We have just gone through the worst flooding in Nashville's history. Are still going through it. Devastation everywhere. Too mind-boggling to describe, but if you are interested in learning more, the Tennessean and WSMV have photos and video. I am fortunate. My only inconvenience has been a lack of electricity and limited access to roads.
Today I drive to a few places where Colby and I used to hike. Most I cannot get to; the rest are completely underwater. I am saddened beyond belief at the destruction these flood waters have caused. Will cause. So many people have lost everything they own. I so wish Colby were here because he would jump right in to help. My son would be right out there in the middle of it all lending a hand, or a smile, or a pat on the back. I have seen many stories over the past few days of neighbor helping neighbor. Colby should have been one of them. I want to do this in his place, but I cannot. I have helped horses and other animals, have driven through raging flood waters to be sure they are fed, housed, dry. But I do not have the emotional strength to help stranded people. I wish I did. I really wish I did.
The flood has caused many to lose their lives and I am reminded that everyone is someone's son or daughter. So many new grieving parents. I am surprised by how much this affects me emotionally. I am again overwhelmed, unfocused, jittery. My stomach does continual flip-flops and I feel like I cannot breathe. I wish Colby were here. I so wish he were here. That's the only thing that will help. But that will never, ever, be.
Tuesday, May 4, 2010
Thursday, April 29, 2010
Relief
I wake up today and it is the first day in the more than nine months that Colby has passed that I have not felt completely overwhelmed. This is the first day I feel as if I can breathe, that I have some mental clarity. This is not to say that I did not cry several times today. I did. And it's not to say that I am always capable of making decisions about day-to-day things. I'm not. But this is the first day that I feel those things could maybe be a possibility at some point in the future.
I have been so mentally and physically tired working 16 hours a day 7 days a week just to keep up with my regular work load and the sorting of Colby's things. Part of this is because I got about a month behind in my work during the time Colby passed, and also because I now work about 25 percent slower than I used to. My brain just cannot think as fast as it did before. It takes me much longer to make daily decisions such as what to wear, what to eat, how to organize my day. I have to consciously remember to do household chores and run errands, take care of myself. Some days I do better than others. Many days I do not do very well at all.
But today I feel almost relaxed. It's as if the vice that has such a tight grip on my heart, on all my internal organs, has loosened just a fraction of an inch. I feel quieter internally, more able to relax, although I would not say that I am anything near what anyone would consider relaxed. These are interesting feelings for me. I can't remember the last time I felt like I could breathe, that internally I was not running a thousand miles an hour inside myself. It feels good.
I don't believe this is a permanent state for me. I believe, expect, I will slip back into the tight, jittery, overload before I can emerge again for a slightly longer time. But that I can find my way out, even for a peek, is good. Now if I can get the swirling, sick feeling that I've been punched in the stomach, and the fog-like mush in my brain that makes me feel that I am slightly concussed to go away. That would be good, too.
I have been so mentally and physically tired working 16 hours a day 7 days a week just to keep up with my regular work load and the sorting of Colby's things. Part of this is because I got about a month behind in my work during the time Colby passed, and also because I now work about 25 percent slower than I used to. My brain just cannot think as fast as it did before. It takes me much longer to make daily decisions such as what to wear, what to eat, how to organize my day. I have to consciously remember to do household chores and run errands, take care of myself. Some days I do better than others. Many days I do not do very well at all.
But today I feel almost relaxed. It's as if the vice that has such a tight grip on my heart, on all my internal organs, has loosened just a fraction of an inch. I feel quieter internally, more able to relax, although I would not say that I am anything near what anyone would consider relaxed. These are interesting feelings for me. I can't remember the last time I felt like I could breathe, that internally I was not running a thousand miles an hour inside myself. It feels good.
I don't believe this is a permanent state for me. I believe, expect, I will slip back into the tight, jittery, overload before I can emerge again for a slightly longer time. But that I can find my way out, even for a peek, is good. Now if I can get the swirling, sick feeling that I've been punched in the stomach, and the fog-like mush in my brain that makes me feel that I am slightly concussed to go away. That would be good, too.
Tuesday, April 27, 2010
Tomatoes
I wasn't sure if I was going to plant a garden this year or not. That was yet another thing that Colby and I used to do together. Another place where there is a big, empty hole in my life. Each spring we'd look forward to choosing the plants, digging the holes, fertilizing, and then harvesting our crop. It makes me sad to think of experiencing all of that without him.
When we lived outside of Nashville we planted corn for a year or two, but our horse, Snoqualmie, always found a way to get out and eat it before we did. We tried watermelon and did well with those before we moved to the house I live in now. Melons apparently do not like the soil here.
Colby loved peppers, the hotter the better. A few years ago we planted habanero peppers. One day I added some to a pot of chili and then wiped my eye. I then had to crawl to the toilet so I could dunk my head in. The pain was excruciating. Then I called Colby who was down the road to come turn the stove off. My eyes were red and puffy for days. After that the habaneros were exclusively Colby's domain, those and the jalapenos, too.
Colby also loved growing zucchini, not necessarily to eat, but to see how big one would get. We took one of his zucchini to my mom's one summer. It was 42 inches long and had to ride in the back of the truck. He then spent the next few days seeing how far he could bat a baseball with it before it broke in two and he and my mom fed it to the raccoon family she takes care of.
We had the best success with tomatoes, though. One year we lived in a house that had a light pole in the side yard, next to the garden. With constant 24-hour light we had tomato plants that were 8 feet tall. Colby was five and pretended he was Jack in the Beanstalk as he climbed the tomato cages to pick the tomatoes. We always had enough fresh tomatoes to freeze and Colby loved adding them to spaghetti sauce, salsa, and the soups he'd make in the winter.
Yes, I debated planting a garden this year and eventually decided on just tomatoes. No peppers, zucchini, melons, cucumbers. wild onion, peas, beans, or herbs--all things we've grown in the past.Just tomatoes. It takes me several days, off and on, to prepare the plot and plant. Not because it is so much work, but because my tears keep getting in the way. Colby should be here to do this with me. It's the little things that mean so much, the little things that I remember and miss the most.
When we lived outside of Nashville we planted corn for a year or two, but our horse, Snoqualmie, always found a way to get out and eat it before we did. We tried watermelon and did well with those before we moved to the house I live in now. Melons apparently do not like the soil here.
Colby loved peppers, the hotter the better. A few years ago we planted habanero peppers. One day I added some to a pot of chili and then wiped my eye. I then had to crawl to the toilet so I could dunk my head in. The pain was excruciating. Then I called Colby who was down the road to come turn the stove off. My eyes were red and puffy for days. After that the habaneros were exclusively Colby's domain, those and the jalapenos, too.
Colby also loved growing zucchini, not necessarily to eat, but to see how big one would get. We took one of his zucchini to my mom's one summer. It was 42 inches long and had to ride in the back of the truck. He then spent the next few days seeing how far he could bat a baseball with it before it broke in two and he and my mom fed it to the raccoon family she takes care of.
We had the best success with tomatoes, though. One year we lived in a house that had a light pole in the side yard, next to the garden. With constant 24-hour light we had tomato plants that were 8 feet tall. Colby was five and pretended he was Jack in the Beanstalk as he climbed the tomato cages to pick the tomatoes. We always had enough fresh tomatoes to freeze and Colby loved adding them to spaghetti sauce, salsa, and the soups he'd make in the winter.
Yes, I debated planting a garden this year and eventually decided on just tomatoes. No peppers, zucchini, melons, cucumbers. wild onion, peas, beans, or herbs--all things we've grown in the past.Just tomatoes. It takes me several days, off and on, to prepare the plot and plant. Not because it is so much work, but because my tears keep getting in the way. Colby should be here to do this with me. It's the little things that mean so much, the little things that I remember and miss the most.
Monday, April 26, 2010
Hats
Colby loved hats. From the time he was a baby, he always had to have a hat on his head. When Colby was just a year old, my mother and I were in a department store at 100 Oaks Shopping Center here in Nashville. She was trying on raincoats and I turned around and Colby was gone. One second he was there, the next he was not. Colby was a baby who walked at 9 months, so by 12 months he was zooming along quite speedily.
Mom and I were frantic. I began calling Colby's name and the sales clerks at the store rushed around looking for him under racks and inside shelves. I was heading up an aisle when out of the corner of my eye I saw something fly through the air. I stopped and changed course. There Colby was in the middle of the ladies hat section standing in front of a mirror, a dozen or more hats strewn around him. He'd grab a delicate flowery or lacy hat off a rack, put it on his head, then giggle at himself in the mirror and fling the hat into the air. Fortunately, even though he had stomped on top of many of the hats and they were squashed out of shape, none was permanently damaged.
From then on, Colby wore every kind of hat he could get his hands on. Fireman hats, cowboy hats, Air Force captain hats, construction hats. For years Colby received a different kind of a hat on special occasions and today, as I am going through boxes in the basement I find the "hat" box. There they all are. The sailor hat, the miner's hat, the civil war style hat, the hobo hat. All of them. I hadn't expected to find them. They were in a box that was not marked, so when I opened it seeing the hats took my breath away. I had to stop, regroup, begin again to breathe.
I had saved many of Colby's things for his children. He so loved playing with items that were mine when I was young that I wanted to pass that along to his children. Of course, those children, my grandchildren, do not exist, will never exist. I am ready I think, to give some of the hats away so I divide the hats into two piles. In one pile are the hats that I remember him wearing the most. Those I will keep. For now. I convince myself that young children are waiting for the hats in the other pile. They need to go to the Goodwill. But before I box them up I take a picture of them, and then I sit on the floor and cry.
Mom and I were frantic. I began calling Colby's name and the sales clerks at the store rushed around looking for him under racks and inside shelves. I was heading up an aisle when out of the corner of my eye I saw something fly through the air. I stopped and changed course. There Colby was in the middle of the ladies hat section standing in front of a mirror, a dozen or more hats strewn around him. He'd grab a delicate flowery or lacy hat off a rack, put it on his head, then giggle at himself in the mirror and fling the hat into the air. Fortunately, even though he had stomped on top of many of the hats and they were squashed out of shape, none was permanently damaged.
From then on, Colby wore every kind of hat he could get his hands on. Fireman hats, cowboy hats, Air Force captain hats, construction hats. For years Colby received a different kind of a hat on special occasions and today, as I am going through boxes in the basement I find the "hat" box. There they all are. The sailor hat, the miner's hat, the civil war style hat, the hobo hat. All of them. I hadn't expected to find them. They were in a box that was not marked, so when I opened it seeing the hats took my breath away. I had to stop, regroup, begin again to breathe.
I had saved many of Colby's things for his children. He so loved playing with items that were mine when I was young that I wanted to pass that along to his children. Of course, those children, my grandchildren, do not exist, will never exist. I am ready I think, to give some of the hats away so I divide the hats into two piles. In one pile are the hats that I remember him wearing the most. Those I will keep. For now. I convince myself that young children are waiting for the hats in the other pile. They need to go to the Goodwill. But before I box them up I take a picture of them, and then I sit on the floor and cry.
Tuesday, April 20, 2010
Suicide
A friend who was very kind to me after Colby passed has taken his own life. It happened days ago, but I just today heard the news. I am devastated. I ache for his survivors. I did not know him or his family extremely well, but he was a kind person, he was kind to me in a time and place when he did not have to be, and we just do not have enough of those people in our world.
I do not know the details of what happened and I do not have to know. Anyone who takes his or her own life has troubles that feel to them so overwhelming that suicide seems the only choice. Sadly, my friend is not alone. According to the American Suicide Prevention Network, roughly 33,000 Americans die by suicide each year. That is one suicide every sixteen minutes, eighty-nine suicides a day. There are more than 800,000 suicide attempts in our country every year, and 24 percent of the general population has considered suicide at some time in his/her life. Those are high numbers.
But most, if not all, suicides can be prevented. The American Suicide Prevention Network also states that more than 60 percent of adolescents and 90 percent of adults who die by suicide have depression or another diagnosable mental or substance abuse disorder. According to several nationally representative studies, in any given year, about 5 to 7 percent of adults have a serious mental illness.
It is my belief that mental illness is the most overlooked issue in our health care system today. People are dying when they do not have to. My son was one of those people. Now I add a friend, a kind friend, to the list. So let's get over the stigma that depression, bi-polar disorder, panic disorder, anxiety, and all the other mental illnesses bring. Let's find a way to treat everyone who is mentally ill and keep our families whole. Let's stop the need for mind-numbing, overwhelming, never-ending grief.
Rest in peace, my friend. I will never forget your caring kindness.
I do not know the details of what happened and I do not have to know. Anyone who takes his or her own life has troubles that feel to them so overwhelming that suicide seems the only choice. Sadly, my friend is not alone. According to the American Suicide Prevention Network, roughly 33,000 Americans die by suicide each year. That is one suicide every sixteen minutes, eighty-nine suicides a day. There are more than 800,000 suicide attempts in our country every year, and 24 percent of the general population has considered suicide at some time in his/her life. Those are high numbers.
But most, if not all, suicides can be prevented. The American Suicide Prevention Network also states that more than 60 percent of adolescents and 90 percent of adults who die by suicide have depression or another diagnosable mental or substance abuse disorder. According to several nationally representative studies, in any given year, about 5 to 7 percent of adults have a serious mental illness.
It is my belief that mental illness is the most overlooked issue in our health care system today. People are dying when they do not have to. My son was one of those people. Now I add a friend, a kind friend, to the list. So let's get over the stigma that depression, bi-polar disorder, panic disorder, anxiety, and all the other mental illnesses bring. Let's find a way to treat everyone who is mentally ill and keep our families whole. Let's stop the need for mind-numbing, overwhelming, never-ending grief.
Rest in peace, my friend. I will never forget your caring kindness.
Mother's Day
I have been stressing about Mother's Day. This will be my first without Colby and I wondered to several people today what I should do to recognize the day. I asked for suggestions on how to get through it, because even though other holidays have been hard, I believe this will be the hardest one yet. Mother's Day. I can't tell you how shocked I was when someone actually said they didn't know why I was spending any effort worrying about it because, after all, I was no longer a mother. This was said kindly and earnestly, with no ill will, but still, it shattered me, even though they meant no harm.
I will always be Colby's mom. To deny that denies Colby, and he was far too kind and caring, intelligent and talented, a person to disrespect in such a way. Colby was and is and always will be my son. Without getting too deep into religion, philosophy or theology, I believe there is life after life here on Earth. Colby was my son, is my son, now and forever, and I am his mom.
People ask why I am not yet ready to return to a more public life, why I turn down invitations to parties, events, dinners with friends. This is exactly why. I never know when some well meaning person will say something that rocks my still very shaky world. And with every push, every teeter, I come closer to falling over an edge and I don't know how far the bottom is. Maybe I have already fallen over and am free falling into a bottomless abyss. I'd like to think not, but days like this, comments like the one I received today, make me wonder.
Someday I hope I can better handle such situations. Today, now, all I can do is cry.
I will always be Colby's mom. To deny that denies Colby, and he was far too kind and caring, intelligent and talented, a person to disrespect in such a way. Colby was and is and always will be my son. Without getting too deep into religion, philosophy or theology, I believe there is life after life here on Earth. Colby was my son, is my son, now and forever, and I am his mom.
People ask why I am not yet ready to return to a more public life, why I turn down invitations to parties, events, dinners with friends. This is exactly why. I never know when some well meaning person will say something that rocks my still very shaky world. And with every push, every teeter, I come closer to falling over an edge and I don't know how far the bottom is. Maybe I have already fallen over and am free falling into a bottomless abyss. I'd like to think not, but days like this, comments like the one I received today, make me wonder.
Someday I hope I can better handle such situations. Today, now, all I can do is cry.
Friday, April 16, 2010
Tremors
Colby with Abby (left) and Mom's dog, Rocky, (right)
Tremors. Little tremors shake up my carefully constructed world. Cracks spread around my life and I cannot glue them back together. It doesn't matter, I am way beyond trying. The latest tremor is that my mom's two-year-old dog, Rocky, has melanoma. She loves that dog. He is her reason for living, partially because Colby and I gave him to her Christmas before last.
Normally I could handle such news. Put a positive face on it. I'd research canine melanoma, find treatments and therapies. Now all I can do is sit on the couch and shake. I can't think. I want to throw up. Just how does a two-year-old, hairy, dark-skinned dog get melanoma anyway?
Skin cancer runs in our family, so I guess Rocky comes by it naturally. My mother has it. I have had it. I may have it again. That is one of the many things my current insurance will not cover because it is a pre-existing condition. The screening and testing is several thousand dollars and I can't afford it. I can't afford the dog's surgery either, but will find some way to pay for it.
Most people do not think of financial considerations when they think of grieving parents. Even if, like me, a parent does not take time off from work, things are processed lower, not as much gets done in a day. For me, lower productivity means lower wages. I feel the pinch. It has been eight months and I am still not back up to speed. I may never be.
I have spoken to, emailed with, many grieving parents who cannot work, even years after their children have passed. There is no focus, no organization in our brains. Simple things are forgotten. Mistakes are made. Many others, though, like me, try. We have no other option. I have work to do. Now. Today. It must be done, yet all I can do is hug my own dog, and cry.
Thursday, April 15, 2010
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.
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.
Tuesday, April 13, 2010
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.
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.
Monday, April 12, 2010
Ragdolls
I see two piles of ragdolls. There must be a dozen or more in each pile. Each doll is seven or eight inches tall and is made of two pieces of material stuffed with rags and sewn together on the sides. The arms and legs of each doll are short and thick and each doll is made of a differently patterned red and white material.
Except for the dolls, which rest on a table that emits a soft red glow, I am surrounded by a misty, swirling blackness. I can see myself from about mid-thigh up. I can feel my feet and legs, but I cannot see them.
I gravitate toward the pile of dolls on the left. These dolls are well-loved. Their fabric is worn and the stitching has unraveled in places. I pick up one of the dolls and hold it, and I am overcome with emotion because I know that it provided generations of children joy and comfort.
Someone I know very well, yet am unfamiliar with, gently takes the doll from my hands and leads me to the pile of dolls on the right. These dolls are brand new. They are decorated with fine lace and bright, red jewels. Like the other dolls, each of these dolls is slightly different from the others.
I get the impression that I belong to this pile of dolls, that these are the dolls I am supposed to bond with. But I love the familiarity of the well-worn dolls and head back to those. Now several people I know very well, yet do not know, gently guide me back to the new pile. This is where you belong, they say without speaking any words. This is where you are supposed to be. The new dolls are lovely. They are breathtakingly beautiful, but I look longingly back at the old dolls. I am incredibly, heartbreakingly sad.
Then, as I turn back to the new pile I see Colby in the distance. He standing with his arms crossed on his chest and is leaning on something, a post maybe, to his left. I can't see what it is for it is shrouded in the black mist. Colby is dressed as I have seen him in other dreams: light blue jeans, white athletic shoes, light blue striped polo shirt. Colby gives me an encouraging nod and a smile before he fades into the swirling mist.
Reluctantly, I turn to the new pile of dolls, pick up a particularly beautiful bejeweled one, and begin to cry. The familiar people I do not know surround me. Everything, they say, will be okay. Is okay. Someday maybe I can believe them.
Except for the dolls, which rest on a table that emits a soft red glow, I am surrounded by a misty, swirling blackness. I can see myself from about mid-thigh up. I can feel my feet and legs, but I cannot see them.
I gravitate toward the pile of dolls on the left. These dolls are well-loved. Their fabric is worn and the stitching has unraveled in places. I pick up one of the dolls and hold it, and I am overcome with emotion because I know that it provided generations of children joy and comfort.
Someone I know very well, yet am unfamiliar with, gently takes the doll from my hands and leads me to the pile of dolls on the right. These dolls are brand new. They are decorated with fine lace and bright, red jewels. Like the other dolls, each of these dolls is slightly different from the others.
I get the impression that I belong to this pile of dolls, that these are the dolls I am supposed to bond with. But I love the familiarity of the well-worn dolls and head back to those. Now several people I know very well, yet do not know, gently guide me back to the new pile. This is where you belong, they say without speaking any words. This is where you are supposed to be. The new dolls are lovely. They are breathtakingly beautiful, but I look longingly back at the old dolls. I am incredibly, heartbreakingly sad.
Then, as I turn back to the new pile I see Colby in the distance. He standing with his arms crossed on his chest and is leaning on something, a post maybe, to his left. I can't see what it is for it is shrouded in the black mist. Colby is dressed as I have seen him in other dreams: light blue jeans, white athletic shoes, light blue striped polo shirt. Colby gives me an encouraging nod and a smile before he fades into the swirling mist.
Reluctantly, I turn to the new pile of dolls, pick up a particularly beautiful bejeweled one, and begin to cry. The familiar people I do not know surround me. Everything, they say, will be okay. Is okay. Someday maybe I can believe them.
Friday, April 9, 2010
Progress
I often wonder if I am making any progress in my grief. I wake up every morning shell shocked anew that my son is no longer here. The emptiness washes over me in waves. It still hurts. Badly. Sometimes I cannot breathe. Sometimes all I can do is cry. It has been more than eight months. How can I possibly get through the rest of my life like this?
A counselor suggests I not look at progress on a day-to-day level, but bi-annually. Am I doing better than I was six months ago? I think about that for a while. Here's what I come up with:
1. I am able to better care for myself now than six months ago. I eat and sleep more regularly. I remember to shower. I have gotten my hair cut (once).
2. The sick feeling, the knot, in the middle of my stomach is still there, but it is less intense. I do not feel 24/7 that I am going to vomit.
3. I can sometimes (but not always) tolerate being in a group of people without feeling completely disoriented and overwhelmed.
4. I still cry every day, but I cry less hard and less often than I did six months ago. And, I am sometimes able to talk about Colby without crying.
5. I have fewer meltdowns. Rather than several times a day, I now have them several times a week.
6. I am more ready now to let go of some of Colby's "stuff" than I was a few months ago.
7. My future alone in the world still terrifies me, but I am more able to focus and function on specific day-to-day activities, and less on my scary, unknown future.
I realize that while grief is often circular, rather than linear, I am making progress. I am not nearly where I want to be. It might turn out that I will never be where I want to be, but compared to six months ago I am making positive progress. If I continue in this direction, life six months from now has the possibility to be (somewhat) better than it is today.
I have not yet met or spoken to a grieving parent who has not had to learn to live with a "new normal." Everyone grieves differently and each of us has to find our way along this path ourselves. Even husbands and wives walk different paths here. I do not know if a parent who has lost a child ever comes to the end of this path, if this journey is ever over until we. too, pass on. But I can now see what while my journey here on Earth is forever changed, that I will have to endure more then enjoy for some time to come, that I will survive this––at least for as long as God planned for me to.
A counselor suggests I not look at progress on a day-to-day level, but bi-annually. Am I doing better than I was six months ago? I think about that for a while. Here's what I come up with:
1. I am able to better care for myself now than six months ago. I eat and sleep more regularly. I remember to shower. I have gotten my hair cut (once).
2. The sick feeling, the knot, in the middle of my stomach is still there, but it is less intense. I do not feel 24/7 that I am going to vomit.
3. I can sometimes (but not always) tolerate being in a group of people without feeling completely disoriented and overwhelmed.
4. I still cry every day, but I cry less hard and less often than I did six months ago. And, I am sometimes able to talk about Colby without crying.
5. I have fewer meltdowns. Rather than several times a day, I now have them several times a week.
6. I am more ready now to let go of some of Colby's "stuff" than I was a few months ago.
7. My future alone in the world still terrifies me, but I am more able to focus and function on specific day-to-day activities, and less on my scary, unknown future.
I realize that while grief is often circular, rather than linear, I am making progress. I am not nearly where I want to be. It might turn out that I will never be where I want to be, but compared to six months ago I am making positive progress. If I continue in this direction, life six months from now has the possibility to be (somewhat) better than it is today.
I have not yet met or spoken to a grieving parent who has not had to learn to live with a "new normal." Everyone grieves differently and each of us has to find our way along this path ourselves. Even husbands and wives walk different paths here. I do not know if a parent who has lost a child ever comes to the end of this path, if this journey is ever over until we. too, pass on. But I can now see what while my journey here on Earth is forever changed, that I will have to endure more then enjoy for some time to come, that I will survive this––at least for as long as God planned for me to.
Thursday, April 8, 2010
Dandelions
When Colby was young he loved to garden. He could not wait every spring until we made the pilgrimage to The Home Depot or Lowe's to choose vegetables and other plants for our garden. He especially loved to plant herbs: mint, spearmint, lemon verbena, etc.
One spring when Colby was about eight, my mother was visiting and noticed we had a lot of dandelions in our yard. She made him a deal. For every dandelion he dug up with roots attached, she would give him a dime. Mom thought this would keep Colby busy on a quiet weekend and help the yard at the same time. Just think if he dug up fifty plants, what a difference that would make in your yard, she said. That's also fifty fewer plants that will go to seed.
Imagine her surprise, and mine, when Colby spent the entire weekend digging up dandelions. He dug not just fifty, or even one hundred fifty. Colby dug up eleven hundred dandelion plants. Shows you the state my yard was in. Mom made good on her deal and paid Colby $110.
Every year since then, paid or not, Colby made it his job to dig up dandelions in the spring. Today as I look out in my yard I see a number of them and I am torn. I can't bear the thought of digging them up because that is another hard, cold, reality that Colby is not here. But I should not leave the dandelions to seed the yard, either. I know this is something I have to do, hard as it will be. I will bring a lot of Kleenex along with Colby's trowel. And I will do this for Colby, to honor the many years he did this for me.
One spring when Colby was about eight, my mother was visiting and noticed we had a lot of dandelions in our yard. She made him a deal. For every dandelion he dug up with roots attached, she would give him a dime. Mom thought this would keep Colby busy on a quiet weekend and help the yard at the same time. Just think if he dug up fifty plants, what a difference that would make in your yard, she said. That's also fifty fewer plants that will go to seed.
Imagine her surprise, and mine, when Colby spent the entire weekend digging up dandelions. He dug not just fifty, or even one hundred fifty. Colby dug up eleven hundred dandelion plants. Shows you the state my yard was in. Mom made good on her deal and paid Colby $110.
Every year since then, paid or not, Colby made it his job to dig up dandelions in the spring. Today as I look out in my yard I see a number of them and I am torn. I can't bear the thought of digging them up because that is another hard, cold, reality that Colby is not here. But I should not leave the dandelions to seed the yard, either. I know this is something I have to do, hard as it will be. I will bring a lot of Kleenex along with Colby's trowel. And I will do this for Colby, to honor the many years he did this for me.
Sunday, April 4, 2010
Floating
I sort through things. And more things. Packing up a life is hard, especially because packing up yesterday reminds me how fragile tomorrow is. For me, it is a very scary tomorrow that will be lived without family. As I pick each item up, inspect it, then carefully place it in either the "keep," the “give away,” or the "throw away" box, thousands of memories trickle in. Good memories and terrible ones, sad memories, memories filled with laughter, and memories that are, quite frankly, scary. I treasure them all. I think to myself: I can no longer hug Colby or blow him a kiss, but I can always love him. Whether it is wearing his necklace or walking his favorite trail, I will remember with every breath I take. He is my heart.
While saying good bye to Colby was hard, saying goodbye to the things we did together, to the moments when life was joyful is equally as hard. It is not only my son that I lost when Colby passed, it was my way of life. My future was turned upside down. My life will never be the same. I do not think that any of us ever know how much we are a part of others, a part of those we meet, of those we love. I wonder what anyone will remember of me? What will people remember of you? I ponder this and realize once again that every day we have the opportunity to impact someone in a positive way. We have the chance to help others, to make life better for those around us. Colby lived that philosophy every single day. A smile, a hug, a kind word, an errand of thoughtfulness. It meant everything at the time. It means even more now, to me and to others.
Boxes are now taped and hauled to the basement. Most of this group of things I have decided to keep. For now. I keep them because they trigger important memories, memories that keep me going, memories that help me stay strong enough to get through another hour, another day. I feel like I am drowning, but the memories pull me up and, for a little while, allow me to float.
While saying good bye to Colby was hard, saying goodbye to the things we did together, to the moments when life was joyful is equally as hard. It is not only my son that I lost when Colby passed, it was my way of life. My future was turned upside down. My life will never be the same. I do not think that any of us ever know how much we are a part of others, a part of those we meet, of those we love. I wonder what anyone will remember of me? What will people remember of you? I ponder this and realize once again that every day we have the opportunity to impact someone in a positive way. We have the chance to help others, to make life better for those around us. Colby lived that philosophy every single day. A smile, a hug, a kind word, an errand of thoughtfulness. It meant everything at the time. It means even more now, to me and to others.
Boxes are now taped and hauled to the basement. Most of this group of things I have decided to keep. For now. I keep them because they trigger important memories, memories that keep me going, memories that help me stay strong enough to get through another hour, another day. I feel like I am drowning, but the memories pull me up and, for a little while, allow me to float.
Saturday, April 3, 2010
Metrodome
I have been watching Spring training baseball. Our team, Colby's and mine, are the Minnesota Twins. This year the Twins have moved into a beautiful new outdoor stadium, but Colby and I liked the old Hubert H. Humphrey Metrodome with the fly balls that got lost in the white ceiling and the funky baggie in right field.
I first took Colby to a twins game when he was four. We sat above the third base dugout in July of that year watching such Twins greats as Kirby Puckett, Dan Gladden, Greg Gagne, and Brian Harper. Those men, along with Chicago catcher Carlton Fisk, went on to become baseball heroes for Colby. My baseball heroes: Harmon Killebrew, Tony Oliva, Rod Carew, Vida Blue, and Bert Blyleven also came from the Twins organization and I remember seeing them play when I was not too much older than Colby was then.
When Colby was younger, he was an outstanding young catcher. He was also a great hitter and outfielder. He first picked up a baseball bat (a plastic one) when he was eighteen months old and about didn't let go of one until he was a teenager. Even when his interest in playing waned, he always wanted to go see a game whenever we were in Minnesota. He stayed up on the players, the stats, and the standings. Colby's collection of baseball cards is extensive and he lovingly and carefully stored his most valuable cards. Some of the cards were mine when I was young. Those he especially treasured because somewhere along the way my heroes had also become his.
Even though we both were fans of the old stadium, I would love to share the experience of a ballgame with Colby in this new Twins ballpark. I'd love to sit above the dugout just one more time and debate the merits of the Twins farm team vs. the young Red Sox players. I'd like to think that wherever Colby is, that he can go to a game anytime he wants. I'd like to think he can sail above the bleachers along with the ball and visit the players in the locker room, which is something he always wanted to do. Maybe he and Kirby Puckett are up in the nosebleed section, eating popcorn and cheering. I hope so,
I'm not sure if I will ever attend an event in the new ballpark. I don't think I could get through the game without Colby in the chair next to me, mustard from his hot dog smeared across his face, rooting for the Twins. Someday, maybe. For now I will continue to watch. I'll monitor the team, and remember some wonderful times with my son. I am glad for the memories.
I first took Colby to a twins game when he was four. We sat above the third base dugout in July of that year watching such Twins greats as Kirby Puckett, Dan Gladden, Greg Gagne, and Brian Harper. Those men, along with Chicago catcher Carlton Fisk, went on to become baseball heroes for Colby. My baseball heroes: Harmon Killebrew, Tony Oliva, Rod Carew, Vida Blue, and Bert Blyleven also came from the Twins organization and I remember seeing them play when I was not too much older than Colby was then.
When Colby was younger, he was an outstanding young catcher. He was also a great hitter and outfielder. He first picked up a baseball bat (a plastic one) when he was eighteen months old and about didn't let go of one until he was a teenager. Even when his interest in playing waned, he always wanted to go see a game whenever we were in Minnesota. He stayed up on the players, the stats, and the standings. Colby's collection of baseball cards is extensive and he lovingly and carefully stored his most valuable cards. Some of the cards were mine when I was young. Those he especially treasured because somewhere along the way my heroes had also become his.
Even though we both were fans of the old stadium, I would love to share the experience of a ballgame with Colby in this new Twins ballpark. I'd love to sit above the dugout just one more time and debate the merits of the Twins farm team vs. the young Red Sox players. I'd like to think that wherever Colby is, that he can go to a game anytime he wants. I'd like to think he can sail above the bleachers along with the ball and visit the players in the locker room, which is something he always wanted to do. Maybe he and Kirby Puckett are up in the nosebleed section, eating popcorn and cheering. I hope so,
I'm not sure if I will ever attend an event in the new ballpark. I don't think I could get through the game without Colby in the chair next to me, mustard from his hot dog smeared across his face, rooting for the Twins. Someday, maybe. For now I will continue to watch. I'll monitor the team, and remember some wonderful times with my son. I am glad for the memories.
Friday, April 2, 2010
Generations
Today I go through old family papers. Colby was always fascinated with these old documents. His great-grandfather's Army discharge papers, property abstracts that date back more than 130 years, his great-grandmother's wedding announcement. Colby cared about these people and these documents. Now I wonder what I should do with them.
The things my mother and I were saving for Colby and his children sit on shelves, on table tops, and in boxes. Some are spread throughout my mother's home. Proudly displayed. Others stay carefully packed away in boxes. These are things that have been handed down from generation to generation, going back to my great-grandparents. there are even photos of my great-great grandparents. I, now, am the last of the line.
My mother says, yes, absolutely, I must hang on to them. She does not grasp the fact that after me, there is nothing. No one. If I do not do something with them, these treasured family heirlooms will end up in the trash. But I cannot think what to do. The concept is too big for me right now. An historical society maybe. But which one? Ebay is another possibility. Some people will buy anything. I'd give the things away if I knew it meant something to someone. Too many decisions. Too many things.
My counselors tell me not to look too far ahead, to live in the moment, to take one day at a time. But if I do not make plans for these items that meant so much to our family, no one will. And to have them thrown away would be the biggest disrespect I could show those who came before me. Another dilemma to save for another day. But I cannot wait too long. If/when something happens to me, there must be a plan in place.
The things my mother and I were saving for Colby and his children sit on shelves, on table tops, and in boxes. Some are spread throughout my mother's home. Proudly displayed. Others stay carefully packed away in boxes. These are things that have been handed down from generation to generation, going back to my great-grandparents. there are even photos of my great-great grandparents. I, now, am the last of the line.
My mother says, yes, absolutely, I must hang on to them. She does not grasp the fact that after me, there is nothing. No one. If I do not do something with them, these treasured family heirlooms will end up in the trash. But I cannot think what to do. The concept is too big for me right now. An historical society maybe. But which one? Ebay is another possibility. Some people will buy anything. I'd give the things away if I knew it meant something to someone. Too many decisions. Too many things.
My counselors tell me not to look too far ahead, to live in the moment, to take one day at a time. But if I do not make plans for these items that meant so much to our family, no one will. And to have them thrown away would be the biggest disrespect I could show those who came before me. Another dilemma to save for another day. But I cannot wait too long. If/when something happens to me, there must be a plan in place.
Wednesday, March 31, 2010
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.
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.
Monday, March 29, 2010
Skates
For some reason I have been thinking of Colby and skating. Not the skateboard kind of skating, which he did every day and was incredibly good at. And not the roller kind of skating that he did as a young teen. He was also quite good at that. Instead I have been of the ice kind of skating, at which Colby was not so good.
The first time Colby ice skated he must have been around eight. We were visiting my mother during the Christmas holidays and he decided he wanted to try it. So we rented some skates at the local ice rink and off we went. I grew up in Minnesota, where just about every kid learns to both swim and ice skate, so was able to give Colby a few pointers. After half an hour or so he was getting around the ice okay on his own, and even attempted a few more daring moves: skating backwards, a bunny hop, a slicing stop.
We went several times after that over the years. Colby was so athletic, he could excel at just about any sport he wanted to. I think the reason he never became expert at ice skating was because he didn't want to. And, the reason he didn't want to was because he never liked the cold. It's a fact. Where there is ice, there is cold.
I think of Colby and the ice and the skates and the cold, but it is some time before I realize what triggered these specific memories. Yesterday I am in a store and a boy of about fourteen is in line ahead of me with his friend. Both boys have hockey skates slung over their shoulders and cold drinks and candy bars in their hands. "Good Lord," the boy says in reaction to a comment his friend makes.
I have not heard anyone say that since Colby passed. The way this boy said it was with exactly the same inflection that Colby used. In fact, until I heard it, I had forgotten Colby often said that. Now I wonder, more then eight months after my son has passed, what else I have forgotten, will forget. I ponder that for a time and finally decide that I will forget some things. Many things. It's called being human and I have to be okay with that.
What is important is that I never forget the essence of Colby, who he was at his core, what he stood for. While I have a lot of worries, that is one thing I know I do not need to stress over, either now or at any time in the future. And, having one less thing to worry about is always a good thing.
The first time Colby ice skated he must have been around eight. We were visiting my mother during the Christmas holidays and he decided he wanted to try it. So we rented some skates at the local ice rink and off we went. I grew up in Minnesota, where just about every kid learns to both swim and ice skate, so was able to give Colby a few pointers. After half an hour or so he was getting around the ice okay on his own, and even attempted a few more daring moves: skating backwards, a bunny hop, a slicing stop.
We went several times after that over the years. Colby was so athletic, he could excel at just about any sport he wanted to. I think the reason he never became expert at ice skating was because he didn't want to. And, the reason he didn't want to was because he never liked the cold. It's a fact. Where there is ice, there is cold.
I think of Colby and the ice and the skates and the cold, but it is some time before I realize what triggered these specific memories. Yesterday I am in a store and a boy of about fourteen is in line ahead of me with his friend. Both boys have hockey skates slung over their shoulders and cold drinks and candy bars in their hands. "Good Lord," the boy says in reaction to a comment his friend makes.
I have not heard anyone say that since Colby passed. The way this boy said it was with exactly the same inflection that Colby used. In fact, until I heard it, I had forgotten Colby often said that. Now I wonder, more then eight months after my son has passed, what else I have forgotten, will forget. I ponder that for a time and finally decide that I will forget some things. Many things. It's called being human and I have to be okay with that.
What is important is that I never forget the essence of Colby, who he was at his core, what he stood for. While I have a lot of worries, that is one thing I know I do not need to stress over, either now or at any time in the future. And, having one less thing to worry about is always a good thing.
Monday, March 22, 2010
Car
Colby's car has been sitting on my back patio for over a year. It doesn't run. Colby had forgotten to put oil in it and the engine is bad. I also cannot find the keys to it. Not sure I ever had them. There are are still piles and piles of his stuff in his room and in the basement. It is possible the keys are there. Somewhere.
The car has become a fixture on the patio. The dog sits under it when it is cold and wet outside and the neighbor's cat sits on top of it when it is sunny. Still, it accomplishes no other purpose than that. I need to get rid of it. Colby liked Pull-A-Part, a place where you can walk through rows of junked cars and pull parts from them (for a small fee) or sometimes get things left inside the cars, such as CDs and clothes, and you can get those for free. The car, I think, should go there.
I call AAA, but towing to a junk yard is not part of their emergency road service. So I call other tow services and am shocked at the prices. I spend half a day doing this, then frustrated, throw up my hands. I try to do with Colby's things as he would have wanted me to, but this is not working out with the car and Pull-A-Part. I throw up my hands and ask Colby, out loud, what I should do with the car.
An hour later I get an email from a friend of Colby's who asks if I still have the car. He offers to buy it so he can restore it. He has the knowledge to do so, but I will not let him purchase the car. Instead, I give it to him. I see how pleased he is with the car and I am very happy about it, too. We both believe that this is what Colby wanted.
The car is now gone, awaiting repairs from Colby's friend. The dog has found a new spot under a patio chair and the neighbor's cat sits on top.
The car has become a fixture on the patio. The dog sits under it when it is cold and wet outside and the neighbor's cat sits on top of it when it is sunny. Still, it accomplishes no other purpose than that. I need to get rid of it. Colby liked Pull-A-Part, a place where you can walk through rows of junked cars and pull parts from them (for a small fee) or sometimes get things left inside the cars, such as CDs and clothes, and you can get those for free. The car, I think, should go there.
I call AAA, but towing to a junk yard is not part of their emergency road service. So I call other tow services and am shocked at the prices. I spend half a day doing this, then frustrated, throw up my hands. I try to do with Colby's things as he would have wanted me to, but this is not working out with the car and Pull-A-Part. I throw up my hands and ask Colby, out loud, what I should do with the car.
An hour later I get an email from a friend of Colby's who asks if I still have the car. He offers to buy it so he can restore it. He has the knowledge to do so, but I will not let him purchase the car. Instead, I give it to him. I see how pleased he is with the car and I am very happy about it, too. We both believe that this is what Colby wanted.
The car is now gone, awaiting repairs from Colby's friend. The dog has found a new spot under a patio chair and the neighbor's cat sits on top.
Saturday, March 20, 2010
Stress
The process of grieving is tiring. I wake up every morning exhausted and wish I could take a day, or two, and just stay under the covers. Stay in bed where I can sleep, rest, where I can restore my energy, revive myself for the coming day of grieving. But I can't. I have work I must do. I get up feeling so tired that I must have the flu, mustn't I? But I don't. I just have grief.
Grief for one's child is ever present. I round a corner or see a flash of something that triggers a memory and even though I am engrossed in something else, the grief comes flooding back in. You never know when it will overcome your being, so you are always on edge, always getting ready to prepare for the avalanche of emotion, of loss. I never feel relaxed. I am afraid that if I do, the grief will choose that specific moment to overtake me and I will never find my way out of it. I am still shell-shocked with loss. It has been eight months.
Doctors have long recognized that stress can trigger illnesses. Dr. Richard Rahe, an expert on stress-related illness, developed a test to rate events that can cause stress. The higher your score, the greater risk of stress-related illness. The Rahe Test is also used to determine disease susceptibility. A score of 150 or less means you have a 37% chance of becoming seriously ill. Between 150 to 300, risk jumps to 51%. Over 300 and there is an 80% chance of serious illness in the next two years.
The death of a child is the single biggest stressor on the list. My score was 559. That in itself is stressful. Plus, due to pre-existing conditions, current health insurance guidelines deem many parts of my body (other than accidents) un-insurable. You know, I think I will just go back to bed.
Grief for one's child is ever present. I round a corner or see a flash of something that triggers a memory and even though I am engrossed in something else, the grief comes flooding back in. You never know when it will overcome your being, so you are always on edge, always getting ready to prepare for the avalanche of emotion, of loss. I never feel relaxed. I am afraid that if I do, the grief will choose that specific moment to overtake me and I will never find my way out of it. I am still shell-shocked with loss. It has been eight months.
Doctors have long recognized that stress can trigger illnesses. Dr. Richard Rahe, an expert on stress-related illness, developed a test to rate events that can cause stress. The higher your score, the greater risk of stress-related illness. The Rahe Test is also used to determine disease susceptibility. A score of 150 or less means you have a 37% chance of becoming seriously ill. Between 150 to 300, risk jumps to 51%. Over 300 and there is an 80% chance of serious illness in the next two years.
The death of a child is the single biggest stressor on the list. My score was 559. That in itself is stressful. Plus, due to pre-existing conditions, current health insurance guidelines deem many parts of my body (other than accidents) un-insurable. You know, I think I will just go back to bed.
Thursday, March 18, 2010
Easter
Ugg. Today I go grocery shopping. I just put the last item into my cart and round a corner. There smack in front of me is a display of Easter candy. My heart stops, my stomach sinks to my knees and I begin to cry. This will be the first Easter in 25 years that I have not made an Easter basket for Colby.
Each year I went to special lengths to create a basket for him that was a mix of candy, toys and a special surprise. I put a lot of thought into it and always tried to out-do the basket from the year before. When Colby became a teen, he began making a basket for me. Of course we had to hide the baskets from each other. It was fun on Easter morning to try to find our basket, and hope that the dog or cat had not gotten to it first!
Some of Colby's more memorable hiding places were behind the toilet in the spare bathroom, in the mailbox, under a bucket in the basement, and in the clothes dryer. Now, staring at the display, I realize I will never make my son another Easter basket, and I will never receive another from him.
Easter has suddenly become another day that I dread, just like Thanksgiving, Christmas, New Year's, Mother's Day, my birthday, his birthday, and a host of other days I wish would just get get wiped off the face of the Earth so I didn't have to deal with them. Another day I have to avoid in weeks leading up to it because the cutesy ads and decorations are a harsh reminder that Colby is gone. Another day that other people get to enjoy with their family and I get to sit in a corner and cry.
I realize I can't face going through the checkout line. I leave my groceries in the cart in the middle of the aisle and sit in the truck until the shaking has stopped enough so I can drive home. I hate Easter.
Each year I went to special lengths to create a basket for him that was a mix of candy, toys and a special surprise. I put a lot of thought into it and always tried to out-do the basket from the year before. When Colby became a teen, he began making a basket for me. Of course we had to hide the baskets from each other. It was fun on Easter morning to try to find our basket, and hope that the dog or cat had not gotten to it first!
Some of Colby's more memorable hiding places were behind the toilet in the spare bathroom, in the mailbox, under a bucket in the basement, and in the clothes dryer. Now, staring at the display, I realize I will never make my son another Easter basket, and I will never receive another from him.
Easter has suddenly become another day that I dread, just like Thanksgiving, Christmas, New Year's, Mother's Day, my birthday, his birthday, and a host of other days I wish would just get get wiped off the face of the Earth so I didn't have to deal with them. Another day I have to avoid in weeks leading up to it because the cutesy ads and decorations are a harsh reminder that Colby is gone. Another day that other people get to enjoy with their family and I get to sit in a corner and cry.
I realize I can't face going through the checkout line. I leave my groceries in the cart in the middle of the aisle and sit in the truck until the shaking has stopped enough so I can drive home. I hate Easter.
Wednesday, March 17, 2010
Papers
Today I go through a mountain of papers. Why do I never throw anything away? One filing cabinet is filled with medical records, insurance forms; and correspondence between myself, and doctors, and the aforementioned insurance companies. The files start with Colby's upper respiratory infections and strep, and move to asthma (age 3) and to his sulfa allergy. That happened when he was five. Colby was prescribed a sulfa drug for strep and became partially paralyzed from the waist down. That was a little scary. Fortunately the effects only lasted about five days.
Then we move to depression (age 8), anxiety and behavior difficulties in school (age 10), the diagnosis of dysgraphia, a learning difference that affects writing, math calculation, organization and knot tying (age 11). At 12 there were panic attacks and at 15, anorexia (yes, boys get that, too). There was also mood disorder at 15 and that's when the long-term hospital stays began. A week here, ten days there, a month, four months. From 17 to 18 he rallied some, was on regular meds, had good medical care. Then the diagnosis of schizophrenia and the cancellation of not just his insurance policy, but the closing of the entire division of that insurance company.
Now I see the applications for new insurance and all the rejection letters. There are a ton of them, one from every major insurance carrier in the state, and they all say variations of the same thing. "Due to pre-existing conditions . . ." "Because of extensive hospital stays . . ." "Considering the mental instability . . ." "Because of the . . ."
After that I find receipts where I paid out of pocket for what I could. The amount of money spent is staggering. But it wasn't enough. I could not afford the more expensive testing they wanted to do, the hospital stays, and because of this Colby's mental state deteriorated. I couldn't get him to go to the dentist, to walk into the doctor's office. If I had known then what the future held I would have sold my house, lived in the truck, done anything. Anything . . .
I keep some of the papers, throw most of them away. The papers fill a large trash can and clean out the majority of the filing cabinet. I refill the space with Colby's autopsy report, findings from the attorney who looked into his death, and information from his celebration of life. The drawer is, once again, full.
Then we move to depression (age 8), anxiety and behavior difficulties in school (age 10), the diagnosis of dysgraphia, a learning difference that affects writing, math calculation, organization and knot tying (age 11). At 12 there were panic attacks and at 15, anorexia (yes, boys get that, too). There was also mood disorder at 15 and that's when the long-term hospital stays began. A week here, ten days there, a month, four months. From 17 to 18 he rallied some, was on regular meds, had good medical care. Then the diagnosis of schizophrenia and the cancellation of not just his insurance policy, but the closing of the entire division of that insurance company.
Now I see the applications for new insurance and all the rejection letters. There are a ton of them, one from every major insurance carrier in the state, and they all say variations of the same thing. "Due to pre-existing conditions . . ." "Because of extensive hospital stays . . ." "Considering the mental instability . . ." "Because of the . . ."
After that I find receipts where I paid out of pocket for what I could. The amount of money spent is staggering. But it wasn't enough. I could not afford the more expensive testing they wanted to do, the hospital stays, and because of this Colby's mental state deteriorated. I couldn't get him to go to the dentist, to walk into the doctor's office. If I had known then what the future held I would have sold my house, lived in the truck, done anything. Anything . . .
I keep some of the papers, throw most of them away. The papers fill a large trash can and clean out the majority of the filing cabinet. I refill the space with Colby's autopsy report, findings from the attorney who looked into his death, and information from his celebration of life. The drawer is, once again, full.
Tuesday, March 16, 2010
Two
Colby as Fred Flintstone
When Colby was about two he became enamored with Fred Flintstone. He loved watching the cartoon, insisted that I call him Fred, began carrying a stick over his shoulder (better that than Fred's prehistoric club), and whenever he was excited, yelled "Yabba-doo! Yabba-doo!" and ran around in tight circles. This was before Colby got quite so verbal, when he still often missed the middle syllable, or other letters in a word. "Bye, baby" became "By-be," "Spaghetti" became "ghetti bites," and "horses" became "hores" (be sure to say that one out loud).
That spring Colby would have been two-and-a-half, and I had a reporting assignment to cover the Iroquois Steeplechase at Nashville's Percy Warner Park. I was holding Colby in my arms at the edge of the infield, near the finish line facing the box seats, when the winner of the most recent race stopped for a photo. We were immediately surrounded by Nashville's Belle Meade nobility who also showed up for the photo. Imagine my horror when Colby pointed at the horse (and also in the direction of all the nice ladies in their spring hats in the box seats) and shouted, "Hores! Hores! Yabba-doo! Hores!"
But that wasn't my biggest challenge. "Britches" became "bitches" (no need for loud verbalization on that one), "apple juice" became "ap ju," and "McDonald's" became "Donald's House." In fact, Colby became so obsessed with McDonald's (second only to the fabulous Fred) that I had to plan our outings so that we didn't go anywhere near McDonald's. That was no easy feat even twenty-some years ago. It made going to the grocery store or running an errand and adventure in planning and I found some very interesting detours through apartment parking lots and alleys that kept us away from Donald.
The allure of McDonald's was not the food, although he later did actually eat there. No, it was the attached playground that he loved. No other playground would do. Even though each McDonald's playground was different, he knew it was affiliated with his beloved Donald. Once, just once, we went to a McDonald's that didn't have a playground. That was not a fun day.
While I would give both my arms (and more) in a heartbeat to be able to share these memories with Colby, I am grateful that I have any memories at all. Through my support groups I hear of so many parents who have lost, infants, babies, young toddlers. They will never have memories like these with those children. Most, have, or will have, other children, but the parents of these babies who left us early will always wonder what they would have liked, who they would have become enamored with, and what their special joys were. While 23 years was not nearly enough, I am forever and eternally grateful for them.
Sunday, March 14, 2010
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.
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.
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.
Tuesday, March 2, 2010
Reform
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.
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