Peace

As per my grief counseling sessions, I have been documenting my emotional times and triggers the past few days with interesting results. I seem to wake up emotionally numb, and then as the day goes on become more shaky and weepy. Late evenings are the toughest. How I long for my son. How I long for peace of mind.

Also as my counselor suggested, I have been trying to find something special to do, something that I would like, that would be fun. Today I decide to go hiking at a place Colby and I often went to not too far from my house. It is late afternoon by the time I get there, a time according to my documentation that I tend to be emotional. True to form, tears begin to fall as soon as I hit the trail. The memories are intense and each step brings up another one. There' s the spot where I slipped one muddy Sunday afternoon, and where Colby pulled me up. There's the spot where we took photos of each other, photos that I haven't yet been able to find amongst all of Colby's stuff. There's the place we stopped and sat on a log and had great discussions about nothing. Each twist and turn of the trail brings back a memory, and I am so very sad that we won't have more memories to share.

Then I remember a mother in my online grief support group who lost a daughter a while ago. This past week her apartment burned to the ground, taking with it all her photos and treasured items that belonged to her daughter. I can't imagine her pain and her sense of loss. If you've been reading this blog you know that Colby left lots of "stuff." I will have plenty to remember him by, while this woman has only the memories in her mind.

Even so, my loss seems insurmountable at times. Colby was my only child, my dearest friend, the person who knew me best in all the world. I always thought he'd be there for me in my later years, that eventually I'd have a grandchild or two. Colby's passing not only represents the loss of my son, it is the loss of security in my later years, the loss of my family.

Colby passed exactly four weeks ago today. I know that he is now free of the panic attacks, the depression, the anxiety, the anger, and everything else he battled. I am glad he is no longer troubled. But I do miss him. I will feel guilty until the day I die even though I know in my heart there was nothing I or anyone could have done. Rest peacefully, my son.

Guilt

I wake this morning to extreme guilt. I am back to playing "what if." Throughout Colby's life I thought God gave him to me because I was the only mother in the world who could deal with his troubles. Now I feel that I failed Colby and Godd so very, very badly. They both must be so disappointed in me. I failed the most important test in the world. Parenting. I should have fought harder, tried harder, done more, found the one person who could help him, said something to him that would have made a difference, moved to a different town, sent him to a different school, talked to him more. I should have told him how awesome he was more often. But in looking back to those times I don't know how I could have done more. Still, I think I am dumb as a rock to have so failed my child that he died.

To counter-act my guilt I find myself now trying to be perfect. Where before I would put a cup on the counter, now I place it just so. Deliberately. Perfectly. If I fold an item of clothing I have to fold it perfectly. It might take me three minutes to get it right, but I can't put it away until it is perfect. I realize this is not normal. Or maybe, in my circumstances, it is. If I have order and perfection around me, I think, I can get through this. I can cope. I can stop crying. I won't feel so damned guilty.

This guilt comes after several days of belief that Colby's death was meant to be. That we all have a prescribed period of time to be here in Earth and this was all the time Colby had. That there was a reason for this. That his life and death mattered in the big scheme of things. But today, it all seems so unfair. For him, for me and for his grandma.

Memories, July 30, 2009, 7:59 p.m.

I drive 13 hours through the rain to Houston to speak at a conference and cry most of the way. Colby, his grandmother and I had made countless trips to Memphis over the years. This particular drive through Memphis, alone, is especially hard. The memories of those trips bring back other memories.

When Colby was two he left his very tattered and beloved Snoopy, his "Noopy," at a local church after a Saturday morning pancake breakfast. By the time we figured out where Noopy was, it was late afternoon and the church was locked. "That's okay," Colby said. "God will take care of Noopy until we can go back for him in the morning." The memory brings forth yet another prayer from me to God that he take care of my little boy. Please . . .

Memory after memory floods into my brain and I begin to play "what if." This is a very dangerous game because there is never a good answer. What if I had held Colby back a year before he started kindergarten? Would he have better been able to handle life's pressures? What if we had moved back to Minnesota and lived there? Would that have made a difference? What if he'd gone to different schools, participated in different sports? What if?

The fact is Colby would still have had schizophrenia and he may or may not have made the same choices. He may, however, have been able to get treatment. To distract myself from these dangerous thoughts I turn on the radio, but I can't listen to music. Colby and I had listened to so many kinds of music together at home and on trips that every song, every singer, every note brings me to tears. I try Talk radio, but it's all about health care reform. I don't want to get started on that, so I drive in silence.

I head into Houston and force myself to focus on how fortunate I was to have such wonderful memories of my son. In his 23 years Colby touched my life in so many positive ways. My life is far richer for the privilege of knowing him, however short the time. And through this blog and in many other ways, Colby and his story are touching countless others. I turn to my 3rd Kleenex box of the day to find it empty. I pray tomorrow the guilt and numbness will return.