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? 

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. 

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. 

 

17 Months

I've been through the 4th of the month 17 times so far.  

I keep thinking that if I don't post on the 4th... or even think about posting on the 4th... it won't be so bad.  I can get through the day (or actually three days) without this crushing ache of mournfulness. 

It's not true.  Nothing helps. Trying to sleep through the day doesn't help. Being busy doesn't help.  Distraction doesn't help.  Nothing helps. 

Woowoo says it's my nervous system.  "Your nervous system knows these things." she says "...knows the cycle - feels the days.  Even more than your brain knows... your nervous system knows." 

And my heart knows.

15 Months

15 months - and it hurts just as much.

I have some new insights, but I'm too raw today to write them.  I'll try soon.

I haven't written it every month, but if you don't hear from me on the 4th, know that it still hurts as much.  If that changes, I'll be sure to let you know. 

Nine Months

Nine months

I saw a red pickup truck with a ladder rack today - one of the biggest triggers for me.   Every time I see a red pickup truck with a ladder rack, it wipes me out.

I don't know how to change that, but I'd love to.  I'd like the site of that truck to make me smile - and remember.  It doesn't seem possible, but that's what I'd like.

For months, I had a hard time finding those happy memories.  The past couple years of Greg's life were hard on everyone.  I probably have more good memories of those years than most, but they don't come easily.

The sad and traumatic memories have been dotted with happy remembrances, but they were few and far between.  In the past month, there have been more good memories - and older memories.  They don't come easily or often, but they have started to come. 

I'm grateful.  

Eight Months

Eight months today since Greg died.  I miss him more every day.

I watch the news and cry when I see the parents of the children who were killed in the school shooting in Florida.  I wish I could save them from what's to come.

Seven Months

Today is Kate's birthday.  She's eleven today.  We had a family breakfast at a local diner to celebrate her day.

I had to wake up early - get dressed - and show up.  A challenge on my best day.  This was not my best day.