In hope of joy

Posted on March 9, 2012 by pathfinder

Daylight savings time begins this Saturday.  Tonight is the opening reception for the artists of Blue Ridge Watermedia Society at Haywood County Arts Gallery where I will have some work on display.  If the weather permitted, potters Brant and Karen Barnes of Riverwood Pottery in Dillsboro will unload the kiln.  I am one of their students and we will get to see how our pieces turned out.  I worked my day at the Asheville Gallery of Art where I am a member this week – another first – not having worked since there since my son died.  I am getting my taxes ready to go to the accountant.  I am taking my dogs to the groomers today.  We are going to Atlanta next weekend to view the international car show.   I am staying busy.

It is difficult to figure what is supposed to be helped by all of this.  Much of the time I am going through the motions and I am waiting to see when it stops feeling so forced.   I attended a shower for a sweet young lady who is getting married at the end of the month.  I could feel myself unraveling a bit as the evening progressed.  My laughter became a  bit too loud.  Sometimes I feel myself almost off to one side of my own body watching myself.  There was one person who attended that I had not seen since our son’s death.  She spoke to me and I noticed she positioned herself as far from me as she could.  I don’t blame her, but I am still amazed when I see it happen.  A woman I had not met before attended.  She was busy at the bride’s shoulder so there was no personal conversation with me.  I avoid personal conversations with new people most of the time.

One of the chat moderators on the Compassionate Friends on line chat mentioned that she had during her early days of grief allowed herself thirty minutes a day to dwell on and grieve her child.  I tried it yesterday.  I will need to stock up on tissues for that event.  I thought about the idea of the thirty minutes and it clicked with me.  When my son was alive we probably spent about thirty minutes a day on the phone when he was at school.   During those days, once he had called or I had called him I could relax for the rest of the day.

My daughter and I check in like that.   Perhaps it is a part of the modern phenomenon.  When long distance calls were so expensive  you were tied to a land line where calls were delegated to the weekend when rates were lower.  Now, as long as there is a signal we can be in immediate and constant contact.  It has changed some of the dynamics of life and apparently dealing with death.

There were times when he was home – usually for about three days.  After that, we both, like the old adage, began to stink.   Those days still claim themselves, when I battle the pain of separation from him, longing for conversation, laughter and hikes with him and the dogs.   I will give those days space too.   Thankfully they were not entirely connected with specific holidays, though Thanksgiving and Christmas will take a bit more sorting out this year.   Our seasonal holidays occurred during the time when all of us were still a bit numb in 2011.

I will allow myself thirty minutes a day, though I reserve the right to not necessarily take them.   I will not, however, allow the pressure to build up so much that the valve blows off.  In other words, if I skip a day, I won’t allow myself to skip another.  The pain can become overwhelming.    This is my plan right now.  It is subject to revision.

I have pictures I allow myself to look at only now and then.  There are two short video clips of him.   One taken right before he died.  Strangely they are very calming to me.   Hearing his voice helps sometimes.

He was real.  He was mine.   He was gentle and good.   He was intelligent, quick-witted, straight-forward and a champion for equality.  He did not flinch from standing up for what he thought was right and he would not enter a fight unless he intended to see it to the end regardless of the outcome.   His battle was always, only with words and reason and logic.   We liked each other a lot.  We enjoyed each other’s company.  We were comfortable together and derived strength from knowing we loved each other unconditionally.     We provided a safe place for each other.

I am so very fortunate, some might say blessed to have known someone as well as I knew this man.

I know people in my situation worry about how they suddenly find the urge to pull away from those they love that remain in the world.  I think it is because we know now that they really will die one day, and it could happen before we die.    Our other children could die.  We know the unthinkable can happen.  The unconscious need to avoid any more pain might make us want to distance ourselves, “just in case.”  I accept that fact with resignation, and refuse to let it keep me from having the full and rich relationship I love with my daughter and husband.  It would anger my son if I were to let that happen.   I struggle with it.  It is self protection to draw back, but I am making headway.

My children and my husband are a part of my everyday life.  They will be until I leave this life.  I listen to my daughter talk about her grief and coping.  My husband is working through his grief in his own way.   Being present for each other is perhaps the only thing we can do right now, acknowledging each other’s right to feel and express the things we need to.

There is no formula or right answer.  There is no solution where one size fits all.  There is just a daily sorting right now, trying to find some way to stop dreading the next day before it comes.

I cannot say I am hopeless, though I am not sure what I am hoping for all the time.  I have expectations for the future, many of which have the potential to bring joy.  Perhaps it is joy that I hope for.   Gentler days where joy may come in whatever form it may.

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

Early Spring

Posted on March 2, 2012 by pathfinder

July 2, 2011

Dear Son,

It has been a tough couple of weeks.  I have talked to you so much.  I am sorry if I seem to be angry at times.  I am frustrated that I can’t seem to come to grips with the fact that you are gone.   I can visualize you in so many situations.  I can see your long thin frame at the back door.  I ache to be able to sit on the couch with you or have you come sit on the side of my chair. I miss your voice calling for me in the house.  I miss cups of tea with you.  I miss talking about the dogs.  I miss receiving silly links to strange videos on the internet.  I miss your wisdom and humor and tolerance of me.  I miss feeling your gaze directed at me, sometimes with incredulity, but always, always with love.

I keep moving.  That is all I can say.  I get up, I get the work of the day done, most days.  Some days I cry lot.  The tears are always right below the surface ready to flow.

I miss the joy that was connected directly to you.

I’ve been missing your sister terribly lately.  She is so busy and her life has taken a shift as she has started a new job.  I think this one suits her.  I love how excited she sounds.  It reminds me of the excitement you used to bring to me as you discussed the potential for new endeavors.

In my grief I get frustrated that nothing will hold still for very long for  me to focus on. The world keeps on moving on.   I know for myself that it seems impossible that it could without you.  I have always assumed that I did not matter much in the scheme of things, but you did and yet, everything continues to move along.   I am just always a few steps behind right now.

I am surprised that some things have not changed more.   Our habits are hard to change.  The habits of others that I know altered a little after your death, in their attempt to reach out to us.  But my habits are the same  and therein lies the pain. My habits concerning you are still there and have no outlet.     I sustain a level of functioning that allows me to go out in short bursts to be with others.  It takes all my strength most times.   It is emotionally exhausting.

After two particularly bad days I had a talk with you in my head about what to do.  I have talked to other parents who have lost children.  Many of them set up ways to memorialize their children.   Some run marathons, or ride in races.  Some plant flower gardens or petition for public spaces to be set aside in their child’s memory.

Early on your dad and I tried to figure out what to do.

I can’t picture you getting very excited about any of the things I just mentioned.  We have considered helping with the Pinnacle Trail or Panthertown in your name.  Those places were so special to you and because of you for me.   I know someone is going to put your name in a special space on campus at your undergraduate school.  It will honor all the students who are now  gone.  There is also supposed to be a bench put somewhere on campus in your honor too.

There are people alive today because of organ donation from you.  I don’t think about that too much.   It has the potential to make me crazier than I am already.

Your dad is working on your old VW bug.  He had started on that before you died.  He wanted to give that to you one day.  I know part of his obsession to finish it is to honor you at the car show, which is close to his heart.

I guess we all have to do whatever helps, regardless of how small that help might be.   Me?  I’m going to do my art.   I’m going to go where it leads me.   I’m going to paint, and work in the clay.  I’m going to let the tears wet my palette.   I know you appreciated my work.  When you and your sister and dad admire my work to the point of wanting it for your own, it makes feel so proud.

I painted last Saturday.  It was the first Saturday since you died that I stood with brush in hand.  The painting I did the day you died is still unframed.  I don’t know what to do with it.  I can see it and the day you died floods back.   Saturday is just another day.  I know that.  Stairs are just stairs.  Rocks are just rocks.

I want to honor you with my life.  I don’t want to stop being who I am.  You, your sister and your dad complete me.   I have always felt secure in who I am because of you all.   To allow that to change, to say that I cannot be me without you physically present in the world seems an insult to you.  You influenced me for good.

These words are easier said, than believed sometimes.   I feel diminished, wrung out, joyless so much of the time.   I feel very weak at times.  Maybe I always was and just depended on my families strength thinking it was my own.

You are irreplaceable.  There is no substitute, no stand-in.  There are no words big enough to encompass how much I miss you.  The world could flood to the top of the mountains with my tears and it would not be a drop in the bucket for the grief that I feel.  The fact that I am joined by so many who are in this same place breaks my heart again daily.   It is that pressing weight that is so hard to bear.  As long as there is life, there is death.   We begin thinking about it as soon as we know that death exists and will come to us one day.

I never expected it to come for you so soon.

We love you.  I love you.

Forever,

Mom

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

Assisted Living

Posted on February 27, 2012 by pathfinder

When my dad died it was the first big loss in our family.  He had AML – Acute Myeloid Leukemia.  He refused treatment.  The disease was advanced.  I don’t know how much pain he had been in prior to diagnosis, or how truly ill he had felt.  Somehow, innately, I think he knew how bad things were once a name had been given to his disease.  That was 14 years ago.  It was this time of year, when my sisters, brother-in-law and I took shifts caring him with the help of hospice.  Our mother was there too.  We did not expect her to engage in the physical part of taking care of daddy.  She cooked for him and petted him.

I just visited one of my sisters for three days. She lives six hours from here further south.  She and I often rode together to my parents home during the three months of our dad’s illness and subsequent death.  Sometimes it seems like yesterday.  The ride from my house to our parents took seven or eight hours.   We made it every other week for three months.

Ladies from our church would find out when I would be returning home from my parents house, during that awful time and have supper waiting for me and the family on the day of my return.  It is interesting how, at times memories are triggered.

It was tough to say goodbye to my dad.  Tougher to see my mother standing there at that house, alone, as we pulled out to return to our own home after the funeral.

I tried to imagine how she would function and I could not put myself in her place.  I had no point of reference.  I had a busy life with husband and children, friends, church and my art work.

When, two years later, our daughter was diagnosed with ALL – Acute Lymphoblastic Leukemia my world turned on its end.  Referencing my dad, I did not know if this was a death sentence for my daughter or not.  Everything changed overnight with the pronouncement of the diagnosis.  Two and a half years later, twelve chemotherapy agents, daily treatments for the first year and alternating daily or three-day-a-week treatments for the next year and a half was our life. One day, abruptly treatment was over.  She has stayed in remission for 12 years.

The ladies of the church came then too.  On the long days at the hospital I would return home with my sleeping daughter to find a meal waiting to be heated up.  Sometimes one of the ladies would accompany me on those long days when they did bone marrow biopsy and administered the methotrexate intrathecally.   For years and years I had some sort of identity associated with cancer and  those years of my daughter’s treatment.

There was so much activity associated with those days.  Coming and going and hovering over the people most affected.

My mother’s decline was not easy.  She lived in her own house for many years until dementia made it necessary to get her situated in an assisted living.  One after the other both of her hips a broke before she died.  I have tried to figure out why I don’t miss her more than I do, and I think it was because the woman who finally departed was so unlike the woman I had known for so many years.

Our son’s death was quick and almost too tidy.  Within 24 hours he was gone.  Within three months his sister had taken care of the details regarding his “estate.”

I have tried to compare it and contrast it with other things I have experienced and there is nothing with which to compare it.  I can look at pictures of my dad and I realize that I miss him.  I see my mother in pictures at various times in her life and miss her more at certain times in her life than others.   I miss my son every day.

It infuses the day sometimes and at times comes in the most benign circumstances. Riding home from my sisters house, I called my husband, my daughter and it seemed most natural that I should call my son.   We would have talked for a while.   I still have to be careful, dwelling on photos of him.

I am busy these days.  I fill up the hours with activities that are of value, if such a  thing as value is a real thing.   I evaluate the things of life through a different lens now and some things are very uncomfortable when confronted because I realize how ridiculously frivolous and empty they are.

My family, my sisters and nephews and nieces, my sister and brother-in-law have made an effort to continue to reach out to us. My friends at church and friends in the art community have stayed close to be the food on the table when we get home.  They are all the true value of life.

I am sure the frivolous will creep back in, if for no other reason because I so enjoyed the frivolous things with my son and still do with my daughter and husband.

We can’t live our lives in the shadow of the knowledge that everything we know will cease, whether it is because we cease to be or they do.  I don’t think I  have wasted any time spent with my family and friends.  It is all precious.

Assisted living.  I said my mother was put in assisted living, but I realize I have been there all along.   I live in assisted living and provide assistance for others living out there in the world.   If fortunate we are all there, assisting and being assisted.

So one more time for everyone who occupies this particular boat of having lost a child, I want to tell you how very sorry I am for your loss.   So very sorry.  I hope for you and for all of us in this place that we find some joyful memory today and embrace it even if it brings the inevitable tears.  Peace.

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

Missing you

Posted on February 22, 2012 by pathfinder

I’ve had a few tough nights since our son died.  Surprisingly only a few, until this week.  The past two nights have been rough.  I wake up and flash back to July 2nd.  When I do sleep,  dreams become vivid, not about his death but rather silly things.  I have an  important appointment for something and there seems to be no way to get ready.  I face delay, detour and all-the-while, the clock is mocking me that I will be irreparably late.

It makes the day sluggish when I wake.  My temper is short.  My patience shorter.  Tears are sloshing around just below the surface.  New triggers appear at random.

I sent cards to the parents and wife of my son’s friend who died.   I see on Facebook where people are saying to the family to  “let them know” if there is anything they can do.  I covered this once, early on with some words borrowed from someone who has been on this journey longer than I.  It sounds like a great offer, but here is the skinny – we still don’t know what you could possibly do for us, we don’t know what we need that you could provide.

We do know exactly what we want.  We want our child to not be dead, but more than that, we want  time to be turned back to when they were healthy and happy.  We want to go back there, knowing the danger that lies ahead and to prevent it from happening.  We want a time machine.

The only words that can be said, even today to me, that does not make me want to punch somebody is “I am  sorry.”   I am afraid that limits dialogue.  There are no acceptable explanations, so please don’t try to pull a rabbit out of your hat.

Let me reinforce a former statement of mine, written on some other day.  I don’t think God did this to my child or anyone else’s child.  If He did, then we have all got a big problem, too monumental to address here.

I am sorry if I am repeating myself concerning things I have previously talked about.  Lack of sleep, and the replaying of events in my head has made many things resurface.  Maybe it is in the repeating that the edges finally wear away.  Maybe.

I know that this is partly related to the death of my son’s childhood friend.  I have been thinking about his parents during my waking hours.   I remember that awful Sunday after our son died.  Inconsolable family.  I don’t even remember how long that lasted.   I just remember the heaviness, the weariness that no sleep could relieve.

I hate where they have to be right now, dreading the funeral.  Dreading after the funeral even more.

I will have to be out of town and unable to attend this young man’s memorial service.    I regret that and I am relieved.  I don’t know how deep into the dark of depression that might possibly take me.   I don’t mean to sound selfish here.  I don’t know if the future will present opportunity for me to reach out to this family in some other way.   I still have difficulty with plans.   I am trying to get through this first year without my own son.

I am so sorry.  I am sorry that I never fully considered this possibility-that I would loose a child.Even if I could have, I know I could not have comprehended.  I don’t comprehend it now.

There is a mantra that plays in my head sometimes.  The only words that seem to come, small words.   I miss him.  I miss him so much.

I know that it is because I had so much – for which I am thankful – so much that I miss.   My son allowed me to be in his life as much as is possible between a mother and son.  It was good.

This day has dawned with bright sunshine.  We have had a mild winter and all our bulbs are blooming.  I’ve got things that because I am still alive and in this world, I need to do.   I cannot live this day for him, but I can continue to find joy in my day because of him.  He has in all ways, as has my daughter and husband, enhanced my view of the world.   I miss him.  I miss him so much.

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

Fond Farewells

Posted on February 20, 2012 by pathfinder

Dear Son,

One of your best friends from high school died today.  His death was the result of illness.

I remember him as a quiet good natured young man with a ready laugh.  You and he went through some of your “goth” period together.  I don’t remember him dying his hair, but I remember making him turn a tee shirt wrong side out to wear in the house because I found it so offensive.  You and he would disappear to your room and the music would begin.

I hate this for his parents, his wife and for the child that must now grow up without him.   I hate this.

He had stayed here in his home town finding a job and making a life for himself near his family.  I remember him introducing his wife to me, telling me that they were expecting a baby.  It was outside the hospital in the parking lot.

It is so unfair.  All of this seems so unfair.   But I have not figured out exactly what fair is, if you really want to know.  You would probably laugh at me for even saying that.

Another friend of mine has miscarried the second time.  She and her husband have always wanted a child.  I don’t know what to say to her either.  They would be fabulous parents.

I don’t believe God is up there with his hands on the lever randomly opening trap doors for the hapless to fall through.   I don’t believe He made my friend a certain way to ensure difficulty in carrying a pregnancy to term.  I don’t think He intended to have your friend die, any more than He did you.

I don’t think I know God very well at all especially in light of what man teaches about Him.  The words that are said after unfortunate circumstances such as these happen diminish Him for me and make His very existence sound implausible.  Yet I know deep down in my most basic self that He does exist.

There are glimpses that I have had and confrontations that happen where I am humbled by what I recognize as pure love.   He is there.   But you know that.

We are here, left to experience the pain and the joy when it can be found.  Just about the time I think I have found something that makes some sense, it slips right through my fingers.

Funny how we think ourselves superior to the dogs and cats, rabbits and birds.  Somehow I envy their existence.  I don’t see them worrying.  What we call instinct seems their only protection and that appears to be hard-wired into them.

I visited your cousin and his family this weekend.  Some of his mannerisms remind me of you.   We do share familial traits.  He has a beautiful family.  There is so much love there.  There is a picture I have of you with his eldest, taken years ago right here in our kitchen.  You were smitten by her.  You and I  talked about his other three at times.  I wish you had had time to know them better too.  Did you ever even see his baby in person?  I can’t remember.  He is as precocious as the other three if not more so.

I am rambling.  I didn’t mean to.

I had a terrible day of missing you yesterday.   There is no predicting when that will happen.   I ache to talk to you and have a cup of tea.

I know you cannot miss what you did not have.  My longings are very telling of my relationship with you.   Was I wrong to let you have such a big piece of my heart?

I appreciate that you shared your friends with me.  Again, I am so sorry that someone else has lost their son.

I love you.

Forever,

Mom

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Valentine

Posted on February 14, 2012 by pathfinder

The Split Rock

Dear Son,

Every day, at times I have a running conversation with you in my head.   There are things that I would like to have your opinion about.  I miss the reinforcement you provided for me.

People keep telling me that the way I feel will soften.  You were the linguistics person and I have tried to  figure out what they mean exactly.   The only world that comes to mind is resignation.  We resign ourselves to the reality.

I can’t think about it for too long, or I begin to panic.   I have a number of people who provide great support for me.  Your dad, sister and I depend on each other.  Your sister has joined a support group.  Your dad has men he spends time with working on the VW, and of course the Wednesday night car gang.  Work is a blessing and a curse for him.  It keeps him busy, but then there are those patients who come back to town, not knowing of your death.  They ask about you.

Your dad talked and still talks about you all the time at work. He talks about me and your sister too. I don’t think any of us can consistently provide our love in the format that is most pleasing to the object of our love.  It does not negate the depth of the love.  He misses the idea of the future he thought he would have with you.   His pain at times is harder for me to take than my own.  Of all things that I can put down every now and then, his pain is one of them.  I try not to carry it around because there is nothing I can do about it.   I do remind him that you love him.  I have and always will as long I remain here.

You would be so proud of your sister.  She is an amazing woman.   I know she can melt down and suddenly switch to “high-maintenance” mode, but she keeps growing in the most powerful ways.   I love the sense of self that she has.  There is a growing confidence that is developing and has the potential to carry her along. She in ways, reminds me of you.   It is something at her core.

I know you never thought of yourself as “high maintenance.”  You were at times.  Especially with me.   I think you liked to push me to see when I would crack.  I am not sure what your motives were.  Perhaps it was just to test your “powers” over me.

How many times can I confess?  With you and your sister I am helpless in my love for you.   I can’t say no to your dad, and I could seldom say no to you as adults.  You all are my beloved.

So it is Valentine’s Day, whatever that means.   I know people who have a drawer with the cards their kids have sent them over the years.  I don’t have such a drawer.  You were not a person to remember these kind of holidays, and that suits me just fine.  Your dad sent flowers a week late last year.  I fell down the stairs the day he sent them.   That is the day the florist took me to the ER and you came home – planning to hike and climb.  Instead you took care of me.  You and your dad did a great job.

My shoulder still hurts sometimes.  I have funny pains in my hand at times and I have to be careful how I sleep.  I hold the banister when I go downstairs.   I don’t mind the pain because in the strangest of ways it is connected to you.   Maybe that is the softening they speak of when others say it will change.  We, being so aggrieved embrace the pain because it is connected to the one we so love and miss.  We wear off the hair on the monster of grief until it becomes a teddy bear.

I see you in dreams.  You are a part of things as you always have been.  You are and always will  be a part of me.   I just have to learn how to navigate differently, to hold the emotional banister.

Happy Valentines day baby.

I love you.

Forever

Mom

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

In matters of faith

Posted on February 8, 2012 by pathfinder

There is a subtle change, or maybe it is a shift in how I feel.  Perhaps I am just getting used to the weight of this loss.  It is a part of every day, every hour.  Perhaps I am being forced to change, or perhaps I am just being more like I really am.   The grinding pain of the loss has stripped away some things.   It has also caused me to learn some new behaviors.

I continue to struggle with what has been labeled faith.  In a book club I have joined we are discussing “The Heart of Christianity”  by Marcus J. Borg.   I have only started reading it and so far I like it.   I continue to struggle with the idea that Faith as prescribed by my particular tradition is “primarily a matter of the beliefs in your head-of whether you believe the right set of claims to be true.” (Marcus J. Borg)  My set of things to believe, upon which my claim to faith was built has shattered.

In some places I am learning to keep my mouth shut.  It is for self protection.  I am unwilling to expose my soft underbelly in some situations.   Yesterday during  my pottery class a man in the class started talking about Cooper’s Hawks.  Eight months ago, I would have had to flaunt my knowledge.  Having lived through the falconry years with my son, I remember the days spent looking for a nesting pair of Coopers.  It was an obsession.  Every stand of tall pine trees were searched.  Pole climbing gear was purchased in preparation for scaling a tree in hopes of taking a young hawk to man.

The facts  my fellow student presented were correct concerning the bird.  He talked in that way that some people do when they think that they are the expert in the room.  I let him continue to think so.  To my knowledge the man knows nothing of me except that I am another student in the class.  I don’t want to talk about why I know the things I know about hawks.

With things concerning my beliefs and God however, I am perhaps overly vocal.  I have been taught things concerning God my whole life.  Some things I accepted rather childishly without question.  The death of my son has caused me to question many things.  I have not run a poll, but I would almost wager that most parents who have lost a child have a lot of questions for God to answer.

One of the ladies in our book club said, paraphrasing something I had thought earlier, “I think the Bible was written by people who intended to glorify God.”  I agree.   I think the Bible contains God’s words, but it in it is not like the tablets of stone handed down to Moses.  Man keeps trying with each generation to create God in his own image.

Part of my grief with the death of my son is the demise of some of my former beliefs.These are things that were mine before I ever had my son, or  even the idea of  having children.  It is grief over learning that some things I held as true were nonsense and fabricated by man and not at all from God.

I still have Faith and I am sorting through it a lot, trying to figure out what is true as it applies to me.

In the tradition I grew up with here are some phrases I grew up hearing.

“The hope of heaven”   In the Bible that I have, heaven is a promise.  Nowhere in that book does it tell you to make sure you get all your check marks in the right boxes.  In my Bible there is a God who is a god of grace. Grace was something we were never taught about in church.

I have heard “if it is your will, Lord, please heal . . .”  God’s will is not involved with your health.  Remember, if the words in the book are true supposedly He is the one who allowed death to exist.  God isn’t wanting you or anyone to be sick.  His will is for you to love other’s as you love yourself.  His will is for you to have a good attitude throughout your life, an attitude that stops you from objectifying others.   God’s will is for us to treat everyone with love.  When Jesus in his brief prayer asks for God’s will to be done – on earth – AS it is in heaven – do you think there is illness in heaven, if it exists?  I picture heaven being a place of infinite love.  God wants us to do our best to bring as much of that into this world as we can.  Loving each other despite ourselves.

I have heard people say “it was your son’s time.”  I am looking to see where the expiration date is stamped on my own body.  I can’t use the word that comes to mind when people say that to me.   I have decided to simply state.  “I don’t believe that,” and exit as quickly as possible.

I don’t believe in providential care.  I am astounded by those  individuals who think that their own good behaviors bought them a golden ticket.  The rain falls on the just and the unjust.  The weeds grow up among the shafts of wheat.

I am learning to be thankful again.  I am thankful that if my son suffered at all, it was not for long.    I am thankful for the people who ministered to him there in the woods because so many benefited from the organ donations  that would not have been possible without their efforts.  I am thankful that when I got to see him, as horrific as that was, he was warm and appeared to be asleep. I am thankful his beautiful face was unmarked.    I am thankful that he has so many friends who have blessed us with their kindness and love.   I am thankful that he was such a kind, thoughtful, generous son and friend.  I am thankful I was able to be there when he was finally pronounced dead.  I am thankful for my family, both biological and spiritual who have ministered to us.  I am thankful for my daughter and husband and that we can talk and talk and talk.

I keep my mouth shut a lot more than some probably think I do, while in my head and heart so many things rattle around.  I am angry at the tradition that I grew up with.  I am angry at its exclusivity and the injustice it contributes to.  At first I thought I was angry at God.  I am slowly realizing that my anger is misdirected.   I am a blunt and direct person.  There are some who know me who are probably glad and a bit surprised after somethings I have said that I am keeping anything to myself.  But I am.

I prayed for my son every day, several times a day.   When he was in town I lay awake waiting for his car to come up the driveway at night, to make sure he was safe.  I called on the weekends, panicking if he did not answer, worried because of the dangers where he lived.  When he traveled we checked in often by phone and when he went to climb in remote places, he would find a place to get a signal and call to reassure me.  I trusted my prayers to protect him.   I thought I had God’s favor and that it would provide blanket protection for my family.  I do have God’s favor. It just isn’t what I thought it was.  And because it isn’t, it gives me hope that other things I wrongfully feared to be true are not true either.  My hope is that God’s mercy is much, much bigger than my own.  I pray for wisdom to seek wisdom;I pray for mercy and clarity.  Death will come to us all.   Making the most of the day is all we have.  Gifting just one someone with the hope that they are of as much value as everyone else is the goal.

My son knew he was of value.  Both of our children have great confidence in the tight places to avoid the rub.  If God is love, then He has been ever present in our family.  For this I am thankful.

Posted in Coping with the Death of a Child, Death, Dogs, Faith, Family, organ donor | Tagged , , , , , , , | 3 Comments

Birthday wishes

Posted on February 7, 2012 by pathfinder

River Street

I have taken a week break from writing.  My husband and I visited Savannah, Georgia.  We stayed on the waterfront in the River Street Historic Hotel.  It is a nice place, though perhaps a bit disorganized.  When we go again, and I say when, not if, we will probably find a bed and breakfast somewhere on one of the squares.

We walked a lot.  We visited shops, toured museums, ate a lot of food.  A couple of our friends joined us there.  Their presence made our time in Savannah that much more enjoyable.

We were not trying to escape memories or thoughts.  That is impossible.  We were trying to find a place that could make their impact softer.  Saturday was our son’s 30th birthday.

I have always cried on my children‘s birthday, usually at the end of the day.  I always mourned the passing of that precious time of childhood.  Each year meant they were closer to taking flight.

As a child our son looked forward as most children do to “what they will get” for the birthday.  There was always cake and at the least a family celebration.  When we came to live in the mountains and he was older we would host a sleep-over for him and his friends.   Since it was February it was usually fairly cold.  The boys would bundle up and take to the woods in camouflage.  I miss those voices now.  I look at the old pictures and it makes me smile.

Our son would usually flee when we started singing “Happy Birthday” to him.  I am not sure if it was the song or the attention being given to him.

I remember his 18th birthday in the year 2000.  The group of friends had been ordered  by the court to stay away from each other because of the incident with the port-o-john.   It was a sad birthday.  We went to a restaurant in another town so that we would not run into anyone in our own small town.  I can remember where we went to eat and the shadow that seemed to hang over us.

As years passed and our son moved out west, birthdays were spent talking on the phone for well wishes.  Gifts arrived by UPS.

I think he always wanted people to pay attention to him, but on his terms.  His physical appearance was striking.  Very tall and very thin.  Handsome without any idea that he was so.   Sometimes in public you could tell he did not know what to do with himself.   Long arms and hands and always an impish slightly lopsided smile.   I would watch him reading on the couch; book or computer propped in his lap.  His face was all concentration and he would reach up with either hand and suddenly rub his head, whirling the hair around in a circle on the top of his head.  Then he would pick up a strand on the side and twirl it between long fingers all-the-while his eyes locked on the page.

In Savannah I thought about the fact that it had only been a little over a year since he had been there himself.  He

Spanish Moss on Live Oak

attended a conference in Savannah for Philosophy.  He came back talking about the historic city and the food.

We did not go there because he had been to that place.  I have no memories of him there, though I could imagine his enjoyment.  Perhaps it did enhance our enjoyment knowing that we were seeing some of the things he had seen.

For the most part, we held it together.   Getting out and walking kept us busy.  The weather was beautiful.  Our friends a welcome distraction.

On Saturday our friends departed for their home and we stayed one more night.  It was our son’s birthday and we were determined to stay the day and depart on Sunday.  We went to supper at a restaurant that was connected to the hotel and on the river.  Saturdays are noisy  and alcohol saturated on the riverfront in Savannah.

Over the music and laughter our waiter introduced himself, his name tag big and shiny.  He had the same name as our son.  Serendipity?

My husband and I looked at each other.  The young waiter had a puzzled look on his face.  My husband and I fought back tears.  I have no idea what the young man thought was happening, if he was paying that much attention in all the confusion around us.

We ordered food anyway.  We fought the feeling of wanting to just tell the waiter to forget it and retreat to our room.

Savannah is a place that I would like to visit again.  The pace is easy, the people gracious, the food delicious.   It is so drastically different in landscape from where we live and not like the coast of North Carolina that my husband and I are familiar with.

We made it through this birthday.  We had no choice.   My husbands birthday will happen in March.  It will tough for him, as was my birthday and our daughters.  We are missing a part of us.

I have wondered if as this huge hard stone of grief ever really does erode and smooth at the edges.  If it does will it become a more manageable load to carry? Will it lodge itself somewhere in my heart and like some oyster my own protective devices will turn it into a pearl?  I don’t know.  Right now I can’t imagine how this feeling can be any less.  But there it is.  It is what we have.

Colonial Park Cemetary

In the graveyard we visited in Savannah I noticed that the deaths were inscribed as a date.  For the young people they also stated the number of years, months and days that the person had lived. Immediately I understood why.

In Chatham Square there is a house called the Kehoe house.  Actually there are two houses on the Square that the Kehoe family resided in.  The first one was outgrown by the family who had 10 children to make it to adulthood -something unheard of in that day.  William Kehoe ran an iron foundry and made a good living for his Catholic family.  He built another house across the square that is now run as a bed and breakfast inn.  On the balcony of the first  house there is a statue of a weeping mother.  It is thought to represent Mrs. Kehoe mourning the death of one of her children who did not make it to adulthood.

The Kehoe's first home

The pain of loosing a child has never diminished, in all time.  My son lived a good life for 29 years, 4 months and 28 days.  Happy Birthday baby.

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

Among other things

Posted on January 31, 2012 by pathfinder

Sky the mini aussie

I took my dogs to the vet today.  Sky the mini Australian Shepherd  is enrolled in a “courteous canine” class.  He is 19 months old now.  Ebby our pomeranian is in her 12th year.  I was nervous to go to the vet.  We live in a very small town.  I had not visited her since our son died.  When I last saw her we talked about one of his dogs, the dogs that now reside with his sister.  The one we were concerned about, Sadie, is much better.  When my son had her she had little interest in food.  With my daughter all that has changed.  Sadie seems to prefer females.  Asa, the older of the two border collies has adapted well. Our son has trained him to do many things. My daughter still practices his “tricks” with him.

Our son and daughter had lived in the same house, in different apartments for 6 months before our son died.  When she came home from work the dogs would start barking because they recognized the beep of her car horn when she locked her door.  They knew that she would let them out and play with them until her brother came home.  The transition for them after his death meant that they got to move downstairs permanently.  Sadie started eating properly.

I can project all sorts of things on those dogs.   I wonder if they recognize the smell of our son and look for him.   I don’t know much about the psychological issues of dogs.  I know that having the dogs has been a comfort to us.   Sky was just a little over a year old when our son died.   I wish my son could see him now.  He would be impressed with how smart he is.  Our son helped us pick him out.   It really is our son’s fault that we have this dog.

Sadie the female border collie

I was nervous to see the vet because I knew we might have to talk about our son’s death.  She said nothing at first.  When she asked if they had been getting some of their medicine regularly I had to admit that I did not remember the last time I gave them their meds.  I said, “you probably know my son died in July.”

“I am so sorry,” she said, “I was shocked when I heard it on the news.”

We talked about the dogs .  I was able to mention my son’s name in sentences then.  My voice did not even catch.

I also have had my hair done again.  This is the second time since my son died.  I had taken him to get his hair cut by my hairdresser about a month before he died.  I had been to see her the day before the accident that claimed him.  It was hard to go back to her.  We had talked about him that Friday, July 1st.

That may sound a bit crazy to some, but it is an every day challenge now to get on with some things.  It is a challenge to

Asa the male border collie

decide if I am willing to take part in what used to be, commonplace occurrence, in this new state.  There are those faces that you have to look at.  They are usually guarded and you can tell they don’t know what to say.  Some people want to rush in and hug you.   I find that the most uncomfortable.   I think those are the people who must rip off bandaids and jump into the deep end when the water is still a bit cold in the pool.  It is okay if they are someone from whom you usually receive a hug.  It is the acquaintance who decides that this circumstance merits their giving you a hug that are off-putting.  You find yourself murmuring, “it’s okay” or “I’m fine.”  We are forced into lying.

I dreaded going to the hairdresser and the vet.  But I am over that hurdle now.  I will take one of the dogs back in three weeks.  No big deal.

Living has become emotionally labor intensive.   Depression blunts things and causes me to hesitate.   Dread has moved in as constant companion.   All the “firsts”- the first time since he died.   The first time you see someone you have known for a while, the first time back to church, the first time going to the grocery store (in a small town).   The “dread” whispers in your ear that “it could be bad!”

I have passed my first birthday since he died, and my daughter’s.  We got through the wedding, Thanksgiving, Christmas, New Year.  Saturday is his birthday.  I’ve lost a few days dreading that already.  My daughter reminded me that it is just another day, really.  She is right.

We are going out of town, my husband and I.   We are escaping south.   It won’t stop us from thinking about our son.   It will be a bit easier to find a momentary diversion.  The dogs will be cared for by some college kids who will come stay at the house.  It gives them a break from the dorms and our dogs will love being pampered.  I have printed a guide book for our destination.   I am almost beginning to look forward to going.  I am nervous about leaving the dogs.  I don’t know why, I have just decided to make that something for me to have concerns about.

My son always encouraged us to travel.   He thought we were a bit crazy not to do more.   We are home bodies.  We like

Ebby the pomeranian

where we live in the mountains and it easy to just stay home.   My husbands profession keeps him very busy and often when he has time off he simply likes to stay put.   He and I have decided we need to find a way to go ahead and travel.  Part of the dog taking the course is to make him more travel friendly.   It will make it easier for me to travel if I can take the dogs with me I think, though in truth it may make it more difficult.

The nice thing about our trip is that everyone at the hotel and in the destination will be a stranger.  We have some friends that will join us there for a couple of days.  That is a gift to us.  They have been with us through all this up to now.   We are comfortable with them and having them with us will smooth out some rough edges.

The others in the town will have no reason to look up and dodge our eyes.  They won’t know that our son died.   I can drop the mask for a while.

Our son visited the place where we are going.  He went to a conference there a year or so ago.  He came back here to pick up his dogs on his way back to school.  He told us we should go there and visit.  “Great place.” he told us.

I can’t remember where he stayed or the names of any restaurants where he dined.  I think that is probably for the best.   We are not going there because he had been there.  It is someplace that we were mutually interested in.

This will be our first trip that is purely for relaxation in a long time.   It is another hurdle to cross.   We are timing this one so that we can take two with one jump.

I lost a few days of writing to depression.  I intend to allow the words to fall where they may while we are gone on our trip.   I miss how effortless life used to be, among other things. . .

Posted in Death, Dogs, Family, Friends, Pets | Tagged , , , , , , | Leave a comment

Dear Son

Posted on January 27, 2012 by pathfinder

Hey Babe,

The weird weather here is suiting me just fine.  It seems fitting that everything should be weird , out-of-the-ordinary, atypical.  The sun is shining while all the clouds on the horizon are as dark as pitch.  There are frogs chirping in the little pond out front.  The pond was frozen in December.  June in January.

I found pictures I took of you in June, that I didn’t realize were taken then.  One is of you in your dad’s chair with Sadie beside you.  You are looking at me out of the corner of your eye.   The other is when we went down to look at the storm damage that the straight line winds had inflicted on the trees.  I caught you with your back to me.   The tree that was by the little stream lay on its side, uprooted.  I don’t know why the pictures startle me when I find them.  They were taken 17 days before you died.  That is probably what startles me.

The videos of you with the dogs at Panther Town were taken the next day or so. It reminded me that I had been a bit flustered when you said you wanted to come down for the 4th of July.  You had just been in town a couple of weekends before.  Your Uncle and Aunt were coming and your sister and her then fiance too.  I was annoyed to have to figure out where everyone was going to sleep.  I was annoyed at having to cook and take care of everyone.  I have felt  guilty about that after what happened.

You always said I do too much.  No one expects it of me.  I impose it on myself, and then I resent it.  I have a hard time saying no to you, or your sister or dad.  I realize it is deeper.  I try not to think about it, but the thought has occurred, that had I said no,

“No sweetheart, you can’t come, there are too many people coming to the house already.”  But I couldn’t, and I didn’t.  Speculation is useless.  The mind rattles on anyway.  You might have chosen to climb in the Red River Gorge had you not come here.   You might have survived that climb.  I know, it didn’t happen that way.

I didn’t say “no”, though I thought about it.  I said yes when I wasn’t fully committed and I felt a bit resentful of my inability to say no.

You probably picked up on it.   You certainly were complimentary and appreciative.

See ultimately, I want to blame myself.  Somehow, I want to say this is my fault.   How can there be this much pain without me somehow being at fault?

You can’t speak to this.  I can imagine you shaking your head and smiling.  I can imagine you saying “really?” in that pseudo sarcastic tone.  I am so glad I had so much time with you. I learned your voice tone and facial expressions.   I knew what to expect.

I’m not sure why I have cycled back in to thinking about you all the time.   When I wake up at night you are the first thing in my mind.  I don’t know why the flood gate seems to be stuck open.

Random thoughts that begin “If only” keep occurring. If only I had said no to you. That is the only thing I had control over.  Then I think, if only it had rained that day.  I have been thinking that a lot lately, every time it has rained here.  Those are the main two “if only’s I have on my broken record.  I have one other that makes me quake inside.  When you went to the car to pack up that day for your climb, I started to go out and give you one last hug.  Oh my – if only I had!

See I spend an awful lot of time wishing I could have squeezed out  a few drops more from that precious time with you.  I know it would not help me now.  I really do understand that at times.

I have chosen to go learn to throw on the potters wheel again.  I have chosen to take Sky to “The Courteous Canine” class.  I have chosen many things to try to fill up my days.  I am having to learn to live without you.  I didn’t want to have to do this.

I have a mask I wear out in public.  I can keep it in place fairly well.   I realize the smile doesn’t always reach my eyes, and that my laughter has changed pitch and tone.   I can mask my voice on the phone sometimes.  The tone has flattened.  You would notice, but most people don’t.

Most disconcerting is that I have returned to something I did as a child.  I , when in a group find that I am standing by myself, just off to one side, observing while going through the motions.  I know you did that too.  I could see it in your eyes.  There is one picture taken with your grandmother, sister and father years ago.  You have that expression on your face of disconnect.    I think everyone has done that at some point.   It is becoming a default action for me.  I assume I will reconnect eventually.  I’m not sure if it matters or not.

I panic easily.  In the most benign situations, things like not being able to find my keys or phone create a feeling of panic.  I forget where I have parked my car and the panic rises.   I know it doesn’t make any sense, but it is there.

I can see how easy it would be to become trapped at home.  I am fighting that.  I refuse to let myself become homebound.   I think that would totally dishonor us as a family and you and your sister most of all.

I can’t live your life for you.  I can’t make up for the things you will miss doing.  I cannot make every day a monument to you.   I was so happy when I first held you in my arms 30 years ago on February 4th.  Even in the incredible joy of the moment, I remember the sobering thought that I had born you into  a world where you would be destined to die.  I told God that I was handing you over to Him then.   I remember these things as if they were yesterday.  I haven’t figured out what to do with all these thoughts.   I am reluctant to hand them over just yet.

I am confident that you know that I love you.  I don’t think you ever doubted that.  I know you love me too.   I still carry you next to my heart.

Love

Forever

Mom

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