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.