Earthquake

When I learned Colby had passed it was as if an earthquake flattened my world. My center of balance had been yanked out from underneath me and when I fell I had no idea where I would land. I am still not sure. I have not yet found my balance. Some moments I do better than others and when a challenge, an aftershock, presents itself, all I can do is hold on. Sometimes I find myself flat on the floor again, wondering how in the world I am going to get up.

Today I have a little aftershock and I do not handle it well. Then I think of all the Haiti survivors. When they learned a loved one had passed they did not have a comfortable home to retreat to. They did not have electricity, running water, food, shelter, clean clothes, the Internet. They did not have any of the comforts of home. no photos to remember loved ones by. No momentos. No remembrances of lost loved ones. Nothing. Most do not have phones. Many learned of multiple losses when they themselves were injured. I was fortunate. I did not have the panic of trying to find a loved one who was missing. I did not have to suffer in agony while waiting for medical care. While my pain is excruciating, theirs is unimaginable. Yet they are managing to go on.

You can help ease the suffering of the people of Haiti by making a $10 donation. Just text HAITI to 90999. The charge will be added to your next phone bill. If we all sent $10, which most can afford, we can ensure that adequate medical supplies, food and water are available. While Haiti is a long way away, the next major earthquake could hit our hometowns. The next one could affect us profoundly.

Labor

Today is Labor Day. It's a hard day for me because it is the first "holiday" without Colby. Traditionally, Colby and I drove around Nashville sometime on Labor Day weekend and visited all the places we once lived. There are eight former homes spread from Kingston Springs (about 20 miles west of Nashville) into Nashville itself. The drive usually took an entire afternoon and we'd always stop somewhere and eat, sharing memories of the various houses and events that took place in them.

All weekend I debated making the drive myself and finally I decide I am not ready. I'd feel Colby's loss too painfully. I'd cry the entire time. I realize that with Colby gone I have no one to share these memories with and I cry anyway. The crying gives way to irritation, with me, with life, with nothing in particular, so I go into my backyard and begin pulling down vines that have engulfed the line of trees at the back of the lot. Since Colby passed, I haven't done much yard work and I pull vines with vengeance. Vines down, I attack branches with clippers and saw, then spot clumps of iris that need dividing, so I dig. Finally, I hack several low gardening stools together from some scrap wood and paint them. By this time it is long past dark.

Now I sit and write. I try not to shake because after the shaking comes the crying. I take deep breaths and concentrate on the letters that appear on the screen. I must stay busy; I must not think. I am grateful that today's holiday is a small one. It was good practice for Colby's birthday (September 30), and the bigger holidays coming up this fall: Thanksgiving and Christmas. I must plan major projects for those days. Big projects with lots of physical labor that will take me from sunrise to the day's end. I hear that the first holidays are the worst. I got through this one. Somehow I will get through the rest.

Sense

I am restless today. Unfocused. It takes me more than two hours to get dressed and out the door. I can't find the right clothes, then I lose my socks and purse. I leave water running in the shower for 20 minutes and when I finally get in the truck, I can't remember where I am supposed to go.

I sit through several meetings, there in body but not in mind. I have trouble in groups. So many voices to focus on, expressions to read. So many happy, trivial people that I can no longer relate to. I make my best effort, which, I fear, is not effort enough. I used to be a very focused person. I could keep detailed "to do" lists in my head. I not only never never missed an appointment, I was never late. In fact, Colby frequently commented that I was "way too organized."

After the meetings, at home, I feel an urgent need to be active so I gather trimmers, saw and clippers and head to a hedge on the side of the yard that is overgrown with scrub trees, weeds and vines. I pull weeds with increasing frenzy, hack blindly at vines, and cut off bigger branches than my saw was designed for. I quickly amass a large pile of brush that I haul to the edge of the road. Metro Nashville will eventually pick it all up.

After, exhausted, I read email after email from my grieving parent's online support group. There are hundreds of parents here. All of us have lost children. All of us are lost. On days like today, when life doesn't seem to make any sense, I turn to these people who, like me, are overcome with grief. By email I comfort, commiserate, sympathize, recognize and support. This, I think to myself, is the only productive thing I've done all day. Sadly, it's the only thing that makes any sense. None of us should have to belong to this group. None of us should be here.

Generosity

The generosity of others amazes me. This morning, members of the Belleview Masonic Lodge rise before dawn to prepare a benefit pancake breakfast in Colby's memory. More than 100 people come by and I have the chance to chat with several long-time friends. We share a few smiles and a few more tears. The meal is excellent and I hope that those in Nashville who read this will support other functions of this organization. They are kind and great people.

Tonight Colby's friends gather to share music and love in his memory. I go early and thank them all for being Colby's friend, for loving him, and for gathering this evening to remember him. Colby would be a little embarrassed at the attention, but also very, very pleased.

Today reminds me that there really is only one important thing in life and that is the people we love. I think as a whole that we do not appreciate enough those who are closest to us. Those people we love and care about really are irreplaceable. Daily life often gets in the way of what is important, and I hope Colby's passing gives everyone who reads this blog the incentive to cherish and hold tight those who are closest to them. I was fortunate. Colby and I always said "I love you" to each other. I'd give anything to let him know how much I really meant it.

Bills

Another bill collector called today regarding a debt of Colby's. Why do they not believe me when I say he has passed away? Why do they have to be belligerent? Rude? Angry, aggressive, threatening? This latest one even called me a liar. The stress of losing a child is enough. I don't need to be called a liar on top of it. Why do they laugh when I offer to send them a copy of Colby's death certificate?

This bill collector will not tell me who he represents. He will not tell me how much the bill is for. He insists he speak to Colby. I tell him again that Colby has passed away, that Colby was homeless. I tell him Colby left no estate, nothing of value other than personal mementos that are only of importance to his friends and to me. I offer to get him the number of the Medical Examiner's office, of the mortuary. The man threatens me with police action and hangs up. The whole situation upsets me so much I begin to shake and have to sit down.