Mother's Heartbreak

A Story of Addiction & Loss

Category: faith after loss (Page 1 of 3)

Thinking About Mary

March 30, 2024 /

 


Matt,  today is Holy Saturday.  I went to your garden at church to visit and to plant some flowers.  The cross is draped in a purple sash that was blowing in the wind.  

I filled both bird feeders then sat on the bench and watched as the garden sprang to life.  The sounds of birds chirping filled the air and made me think that even though this garden represents your death life continues around the cross. 

As I continued to sit there and talk to you and Jesus, I started to think about Mary.  The stone in the garden represents your death but the massive cross represents the death of Jesus.  I wondered how horrible it must have been for her to have no idea why the man she raised from an innocent infant was being beaten.  She had no clue what was happening or why the crowds were shouting for her son to be crucified.  

Mary was helpless in stopping his death as I was helpless in stopping yours.  I can’t imagine the horror she felt as she watched the story unfold from the distance.  Never once allowing Jesus to be out of her sight.  Oh how her heart must have broken with every strike to Jesus’s body.  How her eyes could not believe what she was seeing.  Her precious son was being hung from a cross.  

The baby she nursed as an infant.  The toddler whose hand she held.  Now a grown man being brutally abused right before her eyes.  
I didn’t know how she had the courage to watch as her son took his last breath.  The confusion that must have been running through her mind as her heart was ripped out of her chest.  

As I continued to sit in the peace of your garden I felt a deep connection to Mary.  She knows my grief. She felt that pain years before I had any clue that I too would lose a son.  Your death was slow as the drugs took you further and further away.  I shared her helplessness in having no power to stop it.  I share her pain and sadness as you left this earth leaving me behind to pick up the pieces of what I expected life to be.  

The story of Lent is all about Jesus, his crucifixion and resurrection.  Today I thought about his mother, Mary.  How she grieved her son as I grieve you.  

 

A Not So Happy New Year

January 27, 2024 /

Matt,  we’ve passed the 9 year mark of me surviving your death.  For some reason, this 9th year has hit me harder than I could have ever imagined. 

I continue to struggle with the fact that time has flown by.  My mind knows but my heart continues with disbelief.  It almost feels like that horrible second year, when the reality replaced the fog and the weight of grief settled into my heart. 

I was a guest on a podcast about grief yesterday.  So many of the topics we discussed hit home for me.  We talked about society and how it places a time limit on grief. Sadly, most people who feel that grief has its limitations have never suffered the devastating loss of a child. 

We also discussed many faucets of grief such as the fear of not remembering the sound of our loved one voice.  Matt, that is one of my biggest fears.  You never left me voice mails.  Texting was your form of communication.  Believe me, I have screenshotted all of your text messages and treasure each one.  But what I crave is to hear your voice once again. 

There are days when I sit quietly by myself, closing my eyes.  I try to conjure up your face, your smile, and your voice.  Some days it all comes rushing back.  Other times I feel like you are drifting farther and farther away.  Those days I feel a panic set in as I never want to ever forget anything about you.  Sadly, the brain can only hold so much memory.  Grief brain is capable of so much less.  

This year will be a bigger challenge than I could have ever imagined.  There is no truth in the statement that the passage of time heals.   For me the passage of time is a tragedy as I struggle to remember the essence of you.  ❤️

Kicking & Screaming Into The Holiday Season

December 13, 2021 /

Matt,   Christmas is in twelve days.   This will be the seventh Christmas without you.  Funny how I fooled myself into thinking this year would have to be easier than the past years.  After all, how long does this grief hang on.   

I’m finding that once again grief has the upper hand.  This time of the year we are bombarded with commercials of perfect, smiling families.  Everyone gathered around the big, beautiful tree surrounded with thousands of presents.   Then the Hallmark channel drowns us with unrealistic portrayals of the “perfect family” and of course the “perfect Christmas”.   

I’m finding these unrealistic expectations of “perfect”  add to my anxiety,  and regret.   I feel like society wants me to wrap up my grief with a beautiful bow and put it in the back of the closet so others won’t be uncomfortable when I’m around.

There are days when I do feel joy.   When I hear a song that connects my brain to a happy memory of our past life.  Days when the tears stay away and the holiday season doesn’t feel like a knife in my heart.  Then for whatever reason, another song leaves me a sobbing mess.  Those waves come out of nowhere knocking me off balance.  Seeing Christmas cards knowing there will be none from you.   Thinking about what to get for your brother and remembering I will no longer be putting a gift under the tree with a tag stating your name.

I decorated your memorial garden with a wreath and poinsettias.   Holiday lights are wrapped around the cross.  Your stone is surrounded by angels.   It’s my place of peace.   I feel close to you there and can talk freely about how Iso deeply knowing that you won’t be home for Christmas.

I did put up a small tree this year.   Ray wanted a little something to make the house look festive.   I decorated, placing a few of my favorite things around the house.  It looks sweet when the light glow illuminating the Nativity set on the mantel.  

The saddest thing is how Covid has changed the way we celebrate.   I have no idea if anyone will come to visit.  The lack of family highlights the loss I feel when I remember how the holidays used to be.  I wonder how you would have handled this pandemic.  

I try to remind myself of the true meaning of Christmas.   How the most important thing is acknowledging the birth of Jesus.  I remember sitting with you and your brother reading the Christmas story teaching you that Christmas was about much more than just Santa.  

The biggest hurdle for me is accepting my reality and letting go of the fantasy I thought life would be.  Accepting that you are really gone is the hardest thing I’ve ever had to do.  There are days I have to allow myself to just sit closing my eyes while picturing you sitting by my tree with your children.   I see your handsome face and beautiful smile as you help your babes unwrap gifts from me.  I picture you drinking coco in the kitchen as we talk about life and the coming year.  Some days those fantasies are how I survive.

I don’t know if my grief will ever lessen as I survive the holidays with a broken heart.  I will go to church Christmas Eve.   I will wear your fingerprint close to my heart.  I will cry as I’ve done every year as I see families with children fill the pews.   

For Christmas I will pray for my peace and acceptance.   I will pray for the strength to welcome another year without you in it.   I will pray that past memories will bring more joy than pain.  I will pray that you are at peace, healed from your demons and celebrating the birth of Jesus in the beauty of heaven.  

 

 

 

Pieces of You, Pieces of Me

November 5, 2021 /

Matt,   It’s been 82 months since your death and I foolishly thought I was ready to donate your winter clothing to the homeless addicts living in Kensington.   I have become part of a group of mom’s who take trips to the streets providing food and clothing to those who continue to be forgotten by society.   I must say it’s a part of how I survive your death, by giving back to those suffering from the disease that took your life.

I usually avoid your closet, but that day I felt  it was something I was ready to do.   Opening the door was walking back in time.   Sweaters were on hangers as if you were expected to walk through the door, grab one and ask, Hey Mom do I look ok.  

I stood in the doorway waiting for my breath to settle.  It was shocking how my body responded to seeing your clothing.  Slowly I started to take one down.   Memories of you wearing this sweater flooded my brain.   I held it close, burying my face into the softness hoping to breathe in your scent.   I could hear you voice telling me it’s ok Mom, it’s ok.

As I continued to place those sweaters in a box, I was fighting myself as if this was what I really wanted to do.   These sweaters were pieces of what I have left of you.   My mind was battling should they stay or should they go.  I held each one close and saw you wearing them looking so handsome with your beautiful smile letting me know you approved.   I started talking to you asking if this was what you wanted.   

I remember how you were always so giving.   Memories of you giving your shirt to a homeless man prompted me to keep going.   I held each sweater, running my hand over the material before placing them into the box.  I managed to donate several sweaters, a jacket and a pair of pants.  

Driving to the donation event, my tears were flowing wondering if I was strong enough to hand over the box to those who would take your sweaters to the streets handing them out to people who have nothing.   Pulling into the parking lot I was greeting by smiling faces.   Women thanking me for helping take care of other mothers children.   

As I handed over the boxes I had a feeling of profound sadness mixed with joy.   Knowing I was giving away pieces of what I had left of you re -broke my heart.   Knowing that your sweaters would provide comfort to someone with nothing gave me a bit of joy.

Once again I’ve learned that grief knows no time line.   It lives in pieces of clothing that will never be worn by you again.   It lives in memories that surface unexpectedly.   It lives knowing that even doing the right thing can be the most painful thing in the world.  

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Walking On Thin Ice

January 2, 2021 /


Matt,   It’s 5:21 on January 2nd.   Six years ago you were still alive.   I remember our conversation.   It was Saturday evening and you were on your way home to the sober home where you were staying in Boca Raton.  I remember looking at the clock it was 6:23.   We chatted about your day and promised to catch up again later that night.

That next call never came.  Little did I know that our conversations would never take place again.   We ended our conversation with our usual I love you thinking our future would be filled with many more talks.

As I write this letter I can feel my throat tighten and tears forming in my eyes.   I can feel the shock and disbelief wrapping itself around my heart.  It’s called muscle memory as the body never forgets trauma.

Tomorrow marks the sixth anniversary of your death.    Some days it feels like it’s been forever since I’ve heard your voice.    Other days it feels like yesterday.

The New Year is always tough for me.   This year it’s full of uncertainty and grief.   Sunday is the 3rd.   Your anniversary.  The weather will be rainy and bitter.   Mimicking my heart.   Monday l have my second CT scan checking to see if my cancer treatment has been successful.  I will be holding my breath and praying until I hear what I will be facing.   More down time or more treatment.

So I now mourn your death and my health.   I sometimes wonder if the cancer was caused by years of second guessing decisions made that led to your death.   Years of grieving and guilt for what might have been.   Years of wondering about If Heaven truly exists and if you are healed living in Paradise.   Years of wondering if I will ever see you again.   Wondering what death is like and if we will be together when my time comes.

I feel like I’m walking on ice.   On a frozen pond trying to get to the other side.   Some areas are solid and stable.   As I continue my journey I find areas that are cracking beneath my feet.   I can feel the frozen water seeping through my shoes as I wonder if I will make it to the other side before I fall through.

My journey since your death has been one I could have never prepared myself for.   Parents are never prepared to say goodbye to their children.   Parents are never prepared to hear they have cancer.

So I continue to pray that God has us both in his healing hands.   I pray you have found your peace that eluded you here on earth.  I pray your body and mind are free of the demons that followed you as you struggled.  I pray for his peace and healing as I struggle with losing you and losing the woman I used to be.

 

 

 

« Older posts
March 2025
M T W T F S S
 12
3456789
10111213141516
17181920212223
24252627282930
31  

© 2025 Mother's Heartbreak

Theme by Anders Noren — Up ↑