My heart and soul grieve for and with you
From Scott – 
Carolyn:
I understand what you are going through. I lost my 23 year old son James on July 31st, 2009 after a 26 month battle against leukemia. He was doing so well, when he came down with pneumonia and some other lung issues during the last two weeks of his life.
I watched him suffer for 26 months and had to be the one to make the decision to remove him from life support.
It’s been six months now and not a day goes by that I don’t feel like I’m pulling a huge anchor behind me. The anchor is a bit lighter now than when he first passed, but an anchor none the less. I’m currently sitting on the shore of the Atlantic, where I released James’ ashes back in August. I’m longing and waiting for some kind of sign that he is ok and happy wherever he is. But the ocean just mocks me, splashing across the rocks and taunting me with it’s whispers.
I think the most important advice I would have for someone like you, is to give yourself permission to grieve. Allow the steps to happen, guilt, fear, denial, anger….whatever feelings come forward, allow them. Don’t try to push them away or stifle them, it only makes you feel worse.
I used to cry several times a day. I’m getting better now, just a few times a week.
At first, I was so busy, making arrangements, dealing with legal issues, keeping up with family and friends calling with condolences, etc. As time went on, family and friends seemed to wane away. I found myself feeling very alone and became very reclusive.
After happening upon this site and learning how to allow my feelings to flow and listening to the stories of so very many heart-broken parents, I started to feel less alone and in the company of those who could only know what I was feeling.
There will never, ever be any pain in my life so excrutiating. There will also never, ever be the opportunity to look back and understand what I have learned from my son’s suffering. A few weeks before he passed he (almost knowing his end was near) sat me down to tell me how proud he was of me and how much he loved me. He needed to make sure I was going to be ok, that I would continue living on. I told him, “James, I don’t know what I would do if I lost you.” He said, “Dad, LIVE!”
And so every day, I wake up, go to his picture, give him a kiss and tell him how much I love him and what I am going to do today, to LIVE.
My heart and soul grieve for and with you.
All of my best,
Scott
Scott,
I also lost my twenty-six year old son, Nickolas, after a fiftteen month battle with leukemia. I too watched my son try to heal and suffer through many complications and hospitalizations. Unfortunately, Nick was in the hospital for the last two months of his life and our family had to make a decision to take him off life support as well. My grief overwhelms me every day. I still cry every day. Your son sounds like a wonderful young man and I wish I could follow his advice! My son would want me to do the same, but, it is so hard. That anchor gets very heavy and no one sees that anchor which makes it even harder to find people who understand the how much this loss hurts. I have so been trying to find people who have had similar experiences. We have in common the fight against cancer and all that comes along with that long and difficult journey. To have it end this way…well, it is just unbearable. I kept a blog to update people on my son’s condition and how things were going, now it is a grief blog. I agree with your advice. It is good to feel whatever you are feeling. I have found much solace in reading, music, sites like the Open To Hope Foundation, and The Compassionate Friends. I feel that there is a hole in my heart that will never be fully healed. Thank you Scott for sharing your thoughts and feelings. I wish there was a way we could all get together and share our stories.
Big D:
The Compassionate Friends network does hold meetings for people like us to get together and share our stories and experiences. The network spans all over this country. I have yet been able to gather the courage to attend. I fear that walking through the door, I’m going to completely lose it and I am the type of person who grieves alone, not in the company of others.
I think though, one day, I will have the strength to attend and share my story. More so, I hope to be able to let others know, that I am a survivor and they will survive as well. Not a survivor of cancer nor any other illness, but a survivor of grief.
You said in your message, “We have in common the fight against cancer and all that comes along with that long and difficult journey. To have it end this way…well, it is just unbearable.” I know this all too well. It’s just not fair! We tried, every single day. We worked hard, every single day. We did what the doctors told us to do, we completely changed to healthy foods, we threw out all chemicals in the house, we eliminated practically every possible threat to my son’s health…and then he died.
At this time, I am dealing with severe anxiety and depression. I try to remember all of the good times we had together and there were so very many. My son was born when I was 23. We sort of grew up together, so he was not only my son, but my best friend. When I think of all the good times, there is always that image of the last 40 minutes of his life, when I made the decision to disconnect the life support.
I see him with all of the tubes and the wires. I see the machine forcing air into his lungs and his body convulsing with each forced breath. I see the oxygen numbers on the machine slowly dropping. I’m praying for his quick passing, I can no longer watch him suffer. I tell him, “James, if you see the light, go to it. I will be ok, it’s ok my baby, it’s ok.” I see my brothers, my sister and my parents standing next to me, tears streaming, prayers being said. I see my brother point to the machines and tell me, “Scott, it’s ok. It’s over now. He’s not hurting anymore.” This runs through my head each and every time I try to remember all the good times. I’m becoming fearful of remembering anymore.
But, I must continue to live. It was a promise I made to my James that I will always keep. And I will never, ever, ever, forget what my son meant to me and so many others – what he taught us about love and living. It’s a lesson I could not have learned from anyone or anywhere else.
You keep living too Big D! I know in my heart, Nick would not have wanted it any other way. It is now our turn, both yours and mine, to take what we have learned and share it to help others. They were the chosen, they suffered and they died and because of what they endured, medicine and science has learned and one day will save lives because our sons made it possible. Now we are the chosen. We must move forward, always remembering what we’ve learned from the past. If you’d like to write to me, my e-mail address is scott_tallman@hotmail.com.
I will pray for you Big D and for Nick as well. But mostly, I will grieve with you.