A song, a nightmare and two roadside crosses

I was going on two weeks of not being able to sleep past 2 or 3am. I would lay there for a while; finally, I would give up, put on my running shoes and sneak off to the gym. On a Tuesday driving back home as the sun came up, that song came on the radio. I hesitated, wondering if I should change the station. I decided I wanted to hear it so I turn it up, soaking up every word.
Life House is singing “Whatever It Takes” and I am suddenly transported back to 2012. Michael Ryan is in the passenger seat, and he is singing every word with me. His beautiful face twists with deep sadness, and he takes my hand, “this is my song to you Mom, this is our song”. The lyrics are not hidden or complicated, it is the remorseful cry of a young man that is devastated by the pain he has inflicted on someone he loves, and is willing to do whatever it takes to make it right again.
I take a deep breath as I feel that searing pain stab my heart. I have never doubted that Michael was a very sensitive and beautiful soul who deeply regretted the choices he made, and the hurt he caused. No matter how many times we told him, “We love you, we believe in you” and “You are forgiven”, he could never find rest in his own mind; he never could forgive himself. The knife in my chest twists deeper still when I think about all the questions that will never be answered, and the end of the story that will never be written.
I am back at the house in time to make breakfast burritos for all my brave soldiers heading off to face the day of work or school, or both. By 8 am the house is quiet, I have my steaming cup of Earl Grey in hand and I am praying, for my husband, our parents, our kids, our businesses and our friends.
I remember a time when I was full of faith and wide eyed wonder. Now I struggle with thoughts that are new to me, “Does God even hear me; does He see my family at all?” It’s not a question of belief, I will always believe. I just don’t feel anything anymore, I know now that my faith has nothing to do with my emotions or what I can see with my eyes. My love for God is not dependent on answered prayer, I just know He’s never left me, and I know He never will. When life is too much and the pain consumes your body, soul and spirit, He is still God.
Time marches on in a controlled chaos of back to school nights, football practices, baseball, cleaning, painting, organizing, last minute school supplies, orientations and band instruments. My husband works constantly to finance this life so we can all get what we need, and even what we just plain want. He also never sleeps for more than a few hours a night. Throw in five grieving, struggling, and sometimes angry children, four aging and physically struggling parents…well, you can see how it feels like the walls are closing in, can’t you?
Labor Day comes, and once again, we as a family pretend it is not happening. For every holiday that did not involve snow we have gathered at Fox Run Park for a huge family picnic. There are hundreds of photos of the kids, the grandparents, our friends and our children’s friends in the same spot in the trees for the last 15 years. There are hours of home videos shot there. Our last gathering was Easter 2013. We all relished Michael’s presence that day because he had been away at school. It was the last day we had with him, and no one has been to the park since.
Labor Day night, just less than a mile from our special spot in the park, on another country road, two 17 year old boys lost their lives. It hit our community hard, the news footage was constant. This tragedy was very close to home, in every way. On Wednesday my dad called me; he had been working in the area and saw the gathering of several women crying and huddled around the roadside memorial. He told me in a soft and broken voice that he couldn’t just drive by, so he got out of his truck and joined them. He hugged the strangers, and when he explained he was Michael Black’s Grandfather his own tears swirled with theirs.
Losing Michael has changed this family like nothing else we have ever faced.

That evening I was not coping well, I was impatient and intense. I couldn’t stand myself, so I can imagine how my family felt about me. I was feeling the physical effects of sleep deprivation, I was no longer tired, I was completely exhausted.
Sleep consumes me, for a few hours, and then the dream starts. Only it’s not a dream, it’s the reoccurring nightmare that has plagued me since April 17th. It always starts the same, I can hear my son’s husky voice, and I run towards it. Then, I can literally smell him, a combination of his cologne and fabric softener. But it’s always the color of his eyes and the way they sparkle that pierces my mother’s heart and convinces me that this is real.
It is so real that I become elated that he is back, he is alive, and I start to believe that this last year was just a horrible dream. I can see him so clearly and then he reaches out to me, “Mom?” his face relaxes when he starts to believe that I am real too. I feel alive! I feel peaceful for the first time in over a year.
Then the air around Michael turns black, and he begins to be pulled into it. Our joy turns to terror as we are pulled further and further from each other, both screaming out to the other. Every muscle in my body strains to touch him, to hold on to him. He disappears into the darkness, leaving me screaming his name, straining my vocal cords in a way that I feel for days.
He is gone. I am left with the panicked look of fear and helplessness on his face that is seared into my mind’s eye.
Forever.
I am awake, and I know he is gone, but I still cannot comprehend that fact. I literally cannot wrap my mind around it, where IS he? Where is my son, our son, our children’s brother? Why can’t we see him or talk to him? We need to hear his voice; we need to know he is okay. There is no grave to visit; there are no old t-shirts that still smell like him.
There is nothing.
Sleep is not returning, and so I get my shoes on and jump in my car…but my car turns the opposite way from the gym. I drive down the dark country road to find the two wooden crosses that represent the lives and deaths of someone else’s sons. I do not weep for the boys that have passed, or their classmates or their friends. I weep uncontrollably for the parents that lost them. Somewhere just a little father down these country roads I know 2 mothers and 2 fathers are not sleeping either. For them I pray, for them my heart is filled with compassion. I know they will never be the same, there will never be a conclusion…and their world will never be okay again…not ever.
AND NO ONE GETS IT.
At the end of the day we all have to face our grief, our pain, our loss, alone with our Creator.
Grief is incredibly lonely, even when you are surrounded by love.
The sun finally rises, and the landscape surrounding me starts to stretch and yawn with the new day. I try to wipe my tears and keep moving. I reach deep within and search for strength that I do not possess. I checked the boxes of the things I have to do, places I have to go, and calls I need to make, but by 2 pm, I completely melting down. I am a puddle, and I can’t move. My husband leaves a meeting to come home to scrape me off the floor; he cancelled everything for the rest of the night. He is soft, loving and kind, but I can see the fear in his eyes, his wife was once strong and he counted on her strength. I know he feels helpless, and I hate that I am adding to the heavy load he bares.
My husband, the strongest person I have ever known patiently listens as I babbled on and on about all that is racing through my mind, about the song, the nightmare and the two roadside crosses. He gets it; he is alone in his personal hell too. Alone, together we lay in the bed where we never rest anymore…he holds me, and sweetly pushes back the hair sticking to my tears…until I finally fall asleep.