Mother Guilt

110 days without Sam in this world.

I’m gathering quotes like this one:

The will to save a life is not the power to stop a death.

                                                                             –David Kessler

I’m hoping I’ll find the exact words to somehow disappear this guilt from my core, but that brutal, punishing voice inside me says: But I am Sam’s mother. I should have been able to save him. That’s a mother’s job.

My life is full of "shoulds" these days.

I should be reading one of my 8 books on grief, the ones waiting for me on my bookcase, but all I want to do is read novels or watch TV shows. I want to escape. I need to escape.

I should start watercolour painting. I’ve got all the supplies. I even taped a piece of watercolour paper to a wooden cutting board the other day to start, but it’s still sitting there, blank. I’m exhausted. I have no motivation. Most of the time I feel as blank as that paper.

I should go for a run. Or get on my mountain bike. Or do weights. But all I have energy for is hiking up and down the trails, and even that raises my heart rate way more than it ever used to.

I should go back to writing my novel. But all I can write about is Sam and grief. About being a mother of a child who took his own life.  About the guilt and regret and what ifs that come with suicide. The shock of it. That my child, the one I gave birth to, the one I raised, the one I worried over obsessively and loved for 34 years was capable of stepping off a balcony from the 44^th floor. What pain he must have been in! Thinking of his anguish, his desperation, brings gut punches of sadness that literally drop me to the floor. The grief is inescapable.

I should have been a better mother. I should have loved him harder. I should never have gone back to work when Sam was a baby. I should never have gone to university when the kids were young. I should never have made them come from a broken home. I should never have written a memoir. I should have gone to Thailand. I should have grabbed him before he jumped. I should have saved him.

~

Writing about my guilt this evening has brought me to that black place again. That abyss that I’m afraid I’ll fall into and never return from. I’m alone in the house, which isn’t always a good thing. And then Juno, my 100 lb mutt comes running into my office. She licks my face. She doesn’t like the weird sounds coming from me. She’s also hot and bored because she didn’t get a walk today. Dan’s the dog walker, but he went to work early. Juno’s reactive to dogs so I haven’t walked her since she dragged me on my belly on the trail and attacked the dog she hates (a dog that attacked her when she was a puppy so it’s perfectly legit) and inflicted one little puncture wound on the bully that cost us $1,100 in vet bills.

So chicken-shit me, who never takes Juno for a walk, takes Juno for a walk. Just out back, on the trails behind the house. And just for 20 minutes. Watching Juno bound through the woods, sniffing everything as she goes, pure energy and muscle and joy, takes me out of my grief for a while. It makes me feel brave. Which gets me thinking about what bravery looks like at different stages of your life.

Bravery used to be kayaking grade 4 rapids in my first year of paddling, or climbing something I could take a huge fall on, or mountain biking steep, gnarly roots and rocks, hoping not to break my neck.  

Bravery after your son kills himself is different than bravery before. Now bravery is taking your reactive dog for a short walk, at the risk of running into another dog that she decides she wants to kill.

Bravery is putting your hand on your son's ashes to force yourself to feel. To force yourself to believe. My son is dead. My son is dead.

Bravery is staying on this planet because you love your remaining child, you love your husband, you love your sister and brother, you love so many people. Bravery is making sure they don’t go through this again.

Bravery is writing about your pain, your guilt, your regrets, at the risk of looking like a total fucking lunatic, hoping that someone will read your words and say, "OMG. That’s exactly how I feel. Maybe I’m not going crazy."

Bravery is having hope. Hope that I’ll start water colour painting. That I’ll start writing again. That I’ll publish my novel. That one day I’ll feel normal again. That I’ll feel joy. That I'll love life the way I used to.

Sometimes, bravery after your son kills himself is simply getting out of bed in the morning.