Year of Firsts: Loss after Suicide

By Jean Ann Williams

Imagine a young son who struggled his whole life with pain and illnesses, and you care for his physical needs and feel responsible for his emotional well being. Imagine this is the most important assignment God entrusted to you. Now, imagine witnessing that twenty-five year old son die by his own hand.
This moment began our year-long of firsts.

Sometimes I wandered the house, my Bible nestled to my chest as I sensed my skin would crawl from me and I would surely die. My husband noticed I needed a reprieve from the house, and we ate supper at restaurants the first year. Sometimes we watched movie classics on our screen, like Lucille Ball and Shirley Temple, to forget for awhile.

Our son, Joshua, left us to the Great Beyond a day before St. Patrick’s Day. Between then and Memorial Day, I existed twenty-four hour days with only three hours sleep at night. When Easter Sunday arrived, the last thing I wanted was to attend a family gathering. But I joined them, even though I cried non-stop for the first hour.

Thankfully, the men stayed outside and the women gathered around and comforted me.
As the weeks dragged by, I became a recluse in my home. I couldn’t bear to leave where my son closed his eyes for eternal sleep, and where I my fingers touched his skin where the final heartbeat said goodbye.

As the Fourth of July approached, terror made me panic. Loud popping sounds made me go tense and then limp, as though I would faint. The same sound Joshua made when he shot himself within the walls of a bedroom. I knew I could not stand the noise of fireworks. So we went to a retreat for the night of the Fourth. The place had no TV or radios, and best of all, no fireworks. I relaxed and slept better than I had in months.

That first year, birthdays made me cry. Our whole family suffered from the void of no Joshua, and him not there to celebrate his nieces and nephews birthdays. For Joshua’s birthday, our granddaughters wanted to celebrate and remember their Uncle Joshy in a special way.

My husband built a wooden candleholder, and we inserted a candle in the notch and kept it lit on the dining room table in celebration of Joshua’s life. Later in the evening, when our daughter and family arrived, we ate Joshua’s favorite chocolate Texas sheet cake. After we ate the cake, we spread puzzles on the table and put them together. Some of us shed tears together, but in full it became a quiet and respectful time to remember Joshua’s birth.

For the winter holidays, I wanted to sleep through them and not wake until spring. Joshua loved that time of year better than any, and now we’d go through the motions without him. It was made even harder as I caught one cold and flu after another.

On the first anniversary of Joshua’s death, with a few family members present, we buried his ashes. After we placed Joshua’s urn in its resting place, I grabbed a handful of dirt and dropped it down. Even though we had a shovel to fill the hole, I got on my knees and pushed in the dirt. With every thud the dirt made, I my sobs increased.

Soon, my son-in-law squatted beside me. He patted my back with one hand and pushed the dirt in with the other. My sister-in-law joined me on my other side. She said in a hushed voice, “You are the strongest person I’ve ever known.”

I did not feel strong at all.

An odd thing happened when I woke the next morning. I looked around my house and noticed thick dust. I gasped. I hadn’t dusted in a year and had not seen it. As I cleaned my home that day, I sensed a heavy burden had lifted. My son’s remains rested in the ground. A beautiful

stone lay at the head of his grave. One of the inscriptions we chose to put on Joshua’s stone came from a crumple note we found among his things: “Love Truth”.

The feeling of horror on the day my son died has been replaced with God’s loving presence. And still to this day, twenty-two years later, I’m grateful for the time I had with my son, Joshua.