There are so many things that I can’t do for my children and grandchildren. Much of the time I make myself believe otherwise. Not always.
The older brother of my grandson’s friend has taken his own life. It is devastating.
I understand that he had been depressed, but what was so catastrophic? Was it a chemical thing? Was life too much? Too little? I wonder if he knew yet that death is permanent. That when everyone is sorry, he is gone…forever. Was he capable of realizing what Christmas will be like for his family and friends? What life will be like? For the rest of their lives?
I know that I can’t do much to help my grandson through this. He must learn to live with it and learn to be a comfort to his friend.
And so I leave my sorrow for the young man’s mother and turn my anxiety to my own grandchildren. My heart hurts and breathing is difficult. Do they realize how important they are? Why isn’t she answering her phone? Is he ill today or is he down in the dumps? Is her treatment working for her? Does he realize that high school friends can be flaky and that he is wonderful the way he is? Does she? Is she too far from home? How is she dealing with all of the change in her life? And how is he dealing with turmoil? He likes his counselor, but is that enough?
There is no assurance. There never has been. Such a stark and drastic occurrence makes it real again: Life is fragile and uncertain.
I love. I support. I stay in contact. I reassure myself. And sometimes I can only grieve.
P. S. to God: Please wrap your arms around each of my loved ones and keep them safe