I am a nine year veteran of loss; the greatest loss a mother can experience. My child. At first I could not believe it. Denial. I fell to the floor crying. Shock. Why God? Didn’t You love me? Didn’t You love my child? What did I do wrong? Not enough faith? How could You do this to me, us, ….him? I had prayed for my family to be safe and healthy. I expected God would take care of them. I held God responsible.
I never thought to blame the devil.
I cried out to God immediately on the heels of that fateful call. I prayed as soon as I could gather my wits about me for peace. I wanted to go to my child who lived 2 and 1/2 hours from me. Where is he? I’ll call him. No I can’t call him. WHAT? My mind chaotic, my heart irregular and fast….too fast. Maybe I am dying. Quick, please let me die. I can’t live through a pain like this. Be merciful, Lord. Take me, too. And then the days marched on. Without my Brandon. I simply cannot remember how I got through that time. The ugliness of that new beginning is a torrid tale. Nightmares. Questions. Crying up to the sky (God.) Like a new birth, only I did not want to breathe. Strength? What is that? I stayed in bed. No appetite. Just long bouts of crying. When sleep came so did the nightmares for a time…then there was the waking, waking to the newness of death all over again. How can this be my life? Be merciful Lord, let me be with my son.
Suicide? In bold black letters on the death certificate. Does it make it true? No. I have learned things that make me and others question the coroner’s report. I have written about it throughout my blog from time to time. I believe he was murdered by his wife and also, his “best friend.” They were there that Friday night. The two of them moved in together two weeks after Brandon’s memorial. No gun residue test was taken on either one of them. They got a way with it….for now. Thanks to the moronic investigator, Bob Grappone. Melinda didn’t waste any time getting back to life. She married someone else and erased the “Brandon” tattoo from her shoulder, like she did her mind. It was told to us that she was out partying and bar hopping barely two weeks after Brandon was killed. Oh, the poor grieving widow. Her inflated lips continue to lie as her inflated breasts heave up and down to the beat of her empty heart. She’s as plastic as the fake tears she ‘cried’ at the memorial. Never dampened the tissue she clenched in her hand. She did not attend the graveside service nor does she know where Brandon’s ashes were interred. I have seen pictures of her and her husband on FB, both with bottles of beer in their hands. She is still the alcoholic slut she always was. And now her daughter, who Brandon had the highest hopes for, is following in her footsteps. Alcohol was Brandon’s biggest concern about his wife. He shared his fears with me.
Suicide? No. I believe something sinister happened. My “baby boy” was murdered.
Should I change the title of my blog spot to something other than “In the Wake of Suicide….trying to understand?” I can’t. My son’s death has been tainted by the very idea that he took his own life. I can’t change what is already ‘out there.’ I have cried for nine years over a suicide that I can’t quite believe or understand. Questions? If my son did die by suicide it was out of a horrible pain that he could not withstand. Not a sound decision. Not a planned event. Some coroner carelessly checked the box SUICIDE. Not caring about its impact. I have to struggle through with not only that my son is dead but HOW he died. People judge. People are gullible. People are mean. People are kind. People are cruel beginning from the cradle. Either way, my son was HURT by people. We all are.
And now, today, I am writing after a long reprieve. My feelings rise again to a place of nakedness, exposed in ways that leave me drained. My husband makes a mad dash for the door to a job that sucks the lifeblood from him. He reappears in the late of day, tired and hungry. It’s a welcomed distraction, although he has memories of better times when our son worked with him.
We have two daughters who have their own lives. They work, our oldest doing the job Brandon used to do when he worked with his dad. They don’t know just how much I really suffer from my son being gone from me. How can they? They have not lost a child. I am not numb to their loss of a sibling but sometimes I get the feeling that I am alone in this sorrow. No one seems to care that my heart is still partial not whole. (I feel selfish writing my deep thoughts and sharing my darker days.) They do not call me on that dreaded anniversary to let me know they care how I am facing the day. They never call on Brandon’s birthday. I am totally alone. How much longer, God? I have begged to be gone because my purpose eludes me. My pain is great and my loss constant. This all seems to be fruitless even though I know the Bible says God makes good out of evil. I can hardly see any good coming from this horrific evil done to my son…to me.
While I still grieve and breathe and ask a million questions, my faith is still in tact. I have hope. The reunion with my son in Heaven will be sweet and joyful.
I have longer periods of peace than in the beginning of this “terrible awful.” There are stretches of time that I smile and laugh. Days. But then the lightning bolt comes unannounced and I am stricken again with that same piercing pain that equalizes joy with sorrow. It seems a balancing act between the two. I have a problem with the old saying that “time heals all wounds.” This heart-wound is still bleeding. Sorrow is faint but still there on quick recall. I only have to have the calendar with its stark reminders to snap me back to “that place.” Then I realize that the same dates always come back around. They are never really gone. Not like my son. My “Brandon Boy.” How I miss saying, “son.” No, time does not heal. It only changes.
I read over my prayer journal written a year or so before my son left us. In it I prayed asking God to never allow me to outlive my family. To please keep them healthy and safe. It has never been a one time request. God knew my heart’s desire. I got my answer. It was not what I had hoped. The question still remains. Why? My conclusion is this; none of us have control over life and death, even when it appears that we do. God is in control. He knows the count of every hair on our heads and our time is appointed when to live and when to die….to be judged. He knows how we are to die and when. No one can make it any different. Prayers are our communication with the Father through the Son. Everything between life and death can be prayed about and changed but our destination death is not of our choosing. Our freewill is about choices between believing and not believing in God, in Christ…His death, His resurrection….His forgiveness. If I am wrong then I believe God will correct me. I have made so many mistakes already but thankfully none will condemn me to hell. I am forgiven. My son is forgiven. And yes, if even the murderers would believe and ask forgiveness then they too, will be forgiven.
New grief and old grief is still all about losing. New grief just grows older, subtly changing before it is realized but always there. The questions I may ask don’t plant doubt but if anything makes my faith greater than a mustard seed. I have learned to lean on God fully and know that these tears I still cry will always be about the missing of someone I loved before he was born. That only in Heaven can this brokenness be completely healed. It was never about the neglect of our Father or my lack of faith or anything my son may have done or not done. While in my womb, my son was still mine to nurture and love. And now that his time has come and gone, I still love him just as much or even more. I am bereft but not hopeless.