He did have a plan, after all...

…remembering Adam during The Big Dark

Trigger warning: suicide

“Ok. This is all the festive we’re gonna get.”

It’s early morning. The dogs have been fed and they’ve been outside in the cold, returning with sticks, which they will chew up and deposit on my bedroom rug. I’ve lit my candle, made my tea, and cozied back up under fuzzy blankets, to write about the heaviness that lives in my heart, always, but especially during this season.

It’s been nearly two years since my elder son Adam took his own life. Two years since the shock and the disordering of the world. The sharp edges of grief may have blurred just a tiny bit, but I do not believe the pain will ever truly leave me.

Memories and thoughts of Adam flick through my consciousness like an old fashioned slide show. Click. There he is, in his green bathrobe, opening Christmas presents. Click. There he is, intensely and meticulously assembling yet another complex model ship. Click. There he is, in his tux, putting gorgeous music into the cosmos with his oboe. Click. There he is, at 14, going out the door with first responders, conscious and willing to go, but strapped to a gurney, just as a precaution. Click. There he is, in his 20’s, calling me from the ER to say he’s survived another attempt. Click. There he is, a few years later, waking up in the ICU, his face a mask of disappointment and defeat.

Click.

There were good times — many good times — between the crises. And there was always struggle. For him. For me, as his mom. But mostly for him. Participating in a world he seldom felt a part of came at a cost. He kept taking the risk, and over and over, for periods of time, he did belong. Then the bottom would drop out of his world — often in slow motion, often without a ripple, often very quietly… and he would try, again, to disappear. How many times did he return from his dark place, regroup, recreate some portion of himself, and rejoin the world?

He moved: From therapist to therapist. From med to med. From job to no job to job again. From one city to another. From one broken heart to the next.

At last, in his early 30’s, he ended up here, in Albuquerque, trading farm labor for a place to stay, right across the street from his brother and me. He always hoped — we always hoped — for a new beginning. A second, third, sixth chance to make a go of it.

I know — because he’d told me many times — that he kept the thought of suicide in his back pocket. His ace in the hole. The thought of leaving was ever-present. An escape pod. Knowing he could go, and having, I believe, made his plans, he could continue trying. (“I’ll give this one more go. If I fail, I can always leave. For good.”)

It is to his credit that he never threatened suicide. He never held it over us. When he did speak to me of his “what if,” it was always in the context of wanting to… of wishing he could just do it… and of deciding not to. Not now. Not yet.

He arrived in Albuquerque in the late summer. Harvested apples and pears. Pressed cider. Cleaned equipment. Processed tomatoes. Made salsa. Got a job. Played his oboe with three community bands. Passed the written driving exam. Refused to take lessons or practice driving with me, because, as he said, “I would run the car into a tree…” and I could feel the ground beneath our feet shifting, just slightly.

(“Were there any signs?” asked the very young Sheriff’s deputy, on The Day. Yes, officer, there were always signs… ongoing… always… )

Looking back, it was almost as though he’d come to Albuquerque with a list of things to share, places to see, and foods to eat, before….. He invited me to watch a lot of TV: favorite shows he was sure I’d like. We walked miles in the Bosque, ate at his favorite restaurants, prowled museums, spent a day in Santa Fe.

Because he was living right across the road, he came over for most of his dinners. Sometimes he cooked for his brother and me, sometimes I cooked, sometimes we ordered pizza. During a really fun flurry of cooking with his brother, he handed Stephen his battered Joy of Cooking, with the words, “Anything you need to learn, any questions you have, you’ll find it in here.”

He received a small Weber grill as a “prize” for being a good employee. A lifelong vegetarian who never grilled anything, he told us he chose this particular “prize” because he knew it would come in useful for Stephen and me.

Christmas approached, and he “didn’t need anything.” With his grandfather, we opened presents in my living room. I had defaulted to the usual trio: gift card, sweater, sweatshirt… He tucked the gifts into a paper bag and left it at my house. Even when reminded — hey! your Christmas stuff! — he’d say, “Not right now.”

He spent a lot of time polishing various musical arrangements and original compositions he’d worked on over the years. Found a place where he could have the scores printed and bound. Worked online with a high school orchestra buddy, finalizing a big composition.

I noticed he’d begun hugging us — me and Stephen — way more than usual. Huge, lift-you-off-the-ground hugs.

In his 20’s, Adam had created arrangements of several Christmas carols… notably, a haunting arrangement of “O Come, O Come, Emmanuel,” suitable for four woodwinds OR four-part choir. Here in Albuquerque, he gave the sheet music to our church music director. The season was right, but the way the music appeared on the page, although suitable for instruments, was too much of a challenge for the choir, and the piece was never performed.

We made it through that Christmas season and into the new year… and yes, there were signs, but there had always been signs. We made the best of things. We worked hard to feel — or at least to appear — normal.

And then.

And now…

Last Sunday during the offertory, the music director played a truly lovely version of “O Come, O Come, Emmanuel.” I was overtaken by waves of emotions I cannot even name. I did my best not to cry. I failed, but I was quiet about it.

This time of year — and always, if I’m honest — I am surrounded by Adam’s sadness, by how hard he tried, by regret and what if. I stumble through the twinkle lights and the aroma of pumpkin pie in the oven and the scraggly artificial Christmas tree he sometimes made fun of. So many memories tied to this season. So much happiness — because yes, there was happiness — and so much struggle and grief.

His absence is everywhere.