Two recent stories in the news have helped me forgive myself. Yesterday I read about a healthy 56-year-old British woman who travelled to Switzerland to end her life through assisted suicide. Her 22-year-old son had died four years ago, choking in his sleep on a bit of a sandwich she had made for him. She simply could not endure the emotional pain of missing him any longer. I totally understood her decision.
Then this morning I read a book excerpt written by a woman whose eldest child and only son, age 23, was taken hostage in the October 7 raid on the Israeli music festival in 2023. Held captive and grievously wounded, starved, tortured and ultimately executed by Hamas, his ravaged skeletal body was returned to his family after 330 days. Somehow she goes on living but writes that she is dead inside, her grief overcoming every possible other human emotion.
My own son is now 38 and I thank God every day for his continued good health. Recently I worried that a bad cut on his hand would become infected and lead to sepsis. It didn't.) When he has a cold I pray it won't lead to pneumonia. (It never has.) The thought of some harm befalling him haunts me. (Still does.)
I thought I was crazy but now I understand that I'm just a mother of a son. Attachment comes with the territory.
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