Dear Son – Fall is Here

Posted on November 12, 2014 by pathfinder

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Dear Son,
The fall is here, the year is coming to an end. Again Halloween butts right up against Christmas for the retailers and before they can liquidate the Halloween candy Christmas trees are crowding the isles. Time intermittently speeds up and slows down.
I keep having big grief attacks. They are very unpredictable. I’m not afraid of them or embarrassed by them. It is like there is always a subscript running in the background. When you were living and I saw something that reminded me of you or something you would like I would chart it to tell you about it or procure whatever it was for you later. A song, a story, a poem, the stature of a young man sets me off and the tears follow. I think I am becoming a fountain of sorts or maybe a stream. The reality of what is flows through me all day, every day and sometimes it just floods.
When it comes to finding things that make me think of you I realize I do that for your sister too, but there is a much more organic nature to that – since she is here and I get to see her and talk to her. I love to find clothes and books and songs – share foods and places with her. But she is busy and her time is limited with me now.
Seeing the things, hearing the songs, reading a poem I want to share with you – I feel deprived of your reaction. In truth you might not like what I present. Indeed you might make fun of it or turn it on its ear to make me look at it a different way. I’ll never forget how disillusioned I felt when you told me about “auto tune” and all the artists who used it. I really thought those people could sing that flawlessly and easily.
The world does not know what is missing with you not being here.
Your sister is doing very well, working hard, growing. The strength I see in her reminds me of you. You share so many similarities especially in your gentle hearted nature. She is your age so I watch her – thinking how you were coming into your own at the age of 29. And yet she is utterly unique and amazing and strong in ways I could never be. So I try and learn from her too, as I did from you.
I am taking an online poetry course through a place called edX. I dread when the course ends. Sometimes reading the poems and hearing and reading the commentaries I wish that both you and your sister could be taking it with me. She doesn’t have time. You are not here.
It makes me want to read “A Pilgrim at Tinker Creek” again. Not necessarily for the stories but for the flow of the words and the prose.
I admonished a young parent to be patient with their growing child, to not hurry. I admonished a good friend to be patient with her grandchild because again these precious times would pass so quickly. It is hard to be in the moment when responsibility seems to overshadow it. Business can be a real enemy to building relations.
Thank you for all the time we had together. You didn’t have to do that – I know, but you allowed me into some very special places. They were wonderful gifts.
When you sister has time, or when she has no time but can be just in the same room I try to stop my self from smothering her. I want to hear everything, what she is thinking and how she is feeling. It is all I can do sometimes to keep myself from sitting right up beside her like her/your dog Sadie.
I know I used to complain about how you sat all over me and draped yourself around me. I didn’t mean it. I loved it.
Your sister is going to do wonderful things – size and scope do not matter – the quality of what she does speaks for itself. You did wonderful things. The world really doesn’t know what it is missing.
I do.

Forever
Mom

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Let the horses run

Posted on October 18, 2014 by pathfinder

The persimmon’s are preIMG_8475dicting a snowy winter. Fall is progressing in stages. Early on we were told we would have little color then they said we would have good color. Trees that should have turned already have not. Trees that turned early are bare. Then there was a line of storms that raced up with moisture from the Gulf and every leaf that could fall, did fall. Behind that came a cold front.

Just watching the weather makes me wonder why we ever expect anything to be predictable.

 

 

 

 

Meg Goldner Rabinowitz wrote this Haiku

True grief: the process

of letting go of the way

you thought things would be

 

She said I could share her poem and I appreciate how succinctly she put this truth. One of the other people commenting on her poem said that this was a universal truth that anyone regardless of their experience could identify with. I agree.

We are disappointed when things don’t turn out the way we thought they would. This is true in matters great and small. There is no way to compare or compete when it comes to grief. Sufficient for the day is the grief therein.

Meg uses the word “process.”  It is a process.  A hourly, daily, week-by-week process that each grieving parent works through in their own way.   It does not mean letting go of the person. Those of us who have lost a child can’t let go of the person.  Is is “letting of the way you thought”  and painfully learning to think in a different way. There is anger and frustration to be faced in this part of the process and the words “this is not fair” will come to mind a lot.   Sometimes you will realize you are thinking about the things you thought would be more than the person themselves and that is okay too.  It is all a part of the process.

There are a lot of things I need to sort back through in my life and apply this to. Letting go of the way I thought things would be with my mother, my family, parts of the community I associate with. I also need to let go of some of the blame. Some of the fault is mine whether intentional or not. Some of the blame is based on neglect.

I have neglected so many things over the past three years for many different reasons. Those three years are gone and I cannot change them.  I can release some of the regret and understand those days were spent and not able to be redeemed.

Some of blame rests on what most of us suffer with, an irrational need and expectation of control.  We say we know we have no control, yet we do have expectations of what should be or could have been.   The process is not foolproof or even linear but recognizing our lack of control continues to cause pain.

Sitting and projecting how I thought things would be and holding on to that, yearning for it does not help. Meg doesn’t tell us how to stop. She does say that the process of letting go is a source of true grief. I think she is right.

I can’t tell you that I think there is a solution for this cycle we find ourselves in, but there may be some relief. It is like we are holding the reins to fourteen teams of horses each pulling in a different direction. Some we need to hold back and some we need to let run. Our hand grip those reins so tightly we can’t figure out which rein lead to which horse. We can’t bring ourselves to let go of them all at once but slowly tracing with our eyes we figure out which team is attached to which set of reins.By manipulating we can let those reins slip from our grip. We don’t need to hold on to all of them all of the time.

We will always grieve our child. We cannot make anything we thought would be; be. The source and principle player in that scenario is no longer here. Let the horses run. Today I will let some of the horses run.  We can let them run together.

Posted in Coping with the Death of a Child, Death, Family, Friends | Tagged , , , , , | 2 Comments

Circling Back

Posted on September 17, 2014 by pathfinder

photoDear Son,
I miss you so much. That seems to be the only thing to say. Five little words that describe a large part of every day. I don’t think those words adequately describe what I mean and it makes my head hurt to try and think about how big it is.
When you died, I was not your caregiver. I was your mother, yes and when you were home I did provide all the things I have provided for years. And you, as your sister too does, could get me to do things. They were not things I did not want to do, but both you and sister can manipulate me in ways no one else can.
One of my friends told me that I am a ligament. That in the family I hold the joints together so they move smoothly. I resent that sometimes, but it is true. I have always felt I was good at helping those I love get to the places they want to go. I am good at it. At times because I am good at I make it look like it is easy and I get to feeling I am taken for granted.
I never liked that feeling.
I have to tell you, for the most part, I don’t let missing you keep me from doing the things I need to do. I have a relationship with your dad and your sister that is separate from you and in the past three years I have come to recognize that more fully.
I talked to you last night in the car for about 40 minutes. I figure folks who see me in the car talking out loud these days assume I am using a “hands-free” device. As if I really care. I don’t. Sadly we are hands free, hugs free and voice free.
I miss all the things you provided for me and I miss getting to do things for you. Part of the doing for you was that what you wanted was unique and something we uniquely shared. Cups of tea, strange movies, eclectic books, discussions on subjects I never quite understood but enjoyed anyway. You were truly interested in what I was doing. I think I miss that most of all. It never appeared to be something you pursued just out of courtesy. Selfishly I miss having someone taking that kind of interest.
When I took flight that day on July 2nd to rush to the hospital where you were I remember praying and pleading to God that you would be alright. In my mind I had the idea of what I thought would be “alright.” It was as I got to the four lane that a terrifying thought occurred. I thought what if he is paralyzed or has a head injury that alters who he is, is that part of alright? The weight of that possible reality hit me, and I realized I didn’t know what to pray for.
In the news I hear accounts of people falling from much greater heights than you did and surviving. I am afraid I always shoot out a p-mail to God and ask “why?” “did you have anything to do with this and if so why them and not my boy?”
I remember the doctor trying so hard to keep it together, to be diplomatic – beating around the bush till I asked point blank. “Is there any hope?” He looked down and shook his head.
You probably know that I am sobbing again right now.
We are part of each other, genetically, environmentally, emotionally we each contained parts of the other. Hopes and dreams and expectations knowing who you are and what you could do were dashed. The world has moved on. The days move on.
I move on too for the most part, circling back every now and then.
I meet new people who inevitably ask about family. I tell them. Often times they distance themselves after I tell them. People who have known me for years have distanced themselves too. The comment “they were never the same after their child died.” seems naive and insipid. Really? What do you expect?
We meet people who have lost children too and it is almost like we have a private handshake or signal from our horrific private club. We nod and acknowledge each other and we even talk but it is not about our loss. The fact is we can’t talk about that pain for long because it will swallow us up again.
There are others who have experienced loss who feel called to “minister” to those who have experienced loss. The good ones are the ones who can bear to just listen and say over and over and over again “I’m so sorry.” The bad ones try to fix you or justify and build up their coping skills by telling you how you should do it. Thankfully those are few and far between, yet sadly they usually hold God up for their reason for their words and actions. Poor God. He gets the blame for so many things.
In the car that day I talked to Him a lot. I’ll spend the rest of my life trying to figure out if there was an answer. Regardless there is nothing I can do. Nothing.
I just want you here. I want to hug you and laugh with you and argue with you. I need your encouragement and protection. There is not now, nor will there ever be another person that I treasure like you in my life.
I can say that because I believe that if there is a God that God is love. Love is an amazing thing – it is not able to be divided. It isn’t something that comes in portions. You can give all of your love to a husband or wife and to every child that subsequently comes into your life. You can give all your love to your relatives and friends. Giving it all away to all of them never diminishes the supply.
Once you and your sister came into the world I learned that. Thank you.
So you still have all my love, and I am not afraid to to love someone else but it will be with the love due them. Not the love due you.
But I assume you know that. I know you know that. I am glad we know what we know about each other. Those are the things that mother’s treasure in their hearts.
Forever
Mom

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

The volume of silence

Posted on August 21, 2014 by pathfinder

IMG_0844The silence speaks for me these days. Dear son, I don’t know what to say anymore. Tomorrow is your sister’s birthday. Tough birthday in so many ways. She will have reached her 29th year.
The anniversary of the day you left us, my birthday, now your sister’s birthday color the end of summer. I write things down to say to get out of my head but they sit here on the computer and I leave them because they are dark and unhappy words.
Your death is too real for me. I question so much about life. If anything it makes less sense to me the older I get. Perhaps those experiencing this alongside me also struggle with how to explain it or get a grip on these things. We certainly don’t talk about it much it seems.
Sometimes I wonder if everyone is just pretending. I wonder if they go home and take off their mask like I do? Are their evenings something they too endure? Do they go to sleep in tears?
When we learned of Robin William’s death, Facebook was filled with people making statements about him. We were shocked because we confused his public persona with who the man really was. His private struggles were hidden neatly from view. I know no one who did not know something of him and his body of work. Yet we were offended that the public image did not fit the reality. We are nothing without our illusions it seems.
I wanted and needed more time with you. Yes your influence continues and we talk about you still speculating how you might feel about certain situations. We are stuck attributing the opinions of your 29 year old self on the days that have since passed, and we only knew some of those opinions. The private side of you was private indeed.
I miss the physical you beside me, invading my space and draping yourself over me. I miss your voice and your laughter. I miss that exasperated look you give me when I wander off on a tangent. I am left without anyone to rein me in. Anger is a cycle that has grown in me. I have so little patience.
Yet things are changing in other places with other people. My involvement is to be support, encouragement or to be the warm body so that they are not alone. Some days I do a better job than others. I can’t really speculate on what you would think about any of this.
Perhaps you would tell me I am wasting my time even writing this.
But I know you knew how much I love you. I know that if I know nothing at all.
And if love truly covers a multitude of sin then I will tuck it tight around me for another day. I need the coverage, but I’m afraid I’m a little bit frayed at the edges.
Forever,
Mom

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The sweetness

Posted on July 20, 2014 by pathfinder

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Years ago while in college my son took part in a research project with a professor who was studying a certain warbler. The food the warbler eats had been identified and there was a place in the mountains near Cataloochee that had that food. The place at that time was a privately owned parcel of land that was reverting to the national park as a gift from a private source. The place is called Purchase Knob.

My son took me there while he was involved in the study. We drove up a winding road and through a gate that he had to unlock. The air was cool with that filtered light that comes from the sun easing it’s way through fog that is being vaporized in the heat. There were Christmas trees that had been planted and up by the house which is now used as a research station the yard that had been planted looked like it had been roughly plowed.

“Wild boar.” he explained to me. Apparently the attempt to landscape with bulbs and flowers had tempted the wild boar in to feast on the exotic morsels of vegetation. They had rooted and dug until the domestication of this “yard” on a mountain top was thwarted. Irony is that the wild boar were imported too originally.

We hiked up a road that wandered through fir trees that would probably not be harvested for Christmas. The trees already reached high above our head. You could hear birds calling to each other. Their conversations were beautiful but not translatable to me. My son had studied the bird songs so he could identify the one bird species he was supposed to be counting.

A weekend ago my husband and I attended a wedding at this place, now part of the national park. There is a cabin there. I remembered taking a photo of it when I was there with my son. We walked a grassy trail to the cabin where little white tents waited for those attending the wedding. Right after we arrived and found a seat the sky broke open and the rain came. It rained for an hour. The thunder boomed and we cowered under the tents. Some stood holding the edge of the tents to keep the water from collapsing them. The bride arrived slightly dampened as the rain abated. The photographer looked like he needed to be wrung out.

A number of young people, now in their early 30’s were there. All had known my son and most for a number of years. I had baked cookies and provided snowsuits on winter snow days for some of them, baked potatoes and stewed chili while they played paintball on the mountainside above our house. We had gone to court together when they blew up the port-o-john. And now here we were celebrating a milestone of yet another kind. One is expecting his first child, one had his new born son with him. I got to hold the baby at the reception. One is finishing his medical residency.

During the ceremony they named those who were not there-those who were departed. My son’s name was read.

Later at the reception a photo was taken of this group of young people who had know each other collectively for over 22 years. I watched their faces. There was a framed photo of the port-o-john they had blown up years ago. Signatures of those who were involved scrawled over the photo as autographs. I searched in vain for my son’s name.

The bride pulled me aside. “I have to tell you,” she said, “your son brought me to the cabin years ago while he was working on the bird study. He had seen the cabin and told me that he thought it was connected to my family. It turned out he was right. Had it not been for him I would not have known about the place.”

The wedding took place 10 days after the 3rd anniversary of our son’s death. Perhaps she chose July partly for that reason. I could not thank her just then for sharing the information she did concerning the cabin, for mentioning my son.

I know they have connections with him that I do not have, memories that I do not share with them that are unique to their relationship with him. It helps to know that he lives on in their memory too.
I am always left wanting more.

We are always left wanting more when the sweetness begins to fade.

Posted in Coping with the Death of a Child, Marraige | 2 Comments

July 2nd

Posted on July 2, 2014 by pathfinder

IMG_0823The morning fog is burning off the mountains slowly. Three years ago on this date I can remember rising early to cook bacon and fix  breakfast for the five other people in the house. My husband, his brother and wife would be leaving for a car show. My son and and his friend would be leaving to go climb.
Later that day I expected the arrival of my daughter and her fiancé. I would have the quiet house to myself until they all came to collect together for supper that night. I planned to paint, I planned to enjoy a day knowing that I would get things done that I wanted to do and would still have the pleasure of family.
Events take sudden and unexpected turns every day. Some have only mild consequences. We make choices about so many things anticipating possible outcomes based on what occurred when we made that choice in the past. If I turn on the spigot in the bathroom I expect water to come out. When I put my feet on the floor I expect for them to support me.
Though I try to avoid thinking about it too often I do think about my son’s last minutes. Having experienced accidents myself there are thoughts that run through your head as the event happens.
I dropped a single edge razor blade the other day and thought in that fraction of a second as it dropped, “ whoops!” and “if it hits my foot will it cut me?” It did hit my foot. One corner of the blade hit just right and I have a little nick above my little toe.
I don’t know what he thought.
He always tried to help me get over my fears. I know he had fears of his own, yet he seemed to find a way to pull back from them, put them into perspective and go on with what he thought he needed to do. I can make up a story in my head about what he thought based on my own experiences, but it would be a story – not the truth.
I was not there to comfort him after he fell. I am afraid that he was afraid. Because of the result of the fall, I know if there was pain, it did not last long. Perhaps that should be comfort, but idea of comfort in that situation seems impossible.
Other people who were there with him that day probably struggle with this date too. I hope this day passes well or  quickly and uneventfully for them. They tried their very best for his sake to save his life. I appreciate their attempt and good intentions.
I wish I could overcome my fears, but I still have them. I am angered when I realize I have allowed the fears to stop me from doing, going and participating.
I cannot say that I fear pain per se. I live with a measure of pain every day. I worry about things I have no control over because I know I have no control.
I miss him. I continue to yearn for him. There are no deals to make with anyone, no bargains to strike. My counselor says that current psychology has begun to question the “stages of grief” that Kubler Ross set forth. Yet even if they are correct it was written to describe the process terminally ill people go through in dealing with their terminal condition. It was not written to examine those grieving the loss of a loved one.
One pet peeve my son had that I share was the incorrect use of certain words. One was the word irony. He would rant a little when he heard people use it in reference to a coincidence that occurred saying it was ironic. I have read the definition of irony in its various forms Socratic, dramatic , verbal, situational. I cannot explain irony very well, but I am getting better at recognizing it when it occurs – usually without intention on the part of those involved. I feel like in doing so I am upholding my son’s cause!
The second is a phrase people are using a lot now and again in the wrong context. The phrase is “it begs the question.” They use it to mean that they want the answer to a question. The phrase is in reference to something being stated as if it is a fact but without supporting evidence. A broad assumption based on scant information “begs the question.” What research, information and evidence do you have that supports your conclusion?
Saying my son did or did not suffer begs the question.
To his sister, my daughter I would admonish her to think about him when he stood beside her in the storms that blew through  Ohio. I use the memory of his reassurances to get me through many situations.
To my husband I offer reassurance that he was aware of your love and loved you so very much.
For me there are not adequate words to describe all the ways in which I love, remember and in some ways try to embody him in my life.
Today marks 3 years since I held him, hugged him, kissed him. I appreciate those who remember him and his family today.
Remember him and his love of words, his love of the natural world, his love of music and art and learning. Remember him for his loyalty, his kindness, his straightforward and simple approach to life and his eager fervent desire to explore, to learn, to wonder.

Posted in Coping with the Death of a Child, Death, Family, Friends, Holidays | Tagged , , , , , , , , , | 7 Comments

Being Broken

Posted on June 22, 2014 by pathfinder

Being Broken.

Some part of me will always expect her. Some part of me will always assume reunion will occur. I will always look for her, wait for her, want her.  Make that her him.  Amen.

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Dear Son

Posted on June 18, 2014 by pathfinder

IMG_0673Dear Son,
I haven’t written much lately because, as usual I don’t know what else to say. I despise the world for going on without you. I am infuriated by the fact that people think that by saying your name that they – of all people are reminding me of you (do they really think you are ever far from my mind?) Apparently there is a fear of tears and wailing from me – though few if any have seen that side of me.
The summer like weather floods me with thoughts of you and at times I really feel like you are right beside me. I do talk to you in the car and in the house when I am by myself – do you hear me?
I keep my intense feelings about you to myself when I am in public. I try not to react openly to the stupid thoughtless things people say because I realize they are unintentional. Here at the house – within these walls I have short outbursts of anger and frustration and disbelief.
The disbelief still astounds me. I know others think that because they don’t think of you often that we too have eroded into that state. It is just not possible. And it is impossible to explain the intensity of this feeling.
I cannot believe you are gone. Really truly never to be seen on this earth again, never to hear your voice again, never to feel your arm around my shoulders, never to kiss you, tease you, feed you, fuss with you.
I can see it in some folks eyes, their posture as they want to say to me “after all, it has been three years.” It could be three thousand – it would not matter. Why did I ever get in a rush about anything before?
I struggle everyday and have no choice but to be patient with grief and how it manifests itself in any given day.
There are small things I look forward to but they are small and fizzle out so quickly.
I worry.
I worry about the future without you.
I worry about your dad and your sister. It does no good so I try to stop. I make a real effort to stop.
I have read, painted, taken up pottery, the ukulele, exercise, knitting, traveled, written and written and written. All these things have busied my hands, taken up my time, occupied me for a moment here and there. Nothing serves for long.
I miss you in every day, I miss you and I yearn for you. And one more time I am putting it out there to the universe and anyone who wants to read these words – I can’t believe you are gone. I can’t believe that someone as brilliant, vibrant, funny, resourceful and good as you is gone and we have to remain – without you.
And I know there are others feeling the same way about the ones they love that are gone.
I keep waiting for knowing that to make me feel differently. Better has not become an option.
So here I am dreading July but not much more than I dread every month. It is wrong that you are gone. Simply wrong and horrible and bad.
I live with dread now. It makes a bitter companion most days.
You brought me such joy. Please, if there is a God, hear my thanks that I was able to appreciate my son and see him for the wonderful person he is. And thank you for letting him love me the way he did. He made me feel so loved. And God, if you are with him . . . well you know.
Forever
Mom

 

Posted in anger, Coping with the Death of a Child, Family, Friends, Holidays | Tagged , , , , | 5 Comments

Stirring dull roots

Posted on May 27, 2014 by pathfinder

IMG_0016Spring  has come dusting everything yellow with pollen. The mountains are covered in subtle shades of green. Flowers are blooming. The early morning is filled with the voices of birds mocking each other, exclaiming their territory or just the pure joy of a time filled with food and warmth for their young.

T.S. Elliot comes to mind:
April is the cruelest month, breeding
Lilacs out of the dead land, mixing
Memory and desire, stirring
Dull roots with spring rain.

Memorial Day has passed and on the TV channel Turner Classic they aired war movies back to back. The footage for some was from actual battle scenes. There were scenes of marching men, hundreds of marching men on the way to the place where their life would end.

In the movie “Twelve O’Clock High” Gregory Peck plays General Frank Savage. He gives a speech to his pilots and flight crewmen. He tells them to think about themselves as already dead and then to go on and do what they have to do.

I wonder some days if that is not how I operate. I know that I am in many ways already dead, forgotten. I have passed out of so many circles that I used to be involved in where I was so sure of my importance and irreplaceability. I am expendable as so many of us are. Yet, I have things that I will do while I am here.

In reading “Co-dependent no more” I keep finding myself. At times, while reading I wanted someone to provide a swift kick to my bottom for all the time I wasted spinning around and around in useless circles. I see myself, but not my son. I see my daughter and want to encourage her to learn to free herself from her co-dependent habits. Perhaps it is because I do recognize the urgings I heard from my son written in that book that makes me like it even more. My son was right – I wish I could tell him.

It is a slow process breaking old patterns of useless worry and the need to control. It does not make the world a happier place. In many instances I suddenly see the misguided motives and actions so many of us employ in an attempt to control things.

But sweetheart, you were right. I suffer from doom and gloom. I do need to honor the things I want to do and give them space to grow and develop. It is okay to speak my mind, to be assertive yet I will continue to monitor my motives. It is okay not to speak at all!

You were right, sweet pea to embrace the opportunities that came your way. You were right to push your fear down and go on. I miss your words and encouragement. I miss your editorial comments and your own predictable reactions to the things that I know you would disapprove of. You made those things very clear. And sometimes when I know you would not like a show or music or book – I watch or listen or read it anyway – because it is what I want to do and it is what I would do if you were still here.

But the coming of Spring has offended me now for a few years. It seems to flaunt the fact that life continues and I still stumble over it. The flowers and the deep greens make me weep for the beauty I cannot share with you. I am fighting a vigilant fight against the dread of July 2nd. It comes like a fog to obscure the possible joy of the days that come before.

I find more memories to smile about these days, yet the sudden tears are never far behind. You sister asked me the other day, “Is he really gone?” That is the question that sums up most of my days and I expect always will.

With spring comes fresh joy and fresh sorrow. My own dull roots stir and your dad, sister and I look for you.

Forever,
Mom

Posted in Co-dependency, Coping with the Death of a Child, Death, Friends, Holidays | Tagged , , , , , | Leave a comment

Setting the caged bird free

Posted on May 1, 2014 by pathfinder

IMG_2502I am reading a book called “Codependent No More” by Melody Beattie. The book was published in 1986. I wish I had heard about it then and moreover wish I had read it. I don’t know if I could have recognized myself as clearly as I do now in those pages. Hindsight.

I am codependent. I worry, check on and spin my wheels thinking about things that are beyond my control. In the past three years since my son’s death it has become debilitating.

Sadly Melody Beattie also lost her son. In her book which was written before his untimely accidental death there is a passage about her son and him hanging on her. I read it and wept. I have found things I wrote about my son – lightly complaining about him and it triggers guilty grief.

Yet in reading I recognized something. One of things I am missing is that toxic codependent relationship I had with him. I used to call and check on him If he didn’t answer his phone I called his sister to check on him. If I didn’t hear from him I would launch into a scenario of “who could I call? How would I find him?”

Even when he was in his mid twenties and came home for a visit I worried. At night when he went out with his friends I would stay awake until I heard his car come up the driveway. I lost sleep over him. And ultimately it did not change anything.

All my worry, concern, fretting, fussing, trying superstitiously to exert my voodoo power over the universe and him did not work. It did not work. It will never work for anyone I care about. It is time to let go of that – the memory of that with my son, the codependency that I have had and deepened with my daughter and what little bit I have continued to hold on to with my husband;
for my sake, I need to let it go.

I grew up learning codependency from my mother and it was reinforced in the church. It was a part of southern female culture. We mistook the admonition in scripture that says “bear one another’s burdens” to mean take on their life. We ignored the scripture that said “consider the lilies” and put on our worry cap. Time to let it go.

When I realized that the codependency I had with my son was so strong as I read about myself in that book it shocked me. It was a dimension of our relationship that he openly disliked, yet I continued. It was my choice. He was kind about it, but he was puzzled as to why I would exert so much energy in such a futile effort.

Perhaps I grieve having to let go of the codependency too. And I am a bit embarrassed that I did not recognize it or was not willing to let it go sooner.

On the show I so much enjoy called “Call the Midwife” one of the midwives looses her boyfriend in an accident. Upon his death one of the nuns says to her, “God was not in the accident, He was in the love you had.” I tell myself that every day now since hearing it.

I have not parted with many of my son’s belongings. There is no rush. But I am parting with all the memories of the worries I had about him. The things I worried about did not happen and the thing I least expected did. My time spent awake and worrying could have been better spent. But that too is now in the past and I have to make sure I don’t duplicate that behavior today. I don’t need to inflict this on my daughter, her husband or my own husband. I do not need to impose this on any of my friends or church family in some bogus righteous cause.

I open the cage door of my heart and for today at least set that nervous fluttering bird free. It is a beginning and a long journey to alter behavior so deep-seated and engrained. In doing so I think I honor my son who knowing this was a part of me, loved me anyway.

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