Colby Keegan Memorial Blog

Comfort

2011-03-31T18:58:00.000-05:00

I dream of Colby, which I have not done for more than a month. We are in a house. There are lots of people here, people who are all part of a family, Colby's family. There must be more than thirty people on the ground level, all of whom love and adore Colby, and he them.

Colby shows me around the spacious rooms, then we walk out the back door into a beautiful garden. The garden and its wondrous flowers give way to a meadow and Colby and I walk through it.

"I want to stay here with you," I say. "It is too hard without you."

Colby tells me that is not possible, that good things are coming my way. Soon. He says he is with me most of the time, that he is helping create these good things. His life, he says, was complete. He learned all he needed to know and it was his time to go. Now he helps me, helps Colby's Army.

As we walk, Colby is on my left. Unlike other dreams where he wears a light blue short sleeved dress shirt or a light polo shirt, this time he has on a brown long sleeved T-shirt. The light blue jeans and white athletic shoes are the same. He drapes his right arm around me as we walk and pulls me tight. I feel his touch, feel him supporting me as we walk. I am awake now, aren't I? I think I am.

I turn to Colby, but he is gone. I look at the tall green grass of the meadow. There are snow-capped mountains in the far distance. The sun is bright and the sky is a soft blue, but it is not hot. Nor is it cold. There is a lake to my far right. I turn to walk back to the house and realize I am standing next to my bed.

That morning I am presented with three wonderful career opportunities. I feel Colby's arm draped around my shoulder as I accept each one.

Fear

2011-03-14T14:28:00.000-05:00

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

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

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

Undo

2011-01-03T14:16:00.000-06:00

Undo it. Take it Back

Undo it, take it back,
make every day the previous one
until I am returned to the day
before the one that made you gone.
Or set me on an airplane traveling west,
crossing the date line again and again,
losing this day, then that,
until the day of loss still lies ahead,
and you are here instead of sorrow.

Nessa Rapoport, A Woman's Book of Grieving

Christmas

2010-12-28T19:52:00.000-06:00

Today I remember Christmases past. I remember the year Colby was fifteen months old and kicked Santa Claus. The year he was a little more than two and was afraid to sled down my mom's slightly sloping driveway. We made snow angels instead. I remember the year he was three and got the choo choo train and the drum he had been asking for all year, every day, since the Christmas he was two.

By Colby's fourth Christmas he and my mom and I were sledding down the bigger hill in her yard like pros. That was also the year he begged to go to the dinosaur exhibit at the Minnesota Science Museum, then screamed when he saw the first dinosaur and refused to go in. By age eight Colby had graduated to sledding the hills at the local golf course and by age ten he was beginning to snowboard. We built snow forts and snow men (and snow women and dogs) and had a number of snowball fights.

In between the snow, there were trips to other museums, art exhibits, plays, concerts, restaurants, and lots and lots of movies. And board games. Colby always won at Michigan Rummy. And there were always projects Mom needed done. Colby fixed the gate to the downstairs when he was about twelve and it still works. He re-hung closet doors, helped clean out those same closets, and learned to drive on snow.

When Colby was maybe nine, he and Mom and I made cardboard swords and decorated them glitter, beads, and bits of sparkly fabric from my old skating costumes. He made cookies with the neighbor behind us and we went for winter walks in the neighboring woods. He and I checked out the neighbor's houses from the front by walking on the frozen lake, being sure to stay close to the shoreline. We snuggled during blizzards, went to church, and drove around in the evenings and looked at Christmas lights.

I am so grateful for these wonderful memories. Christmas will never be the same without Colby, without family. I struggle with this new reality, in finding my place in holiday doings and the family gatherings of others. For now I ignore them. Colby's loss is still too fresh, too painful. Someday, maybe, the holidays will mean something to me once again. In the meantime I am blessed to have had wonderful Christmases past.

Snowflakes

2010-12-27T09:15:00.000-06:00

I sit here and watch it snow and think life is like a series of snowflakes. Every day life gives us challenges and each one of those challenges can be considered the equivalent of a snowflake. Individually, a snowflake weighs almost nothing and individually, most challenges can be met. But when the snowflakes and challenges build up, then life becomes extremely hard.

Colby had many challenges in his life. Like all of us, some were of his own doing, many others were just what life dealt him. Over time, the weight of all those many snowflakes built up, first blanketing Colby in them, then suffocating him with their weight. At the end, Colby was buried under a huge drift of snow.

My job now is to find a way to rid myself of my own deep layer of snowflakes. If I melt them, they compact and turn to ice, which is even heavier than the snow. If I pull globs of snow away from me, it leaves huge gaping raw spots that may not heal. Best to brush the snow off a little at a time, I think, and try to dodge any new flakes headed my way. How to do that, I am not yet sure, but every day I will brush and dodge until the weight of my individual snowflakes is once again manageable.

Letter

2010-12-21T21:14:00.000-06:00

RECENT DEAR ABBY LETTER

PARENTS WHO LOST A DAUGHTER ARE NOW IN A DIFFERENT PLACE

DEAR ABBY:

My beautiful 20-year-old daughter was killed in a car accident. I am writing this not only for myself, but for all parents who have lost a child, and to all of the wonderful people who asked, "What can I do for you?"

At the time there wasn't much anyone could do to help, but after two years I have an answer: Accept me for who I am now.

When Rachel came into my life, it changed me profoundly. Losing her did the same. Her father and I work hard to honor her memory, but we will never "get over it" to the degree of being who we were before. I am different now. In some ways -- I think -- better. I am kinder, more patient, more appreciative of small things, but I am not as outgoing nor as quick to laugh.

I know people mean well when they encourage me to get on with my life, but this is my life.

My priorities have changed. My expectations of what my future will hold have changed. Please extend to me again the offer of "anything I can do" and, please, accept me as I am now.

-- DIFFERENT NOW IN RIVERVIEW, FLA.

DEAR DIFFERENT NOW:

Please accept my profound sympathy for the tragic loss of your daughter.

I hope that your letter will help anyone who doesn't understand that the death of a child is the most devastating loss parents can suffer and that the experience is life-changing. They may get beyond it, but they never get "over" it.

To expect that they would is unrealistic, because it's a wound that may become less visible but never goes away.

Stars

2010-12-20T09:00:00.003-06:00

I dream of Colby. It has been a long time since I dream of him so vividly. Months. Many months. In the dream Colby tells me that when he was here on Earth the brain in his body was wired differently than other people's brains. He saw the world through different eyes. I explain to him about schizophrenia and he says yes, that was his brain. He wants people to know that he was very smart. He is afraid people will remember him as dumb when in fact his brain was light years ahead of most of ours. He just could not cope with the differences in his brain, which were hereditary. I tell him that I was aware of Colby's intelligence, as was everyone who knew him. He is relieved.

Colby then says he likes the blue star. I have to think about that, about what he means. Then it dawns on me that the logo for Colby's Army, the nonprofit organization founded to finish the work here on Earth that Colby could not, is in the shape of a blue star. I had not considered it a star before. It was simply a shape that Colby drew over and over again when he was small. But it is. It is a star. And it is blue.

Then Colby says he loved the tree his friends and I planted in his memory. He tells me he was there that day, that he was the one who put the idea of the tree planting in my mind. Colby wants to know if we intentionally got a tree related to the goddess Artemis. After I wake up I look that up and find that Artemis is affiliated with the cypress tree. The tree we planted for Colby was a Leyland Cypress.

Colby also shares with me that my life theme is to be a peace bringer, that I am to help people look at the world through different glasses, to open their minds to ideas that are different that what they might currently perceive. He says he will help me in this and that he is here with me often.

Then Colby tells me he is curious about his death. He says he does not remember much about it other than he just fell asleep and there were beams of light and angels around him. When the angels asked him to go with them, he went. He is very happy where he is now. He says he can see the big picture and is pleased about what will come in the future for people on Earth.

Before the dream ends Colby becomes very excited and jumps up and down. He tells me I will write a book with someone who is very famous and the book will do very well. He won't tell me who the famous person is even though he knows. He wants it to be a surprise and says it will be a big one.

Colby has to go, he says. It takes a lot of his energy to visit me in this way. But he wants me to know that he loves me and is proud of me. We hug and I feel his presence intensely. When I wake up I have a sense of peace . . . and a purpose.

Rivers

2010-12-19T09:35:00.000-06:00

A counselor shares a river metaphor with me. We are all floating down the river of life. Some of us are floating in the luxury of a huge yacht or the pleasure of a big party boat. Some of us are on a barge or a pontoon, others are in speed boats, or flowing down the river in a sailboat. I am in a kayak.

This is actually good news. For the first year or so after Colby's passing I was swimming, some days I was just treading water to stay afloat. Now I have a kayak. While my journey right now is very much a solo journey, I have the luxury of some direction. I can wield my paddle to direct the kayak toward the shoreline, where I can stop and rest for as long as I need to. I can float alongside a cabin cruiser or a barge filled with friends if I choose. In my kayak, I can sometimes see the rapids ahead and choose the easiest path through them. Then again, sometimes I come upon the rapids in the darkest of nights and am fully at their mercy.

Throughout our lives we can switch boats. While I grew up on a pontoon, for many years Colby and I were in a rowboat. I manned the oars of that boat alone for many years, but as Colby got older, he was able to spell me often. When he passed away, our rowboat sunk and I was left adrift.

I have a goal. I want to trade my kayak for a canoe. Canoes are easier to handle, drier, often slower, and it is easier to get your bearings in them. Plus, they are not so physically exhausting to manage. In my canoe, I can arrange my thoughts, my feelings, my goals, my plans. It is too cramped in the kayak to do that. Someday soon, I hope to find my canoe. In the meantime, I will continue to paddle down the river and learn to portage around the waterfalls that are sure to lie ahead.

Busy

2010-12-18T21:03:00.000-06:00

I stay busy. Too busy. Intentionally busy. Necessarily busy. I stay up late creating more and more work so I do not have that few minutes of down time between putting my head on the pillow and sleep. Those are dangerous few minutes. Those are the minutes where the tears are most likely to come, where the anxiety is most likely to rise. Where the panic begins. So I stay busy.

Of course problems arise, eventually, because no one can keep up a pace like that forever. My body betrays me in its protest. Exhaustion, aches, pains, lack of focus ensue. I must slow down. I must. It is hard. So hard.

In those few minutes between pillow time and sleep, minutes that stretch longer and longer the less exhausted I am, I vow to return to my mantra: "What would Colby want?" How would he like me to live the rest of my life? What would he want me to do? Where would Colby like me to place my focus? If Colby could come back and live through me, what would be important to him?

I know exhaustion is not one of the things he would wish for me. Nor would he wish me pain or sadness. What he would wish me is a life filled with creativity, horses, writing, and helping others. And down time, relaxation, time to enjoy life's little pleasures. That is a goal for me. It is no where near a reality. I have to learn to sit quietly without panicking inside, without despair overtaking my entire being, without the empty ache that has become a black hole inside me.

I sit for one minute a day. Quietly. Sometimes. Hoping I can soon learn to be comfortable with two minutes. Or, three. Maybe. Someday.

Letters

2010-10-08T23:18:00.000-05:00

Today I find a letter I wrote to Colby. It was a letter he never read, a letter I had never given him because I wrote it in case I passed away suddenly. It was to be my final words of encouragement to him, something for him to read after I passed on, never thinking that something that tragic would happen to either of us for decades. But just in case, years ago I tucked the letter into a corner of a drawer and in it I told Colby how much I loved him and that I would always watch over him. How, I think now, is that possible when Colby passed before me? How can I watch over him and care for him when he is no longer here?

Some might say that there is no need for me to do either of those things because Colby is now well cared for in heaven. I believe that is true, but as a grieving parent of an only child, my need to be a mom to my son didn't die along with him. That urge to care for him is still here. It is a unique position we grievers of only children are in. When our child passed, so did our role as a parent.

I find in addition to grieving for Colby, I grieve for my role as a mom. I grieve for the grandchildren I will never have. I grieve for the in-laws I will never meet, the weddings and birthdays and christenings and graduations I will never attend, and school plays I will never see. I grieve for what could have been, but will never be. I grieve for Colby, for my lost role as a mom, and for me.

The grief brings home to me that the loss of every person in its own way alters the course of the universe. There is all the love that will never be realized, the children who will never be born, the events that will never take place. It is very sad, all that loss. There is much to grieve for, and a lifetime of loss to contemplate.

Research

2010-09-29T22:29:00.000-05:00

Exciting new research from The Children's Hospital of Philadelphia indicates a very close tie between ADHD, autism and schizophrenia. The tie-in has to do with similar mutations on chromosome 16. I have mentioned before that since Colby passed I have found numerous relatives on my side of the family who had schizophrenia and I fully believe there is a genetic component.

This new finding is another step forward in learning more about the human brain and mental illnesses, including schizophrenia. Someday, I hope, there will be definitive genetic markers that will help diagnose schizophrenia, as well as medications to better treat it.

For more information, follow this link to the article: http://psychcentral.com/news/2010/05/11/genetics-similar-for-adhd-autism-schizophrenia/13704.html

Scars

2010-09-26T10:43:00.000-05:00

We all have scars. Some of us have very visible scars from accidents and others of us have internal scars from wounds incurred by life experiences. Colbby had a scar on his tongue that he got when he fell down when he was not yet two. I remember there was blood everywhere, but the ER doc I talked to assured me that tongues do bleed a lot and that it probably would be fine. And it was.

Another external scar Colby had was on his thumb. He was opening a can of dog food when he was about eight and ended up with a ton of stitches. The worst part of that incident was that it was right at the beginning of baseball season and he missed most of the games that year.

But, like a lot of us, Colby had many internal scars: the counselors who did not adequately diagnose him, the doctors who turned their professional backs, the teachers who not only didn't believe in him but actively and intentionally were unhelpful. And then there is me. I know I caused some of Colby's scars, just as all parents unintentionally disappoint their children from time to time.

Colby's internal scars were big and heavy and ugly and he couldn't carry them without help. Even though many of his friends and I tried, the devastating reality is that we could not get Colby the help he needed.

Like Colby, I too have scars. In addition to the usual accumulation of life scars, my biggest scar is that of a grieving parent. One surviving son of a parent in one of my support groups likened this kind of grief, this kind of scar, to a broken leg that didn't heal right. End result: you learn to live with the limp. That analogy is so accurate because I feel as if I am now limping through life. I will still end up at the same place at the end, but it will be a slower, more painful and difficult journey than it would be if Colby were still here.

Integration

2010-09-24T17:36:00.000-05:00

Integration is a word I hear a lot in my grief sessions and from my therapy friends. In this context it means that grieving parents must learn to integrate their grief into their new lives without their children. With many other kinds of grief, the grief is short term and the person moves on. Not so with grieving parents. Their grief is for life.

This is not to say that the parent is stuck at the same level of grief or at the same point of their life. Instead, grief moves with you, becomes a part of you, is integrated into your life. Here, grief is a moving, fluid thing that becomes part of you.

The hard part of all of this for me, and probably for all parents, is to integrate something I do not want, something I never asked for. It's like being tied to a big, black, heavy ball and chain and having to lug it around . . . forever. The pain of carrying this big, heavy ball is so big, so deep, that at times it feels as if a series of Exacto knives are being twisted around my insides. Sometimes the pain is more bearable and then at the oddest moments I am doubled over in agony. That level of grief can last for days.

So many grieving parents have told me that it will get better over time and I do believe them. And, while my heavy ball will always be with me, over time I will also have integrated it well enough into my life that it seems lighter. It will become more manageable because I am more used to it. At least, that is what I hope for.

Birthday

2010-09-23T11:36:00.000-05:00

Colby's 25th birthday is (would be) a week from today. I have found that if I become anxious in days leading up to a special event such as this I get through the day fairly well. If not, then I am a mess the entire day, and in the days that follow the big day. It's too early to tell which way this day will go. If I had a choice, I'd prefer the anxious days ahead of Colby's birthday. Not that there isn't anxiety in all my days now. There is, but "special days" make it worse. Then again, if I had a choice, I'd prefer to take Colby to the restaurant of his choice for dinner.

When Colby was a child, he had birthday parties at home where the kids would ride our horse, Snoqualmie. Or, we'd go to Chuck-E-Cheese, or play miniature golf. Colby was really into miniature golf there for a while. As he got older his interest in miniature golf spurred the idea that he could whack golf balls from our front yard, across the road and into the playground of the school yard beyond. I was terrified that he'd smash a ball into a car, or even worse, a driver, so I stopped him whenever I found him enjoying that particular activity. He never did hit anything, though . . . that I am aware of.

It is hard for me to imagine Colby at twenty-five, even though he was almost twenty-four when he passed. On his birthday it will have been fourteen months and five days since he's been gone. I often wonder how Colby would be different today than fourteen months ago? What would his latest interest be? What new topic would bring about passionate conversation? While I miss everything about him, I miss our conversations the most. We spoke almost every day and he always said something that made me look at people or the world in a different way. I miss that and hate that with his passing I now look at the world through a thick, gray filter. I wish that gray-ish view was a choice. I wish I could alter it, but it is a permanent presence that, for now, is unchanging.

I will do something to honor Colby on his birthday. Maybe on his birth hour of 1:12 p.m. I am not yet sure what that will be, so I hope "some thing" will turn into a "specific thing" between now and then. I still think it is terribly sad that our world keeps parents here without their children. I wish I lived in a world where parents were always the ones to go first. I wish no parent had to continue on without his or her child.

Layers

2010-09-22T13:10:00.000-05:00

It has been a month since I have written anything, probably a lifetime record for me. I have never not been able to write, so this has been a new experience. Thank you to all who have called or emailed to check on me. I appreciate you beyond words.

I have to admit, it has been a rough haul since the first anniversary of Colby's passing. There were so many thoughts and feelings and emotions swirling through my body and I couldn't grasp on to any of them. Some days I couldn't get out of bed. Some days I absolutely could not function.

Over time, what slowly began to emerge from that swirling mass was a visible layer of grief. Think of your body as a vibrant container of color. Maybe today your right knee is a bright blue and your head is a vivid yellow and your right arm is a brilliant orange. Every body part has a beautiful color and together all those colors make up you.

Now place a transparent layer of dark gray over each one of those colors. You can still see the yellow and blue and orange, but they are muted. This is the new you, more subdued, slower, heavier, grayer. The horror begins when you realize that this layer of gray will be with you forever. In years to come the gray may become lighter, it may become more transparent, but it will always be there. It is an entwined, integral part of who you are. Forever.

I hate the color gray.

Safety

2010-08-18T23:29:00.000-05:00

We all want and need to feel that our world is safe, and I recently realized that I have not felt safe since Colby was born. Colby's lungs collapsed at birth and he had many upper respiratory issues as a young child. Even though I had a room monitor, several times I woke up to hear Colby gasping for air, struggling to breathe, turning blue. I don't believe I've slept deeply since then.

At three Colby was diagnosed with asthma, at age eight with depression, and on and on. There was always something, or several somethings, that made me believe that if I slept, deeply, something terrible would happen that I could have prevented, had I been awake. Turns out I could not prevent the worst thing that could ever possibly happen.

Close to twenty-five years of sleepless nights became a habit, and old habits die hard. I still don't sleep because I cannot find that sense of peace, of safety. I still wake up every hour and check the door to be sure it is locked. I check that the lights are tuned off. I check the floor to be sure a glass hasn't flown off the shelf by itself and broken, scattering bits of glass I might step on. This is not normal behavior. I know this even as I check, one more time.

This is not a scary, fearful feeling of being unsafe, rather it is the feeling that I left something important undone. It does not take a rocket scientist to figure out that because I could not save Colby that I am now overcompensating. This is yet another part of grief, another part of the process grieving parents experience. I am told my feelings, my behavior, are not unusual. Grief for parents who have lost a child is a lifelong process, and this is part of that process.

Now that I understand, I find if I talk to myself I can sometimes talk myself out of jumping up yet again to check something. I can calm my rising anxiety and ward off another frightening panic attack. And sometimes, I can reassure myself that my world is safe, even though it will never, ever, be right or whole again.

Bus

2010-08-12T23:02:00.000-05:00

The big bus parked in front of my house looks like an aerodynamic whale in a black tuxedo. The bus pulsates and I feel the vibration of its energy. There are large wheels on the bus, almost cartoon-like wheels, but I know they are only for looks. This bus hovers and flies through the air, through space and time.

It is dark outside. The two people at my door are dressed in black business suits. One is a woman a few years younger than I am with dark red, shoulder-length hair. Her hairstyle is from the 1960s and her face is lined and severe. She is also slightly shorter and carries a walkie-talkie. The other person is a tall, thin, baby-faced man with dark curly hair who is probably in his thirties.

The two people and the bus are here for Colby. Colby is ready and waiting, and is eager to go. He has a duffle bag packed and gives me a hug and a kiss before he heads out the door. I try to grab him, to pull him back. I am frantic. Colby musn't leave! I know if he leaves he will not return. My fear and anxiety grow and the woman blocks the door as I try to run after Colby. She is surprisingly strong. "It's not your time," she says. I understand now that the two people are here not to escort Colby, but to keep me from following him.

Colby turns before he enters the gaping mouth of the whale bus. He waves. He is happy. "I'll check in on you," he says. Then he is gone. The two people and the bus disappear, and I am standing alone in my open front door, the night breeze swirling around my broken heart.

Events

2010-08-11T13:32:00.000-05:00

I frequently get the comment, "But you always used to . . .." You can then fill in the blank: Go to the movies, attend business receptions, frequent favorite restaurants. The list is actually quite long. Many things I did regularly before Colby passed away I no longer do and there are several reasons for that.

One is that since Colby passed I have developed, not a sensory processing disorder, but something similar to that. Lots of sights and sounds, lots of people milling about, snatches of many different conversations, all overwhelm me. I can't think, can't breathe, can't focus. It is all too much. This apparently, while not common, is not unusual when someone is struck with devastating grief. It can last for years.

Another reason is that it takes me longer to do the things I do every day. I am not sure why that is but it takes more focus, more energy, to get my daily tasks done. The result is I am continually behind and when I catch up, I am physically and mentally exhausted.

When I decline an invitation I do hope the person extending it does not feel I am ejecting them or their event. That is not my intention. It is not how I feel. I recently read a great article by another grieving parent on CNN.com. I hope you'll check it out. The author is very eloquent in his grief, even though, for him, eleven years have passed. Grief is definitely a journey, but right now, today, I am not sure there is a destination.

Words

2010-08-10T09:15:00.000-05:00

Music helps most people through hard times. For me it is, always has been, the beauty of words.

Grief grabs us by the throat and shatters our world into a million pieces.
Some days it numbs us to the bone and turns us into walking zombies.
Other days it pierces our hearts and forces a scream so loud it scares us into silence.
John Bowlby, M.D.

Your absence has gone through me
Like a thread through a needle
Everything I do is stitched with it’s color
W.S. Merwin

He had learned the worst lesson that life can teach––that it makes no sense.
And when that happens the happiness is never spontaneous again.
It is artificial and, even then, bought at the price of an obstinate estrangement
From oneself and one’s history . . . .
Stoically he suppresses his horror.
He learns to live behind a mask.
A lifetime experiment in endurance.
A performance over a ruin.
Philip Roth

There is no tragedy in life like the death of a child; things never get back to the way they were.
Dwight D. Eisenhower

Healing may not be so much about getting better, as about letting go of everything that isn’t you––all of the expectations, all of the beliefs––and becoming who you are.
Rachel Naomi Remen

Assimilation

2010-08-06T17:52:00.000-05:00

From Colby's Notebook
Ain't it funny, how we serve money
Ain't it funny, how we die for our country
Ain't it funny, we were born a slave
I'm not laughing, I won't behave

Since Colby passed I sometimes think about getting in my truck and driving to the ends of the Earth so I can live in a cabin in the middle of nowhere. Since he passed, my brain does not function as it did before. There is too much input, too many sights and sounds for me to process. There is just too much of everything.

Oh, how I wish the world would stop for a year, of maybe two, so I could sit quietly and wait for my brain to catch up. I'd like to take time to learn to breathe again, to breathe without the catch in my chest that happens every time I breathe in, the catch that reminds me, every time, that Colby is gone. I want to learn how to wake up every morning without the horror of remembering that my son, my family, is gone. Forever. I want to learn how to go to sleep without crying and to eat without the food tasting like sawdust. I want to learn to live this new normal that is me without Colby, and in today's busy world, I find that very hard to do.

Time is a luxury in so many ways. I'd love the luxury of one more minute with Colby. I'd love the luxury of time to assimilate Colby's passing into my life and integrate it into what is now me. For this is a new me. I am no longer the person I before Colby passed away. I am not sure who this new me is. I need to familiarize myself with me, but, there is no time.

Isn't it interesting that the word familiarize is so close to the word family? I am my family now. And, as the first year without Colby is now history, I find myself moving into a new phase of understanding, of learning. I just wish the world would slow down and allow me the luxury, the time to catch up. Then maybe I could find a way to assimilate it all.

Time

2010-07-29T20:25:00.000-05:00

Someone asked me a few days ago if I could go back in time, what was the year and day I would go back to that would have changed the course of Colby's life. It is an interesting question on many levels and I have given that hypothetical concept a lot of thought with no real conclusions. On one hand there were many factors that contributed to Colby's passing and nothing would have changed the fact that he had a genetic mental illness. If I had somehow tried harder earlier on to get him better health care, if I had given 1001 percent rather than 1000 percent, the outcome could have been different, or it could have remained the same.

Then there is the idea that interfering with Colby's life plan could upset the balance of the universe. Most are familiar with the idea of the butterfly effect. The theory is that a butterfly could potentially beat its wings on one side of the earth and cause a hurricane on the other side of the globe. It is basic cause and effect. If I traveled back in time to change the details of Colby's life, how significantly would that change the balance of the universe? Because Colby passed away, I believe several others did not. Many other people have told me they took notice of Colby's death and made changes so their lives would not end up the same way. What if Colby lived and they did not?

Then there is the thought of "what is supposed to be, is." Colby often said when he was a young child in elementary school that he would not live long enough to marry, have children, or turn thirty. Was his life lived just as it was supposed to? Or could it have been altered so he lived a long and productive life without negatively impacting the course of anyone else's life?

Of course, we'll never know. The question was put to me, I believe, precisely for that reason. There was not one defining moment that took Colby away. It was many moments over many years. And, it may well have been his destiny. Right now, today, I have to believe that what Colby instinctively knew as a child was right. The details might have differed, but the end result could probably have been the same. This hypothetical thinking will not bring him back, but it does help me put some things into context. The one think I clearly know is that I miss Colby more than words can ever begin to express.

Hope

2010-07-27T16:34:00.000-05:00

It's been a year and a day since I found out my only child had passed away. I still look toward the door each evening, thinking he will be bounding through it any minute now. Sometimes I pick up the phone to call him, to tell him something he might find interesting or amusing, only to realize when I begin dialing that he is no longer here. Each instance of recognition is like learning of his death all over again.

A year is a milestone. As a society we celebrate birthdays, anniversarys, and holidays on an annual basis. As I think back with a year's worth of perspective to those terrible early days of shock and disbelief I realize now that they will never fully leave me. Those days will always be with me, as will Colby's absence. But his life will also be with me. The good times, the memories, will be there. I continue to be amazed at all the people he touched, the lives he changed for the better. Not a week goes by that someone lets me know Colby made a difference in their life. I am so proud of my son because I know it was often hard for him to stay positive when he was hurting inside so badly.

Two days ago, on the first anniversary of his passing, some of his friends and my friends planted a tree in Colby's honor and memory. It was a peaceful, communal effort in a quiet spot by a creek where Colby played as a child. After, everyone stayed to visit and catch up, and some placed personal mementos on the tree's branches. It was good to see everyone. Good to know Colby is still remembered. Good to know others cared about him, and his life. Good to know how much he was loved. Is loved.

Some friends, both his and mine, were not able to be there and while I missed their presence, I understand that grief is an intensely personal journey. This past year has taught me that I have no idea from one moment to the next what I will be feeling or thinking. Sometimes I might be up to facing a group of people, more often not. Those who were not there know where the tree is planted. Several have told me they have already visited it privately, as I will also do.

Many parents who are ahead of me in this process of grief tell me the second year is often worse than the first. This is because the shock has worn off and the finality of the tragic loss has set in. I don't see how anything can be worse than this past year, but time will tell. Today, I can see that I have progressed in my journey of grief. I have not come very far or very fast, but I have had movement. All I can hope for is that a year from now I can look back and see that I am further along the trail than I am now. That's all I can expect. Hope.

Should

2010-07-22T20:44:00.000-05:00

In four days it will be one year since Colby passed. I haven't posted much in the past few weeks because I have such a swirl of emotion and thought and feeling that I can't begin to grasp onto any of it. What made sense to me six months ago no longer does, or at least it is less concrete than before. Now, half formed thoughts and feelings float through my brain and then disappear as soon as I try to define them.

I have spoken with a number of grieving parents about the first anniversary and just like the way they grieve, these parents honor this day in many different ways. There is no "should" or "should not" when it comes to this. There just is. In one way it is comforting to know that whatever I feel or do is correct. On the other hand it is a bit scary not to have quantifiable bench marks to achieve.

Some parents tell me that at the one year mark they are still in denial. They tell themselves their son or daughter is on an extended vacation overseas or in jail or part of the witness protection program. Other parents keep themselves grounded by visiting their child's grave every day. These coping strategies are as individual as the parents themselves. My strategy is that I talk to Colby. I'd like to think he hears me, but if not, it helps me cope, helps me process this undefinable loss.

To honor Colby's first angelversary several of his friends, my friends, and I will plant a tree. Maybe this will be something we do every year. Maybe not. It's a way to honor Colby's life with a living, growing thing and with something that will give back to our environment. Colby would like this, I think. And maybe Colby will be with all of us four days from today. Maybe I'll tell myself that he will be. Or maybe not.

Fourth

2010-07-09T11:35:00.000-05:00

The Fourth of July was hard. These holidays either cause me great anxiety before the day and then are a non-event, or smack me flat from behind. The Fourth of July smacked me good.

I have many good memories of Colby on July Fourth. When Colby was three he and my Mom did the polka for hours before and during the fireworks. They had a wonderful time.

There was the year Colby was about six, when the 4th fell on a Sunday. Tennessee celebrated the Fourth that year on the third and Colby participated with his t-ball team in a parade and then won the t-ball all star championship. Then we flew to Minnesota and celebrated again the next day. By the fifth, we were really tired!

When Colby was about ten, we took our dog, Sundance, to a Fourth of July parade in Minnesota and laughed for years at the face Sundance made when the bagpipes came by. Poor Sundance, that was one of the few life experiences he had that he did not fully enjoy.

Then there were many really hot Fourths that we spent in the lake at my mom's, the years we had picnics, or went to a Twins baseball game, or went to a movie. Now it is so hard to deal with the fact that those years are gone. They are in my past, our past. I will never again share the Fourth or July, or any other holiday with my son. Life has turned into a really, really bad dream. But it is a dream I must live with and learn to make the best of. And, somehow, I will.

This year Mom and I went to the horse races and visited with her friends. Then, later, I sat on the dock with my dog, Abby, and watched as more than a dozen people set off fireworks across the lake. It was a nice time, but I so wished Colby was there to share it.

Coffee

2010-07-01T08:52:00.000-05:00

My mom and I are at a coffee shop. It is one of those trendy places with couches and easy chairs haphazardly draped over the floor. Recorded instrumental music plays softly in the background. Young women with dark, spiky hair and black aprons tied around their waists serve coffee and pastries. They wear brown short-sleeved button down tops and short black skirts to go with the black aprons. The walls are painted brown and the furniture is all varying shades of tan, brown, and a deep maroon. It could be a dark, drab place. But it is not. It is cozy, almost den-like. It is comfortable.

Mom and I place our beverage orders. And then we receive them. Then we wait. As usual, he is late. Then he arrives with a flurry of hugs and apologies. Colby looks good, looks happy. He is not as relaxed as when I have seen him before but this, he says, is because he is busy. Colby knows all the waitresses by name and they treat him as if they know him, as if they are his friends. He has lots of friends, they tell me.

Colby and I take our beverages out to a porch. It is the porch of an old farm house and there are a lot of tall leafy trees between us and the road in front of us. The porch and its accompanying railing is covered with peeling white paint. Colby sits on a chair facing me and I sit in the porch swing. It is hard for mom to get around so she stays inside. "They will let her know what I am doing these days," Colby says, meaning the waitresses.

Colby catches me up on his activities. He is busy with a variety of things and I am so caught up in drinking up the sight of him that I forget to listen. I tell Colby that I wish I could see him more often, that I wish he still lived here with us. He looks puzzled. He frowns that slight frown and his eyes look quizzical. "But I am always with you," he says. "I am always there."

Then Colby looks directly into my eyes and it is his gaze that I see when I wake up.

Ambulance

2010-06-29T20:35:00.000-05:00

Today an ambulance pulls out of a medical clinic. The emergency vehicle is right in front of me and travels at normal speed. This is the same clinic where, when Colby was about nine, a doctor called an ambulance when Colby was having an asthma attack.

Then, Colby had been to see a doctor several times in a ten day period for an upper respiratory infection. It turned into strep even though he had been taking antibiotics and, as was typical whenever Colby got sick, his breathing deteriorated. I called his regular clinic and they were closed as it was a weekend. They suggested we try a walk-in clinic. We did and while there, Colby's breathing went from bad to worse.

After the examination the doctor stepped out of the room. A minute later we heard sirens and the doctor explained he had called an ambulance. The clinic was not equipped to treat Colby in his current state. This was certainly not our first trip to the hospital due to asthma, but it was the first time Colby had gone in an ambulance. I followed the vehicle, which was driving without sirens at normal speed, to Vanderbilt Hospital. Half way there the lights and sirens came on and my heart jumped into my throat. A block later the flashing and noise stopped and the driver later explained to me they were "playing" at Colby's request.

That trip resulted in a several day hospital stay and I think of that time now, as I follow this ambulance for a mile or so. I hope whoever is being transported will be okay. And I hope whoever is being transported is well enough to "play" with the lights and siren.

First Year

2010-06-25T23:03:00.000-05:00

As I approach––as we all approach––the first anniversary of Colby's passing, a therapist suggested I compare Colby's first year on Earth with mine. It's an interesting concept and was quite an eye opener for me. I had never thought much about my first year. However, as my parents split around the time of my first birthday, I realized for the first time that there could have been a lot of fighting. I know the house we lived in was tiny. How much of the yelling was I able to hear, to process? As an only child, it would have been just my parents and me. I believe my dad traveled, so my mom was also probably often overwhelmed in caring for a newborn by herself. For better or worse I will never know how that all affected me, although I am sure it did. After my dad left my mom and I moved in with my grandmother. My mom lives in that house still today.

Colby's dad, on the other hand, left when Colby was just five weeks old. After that it was just Colby and me, and fortunately for me, other than continual resperatoy infections, Colby was a good baby and a good sleeper. When Colby was six weeks old I found a job. Despite my wanting to stay with Colby during the day we had to eat and have shelter and the only way that would happen was if I worked. So, I placed Colby in the daily care of a wonderful grandmotherly woman who had nine grown children of her own. There was only one other child there, a girl who was about six months older than Colby, so he had someone to play with and watch and learn from during the day. In the evenings he and I did "babycizes" (baby exercises), which were in vogue at the time. Colby had excellent athletic ability and hand/eye coordination throughout his life, so maybe some of those early exercises paid off! We also read in the evenings, as I imagine my mother read to me. Colby and I lived in a mobile home in the country and the home was probably a little larger than the one I lived in my first year.

So, my dad was around my first year, Colby's was not. I stayed at home during the day with my mom while Colby was in the home of an older caregiver. I was not around other babies while Colby had an older child to play with. I probably experienced some fighting. Colby and I led a quiet existence at home.

What this all means, I do not know, but I do know that I will think about it. I am sure most of us rarely, if ever, have tried to visualize what our first year was like. It is an important year that shapes us in many ways. Thinking about those first years has given me empathy for my mother, and also empathy for myself. It is not easy to care for a baby no matter what the circumstances, but I believe every mother does the best she can. I know I did, and then some.

Religion

2010-06-21T21:38:00.000-05:00

From the time he was small Colby was interested in world religion and over the years he studied many different forms of worship. The bulk of his personal library was filled with books on Christianity, Hinduism, Buddism, the Jewish religion and others. I remember when he was about fourteen he was so excited to discover that all of the religions he studied had one thing in common: a rule that you should "do undo others as you would like others to do unto you."

Recent studies have shown that those with schizophrenia are often very interested in religion and a 2002 study found that 80 percent of people who are severely mentally ill in North America use religion as a way to better cope with their illness.

I am not sure whether Colby's interest in religion had anything to do with his mental illnesses. I do know that Colby found this prayer several years ago, and it often brought him peace. It is an old translation of "Our Father" from Aramaic to English, rather than from Aramaic to Greek to Latin and then English.

Our Father

O cosmic Birther of all radiance and vibration!
Soften the ground of our being and carve out a space
within us where your Presence can abide.

Fill us with your creativity so that we may be
empowered to bear the fruit of your mission.

Let each of our actions bear fruit in accordance with our desire.
Endow us with the wisdom to produce and share
what each being needs to grow and flourish.

Untie the tangled threads of destiny that bind us,
as we release others from the entanglement of past mistakes.

Do not let us be seduced by that which would divert us
from our true purpose, but illuminate
the opportunities of the present moment.

For you are the ground and the fruitful vision,
the birth, power and fulfillment,
as all is gathered and made whole once again.

Caring

2010-06-19T17:40:00.000-05:00

I'm not sure when I stopped caring about, well, a lot of things. I only realized it when another grieving parent in a support group mentioned that she just didn't care about anything any more. The house was not clean? So what? She was late for an appointment? Big deal. I, too, find myself feeling the same way.

Not that I don't care, intensely, about other things. The oil spill, endangered species, my friends. But the fact that my tomato garden has weeds has no meaning for me anymore. My counselors say this lack of caring is another side of grief.

Studies at the University of Western Sydney in Australia show that the grief of parents after the loss of a child is more intense and prolonged than that of any other loss, and follow-up studies show that anxiety and depression may last four to nine years after the loss of a child. When a child dies suddenly, as Colby did, parental grief may become complicated by post traumatic stress reactions, so that the parent has to deal with the interplay of both trauma and grief. There is just not room in the human brain for all the thoughts, feelings, and emotion so some of them have to go. Like caring.

Maybe someday I will once again be bothered by weeds or the fact that I am late. Maybe I will once again care about the dust bunnies under the couch. Maybe someday I will wake up and realize that it no longer hurts to breathe and the hollowness that permeates my insides is gone. Maybe. Someday.

Movement

2010-06-18T17:55:00.000-05:00

I have a new "yard guy." My mailman is new and the neighbors behind me have a new dog. Colby has not met either of these people, or the dog, and that is another reminder to me that life for those of us who are still here goes on. There is movement in the progression of life and that movement does not include Colby. That thought makes me incredibly sad.

Every day I am reminded that Colby is not here, at least not in physical form. I pass his favorite drinks at the supermarket and put several in the basket . . . and then take them back out. My cable provider requires me to install new converter boxes, something that is not one of my strengths when it comes to skill sets. Colby could have done it when he was four--and that is not an exaggeration. I, meanwhile, will most likely spend and entire frustrating day and still not get it right. I find (yet another) pair of his socks (in a box), wash them and begin to put them in his sock drawer. Then stop.

Counselors say that the mind of a grieving parent is overloaded similarly to that of survivors of post-traumatic stress syndrome. That's why we "forget" our child is no longer here, why we have trouble focusing or remembering to do things we've done every day of our lives. It's one of the many reasons why we eventually turn into different people than we were "before."

That change, or the evolution in our stages of grief, is another movement away from our beloved child. We must go on without them, yet every time we turn around their absence is a gaping hole in our lives. I greet the new yard man. Wave at the new postman and introduce Abby, my dog, Colby's and mine, to the new dog behind us. I do all of this in a wave of grief, for they are more reminders that Colby has really and truly moved on.

e e cummings

2010-06-15T08:51:00.001-05:00

Colby liked the poet e e cummings, mostly, I believe, because cummings wrote many poems in lower case and with little, if any, punctuation. Colby hated punctuation. He felt it was limiting, and who is to say he was wrong? Words aren't always for the writer to convey. Sometimes they are for the reader to interpret.

Here's the beginning one of Colby's favorites:

why must itself up every of a park
why must itself up every of a park
anus stick some quote statue unquote to
prove that a hero equals any jerk
who was afraid to dare to answer "no"?

Here's a favorite of mine:

i carry your heart with me
i carry your heart with me
(i carry it in my heart)
i am never without it
(anywhere i go you go, my dear; and whatever is done
by only me is your doing, my darling)
i fear
no fate (for you are my fate, my sweet)
i want
no world (for beautiful you are my world, my true)
and it's you are whatever a moon has always meant
and whatever a sun will always sing is you

here is the deepest secret nobody knows
(here is the root of the root and the bud of the bud
and the sky of the sky of a tree called life; which grows
higher than the soul can hope or mind can hide)
and this is the wonder that's keeping the stars apart

i carry your heart (i carry it in my heart)

ee cummings

Snoqualmie

2010-06-14T17:30:00.001-05:00

Colby on his 4th birthday. Snoqualmie was 28.

Today would have been Snoqualmie's 49th birthday. Snoqualmie was the horse I had as a child, and then was Colby's horse when he was small. The bond I had with her and then that Colby had with her was amazing. I never had a moment of worry or doubt about Colby's safety if he was playing with Snoqualmie. He'd climb up her mane and ride her in through the pasture with no halter or bridle, just guiding her by pulling left or right on her mane.

Sometimes they'd amble along, a Civil War soldier and his horse coming home from battle, complete with cardboard guns and a military cap we found at a thrift store. Other times they'd gallop thrrough the field, a pirate ship and her captain escaping the enemy (which was sometimes our dog, Dexter, or less often, our cat Bootsie).

Colby never fell off. Snoqualmie would never have allowed it. If he got off balance, she shifted underneath him and gently slowed. She was quiet and patient with Colby, but she knew he was important to me and took good care of him.

Snoqualmie passed away when Colby was six and she was 31. She'd had a stroke a few days before and finally got down and could not get back up. One thing she loved to do was eat, so as I held her head in my lap in a field of trees as I waited for the vet, Colby went to the barn for the grain. For once she could have all she wanted. She licked handful after handful from Colby's little hand and when it was time, I sent Colby to the house. She is buried there, underneath the trees. Even after we moved away from that house, Colby and I visited her at least once a year.

Today I like to think that they are together, galloping off to new adventures in heaven. I had each of them with me for 23 years. First Snoqualmie, and then Colby. Each was my best friend and I miss both of them more than words can say. Happy Birthday, my Fat Girl.

People

2010-06-11T00:31:00.000-05:00

Today I go to a busy annual event. There are several hundred people there. Most I have not seen for a year or more. I have stressed over this event for days. So much so that I get zero sleep the night before. It is work related. I have to go. Some people know that Colby passed, others won't. But they all know Colby, because for years he used to accompany me to this.

Just as I imagined, at the event I had two kinds of conversations. The first went something like this:

"I am so, so very sorry about Colby. You poor thing. How are you doing?"

"I'm fine. It's a bit of an emotional roller coaster, but I'm okay." This is my standard answer. People really do not want to know that I cry every morning when I wake up and every evening before I fall asleep. They don't want to know that Colby's absence still hurts with every breath I take and that it is a rare occasion when I can get in the truck and go from Point A to Point B without having to pull off the road because I am crying so hard.

"Really? Are you really okay?"

"Yes. It is very hard, but I am okay."

"Really?"

These people do not understand that I don't want to go into details in this very public setting. I try not to be rude as I turn to find something to busy myself with, or someone else to talk to. But the someone else invariably jumps into conversation number two:

"Hey! Hi! How are you? Long time no see? How's that boy of yours?"

"I'm sorry to say that Colby passed away last July."

"Ha, ha! No, how is he, really?"

"He passed away."

When they get what I am saying, it's a real conversation stopper. That's when they turn and try to busy themselves with something or find someone else to talk to. In either instance, conversation is awkward. I feel like I have the plague as the crowd parts every time I walk through it. Faces turn away. The few that don't are overly solicitous. "Oh, you poor, poor thing," they say as they pat me on the back.

And people wonder why I don't go out much anymore.

Better

2010-06-08T11:33:00.000-05:00

Sorry for the lapse in posts and thank you all for emailing me. I am okay, just still very tired. Colby was always the one who could tell from the sound of my voice or the look on my face that I was not well. He saw and heard long before anyone else, including myself, that I was too tired, or coming down with something. Now, with Colby gone, without his eagle eye and keen ear, I find myself doing too much and not stopping to rest.

I feel as if I have not really rested in years. A week or so ago my symptoms had reached the scary stage and I knew I was either sick with something very serious or long past exhaustion. Fortunately, now that I have had a little rest, I believe it is the latter. I am just tired and it is a tiredness that won't go away with a good night's sleep--or even two night's sleep. This is a deep mental and physical and emotional exhaustion that will take much time and rest to overcome and I am taking steps to make that happen. Ten hours of down time every day rather than four, half of an over the counter sleep aid if I can't fall asleep, at least two days off a month.

I have not had a vacation in over thirty years and in past years I have only taken a few days off the entire year. It's not that I am a martyr or a glutton for punishment. It was a matter of survival, of managing my work load, Colby's troubles, and my mom's aging. But, Colby was always there to say, "Stop, you are getting sick." Without that touchstone in recent months I have pushed myself too far, for too long.

The good news is that I am now much more aware of what my body is telling me. I am now feeling better than I have in a long time, although I know I have a long way to go before I am where I need to be. I am fortunate that I am able to rest during the day when I need to. For the most part I can get my work done at any hour of the day or night. In that, at least, I am blessed.

Art

2010-06-01T13:20:00.000-05:00

Every year for Mother’s Day Colby gave me something he created. It might have been a drawing, something he made from wood (such as a garden stool), or a poem. A few years ago Colby gave me the painting you see at the top of this post. In keeping with his belief about using everything and throwing nothing away that had any possible use, this painting is done on a piece of cardboard. For this painting he also used paint that was left over from other projects.

The reason I like this painting so much is not just because I think it is beautiful, it’s because the gold in the mountains is paint that was left over from the time we went to Bowie Park in Fairview and gathered pine cones that we tipped with gold and gave to friends as Christmas gifts. The red is from when Colby made a CD storage bin out of popsicle sticks for my mother and painted it. The cardboard is from boxes of books I had delivered for a book signing that Colby helped me stack, and the darker background is paint that was left over from the time Colby and I painted my toy box from when I was a child. The toy box was more recently his, and now resides in the spare bedroom as a bookshelf. Before it was my toy box, it was a storage chest during WWII when my mother was in the Marines.

This is just one of many paintings that Colby did. Most are abstracts and reflect the way he was feeling at the time he painted them. All make excellent use of color and design. Today as I clean out more “stuff” from his room I find his stacks of bare canvasses, his pains and his brushes. In addition to the traditional canvasses most artists use I find several blocks of wood, a small piece of corrugated metal, and two old skateboards—minus wheels. His brushes consist of a small assortment of the usual, plus a number of sponges, table knives, a toothbrush, and a few small scrub brushes. I am so deeply and heart-breakingly saddened that I will never see what work of art Colby planned to create with his collection of “stuff.” I know it would have been absolutely awesome.

Writings

2010-05-30T15:37:00.000-05:00

I try to pinpoint what I miss most about Colby. It is everything. Absolutely everything. But one of many specific things I miss is conversation with him. Colby was a wonderful conversationalist. I miss that. I miss talking to him. I miss hearing his thoughts, his viewpoints, his ideas. In the absence of speech, I have bits and pieces of his writing. Colby was not a writer like I am. Instead, he was a poet, a lyricist, a songwriter. But his writings are a glimpse into his inner soul, for he only wrote about what truly mattered to him.

Instead of using one notebook, Colby had the habit of writing down lines for poems, thoughts, and songs on pieces of scrap paper, or a page or two of many notebooks. Over the past months I have found a number of these bits of writing. I have seen many of them before, but some are new to me. The writings remind me who Colby was at his core, and they keep his thoughts and beliefs fresh in my mind. For example:

Even if I make a mil

I’ll still buy my clothes at Goodwill

Those simple words remind me of Colby’s dedication to recycling, of using something completely and not throwing it away if it still had some life, or in this case some wear, left in it. Colby felt we use too many of our natural resources and do not value enough what the Earth provides. In that, I believe he was right.

Society is in rapid decay

With the crime rate soaring

People are running wild

Greed, power, food additives

A giant corporation

Controls every aspect of

Society from war to entertainment

To organ transplants

Everything is polluted

Life has never been cheaper

Like the lines above, much of Colby’s writing was about unfairness, injustice, and problems in our society. Colby was about valuing human life, finding meaning in our days, and living a life filled with natural products. Someday I will compile his thoughts, his written words. We can all find something of value in them, some thing to think about. But for now I will continue to search for and save them, and revel in each new find.

Tired

2010-05-29T10:23:00.000-05:00

I am so tired. Granted, I had a busy week, but it is more than that. It is the tiredness of grief. I want to sleep for a month, or two, or maybe even for a year. This is not depression tiredness, but the exhaustion of my soul. I listen to counselors, to experts, to other parents who have lost a child, or in some cases, have lost children. One thing is common to them all: each believes there is no right or wrong way to grieve. We each have an individual path to follow and we have to do what is right for us.

My problem is that I don't know what that is. Do I give in to the exhaustion and sleep for a week? I have much to do and am already behind. Will I catch up if I am rested? Will the rest even restore my energy or will I forever stagnate in this exhaustion? Is this tiredness the normal tiredness of grief or is there something more going on? If I do rest, will I ever get back on track? Or, will I lose focus entirely and not be able to find the slippery traction of my path?

The thought of finding an answer to these questions is so mind boggling to me that I can't begin to sort it all out. I miss Colby so much. Every time I breathe, every time I turn around, everything I do. He should be here, yet he is not. Many grieving parents say the second year is worse than the first. The shock wears off and the "real" grieving begins. If that is true, how can I possibly put one foot in front of the other and finish this first year, much yet the second, and the third and the fourth? The only thing I know is that I have to. Somehow I have to because this is what my life is now, and I have no other choice than to continue on. Other grieving parents find a way. If they can do it, I can do it, too.

Pity

2010-05-24T08:39:00.000-05:00

Since Colby passed I do not attend many public events. This is for many reasons. A big one is that a lot of people moving around, along with several conversations going on at once, is still hard for my brain to process. I am overwhelmed with all the sensory input and become very anxious. This is a good sign that I am still reeling from Colby's passing. I am doing better, but have a long way to go. Someone in one of my support groups said it well in that grieving parents never "get over" or "get past" the death of their child, they just learn how to cope with it. I am still learning.

But another reason I do not attend events is that I do not want to see the pity on people's faces when they are confronted with me. People do not know what to do with me now that I am a grieving parent. People feel they cannot talk about kids or family or holidays or memories or the future because I no longer have any of that and it will upset me, so there is nothing left to talk about. I am, it seems, a great conversation stopper.

I do not want anyone's pity. I do not want to be treated like a fragile individual, even though in many ways that is exactly what I am. If a conversation bothers me, and yes, sometimes some conversations do, I will find something else to do, someone else to talk to. This is my problem, not everyone else's. My feelings are still raw, my emotions are still on a huge roller coaster. These are my issues to work through and pity from others serves no purpose.

Someday I will be able to handle the moving people and the varied conversations. It may not be today or tomorrow or even six months from now. But someday I will. Not treating me with pity will help speed this along.

Caves

2010-05-19T21:42:00.000-05:00

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

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

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

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

Depression

2010-05-16T23:18:00.001-05:00

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

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

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

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

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

Changes

2010-05-13T21:47:00.001-05:00

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

In loving memory of Joey and his heavenly buddies

Corners

2010-05-12T08:56:00.000-05:00

I am being propelled very slowly down a long hallway. I am walking, but there is also an unseen force that keeps me walking. I am unable to stop. There are white linoleum tiles on the floor with yellow speckles, and cream colored walls. Every so often there is a brown, wooden door with a silver door handle, but each time I slow to open the door, I find it locked. Fluorescent lights brighten the hallway and overall, it is quite light. Behind me is a corner. There is another corner ahead of me. Sometimes when I look at the corner ahead is it a short distance away. Other times it is quite far.

I am afraid of the corner ahead of me. I have a lot of anxiety about it and whenever I think about rounding that corner I begin to tremble. I am not sure what is around the corner, but I believe it is something bad. Something terrible. I feel sick to my stomach but when I turn around to try to go back, I realize that around the corner I just came from is the worst thing that could ever happen to me. Whatever is around the next corner might be bad, but it cannot be as bad as the last corner.

Even though I now know the next corner will not be as bad as the last, I wonder if I am up for it. The last corner has damaged me. Badly. I am not whole. I am not strong. Even though the next corner will not be as bad as the last I am not convinced I will survive it.

Someone comes toward me. I cannot tell if the person is male or female, even when he/she slows to pass me. We do not speak, but I am given the idea that what is around the next corner might not be bad. That possibility still exists, but there is also a possibility that around the next corner is something quite pleasant. Something nice.

I find that concept hard to grasp, to believe. I am in a place where only bad things happen to me. How can something good be next? My anxiety grows but as I look at the next corner I see that it is now, again, quite far away. Whatever is around the corner, I will have time to prepare for it. But, I wonder how I can brace myself for both the good and the bad? My anxiety grows as I am slowly propelled toward the next corner, the next challenge of my life. I wake up, but am not sure I was dreaming.

Cookies

2010-05-10T23:48:00.001-05:00

Nashville is cleaning up after our horrendous flood of last week. My friend and neighbor has made cookies, brownies, fudge, and bread to take to the flood victims in our area. Over the course of several days she graciously allows me to accompany her, and we drive up and down one devastated street after the other distributing her goodies to volunteers and victims alike. We hear one tragic story, and then another, and I realize yet again that we each walk our own versions of hell. I am not the only one suffering. I am not the only one who is going through challenging times. I am not the only one who has lost a child. Other people have unrecoverable losses, too.

As the days progress the piles of refuse in front of people's homes grow ever larger. Some piles completely obscure the house behind it. This is all these people have. Everything they own is in a ruined pile of stenchy slop in front of their house.

But as I look closer, as the horror of the miles of trash grow more distinct, I see the individuality, rather than the generic. There is a tall, narrow set of wire shelves. Over there are two dining room chairs that might be salvageable. There is a metal picture frame that is not too badly damaged. Across the street I see a set of slimy glass vases that look unbroken. Colby would have loved this.

I miss Colby every second of every day but even more so now, here, because Colby would have loved these piles of flooded trash. I can see him walking the streets, talking with the home owners and volunteers, pitching in to help pull a dresser through a door, and directing a car through a particularly narrow spot on the road. With the combination of helping others and finding free stuff that might could, maybe, someday, be cleaned and re-used, Colby would have been in his element.

As someone in my online support group recently wrote, we grieving parents miss seeing our kids grow and develop through the natural stages of life. Colby would have loved to open his own thrift store. I will never get to see him do that. I will never get to see him help these flood victims or turn twenty-five, have kids or grow old. But worst of all, Colby will never get to experience these things either. Not that he would have enjoyed the pain and suffering the flood victims are enduring, but he would have loved the aftermath, the helping, the process of rebuilding. And he so would have loved all the "stuff." Even if it was covered in flood slime.

Goodwill

2010-05-08T16:54:00.000-05:00

I have given a lot of Colby's "stuff" to the Goodwill. The most recent load I took over the day before it began to rain here in Nashville. The day before the big flood began. This particular Goodwill was underwater for much of the flood and yesterday when I drove by workers were pulling bins of merchandise out to the sidewalk to dry out. Not much looks salvageable.

I see a big wire bin of stuffed animals and my heart leaps into my throat. One of the boxes I just dropped off had a number of Colby's hats and stuffed animals in it. Not his most favorite "stuffies," those I will always keep, but many stuffed toys he played with and loved greatly. Nine months after Colby passed I was ready for another child to love those toys. I was not ready to see them covered in mud and slime. But I had to know if these damaged toys had once belonged to my son.

I started digging through the bin. I know the Goodwill frequently redistributes donations to other stores. I so hoped that was the case here. The workers looked at me from time to time, but they were busy salvaging what they could so they did not pay too much attention to me. And besides, I was probably not the only crazy person they'd seen that day. I took every stuffed toy out of that bin and each gesture of mine was more frantic than the last. Colby's beloved toys could not be here, water logged and destroyed. They just couldn't. And . . . they weren't.

When I realized that I put the toys carefully back in the bin and sat down on the curb and cried with relief. I was not sure why the safety of his toys was so important to me. I had voluntarily given them away. Wanted to give them away. But, I realized, I did not want them thrown away. I wanted the love Colby had shown those animals to live on in the shining eyes of another child. And maybe they still will.

My hope is that the toys were moved to another store before the flood. That they are safe and dry. Hopefully most are already in the arms of another little boy or girl. I'd like to believe that--have to believe it. For the alternative, for me, is unthinkable.

Memorabilia

2010-05-06T22:45:00.000-05:00

I watch news coverage about our recent flooding here in Nashville. So many have lost everything they own. Everything. Thinking about the deep loss hundreds, thousands of people are experiencing makes me feel shaky. It brings me back to the early days when Colby's loss was so fresh and new. That's a terrible place to be.

It also reminds me that in my quest to sort through Colby's "stuff" I need to make sure the important things––photos, legal and other important documents, treasured memorabilia––are kept in a safe place. This means a fireproof/waterproof box, along with copies of everything that is possible to copy in a separate safe location on a different property.

This is an important task not only for me to do, but for everyone to do. Our flood has certainly shown those of us here in Nashville that disaster can strike in an instant. In a few seconds, everything you have can be destroyed. I've lost my son, I don't need to lose my most treasured mementos of him, too.

In the past few days I have gone back to feeling quite overwhelmed and the thought of the time involved to organize these things that are so important to me makes me want to curl up into a little ball and hide. I go back to my mantra of breaking large jobs into small tasks. On the Internet I find many sites that recommend taking photos of treasured items and then storing those files on your computer and also on several back up discs that could be kept at another home or in a safe deposit box. I can do photos. One thing at a time. Having a plan always makes me feel better.

My thoughts and prayers to all victims of the Nashville flood.

Poetry

2010-05-04T19:55:00.000-05:00

Someone sent me this poem today. I do not know the poet, but her words express my feelings exactly. I could not have said it better if I tried.

Silver Tears
by Louise Lagerman

And so it begins
Silver tears falling like soft rain
Cascading downward on it's sad journey
Arriving at my empty soul and shattered heart
The silver tears come because we are apart
I try to see the beauty in things
I yearn to be . . . near the warm sun
I listen for laughter and beauty
but the sliver tears just bide their time
for they know
that behind every smile
every warm embrace
The reality of you being gone
will let the silver tears escape
and so it begins

© Louise Lagerman

Floods

2010-05-04T10:05:00.000-05:00

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.

Relief

2010-04-29T22:56:00.000-05:00

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.

Tomatoes

2010-04-27T12:47:00.000-05:00

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.

Hats

2010-04-26T11:15:00.000-05:00

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.

Suicide

2010-04-20T22:56:00.000-05:00

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.

Mother's Day

2010-04-20T00:15:00.000-05:00

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.

Tremors

2010-04-16T16:54:00.001-05:00

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.

Breathing

2010-04-15T16:55:00.000-05:00

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.

Evenings

2010-04-13T21:11:00.000-05:00

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.

Ragdolls

2010-04-12T18:20:00.000-05:00

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.

Progress

2010-04-09T09:15:00.000-05:00

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.

Dandelions

2010-04-08T11:11:00.000-05:00

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.

Floating

2010-04-04T17:24:00.000-05:00

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.

Metrodome

2010-04-03T18:13:00.000-05:00

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.

Generations

2010-04-02T08:57:00.000-05:00

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.

Family

2010-03-31T12:00:00.000-05:00

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.

Skates

2010-03-29T16:49:00.000-05:00

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.

Car

2010-03-22T08:33:00.000-05:00

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.

Stress

2010-03-20T20:43:00.001-05:00

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.

Easter

2010-03-18T12:39:00.000-05:00

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.

Papers

2010-03-17T11:54:00.000-05:00

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.

Two

2010-03-16T09:44:00.001-05:00

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.

Statistics

2010-03-14T18:26:00.000-05:00

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

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

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

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

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

Mood Disorders alone are two times more prevalent among alcoholics

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

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

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

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

Absence

2010-03-14T18:12:00.000-05:00

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

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

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

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

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

Reform

2010-03-02T23:08:00.000-06:00

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

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

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

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

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

Osmond

2010-02-28T22:57:00.000-06:00

I have debated for several days whether to post this or not. I finally decide it will do more good than harm, so here it is. Most of you know by now that Marie Osmond lost her teenage son, Michael Blosil, several days ago. I won't go into details here. It is all over the news so if you care to read about it, just about every news source has something. What is important is that Ms. Osmond has joined the group no one wants to belong to: the grieving parents group. Sadly, like the death of any parent's child, Michael's death will change her life, and the life of her family, forever.

The difference here is that celebrity complicates the grieving process. It is hard enough to lose a child without the added intrusion of the media. Only too clearly I remember the horror of the first days without Colby and one of the few comforts I had was my privacy. This was important as I needed quiet, private time to process Colby's loss. My friends were here when I needed them, but I did not have strangers seeking more and more information, or when they couldn't get it, making things up on their own. The stress that has to add to this tragic time must be overwhelming.

If I could talk to the Osmond family today I would say two things: one, be kind to yourselves. As a parent of a troubled child who did not make it, and as a friend of parents of troubled children, I know how hard we all try to make things better for our sons and daughters. I know the extreme anguish parents feel when they reach out to a new doctor or a new therapist and hope and pray that maybe this one will be the one who will make a difference. This one is the one who will have the right answers. But sometimes, for some kids, there are no answers. We all do all we can do, and we can't do any more than that. Parents always think there was something they should have done, one thing they missed that would have made the difference. But for some kids, and some parents, it doesn't work that way. How I wish it did. Sometimes, no matter what you do, the end result is the same.

The second thing I would say is that grieving a child is a long, slow process and everyone grieves differently. There is no right or wrong. In the large Osmond family the variety of grief is sure to run the full spectrum, so also be kind to those around you. While the loss of a child is a unique grief for parents, others grieve too.

There are no words to express my sadness for this family that has given us so much joy over the years. I know what a long road lies ahead, and I have only just started down the path myself. I wish them much love and many prayers. I know they have mine.

Chile

2010-02-27T10:10:00.000-06:00

My heart aches for the people of Chile, as it does for those in Haiti. So many parents who have lost sons and daughters; the collected grief is almost unbearable. I talk to so many bereaved parents who, like some of the earthquake parents, don't know what actually happened to their sons and daughters. These parents search, day after day, hoping their child survives, hoping their child is safe. There are few happy endings. The "not knowing" adds greatly to the parent's pain.

I feel the panic, loss, despair, panic, sadness, grief these parents in Chile, Haiti, Okinawa and other places feel. I live the unbelievability of no longer sharing the Earth with your child. I wish I had words, answers. I do not. What I do have are strategies to get through the first few hours, days, of disaster and loss. I was there. I lived it. Am still living it. Will always live it. But when my son passed, when Colby passed, I didn't know a lot of the following. I wish I had because it would have helped me get through the first few hours and days.

1. Allow others to do for you. Allow others to help.
2. Be honest in telling others your needs. If you can't get out of bed, don't.
3. Realize that others are grieving, too. Hug them and allow them to hug you.
4. Understand that your child would want you to go on with your life, so do that for them.
5. Get medical attention if you can. The physical symptoms of shock and panic attack are real.
6. Take life one minute at a time. Do not look beyond that as it will be too overwhelming.
7. Breathe. Remember to breathe.
8. When you are able, stay busy. Let your subconscious process the early stages of the loss.
9. Help others as you can. Do it for your child. Make them proud.
10. This is not something you "get over." Over time, you will discover a "new normal" that is your life.
11. Your life is forever changed, but you can, eventually, live a full and worthwhile life.
12. Everyone grieves differently. Accept that and understand the choices of others.
13. Grief is a process. Processing the initial stages of the loss of a child can take years.
14. Grief is circular. There is no right or wrong with grief, It just is where it is.
15. Be kind to yourself. That your child was in a building that fell was not your fault.
16. Believe in whatever spirituality or religion you believe in, then embrace it.
17. Do something wonderful to honor your child's life and memory. Do it every day.

Exhaustion

2010-02-25T10:24:00.000-06:00

The business of grief is exhausting. It intrudes on my every thought, every action. If I am lucky enough for it to leave for a few moments, when it returns, it slams into me with such force that I gasp. The fact that grief never fully leaves parents who have lost children is a sobering thought.

But, parents do learn to live with it, each in their own way. No parent's grief is the same. Each parent's process for learning to accept it is different. I have two thoughts regarding this. The first is: I wonder if our children know how much we miss them? I wonder if they know how much a part of us they were, are, always will be? And the second is that I wonder if parents whose children are still here appreciate them enough.

It pains me to see moms and dads become exasperated with their children, because I would give anything to be exasperated with mine. Do these parents understand what a gift each child is? In the store, on the street, at social events time after time I hear and see parents ignore their children when they ask (nicely) for attention. I see parents put their kids down and I see the hurt in the child's eyes. I want to slap these parents and tell them to wake up. To appreciate the wonder of their child.

I know how hard it can be to always be a loving, kind, supportive parent who sets and keeps boundaries. It takes time and energy and emotion and at the end of the day parents rarely have enough. of anything. They are, like me, exhausted. But their exhaustion holds the promise of a new day, of togetherness, of fun and games and laighter and love amid the inevitable tears.

Our exhaustion, the exhaustion of parents who have lost is forever present. This is especially true of parents. like me, who have lost their only child. Our exhaustion is forever, and like grief, we have to learn to live with it. I am in the process of trying to do this. My counselors say this is good, that it is a sign of progress in the grief process. But the work, the process, is slow. It zig zags back and forth and most days brings me back to my first question: do our children know how hard this is for us?

I hope Colby is in a place where he does not know how difficult his loss is for me, for his grandmother, for his friends. It would make him sad and we all want him to be happy, to be free of the difficulties he endured here on Earth. He went through a lot and deserves some peace. I want to believe that, I try to believe it, and someday I may actually get there.

Pains

2010-02-22T09:27:00.000-06:00

This article is so applicable to what I feel that I thought it worth posting here.

Phantom Pains
by Carol Mudra
(from Prodigy Medical Support Bulletin Board/Death of a Child)

This A.M. when I was in that half-awake, half-asleep state, I was thinking about what it is like to have your child die. So many people that haven't lost a child cannot possibly understand. I thought of losing a child as being compared to losing one of your extremities. If you had your arm suddenly amputated you would go into extreme shock. There would be sooo much pain for a long, long time. As that assaulting, excruciating pain eases, you learn to "get back into life," step by step, but it's a long process of rehabilitating yourself to learn to live without your arm. You start to "get better" and then the phantom pains come and try to haunt you.

Unexpectedly, without warning, there you are again in pain, except now people don't understand your pain as well as they once did. So you feel guilty for feeling this phantom pain. There are some friends out there who are more wise and do understand about the phantom pains and will still love and be there with you. Other will not.

Your hand itches but you can't scratch. It's not there. The longing to hold your child is there, it's real, but you can't hold your child again while we are still here. We, as parents who have had a child die, have had part of us amputated. They were born out of us, bone of our bone, flesh of our flesh, carried in our wombs, nurtured at our breasts. And even those who have been adopted into our lives are knitted into our very souls. So, how can the death of a child even be related to the death of a father, mother, sister, brother, spouse or friend? These are all great losses but having our child died is having part of us taken away. The grief different; it's not "normal," we are supposed to die before our children.

Then, I thought about the amputated arm. If that wound isn't cleansed and lovingly taken care of, it will become infected. Bitterness and anger (which are normal in grief) can lead to an infection in your soul if you get stuck in it and it is not dealt with. Friends can be loving healers helping to bind up the wound or they can rip open the wound, making it deeper, by insensitive remarks due to a lack of understanding.

We are all at different stages in our journey though this loss and hopefully our healing. But there will always be a part of us that is gone until we are in heaven with them. We will get the phantom pains but we can make a choice each day to go through the pain until we find some hope for our weary souls.

We will never be the same but we can survive and maybe we will even turn out to be a better people, more in tune with others, become "wounded healers". We are already more gifted than a lot of other people in this world because we KNOW what it is to truly love our child. There are a lot of people out there who take their children for granted, just as a lot of us have taken for granted that it is normal to have two arms and two legs.

But what if that were different.....?

Anxiety

2010-02-21T13:13:00.000-06:00

Colby Keegan at age eight.

Colby suffered from anxiety. Sometimes the smallest thing, such as going into a store, triggered terrible reactions; crying, rocking, stomach upsets, panic, sweats, nausea. Gay Hendricks, Ph.D., author of Conscious Breathing: Breathwork for Health, Stress Release, and Personal Mastery has said that, "Anxiety is mostly caused by two emotions: anger and sadness," Colby had both.

There are five major types of anxiety: Generalized Anxiety Disorder, Panic Disorder, Social Phobia (or Social Anxiety Disorder), Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder, and Obsessive-Compulsive Disorder. Colby had all but the last, with the first diagnosis coming in at age eight.

I was sympathetic and empathetic to Colby's illnesses. I was supportive, encouraging, but I could not completely understand, because I did not have the same difficulties. I did not, could not, walk in his shoes, even though I tried, even though I wanted to very much. I felt if I could experience life in the way he experienced it, then I could help him more. Even though life does not work that way, I felt guilty that I could not live Colby's experiences. To some extent, I still feel that way.

It is ironic that in Colby's passing, I come closer to doing that than ever before. Since he passed, I have had a lot of general anxiety and several panic attacks. Many medical professionals say that all parents who lose a child go through a form of Post Traumatic Stress. No one can live those experiences for us, either. So while others can be sympathetic, empathetic, to me, no one can truly understand.

I say this because so many wonderful people try. They go through their own form of anxiety because they can't help more, can't understand better, but again, that's the way life is. It is a group of circles, and this is the anxiety circle. That others try to understand, want to, is enough. More than enough, really, because their caring and love supports and sustains me. So thank you. I haven't said that enough lately, but I think it every hour of every day. Thank you.

Dread

2010-02-17T20:49:00.000-06:00

I don't sleep. From the moment Colby was born I was afraid he'd stop breathing so I'd stay up all night watching him breathe. Then when he developed asthma, he did turn blue several times. There were several ambulance rides, days and days in the hospital. Those years got me in the habit of not sleeping.

Now I stay busy during the day. Go, go, work, work. I stop several times throughout the day to think, reflect, but the pain, the anguish, is too great so I get busy again. By nightfall I am exhausted. I lie in bed and the anxiety returns and I find an excuse to get up, then another, and another. Before I know it, it is morning and I have dozed for less than an hour.

This happens most nights. I go through my days in a daze. Several times I leave the house and forget to turn the water in the sink off. Only one minor flood so far. Over the counter sleep aids make it worse. I shake, I am revved up, and sleep for the next several nights is impossible.

I try relaxation techniques, routines, zen tea, deep breathing, but the thoughts in my head rush in, overpower everything and I am up again, holding my arms around myself and pacing through the house.

In the mirror I do not look like me. A stranger's face stares back through the glass. Dark circles, baggy eyes. Old. Exhausted. Tonight will be different, I think. Tonight I will sleep. I think that every night and some nights, for a few minutes, I even believe myself. I have come to dread the night.

Donations

2010-02-15T23:14:00.000-06:00

We receive our first donation for Colby's Army today. I am shocked, stunned, excited, for this validates the dream, the vision, the words I had of this nonprofit organization just days after Colby's passing. This means it is real, that others also believe we can take Colby's ideas and change the world, one step at a time. All Colby wanted to do was "affect change," positive change. This is the first thing I have been excited about in a very long time.

Just days ago Colby's Army received word that it was an official 501(c)3 nonprofit in every sense of the word. That I felt mildly pleased about, but I expected it to happen. I knew the paperwork was in order. But I was not ever sure others, strangers, people who do not know Colby or me, would also see the vision, also believe, even though there is a wonderful, professional group of directors in place, a board of directors, all of whom who are passionate about the cause.

Despite very limited finances Colby's Army is already helping others, has helped others, and will continue to do so. The donations mean we can kick off programs, get more people involved, and help many more. I am thrilled that we can do this for Colby, in memory of Colby, and for the people and animals whose lives will be improved.

It is also wonderful to feel something other than pain and anguish, despair, hurt, sadness, helplessness. I was not sure I could feel anything other than those feelings anymore. I like knowing other options are there to tap into. I have spent the last six and a half months crying and today I also cry, but these are good tears, tears of possibility, of hope. These tears give me a reason to live and that's something I have not had since Colby passed.

Dreamcatchers

2010-02-15T00:00:00.000-06:00

Today I put the CDs aside to tackle Colby’s backpacks. He had eleven of them and after he became homeless he hid them in handy spots all around town. Some were at the homes of friends, others were tucked under bushes or hung in trees. Depending on where he was, he could find any one of them and have provisions. He stocked each of the backpacks with a variety of food, plastic, can openers, reading material, hygiene and first aid items . . . and a dreamcatcher.

Dreamcatchers originated in the Ojibwa (Chippewa) Nation, but during the 1960s and 1970s they were adopted by many other Nations. A typical dreamcatcher is made by tying strands in a web around a small round or tear-shaped frame. The resulting “dreamcatcher" is hung above the bed in hopes that it will protect those sleeping beneath it from nightmares. Many also believe that a dreamcatcher can change a person's dreams and that only good dreams are allowed to filter through. Bad dreams are caught in the net, where they perish in the light of dawn.

Colby loved history and studied the cultures of many people, including Native peoples across the world. He got his first dreamcatcher when he was eleven, when he came along on the Trail of Hope. This was where one of my clients arranged for five semi truckloads of books, personal care items, computers, blankets, etc. to be given to ten Native American communities. A number of us came along to help unload the trucks. Colby was one of them. It was a life-changing experience for him and I believe he got his empathy for those less fortunate from that trip.

Today, as I unpack each of the backpacks, it isn’t long before I realize every pack has a dreamcatcher. I find that incredibly uplifting, sad, and profound all at the same time. My emotions get the better of me and I sit on the floor of his room, surrounded by backpacks, and I cry. I hope so very much that the dreamcatchers did keep bad dreams away from Colby. I also hope they brought him good memories, fond memories, and I hope that in some way they brought him a little bit of piece. And, I am so very glad that Colby is now in a place where he will never need a dreamcatcher again. All of these feelings and emotion and anxiety leave me exhausted. Drained. I pick up the dreamcatchers and place them around the house. Now, whenever I see them I will think good thoughts of Colby. I even put one by my bed. I typically do not have nightmares, but . . . just in case.

Books

2010-02-12T20:34:00.000-06:00

Colby had thousands of books and many of them he had listed for sale online. The books were spread out over five rooms and other than his personal collection (which numbered about five hundred) none of the books were organized. Lack of organizational skills was part of Colby's dysgraphia disability, along with writing, knot tying, and math calculation. It takes me more than six months but I have examined each book, categorized it, evaluated it for online sales listing, and then either kept it or given it away.

Several hundred books went to Grandpa's House a Nashville-based program for men with mental illness and addiction. About a hundred were so damaged they went in the trash. Several I kept, and I carted more than forty boxes of books to the Goodwill. I still have about two hundred books from Colby's personal collection that I will keep for a while . . . or longer.

The reason this is important is that I carried the last box of books to the Goodwill today. This sorting through thousands of books has taken a good portion of my time. Plus, it was important to move them out so I can begin evaluating, organizing, sorting, categorizing and moving other groups of items such as his hundred or so DVDs, VHS tapes, and video games. There are also several hundred CDs and CD cases in various bags and boxes, and stacked loosely on shelves. Of course none of the CDs are actually in the cases or any where near the case they belong to. I will begin matching those up next. That could take me another six months. At least CDs are smaller than books.

The work is tiring, boring, mind-numbing. But in doing it I feel close to Colby. These were his things, things that were important to him, that meant something to him. The best I can do is keep the ones we were both connected to and find homes for the rest. They do no one any good sitting in a box or on a shelf. Colby would want this music that he loved so much to be appreciated by others. And it will be . . . many months from now.

Intervention

2010-02-11T22:42:00.000-06:00

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

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

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

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

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

Supplies

2010-02-07T21:46:00.000-06:00

The dream is in black and white, like a pencil drawing with no shading. Just black areas and white areas. No gray. Colby is driving a Jeep and I am sitting in the passenger seat next to him. Colby's hair is longer and darker and messier than when I have seen it in other dreams, and his clothes are spattered with mud. The Jeep is also mud spattered. It has a stick shift and Colby's entire body is turned toward me, including his right calf, which rests on the seat next to the stick shift, his lower leg bent back toward him. If there is a top on the Jeep it is either folded down or has been removed. The temperature is perfect. I feel neither warm or cold.

There is no steering wheel or gas pedal in the Jeep, but somehow we navigate through a large area of rubble. Colby uses the stick shift a few times, but I can't tell how that affects where we are going or how we get there. We are talking in this dream, but we do not say anything; the conversation between us is in our heads. I am so happy to see that Colby is relaxed, at ease with himself, and confident.

Colby tells me he spends his time helping people in this Jeep and he is taking me to where he will be working this day. Soon after that we come to a stop. The area where we are is still littered with rubble and in the near distance people mill about. Colby tells me he is bringing the people supplies. Surprised, because I did not feel like we were hauling anything, I turn around to look in the back of the Jeep. The supplies we are bringing are not those kinds of supplies, he says.

I ponder that for a while and then ask why we do not get out and bring the supplies to the people. Colby replies that the people have to come to us. I watch the people and comment that the people act as if they do not know we are here. It's okay. Some will see us, he says. Some will come for the supplies. I have the feeling that the supplies are in the form of information or guidance, and I wake up then, not knowing if the people are here on Earth or over in Colby's world.

Beliefs

2010-02-05T11:24:00.000-06:00

One of my counseling exercises is to write down what I believe. That varies from day-to-day, hour-to-hour. Wavering feelings are, apparently, typical of grieving parents. But right now I believe that:

• Colby lived and died as he was meant to
• If I ask the right questions and pay attention, Colby left many answers
• Mourning is a learning experience
• Colby is still here and he lives inside me and everyone who knew him
• Colby is still teaching me how to live
• Words that express how I feel about Colby and his passing do not exist
• Death does not end a relationship, it just changes how we communicate.
• Parents that have lost children are broken, and when they are put back together there is a part missing
• No one grieves in exactly the same way
• Death leaves a heartache no one can heal and love leaves a memory no one can steal

• In the big picture, material things do not matter
• Nothing in my life has prepared me to mourn the passing of my child
• I am more overwhelmed now than at any other time in my life
• I often feel helpless, but not hopeless
• Colby is far happier now than he ever was here on Earth

Women

2010-02-04T08:31:00.000-06:00

I am standing in a field crowded with women. There are thousands of us covering what must be twenty or thirty acres. We all stand facing the same direction shoulder to shoulder packed together like sardines. The women wear all sorts of casual clothing. The one to my left is maybe ten years younger than I am and of medium height. She wears a loose yellow cotton shirt with narrow, black horizonal stripes, a black knit sweater, charcoal gray capri pants and black ballet slippers. Her hair is short, brown and layered. She is nervous.

As soon as I realize that all the women here are mothers I hear a voice. It is a male voice and is coming through a loudspeaker, although I cannot see it or him. The voice asks all mothers who have lost a child to form a separate group to the front of this group. A surprisingly large number of women step forward, myself included. We huddle together in this new group, unformed, with nothing approximating the neat lines and rows and precision stance of the previous group. All we want is to rejoin the first group. The wanting is an terrible anguish, a deep physical pain. Several of us are crying.

The voice then announces that if we have other children, we can rejoin the first group. We know the voice is speaking only to us, this second, lost group of mothers. If they have not already been crying, most of the mothers break down in tears of joy as they scurry back to the larger group and shoulder their way into the ranks. There must be about fifty of us left, mothers who have no other children.

If you have a spouse, please rejoin the first group. More than thirty of the women leave. Grateful, glad. If you can physically have more children, rejoin. More leave. If you have a brother, rejoin. Another leaves. there are only a handful of us left. If you have a sister, rejoin. We are down to two. We two are so very frightened and lonely. If you have a niece, rejoin. We stare at each other, terrified. If you have a nephew, rejoin. She looks pityingly at me before she breaks into tears and runs back into the group. I am alone.

I pray for the voice to call out something else. If you are a nice person, rejoin. If you loved your son, rejoin. If you have a cat, rejoin. But the voice is gone. I turn around to stare at the huge mass of women, of mothers, but they too are gone and I am completely and utterly alone.

When I wake up, even though I try, I cannot determine if this was a dream . . . or not.

Home

2010-02-02T20:56:00.000-06:00

Today I have a panic attack. I have not had one for some time. I am downtown, leaving a meeting when I feel my heart start to pound and the world begin to whirl around me. Somehow I make it to my truck and I lie on the front seat wondering if I am having a heart attack. Eventually the panic subsides and I am left with a nauseated, shaky, emptiness.

I drive home and sit in the driveway, confused. There is a for sale sign in my yard, and the beautiful rosebush to the left of the house has been chopped down. I wonder who did that; the bush stood more than six feet high. Gradually I realize this is not my house, or it isn’t anymore. I now see I have unconsciously driven to a house Colby and I lived in from the time he was nine until he was twelve. It was the house we lived in before we bought the house we (I) have now. I haven’t been by the house in over a year. Colby and I always included it in our “tour of homes” that we did every Thanksgiving weekend. We had lived in eleven houses and each year we took an afternoon and visited them all. As I look at the house I can see that it has new siding and someone has added a railing to the porch. Good. The house badly needed updating. I drive around the block and turn into the alley that runs behind the house. Colby’s tire swing is still there, but our vegetable garden has been turned into lawn.

I park in the alley and stare at Colby’s tire swing. I can almost see him there, swinging far higher than I am comfortable with, then climbing out of the tire as it swings to sit on top of it. Our dog, Sundance, is there too, running around the yard, tail wagging so fast I can barely see it. Colby is dressed as a pirate and yells “Yo, ho ho!” at the top of his lungs every time the tire swings toward the house. I am sitting in a lawn chair on the patio watching him. Our cat, Bootsie, is sitting by my feet and eying a bird that has landed on the fence. It is a wonderful memory.

All of them are gone now. Colby, Sundance, and Bootsie. I feel abandoned. Left behind. Forgotten . . . and I am overwhelmed with sadness. I finally put my truck in gear and drive home, this time to the right house. I hesitate to call this house home anymore as it feels alien in Colby’s absence. I open the door and sit carefully on a once familiar couch. The room, my living room, feels like it belongs to someone else. I spend the rest of the afternoon sitting on a strange couch in a foreign room and wonder what in the world I am supposed to do now.

Timelines

2010-02-01T20:16:00.000-06:00

A dear friend is in liver failure. Long term, it doesn’t look good. We’ve been friends for almost twenty years and over those years we shared our ups and downs, our triumphs and tragedies. My friend is one of the very few people I can tell anything to and know that no matter what I tell her she will not think less of me. Many times through the years she dropped everything to be a friend to Colby and to me. She bent over backwards to help us whenever we needed it and now, when she needs it most, I cannot help her. I cannot tell you how sad that makes me feel.

When I learn of my friend’s health crisis my first thought is that I can’t lose someone else so soon. I am not ready. This is too much. I barely function now, how can I possibly manage with another loss? My second thought is one of frustration. I want to help, need to help. While I can’t assist in the way she needs most, while I cannot give her a new liver, I can let people know of her kindness. This is in hopes that we all can learn from her, think of her when others are in need and respond as she would have––with everything she had.

My friend is not a perfect person. She can be exasperating. She does not always use good judgment. She has problems managing money. But she does know the true meaning of friendship. She is kind. She is honest and true. She helps her friends with no questions asked. She is there for those who are important to her and I can’t begin to count all the ways she has helped and supported me over the years.

This friend was not only was my friend, she was Colby’s friend. When Colby was sick, she made him laugh. When he needed a job, she not only gave him one, she recommended him to all her friends and clients. Then she gave him a great reference. She helped Colby learn how to cook and when he was very young she helped him support the homeless. And when he was twelve, when he started playing guitar, she even got music industry friends to donate their used musical equipment to him.

In recent years my friend’s health has not been good. She has been given “timelines” by medical professionals before, but before she never believed them. Now I think she does, even though she doesn’t want to. I understand we live our lives to learn lessons and help others, and when we’ve done what we are here to do, then it is time to go. My friend has helped countless others and I know she has learned a lot about herself, others, and life. She has more than paid her dues here on Earth, but I will be selfish here and ask that she be able to stay a little while longer. I am not the only person who needs her. She has children and grandchildren and many other friends. Besides, I just can’t let go until I am a little stronger.

Please join me in praying for my friend, Colby's friend, for her healing, for a quick match for her liver transplant. Out of privacy I do not want to mention her name, but God will know who you are praying for. And so will I. Thank you.

Asthma

2010-01-31T21:02:00.000-06:00

Colby is twelve when I am diagnosed with asthma. It is he, in fact, who diagnoses me. He has had asthma since he was three and somehow knows that my series of worsening coughs is asthma, rather than allergies.

Colby also has (had) asthma. From the time he is three until he is nine, Colby has several stays on the children's floor of Vanderbilt Hospital. This is before the new children's hospital is built. His first asthma episode comes on the last day of my old job, the one I resign from so I can open my own business. Colby is three and a half and I want to do this so I can be a room mother, go on his school field trips, and take him to ball practices.

On this afternoon his babysitter calls to say I should come early. Colby is sick. I am desperately trying to wind things up at the old job, but I get there as soon as I can. The doctor, not his usual physician, asks why I'd waited so long before bringing him in with an asthma attack. I reply that my son doesn't have asthma. But apparently now he does.

We are on the children's floor for five days. Twice, hospital volunteers stay with Colby while I go back to our house to feed our two dogs, and our cat and horse. Colby has breathing treatments every four hours so we are up all the time. The only place for me to sleep is in an armchair. I am so very, very tired.

On the second day, representatives from the bank come to Colby's room so I can sign the loan papers for the new business. On the third day I come down with a sinus infection. On the fourth day I am in the hospital parking lot, coming back from feeding the animals when, exhausted, I slip and fall, breaking my instep. I hobble up to Colby's room and spend the rest of the afternoon and all night in the chair with my foot propped up on the arm. How ironic, I think, that I am here in the hospital and cannot go to the emergency room; there is no one to watch Colby. The next day, as soon as they release Colby, we limp down to the emergency room where x-rays confirm the break. I am on crutches for the next six weeks. None of the later stays were that dramatic, but combined, they gave Colby a sixth sense about asthma.

After I am diagnosed, Colby is (was) always the first to recognize my impending episodes. He could tell just by looking at me, or after few seconds on the phone, and would ask if I'd thought about checking my air flow or using an inhaler. Now, without Colby's instincts, I find myself in the throws of a bad asthma episode. Not bad enough to seek out a physician, yet. But maybe. Maybe soon. Without Colby I cannot tell until I am already wheezing that asthma is rearing it's ugly head again. His early intervention stopped most of my episodes and they rarely needed professional medical attention.

Every day I find another way to miss Colby and today this is added to the list. This, now, is added to his humor, intelligence, eclectic taste, quirks, talent, kindness, conversation, and a host of other things. Today I read a heartfelt letter from a mom who lost her son forty years ago. Her heart is still breaking, as is mine.

Nine

2010-01-29T11:27:00.000-06:00

I am maybe 3/4 of the way through sorting Colby's things. It has taken six months of steady work to get this far. Now it is time to sort and organize what I have gone through. So far I have nine cell phones, nine flashlights, nine cassette players, nine speakers, nine backpacks. There is more to sort through. He was a pack rat. I may find more.

This sorting is bittersweet. Some days I can't even think about it because it is too real. Sorting through Colby's things means he is really gone. He is not coming back. Other days I rummage with a vengence, clearing space, clearing clutter, needing the process to be finished so I can move on. If one ever can. I am not convinced that is possible. I am forever changed.

Every time I sort I hope to find something of meaning. And often I do. I have found a box of Christmas and birthday cards his grandmother and I gave him over the years. He saved every one. I find photos of us, of a dog we had for many years, of his grandma, all in the backpack he had with him when he passed. There are many scraps of song lyrics and poems, and abstract acryllic paintings he did. There is a collection of old coins he used to study and pour over, and lots of music, his music, that I haven't gotten to yet.

Schizophrenia sucks. It really does. It and its effects, the paranoia, anxiety, depression, panic attacks, and resulting use of drugs and alcohol to try to feel normal, has devastated so many branches of my family. My mother's side of the family. And now mine. I am the last. On one hand I am glad that there is no possibility that our genetic makeup will contribute further to this disease. On the other, I am still so very lost and alone without my son. Researchers are making strides in understanding schizophrenia and its ravaging effects. I support them and pray that someday this disease will be completely treatable, or even curable. No one needs to hurt this much.

Fate

2010-01-27T22:50:00.000-06:00

I think a lot about fate and destiny. For example, are each of our lives pre-ordained? Is there a master plan in place for us? Is the length of our stay here on Earth determined before we ever arrive? Do we meet the people we are supposed to meet, or is chance truly chance?

And what about us? Why are we here? Are we here to learn lessons? To help others? To enjoy life? Are our gifts and talents chosen by us? Given to us? And why are we born to our specific parents? Why was I born in Minnesota rather than Australia? Or Japan? And why now? Why was I not born, for example in 1726, or 1532, or 2145? What is our purpose? What are we supposed to do? How do we know when it is time to go?

This, obviously, is a confusing time. I think about Colby and wonder how he knew at age five that he was not going to live long. I wonder why he had learning disabilities? Why he had mental illness? I wonder if I'd had other children, would they, too, have had the same?

So many questions and the more I think the more questions I find to ask. So far there are very few answers. I wonder if they will ever come?

Six

2010-01-25T21:07:00.000-06:00

It is six months today since Colby passed. It seems like just yesterday. And some days I still can't believe he is gone at all. This morning I talk with a parent whose child has been gone for almost fifteen years and she says it is only in the past year that she can think of her son without pain. Fifteen years. I hope I can someday reach that stage in my grief, but today I can't possibly fathom life without the pain of his loss. Colby touched so many and we are all profoundly affected by his absence. I hope he knows how much he is loved and missed, how much his life enriched all of ours, how we hope and pray for his happiness and peace.

A counselor suggests I try to figure out what I have learned in the past six months. I break the list into groups: positive things, negative things, what I have learned about myself, about Colby, about others. The list grows throughout the day and at some point I begin to shorten the list, to edit it down to what is most important to me at this hour of this day. Much of what I learn comes from all-night sessions with myself and with God, and also from sorting through all of Colby's "stuff." The top ten things come down to (in no particular order):

• Colby's mental illness was greater than anyone realized
• Colby was many things to many people, which is part of the schizophrenia
• Colby "knew" at a very young age that he would not be here long––and he was okay with that
• Colby cared very much about people, animals, and the environment
• Colby struggled silently, when opening up could have brought him help
• I love Colby unconditionally and will never get over his loss
• I am still terrified at the thought of being the last of my family
• Like Colby, I have many wonderful friends
• I miss Colby with every breath I take
• I am more proud of my son than words can ever say

Tomorrow's list will look different, as did yesterday's. My emotions are still on a huge roller coaster, doing so many loops and spins that I wonder if I will ever find my way off of this ride.

Remembrances

2010-01-23T22:33:00.000-06:00

I am behind on my tasks for counseling. Today I drive to a small town near where Colby and I used to live and have lunch at a restaurant where we used to eat. My task is to remember good memories we had there. I sit first at a table, but that is too hard. Colby should be in the seat facing me; his absence is too strong so I move to the counter. There, I first see Colby making sailboats out of his fish sticks and launching them in a sea of tartar sauce. Then I watch as he makes letters and words out of his french fries. I see him through the anorexic years and remember my anguish every time he left to use the rest room. Later, I visualize him loving a steak salad he ordered.

For some reason I can't swallow my food so I get it boxed up and drive a short distance to a park Colby and I liked. His second grade field trip was to this park when they had a festival honoring the area's history, and I remember the smile on his face as he wandered through the area with his classmates. Then I drive up to the road to a spot where I used to take Colby and his friends fishing. I can't recall them ever catching anything, but they sure had fun trying.

I am not sure what this exercise is supposed to accomplish. Maybe that's part of it, I am supposed to figure that out for myself. Today I learn I can face places where Colby and I spent happy times, and that's a good thing. I know I could not have done this a few months ago. I also learned that if I have a choice, I'd rather not. I got through the day, but it made me sad, wistful. I have been putting off errands in other places Colby and I had fun. I think I will put them off a little longer, even though I know that if I have to do them, I can. Maybe I'll try again in a few months.

Research

2010-01-22T16:58:00.000-06:00

One of the things I struggle with most is Colby's schizophrenia. There were many in my family who had this complex disease, so I know he inherited it from me. I feel tremendous guilt over this, even though I know one cannot help what genes he or she passes on. Nor can a person control how those genes mix with the other parent and manifests in the child. Schizophrenia is hard to predict. It skips around like a tornado, landing here and there, missing this one and that one, but causing horrible destruction to everyone who is even on the periphery of its path.

What family I had when I was younger was not close, so I did not know until recently how many were affected. But even if I had known, in the years leading up to Colby's birth, there would not have been anything I could have done. There was no genetic screening back then, no way of predicting whether or not a person was carrier of a specific gene. But now all that is changing.

According to a study conducted by researchers at Mount Sinai School of Medicine, variations of a gene related to brain development and function (OLIG2) may cause the development of schizophrenia. Researchers have already classified schizophrenia as an hereditary psychiatric disorder. Earlier research suggested that schizophrenia is associated with changes in myelin, the fatty substance (or white matter) in the brain that coats nerve fibers and is critical for the brain to function properly. Myelin is formed by a group of central nervous cells that are regulated by the gene OLIG2.

The new study showed that genetic variation in OLIG2 was strongly associated with schizophrenia. In addition, OLIG2 also showed a genetic association with schizophrenia when examined together with two other genes previously associated with schizophrenia, CNP and ERBB4, which are also active in the development of myelin.

As researchers further unravel the role of OLIG2 and myelin in schizophrenia, it is possible that medications like those being developed for the treatment of multiple sclerosis, a disorder associated with a breakdown of myelin, may have a future impact in the treatment of schizophrenia. This news is so exciting to me. None of us know how difficult life was for Colby. He was the only one walking in his shoes, but I do know that he struggled, daily, hourly. I would not wish his circumstances on anyone. But it is quite possible that future generations may not only have more effective treatment, there may someday be a cure.

Tears

2010-01-21T22:17:00.000-06:00

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

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

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

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

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

Map

2010-01-19T22:31:00.001-06:00

In my dream I am up in the sky looking down on the United States. The entire country is perfectly flat and the color of cream. The land has a hard laminate surface and all of the land is elevated about a foot from the flat, motionless, dark green ocean that surrounds it. The country also has a red border around it.

The cities are marked with a small red circle and dark green type, and the roads are all the same size, designated by dark green squiggles. No road on this map is straight and many end in a dead end. As I watch, I see myself, a cartoon figure driving east in a black convertible. It doesn't seem strange that I am both in the sky and on the ground.

I am watching from such great height that my car and I are about as big as the end of a pencil. But I can see that my hair is black and pulled back into a pony tail. I am driving through what in real life is probably Missouri. The town I have most likely just driven through, the town just to the west of my car, is labeled Lost. I am halfway between it and Confused. To the north is Disoriented and to the south is Stuck. I watch as I stop at a crossroads between all of the towns and turn the car off. I know that I am looking for Colby but I have no clue which direction I should go. I climb into the back seat and sit on the top of the seat back. My feet rest on the center of the sitting part of the seat. Neither of my selves feel anxious. After a time I climb back into the driver's seat, start the car and put it in gear. Before I drive off I turn to my right and smile and wave at myself in the sky. I wake up before I know where I am going.

Earthquake

2010-01-16T19:41:00.000-06:00

When I learned Colby had passed it was as if an earthquake flattened my world. My center of balance had been yanked out from underneath me and when I fell I had no idea where I would land. I am still not sure. I have not yet found my balance. Some moments I do better than others and when a challenge, an aftershock, presents itself, all I can do is hold on. Sometimes I find myself flat on the floor again, wondering how in the world I am going to get up.

Today I have a little aftershock and I do not handle it well. Then I think of all the Haiti survivors. When they learned a loved one had passed they did not have a comfortable home to retreat to. They did not have electricity, running water, food, shelter, clean clothes, the Internet. They did not have any of the comforts of home. no photos to remember loved ones by. No momentos. No remembrances of lost loved ones. Nothing. Most do not have phones. Many learned of multiple losses when they themselves were injured. I was fortunate. I did not have the panic of trying to find a loved one who was missing. I did not have to suffer in agony while waiting for medical care. While my pain is excruciating, theirs is unimaginable. Yet they are managing to go on.

You can help ease the suffering of the people of Haiti by making a $10 donation. Just text HAITI to 90999. The charge will be added to your next phone bill. If we all sent $10, which most can afford, we can ensure that adequate medical supplies, food and water are available. While Haiti is a long way away, the next major earthquake could hit our hometowns. The next one could affect us profoundly.

Haiti

2010-01-14T22:28:00.000-06:00

Today I learn that during the 2009 holidays a group of men in recovery gather clothes and in Colby's name distribute them to the homeless under Nashville's Jefferson Street Bridge. The men are from Grandpa's House, a Nashville-based nonprofit recovery support facility that Colby would have entered in Fall 2009.

I am overcome, truly overcome, with gratitude that these men would honor Colby and his memory in a way that would have meant so much to Colby. Colby felt deeply for those who live with life's unfairness, life's sadness, for those who work so much harder than the rest of us just to survive. As a group, these men from Grandpa's House are doing what Colby wanted to, but could not.

Colby wanted to make life better for those who had it rough. When he was twelve, he'd take his guitar, his harmonica, and a couple of extra soft drinks to the park to play for the homeless. When I asked him why he wanted to do that, he said, "Because no one else will. Because they are human beings who enjoy music all the more because they rarely get to hear it played. Because they are human and deserve the respect I can give them." This, from a boy of twelve.

Colby and the men from Grandpa's House remind us that a little compassion, a little help, can make all the difference. They remind us that those who are in need cannot pull themselves up by their bootstraps if they have no boots. That a little can go a very, very long way.

That said, I know Colby would be so very proud if you took a minute to text HAITI to 90999. This will make a $10 donation to the Red Cross relief effort there and will be added to your next cell phone bill. I did and I could feel Colby smile as I did.

Health

2010-01-12T17:42:00.000-06:00

I haven't been taking care of myself. For years I adhered to a special diet and I have not been doing that since Colby passed. It has been hard enough just to remember to buy groceries, much less the correct groceries. Then eating them is an entirely different matter. It's not that I don't want to eat correctly, it's that I have not been able to focus enough to do so.

Eating right for me is different than for most people. I have a chronic illness that is controlled by diet and I have a genetic predisposition to heart issues. I have had close family members pass away at very early ages from massive heart attacks. My blood pressure is very low, which is good, but my triglycerides are somewhat high, which is not so good.

This week I had a bad asthma attack. Knowing that for me this is a symptom of other things going on, I had blood pulled. The results were not terrible, but they were not good either. Compared to other people, I still have very good eating habits. I rarely eat either fast food or "junk." But balancing the dietary needs of my illness along with the needs of keeping my triglycerides down is a delicate matter. Colby was always great about reminding me, based on what I'd already eaten that day, to eat a little more protein, or something with little salt. This is just one of the many areas of my life that is empty without Colby. Today, after a dietary review my doctor said, "It's almost as if you want to die."

The words stun me. I wonder if, subconsciously, that is what is happening. Or, is it that life is still so overwhelming? I do not know, and add it to my growing list of things to ponder. I do know that Colby would want me to take care of myself. I have many things yet to do, and one of them is ensuring that Colby and the things he stood for, the things that were important to him, will never be forgotten. To do that I have to be healthy. To be healthy, I have to closely monitor what I eat.

My doctor suggests joining sparkpeople.com. It's a free site where you can track your food intake and it automatically gives you the nutritional breakdowns. You can customize just about everything and it also gives you video demos of suggested exercises and fitness plans. I signed on and we will see. So far it has been a real eye-opener. I have already learned that even though I thought I was doing well in my specialized diet before Colby passed, I really wasn't. While I won't do this for me, I will do it for Colby. For his memory. For his beliefs. Colby was too good a person to go unremembered, and the world will be a better place if Colby's ideas on the environment, animal welfare, and human dignity are embraced by many.

Strength

2010-01-11T16:02:00.000-06:00

I walk down a grassy path when a big, bright green, poisonous snake with a head the size of a tennis ball slithers toward me. I see the snake coming and stop. I know the snake will bite me, yet I do nothing to prevent it. And yes, the snake does bite and I feel a sharp sting on my calf. I know I should get sick quickly, but I don't. I wait . . . and wait. I prepare myself for waves of pain. When nothing comes I begin to walk again down the path.

The grassy area changes to trees and a huge dark gray dog with matted hair lunges at me. I can see that the dog is rabid, yet all I do is stop. I do nothing to prevent the bite. I feel the tug as he clamps onto my right forearm. I feel the skin break and know I should have been infected with rabies, but I sense that I have not. I wait again, wait for the dog's saliva to travel through my body, but I know in my heart that I am fine and I continue on.

The trees change to deep woods and I encounter a woman with short, straight dark hair. She is in her late thirties and dressed "business casual." I wonder how she can walk through the woods in her high heeled black boots and why the shiny black purse she wears on her shoulder doesn't catch on the tree branches. There is no grass here and all the trees appear to be dead. She approaches with a smile and I realize instantly that the gel she rubs into my dog bite is meant to finish the job. It is supposed to kill me instantly. Once more I wait for pain, dizziness, the inevitable blackout. But none of that happens. I look at the woman's wavering smile. She is not sure why the gel didn't drop me instantly. I am not sure either. Eventually I smile and brush past her, and walk further into the lifeless woods. I do not look back.

This, of course, is a dream. I speak with my counselor and we conclude that the dream is a sign of my strength. That even though I have been hit, attacked by tragedy more than once, I have the strength to walk through it. And, because I did not flinch or run away from it means I am willing and able to meet challenges head on. That I woke up before I made my way out of the woods could mean I am still dealing with my tragedy. I don't feel strong, so maybe the dream is a way for me to know I am stronger than I think I am.

Colby was not in the dream, but throughout, I had a sense he was watching from an elevated distance somewhere to my right. He watched calmly, not helping because he knew he didn't have to.

Ovens

2010-01-09T20:38:00.000-06:00

I am not a cook. This is mostly due to the fact that I do not have a sense of taste or smell. Sometimes, on a good day, I can smell cinnamon, but never smoke or fire. That's why when I blew up the oven a few Thanksgivings ago Colby and I decided it shouldn't be replaced. I have a history of unintentionally setting the kitchen on fire. Instead, Colby got me a small toaster oven with a glass window, so I could watch the food cook. This was so I could take the food out of the oven before it burned up. For the most part, that idea worked.

Today, however, the toaster oven that Colby so thoughtfully gave me died. I unplug it from the wall and slowly wrap the cord around its body. I feel immense sadness, even though I know the oven was old and had worked hard day after day. But it isn't until I drive to the store to buy a new oven that I break down. I park in the lot and cry, big, heart-wrenching sobs. Not having this particular oven, this thoughtful gift from my son, means that I am one more step away from Colby. This new oven will hold none of the memories of the old and today that is almost more than I can bear. Almost.

A while ago a friend sent me a quote about every day that passes means I am one day closer to seeing Colby in heaven. I believe that is true. But it is so hard to put that twist on it, to view it from that perspective, when all I feel is that each day that passes takes me one more day away from his last words, his last hug, his last gift, his last phone call. But I try. I do try.

I dry my tears, purchase a new oven, bring it home and take the old oven down to the trash bin. I find it interesting that I have no desire to hang on to it, even though it was something very special that Colby gave me. Maybe it is because my home is filled with thoughtful gifts from him. Or, maybe it is because I am further along my journey in grief. Or, maybe it is just because my house is still so overloaded with stuff that I know I need to get rid of as many things as possible.

I close the lid on the trash can and give it a pat. Then I climb the stairs to the kitchen and sit down to read the new oven's directions. If I can't have the oven that Colby gave me, then at least I can have the thought behind it and do my best to keep my kitchen flame free.

BabyColby

2010-01-07T11:32:00.001-06:00

When Colby was younger, much younger, he used to love to hear stories of BabyColby. BabyColby was, of course, Colby as a baby, but over the years, through the many stories, he morphed into his own separate entity.

BabyColby used to grab my index finger so hard it turned purple. When we were going somewhere in the car he'd reach over from his car seat (this was long before the recommendations were to have your child ride in the back seat, or even facing backwards) and grab my hand. Then he'd babble in paragraphs. It was never just words, or even sentences. Even as a baby Colby had strong opinions about things and voiced them loudly. To illustrate his point he'd pound his hand (along with my purple finger) into the arm rest of his car seat, then he'd laugh. His laugh then was a sharp intake of air that sounded more like an asthmatic wheeze than a sound of merriment.

BabyColby stood up for the first time on his six month birthday. He began walking at nine months, and at thirteen months said his first sentence, "Mom, it no go." BabyColby was in the yard with me as I picked up sticks and his words were in reference to a huge log he was trying to move. "No," I said. "It's too big. Let's pick up these smaller sticks instead." And so he did.

I wonder now, if BabyColby knew, even then, that he would not be here long. If that was the reason for the early milestones. Certainly by age five Colby was verbalizing his knowledge of his short stay here on Earth, although I refused to believe it, acknowledge it. It wasn't possible, was it? Kids just don't die young. But they do. Many of them do.

I look out now at a few stray sticks in my yard and think of BabyColby and how much I wanted him, loved him, still love him. Every baby is precious, special, but BabyColby really was so much more than just precious and special. he was much more than that, and even though he is not with us any longer, I know he still is.