Living with Loss

In 2008, I went to Australia to visit a friend and her family.  I was there for three weeks, from around Thanksgiving until almost Christmas. It was a joyful time to be with her and her family, with her two young children excited by all the events of the holiday.  She selflessly took me on daily adventures, sharing her fair city, a drive into the mountains, a walk over the Sydney Harbor Bridge and romping around Sydney for hours, and near the end of my visit a Sunday morning walk on Bondi Beach followed by breakfast at a outside cafe.  One afternoon, close to my departure, we all sat on a blanket in the park, basking in the December warmth and sun of the southern hemisphere and listened to Christmas music while the children danced and sang and we ate cheese and crackers and sipped wine. On one rainy day, we rested from our daily jaunts and I flipped through the pages of her recipe books. The entire trip is a beautiful memory for me; the novelty of being in another country, spending tim

call No. Ok Horror, tears Screams on the floor No. No. on the floor He won't You're not sure in the room The little room with the door pray, peace, comfort No. not now, not here drive drive in the night wait, not here down the hall in the room with the door Ok sleep on the floor How old Not sure surgery ok Crashing, failing more lines, more machines what for blood, lines versed cadaver skin bandages, surgery check the eyes change the bandage pray, cry New Year Don't fear, come here On the floor in the room The big room, with the door pray, cry, sit, wait Cold feet No more sit on the floor in the room, with the door I'm sorry he said He's dead floor room door

I received a visit from a friend the other week. He's a good man with a gentle soul, a rare character in this world. We have often chatted about our common dream of hiking the Appalachian Trail; he will likely one day accomplish the feat of which I will only dream.  He's a naturalist of sorts, likes the woods, from what I can tell, finds his place in this world through nature...like my Wyatt. It's odd how some people just have a way of making your day better because they are down to earth, honest, and good and right, cares about others, and affirms our belief that all is right with the world. A while ago he and some buddies hiked a portion of the Muir Trail in California. He shared with me that he had built a carin, stack of rocks, in Wyatt's memory. I covered my face and cried at the sound of his words. I cried because there are people out there to carry on the memory of my son. I cried because it struck me as such a beautiful gift for him to remember my son when o

I've been harboring these woeful thoughts for quite a while now, pushing them to the deep and dark places of my being. I know it's not healthy, but what is a person to do? Living goes on and like it or not, I'm a part of the living. I know all the psychological precepts of how suppressing our emotions can bring disastrous consequences and for a while I somehow made myself believe that I was coping with this tragedy of ours. I know now it was false coping and how seriously dangerous that can be. Apparently, the emotions were just simmering in my gut, bubbling every now and again bringing out a little tear or short cry. I thought maybe the grieving that was so absolutely exhausting and encompassed my being with tormenting agony was over.  I could in fact go through the days and manage my self enough not to cry at the innocuous objects that frequently spark my memories to light, sting my soul, and remind me he's dead. I am pretty good at showing that facade, Ive got it d

Wyatt would have been 23 this year. While his birthday has now passed, I can't help but feel multiple emotions about his death. I am trying, really trying, to not allow his death define my life; yet, as I breathe in those thoughts of gratefulness and thankfulness of being his mom, I breathe out the anger and resentment that I had to see my beautiful boy lay dead in a hospital bed and say goodbye to my only child. It's unacceptable to me, maybe even unfathomable. Those first weeks and months after Wyatt's death, I told myself I would believe that he had gone on a long trip...Montana or Alaska or someplace he wanted to visit.  That following his visit he decided to live there and I would not see him for a very very long time. That he was in remote wilderness where he could not contact me nor I him.  He was just away. I know now that is probably not too uncommon for parents whose child dies, but I've also learned it is a useful coping mechanism that shepherds us through

I wrote this on July 27th, about a week before Wyatt's Birthday... As time moves forward, Wyatt never changes. He continues to be the young man of 20. He hasn't changed in two and a half years, but all his friends have. Grieving through time is like looking  through a cloud that obscures the beautiful view of change. All the others have changed as children should do at such an age, they have married, had babies, changed jobs, moved to new places, gone off to college...Wyatt is 20, forever 20.  Wyatt is dead. In a week, if life had been what I thought it would, I'd be celebrating and wishing my son a happy 23rd birthday. Knowing that I will never experience that joy, that I live my days without my son living, that I will never see him grow into who he was to become...this time has weighed heavy on my heart and my body. I am tired, tired as if the weight of the world rests on my shoulders. Is that grief? Is that sorrow and longing for what I can not have? Is that just lif

I was going through some things today, cleaning and organizing. At first, it was fine; after a while, it broke me. Being a bereaved parent it's difficult to do most any task that involves pieces of the past and not have it conjure an emotional response. Frankly, my emotions can spark with the most mundane and benign thing; it does not have to relate to Wyatt to strike the proverbial chord, but today it was. Nothing dramatic, not photos, videos or audios, I was going through some Christmas cards we received from the year after Wyatt's death. I got through about one third of them when it hit me and thrust me to the floor in heaves of nausea and screaming through the tears. I began to wail and sob and ache at the absence of my child. It can't be, it simply can't be. But, it is. After a while, the wave of sorrow and sickness subsided so I could continue with my task, I laid down amid the various papers and books and began to look through them. I found this paper folded

This is such an odd time. My thoughts of Wyatt are moderated as I try to shield myself from the memories of the horrible time. I have to recall the good, only the good, not that time, that day, that walk to the hospital, the drive to Gainesville, the lying on the waiting room floor, the 23 days of clinging to life and waivering on death, and then death. Singing to my son's body in the silence of that room, down the hall, last one on the left. It's near impossible to push it all out and time has not softened the vividness of those moments.  I want to remember the living and not the dying. It's so hard to do and some days seems impossible. Life has a way of jetting me back to the horror, even while I try to think only of the good.  Things, words, people, photos, they all bring memories that take me to him not being here and then to his dying, his accident, all he endured and all the details I don't want to recall. No human should endure what my son did, no human, no bea

Cherish 1. to hold or treat as dear; feel love   for: to cherish one's native land. 2. to care for tenderly; nurture: to cherish a child. 3. to cling fondly or inveterately to: to cherish a memory. I often walk around the house and sing.  I don't do this when people are in the house, it's a private indulgence.  I'm a rather reserved person at heart and don't feel comfortable expressing myself quite so dramatically in front of others and certainly not through singing and dancing.  But there is a freedom to singing at the top of your lungs, crying at the words or dancing with exhilaration. Sometimes Wyatt would walk inside and catch me in my personal escape belting out some familiar chorus as I vacuumed or maybe dancing like a uninhibited child.  He would stop, stare, shake his head and then crack a little grin and give a little roll of his eyes and say "you're such a crazy person." Then he would saunter off sha

The death of an only child leaves an indelible mark on the soul. There is a vacant place in living that is never filled, never eased. I know that now; if I live to be 110, it will be true then. When your only child dies it's one thing, when your only child dies before he had children of his own, it's another thing.  I'm not saying any loss of a child is greater than another; on the contrary, they all come with unique challenges. It's just that that when life prances around shouting "look at me, look at me" with the young boy walking around the lake holding his mom's hand, grandma tucking her granddaughter in at night, graduation ceremonies and proms, tournaments, plays and recitals, weddings, new jobs, and babies, they all make it so painfully clear how my time with all of that is over. Stolen. With most things in this life we have a choice, but not this. This is not my choice. This is so different from something we choose, it's not what job to take or

                  Butch Boy  Sunny Girl                      We have this dog...Butch.  He's the sweetest thing ever and very simple minded. He's very skittish though, quick movements, loud noises and rainstorms always startle him.  Thunder and lightening and he turns into a nutty canine, pushing his body behind the sofa, tyring to fit behind the dryer, pulling down blinds from the windows and anxiously panting and pacing the floor. Butch and his sister Sunny "live" in the laundry room which is directly connected to the kitchen. Sunny, unlike her brother is a very confident and sometimes obstinate canine. She will saunter in the kitchen to the family room and plop on the floor...in the middle of the doorway. If you think she's going to move as you walk by, think again. Lately however, Butch has developed some fear of "crossing" the threshold into the kitchen and through the family room.  He will just stand there a few steps behind the d

I’ve never truly loved someone and not given some sacrifice to that person.   It is the nature of love to sacrifice something for the other person; be it large or small, significant or inconsequential, love always, begets sacrifice. For the love of my parents, I lived in a city I hated…and have remained here. Though my disdain for this city has waned over the years, I am still here.   There is a part of me that regrets the choice to stay here, because I thought they needed me .   Yes, I’ve learned that indeed, it was I who needed them, but harboring that belief prohibited me from embracing the beauty what was. My siblings all moved away, raised their families in the place of their choosing, but I stayed. I went to school at a university not of my choosing.   I lived in places I’d rather not have.   I often resented not being able to expand my life by seeing other places, meeting other people or traveling to exotic lands.   But ultimately, my love for my parents meant more to me t

T ime turns differently for the mother of a dead child.  Time is slower, much slower, more methodical in it's forward motion. I can sit for an hour and have hundreds of amazing thoughts rush across my mind, and then, just as quickly forget all the fantastic beauty of each of them. Recalling maybe one very simple and mundane task, something like I should boil an egg for breakfast.  Everything takes more out of you when you're the mother of a dead child. This world alive with children, children's activities, children's toys, and children's accomplishments is a playground rife with danger for the mother of a dead child. Breathing in the life of the rest of the world's child-filled lives somehow makes each breath a little heavier and laced with the acerbic taste of emptiness. There is not one thing in life I can do and not be confronted with children and shown the magnificent abundance of having a child in your life and yet simultaneously illuminating the star

There are these things in life that we call regrets. I've lots of them. I don't regret being a mom, and yes, I would do it all over again even if I knew the agony of this sorrow. Would I have done things differently; without question. Thus, I regret not doing the things in life that spoke to my inner soul, those things we think about as being good and right but we find ourselves too afraid to do or because they seem implausible or risky - outside the boundaries of acceptable and upstanding living. I can't help but wonder if only I'd done them that somehow our Wyatt would be with us today. From the mundane of moving to a different house, buying some land, saying no a little more and pushing a little harder, to the complex dream of taking our life to a more  altruistic path to help others in need, showing and sharing compassion to those who hurt. But, these are  things I can not change now, I can't make them happen now, not like they needed to be, not like it shou

I've been living without my son for 27 months and 27 days. Do I count days? No, there really is no need to count days, I know he's not here, I taste it with each breath, I live it with each thought, I know it with every moment of each day. People often offer platitudes such as, "may time bring you healing." They naively think it true and thus present it as an offering of hope in times of despair. I begrudge no one who offers sympathy sincerely. Somehow it's a solace to the one offering that time may actually provide the recipient with the miracle of healing. But time does not heal. Time only brings a change to grief. Time does not alleviate the sorrow or diminish the anguish that comes with the death of a child. Time morphs grief into something different, maybe something more familiar we somehow learn to accept as a constant presence.  Understand however that familiar does not equate to comfortable. That grief is like a nasty tasting food that life shoves do

Last year I went to Little Rock and had the opportunity to visit the Clinton Library. It was quite impressive. There were glass cases filled with letters written to President Clinton. There were rooms filled with the beautiful treasures and gifts given to the Clintons while in office. I recall being enamoured by the trumpets on display, maybe because Wyatt played the trumpet, maybe because it was a piece of history. At the library, I saw Mother Teresa's letter to Clinton. She wrote to the President these words, " There is so much good you can do if you listen to God in the silence of your heart." (2 Nov. 1996) What a beautiful sentiment that speaks volumes. I've had the opportunity in the past few weeks to think about some things. That's been good...and bad.  It's not easy. Some days it's painful and full of sorrow. Some days it's full of hope for a good future. All the while, Mother Teresa's words ring true. God does speak to us if only we w

I am your worst nightmare.  I represent everything humans fear.   I force mortality to the front of your mind.  I am the thought you never wanted to think. I am the sadness you can't comprehend. I am the life you fear. My life is your nightmare.

Remember the scene in Forrest Gump where he is running down the road, for no particular reason. He runs and runs until he decides to stop, for no particular reason, just because he was done running. As I was walking one evening I looked forward at the double yellow line that ran down the center of the road and blurred off into the horizon.  I felt this desire to follow that seemingly endless yellow line, for no particular reason. That long empty road simply called me with a sweet siren song of some ubiquitous tranquility that only rests in the over yonder. Oh, how I wish it were so, that the over yonder offered some reprieve from this sorrow. But, we all know that peace does not lie over yonder; true peace can only come from within. We can run from our troubles, we can turn our back to reality and cover our sorrows in whatever potion we choose, but ultimately when we deny our grief and anger we've created our our enemy, our own person mortal enemy that requires a daily battle. Co

I'm not who I was before he died. I'll never be who I was before he died. Before, I lived for him, I worked for him, I cooked for him, I shopped for him, I cleaned for him, I espoused and upheld the virtues of life for him, I mentored him, I guided him, I taught him right from wrong....I did it all for him. Simple to complex, my life's center was my family, my son. We sacrificed personal things for his benefit, we focused our lives on his life, his future, his education, his happiness. We were the circle of life and love that families hope to be. Sure, little bouts of angst here and there, but mostly, we were three. There is an equality given to an only child that may be viewed as dangerous by parenting experts. The truth is though, I've never known an only child that didn't have an exceedingly unique and strong relationship with their parents. It's as if parent and child are able to become  friends yet uphold respect of the parental role and it's such a b

I miss being a mom. I miss hearing a child say to me, "I love you." I miss having that purpose in my life. I miss all the good and all the bad that comes with being "mom." Being mom is the most difficult and challenging job in the world, and I long for it with all of my soul. When I see little children with the glint of light in their eyes, I ache with pain. Their laughter affirms how my life has been robbed of that joy. I see them grab the hand of their mom or dad and I yearn to hold my son's hand and hug his neck, to feel the warmth of him living. I miss being a mom.

Bereaved parents often ask: Why . Why did my child die? What did I do to cause this to happen?   I experienced this phenomena rather early on in my grief journey as I asked myself w hy  one hundred million times - why - why - why. Maybe that was because of the nature of Wyatt's accident and death, maybe it's just because my child died and that is an out of order life event. The questions circle through my mind like a cyclone, what did I do in this life to deserve such a thing?  What did I do in this life that was so horrific it caused my son to die? What did I do? Why me, why Wyatt, why us, why our family, why, why , why? Eventually, I learned that I didn't really do anything. It's not my fault, as much as I want to take the blame, it's not mine to own. I still battle this blaming beast of why , but reason eventually comes to mind, even if after a long bout of crying and screaming. Some folks want the answer to why and will search for years seeking that answer. F

So, of all these therapist I've seen in the past two years, the words of one keep resonating in my mind. "You need pasture."  Mind you, this is the same therapist whose practice specializes in "dysfunctional" families. I sat in my car reading his business card, not having scrutinized it before, and was quite offended by the inference that I was somehow dysfunctional. We were not a dysfunctional family...having been married over 22 years, our 20 year old son still lived at home with us, he respected us, enjoyed our company, ate dinner at the table every night, said "I love you."  We were not dysfunctional!  Then it hit me...that is not who I am anymore. That was then and then is no longer now. I'm as dysfunctional as it gets, my only child was burned, we watched him fight for life until he could fight no more, we prayed for healing and we watched him die, we sang to him as he lay dead in the hospital bed, we sat in a house of worship and remembered