May there be peace.

It's the afternoon of New Year's Eve: a time when some of us make resolutions for the upcoming year, when some welcome the coming twelve months.  Aside from acknowledging that this has been the worst year of my life (our lives) I can't think of anything to say.  We will not be rejoicing at midnight. Although my husband is going to cook a nice dinner, the celebration is more  because there is a three day weekend coming up.  I plan on crawling into comfy clothes and curling up under an afghan and watching movies with him.  I may not want to be revisitng this year but I know it is going to be a part of learning to live in a world without my son, for the rest of my life.

Tonight I will be praying for strength, for wisdom, for peace and health for those here and no longer here, for lives new to this world, and lives just leaving this world.  My faith is stronger than it has ever been, but I will admit that there was a time this year when I was very angry at God.  I'm sure He is used to that. 

I am thankful for my beautiful family, amazing friends, my husband who supports and sustains me at a time when he is full of grief.  And I pray from the Serenity prayer, to be granted the serenity to accept the things I cannot change.

Between Christmas and the New Year

We are home again after spending Christmas away with our daughter and her family.  We left a week before Christmas and started our week by attending The Canadian Tenors Christmas concert at the Royal Theater in Victoria.  This had been a gift from my daughter on my 60th birthday.  Michael first "introduced" me to the Canadian Tenors.  I had heard of them but for some reason never listened to them.  He sent me a link to YouTube where they were singing Leonard Cohen's "Hallelujah". This was one of his favourite songs and it was sung at his funeral.   As the concert began  tears came  but they were the tears that come with looking at a beautiful sunset, or a piece of art that touches your soul, or in the this case, voices that must make even angels weep just with the beauty of their sound.   It was an amazing night for us, we were both so moved.

The first four nights of our week away was spent on our own.  I had taken Michael's candle, the Mother and Son ornament I take with me everywhere and one of his t-shirts and my husband and I had time to talk to and about our son, time to walk by the water with him, time to cry together and we remembered Christmases with him.  All the big churches have an open door policy in the city and walking downtown one morning we walked into St. Andrew's Presbyterian church.  The sanctuary was empty and I was able to sit and pray for my son and feel close to God and just breathe. 

Each day we spent time with our daughter and her family.  Our granddaughter is such a joy and loves her NanaPapa (we are a unit of one).  As the days grew closer to Christmas day I actually felt I was getting stronger.  Christmas Eve was a very emotional day for all of us.  But we hung beautiful glass angels a cousin had given us, for Michael, we hung his stocking, and we held each other.  I took my granddaughter up to bed while the other three assembled a Christmas kitchen. 

Christmas morning we were up early and I remember that I felt enveloped by a sense of calm.  Michael's picture hangs on the wall above where we were sitting and I could feel his soul there with us.  That's not meant to sound like a spiritualist, but I was so very conscious of being at peace that I felt he must be there somehow with me...perhaps he was just in my heart. 

I am glad to be home and I am glad Christmas Eve and Christmas day and Boxing day are over.  We made it through and past another of our firsts.  We had so much love and support from friends and family.  Christmas day we received texts, phone calls and emails telling us that Michael was in the thoughts and prayers of friends.  How sweet to hear his name spoken by someone.  What a gift to us. 

I am going to light his candle and brew strong tea and sit by the fire with him for awhile, now.

December 20th

Sitting at dinner tonight I was thinking of the "one day at a time" thing I've read and heard over the years.  It's that way with us too I guess, but more like "one hour at a time" and "one minute at a time".  We are working our way through the Christmas one second at a time, always on guard for emotional pitfalls in front of us.  Christmas doesn't come down to the one day.  We are in the midst of our first Christmas without Michael.  I don't believe the 25th will be much more difficult than each day of this season is.  Christmas is about more than the one day, it is about the meaning of the season and we are in that season now.

Walking home this evening my husband suddenly said, "I miss Michael's laugh.  I will never forget the sound of that laugh."  I'm so grateful we each have things we will always remember.  Right now, I'm not sure I can hear that laugh in my heart...but I can hear his voice, talking to me, and I can see his smile.  I work at blocking the other memories. 

So, we continue to try to keep ourselves safe from letting ourselves go too far into  sadness and loneliness.  There are other people to consider right now.  I don't know that I could walk this road alone.  I am so thankful that I will never have to. 

42 plus 1

Today is December 17th, a day of no particular note, and I only mention it because it's been awhile since I wrote last.  Boy, this is a tough month.  I expected it to be, but wasn't sure what form the difficulties would take.  As I sit writing this, Bravo is airing Music Hall and Brian Adams is singing.  I'm going to have to switch the station.  Music still remains one of the biggest triggers for sadness.  Brian Adams music brings back memories of Michael as a boy.  I can't remember how old he would have been, perhaps 12 or so, but he loved  Adams music. 

Two weeks ago I didn't leave the house during the week.  I indulged myself and allowed a mental health day,  staying in my pajamas most of the day, keeping the drapes closed, the fireplace lit, TCM on all day and Michael's candle burning.  It all seems so unfair again.  I thought I'd made it through that part.  Looking up at his picture above the mantle, a picture taken on his wedding day six short years ago, I think "This can't possibly be real.  He will be home any day."  And I've said more than a few times the last few weeks, "What happened?  Why OUR boy?"  It is just so wrong. 

I'm not aware of feeling separate from other people's Christmas enthusiasm, and I HAVE attended services and the carol festival, but there is no joy.  There's just...well,  nothing really.  For our granddaughter's sake we decorated and baked.  We chopped down a small tree and set it up in the corner. Tonight is our little Christmas with her.  There can be no tears tonight.  I have to give myself a talking to over the next two hours. 

Last night we attended a service at our church, a service held each year to allow us to remember those we have lost.  It was a beautiful service, but when it came time to hang a decoration on the memory tree I felt like I might pass out.  I haven't felt like that since Michael's funeral.  Through my mind I could see the words "if you run now he'll come home"...just like you see pictures of planes pulling banners...that type written banner ran through my thoughts.  There were four ornaments hung for Michael last night, so I knew it was true.  He is no longer here with us in the way I want him to be.

Today I went into the room Michael had here in his last months.  I had been keeping the closet for gifts and after I moved them all into the car I stood for awhile running my hands over his shirt sleeves.  Shirts, still clean and ironed, ties neatly hung, dress pants separated from jeans, and on the floor, the slippers.  I thought for a second of getting into the closet and closing the door, just to be alone with my boy, but I knew I would start to cry and I need to make it through the day. 

My cousin gave me beautiful glass angels for every member of the family, to hang on our trees.  They are beautiful, but I don't want to have to HAVE an agnel hanging an angel on the tree for my boy.  I want him back.  I don't think I will ever EVER accept the loss of my son.  And I know it's because of the manner of his death.  I don't believe it will ever get easier.  I wonder if I've said that before.  Probably.  Frustration?  Anger?  Maybe a little of each.  Sadness, without a doubt.  But regret, REGRET, regret. 

I love my son today as much as I did the day he was born.  We are so blessed as parents to have been given the capacity to love so completely.  Parental love is so all-encompassing. 

So here we are, one day closer to Christmas day.  I just realized that last night marked 42 weeks since Michael's death.  Only 10 weeks left until it has been a year.  Where has the time gone.  How have we made it this far?  Some days it is hard to be strong. 

I am tired now.  We survived the gift giving with my granddaughter tonight.  She is such a beautiful, joy-filled child.  She is our gift.  Thank you Michael for your beautiful daughter.  Please stay close to us. We miss you very much.  Please remember that each and everything we do now, it done with your daughter's happiness and well-being in mind.  I know you will understand.

Early December days

It has been awhile since I wrote.  This is a difficult time but overall I really think I am doing okay.  I wrote in an earlier post that my husband's psychologist had told us to keep ourselves out of harms way and that is what I've been doing.  For a week, that meant just staying very close to home and avoiding the malls, with their music and decorations.  The music is the hardest to deal with. 

Christmas in our family has always been such a wonderful time.  When the children were little it was a time of school and Sunday school concerts, time home from school spent baking and decorating, and just general excitement.  I made my first gingerbread house the year Michael was born and it became one of our holiday traditions.  I haven't made one in a number of years but am going to start one today to decorate with his little girl.  The last couple of weeks I have been going through old photographs of winters in the snow and Christmas over the years.  Bittersweet memories.  I am so lucky to have had those wonderful years.  But I would give anything to have them back again.  There seemed to have been such an innocence then; maybe I just have nostalgic memories but life was different then. 

Anyway, back to the music.  I have been working at being able to listen to music without crying and I'm getting better.  Tonight we have a Christmas Service of Remembrance put on by the funeral home that helped us with Michael's service.  I know it will be an emotional evening for us but I know it will be a healing step forward.  We have been playing Christmas carols and songs at home where it is safe to cry

What I wanted to write when I started this is this.  Yesterday I decided I would make myself go out and go up for coffee because I haven't been doing it much.  The less I go out, the more I want to stay in.  It was cold and windy so I grabbed a down vest I haven't worn in awhile and put my hand into my pockets to find a card my husband had given me one day.  It was just a little business card the woman who cuts his hair had given him.  This is what it said:

Hello.  This is God.
I will be handling all of your problems and concerns today.
That's my job.
Your job is to give them to me, and then to trust me
Have a great day!

Yesterday we had our granddaughter for a visit and the day was so reminiscent of days with her Daddy and Aunty when they were her age.  We walked out into the field at the Christmas tree farm and she picked out a tree for Papa to chop down for us; we went for hot chocolate; we went into the store so she could buy her Mama a Christmas present and like a little crow attracted to sparkly things, she carefully chose things with a high glitter value.

We had the promised great day. 

Strength from a phone call

This morning we received a phone call from a good friend of Michael's who was passing through the Valley.  Geoff and Michael have been friends since they played ball together nearly 20 years ago and he is one of the kids who always called me Mum.  Geoff no longer lives here, he hasn't in years but usually calls us a couple of times a year, just to keep in touch. 

Today, he called again, just as he always has and I realized that that part of my life is still the same.  A lot of Michael's friends had no idea he was struggling.  When they kept it touch, Michael always pretended to them that everything was okay.  So, when he left so suddenly, with no goodbyes to any of them, it was very difficult for them. 

My soul was strengthened by that phone call and I realize I am blessed.  I am not sure that I deserve to be blessed but I am so grateful for it anyway. 

Last night marked 9 months, 25th of February to the 25th of November, since my boy took his life.  For the longest time Thursdays were tough from morning until night but gradually, I began to be able to do things on Thursdays.  I've been able to go to choir practice the last few Thursdays because they are now in the afternoon.  But last night choir started later so I had only been there about 20 minutes when the time came when I remembered that 9 months ago, at that time, Michael was in the process of doing what he did.  It might have been okay but it was a mass choir practice so quite a number of people I didn't know were at the church.    At 9:15 I excused myself and left to come home.  As soon as I got out into the cold night I imagined I could hear Michael calling me, "Momma, momma". And I was terrified he was asking for help.  Maybe he thought he had made the wrong decision....it's my biggest fear.   I talked to him all the way home, assured him I was there, asked him how I could help him.  I guess it sounds a little crazy to anyone reading this but it was so real and it's a feeling I have had before.  Having it happen on a Thursday though, and the 9th-month Thursday was overwhelming. As soon as I got home I took some medication to stop the panic and within and hour was okay again.

The reason I am writing about last night is that it was so much like just after he died.  Yet I know I am healing so I realize there will always be times when the panic, or the grief, or the fear are overwhelming.  But that doesn't mean anything more than it is the way life is now.  I am learning that it's okay to ask for help when I'm feeling too raw. 

Today was better.  There is fresh bread on the counter, some Christmas decorations have been put up, and I am looking forward to curling up with cookbooks tonight and being here with my husband and my son.

Thankful for a peaceful day. 

choppy seas

For me, being a survivor has made me a reluctant participant/observer in my own inner struggle between wanting that to be the most important fact of  my life and wanting it to be the least important.   Edward Dunne as taken from No Time To Say Goodbye.

Sunday should have been Michael's 32nd birthday.  As the days to his birthday got closer I found myself become more and more emotional.  I just wanted to get away from town to be with other family members where we could spend his birthday together.  We have talked about how to commemorate his birthday, for a few months now, yet when they day came, most of it was spent just hanging on, being quiet, together, and getting through.  My husband and I bought flowers and placed them in the ocean later in the day but it wasn't comforting for me.  It was windy, the water was choppy and the tide was coming in.  The combination   meant that a wave crashed over the flowers, sucked them out and spit them back up, just to be sucked out again.  It made me cry and I had to walk away.  My husband stayed there for a little while and the water must have settled a bit because he took a couple of pictures of the flowers lying on the water. 

The ocean had no significant meaning for Michael but it has always been the place that restores my soul.    My husband and I drove to a beautiful spot along the water, parked and just looked out over the strait.  I couldn't get out of the car but he walked.  The sky was one of those skies where you think Heaven must just be a little beyond.

We had decided that we would pick up a few of Michael's favourite things to eat so we grabbed sushi and a McCain's frozen chocolate cake (!), ate dinner with candles burning and sang Happy Birthday to him.  And then we put on a Christmas movie, Polar Express, because Michael's birthday always meant that Christmas decorating, baking, wrapping etc. would begin. 

During the day I had received emails and messages from friends and family.  I can't tell you what a difference it made to know that Michael was remembered on his birthday.  I am still so afraid of the "out of sight, out of mind" syndrome. 

So, another of the "firsts" has been faced, and survived.  I hate this.  I really hate it.  I want my son back. 
But I am thankful for the love and support of the family and friends who help me every step of the way. 

Incoming!

Remember the old "Mash" tv series when Radar would call out "incoming" when the medivac units came in?
Today has been an emotional "incoming" day.

I have probably mentioned before that I've made a bit of a habit of going for coffee in the mornings.  Initially this started as a reward to myself after walking and it wasn't daily.  My justification for the daily expense of $1.38 (for unlimited refills until 11:00) is that I am keeping myself out of harms way.  By that, I mean that chances are greater that I will have a tough day if I don't get out, if only for a short bit.  Anyway, this morning someone had left an Avon magazine and I was looking through it.  Avon carries storey books in which you can record your voice for a child, or anyone else I suppose.  Looking at the book I heard Michael's voice, as clearly as if he was standing behind me, speaking the words he had recorded on a teddy bear he had given his daughter.  At that moment I knew I would never forget the sound of his voice. It is etched in my brain, my heart and my soul.  But I had to leave the restaurant because the wave of emotion had been so unanticipated  there had been no time to prepare and I was crying  before I knew why.

Later today I was doing some Christmas wrapping of gifts which need to be sent away.  I went upstairs into the closet in the room Michael had used when he lived with us last winter.  His clothes are still there but I am used to seeing them now. But looking on the floor of the closet for something, I saw his slippers, plain brown well-worn slippers and the panic set in.  Those old ugly slippers, slippers he had worn at his own home in happiers times, slippers that smell old and well used, slippers that he lived in for the two years before his death, were and are enough to bring me to the floor.

I write this, not as a sympathy ploy but as a bit of a revelation that sometimes there is no way to keep out of harms way, no way to dodge situations that bring painful memories and sadness.  At the same time, for me, it is not healthy to downplay these situations because to do so would be to invalidate them.  They are real.  They are important.  I expect there will be many more like them, and many of them will take me by surprise, but there is safety for me in that knowledge.  I will not (cannot) pretend my life is okay because it isn't and it never will be again.  I hate this and despite having to accept the reality of our situation in an intellectual or logical manner, I do not believe I will ever accept it emotionally. 

I have friends who have lost their children to suicide.  You would wonder at the odds against that wouldn't you?  But I have three friends in the same situation as my family is, and I believe that we have a commonality in that one thought.  Suicide is a permanent solution to a treatable illness, but there need to be more resources made available to patients and families needing help. 

So while I continue to advocate for my lost son and for the sons and daughters, parents and siblings of other families needing help I will be mindful of "incoming".

Memories.  I love this picture.  I am so glad I have it.  Michael took this in our old backyard. The honey-locust with the cornfield behind.  Sometimes I miss that house..other times not so much. 

For whatever reason, this morning I arrived at the dentist's office an hour late so decided to put in some time looking at things at Sears.  As I got out of the car I heard tinny Christmas music coming from small outdoor speakers mounted above the entrance into the store.  It seems so early, but for retailers I guess anything after Hallowe'en is fair.  But I haven't listened to Christmas music yet and my tummy went into a tight knot.  I was going to leave but decided I would just go a little ways into the store and see how I did.  I have never been a person who is bothered by the commercialism of Christmas because I just ignore it.  Our family has always loved everything about Christmas. Today though, I found no happiness in walking around glancing at things.  I think had it not been for carols playing, it would have been okay.  Inside my heart is saying "It can't be Christmas. Michael isn't here."

We have a plan for coping this year and that is to make everything different.  Some might question the logic and think that everything should remain the same because Michael is still with us in spirit.  No.  Far too many memories associated with my 33- year collection of Christmas ornaments and we are still too fragile.  So, with that in mind I left the mall and crossed the street to buy craft supplies to make new ornaments.  This year I am opting for glitter..I'm not a glittery person but just knowing that this is completely out of character for me, for us, allowed me to breathe and think, "Okay.  This is alright.  Michael won't think we are just carrying on without him now.  He will see that everything has changed, as it should (in my mind).

Another thing I have found is that I can no longer shop for clothes or much else, unless I'm making my daily run to the thrift store.  Suddenly I seem aware of every penny I waste.  Money is such a stumbling block for people with mood disregulations. Medical coverage doesn't cover anything much other that physical illness and we literally got to the point over the past couple of years where there was no money to pay for psychotherapy. 

I've wandered a bit from my starting point but babystep forward was taken today I think.  I believe that by going into that store and being able to listen to Christmas music, if only for a short time, and doing it without the aid of an ativan is progress and any progress makes those tiny steps backwards a little less traumatic.

A thin veil

When I look into skies like this I wonder where my son is.  I haven't done any reading about the next part of our journey because to be perfectly honest I feel that I am questioning my faith if I do that.    I believe in life everlasting and Heaven and Hell but perhaps not so much in the literal "streets paved with gold" and "fire and brimstone".  I believe that my son is at peace now but still I wonder "where" he is. 

I write this tonight after speaking with a friend of my son, who had a dream about him last night.  This friend is the third person with the same type of dream.  Michael assures them that he is better, he has healed, that he is with us all, we just cannot see him.  I  have dreamt of my son as well.  In my dream he was also happy. 

When Michael died I spoke to a priest who knew Michael quite well and he too assured me that Michael was in Heaven..that he was happy and at peace.  I shared with him that Michael had had a dream once that he was walking on the beach with Jesus, and Fr. J told me that in his Ukrainian Catholicism, dreaming of Jesus was a blessing..and that was all the assurance he needed to know Michael was okay.  Did you know that Catholics have a separate prayer for suicides?  Holy water was sprinkled on the place on the grass where Michael died and it has been a peaceful spot for me ever since. 

It seems to be that there must be a very thin veil separating life from death.  We are really only seconds away from leaving this world.  And I imagine those who have passed away to be just on the other side...just THAT close...but yet that far away, gone from us until our time comes.  Sometimes I feel if I close my eyes and reach out I will feel him and this comforts me.  My boy is always with me, in my heart and in my soul. 

Today would have been his 6th anniversary.  Who would have thought that happy day, that in six short years he would be gone.  It's unbelievable really.  How I wish it was not true. 

November is proving to be an emotional month so I spent a few days this week with my daughter and her family. I missed my daily writing but it's very easy for me to become compulsive about things and I don't want to write just to fill up space. This week has given me time to breathe, to concentrate on something other than my own grief, to become renourished with the unqualified adoration of my youngest grandchild. I realize that I am on an upswing and that always means a downhill run in a few days but I will take as much energy from a few days of calm as I can and when the difficult days come I will be just that little bit stronger. These are the baby steps which will help get us through the rest of our lives. For there will be no end to this. The reality of our lives is that we have lost a son, a brother, an uncle a friend. Nothing can change that for us now. I will still have days where my grief overwhelms me but I will also have tiny windows of time where I am okay. I will NEVER forget, even for a second, because I'm a different person than I was the morning of February 25th. But I will survive. This knowledge is more than a baby step. It is more of a stride; there were many days I thought I would not survive. I didn't want to survive. But I do and I will. And hopefully my strength will help me help those who are trying to be strong themselves. This isn't just my journey. We are walking a tough rocky road but we are doing it together.

The comfort of one word

Since Michael died I don't like to go to bed until I am almost asleep. But last night was miserable, and since we get up so early each morning, it was time. I have a little teddy bear that Mikey gave me for Christmas many years ago and I hold it when I go to sleep now. As I turned on the light and lay down, the tears started. I cried for my lost boy, for his unfulfilled future, for his fatherless child, but mostly I think I cried for me. That sounds very selfish but it is the reality. I want my boy back. I want a second chance.

There was a posting on Facebook the other day. The actual words escape me but the jist was to repost if we have someone in Heaven who we would like back, just to talk to one more time, knowing at the end, they would have to return to Heaven. I did. Then a friend who lost a child in a car crash commented that she would never be able to because she would have to go through the terrible pain all over again when it came time for the child to return to Heaven. I hadn't looked at it that way. But last night as I lay crying, I thought, "maybe that is one of the differences between the accidental death of one's child, and the suicide of one's child". The horrifying shock that must accompany the phone call or knock at the door notifying a person that their child is dead, when only hours earlier life was completely normal, must be unspeakable. As is perhaps the suicide of a child/person when it seems to come from nowhere. But in my case, I knew the fragility of each day of the last little while of my son's life and each day was a struggle to find some kind of glimmer of light, some small thread of hope for him. Ultimately we lost him. So, yes, I would give anything to have Michael back, for just one day, knowing he had to return, because I would say all the things I'm not sure he knew. I would hold his hand and make sure he wasn't alone before he had to make his journey again. I would say goodbye.

Thoughts from the past.

Although this morning is Saturday, I am up early to have tea, try to get rid of a headache and write down some thoughts I had while trying to fall asleep last night. I had just been lying in bed, trying not to think, when I remembered the year we transferred Michael away from our local school, to one in a town 30 miles away. Because it was an inter-district transfer, I had to seek permission from the superintendent of schools. At that time, Michael was depressed. He was having difficulty in school. He had just found out that he had scoliosis so his dream of playing college ball in the US had come to an end. The school he was going to go to offered all kinds of one on one help and because he was just one of many o he felt there would be no stigma attached. The transfer was allowed and I drove him over every day. But his depression and anxiety got worse and worse. His grades however, really improved. I remember his taking his basketball every day. It was his way of blending in. He would go straight to the gym when I dropped him off so he didn't have to hang around by himself. One day we forgot the basketball at home and he just panicked. And every day he would say, "Mom, when is it going to get easier". He was losing weight and crying and we decided he needed to come back to where his friends were. Even fourteen years before his death, Michael needed to be with people he knew. He could never "do" loneliness.

When he was twelve he wanted to go to baseball camp. We thought this would be healthy for him. It was the same thing. He was a great little player but the loneliness and fear of being where he didn't know anyone was overwhelming for him. I had given him our motel phone number on a little piece of paper. After two days, he needed to leave, and when I went to pick him up the piece of paper was still clutched so tightly in his hand that it was barely readable.

These were all signs had we been looking. I was worried about depression in my son and he was prescribed Prozac when he was about 18. This is the age there really needs to be intervention on the part of our medical system. When young people start to show signs of extreme anxieties and depression, something is not right. We must pay attention. We must help, somehow. Talk to them, listen to them, spend precious time with them.

Thankfully I fell asleep last night because my thoughts were starting to take me back to days when he was younger. I could feel the panic starting in the pit of my stomache last night and I thought "Please, I just can't go there right now".

I do the same as Michael did with the little piece of paper. I have a small token with a picture of an angel. It says "Always with me". I have it with me all the time. I am afraid I will lose it and if I do I am afraid a link will be severed. I miss my son. When I am not with my daughters or grandchildren, I believe I have lost the ability to feel any happiness or peace. Part of my heart went with Michael when he left and part of my soul die and I am okay with that. But I wish more than anything, that he was still here with us, just not suffering. It's a selfish wish, I know. But I am indulging my wishes. It is another way I get through the days and nights.

LifeNow: For my son.

LifeNow.

Where are you this rainy Friday night?

I'm actually not sure that it IS raining tonight but it drizzled all day and was cold and just looked and felt miserable.  I had returned home by 11:30 am and spent the rest of the day sorting through tubs which haven't been looked at since we moved in here.  It's just another coping mechanism.   Every day I have a routine I follow; it get's me out of the house and helps me hold onto my sanity.  Most days I meet someone I know, but not all days.  Although the social contact is important to me, I think the more important issue is that I am dressing and going out the door. 

For many montha after Michael died, I went back to bed every morning when my husband left for work at 5:30 am.  I would turn on the classic movie channel and just lay there watching old movies.  The longer I stayed in bed, the more difficult it was to get up.  One morning I decided that I would try changing my habits a bit.  I choose to think of this as a step forward, however small it might have been:  I moved my pillow and quilt downstairs to the chesterfield and curled up there, turning on the classic movie channel.  Baby steps. 

I didn't want to see anyone, but gradually, as friends and my daughters encouraged me, I was able to start to go out once a week.  I made that my goal, just one time each week, making arrangements to meet someone for coffee.  I cried most of each day and every night and I depended on anti-anxiety meds for respite from the pain and also for sleep at night.  But there were other things I felt were important to start us on our road to any kind of healing.  The most important of these was my need to continue Michael's battle with some of the beaurocratic mistakes which had been made during his last two years with us, and which contributed greatly to his stress. I did have my say.  In a rather cliche-ish act, I took three 8 x 10 glossy photos of him to people involved so they would put a face to the name.  Michael would not just be another statistic.   I was very angry.  The anger is still there.  Had anyone admitted that perhaps some error of judgement had been shown, if anyone had said "I'm sorry" my anger might have started to dissipate but what I have learned through this is that very few people accept responsibility for anything. 

I realize that Michael chose to end his life.  Ultimately that decision was his, and his alone.  But, the amount of stress, unnecessary, unfair stress he was subjected to aided in making his life unbearable.  Michael had a mood disregulation which made it very difficult for him to accept things which he saw as unjust.  Some people can just walk away from things like that. Some can't.  Michael continued to fight, right to the end of his life, for some fairness.  It never came. 

So, I continue to look for ways to make it through my days, without making those days worse. 

Last night I had written quite a bit when  I stopped and re-read and decided I wasn't ready to let go of some of the thoughts, so I deleted them.  Today I think I can share a few of them.

The night Michael left us, I had gone to choir practice.  It had been a very difficult day for him, but he had many difficult days.  However, something that evening triggered his final decision and as his dad sat upstairs watching tv  and I was at church he changed his clothes, fashioned a well-practiced noose, stood on a chair and kicked it away, exiting this earth.  By tracing his phone calls we assume this was about 7:20 pm.  I arrived home at 7:30 to find him hanging there.  He was unconscious but alive.  The paramedics and advanced life-support team were unable to bring him back to us.  As much as I wanted my child to live, I understood his decision and respected it because it wasn't a decision he had come to easily. 

There is an intimacy that comes with holding your dying child.  It is as sacred as the moment you share when they draw their first breath.  I feel blessed that God allowed me to have those last few moments with my son.  How terrible it would have been to have had a stranger arrive at my door to tell me his body had been found somewhere.  Michael chose to die where he was not alone. His greatest fear had always been that of being abandoned.  It is a major trait of patients diagnosed with borderline personality disorder: the fear of losing those you love. He left our world knowing in a sense that he was "safe" at his parents house. 

When my husband lowered his body to the ground Michael lay on the lawn.  Often during the spring and the summer I would curl up on the spot his body lay and just put my hands on the grass trying to feel some sense of him there.  People used to ask me if we would continue to live here after his death.  Part of me wants to go away and never come back to this town but part of me wants to never leave our little home.  I don't want anyone else ever to live here.  This is not a time for decision making and so we are content to be here travelling to see our daughter who cannot return home yet.  Her time will come but her grief is too raw to face the town she feels is responsible for her brother's death.

Michael's birthday is coming up.  I fear it more than I fear our first Christmas without him.  November is also the month of his anniversary.  I clearly remember this time last year.  It was not a good time and the only consolation I have right now as that he is no longer in the terrible torture he was last year.  There is more to Michael's story: things which contributed to his stress, his frustration, his anger, and his loneliness, but these are in the past and to talk about them is painful, and, they are Michael's, not mine.

Michael, like my other children had a genetic predisposition to mood disorders.  So the part of me that screams "This was not fair!", also cries out for forgiveness.  "I'm so sorry Michael.  I didn't know.  I didn't know." 

For my son.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=P_NpxTWbovE

A beautiful day in the Valley - trying to muster some enthusiasm

It was so nice today that I saw people wearing shorts.  This is November.  It isn't normal for our weather to be so mild this late in the year.  I mean we're only 7 weeks from the shortest day of the year.  I wanted so much to get out and feel that little rush of happiness that usually comes with a bright sunny day.  But, I think my meds are starting to kick in.  While overall this is a good thing, at least for now, the downside is that the medication also makes it difficult to feel the little highs that would normally come along.  At this point in time, though, it's more important for me to feel I have some control over the depths that my grief and depression take me.  So the logical part of me looks up at the sky and sun and acknowledges that yes, it is a beautiful day and even though, at this particular time I can't respond emotionally, I appreciate that at another time, this kind of day would give me great pleasure.  Is this being mindful? I'm not sure, because I don't quite understand mindfulness. 

I only cried a little today and that was at a therapy session.  The rest of the day I managed.  I see people looking at me uptown and wonder what they see and what they think.  Ten years ago, what would I have thought if I knew someone whose son or daughter had committed suicide.  Would I have pitied them, would I have had any idea what to say, or would I have just said hello, pretended I didn't know and keep going, or worse, would I have crossed the street to avoid them because I didn't know what to say.  It's been more than 8 months and I still need to hear people say "I'm sorry".  No one really does anymore.  And when they don't I become afraid that my boy will be forgotten.  My son, whose great great great grandparents were pioneers in this town cannot be forgotten.  A life, so full of hope and promise, ended far too early.  But we won't let him just fade into people's memories.  Somehow he will be remembered.  We are going to dedicate and plant a tree for him in the park uptown.  There will a plaque with his name on it and his daugther will be able to go to Daddy's tree when she is older.  But we need to find another way to keep him alive in spirit. 

I miss him so much.  My special child.  Yes, he was a grown man, but in my heart, he will always be my baby boy. 

Someone told me that God doesn't give us more than we can handle....

....But to some people, He does.  I don't think He wants any of us to suffer, but we can't blame Him for everything that goes wrong in our lives.  I prayed daily, nightly, many times a day for help and I may have received it.  Maybe Michael lived longer than he would have without my prayers and those of others who cared about him.  Don't you think God must really have his hands full if we hold Him responsible for every rotten thing that happens in our lives?  This is the part of me which wonders if this means my faith is faltering.  I don't think it is, but maybe someone else will. 

Living, after the suicide of a family member, is so full of complications.  Some people have asked, "How could he do this to you?"...Michael's suicide was not about ME.  It was about his own incredible pain and deep deep sadness.  I've also heard, "How could you not see it coming".  Well, the sad answer to that is that I did see it coming. I watched it get closer and closer and closer..and the fear grew until it bordered on panic.  The frustration of knowing there was absolutely NOTHING I/we could do to help him is indescribable.  Had we been wealthy we might have found a facility in the USA where he might have found help.  That kind of treatment can run upwards of $100K.  We do not have those kind of resources. 

Michael's suicide has generated self-blame, post traumatic stress disorder symptoms like panic attacks, flashbacks, nightmares, inability to sleep and the inability to be around people very much.  What it hasn't given us is any sense of shame or embarassment. And for those who do suffer with this  I am sorry.  Suicide is not about the survivors, it is about the inability of the person suffering, to cope with the depth of his/her pain.

We are told that there will be normalcy after Michael's suicide.  I find that very difficult to believe.   My hope though is that as we continue to learn about suicide that we will become stronger and by doing that, be able to help others

Just a few words on this rainy Monday.

I spent the day going through tubs of photographs.  I disposed of one full tub of them.  So many memories of days which seem so long ago now. If I could do it again I would take a picture every day of my children's lives.  We have lots of pictures but now it seems there just aren't enough.  I want to be able to remember every day of our life with Michael.  I also wish I had journaled.  Even a sentence or two would give me something to read now.  Of course it never occurred to us that we would outlive our child. Losing a child isn't the natural way of things.  No parent should have to go through this incredible pain because it is a pain worse than any other.  But I think I have said all this before. 

Tonight we have come upstairs to bed to watch television because it is too difficult to be downstairs.  Our son lived with us for a few months before he died and he had his own tv upstairs in his room.  How I wish I could have those three months back and encourage him to come down and watch whatever he wanted with us.   I remember one night he said "I can't believe the Olympics are on and you are watching Poirot."  Wasted evenings...I would give anything to have him back, just to sit beside him on the chesterfield. 

So, I guess all I am striving to say tonight is: any day can be the last you have with someone so live your life with them so you never have to regret the wasted or lost time because time is precious, and it is fleeting and it is out of our hands and in God's.  Cherish every minute you have with your loved ones.

It's Hallowe'en, my least favourite holiday.  At 4:57 pm I am still trying to muster the courage I will need to go to the door when the doorbell rings.  We will only have a few children coming around because we are a bit out of the way.  That's a good thing though, especially this year.  Today is Sunday, so it was church this morning.  I don't play as well as I did.  I'm not particularily aware of my mind wandering but my hands feel a bit like Tin Man's must have...not achey, just uncooperative.  I would step down but there is no one to take my place.  The sense of calm I used to get when I played isn't there right now.  I believe what I need more than playing at church is the meditative time.  Sometimes I long just to sit in a pew by myself with my eyes closed. 

When I got home from church today we drove out to the lake for lunch.  Tourist season is over now and the beach and walk around the sandspit were empty.  But it's the village the kids grew up in, at least until they were high school age.  The lake, surrounded by mountains speckled with the golds of the deciduous trees, reminded me so much of the happy days when everyone was safe and under my wing.  Of course, in reality, not all the days were good.  Many were tough as I struggled with my own mood issues.  But we were together; we were safe; we were a family.  And even though logically I know those days can never come back, emotionally I scream out for them.  I found myself wondering today if my son had not been cremated would he one day just come back.  The urn on the mantle is a harsh reality of his leaving, yet at the same time, the urn on the mantle keeps him with me every day. 

So, how to continue to cope. I have to be honest here and say that I am taking medications prescribed by my doctor. They keep me sane, keep me from doing something foolish, keep me from saying words I will regret speaking.  There will come a time when I can take less (perhaps) but for now they help.  Over the summer months I played in the little garden area of our townhouse.  The flowers were pretty and my daily trips across the river to the little greenhouse about five miles away got me out. 

I've just deleted an entire paragraph about things I do to kill time, to make the days tolerable.  But really, who cares.  The fact remains that I am just doing whatever it takes to get through. Days when I am determined to make progress invariably go sideways.  Why the rush to move on?  I don't want to move on.  That's not what it is.  There is an expectation from people that now, after eight months, it's time to be getting on with my life.  If I live another forty years, I won't get on with my life.  I am afraid that Michael, from wherever he is, will think I have forgotten him and I will never do that. 

It just came to me, that 30 years ago tonight, we moved into our house in the village on the lake, when Michael was 23 months old and we were expecting our second child.  How can thirty years have passed so quickly and how can this have happened to our beautiful child?  Did we take him out that Hallowe'en?  My husband might have taken him into his mom's.  I can't remember at all.  I do remember that it was a wet, cold night. 

Michael's candle is burning and I am just waiting for the doorbell to stop ringing.  I need to cry tonight.  That may sound odd but I do really need to weep for my lost boy.  I will find some music to listen to and perhaps post to Michael's memory page.  This isn't a very inspiring page at all is it?  But it's the way things are today. 

"..what did I do? Did I die?"........ Michael McRae Feb. 2010

My son had parts of him that he shared with very few of us.  After his death I found some his poetry on his computer.  It is very dark, very personal, full of pain.  The title above is the last line of a poem he wrote in February.  I haven't reached the point where I feel I am strong enough to share them, but his writings demonstrate his need for some kind of respite from his terrible emotional pain. 

At Michael's funeral, our minister spoke of depression and mental illness.  Still, people differentiate between depression, mood disorders and mental illness.  It seems to be that there may be no stigma attached to the first two,  but as soon as the word "mental" is tacked on, then emotionally many just back away.  People are just uncomfortable with, embarassed by or unable to express any kind of condolence with anything "mental".  I know some people think, "Oh Michael.  Well, yes, he was mentally ill, you know."  Had you known or seen my son, you would have had no idea that he suffered from depression and a terrible fear of being abandoned by those he loved and needed (a major symptom of Borderline Personality Disorder).  He was handsome, funny, articulate, creative, professional in his work. Only those of us very very close to him knew the hell he was going through. 

I was the only person who believed my son when he told me he was going to kill himself.  Over and over he told me.  One of the last things he said to me, about a week before he died was, "You just don't get it Mom.  I AM going to do it.  It's just a matter of how, and when."  Five months before Michael died I told my doctor that I had accepted the reality of the possibility that I might lose my son.  Still, I prayed for help.  I tried making a deal with God, by telling him that if He would help my son he could have me.  I got sick over the winter and I though, "Yes!  God listened."  But God doesn't bargain as far as I can tell.   Many days in the last month I would drive to or from work and pray today wouldn't be the day that God would take Michael.  Yet, on the night that I walked in the front door and immediately saw him hanging from the noose he had made from an electrical chord and hung over the beam on the patio, my brain registered, "So.  It's come."  During the chaos with followed I fought that thought, praying the advance life support people could revive him, slapping myself so I would wake up, screaming at God and others.  Michael's sisters had had time to consider the possibility that he might not be strong enough to make it..so acknowledge the possibility of his death..but for any of us there was no time to say goodbye.  His Dad and I said goodbye in the ambulance, where perhaps his soul might still have been close enough to have "heard."

But friends and family who had no realization of the depth of despair were left wondering how he could leave and not say goodbye.  At the end he was very tired and confused and terrified.   He did leave notes for some of us.  And he wrote his beautiful three year old daughter a long and loving letter which at some point when she is older, we hope she will understand.

This is a quotation from Night Falls Fast by Kay Redfield Jamison, "Death by suicide is not a gentle deathbed gathering; it rips apart lives and beliefs, and it sets its survivors on a prolonged and devastating journey."

Today has been an okay day, a day of distractions, of trying to keep my brain from going to the sad place.  I thank God for every minute I had with my son, but given the chance would argue a case with Him for giving him back.  I need my son.  I miss him so much.

The start of day 246 - not 176. Good grief.

I'm up, burning a candle for my boy and looking for music on YouTube to post to his page. Once I read something that said that anyone who didn't believe in God only needed to listen to music to become a believer. What, other than some higher power could give us the ability to create something so powerful..and so I feel that when my words might not reach Michael, the music will.

The past two days literally brought me to my knees; hence the title for yesterday's post. The pain wasn't just a pain of the soul; it was a physical thing, like having the wind knocked out of me and drowning at the same time. I've been trying to figure out what was different about Wednesday and Thursday. Wednesday was sunny, clear, quite cold, and there was fresh snow on Mt. Cheam. The day was very similar to days which followed Michael's death. Thursday was just a miserable day so reminiscent of the many days following the loss of our son.

Shock continues to wear off still and is replaced by memories which are painful. Moments frozen in pictures stored in my memory will suddenly flash into view. As yet, they aren't happy moments. They are snapshots of my son at very sad, lonely, frightened moments of the last two years of his life. And I am overcome by the need to protect him still, to take away his pain, even after death, and to make it all mean something.

Suicide leaves a wreckage of broken hearts and souls in its wake. So many questions which can never be answered hang on. All the "what ifs" and "if onlys" play back in my thinking. So, because I'm not an abstract thinker I make a list, two lists, actually. One says "What If", the other said "If only" and I start to write. The lists are long because they can go back until before Michael was born. I think I am just looking for someone to blame. We (my husband and I) blame ourselves. Michael was our child. God sent him to us to care for 31 years ago and he ended up taking his own life. How did we fail to protect our boy from the world?

However, I don't think it's the guilt which makes me want life to just stop moving forward. I think that's just grief. How can seasons change? Why do people still laugh and joke and have fun? Can't they see that Michael isn't here? Don't they understand that his life was so unbearable that he had to leave? I know logically this doesn't make sense, but there doesn't seem to be much logic in this kind of loss.

So, I work at pulling positive thoughts out of my emotional hat. It's all for effect but someone told me once that if you force yourself to smile every morning, even if you don't feel like it, it might become a habit. My positive thoughts focus on the ones I love. I will work at getting strong because they will see and will draw from that strength to help with their own journeys down this difficult road we are walking together.

When life brings us to our knees is it to remind us to pray?

On February 25th I lost my beautiful son. He chose that night to leave this world by hanging himself. Michael was 31 years old, a beautiful, educated, articulate, sensitive soul. I am starting this blog as a way to deal with my grief; maybe to talk to other parents who have lost children, young or old; talk to suicide survivors (those of us left here after someone take their own life). I really don't know what to expect. I'm sure the site will evolve as I go along.