Butterfly

Sometimes life just kicks you in the butt, and usually when you least expect it.

I started this blog at the urging of my best friend, Heidi.  She said I had a story to tell, and I should tell it. Grief just isn't talked about in any depth, she correctly noted, until a person is slammed with the loss of someone or something and then the emotions are too strong to absorb any words of wisdom about how to handle it.  She said I had a way of telling the story of living despite grieving that might help others who have lost someone, or know someone who is grieving.

After months (or was it years???) of her nudging and encouragement, I finally listened to her and started the blog.  I wrote a long time on the first entry and realized I was completely absorbed by the process.  I lost track of time.  I wrote, and edited, and polished, and finally finished.  I read it over and knew that writing about grief was what I needed to do.

I began it on September 30, my son's birthday.  I finished in the wee hours of October 1.  I felt good, and accomplished.  But the maiden voyage into blogging was not complete until I sent it to my BFF for her blessing (or at least her feedback).

She wrote back and was effusive in her praise -- yes, yes, this is it, this is what you need to be writing, so that others can know, and can deal with grief.  We had a wonderful exchange about it, and I felt at ease, with the validation that only a most-of-your-life friend can bring you.

We were friends for 45 years.  Most of my lifetime.

Then, 10 days after my first post, she died.  Died.  I still can't quite fathom it.  She was fatigued, she fainted twice, she went to the doctor, the blood test said leukemia, and 48 hours later, she died.

I thought the death of my husband was awful.

I knew the death of my son caused part of me to die.

Her death has ripped away a big part of me, because she was with me for so much of my life.

This new cosmic kick in the butt has kept me from writing the blog.  This new grief shoved aside other grief and left me staggering, like an old, beaten boxer, carrying the scars of all the fights before, covered by the fresh blood of the current fight.  Yes, I am a fighter, and I remain, but I wish I had endured less pummeling.  Fact is, life does what it wants to do.  Some of us get more than our share of kicks in the butt.  So it goes.

"In the clearing stands a boxer, and a fighter by his trade,
And he carries the reminder, of every glove that laid him down,
Or cut him, 'til he cried out, in his anger and his shame,
I am leaving, I am leaving,
But the fighter still remains."

-Simon & Garfunkel, "The Boxer"

Just now am I able to write the words, "she died."  45 years of friendship is gone.  No more giggles.  No more funny emails.  No more serious emails.  No more long phone calls.  No more being able to give advice, and take advice.  No more plans for trips and visits and sharing stories.  No more "Heidi Cookies" at Christmas.  No more.

She has been gone for two months.  It is a blur, and I try to not think about the lack of emails, the lack of phone calls, the birthday cards and presents that will never be sent.

Death is endemic to life on this planet.  Although I can still say without hesitation that the death of a child is a loss like no other, I see that the loss of a best friend -- who was more like my sister -- comes pretty damn close.

One thing I will miss, among many trillions of things, is sharing with her the symbols that would come my way, that became my belief that my loved ones were communicating with me.  (See previous blog on "Feathers.")  She absolutely believed in angels, and knew there were communications from those who have "translated" [as she called it] to a different existence (she never thought death was the end, but the beginning of a new type of life).

And so, a couple of days after I heard the news, I found myself thinking about our many conversations about the spirit world, and communications from those that have left, and wondered whether there would be a something from her.  I said out loud, "Heidi, I know you will find a way to communicate with me, and I will be looking for it."  

Not too long after that, perhaps the next morning, I was walking to my car and enjoying the warmth of the late fall sun.   My car was parked under the large Chinese elm tree in front of my house.  As I opened the car door, I looked up into the now mostly leafless branches, and suddenly a butterfly appeared.  It hovered and fluttered over the car for quite some time, and as I looked at it, a smile broke out.  "Aha!  It's you, Heidi!   I knew you would find a way to come to me.  Thank you."  And yes, the tears welled up, but truly they were happy tears.

I get many butterflies in my yard, mostly the deeply colored orange and black Monarch type.  But this butterfly was a completely different color -- grey with yellow -- that I had never, in my entire life, seen before.  And, never, in the 15 years of parking my car under the Chinese elm tree, did I ever see ANY butterfly in that tree.

I have not seen that butterfly since.  I have not seen any other butterfly in the Chinese elm.

I know it was Heidi.

Her voice and her encouragement continues both in my head and my spirit.  I started this blog to share the grief journey of my son.  Yet there are many grief journeys and her loss has added a new dimension to my understanding.  It's not a loss I would have wanted or chosen, but like the other "involuntary" losses I have been hit with, it is a loss with lessons.

I will keep writing.  For me, for others, and for her.

To Heidi, may your spirit journey be even better than you envisioned.   I miss you, my friend, but hope your spirit is as light and as free as the butterfly you sent to me.


Copyright 2014

Feathers

"When you see me fly away without you,

Shadow on the things you know,

Feathers fall around you

And show you the way to go.....it's over..."

Ah, Neil Young...one of my favorite musicians...wrote those lyrics.  It resonated with me the first time I heard it at the innocent age of 19.  I often sang it over the years.  How prescient those lyrics turned out to be.

I was a science geek of a kid. I loved collecting things....worms and caterpillars....dinosaur bones from a dig in the South Bay area....rocks of all shapes and sizes....leaves.   But not feathers.  I have no memory of ever finding feathers at any time, until after my son died.

 But I must provide some background in order to fully illustrate how significant this is.  

When my son was 12, he gave me a birthday present.   It was not what one would expect.  It was a small snow globe that had, perched inside, a perfectly formed bird...blackish...with soulful eyes. You could almost hear the song coming through the glass.  I loved it, even though I initially thought, that was an odd gift from a 12 year old to a mom who otherwise had little to do with birds. Yet the more I shook the snow, and looked at the bird, the more I felt oddly connected to it.  The little snow globe was promptly placed on the window ledge in my kitchen, and I looked at it every day. It remains a small reminder of the sweet 12 year old who picked out a special gift for his mom.

My son was not without challenges and difficulties very shortly after that birthday.  He was part of a youth therapy group at age 15.  Part of the healing work was going through a "transformation" ritual designed to help him shed his old persona and step into the new, improved one.  The group leader gave him a name:  Soaring Eagle.  He loved it.  So did I.

"Blackbird singing in the dead of night

Take these broken wings and learn to fly,

All your life

You were only waiting for this moment to arrive."

He was quite the musical talent, and "discovered" the Beatles when he raided my collection of CDs. Turns out the White Album, from which Blackbird comes, was one of his favorites.   The Beatles were one of the many musical interests we enjoyed together.

So why am I writing about birds and feathers???

After my son's memorial service, my BFF took me away for a short trip to Ojai. She thought I needed a change of scenery, and to just get into a calm space and try to manage the grief.  She was so right.  I needed that little trip.  Ojai is a lovely and peaceful place.  My husband had been the technical director of the Ojai music festival for several years, and I always found our trips there to be enjoyable, not just because of the music, but because there was a different energy -- restorative, it seemed --  throughout the town. It was a perfect place to go after suffering such an unfathomable loss.  

When we left Ojai on our way back to Los Angeles, we stopped at an expansive, tree filled park near the ocean in Ventura.  She and I had packed a picnic lunch and walked quite a ways to a table under a very tall tree (which in my mind was a pine, but it could have been almost anything tall and green.  I was still very much grief stricken and remember now only certain "big picture" items.  Tall tree.  Green.  Lots of rough bark. Cool ocean breeze.).

As we sat and enjoyed the sun, the slight ocean breeze, and the restorative quality of being surrounded by nature, I found myself breathing deep and smiling.  Since his death, I had been barely breathing at all, and usually with shallow breaths.  The sensation of breathing deep, sensing the sun on my face, and enjoying a bit of life was pleasant, albeit foreign to me after suffering so much.  I liked it.  It was a moment of respite from relentless grief.

As we packed up, and started walking back to the car, I realized I felt rather good. Then, as I walked by the Big Tree, there, right in my path, was an enormous black feather.  Just lying there.  I'm not sure why, but I picked it up.  It seemed to have called out to me.  I found another one before we made it back to the car.  My BFF did not find any feathers.  She immediately recognized the symbolism and said they were a gift from my son.  I thought it an interesting concept, found the feathers striking and attractive, and decided to keep them as souvenirs of the getaway trip.

As it turned out, those feathers were merely the beginning.  Ever since then, I have found feathers in abundance.  Walking along a downtown street.  Taking the dog for a walk.  In the middle  of my office lobby where there is no window that opens to the outside world.  Piled up outside my back door (with no evidence of a dead bird to be found).  Next to my car in an urban parking garage.

My spiritual friends tell me that feathers are a sign from our angels -- in this case my son -- to let us know they are around us.

My agnostic friends tell me they're just feathers, even though they acknowledge that I seem to find many of them (whereas they do not).

Others have shared that they too have found feathers after a loved one passed away.

I was not the only one to encounter the bird experience.  I learned, after my daughter returned home from boarding school, and before she knew about my feather discoveries,  that a couple of days after her brother died, a bird flew into the upstairs rec room at her house at school.  It flew around, sang and chirped, and she had been captivated by the sight and sound.  After she watched it for a few minutes, it flew away.  Never before had a bird gotten into the house.

And she too now finds feathers.  They always make her smile.  She gives them to me to add to the others that adorn various shelves and tabletops.

I now have quite a collection of feathers, of all sizes and colors. Once, while walking in Descanso Gardens in late October, I found an unusual feather -- sleek black with streaks of orange.  Another time I was walking the dog at night, with no moon, and suddenly, a small beam of light shown on the street, illuminating a pure white feather lying at my feet.

I have found feathers of varied coloring, some solid, some mixed, including black, blue, green, white, and tan.  I save them all and have grouped them in vases.  One of the best is a little, squat stoneware vase with a fat body and very thin, short neck.  My son hand painted it as an art project in elementary school. It has a symmetrical design in black and green with dots of white.  I had unearthed it earlier in a box that held lots of his childhood treasures. It holds some of the smaller, yet colorful, feathers, and the combination is quite harmonious.  It's one of my favorite displays of the many feathers I have found.  

As time has passed, it is not just feathers that I find.  A few years ago, I was injured in a car accident and was off work for 2 months.  It turned out my first day back to work just a few days shy of the anniversary of his passing.  It was oddly strange, a kind of disconnect, to be back in my office, after the extended absence, still not quite 100% better, and to have that juxtaposed with the impending memorial day.  (The first anniversary is a very difficult milestone to pass through....the others aren't exactly easy, but the first one is particularly painful.)

As I stood in my office, gazing out the window onto the balcony of the luxury condo building directly opposite me, I saw a large, stately and beautiful hawk, pacing up and down the edge of the balcony.  It kept looking at me and strutting back and forth.  It squawked many times.  I was transfixed by the appearance of this bird, as no bird had ever perched on that balcony before.  

I looked at the hawk.  I swear it looked at me.  It strutted some more, and after I started smiling, it trotted along the rail and then flew off. 

In the next 4 years that I spent in that office, I never again saw a hawk, or any other bird on that balcony.

Birds have also come to my home, and I don't mean just to munch the goodies in the bird feeders. So often,  I will walk out in the morning, and a particular long tailed black bird will perch on the fence just above me, or swoop over the grass and perch on the chimney, looking down at me.  It will circle over my head, perch again, and then leave.  At times, a large crow/raven will perch on the very top of a very tall cypress tree behind my house and scream "caw! caw!" while staring down at me.  It too has been seen on the chimney giving me the once over before soaring away.

I have no recollection of such visits or serenades or swoops before my son passed.   Some skeptics say of course they happened, but I just didn't notice them.  I say otherwise.  Science girl pays attention to such things.  Never happened before.  It is nourishment to my soul and balm for my grief for these birds and feathers to find their way to me.  I cannot know how it happens, but I am eternally grateful that it does.

Feathers have indeed been falling all around me.  And they do show me the way to go.   It is to go on with my life.  Without him.   Knowing that in some way, his broken wings of life have taught him to fly in spirit.  And that brings to me a welcome spark of peace.

copyright 2014

It's Not Contagious

Whether we consciously know it or not, fear permeates much of our existence.  As children, we fear clowns, or bogeymen, or monsters under the bed, or even our parents' punishments.  When we are older, we fear rejection, fear looking stupid, fear trying something new.  We fear being infected by someone with a contagious disease.  We fear losing our job, or being homeless, or outliving our money.

Parents, though, have a much deeper and more visceral fear.  We fear for our children's safety.  If they are ill, or in danger (such as in a war zone, or a public safety officer), we might actually articulate that we fear they will die.  Fear grips us.  It is powerful and palpable.

So, it was natural, I suppose, for most people to stay at arm's length, and in some cases actually avoid me, after my son died.  I finally figured it out.  They were afraid.  Afraid it would happen to them.

Afraid that if they got too close, the awful, worst nightmare might become theirs as well.  As though a child dying is contagious, which it is not.

They kept their distance because they were also afraid of saying or doing something wrong.  

Society gives us options and guidance when a parent or spouse dies.  Many sympathy cards fill the card racks, or pop up on the greeting card websites.  But the loss of a child or sibling is so out of the ordinary grief experience that suddenly none of the cards seems appropriate.

There is little in our society that gives people any clue about what to do when someone's child or sibling dies.  It's just too awful to comprehend.

I was a solo mother when my son passed away.  His dad, my husband, had died only 11 months earlier.  (Clearly, that was not the best year of my life.)  So I had no obvious person (i.e., the other parent) to turn to that terrible day when I found out that my son had died.

Although I was initially in the presence of others, I actually was very much alone.  It was like a bubble of opaque fog had surrounded me.  I was there, but not quite connected.  The worst part was finally going home.  You would think that family and friends would jump in to make sure I didn't spend those first few horrible nights by myself but no.........they didn't.  Amazing.

People did step up and do wonderful things for me.  It was just those first days (and especially nights) that were the worst of my life.  I ultimately felt very blessed by those who stepped in and kept me from facing those early nights alone.

My long time friend (truly my BFF) who lives in another state dropped what she was doing and made her way to me.  She stayed with me for a while (I was still in a daze of grief when she arrived and to this day cannot remember how long she stayed.)   She helped me through the really ugly parts:  making funeral arrangements, going to the funeral home to see my beautiful boy one last time, getting through the service, writing the obituary.  She also made it possible for me to keep going, making sure I ate, talked, stayed in the moment, just being with me so I was able to go on minute by minute.  She took me out of town and away from the house, which was exactly what I needed, even though I didn't know it.

My sister-in-law, who was very close to my son, also flew out from another state on short notice to be with me and help me handle all that needed to be done.  She is a "woman of the cloth" and so she did the memorial service.  She knew him so well, and had been a source of support for him, and she was able to put together a perfect service that fitted who he was and truly was a celebration of his life.

My sister and her family contributed so much.  They did so many things for me, from arranging the place for the service, printing up materials, reading at the service, and sending a big basket of goodies to the hotel where my BFF and I went. I'm sure they did more, but my grief blotted out reality on many levels.

My niece was very close to my son and even though she was a new mother to her own son stepped in and organized a session where she, my daughter, my sister in law and BFF sifted through boxes and DVDs of photos of my son.  Then my niece -- always so artistic and talented -- prepared a beautiful triptych of storyboards that showed my son in the various stages of his life that she put on display at the memorial service.  I still have them and they are a wonderful gift from her.  

Yet the truth is, at the (literal) end of the day, what I needed was companionship, another person with me to help keep the spreading and formidable and all encompassing darkness at bay.  Ultimately I realized that family may not always be able to provide that.  Mine did their best, but at night I was still alone.  Thankfully my BFF was there for me as soon as she could be.

My BFF is an amazing person, strong and resilient and "can do."  Her arrival and taking charge is proof that action can dispel fear or at least keep it at bay. She was like a godmother to my son...made him a dinosaur baby blanket when he was born, and that blanket was still in his room when he passed.  He loved it, although like any self respecting young man, would not admit it.  But he wouldn't let me put it away, either.  He had also traveled to see her (on his own) in the six months before he passed.  He enjoyed staying with her and her husband, talking politics, religion, spirituality, and life. They made sure he got to the airport to get safely back home to me.

Ditto with my sister in law.  She is a "can do" person and prefers action.  She too was very connected to her nephew and helped him through some tough times.  She was a great inspiration to, and motivator for him.

And what about my niece, who has her own son?  How did the fear not prevent her from doing all that she did?   All I can say is that she is an extraordinary, wonderful human being and was close to and loved my son, her cousin, very much.  Love can indeed conquer fear.

I also received cards in the mail, or at the service, and flowers and plants and edibles were left for me at home.  There were many expressions of sorrow and support.  A few people came by and spent a few minutes with me. Many, many people came to the service.  I was so awash in grief that I am sure I don't remember everything.

But paradoxically, what I remember is the overwhelming sense of ultimately being alone. Strange, is it not, that I would conclude that, after just listing all the outward expressions of support?  Grief that is the kick-in-the-gut, crush-your-chest-so-you-can't-breathe grief leaves you with impressions....and that's the impression.   Maybe it is rooted in the reality that I was alone for the first few days. And especially that first night. Alone.  I still can't believe I got through it.  The God awful nights.  I had to walk by his room to get anywhere in the house, and ended up shutting the door so I had the fantasy that he was just out for the night.  Trying hard not to listen for his car driving up, or him opening the door (to the house or the fridge or the microwave).  Trying to sleep knowing he was never coming home.

Yes, I was alone those first few days, but ultimately got through it and survived because so many showed their love and support, each in the way that they were best able to do.

There were those who couldn't call me, or write me, or come see me.  Most of them later said they just didn't know what to say, or do, or that it was so awful that they were afraid of making it worse.  I do not think the lesser of any of them.  We can only do what we can do.  Most unhappiness comes from unrealistic expectations.  When a  child dies, there should be no expectations either from the bereaved or from those around him or her, because everyone goes through the fear and anguish in his or her own way.  I have much gratitude for any contact, any expression, any effort to reach out, no matter how long it may have taken the person to reach out to me or in what form it took.

As weeks went by after his death, I resumed what seemed to be my life.  What I realized, though, is when people asked me, "how are you doing?" they didn't really want to know.  The first few times I said how I was doing (saying basically, not well) I quickly figured out that no one knew what to say in response.  So I just ended up saying that I was doing OK.  That was acceptable and avoided awkward pauses.

As more time went by, another horrible reality set in.  I was not "supposed" to talk about my son.  No one talked about him.  No memories, good or bad, no mention of his name.   It made everyone way too uncomfortable.   I have since learned that this is a very common experience for all of us who are members of this club of woe.

That absence of his name has tempered  somewhat, because I finally came to a place that allowed me to say his name, first in family gatherings, later in general conversation.  If someone else felt uncomfortable, so be it.  He was part of my life, and he remains a part of me.  People share memories of spouses and parents, and by Jove, I was going to keep my son's memory alive by sharing memories of him too.  I have found that the more at ease I am with mentioning him at appropriate times (talking about a particular Thanksgiving dinner, for example, or about an assignment for one of his classes, or when he worked in retail) the more comfortable others are in talking about him.

I really like it when people remember his birthday.  I even like it when they remember his memorial day.  It means he mattered.  He still exists on some level because he is remembered.

Now that I am at a place in my grief journey where I can talk and write about this without shedding prodigious quantities of tears (well, most of the time, that is) I want to share some thoughts on what to do when a friend, family member, co worker or neighbor loses a child.   To overcome your own fear, it's important to have a little guidance on what to do to help, or at least to not make things worse.  Action puts fear at bay. It's important to do something.

Just recently, the owner of a neighborhood shop that I have patronized for years gingerly approached me on this subject, saying that someone he knew just lost his son.  He had no idea what to say or do, and wondered if I had any suggestions.  I spoke freely, without tears or sorrow, because his question transported me back to those awful few days and weeks after I lost my son. I wanted to help that bereaved parent, and I also wanted to help the shop owner who felt adrift not knowing how to help.

I want to share the list of what, in my experience, is how to help.

First, if at all possible, BE THERE IN PERSON.  Go see them.   Sit down and LET THEM TALK (or not, as they are able) and especially LET THEM CRY.   That's important.  Sometimes after losing your child you just can't talk.  All you can do is gulp for air and cry.  Just let them. Tell them it's OK to cry.

Second, don't try to "find the right thing to say."    There really isn't anything "right" to say when the grief is so fresh and so venomous.  It's more important to just be there, but it's OK to say how sorry you are, what a terrible loss, and especially, what a great/wonderful/special/funny/talented/any adjective person he/she was.  And most important, don't be afraid to share a memory you have of the departed.  SAY THEIR CHILD'S NAME.   "I always laughed or enjoyed it when [name] did such and such."  Your talking about and saying the NAME of the child is a drink of cool water in their desert of grief.

Third, please do not say "I know how you feel -- when I lost my mother/father/husband/wife...."   The grief of losing a child is totally different (I have lost my mother, father and husband, so I am pretty confident when I say this).  Repeat:  losing a child is totally different.

Fourth, if you want to do something to help, understand that the bereaved parent will not know what it is they need.  Try to be specific:  Can I help you plan the service?  Can I bring food?  Can I video the service?  Can I help with preparing a photo collage?  Or better yet, just say "I am going to do x, y or z."  Also helpful is to show up with food and a pledge to come back at a certain time the next day to share a meal.  Or to take the parent out for coffee or tea or something to eat. Answer the door or the phone and run interference for visitors, deliveries, etc.  If nothing else, leave something with them (a simple vase with a couple of flowers, or a small live plant or --- gold stars for this one --- a photo you have of the child that they don't have). Physical reminders of someone's love and concern and support are wonderful lifelines when the grief becomes overwhelming, which it does, frequently.

I get it that others' fear of contagion remains, no matter how many years pass since losing my son.  I no longer take the fear, or the avoidance, personally.  But, I am careful in how (or if) I divulge my loss, and with whom I share it.  I try to be discreet.  I am not ashamed of being a bereaved parent, but I want no pity, and I want no fear.  I am not solely defined as a mother who lost her son.  It of course is a part of me, but it is not all of me.

Yet I also want people to know that the loss of my son informs so much of my outlook on life, and that my son will never stop being part of my daily life.  It's true. Every day there are thoughts of him.  Looking at the garden he loved.  Taking care of his beloved cat and dog.  (His cat passed away a couple of months ago, which rekindled the grief as it was another part of life with my son that's now gone.)   I still drive his car.  His sister and I laugh at things he used to do, or smile when one of his favorite songs is played, or we talk about his favorite movies or video games or TV shows.  Whether or not you believe in angels or the afterlife, the fact is my son is still with me and will be with me for the rest of my life.

The death of a child is not contagious.  But it changes everything.  When someone you know has been initiated into this club of woe, know that it is a time of transition for them -- painful, awful, gut wrenching transition.  Being there with them, especially when the tears fall and nothing can be said, is the greatest gift you can give them.

Doing something -- anything - for them and with them is also the best antidote for fear ....yours, and theirs.  

"It is better to light just one little candle than to stumble in the dark."  

Whatever you can do to conquer the fear, and to reach out to the grieving parent in whatever way you can, will be like lighting a candle in their otherwise impenetrable darkness.  

The Club That No One Wants To Belong To

It's a kind of backwards Groucho Marx joke (I wouldn't be a member of any club that would have me).  No, I write about the opposite.  None of us who are members of this club would ever choose to be a member.   In fact, we all would avoid it like the plague.

What club is this?

The club of parents whose children have died.

Children who are now angels.  On the flipside.  In heaven.  Should you believe such things.  (Or, just dead, if you don't believe those things.)

The blog is called Wednesday's Child.  It's from the nursery rhyme:

Monday's child is full of face,
Tuesday's child is full of grace.
Wednesday's child is full of woe.......

My child, my son, happened to be born on a Wednesday.  Yet even if he had been born on a different day, he would still be a Wednesday Child because I was filled me with woe the day that he died.  Anyone who has lost a child (or grandchild or sibling) knows that woe.  

Wow.  I said it.  The terrible words that no parent ever wants to speak.  My child died.

I started this blog on his birthday.  I needed to do something to honor him and the sacred place he has in my heart and psyche.  I'm not one to organize a foundation, or a golf tournament, or to set up a scholarship for aspiring music students, or any of the million other worthwhile endeavors that other parents have done to deal with their grief and honor their children. I admire and applaud them for doing such wonderful work.  I'm just not that type.  I needed something else to do with my grief.

 My son was quick witted and so good with words, loved to voice his opinion, and had a wicked MySpace page (yes, he left us before Facebook became "the" site.)  Loved The Daily Show with Jon Steward.  Wicked wit.  We used to have great discussions about politics, the world, life.  I haven't watched the Daily Show since he left.  It's been hard to have those discussions with anyone else.  Finally, it dawned on me:  write your thoughts.  Honor his spirit.  So, a blog seems just right, and it occupies my thoughts on his birthday, and pushes away my thought of "what would he be doing now if only......"

Those of us in "the club no one wants to be a member of" are very clever when it comes to our departed children's birthdays.  We find interesting ways to deal with the pain.  We can ignore the date (excruciatingly difficult to do); wear it like a sandwich board sign ("hey!  Look here!  This is my kid's birthday!); grieve in silence; make a big production out of something so that we suppress the pain and make everyone think we are "handling this so well."

Ha!  All efforts to run from reality are either useless, or, like favorite opiod drugs, buy us a little time and keep us a little sedated so that the full effect -- the enormity -- of this loss that never goes away can be dealt with.  If we can get through yet another birthday, we think we have accomplished a lot.

And in fact, it is an accomplishment.  Just to get through.  Just to keep going.

I started this blog because I want to share my journey on this dark road that started the day my son departed this existence.  I have found so  many parents, grandparents, siblings, aunts, uncles and cousins who never come to a place where they can consciously handle the enormous loss.  The missing person is compartmentalized, ignored, and most hurtful of all,  never spoken of again.  Or, for those of us who DARE speak the name, we are met with awkward silence, and the rapid changing of the subject. The death of our child happens all over when we cannot even speak his name or recount a memory.  Grieving in silence becomes a pretty good choice considering the other options.  Or jumping into a "big project" whose busyness distracts.  I came to the realization that we each have to do it however it works for us.

I want to mention an organization called Compassionate Friends.  It is for the families who have lost children.  I admire the organization, as it offers many levels of support:  meetings, newsletters, online chats, Facebook pages.  I even get a card each year from the local chapter honoring my son's birthday and memorial day.  As much as it hurts to get them, I am glad they arrive in my mailbox.  Someone has remembered my son and the two dates that outwardly define his time in this world.  No one else sends cards.

But as good as Compassionate Friends is, for me I saw a lot of breadth, but not a lot of depth. They touch so many grieving families, but I did not see any way to express more than a few words or short paragraphs about grieving. Yet, for me, I need to say more.

 I have learned since my son's passing not only my own ocean of grief that almost caused me to drown, but I have also learned about the enormous emotions that engulf all families of children who died.  The grief and emotions do not go away.  They transform.  They can be managed, sort of.  But the depth of the feelings remains.  And very few of us seem willing to share those feelings or discuss the depth of them.

So here I am. I want to start that conversation, even if it's just a conversation with myself. My plan is to post on what it means to be a bereaved parent; on moments when the loss of my son hits me like a 2x4 against the head; on moments when I can smile in remembering, or cry over seeing a young man walking that for a fleeting moment looked like my son.

  I have spent a few years now evolving into the role of someone who can have the conversation...which means I can write this without the keyboard being drenched in tears. Up until recently, that would not have been possible.  Tears and sadness was all I could express.  Of course  I still grieve, and I will grieve this loss so long as I live, but now I can put the grief, and the process, and the observations, into print.

My son was Wednesday's Child.   I will share the woe, as well as the love, and the journey to live despite the indescribable grief that come with the loss of that beautiful being that I gave birth to and nurtured.  I hope that by being able to share, others will have a better understanding of this grief without end, and of the hole in my heart that is too big and too deep to ever heal.

To quote George Harrison (and yes, I am a total Beatles fan):  "Life goes on within you and without you."

My life goes on, but sadly it goes on without my baby boy.

This blog is dedicated to my son who left us way too soon.  But is always loved.  Then, now, and on the flip side.