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Three Years After – A Message of Hope

Three years ago, today, my husband and I returned from a short vacation and found our son, George, dead by his own hand. It is the most devastating blow a person can experience, as you all know.

Those first days and weeks were filled with “Why, Why, Why!” We agonized over what we had or had not done or said. Our sleep, eating, and minds were disordered. I started keeping a journal after a week because I could not remember what had happened in the previous days. The searing raw pain was almost unbearable, but we all went on for each other. All the “firsts”- holidays and birthdays – were borne with tears, sadness, and a sense of unreality.

Georgina and her son George, at Pinetop.

In the following two years, my husband, my daughter, and I each experienced major health problems. Hypertensive crisis, cardiac problems, panic attacks, gall bladder surgery, gout, and chronic fatigue. We lost friends and gained a new appreciation for those who had the courage to stand by us and witness our grief. Triggers were everywhere – from the grocery store to the parking lot where we taught him to drive. If I had a momentary glimpse of joy, I felt terribly guilty. Slowly, the pain of our loss changed from gut-wrenching to the constant ache of a bad tooth.

I started therapy in year two because I felt that I was just marking time until I died and this relentless ache and depression ended. There was, even then, a spark in me that wanted to start living again. We talked through a lot of emotions and I worked on forgiving myself. In a therapy session late last year, I finally broke through to a place where I felt I could lay the burden of his death down.

We don’t have to carry it. We can let it walk alongside us.

I write this as a message of hope, particularly for those in the early stages of their loss. It may seem impossible to you that you will ever feel peace or joy again. I didn’t believe it was possible. This third year, on the anniversary of his death, I can say, that I feel a measure of equanimity in my life and a hope for a future where I can enjoy the simple pleasures of life without the shadow of survivors’ guilt dimming my happiness. He is always right there with me, just behind my right shoulder.