Books

Grandma has been cleaning out my closet to make space for your things, sweet boy. I can’t bring myself to let anything of yours go other than your bed. I will sort through your toys and clothes once I am stronger.

She found books in a dusty box. Titles like, “Even This”, “Just Enough Light for the Step I’m On”, “It’s Okay Not to Be Okay”, and “The Broken Way.”

The books must have been in there stored away for almost fifteen years. I received them as gifts the first time my entire world collapsed and grief stole my soul for a little while. You were nine when your father committed suicide. On February 10, 2011 you and Emerson went to school not knowing everything would be different when you walked back through the door into a home shocked and cracked to the very foundation.

While you were at school I found your father in the woods. Not even ten minutes had passed from the time I last saw him to the time I last saw him. I still don’t know why I ran into the woods that day, just my spirit knew I would find him there. The police put me in the ambulance I had initially called for your dad. I was going into shock. Grandpa knelt beside me.

“Stay with me, focus on me,” he urged. “Look at me. Stay here.”

At times he had to shout to get my attention. When I looked at Grandpa I had clarity and the full force of my grief was held at bay. As soon as my eyes diverted from him everything became chaotic and uncertain. The world was literally spinning. Gravity was failing. I was disconnecting from reality. Dissociation led me to the cusp of oblivion. If I only let go I could float to an unknown place. Anywhere would have been better than where I was. I somehow knew if I did though I might not know how to get back. As if an enormous vacuum was trying to suck my soul away my altered mind knew I had to try to stay. I was scared. I did not want to go there yet did not want to be in reality equally as strongly. What was transpiring was much too much for me to handle. My world was being ripped apart both figuratively and literally as I lay in the ambulance looking at my father’s loving, pleading eyes.

“Stay here, the boys need you to stay here,” my father begged.

That was it. One sentence changed everything. It was the exact switch that needed to be flipped and the fear and uncertainty vanquished. I knew I needed to stay. From the moment of conception I loved you more than my own self. When I was pregnant with you, I would care for myself. I would eat well and drink plenty of water. I quit smoking. I could not or would not do any of those things for just me but when my body became a vessel for you I did anything to ensure you would safely arrive into the world. I needed to do anything to ensure you would stay safe in our now rapidly changing world.

I fought back with all my might against the lure of being in the other world where, I believed, I could be numb but where you would not be able to find me. You did not even yet know you lost a parent; I was determined you would not lose both.

The following weeks after your dad died felt similar to where I sit now yet altogether different. Both losses were traumatic and unexpected. Both left me uncertain of what the future holds. Both were excruciating and piercing. Both resulted in a significant loss of my own identity. Both necessitated rebuilding from less than ashes. Both required more than I thought I had.

And during both I praised God through it all.

Burying a spouse has stark differences from burying a child. When your dad died and each moment before and after, every decision I ever made was always keeping in mind your wellbeing before all else. I was strong for you and for Emerson. Grandpa’s words, “your boys need you,” was enough to bring me back to reality and to fight just a little more.

One month ago today you left. Each day I dig deep to empty reservoirs and find my “fight just a little more”. Grandpa is where you are and I don’t have his pleading eyes to remind me that your brothers still need me. And so, I keep my eyes on my Father especially during those moments I am not sure how to live this life without you. You were my whole world. I told you such every single night before I kissed you once more before sleep. My heart is happy I never once forgot to tell you and, more importantly, show you. And you knew.

The full force of grief, however, is not held at bay. It is crushing. It is relentless. It is suffocating. But I am not alone in it.

The books are back on the shelf. Grief settles in our home. She will be staying for a while as she did before. Sometimes she sits quietly next to me on the couch but I can still see her in the corner of my eye. I make no sudden moves. Other times she ambushes me and delivers blows consecutively until I am begging for mercy. She is the albatross that hangs around my neck as I walk through the day trying to be “normal.” I am certain she will accompany me for the rest of my days. From my time with her before I know she can become gentler and maybe even a little kinder. Someday, but not soon enough, perhaps just a nudge to remind me she is by my side still.

Sweet boy, she will not rule me but for a while. I do not know how, I only know God will not let me languish here. I am crawling through the valley of the shadow. I have been here before. It isn’t the same but I see similarities enough to make it a less foreign land. The valley is longer, deeper, darker, and seemingly impossible but my God is still as strong and my dependency on Him even greater.

He lifted me out of the pit of despair, out of the mud and the mire. He set my feet on solid ground and steadied me as I walked along. Psalm 40:3

He has not lifted me yet but He has not left me. I will keep my arms raised knowing He can and He will.

They say the deeper the love the deeper the grief. I would add the more treacherous the valley. It is a price I willingly pay one thousand times again to have loved you, my sweet boy. For it was and always shall be my highest honor.