46th Birthday

Today would have been Greg's 46th birthday.

I don't go out to the cemetery often.  So far, just twice a year.  I go at Christmas because Scott buys a tree (live) and takes it to Greg's grave.  He had hoped that everyone would go out and add something to the tree, but as I've discovered, we are not a "come together" family. No one was willing to participate, so Michael and I put ourselves in charge of decorating the tree.

It's hard.  We both cry.  I buy the decorations - all kinds. I write messages to Greg on the little Christmas balls.  Michael wires the decorations to the tree so that they don't blow off.  We leave heartbroken and disconsolate.

I'm glad Scott buys the tree.  I wish more people participated.  It would make it easier.

Greg was Christmas itself.  He and I shared a crazy love for Christmas and all its traditions.  We felt the same way about so many things.  He was a kindred spirit - a bright light in my life - truly born of my spirit and wrapped in my love.

I don't feel close to Greg at the cemetery.  I don't "feel" him there.  I feel him most on the front porch or in the basement where he created a beautiful business area for us.

Greg had a heart that was open to all - with a huge capacity for love.  Animals felt that gentle side of him. It was an other-worldy thing to watch.

Which brings me to the 2nd time this year that I visited the cemetery - Greg's birthday.  I gave Greg a birthday present every year of his life.  I can't stop now.  The cemetery is the only place I know to take him a gift, so I take it there.  Last year it was a big pinwheel.  This year, it was.... the following.

Say "hi" to Freddy!

When Greg lived here the summer before he died, he would go outside after dinner, sit on the porch and smoke a cigarette.  Very often, I would to with him to sit and talk.

One night we were sitting there and a big old frog hopped around the corner and sat on the porch floor in front of Greg.  Greg talked to the frog, Freddy (I think is what he named him) and the frog sat there and appeared to be listening.  Soon, Greg and I went into the house and we watched the frog hop around the corner toward the garage.

Greg (and I) went back out to the porch later and shortly after sitting down, around the corner came Freddy and sat, once again, on the porch facing Greg.  When we went back into the house, Freddy again, hopped around the corner toward the garage.

This went on all summer.   Greg talked to Freddy - Freddy listened.   Greg would reach down and pet Freddy with his index finger.  Freddy just looked up at Greg.  I just sat and watched, mesmerized and feeling privileged to watch them.  I called Greg the frog whisperer.  He loved it.

This year for Greg's birthday, I took him the garden frog in the picture above (he looks like Freddy) and left it on his grave. I wish the cemetery would just leave it there, but they won't.  So I got a second frog and I'm going to put it in the flower bed at the edge of the porch - where Greg used to sit.

When Michael and I got to the grave, it was evident that Scott had been there on the 4th and left a small pinwheel that was moving like crazy in the wind.  The headstone had also obviously been cleaned within an inch of its life.

I texted Scott and told him the pinwheel was spinning like crazy, how great the headstone looked, and I thanked him for taking such good care of Greg's grave.

"What makes you think it was me?" Scott asked.  It was the first time I laughed all day.

"Who else?" I asked, laughing.  This was definitely Scott's M.O.!

Some people show their love by spending time with you.  (Richard will do that) Some people show their love with gifts.  Scott shows his love in service.  Yes, this was definitely Scott's work.

Some days I feel that I should go to the cemetery more often.  Most days I just feel I can't.  Maybe that will change.  I don't know.

He knows I love him.  He knows I'm looking for signs of him everywhere and anywhere.  He's always with me. 

2 years

Two years ago today I found out that my precious boy had hanged himself.  I screamed. I made noises I can't even describe.  I pounded my head with both fists.  The pain was so unbearable, I thought (wished) I might explode.  I couldn't imagine  living another day without Greg.

Today is not all that different.  I am amazed that I wake up every day.  I put one foot in front of the other every day, hoping it makes a difference to someone, but I don't think it does.  I feel that I have less and less reason to wake up. 

Someone recently recommended a book to me on loss, grief, and recovery.  Recovery?  Really?  How do you ever "recover" from losing your child?  I wish I could recover.  I wish this pain would stop.  I wish this grief would stop killing me a little more every day.  Or... I wish that it would just take me.  But recover?  There is no recovery. 

I had hoped I might see one or both of my other children today or a grandchild or two, but they are wisely taking care of themselves and their own grief - busy - off with friends.  And I am alone with my grief.  Again.

I'm having a hard time dealing with the fact that my grief is mine alone - not to be shared - no comfort anywhere. I have to live it alone.  I guess everyone has their own grief that they have to deal with. 

It seems to me, though, that tragedies like this either bring families closer or split them apart.  I was sure we were a "come together" family, but we are not.

How will I make myself get up tomorrow?  Why should I? 

dun-dun-dun-dun-dun

The days approaching the anniversary of Greg's death come with the same sense of foreboding as a visit from Jaws.

dun-dun-dun-dun-dun-dun-dun-dun-dun-dun-dun-dun-dun-dun-dun

I feel the tension - the dread - in the air.  It surrounds me and at times, consumes me.

Yesterday was hard - lots of tears.  I ordered something to put on Greg's grave for his birthday (July 8th) and it arrived yesterday.   Michael opened the box and when I saw it, I sobbed.  It was just SO Greg.  (I'll write about what it is - and why - in the next day or two - including pictures)

Today, every time I walked by it (okay... okay... it's a frog) - I smiled at the memories.  In fact, today has been a relatively good day - at least so far.  I'm surprised, but I'll take it.  I'm grateful for every hour of sanity this week (actually, every day since Greg died, but especially this week).

I don't know what this afternoon will bring, but I'm grateful for a calm morning with some heart-warming memories.

 

The week that was

It will be two years, on July 4th since Greg took his own life.  If you had told me two years ago that I'd be alive today, I would have told you it wasn't possible.   Without God's mercy and grace, I wouldn't be here.

I keep waiting for grieving to get better - to get easier - but it never does.  People talk about healing.  There is no healing.  There is no day - no time - that this will ever be gone.  It's permanent.  It changes from day to day, but it is never gone. 

I found this "thing" below on Facebook (cartoons, pictures and "inspirational" sayings are what Facebook is becoming, it seems).  This is all very nice, but I don't think the "bench in the sun" day ever comes.  It sounds like you reach some magical point where you take a deep breath and say, "Whew!  The awful part is over!  Now I can move forward.  I'm okay."  Really?  This all hinges on one unknown cure point in the future - and once you hit that point... you're okay???  I don't think so.

 

Whoever wrote this didn't lose a child.  They couldn't have.

Do I sound angry?  I suppose I do.  I suppose I am.  I am every emotion you can imagine - every day.

An hour from now (or 5 minutes), I'll be drowning in sadness - unable to stop the tears.  Then I may get a text from a grandchild and my heart will lift, and I'll be overcome with gratitude for that text - and love for that grandchild.

This week is the worst.  I'm struggling to find any equilibrium.  Holidays, Greg's birthday, his wedding anniversary, his son's graduation from high school, his children's birthdays - all those things push me to the edge of my endurance.  I try to survive until the wave washes over me and then returns to the sea and I can regain some footing.

Every time another wave comes, I wonder if I'll be swept back to the ocean with it and drown,

Today I am weak - with no "fight" left in me.  Below is the "Bible verse of the day" in my devotional.  I'm staking my life on it. 

"The Lord will fight for you.  You need only to be still."  Exodus 14:14

A Star is Born

Two nights ago we watched A Star is Born with Gaga and Bradley Cooper.  I had no idea about the ending - was not prepared for Bradley Cooper's character to hang himself.  In the previous version, Jackson Maine (played by Kris Kristofferson) died in a car accident (still sad, but more appropriate).

I enjoyed the movie up until that point, but when the character pulled his truck out of the garage and then walked back into the garage, carrying a black, leather belt, my heart started to pound.  No... no... no...    I could hardly breathe - definitely couldn't watch - couldn't listen - and couldn't escape.  Thankfully, Michael saw what was happening and fast forwarded, muting the sound.  All I could do was look at the ground and sob.  It's taken two days for me to be able to talk about it.

I plan for the big things - birthdays - holidays - events.  Even though they're painful, they're not a surprise.  I know I'll have to deal with them.  It's the things that show up unexpectedly - the surprises - that crush me and leave me breathless - searching for a way out - some way to avoid this shattering pain.  And there never is a way out.

The only way out - is straight through the middle of the pain.  I know it.  I'm just not always brave enough to do it - especially when it comes out of nowhere and slams me in the chest like a runaway freight train. My guard was down.  I wasn't ready.  I'll never be ready.

Why did the movie need to end that way?  The choice to have Jackson Maine take his own life is, in my opinion, a poor one.  With all of the substance abuse issues currently drowning us - with so many lost souls committing suicide - with depression running rampant, is it wise (or necessary) to romanticize suicide? The ending of this movie disappoints, to say the least - and causes me to relive the heartbreak of Greg's death.

You can  be sure that from now on, I'll check the spoiler alerts for the endings of any movie I see in the future.  I don't want to relive this.

My "go-to" guy

My garage door broke - again.  It's been repaired at least four times that I know of.  I know Greg fixed it more than once.  I think it's time to replace it and stop patching the problem.  So... who do I call this time?  Greg would know.

I can Google things like anyone else, but that won't really tell me who's good - who's reliable - who should not be called. Getting advice from Greg was way better than online reviews.  He knew!

And... I need stone (crush and run, I think it's called) on part of my driveway.  I don't even know where to begin.  Do the people who deliver the crush and run also spread it - or do they just dump it?
 
For any question - on almost any subject, Greg was always my "go-to" guy.  He knew more things about more things than anyone I've ever known.  Not just pretended to know.  He knew.  If he didn't know, he'd find out.

"Hey Greg!  Who do I call about crush and run - and what's the process?"

"Hey Greg!  I think I need a new garage door.  Would you mind taking a look?  Or tell me who to call?"

Greg would have an answer.  After talking to Greg, I'd know who to call.  I'd know where to start.

Today, I'm lost - overwhelmed by the tasks ahead of me.  (I know!  I know!  I overwhelm pretty easily these days)

I'll figure it out.  I may not get the best price - or the best person, but I'll get it done.

I miss Greg for more reasons than I can name, but today... I really miss my "go-to" guy. 

23 months

Today is the 4th.  23 months.  1 month short of a year.  It's been almost 2 years since Greg died and the pain still cuts me in half - like a sword - clear through my bones - I bleed tears. 

I still don't understand.  I'll never understand.

I looked in the mirror today - it doesn't happen often - and all I could see were purple circles under sad eyes.  Is that who I've become?

I don't have the energy today to be more. 

Graduation

Today Greg's 2nd oldest (I hate the phrase "middle child") graduated from high school - without his father.  Tragic.  What does an 18-year-old do with that - in his heart - in his head?  How does that affect his life from this point on.  

I didn't go - wasn't physically able to go (or invited).   Graduation was at "the Bob" (Bob Carpenter Center at the University of Delaware - a multi-function arena named after Bob Carpenter, a benefactor and trustee). Parking is horrendous - a lot of walking - bleacher seating - just too hard for me - plus - my heartache would pollute the happiness and pride that Amy and her sons shared today.  Amy was wise not to invite me.

The graduation was streamed live - so I was able to watch the live feed and see the graduation (incredibly good quality on the live feed).

Another milestone missed.  

Mother's Day

Today is Mother's Day - my second since Greg died.   Last year was hard.  This year is harder.  A lot has happened since last year - cancer - a life-changing fall - a spirit-crushing experience with someone who owns a large part of my heart.  It's been a spiritual valley that challenges my willingness (and ability) to fight on.

Greg was great at remembering Mother's Day.  He chose a card carefully, happily came to visit and spend time - and often brought one or more of his children with him.  I could count on him.  I knew he would come.  I knew that he came because he loved me - because I was a joy in his life - not a duty (although doing something because it's a duty is not to be underrated - or underappreciated)

I loved his company.  I loved his mind - and even more, I loved his heart.  He was my counsel - my problem solver - my friend - my heart - my son. I loved seeing his truck in the driveway.  Strangely enough, he appeared to to enjoy my company as much as I enjoyed his.  I saw him and/or heard from him often.  I miss the calls. I miss his visits.  I miss my son.

The last two years before Greg died were hard.  He accused me of hacking into his phone - of sabotaging his life in more ways than I can count.  Because I always told him the truth, you could see and feel the conflict between what he thought was happening and what I told him.  His reality was so skewed by drugs that his daily existence was painful beyond measure.  I wanted to help.  I tried to help.  I wasn't able to help. 

On Mother's Day (and every day) I remember it all. 

International Bereaved Mother's Day

Tomorrow is Mother's Day and I'm a mess.  I still look for Greg's truck - still listen for that rumble coming up my driveway - still can't imagine that I won't see him tomorrow.

Mother's Day is another "event" that screams Greg's absence.  With every event, it's not just the day of the event, holiday, birthday, or whatever else that is so painful - it hurts in anticipation of "the day" and also after "the day".

Mother's Day is hard because not only am I missing a child, I have two other children who are precious to me and who I love beyond words.  I don't want grieving for Greg to diminish the joy of Mother's Day with my other two sons.  I want to be 100% present with them.

I recently discovered that there is an International Bereaved Mother's Day (and Bereaved Father's Day) that occurs one week before Mother's (and Father's) Day.  

I'm grateful that a day exists to acknowledge this strange and awful mother/child relationship that exists when your child is no longer on this earth, but in heaven.   I'm grateful for a day that I can think of Greg, speak Greg's name and embrace the son who won't be with me next weekend.

 

"Some mamas will be drawing or painting hearts on their hands and writing their missing child’s name inside as a beautiful outward testimony to an inward reality.  Every day we carry our missing child in our hearts" 

Forgiveness?

Helpful therapy today with WooWoo. 

Have I mentioned that I tripped over the edge of the carpet and fractured my shoulder?  It's a bad break that needs surgery to repair it - nuts, bolts, and screws - that kind of break.  Unfortunately, due to lung issues, I'm not a candidate for surgery.  So.  It is what it is - and it will heal - or not heal. 

The break has caused a permanent loss of mobility in my arm - limiting my life in more ways than I could possibly have imagined.

I only mention it because it's another layer of pain - physical and emotional - on top of everything since Greg died.  There are days that it all feels like too much.  On those days, I swallow some of the pain that I don't feel able to deal with - and put it off for another day. 

The pain of missing Greg is one of the things I've been trying to swallow.  It's useless, of course, but at times I try anyway.  Sooner or later the pain refuses to be denied and it always comes back stronger than if I'd dealt with it at the time I chose to swallow and not feel it.

I'm just trying to stay on my feet. 

The pain is chasing me down and I am overwhelmed.  One of the things that haunts me as a Christian, is if Greg is okay. 

Part of the reason I worry (I realized today) is that I'm used to worrying about Greg.  I've worried about him for a long time.  It's what I do.  Is he okay? Is he not okay?  What can I do?  How can I help? 

I watched his drug problem get worse and worse and felt helpless that I couldn't do anything to protect or save my child.  It was heartbreaking.  I tried.  I couldn't stop it.  All I could do was to worry.   I tried to trust God and not worry.  The evidence before me told me that I should worry.  This was my child who I loved more than life.  I couldn't bear the thought of losing him.

And so... as hard as I tried to trust... I failed.  I worried.

I've also had more than one person tell me that Greg is not okay - that he's suffering - that he's being punished for taking his own life.  I don't know what to do with that.  At least I didn't - until today.

I believe in the God of the Bible - and the Bible tells me...

^{Romans 8:38-39
38} For I am convinced that neither death nor life, neither angels nor demons,^[a] neither the present nor the future, nor any powers, ³⁹ neither height nor depth, nor anything else in all creation, will be able to separate us from the love of God that is in Christ Jesus our Lord.

Nothing can separate us from the love of God.  Nothing.

Some people have told me that Greg could not be forgiven for taking his own life because it's a sin for which he could not repent.  

1.  Is it true that there was no time for repentance?  In a previous post I mentioned survivors who jumped from the Brooklyn Bridge and said later that they regretted it the second they jumped.  There may have been time to repent.

2.   There are always things that we do wrong that we aren't aware of - sins that we commit without thinking or without awareness.  I am surely not perfect and never will be.  If I were, there would be no need for Jesus' forgiveness.  Can anyone die without having something for which they haven't asked forgiveness - or for which they're not even aware that they need forgiveness?

I guess what I'm saying is that as of today, I'm going to attempt to put this worry to rest and trust God.  God tells me that nothing can separate Greg from God's love.  Nothing.  Not a suicide.  Nothing.   

As much as I love Greg - God loves him more.  

I love you, Greg and I miss you every day.  My heart aches - for all you suffered - and for those of us who are left without you.  But I'm going to trust that you are safe with God - and that I don't have to worry any more about whether or not you're okay.  

Thank you, God, for loving my boy. 

Jen's mom

Jen's mom died this week (let's call her Judi).  The viewing and service were today. 

Judi was having pain in her stomach and so, decided to go to the doctor.  At first, they couldn't find anything, but eventually they discovered that Judi had cancer and that it had spread.  That was in March.  And now, she's gone.

Jen was a friend of Rich and Greg in their teen years - and a particular favorite of mine.  Greg was close to Jen's family, especially Jen's dad (Let's call him Larry).  They treated Greg like one of their own.  He would be devastated today.

He would also have been the family's best support.  He would have been part of every arrangement that they'd let him be part of.  He'd be a rock for the family.  And he would hide his own pain.

Larry was a contractor who was an enthusiastic and loving mentor for Greg. And Greg adored Larry.   I think my favorite story was about Larry teaching Greg to drive a stick shift (truck).

Greg came home after a day working with Larry (at Larry's house) and told us that he had learned to drive a stick shift that day.

My memory isn't what it used to be, but it seems to me that Larry wanted Greg to take his truck to Home Depot or somewhere and pick something up.  Greg got in the truck and yelled out the window to Larry, "It's stick shift!  I never drove a stick shift before."

Greg said that Larry laughed and answered, "That's okay, Greg.  You'll figure it out before you get to the end of the driveway."  (Thankfully, they had a long driveway.)   There was no more instruction. 

Greg said he stalled the truck; he ground the gears; the truck lurched; and by the time he hit the street, Greg knew how to drive a stick shift truck.  Larry's confidence was affirmed.

I cried today for Jen.  I cried today for the rest of the family.  But I cried the most because it brought back so many memories of Greg.

Today is one of those days that make me wonder how I will go on without him.  There are still so very many of those days.

I miss my son.

TV Triggers

So... tonight we're watching a Netflix series about a family - or what's left of a family - father, son, two daughters.  The mother died from a very aggressive cancer and the family is lost - grieving.  (Maybe not a great series for me to watch.  The NCAA tournament would be safer.)

The family moves from their home in Boston to the family's previous small rural hometown, Turtle Island Bay where the sister of the dead wife lives.

Anyway... tonight the sister called her deceased sister's phone and listened to the voicemail message - and cried at the sound of her sister's voice - listened again to the voicemail message - and cried - and yet again... listened to the voicemail message - and cried.

My chest tightened - I remembered the voicemail message of Greg's that I saved - and I sobbed.  I don't need to listen to that voicemail.  I hear his voice in my head all the time.

It just makes me miss him more. 

Who am I?

I'm emotional. I'm paranoid.  I'm disorganized.  I'm late.  I forget.  I'm confused.  I stumble over words.  I talk too much.  I withdraw and don't talk at all.  I cry.  I cry.  I cry.  I feel alone.  I'm a mess. Clutter follows me everywhere.  I can't focus.  I can't remember.  I can't think.

My whole life was all about my kids.  They were "it" for me from the second I discovered that I was pregnant with my oldest child.  All I ever wanted to be was a mom - their mom.  And then Greg died.  And part of me was gone forever.

And now I need my other sons beyond reasonable expectations. They have kids and they are crazy busy - soccer tournaments for my oldest son's youngest daughter that last all day from 11:00 in the morning until 8:00 at night - The youngest works on Saturday and spends Sunday chasing two sons who are playing flag football and practicing in preparation for baseball games that will begin soon.  I am grateful for text messages and phone calls on the way from one place to another. 

I need for this fractured shoulder to heal (Did I mention that I fractured my shoulder?) so that maybe I can get to a game or two, see my sons and grandkids - and preserve my sanity. 

Life is hard.  I pretend it's not that hard, but Interstitial lung disease - pulmonary hypertension - require more and more oxygen - they make my world smaller - make it harder to breathe - increasingly harder to leave the house - harder to connect with my family - harder to connect with the world.  

My therapist told me shortly after Greg died, that Grief kills.  I didn't believe it then... but I sure do now.  I'm a believer. 

Hallucinations?

I'm losing my mind.

I saw Greg two nights in a row in the middle of the night.  The bedroom door was open just a little less than half - and I saw him in the doorway. 

His head was tilted to the left, facing into the room, the left side of his forehead resting on the edge of the door, facing me - his right arm was bent at the elbow, his palm on the front of the door - his left arm was on the back of the door. His eyes looked so sad.

I was awake.  I'm sure I was awake.  Was it an hallucination?  Maybe I was in that in-between state, but I wasn't asleep.  I was awake enough to cry at the sight of his sadness.  And then I would close my eyes for a while and try to sleep. Every time I woke up and opened my eyes, he was there - until about 4:30am.  At 4:30, he was gone.  I got up and shut the door almost closed - and went back to bed.  I didn't want to shut him out, but I couldn't stand to see him leaning on the door again.

How many ways - and how many times can your heart be broken?  Every time I think I've survived every way Greg's death could break my heart, another one presents itself.

Is there a limit?
 

19 months

I just finished my taxes.  For 2016.  Well, not really finished. My part is finished and the stacks of paper are now visiting the accountant along with some reports that tell about things that accountants care about.

While said accountant is determining my financial status for 2016 and the status of our company (business taxes are no joke), I'm starting on 2017.

"How did you get into this mess," you ask?

Well, in April of 2017, my 2016 taxes were due.  My life was in turmoil in April of 2017 due to the then-obvious drug addiction of my sweet, sweet son.  We decided to file an extension, making the taxes due in September.

Greg took his life on July 4, 2017.

Taxes, and paperwork, and deadlines became unimportant.  Did I say unimportant?  They were more than unimportant.  They didn't exist in my world.  At all.

Eight months later - before I was able to pick my head up and see "life" and all its responsibilities again - I was diagnosed with stage 4 lymphoma.  Six months of chemotherapy followed.

It's now been 19 months since Greg died - 11 months since I was diagnosed with cancer - almost 6 months since I finished chemo.  My life is ruled by numbers.

Chemo brain is a real thing. It creates a fog - an inability to remember - to pay attention - to focus.  Grief brain is worse.  It shuts out the world - voices - feelings - the ability to be present.  When they collide at certain times during the month, the inside of me is out of reach - surrounded by an invisible lifeless cloud.

On the days in between, I try to do the things I need to do - like taxes.

Grief robbed me of the ability to do adult responsible things - like taxes, pay bills, eat.  Very often, it still does.  There have been days that I wouldn't have eaten if it hadn't been for Michael.  I wouldn't have taken my medication.  I wouldn't have answered my phone.  

I could feel hunger.  I knew I needed to take my medication.  I could hear the phone ring.  I just wasn't capable of doing anything about any of it.  Michael cooked - handed me my medications - told me who was calling - and answered my phone when needed.

He still asks me every day, "Did you take your pills?".  Sometimes I forget.

"Not yet," I tell him, "but I'll take them now".

He has an alarm on his phone.  Ten minutes later he asks patiently, "Did you take your pills?"

"Oh!  Sorry!  No, but I'll take them now."  And most of the time I do - otherwise we repeat the process until I take the medication.

I'm a little more responsible now.  I'm paying bills - I set up everything I could on "auto pay" and set alarms for the rest.   I can work on taxes some days.  Some days the logic is beyond me, but I try not to beat myself up.  All I can do is take a break and hope it goes better next time. 

This is a process, I guess, but it feels like there's no end in sight.