Part 1 of 2 Incredibly, it has been 10 years since I was last able to hug my son; it feels like the blink of an eye. 10 years ago, I visited him in hospital and as I was walking down a corridor to find him, he rushed towards me with his arms open wide, and gave me a massive hug. I felt engulfed by that hug, he had been outside smoking so he had his puffa jacket on; it added bulk to his thin frame. The jacket smelt of him, each person has such a unique smell, you know when you are wrapped up in their arms, that this is familiar, this is home. Before I left him that night, I leaned over him, put a hand on either side of his head, kissed him on the top of his unruly curls, said goodbye and walked away thinking about dinner. There was never any thought in my head that I would not see Harry conscious again, that this was the last conversation I would ever have with him. I was just happy that I’d made it to the hospital before visiting hours ended, I was happy to have seen him, and now I had to get home.
Four hours later I got a call to say that Harry had been found unresponsive in his room and was in an ambulance on the way to hospital, because he had seriously injured himself, and the mental heath care facility he was in could not care for him. I met him in the emergency room, he was so very still, and hooked up to so many monitors. They had managed to start his heart again, it wasn’t looking good though, and he was transferred to ICU care. I repeated over and over into Harrys shell-like pink ear, as he lay so still on that ICU bed, “you are loved, my beloved boy, you are loved, you are loved, you are loved”.
After 3 days in ICU, a decision was made to remove life support, my beautiful boy was not coming back. It has been 10 years since I held my baby in my arms as life support was removed. 10 years since I physically felt the moment his soul left his body. 10 years since I washed that body for the very last time, before my beloved son was transported to the morgue. 10 years since I stumbled out of hospital clutching his teddy bear, supported by my sister and my friend. 10 years since we held a funeral for an 18 year old who should not have died.
I didn’t just lose an 18 year old son that day in ICU, I lost all the potential wrapped up in his skinny body, all of the future possibilities, everything that Harry could have, should have, would have become. My first born should be a 28 year old man today, living his best life…would he be married…would he have children…would he still be living in Christchurch…what job would he have settled on…would he still be dancing…what would his art work be focusing on…so many questions! The biggest one will always be, if he had survived that night, how long would he have had to fight the black dog, and what insights would he have had to share on the other side of that fight?
When a young person dies by suicide, life fractures completely. There is no way for a parent or a loved one or a friend to comprehend (or prepare for) the loss of a fit, healthy, vibrant young person, who is taken out of time. The jagged edges of the space they leave behind cause so much pain and grief, and such an overwhelming feeling of disbelief, of complete wrongness. The knowledge of such a big loss does not sit easily in the souls of those left behind, the jagged edges of it catch on the fabric of life and unexpectedly pull on threads of it (like a song on the car radio…or a fleeting glimpse of a Harry-shaped boy in the supermarket…or the return of an unguarded memory…or in the faces of his friends growing older, when he himself will never age beyond his 18 years and 9 months). Suicide not only steals away the life of one so precious to those left behind, it also steals away all of that persons potential, all that they could have been, all they should have been.
As I sit here and contemplate the last time I hugged my son, the passage of time means nothing. The past 10 years have not changed the love I always felt for that wee boyo, from the moment I became aware that the bean-sized being growing inside me had a discernible heartbeat…through the angsty teenage years. Time does not dull the relationship, time does not change the depth of loss. What it does, though, is add layers of life, of new experiences, of deeper understanding…and those layers temper my grief. It is no longer that all consuming pain I felt in the early days. It is no longer the painful sting that was ever present in my year of firsts (first meal I cooked myself, first day back at work, first Christmas, birthdays, Mothers Day, first day I managed to drive in the car without crying…)
I used to wear my grief like a massive cloak I wrapped around myself, it billowed, and swung around like it owned all the air around me. With the passage of time my cloak has di