My parents came over to check on me at one point weeks after the accident, when I had stopped answering the phone, stopped taking visitors, and began planning my suicide out to the smallest detail. I was not a gracious hostess when they arrived, knocking continuously until I let them in. I couldn't be gracious, or even responsive. I no longer cared about anything or anyone...not my parents, not my husband, and God help me, not even my son. I could feel nothing but the brutal, relentless pain...save one small act that I did not see coming.
When all the words were said, I had promised them nothing, and probably did little to alleviate their fears. If anything, they would likely return home more worried about me than when they had arrived...now that they had seen my condition in person.
What was the small act that broke through my private hell?
It was this:
my mother coaxed me into bed, no doubt hoping sleep would help repair my unhealthy thought patterns- a great concept, if I could only get to sleep in the first place. The more I craved sleep, the more elusive it became.
My mother, seventy-four years of age, her five foot frame nearly doubled over in her own grief, put a gentle hand on my shoulder, and herded me to my bed. I fell on it, wanting only to be dead. Nothing more, and nothing less.
She leaned over, and pulled the covers up to my chin, tucking me in with a kiss and a cool, soothing hand to my brow.
If you've never been tucked in by your mother as an adult, you may not know it is one of the single most powerful and loving gestures you will ever experience.
Sometimes when the waters of grief and depression are level with your chin, and steadily rising, you have to become a child again...let others take care of you, let a strong hand pull you out, right you on your feet, and help you to stand.
Thank you, Mom. I love you so much.
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