Birthdays Never Die

Today is my son's birthday.  His death does not erase his birthday.  I have come to the place where I can celebrate his birthday, not with cake and parties and presents, but with a warm glow of remembering the day he was born, the joy I felt in bringing new life into this world.

That sensation of bringing new life into this existence is so joyful and overwhelming, that it never diminishes and certainly never goes away.

The first few years after his death, his birthday loomed like execution day for a condemned prisoner.  I knew it had to come, but I wanted it to somehow skip over me.

Finally I understood that his birthday celebrates the smart, witty and caring young man who left me way too soon, but is still is in my heart and the hearts of others he touched. His transition to another realm -- heaven, the universe, another life through reincarnation [whatever you believe] -- does not diminish the light and spark he brought with him to this realm beginning on the day he was born.

That spark lights my way, brightens my life.  His unique and impactful spirit changed my life and continues with me every day.

To any of you who have friends, family or even work associates or acquaintances who have lost a child or spouse, please, please, don't be hesitant to send a text or card to acknowledge the day, to show them their child or spouse had an impact and -- as Mat's aunt says to this day -- that their life mattered.  To the parent or spouse who remains, that recognition is like the sunlight breaking through the storm clouds. 

Happy Birthday, Matthew.  I love you now and always and will always be grateful that your spirit chose me to be your mom.

Copyright 2023 

 

Bell Jars and Time Passages

 Humans have a need to mark time.  A need to commemorate events, the passage of time, milestones.   Like birthdays.  Birthdays are great.  We celebrate the person who was born, and the life we have with them.  It's a needed and usually positive ritual.

Tonight was the birthday celebration of one of my favorite family members.  Our small but mighty immediate family gathered in a special restaurant for a meal curated by our friend who is a wine and food coordinator, and it was fantastic.  But the longer I sat there, and watched interactions of my family -- and particularly, the two sets of father/sons, I became acutely and painfully aware of the absence of both my son and my husband.  

They have been gone for more than a decade.  And yet tonight the pain of missing them, and missing the relationship that they should now be having, was profound.  

How strange that a happy, positive, warm and upbeat family birthday dinner would suddenly turn dark, but so it did (but of course, only for me).

Tonight proved, again, that grief just sneaks up on you when you least expect it.  You can't guard against it.  I turned silent at the table but fortunately others were oblivious to my darkness and continued their conversations and laughs and celebration.    

Have you ever felt alone despite being surrounded by people, especially when they are people you know?  It is eerie.  Sylvia Plath described that feeling in her seminal work, "The Bell Jar."  It is as though the giant glass bell jar descends upon you, shutting you off from others.  They see you and you see them.  But you are not connected.  Not a part of what they are.

That was tonight.  And no one saw that the bell jar had come down upon me.  Because no one at that table could have had any clue of what it's like to observe the time passages in someone else's life and understand acutely that those time passages with people you love were snatched away from you.

I am not bitter or angry that others have been spared the grief I have endured, and that keeps kicking me down.  Each of us has been given our unique life paths.  Some paths are easy, some are not.  Mine happened to be not so easy.   

I've taken to pondering the question of why humans grieve, and why we do not "get over" the loss of someone we love.  As a former biology major I think, it must be due to genetics, or evolutionary preference, but in reality, nothing really accounts for it.  Only when one injects a spiritual component does a possible understanding happen.  Somewhere, in the mind, soul, cellular structure, or all of them, there is a sense that those who are gone still exist in some form and in some place.  We wish there was a way to have them with us in the only existence we know -- this one.  And knowing they are beyond us is the basis for grief.

We honor the passage of time by notches on the wall to show the growth of children;  marks on the calendar to show days passed and days to come; of holding celebrations honoring birthdays and anniversaries.  When we cannot make those marks or celebrate those times with those we love -- and know it will never happen again -- we cannot help but feel isolated, alone.  Even at a table filled with love and friendship and conviviality, the aloneness captures those of us who grieve.  The bell jar comes down again.

Copyright 2022

Memorial Day for Every Kind of War

 Memorial Day is an odd combination of memorial services for fallen soldier/military, and a day off to spend with family and friends.  It's a tough day for me, not because of any direct connection to a fallen soldier (although my children's grandfather is buried at Arlington, having been killed in action in Korea when their dad was an infant) but because of my hometown's Memorial Day celebration.

My son really wanted to be in the military.  Not only in honor of his grandfather, but in honor of his favorite aunt who proudly served in the Army.  He was never able to take the final step to enlisting as his illness always got in the way of judgment and opportunity.

We honor our service members here in town.  We celebrate their service and their sacrifice.  It's a community wide event.  My kids and I always participated in the local events.  And so of course on this day I can only think about my son in the high school marching band, marching in the parade, or riding his scooter to the park for the city-wide fireworks show, or watching the Jazz Band from the high school and telling me how he was aiming to play bass in the band.  Like the military, Jazz Band never happened due to his challenges.

Today, many years later, there is still a parade with the high school marching band, still a fireworks show where the kids show up with their friends and have a good time, still the Jazz Band playing to the crowds.  

As much as I enjoy the celebrations, it is hard to not be sad.  He was there.  Now he's not.  I am as alone and grieving for this loss as much as any parent whose child was lost in a battle far away from the hometown.

As I've written before, a Gold Star Mother (one who lost her child in war) is honored and revered.  But a mother who simply lost her child to another type of battle is ignored.  I am resigned to that, on every day except Memorial Day when I see his smile and golden hair either marching down the main street playing  the marching band version of the french horn, or riding his scooter around the park while the festivities are going on.  Today, on Memorial Day, I remember that I lost my son to a different kind of war -- a war of illness, of drugs, of evil nurses who prey upon the vulnerable.

His death as a result of a different war does not diminish my respect and honor for all the servicemembers who sacrificed.  Any loss of a child is the deepest kind of loss.  Whether by war, or gunfire, or evil nurses, or drugs, or stupid accident, it is the same outcome:  days and nights of mourning, mostly in silent in a world that would rather not remember the pain of losing a child.  

I'm grateful for Memorial Day, even with the pain, as it is a reason to publicly remember my son.  As the military heroes are remembered, so too are our children we have lost from other, more local wars.  Today, while at the park listening to the Jazz Band, I see him sitting beside me, sharing his aspirations, always wanting to move forward to new goals.  He lost his life in the battle of life.  Not while wearing a uniform, and so not put up on a memorial pedestal, but while trying to find his way despite so many obstacles.  Regardless, like the soldiers in battle somewhere far away, he was still my son, his battles cost him his life, but still his life mattered.  I will remember and honor that spark, that spirit, that joy that he brought to me and to so many others, for my entire life.

I close this post with his favorite parting phrase: Peace Out.  

Bookends

Time it was, and what a time it was, it was

A time of innocence

A time of confidences

Long ago, it must be

I have a photograph

Preserve your memories

They're all that's left you

   - Simon and Garfunkle

It was November 14.  So long ago.  My best friend Heidi and I were sophomores.  We had attended a fancy reception for all the pre-law students.  Just awful.  We returned to the dorms fairly disgusted with the rich college kids we were surrounded by.   We came back asking ourselves, what were we doing with those people.  We knew in 30 years they would be no different than they were tonight.  Effetes.  Privileged.  Smug.  We didn't want to fall victim to that.

Feeling at odds with our chosen college/career path, and out of sorts with the world, we changed out of our formal wear and into jeans.  The night was clear and comfortable, and Heidi and I decided to go for a walk.  

We came downstairs to the dorm reception area, and there he was.  Long hair, oversized tape recorder slung over his shoulder,  mic in one hand, silly grin.  "Good evening, ladies, the weaker sex,  most of whom are women..." he said in his best DJ voice.  It trailed off after that because we were SO upset at the levity in contrast to the pomposity we had just experienced.  Heidi shoved the mic back into him, saying, "what do you mean, women are weak!!" and we walked out, intending to walk under the stars in the clear night air and calm ourselves.

Shortly into the walk, just a few dozen yards from our dorm, she decided she wanted to go on alone.  I honored that.

And that changed my life.

I returned to the dorm, having really no place else to go, and "he" was still there.  I was fascinated.  My dad was a musician and growing up I had been in radio stations, live music venues, recording sessions and the like, so a guy with a tape recorder was not really so out of place.

We bonded instantly. I've often tried to understand why, but it defies logic. We were different in so many ways, and yet, oddly, had much in common.  Both orphans.  Wickedly smart.  Terrific sense of humor.  Later, we would talk about having been together in a previous life.  I came to believe it.  

We got married almost five years later.  Until the end, we celebrated two anniversaries -- November 14,  and then our wedding day on April 5.

It was a tumultuous life, full of highs and lows, fabulous great experiences and terrible nightmares, music and drama and the law, but it was a life I could not have had with anyone else.  Despite all the good and bad, and the joy and anguish, the bond that was instantly ours on November 14 never went away.

And so, when his spirit left this plane many years later on July 23, I was devastated.  Despite difficulties and depressions, Steven through it all was my rock, my best friend, my biggest fan and greatest cheerleader.  Even in our darkest days, he would support me in my work and cheer me on.  When I needed advice, he always gave it.  I knew whatever I needed was just a phone call away.  And I like to believe I was the same to him.

The end came as a shock.  It was a sudden illness that he ignored and by the time he realized the gravity, and reached out for help, it was too late to save him.  

I recall being in the hospital surrounded by his family, being offered comfort, and also being offered pharmaceuticals because I was so distraught.  But what I remember most was the sense of being utterly alone. Such a big part of my life and my identity was now gone.

I soldiered on, if for no other reason that to comfort our children, but they found no comfort and they suffered greatly with the loss.

Only now, years later, can I think back on my life with Steven, and have gratitude for all it was.  And understand that the pain was part of  our growth and that the good part needed the bad part to appreciate all we were and all we had.  Now, for me, there is no "bad" or "good" -- it simply was our life and I wish it had not stopped so abruptly.  There's so much I would love to share with him now, including the memory of the anniversary of the night we met.

I have a large framed photograph of Steven and me that recently came out of hiding.  It was taken when we had been together less than a year.  He was working at the Hollywood Bowl and I was standing next to him at the mix board obviously discussing something of great importance.  An  unknown photographer snapped our picture from a distance.  The candid shot so perfectly captured us at that moment in time, young and intent and earnest.  Our daughter insisted it be hung on the wall in our home, a place I bought last year, so it is a place Steven was never in.  At first I was uncomfortable having it there, but it has come to be a bit of a comfort to me.  Looking at it now brings a slight smile, as it reminds me of the life that was, and of the beginning, and of the end, of our time together.  

And now, tonight, the anniversary of the night we met, when the night air is as comfortably cool and invigorating as it was all those years ago, I look at the photo with a wistful thought and just a dash of melancholy.  I celebrate who we were, the bad days and good, the fun and not so fun, and our building a life and then our trying to redefine it when what we built fell apart.  Tonight, I celebrate that beginning, and I celebrate the "us" that was.

Bookends.  November 14 to July 23.  I have a photograph.  And memories.

Wish you were here.

copyright 2020

Grief and the Death of Normal

When I first started this blog, I only considered the loss surrounding a child.  Then I added spouse,  and then I added best friend.  Now....in what the world has become, I add the loss of life as we knew it.  The loss of normal.

For those of us who have suffered loss, we know what it means to lose something.  But it means a person, someone who has been a major part of our life.

Now, we have lost our normal way of life. 

Those who have not gone through the grief journey do not recognize the grief path. But with the pandemic, and the FEAR that we now all live with, comes the familiar stages:  we ignore the gravity of the situation (let's bake bread!  Let's go walking!  Let's do jigsaw puzzles!).  Then there is the reality (OMG, I can't go to work, I''m not getting paid, I can't celebrate a birthday/wedding/annivesary).  Then there is the reality that things are not as they were.

Welcome, world, to the grief that we survivors have been living with.

Grief.  It sucks.


First published 4/20/2020

The Life and Death Decider

I have usually encountered death in a sudden, unexpected way.  (The exceptions are my grandmothers, who lived into their 80s -- which now seems somehow a bit young but for their generation was old. )

Now, I am confronted with a new face of mortality.  According to the doctors, I am faced with the unfathomable choice of deciding when my friend of almost 20 years will die.

She was taken to the hospital a week ago.  She has been in and out of a coma since then.  She is not able to communicate her thinking or her wishes as to medical care or anything else.

10 years ago she appointed me her power of attorney.  She has no other family.  Her only child is severely autistic and not able to decide on anything more than what he wants for his birthday dinner.  And so it goes that when she cannot communicate her wishes, the doctors look for someone who will make her decisions for her. So, that means...…..

I'm the decider.

As much as this is a burden no one should carry, I'm comforted in knowing that at least this choice is in the hands of a person who is her friend and who cares about her.  Otherwise, it would be the courts appointing a professional conservator who no doubt would decide that extra medical interventions only "prolong the inevitable" and would give the order to terminate  all medical support.  In other words, pull the plug.  I'm just not willing to do it right now, because she still has function and will and spirit.

My friend is fighting to stay in this plane of existence. She lives for her son and is trying to return to him.  I know that.  I have pledged to give her the support and medical care to enable her to make a comeback.

If she loses the fight, then I am comforted with the knowledge that I did not hasten the end.

She has brain function.  She responds to my voice by moving towards me, opening her eyes, struggling to speak despite the ventilation tube (needed because her oxygen levels were too low).  She wiggled her toes when the doctor asked her to. She comes around when I mention her son.  She responds to pain stimuli.  She tries hard to open her eyes and to talk, despite the tube.

I have had the doctors say, "but what about the quality of life?  She likely will never be the same."  That may very well be true.  But if she survives this medical downturn, and maintains some conscious connection to this plane, then she will still be here and somehow able to connect with her son.  He has been her reason for living for far too long, and so long as she shows signs of cognition and function,  I will not be the one to willfully terminate that connection.

But the pressure to do so is enormous.  I do not fault the doctors.  They only see the outward suffering.  They cannot understand as I do that all she wants is to go home and be with her son.

Perhaps that is why I fight for her.  To be that connected with one's child -- as I was (and am) to my son (and daughter) -- is beyond rational explanation.  I cannot and will not be the force to interfere with that.

My own son was killed by those who wanted to break the bonds between us in order to advance their own selfish purposes. And they were nurses!!!!!  Their souls (I hope and pray) will suffer for such depravity. But their evildoing helped me see that I cannot be the one who decides to sever the earthly ties between a parent a child.

I will continue to advocate for my friend.  She must be the one to rally and come back to consciousness, or to give into the light and transition to a new existence.

Her medical condition is quite serious.  I am not naïve enough to believe she will simply get better and go home.  She may never be who she was.  But I will give her the opportunity to stay with us.

Should she now pass on, I will grieve our friendship, and yet be comforted in knowing I did all I could to give her the opportunity to stay in this life.

I have prayed about this situation.  Does that seem odd to you?  For one who has lost as much as I have, to do something as impractical as "pray?"

Over the past few years, I have returned to prayer.  Don't laugh or scoff.  It is the act of acknowledging that one needs help -- or is asking for help for another in need.  It recognizes that we are not the center of the universe, and that there are forces beyond our full comprehension or control.

And so to whom does one pray?  To the universe?  To God?  To Jesus?  To the candle on my shelf?  Here is where my prayers go:   To the Higher Power by whatever name we choose to give her/him/it.  I choose to call this Higher Power by the simple name "God."  Somebody bigger than you or I.

My prayer -- my request for help -- is that Mary answers the question "leave" or "stay" by deciding to stay (contrast to my BFF Heidi who left so quickly and before I even knew she was so ill) and that I will hear the answer even if she cannot say it or act on it.

Whether she survives or passes, I will be comforted by knowing that she trusted her health decisions to me.  I pray I continue to make the choices that are best for her.

copyright 2020

Clutter/Connection

I've been trying to declutter my home in anticipation of moving to a new place.  It's not easy or pretty to wade through the piles of stuff and things that accumulate over a 20  year period.  All of what I must go through, box by box, reflects a life that in so many ways no longer exists for me.  It's a veritable archaeological dig.  

Most folks, faced with the task of decluttering, can go through the photos, school papers, drawings, yearbooks, boy and girl scout uniforms and pins and sashes, and simply remember with a smile what happened years ago.  And so often found treasures can be shared with those who helped make the treasure.  "Remember when you made this for me?"   "Didn't we love to take the kids to the book store on Saturday where they bought all these books and comic books?"  

But sometimes life just smacks us upside the head and rearranges all plans and paths.  You can go through the clutter and find that there is no one to share  the memories with.  You sit there, and cry, and no one is around.  All you can do is remember, and hold on to whatever object transports you back to a time in your life "before" it was all taken from you.

When your child or spouse or best friend is taken from you, you cling to anything that was ever part of them.  It's how we fool ourselves into staying one step ahead of the pain of loss.  We can time travel back to a time when that person was here and tragedy had not wiped out that part of our life.

In trying to unclutter, I am forced to relive big pieces of my life gone forever.  There is no continuation of what my son was, or what he did, or what he could have done.  My son's life ended just short of his 21st birthday.  It is not possible to look at his picture proudly holding the French horn, or hanging out with his friends at music camp, or dressed in his Boy Scout uniform receiving his Arrow of Light award, or his photos with his sister and Santa, without jumping ahead to the dark days that awaited him and his ultimate tragic death.

In the process of uncluttering, I find myself refusing to toss out any piece of paper or photo or object that has any connection with him, no matter how tangential.  I foolishly soothe myself with the notion that if I can't hold on to him, I can at least hold on to something that was connected with him.

Several years have passed since that unspeakably awful day in June when "I heard the news today" that my son had died.  My life since that day has been divided into things that existed "before" and things that came into existence "after."  It is a silent calculation I do not share with anyone because it seems so macabre, and indeed it is.  But this is how I have come to define my life.    "When did I last paint the house/replace the mattress/travel to San Francisco/buy these shoes?"  "When did I last visit this place/person?"   "When did I stop going to movies/listening to music?"   Always, the answer is "before" or "after" that horrific day in June.

As I force myself to go through boxes of paperwork, school work, photos, cards, mementos, and leftovers from "when he was still here" I force myself to come to grip with reality.  He is not the  photo. He is not the poem he wrote to the great love of his life, Denise.  He is not the scrapbook of his piano recitals.  He is not the hospital records. He is not his Ramones Tshirts or his jeans. Those are just tags, snapshots, Instagram photos posted in my mind.  

My son is part of my cellular structure.  Even if all those tangible objects vanished, he would still be part of me.  Knowing that makes it a bit easier to cull through the chaff and keep only the wheat of these objects stuffed into boxes in my garage.  So, in my effort to declutter in anticipation of a move out of the home we shared, I will keep what brings me joy in remembering when he was in this plane and physically in my life.  My baby boy, my life's joy.  Your sister and I miss you every day.  And we miss you with or without the physical reminders.

But still I will hold on to the physical reminders.  Your dinosaur baby blanket, ironically made for you by my best friend Heidi, who I also lost too soon.  Your notes and cards.  The Brio train set.  Favorite books. Herds of plastic dinosaurs.  Books and comic books.  Photos.  The sand painting from the Hopi on your trip to Arizona with your archeology class.  The leather bracelet with your drawings on it that you made for me in 6th grade.   Somewhere, somehow, all of those items and more still carry part of your spirit and give me a bit of peace.

Not clutter.  Connection.   It's good to have more than feathers, and dreams.  These objects may be just clutter and junk to the Marie Kondos of the world, but to me they are part of you.  They remind me that a bit of your spirit remains with me.  And so I find a bit of joy...sad joy....but still joy in these physical reminders of you.

Copyright 2019