Breathing

Today I find that I am breathing in short little breaths. I realize I have been breathing this way for some time. I feel that if I took a deep breath I might blow away this carefully constructed world I have made for myself since Colby passed. Then I would fall apart. Again.

People comment on how well I am doing, how good I look. I can tell how relieved they are that they do not need to worry about me anymore; they can get back to their own lives, their own worries. This is okay by me because I do not want them to know how fragile I really am.

Masks. Many grieving parents I talk to say their life revolves around wearing masks. Here's the happy mask for the grandchild, the caring mask for a spouse who is also grieving. Here's the work mask, and the flat, stone-faced mask for the grocery store. We laugh, we function and some way some day we begin to do better. But that day is years down the road for me, and also for many of the grieving parents I know.

We are afraid to show the world who we really are these days not only because it makes others uncomfortable, but because if we allowed ourselves to be us, really us, maybe we couldn't function at all. So I breathe, in and out, shallowly, carefully, so as not to disturb the fragile threads that are my life.

Tears

I sit in a room with eight strangers and cry. This is so much harder than I ever imagined. Their stories are all so heartbreaking, then others cry when I tell mine. The other people, like me, are grieving parents. Each lost a child within the past year and each is as sad, as lonely, as overwhelmed, and as devastated as I.

Sitting here, listening, rarely speaking, I realize what I mess I still am. Will be for some time to come. May be forever, for the loss of a child, my Colby, isn't anything you ever get over. Some learn to live with the loss, but that takes years. In four days it will be six months. Six long months. Living the rest of my life like this is unimaginable. But, like all the other parents here, I will. I have to. I have no choice.

Someone asks if I am okay and I don't have a clue how to respond. If okay means I am functioning, then yes. I am. I get through my days. I wear masks that fool most people into thinking I am doing well. If okay means I have a plan to get through the next hour, the next day, then no. If it means I am happy, again, no, and I can't imagine that I ever will be.

I get in my truck and drive the five miles home. It takes me an hour and I have to pull off the road four times. The tears are coming so fast I cannot see to drive. I miss Colby so very, very much. I have not felt this bereft, this lost, in several weeks. From experience, I know the tears, the emotion, will pass quicker if I give in to them, and I do.

The tears stop and their shaky aftermath arrive as I pull into my driveway. I open my door, fire up my computer and put the finishing touches on a project. If I work, I do not have to think. If I do not have to think, just for now, I can get through the night. It almost sounds like a plan.

Three

Until Colby passed we were a family of three. Colby, my mom, and me. Colby and I in Nashville. Mom outside of Minneapolis. Mom is elderly. It is hard for her to get around. Other than going to the neighborhood store, post office and library, Mom doesn’t go many places. Instead, she saves all her big errands for the several times a year Colby and I come to visit. Then ensues a whirlwind 10 days of going here and there, doctor’s appointments, hardware store, big box stores, garden store, and on and on. Of course, this was before.

The usual plan was that I drove and dropped Colby and Mom at the entrance of wherever it was we were going. He helped her out of the car and into the store. Mom is wobbly and walks very slowly, even with assistance, so his guidance was much needed. I’d park the car, then join them inside. But now, without Colby, all of this is much more difficult. Now, there are two options. One is to pull up to an entrance, help Mom out of the car and then guide her to a seat outside, or just inside the building, and hope I do not block traffic in the process. Even if the seating is 20 feet from the car, it is a five minute process to get her out of the car and escort her to the seat. Or, we can park in handicapped parking if the parking is no more than 20 or 30 feet from the door. As you can imagine, There are a number of stores, restaurants, offices that I just can’t get Mom into.

Mom walks with a cane and gets around a little better inside a store by leaning on a shopping cart as she pushes it. Forget about a walker, wheelchair or even the motorized carts you sit in and drive around the store. She won’t hear of any of them. She would discuss those things with Colby, but he had not yet gotten her to commit to trying any of those options. She also wore her hearing aids for him, but, not for me. This means she cannot hear the instructions I give her to please stay put until I park the car and get back to her. Often by the time I get to wherever I left her she has toddled off somewhere, usually not the store she had planned on going to. So I frantically dash in and out of store after store as I try to find her. By the time I do she is exhausted and can’t figure out why it took me so long to park the car.

Mom is my only family member. I want, need, her around a long time but at close to 87, reality says otherwise. I would love it if my time with her were not so frustrating, exhausting, draining, exasperating. And, when family once was three, it is now quite hard being two, especially because I know that before long the two will be just one.

Masks

As we head into Thanksgiving, masks are a hot topic in my online support group. Other grieving parents specifically talk about the masks we wear in public to make people think we are doing okay, that we are coping, getting on with life, functioning. Then we get home, or company leaves, or we hang up the phone and we take the mask off. That's when we fall apart. Completely, uncontrollably. It doesn't matter if our child passed yesterday or six years ago yesterday. The grief is still overwhelming. We are still crying ourselves to sleep every single night. The loss is still far greater than anyone should ever have to bear.

This removing of the mask happens dozens of times a day. The good news is that we have all progressed far enough in our grief that we are able to hold things together for short periods of time. If we have to. But the toll that takes is so great that the build up of emotion then explodes. So, rather than staying on an even keel of grief that progresses slowly, every grieving parent I have spoken with rides this huge roller coaster of emotion. How I wish all of us could stop this thing and get off.

But we can't. I get emails every day from people all around the world who read this blog. If you have a friend or family member who has suffered an exceptional loss at any time, during this holiday season:

1. Please mention the loved one's name frequently.
2. Spend time talking with the person about their loved one.
3. It's okay if they cry. In fact, it is healing if they do.
4. Offer your support, but do not be offended if they do not accept it. That you offered is enough.
5. Do not judge their method of grieving. Everyone does it differently.
6. Recognize that past loss can be as raw as new loss, especially during the holidays.
7. Do not force people to "get out." Sometimes it is better to stay home.
8. The best gift is the gift of remembrance. Remembering the loved one is the best gift you can give to someone who is grieving.

Others

Yesterday, on Colby's birthday, I received many wonderful emails of support from my online grieving parents group and I am reminded that I am not alone in this journey. The following letter is used with permission. It was written by a member of the group whose son Rick passed away in 2001 due to a tragic automobile accident. While these are her words, not mine, they express my thoughts, and the thoughts of other grieving parents, so eloquently that I know I could not improve upon them. While I do not have a large family, I am blessed with a strong support system, and a large network of friends. Others are not, and that's why the second half of the letter I think is is particularly important. This then, is from Donna Mae:

Dear Family and Friends,

I'd like to make an appeal to the family and friends and other interested parties in behalf of all grieving parents, including myself. A mother who has lost her son to a tragic automobile accident.

The immediate support from family, friends and the community in such a tragedy can not be underestimated. It is of great importance. It is a wonderful show of compassion and support. It is very much needed. We, the bereaved families, could not survive or function during these first days and weeks without it. Through the roadside vigils and makeshift memorials, the wake and/or memorial service and finally the funeral. You will all be there to lend your support. And we thank you. It doesn't end there.

Slowly the cards and flowers stop coming. Visitors start to drop off. Phone calls lessen. The world rights itself and goes back to it normalcy, except for the bereaved families. For some, they will have a great support system of comforting family members and compassionate friends. For others, they find themselves suddenly alone. The friends or family member that do stick it out with the bereaved can be precious and few.

My appeal to those involved with a bereaved family is, please don't stop your support!! It is needed for a long time to come. If you are waiting for them to call, you’re going to be waiting a long time. They just simply can't. Trust me on this one. If you think by leaving them alone to sort out their feelings, give them some space, whatever your reasoning, your wrong. Yes, we need our quiet time but we also need your ongoing support.

Unless you've lost a child yourself, you can not understand our pain. Don't even try to. It is not comparable to the loss of an aunt or uncle, not even your mother or father and definitely not to a pet so don't bother to try to compare. Our world has just been ripped apart and all we can think of is ourselves and our pain, we don't have the energy to deal with yours. We don't need to hear platitudes. They may be in a better place, but we want them here with us. Yes we should be grateful for the 1, 3, 8, 14 or twenty or more years we had them here, but we wanted them longer. Watch what you say. There really isn't anything that you can say to take away the pain, just be there. Your presence alone is comforting.

We are confused, frightened, dazed, angry, anxious, irritable, irrational, moody and a dozen other emotions that may show themselves at any given time or all at the same time. We may cry, strike out, scream, or be silent. We may want to talk or not want to talk. We think of our child when we wake up and they are the last thought when we go to sleep, if sleep comes at all. We think of them constantly throughout the day.

We need to know that someone cares. We need to know that our son or daughter will be remembered. One of our biggest fears is that our child will not be remembered. Your memories are precious to us. If you think by speaking their names will cause us pain you are wrong again. We are already in pain. Even through our smiles. We long to hear their names. We want to hear their names. We need to hear their names. So please, let us hear you speak their names. They not only died but they also lived. They did exist. By not speaking their name you do us a disfavor. You belittle our pain and grief. Don't think that by speaking their names you will remind us of them. We have not forgotten them. We never will. Our every breath is a constant reminder of there absence. We don't even try to forget. Our memories are all we have and we would love to hear your memories of our son or daughter.

There are two important dates on a bereaved parents calendar. A birthday and a death date. Don't forget them. One of the most important things you can do for a bereaved parent is to remember their child's birthday. You wouldn't like it if everyone forgot your living child's birthday would you? They may not be here physically but it is still their child and they are still the parents. You'd be surprised what healing power a simply card saying that you are thinking of them on their child's birthday can do for a grieving parents heart. How a simply bouquet of flowers on Mother's day in a child's memory can bring a smile to a mothers heart.

So in the weeks and months and yes years ahead please remember us grieving parents. For no matter how strong you think we are, how brave a front we put on, how well we seem to be getting along the truth is we are hurting inside. We
have suffered the ultimate tragedy.

We have lost a child. And contrary to popular belief we will not get over "IT." We will not "MOVE ON" there will be no "CLOSURE." We will get through it and learn to live with our loss in our own time, no matter how long it takes. But, Please don't ever ask a bereaved parent to get over the death of their child. It's just not going to happen.

Donna Mae, Rick's Mom
8/31/83-8/10/01
Auto Accident

Habits

Today I see Colby everywhere. He is on a bike on the other side of the street, skateboarding in a parking lot. He's the kid leaning against the tree, coming out of the store, walking away from me, driving the car that passes me. Today I see Colby everywhere. Yet none of these people are my son. None of them are Colby. It is all smoke and mirrors. A mirage.

My counselor says I am well-grounded in reality, that I understand––truly understand––that Colby is gone and is not coming back. But if that is the case, why does my heart leap out of my chest every time I see someone who, on closer inspection, only vaguely resembles Colby? Why do I for the briefest instant think, "Oh, there's my son. I wonder what he's doing here?"

Habit, I think. During the past 23 years I developed the habit of looking for my son, of expecting him to be close by, of knowing that he will soon drive in the driveway, knock on the door, peek through the window, call on the phone. It is a habit for me to expect that, and as we all know, habits are hard to break.

I want to break this habit. Badly. For every time I see someone who might be my son, I go through the pain of losing him all over again. Fourteen times today I go through that loss. Fourteen times my heart leaps in joy at the sight of my son, then it weeps.

Members of my support group tell me that time will take care of much of this, but that this habit of expecting my son to arrive will never completely go away. I will be 80 years old and I will see a tall, thin young man with light brown hair in disarray and think for one blissful moment that he is my child. My child, stuck in time, un-aged, still 23. Then the sinking feeling will come as my heart drops into the pit of my stomach and I remember once again that my son has passed. Countless other grieving parents have told me this is the way it is, the way it will always be. Old habits die hard, and young men and women, cherished children of lost parents, are forever frozen in time.

Words

Everyday I take a few minutes to sort through Colby's "stuff." Lately I concentrate on books, notebooks, scraps of paper and I begin to find pieces of song lyrics, poems, sentences that he had written. Colby had dysgraphia, which is difficulty in writing, spelling, forming letters. Yet he still wrote. Some. Many of the words I have found so far are angry, frustrated. But he made valid points in these writings of his. As I come across them I pile his words in stacks, then file them in a safe place. Someday, maybe, I will compile them into an ebook. He felt strongly about these words. Had hoped to use many of them in his songs. I believe it was his intent to eventually share his words with the world and even though he is no longer physically here with us, I want to help him do that.

It is sad, going through his things. Many items bring back good memories, but others remind me of all he left undone, of all he had to offer, of the bright promise of his spirit, of a life gone far too soon. If he were here to guide me, I wonder, what would he do with each of these things? What would he throw away? What would he want me to keep? Which items would he want each friend to have? I sort, I pile, I read, I think. What I am unsure of I put in a corner to revisit later. That pile is the largest. Colby was a pack rat. There is a lot of stuff. A few minutes a day, every day. Eventually I will get there.

Preparation

Today I make the final preparations for Colby's Celebration of Life event and everything is surreal. I buy a guest book, run copies of a schedule, double check that there is enough water and ice . . . and Kleenex. I pick up keys to the electric box at the park pavilion where the event will be held. How can I be doing this? I feel like I am going through the motions of life. I am not actually here. I am not really going to sit through a memorial service for my only child tomorrow. This can't possibly be. But it is.

I must stay busy. I mustn't think. If I think, I will fall apart so badly broken that I'll never be me again. I make a list. I can't cry. Not here, not now. I have too much to do. I bite my lips to keep the tears from falling. Somehow they fall anyway.

Piles

I couldn't sleep last night and today I am back to shaky and emotional. I go through more of Colby's stuff. Some I sort for the Goodwill, others I mark for his friends, most I just let sit. Colby had a lot of stuff. Two rooms and most of the basement. I do a little every day and by now I see some progress. I pile musical equipment in one area, books in another. Clothes, DVDs videos, video games, all find their way into their own areas. If I can order his things, I think, my life will become more orderly. Not sure that is true, but I follow my instincts and keep sorting.

I have misplaced important papers for Colby's memorial service and can't reach people to complete important tasks. Insurance, security, park officials, crematory. Do they all take Friday off? It is frustrating and I am impatient and cranky. I want, I need, to stay on top of everything. I don't want any surprises on Wednesday, Colby's Celebration of Life. The event must go smoothly. I won't get through it if it doesn't.

A friend calls and I feel better. Calmer. I decide to get out of the house. Everything can wait an hour. A little fresh air, a little perspective, can change everything.

Support

Today was a little better. Less emotional, anyway. I ride Colby's bike in the evening, flying through neighborhood streets and pedaling until my legs are on fire. It feels good. The bike is a nice one and I now know why he spent so much time on it. I feel close to him when I ride. It's been many years since I rode regularly and I am wobbly at times. I hear Colby's voice in my head, "Careful, now," as I navigate sidewalks and curbs, bumps, intersections and traffic. And I am. I am careful.

I find an Internet support group that welcomes me and I read about so many young people with stories similar to Colby's. Knowing that other people's children had the same problem helps. Knowing other parents are dealing with the same thoughts and emotions that I am helps. I am deeply sorry for them, for their loss. But I am grateful I have found them.

Several people have posted thoughts about Colby on his memorial web site. I add more information and hope to add more photos tomorrow. Right now I am tired and I miss my son.

Several of Colby's friends need prayers. Please pray for angels to surround them and help them through their difficulties. These are good people who have tough circumstances. Life can be hard sometimes but I know they will get through these trials.

Home

I am home from Houston. Of course, home will never be the same again. I turn my attention to Colby's Celebration of Life service, scheduled for August 12, and quickly become overwhelmed, not because there is so much to do, but because for me, anything to do with it is so depressing. I am burying my only child and I see a life of such emptiness ahead of me that it is almost unbearable. I order the urn and pick out photos for a slide show several of his friends are putting together. That's all I can manage right now.

Friends call. That helps. Friends email. That helps, too. I feel a little better but I am oh so tired. Money is an issue and I worry about the expenses of the Celebration. Many people have chipped in to help and I am very, very grateful. But still I worry. When you have a child with a mental illness you do everything you can to get help. To that end I spent thousands of dollars, gladly. Then Colby would refuse to go to a doctor's appointment or refuse to participate in testing. That is part of the illness. As frustrating as it was for me, it must have been a thousand times more frustrating for him. My bright, talented, funny, kind, caring boy.

I am glad to hear so many are sending small donations to Grandpa's House. That is a positive thing that will help others like Colby. There are few facilities in the world that help with mental illness and addiction in a loving residential environment. This is one of them. Their website will be up soon. In the meantime the many people who have asked me about them can find them at 2479 Murfreesboro Rd. #183, Nashville, TN 37217, 615-586-6946. If you send a donation, please note that it is in memory of Colby.