Cards

Today I write very belated thank you cards. There are hundreds of them. Some go to those who sent condolence cards, others to people who attended Colby's Celebration of Life or who helped by sending love and support via email or phone. I have addresses for most. Some I do not and I worry about that. I will try to get addresses for all. Each person should be thanked.

I have waited to do this for several reasons. One, I wasn't ready. This is another thing no parent should ever have to do, cannot imagine doing. The second reason is that my mom wanted to be part of this. She wants to sign every card. As she is elderly and her hands shake, if I had mailed the cards to her she could not physically stuff hundreds of cards into their respective envelopes and seal them. She is unstable walking and could not have carried the cards into the post office. So I had to be here and Mom lives 900 miles away. With the aftermath of Colby's passing along with work commitments, this is as soon as I could get here. Tomorrow will be September 25th. Two months since Colby passed. Two months I have been a childless parent, my mom a grandparent without a grandchild. I sometimes still cannot believe this life I now live is real.

My hand cramps as I write. I am only 50 cards into this. It has taken most of the day. Mom sees the growing stack of cards on the dining room table and looks at them warily. It is difficult for her to write. She may not be able to sign them all. I suggest she take it in stages. We will see.

The hollow pit in my stomach is growing. It's been there since the moment I learned that Colby had passed. Sometimes it is barely noticeable. Other times, like now, it is overwhelming. I put the pen down and walk across the yard to the lake. It is quiet here; the lake is like glass. It is actually a big bay, more than a mile across and two miles wide, and it connects with more than 30 miles of bays that together make up Lake Minnetonka, one of the largest natural lakes in the country. I sit for a time. I watch birds float effortlessly by. Fish, large fish, occasionally jump. They are so graceful.

I realize I am so grateful for each person the thank you cards are going to. Every one of them helped make Colby's Celebration of Life perfect, helped make my journey these past months easier, bearable. I honestly could not have survived this without each one of them, without each one of you. While I desperately wish the circumstances were different, I am honored to thank each person. So, I leave my peaceful haven, and walk back up the steps. My pen and more than one hundred blank cards await.

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

Ducks

This morning I close Colby's bank account. There is less than $10 in the account, but it is something that needs to be done all the same. This is the third time I have driven to the bank to do this. The first two times I can't bring myself to walk in the door. No parent should have to do this. Today I walk in, but when someone asks if they can help me I shake my head, turn around and walk out. I sit in the truck for 15 minutes. Closing Colby's account is so final, so personal. And, it seems such an invasion of his privacy. I do some deep breathing exercises then walk into the bank again.

This time I walk into the office of a young banker not much older than Colby and explain what I need. I have brought everything I think you need, I say. Birth and death certificates, Colby's Social Security card, my driver's license. The young banker offers her condolences and the way she says it, I believe she truly means it. Bless her.

In the middle of processing her paperwork she reaches down into a drawer and pulls out a form for me to sign. Then, after a pause, she reaches back into the drawer and pulls out a small, yellow rubber duck, the kind that kids play with in the bathtub, and places it on the desk. "I don't know why I just did that," she says with a puzzled smile. But I do.

When Colby was eleven, Fan Fair, the week-long country music extravaganza that morphed into the CMA Music Fest, had The Beach Boys as their final headline act. Their record label had just released a duet album with The Beach Boys and the stars of country music singing Beach Boy hits. I was a publicist and artist manager at the time and scored two backstage passes, one for Colby and one for me. When he was a kid, Colby always did think The Beach Boys were cool.

Backstage were large bins of beach "stuff," as Colby would say: over-sized sunglasses, flip flops, sun screen, and lots and lots of little yellow ducks. Colby grabbed a duck and promptly walked up to The Beach Boys lead singer, Mike Love, and asked if he would sign it. Ever-ready publicist that I was, I grabbed my camera and clicked off a shot. Colby then wandered through the huge backstage area and approached one Beach Boy after the next. He even managed to get a signature from the elusive Brian Wilson and got into a conversation with Carl Wilson, who passed on not too many months later.

Colby treasured that duck and it has a place of honor in his room next to the photo of him with Mike Love. Sitting here in the bank, with an identical duck on the desk (minus signatures), brings back a warm, comforting memory of that wonderful day. Weeks ago, days, ago, I would have broken down at the sight of the duck. But today . . . today it brings peace, an inner smile, a spiritual hug from beyond.

I sign the form, the banker hands me six dollars and some change, then picks the duck up to put it back in the drawer. "Leave it out," I say. "It's cute and maybe it will bring a smile to one of your customers." She nods and puts the duck back on her desk.

Dilemma

I have a dilemma. Grandparent's Day is just a few days away, this coming Sunday. We just got through Labor Day and here we already have another, albeit small, holiday, and I am not sure what to do.

Colby always sent my mom, his grandma, a card and called her on Grandparent's Day. If I operate on the premise that I am always and forever Colby's mom, then it translates that my mother is always and forever Colby's grandma, even though he has passed away. If that is the case, should I recognize this day by sending her a card, or, would she think that was inappropriate? Should I ask how she feels about it and, in asking, spoil the surprise? If I don't send something, will she think she is being forgotten? Maybe she doesn't feel the same way I do. Maybe she feels that because Colby has passed on that her role as grandma has ended.

You have to understand that my mom was a Marine in World War II. She comes from a different generation, one that doesn't open up about personal thoughts and feelings like we do. For her generation, opening up is a sign of weakness. Typically, when I begin to talk about Colby she changes the subject. She has gotten a little better about this in the past week or so, but it is clear she is not yet ready to really talk about his passing.

So what should I do? I do not want to forget her wonderful time as Colby's grandmother, but I also do not want to send a card she might thing was in poor taste. My decision needs to be made quickly as she lives 900 miles away and I will have to get a card in the mail to her on Wednesday if it is to arrive in time. I'm open to and appreciate greatly any thoughts or ideas any of you might have. Just post a comment or send me an email. Thanks!

Frustration

I hate run arounds. From the time I heard Colby had passed I wanted to get the clothes he was wearing, his shoes, the belongings he had in his pockets. The medical examiner told me repeatedly that I couldn't have access to them, that I had to wait until I picked up his cremains at the mortuary. I asked for them several times. I am sure I annoyed them to no end with all my phone calls. I did eventually, just recently, get his phone and his wallet after explaining to someone at the medical examiner's office that people were calling the house looking for him and I needed to be able to call his friends to tell them of his death. The only way I had of reaching his friends was through the address book on his phone.

When I picked up his cremains the mortuary told me they did not have Colby's clothes. Furthermore, they claimed they never had them and did not know where they were. I called the medical examiner's office several times and left messages. As of right now, I have not yet received an answer to those messages or talked to a real person. The mortuary tried to call Metro Nashville social services, as there is a person there who apparently hunts things like this down, but he is on vacation until sometime next week.

I believe my request is a simple one. I just want the clothes and belongings my son had with him when he died. Any parent would want that. And in times of grief, of sadness, those mourning loved ones do not need the extra stress that a situation like this causes. This situation is upsetting to me, distracting. I have a sinking feeling that I will never have these items, that they have been thrown away. Discarded. If that really is the case, how unfair it is to Colby to treat his belongings so callously, and how unfair to me and to others who loved him. Colby deserved to be treated with decency, and so do those he left behind.