For Thor - 2 - Anger

Today there is an angry edge to my thoughts. I’m mad at you, Thor, actually. Go figure, right? You’re used to that, I suppose. But I am also angry at myself. It's enough anger to go around, believe me.

I’m trying to do a few normal things. I washed the dishes and put in a load of laundry. I made the bed and fed the cats. What’s new is the dialogue in my mind. It swirls in and out of a one-way conversation to a plea to the Universe for a Goddamned Do-Over. “I miss you, Thor. Oh, look at how cute you were in this picture. I can’t believe you are gone. You never know when shit’s gonna happen. You’re so vulnerable. God, can’t we go back and try this again?” Then I get mad.

“Why the hell did you have to do {fill in the blank}.  If only you hadn’t {fill in the blank}. If only I had {fill in the blank}. What the fuck were you doing in that truck in the first place? Why didn’t someone tell me you were thinking of getting behind the wheel? Still feeling 10-feet tall and bulletproof, darling boy? Is it wrong to want to yell at you “I told you this would happen, dumbass!”? Yeah, I want to yell I Told You So to my dead son. I’m pretty fucking ticked.

I bet it was a heck of a surprise to you to find your Self severed from your body and floating above it. What I would give to know what your consciousness was experiencing at that moment. Do souls have remorse? Did you want to come back? I know you didn’t intend to leave me. I know you wouldn’t ever intend to hurt me like this. But dammit, it happened. And you are free and here I sit with all this shit to sort through. Here I am mourning you, worried for your dad and your brothers - and everyone who loved you - and how we recover from this impossible wound.

And you, having completed your time here with us, you are expanded into the Realm of Angels. It’s not supposed to be this way. You and your brothers are supposed to hold each other up many years from now when your dad and I take that journey. You are supposed to have had practice in grieving deep loss by mourning the passing of beloved grandparents, first. This is a bizarre plot twist in the natural order of things.

I’m mad at myself for failing you. It’s my job to keep you whole, healthy, happy and alive; has been since the day I gave birth to you. You were determined to make my job really hard --and apparently impossible. Early on, I realized I had to simply give you to God.  I would do my best to protect and help you, but ultimately you are God’s child, not mine. If he wanted to take you, he would and there’s nothing I could do about it. This doesn’t mean I didn’t do my part... from baby gates to vaccinations and being hyper-selective of media and friends, eating right and all those little life skills and lessons. The lessons you learned and shared with so many, in turn. I worked to keep you here where you could thrive among us. I failed. God won. He wanted you back and took you. Asshole move, God. Really.

Each morning I light the candle that sits next to your ashes and look at the beautiful photographs of your smiling face. I tell you good morning. And I wait. What will today’s grieving be about? Which barbs will snag my heart today? Will it be a sweet savoring of memories? Will it be sobbing jags poured forth from the rend in my heart?  Today along with the agony of missing you it seems to be anger. Again, this is apparently normal. What the hell kind of normal is this that a mom is pissed off at her dead son.

Just writing those words is inflammatory. Dead. Son. Holy shit, Thor. How did we get here?