Fear

I was recently asked how I had changed the most since Colby passed away. There have been so many changes but I'd have to say the biggest change is fear. I no longer have any fear. The worst thing in the world has already happened. What else is there to be afraid of?

I used to be afraid of heights, of flying, of drowning, of Colby not being able to breathe. Now, Colby is no longer breathing and I am drowning, so heights and flying are no longer an issue. Radiation from leaky Japanese nuclear conductors? No fear. Terrorists bombing a building I am in? Earthquakes, car accidents, illness, electrocution? I am not afraid.

That said, in integrating this lack of fear into my life I am aware that I must not be too bold. I must not take too many risks, especially risks that could endanger others. This makes me a more cautious driver than I was before. I am more aware of the possibilities of children running into a street or elderly people tripping and falling. Somehow, my lack of fear has made me more able to spot danger for others. Maybe my natural maternal protectiveness over my child has transferred to the world in general. I am terrified for others, but not for myself. Never for myself.

Caves

When Colby was six and seven we went with his cub scout group to stay overnight at Cumberland Caverns, a large cave system in Middle Tennessee. Each year we went, Colby was the youngest in the group and the route our guide took us on was quite ambitious. We scaled steep rock walls, crawled through long narrow tunnels, and jumped over wide crevasses––and Colby loved every minute of it. Colby kept up with the older boys (the eight and nine year olds) just fine and the experience gave him a life-long interest in caves.

In caving, he and I both learned that it is important to have three sources of light with you at all times. Because, when your light goes out there is a blackness like you have never experienced. It is an inky, thick, overwhelming darkness that seeps into your pores. It is not necessarily a terrifying blackness, but it certainly is a colorless void that I learned to respect.

Grief for a child is like the blackness of the caves. It is ever present and becomes part of you. It is a thick, fluid presence that never goes away. Sometimes it is a little less dark, a little less thick, but always, it is there. I wish I could express in words how profoundly Colby's passing has affected me, how completely the death of any child affects his or her parents, but I have not yet been able to wrap my brain around that. Perhaps I never will.

What I can say, however, is that I hope very much that anyone who has living parents who reads this will be careful with their lives. We humans take chances with our lives every time we step into the street, ride in a car, or take a pill. I want to say, yes, it can happen to you. You can be the one who is in a car accident. You can be the one who is in a house fire, or drown in a pool. I would not wish the pain of a child's death on my worst enemy, so please be careful with your lives. Please be aware of what is going on around you. Please think before you act. Please do not put another mom or dad through the darkness that so many of us grieving parents live with every day.

Depression

There is a difference between grief and depression. Grief is the normal process of reacting to loss and can include anger, guilt, sadness, anxiety, despair, and other problems. Depression interferes with the ability to work, sleep, eat, and enjoy once-pleasurable activities.

Those who are grieving can also be depressed, and those who are depressed can be grieving, although that is not always the case. But, the line is fine. I know that since Colby passed I waver on both sides of the line. My grief is all encompassing and based on medical information and other parents who have lost a child, I know it is not likely to ever go away. Over time it may soften, but now, on some days, the grief is so heavy I know there is more going on. On those days, depression beckons.

Colby was depressed for much of his life and began seeing a counselor for grief and depression when he was eight. His grief was due to the loss of his beloved dog, Dexter, who died of old age. After a time his grief went away. The depression did not. Colby's depression sometimes lifted, but even when it didn't most days he was able to smile over his pain. I admired him for that, because he tried so hard to not let his depression interfere with the lives of those around him. For years we tried various treatments. For him, nothing worked. For both of us, that was frustrating and sad.

While I grieve for Colby, there is also grief for other losses in my life. Just about everyone my age has experienced multiple losses and for me they are all tied up together in a big tangled knot that I fear I will never unravel. One counselor said the reason my compounded grief and loss has not spun me into  depression is because it has prepared me for the years I have ahead, alone, without family. The counselor likened me to a warrior. That may all be true, but the last thing I feel like is a warrior, and the last thing I planned for my life was to spend the last half of it without family, even though that is the way things turned out.

I'd give anything if my grief was not a reality. If Colby's medical team had gotten a handle on his depression when he was eight or ten or even twelve years old, then maybe he would still be here, I would not be grieving and would still have a family to celebrate future milestones and holidays with. Or, maybe, the outcome would still be the same. One thing is for sure, there are no guarantees. That's why each of us should live life to it's fullest and enjoy what we can today, for neither grief or depression can change the past or the future.

Changes

Having a child die changes a parent in ways too countless to mention. I am not the same person I was before Colby passed and am still trying to find out who the "new me" is. One change is that I am more drawn to poetry than I was before. I have no idea why. Maybe it is that people send me poems I relate closely to, or that in my counseling sessions I find poets and poetry that become personal to me.

The following poem hits close to home because more than nine months after Colby passed many people are surprised that I am still grieving. They do not understand that most parents who lose children grieve for the rest of their lives. Life for them and for me will never be the same as it was "before," no matter how much we want it to be.

They Think I'm Fine and Over it
By Lyndie Sorenson © 2008

They think I'm fine and over it
Accepted that you died
But I live life with all this pain
And countless tears I've cried

I am forced to live with endless pain
That others can't accept
They think I'm fine and over it
Or that I'll soon forget

I want to scream from rooftops
Or silently just cry
I never will be over it
My God my child died!

It makes no sense to argue
My energy is low
So when they think I'm over it
I simply tell them No

I've become what they have wanted
A turtle in it's shell
Just keep my thought within myself
And never ever tell

I mask my life to others
To myself as well
For living every day on Earth
Is surely more like Hell

Simply put I won't get over it
Not better...stronger... fine
It is only that I've had no choice...
To live this life of mine

In loving memory of Joey and his heavenly buddies

Evenings

The evenings are the toughest. This is the time when Colby was younger that we would spend together. Or when he was older, that he would call and we would talk. Colby was a great conversationalist. Even before he was a year old, when other babies were emitting sounds, syllables, Colby was babbling in paragraphs. He always had an opinion and something to say about it. I miss that.

When the phone rings in the evenings the first thought that still jumps into my mind is that it is about time for Colby to call. I am getting to the point that I now also remember that Colby is no longer here to call. Either way, it makes answering evening phone calls tough.

Evening is also the time my mind winds down. I keep it filled from my earliest waking moments, but sometime after the dinner hour thoughts of Colby creep in and I miss him, more each new day than the last. I am tired in the evenings, too tired to begin a new project that will keep my mind occupied, too tired to sleep. Restless.

I wander the house, picking objects up, then putting them back down. I try to distract myself with the Internet, television, a book, until I am so exhausted I can no longer think. The strategy rarely works. When I sleep it is for an hour or so, then I wake, remember that Colby is not here, wander the house some more, then sleep for another hour. This pattern repeats all night until six, or seven, when I can no longer bear it and I get up for the day, refreshed enough to jump into projects that will keep me busy until the next evening. The next night.

Parents who are ahead of me on this journey tell me it gets a little better. Usually between year two and three. The pain becomes "softer" then, they say. I am eight months into this. Two to three years seems a long way away. And when I get there, there are no guarantees.

A 2005 study in Denmark found an increased risk of hospitalization for mental illness for parents, particularly mothers, who have lost a child. The risk stayed elevated for five years after the child (of any age) had passed. I don't think that will be me, but I can see how easily that could be a reality for any grieving parent. I so wish that no parent ever had to bury a child.

Family

Easter is just a few days away. It is another holiday I plan to ignore. But that is hard to do. Like Thanksgiving and Christmas, Easter is a time that is filled with references to family in newspapers, television, and radio. Even billboards and retail stores are filled with references to the holiday. Holidays, however, are for families. For those of us without, they are hard. The memories are bittersweet because there is no family left to enjoy holidays with. Ever. The years loom bleakly ahead.

Then again maybe my grief is just too new. Maybe holidays will get better. Maybe I can establish new traditions on my own. Maybe. I do understand that family is who and what you make it. Families these days do not have to biologically related to you. I think, though, when your life expectations of having children and grandchildren are suddenly taken from you, that the adjustment is harder than if you never had those expectations at all.

I try. I try to smile when other people talk of their families, their siblings, and kids and nieces and nephews. I try not to cry. This issue is, after all, mine. I do not harbor grudges for the joy others have. I am happy for them. Being sad for me is a separate issue and I am glad I can make the distinction.

I never expected life to be so hard. So grueling. I know this is what life must have been like for Colby, living with untreated mental illness. He felt so bleak about the future, about any possibilities of positive happenings, of success. Yet he managed to smile. He was able to be happy for others. I can do the same. I just have to dig deeper, try harder. And I will. Somehow. I will.

Statistics

As many of you know, my son Colby had several mental illnesses and passed from a drug overdose. So many people focus on the drug issue and yes, it was a big factor. But what most people do not realize is that a good percentage of drug users also have either a diagnosed or an undiagnosed mental illness such as depression, bi-polarism, panic disorder, etc. Here are a few interesting statistics from a presentation by Don McVinney, MSSW, M.Phil., ACSW, C-CATODSW, CASAC at a recent Harm Reduction Psychotherapy and the Treatment of Dual Disorders Northern California -Kaiser Permanente Conference:

37% of alcohol abusers and 53% of drug users also have at least one serious mental illness

Of all people diagnosed with a mental illness, 29% abuse either alcohol or drugs

As many as 50% of the mentally ill population are reported to have a substantial substance abuse problem

Axis I Disorders: (mood, anxiety, psychotic disorders) are 4 times more prevalent among alcoholics than non-alcoholics

Mood Disorders alone are two times more prevalent among alcoholics

Axis II Personality Disorders: (paranoia, schizophrenia, antisocial, etc,) are diagnosed in 65% of opiate addicts

Colby had diagnoses of depression, anxiety, panic disorder, paranoia, and schizophrenia. Yes, he died of a heroin overdose. But, so many people do not consider mental illness as a reason for drug use. Not all drug users are mentally ill, but you can see by the statistics that a good number of them are. Mental illness has such a stigma. Would people think differently of someone if, rather than a drug overdose, they had passed from a heart illness, or a liver illness? Sadly, I think they would. The difference is that a heart ailment or a liver ailment usually does not cause people to behave differently. A mental ailment does.

I mention this in the hopes that those of you who have loved ones who have a mental illness will keep a closer eye on them. I mention this in the hopes that those of you who are medical professionals will consider that the patient who presents as a drug user is using because he or she is mentally ill. And, I hope those of you who work in health insurance will consider that many, not all, but many, of the people who are either mentally ill or addicted can be helped if you will only offer them health care coverage. Give them a year, rather than 28 days, to recover in the knowledge that many of these people can be (and want to be) productive menbers of society. 

People who are recovering from cancer or from heart surgery typically have more than 28 days to recover. So please offer that same courtesy to those who are addicted and mentally ill.

Absence

I have been absent from this blog for a few days. Thank you to all who have checked in. I have needed your love and support. It has been a very rough week.

Grieving parents who are ahead of me on this journey tell me that at some point around the first anniversary of their child's death, the shock begins to wear off and that's when the grieving process really begins. Even though it has only been a little over seven months, I believe I am at that stage. Colby's loss has been hitting me so much harder than ever before, on a much deeper level. For several days all I could do was sit curled up in a corner and cry. That is not like me. Before, most days I could function on some level. Recently, I have not been able to do that.

But the good news is that today, and for the past few days, the grief has been a little softer, a little easier. And when the harder grief returns hopefully I will be more prepared. I have conquered Round 1, and am ready for Round 2.

To those who have recently asked, "Aren't you over that yet?" I say NO. I do not believe parents "get over" the loss of a child. Nor do any of my counselors or parents in my local or online support group. We learn to live with it. We learn to function with a new normal. Losing a child is completely different than losing a parent or a spouse or a sibling. I do not discount the impact those losses have on people. They are huge. But the parent/child bond is different, and I hope none of you ever have to experience this kind of loss.

So for those who have asked me to events, to lunch, to parties, to receptions. Thank you. I appreciate you thinking about me, for wanting to include me. But I am not yet ready. It is still too much. I have this carefully constructed life that allows me to function (most days) but if I step out of my routine, then my world once again falls apart. Someday I will be ready. I hope that someday is soon. But if it is not, I know that eventually, it will  arrive.

Reform

Health care reform is in the news. It's an ongoing topic, has been for months, and is polarizing. I've written about this before so I won't rehash the details, but I do have to say two things:

1. Many people are under the perception that if you are uninsured and go to a hospital that the hospital has to treat you. That is not true in practice. Twice I took my suicidal son to an emergency room and they weighed him, took his blood pressure, and his temperature. Then we waited in a waiting room for two hours so they could hand us a piece of paper that referred us to agencies we had exhausted months prior. That is how our hospitals "treated" my son. Six weeks later he was dead.

2. Others think that all Americans already have access to health care. This is also not true. As a teen, Colby was on a state insurance plan that I paid for because I was self-employed. Then that program was shut down due to lack of state funding. Because Colby had existing and extensive mental illness diagnoses, no other insurance program would cover him. By the time he was homeless and qualified for Medicaid, he was so paranoid I could not get him to a doctor.

I do not understand why all Americans cannot have access to health care. I believe that if Colby had medical care that there is a chance he would be here today. There is a chance that he could have led a productive life and fulfilled his dream of making the world a better place. There is a chance that I would someday have grandchildren. There is a chance that I would not have to grow old without any family.

All I ask our lawmakers in Washington is that whatever deal they strike, whatever language they finalize, whatever clauses they add, the end result is that no other American parent will suffer the anguish of not being able to get his or her son or daughter the medical attention they need.

Intervention

Today I am involved in an intervention. A young man with mental illness and addiction needs help. This kind young man was an acquaintance of Colby's, and has an addiction to cough syrup. I am surprised to find that cough syrup is one of the leading types of addiction. This is especially scary because, like prescription drugs, most cough syrups can be purchased over the counter. An overdose can cause extreme psychosis and even death.

Five family members and a social worker are also at the intervention. They have a place for the young man to go: a dual diagnosis center that can help. The young man is angry. He says he can't have a problem; cough syrup is legal. He is given a choice of going to the treatment facility or to the Nashville Union Rescue Mission. The choice is his. He says he will go to the Mission and runs upstairs to gather his things.

When he comes back down minutes later he looks for an out. He rationalizes and decides to go to the treatment facility. The real possibility of the Mission, the streets, and homelessness have frightened him. He is still angry, but a ride awaits and he gets in. I hear later that he checked in safely. He made a good choice. He has a hard road ahead, but he also has a chance at a long, productive life.

Another person was at the intervention, one of the Board members for Colby's Army, the nonprofit organization several others and I founded in memory of Colby. I have not mentioned this in a while as we have been laying the organization's foundation. You can learn more at ColbysArmy.org, but one of the things we do is help people with mental illness and addiction, like this young man today, get the help they need. That did not happen for Colby. But it can happen for others and we will help many. Today's young man was just the first. 

Colby's Army recently got the okay to accept tax-deductible donations and every cent will go to help people with mental illness and addiction, as well as animals and the environment, causes that were very close to Colby's heart. There are several programs in the works, which will be kicked off as funding allows. I think Colby would be pleased. I think that because I felt Colby at the intervention today. I felt his spirit in the room. To me, that was his unconditional stamp of approval. I miss you, son.

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.

Snow

The New Year's Eve that Colby was ten it snowed. Big, fat, silent flakes drifted from the sky and by early evening most Nashvillians were either tucked away safely in their homes, or already at their chosen celebratory location. On our street, in our neighborhood, not a single car had gone by since the snow began that afternoon. By eight, there was a good five inches of snow on the ground and we decided to go for a walk.

Outside the silence was stunning. Cocooning, if there is such a word. On the west side of town not a hint of freeway traffic could be heard. Not a door slamming, no voices, no planes. Not that it was a particularly noisy neighborhood where we lived then, but there were always city sounds in the background. Not so tonight. We walked down the sidewalk and when we reached the street we turned right. We started on the side of the street, but as it became apparent that we had the entire neighborhood to ourselves, we moved into the center with the crunch of our feet in the snow making the only sound we heard.

Colby and I marveled that the only tracks we saw were our own. Not even a dog or a rabbit had ventured out before us. And while most of our walk was in complete silence, on the way back, when we doubled over our own tracks, Colby said he hoped all the people and animals without homes had found a place to stay that night. Then he offered his room to anyone we might pass who was shivering in the snow, and I began to cry. While the chances were very slim that we'd come across anyone, Colby's offer was made in earnest. I was reminded once again what a gift Colby was, not just to me, but to everyone he met.

That New Year's Eve was by far my favorite of all my many new years. When we got home, we made hot chocolate and watched movies until it was time for Colby to open the door, run around the yard, bang on a few pots and yell "Happy New Year!" And, for the most part, it was. Although he had some problems, Colby's mental illness had not yet fully reared its ugly head. Today, I remember that magical night fondly. Like Colby, it was a gift, a treasure, and it reminds me that the best things in life truly are free.

Duality

In counseling today we talk of the duality of Colby. Like most of us, Colby was many things to many people, but with him, it was more pronounced. He could switch from nice, polite and smiling to disillusioned and angry at the drop of a hat. It's called schizophrenia. We look at pictures, of Colby as a baby, a grinning toddler, a gleeful third grader. Then the smiling photos become interspersed with insolent stares and uncomfortable body language. A week before he passed there were photos of a happy, carefree Colby taken five minutes before photos of him looking defensive, aggressive.

Together, as a group, the photos make it very clear that Colby was ill, mentally ill. I forget that sometimes in my grief. We talk of the possibility that if Colby had lived that we could have found a way for him to receive health care. He could have gotten better. I was not the only one trying to get him help. Several of his friends were trying, too. Trying very hard. Colby had wonderful friends. The other possibility was that even with the best treatment Colby never would have gotten better. He may not have responded to treatment. Or, he might have refused it. There is a good possibility that despite everyone's prolonged best efforts that he may still have deteriorated both mentally and physically. The drug use was a symptom of the illness. With the mental illness in treatment, he may, or may not, have been able to give up the drugs. He may, or may not, have been able to live a happy, productive life.

The result is that we will never know any of this. It is all hypothetical. Just 23, Colby's life could have been radically different at 30, and that could have been either good or bad. I have to settle for the reality that I really will never know. I can only know what was real for Colby in his last months and that was much unhappiness and fear. Yes, there were bright spots, happy times with friends and family, but much of it was overshadowed by the debilitating effects of schizophrenia. None of this brings Colby back. None of it lessens my grief. But, it does help put my thoughts in order as I desperately try to keep my mind from unraveling, And that is a small, but very positive, help.

This brings me to another sad note. One young man that Colby knew is in need of prayers. He is a sweet, intelligent, gentle young man with mental illness far more severe than Colby's ever was, and is in the hospital in a catatonic state. Please pray for Cameron and his family. They need your prayers, positive thoughts, love, and support so very much. A number of people tried, but could not, help Colby. Maybe a number of us can help Cameron.

Fog

I think in a fog. Without clarity, without reason. Sometimes. My brain is on overload and I know I am not functioning on all cylinders. I look at my toothbrush this morning and can't figure out what to do with it. Oh. Yea. Teeth. My grief counselor says these memory gaps, this fog, is my body's natural way of insulating me, my mind, my brain, when there is too much to process. I am not thinking clearly.

Colby came to me in a dream last night. I haven't dreamed of him for some time. Not since the first few weeks after he passed. In the dream we are at my mother's house, although I know she is not at home. In the living room, Colby has a newborn baby leopard. It is sitting next to the chair he is sitting in and he reaches down to pet it. It's cute, I think. It has a cute face. But how did he get it? What is he doing with a baby leopard? "It's a squirrel, Mom," he says. I know this is not a squirrel, but Colby insists that it is. Then he gets up, goes into the kitchen, pours a gallon of cooking oil on the floor and begins to spread it around with a mop. "What are you doing?" I ask. I am panicked. This is going to be a huge mess. He is mopping the floor, he says. He knows I am upset about the squirrel and wants to do something nice for me.

The dream fades, as dreams do. I waken and think about the dream. Before he passed, between the addiction and the mental illness, Colby had not been making good choices, thinking clearly. I am sure there is a correlation here, but I do not know what it is. Yet. I will think about this today, as I sort through more of his things, run my errands, finish up a writing assignment.

As I think, I am aware of my own fog. These days I proceed cautiously in everything I do. I want to be sure I am not unintentionally doing anything that will cause harm to me or to others. Thank goodness the stove blew up last year. At least I don't have to worry about that. But I am extra careful when driving. Always looking for those stop signs, red lights, bicyclists, dogs. I tread carefully going up and down steps, think before doing anything. Anything at all. I think the difference between Colby and me is that I know I am living in a fog. I am not sure that Colby did. More to ponder, think about, process. More reason for the fog.

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.

Flashbacks

There are so many memories here at my mom's. Everywhere I turn I see things that remind me of Colby. These are painful reminders that he is not here, not fond memories. Not yet. I go down to the lake and think he should be sitting on the bench on the dock beside me. We had some great conversations there. I notice a weak step on the way back up to the house from the dock. Colby should be here to fix it.

In the downstairs bedroom, the room that was mine as a teen and his when Colby visited the past dozen or so years, I find a few of his things: a portable CD player, a shirt, a book. I am sure there is more, but I stop looking. This is too hard.

When Mom and I go to the store, she sits in the back seat, because it is easier for her to get into the car that way, but Colby should be sitting in the passenger seat beside me. When we stop for lunch, it should be lunch for 3, not 2. He should be here to help unload the car, fix the screen door.

Mom finds some old family photos in the garage. They are wrapped in a mouse-eaten burlap bag, but none of the photos are touched. They need to be moved to a safer place inside the house, I think, then just as quickly I think "who cares?" After me there will be no one to remember these people. No one to be interested in their lives, what they accomplished. No one to care. I move the photos inside anyway.

Colby should be here. But he is not. I have to trust that a higher power has good reason for this. I do believe that, but this is so hard. So very, very hard. My one consolation is that Colby is not longer sad, no longer struggling with this life. I know he is at peace and that is my one comforting thought for the day.

Letter

One of my new counseling assignments is to write a letter to me. I have so many letters from friends, and all of you who read this blog. After considerable thought on this I do not think my letter will not be much different than those I have already received, but here goes:

Dear Lisa,

Please do not be so hard on yourself. You and Colby both had many challenges and the system failed you both in so many ways. You went above and beyond as a mother, as a parent. You gladly, willingly, sacrificed your personal relationships, business and career to put Colby first. You provided everything you possibly could, including tutoring, private school education, counseling, and educational trips, at great financial sacrifice. Every step of his life you were there for him and he always knew he could come to you. Often he did, and sometimes he didn't, but that was his choice.

From the time Colby was a child he was not happy here. Yes, he found joy, but the unfairness in life weighed heavily on him. He wanted to change the world, but could not. In his short life Colby touched many people, inspired many others. He did a lifetime of work in 23 years and now he is at peace. He is happy, more so than he ever could have been here.

Rejoice in his life, in the people he touched, in the changes he did make in this world. And know that many years from now, when your time comes, you will once again see your beloved son; he is waiting for you with open arms.

Love,

Me

9/11

My thoughts and prayers are with the 9/11 families today. How sad this day must be for each of them. I believe the recognition of the 9/11 date is what brought on my distress this morning. On September 11, 2001 Colby and I were preparing to walk out the door at 9:15 a.m. when I saw the first bits of coverage on CNN. We were heading from Nashville to Southern Mississippi, where Colby was to enter a four-month long dual diagnosis treatment program the next day. He was 15.

Not knowing what was happening we stayed glued to the television for the next hour and a half before making the decision to head south. On the way, we listened intently to the intense radio coverage that was on every station. The tragic reality of the situation opened the door for some honest conversation and Colby and I discussed life and death in ways we had never approached before. By the time we arrived at our destination, we each had a positive new understanding of the other, and a sad new understanding of our world.

The terrible loss of life in New York's twin towers and the reason for the trip south combined with the long discussions Colby and I had about important matters forever make September 11th one of the worst and best days of my life. Since 2001, this day has been bittersweet for me, emotional and sad, but it is also a day that is tinged with pride for my son, who struggled so with life.

Tonight as September 11, 2009 draws to a close I send a prayer that those who lost friends and family on 9/11 have found some measure of peace and closure. For if they have, then there is hope that eventually, I, and every other parent who has lost a child, might also reach that place.

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.