The Reason?

I secretly hate the phrase "everything happens for a reason". My assumption is that they have never sent their child to school and their child died before dinner. While every life experiences sadness and loss, sometimes there is no reason for the sad and tragic things life throws at us. Things just happen.  

Lately, I have had the idea swirling around in the outermost regions of my thoughts that something good might come from the loss of my child.  My daughter Emma is in her second year of medical school.  While she does not have to decide yet, she has mentioned she is considering pediatric cardiology.  As her brother died of undiagnosed congenital heart defects, if she follows this path, there might be someone who won't have to experience what my family lives with every day.  What a remarkable gift that would be.  It has taken me almost six years to find one tiny speck of good in losing Eric.  I believe his light shines through her.  

Dear Emma

Before graduation from the University of Iowa, my daughters' sorority held an event for their seniors and asked their parents to write a letter.  I found this on my computer today when I was looking for something work related.  I think it bears repeating:

Dear Emma:

In my mind it goes without saying that you should know how proud your father and I are of you.  But then I realized it never hurts to remind the people in your life of things you think should be obvious.

I had a job once that did written evaluations and the highest mark was “exceeded expectations”.  As my daughter you have more than exceeded expectations.  I had no idea how much you could love another person until you were born.  You have always been, and I’m sure will continue to be, a leader, a compassionate person, self reliant, able to put things into prospective, and have the ability (I like to think you got from me) to see the humor in most situations.  These are qualities that will serve you well in life.

We have weathered some life altering experiences.  I would like to think we have done it with grace.  Please never lose the faith that no matter what happens in life, it will pass, the pain will soften and wonderful and challenging things lie ahead.  In life there will always be pain, but there will always be joy.  

I wish I could close with some incredibly insightful piece of information that I had neglected to tell you thus far in your life.  So I will leave you the all encompassing, “don’t dive into shallow water”.  I love you Emma, you are one of the two greatest blessings in my life.  

Love, Mom

Resiliency

I read an article on grief about a year ago and the smarty pants, I believe if memory serves me, Columbia professor talked about the "resiliency of the spirit".  Basically he said that those with more resilient spirits heal more quickly and completely after a loss.  At the time I read it, I was enraged.  I actually stormed about for a couple days in a "you don't know what happened to me, what I've been through" snit.

I have thought about this quite a bit in the last couple of days, since the horrific events in Connecticut.  The loss of my son has nothing in common with the horror these children faced.  He died in my arms in a hospital surrounded by the people who love him most, his sister and his father. (I can't bring myself to say "loved him most", past tense is painful) The thing we do have in common is we sent our children to school one day and they did not come home.  While the circumstances are vastly different, the end result is the same:  Someone we loved with all our hearts and who was a key part of our family and our very identity, is gone from this earth and our lives, and we must find a way to live the rest of our life without them.

Always reluctant to admit I am wrong, that just might be the case.  I have come to embrace the idea of resiliency and hope I have instilled it in my daughter.  Bad, painful things are going to happen in every life.  Hopefully most of us will never have to face what these families who are so on our minds are facing.  I send them my prayers and I wish them peace sooner rather than later.  And when the pain is less agonizing, I hope they have the strength to consider the concept of resiliency.  May their spirits be resilient in the face of unimaginable grief.

Blessings

I admit it.  I was sucked in.  A local store is selling bracelets called the "count your blessings bracelet".  The narrow silver bracelet has four large pearl-like beads in various colors.  The accompanying literature instructs you to think of a blessing in your life for each of the four beads every time you wear it. At the end of a year you have a big long list of blessings, assuming you wear it with some regularity.  I bought them as graduation gifts for my daughter and her two best friends from college.  OK, I got one for myself as well.  My beads are pink.

I have worn it several times.  Today when I put it on I realized that every time I have worn it and counted off four things that are blessings in my life, they are people.  They are my family, my friends, people I work with, and people I admire.  (Alright.  One day ONE of the blessings was that my aging car started, but that was an exception).

I am fairly certain you do not need a bracelet to count the blessings in your life on a semi-regular basis.  But if you can combine a fashion statement with remembering to live a life of gratitude for the many gifts you are given isn't that a double win?  

April

In my former pre-havingachildwhodied life I loved April.  I am not a big fan of winter.  As I live in northern Illinois that is somewhat ironic.  April mean tulips, chives, green, asparagus from who knows where, but good! and getting ready to plant. I love to cook and always laugh when chef-y people talk about "locally sourced" ingredients.  Does that mean that those of in the mid-west are relegated to squash and pork during the cold, dark months of winter?  Nevertheless, I will joyfully buy produce that has flavor in April regardless how long its journey to my corner of the world took.  I will "locally source" all summer and fall, but in early spring, feel free to truck it in.

I have to admit, I dread "my" ten days of April.  My son turned 16 on April 7th and died on April 17th of 2008. Four years ago.  I feel myself being sucked under by the waves of grief.  Sometimes my acquired   ability to only cry in the shower fails me.  I miss him every day.  I wish with all my heart that I would know, good or bad, what he would be like at 20.  But every day, I live with what "is".    

I look outside and love the fact it's still light out and green.  Soon I will be able to plant herbs and flowers.  Life goes on and it's good. While I am blessed in many ways, part of me will never be the same.  

When I am in Charge...

When I am in charge no child will be abused, harassed, belittled, or treated badly in any way.
When I am in charge a bar fight will not lead to murder.
When I am in charge differences will be resolved by discussion and agreement.
When I am in charge no one will pack a gun as the first item when attending a party.
When I am charge everyone will treat EVERY other person as they would want the people they love most to be treated.
When I am in charge no child will die. 

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.