Monday, December 14, 2009

It was 3 years ago today

It was three years ago today that I had an unexpected knock at the door, just prior to 8am as I was about to leave for work. It was a couple of local police officers who had the unenviable task of informing us that Abhi, my 17 year old son, had in the early hours of that morning taken his life. As I write this, I feel reasonably calm but I have at times been in dread for the last week thinking of this cruel anniversary, and how it might affect me.

I myself have confronted death twice this year, once in a motorcycle accident at the start of the year and again with pneumonia mid-year. I wasn't afraid on either occasion, at least not obviously so. And while I miss Abhi terribly, I feel confident that, as I felt for myself, death is not the end. There are six billion people in this world, and every one of them will die. Billions have come before us and every one of them have also died. It seems the most natural thing in the world, and I think that our fear of death is both natural and yet largely unfounded. Unfounded, because we fear the unknown.

As I lay on the footpath in a crumpled heap earlier in the year, I knew there was immense pain, and yet I felt divorced from it. As I closed my eyes to meditate, thinking that I may be leaving my body, I accepted that this may be the end. I felt thankful that I had kissed my partner and younger son good-bye. But Death spared me another day.

What I'm trying to say is that while we may miss a loved one who has left us - and that leaving could be moving interstate or overseas, and not just by death - I do firmly believe that if it is meant to be, we will be together again. The difference between death and someone moving is that the former is final, complete, irreversible. But we must all be separated at some time.

Still, I carry the grief of a parent who has lost a child, and I don't know if that will ever go away. There's a place in my heart, it seems, that is empty. I loved Abhi and I love him still. I talk to him sometimes, but I don't think he hears me. Wherever he is, I'm sure he has moved on, to fulfill his destiny, whatever that may be. And now we are left to fulfill ours.

5 comments:

claire said...

Sending my thoughts to you on this anniversary.

Alice said...

My heart goes out to you on this tragic anniversary. My life has been touched by suicide a horrible few times, but I can't imagine what it is to lose a son.

Jurguens said...

Oddly, yesterday I saw Departures, which of course brought tears to my eyes ea few times (beautiful film by the way), and now I see your post.

I think that one of the most important things in life is to accept death, to understand it and embrace it. I've had a tough year on that department. It's not easy, we miss the departed because we love them. But as one member of my family said about my grandpa: he used to be with us, now he is within us.

Maya said...

Caught in the grip of the death horizon, ours can only be the adventures of healing. I am with you in spirit on this sad anniversary. My love to you.

Paul Martin said...

I needed to post my thoughts, and I don't know how else to respond to each of your comments, other than to say thank-you.

FWIW, I was feeling pretty sorry for myself on the day and wandering the city of Melbourne during lunch-time, I found myself in Spellbox and bought myself both a candle to burn in memory of Abhi and also had a spell made for me, comprised of various essential oils like rose geranium, cyprus, lavendar and others. If you've read my 'About Me', you'd know I have various eclectic metaphysical interests. This was the first time I've resorted to magic per se, as I normally prefer to utilise my own inner spiritual tools. So now, I'm wearing these scents and, you know, I feel reassured to smell them.