The last touch

In the last three weeks I’ve discovered there are things too large for the mind to absorb all at once. My son's death has certainly fallen into that category. I find myself living in two alternate realities; the one where this can all be undone with some act that I’ve yet to discover, and the one where my son’s skin will never again be beneath my fingertips. On the last day I was able to make physical contact with him I ached with love, sorrow and the fear of forgetting.

Josh only stood about 5’4” and it was easy to forget how incredibly firm and solid he was, how male he was, until I wrapped my arms around him. No matter how often I saw him, I was always briefly startled by the concreteness of his body, the sheer strength of his arms as he returned my embrace. On more than one occasion I had marveled at his form, the near perfection of him, not the least surprised that he had been asked to pose for more than one art class. (A task that he accepted, to my eternal gratefulness, since I now have sketches from them)


This time, when I gently touched his arm I was once again startled, but this time it was from the icy chill emanating from his skin. I immediately laid my hand firmly against him trying to transfer my warmth. My poor, poor baby was cold and the mother in me rebeled against leaving him in that condition. The many nights of his life that it was my job to sneak into his room and pull the covers up over his sleeping body flashed through my mind, and it was agonizing to me to not have a blanket to swaddle him in, but merely a thin crisp sheet which only held in the cold. The urge to cover him with my own body, to let my body heat seep into him and warm his core and extremities was nearly overwhelming. At that moment in time, I struggled to grasp the realization that he wouldn’t wake up if only he were warm. His flesh was as eerily familiar to my fingers in death as it was in life. Firm and strong beneath my fingertips, once again jolting in it’s perfection. Death imitating life.

His eyelashes were long and beautiful, the envy of every girl he ever dated, but this time there was a gap in them and it took me a few minutes to understand they had most likely been pulled out from tape. His hair had been cut and looked dull and chopped, but was still silky sliding between my fingers. Each time my gaze began to settle on the cosmetic work around his temple I quickly refocused on something less foreign than the flesh colored putty filling and hiding the damage he had done.

Laying my hand over his chest I could feel the coarse softness of his hair beneath the cotton gown he was wearing. The cushion of air created by his hair allowed his chest to feel less frigid and my hand kept returning to rest lightly just above his heart, longing for a beat to flutter under my questing touch. The blue on white pattern of the gown lacked only a hospital logo and I kept begging the universe to warp back to an acceptable place where he was injured rather than dead. Waiting with futility for him to take a breath, to feel the slightest stir. At one point my mind threatened to crack as it tried to make my fantasy become reality. The finality was unbearable, knowing this would be the last time to touch him, to etch permanently into my memories the feel of this beautiful human being who once resided within my womb.

As I stood there alone with my child, I told him how much I loved him. How grateful I was for his life, how much I already missed him, how lost I felt without him. Somewhere in the midst of my anguish I realized I had one final task to accomplish for him. For twenty six years my only wish for him was to be happy, to be at peace. If the only way for that to happen was for me to live without him, then that is what I would learn to do.

With all the love a mother’s heart can hold, I whispered, “ For you, I can do anything.”

The Nook in the Hall

For 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.

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?

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.

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.

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.

The damn kid still makes me laugh. Even through the tears.

Memories Revisited

I'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.

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.

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.

I remember finally getting to be with him and realizing his toenails were painted red. I burst out laughing because only MY 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?

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 I was ready to go instead of when everyone else was.

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.

I remember thinking if I could just get it right I could cry later. I could crawl in a hole and die... later.

I remember that once I started crying I wasn't sure I would ever stop.

Yet here I am. 17 months later. Breathing, living, remembering.

Maybe the memories will be better tomorrow, but for today they are almost more than I can bear.

Stop the ride.

8 Months.
34 1/2 weeks

Less time than I carried him inside of me. Yet it's an eternity. A vast endless chasm of frustration, agony, and despair. I scream at the top of my lungs driving down the street. I wail. I lash out at those around me. I physically double over in pain when I can't hold my grief at bay any longer. I simply can not wrap my head around the fact of this existence without him. Never hearing his voice. This is too hard. Too damn hard. Overwhelmingly hard.

For today this is how I feel. Tomorrow may be different. Grief is a process, but not a predictable one. There are no set rules, no definitive path to follow. Instead it is a roller-coaster, whipping me to and fro without the least regard to where I want to go. This ride has no foreseeable end, only moments of anticipation where it noticeably slows before taking me into another plunge.

Stop the ride, I want to get off now.

As long as I'm pissing and moaning, let me just say, if I hear the statement "God never gives you more than you can handle." one more time, someone's going to get hurt.

Seriously? Do people really still find a way to believe this rhetoric? Simple reasoning tells me that statement can't possibly be true. If it were, my son would be alive and handling his depression.

I'm angry today and I'm throwing the bullshit flag.

New Beginnings

I found out two days ago my nineteen year old daughter is pregnant.

It's going to be okay, even though the circumstances are less than stellar. She isn't the first girl to have terrible taste in men, but she does have her own apartment, has a job and insurance, as well as being one of those old souls who was simply meant to have children. (She was so bossy as a child Josh used to call her Mom sub-set one). It will be hard, but she knows we love her and are here for her, that we will love our grandchild immensely no matter what.

She is older than I was when I had Josh, so I would be the last person in the world to tell her it can't be done. But damn....She could sure use her big brother about now. I even wonder if this didn't happen because of how much she misses him. In an effort to fill the abyss he has left in her heart...all our hearts.

He loved children and would have been an incredible uncle. He would have been an incredible father. Instead his son and his nephew will know him from our memories, not their own.

Some days, I could really be pissed off at him if I didn't miss him so much.

Exquisite

So often, when I post here I feel better for having written, yet still feel I've very poorly expressed myself. Many of my posts have dealt with my feelings of gratitude, not for the loss of my son, but for the joy of his life. Each time I post something along those lines it leaves me wondering if I've somehow negated the depth of my sorrow or left the impression I'm less profoundly changed by Josh's death than I really am.

I am not whole. I will never BE whole again. My sorrow doesn't diminish as time goes by, instead it becomes easier to fake happiness with practice. Yet, there are times I truly do feel deep abiding joy. Perhaps it's a different joy than I felt seven months ago, but it's joy nonetheless. Joy for the child I was given the chance to know and love. Joy for the multitude of lessons I have learned virtue of his life, and sadly, also his death.

Yesterday, while reading a new Dean Koontz book (Odd Hours) my daughter gave me for Mother's Day, I came across the following passage and it so closely fit with what I've been feeling I wanted to preserve it here in order to find it more readily when I need to remind myself of where I want to be.....

"Loss is the hardest thing. But it's also the teacher that's the most difficult to ignore."

"Grief can destroy you--or focus you. You can decide a relationship was all for nothing if it had to end in death, and you alone. Or you can realize every moment of it had more meaning than you dared to recognize at the time, so much meaning it scared you, so you just lived, just took for granted the love and laughter of each day, and didn't allow yourself to consider the sacredness of it. But when it's over and you're alone, you begin to see it wasn't just a movie or dinner together, not just watching sunsets together, not just scrubbing a floor or washing dishes together or worrying over a high electric bill. It was everything, it was the why of life, every event and precious moment of it. The answer to the mystery of existence is the love you shared sometimes so imperfectly, and when the loss wakes you to the deeper beauty of it, to the sanctity of it, you can't get off your knees for a long time, you're driven to your knees not by the weight of the loss but by gratitude for what preceded the loss. And the ache is always there, but one day not the emptiness, because to nurture the emptiness, to take solace in it, is to disrespect the gift of life."

This was speaking of a different kind of relationship and I didn't spend a lot of time with Josh scrubbing floors or worrying about the electric bill the essence is still spot on. I also can't say I took him for granted very often, yet I did. We all do. It's not something I can explain other than to say no matter how much you think you love someone, you can't ever realize how much you really love them until they are gone. You can only imagine the impact their loss would have, you can't truly experience it unless and until they aren't there.

My son is dead. All I have left are my memories and my love for him. He was exquisite, the best son anyone could ever ask for. Brilliant, beautiful, kind, compassionate, devoted and loving. I will love him to the end of my days, not his. I will not allow his death to be the only memory I hold on to. I will not allow myself to only remember how he died, instead of how he lived. I can't give him back his life, so I will spend mine living for him.

Exquisite I tell you.

His life means more than his death.

From the Corner of My Eye

It's amazing to me the way the human mind finds ways to cope with grief. Seven months after Josh's death he is still the first thing in my mind when I wake, the last thing I think of before I sleep and often he rules my dreams as well. Yet, somehow, it's almost as if he's in my peripheral vision rather than directly in my line of sight. My mind has forced itself to redirect, refocus, and somehow cope with a loss otherwise incapacitating. I suspect I would not be here if that were not the case.

Most of the time, I'm fully aware of keeping my focus on life while thoughts of Josh hover close by. I can't bring myself to look (mentally and phsically) straight at him very often or I am completely unable to function. His ashes sit on my dresser with his picture hanging over them and I pass them at least twenty times a day and yet I rarely look at them. It comforts me to know they are there if I want to look at them, but to actually stop and do so is impossible without losing my composure. So I pass by, say the frequent "Hi Josh, I love you". and move on. By no means does this mean I don't think of him constantly, it simply means I cannot always indulge myself with a cry fest and so I keep him at a distance. Like when he was little, playing, and I was trying to get something done. I would keep him in the corner of my eye. Always aware of him, but not letting him be my primary focus at the moment. Now, even though he isn't little anymore, and he isn't here for me to watch over, I keep him in the corner of my mind's eye. The thing I'm trying to get done is living. Without him. Not focusing directly on him allows me to do this, albeit poorly.

Having said that, it also never ceases to amaze me how blindsided I can be when I am caught unawares by my grief. On those occasions it is like no time has passed and his death was only yesterday. Just when I'm going along as smoothly as I possibly can, faceing my grief, with at least a grasp on what it takes to get through the day, I find a new aspect of life that will never be the same without him. Each time that happens, I nearly double over in pain. I find myself crying, without the ability to stop, regardless of where I am.

That happened to me Friday. I work with a young man whose name is also Josh and I called his name the other day. Without thinking I said it the way I always said it when I was calling my Josh. You know, that silly lilting way I suspect all mothers have for their children when they are just trying to get their attention but don't really need anything...... Josshhh-U-aaaaaaa.

It hit me like a ton of bricks. I haven't called his name in seven months. I've said it...Josh....Joshua. His name is said as often now as it ever was, but I haven't called it through the house. I haven't been able to call him with that lilt, the rise and fall of my voice, the drawing out of the letters, the way only I called him when I was eager to show him something, excited to tell him something. I haven't had the security of knowing he was in the next room, hearing his voice answering back .... Yeah,Mom?... What's up Madre'? (Madre' and Mamasita were his terms of endearment for me... no clue why. *shrug*) The tears started flowing and wouldn't stop. There was, for a while, no buffer of time since he died. My mind was unable to keep him to the side, instead he and his death was all there, in my face. No chance to prepare myself, no way to avoid... Just pure naked grief. Fortunately, it was right at the end of my shift so I was able to leave. I sobbed all the way home and then some. Sobbed, not cried.

I can't even begin to explain why one day is worse than another or what does and doesn't have the potential to make me melt down. There are chinks in my armor, but it's hard to examine it and find them while wearing it. I don't know what the triggers are going to be in order to brace myself against them. I want to be able to avoid those moments because while in the midst of them they are terrifying in thier intensity. Their ability to derail and incapacitate....to hurt... is incredible. It's feels hopeless to try and live with the pain. my guts might as well be scooped out with a rusty spoon through a wound that has barely begun to heal. The thought of it always being this way, never reaching a point of not being blindsided makes me want to quit. Just quit.

Enough of that....

I suppose the point of this rambling post is the fact it's Mother's Day. I needed to take a few minutes to look directly at Josh. To allow myself my grief, to willingly focus on him and let the pain wash over me. I needed to be with all of my children today, in one capacity or another. This is my first Mother's day without his presence, but there will never be one without his memory. There is a piece of me missing which will never be with me again. There are so many, many facets of my life which will never be the same. God, how I miss him.

Now, I will dry my tears and set my thoughts of Josh to the side. For the rest of today, I will glance at him, but only from the corner of my eye. I will remember I am still a mother and need to do whatever is neccesary in order to be a good mother to Tanner and Rebecca. They are also grieving. They need their mother. They need ME.

Whoever the hell that is.

I Remember...

The way he pushed his butt up under my ribcage and straightened his knees out so I could barely breath. Pushing and rubbing on his bottom through the tight skin of my stomach in an effort to get him to relax.

Pacing the floors with him at the hospital in tears because I was convinced he didn't want me for a mother. (because he was crying, as newborns do.)

I remember...

Wincing each time he latched on to my tender breasts, and the way he would only eat until the hunger pains subsided and then fall asleep, only to wake up hungry once again in about 30 minutes.

Him being the noisiest nurser I have ever encountered, even to this day.

The callus he developed on his upper lip.

I remember...

How he wanted so much to be like mommy that he gave up his bottle @ a year and potty trained himself @ eighteen months.

His smile when he woke from his naps and him riding his tricycle down the stairs from the second floor.

The way he escaped from the apartment by precariously stacking the dining room chair, his playschool chair and a couple of phone books to climb up to the deadbolt. Only to be found naked in a mud puddle two apartments down. At seven A.M.... When he was eighteen months old.

I distinctly remember being sure I was the only mother who couldn't keep up with her child or out smart him. Knowing now he was anything but an ordinary child.

I remember....

His first day of kindergarten and him telling the teacher he already knew how to write his name and count. Making it clear she was going to have to do better than that if she wanted to keep his interest.

How his intellect was his gift and his curse all rolled into one confusing bundle for which no child could be prepared.

I remember how sweet he was, how worried he would get if I was crying, as even adults are prone to do on occasion. Especially young mothers who are stressed and trying to grow up with their children.

I remember....

Catching him, his brother Tanner, and his cousin Michael playing star wars in the bathroom. Complete with urine streams as light sabers.

Frequently getting up on Saturday mornings to find the yard mowed and edged just because he wanted let his father and I relax.

Him showing up at my job and throwing me on his back and spinning me around in circles 'till I was dizzy. How we laughed and were completely undignified and how incredibly loved and special I felt.

I remember...

He was such a bright and shining light you would do almost anything to be in his glow. Somehow the world was colder and less hospitable without his warmth, and yet, sometimes he burned so hot it was painful.

I guess the point to this post is.... I remember. The minutes, the moments, the good, the bad and the ugly. I spend inordinate amounts of time spinning the memories 'round and 'round my head in a frenzied fear of forgetting. Perhaps if I start taking a few moments of that time to write them down, a few at a time, I can let go of trying to constantly re-play them, knowing they are recorded somewhere and won't be lost. Perhaps it will take the pressure off of me to be the memory keeper for my five month old grandson who will someday want to know his father.

Belief

I walked out the door from work to see my car pulled up just outside, waiting on me, despite having left it in the employee parking area that morning. The dark tint to my windows kept me from seeing the driver, but it was a no-brainer that it was my husband there to surprise me since he is the only one who has keys and he loves to drive my car. I opened the passenger door to climb in, a smile on my face, glad to be done with my work day and to spend time with my husband of twenty years. That's when I realized the face leaning over the center console waiting for me was Josh's.

"Hi Mamasita!", He announced, smiling from ear to ear, but with a nervous quality, not sure what my response was going to be. After all, he has been dead for over four months. No small feat to show up now for a friendly mother-son date.

I freaked. Smooth freaked. We're talking bat-shit crazy, wall-eyed hissy-fit, freaked. I broke down in a way that is certainly not acceptable in public and I couldn't have cared less. I saw the smile fall from his face as he quickly threw the car in park and jumped out to run around to me. The whole time I was crying, no...wailing at him to explain to me what the hell he was doing there.

"No Josh! You can't do this! Your dead, I know your dead! You can't mess with my mind this way! How are you here? Where have you been? What are you doing? Please don't do this, I can't bear it."

I was angry as hell, which surprised me then, as much as it does now. You'd think I would have just been overjoyed to see him, and yes, that was there, but mostly I was angry. Seething mad. As he came to me I was swatting at him to keep away, trying to tell him what a cruel, cruel joke this was, yet he persisted in touching me, hugging me. All the while with his shit-eating nervous grin in place. Josh never did quite know what to do with a crying woman. You could almost see him thinking to himself " Oh hell, what do I do now? She's leaking!" Yet, he stayed by my side and held me, rubbed my back, quietly talked to me, and slowly his words began to penetrate past my hysteria.

" Shhhhh, it's O.K. Mom. I'm sorry I scared you. I'm sorry I worried you all these months. I'm O.K. I'm fine. It's all going to be alright. Please don't cry. I never meant to make you cry. I never meant for you to be so sad. I'm so sorry. Please don't be so sad. I'm fine Mom, I've been fine. I just don't want you to worry anymore. I'm right here. I'm always here. I love you." He repeated these gentle words over and over.

Slowly my heart heard him. It was impossible to deny his presence while enveloped in his arms, breathing in the smoky smell of his leather jacket, hearing the deep timber of his voice, seeing the crooked eye tooth in his smile. Slowly I came to understand the impossible was happening and I was actually getting to talk to my son again for the first time in four months. I was calmed. Comforted. Joyous. I believed him. Believed IN him.

I STILL believe.

Even though I woke up.

I love you Josh.

Hurt

Grief is not an ebb and flow of good an bad these days. Instead, it is a river. Raging, roaring towards some unseen destination I cannot fathom. Pulling me in its grip in the direction it wants me to go regardless of where I would choose to send it. I am seized in a torrent of white water rapids and I'm spinning, smashing and pounding into boulders of remembrance at every turn. If only I could have a moment of calm to collect my thoughts I think I would be better able to know what to do, but I am unable to slow the thoughts and memories in my mind long enough to make rhyme or reason from them. The desire to breath calm revitalizing air is overwhelming, but instead there are droplets of pain splashing into my face and lungs, the mix of air versus grief getting thicker and more difficult to process into usable life. I can't see what's coming ahead, can only hear the increasing sounds of chaos and I picture a drop over an emotional waterfall at the end of the line. I'm terrified if I don't find a way to reach calm waters before I get there it will plunge me under the surface of life, taking me so deep into my mind and memories and sorrows there will be no hope of resurfacing.

As time passes I am beginning to feel so distant from Josh. I don't feel his presence around me like I did in the beginning. It's debilitating to think he's ....just, well.... gone. I spend my days seeking some tangible place, time or object which will make me feel reconnected with him but it seems the harder I grasp to reach him the farther away he is. The world is moving on without him. I know I'm supposed to also, but I feel unable to move on with it.

I'm hanging all my hopes on the passing of the holidays. I know there is not ever going to be a time when I'm alright, when it's "over", but perhaps it will be less consuming without constantly gagging on Christmas and cheer being shoved down my throat 24/7.

I haven't decorated or even set up the tree. We say we want to do it different this year, and yet it feels like we're shutting him out. There is no balance. We can't make it the same and we can't make it different and the damn day is coming either way. At this point it's pretty much a given it will be different, and not just because he's not here. There have been no gifts purchased, and I don't care. I can't do it. How do I not shop for him? Do I hang his stocking? How can I not? But then how can I leave it empty? How do we have tree decorating night without him? Do we set his Santa mug to the side or just not get it out? The questions without answers go on and on. I know with time I will have to come up with solutions and alternate plans. But not this year.

I sleep too much, I cry too much, I ache from head to toe. I'm forgetful and scatter brained. I'm avoidant and reclusive. I'm a shadow. Grief is exacting it's toll and the price is too steep to pay both grief and life.

I hurt.

Breaking Tradition

Traditions are hard to break. When I started having children, I automatically started traditions. I started doing things I would feel the need to continue, without first giving thought to whether or not they were good traditions or force of habit left over from my own childhood.

For years, I've struggled with the commercialism of Christmas. Every year our family would discuss not participating in the whole traditional Christmas routine, and every year we would cave. In the past, there has always been some reason to follow through rather than let someone down or deal with the never ending questions. This year though, no matter how much I would like the option of having our old fashioned Christmas, it's not going to happen. Rather than swim upstream against the currents of change, I've decided to go with the flow.

It will be different this year. New traditions will be created. Only time will tell whether it's for the better or the worse, but never again will I allow myself to get locked in by habit simply because it's a comfort zone. (that has become increasingly uncomfortable)

Truthfully, Josh made the decision for me, but that's fitting since he has always been my impetus for change. I can't even begin to recall all the times in my life I've been motivated to be a better person in order to make his life better or make him proud of me. Knowing how much he despised what Christmas has become gives me permission to do it different this year. Even if it's by using the shadow of his death to do so. I know he wouldn't mind and would approve of our decision.

Come Christmas day, I will gather my family together and we will take time to remember why we love each other. We will spend time, expend thought, and share love. There will be no gifts that are pricey and could have (even potentially)cost someone their life at Wal-mart or any other store. If gifts are exchanged at all, they will be handmade or second hand. If I need proof of this being the right decision, I will wrap the scarf Josh hand wove for me several Christmases ago tighter around my neck and remember how much I treasure it. (Yet, I can't remember what he bought for me last year.)

At the end of the day, I want to be able to mourn the loss of my son secure in the knowledge I've found a way to create good from his life. It's the only gift I can give him.

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.

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.

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.

Before and After

I think I was walking into the living room from our bedroom when I heard the car pull up. Somehow, I knew what was coming and instead of continuing straight, I veered right, into the kitchen. I recall trying desperately to think of something to do, anything to avoid the inevitable, so I opened the fridge and took out a bottle of water about the time my husband said “ Officer Burgess is here”. I calmly opened the bottle, briefly thinking that I looked awful and was going to have to get out of my robe and put some clothes on before the calls started. Then I tilted the bottle to my lips and drank. If I think about it I can still feel the coolness of the water slipping past my tongue, the momentary urge to throw up instead of swallow... The sheer agony of my stomach clenching against it’s invasion. More than anything though, I just wanted that drink to never end.

Our eyes met through the front window and his averted first. There was no smile, no acknowledgement, only that fleeting connection when he looked at me. I can only wonder now what he thought of my calmness; My continuation of getting a drink of water despite the fact that he and his partner were at my door. Perhaps he understood, or more likely, he was so busy steeling himself to speak to us it never entered his mind to wonder. It’s crossed my mind whether or not my response seemed cold or unloving, but at the time avoidance was my only resource, the only way to cope with an unbearable, unspeakable reality.

That’s when I knew for sure what I’d been feeling all day was true: My life as I’d known it for the last 26 years was gone, to be placed amongst all the moments of my past. That was the difinitive moment. The spot in time dividing joy and heartache, laughter and sorrow, hope and tomorrow.

I had started grieving that morning. I don’t know why or how I knew, other than a mother's heart sometimes just knows. There was a palpable difference in the very air I breathed. We'd filed the missing persons report the night before, and that day I'd left work because I couldn’t stop crying. I'd spent the day waiting to officially hear the news. Despite everyone telling me it was going to be O.K., every fiber of my being was aware that it was already too late for O.K. to even be an option.

Two days of his phone turned off, no word….. This time he didn’t want to be talked out of it.

My son was dead.