Belonging

Posted on February 25, 2013 by pathfinder

IMG_5971Dear Son,

I had a great day yesterday.  The sun was shining and the temperature warmed into the 50’s.

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It was good to go to church to be with the family.  It may sound cold to say that because there are so many people in the family having problems right now.  There is serious physical illness with so much uncertainty and unknown.  I hate it for everyone and it messes with my own levels of grief, but I know that people will work through it. I saw hope there and it gave me strength.  I still struggle with things people say about God – attitudes they say He has and human-like qualities they attribute to Him. I see HIm best in the hope others have.  But that is enough about that – let me tell you about the rest of my day.

IMG_6058I went out in the afternoon with one of my friends that you never got to meet.  I hate that for both of you.  You would like her.  She is from Haywood County having grown up there.  She knows the area  and she has relatives and friends scattered all over  along those mountain roads.  We were down by the Pigeon River and Jonathan Creek.  We traveled along route 209 toward Hot Springs – the route you used to take when the landslides happened on I-40.

 

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Along the way we met so many people.  My friend can talk to anyone so she would strike up a conversation and end up learning how she was somehow connected through a relative or a mutual friendship.  And there was scenery and the animals!  I carried you and your sister with me during every moment.  I felt like you were both beside me and in me and we were looking through the same eyes together, sharing our mutual love for this place.

 

IMG_6072I saw lots of rocks.   I thought about how you would like to hike up and check out those rocks.  I let myself think about that just like I stood close to the edge to look over the steep embankment to the Pigeon River below.  It was deliberate and creepy.

 

 

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I took lots of pictures and I catalogued how it felt in my mind.  I will keep them all  the photos and the feelings as reference for paintings – or not.

It is no use to try and avoid tears.   I’m done with trying.  Grief may dampen my days but it does not stop me from getting done the things that need to be done but moreover it will not stop me from being with the people I need to be with.

 

 

We ran into one person that puzzled both my friend and I.  We met her first thing on our excursion.  She owns a business in the area that does organic gardening.  Apparently at times they rent a room or two like a bed and breakfast.  They also do landscaping.  The house had signs that said parking in back so we drove to the back only to find that the drive circled what appeared to be piles of mulch.  The woman  met us in the drive.  My friend got out to talk to her.  I didn’t hear everything she said but basically she ordered us off her property.  She said we should have made an appointment and thanked us to leave, turned and stalked off.    The incident tried to color the day, but was not successful.  The countryside, scenery, people and farm animals swept her bad attitude away.  I do wonder what her problem was.  Apparently she has gotten a reputation for being sour and that is really sad for her business and the community.  Later a thought occurred to me that maybe she  just doesn’t belong.

That is the gift I possess.  I belong.  And luckily I have learned to choose friends that belong.IMG_6071

I belong to my family and to my church family.  I belong to my friends and to the art community.  I belong to God – whoever He is – and I belong to this life as long as it lasts.   It is not a passive act – belonging.  It is something you choose and have to work at.  It is something that comes with bumps and bruises and pain.  It is something that comes with indescribable joy.

Don’t worry, that woman is not going to become my project.  But I pray that somehow she learns to file off those barbs and allow her puzzle piece to fit in with some of the rest.  She doesn’t have to be one of those pieces in the middle of the puzzle that has to match up with everything around it, she can be a corner piece.  Maybe yelling at us made her feel better?  I doubt it.

You belonged to us and to your friends and to strangers in need.  You were a good fit.

IMG_5790While your sister was working on her Christmas jigsaw puzzle this year my dog ate a number of the puzzle pieces!  Why you sister decided to work the puzzle  on the floor I’ll never know and the temptation was too much for the dog.  I hope that lady was not one of those pieces!

 

 

 

 

There is not enough time left in this world to tell you how much I love you.  I sincerely hope that I never forget to tell the people I love how much I love them.   It is the least I can do.

I love where we live and I love the community that embraces us.

I love you son.  I miss you all the time.

Forever

Mom

 

Posted in Coping with the Death of a Child, Faith, Family, Friends | Leave a comment

Inventory

Posted on February 18, 2013 by pathfinder

IMG_5403 - Version 2I am beginning to recognize myself for who I am in this ” now”. I feel better when I paint or work in clay or knit.  I feel like myself.  I feel like myself when I read.  I feel like myself when I write.

I love my daughter. I love talking to my daughter.  I love how brilliant she is.  She has her problems, her obsessions but she is insightful and loves learning.  I love that about her.  I love that she always tries and puts forth such an concentrated effort.  She really ,really cares.  She really loves.

I love my husband the father of our children.  He is so  complex and yet has the simplest of motives. At heart he would like everyone to be happy.  He may bluff and bluster but he is  tender hearted and incredibly sentimental.  He is fiercely protective and has little patience with ignorance – or those who are willfully ignorant.  Look, learn, listen – pay attention and learn.

I am learning to love my son-in-law.  Poor man to have to be introduced into our family when the rug was snatched out from under us.  He has coped much better than might be expected.  I appreciate his patience and his willingness to learn about us.  We probably haven’t extended that effort as much as we would have in other times and circumstances.  We are working on the process. I do love him.  I want to love him more.

I love my extended family.  They all have their own problems.  Pain.  It is there as it is for everyone.  They don’t ask my advice (of which I have little anymore).  If I had any it would be to work on learning to love without contingencies.   For the most part from my observations I think they do that.

Learning to love that way is like hugging a huge rose bush that is in bloom.  The beauty and lovely aroma does not mean you won’t be stuck – a lot.

Life is full of pain mixed with the beauty.  It makes no sense.  I trust no human explanations.  I am able to give my own best guesses too and they don’t’ amount to much.

I love my friends.   It is tough to be a good friend.  It takes a delicate touch and  the ability to recognize balance.  I don’t know that I am as good a friend to others as they are to me.  I don’t think we are good at being objective about that.   The past nineteen months have had me turning myself insight out with introspection and I’m not sure I remember everything I have found.

I love my son.

On more than one occasion while on a hike with him I would get worried or fearful.  I fear falling down.  Past experience and lack of feeling in my feet have caused that to happen.  Bifocal’s make judging distance downhill difficult.  Slippery rocks and loose footing  are a challenge for me.  Crossing streams with rushing water by rock hopping intimates me.  I am allergic to cold – cold induced urticaria to be exact.  Falling into cold water is not good for most people and particularly bad for me.I break out in hives.

My son kept me safe.

He would take my hand.  At a stream he would say.  “Mom, I won’t let you fall!  I will stand in the water and be your handrail, just take your time!  I will make sure you get across safely.”  And he did.

He did that in so many aspects of my life.  He got me safely across.

I feel so vulnerable at times now.   I have to work on my courage.  I have to remember his encouragement.

I have to allow those I have in my life and the memory of his love help me get safely across to wherever it is that I am going.   I have a lot of thorns to pick out along the way.

It takes a lot of effort – hourly, daily effort.

In times past (that I took so for granted) I recharged with words and affection from my husband, son and daughter.  We gained strength and reassurance from each other.   I think we still can and do use each other to recharge but it has changed and we are relearning how.  It is a slow process at times.

The key?  I have no idea but I suspect it is still tied up in love.  Love like a thread that stitches the days back together.

 

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

Slippery days

Posted on February 13, 2013 by pathfinder

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Dear Son,

I’ve been slipping the past few days.  I have a “to-do” list that is mocking me.  It is easier to sit, to let the day grind by without accomplishing much.

I can’t stop thinking about you.

Not that I want to stop thinking about you.  I think about you in relation to your sister.  I think about the influence you have in our family and lives.  I think about what you could and should be doing. It claims a lot of time.

When you were still here, I thought about you.  I worried about you.  You were right – worry is useless.  It claims and wastes a lot of time.   Worry changed nothing, altered nothing – wove no magic spell.

You would like my new paintings.  I am confident about that.   Someday I may sneak a red barn into one of them . . .or not.  If I do, it will be in your honor.  One of my new paintings won a prize.  It was great to have your dad and sister express their pride.  I missed hearing you say, “That’s great mom!”

I miss you in every aspect of my life, because you and your sister and dad are in and are a part of every aspect of my life.  All of you comprise what is my world.

Tomorrow is Valentines day.  You were due to be born on Valentines day but came ten days early.  My February baby.  Another holiday you liked to poke fun at for being sappy and sentimental.

Yet you were one of the most sentimental persons I have ever known.  Always there when it came to those important family life events, even if it was uncomfortable for you.

My day is going to break down all together if I don’t get up from here, get moving – use my hands to do something productive.

I’m rambling.

Your dogs have a good home with your sister.  They are well loved and taken care of.  I still haven’t sorted through your stuff.   Maybe after July I will try, maybe not.

The 1st anniversary of the the death of one of your high school friends is a week from today.  He was born in July  and died in February.  You were born in February and died in July.  Sad coincidence.

These are incoherent days.  Sorry.

It is frustrating knowing what you need the most and cannot have, cannot replace.

And who am I to expect answers?

If God is love, then God bound us together, you, me, your sister and dad.  We live together in love, bound in it.  If there is eternal life (and I so hope there is and I so fear there is not) then I hope one day before I face it, that I can have a moment of peace and reassurance that you are there – safe and whole. But like I said, it is so frustrating knowing what you need the most and cannot have.

So many questions and so few answers.

I love you.

Forever

Mom

 

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

Insecure

Posted on February 6, 2013 by pathfinder

Closer to the stars

Insecure.  Not secure.  I’ve often wondered about what we think is secure.  There are structures and machines and implements we use every day, trusting that they will work.  For the most part they do, until something happens.  A failure from within or a failure from without or a lapse in judgement by the user or a glitch that occurs with the person themselves like passing out at the wheel.

I think about it when I drive over an old bridge.  I remember when the bridge in West Virginia  collapsed so many years ago.  Inspectors were sent out and bridges of the same age were inspected.  On some TV show the subject was our crumbling road system.  All of us depend on it and it is hard to keep in adequate repair.  Earthquake proof it, shore it up, protect it from the wind, strengthen it.  Still inevitably it is not 100% secure.  It is not.

Now we choose each day to just go along trusting that things will work like they are supposed to.  We age and our body plays dirty tricks on us.  Our mind does too.  As much as we want everything to stay status quo it does not.   Over the course of a few days, a few months things gradually change.  Sometimes in a matter of minutes something occurs that changes our life.  Those events wipe out a sense of security very quickly.

Our son’s birthday was this past Monday.  I didn’t write that day.  There was nothing new I could say.

His dad and I along with his sister feel the weight of the insecurity that hovers like a cloud over our life.   I question things I never thought I would question.

We go through the motions a lot of the time.  Everything, absolutely everything has been dulled down, has a little less flavor, is not quite so funny, not nearly as sweet.  Maybe part of this perception is self preservation.  We all bear a deep deep wound and don’t want that to happen again. Avoidance perhaps.  Insecurity.

What anchors us here?  What carefully crafted ideas and assumptions were built to bridge our days from youth to old age?  It was easier when I didn’t think about these questions.

I really want to talk to my son about all this.  He was one of the person’s whose insights, though so different from my own shed light on so many things.  I want to share a quiet moment with him too.  Just the two of us, like before.  The anchoring moments of time spent quietly in each other’s company -comfortable in the silence.

“So!” he would say and punctuate the moment.  “So, mom . . . ”

I am exhausted.  I have wrestled daily with the horrible insecurity I feel.  I have wrestled with God and most days now I just ignore Him.  I find so little comfort there.  I feel insecure in the tradition I grew up in.  I quite honestly don’t know what to believe .  It seems like another man-made construct at times manipulated to suit whatever fits the individual best.  It breaks my heart because it is tied up in the death of my son.

I wish I were still blissfully ignorant.  I wish I could go back, reboot, back up a date somewhere else in my timeline.

Today I am going to have to work on my mask.  I have an interview with a person who will be featuring me and my art in a local publication.  I have to put on a good face.  I have to pretend that I am secure in what I am doing and why.

The series of paintings I have been working on is called “in a different light”.  It is how I think about the world now. It is the same place, but in a different light that changes everything.  Things once hidden are revealed, colors change like moods, shadows are not the same.   No going back.  No standing still. Just moving for the sake of moving regardless of how insecure we feel.

Posted in Coping with the Death of a Child, Death, Faith, Family, Friends | Tagged , , , , , , | 4 Comments

The Day Begins . . .

Posted on January 30, 2013 by pathfinder

Ebby

 

The day begins.

Before the sun rises the dogs and I go outside.

We go to the kitchen where I put on the kettle, find the box of oatmeal, prepare the vacuum brewer for the coffee.

The dogs are anxious watching my every move, anticipating their food.

I hear the kettle begin to make its heating noises.

I put the dogwood in the dog’s bowls and pour a little hot water over their kibble and let it set.

I measure out the oatmeal and put it in the microwave.

I poor the hot water into the pot of the brewer and start the  coffee making.

The dogs are made to wait as I put their bowls down.  The older pomeranian is allowed to eat some first before the younger mini aussie can have his.  He looks at me waiting for the signal to begin.

Brown sugar and raisins or maybe a banana accompany the oatmeal.

My husband comes down the hall.  The dogs greet him.  I pour his coffee while he spoons brown sugar into his hot oatmeal.

“Did you sleep okay?” we ask each other.  Familiar phrases and questions are passed around the table.

Routine can be a comfortable thing.  Some folks depend on it ritualistically.  Others, like me notice it in passing and stop sometimes to watch it, observe how it weaves our lives together.

My husband hugs me tightly.  Sometimes we linger there.  I smell his aftershave.  I wish him a good day.  We are both missing our son, but sometimes we only share that common thought through the touch of our hug.  He leaves for work.

Around 8:00 a.m. I try to make sure I have my phone nearby.  Our daughter will call and if she doesn’t I will call her.  I try to remember before I call if this is a day she will work from home.  She might be sleeping in and I don’t want to wake her unnecessarily early.  She and I always talk about her brother.  He has either visited her in her dreams or something of our shared sadness sparks a memory.

In my studio there is photo of my son and I in Maine.  His arm is looped over my shoulder as usual and I have my arm around his torso.  He is beautiful, barely smiling.  A german couple took our picture together because we had taken theirs.  I ache to hold him again, to hear his voice,  to feel his arm around my shoulder.

I will cry for a while.  The little pomeranian always seems to know and comes to me begging for me to pick her up and hold her.   She snuggles me while I sniff and blow.  Sometimes I direct the unanswerable questions at her.  She looks at me with dark unfathomable eyes.  She offers me the comfort she can provide and it is a huge gift.

This too is a part of the routine that gathers itself like a wave some days to wash around me and on others sweeps me out into the sea of grief.

We miss our son, the brother, the nephew, the cousin, the friend.

I miss you so much sweetheart.  I can’t get used to this part of what is now the routine.

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

Fear and Trembling

Posted on January 23, 2013 by pathfinder

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I am reacting to a post on Facebook that kept me up last night and now consumes the morning.  A person who received a transplant is rejecting the organ and prayers on that person’s behalf are being asked for God to provide them with another transplant.

They ask others to ask God that an organ be “found.”

After all they just grow on trees and sometimes can be dug up like truffles.

It bothers me most that God is mixed up in all this.  I’ve had enough trouble over the past 18 months reconciling the events that have occurred.  If what these well meaning so called Christians are asking is true then somewhere someone prayed my son to death.

Asking that this person receives an organ means a totally healthy person has to die.

Now I am assuming that in asking that an organ be “found” that they don’t expect it to be found in one of their children or family members.   Or maybe – as in the case of a liver they would be willing to go be tested and donate a lobe of their own.   But otherwise the organ needed must come from someone who recently died.

God spins the wheel or decides who lives and who does not capriciously – judges them before the judgement – looks across the span of time and spares them from other things.   I’ve heard enough.

The handful of letters we have received from the recipients of our son’s organs are stacked neatly on the box that contain his ashes.   I read them once.  I have not read them again.   The recipients had a hard time writing those letters.  Some recipients have never responded at all. Not having the responses is hard.

I am told that lung transplants are particularly difficult to survive.  I hope the people who received my son’s lungs survived.  He could run up the mountain behind our house with ease.  Days in Colorado climbing conditioned him for such exertion.

The man who received his heart has written us twice.  He was told  that he had receivied a perfect heart.

A perfect heart.

I remember hearing it beat.

Spare me please your explanations

I am trying to work out my salvation with fear and trembling because I have found out the hard way what that really means.  Believe me you don’t want to know.

God forbid that He be forced to answer their prayers the way they asked it.

Posted in Coping with the Death of a Child | 5 Comments

Telling the story

Posted on January 13, 2013 by pathfinder

IMG_5866When it comes to my son, my heart continues to refuse to think of him as “gone.”  It is a daily battle and sometimes just to be able to get on with the day I give in to pretending.  I pretend I will see him or talk with him at some point.  As I head to bed, turning out lights and checking doors the reality follows me.  He is not here.   I never go to bed without tears.

Often the missing him takes on franticly desperate proportions.  I look for him in the face of every tall young man.  ( I thought I was past this).   I want to look at photos of him and I can’t look at photos of him.   I have a short video of him at Panthertown Park with the dogs.  I hear his voice in the video and the day is destroyed when before it was a point around which my day could find its course.

My daughters wonderful dream in some ways a comfort in some ways a new focus of yearning.

I listen to NPR.  My son used to make fun of NPR.  I think he felt it was like someone who reads Reader’s Digest and think they have a grasp of things going on in the world.

On NPR Barry Lopez was being interviewed about his book “Sliver of Sky”.  I haven’t read the book yet, but it is on my list now.  I am so sorry for the death of his innocence at an early age to sexual abuse and for the new face he has had to create.  I recognized in his statements a similarity to statements  made by those who have lost a child.  It seems to be tied to grief, loss and the feeling of being alone in a situation over which you have no control.

Here are some of his words out of context, but you will get their meaning.

“Now what?”

“Damaged for the rest of your life. . .”

“It is like someone has set your face on fire and now you have to look in the mirror and find another face.”

” . . . an empty place that nothing will ever fill or fix . . .”

difficulty in an “ability to articulate your meaning in the world . . .”

“Someone will tell you how to tell the story that did not go through the experience.”

The last statement is hauntingly true.  We, the bereaved are made to adapt our story, make it palatable and socially correct.  It is is as though at times we are expected to ask for help that when offered  must be on someone else’s terms.

My son is still a part of my every day life.  I think of him and what he would say and how he would react.  I had such hopes for him and expectations.  I could not wait to see what he was going to do.  We argued and fought.  I am a person who yells when angry and so we yelled at each other though I have a hard time remembering about what.  I miss his long arm looped over my shoulder and the feeling of his being protective towards me.

I don’t like to hear myself say it, but I have been damaged.   I stare in the mirror and I see an old face made older by grief and I don’t know who she is .   There is an empty place that nothing can fill – no one and no thing.   I was his mother to the world, I was so proud of him and had so much to look forward to.   My story is not new and not singular as an experience but it is difficult for the unscathed to hear and it is not my job to make it more palatable.

You can’t fix me or fill in the space.  You can’t replace my son.  You can if you are willing be patient with me.  Respect the fact that if I am sad it has nothing to do with you.  If you can’t take it then let me say, it was nice while it lasted.   No hard feelings.  My hard feelings are those that I keep company with all day.

I wear tear tracks in my makeup a lot.  And if I look like I’ve been crying, I probably have.  Don’t ask why because you already know why.   Don’t ask me how I am.  Surely you can tell.  I have no accurate gauge anymore , it has been lost and actually was faulty to begin with.   Don’t tell me “it seems like you are doing better.”  It feels like a slap in the face.  Better than what?   Or thanks loads pal, now I feel guilty that I am having a good day.

I am not trying to be difficult.  I am just more obvious that many – so very many who have created their new face and wear it better than I do.   Victims of child abuse and spousal abuse and marginalized and terrorized , victims of violence and accidents and ill health who are leaving this earth or have watched loved ones leave this earth.   We are who you might become one day.  Even if you treat us as you think you would want to be treated in similar circumstances – you still won’t understand.  Until – God forbid, it happens.  So it is a conundrum that after everything I have said I really would prefer you to remain oblivious.  Sincerely.

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

Condolences to the families in Newtown Connecticut

Posted on December 28, 2012 by pathfinder

IMG_0308The end of 2012 is just around the corner.  There was a lot of talk and people poking fun or maybe whistling in the dark about the Mayan Calendar.  It hasn’t been that long ago that a preacher predicted the end of the world and the media had a hay-day with that too.   It has to unsettle everyone when that kind of thing is publicized.  I worry about the children who hear it.  It must be frightening for them.

For a number of us the world has ended – as we know it.   Most of us were given no warning.  It happened suddenly, brutally.   It happened just recently in a little town in Vermont.  It happened a month ago on a train track with a bus in Egypt.  It happens every day somewhere in the world – statisticians say fourteen children die every minute.  Every minute the world ends for someone and their family.

Morbid, but true.  Unchanging but sadly statistically – predictable.

For the parents and family of those that have departed the world has ended as they know it and nothing anyone says or does can repair it.   All the tributes being done now in honor of the children of Newtown Connecticut are sweet and well intentioned.  In six months people other than those in Newtown may be talking about it.  In one year perhaps those outside of that town might have a remembrance.  In two years, when the parents will need it the most  little outside the town will be said.

Life goes on.  And so does the pain for those who lost their children.  Now when the victim families of Newtown are shielded a bit by shock and the mass grieving reality is blurred.  Reality will threaten to engulf them like a rouge wave in a couple of months.

My advice to the parents and families of those lost in Newtown is to lean on each other.  Find or form a group through Compassionate Friends if one does not already exist.   Find friends who give you space to talk.  Most of all talk as much as you need to and then some.

For those who want to comfort them don’t be afraid, there grief is not contagious.  If you have not lost a child don’t feel bad that you  can’t understand.  We don’t mind.  Remember the best words you can say are “I am so sorry” and “I have no idea how you feel.”  The families are not going to “get over it.”  They are not going to “get better.”  They will learn to move forward.  They will have good days and bad.  The progress will not be linear.  They will want to talk about their child but will be afraid to burden you.  They will erect remembrances and may wear items or collect things that remind them of their child and it may make you uncomfortable.  You may be afraid they “will never be the same.”  I can tell you now.  They will never be the same.

They may run a marathon or start a political campaign to save others from their child’s fate.

They may find your presence (if you cannot find a way to be comfortable with them) unbearable and you may loose them as a friend.  Your children, their child’s contemporaries will evoke emotions you cannot imagine.

It is not personal towards you.

It is a side effect of the awful companion grief.

Relationships within their families will be strained. Husbands and wives, parents and children, grandparents and other family members may clash.  Each will grieve their own set of losses and at their own rate.  There is no time limitations or expectations.  It will take all the time it takes.

Some families may feel the need to move away from Newtown.

Newtown itself is in shock.  Suddenly focus is brought to the lack of control we have in this world.  It is a dangerous place.  It is hard to trust those things we once took for granted.

Every Saturday since that Saturday, July 2nd of 2011 I become a little superstitious.  I have a little nagging worry that  gives me a headache even now if I think about it too much.   I trusted that day for years and I don’t anymore.     I hope for those of us who continue to mourn the passing of our child that we can learn to relax a bit at some point and trust again.  But that may be too much to ask.

It is no consolation really but I have to say – Dear Parents and Family of the victims of Newtown – you are not alone.  I am so sorry.   I know part of what you feel having lost my son.  His death  was not to violence so I cannot imagine how you feel in the aftermath of such violence.  I have not lost a little child either.  My son was fully grown and an adult.   I know that does change the set of variables that exists within the grieving process.  Try to endure as best as you can.

Your children and my child were beautiful and precious.  I am so sorry they are gone.

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

Why?

Posted on December 16, 2012 by pathfinder

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The word “why” is going to ripple through the air and through thoughts for quite a while before it settles down again like a dry leaf.  It will be kicked up again soon enough by events small and large.

“Why” stands there open without boundaries or limitations.  I have stood out in the open air and asked it to the sky many times.   “why?”

There is no answer.

People of faith scrape together what they can and try to come up with an answer but for me, at least ,it never suffices.   In their efforts they try to explain God‘s mind.   If there is to be humor found in any of this I find that funny.  What God knows He holds like cards,  close to His chest.

Life as we know it seems to operate on a continuum with what we perceive as beginnings and endings.  But which came first the chicken or the egg?

None of the explanations, platitudes or well intentioned words fill the space in our heart when we loose a loved one. It does not answer the why that hangs in the air when their ending precedes our own and we are left to await our own without them.

We can get angry at the circumstances that took our loved one.  We can store up venom and hatred towards doctors, or drivers or guns or gravity and rant but it does not answer the “why.”

Sadly in some quiet space we realize that all the things we are angry about have their good uses too – are necessary – yet they are mixed up in our loss and we don’t know why.

Last night I thought about the first responders to the scene at that school in Connecticut.  For all they knew they would be running into the line of fire, but they did not hesitate.  The rest of their lives they will picture what they found.   I thought about those who had to tend to the dead and the dying.  They chose to serve their community, but never imagined it would include this type of horror.

I thought about the grandmother and brother of the young man who is thought to have carried this out.  The grandmother has lost her child and grandchild and now is burdened with grief and guilt and shame.  The brother whose name was mistaken for his brother’s has lost his mother and brother and is now irreparably linked to this.  Why?  Neither of these people are to blame, but they will be scrutinized because the media thinks they have a right no know.  With all their searching the why will never be answered.   Never.

The mind who conceived this massacre is stilled.  Maybe he has written things that will shed a little light on the events for some, but it does not plug that open ended question.

I remember the evening after our son died.  I remember going through the motions and getting ready for bed.  I remember tears and staring out into the dark sky and asking the universe – why?

The coroner will provide the grieving parents with the gut wrenching details of exactly how their child died but they will always wonder why.

So not only do we live with the grief, but we live with the why.

I am so sorry for the loss of the parents and families.  I am so sorry that the assailant was so troubled and chose this course of action.

When our son died the newscasters showed up at our house.   The media seems to think they have a right to get up close into our tear stained face and broadcast our personal pain.  I was angry at first.  My husband refused to come outside.  Finally I told them they could record my voice and my shadow as I talked about our beautiful son.   I have the broadcast taped on my DVR but I have never watched it again after it was broadcast.   I don’t know who it helped and it certainly didn’t change a thing.

I worry that we have become so used to being allowed into those intimate private spaces and that our news service providers feel entitled.   But that is a subject to be discussed and considered by all of us as consumers of that product.  Regardless it changed nothing.

Lives have ended.   Lives that remain are changed as long as they live.   People will patch up what they can and do their very best but in all of it they can never truly ultimately answer  why.  I pray that all the families, civil servants, teachers, friends and community  there in that small town can gain strength from each other and endure.   It is what we do.  And I don’t know why.

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