Her Life Will Never Be the Same

Every morning, as much a habit as anything I do, I open FaceBook. It's a nice way to wake up, catching up with the world that way. This morning, I read the unexpected message: "Just thought I would let you know about a tragedy in our family this week ... I felt like you should know since you have been thru this before and might be able to offer words of hope to them at this time." And within those three dots were included the words 'son' and 'suicide.'

My heart immediately broke for this dear family, but especially for the mother. I had been close to her in past times. Distance is the only reason we really didn't see each other much. But I still considered her like a sister. And now ... her son was gone from her. In an instant.

Yes, when she is ready, I will know the words of hope to offer. I have said them to myself over a hundred times. They have been said to me. And I believe those words to be truth.

But first, there will be shock. Only, it doesn't feel like any other shock I've known. It comes as an uninvited but necessary guest. This strange companion never leaves. He's there first thing in the morning, when she moves from sleep to waking, and she doesn't even need to remember, to remember, to remember ... she knows. Her child's passing became as much a part of her as breathing, in the instant she was told.

Shock gets her through that first week, the first month, the first years. The necessary preparations, the visits, the memorial service itself. She will speak to those around her, perhaps even offer comfort herself, and somewhere in the back of her mind she may wonder, how is she even standing in this moment when her entire world has been turned on it's head?

As she moves through life, there will be Before, and After. Always. This is her way of reckoning time for the rest of her life. A perfect dissection.

Shock will stay with her. He'll do what he came to help her through. (As Lin-Manuel Miranda has so eloquently stated, 'the unimagineable.') And there will be tears. That goes without saying. So many tears, more than she ever knew she had in her. How does one measure the tears that will come unbidden for the rest of her life? Yes, the waves will come crashing with less frequency as time passes, but for the first year, or even two or three, she will cry, and cry, and cry ... because, as the Facebook quote says, grief is love with nowhere to go. Her love knows no bounds, so why should her tears?

She may have a spot she goes to. Sitting on the bedroom floor, leaning against the wall, crying into the room where no one else is. She needs it to be this way. She needs this space. She will cry, and cry, and cry .... again, and again. And her love will ask the air, "Why him? Why my sweet little boy who once had laughing eyes?" The room won't answer, but it's always there when she needs.

Not that that spot is the only place she'll cry. But it's the place where she will go when the big cries come. When her heart needs room to break, again and again.

And along the way, the words of hope from others will co-exist with the love, and the missing, and the tears, and the grief. They will be her lifeline. They will be the thin threads of the rope she clings to. (Don't even begin to call this a new normal. Normal? What is normal about your child being so broken he can't go on?)

People will tell her they feel him near. She'll believe them and disbelieve them at the same time. She'll hope in her heart that he is being cared for, and loved, and looked after. That he is surrounded by loved ones who have gone before. That he doesn't have to carry the enormous burdens he carried in life. It was always so easy to believe this about others who passed, why should it be any different with her child? But it is. She longs so much to hear his voice again, to see his laughing eyes, to KNOW he is okay.

And then, perhaps sooner, perhaps later, perhaps in the midst of it all, who can say - she'll feel what others have felt. She'll sense he is near. He may even say words to her. In her heart, in her mind. He'll speak to her. She prays that it is really his words coming to her. She wants to believe. The words sound like him. He will tell her how amazing it all is. That he loves her. That he is okay. That she needs to be her amazing self.

Peace may come quickly or slowly. But it is quite possible for grief and peace to co-exist. Hasn't it always been this way?

Yes, I'll offer her words of hope and truth. Because I have lived them. Because someone offered them to me. And someday, she'll offer the words to other women around her. We'll all hold hands through the 'after' until that glorious day we embrace our dear children again.

Myself

Yesterday, I showed darling son's girlfriend my blog. She graciously read my entry, 'Before,' laughing at what she termed was 'just the right amount' of humor. No wonder I like her!

Darling son came back into the room and asked what we were doing. Upon answering, he said, "I didn't know you had a blog."

Sigh. The life of a mother.

What does it take before our children see us as complete human beings beyond the title of parent? I believe I may be partly at fault in this.

I believe it's time for a few things to change around here. And as with all good change, it has to start with me.

Not long now

It's all too close. His birthday, and then his passing date. Maybe I should simply call it his passage date. Maybe that would help. I have a feeling it might not.

As someone told me, the tears are all about the love. We wouldn't want the tears gone. But I sure would like him here. I'd give anything to see him, if only for a short time.

I'll write more later. For now, there is this. From several years ago, when I wouldn't necessarily have called life simple, but certainly my life seemed simpler in some respects. How I miss him. For all of those we miss so dearly.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=UxAaGp5SHoQ&t=13s