That Day In December
I will always remember how cold it was that day; the bitter cold which cuts like a knife, unusually cold for December in Middle Tennessee. Most of the details of that day are etched into my memory like an epitaph carved in stone.
The sky was clear; the stars were bright before sunrise that morning. As I drove to work, I saw a shooting star blaze across the sky, disappearing as it shed its last light. (It’s funny the things we remember so clearly while other memories escape our grasp.)
But a storm had been building in my world; with a strength that was fierce and unending. My youngest son, Jonathan had been diagnosed with schizophrenia the year before. And everything seemed to go from bad to worse. The psychosis and delusions had steadily progressed, even though he had been hospitalized twice in that year. Each time he was released, I hoped that he would be better, but “better” would only last for a few weeks.
My stomach had been tied in knots terrified of the impending doom which seemed sure to come. I don’t know how I knew; I didn’t know for sure what would happen, but I knew my world was about to crash in a violent way.
I had been fighting so hard to keep my son safe, but the task was impossible. He would not take his medication any longer, he would not go back to the doctor, and he refused all medical treatment.
I cried at work that morning, talking to a friend, explaining how terrified and helpless I felt in the face of this monstrous disease that was devouring my son.
I went back to my desk. I had a voice mail message from my ex-husband, Jonathan’s Dad. I heard him cry as he told me there was an emergency, so I should call him right back. With shaking hands I dialed his number. I asked him what was wrong.
He blurted out, “Jonathan has killed himself.”
My world exploded. I could not stand, I could not breathe. I heard a low terrible moaning sound, and then I realized this sound was coming from me.
My friends, Marlene and Cheryl, took me to Jonathan’s house. I remember my friend, Cheryl, sat in the back seat with me, holding on to me and Marlene kept telling her to not to let me jump out of the car.
I kept thinking, “Why are they saying that? It’s crazy. All I want to do is just get to Jonathan”. The trip is still a blur, but I do remember I still thought I could help him somehow; obviously, the meaning of those words, “Jonathan has killed himself” had not sunk in. It would be a long time before I truly realized that he was gone.
My mind seems to slowly absorb what is incomprehensible, evidently a form of self preservation provided by nature. I kept thinking, kept saying, “This is the worst day of my life … if I can only get through today, it will all be better.”
A few months earlier, Jonathan had rented a place of his own; I understood that he believed he had to get away from me hovering over him trying to make sure he was okay.
As I got out of the car, the yellow crime scene tape blocked my way; the police would not let me see or hold Jonathan. That’s all I wanted to do: I just wanted to hold my baby.
I ran back and forth down the driveway. Arms were reaching for me. People, who had heard the news came to help, tried to hug me as I cried and ran. But no one could help me. My coat was weighing me down; I took it off and threw it to the ground. Someone picked it up and kept trying to wrap it around me.
The police officers asked if I needed something to calm me down. I told them no. What could they give me that would take away this horror?
I kept asking different people how Jonathan had ended his life. No one would answer me as I stood there screaming and crying. In retrospect, I guess they were scared to tell me, because they didn’t know what I would do next.
My ex brother-in-law finally told me that Jonathan had used a shotgun. It would not be until four days later at the funeral home that I would learn that he had leaned his forehead over the shotgun and pulled the trigger. He was my child, and everyone knew more of the details about what had happened than I did.
Suddenly I spotted my son, David, at the end of the driveway. The pain written on his face was raw; the hurt in his eyes ran so deep, it still brings tears to my eyes. He had always been so close to his baby brother.
I hugged David and told him to go to my parents’ house. I didn’t want them to hear that their grandson had died from someone outside our family. My instincts told me that David needed something to do. Seeing David calmed me down; I had other loved ones I had to protect and comfort.
My husband, Jeff, drove me to my parents. I was perfectly calm there. I knew how hard this would be on them and how worried they would be about me. I did not want to make it worse. Numbness had descended on me at the time I needed it most.
When I finally arrived home, I sat for hours not feeling anything but numbness and disbelief. I knew rationally what had happened, but I had no feeling of pain. I was completely enveloped in a fog of shock, protecting me from what my heart was not ready to accept. It seemed as though I was outside of myself just watching my own reactions.
The house was already decorated for Christmas; now it would be a Christmas without Jonathan. Later that evening, I sat in my living room staring at the Christmas lights dancing on the tree. Christmas would still come, but I didn’t know how I would get through it.
Naively, I still kept thinking this is the worst day of my life. Tomorrow will be better.
What I did not realize is that this was not the worst day of my life; it was only a preview of the days to come. Days of such unrelenting pain, that I still do not know exactly when they began or when they seemed to lessen. I could not distinguish one day from another, during that first year after my son died.
The memory of those days is still so vivid that it snaps at my heels, so I tread very carefully. Almost three years later, I try not to stumble back into the vortex of the unimaginable hell from which I finally emerged. The hell of losing my son that I had loved and nurtured, and for whom I would have died. I fear returning; I might not emerge the next time.
Missing my son has become a familiar part of me; I have grown use to the heartache, the constant longing for my son who is gone. My son, my fading star who has finally found the peace that escaped him in this world.
And still I can close my eyes, and the memory of how cold it was on that day in December brings a shiver to my soul.
Terrye Harris
http://www.pos-ffos.com
http://www.pos-ffos.com/groups/soc.htm
http://home.comcast.net/~terryespryte/Jonathan.html
Tags: child loss, grief, mental illness, schizophrenia, suicide