I've read about the multiple stages of grief. I've experienced the multiple stages of grief. I've lost loved ones, friends, family....to illness, accidents, and old age. Sometimes their passing was sudden; sometimes it was a long and dreadful process, resulting in an end that could be thought of as merciful. No amount of information, no amount of grief counselling, and no amount of faith in an afterlife have ever been of any use--not so much as a particle of comfort--in that time which immediately follows the passing of a loved one.
I am so very, very fortunate to be able to say that I have NOT lost a loved one-- at least not in the traditional and ... final sense. The loss which we are trying to cope with has been one of simple relocation. Tommy has returned to Texas, to complete his High School diploma while living in Corpus Christi with his father.
Of course, no one is going to send "condolences" for such an occasion--nor should they, really. At the same time, a loss has occurred. There are support groups for this, I suppose, but those people don't know me. Those people don't know Tommy. Those people don't know our history. For better or worse, the recipients of this little "piece" know at least one of the principal players...and it is to you I tell this story.
Tommy's taller than I am, of course, and has gained a little weight over the past year. If you didn't know him, this handsome, medium-height, blonde-haired young man would appear to be somewhere in that nebulous age-group of 16 to 21. He has beautiful big, grey eyes, and a lovely smile. I recently introduced him to someone as simply, "Tommy Carpenter." The young lady turned to me and whispered, "He's cute! How do you know him?" Indeed.
And what kind of son is Tommy? He's warm and loving, witty and fun. He's kind to small animals and he politely holds the door for people. Tommy loves his family. He has no criminal record, seemingly no criminal tendencies, and no discernable chemical dependencies. He has a few close friends, and numerous casual friends, all of whom seem to genuinely admire and care for him. He attends school regularly.
And what kind of son is Tommy? He's lazy and unmotivated, hermit-like and silent. He's uncommunicative and vaguely angry for no apparent reason. Tommy hates the world. He has no ambition, no job, no sense of self-reliance or pride in a job well-done. He claims to be friendless and lonely. He does nothing in school.
I ask you again: what kind of son is Tommy?
I hugged him goodbye at the airport, as he prepared to hand his boarding pass to the flight attendant. He had a backpack and a guitar case; he looked very much the young adult that he has become. We didn't cry. I told him I loved him.
When he'd gotten down the jetway and onto the plane, I turned to Jim. "Let's go. I can't watch this--I can't stay. Please get me out of here." The sense of loss was overwhelming. Devastating. The airport and all its preoccupied, stressed travellers began to look very distorted and surreal, my ears were ringing...sure signs a faint was coming on. I wondered briefly whether it might be a psychotic episode of some sort...stress-induced madness, perhaps. And how does one know? I made a mental note to ask my counselor whether I might be insane.
Back in the Trooper, we drove towards home. I began to cry, finally, now that there weren't any witnesses...the tears were hot and bitter, stinging my eyes and burning my cheeks. They didn't last long, those tears. I think maybe the tear ducts were signalling a complete surrender; they'd been working pretty hard here, just lately.
Saturday, Halloween day, was an absolutely beautiful day here in the Bay Area. The temperature was crisp and cool, the sky an insistently cheerful blue.
Back home from the airport, it was still early in the day--not even 10:00 a.m., yet. My pain and confusion had settled into a sense of empty, numbing exhaustion. With no pretense of romance or relief at "being alone", Jim and I collapsed back into bed and into the only peace we'd known for weeks--deep sleep. It was after 2:00 in the afternoon before we finally awoke.
After the inevitable procrastination and complaining, it was time to clean out his room. (You see, despite having 10 days to clean and pack, Tommy had elected to clean nothing and pack nothing.) Opening the door to his room was an emotional and physical chamber of horrors. The rubble and debris could best be measured, I think, in metric tons. I am ashamed to say it, but the room was filthy. I've heard stories (and seen examples) of rental properties completely trashed by tenants. This was worse.
How much detail to provide, here? Maybe it would be best to keep the detail to a minimum. If I described it all to you, you might not believe it anyway. It was that bad.
I had asked Tommy to please be sure and remove any "personal or potentially embarrassing" things from his room--no questions asked--before he left. There are, I believe, many things parents expect but do not want to see or know about. What is normal and healthy is probably also private and personal. I know my son well. We shared many many things. Those things we did not share were things that no young man shares with anyone--least of all his mother.
Do you think I might've been spared that peek into a young man's personal thoughts and deeds? I might've. But I wasn't. Tommy hadn't bothered to remove anything from his room, personal or otherwise, except a few items of clothing.
The remainder of the weekend was entirely spent on returning that bedroom to usability. It was a backbreaking, heartbreaking, hellish nightmare.
Forgive him for years of academic apathy? Maybe. Forgive him for weeks of anguished anticipation of his departure from my daily life? Maybe. Forgive him for breaking my heart? His grandmother's heart? His stepfather's heart? Maybe. Forgive him for that room--that enforced intimacy and invasion of privacy? Probably not.
Returning to work on Monday was a relief. I looked ten years older, weary and beaten. I looked--and felt--like shit. I still do.
My dreams are unhappy ones, though I am usually exhausted and do sleep. It's Wednesday, today, and the cleaning and purging of that room are still unfinished-- ensuring an ongoing physical tiredness. I'm distracted and sad. I feel angry and betrayed. I love him and miss him. I'm glad he's gone. I'm not glad he's gone. Go figure.
Is there a moral to this story? No.
Is it the end of the world? No.
Is it a tragedy? No.
Is it the most profound and horrible loss thus far in my life? Yes.
Hurricanes, flooding, political unrest...hundreds and hundreds of innocent people dead. In the papers and on the news, the real tragedies unfold before us all. Children are murdered, victimized, kidnapped, their parents left in an unimaginable hell-on-earth. These things have, thank God, not happened to me--not happened to my family. There is so very much to be thankful for. Blessings to remember...small miracles ("pocket miracles") which populate our daily lives and might even go unnoticed.
Heartbreak, I think, must heal.
Tommy is safe and sound in Corpus Christi, Texas. He has an entire lifetime ahead of him to discover the meaning and direction that we all find, eventually. His potential is enormous. I believe he will do well.
It's a beautiful day outside, again.... More of that irritatingly perfect Bay Area weather. We have jobs, Jim and I, we have a beautiful home filled with lovely things. We have each other. We have our sons, healthy and full of promise, though they do not--at this time--live with us. We have friends and family whose love and support makes it possible to remember how fortunate we really are.
Thanks for being there.
-- written November, 1998
