Mother's Heartbreak

A Story of Addiction & Loss

Tag: hopes and dreams (page 1 of 8)

The Space You Left Behind

Matt,   Today is Thanksgiving.   I can feel the grief stalking me as I try to keep my mask in place as I  face this bittersweet day.   That battered mask I wear hiding my true heartbreak from the world.   Today is a day to give thanks for all the blessings we have received throughout the year.   Yes, I know I have been blessed.   I have my health, my home, a loving husband.   I have your brother and a beautiful granddaughter.   I don’t mean to sound ungrateful, but your loss puts my life into a different perspective.   What I long for is to have you here.

Memories of past Thanksgivings flood my brain.   I close my eyes and go back to a time when holidays were full of crazy family chaos.   I can see you and Mike standing side by side frying the turkey as your laughter surrounded your faces as frozen breaths of air.   I can still hear your voices and see your heads almost touching as you tried to keep your conversation from drifting into the house.

The rest of us inside staying warm, sipping wine as we prepared the rest of our feast.   The dogs underfoot trying to grab whatever morsel of food that fell to the floor.   My heart was full of gratitude having both my boys and my family under one roof to celebrate our blessings and each other.

Thanksgiving of 2014 would be your last Thanksgiving on earth.   If only I had known.  You were in a sober home in Florida as your addiction reared it’s ugly, unrelenting head once again.   I was celebrating with family at home, but my heart was in Florida with you.   Your absence left a void that nothing could fill.   As we sat around the table I dialed your number longing to make you a part of the family’s conversation.   Your voice sounded amazing.  Clear and strong.   I could picture your smile as you shared your holiday plans with us.

You were gathering with friends to share turkey and fellowship.   You sounded excited about life once again.   I could hear the old Matt back in your voice and although I missed you terribly I knew your recovery was priority over my wanting you home.   As I passed the phone around the table, everyone agreed how great you sounded.   We were all so proud of your recovery and looked forward to future holidays together.   If only I had known.

I remember stalking your Facebook page sitting alone in the dark Thanksgiving night.   Family gone.  The house cleaned and quiet.   I needed to see your face and convince myself that I could relax and trust that my blessings would continue along with your recovery.   You posted the best picture of you and all your friends.   Happy smiling faces all wrapped up in one big hug.   I have that picture in a frame.   I stare at your face in disbelief.  If only I had known…………

 

 

Searching For A “New Normal”

Matt,   the definition of normal is something that conforms to a general pattern, ordinary or usual, typical, something that would be expected.   I can tell you, I’ve been searching for “normal” for 46 months.   Ever since you died nothing for me has felt “normal”.    It’s not normal for a mother to bury her child.   There is nothing normal about having to visit your child at a memorial garden.   Nothing ordinary about not being able to pick up the phone and hear your voice.   Nothing expected as I put my hands on your urn in my attempt to feel close to you.

It’s not normal to feel like your choking everyday.   Not normal to feel like your heart split in half but still remains beating in your chest.  My emotions are wild changing from moment to moment.   Memories still have the power to bring me to my knees.   Normal is not breaking down when hearing a song, seeing a young father holding hands with his child or having to choke back tears as two little brothers ring your doorbell yelling Trick or Treat.

It’s not normal to walk around on unstable ground.   Feeling anxious and foggy.  I’ve suffered through losses before.   This is worlds apart from anything I’ve ever lived through.   This normal was never expected.   What was expected was you to grow old.  To marry.   To be in my life until it was time for me to go, not you.   Normal is burying your parents, not your child.

So how do I find my “new normal?”    I’ve heard that term so much I want to scream.   How in the hell can anything be normal after your child has died.   I know people mean well.   People who have never lost a child are so quick to tell me how to adjust to this new phase in my life.   Really, people who can hug their kids, call their kids, share meals with their kids telling me that this is my “new normal.”

These well meaning strangers have never ridden my emotional rollercoaster.   They don’t experience my triggers.   They haven’t been hit by the grief bus.   The one that returns time and time again to slam me over and over.   They don’t get the fact that my future has changed.   Plans, goals and dreams are no more.   My brain gets it but my heart struggles to accept the collateral damage that I walk through everyday.

Believe me,  I have trouble believing that after all the time that has passed I’m still breathless when reality hits.   That 46 months feels like yesterday.   That there is no way that we are 2 months away from the 4 year mark.   My brain screams how, how, how have I survived this long?   How can it truly be that I have not heard your voice or seen your smile for almost 4 years?

There is nothing normal about not having your child in your life.   There is nothing normal about having to put on your mask to face a world that is terrified of the grieving.   I’ve learned that this so called “new normal” is just a polite way to tell grieving parents to get over it.   It’s just one of those new terms that’s supposed to fix our broken lives.

What I’ve learned is that life will never be normal.   Whether it be “new” or not there is nothing normal about life after losing a child.  I’ve also come to understand that grief has no timetable.   It follows no predictable course.   Nothing about grief is normal.   It is a personal journey that no one can walk for you.   Grief is heartbreaking, complicated, powerful and unbalancing.   It is anything but “Normal.”

 

As The Seasons Continue To Change My Grief Remains Unchanged

Matt,   It’s hard for me to believe that you have been gone for 45 months and 18 days.   But who’s counting?   Right.   I am.  I’ve been counting the days as they turned from weeks to months, then  from months to years.   I’ve watched as Spring brings new life to the earth. Plants burst forth in a riot of color.   Birds fly in and out of the garden houses building nests in anticipation of new life.  The summer sun warms my soul as the earth continues its beautiful transformation.   In the blink of an eye Summer becomes Fall.  Magnificent colors continue to mark the earth with incredible beauty.   Before long a cold wind blows bringing in the darkness that announces the arrival of Winter.

The changing seasons remind me of another time of counting.  I counted the months while  carrying you.   Praying we would make it past that first trimester sailing along until you decided to announce yourself to my world.   You were a Summer baby.   You became an incredible man who died on a cold winter day.   You took your first breaths on July 30th and your last on January 3rd.   I look at your stone and compare the J’s and 3’s asking myself the question that has no answer.   Why?

I started a garden to honor you.   To have a place to come and talk to you.   A place to scream and cry.  To be alone in the grief that continues to grip my heart as I see your name engraved on that cold stone.   You never wanted to be in the ground.   Some of your ashes are scattered here.   Your garden changes with the seasons.    My grief remains the same.

Somedays it hits without warning.   I will be digging in the cool soil clearing out the old plants, while planning for the new.    My mind focusing on colors and smells.   A memory hits of another time when we knelt side by side planting flowers in another garden.   Both muddy and laughing as the dogs did their best to trample our new plantings.   I can hear your laughter and see your smile.   I am reduced to tears as that one poignant memory leads to another.

As the seasons change your garden follows.    Summer perennials attract butterflies and colorful birds.   Summer brings another reminder that you will be forever 37.   Summer brings birthday candles to your garden.    I light them and sing out loud.  Watching the flames flicker in the soft breeze.   I wait for them to blow out and wonder if you are there with me.  Memories of past celebrations come and join us.  Days when we thought time was on our side.   That birthdays would never end as abruptly as they did.  The peace of the garden hugs my heart allowing my grief to be present.

Fall brings a new beauty to your garden.   Mums in an array of blazing colors surround your stone.   Dead flowers are removed allowing room for a new brightness.   Bright red cardinals surround the feeder as leaves fall covering the damp grass.   An unwanted reminder that soon the ground will freeze and the season of planting will be done.

Winter brings a deep stillness to your garden.  It will surrender to sleep just as you did that cold January morning.   Do not fear.   My need to feel close leads me back to you.    I will continue to come and brush the snow off your stone.   I will continue to tend to your garden as I tend to my heart.   I will keep the feeder full giving the cardinals a reason to come.    I will sit quietly allowing my grief a place to be as the seasons change and memories find me.

Similar to the passage of time and the changing of the seasons my grief marches on………..

 

 

 

 

A Can Of Beefaroni and So Much More

Never in a million years did I ever think I would find myself falling apart in the pasta aisle of my local grocery store after seeing a can of Beefaroni. The gut wrenching, hit my heart hard, kind of pain left me holding onto my cart telling myself to breathe. Tears running down my face like a hose stuck in the on position with no hope of being turned off. Oh God, I think, how am I ever going to survive the rest of my life if can’t even make it through the grocery store without a major meltdown. Seeing that can and feeling those feelings has become a part of my new life. The life I never saw coming or signed up for.

Beefaroni was my youngest son, Matt’s favorite food. I would stock up at the ten for $10 sale and hurry home to stuff his weekly care package with all his favorite foods. Sending them off with a piece of my heart to the half way house he lived in a thousand miles away from home. A can of Beefaroni, a connection to my son who is no more.

Then there is the scent of Phoenix. This was his smell. I can still hear his voice, “Hey Mom, can you pick me up my deodorant, I’m running low”. I’ve found myself in this same store walking to the deodorant aisle and finding that familiar blue can. I remove the lid and spray a tiny bit. Closing my eyes taking a deep breath I let my mind drift back to happier times. This is what my life has become. Finding pieces of my son in everyday places trying to keep our connection alive.

I once felt that being the mother of a son suffering from addiction was the worst thing that ever happened to my life. That constant feeling of helplessness and anxiety ruled my mind. I compared his addiction to being trapped on a very fast, very high roller coaster with many twists and turns. Never knowing what each day would bring, what was coming or how some days would end.

Mothers of addicts learn to live with the crazy unpredictability that goes hand in hand with the disease of addiction. We learn to expect the unexpected and we relish the thought of a possible period of recovery. Matts addiction became mine as I held onto the roller coaster for dear life. Praying for things to somehow calm down and allow us both a little piece of normal. I’ve since learned that being the mother of an addict who suffered an accidental overdose is waking up and finding the nightmare you feared the most has now become your reality.

Be careful what you pray for they say. I prayed for peace, I prayed for quiet, I prayed for his addiction to go away. My prayers have been answered but never in the way I imagined. I now struggle to survive in this all too quiet, empty new world. I long for the days of chaos. Riding the uncertainty on the roller coaster known as addiction now feels like a walk in the park compared to being the one left behind.

Learning to navigate through my grief is a daily process. I’m now the lone rider on a different coaster. This one mimics the other but now the ups and downs belong solely to me. There are days I wake up, shed my tears, pray for strength and somehow get through. There are days the darkness overrides my heart and I crawl through my brokenness as if it is surrounded by shards of glass. Each piercing my heart with knifelike accuracy.

For now I take it one day at a time. I pray that someday that can of Beefaroni or the scent of Phoenix will warm my heart not break it. Reminding me of the connection between a mother and her son that neither time nor space can break. For now I pray for understanding and strength as I continue to put one foot in front of the other attempting to navigate my new unchartered life without my son.

I know I will never return to the person I once was.   Going back to that person is not an option.    She vanished when my son died. Gone with his last breath.   My grief path is my own.    It’s rocky and full of broken pieces of a life that used to be.   I tread lightly on days I can.   I crawl through the glass on days when the pain kills and I question my survival.    My grief has no finish line.   It’s one day, one breath, one scream at a time.    My grief is the best I can do.   Navigating this path is the most painful thing I’ve ever had to do.    One thing I know for sure is I’m not ok.   I will never be ok.   And for me that just has to be ok…….

Heaven’s A Little Closer In A House By The Sea

Matt,

It’s Memorial Day weekend.   The weather is cloudy and grey.   You have been gone 3 years 4 months and I still find myself shocked when reality hits.   I remember when you lived at the beach.  You hated summers.   All the traffic and crowds.   I can still hear your voice complaining about how long it took to get from one place to another.

What I wouldn’t give to have you here complaining about summer tourists invading your paradise.   I can still see you standing in your boat. “ The only way to get anywhere around here is by boat”.   You still had that large grin on your handsome face.   I knew this was just an excuse to get you out on the water, your favorite place to be.

I dreamed about the house the other night.   I drove by and realized it was for sale.   I sat in my car calling the realtor.   I had to get inside.   I had to be where you were.   She was kind and listened as I told her this house once belonged to you.   I told her I desperately needed to walk through those rooms once again.   I had to touch where you touched.   She told me she had adult sons and couldn’t imagine what I was feeling.   Handing me the keys without any questions.  My tears started to fall as the lock turned opening the door. My mind flooding with memories of walking through this door hundreds of times before.

The house was vacant.   Eerily quiet.  Looking exactly as it was the last time we walked through these rooms together.   Both of us with tears in our eyes knowing your disease robbed us of our happy place.

I sat on the living room floor, the carpet showing signs of wear.   Familiar spills and puppy accidents marking years of our life were still apparent.   Each mark told a story.   I could picture our house the way it used to be.   Full of love and laughter.   Sandy dogs running through the kitchen after romping in the surf.   Both of us trying to shoo them outside.   Laughing as we became as sandy as the dogs.

I remembered every detail.   Every moment we shared together.   Ten years of wonderful memories flooded my brain.  My mind allowing me the gift of going back in time.   I could see you standing in the kitchen.   Khaki shorts, bare feet, sun kissed hair.   “Hey Mom, can I get you a drink?”   Your face handsome and tan. Your beautiful eyes always smiling.   You loved this house by the sea.   I loved your happiness.

I walked from room to room as precious memories washed over my shattered heart.   Memories of a time when life was perfect. Settlement day.   Moving in.   Hanging pictures.   Sandy floors.   The chaos of boxes everywhere.  The joy that living by the sea brought to both of us.   Oh how proud you were of the life you built.   I remember that beautiful smile.   “Mom, can you believe this is mine”.

How I wished I had the power to go back in time.   I wanted to open my eyes and see you standing there.   I wanted to undo the ugliness that took you away.   I wanted to wake up from the nightmare that is now my reality.

I felt a profound sadness wash over me.   Still in disbelief that you were gone.   Oh God, how did this happen?   How did life take this ugly turn?   I felt your loss like never before.   This once cozy, little home so full of life, love, and laughter now stood as empty as my soul.   Tears began again as I walked through that door for the last time.   This house now a symbol of profound loss.

Walking to my car, I allowed myself one last look.   My mind playing tricks on my heart as I see you coming through the door.   That smile on your face.   Your sun bleached hair hidden under your hat.   Kahlua bouncing at your heels.  For a brief moment you were there.  I wanted to yell out.  To reach toward you touching your face.  For a fleeting second everything returned to normal.   Life was as it used to be.    I felt joy.

I remember hearing of a saying,  “Heaven Is A Little Closer In A House By The Sea”.   Imagine my surprise finding that  print while visiting a seaside town.   I couldn’t wait to hang it in our little house that represented Heaven to both of us.   I remember standing on a chair trying to guide you.   A little to the right.  No just a smidge left.   Perfect.

That print became the centerpiece of the wall.   Surrounded by pictures we both loved.   The dogs running through the breaking waves.   You standing by your precious boat.   You and Mike swimming in the bay.   Both of you tanned and smiling.   Pictures of a life that now feels a lifetime ago.   Almost like a dream.

Those memories live protected and preserved forever in my heart.  That loved print now hangs in my home.    Seeing it tugs at my heart.    Its meaning now signifies unspeakable loss.  The casualties of addiction.   My beautiful boy and a little piece of Heaven by our beloved sea. 💜💜

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