I wake up today and it is the first day in the more than nine months that Colby has passed that I have not felt completely overwhelmed. This is the first day I feel as if I can breathe, that I have some mental clarity. This is not to say that I did not cry several times today. I did. And it's not to say that I am always capable of making decisions about day-to-day things. I'm not. But this is the first day that I feel those things could maybe be a possibility at some point in the future.
I have been so mentally and physically tired working 16 hours a day 7 days a week just to keep up with my regular work load and the sorting of Colby's things. Part of this is because I got about a month behind in my work during the time Colby passed, and also because I now work about 25 percent slower than I used to. My brain just cannot think as fast as it did before. It takes me much longer to make daily decisions such as what to wear, what to eat, how to organize my day. I have to consciously remember to do household chores and run errands, take care of myself. Some days I do better than others. Many days I do not do very well at all.
But today I feel almost relaxed. It's as if the vice that has such a tight grip on my heart, on all my internal organs, has loosened just a fraction of an inch. I feel quieter internally, more able to relax, although I would not say that I am anything near what anyone would consider relaxed. These are interesting feelings for me. I can't remember the last time I felt like I could breathe, that internally I was not running a thousand miles an hour inside myself. It feels good.
I don't believe this is a permanent state for me. I believe, expect, I will slip back into the tight, jittery, overload before I can emerge again for a slightly longer time. But that I can find my way out, even for a peek, is good. Now if I can get the swirling, sick feeling that I've been punched in the stomach, and the fog-like mush in my brain that makes me feel that I am slightly concussed to go away. That would be good, too.
Thursday, April 29, 2010
Tuesday, April 27, 2010
Tomatoes
I wasn't sure if I was going to plant a garden this year or not. That was yet another thing that Colby and I used to do together. Another place where there is a big, empty hole in my life. Each spring we'd look forward to choosing the plants, digging the holes, fertilizing, and then harvesting our crop. It makes me sad to think of experiencing all of that without him.
When we lived outside of Nashville we planted corn for a year or two, but our horse, Snoqualmie, always found a way to get out and eat it before we did. We tried watermelon and did well with those before we moved to the house I live in now. Melons apparently do not like the soil here.
Colby loved peppers, the hotter the better. A few years ago we planted habanero peppers. One day I added some to a pot of chili and then wiped my eye. I then had to crawl to the toilet so I could dunk my head in. The pain was excruciating. Then I called Colby who was down the road to come turn the stove off. My eyes were red and puffy for days. After that the habaneros were exclusively Colby's domain, those and the jalapenos, too.
Colby also loved growing zucchini, not necessarily to eat, but to see how big one would get. We took one of his zucchini to my mom's one summer. It was 42 inches long and had to ride in the back of the truck. He then spent the next few days seeing how far he could bat a baseball with it before it broke in two and he and my mom fed it to the raccoon family she takes care of.
We had the best success with tomatoes, though. One year we lived in a house that had a light pole in the side yard, next to the garden. With constant 24-hour light we had tomato plants that were 8 feet tall. Colby was five and pretended he was Jack in the Beanstalk as he climbed the tomato cages to pick the tomatoes. We always had enough fresh tomatoes to freeze and Colby loved adding them to spaghetti sauce, salsa, and the soups he'd make in the winter.
Yes, I debated planting a garden this year and eventually decided on just tomatoes. No peppers, zucchini, melons, cucumbers. wild onion, peas, beans, or herbs--all things we've grown in the past.Just tomatoes. It takes me several days, off and on, to prepare the plot and plant. Not because it is so much work, but because my tears keep getting in the way. Colby should be here to do this with me. It's the little things that mean so much, the little things that I remember and miss the most.
When we lived outside of Nashville we planted corn for a year or two, but our horse, Snoqualmie, always found a way to get out and eat it before we did. We tried watermelon and did well with those before we moved to the house I live in now. Melons apparently do not like the soil here.
Colby loved peppers, the hotter the better. A few years ago we planted habanero peppers. One day I added some to a pot of chili and then wiped my eye. I then had to crawl to the toilet so I could dunk my head in. The pain was excruciating. Then I called Colby who was down the road to come turn the stove off. My eyes were red and puffy for days. After that the habaneros were exclusively Colby's domain, those and the jalapenos, too.
Colby also loved growing zucchini, not necessarily to eat, but to see how big one would get. We took one of his zucchini to my mom's one summer. It was 42 inches long and had to ride in the back of the truck. He then spent the next few days seeing how far he could bat a baseball with it before it broke in two and he and my mom fed it to the raccoon family she takes care of.
We had the best success with tomatoes, though. One year we lived in a house that had a light pole in the side yard, next to the garden. With constant 24-hour light we had tomato plants that were 8 feet tall. Colby was five and pretended he was Jack in the Beanstalk as he climbed the tomato cages to pick the tomatoes. We always had enough fresh tomatoes to freeze and Colby loved adding them to spaghetti sauce, salsa, and the soups he'd make in the winter.
Yes, I debated planting a garden this year and eventually decided on just tomatoes. No peppers, zucchini, melons, cucumbers. wild onion, peas, beans, or herbs--all things we've grown in the past.Just tomatoes. It takes me several days, off and on, to prepare the plot and plant. Not because it is so much work, but because my tears keep getting in the way. Colby should be here to do this with me. It's the little things that mean so much, the little things that I remember and miss the most.
Monday, April 26, 2010
Hats
Colby loved hats. From the time he was a baby, he always had to have a hat on his head. When Colby was just a year old, my mother and I were in a department store at 100 Oaks Shopping Center here in Nashville. She was trying on raincoats and I turned around and Colby was gone. One second he was there, the next he was not. Colby was a baby who walked at 9 months, so by 12 months he was zooming along quite speedily.
Mom and I were frantic. I began calling Colby's name and the sales clerks at the store rushed around looking for him under racks and inside shelves. I was heading up an aisle when out of the corner of my eye I saw something fly through the air. I stopped and changed course. There Colby was in the middle of the ladies hat section standing in front of a mirror, a dozen or more hats strewn around him. He'd grab a delicate flowery or lacy hat off a rack, put it on his head, then giggle at himself in the mirror and fling the hat into the air. Fortunately, even though he had stomped on top of many of the hats and they were squashed out of shape, none was permanently damaged.
From then on, Colby wore every kind of hat he could get his hands on. Fireman hats, cowboy hats, Air Force captain hats, construction hats. For years Colby received a different kind of a hat on special occasions and today, as I am going through boxes in the basement I find the "hat" box. There they all are. The sailor hat, the miner's hat, the civil war style hat, the hobo hat. All of them. I hadn't expected to find them. They were in a box that was not marked, so when I opened it seeing the hats took my breath away. I had to stop, regroup, begin again to breathe.
I had saved many of Colby's things for his children. He so loved playing with items that were mine when I was young that I wanted to pass that along to his children. Of course, those children, my grandchildren, do not exist, will never exist. I am ready I think, to give some of the hats away so I divide the hats into two piles. In one pile are the hats that I remember him wearing the most. Those I will keep. For now. I convince myself that young children are waiting for the hats in the other pile. They need to go to the Goodwill. But before I box them up I take a picture of them, and then I sit on the floor and cry.
Mom and I were frantic. I began calling Colby's name and the sales clerks at the store rushed around looking for him under racks and inside shelves. I was heading up an aisle when out of the corner of my eye I saw something fly through the air. I stopped and changed course. There Colby was in the middle of the ladies hat section standing in front of a mirror, a dozen or more hats strewn around him. He'd grab a delicate flowery or lacy hat off a rack, put it on his head, then giggle at himself in the mirror and fling the hat into the air. Fortunately, even though he had stomped on top of many of the hats and they were squashed out of shape, none was permanently damaged.
From then on, Colby wore every kind of hat he could get his hands on. Fireman hats, cowboy hats, Air Force captain hats, construction hats. For years Colby received a different kind of a hat on special occasions and today, as I am going through boxes in the basement I find the "hat" box. There they all are. The sailor hat, the miner's hat, the civil war style hat, the hobo hat. All of them. I hadn't expected to find them. They were in a box that was not marked, so when I opened it seeing the hats took my breath away. I had to stop, regroup, begin again to breathe.
I had saved many of Colby's things for his children. He so loved playing with items that were mine when I was young that I wanted to pass that along to his children. Of course, those children, my grandchildren, do not exist, will never exist. I am ready I think, to give some of the hats away so I divide the hats into two piles. In one pile are the hats that I remember him wearing the most. Those I will keep. For now. I convince myself that young children are waiting for the hats in the other pile. They need to go to the Goodwill. But before I box them up I take a picture of them, and then I sit on the floor and cry.
Tuesday, April 20, 2010
Suicide
A friend who was very kind to me after Colby passed has taken his own life. It happened days ago, but I just today heard the news. I am devastated. I ache for his survivors. I did not know him or his family extremely well, but he was a kind person, he was kind to me in a time and place when he did not have to be, and we just do not have enough of those people in our world.
I do not know the details of what happened and I do not have to know. Anyone who takes his or her own life has troubles that feel to them so overwhelming that suicide seems the only choice. Sadly, my friend is not alone. According to the American Suicide Prevention Network, roughly 33,000 Americans die by suicide each year. That is one suicide every sixteen minutes, eighty-nine suicides a day. There are more than 800,000 suicide attempts in our country every year, and 24 percent of the general population has considered suicide at some time in his/her life. Those are high numbers.
But most, if not all, suicides can be prevented. The American Suicide Prevention Network also states that more than 60 percent of adolescents and 90 percent of adults who die by suicide have depression or another diagnosable mental or substance abuse disorder. According to several nationally representative studies, in any given year, about 5 to 7 percent of adults have a serious mental illness.
It is my belief that mental illness is the most overlooked issue in our health care system today. People are dying when they do not have to. My son was one of those people. Now I add a friend, a kind friend, to the list. So let's get over the stigma that depression, bi-polar disorder, panic disorder, anxiety, and all the other mental illnesses bring. Let's find a way to treat everyone who is mentally ill and keep our families whole. Let's stop the need for mind-numbing, overwhelming, never-ending grief.
Rest in peace, my friend. I will never forget your caring kindness.
I do not know the details of what happened and I do not have to know. Anyone who takes his or her own life has troubles that feel to them so overwhelming that suicide seems the only choice. Sadly, my friend is not alone. According to the American Suicide Prevention Network, roughly 33,000 Americans die by suicide each year. That is one suicide every sixteen minutes, eighty-nine suicides a day. There are more than 800,000 suicide attempts in our country every year, and 24 percent of the general population has considered suicide at some time in his/her life. Those are high numbers.
But most, if not all, suicides can be prevented. The American Suicide Prevention Network also states that more than 60 percent of adolescents and 90 percent of adults who die by suicide have depression or another diagnosable mental or substance abuse disorder. According to several nationally representative studies, in any given year, about 5 to 7 percent of adults have a serious mental illness.
It is my belief that mental illness is the most overlooked issue in our health care system today. People are dying when they do not have to. My son was one of those people. Now I add a friend, a kind friend, to the list. So let's get over the stigma that depression, bi-polar disorder, panic disorder, anxiety, and all the other mental illnesses bring. Let's find a way to treat everyone who is mentally ill and keep our families whole. Let's stop the need for mind-numbing, overwhelming, never-ending grief.
Rest in peace, my friend. I will never forget your caring kindness.
Mother's Day
I have been stressing about Mother's Day. This will be my first without Colby and I wondered to several people today what I should do to recognize the day. I asked for suggestions on how to get through it, because even though other holidays have been hard, I believe this will be the hardest one yet. Mother's Day. I can't tell you how shocked I was when someone actually said they didn't know why I was spending any effort worrying about it because, after all, I was no longer a mother. This was said kindly and earnestly, with no ill will, but still, it shattered me, even though they meant no harm.
I will always be Colby's mom. To deny that denies Colby, and he was far too kind and caring, intelligent and talented, a person to disrespect in such a way. Colby was and is and always will be my son. Without getting too deep into religion, philosophy or theology, I believe there is life after life here on Earth. Colby was my son, is my son, now and forever, and I am his mom.
People ask why I am not yet ready to return to a more public life, why I turn down invitations to parties, events, dinners with friends. This is exactly why. I never know when some well meaning person will say something that rocks my still very shaky world. And with every push, every teeter, I come closer to falling over an edge and I don't know how far the bottom is. Maybe I have already fallen over and am free falling into a bottomless abyss. I'd like to think not, but days like this, comments like the one I received today, make me wonder.
Someday I hope I can better handle such situations. Today, now, all I can do is cry.
I will always be Colby's mom. To deny that denies Colby, and he was far too kind and caring, intelligent and talented, a person to disrespect in such a way. Colby was and is and always will be my son. Without getting too deep into religion, philosophy or theology, I believe there is life after life here on Earth. Colby was my son, is my son, now and forever, and I am his mom.
People ask why I am not yet ready to return to a more public life, why I turn down invitations to parties, events, dinners with friends. This is exactly why. I never know when some well meaning person will say something that rocks my still very shaky world. And with every push, every teeter, I come closer to falling over an edge and I don't know how far the bottom is. Maybe I have already fallen over and am free falling into a bottomless abyss. I'd like to think not, but days like this, comments like the one I received today, make me wonder.
Someday I hope I can better handle such situations. Today, now, all I can do is cry.
Friday, April 16, 2010
Tremors
Colby with Abby (left) and Mom's dog, Rocky, (right)
Tremors. Little tremors shake up my carefully constructed world. Cracks spread around my life and I cannot glue them back together. It doesn't matter, I am way beyond trying. The latest tremor is that my mom's two-year-old dog, Rocky, has melanoma. She loves that dog. He is her reason for living, partially because Colby and I gave him to her Christmas before last.
Normally I could handle such news. Put a positive face on it. I'd research canine melanoma, find treatments and therapies. Now all I can do is sit on the couch and shake. I can't think. I want to throw up. Just how does a two-year-old, hairy, dark-skinned dog get melanoma anyway?
Skin cancer runs in our family, so I guess Rocky comes by it naturally. My mother has it. I have had it. I may have it again. That is one of the many things my current insurance will not cover because it is a pre-existing condition. The screening and testing is several thousand dollars and I can't afford it. I can't afford the dog's surgery either, but will find some way to pay for it.
Most people do not think of financial considerations when they think of grieving parents. Even if, like me, a parent does not take time off from work, things are processed lower, not as much gets done in a day. For me, lower productivity means lower wages. I feel the pinch. It has been eight months and I am still not back up to speed. I may never be.
I have spoken to, emailed with, many grieving parents who cannot work, even years after their children have passed. There is no focus, no organization in our brains. Simple things are forgotten. Mistakes are made. Many others, though, like me, try. We have no other option. I have work to do. Now. Today. It must be done, yet all I can do is hug my own dog, and cry.
Thursday, April 15, 2010
Breathing
Today I find that I am breathing in short little breaths. I realize I have been breathing this way for some time. I feel that if I took a deep breath I might blow away this carefully constructed world I have made for myself since Colby passed. Then I would fall apart. Again.
People comment on how well I am doing, how good I look. I can tell how relieved they are that they do not need to worry about me anymore; they can get back to their own lives, their own worries. This is okay by me because I do not want them to know how fragile I really am.
Masks. Many grieving parents I talk to say their life revolves around wearing masks. Here's the happy mask for the grandchild, the caring mask for a spouse who is also grieving. Here's the work mask, and the flat, stone-faced mask for the grocery store. We laugh, we function and some way some day we begin to do better. But that day is years down the road for me, and also for many of the grieving parents I know.
We are afraid to show the world who we really are these days not only because it makes others uncomfortable, but because if we allowed ourselves to be us, really us, maybe we couldn't function at all. So I breathe, in and out, shallowly, carefully, so as not to disturb the fragile threads that are my life.
People comment on how well I am doing, how good I look. I can tell how relieved they are that they do not need to worry about me anymore; they can get back to their own lives, their own worries. This is okay by me because I do not want them to know how fragile I really am.
Masks. Many grieving parents I talk to say their life revolves around wearing masks. Here's the happy mask for the grandchild, the caring mask for a spouse who is also grieving. Here's the work mask, and the flat, stone-faced mask for the grocery store. We laugh, we function and some way some day we begin to do better. But that day is years down the road for me, and also for many of the grieving parents I know.
We are afraid to show the world who we really are these days not only because it makes others uncomfortable, but because if we allowed ourselves to be us, really us, maybe we couldn't function at all. So I breathe, in and out, shallowly, carefully, so as not to disturb the fragile threads that are my life.
Tuesday, April 13, 2010
Evenings
The evenings are the toughest. This is the time when Colby was younger that we would spend together. Or when he was older, that he would call and we would talk. Colby was a great conversationalist. Even before he was a year old, when other babies were emitting sounds, syllables, Colby was babbling in paragraphs. He always had an opinion and something to say about it. I miss that.
When the phone rings in the evenings the first thought that still jumps into my mind is that it is about time for Colby to call. I am getting to the point that I now also remember that Colby is no longer here to call. Either way, it makes answering evening phone calls tough.
Evening is also the time my mind winds down. I keep it filled from my earliest waking moments, but sometime after the dinner hour thoughts of Colby creep in and I miss him, more each new day than the last. I am tired in the evenings, too tired to begin a new project that will keep my mind occupied, too tired to sleep. Restless.
I wander the house, picking objects up, then putting them back down. I try to distract myself with the Internet, television, a book, until I am so exhausted I can no longer think. The strategy rarely works. When I sleep it is for an hour or so, then I wake, remember that Colby is not here, wander the house some more, then sleep for another hour. This pattern repeats all night until six, or seven, when I can no longer bear it and I get up for the day, refreshed enough to jump into projects that will keep me busy until the next evening. The next night.
Parents who are ahead of me on this journey tell me it gets a little better. Usually between year two and three. The pain becomes "softer" then, they say. I am eight months into this. Two to three years seems a long way away. And when I get there, there are no guarantees.
A 2005 study in Denmark found an increased risk of hospitalization for mental illness for parents, particularly mothers, who have lost a child. The risk stayed elevated for five years after the child (of any age) had passed. I don't think that will be me, but I can see how easily that could be a reality for any grieving parent. I so wish that no parent ever had to bury a child.
When the phone rings in the evenings the first thought that still jumps into my mind is that it is about time for Colby to call. I am getting to the point that I now also remember that Colby is no longer here to call. Either way, it makes answering evening phone calls tough.
Evening is also the time my mind winds down. I keep it filled from my earliest waking moments, but sometime after the dinner hour thoughts of Colby creep in and I miss him, more each new day than the last. I am tired in the evenings, too tired to begin a new project that will keep my mind occupied, too tired to sleep. Restless.
I wander the house, picking objects up, then putting them back down. I try to distract myself with the Internet, television, a book, until I am so exhausted I can no longer think. The strategy rarely works. When I sleep it is for an hour or so, then I wake, remember that Colby is not here, wander the house some more, then sleep for another hour. This pattern repeats all night until six, or seven, when I can no longer bear it and I get up for the day, refreshed enough to jump into projects that will keep me busy until the next evening. The next night.
Parents who are ahead of me on this journey tell me it gets a little better. Usually between year two and three. The pain becomes "softer" then, they say. I am eight months into this. Two to three years seems a long way away. And when I get there, there are no guarantees.
A 2005 study in Denmark found an increased risk of hospitalization for mental illness for parents, particularly mothers, who have lost a child. The risk stayed elevated for five years after the child (of any age) had passed. I don't think that will be me, but I can see how easily that could be a reality for any grieving parent. I so wish that no parent ever had to bury a child.
Monday, April 12, 2010
Ragdolls
I see two piles of ragdolls. There must be a dozen or more in each pile. Each doll is seven or eight inches tall and is made of two pieces of material stuffed with rags and sewn together on the sides. The arms and legs of each doll are short and thick and each doll is made of a differently patterned red and white material.
Except for the dolls, which rest on a table that emits a soft red glow, I am surrounded by a misty, swirling blackness. I can see myself from about mid-thigh up. I can feel my feet and legs, but I cannot see them.
I gravitate toward the pile of dolls on the left. These dolls are well-loved. Their fabric is worn and the stitching has unraveled in places. I pick up one of the dolls and hold it, and I am overcome with emotion because I know that it provided generations of children joy and comfort.
Someone I know very well, yet am unfamiliar with, gently takes the doll from my hands and leads me to the pile of dolls on the right. These dolls are brand new. They are decorated with fine lace and bright, red jewels. Like the other dolls, each of these dolls is slightly different from the others.
I get the impression that I belong to this pile of dolls, that these are the dolls I am supposed to bond with. But I love the familiarity of the well-worn dolls and head back to those. Now several people I know very well, yet do not know, gently guide me back to the new pile. This is where you belong, they say without speaking any words. This is where you are supposed to be. The new dolls are lovely. They are breathtakingly beautiful, but I look longingly back at the old dolls. I am incredibly, heartbreakingly sad.
Then, as I turn back to the new pile I see Colby in the distance. He standing with his arms crossed on his chest and is leaning on something, a post maybe, to his left. I can't see what it is for it is shrouded in the black mist. Colby is dressed as I have seen him in other dreams: light blue jeans, white athletic shoes, light blue striped polo shirt. Colby gives me an encouraging nod and a smile before he fades into the swirling mist.
Reluctantly, I turn to the new pile of dolls, pick up a particularly beautiful bejeweled one, and begin to cry. The familiar people I do not know surround me. Everything, they say, will be okay. Is okay. Someday maybe I can believe them.
Except for the dolls, which rest on a table that emits a soft red glow, I am surrounded by a misty, swirling blackness. I can see myself from about mid-thigh up. I can feel my feet and legs, but I cannot see them.
I gravitate toward the pile of dolls on the left. These dolls are well-loved. Their fabric is worn and the stitching has unraveled in places. I pick up one of the dolls and hold it, and I am overcome with emotion because I know that it provided generations of children joy and comfort.
Someone I know very well, yet am unfamiliar with, gently takes the doll from my hands and leads me to the pile of dolls on the right. These dolls are brand new. They are decorated with fine lace and bright, red jewels. Like the other dolls, each of these dolls is slightly different from the others.
I get the impression that I belong to this pile of dolls, that these are the dolls I am supposed to bond with. But I love the familiarity of the well-worn dolls and head back to those. Now several people I know very well, yet do not know, gently guide me back to the new pile. This is where you belong, they say without speaking any words. This is where you are supposed to be. The new dolls are lovely. They are breathtakingly beautiful, but I look longingly back at the old dolls. I am incredibly, heartbreakingly sad.
Then, as I turn back to the new pile I see Colby in the distance. He standing with his arms crossed on his chest and is leaning on something, a post maybe, to his left. I can't see what it is for it is shrouded in the black mist. Colby is dressed as I have seen him in other dreams: light blue jeans, white athletic shoes, light blue striped polo shirt. Colby gives me an encouraging nod and a smile before he fades into the swirling mist.
Reluctantly, I turn to the new pile of dolls, pick up a particularly beautiful bejeweled one, and begin to cry. The familiar people I do not know surround me. Everything, they say, will be okay. Is okay. Someday maybe I can believe them.
Friday, April 9, 2010
Progress
I often wonder if I am making any progress in my grief. I wake up every morning shell shocked anew that my son is no longer here. The emptiness washes over me in waves. It still hurts. Badly. Sometimes I cannot breathe. Sometimes all I can do is cry. It has been more than eight months. How can I possibly get through the rest of my life like this?
A counselor suggests I not look at progress on a day-to-day level, but bi-annually. Am I doing better than I was six months ago? I think about that for a while. Here's what I come up with:
1. I am able to better care for myself now than six months ago. I eat and sleep more regularly. I remember to shower. I have gotten my hair cut (once).
2. The sick feeling, the knot, in the middle of my stomach is still there, but it is less intense. I do not feel 24/7 that I am going to vomit.
3. I can sometimes (but not always) tolerate being in a group of people without feeling completely disoriented and overwhelmed.
4. I still cry every day, but I cry less hard and less often than I did six months ago. And, I am sometimes able to talk about Colby without crying.
5. I have fewer meltdowns. Rather than several times a day, I now have them several times a week.
6. I am more ready now to let go of some of Colby's "stuff" than I was a few months ago.
7. My future alone in the world still terrifies me, but I am more able to focus and function on specific day-to-day activities, and less on my scary, unknown future.
I realize that while grief is often circular, rather than linear, I am making progress. I am not nearly where I want to be. It might turn out that I will never be where I want to be, but compared to six months ago I am making positive progress. If I continue in this direction, life six months from now has the possibility to be (somewhat) better than it is today.
I have not yet met or spoken to a grieving parent who has not had to learn to live with a "new normal." Everyone grieves differently and each of us has to find our way along this path ourselves. Even husbands and wives walk different paths here. I do not know if a parent who has lost a child ever comes to the end of this path, if this journey is ever over until we. too, pass on. But I can now see what while my journey here on Earth is forever changed, that I will have to endure more then enjoy for some time to come, that I will survive this––at least for as long as God planned for me to.
A counselor suggests I not look at progress on a day-to-day level, but bi-annually. Am I doing better than I was six months ago? I think about that for a while. Here's what I come up with:
1. I am able to better care for myself now than six months ago. I eat and sleep more regularly. I remember to shower. I have gotten my hair cut (once).
2. The sick feeling, the knot, in the middle of my stomach is still there, but it is less intense. I do not feel 24/7 that I am going to vomit.
3. I can sometimes (but not always) tolerate being in a group of people without feeling completely disoriented and overwhelmed.
4. I still cry every day, but I cry less hard and less often than I did six months ago. And, I am sometimes able to talk about Colby without crying.
5. I have fewer meltdowns. Rather than several times a day, I now have them several times a week.
6. I am more ready now to let go of some of Colby's "stuff" than I was a few months ago.
7. My future alone in the world still terrifies me, but I am more able to focus and function on specific day-to-day activities, and less on my scary, unknown future.
I realize that while grief is often circular, rather than linear, I am making progress. I am not nearly where I want to be. It might turn out that I will never be where I want to be, but compared to six months ago I am making positive progress. If I continue in this direction, life six months from now has the possibility to be (somewhat) better than it is today.
I have not yet met or spoken to a grieving parent who has not had to learn to live with a "new normal." Everyone grieves differently and each of us has to find our way along this path ourselves. Even husbands and wives walk different paths here. I do not know if a parent who has lost a child ever comes to the end of this path, if this journey is ever over until we. too, pass on. But I can now see what while my journey here on Earth is forever changed, that I will have to endure more then enjoy for some time to come, that I will survive this––at least for as long as God planned for me to.
Thursday, April 8, 2010
Dandelions
When Colby was young he loved to garden. He could not wait every spring until we made the pilgrimage to The Home Depot or Lowe's to choose vegetables and other plants for our garden. He especially loved to plant herbs: mint, spearmint, lemon verbena, etc.
One spring when Colby was about eight, my mother was visiting and noticed we had a lot of dandelions in our yard. She made him a deal. For every dandelion he dug up with roots attached, she would give him a dime. Mom thought this would keep Colby busy on a quiet weekend and help the yard at the same time. Just think if he dug up fifty plants, what a difference that would make in your yard, she said. That's also fifty fewer plants that will go to seed.
Imagine her surprise, and mine, when Colby spent the entire weekend digging up dandelions. He dug not just fifty, or even one hundred fifty. Colby dug up eleven hundred dandelion plants. Shows you the state my yard was in. Mom made good on her deal and paid Colby $110.
Every year since then, paid or not, Colby made it his job to dig up dandelions in the spring. Today as I look out in my yard I see a number of them and I am torn. I can't bear the thought of digging them up because that is another hard, cold, reality that Colby is not here. But I should not leave the dandelions to seed the yard, either. I know this is something I have to do, hard as it will be. I will bring a lot of Kleenex along with Colby's trowel. And I will do this for Colby, to honor the many years he did this for me.
One spring when Colby was about eight, my mother was visiting and noticed we had a lot of dandelions in our yard. She made him a deal. For every dandelion he dug up with roots attached, she would give him a dime. Mom thought this would keep Colby busy on a quiet weekend and help the yard at the same time. Just think if he dug up fifty plants, what a difference that would make in your yard, she said. That's also fifty fewer plants that will go to seed.
Imagine her surprise, and mine, when Colby spent the entire weekend digging up dandelions. He dug not just fifty, or even one hundred fifty. Colby dug up eleven hundred dandelion plants. Shows you the state my yard was in. Mom made good on her deal and paid Colby $110.
Every year since then, paid or not, Colby made it his job to dig up dandelions in the spring. Today as I look out in my yard I see a number of them and I am torn. I can't bear the thought of digging them up because that is another hard, cold, reality that Colby is not here. But I should not leave the dandelions to seed the yard, either. I know this is something I have to do, hard as it will be. I will bring a lot of Kleenex along with Colby's trowel. And I will do this for Colby, to honor the many years he did this for me.
Sunday, April 4, 2010
Floating
I sort through things. And more things. Packing up a life is hard, especially because packing up yesterday reminds me how fragile tomorrow is. For me, it is a very scary tomorrow that will be lived without family. As I pick each item up, inspect it, then carefully place it in either the "keep," the “give away,” or the "throw away" box, thousands of memories trickle in. Good memories and terrible ones, sad memories, memories filled with laughter, and memories that are, quite frankly, scary. I treasure them all. I think to myself: I can no longer hug Colby or blow him a kiss, but I can always love him. Whether it is wearing his necklace or walking his favorite trail, I will remember with every breath I take. He is my heart.
While saying good bye to Colby was hard, saying goodbye to the things we did together, to the moments when life was joyful is equally as hard. It is not only my son that I lost when Colby passed, it was my way of life. My future was turned upside down. My life will never be the same. I do not think that any of us ever know how much we are a part of others, a part of those we meet, of those we love. I wonder what anyone will remember of me? What will people remember of you? I ponder this and realize once again that every day we have the opportunity to impact someone in a positive way. We have the chance to help others, to make life better for those around us. Colby lived that philosophy every single day. A smile, a hug, a kind word, an errand of thoughtfulness. It meant everything at the time. It means even more now, to me and to others.
Boxes are now taped and hauled to the basement. Most of this group of things I have decided to keep. For now. I keep them because they trigger important memories, memories that keep me going, memories that help me stay strong enough to get through another hour, another day. I feel like I am drowning, but the memories pull me up and, for a little while, allow me to float.
While saying good bye to Colby was hard, saying goodbye to the things we did together, to the moments when life was joyful is equally as hard. It is not only my son that I lost when Colby passed, it was my way of life. My future was turned upside down. My life will never be the same. I do not think that any of us ever know how much we are a part of others, a part of those we meet, of those we love. I wonder what anyone will remember of me? What will people remember of you? I ponder this and realize once again that every day we have the opportunity to impact someone in a positive way. We have the chance to help others, to make life better for those around us. Colby lived that philosophy every single day. A smile, a hug, a kind word, an errand of thoughtfulness. It meant everything at the time. It means even more now, to me and to others.
Boxes are now taped and hauled to the basement. Most of this group of things I have decided to keep. For now. I keep them because they trigger important memories, memories that keep me going, memories that help me stay strong enough to get through another hour, another day. I feel like I am drowning, but the memories pull me up and, for a little while, allow me to float.
Saturday, April 3, 2010
Metrodome
I have been watching Spring training baseball. Our team, Colby's and mine, are the Minnesota Twins. This year the Twins have moved into a beautiful new outdoor stadium, but Colby and I liked the old Hubert H. Humphrey Metrodome with the fly balls that got lost in the white ceiling and the funky baggie in right field.
I first took Colby to a twins game when he was four. We sat above the third base dugout in July of that year watching such Twins greats as Kirby Puckett, Dan Gladden, Greg Gagne, and Brian Harper. Those men, along with Chicago catcher Carlton Fisk, went on to become baseball heroes for Colby. My baseball heroes: Harmon Killebrew, Tony Oliva, Rod Carew, Vida Blue, and Bert Blyleven also came from the Twins organization and I remember seeing them play when I was not too much older than Colby was then.
When Colby was younger, he was an outstanding young catcher. He was also a great hitter and outfielder. He first picked up a baseball bat (a plastic one) when he was eighteen months old and about didn't let go of one until he was a teenager. Even when his interest in playing waned, he always wanted to go see a game whenever we were in Minnesota. He stayed up on the players, the stats, and the standings. Colby's collection of baseball cards is extensive and he lovingly and carefully stored his most valuable cards. Some of the cards were mine when I was young. Those he especially treasured because somewhere along the way my heroes had also become his.
Even though we both were fans of the old stadium, I would love to share the experience of a ballgame with Colby in this new Twins ballpark. I'd love to sit above the dugout just one more time and debate the merits of the Twins farm team vs. the young Red Sox players. I'd like to think that wherever Colby is, that he can go to a game anytime he wants. I'd like to think he can sail above the bleachers along with the ball and visit the players in the locker room, which is something he always wanted to do. Maybe he and Kirby Puckett are up in the nosebleed section, eating popcorn and cheering. I hope so,
I'm not sure if I will ever attend an event in the new ballpark. I don't think I could get through the game without Colby in the chair next to me, mustard from his hot dog smeared across his face, rooting for the Twins. Someday, maybe. For now I will continue to watch. I'll monitor the team, and remember some wonderful times with my son. I am glad for the memories.
I first took Colby to a twins game when he was four. We sat above the third base dugout in July of that year watching such Twins greats as Kirby Puckett, Dan Gladden, Greg Gagne, and Brian Harper. Those men, along with Chicago catcher Carlton Fisk, went on to become baseball heroes for Colby. My baseball heroes: Harmon Killebrew, Tony Oliva, Rod Carew, Vida Blue, and Bert Blyleven also came from the Twins organization and I remember seeing them play when I was not too much older than Colby was then.
When Colby was younger, he was an outstanding young catcher. He was also a great hitter and outfielder. He first picked up a baseball bat (a plastic one) when he was eighteen months old and about didn't let go of one until he was a teenager. Even when his interest in playing waned, he always wanted to go see a game whenever we were in Minnesota. He stayed up on the players, the stats, and the standings. Colby's collection of baseball cards is extensive and he lovingly and carefully stored his most valuable cards. Some of the cards were mine when I was young. Those he especially treasured because somewhere along the way my heroes had also become his.
Even though we both were fans of the old stadium, I would love to share the experience of a ballgame with Colby in this new Twins ballpark. I'd love to sit above the dugout just one more time and debate the merits of the Twins farm team vs. the young Red Sox players. I'd like to think that wherever Colby is, that he can go to a game anytime he wants. I'd like to think he can sail above the bleachers along with the ball and visit the players in the locker room, which is something he always wanted to do. Maybe he and Kirby Puckett are up in the nosebleed section, eating popcorn and cheering. I hope so,
I'm not sure if I will ever attend an event in the new ballpark. I don't think I could get through the game without Colby in the chair next to me, mustard from his hot dog smeared across his face, rooting for the Twins. Someday, maybe. For now I will continue to watch. I'll monitor the team, and remember some wonderful times with my son. I am glad for the memories.
Friday, April 2, 2010
Generations
Today I go through old family papers. Colby was always fascinated with these old documents. His great-grandfather's Army discharge papers, property abstracts that date back more than 130 years, his great-grandmother's wedding announcement. Colby cared about these people and these documents. Now I wonder what I should do with them.
The things my mother and I were saving for Colby and his children sit on shelves, on table tops, and in boxes. Some are spread throughout my mother's home. Proudly displayed. Others stay carefully packed away in boxes. These are things that have been handed down from generation to generation, going back to my great-grandparents. there are even photos of my great-great grandparents. I, now, am the last of the line.
My mother says, yes, absolutely, I must hang on to them. She does not grasp the fact that after me, there is nothing. No one. If I do not do something with them, these treasured family heirlooms will end up in the trash. But I cannot think what to do. The concept is too big for me right now. An historical society maybe. But which one? Ebay is another possibility. Some people will buy anything. I'd give the things away if I knew it meant something to someone. Too many decisions. Too many things.
My counselors tell me not to look too far ahead, to live in the moment, to take one day at a time. But if I do not make plans for these items that meant so much to our family, no one will. And to have them thrown away would be the biggest disrespect I could show those who came before me. Another dilemma to save for another day. But I cannot wait too long. If/when something happens to me, there must be a plan in place.
The things my mother and I were saving for Colby and his children sit on shelves, on table tops, and in boxes. Some are spread throughout my mother's home. Proudly displayed. Others stay carefully packed away in boxes. These are things that have been handed down from generation to generation, going back to my great-grandparents. there are even photos of my great-great grandparents. I, now, am the last of the line.
My mother says, yes, absolutely, I must hang on to them. She does not grasp the fact that after me, there is nothing. No one. If I do not do something with them, these treasured family heirlooms will end up in the trash. But I cannot think what to do. The concept is too big for me right now. An historical society maybe. But which one? Ebay is another possibility. Some people will buy anything. I'd give the things away if I knew it meant something to someone. Too many decisions. Too many things.
My counselors tell me not to look too far ahead, to live in the moment, to take one day at a time. But if I do not make plans for these items that meant so much to our family, no one will. And to have them thrown away would be the biggest disrespect I could show those who came before me. Another dilemma to save for another day. But I cannot wait too long. If/when something happens to me, there must be a plan in place.
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