Writings

I try to pinpoint what I miss most about Colby. It is everything. Absolutely everything. But one of many specific things I miss is conversation with him. Colby was a wonderful conversationalist. I miss that. I miss talking to him. I miss hearing his thoughts, his viewpoints, his ideas. In the absence of speech, I have bits and pieces of his writing. Colby was not a writer like I am. Instead, he was a poet, a lyricist, a songwriter. But his writings are a glimpse into his inner soul, for he only wrote about what truly mattered to him.

Instead of using one notebook, Colby had the habit of writing down lines for poems, thoughts, and songs on pieces of scrap paper, or a page or two of many notebooks. Over the past months I have found a number of these bits of writing. I have seen many of them before, but some are new to me. The writings remind me who Colby was at his core, and they keep his thoughts and beliefs fresh in my mind. For example:

Even if I make a mil

I’ll still buy my clothes at Goodwill

Those simple words remind me of Colby’s dedication to recycling, of using something completely and not throwing it away if it still had some life, or in this case some wear, left in it. Colby felt we use too many of our natural resources and do not value enough what the Earth provides. In that, I believe he was right.

Society is in rapid decay

With the crime rate soaring

People are running wild

Greed, power, food additives

A giant corporation

Controls every aspect of

Society from war to entertainment

To organ transplants

Everything is polluted

Life has never been cheaper

Like the lines above, much of Colby’s writing was about unfairness, injustice, and problems in our society. Colby was about valuing human life, finding meaning in our days, and living a life filled with natural products. Someday I will compile his thoughts, his written words. We can all find something of value in them, some thing to think about. But for now I will continue to search for and save them, and revel in each new find.

Tired

I am so tired. Granted, I had a busy week, but it is more than that. It is the tiredness of grief. I want to sleep for a month, or two, or maybe even for a year. This is not depression tiredness, but the exhaustion of my soul. I listen to counselors, to experts, to other parents who have lost a child, or in some cases, have lost children. One thing is common to them all: each believes there is no right or wrong way to grieve. We each have an individual path to follow and we have to do what is right for us.

My problem is that I don't know what that is. Do I give in to the exhaustion and sleep for a week? I have much to do and am already behind. Will I catch up if I am rested? Will the rest even restore my energy or will I forever stagnate in this exhaustion? Is this tiredness the normal tiredness of grief or is there something more going on? If I do rest, will I ever get back on track? Or, will I lose focus entirely and not be able to find the slippery traction of my path?

The thought of finding an answer to these questions is so mind boggling to me that I can't begin to sort it all out. I miss Colby so much. Every time I breathe, every time I turn around, everything I do. He should be here, yet he is not. Many grieving parents say the second year is worse than the first. The shock wears off and the "real" grieving begins. If that is true, how can I possibly put one foot in front of the other and finish this first year, much yet the second, and the third and the fourth? The only thing I know is that I have to. Somehow I have to because this is what my life is now, and I have no other choice than to continue on. Other grieving parents find a way. If they can do it, I can do it, too.

Pity

Since Colby passed I do not attend many public events. This is for many reasons. A big one is that a lot of people moving around, along with several conversations going on at once, is still hard for my brain to process. I am overwhelmed with all the sensory input and become very anxious. This is a good sign that I am still reeling from Colby's passing. I am doing better, but have a long way to go. Someone in one of my support groups said it well in that grieving parents never "get over" or "get past" the death of their child, they just learn how to cope with it. I am still learning.

But another reason I do not attend events is that I do not want to see the pity on people's faces when they are confronted with me. People do not know what to do with me now that I am a grieving parent. People feel they cannot talk about kids or family or holidays or memories or the future because I no longer have any of that and it will upset me, so there is nothing left to talk about. I am, it seems, a great conversation stopper.

I do not want anyone's pity. I do not want to be treated like a fragile individual, even though in many ways that is exactly what I am. If a conversation bothers me, and yes, sometimes some conversations do, I will find something else to do, someone else to talk to. This is my problem, not everyone else's. My feelings are still raw, my emotions are still on a huge roller coaster. These are my issues to work through and pity from others serves no purpose.

Someday I will be able to handle the moving people and the varied conversations. It may not be today or tomorrow or even six months from now. But someday I will. Not treating me with pity will help speed this along.

Caves

When Colby was six and seven we went with his cub scout group to stay overnight at Cumberland Caverns, a large cave system in Middle Tennessee. Each year we went, Colby was the youngest in the group and the route our guide took us on was quite ambitious. We scaled steep rock walls, crawled through long narrow tunnels, and jumped over wide crevasses––and Colby loved every minute of it. Colby kept up with the older boys (the eight and nine year olds) just fine and the experience gave him a life-long interest in caves.

In caving, he and I both learned that it is important to have three sources of light with you at all times. Because, when your light goes out there is a blackness like you have never experienced. It is an inky, thick, overwhelming darkness that seeps into your pores. It is not necessarily a terrifying blackness, but it certainly is a colorless void that I learned to respect.

Grief for a child is like the blackness of the caves. It is ever present and becomes part of you. It is a thick, fluid presence that never goes away. Sometimes it is a little less dark, a little less thick, but always, it is there. I wish I could express in words how profoundly Colby's passing has affected me, how completely the death of any child affects his or her parents, but I have not yet been able to wrap my brain around that. Perhaps I never will.

What I can say, however, is that I hope very much that anyone who has living parents who reads this will be careful with their lives. We humans take chances with our lives every time we step into the street, ride in a car, or take a pill. I want to say, yes, it can happen to you. You can be the one who is in a car accident. You can be the one who is in a house fire, or drown in a pool. I would not wish the pain of a child's death on my worst enemy, so please be careful with your lives. Please be aware of what is going on around you. Please think before you act. Please do not put another mom or dad through the darkness that so many of us grieving parents live with every day.

Depression

There is a difference between grief and depression. Grief is the normal process of reacting to loss and can include anger, guilt, sadness, anxiety, despair, and other problems. Depression interferes with the ability to work, sleep, eat, and enjoy once-pleasurable activities.

Those who are grieving can also be depressed, and those who are depressed can be grieving, although that is not always the case. But, the line is fine. I know that since Colby passed I waver on both sides of the line. My grief is all encompassing and based on medical information and other parents who have lost a child, I know it is not likely to ever go away. Over time it may soften, but now, on some days, the grief is so heavy I know there is more going on. On those days, depression beckons.

Colby was depressed for much of his life and began seeing a counselor for grief and depression when he was eight. His grief was due to the loss of his beloved dog, Dexter, who died of old age. After a time his grief went away. The depression did not. Colby's depression sometimes lifted, but even when it didn't most days he was able to smile over his pain. I admired him for that, because he tried so hard to not let his depression interfere with the lives of those around him. For years we tried various treatments. For him, nothing worked. For both of us, that was frustrating and sad.

While I grieve for Colby, there is also grief for other losses in my life. Just about everyone my age has experienced multiple losses and for me they are all tied up together in a big tangled knot that I fear I will never unravel. One counselor said the reason my compounded grief and loss has not spun me into  depression is because it has prepared me for the years I have ahead, alone, without family. The counselor likened me to a warrior. That may all be true, but the last thing I feel like is a warrior, and the last thing I planned for my life was to spend the last half of it without family, even though that is the way things turned out.

I'd give anything if my grief was not a reality. If Colby's medical team had gotten a handle on his depression when he was eight or ten or even twelve years old, then maybe he would still be here, I would not be grieving and would still have a family to celebrate future milestones and holidays with. Or, maybe, the outcome would still be the same. One thing is for sure, there are no guarantees. That's why each of us should live life to it's fullest and enjoy what we can today, for neither grief or depression can change the past or the future.

Changes

Having a child die changes a parent in ways too countless to mention. I am not the same person I was before Colby passed and am still trying to find out who the "new me" is. One change is that I am more drawn to poetry than I was before. I have no idea why. Maybe it is that people send me poems I relate closely to, or that in my counseling sessions I find poets and poetry that become personal to me.

The following poem hits close to home because more than nine months after Colby passed many people are surprised that I am still grieving. They do not understand that most parents who lose children grieve for the rest of their lives. Life for them and for me will never be the same as it was "before," no matter how much we want it to be.

They Think I'm Fine and Over it
By Lyndie Sorenson © 2008

They think I'm fine and over it
Accepted that you died
But I live life with all this pain
And countless tears I've cried

I am forced to live with endless pain
That others can't accept
They think I'm fine and over it
Or that I'll soon forget

I want to scream from rooftops
Or silently just cry
I never will be over it
My God my child died!

It makes no sense to argue
My energy is low
So when they think I'm over it
I simply tell them No

I've become what they have wanted
A turtle in it's shell
Just keep my thought within myself
And never ever tell

I mask my life to others
To myself as well
For living every day on Earth
Is surely more like Hell

Simply put I won't get over it
Not better...stronger... fine
It is only that I've had no choice...
To live this life of mine

In loving memory of Joey and his heavenly buddies

Corners

I am being propelled very slowly down a long hallway. I am walking, but there is also an unseen force that keeps me walking. I am unable to stop. There are white linoleum tiles on the floor with yellow speckles, and cream colored walls. Every so often there is a brown, wooden door with a silver door handle, but each time I slow to open the door, I find it locked. Fluorescent lights brighten the hallway and overall, it is quite light. Behind me is a corner. There is another corner ahead of me. Sometimes when I look at the corner ahead is it a short distance away. Other times it is quite far.

I am afraid of the corner ahead of me. I have a lot of anxiety about it and whenever I think about rounding that corner I begin to tremble. I am not sure what is around the corner, but I believe it is something bad. Something terrible. I feel sick to my stomach but when I turn around to try to go back, I realize that around the corner I just came from is the worst thing that could ever happen to me. Whatever is around the next corner might be bad, but it cannot be as bad as the last corner.

Even though I now know the next corner will not be as bad as the last, I wonder if I am up for it. The last corner has damaged me. Badly. I am not whole. I am not strong. Even though the next corner will not be as bad as the last I am not convinced I will survive it.

Someone comes toward me. I cannot tell if the person is male or female, even when he/she slows to pass me. We do not speak, but I am given the idea that what is around the next corner might not be bad. That possibility still exists, but there is also a possibility that around the next corner is something quite pleasant. Something nice.

I find that concept hard to grasp, to believe. I am in a place where only bad things happen to me. How can something good be next? My anxiety grows but as I look at the next corner I see that it is now, again, quite far away. Whatever is around the corner, I will have time to prepare for it. But, I wonder how I can brace myself for both the good and the bad? My anxiety grows as I am slowly propelled toward the next corner, the next challenge of my life. I wake up, but am not sure I was dreaming.

Cookies

Nashville is cleaning up after our horrendous flood of last week. My friend and neighbor has made cookies, brownies, fudge, and bread to take to the flood victims in our area. Over the course of several days she graciously allows me to accompany her, and we drive up and down one devastated street after the other distributing her goodies to volunteers and victims alike. We hear one tragic story, and then another, and I realize yet again that we each walk our own versions of hell. I am not the only one suffering. I am not the only one who is going through challenging times. I am not the only one who has lost a child. Other people have unrecoverable losses, too.

As the days progress the piles of refuse in front of people's homes grow ever larger. Some piles completely obscure the house behind it. This is all these people have. Everything they own is in a ruined pile of stenchy slop in front of their house.

But as I look closer, as the horror of the miles of trash grow more distinct, I see the individuality, rather than the generic. There is a tall, narrow set of wire shelves. Over there are two dining room chairs that might be salvageable. There is a metal picture frame that is not too badly damaged. Across the street I see a set of slimy glass vases that look unbroken. Colby would have loved this.

I miss Colby every second of every day but even more so now, here, because Colby would have loved these piles of flooded trash. I can see him walking the streets, talking with the home owners and volunteers, pitching in to help pull a dresser through a door, and directing a car through a particularly narrow spot on the road. With the combination of helping others and finding free stuff that might could, maybe, someday, be cleaned and re-used, Colby would have been in his element.

As someone in my online support group recently wrote, we grieving parents miss seeing our kids grow and develop through the natural stages of life. Colby would have loved to open his own thrift store. I will never get to see him do that. I will never get to see him help these flood victims or turn twenty-five, have kids or grow old. But worst of all, Colby will never get to experience these things either. Not that he would have enjoyed the pain and suffering the flood victims are enduring, but he would have loved the aftermath, the helping, the process of rebuilding. And he so would have loved all the "stuff." Even if it was covered in flood slime.

Goodwill

I have given a lot of Colby's "stuff" to the Goodwill. The most recent load I took over the day before it began to rain here in Nashville. The day before the big flood began. This particular Goodwill was underwater for much of the flood and yesterday when I drove by workers were pulling bins of merchandise out to the sidewalk to dry out. Not much looks salvageable.

I see a big wire bin of stuffed animals and my heart leaps into my throat. One of the boxes I just dropped off had a number of Colby's hats and stuffed animals in it. Not his most favorite "stuffies," those I will always keep, but many stuffed toys he played with and loved greatly. Nine months after Colby passed I was ready for another child to love those toys. I was not ready to see them covered in mud and slime. But I had to know if these damaged toys had once belonged to my son.

I started digging through the bin. I know the Goodwill frequently redistributes donations to other stores. I so hoped that was the case here. The workers looked at me from time to time, but they were busy salvaging what they could so they did not pay too much attention to me. And besides, I was probably not the only crazy person they'd seen that day. I took every stuffed toy out of that bin and each gesture of mine was more frantic than the last. Colby's beloved toys could not be here, water logged and destroyed. They just couldn't. And . . . they weren't.

When I realized that I put the toys carefully back in the bin and sat down on the curb and cried with relief. I was not sure why the safety of his toys was so important to me. I had voluntarily given them away. Wanted to give them away. But, I realized, I did not want them thrown away. I wanted the love Colby had shown those animals to live on in the shining eyes of another child. And maybe they still will.

My hope is that the toys were moved to another store before the flood. That they are safe and dry. Hopefully most are already in the arms of another little boy or girl. I'd like to believe that--have to believe it. For the alternative, for me, is unthinkable.

Memorabilia

I watch news coverage about our recent flooding here in Nashville. So many have lost everything they own. Everything. Thinking about the deep loss hundreds, thousands of people are experiencing makes me feel shaky. It brings me back to the early days when Colby's loss was so fresh and new. That's a terrible place to be.

It also reminds me that in my quest to sort through Colby's "stuff" I need to make sure the important things––photos, legal and other important documents, treasured memorabilia––are kept in a safe place. This means a fireproof/waterproof box, along with copies of everything that is possible to copy in a separate safe location on a different property.

This is an important task not only for me to do, but for everyone to do. Our flood has certainly shown those of us here in Nashville that disaster can strike in an instant. In a few seconds, everything you have can be destroyed. I've lost my son, I don't need to lose my most treasured mementos of him, too.

In the past few days I have gone back to feeling quite overwhelmed and the thought of the time involved to organize these things that are so important to me makes me want to curl up into a little ball and hide. I go back to my mantra of breaking large jobs into small tasks. On the Internet I find many sites that recommend taking photos of treasured items and then storing those files on your computer and also on several back up discs that could be kept at another home or in a safe deposit box. I can do photos. One thing at a time. Having a plan always makes me feel better.

My thoughts and prayers to all victims of the Nashville flood.

Poetry

Someone sent me this poem today. I do not know the poet, but her words express my feelings exactly. I could not have said it better if I tried.

Silver Tears
by Louise Lagerman


And so it begins
Silver tears falling like soft rain
Cascading downward on it's sad journey
Arriving at my empty soul and shattered heart
The silver tears come because we are apart
I try to see the beauty in things
I yearn to be . . . near the warm sun
I listen for laughter and beauty
but the sliver tears just bide their time
for they know
that behind every smile
every warm embrace
The reality of you being gone
will let the silver tears escape
and so it begins

© Louise Lagerman

Floods

We have just gone through the worst flooding in Nashville's history. Are still going through it. Devastation everywhere. Too mind-boggling to describe, but if you are interested in learning more, the Tennessean and WSMV have photos and video. I am fortunate. My only inconvenience has been a lack of electricity and limited access to roads.

Today I drive to a few places where Colby and I used to hike. Most I cannot get to; the rest are completely underwater. I am saddened beyond belief at the destruction these flood waters have caused. Will cause. So many people have lost everything they own. I so wish Colby were here because he would jump right in to help. My son would be right out there in the middle of it all lending a hand, or a smile, or a pat on the back. I have seen many stories over the past few days of neighbor helping neighbor. Colby should have been one of them. I want to do this in his place, but I cannot. I have helped horses and other animals, have driven through raging flood waters to be sure they are fed, housed, dry. But I do not have the emotional strength to help stranded people. I wish I did. I really wish I did.

The flood has caused many to lose their lives and I am reminded that everyone is someone's son or daughter. So many new grieving parents. I am surprised by how much this affects me emotionally. I am again overwhelmed, unfocused, jittery. My stomach does continual flip-flops and I feel like I cannot breathe. I wish Colby were here. I so wish he were here. That's the only thing that will help. But that will never, ever, be.