I knew this was coming but it was still a shock. When I read that Sinead O’Connor had lost her son to suicide, it was a a given that she wouldn’t stick around. Her panic and horror were familiar, and I relived it for a long time. I braced myself. And it seems like a miracle that she stayed as long as she did, a little more than a year.
Even if you never liked her, you must have recognized an exquisitely sensitive soul without much of a protective membrane. She clearly was driven to tell the truth – not tell, but shout out – without thought of the consequences. I used to be like that, once.
She told us that her son was her soulmate, the only person who had ever loved her unconditionally. And that’s just too much of a loss. I have been there. I’m still there.
When you lose your soulmate, or your twin soul, whatever term you like to describe this, you literally feel hollowed out, less substantial, without the ballast that kept you safely rooted to earth. I’m not being poetic, just factual.
Sinead O’Connor’s death is such a tragedy because it shouldn’t have happened and yet was inevitable. There are a million tributes and think pieces now that she’s gone, and while it’s a comfort to know that she was appreciated, it has really destabilized me personally. I feel guilty for being here after thirteen years. What kind of monster am I to go on without Max?
It hurts me to write his name. It’s better to write about Lost Sons in general. I can go for weeks without hearing or saying his name. People don’t want to bring it up, unless it’s his birthday or the anniversary of his exit. I hear music that I know he would’ve liked and say aloud, “Max would have liked this.” My husband replies, “Uh huh,” but it feels wrong. He should say, “Yes! He would love it and he hears it now! He would love it because his taste was so impeccable and wide-ranging and in keeping with his brilliance! Why is he gone? Bring him back!” But it’s not my husband’s job to speak what’s in my heart.
I always wonder if people who learn that I lost a son are thinking, “God, what an awful mother! Why didn’t she kill herself! I myself could never survive this!” One of my half-sisters actually said something like this, making it about her. Obviously she’s an idiot so she doesn’t count.
But I’m sure that other mothers who aren’t idiots are thinking this, silently reprimanding me for my unforgivable ability to go on. I don’t blame them.
I would like to apologize! Forgive me. It’s not that I’m shallow or not heartbroken beyond repair. At first, it was because I couldn’t abandon my younger boy. I couldn’t bear the thought of shattering the lives of my family members; it seemed too cruel to put them through it. Later, it was a courtesy to my husband, as I liked to remind him. Now it’s mostly a lack of courage. If I was sure we’d be reunited, I could do it. Even if we weren’t reunited, I remind myself, I’d be passing through the same door he passed through.
The other day, I was lying in bed, looking at my beautiful antique dresser and the shit on the walls and I felt a wave of sentimental fondness for them. I remarked to my husband, “I’ll miss this room when I’m dead!” He laughed and said, “Well, that’s better than saying ‘I wouldn’t miss any of this crap’!”
But I meant it. I’ll miss a lot of things when I’m dead. To be or not to be is a daily choice, not just according to Camus:
There is but one truly serious philosophical problem, and that is suicide. Judging whether life is or is not worth living amounts to answering the fundamental question of philosophy. All the rest — whether or not the world has three dimensions, whether the mind has nine or twelve categories — comes afterwards. These are games; one must first answer.
and/but:
Men are never convinced of your reasons, of your sincerity, of the seriousness of your sufferings, except by your death. So long as you are alive, your case is doubtful; you have a right only to their skepticism.
I doubt that Sinead wrestled with this. I believe she followed her heart. I respect her courage and sense of purpose. If living without her boy was a battle for her, it was one battle too many. I hope he kept a seat for her. And if there’s no afterlife out in the cosmos, at least she passed through the same door. My she rest easy for eternity.
Dear Sister Wolf: my selfish comments can’t begin to understand or touch on the agony & loneliness of your position.
But regardless of how you see it, your ability to stay alive, and to stay alive for the sake of others speaks to me of a surfeit of strength, not a lack of courage. No one can ever know how their words and actions affect others, how a comment or a story can change a life or save a soul without them being any the wiser. You are very much you, in a world of phoniness and delusion. You speak about the unspeakable and make room for suffering beside everything else. It makes a difference to me, and right now I am so grateful to you.
It is hard to add anything to Alison’s beautiful comment, which speaks perfectly for me, too, and probably many other people who read your posts. Take good care of yourself, please. Much love.
xoxoxo
Alison – So lovely and unselfish of you to reply to this and not be scared off by such darkness. I am grateful right back. xoxo
Alison says it much better than me but I still wanted to add my voice. You don’t need anyone’s forgiveness. I am so glad you are here with us still. x
Bevitron – As I always tell you, never leave me! xoxo
mary – Thank you so much, your voice is meaningful to me xoxo
I’m a mother and I’ve never thought that about you or other parents who have lost a child. No matter how that child left, the parent belongs here as much as the child who has gone does. Your Max sounds amazing, you raised a beautiful soul.
Sally – Thank you so much for reading about Max and acknowledging him! xoxo
What Alison said.
When you stopped posting recently, I admit I thought briefly that something had happened to you. I felt so deeply sad at the possibility you decided you’d had enough.
Thank you for your words. Always thankful for your posts.
Lindsay – No, thank YOU! I don’t want you to be sad though. I HAVE had enough but I’m sticking around anyway. xoxo
I also knew she would not last without her son. I feel badly for the other kids, who were not as revered as He was. They have to feel like day old pastries-ok if there is nothing else better, but never someone’s first choice.
I know about survivor guilt. The first time I ever considered no longer being here was after my best friend died. She had everything to live for, and yet cancer took away her options. It should have been me, instead, for many reasons.
But we soldier on, in our half alive, half dead state. Hoping for something meaningful.
I am so glad you are back to posting. And thank you for replying to my email. I was worried and missed you.
Kellie – Thank you for your concern, and I will always answer your email! I know what you mean about the Favored Son. I read an interview where she said that her son Sean was the most like her, even physically. I think parents tend to form a tighter bond with the kid that’s most like them, in temperament and sensibility. It’s easier to “get” them, you know? But yes, it must be hurtful to the other kids. Me, I used to say that Max is my soul, and Charlie is my heart.
But listen, it should NOT have been you! Cancer is just random: it doesn’t care who’s good or bad or moral or immoral. You can die of lung cancer without even smoking!
If soldiering on is the best we can do though, let’s keep doing it. Out of stubbornness, if nothing else. xoxo