Forgiveness?

Helpful therapy today with WooWoo. 

Have I mentioned that I tripped over the edge of the carpet and fractured my shoulder?  It's a bad break that needs surgery to repair it - nuts, bolts, and screws - that kind of break.  Unfortunately, due to lung issues, I'm not a candidate for surgery.  So.  It is what it is - and it will heal - or not heal. 

The break has caused a permanent loss of mobility in my arm - limiting my life in more ways than I could possibly have imagined.

I only mention it because it's another layer of pain - physical and emotional - on top of everything since Greg died.  There are days that it all feels like too much.  On those days, I swallow some of the pain that I don't feel able to deal with - and put it off for another day. 

The pain of missing Greg is one of the things I've been trying to swallow.  It's useless, of course, but at times I try anyway.  Sooner or later the pain refuses to be denied and it always comes back stronger than if I'd dealt with it at the time I chose to swallow and not feel it.

I'm just trying to stay on my feet. 

The pain is chasing me down and I am overwhelmed.  One of the things that haunts me as a Christian, is if Greg is okay. 

Part of the reason I worry (I realized today) is that I'm used to worrying about Greg.  I've worried about him for a long time.  It's what I do.  Is he okay? Is he not okay?  What can I do?  How can I help? 

I watched his drug problem get worse and worse and felt helpless that I couldn't do anything to protect or save my child.  It was heartbreaking.  I tried.  I couldn't stop it.  All I could do was to worry.   I tried to trust God and not worry.  The evidence before me told me that I should worry.  This was my child who I loved more than life.  I couldn't bear the thought of losing him.

And so... as hard as I tried to trust... I failed.  I worried.

I've also had more than one person tell me that Greg is not okay - that he's suffering - that he's being punished for taking his own life.  I don't know what to do with that.  At least I didn't - until today.

I believe in the God of the Bible - and the Bible tells me...

^{Romans 8:38-39
38} For I am convinced that neither death nor life, neither angels nor demons,^[a] neither the present nor the future, nor any powers, ³⁹ neither height nor depth, nor anything else in all creation, will be able to separate us from the love of God that is in Christ Jesus our Lord.

Nothing can separate us from the love of God.  Nothing.

Some people have told me that Greg could not be forgiven for taking his own life because it's a sin for which he could not repent.  

1.  Is it true that there was no time for repentance?  In a previous post I mentioned survivors who jumped from the Brooklyn Bridge and said later that they regretted it the second they jumped.  There may have been time to repent.

2.   There are always things that we do wrong that we aren't aware of - sins that we commit without thinking or without awareness.  I am surely not perfect and never will be.  If I were, there would be no need for Jesus' forgiveness.  Can anyone die without having something for which they haven't asked forgiveness - or for which they're not even aware that they need forgiveness?

I guess what I'm saying is that as of today, I'm going to attempt to put this worry to rest and trust God.  God tells me that nothing can separate Greg from God's love.  Nothing.  Not a suicide.  Nothing.   

As much as I love Greg - God loves him more.  

I love you, Greg and I miss you every day.  My heart aches - for all you suffered - and for those of us who are left without you.  But I'm going to trust that you are safe with God - and that I don't have to worry any more about whether or not you're okay.  

Thank you, God, for loving my boy. 

Jen's mom

Jen's mom died this week (let's call her Judi).  The viewing and service were today. 

Judi was having pain in her stomach and so, decided to go to the doctor.  At first, they couldn't find anything, but eventually they discovered that Judi had cancer and that it had spread.  That was in March.  And now, she's gone.

Jen was a friend of Rich and Greg in their teen years - and a particular favorite of mine.  Greg was close to Jen's family, especially Jen's dad (Let's call him Larry).  They treated Greg like one of their own.  He would be devastated today.

He would also have been the family's best support.  He would have been part of every arrangement that they'd let him be part of.  He'd be a rock for the family.  And he would hide his own pain.

Larry was a contractor who was an enthusiastic and loving mentor for Greg. And Greg adored Larry.   I think my favorite story was about Larry teaching Greg to drive a stick shift (truck).

Greg came home after a day working with Larry (at Larry's house) and told us that he had learned to drive a stick shift that day.

My memory isn't what it used to be, but it seems to me that Larry wanted Greg to take his truck to Home Depot or somewhere and pick something up.  Greg got in the truck and yelled out the window to Larry, "It's stick shift!  I never drove a stick shift before."

Greg said that Larry laughed and answered, "That's okay, Greg.  You'll figure it out before you get to the end of the driveway."  (Thankfully, they had a long driveway.)   There was no more instruction. 

Greg said he stalled the truck; he ground the gears; the truck lurched; and by the time he hit the street, Greg knew how to drive a stick shift truck.  Larry's confidence was affirmed.

I cried today for Jen.  I cried today for the rest of the family.  But I cried the most because it brought back so many memories of Greg.

Today is one of those days that make me wonder how I will go on without him.  There are still so very many of those days.

I miss my son.

TV Triggers

So... tonight we're watching a Netflix series about a family - or what's left of a family - father, son, two daughters.  The mother died from a very aggressive cancer and the family is lost - grieving.  (Maybe not a great series for me to watch.  The NCAA tournament would be safer.)

The family moves from their home in Boston to the family's previous small rural hometown, Turtle Island Bay where the sister of the dead wife lives.

Anyway... tonight the sister called her deceased sister's phone and listened to the voicemail message - and cried at the sound of her sister's voice - listened again to the voicemail message - and cried - and yet again... listened to the voicemail message - and cried.

My chest tightened - I remembered the voicemail message of Greg's that I saved - and I sobbed.  I don't need to listen to that voicemail.  I hear his voice in my head all the time.

It just makes me miss him more. 

Who am I?

I'm emotional. I'm paranoid.  I'm disorganized.  I'm late.  I forget.  I'm confused.  I stumble over words.  I talk too much.  I withdraw and don't talk at all.  I cry.  I cry.  I cry.  I feel alone.  I'm a mess. Clutter follows me everywhere.  I can't focus.  I can't remember.  I can't think.

My whole life was all about my kids.  They were "it" for me from the second I discovered that I was pregnant with my oldest child.  All I ever wanted to be was a mom - their mom.  And then Greg died.  And part of me was gone forever.

And now I need my other sons beyond reasonable expectations. They have kids and they are crazy busy - soccer tournaments for my oldest son's youngest daughter that last all day from 11:00 in the morning until 8:00 at night - The youngest works on Saturday and spends Sunday chasing two sons who are playing flag football and practicing in preparation for baseball games that will begin soon.  I am grateful for text messages and phone calls on the way from one place to another. 

I need for this fractured shoulder to heal (Did I mention that I fractured my shoulder?) so that maybe I can get to a game or two, see my sons and grandkids - and preserve my sanity. 

Life is hard.  I pretend it's not that hard, but Interstitial lung disease - pulmonary hypertension - require more and more oxygen - they make my world smaller - make it harder to breathe - increasingly harder to leave the house - harder to connect with my family - harder to connect with the world.  

My therapist told me shortly after Greg died, that Grief kills.  I didn't believe it then... but I sure do now.  I'm a believer. 

Hallucinations?

I'm losing my mind.

I saw Greg two nights in a row in the middle of the night.  The bedroom door was open just a little less than half - and I saw him in the doorway. 

His head was tilted to the left, facing into the room, the left side of his forehead resting on the edge of the door, facing me - his right arm was bent at the elbow, his palm on the front of the door - his left arm was on the back of the door. His eyes looked so sad.

I was awake.  I'm sure I was awake.  Was it an hallucination?  Maybe I was in that in-between state, but I wasn't asleep.  I was awake enough to cry at the sight of his sadness.  And then I would close my eyes for a while and try to sleep. Every time I woke up and opened my eyes, he was there - until about 4:30am.  At 4:30, he was gone.  I got up and shut the door almost closed - and went back to bed.  I didn't want to shut him out, but I couldn't stand to see him leaning on the door again.

How many ways - and how many times can your heart be broken?  Every time I think I've survived every way Greg's death could break my heart, another one presents itself.

Is there a limit?
 

19 months

I just finished my taxes.  For 2016.  Well, not really finished. My part is finished and the stacks of paper are now visiting the accountant along with some reports that tell about things that accountants care about.

While said accountant is determining my financial status for 2016 and the status of our company (business taxes are no joke), I'm starting on 2017.

"How did you get into this mess," you ask?

Well, in April of 2017, my 2016 taxes were due.  My life was in turmoil in April of 2017 due to the then-obvious drug addiction of my sweet, sweet son.  We decided to file an extension, making the taxes due in September.

Greg took his life on July 4, 2017.

Taxes, and paperwork, and deadlines became unimportant.  Did I say unimportant?  They were more than unimportant.  They didn't exist in my world.  At all.

Eight months later - before I was able to pick my head up and see "life" and all its responsibilities again - I was diagnosed with stage 4 lymphoma.  Six months of chemotherapy followed.

It's now been 19 months since Greg died - 11 months since I was diagnosed with cancer - almost 6 months since I finished chemo.  My life is ruled by numbers.

Chemo brain is a real thing. It creates a fog - an inability to remember - to pay attention - to focus.  Grief brain is worse.  It shuts out the world - voices - feelings - the ability to be present.  When they collide at certain times during the month, the inside of me is out of reach - surrounded by an invisible lifeless cloud.

On the days in between, I try to do the things I need to do - like taxes.

Grief robbed me of the ability to do adult responsible things - like taxes, pay bills, eat.  Very often, it still does.  There have been days that I wouldn't have eaten if it hadn't been for Michael.  I wouldn't have taken my medication.  I wouldn't have answered my phone.  

I could feel hunger.  I knew I needed to take my medication.  I could hear the phone ring.  I just wasn't capable of doing anything about any of it.  Michael cooked - handed me my medications - told me who was calling - and answered my phone when needed.

He still asks me every day, "Did you take your pills?".  Sometimes I forget.

"Not yet," I tell him, "but I'll take them now".

He has an alarm on his phone.  Ten minutes later he asks patiently, "Did you take your pills?"

"Oh!  Sorry!  No, but I'll take them now."  And most of the time I do - otherwise we repeat the process until I take the medication.

I'm a little more responsible now.  I'm paying bills - I set up everything I could on "auto pay" and set alarms for the rest.   I can work on taxes some days.  Some days the logic is beyond me, but I try not to beat myself up.  All I can do is take a break and hope it goes better next time. 

This is a process, I guess, but it feels like there's no end in sight. 

 

Define me

On one strong, determined day (or part of a day) after Greg died (there was probably some "Greg-anger", too, mixed in with the "strong and determined"), I remember saying that I would not allow Greg's death to define me. How naive.

Greg's death does define me. Of course it does. I'm a different person than I was the day before he died.  It's not a choice - it's a fact.

I will forever be the mother of a child who died - a child who took his own life.  Forever.

My heart will always be broken.  It won't heal.  It won't be "okay" in five years - or ten years - or a thousand years. 

I hope there will also be joy - and gratitude - and laughter.  But underneath it all, my heart will always be irreparably broken. 

I can't imagine a day that I won't cry.  Someone says something.  I run into something that belonged to Greg - or that Greg gave me.  Or I just... remember.  And I cry - not always for long, but tears are always just behind the next breath.  Every day.

So, forgive me for my innocence.  Forgive me for my hope.  Forgive me. 

I'm the mother of a son who died.