Why I Talk to Light Bulbs: I See My Dead Son

Why I Talk to Light Bulbs

I see my dead son everywhere. Within days of Charlie’s death by suicide three years ago, I noticed flickers everywhere. He’s out of reach, and my brain knows it, but my brain keeps looking for him. He has thoroughly infiltrated my senses, revealing himself in sounds like clinking beer bottles, the rumbling laughter of his father, and the flicker of the lights that illuminate my bathroom vanity.

When I was thick with grief, unable to eat or focus or track simple conversations, muscle memory pulled me through the motions of simple hygiene each morning. While I brushed my hair, Charlie spoke to me. The light above the mirror blinked. I blinked back. It blinked again. I swallowed hard. It blinked again. I said his name. He was communicating with me.

Never mind that the fixture was wonky, or that a hair dryer in another room was challenging our ancient electrical fuses. I was lost in grief and self-recrimination, looking into a mirror with no ability to see, and the light above my head sent a quiet but clear signal to get my attention. Charlie was with me.

His Lasting Presence

In the weeks and months following his death, his friends shared that they recognized Charlie’s presence as they waded through the grief’s awful terrain. I was fascinated by the similarities of what they saw. Over the course of one weekend, different friends sent photos of sunsets in Massachusetts, Texas, Wyoming, Tennessee, and Louisiana. All over the country, the ones Charlie left behind were reassured by his presence.

I also came to believe that sometimes the ubiquitous symbols and signs were not the earthly manifestations of my lost child. They were reminders to look up, to stand still, to let beautiful things find me. At night, I walk deep into my yard, away from the house lights, and stare at the sky. I see him in the moon and the few stars that leak through. He’s in the night sounds of crickets and morning sounds of doves. It’s trite. It’s unoriginal. But it’s true.

And the birds, always the birds. Bluebirds, blackbirds, hummingbirds. I see him in nature because after twenty-one years of tracking his existence, the radar snapped off, instantly removing my ability to find him.

Searching for My Son

Mothers never stop sending signals to their children.

Only now my signals search for him until they return with the image of a cardinal. So that’s where he is, in a tree, watching me.

I’m not religious but yes, I attribute godlike attributes to these sitings, transforming everyday occurrences into poignant reminders of the magic of embracing the unknown. When Charlie pushed a wobbly football through uprights to win the game, the victory was just a little sweeter. When he prevented me from pulling into an intersection when an oncoming car ran a light, I felt protected in an uncertain world.

Of course, Charlie is also the prankster behind annoyances and inconveniences like traffic snarls, glitchy wi-fi, and missing sunglasses. This can be nice. Instead of being frustrated by a burnt dinner, I can laugh at the idea that Charlie is reminding us that he’s hovering around, getting into our business.

Signs are for the Living

When it comes to signs, we get what we need when we need it. Signs guide us through the trivial and meaningful alike, reassuring us and protecting us and sparking joy when we feel down. When I’m standing before the mirror, facing a new day, Charlie appears in the light above the vanity. I greet the blinking blub as if he had walked into the room: “Hello, Charlie.”

I tell him what he’s missed (though of course he hasn’t missed anything – he’s always here): “Your team had a great win last night.” I provide an update on family news: “Your sisters are coming home this weekend.” I remind him that I miss him: “Sure do wish you were here too.”

Through the rollercoaster of change on this grief journey, I’ve never once questioned the veracity of these signs. Of course Charlie is the lizard lurking by the picnic table and the owl hooting at dusk. Of course he’s the rainbow in North Carolina and the butterfly on Long Island.

We carry him everywhere, so he is everywhere, and knowing he’s surrounding me and my family and his friends provides the most important thing a griever needs: inspiration to grow in love without leaving their lost loved one behind.

Betsy Thibaut Stephenson is the author of Amazon.com: Blackbird: A Mother’s Reflections on Grief, Loss, and Life After Suicide eBook : Stephenson, Betsy Thibaut: Kindle Store.

Read more about suicide on Open to Hope: Caring for Your Spirit after a Suicide – Open to Hope

Betsy Thibaut Stephenson

Betsy Thibaut Stephenson lives in Alexandria, Virginia with her husband and labrador retrievers. When she isn't visiting her grown daughters in North Carolina and South Carolina, she is helping public affairs clients tell their story to policymakers and the media. Blackbird is her first book.