I am back in May of 1975 right now. The rawness of it bites at the deepest part of my very being. Can anyone please explain it to me? I mean how on earth could anyone be so heartless to sneak behind my back and convince my husband that it would be in my best interest if I didn't attend my own son's funeral? My doctor discharged me from the hospital with full clearance to attend my son's funeral. Who was she to think she knew better than the doctor? I will never forget the moment I discovered everyone had left for the funeral leaving me upstairs with two "friends" to distract me. The primal animal mother instinct in me fought like a wild beast to get out of the bed, get my car keys to drive myself to the funeral. I tore at the bedding screaming blood curling noises I didn't know I had in me. I'm feeling it all right now, 38 long years later and it drives me into madness. My heart is beating so fast and I am in a sweat with ever fiber of me still fighting to undo that horrible deed. I want to grabbed the clocks of time and go back to that day to be in control. Now that I am so keenly aware of that plot against me, I would do everything so differently! I was only 24 years old. I was so trusting and vulnerable. I don't understand how one person could have talked my husband, my parents, my five grown sibblings, and my very best friend into not saying one word to me about the most unsacred of all plots. Were they in fear of her? Not one tiny little syllable of this plot slipped out! How does one keep such a dirty secret? I still can barely conceive the fact that this really happened to me. It would have been way much kinder to have just put a real knife through my already bleeding heart and twisted it until I was dead. Instead, I was emotionally mangled and scarred for life by this action. Everyone walked on his sacred ground of burial but me. They got to cry over his casket, but not me, his mother. I should have been there! I grieve over not being there. It was suppose to be part of the grieving process. I not only lost my son, but his funeral too. If she were alive today I would slap her face. Yes, I do get these waves of anger! I am only human.
I never did slap her face while she was alive. I forgave her. Don't even begin to ask me how. It was the right thing to do. I never hated her, but I hate her actions and I can't forget them. I was by her side when she died. I ended up loving her. I miss her. Isn't that really weird? Time does heal, it healed my relationship with her. It has never healed what she did. I am scarred and times like today, that scar opens up. Then it all comes back to me so clear.