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. 

 

Define me

On one strong, determined day (or part of a day) after Greg died (there was probably some "Greg-anger", too, mixed in with the "strong and determined"), I remember saying that I would not allow Greg's death to define me. How naive.

Greg's death does define me. Of course it does. I'm a different person than I was the day before he died.  It's not a choice - it's a fact.

I will forever be the mother of a child who died - a child who took his own life.  Forever.

My heart will always be broken.  It won't heal.  It won't be "okay" in five years - or ten years - or a thousand years. 

I hope there will also be joy - and gratitude - and laughter.  But underneath it all, my heart will always be irreparably broken. 

I can't imagine a day that I won't cry.  Someone says something.  I run into something that belonged to Greg - or that Greg gave me.  Or I just... remember.  And I cry - not always for long, but tears are always just behind the next breath.  Every day.

So, forgive me for my innocence.  Forgive me for my hope.  Forgive me. 

I'm the mother of a son who died. 

By Way of Sorrow

17 months.  You are in the music in the air - in the rain that falls on the window - in the stars that shine through the darkness - and in my heart - forever and always. 

Way of Sorrow




You've been taken by the wind
You have known the kiss of sorrow
Doors that would not take you in
Outcast and a stranger

You have come by way of sorrow
You have come by way of tears
But you'll reach your destiny
Meant to find you all these years
Meant to find you all these years

You have drunk a bitter wine
With none to be your comfort
You who once were left behind
Will be welcome at love's table

You have come by way of sorrow
You have come by way of tears
But you'll reach your destiny
Meant to find you all these years
Meant to find you all these years

All the nights that joy has slept
Will awake to days of laughter
Gone the tears that you have wept
You'll dance in freedom ever after

You have come by way of sorrow
You have come by way of tears
But you'll reach your destiny
Meant to find you all these years
Meant to find you all these

You have come by way of sorrow
You have come by way of tears
But you'll reach your destiny
Meant to find you all these years
Meant to find you all these years

                 Performed by Cry Cry Cry
                 Written by Jamie Miller

We have a lot of things going on in our house.  Our business has outgrown it's assigned spot and is just kind of oozing deeper into the basement.  

The ooze is causing a necessary cleaning up and purging of "stuff" in the next part of the basement.  A dear friend (let's call him Aidan) came to help us today with the heavy lifting that we just can't do. 

We (99% Aidan) moved shelving units, a huge work bench, too many cans of paint, miscellaneous furniture (like the first end tables Rich and I bought in 1970), remnants of a successful, but long retired candle business that occupied the area we now need for our current business (10 years after the close of the candle business), lamps, boxes of "who-knows-what" - just endless. 

I was navigating that part of the basement (which looked more like an obstacle course than a basement) just kind of trying to get a feel for what's down there.  I was drawn to a tired-looking cardboard box with something red poking out of the top.  When I got to the box, there were 2 stuffed toys - both super heroes - still with tags on them.  I took them out to see what was underneath,  There were miscellaneous glasses - I found a Seagram's glass and a couple other glasses with writing on them - obviously not new.

My breath caught in my chest when I realized it was Greg's - probably a box of treasures from a garage sale - the toys... probably intended gifts for his two nephews, my two youngest grandchildren.  I held the toys to my chest and sobbed quietly.  Aidan was moving shelves, Michael was moving paint - and I was sitting with my back to them both - holding two stuffed super heroes and washing them with my tears.

It's always hard to see things that were personal to Greg, but when I run into them by surprise, it bends me to the ground.  When I see remnants of the life he was living before he died... the pain grabs my heart and squeezes until I think I can't breathe.

Before I could gather myself, Michael was standing behind me.  He can often tell when something isn't quite right.  Maybe I was too quiet.  I don't know.  But there he was - to take the toys and the box and to ask me what I wanted to do with them.

"Later please, Michael.  I can't do it now."  I left the box and went over to where Aidan was working.

"How's it going, buddy?"  I asked as cheerfully as I could manage.

"Great!" answered Aidan.  "Do you want these chairs in the garage,"  Aidan asked.

"That would be great, Aidan.  Thank you," I answered quietly.  "I'll list them on Facebook and try to sell them.  I'm done for now," I said.  "I'm going upstairs. If anyone needs me... yell."

I went upstairs - closed the door to the den - and cried.

When I held the things from the box, I could see Greg - kneeling on the floor - looking at the things in the box. I could see his clothes - his shoes.  I could see his face with that crooked smile he saved for things like garage sale treasures - and jokes on me. I could hear his voice and see his worn hands.  It came all at once - the second I realized it was his box. 

How can such small things cause such crushing pain?

I hate surprises. 

Chicken Soup

I'm reading Chicken Soup books.  I have several around the house:  Chicken Soup for the Cancer Survivor (it's all about attitude, people), Chicken Soup for a Better World, Chicken Soup: Grieving and Recovery (Don't get than one.  It's a weep-fest), with  Chicken Soup:  Random Acts of Kindness waiting in the wings.

I'm all about hopeful messages - happy endings - stories with a positive point of view - anything that's quick - doesn't require much of me.

I can't tolerate anything sad - can't stomach violence.  Before I read a book (or watch a movie), I check reviews and specifically search for spoilers that will tell me about the ending.  Then I decide if I'll read - or watch.

I don't like surprises.