The Color of Loss is dedicated to my son

Chad Ryan

May 7, 1975 ~ October 14, 2014.

***

Not that long ago I was one of the mothers who wondered how parents who’ve lost a child could live through the pain. Well, I can now tell you that we don’t want to live, but there’s only one alternative. While watching the movie Maleficent a couple of days ago when Angelina realizes she lost her wings, I thought, that’s it, that’s exactly how tortured I feel, only without hate and revenge.

There is only so much pain a person can bear and when I awoke the other morning once again overcome by the wretched horror that Chad is gone for good, I realized I may not make it. In a way it’s getting worse. It’s not even one minute at a time, it’s one moment at a time. I have to give it to God all day long. Any parent who has lost a child knows that we live each day with the unbearable pain that our child is gone and there is nothing we can do about it.  I don’t know what people do without faith. One thing that does help me is each night and some mornings I listen to online ministers, and then pray. I’d never get to sleep otherwise. Of course then when I awake in the middle of the night I’m met by what’s happened and I want to die. What makes it even more difficult for me is how it happened and what lead up to his death. Every parent needs to talk about, everything.

When someone dies, we don’t just say, well, it happened and move on. Something always leads up to the point of death whether it’s sickness, going through a traffic light, our driving on ice. It’s a known fact through studies that to bring some semblance of healing we need to talk about every last detail over and over until we come to terms with what happened. Something killed our children, they just didn’t close their eyes and die. There is always a story to their death.

I miss so many things about Chad, and each day there is something more I remember. I miss his face, his voice, his laughter, his wonderful bear hugs, his handsomeness, the way he loved and took care of others, and especially the way he said “I love you mamma.” I miss and love that he was the first one to call me when he knew I was going through something. I love that he was such a caring person, that he was humble, and that he was always the first to say he was sorry, because not one of us are perfect. I’m grateful that he loved Jesus and is in the presence of God all mighty for when we die we are even higher beings than the angels. We will one day be like Christ. Hard to believe, but then that’s why Jesus went through so much suffering at the cross.

*I love you Chaddieboy and no matter how I try, I can never be okay with what happened to you.*

Click below to hear the song, Worn: This reminds me of what I saw during his last year of life:

WORN

CHAD RYAN
May 7, 1975 ~ October 14, 2014

  His Soul I’ll carry with me, always

That picture above captures the essence of Chad, full of life and love. But then sometimes life gets in the way. He died October 14, 2014. Depression took his life.

No words can stop the pain or the screaming in my head; I literally feel my mind being reshaped as I try to crawl out of this nightmare. It’s as if Chad is falling off a cliff and each and every waking moment I’m rushing over to save him. It’s a horrendous feeling as I try to undue what’s been done. I don’t know how much longer I can do this.

I can’t imagine what it will be like when shock wears off, because as it is now, living is wanting to die. As much as I dread nighttime, I’m so exhausted from the battle of dealing that I usually fall asleep after prayer or a few pages on my kindle; if only it would last, but I doze and awake many times a night to the earth-shattering reality my son is gone, over and over again. It’s pure torment as crazy as those first few moments when I learned he was dead. I dread going to sleep, I dread waking up. I dread living for months and years with this pain. I can’t bear that he suffered and died. I can’t bear that he disappeared off the face of this earth.

When I awake each morning I bolt out of bed sobbing, but I keep busy every moment of the day as I struggle to make sense of it all. After I’ve finished with chores I turn on a movie, but almost everything is a trigger and it’s no more than a minute or two that I concentrate even as I check my phone every few seconds, or straighten a pant leg, or pull up my socks, or pick lint off a shirt sleeve all in desperation to clutter up my grief.

I’m consumed by the loss of my son.

Chad should not be dead, it’s insanity; he wanted to live. He wanted a good life and he worked so hard for that. He worked so hard for others. To think I refrained from calling him at work many times for fear he may reach for his phone and fall off his ladder. But, that’s love, that’s consideration, that’s being cautious, that’s how we care for those we love. All I wanted from him, was him, to know he was happy, and to be alive. I wanted to visit him and talk with him a lot more than I did, I wasn’t bogged down by a job, I had time, but I sacrificed out of respect. How could this have happened? I would die to undue this mess, to take away his pain, to give him that trip to Hawaii he said he was saving for. When he felt the love he was on top of the world. I could see it in his eyes, in everything he did, and in his music when he felt sad, or happy, or when he was troubled.