What I Wish I Could Tell

I was out for a walk this evening on the greenway while Rhys was at soccer practice.  Although I didn't really want to be, I was walking alone.  On the one hand, I like having someone to walk with, someone to talk to.  On the other hand, it can be nice to be alone.  Especially since sometimes talking with friends can be sad.  They tell about their normal lives, things their kids are doing, etc. and it's all just a reminder that other families get to continue on with their normal lives while we don't.

Just a little bit down the trail, I saw two familiar faces off in the distance walking towards me.  It was Liz and Nan, two women I had met last fall in a women's Bible study.  I see them regularly at church but hadn't gotten a chance to talk with them in a while.  They had been out for a walk before their spring women's Bible study.  I had not joined them because the study had started right around the time that Jameson died.

I said hello to them and they stopped to chat.   Liz and Nan both had known about Jameson's passing.  Liz said, "Are you doing okay?"  She then stopped herself and commented that it was a bad question to ask and she apologized.  I said it was okay.  The word "okay" is all relative, right?

We got to talking and mentioned how it felt lonely lately, like everyone else was back to their normal lives.  I felt like I didn't really have anyone to talk to about how I felt.  Friends have been great about keeping in touch, but seem to want to cheer me up by talking about normal stuff, like their kids' sports, graduations, and other interesting things going on this time of year.  I told them that it was hard.  I didn't want to be cheered up or listen to people talk about their normal lives.  I told them that I wished that I could just vent to people, be honest, and tell them all about how horrible I feel, but that I didn't want to be that person.  The one who only talks about sad things.  The "Debbie Downer" of the group.  They assured me that they would be willing to listen and that other people would too.  We made plans to meet up for lunch someday soon.

I found out that Nan had lost her own son seven years ago, when he was in his twenties.  She's been where I am and she survived.  She gets it.  Life is horrible and I hate it.

I want to talk with friends about how sad I am, how life is so different now.  I hold in my pain all day at work and sometimes I just want someone to yell or cry to.  It's not that I don't think anyone would be willing.  Maybe lots of people would be willing.  I just feel like I would be too boring or depressing for anyone to endure.  I also really dislike talking over the phone. I always have.  I can't read facial expressions over a phone and it's hard to stay focused.  Most of my closest friends who have been awesome about keeping in touch and checking in on me live back in Raleigh, so I can't have those face to face conversations very often.

I want to tell people how much I miss hugging my boy and feeling his spiky blonde hair when I tussle his hair.  I want to tell them how much I miss his sparkling blue eyes.  I want to tell them how I miss the sound of his basketball bouncing in the driveway or the sight of him curled up on the couch reading a good book.  Or about how much I miss his little voice calling, "Hi Mama!"  like he hasn't seen me in days or "Let's cuddle!" which was his plea to sit together on a couch or in bed and read or talk.  I'd like to tell them that I have a good guess of what Jameson would be going at any given moment if he were still here.  I'd also like to talk about the stupid little things that make me so sad, like about the bottle of kids' shampoo that sits in Rhys's shower.  That very bottle is the same one I used on Jameson.  Or the fact that I've been putting off cutting Rhys's hair because it would be the first time I gave just one hair cut instead of two.   Or how I look at Jameson's bed and think about the comforter eventually becoming faded and dusty because it's not being used.  Or maybe I'd mention that I felt an accomplishment in going through the boys' summer clothes and I was able to let go of a few of Jameson's clothes and put them in Rhys's drawer for the summer.

Not many people mention Jameson's death anymore.  Right after he died, friends and acquaintances would catch themselves when they slipped and said in a cheerful voice, "How's it going?" "Good morning!" or "Have a great day!"  Nowadays, I hear these happy greetings everywhere I go.  I hate mornings.  No morning is good.  Mornings are painful and slow and give me flashbacks.  Morning is when I lost my boy.  When I encounter people in the morning, I secretly hope they don't say, "Good morning!" to me.  And I don't feel like any day can be great without my sweet little guy here with me.  Sometimes I wish people would says things like, "How are you holding up today?" or "Do you need a hug?" "What are you thinking about this morning?" "Anything I can pray for today?" I think many people don't really know what to say so they avoid the topic completely.  I can definitely understand that.

The other day a very close friend from Raleigh called and she shared a memory that she had of Jameson when he would walk into church every week.  I really like it when people tell me what they remember about Jameson.  I also like it when people ask me about him, like what his favorite foods were or what we used to like to do together.  I also find a lot of comfort in talking with friends about what we think Heaven is like.

If anyone wants to go for a hike sometime...or meet for a cup of coffee, I would love that.  And if you're willing to go for a hike sometime...or meet for a cup of coffee and you're also willing to listen to me cry and be upset and share my sad thoughts or memories of Jameson, you have a heart of gold.  It takes a special friend to listen to someone like me right now.

July 2011:  Jameson 22 months, Rhys 6 months