Living with Loss

Why is it the pattern is so predictable? Everything is going along and it hits me...he's not here.  He's gone. How can that be?  How can my son not be here? I had one of those days where I felt like the world was crashing in on me....like I couldn't stop the madness of life from taking control of my mind, of my heart, of my world. Damn, I hate this. If you think about it, if you think about the reality of his death and what it means, it will drive you to madness....so I push it back, I keep it away, in a dark place that is hidden and difficult to find.  Oh, sure it's on purpose, if this reality hit the surface of my mind I could not cope.  We all have coping mechanisms, mine are the dark and hidden crevices of the mind. Today, I could feel it coming on. First the fear, then the overwhelming anxiety, like I couldn't stop the madness of reality. I soon realized that my perspective on life had changed - drastically changed. What used to bring me satisfaction now

It's been a long week.  The car crash on Saturday put me back a bit.  Going to the same ER my son was in challenged me emotionally, certainly more than the physical pain of the impact. I laid on the stretcher and cried from pain, cried from fear, cried from the wretched memories that washed over my mind.  In my hand I held a small container of Wyatt's ashes that I always keep with me.  It somehow brought me some peace, some comfort,as if he was with me in this place of our most wretched memories, of greatest heartache. Holding his ashes was my only solace...how strange, how sad. When I was at work later that week, a friend called me and said she had something for me.  She came to my office, we sat together and she shared with me that this strong voice had been telling her that she needed to give something to me.  She of course prefaced this with "don't think I'm crazy but..." Then she opened her hand and there lay a little white dove it's wings stretched

The rain to the wind said, "You push and I'll pelt." They so smote the garden bed That the flowers actually knelt, And lay lodged--though not dead. I know how the flowers felt.  ~ Robert Frost

I have found the paradox, that if you love until it hurts, there can be no more hurt, only more love. ~ Mother Teresa I understand it, it's just that I still love and I still hurt and I really, really miss my beautiful boy.

My father died on May 11th ten years ago this year. My son and husband gave me a pair of beautiful purple violets that year and they have donned my office windows over the years with a flurry of deep purple flowers and lush green leathery leaves. One of them died when we were at Shands with Wyatt; the other blooms as never before. This year, My mother gave me a violet for Mother's Day. Now I have two again, one small, new and fresh; one aged, thick and layered with time. I liken this juxtaposition to my grief. Not that loosing a parent is akin to loosing a child, it's not. But pain is pain and grief is grief and the emotions we experience and express are similar. It's just the vivid picture of old and new, past and present, the hope of future and the frailness of present life that makes me think. Will time soften the edges of this loss as it did with my father?  Will I one day not think of my son and his death with every breath.  Will I sleep again?  Will I think in a compl