Memories. Seeking and finding after a child dies

RIP Justin, 1989-2006. It was a Tuesday in 2006, like it is tonight, in 2023. I’ve gifted myself six days this year to retreat, be gentle with myself for a string of anniversaries—to honor the past...

 The clouds were amazing tonight, looking upriver. Three moose bedded down all day near my place—the first time that’s happened in the two years I’ve lived in this home. I love that Justin had visited my parents here in Alaska, fished in this section of the Kenai River, and played in these woods.

January 24, 2023

Seventeen years ago tonight, my breath clenched. Ragged, raw, unsure if I would survive, as I began making obligatory phone calls, unable to grasp the immensity of what was unfurling. My gut and solar plexus shrunk to a small hardball, and life would never be the same.

The next morning—I awoke in a strange bed, and looked through the window across the lake to where my home was, to see a school bus pull up to the rural post box cluster, and wait. The 16 year old blue-eyed boy would never board that bus again. I had no capacity in me, only engulfing numbness.

In my Denver office the afternoon before, answering my cell in the middle of the street I heard my then-husband say, “Justin has taken his life.” As blessed adrenalin began coursing through my veins and the accompanying fog closed curtains on my awareness and vitality for months and even years, I wrenched a prayer—a cry of the heart. I knew God could make good news out of anything, and I begged, in a silent tormented plea, please do this for me. Show me. Help me orientate to any slivers of hope.

RIP Justin, 1989-2006

It was a Tuesday in 2006, like it is tonight, in 2023.

I’ve gifted myself six days this year to retreat, be gentle with myself for a string of anniversaries—to honor the past, open the present, and dream to a beautiful future: 1/20 is Justin’s adoption anniversary, 1/22 was my wedding anniversary of a 17 year marriage, and 1/24 is the day my son died and my world changed.

A few nights ago I recalled a story about a “forever family” adoption anniversary gift I’d given Justin four nights before he died. His first fancy dress watch—and how he’d removed his grubby orange and black sport watch that he always wore that Friday night, as I told him how much I loved him, and cherished the memories we’d made in time, and would make. And how years later, now living alone in Alaska, I found that sport watch, still telling time, buried and forgotten in those couch cushions that had moved from Colorado, still ticking.

I haven’t yet located the story, and instead—really Justin *laughing*—I’ve turned hundreds of pages of handwritten journals seeking it, and instead, revisiting and reliving not only from 2011 and beyond (I can’t pinpoint when it happened but I know I was divorced) and then reading older entries and stories, seeing back in time through a lens of 2023. It’s been intense, maybe necessary, and that’s likely why the memory jogged at me. I’d hoped to find it, share it, as evidence of the magic that happens, and how God can make good news of anything, of how we can heal after trauma and tragedy. And maybe that’s why Spirit and my boy—gosh I wish I could see him at 33–sent me seeking that story, recalling that memory. No doubt I’ll find it tomorrow.

Meanwhile, if you or someone you know is struggling or in deep despair, reach out for help. You are not alone. I believe suicide is a medical issue, not a moral one. And I believe suicide takes someone out of life against their will, the same as a stroke, cancer, or heart attack. We’ve learned so much about mental health since 2006, and there’s still so far to go.

I came across this photo of him I’d forgotten—he’s so handsome as he was growing into his own, and those blueish-green eyes would most always twinkle with mischief. On Facebook and Instagram, I shared his “Where I Am From” poem with his photo—the school principal brought it to us the day after he died, and I read it for the first time.

Thank you to everyone who helped me breathe that week. And in the weeks, and months, and years to come. Your kindness and presence is immeasurable—I’m so filled with gratitude for you, and the nameless God who truly can make good news from any darkness.