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.

Floating

 I sort through things. And more things. Packing up a life is hard, especially because packing up yesterday reminds me how fragile tomorrow is. For me, it is a very scary tomorrow that will be lived without family. As I pick each item up, inspect it, then carefully place it in either the "keep," the “give away,” or  the "throw away" box, thousands of memories trickle in. Good memories and terrible ones, sad memories, memories filled with laughter, and memories that are, quite frankly, scary. I treasure them all. I think to myself: I can no longer hug Colby or blow him a kiss, but I can always love him. Whether it is wearing his necklace or walking his favorite trail, I will remember with every breath I take. He is my heart.

While saying good bye to Colby was hard, saying goodbye to the things we did together, to the moments when life was joyful is equally as hard. It is not only my son that I lost when Colby passed, it was my way of life. My future was turned upside down. My life will never be the same. I do not think that any of us ever know how much we are a part of others, a part of those we meet, of those we love. I wonder what anyone will remember of me? What will people remember of you? I ponder this and realize once again that every day we have the opportunity to impact someone in a positive way. We have the chance to help others, to make life better for those around us. Colby lived that philosophy every single day. A smile, a hug, a kind word, an errand of thoughtfulness. It meant everything at the time. It means even more now, to me and to others.

Boxes are now taped and hauled to the basement. Most of this group of things I have decided to keep. For now. I keep them because they trigger important memories, memories that keep me going, memories that help me stay strong enough to get through another hour, another day. I feel like I am drowning, but the memories pull me up and, for a little while, allow me to float.

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.