Coming Home

Originally Posted by me as dakotaismyson on February 23, 2020

Only one of us came home…

“The wrong words said by just the right person can destroy someone.”

— My Dad.

I got home a few hours ago after the worst 71 hours of my existence. I haven’t hardly slept since 11:50 pm on the 19th. That was – for me – when this hell started. When I got home last night, I had no idea what to do. I let the cats in, let the dog out, and then stood in front of my son’s door. After a moment I opened it and walked to his bed, held one of his blankets near my face and just cried.

He is 27. He will never be 28. I am home… and he will never come home again.

My hubby and daughter told me, an hour or so later, that I needed to try and sleep. Sitting either in the ER waiting room or next to his hospital bed in the critical care portion of ICU for the last nearly 3 days didn’t really afford me an ability to sleep. Apparently coming home doesn’t, either. Who can sleep when all of this keeps rolling through my mind? It was so unexpected, so sudden… but yet he seemed to have a final resort solution that accommodated his last wishes (organ donation) so he had to have thought about that. How could I not know? We have always been so close. Were there different words I could have said on the phone while I was trying to drive and reach him? Some beautiful words that would have eased his pain?

Typing that made me wonder if there was a note – maybe this wasn’t as spontaneous as I thought or maybe he just wanted to give me some sort of explanation? I stopped writing and went to his room again – his email and whatnot on his computer were still open… but nothing gave me any insights. There were no letters addressed to mom or anyone else, actually.

Maybe there is a truth right there… that there are no answers. There will never be any answers. Just more questions.

I replay the last moments… when his sister woke me at 11:50 pm in hysterics that she thought her brother had left to kill himself. I dialed. He answered. I tried to talk and make sense of the words the despondent man on the other end of the phone spoke as I stumbled into pajamas, down to my car, and speeding toward him. I replay that conversation like it’s on some automatic playback. What did I miss? What words could I have said to change all of this?

‘Change all of this.’ That’s the heart of this, right? That I am here, now… and no matter what beautiful words I try to dream up now… to stop him… it’s not an option anymore. There is no redo… no 2nd attempt.

It has happened.

My son is dead.

I will never hear him bump in through the back door.

I will never hear his amazing laugh.

I will never get a phone call that he needs me to help him do whatever.

I will never again get the random “I love you” text.

I will never get a hug.

I will never heal. Some wounds run to deep to heal. He was my boy. My first born. We were so close while he grew up that I always worried his sister would loathe us. We have always been the three musketeers – my son, my daughter, and I. Through thick or thin, the three of us always had each other. They also both promised me that suicide would never be an option – that mom’s shouldn’t outlive their kids. I reminded him of that on the phone and he told me he knew… he remembered… and that he was sorry. The one promise I asked of them – ever – was the one he couldn’t keep.

I told him while we were at the hospital that even though he broke his promise I forgive him and I love him (it doesn’t matter if he could hear me… but I believe it matters that I told him). That is true. He made a mistake. One we can’t ever recover from. One that has damaged all of us and, to a varied degree, allowed each of us to die in some part. I felt guilt – but not that I should have known (that was literally impossible as far as I am concerned) but… for dragging him back and having life support sustain him for 71 hours.

I don’t think I want to talk about this anymore right now. When I was laying in bed I thought – hoped – that if I found an outlet to just write this jumbled mess in my head down somewhere that maybe that would help me. My dad – and all of the hospital staff – discussed how suicide is the number one cause of death in young, white males. I didn’t know that. HOW COULD I NOT HAVE KNOWN THAT? So I’m going to write and hope that I can keep my sanity if I do. …and maybe one day my writing it down somewhere will help another mom know she is not alone in this hell of losing a child to suicide.