Police

I finally fall asleep around 3:00 this morning. At 4:55 the police bang one my door. They are looking for Colby. I am stunned. They did not bother to show up for his 911 call when he passed away and now here they are more than a month later. “My son has passed away,” I finally stammer. These, apparently, are the wrong words. They don’t believe me. I tell them to call the medical examiner, the mortuary, to call Channel 4, who did a story on his Celebration of Life. My words do not interest them. Instead, they ask to come in and look around. I refuse. This, too, was the wrong thing to do. They become belligerent, threatening. I start to cry. I tell them over and over that my son, my only child, my baby, is gone. They don’t leave until I sink to the floor, wrap my arms around my knees and begin to rock. I sit there, rocking in front of the glass storm door, for a long time.

At 6:33 they are back. At 6:33 p.m. on July 25 Colby was pronounced as deceased at Nashville's St. Thomas hospital. If I am awake anytime the clock hits 6:33 I say a prayer for my son. This morning’s prayer is interrupted by intense banging on my door. This time they have a warrant. One instructs me to sit on the couch, the other rummages through my house. I tell the one by the door that I have a death certificate in an envelope in my office. I have a stack of condolence cards that I have not yet written thank you's for. I have this blog. Colby has a memorial website. The Bellevue Masons just did a breakfast in his honor. This cold, cold police officer is not interested. The search only lasts a few minutes. The second officer shakes his head at the first and suddenly they are gone. I sit on the couch, unable to move. I am numb. After a time, I slowly walk through my house. Drawers, closets, and cabinets are pulled open, contents spilling to the floor. I wrap myself up and sit in a cornet on the floor and cry.

Conversations

I cannot rest today so I pick a pile of Colby’s stuff and begin to go through it. At the center I find a briefcase and inside it must be every newspaper clipping his grandmother ever sent him. He and she had a special connection, a special bond. Both loved to discuss politics, religion, history, art, social sciences and news of the day. These are subjects I am not particularly interested in, at least not at the level they were, and I remember that while I lost my only child, my mother lost her only grandchild. Who, now, will discuss these things with her? Who will call her with an insightful comment on our national leaders? Who will talk with her about daily life in medieval times, Greek and Roman mythology, the shortage of water in Kenya, Beethoven’s mistresses, three legged frogs, fossils, satirical cartoons, the many uses of borax, Native American traditions, English literature, algae, our nation’s aging roads and bridges, and the many other things they discussed in depth?

I realize I must make an effort to fill the gap, but that means developing a working knowledge of all of the above, and more, and I am already so very overwhelmed. But I will do this. My mother is important to me. She is the last of my family and deserves these intellectual conversations that mean so much to her. I already call her several times a day, but now I will call freshly prepped with a topic and the Internet close at hand. If I can't be knowledgeable about the subjects, maybe I can at least pull up some interesting facts to share with her.

Sleep

I am emotionally, physically, and mentally on overload. Drained. I am so tired I wake up shaking. Normally, I have a tendency to over-do and Colby was the one who could always tell from the sound of my voice, the look on my face, the way I moved that I needed to rest. Granted, I have had a few others tell me that recently, and today I will take their advice. But Colby could catch it far sooner than anyone else. I will miss that. Somehow, I will need to learn to better gauge my inner resources.

Since the day Colby was born, rest and sleep has been a problem for me. When he was a baby I was afraid to sleep in case he needed something and I slept through it. What if he got caught in his crib, or turned over and couldn't breathe? As he got older he developed asthma. Then, of course, I couldn't sleep. What if he had an attack and couldn't find his inhaler. What if he needed to be rushed to the hospital, or I had to call 911? Then there was the usual childhood ailments: whooping cough, chicken pox, upper respiratory and ear infections. No way I could sleep then.

As Colby grew yet older and began going out with friends I couldn't sleep because I worried about him and I did receive my share of phone calls about car accidents or needing a ride because a friend had been drinking. More recently I couldn't sleep because Colby chose to be homeless. Where was he sleeping? Was he safe? Was he cold, hungry, hot, thirsty?

Now the process of going to sleep offers me far too much time to think, to process the loss, the sadness, the grief. So I don't try to sleep until I am exhausted. Then I am too tired to sleep, if there is such a thing, and end up dozing a few hours until morning.

I am not sure what the solution is. I have almost 24 years of sleeplessness. My body craves it, yet my mind resists it. Today I will lie down and and attempt to block the swirl of thoughts that come with inactivity. The usual distraction of a book is useless to me now. My attention span is still very short. Seconds. I find myself trying to read the same page over and over and none of it makes sense. And I find tv either grating with laughter, or depressing with talk of politics and health care reform. But I will try to rest today. I will try.

Generosity

The generosity of others amazes me. This morning, members of the Belleview Masonic Lodge rise before dawn to prepare a benefit pancake breakfast in Colby's memory. More than 100 people come by and I have the chance to chat with several long-time friends. We share a few smiles and a few more tears. The meal is excellent and I hope that those in Nashville who read this will support other functions of this organization. They are kind and great people.

Tonight Colby's friends gather to share music and love in his memory. I go early and thank them all for being Colby's friend, for loving him, and for gathering this evening to remember him. Colby would be a little embarrassed at the attention, but also very, very pleased.

Today reminds me that there really is only one important thing in life and that is the people we love. I think as a whole that we do not appreciate enough those who are closest to us. Those people we love and care about really are irreplaceable. Daily life often gets in the way of what is important, and I hope Colby's passing gives everyone who reads this blog the incentive to cherish and hold tight those who are closest to them. I was fortunate. Colby and I always said "I love you" to each other. I'd give anything to let him know how much I really meant it.

Sitting

I sit on the shuttle on the way to the airport and see a sign that says the bus is powered by bio-diesel fuel. This causes me to burst into tears as Colby was such a proponent of bio-diesel. He would be so pleased to hear about the shuttle and I want to share it with him, but of course I can't. Other than the driver, I am the only person on the bus, so there is no one to look away or become embarrassed by my tears.

I sit on the airplane and look out the window at luggage being loaded into a neighboring plane. We cannot depart due to a broken hinge on an overhead cargo bin, so we wait for half an hour before a uniformed man shows up with some duct tape. Colby loved duct tape and used it for everything from making clothes and backpacks to holding his car together. It's been an emotional day after several numb days and the sight of the roll of tape causes me to cry. The plane is only about a third full and the closest passenger, a lady in the aisle seat in my row, doesn't even look up from her computer.

I sit on the plane, ancy. I am uncharacteristically claustrophobic and fight the urge to get up from my seat and run screaming down the aisle. Instead, I look out the window in hopes of hiding my tears.

I sit in my truck in the parking lot of the Nashville airport. I wonder if I should go home, or if I should just drive until I can't drive anymore. I remember my dog, Abby, and cat, Bailey, are waiting for me at home and know that's where I need to be.

I sit on my couch with an airhead dog and lazy cat and look at the piles of Colby's stuff, at the work piled up on my desk, at the "to do" list that now tops four pages. With a sigh I reach for the list and start doing number one.

Bills

Another bill collector called today regarding a debt of Colby's. Why do they not believe me when I say he has passed away? Why do they have to be belligerent? Rude? Angry, aggressive, threatening? This latest one even called me a liar. The stress of losing a child is enough. I don't need to be called a liar on top of it. Why do they laugh when I offer to send them a copy of Colby's death certificate?

This bill collector will not tell me who he represents. He will not tell me how much the bill is for. He insists he speak to Colby. I tell him again that Colby has passed away, that Colby was homeless. I tell him Colby left no estate, nothing of value other than personal mementos that are only of importance to his friends and to me. I offer to get him the number of the Medical Examiner's office, of the mortuary. The man threatens me with police action and hangs up. The whole situation upsets me so much I begin to shake and have to sit down.

Space

I had the opportunity to head to California for a few days of space. I thought the change in scenery and a few days off would do me good, but I do not find the space or clarity I hoped for. Maybe it is too soon. My mind is still a jumble of thoughts and emotions and every now and then a glimpse of a thought pokes out, but disappears before I can grab it. I have shared time with good friends and that has been very nice. The weather has beeen hot, but very nice, too. But my thought of returning with some sort of focus is not going to become reality. I try to focus on one thought, one important thought, but my brain is so foggy still that I can't even determine what that thought might be. So I sit and stare at the waves with an empty brain and feel guilty for not being productive.

Food

Yesterday I ate a meal. This was the first meal I've eaten since Colby passed. This isn't to say I haven't eaten, but until yesterday I just picked at food. I lost 12 pounds the first 4 days, then have steadily dropped since. I gave up stepping on the scale at when I was down 16 pounds. A friend who is also a psychologist tells me there is a medical term for this. It is called the "grief diet." It wasn't that I wasn't hungry or that I didn't want to eat. I just couldn't swallow.

On Saturday, August 29, the Bellview Masonic Lodge in Bellevue, TN will host a pancake breakfast from 7-11 am in Colby's honor. I was so touched when I heard they wanted to do this. Colby had studied the Mason's a lot and thought a lot of them. If you are in the Nashville area, I know Colby would have loved a big turn out. There is more information on the main page of his website at www.ColbyKeegan.info.

Status

Today I come across the toughest question the parent of a deceased child can face: "Do you have children?" The question is asked innocently enough, and comes with an expectant smile. I have been warned to expect the question, have been prepared with an answer, but when the question comes I am stunned, speechless. Do I? Do I have a child? I did. I had a lovely boy whom I adored beyond words. The prepared words fly out of my head and I have no idea how to respond. "I had a son, but he passed away recently," I finally say after an awkward silence. The smile fades, there is some embarrassed stuttering and conversation turns away from me. I am left alone.

My grief counselor and support group tell me there is no right or wrong answer. "Just say whatever feels right, comfortable." But nothing about this will ever feel right or comfortable and I am afraid I will forever be the subject of awkward silences and embarrassed stuttering. Suddenly I am so tired that all I want to do is curl up in a corner. But I can't. I have a meeting. I have to work, or I won't eat. And I do need to keep busy. I know if I lie down in that corner I will never get up on my own. So I gather all my will power, turn around, and walk down the hall to the conference room.

Love

This morning I am very sad, but calmer. This roller coaster of emotions is unusual for me. I am usually on an even keel and on top of things. The death of a child changes that, and I must learn to deal with it. Recently, I missed several meetings. That is totally unlike me and I feel bad that I caused others to be inconvenienced. I spend an hour working on long-term plans to honor Colby's memory and hope to announce those to the world sometime in late September or early October. Keeping busy, setting tasks and goals, helps. It keeps me from thinking and I know I need to think and process, but sometimes it is too painful, too raw. I will get there in time.

Colby would not want me to be so sad, to miss him so much, but that is how a parent's love for a child works. Sometimes I think of his spirit, his soul, zooming across the sky doing flips, soaring up higher and higher, then falling backwards into an easy float. He loved extreme sports and was always the kid who wanted to climb the highest, jump the farthest, run the fastest. I like to think he is doing just that right now.

Hard

Today is hard. It's just one of those days that follow the numb days. I find myself becoming mad at Colby for leaving, then feel so very guilty for feeling that way. Mental illness was not his fault. He never asked for it and struggled bravely for years. I realize anger is a normal stage of grief, that I should embrace it for it is a sign I am moving normally through the stages. Then I become angry at God and the universe. Life was so hard for Colby. Why? No one should have to endure all he did in being ill and not being able to get the mental and medical help he needed. Life backfired on him and he never had a chance.

A friend I haven't talked to since Colby passed called and I have a major meltdown. Life can be so unfair. Life can be so hard. I try to stay positive, but it is one of those days when that is just not possible. So I do the best I can and just exist. Maybe tomorrow will be better.

Missing

I wake up this morning thinking that death is so very permanent. An obvious thought, but it strikes me hard as I get ready to go to the airport. For the past eight years, ever since he got his driver’s license, Colby has taken me to and from the airport. I travel for speaking engagements and business and he was always available to ferry me back and forth. I loved our times together as we drove down the highway. Most of our important conversations took place in that way. At the airport, he’d unload my luggage to the curb and give me a big hug. “Be careful, now,” he’d say. “Call me when you land.” If the plane was late, there inevitably was a voice mail from Colby waiting for me when I landed. On the trip home he was always late picking me up and we always had to stop at the nearest gas station, because he’d arrive at the airport driving on fumes. I learned to enjoy those waits. It was a time for me to put the most recent trip behind me, and focus on what I needed to get done now that I was home.

Today I drive myself to the airport, and park in the long-term lot. I ride the shuttle to the airport and cry all the way. This isn’t the way it is supposed to be. Colby should be here to drop me off. I find that when you cry in public, there are two kinds of people, the ones who look away and pretend you aren’t there, and the kind who rush over to see if they can help. The other three people on the shuttle this morning are all the kind who look away.

Now, on the plane, I realize there will be no one to call when I land. No one to care whether or not I arrive safely. If the plane is late there will be no voice mail from Colby to check in. When I return, I will have no wait where I can reorganize my thoughts. Instead, I will search the parking lot dragging my luggage behind because I have no idea where I parked.

I miss my son in so many unexpected ways. This is just the latest.

Horses

Today I make another attempt with the horses. Every week in the four weeks since Colby passed I have spent a few minutes with horses. Each time they tell me I am not ready. Today I fare a little better. It helps that today is one of my "numb" days. I have these every third or fourth day and they are a welcome break from the jittery emotional days, although overwhelming guilt and deep sadness comes along with the numbness.

Today I walk into a paddock with three geldings. One approaches readily and I scratch his neck. The second takes about five minutes to approach and when he does, he is cautious. I am not the same person he knew before Colby passed and he senses the change in me. Finally he comes over, although he never totally relaxes. He remains tense and soon walks away. The third horse is one I have spent a lot of time with. In this group, he is the one who is responsible for keeping the others safe. He is the leader. I talk to and pet the first horse with an eye on the third.

After fifteen minutes the third horse takes two steps towards me and stops. I leave the other horse and take a few steps toward him, then stop. I try to stand nonchalantly, but I am nervous and he knows it. He takes a few steps and stops and I do the same. After another ten minutes we finally meet in the middle of the paddock and he immediately brings his nose up to my face and breathes out sharply. This is my cue to breathe sharply into his nose and we spend several minutes trading breaths. It's as if this horse is meeting me for the first time. He then sniffs me from toe to head, both sides, then back down. Only then does he relax enough for me to touch him. I talk to him as I run my hands over his body, from nose to tail, ear to hoof. He looks at me and blinks, then wraps his head and neck around my body, the horse equivalent of a hug. We stand there together, breathing slowly in rhythm, for some time. He understands I am different now. He doesn't understand why, but he has just accepted me, although it will take several more sessions to build back the trust and confidence we had in each other.

I leave relieved. I see progress in my emotions, my focus, my energy, from last week, and the week before. I feel drained, sad, guilty, and numb, but the horses have spoken and they tell me that, in time, some day, some way, some how, I might possibly heal.

Morning

It is a beautiful morning here in Nashville. Cool, partly cloudy, a little breeze. Unusual for the middle of August. I would have loved to have shared this morning with Colby, but the reality is Colby wasn't a morning person. Even before he was born he was up nights and quiet during the day. His clock and mine were at polar opposites. He loved the stars and spent hours staring at them, both with and without his telescope. He knew the names of all the major ones and, day or night, could find his way by looking into the sky. I like to think he's up there now, looking at all of us from the opposite direction.

This morning I get ready for a trip to California. Part business and part much needed break and a life assessment. Where do I go from here? The death of a child, especially your only child, forces you to reevaluate life goals, retirement issues, and wishes for the future. I am a goal oriented person. I know it is far too soon to make major decisions, but I need to map out options, possibilities, to ponder over in coming months. A change of scenery and some quiet time hopefully will provide me that opportunity.

Peace

As per my grief counseling sessions, I have been documenting my emotional times and triggers the past few days with interesting results. I seem to wake up emotionally numb, and then as the day goes on become more shaky and weepy. Late evenings are the toughest. How I long for my son. How I long for peace of mind.

Also as my counselor suggested, I have been trying to find something special to do, something that I would like, that would be fun. Today I decide to go hiking at a place Colby and I often went to not too far from my house. It is late afternoon by the time I get there, a time according to my documentation that I tend to be emotional. True to form, tears begin to fall as soon as I hit the trail. The memories are intense and each step brings up another one. There' s the spot where I slipped one muddy Sunday afternoon, and where Colby pulled me up. There's the spot where we took photos of each other, photos that I haven't yet been able to find amongst all of Colby's stuff. There's the place we stopped and sat on a log and had great discussions about nothing. Each twist and turn of the trail brings back a memory, and I am so very sad that we won't have more memories to share.

Then I remember a mother in my online grief support group who lost a daughter a while ago. This past week her apartment burned to the ground, taking with it all her photos and treasured items that belonged to her daughter. I can't imagine her pain and her sense of loss. If you've been reading this blog you know that Colby left lots of "stuff." I will have plenty to remember him by, while this woman has only the memories in her mind.

Even so, my loss seems insurmountable at times. Colby was my only child, my dearest friend, the person who knew me best in all the world. I always thought he'd be there for me in my later years, that eventually I'd have a grandchild or two. Colby's passing not only represents the loss of my son, it is the loss of security in my later years, the loss of my family.

Colby passed exactly four weeks ago today. I know that he is now free of the panic attacks, the depression, the anxiety, the anger, and everything else he battled. I am glad he is no longer troubled. But I do miss him. I will feel guilty until the day I die even though I know in my heart there was nothing I or anyone could have done. Rest peacefully, my son.

Time

I go through more of Colby's "stuff" and find I have inherited 9 flashlights, more than 100 t-shirts, 6 hammers, a tiny tent, 142 feet of 600-volt ground cable, over 700 books, a backpack made out of a towel, a single oar, and three golf clubs. This is all among two bedrooms, one car, and half a basement full of other things. My goal is to sort through 20 items a day. Doesn't seem like much but every object either brings memories or questions. Either "I remember when . . ." or "What the heck is this?" Both slow the process down. I also feel compelled to do with the object as Colby would have wanted. Should I toss it? Give it to one of his friends? Which friend? Keep it? Give it to the Goodwill? After 20 items I am mentally exhausted. I give myself a time frame of 6 months to get through it all. I have heard from parents who have not touched their child's things and it's been years since they passed. All I can say is they didn't have Colby for a son. I am overwhelmed with "stuff." I can't think, I have so much "stuff." In the basement I now see 18 broken skateboards, 2 scooters that do not run, 5 bicycles, a shopping cart, and a drum kit. The list goes on, and on . . .

It is four weeks today since Colby passed. I decide I don't like the word "died." Died indicates he is no longer, that there is no afterlife. I believe that there is and that when my time comes I will see him again. And for those of you who are worried about me, thank you for your prayers and concern. But, I don't plan to "see" Colby anytime soon. In fact, my goal is to live to be 100 and I am only a little more than half-way there. I have lots yet to do. And I will get it all done. I just have to allow time to process this tragic loss and figure out a new plan for the rest of my life. It will take time and I know I will be emotional and sad for a long time yet. But eventually, in time, I will be okay.

Doors

Our dog (or now my dog), Abby, has been barky and jumpy ever since Colby passed. Tonight she is especially so. Colby frequently forgot his keys and would knock twice on the door, then stand on his tiptoes and peer into the small, arched window toward the top. Abby barks wildly at the door and looks to me several times so I can peer out the top. I can't remember the number of times Colby and I met eye to eye that way. I go to the door and look out. But of course, tonight Colby is not on the other side of the door. No one is, but Abby keeps barking anyway. I'm not sure what triggered her barks, but she thinks Colby should be there . . . and so do I.

I pick up Colby's death certificate. That's something a parent should never have to do. To compound the difficult task, I am given wrong instructions about where to pick it up. Twice. So I spend the entire morning driving around downtown Nashville looking for a parking spot, only to have to jump back in the truck a few minutes later to search out another building and another spot.

I am physically and emotionally drained. I want to back life up and start over on a day before Colby left us. This is too hard. Way too hard. All I can envision are the sad, lonely days ahead without my son. But I will get through this. Somehow. There must be a door somewhere that I can walk through that will make life okay again. I have things to do. I have Colby's memory to honor, and there are many people who need help. Maybe someday I can find that door and once again make a positive difference in people's lives.

Music

Music was a huge part of Colby's life and this morning I try to listen to music. Mostly I can't. I look at his stacks and stacks of CDs and am overwhelmed with choices. He had such eclectic tastes in sound. I begin to post music (or links to music) on his web site in the links section. There will eventually be some of Colby's music and a few songs that meant something to Colby that we have permission to use. The first song is Mustang Sally's "The One That Got Away." It comes out on their debut CD next month. Colby helped me do this band's PR several years ago and everyone who has heard this song says it reminds them of Colby.

I had a rough night last night and today I wake up drained. Maybe I needed the emotional roller-coaster release yesterday. I am back to numb and for now, glad to be here. I read emails from new friends in the grieving parents support group, the group that no one wants to join. Apparently this host of emotions, the crying, the numbness, never completely goes away. They say it eventually gets "softer." For most that happens two to three years out. I can't imagine feeling like this forever. I document my feelings this morning in my notebook and begin another long day.

Counseling

My counseling session goes well today. I am pleased. I learn several good coping skills that have already helped. The ideas are supposed to help with grief and loss, but I think they will work for any tough situation. I know there are a lot of people who read this blog who are going through difficult times of their own. Maybe the techniques I learned today will help some of you. I hope so. So many of you have helped me with your emails, this is my small way of saying thank you.

1. Document emotional triggers. What makes you cry, nervous, angry, etc. Note the time of day, the trigger (if you can identify it), where you were, how long you were upset and what your reaction was (tears, yelling, etc.)

2. Document that which makes you happy, calm, etc. Also note the time of day, where you were, how long it helped.

3. Exercise every day because exercise helps burn away the chemical buildup of bad feelings in your body.

4. Absolutely do something nice for yourself every day and once a week plan something special, even if you don't feel like it.

So today I carry a notebook and document my emotions throughout the day. The goal over time is to identify emotional triggers and develop coping skills by using the calming techniques. For the record, I have cried 23 times so far today. About usual for me lately. I did exercise, but I usually do anyway. And I am thinking of something to do that would be special.

The techniques help me today in dealing with the health department, mortuary and medical examiner's office. Just when I think I don't have to deal with them any more something crops up that takes half a day to sort out. Today it is obtaining the death certificate. It shouldn't be this hard, or this frustrating. I note incompetence as one of my triggers and red tape as another. Also cell phones that don't let you know for several hours that a call has come in. No calming activities yet. Maybe tomorrow.

Rain

Colby passed on a Saturday. I found out on a Sunday. On Monday, a friend of Colby's and I put flowers on the place where he died. Minutes after that it began to rain. Hard. It rained for almost two days and I thought of the rain as the Earth's tears for my son's passing. After a twelve hour let up it began to rain again. Hard. For almost two more days. By this time I was driving to Houston and it rained the entire way. This rain I thought of as the Earth's tears for my sadness. Now, every time it rains I think of it as someone crying for Colby. It has rained a lot in the three and a half weeks since he passed. It poured during the hour I picked up his cremains. It rained when I took a load of his "stuff" to the Goodwill. When I read through some of his childhood school papers, it rained. Of course, it has been a rainy summer. Today it is raining again. Today is the day of my first individual grief counseling session. I'm not sure what to expect, of the counselor or me. I will bring Kleenex and an umbrella, for I know as I go from the truck to the entrance of the building that it will be raining. Hard.

Survival

The grief and sadness hit me at the oddest times. Often, nothing triggers it. It just comes and the tears fall. I am helpless to stop them. Other times an object reminds me of a wonderful time we had and I think of all the wonderful times we won't have in the future. Today I find his binoculars and remember the many times we went hiking and used them to look in the trees and brush for birds and other animals. How I wish we could take those binoculars out together again. Colby was always a talker and we had such great conversations on our hikes. His friends all tell me how much they miss talking with him and I feel the same way. People tell me to remember the good times, but it's better if I don't think, don't remember. Someday I know I will think fondly of our good times. But not yet. Not today. Today I keep busy, too busy to think and for now, that's how I survive.

Words

Everyday I take a few minutes to sort through Colby's "stuff." Lately I concentrate on books, notebooks, scraps of paper and I begin to find pieces of song lyrics, poems, sentences that he had written. Colby had dysgraphia, which is difficulty in writing, spelling, forming letters. Yet he still wrote. Some. Many of the words I have found so far are angry, frustrated. But he made valid points in these writings of his. As I come across them I pile his words in stacks, then file them in a safe place. Someday, maybe, I will compile them into an ebook. He felt strongly about these words. Had hoped to use many of them in his songs. I believe it was his intent to eventually share his words with the world and even though he is no longer physically here with us, I want to help him do that.

It is sad, going through his things. Many items bring back good memories, but others remind me of all he left undone, of all he had to offer, of the bright promise of his spirit, of a life gone far too soon. If he were here to guide me, I wonder, what would he do with each of these things? What would he throw away? What would he want me to keep? Which items would he want each friend to have? I sort, I pile, I read, I think. What I am unsure of I put in a corner to revisit later. That pile is the largest. Colby was a pack rat. There is a lot of stuff. A few minutes a day, every day. Eventually I will get there.

Normal

Already people expect me to be "over it" and "back to normal." I can't imagine what they are thinking. This is going to be a long process and I know I will never be the same. I have emailed a number of people in a parents grief support group and there are mothers and fathers there who aren't fully functioning even several years after their child died. For me it's just been three weeks and three days. I do try. I try to be "normal." But there are times I cry in meetings, or on the phone, or in the grocery store. Sometimes I am "fine." I function reasonably well for short stretches of time. Then a wave of grief slams into me and I fall apart. If the grief counselors and other parents I talk with are correct, this will be my life for the forseeable future.

No, I will never "get over" Colby's death, but I will learn to accept it, to become accustomed to it. I will cry less often as time passes. I will become less scattered, more focused. Maybe I will even feel less guilty. But I will never be the same person I was before my son died. The death of a child is not something you get through unscathed. It's as if you woke up one morning and found the world had turned sideways overnight. Learning to navigate life a little off kilter takes some adjustment and isn't learned in a few weeks.

So to those who expect me to be "normal," please understand I don't yet know what that is. I haven't yet found my way. I may never regain a firm footing on life, but I will try. I just need time.

Frustration

I hate run arounds. From the time I heard Colby had passed I wanted to get the clothes he was wearing, his shoes, the belongings he had in his pockets. The medical examiner told me repeatedly that I couldn't have access to them, that I had to wait until I picked up his cremains at the mortuary. I asked for them several times. I am sure I annoyed them to no end with all my phone calls. I did eventually, just recently, get his phone and his wallet after explaining to someone at the medical examiner's office that people were calling the house looking for him and I needed to be able to call his friends to tell them of his death. The only way I had of reaching his friends was through the address book on his phone.

When I picked up his cremains the mortuary told me they did not have Colby's clothes. Furthermore, they claimed they never had them and did not know where they were. I called the medical examiner's office several times and left messages. As of right now, I have not yet received an answer to those messages or talked to a real person. The mortuary tried to call Metro Nashville social services, as there is a person there who apparently hunts things like this down, but he is on vacation until sometime next week.

I believe my request is a simple one. I just want the clothes and belongings my son had with him when he died. Any parent would want that. And in times of grief, of sadness, those mourning loved ones do not need the extra stress that a situation like this causes. This situation is upsetting to me, distracting. I have a sinking feeling that I will never have these items, that they have been thrown away. Discarded. If that really is the case, how unfair it is to Colby to treat his belongings so callously, and how unfair to me and to others who loved him. Colby deserved to be treated with decency, and so do those he left behind.

Gratitude

I feel I have been remiss in thanking everyone who is reading this blog and all who have been so supportive with emails and phone calls. There are so many I can't possibly return them all, but I read every email and I listen to each message. So thank you, all of you. You are a blessing to me, you keep me from feeling alone and lonely, you keep me going when my world is dark, you support and encourage me when I feel I can't go on. I absolutely could not get through this time in my life without you. I know many of you are grieving as well, either for Colby or another loved one, and I especially thank you for reaching out through your own pain to comfort me.

Today was an emotional day. Lots of tears after several "numb" days. I did get some work done. Not enough, but some. I try to get back into the normal flow of life, but it is hard. Colby's passing is still too fresh, too new.

At the beginning of this blog one of my goals was to provide a way for people to help others in Colby's name and I am working on that a little every day. I am ambitious in this area and do have a plan I think Colby would be proud of. I am still weeks, or possibly a month or more, away from sharing details. And I will need help. Your help. This will be a way for all of us to join together and make this world a better place and I can't think of a better legacy for my son.

Work

I am still overwhelmed by all I have to do and I worry about my lack of focus. I said in an earlier post that I felt as if I had, in the blink of an eye, developed ADD. I still feel that way. I have the attention span of a gnat. I decide to break everything into time chunks. Thirty minutes of solid focused work on one project, then switch to another for thirty minutes. Half an hour feels like an extraordinary amount of time. I will be lucky to stay on task for 30 seconds, much less 30 minutes. But I must try. By the end of the day I hopefully can make progress.

I have also forgotten to mention that Colby's skateboard has been found! Colby had left it with a friend who brought it to his Celebration of Life. Thank you so very much for returning it to me! I bought Colby his first skateboard when he was 9, and he spent many, many hours perfecting moves and using it to get from one point to another. This board, his last board, is so undeniably Colby that I know it will be one of his treasured possessions that I keep forever.

Home

I am home after several days away to speak at a therapeutic riding conference. But home no longer feels like home. It is a shell, a place to stay; the life of my home died when Colby did. I try to go through more of Colby's "stuff." If I sort and categorize, I think, then maybe I can clear enough space to eventually change things around, move the office into a different room, rearrange the furniture. An online grief support group friend suggested that might help, and it might. Or maybe I need the familiarity of things as they have been. I don't know what to do, so I do nothing.

I find familiar tasks. I unpack, water the tomatoes, water the indoor plants, brush the cat, try to read. I am so unfocused when I am not moving. If I stay on my feet, find things to do, then I can function. It's when I sit that I grieve. Why is that, I wonder? I also can't say Colby's name without bursting into tears. I can't talk about the loss. Last week I could, but lately, no. I find myself rocking with my arms around myself when I sit. I can't do this. I have editing projects I must finish early this week. I must learn to focus. People are counting on me and I can't let them down.

Bruises

When I was eight months pregnant with Colby I fell through a wooden deck. The entire inside of my right thigh turned black and blue and purple and didn't return to normal for four months. Two weeks after my son passed, half of the inside of my right thigh turned black and blue and purple, although I have no recollection of having bumped into anything that could have caused it to do so. I am sure there is an explanation for the bruise, I just don't know what it is.

Today I feel like my entire being is bruised. Someone told me recently that the death of your parents takes away your past, the death of your spouse or sibling takes away your present, and the death of your child takes away your future. For me, that is so very true. Everything I had planned for my life, from my will, to how I spend important holidays, to where I might live, and what I might do has changed. Change is always scary and I have to say that right now, today, the prospect of my future terrifies me. I am certain that life will at some point become more stable, that my path will become clear, that I won't be utterly alone in my old age, but I don't have any idea how that will all unfold.

I know that bruises heal. Sometimes there is a scar, sometimes there is some other fundamental change in the area that was injured. Colby's death has changed me profoundly. How I heal remains to be seen.

Denial

I sometimes have difficulty grasping the fact that my son is truly gone, that he will never walk in the door again, that I will never again see his smiling face. I know in my heart that he has passed on to a better place. I know that in my head. but sometimes I can't get my mind around it all. Thinking that I will never see him again is like someone telling me that we all breath leaves, or that cement is nutritious. I just can't fathom it. So I don't think about it. I stay busy, and then I feel guilty for not thinking, not wanting to feel. But the loss is too great, the grief too deep, so I keep putting one shaky foot in front of the other and keep going. Somehow.

I know many of Colby's friends are going through the same thing. My mother, Colby's grandma, is too. This is a natural part of the loss process; it is a way for our brains and bodies to accept reality in a time frame we can deal with. This week I begin grief and loss counseling. I decided I needed help finding my way through all of this. I am looking forward to the guidance, to the help, but I do know that the best healer will be time.

Anger

I know there are stages to grieving. Until now I have wavered between shock and numbness. Today I had my first bout with anger. I received a call from a Nashville hospital about a past due bill of Colby's. I had taken Colby their emergency room about six weeks ago after, he called me asking to go. He couldn't go on. He needed help, he said. He didn't want to live anymore if life was going to be like this. I took him first to another hospital. There would be a three hour wait, we were told. There were more urgent situations that required the doctors' attention. Colby became very agitated. He rocked back and forth, began to cry, paced the room and became very angry. We left and went to another hospital. This emergency room was less hectic. Colby was seen right away. They took his vital signs, an ER doctor talked to him and when Colby said he couldn't go on like this, that he didn't want to live with this mental illness, the schizophrenia, the panic attacks, and depression the anxiety and yes, the addiction, anymore the physician sent us over to their psychiatric hospital. There we waited for over an hour, Colby lying on a metal couch in a cold sterile room, crying. There were no other patients waiting in this part of the hospital. Finally a psychiatric nurse interviewed Colby. He told her the same thing he told the doctor. She left and we waited another hour. When she came back in she had a list of resources for us to call the next day. Resources we had exhausted long, long ago.

I remember walking out of the hospital, getting into the truck and holding Colby as he cried. He had so wanted help he put aside all his anxieties and fears and they turned him away. Six weeks later my son is dead and I get a call from the hospital about the thousand dollar bill the hospital sent Colby. I realize this was not the fault of the person calling, but she bore the brunt of my anger. I am sorry for that. Sorry for her. I should call her back and apologize but I can't. Yet. I am still too angry. I told her the story, shaking, crying, yelling, raging, and then I hung up on her after telling her they weren't getting a dime out of me. Then I put my head in my hands and cried for more than half an hour. If they had helped my son instead of turning him away there is a good chance he would be alive today. Right now he would be here with me. I would still have the possibility of future grandchildren and great-grandchildren, of holidays spent with family members. Now, none of that is possible.

I have a lot to say about our health care system. But I am too angry to articulate it well, so I will leave it for another day. In the meantime, I will try to process this new emotion, this new anger that is so unlike me, and find a path through it to the next level.

Questions

After Colby's celebration I cannot sleep. I am awash with emotions and alternate between nervous crying and guilt numbness. Emotional release. It was a big day. I can't sleep so I pace the house. Can't sit, can't concentrate. This morning after I get in the truck is a little better. I drive to Knoxville to speak at a conference in silence. I still have trouble listening to music or talk radio. The quiet of my mind is better. I don't think, can't think. I exist and soon I am here. One of the first people I meet tells me of the loss of her son four years ago. It helps to talk about it and I know I am in the right place at the right time.

I sometimes question why I write this blog, then, like this morning I get close to 20 emails from people I don't know saying how much my words help them. That helps me. Thank you. I will keep writing my way through this process. I am told it could be a long process, which is good. I think I have a lot to say.

Celebrations

I've just returned from Colby's Celebration of Life and in my eyes it was exactly right. Close to eighty people were there, the weather was perfect, the speakers were heartfelt and the music was great. Ricky Lynn Gregg MC'ed the event and sang a new song in Colby's honor. He also shared several of his memories of Colby. Razzy Bailey sang one of Colby's favorite songs, "I Hate Hate" and the many people I spoke to afterward felt the entire event was exactly what Colby would have wanted. Look for photos on the web site soon.

Residents of Grandpa's House fed the homeless in another area of the park in Colby's name before the event and that was covered by Nashville's NBC affiliate, WSMV Channel 4. I am thrilled that more people are learning about grandpa's House. Of all the options Colby and I had visited over the years, this was the one he chose and was excited about, not only due to the fact that they help people with both mental illness and addiction, but because they offer music and self-esteem classes, money management and other life skills in a caring residential environment.

I felt very much at peace during the celebration and got through it with only a few tears. But tonight I am bone tired. Mentally, physically and emotionally exhausted. I feel like I could sleep for a month, and wish very much that I had that luxury. I leave for East Tennessee in the morning to speak at a conference and a visit with dear friends.

I'll leave you tonight with one last thought: I learned tonight that Colby's passing has brought about the reconciliation of several people who have been estranged. Colby's story made all of these people realize that the love they have for each other is more important than petty squabbles. So go hug the ones you love, as you never know when you may get the opportunity again.

Reality

Today I awake with incredible sadness. This is the day I officially recognize that my precious son has passed. How can I possibly do that? I still occasionally think he will come bounding in the front door, that when the phone rings he will be on the other end of the line, that I will have just one more hug, that just once more I will hear him say, "I love you."

Facing reality is part of the grieving process and I know in my heart that Colby has moved on to a better place. I do feel in many ways that this was meant to be, that Colby was only supposed to be with us for a short time. I also recognize that I am not the only parent laying his or her child to rest today. Hundreds of parents across the country, the world, will say goodbye to their son or daughter today and each of them is grieving just as much as I am. For some, this is not the only child they have lost. To each parent I say, "Bless you. Bless your child. Stay strong. Remember the good times and know that your child would not want you to be sad."

I very well know these words are easier said than done and that none of the parents who are having services for their children today will get to this point tomorrow or even next month. But we will eventually. And while we will never forget, while there will always be a huge hole in our heart, while we will always have a fierce love for our children, I also know that somehow we will each get to a place in our hearts and souls that we can live with. Without minimizing the importance of the grieving process, I greatly look forward to that day.

Firsts

I stay busy today. Too busy to think, yet memories of my son flood into my brain anyway. I remember the first time he slid down the driveway on a sled. He was two and terrified, even though I was on the sled with him. He quickly got past his fear and learned to love to sled and snowboard in Minnesota in the winter. I remember his first day of kindergarten, and how he grabbed onto my thigh and wouldn't let me leave the classroom. I remember his first sentence. Colby was 15 months old and tried to push a log at the edge of the yard. "It no go," he said to me. I explained the log was too big and we found a much smaller log to push. His first bike ride took place when he was four. He taught himself to ride a neighbor child's discarded two-wheeled bike around the driveway one weekend. I remember the first gifts he asked for for Christmas. It was the Christmas he was three and he wanted a choo choo train and a drum. He got both. I remember his first movie, his first trip to McDonald's, his first step when he was way too young at six months, his first word at eight months.

I remember it all, and while the memories are bittersweet, I think how sad it would be not to have them. Tomorrow, as I head to Colby's Celebration of Life, I will go with the attitude that this IS a celebration. Those who knew Colby are all richer for knowing him, and we should celebrate that. We should remember with fondness the wonderful times we shared and rejoice that when our time comes, we will see him again.

Preparation

Today I make the final preparations for Colby's Celebration of Life event and everything is surreal. I buy a guest book, run copies of a schedule, double check that there is enough water and ice . . . and Kleenex. I pick up keys to the electric box at the park pavilion where the event will be held. How can I be doing this? I feel like I am going through the motions of life. I am not actually here. I am not really going to sit through a memorial service for my only child tomorrow. This can't possibly be. But it is.

I must stay busy. I mustn't think. If I think, I will fall apart so badly broken that I'll never be me again. I make a list. I can't cry. Not here, not now. I have too much to do. I bite my lips to keep the tears from falling. Somehow they fall anyway.

Friends

Today I had to tell yet another young friend of Colby's over the phone that he had passed away. The telephone is such an impersonal way of sharing such very personal news. I felt so bad for this friend, and the other friends I have had to tell this way. It is especially hard as unexpected death leaves so many unresolved issues between friends and loved ones. There is no chance to say good bye, I'm sorry, I love you, thank you, or any of the hundred other things you might want to say to a dear friend the last time you ever see them.

I think most of Colby's friends have such regrets. Many have shared them with me. Fortunately, Colby and I said "I love you" to each other at the end of every conversation, so I do not have that regret, but I would have liked to remind him of his gifts. I'm not sure he realized all the many ways he touched others and I would have liked the chance to tell him. I would also have liked to thank him for enriching my life beyond words, for making me laugh (and cry), for getting me to try new things, for all the wonderful times we shared, and for just being my son. I loved him so.

While I do not have that opportunity with Colby. I do with others I care about, and you do as well. We all have the chance to tell those around us how very much they mean to us and I hope everyone who reads this does so. Frequently. You never know when you see someone if it will be the last time, and no one should ever walk away with any regrets.

Cubes

Yesterday was a very emotional day, but whenever I was at my lowest, someone called. This morning when I wake my face is so swollen from the tears that I don't recognize myself in the mirror. But I feel calmer. I needed the emotional release. And, I decide that the bruise on my leg is just that. A bruise and nothing else. Whew.

This morning I make a mixture of tea, juice and water, and drop in a few ice cubes. An hour later, when the glass is empty, I find that one cube has not melted. Odd, I think. Then I look closer at it and smile. The unmelted cube is one Colby bought years ago at the Mall of America near Minneapolis. He was maybe 10 or 11. This cube is a piece of plastic shaped like an ice cube with the image of a fly embedded inside the cube. I haven't seen it for years. And how it got into my ice tray, one I had filled not all that long ago, I have no idea. But I am glad it was there. I put the cube back in the ice tray and know I will smile every time it turns up in my glass.

Phenomena

Today I feed horses. I haven't been around the therapy horses I know and love so much since before Colby died, and I am interested to see how the horses react around me. Because horses are so intuitive, they can be a better judge of my emotional status than I am. I don't want to do anything to upset the trust, confidence and respect that our relationship is built on, but I am very anxious to get back to doing normal things, and normal for me is being around horses.

I am both surprised and disappointed. It seems whatever the horse's natural instincts and personality are, are magnified by whatever energy and emotion I project. Those who flee at the first sign of danger run from me, those who have a tendency to be disrespectful are very much so. Those horses who are bossy or cranky or kind, have exaggerated behaviors along those lines. This is very interesting to me, but clearly, it is not yet time for me to pick up with my beloved equine friends. I will keep trying every week or so, though. I realize I can't rush the grieving process, but this gives me a positive goal to work toward.

Another interesting, somewhat scary, phenomena develops. When I was eight months pregnant with Colby I fell through a wooden deck and ended up with a huge black bruise that covered the entire inside of my right thigh. It lasted for months. Today, on the inside of my thigh near my knee, a huge black bruise develops. I do not remember doing anything to cause the bruise, which quickly becomes tender. As the afternoon and evening progress, the bruise extends up my inner thigh and begins to spread. It is not nearly as big as the one I had before Colby was born but it is quite similar in color, location and if it keeps progressing, size. So now I am thinking horrible thoughts about my health. Leukemia, blood clots, the whole works. Hopefully this is a simple bruise and in my distraction over Colby's death I didn't notice what caused it.

Guilt

I wake this morning to extreme guilt. I am back to playing "what if." Throughout Colby's life I thought God gave him to me because I was the only mother in the world who could deal with his troubles. Now I feel that I failed Colby and Godd so very, very badly. They both must be so disappointed in me. I failed the most important test in the world. Parenting. I should have fought harder, tried harder, done more, found the one person who could help him, said something to him that would have made a difference, moved to a different town, sent him to a different school, talked to him more. I should have told him how awesome he was more often. But in looking back to those times I don't know how I could have done more. Still, I think I am dumb as a rock to have so failed my child that he died.

To counter-act my guilt I find myself now trying to be perfect. Where before I would put a cup on the counter, now I place it just so. Deliberately. Perfectly. If I fold an item of clothing I have to fold it perfectly. It might take me three minutes to get it right, but I can't put it away until it is perfect. I realize this is not normal. Or maybe, in my circumstances, it is. If I have order and perfection around me, I think, I can get through this. I can cope. I can stop crying. I won't feel so damned guilty.

This guilt comes after several days of belief that Colby's death was meant to be. That we all have a prescribed period of time to be here in Earth and this was all the time Colby had. That there was a reason for this. That his life and death mattered in the big scheme of things. But today, it all seems so unfair. For him, for me and for his grandma.

Schizophrenia

I talk with several friends today, Colby's friends and mine, about the realities of his schizophrenia. While he acknowledged that the panic attacks, anxiety and depression were not normal, he never validated the schizophrenia. Colby would go months without bathing and he was often paranoid. Occasionally, he misread social cues and misinterpreted friendly words and gestures as threatening. These are classic schizophrenic behaviors.

Like a lot of people, Colby was not comfortable with the stigma of mental illness. To me, mental illness is just like heart failure or liver disease in that the brain, an organ, is not functioning properly. And just like asthma or poor eyesight, there are different degrees of schizophrenia. To my knowledge, Colby did not hear voices, and there were not multiple personalities rattling around in his brain. But, there was a nice, sweet, loving, smart, intelligent, funny, talented Colby; and at times there was also an anti-social Colby with degrees of paranoia, depression, aggression, anxiety, and delusion. Complicating things, because mental illness affects a person's behavior, rather than their breathing, gait, or hearing, many people think the illness is the fault of the person who has it. Colby often felt ostracized, shunned, just because he had an illness that he could not help.

These thoughts make me sad and I ache for my son. How tough life was for him. I go through some of his notebooks and read his poems and song lyrics. How unhappy he was. How he ached for those treated unfairly, unjustly, inconsiderately. How disappointed he was in most of the human race. Hopefully Colby's death will make all of us more attuned to the feelings of those around us, those we love the most. Hopefully his story will make all of us more comfortable in sharing our feelings, and letting our loved ones help us through hard times. And hopefully, through this, we can all learn to communicate better.

Hiding

I have another dream. This is unusual. I don't often dream dreams that I remember. Now I have several in less than a week. In the dream I am going to a friend's office to have my photo taken. When I get there, the walls of the office are draped in black sheets. Many of them. They look like hanging folds of black parachutes. The office is attached to a music studio and that is where the photographer is set up. There are several people ahead of me so I wait, quietly. When it is my turn I go through the black draped door into a larger, rectangular, slightly colder room, also draped in black. This is the studio and there are large black pieces of equipment pushed to the sides of the room. I see a glint of silver here and there. Music stands and set ups for a drum kit. The room is carpeted in a deep, dark red and the lights are very low so everything is in shadow. I pose for a few shots, then wait back in the office to get the prints.

There are two shots, both horizontal, both printed on long, narrow pieces of photo paper, maybe 9 x 14 paper with an inch or so of white on the sides of the photos, as the photos didn't take up the entire width of the page. The photos are grainy and slightly out of focus. I wish they were clearer. In one photo, I smile directly into the camera. In the other my arms are extended about chest height. I am holding a small black object with a red strap, about the size of a camera. But it is not a camera. I am looking toward a lens on the object I am holding. I am shocked when I see the photos. First, I am way too thin. Then, I am wearing pink. Light pink. I never wear pink. And the background of the photos is light. Light pink with some white.

But, I am most shocked because there is a person standing next to me in the photos, to my left side, or on my right as you look at the photo. The person is a well-known celebrity, a cross between a DJ and a television personality, and in both photos he has his right arm tightly wrapped around my waist. The celebrity has a huge grin. In the first photo he is looking at me, in the other, the one where I am looking at the black object in my extended hands, he is looking into the camera. The celebrity is my son. It is Colby. He looks just like Colby, but not quite. He is a little more stylish, a little more at ease.

I rush back into the studio but there is a girl band setting up equipment; the photographer, and all of his equipment, is gone. I ask the girls if they have seen anyone and they shake their heads. I notice a door in the back of the room. I open it and go through into a barn stacked with hay. Sitting above me on one of the bales of hay is Colby. "I can't believe you're not dead," I cry with excitement. Then I get worried that people might harm him for returning from the dead. "But don't you see?" he said to me. "I don't have to hide from anyone or anything anymore."

Emotions

This morning is difficult. I call people who have answers I need for Colby's Celebration of Life event but no one is in. Little frustrations build quickly and I crawl back in bed to cry. I know brisk exercise helps, so I go for a fast walk then make some headway with work in the afternoon.

In the evening I load Colby's bike in the back of the truck and drive to a nearby greenway, a park-like area that connects several neighborhoods via paved trails. Several of Colby's friends think he had an encampment we have not yet found in or near the greenway, so I ride around and look under bridges and bushes. I quickly realize any site Colby may have stayed at will be impossible to find without further information. I want to find it, though, because there are several things Colby frequently carried with him that are still missing: his skateboard, a large (10 x 13 or so) soft-sided CD case filled with much of his favorite music, a few items of clothing he wore frequently. If anyone has an idea where the spot might be or where the missing items are, please let me know. I'd love to have them.

Tonight I have trouble concentrating. I miss my son so much. There are so many people in this world who need help. Please reach out to them. Please do not give up, and remember that some small thing you might say or do can save someone's life.

Piles

I couldn't sleep last night and today I am back to shaky and emotional. I go through more of Colby's stuff. Some I sort for the Goodwill, others I mark for his friends, most I just let sit. Colby had a lot of stuff. Two rooms and most of the basement. I do a little every day and by now I see some progress. I pile musical equipment in one area, books in another. Clothes, DVDs videos, video games, all find their way into their own areas. If I can order his things, I think, my life will become more orderly. Not sure that is true, but I follow my instincts and keep sorting.

I have misplaced important papers for Colby's memorial service and can't reach people to complete important tasks. Insurance, security, park officials, crematory. Do they all take Friday off? It is frustrating and I am impatient and cranky. I want, I need, to stay on top of everything. I don't want any surprises on Wednesday, Colby's Celebration of Life. The event must go smoothly. I won't get through it if it doesn't.

A friend calls and I feel better. Calmer. I decide to get out of the house. Everything can wait an hour. A little fresh air, a little perspective, can change everything.

Connections

Colby's urn arrives via UPS. How can I explain the feelings I have swirling around as I open the package? I can't possibly begin to. The urn is simple, yet elegant, and is made out of natural fibers, as Colby would have wanted. He felt strongly about bio fuels and not using more of the earth's resources than were needed. I tried to choose what he would have liked and hope I did okay. For a time I hold the urn and cry. Today I have expected Colby to walk in the door so many times. Then I remember and I jolt back to reality. Each time is like a fresh wound. He was only 23. He should be here.

I call a cousin of my Mother's that I've only met a few times. She has been kind enough to mail me information on my great and great-great grandparents and I want to tell her about Colby. We talk of the mental illness that runs in that branch of the family. So many similar stories like Colby's running back generation after generation. I am sad Colby isn't here to see the photos of his ancestors, then realize it's possible that all the ancestors are with him now. He doesn't need photos. He has the real thing!

I get details of a pancake breakfast the local Masonic Lodge is giving in Colby's name and post it on ColbyKeegan.info along with information on a benefit show a friend of his is organizing. This shouldn't be happening, I think. My son should be here. But, of course, he isn't.

A friend calls with information on a young woman who is in trouble. I tell her to hold the woman close, don't let her out of sight until help can be found. Doesn't matter if it is days, weeks. If I had the chance, I would lock my son in a padded room until I found the medical and mental help he needed. I don't care if it's illegal. I don't care that he'd hate me forever. I'd do anything to keep him safe and I tell the caller that, then I say a prayer for the young woman.

My mother's phone is busy most of the day. Deep down I know it's been unintentionally knocked off the hook. But I worry, grow frantic at times. What if she's hurt and tried to call for help? She's my only close family and I'm not ready to let go of her yet. She's 86. I am terrified something has happened to her. I call again and the phone rings. All is well.

I have not eaten today. I know I need to but I can't. I just can't. I drink some juice and hope I can eat tomorrow. Tonight I will think good, strong, positive thoughts about eating. And I will also think of my son and remind myself how fortunate I was to have him for as long as I did.

Images

Last night after a relatively okay day I cry myself to sleep. In my sleep I dream that Colby is still a teenager and has run away again. I am frantic to find him and I turn to near strangers to help. They are upset with me for asking for help but go out to look for him anyway. They find Colby and bring him back to their house, where I am staying while they look. Colby doesn't understand all the fuss or why I am upset and he thinks I am making a big deal over nothing. The dream is entirely in the colors of brown, tan and orange.

This morning I am tired. But I have a lot to do so I make a list of tasks so I can focus on accomplishing a few things. Staying busy is how I cope. And just when I think I can't cope any longer a phone call or email comes in with words and images that keep me going. Thank you.

Support

Today was a little better. Less emotional, anyway. I ride Colby's bike in the evening, flying through neighborhood streets and pedaling until my legs are on fire. It feels good. The bike is a nice one and I now know why he spent so much time on it. I feel close to him when I ride. It's been many years since I rode regularly and I am wobbly at times. I hear Colby's voice in my head, "Careful, now," as I navigate sidewalks and curbs, bumps, intersections and traffic. And I am. I am careful.

I find an Internet support group that welcomes me and I read about so many young people with stories similar to Colby's. Knowing that other people's children had the same problem helps. Knowing other parents are dealing with the same thoughts and emotions that I am helps. I am deeply sorry for them, for their loss. But I am grateful I have found them.

Several people have posted thoughts about Colby on his memorial web site. I add more information and hope to add more photos tomorrow. Right now I am tired and I miss my son.

Several of Colby's friends need prayers. Please pray for angels to surround them and help them through their difficulties. These are good people who have tough circumstances. Life can be hard sometimes but I know they will get through these trials.

Normal

The numbness returns this morning. I do research on the Internet and find this roller coaster of jittery emotion followed by numb guilt is normal. Apparently I can expect this to last a while. There is much to do for Colby's Celebration of Life and I will spend a few hours on that, but I also need to get back to work. I have clients who need projects that were half-finished when Colby died completed. It is hard to focus on any one thing, but today I will make an effort.

I feel guilty for trying to get back to work. My son has passed to a better place. I should spend the rest of my life on my knees mourning him. That's my Catholic background speaking. I know that scenario is not realistic or healthy, but it is how I feel at this moment. In emailing other bereaved parents I know this numb guilt is part of the process. Every parent seems to go through it. In this I am normal, and whatever little bit of normalcy I can grasp on to right now is welcomed.

Website

Today is an emotional day and I try to stay busy. I work on Colby's website, which is a challenge as I've not done this before. I do get it up and hope it stays functional. If you want to check it out it is at www.ColbyKeegan.info. There is information on Colby and a guestbook where everyone who knew Colby can post stories so we can all laugh, share, cry and heal. I am working on several concepts that will allow people everywhere to better the world in Colby's name and will post information on all of that as soon as it is solidified. I am optimistic about the possibilities here, and thinking of the possibilities keeps me sane. For today anyway.

A friend of Colby's stops by. He is having a rough time, too. Good moments and bad mix his life as they do mine. He has not had an easy life and I tell him I think he is amazing. And I really do. For whatever reasons, some people are dealt a bad hand at birth. They have to work very hard just to pull themselves up to even. I can't imagine. He's been stopping by and I enjoy our visits very much. I hope, too, that he is not so hard on himself. I know how tough that can be as I am that way myself. He's a good kid, and smart. And he was a great friend to my son.

I keep busy, but still have several breakdowns today. One at the grocery store. Colby loved Arizona Green Tea with Ginseng and Honey. I pass a tall display of the beverage and begin to cry. Even though I bite my lips I don't stop the tears for 20 minutes. By then I am home putting away food I will probably never eat.

Home

I am home from Houston. Of course, home will never be the same again. I turn my attention to Colby's Celebration of Life service, scheduled for August 12, and quickly become overwhelmed, not because there is so much to do, but because for me, anything to do with it is so depressing. I am burying my only child and I see a life of such emptiness ahead of me that it is almost unbearable. I order the urn and pick out photos for a slide show several of his friends are putting together. That's all I can manage right now.

Friends call. That helps. Friends email. That helps, too. I feel a little better but I am oh so tired. Money is an issue and I worry about the expenses of the Celebration. Many people have chipped in to help and I am very, very grateful. But still I worry. When you have a child with a mental illness you do everything you can to get help. To that end I spent thousands of dollars, gladly. Then Colby would refuse to go to a doctor's appointment or refuse to participate in testing. That is part of the illness. As frustrating as it was for me, it must have been a thousand times more frustrating for him. My bright, talented, funny, kind, caring boy.

I am glad to hear so many are sending small donations to Grandpa's House. That is a positive thing that will help others like Colby. There are few facilities in the world that help with mental illness and addiction in a loving residential environment. This is one of them. Their website will be up soon. In the meantime the many people who have asked me about them can find them at 2479 Murfreesboro Rd. #183, Nashville, TN 37217, 615-586-6946. If you send a donation, please note that it is in memory of Colby.

Horses

As I drive to the farm I see Colby whiz toward me on a bike. He leans forward over the handlebars, and wears a baseball cap, long pants cut off below the knees, a t-shirt and a backpack. He grins as he whips around a corner and is gone. "What is Colby doing here in Houston?" I wonder. But of course this kid isn't my kid. This kid is not Colby.

When I get to the farm five horses are lined up along a fence. These are the demonstration horses that will be used in the various presentations. I approach the first horse as I normally would and stretch out the back of my hand toward his nose. Most times, a horse sniffs it, then looks at me, then drops his head and licks his lips. This is a sign of trust and acceptance. This horse raises his head and wiggles his butt as he looks around for guidance and help. I make him uncomfortable, so I move on. The second horse actively moves away from me, as do the third and fourth horse.

But for some reason the fifth horse reacts differently. This horse sniffs, drops his head, licks his lips and takes a step toward me. Then he places his chin on my arm. While my gamut of emotions has upset the other horses, this horse chooses to embrace me. Why? I ask someone what his name is. "Sundance," a girl replies. "Of course," I think. "Sundance." Sundance was the name of Colby's beagle/basset/doxy dog. He passed away three years ago this March. Sundance was the epitome of love. He never met a stranger and always wanted to help. How ironic that this equine Sundance feels the same way. Tears well up and I move away, biting my lips to try to stop the crying. That horse will never know the extreme gratitude I feel toward him. His kind gesture gave me concrete evidence that there is hope that I will heal.

Dreams

Saturday night I had a dream. Colby and I are in a hardware store near where my mother lives, except the store in the dream is much larger than it is in real life. We are waiting in line to check out. As we wait, Colby balances a metal yardstick on his index finger and repeatedly spits on the yardstick, then stares intently at the spot where the spit lands. I am exasperated with him because he knows it is not polite to spit in public, but he is to absorbed in the yardstick to notice.

Sunday morning I am unsettled by the dream. Does it have a meaning? If so, what? Or, is it a collection of my subconscious thoughts? If anyone has any ideas, I'd love to hear them. I am clueless.

This Sunday morning I am nervous and unable to cope with the smallest setbacks. The Internet at the hotel is down and over this I have a meltdown in my room. I pull myself together. I have things to do. I take a deep breath. One by one, I load my truck, check out of the hotel, get in the truck, and drive to the farm where the morning's equine therapy demonstrations will take place.

I now realize why I am nervous. My energy is still on a roller coaster and here, now, today, I will be physically near several horses I have never met. I worry about how the horses will react. I know the horses will be a much better judge than I am right now of my mental state. I so badly want the horses to tell me I am okay, but in my heart I know it is far too soon for that.

I also want to be around my equine friends at home. I miss them terribly. I know at the appropriate time they will help me, but I will not do anything to disturb the trust, confidence and respect I have spent so long building with them. If that means staying away a little longer, I will.

Bolts

My presentation went well yesterday and I felt surrounded by love and support, along with a deep. aching tiredness that goes into my bones. I log onto my email and find more than a dozen emails from mothers of children with schizophrenia. Thank you. Your emails keep me going. I'd also like to respond to many of you so please let me know how I can contact you. It may be in the email header somewhere, but I am too tired to look. I especially have words for Michelle.

My mother calls to let me know she is glad she went to the races and told her friends about Colby. My Mom is a very private person and I know it was hard for her to share, but several of her closest friends there let her know they have had loved ones pass in similar ways. I know she feels better for her talks and will be going back today for more.

Today, after a morning at the barn learning more about therapeutic riding, I face the long drive back to Nashville. It was a difficult drive down. I resolve to do better on the way back. I leave my hotel room a mess, something I never do. I get into the truck, then get out and go back to clean up the room. It is not fair for my emotional roller coaster to cause more work for the hotel staff.

Back in the truck a large, thick rusty bolt rolls out from underneath the seat. Colby was a collector, of everything, and this was something he had picked up a while ago. I pick up the bolt and hug it to myself, getting rust all over my clothes. I miss my son more than I can say. Somehow I will the pending tears away. Then, with a deep, shaky breath, I start the truck and head to the barn.