Exciting new research from The Children's Hospital of Philadelphia indicates a very close tie between ADHD, autism and schizophrenia. The tie-in has to do with similar mutations on chromosome 16. I have mentioned before that since Colby passed I have found numerous relatives on my side of the family who had schizophrenia and I fully believe there is a genetic component.
This new finding is another step forward in learning more about the human brain and mental illnesses, including schizophrenia. Someday, I hope, there will be definitive genetic markers that will help diagnose schizophrenia, as well as medications to better treat it.
For more information, follow this link to the article: http://psychcentral.com/news/2010/05/11/genetics-similar-for-adhd-autism-schizophrenia/13704.html
Wednesday, September 29, 2010
Sunday, September 26, 2010
Scars
We all have scars. Some of us have very visible scars from accidents and others of us have internal scars from wounds incurred by life experiences. Colbby had a scar on his tongue that he got when he fell down when he was not yet two. I remember there was blood everywhere, but the ER doc I talked to assured me that tongues do bleed a lot and that it probably would be fine. And it was.
Another external scar Colby had was on his thumb. He was opening a can of dog food when he was about eight and ended up with a ton of stitches. The worst part of that incident was that it was right at the beginning of baseball season and he missed most of the games that year.
But, like a lot of us, Colby had many internal scars: the counselors who did not adequately diagnose him, the doctors who turned their professional backs, the teachers who not only didn't believe in him but actively and intentionally were unhelpful. And then there is me. I know I caused some of Colby's scars, just as all parents unintentionally disappoint their children from time to time.
Colby's internal scars were big and heavy and ugly and he couldn't carry them without help. Even though many of his friends and I tried, the devastating reality is that we could not get Colby the help he needed.
Like Colby, I too have scars. In addition to the usual accumulation of life scars, my biggest scar is that of a grieving parent. One surviving son of a parent in one of my support groups likened this kind of grief, this kind of scar, to a broken leg that didn't heal right. End result: you learn to live with the limp. That analogy is so accurate because I feel as if I am now limping through life. I will still end up at the same place at the end, but it will be a slower, more painful and difficult journey than it would be if Colby were still here.
Another external scar Colby had was on his thumb. He was opening a can of dog food when he was about eight and ended up with a ton of stitches. The worst part of that incident was that it was right at the beginning of baseball season and he missed most of the games that year.
But, like a lot of us, Colby had many internal scars: the counselors who did not adequately diagnose him, the doctors who turned their professional backs, the teachers who not only didn't believe in him but actively and intentionally were unhelpful. And then there is me. I know I caused some of Colby's scars, just as all parents unintentionally disappoint their children from time to time.
Colby's internal scars were big and heavy and ugly and he couldn't carry them without help. Even though many of his friends and I tried, the devastating reality is that we could not get Colby the help he needed.
Like Colby, I too have scars. In addition to the usual accumulation of life scars, my biggest scar is that of a grieving parent. One surviving son of a parent in one of my support groups likened this kind of grief, this kind of scar, to a broken leg that didn't heal right. End result: you learn to live with the limp. That analogy is so accurate because I feel as if I am now limping through life. I will still end up at the same place at the end, but it will be a slower, more painful and difficult journey than it would be if Colby were still here.
Friday, September 24, 2010
Integration
Integration is a word I hear a lot in my grief sessions and from my therapy friends. In this context it means that grieving parents must learn to integrate their grief into their new lives without their children. With many other kinds of grief, the grief is short term and the person moves on. Not so with grieving parents. Their grief is for life.
This is not to say that the parent is stuck at the same level of grief or at the same point of their life. Instead, grief moves with you, becomes a part of you, is integrated into your life. Here, grief is a moving, fluid thing that becomes part of you.
The hard part of all of this for me, and probably for all parents, is to integrate something I do not want, something I never asked for. It's like being tied to a big, black, heavy ball and chain and having to lug it around . . . forever. The pain of carrying this big, heavy ball is so big, so deep, that at times it feels as if a series of Exacto knives are being twisted around my insides. Sometimes the pain is more bearable and then at the oddest moments I am doubled over in agony. That level of grief can last for days.
So many grieving parents have told me that it will get better over time and I do believe them. And, while my heavy ball will always be with me, over time I will also have integrated it well enough into my life that it seems lighter. It will become more manageable because I am more used to it. At least, that is what I hope for.
This is not to say that the parent is stuck at the same level of grief or at the same point of their life. Instead, grief moves with you, becomes a part of you, is integrated into your life. Here, grief is a moving, fluid thing that becomes part of you.
The hard part of all of this for me, and probably for all parents, is to integrate something I do not want, something I never asked for. It's like being tied to a big, black, heavy ball and chain and having to lug it around . . . forever. The pain of carrying this big, heavy ball is so big, so deep, that at times it feels as if a series of Exacto knives are being twisted around my insides. Sometimes the pain is more bearable and then at the oddest moments I am doubled over in agony. That level of grief can last for days.
So many grieving parents have told me that it will get better over time and I do believe them. And, while my heavy ball will always be with me, over time I will also have integrated it well enough into my life that it seems lighter. It will become more manageable because I am more used to it. At least, that is what I hope for.
Thursday, September 23, 2010
Birthday
Colby's 25th birthday is (would be) a week from today. I have found that if I become anxious in days leading up to a special event such as this I get through the day fairly well. If not, then I am a mess the entire day, and in the days that follow the big day. It's too early to tell which way this day will go. If I had a choice, I'd prefer the anxious days ahead of Colby's birthday. Not that there isn't anxiety in all my days now. There is, but "special days" make it worse. Then again, if I had a choice, I'd prefer to take Colby to the restaurant of his choice for dinner.
When Colby was a child, he had birthday parties at home where the kids would ride our horse, Snoqualmie. Or, we'd go to Chuck-E-Cheese, or play miniature golf. Colby was really into miniature golf there for a while. As he got older his interest in miniature golf spurred the idea that he could whack golf balls from our front yard, across the road and into the playground of the school yard beyond. I was terrified that he'd smash a ball into a car, or even worse, a driver, so I stopped him whenever I found him enjoying that particular activity. He never did hit anything, though . . . that I am aware of.
It is hard for me to imagine Colby at twenty-five, even though he was almost twenty-four when he passed. On his birthday it will have been fourteen months and five days since he's been gone. I often wonder how Colby would be different today than fourteen months ago? What would his latest interest be? What new topic would bring about passionate conversation? While I miss everything about him, I miss our conversations the most. We spoke almost every day and he always said something that made me look at people or the world in a different way. I miss that and hate that with his passing I now look at the world through a thick, gray filter. I wish that gray-ish view was a choice. I wish I could alter it, but it is a permanent presence that, for now, is unchanging.
I will do something to honor Colby on his birthday. Maybe on his birth hour of 1:12 p.m. I am not yet sure what that will be, so I hope "some thing" will turn into a "specific thing" between now and then. I still think it is terribly sad that our world keeps parents here without their children. I wish I lived in a world where parents were always the ones to go first. I wish no parent had to continue on without his or her child.
When Colby was a child, he had birthday parties at home where the kids would ride our horse, Snoqualmie. Or, we'd go to Chuck-E-Cheese, or play miniature golf. Colby was really into miniature golf there for a while. As he got older his interest in miniature golf spurred the idea that he could whack golf balls from our front yard, across the road and into the playground of the school yard beyond. I was terrified that he'd smash a ball into a car, or even worse, a driver, so I stopped him whenever I found him enjoying that particular activity. He never did hit anything, though . . . that I am aware of.
It is hard for me to imagine Colby at twenty-five, even though he was almost twenty-four when he passed. On his birthday it will have been fourteen months and five days since he's been gone. I often wonder how Colby would be different today than fourteen months ago? What would his latest interest be? What new topic would bring about passionate conversation? While I miss everything about him, I miss our conversations the most. We spoke almost every day and he always said something that made me look at people or the world in a different way. I miss that and hate that with his passing I now look at the world through a thick, gray filter. I wish that gray-ish view was a choice. I wish I could alter it, but it is a permanent presence that, for now, is unchanging.
I will do something to honor Colby on his birthday. Maybe on his birth hour of 1:12 p.m. I am not yet sure what that will be, so I hope "some thing" will turn into a "specific thing" between now and then. I still think it is terribly sad that our world keeps parents here without their children. I wish I lived in a world where parents were always the ones to go first. I wish no parent had to continue on without his or her child.
Wednesday, September 22, 2010
Layers
It has been a month since I have written anything, probably a lifetime record for me. I have never not been able to write, so this has been a new experience. Thank you to all who have called or emailed to check on me. I appreciate you beyond words.
I have to admit, it has been a rough haul since the first anniversary of Colby's passing. There were so many thoughts and feelings and emotions swirling through my body and I couldn't grasp on to any of them. Some days I couldn't get out of bed. Some days I absolutely could not function.
Over time, what slowly began to emerge from that swirling mass was a visible layer of grief. Think of your body as a vibrant container of color. Maybe today your right knee is a bright blue and your head is a vivid yellow and your right arm is a brilliant orange. Every body part has a beautiful color and together all those colors make up you.
Now place a transparent layer of dark gray over each one of those colors. You can still see the yellow and blue and orange, but they are muted. This is the new you, more subdued, slower, heavier, grayer. The horror begins when you realize that this layer of gray will be with you forever. In years to come the gray may become lighter, it may become more transparent, but it will always be there. It is an entwined, integral part of who you are. Forever.
I hate the color gray.
I have to admit, it has been a rough haul since the first anniversary of Colby's passing. There were so many thoughts and feelings and emotions swirling through my body and I couldn't grasp on to any of them. Some days I couldn't get out of bed. Some days I absolutely could not function.
Over time, what slowly began to emerge from that swirling mass was a visible layer of grief. Think of your body as a vibrant container of color. Maybe today your right knee is a bright blue and your head is a vivid yellow and your right arm is a brilliant orange. Every body part has a beautiful color and together all those colors make up you.
Now place a transparent layer of dark gray over each one of those colors. You can still see the yellow and blue and orange, but they are muted. This is the new you, more subdued, slower, heavier, grayer. The horror begins when you realize that this layer of gray will be with you forever. In years to come the gray may become lighter, it may become more transparent, but it will always be there. It is an entwined, integral part of who you are. Forever.
I hate the color gray.
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