A Band-aid on a Broken Heart

(My apologies for not making this post happy like I promised in my last one. I can't write what I don't feel.)

19 years ago, leukemia declared war on my son, and in essence, on my whole family.  At times, the battle was quite fierce, with one side winning at one time, or the other coming out ahead at others.  There were injuries, and sides were left maimed.  The leukemia seemed like it was overcome with a transplant, and in 2000, a little after three years, the battle was declared over.  Yossi was considered cured.  (A cancer patient is cured after 5 years of no relapse; a bone marrow transplant patient is cured after 2.)  Like seemed so good.  At the Chai Lifeline retreat that spring, we felt almost like we didn't belong.  Summer at Camp Simcha was a highlight for Yossi.  We thought we had put the war behind us.  Little did we know that the enemy was plotting an even more ferocious battle than before.  When it struck, it struck with such a vengeance, wreaking  path of total destruction.  Our side had to fight back bigger and harder, but ultimately, our side lost.

The battle has left horrible memories in its wake.  They say that families of cancer patients suffer from PTSD, just like the soldiers who fight with guns on a battlefield.

At the time of diagnoses, it became impossible to keep in touch with people.  I started to blog his experience even before there was a word "to blog".  Geocities has long since disappeared, but my father was kind enough to save the whole blog.  He bought the domain site so it would be easy for me to give it out to people.

You can read his whole story here:  In Memory Of Yossi

The grieving process of losing a child is hard.  It's a very long, long journey through a dark and scary terrain.  For me, I didn't journey alone.  I had many, many guides.  I had good friends who were there with me the whole time, and who continue to be with me today.  I have my close group of friends who Thank G-d many times over never experienced a loss like this.  There aren't words to describe what their friendship means to me.  None of them have ever told me to get over it, or to move on, or to stop whatever.  They cried with me and held my hand and pulled me up from the depths of despair.  Then I have my sisters in pain who carry me along as well.  Women who tragically have walked through this same treacherous path full of obstacles and setbacks.   Brave women who opened their hearts and held me tight when I felt I couldn't go on.  

War leaves scars.  A battle like I went through does not leave physical scars, but emotional scars.  These scars I carry are big and ugly and extremely painful.  The battle also left very deep wounds.  In order for these wounds to not always be visible, I learned to bury them deep inside.  When you touch a deep wound, it causes excruciating pain.  Lately, for some reason, these wounds have been brought up to the top and ripped open.  And while I thought I was strong enough to withstand it, I learned that I am not.  Innocent comments can throw me back into the battle.  (PTSD)  I can see things and remember things that no human being should have to remember.  (Read his blog if you want to know what I am talking about, especially the end of his days and the journey through grief.)  One thing I learned is that the pain of losing a child NEVER goes away.  Sometimes it is pushed down, but when it is brought up, it is just as strong as the first days when it happened.  As a wise friend once told me, "The bad days become few and far between, but when they hit, they hit just as hard."  She is so right!

Today I had a flashback that brought up horrid feelings that totally overwhelmed me.  I've been yearning for Yossi so hard for a while now.  I've been joking around with my other bereaved friends that I am trying to find a way to get "kicked out" of the bereavement crowd (by making him alive again).  [No, I am not insane, although, yes, I am insane.]

I went to the cemetery on a very overcast and dreary day.  A perfect day to match my horrid mood.  As I turned down the street to the cemetery, I was struck by how incredibly beautiful the road is.  The most gorgeous canopy of trees in the bright, vibrant fall colors seem to create almost a chuppah like experience.  AND IT SEEMS SOOOO WRONG!!!!!!!!!

I would expect yucky black dead trees that match my mood.  Even though the grass was wet from rain, I still sat at his foot stone, and cried.  

My heart felt like it was literally shattered.  I called my dear, dear friend Susan*, and cried inconsolably with heart wrenching sobs.  She told me to take a breath because I was crying so hard that she could not understand what I was saying.  I was saying one thing ... I WANT MY SON BACK.

At one point in the conversation, she asked me if I was following Dina Hurwitz's blog.  (Dina's husband suffers from ALS and she writes about her exprience.)  I admitted I had stopped.  She read today's post.  http://thecaffeinatedthinker.blogspot.com/2016/11/the-war-paints.html  Susan asked me if Dina had written that post just for me.  Yes, I think Dina did.

After I hung up with Susan, I laid down on the grass next to Yossi for along time.  The cemetery is so peaceful.  It is so ironic, because literally across the street (on either side of those gorgeous trees) are projects where there are gangs and probably drug dealers and other sordid people.  The cemetery is located in one of the worst parts of Richmond.  The calm I felt there was so soothing to my aching soul.  I laid there crying for a long, long time.  Yes, I took a picture. No, I don't have one of me, cuz my face was all red and splotchy from crying.  

What is the point of today's post?  Just know that bereaved moms have very very fragile hearts.  It takes very little to break them.  Please be very gentle with us.  Hopefully my NEXT post will be a happier one.

*Susan met me through Yossi's blog. We became friends for many reasons, and in 2011, we finally after 10 years met up in person.  Hashem sends us our cure before He sends the illness, because Susan happened to tell me after the last recent breakdown that I can always call her.