The night I learned that my son was dead was, and will be, the worst of my life. I am certain that nothing will ever compare to this pain.
Nothing we do in this moment, aside from hurting ourselves or others, is wrong. I screamed the word 'no' for hours until my voice was gone. I sat in silent shock while a police officer and the victim services person (close friends, as we live in a small community) sat in our small living room and spoke softly, about what, I have no idea.
Somehow I realized when I got myself to bed that this was the first night I would not awaken at 2 AM wondering where my son Jordan was. Exhausted and mentally sick, I fell asleep for 10 hours, and did not even turn over.
The morning brought shock and numbness. I was a zombie, shuffling to the bathroom, getting a coffee, going back to bed. I have no recollection of my husband being there, but he must have been on the same trajectory. The disbelief lasts for a very long time. I cried in gasps, I wept softly, I yelled at the sky. I continued to say the word 'no.' I slept 15 hours out of every 24 for a long time.
The few days, weeks, and months after losing a child are otherworldly. I welcomed visitors and the lovely food they brought but I had no other sense of emotion or connection. I felt like a person made of stone and alternately, cloud. I was not in control of anything around me. Family arrived from all over, friends were scattered through my days.
"What is death," I asked myself over and over. My boy, my only child, had vanished from the planet.
I dealt with the police, the coroner, the funeral home. I ordered a wicker basket for a green burial. Somehow I was able to rise to the occasion of the burial and the memorial. I had written an obituary, submitted it to the local paper, explaining that his was a drug-related death. I did the eulogy and spoke of Jordan's struggles with the hungry ghost. Only the grief that surrounded me made Jordan's death real. I had to console people, I had to respond to awful questions and difficult comments ("It's God's plan" is one of the worst along with "Everything happens for a reason"). I had to keep my act together in public. I had a frightening new identity—I was the unthinkable—a mother who had lost a child.
We must not only deal with the brutal loss, we must redefine ourselves. Who am I if I am not Jordan's mother? Being a mother was my job. I often felt guilty in this job because I loved it so much. Others might have to work at jobs they hated, or not have enough work and scramble to keep the home together. They might have other children, demanding partners, so many difficult life situations. But me, I had one child, time, resources, a solid family, art, friends and motherhood. I spearheaded many initiatives for kids in our small community. I was involved at the school being the Parent Advisory Council chair for 5 years.
My son and I raised funds and built a mobile skate park. We spent weekends going from one skate park to another on Vancouver Island. I was a child advocate, I was a serious mother. We allowed Jordan a lot of freedom, maybe too much. And here begin the questions and the guilt. Where did we go wrong? What signs did we miss? Why didn't we do more, why, why, why? This sense of guilt goes on for a long time. Maybe forever. But it diminishes with time too. As parents, we do the very best we can at any given moment. Often we think that our best is not good enough. And when we lose a child to drug-related harms, we are sure of it. This thinking hurts us, and while I can say that it is something we must let go of, I can also say we almost never do. We learn to live with it.
Which brings me to this: We will not get over our grief, we will not go through our grief. Our grief becomes part of who we are. Living with the pain slowly becomes the new normal. If we are lucky we will find a counselor or a support system that will keep us safe and moving forward. Over a period of time which is different for everyone, the pain softens and becomes a room in our heart. The door to this room must stay open. We must visit it and work with it regularly. If we shut the door, the pain may leak out in unexpected and unhealthy ways.
We all have opinions on the worst days, the best days, the best and worst years on this path. Unquestionably the anniversary of our loved one's death is the worst day of the year. It is good to plan the day—a ritual of candles and family, church, a walk in nature, placing flowers, something that acknowledges in a meaningful way the transition. You will find a way.
As I write this, it has been 3½ years since Jordan died. I do not go a week without tears. There is a place inside me that carries the weight of a headstone. But I am stronger for it. And occasionally now I find moments of joy.
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