I keep thinking about the friends of Christina who lost their daughter. I’ve had no direct contact with them, though I did happen to be in the room once when Christina had her friend on speakerphone. It’s terrible.
The phrase “I can’t imagine,” has accompanied me pretty regularly for more than three years now. So many people want to make it clear to me that they can’t possibly understand what it’s like to lose a child, to which I usually respond that I’m glad they don’t have to understand it. I mean, it’s enough that I do. No one else should have to carry this.
And now someone else understands. And I realize that I don’t actually understand at all.
We were talking about the friends a few days ago and Christina and I told each other – I want to say we “confided,” but it was a pretty open secret – that a lot of the reason either of us found a way to get out of bed on September 18, 2019, and then all those other days after that was because we had two other children who needed us. Giving up into sadness wasn’t an option, because of Emma and Noah. And trust me, there were times I thought about giving up.
I wonder if it’s part of the reason I’ve become such an enthusiastic dog owner. Emma and Noah are diving into teenager-ish activities and, yes, they still need me, but the need is not as all-encompassing as it was three years ago. They’re so much more independent. And now I’ve got a dog who knows that I have a near total household monopoly on dog treats. It gives me a reason to keep myself going, because if I don’t feed Murphy and take him on walks, there aren’t a lot of other people who will do it. He needs me and it feels good and it’s a reason to keep going.
Because there are times I don’t want to keep going. I’m not talking suicide: That’s really never crossed my mind. But I read about the shootings and the disasters and I wonder sometimes, if I was on the train and a guy walked in with a gun, would I panic? Most likely. But there’s a part of me that likes to think I would simply say “I get to see Colin now” and be a little bit happy about it.
If I didn’t have anyone left, I might even look forward to a moment like that. But I do, so I don’t.
These friends of ours. They’ve lost their only child. And, if I were to speak to them, I think I would have to say “I just can’t imagine,” because my experience, as miserable as it is, just isn’t the same kind of miserable as theirs. I don’t truly understand.
I’ve often wondered why I didn’t just go a little nuts when Colin died. I mean, sure, I was in therapy and I had/have the rage issues, as I can ascertain after a ridiculous fight about the use of ‘that’ versus ‘which’ at work, but it didn’t feel like I was truly losing it. I’m not saying these people will have a break with reality, I just wonder if we ever truly know how close we are to the edge.
My cousin Susie (not her real name, but it’s the one I use) is in the process of writing up a biography, which I helped edit. It’s fascinating, because so much of the book focuses on her as a 20-something in the 1970s. She married young and her husband had a break with reality. But she’s writing it from today’s perspective, when she’s been a medical doctor for decades, noting things that she wishes she had seen all those years ago, but which she couldn’t have possibly understood when she was in the thick of it, with no training and, honestly, fearing for her life from time to time. He had serious mental health problems and it’s kind of terrible to read about everything he went through (and put his loved ones through).
I’m glad that didn’t happen to me. I hope it doesn’t happen to our friends. I’m sorry for anyone who’s struggling with mental health issues. There’s some things we just shouldn’t imagine.
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What a compassionate and compelling read. Thanks for sharing.