Women

I am standing in a field crowded with women. There are thousands of us covering what must be twenty or thirty acres. We all stand facing the same direction shoulder to shoulder packed together like sardines. The women wear all sorts of casual clothing. The one to my left is maybe ten years younger than I am and of medium height. She wears a loose yellow cotton shirt with narrow, black horizonal stripes, a black knit sweater, charcoal gray capri pants and black ballet slippers. Her hair is short, brown and layered. She is nervous.

As soon as I realize that all the women here are mothers I hear a voice. It is a male voice and is coming through a loudspeaker, although I cannot see it or him. The voice asks all mothers who have lost a child to form a separate group to the front of this group. A surprisingly large number of women step forward, myself included. We huddle together in this new group, unformed, with nothing approximating the neat lines and rows and precision stance of the previous group. All we want is to rejoin the first group. The wanting is an terrible anguish, a deep physical pain. Several of us are crying.

The voice then announces that if we have other children, we can rejoin the first group. We know the voice is speaking only to us, this second, lost group of mothers. If they have not already been crying, most of the mothers break down in tears of joy as they scurry back to the larger group and shoulder their way into the ranks. There must be about fifty of us left, mothers who have no other children.

If you have a spouse, please rejoin the first group. More than thirty of the women leave. Grateful, glad. If you can physically have more children, rejoin. More leave. If you have a brother, rejoin. Another leaves. there are only a handful of us left. If you have a sister, rejoin. We are down to two. We two are so very frightened and lonely. If you have a niece, rejoin. We stare at each other, terrified. If you have a nephew, rejoin. She looks pityingly at me before she breaks into tears and runs back into the group. I am alone.

I pray for the voice to call out something else. If you are a nice person, rejoin. If you loved your son, rejoin. If you have a cat, rejoin. But the voice is gone. I turn around to stare at the huge mass of women, of mothers, but they too are gone and I am completely and utterly alone.

When I wake up, even though I try, I cannot determine if this was a dream . . . or not.

Timelines

A dear friend is in liver failure. Long term, it doesn’t look good. We’ve been friends for almost twenty years and over those years we shared our ups and downs, our triumphs and tragedies. My friend is one of the very few people I can tell anything to and know that no matter what I tell her she will not think less of me. Many times through the years she dropped everything to be a friend to Colby and to me. She bent over backwards to help us whenever we needed it and now, when she needs it most, I cannot help her. I cannot tell you how sad that makes me feel.

When I learn of my friend’s health crisis my first thought is that I can’t lose someone else so soon. I am not ready. This is too much. I barely function now, how can I possibly manage with another loss? My second thought is one of frustration. I want to help, need to help. While I can’t assist in the way she needs most, while I cannot give her a new liver, I can let people know of her kindness. This is in hopes that we all can learn from her, think of her when others are in need and respond as she would have––with everything she had.

My friend is not a perfect person. She can be exasperating. She does not always use good judgment. She has problems managing money. But she does know the true meaning of friendship. She is kind. She is honest and true. She helps her friends with no questions asked. She is there for those who are important to her and I can’t begin to count all the ways she has helped and supported me over the years.

This friend was not only was my friend, she was Colby’s friend. When Colby was sick, she made him laugh. When he needed a job, she not only gave him one, she recommended him to all her friends and clients. Then she gave him a great reference. She helped Colby learn how to cook and when he was very young she helped him support the homeless. And when he was twelve, when he started playing guitar, she even got music industry friends to donate their used musical equipment to him.

In recent years my friend’s health has not been good. She has been given “timelines” by medical professionals before, but before she never believed them. Now I think she does, even though she doesn’t want to. I understand we live our lives to learn lessons and help others, and when we’ve done what we are here to do, then it is time to go. My friend has helped countless others and I know she has learned a lot about herself, others, and life. She has more than paid her dues here on Earth, but I will be selfish here and ask that she be able to stay a little while longer. I am not the only person who needs her. She has children and grandchildren and many other friends. Besides, I just can’t let go until I am a little stronger. 

Please join me in praying for my friend, Colby's friend, for her healing, for a quick match for her liver transplant. Out of privacy I do not want to mention her name, but God will know who you are praying for. And so will I. Thank you.

Interpretations

I have a great counseling session today. This, along with talking to my psychiatric friends helps me piece together some possible meanings of my dreams. If nothing else, the following has given me a lot to think about, especially as I do not disagree with any of it. Scroll back to earlier posts if you need a refresher on the dreams. Most are within the last few weeks.

1. In each dream Colby is in some way helping me. That thought brings me a lot of comfort.

2. The small pieces of red color in each dream can indicate that I have unresolved anger. I do not feel angry, but it might be because I won’t admit to myself that I am, indeed, quite angry. The dreams could be my brain's way of trying to deal with that.

3. I have people helping me in each dream. So, even though I am virtually alone as far as family is concerned, the dreams shows that I have many people who have, and will, assist me when I need it.

4. In each dream Colby has either been happy or peaceful. That, too, is comforting.

5. In the most recent dream, the one with my “twin,” the twin could represent another side of myself.

6. That my twin is trying to kill me could represent my internal struggle as I come to terms with Colby’s passing.

7. When I wrap leather around my wrists and ankles in that same dream, it might mean that horses are essential to my survival. There is a lot of leather associated with horses and the accompanying equipment.

8. The gray color that is in all the dreams can mean a denial of emotion, or it can indicate depression.

9. The brown could mean that I have unanswered questions, or that I am in denial, or it could mean I am yearning for things to get back to basics.

10. Yellow is a sign of intellect and focus, and the yellow headbands in the “twin” dream could mean I am trying to figure things out.

11. That I see Colby in each dream wearing light blue or white might indicate hope, healing and spiritual awareness.

12. The green grass I see in each of my dreams and the green sweaters in the twin dream might show my need for healing, balance and harmony.

13. That I chose to protect myself in the twin dream might indicate my survival instinct is kicking into gear.

14. When I “buried” Colby half way in the most recent dream, it could mean I am in the middle of holding on to him and letting go.

15. The animals in my dreams show my strong connection to them, and they to me.

16. That my twin showed supernatural powers when she turned into Spiderwoman, along with my ability to leap over fences in the dream, possibly is a sign of mental strength.

Plants

When Colby was one year old, he became the proud owner of a potted plant. He and my mom and I were having lunch at the old Woolworth’s store in 100 Oaks Mall in Nashville when, on the way out, he toddled over to a display of plants near the door. Colby inspected each carefully, then plopped himself down next to one of them and hugged it. “My Nini,” he said.

Of course, we had to buy Nini Plant for him. What “Nini” meant, I never knew, but he and that plant were bonded from that day on. When we got Nini home, Colby sat on the floor and talked to it. Not just that day, but regularly for years. There is a school of thought that plants that are spoken to every day thrive. That certainly was the case with Nini. Nini grew quite large, so we put her outside in the summer, in a shady spot on the porch. When the nights grew cool, Nini always had a sunny place inside the house.

It was Colby’s job to care for Nini and he did quite well with this until his illness and addiction forced him onto the streets. When he’d call, or when I saw him, he’d always ask if I was taking care of Nini for him. On the infrequent times he came home in the past year, Colby always had time to wipe spots off Nini’s leaves and to have a quiet conversation.

Nini has now been part of our family for 23 years. Never in a million years did I think Nini would outlive Colby. I still have a hard time finding my way around that cold, hard fact. Since Colby passed, Nini has become my responsibility. I found that Nini does not tolerate fertilizer well. I almost killer her with kindness shortly after Colby passed. I could not have withstood that, losing Colby, and then, through my own stupidity, his favorite plant. But Nini recovered and is once again doing well.

I cannot speak to Nini in the same way that Colby did, but I try. Recently I noticed that our cat, Bailey, has taken an unusual interest in Nini. Bailey, who has always ignored Nini, now frequently sits next to her, or rubs her cheek against one of Nini’s large, glossy leaves. Yesterday I heard Bailey talking to Nini as she lay comfortably next to her. “Mrrow . . . Yow.” She’s done it several times today, this from a normally very quiet cat. I am glad the two are bonding. It seems strange to think that a plant might miss Colby, but maybe she does. It seems stranger yet that a cat would recognize that need and fill it. But that’s exactly what I think has happened. Bailey and Nini. Strange and stranger. Colby would be so very, very pleased.

Safety

I have a long counseling session this morning. My counselor goes over my lifeline, the document I have been working on that highlights all the significant events in my life, and she determines that in the past 28 years I have had 55 significant and stressful life changing events. Some years it was a constant barrage of cross country moves, job changes, abuse, and death. Other years it was significant illness, financial woes and police arrests. Any of these, she says, could take a year or more to grieve and process through. Long story short, the grief I am now feeling is not just grief for Colby and his passing, it is compounded grief that includes all these other events.

I am strong, she says. These are words I do not like to hear, for I am not as strong as everyone thinks. But when she explains what she means, I understand. The first 20 years of my life were quite stable. I lived with my mother and grandmother, who were both strong influences. Combined, it gave me the foundation I need to deal with all the life challenges I have had. My foundation is strong.

Colby, she continues, was also strong. For when we piece together his significant life challenges, they are quite overwhelming. That he was able to deal with most of them with a smile, that he could still impact people with his positive energy, or with his thoughts on virtually any subject in the universe, is a testament to his inner self.

The lifeline also clearly shows how early on, many people in authority failed Colby. Teachers, counselors, medical professionals, coaches and scout leaders. Not all, but some. Enough. This caused his later distrust of people who possibly could have helped him. For Colby, distrust could have been a protective shield, a safety net, beyond which no one could penetrate.

I come away thinking that I need to take some time to think about this. It is important stuff. But this is a busy week, as is the next. I will find the time, however. Because if I am to move on in this process of grief, I must better understand the events in my lifeline, not only how they impacted my past, but how they can direct my future.

Ancestors

I had been researching our geneology as a present for Colby's birthday. Throughout this year, I had been giving Colby bits and pieces of the people, the story, and had planned to surprise him with a book of all the collected research on his birthday. Each month, if I hadn't already given him a bit of information, he'd ask about it and when Colby passed, I found all the printouts I had given him wrapped in plastic in his backpack.

Our story is a good one of farmers, warriors, masons, and thieves. Love and loss, heartbreak and triumph. Ocean crossings, Indian fights, potato blight, sod houses, and miles upon miles riding in covered wagons. Ancestors came mostly from Ireland, Poland, Russia, Austria, and Germany. Some belonged to the Royal families of Europe; others were brothers, sisters or parents of Catholic saints. Yet others were maids, sheepherders, and seamstresses. All were real people. Each, like Colby, left his or her mark upon the world.

Colby would have turned 24 two weeks from tomorrow. My research sits, untouched, since the day he passed. I will return to it someday, maybe even someday soon, for as I look at my great-grandfather's baby picture, and my great-great grandparent's wedding photo, I realize that I do not want them to be forgotten. So (eventually) I will continue the research, I will tell their stories and let the world know they were part of it.

This is important not only because of the story that is there, but because I am interested in telling it. For the first time since Colby passed, I am interested, although somewhat vaguely, in something. For the first time rather than going through the motions of what has to be done, I am actually interested in doing something. And that, I think, is a very good thing.

Insurance

Today I get three emails from parents whose sons have stories similar to Colby's. My heart aches for them. For like me, over the years they each spent tens of thousands of dollars on medical and mental health treatment. These parents live in three different states, yet for various reasons their sons were not able to get the mental health help they needed, so instead, like Colby, these boys turned to drugs.

Colby first began counseling for mental illness when he was 8. He was in counseling again for another year when he was 10, and again at 12 and from then on it was a constant until his insurance benefits ran out when he was 18. When he was 14 he was hospitalized for two weeks with anorexia. At 15 he was diagnosed with obstructive defiant disorder and was hospitalized for 7 weeks. At 16 he spent 4 months in a group home. By age 17, in addition to the above, he had been diagnosed with panic attacks, paranoia, anxiety and depression. At 21, schizophrenia, a condition that runs on my grandmother's side of the family, was added to the list. When my savings and ability to pay ran dry my mother sold stocks and depleted her retirement. Every dollar we had went to pay for Colby's health care.

The other parents tell me that like Colby, while there was still some insurance to help cover the exhorbitant costs of testing, counseling, residential treatment, medication, outpatient treatment and more, their sons were able to function, to maintain, to be productive despite tremendous odds. One child was bi-polar; another, like Colby, had schizophrenia; the third suffered from paranoia. But once their health care stopped, all of them began making poor decisions, and each began a fatal downward spiral.

I recently went to a meeting of the National Alliance on Mental Illness and learned that more than 50 percent of people who use drugs have a diagnosed mental illness. So you have to think: which came first, the drugs or the mental illness? In talking with these parents, each boy had signs of mental illness before he reached the age of 10. And as the mental illness progressed and the health care lessened, each boy's ability to think clearly, normally, rationally, lessened.

There are some who wonder why those addicted to drugs often refuse help. It's because the mental illness is so pervasive, so consuming, that their brain does not function properly. Like any other organ that is ill, the brain compensates for its illness and the ability to think rationally is often decreased. Two very dear friends have children in their twenties who have trouble with various forms of drugs and mental illness. One has insurance and the other does not. I pray for both of them. I know the difficult road they walk very well, because I traveled it for more than 15 years.

I'm not sure what the details of health care insurance solution is or should be. But, I do know that other countries have found a way to solve this problem and allow each citizen access to health care, and I hope and pray our lawmakers will work together to give our citizens the same option. In the meantime, we're losing loved ones everyday. It's time for it to stop.

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.

Holidays

Today I buy a card for my mom, write a note in it and send it to her for Grandparent's Day. It takes me an hour to write three lines and I cry the entire time. Colby should be here to do this and some part of me can't fathom that he's not. I'm not sure how I will get through another "holiday" less than a week after the last one. I do not want to become one of these embittered people who hate celebrations, hate holidays, but I can see how easily one could become a person like that.

Holidays and celebrations are for people with families. Colby's passing is so new, so raw, that I try not to feel jealous, devastated, enraged, bitter, overwhelmed, when people this week show me photos of their children, grandchildren; when they tell me they ate lunch at their grandchild's school; when they say what a great parent their son, daughter, is. Those are all activities I had looked forward to; now they are things I will never do.

I try to be happy for them, proud for them, to share their joy, but I am still so overwhelmed with grief I don't even come close. The key for me is to stay busy, to work, to be physically active, so I get on Colby's bike and pedal, pedal, pedal through the neighborhood. My brain is quickly consumed with curbs, dips, humps, speed bumps, traffic, dogs. I ride up and down hills until I am completely exhausted, until my legs are shaky, until my bum knee aches. After, I feel better. I feel guilty for my earlier mood, for that is not normally my nature.

The next big event is September 30, Colby's birthday. That gives me 21 days to figure out a way to get through the day. By then I am sure to have come up with something positive and productive I can do in honor and memory of my son.

Grieving

I feed horses this morning. I still feel an emotional disconnect around these four-legged friends, so I sit on the fence and wait. I wait to see how they will react to me for horses are the best indicator of emotional stability one might ever hope to find. One finally leaves his pile of hay to investigate. This one is the quietest. Of the three in this paddock, this one has the most stable personality. Not much phases him, including, apparently, my tears. Later, the second walks over. This horse doesn't come too close. In fact, he stays a good ten feet away, but he watches with relative calm and he listens with I speak to him. After a few minutes he lowers his head, licks his lips and walks away. This is typical horse language for acceptance. This is good.

Finally the last horse approaches. This is the horse I have spent the most time with. He pins his ears at the second horse, telling him to move further away. The horse moves. The third horse comes close, but when he sniffs me he jumps. When I extend my hand to him, he shies away. I am not the person he expects me to be and this is unsettling to him. To me, too. A few minutes later, though, he returns. I have remained on the fence, waiting for him. This time he rests his chin on my knees. I pet his forehead and stroke his ears. He sighs, then walks away.

I am not the same person I was before Colby passed away and the horses have let me know they understand this. I remember that in working with horses, people must expect progress in the horse's time frame, not theirs. For example, you can't go out to the barn and expect to teach your horse something new in five minutes. It might be that the horse does learn in that time frame, but it is more likely that the horse will learn in 30 minutes, in two days, or a month.

Grief is like these horses I love so much. I can't expect my grieving to evolve to the next stage in my time frame. It will evolve when it is ready, when it knows I am ready. In the meantime, I hope the horses will get to know the new me, to understand the new energy, the roller coaster of emotion that I project, is not a threat to their safety. I may not yet inspire enough confidence for them to trust me to lead them away from danger, but the fact that they are no longer running from me means I am headed in the right direction.

Lifeline

Today I have a counseling session. A good one, as usual, although I cry all the way through it. My grief counselor is helping me with the guilt I have in letting Colby down as a parent. It's something every parent of a child who passes has, the feeling that you have not done enough, that due to some failing of your own, your child dies. I know in my heart that I did all I could do and then some. I do know that. But I still think there must have been something I missed, something more I could have done, some lack of something within me that caused my child's life here on Earth to end. Of course, it is not true, but I think that anyway.

For the past few weeks I have been documenting the times that I cry and what causes me to cry. Through this I have determined that one trigger for crying is when people offer to help--and I have had a LOT of offers. Thank you all! I cry when help is offered for two reasons: one, because I feel so guilty about letting Colby down that I do not believe I deserve the help, and two, because I am so eternally grateful.

This documenting of emotional triggers I think will help anyone who is having difficulty focusing or who is going through a hard time. After two days it was quite obvious what my triggers were. Others include talking about Colby and the normal day-to-day frustrations of life, which I am still not handling all that well.

My next assignment is to develop a Lifeline. In the Lifeline I draw a long horizontal line and at the very left, place a short vertical line with a notation of my birth. I then document every significant event in my life in hopes that it will help me to better understand where my life has taken me and how best to proceed in the future. It should also show me how I have dealt with loss and other traumatic events in the past and give me a guideline on how to best proceed from here. I throw this out because this idea may help others of you who are reading this blog. I get emails from many of you every day and know each of you has your own difficult path to travel. I sincerely hope my words and experiences help you on your own journey. Safe travels to you all.

Stages

My mother is angry with Colby. For this I am glad because anger is a natural stage of grief. She is angry that he left us. Angry that he has caused us both pain. Angry that I have to spend so much time going through his "stuff." She is angry that because of Colby's passing I have a lack of focus, that I take twice as long to complete work assignments, that I am so sad, that I am irrevocably changed. Hers is a deep, quiet anger, but it is real. It is there. This is the first time she has spoken of anything like this. Until now, she has avoided all but the most direct information regarding Colby's passing: Celebration of Life details, the cremation process, the autopsy. Facts. Until now, that is all she has been able to discuss and I worried about her because whenever I spoke of feelings she changed the subject.

Everyone processes grief differently. Like a broken record, I still alternate between shaky crying and numbness and can go between the two instantaneously. I assume that eventually I will move on to denial, anger, bargaining and all the other emotions I hear about. As his parent, I hear this will probably take longer than everyone expects. I am told these stages can't be rushed, that they will come in their own time and last as long as they are supposed to. It could be a year or more before I reach that stage, or it could be tomorrow.

Meanwhile, I am grateful for my mother's anger for it means she is heading toward a healthy acceptance of Colby's passing. And I know that I will get there, too. Maybe not soon, but someday.

Generosity

The generosity of others amazes me. This morning, members of the Belleview Masonic Lodge rise before dawn to prepare a benefit pancake breakfast in Colby's memory. More than 100 people come by and I have the chance to chat with several long-time friends. We share a few smiles and a few more tears. The meal is excellent and I hope that those in Nashville who read this will support other functions of this organization. They are kind and great people.

Tonight Colby's friends gather to share music and love in his memory. I go early and thank them all for being Colby's friend, for loving him, and for gathering this evening to remember him. Colby would be a little embarrassed at the attention, but also very, very pleased.

Today reminds me that there really is only one important thing in life and that is the people we love. I think as a whole that we do not appreciate enough those who are closest to us. Those people we love and care about really are irreplaceable. Daily life often gets in the way of what is important, and I hope Colby's passing gives everyone who reads this blog the incentive to cherish and hold tight those who are closest to them. I was fortunate. Colby and I always said "I love you" to each other. I'd give anything to let him know how much I really meant it.

Sitting

I sit on the shuttle on the way to the airport and see a sign that says the bus is powered by bio-diesel fuel. This causes me to burst into tears as Colby was such a proponent of bio-diesel. He would be so pleased to hear about the shuttle and I want to share it with him, but of course I can't. Other than the driver, I am the only person on the bus, so there is no one to look away or become embarrassed by my tears.

I sit on the airplane and look out the window at luggage being loaded into a neighboring plane. We cannot depart due to a broken hinge on an overhead cargo bin, so we wait for half an hour before a uniformed man shows up with some duct tape. Colby loved duct tape and used it for everything from making clothes and backpacks to holding his car together. It's been an emotional day after several numb days and the sight of the roll of tape causes me to cry. The plane is only about a third full and the closest passenger, a lady in the aisle seat in my row, doesn't even look up from her computer.

I sit on the plane, ancy. I am uncharacteristically claustrophobic and fight the urge to get up from my seat and run screaming down the aisle. Instead, I look out the window in hopes of hiding my tears.

I sit in my truck in the parking lot of the Nashville airport. I wonder if I should go home, or if I should just drive until I can't drive anymore. I remember my dog, Abby, and cat, Bailey, are waiting for me at home and know that's where I need to be.

I sit on my couch with an airhead dog and lazy cat and look at the piles of Colby's stuff, at the work piled up on my desk, at the "to do" list that now tops four pages. With a sigh I reach for the list and start doing number one.

Love

This morning I am very sad, but calmer. This roller coaster of emotions is unusual for me. I am usually on an even keel and on top of things. The death of a child changes that, and I must learn to deal with it. Recently, I missed several meetings. That is totally unlike me and I feel bad that I caused others to be inconvenienced. I spend an hour working on long-term plans to honor Colby's memory and hope to announce those to the world sometime in late September or early October. Keeping busy, setting tasks and goals, helps. It keeps me from thinking and I know I need to think and process, but sometimes it is too painful, too raw. I will get there in time.

Colby would not want me to be so sad, to miss him so much, but that is how a parent's love for a child works. Sometimes I think of his spirit, his soul, zooming across the sky doing flips, soaring up higher and higher, then falling backwards into an easy float. He loved extreme sports and was always the kid who wanted to climb the highest, jump the farthest, run the fastest. I like to think he is doing just that right now.