet still feel I've very poorly expressed myself. Many of my posts have dealt with my feelings of gratitude, not for the loss of my son, but for the joy of his life. Each time I post something along those lines it leaves me wondering if I've somehow negated the depth of my sorrow or left the impression I'm less profoundly changed by Josh's death than I really am.

I am not whole. I will never BE whole again. My sorrow doesn't diminish as time goes by, instead it becomes easier to fake happiness with practice. Yet, there are times I truly do feel deep abiding joy. Perhaps it's a different joy than I felt seven months ago, but it's joy nonetheless. Joy for the child I was given the chance to know and love. Joy for the multitude of lessons I have learned virtue of his life, and sadly, also his death.

Yesterday, while reading a new Dean Koontz book (Odd Hours) my daughter gave me for Mother's Day, I came across the following passage and it so closely fit with what I've been feeling I wanted to preserve it here in order to find it more readily when I need to remind myself of where I want to be.....

"Loss is the hardest thing. But it's also the teacher that's the most difficult to ignore."

"Grief can destroy you--or focus you. You can decide a relationship was all for nothing if it had to end in death, and you alone. Or you can realize every moment of it had more meaning than you dared to recognize at the time, so much meaning it scared you, so you just lived, just took for granted the love and laughter of each day, and didn't allow yourself to consider the sacredness of it. But when it's over and you're alone, you begin to see it wasn't just a movie or dinner together, not just watching sunsets together, not just scrubbing a floor or washing dishes together or worrying over a high electric bill. It was everything, it was the why of life, every event and precious moment of it. The answer to the mystery of existence is the love you shared sometimes so imperfectly, and when the loss wakes you to the deeper beauty of it, to the sanctity of it, you can't get off your knees for a long time, you're driven to your knees not by the weight of the loss but by gratitude for what preceded the loss. And the ache is always there, but one day not the emptiness, because to nurture the emptiness, to take solace in it, is to disrespect the gift of life."

This was speaking of a different kind of relationship and I didn't spend a lot of time with Josh scrubbing floors or worrying about the electric bill the essence is still spot on. I also can't say I took him for granted very often, yet I did. We all do. It's not something I can explain other than to say no matter how much you think you love someone, you can't ever realize how much you really love them until they are gone. You can only imagine the impact their loss would have, you can't truly experience it unless and until they aren't there.

My son is dead. All I have left are my memories and my love for him. He was exquisite, the best son anyone could ever ask for. Brilliant, beautiful, kind, compassionate, devoted and loving. I will love him to the end of my days, not his. I will not allow his death to be the only memory I hold on to. I will not allow myself to only remember how he died, instead of how he lived. I can't give him back his life, so I will spend mine living for him.

Exquisite I tell you.

His life means more than his death.

From the Corner of My Eye

It's amazing to me the way the human mind finds ways to cope with grief. Seven months after Josh's death he is still the first thing in my mind when I wake, the last thing I think of before I sleep and often he rules my dreams as well. Yet, somehow, it's almost as if he's in my peripheral vision rather than directly in my line of sight. My mind has forced itself to redirect, refocus, and somehow cope with a loss otherwise incapacitating. I suspect I would not be here if that were not the case.

Most of the time, I'm fully aware of keeping my focus on life while thoughts of Josh hover close by. I can't bring myself to look (mentally and phsically) straight at him very often or I am completely unable to function. His ashes sit on my dresser with his picture hanging over them and I pass them at least twenty times a day and yet I rarely look at them. It comforts me to know they are there if I want to look at them, but to actually stop and do so is impossible without losing my composure. So I pass by, say the frequent "Hi Josh, I love you". and move on. By no means does this mean I don't think of him constantly, it simply means I cannot always indulge myself with a cry fest and so I keep him at a distance. Like when he was little, playing, and I was trying to get something done. I would keep him in the corner of my eye. Always aware of him, but not letting him be my primary focus at the moment. Now, even though he isn't little anymore, and he isn't here for me to watch over, I keep him in the corner of my mind's eye. The thing I'm trying to get done is living. Without him. Not focusing directly on him allows me to do this, albeit poorly.

Having said that, it also never ceases to amaze me how blindsided I can be when I am caught unawares by my grief. On those occasions it is like no time has passed and his death was only yesterday. Just when I'm going along as smoothly as I possibly can, faceing my grief, with at least a grasp on what it takes to get through the day, I find a new aspect of life that will never be the same without him. Each time that happens, I nearly double over in pain. I find myself crying, without the ability to stop, regardless of where I am.

That happened to me Friday. I work with a young man whose name is also Josh and I called his name the other day. Without thinking I said it the way I always said it when I was calling my Josh. You know, that silly lilting way I suspect all mothers have for their children when they are just trying to get their attention but don't really need anything...... Josshhh-U-aaaaaaa.

It hit me like a ton of bricks. I haven't called his name in seven months. I've said it...Josh....Joshua. His name is said as often now as it ever was, but I haven't called it through the house. I haven't been able to call him with that lilt, the rise and fall of my voice, the drawing out of the letters, the way only I called him when I was eager to show him something, excited to tell him something. I haven't had the security of knowing he was in the next room, hearing his voice answering back .... Yeah,Mom?... What's up Madre'? (Madre' and Mamasita were his terms of endearment for me... no clue why. *shrug*) The tears started flowing and wouldn't stop. There was, for a while, no buffer of time since he died. My mind was unable to keep him to the side, instead he and his death was all there, in my face. No chance to prepare myself, no way to avoid... Just pure naked grief. Fortunately, it was right at the end of my shift so I was able to leave. I sobbed all the way home and then some. Sobbed, not cried.

I can't even begin to explain why one day is worse than another or what does and doesn't have the potential to make me melt down. There are chinks in my armor, but it's hard to examine it and find them while wearing it. I don't know what the triggers are going to be in order to brace myself against them. I want to be able to avoid those moments because while in the midst of them they are terrifying in thier intensity. Their ability to derail and incapacitate....to hurt... is incredible. It's feels hopeless to try and live with the pain. my guts might as well be scooped out with a rusty spoon through a wound that has barely begun to heal. The thought of it always being this way, never reaching a point of not being blindsided makes me want to quit. Just quit.

Enough of that....

I suppose the point of this rambling post is the fact it's Mother's Day. I needed to take a few minutes to look directly at Josh. To allow myself my grief, to willingly focus on him and let the pain wash over me. I needed to be with all of my children today, in one capacity or another. This is my first Mother's day without his presence, but there will never be one without his memory. There is a piece of me missing which will never be with me again. There are so many, many facets of my life which will never be the same. God, how I miss him.

Now, I will dry my tears and set my thoughts of Josh to the side. For the rest of today, I will glance at him, but only from the corner of my eye. I will remember I am still a mother and need to do whatever is neccesary in order to be a good mother to Tanner and Rebecca. They are also grieving. They need their mother. They need ME.

Whoever the hell that is.

Bailing

Sometimes, the space Josh resides in is a peaceful, calm location at the core of my being. The waters of my soul lie still and placid, warm in the sunshine of his memories. Only the occasional ripple of unrest moves me, but even then it’s not necessarily disturbing as much as a nudge not to get too comfortable. The small gusts of sorrow serve to remind me that the winds of grief are not gone, only circling around me, gathering their strength for the next onslaught. Yet, even knowing I should be expecting the storm, I still find myself caught unaware by it’s power.


This morning, the urgent need to once again lay eyes upon his face came upon me so, I sat and looked at pictures on my monitor. I found myself touching the screen and weeping. His eyes crinkled in a smile the Saturday before his death, the deep look of contemplation as he sits atop a mountain, the mischief in his face while he torments his little sister…these snapshots of his life are what I have to turn to instead of his voice, his laughter, his presence…. His future.


Some days, those are enough. Not enough to save me, but enough to keep my head above water and believe in a future where the calm waters will last. Then there are the “other” days. Days, like today, when the winds are high, the waves are crashing, the tide is rising and my life raft has a hole in it. There is no peace to be found, no safe haven within reach, so I simply continue to bail and hang on to the knowledge that “this too shall pass“.

Please.
Let it pass.
Please.

Another week goes by

Today will be my fourth day back at work. Five weeks since his death. It frightens me how easily life continues without my son. Surely the world should stand still in mourning, yet it stubbornly keeps on going against my will.

My newest ritual is to sit on the back porch and talk with him. The fall leaves remind me of him in their swirling travel to greet the ground. They are in the midst of sacrificing themselves to the ever changing of the seasons and yet they are beautiful in their plight. No small wonder he loved them so.

It struck me the other day; I never realized how often I thought of him until now. Everything reminds me of him and brings a barb of pain, knowing he will never again see or do those things. The simple act of buying a new type of brie... The first thought that comes to mind is the need to call him and have him come try it because he adored cheese. The very essence of my being is intertwined with his… how lucky am I? Truly.

Each day I prod myself to smile more and mean it. To be kinder and feel it. To not be so sad over my loss that I forget to be joyful for what I have. Sometimes it works better than others, but it’s working. Josh would be so proud of me.

After all, only those that have, can lose.

Thank you, Josh, for looking out for me, for helping me remember your joy and excitement, for allowing us to have a relationship that brings me peace now.

I miss you so.

To Josh

Dear Josh,

Today is four weeks and one day since you took your life. In ways, it is harder now than it was then: I cry less constantly, but miss you more with each passing day. I expect you to drop by just to say hi, I long for the opportunity to put my arms around you, feel your hair against my cheek, brush my lips across the coarseness of your beard and tell you I love you.

When I think of your last moments I’m haunted by the thought of you pressing the gun to your head. I keep wondering if you were crying, hesitant, if you had to work up your nerve or if you were calm and precise, sure beyond a shadow of a doubt that death was a welcome release from the torment of your own thoughts. If I allow myself to think of you crying it’s not long before I have to shove those images away before my own heart ache becomes crippling in it’s intensity. The desire to do the impossible becomes a constant barrage of thought in my brain. I become obsessed with the need to comfort you, hold you close and do what I’ve always tried to do for you… ease the pain. I long for the days when a bandage and a kiss could dry your tears, when you not only looked to me to provide comfort, but believed in my power to do so.

Josh, there are so many things I want to tell you, yet I am soothed by the knowledge that I told you the really important stuff. I have a sense of peace knowing you loved all of us and knew how very much we loved you in return. The rest of the world may not understand the pain you were in, or why you killed yourself, because you always did such a good job of hiding it, but I’m your mother. I know your heart, I know your soul, just as I’ve always known it from the very beginning. My love for you was blind, but my understanding of you was infinite. I know only too well the torture your mind put you through, the doubts and insecurities you lived with every single day. I know how hard you tried to live for everyone around you. I saw it baby, and I hope you know now, wherever you are, I’m not angry with you. I just miss you more than words can ever express.

Because I miss you so much, some days it’s nearly impossible to not be selfish and wish you could have continued to live for my sake. Forgive me for wanting you back, but please know it’s only because you brought so much joy to my life and all the lives around you. The depth of my longing and sorrow is a direct reflection on how incredibly loved you are. What a wonderful Son you are. I’m so grateful for you, for all you've taught and shared with me and I am at odds within myself to balance the joy with the anguish of your loss. I’m constantly reminding myself that the only way to have avoided the darkness of your death would have been to never have experienced being in light of your life. You have been such an incredible blessing, and I struggle to open my mind and heart to the lessons I can still learn from you.

You know I never thought I could live without you, and don't often understand why my heart is still beating in a world without your presence, but I truly believe that’s what you need me to do. Life will never be the same, but I know you believed in our strength as a family, in our love for each other to get us through this. I’m not sure yet exactly how it’s going to happen, but we’re trying Josh, so very hard.

The days pass and I see you in every thing around me and carry you with me everywhere I go. Nothing’s changed my Love. I feel your love surrounding me, and hope with all my heart you are finally at peace.

As always, I love you,

Mom

Trading Places

He took himself out of his own private Hell and put me in it instead.

Birds of Prey

Saturday we dismantled my sons life. We sorted, boxed and organized his possessions into categories and labeled the boxes and the whole time I felt as if I were a scavenger picking the flesh from his very bones. Touching his knick-knacks, folding his clothes, finding his intimate belongings. Toothbrush and razor into the trash because he will never need them again. (But only after coaching to do so) Condoms following behind, because realistically, who wants to use a dead man's condom? How ironic is it that he would practice safe sex, but commit suicide?

For now, it all goes to storage. I am not able to make a rational decision about the smallest of items, and it feels too wrong to be scattering his belongings to the winds. I don't even want to bring things home because it makes it too real, too permanent. The days stretch before me in vast deserts of Joshlessness, and my mind often leads itself astray to a mirage oasis where he is only gone for the moment, not forever. In Dallas for the weekend perhaps. When reality comes crashing in, it can only be allowed to stay for a brief while before I am swallowed whole by the sheer hopelessness of living the rest of my life without him. Those are the moments I consider his path understandable, desirable even. At the very least, I've quit hoping to live to an old age.

war

Woke up this morning feeling overwhelmed. Sleep is a welcoming shroud to be held tightly wrapped around me until the buffeting winds of grief pull it from me. Only when I am no longer able to keep thoughts of Josh from invading the space between slumber and wakefulness do I force myself to get up and stumble to the coffee maker with his memories swirling in the wake of each step like the autumn leaves he loved so much.

Today I will continue shutting down his life. I will call the gas company and fax his death certificate to the electric company. I will go to his home and begin taking inventory of his possessions in order to figure out how many boxes we will need to pack them up. Before I’ve even begun, I’ve entered into that strange realm of denial where he is going to get pissed when he sees what I’m doing. Reminding myself repeatedly that I’m not the one ending his life, HE already ended it three weeks ago.

The books and pamphlets say I’m not crazy, these thoughts incessantly pinging through my mind are “normal” for my situation. His girlfriend refers to it as waging war with her mind. I would tend to agree, only adding the sense of standing on a precipice while doing it.

Before and After

I think I was walking into the living room from our bedroom when I heard the car pull up. Somehow, I knew what was coming and instead of continuing straight, I veered right, into the kitchen. I recall trying desperately to think of something to do, anything to avoid the inevitable, so I opened the fridge and took out a bottle of water about the time my husband said “ Officer Burgess is here”. I calmly opened the bottle, briefly thinking that I looked awful and was going to have to get out of my robe and put some clothes on before the calls started. Then I tilted the bottle to my lips and drank. If I think about it I can still feel the coolness of the water slipping past my tongue, the momentary urge to throw up instead of swallow... The sheer agony of my stomach clenching against it’s invasion. More than anything though, I just wanted that drink to never end.

Our eyes met through the front window and his averted first. There was no smile, no acknowledgement, only that fleeting connection when he looked at me. I can only wonder now what he thought of my calmness; My continuation of getting a drink of water despite the fact that he and his partner were at my door. Perhaps he understood, or more likely, he was so busy steeling himself to speak to us it never entered his mind to wonder. It’s crossed my mind whether or not my response seemed cold or unloving, but at the time avoidance was my only resource, the only way to cope with an unbearable, unspeakable reality.

That’s when I knew for sure what I’d been feeling all day was true: My life as I’d known it for the last 26 years was gone, to be placed amongst all the moments of my past. That was the difinitive moment. The spot in time dividing joy and heartache, laughter and sorrow, hope and tomorrow.

I had started grieving that morning. I don’t know why or how I knew, other than a mother's heart sometimes just knows. There was a palpable difference in the very air I breathed. We'd filed the missing persons report the night before, and that day I'd left work because I couldn’t stop crying. I'd spent the day waiting to officially hear the news. Despite everyone telling me it was going to be O.K., every fiber of my being was aware that it was already too late for O.K. to even be an option.

Two days of his phone turned off, no word….. This time he didn’t want to be talked out of it.

My son was dead.