The Little Jeff
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| Jeff |
It is still hard for me to talk about my son. His hospice nurse told me that I would think about him every day for the first couple of years, and after that, I would think about him less and that the pain would decrease. She was wrong. Every day is still hard. I think about him daily, many times. I still hear his voice and see his sad, thin face. Unfortunately, I relive the last few days before his death over and over. It is a form of PTSD. I know because I was officially diagnosed with it. When it happens, it is a nightmare of being stuck in a fog watching, hearing, and reliving the events over and over on DVD and hitting the replay button. It is traumatic. I don't believe that I will ever be able to escape it.
My intent in starting a blog was to write about my son. I was hoping it would ease the pain. I also hoped that maybe other people could connect with my experience and knowledge that they are not alone in their grief for a loved one. I chose to write about events occurring chronologically in my life from a child to the present time, with the anniversary of his death approaching. I decided to step out of sequence in my stories and talk about him now. I want to finish writing these segments before the date of his death approaches. The closer it gets, the less concentration I will have to do it, and the sadness of writing it will be more intense. Before I can tell you about that, you have to get to know a little about him.
Jeff was born on November 27, 1971. The date is significant because many of his birthdays fell on Thanksgiving Day, the day after, or the weekend of Thanksgiving. When he was little, he always thought the turkey and big crowd of people were there to celebrate his birthday, not a holiday. There was no convincing him that it wasn't true. When he was about four, he excitedly pronounced to everyone, "All this for me!" It was cute.
Jeff was a wild child from the moment of his birth up until he went to Boot Camp. As a baby, he cried constantly. As soon as Jeff was old enough to turn over, he started rocking his body back and forth in his bed. He could rock all night even when he was sound asleep. In the morning, his bed would be in a different part of the room from the motion. This strange behavior lasted for years. He stopped crying as soon as he was able to rock his bed.
I don't recall the number of daycare facilities he was involuntarily removed from. Several. And his crimes were playing with matches, starting fires in a closet, fighting with other kids, and fighting, both physically and verbally. He was a pistol.
His bad behavior didn't stop when he was at home. Everyone was a target, animals, his brother, and myself. He acted like he hated me at times; he would spit in my face and pull my hair. Early on, he learned how to throw wing-ding tantrums. He would scream and act out and then hold his breath when he didn't get his way. He eventually stopped doing that when he realized that I was ignoring him on purpose. I pretty much figured out that his behavior was a punishment for me for divorcing his dad. Believe me, I paid a high price for my freedom. It was not "just another word for nothing left to lose" at my house.
I have a lot of guilt about having to work and leave my kids at daycare. Because of that, I did try to take Glen and Jeff places and have fun with them. Sometimes it was smooth sailing, and sometimes it was horrific. Mary and I and the boys went out to eat one night in her part of town. Being the adults, we decided to go to Arby's. Jeff was so mad that we went there that he threw one of the worst fits of his life to retaliate. I just wanted to either beat him or crawl into a hole and die. He screamed and hollered, threw himself on the ground, kicked and hit me, and then held his breath. Every person in the place and nearby outside was watching him in horror. I tried reasoning with him that made him madder; I wanted to make him behave, and it infuriated him. He started spitting on me. I told him we were leaving, and he grabbed onto tables and chairs. I finally dragged him out of the restaurant by his feet, picked him up, and of course, he was kicking me, opened the car, and dumped him in the seat, and we left. And then he cried because he was hungry. I was humiliated and furious with him. I think we ended up at a drive-thru. He was five at the time, way too old for that kind of behavior. I don't think I took him back to any dining area for a long time after that circus.
Later that year, we went to the lake with people from my office. We hadn't been there 10 minutes before Jeff ran to the boat pier and jumped in the water. Could he swim? No, he could not? I couldn't swim either, so I did not jump in after him. Two or three guys came running and jumped in and pulled him out of the water. Was he scared? No, he was not; he was laughing. I thought I was going to go into cardiac arrest from fear, shock, and anger. The result of that incident meant no more lake outings for a few years.
His behavior didn't improve; it got worse every year. I was pulling my hair out. Nobody in my family would help me out to try and get him under control. If he and Glen went to my mom's house, they ran wild and were allowed to do whatever they wanted to do. I spoke to his father about his behavior, and he could not have been less interested. I guess since he only saw them once or twice a year, it didn't affect him. (He only lived 15 miles away, he didn't see them because he didn't want to.)
I was at my wit's end. Jeff was driving me and almost everyone else crazy. He couldn't continue to act like a heathen. I couldn't take it, and he would end up who knows where when he got older. I was getting frantic, and I didn't know what to do.
I was going to have to get some help. But I didn't know where or who to turn to for advice.
#wildchild
#cancersucks
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