Today I hear from two more people who are having emotional problems. The problems are not entirely due to Colby's passing, but do play a significant part. I do not think any of us realize how many people care for us, how many people we touch, how much we really do make a difference in the world. We are all so close to our own reality that we cannot take a step back to see that, yes, we are important to others, and that if we are not here, others will be affected, sad, lost, lonely.
It is a fact of life that we get so busy that our priorities slip. Then we forget about the things that truly matter: other people, causes we believe in, doing the little things that make life so much easier for others. I was fortunate that Colby and I said "I love you" to each other every single day. Those three words were, in fact, the last words we spoke to each other, not knowing, of course, at the time, that they would be the last.
I know that Colby had no idea of the strong impact he made on others, or how many other people loved him, cared for him, wanted to help, tried to help. I also know that Colby would not want us to grieve for him, to play the "what if" game, to be, as previously stated: sad, lost, lonely. But we do. We are. For me, and I believe for some of the others who are struggling so much with Colby's passing, that this has brought a host of other issues to the forefront. Then it becomes not just the loss of Colby, but the loss of every person we have loved and who has gone on, it is the loss of every friendship that is irretrievably broken, every job opportunity we let slip by, every life possibility that did not happen. It becomes all the tragedy in our lives rolled into one and it overwhelms, knocks some of us to our knees.
Grief is complicated. It is a process. It is depressing, sad, shaky, emotional, gut-wrenching, angry. I am not the only one suffering here. In addition to those who loved and lost Colby, there are thousands of parents who have lost their children, families who have lost loved ones, spouses who are suddenly single. Loss is the tougher part of life. For those of you who know someone who his grieving for a loved one, I hope you reach out. It is important to know that the loss does not have to be recent. Someone told me the other day it took more than a dozen years to deal with and accept the loss of this individual's parent. A friendly ear to listen, a strong shoulder to cry on, a pair of capable hands can mean all the difference. I am so blessed to have so many who offer this to me on a daily, hourly, basis. I do not always accept, but the offers bring me comfort. They help. If you know someone like me, like my friends, Colby's friends, who are grieving, hurting, please offer your ear, your shoulder, your hands, for the potential loss of these amazing people would compound the initial tragedy. It would be beyond devastating. Here, you can make a difference.
Saturday, October 31, 2009
Friday, October 30, 2009
Duality
In counseling today we talk of the duality of Colby. Like most of us, Colby was many things to many people, but with him, it was more pronounced. He could switch from nice, polite and smiling to disillusioned and angry at the drop of a hat. It's called schizophrenia. We look at pictures, of Colby as a baby, a grinning toddler, a gleeful third grader. Then the smiling photos become interspersed with insolent stares and uncomfortable body language. A week before he passed there were photos of a happy, carefree Colby taken five minutes before photos of him looking defensive, aggressive.
Together, as a group, the photos make it very clear that Colby was ill, mentally ill. I forget that sometimes in my grief. We talk of the possibility that if Colby had lived that we could have found a way for him to receive health care. He could have gotten better. I was not the only one trying to get him help. Several of his friends were trying, too. Trying very hard. Colby had wonderful friends. The other possibility was that even with the best treatment Colby never would have gotten better. He may not have responded to treatment. Or, he might have refused it. There is a good possibility that despite everyone's prolonged best efforts that he may still have deteriorated both mentally and physically. The drug use was a symptom of the illness. With the mental illness in treatment, he may, or may not, have been able to give up the drugs. He may, or may not, have been able to live a happy, productive life.
The result is that we will never know any of this. It is all hypothetical. Just 23, Colby's life could have been radically different at 30, and that could have been either good or bad. I have to settle for the reality that I really will never know. I can only know what was real for Colby in his last months and that was much unhappiness and fear. Yes, there were bright spots, happy times with friends and family, but much of it was overshadowed by the debilitating effects of schizophrenia. None of this brings Colby back. None of it lessens my grief. But, it does help put my thoughts in order as I desperately try to keep my mind from unraveling, And that is a small, but very positive, help.
This brings me to another sad note. One young man that Colby knew is in need of prayers. He is a sweet, intelligent, gentle young man with mental illness far more severe than Colby's ever was, and is in the hospital in a catatonic state. Please pray for Cameron and his family. They need your prayers, positive thoughts, love, and support so very much. A number of people tried, but could not, help Colby. Maybe a number of us can help Cameron.
Together, as a group, the photos make it very clear that Colby was ill, mentally ill. I forget that sometimes in my grief. We talk of the possibility that if Colby had lived that we could have found a way for him to receive health care. He could have gotten better. I was not the only one trying to get him help. Several of his friends were trying, too. Trying very hard. Colby had wonderful friends. The other possibility was that even with the best treatment Colby never would have gotten better. He may not have responded to treatment. Or, he might have refused it. There is a good possibility that despite everyone's prolonged best efforts that he may still have deteriorated both mentally and physically. The drug use was a symptom of the illness. With the mental illness in treatment, he may, or may not, have been able to give up the drugs. He may, or may not, have been able to live a happy, productive life.
The result is that we will never know any of this. It is all hypothetical. Just 23, Colby's life could have been radically different at 30, and that could have been either good or bad. I have to settle for the reality that I really will never know. I can only know what was real for Colby in his last months and that was much unhappiness and fear. Yes, there were bright spots, happy times with friends and family, but much of it was overshadowed by the debilitating effects of schizophrenia. None of this brings Colby back. None of it lessens my grief. But, it does help put my thoughts in order as I desperately try to keep my mind from unraveling, And that is a small, but very positive, help.
This brings me to another sad note. One young man that Colby knew is in need of prayers. He is a sweet, intelligent, gentle young man with mental illness far more severe than Colby's ever was, and is in the hospital in a catatonic state. Please pray for Cameron and his family. They need your prayers, positive thoughts, love, and support so very much. A number of people tried, but could not, help Colby. Maybe a number of us can help Cameron.
Thursday, October 29, 2009
Clarity
I am not thinking clearly. Again. Still. I soak the crockpot in the sink while it is turned off, but still plugged in. It stays that way for a day before I remember I was interrupted when I was cleaning the kitchen. I am horrified when I see what I have done. I rescue the crockpot, dry it off, but instead of unplugging it, as I intend, I turn in on. With nothing in it. And it is another day before I realize this second error.
I have two very near car accidents in a single hour. Thank goodness the other drivers were alert; both accidents would have been my fault. And bad. Very bad. Both would have resulted in a lot of banged up people and metal. I leave my house to go to the store and leave the door wide open. I forget to eat and realize it a day later when I am overcome with weakness.
Colby would have cautioned me to "chill," to slow down, to be careful, to pay attention. He would have said to "get a grip," watch out, breathe. The problem is, I already think I am doing those things. I consult my grief support group to find those parents (moms mostly) who are a few months or years ahead of me in this process, have all experienced periods of this forgetfulness, this time of bad decisions, poor actions. "Be kind to yourself," one writes. "Don't try to do so much," writes another. "None of us can do all we did before." All say it is between years 2 and 3 when things ease, get a little better. I am 12 weeks into this. I have a long, long way to go.
I have two very near car accidents in a single hour. Thank goodness the other drivers were alert; both accidents would have been my fault. And bad. Very bad. Both would have resulted in a lot of banged up people and metal. I leave my house to go to the store and leave the door wide open. I forget to eat and realize it a day later when I am overcome with weakness.
Colby would have cautioned me to "chill," to slow down, to be careful, to pay attention. He would have said to "get a grip," watch out, breathe. The problem is, I already think I am doing those things. I consult my grief support group to find those parents (moms mostly) who are a few months or years ahead of me in this process, have all experienced periods of this forgetfulness, this time of bad decisions, poor actions. "Be kind to yourself," one writes. "Don't try to do so much," writes another. "None of us can do all we did before." All say it is between years 2 and 3 when things ease, get a little better. I am 12 weeks into this. I have a long, long way to go.
Wednesday, October 28, 2009
Faith
Whether or not you believe, everyone has some kind of faith in something. Whether is it a faith and belief in God, or humanity, or simply that you know the sun will come up tomorrow, we all have faith that certain things are unquestionably true. Then tragedy hits and you no longer know what is and is not fact. My faith has been tested constantly since Colby passed, to the point that I am no longer sure what I believe. Everything I knew to be true in this world has proved to be false. Over and over I question, waiver, wonder. Why?
Is Colby in a better place? Was his passing ordained, predetermined? Was this part of a master plan or did it just happen? Why? Are we all just here with no direction? Turned loose like a pack of wild dogs to fend for ourselves? Or are we supposed to learn, help, do, grow? Why, really, are we here? What was Colby's purpose? Did he have a purpose? If so, did he fulfill it? Is that why he had to go? What is my purpose? What am I supposed to do now?
Everyone has questions. Some are answered, some are not. When life-changing events hit, those questions that are unresolved surface, swirl, and settle, sometimes into a new pattern, a new reality; sometimes back into the old. I am in the middle of a big swirl of questions, feelings, emotions. I can't see how this will all resolve and that, right now, is unsettling, almost disturbing. I have no path, no direction, no sense that I am doing what I am supposed to be doing.
My only truth these days is that I get up every morning and stumble through the day in the desperate hope that one day soon, all will be a little clearer, my path a little less foggy, my questions about Colby answered in my heart. I do have faith that day will come. I just hope it is soon.
Is Colby in a better place? Was his passing ordained, predetermined? Was this part of a master plan or did it just happen? Why? Are we all just here with no direction? Turned loose like a pack of wild dogs to fend for ourselves? Or are we supposed to learn, help, do, grow? Why, really, are we here? What was Colby's purpose? Did he have a purpose? If so, did he fulfill it? Is that why he had to go? What is my purpose? What am I supposed to do now?
Everyone has questions. Some are answered, some are not. When life-changing events hit, those questions that are unresolved surface, swirl, and settle, sometimes into a new pattern, a new reality; sometimes back into the old. I am in the middle of a big swirl of questions, feelings, emotions. I can't see how this will all resolve and that, right now, is unsettling, almost disturbing. I have no path, no direction, no sense that I am doing what I am supposed to be doing.
My only truth these days is that I get up every morning and stumble through the day in the desperate hope that one day soon, all will be a little clearer, my path a little less foggy, my questions about Colby answered in my heart. I do have faith that day will come. I just hope it is soon.
Tuesday, October 27, 2009
Feeling
Memories are funny things. Sometimes my memories of Colby bring him so close to me it is as if I can feel him, and I fully expect that I can reach out and hug my son. Then I am overwhelmingly, depressingly, disappointed when I realize I cannot. Other times, no matter how hard I try, or how much I want to, I cannot get a grasp of Colby, his presence, his essence. Those are the times I realize, in my grief, I am working too hard at staying busy, keeping my mind too occupied in a futile attempt to keep my sadness at bay.
It is a no-win situation. On the one hand, if I stay so busy that I am functioning, productive, then I do not have the time to process my grief, my sadness, and the unaltering life changes that Colby's loss brings to my little family, to my future. However, if I allow myself the time to process, then I am not productive, do not get work done, money does not come in and I do not have the means to eat, pay my electric bill or my mortgage. I wish I could spend a month on an island somewhere and be done with the grief. But I know it doesn't work that way. Other parents tell me the grief never goes away. It lessens, but it is always pervasive, always there. I just have to make peace with it and find a way to incorporate this grief, this never-ending sadness, into a full and productive life.
In taking these first baby steps toward that goal, I strive to find balance, to tune into my feelings and adjust as needed. On an emotional level, I am still mostly numb. But my feelings, my gut instincts, can now sometimes be found. That's a start. Here at the house I am surrounded by Colby, his image, his stuff, things he made or touched. There are items I feel, know, I need to keep, and others that I know he would not care if I gave away or threw out. But some of the items I do not have a feeling for. I do not know what he would want me to do and those I put into a pile to further assess on a day when I am more in touch with my memories of Colby. On those days, the decisions become clear. I suddenly know what is the right thing to do. On those days the balance is right. Today is not one of those days. But tomorrow might be, or maybe the day after that. I do know that with time I will find the right mix of feeling, emotion, productivity, of life. I will find it because because I have to, because it is my future.
It is a no-win situation. On the one hand, if I stay so busy that I am functioning, productive, then I do not have the time to process my grief, my sadness, and the unaltering life changes that Colby's loss brings to my little family, to my future. However, if I allow myself the time to process, then I am not productive, do not get work done, money does not come in and I do not have the means to eat, pay my electric bill or my mortgage. I wish I could spend a month on an island somewhere and be done with the grief. But I know it doesn't work that way. Other parents tell me the grief never goes away. It lessens, but it is always pervasive, always there. I just have to make peace with it and find a way to incorporate this grief, this never-ending sadness, into a full and productive life.
In taking these first baby steps toward that goal, I strive to find balance, to tune into my feelings and adjust as needed. On an emotional level, I am still mostly numb. But my feelings, my gut instincts, can now sometimes be found. That's a start. Here at the house I am surrounded by Colby, his image, his stuff, things he made or touched. There are items I feel, know, I need to keep, and others that I know he would not care if I gave away or threw out. But some of the items I do not have a feeling for. I do not know what he would want me to do and those I put into a pile to further assess on a day when I am more in touch with my memories of Colby. On those days, the decisions become clear. I suddenly know what is the right thing to do. On those days the balance is right. Today is not one of those days. But tomorrow might be, or maybe the day after that. I do know that with time I will find the right mix of feeling, emotion, productivity, of life. I will find it because because I have to, because it is my future.
Monday, October 26, 2009
Care
I realize, just now, that I am not taking care of myself as I used to. I have always been careful about what I eat, limiting wheat, refined sugar, preservatives, trying to eat "all natural," or organic when I can. I used to take vitamins and herbs to help my body function. Somewhere along the way, since Colby passed, all that went along the wayside. Yesterday I found myself stuffing my body with junk and realize this has been going on for some time. In addition to the physical evidence of the M&M's bag (extra large), I can tell I am eating junk because I am so tired. I am stiff. My body aches. You are what you eat and I have been eating a lot of things my body does not tolerate well. This is (partly) why I have not been feeling well, not been as productive as I would like.
The realization is good news. I have felt so horrible lately and now I have an easy fix. This is such a relief because eating healthy is easy for me. I've been doing it for a long time. When Colby was about 5 he complained to me that a friend had a "lunchable" in his sack for lunch at school and he didn't. The next time we went to the store we had a lesson in nutrition and for many years after that Colby made good choices in his eating habits, choosing a homemade tuna sandwich over, for example, packaged cheese and crackers and a moon pie. In recent years that changed and Colby lived mostly on frozen burritos and pizza, and pop. Occasionally he'd come home and fix himself a salad or thaw some homemade soup.
I know first hand how much what you eat affects your body, how you feel, how much you can enjoy life. Beginning today I am off the junk food and I will be more aware of what I am eating. I will begin taking my herbs and vitamins again. This focus on nutrition will, I hope, help me focus in other areas, too. I need that. My brain is still foggy, overwhelmed, exhausted. Maybe if I give it the fuel it needs, take care of it, nurture it, it will be better equipped to carry me through the long process of grief.
The realization is good news. I have felt so horrible lately and now I have an easy fix. This is such a relief because eating healthy is easy for me. I've been doing it for a long time. When Colby was about 5 he complained to me that a friend had a "lunchable" in his sack for lunch at school and he didn't. The next time we went to the store we had a lesson in nutrition and for many years after that Colby made good choices in his eating habits, choosing a homemade tuna sandwich over, for example, packaged cheese and crackers and a moon pie. In recent years that changed and Colby lived mostly on frozen burritos and pizza, and pop. Occasionally he'd come home and fix himself a salad or thaw some homemade soup.
I know first hand how much what you eat affects your body, how you feel, how much you can enjoy life. Beginning today I am off the junk food and I will be more aware of what I am eating. I will begin taking my herbs and vitamins again. This focus on nutrition will, I hope, help me focus in other areas, too. I need that. My brain is still foggy, overwhelmed, exhausted. Maybe if I give it the fuel it needs, take care of it, nurture it, it will be better equipped to carry me through the long process of grief.
Sunday, October 25, 2009
Music
Music was a very important part of Colby's life. He was one of those people who could pick up an instrument and play it. Guitar, keyboards, drums, fiddle, bass, harmonica and a few unnamed instruments he made from wood, wire, and scrap metal. Today I find on a set of shelves in the basement stacks of guitar "tab." These are the chord progressions of songs that Colby found on the Internet and printed out when he was first learning to play. He was 12 then and there are sheets for lots of songs by B.B. King, Jimi Hendrix, Lynyrd Skynyrd, and Stevie Ray Vaughn, among others. I remember Colby sitting in the basement for hours, days on end, going over and over a series of chords, a lick, a riff. And he wouldn't quit until he got it right.
I used to have the same drive, the same obsession with getting a job done right, no matter what it took. I still do the job right, no matter what it takes. I am incapable of doing less, but the passion, the drive, the obsession, for me, has gone. It seems such an effort to do anything these days and I am so tired. So very tired. Members of my grief support group say this happens when life starts to catch up with the grief. One person can only handle, do, so much. I just can't do anymore. I wish I could sleep for a week.
I take comfort in knowing I make daily headway in sorting through Colby's "stuff," and that while I am not nearly as productive as I'd like to be, I do get things done. It tales me longer than I'd like to do them, and I am still about 10 days behind in turning work projects around, but I can see that in many ways I am moving forward. It's been three months today since Colby passed. Other parents remind me that I am still in the early stages of my grief. The very early stages. They remind me to take care of myself, not to push myself too much, to tackle life at a slower pace than I am used to.
So today I allow myself to linger over the pages of Colby's guitar tabs. I stand next to the recycle bin in the bright fall sunlight and pull staples from the sheets. I remember each song, and the days of effort Colby put in in learning them. I hear the music, his music, in my head. I debate holding on to the stacks of paper, then realize that the sheets are not part of my memories. Colby's fingers slowly moving over the strings, the tentative notes, the music itself is forever and always imbedded in my brain. I carefully place the sheets in the recycle bin and close the lid. Just as I will never forget Colby, I will never forget his music or how much it meant to him. I don't need sheets of paper to remind me of that.
I used to have the same drive, the same obsession with getting a job done right, no matter what it took. I still do the job right, no matter what it takes. I am incapable of doing less, but the passion, the drive, the obsession, for me, has gone. It seems such an effort to do anything these days and I am so tired. So very tired. Members of my grief support group say this happens when life starts to catch up with the grief. One person can only handle, do, so much. I just can't do anymore. I wish I could sleep for a week.
I take comfort in knowing I make daily headway in sorting through Colby's "stuff," and that while I am not nearly as productive as I'd like to be, I do get things done. It tales me longer than I'd like to do them, and I am still about 10 days behind in turning work projects around, but I can see that in many ways I am moving forward. It's been three months today since Colby passed. Other parents remind me that I am still in the early stages of my grief. The very early stages. They remind me to take care of myself, not to push myself too much, to tackle life at a slower pace than I am used to.
So today I allow myself to linger over the pages of Colby's guitar tabs. I stand next to the recycle bin in the bright fall sunlight and pull staples from the sheets. I remember each song, and the days of effort Colby put in in learning them. I hear the music, his music, in my head. I debate holding on to the stacks of paper, then realize that the sheets are not part of my memories. Colby's fingers slowly moving over the strings, the tentative notes, the music itself is forever and always imbedded in my brain. I carefully place the sheets in the recycle bin and close the lid. Just as I will never forget Colby, I will never forget his music or how much it meant to him. I don't need sheets of paper to remind me of that.
Thursday, October 22, 2009
Room
I am ready to make another Goodwill run. The truck is loaded with books, clothes, small furniture, VHS tapes, DVDs, CDs. All Colby's. Once. There are still many piles of his "stuff," in his room and in the basement. But neither are piled floor to ceiling. Anymore. I make progress. Slowly.
I hear of parents sorting through their child's belongings in an afternoon, a day. If you read this blog you know that Colby had several lifetimes of stuff. I sometimes think it will take me a lifetime to go through it all, but I know eventually I will find an end. In the Spring. Maybe. But what then? What will I do with his room? Some parents keep their child's room much as it was before their child passed. Some clear it out completely, start over, make it a brand new space. Both ideas are right, for some people. I think I am in the middle. I cannot imagine the room not having an essence of Colby, of having some of his things in there. But I know he would also want the room used. I could move the office in there. Or, turn it into a den. Or it could be a storage room, an exercise room, a second guest room. I just don't know. Yet.
When we first moved into the house Colby chose that room as his bedroom because it was closest to the kitchen, to the refrigerator. An important consideration when you are 12. During the next few years he spent hours in his room drawing, painting, reading, playing music, recording, doing homework, listening to music, talking on the phone, sleeping, watching tv, and everything else a young teen does. The room is so filled with Colby that some days it overwhelms me.
This Sunday, in three days, it will have been three months since Colby passed. Still hard to believe. Hard to fathom. I think in many ways I am still in shock. There is a heaviness when I breathe, a hollowness in the pit of my stomach, a nervous panic, anxiety I didn't have before. These are constant reminders that Colby is in a different place. Gone. Free. So hard to believe.
I know that making a decision about Colby's room will lessen some of my physical symptoms of grief. Carefully laid plans help. Order eases my brain. So I will be thinking of the best use for the space. And I will be thinking about what Colby would have wanted me to do with it. But whatever I decide, in my mind, that room will always and forever belong to Colby.
I hear of parents sorting through their child's belongings in an afternoon, a day. If you read this blog you know that Colby had several lifetimes of stuff. I sometimes think it will take me a lifetime to go through it all, but I know eventually I will find an end. In the Spring. Maybe. But what then? What will I do with his room? Some parents keep their child's room much as it was before their child passed. Some clear it out completely, start over, make it a brand new space. Both ideas are right, for some people. I think I am in the middle. I cannot imagine the room not having an essence of Colby, of having some of his things in there. But I know he would also want the room used. I could move the office in there. Or, turn it into a den. Or it could be a storage room, an exercise room, a second guest room. I just don't know. Yet.
When we first moved into the house Colby chose that room as his bedroom because it was closest to the kitchen, to the refrigerator. An important consideration when you are 12. During the next few years he spent hours in his room drawing, painting, reading, playing music, recording, doing homework, listening to music, talking on the phone, sleeping, watching tv, and everything else a young teen does. The room is so filled with Colby that some days it overwhelms me.
This Sunday, in three days, it will have been three months since Colby passed. Still hard to believe. Hard to fathom. I think in many ways I am still in shock. There is a heaviness when I breathe, a hollowness in the pit of my stomach, a nervous panic, anxiety I didn't have before. These are constant reminders that Colby is in a different place. Gone. Free. So hard to believe.
I know that making a decision about Colby's room will lessen some of my physical symptoms of grief. Carefully laid plans help. Order eases my brain. So I will be thinking of the best use for the space. And I will be thinking about what Colby would have wanted me to do with it. But whatever I decide, in my mind, that room will always and forever belong to Colby.
Wednesday, October 21, 2009
Poetry
Of the two of us, Colby was the one who was a poet. From the time he was 12 he always had a scrap of paper tucked away somewhere with the beginnings of a poem, or song lyrics he was working on. My writing tends to be longer format. It takes me 1,000 words to say what poets and songwriters can say in 100. That's why I was so surprised when I was driving down the road a few weeks ago and rhyming words began to form in my head. When I got home I wrote the words down and in a few minutes there it was. A poem.
A few days later I had the opportunity to submit the poem for a book that will be filled with poetry about children who have passed on. If I was surprised when I wrote the poem, I was even more surprised when it was accepted. As I said, Colby was the poet in our family.
Like most of us, this new creation, these words, together, are not perfect. I know little of proper poetic structure, form, or format. But the words are real, heartfelt, and they came so easily that I didn't want to second guess the process by over thinking it, or editing. I'm a little out of my element here but I hope those who read it, who maybe didn't know Colby, learn a little more about him.
You, Colby
True love is what I feel
The first time I hold you
You giggle, grow, so fast, so fun
Colby, my toddler son
Pride for the grand slam
Winning is your smile
Sadness at losing Dexter dog
Counseling by the mile
Skipping down the wooded path
You, carefree, bright and gay
But teachers do not understand
A learning difference doesn’t go away
Panic first begins in school
Then spreads to all you do
Anxiety soon rules your life
My Colby, where are you?
Playing music sooths your soul
And your talent is so strong
You are smart and kind through all the rain
You smile, but it’s all wrong
Doctors never get it right
So you take it from their hands
And try to do what they cannot
Your brain, over time, disbands
Life on the street seems your only choice
The illness grows and grows
Everyone so loves you still
But pain is all you know
The big day comes and now you’re free
You leave me way behind
I don’t think you planned to go
But maybe it was time
My broken heart will never heal
Life will never be the same
How can I go on without you, my son
So precious is your name
Now I am lost, so all alone
A grandma I’ll never be
But you, Colby, my beautiful son
Are finally, eternally free
© Lisa Wysocky
A few days later I had the opportunity to submit the poem for a book that will be filled with poetry about children who have passed on. If I was surprised when I wrote the poem, I was even more surprised when it was accepted. As I said, Colby was the poet in our family.
Like most of us, this new creation, these words, together, are not perfect. I know little of proper poetic structure, form, or format. But the words are real, heartfelt, and they came so easily that I didn't want to second guess the process by over thinking it, or editing. I'm a little out of my element here but I hope those who read it, who maybe didn't know Colby, learn a little more about him.
You, Colby
True love is what I feel
The first time I hold you
You giggle, grow, so fast, so fun
Colby, my toddler son
Pride for the grand slam
Winning is your smile
Sadness at losing Dexter dog
Counseling by the mile
Skipping down the wooded path
You, carefree, bright and gay
But teachers do not understand
A learning difference doesn’t go away
Panic first begins in school
Then spreads to all you do
Anxiety soon rules your life
My Colby, where are you?
Playing music sooths your soul
And your talent is so strong
You are smart and kind through all the rain
You smile, but it’s all wrong
Doctors never get it right
So you take it from their hands
And try to do what they cannot
Your brain, over time, disbands
Life on the street seems your only choice
The illness grows and grows
Everyone so loves you still
But pain is all you know
The big day comes and now you’re free
You leave me way behind
I don’t think you planned to go
But maybe it was time
My broken heart will never heal
Life will never be the same
How can I go on without you, my son
So precious is your name
Now I am lost, so all alone
A grandma I’ll never be
But you, Colby, my beautiful son
Are finally, eternally free
© Lisa Wysocky
Symptoms
Yesterday I purposely put myself into a social situation. This is the first time I have done this since Colby passed. It is a business event, but with people I know reasonably well, and who should have known about Colby. Many, I find, do not. Instead, they smile and ask where I've been. This is still too hard. Lights bounce around in my head, my ears begin to ring and I feel disoriented. I can't breathe. I think I am going to be sick, pass out. My brain, then, is still on overload and attending this event is one thing too many, the straw that broke the camel's back. I leave, grateful to go home.
One stage of grief that experts often overlook is the physical. Other parents I've spoken with who have lost children tell me this is a real problem. Fainting, panic attacks, vomiting, diarrhea, anxiety, sleeplessness, sweating, chills, memory loss, attention problems, cognitive issues. There are more, but you get the idea. Friends and other family members often expect these symptoms to go away after the loved one is buried, but I am told by those who know that the physical effects of grief can last for years.
Colby had panic attacks from the time he was small. Mine are more recent, just since his passing. If you have never experienced an attack like this you can be sympathetic, you can help, you can commiserate, support, listen, care. But you cannot truly understand. That is true of anything. Experiencing something brings the event into an entirely new perspective. Not that I want anyone else to have panic attacks. I just point out that unless you've experienced something you do not have a true understanding of it.
I am glad I went to the event. I saw some people I care about and hadn't seen in a while. But I look at the experience as a test. And I realize I am not ready yet. And that's okay. I will be at some point and it is good to know I have work to do. I am proud of myself for trying. I'll give myself a few more weeks, a few months, and try again, and then again. Hopefully, over time, I will see my symptoms lessen, subside. I know Colby would want that, not just for me, but for all the grieving parents, and for those who struggle with anything that keeps them from being all they can be. He knew. He understood. Maybe it's another reason he was wise beyond his years.
One stage of grief that experts often overlook is the physical. Other parents I've spoken with who have lost children tell me this is a real problem. Fainting, panic attacks, vomiting, diarrhea, anxiety, sleeplessness, sweating, chills, memory loss, attention problems, cognitive issues. There are more, but you get the idea. Friends and other family members often expect these symptoms to go away after the loved one is buried, but I am told by those who know that the physical effects of grief can last for years.
Colby had panic attacks from the time he was small. Mine are more recent, just since his passing. If you have never experienced an attack like this you can be sympathetic, you can help, you can commiserate, support, listen, care. But you cannot truly understand. That is true of anything. Experiencing something brings the event into an entirely new perspective. Not that I want anyone else to have panic attacks. I just point out that unless you've experienced something you do not have a true understanding of it.
I am glad I went to the event. I saw some people I care about and hadn't seen in a while. But I look at the experience as a test. And I realize I am not ready yet. And that's okay. I will be at some point and it is good to know I have work to do. I am proud of myself for trying. I'll give myself a few more weeks, a few months, and try again, and then again. Hopefully, over time, I will see my symptoms lessen, subside. I know Colby would want that, not just for me, but for all the grieving parents, and for those who struggle with anything that keeps them from being all they can be. He knew. He understood. Maybe it's another reason he was wise beyond his years.
Monday, October 19, 2009
Trees
I love trees. Tall and strong. Limbs intertwine to make a beautiful and unique individual. I think of one particular tree today. Its trunk is charred, as if someone tried to burn it down. And about a foot off the ground there are hack marks where someone definitely tried to chop it down. The tree reminds me of a favorite painting of Colby's, a gnarled, leafless tree on a backdrop of yellow and gold.
This past spring, when I first saw the tree, I thought it was dead, barren. I was sure I was right when the other trees around it leafed out and this tree kept its branches bare against the sky. Then one day I notice, on a branch about 10 feet above me, a new leaf, still half furled, spring green against the light blue sky. And then there was another leaf, and another and by late spring this tree was in all its glory, hundreds, thousands, of bright green leaves shading the ground below.
Colby was like that tree. A late bloomer in many ways. Many people tried to cut him down: teachers, youth leaders, counselors. Yet when he blossomed, he was beautiful in all his glory. But some trees are stronger than others. The oak can withstand a storm far better than a silver maple. In that way, Colby was like a silver maple. Wondrous while here, but not able to stay around very long. And like a tree, he crashed suddenly. Able, capable, beautiful one day, then the ravages of storms, wind and time take their toll. In an instant, he is gone.
I think of the tree and marvel that it had the strength to defy the odds, to survive under extreme duress. I realize that I, too, am like that tree, as are all the other parents who have lost children. It has been a very rough few days. The churning waves of panic have threatened to take over several times but I held that tree in my vision, my sights, my thoughts. If it can survive, then so can I. So. Can. I.
This past spring, when I first saw the tree, I thought it was dead, barren. I was sure I was right when the other trees around it leafed out and this tree kept its branches bare against the sky. Then one day I notice, on a branch about 10 feet above me, a new leaf, still half furled, spring green against the light blue sky. And then there was another leaf, and another and by late spring this tree was in all its glory, hundreds, thousands, of bright green leaves shading the ground below.
Colby was like that tree. A late bloomer in many ways. Many people tried to cut him down: teachers, youth leaders, counselors. Yet when he blossomed, he was beautiful in all his glory. But some trees are stronger than others. The oak can withstand a storm far better than a silver maple. In that way, Colby was like a silver maple. Wondrous while here, but not able to stay around very long. And like a tree, he crashed suddenly. Able, capable, beautiful one day, then the ravages of storms, wind and time take their toll. In an instant, he is gone.
I think of the tree and marvel that it had the strength to defy the odds, to survive under extreme duress. I realize that I, too, am like that tree, as are all the other parents who have lost children. It has been a very rough few days. The churning waves of panic have threatened to take over several times but I held that tree in my vision, my sights, my thoughts. If it can survive, then so can I. So. Can. I.
Sunday, October 18, 2009
Limitations
Yesterday was the 20th anniversary of the San Francisco earthquake that stopped Game 3 of the World Series in it's tracks. Colby had just turned four and I was working a second job as a stringer for the Nashville Banner, Nashville's daily afternoon newspaper that folded a few years later. It was a great part-time gig because I could set my interviews around my day job and Colby's activities, and I could take Colby with me on most of my interviews.
That afternoon we were at the fire station in Kingston Springs, Tennessee. I was interviewing the fire chief for a story and Colby had chosen to watch the baseball game in the lounge rather than sit in one of the fire trucks. As I've mentioned before, Colby and his grandma loved playing ball together and he was watching as intently as a four-year-old can, so he could call his grandma when we got home to talk about the game. When the earthquake hit he came running to the office and pulled me into the lounge. The station was quickly changed to CNN and, as we did not have cable, this was the first time I remember watching what has since become a news giant.
I experienced many other exciting firsts with Colby. Sleeping in a cave, eating sushi, skateboarding, and catching bugs are just a few. Not all of the firsts were positive, but good or bad, I remember each of them well. I am very sad that Colby and I will not have any other firsts together, but in going through his writings today I am reminded how unhappy he was, how tough life was for him.
It is selfish, I think, for me to want the one person I loved more than life itself to endure a life filled with anguish and sorrow and pain. I don't believe Colby chose to go, to leave us here on Earth, but I do think once he landed on the other side that he was glad he is no longer here. There, he is free of the many limitations his body, his brain, put on him. I need to remember that. To hold onto that thought when I miss him so badly that it hurts. For to love someone is to let them go. And Colby, I do love you.
That afternoon we were at the fire station in Kingston Springs, Tennessee. I was interviewing the fire chief for a story and Colby had chosen to watch the baseball game in the lounge rather than sit in one of the fire trucks. As I've mentioned before, Colby and his grandma loved playing ball together and he was watching as intently as a four-year-old can, so he could call his grandma when we got home to talk about the game. When the earthquake hit he came running to the office and pulled me into the lounge. The station was quickly changed to CNN and, as we did not have cable, this was the first time I remember watching what has since become a news giant.
I experienced many other exciting firsts with Colby. Sleeping in a cave, eating sushi, skateboarding, and catching bugs are just a few. Not all of the firsts were positive, but good or bad, I remember each of them well. I am very sad that Colby and I will not have any other firsts together, but in going through his writings today I am reminded how unhappy he was, how tough life was for him.
It is selfish, I think, for me to want the one person I loved more than life itself to endure a life filled with anguish and sorrow and pain. I don't believe Colby chose to go, to leave us here on Earth, but I do think once he landed on the other side that he was glad he is no longer here. There, he is free of the many limitations his body, his brain, put on him. I need to remember that. To hold onto that thought when I miss him so badly that it hurts. For to love someone is to let them go. And Colby, I do love you.
Saturday, October 17, 2009
Lost
I think I am doing well in my grief counseling sessions. It helps, these sessions, because I learn to look at things from other angles, and I gain perspective. My grief counselor points out that I have spent my entire adult life helping others, taking care of others. I am a nurturer, but I have forgotten how to take care of myself. Or, maybe I never knew how.
I do not talk about the feeding/bathing kind of taking care, but the nurturing care that I am drawn to do for others. Even animals. Horses. I take care of all my four-legged friends, but I never take time off. I have not had a vacation in more than 30 years. I rarely attend social events or go to lunches or dinners unless they are work related. I have tried, as my counselor suggested in one of my early sessions, to take a few hours or an afternoon to do something fun, for me. Although I have given it a lot of thought, I have no idea what that might be.
Some of this stems from the fact that for many years, unless I worked 70-80 hours a week Colby and I did not eat. We came home once or twice a year to find the electricity had been turned off and I couldn't always get it turned back on right away. That is the downside to working for myself. Clients don't always pay and when they do, the checks sometimes bounce.
The upside was I got to go to classroom parties when Colby was in elementary school. I was a cub scout leader. In eight years, I attended all but one of his baseball games and only missed two practices. That was the positive trade-off for financial instability and I would not change a thing about that.
But, the result is that in a way I have lost myself. I know myself in work situations. That has not changed. That is my comfort zone, safe. In trying to go forward with this "new normal" that is life without my son, however, I am not sure. I really don't know what I like to do. People ask if I like movies or music and I honestly do not have a clue. Before, if I did anything outside of work it was with Colby. There were several restaurants we enjoyed and lots of thrift stores we liked to explore. I can't yet conceive of going to any of those places without him. Someday, hopefully, I will try.
For now, I am still going through all of Colby's "stuff." Down to 3/4 of one bedroom and most of the basement. Progress! I still have to catch up with work. At some point I will take time to try out the concept of "down time." Leisure hours. But not yet. Not today. There is too much to do. But soon. I promise. Soon.
I do not talk about the feeding/bathing kind of taking care, but the nurturing care that I am drawn to do for others. Even animals. Horses. I take care of all my four-legged friends, but I never take time off. I have not had a vacation in more than 30 years. I rarely attend social events or go to lunches or dinners unless they are work related. I have tried, as my counselor suggested in one of my early sessions, to take a few hours or an afternoon to do something fun, for me. Although I have given it a lot of thought, I have no idea what that might be.
Some of this stems from the fact that for many years, unless I worked 70-80 hours a week Colby and I did not eat. We came home once or twice a year to find the electricity had been turned off and I couldn't always get it turned back on right away. That is the downside to working for myself. Clients don't always pay and when they do, the checks sometimes bounce.
The upside was I got to go to classroom parties when Colby was in elementary school. I was a cub scout leader. In eight years, I attended all but one of his baseball games and only missed two practices. That was the positive trade-off for financial instability and I would not change a thing about that.
But, the result is that in a way I have lost myself. I know myself in work situations. That has not changed. That is my comfort zone, safe. In trying to go forward with this "new normal" that is life without my son, however, I am not sure. I really don't know what I like to do. People ask if I like movies or music and I honestly do not have a clue. Before, if I did anything outside of work it was with Colby. There were several restaurants we enjoyed and lots of thrift stores we liked to explore. I can't yet conceive of going to any of those places without him. Someday, hopefully, I will try.
For now, I am still going through all of Colby's "stuff." Down to 3/4 of one bedroom and most of the basement. Progress! I still have to catch up with work. At some point I will take time to try out the concept of "down time." Leisure hours. But not yet. Not today. There is too much to do. But soon. I promise. Soon.
Friday, October 16, 2009
Elevator
I have a dream. This is the first dream I can remember since Colby passed that does not have Colby in it. In the dream I am working on a television show. The studio is in a tall narrow, white building. Tall and narrow meaning the building is about the size of a 10 x 10 bedroom, but about 8 stories tall. The bottom floor has an elevator. It is the size of a utility cabinet but has doors and goes all the way to the ceiling. Somehow, I fit inside the elevator with two other people. Inside, the top level of the studio is big and dark and has lots of cobwebs. Not the lacy kind of cobwebs, but the matted hanks of gray matter that hangs from places no one has been in years. In the dream, none of this is odd.
I wear a dark turquoise sweater and am surprised when the cobwebs brush off easily and cleanly. Josh Brolin and Kelly Osborne are the stars of the production. They are asleep in lounge chairs in the middle of a busy hallway. One of the shots is at a therapeutic riding center so we all traipse over to the elevator, ride down and walk across a parking lot to the barn. Inside, the crew films a teenaged girl with disabilities grooming a tall, stout gray horse. Soon, the girl and the horse become unnerved by the film crew. I make everyone leave the area, then first bring the horse back in and settle her down. Then the girl, then the girl’s mother, then the crew. We get the shot. All is well. We squeeze back in the elevator to ride back up to the studio and sense we are all in danger. Extreme danger. I pull my phone from my pocket to realize that rather than a touch screen, the phone has keys like a computer keyboard does. All the keys have fallen off and are in my pocket. The keys are in two layers and I place each layer of each key back on, only to have them all fall off again.
I have no idea what the dream means, or if it means anything at all. The cobwebs might be because Halloween is near and when Colby was small it was one of his favorite holidays. We spent days working together on his costumes. Batman, Spiderman, a skeleton, a pirate, a witch and a monster. One year we went trick or treating twice. Once in our town, and the next night in a neighboring town where he had friends. One of the towns had changed the trick or treat date due to the 31st falling on a Sunday. Colby had a curious half skip then. Walk fast hop once, walk a few steps more, hop again. The hop was always on the left leg and I can see him now, hop skipping up to a house on Halloween, practicing his “monster moves” before he knocked on the door, then his mad dash back to the truck when the candy had been dropped into his bag. I don’t know if the dream means anything, but it did bring about another nice memory of Colby, and for that I am grateful.
I wear a dark turquoise sweater and am surprised when the cobwebs brush off easily and cleanly. Josh Brolin and Kelly Osborne are the stars of the production. They are asleep in lounge chairs in the middle of a busy hallway. One of the shots is at a therapeutic riding center so we all traipse over to the elevator, ride down and walk across a parking lot to the barn. Inside, the crew films a teenaged girl with disabilities grooming a tall, stout gray horse. Soon, the girl and the horse become unnerved by the film crew. I make everyone leave the area, then first bring the horse back in and settle her down. Then the girl, then the girl’s mother, then the crew. We get the shot. All is well. We squeeze back in the elevator to ride back up to the studio and sense we are all in danger. Extreme danger. I pull my phone from my pocket to realize that rather than a touch screen, the phone has keys like a computer keyboard does. All the keys have fallen off and are in my pocket. The keys are in two layers and I place each layer of each key back on, only to have them all fall off again.
I have no idea what the dream means, or if it means anything at all. The cobwebs might be because Halloween is near and when Colby was small it was one of his favorite holidays. We spent days working together on his costumes. Batman, Spiderman, a skeleton, a pirate, a witch and a monster. One year we went trick or treating twice. Once in our town, and the next night in a neighboring town where he had friends. One of the towns had changed the trick or treat date due to the 31st falling on a Sunday. Colby had a curious half skip then. Walk fast hop once, walk a few steps more, hop again. The hop was always on the left leg and I can see him now, hop skipping up to a house on Halloween, practicing his “monster moves” before he knocked on the door, then his mad dash back to the truck when the candy had been dropped into his bag. I don’t know if the dream means anything, but it did bring about another nice memory of Colby, and for that I am grateful.
Thursday, October 15, 2009
Journey
Everyday I feel like I walk down an unknown path that has an invisible barrier that will not allow me to back up or return. This means I must go forward. It is my only choice. I do not feel rushed about my progress. I know I can stop and assess what is before me before heading there. But I know that at some point I must again put one foot in front of the other and move further down the path. I don't have to go far before I stop another time, but I must make some progress.
When Colby was small the Neverending Story was one of his favorite videos. I feel, too, as if my journey is one that does not have an end. Members of my online support group call it "finding the new normal." We each are so irrevocably changed after the death of our child that we are not the same person we were before. It is as if our old selves died alongside our child, yet we still live on here in some kind of never ending limbo. There are hundreds, thousands of us. Childless parents all.
It is a journey, this finding of our new selves. I learn from those who have journeyed before me, those parents who lost children three, five, seven, twenty years ago. Some are having an easier, a softer, journey than others, although no one's path is smooth. My path is taking me into a scary place. It's scary because I don't know where the path goes. I do not know what the destination, my destination, is. I don't know what more I will have to endure before I get there or how long it will take. I don't even know if I will know when I have arrived.
Colby was always pretty good at flying by the seat of his pants, at grabbing opportunities as they came. I need to think more along those lines as I have no idea what life is going to throw at me next. I hope it is a little peace, a little down time, some quiet so I can think, process, heal. I'm ready for the journey, wherever it may take me, but oh, how I wish I didn't have to walk this path, for that would mean that Colby was still here.
When Colby was small the Neverending Story was one of his favorite videos. I feel, too, as if my journey is one that does not have an end. Members of my online support group call it "finding the new normal." We each are so irrevocably changed after the death of our child that we are not the same person we were before. It is as if our old selves died alongside our child, yet we still live on here in some kind of never ending limbo. There are hundreds, thousands of us. Childless parents all.
It is a journey, this finding of our new selves. I learn from those who have journeyed before me, those parents who lost children three, five, seven, twenty years ago. Some are having an easier, a softer, journey than others, although no one's path is smooth. My path is taking me into a scary place. It's scary because I don't know where the path goes. I do not know what the destination, my destination, is. I don't know what more I will have to endure before I get there or how long it will take. I don't even know if I will know when I have arrived.
Colby was always pretty good at flying by the seat of his pants, at grabbing opportunities as they came. I need to think more along those lines as I have no idea what life is going to throw at me next. I hope it is a little peace, a little down time, some quiet so I can think, process, heal. I'm ready for the journey, wherever it may take me, but oh, how I wish I didn't have to walk this path, for that would mean that Colby was still here.
Schoolbus
I am stuck in traffic. A school bus heading my direction is stopped, lights flashing, while a mom talks with the driver. The conversation lasts several minutes. I begin to get impatient when I recall a similar incident that happened 19 years ago. But this time I am the Mom and the bus is on a quiet street in a suburb of Nashville.
Colby had wanted to ride a school bus from the time he knew what a school bus was. He must have been about 18 months old then. I remember taking him to the bus parking lot in Minnesota, where I grew up, when he was a little over two and we stayed there in the car for more than half an hour, looking at acres of buses. Colby was as thrilled as any toddler could be.
On the first few days of kindergarten I took Colby to school. The first day the parents were supposed to meet the teacher. On the second day I had to sign some papers, the third day I had to drop something off. So it wasn't until the end of the first week of school that Colby finally got to ride in a schoolbus. He waited at the end of the driveway with several neighborhood kids, while I stood halfway between the house and the end of the drive. When the bus came he gave me a wave and marched behind the other kids across the road and into the schoolbus. But just as quickly Colby marched back out and began to run across the road. The driver, a burly guy named Charlie, jumped out of the bus and caught Colby before he reached the center line. I half walked, half ran to the bus and began a conversation with Colby and Charlie. All was well. Colby just had a bit of a panic. It happened to a lot of kids. After a few minutes Colby sat on a seat inside the bus and Charlie closed the bus door and waved goodbye.
The drivers of the three cars who had lined up behind the bus all gave me a friendly wave as they passed and I remember being so grateful that they were not angry at the delay. I think of that now and when this bus, today's bus, finally pulls away from the mom, amid the rush of accelerating cars and a few rude gestures from other drivers I slow to give the mom a friendly wave. She looks surprised, then smiles and waves back. I wave not only to show her I am not impatient about the delay, but to thank her for triggering a nice memory about my son.
Colby had wanted to ride a school bus from the time he knew what a school bus was. He must have been about 18 months old then. I remember taking him to the bus parking lot in Minnesota, where I grew up, when he was a little over two and we stayed there in the car for more than half an hour, looking at acres of buses. Colby was as thrilled as any toddler could be.
On the first few days of kindergarten I took Colby to school. The first day the parents were supposed to meet the teacher. On the second day I had to sign some papers, the third day I had to drop something off. So it wasn't until the end of the first week of school that Colby finally got to ride in a schoolbus. He waited at the end of the driveway with several neighborhood kids, while I stood halfway between the house and the end of the drive. When the bus came he gave me a wave and marched behind the other kids across the road and into the schoolbus. But just as quickly Colby marched back out and began to run across the road. The driver, a burly guy named Charlie, jumped out of the bus and caught Colby before he reached the center line. I half walked, half ran to the bus and began a conversation with Colby and Charlie. All was well. Colby just had a bit of a panic. It happened to a lot of kids. After a few minutes Colby sat on a seat inside the bus and Charlie closed the bus door and waved goodbye.
The drivers of the three cars who had lined up behind the bus all gave me a friendly wave as they passed and I remember being so grateful that they were not angry at the delay. I think of that now and when this bus, today's bus, finally pulls away from the mom, amid the rush of accelerating cars and a few rude gestures from other drivers I slow to give the mom a friendly wave. She looks surprised, then smiles and waves back. I wave not only to show her I am not impatient about the delay, but to thank her for triggering a nice memory about my son.
Tuesday, October 13, 2009
Wishes
Today I get an email from the parents of two young adults with schizophrenia. They send interesting info in that the National Alliance for Research on Schizophrenia and Depression reports that as many as 10 percent of young men with schizophrenia die. Colby was among that number. So many people think a person with schizophrenia has multiple personalities. It’s not always that way. In fact, mostly it is not. Schizophrenia, which affects 1 percent of the world's population, is a severe, chronic, disabling brain disease. While the term schizophrenia means "split mind", it should not be confused with a "split," or multiple, personality. It is more accurately described as an illness that causes mental disturbances that disrupt thoughts, speech, and behavior. It is thought to be 80 to 90 percent inherited.
Medical science does not yet understand all the mysteries of schizophrenia, the delayed onset in the late teens and early twenties, or how a genetically-rooted illness process that probably begins before birth spares the brain through childhood, and erupts in young adulthood. I’ve mentioned before that Colby was not my only family member to have schizophrenia. At least one person in every generation back four or five generations had it. Almost all passed on before their time. It is a scary illness, both for the affected person and his or her loved ones.
Life is hard. For those with schizophrenia and other mental illnesses it is harder. Many, like Colby, turn to drugs. Some, like Colby, don’t make it. I wish I had answers. I wish the medical community understood the human brain better than they do. I wish everyone who had a mental illness could get the proper health care. I wish society didn’t place such a stigma on those who are mentally ill. I wish I could turn wishes into reality. Someday, maybe it all will be. But until then, we must continue to advocate for those who can’t fight for themselves.
Medical science does not yet understand all the mysteries of schizophrenia, the delayed onset in the late teens and early twenties, or how a genetically-rooted illness process that probably begins before birth spares the brain through childhood, and erupts in young adulthood. I’ve mentioned before that Colby was not my only family member to have schizophrenia. At least one person in every generation back four or five generations had it. Almost all passed on before their time. It is a scary illness, both for the affected person and his or her loved ones.
Life is hard. For those with schizophrenia and other mental illnesses it is harder. Many, like Colby, turn to drugs. Some, like Colby, don’t make it. I wish I had answers. I wish the medical community understood the human brain better than they do. I wish everyone who had a mental illness could get the proper health care. I wish society didn’t place such a stigma on those who are mentally ill. I wish I could turn wishes into reality. Someday, maybe it all will be. But until then, we must continue to advocate for those who can’t fight for themselves.
Monday, October 12, 2009
Sad
Today I tell two more people who knew Colby that he had passed away. These, obviously, are not close friends of either Colby's or mine, but both are the kind of friend that you don't speak with for six months, but know you can call in the middle of the night to pick you up off the side of the freeway. Good friends. Both have been going through struggles of their own.
The telling makes me sad. Just when I think this part of the nightmare is over, when everyone should know what happened, it hits me right in the face and takes my breath away. After the initial telling I send them to Colby's memorial web site. They can find details there. Today it is too painful to relive it all again. Twice. But yesterday would have been okay. It works that way sometimes.
Later, each friend calls back and I have to remember that for them, the shock is fresh, new. They each have good memories of Colby. Stories I had all but forgotten, stories that I smile about, but that Colby would be embarrassed by. I cry with these friends. Proud that Colby made an impression, but sad for their troubles. One has photos. Somewhere. They will dig them up and email them. Prayers will be said. I can call. Anytime. For any reason. These are kind people. Good people. I know I may not talk with them for a while. But if I need to I know I can. And for now that's enough.
The telling makes me sad. Just when I think this part of the nightmare is over, when everyone should know what happened, it hits me right in the face and takes my breath away. After the initial telling I send them to Colby's memorial web site. They can find details there. Today it is too painful to relive it all again. Twice. But yesterday would have been okay. It works that way sometimes.
Later, each friend calls back and I have to remember that for them, the shock is fresh, new. They each have good memories of Colby. Stories I had all but forgotten, stories that I smile about, but that Colby would be embarrassed by. I cry with these friends. Proud that Colby made an impression, but sad for their troubles. One has photos. Somewhere. They will dig them up and email them. Prayers will be said. I can call. Anytime. For any reason. These are kind people. Good people. I know I may not talk with them for a while. But if I need to I know I can. And for now that's enough.
Sunday, October 11, 2009
Bracelets
I have a bug. A little bug to be sure, but it is enough to keep me from feeling completely well. This is the time of year that Colby always got sick. Just after his birthday. I remember countless first or second weeks in October spent in the hospital with Colby struggling to breathe. When Colby was born his lungs collapsed and he spent eight days in intensive care. After that we had issues with asthma. Upper respiratory infections. His chest laboring to rise and fall.
In my daily perusal of Colby's stuff, today I find most of his hospital bracelets. Each time he was admitted he was issued one, and each one brings back a memory. That's the year he had the boy who was receiving treatment for cancer for a roommate. That year I broke my foot in the hospital parking lot. There, that's the first one, the year that was the scariest, before we knew what childhood asthma was all about.
I am surprised he kept the bracelets, although I shouldn't be. By now we all know that Colby kept everything. But I am glad he saved them. They help me remember. Good times and scary times. Fear and relief. I put the bracelets back in the box he kept them in and put them with other items I know I will save. For a while. I know I can't keep it all, don't want to keep it all, that I will have to at some point revisit this growing "Save" pile and fine tune it. Refine it. Whittle it down. But for now the bracelets bring mostly good memories and it makes me feel good to know they are there, safe on a shelf in the room that is still, for a little while longer, Colby's.
In my daily perusal of Colby's stuff, today I find most of his hospital bracelets. Each time he was admitted he was issued one, and each one brings back a memory. That's the year he had the boy who was receiving treatment for cancer for a roommate. That year I broke my foot in the hospital parking lot. There, that's the first one, the year that was the scariest, before we knew what childhood asthma was all about.
I am surprised he kept the bracelets, although I shouldn't be. By now we all know that Colby kept everything. But I am glad he saved them. They help me remember. Good times and scary times. Fear and relief. I put the bracelets back in the box he kept them in and put them with other items I know I will save. For a while. I know I can't keep it all, don't want to keep it all, that I will have to at some point revisit this growing "Save" pile and fine tune it. Refine it. Whittle it down. But for now the bracelets bring mostly good memories and it makes me feel good to know they are there, safe on a shelf in the room that is still, for a little while longer, Colby's.
Saturday, October 10, 2009
Lyrics
Today I find lyrics Colby wrote. Or maybe it was a poem, but I believe these words were written for music. It is hard to tell when he composed this. All his notebooks are jumbled together, and there are scraps of paper with writing, music, lyrics, poems, mixed in with boxes of t-shirts and books and DVDs. Colby's handwriting didn't change much from the time he was about 14, so he probably wrote this sometime in the last ten years, but most likely in the last 2 or 3. I'm not sure if he was finished with this or not, but the words are so true to who Colby was, to what Colby believed, that I want to share them with you.
This is for the homeless, this is for the poor
This is for the people who don't love anymore
This is for the beggars. the forgotten saints
This is for the kids sparing change
This is for the hungry, this is for the weak
This is for those who come out at night who get no sleep
This is for those who never had a chance
Steve went to Vietnam
Drafted to kill for Uncle Sam
When it was over he had survived
But he did not care to live or die
He drinks all day to kill the pain
The merriness of so many, slain
No dollar to his name, just the shirt on his back
He owns nothing, just a pair of socks and a flashback
It don't matter much when you suffer from shellshock
Now you're out, out on your own
Can't find a friend, you're all alone
No goodness or light, no hope or dreams
No happiness or future for you to see
You got no food, you got no clothes
Can't find no shelter, got no where to go
© Colby Keegan
This is for the homeless, this is for the poor
This is for the people who don't love anymore
This is for the beggars. the forgotten saints
This is for the kids sparing change
This is for the hungry, this is for the weak
This is for those who come out at night who get no sleep
This is for those who never had a chance
Steve went to Vietnam
Drafted to kill for Uncle Sam
When it was over he had survived
But he did not care to live or die
He drinks all day to kill the pain
The merriness of so many, slain
No dollar to his name, just the shirt on his back
He owns nothing, just a pair of socks and a flashback
It don't matter much when you suffer from shellshock
Now you're out, out on your own
Can't find a friend, you're all alone
No goodness or light, no hope or dreams
No happiness or future for you to see
You got no food, you got no clothes
Can't find no shelter, got no where to go
© Colby Keegan
Friday, October 9, 2009
Swimming
I feel like I am walking underwater. I feel the heaviness, the knowing that no matter how hard I try, the going will still be slow. Colby used to call this sensation the underwater space walk.
Colby learned to swim when he was very young, the summer before his third or fourth birthday. We'd spend time at my Mom's and walking down the garden steps to the lake was a daily occasion. Sometimes twice, or three times a day. Back here in Tennessee, in the summer, we'd spend one weekend at Opryland and the next at Cheatham Lake. It was at Cheatham Lake, a wide spot in the Cumberland River, that Colby first talked about how some things, like writing and math, were for him, like an underwater space walk.
We all have our struggles. Colby had far more than his share. Since Colby passed it seems that everything is a struggle. It all gets done, but life is running in slow motion. Everyday tasks take forever. What used to be easy is now so hard.
This all causes me to focus harder. To pay more attention to detail. To double check everything I do. Those are not bad things in and of themselves, but I so wish the reason for me having to do them were different. My one consolation is that Colby is no longer swimming the underwater space walk. Now, he is flying. He is as fast as light. He is free.
Colby learned to swim when he was very young, the summer before his third or fourth birthday. We'd spend time at my Mom's and walking down the garden steps to the lake was a daily occasion. Sometimes twice, or three times a day. Back here in Tennessee, in the summer, we'd spend one weekend at Opryland and the next at Cheatham Lake. It was at Cheatham Lake, a wide spot in the Cumberland River, that Colby first talked about how some things, like writing and math, were for him, like an underwater space walk.
We all have our struggles. Colby had far more than his share. Since Colby passed it seems that everything is a struggle. It all gets done, but life is running in slow motion. Everyday tasks take forever. What used to be easy is now so hard.
This all causes me to focus harder. To pay more attention to detail. To double check everything I do. Those are not bad things in and of themselves, but I so wish the reason for me having to do them were different. My one consolation is that Colby is no longer swimming the underwater space walk. Now, he is flying. He is as fast as light. He is free.
Thursday, October 8, 2009
Friend
One of my horse friends passed away on Tuesday. She was a small brown pony who was the only horse who accepted me and my unusual emotions immediately after Colby's passing. She was solid, steady, a true comfort to me one particular day not long into my grief. After feeding, I stood next to the fence crying, and she left her pile of hay to come over to be with me. She stood there, when no other horse would come close, and leaned into me when I touched her. She was a gift.
This pony was also a special friend to Colby. Whenever he visited the farm, which wasn't regularly, she always walked directly to him, ears pricked, curious. There was something about Colby that she especially liked. When I needed photos of her for a book I was writing she wasn't at all interested in posing prettily for me. But, when Colby came to take the photo, she stood like a champion.
She was an older equine and had a bout of colic earlier this week. Colic is an upset of a horse's digestive system and is quite serious. In this case, our little friend could not be saved. Now I grieve for her. This pony deserves a special place in Heaven. Maybe she and Colby are there together. Bonding. Happy. Free.
This pony was also a special friend to Colby. Whenever he visited the farm, which wasn't regularly, she always walked directly to him, ears pricked, curious. There was something about Colby that she especially liked. When I needed photos of her for a book I was writing she wasn't at all interested in posing prettily for me. But, when Colby came to take the photo, she stood like a champion.
She was an older equine and had a bout of colic earlier this week. Colic is an upset of a horse's digestive system and is quite serious. In this case, our little friend could not be saved. Now I grieve for her. This pony deserves a special place in Heaven. Maybe she and Colby are there together. Bonding. Happy. Free.
Wednesday, October 7, 2009
Baseball
Rough night. No sleep. The physical ache of missing Colby is overwhelming. It happens this way sometimes. The all consuming, physical emptiness, the deep-seated sadness that takes over everything. I turn to my online support group and one exercise says to list happy thoughts. This is hard. I am not in a happy place. But I try.
The first one that comes to mind is at a Minnesota Twins baseball game when Colby was four. This is probably because against all odds the Twins won their division last night and have been on my mind. But at this game, almost 20 years ago, Colby, my mom and I sat above the third base dugout. The Twins were playing the Boston Red Sox and Colby already knew all the players on the Twin's team. Kirby Puckett and Dan Gladden were his favorites. At four, Colby was no stranger to baseball. My Mom had him swinging a bat when he was a toddler just barely able to stand. At four, Colby kept better track of the strikes and balls, of the innings and outs, than I did. He was especially pleased when the Twins won 4-0. Four runs, one to celebrate each of his years.
My mind runs to another baseball team, another championship. The second year Colby was in t-ball they won every game. Every single game. On the 4th of July the team rode in the parade holding their trophies and Indian danced to Lee Greenwood's "God Bless the USA." What a great team that was. Great parents, and great kids.
Each of those memories triggers another, Colby playing the Lone Ranger, attending River Camp at what was then the Cumberland Science Museum, the summer he went to YMCA Camp. Those were truly happy times for him . . . and for me. It seems impossible to fathom that there will be happy times again. Surely there must be, but right now, I can't see how. This is where trust and faith come in. This is where I have to believe. I do. I will. But right now, this morning, I allow myself the luxury of crawling back into bed. It will be easier to get through this darkness if I am not so tired, so emotionally drained. So I let myself recharge with the intended thought that this afternoon will be better. It will. It has to be.
The first one that comes to mind is at a Minnesota Twins baseball game when Colby was four. This is probably because against all odds the Twins won their division last night and have been on my mind. But at this game, almost 20 years ago, Colby, my mom and I sat above the third base dugout. The Twins were playing the Boston Red Sox and Colby already knew all the players on the Twin's team. Kirby Puckett and Dan Gladden were his favorites. At four, Colby was no stranger to baseball. My Mom had him swinging a bat when he was a toddler just barely able to stand. At four, Colby kept better track of the strikes and balls, of the innings and outs, than I did. He was especially pleased when the Twins won 4-0. Four runs, one to celebrate each of his years.
My mind runs to another baseball team, another championship. The second year Colby was in t-ball they won every game. Every single game. On the 4th of July the team rode in the parade holding their trophies and Indian danced to Lee Greenwood's "God Bless the USA." What a great team that was. Great parents, and great kids.
Each of those memories triggers another, Colby playing the Lone Ranger, attending River Camp at what was then the Cumberland Science Museum, the summer he went to YMCA Camp. Those were truly happy times for him . . . and for me. It seems impossible to fathom that there will be happy times again. Surely there must be, but right now, I can't see how. This is where trust and faith come in. This is where I have to believe. I do. I will. But right now, this morning, I allow myself the luxury of crawling back into bed. It will be easier to get through this darkness if I am not so tired, so emotionally drained. So I let myself recharge with the intended thought that this afternoon will be better. It will. It has to be.
Tuesday, October 6, 2009
Superficiality
Since Colby passed I have trouble running errands, interacting with people. Customer service is such that everyone is trained to ask how my weekend was, if I am having a nice day, how I am doing. Do they really want to hear? I don't think so. A curt "Fine," is all I can manage and I know each of these people think I am unfriendly, rude. But it's all I can do.
Some days I manage more, other days less. It is hard for me to relate to these superficial phrases, Facebook quizzes, Hollywood gossip. These things do not matter. My son is dead. That matters. There are homeless people out there who need help. That matters. Health care, the war in Iraq, cleaning up our environment. Those things matter. Making small talk about my plans for the weekend does not matter. Do they want to hear I am going home to crawl into my bed and cry? Do they want to hear that if I can find the strength I am planning to go through my dead son's papers?
I know each of these people mean well, but when someone is obviously uncomfortable interacting, making conversation, smiling, others should not push. I can't say how many times people at a checkout counter have said, "C'mon, you must be planning something fun." No. I'm not. Or, "Smile, it can't be all that bad." Yes. Yes it is all that bad. In fact, it's worse.
I'm not sure how to handle these superficial people. I realize it is my problem, not theirs. I realize I will get past this, that time will take care of a lot of it. But in the meantime I feel like I might have a meltdown in the middle of the Post Office, the bank, the grocery store. So I limit my outside activities. I wait to run errands until I have a day where I know I can handle it.
In the meantime, to all those I might encounter at the gas station, library, garden store: I will try to be pleasant. If I am distant, please do not push. Please be sensitive enough to realize I am grieving, that I am in a different place than you are, that it is all I can do to even get to your place of business. A pleasant hello, smile and thank you are sufficient for our transaction. Then maybe in a few months, or a year, I'll ask you how your day is going. I'll give you a smile that I really mean. I'll be able to interact with the superficiality our society seems to require. I will. Just not today or tomorrow.
Some days I manage more, other days less. It is hard for me to relate to these superficial phrases, Facebook quizzes, Hollywood gossip. These things do not matter. My son is dead. That matters. There are homeless people out there who need help. That matters. Health care, the war in Iraq, cleaning up our environment. Those things matter. Making small talk about my plans for the weekend does not matter. Do they want to hear I am going home to crawl into my bed and cry? Do they want to hear that if I can find the strength I am planning to go through my dead son's papers?
I know each of these people mean well, but when someone is obviously uncomfortable interacting, making conversation, smiling, others should not push. I can't say how many times people at a checkout counter have said, "C'mon, you must be planning something fun." No. I'm not. Or, "Smile, it can't be all that bad." Yes. Yes it is all that bad. In fact, it's worse.
I'm not sure how to handle these superficial people. I realize it is my problem, not theirs. I realize I will get past this, that time will take care of a lot of it. But in the meantime I feel like I might have a meltdown in the middle of the Post Office, the bank, the grocery store. So I limit my outside activities. I wait to run errands until I have a day where I know I can handle it.
In the meantime, to all those I might encounter at the gas station, library, garden store: I will try to be pleasant. If I am distant, please do not push. Please be sensitive enough to realize I am grieving, that I am in a different place than you are, that it is all I can do to even get to your place of business. A pleasant hello, smile and thank you are sufficient for our transaction. Then maybe in a few months, or a year, I'll ask you how your day is going. I'll give you a smile that I really mean. I'll be able to interact with the superficiality our society seems to require. I will. Just not today or tomorrow.
Sunday, October 4, 2009
Actions
I get an email today that lets me know a friend of Colby's is in rehab. Colby passing was the deciding factor, and I am so pleased that Colby had some small part in his friend getting help. I think good thoughts and wishes for the friend. This is the third person I know of who has gotten help for mental health or addiction issues directly due to Colby.
Later today, when I am driving, I get stuck behind a very slow Jeep pulling a small flatbed trailer. It is raining and the Jeep is having some trouble managing the flatbed. There is back and forth sway and the empty trailer also bounces up and down. I am impatient as we are going almost 20 miles an hour below the speed limit. I come to my turnoff and half a mile later I come across an accident that has just happened. If not for the slow Jeep, I could have been part of the wreck.
The email and accident make me think that every action we take, every thing that we do affects someone else. Even something as small as waiting for one car to pass before we pull onto the road can make a difference. Colby would have liked this train of thought. He was always aware that everyone, everything, is connected, often in ways we do not understand. Are maybe not supposed to understand.
To an extent, we can choose many of these actions. We can choose a smile or a frown. To open a door for someone, or to ignore them. We each have the ability to affect others in a positive way . . . or not. The choice is ours, yours and mine. I am excited to think of the many ways these three people who are currently turning their lives around will touch others in the future. And that none of it would have any possibility of happening if it were not for Colby brings a silver lining to this very sad time.
Later today, when I am driving, I get stuck behind a very slow Jeep pulling a small flatbed trailer. It is raining and the Jeep is having some trouble managing the flatbed. There is back and forth sway and the empty trailer also bounces up and down. I am impatient as we are going almost 20 miles an hour below the speed limit. I come to my turnoff and half a mile later I come across an accident that has just happened. If not for the slow Jeep, I could have been part of the wreck.
The email and accident make me think that every action we take, every thing that we do affects someone else. Even something as small as waiting for one car to pass before we pull onto the road can make a difference. Colby would have liked this train of thought. He was always aware that everyone, everything, is connected, often in ways we do not understand. Are maybe not supposed to understand.
To an extent, we can choose many of these actions. We can choose a smile or a frown. To open a door for someone, or to ignore them. We each have the ability to affect others in a positive way . . . or not. The choice is ours, yours and mine. I am excited to think of the many ways these three people who are currently turning their lives around will touch others in the future. And that none of it would have any possibility of happening if it were not for Colby brings a silver lining to this very sad time.
Saturday, October 3, 2009
Cooler
I pass a broken cooler on the freeway today. If Colby were here he would have made me stop for it. From what I can tell as I whiz by, one hinge that holds the lid on is broken, but otherwise the cooler is in good shape. It is a red cooler, large, with a white top. Colby would have pulled the top off and used the bottom half to store CDs or books, baseball cards, socks, music cords, old magazines or a host of other things that need to stay together. He might have put a piece of wire through the hinge, or strapped it up with duct tape and kept the lid with the cooler. Then he might have given it to a homeless person or a traveling musician, or used it to protect a mixing board the next time we drove to Minnesota.
Colby might have done a number of things with the cooler. But he is not here to do anything with it. So instead, it lies on the shoulder on Briley Parkway somewhere between Ashland City Highway and I-24. I hope someone else stops for it because it still has some life left in it. Maybe not in its original intended purpose, but someone could use it for something, rather than have it take up space in a landfill. I decide to look for it the next time I head that direction. If it is still there, I will stop, pick it up, dust it off and throw it in the back of the truck. If it is still there, I will find it a new home.
Colby might have done a number of things with the cooler. But he is not here to do anything with it. So instead, it lies on the shoulder on Briley Parkway somewhere between Ashland City Highway and I-24. I hope someone else stops for it because it still has some life left in it. Maybe not in its original intended purpose, but someone could use it for something, rather than have it take up space in a landfill. I decide to look for it the next time I head that direction. If it is still there, I will stop, pick it up, dust it off and throw it in the back of the truck. If it is still there, I will find it a new home.
Fog
I think in a fog. Without clarity, without reason. Sometimes. My brain is on overload and I know I am not functioning on all cylinders. I look at my toothbrush this morning and can't figure out what to do with it. Oh. Yea. Teeth. My grief counselor says these memory gaps, this fog, is my body's natural way of insulating me, my mind, my brain, when there is too much to process. I am not thinking clearly.
Colby came to me in a dream last night. I haven't dreamed of him for some time. Not since the first few weeks after he passed. In the dream we are at my mother's house, although I know she is not at home. In the living room, Colby has a newborn baby leopard. It is sitting next to the chair he is sitting in and he reaches down to pet it. It's cute, I think. It has a cute face. But how did he get it? What is he doing with a baby leopard? "It's a squirrel, Mom," he says. I know this is not a squirrel, but Colby insists that it is. Then he gets up, goes into the kitchen, pours a gallon of cooking oil on the floor and begins to spread it around with a mop. "What are you doing?" I ask. I am panicked. This is going to be a huge mess. He is mopping the floor, he says. He knows I am upset about the squirrel and wants to do something nice for me.
The dream fades, as dreams do. I waken and think about the dream. Before he passed, between the addiction and the mental illness, Colby had not been making good choices, thinking clearly. I am sure there is a correlation here, but I do not know what it is. Yet. I will think about this today, as I sort through more of his things, run my errands, finish up a writing assignment.
As I think, I am aware of my own fog. These days I proceed cautiously in everything I do. I want to be sure I am not unintentionally doing anything that will cause harm to me or to others. Thank goodness the stove blew up last year. At least I don't have to worry about that. But I am extra careful when driving. Always looking for those stop signs, red lights, bicyclists, dogs. I tread carefully going up and down steps, think before doing anything. Anything at all. I think the difference between Colby and me is that I know I am living in a fog. I am not sure that Colby did. More to ponder, think about, process. More reason for the fog.
Colby came to me in a dream last night. I haven't dreamed of him for some time. Not since the first few weeks after he passed. In the dream we are at my mother's house, although I know she is not at home. In the living room, Colby has a newborn baby leopard. It is sitting next to the chair he is sitting in and he reaches down to pet it. It's cute, I think. It has a cute face. But how did he get it? What is he doing with a baby leopard? "It's a squirrel, Mom," he says. I know this is not a squirrel, but Colby insists that it is. Then he gets up, goes into the kitchen, pours a gallon of cooking oil on the floor and begins to spread it around with a mop. "What are you doing?" I ask. I am panicked. This is going to be a huge mess. He is mopping the floor, he says. He knows I am upset about the squirrel and wants to do something nice for me.
The dream fades, as dreams do. I waken and think about the dream. Before he passed, between the addiction and the mental illness, Colby had not been making good choices, thinking clearly. I am sure there is a correlation here, but I do not know what it is. Yet. I will think about this today, as I sort through more of his things, run my errands, finish up a writing assignment.
As I think, I am aware of my own fog. These days I proceed cautiously in everything I do. I want to be sure I am not unintentionally doing anything that will cause harm to me or to others. Thank goodness the stove blew up last year. At least I don't have to worry about that. But I am extra careful when driving. Always looking for those stop signs, red lights, bicyclists, dogs. I tread carefully going up and down steps, think before doing anything. Anything at all. I think the difference between Colby and me is that I know I am living in a fog. I am not sure that Colby did. More to ponder, think about, process. More reason for the fog.
Friday, October 2, 2009
Future
In counseling today we talk of the future. My future. Without Colby. We specifically discuss holidays, celebrations, and traditions, which will soon be spent by myself. While my mom's health is okay, she is in her middle eighties. Statistics and reality indicate she will not be here forever.
I think ahead to Christmas celebrations spent alone and realize in my future holidays, there will not be much to celebrate. The traditions of our family in all honesty will die with my mother, for I will not bother to go through them just for me. And, there will be no one left to remember the joy on Colby's face the Christmas morning when he was three, or the time Colby pulled "Fred Cat" out of the tree and saved it from tipping over. There will be no one left who cares.
My job now is to decide how I want to spend these future days of celebration. I can't change reality. I can't change the fact that I have no immediate family, that there are no future generations in my future. But there are options. Many of them. Too many. My counselor and I decide I need to figure out what I don't want to do, before I can get what I want to do. What I feel I can do, will be able to do.
The first decision concerns the coming holiday season. 2009. I will be with my Mom in Minnesota. Our recent holidays centered around Colby. Will we celebrate exactly as before, just without Colby? Or, will we eliminate traditions, the Christmas Eve stockings, the big holiday dinner? It is early to be thinking of these things, but in my new state of needing order, needing plans I can follow, making a decisions about this will help me move on. My counselor suggests being flexible in whatever decisions are made. "Go with the emotional flow," are her actual words. Sounds good to me. I know that whatever we decide, Colby would want us to do whatever was easy, whatever makes us happy. My mom and I have some thinking to do and I am anxious to see what we decide.
I think ahead to Christmas celebrations spent alone and realize in my future holidays, there will not be much to celebrate. The traditions of our family in all honesty will die with my mother, for I will not bother to go through them just for me. And, there will be no one left to remember the joy on Colby's face the Christmas morning when he was three, or the time Colby pulled "Fred Cat" out of the tree and saved it from tipping over. There will be no one left who cares.
My job now is to decide how I want to spend these future days of celebration. I can't change reality. I can't change the fact that I have no immediate family, that there are no future generations in my future. But there are options. Many of them. Too many. My counselor and I decide I need to figure out what I don't want to do, before I can get what I want to do. What I feel I can do, will be able to do.
The first decision concerns the coming holiday season. 2009. I will be with my Mom in Minnesota. Our recent holidays centered around Colby. Will we celebrate exactly as before, just without Colby? Or, will we eliminate traditions, the Christmas Eve stockings, the big holiday dinner? It is early to be thinking of these things, but in my new state of needing order, needing plans I can follow, making a decisions about this will help me move on. My counselor suggests being flexible in whatever decisions are made. "Go with the emotional flow," are her actual words. Sounds good to me. I know that whatever we decide, Colby would want us to do whatever was easy, whatever makes us happy. My mom and I have some thinking to do and I am anxious to see what we decide.
Thursday, October 1, 2009
Others
Yesterday, on Colby's birthday, I received many wonderful emails of support from my online grieving parents group and I am reminded that I am not alone in this journey. The following letter is used with permission. It was written by a member of the group whose son Rick passed away in 2001 due to a tragic automobile accident. While these are her words, not mine, they express my thoughts, and the thoughts of other grieving parents, so eloquently that I know I could not improve upon them. While I do not have a large family, I am blessed with a strong support system, and a large network of friends. Others are not, and that's why the second half of the letter I think is is particularly important. This then, is from Donna Mae:
Dear Family and Friends,
I'd like to make an appeal to the family and friends and other interested parties in behalf of all grieving parents, including myself. A mother who has lost her son to a tragic automobile accident.
The immediate support from family, friends and the community in such a tragedy can not be underestimated. It is of great importance. It is a wonderful show of compassion and support. It is very much needed. We, the bereaved families, could not survive or function during these first days and weeks without it. Through the roadside vigils and makeshift memorials, the wake and/or memorial service and finally the funeral. You will all be there to lend your support. And we thank you. It doesn't end there.
Slowly the cards and flowers stop coming. Visitors start to drop off. Phone calls lessen. The world rights itself and goes back to it normalcy, except for the bereaved families. For some, they will have a great support system of comforting family members and compassionate friends. For others, they find themselves suddenly alone. The friends or family member that do stick it out with the bereaved can be precious and few.
My appeal to those involved with a bereaved family is, please don't stop your support!! It is needed for a long time to come. If you are waiting for them to call, you’re going to be waiting a long time. They just simply can't. Trust me on this one. If you think by leaving them alone to sort out their feelings, give them some space, whatever your reasoning, your wrong. Yes, we need our quiet time but we also need your ongoing support.
Unless you've lost a child yourself, you can not understand our pain. Don't even try to. It is not comparable to the loss of an aunt or uncle, not even your mother or father and definitely not to a pet so don't bother to try to compare. Our world has just been ripped apart and all we can think of is ourselves and our pain, we don't have the energy to deal with yours. We don't need to hear platitudes. They may be in a better place, but we want them here with us. Yes we should be grateful for the 1, 3, 8, 14 or twenty or more years we had them here, but we wanted them longer. Watch what you say. There really isn't anything that you can say to take away the pain, just be there. Your presence alone is comforting.
We are confused, frightened, dazed, angry, anxious, irritable, irrational, moody and a dozen other emotions that may show themselves at any given time or all at the same time. We may cry, strike out, scream, or be silent. We may want to talk or not want to talk. We think of our child when we wake up and they are the last thought when we go to sleep, if sleep comes at all. We think of them constantly throughout the day.
We need to know that someone cares. We need to know that our son or daughter will be remembered. One of our biggest fears is that our child will not be remembered. Your memories are precious to us. If you think by speaking their names will cause us pain you are wrong again. We are already in pain. Even through our smiles. We long to hear their names. We want to hear their names. We need to hear their names. So please, let us hear you speak their names. They not only died but they also lived. They did exist. By not speaking their name you do us a disfavor. You belittle our pain and grief. Don't think that by speaking their names you will remind us of them. We have not forgotten them. We never will. Our every breath is a constant reminder of there absence. We don't even try to forget. Our memories are all we have and we would love to hear your memories of our son or daughter.
There are two important dates on a bereaved parents calendar. A birthday and a death date. Don't forget them. One of the most important things you can do for a bereaved parent is to remember their child's birthday. You wouldn't like it if everyone forgot your living child's birthday would you? They may not be here physically but it is still their child and they are still the parents. You'd be surprised what healing power a simply card saying that you are thinking of them on their child's birthday can do for a grieving parents heart. How a simply bouquet of flowers on Mother's day in a child's memory can bring a smile to a mothers heart.
So in the weeks and months and yes years ahead please remember us grieving parents. For no matter how strong you think we are, how brave a front we put on, how well we seem to be getting along the truth is we are hurting inside. We
have suffered the ultimate tragedy.
We have lost a child. And contrary to popular belief we will not get over "IT." We will not "MOVE ON" there will be no "CLOSURE." We will get through it and learn to live with our loss in our own time, no matter how long it takes. But, Please don't ever ask a bereaved parent to get over the death of their child. It's just not going to happen.
Donna Mae, Rick's Mom
8/31/83-8/10/01
Auto Accident
Dear Family and Friends,
I'd like to make an appeal to the family and friends and other interested parties in behalf of all grieving parents, including myself. A mother who has lost her son to a tragic automobile accident.
The immediate support from family, friends and the community in such a tragedy can not be underestimated. It is of great importance. It is a wonderful show of compassion and support. It is very much needed. We, the bereaved families, could not survive or function during these first days and weeks without it. Through the roadside vigils and makeshift memorials, the wake and/or memorial service and finally the funeral. You will all be there to lend your support. And we thank you. It doesn't end there.
Slowly the cards and flowers stop coming. Visitors start to drop off. Phone calls lessen. The world rights itself and goes back to it normalcy, except for the bereaved families. For some, they will have a great support system of comforting family members and compassionate friends. For others, they find themselves suddenly alone. The friends or family member that do stick it out with the bereaved can be precious and few.
My appeal to those involved with a bereaved family is, please don't stop your support!! It is needed for a long time to come. If you are waiting for them to call, you’re going to be waiting a long time. They just simply can't. Trust me on this one. If you think by leaving them alone to sort out their feelings, give them some space, whatever your reasoning, your wrong. Yes, we need our quiet time but we also need your ongoing support.
Unless you've lost a child yourself, you can not understand our pain. Don't even try to. It is not comparable to the loss of an aunt or uncle, not even your mother or father and definitely not to a pet so don't bother to try to compare. Our world has just been ripped apart and all we can think of is ourselves and our pain, we don't have the energy to deal with yours. We don't need to hear platitudes. They may be in a better place, but we want them here with us. Yes we should be grateful for the 1, 3, 8, 14 or twenty or more years we had them here, but we wanted them longer. Watch what you say. There really isn't anything that you can say to take away the pain, just be there. Your presence alone is comforting.
We are confused, frightened, dazed, angry, anxious, irritable, irrational, moody and a dozen other emotions that may show themselves at any given time or all at the same time. We may cry, strike out, scream, or be silent. We may want to talk or not want to talk. We think of our child when we wake up and they are the last thought when we go to sleep, if sleep comes at all. We think of them constantly throughout the day.
We need to know that someone cares. We need to know that our son or daughter will be remembered. One of our biggest fears is that our child will not be remembered. Your memories are precious to us. If you think by speaking their names will cause us pain you are wrong again. We are already in pain. Even through our smiles. We long to hear their names. We want to hear their names. We need to hear their names. So please, let us hear you speak their names. They not only died but they also lived. They did exist. By not speaking their name you do us a disfavor. You belittle our pain and grief. Don't think that by speaking their names you will remind us of them. We have not forgotten them. We never will. Our every breath is a constant reminder of there absence. We don't even try to forget. Our memories are all we have and we would love to hear your memories of our son or daughter.
There are two important dates on a bereaved parents calendar. A birthday and a death date. Don't forget them. One of the most important things you can do for a bereaved parent is to remember their child's birthday. You wouldn't like it if everyone forgot your living child's birthday would you? They may not be here physically but it is still their child and they are still the parents. You'd be surprised what healing power a simply card saying that you are thinking of them on their child's birthday can do for a grieving parents heart. How a simply bouquet of flowers on Mother's day in a child's memory can bring a smile to a mothers heart.
So in the weeks and months and yes years ahead please remember us grieving parents. For no matter how strong you think we are, how brave a front we put on, how well we seem to be getting along the truth is we are hurting inside. We
have suffered the ultimate tragedy.
We have lost a child. And contrary to popular belief we will not get over "IT." We will not "MOVE ON" there will be no "CLOSURE." We will get through it and learn to live with our loss in our own time, no matter how long it takes. But, Please don't ever ask a bereaved parent to get over the death of their child. It's just not going to happen.
Donna Mae, Rick's Mom
8/31/83-8/10/01
Auto Accident
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