Ezra's Pain

As my world stabilizes.

As I look forward, instead of back

As I feel the earth rooting me, it is exactly as the grief people said it will be.

"Many young children hold onto their grief until the surviving parent is able to cope. And then...."

.....hell breaks loose.

I see them, beyond me. They have changed from "one more thing to deal with" to "how can I help them."

Ezra, in my room casually throwing himself aggressively on my bed in that boy manner says,

"Mom, have you ever thought about suicide?"

My heart does not skip.

I do not turn to him, startled. I have been warned.

His bereavement group leader called before the holidays. "He talked about wanting to die. This is not uncommon. Some kids long to see the dead parent so much they think suicide is a way to do it. However, Ezra kept repeating it. I told him this was very serious and that I would be talking with you. I think this goes beyond him just wanting to see his dad."

"Can a 7 year old be suicidal?" I ask incredulously.

"Yes they can" she informs.

I am silent. I took the information in and let it swirl around in my head during winter break.

Seeing if he showed any signs of depression. Nothing till now.

Suddenly I have the mother self-conscious awareness of the power of my words, aware that I have to keep this open. Oddly I am not scared.

"Yes I have Ezra. Do you feel like committing suicide?" my voice even.

"Yes" he says. I turn to my closet, picking up a pair of shoes to put away. Do not make this seem like a "talk" I think. He is a boy, I must stay in motion.

"Why?" I ask hanging clothes in my closet.

"Everyone talks about daddy and I don't like it. I don't like talking OR hearing about him. I like pretending that I never had a father."

"Are the feelings that come up scary?" I can no longer resist. I sit on the bed and look at him.

"Yes, they are." he replies in a squished voice as he answers mid summersault.

"For me, I sometimes feel like I can't possible get passed them. I sometimes feel like dying would be better than feeling them." And I swallow because every word I say is TRUE!

He starts into another summersault, but glances in my direction. Searching? Seeing if I'm telling the truth?

"When?" he asks.

"On Tuesday." I reply reflecting how recently my grief seldom side swipes me during the day.

How long has it been since they have seen me cry over Art?

He looks at me and...

yells "Pallas, do you want to play...."

He leaps of the bed as if he just remembered there's bread in the oven and dashes out of the room.

I am left on the bed inbetween crying and courage, dumbfounded.

I am sure of only one thing I am finally grief-less enough to help him.

call me

I haven't called Jeff's number in almost two years. In the first few days after he died, I called him repeatedly....apologizing. Wishing I could have saved him. Begging him to come home.

His cell phone number is still programmed into the home phone and my cell phone. I will never be able to delete it. If it is on my phone, it seems that he is just a call away. Not too far.

Our home phone had a special ring programmed announcing that the caller was him. Some classical song that was exciting and uplifting. When I'd hear it, I would bolt from whatever task I was involved in and launch myself over children and furniture to catch it before voicemail took over. I haven't heard that ring in so very long.

One evening after putting the kids to bed, I felt compelled to phone him. To close the gap between us and pretend for just a moment that I could succeed with this seemingly small and mundane task of calling my husband.

I dialed the number and attempted to breathe as my heart leaped from my throat and down to my abdomen. It rang three times before the new owner of the number answered it. I waited to catch my composure and squeaked out, "Can I speak to Jeff, please?" She tersely coughed out, "Wrong number," and hung up.

I sat sobbing. He was gone. I couldn't bridge the gap. I couldn't reach him. After sometime, I managed to settle myself. I rolled over on my soaked pillow and stared at his dry one in the dark as I fell asleep.

At two am, I was jolted awake to the sound of an 'exciting and uplifting classical song' being belted from my telephone. I snatched the handset and stared at the call display. "Jeff" I thought I'd vomit as I answered....... Nothing. Silence. Dead air. He wasn't there.

But for one brief moment, I remembered how it felt to know he was out there. He was thinking of me. He was calling out for me....and he loved me.

pocket dialing

happy 10-week birthday.

monday was the day

that my perfect baby

transformed into

little miss fuss.

she cried almost the

entire day.

the only thing that

stopped the crying was

to hold her.

she’s got so

much of her mom

in her.

liz’s

parents used to tell

this story about

liz

as a kid,

sitting on a swing

(more than capable of propelling herself, i think)

saying, “somebody push me!”

she wanted attention

and loved having

people around.

madeline is obviously no

different.

her cries said,

“somebody hold me!”

so i did.

almost all day.

a full day of little miss fuss

made this a tough day,

my first real moments

of baby frustration.

she finally fell

asleep at 1:30am.

was carrying a whole

bunch of stuff,

2:45am, i hear my phone

dialing a random number

due to me hitting some

random button.

(shit. i hope i’m not waking someone up).

look down at the phone.

it’s dialing

liz.

seriously.

of all the numbers

in my phone,

why the fuck did it dial

her

number.

that’s was enough

to keep me up

’til 4:30am.

Instinct

Last week one of my children experienced a tragedy.

This child called me within minutes of the experience.

I listened to him, stunned at what had happened and not believing what he had gone through.

My very first thought, my first instinct .... was that I had to call Jim.

Seriously.

In fact .... I thought that more than one time during the phone call.

In spite of the fact that he's been dead for over 2 years.

I was stunned that that was still my instinct. My mind was numb and that was the only thought I had.

I'm still stunned over that thought.

How long will it be before my brain stops going there?

How long will it seem like my brain is in denial about my reality?

And how long will my heart feel like a knife goes through it when that instinct kicks in and then my mind catches up with the truth?

And while I'm asking questions with no answers ...... how long will it be before I stop having this thought ..... "I can NOT believe that he's really dead."?

I don't have that thought nearly as often as I used to .... but I still have it.

I still have moments when I can't believe that this is my reality.

Still.

Thankfully, it doesn't knock me to my knees like it used to.

Although it can still bring me to tears.

Still.

Instinct.

Does it ever go away?

Totally?

Then and Now

I spent some time last week reading through my old journal. I wrote in it almost every day for a year after Daniel died. Every once in a while I read through it to remind myself of how far I've come. It's been over a year since I've looked at it, and it was some rough reading. I felt so sorry for that poor woman (yes, me). It was painful to relive those moments and read the anguish in my words. Sometimes, I still feel that intense anguish, fortunately most of the time it is a low level regret and sadness.

January 31, 2006 (the picture above was taken a month or so later)

I haven't been sleeping well. There has been some sort of critter under the house making so much racket, and Osa walks through the house whining. Jeff finished the underpinning yesterday, so whatever was under there was stuck for over 24 hours. Chris and I opened up the entry door, and hoped it would come out. Minutes later a cat comes out and then runs back in. Minutes after that....a possum came out! There was a cat and a possum under the house! I shut the door on the possum, but the cat is still under the house. I'll try and get it out in the morning.

I've been having a really hard time lately. I just miss you so much. Grayson realized last night that you won't be here for Mother's Day, Father's Day, or his birthday. He cried. I told him I was sorry and that we would have to try to make those days extra special. My poor baby boy, he's only just realizing that you won't be here for so many things. He asked me if if he could call you and if you have your cell phone in Heaven. It was so sweet and so sad. We both wish we could call you. We both wish it was our turn to go to Heaven so we could be with you now. We miss you so much.

I'm really struggling. I wish I could talk to you. You are the only person who knows me, all of me, warts and all. You are the only thing that would make me feel better, and I can't have you. I hope I am being a good mommy to Grayson. Sometimes it is just so hard without you. We both miss you so much. We try to make each other feel better. Sometimes it helps.

I love you.

(the cat stayed under the house for over a week - not sure what it was eating, but it lived) We are so much better than this now. We have our bad days, but they are so few and far between. Four years ago when I was writing these heart broken love letters to Daniel - the bad days were a way of life. We made the best of it, but our best then was pitiful.

I would have never thought then, that I'd be soooo much better now. Re-reading my own thoughts at that time is powerful stuff. If I ever doubt how far I've come since then, my own words leave no doubt in my mind. Time doesn't ever fully heal and you don't forget, but you do change and the pain you carry with you becomes a part of you in a way that isn't bad. It just is. I appreciate things now in a way I never could have before. I'd rather not know what I know now. I'd rather my life had stayed the way it was. I'm grateful though for the ways that living that experience has changed me. I was changed by loving Daniel and changed by losing him.

This picture is us now. My little guy has grown so much on the outside, and I've grown so much on the inside. I'm pretty proud of both of us.

Happy Tuesday! - Michelle D.

Presumed Dead

I have an internal panic switch which is automatically activated whenever anyone I love, know, am briefly acquainted with, or maybe even have only heard about on the evening news is not where they are supposed to be. Any and all types of missing people are presumed dead, by me, immediately.

If this "missing person" is someone I love, my heart rate accelerates, my hands get sweaty, I tap my toes, and drum my fingers as I wait for the news that the person in question is dead. There is no doubt in my mind that the news will be delivered shortly, and I am an emotional nerve center on overload until my suspicions are either confirmed of denied.

Last week my coffee guy was missing from his normal daily location. This man is part of my daily life, and as such, not allowed to die. I call him Java and he has been one of my steadfast supporters as I grieved the loss of Phil. He is one of those people who just lets you be how and who you are...every single day. So, when he was not at his shop, I assumed he was dead. The panic sequence began, and I was a nervous wreck until I found him working on reorganizing his shop to meet new health code regulations. As soon his frame came into view I yelled out the window..."Java, I thought you were dead!" And because he knows me, he laughed and said, "I am right here, haven't I already told you I am not going anywhere?" Whew. That one lived.

As I was recounting the whole drama to Michael later in the day he asked why I came to the conclusion that the ONLY logical explanation for Java's absence was his untimely death. As I started to explain, I found myself fighting tears....

"The reason I assume everyone is dead when I can't find them is that one day four years ago a woman I didn't know called me from the side of the road to tell me my husband had been hit by a car. Even while I was rushing to the scene of the accident the thought that Phil would die never occurred to me. I was completely unprepared when his heart stopped. I felt cheated. Unfortunately, I am no longer naive to the fact that people die, every single day. And rarely does anyone expect it, so I refuse to walk around with rose colored glasses assuming everyone is alive! AND you should probably get used to it because I don't think I will ever get over it!"

Poor man. My soliloquy reminded me (and Michael too!) that after Phil's accident my concept of who dies, and when, was permanently changed. I am acutely aware that people die too young, accidents of all kinds happen way more often than most people realize, diseases kill people both quickly and slowly, and it is indeed possible to be shocked by your loved ones death even if you have been "expecting" it for days, weeks, months, or years. Most of the time I wish I didn't know all of this useful information, but understanding the fragility of life somehow grounds me. I find it nearly impossible to take life for granted.

So, this is my reality...if I love you, and you are missing, I will assume you are dead. I will try very hard not to freak out, or have a heart attack myself while waiting for news of your whereabouts, but I am not promising anything.

My Truth

Art Halloween 07

(From December 09)

I had a drink tonight with someone who reminded me to speak my truth.
The truth is today was another day.
The truth is the eight month anniversary is nothing but a date.
The truth is I once stopped counting days. I will now stop counting months.
The truth is he was an amazing man.
The truth is he loved me more than he loved life.
The truth is I am crying with gratitude and awe.
The truth is my life is marvelous and hard and shitty and sad and frustrating and obnoxious and disappointing and humorous and stupid and gay and fun and exciting and new and adventurous.

The truth is...

his death

was his greatest gift to me

for without it

I may never have discovered that

joy and suffering do indeed go together.

And that it's ok to feel both in the exact same moment.

Peace out, my love.