It has been more than a year since I’ve posted anything. Life isn’t always easy; it’s often a challenge just to get through day to day. For me, it all began when my son, Nicholas, killed himself in late April, 2015. Because I had to be, I was strong through talking with the police and making all the arrangements in Missouri. It was on the flight to Mississippi that I started to fall apart lashing out at my brother-in-law who is the best kind of man. Psychologists would say it was because he was my rock, my safe place, but it shames me that I was unkind to him. Stepping off the plane in Jackson, I drew that horrid mantle of responsibility back on and within a few days, my troubled son was laid to rest, finally at peace, next to his Dad.
With my daughter, Alicia, and her own newborn daughter, I flew back home trying to make sense of and regain my own kind of peace with all the events of the previous two weeks. Numbness took over since there are times that the mind can’t cope with all that the eyes have seen and the ears have heard.
There were warm moments such as when my oldest son, Leo, saw his new niece for the first time, cuddling her as she fussed. Or when he held and played with Nick’s two year old daughter, her laughing gleefully and him wearing a bittersweet smile. There were lots of old friends there to hug and bolster my strength.
But, overall, as I sat in my chair back at home, the pall of grief and the cry of why became my new constant companions. It has taken this much time to travel the journey away from the loss and grief to days of acceptance, moments when words of “what else I could, should, would have done” escape before I once again acknowledge that there was nothing, absolutely nothing left that could have been done.
Now, as I approach the fifteenth anniversary of my husband’s death, my thoughts turn from my son and toward my husband. Yet, somewhere inside me, the two of them, who so dominated my life, mingle in my thoughts intertwined in death as they never were in life.