It is life

Posted on January 26, 2012 by pathfinder

You go to have your eyes examined.  They put you in that uncomfortable chair.  Drops to dilate your pupils and drops to numb your eye are administered.  There is no way to focus.  I hate the numbing drops most, in terms of the way it makes your eyes feel.  Once that feeling subsides and they have checked your interocular pressure the doctor comes in.  He sits very close to you and takes the most blinding light known to man and looks into your eye.  You are supposed to focus on some other point out there in space and try not to blink.   It feels like the light will burn into your brain.

I had my first eye exam when I was 40.  I noticed when I was reading or in front of the computer screen that my eyes did not focus very quickly when I looked up.  I had excellent vision until I was 40.  Now I wear bifocals.   Without them there is no point that is in clear focus.  My right eye is slightly worse than my left.   I keep my glasses right by my bed and put them on as soon as I get up in the morning. I don’t like the world to be fuzzy.

I know you have caught on to my analogy fairly quickly.   My world is far from being in focus, but it is clearing up in some strange ways.

I rode to the nearest “big” city yesterday.  There was patchy fog.  At one point on the four lane everyone had to slow down.  It may have lasted for two miles.   The mental fog is patchy around here too.

I was numb for a while.  The numbness has started to wear off.  The bright light still burns right up close yet I am learning to concentrate beyond it.  Sometimes I can’t help but stare right into it.  It is very painful.  Sometimes it feels more like a spotlight and sometimes like a laser pointed right at my brain.  It makes my head ache.  I feel like there is a vise on my temples.

Back to the fog.   It rolls in unexpectedly.  It is cold and disorienting.  It blurs the edges and shapes of once familiar objects.  I feel like I want to crawl back into bed and wait for the sun to burn it away.

The extremes that my feelings swing through with these elements in my life make me dizzy.  The change is the only thing that is constant.  My emotions and ways of trying to cope have changed in the past 6 months.  I am trying to loosen my grip on some of the pain.  I allow joy to hug me, but  am not very quick to return the embrace.

Sorry if my love of analogy is tedious.  Maybe it is because I am a painter or maybe it is because I look for a patterns.   Maybe it is just my way of coping.  Whatever it is, the analogous situations and things pop out at me, both good and bad.

When my daughter was in chemotherapy we knew three other children in treatment that did not survive.  One was a contemporary of my daughter.  He was the kindest most generous young man you could ever meet.  He had lost a leg to osteosarcoma, but he he always had a smile on his face.  I danced with him once.  We were at a teen cancer camp and they had brought in a D.J.  I was allowed to go as a chaperone. He was wearing his prosthetic leg.  We swayed gently to the music and he talked about what he wanted to do when he grew up.   As the disease progressed he became bed ridden at home under hospice care.  He and his brother were being raised  by his grandmother because his parents were both dead.  His request-his wish that was going to be granted by a wish foundation-was to have a party for his grandmother. He said she had done so much for him and he wanted something for her.

There was also a beautiful little girl who was in treatment for a brain tumor.  She would come in to the room with her floppy brimmed hat warming her little bald head ,eyes shining behind her glasses.  She sang songs and never departed the hospital room without telling my daughter to “sleep tight and don’t let the bed-bugs bite”.  When my daughter’s treatment ended this little darling came to the end-of-treatment party and sang happy birthday.   Out of the mouth of babes.

I did not attend either of these funerals.  We were out of town when one occurred and the other we did not know had happened till after the fact.  The one funeral we did attend was for a child I did not know so well.  Rhabdomyocarcoma ended this life. I remember the slideshow and the songs at the funeral.  I remember learning that the mother was pregnant.  I thought her very brave.

My daughter survived the treatment she received.  Our family survived, though not unscathed.

All these  memories creep back in with the fog.  I am not prepared, yet, to sort them out, if indeed they need sorting.  I can’t make sense of it.

When I was a child I had two reoccurring dreams.  In one dream I was in a space. It was very dark.  There was a brightly lit line stretching across the space.  The endpoints of the line were not visible.  I would try to measure off sections of the line with my fingers.  Every time I would try the line would vibrate and assume the shape of Dow Industrial Average over the past years.   Frustrated, I would try again.  Every time the line would  “mess up”.

The other dream was also about lines.  One was so thin you could not feel it between your fingers and one so large you could not measure around it.   Both dreams were very frustrating.

I have thought about those dreams many times in my life.  I think the line is my life.  The endpoints not visible to me.   I keep trying to measure, focus on and evaluate different portions, but they will not cooperate.   There are some very important things that are so intangible I cannot find a way to pick them up and there are some things that are so large, I have to learn to accept the fact they cannot be measured and just put up with them.

It is life.

We talk about life being a gift.  I am struggling to figure that out.   We are not asked if we want it.  We have very little control over a large part of it.  We are not allowed to keep it.   Strange gift.

Most people I know just try to make the best of it.   Staring down the bright light focused on their retina, turning on their fog lights and plowing through.   They are up there balancing on that wire walking towards the end that always stays just slightly out of sight and it keeps on vibrating.

I really wish I could go back to taking everything for granted.  It was much simpler.  I eased back in to it as my daughter grew stronger after her chemotherapy.  I wish I didn’t need glasses.  I wish my son were still here to talk to.   I wish life were more orderly and predictable.  I’ve known it wasn’t from a very early age, but back then I just shut my eyes when they came at me with the light.

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Facets of a life

Posted on January 24, 2012 by pathfinder

The birthday of our son is a little over a week away.  It falls on a Saturday this year.  Saturday’s are not good days for us.  The new renters will move into his apartment this weekend.  Our daughter is dreading it.  She has worked so hard to prepare the place.  Both she and her husband have worked on it.

One of our son’s fellow students from the Philosophy department picked up the books our daughter had carefully packed.  Over 350 books that our son used in his studies during the past seven years will go to help form the departments library.  My daughter called me in tears when they left.

The objects are just that, inanimate objects.  He touched those spaces, those things and used them for himself.  They are not our son, but it is very hard to part with those things.

We humans seem to be big into symbols.  A diamond set in ring and placed on the left hand symbolizes love and a contract.   The elements of that symbol separated from the emotion are just  pretty shiny things.

Our son’s body was cremated.  We had a gathering in his honor the week after his death, on a Saturday.  There were people who wanted to attend from out of town, and since his body was cremated we were at liberty to plan the event to accommodate his friends.

His friends were important to him.   If you were privileged enough to have him as your friend then you were fortunate indeed.  Loyal, patient, a good listener, a thoughtful counselor, he did not pretend to know everything. If you were talking about something  he knew was important to you, whether it mattered to him or not, he would give you his undivided attention.  He did not belittle you when he recognized your concern, even if he felt your concerns trivial.  He was a compassionate man. He was impatient with blatant insensitivity and would fiercely defend those he loved.

He spent a lot of time by himself.  He read voraciously.  He thought about things-all sorts of things, considered them carefully.  He was quiet and private.  Curious, seeking, willing to consider and take on new challenges; he found the world interesting.  The natural world fascinated him as did the perceptions man had of the natural world.

What can I use to symbolize him?   The pictures of his red-tail hawk and his little kestrel remind me of him along with his falconry books.  They were just one facet on the stone.   His rock climbing gear and shoes, and books on climbing are another.  They are included whether I like them or not.  His philosophy books are now going to their new home.   His car with over 100,000 miles on it is being driven by his dad. I don’t know where his guitars are, I don’t know if he had been playing in the past few years.  There is a growler with stickers from New Belgium brewery in Fort Collins.   There are pictures of him smiling his lopsided smile, chin bristling with stubble, knitted cap on his head beside his buddies in front of some rocky backdrop.  There is a framed diploma, that he never saw, beside the box that holds his ashes that says he earned his PhD.   There is a stained cup.  A piece of pottery that he used to drink his tea.  There are boxes of his clothes.  A computer whose battery won’t stay charged.  His two dogs that  now live with his sister. I can stack them up and glue them all together and none of them begin to encapsulate the man that he was.

There are times when I can hear his voice commenting on what I am doing.  I can picture how he would react to certain situations.  I can see him so clearly in my mind.   It is hard to be here without him sometimes.  Hard, but not impossible.  Impossible to me would mean that all that he was, is all that I am too.  He had facets I never saw.   I do not know what the man was like when he was a “boyfriend.”  I saw him as a brother, but he was not my brother.   He was a huge part of my life, but he is not my life.  He had a life of his own, which unfortunately has ended.  I have a life of my own too.  It was stitched together with his, as it is with my husband and daughter and friends.   The threads are intact and I hope they have a lot of give so that I can continue to grow on.

In memory of him I do suduko puzzles and try to beat my time.  I drink a cup of tea around 3:00 p.m. each day.  I  read more.   I know these things sound like they are for me, but they are things I did with him, and do because he encouraged me to do so.   I hope to hike more when the weather clears.  I loved hiking with him.  I am gathering my courage to travel.

My daughter is a reader too.  I actually find her choice in literature more close to my own.  I knit, she knits. She loves crossword puzzles.  I am not good at that, but I am trying.   She sends me funny internet videos and pictures of the dogs.   There are unnoticed symbols that we share because we focus on each other since we still have each other.

It is with the passing of our son, her brother that we scramble to find all the scattered facets and put them together into something we can hang on to.   It is a shame that we sometimes don’t realize the value of these things until loss presents the need.

I am not bragging, but I have  always been a person who has celebrated my children. I am thankful for that.   Watching them grow to become the people they are has been one of my favorite activities.   I am totally smitten by them.

In the past few years it always seemed that my son’s birthday snuck up on me before I knew it.  Coming just after the Christmas/New Year holidays it was always a struggle to figure out what to do for it.  I don’t remember the last one I spent “with him.”  He was in Colorado, or traveling, or in Ohio.  No cakes, or special dinners were made.  I usually sent something, or else he ordered something for himself that he particularly wanted.   It was no big deal.

This February he would have passed the 30 year mark.   That is a big one.   When I  had my 30th birthday, he was almost  three.

I think my behavior, attitudes and choices that I have allowed my son to influence are the best memorial I can keep to him.   The positive impact he made on my life for 29 years.   My children have influenced me in ways no other people have.  I think most parents would agree that this is true for them too.

There are more “things” we need to sort through.  There is no hurry, and if it never happens while I am still here then so be it.  Someone, when I am gone can box them up.  Hopefully the things  will have no significance to them.   Strange impersonal comfort that gives me.   Or maybe it is comfort in knowing that the symbols, the memories belong to those that have them in their own heart.  We have that at least.

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Grief

Posted on January 20, 2012 by pathfinder

I can count the days since July 2nd on one hand when I have not shed a tear. I haven’t had one of those days in a while.  I am working on not letting those tearless days make me feel guilty so that, perhaps,they can happen more often.   I have to understand that no one is keeping track of how filled with grief I am.  I have constructed an emotional shrine to my son and tears are one of the frequent offerings I give.

I listened to a webinar yesterday on “being stuck” in grief.  I know some people hate that word and concept of a “webinar”. People sitting in their little spaces, faces lit by a computer screen as they listen, and type in their questions.   For those of us who have grief as their constant companion, however, it is a helpful way to do things.  We can snuffle and cry without feeling like we are upsetting anyone else.

If you are interested in the webinar, go to The Compassionate Friends website.  There is a link there to the recording.  The presentation lasts an hour and the information is simple, straightforward and spot-on.

I found the information to reaffirm many things that I have been feeling.  It also helped me identify where I am right now.  It gave me a hope that I can continue this journey.  I felt like it gave me permission to feel what I need to feel without a time-table.

My husband looked like a storm about to break this morning.  Bad dreams.  He was awake a lot last night.   It made me think about something mentioned in the webinar.

Bad feelings are not the same for everyone and the what helps one person may not help another.   Our grief is as unique as we are.  It may share some similar characteristics and that gives us the the ability to empathize.  Our grief is our own.

I am fortunate to have people who will listen.  They don’t try to offer advice or minimize my feelings.  They are patient with me and listen, even though I repeat some things.   I can tell they believe  what I am saying and they respect me and my ability to keep moving.

I can’t “do” anything for my son now.  He is not here for me to do anything for.  A point mentioned which is uncomfortably true is that “grief is what we do for ourselves.”   It feels less selfish to say “I am grieving FOR my son.”  The truth is I am grieving the relationship that has been yanked away from me.   I worked hard on that relationship.  I sacrificed for it.  I listened, I thought about it, I exerted effort to make it happen.  I was an active, invested participant.   It took two of us to make it happen, and the partner I had in that relationship is gone.   My investment was not wasted but I have energy in reserve that I intended to use for that relationship.  I don’t want to invest it in anything else.   I want him, and I am feeling sorry for myself.

The grief is for me.

Some of us (many of us) are brought up to serve.  Mothers and fathers are to serve each other and their families.  Some of us get so caught up in the service that we forget to take care of ourselves or do things for ourselves.   It becomes something wrong.  We don’t deserve it.

We certainly don’t feel like we deserve this grief.  We didn’t want this situation to happen.  To say that we are grieving for ourselves sounds like we don’t love the person who is gone!   Surely, it is more acceptable to shed those tears, have those horrible thoughts and refuse to experience joy in honor of our loved one.

My unique relationship with my son makes my grief unique.  My husbands relationship with his son makes his grief unique, as it does also for our daughter.   We are fortunate to have each other to talk to.  I am constantly amazed at the variety of emotions we experience in one day.  When I am up, my husband is down.  My daughter likewise.  If you were to plot it on a graph it would look like a mathematicians nightmare.

Nothing that we feel is affecting what happened to our son/brother.  That is unchangeable.  He is not loving us more or less.  The effect of his love on my life still remains and will remain as long as I live.  My grief may not change for a while, or ever.  I will learn to carry it.   I may even learn to eventually put it down every now and then.  No one can dictate to me how that will be.  I will be patient with the fact that this is mine, undeserved as it is.

I miss him.  I love him.  I never wanted to part with him.  I looked forward to seeing what he would do.  I enjoyed conversations with him.  I loved the way he loved me.  I struggle with believing he is really gone.   I am grieving for myself.

In my family, it makes me sad to see the grief in my husband and daughter.  I know my grief hurts my husband.  It is a struggle to keep that grief from blocking us from those who remain.  It is like our emotional arms are so full we can’t use them to embrace anyone or anything else.

When I do have the strength to let go a bit, it is not my son I am letting go of, it is my own grief.  I don’t need to feel guilty.  Nothing about my love or past relationship with my son has changed.  The physical presence is gone.  The potential for more is gone.  What I have had is not gone.  The lessons learned, the memories all remain.  Putting down the grief I have for myself is something I can do a little at a time.  It is mine to do with as I will.   My son is not and was not grief.  It cannot take his place.  Nothing can.

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January 16, 2012

Posted on January 17, 2012 by pathfinder

Dear Son,

Your sister was home this weekend.  She came alone.  She left the dogs and your brother-in-law back at the house.  She has a renter for your apartment.  She has stamped all your books and readied them for the graduate school to pick up.  I am sending your files of papers too.  After talking to one of your friends we decided if those items were of any use to anyone it would be the department where you studied.

I downloaded all the text messages from your phone and your music.  Your sister will be using your phone.

I have to tell you this all feels very invasive.   I am reminded of working with you downstairs cleaning out the store room.  I wanted to throw out that ceramic Darth Vader countertop lamp and you pitched a fit.  I pitch an emotional fit over everything you have ever touched or written.  I cannot bear to part with these things.

Your sister became very attached to the books while she was sorting and stamping them.  She said she would come across a note you had made in a margin and wanted to put the book aside to keep.   The problem is we don’t even understand the titles let alone what is written on the pages.

It was so good to have your sister home.  I find it hard to part with her when she has to leave.   I’ve always had difficulty with that.  You both would drive away and I would have to shed a few tears.   I take after my grandmother.

Your sister and I talked about you a lot.  We agree that it is easy to glorify you.  Don’t let that go to your head.  You were not without your quirks.   She misses you so much, but handles it in a different way.  I think she is a bit annoyed at having to be the only child dealing with your dad and I, which is not always easy.

As time goes by she will connect more fully with her husband.  They will become a unit.  As we learn more about him and he about us, we will face our own problems and communication difficulties.  It is another process.

Having your sister home was wonderful.  I enjoyed her company and being with her.  She and I have had those times in the past, times before you died and it felt quite normal.  Unfortunately it makes me remember those private times with you and I miss them.  I am so selfish.  I love having each one of you to myself.

I feel rather foolish sometimes.  I was so proud of myself as an empty-nester.  I did not mind you and your sister living out and away from us.  I counted on the fact you would return and it gave me comfort that you were independent.  You were still living somewhere, and could be contacted.

I still segue too much,  to the confusion of others.  Random.  I know.  It occurred to me that all the genes that combined to form you and your sister still exist, but that the same combination that formed you will not reoccur.  You were a perfect bone marrow match for your sister.  I know I told you.   That continues to astound me.

We went to lunch with some of our friends on Sunday.  We talked about how their two daughters overlap the parents personality with their particular quirks.   I had to stop myself from thinking too much.   I am sure it should bring me laughter to think about it with you and me, but I end up in tears.

It feels like the grief is wrenching itself out of me.   I am a viscous volcano of grief.  I know you get my meaning.

It is the daily processing, and reprocessing and error messages that get wearisome.  I think I’ve gotten something figured out and it resurfaces in another form.   Nothing stays tucked in the file.   It looks like my parrots cage after she has shredded all her papers.  I know.  You hate that parrot.

You hate the parrot.  My dog’s head is too big for his body.   Television is stupid  for the most part unless there is a soccer game, but only if it one you want to watch.  I should be reading more.  I should be hiking.  I need to get over my fear of flying. I should be painting more.  Why haven’t I brewed any more beer? Why haven’t daddy and I chucked it all and started traveling?   What are waiting for?

I don’ know babe.  I am stuck here.   I am rooted to the spot.  Sometimes I can’t get out of the den.

I’m gonna try to get unstuck.  Part of the problem is I’m not sure I want to be.  I don’t know what that means and I  I am afraid to let go.  The passing time is freaking me out.

I am making plans and I will  see them through.  It takes all the strength I can muster.   There are little things that spark my interest and I can become totally involved for a short time.   As I said before, I’m not sure I want the distraction to last longer.  I have come to realize however,  that I do have to give my thoughts a rest sometimes.

With your birthday coming up I am in dread mode.  I have planned a trip for your dad and I.  Some of the college kids will stay at the house and keep the dogs.  I have no idea what this will be like, but we have all intentions of figuring it out.   I can hear you say, over the top of  a cup of tea, “you should.”

Today I have to confess, I am missing your sister pretty badly too.  I wish she were here.  I miss her not living closer by. It is a big circle of missing each other.

I’ve got to stop now, or I will not make it through the morning and I have things I need to do.   Sometimes if I just give myself a few minutes  allowing myself to totally feel the yearning I feel for you, it settles down for the day.

I know you know, and try to make sure your sister knows how much I love the two of you.  I love you both so much.

Forever

Mom

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time relentless passing

Posted on January 14, 2012 by pathfinder

the fingers must relax

their grip held for so long

bent in that shape

tension held meant not to crush

rather to embrace

not willing to relinquish

to forgotten pockets

the precious

hard won

relics

 

shocking

the revelation

vivid clarity

when it occurs

when;  understood alas,

the marching days relentless passing

contain memories that do not include

the one  held so tightly

new memories  stacking up

in the space where they are not

 

the energy it takes to hold on

has no fuel to fire the process

the stored reserves depleted

by the erosion of fear

by blinding tears

stark reality

untrustworthy

bindings slip

to  flash

into

sleep

eternal

 

Sleep

no enemy

it is awake

the nightmare comes

the day without  voice

the moments without loving touch

bent by the forces of erosive time

the teeth in the mouth of gears have not changed

yet the ticking so painfully loud

mocks a beating heart

 

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The rocking chair named worry

Posted on January 12, 2012 by pathfinder

Do you remember the day last year when that man predicted the world would end? The radio and television hosts had a field day with it.  I wondered if some of them were whistling in the dark.

I remember it because  the clouds were so strange that day.  May the 21st , a Saturday when I had to work at a gallery I belong to an hour from my home.  Six weeks later the world did end in many ways when my son died.

I remember driving on the interstate wondering how many people were thinking about this man’s prediction.   I sat at the gallery watching people walk the sidewalks, laughing and talking to one another.  A  group came to perform in the little park area across from the gallery that day.  They were affiliated with a religious group.  Their presentation seemed more like a celebration.  Maybe they intended to comfort and reassure people that day.

I talked to my son a couple of times while I was at the gallery.  He seemed fascinated by the prediction and could not help himself from commenting on controversy generated.   It made me nervous.   Regardless of what this man had predicted, I knew because of the nature of the world, lives would end that day.  It was a sobering thought.  It is happening every day.   One day will be my day.  W.S. Merwin wrote a poem about that fact.

It is not a particularly happy thought.  Every year that we live, we pass the day that will become the anniversary of our death.

I am a worrier.  It is frustrating and complicates my ability to enjoy certain aspects of living in this world.  I have heard the statistics concerning worry.  It is said that eighty to ninety percent of what you worry about won’t come true.   It is that ten to twenty percent that bugs me.

Now, at this point in my life having experienced some very difficult things, I continue to worry.   The strange thing is, that on that day in July when my son went to climb, I did not worry.

Maybe I just worry about the wrong things.   Perhaps someone needs to direct me in the pathway of worry for my brain’s sake.   There is a Bible verse that tells us not to worry, especially about tomorrow, that each day has enough evil in it to tide us over.

My son’s life on earth ended.   It did not take much to make it happen and it didn’t take long.   What had taken over 29 years to grow and develop ended very quickly.

As long as his family members and friends live, his memory will live.  There is to be a paper published, that may be used somewhere by someone.  That person may want to know a bit of the history concerning the writer.

In the field of Philosophy, I think my son held great promise.   It is easy to speculate and polish what you think might have been.  If the past is any predictor for the future, then his future held promise for my son.

His sister has been preparing his library of philosophy books to be donated to the University from which he received his PhD posthumously.   She had a stamp made with his name and has marked each volume  with it.   His papers will be donated too.   I understand very little of what  he is saying in them.  Maybe, if I had another lifetime, I could wade through some of it.   For me, I think it is too late now.  I do not speak the language.

While working on the books she sent me a picture of the progress.  Stacks of books are scattered around the space he used for his living room.  His dog, now his sister’s, sits forlornly among the books.  He is keeping her company, anxious to retreat to the comfort of the couch downstairs.   You can see the bottom of the windows on the wall across the room.  Between the windows on the wall there is a dark patch.  It is where my son sat at his desk, his feet against the wall, his long legs stretched out.  I remember seeing the marks one time while I was visiting, and told him we would need to repaint or scrub that space.  I am sure before the apartment is rented his sister will clean that space.

The smudges of where his feet had been made me feel very sad in some ways and in some ways reassure me.  The sound of his footsteps down the hall have ceased but he did walk the hall.  It surprises me sometimes to realize that I have know people who have never met my son. I thought everyone knew him.  Yesterday, I thought about how much I worry about his memory fading.

I don’t worry about people forgetting about me.  I suppose it is linked to how much we idealize our children, our need to have them remembered.  They have the potential to represent the best part of us, and move beyond us to do the things we hoped could happen.  What I did well in the equation of parent and child for my son was to love him and give him space to grow and develop.

When he left that day to go climb, I did not worry.   I am glad I didn’t.  I am superstitious enough as it is.  I would have thought it a premonition.  As it is, he simply left on a beautiful summer day for a day of fun.  Since it all has to end for all us one day (though perhaps not as the doomsday soothsayers predict) I suppose I should hope this type of ending for everyone. To wake  to face a day unfettered by worry, unmarked by premonition, that will become  ,unknown to us, our last.

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Sorting

Posted on January 11, 2012 by pathfinder

It was not long after our son died that my husband went back to work. My husband is a hard working man. When he is “off” he still finds something to occupy his time. Our yard is well groomed. There is a huge variety of plant life that he prunes and cares for. He owns some old cars and other mechanical things that he works on. This activity is really no different than when our son was alive. The main thing that changed was his motivation. He tries to keep from thinking too much.

I know that while he is working he is still thinking. He is thinking about other things, avoiding thoughts about our son. My husband is a medical man. I have not asked him too many questions concerning our son’s death. At the hospital where they brought our son we were both told the same information. My medical knowledge is limited. Unfortunately my husband had a different insight into what had happened and what was about to occur.

I try to stop my mind when it wants to revisit that scene. I prefer to think about my son in a different context. The difficult thing for me is that I think about him too much. It may be a problem with all newly bereaved. I assume we all fear that we will forget our loved one in our attempt to feel better.

Some parents who have lost their children tell me that as the years pass it has gotten better. When questioned about what has gotten better the answer is vague. I hope it is the general feeling that surrounds the memory, not the lack of memory.

I assume that most bereaved parents feel as I do. I feel like my relationship with my son was very unique. We were very close in certain ways. I have stated before that he was a private person. I have mentioned in previous writings that I did not even know he was dating again.

Haircuts were an issue. He grew his hair out long for a while, before deciding to become his own barber. I noticed that he had a particularly nice haircut. It was obvious that it had been professionally done. He insisted it had not been. It became a silly source of teasing. He told me he had gotten a hand mirror and worked for hours in the bathroom cutting his own hair. It was nothing that mattered at all. It was something for us to argue over. If it got too quiet he would say “so, you don’t believe I could have cut my own hair!” The tactic reminds me of the way his dog comes and plops his tennis ball into your lap. Let’s play.

He could talk me into trying to cook anything. I have made homemade falafel. Great stuff, but there is a technique for letting the bean mixture set before you fry it up. If you don’t let it rest, it disintegrates in the pan. We made homemade flat bread to go with it. I remember rolling out the elastic dough that kept shrinking back on itself.

I made the most horrible vinegar pie at his request. He came up with the recipe and then, as I was putting it the oven, left the house. I still wonder if it was a joke.

The pie looked like something Ethel and Lucy would have made. The odor while baking was noisome. I turned on the oven light and there was a bubble as big as the diameter of the pie getting ready to burst in my oven. I threw the whole mess out . The odor was all that was left when he arrived back home. He showed me the recipe on line. I had followed it faithfully. The pie then became a source for him to use to pick on me. “You must have done something wrong!” he would indict me. Then at every holiday when I would begin baking he would ask, “are you going to make a vinegar pie?”

As I write this I realize how mundane these things are. Mundane or not they are the everyday things, the private jokes that I miss.

He used a car if he had to. When in Ohio he walked to school. When in Colorado he rode his bike as long as there was no snow. When home I was his chauffeur except when he went out in the evenings. There were places he liked to go shop where he could find outdoor gear. He was a fan of REI and Patagonia clothing. He wore his shoes completely out. There are many photos from over the years where he is wearing the exact same shirt. In the past few years he became a little more fashion conscious because of the need for more professional clothing. He had conferences he needed to attend.

He could usually pick out movies that I would like. The gifts he gave me were eclectic and usually tied to some private interest we shared. He payed attention to his family. That perhaps was his greatest gift to me. He gave me his attention. He listened to me and considered what i was saying. He was great at encouraging people, usually for me it was in a gentle way.

I don’t want any of that to fade.

I wonder if my grip will finally fail. Will the mind grow so weary of trying to keep everything vivid that it relaxes its hold on those memories? Will my son fade away in the background? I picture a movie scene. A figure on a lonely road standing while I drive away watching them grow smaller in the rear view mirror. That is a terrifying thought to me. The fact that it has been six months scares me. Soon it will be seven and then a year! How is it possible that it has been that long since I have been with my living breathing son? I can’t bear to leave him there. I can’t part with him.

To my friends and family who think I am doing so well I hate to admit that it is an act. I keep doing, hoping something will take hold and become natural again. I’m not sure I even know who that person is in the mirror sometimes. Grief has aged me or at least my perception of myself. My artwork seems bland and stale. Laughter happens in surprising bursts at random things, resembling a case of hiccups.

When my daughter calls I want to be cheerful for her. I want to be cheerful for my husband. I don’t want to add to their grief. All of us talk and cry together if the need comes. There is some heavy silence sometimes with my husband. He has thoughts he cannot share for the same reasons I keep my silence.

My son was not patient when he wanted something. Some times it was impatience over a movie he wanted to see. Computers and phones and electronic gadgetry was also something he liked. Plans for travel make him impatient, ready to leave now, unhappy with the anticipation. I share the impatience. I am impatient with myself. I want some sort of equilibrium to occur. I want to be able to retain all these vivid memories without them making me melt down.

I hope that is what people are talking about when they say it will get better, softer.

I think I can handle that. I suppose if I have days and months and years still left to live, I will find out. Just mentioning those days and months makes me tear up. This was not what I thought would be. I am so disappointed with how this part of life has happened.

I want his approval for how I am handling this. I want his reassurance that what I am doing is okay with him. The security of having his approval is missing and I second guess myself. I don’t have a choice but to wait and see how things go, just like everyone else.

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Feel again

Posted on January 10, 2012 by pathfinder

One of my good friends told me that when she was younger her mother had a great and horrible reply for one of the more commonly used phrases employed by young people when they are asked to do something they do not want to do.

“Please take out the trash.” (mother)

“I don’t feel like it” (child)

“Feel again.” (mother)

Feel again.   I have worn that idea threadbare.  My feelings float out like the silk of spider web searching for something to latch on to, while trying to avoid the pain.

Pain with its grief  is so firmly attached to places in my memory and heart and I would like to shake it loose.  I really do have more good memories than bad concerning my family.  I should be able to put my hands into the sands of memory and extract far more happy thoughts than sad.  I should.

Good memories and painful ones have a similar intensity, though how that can be measured I have no idea.   Good memories carry me up and the after effect is that I find myself thinking ,if only briefly ,that everyone in the memory is still here, well, alive.   There is the thought that you should call them and say “I was just thinking about the time . . .” so you can laugh with the person, so they can add their memory in the mix, enhancing it.  Painful memories are more visceral.  There seems to be a physical reaction and after effect that is uncomfortable.  Heart rate, breathing, the feeling in the pit of your stomach, the heaviness like a cold wet blanket though you may be breaking out in a fine sweat.  A feeling of wanting to retreat to some small dark place to wait for it to be over.

Good memories open doors for sharing, painful memories make you contract in on yourself.   I want  the fulcrum to shift under the teetering plane of my memories.  I want to be among those good memories more often.

Maybe I will become some demented old woman who, wandering around in that state lives among those good memories, in a place where all those I love still exist.   Would that be so bad?

The other feelings that I miss come from the impact that the death of my son has had on my faith.   I thought at first I was the one picking up the pieces, but I have come to recognize, in this fog, that it has been God HImself gently handing me back parts of it at times when He thinks I can best handle it.    Some of the pieces I don’t recognize and some of the pieces I have refused to take.   Other parts look totally different to me.   I feel myself wanting to ask “are you sure that is mine.” and “what am I supposed to do with that?”

I treasured my faith.    I trusted.  I prayed.   I thought that there really was some sort of blanket coverage of safety from the awful things in this world.   There is no magic. Sorry – but when you do the hokey pokey and turn yourself around all you get is dizzy.

The amazing thing that startles me at times, at my angriest, darkest, ugliest moments is that even after this ; I still believe.  I believe that God gives wisdom.   I believe that He is steadfast and bigger than we can imagine.   I believe that all of us, the humble and contrite, the Bible-beating, scripture quoting, hell-fire breathing  “angry-because-you-are-not-like-me, and don’t deserve to be” people in this world have it wrong.  We create our own strings to attach to the prison of this world.  We try to wrap everyone up in them because it makes us feel powerful and “in control.”

Well one thing for certain – we are out of control.  The barrel is empty.  No control left.   Hang on for the ride.

I grew up in a conservative church tradition.  A painful and conditional church.  Men were in charge regardless of their qualifications or gifts.  Women became passive aggressive in response, pulling strings from behind the stage.  Dishonest is perhaps the best word I can use for this.   We were given permission by each other to accept teachings based on a few select passages from the Bible, and disregard that that did not suit us.  The Spirit does not flourish in this type of soil, not the Spirit of God, nor the spirit of man.   Freedom was only a word, never embraced because of fear.

The mother of Christ, Mary was someone in a story. When her and Elizabeth words and songs were to be read aloud for the assembly it was read by a man’s voice.   She is mentioned in the accounts of Christ‘s life, and we are told she stood at the foot of the cross.  She watched her son die.   If the account is even half way accurate, it was a horrible way to die, but Mary stayed.  She watched and she wept, her heart felt like it would burst.   She felt faint and sick and wished she could be the one hanging there in his place.  She remembered the first time she felt that fluttering movement as he grew inside her and she remembered when she first held him in her arms.   She watched him grow and she marveled over this person, this boy, this man.   She loved him and she could not understand why this was happening to her son.   The sacrifice was as lost on her as it is on me.   I weep her tears, and the tears of all mothers through the ages.   That is the eternal bound.

She did not understand the choice He made,  the decision to submit to a will of authority in His life.   We, none of us, will ever understand.

Do I worship Mary?  No, but I love her.  I embrace her because she has been where I have been, by the side of a beloved son who has died.   The pieces of my shattered faith that I have been handed  reflect back my hope that this is not the end of the story.   I continue to collect the proffered pieces of faith and hope.   I think what I had been holding before was pretty badly damaged anyway, but it served to get me here, thus far.

I am learning to feel again.   I am stretching the muscle fibers of my being and it hurts.   I wish I had started earlier.  I am a bit stiff with age and the weight of sorrow. I know you probably don’t want to do this either but let me encourage you to feel again.

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In the New Year

Posted on January 9, 2012 by pathfinder

Dear Son,

I have to tell you that this is the hardest thing I have ever had to learn to do, figuring out how to continue on without you.  It has no precedent.   I cannot compare it to anything I have ever experienced before.  It does not taste like chicken.

I have used the term uneven before, but it is more like lopsided, but even that is not strong enough.    You wrote about the awful yearning you had when you and your girlfriend parted back in college, when she moved to Washington State.  The words you use are so full of sadness and loss.   I have no way of knowing if the feelings are  similar but they seem like they should be related.

Your sister is trying to get on with things too.   Her reaction seems to manifest itself more in physical things.   Part of the adventure of moving was that she would have you near.   You were a safety net for her.    It is hard being a newlywed,  the rules of interaction change and the dance begins for real.   I knew she would marry one day, but like so many things I never projected my expectations too far into the future, I was too busy and fascinated by the day.   I wonder every now and then if you would have ever married.  I tend to push the thoughts of what might of been away pretty quickly.    Those thoughts are very sharp and painful because they are pure speculation though in substance like smoke that  changes with the wind.

She has rented the apartment where you lived.   I think deciding to follow through with that has been most difficult for her.  Having someone else in your space is a giant step for her.  I have not had the courage to even face that house since you died.   I have a lot of memories tied up in it.  Maybe I should go look at it and see that you really are not there.  Memory pulls up thoughts of you in that space.  I use it to comfort myself sometimes.   It is easy to recognize when a baby puts its fingers in its mouth to sooth itself, our self-soothing is less detectable some times.

It is a big step for your sister, to rent your apartment out.   I thought it was a big step for your dad to drive your car.   I’ve not ridden in it or ask to drive it.   I know you are not attached to cars except for their ability to transport you to where you wanted to go.

I remember you and your friend out there in Utah after you destroyed the oil-pan in that car.   Your story of the little town, having to find food and waiting for the repair were vivid and remain so in my memory.   I have stopped flinching when I hear the engine start now, and yes, we have finally after trying to get you to take care of it, replaced the glow plugs.   I traveled to Colorado with you in that car.   We stayed up on the reservoir in the cabins.  It was a great adventure for me and the greatest joy was watching you as your anticipation of getting to live in Colorado grew.

I know, had you lived, you were planning to try and return there.   I know you were hoping to go spend time with your friends in Idaho and Utah.   Those unfulfilled opportunities gang up on me sometimes refusing to leave until I look at them again through my tears.

Your sister is still moving forward parallel to me in time, changing and growing, expressing ideas and making plans.   I try to decipher if I am taking her for granted, because it is easy to accept the fact that she “is”.   I don’t spend a lot of time shuffling through memories concerning her.   I don’t feel the need, because she is continuing to do new things and we talk often.

You and I talked often.  That is the hardest thing.  Just your voice on the phone helped settle the day, freed me to go on with the things that interested me at that time.

You would be ashamed of me for the time that I cannot account for over the past six months.  Whole mornings disappear and I don’t know where they have gone.  It takes so much effort some days.   I struggle with things to look forward to.

Your sister is amazing.  She has her moments of strangeness as we all do.   Her strength and maturity always surface in the important matters.   She is so full of potential, like you.  Her intelligence manifests itself in ways different from all of us and her craziness too.

I have tried to put some space between the times I write.  I don’t know why.   I talk to you a lot in my head.    You are so tangible there.   I’ve got to get on with things, sweetheart.    I don’t know that I owe you anything and you certainly owe me nothing.   I hope that doesn’t sound harsh.  What I mean by that is that when you were here, I gave you my full attention and maybe more than I should have, I’ll never know.  Maybe that is why I feel so empty now, because while you were here, I held nothing in reserve.  I had things to do then, and I still have things to do now, though their importance has diminished drastically.   Surely they had value, didn’t they? I am searching for new sources of joy, regardless of how subdued they may be right now.

I am so proud of your sister.   She is a credit to us as a family.  You helped raise her too.   Your positive influence in all ways made us a better family.

If I write more it will just turn into babble about how much I love and miss you.  I do love and miss you.  I don’t think I will ever plumb the extent of that . . .

Love

Forever

Mom

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The path

Posted on January 6, 2012 by pathfinder

Cycling through again.   I have stopped counting the cycles.   I have recognized that they can come from unanticipated triggers.  Notes and remembrances from loving friends, stories in the news of events that parallel our own unfortunate circumstances, days that have a fragrance or whose color resemble another that contains memories.   There is no escaping.   The speed at which they come has changed, the intensity has not.

I was very busy yesterday.  In comparison to days prior to July, I was not really very busy at all, but my stamina is not what it used to be.  I have less reserve.   I was among people who are well aware of our loss and have supported me during the last six months.  I didn’t have to be on guard.   We had busy work to do.  I am a member of an art co-op that shuts down for the cold winter season.   All I had to do was pick up my work and transport it home.    I am a prolific painter, and I paint large work.  It was busy work and physical.   It felt good to be focused for that short time.

This week another climber fell to his death near the same spot where my son died.  I read the account in the paper and the comments by speculating climbers.   There is a need for them to reassure themselves that it was something they, were they in that circumstance, could have avoided.   I understand that need.   Accidents can only be prevented if the accidents that happened are analyzed.   Mistakes, miscalculations, equipment failure, a second’s lapse in judgement, a misplaced step and other factors I am sure I am unfamiliar with all have the potential  of happening.   Those who wish to continue in this sport are wise to pay attention and learn from other’s misfortune.   Regardless of the outcome of each climb, ultimately it is the climber’s responsibility.

Unfortunately the family of the climber is not reassured when words that can be construed as negative are used regarding their loved one.  The internet and the speed with which comments and speculation can be broadcast is merciless.

For the family, his wife and children and parents, my heart aches.   They are in a dark place.  The community this man served has sustained a great loss.   I have been where they are now and I hope they can hold on.   I understand their grief.

Without intending to, my own mind and body relapsed a bit with this news.   Yesterday after my “busy” day I was exhausted.  While driving home with my truck full of paintings, I ,for a moment allowed my exhausted mind to relax and it slid right into the slot of thinking, “perhaps my son is not really dead.  Perhaps I just imagined that, dreamt it and he is there in his apartment in his recliner reading, cup of tea by his side.”   It felt so good to picture him there.   I let myself feel that for just a moment before reality shouted “no” and I realized there were already tears sliding down my cheek.  I am angry I let myself go there again because it takes so much energy to pull back.

I realize how much energy I expend on not letting my guard down.  When planning an activity, an evening out, or participating in a gathering I try to scout out who will be there.  Strangers, newcomers make me hesitate.  They may bring up the inevitable subject of children and I feel myself contract.  I can’t always trust myself with a reply that will not evoke choking up or tears. I have to decide whether to simply reply “I have two children” and hope they do not pursue it any further.  If they do push for more information, I dread the look on their face when I have to explain that our son died in July.   I can tell they want to run away.  They hate that they have opened that door and want to get away quickly.   I expend precious energy on wanting to console them, they look so stricken.   The cycle of avoidance begins again, carefully choosing where I will go, and who I will have conversations with.

Then I stay home, and that is a lonely place.   There is little to distract me from the memories and so I look for distractions and on and on it goes.

The tasks of life, the day to day duties have not taken a vacation.  I have responsibilities and things that must be done to sustain us as a family.   Those concerns take energy to focus on when before they just were a part of the day.   It seems like everything has been jumbled up into some sort of puzzle and I have not been given the rules for how to sort it out.   Each time I gain a bit of ground I have to stand for quite a while, to make sure it is solid and going to hold me.

I spent a lot of good time with my son.   We hiked Panthertown, Deep Creek and the  Pinnacle trail together.   We watched movies and listened to music.  We sat shoulder to shoulder while he found videos on the internet to show me, watching  together and laughing.   If I announced that I was going to take a shower, he left me alone, otherwise if I retreated to my bedroom I could count on him coming down the hall, calling in a sing-song voice “mother”.   When I painted he left me to it, coming with a cup of tea for me and  and standing looking, waiting till I invited his comment.  His critique was infallible.  He encouraged me to overcome my fears and the things that potentially could hold me back.  He challenged me with books, theories and ideas to help me grow.  He quizzed me, lovingly and complimented me when I succeeded.  Now I carry all of this and more around inside of me, afraid to put it down, afraid that it might fade.   Before, I took for granted that he would be here to fill the cup again.

Someone said recently that they were afraid they were too much of a reminder for us of him.  His death was just a moment, his life the unfolding of a flower. Everything reminds me of him because we were woven together.  I cannot look into the mirror without seeing his face beside my own.  I cannot see his father or sister without thinking that the building blocks of his DNA are all there, shared among us.    I am a living repository of his memory, a mausoleum for everything I have ever loved.  I  am both blessed and cursed to have known him so well.

To my dear friends who have called to check on me recently, thank you.  That effort really does help, even if I can’t find energy to talk much.  To my son’s friends, please know that the fact that you are moving forward with your endeavors, that you are regaining focus is reassuring for me.   Please don’t let his passing stop you from doing what you need to do.  Neither he nor I would want you to use him as excuse to not do the things you were meant for and please know that for someone, you are as loved and cherished as my son and daughter.   To my family, thank you for putting up with me, for giving me space, for allowing us times to talk without having to be guarded. For this weary person it is a relief.

 

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