Memories, July 30, 2009, 7:59 p.m.

I drive 13 hours through the rain to Houston to speak at a conference and cry most of the way. Colby, his grandmother and I had made countless trips to Memphis over the years. This particular drive through Memphis, alone, is especially hard. The memories of those trips bring back other memories.

When Colby was two he left his very tattered and beloved Snoopy, his "Noopy," at a local church after a Saturday morning pancake breakfast. By the time we figured out where Noopy was, it was late afternoon and the church was locked. "That's okay," Colby said. "God will take care of Noopy until we can go back for him in the morning." The memory brings forth yet another prayer from me to God that he take care of my little boy. Please . . .

Memory after memory floods into my brain and I begin to play "what if." This is a very dangerous game because there is never a good answer. What if I had held Colby back a year before he started kindergarten? Would he have better been able to handle life's pressures? What if we had moved back to Minnesota and lived there? Would that have made a difference? What if he'd gone to different schools, participated in different sports? What if?

The fact is Colby would still have had schizophrenia and he may or may not have made the same choices. He may, however, have been able to get treatment. To distract myself from these dangerous thoughts I turn on the radio, but I can't listen to music. Colby and I had listened to so many kinds of music together at home and on trips that every song, every singer, every note brings me to tears. I try Talk radio, but it's all about health care reform. I don't want to get started on that, so I drive in silence.

I head into Houston and force myself to focus on how fortunate I was to have such wonderful memories of my son. In his 23 years Colby touched my life in so many positive ways. My life is far richer for the privilege of knowing him, however short the time. And through this blog and in many other ways, Colby and his story are touching countless others. I turn to my 3rd Kleenex box of the day to find it empty. I pray tomorrow the guilt and numbness will return.