Christmas

Today I remember Christmases past. I remember the year Colby was fifteen months old and kicked Santa Claus. The year he was a little more than two and was afraid to sled down my mom's slightly sloping driveway. We made snow angels instead. I remember the year he was three and got the choo choo train and the drum he had been asking for all year, every day, since the Christmas he was two.

By Colby's fourth Christmas he and my mom and I were sledding down the bigger hill in her yard like pros. That was also the year he begged to go to the dinosaur exhibit at the Minnesota Science Museum, then screamed when he saw the first dinosaur and refused to go in. By age eight Colby had graduated to sledding the hills at the local golf course and by age ten he was beginning to snowboard. We built snow forts and snow men (and snow women and dogs) and had a number of snowball fights.

In between the snow, there were trips to other museums, art exhibits, plays, concerts, restaurants, and lots and lots of movies. And board games. Colby always won at Michigan Rummy. And there were always projects Mom needed done. Colby fixed the gate to the downstairs when he was about twelve and it still works. He re-hung closet doors, helped clean out those same closets, and learned to drive on snow.

When Colby was maybe nine, he and Mom and I made cardboard swords and decorated them glitter, beads, and bits of sparkly fabric from my old skating costumes. He made cookies with the neighbor behind us and we went for winter walks in the neighboring woods. He and I checked out the neighbor's houses from the front by walking on the frozen lake, being sure to stay close to the shoreline. We snuggled during blizzards, went to church, and drove around in the evenings and looked at Christmas lights.

I am so grateful for these wonderful memories. Christmas will never be the same without Colby, without family. I struggle with this new reality, in finding my place in holiday doings and the family gatherings of others. For now I ignore them. Colby's loss is still too fresh, too painful. Someday, maybe, the holidays will mean something to me once again. In the meantime I am blessed to have had wonderful Christmases past.

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.

Research

Exciting new research from The Children's Hospital of Philadelphia indicates a very close tie between ADHD, autism and schizophrenia. The tie-in has to do with similar mutations on chromosome 16. I have mentioned before that since Colby passed I have found numerous relatives on my side of the family who had schizophrenia and I fully believe there is a genetic component.

This new finding is another step forward in learning more about the human brain and mental illnesses, including schizophrenia. Someday, I hope, there will be definitive genetic markers that will help diagnose schizophrenia, as well as medications to better treat it.

For more information, follow this link to the article: http://psychcentral.com/news/2010/05/11/genetics-similar-for-adhd-autism-schizophrenia/13704.html

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

Writings

I try to pinpoint what I miss most about Colby. It is everything. Absolutely everything. But one of many specific things I miss is conversation with him. Colby was a wonderful conversationalist. I miss that. I miss talking to him. I miss hearing his thoughts, his viewpoints, his ideas. In the absence of speech, I have bits and pieces of his writing. Colby was not a writer like I am. Instead, he was a poet, a lyricist, a songwriter. But his writings are a glimpse into his inner soul, for he only wrote about what truly mattered to him.

Instead of using one notebook, Colby had the habit of writing down lines for poems, thoughts, and songs on pieces of scrap paper, or a page or two of many notebooks. Over the past months I have found a number of these bits of writing. I have seen many of them before, but some are new to me. The writings remind me who Colby was at his core, and they keep his thoughts and beliefs fresh in my mind. For example:

Even if I make a mil

I’ll still buy my clothes at Goodwill

Those simple words remind me of Colby’s dedication to recycling, of using something completely and not throwing it away if it still had some life, or in this case some wear, left in it. Colby felt we use too many of our natural resources and do not value enough what the Earth provides. In that, I believe he was right.

Society is in rapid decay

With the crime rate soaring

People are running wild

Greed, power, food additives

A giant corporation

Controls every aspect of

Society from war to entertainment

To organ transplants

Everything is polluted

Life has never been cheaper

Like the lines above, much of Colby’s writing was about unfairness, injustice, and problems in our society. Colby was about valuing human life, finding meaning in our days, and living a life filled with natural products. Someday I will compile his thoughts, his written words. We can all find something of value in them, some thing to think about. But for now I will continue to search for and save them, and revel in each new find.

Cookies

Nashville is cleaning up after our horrendous flood of last week. My friend and neighbor has made cookies, brownies, fudge, and bread to take to the flood victims in our area. Over the course of several days she graciously allows me to accompany her, and we drive up and down one devastated street after the other distributing her goodies to volunteers and victims alike. We hear one tragic story, and then another, and I realize yet again that we each walk our own versions of hell. I am not the only one suffering. I am not the only one who is going through challenging times. I am not the only one who has lost a child. Other people have unrecoverable losses, too.

As the days progress the piles of refuse in front of people's homes grow ever larger. Some piles completely obscure the house behind it. This is all these people have. Everything they own is in a ruined pile of stenchy slop in front of their house.

But as I look closer, as the horror of the miles of trash grow more distinct, I see the individuality, rather than the generic. There is a tall, narrow set of wire shelves. Over there are two dining room chairs that might be salvageable. There is a metal picture frame that is not too badly damaged. Across the street I see a set of slimy glass vases that look unbroken. Colby would have loved this.

I miss Colby every second of every day but even more so now, here, because Colby would have loved these piles of flooded trash. I can see him walking the streets, talking with the home owners and volunteers, pitching in to help pull a dresser through a door, and directing a car through a particularly narrow spot on the road. With the combination of helping others and finding free stuff that might could, maybe, someday, be cleaned and re-used, Colby would have been in his element.

As someone in my online support group recently wrote, we grieving parents miss seeing our kids grow and develop through the natural stages of life. Colby would have loved to open his own thrift store. I will never get to see him do that. I will never get to see him help these flood victims or turn twenty-five, have kids or grow old. But worst of all, Colby will never get to experience these things either. Not that he would have enjoyed the pain and suffering the flood victims are enduring, but he would have loved the aftermath, the helping, the process of rebuilding. And he so would have loved all the "stuff." Even if it was covered in flood slime.

Tomatoes

I wasn't sure if I was going to plant a garden this year or not. That was yet another thing that Colby and I used to do together. Another place where there is a big, empty hole in my life. Each spring we'd look forward to choosing the plants, digging the holes, fertilizing, and then harvesting our crop. It makes me sad to think of experiencing all of that without him.

When we lived outside of Nashville we planted corn for a year or two, but our horse, Snoqualmie, always found a way to get out and eat it before we did. We tried watermelon and did well with those before we moved to the house I live in now. Melons apparently do not like the soil here.

Colby loved peppers, the hotter the better. A few years ago we planted habanero peppers. One day I added some to a pot of chili and then wiped my eye. I then had to crawl to the toilet so I could dunk my head in. The pain was excruciating. Then I called Colby who was down the road to come turn the stove off. My eyes were red and puffy for days. After that the habaneros were exclusively Colby's domain, those and the jalapenos, too.

Colby also loved growing zucchini, not necessarily to eat, but to see how big one would get. We took one of his zucchini to my mom's one summer. It was 42 inches long and had to ride in the back of the truck. He then spent the next few days seeing how far he could bat a baseball with it before it broke in two and he and my mom fed it to the raccoon family she takes care of.

We had the best success with tomatoes, though. One year we lived in a house that had a light pole in the side yard, next to the garden. With constant 24-hour light we had tomato plants that were 8 feet tall. Colby was five and pretended he was Jack in the Beanstalk as he climbed the tomato cages to pick the tomatoes. We always had enough fresh tomatoes to freeze and Colby loved adding them to spaghetti sauce, salsa, and the soups he'd make in the winter.

Yes, I debated planting a garden this year and eventually decided on just tomatoes. No peppers, zucchini, melons, cucumbers. wild onion, peas, beans, or herbs--all things we've grown in the past.Just tomatoes. It takes me several days, off and on, to prepare the plot and plant. Not because it is so much work, but because my tears keep getting in the way. Colby should be here to do this with me. It's the little things that mean so much, the little things that I remember and miss the most.

Hats

Colby loved hats. From the time he was a baby, he always had to have a hat on his head. When Colby was just a year old, my mother and I were in a department store at 100 Oaks Shopping Center here in Nashville. She was trying on raincoats and I turned around and Colby was gone. One second he was there, the next he was not. Colby was a baby who walked at 9 months, so by 12 months he was zooming along quite speedily.

Mom and I were frantic. I began calling Colby's name and the sales clerks at the store rushed around looking for him under racks and inside shelves. I was heading up an aisle when out of the corner of my eye I saw something fly through the air. I stopped and changed course. There Colby was in the middle of the ladies hat section standing in front of a mirror, a dozen or more hats strewn around him. He'd grab a delicate flowery or lacy hat off a rack, put it on his head, then giggle at himself in the mirror and fling the hat into the air. Fortunately, even though he had stomped on top of many of the hats and they were squashed out of shape, none was permanently damaged.

From then on, Colby wore every kind of hat he could get his hands on. Fireman hats, cowboy hats, Air Force captain hats, construction hats. For years Colby received a different kind of a hat on special occasions and today, as I am going through boxes in the basement I find the "hat" box. There they all are. The sailor hat, the miner's hat, the civil war style hat, the hobo hat. All of them. I hadn't expected to find them. They were in a box that was not marked, so when I opened it seeing the hats took my breath away. I had to stop, regroup, begin again to breathe.

I had saved many of Colby's things for his children. He so loved playing with items that were mine when I was young that I wanted to pass that along to his children. Of course, those children, my grandchildren, do not exist, will never exist. I am ready I think, to give some of the hats away so I divide the hats into two piles. In one pile are the hats that I remember him wearing the most. Those I will keep. For now. I convince myself that young children are waiting for the hats in the other pile. They need to go to the Goodwill. But before I box them up I take a picture of them, and then I sit on the floor and cry.

Suicide

A friend who was very kind to me after Colby passed has taken his own life. It happened days ago, but I just today heard the news. I am devastated. I ache for his survivors. I did not know him or his family extremely well, but he was a kind person, he was kind to me in a time and place when he did not have to be, and we just do not have enough of those people in our world.

I do not know the details of what happened and I do not have to know. Anyone who takes his or her own life has troubles that feel to them so overwhelming that suicide seems the only choice. Sadly, my friend is not alone. According to the American Suicide Prevention Network, roughly 33,000 Americans die by suicide each year. That is one suicide every sixteen minutes, eighty-nine suicides a day. There are more than 800,000 suicide attempts in our country every year, and 24 percent of the general population has considered suicide at some time in his/her life. Those are high numbers.

But most, if not all, suicides can be prevented. The American Suicide Prevention Network also states that more than 60 percent of adolescents and 90 percent of adults who die by suicide have depression or another diagnosable mental or substance abuse disorder. According to several nationally representative studies, in any given year, about 5 to 7 percent of adults have a serious mental illness.

It is my belief that mental illness is the most overlooked issue in our health care system today. People are dying when they do not have to. My son was one of those people. Now I add a friend, a kind friend, to the list. So let's get over the stigma that depression, bi-polar disorder, panic disorder, anxiety, and all the other mental illnesses bring. Let's find a way to treat everyone who is mentally ill and keep our families whole. Let's stop the need for mind-numbing, overwhelming, never-ending grief.

Rest in peace, my friend. I will never forget your caring kindness.

Mother's Day

I have been stressing about Mother's Day. This will be my first without Colby and I wondered to several people today what I should do to recognize the day. I asked for suggestions on how to get through it, because even though other holidays have been hard, I believe this will be the hardest one yet. Mother's Day. I can't tell you how shocked I was when someone actually said they didn't know why I was spending any effort worrying about it because, after all, I was no longer a mother. This was said kindly and earnestly, with no ill will, but still, it shattered me, even though they meant no harm.

I will always be Colby's mom. To deny that denies Colby, and he was far too kind and caring, intelligent and talented, a person to disrespect in such a way. Colby was and is and always will be my son. Without getting too deep into religion, philosophy or theology, I believe there is life after life here on Earth. Colby was my son, is my son, now and forever, and I am his mom.

People ask why I am not yet ready to return to a more public life, why I turn down invitations to parties, events, dinners with friends. This is exactly why. I never know when some well meaning person will say something that rocks my still very shaky world. And with every push, every teeter, I come closer to falling over an edge and I don't know how far the bottom is. Maybe I have already fallen over and am free falling into a bottomless abyss. I'd like to think not, but days like this, comments like the one I received today, make me wonder.

Someday I hope I can better handle such situations. Today, now, all I can do is cry.

Tremors

Colby with Abby (left) and Mom's dog, Rocky, (right)

Tremors. Little tremors shake up my carefully constructed world. Cracks spread around my life and I cannot glue them back together. It doesn't matter, I am way beyond trying. The latest tremor is that my mom's two-year-old dog, Rocky, has melanoma. She loves that dog. He is her reason for living, partially because Colby and I gave him to her Christmas before last.

Normally I could handle such news. Put a positive face on it. I'd research canine melanoma, find treatments and therapies. Now all I can do is sit on the couch and shake. I can't think. I want to throw up. Just how does a two-year-old, hairy, dark-skinned dog get melanoma anyway?

Skin cancer runs in our family, so I guess Rocky comes by it naturally. My mother has it. I have had it. I may have it again. That is one of the many things my current insurance will not cover because it is a pre-existing condition. The screening and testing is several thousand dollars and I can't afford it. I can't afford the dog's surgery either, but will find some way to pay for it.

Most people do not think of financial considerations when they think of grieving parents. Even if, like me, a parent does not take time off from work, things are processed lower, not as much gets done in a day. For me, lower productivity means lower wages. I feel the pinch. It has been eight months and I am still not back up to speed. I may never be.

I have spoken to, emailed with, many grieving parents who cannot work, even years after their children have passed. There is no focus, no organization in our brains. Simple things are forgotten. Mistakes are made. Many others, though, like me, try. We have no other option. I have work to do. Now. Today. It must be done, yet all I can do is hug my own dog, and cry.

Dandelions

When Colby was young he loved to garden. He could not wait every spring until we made the pilgrimage to The Home Depot or Lowe's to choose vegetables and other plants for our garden. He especially loved to plant herbs: mint, spearmint, lemon verbena, etc.

One spring when Colby was about eight, my mother was visiting and noticed we had a lot of dandelions in our yard. She made him a deal. For every dandelion he dug up with roots attached, she would give him a dime. Mom thought this would keep Colby busy on a quiet weekend and help the yard at the same time. Just think if he dug up fifty plants, what a difference that would make in your yard, she said. That's also fifty fewer plants that will go to seed.

Imagine her surprise, and mine, when Colby spent the entire weekend digging up dandelions. He dug not just fifty, or even one hundred fifty. Colby dug up eleven hundred dandelion plants. Shows you the state my yard was in. Mom made good on her deal and paid Colby $110.

Every year since then, paid or not, Colby made it his job to dig up dandelions in the spring. Today as I look out in my yard I see a number of them and I am torn. I can't bear the thought of digging them up because that is another hard, cold, reality that Colby is not here. But I should not leave the dandelions to seed the yard, either. I know this is something I have to do, hard as it will be. I will bring a lot of Kleenex along with Colby's trowel. And I will do this for Colby, to honor the many years he did this for me.