Maybe

I have a growing sense that Colby's passing is fate, destiny. I don't feel this way all the time, but I do frequently, and this morning is one of those times. Maybe Colby was never supposed to be here long. Maybe his entire purpose on Earth was to meet and encourage those he did meet, and to pass on at a young age as an example so others could live.

Colby's story is getting some attention in the health care reform debate. I will not take sides here other than to say I think every American deserves the opportunity to have affordable health care, and that mental illness should not be treated solely by taking vital signs and pulling blood for a drug screen. Beyond that I will leave it to those who are more knowledgeable to work out the details.

Colby's memorial web site gets a lot of hits from people who never met him. I get a lot of emails from that site from people I do not know. All say his story, his life, is both an inspiration and a wake up call as to the state of our health care system. Maybe in his passing, Colby will save others. One person, 20, 100, 5000. From the time he was small, Colby always said he would not grow old. Maybe we do have some input as to our path here on Earth before we are ever born. If so, maybe Colby had some sense of that. Maybe this was supposed to be.

I might be I am rationalizing here. It might be that as his mother I am trying to find some sense of peace, of acceptance. It might be this kind of thinking is part of my grieving process. Nothing will bring my son back or return my life to "normal," but right now, this morning, I find a small comfort in these ideas. Time will tell, but from where I sit at this moment, I hope with all I have that I am right.

Sense

I am restless today. Unfocused. It takes me more than two hours to get dressed and out the door. I can't find the right clothes, then I lose my socks and purse. I leave water running in the shower for 20 minutes and when I finally get in the truck, I can't remember where I am supposed to go.

I sit through several meetings, there in body but not in mind. I have trouble in groups. So many voices to focus on, expressions to read. So many happy, trivial people that I can no longer relate to. I make my best effort, which, I fear, is not effort enough. I used to be a very focused person. I could keep detailed "to do" lists in my head. I not only never never missed an appointment, I was never late. In fact, Colby frequently commented that I was "way too organized."

After the meetings, at home, I feel an urgent need to be active so I gather trimmers, saw and clippers and head to a hedge on the side of the yard that is overgrown with scrub trees, weeds and vines. I pull weeds with increasing frenzy, hack blindly at vines, and cut off bigger branches than my saw was designed for. I quickly amass a large pile of brush that I haul to the edge of the road. Metro Nashville will eventually pick it all up.

After, exhausted, I read email after email from my grieving parent's online support group. There are hundreds of parents here. All of us have lost children. All of us are lost. On days like today, when life doesn't seem to make any sense, I turn to these people who, like me, are overcome with grief. By email I comfort, commiserate, sympathize, recognize and support. This, I think to myself, is the only productive thing I've done all day. Sadly, it's the only thing that makes any sense. None of us should have to belong to this group. None of us should be here.

Home

I am home after several days away to speak at a therapeutic riding conference. But home no longer feels like home. It is a shell, a place to stay; the life of my home died when Colby did. I try to go through more of Colby's "stuff." If I sort and categorize, I think, then maybe I can clear enough space to eventually change things around, move the office into a different room, rearrange the furniture. An online grief support group friend suggested that might help, and it might. Or maybe I need the familiarity of things as they have been. I don't know what to do, so I do nothing.

I find familiar tasks. I unpack, water the tomatoes, water the indoor plants, brush the cat, try to read. I am so unfocused when I am not moving. If I stay on my feet, find things to do, then I can function. It's when I sit that I grieve. Why is that, I wonder? I also can't say Colby's name without bursting into tears. I can't talk about the loss. Last week I could, but lately, no. I find myself rocking with my arms around myself when I sit. I can't do this. I have editing projects I must finish early this week. I must learn to focus. People are counting on me and I can't let them down.