Birthday

Today is Colby’s birthday. Today, he would have been 24. Via phone, mail, and email I receive many birthday wishes for Colby from my support group and from friends. I so wish he were here; would give anything for him to be here. But he is not. I have given much thought to the various ways I can remember his birthday and decide the best thing I can do is file incorporation papers for Colby’s Army, the nonprofit organization founded in Colby’s memory.

Soon, Colby’s Army will present a united front to educate and encourage people to affect positive change in animal welfare, the environment, and personal development. These were all things Colby felt strongly about, and in these areas he hoped to change the world. Collectively, through Colby’s Army, maybe we can accomplish that on his behalf. In coming weeks, as things progress, I’ll post more information.

In addition to getting Colby’s Army off the ground I spend a few minutes at the spot where Colby passed. I bring Abby (our dog) and she looks pleased to be here. This is her first time at this spot and she wags her tail the entire visit. I think of Colby’s past birthdays and especially one of his favorites, when he had a party at Chuck E. Cheese. He was seven or so, and had one of the best times of his life. More recently we’d eat sushi in honor of his birth and talk of good times spent together.

Now, I take a few moments to sort through more of his “stuff,” as I do every day, Within a minute I find an envelope filled with birthday cards from Colby’s grandma and from me. He had saved every one. How ironic that I would find this today, of all days, the day of his birth. The cards are all humorous, and some are worn, as if he had looked through them over the years. I sit with the cards spread out around me and sort them by years. Most are easy to figure out. I guess on a few. Then I carefully store the cards with Colby’s writings and song lyrics, knowing that I, too, will treasure them for many years to come.

Emissions

My truck tags are due every September and I always wait until the end of the month to renew them. Colby's birthday on the 30th is a good reminder for me and Colby and I often rode over to the emissions testing center together. Today my truck does not pass inspection. I am shocked. At first I cannot make sense of the paperwork I am given. The words do not make sense to me. Then gradually, I realize my truck failed due to a "readiness sensor" not being available. The exhaust system is most likely fine, I read, but the testing equipment cannot get a good read due to the faulty sensor.

I start to shake. I wasn't prepared for this. I have to call the dealership. I have to schedule an appointment. I have to take time from work, call clients to reschedule deadlines, pay with funds that are not budgeted. This all throws a kink into my week, into my carefully laid plans. I can function with plans, knowing I have to be in a specific place at 2 o'clock on Thursday, or a certain project has to be completed by close of business on Wednesday. That I can deal with. That is orderly, safe. This, however, throws an unknown into my life and I am not ready to deal with that.

Colby always flew by the seat of his pants. I am the opposite. He could have dealt with this and before he passed, it would not have been a problem for me. But while I am beginning to function, beginning to get work done, beginning to have periods of time throughout a given day where I don't break into tears, I realize this is only because of my carefully constructed life. My orderly days. My more orderly house. I hesitate to say clean, although I have been cleaning.

The fact that a simple emissions test has shaken me so means I have a long way to go. The fact that I am not hysterical about it means I have come a long way already. But I can't yet get it together to call the dealership. That means finding a dealership, finding a number, finding a hole in my schedule when I can take the truck in, and actually making the call. Not to mention trying to figure out how to get temporary tags by tomorrow. Together those simple steps are overwhelming to me. One thing at a time, I think. One at a time. I make a list that puts each step in order, then fold the page so I only see the one task at hand. My heart stops thumping. My thinking begins to clear. I can do this, I think. I can do this. I can.

Cleaning

I have an obsessive need to clean. This is not like me, the usual me. I am told it is because this is one small corner of my universe that I can control. So much of my life is in disarray, but to some extent I can control the cleanliness of my physical environment. Every morning and every evening I mop, scrub and polish. I sort, move and discard. I can keep this up for some time, I think. I have too much stuff. Colby had way too much stuff. Of course many of his piles were for re-homing, to renew and find homes for items that still had some life in them. He just never got around to it.

Colby was not by any means a "neat" person when it comes to cleanliness and orderliness. Much of that was due to his dysgraphia. This is difficulty in writing, but also affects knot tying skills, math calculation, and thinking and being orderly. Organizing a drawer was beyond Colby, so you can imagine the "orderliness" of his room, and of the basement, where much of his "stuff" lives.

I tell myself I have to stop cleaning at a certain time. I have other things I must do. But every morning and every evening I go past my time limit. Way past. I go through all my cleaning supplies. Then I buy more. Enough. For now. I turn to my long work "to do" list. If I get started on one project, maybe I can become as engrossed in it as I am cleaning. Then I realize that by immersing myself in cleaning, or in work, I am fillig my mind with the task at hand, and that effectively blocks out scary thoughts of a future without my son, without a family. So I work. Hard. I don't think. I just be. For now it is a coping skill that will get me through to the next phase. Maybe. In the meantime, I am productive and that is good.

Energy

I feed horses again this morning. For the first time since Colby passed away they react almost normally to me. I am not so emotional today and the horses respond well to a new, more stable, me. I do a leadership exercise in the pasture with three horses. I begin to walk among them and become part of the herd, then I break off and walk away. By the sound of the grass moving, the thud of hoofbeats on the ground, I can tell that all three are following me. I have established myself as their leader, something I have not been able to do since Colby passed. Finally, I am ready to begin working with horses again. The thought should be joyful, but I can't get there today. It is a sad and numb day today. Emotion, any emotion, is hard to come by. I do feel mildly pleased, however.

Colby had a wonderful way with animals, all animals. When he was five and six, he and our horse, Snoqualmie, and dog, Dexter, played in the pasture for hours on end. Colby was the pirate, Snoqualmie was the pirate ship, and Dexter was the faithful sidekick. Snoqualmie would raise and lower her neck (the gangplank) on Colby's command, and he'd either pull himself up onto her back or slide down to the ground. The three of them would trot back and forth across the pasture, vanquishing invisible enemies until it was way past dark. When the enemy was finally at bay they'd share peanut buttter and jelly sandwiches. Yes, even though she was a horse, Snoqualmie loved PB&J sandwiches.

I don't think I ever saw a horse, dog or cat that didn't immediately come up to Colby. He was patient with them, kind, gentle. Through my work with horses I know that our four-legged friends have a much better sense of the goodness of humans than we humans do. Equine, feline or canine, they all spend a lot more time watching us, than we spend watching them. Their survival depends on accurately judging human character and I was always so proud that Colby consistently passed the toughest character test of all, that of our animal friends.

Remembering

I have lots of emails tonight and am amazed at the number of them. To the Realtors in Chicago and the mother of the schizophrenic twins in Arizona, to B. in Canada, and the many parents of recently passed children, thank you. I am glad my words touch you, and that my thoughts help you through your days. I appreciate the prayers and support more than you know. Together, I hope we continue to help each other.

For an upcoming counseling session I make a list of memories today. They are random memories, random thoughts. I am not sure what they mean or even if they are supposed to mean anything. The exercise, my counselor says, should allow me to recall events I had forgotten about. And it does. Here are a few of them: Colby and my mom bonding with a racehorse she owned 1/32 of, Colby laughing on the dock at the lake; in the playroom at Vanderbilt Children's Hospital during a severe asthma attack; the two of us under the hood of his first car figuring out how to put oil in; cheering him home after he hit a grand slam to win a baseball game; teaching Colby to swim, to dive, to ride a horse, to drive a car, to make snow angels; going to the Humane Association and watching Sundance choose Colby; serving as one of the chaperones for Colby's 2nd grade field trip; and a magical New Year's Eve walk through our neighborhood after it had snowed. Colby was nine, or maybe ten, and no one else was out. Our footprints were the only marks on a road absent of tire tracks. It was quiet, and the only thing we could hear was the falling snow. We spoke of that walk often in recent years.

Yes, there are sad memories, too. Emotional memories, panicky memories, angry memories, scary memories. But today I remember Colby when he was younger, happier. Maybe it's because at that time in his life Colby was a force of nature, of positive energy. Tomorrow's memories will most likely be from a different time and bring forth a different emotion. Like most people, Colby was complex. Most of us act professionally at work and more casually at home, and Colby's many interests and talents, life successes and challenges, allowed him to present different sides of himself to different people. Plus, we all grow and change as we journey through life. Colby's journey was short, but I am finding that I do have a wealth of memories, and it will take me a lifetime to recall them all.

Neighbors

My mom’s friends and neighbors are genuinely heartbroken over Colby’s passing. They had watched him grow up from the time he was an infant and it is easy to see their grief is real. While I am here they bring food: melons, tomatoes and squash from their farms, freshly baked chocolate zucchini cake and apple pie, pasta, and more. It’s what people do, bring food to comfort the bereaved. But after the food is handed over no one knows what to say, and really, there is nothing anyone can say. We are all heartbroken.

Each visitor finally says what I already know. Colby was smart, talented, polite, helpful. He was a wonderful conversationalist. They loved him. And Colby loved his grandma. Anyone who ever saw them together knows that. My mother and my son had a special bond, a special connection that went beyond grandmother and grandson, and everyone comments on it.

The ache in the pit of my stomach grows with each visitor. It’s accompanied by an incredible emptiness, a sadness that is bigger than life. Other families endure losses such as this, but most other families aren’t as small as ours. We are a family of two and someday we will be one. Most likely that one will be me. I am still working through that in my counseling sessions. I’m not sure I am making progress. But I will. At some point I will. But now I pack my suitcase, do a few last minute chores and try to enjoy a few more minutes in the house my grandparents built, the house I grew up in, the one place Colby truly thought of as home.

Drained

I am emotionally drained. Here at my mom's I look at old family photos and wonder what will happen to them when I am gone. It would be a tragedy to destroy them, to so dishonor these good people and their lives, their stories, but who will be interested? I know I am supposed to do something with the photos, maybe do a family history and put it on Amazon.com as a free e-book, but the thought is overwhelming and I know that time is not here, not yet, not now. It will have to wait.

Today it is two months since Colby passed. Both my mom and I are worried about getting through Colby's birthday, which comes up in 5 days. It will be an emotional day, but one I hope to celebrate with some joy, somehow. I will spend the drive back to Tennessee tomorrow thinking of something. In the meantime, I sort photos and add some of Colby to the large pile of relatives who are no longer here.

Cards

Today I write very belated thank you cards. There are hundreds of them. Some go to those who sent condolence cards, others to people who attended Colby's Celebration of Life or who helped by sending love and support via email or phone. I have addresses for most. Some I do not and I worry about that. I will try to get addresses for all. Each person should be thanked.

I have waited to do this for several reasons. One, I wasn't ready. This is another thing no parent should ever have to do, cannot imagine doing. The second reason is that my mom wanted to be part of this. She wants to sign every card. As she is elderly and her hands shake, if I had mailed the cards to her she could not physically stuff hundreds of cards into their respective envelopes and seal them. She is unstable walking and could not have carried the cards into the post office. So I had to be here and Mom lives 900 miles away. With the aftermath of Colby's passing along with work commitments, this is as soon as I could get here. Tomorrow will be September 25th. Two months since Colby passed. Two months I have been a childless parent, my mom a grandparent without a grandchild. I sometimes still cannot believe this life I now live is real.

My hand cramps as I write. I am only 50 cards into this. It has taken most of the day. Mom sees the growing stack of cards on the dining room table and looks at them warily. It is difficult for her to write. She may not be able to sign them all. I suggest she take it in stages. We will see.

The hollow pit in my stomach is growing. It's been there since the moment I learned that Colby had passed. Sometimes it is barely noticeable. Other times, like now, it is overwhelming. I put the pen down and walk across the yard to the lake. It is quiet here; the lake is like glass. It is actually a big bay, more than a mile across and two miles wide, and it connects with more than 30 miles of bays that together make up Lake Minnetonka, one of the largest natural lakes in the country. I sit for a time. I watch birds float effortlessly by. Fish, large fish, occasionally jump. They are so graceful.

I realize I am so grateful for each person the thank you cards are going to. Every one of them helped make Colby's Celebration of Life perfect, helped make my journey these past months easier, bearable. I honestly could not have survived this without each one of them, without each one of you. While I desperately wish the circumstances were different, I am honored to thank each person. So, I leave my peaceful haven, and walk back up the steps. My pen and more than one hundred blank cards await.

Flashbacks

There are so many memories here at my mom's. Everywhere I turn I see things that remind me of Colby. These are painful reminders that he is not here, not fond memories. Not yet. I go down to the lake and think he should be sitting on the bench on the dock beside me. We had some great conversations there. I notice a weak step on the way back up to the house from the dock. Colby should be here to fix it.

In the downstairs bedroom, the room that was mine as a teen and his when Colby visited the past dozen or so years, I find a few of his things: a portable CD player, a shirt, a book. I am sure there is more, but I stop looking. This is too hard.

When Mom and I go to the store, she sits in the back seat, because it is easier for her to get into the car that way, but Colby should be sitting in the passenger seat beside me. When we stop for lunch, it should be lunch for 3, not 2. He should be here to help unload the car, fix the screen door.

Mom finds some old family photos in the garage. They are wrapped in a mouse-eaten burlap bag, but none of the photos are touched. They need to be moved to a safer place inside the house, I think, then just as quickly I think "who cares?" After me there will be no one to remember these people. No one to be interested in their lives, what they accomplished. No one to care. I move the photos inside anyway.

Colby should be here. But he is not. I have to trust that a higher power has good reason for this. I do believe that, but this is so hard. So very, very hard. My one consolation is that Colby is not longer sad, no longer struggling with this life. I know he is at peace and that is my one comforting thought for the day.

Mom

I arrive at Mom’s safely. On the latter part of the drive I think about another activity my counselor asked me to do. This exercise works for the loss of any relationship, I think, not just the passing of a child. It is: if the opportunity arose, now, after he has passed, what three questions I would ask Colby in the order of importance to me?

I give this a lot of thought. Today and over the past few weeks. I want to ask a dozen questions, a hundred. But just three? They have to be good questions, well thought out. Thinking about this helps me define what is important for me to know. Hypothetically. After much consideration I come up with the following:

Question one is, “Are you happy?” And of course by “happy” I mean, safe, okay, warm, comforted, at peace. Every parent wants to know these things about his or her child and I am no different, even though my son is no longer here.

Question two is,”Was there anything I could have done differently that would have kept you here with me?” What I really want to know is two-fold, three-fold, and on my drive today, I can’t quite get the wording right. What I want to ask is: if I did some specific thing differently, would you still be here with me? If so, what would the specific thing be? Or, was this abrupt ending to your life here on Earth pre-ordained? Was your life mapped out from the beginning and this was supposed to be?

Question three is, “Who do you hang out with?” Again, there is more to this question. Did someone greet you on the other side? If so, was it a friend, a relative? The brother of one of Colby’s friends passed a few years ago, a fallen soldier in Iraq. Another acquaintance passed a few days after Colby. Four of my former clients, all of whom knew Colby well, have gone on; as have a former babysitter; plus grandparents, great grandparents and other relatives he never met here, but who are relatives all the same. I want to know that my son is not alone. I want to know there is someone there to show him the ropes, that he has friends.

In my heart, I know I do not need to ask these questions. I know God is taking care of Colby. I know that just as I know this exercise is not about Colby. It is about me. And what I see is that I am still Colby’s mom. Even though he has gone on to a better place, as his mom I still want to do the things that moms do. Some of this is habit. “Mom” has been my main role for almost two dozen years and as I mention in an earlier post, old habits die hard. When your only child passes before you, quickly, it is not possible to give up the parental role equally as quickly. Time once again rears it’s head. It is a familiar theme in this grieving process. I just need more of it.

Travel

I am on my way to Minnesota to visit my mom. I have not seen her since Colby passed, so it will be an emotional trip. Colby and I made this trip several times a year, every year, and we had developed "regular" stops, regular routines. I take care not to follow any of that and make this trip as different as possible. Otherwise it will be too painful. I didn't pack any of the red licorice, beef jerky or sports drinks I usually bring. Didn't bring any of the CDs we usually listen to.

I stop in Clarksville for gas. Five older men are outside, drinking coffee. After I stick my debit card in the gas pump they all come ambling over. "Whatcha got there in the back of your truck?" one asks. I look where he is pointing. Tucked in a plastic garden tub is an old, metal washbasin of my grandmother's. My mom uses it for gardening and she and Colby filled it with plants as a gift for me from her garden the last time Colby and I visited. That was less than two months ago. "It's a washtub," I say. "No, no it ain't," another says. "That there, that there's a ham boiler, 'cept they usually have a roll of copper on the top." I explain again that this has been a gardening or wash tub for the past 60 or so years. "Where'd y'all get it?" he asks. I tell him the tub is originally from either Wisconsin or Minnesota. "Well then, that just' 'bout explains it," he said knowingly. "Don't no one up there know how to cook ham." A third man jumps in. "If you got a top for it, I might give ya 40 dollars for it," he says. I tell them I've never seen a top for it and it is a family heirloom; I wouldn't sell it for four hundred dollars. They shake their heads at my stupidity and amble off. I think how Colby and I would have chuckled over the exchange for miles. I miss him so.

I point the truck toward Minnesota and purposefully keep the radio dial away from the station we always listen to in south central Illinois. I intentionally do not stop at the gas station in Bloomington, Illinois that we always stop at. I make sure I am well occupied on the phone during the stretch that Colby always drove. So many memories that I can't bear to experience now, but also can't let go of. As other grieving parents from my support group have said, it is so very hard for anyone other than another grieving parent to understand that this is an every minute, every hour, every day, every week, every month, every year existence that you never get over or past, you just learn to live with it. This grief never ends, it never goes away, but it does evolve. Maybe the next trip, or the trip after that, I will stop in Bloomington. We'll see.

Aftermath

Today I find a recycling center and place 27 World Book encyclopedias from 1979 carefully in a bin. I am crying by the time I get to the third book. These were not Colby's personal volumes, although they could have been. He was interested in such a wide variety of subjects that he would get pleasantly lost in books such as these. These books Colby had obtained somewhere, most likely for free, and had hoped to "re-home" them. He did that a lot. So much so, that my basement is still full of "stuff" that needs to be re-homed. Colby's mindset was that we all throw away things that still have use, maybe not for us, but for someone else. I believe that is true. One of Colby's "missions" while he was here with us was to get people to understand that we as a society are using more than our share of the Earth's resources.

This is the reason for my tears. Despite my best efforts I could not find a home for these books. They were too heavy to list online; shipping them would have been prohibitive. The Goodwill and Salvation Army, along with all the used bookstores in town rejected this lot as too dated. 1979 was, after all, thirty years ago. A Craigslist ad went unanswered and I finally came to the conclusion that the only home for these books was the recycle bin.

Those who pass young, or suddenly, or young and suddenly, do not give much thought to the aftermath of their passing, including the disposition of their possessions. I take great care to try to do what Colby would have wanted with his stuff. I am mostly clueless. I often have no idea if a specific CD or a book, a torn ticket stub, a shirt, a poster, was especially meaningful to him, or to one of his friends.

With books, however, his intent was quite clear. I was taught from an early age that books are a gift to be treated reverently; they are not to be thrown out. I passed this school of thought along to Colby and now I feel as if I have failed him. I place the last of the World Books gently in the bin and turn away, defeated. At least they will be recycled. Colby would have taken some consolation in that, and so, too, will I. I did my best and no one can ask for any more than that. I decide not to be so hard on myself so I wipe the tears away and head to the house. Maybe in his piles of stuff I will find something else I can re-home yet today. I know that whatever I find I will try my best to make that happen.

Habits

Today I see Colby everywhere. He is on a bike on the other side of the street, skateboarding in a parking lot. He's the kid leaning against the tree, coming out of the store, walking away from me, driving the car that passes me. Today I see Colby everywhere. Yet none of these people are my son. None of them are Colby. It is all smoke and mirrors. A mirage.

My counselor says I am well-grounded in reality, that I understand––truly understand––that Colby is gone and is not coming back. But if that is the case, why does my heart leap out of my chest every time I see someone who, on closer inspection, only vaguely resembles Colby? Why do I for the briefest instant think, "Oh, there's my son. I wonder what he's doing here?"

Habit, I think. During the past 23 years I developed the habit of looking for my son, of expecting him to be close by, of knowing that he will soon drive in the driveway, knock on the door, peek through the window, call on the phone. It is a habit for me to expect that, and as we all know, habits are hard to break.

I want to break this habit. Badly. For every time I see someone who might be my son, I go through the pain of losing him all over again. Fourteen times today I go through that loss. Fourteen times my heart leaps in joy at the sight of my son, then it weeps.

Members of my support group tell me that time will take care of much of this, but that this habit of expecting my son to arrive will never completely go away. I will be 80 years old and I will see a tall, thin young man with light brown hair in disarray and think for one blissful moment that he is my child. My child, stuck in time, un-aged, still 23. Then the sinking feeling will come as my heart drops into the pit of my stomach and I remember once again that my son has passed. Countless other grieving parents have told me this is the way it is, the way it will always be. Old habits die hard, and young men and women, cherished children of lost parents, are forever frozen in time.

Letter

One of my new counseling assignments is to write a letter to me. I have so many letters from friends, and all of you who read this blog. After considerable thought on this I do not think my letter will not be much different than those I have already received, but here goes:

Dear Lisa,

Please do not be so hard on yourself. You and Colby both had many challenges and the system failed you both in so many ways. You went above and beyond as a mother, as a parent. You gladly, willingly, sacrificed your personal relationships, business and career to put Colby first. You provided everything you possibly could, including tutoring, private school education, counseling, and educational trips, at great financial sacrifice. Every step of his life you were there for him and he always knew he could come to you. Often he did, and sometimes he didn't, but that was his choice.

From the time Colby was a child he was not happy here. Yes, he found joy, but the unfairness in life weighed heavily on him. He wanted to change the world, but could not. In his short life Colby touched many people, inspired many others. He did a lifetime of work in 23 years and now he is at peace. He is happy, more so than he ever could have been here.

Rejoice in his life, in the people he touched, in the changes he did make in this world. And know that many years from now, when your time comes, you will once again see your beloved son; he is waiting for you with open arms.

Love,

Me

Safety

I have a long counseling session this morning. My counselor goes over my lifeline, the document I have been working on that highlights all the significant events in my life, and she determines that in the past 28 years I have had 55 significant and stressful life changing events. Some years it was a constant barrage of cross country moves, job changes, abuse, and death. Other years it was significant illness, financial woes and police arrests. Any of these, she says, could take a year or more to grieve and process through. Long story short, the grief I am now feeling is not just grief for Colby and his passing, it is compounded grief that includes all these other events.

I am strong, she says. These are words I do not like to hear, for I am not as strong as everyone thinks. But when she explains what she means, I understand. The first 20 years of my life were quite stable. I lived with my mother and grandmother, who were both strong influences. Combined, it gave me the foundation I need to deal with all the life challenges I have had. My foundation is strong.

Colby, she continues, was also strong. For when we piece together his significant life challenges, they are quite overwhelming. That he was able to deal with most of them with a smile, that he could still impact people with his positive energy, or with his thoughts on virtually any subject in the universe, is a testament to his inner self.

The lifeline also clearly shows how early on, many people in authority failed Colby. Teachers, counselors, medical professionals, coaches and scout leaders. Not all, but some. Enough. This caused his later distrust of people who possibly could have helped him. For Colby, distrust could have been a protective shield, a safety net, beyond which no one could penetrate.

I come away thinking that I need to take some time to think about this. It is important stuff. But this is a busy week, as is the next. I will find the time, however. Because if I am to move on in this process of grief, I must better understand the events in my lifeline, not only how they impacted my past, but how they can direct my future.

Tourettes

A few years ago I was privileged to co-author the book Front of the Class with Brad Cohen, who has Tourette syndrome. Tourette syndrome is a neurological disorder that causes the person to have uncontrollable body movements (called tics) and make unusual vocal sounds (called barks). Despite Tourettes, Brad was named Georgia State Teacher of the Year and the book aired on CBS last December as a Hallmark Hall of Fame television movie. In writing Front of the Class, I learned that some people with Tourette syndrome can, at times, delay some of the tics and barks, only to let out a barrage of them a short time later. If there is such as thing as grief Tourettes, I have it.

I find that sometimes, I can focus on the task at hand so completely that I get through it without crying. A meeting, a trip to the post office, a meal at a restaurant. Then later, on the way home, I pull over to the side of the road because I am crying so much I can't see. Other times, on days I call the "numb" days, I wake up the next morning with my eyelashes matted shut with tears; I have cried so hard in my sleep that my face is swollen and I can't get my eyes open.

That there are times where I begin to function more normally is good. It is also good that I can see definite progress in moving through my grief. I am not yet "happy," I am not yet even "okay," but being somewhat productive is good and for now I will settle for that.

Ancestors

I had been researching our geneology as a present for Colby's birthday. Throughout this year, I had been giving Colby bits and pieces of the people, the story, and had planned to surprise him with a book of all the collected research on his birthday. Each month, if I hadn't already given him a bit of information, he'd ask about it and when Colby passed, I found all the printouts I had given him wrapped in plastic in his backpack.

Our story is a good one of farmers, warriors, masons, and thieves. Love and loss, heartbreak and triumph. Ocean crossings, Indian fights, potato blight, sod houses, and miles upon miles riding in covered wagons. Ancestors came mostly from Ireland, Poland, Russia, Austria, and Germany. Some belonged to the Royal families of Europe; others were brothers, sisters or parents of Catholic saints. Yet others were maids, sheepherders, and seamstresses. All were real people. Each, like Colby, left his or her mark upon the world.

Colby would have turned 24 two weeks from tomorrow. My research sits, untouched, since the day he passed. I will return to it someday, maybe even someday soon, for as I look at my great-grandfather's baby picture, and my great-great grandparent's wedding photo, I realize that I do not want them to be forgotten. So (eventually) I will continue the research, I will tell their stories and let the world know they were part of it.

This is important not only because of the story that is there, but because I am interested in telling it. For the first time since Colby passed, I am interested, although somewhat vaguely, in something. For the first time rather than going through the motions of what has to be done, I am actually interested in doing something. And that, I think, is a very good thing.

Pacing

It is a heavy email day today. Lots of Facebook messages, too. And calls. Lots of phone calls. I can't possibly answer all the email or talk with all who call, although I want to. Very much, I want to even if it is just to say how much I appreciate the few minutes it took to call or email. That's because just when I think I can't bear another second of life without my son, a call or email comes in. So even if I don't pick up the call or answer the email, please know I got the message, and that I am so very grateful for it.

I get email, too, from parents of other children who have passed. Those emails today are mostly angry. Other days they are sad, but today a simmering rage is at the forefront. I wish I could get there. I wish I could feel their anger because it means I am moving along in my grief. I would be that much closer to the end. If there is such as thing as an end to this. By "end" I mean reaching a place of acceptance, where I can move on with life, such as it will be.

But I am not there yet. I have written that so many times. I want to be there. I yearn to be "there." But grief comes at it's own pace, as do anger, sadness, denial and all the other feelings that come along for the ride. The pace is its own and I can neither hurry it or delay it. It will all come at the right time. Meanwhile I want to thank you all for reading this blog. Thank you for thinking of me, thank you for remembering Colby.

Running

Colby began running away when he was 13. At first he'd stuff pillows and blankets under the covers of his bed to make it look as if he was there, safe, sleeping. At first he'd just slip out into the back yard, walk around the block, hang in the school playground across the street.

Later, he didn't bother with the pillows or blankets; he'd just gather his backpack and skateboard and go. As time went by, he strayed farther and farther away from home and for longer and longer periods.

I wish I could run away.

Until Colby passed, I never understood his compulsion to run, to be out on the street. But I do now. Sometimes life is so overwhelming; simple, normal responsibilities so compressing; that it seems like the only answer is to run. I've thought about it. I've thought about gathering the dog and the cat and getting into my truck and driving. Driving to a destination unknown. Abandon everything. Leave this overwhelming life behind. Free myself from the horror I wake up to every morning.

Then I realize I can't. No matter where I go, my son will still not be there. No matter what I do, my son will still be gone. But, I can do some things to make my life easier:
1. say no to what I can't do
2. help others
3. honor Colby's memory
4. realize I do not have to get everything done today
5. cry when I need to
6. allow my friends to help me
7. actually do all of the above

Today I will do my best to follow those guidelines. If I do that today and tomorrow and the next day and the day after that, then one day I know life will not be quite so hard.

Identity

My identity is lost. For more than 23 years I was a mom. Now I am not sure what I am. Yes, I am a friend, daughter, motivator. A teacher. But my role first and foremost has been mom. Where do I go from here? With Colby's passing, my identity is irrevocably gone, never to return.

Those of us who have become childless parents are in a unique situation. I realize I am not the only one who is going through this. Unfortunately, there are countless others who have lost either their only child, or all their children. Some have grandchildren, so their roles as a parent of some kind will continue. Others, like me, do not.

I know I have to "reinvent" myself. Find a new identity. But that does not come easily. And it is too soon. Way too soon. In the meantime I, along with all the other childless parents out there float in limbo, no longer knowing who I am or what I am supposed to be. I know someday the answer will come. In the meantime, I mourn the loss of my treasured identity along with the treasure that was, and is, my child.

Ducks

This morning I close Colby's bank account. There is less than $10 in the account, but it is something that needs to be done all the same. This is the third time I have driven to the bank to do this. The first two times I can't bring myself to walk in the door. No parent should have to do this. Today I walk in, but when someone asks if they can help me I shake my head, turn around and walk out. I sit in the truck for 15 minutes. Closing Colby's account is so final, so personal. And, it seems such an invasion of his privacy. I do some deep breathing exercises then walk into the bank again.

This time I walk into the office of a young banker not much older than Colby and explain what I need. I have brought everything I think you need, I say. Birth and death certificates, Colby's Social Security card, my driver's license. The young banker offers her condolences and the way she says it, I believe she truly means it. Bless her.

In the middle of processing her paperwork she reaches down into a drawer and pulls out a form for me to sign. Then, after a pause, she reaches back into the drawer and pulls out a small, yellow rubber duck, the kind that kids play with in the bathtub, and places it on the desk. "I don't know why I just did that," she says with a puzzled smile. But I do.

When Colby was eleven, Fan Fair, the week-long country music extravaganza that morphed into the CMA Music Fest, had The Beach Boys as their final headline act. Their record label had just released a duet album with The Beach Boys and the stars of country music singing Beach Boy hits. I was a publicist and artist manager at the time and scored two backstage passes, one for Colby and one for me. When he was a kid, Colby always did think The Beach Boys were cool.

Backstage were large bins of beach "stuff," as Colby would say: over-sized sunglasses, flip flops, sun screen, and lots and lots of little yellow ducks. Colby grabbed a duck and promptly walked up to The Beach Boys lead singer, Mike Love, and asked if he would sign it. Ever-ready publicist that I was, I grabbed my camera and clicked off a shot. Colby then wandered through the huge backstage area and approached one Beach Boy after the next. He even managed to get a signature from the elusive Brian Wilson and got into a conversation with Carl Wilson, who passed on not too many months later.

Colby treasured that duck and it has a place of honor in his room next to the photo of him with Mike Love. Sitting here in the bank, with an identical duck on the desk (minus signatures), brings back a warm, comforting memory of that wonderful day. Weeks ago, days, ago, I would have broken down at the sight of the duck. But today . . . today it brings peace, an inner smile, a spiritual hug from beyond.

I sign the form, the banker hands me six dollars and some change, then picks the duck up to put it back in the drawer. "Leave it out," I say. "It's cute and maybe it will bring a smile to one of your customers." She nods and puts the duck back on her desk.

9/11

My thoughts and prayers are with the 9/11 families today. How sad this day must be for each of them. I believe the recognition of the 9/11 date is what brought on my distress this morning. On September 11, 2001 Colby and I were preparing to walk out the door at 9:15 a.m. when I saw the first bits of coverage on CNN. We were heading from Nashville to Southern Mississippi, where Colby was to enter a four-month long dual diagnosis treatment program the next day. He was 15.

Not knowing what was happening we stayed glued to the television for the next hour and a half before making the decision to head south. On the way, we listened intently to the intense radio coverage that was on every station. The tragic reality of the situation opened the door for some honest conversation and Colby and I discussed life and death in ways we had never approached before. By the time we arrived at our destination, we each had a positive new understanding of the other, and a sad new understanding of our world.

The terrible loss of life in New York's twin towers and the reason for the trip south combined with the long discussions Colby and I had about important matters forever make September 11th one of the worst and best days of my life. Since 2001, this day has been bittersweet for me, emotional and sad, but it is also a day that is tinged with pride for my son, who struggled so with life.

Tonight as September 11, 2009 draws to a close I send a prayer that those who lost friends and family on 9/11 have found some measure of peace and closure. For if they have, then there is hope that eventually, I, and every other parent who has lost a child, might also reach that place.

Support

I wake up at four in the morning overcome with grief. It is a physical grief that causes my heart to pound, my hands to shake, my body to sweat, my mind to race. I have been through this before and by now know enough to turn to posts from my online support group of grieving parents. Reading other posts I learn how other parents cope, what to expect. I am just a little more than six weeks into this. My grief, these physical episodes, they say, will happen throughout the entire first year, and for some people, into years two, three, and beyond.

My aunt died in her early fifties, and my grandmother, my aunt's mother, had unexpected spells of crying, sadness, grief until the day she passed away many years later. There is a special bond between parent and child that is different from any other relationship. No one can understand what I am going through unless they have lost a child themselves. Sadly, there are hundreds of parents who belong to the support group and several have lost more than one child. For the few of us who have lost our only child, there is a special sadness.

The support group talks about "soft" days and "hard" days. Soft days are those days where the grief retreats, temporarily. Hard days will hopefully happen less and less frequently as time passes. The one thing that is constant, is the understanding that parents never really get past losing a child. The loss will eventually be absorbed into the parent's life, but life, then, is forever changed. Most parents will adapt, and go on to live full lives. But those lives will be drastically different than planned, for there will always be an empty place at holiday tables, there will always be one person missing in family photos.

I am so greatly saddened that these kind people I have met online have experienced the worst nightmare a parent can face. But I also am so very, very grateful for their guidance, love and unconditional support, for it is through them that I learn to navigate the first tentative steps into the uncharted waters of life without my son.

Insurance

Today I get three emails from parents whose sons have stories similar to Colby's. My heart aches for them. For like me, over the years they each spent tens of thousands of dollars on medical and mental health treatment. These parents live in three different states, yet for various reasons their sons were not able to get the mental health help they needed, so instead, like Colby, these boys turned to drugs.

Colby first began counseling for mental illness when he was 8. He was in counseling again for another year when he was 10, and again at 12 and from then on it was a constant until his insurance benefits ran out when he was 18. When he was 14 he was hospitalized for two weeks with anorexia. At 15 he was diagnosed with obstructive defiant disorder and was hospitalized for 7 weeks. At 16 he spent 4 months in a group home. By age 17, in addition to the above, he had been diagnosed with panic attacks, paranoia, anxiety and depression. At 21, schizophrenia, a condition that runs on my grandmother's side of the family, was added to the list. When my savings and ability to pay ran dry my mother sold stocks and depleted her retirement. Every dollar we had went to pay for Colby's health care.

The other parents tell me that like Colby, while there was still some insurance to help cover the exhorbitant costs of testing, counseling, residential treatment, medication, outpatient treatment and more, their sons were able to function, to maintain, to be productive despite tremendous odds. One child was bi-polar; another, like Colby, had schizophrenia; the third suffered from paranoia. But once their health care stopped, all of them began making poor decisions, and each began a fatal downward spiral.

I recently went to a meeting of the National Alliance on Mental Illness and learned that more than 50 percent of people who use drugs have a diagnosed mental illness. So you have to think: which came first, the drugs or the mental illness? In talking with these parents, each boy had signs of mental illness before he reached the age of 10. And as the mental illness progressed and the health care lessened, each boy's ability to think clearly, normally, rationally, lessened.

There are some who wonder why those addicted to drugs often refuse help. It's because the mental illness is so pervasive, so consuming, that their brain does not function properly. Like any other organ that is ill, the brain compensates for its illness and the ability to think rationally is often decreased. Two very dear friends have children in their twenties who have trouble with various forms of drugs and mental illness. One has insurance and the other does not. I pray for both of them. I know the difficult road they walk very well, because I traveled it for more than 15 years.

I'm not sure what the details of health care insurance solution is or should be. But, I do know that other countries have found a way to solve this problem and allow each citizen access to health care, and I hope and pray our lawmakers will work together to give our citizens the same option. In the meantime, we're losing loved ones everyday. It's time for it to stop.

Maybe

I have a growing sense that Colby's passing is fate, destiny. I don't feel this way all the time, but I do frequently, and this morning is one of those times. Maybe Colby was never supposed to be here long. Maybe his entire purpose on Earth was to meet and encourage those he did meet, and to pass on at a young age as an example so others could live.

Colby's story is getting some attention in the health care reform debate. I will not take sides here other than to say I think every American deserves the opportunity to have affordable health care, and that mental illness should not be treated solely by taking vital signs and pulling blood for a drug screen. Beyond that I will leave it to those who are more knowledgeable to work out the details.

Colby's memorial web site gets a lot of hits from people who never met him. I get a lot of emails from that site from people I do not know. All say his story, his life, is both an inspiration and a wake up call as to the state of our health care system. Maybe in his passing, Colby will save others. One person, 20, 100, 5000. From the time he was small, Colby always said he would not grow old. Maybe we do have some input as to our path here on Earth before we are ever born. If so, maybe Colby had some sense of that. Maybe this was supposed to be.

I might be I am rationalizing here. It might be that as his mother I am trying to find some sense of peace, of acceptance. It might be this kind of thinking is part of my grieving process. Nothing will bring my son back or return my life to "normal," but right now, this morning, I find a small comfort in these ideas. Time will tell, but from where I sit at this moment, I hope with all I have that I am right.

Holidays

Today I buy a card for my mom, write a note in it and send it to her for Grandparent's Day. It takes me an hour to write three lines and I cry the entire time. Colby should be here to do this and some part of me can't fathom that he's not. I'm not sure how I will get through another "holiday" less than a week after the last one. I do not want to become one of these embittered people who hate celebrations, hate holidays, but I can see how easily one could become a person like that.

Holidays and celebrations are for people with families. Colby's passing is so new, so raw, that I try not to feel jealous, devastated, enraged, bitter, overwhelmed, when people this week show me photos of their children, grandchildren; when they tell me they ate lunch at their grandchild's school; when they say what a great parent their son, daughter, is. Those are all activities I had looked forward to; now they are things I will never do.

I try to be happy for them, proud for them, to share their joy, but I am still so overwhelmed with grief I don't even come close. The key for me is to stay busy, to work, to be physically active, so I get on Colby's bike and pedal, pedal, pedal through the neighborhood. My brain is quickly consumed with curbs, dips, humps, speed bumps, traffic, dogs. I ride up and down hills until I am completely exhausted, until my legs are shaky, until my bum knee aches. After, I feel better. I feel guilty for my earlier mood, for that is not normally my nature.

The next big event is September 30, Colby's birthday. That gives me 21 days to figure out a way to get through the day. By then I am sure to have come up with something positive and productive I can do in honor and memory of my son.

Sundance

From my last post 50 percent say to send a card to my mom for Grandparent’s Day and 50 percent say call her. Hmmmm . . . Sometimes it is hard to know the right thing to do. I decide to do both. I go to the store and find a blank card. In it I will write a message about how much I appreciated my mom as a grandma and how much Colby loved her. And of course I will also call her on Sunday. We talk every day, but on that day I will mention being a grandparent. This is hard for me because being a grandma is something I had looked forward to and now will never be.

While at the store I begin to cry. What I wouldn’t give to get through a trip to the store with dry eyes. What sets me off this time is a pair of men’s flannel pajamas. Colby’s birthday is coming up in a few weeks and normally at this time of the year I would buy gifts for him. I wander the store and wait for the crying spell to cease so I can check out. I have found it makes people in the checkout area nervous and upset if I cry during the process, so I wait.

While I wait I am drawn to the pet section. This is odd because I was here a few days ago to get cat food. Since my last visit an entire shelf has been cleared and removed and dog toys are now on sale in the cat section. I walk closer to the dollar bin and my heart jumps into my throat. There, in the bin, are two miniature cloth “hot dogs” with a squeaker inside. This was the favorite toy of Colby’s dog Sundance. Sundance’s hot dog is long gone and I had been looking for the past three years in stores and online for one for our dog Abby, and more recently for my mom’s dog. I had even tracked it down to the manufacturer only to be told it had been discontinued. And here, on this morning, I see two brand new hot dogs. They are the only toys in the bin and there are two of them.

This is the second time since Colby passed that I have been strongly reminded of Sundance, whose only purpose on Earth was to make people happy. He passed away 3-1/2 years ago and is missed every day. The first reminder of him was in Houston, the week after Colby passed, when an old horse named Sundance was the only horse to accept me. And now here are the hot dogs. I choose to take this as a sign that everything will some how, some way, some day be okay. The tears stop and I buy the hot dogs. They will make nice surprises in the doggies Christmas stockings. Thank you, Sundance.

Dilemma

I have a dilemma. Grandparent's Day is just a few days away, this coming Sunday. We just got through Labor Day and here we already have another, albeit small, holiday, and I am not sure what to do.

Colby always sent my mom, his grandma, a card and called her on Grandparent's Day. If I operate on the premise that I am always and forever Colby's mom, then it translates that my mother is always and forever Colby's grandma, even though he has passed away. If that is the case, should I recognize this day by sending her a card, or, would she think that was inappropriate? Should I ask how she feels about it and, in asking, spoil the surprise? If I don't send something, will she think she is being forgotten? Maybe she doesn't feel the same way I do. Maybe she feels that because Colby has passed on that her role as grandma has ended.

You have to understand that my mom was a Marine in World War II. She comes from a different generation, one that doesn't open up about personal thoughts and feelings like we do. For her generation, opening up is a sign of weakness. Typically, when I begin to talk about Colby she changes the subject. She has gotten a little better about this in the past week or so, but it is clear she is not yet ready to really talk about his passing.

So what should I do? I do not want to forget her wonderful time as Colby's grandmother, but I also do not want to send a card she might thing was in poor taste. My decision needs to be made quickly as she lives 900 miles away and I will have to get a card in the mail to her on Wednesday if it is to arrive in time. I'm open to and appreciate greatly any thoughts or ideas any of you might have. Just post a comment or send me an email. Thanks!

Why

"Why" questions bounce back and forth in my brain this morning. Why did my child, my only child, have to die? Why couldn't it have been someone else's child? Not that I would wish this horror on anyone else, but why could this not have happened to some other mother, one who has other children? Why was I robbed of any possibility of having grandchildren? Why did Colby have to pass before he had the opportunity to live a full life? Why?

On some level I realize these questions mean I am moving into another stage of grief. That is good, except for me, rather than moving through stages, I bounce back and forth. Now, rather than ping-ponging between two opposite emotions, numb shock and uncontrollable crying, I will hit the triangle and add questioning despair. My counselor says that grief sometimes happens that way, moving around and around before the person doing the grieving can find some sort of peace, some sort of platform from which he or she can rebuild their life and move on. Apparently this kind of grieving, this kind of healing process, is no better or worse than a grief that moves through one stage at a time. It just is.

I know there is an answer to each of my "why" questions. I do believe there is a plan from a higher power. I do believe that God has reasons, good reasons, for all of this, and that someday my questions will be answered. In the meantime, I embrace this new stage of grief as being one step closer to healing, and one day closer to peace.

Labor

Today is Labor Day. It's a hard day for me because it is the first "holiday" without Colby. Traditionally, Colby and I drove around Nashville sometime on Labor Day weekend and visited all the places we once lived. There are eight former homes spread from Kingston Springs (about 20 miles west of Nashville) into Nashville itself. The drive usually took an entire afternoon and we'd always stop somewhere and eat, sharing memories of the various houses and events that took place in them.

All weekend I debated making the drive myself and finally I decide I am not ready. I'd feel Colby's loss too painfully. I'd cry the entire time. I realize that with Colby gone I have no one to share these memories with and I cry anyway. The crying gives way to irritation, with me, with life, with nothing in particular, so I go into my backyard and begin pulling down vines that have engulfed the line of trees at the back of the lot. Since Colby passed, I haven't done much yard work and I pull vines with vengeance. Vines down, I attack branches with clippers and saw, then spot clumps of iris that need dividing, so I dig. Finally, I hack several low gardening stools together from some scrap wood and paint them. By this time it is long past dark.

Now I sit and write. I try not to shake because after the shaking comes the crying. I take deep breaths and concentrate on the letters that appear on the screen. I must stay busy; I must not think. I am grateful that today's holiday is a small one. It was good practice for Colby's birthday (September 30), and the bigger holidays coming up this fall: Thanksgiving and Christmas. I must plan major projects for those days. Big projects with lots of physical labor that will take me from sunrise to the day's end. I hear that the first holidays are the worst. I got through this one. Somehow I will get through the rest.

Freethinking

Between my grief counselor and my support group I keep busy with exercises every day. These exercises help keep my mind focused, keeps it from wandering to places it does not need to go. They also help me through the grief process. And while the exercises are designed for grief, I do think they are helpful for anyone who is having a difficult time.

Today I do a freethinking exercise where I write down every thought that comes into my mind about Colby. No censoring, no thinking, just writing. Here's what I come up with:

Bright, funny, talented, kind, loyal, musical, artistic, positive, beautiful. A good friend. Stood up for his beliefs. Be kind to animals. Loved to read, skateboard, bicycle, play guitar and harmonica. Loved his grandma, DIY, Arizona Green Tea with Ginseng and Honey, sushi and shrimp, Mexican food, strawberries, spaghetti, peace, the History and Discovery channels, the Old West, funny movies, art, thrift stores, bio fuels, spirituality, recycling, hummus, Lake Minnetonka, duct tape, positive attitudes, affecting change. Struggled, frustrated, sad. Loved so very much. My one, my only child. My family. Gone.

The benefit to this exercise is that I see a perspective, and I see reality. While Colby was bright, artistic and funny, he also struggled so much. In my pain, my loss, my grief, I sometimes forget that. I sometimes forget that Colby no longer suffers, is no longer sad, no longer hurts. I would give anything, anything, absolutely ANY THING, to have Colby here with me right now, but it does bring some small comfort to remember that he is, finally, at peace. And if small comfort is all I can get right now, then I'll take it.

Time

For several days now I have had an empty, hollow feeling in the pit of my stomach. It's the kind of feeling you get when you are an hour away from home and realize you left the stove on. It's a lurch of recognition followed by a horrible, sinking feeling. I believe I have had this feeling continually since the moment I learned about Colby's passing, but now, six weeks later, as the shock begins to wear off, I am just now aware it is there.

The medical people I talk to say the physical reactions of grief can include dry mouth, shortness of breath, trouble swallowing and sleeping, panic attacks, repetitive motions, and inflammation throughout the body. In past weeks I have experienced it all. They also tell me that medical studies show that the death of a child is the most intense form of grief there is, and that a parent never really gets over the loss, but instead somehow learns to live with the passing of his or her child. Also, feelings of guilt can be strong and because of the intensity of the emotions, irrational decisions are often made. Again, I have experienced, and continue to experience, all of that.

Looking at all of that in black and white I realize I expect way too much of myself way too soon. I get mad at myself when I can't function in group settings, when I cry in public, when I take two hours to get up and out of the house, when I read the same page over and over and none of it makes any sense. The medical studies validate both my physical and my mental distress and show me that it is okay to take a year or more to process Colby's passing. Members of my online grief support group agree but go one step more. Many say, for them, it is between year two and three when they start to feel as if they can cope with the loss, and with life. So I'll take each day as it comes, be glad for what I can get done, and let the rest go. Survival comes in many forms and beginning tomorrow, this will be mine.

Grieving

I feed horses this morning. I still feel an emotional disconnect around these four-legged friends, so I sit on the fence and wait. I wait to see how they will react to me for horses are the best indicator of emotional stability one might ever hope to find. One finally leaves his pile of hay to investigate. This one is the quietest. Of the three in this paddock, this one has the most stable personality. Not much phases him, including, apparently, my tears. Later, the second walks over. This horse doesn't come too close. In fact, he stays a good ten feet away, but he watches with relative calm and he listens with I speak to him. After a few minutes he lowers his head, licks his lips and walks away. This is typical horse language for acceptance. This is good.

Finally the last horse approaches. This is the horse I have spent the most time with. He pins his ears at the second horse, telling him to move further away. The horse moves. The third horse comes close, but when he sniffs me he jumps. When I extend my hand to him, he shies away. I am not the person he expects me to be and this is unsettling to him. To me, too. A few minutes later, though, he returns. I have remained on the fence, waiting for him. This time he rests his chin on my knees. I pet his forehead and stroke his ears. He sighs, then walks away.

I am not the same person I was before Colby passed away and the horses have let me know they understand this. I remember that in working with horses, people must expect progress in the horse's time frame, not theirs. For example, you can't go out to the barn and expect to teach your horse something new in five minutes. It might be that the horse does learn in that time frame, but it is more likely that the horse will learn in 30 minutes, in two days, or a month.

Grief is like these horses I love so much. I can't expect my grieving to evolve to the next stage in my time frame. It will evolve when it is ready, when it knows I am ready. In the meantime, I hope the horses will get to know the new me, to understand the new energy, the roller coaster of emotion that I project, is not a threat to their safety. I may not yet inspire enough confidence for them to trust me to lead them away from danger, but the fact that they are no longer running from me means I am headed in the right direction.

Generations

I go through one of Colby's drawers this afternoon. As I sort through this catch-all of life I realize that I can't believe Colby will never come home again. Ever. I can't believe that he won't show up at the door with a pile of laundry, that when the phone rings it will never be Colby who is calling. At this moment, I can't believe he has really and truly passed on.

I've had moments like this before, and I have been told they will come again. It is my body's way of insulating me from the truth when the truth is so horrible that I can't deal with it. These temporary reprieves from the truth are good. I can't think of never seeing my son's smiling face again, so my mind blocks that reality for a moment, or a few hours, or maybe a day, until enough healing, rest, and nutrition allow me to process one more piece of this nightmare.

While I am busy not dealing with reality I find baseball cards, collectible stamps, foreign coins and other groups of things Colby collected at one time or another. A good number of the cards were mine when I was small. I will keep these, for now, but I wonder about keeping anything, as I now have no one to pass Colby's treasures, our family treasures, on to. My grandfather's retirement watch, my great-grandparents' wedding photo, my mother's Marine uniform, my grandmother's china. There is no one to hand these things down to and I feel as if I've let my ancestors down. After me, there will be no one to remember them. No one to pass family stories along to, no one to remember their history.

That thought makes Colby's passing real again and the pain of his loss washes over me like a tidal wave. I am devastated once again, for me, for him, for his friends, and for all the people he might have met, might have shared a smile with, might have helped in some small way. My baby boy really is gone. I sigh and put the collectibles in a drawer. I'll look at them more closely another day. Maybe on that day, I will be processing reality a little better than today.

Shopping

Shopping, grocery shopping in particular, is difficult. I see so many of Colby's favorite foods on the shelves. Recent favorites as well as favorites from years gone by: chicken and dumplings, string cheese, canned ravioli, diced tomatoes with green chilis, soft French bread and hummus, frozen "cardboard" pizzas. I push the cart down the aisle and reach to pull one of the items off the shelf, then remember Colby is not here to eat it. I bite my lips. I haven't yet gotten through a trip to the grocery store without crying. Today will not be the day.

I'm not sure why I am here. At the store. I have a pantry full of food I haven't eaten. May never eat. Shopping for groceries is a routine, normal, mundane thing we all do. Maybe that's why I am here. To be normal. But, of course, that will never be. My world will never be "normal" again. It will change, it will evolve, I will learn to live in it, and someday I probably will even be happy. But will I ever feel normal, the same, again? No. My child is gone.

I reach the checkout counter and even though I have half a cart full of food, decline both options: paper and plastic. Both use the Earth's resources unnecessarily. And besides, I don't need them. I brought a box. It's an old box, corners frayed, one side beginning to tear, but it will work for today and maybe for the next few shopping trips, although I have enough food to feed an army, so not sure when I will return. Colby was adamant about recycling, about not using what we don't need. As I head to the parking lot, I look at the box in my cart and almost, but not quite, smile. I will remember my son and I will remember, and act on, what he stood for. Always.

Sadness

I am sad today and the sadness feels as if I am walking underwater. I can breathe here, surrounded by all this water, but walking is slow going. Anything, really, takes forever to get done. The sadness is deep, consuming, tiring, overwhelming.

I don't want you who read this post to think I am dangerously sad. This sadness, my sadness, is a natural part of the grieving process. It's something I must go through. And, my counselor says I have a good grip on reality and am doing quite well. That is in large part to all of you. I get so many emails lately, welcome emails. Even if I do not respond, I read. And your emails keep me going.

Some of my sadness comes from exhaustion. I still have trouble eating and sleeping. I stay physically active, which helps my mind stay busy and burns off my agitation. Today, to keep busy, focused, I dig iris. I must have a thousand of them. Then I begin chopping away at tree limbs. I stake a few young trees, move some vinca and generally rip my way around my yard until I am exhausted. But still, I cannot sleep. The process of getting to sleep is the obstacle. Lying still gives me too much time to think. Even a second is too much time for then I will remember. And then I will cry.

I learn in counseling this week that I do need to think and process what has happened to Colby. But I need to do it when I can handle it. And everyone agrees that right now, I'm not there yet. This weekend will be hard. It is a holiday weekend. Everyone is spending time with family and I no longer have one. But I will go on. I have things that need to be done. Important things that will help others and honor Colby at the same time. Every parent who loses a child grieves differently. This is my way. Later, there will be time to sleep.

Sense

I am restless today. Unfocused. It takes me more than two hours to get dressed and out the door. I can't find the right clothes, then I lose my socks and purse. I leave water running in the shower for 20 minutes and when I finally get in the truck, I can't remember where I am supposed to go.

I sit through several meetings, there in body but not in mind. I have trouble in groups. So many voices to focus on, expressions to read. So many happy, trivial people that I can no longer relate to. I make my best effort, which, I fear, is not effort enough. I used to be a very focused person. I could keep detailed "to do" lists in my head. I not only never never missed an appointment, I was never late. In fact, Colby frequently commented that I was "way too organized."

After the meetings, at home, I feel an urgent need to be active so I gather trimmers, saw and clippers and head to a hedge on the side of the yard that is overgrown with scrub trees, weeds and vines. I pull weeds with increasing frenzy, hack blindly at vines, and cut off bigger branches than my saw was designed for. I quickly amass a large pile of brush that I haul to the edge of the road. Metro Nashville will eventually pick it all up.

After, exhausted, I read email after email from my grieving parent's online support group. There are hundreds of parents here. All of us have lost children. All of us are lost. On days like today, when life doesn't seem to make any sense, I turn to these people who, like me, are overcome with grief. By email I comfort, commiserate, sympathize, recognize and support. This, I think to myself, is the only productive thing I've done all day. Sadly, it's the only thing that makes any sense. None of us should have to belong to this group. None of us should be here.

Healthcare

Health care reform. I try to stay away from this subject, yet it flits around me constantly. It is too emotional a subject for me to discuss rationally. But today, on Facebook, people post their support for health care reform. The subject hits me broadside and I have to comment. I have to post, briefly, Colby's story.

I post that I know that my son is no longer here because our health care system failed him. Hospitals sent him away, even when he told medical personnel that he didn't want to live. People comment back that it can't be. Hospitals are required to "treat" people. Yes, each hospital processed Colby in, took his vitals. One ran a blood test for drugs. That is the extent of their "treatment." The hospital has satisfied the law and the patient, weeks later, is dead. So my son with schizophrenia, panic attacks, anxiety, depression and as a result of a lack of long term health care, addiction, is sent away with a list of resources we exhausted months ago.

That, friends, is our health care system today. I don't see how anyone can tell me our current system is right, moral, that it provides "adequate" care. I don't have a detailed solution, but I know that our lawmakers need to find a way to make health care available to all. Colby was a bright, young, talented, funny, kind, caring, loyal person. That he is no longer here with us is a tragedy, not only for me, but for the world.

Flowers

I plant a rose today along with several other flowers at the place where Colby passed. Dear friends in East Tennessee sent funds specifically for something special and this is what it was used for. You know who you are. I am grateful. Thank you!

The dirt is packed hard and it takes half an hour to dig a hole big enough and deep enough for the rose. It is a red rose and hardy, which is good. There is not much sunlight here. I mix composted cow manure into the packed rocky soil and place the rose into the hole, then fill the rest of the dirt in around it. I brought water in a garden tub in the back of the truck and pour a pail slowly, in stages, over and around the rose. If the plant survives, it will look nice here. Southern roses are tough. I think it has a good chance. I will check back in several days with more water. I also plant iris and bulbs. Later I will hack together a bench or two out of scrap wood and old tree limbs. Colby taught me how to do this last summer and it makes a nice low seat. The style is typical Colby and is perfect for this spot. A friend of Colby's painted stones a pretty blue and placed them here in the shape of a heart. They look nice. I hope eventually this will be a place for all his friends to sit and think, to remember, to find peace.

After the planting I stay a while. I try to find a sense of Colby. I try to feel the emotion of the site. But I am back in a numb state. It was an emotional day and a half but by noon all emotion left. I know it will return. Soon. In the meantime, I am relieved at the reprieve.

Learning

This morning I tackle another counseling task, and that is to remember what I learned from Colby. I am sure this list will go on and on over time. But already I have come up with a few things.

1. I learned I have the capacity to love unconditionally for all eternity. I will never stop loving my son with all my heart.
2. I found I have far more compassion that I ever thought possible. Many people struggle in this life and I have learned to be open and understanding of those struggles.
3. I learned to accept people for who they really are and not how they appear. Life circumstances can change a person's dress, the car they drive, etc. but that does not mean they are less of a person.
4. He taught me that it is okay to sometimes be silly (and that it's a lot of fun!).
5. Through Colby I found I was interested in subjects I never thought I would be interested in.
6. I discovered to my dismay that yes, you absolutely can have one too many books.
7. Colby taught me that a child can eat spaghetti every night for a year and still have normal growth.
8. I learned that ten-year-old boys do get homesick, even if mom is less than an hour away.
9. I found through my son that I like hummus, sushi and a host of other foods I never thought I'd eat.
10. I learned to be amazed by Colby. With all of his struggles, including mental illness, Colby could still find a genuine smile. I'm not sure I could do the same.

For better or for worse, everyone we meet teaches us something. It is up to us to grasp the lesson and benefit from it. In our society we all are so busy doing that we forget to sit on the porch and think, to process our life, to appreciate our loved ones. Colby always had time for thought and he came up with the most amazing things: accurate perceptions of people, viable ideas for businesses and social reform, interesting theories on history and the meaning of life.

We do a lot of things right in our world. But we also do a lot of things wrong and from his earliest years that troubled Colby the most. He never understood why things that didn't work in society and in life were the way they were. He wanted to change those things, to make them better and, of course, he couldn't. He struggled with that. Greatly. And that is another thing I am trying to learn from my son, even after his passing. We can't fix everyone or everything. We can only do what we can do. If we do our very best at whatever it we are doing, then that has to be enough, for no one can do more than their best.

Lifeline

Today I have a counseling session. A good one, as usual, although I cry all the way through it. My grief counselor is helping me with the guilt I have in letting Colby down as a parent. It's something every parent of a child who passes has, the feeling that you have not done enough, that due to some failing of your own, your child dies. I know in my heart that I did all I could do and then some. I do know that. But I still think there must have been something I missed, something more I could have done, some lack of something within me that caused my child's life here on Earth to end. Of course, it is not true, but I think that anyway.

For the past few weeks I have been documenting the times that I cry and what causes me to cry. Through this I have determined that one trigger for crying is when people offer to help--and I have had a LOT of offers. Thank you all! I cry when help is offered for two reasons: one, because I feel so guilty about letting Colby down that I do not believe I deserve the help, and two, because I am so eternally grateful.

This documenting of emotional triggers I think will help anyone who is having difficulty focusing or who is going through a hard time. After two days it was quite obvious what my triggers were. Others include talking about Colby and the normal day-to-day frustrations of life, which I am still not handling all that well.

My next assignment is to develop a Lifeline. In the Lifeline I draw a long horizontal line and at the very left, place a short vertical line with a notation of my birth. I then document every significant event in my life in hopes that it will help me to better understand where my life has taken me and how best to proceed in the future. It should also show me how I have dealt with loss and other traumatic events in the past and give me a guideline on how to best proceed from here. I throw this out because this idea may help others of you who are reading this blog. I get emails from many of you every day and know each of you has your own difficult path to travel. I sincerely hope my words and experiences help you on your own journey. Safe travels to you all.

Stages

My mother is angry with Colby. For this I am glad because anger is a natural stage of grief. She is angry that he left us. Angry that he has caused us both pain. Angry that I have to spend so much time going through his "stuff." She is angry that because of Colby's passing I have a lack of focus, that I take twice as long to complete work assignments, that I am so sad, that I am irrevocably changed. Hers is a deep, quiet anger, but it is real. It is there. This is the first time she has spoken of anything like this. Until now, she has avoided all but the most direct information regarding Colby's passing: Celebration of Life details, the cremation process, the autopsy. Facts. Until now, that is all she has been able to discuss and I worried about her because whenever I spoke of feelings she changed the subject.

Everyone processes grief differently. Like a broken record, I still alternate between shaky crying and numbness and can go between the two instantaneously. I assume that eventually I will move on to denial, anger, bargaining and all the other emotions I hear about. As his parent, I hear this will probably take longer than everyone expects. I am told these stages can't be rushed, that they will come in their own time and last as long as they are supposed to. It could be a year or more before I reach that stage, or it could be tomorrow.

Meanwhile, I am grateful for my mother's anger for it means she is heading toward a healthy acceptance of Colby's passing. And I know that I will get there, too. Maybe not soon, but someday.