In Memory of My Son . . . and, then, we knew

Continued from here



The phone rang, once again, just before midnight. My husband answered. Then, all I heard was silence.

I watched him, though, as he collapsed onto the couch. His head fell down to his chest. His shoulders curled over his legs. And he buried his head into the space in between.

I knew Eric was gone.
I was frozen!

Between the cries of pain, my husband let out a muffled, "no!" escalating in audibility as he lifted his head up,

"no . . . No . . . NO!"

"It was him!"

"Eric is dead!"

"My son is GONE!"

"What have you done, Eric?!?"

"What have you done?!?"

I wrapped my self around him, and we just cried for what seemed like an eternity.

I recall him saying, "I failed him, Angela! I failed my son!"



He, again, flew to Texas . . . to bury his son. I wanted to go! Brandon and Koby wanted to go, too. We wanted to say our good-byes. We couldn't, though.

I had stayed behind with the boys, racked with guilt over missing Eric's phone call that one particular morning.

What if he was reaching out to me?

What if he needed someone to talk to?

If only I had answered, instead of rushing off to Wisconsin . . . maybe, just maybe . . . he might still be here with us.

There are a million 'what ifs' and 'if onlys' that have crossed my mind over the last two and a half years. I cannot help but feel like I could have saved him . . . if only.

Every day, every minute, every hour, I just keep reminding myself to take it one day at a time. Time will never heal all wounds, but it does get easier . . . somewhat, anyway.

I let the sadness out when I need to.
I let the angry words fly at times.
I cry.
I scream.
I shut down.
I lock myself away from it all.

I go on.
We go on.
One day at a time.

We remember the good.
We honor him.
We feel his convictions.

We remind ourselves:

Breathe in.
Breathe out . . .