Hope

It's been a year and a day since I found out my only child had passed away. I still look toward the door each evening, thinking he will be bounding through it any minute now. Sometimes I pick up the phone to call him, to tell him something he might find interesting or amusing, only to realize when I begin dialing that he is no longer here. Each instance of recognition is like learning of his death all over again.

A year is a milestone. As a society we celebrate birthdays, anniversarys, and holidays on an annual basis. As I think back with a year's worth of perspective to those terrible early days of shock and disbelief I realize now that they will never fully leave me. Those days will always be with me, as will Colby's absence. But his life will also be with me. The good times, the memories, will be there. I continue to be amazed at all the people he touched, the lives he changed for the better. Not a week goes by that someone lets me know Colby made a difference in their life. I am so proud of my son because I know it was often hard for him to stay positive when he was hurting inside so badly.

Two days ago, on the first anniversary of his passing, some of his friends and my friends planted a tree in Colby's honor and memory. It was a peaceful, communal effort in a quiet spot by a creek where Colby played as a child. After, everyone stayed to visit and catch up, and some placed personal mementos on the tree's branches. It was good to see everyone. Good to know Colby is still remembered. Good to know others cared about him, and his life. Good to know how much he was loved. Is loved.

Some friends, both his and mine, were not able to be there and while I missed their presence, I understand that grief is an intensely personal journey. This past year has taught me that I have no idea from one moment to the next what I will be feeling or thinking. Sometimes I might be up to facing a group of people, more often not. Those who were not there know where the tree is planted. Several have told me they have already visited it privately, as I will also do.

Many parents who are ahead of me in this process of grief tell me the second year is often worse than the first. This is because the shock has worn off and the finality of the tragic loss has set in. I don't see how anything can be worse than this past year, but time will tell. Today, I can see that I have progressed in my journey of grief. I have not come very far or very fast, but I have had movement. All I can hope for is that a year from now I can look back and see that I am further along the trail than I am now. That's all I can expect. Hope.

Should

In four days it will be one year since Colby passed. I haven't posted much in the past few weeks because I have such a swirl of emotion and thought and feeling that I can't begin to grasp onto any of it. What made sense to me six months ago no longer does, or at least it is less concrete than before. Now, half formed thoughts and feelings float through my brain and then disappear as soon as I try to define them.

I have spoken with a number of grieving parents about the first anniversary and just like the way they grieve, these parents honor this day in many different ways. There is no "should" or "should not" when it comes to this. There just is. In one way it is comforting to know that whatever I  feel or do is correct. On the other hand it is a bit scary not to have quantifiable bench marks to achieve.

Some parents tell me that at the one year mark they are still in denial. They tell themselves their son or daughter is on an extended vacation overseas or in jail or part of the witness protection program. Other parents keep themselves grounded by visiting their child's grave every day. These coping strategies are as individual as the parents themselves. My strategy is that I talk to Colby. I'd like to think he hears me, but if not, it helps me cope, helps me process this undefinable loss.

To honor Colby's first angelversary several of his friends, my friends, and I will plant a tree. Maybe this will be something we do every year. Maybe not. It's a way to honor Colby's life with a living, growing thing and with something that will give back to our environment. Colby would like this, I think. And maybe Colby will be with all of us four days from today. Maybe I'll tell myself that he will be. Or maybe not.

Six

It is six months today since Colby passed. It seems like just yesterday. And some days I still can't believe he is gone at all. This morning I talk with a parent whose child has been gone for almost fifteen years and she says it is only in the past year that she can think of her son without pain. Fifteen years. I hope I can someday reach that stage in my grief, but today I can't possibly fathom life without the pain of his loss. Colby touched so many and we are all profoundly affected by his absence. I hope he knows how much he is loved and missed, how much his life enriched all of ours, how we hope and pray for his happiness and peace.

A counselor suggests I try to figure out what I have learned in the past six months. I break the list into groups: positive things, negative things, what I have learned about myself, about Colby, about others. The list grows throughout the day and at some point I begin to shorten the list, to edit it down to what is most important to me at this hour of this day. Much of what I learn comes from all-night sessions with myself and with God, and also from sorting through all of Colby's "stuff." The top ten things come down to (in no particular order):

• Colby's mental illness was greater than anyone realized
• Colby was many things to many people, which is part of the schizophrenia
• Colby "knew" at a very young age that he would not be here long––and he was okay with that
• Colby cared very much about people, animals, and the environment
• Colby struggled silently, when opening up could have brought him help
• I love Colby unconditionally and will never get over his loss
• I am still terrified at the thought of being the last of my family
• Like Colby, I have many wonderful friends
• I miss Colby with every breath I take
• I am more proud of my son than words can ever say

Tomorrow's list will look different, as did yesterday's. My emotions are still on a huge roller coaster, doing so many loops and spins that I wonder if I will ever find my way off of this ride.