Father’s day 

Dear Zachary,

It’s Father’s day and I have you and my daddy weighing heavy on my mind. 

I think about my daddy and remember all he meant to me. I think of all he meant to you. I remember how hard it was for you when he died. The first in a series of losses for us in 2013.

2013 concluded with your departure from earth. I think of what you would be doing now. Would you be a father yet?  I say yet because I feel certain it would have happened if you had lived. I remember when you held your niece, Hailey Grace, and said “I want one”. There is no doubt you would have been a great father. You showed it in the way you protected your baby brother, helped care for Papaw in his last years, and played with your niece and nephew.

Those of us who love you, miss you everyday. Those who knew you, still think of you, and those who never met you don’t realize what they missed out on.

Love, Mom

Everything that ever was

Everything that ever was, is all there will ever be

I am forced to move forward, while you are standing still

Nothing is in your future, everything is in my past

No more milestones for you to reach, no more accomplishments to make

Never will you have a wife, no sons or daughters

Only your ashes remain.

Everything that ever was, is all there will ever be

No college graduation except the one your sweet friend carried your spirit in

Such a lovely young woman, trying to heal a mother’s broken heart

You should have been there with her in body not just in spirit 

But everything that ever was, is all there will ever be


I had to write a paper for my interpersonal communications class. The topic of the paper i was a critical event that changed me. It was not difficult to pick an event. The death of my son changed everything. Not one piece of me remains the same. I also have to give an oral presentation of the paper on Monday. I feel a moral obligation to take my allotted 3 minutes with an audience of young people who have no choice but to listen and have a suicide awareness talk. My opening line will be one of my favorite quotes:  “Life is like an ever-shifting kaleidoscope-a slight change, and all patterns alter.” Sharon Salzberg. Wish me luck and if you interested you can read my paper below.


On Christmas day 2013, I awoke at 4:45 am to find my 21-year-old son had not come home. He was missing and was not answering his phone. My mind raced with possibilities of what had kept him out all night. I called emergency rooms, jails, friends, and family members. He was not in the ER, nor in jail. One friend said they had last spoken around 3:45 am. Every theory I had formed about where my son might be was shattered when the Anderson County Coroner knocked on my door at approximately 8:30 am. Zachary had died at 4:38 am by a self-inflicted gunshot wound while sitting in his girlfriend’s car outside her house. Apparently, they were arguing and the situation pushed him beyond rational thinking.

I have heard many parents say they could not live without their child/children. I would imagine there was a time I felt that way also. But it really is not that simple when it becomes your reality. Your life does not stop when a child dies. You still have responsibilities to your spouse, your other children and even to yourself. Somehow, you continue to put one foot in front of the other and to breathe in and out. It has changed everything; not one part of me was left the same. My personality is different; my perspective on things is different; even my spiritual beliefs are different. It is a long continuous journey navigating my grief and figuring out how to survive.

From the time I was very young, I professed to be a member of the Christian religion; Southern Baptist to be more specific. Immediately following my son’s passing, I lost my ability to pray. It felt like no one was listening. The more other people prayed for me and told me to lean on my faith, the angrier I became with God. I have been unable to reconcile religion with my heartache. If I choose to believe that my son is in heaven, I am forced to accept that my merciful, all knowing, all powerful God allowed my son to die. He did not intervene with a miracle even though He had the ability. If I choose not to believe in the God I have had faith in my entire life, I am forced to accept there is no heaven for my son to be in. If he is not in heaven that means I do not know where my son is. Now, I feel I am agnostic—no faith nor disbelief in God and I do not think we can know the truth about God in this lifetime.

When my children were small, it really upset me when furniture got scratched, or when stains were left on the carpet, or when people did not remember to use a coaster under their drink. After my son’s passing, I discovered the joy of the memories that come from the “damage.” Minor damage is an indication of a life lived. I recently took a really long look at our dining room table and realized I knew where each scratch and chipped tile came from; each “injury” has its own story. Scratches in the wooden dining room chairs from my son’s combat boots suddenly became like treasured gold to me. Now, I cannot find it in my heart to replace the carpet in my son’s bedroom even though it is stained from tattoo ink. I cannot bear to erase the memory of his dream to become a tattoo artist. Those stains represent a work in progress, many hours of practice tattoos on fake practice skins, and my refusal to be a practice canvas. Life’s “damages” to material things are no longer offensive to me.

I now realize the importance of not letting a moment slip past you. The last time I saw my son, I was getting out of my car; he was getting into his. I did not speak to him; I did not even wave. I was not angry, I was just in a hurry to get into the house and out of the cold. Now I have to live with that regret. Oh, how I wish I had known it was the last time I would ever see him. Now I do my best to slow down and take advantage of every opportunity to tell someone how I feel because we are not guaranteed there will be another opportunity to say what is in your heart.

Once, I was a great listener. I was that friend that you could vent to and I would be sympathetic and understanding. Since the passing of my son, I have no tolerance for listening to people complain about everyday things. If your dishwasher broke, get it fixed or wash your dishes by hand. If you are stuck in traffic, oh well, getting there late is better than not getting there at all. Life hands out minor annoyances on a daily basis to everyone; suck it up and handle it. Even more than that, be grateful that we are not handed tragedies on a daily basis. I lost my ability to sympathize with people about trivial things, but I have gained empathy for those who are grieving the loss of a loved one, or caregiving for a loved one with a serious illness. I understand that feeling of carrying the weight of the world on your shoulders. As I carry that weight, I have stopped listening, sympathizing, and have become bitter and intolerant.

All of the joy in my life is now diminished. I do not find pleasure in many of the things that I used to enjoy. If I hear myself laugh, I instantly get a pang of guilt. I feel I have no right to be happy without my first-born son. I feel as if true happiness is unattainable, no matter how hard I pursue it. Anything I accomplish does not feel like much of an accomplishment. As a parent, it seems I failed my son somehow or he would still be alive.

I have learned that the universe does not have a heartache limit. Life has a way of piling tragedies on us until we truly feel we will break. In January 2013, my Dad died. When my son died in December that same year, he was the tenth person in my circle of family and friends to die. I was trapped on a death train with no control over how long the ride would last nor who I would be forced to grief and learn to live without next. After so many tragedies rained down upon me in such a short amount of time, finding joy is proving to be difficult.

I have always been an open book. You can ask me anything and I do not mind telling my story. I have found that a lot of people do not want to hear a child loss story and many more than that do not want to hear a suicide story. I have learned to disclose less, especially when someone’s body language tells me that they are uncomfortable. Usually, the first sign comes when I say my child died. If not then, it comes after I say he died by suicide. I agree it has the potential to be an incredibly sad story, but what people do not realize is that there is so much more to the story. I want to say his name and tell them what an incredible young man he was. There was so much more to his life than his manner of death. But instead of sharing, I fall quiet and do not disclose too much for fear of making others uncomfortable.

I always thought my son was on my same level of self-disclosure. I thought we talked about everything. To my surprise, that turned out not to be true. I did not see any indication that he was suicidal that Christmas. Everything appeared perfectly normal. In the months following as I cleaned his room and did the laundry he left behind in his hamper, I discovered lots of alcohol bottles. There were empty bottles, half-empty bottles, and nearly full bottles. I had no idea he was drinking so heavily. It was shocking to me that someone could keep such dark secrets living just across a hallway from me. It makes me sad to think that he shared so much with me, but when he really needed someone to confide dark secrets in, he remained silent. He had asked for my help, guidance, and advice on so many things throughout his life, but when it mattered most he did not come to me and allow me to help him. As it turned out, he did not disclose nearly as much as I thought he had.

This critical event has changed every detail of my life. Every facet of me has been permanently altered in some manner. My personality is unrecognizable even to the people closest to me. The changes are a complex mix of both positive and negative. We learn both to deal with and to heal from the things that life throws at us. It is how survivors are made.


The day before

I have been trying hard to remember every detail of 12/24/2013. The day before.  Somehow you might assume that a person’s last day on earth might be extraordinary; but it seems like it was ordinary.

I remember making cupcakes, making homemade buttercream icing, decorating said cupcakes. I remember you asking me what I had drawn on top of the cupcakes. I said Christmas trees, you said that is not a tree. You said I had zero artistic ability for drawing. We laughed, I tried to get you to draw an icing tree but you said you were content making fun of mine. You ate one, and assured me that they tasted great. You said my talent was in baking, not drawing.

I remember we had a serious conversation about it being the first Christmas that I didn’t have my daddy, your papaw; about how the anniversary of his death would come on January 7th, and how you pried me out of bed in September and told me the chocolate and bourbon had to stop; about how it was my job to make it okay for my mother and your baby brother.

I remember we talked about how hard it would be for your dad since we lost his brother in October. You asked me what you could do for him, you said you couldn’t imagine losing Stephen, Megan, Jessie, Ashley or Kevin. You spoke of the importance of siblings, trying to explain since I have none. Oh, the irony that you would hurt your siblings on Christmas Day.

I remember you were singing ‘Why don’t you get a job’ by Offspring. I can still hear you “my friend’s got a girlfriend and he hates that bitch”; I cut you off and told you to watch your language around your little brother. You said you didn’t write the lyrics and  your brother went to a public middle school so he had heard it all before.

I remember asking you if you wanted to go with us to deliver cupcakes to some family friends. You said no and that you probably wouldn’t be here when we got back. I remember as we came up the driveway, you were getting in your car. Your dad yelled across the driveway “Love you man, don’t drink and drive”. I waved but didn’t speak. I thought I would see you in the morning.

But I never saw you again. An ordinary Christmas Eve gave way to a nightmare on Christmas Day.

You say selfish, I say self-preservation

As a wife and mother, it has been ingrained in me to put the needs of everyone else first. Sometimes it just isn’t possible. Every once in while, you have to put yourself first.

For the past 2 years I have pulled up my boot straps and done the “right thing”. I have faked my way through the holidays and tried to make things “normal” for the sake of the family.

Not this year. I don’t have that level of fake within me this year. I simply cannot “holiday”. I refuse to feel like I am letting people down or failing in anyway. You can call me selfish but I am claiming my right to self-preservation.

I know it is hard for the others also, but this year it is so hard for me that it is impossible. I am exhausted from the fake and I just need to be real.

Real is facing the fact that holidays mean nothing to me now. I have lost too much to feel the need to celebrate. You can come at me with your condescending tone and tell me that I have a lot to be thankful for and a lot to celebrate. That’s your opinion, but I will not let that stop me from doing what I need to do for me.

You can say that I am a quitter, a wallower, a failure or whatever. I don’t care. Walk a mile in my shoes, then tell me how to feel. You can say I am being unfair, unreasonable, and unkind. I don’t care. Walk a mile in my shoes, then tell me how to act. You can say I have given in to a pity party, allowed my grief to take over, and become a bitter person. I don’t care. Walk a mile in my shoes, then tell me how to do it better.

Actually, don’t walk a mile in my shoes. I would not wish this on anyone. I am okay not being understood, I would not want you to be where I have been just so you could understand. 

Yes, you can say I am selfish. I know this is self-preservation. I know I am doing what I have to do to survive. I will not force myself to put up a tree, look at wrapping paper, nor read a card. Think what you will, I know my truth. The ugly truth that I will never be the same again and it is okay to do what I need to do to survive.

Birthday, not so happy

When you were here, I soldiered through dark days because of you. Now, I soldier through dark days in spite of you. All that remains is the memory of what used to be and the thought of what could have been. You ended your story. My story isn’t over yet. I wish I had been the author of your story so I could have kept it going. My story is a greek tragedy at best; waiting to see you on the flip side son. Happy birthday. Love you yesterday, today, and for eternity.