Hey again,
Although it seems self-indulgent to reply to my own post, I can't help myself. Just wanted to let you all know that we still know nothing - 11 weeks tomorrow since I last saw my Owen.
I called the coroner's office on Friday, and they said to expect it to take another 2 -4 weeks for the final autopsy report. The civil-servant-red-tape thing is larger, longer, than I would have ever imagined. How dare the propaganda machine of television make us believe this should be different.
I left messages with the detective on Owen's case, and at the coroner's office. No replies, duh. So, we sit with our constant questions, and our constant misery in missing Owen. Yet, we have our joyful memories to support us through this agony. They are important in this purgatory (no, we're not Catholic, but totally get the concept of purgatory now - not for the dead, but for the living). Forgive me, if these words offend anyone's faith. They don't come from my faith, they come from my grief.
My faith tells me that Owen is happier now than he was in this life. My older son, Nat, and his stepdaughter, Ruby visited this evening for dinner. He is so tortured, absorbed in guilt, and our conversations take hours to come to a place of momentary acceptance of what has happened. I am so concerned about losing him in the mystery. He doesn't have the life skills to deal with this kind of obscurity - who does? He is doing his best, and thank God, he has Anna and Ruby to give him a sense of "life going on" for I don't believe he would care, otherwise.
Today was one of my darker days. Don't know why, don't care. Just know. I stayed in bed most of the day, watching the PGA tournament from my bed - the television being in the living room and visible from my prone position, however, I didn't bother to put on my glasses. Sometimes, we don't really want to see, just want to escape. Is that true for you?
So, when it got close to the time when Nat and Ruby were to arrive, Dave and I rushed to the store for dinner ingredients. When we got home, I felt this overwhelming need to spruce up the house, make it look like someone here still cares about things like dust and cobwebs. Dave and I kicked into high gear, to get the place cleaned up, and waited for them to arrive.
When they pulled into the driveway, I was again, in bed. Sick, physically, sick. Once I heard Nat's car driving over the gravel, I snapped to. I played with Ruby (she's four), and she loves my stuffed bear collection. After they ate (I couldn't), she wanted to go upstairs to Owen's room. She loves visiting his room. She talks about him openly, remembering Owen stories, and it's amazing to me, that at her young age, she remembers him, and talks about him in such an innocent way. I watched and listened to Nat talk with her about his brother, the uncle she will probably not remember in the years ahead. And, Nat was awesome. I am so thankful he can grab hold of this life in these moments, and truly get how dear his current relationships are, and welcome them into his life.
For now, we wait. For eleven weeks, we've waited. And, for a lifetime, we may never truly know what happened to Owen, except that he died at 20, and was working so hard at finding a balance in life. Balance. What a gift. We may never feel it again. I can't know. I can only hope.
I love you all for being here. I can't imagine not having a place to put these feelings. Counseling is great, but it's not here in these late hours. You are. Thank you. Thank you, Tom Golden, for having this amazing place to write, and read, and grieve with others who know our pain.
Love,
Linda
Owen's mom