Living with Loss

February 14th is a day most people associate with love, Valentines Day.  Filled with flowers, candy, teddy bears, little red hearts and chocolate. This year, it's a little different for me.  I reflect back upon this day in history. In 1946, my grandfather died on February 14th.  My father was with him and as a 17 year old boy, had to call his mother and sisters to tell them about the unexpected and fatal heart attack. This year, our second together as a couple without our only child began as a non-descript, uneventful day.  No gifts, no candy or little sweet teddy bears; just the two of us. Around 9:30 the evening of this February 14th, I received a text.  My first cousin's daughter had a baby boy.  The following morning I received a call.  My elderly cousin had died around 9:30 the previous night. While I grieve the death of my elderly cousin, I rejoice at the birth of the new child. His name is Wyatt, after my son....

For months I tried to busy myself with different things...watercolor, pottery, writing, poetry, gardening, stained glass, counseling sessions, support groups, blogging. Suffice it to say, I spent a good chunk of change to keep myself in the world of the living.  I'll consider it an investment in life, my life.  Not that I wanted to make that investment, but it kept me alive over the last year. Now, it seems I'm suspended in the loop of time.  There is no driving force to compel me to go do anything...instead, I'd rather rest. I want to stop, look around and take it all in. Unfortunately for me, that rest is complicated by the memories it allows to surface. It's one of the reasons why I did so much...some of my memories are haunting, dangerous, treacherous waters. Memories are the door to a host of complicated emotions, they give knowledge about why I am where I am.  Memories are one of those things to which I've developed a love-hate relationship. However...

I wasn't much into celebrating my birthday, what was the purpose, I'm just another year older, or as one person put it, another year closer to being reunited with my child. Jim's birthday was however a big one, you know ending in "5" or "0" and it deserved celebration. Not only because it was a big birthday, but because he is a wonderful and kindhearted man and we decided Wyatt would want a celebration. We had a wonderful party, friends from all segments of our lives shared in the joy of the day.  We ate, drank, chatted, took photographs, hugged, cried and laughed. The day was filled with life, love and friendship and we relished every moment. Then the door closed. The people were gone.  We sat together and quickly realized without words how very alone we were; how Wyatt's absence from this day, this celebration, cut into our very souls. He should be here. We yearn for him. We cherish the person he was and the man he was becoming. We want him in our ...

Today I went to a funeral service for a cousin. It was the first service I've been to since my son's service. My son died on January 1, 2010.  My cousin died on January 1, 2011.  My son was 20. My cousin was just shy of 93. She had one child, a son.  Her son died when he was in his twenties. As I sat at the graveside in the cold and rain I was flooded with emotions that I could not contain so I got up and walked away from her grave.  I walked back toward another part of the cemetery unknown to me, somewhere away from the people.  I just needed to breathe, to cry, to hurt, to allow the agony of death to rip through me yet again. When I stopped walking and regained my composure I looked up and read the name on the headstone in front of me adorned with a photo of a young, handsome boy. There before me was the name and face of our friend's son.  Their only child.  I stood there and felt the pain of his parents....

but the truth is I don't have much in me anymore.  Real truth is I wish I weren't here. God's honest truth is if I thought it would really solve anything I'd of probably offed myself by now.  Harsh words you think, not really.  This grieving, this loss, this pain grows more intense with each day.  Each day without my precious son, each day in this world without his smile, his laugh, his beauty, is one more day of agony.  I long to be shed of it, to be free to rest, to feel and not hurt, to laugh and not cry, to smile and not ache.  Some have told me the second year of this loss was the worst.  In the midst of the first year such thought was inconceivable.  Now, as I approach this second year without my son, I get it. I see it. I feel it.  The blinders of shock have been removed and the significance of it all is revealed; all we lost, all he lost, all that could have been and will never be. It's overwhelming, suffocating, impossible to ...

The other day  friend shared a photo of his daughter and said, she was about to have his first grandchild, a boy.   He sent her the cradle that he made when she was young so the baby can sleep next to her.   He was so full of joy and exuberance over the pending birth. I too felt joy for him to become a grandfather and her as a new mother.   My thoughts went back in time to when I gave birth to my beautiful son, how my stepfather built him a cradle that we kept by the bed in our room.   We still have the cradle.   It was the cradle that sparked my pain.   Being a grandparent is a joy that we will never know and parenthood will not be known to our son. Parenthood with all it tribulations is by far the most magnificent experience.   There is nothing in my life that compares to being a mom.   When I look at Wyatt’s cradle,   I know my center is gone from this world, that my future stopped on January 1, 2010. My life to...

You desire to know the art of living, my friend? It is contained in one phrase: make use of suffering.   ~ Henri Frederic Amiel Elizabeth Edwards died today.  She lost her oldest son, Wade when he was 16.  She said she's not so afraid of death since his death .  I understand her words.  I'm not so afraid of death either, some days I long for death, so I can see my Wyatt.  Death is my passage to being with Wyatt again.  I long to see him, to sit and talk with him, to watch him grow, to be his mom, to see his future.  If death takes me to him then I am not afraid of death.  Resilience comes in how I am dealing with Wyatt's death. Resilience is knowing that I can get up each morning even though when I look in his room I know I will not see him.  Resilience is smiling at other's happiness even when my heart is broken. Resilience is sharing company with friends when I wish to cover my head and hide in darkness. Resilience is takin...