In other words

Posted on December 30, 2013 by pathfinder

IMG_0826The earth has almost finished another orbit around the sun.  Somewhere people are compiling the facts about what they think were the  most important events on this little orb during that trip.   As for me and my husband we are a little astounded that we made it again.

I write no reflections this time about family and friends, though they most definitely have seen me through a lot of hard impossible moments.  What I will share are some words from a book I just finished reading.

It is an unlikely book on the face of things to discuss grief, but since grief seems to be a part of life and this story was supposed to be about life, albeit in a distant time, it follows that grief would be included.

I like books written for young adults.  I started reading what we called Juvie Literature in the early 80’s when I worked as an assistant children’s librarian.  I found the books to be clever, concise and geared to hold the audience’s attention.   The latest series I just completed is the trilogy by Veronica Roth called Divergent.  In her final book the story concludes the larger story line and begins the promise of another. I marked quotes which jumped out at me as things I can easily say about my journey thus far.

I include my edited words in parenthesis but you’ll understand when you read.

“Maybe we’re strangers no matter where we go, whether it’s back to the world outside . . .or here . . .or (anywhere).  Everything has changed, and it won’t stop changing anytime soon.”  

Or maybe we’ll make a home somewhere inside ourselves, to carry with us wherever we go—which is the way I carry my (son) now.”

“It’s strange how time can make a place shrink, make its strangeness ordinary.”

“ I don’t know how—that’s like asking how you continue on with your life after someone dies. You just do it, and the next day you do it again.”

“I don’t need (their) raised eyebrows, (their) soft voice, to coax an emotion from me that I would prefer to contain.”

“It happened.  It was awful.  You aren’t perfect.  That’s all there is.  Don’t confuse your grief with guilt.”

“. . .that’s what love does, when it’s right—it makes you more than you were, more than you thought you could be.”

“If I let a little of the emotion out, all of it will come out, and it will never end.”

“I know how it feels to want to forget everything . . .I also know how it feels for someone you love to (die) for no reason, and to want to trade all your memories of them for just a moment’s peace.”

“The person you became with (them) is worth being.”

 “It reminds me that no embrace will ever feel the same again, because no one will ever be like (him) again, because (he) is gone.  (He) is gone, and crying feels so useless, so stupid, but it’s all I can do.”

“Sometimes it is nothing more than gritting your teeth through pain, and the work of every day, the slow walk (through life).”

 

Some things are more clearly expressed through someone else’s words.   We had a good holiday at Christmas and the New Year will come because I have not figured out a way to stop the world and get off.     I like to think I have been made more than I thought I could be because of the people I have loved and love me.

 

Peace.

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Blessed are

Posted on December 12, 2013 by pathfinder

IMG_8923I have spent every day for the past two years, five months and ten days figuring out how to make it through each of these days.  I think I have done pretty well.  I have stopped thinking about any of them as wasted or lost or without value.  They are days where I got up and ate and drank, I painted and knitted, I wrote and talked to people.  I took walks and I played with the dogs.  I learned new skills and explored new ideas.  To a lot of people out there I appeared as normal as I ever have and that is questionable in itself.  But I know who I am now – inside- and I am working on making sure that I don’t allow the anger which is fear to take over.

I am not a failure because there has been suffering in my family.  It is a painful part of life that none of us will escape.  It may be that we have different reasons for our suffering, but we will all have pain. You don’t need to pity me.  I am no different than you – I have just had a few more cards dealt to me than you have.  Either that or you just hold your cards closer to your chest.

If I make you feel more blessed because you have not had the things happen in your life that I have in mine, then please give an extra measure of thanks.  Give thanks and pray for the ability to endure time.  If you think that my family and I have done things to deserve any of this then you are in need of more help than any blog or diary could provide and you are the one who deserves pity.

Blessed are those who if they cannot simply say “I am sorry.” say nothing at all.

Blessed are those who do not try to understand or give advice.

Blessed are those who are willing to stay close despite the fact they may be dampened by my tears.

Blessed are those who offer companionship but not advice about this grief.

Blessed are those who have also suffered this loss and continue to talk and listen and wait patiently while all of us move through our days – in our own way – at our own pace.

There is no place that I go that my son is not there because I carry him with me always.  Always.

He was never separate or cut loose from my heart or mind. He was not dependent but relied on, not controlled but observed and admired.

IMG_8901As an artist I collect images and moods and moments.  I, like Mary the mother of Jesus, have quite a collection that I treasure up in my heart.

The trick is to not stop – but to continue to add treasures, to not dwell only on those from the past.  It is an effort, but when achieved I feel a measure of satisfaction and maybe it stems partly from my son who in my heart echoes my achievement.

So at this time when families gather whether just for the sake of being family or because they celebrate the birth of the baby who grew to be the man called the Son of God it is still and continues to be about that human connection. Hands reach to touch, we pause to see, to collect the moments to treasure in our heart because while on this earth as it turns out, it is all we have that will endure.

May your holidays hold moments you may treasure.

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A need for change

Posted on December 4, 2013 by pathfinder

ImageI know I am not the only person who struggles with change.  I know people who are in their 60’s who have clothes they wore in high school.  I have seen people who have not changed the way they wear their hair in the 25 years I have known them.

After our son died in July I can’t remember how or what we did for Thanksgiving in November of 2011.   Our daughter was newly married.   We were still in shock.   I can try to put the puzzle pieces together in retro-fashion to figure it out and remember but quite frankly it is not worth the effort.

I remember  Christmas 2011.  It is like I have a picture of it framed in my head.  It was cold and painful.  We tried to the best of our ability to keep it as close to what we were used to – a tradition that spanned at least 26 years.  The tradition we have kept was established when our daughter was born and we could use her as our excuse to stay home and celebrate Christmas as our own little family without having to travel three hours south to the grandparents.

Now, with our daughter being married, our son gone, it is time to think outside the proverbial Christmas box.   The tradition has reached its expiration date.   Nothing we do can force it to be what it was and trying to hang on to the shreds is painful.  Not that anyone has forced it to be that way!  I understand we all – my husband, daughter and I – wait, hoping someone else will make a suggestion, not wanting to be the one to blame for further change.

Yet without any suggestions it has begun to take on more pain.

Change comes slowly at times and swiftly at others.  I need this time of year to change in some way in my heart and head so that I can make it through without headaches, depression and hair-trigger emotions.   I need this because I have other people in my life and they deserve attention too.

I kept my mask as firmly in place as possible during Thanksgiving.  My daughter and I ended up in a much needed lengthy discussion at one point.   Our mutual loss was at the center of the conversation and we bounced over the waves again caused by ripples that flow out from that central  point of the death of this person we so love.  She has anger at the pain that has been caused for everyone.   She does not cry as easily as I do and she like her father tends to busy herself in an attempt to not think and move on.

I allow myself times of abject grief in private.  I face each day knowing that I will try to achieve the list of things I must do though it may be punctuated by “grief attacks.”   I am accustomed to them.  I don’t push them away nor do I try to make them happen.  They probably occur as often as I used to think about my son when he was still living.  I’ve never plotted it on a graph but I think it is as plausible as any other explanation.

I don’t feel as guilty when I am able to be very busy and very productive these days.  In fact I like to think my son would be happy for me and I know my daughter and husband are.

But Christmas, what to do with Christmas.  We have decorated the house.  I have up two trees this year.  Their are lights strewn around the outside of the house and the lighted trees have been placed in the outside entry way that play music while their lights dance.  We will host a small Christmas gathering for my husbands co-workers. I have a couple of little presents that I have purchased and really doubt I will do much more.  We are at a point when things are not what is needed.  They really were not needed before but we kept going through the motions – hoping against hope that the motions would make us feel like things had not changed.

I baked my son’s favorite cookies over the Thanksgiving holiday.  The first time I had made those cookies since before July 2011.  It was a big deal.   It was a very big deal.

At a Christmas Party at a local restaurant  on Monday night a friend asked if I still went hiking.  I had to answer no.  The last hike I took (and I am talking more than walking up a trail for 15 minutes and back) was with my son.  I need to gather up my stuff and go again.

I need to take better care of myself.   I need to stop eating  the things I shouldn’t and exercise more.  I need to figure out how to market my artwork more effectively and do these things just for myself. I want to train my wonderful little mini australian shepherd  to do those tasks that would fulfill him as the brilliant little dog he is.  Maybe these are my resolutions presented a bit early.  My personal resolutions.

There are other things-big things- nagging at me.  They threaten to drag me under at times.  Worries about my loved ones health. Worries about choices made or being made – that I know too well I have no control over and wait wringing my hands, to see the consequences.

So change is going to happen whether I choose it or not.  I might as well be a party to the process instead of standing and waiting for it to knock me down.

This was the third Thanksgiving holiday since our son died.  I felt like my grief was more keenly focused than ever before.  I am so thankful for my family and friends.  I am so thankful  for my son and all the things he shared with me and taught me.   I am so thankful for my loving husband and my daughter and our relationship.

I cannot honestly say that it has become easier or clearer or lighter – but it has changed.

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

A reminder of the season

Posted on November 18, 2013 by pathfinder

Pink Beds

My son loved the products of the company Patagonia.  I think he pictured himself being like Yvon Chouinard,  leading a life of learning and exploration.  He held in common with Mr. Chouinard  the love of climbing, environmentalism and falconry.  Mr. Chouinard is now 75 years old and I assume continuing to practice his many interests.

In a room downstairs that served as our son’s bedroom for many years before he began graduate school there reside his possessions.  I am not sure when or if I can part with those things.   His clothes still smell of him.  I know that the climbing ropes are of no use.  They are one of those things that need to be replaced often.  As for the clips and carabiners, the hooks and climbing shoes – I feel a certain animosity.  I cannot give them to another climber.  My fear that something would happen while using something of my son’s stops me.   I cannot throw them away.   I cannot sell them.  Now, 2 years old – they are probably worthless – not having been used and maintained.

There are many shirts, jackets and shells in those stacks of clothes that have Patagonia labels.  I keep thinking I will pull them out and use them.   The plaid shirts stop me in my tracks.  I don’t know if I can bear to see anyone else in them.

With the holiday season upon us I realize I need to do some shopping.   There are stores I still feel drawn to go into to look for things the he would like.   I think all bereaved parents and bereaved spouses find that part of this season particularly difficult.   The close proximity of those things we know they would like and enjoy make us flinch away at times.

For awhile we got the Patagonia catalogues  addressed to him after he died.  The photos on the cover were always of people dangling from precarious perches exhibiting their daring-do and climbing expertise.   I wanted to scream at someone – the climber, the company, the mailman for bringing such a painful reminder to me.  I finally requested to be taken off their mailing list.

Today a friend shared a news story on Facebook about a Deep-water diver who died trying to set a record.  The story was painful and graphic and I have to wonder for the family how much pain and horror it gives them to have his last moments so described.   Or perhaps it gives them comfort.   I don’t know.

I was comforted knowing how diligent those people were who ministered to my son out there where he fell.  I was comforted by the staff from the hospital.  My son was treated with dignity.  But I am haunted too.   Had I been there with him that day could I have helped to break his fall?  Could I have stopped him from being so irreparably damaged? Yet, I was not there.

I was painting and oblivious that anything bad could happen on a sunny day in July – to someone I love.

We all have choices to make about where we will go and what we will do.  Everywhere with every choice there comes inherent risk.   Some risks are smaller than others but the risk exists.   It is difficult to wrap your head around the fact that you are never in a position anywhere at any time that does not involve some level – however small- of risk.

I wish my son could have lived to be 75 and older.  I wish he could have lived to part with me and not I with him in what we assume to be a more natural progression.  I wish he had been with his sister in Ohio last night as the storms rolled by to terrify her.  I wish he could see the car his dad is working on.  I wish he could have lived to see Pinnacle Park’s new bridges and the purchase of Black Rock as a preserve.  But wishing does absolutely nothing except to serve as an exercise to recite all those things that cannot be.

The strange thing about all this, is that I am becoming the more experienced climber.  I climb out of the pit every day and walk around with my mask on.   Some days are insurmountable, but I go where I can.

 

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turning leaves like pages

Posted on November 13, 2013 by pathfinder

Dear Son,

IMG_7985Fall took its time this year.  It teased us a little with a gold here and a red there until early November before it popped.  Last night the cold shriveled the remaining leaves and in the next day or two the rest of the leaves will fall.   I miss you so much right now, son.

I miss you all the time.  I don’t have a day without thoughts of you – haven’t for two years, four months and eleven days.   I haven’t thrown a frisbee for my dogs or the dogs you used to own, now companions to your sister.  You are one of the last things on my mind when I go to bed.   I still hear your comments in my head.  I still crave tea at 3:00p.m.

IMG_8558

I hear songs I think you would like.  I read books I want to talk to you about.   I look and see and feel and always I expect to turn and see you, to hear your voice, to watch you twist your hair as you read with a steaming mug at your side.  You are embedded, entwined, fused into who I am.

My habit of making space for people in my life, putting aside things I want to do to accommodate others makes war with me.   I make space for your sister and your dad and my friends.  There is still a permanent space for you.  It occupies part of my day.   It frustrates me to tears that it is given only to memory, speculation of what you might say or think and an empty space that you filled with your laughter, your light, your opinions.

IMG_8463A lot of us have been cheated with your parting.  I feel anger about that.  You taught me so much, you balanced things on a different fulcrum.  You inspired me, incited me, frustrated me and pushed me to move when I did not want to at times.   I depended on you.

 

I can still laugh and joke.  I think about you when I see the ridiculous.  I talk to you in my mind about the farcical.  I even write when I find myself so incensed by the crazy things people write and say – thoughtless things.  You were such a thought-full man.

All those thoughts.  Stilled. Silent.

IMG_8514Your dad continues to focus and obsess about those to whom your organs were donated.   He learned the other day that everyone – every person to whom your organs and tissue were donated are doing well.  Even the lung transplant – which is amazing.   Some of the recipients have contacted us.  Many have not.   It makes your dad so unhappy that they have not sent a word of thanks.

I don’t think about that aspect of things much.  I can’t imagine that thanks concerning organ donation mattered to you, though it would bother you in regard to your dad’s concerns.   You took good care of yourself and so all that healthy tissue has given others life.  But all your healthy living and stamina could not keep you from breaking.

A tragic accident.  Quick and sudden and unexpected and thankfully for you – relatively painless.  You departed and we are left with the pain.  And if that is the trade off – you painless – not made to suffer – then I would take it even if given the choice – which I was not.

Just about the time I think I have made headway in this journey I find myself back almost at the beginning again.   I say almost because the horrible shock has passed for the most part.  Remembering how much you loved your family is the only thing that gets me through some days.   Thank you for blessing us with that.  You are always in hearts.

Forever,

Mom

 

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Some days. . .

Posted on November 4, 2013 by pathfinder

IMG_7933

Somedays it is difficult to get out of bed, out of the chair, out from front of the t.v. , down the driveway to get the mail or think of something to eat.  Most days that feeling of difficulty, ambivalence, disinterest lasts only for a few minutes.  I force myself on.  I force myself to move, to do, to talk to others, to go.  I can talk myself out of these things as easily as I can force myself to do them.

In times past, times before my son’s death, I know I had these same problems at times.  Then I wrote them off to being fatigued or stressed and I could usually pinpoint the reason.  It made for a good excuse.   When the excuse becomes something that “happened years ago” people are less understanding.  They think there is something wrong with you.

Since they have moved past the death of my child they assume I should  too.  Now, I am not saying they are that cold or unfeeling about it, but still in all, I think it is what they think.  I don’t know if it is just our culture or our shallow nature but we are a people who think (though rarely can put in to practice) that people are supposed to “rise above” their situation.   Our movies – the reflection of our culture – preach that.  Movies with unsettled or unhappy endings that do not satisfy our need for happily ever after are touted as “critically acclaimed.”    We crave a happy ending.

I don’t think they exist.  The reason I don’t think they exist is that – to my knowledge – everyone is going to die eventually.  If they have any connections at all when this time comes – someone, somewhere is going to be touched by that passing.   And it is sad.

It is sad that we scurry around thinking we are so important in the grand scheme of things.  We think we are noticed and that people are thinking about us.  People think mainly about themselves.  I certainly do.  My mind is constantly measuring and evaluating everything in regard to what it has to do with me or how it will effect me.

We talk about “mindless” tasks which sounds like it is to be dreaded when in fact we all need that down time.  To shut up our own voice in our head.  Meditation seems to fill this need.

What keeps me in the bed, or in the chair, or in front of the t.v. are the reruns of past events that continue to flood through my mind.   I pester myself with them at times.   It is difficult to gain control over them – to push them down and it takes a lot of energy to do so.

I know there are a lot of us out there practicing this effort.  I applaud all those who are able to accomplish their outside jobs in the community.  I appreciate all those who ,in their sorrow, reach out to sooth others in their sorrow.  I appreciate most of all those who are honest about their feelings.

You cannot move through this sorrow without  asking questions or having doubts.

Some, like me struggle with their faith.   Some struggle with the health care system and whether everything was done as it should have been.  Most of us question if we should have done some differently, seen something like a premonition or if we had just done one simple thing differently that would have been the cotter pin we pulled that could have prevented our child’s death.  We want to place blame, or at least assign responsibility.    Sadly we are the only one left to do that now.  Friends don’t want to hear us talk about it.  It makes them uncomfortable and causes them to reflect on the fear.  But then we too ignored it for years –  blissfully ignorant for so long.

As time passes and the memory of our child fades from others memory they seem a bit surprised or chagrin when they realize how fresh our loss continues to be for us.   It is pinned on the doorpost of our heart it is worn in a phylactery over our mind.

When celebrities loose a child they interview their friends.  Often the friends sadly shake their head and say “they were never the same . . .”    Same what?  The human mind cannot grasp the enormity of the change.

Perhaps, I am proudly, not the same.  I am altered by him in his death as much as I was altered by him in his life.He has altered me – for good – as has my dear husband and beautiful daughter.  They change me and I am thankful for that.  I cannot imagine the miserable person I would  be without them to hold me to a certain standard and body of expectations.

If I let go of the end of his time here will it all unravel?  Perhaps it is my own failing that makes me so dissatisfied with human answers.  Thus far turning to the faith I was raised in only creates bigger illogical questions.

So far I am still asking the questions, getting up out of bed, off the couch, eating, talking, reading, painting, walking, playing with the dogs.  It is those moments that flash with a feeling akin to panic when I realize I will not see him again in my lifetime that I think the this cannot possibly be done.  Expectations for this situation are impossible.

Then I hear my daughter’s voice or I hug my husband and I think “just for this moment.”   And really isn’t that all we have anyway?

 

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Sorting

Posted on November 1, 2013 by pathfinder

IMG_7940Fall has officially wrapped its coat of many colors over the shoulders of these mountains.  Today is a gray day -which to me, always makes the oranges, reds and yellows pop.   I don’t know if the “leaf-ers” as they get called around here have headed south or if they are still lurking much to the hope of small businesses in the area.   Fall took its time this year.

I never liked Fall and yet this year it seems to be more comforting.  I always notice that the dogs perk up this time of year.  The smell of ozone with the cold air or the scent of something just out of reach seems to tease them.  I think I understand a little better how they feel, because I have felt a little – dare I say – excitement.  And for just this short moment – I let myself.

It hasn’t passed entirely -that feeling of excitement – but it is waning.   Seems like everything on earth conspires to bring you back down to it.

After the flooding of the lower floor and the subsequent month of clean up by professionals my husband and I took a week to tidy up.  When you have renovation done or new construction – the big stuff goes quickly and then you are left with all the little details.  I also added to the mess.

There is a space left for storage and as I considered the things in the studio and other spaces that needed to be sorted I realized I needed to store some other things.   To store more things, it meant I needed to go through and discard some things already in the storage area.  It has been neglected for some time.  The last time I sorted and discarded  my son was there to help.   IMG_7934

So I added more work to my plate.   I pulled out boxes and in them – as you can imagine – were items that brought back memories.   I gave in to them a little.  But only a little.  I told myself I was on a time table and so I would give in for a minute or two and then carefully pack the items and photos back up, all with the promise to myself that I could revisit them now, whenever I pleased.  Moreover I now know exactly where they are.

I found some photos of people I didn’t recognize.  That brought about some extra anxiety.  Once again I was struck by how quickly we forget things and even people.   It made me feel panic.

As a parent of a wonderful young man who comprised one third of my world I can say without fear of contradiction – no living parent wants their child forgotten.  The words impossible, unthinkable, incomprehensible all come to mind.   He was so much and now he is gone.  The world has moved on.  Another Winter, Spring, Summer and now Fall have come as the world turns and the earth continues on its path around the Sun.  I still don’t understand.

I do understand that I will never understand.  Yet there is no comfort in saying that.

At the art show I attended a few weekends ago one of my old friends who knew me and my relationship  with my son talked to me for just a moment about my loss.  He said it had broken his heart – devastated him – he said – and then had to walk away.   He told me he knew how much my son and I loved each other.

It is wrong of me to feel some sort of satisfaction from the discomfort that man felt, but I did feel satisfaction.   Perhaps it was partly in the fact  that he validated what I know to be true, but now in my son’s absence receive so little reassurance of.

I read but cannot reference a prayer of thanks that someone posted somewhere.  It said “I am thankful for those who love me and I am thankful for those who do not ”    I have thought about those words a lot and for past few days have made them mine.  I cannot explain adequately the sense they make to me.   Yet, since we all exist with those two things being true it makes me feel connected.

I had an awful feeling during all the busy work of cleaning.  I had a horrible thought that maybe I had imagined my son.   And then among all the photos and objects I found the artifacts again.  Buried deep inside me is the biggest artifact of all.   My love for him and his love for me.

If the trees could think, would they during the cold of winter wonder if they imagined ever having leaves.   I don’t know.

IMG_7933Enduring the passing of time.  The challenge we all face – even the mountains and trees.

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Peripheral vision

Posted on October 14, 2013 by pathfinder

IMG_7818I have a good friend who is retired and was happily exploring the passions and interests he had  prior to his retirement.  Then he had a stroke.  The stroke destroyed his peripheral vision on his left side and he is left handed.

My friend is an artist so he has been working steadily to adapt to this permanent problem.  He by law cannot drive and so he is limited now by circumstances beyond his control.  His wife who I met after his stroke has become a good friend too.  She too has had to learn to adapt.

I write about this because there are so many circumstances beyond our control and depending on where they occur in relation to us -we all  experience the consequences.  There is a domino effect as the reality of the scope of a consequence sends its ripples out.

A science series on TV that talks about visual phenomenon, or maybe a better word is attributes.  It shows you examples of what appears to be optical illusions which are in essence your brain trying to make sense of the things you see based on what you know and have learned through time.  There is something termed “persistence of vision” – a utility your eye and brain uses to complete a scene based on what you see in front of you and your peripheral vision.   There is pareidolia, which is when you see images and faces in clouds and woodgrain and other inanimate patterns.

My friends who are victims of the stroke – both he and she – have a loss to grieve.   Others who have not experienced this particular loss expect them to “get on.”  It is not easy.  LIfe has changed, unexpectedly and irrevocably and at my age the learning curve is impaired.   From the outside my friend appears to be just like he was before.  He has learned to position himself to avoid running into walls, doors frames and poles.   He has learned to depend on his wife to take him places he needs to go.  Sometimes I think it must be as hard as it is for me – for him to face a day.  I really can’t imagine that kind of loss.  I depend on my vision.

I know you see the analogy here.   (Even this depends on sight of some sort)  My friend will not regain his peripheral vision and I will not get my son back.  We both watch our step.  We both appear on the outside to be unaltered (except by age).  We are adapting and somedays it just seems like too big a struggle.  Yet his wife, family and I expect him to adapt and keep moving, and my family and friends expect the same of me and I of them.

But please don’t be fooled.  None of this has become easy or fun.  It is not the sort of challenge I would ever choose.

Fall has come and with it the art activities and preparation for holidays.  I am busier because of things I have chosen and things like the basement fiasco that is beyond my control.   While being busy I have less down time and yet I miss my son more, maybe because I don’t have time to stop and think about him.  The cool days, the quickening  of days towards winter make me yearn for him.

I realize that though I may not focus on him directly every day he is there in the peripheral vision of my heart.  Always there ready to step into view.  I don’t push the memories away but i also try and keep from allowing myself to break down and loose the day totally to a situation I cannot change. I am altered.  I am changed.  I am coping as well as I can.

We are adapting to our situation because we have no choice.  And not having a choice is infuriating.

The other day in all the busy activity of cleaning and working to get the space that was flooded by the burst water line back into shape I heard my son say, “mom, you are crazy.”  I had to smile.  Yes, by his standards the way I go at some things are crazy.  It was nice to hear him out of the periphery of my memory.

 

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The face in the mirror

Posted on October 1, 2013 by pathfinder

IMG_7828Dear Son,

I had a dream about you the other night.  I was in my bathroom and when I looked into the mirror it was your face I saw.  You smiled at me then slowly your face faded into mine.

I related this dream to some of those people I trust.  I guess I could say I liked the dream, but that doesn’t really sound adequate.  I am finding that our language is very inadequate to describe a number of things I feel.

Language is strange stuff.  You knew that and your fascination and desire to study linguistics would come in handy right now for you to explain some things to me.

Some people prefer to think that the deceased hover around us aware of everything that is happening on some level.   My jewish friends believe that those who have died go back to be a part of God.   From what little bit I know about Shintoism they believe in a recycling effect.

I can’t explain what I believe except that I don’t have the confidence I used to have in my own ability to figure things out.  It is all jumbled up.

People keep wanting to explain it to me.  I know they need to catalogue all their ideas and feelings.  I know life is terrifying and unpredictable.   I understand the need to try and self-sooth.  My abilities fail me and unfortunately I see their attempts as exactly what they are – I used to use them too.

I’ve been reading the book “the Hidden Messages in Water”  – pretty ideas, but again human ideas nonetheless.   Masaru Emoto sees an analogy in the three states of water– liquid, solid and gas as being analogous to the Father, Son and Holy Spirit.   He talks about the roll of water in Christianity and other world religions.   It is a stretch for me right now.  But it is interesting.  Since the human body is primarily water he thinks that is the spirit of God in us.

There again, who knows, really?

I listened to a TED talk on NPR.  The speaker had been a participant in Biosphere.   One of her final statements concerning what she had learned there was to think about the world as being a huge recycling bin.   She talked about the fact that she was breathing in carbon atoms that may have belonged to her great great great grandparents.   In turn we were leaving carbon atoms for future generations to recycle.  So was that what I saw in the mirror?

Was my thinking about those things what made me see you and see that you are a part of me and I a part of you?  Is that all there is to it?

The fifth anniversary of the passing of my mother was a couple of Sunday’s ago.  Do I carry her in me too?  My dad too?   I certainly see my mother in my hands as arthritis takes hold of my little fingers.   I see myself and your dad in your sister.   Maybe that is all there is to it.

It has been a messy few weeks with the downstairs flooding.   I have been occupied with things that had to be done.   I know why your dad stays so busy – to fend off the terrible symptoms of grief that engulf the day so quickly.

Because there are no adequate words I can only say I long to see you, talk with you and feel your long arms around me.   I breath it out with each morning sigh and breath it in because of the autonomic responses and balance between the CO2 and Oxygen and some days that is all I can do.

I truly hope to get to see you again.

As long as I have life, I will love you and if love is eternal then we are bound eternally.

Forever,

Mom

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

A delicate balance

Posted on September 13, 2013 by pathfinder
Pink Beds

Pink Beds – on display in Blowing Rock, N.C.

I am not the only one walking a thin line with delicate balance.  The illusion that I used to operate under is apparent now and is not so apparent to everyone else who has not had the illusion shattered.  For their blissfully oblivious state – I have a little envy.  It was so much more comfortable then.

It is easy for small things to become stressful now.  Therefore, I end up being on guard all the time.  Yet still amazingly small things can set me off and end up annoying me – the fact that I am now undone by something so small.   It is is wholly my responsibility to monitor the environment, the conversations and to keep my guard up.  It is exhausting and multiplies the perceived stress.

The big events – the life events that are in themselves accepted by most to be sources of stress should seem almost monumental.  Yet strangely – because they are so widely accepted and expected to produce stress – I at times – hear my inner voice say – “yeah well, knew that was coming . . .”  The large universal stress producers have been experienced by so many that we seem to have a few blue prints available on how to handle it.

Example:  I came home from a weekend away to a flooded basement.  My husband had been home and caught it early enough that he was able to call the professionals who deal with this sort of thing.  The source of the water was shut off (a line came loose under a sink).  The fans and dehumidifiers are running.  The insurance adjuster has come.  Work will begin next week to restore what has been damaged.  It is a royal pain, but there is a order in which these things are resolved.   There are going to be decisions and inconveniences during the time things are being repaired and replaced but in a surprisingly short time – it will be finished.

I will do what I have to do.

While in my basement assessing the damage one of the workmen picked up my son’s guitar that had been stacked on a surface out of harms way.  He while holding it – tuned it.  I assume he thought he was doing someone a favor.  He told me he had tuned it with a look of pride and when I explained  to him that it was my son’s guitar he quickly put it down.  He said he was sorry to hear the news of our loss, though he had only just recently learned of it. (We live in a very small town).

My son played violin for a while and picked up the guitar when he was in high school.  He played at it.   At one point he thought he would peruse a carrier in music.  He was not immune to the dreams of youth.  We sent him to Berkley School of Music in Boston for a summer music camp to let him see if indeed that was what he wanted to pursue.  He came home from his experience and said it was not for him and continued to “play at” his guitar.  He had been the last person to tune this guitar.   And to be honest – he would not have appreciated this person messing with his guitar.   My son could be a snob at times about certain things.  So am I.

This small thing gained momentum and rolled right over the day.  Like bowling pins I watched my intentions for the day scatter as my indignation grew out of proportion to the event.   It is in these moments that  part of me steps back and observes the situation.  I understand it is out proportion and that I should not allow this to bother me.  The rational part of me knows this.  Then I find myself wanting to shake my head and comment “wow, you really are still a big mess, aren’t you?”  But the emotional self, the raw still tender and volatile part of me sometimes wins.  Maybe less often than a year ago or even a month ago but it still wins.  Is this progress?  Is there such a thing as progress to be had with grief?  I don’t know.

I still think the workman had no business tuning the guitar, regardless of who it belonged to without asking permission first.  That I am sure should be the bottom line for me.  It would be like someone coming into my studio and painting on my painting.  It is not acceptable.   The guitar had been resting there undisturbed for over two years.   And maybe that is not acceptable – a waste of a good guitar.    But like I mentioned at the beginning – I walk a delicate balance.

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