The love of my life died when she was 38. Our four children were 15, 13, 11 and 9 at the time. They’re currently 22, 24, 26, 28. I did my best that I knew how to do. I know it is not what they deserved. I could never take her place.
I do not think that I can impart, with words, how hard it was keeping her from the things that would harm her most. Aa time goes on, the trauma hits me harder, as I let it in, little by little.
I love my late wife. I love the mother of my children. Keeping her from hurting herself was… Difficult.
The wracking sobs as I called 911, while performing CPR on her. It’s been almost 15 years and it’s still traumatizing.
Her mother blames me for her death. To be honest. She might be right. I didn’t keep her baby safe. I could have tried harder. I could have insisted on her being committed. I could have abrogated her right to self determination. But I didn’t. And that’s on me.
But I can’t tell her mother that. Or her sons or daughter.
Instead. I tell you. Thanks for listening.
In retrospect, you could’ve done some things differently. That will always be the conclusion when something doesn’t go the way we want it to. Whether or not those things would’ve helped, nobody can tell. Maybe they would’ve made things worse.
You did your best, and that is what matters. You were there for your children and faced the difficult task of not only coping with your own loss, but also helping your children process their grief and raise them to be the adults they are now. Don’t let your feeling of guilt consume yourself. This is a (first?) step in the right direction.
It’s awful of her mother to blame you, but there’s nothing you can so about that I guess.