Imperfect Grieving

Be honest.  Be age appropriate.  Be honest.  Be age appropriate.  Be honest.  Be age appropriate.

This has been my mantra for the past five years as I have done my best to come up with the "perfect" answer to the many questions my son has had about his father.

"Why can't I see my Dad?"

Because he has an anger sickness honey and until he takes care of himself and gets better, it is not safe for you to see him.

"When is he going to get better Mom?"

I don't know honey, but I do hope it is soon.

"Why doesn't he take care of himself?"

Unfortunately bud that is not an answer I have.  That's on your Dad.

"Why was he laughing at you when you said you were going to call the police on him?"

Because it was the first time I stood up to him for you and for myself.

"When can I see my Dad?"

When he starts taking care of himself little man.  

Were these perfect answers?  Were they honest?  Yes.  Were they age appropriate?  I sure hope so.

My answers were to the point.  My answers alluded to the mental health issues of my son's father.  My answers were protective.  But, my answers gave hope.  Hope that my son was holding on to that one day his Dad would be better and his Dad would see his son.  I was building the case of hope for my son.  Hope is something I've always held tight to in unsettled times.

But hope failed my son.  Hope isn't perfect.  Hope isn't a guarantee.  

Honey, I have to tell you something difficult.  Your Dad passed away.  He died.

"But now I'll never get to see him again".

Hope shattered.

Sucker punch to the gut.

While I could protect my son from the toxicity of his father's relationship with me and with him, I could not protect my son from the heart wrenching feelings of a hope lost.  Gone in a flash.  Hopes of times to come shattered.  Vanished.  Lost.

I was at a lost.  I couldn't find the perfectly honest words.  I couldn't find the most age appropriate condolences.  My heart was broken for my son as I watched him grieve the hope he had held onto for the past five years.  The hope he was prepared to hold onto for five more.   A hole in his heart had formed.  The Dad he had hoped for would never come to being.  He was gone.  

I sat there holding my son, allowing the sorrow, and trying to make sense of the emotions that flooded my mind and my heart: sadness, anger, guilt.  Trauma was creeping back up on me and I was doing my best to keep it at bay.  Busying myself with helping my son and assisting with the arrangements of his father.

Then there we were. Jack and I with my fiancee and stepchildren by our sides sitting in a pew in a small church I had never heard of listening to family and friends of my son's father reflect upon his life of 41 years.  We sat there, Jack and I, facing a picture of his father - a face we had not seen in so long.  A face so familiar yet so unfamiliar at the same time.  The stories of times past. The references to Jack.  The noticeable remarks of Jack's father's "downward spiral" over the past 10 years.

"Mom-they keep saying my Dad struggled for the past 10 years.  I'm 10.  Did I do this to my Dad?"

No honey.  Ten years is inaccurate.  Your father was struggling long before then.  You did not cause this.  No way.

And there it was slowly making it's way up my body in waves of nausea and uneasiness.   My shoulders began to shake, my mouth became dry, and out came the tears.  My pain looked similar of others present.  However, my pain was different.  I wasn't feeling sadness for memories of past or a hole in my heart.  I was reliving the emotions of the past: loneliness, fear, exhaustion. Trauma.  Trauma had found me again and this time I couldn't suppress it, I was engulfed in it.

I would look over at Jack every now and then.  He was taking in every word that was spoken.  Trying to make sense of it all.  Trying to picture this man who was being described.  His father.  While I feel strongly that it was important for Jack to be at this service and to hear about his Dad in a way that I am not able to share with him, I find it unfair and sad that Jack wasn't able to experience his Dad in the way he was being portrayed.  Yet, all eyes were on Jack.  Poor Jack who lost his Dad.  The pictures in the reception hall were of Jack being held by his Dad, pictures no longer in Jack's memory bank.  Hope that new memories would be made now lost.

I made a decision five years ago.  A decision that at the time was meant to protect Jack and I.  Five years ago, I stopped coordinating the relationship between my son and his father.  Five years ago, I decided to give that responsibility back to Jack's father.  Perhaps mental illness prevented Jack's dad from pursuing a relationship with his son.  Perhaps it didn't.  I'll never know.  I had to walk away.  I had to release myself from being a care provider to my ex husband.  I had to focus on my son.  A decision I do not regret.  I decision that no longer makes  me feel guilty.

I grieved my ex husband when we divorced in 2012.  My marriage with him died.  The hope of creating and raising a family with him was gone just as the hope my son had of a relationship with his father someday was gone.  Sitting in there in that foreign church, my son grieved the hope he had held on to for five years just as I had grieved the hopes I had  had when I said "I do".

My grief  is different.  I grieved my ex husband years ago.  Now my grief is for my son whose hope has been lost.  I am left with a mix of emotions: confusion, guilt, anger, sadness.  I had always been a firm believer in hope.  Hope for better things to come.  To watch my son's hope be shattered was a shot to the heart.  However, we cannot control what life brings our way, we can only hope.  Slowly, I am finding my way towards hope again. Hope for a settled life for Jack now that Jack has an answer.   Now when someone asks Jack why he doesn't see his father, he has an answer.  An answer that leaves no question.

We can only hope that Jack's father is now at peace and I can only hope that Jack can freely move forward in his life without the weight of the unknown upon him.  I hope that my son regains a sense of hope.  Hope towards a bright future filled with dreams and meaning.  Hopes of setting out on adventures and exploration just as his father once did.  Hopes that he will find himself in a safe, fulfilling relationship where he can be the father he always hoped he had.

They say every time someone dies, a baby is born.  I hope that every time a "hope" dies, a new hope is born.  I want my son to regain confidence in hope.  Hope for himself that he achieves all he sets out to do.  Hope that he lives a life of mostly happiness and good health.  Hope that life turns out "imperfectly perfect" for him as it has turned out for me.