Can you imagine?

Awhile ago I was involved in a conversation about texting while driving. This is a huge debate and not really what I want to write about. I really try not to look at my phone while I drive. I try even harder when my kids are with me knowing they are watching what I am doing every minute, even if neither of us realize it. The conversation was offensive to me though because of the thoughtlessness of someone who knows me well enough to know how much I suffer, but apparently doesn’t pay as much attention as I would to them. It was offensive because I never take people getting preachy with me well, especially when I am agreeing with them, but they aren’t really listening. So when I said “I try really hard not to text or do anything like that” it apparently meant “I text all the time without regard for anyone” and then even though I was trying to say I agreed with her, she kept talking and talking about it and every time I tried to explain myself it just ended up sounding as if I was backtracking, even though I really wasn’t. I really hate conversations like this. I end up overly frustrated and for no reason. But then she said to me, rather passively “I mean, really, could you imagine if you were the cause of your own children’s death?”  I just looked at her and ended the conversation. What I really wanted to do was punch her in the face and scream at her. A younger Laura would have. I wanted to scream “Really? You are asking me this? Yes, I can imagine what it would be like to feel responsible for your child’s death. I can imagine my heart being ripped from my chest, put in a blender and stuffed back in so that it can ache. I can imagine the feeling that you could have done something to prevent such a tragedy but didn’t.  I can imagine them laying there lifeless knowing there is nothing you can do to help them. No matter how much you love them, no matter how hard you want, you can’t do anything. I can imagine that. I can imagine the horror in which has become daily existence. I can imagine the self loathing one would feel. I can imagine a loss so great, you will never be the same again. The question is can you!?” This is the edited version of course, as in real life if I were to scream this there would be a lot more expletives. I don’t know how to make people not be stupid with what they say. If anyone has any advice on that one, please let me know. I know the answer is really that we cannot control what other people do, only our reaction to it. But sometimes that is not enough to quiet my mind. 

Callings

Life is a funny thing. Grief even more ridiculous. You will be driving along, singing a song, feeling like today might be good for something and enjoying the sunshine and then a memory flashes across your brain; sabotaging your momentary happiness. The image of cop cars surrounding your son’s fathers home, confirming what you refuse to believe. The lifeless body of your first born child drills through the sun and crushes you all over again in an instant. Images and past conversations run through your head at the sound of someone’s voice. There are constant attacks of brutal images and feelings on your soul. It is often the times you least expect that to occur that it hits you the hardest. We (my family) are trying. We are trying to dig ourselves out of the hole we are in. We are immersing ourselves in life and trying to live.
However, it exhausts me. I am exhausted. It has been a whirlwind 5 months already this year, with task after task needing to be completed. Work is absolutely crazy. There is so much piled on my plate right now, I am positive it will break. And it becomes more and more apparent that I am not the same. I cannot handle the same things, nor do I want to. It doesn’t matter But, I seem to be unable to step off the ride, make things simpler. My job is nuts. I know, in the way of someone who has lived through trauma, I am not where I am supposed to be. When things like this happen to you, you realize what is important. And if you were unhappy with something before the tragedy, you certainly will not be happy with it afterwards. This is not what I am supposed to be doing.
The question that I cannot answer is what is it that I am supposed to be doing? I feel this pull towards something, and the push from the other side. But I cannot identify where I am supposed to go so that I may work towards it. For the first time in my personal life I do not feel like running away, I know I am where I am supposed to be and with who I am supposed to be with. I do not long for something greater, because there is nothing greater than what I have. But my professional life is something different. So I sit and think for hours if I could be anything, what would it be? And I cannot answer it. Something creative and something I have a passion for is all I can come up with. And all of the things I think of sound not so bad, but it is not “it.” What would you do if you could do anything?

Happy Birthday

Today is my oldest son's birthday. He would have been 19 today. I am incredibly sentimental and nostalgic about birthdays on a good day. This is, to no body's surprise, not any easier now. I was trying to think how I could write about my plethora of memories, the flooding of glimpses of years of birthday parties, the idea of maybe expressing how I was only a child thinking I knew a lot more than I did, getting ready to be a parent for the first time, not having any idea what was ahead. But in all of the recollections and thoughts that came about in the past few days, the following article that I kept in a draft status kept creeping back in to my mind.

The idea came to me on the 9 month mark of my son's passing. It struck me to the core. I remember sitting there for over an hour in the realization of the simplicity of the idea.

God gives you 9 months to carry a child for a reason. Your body changes, your instincts change, your priorities change, your mind changes, your overall outlook changes.  Preparing for life to begin. You try to prepare, You read books, you talk to people who are parents, who are expecting also, you talk to health care professionals, you prepare yourself for all the ways your life is about to change. And then at that moment when you see your child for the first time, you realize how unprepared you are. How woefully unprepared. How very little you know. You knew your life was about to change, but you didn't know how much. You are no longer the person you were, and will never be again.
I realized at the 9 month anniversary of my son's death, that these 9 months were so similar. My body changed, my priorities changed, my instincts changed, my mind changed. I talked to health care professionals, I talked to people who had lost a child, I talked to friends and loved ones, I tried to prepare myself for how my life was forever changed. It took my body 9 months to realize the extent of the damage, if you will. And I am still woefully unprepared. But I think it was not a mistake that this struck me on this particular date. 9 months is the time it takes for your body and mind to connect and realize that life is going to be totally different for you, even if it doesn't understand how much. It is the beginning of a new era. Whether you wanted it to come or not.

Tested, Tried, Prevail.

Some days I feel especially vulnerable and fragile. This really has nothing to do with losing a son. Well, sometimes it does. I mean to say, I have always felt this way. Since losing Austin, it has been heightened, deeper and occurs more often. Waves of grief, sadness, despair, self hatred and all these other emotions wash over me and it is really hard to push through them. Crawling into my bed and staying there is what I feel like doing most. Last night, I had such an episode and my bed was not readily available. As I was waiting for my daughter’s class to get over, I came up with a mantra to keep these feelings at bay. To keep from crying in the hallway of a public place (which I do frequently now), I recited: “I am strong, I am powerful, I will fall and I will pick myself up, I will succeed, I will conquer, I will be tested and I will be tried, but I will prevail. I am beautiful, I am loved by the people who I love most, I am important, I have changed lives, I have lots left to do, I have strength and I have character. I am strong. I am powerful. I will prevail. I will succeed. I will prevail. I am funny and strong and beautiful. I have gifts from God. I am worthy.” Do I believe these words? Not really. Not yet. But I am trying. 

The difference....

A year ago today was the last time I saw my son alive. We attended my middle son's school play, where there was a small ceremony for the students to honor someone who has inspired them or made a difference in their lives. My son chose his older brother. And I sat there watching the two of them, tears running down my face, I knew that no matter what happened in my life, they were there for each other. That I had raised a son, who was inspiring to his little brother, even if they did fight and argue all the time. That night, after the play, we filled out college scholarship applications and just had a good time with good conversation and a lot of laughs. Around 10 he needed to leave to go to his dads for school the next day, and we stood at the door saying good bye. I hugged him and didn't want to let go. I still remember the hesitation in his goodbye. Like there was something he wanted to say, but then decided not to. Maybe there wasn't anything there and it was in my head. But now, I will never know. My imagination gets the best of me. Every day I relive the last year, then the last 18.  I hear the phone ring, i feel the pain, I see the events of the next week/month/year run through my head. I feel sick, my heart breaks.  I hear my sons first cry and the last conversation we had. But to realize this day, last year I spoke to my son. I held him in my arms,  I told him I loved him. I heard his laugh. We were about to realize his future. The gravity of knowing how much and how little difference a day and a year make is a heavy, heavy burden. I tried so hard not to take things for granted. I knew they were only little for a short time. Life changes in a moment. The things you thought you'd hear forever, like the sound of his laugh, are now mute. The things you prepare yourself for - the leaving of the nest, family, growing older, all gone in a second. And never to feel the way his hair felt in your hand again, to never hear his beautiful laugh, never to listen to his stories or opinions, to never see those eyes again is heartbreaking. A year. Such a short time. But its like an eternity.

Today's Sadness

I counted today. There are 11 posts that I have not finished. Some of them have the potential to be very powerful, thought provoking, worthwhile posts. Some do not. I should finish them either way. And publish them. Not writing is not helping. But today, those posts have to wait. Today is a week away from the one year anniversary of my son's death. A lot has changed in a year. A lot has not.

Today I went to the visitation for a co-worker's twenty year old son. We are casual acquaintances, but I knew I needed to go. The feeling of aloneness and sadness is too great for her to not know there are other people in the world who grieve like her, and for her. And I am glad I went. But it was really hard. I knew how she felt. My stomach wrenched like hers did, because I know that pain. I know that moment. And it hurts alot. It hurts still that much.

And now, at this moment, I am very angry. I am angry for her. That she has to know this pain. That she has to join the others who share this pain. That she has to feel different. That she has to hurt every moment from here on out. That she has to carry this. And I am angry that I understand this. I am angry that I have to know how this feels. That I can understand it and not just sympathize from afar. I am angry because I do not feel it was my son's time. Because I was not ready for him to go. Because I didn't have a choice. Because I gave him life, and was on the cusp of seeing all my hard work pay off only to have the rug ripped out from underneath me. And 357 days later my heart still hurts. I am angry that I see my son's face where it will no longer ever be. I am angry that this has been an extremely hard year, and there isn't an end in sight. I am angry that my friend has to now start down this same journey. And I am sad. Sad that looking for a happy moment should be so hard.

Merry Christmas

It has been so long since a post has made it from mind to computer to publishing, I feel like today is my first day posting. I apologize for my time away. I have probably a dozen articles half written. I am sure they will make it here eventually, and even if the time line is off, I hope you will understand. And if you don't, that's okay with me too.  Time seems to be accelerating and fast forwarding itself so much, I feel as if I do not have time to finish writing. To put things in perspective. To dig through the pain to form words. To feel.

I have made it through Thanksgiving and Christmas. Mostly on auto pilot with a lot of tears, frustration, pain and confusion. I am not sure there is really anything else I can say about that. It was just less. Less joyous, less fun, less heartfelt, less... everything. A lot of time gets spent avoiding the large void in the room. I try to skirt around it, as to not acknowledge it, for fear it will suck me in entirely. Christmas is no different. Another day. One less stocking to hang, one less person to enjoy, but all the while there is this horrendous vortex swirling through my life trying to make eye contact with me, trying to make me engage with it, all the while I refuse it.

The year is ending and I am happy it is. But I am afraid to let it go as well. I am afraid of what 2012 will bring. I am afraid it could be worse. And everyday without my son takes me both closer to him and further away. Its agonizing. I have done what has been asked of me this year. I have come to work, I have done extra projects this year, I have fulfilled my obligations, I have suffered through the "firsts." I have pretended through birthdays, holidays, vacations and every day life. I am tired, but there is no end.

But really, all I wanted to say was "Merry Christmas & Happy New Year"