One Bad Day

We all have had those days where we are weary. That day when things have gone wrong and seemingly will not get better. That one bad day.  The thing is, things will get better. It is imperative that one pushes  through to get to the other side. After all, it is just one bad day out of 364 more good days.  It is just one bad day…

Write drunk/edit sober...

 

Ernest Hemingway is quoted as saying, ““Write drunk; edit sober”. I must say that I am aligned to this school of thought. Having one, two, three drinks enables one to be more of oneself. Happiness, sadness, thoughts to forget and thoughts to remember. We ultimately write about what we know and what we have experienced. Is it to purge oneself of these things which have grown inside of us or to prepare oneself of what might become.

I write in the wee hours of “I am sorry,” or “Are you sorry?” time of night. It is when I lie there, unable to sleep despite the third glass of wine. I realize that the only thing which may enable me to sleep is to write. I write to remember.  I write to forget.

Remains

 

My realtor told me that I shouldn’t have any personal belongings visible while showing the house. She said it was too personal and that it didn’t reflect well with buyers who needed, to envision themselves here. I hesitated when packing my personal belongings up.  In particular were the ashes of my son, Quentin, “Q” which were sitting in a coffin like box on my teal credenza in my living room. There was an American flag beside him which was offered to me during his military ceremony.

I didn’t intend to place my son’s remains there on this teal credenza in a shrine-like manner (I told myself it was not healthy to build a shrine to my fallen son). Conflicted, I wrapped his ashes in a soft blanket, gently placing them in a box, clean and not closed in the back of my closet. I knew that I would never forget they were there.  

Admittedly, it seemed banal on some level, as if I were somehow disrespecting my son and my memories of him.  Every night I would remove them. The next day I would gently touch this box where his physical body lay in state. I touched this box once in the morning when I arose and once in the evening before I slept. I touched this box, gently. I touched the box in a tentative manner, willing my son to know how much he is missed; how much he is loved. I do not know how my son would feel about this.  He was practical, pragmatic as am I.

My son has not been buried yet as I have not taken the trip to the Lexington Cemetery in Iowa to do so.  There is some solace and comfort in having him with me in the physical sense. It frightens me to think that he (or his remains) may not be near me when they are buried. How will I be able to touch this box with my son tucked inside if I cannot do so every morning and every night? 

 

Dear Q.

 

                          

Sorry...

People use different euphemisms to address the death of a loved one… “gone, passed on, left, is no longer with us”.

The fact is that my son, Q, 5 weeks before his 28^th birthday, killed himself. True to his nature, he decided to do this at a scenic overlook off of Transmountain overlooking the city. The police referred to it as a “self-inflicted suicide.” He was the second of three soldiers in his unit to do so within a one week period. (more on that later). 

I think the thing is, for me, I am feeling extreme loss but also, frankly, anger. Q said that he and I were always a team.  We were, or I thought we were, in every sense. Through the years, our relationship morphed into me caring for him to we cared for one another as dear friends do.

So, my teammate, Q, decided in the early morning hours of November 17^th to leave our team. No letter explaining why. No hint of depression.  The morning he left the usual way, “Call me if you need me. Love you.” He even asked me to order him pizza and spaghetti carbonara for him to have when he got back in the wee hours from Dona Ana (a camp where Afghan refugees reside and where, for some unknown reason, there are Infantry from Fort Bliss are assigned). Before he left that morning we talk about Thanksgiving and Christmas.

Around 3:45 am, right before he took his life he texted “I love you” to me and his Uncle Jeff. He texted his best friend to tell me he loved me, and he was sorry. I think this is bunk, rubbish. “I am sorry” is what we use when one forgets to take out the trash or forgets to unload the dishwasher.

So, Q. is now gone to wherever one feels the departed go. The stark reality is that Q is sitting on a walnut box on my credenza. Fortunately, my family has asked if he (and I someday) would like to be buried in the Lexington Cemetery in Bedford, Iowa.  This is where generations of the Kernens (my maternal ancestors reside). It is beautiful there. Peaceful, green, Iowa.

I truly believe that suicide is one of the most selfish things one can do.  As a psychologist, I understand that depression can take many forms and that suicide is a manifestation of this. On a personal level, however, this doesn’t ease the pain. Q. left us to work things out after he checked out. We will live our lives but will always feel this loss and grief every day. There will be this empty space there, period. I believe our sadness, however concealed, will be there for a very long time.