Grief Uncensored

[savethenextone]

Two drops of my sons blood drips dry down my wall. I keep it safe there, untouched, unwashed, on purpose.

Because it’s a reminder that Joshuah was alive at one time. It’s a DNA snapshot of before they killed him.

It’s a visual reminder, that Josh was here—a reminder, he was cycling back in paranoia, but Joshuah was still alive, still here. Still viable. Still salvageable.

I miss his presence, the physical space Joshuah inhabited in our lives.

I protect his spot and look at it every time I enter the room.

It’s a reminder that Joshuah insisted on #SAVINGTHENEXTONE

[savethenextone]

Today I sat behind two little boys on a Delta flight back home from a reality break in Tampa. I have avoided little boys since the Walmart fiasco, when early after Josh died I found myself following a little boys laughter, only to find myself abandoned in the automotive department, crying like a crazy person because the laughter stopped. After that day, I realized the laughter of little boys is a trigger for heart hurt, the gigantic, permanent magnitude of who we lost, and the echo of Josh’s silence among the scream of memory--which I try to muffle, at least in public. 

Today I had no choice as I walked down the plane isle searching for seat 36 F. My eyes lasered in on seats 35 E and F in front of me. Two brown haired little cretans around age four and six. Fuck. 

I reminded myself to ignore them. So I sat through take off with my eyes closed. I closed them again as I watched the six year old lose tic tac toe three times until he finally won. I closed them again when a tiny index finger pushed play on the movie screen. I closed them again when I heard, “Mommy, are we in the clouds?” I observed her smile and wondered if she would savor the question. 

Then I swallowed hard and clamped my eyelids shut.

Think of something else--anything else.

But it’s impossible. 

[savethenextone]

RAGE

I cannot think of a stronger word than rage, but there are a slew of words that come with it: Fury, rampage, boiling, indignation, livid, outrage, violence–and we felt them all. Every second of every day for months. 

And it was justified rage. 

Justified because Joshuah said he would come out. Justified because within six minutes the fugitive team broke the door and unloaded their guns at close range. Justified because it took the undertaker over 200 stitches to put Joshuah’s left arm back on. Justified because when I hugged my son too tight on the embalming table, his skull came apart.  

RAGE.

Because afterwards, the Michigan State Police slammed their doors and refused to come out. No questions answered. Phone calls were ignored. They are still ignored, except by one officer. 

When Michelle delivered MSP Officer Salmen information on a second person involved in the break in, he replied and I quote, “What’s the point?”  

What is the point? 

WHAT. IS. THE. POINT? OFFICER?

RAGE.

Rage is a noun, a thing, and it’s pure energy. For months and months I existed on it; fantasizing revenge, screaming in my car, balling up fists in my sleep, clenching my jaw, punching my steering wheel, introducing myself to the Prosecutor with a full color crime scene photo of Joshuah–all spurts of smoldering rage. 

Rage is vile, putrid, and energy wasted. 

What rage really is, is depleting, exhausting–a huge black hole that sucks away everything good. It feeds off its own energy and grows. Its primary purpose is to spread and destroy everything; relationships, humor, laughter, life, community.  

After a while, rage beats you down, pokes holes in your psyche, and permeates everything you think and do. With nowhere to place it, you turn the rage in on yourself.

I reached a tipping point in my rage, when I found myself at rock bottom at 2 am, alone on a dock, recording a last message for my family. 

Its hard to put into words, but Rock Bottom looked like this:

RAGE—————————————————————–BE STILL

And then, BE STILL looked like this:

BE STILL————————————————————AND KNOW

And KNOWING, looked like this:

AND KNOW———————————————————I AM GOD 

And GOD looked like this:

GOD————————————————–LIGHT, LOVE, EMPATHY

And I walked off the dock flawed, heartbroken, and different. 

And I don’t want to pretend I don’t slip back into rage. I do. I’m feeling it right now, writing this post. Rage is right there waiting, always waiting.  

But so is light, love and empathy. 

It’s a choice.

Choice is a noun, a thing. It’s free will. 

[savethenextone]

2018: One for the Books

2018–a year of dreams and nightmares, one that made me dream big, then blasted a bat to my knees in the third week of January. 

Like I said, one for the books. Looking back, there is so much I can’t recall–or maybe I don’t want to.

Probably that. 

If I had a feeling to sum up 2018, it would be powerless. Powerless to control anything or anyone. So I spent 2018 clawing my way through hell like blind ferrel cat–frantic, desperate to feel something, anything other than grief and the memory of how Joshuah died.

People said, “You are so strong.”

No I’m not.  

They didn’t see what happened behind the curtain. Behind the curtain I couldn’t get out of bed, I raged, cried, I ended my prayers with “FUCK YOU.”

That’s what powerless people do. Well that, and they burn down their own villages like in Ferguson. Raging powerless voiceless people do that. I completely understand them now.

I swear, on some days, if I had a match and nothing more to lose–BOOM. Burn it all down.

I am glad to say goodbye to 2018, but the thought of it brings tears because it also feels like saying goodbye to Joshuah, which is crazy because we already said it. We said goodbye forever when we closed the coffin.

If there is one thing this year has taught me, it’s that grief doesn’t make sense.  I’ve learned to be okay with crazy.

2019 will be the year I get my power back. Power comes with peeling myself up off the floor and investing time and resources in physical, emotional, and spiritual well being.

Power comes with solid goals and a vision board.

Power is picking up the pen and screaming on the ugly page until someone hears me.

Power is laughing out loud.

Power is crying when I want, where I want.

Power is saying what needs to be said—what demands to be known.

Power is loving without fear and forgiving from a choice.

Power requires a plan.

I have a plan—a spectacular plan.

So bring on the New Year.

I’m ready.

[savethenextone]

I Often Wonder

I often wonder about the six badges who killed Joshuah. I wonder what they think and how they feel. Do they think about it at all? Do they realize that in the history of all the galaxies, there has never, nor will there ever be, another soul like Joshuah? And because he had no children, his soul, his DNA, is forever extinct?

I don’t assume Joshuah’s death was a pre-planned outcome, ya know, because that would be premeditated murder. But still—

I wonder about clock out time at 5 pm January 22, six officers driving home--the ballistic shield and white warrior clothes splattered with Josh’s thirty six years of smiles and struggles, our families thirty six years of love investment.

Who loaded up Josh’s entrails and flesh bits then labeled it as evidence? How did they know for sure it wasn’t a piece of Joshuah’s heart they scraped off the dining room wall and tossed in evidence?

I wonder if the six smelled wet pennies like I did, and what they told themselves stepping around his body like a road hazard at the crime scene—did the six go crazy like I did, like Chelsea did?

I wonder if the shield acts as shield against basic humanity--is murder murder or justified homicide if the local supreme court of one man says “Nah, we’re good,”—

And would the Supreme Court of God give them a thumbs up?

I wonder what they were thinking about driving home that day.

I wonder if Group Think came into play as my ex-therapist strongly suggested--Group Think is where one leader with an itchy trigger finger and a bloated sense of self steers the rest to follow, either through coercive words or actions. 

The therapist enjoyed my rage too much—I didn’t. I fired her.

I wonder if January 22 ever crosses their mind. It hasn't left ours. They killed Joshuah one time. For us, he dies over and over again every moment we miss him.

I rage because the six badges sons are safe and sound, while mine sits in a plastic box on an end table like a knicknack—for display purposes only. None of us can bear the thought of putting him in the ground yet—we just can’t.

And maybe all this would be easier on everyone if we could have a hard conversation, but only one shield has kinda answered my request. He views my intention with a jaundiced eye, as I do him. He doesn’t want my anger and frankly, I don’t want to give it away. For me, it’s propellant, it rockets me out of bed and into action.

But I don’t like myself much when thoughts go down the rage road, as they often do. Besides, I still remember to pray everyday for those shields on the line—and they are ALL on the line everyday, including the six.

I wonder if they pray for Josh, for us, for spiritual forgiveness.

I wonder about a lot of things, But what I really want to know, is—what were they thinking when they were driving home that day?

[savethenextone]

THE DEVIL LIES IN THE DETAILS

I procrastinated writing this post for a few months now.

 I put it off because it’s hard on so many levels that it takes my breath and sucks away joy like the swirl in a draining bathtub. 

It’s hard to write it because it forces me to recall the vivid description of six police officers breaking down his door with a battering ram, surrounding him by the dining room wall, and open firing their weapons into someone who said they would surrender. He requested to smoke first.

^^^As I wrote the previous paragraph,^^^ my Apple watch alerts me that my resting heart rate went from 65 to 117. And as I edit that one long sentence, I realize I unconsciously used the general pronouns his, him, they, someone, when I really mean Joshuah--in literary speak, its called distancing language; when the writer distances themselves from what they wrote, either to avoid thinking about the subject or the content. For me, it is both. I want to avoid thinking about the subject, and I need to distance Joshuah from the content, because his last morning was without a doubt--terrifying. Knowing Joshuah was terrified before they killed him wrecks me, but it gets worse. 

I need to distance Joshuah, but I can't. I can't because I have a responsibility to him, and to you, the reader. And it’s possible this long explanation is also a distancing tactic. So, I am going to take a breath, and plow through it. 

The following is taken from the investigative report and justification issued by Dave Gilbert, Calhoun County Prosecuting Attorney. 

In reviewing the reports of the officers involved, their statements are consistent with each other as well as physical evidence at the scene. All officers agree Detective Trooper Miller knocked on the door. Mr. Prough answered the door, saw the police officers and immediately shut the door while the officers identified themselves and repeatedly told Mr. Prough they had a warrant for him, and to open the door. Det. Trooper Root carried a ballistic shield for officer safety. Detective Horn and Det. Trooper Gillespie each carried .223 M4 type rifles. While Det. Trooper Theodore went downstairs to get a battering ram to break the door, Det. Horn and others spoke to Mr. Prough in an attempt to get him to give up. At one point, Mr. Prough said he would give up after smoking a cigarette. Hearing him walking around inside and fearing that he may be arming himself with handguns, the apartment door was breached with the battering ram. The decision to breach the door was made out of fear Mr. Prough was a danger to himself, officers and the public due to his mental condition and his assumed possession of fire arms. 

At approx. 0845 entry was made with the ram as stated. When finally inside, the entry officers all state Mr. Prough was holding a gun in his right hand in a threatening manner. Trooper Root saw a gun in each hand, with the gun in the right hand pointed at officers. Trooper Theodore saw a gun in his right hand at waist level, pointed at the officers. Sgt Conklin described two guns being found after the shooting, but at the time of the shooting, one gun was in his right hand at shoulder level pointed up in a threatening manner to the officers.  Det. Gillespie also saw the gun raised at chest level. All officers inside state Mr. Prough was holding the firearm in a threatening manner which made them fear for their lives and the lives of fellow officers. 

Huh.

As someone who writes memoir, I know memory gets filtered through a perspective lens. Six people can have the same experience and remember it differently. I think the differing memories about the gun(s) and where they were pointed has everything to do with the breakneck speed at which decisions were made. 

Detective Sgt. Kevin Conklin’s report is the clearest.

 At 0645 the fugitive team began surveillance at the apartment. At 0815 they knocked on the door. Josh answered. “It appeared he was sleeping and was in disarray.” Josh was positively identified. 

Det. Conklin formulated a tactical plan and it was executed at 0840, when they again knocked on Joshuah’s door. Josh opened it, realized it was police and “slammed the door shut.” Through the door, Detective Andrew Horn and Conklin told Josh if he came out he wouldn't be hurt. Joshuah said he would come out, he wanted to smoke first.  At 0845 the door was rammed by Detective Trooper Craig JosephTheodore. At 0851 Battle Creek Police were advised of shots fired. 

Six minutes. 

Huh.  

Six minutes from the knock at the door to Joshuah receiving twenty four “penetrating, perforating, and grazing gun shot wounds of the neck (1) chest (6) flank (3) abdomen (1) back (1) and extremities (12).” Fifteen bullets were removed from Joshuah’s corpse by the coroner. 

Six minutes.

Twenty Four penetrating bullets. 

Let’s not forget the rounds that went through another occupied apartment, shattering the patio door. 

I try to remain impartial. A mentally ill man with a gun, even if it’s my son, is a potential threat to themselves and society and needs to be contained immediately. I support that 100%.

Anyone pointing a gun at a police officer is going to get shot. I support that 100%.

I don’t think Joshuah was pointing the gun. I think he was holding it--and that’s why reports differ. 

I struggle with why they broke the door after Joshuah said he would come out. Andrew Horn knew Joshuah. Who made that decision? Their statements of being in fear for their lives is ridiculous. They hunted him. They were the aggressors. They broke his door. 

And I’m the one who called them. 

I ask a cop friend. “Did they plan to kill him?”

They replied, “Steph, that’s premeditated murder. Any cop who suggests it immediately be relieved of duty.” 

Huh.

They were six well armed and educated men against one disheveled mentally ill man.  

Even the Uni-bomber got his day in court. 

The grief and regret of those six minutes now echoes into infinity, because my family is forever shattered. And I know when those six officers sit down to eat with their families, Joshuah explodes all over again at the dinner table.

The Shield is a barrier against prosecution. It is not a barrier for their soul, nor does it monitor their mental health.

We have to do better.  

[savethenextone]

“Watch for the Blue Star”

Joshuah kept saying, “Something Big is going to happen by Thanksgiving. Something big.” Part of me thought this may be true—the other part called him out.

But I watched the news, just in case, and to point out he was wrong in his thinking.

Thanksgiving came and went with nothing big happening.  Joshuah sent me IM’s of Hopi prophecy and the Blue Star—the end of times.

“You were wrong. Nothing happened,” I said.

“Watch for the Blue Star,” he said.

Boston--my last residency before graduation, was an alchemical combination of childhood dreams and goals. I graduated with a Masters in Fine Arts. My creative thesis (book) was read by an author I respect and admire. I was living on cloud nine.

On graduation night, my brother Ed called me in Boston; “Congratulations Sis. Did you know Joshuah is missing?”

I thought, “Josh is cycling again. Been there. Done that. No big deal.”

I hung up sort of worried, but reminded myself Josh had disappeared before, only to show up later laughing we were worried. He knew where he was. We didn't. 

When Jerry and I came home, the water pipes were frozen. Putting my suitcase in the bedroom, Jerry saw coins scattered the floor. On further investigation, we saw my safe was gone. A window was broken. There were blood smears on the floor. 

Everything important resided in my safe--my journals, love letters from my kids, jewelry, money, my grandmothers wedding ring--

I absolutely knew Josh took it and texted him.

“I don’t care about the money. I need the documents in my safe back. I know for a fact you have it.” 

“My journal that I have kept for my whole life is in there Josh. My ENTIRE LIFE. My grandmothers ring was in there Josh! I cannot believe you did this. You better call me before I make a police report.” 

Joshuah sent back a song by Master P--”Keep Ya Eyes on Yo Enemies” and the following--

“Doesn't matter anyway. Watched the cops in jail laugh about buying witnesses to falsely accuse the christians. The evil in their tone as they kept saying got another duck. Do u remember what you said through the glass? Trust me I weighed 113 pounds when I got out, some people like yourself are pathetic because you sacrifice everyone including your own kids. U made chelsea wanna kill herself because she couldn't feed her children you will be standing for judgement very soon u see. I have talked to Chinese Russian and a lot of UN soldiers even have a navy seal friend that used to come over every day and yes he is working here as well. I started staying at Michelles this summer because they put a camp behind the trailer park. Doesn't take a brain surgeon to figure out hmmm railroad tracks and a river. You see i tried to walk back there and was ordered to turn around and get out by a guy in a dark olive uniform then I was harassed in the park by the guys that they had brought including the landlord, but u stupid and it makes u feel better to call me crazy. Even had to flex one last time to get me hospitalized. If you don't believe me, call Rachel her boyfriend has been bought and she has seen the long holes that were recently dug.” January 19, 2018 01:49 A.M. 

Joshuah was disconnected,cycling and scared. I knew the drill. 

Been there. Done that. No big deal. Right? 

I wasn't going to call the police until it became clear Joshuah had also taken firearms. 

Doing the right thing killed him. I ask myself—would I do it again, the right thing?

It’s a great question. It haunts me.

[savethenextone]

Cycling

This post is hard to write. It’s hard because it is only day 200, and because truth is ALWAYS hard. 

I would like to write that Joshuah was a saint, but he wasn’t. I would like to write that we (I) did everything right, but we didn’t. I would like to write that Joshuah was in competent, capable hands –you decide. 

Josh cycled through sanity and insanity. 

The sane phases were rational and funny–job searches, hilarious comebacks, Sunday dinners, and censurable jokes. He poked fun at his nephew Nathan’s awkward dates, and changed his sisters screen saver to surprise cameo shot of his butt. Time spent with Joshuah would leave us out of breath and belly ached from laugher. 

The insane phases were disjointed, obsessive thoughts about the UFO, the scroll, and and his failure to sacrifice himself for humanity. Joshuah was paranoid about the government, about FEMA, chemtrails, and the Blue star (end of times).

 Joshuah’s broken brain would not leave him alone. He could never get away from it. Trying to sleep in peace was impossible. The spinning thoughts kept him awake, and on the rare occasion he did sleep, he had freakish nightmares. Joshuah had no control of it, except to self medicate with whatever was available–vicodin, xanax, alcohol, NyQuil–and If he couldn’t sleep, he medicated to stay awake with pots of coffee, cigarettes and energy drinks. 

While cycling, a trailer park pal gave Joshuah a souvenir bomb shell from WW2. The gift became live to him. Without a cell phone to call police, Josh drove to the Meijer gas station on Columbia Ave in Battle creek, entered, and told the cashier, “I have a bomb.” 

That’s the thing about paranoids–they don’t communicate well. 

Within minutes, BCPD with lights and sirens descended on the area. Scared, Josh got back into his vehicle and led the police on a 35 MPH “chase.” It ended with Joshuah stopping his vehicle, and emerging with a broken shot gun, pointed at his own chin. He was taken down peaceably and housed in the Calhoun County Jail for months, waiting for a psychiatric exam. I went to visit him every week. I became alarmed at his decline in physical and mental condition. Physically, he looked like a prisoner of Auschwitz–I could see his collarbones and his skin was opaque from no sun or vitamin D. Mentally he was depressed and suicidal. I repeatedly inquired as to how long it would take to get his psych evaluation from Summit Pointe. I received no real answer, just shrugs of indifference. 

Joshuah weighed 130+ pounds when he was jailed. Coming out of jail to go to Kalamazoo Psychiatric Hospital he weighed 113 pounds. In a text before he died, Joshuah reiterated his jailers were making fun of him, and he watched “those motherfuckers spit hackers in my beans and mix it up,”  so he didn’t eat. 

At KPH Joshuah was seldom rational during visits, until he wanted something. The conversation revolved around a steady stream of the blue star, Hopi Prophecy, the end of days, government FEMA camps, citizen torture, and can I sneak in some cigarettes?–of course “No” meant being called names and sent away for not caring about him–but I showed up every week. It was hard to do, and I often questioned why I kept going. 

But someone brought him cigarettes, and later weed. Joshuah claimed it was the nurse tech he was having sex with, but the charge nurse thought it was me, so every week I was subjected to a rigorous pat down, rifling through my purse and supervised visits.  

Months later, after multiple combinations of psych meds, they settled on one that made Joshuah shake, rock, and drool, but the paranoia stopped and he was for the most part, rational. They moved him to a halfway house in Flint with psychiatric oversight by Summit Pointe. There I would ask, “Okay OJ Simpson–why were you only driving thirty five miles per hour? And why did you say you had a bomb?”

Joshuah replied, “I did have a bomb and I didn’t want anyone to get hurt. I just wanted the police to take it.” 

Joshuah ran away from the half way house two weeks after he got in a fight with another resident. He asked the house staff to take him to the ER because he thought his leg was broken. They refused, saying he was lying and just wanted pain medication. Josh somehow made his way to his sister Michelle’s house. She took him to the ER where it was confirmed on X-ray his leg was broken. The ER doctor was livid Joshuah was denied medical care and had walked on a broken leg for two weeks. Mental Health insisted he go back to Flint. Michelle refused. They backed off when she threatened them with negligence.

#SAVETHENEXTONE

[savethenextone]

The Blue Star

I think a mother knows when something is wrong with their kid. Joshuah started to split and separate from himself at twenty three.

He lived with, and took care of his poly addicted father (Marijuana, opiates, alcohol, barbituates -->heroin) and seldom called--except when he needed money or use of my vehicle--swearing to God the car was to get a job, and the money for food. I always gave, until i saw my ex husband, Joshuah’s father, driving my truck. They were both using and using me to make their habit easy. 

I stopped saying “yes” and became the enemy for saying “no more.”

Tough love works, right? 

I realized I had zero influence over Joshuah. His calls and visits were slurried speech and checking the temperature of my enabling behavior.

Within a year, Joshuah went from a productive, happy, hopeful young man to an emotional monster. He was hot or cold--loving and funny then BOOM--hateful and bitter, especially if I used the word NO.

“No, you can't borrow my car. No, I'm not taking you to Kalamazoo. No, you can't borrow fifty bucks. No, you can't clean out my cupboards. No, you can't sell my leaf blower--”

In that same year he received a head injury--a parking lot beating to the head so severe he suffered seizures afterward. And that same summer the police beat him again, requiring a trip to the emergency room. They didn't arrest him. He would later snicker about it, saying he deserved it. He got cocky.

There were times Josh laid in bed for days sweating, not eating or drinking. I thought he was sick, but he was purposely detoxing. He said he enjoyed a good detox and seeing how far he could suffer.

Parenting and loving an addicted child is like standing on the edge of a cliff waiting to fall off and hoping you don’t. You beg God for mercy while anxiety knocks on your conscience everyday. 

What now?

What next?

What if?

Save him—

Don’t give in—

Just give up—

Joshuah lost control of his sanity when he was twenty seven—the same night UFO’s were reported in the night sky.

I got a call from him while I was at work.

“Mom, go outside and look up—it’s a UFO. I swear to God it’s a UFO.”

I walked outside my night job in ER with Joshuah still on the line. He was right. A cluster of bizarre blinking lights was visible high in the sky.

I tried to rationalize what we were seeing because I could not explain it, 

Joshuah said, “Oh my God  It is right over the woods behind the house. I’m going to go see what it is.” He hung up. 

Later, he would call, stating he followed the UFO into the woods and a strange story ensued.

A glittery light beamed from the craft to the ground where a goddess appeared and offered a scroll. Joshuah declined to take it, fearing the acceptance of it would mean the end for all mankind.

Months after, Joshuah dreamed the scroll was offered to one person meant to save others. He beat himself up for not understanding, for being scared.

I accused him of hallucinating while being high.

Maybe he was, maybe he wasn't, but whatever happened that night created a conscious shift for Joshuah. Something inside him opened—and began an internal war between good and evil.

The UFO was explained on the news as luminaries released from a local wedding.The glittery light was a flickering candle. The scroll was the paper lantern.

 Perception is everything. 

[savethenextone]

Seventeen Days. 

[savethenextone]

No One Told Me--

No one told me how much birth hurts or how quickly the pain is forgotten the first time you hold them. And the feeling is beyond measure, so sometimes you do it again, and again and if you're fortunate--again. 

No one told me the depth of love I would feel, or the fierceness of protection I would have--

No one told me that skinned knees and scorched prom dates are clues to realize you have no real control over your children’s life. 

No one told me watching them grow up makes a heart burst apart, then reassemble itself to a new normal. They are now adults.

No one told me that tears of joy and tears of despair feel the same--they both start from the same place.  

Joshuah was a weird little kid. Not weird as in off the charts, but weird as “a little left of center.” 

He never learned to crawl. He rolled. 

He would set his eye on something, lay down, and roll across the floor.

Sometimes, he missed the mark. He would then sit up, shift himself, lie down and start rolling again. Family thought it was hilarious, and strange. 

Once, Joshuah was in the living room and I was in the kitchen. When I returned to the living room, Joshuah was gone. I called his name--nothing. 

I checked the adjacent bedroom--nothing. I looked outside--nothing. Despite knowing he could not roll up a stairway, I looked--nothing. 

In a panic, I went back to the living room and stood solid still, hoping to hear something. My eyes scanned the room for movement--nothing. 

Hyperventilating and desperate to find my son, I dropped on my knees to the floor--

And there he was, wedged tight under the couch sleeping.

I pulled him out by his ankle. He barely stirred in my arms as I said “Thank you God. Thank you God. Thank you God.’

No one told me that our children may look like us, they may act like us, but they are not ours--

They are simply souls on loan. 

[savethenextone]

No One Told Me--

[savethenextone]

The Edge

A while back, I was leaving a hospital and crossed paths with a young man, hands cuffed behind his back, being escorted by police into the ER.

I slowed my pace as my heart began pounding. The unruly mop of brown hair only partially hid the look of sadness and shame on his face. 

The young man’s parents had caught up with the officers in the ambulance bay. Dad was in dress pants and tie, Mom wore a skirt and blouse. They looked out of place, talking to police. 

 As I passed by, all I heard was “Is this your son?”

My throat tightened. I quickened my pace to get past them. This isn't my problem and it isn't my son. My son is already dead. 

From the safety of my car in the parking lot, I watched the the fathers face, his head shaking, arms outreached, fingers spread open. The Mom, repeatedly running her hand through her hair looking down. The son, staring at the ground mute. 

I watched them until the police took their son away. 

I couldn't take my eyes off the Mom as they walked back to the parking lot. The scrunch of her face, head tilted back, mouth open wide. 

I knew that look. It was the same look I had when I stood on the edge of that same scary cliff, dreading the bottomless free fall.  

I stopped counting the times I came to the ER for Joshuah--head trauma, accidental overdose, intentional overdose, psychiatric evaluations, life support. 

I knew that look. I knew the edge where that Mom stood. 

I left the ignition running and walked with purpose towards the parents. 

“I hope you don't mind my asking--was that your son in handcuffs?”

And for five full minutes personal details erupted like a volcano; child number three of four, college sophomore, pot, pills, and now--heroin. 

I didn't find it strange the parents were emotionally unloading to a complete stranger in a parking lot. For thirteen years I did the same thing when I felt I was in safe company, which wasn't often. 

I learned the hard way that when your child is mentally ill, to keep quiet and hide it, until you can’t.  Pointy fingers, caustic judgement, and condescending parenting advice was enough to shut me up.  

When they finished speaking, the father stopped, looked at me and said, “Who are you?”

I couldn't stop the tears. 

“I--am you.”

[savethenextone]

Save the Next One

A journal through the grief of losing a mentally ill child. 

[savethenextone]

Messiah

Welcome to the journey of grief--raw and uncensored--real, uncut, inciting, and ugly.

This is us--the last kiss before the coffin lid closed on Joshuah.

It's a destined journey. A strange one, an awakening one, one still stitched together when I sleep.

I am Joshuah's mom. One witness among many. One among those who loved him and six badges who didn't.  One he foretold would tell his story--finish it actually, so he could save others.

It is both a beautiful blessing and heavy burden.

But, here it is, as it is. It is not my story to tell.

It is his story from my perspective.

I am just a witness--a fractured and angry mess.

Joshuah died on January 22, 2018. I will explain how but not the why.

Maybe “why’ will reveal itself as I write, or maybe it won't. Maybe the answers will be muddier or maybe clear up. 

Maybe what I should do is trust my son.

"I know u don't realize it yet but u are very unique in beauty and character giving birth to the seed that was to come spoken about long ago that was refined in the earth as gold in the fire to redeem and bring the light. That's what you were meant 2 write. Love you so much mom!!!"       November 12, 2017 9:45 PM 

I don't remember the exact time when Joshuah began to think of himself as a Messiah. As an ED nurse with hefty psych experience, I knew grandiose ideas by the mentally ill to be common. I challenged him once.

"So Joshuah, you think you are Jesus? Are you a Messiah?

He never answered the question.