Comfort

I dream of Colby, which I have not done for more than a month. We are in a house. There are lots of people here, people who are all part of a family, Colby's family. There must be more than thirty people on the ground level, all of whom love and adore Colby, and he them.

Colby shows me around the spacious rooms, then we walk out the back door into a beautiful garden. The garden and its wondrous flowers give way to a meadow and Colby and I walk through it.

"I want to stay here with you," I say. "It is too hard without you."

Colby tells me that is not possible, that good things are coming my way. Soon. He says he is with me most of the time, that he is helping create these good things. His life, he says, was complete. He learned all he needed to know and it was his time to go. Now he helps me, helps Colby's Army.

As we walk, Colby is on my left. Unlike other dreams where he wears a light blue short sleeved dress shirt or a light polo shirt, this time he has on a brown long sleeved T-shirt. The light blue jeans and white athletic shoes are the same. He drapes his right arm around me as we walk and pulls me tight. I feel his touch, feel him supporting me as we walk.  I am awake now, aren't I? I think I am.

I turn to Colby, but he is gone. I look at the tall green grass of the meadow. There are snow-capped mountains in the far distance. The sun is bright and the sky is a soft blue, but it is not hot. Nor is it cold. There is a lake to my far right. I turn to walk back to the house and realize I am standing next to my bed.

That morning I am presented with three wonderful career opportunities. I feel Colby's arm draped around my shoulder as I accept each one.

Letters

Today I find a letter I wrote to Colby. It was a letter he never read, a letter I had never given him because I wrote it in case I passed away suddenly. It was to be my final words of encouragement to him, something for him to read after I passed on, never thinking that something that tragic would happen to either of us for decades. But just in case, years ago I tucked the letter into a corner of a drawer and in it I told Colby how much I loved him and that I would always watch over him. How, I think now, is that possible when Colby passed before me? How can I watch over him and care for him when he is no longer here?

Some might say that there is no need for me to do either of those things because Colby is now well cared for in heaven. I believe that is true, but as a grieving parent of an only child, my need to be a mom to my son didn't die along with him. That urge to care for him is still here. It is a unique position we grievers of only children are in. When our child passed, so did our role as a parent.

I find in addition to grieving for Colby, I grieve for my role as a mom. I grieve for the grandchildren I will never have. I grieve for the in-laws I will never meet, the weddings and birthdays and christenings and graduations I will never attend, and school plays I will never see. I grieve for what could have been, but will never be. I grieve for Colby, for my lost role as a mom, and for me.

The grief brings home to me that the loss of every person in its own way alters the course of the universe. There is all the love that will never be realized, the children who will never be born, the events that will never take place. It is very sad, all that loss. There is much to grieve for, and a lifetime of loss to contemplate.

Safety

We all want and need to feel that our world is safe, and I recently realized that I have not felt safe since Colby was born. Colby's lungs collapsed at birth and he had many upper respiratory issues as a young child. Even though I had a room monitor, several times I woke up to hear Colby gasping for air, struggling to breathe, turning blue. I don't believe I've slept deeply since then.

At three Colby was diagnosed with asthma, at age eight with depression, and on and on. There was always something, or several somethings, that made me believe that if I slept, deeply, something terrible would happen that I could have prevented, had I been awake. Turns out I could not prevent the worst thing that could ever possibly happen.

Close to twenty-five years of sleepless nights became a habit, and old habits die hard. I still don't sleep because I cannot find that sense of peace, of safety. I still wake up every hour and check the door to be sure it is locked. I check that the lights are tuned off. I check the floor to be sure a glass hasn't flown off the shelf by itself and broken, scattering bits of glass I might step on. This is not normal behavior. I know this even as I check, one more time.

This is not a scary, fearful feeling of being unsafe, rather it is the feeling that I left something important undone. It does not take a rocket scientist to figure out that because I could not save Colby that I am now overcompensating. This is yet another part of grief, another part of the process grieving parents experience. I am told my feelings, my behavior, are not unusual. Grief for parents who have lost a child is a lifelong process, and this is part of that process.

Now that I understand, I find if I talk to myself I can sometimes talk myself out of jumping up yet again to check something. I can calm my rising anxiety and ward off another frightening panic attack. And sometimes, I can reassure myself that my world is safe, even though it will never, ever, be right or whole again.

Events

I frequently get the comment, "But you always used to . . .." You can then fill in the blank: Go to the movies, attend business receptions, frequent favorite restaurants. The list is actually quite long. Many things I did regularly before Colby passed away I no longer do and there are several reasons for that.

One is that since Colby passed I have developed, not a sensory processing disorder, but something similar to that. Lots of sights and sounds, lots of people milling about, snatches of many different conversations, all overwhelm me. I can't think, can't breathe, can't focus. It is all too much. This apparently, while not common, is not unusual when someone is struck with devastating grief. It can last for years.

Another reason is that it takes me longer to do the things I do every day. I am not sure why that is but it takes more focus, more energy, to get my daily tasks done. The result is I am continually behind and when I catch up, I am physically and mentally exhausted.

When I decline an invitation I do hope the person extending it does not feel I am ejecting them or their event. That is not my intention. It is not how I feel. I recently read a great article by another grieving parent on CNN.com. I hope you'll check it out. The author is very eloquent in his grief, even though, for him, eleven years have passed. Grief is definitely a journey, but right now, today, I am not sure there is a destination.

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

Relief

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

Family

Easter is just a few days away. It is another holiday I plan to ignore. But that is hard to do. Like Thanksgiving and Christmas, Easter is a time that is filled with references to family in newspapers, television, and radio. Even billboards and retail stores are filled with references to the holiday. Holidays, however, are for families. For those of us without, they are hard. The memories are bittersweet because there is no family left to enjoy holidays with. Ever. The years loom bleakly ahead.

Then again maybe my grief is just too new. Maybe holidays will get better. Maybe I can establish new traditions on my own. Maybe. I do understand that family is who and what you make it. Families these days do not have to biologically related to you. I think, though, when your life expectations of having children and grandchildren are suddenly taken from you, that the adjustment is harder than if you never had those expectations at all.

I try. I try to smile when other people talk of their families, their siblings, and kids and nieces and nephews. I try not to cry. This issue is, after all, mine. I do not harbor grudges for the joy others have. I am happy for them. Being sad for me is a separate issue and I am glad I can make the distinction.

I never expected life to be so hard. So grueling. I know this is what life must have been like for Colby, living with untreated mental illness. He felt so bleak about the future, about any possibilities of positive happenings, of success. Yet he managed to smile. He was able to be happy for others. I can do the same. I just have to dig deeper, try harder. And I will. Somehow. I will.

Easter

Ugg. Today I go grocery shopping. I just put the last item into my cart and round a corner. There smack in front of me is a display of Easter candy. My heart stops, my stomach sinks to my knees and I begin to cry. This will be the first Easter in 25 years that I have not made an Easter basket for Colby.

Each year I went to special lengths to create a basket for him that was a mix of candy, toys and a special surprise. I put a lot of thought into it and always tried to out-do the basket from the year before. When Colby became a teen, he began making a basket for me. Of course we had to hide the baskets from each other. It was fun on Easter morning to try to find our basket, and hope that the dog or cat had not gotten to it first!

Some of Colby's more memorable hiding places were behind the toilet in the spare bathroom, in the mailbox, under a bucket in the basement, and in the clothes dryer. Now, staring at the display, I realize I will never make my son another Easter basket, and I will never receive another from him.

Easter has suddenly become another day that I dread, just like Thanksgiving, Christmas, New Year's, Mother's Day, my birthday, his birthday, and a host of other days I wish would just get get wiped off the face of the Earth so I didn't have to deal with them. Another day I have to avoid in weeks leading up to it because the cutesy ads and decorations are a harsh reminder that Colby is gone. Another day that other people get to enjoy with their family and I get to sit in a corner and cry.

I realize I can't face going through the checkout line. I leave my groceries in the cart in the middle of the aisle and sit in the truck until the shaking has stopped enough so I can drive home. I hate Easter.

Two

Colby as Fred Flintstone

When Colby was about two he became enamored with Fred Flintstone. He loved watching the cartoon, insisted that I call him Fred, began carrying a stick over his shoulder (better that than Fred's prehistoric club), and whenever he was excited, yelled "Yabba-doo! Yabba-doo!" and ran around in tight circles. This was before Colby got quite so verbal, when he still often missed the middle syllable, or other letters in a word. "Bye, baby" became "By-be," "Spaghetti" became "ghetti bites," and "horses" became "hores" (be sure to say that one out loud).

That spring Colby would have been two-and-a-half, and I had a reporting assignment to cover the Iroquois Steeplechase at Nashville's Percy Warner Park. I was holding Colby in my arms at the edge of the infield, near the finish line facing the box seats, when the winner of the most recent race stopped for a photo. We were immediately surrounded by Nashville's Belle Meade nobility who also showed up for the photo. Imagine my horror when Colby pointed at the horse (and also in the direction of all the nice ladies in their spring hats in the box seats) and shouted, "Hores! Hores! Yabba-doo! Hores!"

But that wasn't my biggest challenge. "Britches" became "bitches" (no need for loud verbalization on that one), "apple juice" became "ap ju," and "McDonald's" became "Donald's House." In fact, Colby became so obsessed with McDonald's (second only to the fabulous Fred) that I had to plan our outings so that we didn't go anywhere near McDonald's. That was no easy feat even twenty-some years ago. It made going to the grocery store or running an errand and adventure in planning and I found some very interesting detours through apartment parking lots and alleys that kept us away from Donald.

The allure of McDonald's was not the food, although he later did actually eat there. No, it was the attached playground that he loved. No other playground would do. Even though each McDonald's playground was different, he knew it was affiliated with his beloved Donald. Once, just once, we went to a McDonald's that didn't have a playground. That was not a fun day.

While I would give both my arms (and more) in a heartbeat to be able to share these memories with Colby, I am grateful that I have any memories at all. Through my support groups I hear of so many parents who have lost, infants, babies, young toddlers. They will never have memories like these with those children. Most, have, or will have, other children, but the parents of these babies who left us early will always wonder what they would have liked, who they would have become enamored with, and what their special joys were. While 23 years was not nearly enough, I am forever and eternally grateful for them.

Osmond

I have debated for several days whether to post this or not. I finally decide it will do more good than harm, so here it is. Most of you know by now that Marie Osmond lost her teenage son, Michael Blosil, several days ago. I won't go into details here. It is all over the news so if you care to read about it, just about every news source has something. What is important is that Ms. Osmond has joined the group no one wants to belong to: the grieving parents group. Sadly, like the death of any parent's child, Michael's death will change her life, and the life of her family, forever.

The difference here is that celebrity complicates the grieving process. It is hard enough to lose a child without the added intrusion of the media. Only too clearly I remember the horror of the first days without Colby and one of the few comforts I had was my privacy. This was important as I needed quiet, private time to process Colby's loss. My friends were here when I needed them, but I did not have strangers seeking more and more information, or when they couldn't get it, making things up on their own. The stress that has to add to this tragic time must be overwhelming.

If I could talk to the Osmond family today I would say two things: one, be kind to yourselves. As a parent of a troubled child who did not make it, and as a friend of parents of troubled children, I know how hard we all try to make things better for our sons and daughters. I know the extreme anguish parents feel when they reach out to a new doctor or a new therapist and hope and pray that maybe this one will be the one who will make a difference. This one is the one who will have the right answers. But sometimes, for some kids, there are no answers. We all do all we can do, and we can't do any more than that. Parents always think there was something they should have done, one thing they missed that would have made the difference. But for some kids, and some parents, it doesn't work that way. How I wish it did. Sometimes, no matter what you do, the end result is the same.

The second thing I would say is that grieving a child is a long, slow process and everyone grieves differently. There is no right or wrong. In the large Osmond family the variety of grief is sure to run the full spectrum, so also be kind to those around you. While the loss of a child is a unique grief for parents, others grieve too.

There are no words to express my sadness for this family that has given us so much joy over the years. I know what a long road lies ahead, and I have only just started down the path myself. I wish them much love and many prayers. I know they have mine.

Chile

My heart aches for the people of Chile, as it does for those in Haiti. So many parents who have lost sons and daughters; the collected grief is almost unbearable. I talk to so many bereaved parents who, like some of the earthquake parents, don't know what actually happened to their sons and daughters. These parents search, day after day, hoping their child survives, hoping their child is safe. There are few happy endings. The "not knowing" adds greatly to the parent's pain.

I feel the panic, loss, despair, panic, sadness, grief these parents in Chile, Haiti, Okinawa and other places feel. I live the unbelievability of no longer sharing the Earth with your child. I wish I had words, answers. I do not. What I do have are strategies to get through the first few hours, days, of disaster and loss. I was there. I lived it. Am still living it. Will always live it. But when my son passed, when Colby passed, I didn't know a lot of the following. I wish I had because it would have helped me get through the first few hours and days.

1. Allow others to do for you. Allow others to help.
2. Be honest in telling others your needs. If you can't get out of bed, don't.
3. Realize that others are grieving, too. Hug them and allow them to hug you.
4. Understand that your child would want you to go on with your life, so do that for them.
5. Get medical attention if you can. The physical symptoms of shock and panic attack are real.
6. Take life one minute at a time. Do not look beyond that as it will be too overwhelming.
7. Breathe. Remember to breathe.
8. When you are able, stay busy. Let your subconscious process the early stages of the loss.
9. Help others as you can. Do it for your child. Make them proud.
10. This is not something you "get over." Over time, you will discover a "new normal" that is your life.
11. Your life is forever changed, but you can, eventually, live a full and worthwhile life.
12. Everyone grieves differently. Accept that and understand the choices of others.
13. Grief is a process. Processing the initial stages of the loss of a child can take years.
14. Grief is circular. There is no right or wrong with grief, It just is where it is.
15. Be kind to yourself. That your child was in a building that fell was not your fault.
16. Believe in whatever spirituality or religion you believe in, then embrace it.
17. Do something wonderful to honor your child's life and memory. Do it every day.

Exhaustion

The business of grief is exhausting. It intrudes on my every thought, every action. If I am lucky enough for it to leave for a few moments, when it returns, it slams into me with such force that I gasp. The fact that grief never fully leaves parents who have lost children is a sobering thought.

But, parents do learn to live with it, each in their own way. No parent's grief is the same. Each parent's process for learning to accept it is different. I have two thoughts regarding this. The first is: I wonder if our children know how much we miss them? I wonder if they know how much a part of us they were, are, always will be? And the second is that I wonder if parents whose children are still here appreciate them enough.

It pains me to see moms and dads become exasperated with their children, because I would give anything to be exasperated with mine. Do these parents understand what a gift each child is? In the store, on the street, at social events time after time I hear and see parents ignore their children when they ask (nicely) for attention. I see parents put their kids down and I see the hurt in the child's eyes. I want to slap these parents and tell them to wake up. To appreciate the wonder of their child.

I know how hard it can be to always be a loving, kind, supportive parent who sets and keeps boundaries. It takes time and energy and emotion and at the end of the day parents rarely have enough. of anything. They are, like me, exhausted. But their exhaustion holds the promise of a new day, of togetherness, of fun and games and laighter and love amid the inevitable tears.

Our exhaustion, the exhaustion of parents who have lost is forever present. This is especially true of parents. like me, who have lost their only child. Our exhaustion is forever, and like grief, we have to learn to live with it. I am in the process of trying to do this. My counselors say this is good, that it is a sign of progress in the grief process. But the work, the process, is slow. It zig zags back and forth and most days brings me back to my first question: do our children know how hard this is for us?

I hope Colby is in a place where he does not know how difficult his loss is for me, for his grandmother, for his friends. It would make him sad and we all want him to be happy, to be free of the difficulties he endured here on Earth. He went through a lot and deserves some peace. I want to believe that, I try to believe it, and someday I may actually get there.

Pains

This article is so applicable to what I feel that I thought it worth posting here.  


Phantom Pains
by Carol Mudra
(from Prodigy Medical Support Bulletin Board/Death of a Child)

This A.M. when I was in that half-awake, half-asleep state, I was thinking about what it is like to have your child die. So many people that haven't lost a child cannot possibly understand. I thought of losing a child as being compared to losing one of your extremities. If you had your arm suddenly amputated you would go into extreme shock. There would be sooo much pain for a long, long time. As that assaulting, excruciating pain eases, you learn to "get back into life," step by step, but it's a long process of rehabilitating yourself to learn to live without your arm. You start to "get better" and then the phantom pains come and try to haunt you.

Unexpectedly, without warning, there you are again in pain, except now people don't understand your pain as well as they once did. So you feel guilty for feeling this phantom pain. There are some friends out there who are more wise and do understand about the phantom pains and will still love and be there with you. Other will not.

Your hand itches but you can't scratch. It's not there. The longing to hold your child is there, it's real, but you can't hold your child again while we are still here. We, as parents who have had a child die, have had part of us amputated. They were born out of us, bone of our bone, flesh of our flesh, carried in our wombs, nurtured at our breasts. And even those who have been adopted into our lives are knitted into our very souls. So, how can the death of a child even be related to the death of a father, mother, sister, brother, spouse or friend? These are all great losses but having our child died is having part of us taken away. The grief different; it's not "normal," we are supposed to die before our children.

Then, I thought about the amputated arm. If that wound isn't cleansed and lovingly taken care of, it will become infected. Bitterness and anger (which are normal in grief) can lead to an infection in your soul if you get stuck in it and it is not dealt with. Friends can be loving healers helping to bind up the wound or they can rip open the wound, making it deeper, by insensitive remarks due to a lack of understanding.

We are all at different stages in our journey though this loss and hopefully our healing. But there will always be a part of us that is gone until we are in heaven with them. We will get the phantom pains but we can make a choice each day to go through the pain until we find some hope for our weary souls.

We will never be the same but we can survive and maybe we will even turn out to be a better people, more in tune with others, become "wounded healers". We are already more gifted than a lot of other people in this world because we KNOW what it is to truly love our child. There are a lot of people out there who take their children for granted, just as a lot of us have taken for granted that it is normal to have two arms and two legs.

But what if that were different.....?

Dread

I don't sleep. From the moment Colby was born I was afraid he'd stop breathing so I'd stay up all night watching him breathe. Then when he developed asthma, he did turn blue several times. There were several ambulance rides, days and days in the hospital. Those years got me in the habit of not sleeping.

Now I stay busy during the day. Go, go, work, work. I stop several times throughout the day to think, reflect, but the pain, the anguish, is too great so I get busy again. By nightfall I am exhausted. I lie in bed and the anxiety returns and I find an excuse to get up, then another, and another. Before I know it, it is morning and I have dozed for less than an hour.

This happens most nights. I go through my days in a daze. Several times I leave the house and forget to turn the water in the sink off. Only one minor flood so far. Over the counter sleep aids make it worse. I shake, I am revved up, and sleep for the next several nights is impossible.

I try relaxation techniques, routines, zen tea, deep breathing, but the thoughts in my head rush in, overpower everything and I am up again, holding my arms around myself and pacing through the house.

In the mirror I do not look like me. A stranger's face stares back through the glass. Dark circles, baggy eyes. Old. Exhausted. Tonight will be different, I think. Tonight I will sleep. I think that every night and some nights, for a few minutes, I even believe myself. I have come to dread the night.