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.

Christmas

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

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

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

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

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

Stars

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Layers

It has been a month since I have written anything, probably a lifetime record for me. I have never not been able to write, so this has been a new experience. Thank you to all who have called or emailed to check on me. I appreciate you beyond words.

I have to admit, it has been a rough haul since the first anniversary of Colby's passing. There were so many thoughts and feelings and emotions swirling through my body and I couldn't grasp on to any of them. Some days I couldn't get out of bed. Some days I absolutely could not function.

Over time, what slowly began to emerge from that swirling mass was a visible layer of grief. Think of your body as a vibrant container of color. Maybe today your right knee is a bright blue and your head is a vivid yellow and your right arm is a brilliant orange. Every body part has a beautiful color and together all those colors make up you.

Now place a transparent layer of dark gray over each one of those colors. You can still see the yellow and blue and orange, but they are muted. This is the new you, more subdued, slower, heavier, grayer. The horror begins when you realize that this layer of gray will be with you forever. In years to come the gray may become lighter, it may become more transparent, but it will always be there. It is an entwined, integral part of who you are. Forever.

I hate the color gray.

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.

Art

Every year for Mother’s Day Colby gave me something he created. It might have been a drawing, something he made from wood (such as a garden stool), or a poem. A few years ago Colby gave me the painting you see at the top of this post. In keeping with his belief about using everything and throwing nothing away that had any possible use, this painting is done on a piece of cardboard. For this painting he also used paint that was left over from other projects.

The reason I like this painting so much is not just because I think it is beautiful, it’s because the gold in the mountains is paint that was left over from the time we went to Bowie Park in Fairview and gathered pine cones that we tipped with gold and gave to friends as Christmas gifts. The red is from when Colby made a CD storage bin out of popsicle sticks for my mother and painted it. The cardboard is from boxes of books I had delivered for a book signing that Colby helped me stack, and the darker background is paint that was left over from the time Colby and I painted my toy box from when I was a child. The toy box was more recently his, and now resides in the spare bedroom as a bookshelf. Before it was my toy box, it was a storage chest during WWII when my mother was in the Marines.

This is just one of many paintings that Colby did. Most are abstracts and reflect the way he was feeling at the time he painted them. All make excellent use of color and design. Today as I clean out more “stuff” from his room I find his stacks of bare canvasses, his pains and his brushes. In addition to the traditional canvasses most artists use I find several blocks of wood, a small piece of corrugated metal, and two old skateboards—minus wheels. His brushes consist of a small assortment of the usual, plus a number of sponges, table knives, a toothbrush, and a few small scrub brushes. I am so deeply and heart-breakingly saddened that I will never see what work of art Colby planned to create with his collection of “stuff.” I know it would have been absolutely awesome.

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.

Tremors

Colby with Abby (left) and Mom's dog, Rocky, (right)

Tremors. Little tremors shake up my carefully constructed world. Cracks spread around my life and I cannot glue them back together. It doesn't matter, I am way beyond trying. The latest tremor is that my mom's two-year-old dog, Rocky, has melanoma. She loves that dog. He is her reason for living, partially because Colby and I gave him to her Christmas before last.

Normally I could handle such news. Put a positive face on it. I'd research canine melanoma, find treatments and therapies. Now all I can do is sit on the couch and shake. I can't think. I want to throw up. Just how does a two-year-old, hairy, dark-skinned dog get melanoma anyway?

Skin cancer runs in our family, so I guess Rocky comes by it naturally. My mother has it. I have had it. I may have it again. That is one of the many things my current insurance will not cover because it is a pre-existing condition. The screening and testing is several thousand dollars and I can't afford it. I can't afford the dog's surgery either, but will find some way to pay for it.

Most people do not think of financial considerations when they think of grieving parents. Even if, like me, a parent does not take time off from work, things are processed lower, not as much gets done in a day. For me, lower productivity means lower wages. I feel the pinch. It has been eight months and I am still not back up to speed. I may never be.

I have spoken to, emailed with, many grieving parents who cannot work, even years after their children have passed. There is no focus, no organization in our brains. Simple things are forgotten. Mistakes are made. Many others, though, like me, try. We have no other option. I have work to do. Now. Today. It must be done, yet all I can do is hug my own dog, and cry.

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.

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.