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Transformed by Love: My journey through my son’s early death to spiritual awakening

Erica Hernandez

    There is a club no one wants to belong to, a club of parents who have lost a child to premature death. No one in their right mind would choose to join this group, to suffer this grief so devastating and complicated, a grief many say will never end. My grief is that grief, my devastation is that devastation, and I share a desolation that many mothers and fathers experience with the loss of their children. We members of this terrible club share this together, and yet each of us grieves in our own way. Each of us has our own story to tell. This is mine. And this is for my son.
    My son was passionate from the day he was born in August, 1985. Six weeks premature he latched on to nurse like nobody’s business. But Rasheen’s hurried start in the world was caused by his father’s repeated rape of me. Fear made me accept his one hundred apology roses and his charm, hoping thing would improve. This assault against me was an assault on Rasheen as well. I believe that this trauma caused my son’s premature birth setting him on a path that led to his premature death on August 25, 2015 at thirty.
    In spite of his difficult start, my son blossomed. At two months old he lay on the carpet on his belly, determinedly raising both his head and legs. He was strong. His head was coated with dark brown fuzz and he smiled a lot – a happy face with chubby cheeks and a double chin. His eyes were dark blue like the night sky and his lids sloped down with the Asiatic eye of his Iranian heritage. In spite of being six weeks early he was rolling over, sitting up, crawling and walking right on schedule. Rasheen was also an early talker in both English and Farci: “Truck!!” He would cry.
    Somehow, we parted permanently when Rasheen was barely a year old. But in ending our marriage Rasheen’s “Bubba” appeared to end his relationship with Rasheen, as well.
    I believe the repeated abandonment of Rasheen by his father began a lifelong experience of unbearable pain for our son. For over six months Rasheen stopped speaking. When he began to speak again, he would not speak Farci again for another decade.

***

    Rasheen experienced repeated rejections from his father on an annual basis. His father would pick him up, take him out, buy him a toy, then abandon him again.

    I remember when my son was six, his father wanted to take him for several weekends. After the first weekend Rasheen returned with such a severe stomach ache that he didn’t want to go again and I didn’t force him. I believed
Rasheen
had memories of the abuse we both suffered. I
also
re-experienced these horrific memories.

    When Rasheen was
thirteen
he planned to see his dad after Christmas. He was ready and waiting in his room, but his dad never showed up. In his room I found Rasheen slouched on his bean bag chair, miserable.

    “Why didn’t he come?” he asked me.
    “I don’t know.” I told him, joining him and holding him close against me. He was crying quietly, tears streaming down his face.

    I ached for my child. “I can’t imagine why any parent would not come to see their child. Maybe he’s sick...”
    “But he could have called,” Rasheen said between tears.
    “Of course, he could have. I don’t mean physically sick. I meant emotionally unwell.” I felt like crying, too. “That’s the only thing I can imagine that might keep him from you.”
    Rasheen continued to be wounded by his father’s inconsistency until he chose to live with him at sixteen.

***

    When my son grew older, he became driven, making straight A’s by ninth grade. We ate healthy meals that I made from scratch. On the weekends we made chocolate chip cookies together while he told me about school and friends. I was fiercely dedicated to my son—and passionately devoted to being a good mother.
    In high school,
he excelled in wrestling, was busy with school and working part-time, yet we shared meals at home. When he competed in the state championships, I was so proud! I thought, he’s putting his hurt feelings into wrestling. I believed it therapeutic for him.

    Then, shocking me, he decided to live with his dad with a yearning, deeper than I was aware. His father lived 120 miles from our home in an energetic city. Despite relocating to another high school, Rasheen graduated valedictorian of his class and I missed him terribly.
    While he lived with his remarried dad, Rasheen struggled to tell me what he experienced. He witnessed his father’s abusive behavior with his new wife, seeing her fear. Witnessing this submerged him in his early life trauma.
    He grew more distant, which saddened me, but I gave him space to mature on his own terms.

***

    I began exploring my spirituality. My father had taught me about the “big bang” theory and believed that everything was explainable through science. I had no connection to spirituality or religion, and no interest in any talk of afterlife.
    After graduation, it was in a salsa dance class where I met my current husband. We fell in love and were married and had two beautiful children. Our son Ilija was born when Rasheen turned
twenty
and two years later our daughter Giustina was born. Unlike their exuberant older brothers, they were quite reserved and I would tease that they were my ducklings because they always followed me; I never had to chase them.

***

    When Rasheen went off to college, his father told him he would pay his way but forbade him to get a job.
My son
and I talked on the phone frequently and he began to share his struggles with his dad.
    “His said he would pay my rent, but he hasn’t. I’m not allowed to work. I just got an eviction letter!! I contacted Dad and told him the rent was late and I’d had a warning. I’m getting headaches all the time now.” It was now becoming clear to Rasheen that he was being controlled and coerced.

    He talked about girls: “I’m tired of just hooking up. I want to have a meaningful relationship.”
He did not understand why women put up with abuse. “They let guys mistreat them. I just don’t get it. Why do they always fall in love with the asshole?”
    “They’re recreating a trauma from their youth I guess,” the therapist in me replied.
    
“I want to be a doctor, Mom. You know when I was in the hospital when I was
seventeen? The doctors were such jerks. I want to be the one who treats people respectfully, the one who cares. I’m majoring in bio-chem. It’s the premed degree here. I want to go to OHSU [Oregon Health & Sciences University in Portland] for medical school.”
    “I know you can do it!” I encouraged him. “You’ve always been compassionate. You’ll be a great doctor!”
    Rasheen’s headaches became persistent and more severe.

    “They don’t think they’re migraines,” he’d report. “We’ve done all kinds of tests. My dad is driving me crazy with his promises to pay my bills and then not coming through. I’m being evicted again. I’m never gonna be able to get a place on my own.”
    
“Listen Rasheen, your dad has made you dependent on him so he can control you. You can get a job and develop some independence.”
    He followed my advice. He got a job in a lab on campus and I helped him finish school. He graduated with honors.

***

    Rasheen and I became close again. He shared everything with me, about girls, school, his friendships, and his struggles with his father.
    So, walking along the river one day at the end of summer, I was not surprised when he called and had something he needed to tell me. The sun was warm, the shade dappled, with large oaks and firs scraping the sky. I could hear the river in the distance, children playing in the sand and swinging on swings nearby.

    “I met a girl, Mom. She’s gorgeous. She’s irresistible...”
    “What do you like about her?”
    “She’s passionate and funny...” He trailed off. I sensed there was something else he wanted to say. I waited.
    “I thought I could try it with her. I thought just once would be okay. But I’m addicted, Mom. I need help.”
    “Addicted to what?” Suddenly anxious, I tried to believe it wasn’t that bad, yet a part of me froze inside.
    “Heroin, Mom.” He spoke the word softly, with resignation.

    Oh, God. My brother died of a heroin overdose just seven years ago. My chest hurt. I rallied myself out of my fear.
    “What can I do?”
    “I need help!”
he
reiterated.
    He said he
wanted
treatment so I got his insurance information to help him. The phone calls mobilized me, gave me something to do, to distract myself from my intense fear and constant worry.

    I was overwhelmed by my son’s crisis. I tried to cope through detachment. Having staggered through my brother’s death, I was terrified of what could lie ahead for my son.

***

    My spiritual studies mattered more than ever. I was reading about NDEs (near death experiences) and through them was developing a belief in a higher power. I believed God equaled
Love
but I could not feel it. I was trying to grasp the idea that through faith we could manifest the life we chose.

***

    Rasheen returned home and checked into a four-week inpatient treatment program.
    Two weeks into the program, he told me, “Ya know, I started this initially just to manipulate you. I figured I would do this and then you would believe I wasn’t doing drugs anymore and I could leave and do them again. But I had a spiritual awakening.” He told me how he was walking up the stairs one night and he felt his whole body fill with an incredible love, from his head to his toes. He filled up and tingled with it.

    He completed three more months in treatment. I remember during the last few days of treatment, the staff brought me. We met with Rasheen’s counselor who pronounced our mother-son relationship enmeshed.

    I received this news as a blow, too shaken to say anything about it in the moment. Mother-son relationships should not be considered enmeshed just because they are close.
Close relationships between parents and children endure around the world, encouraged by many cultures.
Rasheen and I were close, intensified by my living the role of both parents.
    Rasheen went to live in a halfway house and he needed a job. It was summer and I needed a nanny. He played with the kids and he kept the house spotless that summer.
    He worked hard at his sobriety. He worked with a therapist and told me repeatedly about his painful struggles and flashback memories.
    In the spring of the following year my parents and I helped him get into a dual diagnosis treatment program in Florida.
    When
Rasheen
returned that summer he worked as my nanny, but something had changed. He was pushing boundaries. I felt he was milking me for money by extending his jobs. I encouraged him to find another job.
    He did find another job but began distancing himself from me. At first, I thought he was mad about being fired. Later, I thought he was just very busy working full-time, going to AA meetings daily, volunteer work with the program.

    Yet I could feel he was drifting farther from me. When we spoke he was very angry, blaming me for his addiction. His thoughts were irrational, mentioning things I could not possibly have done. I thought perhaps, clean and sober, he was re-experiencing his adolescence, needing to be angry to help himself become independent of me.

    However, it became clear to me something was very wrong in his alienation from me. For the next two years I would call, leaving loving messages with no response. I would
text my
love and support. I wanted a loving connection with him, even without reciprocation.
    Rasheen eventually moved in with my parents. I remained emotionally available to him. Once in a while he would behave warmly to me, but in general, he was cold, indifferent or downright angry.
    I knew addicts mix up their memories and thought that could explain his anger. This explanation was a relief from the intense grief I had been experiencing over the recent loss of my son. Intermittently, I felt deeply sad about our estrangement and wondered when we might reconnect. I grieved for our lost connection.

    I continued to call and text him regularly to tell him how much I loved him, that I would always be here for him whenever he was ready. I would meditate, visualize him surrounded in a golden light of love. I created affirmations: “I am attracting my eldest son to visit regularly. I am enjoying a connected relationship with my eldest son...”

    I knew he was depressed. I would send him words of encouragement and he responded occasionally, but mostly he was distant.

    There were brief periods when he would reach out and I thought we were making progress, but he would slip away again, angrily blaming me for things that never happened. These were two excruciating years of intense grief, trying to support him and be close to him. I was continually pushed away, as I tried to reach our close connection.
    I wondered if, at the hospital back east, he selected false, mixed memories leading him away from me.


***

    My sister called me one day in late summer. We didn’t talk much as a rule, so I wondered why she was calling. During summer, my younger children spent their days with their grandparents.

    “Rasheen OD’d,” she announced. “He’s in the hospital. I think it may have been a suicide attempt.”
    I froze inside. I had been so concerned the last couple of years about Rasheen being so cut off from me, so hurt about not being able to help him, fearful that pushing me away was also hurting him. Somehow I knew that was true.

    “We need to convince the staff to keep him on suicide watch. Could you talk to them?” She asked, her words shaky with fear.
    “Of course. Thanks for telling me. I hope they’ll listen.”

    I called the hospital right away. In my field I knew the confidentiality laws and Rasheen was twenty-nine years old so they could refuse to talk to me.

    I remembered the week he returned home. I had been trying to help him detox, just get him through until he was admitted to treatment. I tried to keep him busy every day. At night he slept at my parent’s house. At least four of those seven nights he called in a suicidal state that as a mother I could feel and as a professional I could recognize. Two of those nights I took him to the ER, hoping they would admit him to the inpatient psychiatric unit.

    One night, my mother called telling me the paramedics had come because he had purposely cut himself seriously, leaving a pool of blood, frightening her.
    The medics refused to take him to the hospital. “Clearly he doesn’t want to commit suicide, he tied his own tourniquet,” they told me. I was shocked by their insensitivity. Nothing could insulate me from the pain of this progressive and terrifying situation.

***

    Hospitalized and suicidal, I needed to convince the staff. I tried several nurses, including the head nurse. “He told us not to talk to you,” they told me. I was hurt and defeated by the pain of rejection before I ever got to the medical social worker. She wasn’t nice, but she listened as I told her of his attempted suicide.

***

    My sister called me a week later. Rasheen was still in the hospital. “He admitted it was a suicide attempt. He’s on suicide watch. He is scheduled to see the psychiatrist in the morning.” Because of my professional knowledge, I assumed he would see the psychiatrist in the hospital, granting me hope for his recovery.

***

    Only a day or two later, I received another call from my sister. I felt dread when I answered, fearing the worst.
    
“We can’t reach Rasheen.” She was distraught.

    I was shocked, learning he had been discharged from the hospital. Rasheen lived with my parents, he wasn’t speaking to me, but he spoke to my sister. However, living in Portland, she and his girlfriend couldn’t help him, and they couldn’t reach our parents.
    Sick with dread I said, “I’ll call CAHOOTS,” a local crisis organization, “and the police, and I will be there soon.”
    I made the calls from my office, not allowing myself to think the worst––and failing. Terrified of another overdose, I knew the hospital made a mistake discharging him so soon. I couldn’t understand how they could discharge him while on suicide watch! But I couldn’t think about these things, not consciously anyway.

    On my way out, my cell chimes with alarming texts. “Go get your younger children, they may be traumatized.”

    I tried not to panic as I ran to my car, crying, dreading what I would find. I called my sister
while I started the car, putting the phone on speaker.
    She was sobbing so I could hardly understand.
“He’s dead.”
    I don’t remember driving to my parents, but when I arrived there was an ambulance, and police in front of the house. I tried to get to my son but was prevented by police. I ran to find Ilija and Giustina, sitting in the backyard with the dog.

    “Hi kids. Are you OK?” What a silly question. They couldn’t be OK.
    Ilija said, “I’m hungry. They locked us out here an hour ago. They haven’t let us come back in.”
    I stood there quietly, tears streaming down my face. “He’s dead. Rasheen’s dead.”
    “I’m not surprised,” Ilija
said, matter-of-factly. “He came in with groceries yesterday, went straight to his room, and locked the door. He never locked the door before.”
    I knelt down and hugged the two of them to me. Giustina, eight years old, sat on my knee and snuggled under one arm. Ilija, ten, snuggled under the other.
    “Let’s go eat.” I was dazed, in shock, operating on autopilot.
    As I reached the car, a police woman approached me, “Ma’am are you the young man’s mother?”
    “Yes.”
    “Can I get your phone number? ” We exchanged information. “I’m so sorry. I can’t imagine how hard this is for you.” She offered me a hug with open arms which I fell into, crying again.

    I pulled away soon, the tears coursing down my face. I remembered my naturopath appointment, desperately needing help, I guided my children to the car.
    The doctor offered me a homeopath, “Ignatia,”
he explained, “for emotional shock.”

    We walked, the three of us to the corner. “Toshi’s Ramen. That sounds good doesn’t it?” The tears abated.
    We ordered soup and ate, eyes dry. We acted like life was normal.
    Life would never be normal again.

***

    It’s been
nine months
and grief can still overwhelm me. I care for my responsibilities as wife and mother. I am a dedicated therapist to my clients. I take care of myself, experiencing happiness briefly. I have begun reconnecting to my son through a mystical conduit I never believed was available. These mysterious moments have made my pain bearable at times.

    Helpless with grief I have found my spiritual center.
I have faith in a loving, non-judgmental energy source. I know Rasheen is there, accessible. I know if I reach out with my heart and mind, the spirit world is available to me. Sometimes in my shattered grief I feel disconnected yet often I am open to and recognize the signs the world offers.
    Soon after Rasheen’s death, a friend recommended I speak with a psychic medium. Though I felt connections with the spirit world, I didn’t trust my senses. In my phone appointment, this psychic validated my feelings and experiences, sharing information that fit my situation.

    He invited me to join a group for those grieving the loss of a loved one, experiencing some channel to the afterlife, and wanting to develop this skill. I went, and through this group with meditation, I learned to open myself effusively to a loving energy source.

    And a purple balloon became one way of connecting with my son.

***

    In February 2016, I had been looking at Rasheen’s photos, alternating between crying and meditating. When my tears subsided, I came into the living room to lay on the couch. I was still melancholy, thinking of him.

    I had given the younger kids a bunch of purple heart balloons for Valentine’s Day, one of which floated on the ceiling near the front door, easily twenty feet away from where I lay. Being winter here in the Pacific Northwest, no doors or windows were open.

    All of a sudden this balloon floated about seven feet closer.

    “Rasheen?” I questioned, feeling a sense of wonder. There was no air moving, no fans. It then floated about seven feet closer.

    “Is that you?” I asked. I felt bewitched by the balloon, as if it were connecting me to another dimension.

    It then floated another seven feet closer until it was right over my feet.

    “Rasheen, did you do that?”
    “Yes, Mom.” I sensed him say in my head.
    I still wasn’t sure.

    “Could you do it again?” I asked him.
    “No, Mom. It takes a lot of energy to create physical movement in that world. I am not doing it again.” He said it with his unique attitude, part joking, part disgust, so Rasheen.

    I suddenly felt lighter, connected to my son energetically. It lifted me out of my melancholy mood so I could play street tennis with my younger children.

***

    Two months later, unable to sleep from grief, I decided a hot bath would help. It was April and the rainy, cold weather matched my mood.
    When I walked into the bathroom, the balloon was suspended at half-mast, unmoving against the wall by the unopened window. Filling the bath, I pulled the shower curtain part way closed for increased privacy and sank into the hot water. I just sat, relaxing in the heat of the water, with my grief around me like a blanket.
    I looked up, seeing the purple balloon curled around the shower curtain into the bathtub. It was much lower than it had been and five feet from its previous location. Instead of floating at the top of the window frame it was curled around the shower curtain at the rim of the tub.

    I remember thinking,
It’s like
it’s
saying hello!
    I heard his answer in my head. “I
am
saying hello!” It was my son, who had been dead since August.
    On April 8th
the purple balloon, at half-mast, floated near a window in my bedroom, near my dresser. I was writing about the bathroom experience.
    When I got up from the bed the balloon floated away from the window along and around the front of the dresser. It moved right, then left, rotated clockwise, then changed directions going counter-clockwise.
    I thought to myself, It’s dancing for me!
I sensed in my head, “I
am
dancing for you, Mom. I want you to be happy!”
    I should videotape this, I thought, rushing to find my
phone. When I returned the balloon was still “dancing” so I taped its movements for twenty minutes.
    Months passed as I edited this essay for publishing and more miracles ensued. They changed in nature, or literally to nature.
    The summer was moving me closer to the anniversary of his death as all joy was being sucked from me. My life became grey. I put effort into doing joyful activities yet the grief drug me deeper into is grasp. I agreed to do a grief training with colleagues, thinking this experience could be put to professional use. The night before, I realized it was going to be challenging emotionally. I was unable to sleep, grieving heavily.

    “Rasheen, send me some physical support, please! I’m in so much pain!” I was crying in the bathroom.
    The next day the training was dismally basic, yet emotionally challenging leaving me in tears. Behind Lane Community College lies forrest so, I went for a walk. Soon I was encircled by a butterfly. It was so close I feared it would get trapped under my skirt. I filmed it twice, the second time getting braver until my finger close enough that it looks like we are touching. Through this unusual butterfly, Rasheen sent his love
    A year has passed now. He still encourages me not to grieve. I still do, every day.

***

    Maybe you’ll think I’m crazy. Maybe you’ll understand. For me it was clear that my son was communicating with me from the world of spirits. Every day I grieve and cry for my loss. I will never hug him again, never see his physical form move, talk, or play with his younger siblings who adored him. I’ll never watch him get married, have children, never hold or play with his own children. Yet he is still with me.
    Ilija has told me that Rasheen talks to him. Giustina also tells me this. Both kids are aware of their brother. My husband struggles in his own way with our loss. I imagine
Rasheen’s father copes in his way as well. I have tried to appear stable for my younger children, but they have seen me cry and they make space for my grief as I make space for theirs.
    Yet bigger than my grief is this connection the three of us sense to this spirit world.
    I would never wish anyone to suffer this way, to lose their child. If I could change the course of events in my son’s life, I would do that instantly. Yet I cannot deny that I now have complete faith in a higher power, a being of pure love, that I am not alone, that some mysterious presence shares my grief with me. I cannot deny that Rasheen is there in spiritual form, always available to reach for, while at times he reaches for me.
    His death helped me evolve. I am more open to accepting my feelings as normal, healthy, while giving myself space to process them. I am available to coach others on their own spiritual path, to validate my clients in whatever they believe.
    I am not aware of the extent of these changes. My close friends tell me they can see something in my face but can’t describe what they see.
    I always strived at being a good mother. Now I attend to appreciating all the moments I have with them. I work at connecting with Kristian, now the oldest, struggling with his grief. I see him more often than before and am grateful.
    I hear Rasheen talking to me. “I’m happy here, Mom. Don’t cry for me,” but I always tell him I have to. I must grieve for the loss of my beloved son on this physical plane, even as I feel his spirit.

***

    If we’re lucky, the immense grief, the membership fee to this club we unwittingly joined club, can shatter our hearts, leaving nothing but Love. This has happened to me and I wish this for each of our reluctant members. Love connects all of us in the physical and spiritual worlds, encapsulating everyone’s beliefs. I know Divine Love is real now.
    I know the grief journey will never end for me nor for any parent whose child has died. Some days I feel my intense grief receding, like ocean waves pulling back from the shore. As challenging as it will be, I will survive and find occasional bliss. On these days, my steady self-care regimen helps me survive. I maintain a routine including a wake time, healthy meals, exercise, meditation, work, hot baths, processing through writing, drawing, or chrocheting. I snuggle with my kids, play with my animals, dance, and allow myself crying time daily. Although I can never have my son back, I can help others learn to survive and find joy woven through grief.

    Although I can never have my son back, I know I can help myself and others learn to survive this horrific loss, to find threads of joy, however fragile they may appear, that are woven through this tapestry of immense sorrow.

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