I’ve had a few tough nights since our son died. Surprisingly only a few, until this week. The past two nights have been rough. I wake up and flash back to July 2nd. When I do sleep, dreams become vivid, not about his death but rather silly things. I have an important appointment for something and there seems to be no way to get ready. I face delay, detour and all-the-while, the clock is mocking me that I will be irreparably late.
It makes the day sluggish when I wake. My temper is short. My patience shorter. Tears are sloshing around just below the surface. New triggers appear at random.
I sent cards to the parents and wife of my son’s friend who died. I see on Facebook where people are saying to the family to “let them know” if there is anything they can do. I covered this once, early on with some words borrowed from someone who has been on this journey longer than I. It sounds like a great offer, but here is the skinny – we still don’t know what you could possibly do for us, we don’t know what we need that you could provide.
We do know exactly what we want. We want our child to not be dead, but more than that, we want time to be turned back to when they were healthy and happy. We want to go back there, knowing the danger that lies ahead and to prevent it from happening. We want a time machine.
The only words that can be said, even today to me, that does not make me want to punch somebody is “I am sorry.” I am afraid that limits dialogue. There are no acceptable explanations, so please don’t try to pull a rabbit out of your hat.
Let me reinforce a former statement of mine, written on some other day. I don’t think God did this to my child or anyone else’s child. If He did, then we have all got a big problem, too monumental to address here.
I am sorry if I am repeating myself concerning things I have previously talked about. Lack of sleep, and the replaying of events in my head has made many things resurface. Maybe it is in the repeating that the edges finally wear away. Maybe.
I know that this is partly related to the death of my son’s childhood friend. I have been thinking about his parents during my waking hours. I remember that awful Sunday after our son died. Inconsolable family. I don’t even remember how long that lasted. I just remember the heaviness, the weariness that no sleep could relieve.
I hate where they have to be right now, dreading the funeral. Dreading after the funeral even more.
I will have to be out of town and unable to attend this young man’s memorial service. I regret that and I am relieved. I don’t know how deep into the dark of depression that might possibly take me. I don’t mean to sound selfish here. I don’t know if the future will present opportunity for me to reach out to this family in some other way. I still have difficulty with plans. I am trying to get through this first year without my own son.
I am so sorry. I am sorry that I never fully considered this possibility-that I would loose a child.Even if I could have, I know I could not have comprehended. I don’t comprehend it now.
There is a mantra that plays in my head sometimes. The only words that seem to come, small words. I miss him. I miss him so much.
I know that it is because I had so much – for which I am thankful – so much that I miss. My son allowed me to be in his life as much as is possible between a mother and son. It was good.
This day has dawned with bright sunshine. We have had a mild winter and all our bulbs are blooming. I’ve got things that because I am still alive and in this world, I need to do. I cannot live this day for him, but I can continue to find joy in my day because of him. He has in all ways, as has my daughter and husband, enhanced my view of the world. I miss him. I miss him so much.