Life as a drag(ster)

There are pictures I hide on Facebook.  I go to the little downward pointing arrow at the right and I click “hide”.  Sometimes they are offensive photos or poster/sayings, sometimes they are personal photos of young people engaged in their activities – risky activities.  Rock climbing and ropes dangling from who knows where for who knows what reason (and they are dangling there).

I can’t stop them from engaging in those activities.  It is their choice as it was my son’s.

I went to the drag races yesterday for the first time in my life.  My husband and brother-in-law had asked me to go for years.  We went and watched the trials.  It was very interesting and very loud.  I had double ear protection and it was still loud.

My risky behavior is that I drive on the road with everyone else.  I drove home last night – extremely tired and rolling along at speeds of 55 – 70 mph in the dark on an interstate highway.  My husband was nodding off beside me in the passenger seat.   I cranked the radio up loud.   I turned the air conditioner down low so that I was shivering.

I eat food with fat in it.  I climb stairs – though I have learned the hard way to hold the rail.   I have a hot tub and climb in and out of it.   I live on the earth.

Life is risky.   That fact does not answer my need to understand why I am in my life where I am.

The angry, frustrating reality that life can end very abruptly is hard to get my head around.  Sure old people get sick and die and I am getting old.   There are probably disease processes setting up housekeeping in my body as I type.  Cataracts are forming on my eyes and arteries are clogging as surely as my bathroom water pipes.

My son was too young with too much good to do with his life.   I depended on him for love and acceptance and to spur me on to good works.   He was beautiful and charming and intelligent and kind.

This is our second year without him and it is so hard.  The void and missing him has reached a fever pitch inside my heart.  On a scale of one to ten, I’m at a 9.5.   Funny thing is to the watching world I think I probably look fine.

The men and women who drive those dragsters surprised me at how physically small they are in stature.  They squeeze into that tiny space inside that incredibly dangerous machine and barrel down that strip at an insane speed.  Out of their uniform and dressed in everyday clothes I bet I wouldn’t recognize them on these street.

Maybe the grieving need a platform to operate in and a uniform they can don to walk out and express how incredibly dangerous they are feeling.   Something like the smoke and flames and noise at the drag race – an outlet for the incredible frustration that they want to scream to the world.

Maybe I should have screamed at the top of my lungs as the dragsters screamed down that strip making my insides vibrate as they roared by.

I roar inside every day.   Every single day.  I roar and rage at the circumstances that claimed my son, that claimed so much joy.

I rage at the danger of life.  And then I put on my street clothes and walk out my door and get in my dangerous car and go do those things that are expected of me as living breathing member of this life.   It makes no sense.

There is nothing I can do about it.  Words and ideas that help don’t last long.

My son was my friend and companion.  He made it very clear that he loved me and accepted me for who I am.  I use that sometimes to get me to move forward.  I remind myself that he had expectations of me.

So pull out the tanker trucks and spray out the glue.  Run the funny little roller machines out over the track so my wheels will stick and I can get traction to roar away into another day before that little flame dwindles.  That little flame of hope in my heart that grief likes to quench so quickly with my tears.

About pathfinder

Artist, Writer, Walking wounded.
This entry was posted in Coping with the Death of a Child, Death, Family, Friends and tagged , , , . Bookmark the permalink.

6 Responses to Life as a drag(ster)

  1. SadMama says:

    I can always relate to and understand your blog posts. I wish so much that you had no need to write them and that I had no need to read them.

    • pathfinder says:

      I wish and wish. I know exactly what you mean. There are times I think, I won’t write any more, but it is the only outlet I have sometimes. Thanks for writing to me. I don’t know what helps – really – if anything. But it’s worth a try. Peace for today, or a least for this moment.

      • I would like to write, but I’m not ready…and I don’t think I could write as beautifully as you do. So, please keep writing. I don’t find any peace or comfort in my life right now, but it does somehow help to feel some connection/unity with you through your words.

      • pathfinder says:

        It is very hard and I wish it were not. Second by second, minute by minute . . . Our connection is real, painful and real – but it helps me too. Peace when it comes . . .

  2. Linda Jacobs says:

    I too can always relate to your blog posts. You seem to express what I am thinking & feeling, but so much more eloquently than I could. I lost my 22 year old daughter 20 months ago from a traumatic head injury, sustained in a auto accident. The second year has been & continues to be so hard! The void & missing her is at a fever-pitch for me also. I totally feel what you are saying in all of your posts. As SadMama said, I wish that you had no need to write them & that I had no need to read them.

    • pathfinder says:

      I am so sorry Linda. I hope you are finding a way to push away the horrific thoughts of the accident and begin to dwell on the good memories concerning your daughter. I am finding that a hard task. When I am tired and lonely – the awful day of my son’s death – and the details hit me again. I hate accidents. I am sorry that 20 months ago I was blissfully unscathed by my not understanding how horrible it is for parents to loose a child So very sorry for your loss. Keep in touch. If you have any words of advice for those on this journey please share them. We all need all the help we can get. Peace for today.

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