Christmas

Today I remember Christmases past. I remember the year Colby was fifteen months old and kicked Santa Claus. The year he was a little more than two and was afraid to sled down my mom's slightly sloping driveway. We made snow angels instead. I remember the year he was three and got the choo choo train and the drum he had been asking for all year, every day, since the Christmas he was two.

By Colby's fourth Christmas he and my mom and I were sledding down the bigger hill in her yard like pros. That was also the year he begged to go to the dinosaur exhibit at the Minnesota Science Museum, then screamed when he saw the first dinosaur and refused to go in. By age eight Colby had graduated to sledding the hills at the local golf course and by age ten he was beginning to snowboard. We built snow forts and snow men (and snow women and dogs) and had a number of snowball fights.

In between the snow, there were trips to other museums, art exhibits, plays, concerts, restaurants, and lots and lots of movies. And board games. Colby always won at Michigan Rummy. And there were always projects Mom needed done. Colby fixed the gate to the downstairs when he was about twelve and it still works. He re-hung closet doors, helped clean out those same closets, and learned to drive on snow.

When Colby was maybe nine, he and Mom and I made cardboard swords and decorated them glitter, beads, and bits of sparkly fabric from my old skating costumes. He made cookies with the neighbor behind us and we went for winter walks in the neighboring woods. He and I checked out the neighbor's houses from the front by walking on the frozen lake, being sure to stay close to the shoreline. We snuggled during blizzards, went to church, and drove around in the evenings and looked at Christmas lights.

I am so grateful for these wonderful memories. Christmas will never be the same without Colby, without family. I struggle with this new reality, in finding my place in holiday doings and the family gatherings of others. For now I ignore them. Colby's loss is still too fresh, too painful. Someday, maybe, the holidays will mean something to me once again. In the meantime I am blessed to have had wonderful Christmases past.

Snowflakes

I sit here and watch it snow and think life is like a series of snowflakes. Every day life gives us challenges and each one of those challenges can be considered the equivalent of a snowflake. Individually, a snowflake weighs almost nothing and individually, most challenges can be met. But when the snowflakes and challenges build up, then life becomes extremely hard.

Colby had many challenges in his life. Like all of us, some were of his own doing, many others were just what life dealt him. Over time, the weight of all those many snowflakes built up, first blanketing Colby in them, then suffocating him with their weight. At the end, Colby was buried under a huge drift of snow.

My job now is to find a way to rid myself of my own deep layer of snowflakes. If I melt them, they compact and turn to ice, which is even heavier than the snow. If I pull globs of snow away from me, it leaves huge gaping raw spots that may not heal. Best to brush the snow off a little at a time, I think, and try to dodge any new flakes headed my way. How to do that, I am not yet sure, but every day I will brush and dodge until the weight of my individual snowflakes is once again manageable.

Letter

RECENT DEAR ABBY LETTER

PARENTS WHO LOST A DAUGHTER ARE NOW IN A DIFFERENT PLACE

DEAR ABBY:

My beautiful 20-year-old daughter was killed in a car accident. I am writing this not only for myself, but for all parents who have lost a child, and to all of the wonderful people who asked, "What can I do for you?"

At the time there wasn't much anyone could do to help, but after two years I have an answer: Accept me for who I am now.

When Rachel came into my life, it changed me profoundly. Losing her did the same. Her father and I work hard to honor her memory, but we will never "get over it" to the degree of being who we were before. I am different now. In some ways -- I think -- better. I am kinder, more patient, more appreciative of small things, but I am not as outgoing nor as quick to laugh.

I know people mean well when they encourage me to get on with my life, but this is my life.

My priorities have changed. My expectations of what my future will hold have changed. Please extend to me again the offer of "anything I can do" and, please, accept me as I am now.
 
-- DIFFERENT NOW IN RIVERVIEW, FLA.

DEAR DIFFERENT NOW:

Please accept my profound sympathy for the tragic loss of your daughter.

I hope that your letter will help anyone who doesn't understand that the death of a child is the most devastating loss parents can suffer and that the experience is life-changing. They may get beyond it, but they never get "over" it.

To expect that they would is unrealistic, because it's a wound that may become less visible but never goes away.

Stars

I dream of Colby. It has been a long time since I dream of him so vividly. Months. Many months. In the dream Colby tells me that when he was here on Earth the brain in his body was wired differently than other people's brains. He saw the world through different eyes. I explain to him about schizophrenia and he says yes, that was his brain. He wants people to know that he was very smart. He is afraid people will remember him as dumb when in fact his brain was light years ahead of most of ours. He just could not cope with the differences in his brain, which were hereditary. I tell him that I was aware of Colby's intelligence, as was everyone who knew him. He is relieved.

Colby then says he likes the blue star. I have to think about that, about what he means. Then it dawns on me that the logo for Colby's Army, the nonprofit organization founded to finish the work here on Earth that Colby could not, is in the shape of a blue star. I had not considered it a star before. It was simply a shape that Colby drew over and over again when he was small. But it is. It is a star. And it is blue.

Then Colby says he loved the tree his friends and I planted in his memory. He tells me he was there that day, that he was the one who put the idea of the tree planting in my mind. Colby wants to know if we intentionally got a tree related to the goddess Artemis. After I wake up I look that up and find that Artemis is affiliated with the cypress tree. The tree we planted for Colby was a Leyland Cypress.

Colby also shares with me that my life theme is to be a peace bringer, that I am to help people look at the world through different glasses, to open their minds to ideas that are different that what they might currently perceive. He says he will help me in this and that he is here with me often.

Then Colby tells me he is curious about his death. He says he does not remember much about it other than he just fell asleep and there were beams of light and angels around him. When the angels asked him to go with them, he went. He is very happy where he is now. He says he can see the big picture and is pleased about what will come in the future for people on Earth.

Before the dream ends Colby becomes very excited and jumps up and down. He tells me I will write a book with someone who is very famous and the book will do very well. He won't tell me who the famous person is even though he knows. He wants it to be a surprise and says it will be a big one.

Colby has to go, he says. It takes a lot of his energy to visit me in this way. But he wants me to know that he loves me and is proud of me. We hug and I feel his presence intensely. When I wake up I have a sense of peace . . . and a purpose.

Rivers

A counselor shares a river metaphor with me. We are all floating down the river of life. Some of us are floating in the luxury of a huge yacht or the pleasure of a big party boat. Some of us are on a barge or a pontoon, others are in speed boats, or flowing down the river in a sailboat. I am in a kayak.

This is actually good news. For the first year or so after Colby's passing I was swimming, some days I was just treading water to stay afloat. Now I have a kayak. While my journey right now is very much a solo journey, I have the luxury of some direction. I can wield my paddle to direct the kayak toward the shoreline, where I can stop and rest for as long as I need to. I can float alongside a cabin cruiser or a barge filled with friends if I choose. In my kayak, I can sometimes see the rapids ahead and choose the easiest path through them. Then again, sometimes I come upon the rapids in the darkest of nights and am fully at their mercy.

Throughout our lives we can switch boats. While I grew up on a pontoon, for many years Colby and I were in a rowboat. I manned the oars of that boat alone for many years, but as Colby got older, he was able to spell me often. When he passed away, our rowboat sunk and I was left adrift.

I have a goal. I want to trade my kayak for a canoe. Canoes are easier to handle, drier, often slower, and it is easier to get your bearings in them. Plus, they are not so physically exhausting to manage. In my canoe, I can arrange my thoughts, my feelings, my goals, my plans. It is too cramped in the kayak to do that. Someday soon, I hope to find my canoe. In the meantime, I will continue to paddle down the river and learn to portage around the waterfalls that are sure to lie ahead.

Busy

I stay busy. Too busy. Intentionally busy. Necessarily busy. I stay up late creating more and more work so I do not have that few minutes of down time between putting my head on the pillow and sleep. Those are dangerous few minutes. Those are the minutes where the tears are most likely to come, where the anxiety is most likely to rise. Where the panic begins. So I stay busy.

Of course problems arise, eventually, because no one can keep up a pace like that forever. My body betrays me in its protest. Exhaustion, aches, pains, lack of focus ensue. I must slow down. I must. It is hard. So hard.

In those few minutes between pillow time and sleep, minutes that stretch longer and longer the less exhausted I am, I vow to return to my mantra: "What would Colby want?" How would he like me to live the rest of my life? What would he want me to do? Where would Colby like me to place my focus? If Colby could come back and live through me, what would be important to him?

I know exhaustion is not one of the things he would wish for me. Nor would he wish me pain or sadness. What he would wish me is a life filled with creativity, horses, writing, and helping others. And down time, relaxation, time to enjoy life's little pleasures. That is a goal for me. It is no where near a reality. I have to learn to sit quietly without panicking inside, without  despair overtaking my entire being, without the empty ache that has become a black hole inside me.

I sit for one minute a day. Quietly. Sometimes. Hoping I can soon learn to be comfortable with two minutes. Or, three. Maybe. Someday.