In the moment

Posted on December 7, 2011 by pathfinder

I’ve only had one panic attack that I know of or can remember vividly.  It happened less than a week after my son died.  I had gone to the kitchen, my husband, daughter and sister were in the den.  I don’t remember why I was in the kitchen.  We had been trying to watch a movie, because it seemed like something to do.  It was  a few days before the gathering in our son’s honor.  I remember standing near the refrigerator when my pulse started racing and I felt lightheaded and if I had had someplace to run, I would have  because the feeling of danger was so close.  It is a horrible and frightening feeling.  Your body is acting in a way that is not in sync with anything that is physically going on around you.  My daughter, son and husband have all had panic attacks.  I understand, once they have happened why thy can paralyze you from doing some things for fear they will come again, uncontrolled and debilitating.

Grief is a bit like that.  I told my sister yesterday that one of the problems I have is that after a bad day, I find myself dreading the next day when I (may) have to do it all over again.  I put the (may) in there because sometimes the day dawns differently.  Sometimes you get a little reprieve for a while before you get sucked back down into the grief.   I cycle through more quickly at times now.  Unfortunately I still have those days, after having had a couple of lighter days when I just can’t escape.

One lady who shares my unfortunate circumstance said to live in the moment.   I’ve been mulling that over.   The problem is probably, that  that is what I have always done.  Fairly spontaneous and not worrying nearly enough about minutia as my husband would have me do, I have appeared at times down right cavalier.  Stream of consciousness kind of gal.  I paint that way too.  I figure out what I want to paint, sketch and think about the whole thing, sometimes sleep on it and then boom!

I paint.  I let the painting take over.  I loose focus on the world around me and I really don’t know where I am.

I haven’t been painting much lately.  I use as an excuse that there are a number of framed pieces that need a good home hanging in my studio, and even more -newer pieces – that have not found their way into a mat or frame yet.    My husband years and years ago told me I could, if the work did not sell, stack them under the bed.   I may have to take him up on that and just get back to the easel for my sanity’s sake.

I used to be able to (pollyanna like) tune out some of the darker news out there in the world.  The impotency of loosing a loved one makes you realize how little you can change and influence.   Now the news, bombings and senseless death shout at me.   The financial state of so many who want to work, who are industrious and capable, yet find themselves in dire straits seems impossible.   Political bandaids are offered, people in somber suites and bright ties lay out their plan.  It’s just not that easy.

The foundation is shaking.  Michael Jackson sang about “The Man in the Mirror” and that is the truth.  Motives, abilities, blank honesty about who I am, what I have been, where I am now is pretty hard to face.  Time gets by so quickly and good intentions set mutely on the shelf, not speaking at all for the things I “would have done.”

I have to admit, I really hate and conversely am thankful for being made to be aware at this point.   The father in “Pride and Prejudice ” waves his hand at his daughter who worries over her father’s time of trial.  He slumps in his chair  and says and I paraphrase “don’t worry, it won’t last as long as it should.”   I have been guilty  of moving on quickly too quickly after some things.  Things that may have been more important for me to learn something from than I gave credit.

Living in the moment is tough.  Trying to not let memory overshadow the moment or anticipation destroy it.  I should have practiced more when I was younger.

My son would not want our lives to stop because his did, I assume this, because I would not want other’s lives to stop when my does.  Even if someone did want that it is not within their power to make it so – just saying   I remind myself, over and over, and my husband too, that  because we are not grieving 24/7 does not mean we are dishonoring our son.   I have found in the past five months that there is imbedded in each day enough memory triggers that I do not have to dredge anything up.   I need to stop dreading them, that is the trick, because the panic attack like grief comes.  I need to separate the memory from grief if that is possible, and replace the link with the joy that most of my memories of my son are attached to.

The tears are indistinguishable to the viewer however.  Tears of joy can be confused with tears of grief and sometimes they tip over spilling into each other.

The circumstances of the death are hard for parents to get over.  Young people involved in car accidents,  drug related, violence related, disease related, and the unexplained  sudden deaths and suicide.  The very instance of the death, how it happened leaves for most of us the unanswered question of why, and why our child?  But why anyone?  Why anyone that young and so full of promise?Those questions compound our grief, and can take over.  It seems cavalier to say, there is nothing I can do about it now.   And that is painfully true.  There is nothing you can do about the fact the child is gone.    I think that lack of control feeds the panic/grief attack.

I am aware of those who have taken that need for the answer to their question and turned it into positive action.  Raising money and awareness  concerning the dangers that exist out there for children.   It is a way of moving forward while honoring the deep connection with their child and their loss.  I think for most it takes a while to sort through and decide the direction this should take in their life.  For some it becomes their new life.  Those that benefit cannot begin to comprehend the cost, but I am so proud of those who choose that route.

I can’t lobby against rock climbing.  There are too many people who love the challenge and risk.  There are too many companies making money off of the sport and even advertisers have capitalized on the allure in commercials these days. Safety is up to the individual, as much it is up to me to click that seat belt and drive defensively while in my car.

As parents the problem is we don’t always see our children as individuals.  They are a part of us.  We see ourselves in them and we are surprised when we see nothing that resembles us in them.   We, on the day they were born heaped upon that poor helpless being a whole load of hopes and dreams, expectations and anticipation.   I don’t know how to lobby to parents to stop that and give the kid some space to be whoever they need to be.   It would take reprograming and I don’t know anything about that.

I can’t do anything for my son anymore.  Nothing.  I miss the doing.   I talk to him but as in McGoo’s Christmas Carol, “where is the voice to answer mine back?”  I can do things “in his memory” – but that is called living my life as I do in honor of everyone who has made an impact on me.

I try not to overdo for my daughter and her husband.  I don’t want to smother them or make them overly dependent.   They need to grow together.

Death brings everyone connected to the death to an abrupt halt for a time.  Things come into sharp and painful focus.  The lack of control probably fuels the panic and grief which so  hard to control and can take  over where panic left off.

I don’t have any answers.   I wrote in my status yesterday on Facebook, “love one another.”  I think that is as close to an answer as I will get again today, for my husband and my children, and my neighbors far and wide.  I think that was the answer in the first place.

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Life among the living

Posted on December 6, 2011 by pathfinder

Gray the day

wet with rain

fog wrapped and dripping

a heavy hand.

The process to be worked

the step by step by step

the small pool of light right there

at your feet

all that  can be seen.

Misunderstood trust

waits patiently for your hand;

no promises, there were never really any.

The story was a good one

but the ending was not yours to write.

You are barely all you ever had

to start with, and to end with.

The basketful of hope like so much down

cast to the wind

some to fly and warm another

some flies in your face.

It is not a sentence for the convicted.

It is not a reward for perfection or imperfection hidden.

It is bare faced and honest,

life among the living

if you choose to live it.

It comes with messiness, with joy, with sorrow

with triumph and tragedy

and so little explanation.

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Dear Son,

Posted on December 5, 2011 by pathfinder

I can’t find the right words to describe this process.  Sometimes it is like being in a vehicle going 150 mph, the world seems to be flashing past and I can’t focus on it anymore.  I wake up and it has been five months since your death and I can’t figure out where the time has gone.  I know my perception of time has changed with time, my mother used to comment on the way everything speeds up as you get older.

 

 

There is evidence of things I have done.  The forest of coffee mugs I made in the pottery class has dwindled as I have given them away one by one.  I have knitted hats and scarves and now I’m working on a sweater.   I painted some early on, but now have hit a lull for no particular reason.  

I have been to a conference with a group of women from church, and to a friends lake house and to visit a show opening near the state capital.  Old friends from college have visited, a nephew his wife and children have visited.  We celebrated Thanksgiving and had a wonderful huge wedding.  How is that all possible without you being here?

 

 

I feel emotionally sandpapered.  I participated in these things.  I laughed.  I even danced.  I can’t seem to figure out how the joy felt, or dredge it back up again.

The pictures from the wedding help.  That was so much fun.  I tried to picture your reaction and imagined you would be hovering at my shoulder whispering silly things in my ear or sitting with your cousins and arguing over politics.  I didn’t try to imagine it much at the time because I could not have been present as I wanted so much to be for your sister and her guests.

 

 

See it just isn’t fair to require of your sister to fill in all the empty space.  It isn’t fair to her husband to begin to be compared to you.  I haven’t been able to even glimpse anything like you anywhere.  Yes, I admit when I see tall thin young males, I stare at them.  Sometimes I think it is like trying to see shapes in the clouds – I want to see you so badly.

That video that your sister had taken that Christmas in 2007 – you laughing and playing with your dog!   I can’t watch it much, but I love hearing your voice again.  I miss your voice and your face and the way you smile closing your eyes.   Your dad and I struggled through this weekend.  He is trying so hard to tough it out.

The old fixer upper comes out in me and I want to make everyone else happy.  But there is nothing to be done.   There is nothing to fix.

Maybe this sounds crazy.  You could probably point out the flaws in my thinking, but I’ve got to tell you – as hard as it is – as painful as the days may be at times – I would rather have this pain – because I had you, and knew you well, than to never have had it at all.

I suffer less at this point from the grief of what might have been, and more from the grief of what I had that is gone.    I probably keep saying that, but that is what I think.  But then, you are used to me repeating myself.  I am feeling sorry for myself and everyone else who misses you.

I talk with other parents who have lost children and there is such a mix of feelings.  Now granted this is the group of parents who have lost children and are willing to talk about it, so that statistically could be analyzed and you would probably say – it is just the crazy ones like you mom.  I accept that.  Craziness aside, they express a lot of guilt and numbness and inability to move forward, loss of memory, painful triggers, frustration over the lack of details concerning their child’s death, regret, frustration over the reaction of others towards them, obsessing over unchangeable events.   I resemble some of those  things sometimes.

I have had guilt in the past, and thankfully apologized to you concerning some things to which you reacted with surprise.  I suppose I should have asked what I needed to apologize for – since the things I mentioned you didn’t seem to remember.   I didn’t have any guilt concerning you at the time of your death.  I regret that I didn’t hug you more that morning, totally selfish in that.   I am moving very slowly forward, wherever that may be.  Time is ticking on and I am still here.  I listed some things earlier in an attempt to remember what had happened since your death.   Triggers are everywhere, don’t think those will go away ever.  Details concerning your death . . .I don’t think knowing anything more would help me.  Maybe your dad would be helped by that, maybe I say – but I don’t know.   Other’s reaction towards me – I just put you right there beside me in their presence and dare them to be out of line.

I try not to obsess, period.

Lot’s of little things piled up this weekend on our heart and head to make us miserable with ourselves.

Your sister was flying back and forth from home to be with her husband – so you know how I do obsess about that.  I have to stop myself from trying to make her check in every five minutes.   We are overly over protective – don’t know if that will ever fade.  Like my worry is some sort of talisman against accidents – I know – crazy.

I’m going to try and get on with my day.  Some days take more effort than others.  I would rather be spending it with you, or with your sister or better yet both of you.  I miss you so much.

Forever,

Mom

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A little hike

Posted on December 3, 2011 by pathfinder


Went on a little hike today, up where we have hiked a lot, at the end of our road.

I have hiked it with my husband, and with some other friends.  I have hiked it with my daughter and my daughter and her then boyfriend.  Most of the times I have hiked it has been with my son.

Someone has made some major improvements.  There are new trails that wind around the creek.  You can see so many wonderful waterfalls.  There are new bridges that span the creek that give you a great new perspective on the hike.

The trail itself is still rocky, washed as it is when the rains come.  I have never been up there when it is raining hard, but I imagine the trail becomes like a stream bed in places.  You have to watch your feet, and take your time in places.  For me it means taking my time coming down more than anything else.

We hiked up to the “split-rock”.  A huge boulder that sits to the right of the trail.  My son has used it to practice on for years.  He could make the half mile trek to it in a few minutes.  Meeting with his buddies to try out holds in the crack he would go every time he had a chance when he was in town.

I had not been there since his death.  Now with the leaves down it looks a bit cold and abandoned.  Anytime the weather is good, folks go hike up and climb on the rock.   I didn’t climb or touch it.  My husband did.  But I just sat and looked and thought how strange and familiar it was.  Just a big rock.

This last picture I took while sitting on the rock on the left of the trail going up.  Yes indeed, it looks just like a broken heart.  I had to sit and look at it for a bit.  It doesn’t look like that from the trail, just  from there sitting on the rock where I had sat so many times watching him.  He with his feet stuffed into those tiny rock climbing shoes, chalk bag and crash pad.  I don’t think it was trying to mock me.

I don’t think rocks do anything but erode.  But I have to say it was a rather poignant reminder.

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December 2, 2011

Posted on December 2, 2011 by pathfinder

I have gone blank this morning.  It is December the 2nd.  Officially five months.

Yesterday, for whatever reason, I did not end up in tears until the end of the day, in bed.  It is like I cannot go to sleep unless I shed a few tears.  I wondered over whether it was force of habit. If it is, I wonder why, when I break all other  habits so easily I cannot break this one.  Not that it is a bad habit, if it is one.

I thought again about the issue of control.  I thought about perception.  I can’t change anything that happened a second ago.  Oh I can hit delete and these words will disappear but that is a new action.  It erases what my fingers did just a second before.  This is the only moment that exists, and now this one.

I can see why people get caught up on wanting to debate the perception of time.  There is a new movie out (that I doubt I will rush out to see) about time.  There have  been lots of movies about time.  “The Time Travelers Wife”, “Peggy Sue Got Married”, “The Time Machine” – and others where an adult gets to go back and changes something.  Then of course there is the quintessential “A Christmas Carol” and “Its A Wonderful Life.”   There appeal is that given the right amount of information, magically, we can be made to consider what we have and become more generous, loving, appreciative people today.  I wonder how long it takes to wear off?

Everything wears off eventually.  You get old enough and even the need to live wears off.  Gold wears off your jewelry.  My mother’s wedding band got so thin it had to be rebuilt.  Everything erodes.  Geologically the earth is one big recycling bin, the building up and the wearing down.  The minerals in the subduction zones  taken down and being spewed up again pronounced by the newscaster standing with his mike to be new earth.  It is recycled and it will erode.

I am sounding rather gloomy in my blank thoughts.  Perhaps I should be taking comfort in all this.  Is the earth a closed system?  There is debate on that.

It is astounding to think that everything we have has had to come from something else, some raw material, manufactured using something that was available or discovered that when combined with something else made this or that.  Amazing how much mankind has figured out.

We can save lives.  Just not all of them and even when do for a time they eventually die anyway.  They wear out, life wears off.

Our pets die.  During my lifetime I have had or my family has had combined ten dogs, three cats and one parrot , two cockatiels and a parakeet.  Two of those dogs are still with us.  I am not counting the dogs that now live with my daughter.  Those are not my dogs.  That’s an average of one dog every 5.7 years for the statistician.  So out of the ten, I have experienced the death of eight.There were some overlaps, cats with dogs, dogs with dogs, dogs with birds. Some people think that giving your child a pet and allowing them to experience the eventual death is a great life lesson.

Even a child can figure out that the death of a pet is not on par with the death of a well loved human.  Please give them more credit than that.

Erosion in nature takes place with wind, water, freezing water, lichens and plant roots abrading, breaking apart and sanding down the rocks and earth.   Erosion of the spirit takes place when opportunities are missed, praise is withheld, criticism is heaped up, or we passed unnoticed or ignored.

Where the big oak came down in our yard, right before my son died there is a big gap in the landscape.  The roots are still there, holding on to the dirt, but when they decay there will be a big gap and potential erosion of the soil that could undermine the driveway.   We have to be proactive.  We know what the consequences could be.  It is predictable.

I miss that tree.  It was a beautiful thing.  It provided shade and acorns for the squirrels.  Its absence mars the view.

We have built no memorials for our son, somehow the lack of that tree serves as a constant reminder, as if I needed more, that he is really gone.  He was here when it split in the wind, and when they took it down for good, he was already gone.   I wept all day over him and the tree.   Yes the roots are still there for now, the roots of the tree and the roots of my son’s spirit, deep in my heart.   We will deal with the tree and will probably plant another in its place.  A river birch has been suggested.  Maybe in the spring we will plant one.

I think if there is any erosion going on, I can take the particles and with some inspiration form them into something new in my head, in my heart.   It won’t really be gone from the system, it will just smooth out a little, take away the rough edges.

Rougher erosion forces may come in and break off a chunk again somewhere, in fact I am sure it will happen.

I won’t be able to go back in time and fix it, or prevent it.  I won’t be able to cast out into the future and reel in the ramifications and ripples that may be.   Maybe it is the turning and turning of these things around in my head that provides the most eroding force of all.   It’s a habit I can’t seem to break.  I am sure time will tell.

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Through the magnifying glass

Posted on December 1, 2011 by pathfinder

My sister is officially retired.  She has worked all of her adult life.  She is one of those focused people who methodically go about a task and gets it done, checking it off her list.  I am married to one of those people too.  For a person like me who flies by the seat of her pants, it can make you feel, for lack of a better word, inefficient.

I can write with both hands, ambidextrous I think is the term.  My mother encouraged me to use my right hand because it frustrated her to have to teach me how to do things with my left.  There are some things that naturally seem to work better with my left.  I have always worn a watch (when I wear one) on the “wrong” arm.  I can write with both hands at the same time, the left hand writing however is backwards and a mirror image of the right.  I am a person of quick decisions.  I do not like to let arguments fester I want all unpleasant things to come to an equitable end, quickly. I have always had a sense of urgency about disagreements between humans.  I hate the idea of carrying a grudge.  In other matters however, in imaginative things, I like to ruminate.  It is like building a lego building in my head.    I am telling you this so you will understand the mad woman you are dealing with.

I have another sister who is a master of the little details.  She observes and records in her memory every detail of everything.  I am not saying she literally  remembers everything because that is impossible, but she remembers more than the average person.

Both of my sisters are creative, imaginative and very talented.  They both have lovely families that are grown to adulthood and are making lives of their own.

In a family we often try to figure out where we fit in the scheme of things.  I fall into the category of thinking that I may be the odd man out.  But I think my sisters may think that of themselves too.   None of us have the Father Knows Best or Ozzie and Harriet family.  There is messiness.   There are things we wish were different, and unfortunate things we have had to accept, mostly about ourselves.  Raised by a very passive aggressive mother whose overriding need to control was a powerful force, we probably wittingly or unwittingly embody some of that behavior.   I think from what I have been told by others, however, that the need to control is a big part of being human.

Personally I was always astounded that my children have turned out as well as they are, given the fact they had me for their mother.

Loss puts up an awfully big magnifying glass through which to observe your life.   I have a magnifying mirror in my bathroom and it is terrifying sometimes.   Some things you just don’t want to see so up close.  Loss shows you how not in control you are.  You scramble trying to find those things you “really” do control.  Slippery at best, those things  are ephemeral too. Circumstances change within you and outside of you.

You can make a list, but the day may show up with other plans.  You may remember everything, every detail but before you know it the next “thing” is happening and there is no time to page through the memories.  You may quickly decide, and have plenty of time to regret your hasty decision, or chew your cud for hours only to find that the opportunity in which to act has passed.  This is the “stuff” that life is made of.  The messy stuff.  Locked up in your own little head you wonder if you might just be the only person who has had to deal with such.

The good news and the bad news is – no.  You are just one of many who are caught up in this life today.

Loss however is like a migraine that won’t go away.  Everything is amplified.  Any bad feelings you have had about yourself are probably going to look bigger.   The things you want to hold on to sometimes seem smaller – farther away – just out of reach.   The knowledge of the loss is like a ringing in the ears, or a buzzing in the background, a floater in your vision that won’t let you see around it.  And if you were not the odd man out before in your family, you may be now.

My sisters have been wonderful, as have my in-laws.  I cannot complain.   They check in with us without hovering.  I know without a doubt if I needed them, they would be here for us.

I do get really lonely.  It is partly my own fault, because I don’t know where to go.  There is no getting away from my thoughts for long.   I have worried that by writing as often as I do, that I am dredging through this too often.  Some days it helps, some days it doesn’t.  I never know until I am through.  But writing or not writing does not make the buzzing go away.

As an adult, I have been on my own, with my husband and children for almost 35 years.  My son overlapped with 29 of those. Maybe I was wrong to have built my life so much around my children.  Too late to change that now.  This is one of those places where the ruminating takes over if I am not careful.  Step back, take a deep breath.

Things have not gone the way I assumed they would, and it is difficult to regroup.  I hate being forced too.  There is nothing I can do for my son, the man, now.  I can do things in his memory, but really, I think I am pretty much living my life in his memory right now anyway.  Memorials and monuments seem to annoy me right now.   They seem so flimsy in comparison to the person they are meant to honor. But then, I am flimsy too.

I am one of the few people who knew him as well as you can know another peron.  I knew him as the son, watched him as the brother, saw him and heard about him as the friend.   I am a repository for that collection.   Maybe these writings are my list, my space to sort through all the little details.  A place to quickly jot down stream of consciousness writing or ruminate.    Maybe I am more like my sisters than I thought.  Maybe we are all more like each other than we thought.   Maybe that’s why in this season we are supposed to remember to have good will towards our fellow man.   There is a magnifying glass out there for everyone it seems, like it or not.

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An open letter

Posted on November 30, 2011 by pathfinder

Dear Son,

I watched a video clip of you last night that you sister had taken in 2007.  You were laughing and rubbing your head, messing up your hair as you so often did.  Your dog came and sweetly attacked you, licking you.  You had on your gray socks.  It has been right at 150 days since you left, and I still can’t believe it.

It was good to hear your voice, your laughter. I will try not to spend too much time watching the clip.  I don’t go into the room where your clothes are to breath in the smell of you as often as I did.  It is not because I don’t love you.  It is because I am still here even though you are not.

I understand that I carry a big part of you in me.  There are brain cells somewhere in my gray matter that contain their own form of audio/video clips of our time together.   I apologize if I ever took you for granted.  The living are so handicapped when it comes to that.  We assume too much, and get so used to things being the way they are and expect to stay that way.

I have talked to your dad and sister about this.  We heap guilt on ourselves if we don’t grieve 24/7 because of some warped feeling that by not doing so we are dishonoring you.  I know, it’s crazy.  I can almost hear you say just that.

It snowed here yesterday.  I thought about the fact that you would, if you were here, have the dogs hiking up the mountain.  I pictured you there yesterday and it felt okay.

I use lots of little tricks to divert me from thinking about you on purpose.  It feels wrong to only think of you with tears.  You have always been such a positive influence in my life.  I think the tears are for me, not for you if I am honest.  It is what I am missing out on that makes me most sad.  You fascinated me.  You and your sister always have.   I revel in the fact that you both like me, love me and want to be with me.  I have constructed a whole world on that foundation and I have not regained my footing yet.

It seems wasteful to keep all your clothes.  I just can’t bring myself to sort through them yet, though.  There are some tee shirts I won’t part with because I saw you in them so often.   They were the ones that you were attached to.  You weren’t much of a fashion statement, that’s for sure.

I am working hardest at trying to remember everything you taught me.  I have been writing this blog and I worried at first that you would not approve, but I know you love me and want me to keep on doing whatever it is I need to do.  So I’ve not mentioned your name, or your sisters or father’s on purpose.  Some who read it know us, so I guess the premise of anonymity is a little bit of a farce.  I know how much it annoyed you for me to talk about you (brag about you) to others.   It invaded your privacy and you are certainly a private man.

I see that I keep switching between the present and past tense as I write about you.

That is the hard part.  There are things about you and I that are in the past.  It pains me to think you are not in the present nor going to be in my future.  The stopping point was too abrupt.  Whatever that is about the living that makes death such an unbelievable thing I don’t understand.  You and I never faced that in this way together, and I really would like to hear your insights concerning this.

Your friends have kept in touch.  They miss you too.  I am so proud of them all, they are focused.  I know that they can’t keep touching base with us indefinitely and they probably struggle a bit with that because of their love for you.   This is tougher than you can imagine, son.  None of us had any idea of how tough.  We were not prepared, and I’m not sure what kind of preparation can ever be made.

I liken it to the clean-up after a storm or maybe even a major war.  Nothing is like it was.  The world is not like it was for us.  The trouble is, on the scale of things in the world our loss of you was such a small event.  The ripple is past.  We want to keep making waves because we are so frustrated with our grief concerning you and most folks just want us to calm down, it rocks their boat too much.

That actually seems appropriate in some ways.  In your own subtle way you were a boat rocker.  Your sense of right was like a compass.   I love the fact that you listened to that voice of reason in matters that truly mattered.

I could not and would not have tried to dissuade you from rock climbing any more than I can stop your dad from riding a motorcycle or me from climbing stairs.  The world out there might think the latter not treacherous or fraught with danger, but you and I know better!   I just really hate accidents.

I know you showed me the videos on climbing and they were shocking and frightening.  I don’t know if you derived some devious pleasure from seeing me so freaked out, or if you were trying to desensitize me.  You told me that falls happen.  You told me outright that it would happen if you climbed long enough.   I guess my idea of risk taking is not on par with yours.   I thought you might experience a fall one day, but somehow I expected you to survive.

I ache for you sweet pea.  Sometimes it is like the throb of a cut finger, and sometimes it is just a twinge.   I am glad you cannot hear me or see me in this state. I really would not want to make you feel guilty or unhappy.  I know this didn’t happen on purpose.

Some days I just pretend that you are still here somewhere, and just haven’t had time to call yet.  I don’t  try to use that very often, because the reality is a cold hard slap.

I am glad we were able to tell you how proud we are of you.  How much we love you, and to hear in return your love and appreciation of us.  I hate it when other people loose their children doubting that.

You were a pretty stinky teenager at times.  Rebellious , acting out and sneaking around doing things you probably should not have done.  When kids die during those years, it has to be difficult for the parent, to not get to see how they would have eventually come out the other side, as you did.   And they would have, bit by bit.  At 29 you were a joy.  Still a bit crazy, but a good kind of crazy.

Your sister is such a wonderful person.  She has taken on so much responsibility concerning the things that had to be done with you gone.  Your dogs have completely adapted to the situation.  They are doing very well, and your sister loves them.  I think they have helped her more than you can imagine.  They have sustained her through this time for now.   She and her husband are going to make a good life together.  I am glad she is married, and has that to focus on.

She misses you in ways I can’t imagine.  She really liked living there with you.   We share memories of you sometimes.   I know you loved her so much.

Your dad is struggling.  He uses his ability to be very busy to get him through the day.   Sometimes I think it is his sorrow that hurts me more than my own.   He is such a tender man and it takes him a while to resolve things in his own mind.  It is just the way he processes things.

I have explained you two to each other your whole life.   You are so much alike in so many ways.  I could not make happen for either of you the things you seemed to want from each other.  But I will say this, there was never a doubt that you loved him and that he loves you.   I agree with you, he is the most generous man anyone will ever meet.   I have always thought him a man after God’s own heart, but then I think that of you too.

I really am trying to keep moving forward.   When you came home that weekend after I fell down the stairs and took care of me, encouraged me, soothed my fears, I don’t know if I thanked you adequately.   When you stood with me the day the storm came through and we watched the wind try to uproot the trees, splitting the big oak, I realized how much strength I borrowed from you.  Your sister and I, and your dad, we miss your strength, the calm centered person, because we all operate with our edges slightly frayed.  I don’t know what you got from us.  I like to think it was a solid foundation, a reassurance of acceptance that gave you the confidence to do the things you were able to do.

I see that in your sister too, and I think that maybe we did a little something right.

I regret what happened to you.  I try to not think about the accident and the time following because I prefer the laughter in the video.  I think I will use it for that purpose, if you don’t mind because that  is the person you have been for all these years.

I love you.  I miss you.

Forever,

Mom

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If

Posted on November 29, 2011 by pathfinder

If can be a conjunction or a noun.  I really don’t want it to have any more space or time in my vocabulary for now.   Not that avoiding it changes anything, but a lot of my intrusive thoughts start with if.

The speculation that occurs following that notorious two letter word can go on for hours.   It has the ability to stop a day in its tracks.  I want to turn that word around and send it packing.  I want to get out of the valley of the shadow of if.  What really annoys me is that life has an if in the middle.

See, it is right there.  Choices hinge on it minute by minute.  Monty Hall capitalized on it early on with his “Let’s Make a Deal” and every successful game show out there on TV relies on its fulcrum to tip people into rapturous tears or disappointed sorrow.  If you make the right choice.  If.

To be such a small word it certainly drags a big load behind it.  That load is usually named guilt, adding “only” to the end, if only.  I borrow the phrase and present you with , “guilt is the gift that keeps on giving.”  Did you notice, gift has an if in it too.  Do you accept your gifts? Do you use your gifts,? Do you abuse your gifts? If you use them correctly you might go far – if.

Conditional so-and-so  that word if.  A word upon which we can set up hypothetical equations for the the entire universe.  Because if this is true, then. . .

We are all gamblers at the slot machine of life.  Pull the handle and if the right emblems line up then we get the pay off.   Contractual agreements hinge on it.

Countries line up their monopoly pieces on the table and squabble over it.

What do I get out of this “if” we-fill in the blank.

What an annoying word.   We use it so much we don’t even notice it.

If I have to tell you one more time, we threaten our children.  If you would just listen! As if !!!!    If I were only taller, prettier, smarter, slimmer.  If I only had more time.

Yes, if I only had more time.  Wow that one packs a punch for those of us who have lost someone we love.   But even that would have to be conditional because we would have to have known that the loss was impending to make the time what we think it could have been – if.   The if falls out there, doesn’t work.  We cannot go back or change a thing, and if we could we probably would not be able to, because we did not know the death was coming. We would behave as we always did.  We did not know for sure, even in the face of illness we hoped – if the doctors could just do the magic thing.

My son died. I could go through the scenarios of if’s for you, if that would help.  It does not.  Things are the way the are now.  I have no choice in the matter.  My choice is in how I choose to proceed.  The choices are made on a daily, hourly or minute by minute basis.  Actually to be more precise, they are made on a second by second basis.

Illness is insidious, violence intolerable, war horrifying and accidents frustrating.

Probably all accidents are preventable, if you take the time.  Slow down, check your surroundings,  get someone to hold the ladder, watch your step.  All of this we see it in hindsight.   We get by once maybe and we get sloppy or something just escapes our notice, something it might have taken a moment to fix or change, if we had only.

Too late.   If walks away shaking it’s head.  “I could have told you so” it whispers.

So what can I take from this, perhaps ust a reminder for myself.

I am cutting the guilt loose.  It is a millstone that wants to pull me down.  It’s tether is that little word if.

Believe me if any of us could have done anything to have prevented our current circumstance, we would have, gladly and at any expense.

If I let the “if’s”  of the past invade my day, all day then I do not move forward.  If I see something that needs to be done, like give someone a pat on the back, or a kind word, or a hug,  and don’t act on it then I have wasted an opportunity that might never come again and give guilt another foothold.

If does not want you to live in the moment.  It wants to undermine your courage and distract you from what is right in front of your face.

If probably was coined by the devil himself, if such a being exists.  If is the father of lies because it is speculation, seductive and insidious.    There is so little time.   I don’t want it to be full of the “if’s”.   I may only be able to change that a little bit at time.  I still have the ability to choose.

Sometimes I shout out loud to the intrusive thoughts.  I tell them to go away.  They are imbedded in my mind, I have no choice in that, but  I don’t have to let them take my mind off the things that are still here.  The people that are still here with me.

The thoughts may grab a moment here and there and dump me into tears, but I can pull back – it takes a lot – but I can.   It is worth the effort.  I don’t want to miss a moment with anyone else when given the opportunity, if it is within my ability.  See, I used it.  That was not so scary.

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

Ah-ha

Posted on November 28, 2011 by pathfinder

We  had snow in the upper elevations in October.  The weather man is calling for snow mid week.   It is dreary and raining today.  I can hear the rain drops plunking on the vent for the range.  The dogs are resting in our recliners, drifting off to sleep.  My bird keeps watching me trying to figure out if I am doing anything that requires her supervision, which means she will fly in to where I am sitting  and make her noises until I notice her.

The refrigerator is humming, the clock is ticking and I have my “happy” light beaming up into my face as I write.  I made a to-do list last night.  If I do whatever I please today and just don’t look at it I won’t feel guilty.

I realize that up until now I may not have been as deliberate about my life as I should have been.  Everyone provides me with excuses for not being as productive as I have been in the past – citing the death of our son.  But productivity and deliberateness are two different things.  There are always “things” to do, but where do they fall on the scale of priority?  What things, if any, really make a difference?

The writing of all this feels deliberate.  Some days it helps me just to get it out, and some days it sets the mood so low, that I want to crawl under the rug.  I haven’t even taken the time to read back through any of it.  I don’t know if I ever will.

One day, years ago, when driving home I looked up at the road that leads to our house and suddenly it seemed not a road, but a ribbon draped over the shoulders of the mountain.  Such a small narrow ribbon on such a large landscape, yet in my mind at times the road was all there was, to keep between it’s white lines and miss the oncoming cars.   The vision of that  ribbon road created in me a gut feeling, an ah-ha that happened.  It only lasted a moment.  It almost made me dizzy.

I know that just beyond my reach right now there is an ah-ha waiting.   A dizzy moment when the water clears and I can see where to plant my feet safely, because I have been stumbling a lot lately.

The death tinted world is difficult place to dwell for long.  Our windows are streaked with the nose prints of my and my children’s dogs.  My glasses are streaked perpetually from splashing tears.  I leave the dog prints sometimes, like grandparents leave the hand prints of their grandchildren.  I often walk around all day with tear smears before my eyes, so much so, I am sometimes surprised when I take my glasses off and hold them to the light.

But maybe the tear smears are keeping me from seeing the ah-ha moment.  I need to focus with purpose, deliberately and stop allowing the feelings, which can change with the wind to obscure what is important.  I don’t want to miss anything ever again.

The effect of the death of our son was rough and raw on our life.  I abandon myself to the pain of it sometimes, and sometimes I hold back.  It is an exercise.    His life changed me forever, his death is not allowed to make me revert from the good changes I established because of his life.  My daughter and my husband and now my son-in-law influence me for good.  My friends influence me for good.  My son’s good influence was a ribbon of light draped across the landscape of my life.  I just need to transfer my focus now and then, clean my glasses, wipe down the window.

There are other ribbon roads to see.  Other people who if allowed can influence my life.  There will be new lives and other unforeseen deaths.  I don’t know how I ever expected to not be a part of it.

The switch opens like a shutter so quickly to let the light in, imprinting on our brain. We can ignore it, or we can focus watching it as we blink and see it repeat in our visual field.  I hear him, I see him for just a flash everywhere.  I clean my glasses and try to make it all as clear as possible. I focus hard on those who still remain, I will not let the smallest crumb of our interaction pass unnoticed again.  They are the precious, the real things of life that range far outside of the white lines that try to contain us.


 

 

 

 

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

Holiday

Posted on November 27, 2011 by pathfinder

The Thanksgiving Holiday is over and Christmas is being shoved in our faces, full force.   Our daughter set up the Christmas tree, a tradition that usually happens on Thanksgiving Day, this time two days late.  She and I went to the movie “Hugo” on Saturday, just the two of us.  The theater was so cold we had to snuggle up together under my big coat, which I am glad I brought.

I cooked a turkey, we had dressing, a sweet potato souffle, broccoli, gravy, bread and a pumpkin pie.  The turkey was small because it was free range and organic, and apparently turkey’s don’t get as big as the one in Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade without major hormones and stuff.    Most of the leftovers are gone, and I am satisfied with that.

I am trying to figure out the whole Christmas Shopping thing, doing most on line, that is not new either.  I like to shop online.   So that has not changed.

I am trying to figure out what has changed among those of us who are here.  Our newly-wed daughter, for the most part, is functioning just  as she did before she was married.

My husband spent his holiday in the garage, working on the Super Beetle that was our son’s first car.  He started this project before our son died, so this is not a new thing.  And had our son still been alive and well and here with us, my husband would have been in the garage working.  I know that he is grieving terribly and this gave him something to concentrate on this holiday.  I do not begrudge him that.

I did my usual, be available routine.  If people are in my house, my schedule flies out the window and I concentrate on them.  What they would like to do.  Facilitate, that is the word.   I worry if they are happy, enjoying themselves.  I can be sharp and sarcastic and so I worry if I hurt feelings.

My son-in-law is having to get used to us.  It was not easy before when our son was among our ranks – and we kept tight ranks.  Now frayed at the edges and trying to figure out what-in-the-world we are doing it must be difficult at best to figure out what to do with us.    Grief has stripped off some of the veneer we used to try and keep in tact and we are just who we are now.   Lumps, bumps and all.  He is not without his personality quirks, and I don’t have as much patience as I once had to figure out how to deal with these or compensate.  He loves my daughter which covers a multitude of quirks.  Adults dealing with other adults with all their crazy behaviors firmly intrenched is a difficult thing, and after a few days everyone is getting on everyones nerves..

My husband has a habit of asking when folks have left the room, “is everything alright with (fill in the blank).”   It puts me on the spot.  I am left thinking about the people who just left while he goes back to watching the television having dumped his concern on me to take care of.   Responding in any other way to him right now, after all these years would make him angry.  And I don’t want to deal with that, so regardless if I know or not, I try to reassure him that things are “okay”  and then I brood.

My daughter obsesses over her health.  She is trying to reduce and quit some medicine she has taken for years for OCD.  It is a painful process, in the light of her brother’s death and the stress of a new marriage.  I really have little I can do for her except listen.  My instincts are to scoop her up and take care of her during her “withdrawal”.    The problem is that we are individuals and that can only go on for so long before friction occurs. The friction occurs with  independent will rubbing up against independent will – wanting to keep in tact all the co-dependent  behaviors that reward our warped psyche.   Sounds like a theory anyway.

Maybe it suffices to say that old habits are hard to break.

Without meaning to I would picture how things would go if my son were still here.

He would have disappeared a couple of nights while his friend was in town to go out with him and visit.  Leaving around nine or ten, not telling us he was leaving till the last moment, maybe inviting his sister and her husband all-the-while hoping they would not come.   I would half-sleep until I heard his car coming up the drive, a habit I had.  Now when he lived in another town, I never knew what time he came home – so why that was the habit here, I have no idea.   He would have fussed about me not making a pecan pie, so I probably would have had that pie and some cookies baked.  He probably would have gone to the movie with us and then wanted to go eat sushi somewhere afterward (my daughter and I came right home).

He would have hated all the TV programs we wanted to watched, making fun of them as we tried to tune in.  He would have become impatient with his new brother-in-law and frustrated with his dad.  He would have behaved jealously about attention given to anyone else but him by anyone else period.

My nephew and his beautiful family visited on Friday afternoon/evening.  My son would have been fascinated by them.  The oldest daughter is precocious and insightful, the two middle boys love chess and occupied themselves while they were here – my son would have been there watching and coaching.   He would have loved to talk with the youngest boy to hear him parrot every word.  He would have argued politics with his adult cousin.

As it is our behaviors during this holiday did not change appreciably.  We behaved pretty much as we always behave and our son would have behaved as he always behaved.  If our behaviors are different it was because we were tiptoeing around the huge empty space where he is not.

Death is something we know will happen, but not something we can appreciate in hindsight.  Perhaps we should alter our behavior towards each other because we cannot know what tomorrow will bring, but we don’t, and if we could it would not be able to be sustained.  It would cripple us.

I would be getting tired of my son by now.  He imposed himself in a unique way and I because I could not control my own behavior and needs to be with him, as I seem to need to be with my daughter  wear out their welcome for them.

I don’t mean to.  It is hard to give each other enough space.  We get root bound.

And maybe that is it.  In our root bound family pot the uprooting of one family member has left us in shock and we are struggling to adapt.    Our old behaviors so ingrained, old behaviors that were never very wonderful to begin with continue.   The need to push is still there, without any one to pull from the other end.

There was never any way to fix anything anyway, yet now it seems more of an imperative to try, as if we are characters in some movie that deserves a happy ending.  In “My Fair Lady” Rex Harrison sings “I’ve grown accustomed to her face” talking about the little things that are second nature to us, like breathing out and breathing in.   Having this person was second nature to us.  So much a part of us that we didn’t really even have to think about it. His absence is so large and normal family holidays turn the spot light on the empty space.  We stand around and try to warm ourselves by the fires of memory, but it is still awkward and usually brings tears.

I know he was a pain in the butt at times, but he was our pain in the butt.   I would like to be coping with that again, if indeed it was a problem.   But that is the whole hindsight thing in play again.  I won’t get that opportunity.

I am trying not to allow this all to become some tight spiral.  I just have to admit that as soon as my daughter leaves I miss her, even if we are tired of each other’s company.  And when the week begins and my husband goes off to work, I will miss him being here.  I miss the times we had together as a family , though they have evolved and changed with time.   I miss my son.   I miss him coming and I miss him leaving.   I miss his voice, his touch, his face.

I don’t think Christmas will be much tougher than Thanksgiving.  I am trying to let it happen as it will, aware that change is the constant.  Painful though it may be.

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