I love you and you are mine

Even though spring has been here for over a month, this first part of 2014 has been a long, hard winter for my soul. As months of depression give way to lighter days, I can feel a delicate unveiling of myself, like thin layers of fabric pulled back slowly from my face, one by one.

In this post, I described how I got to the breakthrough I had in January. Now months later, as this Mother’s Day comes to a close, I feel like I can finally begin to describe what it was and how it helped me.

Let’s start by going back to a Mother’s Day when Zach lived with us, nearly a decade ago. That morning, he took the time to wish me a “Happy Mother’s Day” before going off to spend the day with his mama. It was a simple sentiment, but his sincerity moved me. It was as if he was saying, “Thank you for what you are doing. Thank you for who you are for me. You aren’t my mom, but this thing we have between us and the family you have created with my dad…well, I appreciate it. It’s not lost on me. Thank you.”

 

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For no real reason outside of myself, I spent last fall feeling like an uninvited guest in the nightmare of Zach’s death. My grief for him felt untouchable, unreachable and completely undefined. For months I couldn’t find it and in the moments when I did, I didn’t know what to do with it.

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Until that day back in January when I had finally carved out enough space and time within me and around me to try to figure it out. It hit me suddenly and forced me to my knees. I happened to be hiking through a sort of man-made mini-gorge, surrounded by fence on one side and a mountain of stones on the other. I was literally stuck between a rock and hard place, forced to confront the truth I had been denying myself for five months.

 

I had lost a child.

 

I let myself feel that completely for the first time, and later that day, I said it out loud. I let it it pierce through my insides and hollow me out.

For a good long while it felt like I was going to die.

Before this, I had actually given myself a dozen “logical” reasons for not claiming this loss.

“He is my stepson; he didn’t come from my body.”

“There were only 12 years between us, certainly that’s not enough of an age-gap for me to feel like a parent who has lost a child”

“People keep asking me how my husband is doing. What about me? As Zach’s stepmom, am I not supposed to be suffering too?”

“I didn’t have the kind of bond with him that I have with my two youngest children. The ones I carried in my belly, then labored and breathed into life.  The ones I nursed, snuggled and rocked; the ones by my side each and every day. That’s really what it takes, right?”

But this was the biggest reason I heard constantly echoing in my head…

“He has two other parents to whom this loss truly belongs. If I claim him as mine, if this breaks me also, then it would somehow be disrespectful to them. An insult to biology. An undermining of his mother’s broken heart.”

But there I was on my knees. The hot, searing sickness in my stomach and the hardened wall of tightness constricting my throat as the violent shaking and wailing of my whole being revealed the truth.

That from the moment I met this blue eyed, red headed boy, I loved him. That I spent those first years getting to know him, his likes and dislikes, his joys and his fears, and then planning ways to enrich his life and to offer opportunities for learning, play and growth.

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That when his dad asked me to marry him, my “yes” was a “yes” to all of us. Our family. Our future. That every day and every forward thought included Zach. That when it came time to welcome him into our home full time, not just every other weekend, and with all of the messy circumstances surrounding that transition, I did not hesitate for one second in saying, “absolutely.”

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That when many of my peers were figuring out careers and futures or just doing what most people do in their 20’s, I was moving to a new town because it had the best schools. I rearranged my dreams and goals to work full time, commuting to a job that would help secure our future. I was packing lunches, going to back to school nights, coordinating schedules and sitting down for family dinners. We were saving for college, going to the orthodontist and doing science projects. I was aware that this time was a gift to his dad and me, but sensitive to the tumult, confusion and developmentally appropriate adolescent angst that existed for our son. So we had intentional conversations and we took him to counseling. We set boundaries and limits and modeled habits that were new for him.

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That when we found out we were having a baby, it was always about the four of us. We began building an actual house for our family. Four walls and a roof on a lot in the hills to start with, but mostly a home to live in and grow together.

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That I loved planning adventures and fun for us. I delighted in selecting birthday and Christmas gifts for him. I especially loved filling his stocking every year because he was so tickled by the deodorant, Axe body spray, mouthwash, gum and Chapstick.

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 That when he went back to live with his mom for a number of complicated reasons it broke us in so many ways. It was the first time we lost Zach and we grieved him hard.

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 That every day after that I worried for him. I missed him. I ached for our family.

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That I still championed his wildest dreams. That I brainstormed ways to support their fruition. That I never gave up on him.

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That the night we found out about his addiction was when we lost him all over again. It introduced a new sort of anxiety. A worry deeply-rooted and ever-present. Not without hope, but sometimes blind and desperate. We still prayed that somehow, someday, there would be a healing that would allow him to live the life he wanted. That whatever unreachable pain would reveal itself so that he wouldn’t always need to numb it with drugs. We acknowledged and apologized for our mistakes and committed to growing and healing with him.

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That my daily prayer became one of restoration and salvation for our son, this sweet boy who was dealt a crappy hand, him whose plans and dreams had been supplanted by prison bars and isolation. I still hoped that despite the grim statistics, his heroin addiction wouldn’t be the end of him.

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That his dad and I had nevertheless (as many of us who love addicts do) tried to mentally prepare ourselves in some way for that potential last phone call, the one where we would find out we had lost him forever. Of course, I never ever expected someone else’s addiction would kill him in such a tragic and accidental way while he was on the road to recovery. It’s a fool’s game to think you can prepare at all for a blindsided and broken heart.

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Yes, these truths have become mine. And there in the warmth of that January afternoon, amidst the rocks and the dust, I realized that he too became mine long ago. Part of me.

 

And so in, his death has destroyed a part of me also.

 

Somehow, I still hold onto a shaky and evolving faith that death is only a beginning. For him, most certainly, but for those of us left here as well.

It seems, though, you have to trudge through the darkness and muck first. And right now we are stuck with that gritty and inescapable reality.

That he is gone. That the person I was and the family we had is no longer. And that the family we might have been…will never be in this lifetime.

It’s hard to deny that any path to redemption might be awfully long and often unbearable. Harder yet to embrace that any resurrection story must includes these interminable days in the tomb.

But I remain thankful for this life and so very grateful for the gift Zachary was and is to me and our family.

There was a hymn sung during one of the two funerals we had for Zach. Although I had personally selected much of the music for both services, this song was chosen by his aunt and the organist sang it up in the choir loft behind us at the end of the service; it was as if it was sung by an invisible angel. The song was both familiar and unrecognizable to me, beautiful and somehow haunting. I had not really thought of it again until two weeks ago when I began humming the melody. I had to look up the lyrics to remind myself.

Do not be afraid, I am with you

I have called you each by name

Come and follow me

I will bring you home

I love you and you are mine.

….

 

(If you want to listen to the song in its entirety, you can find a version of it here)

4 thoughts on “I love you and you are mine

  1. Lisa, your words so touch me. They make any reply sound do significant in comparison. I’m glad you’ve been able to understand and get to this point in this process of dealing with the loss of Zach. I believe it’s a life long process. You are forever changed , but always with hope and growth. I’m sorry that you ever felt less “entitled” to parental grief. Zach was your son, your family. Having empathy for families of addicts, I still can’t imagine the loss of Zach with the ironies of the situation, yet I know that death never feels fair or right at any young age, under any circumstances. Hold on to all the the sweetness you wrote about, the beautiful family pictures, the joy and the pain of being a mom to Zach. It was all worth it. I know we don’t live this amazing earthly life to have it all end with our mortal death. This is just the beginning. I love you Lisa!

    • Thank you, Michelle, for your loving and thoughtful words, for your empathy and compassion and many yeArs of friendship. All of these things lift me up and comfort and strengthen me in so many ways. Love and thanks to you, Lisa

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