I have been wanting to write for some time and haven’t. I don’t know exactly why I haven’t. I have these thoughts I want to get out but I’m always doing something and I say “later”. I have been plagued by guilt and unanswered questions- questions which will NEVER be answered. Questions only TJ could answer.
So I turn to the written word, but before doing so I turn on Pandora. TJ loved Celtic music so I choose that station. And now I listen to “Oh Danny Boy.”
Oh Danny boy, the pipes, the pipes are calling
From glen to glen and down the mountain side
The summer’s gone and all the roses dying
‘Tis you, ’tis you must go and I must by
It started one day while I was out walking our dog, Roscoe. I suddenly became overwhelmed by punishing questions. Was TJ scared? Did he want to talk but was afraid to make me sad? Did he have anyone to talk to if he wanted to talk? Even thinking about these now I start to breathe faster and there’s a knot in my belly and a lump in my throat. God, was I even a good mom to this poor sweet child? I mean, I know I was a good mom, but was I the right kind of good that he needed during those long months? I was trying so so hard to be positive, to beat something that deep in my heart, buried where no one would see it but me, I knew would not be beaten. This fucking spider web spreading in my child’s brain. Thinking about the day he wouldn’t be here was not an option in my mind. Yes, there were those days, especially in the beginning, that I literally screamed in the solace of my minivan until my voice had left me, and wailed on the steering wheel until my hands were bruised. No words except “why”.
I reached out once to a core group of friends. Friends from my distant past, recent past, and present. Friends who get me. Friends who I would consider my tribe even though most of them I rarely see. These strong women are the kind you can count on for anything. No matter how many kids or chickens or miles or months are between you. I asked these friends, “When the bottom drops out I’ll need you guys to promise you won’t let me drown. I know I won’t be able to do it for myself. Can I count on you?” I could. They did. They do. They bring me happiness and smiles and comfort. But in the mist of that morning, out walking the dog, all alone….no one can reach that place through time and space. Except TJ himself.
So I wept on that walk. I asked for TJ’s forgiveness. I can’t say those feeling went away. That was several days ago and it’s still weighing heavy on my heart, although the pain has eased a bit. I am fortunate to not only have the group of friends who pulled me through in those first days (and continue to do so) but another core group of friends.
These are my mama-warrior friends. We were warriors in the trenches together and now we all weep together. And laugh and complain and try to plan times to see each other for hugs that never end and are ever-so tight. The kind of hug that needs no words. It permeates your body and reaches into your soul. It says, “I know, I know. I won’t let go until you are ready.” We are cancer sisters, grief sisters, survivors of our sons, haters of GC, and soul sisters. I don’t think I would get through most weeks without these women.
But even they can’t erase the guilt from my heart. Only I can do that. I can’t say that I know how. I don’t think anyone would. There isn’t an instruction book. Step 1: blah blah blah. Step 2: yada yada ya. POOF! No guilt. I cry my tears. I wipe my face. I ask for forgiveness. I smile through the pain. I remember that others need me. I play music. I laugh. I tend to the business of life. Until the next time on the next walk or the next whatever when I need to weep and howl and break down. And that’s what I do.
It’s ok. I’ve gotten pretty good at picking up the pieces. If you look closely you will see a vessel not unlike Japanese pottery mended by kintsugi, the art of precious scars. Kintsugi literally means golden repair. It’s the beautiful art of mending the broken with precious metals. It is how we all must heal if we are to survive, no matter the tragedy. If we are to survive in any meaningful way, that is. I don’t fear breaking and I know it’s inevitable. Each tear is a small stress line in my vessel. Each panic attack is a piece of me that breaks away and falls to the dirt. Careful to not lose it, I pick it up very gently and cobble it back together with the gold of my friends and my close family as the glue, creating a more beautiful vessel- because of their love.
Kintsugi.
