On September 7, 2006 I wrote the following letter to my son
I read this to him for the first time at his memorial service.
9/7/06
My dearest Joshua…
I wonder if you know how loved you are. I wonder if you realize how truly admired you are for your
endurance and your courage to awake each day and face what ever may come your way. You sleep
a lot at this moment in time and it is during this part of your day that I cry. I cry because I miss you so
much as you once were, but I cry as I rejoice in the fact that I have found such a joy in who you have
become. I learn from you every day son. I pray for you with every breath I take. You’ve changed my
life from the moment I became aware you were conceived and have continued to change it ever
since. Through you I have a strength I didn’t know existed within me. Through you I have found
courage I never knew I would need. Through you my faith has grown far bigger than a mustard seed
and God has allowed me to see mountains move that many might never have the opportunity to
witness in their lifetime. For all of this and more you have my unconditional love, my admiration, and
my respect. That is why I tell you often you are my hero. It is quite comical when I tell you that
because you just look at me with a bit of a puzzled look and then flash one of those, I think I am
suppose to smile now smiles and say, “Thanks mom.”
During the hours you are awake my tears retreat and I find myself elated when we have a
conversation that consist of a few full sentences rather than one-word answers. I smile when you do
the simplest things like complete a chore or fold your TV tray up after you finish the dinner you eat
while watching Roseanne. I laugh when I ask you how I look when I get dressed for work because
your reply is always the same; a very dry, “you look good mom.” Lately you have started
approaching me and hugging me for no apparent reason. When I ask you why you just did that you
say, “I don’t know I just wanted to.” The past few months you have actually told me several times you
love me before I tell you I love you. Most moms would find these behaviors extremely miniscule for
their twenty-five year old son; however, I see it all as miraculous.
I think you should know son that I find the word schizophrenia very difficult to say myself. Sometimes
just the thought of the word seems so horrible and frightening that it feels as though it shouldn’t be a
word at all. Schizophrenia…. maybe it’s because it is such a long word. Or, maybe it’s because the
word schizophrenia doesn’t bring into one’s mind thoughts of beautiful music, the sweet scent of
flowers, or a family enraptured in a harmonious life. No instead for most who hear it, it brings about
the thoughts of fear, darkness, confusion, frustration, loneliness, homelessness, and danger. No
wonder you prefer to call it telepathy. I am well aware you are convinced that what you experience on
a daily basis, and have for the past seven years, is truly telepathy. However, I prefer to tell myself
that you just don’t like the sound of the word schizophrenia; so you have chosen to entitle what you
deal with something that will make people say, “Oh what is that” in an excited voice. That makes
perfect sense to me, telepathy sounds like an adventure, schizophrenia sounds like a life sentence.
Telepathy just rolls off of ones tongue with great ease, whereas schizophrenia takes forever to say.
In fact sometimes when I say it I find myself spelling the word in my mind as I hear myself pronouncing
it. Telepathy is much easier to spell as well; it is so easy to mix up the letters in the word
schizophrenia.
Love Mom
I never gave this letter to my son; I felt for some reason I needed to save it. I had always given
Joshua every card and letter I wrote him but somehow this one was different. I know now it was
different because it would be the last letter I would write to him while I was blessed with his earthly
presence. I said goodbye to my son at 2:10 p.m. on Monday, September 25, 2006 as I left for work.
He replied to me as I was leaving, “Goodbye mom, I love you, I will miss you, and I can’t wait to see
you tonight.” I arrived home at 11:30 p.m. to find that my son had hung himself on his bedroom
door. His pain had ended and mine had just begun. Joshua received excellent care from a
wonderful psychiatric team in Maryland. He took his medications every day. He saw me graduate
from college. He celebrated Christmas exhibiting some real emotion. He was polite. He was
respectful. He was patient and cooperative. He no longer abused alcohol or drugs. He smoked
almost two packs of cigarettes a day. He struggled attempting to comply with rituals the voices
commanded he do. He battled with his desire to love the Lord and yet being told by the voices they
would make him twitch if he did not worship Satan. He went to Hershey Park and laughed. He ate at
wonderful restaurants with my brother and his wife. He played cards with his grandparents. He loved
his sister’s visits. He was proud of his friendship with his sister’s boyfriend. He began to
communicate slightly with his dad, family and friends on the phone. He played golf. He completed his
hygiene every night. He completed chores willingly and with pride. He suffered silently. He feared
his own mind. He longed for the un-welcomed guests to leave. He shared with me there was over a
hundred voices. On the night that he died he had eaten his dinner, his laundry was completed and
on his bed, the TV was on his favorite channel, and at some point he said good-bye to the voices
that refused to say good-bye to him. Schizophrenia may have taken his life, but the Lord cradled his
spirit ever so gently as he was released from suffering. He will always be my hero.
~Debbie Scharbor November 7, 2006
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