Forgiveness is a word people hand you like a pamphlet. They press it into your hands and walk away as if they have done something. They never stay long enough to hear how the word torments a parent who has lost a child.
Shortly after Caleb was born, he became colicky. Not the run-of-the-mill fussiness. This was blood-curdling screaming nonstop from about 9pm – 2am. I had to leave for work around 7:20am to make it in time. I barely slept. I was already the one who got up to attend to him every night, a role I also had with the foster kids and Madi. I quickly realized staying in our apartment just meant no one slept, so Caleb and I would drive around, find a safe parking lot, and I’d hold him a bunch of hours. Then when he started to settle a little, I would drive some more and he’d fall asleep. I’d carefully carry him up to our 3rd floor apartment and lay on the couch with him on my chest. Every. Single. Night.
When he was a toddler, he became very ill. I spent the morning cleaning him up and all the things defiled. Then, he was again crying but this time was very different. I am sitting on the floor, trying to make him comfortable while forcing fluids, and the more I try, the more it becomes obvious that it wasn’t working. We went to the children’s hospital. They checked vitals, looked for causes, did an air enema to ensure no obstruction, and placed him on an IV for several hours. He was just dehydrated and needed a prescription to help fight the illness.
As he grew, I had to take him for stitches in his lip and hand, sprained wrist, ingrown toenail, and a few hundred eye specialist appointments.
Even when I was helpless to cure, I was there. Trying.
On that final fateful few days, I was not there. After he sent the text griping about his roommates, I was not there. Should I have been there? Oh, that’s the mystery! Part of me says, “YES!” Another part says he was an adult dealing with a simple disagreement. How would I know he was facing a housing crisis? I do not know even now if he had a housing plan or not. He never communicated anything to me about it. He knew he was welcome home for a week, a month, or a year.
I never pushed him away. He was fiercely independent. We tried to convince him to not take five A.P. classes at one time in high school. He did it anyway and excelled. We tried to convince him to live at home and commute to college at least the first two years. No?, how about one year? No, he insisted on living in the dorm. Then insisted on moving into an apartment.
So here I stand at the fourth door. Can I forgive myself? Yes. No. Sometimes. Maybe.
I know what I tell other parents. I know the words because I have said them a hundred times. Love could not have kept him here. If it could, he would still be here. But knowing the right words and believing them for yourself are not the same thing.
Giving ourselves grace can be hard. I can do it for a minute. Sometimes an hour or a day. But the guilt, blaming, what-if scenarios, and replays invariably return.
I did everything wrong.
I did no wrong.
This sucks.
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