No More Maserati

Originally posted by me as dakotaismyson March 14, 2020

Today was the first time since Dakota’s suicide that we went to the grocery. It also coincides with the state of emergency declared by both the president and the governor. Going to the grocery can cause shell shock… or shelf shock right now. I honestly didn’t think that it would be bad for me to go (not in reference to shelf shock, but in regard to Dakota).

…and I was wrong.

Grocery stores are filled with things that remind me of my son. Oatmeal cream pies, cereals, hamburgers, potato bread (which I never understood), and so on. Every look at a shelf brought something to mind.

There’s a dish I make that, other than meatloaf, was my son’s favorite and he calls it Maserati. It’s mostly an Italian-style dish, moderately expensive, and pretty fast (to make at least)… hence, Maserati. I almost cried every time I saw one of the ingredients and in tears whispered to hubby (who asked me what was wrong when I was looking at spaghetti sauce) that I didnt think I would ever again be able to make Maserati.

I’m in no way saying that losing someone close to you is ever easy in any way… but losing a child – regardless if they are no longer a child – is a different kind of hell. I have always been terrified of losing my mom or dad (and I still am) but I think parents can be incredibly naive about losing a child. I was. Our world, in this era, has taught us the “natural timeline” of death as great-grandparents (when lucky enough to know them), grandparents, parents, then ourselves. Our kids follow that same pattern (with our parents being their grandparents). Perhaps that innate understanding of The Way of Things is part of what makes losing a child so hard?

How wonderfully spoiled and naive I was prior to February 20th when Dakota took his own life and the 71 hours of hospital hell – and a desperation of such depth I can never convey it – started.

I think last night a part of my mind tried to ambush me. When I’m going to bed every night, I follow a ‘new’ ritual: I put my hand on Dakota’s box (urn) and, on the way up the stairs, tell a big picture of him I love him. Last night, I placed my hand on his box and something in my head tried to realize my son is in that box. I’m far from stupid; the logical person I normally am knows my son’s remains are in that box. As I’ve said, though, what the brain knows and the heart accepts are not the same.

When that ambush happened I locked down for a moment, head and heart grappling. I realized I don’t want to admit that to my heart yet and was able to pull it all back in… or push it down, or whatever. On the way up the stairs, I could only muster a “g’night Bubba”.

I’ve been assured I’m not going crazy… and I know I’m not yet ready to realize what goodbye really means. I’ve told myself that when his headstone is placed, I’ve bought the vault, and we put him in the ground… that I would deal with it then. I don’t know if I can ever have the strength to do that. I can’t tell you I ever want to be able to do that. Can’t I just keep living with the idea that he’s away and not gone? Is that unhealthy? As a mom missing her kid, I can tell you it feels like a reasonable option. But what happens one day when that spark of reality hits and I can’t keep it at bay? I mean… I just want my son back. I want all the years coming to be filled with his accomplishments and life issues. I want to be the annoying mother-in-law-to-be for a wedding followed by years of fully irritating mother-in-law. I want to see his pride in holding his first born. I want to comfort him when he’s not sure about something in his world. I do not understand why my son would leave me. I do not understand how oblivious I was. I know he loved me… how could he possibly ever think I could survive this in tact? Was it faith on his part or just horrible misunderstanding? Or could he even really care or understand it at the time he made this choice? If he really knew the depth of my love, would he have still done this and hurt me so critically? I don’t understand!!!

…and I miss my son.