The New Year's Eve that Colby was ten it snowed. Big, fat, silent flakes drifted from the sky and by early evening most Nashvillians were either tucked away safely in their homes, or already at their chosen celebratory location. On our street, in our neighborhood, not a single car had gone by since the snow began that afternoon. By eight, there was a good five inches of snow on the ground and we decided to go for a walk.
Outside the silence was stunning. Cocooning, if there is such a word. On the west side of town not a hint of freeway traffic could be heard. Not a door slamming, no voices, no planes. Not that it was a particularly noisy neighborhood where we lived then, but there were always city sounds in the background. Not so tonight. We walked down the sidewalk and when we reached the street we turned right. We started on the side of the street, but as it became apparent that we had the entire neighborhood to ourselves, we moved into the center with the crunch of our feet in the snow making the only sound we heard.
Colby and I marveled that the only tracks we saw were our own. Not even a dog or a rabbit had ventured out before us. And while most of our walk was in complete silence, on the way back, when we doubled over our own tracks, Colby said he hoped all the people and animals without homes had found a place to stay that night. Then he offered his room to anyone we might pass who was shivering in the snow, and I began to cry. While the chances were very slim that we'd come across anyone, Colby's offer was made in earnest. I was reminded once again what a gift Colby was, not just to me, but to everyone he met.
That New Year's Eve was by far my favorite of all my many new years. When we got home, we made hot chocolate and watched movies until it was time for Colby to open the door, run around the yard, bang on a few pots and yell "Happy New Year!" And, for the most part, it was. Although he had some problems, Colby's mental illness had not yet fully reared its ugly head. Today, I remember that magical night fondly. Like Colby, it was a gift, a treasure, and it reminds me that the best things in life truly are free.
Thursday, December 31, 2009
Wednesday, December 30, 2009
Ornaments
I pull the empty Christmas boxes out of the garage and up the steps to the living room where I deposit them on the living room floor. Then I turn and survey my mom's Christmas tree. It is an artificial tree, a little taller than 6 feet, and it is loaded with ornaments, some of which date back to the 1950s. Each ornament has a story, a history, a place in our family.
I begin to pull ornaments off the tree. one by one, wrap them and place them in a box. Here's the tiny plastic horse jumping over a fence that a friend's mother gave me the Christmas I was eight. Here are the little metal raspberries that our local gas station used to give away during the holidays. Each one is a different color and I remember how excited I was when we got enough gas for me to go inside the station and choose a new one. Here's the angel I got in Hawaii, the beautiful ornaments with loops of hanging pearls that our neighbor made 50 years ago, and the painted birds that look so realistic that every cat we've had has tried to "catch" one.
I make selective picks from the tree, delaying the time when I have to take the loops of colored paper that Colby made when he was three. My hands shake as I touch the paper and tears roll down my face. as I lovingly wrap the paper in tissue and place it in the box. Next is the reindeer head made from Popsicle sticks. Colby made a dozen or more that year, the year he was eight, and gave them to everyone he knew. Then there are the pine cones Colby painted when he was 14, the lovely star ornament he gave my mom when he was 20, and the Snoopy ornament he gave me last year. By this time I have to sit down, the tears are falling so fast I cannot see.
The last ornament is the spire at the top of the tree. This was always Colby's job, to take the spire off and it was one of the last things we'd do before we left Minnesota to head back to Nashville. Mom always had the tree up and decorated by the time we arrived, but we always took it down. Even when he was small, two, three, four years old, I'd lift him up to the top of the tree and he'd carefully pluck the ornament and reverently hand it to me.
I reach for the spire. It's the second spire we've had in my lifetime. This one must be about 30 years old. I am all cried out by this time. The spire is wrapped and packed and I carry five boxes of ornaments back to the garage. I don't know if I can do this again. Next year. Next year, if the tree goes up at all, it may be better to hire someone to take it down, for there are too many memories, too many painful remembrances of the one person who should be here . . . and is not.
I begin to pull ornaments off the tree. one by one, wrap them and place them in a box. Here's the tiny plastic horse jumping over a fence that a friend's mother gave me the Christmas I was eight. Here are the little metal raspberries that our local gas station used to give away during the holidays. Each one is a different color and I remember how excited I was when we got enough gas for me to go inside the station and choose a new one. Here's the angel I got in Hawaii, the beautiful ornaments with loops of hanging pearls that our neighbor made 50 years ago, and the painted birds that look so realistic that every cat we've had has tried to "catch" one.
I make selective picks from the tree, delaying the time when I have to take the loops of colored paper that Colby made when he was three. My hands shake as I touch the paper and tears roll down my face. as I lovingly wrap the paper in tissue and place it in the box. Next is the reindeer head made from Popsicle sticks. Colby made a dozen or more that year, the year he was eight, and gave them to everyone he knew. Then there are the pine cones Colby painted when he was 14, the lovely star ornament he gave my mom when he was 20, and the Snoopy ornament he gave me last year. By this time I have to sit down, the tears are falling so fast I cannot see.
The last ornament is the spire at the top of the tree. This was always Colby's job, to take the spire off and it was one of the last things we'd do before we left Minnesota to head back to Nashville. Mom always had the tree up and decorated by the time we arrived, but we always took it down. Even when he was small, two, three, four years old, I'd lift him up to the top of the tree and he'd carefully pluck the ornament and reverently hand it to me.
I reach for the spire. It's the second spire we've had in my lifetime. This one must be about 30 years old. I am all cried out by this time. The spire is wrapped and packed and I carry five boxes of ornaments back to the garage. I don't know if I can do this again. Next year. Next year, if the tree goes up at all, it may be better to hire someone to take it down, for there are too many memories, too many painful remembrances of the one person who should be here . . . and is not.
Monday, December 28, 2009
Holes
This is the time of year when families take down the old calendar from whatever centralized location it is posted in the house and put up a new, fresh calendar for the coming year. Our calendar was always hung in the kitchen. Colby and I would write our appointments and commitments on the calendar, and mark birthdays and holidays more as a way of keeping track of each other than as a way of keeping track of our own appointments.
For example, because Colby marked it on the calendar I knew that the last Friday afternoon of every month he rode in a community bike ride that departed from Nashville's West End area. And, because I wrote down when I was scheduled to be at a local therapeutic riding program that I teach at, Colby just had to look at the calendar to estimate what time I would be home.
This year, in 2010, there will be no calendar. This year, there is no need. I keep track of most of my appointments in my head and those that are scheduled more than a few weeks out I note in my computer. In years past, my mom has given us a calendar as a Christmas gift. This year, without speaking about it, there was no calendar. No gift to help keep track of each other. This year, there is no other. There is just me.
In a few days I will take down the calendar for 2009 and there will be a bare spot on the kitchen wall. As the calendars were hung with push pins there are a number of tiny holes in the wall, close together, each a little higher than the previous one. That way the new calendar would cover all the holes from the previous years. I should fill in the holes, or maybe cover them with something un-calendar like. Or, maybe I will just leave them as a reminder of all the holes in my life now that Colby is no longer here. Either way the holes inside me will remain, a permanent reminder of the biggest loss any parent can face.
For example, because Colby marked it on the calendar I knew that the last Friday afternoon of every month he rode in a community bike ride that departed from Nashville's West End area. And, because I wrote down when I was scheduled to be at a local therapeutic riding program that I teach at, Colby just had to look at the calendar to estimate what time I would be home.
This year, in 2010, there will be no calendar. This year, there is no need. I keep track of most of my appointments in my head and those that are scheduled more than a few weeks out I note in my computer. In years past, my mom has given us a calendar as a Christmas gift. This year, without speaking about it, there was no calendar. No gift to help keep track of each other. This year, there is no other. There is just me.
In a few days I will take down the calendar for 2009 and there will be a bare spot on the kitchen wall. As the calendars were hung with push pins there are a number of tiny holes in the wall, close together, each a little higher than the previous one. That way the new calendar would cover all the holes from the previous years. I should fill in the holes, or maybe cover them with something un-calendar like. Or, maybe I will just leave them as a reminder of all the holes in my life now that Colby is no longer here. Either way the holes inside me will remain, a permanent reminder of the biggest loss any parent can face.
Saturday, December 26, 2009
Snow
We are inundated with snow. It began three days ago and 17 inches later it is still coming down. Slowly, wistfully, as if it does not want to stop but knows it must. I shovel the steps and sidewalk every day. Sometimes twice a day. This is another task Colby and I used to share, that I now do alone. The ritual scooping of piles of snow in large flat shovels, scraping what we can of the ice that is adhered to the cement, then sweeping the shoveled space, and finally the spreading of ice melt in hopes that the next shoveling session is easier. Usually it is. Was. Because now, I shovel alone.
Before, after the shoveling was done Colby and I would make snow angels, snow forts, have an impromptu snowball fight or drive the mile or so to the local golf course and slide, or in Colby’s case, snowboard, down the big hill and across the tiny frozen pond. This is especially amazing as Colby was not at all fond of cold weather. He also didn’t like the thought of snow, although he liked snow itself. Liked playing in it. Now I do none of that, although I would enjoy every bit of it if Colby were here.
Sometimes, if the weather had been warm enough to create icicles on the eaves, Colby would take a long pole and attack the icicles until they had all fallen to the ground. I never had enough upper body strength to manage a pole long enough to hit a second-story eave, but Colby could do it when he was twelve. This year there are not many icicles. So far. It is expensive to bring someone in to knock them down because it is a dangerous job. If you don’t stand out of the way, one of the sharp, icy spears could slice right through you. Wearing thick, padded layers helps, but that also was something Colby was not fond of.
Everything I see here, everything I do, reminds me of Colby, reminds me of his loss. I am back to the numb state, incapable of feeling the anger that so recently permeated my being, incapable of feeling sad, or happy, or much of anything else. I can, however, remember. I can remember that Colby had wonderful times here in Minnesota. I can remember that a week before he passed Colby told me this house was the one place he felt was home. And for that I can, do, feel gladness.
Before, after the shoveling was done Colby and I would make snow angels, snow forts, have an impromptu snowball fight or drive the mile or so to the local golf course and slide, or in Colby’s case, snowboard, down the big hill and across the tiny frozen pond. This is especially amazing as Colby was not at all fond of cold weather. He also didn’t like the thought of snow, although he liked snow itself. Liked playing in it. Now I do none of that, although I would enjoy every bit of it if Colby were here.
Sometimes, if the weather had been warm enough to create icicles on the eaves, Colby would take a long pole and attack the icicles until they had all fallen to the ground. I never had enough upper body strength to manage a pole long enough to hit a second-story eave, but Colby could do it when he was twelve. This year there are not many icicles. So far. It is expensive to bring someone in to knock them down because it is a dangerous job. If you don’t stand out of the way, one of the sharp, icy spears could slice right through you. Wearing thick, padded layers helps, but that also was something Colby was not fond of.
Everything I see here, everything I do, reminds me of Colby, reminds me of his loss. I am back to the numb state, incapable of feeling the anger that so recently permeated my being, incapable of feeling sad, or happy, or much of anything else. I can, however, remember. I can remember that Colby had wonderful times here in Minnesota. I can remember that a week before he passed Colby told me this house was the one place he felt was home. And for that I can, do, feel gladness.
Thursday, December 24, 2009
Gifts
This is the time of year when friends and families exchange gifts. This is the time of year that Colby and I together would choose gifts and wrap them. Together. He and I.
I am not up for the physical exchange of gifts this year. It doesn’t seem right to do this without Colby. Next year. Maybe. But that I do not exchange gifts does not mean that I don’t have any. I have plenty.
My gifts this year are great friends, strangers who have gone out of their way to help me, clients who keep me busy, my health. My gifts are work that I enjoy; horses, dogs, and cats that I love; a safe place to live. My gifts include wonderful memories of Colby, many things to remember him by, the knowledge he is at peace in a place that is better than the planet on which we live.
While I have lived this year through the worst nightmare any parent can experience, life could be much worse. I could be homeless, indigent, without friends or support. I could be sick, without transportation, or live in fear. My gifts are that I have none of those and plenty of the rest. I also have a sense of peace about Colby’s passing. Today anyway. Tomorrow may be another story. Another day. But today I feel he is happy where he is and that’s all I ever wanted for him, that’s all any parent ever wants for their children. Happiness. I am still very sad, distraught, helpless that Colby could not find what he needed here. I will feel his loss deeply with every inch of my being, every breath I take, every second of every day until it is my time to join him. But that is my sadness, my grief, my loss. Not Colby’s, but mine. This holiday season I know Colby is happy and that is my biggest gift of all.
I am not up for the physical exchange of gifts this year. It doesn’t seem right to do this without Colby. Next year. Maybe. But that I do not exchange gifts does not mean that I don’t have any. I have plenty.
My gifts this year are great friends, strangers who have gone out of their way to help me, clients who keep me busy, my health. My gifts are work that I enjoy; horses, dogs, and cats that I love; a safe place to live. My gifts include wonderful memories of Colby, many things to remember him by, the knowledge he is at peace in a place that is better than the planet on which we live.
While I have lived this year through the worst nightmare any parent can experience, life could be much worse. I could be homeless, indigent, without friends or support. I could be sick, without transportation, or live in fear. My gifts are that I have none of those and plenty of the rest. I also have a sense of peace about Colby’s passing. Today anyway. Tomorrow may be another story. Another day. But today I feel he is happy where he is and that’s all I ever wanted for him, that’s all any parent ever wants for their children. Happiness. I am still very sad, distraught, helpless that Colby could not find what he needed here. I will feel his loss deeply with every inch of my being, every breath I take, every second of every day until it is my time to join him. But that is my sadness, my grief, my loss. Not Colby’s, but mine. This holiday season I know Colby is happy and that is my biggest gift of all.
Wednesday, December 23, 2009
Three
Until Colby passed we were a family of three. Colby, my mom, and me. Colby and I in Nashville. Mom outside of Minneapolis. Mom is elderly. It is hard for her to get around. Other than going to the neighborhood store, post office and library, Mom doesn’t go many places. Instead, she saves all her big errands for the several times a year Colby and I come to visit. Then ensues a whirlwind 10 days of going here and there, doctor’s appointments, hardware store, big box stores, garden store, and on and on. Of course, this was before.
The usual plan was that I drove and dropped Colby and Mom at the entrance of wherever it was we were going. He helped her out of the car and into the store. Mom is wobbly and walks very slowly, even with assistance, so his guidance was much needed. I’d park the car, then join them inside. But now, without Colby, all of this is much more difficult. Now, there are two options. One is to pull up to an entrance, help Mom out of the car and then guide her to a seat outside, or just inside the building, and hope I do not block traffic in the process. Even if the seating is 20 feet from the car, it is a five minute process to get her out of the car and escort her to the seat. Or, we can park in handicapped parking if the parking is no more than 20 or 30 feet from the door. As you can imagine, There are a number of stores, restaurants, offices that I just can’t get Mom into.
Mom walks with a cane and gets around a little better inside a store by leaning on a shopping cart as she pushes it. Forget about a walker, wheelchair or even the motorized carts you sit in and drive around the store. She won’t hear of any of them. She would discuss those things with Colby, but he had not yet gotten her to commit to trying any of those options. She also wore her hearing aids for him, but, not for me. This means she cannot hear the instructions I give her to please stay put until I park the car and get back to her. Often by the time I get to wherever I left her she has toddled off somewhere, usually not the store she had planned on going to. So I frantically dash in and out of store after store as I try to find her. By the time I do she is exhausted and can’t figure out why it took me so long to park the car.
Mom is my only family member. I want, need, her around a long time but at close to 87, reality says otherwise. I would love it if my time with her were not so frustrating, exhausting, draining, exasperating. And, when family once was three, it is now quite hard being two, especially because I know that before long the two will be just one.
The usual plan was that I drove and dropped Colby and Mom at the entrance of wherever it was we were going. He helped her out of the car and into the store. Mom is wobbly and walks very slowly, even with assistance, so his guidance was much needed. I’d park the car, then join them inside. But now, without Colby, all of this is much more difficult. Now, there are two options. One is to pull up to an entrance, help Mom out of the car and then guide her to a seat outside, or just inside the building, and hope I do not block traffic in the process. Even if the seating is 20 feet from the car, it is a five minute process to get her out of the car and escort her to the seat. Or, we can park in handicapped parking if the parking is no more than 20 or 30 feet from the door. As you can imagine, There are a number of stores, restaurants, offices that I just can’t get Mom into.
Mom walks with a cane and gets around a little better inside a store by leaning on a shopping cart as she pushes it. Forget about a walker, wheelchair or even the motorized carts you sit in and drive around the store. She won’t hear of any of them. She would discuss those things with Colby, but he had not yet gotten her to commit to trying any of those options. She also wore her hearing aids for him, but, not for me. This means she cannot hear the instructions I give her to please stay put until I park the car and get back to her. Often by the time I get to wherever I left her she has toddled off somewhere, usually not the store she had planned on going to. So I frantically dash in and out of store after store as I try to find her. By the time I do she is exhausted and can’t figure out why it took me so long to park the car.
Mom is my only family member. I want, need, her around a long time but at close to 87, reality says otherwise. I would love it if my time with her were not so frustrating, exhausting, draining, exasperating. And, when family once was three, it is now quite hard being two, especially because I know that before long the two will be just one.
Tuesday, December 22, 2009
Premonition?
Last year at this time, as Colby and I drove to Minnesota to visit my mom, he turned to me in the truck and said, “I want this to be a really good Christmas; I think it is the last one we will all spend together.”
I, of course, thought Colby meant my mom might not be around this year. She was 85 last year. At that age, every day, every hour, is a gift. And that is, probably, what Colby meant. Colby had plans, things he wanted to see, do, experience. I know it was not his intent to leave us.
When Colby said those words it never crossed my mind that it was going to be Colby who was not with us this year. If it had, I wonder what I would have done differently? Anything? Everything? I know I would have hugged him more, told him I loved him more. I would have asked him that, when his time came, to find relatives and loved ones who had already passed and tell them how much I love and miss them.
While Colby always felt he would not live to be old, I do not think, a year ago, that he felt he only had a few days left. If he had, I also wonder what he would have done differently. How would he have spent his remaining days? Would he have traveled? Played more music? Eaten more junk food? Spent more time with friends? What would any of us do if we knew this holiday would be our last?
Were Colby’s words a premonition, or just the reality of having an 85-year-old grandmother who is not in great physical shape? We will never know and even if we did, knowing this particular fact would not make any difference. What will make a difference is to let those around us know we care. When we greet friends, we need to let them know how truly glad we really are to see them. We need to listen closer, help and support more, smile when we can, give as circumstances allow. I hope everyone reading this has many, many wonderful holidays ahead, but even more, I hope everyone makes the most of each and every day, whether the days number 100 or 10,000.
I, of course, thought Colby meant my mom might not be around this year. She was 85 last year. At that age, every day, every hour, is a gift. And that is, probably, what Colby meant. Colby had plans, things he wanted to see, do, experience. I know it was not his intent to leave us.
When Colby said those words it never crossed my mind that it was going to be Colby who was not with us this year. If it had, I wonder what I would have done differently? Anything? Everything? I know I would have hugged him more, told him I loved him more. I would have asked him that, when his time came, to find relatives and loved ones who had already passed and tell them how much I love and miss them.
While Colby always felt he would not live to be old, I do not think, a year ago, that he felt he only had a few days left. If he had, I also wonder what he would have done differently. How would he have spent his remaining days? Would he have traveled? Played more music? Eaten more junk food? Spent more time with friends? What would any of us do if we knew this holiday would be our last?
Were Colby’s words a premonition, or just the reality of having an 85-year-old grandmother who is not in great physical shape? We will never know and even if we did, knowing this particular fact would not make any difference. What will make a difference is to let those around us know we care. When we greet friends, we need to let them know how truly glad we really are to see them. We need to listen closer, help and support more, smile when we can, give as circumstances allow. I hope everyone reading this has many, many wonderful holidays ahead, but even more, I hope everyone makes the most of each and every day, whether the days number 100 or 10,000.
Monday, December 21, 2009
Wishes
Several people have sent me the following, and it is so true that I felt I should share.
"A Bereaved Parent's Holiday Wish List"
Author - Unknown
1. I wish with everything I have that my child hadn’t died. I wish I had him/her back.
2. I wish you wouldn’t be afraid to speak my child’s name. My child lived and was very important to me. I need to hear that he/she was important to you also and I treasure your stories.
3. If I cry and get emotional when you talk about my child I wish you knew that it isn’t because you have hurt me. My child’s death is the cause of my tears. You have talked about my child, and you have allowed me to share my grief. I thank you for both.
4. I wish you wouldn’t “kill” my child again by removing his pictures, artwork, or other remembrances from your home.
5. Being a bereaved parent is not contagious, so I wish you wouldn’t shy away from me. I need you now more than ever.
6. I need diversions, so I want to hear about you. I might be sad and I might cry, but I wish you would ask about my child; I love to remember him.
7. I know that you think of and pray for me often. I wish you would let me know those things through a phone call, a card or note, or a real big hug.
8. I wish you wouldn’t expect my grief to be over in six months. These first months are traumatic for me, but I wish you could understand that my grief will never be over. I will suffer the death of my child until the day I die.
9. I am working very hard in my recovery, but I wish you could understand that I will never fully recover. I will always miss my child, and I will always grieve that he is dead.
10. I wish you wouldn’t expect me “not to think about it” or to “be happy.” Neither will happen for a very long time.
11. I don’t want to have a pity party, but I do wish you would let me grieve. I must hurt before I can heal.
12. I wish you understood how my life has shattered. I know it is miserable for you to be around me when I’m feeling miserable. Please be as patient with me as I am with you.
13. When I say “I’m doing okay,” I wish you could understand that I am not okay and that I struggle daily.
14. I wish you knew that all of the grief reactions I’m having are very normal. Depression, anger, hopelessness and overwhelming sadness are all to be expected. So please excuse me when I’m quiet and withdrawn or irritable and cranky.
15. Your advice to “take one day at a time” is excellent advice. However, a day is too much and too fast for me right now. I wish you could understand that I’m doing well to handle an hour at a time, or a minute.
16. Please excuse me if I seem rude; that is certainly not my intent. Sometimes the world around me goes too fast and I need to get off. When I walk away, I wish you would let me find a quiet place to spend time alone.
17. I wish you understood that grief changes people. When my child died, a big part of me died with him. I am not the same person I was before he died, and I will never be that person again.
18. I wish very much that you could understand understand my loss and my grief, my silence and my tears, my void and my pain. But, I pray daily that you will never understand, that you will never experience this loss.
"A Bereaved Parent's Holiday Wish List"
Author - Unknown
1. I wish with everything I have that my child hadn’t died. I wish I had him/her back.
2. I wish you wouldn’t be afraid to speak my child’s name. My child lived and was very important to me. I need to hear that he/she was important to you also and I treasure your stories.
3. If I cry and get emotional when you talk about my child I wish you knew that it isn’t because you have hurt me. My child’s death is the cause of my tears. You have talked about my child, and you have allowed me to share my grief. I thank you for both.
4. I wish you wouldn’t “kill” my child again by removing his pictures, artwork, or other remembrances from your home.
5. Being a bereaved parent is not contagious, so I wish you wouldn’t shy away from me. I need you now more than ever.
6. I need diversions, so I want to hear about you. I might be sad and I might cry, but I wish you would ask about my child; I love to remember him.
7. I know that you think of and pray for me often. I wish you would let me know those things through a phone call, a card or note, or a real big hug.
8. I wish you wouldn’t expect my grief to be over in six months. These first months are traumatic for me, but I wish you could understand that my grief will never be over. I will suffer the death of my child until the day I die.
9. I am working very hard in my recovery, but I wish you could understand that I will never fully recover. I will always miss my child, and I will always grieve that he is dead.
10. I wish you wouldn’t expect me “not to think about it” or to “be happy.” Neither will happen for a very long time.
11. I don’t want to have a pity party, but I do wish you would let me grieve. I must hurt before I can heal.
12. I wish you understood how my life has shattered. I know it is miserable for you to be around me when I’m feeling miserable. Please be as patient with me as I am with you.
13. When I say “I’m doing okay,” I wish you could understand that I am not okay and that I struggle daily.
14. I wish you knew that all of the grief reactions I’m having are very normal. Depression, anger, hopelessness and overwhelming sadness are all to be expected. So please excuse me when I’m quiet and withdrawn or irritable and cranky.
15. Your advice to “take one day at a time” is excellent advice. However, a day is too much and too fast for me right now. I wish you could understand that I’m doing well to handle an hour at a time, or a minute.
16. Please excuse me if I seem rude; that is certainly not my intent. Sometimes the world around me goes too fast and I need to get off. When I walk away, I wish you would let me find a quiet place to spend time alone.
17. I wish you understood that grief changes people. When my child died, a big part of me died with him. I am not the same person I was before he died, and I will never be that person again.
18. I wish very much that you could understand understand my loss and my grief, my silence and my tears, my void and my pain. But, I pray daily that you will never understand, that you will never experience this loss.
Sunday, December 20, 2009
Families
Thanks to so many of you you who contacted me after my fall. I am recovering nicely. Still still and sore, but improving daily. Thank you, too, to all who have written me of your personal stories of loss through schizophrenia. It helps to know that I am not alone in my grief and loss. This illness is so often misdiagnosed, so often mistreated. The result is that families are ripped apart and the survivors will never, ever, again be whole.
I think of this Christmas season and all the things our family, Colby and I, will never again do. Our traditions of wrapping presents, sliding down the hill at Red Oak golf course, going to Savers and the Mall of America, playing Michigan Rummy, finding the one new ornament on the tree, and all the traditions of Christmas Eve and morning, all of that for us, for me, is lost forever. Schizophrenia took it all.
The guilt I feel will never go away. It was my genes that manifested in Colby’s illness and resulting addiction. It was my family who has had members of each generation as far back as we can trace who had this mental illness. It was me who made Colby a walking time bomb. If I’d had other children, would they, too, have been afflicted? There is no way to tell.
I heard this week about a grandma, mom and two sons who all have/had schizophrenia. The mom and grandma died because of it, the sons are, so far, receiving treatment that is keeping them functioning. The trouble with schizophrenia is on several levels. One, there is no definitive test. Diagnosis is a process of guesstimation, trial, and error. And two, while just about every parent of a son or daughter with schizophrenia I have spoken to can say, “Yes, I now realize my child was showing signs of this at age 8, or 10, or 14,” schizophrenia is not thought of until a person is in their early twenties (for men) or mid twenties (for women).
How many lives could be saved if we could recognize it earlier, and if health care were available to all? Here in the United States it is not. Insurance companies exclude due to pre-existing conditions and that made Colby ineligible 1) after he reached his mental health maximum as a teenager and 2) after his insurance company closed. Had those things not happened, I believe my son, my only child, would still be alive today. I would have a family. I would have a reason to celebrate the holidays. But that is not the way things turned out. For me. For other families, please know there is help out there. Check out schizophrenia.org for more information, and know that you can make a difference in the life of someone you love.
I think of this Christmas season and all the things our family, Colby and I, will never again do. Our traditions of wrapping presents, sliding down the hill at Red Oak golf course, going to Savers and the Mall of America, playing Michigan Rummy, finding the one new ornament on the tree, and all the traditions of Christmas Eve and morning, all of that for us, for me, is lost forever. Schizophrenia took it all.
The guilt I feel will never go away. It was my genes that manifested in Colby’s illness and resulting addiction. It was my family who has had members of each generation as far back as we can trace who had this mental illness. It was me who made Colby a walking time bomb. If I’d had other children, would they, too, have been afflicted? There is no way to tell.
I heard this week about a grandma, mom and two sons who all have/had schizophrenia. The mom and grandma died because of it, the sons are, so far, receiving treatment that is keeping them functioning. The trouble with schizophrenia is on several levels. One, there is no definitive test. Diagnosis is a process of guesstimation, trial, and error. And two, while just about every parent of a son or daughter with schizophrenia I have spoken to can say, “Yes, I now realize my child was showing signs of this at age 8, or 10, or 14,” schizophrenia is not thought of until a person is in their early twenties (for men) or mid twenties (for women).
How many lives could be saved if we could recognize it earlier, and if health care were available to all? Here in the United States it is not. Insurance companies exclude due to pre-existing conditions and that made Colby ineligible 1) after he reached his mental health maximum as a teenager and 2) after his insurance company closed. Had those things not happened, I believe my son, my only child, would still be alive today. I would have a family. I would have a reason to celebrate the holidays. But that is not the way things turned out. For me. For other families, please know there is help out there. Check out schizophrenia.org for more information, and know that you can make a difference in the life of someone you love.
Wednesday, December 16, 2009
Fall
I have a bad fall. A real bad one. On my way to the bathroom in the middle of the night I step on the clear plastic lid of my green sewing kit. It had been on top of the white hamper in the hall earlier in the evening. But after I go to bed the cat and dog, playing, knock it off. I am asleep when this happens.
I step on the lid with my bad leg, the one that has had seven surgeries on the knee, and together we slide down the hall. I lose my balance, my right foot slams into the jamb of the bathroom door, my head knocks against the hall wall, and both knees buckle as I crash into a large space heater. The heater tips over and my legs fall under my body. I land flat on my back.
My head hurts, my right foot feels like it is wrenched around sideways, both knees are excruciating. I can’t breathe. Unfortunately, this is not a dream. This is as real as it gets. I lie there, stunned, my body fighting off the shock of the fall. It must be around 2 a.m. Contrary to the manufacturer’s instructions, the heater did not shut off when it fell over. It is too far away for me to reach, but I feel around and find the cord. After several attempts I am able to yank the plug out of the wall. Now, on top of everything else, I am cold.
It is more than an hour before I can get up. I do not believe anything is broken but I have pulled muscles in my foot and my groin, there are huge bruises on my back and on both knees, and my right knee, the bad knee, sports an egg sized swelling around the black and purple joint. The knee does not move properly and does not hold my weight. I limp to the couch in the living room and lie there for another hour. Then rage bubbles up and I feel angrier than I have ever felt in my life. I am beyond furious, but there is nothing and no one to direct my rage toward. I scream and yell and cry, but there is no one to hear, no one to be angry at . . . other than life itself.
After a time I slowly make my way to the kitchen to find Advil, ice, and ace bandages. I’ve had injuries before. I understand the RICE concept: rest, ice, compression, elevation. I put pillows under my knees, wrap them in the bandages and top them off with ice. I am worried about the right knee in particular. That leg is uninsurable; after seven surgeries no insurance company will touch it. This could be an expensive fall.
My anger returns and I direct it at our health care system, politicians, insurance companies, the medical profession in general. After all, these are the people and elements that killed my son. By not allowing him the option of health insurance, by not accepting him as a patient without it, by not treating his mental illness and resulting addiction, by turning him away time after time after time, this is what caused my child to die. It has taken me almost five months to get here, but finally, I am angry. Truly angry.
The anger feels real, solid, palpable. I want to hoist it up and fling it at all the apathetic people who refused Colby’s pleas, my pleas, for help, I want to use it to flatten those who told me to give up on Colby, who ignored this bright, talented, sensitive, funny child; who didn’t care that he died, even though it was their job to help him. This anger, I think, will be with me for a while. It is too big, too deep, to go away quickly. I have reached a new stage in this process of grief, and only time will tell if it will cycle back around on this vicious merry-go-round, or whether it will drive me forward, toward peace.
I step on the lid with my bad leg, the one that has had seven surgeries on the knee, and together we slide down the hall. I lose my balance, my right foot slams into the jamb of the bathroom door, my head knocks against the hall wall, and both knees buckle as I crash into a large space heater. The heater tips over and my legs fall under my body. I land flat on my back.
My head hurts, my right foot feels like it is wrenched around sideways, both knees are excruciating. I can’t breathe. Unfortunately, this is not a dream. This is as real as it gets. I lie there, stunned, my body fighting off the shock of the fall. It must be around 2 a.m. Contrary to the manufacturer’s instructions, the heater did not shut off when it fell over. It is too far away for me to reach, but I feel around and find the cord. After several attempts I am able to yank the plug out of the wall. Now, on top of everything else, I am cold.
It is more than an hour before I can get up. I do not believe anything is broken but I have pulled muscles in my foot and my groin, there are huge bruises on my back and on both knees, and my right knee, the bad knee, sports an egg sized swelling around the black and purple joint. The knee does not move properly and does not hold my weight. I limp to the couch in the living room and lie there for another hour. Then rage bubbles up and I feel angrier than I have ever felt in my life. I am beyond furious, but there is nothing and no one to direct my rage toward. I scream and yell and cry, but there is no one to hear, no one to be angry at . . . other than life itself.
After a time I slowly make my way to the kitchen to find Advil, ice, and ace bandages. I’ve had injuries before. I understand the RICE concept: rest, ice, compression, elevation. I put pillows under my knees, wrap them in the bandages and top them off with ice. I am worried about the right knee in particular. That leg is uninsurable; after seven surgeries no insurance company will touch it. This could be an expensive fall.
My anger returns and I direct it at our health care system, politicians, insurance companies, the medical profession in general. After all, these are the people and elements that killed my son. By not allowing him the option of health insurance, by not accepting him as a patient without it, by not treating his mental illness and resulting addiction, by turning him away time after time after time, this is what caused my child to die. It has taken me almost five months to get here, but finally, I am angry. Truly angry.
The anger feels real, solid, palpable. I want to hoist it up and fling it at all the apathetic people who refused Colby’s pleas, my pleas, for help, I want to use it to flatten those who told me to give up on Colby, who ignored this bright, talented, sensitive, funny child; who didn’t care that he died, even though it was their job to help him. This anger, I think, will be with me for a while. It is too big, too deep, to go away quickly. I have reached a new stage in this process of grief, and only time will tell if it will cycle back around on this vicious merry-go-round, or whether it will drive me forward, toward peace.
Tuesday, December 15, 2009
Interpretations
I have a great counseling session today. This, along with talking to my psychiatric friends helps me piece together some possible meanings of my dreams. If nothing else, the following has given me a lot to think about, especially as I do not disagree with any of it. Scroll back to earlier posts if you need a refresher on the dreams. Most are within the last few weeks.
1. In each dream Colby is in some way helping me. That thought brings me a lot of comfort.
2. The small pieces of red color in each dream can indicate that I have unresolved anger. I do not feel angry, but it might be because I won’t admit to myself that I am, indeed, quite angry. The dreams could be my brain's way of trying to deal with that.
3. I have people helping me in each dream. So, even though I am virtually alone as far as family is concerned, the dreams shows that I have many people who have, and will, assist me when I need it.
4. In each dream Colby has either been happy or peaceful. That, too, is comforting.
5. In the most recent dream, the one with my “twin,” the twin could represent another side of myself.
6. That my twin is trying to kill me could represent my internal struggle as I come to terms with Colby’s passing.
7. When I wrap leather around my wrists and ankles in that same dream, it might mean that horses are essential to my survival. There is a lot of leather associated with horses and the accompanying equipment.
8. The gray color that is in all the dreams can mean a denial of emotion, or it can indicate depression.
9. The brown could mean that I have unanswered questions, or that I am in denial, or it could mean I am yearning for things to get back to basics.
10. Yellow is a sign of intellect and focus, and the yellow headbands in the “twin” dream could mean I am trying to figure things out.
11. That I see Colby in each dream wearing light blue or white might indicate hope, healing and spiritual awareness.
12. The green grass I see in each of my dreams and the green sweaters in the twin dream might show my need for healing, balance and harmony.
13. That I chose to protect myself in the twin dream might indicate my survival instinct is kicking into gear.
14. When I “buried” Colby half way in the most recent dream, it could mean I am in the middle of holding on to him and letting go.
15. The animals in my dreams show my strong connection to them, and they to me.
16. That my twin showed supernatural powers when she turned into Spiderwoman, along with my ability to leap over fences in the dream, possibly is a sign of mental strength.
1. In each dream Colby is in some way helping me. That thought brings me a lot of comfort.
2. The small pieces of red color in each dream can indicate that I have unresolved anger. I do not feel angry, but it might be because I won’t admit to myself that I am, indeed, quite angry. The dreams could be my brain's way of trying to deal with that.
3. I have people helping me in each dream. So, even though I am virtually alone as far as family is concerned, the dreams shows that I have many people who have, and will, assist me when I need it.
4. In each dream Colby has either been happy or peaceful. That, too, is comforting.
5. In the most recent dream, the one with my “twin,” the twin could represent another side of myself.
6. That my twin is trying to kill me could represent my internal struggle as I come to terms with Colby’s passing.
7. When I wrap leather around my wrists and ankles in that same dream, it might mean that horses are essential to my survival. There is a lot of leather associated with horses and the accompanying equipment.
8. The gray color that is in all the dreams can mean a denial of emotion, or it can indicate depression.
9. The brown could mean that I have unanswered questions, or that I am in denial, or it could mean I am yearning for things to get back to basics.
10. Yellow is a sign of intellect and focus, and the yellow headbands in the “twin” dream could mean I am trying to figure things out.
11. That I see Colby in each dream wearing light blue or white might indicate hope, healing and spiritual awareness.
12. The green grass I see in each of my dreams and the green sweaters in the twin dream might show my need for healing, balance and harmony.
13. That I chose to protect myself in the twin dream might indicate my survival instinct is kicking into gear.
14. When I “buried” Colby half way in the most recent dream, it could mean I am in the middle of holding on to him and letting go.
15. The animals in my dreams show my strong connection to them, and they to me.
16. That my twin showed supernatural powers when she turned into Spiderwoman, along with my ability to leap over fences in the dream, possibly is a sign of mental strength.
Monday, December 14, 2009
Planting
My house has burned down. In my dream I am fine with that. It had been a nice two-story log house, an older home with square, dark brown logs and white chinking. The ceiling of the living room, which was to the right of the front door, had been low and white with heavy beams made of the same logs. The house was located somewhere in New England. I sift through the ashes and lovingly place charred mementos in a small metal tray about the size of a sheet of paper. The tray is tarnished gold and the lip on all four sides is about an inch high. There is no top. I carry the tray in both hands in front of me, reverently.
With me inside the ruined interior of my former home is a horse I trained about 30 years ago. She is a bay Appaloosa mare and she is to my right, but stays very close to me throughout my dream. Often, I can feel her breath on the right side of my neck. I know that she is my trusted companion and is there to help me.
I finish looking through things and the horse and I emerge from the house to see Colby crawling around the front yard. He is about six months old and wears a white diaper and t-shirt. I shift the tray of mementos to my right hand and pick Colby up with my left arm. I hold him close and notice he has a toy in each hand. Both are red. One might be a plastic duck. He is gurgling and very, very happy.
We walk toward a garden on the other side of the street, but on the way several people intercept me. They already know my intent and urgently try to dissuade me. One of the people is a salesman in a light gray suit and large, brown-framed glasses. He has come out of a hotel that is up the street to the left, and up a small hill from my house. The hotel is two stories and is the kind of bed and breakfast you might find in a small town. It is painted light gray and has white shutters. There are flowers in the window boxes. The salesman is tall and thin with thick gray hair; he wears a white shirt and gray tie, and his suit jacket is unbuttoned. He is known to be untrustworthy. Some say he sells “snake oil.” The man hails me by raising his right hand and calling my name. He hurries to catch up with me. I know this salesman well, and he is especially firm that I change my mind. To his extreme disappointment I stay my course and go into the garden.
The people who have tried to get me to change my mind do not enter the garden with me. Instead, they stand on the sidewalk by the garden gate. There are maybe half a dozen people, including the salesman. Once inside the gate I walk to a specific spot. I know this is the right spot and I sit there, on the ground, placing Colby and the tray to my left. I dig up a small patch of grass to the left of some iris. I dig while sitting with a trowel and my hands. The ground turns over easily. Enclosing the iris in their special patch of the garden is a low, black garden border, the kind that sinks 4-6 inches into the ground and keeps the grass out of the flowers.
When the ground is prepared I place Colby on top of the metal tray of mementos and plant them both in the newly dug ground. Colby is still very happy. He is sitting on the tray with his legs in front of him as he is planted, and is waving his arms and holding the red toys. I plant him waist deep. Within seconds of the planting, Colby morphs into a small tree. The tree is about a foot high and has many tiny branches. Within minutes, however, the tree is fully grown and leafed out. It shades the entire garden and sunlight now filters through the leaves as they wave in a light breeze. While I don’t feel happy, I am pleased and satisfied.
I am not a dreamer. Not usually anyway. When I do dream, all I normally remember are vague colors and feelings. Since Colby passed that has changed. Granted, his loss is a lot to process, but the clarity and detail in which I remember these dreams is startling. There have been a number of such dreams and their frequency is increasing. I hope that, over time, if I put them together they will make more sense to me as a group than they do individually.
With me inside the ruined interior of my former home is a horse I trained about 30 years ago. She is a bay Appaloosa mare and she is to my right, but stays very close to me throughout my dream. Often, I can feel her breath on the right side of my neck. I know that she is my trusted companion and is there to help me.
I finish looking through things and the horse and I emerge from the house to see Colby crawling around the front yard. He is about six months old and wears a white diaper and t-shirt. I shift the tray of mementos to my right hand and pick Colby up with my left arm. I hold him close and notice he has a toy in each hand. Both are red. One might be a plastic duck. He is gurgling and very, very happy.
We walk toward a garden on the other side of the street, but on the way several people intercept me. They already know my intent and urgently try to dissuade me. One of the people is a salesman in a light gray suit and large, brown-framed glasses. He has come out of a hotel that is up the street to the left, and up a small hill from my house. The hotel is two stories and is the kind of bed and breakfast you might find in a small town. It is painted light gray and has white shutters. There are flowers in the window boxes. The salesman is tall and thin with thick gray hair; he wears a white shirt and gray tie, and his suit jacket is unbuttoned. He is known to be untrustworthy. Some say he sells “snake oil.” The man hails me by raising his right hand and calling my name. He hurries to catch up with me. I know this salesman well, and he is especially firm that I change my mind. To his extreme disappointment I stay my course and go into the garden.
The people who have tried to get me to change my mind do not enter the garden with me. Instead, they stand on the sidewalk by the garden gate. There are maybe half a dozen people, including the salesman. Once inside the gate I walk to a specific spot. I know this is the right spot and I sit there, on the ground, placing Colby and the tray to my left. I dig up a small patch of grass to the left of some iris. I dig while sitting with a trowel and my hands. The ground turns over easily. Enclosing the iris in their special patch of the garden is a low, black garden border, the kind that sinks 4-6 inches into the ground and keeps the grass out of the flowers.
When the ground is prepared I place Colby on top of the metal tray of mementos and plant them both in the newly dug ground. Colby is still very happy. He is sitting on the tray with his legs in front of him as he is planted, and is waving his arms and holding the red toys. I plant him waist deep. Within seconds of the planting, Colby morphs into a small tree. The tree is about a foot high and has many tiny branches. Within minutes, however, the tree is fully grown and leafed out. It shades the entire garden and sunlight now filters through the leaves as they wave in a light breeze. While I don’t feel happy, I am pleased and satisfied.
I am not a dreamer. Not usually anyway. When I do dream, all I normally remember are vague colors and feelings. Since Colby passed that has changed. Granted, his loss is a lot to process, but the clarity and detail in which I remember these dreams is startling. There have been a number of such dreams and their frequency is increasing. I hope that, over time, if I put them together they will make more sense to me as a group than they do individually.
Sunday, December 13, 2009
Snoqualmie
Eighteen years ago today Colby rode with his cub scout pack in the White Bluff Christmas parade. The boys rode on a float, dressed in their pajamas and Santa-style caps. We both had a wonderful time, but when we came home early that afternoon it was to find our beloved horse, Snoqualmie, in distress.
Snoqualmie was 30 that year, about to turn 31, and a few days before she'd had a minor stroke. The veterinarian said she'd either pull out of it or she wouldn't. It was obvious when we got home from the parade that she would not. Snoqualmie had been my best friend since I was 12. For 23 years she had been my sister. More recently she had been Colby's trusted friend, serving alternately as pirate ship, diving board, ladder, Indian chaser, Cowboy mount, alien, and rocket ship. Whatever his active imagination came up with, she was ready to play the part.
This afternoon she was down, breathing hard, stretched out in a grove of trees and I knew she'd never rise again. Colby stayed with her while I ran to the house to call the vet, then he ran back to the house to retrieve the blanket I had forgotten. Colby went to the barn and brought some grain to Snoqualmie. She loved to eat and was an "easy keeper" so she never was allowed a lot of grain. It wouldn't make any difference now, I thought, as Colby fed her little handfuls until the vet arrived.
I quickly explained to Colby that Snoqualmie was old and that it was time for the angels to take her to heaven and I sent him to the house to gather the dogs and cat and pray. In a few minutes it was over. I covered her with the blanket and went to the house to call a local guy who had a backhoe.
Every year on this date, the anniversary of her passing, Colby and I took a drive out to the farm where we used to live so we could visit her gravesite. This year I couldn't do it. Mourning both Colby and Snoqualmie was too much. I feel bad that I was not able to honor her with a visit this year, but I hope she understands. I hope she is now with Colby, that they are once again friends who are having one adventure after the other. Colby would like that, and so would she.
Snoqualmie was 30 that year, about to turn 31, and a few days before she'd had a minor stroke. The veterinarian said she'd either pull out of it or she wouldn't. It was obvious when we got home from the parade that she would not. Snoqualmie had been my best friend since I was 12. For 23 years she had been my sister. More recently she had been Colby's trusted friend, serving alternately as pirate ship, diving board, ladder, Indian chaser, Cowboy mount, alien, and rocket ship. Whatever his active imagination came up with, she was ready to play the part.
This afternoon she was down, breathing hard, stretched out in a grove of trees and I knew she'd never rise again. Colby stayed with her while I ran to the house to call the vet, then he ran back to the house to retrieve the blanket I had forgotten. Colby went to the barn and brought some grain to Snoqualmie. She loved to eat and was an "easy keeper" so she never was allowed a lot of grain. It wouldn't make any difference now, I thought, as Colby fed her little handfuls until the vet arrived.
I quickly explained to Colby that Snoqualmie was old and that it was time for the angels to take her to heaven and I sent him to the house to gather the dogs and cat and pray. In a few minutes it was over. I covered her with the blanket and went to the house to call a local guy who had a backhoe.
Every year on this date, the anniversary of her passing, Colby and I took a drive out to the farm where we used to live so we could visit her gravesite. This year I couldn't do it. Mourning both Colby and Snoqualmie was too much. I feel bad that I was not able to honor her with a visit this year, but I hope she understands. I hope she is now with Colby, that they are once again friends who are having one adventure after the other. Colby would like that, and so would she.
Saturday, December 12, 2009
Escape
My twin sister is trying to kill me. It doesn’t matter that I have no sister, much less one that is a twin. In my dream we wear identical grass green knit sweaters with wedgewood blue knit, above-the-knee skirts and blue tights. The sweaters are belted with a red belt and we have matching yellow headbands. Our hair is black and shoulder length, which matches our black suede knee-high boots. If you can’t already tell, we look somewhat cartoonish.
On this day I am speaking at a large conference. In the middle of my speech my twin turns into Spiderwoman and leaps onto a wall on the left side of the auditorium. Crouched with a silver knife in her teeth she is ready to leap onto the stage. I run backstage, knowing that to save my life I have to change my appearance. I sit offstage as I take off the boots, tights and headband, and put on dark brown hiking boots. I add a dark brown leather vest and headband, and wrap matching leather shoe laces around my wrists and above my ankle-high boots. There is a strong sense of urgency in this; I must escape.
I am not sure why I remember the clothing in such detail, but I do. Just as I finish changing, the backstage manager touches my shoulder and nods toward the exit. I know I must leave now; my life depends on it. I run out the door and decide to head to my house. I will feel safe there. I run and run and am becoming exhausted when I finally see my house in the distance. To be sure it is safe, I approach by leaping over the fences in my neighbors’ back yards. When I am finally in my backyard I bend over and gasp for air.
When I can stand I notice a small, two-seat propeller airplane parked in my backyard. Even though I have never noticed it before, I realize the plane has been there for years. I instinctively know it is not capable of flying and even it it was, it is trapped by all the neighbors’ fences. Inside the plane Willie Nelson and Johnny Cash are writing a song. I approach to ask if I can hide in the plane, but Johnny Cash nods his head in the direction I have come from and I see my twin running my way, the knife clutched in her right hand.
I leap over other neighbors’ fences and zig zag through the neighborhood and into another neighborhood that I am not familiar with. In this neighborhood the homes are old and run-down. When I am once again exhausted I stop in someone's backyard. The home was once painted a light blueish-gray but the paint is now faded and peeling. The back porch is covered and has a cement floor. It is now dusk and there is a single light bulb lighting the area. The porch is tucked between two walls of the house, so only the side facing the backyard is open. In the middle of the porch is a large, white metal support pole. As I gasp for breath I notice Yo-Yo Ma, the acclaimed cello player, sitting on the left side of the porch. His cello is between his knees, and he is playing the most beautiful song I have ever heard. The song brings tears to my eyes and I am overcome with emotion. I don’t think he notices me. But then he nods at me and I look back to see my twin in hot pursuit. By now it is dark and I again begin to run.
At some point I realize I am not running away from my twin; I am running toward Colby. As soon as I realize that I wake up. Even though the dream could have been a nightmare, I am not frightened. Instead I am puzzled, and ponder it all day.
On this day I am speaking at a large conference. In the middle of my speech my twin turns into Spiderwoman and leaps onto a wall on the left side of the auditorium. Crouched with a silver knife in her teeth she is ready to leap onto the stage. I run backstage, knowing that to save my life I have to change my appearance. I sit offstage as I take off the boots, tights and headband, and put on dark brown hiking boots. I add a dark brown leather vest and headband, and wrap matching leather shoe laces around my wrists and above my ankle-high boots. There is a strong sense of urgency in this; I must escape.
I am not sure why I remember the clothing in such detail, but I do. Just as I finish changing, the backstage manager touches my shoulder and nods toward the exit. I know I must leave now; my life depends on it. I run out the door and decide to head to my house. I will feel safe there. I run and run and am becoming exhausted when I finally see my house in the distance. To be sure it is safe, I approach by leaping over the fences in my neighbors’ back yards. When I am finally in my backyard I bend over and gasp for air.
When I can stand I notice a small, two-seat propeller airplane parked in my backyard. Even though I have never noticed it before, I realize the plane has been there for years. I instinctively know it is not capable of flying and even it it was, it is trapped by all the neighbors’ fences. Inside the plane Willie Nelson and Johnny Cash are writing a song. I approach to ask if I can hide in the plane, but Johnny Cash nods his head in the direction I have come from and I see my twin running my way, the knife clutched in her right hand.
I leap over other neighbors’ fences and zig zag through the neighborhood and into another neighborhood that I am not familiar with. In this neighborhood the homes are old and run-down. When I am once again exhausted I stop in someone's backyard. The home was once painted a light blueish-gray but the paint is now faded and peeling. The back porch is covered and has a cement floor. It is now dusk and there is a single light bulb lighting the area. The porch is tucked between two walls of the house, so only the side facing the backyard is open. In the middle of the porch is a large, white metal support pole. As I gasp for breath I notice Yo-Yo Ma, the acclaimed cello player, sitting on the left side of the porch. His cello is between his knees, and he is playing the most beautiful song I have ever heard. The song brings tears to my eyes and I am overcome with emotion. I don’t think he notices me. But then he nods at me and I look back to see my twin in hot pursuit. By now it is dark and I again begin to run.
At some point I realize I am not running away from my twin; I am running toward Colby. As soon as I realize that I wake up. Even though the dream could have been a nightmare, I am not frightened. Instead I am puzzled, and ponder it all day.
Thursday, December 10, 2009
Decorations
When Colby was younger he loved decorating for the holidays. This year I am not up to it but several people suggested a small display in memory of Colby. After giving it some thought I decide to decorate the rose bush I planted at the place where Colby passed. It is still a small rose bush, but it is a Knockout so it blooms here in Tennessee almost all year.
I head to the basement to find suitable decorations but close up the first box I find as soon as I open it. This is the box with all the decorations Colby made. The deer face out of Popsicle sticks, the chain of colored paper circles, the spray painted pine cones. I can't look at them. Maybe next year.
The next box is filled with older decorations. ornaments from my childhood. Fragile. Not at all suitable for hanging outdoors on a rose bush. I finally find a box filled with an assortment of holiday greenery and at the bottom is a pile of small, stiff bows. Colby picked the bows out when he was 13 and he wanted something special for the living room window. It was our first holiday season in our new new house. Next to the bows I find a small, white ceramic dove. I don't remember where it came from, but we've had it a long time. It will contrast nicely with the bows.
I drive to the spot and hang the bows on the rose bush. It is cold and windy and the branches of the bush are still quite small. But, I find some that are strong enough to bear the weight of the bows. I realize they may not hold up in the winter weather, but they look nice today. Understated, tasteful. And the dove adds something special.
If Colby is looking down I hope he realizes how much I wish this bush was not here, that I was not standing in the biting wind looking at a poor substitute for the many hours we shared hanging holiday decorations. But no matter how much I want to I can't change what is, so maybe Colby will see the love and thought and care that the decorated rose represents. Maybe he will see how much he is missed, how much he is still loved.
I think as I walk back to my truck that I would like to turn into the dove and fly up to heaven, to Colby. I will, someday, but that day is not today. Instead, I wipe my eyes, start my truck, and drive away with a last glance in my rear view mirror of Colby's Christmas rose.
I head to the basement to find suitable decorations but close up the first box I find as soon as I open it. This is the box with all the decorations Colby made. The deer face out of Popsicle sticks, the chain of colored paper circles, the spray painted pine cones. I can't look at them. Maybe next year.
The next box is filled with older decorations. ornaments from my childhood. Fragile. Not at all suitable for hanging outdoors on a rose bush. I finally find a box filled with an assortment of holiday greenery and at the bottom is a pile of small, stiff bows. Colby picked the bows out when he was 13 and he wanted something special for the living room window. It was our first holiday season in our new new house. Next to the bows I find a small, white ceramic dove. I don't remember where it came from, but we've had it a long time. It will contrast nicely with the bows.
I drive to the spot and hang the bows on the rose bush. It is cold and windy and the branches of the bush are still quite small. But, I find some that are strong enough to bear the weight of the bows. I realize they may not hold up in the winter weather, but they look nice today. Understated, tasteful. And the dove adds something special.
If Colby is looking down I hope he realizes how much I wish this bush was not here, that I was not standing in the biting wind looking at a poor substitute for the many hours we shared hanging holiday decorations. But no matter how much I want to I can't change what is, so maybe Colby will see the love and thought and care that the decorated rose represents. Maybe he will see how much he is missed, how much he is still loved.
I think as I walk back to my truck that I would like to turn into the dove and fly up to heaven, to Colby. I will, someday, but that day is not today. Instead, I wipe my eyes, start my truck, and drive away with a last glance in my rear view mirror of Colby's Christmas rose.
Wednesday, December 9, 2009
Openers
Today I buy my first can opener. This is not the first can opener I have owned, but the first one I have purchased myself. Just out of college my mom gave me an opener that lasted for many years. It quit working when Colby was very young, and he bought me a can opener that year for Christmas. Since then Colby has bought me probably a dozen can openers. Some electric, some hand-held. All wonderful.
The problem I have with can openers is that I am a left-handed person and most can openers are made for right-handed people. So, when I use the opener backwards, or put pressure or torque in places that weren't meant to have pressure or torque, well, my can openers don't last long. That 's why it was always a safe bet when Christmas or my birthday rolled around that I needed a can opener. Colby kept me well supplied.
I haven't eaten much the past few days and it took me that long to realize that most of the food in my house was in cans, but I couldn't open the cans because the last can opener Colby gave me quit working. So today I go to the store to find something that would open a can. I hope to find some new gizmo that doesn't look or feel like a can opener but does the same job. But, apparently no such thing exists and I am back to a choice between electric or hand-held.
I look at the different makes and models and try to find one that Colby has not given me. You wouldn't think a trip to the store to buy a can opener could be an emotional experience, but it is. I begin to cry. Colby should be doing this. This should be his choice, his decision, his purchase. I blow my nose and dry my tears, then sort through the hand-helds and find one that does not look too familiar. It is stainless steel. All the ones Colby purchased for me had colored handles. It got to be a game between us to see what color the next one would be. I don't think he ever gave me one with the same colored handle.
I pay for the opener up front, carry it home, and place it on the kitchen counter. Then I realize I can't use it. Not yet. I need time to get used to the idea of a can opener that Colby has not touched. I break open a bag of carrots and have a few for dinner. The canned food will keep for another day. Or week. In the meantime I carefully wrap the old electric can opener in a towel and place it in one of the piles of Colby's stuff that I am not yet ready to get rid of. Someday I know I will have to part with it, but for now I like knowing it is still here.
The problem I have with can openers is that I am a left-handed person and most can openers are made for right-handed people. So, when I use the opener backwards, or put pressure or torque in places that weren't meant to have pressure or torque, well, my can openers don't last long. That 's why it was always a safe bet when Christmas or my birthday rolled around that I needed a can opener. Colby kept me well supplied.
I haven't eaten much the past few days and it took me that long to realize that most of the food in my house was in cans, but I couldn't open the cans because the last can opener Colby gave me quit working. So today I go to the store to find something that would open a can. I hope to find some new gizmo that doesn't look or feel like a can opener but does the same job. But, apparently no such thing exists and I am back to a choice between electric or hand-held.
I look at the different makes and models and try to find one that Colby has not given me. You wouldn't think a trip to the store to buy a can opener could be an emotional experience, but it is. I begin to cry. Colby should be doing this. This should be his choice, his decision, his purchase. I blow my nose and dry my tears, then sort through the hand-helds and find one that does not look too familiar. It is stainless steel. All the ones Colby purchased for me had colored handles. It got to be a game between us to see what color the next one would be. I don't think he ever gave me one with the same colored handle.
I pay for the opener up front, carry it home, and place it on the kitchen counter. Then I realize I can't use it. Not yet. I need time to get used to the idea of a can opener that Colby has not touched. I break open a bag of carrots and have a few for dinner. The canned food will keep for another day. Or week. In the meantime I carefully wrap the old electric can opener in a towel and place it in one of the piles of Colby's stuff that I am not yet ready to get rid of. Someday I know I will have to part with it, but for now I like knowing it is still here.
Tuesday, December 8, 2009
Escape
It has been suggested that during this holiday season that I have an "escape" plan. This means:
1. not commiting myself to situations and events I really do not want to go to, and
2. only committing myself to those events where I can quickly and gracefully exit if I need to.
So, no parties, no receptions, no crowds of people moving around. No malls, or crowded movie theaters. My brain, everyone tells me, is still on overload. That's why I can't process lots of speech, sounds, color and movement all at the same time. The escape also goes for everyday hum-drum activities. Don't get into a long line at the grocery store because I may be ready to bolt before I get up to the cashier. Get out of the house at least once a day for something, even if it is a short walk. That's probably good advice for anyone, not just those of us who are grieving parents.
The importance of this plan becomes obvious today as I sit in a very cheerful dental hygenist's chair. Christmas music is playing and it isn't too long before I feel trapped. Sure enough I break out in a cold sweat and my heart begins thumping. Typical symptoms of a panic attack. Not too many places you can go when you are stuck in a dentist's chair so I focus on a dot on the ceiling and try to breathe deeply and slowly. Not too easy when you have ten fingers and a couple of metal prods in your mouth.
It is becoming evident that I need some medical help for these panic attacks, for my anxiety. A counselor I saw recently went through my behavioral changes since Colby passed. The either not sleeping or sleeping too much, the not eating or eating too much, the either not crying or crying too much. These are apparently classic signs of anxiety/panic and long term they can have devastating effects on my health.
My first response is to think that it doesn't matter, that long-term I will have no family. That's even true of the short term. What does it matter that in ten years I will be in bad health? There will be no one to care. Plus, I'd get to see Colby again that much earlier. But I quickly realize those thoughts are not normal, not healthy. A friend of Colby's has opened the door to a doctor who may help. With no medical insurance I now have to try to figure out how to pay for it. So I'll see. In the meantime I will plan my escape routes through the holidays. Come January, life should be a lot less stressful.
1. not commiting myself to situations and events I really do not want to go to, and
2. only committing myself to those events where I can quickly and gracefully exit if I need to.
So, no parties, no receptions, no crowds of people moving around. No malls, or crowded movie theaters. My brain, everyone tells me, is still on overload. That's why I can't process lots of speech, sounds, color and movement all at the same time. The escape also goes for everyday hum-drum activities. Don't get into a long line at the grocery store because I may be ready to bolt before I get up to the cashier. Get out of the house at least once a day for something, even if it is a short walk. That's probably good advice for anyone, not just those of us who are grieving parents.
The importance of this plan becomes obvious today as I sit in a very cheerful dental hygenist's chair. Christmas music is playing and it isn't too long before I feel trapped. Sure enough I break out in a cold sweat and my heart begins thumping. Typical symptoms of a panic attack. Not too many places you can go when you are stuck in a dentist's chair so I focus on a dot on the ceiling and try to breathe deeply and slowly. Not too easy when you have ten fingers and a couple of metal prods in your mouth.
It is becoming evident that I need some medical help for these panic attacks, for my anxiety. A counselor I saw recently went through my behavioral changes since Colby passed. The either not sleeping or sleeping too much, the not eating or eating too much, the either not crying or crying too much. These are apparently classic signs of anxiety/panic and long term they can have devastating effects on my health.
My first response is to think that it doesn't matter, that long-term I will have no family. That's even true of the short term. What does it matter that in ten years I will be in bad health? There will be no one to care. Plus, I'd get to see Colby again that much earlier. But I quickly realize those thoughts are not normal, not healthy. A friend of Colby's has opened the door to a doctor who may help. With no medical insurance I now have to try to figure out how to pay for it. So I'll see. In the meantime I will plan my escape routes through the holidays. Come January, life should be a lot less stressful.
Ponderings
A counselor, a physician, and I go over Colby's medical records and I compare them to what I know of other family members who had schizophrenia. They are strikingly, scarily similar. I had always felt badly that my genes gave Colby his asthma, something that is seen on my side of the family, including me, although I didn't develop any signs of it until I was 40. Colby has asthma troubles from the time he was three. Now I feel worse that my genes also gave him schizophrenia.
The three of us discuss the generational jump that this mental illness often presents. The jumping from aunt to niece, grandfather to granddaughter, although most in my family who had schizophrenia did not have kids. I wonder if I'd had other children if they, too, would have been affected. Both the counselor and the doctor tell me that maybe, but most likely not.
Schizophrenia comes in many forms they tell me. Colby's took the form of paranoia, panic attacks, refusal to bathe, depression, anxiety, and, at times, being obsessive about certain subjects. He could also feel threatened by people he knew well. I tell them that my yard guy who has been cutting my grass every other Wednesday for fifteen years, and who Colby used to work for, told me he came to the door last spring and Colby met him with a sword, drawn, panicky that "they" were out for revenge. He didn't ask who "they" were, and I didn't know about the incident until after Colby passed.
I balance this information in my mind with the fun-loving, smiling, intelligent, kind, caring, talented son I always knew, although I on many occasions saw him turn in an instant from that person to someone who was very angry, fearful, paranoid. How much the drugs played into that I will never know, except I do know the behavior began long before the drugs.
Sometimes I think if only I had gotten him to a doctor who "got" him, who could have treated him effectively. Schizophrenia is often treatable. But then there are no guarantees, and maybe Colby's life played out just as it was supposed to. Neither of these thoughts make me feel any better.
I am not sure what this information means. Certainly it is more to digest, to think about. Certainly it means that wherever Colby is now, he is no longer tormented, scared, or afraid. He is at peace.
The three of us discuss the generational jump that this mental illness often presents. The jumping from aunt to niece, grandfather to granddaughter, although most in my family who had schizophrenia did not have kids. I wonder if I'd had other children if they, too, would have been affected. Both the counselor and the doctor tell me that maybe, but most likely not.
Schizophrenia comes in many forms they tell me. Colby's took the form of paranoia, panic attacks, refusal to bathe, depression, anxiety, and, at times, being obsessive about certain subjects. He could also feel threatened by people he knew well. I tell them that my yard guy who has been cutting my grass every other Wednesday for fifteen years, and who Colby used to work for, told me he came to the door last spring and Colby met him with a sword, drawn, panicky that "they" were out for revenge. He didn't ask who "they" were, and I didn't know about the incident until after Colby passed.
I balance this information in my mind with the fun-loving, smiling, intelligent, kind, caring, talented son I always knew, although I on many occasions saw him turn in an instant from that person to someone who was very angry, fearful, paranoid. How much the drugs played into that I will never know, except I do know the behavior began long before the drugs.
Sometimes I think if only I had gotten him to a doctor who "got" him, who could have treated him effectively. Schizophrenia is often treatable. But then there are no guarantees, and maybe Colby's life played out just as it was supposed to. Neither of these thoughts make me feel any better.
I am not sure what this information means. Certainly it is more to digest, to think about. Certainly it means that wherever Colby is now, he is no longer tormented, scared, or afraid. He is at peace.
Monday, December 7, 2009
Decisions
I have trouble making decisions. It's as if my brain is so crammed full of stuff that one more thing, like a decision, will make it explode. Last week I had Internet connectivity issues. Rather than deal with it directly it took me three days to decide to call my service provider. Then it was another three days in figuring out what they were telling me to do. Long story short, I have lots of blogs posts that have not been posted. I will catch up this week, I promise. Sincere thanks to all of you who called or emailed to check on me. It's nice to know so many of you are reading this, that so many of you do care.
My counselor friend suggests I put off making any decision that is not urgent. Stop with the sorting of Colby's stuff, for now. I do not need to make those decisions today. Or tomorrow. Another suggestion is to not put myself in situations where I have to make a lot of decisions. If I have to go somewhere and someone else can drive, let them.
It is amazing all the decisions we each make every day, every hour. What to eat, what to wear, what to do, who to call, which way to go. The decisions are endless, and right now for me, overwhelming. My support group people and counselors all tell me I am right where I should be in my grief process. I am four months into a three-year deal and that is just for Phase 1. So no unnecessary decisions. I'll see how it goes.
My counselor friend suggests I put off making any decision that is not urgent. Stop with the sorting of Colby's stuff, for now. I do not need to make those decisions today. Or tomorrow. Another suggestion is to not put myself in situations where I have to make a lot of decisions. If I have to go somewhere and someone else can drive, let them.
It is amazing all the decisions we each make every day, every hour. What to eat, what to wear, what to do, who to call, which way to go. The decisions are endless, and right now for me, overwhelming. My support group people and counselors all tell me I am right where I should be in my grief process. I am four months into a three-year deal and that is just for Phase 1. So no unnecessary decisions. I'll see how it goes.
Tuesday, December 1, 2009
Calm
I have a dream. Colby and I are setting up a booth in a stall in a large, old horse barn at a fairgrounds so I can sell my books. Our stall is located on a corner in the center of the barn. There is an aisle coming toward us slightly off the center of the stall to the left and a second aisle is in front of us. From the left, this second aisle comes in straight and parallels perfectly the front of the stall, but just past the stall, it takes about a 30 degree turn to the right. I know there are a lot more stalls down that aisle, but because of the turn, I can't see them, I have a sense that there are well over 100 stalls in the barn. Each stall is wooden with dutch doors and painted white. Unless people are going through it, the bottom half of each stall door is closed, while the top half is fastened open with a large hook. The floor of the aisle is blacktop and the background throughout this dream continues this black and white theme.
Our dog Katie is with us. Katie passed away in 1991. She was 11 then, and Colby was six. Katie is a small poodle mix. She weighed about 8 pounds here on Earth and I loved her so much I called her my first-born child.
In setting up the booth, everything goes wrong––rude booth neighbors, can't find the lunch counter and when I do find it right next to my booth there is no food, I keep dropping things––yet I have an unending sense of calm. Colby is there and we are talking regularly, conversing, yet he is not actively helping me. This is okay. It is as if he is overseeing a job I am supposed to do. He offers kind, quiet assurance that no matter what happens, all is well.
Colby looks well, too. He is wearing light blue jeans, scuffed white tennis shoes, and a yellow and blue and white striped polo shirt. He sits on a stool to my right most of the time and swings his right leg back and forth. Katie wiggles out underneath the stall door to explore the barn. Even though she is tiny, I do not worry. I know she will be fine.
At some point Colby and I leave the booth so I can go to another area of the fairgrounds to speak to a group of people. One the way we pick up Snoqualmie. Snoqualmie is the wonderful white Appaloosa mare I had for 23 years. During those years she was my best friend. Snoqualmie rides in a trailer behind a truck Colby drives, and I ride in the passenger seat. Even though we are just going to the other side of the fairgrounds, we drive through a busy downtown area with lots of tall white almost transparent buildings. The edges of the buildings are soft, fuzzy, misty. Busy people in black suits carry briefcases. I should be upset about the stop and go traffic, but I am not. I am very calm and relaxed. I should be worried about Snoqualmie riding behind us in the trailer, but I know she is fine. At one stop light I roll down the window and place my arm on the door. The weather is perfect.
We get to a small conference center, Colby, Snoqualmie and me. In the lobby we find a stand of complimentary beverages, coffee, tea, soft drinks, and a woman rushes to us; we are late. My presentation was to begin at 1:15. I had been told 1:30. I check for my paperwork, but can't find it. My watch says 1:23. It will be 1:30 before I walk down the long hall and get set up. The people in my audience, the woman says, are restless. I remain calm, relaxed. It is all fine.
Inside my room the people are eager to hear what I have to say. They are atttentive, interested. The mix up on time means I have to shorten my presentation from 60 minutes to 45, but that's okay, too. It goes well. As I walk out of the presentation room into the hall, I wake up. The details of the dream are as sharp and clear as if it had been real, but what I remember most is the overwhelming sense of peace and calm. All is well. All is as it should be. There is nothing to worry about. I have been so nervous and egdy lately, the dream is the perfect balance. Today I feel as if I can focus, and for that, I am grateful.
Our dog Katie is with us. Katie passed away in 1991. She was 11 then, and Colby was six. Katie is a small poodle mix. She weighed about 8 pounds here on Earth and I loved her so much I called her my first-born child.
In setting up the booth, everything goes wrong––rude booth neighbors, can't find the lunch counter and when I do find it right next to my booth there is no food, I keep dropping things––yet I have an unending sense of calm. Colby is there and we are talking regularly, conversing, yet he is not actively helping me. This is okay. It is as if he is overseeing a job I am supposed to do. He offers kind, quiet assurance that no matter what happens, all is well.
Colby looks well, too. He is wearing light blue jeans, scuffed white tennis shoes, and a yellow and blue and white striped polo shirt. He sits on a stool to my right most of the time and swings his right leg back and forth. Katie wiggles out underneath the stall door to explore the barn. Even though she is tiny, I do not worry. I know she will be fine.
At some point Colby and I leave the booth so I can go to another area of the fairgrounds to speak to a group of people. One the way we pick up Snoqualmie. Snoqualmie is the wonderful white Appaloosa mare I had for 23 years. During those years she was my best friend. Snoqualmie rides in a trailer behind a truck Colby drives, and I ride in the passenger seat. Even though we are just going to the other side of the fairgrounds, we drive through a busy downtown area with lots of tall white almost transparent buildings. The edges of the buildings are soft, fuzzy, misty. Busy people in black suits carry briefcases. I should be upset about the stop and go traffic, but I am not. I am very calm and relaxed. I should be worried about Snoqualmie riding behind us in the trailer, but I know she is fine. At one stop light I roll down the window and place my arm on the door. The weather is perfect.
We get to a small conference center, Colby, Snoqualmie and me. In the lobby we find a stand of complimentary beverages, coffee, tea, soft drinks, and a woman rushes to us; we are late. My presentation was to begin at 1:15. I had been told 1:30. I check for my paperwork, but can't find it. My watch says 1:23. It will be 1:30 before I walk down the long hall and get set up. The people in my audience, the woman says, are restless. I remain calm, relaxed. It is all fine.
Inside my room the people are eager to hear what I have to say. They are atttentive, interested. The mix up on time means I have to shorten my presentation from 60 minutes to 45, but that's okay, too. It goes well. As I walk out of the presentation room into the hall, I wake up. The details of the dream are as sharp and clear as if it had been real, but what I remember most is the overwhelming sense of peace and calm. All is well. All is as it should be. There is nothing to worry about. I have been so nervous and egdy lately, the dream is the perfect balance. Today I feel as if I can focus, and for that, I am grateful.
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