ofmenandmountains

Dear son,
The world is still going crazy. The government is ridiculous. People  believe crazy things and  the politicians  making crazy promises and I apologize to you. I apologize about some of the things you used to ask me to question and for my stubborn stance. You were right.

 
I want to see you so badly.  I want to talk with you.  I want to take a hike somewhere. I would love to hear your opinions about the current presidential race. I need your arm around my shoulder. I need to brew us a cup of tea. I need you to make fun of my television shows. I need your critique about my paintings -there are so many you have not seen.

I wonder how you would be wearing your hair and what you would be doing now. Would you be teaching somewhere, involved in a post-doctoral program or earning a bicycle at New Belgium Brewery?

 
I don’t understand how things have come into being without you being here.

 
I can’t believe you have never met the youngest craziest dog in our pack.

 
I don’t know what I thought would happen with time. I keep going through the motions and I live and even have new adventures. There are real moments of joy because I love your sister and your dad and we support each other. Your dad, your sister and you are my home.

 
I still don’t know what to do.

 
There is nothing to be done for it.
I even stopped writing to you because I hate that I get no answer.

The red tail hawks come circle above me on these warming spring days and I wish I believed in signs. Regardless I tell them hello and thank them for coming by.

 
I am exhausted by the changes around me and the changes that age brings and the lack of change in the way I feel.

 
I am so thankful (and that sounds so strange) that I have so much I miss about you. I do the missing in many different ways and I’m not really good at any of it.
I don’t want to have to miss you. I really would rather be taking you for granted. (Sad truth in that sideways joke). I would like to have my concerns for you to distract me from this sorrow.

 
It is Spring and you, as ever, should be here. I’ve got hours and hours of things to say to you or hours and hours I would love to spend quietly with you but there is a mountain of snotty tissues beside me and saying anything more would just be repetition.

 
I love you. I love the memories I have of our time as mother and son. Oh sweet pea I love you so much.

Forever
Mom

I always thought it odd when reading an obituary or when one was read at a funeral that “survivors” were listed. Survived by Uncle, Aunt, sister, brother, wife, husband, mother, daughter, father. The event that caused the end of the deceased’s life was either an illness or an accident and the ones still living were just . . . well . . . still living.

Here is the definition:

sur·vi·vor
sərˈvīvər/
noun
noun: survivor; plural noun: survivors
1 a person who survives, especially a person remaining alive after an event in which others have died.”the sole survivor of the massacre”
▪ the remainder of a group of people or things.”a survivor from last year’s team”
▪ a person who copes well with difficulties in their life.”she is a born survivor”

It never ever occurred to me what survivor meant until my son died.

When my husbands dad died, my dad died, my husbands mother died, my mother died – their age, physical health and lack thereof all made their passing seem inevitable. Health failed them with time. That was the order I was used to.

My daughter survived cancer. That issue of survival I understood. Other children being treated for other cancers while she was in treatment did not survive. It made no sense. I saw the families of these children and they terrified me.

The fact that bad things could happen was made very clear to me. I got the message – no need for more information. But some how whoever is in charge did not get the memo. My son died.

Healthy, beautiful, smart, talented, funny and caustic – he fell from a height (that some have fallen from and lived) and broke his neck and died. We, my husband and daughter and I were listed as survivors.

Surviving does not mean flourishing or that you are unscathed or uninjured or even whole. It means the body is still functioning for the most part. Beyond that I am not sure you can grade or assess it.

It is an odd term but totally accurate for those who loose a loved one. Now I loved my mom and dad, please don’t get me wrong. But I don’t think about them every day – every single day – several times a day and always before I go to sleep and always when I wake up and always when I wake up in the night and when I drink a cup of tea or when I play with his dogs or . . . well – you get it.

This is what I imagine surviving looks like. I picture a person hanging on to a little white life preserver bobbing about in a thrashing sea. That’s me some days . Some days the wind dies down and the sun comes out and I can relax my grip a little but I’m still salty and wet and weary – surviving. It is a lot of work and to make things even harder the cheer leaders left on the bus long ago.

Friends and family want to think you are alright, better, doing well because they don’t want to think otherwise, just as I did not want to think otherwise all those years ago watching bereaved parents of cancer patients. I get it. But if you get the chance or notice someone out here paddling with me and the others on this sea – give us a wave and thumbs up now and then – we promise not to splash you.

Years ago in Durham while attending an evening Ladies Bible Study the verse was read from Ephesians 4:16 “For because of Him the whole body (the church, in all its various parts), closely joined and firmly knit together by the joints and ligaments with which it is supplied, when each part [with power adapted to its need] is working properly [in all its functions], grows to full maturity, building itself up in love.” One of my best good friends looked at me and pronounced to me – “you are a ligament”

lig·a·ment
ˈliɡəmənt/
nounANATOMY
noun: ligament; plural noun: ligaments
1 a short band of tough, flexible, fibrous connective tissue that connects two bones or cartilages or holds together a joint.
▪ a membranous fold that supports an organ and keeps it in position.
▪ archaic
a bond of union.

 
Over the years in various situations I have thought about what she said. I was not particularly flattered when she said it, but through the years as I have considered my role I think she may be right.

 
As a wife and mother I hold things together to keep them moving as smoothly as possible. I would like to think I am tough, supportive and able to keep things in position.

 
The archaic meaning – “a bond of union” may not be quite accurate for me. I have kept some things united and sadly (admitting my sin) I have probably tried to drive a wedge between other things.

 
In my family understanding my role helps. It does not keep me from being resentful or from feeling taken for granted. Understanding my role does not keep me from overstepping boundaries or keeping firm boundaries myself . Yet in times of high frustration, tension and anxiety I can remember that my job is not to fix the situation but to provide support so that those who need to make decisions can do so more easily or smoothly.

 
But even ligaments get tattered, torn and frayed when pushed beyond their limit. We can only hold on for so long under some weight.
Over the holiday watching family members cycle through grief I felt myself approaching the limit of my ability. I understand that everyone must handle the grief they carry in their own way. I can’t fix that and quite frankly I feel overloaded – with my own grief in one arm and trying to prop up their elbow. An elbow that often – they jerk away.

 
The love you have for family is unwrapped every time you are in their presence. Even if your reaction to them is annoyance it is probably precipitated by the love you have for them. Every time you serve up their plate at meal time, wash their clothes, shop for Christmas gifts or birthday gifts regardless of the frustration it is fueled by love.

 
When someone you love dies all that love you feel has no outlet. It cannot be shared with someone else or spent on them because, after all it is the love you have for that person now gone. For a ligament it is tough to hold on to thin air. To reach to grip things that have no substance in the day to day world of earth. There is no place to focus this still active love.Creative activities are great along with other ways of being busy but there is only so much time in a day and finally your own internal ligaments say enough – time to rest.

 
We that have grief learn to do emotional weight lifting. We pack it up every day and carry it with us even though the package is bursting at the seams most days. Every time we encounter a place, a smell, a sight, a song, a taste that is linked to our loved one it connects as if wired into that package we are carrying. And being the ligament I am – when this happens – I hold tight to both the package and the thing I have encountered. I let all the gears spin as the teeth line up and I recognize and try to honor the privilege of having the connection, the memory.

 
I do this every day. Every single day.

 
These inevitable encounters may cause us to choose not to venture out into the world much, to stay close to those things we have built up our emotional weight lifting resistance to. That too is a way of coping.

 
The verse of the Bible is referring to the church but is it allowed to be inferred to family? If so then I probably have not taken time to recognize the power adapted to my need, nor have appreciated any growth I have sustained for maturity but I understand the building up of itself in love.
The emotional body building that it takes to lift the tangle that is a mix of both love and grief and bittersweet hope – I get that.

I haven’t been able to write anything to post here for some time. It is not because I don’t have things I want to say. If anything it is because I have too much I want to say and nothing seems adequate.
I keep waiting for something to change, for there to be a shift towards a gentler acceptance of the fact that my son is gone. I keep waiting for all sorts of things because of ideas that occur to me or ideas others suggest. I am just going to be where I am for the unforeseeable future so it is the expectations that may need to be ignored.
I feel like I am bragging when I talk about how wonderful my son was and how close we were. Would that particular closeness have continued had he lived? Would him choosing a mate have changed things? Questions like these are part of those things that I am trying to ignore. Who knows? No one will ever know. Speculation is frustrating.
Remembering is frustrating too. Remembering things you wish you could have done differently, opportunities that were missed, harsh words you wish you had never spoken. Those moments are gone but the impression they left has fossilized now and it makes it harder to ignore them.
There are so many memories.
Those who are left in my life need to be appreciated. How dare I allow grief to interfere with appreciating them and creating memories with them. I work hard at compartmentalizing so that when I am with another person I love I can give them as much attention as they deserve. Perhaps I over compensate. It is exhausting and I second guess myself.
I see videos of military personnel returning home and their dogs greeting them. I picture my son walking through the door and his aged dog seeing him again. Why do we make up such scenarios? As if the reality is not hard enough.
Keeping things that were his and not using them is something I continue to struggle with. I struggle with using his clothes and books or giving them away. It is as if by doing so I have to really truly finally believe he is gone.

He is gone.
My Facebook feed is full of posts of parents who have lost children. I avoid Facebook sometimes because of that. Their new, raw horror is too much for me. I tell them I am sorry for their loss and hate the fact those six simple words are the only words that I or anyone can say. Those words that in proportion to the loss should be stretched across the universe scrolling down eternally like the banner in the Star Wars movies.
Comfort? That is a tough one. Taking comfort in . . . what exactly? There again there is an entire litany of words, platitudes, nice quotes, well intended suggestions, but comfort? Perhaps I have to face the fact that I don’t want any. Perhaps I take comfort in my discomfort and everyone who by exposure to me that finds themselves uncomfortable for that brief encounter will just have to get over it.
Actually, unless you know me very very well, as my daughter and husband do – you might never know. You might forget where I live until someone says something randomly – “I almost broke my neck” or “I thought I would die” or some other phrase.
Yet here is where I live – navigating what seems like a mine field of grief.
Triggers? Let’s see – how many examples do you want? Songs, smells, weather changes, season changes, holidays, TV shows, food, tall young men, guitars, birds, bugs, lizards, silver VW Jetta station wagons, rock-climbing videos or commercials, clothing especially Patagonia clothing, plaid shirts, Birkenstocks and beer.
I bartered for a painting at an art show I participated in recently. The painting is of a murder of crows on a limb. It is entitled “Leaving Home” There are four birds in the painting. Three sit looking one direction and one is facing the opposite direction. I attribute a different meaning to this painting than other’s might.
I am like an electrical wire whose insulation has been stripped in places. I spark and fire and short out now and then – but I try to keep letting the current flow while it can. I try, but you may want to give me some room.

Dear Son

I am sitting here in front of the computer.  The coffee is brewing in the kitchen. The youngest pup has come to lick and wallow on me. I watch his antics and think “you would like him, must like him”? I never know exactly how I am supposed to talk about some of things I think.

I have felt you to be so “close” all week. Are you close to me or am I closer to you?  Yes it is the week that marks year four of that terrible anniversary. I can’t begin to express how thankful I am for those who continue to reach out to us in remembrance of you. At the same time I find myself hesitating over some phones calls when I look at caller ID. I don’t understand it myself. It is not like I am not used to crying but sometimes when I hear my voice full of tears struggling to talk I feel like I am embarrassing you.

The grief process has been likened to a roller coaster by many . But that description only goes so far (yes that is a pun). On a roller coaster you have a moment to at least acknowledge the fact that the current climb is going to lead to a dip of some magnitude or other at some point. For me most days, the dips and gut-wrenching loops still come out of nowhere.

The term softer is used by some of my contemporaries to describe their feelings with the passing of years. I think I have become harder. I am less tolerant. If you still laugh at me you must be laughing at that. Tolerance for some things was never one of our long suits. I gather myself up, steel myself for the situation and plow through, mow down, bulldoze under?  You get the idea.

I don’t think I am alone with this annoyance factor. I see it in other’s who have lost children. We flare so quickly when someone tries to tell us to move on, even if it is not directed at us personally. We are very quick to defend the bereaved parent. Recently someone accused bereaved parents of “wanting attention.” I will grant you there are a variety of personality types in our sad group who come at the situation with their own particular style and perhaps that is what they are seeing, and turning and running from (because that is what “they” do).

If parents seek attention it is not for themselves, but to draw attention to the child that is gone or to draw attention to the circumstance of the passing in a hope of preventing it for someone else’s child. But really, how dare the world forget their child! How dare anyone who knew you, forget you!

It is Saturday and the 4th of July and the country is pretending to understand what it is celebrating though few would put themselves in a position to do those things to bring about the independence this day is marked for. Independence is an ideal. It is the goal of many and the achievement of few. We are all bound by many things.

Fear binds me and others. Fear is a big one. Fear for the unknown. Grief binds me too and the knowledge that I wield no control. I am not independent of these things.

Your sister saw a juvenile red tail hawk the other day when she took the dogs – your dogs – out to play. She said it sat near by and watched her and the dogs, though the dogs did not notice the hawk. She and I and your dad notice – is that the right word-notice? We look for and anticipate finding the things that are connected with you to remind us and become our sign that we are still connected. As if we really needed a sign. Yet we crave it because we don’t have you.

Living the life I have is a lot of work. Remembering your positive embracing spirit and things you said to me while you were here is a common practice that helps to some extent. I don’t know if living is any more of a struggle than it it ever was, but I have to admit that sometimes I wish I could slap a handicapped sticker on my forehead – just to warn people. Objects in the mirror are closer than they appear – something like that.

I digress. I would so appreciate a reply from you.

This has been a tough week. There have been a few other minor losses among those of us who love you but we will gather ourselves up and press on. If you are aware of anything then you understand that that is no minor feat.

Yes, sweet man, you are that important to us. You changed our life and if you did not know that then the attitude you exhibited to us was a great act indeed.  I think – no I know – you were secure in the fact that we adore you.  I hope you are laughing now. You changed my life and I will be forever altered by you. I freely acknowledge no desire for independence from it. I love you and I miss you.

Forever
Mom