And That Makes Up for Not Crying

When two police officers stood in my living room just after midnight on March 1st to tell me my son had taken his life a few hours before, I doubled over to my knees.
I groaned, but my voice had lost all power. 
I kept saying "no" over and over. I repeated it and added "he's my baby boy," thinking it would somehow make him appear in my living room.
What I did not do was cry. There were just no tears. None.

I instantly thought "Does this mean I don't love him? Why am I not crying?" 
I know now why I didn't cry. I think my body wasn't ready. I think my body knew how much I would cry once reality set in, once the officers left and Brad and I stood in our living room in silence for what seemed like an eternity. Once I called Enzo's biological sister. Once I called his chosen sisters. Once I called my parents. Once I called my boss. 

March 28th marked one month without my son. I had mentally prepared for the day. I carried my crystal. I was ready, but oddly, that day was ok. I don't have good days anymore, but it wasn't the devastation I prepped for. I didn't expect what happened the NEXT day, one month and one day after Enzo died. Memories of the week that followed his death; family and friends in and out, the numbness, the disbelief, the phone calls, the hurt. God damn, the hurt. All of that was present with me again. I couldn't work. I couldn't even get DRESSED for work, but I managed to take care of the one client I had. Then I went home.
I stopped for my favorite breakfast food and my favorite drink- both at different places. I was aiming for anything that might comfort me. It didn't work. The only thing that could comfort me during this... well, he's no longer here.

Grief doesn't have a path or a road. It doesn't follow any rules. Grief is a snake, slithering where ever the hell it wants to go. It finds comfort in the shade tree, in the things you didn't know would hurt. It coils and strikes when you aren't looking. Sudden. Instant. And it's like hearing the words that mutilated your world all over again.
"Do you know Josiah Enzo Brooks?" 
Yes...
"We regret to inform you he's passed away."
No. No. No.
"We are so sorry."
What happened?
…. Silence for a brief moment.
"It was a self inflicted gun shot to the head."


The tears didn't come right away. The hurt I expected on March 28th didn't happen. I can't plan for this. I can't prepare for it. It happens on it's own. It happens when I least expect it. Just like Enzo's phone calls to me; such awful timing. 
Except on February 22nd. We talked for 45 minutes. It was a good conversation.
It was about nothing. It was about everything. I told him I wanted him to meet our new cat.
"You won't believe how I am with this cat. You know me, I hate cats, but this one... she's different. I can't wait for you to meet her."
He replied "Maybe I will get to meet her someday."

That should've been my red flag. I can't move past that comment. Of course he will meet her this summer when he's here, I thought. I didn't know what he knew. He's not coming this summer. He's not ever coming home again. 

The end of the conversation was also different. 
"This has been a great talk. 45 minutes! That's awesome! Enzo, I LOVE you." It had a bit more fervency than all the other times I told him that. 
Mom... I love you, too.
He voice shook. I recognized it instantly. His emotions were bubbling. I have seen it often, during the times we discussed his childhood trauma and the abuse he was so desperately trying to heal. I know that quiver in his voice. I knew it, I tried to heal it with a Momma's love and showing him over and over what being part of a family looks like. I knew that sound, that quiver, that emotion, but I didn't address it.

We hung up. 
"Awww, that boys loves his Momma," I thought. And my day moved on.
If I had known then... that's it. That's the last time I heard I love you from Enzo. 6 days later, he was gone.

I'm absolutely burdening myself over the fact that there were SO MANY signs and red flags that I didn't address, that I didn't bring up. I didn't force the topic. I didn't pile in my truck and drive to him. He didn't call me this time to talk him off this ledge. He didn't call because he knew his Momma would drive 90 mph to get to him. To stop him. To keep him here. Enzo had this way of talking about the heaviest of topics without causing alarm or panic or worry. He did that. He told me so many things about his suicide that I didn't pick up on. 

My mind hasn't completely let me reconcile this; but I'm 99% sure he mentioned the DAY he would do it. February 28th. But again, it was in a way that raised no alarms or panic. If you ever had a good conversation with Enzo, you know exactly what I mean. The subject of death was often on the table with Enzo. It was common. It was normal. It was basic. I know now he talked about death for a long time so that when the time came, no one would suspect he was following through with the ultimate self harm.
But that doesn't stop me from wanting to destroy myself with regret and "what ifs." 

Those tears I didn't cry on that night, those tears have been cried all over the place now:

In my truck.
In my bed.
Standing at my mirror.
In my dogs' fur
Sitting on the toilet.
In the shower.
Washing the dishes.
Sitting at work.
Standing outside at the firepit he built for me.
Holding his ashes.
Smelling his clothes.
Hearing his voice in videos.
Going to the places he and I had been.

These tears will be cried until I'm in my casket. I will cry for the rest of my life. And that makes up for not crying the night I found out my son died.