I awakened this morning reflecting on last night’s sadness as I watched my son slumped over his bed, face buried in the covers to muffle his cries. I approached him and he raised his head enough to say, “no.” As he resisted and turned his head away, I cradled my arms about his arched back, holding him while he clutched tightly to his bed.
When a son’s heart is broken, what does a mother do? It’s not like a skinned knee that you can spray Bacteen on, give him a kiss, and scoot him back outside to play. It’s different. His cries were of deep sorrow. Though I wanted to know what had crushed him so, I chose to lay my cheek on his head and rub his shaking form.
I, like many women, have accused men of being cold and without feelings. This perception shriveled in the rawness of this moment. In her article, You Just Don’t Understand, Deborah Tannen, Ph.D. elaborates on the differences in how men and women communicate. She says, “For women, talking about troubles is the essence of connection. I tell you my troubles, you tell me your troubles, and we’re close. Men, however, hear troubles talk as a request for advice, so they respond with a solution.” Yet, in this case, the behaviors described were not characteristic. My son relished long talks with his girlfriend, esteeming the sharing of private thoughts and feelings as substantive. Imagine his disappointment – “after all we’ve shared” – at the break up. Perhaps movies like “Coming to America,” where the prince listens as his love interest shares details of her previous romantic relationship, were an influence. Or possibly, being raised by a single mother may have affected his perceptions. Since most guys move toward problem solving, maybe he saw himself as the solution.
His muffled moans and howls gave way to garbled utterances. I couldn’t see his face, but I felt it in his body. He tensed, shook his head and slammed the floor. The whimperings became growls. I had never seen my son filled with such rage. I encouraged him to talk about it – not to keep the anger inside. He resisted at first, saying he didn’t want to talk about it. I continued to stroke his back and gently insist; he didn’t need to keep this inside. With a pressured voice, he recounted the phone conversation. The son, whom I had taught to treat others with dignity and respect, had been handled so irreverently.
Pain is pain. It doesn’t discriminate. And though I don’t know how a teenage boy processes his pain, I do know the feelings. Sure, our situations were different, yet the pain was just as real. That’s why I’d never minimize his experience as puppy love. A puppy may not be able to articulate the pain it feels, but the pain is just as intense. Come to think of it, I can remember some pains that reduced me to the fetal position. Don’t we sometimes become as children when overwhelmed?
I was fearful of his state. My mind flashed back to a time when I too felt the sting of betrayal. Someone whom I trusted left me for another. The feelings of abandonment gave way to desperation. I struggled to breathe. My son’s rocking reminded me of the internal chaos. More importantly, it reminded me of my susceptibility to retaliation while in that state.
My son lamented that he’s been there for everybody, yet he is the one who always ends up hurt. “I was there, through everything,” he yelled, “and she does me like this?” He kept repeating how tired he was. I could have joined him in blaming his friend, but that would have only served to antagonize his feelings of betrayal. Break ups are painful. There is always something that triggers it. Even the ones that appear to be good breakups are only public presentation. Most times, some tears were shed when no one was looking. There is always a dumper and a dumpee. Someone always feels let down.
The pressure built in my son’s body again and his chocolate skin reddened. He started blowing and groping. At that point, I knew I had to de-escalate him. Such anger was not good for anyone. It was the kind that fuels explosiveness. I coached him to breathe slowly and deeply, in and out. His breaths were snorted as he tried to overcome his emotions to try. I continued to coax. The tension lessened in his body, then I asked him to listen to me.
“People are flawed.” These were the words I said to my son. Human beings make mistakes. I could tell he was listening. Different from earlier rantings of injustice, his body began to heave slowly as large tears rolled down his cheeks. “That’s right,” I said, “get it out.” My eyes filled with tears as he started shaking. He was in such pain. A pain that his previous anger was avoiding.
What salve can a mother rub on her son’s wounded heart? Is there any medicinal value to words when the pain is so great? I don’t know. What I did know, however, was I couldn’t leave his wound unattended. I asked my son to listen. “Every girlfriend you have had has cared about you. They weren’t pretending. They, like you, are trying to figure out feelings. I know it hurts. It hurts bad. Someone you trusted disappointed you. But you have a choice. You can choose to heal and grow, or you can let this poison you and make your heart callous. Love heals wounds. Anger does not.”
Relationships end. My heart goes out to teenagers, struggling to separate who they are from social pressures. There’s bound to be chaos. This is my only child, so I don’t have previous experience to aid me. Despite my good intentions, I’m certain that I said some things that didn’t help – might have even made him feel worse. God knows, I don’t have the answers. Nevertheless, I believe that if I stay open and ask, the answer will come. So, I’m asking.

