Guest blogger Andrea Caruso shared her first post with Our Side of Suicide last summer on facing fear after the loss of her son, Cameron, to suicide. (Read it here.) In her latest reflection, she reflects on the pieces of his life she still isn’t ready to let go.
Holding Onto The Little Things After Suicide Loss
My husband Sean found a pair of Cameron’s shoes yesterday and I was undone. The black sneakers had been there since the day he left us – hiding under another pair of black shoes. For almost 16 months they had sat in our kitchen among the other pairs in a basket. Empty running shoes waiting for us to find them. I checked the size – 11- they were Cam’s.
“That was the pair I bought Cam when he started his first job,” Sean commented.
Cam had worked part time at a fast food restaurant before his first semester of college. Sean and I were so anxious for him. We would joke to each other whenever we drove by the restaurant that we could disguise ourselves with a floppy hat and trench coat and place an order just to see how he was faring. Maybe we would hide behind the soda dispenser or spy on him through the drive thru window. We were as nervous for him starting his first job as we were on his first day of school.
Cam
I threw his sneakers in the garbage and quietly cried for a few minutes. The empty shoes were another physical reminder of his absence. How was it possible that sixteen months had passed since his death? I think of him every morning when I open my eyes and hundreds of times throughout the day. I have tried to inoculate myself against painful memories by replaying them over and over in my head. But HERE is another artifact- a fresh wound to probe.
That first year after his death was simply survival – quite literally, struggling to live and forcing ourselves to go through the motions of life. This second year we are doing better. We have moments of happiness. And though we never forget our son for more than a few minutes, our lives don’t feel as much of a punishment stretching endlessly before us. But these shoes! They have taken on a life of their own; a silly nonsensical significance. How could we have dared to try and move forward?! When HERE were Cameron’s neglected sneakers… abandoned. Forgotten amid the bustle of daily mundane routines.
Impulsively, almost rebelliously, I pulled them out of the garbage and placed them back with the other shoes. I can put them back in the garbage tomorrow. Or, the next day. Or whenever I feel I can let them go. There are no timelines; there are no deadlines for this grief.
Andrea Caruso has been a Registered Nurse for 24 years, working in a Medical Intensive Care Unit. Andrea lives in New York with her husband, two sons, and her Newfoundlands.
Beautiful memory of your son. I know how painful the loss is,. Thank you for sharing .
I hold on to my son Josh’s memory by touching and holding the things he left behind.
My husband’s shoes are just inside the backdoor, just where he left them. Another pair in the garage, where they were placed that day by the paramedics just over a year ago. Can’t seem to move either pair. Maybe someday, but not yet. Sometimes it feels like he was never here, like it was a dream, he never existed. Then I see his shoes, and I can feel him here still, always in my heart.
My daughter committed suicide 16 months ago also . Your blog is so spot on. There is no time limit for grief and the constant agonizing pain dies subside, but little triggers like Cams shoes throw me into a dark sad hole of tears as well. Stay strong and thanks for sharing.
Terri
Of can be as small and trivial as a paper clip, or a pen with a piece of Washington tape on it, her name written extravagantly, sweeping around the barrel of the pen. It can be a pair of her shoes, my painted toes peeking out from the yellow bows. I would never have bought those shoes in a. Million years, but they were mom’s. So I keep them.
It’s her old nursing identification photo, a small jar of tiny objects: buttons, a tack, small metal pieces – she may have been aiming to fix something – and regardless of their usefulness, or lack thereof, they stay.
I’m sorry you lost Cam. And I’m sorry I lost my mom. Their things take on a deeper meaning when they aren’t here anymore.
I am so very sorry for your loss. I know NOTHING is worse then losing a child. I waited more than a year to clean off my sons’ fingerprints from a mirror. I have learned to live with my loss of a child…BUT my heart will always ache and yearn for him. I have learned there is definitely no “correct” way to mourn.
I have kept my son Scott’s 1st guitar and some pictures, etc. I have made a Scotty wall in my office.
My daughter Alex was a very talented artist so I made an Alex art wall in my studio. It’s comforting but sad too.
I lost my oldest son Oct 21, 2015 to suicide. I still have his school papers and other odds and ends. When something of his gets broken or torn up I cry nonstop all over again. 🙁
I still have my brothers Air Force uniform, 45 years later.
My husband committed suicide 10 months and 12 days ago in the basement of our home. He was suffering mentally and physically. The grief, the loss remains immeasurable. I will always keep his slippers, some sweaters that I wear when particularly lonely. I’m seeing a counselor, going to a grief group and am on anti-depressants. Each has helped a bit. Such a slow process, getting off your knees and feeling like you will live again. I’ve recently turned a small corner and can see some light. It reminds me of a phrase in a Leonard Cohen song: Forget your perfect offering there’s a crack in everything, that’s how the light gets in. I so hope each of us has that crack of light. I’m very sorry for all our losses.
It has been 28 years since my brother took his own life. I was only 12 and I was home when it happened. I didn’t share the same loss as my parents did, especially my mother. I don’t know how she managed to live that first year. My grief came out as rebelling and constantly fighting at school. As an adult I find myself hanging onto things of loved ones. A simple 5 day work trip for my husband leaves me to not move or use the things he last touched, they comfort me. When my kids go to their fathers house I find myself looking at their bedrooms, unmade beds and scattered toys. I feel I have moved on but there is a part of me that clings to others memories of being with me. It’s sad to think that anytime someone makes a move you worry if you will see them again.