Living with Loss

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 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 ...

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...

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...

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 ...

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 simultaneou...