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.

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.

Events

I frequently get the comment, "But you always used to . . .." You can then fill in the blank: Go to the movies, attend business receptions, frequent favorite restaurants. The list is actually quite long. Many things I did regularly before Colby passed away I no longer do and there are several reasons for that.

One is that since Colby passed I have developed, not a sensory processing disorder, but something similar to that. Lots of sights and sounds, lots of people milling about, snatches of many different conversations, all overwhelm me. I can't think, can't breathe, can't focus. It is all too much. This apparently, while not common, is not unusual when someone is struck with devastating grief. It can last for years.

Another reason is that it takes me longer to do the things I do every day. I am not sure why that is but it takes more focus, more energy, to get my daily tasks done. The result is I am continually behind and when I catch up, I am physically and mentally exhausted.

When I decline an invitation I do hope the person extending it does not feel I am ejecting them or their event. That is not my intention. It is not how I feel. I recently read a great article by another grieving parent on CNN.com. I hope you'll check it out. The author is very eloquent in his grief, even though, for him, eleven years have passed. Grief is definitely a journey, but right now, today, I am not sure there is a destination.

Words

Music helps most people through hard times. For me it is, always has been, the beauty of words.


Grief grabs us by the throat and shatters our world into a million pieces.
Some days it numbs us to the bone and turns us into walking zombies.
Other days it pierces our hearts and forces a scream so loud it scares us into silence.
John Bowlby, M.D.

Your absence has gone through me
Like a thread through a needle
Everything I do is stitched with it’s color
W.S. Merwin

He had learned the worst lesson that life can teach––that it makes no sense.
And when that happens the happiness is never spontaneous again.
It is artificial and, even then, bought at the price of an obstinate estrangement
From oneself and one’s history . . . .
Stoically he suppresses his horror.
He learns to live behind a mask.
A lifetime experiment in endurance.
A performance over a ruin.
Philip Roth

There is no tragedy in life like the death of a child; things never get back to the way they were.
Dwight D. Eisenhower

Healing may not be so much about getting better, as about letting go of everything that isn’t you––all of the expectations, all of the beliefs––and becoming who you are.
Rachel Naomi Remen

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.

Time

Someone asked me a few days ago if I could go back in time, what was the year and day I would go back to that would have changed the course of Colby's life. It is an interesting question on many levels and I have given that hypothetical concept a lot of thought with no real conclusions. On one hand there were many factors that contributed to Colby's passing and nothing would have changed the fact that he had a genetic mental illness. If I had somehow tried harder earlier on to get him better health care, if I had given 1001 percent rather than 1000 percent, the outcome could have been different, or it could have remained the same.

Then there is the idea that interfering with Colby's life plan could upset the balance of the universe. Most are familiar with the idea of the butterfly effect. The theory is that a butterfly could potentially beat its wings on one side of the earth and cause a hurricane on the other side of the globe. It is basic cause and effect. If I traveled back in time to change the details of Colby's life, how significantly would that change the balance of the universe? Because Colby passed away, I believe several others did not. Many other people have told me they took notice of Colby's death and made changes so their lives would not end up the same way. What if Colby lived and they did not?

Then there is the thought of "what is supposed to be, is." Colby often said when he was a young child in elementary school that he would not live long enough to marry, have children, or turn thirty. Was his life lived just as it was supposed to? Or could it have been altered so he lived a long and productive life without negatively impacting the course of anyone else's life?

Of course, we'll never know. The question was put to me, I believe, precisely for that reason. There was not one defining moment that took Colby away. It was many moments over many years. And, it may well have been his destiny. Right now, today, I have to believe that what Colby instinctively knew as a child was right. The details might have differed, but the end result could probably have been the same. This hypothetical thinking will not bring him back, but it does help me put some things into context. The one think I clearly know is that I miss Colby more than words can ever begin to express.

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.

Fourth

The Fourth of July was hard. These holidays either cause me great anxiety before the day and then are a non-event, or smack me flat from behind. The Fourth of July smacked me good.

I have many good memories of Colby on July Fourth. When Colby was three he and my Mom did the polka for hours before and during the fireworks. They had a wonderful time.

There was the year Colby was about six, when the 4th fell on a Sunday. Tennessee celebrated the Fourth that year on the third and Colby participated with his t-ball team in a parade and then won the t-ball all star championship. Then we flew to Minnesota and celebrated again the next day. By the fifth, we were really tired!

When Colby was about ten, we took our dog, Sundance, to a Fourth of July parade in Minnesota and laughed for years at the face Sundance made when the bagpipes came by. Poor Sundance, that was one of the few life experiences he had that he did not fully enjoy.

Then there were many really hot Fourths that we spent in the lake at my mom's, the years we had picnics, or went to a Twins baseball game, or went to a movie. Now it is so hard to deal with the fact that those years are gone. They are in my past, our past. I will never again share the Fourth or July, or any other holiday with my son. Life has turned into a really, really bad dream. But it is a dream I must live with and learn to make the best of. And, somehow, I will.

This year Mom and I went to the horse races and visited with her friends. Then, later, I sat on the dock with my dog, Abby, and watched as more than a dozen people set off fireworks across the lake. It was a nice time, but I so wished Colby was there to share it.

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.

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.

Religion

From the time he was small Colby was interested in world religion and over the years he studied many different forms of worship. The bulk of his personal library was filled with books on Christianity, Hinduism, Buddism, the Jewish religion and others. I remember when he was about fourteen he was so excited to discover that all of the religions he studied had one thing in common: a rule that you should "do undo others as you would like others to do unto you."

Recent studies have shown that those with schizophrenia are often very interested in religion and a 2002 study found that 80 percent of people who are severely mentally ill in North America use religion as a way to better cope with their illness.

I am not sure whether Colby's interest in religion had anything to do with his mental illnesses. I do know that Colby found this prayer several years ago, and it often brought him peace. It is an old translation of "Our Father" from Aramaic to English, rather than from Aramaic to Greek to Latin and then English.

Our Father

O cosmic Birther of all radiance and vibration!
Soften the ground of our being and carve out a space
within us where your Presence can abide.

Fill us with your creativity so that we may be
empowered to bear the fruit of your mission.

Let each of our actions bear fruit in accordance with our desire.
Endow us with the wisdom to produce and share
what each being needs to grow and flourish.

Untie the tangled threads of destiny that bind us,
as we release others from the entanglement of past mistakes.

Do not let us be seduced by that which would divert us
from our true purpose, but illuminate
the opportunities of the present moment.

For you are the ground and the fruitful vision,
the birth, power and fulfillment,
as all is gathered and made whole once again.

Caring

I'm not sure when I stopped caring about, well, a lot of things. I only realized it when another grieving parent in a support group mentioned that she just didn't care about anything any more. The house was not clean? So what? She was late for an appointment? Big deal. I, too, find myself feeling the same way.


Not that I don't care, intensely, about other things. The oil spill, endangered species, my friends. But the fact that my tomato garden has weeds has no meaning for me anymore. My counselors say this lack of caring is another side of grief.

Studies at the University of Western Sydney in Australia show that the grief of parents after the loss of a child is more intense and prolonged than that of any other loss, and follow-up studies show that anxiety and depression may last four to nine years after the loss of a child. When a child dies suddenly, as Colby did, parental grief may become complicated by post traumatic stress reactions, so that the parent has to deal with the interplay of both trauma and grief. There is just not room in the human brain for all the thoughts, feelings, and emotion so some of them have to go. Like caring.

Maybe someday I will once again be bothered by weeds or the fact that I am late. Maybe I will once again care about the dust bunnies under the couch. Maybe someday I will wake up and realize that it no longer hurts to breathe and the hollowness that permeates my insides is gone. Maybe. Someday.

Movement

I have a new "yard guy." My mailman is new and the neighbors behind me have a new dog. Colby has not met either of these people, or the dog, and that is another reminder to me that life for those of us who are still here goes on. There is movement in the progression of life and that movement does not include Colby. That thought makes me incredibly sad.

Every day I am reminded that Colby is not here, at least not in physical form. I pass his favorite drinks at the supermarket and put several in the basket . . . and then take them back out. My cable provider requires me to install new converter boxes, something that is not one of my strengths when it comes to skill sets. Colby could have done it when he was four--and that is not an exaggeration. I, meanwhile, will most likely spend and entire frustrating day and still not get it right. I find (yet another) pair of his socks (in a box), wash them and begin to put them in his sock drawer. Then stop.

Counselors say that the mind of a grieving parent is overloaded similarly to that of survivors of post-traumatic stress syndrome. That's why we "forget" our child is no longer here, why we have trouble focusing or remembering to do things we've done every day of our lives. It's one of the many reasons why we eventually turn into different people than we were "before."

That change, or the evolution in our stages of grief, is another movement away from our beloved child. We must go on without them, yet every time we turn around their absence is a gaping hole in our lives. I greet the new yard man. Wave at the new postman and introduce Abby, my dog, Colby's and mine, to the new dog behind us. I do all of this in a wave of grief, for they are more reminders that Colby has really and truly moved on.

Snoqualmie

 Colby on his 4th birthday. Snoqualmie was 28.

Today would have been Snoqualmie's 49th birthday. Snoqualmie was the horse I had as a child, and then was Colby's horse when he was small. The bond I had with her and then that Colby had with her was amazing. I never had a moment of worry or doubt about Colby's safety if he was playing with Snoqualmie. He'd climb up her mane and ride her in through the pasture with no halter or bridle, just guiding her by pulling left or right on her mane.

Sometimes they'd amble along, a Civil War soldier and his horse coming home from battle, complete with cardboard guns and a military cap we found at a thrift store. Other times they'd gallop thrrough the field, a pirate ship and her captain escaping the enemy (which was sometimes our dog, Dexter, or less often, our cat Bootsie).

Colby never fell off. Snoqualmie would never have allowed it. If he got off balance, she shifted underneath him and gently slowed. She was quiet and patient with Colby, but she knew he was important to me and took good care of him.

Snoqualmie passed away when Colby was six and she was 31. She'd had a stroke a few days before and finally got down and could not get back up. One thing she loved to do was eat, so as I held her head in my lap in a field of trees as I waited for the vet, Colby went to the barn for the grain. For once she could have all she wanted. She licked handful after handful from Colby's little hand and when it was time, I sent Colby to the house. She is buried there, underneath the trees. Even after we moved away from that house, Colby and I visited her at least once a year.

Today I like to think that they are together, galloping off to new adventures in heaven. I had each of them with me for 23 years. First Snoqualmie, and then Colby. Each was my best friend and I miss both of them more than words can say. Happy Birthday, my Fat Girl.

People

Today I go to a busy annual event. There are several hundred people there. Most I have not seen for a year or more. I have stressed over this event for days. So much so that I get zero sleep the night before. It is work related. I have to go. Some people know that Colby passed, others won't. But they all know Colby, because for years he used to accompany me to this.

Just as I imagined, at the event I had two kinds of conversations. The first went something like this:

"I am so, so very sorry about Colby. You poor thing. How are you doing?"

"I'm fine. It's a bit of an emotional roller coaster, but I'm okay." This is my standard answer. People really do not want to know that I cry every morning when I wake up and every evening before I fall asleep. They don't want to know that Colby's absence still hurts with every breath I take and that it is a rare occasion when I can get in the truck and go from Point A to Point B without having to pull off the road because I am crying so hard.

"Really? Are you really okay?"

"Yes. It is very hard, but I am okay."

"Really?"

These people do not understand that I don't want to go into details in this very public setting. I try not to be rude as I turn to find something to busy myself with, or someone else to talk to. But the someone else invariably jumps into conversation number two:

"Hey! Hi! How are you? Long time no see? How's that boy of yours?"

"I'm sorry to say that Colby passed away last July."

"Ha, ha! No, how is he, really?"

"He passed away."

When they get what I am saying, it's a real conversation stopper. That's when they turn and try to busy themselves with something or find someone else to talk to. In either instance, conversation is awkward. I feel like I have the plague as the crowd parts every time I walk through it. Faces turn away. The few that don't are overly solicitous. "Oh, you poor, poor thing," they say as they pat me on the back.

And people wonder why I don't go out much anymore.

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.

Corners

I am being propelled very slowly down a long hallway. I am walking, but there is also an unseen force that keeps me walking. I am unable to stop. There are white linoleum tiles on the floor with yellow speckles, and cream colored walls. Every so often there is a brown, wooden door with a silver door handle, but each time I slow to open the door, I find it locked. Fluorescent lights brighten the hallway and overall, it is quite light. Behind me is a corner. There is another corner ahead of me. Sometimes when I look at the corner ahead is it a short distance away. Other times it is quite far.

I am afraid of the corner ahead of me. I have a lot of anxiety about it and whenever I think about rounding that corner I begin to tremble. I am not sure what is around the corner, but I believe it is something bad. Something terrible. I feel sick to my stomach but when I turn around to try to go back, I realize that around the corner I just came from is the worst thing that could ever happen to me. Whatever is around the next corner might be bad, but it cannot be as bad as the last corner.

Even though I now know the next corner will not be as bad as the last, I wonder if I am up for it. The last corner has damaged me. Badly. I am not whole. I am not strong. Even though the next corner will not be as bad as the last I am not convinced I will survive it.

Someone comes toward me. I cannot tell if the person is male or female, even when he/she slows to pass me. We do not speak, but I am given the idea that what is around the next corner might not be bad. That possibility still exists, but there is also a possibility that around the next corner is something quite pleasant. Something nice.

I find that concept hard to grasp, to believe. I am in a place where only bad things happen to me. How can something good be next? My anxiety grows but as I look at the next corner I see that it is now, again, quite far away. Whatever is around the corner, I will have time to prepare for it. But, I wonder how I can brace myself for both the good and the bad? My anxiety grows as I am slowly propelled toward the next corner, the next challenge of my life. I wake up, but am not sure I was dreaming.

Osmond

I have debated for several days whether to post this or not. I finally decide it will do more good than harm, so here it is. Most of you know by now that Marie Osmond lost her teenage son, Michael Blosil, several days ago. I won't go into details here. It is all over the news so if you care to read about it, just about every news source has something. What is important is that Ms. Osmond has joined the group no one wants to belong to: the grieving parents group. Sadly, like the death of any parent's child, Michael's death will change her life, and the life of her family, forever.

The difference here is that celebrity complicates the grieving process. It is hard enough to lose a child without the added intrusion of the media. Only too clearly I remember the horror of the first days without Colby and one of the few comforts I had was my privacy. This was important as I needed quiet, private time to process Colby's loss. My friends were here when I needed them, but I did not have strangers seeking more and more information, or when they couldn't get it, making things up on their own. The stress that has to add to this tragic time must be overwhelming.

If I could talk to the Osmond family today I would say two things: one, be kind to yourselves. As a parent of a troubled child who did not make it, and as a friend of parents of troubled children, I know how hard we all try to make things better for our sons and daughters. I know the extreme anguish parents feel when they reach out to a new doctor or a new therapist and hope and pray that maybe this one will be the one who will make a difference. This one is the one who will have the right answers. But sometimes, for some kids, there are no answers. We all do all we can do, and we can't do any more than that. Parents always think there was something they should have done, one thing they missed that would have made the difference. But for some kids, and some parents, it doesn't work that way. How I wish it did. Sometimes, no matter what you do, the end result is the same.

The second thing I would say is that grieving a child is a long, slow process and everyone grieves differently. There is no right or wrong. In the large Osmond family the variety of grief is sure to run the full spectrum, so also be kind to those around you. While the loss of a child is a unique grief for parents, others grieve too.

There are no words to express my sadness for this family that has given us so much joy over the years. I know what a long road lies ahead, and I have only just started down the path myself. I wish them much love and many prayers. I know they have mine.

Exhaustion

The business of grief is exhausting. It intrudes on my every thought, every action. If I am lucky enough for it to leave for a few moments, when it returns, it slams into me with such force that I gasp. The fact that grief never fully leaves parents who have lost children is a sobering thought.

But, parents do learn to live with it, each in their own way. No parent's grief is the same. Each parent's process for learning to accept it is different. I have two thoughts regarding this. The first is: I wonder if our children know how much we miss them? I wonder if they know how much a part of us they were, are, always will be? And the second is that I wonder if parents whose children are still here appreciate them enough.

It pains me to see moms and dads become exasperated with their children, because I would give anything to be exasperated with mine. Do these parents understand what a gift each child is? In the store, on the street, at social events time after time I hear and see parents ignore their children when they ask (nicely) for attention. I see parents put their kids down and I see the hurt in the child's eyes. I want to slap these parents and tell them to wake up. To appreciate the wonder of their child.

I know how hard it can be to always be a loving, kind, supportive parent who sets and keeps boundaries. It takes time and energy and emotion and at the end of the day parents rarely have enough. of anything. They are, like me, exhausted. But their exhaustion holds the promise of a new day, of togetherness, of fun and games and laighter and love amid the inevitable tears.

Our exhaustion, the exhaustion of parents who have lost is forever present. This is especially true of parents. like me, who have lost their only child. Our exhaustion is forever, and like grief, we have to learn to live with it. I am in the process of trying to do this. My counselors say this is good, that it is a sign of progress in the grief process. But the work, the process, is slow. It zig zags back and forth and most days brings me back to my first question: do our children know how hard this is for us?

I hope Colby is in a place where he does not know how difficult his loss is for me, for his grandmother, for his friends. It would make him sad and we all want him to be happy, to be free of the difficulties he endured here on Earth. He went through a lot and deserves some peace. I want to believe that, I try to believe it, and someday I may actually get there.