I have personally learned from sorrow that I grieve very differently from my husband. At first, I thought he did not care that our son had died and that every day I was dying my own death from sadness. He did not seem to care. My husband is not an affectionate man, nor does he like to show any emotion especially crying. Damned the whole generational curse of what men should be like or not. For the most part, I am alone in my grief. I have learned to go to my room or to the shower and let my tears flow like running water over my body. I cry in bed at the most benign things like something I have read or something that comes on the television. I am surrounded by the art on my walls my son gave to me over his lifetime that he painted or drew. His photos are everywhere in memorandum with angels guarding him and sayings on signs to remind me he will never be forgotten. I cry and pound the steering wheel and through blurred vision let go of the pent-up tears that I am not allowed to cry anywhere but when I am alone. Of course, there are times when tears come and cannot be stopped. They are part of my life now like it or not. I have learned to manage them at times but not always. No one wants to see me cry or hear that I am still not “over it.” It will soon be fourteen years Brandon has been gone. I can hardly believe it myself. Time is a funny thing. I heard that it heals all wounds. Not true. A mother does not have the luxury of healed wounds brought by sorrow. It is an injury that keeps reopening with every special occasion, birthdays, Christmas, Thanksgiving, etc… or just a song, a memory….so much can cut into my emotional wound of loss. Sometimes it is like the raw new pain it was in the beginning. Then there are stretches of genuine smiles and laughter that are gifted to me.

It would be unfair to say my husband never expresses his emotions. Just recently he was trying to share about our son to a church group because he was called on unexpectedly to tell something about himself. He could not proceed so I spoke when he could not. I was shocked to say the least. Christmas brought tears as well. He was listening to his play list of Christian songs about heaven and how we will see our loved ones again. He could not contain the tears any longer and he wept…. not cried. Again, I was surprised by this man whose stoic self plays by the old ways of masculinity. Tears not allowed. Men are people too. Who made up that rule for men anyway? Even Jesus wept. I think my husband and other men I know have an easier time of expressing anger than sadness. Anger is a more manly trait as portrayed in movies and books while weakness has been assigned to the crying woman who uses tears to get her way.

Yet still I cry alone. It is just my way now. I want the freedom to feel the pain and let it go at the same time. Tears are a way to rid myself of that pent up emotion that I have not acknowledged in a while. Grief has its own calendar of when it will show itself. I cannot prepare for it. I just know that I will always miss my beautiful boy Brandon and that I miss calling him, “son” and knowing he will call me to ask me if I have read his story that he wrote, or hearing that strange song he had for his phone greeting, or that he will come over and visit us for the weekend, or come help us move a heavy piece of furniture….so much to miss. His smile and laugher were infectious and his sense of humor always on. Like every Christmas he would say “Christmas carnage” when it was one giant mess of boxes and wrapping paper all over the place. He would make his voice sound cartoonish like and we would laugh. He had a hefty appetite too but then again; he was a weightlifter. I remember making a to go platter of leftovers the last Thanksgiving we spent together for him and his family to take home. He was not shy about eating. I will miss most of all his birthday wishes for me today as it is my birthday. I miss you, son. I just may cry…but who wants to cry on their birthday?