Masks

As we head into Thanksgiving, masks are a hot topic in my online support group. Other grieving parents specifically talk about the masks we wear in public to make people think we are doing okay, that we are coping, getting on with life, functioning. Then we get home, or company leaves, or we hang up the phone and we take the mask off. That's when we fall apart. Completely, uncontrollably. It doesn't matter if our child passed yesterday or six years ago yesterday. The grief is still overwhelming. We are still crying ourselves to sleep every single night. The loss is still far greater than anyone should ever have to bear.

This removing of the mask happens dozens of times a day. The good news is that we have all progressed far enough in our grief that we are able to hold things together for short periods of time. If we have to. But the toll that takes is so great that the build up of emotion then explodes. So, rather than staying on an even keel of grief that progresses slowly, every grieving parent I have spoken with rides this huge roller coaster of emotion. How I wish all of us could stop this thing and get off.

But we can't. I get emails every day from people all around the world who read this blog. If you have a friend or family member who has suffered an exceptional loss at any time, during this holiday season:

1. Please mention the loved one's name frequently.
2. Spend time talking with the person about their loved one.
3. It's okay if they cry. In fact, it is healing if they do.
4. Offer your support, but do not be offended if they do not accept it. That you offered is enough.
5. Do not judge their method of grieving. Everyone does it differently.
6. Recognize that past loss can be as raw as new loss, especially during the holidays.
7. Do not force people to "get out." Sometimes it is better to stay home.
8. The best gift is the gift of remembrance. Remembering the loved one is the best gift you can give to someone who is grieving.

Balance

I stayed up a few nights ago to watch the meteor showers. I thought how much Colby would have liked to see them. Even as a young child he was interested in science and astronomy. Unfortunately, in Nashville, it was cloudy and rainy and I could not see anything from my front porch. I thought then how disappointed Colby would have been to miss them before I realized he probably had a front row seat.

My counselor friend has asked me to try to balance loss and gain. When I think of a loss, I am to focus on the positive, a gain. Not that there is anything positive about losing a child. There is absolutely no gain. None. Nada, Zip. Nil. I understand that, but the balance must be there if I am to put one foot in front of the other, if I am to keep going. So I think of things like Colby sitting right there up in the sky, leaning on a cloud, a bag of popcorn in his hand as he waits for the meteor showers to begin. Implausable to be sure, but the image helps. It keeps me from focusing so totally on the loss, from drowning in the deficit of my life.

I think it is good advice for other situations as well. A flat tire is an opportunity to practice changing it. A missed meeting is a chance to improve your time management. For many, it is hard to think that way. I used to do it easily. Lately, not so much. But, there is no change without intent. There is no possibility of crawling out of this dark hole without the intent to do so. So I think of gains, however insignificant or impossible they may be. One day that may change. The gains may be real, but the loss will always, forever, be there.

Feeling

Memories are funny things. Sometimes my memories of Colby bring him so close to me it is as if I can feel him, and I fully expect that I can reach out and hug my son. Then I am overwhelmingly, depressingly, disappointed when I realize I cannot. Other times, no matter how hard I try, or how much I want to, I cannot get a grasp of Colby, his presence, his essence. Those are the times I realize, in my grief, I am working too hard at staying busy, keeping my mind too occupied in a futile attempt to keep my sadness at bay.

It is a no-win situation. On the one hand, if I stay so busy that I am functioning, productive, then I do not have the time to process my grief, my sadness, and the unaltering life changes that Colby's loss brings to my little family, to my future. However, if I allow myself the time to process, then I am not productive, do not get work done, money does not come in and I do not have the means to eat, pay my electric bill or my mortgage. I wish I could spend a month on an island somewhere and be done with the grief. But I know it doesn't work that way. Other parents tell me the grief never goes away. It lessens, but it is always pervasive, always there. I just have to make peace with it and find a way to incorporate this grief, this never-ending sadness, into a full and productive life.

In taking these first baby steps toward that goal, I strive to find balance, to tune into my feelings and adjust as needed. On an emotional level, I am still mostly numb. But my feelings, my gut instincts, can now sometimes be found. That's a start. Here at the house I am surrounded by Colby, his image, his stuff, things he made or touched. There are items I feel, know, I need to keep, and others that I know he would not care if I gave away or threw out. But some of the items I do not have a feeling for. I do not know what he would want me to do and those I put into a pile to further assess on a day when I am more in touch with my memories of Colby. On those days, the decisions become clear. I suddenly know what is the right thing to do. On those days the balance is right. Today is not one of those days. But tomorrow might be, or maybe the day after that. I do know that with time I will find the right mix of feeling, emotion, productivity, of life. I will find it because because I have to, because it is my future.

Poetry

Of the two of us, Colby was the one who was a poet. From the time he was 12 he always had a scrap of paper tucked away somewhere with the beginnings of a poem, or song lyrics he was working on. My writing tends to be longer format. It takes me 1,000 words to say what poets and songwriters can say in 100. That's why I was so surprised when I was driving down the road a few weeks ago and rhyming words began to form in my head. When I got home I wrote the words down and in a few minutes there it was. A poem.

A few days later I had the opportunity to submit the poem for a book that will be filled with poetry about children who have passed on. If I was surprised when I wrote the poem, I was even more surprised when it was accepted. As I said, Colby was the poet in our family.

Like most of us, this new creation, these words, together, are not perfect. I know little of proper poetic structure, form, or format. But the words are real, heartfelt, and they came so easily that I didn't want to second guess the process by over thinking it, or editing. I'm a little out of my element here but I hope those who read it, who maybe didn't know Colby, learn a little more about him.

You, Colby

True love is what I feel
The first time I hold you
You giggle, grow, so fast, so fun
Colby, my toddler son

Pride for the grand slam
Winning is your smile
Sadness at losing Dexter dog
Counseling by the mile

Skipping down the wooded path
You, carefree, bright and gay
But teachers do not understand
A learning difference doesn’t go away

Panic first begins in school
Then spreads to all you do
Anxiety soon rules your life
My Colby, where are you?

Playing music sooths your soul
And your talent is so strong
You are smart and kind through all the rain
You smile, but it’s all wrong

Doctors never get it right
So you take it from their hands
And try to do what they cannot
Your brain, over time, disbands

Life on the street seems your only choice
The illness grows and grows
Everyone so loves you still
But pain is all you know

The big day comes and now you’re free
You leave me way behind
I don’t think you planned to go
But maybe it was time

My broken heart will never heal
Life will never be the same
How can I go on without you, my son
So precious is your name

Now I am lost, so all alone
A grandma I’ll never be
But you, Colby, my beautiful son
Are finally, eternally free

©  Lisa Wysocky

Lost

I think I am doing well in my grief counseling sessions. It helps, these sessions, because I learn to look at things from other angles, and I gain perspective. My grief counselor points out that I have spent my entire adult life helping others, taking care of others. I am a nurturer, but I have forgotten how to take care of myself. Or, maybe I never knew how.

I do not talk about the feeding/bathing kind of taking care, but the nurturing care that I am drawn to do for others. Even animals. Horses. I take care of all my four-legged friends, but I never take time off. I have not had a vacation in more than 30 years. I rarely attend social events or go to lunches or dinners unless they are work related. I have tried, as my counselor suggested in one of my early sessions, to take a few hours or an afternoon to do something fun, for me. Although I have given it a lot of thought, I have no idea what that might be.

Some of this stems from the fact that for many years, unless I worked 70-80 hours a week Colby and I did not eat. We came home once or twice a year to find the electricity had been turned off and I couldn't always get it turned back on right away. That is the downside to working for myself. Clients don't always pay and when they do, the checks sometimes bounce.

The upside was I got to go to classroom parties when Colby was in elementary school. I was a cub scout leader. In eight years, I attended all but one of his baseball games and only missed two practices. That was the positive trade-off for financial instability and I would not change a thing about that.

But, the result is that in a way I have lost myself. I know myself in work situations. That has not changed. That is my comfort zone, safe. In trying to go forward with this "new normal" that is life without my son, however, I am not sure. I really don't know what I like to do. People ask if I like movies or music and I honestly do not have a clue. Before, if I did anything outside of work it was with Colby. There were several restaurants we enjoyed and lots of thrift stores we liked to explore. I can't yet conceive of going to any of those places without him. Someday, hopefully, I will try.

For now, I am still going through all of Colby's "stuff." Down to 3/4 of one bedroom and most of the basement. Progress! I still have to catch up with work. At some point I will take time to try out the concept of "down time." Leisure hours. But not yet. Not today. There is too much to do. But soon. I promise. Soon.

Swimming

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.

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.

Shopping

Shopping, grocery shopping in particular, is difficult. I see so many of Colby's favorite foods on the shelves. Recent favorites as well as favorites from years gone by: chicken and dumplings, string cheese, canned ravioli, diced tomatoes with green chilis, soft French bread and hummus, frozen "cardboard" pizzas. I push the cart down the aisle and reach to pull one of the items off the shelf, then remember Colby is not here to eat it. I bite my lips. I haven't yet gotten through a trip to the grocery store without crying. Today will not be the day.

I'm not sure why I am here. At the store. I have a pantry full of food I haven't eaten. May never eat. Shopping for groceries is a routine, normal, mundane thing we all do. Maybe that's why I am here. To be normal. But, of course, that will never be. My world will never be "normal" again. It will change, it will evolve, I will learn to live in it, and someday I probably will even be happy. But will I ever feel normal, the same, again? No. My child is gone.

I reach the checkout counter and even though I have half a cart full of food, decline both options: paper and plastic. Both use the Earth's resources unnecessarily. And besides, I don't need them. I brought a box. It's an old box, corners frayed, one side beginning to tear, but it will work for today and maybe for the next few shopping trips, although I have enough food to feed an army, so not sure when I will return. Colby was adamant about recycling, about not using what we don't need. As I head to the parking lot, I look at the box in my cart and almost, but not quite, smile. I will remember my son and I will remember, and act on, what he stood for. Always.

Conversations

I cannot rest today so I pick a pile of Colby’s stuff and begin to go through it. At the center I find a briefcase and inside it must be every newspaper clipping his grandmother ever sent him. He and she had a special connection, a special bond. Both loved to discuss politics, religion, history, art, social sciences and news of the day. These are subjects I am not particularly interested in, at least not at the level they were, and I remember that while I lost my only child, my mother lost her only grandchild. Who, now, will discuss these things with her? Who will call her with an insightful comment on our national leaders? Who will talk with her about daily life in medieval times, Greek and Roman mythology, the shortage of water in Kenya, Beethoven’s mistresses, three legged frogs, fossils, satirical cartoons, the many uses of borax, Native American traditions, English literature, algae, our nation’s aging roads and bridges, and the many other things they discussed in depth?

I realize I must make an effort to fill the gap, but that means developing a working knowledge of all of the above, and more, and I am already so very overwhelmed. But I will do this. My mother is important to me. She is the last of my family and deserves these intellectual conversations that mean so much to her. I already call her several times a day, but now I will call freshly prepped with a topic and the Internet close at hand. If I can't be knowledgeable about the subjects, maybe I can at least pull up some interesting facts to share with her.

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.

Piles

I couldn't sleep last night and today I am back to shaky and emotional. I go through more of Colby's stuff. Some I sort for the Goodwill, others I mark for his friends, most I just let sit. Colby had a lot of stuff. Two rooms and most of the basement. I do a little every day and by now I see some progress. I pile musical equipment in one area, books in another. Clothes, DVDs videos, video games, all find their way into their own areas. If I can order his things, I think, my life will become more orderly. Not sure that is true, but I follow my instincts and keep sorting.

I have misplaced important papers for Colby's memorial service and can't reach people to complete important tasks. Insurance, security, park officials, crematory. Do they all take Friday off? It is frustrating and I am impatient and cranky. I want, I need, to stay on top of everything. I don't want any surprises on Wednesday, Colby's Celebration of Life. The event must go smoothly. I won't get through it if it doesn't.

A friend calls and I feel better. Calmer. I decide to get out of the house. Everything can wait an hour. A little fresh air, a little perspective, can change everything.

Normal

The numbness returns this morning. I do research on the Internet and find this roller coaster of jittery emotion followed by numb guilt is normal. Apparently I can expect this to last a while. There is much to do for Colby's Celebration of Life and I will spend a few hours on that, but I also need to get back to work. I have clients who need projects that were half-finished when Colby died completed. It is hard to focus on any one thing, but today I will make an effort.

I feel guilty for trying to get back to work. My son has passed to a better place. I should spend the rest of my life on my knees mourning him. That's my Catholic background speaking. I know that scenario is not realistic or healthy, but it is how I feel at this moment. In emailing other bereaved parents I know this numb guilt is part of the process. Every parent seems to go through it. In this I am normal, and whatever little bit of normalcy I can grasp on to right now is welcomed.

Website

Today is an emotional day and I try to stay busy. I work on Colby's website, which is a challenge as I've not done this before. I do get it up and hope it stays functional. If you want to check it out it is at www.ColbyKeegan.info. There is information on Colby and a guestbook where everyone who knew Colby can post stories so we can all laugh, share, cry and heal. I am working on several concepts that will allow people everywhere to better the world in Colby's name and will post information on all of that as soon as it is solidified. I am optimistic about the possibilities here, and thinking of the possibilities keeps me sane. For today anyway.

A friend of Colby's stops by. He is having a rough time, too. Good moments and bad mix his life as they do mine. He has not had an easy life and I tell him I think he is amazing. And I really do. For whatever reasons, some people are dealt a bad hand at birth. They have to work very hard just to pull themselves up to even. I can't imagine. He's been stopping by and I enjoy our visits very much. I hope, too, that he is not so hard on himself. I know how tough that can be as I am that way myself. He's a good kid, and smart. And he was a great friend to my son.

I keep busy, but still have several breakdowns today. One at the grocery store. Colby loved Arizona Green Tea with Ginseng and Honey. I pass a tall display of the beverage and begin to cry. Even though I bite my lips I don't stop the tears for 20 minutes. By then I am home putting away food I will probably never eat.

Home

I am home from Houston. Of course, home will never be the same again. I turn my attention to Colby's Celebration of Life service, scheduled for August 12, and quickly become overwhelmed, not because there is so much to do, but because for me, anything to do with it is so depressing. I am burying my only child and I see a life of such emptiness ahead of me that it is almost unbearable. I order the urn and pick out photos for a slide show several of his friends are putting together. That's all I can manage right now.

Friends call. That helps. Friends email. That helps, too. I feel a little better but I am oh so tired. Money is an issue and I worry about the expenses of the Celebration. Many people have chipped in to help and I am very, very grateful. But still I worry. When you have a child with a mental illness you do everything you can to get help. To that end I spent thousands of dollars, gladly. Then Colby would refuse to go to a doctor's appointment or refuse to participate in testing. That is part of the illness. As frustrating as it was for me, it must have been a thousand times more frustrating for him. My bright, talented, funny, kind, caring boy.

I am glad to hear so many are sending small donations to Grandpa's House. That is a positive thing that will help others like Colby. There are few facilities in the world that help with mental illness and addiction in a loving residential environment. This is one of them. Their website will be up soon. In the meantime the many people who have asked me about them can find them at 2479 Murfreesboro Rd. #183, Nashville, TN 37217, 615-586-6946. If you send a donation, please note that it is in memory of Colby.

Dreams

Saturday night I had a dream. Colby and I are in a hardware store near where my mother lives, except the store in the dream is much larger than it is in real life. We are waiting in line to check out. As we wait, Colby balances a metal yardstick on his index finger and repeatedly spits on the yardstick, then stares intently at the spot where the spit lands. I am exasperated with him because he knows it is not polite to spit in public, but he is to absorbed in the yardstick to notice.

Sunday morning I am unsettled by the dream. Does it have a meaning? If so, what? Or, is it a collection of my subconscious thoughts? If anyone has any ideas, I'd love to hear them. I am clueless.

This Sunday morning I am nervous and unable to cope with the smallest setbacks. The Internet at the hotel is down and over this I have a meltdown in my room. I pull myself together. I have things to do. I take a deep breath. One by one, I load my truck, check out of the hotel, get in the truck, and drive to the farm where the morning's equine therapy demonstrations will take place.

I now realize why I am nervous. My energy is still on a roller coaster and here, now, today, I will be physically near several horses I have never met. I worry about how the horses will react. I know the horses will be a much better judge than I am right now of my mental state. I so badly want the horses to tell me I am okay, but in my heart I know it is far too soon for that.

I also want to be around my equine friends at home. I miss them terribly. I know at the appropriate time they will help me, but I will not do anything to disturb the trust, confidence and respect I have spent so long building with them. If that means staying away a little longer, I will.

Bolts

My presentation went well yesterday and I felt surrounded by love and support, along with a deep. aching tiredness that goes into my bones. I log onto my email and find more than a dozen emails from mothers of children with schizophrenia. Thank you. Your emails keep me going. I'd also like to respond to many of you so please let me know how I can contact you. It may be in the email header somewhere, but I am too tired to look. I especially have words for Michelle.

My mother calls to let me know she is glad she went to the races and told her friends about Colby. My Mom is a very private person and I know it was hard for her to share, but several of her closest friends there let her know they have had loved ones pass in similar ways. I know she feels better for her talks and will be going back today for more.

Today, after a morning at the barn learning more about therapeutic riding, I face the long drive back to Nashville. It was a difficult drive down. I resolve to do better on the way back. I leave my hotel room a mess, something I never do. I get into the truck, then get out and go back to clean up the room. It is not fair for my emotional roller coaster to cause more work for the hotel staff.

Back in the truck a large, thick rusty bolt rolls out from underneath the seat. Colby was a collector, of everything, and this was something he had picked up a while ago. I pick up the bolt and hug it to myself, getting rust all over my clothes. I miss my son more than I can say. Somehow I will the pending tears away. Then, with a deep, shaky breath, I start the truck and head to the barn.

Dreams, July 29, 2009, 7:06 a.m.

I dream I am walking down a wide dirt path in the woods when I come to a clearing. Water from a recent rain has pooled, forming a small pond, and the far bank of the pond is a cliff of gray clay about 10 feet high. I think how to navigate this obstacle, for I desperately want to go home. Finally, I decide to edge around the left side of the pond. As I come closer to the bank I see there are about a dozen people trying to climb the cliff. Most are wearing orange jumpsuits. Some have ropes and hard hats. There are a few people at the top who kick the ones who come near. A few do get through. I start to climb. I feel the wetness of the clay, and I struggle to find footholds in the slippery lumps of the cliff. My intense desire to go home outweighs my fear of heights. I near the top. I think I am going to make it. Then a foot lands on my shoulder and pushes me down into the pond. I am drowning.

After that I can't sleep. I trip on the scale on the way to the bathroom and decide to step on. Since Colby died I have lost an average of 3 pounds a day. Too much, I know, but I just can't eat. My refrigerator is filled with food and it all makes me gag.

I check my email. A friend of Colby's has sent some photos. So thoughtful. So beautiful. I feel like I should cry, but I am too numb.

Tomorrow I leave for Houston for a speaking engagement. I debated going. Can I get through it? Will the quality of my presentation be what is expected? I don't know. I do know Colby would want me to go. So I am going for him. There is much to do here and I am so overwhelmed. Maybe a change of scenery will help.

Emails, July 28, 2009, 7:27 a.m.

I have emails. Hundreds of them. Many from people reading this blog. I try to respond to all of them and can't. There are too many. But I read them. All of them. The heartfelt words support me and keep me going. All the love, thoughts and prayers surround me and prop me up. Many emails are from people I have never met. Friends of friends, or further down the chain. I hope to meet all of you one day. Please keep writing. Please keep commenting. It's because of you that I keep going.