I feel like I am walking underwater. I feel the heaviness, the knowing that no matter how hard I try, the going will still be slow. Colby used to call this sensation the underwater space walk.
Colby learned to swim when he was very young, the summer before his third or fourth birthday. We'd spend time at my Mom's and walking down the garden steps to the lake was a daily occasion. Sometimes twice, or three times a day. Back here in Tennessee, in the summer, we'd spend one weekend at Opryland and the next at Cheatham Lake. It was at Cheatham Lake, a wide spot in the Cumberland River, that Colby first talked about how some things, like writing and math, were for him, like an underwater space walk.
We all have our struggles. Colby had far more than his share. Since Colby passed it seems that everything is a struggle. It all gets done, but life is running in slow motion. Everyday tasks take forever. What used to be easy is now so hard.
This all causes me to focus harder. To pay more attention to detail. To double check everything I do. Those are not bad things in and of themselves, but I so wish the reason for me having to do them were different. My one consolation is that Colby is no longer swimming the underwater space walk. Now, he is flying. He is as fast as light. He is free.
Showing posts with label Keegan. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Keegan. Show all posts
Friday, October 9, 2009
Thursday, October 1, 2009
Others
Yesterday, on Colby's birthday, I received many wonderful emails of support from my online grieving parents group and I am reminded that I am not alone in this journey. The following letter is used with permission. It was written by a member of the group whose son Rick passed away in 2001 due to a tragic automobile accident. While these are her words, not mine, they express my thoughts, and the thoughts of other grieving parents, so eloquently that I know I could not improve upon them. While I do not have a large family, I am blessed with a strong support system, and a large network of friends. Others are not, and that's why the second half of the letter I think is is particularly important. This then, is from Donna Mae:
Dear Family and Friends,
I'd like to make an appeal to the family and friends and other interested parties in behalf of all grieving parents, including myself. A mother who has lost her son to a tragic automobile accident.
The immediate support from family, friends and the community in such a tragedy can not be underestimated. It is of great importance. It is a wonderful show of compassion and support. It is very much needed. We, the bereaved families, could not survive or function during these first days and weeks without it. Through the roadside vigils and makeshift memorials, the wake and/or memorial service and finally the funeral. You will all be there to lend your support. And we thank you. It doesn't end there.
Slowly the cards and flowers stop coming. Visitors start to drop off. Phone calls lessen. The world rights itself and goes back to it normalcy, except for the bereaved families. For some, they will have a great support system of comforting family members and compassionate friends. For others, they find themselves suddenly alone. The friends or family member that do stick it out with the bereaved can be precious and few.
My appeal to those involved with a bereaved family is, please don't stop your support!! It is needed for a long time to come. If you are waiting for them to call, you’re going to be waiting a long time. They just simply can't. Trust me on this one. If you think by leaving them alone to sort out their feelings, give them some space, whatever your reasoning, your wrong. Yes, we need our quiet time but we also need your ongoing support.
Unless you've lost a child yourself, you can not understand our pain. Don't even try to. It is not comparable to the loss of an aunt or uncle, not even your mother or father and definitely not to a pet so don't bother to try to compare. Our world has just been ripped apart and all we can think of is ourselves and our pain, we don't have the energy to deal with yours. We don't need to hear platitudes. They may be in a better place, but we want them here with us. Yes we should be grateful for the 1, 3, 8, 14 or twenty or more years we had them here, but we wanted them longer. Watch what you say. There really isn't anything that you can say to take away the pain, just be there. Your presence alone is comforting.
We are confused, frightened, dazed, angry, anxious, irritable, irrational, moody and a dozen other emotions that may show themselves at any given time or all at the same time. We may cry, strike out, scream, or be silent. We may want to talk or not want to talk. We think of our child when we wake up and they are the last thought when we go to sleep, if sleep comes at all. We think of them constantly throughout the day.
We need to know that someone cares. We need to know that our son or daughter will be remembered. One of our biggest fears is that our child will not be remembered. Your memories are precious to us. If you think by speaking their names will cause us pain you are wrong again. We are already in pain. Even through our smiles. We long to hear their names. We want to hear their names. We need to hear their names. So please, let us hear you speak their names. They not only died but they also lived. They did exist. By not speaking their name you do us a disfavor. You belittle our pain and grief. Don't think that by speaking their names you will remind us of them. We have not forgotten them. We never will. Our every breath is a constant reminder of there absence. We don't even try to forget. Our memories are all we have and we would love to hear your memories of our son or daughter.
There are two important dates on a bereaved parents calendar. A birthday and a death date. Don't forget them. One of the most important things you can do for a bereaved parent is to remember their child's birthday. You wouldn't like it if everyone forgot your living child's birthday would you? They may not be here physically but it is still their child and they are still the parents. You'd be surprised what healing power a simply card saying that you are thinking of them on their child's birthday can do for a grieving parents heart. How a simply bouquet of flowers on Mother's day in a child's memory can bring a smile to a mothers heart.
So in the weeks and months and yes years ahead please remember us grieving parents. For no matter how strong you think we are, how brave a front we put on, how well we seem to be getting along the truth is we are hurting inside. We
have suffered the ultimate tragedy.
We have lost a child. And contrary to popular belief we will not get over "IT." We will not "MOVE ON" there will be no "CLOSURE." We will get through it and learn to live with our loss in our own time, no matter how long it takes. But, Please don't ever ask a bereaved parent to get over the death of their child. It's just not going to happen.
Donna Mae, Rick's Mom
8/31/83-8/10/01
Auto Accident
Dear Family and Friends,
I'd like to make an appeal to the family and friends and other interested parties in behalf of all grieving parents, including myself. A mother who has lost her son to a tragic automobile accident.
The immediate support from family, friends and the community in such a tragedy can not be underestimated. It is of great importance. It is a wonderful show of compassion and support. It is very much needed. We, the bereaved families, could not survive or function during these first days and weeks without it. Through the roadside vigils and makeshift memorials, the wake and/or memorial service and finally the funeral. You will all be there to lend your support. And we thank you. It doesn't end there.
Slowly the cards and flowers stop coming. Visitors start to drop off. Phone calls lessen. The world rights itself and goes back to it normalcy, except for the bereaved families. For some, they will have a great support system of comforting family members and compassionate friends. For others, they find themselves suddenly alone. The friends or family member that do stick it out with the bereaved can be precious and few.
My appeal to those involved with a bereaved family is, please don't stop your support!! It is needed for a long time to come. If you are waiting for them to call, you’re going to be waiting a long time. They just simply can't. Trust me on this one. If you think by leaving them alone to sort out their feelings, give them some space, whatever your reasoning, your wrong. Yes, we need our quiet time but we also need your ongoing support.
Unless you've lost a child yourself, you can not understand our pain. Don't even try to. It is not comparable to the loss of an aunt or uncle, not even your mother or father and definitely not to a pet so don't bother to try to compare. Our world has just been ripped apart and all we can think of is ourselves and our pain, we don't have the energy to deal with yours. We don't need to hear platitudes. They may be in a better place, but we want them here with us. Yes we should be grateful for the 1, 3, 8, 14 or twenty or more years we had them here, but we wanted them longer. Watch what you say. There really isn't anything that you can say to take away the pain, just be there. Your presence alone is comforting.
We are confused, frightened, dazed, angry, anxious, irritable, irrational, moody and a dozen other emotions that may show themselves at any given time or all at the same time. We may cry, strike out, scream, or be silent. We may want to talk or not want to talk. We think of our child when we wake up and they are the last thought when we go to sleep, if sleep comes at all. We think of them constantly throughout the day.
We need to know that someone cares. We need to know that our son or daughter will be remembered. One of our biggest fears is that our child will not be remembered. Your memories are precious to us. If you think by speaking their names will cause us pain you are wrong again. We are already in pain. Even through our smiles. We long to hear their names. We want to hear their names. We need to hear their names. So please, let us hear you speak their names. They not only died but they also lived. They did exist. By not speaking their name you do us a disfavor. You belittle our pain and grief. Don't think that by speaking their names you will remind us of them. We have not forgotten them. We never will. Our every breath is a constant reminder of there absence. We don't even try to forget. Our memories are all we have and we would love to hear your memories of our son or daughter.
There are two important dates on a bereaved parents calendar. A birthday and a death date. Don't forget them. One of the most important things you can do for a bereaved parent is to remember their child's birthday. You wouldn't like it if everyone forgot your living child's birthday would you? They may not be here physically but it is still their child and they are still the parents. You'd be surprised what healing power a simply card saying that you are thinking of them on their child's birthday can do for a grieving parents heart. How a simply bouquet of flowers on Mother's day in a child's memory can bring a smile to a mothers heart.
So in the weeks and months and yes years ahead please remember us grieving parents. For no matter how strong you think we are, how brave a front we put on, how well we seem to be getting along the truth is we are hurting inside. We
have suffered the ultimate tragedy.
We have lost a child. And contrary to popular belief we will not get over "IT." We will not "MOVE ON" there will be no "CLOSURE." We will get through it and learn to live with our loss in our own time, no matter how long it takes. But, Please don't ever ask a bereaved parent to get over the death of their child. It's just not going to happen.
Donna Mae, Rick's Mom
8/31/83-8/10/01
Auto Accident
Sunday, August 23, 2009
Morning
It is a beautiful morning here in Nashville. Cool, partly cloudy, a little breeze. Unusual for the middle of August. I would have loved to have shared this morning with Colby, but the reality is Colby wasn't a morning person. Even before he was born he was up nights and quiet during the day. His clock and mine were at polar opposites. He loved the stars and spent hours staring at them, both with and without his telescope. He knew the names of all the major ones and, day or night, could find his way by looking into the sky. I like to think he's up there now, looking at all of us from the opposite direction.
This morning I get ready for a trip to California. Part business and part much needed break and a life assessment. Where do I go from here? The death of a child, especially your only child, forces you to reevaluate life goals, retirement issues, and wishes for the future. I am a goal oriented person. I know it is far too soon to make major decisions, but I need to map out options, possibilities, to ponder over in coming months. A change of scenery and some quiet time hopefully will provide me that opportunity.
This morning I get ready for a trip to California. Part business and part much needed break and a life assessment. Where do I go from here? The death of a child, especially your only child, forces you to reevaluate life goals, retirement issues, and wishes for the future. I am a goal oriented person. I know it is far too soon to make major decisions, but I need to map out options, possibilities, to ponder over in coming months. A change of scenery and some quiet time hopefully will provide me that opportunity.
Saturday, August 22, 2009
Peace
As per my grief counseling sessions, I have been documenting my emotional times and triggers the past few days with interesting results. I seem to wake up emotionally numb, and then as the day goes on become more shaky and weepy. Late evenings are the toughest. How I long for my son. How I long for peace of mind.
Also as my counselor suggested, I have been trying to find something special to do, something that I would like, that would be fun. Today I decide to go hiking at a place Colby and I often went to not too far from my house. It is late afternoon by the time I get there, a time according to my documentation that I tend to be emotional. True to form, tears begin to fall as soon as I hit the trail. The memories are intense and each step brings up another one. There' s the spot where I slipped one muddy Sunday afternoon, and where Colby pulled me up. There's the spot where we took photos of each other, photos that I haven't yet been able to find amongst all of Colby's stuff. There's the place we stopped and sat on a log and had great discussions about nothing. Each twist and turn of the trail brings back a memory, and I am so very sad that we won't have more memories to share.
Then I remember a mother in my online grief support group who lost a daughter a while ago. This past week her apartment burned to the ground, taking with it all her photos and treasured items that belonged to her daughter. I can't imagine her pain and her sense of loss. If you've been reading this blog you know that Colby left lots of "stuff." I will have plenty to remember him by, while this woman has only the memories in her mind.
Even so, my loss seems insurmountable at times. Colby was my only child, my dearest friend, the person who knew me best in all the world. I always thought he'd be there for me in my later years, that eventually I'd have a grandchild or two. Colby's passing not only represents the loss of my son, it is the loss of security in my later years, the loss of my family.
Colby passed exactly four weeks ago today. I know that he is now free of the panic attacks, the depression, the anxiety, the anger, and everything else he battled. I am glad he is no longer troubled. But I do miss him. I will feel guilty until the day I die even though I know in my heart there was nothing I or anyone could have done. Rest peacefully, my son.
Also as my counselor suggested, I have been trying to find something special to do, something that I would like, that would be fun. Today I decide to go hiking at a place Colby and I often went to not too far from my house. It is late afternoon by the time I get there, a time according to my documentation that I tend to be emotional. True to form, tears begin to fall as soon as I hit the trail. The memories are intense and each step brings up another one. There' s the spot where I slipped one muddy Sunday afternoon, and where Colby pulled me up. There's the spot where we took photos of each other, photos that I haven't yet been able to find amongst all of Colby's stuff. There's the place we stopped and sat on a log and had great discussions about nothing. Each twist and turn of the trail brings back a memory, and I am so very sad that we won't have more memories to share.
Then I remember a mother in my online grief support group who lost a daughter a while ago. This past week her apartment burned to the ground, taking with it all her photos and treasured items that belonged to her daughter. I can't imagine her pain and her sense of loss. If you've been reading this blog you know that Colby left lots of "stuff." I will have plenty to remember him by, while this woman has only the memories in her mind.
Even so, my loss seems insurmountable at times. Colby was my only child, my dearest friend, the person who knew me best in all the world. I always thought he'd be there for me in my later years, that eventually I'd have a grandchild or two. Colby's passing not only represents the loss of my son, it is the loss of security in my later years, the loss of my family.
Colby passed exactly four weeks ago today. I know that he is now free of the panic attacks, the depression, the anxiety, the anger, and everything else he battled. I am glad he is no longer troubled. But I do miss him. I will feel guilty until the day I die even though I know in my heart there was nothing I or anyone could have done. Rest peacefully, my son.
Time
I go through more of Colby's "stuff" and find I have inherited 9 flashlights, more than 100 t-shirts, 6 hammers, a tiny tent, 142 feet of 600-volt ground cable, over 700 books, a backpack made out of a towel, a single oar, and three golf clubs. This is all among two bedrooms, one car, and half a basement full of other things. My goal is to sort through 20 items a day. Doesn't seem like much but every object either brings memories or questions. Either "I remember when . . ." or "What the heck is this?" Both slow the process down. I also feel compelled to do with the object as Colby would have wanted. Should I toss it? Give it to one of his friends? Which friend? Keep it? Give it to the Goodwill? After 20 items I am mentally exhausted. I give myself a time frame of 6 months to get through it all. I have heard from parents who have not touched their child's things and it's been years since they passed. All I can say is they didn't have Colby for a son. I am overwhelmed with "stuff." I can't think, I have so much "stuff." In the basement I now see 18 broken skateboards, 2 scooters that do not run, 5 bicycles, a shopping cart, and a drum kit. The list goes on, and on . . .
It is four weeks today since Colby passed. I decide I don't like the word "died." Died indicates he is no longer, that there is no afterlife. I believe that there is and that when my time comes I will see him again. And for those of you who are worried about me, thank you for your prayers and concern. But, I don't plan to "see" Colby anytime soon. In fact, my goal is to live to be 100 and I am only a little more than half-way there. I have lots yet to do. And I will get it all done. I just have to allow time to process this tragic loss and figure out a new plan for the rest of my life. It will take time and I know I will be emotional and sad for a long time yet. But eventually, in time, I will be okay.
It is four weeks today since Colby passed. I decide I don't like the word "died." Died indicates he is no longer, that there is no afterlife. I believe that there is and that when my time comes I will see him again. And for those of you who are worried about me, thank you for your prayers and concern. But, I don't plan to "see" Colby anytime soon. In fact, my goal is to live to be 100 and I am only a little more than half-way there. I have lots yet to do. And I will get it all done. I just have to allow time to process this tragic loss and figure out a new plan for the rest of my life. It will take time and I know I will be emotional and sad for a long time yet. But eventually, in time, I will be okay.
Friday, August 21, 2009
Doors
Our dog (or now my dog), Abby, has been barky and jumpy ever since Colby passed. Tonight she is especially so. Colby frequently forgot his keys and would knock twice on the door, then stand on his tiptoes and peer into the small, arched window toward the top. Abby barks wildly at the door and looks to me several times so I can peer out the top. I can't remember the number of times Colby and I met eye to eye that way. I go to the door and look out. But of course, tonight Colby is not on the other side of the door. No one is, but Abby keeps barking anyway. I'm not sure what triggered her barks, but she thinks Colby should be there . . . and so do I.
I pick up Colby's death certificate. That's something a parent should never have to do. To compound the difficult task, I am given wrong instructions about where to pick it up. Twice. So I spend the entire morning driving around downtown Nashville looking for a parking spot, only to have to jump back in the truck a few minutes later to search out another building and another spot.
I am physically and emotionally drained. I want to back life up and start over on a day before Colby left us. This is too hard. Way too hard. All I can envision are the sad, lonely days ahead without my son. But I will get through this. Somehow. There must be a door somewhere that I can walk through that will make life okay again. I have things to do. I have Colby's memory to honor, and there are many people who need help. Maybe someday I can find that door and once again make a positive difference in people's lives.
I pick up Colby's death certificate. That's something a parent should never have to do. To compound the difficult task, I am given wrong instructions about where to pick it up. Twice. So I spend the entire morning driving around downtown Nashville looking for a parking spot, only to have to jump back in the truck a few minutes later to search out another building and another spot.
I am physically and emotionally drained. I want to back life up and start over on a day before Colby left us. This is too hard. Way too hard. All I can envision are the sad, lonely days ahead without my son. But I will get through this. Somehow. There must be a door somewhere that I can walk through that will make life okay again. I have things to do. I have Colby's memory to honor, and there are many people who need help. Maybe someday I can find that door and once again make a positive difference in people's lives.
Music
Music was a huge part of Colby's life and this morning I try to listen to music. Mostly I can't. I look at his stacks and stacks of CDs and am overwhelmed with choices. He had such eclectic tastes in sound. I begin to post music (or links to music) on his web site in the links section. There will eventually be some of Colby's music and a few songs that meant something to Colby that we have permission to use. The first song is Mustang Sally's "The One That Got Away." It comes out on their debut CD next month. Colby helped me do this band's PR several years ago and everyone who has heard this song says it reminds them of Colby.
I had a rough night last night and today I wake up drained. Maybe I needed the emotional roller-coaster release yesterday. I am back to numb and for now, glad to be here. I read emails from new friends in the grieving parents support group, the group that no one wants to join. Apparently this host of emotions, the crying, the numbness, never completely goes away. They say it eventually gets "softer." For most that happens two to three years out. I can't imagine feeling like this forever. I document my feelings this morning in my notebook and begin another long day.
I had a rough night last night and today I wake up drained. Maybe I needed the emotional roller-coaster release yesterday. I am back to numb and for now, glad to be here. I read emails from new friends in the grieving parents support group, the group that no one wants to join. Apparently this host of emotions, the crying, the numbness, never completely goes away. They say it eventually gets "softer." For most that happens two to three years out. I can't imagine feeling like this forever. I document my feelings this morning in my notebook and begin another long day.
Thursday, August 20, 2009
Counseling
My counseling session goes well today. I am pleased. I learn several good coping skills that have already helped. The ideas are supposed to help with grief and loss, but I think they will work for any tough situation. I know there are a lot of people who read this blog who are going through difficult times of their own. Maybe the techniques I learned today will help some of you. I hope so. So many of you have helped me with your emails, this is my small way of saying thank you.
1. Document emotional triggers. What makes you cry, nervous, angry, etc. Note the time of day, the trigger (if you can identify it), where you were, how long you were upset and what your reaction was (tears, yelling, etc.)
2. Document that which makes you happy, calm, etc. Also note the time of day, where you were, how long it helped.
3. Exercise every day because exercise helps burn away the chemical buildup of bad feelings in your body.
4. Absolutely do something nice for yourself every day and once a week plan something special, even if you don't feel like it.
So today I carry a notebook and document my emotions throughout the day. The goal over time is to identify emotional triggers and develop coping skills by using the calming techniques. For the record, I have cried 23 times so far today. About usual for me lately. I did exercise, but I usually do anyway. And I am thinking of something to do that would be special.
The techniques help me today in dealing with the health department, mortuary and medical examiner's office. Just when I think I don't have to deal with them any more something crops up that takes half a day to sort out. Today it is obtaining the death certificate. It shouldn't be this hard, or this frustrating. I note incompetence as one of my triggers and red tape as another. Also cell phones that don't let you know for several hours that a call has come in. No calming activities yet. Maybe tomorrow.
1. Document emotional triggers. What makes you cry, nervous, angry, etc. Note the time of day, the trigger (if you can identify it), where you were, how long you were upset and what your reaction was (tears, yelling, etc.)
2. Document that which makes you happy, calm, etc. Also note the time of day, where you were, how long it helped.
3. Exercise every day because exercise helps burn away the chemical buildup of bad feelings in your body.
4. Absolutely do something nice for yourself every day and once a week plan something special, even if you don't feel like it.
So today I carry a notebook and document my emotions throughout the day. The goal over time is to identify emotional triggers and develop coping skills by using the calming techniques. For the record, I have cried 23 times so far today. About usual for me lately. I did exercise, but I usually do anyway. And I am thinking of something to do that would be special.
The techniques help me today in dealing with the health department, mortuary and medical examiner's office. Just when I think I don't have to deal with them any more something crops up that takes half a day to sort out. Today it is obtaining the death certificate. It shouldn't be this hard, or this frustrating. I note incompetence as one of my triggers and red tape as another. Also cell phones that don't let you know for several hours that a call has come in. No calming activities yet. Maybe tomorrow.
Rain
Colby passed on a Saturday. I found out on a Sunday. On Monday, a friend of Colby's and I put flowers on the place where he died. Minutes after that it began to rain. Hard. It rained for almost two days and I thought of the rain as the Earth's tears for my son's passing. After a twelve hour let up it began to rain again. Hard. For almost two more days. By this time I was driving to Houston and it rained the entire way. This rain I thought of as the Earth's tears for my sadness. Now, every time it rains I think of it as someone crying for Colby. It has rained a lot in the three and a half weeks since he passed. It poured during the hour I picked up his cremains. It rained when I took a load of his "stuff" to the Goodwill. When I read through some of his childhood school papers, it rained. Of course, it has been a rainy summer. Today it is raining again. Today is the day of my first individual grief counseling session. I'm not sure what to expect, of the counselor or me. I will bring Kleenex and an umbrella, for I know as I go from the truck to the entrance of the building that it will be raining. Hard.
Wednesday, August 19, 2009
Survival
The grief and sadness hit me at the oddest times. Often, nothing triggers it. It just comes and the tears fall. I am helpless to stop them. Other times an object reminds me of a wonderful time we had and I think of all the wonderful times we won't have in the future. Today I find his binoculars and remember the many times we went hiking and used them to look in the trees and brush for birds and other animals. How I wish we could take those binoculars out together again. Colby was always a talker and we had such great conversations on our hikes. His friends all tell me how much they miss talking with him and I feel the same way. People tell me to remember the good times, but it's better if I don't think, don't remember. Someday I know I will think fondly of our good times. But not yet. Not today. Today I keep busy, too busy to think and for now, that's how I survive.
Words
Everyday I take a few minutes to sort through Colby's "stuff." Lately I concentrate on books, notebooks, scraps of paper and I begin to find pieces of song lyrics, poems, sentences that he had written. Colby had dysgraphia, which is difficulty in writing, spelling, forming letters. Yet he still wrote. Some. Many of the words I have found so far are angry, frustrated. But he made valid points in these writings of his. As I come across them I pile his words in stacks, then file them in a safe place. Someday, maybe, I will compile them into an ebook. He felt strongly about these words. Had hoped to use many of them in his songs. I believe it was his intent to eventually share his words with the world and even though he is no longer physically here with us, I want to help him do that.
It is sad, going through his things. Many items bring back good memories, but others remind me of all he left undone, of all he had to offer, of the bright promise of his spirit, of a life gone far too soon. If he were here to guide me, I wonder, what would he do with each of these things? What would he throw away? What would he want me to keep? Which items would he want each friend to have? I sort, I pile, I read, I think. What I am unsure of I put in a corner to revisit later. That pile is the largest. Colby was a pack rat. There is a lot of stuff. A few minutes a day, every day. Eventually I will get there.
It is sad, going through his things. Many items bring back good memories, but others remind me of all he left undone, of all he had to offer, of the bright promise of his spirit, of a life gone far too soon. If he were here to guide me, I wonder, what would he do with each of these things? What would he throw away? What would he want me to keep? Which items would he want each friend to have? I sort, I pile, I read, I think. What I am unsure of I put in a corner to revisit later. That pile is the largest. Colby was a pack rat. There is a lot of stuff. A few minutes a day, every day. Eventually I will get there.
Tuesday, August 18, 2009
Normal
Already people expect me to be "over it" and "back to normal." I can't imagine what they are thinking. This is going to be a long process and I know I will never be the same. I have emailed a number of people in a parents grief support group and there are mothers and fathers there who aren't fully functioning even several years after their child died. For me it's just been three weeks and three days. I do try. I try to be "normal." But there are times I cry in meetings, or on the phone, or in the grocery store. Sometimes I am "fine." I function reasonably well for short stretches of time. Then a wave of grief slams into me and I fall apart. If the grief counselors and other parents I talk with are correct, this will be my life for the forseeable future.
No, I will never "get over" Colby's death, but I will learn to accept it, to become accustomed to it. I will cry less often as time passes. I will become less scattered, more focused. Maybe I will even feel less guilty. But I will never be the same person I was before my son died. The death of a child is not something you get through unscathed. It's as if you woke up one morning and found the world had turned sideways overnight. Learning to navigate life a little off kilter takes some adjustment and isn't learned in a few weeks.
So to those who expect me to be "normal," please understand I don't yet know what that is. I haven't yet found my way. I may never regain a firm footing on life, but I will try. I just need time.
No, I will never "get over" Colby's death, but I will learn to accept it, to become accustomed to it. I will cry less often as time passes. I will become less scattered, more focused. Maybe I will even feel less guilty. But I will never be the same person I was before my son died. The death of a child is not something you get through unscathed. It's as if you woke up one morning and found the world had turned sideways overnight. Learning to navigate life a little off kilter takes some adjustment and isn't learned in a few weeks.
So to those who expect me to be "normal," please understand I don't yet know what that is. I haven't yet found my way. I may never regain a firm footing on life, but I will try. I just need time.
Frustration
I hate run arounds. From the time I heard Colby had passed I wanted to get the clothes he was wearing, his shoes, the belongings he had in his pockets. The medical examiner told me repeatedly that I couldn't have access to them, that I had to wait until I picked up his cremains at the mortuary. I asked for them several times. I am sure I annoyed them to no end with all my phone calls. I did eventually, just recently, get his phone and his wallet after explaining to someone at the medical examiner's office that people were calling the house looking for him and I needed to be able to call his friends to tell them of his death. The only way I had of reaching his friends was through the address book on his phone.
When I picked up his cremains the mortuary told me they did not have Colby's clothes. Furthermore, they claimed they never had them and did not know where they were. I called the medical examiner's office several times and left messages. As of right now, I have not yet received an answer to those messages or talked to a real person. The mortuary tried to call Metro Nashville social services, as there is a person there who apparently hunts things like this down, but he is on vacation until sometime next week.
I believe my request is a simple one. I just want the clothes and belongings my son had with him when he died. Any parent would want that. And in times of grief, of sadness, those mourning loved ones do not need the extra stress that a situation like this causes. This situation is upsetting to me, distracting. I have a sinking feeling that I will never have these items, that they have been thrown away. Discarded. If that really is the case, how unfair it is to Colby to treat his belongings so callously, and how unfair to me and to others who loved him. Colby deserved to be treated with decency, and so do those he left behind.
When I picked up his cremains the mortuary told me they did not have Colby's clothes. Furthermore, they claimed they never had them and did not know where they were. I called the medical examiner's office several times and left messages. As of right now, I have not yet received an answer to those messages or talked to a real person. The mortuary tried to call Metro Nashville social services, as there is a person there who apparently hunts things like this down, but he is on vacation until sometime next week.
I believe my request is a simple one. I just want the clothes and belongings my son had with him when he died. Any parent would want that. And in times of grief, of sadness, those mourning loved ones do not need the extra stress that a situation like this causes. This situation is upsetting to me, distracting. I have a sinking feeling that I will never have these items, that they have been thrown away. Discarded. If that really is the case, how unfair it is to Colby to treat his belongings so callously, and how unfair to me and to others who loved him. Colby deserved to be treated with decency, and so do those he left behind.
Monday, August 17, 2009
Gratitude
I feel I have been remiss in thanking everyone who is reading this blog and all who have been so supportive with emails and phone calls. There are so many I can't possibly return them all, but I read every email and I listen to each message. So thank you, all of you. You are a blessing to me, you keep me from feeling alone and lonely, you keep me going when my world is dark, you support and encourage me when I feel I can't go on. I absolutely could not get through this time in my life without you. I know many of you are grieving as well, either for Colby or another loved one, and I especially thank you for reaching out through your own pain to comfort me.
Today was an emotional day. Lots of tears after several "numb" days. I did get some work done. Not enough, but some. I try to get back into the normal flow of life, but it is hard. Colby's passing is still too fresh, too new.
At the beginning of this blog one of my goals was to provide a way for people to help others in Colby's name and I am working on that a little every day. I am ambitious in this area and do have a plan I think Colby would be proud of. I am still weeks, or possibly a month or more, away from sharing details. And I will need help. Your help. This will be a way for all of us to join together and make this world a better place and I can't think of a better legacy for my son.
Today was an emotional day. Lots of tears after several "numb" days. I did get some work done. Not enough, but some. I try to get back into the normal flow of life, but it is hard. Colby's passing is still too fresh, too new.
At the beginning of this blog one of my goals was to provide a way for people to help others in Colby's name and I am working on that a little every day. I am ambitious in this area and do have a plan I think Colby would be proud of. I am still weeks, or possibly a month or more, away from sharing details. And I will need help. Your help. This will be a way for all of us to join together and make this world a better place and I can't think of a better legacy for my son.
Work
I am still overwhelmed by all I have to do and I worry about my lack of focus. I said in an earlier post that I felt as if I had, in the blink of an eye, developed ADD. I still feel that way. I have the attention span of a gnat. I decide to break everything into time chunks. Thirty minutes of solid focused work on one project, then switch to another for thirty minutes. Half an hour feels like an extraordinary amount of time. I will be lucky to stay on task for 30 seconds, much less 30 minutes. But I must try. By the end of the day I hopefully can make progress.
I have also forgotten to mention that Colby's skateboard has been found! Colby had left it with a friend who brought it to his Celebration of Life. Thank you so very much for returning it to me! I bought Colby his first skateboard when he was 9, and he spent many, many hours perfecting moves and using it to get from one point to another. This board, his last board, is so undeniably Colby that I know it will be one of his treasured possessions that I keep forever.
I have also forgotten to mention that Colby's skateboard has been found! Colby had left it with a friend who brought it to his Celebration of Life. Thank you so very much for returning it to me! I bought Colby his first skateboard when he was 9, and he spent many, many hours perfecting moves and using it to get from one point to another. This board, his last board, is so undeniably Colby that I know it will be one of his treasured possessions that I keep forever.
Sunday, August 16, 2009
Home
I am home after several days away to speak at a therapeutic riding conference. But home no longer feels like home. It is a shell, a place to stay; the life of my home died when Colby did. I try to go through more of Colby's "stuff." If I sort and categorize, I think, then maybe I can clear enough space to eventually change things around, move the office into a different room, rearrange the furniture. An online grief support group friend suggested that might help, and it might. Or maybe I need the familiarity of things as they have been. I don't know what to do, so I do nothing.
I find familiar tasks. I unpack, water the tomatoes, water the indoor plants, brush the cat, try to read. I am so unfocused when I am not moving. If I stay on my feet, find things to do, then I can function. It's when I sit that I grieve. Why is that, I wonder? I also can't say Colby's name without bursting into tears. I can't talk about the loss. Last week I could, but lately, no. I find myself rocking with my arms around myself when I sit. I can't do this. I have editing projects I must finish early this week. I must learn to focus. People are counting on me and I can't let them down.
I find familiar tasks. I unpack, water the tomatoes, water the indoor plants, brush the cat, try to read. I am so unfocused when I am not moving. If I stay on my feet, find things to do, then I can function. It's when I sit that I grieve. Why is that, I wonder? I also can't say Colby's name without bursting into tears. I can't talk about the loss. Last week I could, but lately, no. I find myself rocking with my arms around myself when I sit. I can't do this. I have editing projects I must finish early this week. I must learn to focus. People are counting on me and I can't let them down.
Bruises
When I was eight months pregnant with Colby I fell through a wooden deck. The entire inside of my right thigh turned black and blue and purple and didn't return to normal for four months. Two weeks after my son passed, half of the inside of my right thigh turned black and blue and purple, although I have no recollection of having bumped into anything that could have caused it to do so. I am sure there is an explanation for the bruise, I just don't know what it is.
Today I feel like my entire being is bruised. Someone told me recently that the death of your parents takes away your past, the death of your spouse or sibling takes away your present, and the death of your child takes away your future. For me, that is so very true. Everything I had planned for my life, from my will, to how I spend important holidays, to where I might live, and what I might do has changed. Change is always scary and I have to say that right now, today, the prospect of my future terrifies me. I am certain that life will at some point become more stable, that my path will become clear, that I won't be utterly alone in my old age, but I don't have any idea how that will all unfold.
I know that bruises heal. Sometimes there is a scar, sometimes there is some other fundamental change in the area that was injured. Colby's death has changed me profoundly. How I heal remains to be seen.
Today I feel like my entire being is bruised. Someone told me recently that the death of your parents takes away your past, the death of your spouse or sibling takes away your present, and the death of your child takes away your future. For me, that is so very true. Everything I had planned for my life, from my will, to how I spend important holidays, to where I might live, and what I might do has changed. Change is always scary and I have to say that right now, today, the prospect of my future terrifies me. I am certain that life will at some point become more stable, that my path will become clear, that I won't be utterly alone in my old age, but I don't have any idea how that will all unfold.
I know that bruises heal. Sometimes there is a scar, sometimes there is some other fundamental change in the area that was injured. Colby's death has changed me profoundly. How I heal remains to be seen.
Saturday, August 15, 2009
Denial
I sometimes have difficulty grasping the fact that my son is truly gone, that he will never walk in the door again, that I will never again see his smiling face. I know in my heart that he has passed on to a better place. I know that in my head. but sometimes I can't get my mind around it all. Thinking that I will never see him again is like someone telling me that we all breath leaves, or that cement is nutritious. I just can't fathom it. So I don't think about it. I stay busy, and then I feel guilty for not thinking, not wanting to feel. But the loss is too great, the grief too deep, so I keep putting one shaky foot in front of the other and keep going. Somehow.
I know many of Colby's friends are going through the same thing. My mother, Colby's grandma, is too. This is a natural part of the loss process; it is a way for our brains and bodies to accept reality in a time frame we can deal with. This week I begin grief and loss counseling. I decided I needed help finding my way through all of this. I am looking forward to the guidance, to the help, but I do know that the best healer will be time.
I know many of Colby's friends are going through the same thing. My mother, Colby's grandma, is too. This is a natural part of the loss process; it is a way for our brains and bodies to accept reality in a time frame we can deal with. This week I begin grief and loss counseling. I decided I needed help finding my way through all of this. I am looking forward to the guidance, to the help, but I do know that the best healer will be time.
Friday, August 14, 2009
Anger
I know there are stages to grieving. Until now I have wavered between shock and numbness. Today I had my first bout with anger. I received a call from a Nashville hospital about a past due bill of Colby's. I had taken Colby their emergency room about six weeks ago after, he called me asking to go. He couldn't go on. He needed help, he said. He didn't want to live anymore if life was going to be like this. I took him first to another hospital. There would be a three hour wait, we were told. There were more urgent situations that required the doctors' attention. Colby became very agitated. He rocked back and forth, began to cry, paced the room and became very angry. We left and went to another hospital. This emergency room was less hectic. Colby was seen right away. They took his vital signs, an ER doctor talked to him and when Colby said he couldn't go on like this, that he didn't want to live with this mental illness, the schizophrenia, the panic attacks, and depression the anxiety and yes, the addiction, anymore the physician sent us over to their psychiatric hospital. There we waited for over an hour, Colby lying on a metal couch in a cold sterile room, crying. There were no other patients waiting in this part of the hospital. Finally a psychiatric nurse interviewed Colby. He told her the same thing he told the doctor. She left and we waited another hour. When she came back in she had a list of resources for us to call the next day. Resources we had exhausted long, long ago.
I remember walking out of the hospital, getting into the truck and holding Colby as he cried. He had so wanted help he put aside all his anxieties and fears and they turned him away. Six weeks later my son is dead and I get a call from the hospital about the thousand dollar bill the hospital sent Colby. I realize this was not the fault of the person calling, but she bore the brunt of my anger. I am sorry for that. Sorry for her. I should call her back and apologize but I can't. Yet. I am still too angry. I told her the story, shaking, crying, yelling, raging, and then I hung up on her after telling her they weren't getting a dime out of me. Then I put my head in my hands and cried for more than half an hour. If they had helped my son instead of turning him away there is a good chance he would be alive today. Right now he would be here with me. I would still have the possibility of future grandchildren and great-grandchildren, of holidays spent with family members. Now, none of that is possible.
I have a lot to say about our health care system. But I am too angry to articulate it well, so I will leave it for another day. In the meantime, I will try to process this new emotion, this new anger that is so unlike me, and find a path through it to the next level.
I remember walking out of the hospital, getting into the truck and holding Colby as he cried. He had so wanted help he put aside all his anxieties and fears and they turned him away. Six weeks later my son is dead and I get a call from the hospital about the thousand dollar bill the hospital sent Colby. I realize this was not the fault of the person calling, but she bore the brunt of my anger. I am sorry for that. Sorry for her. I should call her back and apologize but I can't. Yet. I am still too angry. I told her the story, shaking, crying, yelling, raging, and then I hung up on her after telling her they weren't getting a dime out of me. Then I put my head in my hands and cried for more than half an hour. If they had helped my son instead of turning him away there is a good chance he would be alive today. Right now he would be here with me. I would still have the possibility of future grandchildren and great-grandchildren, of holidays spent with family members. Now, none of that is possible.
I have a lot to say about our health care system. But I am too angry to articulate it well, so I will leave it for another day. In the meantime, I will try to process this new emotion, this new anger that is so unlike me, and find a path through it to the next level.
Thursday, August 13, 2009
Questions
After Colby's celebration I cannot sleep. I am awash with emotions and alternate between nervous crying and guilt numbness. Emotional release. It was a big day. I can't sleep so I pace the house. Can't sit, can't concentrate. This morning after I get in the truck is a little better. I drive to Knoxville to speak at a conference in silence. I still have trouble listening to music or talk radio. The quiet of my mind is better. I don't think, can't think. I exist and soon I am here. One of the first people I meet tells me of the loss of her son four years ago. It helps to talk about it and I know I am in the right place at the right time.
I sometimes question why I write this blog, then, like this morning I get close to 20 emails from people I don't know saying how much my words help them. That helps me. Thank you. I will keep writing my way through this process. I am told it could be a long process, which is good. I think I have a lot to say.
I sometimes question why I write this blog, then, like this morning I get close to 20 emails from people I don't know saying how much my words help them. That helps me. Thank you. I will keep writing my way through this process. I am told it could be a long process, which is good. I think I have a lot to say.
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