Pain

And just like that, it's over.

This first holiday has been hurdled and the next is creeping up upon me. Thanksgiving wasn't too bad really, but the day before was horrendous. I cried all day and felt such darkness and despair I could hardly breathe. The intensity of my grief was frightening and I found myself reliving the days immediately following his death. The desire to die in order to stop the pain was a repeating thought and it saddened me even more to recognize that Josh had to have felt the same level of pain, and more, to have acted on that desire. My poor baby.

Today, I am once again finding it hard to stop crying. It's strange. I'm not thinking of anything in particular, yet the tears continue to come. Some place deep inside of me is broken, torn apart, wounded... seeping continuously in an effort to heal. From one moment to the next I have no earthly idea how to cope with the pain, gripping desperately to the idea that it will abate, knowing it will become more than I can bear if it doesn't.

I go through the motions of life, holding hands with death. My loyalties to each pulling me in different directions, not sure which is winning from one moment to the next. I want to be with him, I want to be with my other children and my husband. I want the hurt to end.

Oh Josh, I don't want you to be in pain anymore, I just want my own to stop and I don't know how to reconcile the two desires in my one heart.

Happy Thanksgiving

Dear Josh,

Before I started cooking I wanted to wish you a wonderful day tomorrow. It won't be the same without you here, yet you will be here in spirit. Too bad I can't convince your spirit to help with the dishes! *Smile* This year is a bit different in that the grandparents aren't coming. Instead, there will be a mixed bag of seven people joining us. Some who can't be with their own families, some who don't have families to be with. I know how pleased you'll be to hear that and I think we all feel we are honoring you and your life by continuing to include others in ours.

I can't help but wonder where you'll be tomorrow and what you'll be doing. I'm sure you're having great fun doing things that would scare me and I can't wait to see you again so you can tell me all about it. I can already see the mischievous grin on your face as you try and freak me out with your feats of daring and bravery! LOL!

Hope you're having a great time, but I sure wish you could call your mom. I miss the sound of your voice. I miss everything about you to be perfectly honest. I'm trying to be as brave as you were, but I'm afraid my prodigy have surpassed me in that regard. Forgive me, but I have to go now before the tears overflow.


Wishing you great adventures and, as always,

Loving you.

Mom

P.S. I'll eat a slice of cheesecake in your honor.

Make a Smilebox slideshow

Tangled

Usually, when I sit down to write it's because there is a thought or emotion roiling inside of me, bumping against my insides, needing to get out. Today, it's more as if I am a tangled skein of yarn so jumbled up and frayed I can't find the end to begin weaving my thoughts together into a coherent pattern. The strands of emotion go in every direction with each individual thread carrying a different feeling. If I examine the fuzz up closely, I can find and identify hope, sorrow, love, anger, grief, loss, joy and a veritable myriad of feelings. When I step back and try to make sense of myself as a whole, there is no rhyme or reason to the tangle.

The threat of Thursday looms over me. Per the norm, I will be cooking the Thanksgiving meal. There is a sense of familiarity and normalcy in that decision, yet there is no sense of normalcy surrounding Thanksgiving itself.

If it were me, and only me, I would choose to stay in bed and try to sleep through the day. There would be no deep-fried Turkey for Josh to help his father cook, no ghost of him in the kitchen snitching food before it was served, no echo of his laughter as I scold him to get his fingers out of the potatoes he is vigorously hand mashing. His four servings of candied yams wouldn't remain in the casserole dish and his shadow wouldn't be napping on the couch after he has eaten to bursting point. After he tried some of each dessert, the dishes he isn't here to help me wash wouldn't be waiting for me. If it were just me, none of those things would be taking place. But, it's not just me and I have to find a way to make it the least painful for the rest of my family. Not painless.... just the least painful.

For the first time, my family won't be together. In and of itself, it was bound to happen eventually. It's amazing it's never happened before that one of my children wasn't able to be present for one of the holidays. What impacts me most significantly, is that we will be together as much as we ever will be, for the rest of our days. This year,and every year hereafter, there will be only four of us, not five. (plus friends) While I am grateful beyond measure for my other two children, who will be here fulfilling their own roles in our traditional Thanksgiving, I don't know how to fill the void he has created. There will be one less family member, one less helper, one less voice raised in laughter, there will be one less child hauling off my plastic containers filled with leftovers, (which he would share with his friends, and then come by for days to eat more at my house) ... there will be less, just less. Less of the very essence of my Thanksgiving. Instead, taking up the space Josh filled, there will be more tears, more memories, more longing.

The only thing there will not be less of, at least on my part, is love.

How wonderful my life has been, still is, will continue to be... if I can harangue myself into making it so. I am thankful for what I have, sad for what I've lost, full of love and joy for ALL my children and the blessings they are, in whatever capacity I have them. So tell me, why can't I stop crying?

Tangled, I'm so incredibly tangled.

Bailing

Sometimes, the space Josh resides in is a peaceful, calm location at the core of my being. The waters of my soul lie still and placid, warm in the sunshine of his memories. Only the occasional ripple of unrest moves me, but even then it’s not necessarily disturbing as much as a nudge not to get too comfortable. The small gusts of sorrow serve to remind me that the winds of grief are not gone, only circling around me, gathering their strength for the next onslaught. Yet, even knowing I should be expecting the storm, I still find myself caught unaware by it’s power.


This morning, the urgent need to once again lay eyes upon his face came upon me so, I sat and looked at pictures on my monitor. I found myself touching the screen and weeping. His eyes crinkled in a smile the Saturday before his death, the deep look of contemplation as he sits atop a mountain, the mischief in his face while he torments his little sister…these snapshots of his life are what I have to turn to instead of his voice, his laughter, his presence…. His future.


Some days, those are enough. Not enough to save me, but enough to keep my head above water and believe in a future where the calm waters will last. Then there are the “other” days. Days, like today, when the winds are high, the waves are crashing, the tide is rising and my life raft has a hole in it. There is no peace to be found, no safe haven within reach, so I simply continue to bail and hang on to the knowledge that “this too shall pass“.

Please.
Let it pass.
Please.

Days of the Week

Seven weeks. Forty nine days. Today is yet another milestone, one of many anniversaries I have begun to count. The days of the week have become markers in my life, days to remember Josh. My mind touches on the events that have altered my life and I fight the internal battle to make myself focus only on the days of his life rather than his death. Otherwise I feel myself slipping down a greasy slope, sliding faster and faster towards a bottom I do not want to encounter.

Today is the anniversary of his disappearance.
Tomorrow is the anniversary of filing the missing persons report and having to speak aloud our fears to a total stranger.
Thursday marks the day those fears were realized and my son was no longer alive.
Friday I visited the funeral home and said my goodbyes.
Saturday is the day I wrote his obituary.
Sunday, I gathered together pictures and mementos to display at his funeral and wrote the information for the handouts at the service.
Monday marks the day of his memorial service.
Which brings me back to Tuesday which is also the day he came home for the last time.

The weeks are made up of days, completing a circle revolving around Josh. I suspect there will come a time when I no longer count them or some of the days will become less significant than others.

I'm not sure if I'm more fearful of continuing to count or beginning to forget.

Hello

Josh,

I look for signs of you all around me. Knowing how much you loved nature and the outdoors, it is easy to make myself believe you are part of the very air I breathe. Perhaps it's foolish, but it comforts me.

Yesterday, did you hear me telling you about my day? About sharing the pic of you at Yosemite, traversing El Capitan, and how in awe my co-workers were of your bravery? Did you laugh about me telling them how I couldn't look at it when you first showed me? It frightened me to see you pretending you had wings, but now I hope you're no longer pretending. Josh, I hope you know how precious all those pictures are to me now. They are visual proof of what I want people to know about you. You were so incredibly vibrant and alive. I have been so privileged to be in the orbit of your life.

I told you all those things, and more, when I was talking to you. I was sitting in the chair I usually sit in, facing into the yard. I imagine you across from me in your old familiar spot. I can almost see the smile on your face. I miss our conversations and soon found myself trailing off to a whisper, feeling silly and frustrated. The tears started falling harder down my cheeks and my heart felt torn asunder once again. My voice was strained and trembling as I expressed how lost I was feeling.

Did you hear me? I think you must have. Just as I told you, every single leaf on the maple tree fell to the ground. All of them... in one fell swoop. Instantly, I stopped my blathering and just relished the moment. After, I dried my tears and went to work and all day there was a calm quiet place in my heart were my anguish had been.

Perhaps it was simply time for them to fall, though I prefer to think it was you stopping by to say hello.

So....Hi there.

I love you too.

Another week goes by

Today will be my fourth day back at work. Five weeks since his death. It frightens me how easily life continues without my son. Surely the world should stand still in mourning, yet it stubbornly keeps on going against my will.

My newest ritual is to sit on the back porch and talk with him. The fall leaves remind me of him in their swirling travel to greet the ground. They are in the midst of sacrificing themselves to the ever changing of the seasons and yet they are beautiful in their plight. No small wonder he loved them so.

It struck me the other day; I never realized how often I thought of him until now. Everything reminds me of him and brings a barb of pain, knowing he will never again see or do those things. The simple act of buying a new type of brie... The first thought that comes to mind is the need to call him and have him come try it because he adored cheese. The very essence of my being is intertwined with his… how lucky am I? Truly.

Each day I prod myself to smile more and mean it. To be kinder and feel it. To not be so sad over my loss that I forget to be joyful for what I have. Sometimes it works better than others, but it’s working. Josh would be so proud of me.

After all, only those that have, can lose.

Thank you, Josh, for looking out for me, for helping me remember your joy and excitement, for allowing us to have a relationship that brings me peace now.

I miss you so.