Popcorn

Posted on January 3, 2012 by pathfinder

 

I am an old movie fan, having watched the late late show when I was a pre-teen and allowed to stay up on Friday and Saturday night provided I got up early enough in the morning.  I fell in love with Cary Grant, Ingrid Bergman, Jimmy Stewart, Katherine Hepburn and Irene Dunn just to name a few.  As time passed and movies continued to be made, there were some good ones that came out that were not in black and white.   There were remakes of some of the old stories – like “Little Shop Around the Corner” became “The Good Old Summertime” and  then”You’ve Got Mail”.

Many of these met with success.  Some however, are so fixed in time, that they could not be remade today, technology and social norms have changed.  They would appear quaint and naive.

I inundated my children with these movies, and still enjoy introducing those people I come to love with the treasure of these movies.   Social issues were discussed and addressed with a little more reserve and respect.  Unwed mothers, single parents, child abuse, sexual immorality and racial prejudice were all discussed and portrayed, with some issues portrayed in a way that only a true “adult” could pick up on the issues.  You can also see why some of our problems have been hard to overcome with racial issues and women’s rights because of where we have come from with stereotypes that still linger.

Right now the comedies come in handy.   They are subtle and spiced with innuendo that bursts through as an aftertaste that makes you laugh. Screw-ball comedy is probably the most on my plate right now.  Frivolous and zany they help lighten the day.   “Bringing Up Baby“, “Monkey Business” with Cary Grant and Ginger Rogers  to name a couple.

One of my son’s friends told me that my son had introduced him and some of the other friends to these movies.   I thought he considered them silly- but obviously not.

I have enjoyed introducing my daughter’s husband to these movies.  I think they provide, for a person from a different culture, a glimpse of some of the things our country came through.  The dust bowl, prohibition, recession, the civil and world wars, though portrayed with a little more polish than they perhaps deserve, I think they display some of the emotions and concerns that were truly experienced.   I think that it shows some of the hope too.

In “The Bachelor and The Bobby-Soxer” an older Shirley Temple coins the term “sklonklish.”    I’ve felt that way a lot lately.   I have quoted Terry Garr as she turns to berates Dustin Hoffman in “Tootsie” when he tells her he is in love with another woman, and after her tirade she declares, “I will just have to feel this way, until I don’t feel this way anymore!”

Last night as we watched “Our Vine Has Tender Grapes” I saw my face mirrored in the face of Edgar G. Robinson as he stood on the bridge watching for the tub he hoped still contained his daughter (Margaret O’Brien) to come floating down the swollen river.

It is not in the graphic, but rather in the subtle that I see myself, and others.   The emotions portrayed appear real.   The latest movie, that I think was well done and accomplished its message without too many over-descriptors was “The Help.”  When Abileen  tells about her beloved son Treelore and the emotions that play over  her face.  I see myself in her eyes and expression.  The actor Viola Davis does an amazing job.

Perhaps it is in this personally disconnected world with every one racing around with their to-do list that the pull of the old movies calls to me.   A time without cell phones and when people wrote letters and sent telegrams.  A time when every horrible thing that was happening in the world (as it has happened since the world began) is not being broadcast in your face or sent as a message update on your phone.  If anything I think all our knowing makes us feel more impotent and hopeless.   I don’t know if the world contains more evil, or if we, just by virtue of technology, end up being made more aware of it all.

 

Thomas Gray sums it up for us in his poem “Ode on a distant prospect of Eton College”

 

To each his sufferings: all are men,
Condemn’d alike to groan—
The tender for another’s pain,
Th’ unfeeling for his own.
Yet, ah! why should they know their fate,
Since sorrow never comes too late,
And happiness too swiftly flies?
Thought would destroy their Paradise.
No more;—where ignorance is bliss,
‘Tis folly to be wise.

 

Maybe this is just a part of some necessary therapy. We have to do what we have to do to face another day. Even though my son thought it sounded and felt like styrofoam, I think I’ll pop some popcorn.

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

In Time

Posted on January 1, 2012 by pathfinder

I don’t believe that those we love send signs.  I can’t discount that God if He so chooses relays messages, but if my loved one has such powers. .  . well, let’s just say there are other things I wish that he could do with it besides send daisies and butterflies.  The language he spoke while he lived was one of logic and well-chosen nonsense.

I do believe however, that we who loved so well, are more attuned after the loss  to those things that our loved one deemed important and of value.  If we did not know, part of our frantic search after they are gone is to find those things.  Perhaps this is what makes the handling of their possessions so difficult for us.  We stumble upon things we did not know about them, and feel a bit cheated.  Cheated because we did not know while they were with us, and now because we will never know the whole story.

My son liked (in no particular order – because that order could change daily) books, nature,puzzles, tea, hoppy beer, animals -to include a plethora of beasts including but not limited to- some snakes and all birds of prey, music -(anything to atonal to well, you name it), argument – in the scholarly sense of the word, art, movies, theater, video games. . .as you can see the list goes on and on.

So given the occurrence, appearance or encounter with the world at large, I am reminded in ways big and small of him.

Yesterday marked exactly 26 weeks.  That is 6 months since I saw my son as a living breathing man.   And yesterday while out near my husband’s garage I saw the hawk that I write about in the poem.  It was on that Saturday, 26 weeks ago around 11:30 a.m. that I finished the painting, and came upstairs.   Hence the time reference, just for your information.  So I did thank God yesterday for the beautiful bird, and for the beautiful man who taught me about it.   Was it a sign.  Yes and no.

It was a sign that life and love cannot be contained, or bound – not even by gravity.

In Time

Time  pressed its finger to my lips

Shhhh it whispered

stand here and look around just for this moment

I have stopped Myself, just for you

observe everything standing where you stand.

Salt white, the tear stained trail leads

back and stops here at my feet

where I stood  astonished

the sky so blue it tried to break what was left of my heart.

The Hawk, a red-tail, or a broad wing

(I did not note the tail marking)

Sang out its “skreeeee”  announcing its flight

Catching the updraft over the pasture

It soared, looping a lazy handwritten message

of freedom on the air

higher and higher the naked air held it

the mountain’s blew a kiss

I only, stood, strained eyes to catch the last glimpse

as it passed and out of sight

The conversation static buzzing

cleared and words became distinct

“do you know the bird,” a question came

meaning something

my head understood

but whose answer could not adequately be provided.

My heart spoke first

“It is 11:30 I replied.”

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

greater and lesser degrees

Posted on December 29, 2011 by pathfinder

The grief attacks seem like a  sort of panic attack.   The feeling is sudden, the thoughts flood in, my son is dead.  He is really gone.  I will not see, hear or touch him again in this world.   It is overwhelming.   Almost 6 months of his absence has passed.

The pattern of our life has not really changed.  We get up and let the dogs out, I fix coffee, my husband prepares for work.   I see him off for his day and the things that have always been routine are routine.   My daughter calls on her way to work.   I let my bird out and give her a new cardboard box to destroy.

This is where things start to fall apart.  I have been writing as much as possible for the past six months and sometimes the worlds are hard to find.  Sometimes they pitch me into such a bleak place, I refuse to write because I have been feeling “okay” (whatever that is).  Sometimes I have to write because the words have been spinning around in my head all night.

I woke up the other night having a panic attack.  It is a very scary thing – out of control – covered in sweat and feeling like I was going to pass out.   The grief attacks make me light headed, disoriented and physically contracted.   My mind is fighting the truth because it is too hard to bear.   The finality, the emptiness, the void.

I get told, “he will always live in your heart ”  and that is true, both my children and my husband have their icons that I can tap in my heart and see and hear them, but I’ve got to tell you – it is just not enough.   It’s simply not enough.

I know why people consult spiritualists and mediums.   We want some word that says “don’t worry, I am fine.”   But I don’t believe that is possible.  Some have written that they wish there was a phone line to heaven.    I would try and crawl through the wire, I am afraid.

I am an enabler.   It’s a good thing that my husband or children are not alcoholics – I would have made them a comfortable nest.   I have my self worth locked up somehow in helping my family members be what they want to be.   It was so much fun to fling open doors to possibilities and see them rush through.  Death has slammed a door in my face and I am so frustrated and out of focus.

I know there are others who could use encouragement.  I know there are things I could teach.  I know that there are plenty of places to volunteer and make a difference.   I know, I know, and I have ventured out – surprising even myself at what I am willing to attempt to do.

Maybe it has helped.   I don’t know.   Does it matter if the motive is really to help myself?

I come to dread the attacks of grief.  They are as acute in some way as if the event has just happened all over again.  Sharp and stabbing, waves of nausea and lightheadedness, sickening and brutal.   They pass, sometimes quickly and I move on dreading the next attack.

The other’s who have traveled on this path longer than I say that “things get better.”  But they cannot tell you how, or when.   It seems to be as nebulous as trying to explain the depth and pain of our grief.   It may and will happen eventually to greater or lesser degrees.   Isn’t that reassuring?

There is only one absolute.  My son is absolutely gone.   The man is gone.   There are records of him having been, there are people living now because he lived, but he is gone.

What is strange is that I know that one day I will be gone too.  Everyone of us will be gone.  I don’t know what kind of marks we are leaving on the world, if any.  There are so few who do leave a mark and if they do, I am not sure how accurate our evidence is of them, how well preserved or kept intact.     I know this, I don’t want anyone to have to grieve because of me.   It is a horrible place.

Emotions are untidy things, and I understand that it is bad to allow them rule your life.  I grew up with a mother that thought emotions were indicators, superstitiously, of what was real in the world.   Emotions are fickle, mercurial and easily influenced by sight, smell and sound – triggered easily and fleeting as the moment.  I recognize that there are things that trigger me, that have no effect on my daughter and husband.   The problem comes when we are all firing off from the variety of triggers like lights on a pin-ball machine – emotionally ringing up the points that add up to – when it is over – nothing.

I’m not as angry at God anymore.  It’s not His fault.  I do fault myself, for not being a better student, a more receptive vessel.  I believed things man said, I bought into the path of least resistance.   It has proved more painful that fighting and speaking up.  The grief flashes sometimes include the empty teachings of men I have heard through the years.  I am so glad God is bigger than that.

I have had some light days too.   They come with a price.  There seems to be a need for self punishment for feeling better, and maybe it is in contrast to the good feelings that the grief attacks seem so huge.  There is still so much to process and the filter gets clogged.

Early on I read books, Lament for a Son, Good Grief, Gone But Not Forgotten .  Some of them have been maimed because I ripped pages out that made me angry. I can’t remember what they said now.  I go to a chat room now and then within the Compassionatefriends.org.   We stumble around each other a lot there.  I hear my own thoughts and feelings echoed and it does seem to help.  I hate it that that is where I have had to go to meet these wonderful people that I would have much preferred to meet in another way.

I have a wonderful daughter who now newly married is making a life with a hard-working man.  I have a loving generous husband.  I have a church family, an art family , sisters, sister-in-laws, brother-in-laws, nephews and nieces.   I am so blessed, truly and deeply.  I have had the most wonderful son anyone can imagine, perfect for me in every way and I miss him.   That’s just how it is.  Maybe the grief attacks are so violent because grief has it’s work cut out for it, in light of the amazing love I have had and have.  Maybe one day, eventually, I will figure it out in greater and lesser degrees.  Maybe-maybe not.

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

resolutions

Posted on December 27, 2011 by pathfinder

One part of the holiday is over and another looms on the horizon.  The problem is that it marks with vast distinction 6 months since our son’s death on January 2nd.   Anticipation of Christmas was worse than the actual day.   I continue to find myself thinking that he is here somewhere, I picture him, hear what he might be saying in any given situation.

We filled up the days as full as possible prior to Christmas, thanks to friends.   Our daughter and her husband came home and we really did not venture out much, revolving in a pretty tight little group.   It was a test of our ability to tolerate each other.

I felt like we were off balance with our son not being here.  As after an injury to the body, we are learning to walk again.   We limp.  There is a hesitation that occurs when we used to be sure of ourselves.  It would probably not be apparent to the casual observer, but we are so aware of it, shielding ourselves from potential bumps and encounters that could re-injure.

We did not go to church on Christmas day.  Not that our tradition does much concerning the holiday – though perhaps now-because of some shifts there may have been more reference made.  Our church focuses more on the death and sacrifice of Christ, which could not have occurred had he not been born, a point that seems to be lost on our group as a whole.    The beginning of the hope needs more focus I think – the beginning of any hope should be celebrated.

I am trying to refocus on my faith. My son’s passing could not have been neater or tidier.  My own emotional mess, anger and frustration with the things I had held as true and infallible has been anything but tidy.   My resolution is to sort through these things inch by inch and pound by emotional pound, distilling out what I can in faith, hold on to.

There is no possible way to prepare yourself for the loss of a loved one.   It is not a natural part of our way of thinking.   We live without meaning to, taking most of what is, for granted.   Transition has been greased with technology and masses of information – so much is spoon fed without having to dig for it or work to understand.  We gullibly accept so much information at face value, becoming a slave to convenience and status quo.

Religion has taken advantage of this where sweet and easily swallowed truisms have been substituted for the hard stuff – the loving your neighbor as yourself stuff.   We leave the messy things to the hard core of the religious world,  throwing our nickels in the bell ringers pot and maybe writing an anonymous check for someone’s Christmas lay-away.

Death will bring you face to face with everything you thought you ever believed and I will tell you as someone who has run into that wall – it is hard and painful.

So if you are looking for a resolution to add to those you (like me) will probably never accomplish, here are a few.

I want to learn to love more without condition.

I will not require others to behave the way I want them to.

I will stop and consider what their circumstances may be.

I will exercise empathy.

I will stop holding others to standards I have never met.

I will pray for wisdom every day.

I don’t know that God has ever promised to grant anything else, so I will pray for what I know I do not have- wisdom-and search for evidence of it every day.

I will never let another person I know part from me without making sure they know how much they mean to me.  Never. And if they leave and I have been remiss, I will track them down, and I will let them know, as far as it is within my ability.

I miss my son and now even at 6 months the reality is hard to comprehend. Now having had my daughter and her husband here for a few days, I miss them too, but as I used to with my son, I can picture them continuing on as they should with their life when they are not present with me.

It is that illusion of control we use to sooth ourselves.

I hope your holiday held joy, in whatever measure and peace.

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

Holiday from the holiday

Posted on December 23, 2011 by pathfinder

This is a week that cannot be written about.  I look at the screen and my mind is whirling with thoughts, none of them useful.  We are trying to superimpose old routines upon this time of the year.  They don’t fit, or they slip loose and nothing is neat and tidy.

Depression is working its disparaging wiles upon each day. Life can be a pretty depressing place.  Reality sharp and ugly.  Having an upside, means there is a downside.

This Christmas/Holiday season seems the neediest that I have recognized in years.  Physical need, financial need, emotional need are all begging on the street corners of my heart.

The people who should be applauded, heralded and celebrated are those who can still dredge up hope.  Hope.  Personally I’m feeling a little blank about that.   I have some painful concerns that have been nagging me lately and disturbing my sleep.

I prefer fantasy to reality, illusion felt good.

The people that you love come complete with their own personality, the messy things.   While my own personality is at war with itself, chiding me for my roller-coaster moods, wishing I had learned to overcome the disheveled parts long ago, tidied up, tucked more in.

It is just another day, after all.  Just one more day in the desert.

I have lost an inch in height.  Does that count for anything?  I was 5’10” in 2008 and now I am 5’9″.   I had a bone density test done, which will reveal its results sometime next week.  I thought I was shorter at the wedding in October.   I am being worn away like the eraser at the end of a pencil.  I need to be sharpened again too.

I am missing my son, in the most painful of ways.   I miss his calm.  I miss his voice and company.   I miss his way of balancing us with his own brand of craziness with our craziness.

I don’t want to veer off the track, I want to stay on the course that I think life should stay on, one that includes loving others because you know how much love is needed to survive while in this world.   Nothing is going to allow you to live life unscathed, nothing.   We are in in bumper cars on a darkened course and it is only happenstance that allows you to get through with less dings than the next guy.  Messy, messy life.

I don’t understand God.  I thought I did, idiot that i am.  Goes to show you I am like a lot of other people out there, deluded by such thoughts!  Jesus is more a mystery than ever.   My theory, if you want to hear it , was that he came to  build a bridge.

I have made pottery cups and bowls – badly – but I made them.   I spent time with the clay, wedging it and preparing it for the wheel.  I wet my hands I used my sponge, I applied leveraged pressure, anchoring my elbow.  I have no idea how all that felt to the clay.  I’ve decided that God sent Jesus to be a hunk of clay like the rest of us, so that he could have an inside line on why we can’t seem to get it.

I am depending on Jesus to interpret for me on a minute by minute basis.

I’m glad the world is celebrating something about Him.  I’m afraid our celebration of the holidays has never been one that Christ was the focus.  Our personal family celebration was one about being a family.  We liked being to together.  We enjoyed just having the four of us.  Snobs.

I always thanked God when the day came and when it was over.  I appreciated the fact He had granted us that time.  I think we should if we are going to acknowledge and celebrate Him as creator of everything do or say something every day.  Just saying.

This territory is brand new.  We did the wedding and survived, so I suppose we will do the same with Christmas, and New Year and our son’s birthday.  It is so much effort.  But then it always has been to some extent – I just didn’t use to mind it so badly.

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

The season

Posted on December 20, 2011 by pathfinder

December 19th -It has been one of those weekends where I have been aware of my thoughts much like when you become aware of the ticking of a clock and would like for it to be quiet.  I wished for a more restful quiet time, but it was not to be had.   As far as physical activities there were a variety, but all seemed forced and artificial.  Intentions were good, motives were pure but the overlying mood dampened all enthusiasm.

My husband and I have talked a lot this weekend.  I reminded him this morning as he left for work how fortunate we are that we do talk, that among the scattered debris of our emotions, this is one habit we have established that is of value. We each dwell on different aspects of our son’s death, processing things through our filter of knowledge and perception.  We each have our own particular triggers for sorrow.   The other thing we do very well is to hold each other and allow the other to cry.  That is really all we can do.  There is no making it better.

People say the things they have learned to say to people who have experienced the death of a loved one.  Those things really did not help much when my husband and my parents died, and it sounds ugly to say, but those deaths do not compare to this.   Our parents did not die young.  We were unwilling to part with them, but by the time they passed we (my husband and I) had a family of our own upon which we focused.   They are missed at times.  After their respective deaths I do not remember dwelling on that loss on a daily, hourly basis.   This ticking clock of grief concerning our son is relentless.

January 2nd will be six months.  I see the looks on the faces of some of the people who know me as an acquaintance, they do not know what to say, or how to gauge me because of our superficial friendship.  They are the ones who make me most uncomfortable.  I have other friends who allow me to say my son’s name and do not flinch.  That is something all grieving parents need to be able to do, to talk about their child, and have someone allow them to do so.

When I talk of him, I picture him completely in my mind.  He is more substantial than the world around me.   Maybe healthcare givers, experts in helping people with grief would say this is unhealthy, a fantasy.  Maybe I think it is unhealthy because I want something to be wrong with me other than the fact that I am just aggrieved.

I talked a couple days ago about how we try to punish ourselves.  Talking about it does not make it stop.  It is a process we have to work through, and like many processes it is a slow one.

 

December 20th.  I am having difficulty talking about my feelings this week.  I can’t seem to focus.  Invasive thoughts, self-pity, weighty grief all wash in over the day.  I feel guilt because I want to be able to enjoy my husband and daughter and friends and I get lost in all the aforementioned things.

I went to see the Russian Ballet Nutcracker last night with a friend.  It was a great evening.  I tired not to let any thoughts about my son enter into the evening.  I did let thoughts of my daughter invade.  I knew how much she would have enjoyed being there watching.

My husband is continuing to battle allowing himself to have joy, to have pleasure.   It is a difficult hurdle, I have thought a lot about recently.  My fable addressed it to some extent.   It seems wrong to be happy, and I can’t explain why.

My thoughts are so fragmented since the weekend.

I don’t wear a watch.  Maybe I need to give up the calendar too.   If I were not aware of dates, perhaps . . . But then there is that darn inner clock that seems to alarm at certain times  marking events that are engraved on my heart.

I think what annoys me most is how much time I spend trying to make sense of things, trying to figure things out.  We try to impose order.   We work long and hard on habits that take only a day or two to break.   Those things we want to forget we can’t and those things we want to remember we forget.  The most solid and certain of ideas that might survive for generations eventually erodes or the foundation slips and a different presumed truth emerges.  It is messy, and order is an illusion.

I might write more this week.  I might not.   I miss my son, I miss the way our family used to be, I miss my husband’s confidence, I miss my daughter’s sense of security and joy, I miss my ability to trust and believe and have the faith I once had.  Things had changed over the years, but the changes had been more subtle and gradual in the past .

I hope this season brings to everyone the things they need most (and those things God only knows).   I hope there are moments where you can focus on new joy.   I hope that we can all extend grace to the difficult, forgiveness for the inept and empathy for those we never have identified with before.  I hope.

 

Posted in Death, Faith, Family, Friends, Holidays | Tagged , , , , , , , | Leave a comment

An unexpected gift

Posted on December 17, 2011 by pathfinder

A friend of mine and fellow artist showed me one of her paintings that will be featured in a show this Spring.  The vantage point was from above looking down on a street somewhere in Europe.  The street arches away to the right and the buildings in perfect perspective line the curve.   The angle is enough to give you vertigo.  It is a great painting with lights placed so that the eye uses them as stepping stones to move through the painting.

What is amazing is that she manipulated a fickle medium – watercolor- which consists of gum arabic and pigment with a brush made of animal hair to depict this very believable scene on a piece of paper made of cotton rag.  All the elements used are pretty simple but what occurred was a transformation.

When my son moved to Colorado he waited a while to get his drivers license.  He had the tendency to procrastinate over many things, and the more mundane and basic the more he tended to procrastinate.  I think the license is down in the room with his belongings that remain.  I don’t know the date on it.  His picture,however, is of a sober young man with his hair pulled back into a pony tail.  I don’t know when the license was to expire, haven’t looked at that.

On the license there was a little red heart emblem.  It means that while filling out the application he checked the little box that said organ donor.  I have no idea what his thoughts were at the time.  I know what I thought when I checked a similar box for my license.  It was simple, if when I die there is anything salvageable that someone else can use, then please by all means, do so.  Given the nature of the man, I assume he probably thought something similar, assuming all the while that that time was somewhere in the far and distant future.   And as we all know, when that time comes, we will not be aware of what is being done with those salvageable parts anyway.

He didn’t stand on a platform and place a hand on his chest and solemnly swear to be a selfless and generous person.  He simply checked a box.

The fact is though, he was a selfless and generous person.  That is the life he lived.   He thought about others and he behaved in a manner towards them that exemplified that.  He in manners big and small was a person to do the right thing regardless of whether it was the popular thing or something that would give him any credit.  There was a confidence in him that spoke of the fact that he knew who he was.  I can’t say he did not struggle like all of us do with our private demons – he would not be human had he not, but he did not let them stop him from doing what he, in viewing his course, thought was correct.

When my husband found the drivers license that awful day at the hospital and saw the little red heart printed there we knew we had no other choice.  We had felt it would be the best thing to allow his organs to be donated, it was at that point our decision to make ultimately – our son’s voice being stilled, but this little red emblem gave us the go ahead.  The paperwork process for that decision is not an easy one.  The people who take care of those things handled us with kid gloves.  We in a little windowless room answering questions about our son’s health and life habits, while he lay, his body being kept alive down the hall.

We received a letter yesterday from a recipient of one of his organs.  It was a letter of thanks.

My son did not die so that others might live, the fact that he took such good care of himself and that those who tended him after his fall were able to keep his heart pumping to allow his heart, lungs, liver and kidneys to survive are the heros for those who received his organs.   The doctors who told us that we needed to allow our son to infarct instead of “pulling the plug” had the tough job.  The surgeons who had to face our son’s perfect body to “harvest” the organs were those who are made of steel. Then there were the surgeon’s whose joy it was to perform the transplants and get to face the hopeful families.  The  volunteer who stayed with our boy during that surgery, for the sake of his dignity and honor, she embodies his spirit.

I am painting a picture here out of the simplest of elements, that started with a check mark in a box on an application.  My son did what many of us have done and forgotten about, something we carry in our wallet and never think about coming to fruition.

The fact that the picture that evolves from this is so dramatic in scope is beyond the intent of the people involved on the front end.  Art has so many intangible elements.

We on this side of things, as the viewer, bring to it elements it did not originally contain by the person that started it.

Are we glad that our son decided to be a donor?  Yes.  Are we happy for those who received his organs?  Of course.  The paint is on the paper.  The brush strokes have been made.  It will not and cannot be undone.

Would we have preferred another picture?   Yes.

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

a fable

Posted on December 16, 2011 by pathfinder

I am so tired of being sad.  I am annoyed by feelings of guilt when I am not sad.  I think I startle others when I laugh and joke, I am past startling myself.  There is a form of punishment the grieving undertake for themselves.  To feel good, to laugh and be happy, to find pleasure means you don’t love your child.

I know it is ridiculous, but we do it.  We tie up our bundle of switches and flog ourselves daily.  How dare we be alive when our child is not?  Shame on me for eating and drinking, enjoying other’s company, admiring the sunset or sunrise, or taking pleasure in anything anywhere at all.

Regardless of what we inflict on ourselves it does not bring our child back.   It makes us cringe and contract when we think about them, because we feel like if we don’t season the memory with some tears, it is not genuine or loving.

I know not everyone out there has lost a child continues to operate this way.  There is a subduing of this self-punishment eventually.  But many who talk about their loss say that life itself dulls down as if their ability to enjoy has been weighted down, that life is less bright in color and even food tastes bland.

 

So here is my personal fable:

 

There was once a little boy who came into the world not by his own volition, but because a man and woman loved each other, married and enjoyed the rites that marriage allows.  He was long and thin, bright as a copper penny, sparking with curiosity and intelligence.  He grew up.  His family doted on him, and soon  to his delight he had a sister.   She was equally as bright, a bobbing head of curls and a smile that could melt the polar ice.  They loved each other – each sometimes leading and sometimes following – learning mutually from each other.  Books and music, nature and ideas were the stuff of everyday life. The man and woman basked in the light of their beautiful children.

The children grew as children are wont to do – in stature and in knowledge.  The world came at them and they came to know it in many ways, some good, some bad.  They wrestled with their parents, with their beliefs, with their contemporaries.  They grew up, complete with struggles and sorrows, joys and hope.

One day the girl got sick.  The brother who was struggling with the consequences of some foolish decisions stood near by.  The parents were flung into fear and despair that something like this could happen in their family.  The brother put aside many things he had hoped and planned for to remain near by for his family, for his sister.   It took three years for the girl to endure the ordeal of her illness and the whole family suffered.

But the day came when the girl was well.  The family looked at what they had survived and knew that they had been bound very close through the process.  The man and woman knew they must let the children live their lives, even though they worried about how close they had come to loosing one of their children.

The boy became a man.  The girl a woman.  Good decisions and bad decisions all played a part in them becoming who they were.  The man so in love with adventure and the natural world pursued his interests, as did his sister.

School with degrees, friendships and frustrations happened.

The young man, still as bright as ever, independent and confident made his choices.  Both children learned to express their love and appreciation to their parents without reserve and the family basked in the mutual love.

Accidents happen too though.  The mother fell one day down the stairs, surviving her fall.  The son coming home that weekend took care of her, much the way she had cared for him in years past.

There was no premonition here, but within five months the young man fell too. Unfortunately in his fall his life ended.   He was climbing with a friend, out in the beautiful world he so loved and an accident occurred.  The sky was painfully blue and the trees green with summer foliage.  It was out among those things he saw the last of this world.

The parents and the sister suffered in disbelief and pain, but for him there was no pain.  Dulled by grief and burdened with tears they walked through days feeling the incredible void caused by the loss of this beloved person.  But days passed as they do and memories of his beautiful life gave them strength and moments of remembered joy.

When he woke up he had no memory of what had happened.  Before him was a vast uncharted place for him to explore.   Once while in this new place he heard a lyrical sound like the most delicious chiming of a bell but so sweet you could taste it.   He found someone and asked “what was that sound?  I would love to hear it again!”

“That is the sound of the laughter of those who love you.” he was told.  “some do not get to hear it often, because those who have yet to come here don’t understand and spend their days in tears and from that sound we are sheltered. ”

 

The beginning.

 

 

 

 

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

Pip

Posted on December 13, 2011 by pathfinder

I fasted from writing for a few days, at least from this type of writing.  I wrote short poems and a simple Christmas acrostic.  I also started trying to transcribe a journal kept by my son.   I am not sure if it is a good or bad idea just now.

It began  October 25, 2002 with the manning of a small tercel kestrel that he named Pip.  At that time there was a red tail hawk housed in the mews, though he does not speak of it much during the 30 days of journal entry that marks the little birds time with my son. My son was 20 years old then.  There is a vast difference between 20 and 29 years of age.  His thoughts were those of a very optimistic person looking forward to what was ahead of him.   The words themselves reek of life.

Thirty days are a lot of days in the life of a twenty year old.  Many of those days spent with this wild bird on his fist, teaching it to trust him, if that is possible of something wild.  Hours spent training the bird to respond to cues that will allow it to have food, its only motivation.  Weights are recorded along with amounts and type of food.  Calculations are recorded to figure out the little kestrel’s metabolic rate.

Frustration is expressed, joy over new accomplishments achieved by the bird, and the underlying patience of my son as he works with this tiny creature.

I remember the day he burst into the house, having trapped the bird out near the university in a field.  Apparently somewhere on the way home the bird got loose in the car. My son ran in to the house to find a towel to safely remove the wild kestrel from the car. Thankfully he had parked the car inside the garage closing the garage door, just in case.  Beside himself with excitement here is his first entry:

 

October 23, 2002

“At 10 a.m. Friday morning on an overcast and cloudy rainy morning a small Tercel kestrel was trapped with a ball catchery and sparrow. Feisty little bugger has bitten and footed me more times than I care to count. Haven’t yet decided on a name but I am leaning toward Pip.  Although he is not anywhere near the point of starving his keel is palpable but not sharp. No doubt he is rather fat and strong he is in perfect feather and has good coloration in the chest and feet.”

 

Saturday – October 25

“There is the smell of sparrow on his breath and I one to give him time to put his food over–one absolutely charming bird his care has me constantly worry–the abrasion on his legs have not gotten any better, but he bated rather heavily this morning hanging for long periods of time. Now his bates from the fist are sharp and quick–I cannot wait to see him fly–tomorrow we will try jumping to the fist–perhaps early in the morning with 5 or so grams of food–and attempt again later in the evening I need a whistle and a creance for he will be needing them very soon.”

 

October 28

“He is burned through the quail very quickly although he has also been very active on the perch–he finally regained the shelf–while walking outside he started bating at a specific spot so holding the leash I let him fly to it just out of curiosity. Lo and behold he pops back up to the fist with a green caterpillar! He ate it while on the fist with no trouble and I hope it will help to counterbalance the quail. Hopefully by this evening we will be ready for the creance.”

 

October 30th

“Well he was at the weight I wanted, however it was a very windy day out, at first he responded well taking a few calls. On one in particular the wind was blowing and instead of lighting on my fist he hovered above it, right front of my face, it was without a doubt one of the coolest experiences I’ve had thus far. He is still very nervous about the lower–bating away the first time I approach him with it. Carrying is going to be a hurdle I will just have to work at overcoming. Overall he did very well but a weight reduction is in order.”

 

November 2, 2002 to November 3, 2002

“As of Saturday morning I am beginning to question whether or not this bird will tame down outside. I’m debating releasing him and making another attempt with the passage bird, one that I know would be workable.”

 

November 4, 2002

“After a talk with my mentor who helped to strengthen my reluctance to part was such a charming bird, I decided to give him another week. And this afternoon he performed his best yet. A little bating  away from me. But he the lure on the ground with little hesitation.”

 

November 8, 2002

“The differences between this bird of the Red Tail are profound. Morphology aside, their behavior is markedly different while eating this little kestrel seems much more nervous and rightfully so. With his diminutive size he is game for much larger raptors. While outside with Pip, a Cooper’s hawk flew about 60 feet overhead moving fast toward the field cross from us. Certainly some critter met its demise. But my heart rate rose no doubt both from the sight, and because of that brief flash of dread for my smaller charge.”

 

The next days of entries are full of weights and records of his work with the lure, until finally on November 23, 2002 he records:

 

First Free Flight

“Well that sums it up. Nervously this afternoon I removed the y-swivel and creance and bid him to take to the wind. Unhindered flight in this kind of bird is incredible. It’s like the air were more fluid, and furthermore at his command. He ended up behind some trees, but as I walked away he came down without calling. He’s all about the lure, and responds perfectly to the fist. ”

 

I don’t know if there is another binder that contains information about Pip.  I don’t even remember exactly when my son let him go for good.  I remember the noisy bird in his bedroom on the perch he fashioned, the scars from where the perch hung are still on the wall.

What I remember is the joy of the experience.  Watching my son, like the bird, grow in patience and in wisdom and in stature and in favor with God and man. The journal is a precious glimpse back in time.  Time I shared with him and the little bird.

I borrow from my son here.  With my son time was more fluid, and furthermore at his command.

The journal does not end here, though the account of Pip does. It continues on until May of 2005 when my son would end it abruptly without explanation at the age of 23.

I know that these are the writings of much younger man than I knew at the beginning of this year.   It was in fact the time when he was becoming the man that I knew so well.  Sometimes his words are haunting as he expresses his yearning for the future.

I don’t know if I can transcribe more, it is hard to do at times.  But then nothing is as easy as it once was.   I am glad to have the journal however.  I don’t think anything can decrease or increase how much we miss him.  It feels right to share a part of him that is not so very private at this season of remembrance and celebration.

Posted in Birds of Prey, Coping with the Death of a Child, Death, Family, Holidays | Tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , | Leave a comment

In All Things . . .

Posted on December 9, 2011 by pathfinder

I would rather have the pain of missing my son in my life, than to never have had him at all.  My life would not be what it is were it not for my children.

They humble me with their examples of how to live, accept others, their bravery and unwavering sense of right.  They have been the best friends to their friends. My children are loyal. I am not bragging.  I am telling you the truth.

Somehow despite me, they became whole and rounded people.  I hope our attempts at unconditional love gave them space to grow as they did.  I cannot take credit for anything however, but I am an ardent admirer.

They are generous to a fault.

They do not try to appease everyone and in the face of difficult people they stand their ground.  There is a deeply seated sense of right, which will not be compromised.   I appreciate that in them.   It makes for pain sometimes, and people who suffer from entitlement often have difficulty with my children.   Sensible when it is necessary and absolutely silly when necessary too.

My children have the ability to empathize.  Subtle nuances are not lost on them.  Their ability to translate this is seen in their writing and music.

Handsome in form, downright beautiful for the most part they grace this world with the adoration of their parents backlighting them.   We have loved well.  No time was wasted on them – it was all an investment that has had an incredible return.

That our son had to exit this life when he did has no explanation.  Not from anyone anywhere.  It was not a punishment, or something inflicted by a god.  God did not have him on a checklist and lick his pencil to mark the box.  No- there is no explanation.  That is the uncomfortable part.

It is the grit in my shell.  I rub against it every day and sometimes it probably is a source of my sorrow and tears.   Am I oyster enough to allow it to become a pearl?

Time will tell if time there is for me.

One habit I have, is that when I am somewhere, noticing something I like, I tend to think somehow erroneously that my loved ones (those still living) can see it too.  I notice when in describing it, or mentioning it, they get that puzzled look on their face.  I forget that they were not there.  In my mind they were.

It is like that with my son now.  I think that he is there, seeing and experiencing the things I see.  It is because I want him there, perhaps.  The cell phone made a difference in that whole process for everyone.  We take a picture now and send it off to share.  The imagined has come to fruition.

I cannot speak about my children’s connection with me from their point of view obviously.  I was going to say I think  but I know it was and is different than the connection I had with my own mother.

I remember worrying about people who said that their work was their life, or their art was their life. For some it is how they look and think they are perceived by the world.  My family has been my life.   My husband and my children.   They are a source of joy.

My family includes so many people these days.  The truest of family – biological and spiritual.  They all miss my son too, and have provided me and my husband and  daughter a safe place to grieve.

The physical person, our son, my daughter’s brother we miss so much.  There have never in all time been enough words spoken that can sum up the vastness of this kind of loss.   A friend of mine told me that “God loves your son more than you do.”

I took umbrage at that at first, but I allowed it to stew around a bit and I have decided I sincerely hope that is true.  Because if indeed God loves my son more than I do- then it is unimaginable – and though I envy God in this scenario – if that much love exists then there is hope.  Hope for me too.

There has been so much ugliness in the news.  People are desperate.  I think part of the prevailing sorrow is from the spirit of sorrow and hopelessness that we are bombarded with on the news.

Turning off the news won’t make it go away, but maybe for awhile, I will turn it off. I think I will turn to those around me, who are also in need and try a little every day to meet those needs that I can.  I cannot change the world, but I can change how I treat my neighbor.

The part of me that belongs to my family is the largest part of me, but the gifts they have given me I can continue to share.   Thank you my sweet daughter for loving me and  showing me what tenacity looks like.   Thank you my sweet loving husband for trusting me and encouraging me to grow as you have for the past 35 years.  To my son, what can I say? Thank you for letting me share your life.  In all things I have been truly blessed.

Posted in Death, Faith, Family, Friends, Holidays, Marraige | Tagged , , , , , , , | Leave a comment