Scars Remain

Mrs. Rose Kennedy once stated, “It has been said, ‘Time heals all wounds.’  I do not agree.  The wounds remain.  In time, the mind, protecting its sanity, covers them with scar tissue and the pain lessens.  But it is never gone.”  

When I was six years old, my family vacationed at the Ozarks.  All I remember about that vacation is my sister slamming my finger in the door - middle finger, right hand.  It was a pretty deep cut, but back then you had to be pretty darn sick or injured to go to a doctor-and we were on vacation, so gauze and tape from the gift shop sufficed to keep my finger intact (must have been out of duct tape).  Anyway, that was 40 years ago.  I still have the scar and it’s still tender.

It’s been almost seven years since I lost my son to an ATV accident.   Just like the scar on my finger, the scar on my heart will always be there, always tender.  It won’t take much to aggravate the sensitivity and tenderness, so I have to protect it just like my finger.

Before August 2009, if I heard a story of a mother whose child died, whether in an accident, to illness, or by whatever other tragic means, my heart would break for her and I would wonder how on earth will she go on, how will she get through all those missed milestones?  Then, of course, I would think to myself, “I’m so glad it’s not me…” and move on to something else because I didn’t want to think about it.  Well….  That changed August 22, 2009.  It WAS me.  How was I going to go on?  How will I get through all those missed milestones? 

My grief journey has been one filled with denial, disbelief, sadness, anger, anxiety, guilt, weakness, and strength I didn’t know I had.  It’s a journey I don’t want to be on.  It’s like coming to that fork in the road, but the fork is broken and only has one prong and you have no other choice but to take the scary path…

The journey began August 21, 2009.  We were to have a cookout at my Dad’s farm about an hour from our home.  My older son, daughter, and a friend drove up there separately, and my husband and I with the two younger kids followed about an hour later.  We were about two-thirds of the way there when my daughter called.  “Derek wrecked the four-wheeler.”  I asked if he was okay, and she said “he hit his head and the ambulance is taking him to the hospital.”  So, of course, we freaked out and started driving outrageously fast.  We dropped off the kids at the farm and raced to the hospital.  That night is a blur.  I remember doctors telling us about his injuries and finally being allowed to go to the trauma bay to see my son.  It was heartbreaking.  He may have been a 19-year-old Marine, but to me that was my baby lying on that gurney.   After unsuccessful surgery to stop internal bleeding, they put him in the ICU where we kept vigil until we were faced with taking him off life support.  My son left us at 3:05 a.m.  I was devastated.  I couldn’t believe this was happening.   All our family had come to the hospital that night to keep vigil, and those who could bear it went in to say their goodbyes.  Then just as when he was born, my husband and I kissed him and told him we loved him; although instead of welcoming him to our world as we had 19 years earlier, we told him it was okay to go.  I sat there holding my child’s hand as he passed away.  It was the most heartbreaking, gut-wrenching, devastating moment of my entire life - A moment I hope to never ever experience again.

I was lost.  I didn’t want to leave him, but didn’t know what to do?  The nurse said we could sit there as long as we needed to.  Finally after a little while, I gained enough strength to leave the room.  We gathered up his belongings, gave information to the clerk, and somehow found our way to the car and drove back to the farm.   We didn’t sleep much that night and the entire next week is a blur.  I walked around like a zombie, unable to make a decision on anything.   Funeral arrangements were difficult to make-choosing a casket, music, pallbearers… and there was so much I would’ve liked to have included in his obituary, but everything was so foggy.  I’m not sure how, but it all got planned, and I remember bawling my eyes out at his funeral and practically having to be dragged to the car because my legs were like jelly.   I vaguely remember being handed the flag that was draped over his casket and bawling when they played Taps at the cemetery.   I don’t remember much else.

My journey has been a foggy one; one where the fog NEVER lifts.  Some days it is really dense, to the point I probably should not even leave my house.  Other days it is not so dense, and I manage pretty well.  I decided that my grief was not going to rule my life.  I didn’t want to live like that and my son would not want me to live like that.  I had a husband and kids who needed me to be mom.   We’re a close-knit unit.  My kids are my life and losing one of them devastated me, but the others needed me to keep going.  They were grieving too and I needed to help them through it. 

So you may wonder how one doesn’t “let grief rule their life.”  Well, faith.  I believe God has a plan and for whatever reason, that plan involved bringing my son home after only 19 years on this earth.  I accept that - don’t understand or like it - but I accept it.    If not for my faith, I probably wouldn’t be able to accept it.  God has shown me in so many ways over the years that he IS, so I have no doubt that my son is in a much better place than I could even imagine. 

I’m not one who easily expresses my feelings.  I don’t talk about things.  That’s pretty much how I was raised.  My family didn’t talk about things, so I never developed the skills to express my feelings effectively.   I was deeply saddened with the loss of my son, but I was also angry.  I never verbalized it, but I was.  I was angry with him for dying, with my husband for letting the kids go on ahead of us, with my dad for letting him ride the four-wheeler, with myself for not being there to stop him, with the doctors for not being able to fix him, and with God for taking my son from me.  Yes, despite my faith, I was angry with God.   Although I was angry that God had allowed him to die, I’ve trusted that our Father knows best.  I’ve even tried to validate it – like this was protecting my heart from something even worse.  Maybe him dying at home while having fun at Grandpa’s farm where he loved to be was a blessing.  He was a Marine after all, and in a few months would have been sent overseas.   Maybe I was being spared the anguish of my baby dying overseas and not being able to hold his hand and tell him I loved him.  I don’t know. 

How do I get through this fog every day?  While all my children are a blessing to me, I think my youngest has saved us all from falling into a downward spiral of debilitating grief.   He was our ‘surprise’ baby.   Derek was so happy when he learned it was a boy.  He LOVED his baby brother, and his baby brother idolized him.  A week or so after Derek died, the youngest had a dream about a pink angel and a blue angel.  He said they told him Derek died and was in heaven.  We believed this meant something.  My husband looked this up somewhere and saw where others had had similar dreams.  I don’t remember exactly what it all meant, but I do remember it was comforting to me.   Recently I was reading something about angels, and saw that blue is associated with the archangel Michael who represents courage, strength and protection.   Pink can be associated with archangel Chamuel who represents unconditional love that lifts you from sorrow, helps you love yourself and others, and express your innermost feelings.   I believe these angels came to help him understand that Derek was in heaven and to assure him he would be okay.

I have been through many ups and downs on this journey.  Without my family and faith in God, I would not able to make it.  I’m also a firm believer that laughter really is the best medicine.   Laughter keeps me sane.   Although sometimes I would want to wring my son’s neck, as all parents do at times, a minute later he would be making me laugh.  I miss that.  The little one has been a Godsend.  I think God gave him to us to prepare and deliver us through the pain we were to endure.  He does so many things that remind us of Derek.  Whenever I’m having a hard day, he’ll say or do something that makes me laugh, and usually it’s something Derek would have said or done.  I think a lot of times Derek is ‘cheering me up’ through his little brother.  There are times when I’ve felt sad and it’s not quite so obvious to those around me because I put on a ‘happy’ face, but out of the clear blue, he’ll just hug me or tell me something funny.   When he was younger, he would ask me if Derek liked to do the things he was doing, such as, “Did Derek like playing baseball?”  “Was Derek a Cub Scout?”  “Did Derek like to play Legos?”  He wanted so much to be like his big brother.  He would ask to see pictures of Derek when he was little, probably because he is constantly being told he looks just like him.  Now as he is getting older, he doesn’t ask as much, probably because he’s 10 and already knows more than we do!    

I started this story talking about scars.  I also talked about laughter.  I’m going to end this with a little of both.  I’m a product of the eighties and I like my hairbands, so what’s more fitting than a quote from a Poison song?  “Like the knife that cuts you, the wound heals, but the scar, that scar remains.”  Eventually, the initial shock and disbelief will dull, but the scar is always going to be there.  We will always have the aftereffects to deal with - the birthdays, holidays, anniversary of their death, and those tears that come out of nowhere as you walk past their favorite cereal at the grocery store.  How we manage those scars is important.  If you don’t take care of yourself as a whole- physically, mentally, and spiritually, that scar is going to cause you problems.  Grief has no rules; no boundaries.  The only advice I have for other grieving parents is to just take it one day at a time.  It’s okay to cry; it’s okay to laugh – or both at the same time!  Don’t worry about what’s normal.  Don’t let your grief take over your life.   Remember that it’s okay to try and have fun.  I struggled for a while with feeling guilty for doing fun things without him, but then I realized that he is there with us.   He’s certainly not jealous of us having fun without him, because he’s in Heaven.  If anything, we should be jealous…