The three weeks leading
up to Noah’s deathaversary have always been harder for me than March 19th itself.
Those were the days 11 years ago of bringing Noah home to heal, only to helplessly
watch his decline as he refused treatment. Before mental illness robbed our
family of Noah and his love, it robbed us of the chance to help him.
I used to start counting
down the days to March 19 after my February birthday. Last March, I was busy preparing
for the 10th death anniversary with love notes and travel plans;
the anticipation of celebrating Noah’s friendships kept me hopeful, even
buoyant. This year post-birthday, I got COVID and couldn’t think about loss or
much of anything.
Now the familiar downward
tug of March sadness is back. While trying to recover my strength, the double
blow of COVID and grief has literally stopped me in my tracks. I’ll be 15
minutes into an easy neighborhood walk and need to sit down. I’ll plan two things
to do in a day instead of one and need a nap by 1pm. I toss and turn all night.
As in the aftermath of the suicide, the body takes a hit.
I woke up this morning
with my mind on Noah and his illness. Bryan and I like to dwell on what our son
might be doing if he were alive but we tend to skip over how he would have had to
battle his illness or learn to manage it. So much damage had already been done
to the boy we knew and loved by the time he took his life. That’s a tough truth
to remember. Might he have emerged from the ordeal with new self-awareness,
deeper love and compassion for others, openness to mindfulness or spirituality?
Might our family have found a new balance?
An old friend who came
to be with me right after Noah died hasn’t visited much since then. She was
here last month, overtaken by tears at one point. “I keep thinking about Noah,”
she said. “It’s so sad and there’s nothing to be done.”
So what to do? I take a
hot bath in the middle of the day. I make a lot of soup. I cuddle with the dog and marvel at the chickens.
I put on the last gift Noah ever gave me, a silky black shirt covered with odd
little chickens. I reread a chatty letter in Noah’s careful handwriting from
2008, signed “miss you” and “love.” I remember a dream with messages flashing in
hot pink and purple lettering on his memorial stone. I couldn’t read the words.
But what mattered was that they were from Noah in colors I associate with his
spirit. What mattered was that I felt his love.
It's been a cold, rainy
winter. The star jasmine vines that usually announce the month have been slow to
spill over the fence with their entrancing fragrance. I’ve been checking and
the blossoms are doubling now from morning to evening. The first rock rose and
California poppy are out in the garden and we are awash in backyard eggs. March
sadness may be a perennial but harbingers of spring abound. What matters is to notice.
To my fellow survivors: What’s it like for you as your loved one’s
deathaversary approaches? What do you notice shifting over the years? Wishing
you comfort, courage and clarity as you move through your days.
