On September, Depression, and Letting Go
School has started. There's a crispness in the air. Up here the leaves are starting to change. All this means that September has arrived. I used to love fall. But now, as soon as the cool weather starts to come in, my depression begins to settle around me like an unwelcome friend. I can feel it making itself comfortable like a warm blanket resting on my shoulders, except it's anything but. It's an unwanted guest making its annual visit this time of year.
I went on a retreat with a good friend of mine and unplugged from social media for the last week of August and the first part of September. We started out in the middle of nowhere in Northern Michigan and worked on getting our lives back in order and ended up in the middle of Detroit going to the movies, the zoo, and a Tigers game. I thought keeping myself busy with a good friend would keep the dementors at bay. Alas, it was not to be. They came anyway. They showed up like clockwork to tell me that the days were ticking down to the anniversary of Patrick's passing.
Indeed, the last time I was at a Tigers game was 2014, and Phil and I had just visited with the surgeon and I was moving toward palliative care for Patrick. The memories came flooding back. The last time I was at the Detroit zoo, we were there with Mira keeping her entertained while Patrick was in the hospital. And the memories continued to come. But next time! Next time I can say, last time I was here with my friend and we ate junk food and laughed about things and had a wonderful time. Next time I can go to these places and have something else to remember because I was brave enough to go this time. And so I enter each September wondering what I will be doing so that next year I can try to fight off the dementors with new memories. Wondering when the depression will not make itself at home quite as easily as it does now. Sadly, it's not this year, but I hold out hope and wait for next September.
In the meantime, though, I have learned something that might help. This year, Patrick would have been 4. I have seen lots of little boys running around doing lots of adorable things this year. Some of these boys are younger than Patrick and others are around his age. And sometimes I get caught up wondering what Patrick would have been like. What would he have been doing? I know he would have been driving his sister crazy, but would she have been trying to teach him the ABCs like she claims? Would they play together? Chase each other? Would his problems have kept him from developing normally?
As I contemplated these questions, as I have done in previous years, something different happened this year. I remembered his heart--his funky, one-of-a-kind heart--and something my dad said to me. Patrick made it so no one could make him stay longer than he meant to. And that's the raw truth of it. Patrick was never going to be 4. There is no "How would he look all grown up?" because he was never going to grow up. Imagining what he might have been like is useless because that was never meant to be. He was not a healthy kid who had his life snuffed out early. He was a beautiful soul who was just here for a short time.
I've always known there was nothing more I could have done for Patrick. I've never felt as though I let him down or that I should have done more for him. And yet, by allowing myself to let him age in my head, I was doing just that. I was pretending that there was a life he could have and should have had. There wasn't. Patrick didn't miss out. He lived his life to the fullest, learning, laughing, and smiling to the end. By aging him, I've been uselessly beating myself up over something that never was and never would have been. I believed it brought comfort to imagine, but it didn't. It simply brought home the ache that he wasn't there. Instead of focusing on the amazing memories I did have, I was focusing on those things that could never be. That doesn't mean I won't celebrate his birthday, and I'll probably still make the off-handed remark that he would have been able to drive when we reach his 16th birthday. Heck, we even said that about our marriage when it hit 16 and it's not even a person. The point I'm trying to make is that I'm ready to let go of the imaginary life I had for him. It wasn't his. It was mine. And it isn't helping me. So it's time to thank it for the part it played in my grieving process and show it on its way. I'm ready to grow up and face the truth now.
Patrick was almost 11-months-old when he died. That's all he got. That's all he needed. I need to focus on and remember those beautiful times and those beautiful smiles.
