Some days -- indeed, some weekends -- are best ignored.
The weekend before my son's death is a great example. I had to leave him on Friday to go to my daughter's school out of state. He seemed stable, provided for, and generally OK. Little did I know that the depraved and evil nurse who had cared for him in the hospital was waiting to ply him with dangerous drugs. She just needed me to not be around to protect him.
When I returned from out of state on Sunday, Mat was eager for me to come home. I had texted him as to when my plane would land, and at that very moment, as the Southwest flight was touching down on the tarmac at Burbank airport, my phone lit up with his text: "are you home yet?"
I rushed from the airport to him. We had a glorious time, with a Mexican dinner, driving to downtown LA while listenting to Bad Religion and other of his favorite music, then back to Pasadena where we shopped at Trader Joe's and picked up all his favorites: low fat cheese crunchies, honey roasted peanuts and green apples. He loved a green apple just before bed. And water. Many bottles of water.
We made plans for me to pick him up the next day (Monday) to take him to college and get an incomplete in his classes as the flare up of his illness kept him from finishing school -- where he had been doing so well- and to see his doctor. I felt good when I left him at his temporary housing that night.
Of course, it has always haunted me that maybe I should have brought him home, like he wanted. But no, I wanted him to commit to seeing his doctor and getting the incomplete and then he could come home. "Boundaries," I was told, were necessary. I now know that's not necessarily true.
I will never say that was the right call. I should have brought him home, to his place of comfort and safety. To the place we would watch The Daily Show, South Park, Family Guy, and Dave Chappelle and have such great conversations while eating pizza or my homemade tacos. To the place that always made him feel safe and loved. But I left him at the temporary housing. God forgive me.
On Monday, he was not the same. Not at all. He was angry, he didn't understand about the incomplete in his classes or how that would matter. He acted incoherent. I went to see him and he was agitated. Nothing I said calmed him down, yet he didn't want me to leave. I feared him being with me in this state of agitation, yet I knew if I called any kind of "authority" he would immediatley snap to when they arrived and say, "whatever are you talking about? My mother is totally off base."
Our mental health system was broken then, and is even worse today. We cannot get real, meaningful help for those we love so much.
That evening was my last text to him. I said I loved him no matter what.
I was awakened at 2 am knowing something was wrong. I didn't know what it was.
The next day, when I tried to reach him, I had no luck. I called the manager of where he was temporarily staying and asked for a "wellness check." He told me in broken English that my son "was sleeping." Something in my gut said that was not true. I called the paramedics, then jumped up from my desk at work, drove like a maniac over the freeway to where he was staying, and by the time I arrived, a curt, unfeeling fireman came across the courtyard and said, "are you the mother? He's gone."
No one would let me see him.
I sat down, struck as though Lucifer had stabbed me with a dagger into my soul, and was lost in the unreality of it all.
No tears are enough when your child dies.
When his "memorial day" comes each year, I re-live that God-awful time. I second guess myself. "I should have let him come home." Others have told me, yes, but maybe it would have been the same result. And then you would have found him dead directly. I know that would have been far worse. But that doesn't stop the unreal pain that comes around each June 10.
As it turns out, the date of his death ended up being the same day his beloved dog Balto (purebread Husky, as as sweet and gentle a soul as you will ever find) died the same day, many years later. After my son died, Balto became my lifeline, my reason to continue, my companion, my reminder of the persistence of life. Mat whispered to me everyday, "Mom! Have you taken the dog for a walk! He needs his walk!" It was the ultimate sychonicity that this wonderful dog, Mat's best friend, and my best companion, left me the same calendar date as my son left me.
I remember a few months before his death, Mat telling me he wanted to leave the state, and take only his xbox and Balto.
I think I should have let him go. His spirit and soul wanted to be free of the societal restrictions that we all seem to live in. He might have found that freedom on the open road, which is where he wanted to be, with his dog. I worried too much about them. I should have let him find that path.
The evil nurse Cari gave him the drugs that killed him and kept him from finding his way, from living his life. May she find karmic or God punishment for what she did to him.
Even after all these years, I reconstruct that weekend, that last great time with him. Could I have saved him if I had brought him home? There is no way to know that. That doesn't stop me from thinking I could have altered his path. All I know is that I miss him more than I can express, that I can't stop thinking about where he would be, what he would be doing, all the experiences we would share today. We were in many ways twin stars circling the same sun.
So on his Memorial Day, as with every memorial day, all I can do is remember that last sweet hug and his "I love you Mom" and hope, with all my heart, there is an afterlife where I can see him again.
Every bird, every feather, that comes to me says there is an afterlife. I pray that those feathers and birds are whispering divine truth.
June 10 consumes me. I can't ignore it. Each year I survive it and wish I didn't have to go through this.
Regardless, on this, my son's "memorial day," I shed more tears and proudly say, "I love you, Mat. See you on the flip side."
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