Counting

This would have been Eric's senior year of high school. While the need for new crayons and pencils wouldn't have been an issue, seeing those things in stores always brings that "back to school" feeling.

I always made pancakes or eggs on the first day of school as if a special breakfast could insulate Emma and Eric from any anxiety about the start of the new year. They would both roll their eyes as their dad insisted on taking their picture together in front of the mantle.

I hadn't looked at this picture, Emma's senoir year and Eric's freshman, since the day I took it. I didn't remember that while two years younger, he was as tall as his sister. To me they both look so full of promise.

The start of the new school year. The class of 2011 will hold a place in my heart. I wish them well.

10 Thing I have learned since Eric died.

1. The middle of night Ambien is my friend, I hope I never run out.
2 When you think you can’t eat anything, turn to french toast.
3 I am glad for every single time I let him bend the rules, there was joy in his life.
4 If you cry sitting down and bend at the waist you do not mess up your makeup
5 I am a stronger person than I ever wanted to be. No matter what, I can get up and live through every day.
6 Crying and contact lenses are not compatible, wear your glasses.
7 There must be a rule that I was unaware of that ham is the "meat of grief" in my community.
8 Amazingly, new people in my life who never knew him can be the most compassionate.
9 Very few people want no other answer than "fine" when they ask how you are doing. The rest are true blessings.
10 No matter how many times I buy the chocolate yogurt, the only one who liked it is not here to eat it.

Getting to the "hope" part

There is a possibility I have read everything written on the topic of grief. I remember when my children were babies I approached the whole motherhood thing the same way. I had every book written on breastfeeding, nutrition, health, discipline and every other foreign aspect of raising these small beings into independent, functioning adults. I reasoned that if people smarter and more talented than me have traveled these unfamiliar roads and were thoughtful enough to write about the experience I would be wise to learn from their take.

Time after time I have read you never "get over" the death of a child. Reluctantly, I am willing to accept this idea. This would explain why occasionally I can sob my heart out as if this unplanned event happened yesterday and not two years ago. While the business of living your life goes on, the sadness catches you life a cat pouncing on an ant.

When I began the whole blog thing I thought that writing about my experience would help me clarify my thoughts. As the weeks turn into months I realize that for me, there is no function served by agonizing over the details of losing my child. I know this brings comfort to some parents who have experienced the same agonizing loss. There are no rules for this road. We each have to travel it in our own way, at our own pace and a timetable that feels right to us.

The thing that does serve a purpose, as I see it, is to be a participant in the lives that are still going on. Mine included.

To Eric on his 18th Birthday

Dear Eric:

Happy 18th Birthday! Would you have asked me to buy lottery tickets like I did for you sister on her 18th birthday? Would we go out for dinner? What would you have wanted?

The two things I would want to know if I could talk to you are, do you know how absolutely I love you and; are you safe? Sometimes I have a mini panic moment and text your sister S & S? Safe and Sound. For that moment I know that she is "safe". For now, you will just have to be safe in my heart.

I have read that tears are cleansing. I fail to see how swollen eyes and an impossibly stuffy nose are cleansing. If tears are cleansing, I have personally cried enough to scrub a landfill. Yesterday I had the thought that it is more physically painful to let you go than it was to bring you into the world. My whole body hurts with the pain of loss. But, today will be over. I will continue to find ways to live my life without you. I absoluetly believe that there will be joy in my life. You lived a joyful life and I intend to honor that. Happy Birthday, Jelly Bean, Love Mama.

Looking Foward

I can honestly say I can get up and live through every day. I can go to work and like very much what I do. I can spend time with my family and friends who I love. I don't, however, think I will ever take for granted that the world will rotate peacefully every day or that the sun will come up every morning. I secretly believe that at any given moment the world just might spin out of control, or simply tilt slightly and take a very long time to right itself. I doubt that I will ever have the blissful feeling that nothing really bad can happen. I no longer believe that everything happens for a reason. Sometimes things just happen.

When I left for work this morning the barrel that holds the chives outside my back door had tiny green shoots. Had I not been in a hurry, I would have lifted the leaves I should have raked last fall to see if the corner of the "garden" that has the tarragon, oregano and thyme had signs of life. I use the term garden loosely, because I stubbornly cling to the fantasy that my yard will someday be a beautiful oasis of lush grass and colorful flowers. This would assume that a certain 90 lb. dog did not trample everything that does not contain thorns. The point is, the chives signal there is hope of spring.

But before that, I have to live through what I have come to think of as "the ten days of April". My son's birthday is April 7th. He died in 2008 at age 16 on April 17th. 10 days. Like the cruise of grief. I don't get to go some island with impossibly blue water and a beach. An island where the food and drink are endless. I have lived through all the "firsts". First holidays, birthdays without him and then a whole year passed that he was no longer with me. The dread last year was worse then those actual days. I am clinging to that thought. Because spring will follow.

One of Them

I don't want to be one of those people.

To clarify, I would like more than anything in the world not be someone who has had a child die. Next month two things will occur. My son would be 18 and he will have been dead for two years. I like to imagine him at 18. When he died, he had his drivers license for 9 days. He was getting his braces off the next week. He died suddenly after track practice. Apparently, he received the heart that was only good for 16 years and 10 days.

But at 18, what would he be like?

In the middle

Equally distant seems like an appropriate title. Middle aged, mid west, middle of winter.