September 4th marks the day our son Michael officially stopped breathing. One minute we were all packed up and ready to leave the hospital—in the next his lips began to quiver, and we were suddenly marching down a dark road to nowhere.
It was a horrific scene. One of those Grey’s Anatomy moments when everyone comes rushing in. Code blue, red, whatever. Suddenly Michael was their child, no longer mine. I’m shoved out the door—just one more hysterical mom in the hallway, out of the picture, erased from his life.
It’s taken me six years to stop reliving every second of that hour. Still, when I wake on this day I remember that September 4th marks that moment when Michael officially left us.
Photo Credit: James Whitesmith via Compfight cc
Many of my friends are losing parents in their 90’s. It seems like every time I turn around, I’m heading to a funeral. A few of those funerals have even been for much younger spouses. If you’re someone who is dealing with end-of-life transitions, this post is intended to ease your fear.
Celebrate the Loved One’s Life
I decided long ago that funerals should be a time of celebration.
I came from a family of Roman Catholics. Wailing at funerals was my grandmother’s specialty. For most of my life, I thought that end-of-life transitions and funerals were supposed to be morbid and depressing.
Well into the planning stages of my own son’s memorial, however, I realized the importance of celebration. Frankly, I couldn’t handle the drama. I simply wanted to bask in the joy of loving Michael.
Since that time, I’ve determined that the agony of loss, that internal wailing, is really for ourselves. We weep for that void in our lives. However, if we’re focusing on the person whom we love rather than our own pain, it’s really much easier to prepare for the loss.
September 1st marks the beginning of a 17-day journey down memory lane. Memories I wish I could erase. Memories about the last 17 days of my son Michael’s life.
The loss of a child is one of the hardest things that any parent endures. It’s been four years now. Some things are easier. It’s true what they say about time. I can’t say that time heals all, but it does toughen the scar. Yet, every year, on September 1st, I begin the day by looking at the clock. Tick, tock. Tick, tock. I remember the exact moment in time when I received the call that Michael was in trouble. And the moment of his words, I love you and dad. The shock of code blue/red, whatever. And that final black hole I fell into when he took his last breath. All those horrid memories flooding in, and my wishing I could have stopped time, turned back the clock. If only I could have done or said something different that would have reversed the circumstances. Even still, I have these thoughts. Not only through the September days of mourn, but each and every morn.