WTF Tuesday

The following post contains images that may be disturbing to some readers.

In 2019, I recommitted myself to WW and sliced an itty-bitty time sliver out of every Tuesday to dedicate to weigh-ins and meetings. My new schedule coincided with a new season in my life. After nearly nine years of healing from messy divorce consequences, I finally exhaled: gray days ahead, but a glimmer of hope. Or so I thought.

“Everything that seemed so important days ago is now as worthless as a pebble.” ~ Orhan’s Inheritance, Aline Ohanesian

Busy beaver, I rushed through every Tuesday with purposeful work and at day’s end a resolve to weigh, record and jubilate over shredded ounces or, optimally, pounds. I kicked up my heels, tap danced on a golden wellness stage even when the scale tipped in the opposite direction, because achieving goals require a certain degree of disappointment.

It was a dull, lifeless, cloudy Tuesday like today. It was November 19, 2019 in the early afternoon. Ironically, I spent the week prior researching ligature frames for a client’s artwork for a psychiatric hospital. Now, I was working remotely, feeling particularly charged and satisfied, and then….The call. The words, the seething mass of flames that inflict every pain center in your * brain, body and crevice of your being without sense or mercy.


“Everything that seemed so important days ago is now as worthless as a pebble.” ~ Orhan’s Inheritance, Aline Ohanesian

There is no smooth transition in writing or in life that can bridge a reader and/or life traveler to the sudden, traumatic moment of raw reality that sparks when you* receive a call from a coroner, named Mary, with a Southern twang in a state some 600 miles away who asks you if you are the mother of a 26-year-old son named Marshall. Once you reply, she asks you if you are driving and, if you are, instructs you to pull over to the side of the road.

“As such…” “In following…” “Furthermore…” “Shockingly…”

There is no transition, even if choppy, to prepare you for Mary’s flamed words that leap through the phone’s gas chamber, crackle and hiss and spare no part of your heart, soul or any body part.

“Your son’s co-workers found him dead hanging in a closet. They tried to resuscitate him, but couldn’t.”

Sounding so matter-of-fact and cold like a refrigerated morgue, the woman, you surmise, lies. Your socks, printed with colored pictures of Michael the Archangel, reassure you that moms wearing angel socks are spared fires-of-hell words from coroners that shock you, only to later interrogate you.

“Why didn’t you call 911?” “Did you know your son was sleeping on a bare floor without a mattress?”

After the demon hangs up, you wail and roll on the hard wooden floor where your only son had once walked, trotted and ran as a boy, adolescent and young man. All you desire is to open the floor up like a gas chamber and willingly take the plunge, but there is no escape.

It has been four months, 12 days since I found out the news that my beloved son, my best bud, my past, present and future, took his own life. In those early days, I wondered about so many things, including how I could ever return to writing blog posts about faith.

My close writer friend, Laurie, advised me a couple months after we buried my son, to write about how I have NO faith. How I question faith. How each and every moment is the dark night of the soul.

In fact, when people ask how I feel facing the pandemic and turbulent state of the nation, I honestly reply, “Fine.”

Not to minimize the toll that the pandemic has taken on numerous lives in so many different ways, but I do believe most people will survive and there will be solutions that include new coping strategies and breakthrough medicines. For me, it’s final. I will never see my son’s fluffy eyelashes bat wildly when he’s talking and excited. The same eyelashes I loved to brush against on my face when he was an infant. I will never feel safe and protected and, oh, so proud, standing next to him as he towered over me like a straight arrow. I will never relish hearing his deep voice or his silly laugh that mimicked mine. Or marvel in how much he looked like his younger sister. At every turn of my life, he is there in a Marshall memory. I will spend the rest of my life feeling as helpless as I did once when I ran down every aisle in a department store searching for him when he was a toddler. This time, I will not find him seconds later. This time is permanent.

My fate, right now, is final. I can’t feel nor can I comprehend the afterlife at this given moment, so please spare me.

Frankly, I just carry grief and feel numb, and I wait. What do I wait for? I don’t particularly know. I just wait. Someone said when you lose a loved one; imagine him or her as being in the next room. So, maybe my life right now is securing the most comfortable seat in a waiting room, because I have to be gentle on my body of hurt.

“Everything that seemed so important days ago is now as worthless as a pebble.” ~ Orhan’s Inheritance, Aline Ohanesian

So what became of WW? Let’s just say that the paperwork from the last meeting I attended is deposited inside a basket where I left it four months, 12 days ago. The WW literature is tucked out of sight just like my angel socks. I will wait until I revisit these things, and so many, hidden grenade pain points of my life. None of it, like rolls of toilet paper, is really that important in the scheme of a life.

*Switches to third person to shield me from further unnecessary pain

21 thoughts on “WTF Tuesday

  1. I am sorry. Thank you for having the capacity to reach out & share.Sitting in silence beside you (from Richland WA,) lamenting…..

    Roy Grace and Peace “Lord, let my life be a space in which You can work in the world, clear away my inner rubbish, and fill me with Your Spirit of healing, delight and peace, so that everything I do may be the fruit of Your life in me.”

    Angela Ashwin

    • Thank you for your comments. It goes to show that no matter how geographically far we are from one another, we are still close, because we are all connected on a spiritual level. Thank you again from a sorrowful, but grateful heart!

  2. Oh Stacy. I pray writing gives you some comfort during this time. I’ve always believed getting our feelings out on paper helps ease life’s burden the tiniest bit. Always thinking of you and when you’re ready, let’s meet again.

    • Hi Laurie, As you know, you were the one who inspired me to revisit my blog. So, THANK YOU! What it really boils down to, for me, and something I’ve been working continuously on for decades now, is to have courage to tell my own truth. The writers that resonate with me are the ones who not only master a skill, but also trust themselves enough to be transparent and love themselves enough to employ integrity in their work. In fact, your writings over these many years have resonated with me. Can’t wait to meet again! Again, thanks!

  3. I can’t say I ‘like’ this, but I like that you were able to let it out onto the screen. I have been through this experience.
    Dec. 18, 2002, on the anniversary of my husband’s death from cancer, my son took his life. Eighteen years ago,
    and still I pick up the phone to share some noteworthy part of my day with him. I miss him. I would not miss him less if he had died in another way. Don’t let people put you in that ‘suicide corner’. I am Methodist and my Church is forgiving of suicide (they do not condone it, but they believe in God’s agape love). I defy anyone to show me where
    it says in the Bible that those who commit suicide cannot go to heaven. I have discussed this with pastors of many denominations and while some feel it is covered in 1 Corinthians where it says the body is a temple, most agree that verse was never meant as a condemnation. Here is the verse that is my anchor: Romans 8:1 says, “There is no condemnation to those who are in Christ Jesus.” Your son was and is a child of God I believe we are not meant to see the bigger picture, but I have faith that my son and your son are in the arms of Jesus. May God bless you with peace, and a return to faith.

  4. Awwww. Thank you for your heartfelt comment. I am actually writing this reply through streaming tears. You honesty, compassion and true connection touches me deeply. I send you a virtual hug. Beauty shines through your blog posts and through you! Thank you again! PS: you will never know how much I needed to read this comment today and how much it means.

  5. ” I just wait.”
    I know.
    So do I.
    I wonder what we’re waiting for?
    I am not going to say anything,
    about how beautiful your son is,
    and his mother.
    Love to both of you.

  6. I am sorry for your loss, I can understand the troubles you have with faith. Reading this makes me feel almost ashamed for my little ditty I posted this morning on covid-19 😦

    • Thanks so much, John. I appreciate you sharing your little ditty with me! All emotions are valid at all times and so individual to all. If anything, that is the one major thing I’ve learned during this dark journey.

      • I’m reading this again. I don’t know why it is that so many are pushed to their limits while others seemingly sail through life. While my wife and I were going through our divorce, I was angry at the placid couple next door sitting on the back porch [while on the topic of porches] while we … oh, it just grates. You don’t have to look far to find inequities of fortune

  7. Grief it’s terrible, and we all humans must face it at one time, we all are different, but in my case the only thing that ever helped me, ironically…was to open my heart, and love more.
    Best wishes.

  8. Dear cattalespress, thank you for your visits! May the Lord protect, comfort, and reward you now and forever.

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