going now

Not long ago, I was texting with our daughter who spent the semester with NOLS in New Zealand.

The program is divided into three sections, and she had completed the first and was back at basecamp and on the grid for a short time, so we had the chance to catch up. She wanted to see pictures of our pets, so I ran around the house capturing them on my iPhone. She wanted to know – what’s new? - and so I filled her in. Turns out, not much!

We took advantage of the fleeting opportunity to connect, Facetiming and texting, right up until she was on her way back out, at which point she typed, “Going now.”

Silence.

I thought of this when I learned that a good friend’s son had died. Not so much the experience that our daughter is lucky to be a part of, but more those words.

Going now.

My friend’s son was smart and funny, affectionate and loving. And he struggled.

Isn’t that usually the case…people are not an either/or, but an and. 

Over the years, my friend and I had talked about his struggles, and we talked about his achievements. My own children have had their struggles and they have had their achievements. Truth is, most children experience both.

The struggles can be social or academic or emotional or medical. All the same, they make navigating life all the more difficult; they strip the joy from a perfectly beautiful day. And we pray that these struggles are temporary - a phase that our children will eventually grow out of or a short chapter in their life that will create a more resilient and empathetic, caring adult. We need the struggles to be temporary because it is just too painful to imagine it any other way.

I remember my friend’s son this past summer. With his girlfriend, gathering things - a towel, a book, some snacks to take to the beach on a warm afternoon. His car, a sporty Jeep with the top down, was parked in the driveway. On his way out, he grabbed his flip-flops and sunglasses and opened the door to leave, so carefree and so cheerful.

Going now. 

What if we could turn back the clock, just a couple of days, and change the outcome. Or maybe retreat even further.

What did we miss? What could we have done differently? 

The years, months, days, and hours are examined and assessed - every detail and every moment - until the present comes charging back, a ruthless reality that can’t be ignored.

On April 26th, 2002, our son died. I had spent the day at the hairdresser. I didn’t know that I would no longer be able to kiss him, rock him, climb into his crib and lie next to him. I would have made a different choice.

He died in the middle of the night. I was holding him and he was struggling to breathe. I searched his eyes. I cried. Sometimes death takes a while. A breath and then nothing and then a gasp and then a breath and then silence.

Going now. 

But where are they going? Do they just slip through an open door, leaving their physical body behind, off the grid for eternity? It’s hard to fathom - one moment they are here and then they are not.

I have to believe that the destination is somewhere wonderful, where struggles are no longer. And they are watching us. They know that they are loved. And that they are missed.

And if they could, they would take us in their arms and let us know - you will always be my mom.

What do we do when we don’t get the chance to say goodbye? When there are no Facetimes or texts, no special send offs - I love you, I love you madly, I love you always.

We are left to our own devices. And a wishing. A wanting. A needing. To hear one last word. To have one last exchange. One last smile and twinkle in the eye. We would trade anything for just one last.

When it comes to the loss of a child, no words will ever suffice, because the only words we want to hear is: this must be some horrible mistake. This must be a very cruel joke. The normal order of life events is thrown off kilter. And the thought of living without…is absolutely beyond our understanding. How do we learn to keep going when the last thing we want to do is keep going, without?

But we keep going. We lean into our community and let them love us. If we are lucky enough to have other children, we hold them tight. Desperate, we scream and cry and talk to ourselves and to them, to God. And we look for ways to live this very altered life - a life we didn’t want - hoping the world knows just how much their lives mattered.

And we look for signs - anything that will assure us that they are okay. And that our physical bond is still very much alive. A rainbow at the end of a stormy day, a shared song that randomly plays on the radio, a bird that sits perched on our windowpane and then flies away.

Going now.

But why all this now, in the bright lights of the holiday season? 

Because it can be difficult this time of year for those who have experienced loss and for those who are struggling.

And because it speaks to what is important. 

I learned an important lesson from my friend - to love unconditionally, to meet our children where they are, even if that is different from where we want them to be, who we want them to be. To support and cherish. "Love Matters."

The world has a way of valuing and measuring the wrong qualities. Sometimes, I do as well.

So, this holiday season, take the connection, the spontaneous moments, the snuggles on the family room couch and the extra time at bedtime draped over a book. Because truly, that is the merry and the magic this time of year…everything else can wait.

RIP CSC