Grievers all have a certain date that designates when they lost a loved one. After the death of my 30-year-old son, a loving friend who'd experienced the same tragedy taught me to call them “angelversaries.” And, although it helps to put a more positive label on a negative occasion, those days can never again be like any others in the year. Continuing a normal and fulfilling life around those dates can be a struggle, at least on the inside. Even family and the closest of friends are often totally unaware of the rip tide of emotions.
For me, mine is not just one day. The three horrendous weeks that begin 15 days before July 4th —and continue through July 9th. — unravel and repeat over and over. It doesn’t matter where I am or how busy I keep myself. My body not only prompts me, but I find myself suspended in instant replay. I have experienced this on three angelversaries now, and am amid my fourth.
I believe that we typically control our own behavior and are responsible for how we act and react in a given situation. However, I have come to realize that my comportment during this three-week period is not of my choosing. I am living outside my body, operating in a vacuum. So, I ask for forgiveness — even from myself — when I don't seem like me.
Although things are not as they once seemed, I promise that I still have a grasp on reality. I work, I love, I laugh — I live — and I have a wonderful life. But, this three-week nightmare is now a part of who I will forever be. And, although there is no way to prepare, I have learned what to expect in this cycle.
It begins with pressure behind my eyes, unexplained weariness and an overall lack of focus.
It begins with pressure behind my eyes, unexplained weariness and an overall lack of focus.
June 19. My heart begins to pound and crawls up into my throat around 1:00 a.m.
I get a phone call from Brady’s roommate that he is unconscious and being taken to the hospital. He had said, “I've never laughed so hard in my life.” Maybe he overdid it today; it is so incredibly hot outside. I hate when he has to endure the elements when working.
The ER doctor tells me it's likely a drug overdose. They have him strapped to the gurney with leather ties, and his wrists are already cut and bleeding from seizing. I've never seen anyone treated like this before, much less my child. You'd go to jail for treating an animal this way.
The hospital personnel are matter-of-fact: “We see this all the time. He just needs to sleep it off.” I argue with the so-called experts; I am met with smug, bless-your-heart-you-didn't-know-did-you? ... half-smiles when I beg them to please do something, anything.
The lab results, hours later, tell them otherwise — there are no drugs in his system and he has a raging white blood count — but it's too late and way too serious for anybody to ponder, at that point, who'd been right or wrong.
A brain aneurysm. He needs to be whisked to a better-prepared hospital where neurosurgeons pull weekend duty. The pompous countenance immediately turns to, “Oh, crap!”
They can't give him enough attention at this point. I feel no vindication.
They can't give him enough attention at this point. I feel no vindication.
June 20. I’m having trouble sleeping for more than a few minutes at a time. I pace, instead.
A CT scan reveals not one, but two, brain aneurysms — one ruptured — one intact. They schedule surgery to prevent the second one from also bleeding out. “Surely, surely, while they're in there, they can fix whatever damage has been done. Surely,” I whisper, with no confidence whatsoever.
June 21. I have a sense of dread, like when you're strapped into a roller coaster that you didn't want to ride in the first place, and it starts moving before you can climb off.
It was a rough night, but having had a series of "mama" lectures in the ear of my still-unconscious son, he's hanging in there; he's such a tough one. I don't like the looks on the doctors' faces when they conduct their neuro tests this morning.
Anytime Brady fell and skinned his knee, or those two times he needed stitches, it always turned out okay. He'd even had a serious car accident and healed from that. He can get through this.
Anytime Brady fell and skinned his knee, or those two times he needed stitches, it always turned out okay. He'd even had a serious car accident and healed from that. He can get through this.
June 22. Everything hurts my feelings.
Who can I trust to tell me what I can expect? I've seen plenty of movies. His eyes should be opening any moment. He's the picture of health, just sleeping. Where did he get those long, dark lashes?
“I can do all things through Christ who strengthens me." ~ Philippians 4:13.
June 23. I am disconnected.
I have a routine down. I usually like routines. I don't like this one. Brady has lots of visitors and doesn't know it. I hate the repetitive explaining. I find myself holding court in the waiting room, keeping track of who gets to go into ICU next.
This is so much work. Why is everyone visiting and laughing and talking about things like the weather? When have I last eaten, slept, changed clothes?
“The Lord is close to the brokenhearted and saves those who are crushed in spirit.” ~ Psalm 34:18
June 24. I feel detached. I find myself crying more, and I've never been a crier.
The only decent food in the cafeteria is cheeseburgers, but Brady loves cheeseburgers, so it's fine. I tell him that, again. He ignores me, still.
This is really scaring me, but I'll never admit that aloud.
This is really scaring me, but I'll never admit that aloud.
June 25. If I must bear this alone, I may never need anyone again.
I have learned to weave through the maze of tubes and cords so I can stand at the head of the bed, where I can stroke Brady's matted hair and kiss his forehead. His hair is growing back where they shaved it for surgery.
I doze off standing up, more than once. The nurses ply me with coffee.
I am worried sick about my three children — my son in deepest darkness — and my two daughters who love their little brother desperately. I don't know how to set an example for the girls; do I hold it all in when they're around? I don't want them to ever have to follow in these footsteps, so there are no lessons here for them.
I doze off standing up, more than once. The nurses ply me with coffee.
I am worried sick about my three children — my son in deepest darkness — and my two daughters who love their little brother desperately. I don't know how to set an example for the girls; do I hold it all in when they're around? I don't want them to ever have to follow in these footsteps, so there are no lessons here for them.
“My presence will go with you, and I will give you rest.” ~ Exodus 33:14
June 26. People look at me strangely. I thought I hid it better than that.
My son, who was swaddled in music from birth. “Dream Weaver,” is one of his favorite songs. I play music softly for him day in and day out. I believe he his weaving awesome dreams. He can't open his eyes. I can't close mine.
Memories overwhelm me: Like when my girls named the kitten "Kay-shy," because when they taught Brady his ABC's, he'd sing, "A B C D E F G ... kay-shy kay-shy ... minnow minnow P ...."
Or when he'd run to me as a toddler to tattle on the girls when they sneaked away from him and say, "Mama, doze dirls rudolfed (ran off and left) me again."
I wish he'd say something now. Anything.
I keep repeating, "I don't know how to do this. I only know that I can."
Memories overwhelm me: Like when my girls named the kitten "Kay-shy," because when they taught Brady his ABC's, he'd sing, "A B C D E F G ... kay-shy kay-shy ... minnow minnow P ...."
Or when he'd run to me as a toddler to tattle on the girls when they sneaked away from him and say, "Mama, doze dirls rudolfed (ran off and left) me again."
I wish he'd say something now. Anything.
I keep repeating, "I don't know how to do this. I only know that I can."
June 27. My temper is short. I don't care. Look at me like that one more time and I'll take you down. I double-dog dare you.
His toes have started to turn in and his arms are drawn beneath him. The nurses gently explain that it is futile for me to continually straighten them out. He is “posturing,” his limbs surrendering to the traumatic brain injury. “No,” I explain to the staff — way too emphatically — “he was pigeon-toed when he started walking and needed corrective shoes.”
I bow my head and recall that I could barely afford those special-order little brown shoes, but I made sure he wore them. Always. Always.
June 28. Even my hair hurts.
It's getting harder and harder to tear myself away when they dispatch me to the waiting room between visiting hours. After my own doctor insists (who called him, anyway?), I decide to give in and go home to refuel after an excruciatingly painful few days with my blue-eyed boy. I fight sleep, but for an hour or so fall into a drug-induced stupor. I awaken with a start and immediately call the nurses' station, my heart racing.
No change.
I run a bubble bath and get the box of baby pictures out of the closet, then open and immediately close it. I can't do this right now. I send a quick note to remind my friends to kiss their healthy, vibrant children, then head back to the hospital.
Although my body is weak, my faith and resolve are strong.
No change.
I run a bubble bath and get the box of baby pictures out of the closet, then open and immediately close it. I can't do this right now. I send a quick note to remind my friends to kiss their healthy, vibrant children, then head back to the hospital.
Although my body is weak, my faith and resolve are strong.
June 29. My mouth is too dry and my guts are in turmoil.
Dear God, I am so exhausted, yet I feel guilty napping or leaving Brady for one single minute, knowing sleep is all he has. I do everything I can to stay awake. I read aloud and sing to him. Not even a flicker of recognition.
How many nights is this, now? At least I know his dreams are beautiful ... he has the sweetest heart.
June 30. I try to smile, and can't.
They bend the ICU rules for me so that I never have to leave. This seems like a good thing — but can't be — and I don't like seeing the things I missed before. I almost wish they would send me away again.
My sister offers to stay at night to keep me company. No one knows what to do and I don't know what to ask for. I just need to be alone with him. I can only let down my guard in private, and by each day's end, I desperately need to cry.
My sister offers to stay at night to keep me company. No one knows what to do and I don't know what to ask for. I just need to be alone with him. I can only let down my guard in private, and by each day's end, I desperately need to cry.
“You are my hiding place; you will protect me from trouble and surround me with songs of deliverance.” ~ Psalm 32:7-8
July 1. I simply can’t focus on anything, but I pour myself into everything.
They put Brady on a ventilator, just to make sure he's getting enough oxygen. I've seen movies. This is always a bad juncture. He's breathing over the vent, though — rallying with his “can do” attitude — even at his weakest.
With this new equipment, it's harder to get close to him. I still have my coveted spot at the head of the bed, but he's less flexible now. My leg muscles spasm from tiptoeing to nuzzle his cheek.
“If I could make days last forever, if words could make wishes come true, I'd save every day like a treasure ... and again I'd spend them with you.” ~ Jim Croce
July 2. My whole body aches.
They tell me his brain is swelling and he needs more surgery to insert a permanent shunt to relieve the pressure. “Will that help him wake up … ever?” My voice is a squeak.
“No, but it will keep him alive.” (Alive like this? This is not alive.)
I take a deep breath (I've sensed for days that this was coming ... I'm as prepared as one can be). With conviction, I tell them I will not — cannot — let them do that to my child, the always busy one, the one who could never, as an adult, stay still long enough to play a board game or watch a movie. Maybe his sisters made him sit and play Barbies too many times.
I ask how much time we have, and they estimate not long. "It's just as well," I reason, to no one, "he just can't die on the 4th of July — that's his favorite holiday."
I find myself consoling a manly doctor while, through sobs, he tells me if he's ever in this same situation with his own children, he hopes he has the strength to make the same decision. I pray he never has to.
I ask how much time we have, and they estimate not long. "It's just as well," I reason, to no one, "he just can't die on the 4th of July — that's his favorite holiday."
I find myself consoling a manly doctor while, through sobs, he tells me if he's ever in this same situation with his own children, he hopes he has the strength to make the same decision. I pray he never has to.
No mother should have to make these decisions, but then, perhaps only a mother … can.
Oh my God, the sunset is breathtaking...even from a 4th-floor hospital room. I'm trying to take the little things and make them big things.
"Sleep my child and peace attend thee, all through the night, guardian angels God will lend thee, all through the night ...."
"Sleep my child and peace attend thee, all through the night, guardian angels God will lend thee, all through the night ...."
July 3. My eyes are like sandpaper. This is pure hell.
There is no way to touch your child enough, not knowing which moment will be his last. There is so much to say … think … feel. My darling son, can you hear me? Please, please hear me. The air is so heavy.
His temperature is soaring; he is literally iced down and there are fans everywhere. A friend brought me winter clothes and I am wrapped in blankets, in July. They won't let me touch him now for fear of raising his temperature.
A sheet is draped across his loins. He is so beautiful. God loaned him to me but needs him back. Even with faith, it's so very hard to understand. I need to hold him, wrap him in my arms and rock him. I need him to feel that it's okay to go, that he doesn't have to keep holding on. But, I stand back, in case there's the slightest hope his fever will break. My eyes never once leave his face.
I pray, again: God, is this why You made me strong? Were You preparing me my entire life for this hour? It doesn't seem fair, but I'm trying not to question You. Help me. I'm not nearly done loving this child — please God — teach me what You want me to do with this.
July 4. I am weary. When did the night stop and the new day begin? But, I can’t not be where I am. And, I can’t not honor him. I read a poem. I release balloons. I eat a cheeseburger. Strangers assume I’m celebrating the holiday.
I sense his body closing, like the sweetest, most fragile, flower. My littlest blossom … gone.
My brave, sweet, boy stepped into the arms of Jesus just about dusk. We all agreed, later, that Brady had, in fact, picked that very hour. In the profound words of my lovely granddaughter, Courtney, "Because here on out he'll have a front-row view of all the fireworks in the nation."
I feel nothing. Maybe my senses blessedly shut down so that I won't. I gather my things, alone. At what point do you just walk away? When do you know to stop glimpsing behind you one more time?
And, where is the ticket to get out of the parking lot gate? I CAN'T FIND THE DAMN STUPID TICKET!!!! My son has been stolen from me, and now this horrid place is trying to steal my sanity. I search and search, and traffic is backing up behind me. I finally hold out my only two dollars to the lady at the gate. When she starts to protest I moan, "I lost my baby." She waves the money away and opens the gate. I forget this detail until I find two crumpled dollar bills in my floorboard days later.
And, where is the ticket to get out of the parking lot gate? I CAN'T FIND THE DAMN STUPID TICKET!!!! My son has been stolen from me, and now this horrid place is trying to steal my sanity. I search and search, and traffic is backing up behind me. I finally hold out my only two dollars to the lady at the gate. When she starts to protest I moan, "I lost my baby." She waves the money away and opens the gate. I forget this detail until I find two crumpled dollar bills in my floorboard days later.
My mind is exploding in sync to the fireworks that light up the sky. I arrive home and methodically put things away.
How many hours can you lay in a fetal position in the bathroom floor before you're rendered incapable of ever moving again?
July 5. I am numb … incredibly numb. I don't even want my beloved coffee.
Long, grueling day today. I kissed my son's flesh for the last time this afternoon as they took him down to fulfill his wish to bestow the ultimate gift of organ donation. I told the hospital staff that I had put his first gown on him, then asked if I might dress him in his last.
It dawns on me that families are rejoicing that their loved ones' lives have been saved by my child's unselfishness. I sob in celebration of their joy. For the first time, I understand the phrase "the circle of life." I have never been more proud of my loving son, but I'm really going to need to be able to breathe at some point.
"Do not fear My will, for through it I accomplish what is best for you ... Take a deep breath and dive into the depths of absolute trust in Me. Underneath are the everlasting arms." Psalms 5:2-3; Deut. 33:27
July 6. I'm certain there's a hole where my soul once resided.
It is hot, so very hot. And, I hate shopping. I don't want to shop for anything, ever, much less this.
I carefully choose: Silver casket, with a pearl-white interior. But, there's nothing I can pick out that would be good enough for my child to be placed inside. I order a spray of red roses with American flags, all tied together with scads of music-note-print ribbon.
I'm going to vomit.
I pay $118 extra for the vault to be engraved with a feather, to honor his Indian heritage. No one will ever see it, but I'll know it's there ... and he and his Indian great-grandmother who was waiting for him in Heaven know.
I'm going to vomit.
I pay $118 extra for the vault to be engraved with a feather, to honor his Indian heritage. No one will ever see it, but I'll know it's there ... and he and his Indian great-grandmother who was waiting for him in Heaven know.
We drive in circles at the cemetery. The representative asks me if I had anything specific in mind. What a ridiculous question. Why would I? Just then, I see it ... I just know. I call the girls for their approval.
Crepe Myrtles. Huge pine trees. A stream on one side and a pond on the other, with geese. Little crop circles where deer sleep at night. “If there has to be a place, this is it, Mama.”
Crepe Myrtles. Huge pine trees. A stream on one side and a pond on the other, with geese. Little crop circles where deer sleep at night. “If there has to be a place, this is it, Mama.”
I did vomit.
July 7. My head pounds. This is how the word “terror” was born.
How do I, with my love of writing, pen my child's obituary? How can I describe his legacy and honor him justly when there are no words?
My girls pick out his clothes, with so much care and love. They always thought their brother was the cutest — and later — most handsome, male ever created. Everything is as ready as it's ever going to be.
My girls pick out his clothes, with so much care and love. They always thought their brother was the cutest — and later — most handsome, male ever created. Everything is as ready as it's ever going to be.
“I would give anything I own, give up my life, my heart, my home, I would give everything I own just to have you back again ... just to touch you once again.” ~ Bread
July 8. I will never, ever, be the same.
This is ugly, horrible, work. I hate, hate, hate, hate, hate … this, all. Please don't let the phone ring again. Please never make me eat another bite of funeral food that just gets bigger as I chew.
“They can't stay forever, 'cause they're Heaven sent ... and sometimes, Heaven needs them back again.” ~ Kristin Chenoweth.
July 9. I find it virtually impossible to dress, much less put on lipstick. And, who can pull a brush through my hair for me?
We are surrounded by love from family and friends (even people from long ago high school, past work ... everywhere. How did they know to come?). There is standing room only. I give my grandson and nephew free reign on music, and they do the most incredible rendition of Pink Floyd "Wish You Were Here." People are wearing jeans and music shirts and there are lighthearted stories and many, many tears.
A friend whispers to me that she hopes I won't mind her saying so, but she sees two angels in the chapel ... one at the head of his casket and one at the side. I stare at her, and then nod.
I feel a cold chill that suddenly shifts, and then envelopes me in a warmth such as I've never known. Tears fill my eyes — not from sadness this time — but because I am awestruck at how much God loves us.
I feel a cold chill that suddenly shifts, and then envelopes me in a warmth such as I've never known. Tears fill my eyes — not from sadness this time — but because I am awestruck at how much God loves us.
A beautiful service for a beautiful soul, now at peace. I will miss you deeply for the rest of my days — not just these three weeks — my amazing child born of music. You rest now, my son.
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