I have debated for several days whether to post this or not. I finally decide it will do more good than harm, so here it is. Most of you know by now that Marie Osmond lost her teenage son, Michael Blosil, several days ago. I won't go into details here. It is all over the news so if you care to read about it, just about every news source has something. What is important is that Ms. Osmond has joined the group no one wants to belong to: the grieving parents group. Sadly, like the death of any parent's child, Michael's death will change her life, and the life of her family, forever.
The difference here is that celebrity complicates the grieving process. It is hard enough to lose a child without the added intrusion of the media. Only too clearly I remember the horror of the first days without Colby and one of the few comforts I had was my privacy. This was important as I needed quiet, private time to process Colby's loss. My friends were here when I needed them, but I did not have strangers seeking more and more information, or when they couldn't get it, making things up on their own. The stress that has to add to this tragic time must be overwhelming.
If I could talk to the Osmond family today I would say two things: one, be kind to yourselves. As a parent of a troubled child who did not make it, and as a friend of parents of troubled children, I know how hard we all try to make things better for our sons and daughters. I know the extreme anguish parents feel when they reach out to a new doctor or a new therapist and hope and pray that maybe this one will be the one who will make a difference. This one is the one who will have the right answers. But sometimes, for some kids, there are no answers. We all do all we can do, and we can't do any more than that. Parents always think there was something they should have done, one thing they missed that would have made the difference. But for some kids, and some parents, it doesn't work that way. How I wish it did. Sometimes, no matter what you do, the end result is the same.
The second thing I would say is that grieving a child is a long, slow process and everyone grieves differently. There is no right or wrong. In the large Osmond family the variety of grief is sure to run the full spectrum, so also be kind to those around you. While the loss of a child is a unique grief for parents, others grieve too.
There are no words to express my sadness for this family that has given us so much joy over the years. I know what a long road lies ahead, and I have only just started down the path myself. I wish them much love and many prayers. I know they have mine.
Sunday, February 28, 2010
Saturday, February 27, 2010
Chile
My heart aches for the people of Chile, as it does for those in Haiti. So many parents who have lost sons and daughters; the collected grief is almost unbearable. I talk to so many bereaved parents who, like some of the earthquake parents, don't know what actually happened to their sons and daughters. These parents search, day after day, hoping their child survives, hoping their child is safe. There are few happy endings. The "not knowing" adds greatly to the parent's pain.
I feel the panic, loss, despair, panic, sadness, grief these parents in Chile, Haiti, Okinawa and other places feel. I live the unbelievability of no longer sharing the Earth with your child. I wish I had words, answers. I do not. What I do have are strategies to get through the first few hours, days, of disaster and loss. I was there. I lived it. Am still living it. Will always live it. But when my son passed, when Colby passed, I didn't know a lot of the following. I wish I had because it would have helped me get through the first few hours and days.
1. Allow others to do for you. Allow others to help.
2. Be honest in telling others your needs. If you can't get out of bed, don't.
3. Realize that others are grieving, too. Hug them and allow them to hug you.
4. Understand that your child would want you to go on with your life, so do that for them.
5. Get medical attention if you can. The physical symptoms of shock and panic attack are real.
6. Take life one minute at a time. Do not look beyond that as it will be too overwhelming.
7. Breathe. Remember to breathe.
8. When you are able, stay busy. Let your subconscious process the early stages of the loss.
9. Help others as you can. Do it for your child. Make them proud.
10. This is not something you "get over." Over time, you will discover a "new normal" that is your life.
11. Your life is forever changed, but you can, eventually, live a full and worthwhile life.
12. Everyone grieves differently. Accept that and understand the choices of others.
13. Grief is a process. Processing the initial stages of the loss of a child can take years.
14. Grief is circular. There is no right or wrong with grief, It just is where it is.
15. Be kind to yourself. That your child was in a building that fell was not your fault.
16. Believe in whatever spirituality or religion you believe in, then embrace it.
17. Do something wonderful to honor your child's life and memory. Do it every day.
I feel the panic, loss, despair, panic, sadness, grief these parents in Chile, Haiti, Okinawa and other places feel. I live the unbelievability of no longer sharing the Earth with your child. I wish I had words, answers. I do not. What I do have are strategies to get through the first few hours, days, of disaster and loss. I was there. I lived it. Am still living it. Will always live it. But when my son passed, when Colby passed, I didn't know a lot of the following. I wish I had because it would have helped me get through the first few hours and days.
1. Allow others to do for you. Allow others to help.
2. Be honest in telling others your needs. If you can't get out of bed, don't.
3. Realize that others are grieving, too. Hug them and allow them to hug you.
4. Understand that your child would want you to go on with your life, so do that for them.
5. Get medical attention if you can. The physical symptoms of shock and panic attack are real.
6. Take life one minute at a time. Do not look beyond that as it will be too overwhelming.
7. Breathe. Remember to breathe.
8. When you are able, stay busy. Let your subconscious process the early stages of the loss.
9. Help others as you can. Do it for your child. Make them proud.
10. This is not something you "get over." Over time, you will discover a "new normal" that is your life.
11. Your life is forever changed, but you can, eventually, live a full and worthwhile life.
12. Everyone grieves differently. Accept that and understand the choices of others.
13. Grief is a process. Processing the initial stages of the loss of a child can take years.
14. Grief is circular. There is no right or wrong with grief, It just is where it is.
15. Be kind to yourself. That your child was in a building that fell was not your fault.
16. Believe in whatever spirituality or religion you believe in, then embrace it.
17. Do something wonderful to honor your child's life and memory. Do it every day.
Thursday, February 25, 2010
Exhaustion
The business of grief is exhausting. It intrudes on my every thought, every action. If I am lucky enough for it to leave for a few moments, when it returns, it slams into me with such force that I gasp. The fact that grief never fully leaves parents who have lost children is a sobering thought.
But, parents do learn to live with it, each in their own way. No parent's grief is the same. Each parent's process for learning to accept it is different. I have two thoughts regarding this. The first is: I wonder if our children know how much we miss them? I wonder if they know how much a part of us they were, are, always will be? And the second is that I wonder if parents whose children are still here appreciate them enough.
It pains me to see moms and dads become exasperated with their children, because I would give anything to be exasperated with mine. Do these parents understand what a gift each child is? In the store, on the street, at social events time after time I hear and see parents ignore their children when they ask (nicely) for attention. I see parents put their kids down and I see the hurt in the child's eyes. I want to slap these parents and tell them to wake up. To appreciate the wonder of their child.
I know how hard it can be to always be a loving, kind, supportive parent who sets and keeps boundaries. It takes time and energy and emotion and at the end of the day parents rarely have enough. of anything. They are, like me, exhausted. But their exhaustion holds the promise of a new day, of togetherness, of fun and games and laighter and love amid the inevitable tears.
Our exhaustion, the exhaustion of parents who have lost is forever present. This is especially true of parents. like me, who have lost their only child. Our exhaustion is forever, and like grief, we have to learn to live with it. I am in the process of trying to do this. My counselors say this is good, that it is a sign of progress in the grief process. But the work, the process, is slow. It zig zags back and forth and most days brings me back to my first question: do our children know how hard this is for us?
I hope Colby is in a place where he does not know how difficult his loss is for me, for his grandmother, for his friends. It would make him sad and we all want him to be happy, to be free of the difficulties he endured here on Earth. He went through a lot and deserves some peace. I want to believe that, I try to believe it, and someday I may actually get there.
But, parents do learn to live with it, each in their own way. No parent's grief is the same. Each parent's process for learning to accept it is different. I have two thoughts regarding this. The first is: I wonder if our children know how much we miss them? I wonder if they know how much a part of us they were, are, always will be? And the second is that I wonder if parents whose children are still here appreciate them enough.
It pains me to see moms and dads become exasperated with their children, because I would give anything to be exasperated with mine. Do these parents understand what a gift each child is? In the store, on the street, at social events time after time I hear and see parents ignore their children when they ask (nicely) for attention. I see parents put their kids down and I see the hurt in the child's eyes. I want to slap these parents and tell them to wake up. To appreciate the wonder of their child.
I know how hard it can be to always be a loving, kind, supportive parent who sets and keeps boundaries. It takes time and energy and emotion and at the end of the day parents rarely have enough. of anything. They are, like me, exhausted. But their exhaustion holds the promise of a new day, of togetherness, of fun and games and laighter and love amid the inevitable tears.
Our exhaustion, the exhaustion of parents who have lost is forever present. This is especially true of parents. like me, who have lost their only child. Our exhaustion is forever, and like grief, we have to learn to live with it. I am in the process of trying to do this. My counselors say this is good, that it is a sign of progress in the grief process. But the work, the process, is slow. It zig zags back and forth and most days brings me back to my first question: do our children know how hard this is for us?
I hope Colby is in a place where he does not know how difficult his loss is for me, for his grandmother, for his friends. It would make him sad and we all want him to be happy, to be free of the difficulties he endured here on Earth. He went through a lot and deserves some peace. I want to believe that, I try to believe it, and someday I may actually get there.
Monday, February 22, 2010
Pains
This article is so applicable to what I feel that I thought it worth posting here.
Phantom Pains
by Carol Mudra
(from Prodigy Medical Support Bulletin Board/Death of a Child)
This A.M. when I was in that half-awake, half-asleep state, I was thinking about what it is like to have your child die. So many people that haven't lost a child cannot possibly understand. I thought of losing a child as being compared to losing one of your extremities. If you had your arm suddenly amputated you would go into extreme shock. There would be sooo much pain for a long, long time. As that assaulting, excruciating pain eases, you learn to "get back into life," step by step, but it's a long process of rehabilitating yourself to learn to live without your arm. You start to "get better" and then the phantom pains come and try to haunt you.
Unexpectedly, without warning, there you are again in pain, except now people don't understand your pain as well as they once did. So you feel guilty for feeling this phantom pain. There are some friends out there who are more wise and do understand about the phantom pains and will still love and be there with you. Other will not.
Your hand itches but you can't scratch. It's not there. The longing to hold your child is there, it's real, but you can't hold your child again while we are still here. We, as parents who have had a child die, have had part of us amputated. They were born out of us, bone of our bone, flesh of our flesh, carried in our wombs, nurtured at our breasts. And even those who have been adopted into our lives are knitted into our very souls. So, how can the death of a child even be related to the death of a father, mother, sister, brother, spouse or friend? These are all great losses but having our child died is having part of us taken away. The grief different; it's not "normal," we are supposed to die before our children.
Then, I thought about the amputated arm. If that wound isn't cleansed and lovingly taken care of, it will become infected. Bitterness and anger (which are normal in grief) can lead to an infection in your soul if you get stuck in it and it is not dealt with. Friends can be loving healers helping to bind up the wound or they can rip open the wound, making it deeper, by insensitive remarks due to a lack of understanding.
We are all at different stages in our journey though this loss and hopefully our healing. But there will always be a part of us that is gone until we are in heaven with them. We will get the phantom pains but we can make a choice each day to go through the pain until we find some hope for our weary souls.
We will never be the same but we can survive and maybe we will even turn out to be a better people, more in tune with others, become "wounded healers". We are already more gifted than a lot of other people in this world because we KNOW what it is to truly love our child. There are a lot of people out there who take their children for granted, just as a lot of us have taken for granted that it is normal to have two arms and two legs.
But what if that were different.....?
Phantom Pains
by Carol Mudra
(from Prodigy Medical Support Bulletin Board/Death of a Child)
This A.M. when I was in that half-awake, half-asleep state, I was thinking about what it is like to have your child die. So many people that haven't lost a child cannot possibly understand. I thought of losing a child as being compared to losing one of your extremities. If you had your arm suddenly amputated you would go into extreme shock. There would be sooo much pain for a long, long time. As that assaulting, excruciating pain eases, you learn to "get back into life," step by step, but it's a long process of rehabilitating yourself to learn to live without your arm. You start to "get better" and then the phantom pains come and try to haunt you.
Unexpectedly, without warning, there you are again in pain, except now people don't understand your pain as well as they once did. So you feel guilty for feeling this phantom pain. There are some friends out there who are more wise and do understand about the phantom pains and will still love and be there with you. Other will not.
Your hand itches but you can't scratch. It's not there. The longing to hold your child is there, it's real, but you can't hold your child again while we are still here. We, as parents who have had a child die, have had part of us amputated. They were born out of us, bone of our bone, flesh of our flesh, carried in our wombs, nurtured at our breasts. And even those who have been adopted into our lives are knitted into our very souls. So, how can the death of a child even be related to the death of a father, mother, sister, brother, spouse or friend? These are all great losses but having our child died is having part of us taken away. The grief different; it's not "normal," we are supposed to die before our children.
Then, I thought about the amputated arm. If that wound isn't cleansed and lovingly taken care of, it will become infected. Bitterness and anger (which are normal in grief) can lead to an infection in your soul if you get stuck in it and it is not dealt with. Friends can be loving healers helping to bind up the wound or they can rip open the wound, making it deeper, by insensitive remarks due to a lack of understanding.
We are all at different stages in our journey though this loss and hopefully our healing. But there will always be a part of us that is gone until we are in heaven with them. We will get the phantom pains but we can make a choice each day to go through the pain until we find some hope for our weary souls.
We will never be the same but we can survive and maybe we will even turn out to be a better people, more in tune with others, become "wounded healers". We are already more gifted than a lot of other people in this world because we KNOW what it is to truly love our child. There are a lot of people out there who take their children for granted, just as a lot of us have taken for granted that it is normal to have two arms and two legs.
But what if that were different.....?
Sunday, February 21, 2010
Anxiety
Colby Keegan at age eight.
Colby suffered from anxiety. Sometimes the smallest thing, such as going into a store, triggered terrible reactions; crying, rocking, stomach upsets, panic, sweats, nausea. Gay Hendricks, Ph.D., author of Conscious Breathing: Breathwork for Health, Stress Release, and Personal Mastery has said that, "Anxiety is mostly caused by two emotions: anger and sadness," Colby had both.
There are five major types of anxiety: Generalized Anxiety Disorder, Panic Disorder, Social Phobia (or Social Anxiety Disorder), Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder, and Obsessive-Compulsive Disorder. Colby had all but the last, with the first diagnosis coming in at age eight.
I was sympathetic and empathetic to Colby's illnesses. I was supportive, encouraging, but I could not completely understand, because I did not have the same difficulties. I did not, could not, walk in his shoes, even though I tried, even though I wanted to very much. I felt if I could experience life in the way he experienced it, then I could help him more. Even though life does not work that way, I felt guilty that I could not live Colby's experiences. To some extent, I still feel that way.
It is ironic that in Colby's passing, I come closer to doing that than ever before. Since he passed, I have had a lot of general anxiety and several panic attacks. Many medical professionals say that all parents who lose a child go through a form of Post Traumatic Stress. No one can live those experiences for us, either. So while others can be sympathetic, empathetic, to me, no one can truly understand.
I say this because so many wonderful people try. They go through their own form of anxiety because they can't help more, can't understand better, but again, that's the way life is. It is a group of circles, and this is the anxiety circle. That others try to understand, want to, is enough. More than enough, really, because their caring and love supports and sustains me. So thank you. I haven't said that enough lately, but I think it every hour of every day. Thank you.
Wednesday, February 17, 2010
Dread
I don't sleep. From the moment Colby was born I was afraid he'd stop breathing so I'd stay up all night watching him breathe. Then when he developed asthma, he did turn blue several times. There were several ambulance rides, days and days in the hospital. Those years got me in the habit of not sleeping.
Now I stay busy during the day. Go, go, work, work. I stop several times throughout the day to think, reflect, but the pain, the anguish, is too great so I get busy again. By nightfall I am exhausted. I lie in bed and the anxiety returns and I find an excuse to get up, then another, and another. Before I know it, it is morning and I have dozed for less than an hour.
This happens most nights. I go through my days in a daze. Several times I leave the house and forget to turn the water in the sink off. Only one minor flood so far. Over the counter sleep aids make it worse. I shake, I am revved up, and sleep for the next several nights is impossible.
I try relaxation techniques, routines, zen tea, deep breathing, but the thoughts in my head rush in, overpower everything and I am up again, holding my arms around myself and pacing through the house.
In the mirror I do not look like me. A stranger's face stares back through the glass. Dark circles, baggy eyes. Old. Exhausted. Tonight will be different, I think. Tonight I will sleep. I think that every night and some nights, for a few minutes, I even believe myself. I have come to dread the night.
Now I stay busy during the day. Go, go, work, work. I stop several times throughout the day to think, reflect, but the pain, the anguish, is too great so I get busy again. By nightfall I am exhausted. I lie in bed and the anxiety returns and I find an excuse to get up, then another, and another. Before I know it, it is morning and I have dozed for less than an hour.
This happens most nights. I go through my days in a daze. Several times I leave the house and forget to turn the water in the sink off. Only one minor flood so far. Over the counter sleep aids make it worse. I shake, I am revved up, and sleep for the next several nights is impossible.
I try relaxation techniques, routines, zen tea, deep breathing, but the thoughts in my head rush in, overpower everything and I am up again, holding my arms around myself and pacing through the house.
In the mirror I do not look like me. A stranger's face stares back through the glass. Dark circles, baggy eyes. Old. Exhausted. Tonight will be different, I think. Tonight I will sleep. I think that every night and some nights, for a few minutes, I even believe myself. I have come to dread the night.
Monday, February 15, 2010
Donations
We receive our first donation for Colby's Army today. I am shocked, stunned, excited, for this validates the dream, the vision, the words I had of this nonprofit organization just days after Colby's passing. This means it is real, that others also believe we can take Colby's ideas and change the world, one step at a time. All Colby wanted to do was "affect change," positive change. This is the first thing I have been excited about in a very long time.
Just days ago Colby's Army received word that it was an official 501(c)3 nonprofit in every sense of the word. That I felt mildly pleased about, but I expected it to happen. I knew the paperwork was in order. But I was not ever sure others, strangers, people who do not know Colby or me, would also see the vision, also believe, even though there is a wonderful, professional group of directors in place, a board of directors, all of whom who are passionate about the cause.
Despite very limited finances Colby's Army is already helping others, has helped others, and will continue to do so. The donations mean we can kick off programs, get more people involved, and help many more. I am thrilled that we can do this for Colby, in memory of Colby, and for the people and animals whose lives will be improved.
It is also wonderful to feel something other than pain and anguish, despair, hurt, sadness, helplessness. I was not sure I could feel anything other than those feelings anymore. I like knowing other options are there to tap into. I have spent the last six and a half months crying and today I also cry, but these are good tears, tears of possibility, of hope. These tears give me a reason to live and that's something I have not had since Colby passed.
Just days ago Colby's Army received word that it was an official 501(c)3 nonprofit in every sense of the word. That I felt mildly pleased about, but I expected it to happen. I knew the paperwork was in order. But I was not ever sure others, strangers, people who do not know Colby or me, would also see the vision, also believe, even though there is a wonderful, professional group of directors in place, a board of directors, all of whom who are passionate about the cause.
Despite very limited finances Colby's Army is already helping others, has helped others, and will continue to do so. The donations mean we can kick off programs, get more people involved, and help many more. I am thrilled that we can do this for Colby, in memory of Colby, and for the people and animals whose lives will be improved.
It is also wonderful to feel something other than pain and anguish, despair, hurt, sadness, helplessness. I was not sure I could feel anything other than those feelings anymore. I like knowing other options are there to tap into. I have spent the last six and a half months crying and today I also cry, but these are good tears, tears of possibility, of hope. These tears give me a reason to live and that's something I have not had since Colby passed.
Dreamcatchers
Today I put the CDs aside to tackle Colby’s backpacks. He had eleven of them and after he became homeless he hid them in handy spots all around town. Some were at the homes of friends, others were tucked under bushes or hung in trees. Depending on where he was, he could find any one of them and have provisions. He stocked each of the backpacks with a variety of food, plastic, can openers, reading material, hygiene and first aid items . . . and a dreamcatcher.
Dreamcatchers originated in the Ojibwa (Chippewa) Nation, but during the 1960s and 1970s they were adopted by many other Nations. A typical dreamcatcher is made by tying strands in a web around a small round or tear-shaped frame. The resulting “dreamcatcher" is hung above the bed in hopes that it will protect those sleeping beneath it from nightmares. Many also believe that a dreamcatcher can change a person's dreams and that only good dreams are allowed to filter through. Bad dreams are caught in the net, where they perish in the light of dawn.
Colby loved history and studied the cultures of many people, including Native peoples across the world. He got his first dreamcatcher when he was eleven, when he came along on the Trail of Hope. This was where one of my clients arranged for five semi truckloads of books, personal care items, computers, blankets, etc. to be given to ten Native American communities. A number of us came along to help unload the trucks. Colby was one of them. It was a life-changing experience for him and I believe he got his empathy for those less fortunate from that trip.
Today, as I unpack each of the backpacks, it isn’t long before I realize every pack has a dreamcatcher. I find that incredibly uplifting, sad, and profound all at the same time. My emotions get the better of me and I sit on the floor of his room, surrounded by backpacks, and I cry. I hope so very much that the dreamcatchers did keep bad dreams away from Colby. I also hope they brought him good memories, fond memories, and I hope that in some way they brought him a little bit of piece. And, I am so very glad that Colby is now in a place where he will never need a dreamcatcher again. All of these feelings and emotion and anxiety leave me exhausted. Drained. I pick up the dreamcatchers and place them around the house. Now, whenever I see them I will think good thoughts of Colby. I even put one by my bed. I typically do not have nightmares, but . . . just in case.
Dreamcatchers originated in the Ojibwa (Chippewa) Nation, but during the 1960s and 1970s they were adopted by many other Nations. A typical dreamcatcher is made by tying strands in a web around a small round or tear-shaped frame. The resulting “dreamcatcher" is hung above the bed in hopes that it will protect those sleeping beneath it from nightmares. Many also believe that a dreamcatcher can change a person's dreams and that only good dreams are allowed to filter through. Bad dreams are caught in the net, where they perish in the light of dawn.
Colby loved history and studied the cultures of many people, including Native peoples across the world. He got his first dreamcatcher when he was eleven, when he came along on the Trail of Hope. This was where one of my clients arranged for five semi truckloads of books, personal care items, computers, blankets, etc. to be given to ten Native American communities. A number of us came along to help unload the trucks. Colby was one of them. It was a life-changing experience for him and I believe he got his empathy for those less fortunate from that trip.
Today, as I unpack each of the backpacks, it isn’t long before I realize every pack has a dreamcatcher. I find that incredibly uplifting, sad, and profound all at the same time. My emotions get the better of me and I sit on the floor of his room, surrounded by backpacks, and I cry. I hope so very much that the dreamcatchers did keep bad dreams away from Colby. I also hope they brought him good memories, fond memories, and I hope that in some way they brought him a little bit of piece. And, I am so very glad that Colby is now in a place where he will never need a dreamcatcher again. All of these feelings and emotion and anxiety leave me exhausted. Drained. I pick up the dreamcatchers and place them around the house. Now, whenever I see them I will think good thoughts of Colby. I even put one by my bed. I typically do not have nightmares, but . . . just in case.
Friday, February 12, 2010
Books
Colby had thousands of books and many of them he had listed for sale online. The books were spread out over five rooms and other than his personal collection (which numbered about five hundred) none of the books were organized. Lack of organizational skills was part of Colby's dysgraphia disability, along with writing, knot tying, and math calculation. It takes me more than six months but I have examined each book, categorized it, evaluated it for online sales listing, and then either kept it or given it away.
Several hundred books went to Grandpa's House a Nashville-based program for men with mental illness and addiction. About a hundred were so damaged they went in the trash. Several I kept, and I carted more than forty boxes of books to the Goodwill. I still have about two hundred books from Colby's personal collection that I will keep for a while . . . or longer.
The reason this is important is that I carried the last box of books to the Goodwill today. This sorting through thousands of books has taken a good portion of my time. Plus, it was important to move them out so I can begin evaluating, organizing, sorting, categorizing and moving other groups of items such as his hundred or so DVDs, VHS tapes, and video games. There are also several hundred CDs and CD cases in various bags and boxes, and stacked loosely on shelves. Of course none of the CDs are actually in the cases or any where near the case they belong to. I will begin matching those up next. That could take me another six months. At least CDs are smaller than books.
The work is tiring, boring, mind-numbing. But in doing it I feel close to Colby. These were his things, things that were important to him, that meant something to him. The best I can do is keep the ones we were both connected to and find homes for the rest. They do no one any good sitting in a box or on a shelf. Colby would want this music that he loved so much to be appreciated by others. And it will be . . . many months from now.
Several hundred books went to Grandpa's House a Nashville-based program for men with mental illness and addiction. About a hundred were so damaged they went in the trash. Several I kept, and I carted more than forty boxes of books to the Goodwill. I still have about two hundred books from Colby's personal collection that I will keep for a while . . . or longer.
The reason this is important is that I carried the last box of books to the Goodwill today. This sorting through thousands of books has taken a good portion of my time. Plus, it was important to move them out so I can begin evaluating, organizing, sorting, categorizing and moving other groups of items such as his hundred or so DVDs, VHS tapes, and video games. There are also several hundred CDs and CD cases in various bags and boxes, and stacked loosely on shelves. Of course none of the CDs are actually in the cases or any where near the case they belong to. I will begin matching those up next. That could take me another six months. At least CDs are smaller than books.
The work is tiring, boring, mind-numbing. But in doing it I feel close to Colby. These were his things, things that were important to him, that meant something to him. The best I can do is keep the ones we were both connected to and find homes for the rest. They do no one any good sitting in a box or on a shelf. Colby would want this music that he loved so much to be appreciated by others. And it will be . . . many months from now.
Thursday, February 11, 2010
Intervention
Today I am involved in an intervention. A young man with mental illness and addiction needs help. This kind young man was an acquaintance of Colby's, and has an addiction to cough syrup. I am surprised to find that cough syrup is one of the leading types of addiction. This is especially scary because, like prescription drugs, most cough syrups can be purchased over the counter. An overdose can cause extreme psychosis and even death.
Five family members and a social worker are also at the intervention. They have a place for the young man to go: a dual diagnosis center that can help. The young man is angry. He says he can't have a problem; cough syrup is legal. He is given a choice of going to the treatment facility or to the Nashville Union Rescue Mission. The choice is his. He says he will go to the Mission and runs upstairs to gather his things.
When he comes back down minutes later he looks for an out. He rationalizes and decides to go to the treatment facility. The real possibility of the Mission, the streets, and homelessness have frightened him. He is still angry, but a ride awaits and he gets in. I hear later that he checked in safely. He made a good choice. He has a hard road ahead, but he also has a chance at a long, productive life.
Another person was at the intervention, one of the Board members for Colby's Army, the nonprofit organization several others and I founded in memory of Colby. I have not mentioned this in a while as we have been laying the organization's foundation. You can learn more at ColbysArmy.org, but one of the things we do is help people with mental illness and addiction, like this young man today, get the help they need. That did not happen for Colby. But it can happen for others and we will help many. Today's young man was just the first.
Colby's Army recently got the okay to accept tax-deductible donations and every cent will go to help people with mental illness and addiction, as well as animals and the environment, causes that were very close to Colby's heart. There are several programs in the works, which will be kicked off as funding allows. I think Colby would be pleased. I think that because I felt Colby at the intervention today. I felt his spirit in the room. To me, that was his unconditional stamp of approval. I miss you, son.
Five family members and a social worker are also at the intervention. They have a place for the young man to go: a dual diagnosis center that can help. The young man is angry. He says he can't have a problem; cough syrup is legal. He is given a choice of going to the treatment facility or to the Nashville Union Rescue Mission. The choice is his. He says he will go to the Mission and runs upstairs to gather his things.
When he comes back down minutes later he looks for an out. He rationalizes and decides to go to the treatment facility. The real possibility of the Mission, the streets, and homelessness have frightened him. He is still angry, but a ride awaits and he gets in. I hear later that he checked in safely. He made a good choice. He has a hard road ahead, but he also has a chance at a long, productive life.
Another person was at the intervention, one of the Board members for Colby's Army, the nonprofit organization several others and I founded in memory of Colby. I have not mentioned this in a while as we have been laying the organization's foundation. You can learn more at ColbysArmy.org, but one of the things we do is help people with mental illness and addiction, like this young man today, get the help they need. That did not happen for Colby. But it can happen for others and we will help many. Today's young man was just the first.
Colby's Army recently got the okay to accept tax-deductible donations and every cent will go to help people with mental illness and addiction, as well as animals and the environment, causes that were very close to Colby's heart. There are several programs in the works, which will be kicked off as funding allows. I think Colby would be pleased. I think that because I felt Colby at the intervention today. I felt his spirit in the room. To me, that was his unconditional stamp of approval. I miss you, son.
Sunday, February 7, 2010
Supplies
The dream is in black and white, like a pencil drawing with no shading. Just black areas and white areas. No gray. Colby is driving a Jeep and I am sitting in the passenger seat next to him. Colby's hair is longer and darker and messier than when I have seen it in other dreams, and his clothes are spattered with mud. The Jeep is also mud spattered. It has a stick shift and Colby's entire body is turned toward me, including his right calf, which rests on the seat next to the stick shift, his lower leg bent back toward him. If there is a top on the Jeep it is either folded down or has been removed. The temperature is perfect. I feel neither warm or cold.
There is no steering wheel or gas pedal in the Jeep, but somehow we navigate through a large area of rubble. Colby uses the stick shift a few times, but I can't tell how that affects where we are going or how we get there. We are talking in this dream, but we do not say anything; the conversation between us is in our heads. I am so happy to see that Colby is relaxed, at ease with himself, and confident.
Colby tells me he spends his time helping people in this Jeep and he is taking me to where he will be working this day. Soon after that we come to a stop. The area where we are is still littered with rubble and in the near distance people mill about. Colby tells me he is bringing the people supplies. Surprised, because I did not feel like we were hauling anything, I turn around to look in the back of the Jeep. The supplies we are bringing are not those kinds of supplies, he says.
I ponder that for a while and then ask why we do not get out and bring the supplies to the people. Colby replies that the people have to come to us. I watch the people and comment that the people act as if they do not know we are here. It's okay. Some will see us, he says. Some will come for the supplies. I have the feeling that the supplies are in the form of information or guidance, and I wake up then, not knowing if the people are here on Earth or over in Colby's world.
There is no steering wheel or gas pedal in the Jeep, but somehow we navigate through a large area of rubble. Colby uses the stick shift a few times, but I can't tell how that affects where we are going or how we get there. We are talking in this dream, but we do not say anything; the conversation between us is in our heads. I am so happy to see that Colby is relaxed, at ease with himself, and confident.
Colby tells me he spends his time helping people in this Jeep and he is taking me to where he will be working this day. Soon after that we come to a stop. The area where we are is still littered with rubble and in the near distance people mill about. Colby tells me he is bringing the people supplies. Surprised, because I did not feel like we were hauling anything, I turn around to look in the back of the Jeep. The supplies we are bringing are not those kinds of supplies, he says.
I ponder that for a while and then ask why we do not get out and bring the supplies to the people. Colby replies that the people have to come to us. I watch the people and comment that the people act as if they do not know we are here. It's okay. Some will see us, he says. Some will come for the supplies. I have the feeling that the supplies are in the form of information or guidance, and I wake up then, not knowing if the people are here on Earth or over in Colby's world.
Friday, February 5, 2010
Beliefs
One of my counseling exercises is to write down what I believe. That varies from day-to-day, hour-to-hour. Wavering feelings are, apparently, typical of grieving parents. But right now I believe that:
• Colby lived and died as he was meant to
• If I ask the right questions and pay attention, Colby left many answers
• Mourning is a learning experience
• Colby is still here and he lives inside me and everyone who knew him
• Colby is still teaching me how to live
• Words that express how I feel about Colby and his passing do not exist
• Death does not end a relationship, it just changes how we communicate.
• Parents that have lost children are broken, and when they are put back together there is a part missing
• No one grieves in exactly the same way
• Death leaves a heartache no one can heal and love leaves a memory no one can steal
• Colby lived and died as he was meant to
• If I ask the right questions and pay attention, Colby left many answers
• Mourning is a learning experience
• Colby is still here and he lives inside me and everyone who knew him
• Colby is still teaching me how to live
• Words that express how I feel about Colby and his passing do not exist
• Death does not end a relationship, it just changes how we communicate.
• Parents that have lost children are broken, and when they are put back together there is a part missing
• No one grieves in exactly the same way
• Death leaves a heartache no one can heal and love leaves a memory no one can steal
• In the big picture, material things do not matter
• Nothing in my life has prepared me to mourn the passing of my child
• I am more overwhelmed now than at any other time in my life
• I often feel helpless, but not hopeless
• Colby is far happier now than he ever was here on Earth
• Nothing in my life has prepared me to mourn the passing of my child
• I am more overwhelmed now than at any other time in my life
• I often feel helpless, but not hopeless
• Colby is far happier now than he ever was here on Earth
Thursday, February 4, 2010
Women
I am standing in a field crowded with women. There are thousands of us covering what must be twenty or thirty acres. We all stand facing the same direction shoulder to shoulder packed together like sardines. The women wear all sorts of casual clothing. The one to my left is maybe ten years younger than I am and of medium height. She wears a loose yellow cotton shirt with narrow, black horizonal stripes, a black knit sweater, charcoal gray capri pants and black ballet slippers. Her hair is short, brown and layered. She is nervous.
As soon as I realize that all the women here are mothers I hear a voice. It is a male voice and is coming through a loudspeaker, although I cannot see it or him. The voice asks all mothers who have lost a child to form a separate group to the front of this group. A surprisingly large number of women step forward, myself included. We huddle together in this new group, unformed, with nothing approximating the neat lines and rows and precision stance of the previous group. All we want is to rejoin the first group. The wanting is an terrible anguish, a deep physical pain. Several of us are crying.
The voice then announces that if we have other children, we can rejoin the first group. We know the voice is speaking only to us, this second, lost group of mothers. If they have not already been crying, most of the mothers break down in tears of joy as they scurry back to the larger group and shoulder their way into the ranks. There must be about fifty of us left, mothers who have no other children.
If you have a spouse, please rejoin the first group. More than thirty of the women leave. Grateful, glad. If you can physically have more children, rejoin. More leave. If you have a brother, rejoin. Another leaves. there are only a handful of us left. If you have a sister, rejoin. We are down to two. We two are so very frightened and lonely. If you have a niece, rejoin. We stare at each other, terrified. If you have a nephew, rejoin. She looks pityingly at me before she breaks into tears and runs back into the group. I am alone.
I pray for the voice to call out something else. If you are a nice person, rejoin. If you loved your son, rejoin. If you have a cat, rejoin. But the voice is gone. I turn around to stare at the huge mass of women, of mothers, but they too are gone and I am completely and utterly alone.
When I wake up, even though I try, I cannot determine if this was a dream . . . or not.
As soon as I realize that all the women here are mothers I hear a voice. It is a male voice and is coming through a loudspeaker, although I cannot see it or him. The voice asks all mothers who have lost a child to form a separate group to the front of this group. A surprisingly large number of women step forward, myself included. We huddle together in this new group, unformed, with nothing approximating the neat lines and rows and precision stance of the previous group. All we want is to rejoin the first group. The wanting is an terrible anguish, a deep physical pain. Several of us are crying.
The voice then announces that if we have other children, we can rejoin the first group. We know the voice is speaking only to us, this second, lost group of mothers. If they have not already been crying, most of the mothers break down in tears of joy as they scurry back to the larger group and shoulder their way into the ranks. There must be about fifty of us left, mothers who have no other children.
If you have a spouse, please rejoin the first group. More than thirty of the women leave. Grateful, glad. If you can physically have more children, rejoin. More leave. If you have a brother, rejoin. Another leaves. there are only a handful of us left. If you have a sister, rejoin. We are down to two. We two are so very frightened and lonely. If you have a niece, rejoin. We stare at each other, terrified. If you have a nephew, rejoin. She looks pityingly at me before she breaks into tears and runs back into the group. I am alone.
I pray for the voice to call out something else. If you are a nice person, rejoin. If you loved your son, rejoin. If you have a cat, rejoin. But the voice is gone. I turn around to stare at the huge mass of women, of mothers, but they too are gone and I am completely and utterly alone.
When I wake up, even though I try, I cannot determine if this was a dream . . . or not.
Tuesday, February 2, 2010
Home
Today I have a panic attack. I have not had one for some time. I am downtown, leaving a meeting when I feel my heart start to pound and the world begin to whirl around me. Somehow I make it to my truck and I lie on the front seat wondering if I am having a heart attack. Eventually the panic subsides and I am left with a nauseated, shaky, emptiness.
I drive home and sit in the driveway, confused. There is a for sale sign in my yard, and the beautiful rosebush to the left of the house has been chopped down. I wonder who did that; the bush stood more than six feet high. Gradually I realize this is not my house, or it isn’t anymore. I now see I have unconsciously driven to a house Colby and I lived in from the time he was nine until he was twelve. It was the house we lived in before we bought the house we (I) have now. I haven’t been by the house in over a year. Colby and I always included it in our “tour of homes” that we did every Thanksgiving weekend. We had lived in eleven houses and each year we took an afternoon and visited them all. As I look at the house I can see that it has new siding and someone has added a railing to the porch. Good. The house badly needed updating. I drive around the block and turn into the alley that runs behind the house. Colby’s tire swing is still there, but our vegetable garden has been turned into lawn.
I park in the alley and stare at Colby’s tire swing. I can almost see him there, swinging far higher than I am comfortable with, then climbing out of the tire as it swings to sit on top of it. Our dog, Sundance, is there too, running around the yard, tail wagging so fast I can barely see it. Colby is dressed as a pirate and yells “Yo, ho ho!” at the top of his lungs every time the tire swings toward the house. I am sitting in a lawn chair on the patio watching him. Our cat, Bootsie, is sitting by my feet and eying a bird that has landed on the fence. It is a wonderful memory.
All of them are gone now. Colby, Sundance, and Bootsie. I feel abandoned. Left behind. Forgotten . . . and I am overwhelmed with sadness. I finally put my truck in gear and drive home, this time to the right house. I hesitate to call this house home anymore as it feels alien in Colby’s absence. I open the door and sit carefully on a once familiar couch. The room, my living room, feels like it belongs to someone else. I spend the rest of the afternoon sitting on a strange couch in a foreign room and wonder what in the world I am supposed to do now.
I drive home and sit in the driveway, confused. There is a for sale sign in my yard, and the beautiful rosebush to the left of the house has been chopped down. I wonder who did that; the bush stood more than six feet high. Gradually I realize this is not my house, or it isn’t anymore. I now see I have unconsciously driven to a house Colby and I lived in from the time he was nine until he was twelve. It was the house we lived in before we bought the house we (I) have now. I haven’t been by the house in over a year. Colby and I always included it in our “tour of homes” that we did every Thanksgiving weekend. We had lived in eleven houses and each year we took an afternoon and visited them all. As I look at the house I can see that it has new siding and someone has added a railing to the porch. Good. The house badly needed updating. I drive around the block and turn into the alley that runs behind the house. Colby’s tire swing is still there, but our vegetable garden has been turned into lawn.
I park in the alley and stare at Colby’s tire swing. I can almost see him there, swinging far higher than I am comfortable with, then climbing out of the tire as it swings to sit on top of it. Our dog, Sundance, is there too, running around the yard, tail wagging so fast I can barely see it. Colby is dressed as a pirate and yells “Yo, ho ho!” at the top of his lungs every time the tire swings toward the house. I am sitting in a lawn chair on the patio watching him. Our cat, Bootsie, is sitting by my feet and eying a bird that has landed on the fence. It is a wonderful memory.
All of them are gone now. Colby, Sundance, and Bootsie. I feel abandoned. Left behind. Forgotten . . . and I am overwhelmed with sadness. I finally put my truck in gear and drive home, this time to the right house. I hesitate to call this house home anymore as it feels alien in Colby’s absence. I open the door and sit carefully on a once familiar couch. The room, my living room, feels like it belongs to someone else. I spend the rest of the afternoon sitting on a strange couch in a foreign room and wonder what in the world I am supposed to do now.
Monday, February 1, 2010
Timelines
A dear friend is in liver failure. Long term, it doesn’t look good. We’ve been friends for almost twenty years and over those years we shared our ups and downs, our triumphs and tragedies. My friend is one of the very few people I can tell anything to and know that no matter what I tell her she will not think less of me. Many times through the years she dropped everything to be a friend to Colby and to me. She bent over backwards to help us whenever we needed it and now, when she needs it most, I cannot help her. I cannot tell you how sad that makes me feel.
When I learn of my friend’s health crisis my first thought is that I can’t lose someone else so soon. I am not ready. This is too much. I barely function now, how can I possibly manage with another loss? My second thought is one of frustration. I want to help, need to help. While I can’t assist in the way she needs most, while I cannot give her a new liver, I can let people know of her kindness. This is in hopes that we all can learn from her, think of her when others are in need and respond as she would have––with everything she had.
My friend is not a perfect person. She can be exasperating. She does not always use good judgment. She has problems managing money. But she does know the true meaning of friendship. She is kind. She is honest and true. She helps her friends with no questions asked. She is there for those who are important to her and I can’t begin to count all the ways she has helped and supported me over the years.
This friend was not only was my friend, she was Colby’s friend. When Colby was sick, she made him laugh. When he needed a job, she not only gave him one, she recommended him to all her friends and clients. Then she gave him a great reference. She helped Colby learn how to cook and when he was very young she helped him support the homeless. And when he was twelve, when he started playing guitar, she even got music industry friends to donate their used musical equipment to him.
In recent years my friend’s health has not been good. She has been given “timelines” by medical professionals before, but before she never believed them. Now I think she does, even though she doesn’t want to. I understand we live our lives to learn lessons and help others, and when we’ve done what we are here to do, then it is time to go. My friend has helped countless others and I know she has learned a lot about herself, others, and life. She has more than paid her dues here on Earth, but I will be selfish here and ask that she be able to stay a little while longer. I am not the only person who needs her. She has children and grandchildren and many other friends. Besides, I just can’t let go until I am a little stronger.
Please join me in praying for my friend, Colby's friend, for her healing, for a quick match for her liver transplant. Out of privacy I do not want to mention her name, but God will know who you are praying for. And so will I. Thank you.
When I learn of my friend’s health crisis my first thought is that I can’t lose someone else so soon. I am not ready. This is too much. I barely function now, how can I possibly manage with another loss? My second thought is one of frustration. I want to help, need to help. While I can’t assist in the way she needs most, while I cannot give her a new liver, I can let people know of her kindness. This is in hopes that we all can learn from her, think of her when others are in need and respond as she would have––with everything she had.
My friend is not a perfect person. She can be exasperating. She does not always use good judgment. She has problems managing money. But she does know the true meaning of friendship. She is kind. She is honest and true. She helps her friends with no questions asked. She is there for those who are important to her and I can’t begin to count all the ways she has helped and supported me over the years.
This friend was not only was my friend, she was Colby’s friend. When Colby was sick, she made him laugh. When he needed a job, she not only gave him one, she recommended him to all her friends and clients. Then she gave him a great reference. She helped Colby learn how to cook and when he was very young she helped him support the homeless. And when he was twelve, when he started playing guitar, she even got music industry friends to donate their used musical equipment to him.
In recent years my friend’s health has not been good. She has been given “timelines” by medical professionals before, but before she never believed them. Now I think she does, even though she doesn’t want to. I understand we live our lives to learn lessons and help others, and when we’ve done what we are here to do, then it is time to go. My friend has helped countless others and I know she has learned a lot about herself, others, and life. She has more than paid her dues here on Earth, but I will be selfish here and ask that she be able to stay a little while longer. I am not the only person who needs her. She has children and grandchildren and many other friends. Besides, I just can’t let go until I am a little stronger.
Please join me in praying for my friend, Colby's friend, for her healing, for a quick match for her liver transplant. Out of privacy I do not want to mention her name, but God will know who you are praying for. And so will I. Thank you.
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