A Season of Change

Posted on October 20, 2011 by pathfinder

It rained all day yesterday and now the wind is blowing.  The gusts pick up leaves and twigs and fling them at the house.  I have yet to turn on the heat.  I suppose I should.  I am amazed when I think of something, as if it is the first time in my life it has ever occurred to me. Just 5 months ago the same  thoughts were commonplace.

So I turned on the gas to the gas logs to the den and lit the pilot light.  I feel like I just turned it off yesterday.

My dogs keeping barking at the sounds the wind is creating.  They pace around the den anxiously glancing at the windows, sniffing at the gate. The air smells different and the light has changed.

So many new things to get used to.   Perhaps it is just better to make every day different on purpose.  Rearrange the furniture and wear your clothes backwards.  Would purposeful change make unexpected change easier to accept?

I am anxious about the upcoming wedding. I can’t help but wonder what to expect with my daughter getting married.   I know that when I married, my separation from my mother was more pronounced.  I think that is how it should be.   My daughter and I have been close, though not always by her choice. During the years of her treatment for leukemia she had no choice, nor did I.  Two and half years we were locked into that dance.  I needed to be with her.  It was difficult to watch her suffer, but we had some really good times.  We chose to make it as good as it could possibly be.

Then when treatment was over we both felt like we had been set out by the road and told – “okay, you’re on your own.”   There were follow up appointments but the routine that had been established for two and one half years came to an abrupt halt.  It was frightening and confusing.

The days have been frightening and confusing and they vary in intensity.   The way I used to feel is gone.  What has replaced it continues to feel unfamiliar and uncomfortable.   Snatches of time occur that I recognize as similar to some other situation, but I don’ t know what to anticipate.  I wonder if I ever really did anticipate anything with any accuracy.

Today I took care of a few last minute things concerning the wedding and reception.  Once I crossed over the mountain, crossing under the Blue Ridge Parkway going Northeast the sky cleared a bit.  There was a faint rainbow off to the left against the mountains.   I even needed my sunglasses as I traveled an hour further Northeast.    I found the items on my list.  I even found shoes for the wedding for me, though I’ve got to take my husband to find some to make sure they fit.   A friend who traveled with me was great company. Her company was comfortable and we laughed and talked about everything and nothing.

I dropped my friend back at her car and heading back home, I looked up at the upper elevations – towards the Blue Ridge Parkway.  There was snow on the peaks.   Southwesterly  I traveled and there were more clouds hugging the mountaintops and under them more snow.

I wanted to call my son and daughter.   I called the only one of them I could.

I love talking to my daughter and I yearn to talk to my son.  I find myself yearning for both my chidden to be here with me.  The wind had changed and there is snow, and they ought to be here.  The yearning  is an ache that runs so deep, unlike anything I have ever experienced before in my life. In the face of the changing seasons of weather and life, I am afraid this is a feeling that will never change.

My daughter will change in the ways she should to become a wife and hopefully one day a mother.  Her confidence in herself will grow along with her independence from me and her her interdependence on her husband.   She will become more and more who she is.   I think it is just that all change right now nudges me off  footing, off balance.  I am trying to anticipate what will come next, but as I mentioned before I have less confidence in that ability than I ever have before.

I know I would have felt this same  bittersweet sadness and joy concerning my daughter’s marriage had her brother lived to be here.   I know that I am at times a sentimental slob.   This is my baby that is getting married.  The tears are getting all mixed up together these days – tears because my baby is grown and getting married, tears because her brother will not be here for this milestone or the rest of her life.  There doesn’t seem to be a solution for me to get all this straightened out right now.   I just have to wait for the next corner, the next change and whatever it brings.

 

 

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

Mice,rats and life

Posted on October 19, 2011 by pathfinder

Barring weather and unforeseen events the wedding happens next weekend.  My daughter sounds a bit tired.  It is hard to maintain the level of excitement that I know she feels when she still has to go to work and  clean and cook.  Her apartment is the downstairs section of an old house that is over one hundred years old that  we purchased when our son started graduate school. It is within walking distance of the University and very convenient for students. He saw it as  “just a place to live” initially, but I think the old house grew on him with time.   Our daughter fell in love with it when she moved there in January.

Our soon to be son-in-law took a job in the same city where our son was in school. He moved up to begin his work, proposed to our daughter, who accepted his proposal. She began a job search expecting it to take a while to secure a job. It took only a couple of months to find a job much to her surprise.

She asked her new employer if she could wait until after the Christmas Holiday, since her current job as an events coordinator for a large resort needed her to finish out the holiday season.  They agreed.

As landlord we wrote a letter to the student who loosely occupied the downstairs apartment of the house.   There was not a lease so we gave her thirty days notice. She seemed happy to comply.

Our son had been telling us that he thought there might be some rodents in the house.  Living in a tight old neighborhood it is one of the perils that one must face.  There had not been much activity before, but apparently the downstairs renter was not very tidy.  The house also adjoins a lot where there is a large apartment complex and I suspected that there had been a fumigation of the property with all the rodent residents making a mass exodus.

Our son told us that one night while on the stairs something large had passed him in the dark.  I told him to begin setting traps.   He put a board in the large gap under the basement door.  In the morning he found it had been moved and gnawed on during the night.

In the meantime I decided in an effort to make the transition to a new state and city a bit easier for my daughter. We would rent the U-haul trailer and I would “move her” to her new home.   Our son said that he had done “some cleaning.”  While she was at work finishing up her final days  my husband and I packed the trailer and parked it in our driveway.  The next day she and I drove our truck, trailer in tow.

There was snow on the ground when we arrived.  I decided to retreat upstairs to my son’s apartment while my son, daughter and her fiance unpacked the trailer.

There was much cleaning to be done and evidence of rodent activity, complete with a hole that had been gnawed in the floor in  one corner.  Apparently the young woman who had lived there had dogs and lots of dog food available for all animals to eat.

That night we put out poison.   Traps were set.  A battle was going to be launched that would take several weeks to be won.

I do not know how many rodents were exterminated.  One by one, my son and daughter would report  their progress.

Our daughter fell in love with the house, finding old woodwork, old tile, doorknobs.  She researched the original owners of the house.  She mowed the grass which her brother was loath to do, repaired, spruced up and cleaned.  She and her fiance fired up the grill on the back porch and cooked out.  She lived there six months with her brother upstairs.  His dogs began to recognize her car when she drove up.  She had access to them whenever she (or they) wanted and took them out to play and walk.

It was so wonderful to have both our children under one roof, even if it was five hours away.

The 4th of July weekend when our son died, his sister and fiance were on their way down to stay with us too.  They were driving here on the day he died.

She still lives in the house.  We asked her if she needed to move, that we could sell the house.  She wants to stay.  Her fiance moved in upstairs.   She needed to hear someone moving around up there, and at this point their plan is to live in the house after they marry.  She has the dogs now, her dogs.   Dogs are great at adapting and have come to own her completely now.

She packed up our son’s things, though some books remain and all this furniture is there.  It was always a random assortment of “early attic” furniture anyway.

Every now and then she has to set a trap upon seeing some unwelcome guest activity from the local varmints.   It is one of the things you must put up with when living in an old house, in an old city neighborhood.

When her brother was still living there, he would out of guilt,  come out and offer to help her in the yard.  He never stayed long or put too much effort into it, but at least he offered.  He loved having her there.   I would have loved to be a fly on the wall to have overheard some of their conversations.   I love how they loved each other.

I am so proud of my children.  I can’t say enough how much I appreciate all that our daughter took on after her brother’s death.

I want for her to have the life she wants.   I know she wants security, affection, attention and acceptance from her husband.  I know that she has many talents and can do anything she puts her mind to.  I know that she wants children, and will be a wonderful mother.

When I married and left home, there were not the attachments present that she and I have.  Time will loosen some bonds as she and her husband and hopefully children become a unit.   I look forward to watching them grow.  The time has come for me to step back a bit more and give them lots of room to be who they are together.

I marvel at how strong she is.  I have not been back to the house since our son died.   I remember moving him in, in the heat of the summer.   But, I won’t go there right now.

Our daughter will marry next weekend.   Her dress hangs in the guest room.  She is going to be the most beautiful bride.   I will remind her to set some traps before she leaves to come here for the wedding though!  No need to return after the honeymoon to any unwelcome surprises!

Posted in Death, Marraige | Tagged , , , , , , | 1 Comment

The Path We Travel

Posted on October 18, 2011 by pathfinder

I did not post what I wrote yesterday.  It was more suitable for use as an anchor.  It was one of those break-down days. Today, in light of that I decided to provide a list of what I have learned thus far.  I sincerely hope no one needs it.

Books on Grieving

There are a number of books out there that list some of the things a grieving parent might experience.   These lists are taken by grieving parents and added to bit by bit from their own personal experience.  If your child died in a hospital sometimes the chaplain will bring a small leaflet.  The books are never very big.  No one wants to talk about all this for very long, and there is really not much to say. You also will not have the attention span to read for long.  There was no way to equip ourselves before this happened, and now we don’t necessarily feel like picking up the tools we need.  Some books are  written by women, some by men, some by counselors.   There is one a friend gave me I found particularly simple and helpful called “Tear Soup.”  Written in a format that looks like a children’s book, it covers all the basics very well.  If you have surviving children they might appreciate this book also.  I have picked up a book on loosing a sibling to read for the sake of my daughter because I do not know what she is going through and in my journey have yet to take the time I probably should to figure that all out.  If you have some sort of digital reading device downloading a sample of the book is a good idea before you buy.  You may find that the tone or particular slant of an author may not suit you.  I have one printed book that I tore some pages out of because they infuriated me.

 

The most helpful things that have been said to me by those trying to help have been:

a. I am so sorry concerning the death of your son. I do not know how you feel, but I am so sorry.

b. (from a parent who has lot a child) Take your time, you are on no schedule, you don’t think so now but the edges will soften with time.   You will cry less eventually, but it is going to take lots of time.

There is no hurry to sort through their things.   Take your time putting together memorials.

To the best of your ability postpone big decisions.   You probably feel like you would prefer to move to the other side of the earth.  That may indeed be a good decision.  You do not , however, have to make that decision right this minute.

You are going to loose friends that you thought were some of your best friends.   They will allocate a certain amount of time and energy for you.  If you do not fall within the guidelines they have set (though they do not realize they have set them) they will have to move on for their own self-preservation.   Your grief is painful for them.  The don’t like how you have been altered.  It is scary to think this could happen to them.

Choose your mask carefully.  You will wear it a lot.  If your public mask is overly cheerful and upbeat you will find yourself retreating to safety more often to break down.   Better to be as honest as you can.  People will ask you “how are you?”  If you choose  to answer with brutal honestly –   prepare for quickly retreating figures, or you can say things like, “I am doing as well as possible.”

You might want to practice this.

There will be other questions that you might want to prepare answers for in advance “do you have children?”   will be one that makes you squirm if you don’t have something in mind beforehand.

The mask becomes a part of daily life, even perhaps with your spouse and children.  We become fearful that we will cause those we need the most to run away if we reveal how we are feeling.

Beware the fixers.  They arrive with ideas on how to help you “get over this.” (you and I know there is no “getting over this) They are well meaning and lovely people, but they are clueless.  They will offer to help you “get away” or they will try to engage you in activities that were once joyful for you but now seem as dull as wallpaper paste.   Ask for a raincheck.  Pencil them in on your calendar for a future date.  These are the ones who will also say, “call me if you need anything”.  Perhaps they are secretly hoping you will never call, which you won’t, because you don’t have a clue for what you need.  If you do participate you may experience extreme rebound the day after the event.  If you had a good time you may feel like you are being punished the next day because you feel so extremely bad.

When you do choose to get away, make sure you have a backup plan.  You may want to drive yourself so that you have a car available to escape if you need to.   Or you may enlist the help of a friend to provide that for you should you need to get out.  You will probably choose to do something on a day when you are feeling pretty good only to find that you are in over your head.  That is the reason for the backup plan.  Try not to panic, use your plan.

If people offer to perform practical things to help, let them.  Mowing your grass, cleaning your house, cooking meals.  Allow them the blessing of giving.  You do not have to talk to them.  Allow them to minister to you with their gifts.

You will come to recognize safe people again.  You will find new friends.   You will never travel anywhere without tissues.   You will count days, then weeks, then months, then years since your child die. You make dread holidays or certain days of the week.  You will relapse at any given moment.  You will experience triggers that make no sense to anyone but you.   Depending on how your child died, you may feel compelled to visit the site of the accident.  You may want to join groups that raise money for awareness concerning the disease that brought about your child’s death. You may want to reach out to other grieving parents.  All these things will come with time.

You will feel anger, guilt, frustration,emptiness and always there will be that question – why?  Beware those who want to try and answer that question for you. Guard yourself closely, perhaps they mean well, but they do not have the answer.

This is the question we all on this earth live with to degrees great and small.  Our lot is part of the “great”.   Sometimes I shout that question in my empty house.  If you can find a place where you are alone and can let it out, you might scare yourself a bit by the sound of grief as it escapes.   It is probably a sound you have never heard yourself make.   Our culture is not given to the type of grief we see exhibited in other countries with people wailing publicly surround and supported by their family and friends.  Perhaps their custom is healthier.

People will say stupid things.  They will say that you need to get “over it.”  They will ask you painful questions about the death.  They will make stupid analogies trying to understand how you feel.  They will talk about how they will use your circumstance to make a point with their own children concerning the dangers of life.   You may explode in their face, you may quietly walk away leaving them with their face hanging out.   You will not have to worry about seeing them again because they will probably avoid you in the future.  If they are so moved, they apologize.   Be kind if that happens.

Nothing is ever going to be like it was again.  You are in new territory here.  Take your time as you navigate your way.  There are land mines everywhere that look innocuous to everyone else.   It is frustrating that for every moment when you feel “better” there will be two or three that plunge you back into the pit.

A few simple things that smooth out some rough edges for me.

Simple exercise – take a walk.  If you have a Wii or other game console pick up a walking game.  On the Wii they have one called “Walk-it-out” with funky music and a little cartoon icon.  Even 20 minutes a day will help you think more clearly.

Do something with your hands

Work in your garden pulling weeds.

If you knit or crochet – pick up your needles.

Draw, paint, work in clay – move those hands, even if the mind does not engage.

Whittle a stick.

Replace the batteries in your remote so you can turn quickly from any scene on TV that might upset you.  Better yet, watch as little TV as possible.

You may find yourself scouring the newspapers and TV concerning stories of other deaths – almost everyone I have talked to  has done this and does so intermittently.  It seems to be a way of reassuring ourselves that we have not been singled out for what seems like punishment, we vicariously experience the grief ourselves, who knows – we just do it.

You may or may not want to put away some of the photos for a while, all the time keeping them close at hand and accessible.  You may spend time with them anytime you need, but it may cut down on trigger response.

Find a support group when you feel like you can.

Compassionatefriends.org is a good place to start.  You can interact online until you feel comfortable going to a meeting if you choose to.

Choose a counselor carefully.  I have not sought out a professional counselor yet.  I think I would prefer one who has lost a child.  The grief I have experienced does not compare to anything I have ever experienced before though I have lost friends and both my parents.

You do have a life to live.   If our children could speak to us, they might tell us to be patient, we will be with them soon enough, there is no hurry because when we do see them again we will be with them forever.   I think my son would be so annoyed if I did not give the living of my life my best effort.  I encourage you to hold on.  There are people still here that need you.  You will not be as you were before but time leaves nothing unaltered.   We are among the few who are witness to the forces of change up close and personal, who understand that control is an illusion and that no day should be taken for granted.

None of this is meant as professional advice.  It is simply what I have learned thus far, from my own personal experience and the generous sharing of other friends who are on this same path.

 

If you have a suggestion that you think might help someone on this journey please feel free to share it as a comment.

 

 

 

 

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

Unexpected Showers

Posted on October 16, 2011 by pathfinder

Life is exhausting for us in the most unexpected ways.  My daughter is in town for a shower in honor of her upcoming wedding.  She is almost giddy with excitement over the upcoming event.   The shower occurred on Saturday in the afternoon so we had the morning to visit and figure out a few more things that we needed to do concerning the wedding.   Dressed and pressed at 2:00 p.m. we arrived.  It was an absolutely beautiful event with so many women from her childhood, church, family and friends from her work there.   Simple and elegant refreshments were served.  The gifts were themed by as being applicable to “morning, noon or night.”  Nice, companionable fun.

Some of the ladies  packed the car for her while we continued to visit after the presents were all opened.  Once back in the car headed towards the house it swept over both of us.  “I am exhausted,” she said.  “Me too,” I agreed.  Once home we changed our clothes and disappeared under blankets in the den to nap.   I have never been to a shower for my daughter.  I have experienced this from the other side, as a bride.   I don’t know why this was so exhausting for us.   My daughter is in great shape, working out, eating right.  Since the death of her brother my routine has been less than routine when it comes to getting regular exercise.  I cannot see how this could explain it.

We had, had a little melt down earlier, concerning her brother.   At one point she said, “I am just so tired of talking about him.”   Me too.

I would rather he were here to be able to talk for himself, behave in his annoying ways, hug, comfort, make fun of me, and generally at times get on my nerves.  I am sorry that there are loose ends to still tidy up.  Compared to other deaths his was infuriatingly neat and simple.   I am sorry that his death has drained my battery and that I have little reserve.  I thought I understood the part of me that was tied up in him, but I don’t.

There are many times lately that I have been thankful for the wedding because more than just the event itself it has given me things to concentrate on besides the death of our son.  I have also, purposely remembered traveling with my daughter and the times we did so on our own.   I pick out certain rest filled memories to meditate on in the night.

I am reading “Lament for a Son“.  I read the words and think that Nicholas Wolterstorff  has done a great job of editing out a lot of his pain.   Our son was a spiritual man, but not a man of so-called religion.  Our son was appalled by what man does in the name of religion, especially the practice of using it to promote political agendas and the absurdity of some of the assumptions that fly in the face of things that nature makes self evident.

As if time on this planet were not enough to make me question everything I ever believed, now throw in this untimely death.  My faith if I ever had much of it, has been badly dented and I am in a struggle to sort it out again.  Please don’t send me any of the platitudes – I probably wrote them all!   I grew up with the mother of truism, cliche and empty platitude.

My daughter on the other hand, exemplifies faith and acceptance.  She is a great example of how I want to be.  She takes the world by the horns.  She has worked through so much while  I know from my own struggle with life there will be more to work through. She has worked hard to equip herself with the right tools.   I do not ever want to part with her, but I feel a security concerning who she is and where she is going.

I hate to admit, that I did not have that with my son.   He seemed so much more fragile.

I have asked God, who I have tried to stop believing in, what happened.  I asked Him why.  He is silent.  I put it out there on the table.  I asked HIm why, years ago, why our daughter developed Leukemia.  I am not sure why I keep asking.

Please understand this.  I do not believe that we have a time clock that gets punched and we die – I do not believe in a puppeteer God.  I do not believe God cast our son down, or meant to punish him or us.   People have tried to tell  me what God was thinking and though I listen, I have found little to hold on to because what they say sounds silly concerning( if He indeed exists) an almighty eternal God.

The ladies from the church that gathered yesterday to celebrate our daughter’s marriage  in their quiet way support us both in our silent grief. They exemplify the nature of God to me.   They are inexplicably strong, though I know they too have suffered emotional and physical pain yet are able to come to embrace us.  They smile with us and hug us.   Yes, I am saying here that I think the God that I believe  exists also suffers.  The term “long-suffering” has taken on new meaning for me.

God knows I can’t stop believing.  I accept the fact that I may never get any answers, but I get hints every now and then.  I will not stop searching because I taught both my son and daughter to search and I will not abandon that for anything.

I don’t think answers are being withheld, I think that I am being prepared to accept them in time, if they ever come.

Our daughter marries in two weeks.  There was a time that I never thought this would happen.  She is confident and capable, smart and wise.   If entered into a bank of evidence from my limited ability to postulate, based on the circumstances twelve years ago, I might have said, I did not think it possible that this would ever happen.  Today, I will embrace my limited abilities to understand anything.  I will embrace her and celebrate her joy and excitement over her future.  I will consider the shower as something that was not only a shower of gifts to prepare her, but a shower of real blessing to sustain me through an emotional mine field.

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

the quilt

Posted on October 14, 2011 by pathfinder

The days are beginning to resemble a patchwork quilt, stitched together loosely here and tightly there.   There are bright days and dark days, tears that begin in sorrow and end in laughter and the shake of a head.  Words meant to be innocuous that cut like a knife, things said that may have hidden innuendo but are so frightening that would have normally evoked curiosity but now make me want to turn and run.  All these things probably have been for some time, I just never really noticed.

I feel like my abilities to notice have shifted.  Death has become a great fixed lens through which I view life.  It makes things that used to be important seem comical and things that I previously ignored sacred.

I have a patchwork quilt that my mother’s mother made.  I have stretched out on my bed as youth many times and made a game of finding the different fabric designs.  On one square there is a cartoonish sailor in a red tie holding a fishing pole; its line dangled over a small round fish bowl with one lone fish in it.  I know he occurs in part on other squares but there is only one on which you see most of him and his activity.

I am finding that is how my memory behaves.  I remember snatches of things here and there, and only now and then is there a complete scene.   We have had the great fortune of talking with some our son’s friends and they add to the quilt with anecdotes that fill in some of the blank spaces.  His sister also adds to this endeavor with memories distinctly from her point of view. What is really nice is that because she was also present for some of the events I remember where she can give it a different slant.

The voice missing is that of our son, whose view was often radically different from anyone around him, and perhaps on purpose.  Perhaps he really did hold a similar view to those in the discussion, but because of his need to provide a point around  which to argue he tossed it out at just the right moment.  The argument I speak of here is not the one that comes to mind regarding a dispute, but rather more closely a debate an exercise in reasoning and persuasion.  This came from his studies as a philosopher and could prove maddening to me and others who just wanted to simply vent about something or talk fluff and nonsense.

Even as I write this I find my needle has dropped the thread and my mind is wandering off.  I desire to create something tangible to make some sort of sense from what has happened.  I want to wrap up securely some of the things that seem most precious concerning my son, but there is nothing big enough.

I think the quilt is going to be a mess.  I am too close to it to see any pattern at all.

I cry a little or a lot every day so there are tear stains everywhere.  I make no apologies for that.  Sometimes I look like the man in Edvard Munch‘s painting “The Scream” , which I can attest is sometimes a silent scream though all-the-while gut wrenching.

I am not easily distracted from the running narrative that is being spoken all my waking hours in my head about my son, my daughter, my family.  It is uncomfortable at times and so I am working on distractions.  They don’t last long though I appreciate the keyboard’s willing acceptance to receive my words and let me release them now and then.

Here is one last square that I will record for the day and then be done until I the obsession hits again.   When my son started school, a skinny tow-headed imp, the attitude that he would embody all his short life was already evident.  He had come to the breakfast table having dressed himself and combed his own hair.

“May I comb your hair for you?” I asked.

“No” he said, diving into his bowl of cereal.

“The part is awfully crooked,” I said.

“Oh mom,” he looked at me audaciously ” that is the San Andreas Part.”

I think we are at the San Andreas part of life.  I don’t think all my stitches and patches can bridge the gap, and it will be a project I will have to work on the rest of my life.

Just gotta say it, like I do so many times during the day.  Sweetheart I miss you so much.

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

The way West

Posted on October 13, 2011 by pathfinder

The summer was too dry and sunny this year.  Today it is raining and gray and it suits me.  I remember the only complaint my son ever had about Colorado when he lived there,  was that there were not enough gray days.  Growing up in the Great Smoky Mountains with the mist and the fog, the front range of the Rockies seemed to be in stark contrast I am sure.

When my son was accepted into gradutate school I have never seen him so excited.  He had lived at home to attend college, mostly in part because his sister was receiving chemotherapy.  His other reason to remain at home later became the fact that he was given free reign to come and go as he pleased and it was a money saver to live under our roof.   His sister was a freshman at the same university when he graduated  and she decided to take a summer course in Mexico.  We needed to go to Ft. Collins Colorado to find him a place to live, and so we took a road trip, leaving his dad at home to hold down the homefront.

We drove up through Tennessee, into Kentucky, across Missouri, into Kansas and on to Colorado.   We were familiar with Tennessee and Kentucky as far as the landscape.  Missouri seemed to have roads made up primarily of potholes.   There were stange road side stores called XXX-superstores housed in old Stuckey buildings at the exits. My son remarked, “regardless of what they have inside, that in no way resembles a superstore.”   We drove and drove that first day, riding in his little VW jetta wagon, his border collie, Asa, miserable in the back seat.   We took turns driving.   We passed through Kansas City and on into Kansas itself.  It was like we were rolling down the side of an inverted bowl off the hump of Missouri, through the “post-stone” area onto the amazingly flat landscape of Kansas.

We had no GPS and were beginning to get tired.  I called my sister who got on her computer and came up with a motel that would allow us to house the dog with us.  We pulled in late, and fell asleep quickly.

The next day was full out on the the flat roads of Kansas.   Here and there in the distance you would see a grove of trees, a silo, and some low green vegetation and then it was gone.  We rolled past fields of sunflowers tracking with their faces to the sky.   When we crossed the Colorado border I was dissapointed to see there was not going to be a change in the scenery any time soon.   Finally we were approaching the outskirts to Denver.

It was a shock for me to see Denver.  Living in the Great Smokies I expected to see a place like Asheville N.C., only in the Rockies, instead there on the flat plain was this city with a wave of mountains rolling up behind it.   “This is wrong!” I exclaimed.

“What did you expect?” my son seemed puzzled.

“I don’t know, but this is just wrong.” I said.

He laughted and we turned north to Fort Collins.  I had reserved us a cabin near the reservoir at Fort Collins.  We just barely had our toe in the beginning of the front range.  It was perfect for the dog and cool and quiet for us we settled in and contacted the real estate agents.

The next couple of days were spent looking at condomiums all over Fort Collins.  Set off in a neat and easily accessed grid we were taken to about 10 different places.  I was surprised at how old the houses of Fort Collins looked.  We found a condo that would suit I thought, though later my son would tell me we should have looked more.  We made an offer and the ball was rolling.

It was time to take in some of the sites.  We ate out almost every night though it would be later while he lived there that he would discover the true gastronomic gems of Fort Collins.   We drove back to Estes Park and on up the one way winding path to the Alpine Visitor’s Center.   The excitement was growing inside my son as he looked at all the places he would have to hike and climb.   We took pictures of Elk and I felt the effects of the altitude.

Finally it was time to start home.  We packed up feeling good that we had secured a comfortable place  for him to live while he worked on his Masters.  Unfortunately we had not made a very good plan for the trip home and ended up driving for 24 hours.   Near the end of the trip in the fog and mist of the mountains in Tennessee with deer crossing signs warning us of what might unexpectedly be ahead we berated our lack of planning.

We made it home safe and tired.  Soon our daughter returned home from Mexico, and all too soon we helped our son pack and took him back to Colorado where he would live for two years.  A place that would become for him the ideal to which he hoped to return one day.

In the journal he kept during his college days and the days leading up to his departure to Colorado, he writes about his excitement and fear.   He never spoke of his fears to me or his dad at that time.   They are the sweet anticipation of a person standing poised to begin an adventure they have dreamed about for years.  I cannot read his words very often.  They are so poignant and full of yearning.   I feel like I am invading his privacy.

Sometimes to sooth myself, I pretend that he is there now in Colorado, or in Utah or Idaho, or even where he so much wanted to go to study in Australia.    I don’t know if it will ever  really sink in that he is  gone from this world.  Really gone.  That has become a mountain of our own to climb.

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

Gaining the Summit

Posted on October 12, 2011 by pathfinder

I  looked up “survivor’s guilt” to see just what it meant.  There are a list of symptoms that together sound pretty ominous.   I have had a few of those feelings though I think mine are mainly attached to a bit of depression.   I have watched my husband and daughter fairly closely and I think their sadness appropriate, their depression abating a bit. It washes in every now and again like a wave, trying to sweep you off your feet, drag you under, make you ineffective and lethargic.

You feel guilty, as the parent of a young adult, that you are still alive and that your child will never experience the years you have.  With our son I think about the accolades he has received for his work in Philosophy and I mourn the things he might have done  with his education with time.  There are places that he longed to go, heights he longed to physically climb.  He was dating again and though I never met but one of the ladies he dated I had hopes he would find a mate one day and enjoy the perils relationship brings.   I have hope that my daughter will have children and though our son said he would not choose to father children, I regret the loss of him for the sake of any grandchildren we are blessed with.

The fact, the reality is that life goes on.  The gap formed slowly closes, the edges erode.  I had a pregnancy miscarry between my son and daughter.  At the time it was traumatic.  I had a vision of who this child would be having had one child already.  I mourned my loss and wondered if I would be brave enough to try again.  We did, and we have our beautiful daughter. My life filled with taking care of a baby and a three year old.  With the loss of my son this  is a 29 year gap I am looking at here.  Twenty nine years of my life too, spent being an ardent fan of a wonderful person.   I think the Grand Canyon looks small compared to this chasm.  Life however will go on with or without me in attendance as it is going on without him.  I think about my son and know that he would have me be present and accounted for even though he cannot be.

Simultaneously during twenty six of those years, we were also raising a daughter, and she is nothing to sneeze at.  I would need to start a whole new blog to expound on the wonders of my daughter.   Her brother had hopes and expectations for her too, and for their dad.  Sitting in a puddle all the time, plucking at the few earthly items that remain does not honor our son.

I work through all this trying to make sense of it.  Trying to find my footing for the day, on a trail that is totally without a map or precedent for me.

When my son or daughter is home, I confess, I am the world’s worst for dropping everything else in my life and paying attention to only them.   I am like a moth to flame.   Our son knew this about me, sensed it, played it for all it was worth.  He could pry me away from any activity or plan.   I was putty in his hands.   When my daughter arrives I want to be with her every minute, I want to soak up her smell and watch her beautiful hands.  I am smitten by my children.  If they are indeed a gift, then I am a most appreciative recipient.

It was a good thing that our visits with our son were usually only a few days, because with him here, I got nothing done, but spend time with him.  Now, for that time, I am most grateful in hindsight.

My guilt stems from my fear of the future, when I know my son would not have me be fearful.  He would have his dad and I travel, but I use my fear of flying as an excuse to not venture out.   He would have me go hiking, but I claim a fear of twisting my ankle, re-injuring my hip.   I feel guilty that I can go.He cannot go. I will not go.  There is the guilt- that I have survived and could, he is gone and cannot.

People say, “it is too fresh, too raw, take your time.”  How much time do I have?   I would have said three and half months ago that my son had all the time in the world.

I borrowed courage from my son, and now from my daughter.   I admit it.  I am a fearful person, and unfortunately circumstance would stand to prove my fear’s justified.  Life is not safe.   Control is an illusion.   Danger is real.

When my son went climbing that morning it was the most normal of things for him to do.   He knew the risks of this activity and had voiced them to me often.   Perhaps it was a way of facing his own fear.  I do not think he ever actually expected to fall.   He was operating with as much care and safety as he could.   We will never know exactly what happened.

I get in my car and drive to the grocery store.  We drove five hours to another city the other day.  The risk I face on the road from my house each day that I venture out is statistically fraught with more danger than he faced.  Yet I go out anyway.

I will work on my fear, because it is a great source of guilt for me.   What am I afraid of?  That I will die?  I will die, eventually.   One way or another, expected or unexpectedly.  Do I waste the few days I have or do I pluck up my courage and venture out, tipping my hat to him as I pass, celebrating in memory the joy he took at such endeavors? He would have me be who I am, to the extent of my ability, and nothing less.

Dear son, you told me once you stood high upon a ledge, the earth swept far and below you.

Your heart beat hard within your chest and fear crept up your spine.

You stood a moment, drawing in a faltering breath and wondered what possessed you,

to choose this feat, attempting this great climb.

But then you turned and faced the wall behind you,  your fingers found their hold

the chalk assured your grip

you turned away from the yawning fear-filled vista, your feet found purchase

your placement did not slip.

You gained in time and strain the summit

You stood and breathed atop victorious air.

It is in times of sorrow that I picture this

and wish that I had come to stand and join you there.

For it is there and now I see you always and forever,

Your face turned bright and shining as the sun,

To leave your fears and mine down in the valley

and look to all the summits to be won.

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

Roads go ever ever on

Posted on October 11, 2011 by pathfinder

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Roads go ever ever on,

Over rock and under tree,

By caves where never sun has shone,

By streams that never find the sea;

Over snow by winter sown,

And through the merry flowers of June,

Over grass and over stone

And under mountains in the moon.

J.R.R. Tolkien

I read “The Hobbit” when I was very young.  So did my son.  He went on  to read the rest of the series and so I felt compelled to also, thinking as I picked them up that they were full of war and gore, but I was surprised.  When the movies were made my son and his friends could not wait till they hit the theater.  One of his buddies secured a midnight showing at a local theater so that it officially showed on its opening date.  Our family went to the opening to find most of the young people dressed in costume celebrating the book and its characters.     I knitted a hat and felted it for one of my son’s friends so he could be the wizard Gandalf.   The young man who had secured the theater had constructed a vest of chain-mail made completely from teaspoons.   I had never had so much fun attending a movie, even though it was a bit difficult to stay awake.  The energy from all the youth, and the enthusiasm for the storyline was contagious.  A tradition was begun that would be repeated as each segment of the “Lord of the Rings” movie series was unveiled.

Those of us who have children complain sometimes that we feel taken for granted.   Perhaps we take our children for granted too.  We at times recognize how very special they are but I think we do not always recognize the gifts we receive from them.  The world, time, responsibilities, stress, all have an eroding effect on our memory.  We loose some of the precious things if we are not careful.

Death turns on a spotlight that burns when we stand still.   We blink and shield our eyes, but if we are wise we will take a moment to examine ourselves before we try to step out of it.   What was our relationship with the person who is now gone?   What do we regret?  What did we learn?

A friend of mine pointed out to me the other day that the casual observer or one making acquaintance with me and my husband would probably say I am the more, shall we say as kindly as possible, highly charged personality of the two.   My husband, a very kind and gentle man runs very deep.  I feel like I cannot keep anything in and it all bubbles up on the surface for better or for worse.  Outspoken, perhaps a bit rashly so, preferring straightforward interaction to subterfuge and passive aggressive behavior I blurt out the things on my mind.  When you mess up, you ‘fess up and apologize – even if the infraction has cost you a friendship.   Even if the apology heals no wounds – you are to do what is right.   It is not fun ,but it cuts down on the guilt – that gift that keeps on giving.  Though my mother would not have had me do it, she believing that children were not owed an apology for anything, I apologize to my children when I realize I have messed up.   I apologize in “case” I have messed up.  Honesty can be painful, and in my honesty, I truly hope I hurt no one, and if I have, please know it was not intended to hurt.

The spotlight was not uncomfortable for me and my husband.  We were fortunate to have had a good loving relationship with our son.  Our loss, however, is monumental, a road going ever, ever on into a future without him. It is a pendulum swinging in space from joy to sorrow, sorrow to joy.   The spotlight has dimmed a bit and we stand slightly off stage, and the stage is sadly empty.

It would take a lifetime to enumerate the gifts my children have given me great and small.   They have shared their ideas and insights with me.  They have encouraged me to step out and try new things, go new places, experience new tastes.   We have read books together, learned new skills, laughed and cried together.   I have great new music because of them and my bookcase is crowded with their taste in literature. They have allowed me to be friends with their friends who have brought even more joy into my life.   I rejoice in them, delight in them, cherish them and like Mary so long ago “treasure these things and ponder them in my heart.”  I am so thankful to be the mother of these people.

My challenge for myself, has been to daily unearth some forgotten artifact of my joy with my children.  To shine it up and put it out to look at for the day, to remind myself of the blessing that they are.  It is scary to think who I might have been without them!

If you are so blessed as to have children consider your own collection for a moment.   We are given memory for some purpose other than to collect wrongs committed against us and load us down with grudges to keep.   The trick is to give the memory it’s due and then move on, like scattering breadcrumbs on the path – where you might return one day, or maybe not.  Crossing the rock, stopping for shade under the tree, feeling the chill of the snow, the fragrance of the flowers and allowing yourself to stand, face shining in the moon.  Happily I have done all these things and more, thankfully in the company of my children, many times led by my son.  His death is also leading on the trail where I too must one day go.  In the meantime I will gather up the bouquet of memories and breath deeply of their fragrance and with each new day gather more flowers from those of us who remain.


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

Peeling an onion

Posted on October 10, 2011 by pathfinder

 

 

I was asked this weekend, “why are you crying?”  The person asking me was a good friend, and well aware of the circumstances of the past few months.   What was not clear to them, from their perspective is why I had tears.  The things we had been talking about were not particularly sad in and of themselves.  We had just learned that our son’s PhD had been awarded posthumously, that the department’s memorial in his honor  had been well attended, that his diploma was framed and we would receive it soon.   It was all in honor of our son, our brilliant, loving, cherished son.   So, why were we crying?

Tears linger very close to the surface for me.   I have seen the new swimming pools whose  drain systems have been done in such a way that the water is level with the surface of the walkway that surrounds it.  When the water is still it looks like you could step right out on to it.  I feel like I am one of those pools.  It is only a step from solid ground into the tears.  It is as easy as mentioning our son’s name, or picturing his face, or seeing a red-tailed hawk sail across the road into the trees.

This weekend I received a couple of awards for my artwork.  It was a statewide show, and I received my “Signature Membership”, and a regional award for my painting.   My husband was there to witness my receiving the award and I called our daughter to share the news.  Previously I would have called our son.  He would have said “that’s great!” .  He would have asked what exactly the prize was.   He would have repeated, “that’s great, mom, I’m really proud of you.”

We went to the gallery to see the show where it was hung on display after the presentation ceremony.   It was close with all the people milling around searching for their painting and viewing the other work on display by their fellow artists.  I walked and looked and suddenly it was all too close, too tight, too many smiles and people fawning over each other complimenting while searching for their own painting out of the corner of their eye.  The only people at the show for the most part were people in the show and their spouses.  I felt like I would suffocate.   We had a drive ahead of us and I needed to get out.  The tears came as I started to the car.  My husband saw my expression and feared that maybe someone had said something, or something had been done to upset me.   “It is just me,” I said as I tucked it all in again and we headed off for our 5 hour drive.

The sudden fleeting thought that my son was not here to call was all it took.

I am peeling an onion the size of the earth, an onion by the name of grief.   I peel back  layer upon layer of joy and sorrow, triumph and disappointment.   The tears are a natural part of the process, sometimes confusing me because they come at times when I was not expecting them.

One of my husbands colleagues talked to my husband about the loss of his brother so many years ago.  He told my husband that his mother cried every day for the rest of her life.   At first I was shocked to hear this, afraid that I may have that many tears to shed too.  If I expect each day to hold some joy, am I so naive to think it will not alternately hold some sorrow?  The tears are not a constant thing though indeed a close companion.   They do not debilitate me for long, however crushing the feelings are at times.

There are many memories concerning my son over which I can smile and even laugh.  I have not found the balance yet but I am willing to search.   The tears no longer frighten me, even though they frighten and confuse others.  Like yawning, it can be contagious when witnessed and uncomfortable for most people because it is not an activity most people participate in on a daily basis.  Except for a few of us.  One of the water’s of life, that binds us together, that all drink of eventually in ways big and small.   It is our lot, our onion, our ocean depth, our explicable salty sea in which we will swim until we can swim no more.

Posted in Uncategorized | Tagged , , , , , | 2 Comments

What remains

Posted on October 7, 2011 by pathfinder

Words fail

thoughts falter

time relentless paces on.

Memories come

some unbidden

shoulders

 turn away once offered to be cried upon.

Grief has a timetable

for those not grieving

the sadness too much weight

for the un-bereaved.

The awful truth

my unwelcome companion

when I wake in the morning

when I lay down to sleep.

Mention his name

don’t flinch when I say it.

That part of him that is me

still remains.

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