One impetus for going into Christofer’s phone myself was to access his Facebook account. I figured he’d have stored the password. At least, I hoped. Facebook policy is that they won’t release the log in and password under any circumstances without a court order. They’d be happy to suspend or even delete his account, but I couldn’t get in there.
I had many reasons for wanting to get into it, the primary reason, believe it or not, being to change his profile pic. He looked so sad. A selfie snapped when he was feeling trapped and abandoned and, to be brutally honest, like a failure. He’d gotten his dream job, moved away from home, started life on his own, and it wasn’t working out. In fact, it was crumbling completely. Why couldn’t he hold on to happiness? he asked. He told me once, it was kind of like drowning. Every once in a while he’d get his head out of water long enough to gulp at the air, then he was flailing underwater again, terrified he wouldn’t be able to kick back to the surface.
When I remember conversations like that, part of me (forgive me, sweetheart) is grateful he’s no longer flailing. It sinks me under, where he was. The difference is, my time under water is like his on the surface–fleeting.
I accessed his Facebook account, changed the password, took control. Today, I changed that profile picture. I also found beautiful messages left by friends after he was gone, and a video of him during the school play, back when he was eighteen (one of the golden years) that made me laugh and cry. It’s so good to have one of those times above water, immortalized in a blurry video. He was happy. He was goofy, and well liked. Loved. I have the proof when remembering the sad stuff tugs at my legs.
Years ago, when Jamie and Scottie were teens and Chris and Grace tweens, a friend with very small children said to me, “I want to have the same relationship with my kids that you have with yours.” I felt so proud, so happy. I always had a great relationship with my kids. I was over-protective at times (Jamie even wrote an article recently, extolling my brand of crazy mom) but my kids didn’t just love me, they liked me. They were never embarrassed to hug me in public, to introduce me to friends, to tell me they love me, which they did/do often. I was never a “not MY child” mother, and they knew it. Just like they knew I’d never go an eye for an eye even if and when they were wronged. It was hard, when I wanted to rip someone’s head off for saying/doing/accusing something wrongfully. Sinking to another’s level is, in my opinion, giving them the victory no matter what the overt outcome. I always knew in my bones I was a good mother. And yet, having my friend say that about wanting the same relationship with her kids was the kind of validation I never knew meant anything to me, but it did. It meant so much.
Since Chris’ death, that beautiful comment has haunted me.
Then, just the other day, another friend left a comment for me on Facebook, in response to A Hurdle Crossed: “You inspire me in so many ways. I’m so glad the universe saw fit to draw a thread between our lives. You are the type of mom I strive to be.”
I burst into tears.
That someone I love, admire, and respect still feels that way about me hit me like that first compliment from the other dear friend all those years ago–I didn’t know it was validation I ever wanted, needed. Desperately needed.
This is, without question, the hardest, most heartbreaking stretch of road on my life’s journey. I’m weathering it better than the last stretch of darkest dark, strangely enough. That experience taught me things I’m using now to survive this, mentally intact. I don’t even want to know what this stretch is preparing me for, but I’m taking notes. I think you might be reading one right now.