Better???

Posted on May 4, 2012 by pathfinder

Having grief in your life on this level is walking a path filled with land mines.   I think I am navigating my way through pretty well when wham!  one blows up in my face.

I’ve been told lately by a number of people that have NOT been by my side during the last 10 months that I “look better”, I  “sound better” , that I “appear to be doing better.”    I am taken aback.  Their comments are meant to encourage me I am sure.  Instead they make me want to punch them in the face.

The conundrum is that I don’t know why I feel that way.  These people obviously have only seen me in passing, they have not squatted here in the trenches with me as some others have.  I’m not sure exactly what they mean and maybe they don’t either.

But here is how I take it:

I appreciate the fact that you may think that you have been thinking about me every day.  Unless you tell me, I don’t know.   I know how scattered  I have been in the past with good intentions.  It’s okay, really.  It is impossible to maintain that sort of link without great concerted effort.  You are basing your observations of me on random casual occurrences.  They are no measure by which to gain information.

I guess I don’t make you as uncomfortable any more because I have adjusted my mask and you can’t see the seam where the mask starts and I begin.

You think grieving is like an illness that I will eventually recover from or else perish.  I will not recover and when I perish it will go with me.

I would prefer to be the judge of how I am doing.  I am not asking for you to gauge my progress. Your comments concerning how I am doing only underscore how hard I am having to work to keep up appearances and it is a lot of work.  It makes me unsteady when you comment and it is a lot of work to stay steady.

I can hear the strain in your voice, or the look in your eyes when I approach so I go into gear to put you at your ease.  Now at your ease you feel comfortable  and say things like , “well you are looking better.”  I want to say, “not really, this is all an act for you, because I know you couldn’t bare to be with me if I showed you how I am really feeling.”

The shell is  thin and can crack at any moment.

If you are really interested, just for the record, there is not a day without tears.   Not one day.  Not one single day.

Some days don’t get started till noon.

You cannot imagine how I feel.  That is a safe thing for you to say to me.   It is not possible for you to imagine, because pain is something we avoid and seek medication to stop.

I can’t even explain why some things become land mines.  Sitting at a table with friends and they begin to talk about their children (as they should) and they mention what they are doing or the adventures they will undertake.  The voice in your head says in a dull monotone – and your child will never have that opportunity.

Someone says in their state of exhaustion “I feel brain dead.”

I see a plaid shirt.  A plaid shirt for goodness sake in a store.  It looks like something he would wear and I have to get out of the place before I suffocate.

I don’t think it is about growing a thicker skin, or compartmentalizing.  The fact is that maybe for me and some others we cling to our grief because it is part of the connection now that we have with our beloved.

Here is the latest analogy I have come up with.   We had our driveway repaved.  For twenty years there has been a three inch step down from the front walk to the driveway.  The pavement is thicker now and there is about a half inch difference between the sidewalk and driveway.  It is almost level with each other.  The first time I walked out I was jolted.  I had prepared to step down and the step didn’t exist.  I did that a number of times, I was so used to the way it used to be.   I think about it now.  I remind myself when I take the dogs out so that I don’t jar myself.  You wouldn’t think something that small could jar you that much.

I had my son in my life for over 29 years.  From the first time I felt him move till the last time when he could move no more.  Every day I wake and prepare for the crushing reality that I will not see him.  I will not get to hear his voice.   It takes a lot of preparation.

So if you see me and I am smiling and laughing, please don’t draw attention to it.  Just join in and take it for what it is worth.  If it makes you feel better then good, but keep it to yourself.   Those of us who live with grief and laugh often feel disloyal to our loved one.  How dare we have fun.

For me to not laugh would be disloyal to my son, to my daughter who misses her brother so much.  Laughter is one thing my husband I have shared for 35 years.  When I laugh I think of him too and the many things he found absurd and funny.

Better. . .well who knows what that is really.   Please understand, I don’t want to reprimand you.   Truth is if you make me uncomfortable enough, I will avoid you so you don’t have to worry.  But if I choose to be around you and you try to be around me please just relax and understand you can’t make me feel better.  You can’t “make” me do anything.   And if you think I am better, maybe it is you who are better in  learning how to empathize.

Posted in Coping with the Death of a Child, Death, Family, Friends | Tagged , , , , , , , | 10 Comments

Collecting

Posted on May 1, 2012 by pathfinder

Hey Babe,

It is Tuesday and I’ve been busy with all the business life throws at me.  I know why you hiked and went into the woods so often.  It was to escape all the clutter of things in this world.   I have used that clutter to escape from sorrow.  Today it seems I can’t hold a thought in my mind for very long and have struggled with the list that I have of things to do.

I miss our quiet time together.  You on the couch with a book.  The dogs snugged up against you.  A cup of tea in your hand, your index finger through the cup handle, the rest around the base holding it.  You could sit still but your hands fidgeted.

Sometimes you would twirl your hair.  If you had on a back pack and were standing still your hands were occupied worrying the loose straps.   Your long fingers were often active when your body was at rest.   It is strange that of all things I remember that.

I picture you with one arm as if to cross it across your chest, with your elbow rested on it so that you could reach to your head and twirl that hair.  You were so funny about your hair.  You kept it long for a while and then suddenly became friends with the clippers, buzzing it down short.   In the past year you were getting it cut somewhere, though you would never admit where.  It was a great game we had.  Me pestering you about who had cut your hair, you claiming you had done it, complete with shaving your neck.  Yeah, right.

I have to stop myself from buying things I think you would like.  It is like a reflex.  I see a variety of tea or some stupid candy and think how you would like it.

I see where the series on PBS is coming back about Sherlock Holmes.  You liked that series and hoped they would produce more.  Should I watch them?  Can I stand to?   I can’t watch House anymore or even Law and Order.   I know that is dumb.

Your music is all over my car.  I stored so much of your music in the “Jukebox” on my car when you would bring me a CD.   I listen selectively.   Music has always stirred me emotionally and your music serves up a double whammy.  To tell you the truth some of it is so very weird I have wondered if you were picking on me to see if I would dare to question your musical tastes.  You were such a snob concerning some things.

You would really like this crazy dog Sky.  He is such a clown.   He is incredibly smart.  He can open gates with his nose.  He likes other dogs a lot and did really well on the beach.  People coming at him suddenly to try and pet him makes him back up and bark.   It isn’t like Asa bellowing into their face, but it is probably driven by the same type of fear reaction.

Asa is doing great.  He is aging and still has seizures.   Your sister and brother-in-law take good care of him.   He is amazingly adaptive.  He loves your sister.  Sadie is fine.  She is still as skinny as a rail and probably needs a few good flocks of sheep to occupy her time.   You sister is  attached to them.  They are a link with you.   I know Asa does not think of you but sometimes I look at him and feel myself projecting my sorrow on him.   Of course we have to blame you for us having Sky at all.  Your dad and I both can laugh about that how he was acquired.

Your sister is doing  well.  Her job is challenging and interesting.  She is talented and organized. I miss her being closer.   Not that I could see her any more often as busy as she is, but just having her closer would be nice.

Well, I am quickly working my way through a box of tissues writing this.  So I guess I’ll sign off for now.

I just have to tell you that the smallest parts of you, perhaps unnoticed by others are the largest part of me.  The nuances of how you and your sister are, have not been lost on me.  I have collected them all and when in your presence they are my checklist, touchstone and comfort.  I have been a greedy mother collecting these things for years.  I invested my time with you because the payoff in love was worth more to me than anything else in the world.  It is not easy to live without being able to experience the further expression of our love.  It is part of my sustenance.

I can rest in the assurance that you knew while you were alive that we loved you.  Too much so perhaps if that is possible.   We also knew that you loved us.   I know.  I repeat myself a lot, but I have to reassure myself fairly often.

I am so sorry that you are gone.

Love

Forever

Mom

Posted in Coping with the Death of a Child, Death, Dogs, Family | Tagged , , , , , , | 4 Comments

Vacation

Posted on April 26, 2012 by pathfinder
A tired dog is a good dog.

A tired dog is a good dog.

Dear Son,

We are “on vacation.”  We have rented a house at Hilton Head.  Your dad has a conference at the end of the week.  He finds it hard to take a full week for himself without including something that relates to work.  That has been his pattern for all the years you have known him and it has not changed with your departing.

We packed up the dogs and the bird.  I couldn’t bear to leave them behind for a week.   It was tempting to put the box with your ashes in the truck too.  I know that sounds crazy, but it is how I feel.

We never leave you behind.  I don’t think any parent who has lost a child ever leaves that child behind.

My friend just passed the 18th anniversary of the death of her daughter.   I cannot imagine that since we have yet to pass a year.  I don’t want to imagine that.  There are still times when I am not sure how I will make it through the day.

I know it appears differently to most folks I meet.  They have not seen me when I rail against your death.  Even your dad and sister have not seen that.  It is a horrible dark place.  It is when I am trying to believe that you are really gone.  I cannot comprehend it.

I had a week when I felt like I did right after your death.  It was made more difficult because I recognized the symptoms.  The feeling of being weighted down, the lack of joy.  The bridges I had built over the chasm that opened up when you died seemed to crumble.  I miss you so much.

Being here, in this place where we have not been before in someone else’s house among their possessions is a good thing.   We need a break from routine.   It is good to step outside our boundaries and do something a bit different.

We spend all of our life trying to avoid pain.  I take medicine for my headache or arthritis.  There is no avoiding this pain.  We try to dress it up and make it presentable but it is still pain.  Sharp and rough and ragged.

When you had the lipoma surgically removed from your arm I think you felt the most physical pain you had experienced in a while.  I remember how annoyed you were when we had to go to the pharmacy to get your prescription for pain med.  Even then I convinced you to take a non-narcotic medicine first.  It proved to dull the pain enough for you to sleep.   We drove the five hours home that evening, you with your arm propped up.

I remember talking into the evening as we drove home.  I got you settled in the “guest-room” and wrapped you up like a mummy in cellophane so you could shower.   We annoyed your dad because you wanted me to re-wrap your arm when you finished bathing.

I remember after your surgery when they had to keep you in the recovery room because your room was not ready.  I hated leaving you to go home to that dark house.  They kept telling you not to cross your ankles as you wanted to do as you lay in the bed.   I remember you complaining about the man in the next bed when they finally did get you to a room.  I still have the pictures the doctor sent you with your arm marked for surgery and then the picture of the exposed lipoma.

You worked hard to strengthen your arm after your surgery once they gave you the okay to begin exercise.  That Friday in February when I fell down the stairs and dislocated my arm  you were coming to do some climbing.  Instead you took care of me.   You brought me food and drink and helped adjust the sling for my arm.   I know you were thinking about your surgery and I how I cared for you.   You walked with me down the stairs on which I had fallen to help me past my fear.

I have used the memory of my fall to help me deal with your fall.  I know they do not compare, but I know that feeling of confusion tinged with fear.  You know I have thought it, though I have yet to say it.  I could have died that day on the stairs.  If I had, perhaps you would still be here.  We were not given a choice in the matter, but had we been I know what my choice would have been.   Maybe that is not fair to anyone else.  But this is not fair either.   Maybe it is my unkind way of saying that I don’t like having to deal with this.  I have heard one bereaved parent refer to it as a life sentence.

Aftershocks of grief that come unbidden rattling everything in my life again.  I can see them hit your dad and sister at times.  We cut wide circles around some things because we know the misery they trigger. Reminders of the way you died are very difficult.  Imagining scenarios without first hand information haunts us.  Simple shopping trips where we encounter those “things” we would like to buy for you or that you would enjoy having even hurt.  Watching your dog perform the tricks you taught him sometimes breaks my heart.  There are articles of your clothing that your dad could wear but cannot bring himself to do so.  It was okay to wear your discarded tee shirts when you were living, but not so now.  It seems presumptuous.

We watched Osprey hunt on Monday.  One small bird struggled with a fish.  When it finally took to the air the weight of the fish in its feet made its flight erratic.  Suddenly a larger bird appeared and began to chase the smaller bird which flew back out over the water and dropped the fish.  A wild form of catch and release.  The smaller bird flew south along the beach.  A second larger osprey joined the first large bird and  the pair began to hunt together.   You know that both your dad and I wished you had been there to watch with us.

The dogs are enjoying the walks on the beach.   I can tell that I have been to inactive for the past year.   I have aches and pains from the exertion.  I know I need it.

Maybe that is part of the mental pain too.  We are flexing parts of our memory that we have allowed to lay dormant.  We have avoided touching spots because they are too sore, or we are afraid of the pain. Because every thread of our life has become tangled up and interwoven with you and your sister everything expected and unexpected reminds us of you.

We are trying to face some truths about how we feel and what we want.  Avoidance does not work unless you intend to lock yourself in a closet, but even there the thoughts and memories invade.

I’m going to take the dogs out for a walk and then I am going to paint.   Daddy has gone to the conference and the house is very quiet.  The house has been very quiet anyway.  We spend a lot of our time together in silence.

I have met too many people who have had to live through this kind of loss.  Sometimes I think the mutual pain is like a cloud that grows at times to become a storm of grief.   That seems to be the season we are in.   We miss you so much babe.

Love you

Forever

Mom

Posted in Coping with the Death of a Child | Tagged , , , , , , | Leave a comment

Small comforts

Posted on April 17, 2012 by pathfinder
Ebby - dog therapy

Ebby - dog therapy

Dear Son,

In the silence of this house, when I am by myself the question “why” comes up a lot.  I don’t ask others to share in providing an answer, because I fear their responses.  Some say it was your time.  Some say God pulled you out because He was aware of something worse that could happen.  Imagine that!  Some climbers in their fear have speculated that you had to have done something wrong.  Thankfully there has been re-examination of fixed pins at the climbing site and warning signs (for what they are worth) will be installed by the park service.  None of which changes this outcome.  You are gone.

I try not to spend too much time in worthless speculation – worthless in that it does not change anything now for us.   I am not sure what I do focus on.  I have grief attention deficit.   GAD zooks!

Sorry but that makes me laugh, however real it is.

I get things  done each day.  I focus a little longer before the floor drops out from under me.    I still actively yell at the intrusive thoughts.

Yesterday I got a message from one of your best friends.  I thought he was saying that he was coming to town.  It was his wife and son who were coming, both of whom I would have loved to see.  I found a note on the door when I returned home from working in Asheville.  When I got the message from your friend I had a mini breakdown.  I wanted so badly to see him and hug him.   He is not a substitute, but there is something about those friends of yours that you loved that somehow makes me think I can find a scrap of you there.  When I found out he was not coming the tears came.  It was a good thing that there were not many visitors to the gallery yesterday where I was working.

I guess I am a bit lonely for the information concerning your friends with whom we had a connection through you.   I know, I know.  They have their own lives to get on with.  It makes me wonder if I have left people behind wondering what ever happened to me.  I am sure we make them feel sad.  It must add to their grief.  I would certainly avoid it if I could.

I talk to parents who have lost children .  I used to log in to a chat room every week , sometimes several times a week, but I don’t now.  I don’t know why either.   Sadly, new members join every day.  Maybe that is the problem.   They remind me vividly of the path we are traveling and take me back to sign posts I have already passed.  Some have lost children to car accidents, home accidents, suicide, illness.   All of us asking the same questions.  All of us turning over the information in our hands, trying to make sense of it.  All of us left with the same outcome.

Our children are gone.   The painful details, speculation and well meaning remarks remain.  None of which help us.

You want to know what has helped?  It helps when people give me the space to talk about you without flinching.  It helps when a close friend or your dad and I can talk and shed our tears together.  It helps to remember the wonderful times and strangely the bad times with you. It helps to talk to your sister who does not necessarily shed a tear, but who can talk about you sincerely because of how well she knows you.  That helps me embrace how real you were in every way.  It helps to knit.  Something in the rhythm of the stitches helps calm me.  It helps to exercise, though I don’t remember to use it as often as I should.  I have found comfort talking to my handful of friends who have lost a child.  Pottery class helps – again the rhythm of the wheel – working on the clay.  Painting helps some when I can concentrate on it.  Writing makes me cry so I haven’t been writing as often.

I have noticed that some people derive comfort from slogans and cliches.  Whatever it takes to help you get through the day.

Aches and pains seem magnified.  Perhaps it is the undercurrent of depression that makes this so. Maybe it is simply because I am getting older.

I really hate this.  I hate accidents and illness and depression.  I hate it that children die.  I hate that most of our life is spent dealing with death – others and our own.   We hop from stone to stone trying to cross to who knows where without falling in or being swept away by the current.

The world is not a safe place.

I am missing you so much.  I am cycling through some hard things against my will.  Yearning, ache are not big enough words.   You would probably not recognize me in my grief.  I never knew this was possible, and I am somewhat embarrassed by it because I always thought I was supposed to be so strong for my family.  Living in tough stuff.

I continue to pray, but the prayers have changed.  I pray for strength, endurance and wisdom and for love – nothing more.  People who have not experienced this type of grief in their life can create a fickle puppeteer god who pulls strings here and  there.  I don’t believe a God of Love can be so manipulative or punitive.  If this is His creation as extolled by so many  then I pray for their minds to be enlarged to begin to comprehend the vastness of it all.  If creation and the universe is a measure of God then we have not glimpsed the hem of the garment let alone touched it.  You have witnessed that majesty from perspectives I have not seen.  You were a man after His own heart, a man of mercy and justice and a mirror of His love.  No wonder you never recognized Him in the words of men.   We don’t “get” God any more than we do the meaning of life or death.  I am oddly okay with that.

I’ll say this for you babe.  You made the best of the time you were here.

I hope some day someone can say the same for me.

Love you

Miss you.

Forever

Mom

Posted in Coping with the Death of a Child, Death, Family, Friends | Tagged , , , , , | 2 Comments

I’ll take my chances

Posted on April 11, 2012 by pathfinder

April arrived in full bloom.  Now some ten days into the month we are being threatened with frost and freezing temperatures at night.  There is a threat of freezing weather for the next few nights.  The plants that should be covered are too large to cover.   I hate that we are just going to have to take our chances.

But taking chances is a part of life.  Every day, if it dawns for us is fraught with possibility for both good and bad things to happen.   What am I supposed to do about it?

It is tempting to stay home, avoid contact with people and become a hermit of sorts.  If anyone wants to have dealings with me they can come see me.   I felt that way most of July and August of 2011.   I wanted the door of life to close.  I thought it had anyway and I wanted everyone else to close shop too.

I remember the initial frustration I had with the fact that life was going to continue on as if nothing had happened.  People who had expressed their sorrow concerning our son’s death one minute were out on vacation the next.  Didn’t they realize our world had come to a screeching halt?  How dare they have a good time!

I remember the first time I had a good belly laugh.  I felt very guilty afterwards.  How could I possibly be happy?  I remember after a time of not thinking about my son the feeling of shock that such a thing was possible.   How could I not think of him every moment of every day?  A rational part of me knew that it was okay but the emotional part of me felt incredibly guilty.

I am so glad the photographer for our daughter’s wedding took so many pictures.   It has helped me remember the joy of that occasion.   Four months after the death of her brother, our daughter got married.   The preparation work kept her busy.  It took all the energy I could muster to wander along behind trying to keep up.   Those days are difficult to keep in sharp focus in hindsight.   November and December seem to have disappeared without memory.

I have probably pushed myself more than some people and less than others to get out and do things.   Some parents went to work very quickly after the death of their child.  They had a job to return to and I have had some tell me they felt like it saved them from severe depression.  I have been working from home for years.   I had no particular place to go to, except my studio and routine.

Since I had been painting the day he died, the moment he died, it was hard to jump the hurdle and return to that work.  I painted on my own at first.  Now I have friends who join me some weeks.   I am thankful for their willingness to face their own fear of facing me.   They allow me to talk or not to talk about my son.   It helps.

I have been making pottery at a local potters studio.   Clay therapy.   The owners have been friends of mine for years and now they are teaching classes.  I retreat there some days to escape the difficult thoughts and emotions that flood in sometimes, unexpectedly.  They are encouraging concerning the making of items from clay.   They grant me space to relax my mind.  In talking with other students as we have come to know each other I find I am not the only one to have experienced pain and loss. It is a common thread that binds us together.

In February my husband and I ran away to Savannah.  It was our son’s 30th birthday.  We enjoyed our time there with friends.  March presented itself with mild weather.  That is the month of my husband’s birthday and I knew it would not be easy, but we managed.   Now April, fickle – extolled as the “cruelest month” according to Shakespeare.

The cruelty is life itself.  Built in from the moment of birth, that it will end eventually in death.   The buds may freeze tonight, having bloomed so early this year.  The colors are  brilliant, the green foliage  lush and vibrant but by Friday it may be brown.   By October if it is not nipped by the freeze those leaves will turn brown and fall regardless.   It is  the progression of what we are a part of.

The possibility of frost in April is just that, a possibility.   The possibility that you or someone you know may end up in an accident today exists.  People will die today and people will be born today and for some both will happen.  They may be born into this world and die this same day.   That is the chance we take.

I had met grief at other times in my life.  When my dad died.  When my daughter was diagnosed with leukemia.  When my husbands mother died, and then my own mother.   I did not accept it as a constant companion then.   It has given me no choice now.

When my babies were born I carried them in my arms.  As they grew I shifted them to my hip and later as they learned to walk I held their hand.   That is how I picture grief.  I have not welcomed it as I have my children but it lives with me now.   Sometimes I still carry it close, sometimes I shift it loosely to my hip.  I have even put it down at times to let it walk beside me.

Near Rumbling Bald on Frosted Flake my son took his chances.  He was a good climber and he knew the risks.   He faced his fears to push himself to become a better climber so that he might be able to climb in other places.   He climbed well that day.  It was in the descent that the accident happened.   Statistically it is thought that 25% of climbing deaths occur while rappelling.   I hate that my son is part of that statistic.   He choose the chances he would take  because whether chosen or not, taking chances is  what life seems to require.

Loving others is a risky business.  I’ll take my chances.

Posted in Coping with the Death of a Child, Death, Family, Friends, Holidays | Tagged , , , , , , , , , , , | 2 Comments

Symbiotic Relationship

Posted on April 3, 2012 by pathfinder

Dear Son,

I don’t know what to say.

My head is so jumbled with thoughts and I can’t seem to sort through them.  I talk to you all the time in my head.  I think about how you might react in given situations or what you might say.  The utter silence is so painful.

I have found a lot to laugh about lately.  I have enjoyed being out with others and talking.  I still avoid situations where I have to talk to someone I haven’t seen since you died.  I know they dread seeing me.  I work really hard at wearing my mask so that no one sees my grief publicly unless it is with someone I trust.  I don’t like the questions they ask.  I don’t like the expression on their face.  They don’t know how much sympathy to express.  Those people who you don’t know well, but reach out and embrace you physically annoy me the most.  The people who know me well don’t offer to hug me unless indicate my desire for a hug.

The weather is brutally beautiful.  Everything is blooming.  Life is overbearing and it is stark in contrast to your absence.  My brain will not accept the fact that you are gone, that I can only see your face in photos and your voice on tiny little audio bites stored on my computer.

I do not come totally undone as often.  Part of it is me, forcing myself to bottle it up.  I don’t know.  Maybe the sorrow is becoming such a part of me now, a symbiotic relationship.  We exist in this same space.

I wonder sometimes if others think I am “getting over it” because they have.  They mopped their brow and sighed their relief that this did not happen in their family and nodding at our grief have moved on.  I would not want to visit it either if it were not a part of me.

It is impossible to explain to anyone unless they have experienced the death of a child.  Even then it varies from person to person how they choose to respond, what they choose to exhibit, how they fill their days.  There is no right or wrong just individual responses to the individuals they have lost.

I want to talk about you, but I don’t know what to talk about.   Your death was so abrupt.  The arrangements for your remains after your death so easily sorted through.  I have nothing to compare it to to decide if this better or worse.  I don’t want to talk about your death.  I want to talk about your amazing life and people look disturbed and I can tell they are not comfortable to listen.  It is okay if I want to talk about my mom or dad, my grandparents.  Somehow that seems proper and fitting, but not you.  It is too sad.

So let me tell you.   You were a hoot.   You had a confidence despite an incredible shyness.  You were too introspective, too analytical at times.  At other times you were frivolous and downright silly.  I know this sounds cookie cutter and I can’t explain the nuances because it devolves my resolve to not sit and cry.

I realize that you made the most of every opportunity.  I did not perceive you as a person who wasted much time.  Your impatience seemed to occur when you were in a situation and knew there were other things that could be being done.  I was always struck by your expectations for other people – your acceptance and ability to encourage.

I am trying to make the most of the days I have.  Since there are no dates posted concerning their expiration I will use them as best I can.  You would have,  if the situation were reversed.   I won’t deny that I have often wished it were.  I think you would be of more use in this world than I am.  That is what strikes me as so unfair.  I think it strikes most older parents  that way,when loosing grown children.

I don’t feel that I have to live up to anyone’s expectations, except yours, your sister’s and dad’s. And even that is limited by what I feel is reasonable.

I am so thankful I had the time with you that I did.   I find that phrase repeating, along with how much I miss you, love you.

Love you.

Forever

Mom

Posted in Coping with the Death of a Child, Death | Tagged , , , , , , | 1 Comment

Changing Seasons

Posted on March 26, 2012 by pathfinder

Dear Son,

I am typing on your wireless keyboard.  It is tough for your dad and I to use any of your things.  I feel like I am borrowing them.  I guess we are, all of us just borrowing things after all.  Some of them require a users fee, we call it a “price”.  In the end we use it and leave it behind.

Sunday was your dad’s 62nd birthday.  I would have called  and reminded you as I usually did, even though you usually remembered without me.  It was a stupid ritual.  I know he was remembering about his 60th and our surprise party for him.  He was  annoyed and sad that day, which ended so well with the group at the restaurant downtown.   Your sister took some great pictures that night.

Spring has come early.  One Japanese Maple is entirely in leaf and the other is following quickly.  The violets have made a purple carpet in the that space enclosed by the monkey grass border.  I hope we don’t get a freeze because there is no way to protect the big Maples.

I am staying busy.   It is not easy some days.  I still loose some days.  Life has a way of urging you on, though I am not always sure towards what.  It is tough for some reason for your dad and I to talk about you.  I think it is part of the cycle, part of the attempt at some sort of resolution, but I think that is the wrong word.  I don’t think we know what is possible and therefore it is impossible  to focus on what might help.  Help is the wrong word too.  That is another problem, there are no good words for expressing what we want except we want time to reverse itself and for us to go back to July and change the events that brought us here. We want you.

That is really what it comes down to every day sweetheart.  We dance around doing all the “things” excepted of us, and the things we choose to fill up the time.  We choose things to try and divert our attention from our pain.   Our success is limited.

I called the mother of your friend that died just recently.  I heard my pain in her voice.  I heard our mutual longing.   I pulled myself up and I talked to her like I was some sort of expert about this path.  I reassured her that she was allowed to feel whatever she needed and to do whatever seemed best.  Well meaning friends had told her not to visit the grave every day.  It is there near their house, she can see the graveyard from their yard.  I told her to go.  Go every day is she needed to, until she doesn’t need to anymore.  Or if she does the rest of her life, whose business it it but hers?  Why do people who have never experienced such a loss think they know the right way for parents, spouses and siblings to behave in this situation?

This awful situation.  Unthinkable.  Unbelievable.  Unnatural in the order we think should occur.  It is so hard.   Your not being here weighs so heavily on my day.  For your dad and I it is still the last thought on our mind before we go to sleep and the first when we wake.   We took your living for granted.  We all take the living for granted.

My African Violets have found the window in the kitchen to be a good place to live. Saturday,  I had to split a couple and repot them.  The repotted ones look a bit wilted still.  I am hoping they will perk up.  When I saw them with their leaves a bit drooped, their blooms fading I thought – there is another analogy for my life.   Comfortably root bound I have been repotted.  But that is not enough.  The plant will recover.  I think I will remain a bit wilted, not that anyone can see unless they  know me well.  I am good at wearing my mask.  So is your dad.  We can put on a good show.

We talk and laugh when we are out with others.  It is at home where the silences attend us.  We are afraid that if we open the door of our grief in each other’s presence it will not be able to be contained.   It takes a lot of strength to keep it in.

It is your fault.  You are so lovable, so personable, so easy to be with.  You are ours and cherished from the very moment you entered our life.   Your poor sister has to take the brunt of all that attention now.   I try to reign it in, so as not to overwhelm her.

So here I am again, saying basically the same things I have said before.  Wanting so badly to believe that you are able somehow to receive the love I send to you.  The world is not an easy place to be without you and I am not looking for a substitute because none exists.

I am making teapots in my pottery class.  You would be proud of me.   I miss your encouragement.

I love you sweet pea.  As sappy as it sounds I carry you in my heart.

Love

Forever,

Mom

Posted in Coping with the Death of a Child, Death, Family | Leave a comment

Among whom I used to dwell

Posted on March 20, 2012 by pathfinder

The Bird's NestI confessed to one of my friends yesterday that I missed the simpler, more thoughtless days.  I was talking about matters of faith and ideas about God, but the fact is ,it is true about my entire life.  You do not realize how much you are taking for granted until the rug is snatched out from under you.

In the strangest of manners my son’s death is an analogy for that.   There was no bracing for the fall.  There has been no way to brace for this one either.   All my preconceived notions, all my childhood superstitions shattered on July 2nd of 2011.  They had begun to chip at the edges anyway, indeed some had major cracks and were threatening to break.  That day my son left as did many ideas that I had held thinking they were part of me.

I won’t pretend that I think that I am seeing everything as it should be seen.  I realize that circumstances have tipped the world up on its edge  and some of the most familiar things look different at this angle.   But it would be foolish of me not to use this time to re-examine myself and my perspective.  I wanted to continue that sentence with “in hopes of” but I am not sure what if any hopes I have for myself these days.  That is not self-pity it is just the way it is.

Unity.  The one thing I know for sure, if God is who I think He is; is that he wants unity among men.   Unified in love, mutual respect, accepting each other as valuable and as equal.  I have no doubt about this.   The cutting behaviors that start from childhood, the teasing, the “making-fun”, the tearing down of fellow humans driven by the need to feel better about ourselves needs to be unlearned.  Learning to love ourselves so that we won’t feel the need to engage in this type of behavior to try, albeit wrongly, to make ourselves feel better.  I can start again today to change this in myself.  It is not just a behavior of children.  We all do it.   I’m working on that daily.  I must stop muttering about the person ahead of me in line, or at the stop-light.  Sounds silly and trivial, I know, but it is a starting point, and it has to start with me.

I think that we, if God is who I think He is,  will be shocked by what He thinks is important.   He is merciful and full of grace, because we are all in great need of both.  He is not as small as men, preachers and fear-mongers threaten us with. He does not exist in our image.  He is not punitive.

In our book-club/class we are reading “The Heart of Christianity” by Marcus J.Borg.

In it he talks about the symptoms of a closed heart (page 151).  I read them eagerly to see if I suffered from those symptoms.  I am happy to say, I do not.  Moreover I am happy to say that those in my immediate family by-in-large do not.  I can say unequivocally that  my son did not embody these symptoms.  His heart was open to the world.

He was not enclosed in his own world, he saw and heard, listened and examined. His power to reason, to understand and to choose to change was amazing. He was not bound to the desires of his own heart.  He was thankful and expressed his gratitude through his words and actions.  He was in awe of nature and discovery and mystery.  He was empathetic to the pain of the world and hated injustice.  He was a man after God’s own heart.

Before I did not spent a lot of time examining some of these things.  Before I took so much granted.  It was a safe world.  Simpler.    Detonated by circumstances things  implode or explode.   Neither is any fun, but I prefer explode.  The field of debris is scattered. Raw and uncomfortable I can survey the rubble strewn around me and choose what I will recover rather than having to dig my way out from under it.

I have found “busy”.  I can keep busy.  It buffers things for a while, at the most 3-4 days.   I shed tears less often while busy.  Comfort is in small pieces and will require some reconstructing.  Trust must be out there somewhere still waiting to be rediscovered.   Faith stuck close by me from the beginning, thankfully it is not overbearing – rather patiently reaching out now and then to remind me it is still here.

The physical reality of not having my son to see, talk to and be with is the worst pain of all.  Sometimes in the car, I draw from memory to have conversations with him.  I try not to think too much about the fact that he would be working on is dissertation supported by a dissertation fellowship.  He would have had some ability to plan some free days, perhaps to visit here longer or to travel.  I don’t think about the woman he started dating, because my heart can’t take it.  I think about his other friends now and then, but often block information on Facebook.  I can’t really put a name to the feelings the information brings, so I avoid it.

I allow myself to sit and weep.  The dogs are so used to it, they don’t even look up from their naps anymore. I know my son would not want me to sit and weep like I do at times.  But he is not here.  He really is not here.  He is really gone.  The world is different in this small place where I live now.  I am amazed when I see others operating as if nothing has changed when I know, without a doubt, that just by the whim of natural law everything changes every instant.  The overwhelming nature of this knowledge is at times the hardest burden to bear.  There are many of us who bear it, unnoticed by many among whom I used to dwell.

Posted in Coping with the Death of a Child, Faith, Family | Tagged , , , , , | Leave a comment

Broken record

Posted on March 14, 2012 by pathfinder

Violets in my front yard

There is so much to say about our child, how we feel, what we miss, but we have a limited vocabulary with which to express it.  That must be part of the reason we build memorials, run marathons, ride in races, dedicate bridges.

We are broken records, saying the same sad things over and over and over.  We miss them, we love them, we can’t believe they are gone.   We wish it were not true.  It is not fair.  It was not supposed to be like this.

We rein it in most times.  We have the words buzzing around in our head but we keep them in when we are around family members and friends.  It would weary them.  It might make them not want to be around us.  Our immediate family – spouse and other children – probably understand.  They probably have their own undercurrent buzzing in their head.  Our friends are hoping that we are “getting back to normal.”    Normal has changed.

So we wait, until we are in the car, or in our bedroom or bathroom or shower.  We wait till no one except the dog or cat can hear.  We give in then, privately stripping off the mask.  Whatever comes, comes.  We might be able to postpone this for days or maybe even a week but it has to find release.

What reminds me of my son?

The sunlight in the morning that promises a beautiful new day, like this morning when the dew is thick on the grass.

My dog that he insisted we should get.

My bird, that he said he hated.

Wet tea bags and tea cups.

Gadgets of all kinds, electronic and mechanical.

Books, movies, tv shows.

Everything.

Just everything.

I feel self-conscious sometimes in front of people who knew us well.  They saw when we were together how much we loved each other.  It was so easy to do.  It was as natural as breathing.  It is something everyone wants with someone.  We were not trying to exclude anyone.   We simply were comfortable with each other.   I think my pain is equally as obvious.

I have one other friend out there from college days with whom I have this comfort level.  Though as different as it may be in substance the same qualities exist.  We seem to be able to take up where we left off.

My son could be absent in body for months while in Colorado or traveling, but our spirits stayed close and when we were able to be together again we were together. I have said before that there was so much I did not know about him.  He had his own life.  I have my own too, but the things we shared, the threads of common interest stitched us together as trivial as those things might have been.  The strongest thread being the fact that we enjoyed seeing each other grow, learn and discover.

He was an encourager.  He worked hard at overcoming fear, and encouraged others to do so.   He found new paths and found joy in sharing them.

It is not fair.  It seems impossible that he is gone.  I miss him so much.  I miss him so much.  I guess this will have to do for today. Today, that will end with the same words as it began. Because this is the new normal.

Posted in Coping with the Death of a Child, Death, Family, Friends | Tagged , , , , , , , , | 4 Comments

Perspective

Posted on March 12, 2012 by pathfinder

I don’t know how to describe it when something clicks in a way that changes my perspective.   If it happens slowly, I do not notice.  The gradual evolving of my feelings and observations gently nudge me to think differently.  Perhaps in hindsight I remember how I used to feel or think and realize that it is different now.  Sometimes it happens abruptly.  It is like someone has turned on a light in a corner of my mind where it used to be dark.  It is like standing in front of a new mirror where the distortion is just slightly different and I wonder if that is how I really look.

I realize it can be a conscious effort, to learn something new – investigate something to find a way to understand it better or differently.  My habit is to come with preconceived ideas.  I won’t accuse everyone else concerning this, but I will assume that I am not the only one who has preconceived notions.

Death of a loved one, especially a child seems to be that kind of trigger.   When talking with others who have lost a child it seems we all struggle with our new perspective.

We begin by not being able to believe the reality that our child is gone. I don’t know when or if that ever ends.  It has not begun to diminish for me.  There are other people who are gone now.  My parents are gone, yet I understand that they are no longer here.  I have a friend that died years ago after moving to another state.  I do struggle with believing that she is gone.  I don’t know if it is related to the age of the person but I suspect it is.  Our perspective is challenged.  You die when you are old not when young with the future before you, not when a child.

We, when we can bear it, begin to make a list of all the things that “will not” ever happen now.   We use up time when we could be doing other things to think through all the things our child will never see, feel, do or produce.  We mourn the future.  We hoped to be a part of that.  We expected to be able to enjoy celebrating the milestones in their life.   That is gone now and we did not make an alternate plan.   We grasp at things we think we could do, but it is half-hearted as we try to fill up the gap.  Many parents must go back to work.  Some throw themselves into their work trying to blunt their thoughts.     It may keep things at bay for a while, but eventually  when the wave recedes for a bit, it washes back in again full force.   You may postpone the feelings, but they will come back at you.

The real life evidences – the objects and things that they owned, used, wore or played with can be difficult to deal with.  We don’t want to part with them, but we feel like it may be crazy to keep them.   My son did not have a wife or children.  I cannot speak for those parents who now having lost their child have the spouse and grandchildren to grieve with.  I cannot imagine how they feel.  I have dealt some with my son’s good friends.  They worry that they will “remind” me of him.  They worry that they will make me feel sad.   I respect the fact that they cannot stay where I am.  I hope for them that they never experience this grief personally with their own child one day.   Knowing that they still remember my son is a comfort.  A part of him lives on in them in whatever way he influenced them for good.

Sadness is my constant companion.   We have even learned to laugh together some.  I guess that sounds crazy, but I accept the fact that life is sad with the potential for bright moments of joy.  This perspective is very clear and real to me now.  I understand now why most prayers in the Bible are pleas for strength to endure.   That is all we can do – endure.  Death cannot be undone.  It is coming to everyone eventually.

I understand that people don’t want to be reminded of this every second of every day.  There are times during the day when I don’t think about death.  There are times when I don’t actively think about my son.   So far in this journey there has not been a day when I have not thought about both my own death sometimes marveling over the fact that I am still here. The  fact that anything still exists seems impossible in light of the death of my son.  I have not come to grips with the change in that perspective.

We eventually begin to turn again to those who remain.  I have a husband, daughter, sisters, nieces, nephews and my husbands family.  They have lives that are continuing on in the normal paths that life takes.  They deserve my attention too.  Sometimes they participate in things or have events happen that you wish your child could have had.  You try not to be jealous or resentful.  You want to celebrate with them.  You may have a voice in your head whispering “don’t they realize I can’t be happy for them, when my child will never . . .”   It is difficult to tune  that out at times.

We sometimes find ourselves wanting to lecture parents when they complain about their living child.  We erroneously think that if our child were still living we would not complain about them or find fault.  That could only be accomplished if they were magically brought back to life, if we were to get them back knowing they could be dead.  If they were still living, I wouldn’t be writing this.  I would be complaining about my son’s bad habits.  Our insight and appreciation for our child and all the things we miss cannot be transposed on anyone else’s life with their child.  It didn’t work for me.  It can’t be done for them.  Sometimes in those situations when I hear someone complaining about their precious child I have to think- I used to do that too- I hope they always have them to complain about.

I still complain and find fault with the people I love and who are still with me.   Nothing has magically transformed me into some angelic creature without moods or attitudes.

My son was a man with talents and faults.  He could be utterly annoying at times.  I miss all aspects of him.   I will not deify him or cast him in the role of some guardian angel.  I miss the man, the person, the personality.   If he had not died we would be wrestling with all sorts of issues right now.   I won’t print my list of what he would be doing because that too is speculation.   Except for one thing.  He would be calling me today – reporting on his dogs – telling me his plans- telling me he loves me.

Love you too sweet pea.

Posted in Death, Family, Friends | Tagged , , , , , , , , | 3 Comments