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...

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 h...

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,...

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 ...

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...