Family

Easter is just a few days away. It is another holiday I plan to ignore. But that is hard to do. Like Thanksgiving and Christmas, Easter is a time that is filled with references to family in newspapers, television, and radio. Even billboards and retail stores are filled with references to the holiday. Holidays, however, are for families. For those of us without, they are hard. The memories are bittersweet because there is no family left to enjoy holidays with. Ever. The years loom bleakly ahead.

Then again maybe my grief is just too new. Maybe holidays will get better. Maybe I can establish new traditions on my own. Maybe. I do understand that family is who and what you make it. Families these days do not have to biologically related to you. I think, though, when your life expectations of having children and grandchildren are suddenly taken from you, that the adjustment is harder than if you never had those expectations at all.

I try. I try to smile when other people talk of their families, their siblings, and kids and nieces and nephews. I try not to cry. This issue is, after all, mine. I do not harbor grudges for the joy others have. I am happy for them. Being sad for me is a separate issue and I am glad I can make the distinction.

I never expected life to be so hard. So grueling. I know this is what life must have been like for Colby, living with untreated mental illness. He felt so bleak about the future, about any possibilities of positive happenings, of success. Yet he managed to smile. He was able to be happy for others. I can do the same. I just have to dig deeper, try harder. And I will. Somehow. I will.

Skates

For some reason I have been thinking of Colby and skating. Not the skateboard kind of skating, which he did every day and was incredibly good at. And not the roller kind of skating that he did as a young teen. He was also quite good at that. Instead I have been of the ice kind of skating, at which Colby was not so good.

The first time Colby ice skated he must have been around eight. We were visiting my mother during the Christmas holidays and he decided he wanted to try it. So we rented some skates at the local ice rink and off we went. I grew up in Minnesota, where just about every kid learns to both swim and ice skate, so was able to give Colby a few pointers. After half an hour or so he was getting around the ice okay on his own, and even attempted a few more daring moves: skating backwards, a bunny hop, a slicing stop.

We went several times after that over the years. Colby was so athletic, he could excel at just about any sport he wanted to. I think the reason he never became expert at ice skating was because he didn't want to. And, the reason he didn't want to was because he never liked the cold. It's a fact. Where there is ice, there is cold.

I think of Colby and the ice and the skates and the cold, but it is some time before I realize what triggered these specific memories. Yesterday I am in a store and a boy of about fourteen is in line ahead of me with his friend. Both boys have hockey skates slung over their shoulders and cold drinks and candy bars in their hands. "Good Lord," the boy says in reaction to a comment his friend makes.

I have not heard anyone say that since Colby passed. The way this boy said it was with exactly the same inflection that Colby used. In fact, until I heard it, I had forgotten Colby often said that. Now I wonder, more then eight months after my son has passed, what else I have forgotten, will forget. I ponder that for a time and finally decide that I will forget some things. Many things. It's called being human and I have to be okay with that.

What is important is that I never forget the essence of Colby, who he was at his core, what he stood for. While I have a lot of worries, that is one thing I know I do not need to stress over, either now or at any time in the future. And, having one less thing to worry about is always a good thing.

Car

Colby's car has been sitting on my back patio for over a year. It doesn't run. Colby had forgotten to put oil in it and the engine is bad. I also cannot find the keys to it. Not sure I ever had them. There are are still piles and piles of his stuff in his room and in the basement. It is possible the keys are there. Somewhere.

The car has become a fixture on the patio. The dog sits under it when it is cold and wet outside and the neighbor's cat sits on top of it when it is sunny. Still, it accomplishes no other purpose than that. I need to get rid of it. Colby liked Pull-A-Part, a place where you can walk through rows of junked cars and pull parts from them (for a small fee) or sometimes get things left inside the cars, such as CDs and clothes, and you can get those for free. The car, I think, should go there.

I call AAA, but towing to a junk yard is not part of their emergency road service. So I call other tow services and am shocked at the prices. I spend half a day doing this, then frustrated, throw up my hands. I try to do with Colby's things as he would have wanted me to, but this is not working out with the car and Pull-A-Part. I throw up my hands and ask Colby, out loud, what I should do with the car.

An hour later I get an email from a friend of Colby's who asks if I still have the car. He offers to buy it so he can restore it. He has the knowledge to do so, but I will not let him purchase the car. Instead, I give it to him. I see how pleased he is with the car and I am very happy about it, too. We both believe that this is what Colby wanted.

The car is now gone, awaiting repairs from Colby's friend. The dog has found a new spot under a patio chair and the neighbor's cat sits on top.

Stress

The process of grieving is tiring. I wake up every morning exhausted and wish I could take a day, or two, and just stay under the covers. Stay in bed where I can sleep, rest, where I can restore my energy, revive myself for the coming day of grieving. But I can't. I have work I must do. I get up feeling so tired that I must have the flu, mustn't I? But I don't. I just have grief.

Grief for one's child is ever present. I round a corner or see a flash of something that triggers a memory and even though I am engrossed in something else, the grief comes flooding back in. You never know when it will overcome your being, so you are always on edge, always getting ready to prepare for the avalanche of emotion, of loss. I never feel relaxed. I am afraid that if I do, the grief will choose that specific moment to overtake me and I will never find my way out of it. I am still shell-shocked with loss. It has been eight months.

Doctors have long recognized that stress can trigger illnesses. Dr. Richard Rahe, an expert on stress-related illness, developed a test to rate events that can cause stress. The higher your score, the greater risk of stress-related illness. The Rahe Test is also used to determine disease susceptibility. A score of 150 or less means you have a 37% chance of becoming seriously ill. Between 150 to 300, risk jumps to 51%. Over 300 and there is an 80% chance of serious illness in the next two years.

The death of a child is the single biggest stressor on the list. My score was 559. That in itself is stressful. Plus, due to pre-existing conditions, current health insurance guidelines deem many parts of my body (other than accidents) un-insurable. You know, I think I will just go back to bed.

Easter

Ugg. Today I go grocery shopping. I just put the last item into my cart and round a corner. There smack in front of me is a display of Easter candy. My heart stops, my stomach sinks to my knees and I begin to cry. This will be the first Easter in 25 years that I have not made an Easter basket for Colby.

Each year I went to special lengths to create a basket for him that was a mix of candy, toys and a special surprise. I put a lot of thought into it and always tried to out-do the basket from the year before. When Colby became a teen, he began making a basket for me. Of course we had to hide the baskets from each other. It was fun on Easter morning to try to find our basket, and hope that the dog or cat had not gotten to it first!

Some of Colby's more memorable hiding places were behind the toilet in the spare bathroom, in the mailbox, under a bucket in the basement, and in the clothes dryer. Now, staring at the display, I realize I will never make my son another Easter basket, and I will never receive another from him.

Easter has suddenly become another day that I dread, just like Thanksgiving, Christmas, New Year's, Mother's Day, my birthday, his birthday, and a host of other days I wish would just get get wiped off the face of the Earth so I didn't have to deal with them. Another day I have to avoid in weeks leading up to it because the cutesy ads and decorations are a harsh reminder that Colby is gone. Another day that other people get to enjoy with their family and I get to sit in a corner and cry.

I realize I can't face going through the checkout line. I leave my groceries in the cart in the middle of the aisle and sit in the truck until the shaking has stopped enough so I can drive home. I hate Easter.

Papers

Today I go through a mountain of papers. Why do I never throw anything away? One filing cabinet is filled with medical records, insurance forms; and correspondence between myself, and doctors, and the aforementioned insurance companies. The files start with Colby's upper respiratory infections and strep, and move to asthma (age 3) and to his sulfa allergy. That happened when he was five. Colby was prescribed a sulfa drug for strep and became partially paralyzed from the waist down. That was a little scary. Fortunately the effects only lasted about five days.

Then we move to depression (age 8), anxiety and behavior difficulties in school (age 10), the diagnosis of dysgraphia, a learning difference that affects writing, math calculation, organization and knot tying (age 11). At 12 there were panic attacks and at 15, anorexia (yes, boys get that, too). There was also mood disorder at 15 and that's when the long-term hospital stays began. A week here, ten days there, a month, four months. From 17 to 18 he rallied some, was on regular meds, had good medical care. Then the diagnosis of schizophrenia and the cancellation of not just his insurance policy, but the closing of the entire division of that insurance company.

Now I see the applications for new insurance and all the rejection letters. There are a ton of them, one from every major insurance carrier in the state, and they all say variations of the same thing. "Due to pre-existing conditions . . ." "Because of extensive hospital stays . . ." "Considering the mental instability . . ." "Because of the . . ."

After that I find receipts where I paid out of pocket for what I could. The amount of money spent is staggering. But it wasn't enough. I could not afford the more expensive testing they wanted to do, the hospital stays, and because of this Colby's mental state deteriorated. I couldn't get him to go to the dentist, to walk into the doctor's office. If I had known then what the future held I would have sold my house, lived in the truck, done anything. Anything . . .

I keep some of the papers, throw most of them away. The papers fill a large trash can and clean out the majority of the filing cabinet.  I refill the space with Colby's autopsy report, findings from the attorney who looked into his death, and information from his celebration of life. The drawer is, once again, full.

Two

Colby as Fred Flintstone

When Colby was about two he became enamored with Fred Flintstone. He loved watching the cartoon, insisted that I call him Fred, began carrying a stick over his shoulder (better that than Fred's prehistoric club), and whenever he was excited, yelled "Yabba-doo! Yabba-doo!" and ran around in tight circles. This was before Colby got quite so verbal, when he still often missed the middle syllable, or other letters in a word. "Bye, baby" became "By-be," "Spaghetti" became "ghetti bites," and "horses" became "hores" (be sure to say that one out loud).

That spring Colby would have been two-and-a-half, and I had a reporting assignment to cover the Iroquois Steeplechase at Nashville's Percy Warner Park. I was holding Colby in my arms at the edge of the infield, near the finish line facing the box seats, when the winner of the most recent race stopped for a photo. We were immediately surrounded by Nashville's Belle Meade nobility who also showed up for the photo. Imagine my horror when Colby pointed at the horse (and also in the direction of all the nice ladies in their spring hats in the box seats) and shouted, "Hores! Hores! Yabba-doo! Hores!"

But that wasn't my biggest challenge. "Britches" became "bitches" (no need for loud verbalization on that one), "apple juice" became "ap ju," and "McDonald's" became "Donald's House." In fact, Colby became so obsessed with McDonald's (second only to the fabulous Fred) that I had to plan our outings so that we didn't go anywhere near McDonald's. That was no easy feat even twenty-some years ago. It made going to the grocery store or running an errand and adventure in planning and I found some very interesting detours through apartment parking lots and alleys that kept us away from Donald.

The allure of McDonald's was not the food, although he later did actually eat there. No, it was the attached playground that he loved. No other playground would do. Even though each McDonald's playground was different, he knew it was affiliated with his beloved Donald. Once, just once, we went to a McDonald's that didn't have a playground. That was not a fun day.

While I would give both my arms (and more) in a heartbeat to be able to share these memories with Colby, I am grateful that I have any memories at all. Through my support groups I hear of so many parents who have lost, infants, babies, young toddlers. They will never have memories like these with those children. Most, have, or will have, other children, but the parents of these babies who left us early will always wonder what they would have liked, who they would have become enamored with, and what their special joys were. While 23 years was not nearly enough, I am forever and eternally grateful for them.

Statistics

As many of you know, my son Colby had several mental illnesses and passed from a drug overdose. So many people focus on the drug issue and yes, it was a big factor. But what most people do not realize is that a good percentage of drug users also have either a diagnosed or an undiagnosed mental illness such as depression, bi-polarism, panic disorder, etc. Here are a few interesting statistics from a presentation by Don McVinney, MSSW, M.Phil., ACSW, C-CATODSW, CASAC at a recent Harm Reduction Psychotherapy and the Treatment of Dual Disorders Northern California -Kaiser Permanente Conference:

37% of alcohol abusers and 53% of drug users also have at least one serious mental illness

Of all people diagnosed with a mental illness, 29% abuse either alcohol or drugs

As many as 50% of the mentally ill population are reported to have a substantial substance abuse problem

Axis I Disorders: (mood, anxiety, psychotic disorders) are 4 times more prevalent among alcoholics than non-alcoholics

Mood Disorders alone are two times more prevalent among alcoholics

Axis II Personality Disorders: (paranoia, schizophrenia, antisocial, etc,) are diagnosed in 65% of opiate addicts

Colby had diagnoses of depression, anxiety, panic disorder, paranoia, and schizophrenia. Yes, he died of a heroin overdose. But, so many people do not consider mental illness as a reason for drug use. Not all drug users are mentally ill, but you can see by the statistics that a good number of them are. Mental illness has such a stigma. Would people think differently of someone if, rather than a drug overdose, they had passed from a heart illness, or a liver illness? Sadly, I think they would. The difference is that a heart ailment or a liver ailment usually does not cause people to behave differently. A mental ailment does.

I mention this in the hopes that those of you who have loved ones who have a mental illness will keep a closer eye on them. I mention this in the hopes that those of you who are medical professionals will consider that the patient who presents as a drug user is using because he or she is mentally ill. And, I hope those of you who work in health insurance will consider that many, not all, but many, of the people who are either mentally ill or addicted can be helped if you will only offer them health care coverage. Give them a year, rather than 28 days, to recover in the knowledge that many of these people can be (and want to be) productive menbers of society. 

People who are recovering from cancer or from heart surgery typically have more than 28 days to recover. So please offer that same courtesy to those who are addicted and mentally ill.

Absence

I have been absent from this blog for a few days. Thank you to all who have checked in. I have needed your love and support. It has been a very rough week.

Grieving parents who are ahead of me on this journey tell me that at some point around the first anniversary of their child's death, the shock begins to wear off and that's when the grieving process really begins. Even though it has only been a little over seven months, I believe I am at that stage. Colby's loss has been hitting me so much harder than ever before, on a much deeper level. For several days all I could do was sit curled up in a corner and cry. That is not like me. Before, most days I could function on some level. Recently, I have not been able to do that.

But the good news is that today, and for the past few days, the grief has been a little softer, a little easier. And when the harder grief returns hopefully I will be more prepared. I have conquered Round 1, and am ready for Round 2.

To those who have recently asked, "Aren't you over that yet?" I say NO. I do not believe parents "get over" the loss of a child. Nor do any of my counselors or parents in my local or online support group. We learn to live with it. We learn to function with a new normal. Losing a child is completely different than losing a parent or a spouse or a sibling. I do not discount the impact those losses have on people. They are huge. But the parent/child bond is different, and I hope none of you ever have to experience this kind of loss.

So for those who have asked me to events, to lunch, to parties, to receptions. Thank you. I appreciate you thinking about me, for wanting to include me. But I am not yet ready. It is still too much. I have this carefully constructed life that allows me to function (most days) but if I step out of my routine, then my world once again falls apart. Someday I will be ready. I hope that someday is soon. But if it is not, I know that eventually, it will  arrive.

Reform

Health care reform is in the news. It's an ongoing topic, has been for months, and is polarizing. I've written about this before so I won't rehash the details, but I do have to say two things:

1. Many people are under the perception that if you are uninsured and go to a hospital that the hospital has to treat you. That is not true in practice. Twice I took my suicidal son to an emergency room and they weighed him, took his blood pressure, and his temperature. Then we waited in a waiting room for two hours so they could hand us a piece of paper that referred us to agencies we had exhausted months prior. That is how our hospitals "treated" my son. Six weeks later he was dead.

2. Others think that all Americans already have access to health care. This is also not true. As a teen, Colby was on a state insurance plan that I paid for because I was self-employed. Then that program was shut down due to lack of state funding. Because Colby had existing and extensive mental illness diagnoses, no other insurance program would cover him. By the time he was homeless and qualified for Medicaid, he was so paranoid I could not get him to a doctor.

I do not understand why all Americans cannot have access to health care. I believe that if Colby had medical care that there is a chance he would be here today. There is a chance that he could have led a productive life and fulfilled his dream of making the world a better place. There is a chance that I would someday have grandchildren. There is a chance that I would not have to grow old without any family.

All I ask our lawmakers in Washington is that whatever deal they strike, whatever language they finalize, whatever clauses they add, the end result is that no other American parent will suffer the anguish of not being able to get his or her son or daughter the medical attention they need.