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.

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.

Skates

For some reason I have been thinking of Colby and skating. Not the skateboard kind of skating, which he did every day and was incredibly good at. And not the roller kind of skating that he did as a young teen. He was also quite good at that. Instead I have been of the ice kind of skating, at which Colby was not so good.

The first time Colby ice skated he must have been around eight. We were visiting my mother during the Christmas holidays and he decided he wanted to try it. So we rented some skates at the local ice rink and off we went. I grew up in Minnesota, where just about every kid learns to both swim and ice skate, so was able to give Colby a few pointers. After half an hour or so he was getting around the ice okay on his own, and even attempted a few more daring moves: skating backwards, a bunny hop, a slicing stop.

We went several times after that over the years. Colby was so athletic, he could excel at just about any sport he wanted to. I think the reason he never became expert at ice skating was because he didn't want to. And, the reason he didn't want to was because he never liked the cold. It's a fact. Where there is ice, there is cold.

I think of Colby and the ice and the skates and the cold, but it is some time before I realize what triggered these specific memories. Yesterday I am in a store and a boy of about fourteen is in line ahead of me with his friend. Both boys have hockey skates slung over their shoulders and cold drinks and candy bars in their hands. "Good Lord," the boy says in reaction to a comment his friend makes.

I have not heard anyone say that since Colby passed. The way this boy said it was with exactly the same inflection that Colby used. In fact, until I heard it, I had forgotten Colby often said that. Now I wonder, more then eight months after my son has passed, what else I have forgotten, will forget. I ponder that for a time and finally decide that I will forget some things. Many things. It's called being human and I have to be okay with that.

What is important is that I never forget the essence of Colby, who he was at his core, what he stood for. While I have a lot of worries, that is one thing I know I do not need to stress over, either now or at any time in the future. And, having one less thing to worry about is always a good thing.

Two

Colby as Fred Flintstone

When Colby was about two he became enamored with Fred Flintstone. He loved watching the cartoon, insisted that I call him Fred, began carrying a stick over his shoulder (better that than Fred's prehistoric club), and whenever he was excited, yelled "Yabba-doo! Yabba-doo!" and ran around in tight circles. This was before Colby got quite so verbal, when he still often missed the middle syllable, or other letters in a word. "Bye, baby" became "By-be," "Spaghetti" became "ghetti bites," and "horses" became "hores" (be sure to say that one out loud).

That spring Colby would have been two-and-a-half, and I had a reporting assignment to cover the Iroquois Steeplechase at Nashville's Percy Warner Park. I was holding Colby in my arms at the edge of the infield, near the finish line facing the box seats, when the winner of the most recent race stopped for a photo. We were immediately surrounded by Nashville's Belle Meade nobility who also showed up for the photo. Imagine my horror when Colby pointed at the horse (and also in the direction of all the nice ladies in their spring hats in the box seats) and shouted, "Hores! Hores! Yabba-doo! Hores!"

But that wasn't my biggest challenge. "Britches" became "bitches" (no need for loud verbalization on that one), "apple juice" became "ap ju," and "McDonald's" became "Donald's House." In fact, Colby became so obsessed with McDonald's (second only to the fabulous Fred) that I had to plan our outings so that we didn't go anywhere near McDonald's. That was no easy feat even twenty-some years ago. It made going to the grocery store or running an errand and adventure in planning and I found some very interesting detours through apartment parking lots and alleys that kept us away from Donald.

The allure of McDonald's was not the food, although he later did actually eat there. No, it was the attached playground that he loved. No other playground would do. Even though each McDonald's playground was different, he knew it was affiliated with his beloved Donald. Once, just once, we went to a McDonald's that didn't have a playground. That was not a fun day.

While I would give both my arms (and more) in a heartbeat to be able to share these memories with Colby, I am grateful that I have any memories at all. Through my support groups I hear of so many parents who have lost, infants, babies, young toddlers. They will never have memories like these with those children. Most, have, or will have, other children, but the parents of these babies who left us early will always wonder what they would have liked, who they would have become enamored with, and what their special joys were. While 23 years was not nearly enough, I am forever and eternally grateful for them.

Remembrances

I am behind on my tasks for counseling. Today I drive to a small town near where Colby and I used to live and have lunch at a restaurant where we used to eat. My task is to remember good memories we had there. I sit first at a table, but that is too hard. Colby should be in the seat facing me; his absence is too strong so I move to the counter. There, I first see Colby making sailboats out of his fish sticks and launching them in a sea of tartar sauce. Then I watch as he makes letters and words out of his french fries. I see him through the anorexic years and remember my anguish every time he left to use the rest room. Later, I visualize him loving a steak salad he ordered.

For some reason I can't swallow my food so I get it boxed up and drive a short distance to a park Colby and I liked. His second grade field trip was to this park when they had a festival honoring the area's history, and I remember the smile on his face as he wandered through the area with his classmates. Then I drive up to the road to a spot where I used to take Colby and his friends fishing. I can't recall them ever catching anything, but they sure had fun trying.

I am not sure what this exercise is supposed to accomplish. Maybe that's part of it, I am supposed to figure that out for myself. Today I learn I can face places where Colby and I spent happy times, and that's a good thing. I know I could not have done this a few months ago. I also learned that if I have a choice, I'd rather not. I got through the day, but it made me sad, wistful. I have been putting off errands in other places Colby and I had fun. I think I will put them off a little longer, even though I know that if I have to do them, I can. Maybe I'll try again in a few months.

Smile

Today I stop at a BP station for gas. I get out of the truck, insert my card and am hit with such a strong memory I momentarily forget to pump my gas. When Colby was two, BP had a slogan, "BP on the Move." The commercials played over and over, enough so that everyone who turned on a television was aware of them. One day we passed a BP here in Nashville and Colby got all excited and about jumped out of his car seat. "Look! Look," he cried just as we drove by. "It's BP and it's on the move!" I catch myself with the beginnings of a smile as I remember trying to explain physics to a two year old, that it is we who were moving, and not the BP station.

This moment, this memory, is the first time I've not had the shaky, unfocused feeling in many days. I've been overloaded, busy, tired, and have misplaced important things, things that have cost me time and money, and a great deal of stress. I've also been missing Colby terribly. He always knew the right thing to say, to do, to help. Not having him here during this time has made it a thousand times worse.

I remember Colby being unfocused and upset and telling him to take a step back, to stop doing, to think, assess, plan. So that's what I did and a few hours later I find myself smiling. Almost.

Schoolbus

I am stuck in traffic. A school bus heading my direction is stopped, lights flashing, while a mom talks with the driver. The conversation lasts several minutes. I begin to get impatient when I recall a similar incident that happened 19 years ago. But this time I am the Mom and the bus is on a quiet street in a suburb of Nashville.

Colby had wanted to ride a school bus from the time he knew what a school bus was. He must have been about 18 months old then. I remember taking him to the bus parking lot in Minnesota, where I grew up, when he was a little over two and we stayed there in the car for more than half an hour, looking at acres of buses. Colby was as thrilled as any toddler could be.

On the first few days of kindergarten I took Colby to school. The first day the parents were supposed to meet the teacher. On the second day I had to sign some papers, the third day I had to drop something off. So it wasn't until the end of the first week of school that Colby finally got to ride in a schoolbus. He waited at the end of the driveway with several neighborhood kids, while I stood halfway between the house and the end of the drive. When the bus came he gave me a wave and marched behind the other kids across the road and into the schoolbus. But just as quickly Colby marched back out and began to run across the road. The driver, a burly guy named Charlie, jumped out of the bus and caught Colby before he reached the center line. I half walked, half ran to the bus and began a conversation with Colby and Charlie. All was well. Colby just had a bit of a panic. It happened to a lot of kids. After a few minutes Colby sat on a seat inside the bus and Charlie closed the bus door and waved goodbye.

The drivers of the three cars who had lined up behind the bus all gave me a friendly wave as they passed and I remember being so grateful that they were not angry at the delay. I think of that now and when this bus, today's bus, finally pulls away from the mom, amid the rush of accelerating cars and a few rude gestures from other drivers I slow to give the mom a friendly wave. She looks surprised, then smiles and waves back. I wave not only to show her I am not impatient about the delay, but to thank her for triggering a nice memory about my son.

Sad

Today I tell two more people who knew Colby that he had passed away. These, obviously, are not close friends of either Colby's or mine, but both are the kind of friend that you don't speak with for six months, but know you can call in the middle of the night to pick you up off the side of the freeway. Good friends. Both have been going through struggles of their own.

The telling makes me sad. Just when I think this part of the nightmare is over, when everyone should know what happened, it hits me right in the face and takes my breath away. After the initial telling I send them to Colby's memorial web site. They can find details there. Today it is too painful to relive it all again. Twice. But yesterday would have been okay. It works that way sometimes.

Later, each friend calls back and I have to remember that for them, the shock is fresh, new. They each have good memories of Colby. Stories I had all but forgotten, stories that I smile about, but that Colby would be embarrassed by. I cry with these friends. Proud that Colby made an impression, but sad for their troubles. One has photos. Somewhere. They will dig them up and email them. Prayers will be said. I can call. Anytime. For any reason. These are kind people. Good people. I know I may not talk with them for a while. But if I need to I know I can. And for now that's enough.

Bracelets

I have a bug. A little bug to be sure, but it is enough to keep me from feeling completely well. This is the time of year that Colby always got sick. Just after his birthday. I remember countless first or second weeks in October spent in the hospital with Colby struggling to breathe. When Colby was born his lungs collapsed and he spent eight days in intensive care. After that we had issues with asthma. Upper respiratory infections. His chest laboring to rise and fall.

In my daily perusal of Colby's stuff, today I find most of his hospital bracelets. Each time he was admitted he was issued one, and each one brings back a memory. That's the year he had the boy who was receiving treatment for cancer for a roommate. That year I broke my foot in the hospital parking lot. There, that's the first one, the year that was the scariest, before we knew what childhood asthma was all about.

I am surprised he kept the bracelets, although I shouldn't be. By now we all know that Colby kept everything. But I am glad he saved them. They help me remember. Good times and scary times. Fear and relief. I put the bracelets back in the box he kept them in and put them with other items I know I will save. For a while. I know I can't keep it all, don't want to keep it all, that I will have to at some point revisit this growing "Save" pile and fine tune it. Refine it. Whittle it down. But for now the bracelets bring mostly good memories and it makes me feel good to know they are there, safe on a shelf in the room that is still, for a little while longer, Colby's.

Remembering

I have lots of emails tonight and am amazed at the number of them. To the Realtors in Chicago and the mother of the schizophrenic twins in Arizona, to B. in Canada, and the many parents of recently passed children, thank you. I am glad my words touch you, and that my thoughts help you through your days. I appreciate the prayers and support more than you know. Together, I hope we continue to help each other.

For an upcoming counseling session I make a list of memories today. They are random memories, random thoughts. I am not sure what they mean or even if they are supposed to mean anything. The exercise, my counselor says, should allow me to recall events I had forgotten about. And it does. Here are a few of them: Colby and my mom bonding with a racehorse she owned 1/32 of, Colby laughing on the dock at the lake; in the playroom at Vanderbilt Children's Hospital during a severe asthma attack; the two of us under the hood of his first car figuring out how to put oil in; cheering him home after he hit a grand slam to win a baseball game; teaching Colby to swim, to dive, to ride a horse, to drive a car, to make snow angels; going to the Humane Association and watching Sundance choose Colby; serving as one of the chaperones for Colby's 2nd grade field trip; and a magical New Year's Eve walk through our neighborhood after it had snowed. Colby was nine, or maybe ten, and no one else was out. Our footprints were the only marks on a road absent of tire tracks. It was quiet, and the only thing we could hear was the falling snow. We spoke of that walk often in recent years.

Yes, there are sad memories, too. Emotional memories, panicky memories, angry memories, scary memories. But today I remember Colby when he was younger, happier. Maybe it's because at that time in his life Colby was a force of nature, of positive energy. Tomorrow's memories will most likely be from a different time and bring forth a different emotion. Like most people, Colby was complex. Most of us act professionally at work and more casually at home, and Colby's many interests and talents, life successes and challenges, allowed him to present different sides of himself to different people. Plus, we all grow and change as we journey through life. Colby's journey was short, but I am finding that I do have a wealth of memories, and it will take me a lifetime to recall them all.