Maine

Posted on September 23, 2012 by pathfinder

My husband and I traveled the 20 some hours to maine over the course of three days.  We arrived and unloaded our things at the  historic house in Southwest Harbor we have rented.  This is my husband’s first time in Maine, my third.  The first time was in direct connection to our son, the second he accompanied me though the purpose was art.

While in high school our son began to play guitar.  Our daughter had begun piano in the third grade and was very quick and to my thinking had a gift.  At about the same time which would make our son about eleven, he began violin.   Our daughter has stuck to the piano.  Our son gave up violin (later stating how much he regretted that decision) and began guitar, acoustic and electric.  He played along with the high school chorus and with his friends.

He started saying he thought he wanted to be a guitar player professionally.  I don’t know much about music, and the music business but I thought as I had before in so many other situations in our children’s life that we ought to figure out how to most effectively explore this possibility.  He spoke of Berkley School of Music in Boston, Massachusetts.  Even in those ancient days I had internet and I found the website for the school and that they had a summer program in music for high school students.

I talked with my husband and after a short effort in convincing we asked our son if he wanted to go.

The week at Berkley was not inexpensive – but less expensive than it might become for him to begin to pursue music and find it was not for him.

A friend of mine and I accompanied him on his flight to Boston, rented a car and got him situated in the dorm.  Then she and I headed north up Route 1.  We stopped at the welcome center at the state border and using brochures she and I picked our path based on the lighthouses and bed and breakfasts we could find to stay in.  Before the week was out we had wandered our way to Prince Edward Island and back eating as much lobster as we could hold.

My son loved the school.  He and his friends helped another friend who was short on funds because of miscalculation by the parents to panhandle and raise money on the street – playing for change.

His conclusion after the week was that he would continue to play guitar- for fun.

The second time we traveled to Maine was a road trip.   Another friend and I wanted to attend an art workshop in Stonington,   We rented a house in Stonington, but arrived early enough to spend a couple of days in Bar Harbor and visit Acadia.  My son and I shared the driving responsibilities.  We did the trip in two days.  I don’t remember it being as tough a drive as my husband and I experienced this time.

My son, friend and I marveled over the rocks and waves of Acadia.  I could tell then that my son longed to climb in that area.   In Stonington he found a rock quarry and visited there to practice on boulders.  I have too many memories of that trip centered around him to recall here. It was a good trip, made all the better by his presence.

The trip here this time was in the planning stages before he died.  He and his dad and I presume, our daughter, were planning a trip or at least talking about it.  I have never heard what the plan was.  At this point it does not matter.

I can imagine him here with us.  I can construct that image out of memories.   I imagine him with a cup of tea impatient to begin the day, perhaps already out exploring the town on foot.  My daughter would want to sleep in or maybe strike out with him.   I am not going to dwell on all this this week, but it cannot help but come to mind.

I really cannot believe he is gone.  That is always the bottom line.   He is just around the corner out of sight.

I am glad those who have not suffered such a loss are so naive as to be able to think you must move on and “get over it.”  I am glad the human mind is not capable of truly imagining such sadness.  If we all had to live with the knowledge of how such a possibility felt we would probably stop in our tracks. We would build a bubble and retreat with our loved ones inside.  So I am proud of any of us who have suffered this loss when we are able to progress through a day in a reasonable fashion.  I am patient with those who can’t focus yet.  It will come slowly with time.

I am a little cog in the whole mechanism of life.  A tiny speck.  My contributions I make partly because of the expectations of my husband and children.  Just because my son is not here to goad me on does not mean I will ignore his previous admonitions.  I reserve the right to take my time.

I lived with this person in my life for 29 years and 4 months plus the 9 months he grew inside me.  I miss him and I appreciate those who though perhaps uncomfortable with me allow me to miss him anyway.

We have friends who will join us here either tomorrow or Tuesday.  We are in a rambling old house built in the 1800’s and owned by 6th generation family members.  It has creaky floors and oddly laid out rooms.   You can look out the window at part of the harbor and just down the street you can buy lobster by the pound.   We traveled all these miles to be in this vastly different place – dogs in tow.  We packed a few clothes and possessions but the main thing (pun intended) the important things always and forever are in our heart.  The love of our family.  It permeates us.  So it is not a time of escape, it is in many ways a time of return.

We miss you son.  I miss you my sweet daughter.  I hold you close  in my heart today and think good thoughts.

Posted in Coping with the Death of a Child, Death, Friends | Tagged , , , , , , , , , , , | 3 Comments

Life as a drag(ster)

Posted on September 15, 2012 by pathfinder

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.

Posted in Coping with the Death of a Child, Death, Family, Friends | Tagged , , , | 6 Comments

Inventory

Posted on September 6, 2012 by pathfinder

 

I participate in an online chat with ” the Compassionate Friends”.  We live in a small town and there is not a chapter here.  There is a chat open every night for grieving parents to meet and talk online.   You have to register for safety’s sake through their organization.    There are unscrupulous people who would like to access our group to prey on the grieving.  Sick idea, right?

 

In talking with people in the group I realize that our grief is so much the same, yet we as individuals handle it so differently at times.   I will not reveal any secrets here or anything unexpected for that matter.   Here are some of the things I have found.

There seems to be some differences in grief experienced depending on the age of the child when they died.

There seems to be some differences in the grief experienced depending on the way the child died.

Most parents experience some form of guilt.

There is no set time, no real boundaries for how long a parent will grieve at a certain level.

Shock seems to be something everyone experiences initially.  Shock serves as a numbing agent right after the child has died.  Once it wears off there are different levels of pain and grief that come.

No one, regardless of the amount of time that has passed can really “accept” that their child is gone.

Every parent I have been in contact with states that this is the worst grief experience they have ever had in their life, trumping loss of parents and spouse.

Many look for signs to help them feel comforted  that their child is really alright now.  This can take the form of things in nature or what “non-grieving” others would term coincidence.  Regardless of what it is or how it comes it holds value in comforting the grieving parent.

Some parents turn from their faith, others turn to it.

There is often a need to eventually build monuments, sponsor remembrances or fund research in honor of the child.

Connecting with other children in the family can be very difficult during the first years after the death of a child.   Whether it be from the need for self-preservation it all seems to stem from fear.  The reality of one child’s death  is a stark reality that causes a parent to want to protect themselves from further pain.

Some feel anger all the time.  Some have anger that comes and goes.

Some seek counseling.

Some consider moving to a new location.

Focus is brought to birthdays, the anniversary of the death date and other “normal” family holidays.

Some cease celebrating family holidays in the way they used to celebrate them.

Most say that things “change” with time but cannot describe how.  “Softer” is often the word of choice.

Many have trouble sleeping.

Many have panic attacks.

Many feel like they are loosing their mind at times because they forget simple things, misplace things and panic.

A simple sound smell or sight can send a parent spiraling back to the day of their child’s death.  Legs feel heavy or the body feels like a wet blanket has been laid on them to try and bear as they struggle to walk or function.

Most feel guilt when they finally have a “good day.”  Though what constitutes good varies widely.  For some it is simply being able to get out of bed.

Family members not in the inner circle affected by the death may become impatient, offer advice or avoid the grieving family.

Most grieving parents recognize at some point that they have constructed a mask of sorts to wear in public to keep others from saying anything at all.

Most grieving parents want to talk about their child and find it is the death experience they repeat most often.  They want to talk about the person but get stuck on the death as they try to figure out why it happened.    They may not want to share the person (the child)  as time passes because they feel like it is too personal and they want to keep it all in.

Some have trouble parting with the child’s personal possessions.

In talking about their child most parents talk about  how “they”  feel.  How it has affected them and there are no real words that adequately express the pain, grief and emptiness they are left with.

The other stressors of life that continue to happens sometimes seem utterly overwhelming  and unfair that they have to be dealt with.  “Haven’t we had enough already?”

We prefer to hear that you are sorry for our loss.  We think the better place for them to be would to be here with us, happy and healthy – so saying that they are in a better place, however well meant is something we do not want to hear.

If we are people of faith we do not want to hear that it was God‘s will, or that it was their time.  You cannot prove either idea so please don’t present it.  We speculate enough for everyone who might, not knowing anything better to say, toss out some hackneyed saying.

Most parents cycle back through almost all of what I have talked about so far, again and again.

None of us want to feel this way.  But like a deck of cards these things get shuffled and dealt  to the grieving parent on a daily basis.  Yes somedays we choose to discard some of the cards from our hand and some days we sit – weeping over all of them.

To those who are in the trenches with their loss none of this information is new.  For me to state it all again is a mental exercise – an inventory to assess that indeed my observations are real.

I really don’t know if this helps at all.

The one person I would really like to discuss all my observations with is no longer here to talk to.  That in point of fact,  is the most painful realization of all.

Posted in Coping with the Death of a Child | Tagged , , , , , , , , , , | 6 Comments

The Ride

Posted on September 4, 2012 by pathfinder

The trouble I am having is that life  keeps on going whether I want it to or not.  What happened just over a a year ago seems like yesterday and almost in the same thought – so very long ago.  My daughter and I discussed our birthdays that occurred last month the second since our brother/son died.  We each remember vague details.    My feeling has been that I would like everything to be put on pause a while longer so I can process what has happened.  The world does not allow that.

The frustration comes when you think erroneously that others should understand or are feeling as you are.  Having never known how others feel( even in my best empathetic state) I am not sure why that should be a valid expectation now.  Even my husband and I who share the best chance of similar feeling are processing all this differently.  We focus on different aspects of our son’s life and our relationship with him.  At times my impression is  that we are on a teeter-totter with the grief  for our son as the fulcrum.  My husband at some times is up while I am down and visa versa.   We easily tip the other one without meaning to, jarring the other with a sudden dip.

In the past few weeks both my husband and I have been what I can best describe as more alert.  We have wrestled with our faith for a year now and suddenly we have both began to rise to the top at almost the same moment to take a breath.  I realized I still had a right to choose what I believe.  My husband decided to resume some of his  responsibilities in our faith community.  There are people that are part of our faith community that have real needs.  Families face a lot of problems in this world.  They are still here, our son is not.

It is hard to comprehend that there is nothing we can do for our son.  There are no more holidays to celebrate with him and no life achievements to anticipate.  We have only our memories and though I have talked about not allowing them to rule every day it has taken every bit of the last year to begin to understand.  There are so many days when I still find myself saying out loud to an empty house “I can’t believe he is really gone!”

I have stopped feeling guilty when my mind becomes occupied with things other than the sorrow I feel.  I am able to tell stories about my son’s life without tearing up every time.  I can laugh about some of the wonderful things he did in his amazing life.

There are days when I am very tired and I relapse.  I realize when that happens that I have been using a lot of my strength to be able to function.  Perhaps that is why when I am tired I am very tired indeed.

My daughter and son-in-law came to town for the Labor Day weekend.  I struggle with not wanting to be overly protective or defensive concerning my daughter.  She, without wanting it ,has had a whole load of attention pinned to her now.   We are learning how to get to know our son-in-law.  He is at a disadvantage – having married our daughter just a little over three months after our son died.  We could not focus on him at that time and now we are being to focus again.  I remind myself that our daughter has known him a lot longer than we have and that we ,in some ways, are really just getting to know him at all.

I allow myself to be busy. This is not in an effort not to think, but rather  “to think” – to really think.  Thinking sometimes needs to happen without emotion.  It is a way of trying to put things into perspective.

I am not going to kid myself.  I don’t understand anything about life at all.  I don’t understand why we are here or why there is pain or why people and life ends.  Sometimes just saying outright that I don’t understand anything at all helps.

There have been no great revelations.  Life is messy.   Accidents happen.  People change.  Sometimes the person on the other side of the teeter-totter jumps off and you land with a great thump.  You cannot control anything – even yourself, but you hang on.  You hang on and you hope. Whether you hope to see the ones you love again one day in whatever place that may be or whether you simply hope to gain peace one day.  I am here on this planet for now missing my son who enriched my life in every way. I am learning to continue to love those who I have in my life.  It makes me dizzy sometimes but I  am hanging on.

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the second year

Posted on August 23, 2012 by pathfinder

We have passed the first anniversary of our son’s death and into the second year.   There have been a few people I have not heard from at all during the first year who have contacted me.   I know it is difficult for them.  They don’t know what to expect.   I have been contacted by a few people who because we had not been in contact for a long time had to be told of our son’s death.   They have not gotten back in touch with me.

The second year seems to me to be as hard if not more difficult than the first.  Perhaps I need to change the way I count things.  Shock played a big role in the first year.  It was numbing and blurred thinking about some things that happened.

I looked back at the calendar.  There were lots of things that happened from July 2011 to July 2012.  Except for photos and a few snatches that seem like remembered dreams I have no concrete memory of some the early events.  I remember my daughter’s wedding and in part that was helped by the photos taken.

I remember the feeling of Christmas, but I don’t remember Thanksgiving.   I remember February 4th, our son’s birthday.

I started working in the pottery studio sometime in 2011, but I don’t remember when I started that either.    Days had a way of sliding over each other lubricated by tears.

The shock passed and reality became more real and focused.  The pain changed.

I have no real advice for people concerning how to act toward the bereaved.  I have not been where they are.  I do not have a sibling  who has lost a child recently. I have only two friends who have lost children during the past year and I see in them the way I feel and sometimes we have little to say to each other.  I have made friends with people who have lost children.   We talk online through the Compassionate Friends network.   I was not their friend when they lost their child.

I have retained my sense of humor through this.   I find many things funny.  I enjoy a good laugh.  I am continuing to paint and create.  I enjoy the process of painting and working in clay.  I enjoy knitting.   I read a lot right after my son died, but that for some reason has become more difficult again.   I don’t concentrate well when trying to read.  Perhaps I need to find some books on tape again.

I still get stuck.  I have been stuck for the past few days.  I have tried to figure out why.  I noticed it about the third day when I realized I had abandoned normal routines.   I realized that I was not getting up and taking my usual shower.  Meals were forgotten.   Boxes of tissues dissolved in front of me.  I am writing this so perhaps I have wrenched myself out of that spot for today.

I still wear a mask quite often.   It is probably not as effective as I think it is but it gives me a sense of security, pretending that no one can tell how miserable I am at times.

To parents who have not experienced this situation I know I represent their biggest fear.  It was my biggest fear too.  As long as you have children it is your fear.  Perhaps it is more acute when they are younger and taking more risks.  Unfortunately I have made friends with people whose loss did not occur until their child was in their 40’s and 50’s.   The age does not change the impact of the loss.

If you can’t bring yourself to call me or write me, it is okay.  Truly, I understand.   You may think that you are going to upset me more.   That is as good of an excuse as any from your point of view.  At this point there is no “more”.   I live each day with an undercurrent that threatens to drag me down if I let it.  You are not going to add to it.  I know you don’t know what to say.   I don’t know what I want to hear.   “So sorry for your loss.” is as good as anything.

In this second year the same problems exist as in the first.  Those of us who have lost our child want to talk about our child.   Unfortunately, there were not many in the first year who were comfortable hearing us talk about them, and now in the second year they assume we are over that part of it.

I have some amazing, brave friends who give me lots of space.  They have found the strength to stay close to me.  I am so thankful for them.  Most have admitted that they were unsure at first and a bit frightened at what they might find in me.  Their acceptance is a gift.

At any given moment I am subject to tear up.

I think about my son every day because I think about my daughter and husband every day too.

I missed him when he lived in Colorado and Ohio.   I miss him now because he is gone from life.

If you can’t talk to me it is okay.   In my honor, and in honor of my son today do this one thing.  Make a memory with someone you love.  Hug them, call them, tell them what it is you love about them. You won’t regret it.

Life is all about the process and as long as there is a day for me to live, I will work through the process in which I find myself.  My family whether still in the world or not abides with me in my heart as do yours, though you may not have had to focus on that yet.

Please don’t feel guilty for not calling, for not writing.  You are off the hook.

Posted in Coping with the Death of a Child, Death, Family, Friends | Tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , , , | 5 Comments

everyday feelings

Posted on August 18, 2012 by pathfinder

Dear Son,

It is Saturday and I am exhausted. Your dad is out trimming bushes.  You know it is his therapy to work in the yard.

The workshop went well. I had fifteen students.  Some I have known for a while but most were new to me.  Talented group and so very very receptive.  I did not talk about you.  In years past I would have.  My extreme pride in you and your sister always made me want to share the anecdotes concerning our interactions together.

That in some ways made this workshop a test.  I shy away from places where I will be in contact with new people for any length of time because the subject of family comes up and I am never sure what to share.  There were times when people said things in passing that I decided to ignore or gloss over.  I choose not to join in some conversation because I did not want it to lead where I did not want to go.

There were a few folks there that know me fairly well.  They helped me to be comfortable and I really need to find a way to thank them adequately.  They felt like a safety net.  In the group of new people there were a couple that have now quickly become an “old” friend.  That is good too.  So in every way this workshop was profitable.  For my students, I hope it made them want to go home and paint, for me, it has been another hurdle to cross.

On Wednesday coming home I felt an awful  grief attack coming on.  I had been so busy for a couple of days preparing for this physically and mentally that I finally broke down in the car going home.   I felt such anger that you were not available for me to talk to.  I felt angry that I had been so occupied and diverted from my grief and now it washed back over in such force.  I yelled at you when I got home.  The poor dogs cowered in the den.  Finally Ebby approached me cautiously and climbed in to my lap.  She is so good at being a comforter.

I wanted to break something.

I wanted to scream till I lost my voice.

I didn’t.  I calmed down.

Yet every day I drove home and tears streamed down my face and I though about what I wanted to tell you about the day.  I want so badly to talk with you.

This particular outlet is really inadequate.   It is frustrating and feels so lopsided.

Am I just becoming too comfortable in my every day grief?  When I am home by myself working in the studio I can let the thoughts come and go.  Grief is here with me , stirred up in my day.  Out there, in the busy world other people and things claim you and your attention.  If you feel a twinge you push it back to think about later.  Then when everything calms down it hits like a wave.

I enjoyed the workshop.  I enjoyed the creative forces at work – the spirit of the effort.   I think to most people there who knew me I appeared to be as I have always been.  I think that is okay.

I think that you would expect that of me.

I am really tired.  It is going to be one of those days.   And since I have learned the hard way that there is no guarantee of a tomorrow, I will just take this one as it comes.     I love and miss you.  We all love and miss you.

Love forever,

Mom

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Little Threads

Posted on August 13, 2012 by pathfinder

Those we still have in our lives are weaving tiny threads through our life in such a subtle way that we barely notice.  Connections made through interests we share, expressions and habits they have both good and bad, possessions they hold dear.  There are collections of objects all around me that have been given to me or touched by my family.  When we see something our spouse or child might like we think about them.  We accept the reminder as a part of our day.

The threads that bind me to my son are still there.  Reminders come every day and sometimes  are like a flood.

I am on Facebook.  On the wall there were some posts that have jolted me.  One was from a friend who is a climber.  Her husband had been climbing and told her “he was still alive” after a climb.  I think the words jolted her too from the comment she made.  Another friend posted “Souls go to heaven, organs do not.”  We received a letter from one of the recipients of our’s son’s organs Saturday.  It always sets us back on our heels.  Then today there is a post from a friend that they are vacationing at the place where the accident occurred that took our son’s life.  They are at a resort near the area.

None of these particular posts would have caused me a second glance a little over a year ago.  Sometimes with a knee jerk reaction I block or delete some folks posts.  It is not out of anger towards them. Sometimes I avoid Facebook and the internet for days because there is just TMI.

We have phrases we use without thinking.  “Almost broke my neck.”  “I feel brain dead.”  I hear someone say that they could kill their child.   They don’t mean anything by it – I know.  I’ve said stupid things like that myself.  Now the phrases seem crazy and cruel.

In the Bible, in the book of James it talks about taming the tongue.  It has taken on new meaning for me.  Be careful, little mouth, what you say.

My husband and I watch “The Big Bang Theory“.  The characters seem like a hyperbole of some of my son’s friends and colleagues.   I recognize some characters from my own days in school.  There is not one exact match among the characters on the show, but there are hilarious similarities.  We watch it as a form of self soothing.  We laugh and though I doubt they intended this outcome sometimes it makes me shed a tear.

There is a hawk nesting somewhere above us on the mountainside.  I hear it during the day when I am outside with the dogs.  It’s voice is strong and loud so I assume it is not a bluejay mocking a hawk as my son taught me that they are known to do.   If it is a bluejay then that is okay too.  We got a catalogue from Tom’s Shoes, addressed to him or current occupant.   He liked those shoes.

Feverishly I have been backing up every digital picture file I have.  I can’t stand the thought of loosing one image of him or my daughter or husband.

Life itself is a reminder of him.

Every bereaved parent could sit for days and weeks on end and try to list everything they miss about their child – but life does not make time for that.  We want to talk about them, but we don’t know what to say – so much of our memory of them has no words because it is the love we have for them.  It is the hope we had for their future.  It was the anticipation of what they would do and where they would go.  We wanted to see their unique gifts come to full flower.

The bereaved parent is easily derailed by simple things.  Sounds, smells and flashes of memory that come unbidden.  For those who have lived in this state for years I understand it still happens to them.  We miss our child or children.  We are still connected by a million little threads that all attach directly to our heart.

 

Posted in Coping with the Death of a Child, Family, organ donor | 4 Comments

“Are we really here?”

Posted on August 9, 2012 by pathfinder

I saw a poster in the entry way of one our eclectic restaurants in our small town.  It was advertising a lecture on the subject “are we really here?”  I smiled to myself at the time, but now as evidenced by my writing you can tell I have thought about that subject.  I know in the past year I have certainly asked myself that question.

I had one life prior to July 2nd 2011 and now I have another.   The people I love and am the closest to in my family changed and continue to change.  I know that I do too.  I wish I could say that it is all for the best, but that jury is still out.   My husband, daughter and I continue to adjust and readjust.  My daughter and I are closer in many ways than we have ever been before.  Would it be this way were her brother still with us?  I have no way of knowing.

My husband and I process some things differently, but thankfully we do communicate.  He is a tender hearted man with a non-fixed flash point.  When he is finally at his limit he flares.  Much about our son’s death has triggered anger in him.  Talking to other men who have lost a child, I have found this is common.  For men the need to be the protector, to prevent and stave off danger is a big instinct.  Not being able to protect their child is devastating.

The subject of “are we really here” can be taken a number of ways.  There were not a lot of clues as to the slant of this lecture.  I wondered if the speaker was going to talk on the idea that we all exist in some sort of “Matrix” like world.  If you have seen the movie then you know what I am talking about.  We are all asleep in little bubbles with a simulated world being fed to our neural ganglia.

I would take it a different direction.  After the death of your child is anyone really  able to really be here?  It is easy to get lost in a fog of memories, regrets, anger, disappointment.  It is easy and perhaps justified to feel sorry for ourselves, to feel sorry for our child that is gone, to feel sorry for our children that remain if there are any who remain.  Certainly and justifiably we re-prioritize concerning the activities we want to take part in and the people we want to spend time with.  It is unfortunate that such a tragedy is the thing that precipitates this re-evaluation.

The shocking revelation when we come to it is that there was never any real normal.  It was just the way things were for that time.  I know this because outside of my small world I have watched others still occupied by their “normal” – change.   The push and pull of the world as time continues to pass alters many things and with the push and pull comes change, adaptation.

Hopefully not just change, but real growth.  The hope is that we can become better in some way.  In some things we simply cope for a while.  In other ways we adapt.   We have been doing this in one way or another all our life and mostly by choice.  This adaptation is not of our choosing.    Now we have to choose to “really be here” or not.

One of the thoughts that has helped me  is to imagine my son telling me what he wants for me.  Picturing him – not as he was when he passed, but healthy and secure and happy telling me what he wants for me.   He was in part what he was because of me and I am in part, what I am, because of him.  Truth is we did not always agree.  He had a way of pushing that sometimes made me uncomfortable but I appreciate the fact that he had high expectations for me.

Can we choose to “really be here” because of them and despite our loosing them?

My son was an encouragement to me.  He expected me to try new things, to step out of my comfort zone.  He expected me to read and learn, to evaluate and connect.   He cheered me on in my art and my writing.  He wanted me to do the things I could do and to do them well.  I wanted that for him too.   He never disappointed me.

I am trying to be present and it is an act of conscious will.  Responsible and accountable in this day because I may not have another.  I cannot live a surrogate life for him.  I don’t know what he might be doing right now were he still here.  I know he would still be expressing his love for me, for his dad, for his sister.  I know he would be encouraging his friends and looking forward to new adventures.

My perspective on life has changed.  It probably would have changed regardless.  Perhaps the changes would have been more subtle but there again I have no way of knowing.  It is changing still whether I am participating or not.  I want to be more aware of the changes, I want to roll with the punches.  I want to help others move forward at what ever pace they can manage.

Lament and tears are a daily part of the routine for now.  Perhaps that will change one day too.   If it does I might let you know.  Until then, while I am here-missing my son-but  partly because of him and despite his death, I will try and really be here.  I can, at least, continue to try.

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Hawks vs. Pigeons

Posted on August 7, 2012 by pathfinder

A pigeon walked in to an art gallery . . . Sounds like the beginning of a joke, but it happened yesterday to me while I was sitting at a gallery co-op where I am a member.  It was my turn to be there to man the gallery.  It was around 3:00 p.m.  Out of the corner of my eye I noticed a movement low on the floor.  Dressed in its best gray with red feet, head bobbing, a pigeon strolled along the carpeted floor.  We keep the door open during the day.   The air conditioning is on so it stays cool.

I realized in one of those moments where you see a number of possible scenarios flash before your eyes that this might be a bad thing.  If a human were to come in behind it and startle it, the bird might fly.  The gallery space is not large, but there are a number of places where a bird could land and perch out of reach.  I stood up slowly and casually walked toward it.   Pigeons are used to navigating their way around humans.  The bird turned around and walked back out the door.  I followed it.  On the sidewalk another pigeon waited.  It wore a slightly mottled gray outfit.  Together they turned like a familiar old couple and together walked down the sidewalk towards the nearest cafe.  I watched them go.  It made me laugh.

Years ago when my son was still living at home, after he had gotten his falconry license he got a phone call.  Our small town newspaper had carried an article about him with his birds and the local vets had his name and number to call when a bird was found.  Ladies in a shop down in the tourist district said they had found a “baby hawk” and wanted him to come identify it and take it to take care of.

I remember the expression on his face as he talked with the lady on the phone.  He frowned and gave his head that little shake.   “I doubt that this is a hawk,” he said, “but I’ll go see.”

I don’t think it was even an hour later that he arrived back at the house.

“Well?” I questioned.

He started laughing.   He described the group crowded around the cardboard box.  Hushed talking and pointing at the occupant of the box he looked inside.

“Its a pigeon” he told them.

The women at the store seemed angry, “Just look at that beak and its feet.” they exclaimed.

“It’s a pigeon” he said.

They didn’t  let him have the bird, even though he offered to take it off their hands.  His own red tail would have loved to have it.

“Did you laugh” I asked.

“No”  he said smiling that familiar smile, “not in front of them . . . they were so sure it was a hawk.  I think I made them angry.  There were so many people there . . .”

After I ushered the pigeon out of the gallery yesterday I called my daughter.  I told her about the event.  I wanted to call my son too.   He would have found it amusing.

Connections between people come in all shapes and sizes.  Little things that get glued together by love like a collage.  I do not try to avoid thoughts, I do however have to brace for their impact.

My daughter was home for almost a week. I loved having her home.  We talked about so many things.  We talked about her brother because he is a part of our life together.  It was a good visit.   It was tough to let her leave.   I wanted to crush her into me there in the driveway as she prepared to return home.

My poor children have had to deal with a mother who adores them.

I wish I had taken a picture of the pigeon.

I have yet to find the sweetness in parting of any kind.

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July

Posted on July 23, 2012 by pathfinder

I have been purposely avoiding writing, to see if it helps, to see how I feel.  It seems to make the words and thoughts pile up.  My husband and I have spent a miserable week together.  He has worked and I have worked and the silent evenings stretche on until we wander off to bed.  Last night finally we talked.

I don’t know why it takes so much time being around some people before the words that need to be said come out.  In this grief that we share we make odd assumptions.  We think we are shielding each other, protecting each other in an effort to not increase the feelings of grief.  The result seems to work in reverse.  The quiet is painful.  The facial expressions easily read.

As it turns out, perhaps not surprisingly, when we talk we find we are pretty much experiencing the same thing.   Both my husband and I having another bout with not being able to comprehend that this situation is real.   It is difficult to comprehend that our son is truly, irrevocably gone.

I so wish there were not others out there abruptly thrown into this place with us.  The horrifying news of acts of insanity, acts of war and accidents are splashed all over the internet.  Lives gone too soon and families left to struggle through the aftermath.  Every time there is news of a death I have to force myself to not rush to find out the details.  There is nothing I can do.  Family members of the deceased are now where we have been and are on the path we are now traveling.   I do not wish this on anyone.

The news media picks up the stories and feeds the public bit by bit, painfully sifting through the horrific details.  We have become conditioned to be their ready audience.

When the newsmen showed up here at our house right after our son died it made me angry.  My husband stayed inside and my daughter and I talked with them.  I demanded to know why this story should be on the nightly news. Human interest story.  They photographed my shadow and not my face.   They took footage of our daughter playing with our son’s dogs.  I talked with them because I wanted our son to be represented correctly from our point of view.  The footage is recorded on our DVR.  I have not watched it again since that day.  I don’t know if I ever will.

I am sorting back through and trying to remember what has worked (for a short time) this past year to make the days tolerable.   My husband had a “project” that is not finished.  He needs the distraction to keep his mind busy.   I trust he will find a new project to start on.

I will write, read, paint, knit, work on pottery, walk the dogs, teach a few watercolor workshops, shop with friends, visit with family.  All the things I did before with one hateful exception – there is one less person to talk to about what I am doing and why I am doing it.  One less person to discuss politics, culture  and the enigma of humanity and life as we know it.  One important person whose weight of being  provided balance in our family.

We are dealing with the reality of our insecurity in this world and it is frightening and uncomfortable.

J.K. Rowling in her Harry Potter series captures a sense of this.   In one scene  Luna Lovegood and Harry Potter observe and interact with the Thestrals that can only be seen by those who have experienced the death of a loved one.  There is an uncomfortable group of us now, looking into the face of something we do not understand and cannot comprehend.

I read the short biographies of those who died the other night at the theater in Colorado.  I wept for the parents and siblings and families.   I know that it makes absolutely no sense, and though psychologists and investigators will try to get to the bottom of it and angry people will point  blame the end result is the same.  Beautiful lives have ended.  Potential is gone.  Families are shattered perhaps irreparably.  The pain is there because the love exists along side the sorrow and we’ve never gotten a handle on either one.

Posted in Coping with the Death of a Child, Death | Tagged , , | 3 Comments