Forward

Sometimes I feel so ashamed of myself for doing exactly what I feel is right to do. I've spent the last 15 months trudging forward towards tomorrow with the firm goal in mind of learning to live again, yet I feel guilt for starting to accomplish just that. Despite the fact Josh wouldn't have wanted the rest of us to quit living, there is a part of me that feels I should have crawled into a hole of sorrow and regrets and never have emerged again.

Does it make me a bad mother for wanting to honor his life with life? I read about other mothers and how they have ceased to function and wonder if I didn't love him enough. Yet I can't imagine loving him more. No one knows what is in my heart, for if they did they would know I would die in an instant if it would bring him back. I would never laugh again if I could have another day. I would cry each and every moment for the rest of my life if I could see his smile or touch him for just a milisecond. I would walk naked down the street and give up all my worldly possessions if it would change anything. But the fact remains.... it won't change a thing.

The tears still come, the sorrow remains. I strain against the bonds of grief each and every moment of each and every day. But always with the knowledge that the only way for him to truly live inside me is to put something good back into the world. I can't alleviate my own  pain, but perhaps I can make someone else's just a little bit less overwhelming. Josh would have wanted it that way.

For all his faults, he was the first one to drop every thing to help someone. It was one of the things I loved the most about him. One of the many things.

One day at work I let a little boy use my scanner to help check out his grandmother, who was with him. She proceeded to go on and on about how kind I was, which surprised me since I didn't think anything of it.

"That was just so kind of you! It made his day! He'll be smiling for the rest of the day." She said.

"It was no big deal, really. "

"No really, it was so very kind. Not too many people would have taken the time."

"Ah well, I've learned life isn't a dress rehearsal" I replied, thinking of Josh.

With a look of understanding, she said, " I've been trying to learn that myself. But it seems you've already got it."

With a sad smile I told her," Yeah, maybe, but I learned it the hard way".

With a look of astonishment, she proceeded to dig in her purse, saying, " It's so funny you should say that, just this morning I read this, and I made a copy of it. It talks about just that, how kindess is tied to loss".

She pulled a piece of paper from her purse and handed it to me, then gathered her purchases and her grandson up and headed for the door. I hurriedly stuffed the piece of paper in my apron pocket and got on with my job and the next customer in line.

It was quite some time before things slowed down enough for me to read what she had given me and when I did I had to walk outside and around the corner of the building so I could have a good cry. Right at that moment I knew I had it right. Maybe not always, but certainly heading in the right direction.

This is the poem she handed me...

Kindness

Before you know what kindness really is
you must lose things, feel the future dissolve in a moment
like salt in a weakened broth.
What you held in your hand,
what you counted and carefully saved,
all this must go so you know
how desolate the landscape can be
between the regions of kindness.
How you ride and ride
thinking the bus will never stop,
the passengers eating maize and chicken
will stare out the window forever.

Before you learn the tender gravity of kindness,
you must travel where the
Indian in a white poncho lies dead
by the side of the road.
You must see how this could be you, how he too was someone who journeyed through the night
with plans and the simple breath
that kept him alive.

Before you know kindness
as the deepest thing inside,
you must know sorrow
as the other deepest thing.
You must wake up with sorrow.
You must speak to it till your voice
catches the thread of all sorrows
and you see the size of the cloth.
Then it is only kindness
that makes sense anymore,
only kindness that ties your shoes
and sends you out into the day
to mail letters and purchase bread,
only kindness that raises its head
from the crowd of the world to say
it is I you have been looking for,
and then goes with you every where
like a shadow or a friend.

Naomi Shihab Nye (1953-)

I knew then I was definitely heading in the right direction and if no one else understood, then they didn't know Josh. Living life is the truest honor I can pay his memory, for despite his death, I don't know if I've ever known someone so very very very alive.
 
Wherever you are my son, know I love you. Know I remember you. Know I strive to be more like you.

The New Day of the Week

For whatever reason, Saturday has become the day of the week that grief rears it's head a little more prominently.  I suspect it comes on the heels of a week filled with work, co-workers, customer service and more or less tamping my emotions down. Putting on my game face so my pain doesn't make others uncomfortable.

When the weekend gets here I'm overflowing with unspent tears.  I'm learning to expect it, deal with it, allow it. But even more importantly, I'm learning to welcome it. It's a release and a much needed time for me to reflect and heal. It's my time to not worry so much about everyone else and take care of myself. There is no sense of wallowing in self pity as much as permitting myself an outlet for my grief. If I don't get dressed, oh well. If nothing productive gets done, it'll be there tomorrow. If my weeping disturbs my family, they are learning to move on with their lives and check back with me one of the other 6 days of the week. Tomorrow is a always a new day and I typically wake much more able to face the day if I take the time to honor Josh, my sorrow, my loss.

Butch calls it Sadderday.

How aptly put.

With Time

With time

you will learn to shoulder dense burdens

so incredibly heavy they once made your heart strain

and your lips mutter groans of agony

that the universe didn't seem to hear.

With time

what seemed unbearable will become mundane,

and the narrow tunnels for vision

will swell to allow tthe rest of the world

to come into focus at last,

although you will never see things the same.

With time even your nightmares will fade,

yielding the power they once had to

twist you into a sweaty knot in bed

and jolt you from sleep, wrapped up in damp sheets.

With time you will appreciate the sweet, buzzing numbnes--

the anesthesia you will fight with all your might at first

but learn to succomb to in order to feel less

and attempt to endure more

And you will endure more.

With time

you will learn there is no other option.

With time

you will simply learn to prevail.

Author unknown but suspected to be fellow blogger Nancy. I hope she will not mind me borrowing. This poem appeared on her blog some time ago and I printed it out and hung it on my refrigerator. Since that time, I think either I, or someone in my family, have read it every single day. Every. Single. Day.

What (I think) I've learned

Next month marks the 14th anniversary of what was, until 15 months ago, the most heart breaking experience of my life.

My fourth child, a little boy named Mason, was born very prematurely in my fifth month of pregnancy. I said hello and goodbye to him, while holding him in my arms, in a matter of minutes. At the time,I couldn't imagine a worse thing to experience. Today, I not only can imagine it, but am living it.

After having to bury my infant child, I learned. I learned to never let go unspoken the true depth of my love for another human being. From that day forward, I NEVER allowed my anger or frustration to make me forget what was really important to me. Even when they drove me to distraction,(as, especially, teenagers can do) I always tried to make sure my children knew how very much I loved them. There were even a few times I literally told them " I love you SO much, and as angry as I am, I'm so grateful you are here to be angry at." I was far from perfect. I messed up, I made mistakes, I lapsed on occasion. But I also held my children a little longer, I talked to them more often, and every single solitary day, I relished them.

Mason's death helped me put life in perspective. Without that grief, and the changes I made because of it, THIS grief would be harder to bear. His death toughened my heart to withstand pain and not only survive, but, armed with my new found knowledge, to thrive. Because I learned, my relationships became stronger, my bonds with my children were better able to weather the stormy periods. Mason's brief and fleeting life made me understand tomorrow is not a given, it is a privilege. I learned to appreciate the moments, the minutes, the seconds, of my time with my children. Thank's to Mason, I have very few "if only" moments.

My last living memory of Josh is him stopping by unannounced. (as he was prone to do a couple of times a week) I remember we were busy doing something, but for the life of me I couldn't tell you what. I do remember making a conscious decision to stop what I was doing and spend time with him. He was only here a short while, and before he headed out again, while we were standing in the kitchen, he threw his arms around both my husband's and my neck, with a HUGE smile on his face, and told us "I sure do love you guys!" I had no way of knowing that a week later he would be gone forever. I had no clue that was going to be the last time. No one will ever know how grateful I am for taking the time to relish THAT moment, for hugging him back, for telling him how much I loved him too, for not just assuming I could make time for him later.

Mason's birth and death gave me the gift of not regreting my final moments with Josh. He altered my world for the good. How many of us manage to have that kind of an impact on someone else in ten minutes or less? There are worse legacies to leave, far worse. Though his life span was almost non existent compared to mine, perhaps he was only here as long as he needed to be. Perhaps, he was a wise old soul who only needed those few minutes to do the work of a lifetime.

Thinking about Josh's death, I can't help but wonder if it was Josh's "time". There are a multitude of different ways to meet death, from the mundane and expected to the bizarre and unannounced. Why should I assume Josh's death was any different from someone Else's death because he took his own life? From the very beginning, I've never really thought of his suicide as a "choice" on his part. In my heart I've believed, that in his mind, he had no choice other than to do what he did.

So perhaps, just perhaps, Josh's work here was done...and the rest of us had to stay in order to learn our lessons. I will never cease to wish he were still here with me, but I hope to embrace the lessons he is still teaching me.

Don't let today be the regrets of tomorrow. If you love someone,

Tell them.

Hold them.

Cherish them.

Life is short my friends. And I'm not talking about my own.

Trust me.

Different

I can't begin to tell you how many times I've wanted to sit down and write but haven't been able to make myself delve into the depths of emotion long enough to start, much less finish, a post.

Sitting here now, I don't know where to begin. Months have passed since my last entry and a multitude of changes have transpired. The main thing I have realized is that there is no "better", there is only "different". I am different. My family is different. Life is different. There is still beauty. There is love, there is life, there is joy. There are moments I am knocked to my knees by the pain of missing him, there are moments when it feels like it has always been this way. Sorrow is a part of my soul and I doubt that will ever change, yet it comforts me in a strange way, virtue of its ability to constantly remind me of Josh's existence.


It's been fifteen months since Josh committed suicide. He would be 27. His Son is 16 months old and I know very little about him other than he is growing up not knowing his father or our family. The fault lies with me and my inability to separate his birth from Josh's death. Knowing if he hadn't been born, Josh would still be alive. Believing if Josh had the opportunity to be involved, to have been acknowledged as his father, to have held him in his arms and felt the warmth and weight of his body, heard his little baby sighs, to have known the magnitude of love and responsibility he would have found a reason to want to live. Instead I am left to replay the moment when he looked at me with agony in his face and said to me, "Can you imagine? I'm going to be an absentee father by default". It tore him apart not being allowed to see his son, finding out he was a father 10 days after Kai was born, seeing pictures of everyone else holding him, being told not to come for fear of upsetting others, not knowing from one day to the next even what State his child would be living in. Yet, I know that others have suffered much worse and not ended their lives. The decision still lies fully with Josh. There is no blame towards others for his death itself. There is dislike however, for anyone who would do that to another person because they didn't have things the way they wanted. (I know there are huge gaps and this passage leaves more questions than answers for anyone reading it)

Once again, I have felt My Josh intervening and finding a way to give us what we need and make his presence known from a distance. In the blink of an eye, another round of holidays have come and gone. We were expecting to trudge through them, focusing the whole time on the impending birth of our newest grandchild who was due on January 16. Instead, I'm listening to his baby grunts and groans and mild protests of life from the next room. Josh's namesake made his arrival 7 weeks early. Becca went into the hospital the day before Thanksgiving and delivered Joshua Bryce Blair on December 1st. He weighed in at 5lbs and 9ozs, spent a week in the NICU and came home on December 7th in plenty of time for Christmas. Needless to say, none of us had much time to wallow in our grief through the holidays and on the occasions Grief came knocking at the door he had to share us with a new baby and there simply wasn't much room for him to take up residence.

Joshua Bryce has brought healing love to us all. He reminds me so much of his uncle it would be scary if it weren't so welcome. Holding my grandson close and letting my tears anoint his head while he sleeps upon my chest has been a balm to my heart, has brought peace to my soul and reminds me that without death there is no reverence for life.

There have been horrible moments. Devastating moments. Walking out of Wal-Mart sobbing after realizing I had bought stocking stuffers for all three children. Literally not realizing why I only needed two of each. Devastating. Calling his phone number and being surprised when someone else answers. Looking at Baby Josh and aching with knowing how much My Josh would have added to the experience. Finding the card he gave me telling me thank you for being the great mom I am and always have been. Going through the pictures, memory upon memory being brought to mind, always with the knowledge that Josh will never create more.

My pain is not diminished. But it is different. By sheer force of will I am slowly learning to find the beauty in it instead of only sorrow. I have learned to cherish life a little more. I am kinder, more patient, more compassionate. I see good coming from the loss of my son, but only after spending my days looking for it. Daily I fight the temptation to let myself drown in my sorrow, but I simply won't allow it. Over and over again I come nose first against the realization that if I don't continue to live then Josh's life was a negative. A bad thing, a hurtful thing. I love him too much to let that happen.

Life is finite for us all. Each and every one of us is going to die. I can only hope that someone will miss me as much as I miss Josh, for if they do, then I will have lived my life in a good way. I can also only hope I will have allowed them to miss me with joy for having known me. No matter if the tears are running down my face as I type.... They are only tears for having lost him....not for having known him.

To say I miss Josh is the equivalent of saying the Sun is a little warm. He is and always will be, a part of my life. The very fabric of my soul has been woven through with threads of his. I will always be Josh's mother, I will always long for his smile, his touch. I will always be in debt to him for the person I am, as well as the one I will become. Without Josh, there would be no me.

I love you Josh. Rest assured that hasn't changed and never will. Perhaps that is the main thing I have learned in the last 15 months. I don't have to be afraid of a future without you. There is no such thing.

Thank you for being my son. Always my son. Yesterday, Today and Tommorrow.