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.

Fear

I was recently asked how I had changed the most since Colby passed away. There have been so many changes but I'd have to say the biggest change is fear. I no longer have any fear. The worst thing in the world has already happened. What else is there to be afraid of?

I used to be afraid of heights, of flying, of drowning, of Colby not being able to breathe. Now, Colby is no longer breathing and I am drowning, so heights and flying are no longer an issue. Radiation from leaky Japanese nuclear conductors? No fear. Terrorists bombing a building I am in? Earthquakes, car accidents, illness, electrocution? I am not afraid.

That said, in integrating this lack of fear into my life I am aware that I must not be too bold. I must not take too many risks, especially risks that could endanger others. This makes me a more cautious driver than I was before. I am more aware of the possibilities of children running into a street or elderly people tripping and falling. Somehow, my lack of fear has made me more able to spot danger for others. Maybe my natural maternal protectiveness over my child has transferred to the world in general. I am terrified for others, but not for myself. Never for myself.

Undo

Undo it. Take it Back

Undo it, take it back,
make every day the previous one
until I am returned to the day
before the one that made you gone.
Or set me on an airplane traveling west,
crossing the date line again and again,
losing this day, then that,
until the day of loss still lies ahead,
and you are here instead of sorrow.

Nessa Rapoport, A Woman's Book of Grieving

Letter

RECENT DEAR ABBY LETTER

PARENTS WHO LOST A DAUGHTER ARE NOW IN A DIFFERENT PLACE

DEAR ABBY:

My beautiful 20-year-old daughter was killed in a car accident. I am writing this not only for myself, but for all parents who have lost a child, and to all of the wonderful people who asked, "What can I do for you?"

At the time there wasn't much anyone could do to help, but after two years I have an answer: Accept me for who I am now.

When Rachel came into my life, it changed me profoundly. Losing her did the same. Her father and I work hard to honor her memory, but we will never "get over it" to the degree of being who we were before. I am different now. In some ways -- I think -- better. I am kinder, more patient, more appreciative of small things, but I am not as outgoing nor as quick to laugh.

I know people mean well when they encourage me to get on with my life, but this is my life.

My priorities have changed. My expectations of what my future will hold have changed. Please extend to me again the offer of "anything I can do" and, please, accept me as I am now.
 
-- DIFFERENT NOW IN RIVERVIEW, FLA.

DEAR DIFFERENT NOW:

Please accept my profound sympathy for the tragic loss of your daughter.

I hope that your letter will help anyone who doesn't understand that the death of a child is the most devastating loss parents can suffer and that the experience is life-changing. They may get beyond it, but they never get "over" it.

To expect that they would is unrealistic, because it's a wound that may become less visible but never goes away.

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.

Rivers

A counselor shares a river metaphor with me. We are all floating down the river of life. Some of us are floating in the luxury of a huge yacht or the pleasure of a big party boat. Some of us are on a barge or a pontoon, others are in speed boats, or flowing down the river in a sailboat. I am in a kayak.

This is actually good news. For the first year or so after Colby's passing I was swimming, some days I was just treading water to stay afloat. Now I have a kayak. While my journey right now is very much a solo journey, I have the luxury of some direction. I can wield my paddle to direct the kayak toward the shoreline, where I can stop and rest for as long as I need to. I can float alongside a cabin cruiser or a barge filled with friends if I choose. In my kayak, I can sometimes see the rapids ahead and choose the easiest path through them. Then again, sometimes I come upon the rapids in the darkest of nights and am fully at their mercy.

Throughout our lives we can switch boats. While I grew up on a pontoon, for many years Colby and I were in a rowboat. I manned the oars of that boat alone for many years, but as Colby got older, he was able to spell me often. When he passed away, our rowboat sunk and I was left adrift.

I have a goal. I want to trade my kayak for a canoe. Canoes are easier to handle, drier, often slower, and it is easier to get your bearings in them. Plus, they are not so physically exhausting to manage. In my canoe, I can arrange my thoughts, my feelings, my goals, my plans. It is too cramped in the kayak to do that. Someday soon, I hope to find my canoe. In the meantime, I will continue to paddle down the river and learn to portage around the waterfalls that are sure to lie ahead.

Letters

Today I find a letter I wrote to Colby. It was a letter he never read, a letter I had never given him because I wrote it in case I passed away suddenly. It was to be my final words of encouragement to him, something for him to read after I passed on, never thinking that something that tragic would happen to either of us for decades. But just in case, years ago I tucked the letter into a corner of a drawer and in it I told Colby how much I loved him and that I would always watch over him. How, I think now, is that possible when Colby passed before me? How can I watch over him and care for him when he is no longer here?

Some might say that there is no need for me to do either of those things because Colby is now well cared for in heaven. I believe that is true, but as a grieving parent of an only child, my need to be a mom to my son didn't die along with him. That urge to care for him is still here. It is a unique position we grievers of only children are in. When our child passed, so did our role as a parent.

I find in addition to grieving for Colby, I grieve for my role as a mom. I grieve for the grandchildren I will never have. I grieve for the in-laws I will never meet, the weddings and birthdays and christenings and graduations I will never attend, and school plays I will never see. I grieve for what could have been, but will never be. I grieve for Colby, for my lost role as a mom, and for me.

The grief brings home to me that the loss of every person in its own way alters the course of the universe. There is all the love that will never be realized, the children who will never be born, the events that will never take place. It is very sad, all that loss. There is much to grieve for, and a lifetime of loss to contemplate.

Scars

We all have scars. Some of us have very visible scars from accidents and others of us have internal scars from wounds incurred by life experiences. Colbby had a scar on his tongue that he got when he fell down when he was not yet two. I remember there was blood everywhere, but the ER doc I talked to assured me that tongues do bleed a lot and that it probably would be fine. And it was.

Another external scar Colby had was on his thumb. He was opening a can of dog food when he was about eight and ended up with a ton of stitches. The worst part of that incident was that it was right at the beginning of baseball season and he missed most of the games that year.

But, like a lot of us, Colby had many internal scars: the counselors who did not adequately diagnose him, the doctors who turned their professional backs, the teachers who not only didn't believe in him but actively and intentionally were unhelpful. And then there is me. I know I caused some of Colby's scars, just as all parents unintentionally disappoint their children from time to time.

Colby's internal scars were big and heavy and ugly and he couldn't carry them without help. Even though many of his friends and I tried, the devastating reality is that we could not get Colby the help he needed.

Like Colby, I too have scars. In addition to the usual accumulation of life scars, my biggest scar is that of a grieving parent. One surviving son of a parent in one of my support groups likened this kind of grief, this kind of scar, to a broken leg that didn't heal right. End result: you learn to live with the limp. That analogy is so accurate because I feel as if I am now limping through life. I will still end up at the same place at the end, but it will be a slower, more painful and difficult journey than it would be if Colby were still here.

Integration

Integration is a word I hear a lot in my grief sessions and from my therapy friends. In this context it means that grieving parents must learn to integrate their grief into their new lives without their children. With many other kinds of grief, the grief is short term and the person moves on. Not so with grieving parents. Their grief is for life.

This is not to say that the parent is stuck at the same level of grief or at the same point of their life. Instead, grief moves with you, becomes a part of you, is integrated into your life. Here, grief is a moving, fluid thing that becomes part of you.

The hard part of all of this for me, and probably for all parents, is to integrate something I do not want, something I never asked for. It's like being tied to a big, black, heavy ball and chain and having to lug it around . . . forever. The pain of carrying this big, heavy ball is so big, so deep, that at times it feels as if a series of Exacto knives are being twisted around my insides. Sometimes the pain is more bearable and then at the oddest moments I am doubled over in agony. That level of grief can last for days.

So many grieving parents have told me that it will get better over time and I do believe them. And, while my heavy ball will always be with me, over time I will also have integrated it well enough into my life that it seems lighter. It will become more manageable because I am more used to it. At least, that is what I hope for.

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.

Safety

We all want and need to feel that our world is safe, and I recently realized that I have not felt safe since Colby was born. Colby's lungs collapsed at birth and he had many upper respiratory issues as a young child. Even though I had a room monitor, several times I woke up to hear Colby gasping for air, struggling to breathe, turning blue. I don't believe I've slept deeply since then.

At three Colby was diagnosed with asthma, at age eight with depression, and on and on. There was always something, or several somethings, that made me believe that if I slept, deeply, something terrible would happen that I could have prevented, had I been awake. Turns out I could not prevent the worst thing that could ever possibly happen.

Close to twenty-five years of sleepless nights became a habit, and old habits die hard. I still don't sleep because I cannot find that sense of peace, of safety. I still wake up every hour and check the door to be sure it is locked. I check that the lights are tuned off. I check the floor to be sure a glass hasn't flown off the shelf by itself and broken, scattering bits of glass I might step on. This is not normal behavior. I know this even as I check, one more time.

This is not a scary, fearful feeling of being unsafe, rather it is the feeling that I left something important undone. It does not take a rocket scientist to figure out that because I could not save Colby that I am now overcompensating. This is yet another part of grief, another part of the process grieving parents experience. I am told my feelings, my behavior, are not unusual. Grief for parents who have lost a child is a lifelong process, and this is part of that process.

Now that I understand, I find if I talk to myself I can sometimes talk myself out of jumping up yet again to check something. I can calm my rising anxiety and ward off another frightening panic attack. And sometimes, I can reassure myself that my world is safe, even though it will never, ever, be right or whole again.

Bus

The big bus parked in front of my house looks like an aerodynamic whale in a black tuxedo. The bus pulsates and I feel the vibration of its energy. There are large wheels on the bus, almost cartoon-like wheels, but I know they are only for looks. This bus hovers and flies through the air, through space and time.

It is dark outside. The two people at my door are dressed in black business suits. One is a woman a few years younger than I am with dark red, shoulder-length hair. Her hairstyle is from the 1960s and her face is lined and severe. She is also slightly shorter and carries a walkie-talkie. The other person is a tall, thin, baby-faced man with dark curly hair who is probably in his thirties.

The two people and the bus are here for Colby. Colby is ready and waiting, and is eager to go. He has a duffle bag packed and gives me a hug and a kiss before he heads out the door. I try to grab him, to pull him back. I am frantic. Colby musn't leave! I know if he leaves he will not return. My fear and anxiety grow and the woman blocks the door as I try to run after Colby. She is surprisingly strong. "It's not your time," she says. I understand now that the two people are here not to escort Colby, but to keep me from following him.

Colby turns before he enters the gaping mouth of the whale bus. He waves. He is happy. "I'll check in on you," he says. Then he is gone. The two people and the bus disappear, and I am standing alone in my open front door, the night breeze swirling around my broken heart.

Assimilation

From Colby's Notebook
Ain't it funny, how we serve money
Ain't it funny, how we die for our country
Ain't it funny, we were born a slave
I'm not laughing, I won't behave

Since Colby passed I sometimes think about getting in my truck and driving to the ends of the Earth so I can live in a cabin in the middle of nowhere. Since he passed, my brain does not function as it did before. There is too much input, too many sights and sounds for me to process. There is just too much of everything.

Oh, how I wish the world would stop for a year, of maybe two, so I could sit quietly and wait for my brain to catch up. I'd like to take time to learn to breathe again, to breathe without the catch in my chest that happens every time I breathe in, the catch that reminds me, every time, that Colby is gone. I want to learn how to wake up every morning without the horror of remembering that my son, my family, is gone. Forever. I want to learn how to go to sleep without crying and to eat without the food tasting like sawdust. I want to learn to live this new normal that is me without Colby, and in today's busy world, I find that very hard to do.

Time is a luxury in so many ways. I'd love the luxury of one more minute with Colby. I'd love the luxury of time to assimilate Colby's passing into my life and integrate it into what is now me. For this is a new me. I am no longer the person I before Colby passed away. I am not sure who this new me is. I need to familiarize myself with me, but, there is no time.

Isn't it interesting that the word familiarize is so close to the word family? I am my family now. And, as the first year without Colby is now history, I find myself moving into a new phase of understanding, of learning. I just wish the world would slow down and allow me the luxury, the time to catch up. Then maybe I could find a way to assimilate it all.

Hope

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

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

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

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

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

Should

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

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

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

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

Coffee

My mom and I are at a coffee shop. It is one of those trendy places with couches and easy chairs haphazardly draped over the floor. Recorded instrumental music plays softly in the background. Young women with dark, spiky hair and black aprons tied around their waists serve coffee and pastries. They wear brown short-sleeved button down tops and short black skirts to go with the black aprons. The walls are painted brown and the furniture is all varying shades of tan, brown, and a deep maroon. It could be a dark, drab place. But it is not. It is cozy, almost den-like. It is comfortable.

Mom and I place our beverage orders. And then we receive them. Then we wait. As usual, he is late. Then he arrives with a flurry of hugs and apologies. Colby looks good, looks happy. He is not as relaxed as when I have seen him before but this, he says, is because he is busy. Colby knows all the waitresses by name and they treat him as if they know him, as if they are his friends. He has lots of friends, they tell me.

Colby and I take our beverages out to a porch. It is the porch of an old farm house and there are a lot of tall leafy trees between us and the road in front of us. The porch and its accompanying railing is covered with peeling white paint. Colby sits on a chair facing me and I sit in the porch swing. It is hard for mom to get around so she stays inside. "They will let her know what I am doing these days," Colby says, meaning the waitresses.

Colby catches me up on his activities. He is busy with a variety of things and I am so caught up in drinking up the sight of him that I forget to listen. I tell Colby that I wish I could see him more often, that I wish he still lived here with us. He looks puzzled. He frowns that slight frown and his eyes look quizzical. "But I am always with you," he says. "I am always there."

Then Colby looks directly into my eyes and it is his gaze that I see when I wake up.

Ambulance

Today an ambulance pulls out of a medical clinic. The emergency vehicle is right in front of me and travels at normal speed. This is the same clinic where, when Colby was about nine, a doctor called an ambulance when Colby was having an asthma attack.

Then, Colby had been to see a doctor several times in a ten day period for an upper respiratory infection. It turned into strep even though he had been taking antibiotics and, as was typical whenever Colby got sick, his breathing deteriorated. I called his regular clinic and they were closed as it was a weekend. They suggested we try a walk-in clinic. We did and while there, Colby's breathing went from bad to worse.

After the examination the doctor stepped out of the room. A minute later we heard sirens and the doctor explained he had called an ambulance. The clinic was not equipped to treat Colby in his current state. This was certainly not our first trip to the hospital due to asthma, but it was the first time Colby had gone in an ambulance. I followed the vehicle, which was driving without sirens at normal speed, to Vanderbilt Hospital. Half way there the lights and sirens came on and my heart jumped into my throat. A block later the flashing and noise stopped and the driver later explained to me they were "playing" at Colby's request.

That trip resulted in a several day hospital stay and I think of that time now, as I follow this ambulance for a mile or so. I hope whoever is being transported will be okay. And I hope whoever is being transported is well enough to "play" with the lights and siren.

First Year

As I approach––as we all approach––the first anniversary of Colby's passing, a therapist suggested I compare Colby's first year on Earth with mine. It's an interesting concept and was quite an eye opener for me. I had never thought much about my first year. However, as my parents split around the time of my first birthday, I realized for the first time that there could have been a lot of fighting. I know the house we lived in was tiny. How much of the yelling was I able to hear, to process? As an only child, it would have been just my parents and me. I believe my dad traveled, so my mom was also probably often overwhelmed in caring for a newborn by herself. For better or worse I will never know how that all affected me, although I am sure it did. After my dad left my mom and I moved in with my grandmother. My mom lives in that house still today.

Colby's dad, on the other hand, left when Colby was just five weeks old. After that it was just Colby and me, and fortunately for me, other than continual resperatoy infections, Colby was a good baby and a good sleeper. When Colby was six weeks old I found a job. Despite my wanting to stay with Colby during the day we had to eat and have shelter and the only way that would happen was if I worked. So, I placed Colby in the daily care of a wonderful grandmotherly woman who had nine grown children of her own. There was only one other child there, a girl who was about six months older than Colby, so he had someone to play with and watch and learn from during the day. In the evenings he and I did "babycizes" (baby exercises), which were in vogue at the time. Colby had excellent athletic ability and hand/eye coordination throughout his life, so maybe some of those early exercises paid off! We also read in the evenings, as I imagine my mother read to me. Colby and I lived in a mobile home in the country and the home was probably a little larger than the one I lived in my first year.

So, my dad was around my first year, Colby's was not. I stayed at home during the day with my mom while Colby was in the home of an older caregiver. I was not around other babies while Colby had an older child to play with. I probably experienced some fighting. Colby and I led a quiet existence at home.

What this all means, I do not know, but I do know that I will think about it. I am sure most of us rarely, if ever, have tried to visualize what our first year was like. It is an important year that shapes us in many ways. Thinking about those first years has given me empathy for my mother, and also empathy for myself. It is not easy to care for a baby no matter what the circumstances, but I believe every mother does the best she can. I know I did, and then some.

Better

Sorry for the lapse in posts and thank you all for emailing me. I am okay, just still very tired. Colby was always the one who could tell from the sound of my voice or the look on my face that I was not well. He saw and heard long before anyone else, including myself, that I was too tired, or coming down with something. Now, with Colby gone, without his eagle eye and keen ear, I find myself doing too much and not stopping to rest.

I feel as if I have not really rested in years. A week or so ago my symptoms had reached the scary stage and I knew I was either sick with something very serious or long past exhaustion. Fortunately, now that I have had a little rest, I believe it is the latter. I am just tired and it is a tiredness that won't go away with a good night's sleep--or even two night's sleep. This is a deep mental and physical and emotional exhaustion that will take much time and rest to overcome and I am taking steps to make that happen. Ten hours of down time every day rather than four, half of an over the counter sleep aid if I can't fall asleep, at least two days off a month.

I have not had a vacation in over thirty years and in past years I have only taken a few days off the entire year. It's not that I am a martyr or a glutton for punishment. It was a matter of survival, of managing my work load, Colby's troubles, and my mom's aging. But, Colby was always there to say, "Stop, you are getting sick." Without that touchstone in recent months I have pushed myself too far, for too long.

The good news is that I am now much more aware of what my body is telling me. I am now feeling better than I have in a long time, although I know I have a long way to go before I am where I need to be. I am fortunate that I am able to rest during the day when I need to. For the most part I can get my work done at any hour of the day or night. In that, at least, I am blessed.

Tired

I am so tired. Granted, I had a busy week, but it is more than that. It is the tiredness of grief. I want to sleep for a month, or two, or maybe even for a year. This is not depression tiredness, but the exhaustion of my soul. I listen to counselors, to experts, to other parents who have lost a child, or in some cases, have lost children. One thing is common to them all: each believes there is no right or wrong way to grieve. We each have an individual path to follow and we have to do what is right for us.

My problem is that I don't know what that is. Do I give in to the exhaustion and sleep for a week? I have much to do and am already behind. Will I catch up if I am rested? Will the rest even restore my energy or will I forever stagnate in this exhaustion? Is this tiredness the normal tiredness of grief or is there something more going on? If I do rest, will I ever get back on track? Or, will I lose focus entirely and not be able to find the slippery traction of my path?

The thought of finding an answer to these questions is so mind boggling to me that I can't begin to sort it all out. I miss Colby so much. Every time I breathe, every time I turn around, everything I do. He should be here, yet he is not. Many grieving parents say the second year is worse than the first. The shock wears off and the "real" grieving begins. If that is true, how can I possibly put one foot in front of the other and finish this first year, much yet the second, and the third and the fourth? The only thing I know is that I have to. Somehow I have to because this is what my life is now, and I have no other choice than to continue on. Other grieving parents find a way. If they can do it, I can do it, too.