tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-120975322024-03-07T20:59:04.458-06:00Living with the "S" word. A.K.A. SuicideWhen Josh died, the person I was died with him. Now I'm on a journey of re-birth. Painful, gutwrenching, full of angst though it may be, I am on it with the intent to grow and learn, and as always, love my son.Lisahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15478617244191630796noreply@blogger.comBlogger54125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-12097532.post-53307332943305754082018-08-22T19:40:00.001-05:002018-08-23T12:16:48.088-05:00Seeing it through. It's been ages since I've written here....almost 4 years.<br />
<div>
<div>
It's been almost ten years since his death.<br />
I can't say it's become any easier and yet it has become... familiar?</div>
<div>
Perhaps I'm better at grieving?</div>
<div>
I'm coming to accept my new normal.</div>
<div>
I'm becoming comfortable with my tears.<br />
I'm becoming friends with anguish.<br />
I'm becoming better able to let go of my need to record every thought, every memory, every bad day. </div>
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With time, I'm coming to realize no amount of life's forward momentum will ever make him less a part of my life or me less his mom.</div>
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So, forward I have trudged. </div>
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Some days with a light heart,</div>
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Some days with leaden boots. </div>
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I've come to accept there will never be answers to satisfy my need to know why he is gone. I've made peace with knowing if I knew every secret of the universe I would still grieve for my son. He still wouldn't be here, my heart would still be broken, and every single day would still be my onus to bear.<br />
"I don't know how you do it." </div>
<div>
"You're so strong. I don't think I could survive losing a child."'</div>
<div>
I get that a lot.<br />
I used to feel guilty for living. As if my love for my child isn't as big and all encompassing as their love for their children.<br />
But see, I know something they don't know. </div>
<div>
I'm no stronger than anyone else.<br />
Instead, I am humbled. By how little I knew and how much I've been left to learn.<br />
I have learned that pain alone won't kill you.<br />
I have learned you truly can't will yourself to stop breathing. Trust me.<br />
I've learned so many things. Like the depths of my own heart. As strange as it may sound, I have a much better understanding of how deep runs my love for my children than I had before.<br />
When my children were born my heart made a promise my head didn't fully comprehend. A lifetime commitment of love.<br />
But, truly, I'm not exceptionally strong and my explanation for my continued survival is simple.<br />
I am doing what all loving parents do for their children.<br />
I'm seeing it through.<br />
Because, that's what parents do.<br />
Our children don't come with guarantees of being easy, convenient, healthy, or even tolerable sometimes.<br />
Yet, we are committed.<br />
Without time limits, spatial boundaries or conditions, we love them.<br />
We see them through sleepless nights, bouts of fever, midnight trips to the emergency room.<br />
We see them through bad grades, fights with friends, slamming doors, and broken hearts.<br />
We see them through their triumphs and their failures.<br />
We see them through their bad decisions and sometimes, sadly, through their deaths.<br />
None of that died with Josh. It transcended him. It belongs to me.<br />
I can no more stop loving him and being his mom than I can will myself to stop breathing. </div>
<div>
If my parenting experience has included planning his funeral, sorting his belongings, scattering his ashes, and a myriad of tasks others can't imagine doing, well, I'm on a different path but we are all on the journey.<br />
I am not strong.<br />
I am honoring a commitment that was made nearly thirty-six years ago because my heart gives me no other options. My head no longer asks it to.<br />
I am loving my child the only way I know how. Fiercely, and without apology.</div>
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I'm seeing it through.<br />
Not to the end of his life but to the end of mine.<br />
<br /></div>
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Lisahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15478617244191630796noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-12097532.post-5071073555573890132014-12-17T11:23:00.000-06:002014-12-17T17:30:14.067-06:00Random stuff I need to tell you. Dear Josh,<br />
<br />
It's been almost four years since I posted here.<br />
Six years since you left me.<br />
<br />
I suppose I thought I didn't need to come here any more. After all, I talk to you every day. But, somehow, it's harder to tell you how I really feel when my words are floating out into the ether of the universe.<br />
<br />
So, how do I feel? Like a mother without her child. I feel old. I feel tired. I hurt. Physically, mentally, emotionally. Fearful. Your death has made me fearful. Of loss. Of losing someone else I love. It's been six years and I'm still fearful all. the. time.<br />
<br />
I cry, inside and out. Now, yesterday, tomorrow. There is no end to the tears in my soul.<br />
<br />
I go through life with the eerie knowledge that the happiest day of my life has already passed. There will never be another day better than the last one you were alive. And frankly, the last day you were alive was gut-wrenchingly awful. Your last day was when we didn't know where you were, filed a missing persons report and feared the worst. But on that last day, there was still hope.<br />
Now, there are good days. There are great days. There are beautiful days. And every single one of them is tinged with grief. Every single one of them is spent without you. <br />
<br />
Life has moved on without you. Spinning, turning, evolving. I tried to slow it down. Hell, I tried to fucking STOP it. To no avail. Time moved on without my permission or blessing. Life truly does go on. All while staying the same. Your Father and I are still married, money is still tight, we still want to move to Hawaii, we put a new roof on the house, we have too many animals, and we miss you. Oh, how we miss you. Now, some days, instead of wanting time to stop, I wish it would move faster. I no longer rail against the sun coming up, but, instead, on a small level, welcome the knowledge that I am one day closer to the end of missing you.<br />
<br />
Your brother is married. Can you believe it? We missed you at his wedding and there was some part of me that kept looking at his best man and wanting to hate him. Or hate you? I'm not sure. That day was a day that couldn't be about you long enough for me to figure it out. All I can say is, "You should have been there."<br />
<br />
Tanner also just graduated from college. He's officially an electrical engineer and he and his wife, Jen, are moving to Austin in just a couple of weeks. I am so happy for him....He is so amazing and we are so proud of him and I know you would be also. Would be proud? Are? What a difference it would make if I knew the answer.<br />
<br />
Your sister has really struggled with your death and her depression. It makes me sad and I don't know how to help. She was only 17 when you left her and she longs for the chance to get to know you. She has two children who only know you by your pictures. You have a niece and nephew who are the most amazing children and I can only imagine how much you would all love each other. Sometimes, I look at them and try to picture you playing with them. Then it makes me too sad to think about it so I block you out in order to focus on their lives rather than your death.<br />
<br />
I do random acts of kindness in your name. You motivate me to be a better person. I live with the regret of not doing them sooner.<br />
<br />
It's almost Christmas. Every year we do a donation to someone in your name. A single mom received your Christmas gift this year. We don't know her but, I wrote her a letter so she will know of you. I so want you to live on.<br />
<br />
I still hang your stocking then struggle with not filling it on Christmas Eve.<br />
<br />
I miss the pickle hunt. That fucking pickle you brought home from Germany. That fucking hunt you always won. You were selfish and ruthless when it came to finding that pickle and getting whatever silly little gift came with it's discovery. The pickle broke the first Christmas without you and none of us can bring ourselves to buy a new one. Even knowing someone else would finally get to find it... I think we all know that the pickle would really belong to you. I wish you were here to teach Little Josh and Cadee how to lose the pickle hunt....or better yet, I wish you were here so I could see you let them win.<br />
<br />
Some things are easier after six years. Breathing doesn't hurt every single moment. Compartmentalizing my emotions comes more naturally. It's easier to part with your belongings these days because I've accepted that they aren't pieces of you. I've come to understand, at the core of my being, no matter how much time passes I won't remember you less simply because the guitar you couldn't play isn't sitting in the corner.<br />
<br />
Some things are forever different. Like how few things I really care about. How often I feel like I'm "faking" life. Or the fact that we don't even talk to most of the people I considered friends before you died. A lot of "friends" disappeared just as permanently as you did. Some because they wanted to, some because they simply couldn't push back anymore after a while of me pushing them away.<br />
<br />
Oh, the stories we tell of you. I particularly hate how there are no new memories. I hate how we can't talk about how much you've changed. Or hear you tell us all how sorry you are for being such an ass sometimes. I want new memories that don't involve missing you.<br />
<br />
I will never be able to fill the human, Josh shaped, hole you have left behind in my life. I know every inch of it intimately and run my mental fingers through your space every chance I get. I touch your smile, I graze your hair, I admire the ruggedness of your hands. I relive the moment of your birth when my pain was literally the beginning of your life. Now my pain is in the ending.<br />
<br />
I love you, Josh.<br />
I love you, I love you, I love you.<br />
To the moon and back.<br />
Through thick and thin.<br />
Through my life and your death.<br />
Until we meet again and then forever after.<br />
I love you with every trite cliche' we poor humans use to try and express the inexpressible.<br />
I love you. <br />
Mom.Lisahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15478617244191630796noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-12097532.post-91837248405941933462011-02-10T21:14:00.000-06:002011-02-10T21:14:54.931-06:00The Way We Were.Dear Josh, <br />
<br />
I no longer remember who I used to be when you were alive. <br />
<br />
I saw a picture today from years ago when you were in high school and Sarah came to visit us. We lived in a little house.. an ugly house even, and I remember being self conscious of how we lived... in our little house, with our ugly kitchen, with a picnic table that had been revamped and painted for our dining room table. We were crammed into that house. No room to be alone, one bathroom, an extra kid living with us half the time, and friends dropping in to stay from all over the world sometimes. <br />
<br />
When I looked at that picture it hit me like a ton of bricks. I was happy then. All my children were alive and well. You were on your way to graduating from highschool. We were all together ... and we were happy. I can't seem to stop the tears from coming and I can't make this make sense. All I know is, just for a moment, when I looked at that picture I FELT what I felt then and realized how much time I had lost waiting for everything to be perfect when they already were. Just for a minute, I remembered what it used to feel like to have you with us, all of us together. I already had all there was to have in this world and was just too stupid to know it. <br />
<br />
I miss you. <br />
I miss ME.<br />
There is no way to compare this life to that one. We will never all be together again and because of that I will never be as happy as I once was. Most of the time that's o.k., because the way I feel now is usually all I remember... but today, I remembered the way we were. <br />
<br />
I love you, <br />
MomLisahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15478617244191630796noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-12097532.post-74983336505201938622010-09-27T10:54:00.001-05:002018-08-22T19:49:39.807-05:00Dear Josh, <br />
<br />
The two year mark is steadily creeping up on us and I spend my days in a constant state of anxiety. My mind has a way of playing tricks on me without me even realizing what is going on and I realized the other day I had almost convinced myself you were going to "undo it" if I could only survive until the two year mark. Don't suppose your really gonna' pull that one off, huh? Don't get me wrong,I never actually expected that to happen, just used the fantasy as a means to get through the days...As the day itself gets closer and there is nothing to look forward to besides another long endless year without you it is harder to get out of bed and function. <br />
<br />
Half the time I spend my days pretending nothing has happened, the other half I'm incapacitated by the reality of you being gone. Sometimes I'm really angry with you, sometimes I just want to join you in order to stop the pain. Then I'm angry with you again for causing the pain. <br />
<br />
Oh Hell... nevermind. This isn't helping, you can't hear me, you're not going to respond and I'm not a rational reasonable person right now. <br />
<br />
I am so overwhelmed by the knowledge that this isn't ever going away. Not ever.<br />
<br />
I'm sorry for being so mad at you today.<br />
<br />
I love you.<br />
<br />
MomLisahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15478617244191630796noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-12097532.post-47197869618847362412010-09-07T10:03:00.005-05:002010-09-07T12:18:31.182-05:00Things NOT to do When Someone's Child Dies.I'm angry today, so I'm posting something I probably wouldn't post otherwise. Doesn't make it any less true, but it's probably not very politically correct. For that I apologize, but if writing this down will help someone not be bombarded with well meaning, but ignorant, people then it's worth it. <br />
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Things NOT to say or do to a grieving parent.<br />
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Don't run away. Don't hide behind the justification of " I'm just not good at these things". I'm not either. I'm damn sure not good at it and never want to <b>become</b> good at it. Understand that the pain you feel, no matter how overwhelming, is not the same as mine.<br />
<br />
Don't compare my grief to the loss of your mother, your father, your sister or any other person in your life, unless it was your child. This is not my first go at the grieving process. I've lost mothers, fathers, brothers, sisters, friends, loved ones. It is NOT the same. <br />
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Don't tell me how he's with God, at peace, in a better place. I am grieving MY loss and I don't want MY child anywhere else besides with me in the physical realm. I truly believe he is at peace... but I am NOT.<br />
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Don't tell me "at least you have other children". My children are not interchangeable. Relationships are not replaceable one for another. Each of my children are loved and cherished, as I hope yours are. Which child would you be o.k. with losing?<br />
<br />
Don't avoid his name. His life is precious to me and my memories are all I have. Share yours with me. Talk about him. Even if he was an ass the last time you saw him. I survived his teen years. You think I don't know he could be an ass? <br />
<br />
Don't be afraid of upsetting me by mentioning him, his death or the word suicide. If I cry, well it's probably a WELCOME release from trying to put on a brave front in order to make YOU feel better. The tears are there whether you see them or not.<br />
<br />
Don't tell me to call you if I need something. I'm not going to call and ask you to do my laundry,sweep my floors,wash my dishes or any of the million and one things I am no longer capable of caring about. I'm not going to call. No one ever does. If you want to help, then help. <br />
<br />
Don't ask me if I'm better. No, I'm not better. Better than what? Better than I was before my child died? That's never going to happen. I am never going to be the same person I was and I'm certainly not ever going to be better than I was. <br />
<br />
Don't put me in a position to have to comfort YOU. I know you loved him. I know your hurting too. I know you miss him also. But I was his MOTHER. <br />
<br />
Don't ask me how I am unless you want to know. I am sick of coddling you and your sensibilities by saying "I'm fine". It needs to be alright to say "I'm having a bad day". <br />
<br />
Don't wonder when I'm "going to get over it". I'm not. Ever. He was my child. He grew of me, from me, through me. He is dead. So is a part of me. Not all of me, the rest of me will learn to live, love, laugh and survive. But that part of me, the part that he filled, will never be "over it". I am getting "through" it. I don't even have the <b>desire</b> to "get over it".<br />
<br />
So after reading this, if anybody wonders what they <b>can</b> say or do, the answer is simple. Show up and be present. Let me be wherever it is I need to be emotionally and know that whether I can express it or even <b>realize</b> it at the moment, I am grateful to not be alone.<br />
<br />
Remember him. Say your so sorry for my pain and loss. Call my other children and my spouse to check on them, because I'm not always able to hold myself and them up. Be patient with me. You don't have to understand what I'm going through in order to understand you don't ever want it to be you.Lisahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15478617244191630796noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-12097532.post-44910475308173162992010-09-04T16:52:00.004-05:002021-07-19T15:51:31.965-05:00Happy Birthday<object height="385" width="350"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/XbzkaznpZD0?fs=1&hl=en_US"></param><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"></param><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"></param><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/XbzkaznpZD0?fs=1&hl=en_US" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="480" height="385"></embed></object><br />
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<br />
<br />
Dear Josh,<br />
<br />
I'm posting this the day before your birthday because I'm not sure I will be able to do it tomorrow. Today has been bad, can't seem to stop the tears from coming and I'm afraid tomorrow might be worse. I can't believe you're gone. Still, almost two years after the fact. I wonder if you are still watching over us like I knew you were in the first days and months? If you are I can only wonder what you would think of the changes your absence has wrought, wonder if you regret your decision, wonder if you are sorry for the pain you have caused. Sadly, I don't know the answers to those questions and I never will. All I know is that I'm drowning in sorrow today and miss you more than you could have imagined.<br />
<br />
I've often reflected on your life, and my role in it, and am filled with regret for the things I did wrong, the times I wish I could change, the ways I should have been a better mother. I was so young and damaged when I had you and though I did the very best I could, I know there were so many times I wasn't the mother you deserved. I struggle with the guilt I carry, and yet I try to forgive myself because I know in my heart I loved you each and every day of your life. I truly did the best I could and when I knew better, I did better.<br />
<br />
You and I talked about all these things before you died, and I know you had forgiven me, but I can't escape the fact that I impacted your life in some negative ways. Forgiveness or not, I can't take them back or change the effect I had.<br />
<br />
The other day I saw pictures of your son. He is SOOO beautiful. He looks just like his mom, and yet everyone who sees him that knew you sees you in him. It's his grin I think... His facial expressions. There is some essence about him, at least in his pictures, that makes you known. I wish I knew him better, and certainly haven't been a grandmother to him, which I think would disappoint you, but I don't know where to put my anger when I talk to his mother. I'm so sorry Josh. I want to be better than that, but right now today, I don't know how.<br />
<br />
On a different note, your nephew and namesake, baby Josh, is growing like a weed. Every single day I marvel at how much like you he is becoming. As nuts as it sounds, I deeply believe you were meddling in our lives when his life began. I mostly keep that to myself in order to avoid admittance to the looney bin, but today, I share it with you. Thank you for meddling.<br />
<br />
There are so many many things I wish I could say to you, yet I can't think of many I hadn't already said. I love you. I am proud of you. I miss you when you aren't here. My beautiful boy, you were my saving grace. You were the beginning of my life, my desire to be a good mother, to be a better person. I owe you so very much and hope in some small way you knew that before you died.<br />
<br />
Twenty Eight.... I wish you were going to be twenty eight somewhere other than in my heart.<br />
<br />
<br />
Happy Birthday Josh.<br />
<br />
Loving you, Now and always,<br />
Mom.Lisahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15478617244191630796noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-12097532.post-71640877784950544772010-09-01T13:27:00.000-05:002010-09-01T13:27:00.623-05:00Labor DayJosh was born on Labor Day Weekend. He was my first true labor of love. Sunday is his birthday... the day he won't turn twenty eight. Because he didn't turn twenty seven last year. This year, for the third time, I will labor through the day, but the pain I will experience will have no happy ending. No 8lb 2oz bouncing baby boy screaming his way into the world. Instead, I will labor to remember the bass of his voice, his shit eating grin, and the very essence of his being.<br />
<br />
Oh Josh, I wish you were here. To blow out your candles, to make a wish, to celebrate.<br />
<br />
I miss you my child.Lisahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15478617244191630796noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-12097532.post-43691208336661648132010-08-17T11:28:00.000-05:002010-08-17T11:28:18.458-05:00Dealing with OthersThe thoughts of his suicide tumble through my mind till they are smooth and shiny, cool to the touch. When they leave my lips or fingers they have been made presentable, but sometimes I want to just throw them down in their raw unaltered form. Then you would see how rough and ugly they are when I'm feeling them. How the sharp edges of emotion leave bleeding wounds on my soul.<br />
<br />
Then you would see how broken I am.<br />
<br />
I'm not sure who I'm protecting anymore. You from having to share my pain... or myself from the inevitable moment you turn away because my pain is more than you can bear.<br />
<br />
Leaving me alone again with a pain much too large for two people to bear, much less one.Lisahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15478617244191630796noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-12097532.post-20898044271321018232010-08-09T10:50:00.000-05:002010-08-09T10:50:54.601-05:00I missHis smell.<br />
<br />
The warm earthy scent of him.<br />
<br />
I hold his hat over my nose in an effort to catch a whiff of him, and I can still detect the odor of his sweat, but it's faint, and slightly stale. Not bad, just cold, lacking the warmth of his scalp to reignite it's strength.<br />
<br />
Of all the stupid things....<br />
<br />
I miss the way he smelled.Lisahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15478617244191630796noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-12097532.post-16095126582887907382010-08-07T11:09:00.002-05:002010-08-07T12:55:07.861-05:00Seeds of LifeThe fire has raged across the landscape of my world, wreaking destruction without regard to the desires or needs of the living. Charred remains of the life I knew are all that's left... cinders black and brittle, of a love and a life I once carried beneath my heart. Glowing embers sparkling with tempting light, wait to be fanned into full blown flames, that will not be satisfied until there are no remnants of life remaining. I tend to breathe very carefully these days, for every breath carries the scent of smoke and carries risk. Every breath could be the one that fans the flames of the past and incinerates the last tiny spark of life within me.<br />
<div><br />
Yet, even with soot clogging my nostrils with every inhale, and ashes all around me, life remains. Buried deep beneath the surface, willing to grow and flourish if only given the chance. Determined to spread its tendrils, whether it's wanted or not, it creeps forth leaving dots of green across the desolate landscape where once a forest grew. There is life after destruction. Always.<br />
<br />
I see it in my grandsons' eyes. I hear it in their voices. I feel it in his touch. The lives in their futures need to be oblivious of the pain within me. Their lives are to be nurtured, cherished, handled with care. Their lives deserve to be acknowledged in their own right for their unique beauty and potential without being compared to an entire forest.</div><div><br />
</div><div>But who can look at the aftermath of a forest fire without mourning the loss of the grandness which once was? How do you look at a seedling without wishing you could climb the tree that once stood in it's place? How do you scatter ashes with your footsteps without longing for the carpet of leaves and twigs representing years and years of growth? </div><div><br />
</div><div>I don't deny the life still within me, but I am faced with the knowledge I will never again be sheltered by the forest where once my heart was safe. Instead, I stand exposed amongst sprouts that will become the forest of my grandchildren's lives, hoping they will live safe and secure, embraced by love growing from seeds planted by the lives that came before them. They never knew the forest, so they will never long for it. They will only know the stories and fairy tales we weave from our memories.<br />
<br />
This is why I make myself smile. Get out of bed. Pretend. I cannot alter my own intense desire to also be consumed by the flames rather than stay and mourn the passing of the forest. I can however, sincerely hope for the innocent lives around me to remain protected from the burn of the remaining embers.<br />
<br />
I will not fan the embers voluntarily.<br />
<br />
Slowwwwwly I breathe.</div><div><br />
</div><div><br />
</div>Lisahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15478617244191630796noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-12097532.post-71498814760088917362010-05-28T12:46:00.000-05:002010-05-28T12:46:26.515-05:00A Bad Day.<div>The tears come swimming down through the smiles to catch me unawares. </div><div> </div><div>There should be no more birthdays for me if he can't have them too. </div><div> </div><div>I'm so fucking angry sometimes. Today, it's at him. For not being here. For not wanting to be here. For choosing NOT to be here. </div><div> </div><div>Damnit Josh, where the hell are you? </div>Lisahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15478617244191630796noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-12097532.post-69791356306181472412010-05-09T11:23:00.001-05:002010-05-09T11:24:10.455-05:00Mothers Day #2There really isn't any point in trying to express how bittersweet this day is for me. You've either walked in my shoes and get it on a gut level and don't need me to tell you how it feels because your living it.... or you haven't and there aren't enough words in the universe to express the roiling of emotions today brings.<br />
<br />
The chain I wear around my neck was a gift from him. The tokens and charms that hang from it have been given to me on significant anniversaries since his death. Today I added one that says "survivor". <br />
<br />
Maybe with time, I will come to believe it.Lisahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15478617244191630796noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-12097532.post-55069359291708515932010-04-09T16:07:00.000-05:002010-04-09T16:07:54.724-05:00Public Service AnnouncementI'm interrupting this blog to make an announcement. <br />
<br />
When I first started writing here, I didn't tell anyone about it. It was my private place to spew my thoughts as I tried to survive the best way I knew how. My feeling were raw and exposed. There was no room in my life to deal with family or friends trying to talk to me about what I wrote. I chose a public forum like this because journaling left me feeling cold and isolated. Putting it here was like being able to actually tell someone. Yet I wasn't burdening the people around me, who were also grieving, with trying to listen to what I have written here. Getting it out of me and feeling "heard" has been cathartic. It has helped me lay some of my angst down and move forward without it. <br />
<br />
Some. Not all. Nowhere near all. There is a bottomless pit of sorrow inside of me. <br />
<br />
As time has passed, I feel stronger and better able to share this blog with people I know in real life. I even posted the link on my facebook. I don't really know who all has read it, nor do I ask people if they have. I am willing to talk about it, but I'm also willing not to. These are my thoughts and feelings and I will not apologize for having them. If what I write here makes someone uncomfortable then the easiest solution is not to read it. If I get the facts wrong, it's not in an attempt to inflict pain, it's me being human and getting the facts wrong. <br />
<br />
This blog is in no way an indication of my entire life. It isn't indicative of how happy or sad I am all the time, or whether or not I feel love or compassion or joy for the other people in my life. It is not an indication of how much I do or don't love my other children. It is not a reflection on anyone's shortcomings or in any way intended to cause pain or sorrow to anyone else.<br />
<br />
The fact is, no matter how much I am grateful for the rest of my life, I will never EVER stop loving and missing Josh. Anymore than I would have stopped loving him if he were still alive. This blog is where I deal and cope when I am no longer able to keep it inside. All I ask of anyone who reads is to be respectful of my need to put my thoughts here. If you want to talk to me about it, that's fine, but please remember there isn't a wrong way to grieve.... and there sure as hell isn't a right way to lose a child. <br />
<br />
Enough said.Lisahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15478617244191630796noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-12097532.post-9649027278994931402010-04-07T20:20:00.000-05:002010-04-07T20:20:47.286-05:00Shadow of sadnessJosh's suicide has changed each and every one of us who loved him. For me, I think the biggest change is not looking forward to the future without the shadow of sadness. When I think of something positive or uplifting that is going to happen in the future it is never without the immediate following thought of not being able to share it with Josh. <br />
<br />
I can think of NOTHING that feels complete without him. I find myself wanting to build a new life where there would be no expectation of him being in it. But the only way to do that is to build a new me.... one that doesn't love him and miss him so much.<br />
<br />
That's just not going to happen. Nor do I want it to.<br />
<br />
So wtf am I supposed to do with that?Lisahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15478617244191630796noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-12097532.post-82245672365493271952010-04-03T17:56:00.001-05:002010-04-05T20:05:28.562-05:00The Nook in the HallFor seventeen months he sat on my dresser. His picture hung directly above him and when I passed by my thoughts were always pulled in his direction. I envisioned him perched up there kicking his feet back and forth bitching about how bored he was or reminding me his box needed to be dusted. <br />
<br />
When I moved I had to find a new place to put him. I don't have a mantle, and the coffee table seemed a little up close and personal for visitors. I don't have a dresser and the nightstand was a little up close and personal for ME. While he was often a fan of hanging out in the kitchen, I don't have a lot of counter space and lining him up with the canisters just didn't feel quite right. Putting him inside the cupboards was out of the question as was a corner of the closet... so what to do? <br />
<br />
I live in a little house built in the 40s... there's a small nook in the hall right next to the bathroom which was initially meant for the phone to rest. It was just the perfect size and shape for Josh's ashes to set. Where I will see him all the time, where he's close to one of his favorite spots to hang out. Yes, the bathroom. In typical boy fashion he took great pleasure in a healthy bowel movement and even more pleasure in telling everyone about them. So how fitting that he sits by the bathroom door so I smile everytime I go in there. The only thing lacking is his bathroom reader. He always had one to read while he did his best work. I'll have to get one from storage and set it next to him. <br />
<br />
No I haven't lost my mind... or at least no more than usual. I just miss him... and I keep him alive in small ways that get me through the day. He always got my sick and twisted sense of humor and would completely understand his placement. <br />
<br />
So there in the nook he sits. At least until I am ready to part with him and scatter him to the winds in Yosemite. He probably won't need the bathroom reader there, but I may shred a page to scatter with him.... Just in case.<br />
<br />
The damn kid still makes me laugh. Even through the tears.Lisahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15478617244191630796noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-12097532.post-7916406915272539032010-03-07T20:00:00.001-06:002010-03-07T20:04:02.623-06:00Memories RevisitedI'm never sure why some days are harder than others. Today has been a day of memories blasting me from every direction, at a time when my ability to deal with them is at an all time low. They aren't even happy memories, instead, I have been reliving the days surrounding his death and his funeral. Reliving them on an emotional level, to the point that I haven't even been able to say his name without bursting into tears. <br />
<br />
I remember how helpless I was to alter the course of events. I remember knowing he was in crisis and not being able to reach him. Feeling the sheer desperation of needing to talk to him so I could try and get him to come home... To reconsider his decision to kill himself. Because when he dissapeared I KNEW that's what he was going to do. <br />
<br />
I remember having to call my children and tell them they needed to come to the house. I remember his grandmother wailing in my driveway. I remember his girlfriend dropping to her knees at the door to my garage. I remember dropping with her and staring into the twilight sky and repeating the word "please" over and over and over again. There were infinite meanings to that word, but most prominently I meant please let me wake up. Please make it stop. <br />
<br />
I remember finally getting to be with him and realizing his toenails were painted red. I burst out laughing because only <em>MY</em> son would have died with his toenails painted and known I would laugh one last time at his antics. My beautiful child who was strong, virile and all man liked to go with his girlfriend and get pedicures. Does anyone know how precious that is to me? <br />
<br />
I remember feeling rushed to leave him that last time. The rest of the family couldn't deal with seeing him that way and had left the room and were waiting for me. I remember not wanting to ever leave... not knowing how to find the strength to resign myself to never gazing upon his face again. He was dead, but at least he was still within my sight. I could see him and touch him and try desperately to commit to memory every little detail of his being. That is perhaps my one regret... that I didn't sit there till <em><strong>I</strong></em> was ready to go instead of when everyone else was. <br />
<br />
I remember being the only one holding it together. Writing his obituary, gathering up his pictures, making sure everyone was called.... And all the while thinking I just had to take care of him this one last time. It was my one and only chance to say good-bye to him, to let everyone who loved him know him as I did. I needed to be present... in control. I needed to be strong, competent. I remember wanting him to be proud of me and the results of my plannng. Besides, there was no one else I could let do it. He was mine.<br />
<br />
I remember thinking if I could just get it right I could cry later. I could crawl in a hole and die... later. <br />
<br />
I remember that once I started crying I wasn't sure I would ever stop. <br />
<br />
Yet here I am. 17 months later. Breathing, living, <em>remembering</em>. <br />
<br />
Maybe the memories will be better tomorrow, but for today they are almost more than I can bear.Lisahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15478617244191630796noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-12097532.post-77215447021030140572010-02-15T23:17:00.001-06:002010-02-15T23:37:58.926-06:00Of Suicide and KindnessIt is not possible to go through life without causing another human being pain at some point. No matter the amount of love or compassion, sometimes in order to be true to yourself you must accept the fact there will be casualties along the way. I am at that point currently in my life. In order to take care of myself and survive the turmoil in my mind and heart I am forced to hurt the ones I love above all others. <br />
<br />
I also believe that there are ways to hurt people that cause less damage than others. It's a bit of an oxymoron, but I truly believe that you can hurt someone in the kindest way possible. Yet again, I find myself looking to Josh for guidance. I'm also having more revelations about his death. <br />
<br />
Since he committed suicide, I have done alot of reading and also joined an on line support group. Some of the stories I have read or heard have left me reeling in an effort to comprehend what other families have gone through and are having to survive. What I have come to realize is my son was incredibly kind to all of us in his last moments.<br />
<br />
There are no doubts about whether he loved us. I think we all know he would have probably have been gone long before he was except for his love for us and his desire not to hurt us. He was loved and he loved us in return. He showed us in so many ways, but perhaps never more than in the way he died. I know he was aware of the fact he was going to hurt us, but I also know he did it in the kindest way he knew how while still taking care of himself in the only way he felt was left to him.<br />
<br />
Before he died he completely and utterly made sure none of saw it coming. We had all seen or talked to him and even in retrospect, there were no indicators that he was feeling suicidal. When he left, Josh made sure to turn off his phone so none of us could wonder if there was something we could have said to him to change his mind. He didn't even check his voice mail so even though we had all left messages we also know he never got them. There was absolutely nothing any of us could have said or done to change anything. He went away to a place that was significant to him, but not to any of us. He got out of his truck and sat down under a tree before he shot himself. There was no way any of us were going to be the ones to find him. No one that knew and loved Josh had to see him that way. There was no mess for his loved ones to clean up or try to put back together in a moment of desperation. There was no note laying blame, there were no harsh words he could never take back. There is nothing around us or inside of us to remind us of his last moments. We are free to remember him in all his glorious beauty and to recall all the magnificent memories we have of his life. I am forever in his debt for the mercy and kindness he showed to us all in the way he handled his decision to die. <br />
<br />
I remember how devestated I was when he went out of state to college at the tender age of seventeen. I cried for months because I hated him being so far from home and hated even more the way he appeared to be perfectly content with it. Then one day it hit me. The only thing worse than him being away and happy would be for him to be away and unhappy. That was when I accepted the fact that if one of us was going to be hurting, I was glad it was me. It got easier after that to be happy for his happiness. To be joyful of his ability to move on with his own life without me ever present. <br />
<br />
I want to have my son back in my daily life. But in order to have that I would have to also be willing for him to continue to live with the horrors of being bi-polar. If he were still with us he would be in torment and I could never seflishly want that for him when I know he is at peace now. Those words do not come easily or readily. I struggle to think them much less type them and put them out for the world to see. It is not that I am alright with him being gone, it's more that I have always loved my son enough to put his happiness and well being in front of my own. <br />
<br />
The same holds true now. <br />
<br />
I want my son to be at peace. Please, be at peace, my son. For if you are, then I can find my way there too.<br />
<br />
I love you Josh.Lisahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15478617244191630796noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-12097532.post-27311148478010409652010-02-14T08:43:00.002-06:002010-02-14T08:50:31.864-06:00A Day of LoveI cant hold it all together for everyone anymore. Today is just another day rife with expectations that will go unfulfilled. You aren't here and I couldn't bring myself to buy and do the little things I normally do for everyone. <br />
<br />
So instead I will write here and wish it were chocolates. Wish it were flowers. Wish it was a sweetly written card. Wish I was with you. Wish Wish Wish. My days are full of wishes. I'm holding out both hands and wishing into one... and watching the other one fill up. <br />
<br />
I miss you. <br />
<br />
I yearn for you.<br />
<br />
I love you.<br />
<br />
Happy Valentines Day.Lisahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15478617244191630796noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-12097532.post-849125591653516972010-02-07T11:07:00.000-06:002010-02-07T11:07:50.457-06:00WWJDI don't know when exactly I lost my mind, but it's fair to say my family is hoping I find it soon. The problem is I don't know that I've lost it so much as I've found it and they don't like the results.<br />
<br />
I'm leaving my husband of 20 years and moving into my own place. Everyone is angry at me and I don't know how to make them understand that I need time and space to myself. I need to figure out who I am and what I want instead of living my life continuously to please them and their expectations. I have created a monster. No one hears me and every one turns to me to be the central orbit and foundation of their world to the exclusion of me having anything for myself. For the sake of brevity, I won't go into details, but suffice it to say, I either do this or I get committed to the mental institute. The decision hasn't been made lightly and comes with untold angst, fear and hurt. <br />
<br />
Numerous times a day I wonder what Josh's stance on all this would be. Josh was the one person I feel would understand. I think he would have been worried and angry, but I think he would have understood. Josh was always able to say no to us all if he felt strongly something was in his best interest or what he needed to do for himself. We often had our feelings hurt, yet he was also the one I think we all respected the most. We knew he didn't do things to hurt us, merely to take care of himself. If hurt was a by-product, he was sorry for that, but it seldom, if ever made him alter his plans. Because of that quality I think we had him for a lot longer than if he had lived his life for us.<br />
<br />
When Josh died, I almost immediately recognized how grateful I was for him being able to stand up to us and live his own life. I felt he had truly lived and experienced life rather than doing what every one else wanted of him. I have always been in awe of his ability to do that. I want to learn how to do it for myself. <br />
<br />
So I sit here wondering if he would understand. I talk to him but get no answers. Or do I? The strength to make this decision has come partially from my love and admiration of him. The possibility exists he wouldn't understand any of this and I'm deluding myself by believing he would. There is no way to express how much I wish I could talk to him and get his point of view. <br />
<br />
I will have to muddle through on my own, not ever knowing: <br />
<br />
What Would Josh Do?Lisahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15478617244191630796noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-12097532.post-15962775834098171282010-01-25T21:13:00.001-06:002010-01-25T21:22:16.533-06:00ForwardSometimes 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. <br />
<br />
Does it make me a bad mother for wanting to honor his life <em>with</em> 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.<br />
<br />
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. <br />
<br />
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. <br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
"That was just so kind of you! It made his day! He'll be smiling for the rest of the day." She said.<br />
<br />
"It was no big deal, really. "<br />
<br />
"No really, it was so very kind. Not too many people would have taken the time."<br />
<br />
"Ah well, I've learned life isn't a dress rehearsal" I replied, thinking of Josh.<br />
<br />
With a look of understanding, she said, " I've been trying to learn that myself. But it seems you've already got it."<br />
<br />
With a sad smile I told her," Yeah, maybe, but I learned it the hard way".<br />
<br />
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".<br />
<br />
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. <br />
<br />
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. <br />
<br />
This is the poem she handed me...<br />
<br />
<br />
<blockquote>Kindness<br />
<br />
Before you know what kindness really is<br />
you must lose things, feel the future dissolve in a moment<br />
like salt in a weakened broth.<br />
What you held in your hand,<br />
what you counted and carefully saved,<br />
all this must go so you know<br />
how desolate the landscape can be<br />
between the regions of kindness.<br />
How you ride and ride<br />
thinking the bus will never stop,<br />
the passengers eating maize and chicken<br />
will stare out the window forever.<br />
<br />
Before you learn the tender gravity of kindness,<br />
you must travel where the<br />
Indian in a white poncho lies dead<br />
by the side of the road.<br />
You must see how this could be you, how he too was someone who journeyed through the night<br />
with plans and the simple breath<br />
that kept him alive.<br />
<br />
Before you know kindness<br />
as the deepest thing inside,<br />
you must know sorrow<br />
as the other deepest thing.<br />
You must wake up with sorrow.<br />
You must speak to it till your voice<br />
catches the thread of all sorrows<br />
and you see the size of the cloth.<br />
Then it is only kindness<br />
that makes sense anymore,<br />
only kindness that ties your shoes<br />
and sends you out into the day<br />
to mail letters and purchase bread,<br />
only kindness that raises its head<br />
from the crowd of the world to say<br />
it is I you have been looking for,<br />
and then goes with you every where<br />
like a shadow or a friend.<br />
<br />
Naomi Shihab Nye (1953-)<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
</blockquote><br />
<br />
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. <br />
<br />
Wherever you are my son, know I love you. Know I remember you. Know I strive to be more like you.Lisahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15478617244191630796noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-12097532.post-4205024119041235022010-01-16T13:58:00.000-06:002010-01-16T13:58:08.355-06:00The New Day of the WeekFor 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.<br />
<br />
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. <br />
<br />
Butch calls it Sadderday. <br />
<br />
How aptly put.Lisahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15478617244191630796noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-12097532.post-2347818236677705252010-01-15T23:25:00.001-06:002010-01-15T23:26:42.103-06:00With Time<div style="text-align: center;">With time<br />
</div><div style="text-align: center;">you will learn to shoulder dense burdens<br />
</div><div style="text-align: center;">so incredibly heavy they once made your heart strain<br />
</div><div style="text-align: center;">and your lips mutter groans of agony<br />
</div><div style="text-align: center;">that the universe didn't seem to hear.<br />
</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: center;">With time <br />
</div><div style="text-align: center;">what seemed unbearable will become mundane,<br />
</div><div style="text-align: center;">and the narrow tunnels for vision<br />
</div><div style="text-align: center;">will swell to allow tthe rest of the world <br />
</div><div style="text-align: center;">to come into focus at last,<br />
</div><div style="text-align: center;">although you will never see things the same.<br />
</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: center;">With time even your nightmares will fade,<br />
</div><div style="text-align: center;">yielding the power they once had to <br />
</div><div style="text-align: center;">twist you into a sweaty knot in bed<br />
</div><div style="text-align: center;">and jolt you from sleep, wrapped up in damp sheets.<br />
</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: center;">With time you will appreciate the sweet, buzzing numbnes--<br />
</div><div style="text-align: center;">the anesthesia you will fight with all your might at first <br />
</div><div style="text-align: center;">but learn to succomb to in order to feel less <br />
</div><div style="text-align: center;">and attempt to endure more<br />
</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: center;">And you will endure more.<br />
</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: center;">With time<br />
</div><div style="text-align: center;">you will learn there is no other option.<br />
</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: center;">With time <br />
</div><div style="text-align: center;">you will simply learn to prevail.<br />
</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;">Author unknown but suspected to be fellow blogger <a href="http://heartofafamily.blogspot.com/">Nancy</a>. 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.<br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div>Lisahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15478617244191630796noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-12097532.post-91975356008326993652010-01-12T21:30:00.015-06:002010-02-07T11:13:39.942-06:00What (I think) I've learned<object height="344" width="425"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/VvMcVZf7fyE&hl=en_US&fs=1&"></param><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"></param><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"></param><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/VvMcVZf7fyE&hl=en_US&fs=1&" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="425" height="344"></embed></object><br />
<br />
Next month marks the 14th anniversary of what was, until 15 months ago, the most heart breaking experience of my life. <br />
<br />
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. <br />
<br />
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, <em>teenagers</em> 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 <em>relished</em> them.<br />
<br />
Mason's death helped me put life in perspective. Without <em>that</em> grief, and the changes I made because of it, <em>THIS </em>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.<br />
<br />
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. <br />
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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.<br />
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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. <br />
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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.<br />
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Don't let today be the regrets of tomorrow. If you love someone,<br />
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Tell them. <br />
<br />
Hold them. <br />
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<strong><em>Cherish</em></strong> them. <br />
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Life is short my friends. And I'm not talking about my own. <br />
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Trust me.Lisahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15478617244191630796noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-12097532.post-66845773714186451572010-01-09T10:03:00.004-06:002010-01-09T13:55:36.630-06:00DifferentI 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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br /><br />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)<br /><br />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. <br /><br />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. <br /><br />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.<br /><br />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. <br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />Thank you for being my son. Always my son. Yesterday, Today and Tommorrow.Lisahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15478617244191630796noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-12097532.post-17462596706227483602009-07-01T20:39:00.002-05:002009-07-01T20:41:39.793-05:00DenialAny minute now I'm going to wake up.<br /><br />That's what I keep thinking.<br /><br />Nine months later.<br /><br />How is that possible?Lisahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15478617244191630796noreply@blogger.com2