The Shape of My Grief
Dylan Andrew Brown, 18 years young, gifted student, musician, friend, sonMy Forever Son: The Shape of My Grief |
Brute reality? I miss my son. All of him. All the time. Every single minute of every single hour of every single day. 24X7X365.
I wrote the post below in response to a question for "Parents of Suicides," an online Yahoo closed support group for parents who have lost a child to suicide. The support group is enormously helpful and because it is online, is open 24 hours a day, 7 days a week.
The question was about Christmas, the holidays, sending greeting cards. Here is my response:
The first year, I signed a few cards to a
small circle of friends and family with both my name and Dylan’s name, then I
used orange ink and a beautiful butterfly stamp to imprint the butterfly
outline over Dylan’s name. Orange was his favorite color from way back and
using the stamp helped me deal with the enormous weighted grief of the first
year. That was the only way I was able to send cards—by using both our names.
But now? Now I don’t even send cards. And I
find those who do send cookie-cutter holiday cards to me a source of
frustration, anger, and pain. Trite “Happy Holidays!” and “Have a Joyous
Season!” and “Deck the Halls!” belong to an entirely different part of my life.
Anybody who really knows and loves and cares about knows better than to plug me
into the “gaiety” of what, for many, is a time of love, tradition, love and
lavishing of gifts for family. In fact, I always kind of know who to check off
my “Well, thought they were close enough to me to realize the inappropriateness
of sending me such a greeting since surely—surely!, they must realize my
holidays, Christmas, the entire months of November and December, bring so much
enormous pain” list.
But on a positive note, I’m sort of, kind of
more okay? better? more “healed”? just realistically further away from Dylan’s
suicide? I still am full of trepidation and weary of triggers this time of
year, but for the first time (it’s been 3 years, 5 months, and 8 days), I had a
fantastic Thanksgiving Day. This is, quite simply, unbelievable. I did what I
wanted to do, met my day with mindfulness, spent time with Dylan here in the
quiet of my home, and then took a road trip!!! :) It was 60-some degrees here
in Ohio on Thanksgiving Day, the sun was shining, the sky was gloriously blue
with lots of white fluffy clouds, and if I had had a big furry dog (think
Golden Retriever, Gordon Setter, English Setter, Lab), I would have thrown him
or her in the back seat for my trip.
I was so amazingly present that day and this
is such a gift. I took the freeway down into southeastern Ohio, down to where
the hills start rolling and huge rocks and cliffs are cut away for roads to
pass through. I saw miles and miles of pine trees, green as if in complete
defiance that we are in a climate where everything and everyone shuts down for
the winter months, and I drove past Dillion Dam, which meant an incredible
stretch of water and river and bridges. I felt transported, lifted out from the
sorrowful side of myself who carries the death of her son, alive in just the
beauty and scenery of what for me is my home state.
How can this even be? In losing my only
child, I lost all that I am and for the first 3 years, just ran rugged and
weary and scragged and grief-beleaguered. Some days, I still do. But I am
amazed because now, I can—sometimes, house both sorrow and even a kind of
momentary time-out-of-time happiness. It’s been so long since I’ve felt
elevated, lightened, unburdened. It’s such a relief, it’s such a reprieve.
I’ve always hated the periods of time where
I’ve been so numb, disconnected and unplugged from my grief, from the world,
from my feelings, from life. A new kind of feeling seems to be slipping into my
life—I feel numb infrequently now, hopeful much more often, and as of last
Thursday, the happiest I’ve ever been/made it through a holiday. Yes, I cried.
Yes, I sobbed—I miss, miss, miss my son so terribly much. Yes, my cat came to comfort me in my tears. Yes, I lit and burned a candle not just for
Dylan but for all of our children.
But my whole day was not consumed by
grieving, by longing, by desperate sobbing and pleading and aching. This is
new. This is wonderful. Is this hope? Healing? Acceptance? Learning to keep on
keeping on?
Beth, Dylan’s Mom
March 19, 1992-June 25, 2012
Forever my heart, my wings, my love
Til soon, little one, til soon
Comments
Post a Comment