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A Mother's Search for Her Son . . . (Continued)

About a month after my son Joey passed, I woke early on a Sunday morning to find I had knocked a booklet of pictures off my nightstand. I am not good at putting pictures in albums. I kind of keep them scrunched in booklets or piled in piles.

The only two pictures that fell out of the booklet were two of Joey at about 18 months, 'dancing' He was really into the music on the antique Victrola.

This was the first time in a month my mind truly registered Joey was dead. No, please all that is good, all that is sacred, give him back!! Let him dance!

I couldn't breathe, I was alone; a huge wave picked me up tossed and tossed me, then threw me violently to the ground. I fought for a breath, I struggled to call my doctor, I got the answering service. Again the wave hit, tossed and tossed again, slammed me to the ground. This time the answering service stayed with me while connecting me to a physician. The doctor was honestly concerned and kind as far as I can remember. He ordered medication for me and contacted my husband. 

I survived that day of panic attacks and confusion. I received medical and therapeutic care the next day. I believe it must have helped; my doctor and therapist are wonderful individuals with the best of intentions. However neither had their 23 year old son bleed to death in a freak accident, in the foyer of his apartment, just a month earlier.

How do you explain that pain, that horror, that helplessness to anyone?




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About the Author

An unusual occurrence happened in my life over the course of three years, three horrible years. My youngest son Joey, my Father, Mother, Uncle, Aunt, two cousins, my BFF Judy, my hermit friend Vern, and my little dog all died. I became a different person, in many ways, over those three years. Grief for my parents, relatives and friends seems to be going through proper stages and moving along; however grief for my son never quiets. It seems to live in my mind, body and soul, active and on the edge at all times. It is a wonder to me that I did not die with my son. It seems so cruel that parents suffer this pain; and then I think how cruel it would have been for my other three children if they had to mourn a brother and a mother. No, better I grieve the rest of my natural life than have them hurt any worse. Life goes on each day and I live it in moments, walking in both worlds, this one and the next. I seem to find my way ok, stumbling now and again but surviving. Writing and sharing helps me along my way, so thank you for reading this and sharing a bit of my story.

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