Does It Even Matter?

I've spent the last year trying to explain how it feels to lose a child.  How it feels to have a child who is addicted to opioids.  I've fought for John.  Explained what happened to John.  Went to the court hearings.  I've gone to the Town Hall Meetings on the Opioid Crisis.  I've endured the "helpful" remarks, the awkward conversations, the odd looks, the whispers.  I've defended those who have become dependent on opioids and I've defended John - what happened, the process, the horrible outcome.  But for what?  Honestly, does it even matter?  John matters, but does all this writing matter?  Does it make a difference? Because it's not easy.  Not easy to let people into this terrible time - this terrible loss.  Certainly not for novelty or curiosity.

Maybe the awkward lady was right when she blurted out "Life Goes On!"  I guess for the world it does go on. And for the rest of us, it stopped that day and we are still trying to catch our breath.  I still cannot say what happened to John without crying.  I dread meeting new people who might ask about my kids.  About John.  And at the same time, I want to talk about them, tell you all about them. But both of them, like I always have.  Kate and John - together.  My kids.  How do you separate your kids and try and decide whether or not you will mention the younger?  But does the stranger in the nail salon need to hear that we lost him?  Do I need to have a breakdown with a total stranger while I'm having my nails filed?  You're trapped there.  You don't just get up and run out - and if my nail guy knows what's happened, he's not talking about it, and I appreciate the anonymity of that.  I don't know that I can physically utter "I have two kids, and one is in Heaven" without completely losing my crap.  

Yes, we bereaved ask each other how we answer that question, what we will say,  and if the asker of said question deserves our story or not.  We plan for it.  In my case, it doesn't matter because I'll forget my script and it will go south real fast anyway.  My grief friends tell me to guard my heart. They tell me I'll get hurt.  To be careful.  Not everyone needs to hear it and you need to figure out whether or not you want to "go there". We are the walking wounded, the overly sensitive, the overthinking time bombs among you. Honestly, sometimes trying to have that conversation can ruin you for the rest of the day, it can send you packing, running for home, and put you into full-fledged hermit mode. It makes you acknowledge that your child is gone.  Forever.  Wait,  you don't understand how that kind of conversation can be so difficult??  Good.  I'm so glad you don't.  I hope you never know.  Never understand. 

I'm not okay.  I don't want you to try and "compete" with me regarding loss.  You don't need to try to one-up me with your troubles.  I already agree it's all bad.  Just try and understand that I'm too buried in mine right now to help deliver you from yours.  I'm lonely.  I'm worried about my family.  I'm not a rock.  I cannot support you right now in what life has thrown at you, unless, quite possibly, you lost your child or have one dependent on opioids.  I can relate to you then and you can relate to me.  I can listen and understand and cry with you - but if your kid is still alive, if your problems can be fixed, if your life is reasonably good - please.  Please don't complain about your living, breathing children. 

Taking on too many of the world's problems right now overwhelms me.  It makes me anxious, and I'm not an anxious person.  Do you know that even my phone ringing can make me anxious?  There are days where I don't answer it, unless it's family.  Talking on the phone requires me to be "on". Some days I can't be on.  I'm set to off.  Text me.  It's just easier.  But use happy emoji's or I'll think you're mad at me, and then I'll feel like I'm disappointing you. And can we please retire the text tone named "ALERT".  It was the one I had set for John when he went into the Army.  I didn't want to miss him if he had a chance to text or call.  His ringtone was the Army Song.  Hearing either one of those gives me a pit in my stomach. Thankfully, not a lot of people have the Army song as their ringtone, but the text tone "Alert" seems to be too popular.  Who would one petition for tone removal?  Apple?Seriously though, change yours . . .to anything else.  Lots to choose from!  You won't miss "Alert". Try Glass, or Circles or how about Hello???  "Alert" signals impending doom, apocalypse, a reminder of who is NOT on the other end.

I really don't want to be cold, or uncaring, or disappointing . . .but you see, my day, every day, is spent either thinking about John or trying not to think about John. In order for me to get through my time with you, I've got to separate my loss from my current conversation.  And I don't enjoy doing that.  I don't enjoy setting John off to the side so I can function for you. I so appreciate those brave enough to ask, brave enough to see the tears and not to run away.  The safe people.  The people I can just be myself with.  The people that don't require me to stop thinking about John, or to weigh my words.  There aren't a lot of you, but you are amazing.  You see,  I miss my son.  He won't be coming home for Christmas this year. I am going through the motions, but a giant hole has been blasted through our hearts, our holidays, our lives.  He isn't on our Christmas card. Actually, don't look for one this year.  Disclaimer:  Please also realize I am venting.  I am not thinking of anyone in particular, or any situation, phone call, visit or message.  I am simply letting you into the mess that is my thoughts - I looked at John's pictures too long and this is the result. Sorry, not sorry)

You see, there is a big long list, only partially listed below, of won'ts.  Will nots.  And we bereaved are trying to deal with how to navigate them.  Everything takes on a new dimension.  Hang his stocking? Include him? Don't include him? Hang up the ornaments he made?  Christmas cards?  Baking? Shopping?  Not sure I can even drink eggnog again, let alone make Brian's favorite cookies - because I did that with John.  But he will never do that with us again . . .

• He will never be in another family photo.  No new photos.  Just what we have.  If you have more, we are hoarding them.  Please send.
• He won't be here Christmas morning, he won't open gifts on Christmas Eve with us.  
• He won't see Daveney walk, or talk or hear her laugh or say his name.
• He won't get married, or have kids of his own. 
• His friends will - but we won't really see them either, because what brought them around is gone.  He is gone.  
• He won't reach things on high shelves or kill spiders.  
• He won't teach the dog new tricks or how to be calm.  
• He won't say "ope", or jerk his head sideways quick when you say something dumb.  
• He won't stand at the refrigerator for five minutes inspecting the contents.  
• He won't make "hot cheese" and have us coughing.  
• He won't ask "what's for supper Mother?"  
• He won't make us all laugh with his accents or his contagious laugh, or his impression of Sarah Palin.
• He won't call because he misses you.  
• He won't call at all, he won't write another note.
• He won't sleep in his bed or take up half the couch because it's his spot.  
• He won't wear any of those 17 pairs of Army boots, he won't throw his clothes on the floor and step over them for weeks.  
• He won't fill that green Sic cup full of ice and tea or Jameson if he's having a bad day. 
• He won't drive too fast or play his music too loud.  
• He won't say "oh Mother". I used to wish he'd just say Mom like everyone else.  Now I'd give you everything to hear it one more time.
• He won't clean his guns for therapy.  
• He won't be a shoulder for anyone to lean on.
• He won't be the best man for any more of his friends - but he was the BM for 3 or 4. 
• He won't need those sunglasses or get another haircut.
• He won't smile at you or ask if you're doing okay.
• He won't tell another story.
• He won't give you another hug.
• He won't ask if we can go to Mexico.  Nope, just Olivia son.
• He won't ask for help shaving his head or trimming around his ears.
• He won't ask for his favorite hot dish - the one with the noodles and the chicken.
• He won't be making Spritz this Christmas or the cucumber dip.
• He won't be here to play games with.
• He won't ask if we can go to Surly.
• He won't be here.
• He won't ever. be. here. again.

He won't.  He just won't.  He can't.  Because he's not here.  And no, he's not an angel looking down from heavenly places and watching us.  He's not our guardian angel.  Get your theology right. He's not "right here" with us.  That isn't how it works no matter how "comforting" you think it might be.  He is in the presence of the Lord - and we really don't know for sure what he knows/sees/is doing, now do we?  

So tell me again, what's the matter with you this Christmas?  Is it life threatening?  To quote John, "did anyone die?"  If they did, jump right in here, you are most welcome.  But today, today I'm taking a break from shouldering all the world's problems.  Because today I don't feel like it's making any difference.  That maybe I'm not making any difference.  Kids are still addicts. People are still dying. People are still arguing.  Still competing.  Still complaining.  Parent's are still grieving.  And I am still sad.  So if you've got Christmas cheer for all to hear, good for you. Get out there and spread some peace, joy, and hope.  You do you, and we will do what it takes to get through today.

And, yes, we have a delightful grandchild, and yes we love to talk about her.  What's weird, is when you ask me a question or we are having a conversation, and then suddenly, out of the blue, I am cut off mid-sentence and the conversation is quickly redirected to the baby. It happens all the time. Please relax. Are you trying to stop an impending perceived meltdown with a quick baby distraction? If a meltdown is imminent, you aren't going to change it by throwing the little one into the conversation.  It's just weird,  Stop.  I feel like that is putting an awful lot of pressure on one tiny girl.  She isn't the replacement child, we were supposed to have both her and John in the family.  And while we are correcting some misconceptions, I NEVER said I didn't like hugs, I said I didn't like hugs that lasted minutes;).  You're cool. Really.  Stop trying so hard.   You're just giving me more material.😏

I understand that it's difficult for some of you to know what to say.  I don't know what to say.  I sat by a girl who just lost her mom, and guess what?  I didn't say anything.  I didn't want to go there, for her sake or for mine - because I can't have those conversations.  I never could.  I'm still just as awkward as before - but on steroids. However, had she brought it up, I can promise you I wouldn't have awkwardly stared at her because she misses her mom and wanted to talk about it.  I would have engaged in it with her.  There's nothing worse than mentioning John's name and the table goes radio silent. 

Well, there.  I guess I needed a little bawl session. A little therapy today.  It is, after all, the most joyous season of the year. Even better than this therapy, JoLene just popped in with a Venti Flat White with SF Vanilla.  Now that is Christmas Cheer!  I'm telling you, coffee heals.  Try some.  

I hope, in the end, all of this sharing mattered.  I hope that my words helped one person feel normal.  I hope that one grieving mother feels like she hasn't lost her mind.  I hope that maybe someone understands a little more clearly why their grieving friend has gone silent or fallen off the face of the earth.  I hope that maybe one person who is struggling with opioid dependency feels less shame. Less misunderstood. Or gets help. I hope that someone stops stereotyping "addicts" or gives someone another chance or a little help.  I hope that you won't forget John. You won't forget that the grieving never stops.  That kindness matters.  

And I hope that you will give us all some grace - maybe lean on your stronger friends while we try to get through another holiday with an empty seat at the table and a hole in our hearts.