Bruises

When I was eight months pregnant with Colby I fell through a wooden deck. The entire inside of my right thigh turned black and blue and purple and didn't return to normal for four months. Two weeks after my son passed, half of the inside of my right thigh turned black and blue and purple, although I have no recollection of having bumped into anything that could have caused it to do so. I am sure there is an explanation for the bruise, I just don't know what it is.

Today I feel like my entire being is bruised. Someone told me recently that the death of your parents takes away your past, the death of your spouse or sibling takes away your present, and the death of your child takes away your future. For me, that is so very true. Everything I had planned for my life, from my will, to how I spend important holidays, to where I might live, and what I might do has changed. Change is always scary and I have to say that right now, today, the prospect of my future terrifies me. I am certain that life will at some point become more stable, that my path will become clear, that I won't be utterly alone in my old age, but I don't have any idea how that will all unfold.

I know that bruises heal. Sometimes there is a scar, sometimes there is some other fundamental change in the area that was injured. Colby's death has changed me profoundly. How I heal remains to be seen.

Denial

I sometimes have difficulty grasping the fact that my son is truly gone, that he will never walk in the door again, that I will never again see his smiling face. I know in my heart that he has passed on to a better place. I know that in my head. but sometimes I can't get my mind around it all. Thinking that I will never see him again is like someone telling me that we all breath leaves, or that cement is nutritious. I just can't fathom it. So I don't think about it. I stay busy, and then I feel guilty for not thinking, not wanting to feel. But the loss is too great, the grief too deep, so I keep putting one shaky foot in front of the other and keep going. Somehow.

I know many of Colby's friends are going through the same thing. My mother, Colby's grandma, is too. This is a natural part of the loss process; it is a way for our brains and bodies to accept reality in a time frame we can deal with. This week I begin grief and loss counseling. I decided I needed help finding my way through all of this. I am looking forward to the guidance, to the help, but I do know that the best healer will be time.

Anger

I know there are stages to grieving. Until now I have wavered between shock and numbness. Today I had my first bout with anger. I received a call from a Nashville hospital about a past due bill of Colby's. I had taken Colby their emergency room about six weeks ago after, he called me asking to go. He couldn't go on. He needed help, he said. He didn't want to live anymore if life was going to be like this. I took him first to another hospital. There would be a three hour wait, we were told. There were more urgent situations that required the doctors' attention. Colby became very agitated. He rocked back and forth, began to cry, paced the room and became very angry. We left and went to another hospital. This emergency room was less hectic. Colby was seen right away. They took his vital signs, an ER doctor talked to him and when Colby said he couldn't go on like this, that he didn't want to live with this mental illness, the schizophrenia, the panic attacks, and depression the anxiety and yes, the addiction, anymore the physician sent us over to their psychiatric hospital. There we waited for over an hour, Colby lying on a metal couch in a cold sterile room, crying. There were no other patients waiting in this part of the hospital. Finally a psychiatric nurse interviewed Colby. He told her the same thing he told the doctor. She left and we waited another hour. When she came back in she had a list of resources for us to call the next day. Resources we had exhausted long, long ago.

I remember walking out of the hospital, getting into the truck and holding Colby as he cried. He had so wanted help he put aside all his anxieties and fears and they turned him away. Six weeks later my son is dead and I get a call from the hospital about the thousand dollar bill the hospital sent Colby. I realize this was not the fault of the person calling, but she bore the brunt of my anger. I am sorry for that. Sorry for her. I should call her back and apologize but I can't. Yet. I am still too angry. I told her the story, shaking, crying, yelling, raging, and then I hung up on her after telling her they weren't getting a dime out of me. Then I put my head in my hands and cried for more than half an hour. If they had helped my son instead of turning him away there is a good chance he would be alive today. Right now he would be here with me. I would still have the possibility of future grandchildren and great-grandchildren, of holidays spent with family members. Now, none of that is possible.

I have a lot to say about our health care system. But I am too angry to articulate it well, so I will leave it for another day. In the meantime, I will try to process this new emotion, this new anger that is so unlike me, and find a path through it to the next level.

Questions

After Colby's celebration I cannot sleep. I am awash with emotions and alternate between nervous crying and guilt numbness. Emotional release. It was a big day. I can't sleep so I pace the house. Can't sit, can't concentrate. This morning after I get in the truck is a little better. I drive to Knoxville to speak at a conference in silence. I still have trouble listening to music or talk radio. The quiet of my mind is better. I don't think, can't think. I exist and soon I am here. One of the first people I meet tells me of the loss of her son four years ago. It helps to talk about it and I know I am in the right place at the right time.

I sometimes question why I write this blog, then, like this morning I get close to 20 emails from people I don't know saying how much my words help them. That helps me. Thank you. I will keep writing my way through this process. I am told it could be a long process, which is good. I think I have a lot to say.

Celebrations

I've just returned from Colby's Celebration of Life and in my eyes it was exactly right. Close to eighty people were there, the weather was perfect, the speakers were heartfelt and the music was great. Ricky Lynn Gregg MC'ed the event and sang a new song in Colby's honor. He also shared several of his memories of Colby. Razzy Bailey sang one of Colby's favorite songs, "I Hate Hate" and the many people I spoke to afterward felt the entire event was exactly what Colby would have wanted. Look for photos on the web site soon.

Residents of Grandpa's House fed the homeless in another area of the park in Colby's name before the event and that was covered by Nashville's NBC affiliate, WSMV Channel 4. I am thrilled that more people are learning about grandpa's House. Of all the options Colby and I had visited over the years, this was the one he chose and was excited about, not only due to the fact that they help people with both mental illness and addiction, but because they offer music and self-esteem classes, money management and other life skills in a caring residential environment.

I felt very much at peace during the celebration and got through it with only a few tears. But tonight I am bone tired. Mentally, physically and emotionally exhausted. I feel like I could sleep for a month, and wish very much that I had that luxury. I leave for East Tennessee in the morning to speak at a conference and a visit with dear friends.

I'll leave you tonight with one last thought: I learned tonight that Colby's passing has brought about the reconciliation of several people who have been estranged. Colby's story made all of these people realize that the love they have for each other is more important than petty squabbles. So go hug the ones you love, as you never know when you may get the opportunity again.

Reality

Today I awake with incredible sadness. This is the day I officially recognize that my precious son has passed. How can I possibly do that? I still occasionally think he will come bounding in the front door, that when the phone rings he will be on the other end of the line, that I will have just one more hug, that just once more I will hear him say, "I love you."

Facing reality is part of the grieving process and I know in my heart that Colby has moved on to a better place. I do feel in many ways that this was meant to be, that Colby was only supposed to be with us for a short time. I also recognize that I am not the only parent laying his or her child to rest today. Hundreds of parents across the country, the world, will say goodbye to their son or daughter today and each of them is grieving just as much as I am. For some, this is not the only child they have lost. To each parent I say, "Bless you. Bless your child. Stay strong. Remember the good times and know that your child would not want you to be sad."

I very well know these words are easier said than done and that none of the parents who are having services for their children today will get to this point tomorrow or even next month. But we will eventually. And while we will never forget, while there will always be a huge hole in our heart, while we will always have a fierce love for our children, I also know that somehow we will each get to a place in our hearts and souls that we can live with. Without minimizing the importance of the grieving process, I greatly look forward to that day.

Firsts

I stay busy today. Too busy to think, yet memories of my son flood into my brain anyway. I remember the first time he slid down the driveway on a sled. He was two and terrified, even though I was on the sled with him. He quickly got past his fear and learned to love to sled and snowboard in Minnesota in the winter. I remember his first day of kindergarten, and how he grabbed onto my thigh and wouldn't let me leave the classroom. I remember his first sentence. Colby was 15 months old and tried to push a log at the edge of the yard. "It no go," he said to me. I explained the log was too big and we found a much smaller log to push. His first bike ride took place when he was four. He taught himself to ride a neighbor child's discarded two-wheeled bike around the driveway one weekend. I remember the first gifts he asked for for Christmas. It was the Christmas he was three and he wanted a choo choo train and a drum. He got both. I remember his first movie, his first trip to McDonald's, his first step when he was way too young at six months, his first word at eight months.

I remember it all, and while the memories are bittersweet, I think how sad it would be not to have them. Tomorrow, as I head to Colby's Celebration of Life, I will go with the attitude that this IS a celebration. Those who knew Colby are all richer for knowing him, and we should celebrate that. We should remember with fondness the wonderful times we shared and rejoice that when our time comes, we will see him again.

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.

Friends

Today I had to tell yet another young friend of Colby's over the phone that he had passed away. The telephone is such an impersonal way of sharing such very personal news. I felt so bad for this friend, and the other friends I have had to tell this way. It is especially hard as unexpected death leaves so many unresolved issues between friends and loved ones. There is no chance to say good bye, I'm sorry, I love you, thank you, or any of the hundred other things you might want to say to a dear friend the last time you ever see them.

I think most of Colby's friends have such regrets. Many have shared them with me. Fortunately, Colby and I said "I love you" to each other at the end of every conversation, so I do not have that regret, but I would have liked to remind him of his gifts. I'm not sure he realized all the many ways he touched others and I would have liked the chance to tell him. I would also have liked to thank him for enriching my life beyond words, for making me laugh (and cry), for getting me to try new things, for all the wonderful times we shared, and for just being my son. I loved him so.

While I do not have that opportunity with Colby. I do with others I care about, and you do as well. We all have the chance to tell those around us how very much they mean to us and I hope everyone who reads this does so. Frequently. You never know when you see someone if it will be the last time, and no one should ever walk away with any regrets.

Cubes

Yesterday was a very emotional day, but whenever I was at my lowest, someone called. This morning when I wake my face is so swollen from the tears that I don't recognize myself in the mirror. But I feel calmer. I needed the emotional release. And, I decide that the bruise on my leg is just that. A bruise and nothing else. Whew.

This morning I make a mixture of tea, juice and water, and drop in a few ice cubes. An hour later, when the glass is empty, I find that one cube has not melted. Odd, I think. Then I look closer at it and smile. The unmelted cube is one Colby bought years ago at the Mall of America near Minneapolis. He was maybe 10 or 11. This cube is a piece of plastic shaped like an ice cube with the image of a fly embedded inside the cube. I haven't seen it for years. And how it got into my ice tray, one I had filled not all that long ago, I have no idea. But I am glad it was there. I put the cube back in the ice tray and know I will smile every time it turns up in my glass.

Phenomena

Today I feed horses. I haven't been around the therapy horses I know and love so much since before Colby died, and I am interested to see how the horses react around me. Because horses are so intuitive, they can be a better judge of my emotional status than I am. I don't want to do anything to upset the trust, confidence and respect that our relationship is built on, but I am very anxious to get back to doing normal things, and normal for me is being around horses.

I am both surprised and disappointed. It seems whatever the horse's natural instincts and personality are, are magnified by whatever energy and emotion I project. Those who flee at the first sign of danger run from me, those who have a tendency to be disrespectful are very much so. Those horses who are bossy or cranky or kind, have exaggerated behaviors along those lines. This is very interesting to me, but clearly, it is not yet time for me to pick up with my beloved equine friends. I will keep trying every week or so, though. I realize I can't rush the grieving process, but this gives me a positive goal to work toward.

Another interesting, somewhat scary, phenomena develops. When I was eight months pregnant with Colby I fell through a wooden deck and ended up with a huge black bruise that covered the entire inside of my right thigh. It lasted for months. Today, on the inside of my thigh near my knee, a huge black bruise develops. I do not remember doing anything to cause the bruise, which quickly becomes tender. As the afternoon and evening progress, the bruise extends up my inner thigh and begins to spread. It is not nearly as big as the one I had before Colby was born but it is quite similar in color, location and if it keeps progressing, size. So now I am thinking horrible thoughts about my health. Leukemia, blood clots, the whole works. Hopefully this is a simple bruise and in my distraction over Colby's death I didn't notice what caused it.

Guilt

I wake this morning to extreme guilt. I am back to playing "what if." Throughout Colby's life I thought God gave him to me because I was the only mother in the world who could deal with his troubles. Now I feel that I failed Colby and Godd so very, very badly. They both must be so disappointed in me. I failed the most important test in the world. Parenting. I should have fought harder, tried harder, done more, found the one person who could help him, said something to him that would have made a difference, moved to a different town, sent him to a different school, talked to him more. I should have told him how awesome he was more often. But in looking back to those times I don't know how I could have done more. Still, I think I am dumb as a rock to have so failed my child that he died.

To counter-act my guilt I find myself now trying to be perfect. Where before I would put a cup on the counter, now I place it just so. Deliberately. Perfectly. If I fold an item of clothing I have to fold it perfectly. It might take me three minutes to get it right, but I can't put it away until it is perfect. I realize this is not normal. Or maybe, in my circumstances, it is. If I have order and perfection around me, I think, I can get through this. I can cope. I can stop crying. I won't feel so damned guilty.

This guilt comes after several days of belief that Colby's death was meant to be. That we all have a prescribed period of time to be here in Earth and this was all the time Colby had. That there was a reason for this. That his life and death mattered in the big scheme of things. But today, it all seems so unfair. For him, for me and for his grandma.

Schizophrenia

I talk with several friends today, Colby's friends and mine, about the realities of his schizophrenia. While he acknowledged that the panic attacks, anxiety and depression were not normal, he never validated the schizophrenia. Colby would go months without bathing and he was often paranoid. Occasionally, he misread social cues and misinterpreted friendly words and gestures as threatening. These are classic schizophrenic behaviors.

Like a lot of people, Colby was not comfortable with the stigma of mental illness. To me, mental illness is just like heart failure or liver disease in that the brain, an organ, is not functioning properly. And just like asthma or poor eyesight, there are different degrees of schizophrenia. To my knowledge, Colby did not hear voices, and there were not multiple personalities rattling around in his brain. But, there was a nice, sweet, loving, smart, intelligent, funny, talented Colby; and at times there was also an anti-social Colby with degrees of paranoia, depression, aggression, anxiety, and delusion. Complicating things, because mental illness affects a person's behavior, rather than their breathing, gait, or hearing, many people think the illness is the fault of the person who has it. Colby often felt ostracized, shunned, just because he had an illness that he could not help.

These thoughts make me sad and I ache for my son. How tough life was for him. I go through some of his notebooks and read his poems and song lyrics. How unhappy he was. How he ached for those treated unfairly, unjustly, inconsiderately. How disappointed he was in most of the human race. Hopefully Colby's death will make all of us more attuned to the feelings of those around us, those we love the most. Hopefully his story will make all of us more comfortable in sharing our feelings, and letting our loved ones help us through hard times. And hopefully, through this, we can all learn to communicate better.

Hiding

I have another dream. This is unusual. I don't often dream dreams that I remember. Now I have several in less than a week. In the dream I am going to a friend's office to have my photo taken. When I get there, the walls of the office are draped in black sheets. Many of them. They look like hanging folds of black parachutes. The office is attached to a music studio and that is where the photographer is set up. There are several people ahead of me so I wait, quietly. When it is my turn I go through the black draped door into a larger, rectangular, slightly colder room, also draped in black. This is the studio and there are large black pieces of equipment pushed to the sides of the room. I see a glint of silver here and there. Music stands and set ups for a drum kit. The room is carpeted in a deep, dark red and the lights are very low so everything is in shadow. I pose for a few shots, then wait back in the office to get the prints.

There are two shots, both horizontal, both printed on long, narrow pieces of photo paper, maybe 9 x 14 paper with an inch or so of white on the sides of the photos, as the photos didn't take up the entire width of the page. The photos are grainy and slightly out of focus. I wish they were clearer. In one photo, I smile directly into the camera. In the other my arms are extended about chest height. I am holding a small black object with a red strap, about the size of a camera. But it is not a camera. I am looking toward a lens on the object I am holding. I am shocked when I see the photos. First, I am way too thin. Then, I am wearing pink. Light pink. I never wear pink. And the background of the photos is light. Light pink with some white.

But, I am most shocked because there is a person standing next to me in the photos, to my left side, or on my right as you look at the photo. The person is a well-known celebrity, a cross between a DJ and a television personality, and in both photos he has his right arm tightly wrapped around my waist. The celebrity has a huge grin. In the first photo he is looking at me, in the other, the one where I am looking at the black object in my extended hands, he is looking into the camera. The celebrity is my son. It is Colby. He looks just like Colby, but not quite. He is a little more stylish, a little more at ease.

I rush back into the studio but there is a girl band setting up equipment; the photographer, and all of his equipment, is gone. I ask the girls if they have seen anyone and they shake their heads. I notice a door in the back of the room. I open it and go through into a barn stacked with hay. Sitting above me on one of the bales of hay is Colby. "I can't believe you're not dead," I cry with excitement. Then I get worried that people might harm him for returning from the dead. "But don't you see?" he said to me. "I don't have to hide from anyone or anything anymore."

Emotions

This morning is difficult. I call people who have answers I need for Colby's Celebration of Life event but no one is in. Little frustrations build quickly and I crawl back in bed to cry. I know brisk exercise helps, so I go for a fast walk then make some headway with work in the afternoon.

In the evening I load Colby's bike in the back of the truck and drive to a nearby greenway, a park-like area that connects several neighborhoods via paved trails. Several of Colby's friends think he had an encampment we have not yet found in or near the greenway, so I ride around and look under bridges and bushes. I quickly realize any site Colby may have stayed at will be impossible to find without further information. I want to find it, though, because there are several things Colby frequently carried with him that are still missing: his skateboard, a large (10 x 13 or so) soft-sided CD case filled with much of his favorite music, a few items of clothing he wore frequently. If anyone has an idea where the spot might be or where the missing items are, please let me know. I'd love to have them.

Tonight I have trouble concentrating. I miss my son so much. There are so many people in this world who need help. Please reach out to them. Please do not give up, and remember that some small thing you might say or do can save someone's life.

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.

Connections

Colby's urn arrives via UPS. How can I explain the feelings I have swirling around as I open the package? I can't possibly begin to. The urn is simple, yet elegant, and is made out of natural fibers, as Colby would have wanted. He felt strongly about bio fuels and not using more of the earth's resources than were needed. I tried to choose what he would have liked and hope I did okay. For a time I hold the urn and cry. Today I have expected Colby to walk in the door so many times. Then I remember and I jolt back to reality. Each time is like a fresh wound. He was only 23. He should be here.

I call a cousin of my Mother's that I've only met a few times. She has been kind enough to mail me information on my great and great-great grandparents and I want to tell her about Colby. We talk of the mental illness that runs in that branch of the family. So many similar stories like Colby's running back generation after generation. I am sad Colby isn't here to see the photos of his ancestors, then realize it's possible that all the ancestors are with him now. He doesn't need photos. He has the real thing!

I get details of a pancake breakfast the local Masonic Lodge is giving in Colby's name and post it on ColbyKeegan.info along with information on a benefit show a friend of his is organizing. This shouldn't be happening, I think. My son should be here. But, of course, he isn't.

A friend calls with information on a young woman who is in trouble. I tell her to hold the woman close, don't let her out of sight until help can be found. Doesn't matter if it is days, weeks. If I had the chance, I would lock my son in a padded room until I found the medical and mental help he needed. I don't care if it's illegal. I don't care that he'd hate me forever. I'd do anything to keep him safe and I tell the caller that, then I say a prayer for the young woman.

My mother's phone is busy most of the day. Deep down I know it's been unintentionally knocked off the hook. But I worry, grow frantic at times. What if she's hurt and tried to call for help? She's my only close family and I'm not ready to let go of her yet. She's 86. I am terrified something has happened to her. I call again and the phone rings. All is well.

I have not eaten today. I know I need to but I can't. I just can't. I drink some juice and hope I can eat tomorrow. Tonight I will think good, strong, positive thoughts about eating. And I will also think of my son and remind myself how fortunate I was to have him for as long as I did.

Images

Last night after a relatively okay day I cry myself to sleep. In my sleep I dream that Colby is still a teenager and has run away again. I am frantic to find him and I turn to near strangers to help. They are upset with me for asking for help but go out to look for him anyway. They find Colby and bring him back to their house, where I am staying while they look. Colby doesn't understand all the fuss or why I am upset and he thinks I am making a big deal over nothing. The dream is entirely in the colors of brown, tan and orange.

This morning I am tired. But I have a lot to do so I make a list of tasks so I can focus on accomplishing a few things. Staying busy is how I cope. And just when I think I can't cope any longer a phone call or email comes in with words and images that keep me going. Thank you.

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.

Normal

The numbness returns this morning. I do research on the Internet and find this roller coaster of jittery emotion followed by numb guilt is normal. Apparently I can expect this to last a while. There is much to do for Colby's Celebration of Life and I will spend a few hours on that, but I also need to get back to work. I have clients who need projects that were half-finished when Colby died completed. It is hard to focus on any one thing, but today I will make an effort.

I feel guilty for trying to get back to work. My son has passed to a better place. I should spend the rest of my life on my knees mourning him. That's my Catholic background speaking. I know that scenario is not realistic or healthy, but it is how I feel at this moment. In emailing other bereaved parents I know this numb guilt is part of the process. Every parent seems to go through it. In this I am normal, and whatever little bit of normalcy I can grasp on to right now is welcomed.

Website

Today is an emotional day and I try to stay busy. I work on Colby's website, which is a challenge as I've not done this before. I do get it up and hope it stays functional. If you want to check it out it is at www.ColbyKeegan.info. There is information on Colby and a guestbook where everyone who knew Colby can post stories so we can all laugh, share, cry and heal. I am working on several concepts that will allow people everywhere to better the world in Colby's name and will post information on all of that as soon as it is solidified. I am optimistic about the possibilities here, and thinking of the possibilities keeps me sane. For today anyway.

A friend of Colby's stops by. He is having a rough time, too. Good moments and bad mix his life as they do mine. He has not had an easy life and I tell him I think he is amazing. And I really do. For whatever reasons, some people are dealt a bad hand at birth. They have to work very hard just to pull themselves up to even. I can't imagine. He's been stopping by and I enjoy our visits very much. I hope, too, that he is not so hard on himself. I know how tough that can be as I am that way myself. He's a good kid, and smart. And he was a great friend to my son.

I keep busy, but still have several breakdowns today. One at the grocery store. Colby loved Arizona Green Tea with Ginseng and Honey. I pass a tall display of the beverage and begin to cry. Even though I bite my lips I don't stop the tears for 20 minutes. By then I am home putting away food I will probably never eat.

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.

Horses

As I drive to the farm I see Colby whiz toward me on a bike. He leans forward over the handlebars, and wears a baseball cap, long pants cut off below the knees, a t-shirt and a backpack. He grins as he whips around a corner and is gone. "What is Colby doing here in Houston?" I wonder. But of course this kid isn't my kid. This kid is not Colby.

When I get to the farm five horses are lined up along a fence. These are the demonstration horses that will be used in the various presentations. I approach the first horse as I normally would and stretch out the back of my hand toward his nose. Most times, a horse sniffs it, then looks at me, then drops his head and licks his lips. This is a sign of trust and acceptance. This horse raises his head and wiggles his butt as he looks around for guidance and help. I make him uncomfortable, so I move on. The second horse actively moves away from me, as do the third and fourth horse.

But for some reason the fifth horse reacts differently. This horse sniffs, drops his head, licks his lips and takes a step toward me. Then he places his chin on my arm. While my gamut of emotions has upset the other horses, this horse chooses to embrace me. Why? I ask someone what his name is. "Sundance," a girl replies. "Of course," I think. "Sundance." Sundance was the name of Colby's beagle/basset/doxy dog. He passed away three years ago this March. Sundance was the epitome of love. He never met a stranger and always wanted to help. How ironic that this equine Sundance feels the same way. Tears well up and I move away, biting my lips to try to stop the crying. That horse will never know the extreme gratitude I feel toward him. His kind gesture gave me concrete evidence that there is hope that I will heal.

Dreams

Saturday night I had a dream. Colby and I are in a hardware store near where my mother lives, except the store in the dream is much larger than it is in real life. We are waiting in line to check out. As we wait, Colby balances a metal yardstick on his index finger and repeatedly spits on the yardstick, then stares intently at the spot where the spit lands. I am exasperated with him because he knows it is not polite to spit in public, but he is to absorbed in the yardstick to notice.

Sunday morning I am unsettled by the dream. Does it have a meaning? If so, what? Or, is it a collection of my subconscious thoughts? If anyone has any ideas, I'd love to hear them. I am clueless.

This Sunday morning I am nervous and unable to cope with the smallest setbacks. The Internet at the hotel is down and over this I have a meltdown in my room. I pull myself together. I have things to do. I take a deep breath. One by one, I load my truck, check out of the hotel, get in the truck, and drive to the farm where the morning's equine therapy demonstrations will take place.

I now realize why I am nervous. My energy is still on a roller coaster and here, now, today, I will be physically near several horses I have never met. I worry about how the horses will react. I know the horses will be a much better judge than I am right now of my mental state. I so badly want the horses to tell me I am okay, but in my heart I know it is far too soon for that.

I also want to be around my equine friends at home. I miss them terribly. I know at the appropriate time they will help me, but I will not do anything to disturb the trust, confidence and respect I have spent so long building with them. If that means staying away a little longer, I will.

Bolts

My presentation went well yesterday and I felt surrounded by love and support, along with a deep. aching tiredness that goes into my bones. I log onto my email and find more than a dozen emails from mothers of children with schizophrenia. Thank you. Your emails keep me going. I'd also like to respond to many of you so please let me know how I can contact you. It may be in the email header somewhere, but I am too tired to look. I especially have words for Michelle.

My mother calls to let me know she is glad she went to the races and told her friends about Colby. My Mom is a very private person and I know it was hard for her to share, but several of her closest friends there let her know they have had loved ones pass in similar ways. I know she feels better for her talks and will be going back today for more.

Today, after a morning at the barn learning more about therapeutic riding, I face the long drive back to Nashville. It was a difficult drive down. I resolve to do better on the way back. I leave my hotel room a mess, something I never do. I get into the truck, then get out and go back to clean up the room. It is not fair for my emotional roller coaster to cause more work for the hotel staff.

Back in the truck a large, thick rusty bolt rolls out from underneath the seat. Colby was a collector, of everything, and this was something he had picked up a while ago. I pick up the bolt and hug it to myself, getting rust all over my clothes. I miss my son more than I can say. Somehow I will the pending tears away. Then, with a deep, shaky breath, I start the truck and head to the barn.