Living with Loss

A friend told me a story today about her little boy.  Long after his bedtime, he walked into her room, looked at her and said, "I've got to go see the stars."  Her mother's heart listened to him; hearing him she took his little hand and together they went outside to look at the stars.  Those experiences in life are valuable, irreplaceable, precious moments in time not soon to be forgotten. When I look in the night sky, I see Wyatt.  The moon sitting high in the sky is my little man, watching over me, sharing his light with me, shining upon me.  Some nights when I look up, he's shining so brightly and I feel his presence so strongly...other times there is distance and his absence is painfully noticeable. Our lives are filled with precious moments, all we have to do to receive them is listen with an open heart.

Profound love brings profound loss. I’ve no way to see through the darkness of this loss; it covers my soul, masks my eyes and blankets my heart. Light cannot pierce the darkness for it is too deep, too wide, and too thick; this loss too profound for   my heart to mend. I miss you so much Wyatt.   I miss you.   I hurt in my heart so deeply, so intensely; I miss you my son, I miss you so.

Most of us hold dear the things captured by this life, our deepest thoughts, wishes, prayers and dreams; things we share with those we love. However, there is no exchange of sentiment when you hold a box of ashes, for they are just ashes; no longer the person you loved; only a box and memories unable to give anything in return.   From dust we came and dust we shall return. New and pure meaning comes to those words after you have held the ashes of someone you love, felt them, grabbed them, cupped them in your hands, allowed them to sift through your fingers and gazed at the white ashen color left on your skin.   It’s a powerful experience that will leave you vulnerable to the realities of life.   If you’ve never seen cremated remains, I suggest you do.   It brings a reverence to life that can be achieved in no other way and requires that you acquiesce to the ultimate power of death.   The realization is we will all become nothing more than ashes and dust.   ...

Yesterday, all I could feel was how weak and vulnerable I am, unable to control anything.  I could feel the riptide of sorrow trying to pull me in, take me in the undertow.  "Don't fight it if you get pulled in," I can hear my mother saying, I've heard those words a million times in my life.  Let it take you until it spits you out, but don't fight it, you can't beat it.  I liken this grieving to the world's largest undertow.  My gut reaction is to fight, to swim against it as hard and fast as I can, I don't want it to take me under, I don't want to, I want to swim away.  I want to be anywhere but here, and I certainly don't want to freely enter the fury.  But, I've no choice,  I'm in the undertow of grief, it has pulled me in, I had no choice in entering this dark and dangerous place. Today, there is peace.  I can't explain it, there was just peace.  I thanked my God today for my son.  I realized today that as hard ...

Have I mentioned how painful this is, how horrible grieving is? I've had the most challenging day, just to be  has been awful.  I want not to be, not to feel, not to think, not to remember, not to anything, just not ...nothingness would be so welcomed in place of this pain.  I miss my son so much that really I'd rather just not be .  You may think that is such a wretched thought, but I'm not talking suicide.  I heard a lady in a support group say she just wished she wasn't here. "Don't get me wrong," she said, "I'm not suicidal, I just don't want to be here without my son."  Ditto. This life is so empty.  For me, all I ever wanted was to be "mom."  I wanted to be the caretaker, the healer, the cook, the maid, the chef, the teacher, the mentor, the guide, the chauffeur, the person who cared the most...and I tried.  Now that life is gone. This life is empty; pain remains. I'd rather not.

After Wyatt's accident, most of the things he had on were destroyed. Not his boots, those Georgia Boots are indestructible!  Same style he always wore, lace up, thick sole, heavy leather, steel toe...had to protect the feet. I look at those boots everyday and I think of my son.  Those boots were last thing on my son's feet, and they still exist. Last weekend two of the boys were in our garage tinkering on a motorcycle.  I couldn't stand to see it, I had to go inside and cry.  I was so, so happy they were here, but happiness is also painful.  It congers up all the memories of why you feel that way.  How many days did I come home from work and there were boys, trucks, motorcycles, boats or some vehicle or apparatus in my driveway...suffice it to say, If I came home something was there.  But that was good; that was life, our life...and I loved it. Seeing those boys in the garage brought all that to the surface.  ...

I feel like a big elephant is sitting on my chest.  I want to cry, and scream and explode in anger at this life, this world.  What makes this pain subside, What?  It will never go away as long as I breathe, but if it would just subside.  I can't get this agony to let up; I try, I work hard at it, but it rears its ugly head every time I think I'm making some progress. Right now, I don't want to function, I don't want to be human, I don't want to be productive, I don't want to do anything; I want my son, I want him here, with me, in this time and place.  I want MY son.

I live in two worlds.  This world and my other life of being Wyatt's mom.  Given a choice, I'd be in my former world.  I know in my heart that I will always be Wyatt's mom, but the reality is that he is not here.  I want him here - in this life; I don't want two lives, I want one life, with my son, my family, my future, my past, my legacy.  It's a daunting thing to know that your life ends with you - you have no future...I have no future. Being a mom is a gift that transcends the daily responsibilities, trials, and joys of parenthood. Being a mom means there is another person in this world who is forever a part of you, joined eternally. I have that connection, no one can ever separate me from the love of my son; but there is a great difference between daily sharing the love of one here and remembering the love of one past.                       ...

We took a drive to places you knew, familiar places dripping with thoughts of you.  Here, I feel your presence around me and know your love is there.

Twice I heard this today, "it's like salt in the wound."  First when listening to NPR, a man telling a story of dealing with the horrors of war even thirty years after; how death changed him, how he knew the minute he killed the enemy his life was changed.  For years he would not discuss it, but now time had come.  He expressed how there is no peace for the injured soul, morning is salt in the wound, evening is salt in the wound, it's an eternal cycle of pain. Next, a friend used the term when speaking about the death of her beloved daughter, how everything hurts so badly after such a loss, how sometimes people say things that are so painful to hear, it's like salt in the wound.  This grieving is so unpredictable, so volatile, so wicked at its core.  Insidious by nature, you think you have escaped it but there it is slapping you in the face and bringing you to your knees. It doesn't take much; what most think as so common becomes a mine field ...

Rain has a very special meaning for me; it rained the day Wyatt died.  I remember the doctor calling on the morning of January 1st and telling us to come to the hospital.  It was raining as we ran to the car and from the parking garage of the hospital.  Dr. Peters approached us when we walked in the burn unit. Wyatt wasn't going to make it. This fight was too much for him; my warrior wasn't able to fight any longer.  I can see Dr. Peters kneeling down to talk to me while I sat on the floor, unable to breath, think, feel... how did we get to this place.  It's a surreal experience to know your only child is going to die and you have no power, no ability to change it, no say in the matter; powerless over the grip of death.  Mothers don't like to be powerless in matters of their children; mothers need to be in control, manage things, make sure everything is ok.  Not here, not in this place, there is no control, no management of death, one must succumb...

When Jim and I were first married, he owned a small business.  There was a young man who worked for him who had two younger siblings.  One day, his younger brother was riding his bike to school and he decided to go back to the house.  As he crossed the highway into his neighborhood, he was hit by a semi truck.  He died there, in the road.  I have salient memories of that time now over twenty years ago.  I remember seeing the picture in the paper.  They had the audacity to print a photo of his body on the ground covered by a sheet with his foot hanging outside the sheet.  I can see his tennis shoe in the picture.  I was so angry at the newspaper for printing such a horrific photo, for denigrating his memory, for putting such horror in his family's face.  I had no frame of reference for this grief, I wasn't a mother.  But I did know death, I did know pain, I'd lost people in my life. But this struck me as being so deeply, painfully ...

Gestation is nine months. Most full-term, healthy babies are held in their mother's womb for nine months. For me those nine months were blissful. I took such caution with my body, my mind, my soul. From the moment the little wand showed a + sign, no caffeine passed my lips, no cigarette smoke was in the room, alcohol may as well of been pure unadulterated sin; exercise, rest, water…we were making a person and he had to have the best beginning of any child ever. This child we knew was a boy, not because anyone told us, we just knew. From the time of conception I knew my child was a boy. I didn't even ask the doctor when he was born, there was no need, he was a boy. His name...we had narrowed the list down to a few, but this son of ours, he needed a strong name to match his strong character, we needed to see him, hold him, know him before we dressed him with something so special as his name. This choice was personal, private, ours to give. Together we chose his name, Wyatt. It me...

Yesterday I slept 17 hours of  the 24.  In the nine months since my son's death, I haven't slept very well.  What sleep I get is sporadic, dispersed with wretched memories and flashbacks of this death.  I hear every sound in the house, I twitch with thought and rest is elusive.  But not yesterday, yesterday I slept. I didn't think about this world, my responsibilities; no desires, no real thoughts, just sleep and rest. These past nine months have been brutal, life has been a burden. Sleep was nice, welcome, appreciated.

Stolen Stolen is my identity Stolen is my name Stolen is my purpose You are here no more and someone has stolen what remains. I can’t find me;        who I am,             what I call myself,                            what I am to do in this place. You’re not here: can I call myself “mom?”

If today I could express how I feel, I would tell you that I miss my son with every ounce of my being. I miss his smile, his laugh, his great broad shoulders, his thick curly hair, his reddish beard, but most of all, I miss him. I miss the boy I raised, the child I taught right from wrong and the beautiful young man that he was becoming. I miss my son. I miss his big strong arms picking me up and holding me in a bear hug. I miss him giving me a “memew hug.” I miss seeing him put Elizabeth on top of his shoulders and run around the house. I miss my son. I miss the way he was always there for his memaw and his grandma. I miss the way he respected his elders and yearned to learn from them and be a better person for them. I miss my son. I miss him fussing about my cooking or not having sodas in the house. I miss fussing at him for eating too many hamburgers. I miss caring for him and making sure he’s taking care of himself. I miss my son. I miss washing his clothes ...