The Firsts

The firsts are days you fall completely apart without your precious child.

If you have lost someone to death, you know there are many firsts you have to go through on this road of grief. The first Christmas, New Year, and Mother’s Day, and many other pitfalls that have the power to drag you under.

Several months after my son Emile died by suicide, I finally found the courage to wash his bedding. It was one of the most difficult things to do. I knew it would lose his smell, and I would never be able to lie on his bed again, and push my face into his bedding to remember his scent. I wept in front of that washing machine, like I lost him all over again. Nobody can understand that the smell of a loved one brings them back to you with such clarity, you feel them right there.

The first memorial of his death came before his birthday, and it left me reeling with insanity. How do you celebrate the first anniversary of your son’s death? I did not even want to get out of bed that day. Someone suggested helium-filled balloons, and I wrote messages on them before releasing them. Balloons are a danger to wildlife and should not be released. I only learned this some time after the event. I found wonderful ways to celebrate those difficult days in the years that followed his death. I released a white dove on his second memorial, because it means peace.

His first birthday was six weeks after his death, and to top it all, it was his 21st birthday, supposed to be a milestone in a young man’s life. Now he would never be 21. I decided to give a birthday celebration to a needy child. I wept the entire day. There was also anger that he left me alone for this momentous day. He was supposed to be there in all his beautiful glory. Not just a memory of him.

I had to pack up his clothes and other belongings because I couldn’t leave it in the room he would never use again. Oh god, that broke my heart all over again. I went through each precious little thing he owned, and when I came to his art books, I fell completely apart. I didn’t know he used his drawings to say what he couldn’t. There was a drawing of a weird little creature with a noose around its neck. That undid me completely. His drawings clearly showed that he was emotionally and psychologically fighting a battle. Every picture was disturbing. If I saw his art before he died, I would have known something deeply troubling was weighing on his mind.

I kept a lot of his clothes, and a friend made a beautiful quilt with pieces of his favorite clothes and photos. Eventually, I gave most of it away and only kept things that I couldn’t part with.

The first Christmas and New Year without him, I took tranquilisers and slept through it all. I didn’t want to be present because it was unbearable. During those first two years, I slept day and night. It was the only time I did not go insane with anguish. I could not imagine celebrating any occasion without Emile.

Every year, the dates loomed, and I fell into a pit of darkness for weeks before the actual dates. The first time I forgot his death anniversary, I thought, how in God’s name could I forget it? Was I so selfish that it could slip my mind? My beautiful son was a box of ashes, and I forgot about him. The first time I laughed out loud, I stopped in shock. What the fuck was wrong with me? My son is dead, and I am laughing? What kind of mother am I? It sickened me that I could be so callous as to enjoy anything. Life was fraught with emotional landmines. It took years to handle those first times, and I am grateful to say I don’t fall apart every time it comes around now.

My life found meaning again. I can laugh and be joyful without feeling guilty about it. I can celebrate the dates with love and beautiful memories now, it isn’t a day of utter hell anymore.

Namate