Sharpest Corners

I’m sitting on the balcony of my stateroom on a cruise ship waiting for the call to muster drill just before sail away. Don’t envy me too much, part of my son is in a lunch bag in the room’s safe.

We booked this cruise before Christopher died and the holiday season is hard enough without thinking about being on a ship filled with celebrating families over Christmas Eve and Day. However, I ultimately decided being here is what I needed to do.

Going through the port’s TSA line was surprisingly uneventful, unlike the last time I flew with Christopher’s ashes. A few days after the funeral, I had to fly them back to Florida with me. I was alone and still stumbling around in shock. It’s a miracle I didn’t end up getting lost and deplaning in Boise or some shit.

When I arrived at TSA Pre-check (do it, it’s miraculous if you travel a lot), I asked for a supervisor right away. A man came over and I told him I had my son’s ashes and the required travel paperwork. I held out a sad little handbag with a wooden box inside that contained a bag inside that.

He asked if my Christopher was a veteran, which pulled at my heart because he’d be about to join the military. The TSA agent was as compassionate and gentle with me as a person could be.

Once through, I wandered over to a bar near my gate and ordered something, I can’t remember what. I clutched the bag on my lap because I didn’t feel right about setting it on the table and I certainly wasn’t going to put it on the floor. Note to self: write a manual for grieving parents with suggestions on how to navigate the world with your kid in your purse.

As I stood up to leave, I accidentally bumped a man’s carry-on bag which fell over. I mumbled an apology and he was genuinely unfazed I’d knocked it over. In fact, he was apparently in quite the playful mood. As he picked up the bag, he chuckled and said –– I shit you not––”It’s okay, it’s just my grandmother’s ashes. HAHA! MY GRANDMOTHER’S ASHES!!!”

Look, I can’t get mad at the guy because unless he had x-ray vision he couldn’t possibly have known that was a terrible joke to make. Ordinarily I’m quick with a comeback but not that time. I muttered something, I have no idea what, and got out of there. I’m happy to say that I made it through today’s travel without incident.

It’s kind of ridiculous that I toted Christopher around in a lunch bag but let me explain. Immediately after he died, my brain short-circuited. I remember bits and pieces of certain days, long stretches of others, and am a total blank over some situations. For instance, I have no recollection of getting on the plane that took me to where his ashes were, the ride itself, or getting off the plane. I just remember getting in a car at the airport.

Although my brain wasn’t good for much in the those first days, it did one neat thing for me. It protected future me from some needless upset and decision-making. I bought clothes for Christopher’s funeral that I was prepared to toss out immediately after the service. I changed my watch face to some throwaway image I’d never care about seeing again. And I brought Christopher’s ashes home in a bag I had no intention of keeping.

I don’t remember whether I sent the bag to Goodwill or, for all I know, cut it into a million pieces and threw it in the garbage. I just knew I didn’t want that reminder in the house.

When it came time to bring some of Christopher’s ashes to the ship with us, I rooted around in our Give To Goodwill box and found an old nylon lunch box Michael no longer uses (the one in the picture at the top of this post). Perfect. I can toss it in the garbage or “accidentally” leave it behind in the stateroom after it served it’s purpose.

Current me thanks past me for thinking of little things like “what bag is good for carrying this urn but that you won’t mind parting with a few days later?” I honestly don’t think Christopher would mind being taken to the ship in a lunchbox, either. He had (there’s that word again, past tense), my ridiculous sense of humor and would probably ask if it matched my shoes or some silly thing.

I’ll be sending the urn overboard in the next couple of days. We’ll find out sometime tomorrow exactly when and geographically where in the Carribean this business will go down. In the meantime, Christopher’s just going to chill out in the safe and I’m going to to my best to stay as upbeat as I can during this trip.

The Captain just called for muster. Hmmm, funny. Everyone on this ship is gathering for a muster drill in case of catastrophe and I’m over here mustering the courage to deal with one that’s already happened. Wish me luck.

Next week, Christopher and I get to do one last thing together. Just the two of us. I honestly don’t know how I’m going to go through with it, but it’s important to me that I do.

I’m taking some of Christopher’s ashes with me on a cruise and have arranged to send them overboard as we drift through the Carribean. There’s meaning behind the overall choice but it’s also an opportunity to let a part of him go under my own power instead of being snatched away from me without warning.

We took Christopher on his first cruise in 2015 and he was immediately captivated. The transformation in him was stunning. He tried so many new things for the first time, had a bucketload of new experiences, and generally just loved it. Christopher roomed next door to us with Michael’s son, who’s a few years older than him, and they bonded like blood brothers.

He and I also got the opportunity to spend some time alone together, bringing us closer than ever. Christopher confided things in me that he’d never been comfortable telling anyone else and I was able to lavish my attention on him without the pull of work or any other responsibilities.

That trip was precious to me and it must have meant something to him too. His ship room key was in his wallet the day he died. That’s it in the picture at the top of this post. The key card from another cruise we took the following year was found in his safe. I was in the process of helping him get his passport when he died because he wanted to travel more with us.

The cruises we took together were in the Carribean and, quite by accident, the same itinerary both times. Last December, before my life blew the fuck up, Michael and I booked a cruise for this Christmas that also happened to the be the same itinerary we’d sailed with Christopher. I remember idly wondering back then if Christopher and my stepson would get to come with us again.

Guess not.

I’ve been wondering for months how I’m going to mark Christopher’s birthday and… fuck… deathday, which are both in January. Michael and I tossed around the idea of taking his ashes on a cruise at the one-year mark but the ship we sailed on with him both times is currently in Baltimore. There’s no way on earth I could deal with all the travel it would take to get there during such an emotionally sensitive time, so I nixed that idea pretty quick.

Meanwhile, I have this cruise coming up over Christmas and it just didn’t seem worth going. Then it dawned on me. It might not be the same ship but it’s the same itinerary, so I’ve decided to leave some of his ashes where we’d had such a meaningful time.

Michael, god love the man, made all the arrangements for me. He ordered all the required paperwork, culled a selection of biodegradable urns for me to choose from, and placed that order too. (People sometimes say they don’t know how I get through any of this. Michael is how I get through it. He does everything I can’t.)

Christopher’s notarized death certificate required a signature upon delivery. When the doorbell rang earlier this week, I assumed that’s who was at the door. Nope, it was the urn arriving a day early. I opened it to check the personalization and ended up sitting on the kitchen floor crying my guts out. Mothers are not meant to hold something that will contain the remains of their child.

I had a video meeting to attend so I hauled out the Visine so I didn’t look stoned and redid my makeup. I don’t think I said anything stupid but, honestly, I don’t even remember.

UPS eventually showed up with the death certificate and the tears started all over again. Mothers are not meant to hold papers confirming their child has died.

More Visine, more makeup, more meetings. I think that day was 267 hours long.

Thanks to Michael, the logistics are in order to do this next week. I see my grief counselor before I go, so that should get my head in order too. I mean, as much as that is possible.

I don’t know exactly what day this will happen yet because we make those arrangements with Guest Services when we board. At the appointed time, a crew member comes to get us (they must draw straws for who gets that shitty job), and we’re taken to a private area of the ship. We can stay as long as we need to and, when we’re ready, we send the urn overboard. The Captain gives us a certificate that has the coordinates on it so we’ll always know where we were that day, that minute, that moment.

The message to Christopher on the urn is from me alone and I think I’m going to have to send it overboard alone as well. I had him all to myself for nine wonderful months before he was born. After that, I had to share him.

I want one last moment with my baby, then I have to let a part of him go. He left me on his terms and I’m struggling to accept that. Next week, I open my hand and let a little piece of him go on my terms. It’s the least we can do for each other.

When my boys were young, I used to tell them that if they ever acquired super powers they could tell me and I’d keep their secret. I mostly knew that would never happen, but what mom doesn’t hope her kids will be the ones imbued with the ability to fly or see through walls?

As they got older, my teasing turned to serious conversations that they could always tell me anything or do anything and I would love them unconditionally. I always wanted my children to know that they could be who they wanted to be and live life on their terms without fear of reprisal.

As it happens, on the last day I spent with Christopher, I told him that there’s literally nothing he or his brothers could ever do that would make me turn away from them.

“You guys could rob a bank and I’d visit you every day in jail. But hey, let’s not test that theory,” I joked.

I sometimes wonder if that made it easier for Christopher to take his life. He knew I wouldn’t hold it against him. I don’t.

In the months since it happened, I’ve spent a lot of time talking to the memory of him when no one else is around. Truth be told, I’ve spent hours begging him to come back to me or asking him to let me take his place.

I’ve also told Christopher over and over that while I don’t understand specifically why he did this (he didn’t leave a note), I understand conceptually. I loathe it and I would literally give my life to bring him back, but looking at the days leading up to it I can see exactly the circumstances that led to his decision.

I’ve also told Christopher that if he’s going to be stubborn about it and not come back to me, then the least he could do is haunt me. I’d love it.

My mother’s side of the family believes in ghosts and can regale you with dozens of stories of the ghosts that have messed with them or outright lived with them over the years. You can laugh and say ghosts don’t exist, I don’t care. We’ve seen enough between the bunch of us to believe something is going on. If we’re wrong, no harm done. If we aren’t, then good for us.

So has Christopher haunted me yet? I don’t think so. I’m careful to not read into things or look for proof of him hovering nearby where none exists. In fact, I’m so careful to not overreact to explainable things that if he is haunting me, he must be getting really annoyed at my resistance to noticing.

Anyway, on bad days I sit on the floor and beg Christopher to give me a sign that he’s still with me. I plead for him to come back and share the rest of my life in some form or another because I can’t live without him. On good days, I goof around with him in a one-sided conversation as if he can hear me.

Call it what you will, wishful thinking or the residual effects of trauma, but I’ve heard his voice a few times since January. I’ve heard him gently say, “mom” as if to not startle me. I really hope it is him beginning to haunt me. To haunt the haunted.

My grief counselor often asks me about anger. Sometimes she wants to know if I’m angry at a person, other times if I’m angry about a situation. She keeps track of my anger so I don’t have to.

The thing is, I’m not as angry as you’d expect. That’s not to say I haven’t had some moments over the past year. Still, I’ve gotten much better at figuring out my sore spots and unhealthily compartmentalizing it because I have other emotions vying for my attention right now.

I’m not mad at Christopher for taking his life. I think there’s an expectation that I would be angry that he deprived me of himself or find his action selfish. Don’t get me wrong, I’m miserable about it and hate it more than I will ever be able to articulate, but angry? I can’t be. I’m not. I hurt too much and miss him too terribly to have any angry feelings toward Christopher.

There are pockets of anger deep inside me, however, that my counselor and I probe from time to time. Much like losing Christopher, these are situations surrounding his loss that I can never change or resolve. Instead, I’ve boxed them up and put them on a shelf to focus on more productive healing processes. Did I mention I prefer to compartmentalize? Don’t worry, my counselor and I will get to them in time.

I think what’s made it easier to shelve these negative feelings is that I’m not in denial about them. I’ve acknowledged the handful of things I’m angry about, sat with the feelings, and laid them out on the table for my counselor to pick through. She gave me permission to be angry and equipped me with ways to live with the feelings without letting them eat at me.

It also helps that the things I’m angry about aren’t in my immediate orbit. I don’t have to be in situations or deal with people that will poke those pockets of anger and make them bleed. Out of sight, out of mind may not be the healthiest approach, but it works for me and my counselor signed off on it. Compartmentalization!

So, yeah, I have the anger in check. Mostly.

I’ll cop to being perpetually irritated about one thing, though.

My life has been permanently robbed of normalcy and it pisses me off. The whole thing I mentioned earlier about always bracing myself for an unexpected ambush of emotion is only one aspect of it, and not even the worst.

Life with your children is supposed to play out in a predictable way. You raise them then send them out into the world to come into their own. You rejoice when they land their dream job and comfort them when a romance ends. You watch them blossom into adulthood with the same excitement you watched them take their first steps. So boringly normal.

Well, I don’t get to do that normal stuff with Christopher and it ticks me off. I’ve been robbed. I want what I looked forward to having while bringing up my son. I want what we had together during his brief life.

I want my son back.

But it’s not going to happen and I’m not going to be able to fully accept that until I’m damn good and ready.

And yet, I’m honestly not mad at Christopher. I can’t even be fully angry at the loss of my normalcy because it pales in comparison to the degree of pain he must have felt to make him end his life. I guess being pissed off at something, though, is easier than feeling my loss in all its crushing totality. I’m not that strong.

The weirdest shit sets me to crying these days. It’s not a big deal when I’m safely at home, but it’s a bit awkward when I’m in, say, the frozen dessert department at Publix.

Shortly before Christopher died, we went grocery shopping and each had our own list.* He liked things like apple juice and white bread while I’m partial to bottled water and bagels. We walked up and down the aisles grabbing things off the shelf, laughing, and enjoying just being together.

As we rounded the last aisle and headed to the checkout lanes, Christopher walked a little ahead of me to check out the candy display. I remember looking him up and down, from the back of his shaggy-haired head to the heels of his sneakers, and thinking how lucky I was to have him in my life.

Christopher was such a generous and kind soul, he had been his whole life. He only saw the best in people and he only wanted the best for everyone.

After his funeral, it was many weeks before I could leave the house again. When I finally did go out, my husband had to accompany me everywhere and intervene on nearly every interaction because I was still mute with grief.

At some point, we stopped in at the local Publix. I came around the same corner I’d walked with Christopher and promptly lost my shit.

Outwardly, I just looked like a loon who was crying over a shelf of sunscreen and lip balm. Inside, I was a howling, hyperventilating mess.

Michael had long-since learned the “I’m overwhelmed, please help” look and quickly finished paying for our groceries so we could get out of there. Meanwhile, I was flooded with memories and wondering how I’d been so happy just a few weeks earlier.

Triggers (god, I hate that word) are like that. They hit like lightning bolts and do just as much damage. I’ve learned some coping skills over time and also pre-game most social interactions ahead of time to try and predict any weird landmines I might encounter.

But they find me anyway. You would simply not believe how often suicide is mentioned in a jokey manner or used as a plot line in a movie or TV show. I can more or less handle that as long as I can tune it out or change the channel.

On the other hand, seeing images or hearing about the method Christopher chose to end his life (which I still can’t verbalize) sends me into a full-blown anxiety attack. Those are the situations that absolutely suck.

A while back, someone in a group I’m part of posted a meme that used that visual as a punchline and I essentially blacked out. I didn’t lose consciousness, but when I described how I lost time my counselor said it was disassociation. It was pretty awful.

Another time, I was at a social event and an acquaintance who doesn’t know what happened made a joke about killing people in the same manner as Christopher died and I almost threw up.

Yes, I’m working on this with my counselor but we have to take it millimeters at a time. It’s going to take a long while to desensitize me.

I don’t hold people responsible for what they can’t or don’t know. I realize people aren’t purposely being insensitive. In fact, I know that people who are aware of my pain points go out of their way to avoid them. It means the world to me.

Which brings me to the reason for this post. A lot gets written about what to say and what not to say to a grieving person. (Indeed, I may write one or both of these posts myself **.)

The main takeaway here, though, is one thing I never see mentioned in these how-to articles. Consider saying to someone you care about who’s grieving, “I know sometimes words or phrases can set off a flood of unexpected emotion. Is there anything you’d like me to avoid saying when we talk? If it’s difficult for you to answer that question, feel free to direct me to someone else who can tell me.” ***

You can also ask a close friend or relative. Michael knows what I can’t be exposed to and I’m pretty sure he’d like to print it on a business card and hand it to everyone we meet.

As I’ve said before on Twitter, grief is fucking exhausting. My guard is up every waking minute, bracing myself against anything that might catch me off guard and send me into a corner to breathe into a paper bag. I’m so tired. So, so tired.

* Christopher’s shopping list is up above as the featured image on this post. I found it in my purse a few days after the funeral and I will never throw it out. Even his garbage is worth more than gold to me.

** If there’s interest, I guess? I don’t know.

*** I know, I know. This is not blanket advice for every grieving person and I can’t account for every situation. Use your best judgement.

This time last year I was wrapping Christmas gifts for my three boys. This year I only shopped for two.

It really sucks to stand in the greeting card aisle at Walgreens last week, crying while trying to avoid looking at the card sitting directly at eye-level that would have been perfect for Christopher. What kind of Christmas cards do you get for your other kids in this situation? “Sorry your brother died, happy holidays?”

Crying in stores is par for the course right now. I’m basically a raw nerve, boo-hooing into Kleenex multiple times a day and powerless to stop it.

It’s not merely sadness over an empty chair at the dinner table during the holidays. It’s that I distinctly recall the days leading up to Christopher’s death and they begin right about now. Mid-December of last year, I found out that all three of my children would be with me together at Christmas for the first time in a very long time and I was ecstatic.

You see, my older sons live out of state. Due to the nature of their jobs, they aren’t automatically guaranteed time off over the holidays. This time, however, all three of my kids would be in Florida at the same time and would be coming to see me!

Any parent can tell you that having all your kids together when they’re spread around the country is the stuff dreams are made of. I was vibrating with excitement.

The day they were due to arrive, I got a call from one very upset Christopher. The other side of his family, which they were visiting first, changed plans at the last minute which made it impossible for the boys to come see me. (Yes, my older boys are adults with free will but crossing the person who changed their plans comes with unwelcome consequences.)

I calmed Christopher down and promised him we’d find another way for the four of us to be together again soon. After all, we had plenty more holiday opportunities in the future, right?

Less than six weeks later, Christopher was dead.

After we disconnected the call that day, I cried my eyes out. Of course, I had no idea what was in store for me in the coming weeks.

As we roll into the third week of December, I begin to recall exactly where I was and what I was doing just before the holiday last year. The gifts I picked out. The meals I planned. The disappointment.

Now is when I start to remember “the lasts” in earnest. The conversations we had after Christmas. The daily Snapchats to keep our streak going. The last time we went grocery shopping together. His birthday at the beginning of January.

And the last time I saw Christopher’s beautiful, precious face.

Last year, I ordered some Christmas presents that I knew he’d love and was planning a special gift for his 18th birthday. Last week, I ordered a notarized copy of his death certificate.

I know the pain won’t stop, I just wish the tears would.

Christopher and I were walking through a parking garage on a gloomy January day roughly 11 months ago, and I raised the camera high above us to take a selfie. He leaned into me and, head-to-head, we smiled. It was the last picture I would ever take of us.

As I come upon the one-year anniversary of Christopher’s death, I realize I’m as frayed and disbelieving as the day I learned he was gone. It’s because I’ve had no rest, physically or emotionally, since he died and I doubt I ever will. A part of me searches for him every minute of every day. I hear his voice in the quiet moments and the middle of the night. I see him in my two older boys.

In reality, the whole year has been wretched. I’ve lost family and friends before, but nothing could have prepared me for what it’s like to lose a son. It never gets better, it’s never okay, and you never feel whole again.

When you’re grieving, especially the first year, you know that certain situations and calendar dates will be emotional landmines. Sure, Christmas will be a bitch this year (and probably forever). But shopping for two children instead of three is a special kind of hell. Don’t even talk to me about what would happen if I had to unpack Christmas stockings.

But it’s the nuances no one can warn you about that keep you from forming anything but the thinnest scab. The little things no one can predict will be your undoing at a moment’s notice.

I can’t handle small talk with strangers anymore because the question inevitably comes up if I have children. The follow-up question is always, “how many?” How should I answer?

I can’t see movies or watch television shows without having them vetted first because suicide comes up way more than you’d expect. I can handle mentions of the topic but not methods, which takes new mystery shows (formerly my favorite genre) right out of the running for me.

Christopher was fond of a lot of the music I enjoy, so I rarely listen to music anymore. Too many memories.

So what can I do?

I can work to destigmatize suicide every chance I get. I am open about the fact that he took his life because I want people to talk about suicide. I want people to shove this epidemic out into the open and shine a white-hot light on it. I never want anyone to think suicidal thoughts or mental health issues are something to be ashamed of or hidden. Talking openly about mental health saves lives.

My baby is gone. I wear a locket with his ashes every day, I have his memory inked into my skin, I keep his laughter in my heart, and his generosity in my soul. But none of that will bring him back.

After nearly a year of trying to live without Christopher, I can honestly say time doesn’t heal all wounds. I will never be okay.

I’ll never have another picture of him. He’ll never have another birthday. He’ll never grow up and become all the things he had the potential to be.

All I can do is honor Christopher by staying in grief counseling, well, basically forever and continue to watch over my older boys. All I can do is keep trying to get through my days and hope they get a little easier.

Maybe this blog will help heal the acute pain and turn it into a dull ache. Maybe it’ll act as a release valve when the pressure cooker of my life gets to be too much. I don’t know. I don’t know anything anymore.