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.

Two

Today I go to a visitation for one of Colby's friends who passed away earlier this week. This is the second friend who has passed since Colby. It's just been a few months. Two is two too many. Death is always hard for those of us who are left behind, but it is especially hard when the person is young. Why can't we all live out long and natural lives? Learn about being old? Pass our wisdom to the generations who come behind us?

I hope to stay for a time, to visit, but it is all I can do to pay my condolences to the young man's mother. We talk of the numbness, of the dream-like quality of burying your child. She already has a support group lined up. I am glad to hear that. So many parents do not. So many try to get through this by themselves. I do not think that is possible. Not for me, anyway. I leave not too long after I arrive. This scenario is too raw, too fresh. I feel a panic attack building so I quickly walk out the door. Then I sit in my truck and cry. It is 16 weeks today since Colby passed. 112 days. I pray he is at peace, that he is happy. I know in my heart that he is, but I'd gladly give my own life to have one more hug, see one more smile. Then I get mad at myself because my wants feel selfish.

I hope Colby was there to welcome his friend. There are now four young men who look down upon loved ones. One went about a year before Colby. All went differently, for different reasons. All left grieving parents whose hearts will never, ever, be the same.

Impact

Today I hear from two more people who are having emotional problems. The problems are not entirely due to Colby's passing, but do play a significant part. I do not think any of us realize how many people care for us, how many people we touch, how much we really do make a difference in the world. We are all so close to our own reality that we cannot take a step back to see that, yes, we are important to others, and that if we are not here, others will be affected, sad, lost, lonely.

It is a fact of life that we get so busy that our priorities slip. Then we forget about the things that truly matter: other people, causes we believe in, doing the little things that make life so much easier for others. I was fortunate that Colby and I said "I love you" to each other every single day. Those three words were, in fact, the last words we spoke to each other, not knowing, of course, at the time, that they would be the last.

I know that Colby had no idea of the strong impact he made on others, or how many other people loved him, cared for him, wanted to help, tried to help. I also know that Colby would not want us to grieve for him, to play the "what if" game, to be, as previously stated: sad, lost, lonely. But we do. We are. For me, and I believe for some of the others who are struggling so much with Colby's passing, that this has brought a host of other issues to the forefront. Then it becomes not just the loss of Colby, but the loss of every person we have loved and who has gone on, it is the loss of every friendship that is irretrievably broken, every job opportunity we let slip by, every life possibility that did not happen. It becomes all the tragedy in our lives rolled into one and it overwhelms, knocks some of us to our knees.

Grief is complicated. It is a process. It is depressing, sad, shaky, emotional, gut-wrenching, angry. I am not the only one suffering here. In addition to those who loved and lost Colby, there are thousands of parents who have lost their children, families who have lost loved ones, spouses who are suddenly single. Loss is the tougher part of life. For those of you who know someone who his grieving for a loved one, I hope you reach out. It is important to know that the loss does not have to be recent. Someone told me the other day it took more than a dozen years to deal with and accept the loss of this individual's parent. A friendly ear to listen, a strong shoulder to cry on, a pair of capable hands can mean all the difference. I am so blessed to have so many who offer this to me on a daily, hourly, basis. I do not always accept, but the offers bring me comfort. They help. If you know someone like me, like my friends, Colby's friends, who are grieving, hurting, please offer your ear, your shoulder, your hands, for the potential loss of these amazing people would compound the initial tragedy. It would be beyond devastating. Here, you can make a difference.

Clarity

I am not thinking clearly. Again. Still. I soak the crockpot in the sink while it is turned off, but still plugged in. It stays that way for a day before I remember I was interrupted when I was cleaning the kitchen. I am horrified when I see what I have done. I rescue the crockpot, dry it off, but instead of unplugging it, as I intend, I turn in on. With nothing in it. And it is another day before I realize this second error.

I have two very near car accidents in a single hour. Thank goodness the other drivers were alert; both accidents would have been my fault. And bad. Very bad. Both would have resulted in a lot of banged up people and metal. I leave my house to go to the store and leave the door wide open. I forget to eat and realize it a day later when I am overcome with weakness.

Colby would have cautioned me to "chill," to slow down, to be careful, to pay attention. He would have said to "get a grip," watch out, breathe. The problem is, I already think I am doing those things. I consult my grief support group to find those parents (moms mostly) who are a few months or years ahead of me in this process, have all experienced periods of this forgetfulness, this time of bad decisions, poor actions. "Be kind to yourself," one writes. "Don't try to do so much," writes another. "None of us can do all we did before." All say it is between years 2 and 3 when things ease, get a little better. I am 12 weeks into this. I have a long, long way to go.

Faith

Whether or not you believe, everyone has some kind of faith in something. Whether is it a faith and belief in God, or humanity, or simply that you know the sun will come up tomorrow, we all have faith that certain things are unquestionably true. Then tragedy hits and you no longer know what is and is not fact. My faith has been tested constantly since Colby passed, to the point that I am no longer sure what I believe. Everything I knew to be true in this world has proved to be false. Over and over I question, waiver, wonder. Why?

Is Colby in a better place? Was his passing ordained, predetermined? Was this part of a master plan or did it just happen? Why? Are we all just here with no direction? Turned loose like a pack of wild dogs to fend for ourselves? Or are we supposed to learn, help, do, grow? Why, really, are we here? What was Colby's purpose? Did he have a purpose? If so, did he fulfill it? Is that why he had to go? What is my purpose? What am I supposed to do now?

Everyone has questions. Some are answered, some are not. When life-changing events hit, those questions that are unresolved surface, swirl, and settle, sometimes into a new pattern, a new reality; sometimes back into the old. I am in the middle of a big swirl of questions, feelings, emotions. I can't see how this will all resolve and that, right now, is unsettling, almost disturbing. I have no path, no direction, no sense that I am doing what I am supposed to be doing.

My only truth these days is that I get up every morning and stumble through the day in the desperate hope that one day soon, all will be a little clearer, my path a little less foggy, my questions about Colby answered in my heart. I do have faith that day will come. I just hope it is soon.

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

Birthday

Today is Colby’s birthday. Today, he would have been 24. Via phone, mail, and email I receive many birthday wishes for Colby from my support group and from friends. I so wish he were here; would give anything for him to be here. But he is not. I have given much thought to the various ways I can remember his birthday and decide the best thing I can do is file incorporation papers for Colby’s Army, the nonprofit organization founded in Colby’s memory.

Soon, Colby’s Army will present a united front to educate and encourage people to affect positive change in animal welfare, the environment, and personal development. These were all things Colby felt strongly about, and in these areas he hoped to change the world. Collectively, through Colby’s Army, maybe we can accomplish that on his behalf. In coming weeks, as things progress, I’ll post more information.

In addition to getting Colby’s Army off the ground I spend a few minutes at the spot where Colby passed. I bring Abby (our dog) and she looks pleased to be here. This is her first time at this spot and she wags her tail the entire visit. I think of Colby’s past birthdays and especially one of his favorites, when he had a party at Chuck E. Cheese. He was seven or so, and had one of the best times of his life. More recently we’d eat sushi in honor of his birth and talk of good times spent together.

Now, I take a few moments to sort through more of his “stuff,” as I do every day, Within a minute I find an envelope filled with birthday cards from Colby’s grandma and from me. He had saved every one. How ironic that I would find this today, of all days, the day of his birth. The cards are all humorous, and some are worn, as if he had looked through them over the years. I sit with the cards spread out around me and sort them by years. Most are easy to figure out. I guess on a few. Then I carefully store the cards with Colby’s writings and song lyrics, knowing that I, too, will treasure them for many years to come.

Cleaning

I have an obsessive need to clean. This is not like me, the usual me. I am told it is because this is one small corner of my universe that I can control. So much of my life is in disarray, but to some extent I can control the cleanliness of my physical environment. Every morning and every evening I mop, scrub and polish. I sort, move and discard. I can keep this up for some time, I think. I have too much stuff. Colby had way too much stuff. Of course many of his piles were for re-homing, to renew and find homes for items that still had some life in them. He just never got around to it.

Colby was not by any means a "neat" person when it comes to cleanliness and orderliness. Much of that was due to his dysgraphia. This is difficulty in writing, but also affects knot tying skills, math calculation, and thinking and being orderly. Organizing a drawer was beyond Colby, so you can imagine the "orderliness" of his room, and of the basement, where much of his "stuff" lives.

I tell myself I have to stop cleaning at a certain time. I have other things I must do. But every morning and every evening I go past my time limit. Way past. I go through all my cleaning supplies. Then I buy more. Enough. For now. I turn to my long work "to do" list. If I get started on one project, maybe I can become as engrossed in it as I am cleaning. Then I realize that by immersing myself in cleaning, or in work, I am fillig my mind with the task at hand, and that effectively blocks out scary thoughts of a future without my son, without a family. So I work. Hard. I don't think. I just be. For now it is a coping skill that will get me through to the next phase. Maybe. In the meantime, I am productive and that is good.

Drained

I am emotionally drained. Here at my mom's I look at old family photos and wonder what will happen to them when I am gone. It would be a tragedy to destroy them, to so dishonor these good people and their lives, their stories, but who will be interested? I know I am supposed to do something with the photos, maybe do a family history and put it on Amazon.com as a free e-book, but the thought is overwhelming and I know that time is not here, not yet, not now. It will have to wait.

Today it is two months since Colby passed. Both my mom and I are worried about getting through Colby's birthday, which comes up in 5 days. It will be an emotional day, but one I hope to celebrate with some joy, somehow. I will spend the drive back to Tennessee tomorrow thinking of something. In the meantime, I sort photos and add some of Colby to the large pile of relatives who are no longer here.

Flashbacks

There are so many memories here at my mom's. Everywhere I turn I see things that remind me of Colby. These are painful reminders that he is not here, not fond memories. Not yet. I go down to the lake and think he should be sitting on the bench on the dock beside me. We had some great conversations there. I notice a weak step on the way back up to the house from the dock. Colby should be here to fix it.

In the downstairs bedroom, the room that was mine as a teen and his when Colby visited the past dozen or so years, I find a few of his things: a portable CD player, a shirt, a book. I am sure there is more, but I stop looking. This is too hard.

When Mom and I go to the store, she sits in the back seat, because it is easier for her to get into the car that way, but Colby should be sitting in the passenger seat beside me. When we stop for lunch, it should be lunch for 3, not 2. He should be here to help unload the car, fix the screen door.

Mom finds some old family photos in the garage. They are wrapped in a mouse-eaten burlap bag, but none of the photos are touched. They need to be moved to a safer place inside the house, I think, then just as quickly I think "who cares?" After me there will be no one to remember these people. No one to be interested in their lives, what they accomplished. No one to care. I move the photos inside anyway.

Colby should be here. But he is not. I have to trust that a higher power has good reason for this. I do believe that, but this is so hard. So very, very hard. My one consolation is that Colby is not longer sad, no longer struggling with this life. I know he is at peace and that is my one comforting thought for the day.

Habits

Today I see Colby everywhere. He is on a bike on the other side of the street, skateboarding in a parking lot. He's the kid leaning against the tree, coming out of the store, walking away from me, driving the car that passes me. Today I see Colby everywhere. Yet none of these people are my son. None of them are Colby. It is all smoke and mirrors. A mirage.

My counselor says I am well-grounded in reality, that I understand––truly understand––that Colby is gone and is not coming back. But if that is the case, why does my heart leap out of my chest every time I see someone who, on closer inspection, only vaguely resembles Colby? Why do I for the briefest instant think, "Oh, there's my son. I wonder what he's doing here?"

Habit, I think. During the past 23 years I developed the habit of looking for my son, of expecting him to be close by, of knowing that he will soon drive in the driveway, knock on the door, peek through the window, call on the phone. It is a habit for me to expect that, and as we all know, habits are hard to break.

I want to break this habit. Badly. For every time I see someone who might be my son, I go through the pain of losing him all over again. Fourteen times today I go through that loss. Fourteen times my heart leaps in joy at the sight of my son, then it weeps.

Members of my support group tell me that time will take care of much of this, but that this habit of expecting my son to arrive will never completely go away. I will be 80 years old and I will see a tall, thin young man with light brown hair in disarray and think for one blissful moment that he is my child. My child, stuck in time, un-aged, still 23. Then the sinking feeling will come as my heart drops into the pit of my stomach and I remember once again that my son has passed. Countless other grieving parents have told me this is the way it is, the way it will always be. Old habits die hard, and young men and women, cherished children of lost parents, are forever frozen in time.

Identity

My identity is lost. For more than 23 years I was a mom. Now I am not sure what I am. Yes, I am a friend, daughter, motivator. A teacher. But my role first and foremost has been mom. Where do I go from here? With Colby's passing, my identity is irrevocably gone, never to return.

Those of us who have become childless parents are in a unique situation. I realize I am not the only one who is going through this. Unfortunately, there are countless others who have lost either their only child, or all their children. Some have grandchildren, so their roles as a parent of some kind will continue. Others, like me, do not.

I know I have to "reinvent" myself. Find a new identity. But that does not come easily. And it is too soon. Way too soon. In the meantime I, along with all the other childless parents out there float in limbo, no longer knowing who I am or what I am supposed to be. I know someday the answer will come. In the meantime, I mourn the loss of my treasured identity along with the treasure that was, and is, my child.

Maybe

I have a growing sense that Colby's passing is fate, destiny. I don't feel this way all the time, but I do frequently, and this morning is one of those times. Maybe Colby was never supposed to be here long. Maybe his entire purpose on Earth was to meet and encourage those he did meet, and to pass on at a young age as an example so others could live.

Colby's story is getting some attention in the health care reform debate. I will not take sides here other than to say I think every American deserves the opportunity to have affordable health care, and that mental illness should not be treated solely by taking vital signs and pulling blood for a drug screen. Beyond that I will leave it to those who are more knowledgeable to work out the details.

Colby's memorial web site gets a lot of hits from people who never met him. I get a lot of emails from that site from people I do not know. All say his story, his life, is both an inspiration and a wake up call as to the state of our health care system. Maybe in his passing, Colby will save others. One person, 20, 100, 5000. From the time he was small, Colby always said he would not grow old. Maybe we do have some input as to our path here on Earth before we are ever born. If so, maybe Colby had some sense of that. Maybe this was supposed to be.

I might be I am rationalizing here. It might be that as his mother I am trying to find some sense of peace, of acceptance. It might be this kind of thinking is part of my grieving process. Nothing will bring my son back or return my life to "normal," but right now, this morning, I find a small comfort in these ideas. Time will tell, but from where I sit at this moment, I hope with all I have that I am right.

Dilemma

I have a dilemma. Grandparent's Day is just a few days away, this coming Sunday. We just got through Labor Day and here we already have another, albeit small, holiday, and I am not sure what to do.

Colby always sent my mom, his grandma, a card and called her on Grandparent's Day. If I operate on the premise that I am always and forever Colby's mom, then it translates that my mother is always and forever Colby's grandma, even though he has passed away. If that is the case, should I recognize this day by sending her a card, or, would she think that was inappropriate? Should I ask how she feels about it and, in asking, spoil the surprise? If I don't send something, will she think she is being forgotten? Maybe she doesn't feel the same way I do. Maybe she feels that because Colby has passed on that her role as grandma has ended.

You have to understand that my mom was a Marine in World War II. She comes from a different generation, one that doesn't open up about personal thoughts and feelings like we do. For her generation, opening up is a sign of weakness. Typically, when I begin to talk about Colby she changes the subject. She has gotten a little better about this in the past week or so, but it is clear she is not yet ready to really talk about his passing.

So what should I do? I do not want to forget her wonderful time as Colby's grandmother, but I also do not want to send a card she might thing was in poor taste. My decision needs to be made quickly as she lives 900 miles away and I will have to get a card in the mail to her on Wednesday if it is to arrive in time. I'm open to and appreciate greatly any thoughts or ideas any of you might have. Just post a comment or send me an email. Thanks!

Why

"Why" questions bounce back and forth in my brain this morning. Why did my child, my only child, have to die? Why couldn't it have been someone else's child? Not that I would wish this horror on anyone else, but why could this not have happened to some other mother, one who has other children? Why was I robbed of any possibility of having grandchildren? Why did Colby have to pass before he had the opportunity to live a full life? Why?

On some level I realize these questions mean I am moving into another stage of grief. That is good, except for me, rather than moving through stages, I bounce back and forth. Now, rather than ping-ponging between two opposite emotions, numb shock and uncontrollable crying, I will hit the triangle and add questioning despair. My counselor says that grief sometimes happens that way, moving around and around before the person doing the grieving can find some sort of peace, some sort of platform from which he or she can rebuild their life and move on. Apparently this kind of grieving, this kind of healing process, is no better or worse than a grief that moves through one stage at a time. It just is.

I know there is an answer to each of my "why" questions. I do believe there is a plan from a higher power. I do believe that God has reasons, good reasons, for all of this, and that someday my questions will be answered. In the meantime, I embrace this new stage of grief as being one step closer to healing, and one day closer to peace.

Labor

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

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

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

Time

For several days now I have had an empty, hollow feeling in the pit of my stomach. It's the kind of feeling you get when you are an hour away from home and realize you left the stove on. It's a lurch of recognition followed by a horrible, sinking feeling. I believe I have had this feeling continually since the moment I learned about Colby's passing, but now, six weeks later, as the shock begins to wear off, I am just now aware it is there.

The medical people I talk to say the physical reactions of grief can include dry mouth, shortness of breath, trouble swallowing and sleeping, panic attacks, repetitive motions, and inflammation throughout the body. In past weeks I have experienced it all. They also tell me that medical studies show that the death of a child is the most intense form of grief there is, and that a parent never really gets over the loss, but instead somehow learns to live with the passing of his or her child. Also, feelings of guilt can be strong and because of the intensity of the emotions, irrational decisions are often made. Again, I have experienced, and continue to experience, all of that.

Looking at all of that in black and white I realize I expect way too much of myself way too soon. I get mad at myself when I can't function in group settings, when I cry in public, when I take two hours to get up and out of the house, when I read the same page over and over and none of it makes any sense. The medical studies validate both my physical and my mental distress and show me that it is okay to take a year or more to process Colby's passing. Members of my online grief support group agree but go one step more. Many say, for them, it is between year two and three when they start to feel as if they can cope with the loss, and with life. So I'll take each day as it comes, be glad for what I can get done, and let the rest go. Survival comes in many forms and beginning tomorrow, this will be mine.

Grieving

I feed horses this morning. I still feel an emotional disconnect around these four-legged friends, so I sit on the fence and wait. I wait to see how they will react to me for horses are the best indicator of emotional stability one might ever hope to find. One finally leaves his pile of hay to investigate. This one is the quietest. Of the three in this paddock, this one has the most stable personality. Not much phases him, including, apparently, my tears. Later, the second walks over. This horse doesn't come too close. In fact, he stays a good ten feet away, but he watches with relative calm and he listens with I speak to him. After a few minutes he lowers his head, licks his lips and walks away. This is typical horse language for acceptance. This is good.

Finally the last horse approaches. This is the horse I have spent the most time with. He pins his ears at the second horse, telling him to move further away. The horse moves. The third horse comes close, but when he sniffs me he jumps. When I extend my hand to him, he shies away. I am not the person he expects me to be and this is unsettling to him. To me, too. A few minutes later, though, he returns. I have remained on the fence, waiting for him. This time he rests his chin on my knees. I pet his forehead and stroke his ears. He sighs, then walks away.

I am not the same person I was before Colby passed away and the horses have let me know they understand this. I remember that in working with horses, people must expect progress in the horse's time frame, not theirs. For example, you can't go out to the barn and expect to teach your horse something new in five minutes. It might be that the horse does learn in that time frame, but it is more likely that the horse will learn in 30 minutes, in two days, or a month.

Grief is like these horses I love so much. I can't expect my grieving to evolve to the next stage in my time frame. It will evolve when it is ready, when it knows I am ready. In the meantime, I hope the horses will get to know the new me, to understand the new energy, the roller coaster of emotion that I project, is not a threat to their safety. I may not yet inspire enough confidence for them to trust me to lead them away from danger, but the fact that they are no longer running from me means I am headed in the right direction.

Generations

I go through one of Colby's drawers this afternoon. As I sort through this catch-all of life I realize that I can't believe Colby will never come home again. Ever. I can't believe that he won't show up at the door with a pile of laundry, that when the phone rings it will never be Colby who is calling. At this moment, I can't believe he has really and truly passed on.

I've had moments like this before, and I have been told they will come again. It is my body's way of insulating me from the truth when the truth is so horrible that I can't deal with it. These temporary reprieves from the truth are good. I can't think of never seeing my son's smiling face again, so my mind blocks that reality for a moment, or a few hours, or maybe a day, until enough healing, rest, and nutrition allow me to process one more piece of this nightmare.

While I am busy not dealing with reality I find baseball cards, collectible stamps, foreign coins and other groups of things Colby collected at one time or another. A good number of the cards were mine when I was small. I will keep these, for now, but I wonder about keeping anything, as I now have no one to pass Colby's treasures, our family treasures, on to. My grandfather's retirement watch, my great-grandparents' wedding photo, my mother's Marine uniform, my grandmother's china. There is no one to hand these things down to and I feel as if I've let my ancestors down. After me, there will be no one to remember them. No one to pass family stories along to, no one to remember their history.

That thought makes Colby's passing real again and the pain of his loss washes over me like a tidal wave. I am devastated once again, for me, for him, for his friends, and for all the people he might have met, might have shared a smile with, might have helped in some small way. My baby boy really is gone. I sigh and put the collectibles in a drawer. I'll look at them more closely another day. Maybe on that day, I will be processing reality a little better than today.

Sense

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

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

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

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