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.”

Dealing with Others

The thoughts of his suicide tumble through my mind till they are smooth and shiny, cool to the touch. When they leave my lips or fingers they have been made presentable, but sometimes I want to just throw them down in their raw unaltered form. Then you would see how rough and ugly they are when I'm feeling them. How the sharp edges of emotion leave bleeding wounds on my soul.

Then you would see how broken I am.

I'm not sure who I'm protecting anymore. You from having to share my pain... or myself from the inevitable moment you turn away because my pain is more than you can bear.

Leaving me alone again with a pain much too large for two people to bear, much less one.

A Bad Day.

The tears come swimming down through the smiles to catch me unawares.

 

There should be no more birthdays for me if he can't have them too.

 

I'm so fucking angry sometimes. Today, it's at him. For not being here. For not wanting to be here. For choosing NOT to be here.

 

Damnit Josh, where the hell are you?

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.

Pressure Cooker

I find I have no emotional reserves anymore. The least little issue sends me into an emotional tailspin of epic proportions and leaves me feeling drained and useless. Cooking dinner is an obstacle to be overcome. If dinner needs to be cooked AND I need to run to the store for air filters in the same night, I'm overwhelmed. Throw in a daughters smashed car window and I'm nearly comatose in my inability to function.

Handling every day life is all I can do, and if there are other things going on I find myself completely avoiding Josh's suicide. Shutting him out the best I can. The longer I do that though, the more insistent the thoughts become. So I stuff them down even harder. I pack my mind like a canning jar... a memory of his smile here, the way he smelled there, then cram the mental image of the fine downy hairs on the nape of his neck in between the two and screw on the lid really really tightly. Then, just like a jar of pickles, stick it in the cooker and turn up the heat. Before you know it, I'm ready to explode without provocation or explanation.

It doesn't help that during a time when I could really stand to have some serenity in my life it feels as if I'm holding out my plate and saying "Higher and deeper please...."

Currently, my brother-in-law is living with us rent free, my daughter is pregnant and moving back in a couple of months, my 23 year old son is in Portland for the Summer and I won't see him for his birthday for the first time, my job is stressful, money is tighter than it's been in 10 years, my husbands business is floundering due to the economy and we're trying to do a re-finance on the house.

That's where I am right now. I need desperately to find time to honor and acknowledge my on-going pain. I need to have a good cry and allow myself my sorrow and my memories, but there never seems to be enough time in the day because I'm currently so inept at handling the smallest of details. I feel continuously as though I need to be doing other things.

Catch 22

The pressure's building and there is an explosion eminent.

Please.

I hurt inside my soul in a way I can't touch, see or explain. I am wounded. Broken. Shattered.

Like an injured dog, I struggle not to bite the hands and hearts trying to comfort and heal me, yet my pain is so great I lash out- with no alleviation of my own pain, but rather, deeper discomfort from the pain I cause.

Inside my head the simple word "please" repeats it'self over and over. Please don't let this be real. Please don't let this hurt so much. Please let me find my way through this. Please. Please. Please. PleasePLEASE let me have my child back.

I have learned "please" is not the magic word. There is no magic word. Yet I beg the universe to make it so. please.

Stop the ride.

8 Months.
34 1/2 weeks

Less time than I carried him inside of me. Yet it's an eternity. A vast endless chasm of frustration, agony, and despair. I scream at the top of my lungs driving down the street. I wail. I lash out at those around me. I physically double over in pain when I can't hold my grief at bay any longer. I simply can not wrap my head around the fact of this existence without him. Never hearing his voice. This is too hard. Too damn hard. Overwhelmingly hard.

For today this is how I feel. Tomorrow may be different. Grief is a process, but not a predictable one. There are no set rules, no definitive path to follow. Instead it is a roller-coaster, whipping me to and fro without the least regard to where I want to go. This ride has no foreseeable end, only moments of anticipation where it noticeably slows before taking me into another plunge.

Stop the ride, I want to get off now.

As long as I'm pissing and moaning, let me just say, if I hear the statement "God never gives you more than you can handle." one more time, someone's going to get hurt.

Seriously? Do people really still find a way to believe this rhetoric? Simple reasoning tells me that statement can't possibly be true. If it were, my son would be alive and handling his depression.

I'm angry today and I'm throwing the bullshit flag.

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.

Gone.

The world has gone on. The phone has stopped ringing, the friends have fallen away, the co-workers avoid the topic. Only the family must endure the unendurable. For everyone else it's like watching a really sad movie. When it becomes too much, you stop the movie and stick in a comedy. Not because you don't care, but because it's just too much to subject yourself to voluntarily. Trust me, if I could turn it off and avoid it, I would.

I feel unable to explain the sense of isolation I feel even when surrounded by others. When I am around those who are ignorant of Josh's death, sometimes I just want to scream with frustration.... How can anyone not see the putrid gaping wound I bear? How can they not smell the stench of my rotting heart?

If they know my son committed suicide they treat me differently. I'm powerless to stop people from wondering what I did wrong. It's not about particulars or facts, it's about protecting themselves from fear. It's entirely too frightening to believe I didn't do something to cause this because that would mean it could happen to them. To you.

My world no longer has insulation. There is no buffer. The worst can and has happened to me. Could happen again. Gone is any illusion of control.

And still, I would do it all again. If this crushing grief is the price I must pay for the glorious love I shared with my child, I will try to suffer it gladly, with thanks for the time I had with him. I will do my very best to always remember his life instead of his death, to not denigrate the beautiful person he was by only recalling the sorrow of his death. The cost is steep, yet worth it.

What can I say? I love him.

I miss him.

I ache for him.

He is gone.

My greatest hope is to learn from this loss. To become a better person. To honor his life.

Hurt

Grief is not an ebb and flow of good an bad these days. Instead, it is a river. Raging, roaring towards some unseen destination I cannot fathom. Pulling me in its grip in the direction it wants me to go regardless of where I would choose to send it. I am seized in a torrent of white water rapids and I'm spinning, smashing and pounding into boulders of remembrance at every turn. If only I could have a moment of calm to collect my thoughts I think I would be better able to know what to do, but I am unable to slow the thoughts and memories in my mind long enough to make rhyme or reason from them. The desire to breath calm revitalizing air is overwhelming, but instead there are droplets of pain splashing into my face and lungs, the mix of air versus grief getting thicker and more difficult to process into usable life. I can't see what's coming ahead, can only hear the increasing sounds of chaos and I picture a drop over an emotional waterfall at the end of the line. I'm terrified if I don't find a way to reach calm waters before I get there it will plunge me under the surface of life, taking me so deep into my mind and memories and sorrows there will be no hope of resurfacing.

As time passes I am beginning to feel so distant from Josh. I don't feel his presence around me like I did in the beginning. It's debilitating to think he's ....just, well.... gone. I spend my days seeking some tangible place, time or object which will make me feel reconnected with him but it seems the harder I grasp to reach him the farther away he is. The world is moving on without him. I know I'm supposed to also, but I feel unable to move on with it.

I'm hanging all my hopes on the passing of the holidays. I know there is not ever going to be a time when I'm alright, when it's "over", but perhaps it will be less consuming without constantly gagging on Christmas and cheer being shoved down my throat 24/7.

I haven't decorated or even set up the tree. We say we want to do it different this year, and yet it feels like we're shutting him out. There is no balance. We can't make it the same and we can't make it different and the damn day is coming either way. At this point it's pretty much a given it will be different, and not just because he's not here. There have been no gifts purchased, and I don't care. I can't do it. How do I not shop for him? Do I hang his stocking? How can I not? But then how can I leave it empty? How do we have tree decorating night without him? Do we set his Santa mug to the side or just not get it out? The questions without answers go on and on. I know with time I will have to come up with solutions and alternate plans. But not this year.

I sleep too much, I cry too much, I ache from head to toe. I'm forgetful and scatter brained. I'm avoidant and reclusive. I'm a shadow. Grief is exacting it's toll and the price is too steep to pay both grief and life.

I hurt.

Pain

And just like that, it's over.

This first holiday has been hurdled and the next is creeping up upon me. Thanksgiving wasn't too bad really, but the day before was horrendous. I cried all day and felt such darkness and despair I could hardly breathe. The intensity of my grief was frightening and I found myself reliving the days immediately following his death. The desire to die in order to stop the pain was a repeating thought and it saddened me even more to recognize that Josh had to have felt the same level of pain, and more, to have acted on that desire. My poor baby.

Today, I am once again finding it hard to stop crying. It's strange. I'm not thinking of anything in particular, yet the tears continue to come. Some place deep inside of me is broken, torn apart, wounded... seeping continuously in an effort to heal. From one moment to the next I have no earthly idea how to cope with the pain, gripping desperately to the idea that it will abate, knowing it will become more than I can bear if it doesn't.

I go through the motions of life, holding hands with death. My loyalties to each pulling me in different directions, not sure which is winning from one moment to the next. I want to be with him, I want to be with my other children and my husband. I want the hurt to end.

Oh Josh, I don't want you to be in pain anymore, I just want my own to stop and I don't know how to reconcile the two desires in my one heart.

Tangled

Usually, when I sit down to write it's because there is a thought or emotion roiling inside of me, bumping against my insides, needing to get out. Today, it's more as if I am a tangled skein of yarn so jumbled up and frayed I can't find the end to begin weaving my thoughts together into a coherent pattern. The strands of emotion go in every direction with each individual thread carrying a different feeling. If I examine the fuzz up closely, I can find and identify hope, sorrow, love, anger, grief, loss, joy and a veritable myriad of feelings. When I step back and try to make sense of myself as a whole, there is no rhyme or reason to the tangle.

The threat of Thursday looms over me. Per the norm, I will be cooking the Thanksgiving meal. There is a sense of familiarity and normalcy in that decision, yet there is no sense of normalcy surrounding Thanksgiving itself.

If it were me, and only me, I would choose to stay in bed and try to sleep through the day. There would be no deep-fried Turkey for Josh to help his father cook, no ghost of him in the kitchen snitching food before it was served, no echo of his laughter as I scold him to get his fingers out of the potatoes he is vigorously hand mashing. His four servings of candied yams wouldn't remain in the casserole dish and his shadow wouldn't be napping on the couch after he has eaten to bursting point. After he tried some of each dessert, the dishes he isn't here to help me wash wouldn't be waiting for me. If it were just me, none of those things would be taking place. But, it's not just me and I have to find a way to make it the least painful for the rest of my family. Not painless.... just the least painful.

For the first time, my family won't be together. In and of itself, it was bound to happen eventually. It's amazing it's never happened before that one of my children wasn't able to be present for one of the holidays. What impacts me most significantly, is that we will be together as much as we ever will be, for the rest of our days. This year,and every year hereafter, there will be only four of us, not five. (plus friends) While I am grateful beyond measure for my other two children, who will be here fulfilling their own roles in our traditional Thanksgiving, I don't know how to fill the void he has created. There will be one less family member, one less helper, one less voice raised in laughter, there will be one less child hauling off my plastic containers filled with leftovers, (which he would share with his friends, and then come by for days to eat more at my house) ... there will be less, just less. Less of the very essence of my Thanksgiving. Instead, taking up the space Josh filled, there will be more tears, more memories, more longing.

The only thing there will not be less of, at least on my part, is love.

How wonderful my life has been, still is, will continue to be... if I can harangue myself into making it so. I am thankful for what I have, sad for what I've lost, full of love and joy for ALL my children and the blessings they are, in whatever capacity I have them. So tell me, why can't I stop crying?

Tangled, I'm so incredibly tangled.

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.

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

Sand castles

Every day brings more closure to Josh’s life, makes his death more of an excruciating fact of my life. My heart and mind rail against the necessity of the phone calls, the faxes, the planning and organizing of his removal from day to day existence.

Yesterday I spent half an hour on the phone with his cell phone company in an attempt to capture his voice mail message in a retainable way. In the end the lovely ladies at US Cellular were able to send it to me in an E-mail message and the call ended with all of us crying. The kindness of others, the concern and sympathy of complete strangers never fails to de-rail me and though I certainly wish none of it were necessary, it is a balm to my soul.

Butch and I met with our grief counselor in the afternoon. When we went in I was feeling drained and hopeless but after an hour of talking to her I came away feeling somewhat more buoyed, more resistant to the constant barrage of tears and anguish. The conflict waging in my head was quieter.

The miniscule moments of peace are the only thing holding me together on most days. Grief feels like a surf, whipped up by hurricane force winds, pounding against the edges of my sanity. It washes me out to sea one grain of normalcy at a time. During the calm moments I rally slightly and build my emotional castle walls higher and dig the moat deeper, but in the end, the rising waves of grief return and my reinforcements are no match against their power. The days stretch before me in endless repetition of repeating this same act of folly over and over, yet I see no alternative other than to surrender to the storm. So, armed with a plastic pail of resolve and a shovel made of broken dreams, I work on getting through today.

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.

My Love, My Heart, My Son

Josh loved Autumn. The briskness of the air, swishing his feet through the leaves and hearing them rustle and crackle beneath his step, the vibrant colors, wearing jackets and beanies, all made him feel invigorated and alive. Each time I step outside and the sharpness of the wind snaps me across my face I think how much he would love to be experiencing it. If only......

Make a Smilebox slideshow

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.