Any of you who have watched someone battling a disease know that it can be hard work, on the person who is ill and on those who are taking care of and supporting their loved one. When John died, there was a part of me that was relieved. He wasn’t suffering anymore, and selfishly, I wouldn’t have to work so hard to take care of him anymore. What I didn’t realize is that the work goes on, in a different way.
This past week, as we move through the second year of John’s death, I am faced again with a challenge that I never expected. We all know about the teenage years, most of us remember bits and pieces, events and experiences, hits and misses, successes and failures. We may remember some rebellious behavior, experimenting with a few “off limits” items, engaging in some suspicious activities. Sometimes we were caught, sometimes we weren’t. Yet we all knew that our actions would catch up with us at some time. It appears as though the same scenario is coming to pass for my first born John.
Being in the wrong place, at the wrong time, with the wrong people, again and again, and again. I don’t know all of the angles. I don’t have to. I do know that my son is hurting. He is in so much pain over the loss of his dad, that he can’t put that hurt into positive places, so he chooses self destructive measures, ones that are creating a melting pot of madness and toxicity. He is a piece of my heart, and I hurt for him.
I know that God will grant me a way to help him. It just may have to hurt both of us, for a while.