I want “When I’m Sixty-Four” sung at my next birthday party. I want it sung loudly by the Beatles from Sgt. Pepper’s, and accompanied by my friends. Yes, I want to celebrate the Crone, the aging, the wisdom that comes from the gift of many decades — decades of metamorphoses, transformation, and transcendence. I want to shrivel from decreasing collagen in my face, like the earth in Death Valley, at once brutal and beautiful. I want to listen to and read my heroes in their later years, as they reach this milestone of touch and go, the crapshoot years. In the meantime, I will live hardily, with gusto. One day my number will be up, and this old shell of a body will disintegrate back into the earth. I’d like to nourish a tree, maybe a coral tree. Yeah, but first, I want to get old, wrinkle-riven, and be serenaded out of here, When I’m, “One-hundred bottles of beer on the wall, one-hundred …” too bad we can’t start over again when we get to One, but … that’s when we launch.
I feel like I’ve been in a car accident and the next day being black and blue, but … still alive on a brand new day – granted, without my son, but a brand new day regardless of the part of me that is irrational wishing for my son to be resurrected, even nearly ten years later. I was not a parent who got to have the miracle of a child who survived his drug/alcohol years. The only victory in Rikki’s story is that he is no longer suffering, and he suffered a great deal. He lost his beautiful mind before he passed, and that kills me. His last words to me, though, will forever be a comfort to me. As I covered him with the heated blanket before the medical staff had me step out so they could attend to him, he said, “Oh Momma, I don’t know what I did to deserve this, but it feels so good.” The last thing I ever did for him was tuck him in. I did the same thing the night he died. Gratefully, I don’t have very many images of the night Rikki died. I think that’s my brain’s way of protecting me from chronic ruminations. I truly am grateful my memories of that night are scarce.
Yesterday, it was a quiet day. I had solicited the opportunity to get together with anyone available so I could keep occupied on Rikki’s birthday, and I had several people who offered to keep me busy, but it didn’t work out with any of them, so Ben spent the day waiting for a meltdown, but that never happened. I got busy and the time, 3:15 p.m., of his birth passed before I noticed the time. I looked at the clock and it was 3:30 p.m., and I said, “Happy birthday, Boo. I miss you. I love you” and then I went about my night. I took several naps when the emotions began to reach critical mass, and so one of my coping mechanisms yesterday was distancing myself from the emotions so I could function when I felt an overwhelm coming on. To be honest, I don’t know why I chose to stay home and keep my mind busy, because my heart was on overload.
The GOMU gave me the opportunity and the emotional fortitude to mete out my sadness in tolerable amounts and still find the time to laugh and watch the baseball game with my husband, who kindly kept asking me if I was okay. We were both waiting for the deluge; it never came. I guess, maybe because the day of his birth was anxiously anticipated, and the day of his birth was a celebration. His life was a celebration in my soul. His death has been life altering. I am not the same person who existed prior to Rikki’s death. I’ve grown and changed, and I continue to do so on this wild ride; grief is just that, a series of seemingly nonsensical forks in the road. Which one to take? See, the point here is that forks in the road offer us choices, which put us in control of our reaction to our triggers, you know, those things that bring the loss of our loved one’s right smack into our faces, which typically leads to a meltdown.
Yesterday was an atypical birthday. For eight years, I’ve kept myself so busy on his birthday that I could only collapse from the exhaustion of holding in unexpressed emotions all day. When I got up in the morning, I had a message from a dear friend, who very lovingly reminded me she remembered my son’s birthday. Throughout the day, I received messages from my wonderful friends; it helps.
Our beautiful grandson had a wonderful birthday. His mother really outdid herself. I’m very proud of her and so grateful that she’ll always be in my life. She texted me yesterday to remember Rikki and to thank him for our Louie. By evening time, I just wanted to go to bed; the tears never came, but sleep did.
So, that’s how my son’s 42nd birthday was remembered. Numbing, longing, sleeping, hot dogs, baseball, apple pie and Chevrolet. And … it was successful. The day passed as it always does. I remembered fondly the birth of my sweet, red-haired baby boy. That’s not bad to remember; it’s also not bad to fall apart completely. We get up again and another new day full of promise is in our hands. There is not a singular fork, and no singular road. I know we improvise grief as each moment transpires, triggers are always just seconds away — all the time.
Once I was in the drive-thru at Starbucks, and I was aching — just because I missed my son especially hard that day, and on a Bird of Paradise flower was a hummingbird sitting just about one foot away from where I was stopped. He didn’t seem to be afraid. He tilted his head and looked at me and I said, “Hi Rikki. Thank you.”
Now, I don’t know if that was a sign from the other side. I’m not sure there can be communication between the living and the dead; some people are absolutely certain. I’ve never had that kind of faith. I took the hummingbird on my son’s favorite flower as a sign early in my grief experience because I desperately needed to feel a physical connection to my son; there’s that irrational thinking again. I knew he was gone but the ache was physical and I needed a pretty moment between myself and something my son would have found absolutely magical, and I was able to pull myself together for the day. Grief recovery, like those who struggle with addiction, is a lifelong process.
I’ve learned over the past nearly ten years that I will take those godwinks when I get them. I don’t have answers to the mysteries of the universe, but I do know that it is we who must heal ourselves. No one can talk us through impending meltdowns, and to be honest, if they happen, they happen. We have not failed if we lose it, stay buried deep in our blankets for the day, dance, sing, remember. Rumination about a beautiful moment is okay too. See, however you handle your tough days is okay, as long as you’re not hurting yourself. Grief is powerful enough to take someone through a time of madness. Most of the time we come out of it and learn to reframe and restructure our lives so we can live in a much different world than the one we lived in when our kids were still alive. Our entire existence changes when someone we love dies.
The next day after navigating a loved one’s birthday or angelversary, is a lot like a hangover; I’m exhausted today. There was absolutely no reason to repress my feelings, but I did. His angelversary is far more challenging than his birthday.
No one who hasn’t “been there” can judge the rightness or wrongness of how we handle our grief process on significant days. How I managed yesterday was a success. I’m here again on a brand-new day. I will always miss my son, and as I promise my fellow grievers, especially those who are newly grieving, the intensity of our feelings does decrease over the years. Nine years and eight months ago I was an absolute wreck. I was so lost, I could barely manage basic functions. Since Rikki’s death, I’ve poured myself into academia, getting degrees so I can help someone else who is in pain to navigate safely to the other side where healing takes place, and where we can finally rest in the reality that we have choices, even when we are experiencing heartbreak.
I want to encourage those of you who have birthdays, angelversaries, or other significant days coming up, they’re bittersweet; they just are. Weep, eat, sleep, write, or do whatever emotionally sound activity you can engage in. The day will hurt you and it will make you smile, and then, it will make you cry – in no particular order.
I survived another birthday; this year with nothing to do, I used the non-destructive coping skills I have developed over the years through education and therapy to help me navigate a bittersweet day.
And you know what? My process was okay. And so is yours.
Happy heavenly birthday, Rikki. Happy earthly birthday, my precious sixteen year old grandson, Louie. Yes, son and father have the same birthday. It’s a day that is bittersweet. I will feel the labor pangs at 3:15 p.m. just as I did the afternoon he was born. I’ll relive his entire life, from birth to death, in a day, and it will hurt, and it will make me smile. Our children’s birthdays bring both joy and pain, whether you gave birth to the child, or had the nurse hand you your new baby you’ve welcomed into your life and love. I don’t know how the day will proceed. This is the first time our grandson hasn’t been with us, and so, I’ll have the time and space to cry. I usually put on a brave face until I can’t take it anymore and then I go into our bedroom and cry myself to sleep. He had so much promise. I generally keep busy on his birthday and his angelversary. Last year I was driving home from a busy day of seeing clients; the drive home was two hours. I listened to music and when I got home I fell apart in my husband’s arms. Nine years and eight months I still have a tough time on special occasions. Thanksgiving is a really tough time for us. Thanksgiving was Rikki’s favorite holiday. He started making the turkey when he was only twelve years old and he beamed when everyone fussed about how good it was. We always had good times during the holidays … except when he was using. But today, as much as it hurts, I will celebrate until the day is over. We each know how our kids’ birthdays go. Rikki would be 42 today. 42 years ago, I was writhing in labor pain, and my son was coming into the world. He was a beautiful baby, a good baby. Yep, bittersweet. I’m going to edit, revise, add to my book I had published and written only nine months after his death. It’s a mess and reflective of my life at the time. I will do that today, laundry, eat, read to distraction, and weep in the evening. Nighttime seems to bring out my grief; I guess there are no more distractions after the day is done. I don’t want this post to be morose because 42 years ago there was a celebration, and I have Louie’s birthday to celebrate and my son’s birth to remember. I will get through it just like I have for the past nine years. It’s unbelievable that I would have a son in his forties. So, please know that as your significant days arrive, you will get through them, and it’s okay to have a total meltdown or to celebrate. There’s no right or wrong way to do grief – unless it becomes self-destructive. I’ll keep busy and listen to music that won’t make me cry. I’ll participate in life as much as I can – and then…I will collapse under the weight of a day of performance. I have smiled for the past nine birthdays, but only because Louie was with us. I had to celebrate regardless of the pain I also felt because Rikki was not with us. Louie is with his mom this year, and so, again I will have the space to weep. Maybe I will. Maybe I won’t. At any rate, today my son, Rikki Joseph Kolb was born, and it was a momentous occasion. I choose to remember that today.
Happy birthday our precious grandson, Louie. You’ve made our life infinitely better.
I don’t do viewings at funerals. I prefer to remember my loved ones as they were on our last happiest day together. Besides, the three times I’ve viewed a loved one during an open coffin celebration of life, the person looked nothing like herself. No, it’s difficult enough to lose a person in the first place. A service where the farewell and grief process can begin to take hold is necessary, and until then, it’s all about holding our breath and our emotions in check to get through the initial preparations. I was on the phone the next day after Rikki died with the florist making funeral arrangements despite the fact that my heart had been shattered. I kicked into gear to handle everything, down to writing the eulogy to be presented by my husband. I was momma lion making certain my son’s last party was going to truly honor the amazing person he was. I had my son cremated and placed in a beautiful urn with a seascape that represented a happy time for me and Rikki. I wanted to scatter them in our favorite part of our favorite beach, but I’m still holding on to them. Maybe his son will want them some day. If not, I want our ashes to be scattered together over our favorite beach spot. Grief is expressed differently by each of us.
I recently had a serious health scare, one which had me facing my mortality. My M.O. had me immediately launch into assigning tasks to my husband about how things were going to play out, from the way I would die, to the way my life would be celebrated after I died, from the music, guest attire (costumes), and down to the very last hors d’oeuvre. I want a party worthy of the life I’ve lived, the culmination of a healed life, instead of a funeral procession, I want a victory march.
By a stroke of good luck, and medical incompetence, my prognosis of one year to live was found to be a misdiagnosis, and after months of determination mixed with despair, I may breathe a sigh of relief. I’m too grateful to be angry, and I’ll just leave this experience behind me and move forward with the always tenuous time I have left.
My dear friend, member of our family of choice, and colleague to my husband, Eric Esperon, passed away and we celebrated his life on Tuesday evening. The venue was jam-packed with people and there was standing room only. I understand he requested he be buried in his Jedi robe with his light saber. He was fifty-one and one month. He was a force of love and light, and he is sorely missed.
Celebrations of life, funerals, and the dirges or lilted harmonies that accompany them are by nature bittersweet. I had told myself this was a celebration, even though I was enormously grief-stricken. My husband taught high school for nearly forty years. The last nearly twenty of his active teaching years, he taught theatre arts, and we met during that time. I watched his kids grow and change, graduate and start lives of their own, many now have children and graduate degrees. As sad as I was to say farewell to Eric, the people his celebration brought together are a true testament to his joie de vivre. We hugged and cried and laughed and cried and caught up with one another and cried. We promised to keep in touch with one another, with mostly good intentions to do so. Ah, but life gets away from us, “…until we’re covered up with flowers in the back of a black limousine.” (Joe South)
Intense emotions force promises we don’t mean to keep; but just like a gift, it’s the thought that counts, right?
Celebrations of life and misdiagnoses give us pause for thought. I know I’ve had some time for introspection and reevaluation about my own life since the misdiagnosis. The death of my son didn’t toughen me up for the deaths of others, but it did give me greater insight into what needs to be done when someone I love does die. I lost four and a half years to complicated grief when my son died. I’ve heard it said many times, and I’m far too humble to make the claim that losing a child is the pinnacle loss a person can endure; it has been for me.
When I lost Rikki, I also lost my faith in Divinity. My life became sterile with resolute doubt; I know that sounds oxymoronic, but trust me, it’s not. I don’t know if I’ve ever not believed entirely in an understanding of the Divine, neither male nor female, a Spirit, a Source from which all is animated, but when Rikki was dying from addiction, I had no energy for existential musings. Where was God in all that madness?
When Eric died, I asked the same thing. Eric was seriously the most amazing person. He was a great big ol’ kid who was adored by his students and all who knew him. I’ve been rushing toward a change in perspective about the afterlife to assuage my emotional pain; I do this after every significant loss. I wish I knew for sure if any of the legends/myths hold true, but after every death, I hope for an extension of life for the person who has so touched my life and enhanced it by her presence, by his presence, by Eric’s presence.
Eric and I had a phone conversation before he died, and I was backed against the existential wall when he told me he was afraid of dying. I asked him what he believed about the afterlife, and we chatted a bit about his fear. I asked him if he wanted to know what I thought about it, and I expressed my hippie description of what I believe happens after we’re no longer in our bodies. At the end of our lives, it is we who will bring the peace to our death scene. If we’re very lucky, we have time to hash it out for ourselves before we take flight to our next karmic cycle, or before we are absorbed into the great infinite expanse of our universe, or whatever I decide to bring me peace in the final hour. I don’t like to sound woo woo, so I’ll spare you my Jungian perspective of heaven. I don’t believe in hell, regardless of the crime. In my understanding of the Divine – but for earthly life and human conditioning, good conditioning and bad conditioning, we would all be angels in this life and so, in the next one too.
Do I believe this all the time? No, only when I’m in intense emotional pain, which even after nine and a half years, I still have relapses into deep grief, and I must work hard to pull myself back up into the Present Moment. Celebrations are facilitators in the grief process. After the initial shock of knowing someone is with absolute finality dead, the rest is adjusting your worldview in which your loved one is no longer part. Right after Rikki died, as his mother, I KNEW definitively and with sobering reality that my son was gone. There was no turning back the hands of time. There were no longer any fantasies that Rikki would be made well. He was every bit as terminal with addiction as Eric was terminal with cancer. I knew the last time I saw Eric would be the last time, but just like with my son, I held out irrationally for some anomaly, or miracle, or … misdiagnosis. Sometimes our prayers, regardless of how strenuously we pray, remain unanswered in the affirmative. My son died. My mother died. Eric died. I will die, and one day each of you will lose someone and you will also die. Like Eric, it is important that you live it up to the very end. My son loved two things in life, a party and his son, with absolute dedication and devotion to both.
I had a friend, Jeff, who always told us he wanted an open coffin with Groucho Marx glasses on his face. How we celebrate the lives and deaths of our loved ones truly is an important part of the grief process. Eric’s family did a lovely job, standing room only, people kept pouring in, and everyone said the nicest, and truest things about Eric.
I hope his family can find some comfort in the outpouring of love and the attendance at the Celebration of Life. I know I am comforted by the number of people who attended and spoke at Rikki’s. How does one wrap up someone’s life, the semicolon morphed into a period, the end of a sentence, a life sentence? I don’t know about you, but in my theology, the GOMU gets how hard it is to be here, despite the times that we’re rockin’ and rollin’ in life and it’s all smooth sailing. Life can be really hard. We love and we lose … many times throughout our lives.
Losing someone is one of the most harrowing and difficult experiences we can endure. Most of us can regain our bearing and move forward, eventually. I have seen people come to madness, some temporary, and some still very active in it, after the loss of a loved one.
I guess what I really wanted to say is that Eric’s death has really thrown me into an existential tizzy, but every loss I’ve ever incurred has. I was apprehensive about the celebration of his life. The last time I saw him he was very sick, but still present. He joked and was sharp despite his exhaustion from chemotherapy. He was here and now he’s gone. I’ll work through the existential stuff just like I have with every death, my son’s being the most profound loss. I’ll figure it out. I’ll find a soft place to land where tears water the fields where my loved ones lie…where I can commune with the Unnamed and the Spirits of those I love, a place where I can begin to heal.
I’m so grateful to all the people who attended Eric’s celebration of life. If Eric wanted a party, a true celebration of his life, his family and friends achieved that for him, and for each of us who can now begin the hardest part of the grief process, the adjustment, normalizing our pain, understanding that each of those are processes, part and parcel of the grief experience. It’s okay to cry. It’s okay to laugh in remembrance of your loved one with others. It’s okay to not view the body. Every culture has its death rituals. I understand at my great grandmother’s funeral people were taking pictures next to the open coffin. Okay, not my thing, but some people need that finality. I understand professional wailers attend some cultures’ funerals. Some are profoundly sad, and some are celebratory. Eric’s was the latter. He lived an exemplary life, touched generations of kids’ lives as their teacher, and just the joy he spread throughout his fifty one years, are just a few things that made his celebration of life so lovely.
Thank you for all the hugs and laughter to all who attended Eric’s celebration and who brought comfort to the family, such a lovely family of kind and accomplished people. The family honored Eric’s wishes … down to the last hors d’oeuvre.
Sometimes I believe that a deceased person’s spirit hangs around until after the funeral. I’d like to believe that Eric was there watching and enjoying how much he was loved at his final earthly gathering. I’d like to believe that … yeah.
For what it’s worth, this post is me working things out about our friend Eric. Everything about his death and his celebration of life is bittersweet. I didn’t go up to view Eric, even though he had planned for that too. He was, in fact, buried in his Jedi robe with his light saber. He died the way he lived, bravely and with the most amazing wit.
I’m jumbled with grief today, so I’ll end this ramble. Thank you, Eric for all you’ve given to your students, us, and to our grandson who adored you – ever since he was three years old (he’s sixteen now).
Rest in marvelous peace and may all your Marvel dreams come true.
The world would be silent, but “American Pie” is playing on my phone and I’m grateful for the noise. I’m listening as Don McLean sings about the spirit of my generation. I think about how Lennon read a book on Marx and how when someone is in a position of power, she can change the course of history for good or for evil – through the imposition or compulsory laws spreading her philosophies: You must believe this way, because it is the only way.
And kingdoms since time immemorial have been force fed someone else’s dogma, and it spreads, and it conquers and divides. But here I go again, rationalizing away my current deep grief for the loss of a dear and wonderful friend, Eric Esperon, a remarkable man and career teacher who touched generations of lives. My heart is broken, but Don McLean and Paul Simon are comforting my tender heart.
Isn’t that how we first begin to grieve, we distance ourselves from the full impact through rationalizations? Isn’t thinking less painful than feeling? I’ve always found it to be so. I have shed some tears, but I’m still in shock that Eric has, like my son, parents, your loved ones, been plucked out of the universe and I will not see him again in this life. I cannot laugh with him, be touched by his kindness, admire the relationships he had with his students and friends, or buy him a Shirley Temple. He had just turned fifty-one.
Once you’re heart can handle the full impact of the loss, you’ll catch yourself clutching your chest overwhelmed by emotion – hold tight. If you’re in a safe space with people who can handle your pain, or even if you’re alone, give in to it. Feel it. Immerse yourself in it. Sob. Please don’t attempt to get behind the wheel of your car if you’re in an emotional overload. Sit it out. Call someone to come get you. Breathe. Pray. Those first overwhelms are absolutely terrifying. Acute grief is a physical response, I would argue. I felt/feel it deep in my chest, where my heart is. I can touch where the ache is. I feel it now.
Eric was a dear friend of our family, as a matter of fact, we consider Eric family. He’s always been there when we needed him; he was always there for everyone. His students are bereft and the entire community is too. He was well-loved because he was so loving. One loss has the potential to resurrect old wounds from your previous losses of loved ones. I carry grief – chronically, since I lost my son. I’ve learned to move forward and continue to live a life of quality, without my son in the universe; it’s a different one without him.
One day, the world will adjust without me, and as I begin a new grief process for a dear friend, I’m mindful of how Eric would want us to live, just as he did, with joy, gusto, tremendous play and compassion for all living things. I will take some time to cry with all who loved him at the celebration of life. Rationalization: the funeral/celebration of life is an opportunity to grieve communally with others who loved your loved one. There is no greater way to heal than communally. Accept the hugs. Weep openly. Speak the truth of your emotion. Share with those who also want to share their heartbreak. We will need each other in the coming days as we help Eric’s family set his Spirit free.
Community is so important in grief. Certainly, there are times when you must just lock yourself in a room with pillows to punch or scream into, or just to curl up in the fetal position and sob – just you and your loved one’s memory. Grief will touch everyone in her lifetime; it’s good to know that your feelings are valid, important, and temporary. Intensity in the beginning is because our minds have just been totally fucked with. Boom! One minute you’re living, loving, and laughing with someone, and the next, you get the call. I’m still reeling over Eric’s death, and we all knew he was very sick and that it was terminal. Still … are any of us ever truly prepared to lose someone, even when death is imminent?
From experience I have to say no, we are not prepared. My son was dying in front of my eyes because he was sick from his heart, addiction, and the kind of brokenness that took him from us, but when he died, and I really did know he was going to die, I was lost for four and a half years while I bucked away from acceptance that he was gone. Fighting the inevitable tidal wave of grief is futile, and it is exhausting. I had residual grief from other losses I had not worked through. This is an important rationalization: if we don’t work through shit, it keeps presenting itself. There is something I would call complex grief, which I would say complex grief occurs when unresolved grief is compounded with current grief. One is at critical mass when one first discovers she has lost a loved one.
I’m still numb about Eric, but because I’ve worked for nine and a half years to get to the other side of chronic emotional pain from losing my son, I can talk myself through the tears, share my grief, my loss, my broken heart with others who need the same release because they loved him too.
The jury is still out for me about what happens after we die. But if there is a heaven, I know it’s filthy with people we all love, and even those we didn’t. Today I have to console myself with music, words, because it’s not time for the dam to burst yet. I need rationalization to help me land safely into a field of sunflowers where I might weep for my friend.
Eric, as a friend, and as a human being, was as dependable as the sunrise.
I’m not quite ready to watch his sunset yet. Eric was a ghosthunter, and I think he will stick around ‘til after the celebration of life just to watch us all together, like he always did; he always brought people together. Yes, I will rationalize until I can’t hold the tears back any longer.
Rationalizations are so much better than runny noses.
There’s too much racket – here. The swamp cooler whirs. The cats meow their grand entrance on the scene, and the goddamned crows caw, interrupting my reverie.
It’s just too damn loud this morning,
In my head.
Sometimes I need the noise; it drowns out the screams of a grieving mother, not unlike the monkey my son carried on his own broken back; it’s chronic. He was tired. I’m tired. I’m always tired, and yet, the benefits of bipolar disorder, for me, are manias. I can go until I collapse into bed, sleep four hours, and get up and do it all over again. Manias are what fuel the success of my healing process.
I’ve been missing Rikki in the worst way, and I mean that, in the worst way. I miss him all the time, for sure, but there are times when I’m idle and so many memories come flooding into my spastic brain, so that I need to fill it with loud music and a meaningless beat to save me from a meltdown. I know I need meltdowns from time to time, and I allow for them, just like I allow for meals and bathroom breaks. I really don’t mean that flippantly; meltdowns, after a while, can fit neatly into chaotic life and work schedules.
In between meltdowns…I’ll take the noise.
This morning, I thought I’d cry for a while, but despite the sadness I carry with me all the time, I’m unable to cry. I’m not frustrated; tears can be anticlimactic, too. There’s an acceptance to noise when I finally have the time to actively mourn the loss of my son. There’s an acceptance that Rikki is not physically present, and on this noisy morning, I’m going to let it be okay.
I don’t feel stuck. I’m moving forward with the Ph.D. program. I’m in a stable and happy marriage. I have amazing friends and a family of choice. I have a great deal to keep me busy, and while it’s been a marvelous two months off, it’s time to hop back on the academic fast-track again. If I’m idle for too long, it is the silence that breaks me.
I walk in my life every day with Rikki beside me in some way, shape, or form. I used to think it was just the desperation of a grieving parent that made me think Rikki was all around me, but after nine and a half years of his physical absence, I’ve discovered that his Spirit, his Essence, the part of us that is forever mingled, umbilicus and soul, are ever-present. I wish I could explain it, but as Horatio found out, there are more marvelous things in this universe which we will never be able to explain, and yet, we “feel” them deep in our core, so deep in our core that it feels physical.
This morning, I wanted to commune with that Spirit that connects me forever to my son, and the cats wanted to be fed. The crows were squawking good morning before I’d had my coffee. I generally listen to music at four a.m. before anyone else is up, the cats, my husband, the crows. A neighbor has chickens that sound off at one a.m., two a.m., three a.m. –. They are confused about what time they are to rise and shine. I get it.
I speak to my son every day, not in a way that would make someone question my sanity, but in a way that keeps me connected to him. I believe if you knew someone really well in his lifetime, that you can anticipate what he would say to you about a situation you might find yourself in. I can hear Rikki saying, “Mom, um, not one of your better choices.” I had a friend who turned me on to the Akashic Records. I sat in a chair and called upon the Spirit of my son, and I had a conversation with him, and I was able to make amends to him, posthumously.
I’m feeling some resistance to tapping into the truest and deepest grief available to me today. The sun is shining. I’m feeling great. The irritation about the noise has dissipated, and I’m looking forward to a day of joy and gratitude with my husband. Rikki will accompany me in the music I’ll listen to as the music of consensus reality settles into background music…the leitmotif of busyness. I’ll take it.
My nocturnal felines have returned to slumber, satiated and spoiled. The crows have begun their scavenging. My husband is still sleeping, and in the silence is percolating the ingredients for a good day. My meltdown will have to wait for another day, another trigger, another reason to be expressed.
I love the carnival at night…the lights, the music, the distraction from reality. My reality is that I lost a child. I needed reality this morning – and I got the carnies beckoning me toward the carousel. A nice ride of homeostasis. Today is shaping into a nice day, pleasant temperature, with low emotional intensity.
Music is an emotional emetic. If I need to weep, I know what I need to do, what I need to listen to, and so, I steer clear of certain songs when I’m not willing to go there emotionally. Again, we get to a point in the grief process when we can schedule meltdowns. Triggers will always present themselves, and we never know when or what, but after a few years, we can even manage triggers.
I know, for example, to keep this light, my son loved those giant deli pickles. I haven’t eaten one since before he died. I see them and I want to weep because they brought him such joy. I can now walk past them in the deli without the experience creating a visceral reaction, but I still feel a strong tug.
Today is not the day to weep; my thoughts affect my olfactory memory, and it’s summertime, and I long to be at the beach, smelling the salt air and Coppertone, and remembering all the years my son and I walked on the pier and how he always had to buy a giant pickle, and how much joy those walks brought to us. See, I’m feeling the tug even as I type this.
I’m alone in silence now. I have things to do today. I think I’ll put on some music, happy music, dance music, and remember a time when Rikki and I danced in our kitchen together, and I’ll choose to smile instead of cry.
I like days when the mask is not required. No Joker’s smile. No laugh, clown, laugh – despite the depth of the pain I carry
daily.
I feel it through the liquor and through the laughter, and when I’m not required to be on display, the wounded warrior, the purple hearted mother…is surviving the war,
barely.
My smile is not necessary today. It’s not. I work hard to not brood, to not ruminate, to busy myself with silly tasks of no importance,
fidgeting.
He is bothering me while I try to write these thoughts, reeling me back to this present moment, the one where you are here only theoretically,
ephemerally.
There is a benefit to this moment in which I am stuck in time. You, by whatever phenomena, reach me still, in each present moment I stay in remembrance of you, of
us.
Today, tears are allowed to flow freely. There is no danger of smear, evidence that there has been a meltdown, a loss of function, even if only briefly. I’m not really alone. My safety net is in the next room, my
sentinel.
The wind is blowing through the trees and it is fire season. Last night there were fireworks downtown, and I nearly walked down the street to participate in
This group has been my baby for nine years. Nine and a half years ago I lost my beautiful and tortured son. I look back at the wrecked person I was then. I remember not being able to get up off the couch. I didn’t have to return to work right away, and for four years, I stagnated, curled up in the fetal position on many days and nights. I dropped out of my bachelor’s program and was afraid to move because I was melting down every time I turned around – something reminded me of Rikki and I had no emotional resources to help me pull myself out of the mire of grief.
I’ve moved far from that woman, but I’m grateful for her too. The person I am today is because the broken me allowed for the pain, deep and hard hitting. She carried it for me, even though I made her carry it for far too long. I know I’ll always grieve the loss of Rikki. Make no mistake; I know this. Grief is for life.
Because I was able to take the time to truly mourn my son, I’ve been able to truly pick myself up by the bootstraps and progress to the next level of grief: healing. Some of us are quick healers and some of us need four years. Wherever you are in your process, let it happen. If you’re hurting yourself to numb the pain with alcohol, drugs, get some professional help. There are healthy ways to process your grief.
I want to validate those of you whose losses are VERY recent. It’s important to mourn our losses; they are beyond significant losses. Cry. Scream. Punch a pillow. Meltdown with a trusted person. Take a nap. Go for a walk. Talk to the God/Spiritual Source of your understanding. All of those are okay…for as long as you need to. We each know, because we’ve lost the most special person in our life, how very quickly life passes.
Rikki was only 32 years old. I’m 63. My son has been gone nine and a half years. I took my time mourning – because I had the time to experience and express the many faces of grief, including alcohol. I’m glad I got my shit together because I have our grandson, Louie. He doesn’t need to see another person who struggles with addiction.
I forget sometimes how long it’s been since Rikki died – and every so often it hits me square in the face…and I meltdown – even all these years later. I know we have parents and grandparents and aunts who raised their nieces and nephews, whose children died decades ago who still have meltdowns. One never knows when something will elicit a trigger that may have us weeping for an entire day. I know. I get it now.
When Rikki first died, I begged an illusory god I’d been taught to believe in, to bring my son back like the legendary Lazarus in the Christian Bible. I screamed that Rikki might wake up and come back to me. We’re allowed unrealities in deep grief. I remember saying I would never accept Rikki’s death, and I held on so tightly to the suffering that my fingers bled. I prayed so hard for something impossible because I would have given my soul to bring my son back.
I finally did/do accept my son’s death. As much as it hurts, I know in my entire spirit that Rikki is gone and he is not going to come back. I’m one who desperately holds on to hope for an afterlife. I miss Rikki so much it really aches sometimes, but so I could move forward with my life, I have to accept that Rikki is gone and there is nothing I can do about it, not even selling my soul. I can’t tell you how many times I’ve read this online…the desperation of parents to the point they say things that are unrealistic. All of that is understandable if you’ve lost a child –. One of my professors told me that I had incurred the worst loss imaginable. I was taught to be humble, but in retrospect, parents who’ve lost a child(ren) will never “get over it”. I haven’t. I’ve accepted that Rikki is dead. As much as that reopens a wound that is still very tender, I’ve accepted that that wound will never heal completely.
So…as time goes on, acceptance becomes necessary to move forward. Some of us are able to heal enough to turn our pain into purpose, perhaps helping others who’ve incurred the same loss we have. I know that this page and all of you have only helped me to heal – even as I reach out to help each of you. There will always be a giant hole in the fabric of our family life. I love that some people put a plate out for their child(ren) at holiday functions. I tried it once and wept through the entire holiday curled up in the fetal position in the dark. My poor family didn’t know what to do. I realized after four years that I was the only one who could uncurl myself – body, mind, and soul – and rise up like Lazarus.
See, I couldn’t raise my son up with an incantation … but I would rise up and claim a life that still matters – to myself and others, people I love and strangers we meet who need a little love and compassion.
I say this often, the fast track to healing is to help someone else; this has been my solution, one that hurled me out of a four year depression. Not everyone will do the things the way I’ve done them; and that’s terrific. I hope four years won’t pass by before you’re able to claim a life that still offers joy with and for your loved ones – and that you allow that for yourself. I didn’t. My loved ones who truly loved me waited for me to come back to them and were there waiting for me when I came back to myself, forever changed, but still loved. I pray you have friends/family who love you like that; it matters.
After Rikki died, I must have had four or five cremation jewelry items with Rikki’s ashes. I needed to feel him in a tangible way. I wasn’t ready to let go of him yet, and irrationally I thought by having several amulets/rings that I could wear his ashes, he was with me. I had an HR manager tell me that beyond “trinkets” is their true spirit and that requires nothing but our willingness to commune with our children…even though it will really hurt sometimes. Sometimes, though, talking with our children yields good memories, laughs, and the ability to make amends – even if posthumously.
I really want you to know that even though there will always remain pieces of the old me, they helped me to survive a complicated and challenging childhood, I’m no longer the same person I was before Rikki died. I’m far more present in my life now. I know how to take a minute to pull myself together when the time to lose it is inappropriate. Trust me, I ran out of the grocery store weeping when I ran across my son’s favorite pickles. I also know now how to lose it when I have the time…and sometimes I cry alone (preferable) and sometimes I allow my husband to hold me (if it’s really bad – and my tears turn into convulsive sobs). I still have those days and nights and sometimes afternoons. Now that I’m finished with seminary, I have a lot of time to ruminate, and so I’m looking for things to occupy my time. I’ve started writing a book. I want to spend more time at AFTER THE STORM and be present in ways that I didn’t have the space – in my head or in calendar – during seminary. I hope it’s okay if I do a lot of writing about grief and post it.
Many of you are veterans here – I hope you know how much you’ve saved me when NO ONE else understood. I can bleed on this page – and – I can share my accomplishments through the grief process. Trust me, I don’t even know how I did it. Part of it was I had something to pour my heart into, and I loved what I was learning and the internship. I found purpose for my pain and as you all know, the pain is so intense that it’s physical. I started to let my son go to wherever he will be totally whole and free from the pains of this world. I want to see him again, and who knows, maybe I will.
Please forgive my long-windedness. I needed to share my heart about how awesome our members are, and to encourage our parents/grandparents who’ve had a recent and devastating loss to work hard through your grief process. I know the word “process” sounds so detached, but that’s what we navigate through, and it is a process. I know a lot of metaphors as a writer, but truly, is there a way to get our point across about the kind of pain we’re in with someone who has not had the same loss?
I do my own form of prayer/meditation for each of us here. I wish you each a day when there is a time for healing.
Multitasking business woman working in the workplace
I’m having a tough time today. Grief is unpredictable. I’ve been on the fast track for four years. I have leisure time I haven’t had in FOUR YEARS. I’ve been reading, visiting with cherished loved ones, writing, living, loving, laughing – and today, the world returns to my normal, another second, minute, hour, day without my Rikki.
I wept this morning as I remembered recounting to my friend over the weekend about the day he died. I don’t allow myself convulsive sobs anymore, but today, yes, I had them. I allowed them. I have time for them.
I made time for them.
I stopped with my dear friend just as the lump began to rise in my throat and I needed to clear my voice so I could maintain my composure. I was successful. I pulled myself together and waited until I could weep unapologetically, and without having to take care of someone else. I was the confidante for both my parents. I’m done with that kind of dependence on me.
I’m fortunate that I found my sense of empathy after Rikki died. I mean, I always had some, but since his death, it has only grown keener and more present. I want to impress upon each of you, as I navigate my own rough day, to keep busy after your meltdowns. Certainly, weep when the time calls for it, when the overflow is imminent. Life is fleeting and we know this because of the lives we’ve already lost, young and old.
I used to spend months in that space of despair and suffering. I work hard to stay in the present moment, clouds or sunshine, and I’ve learned to navigate both kinds of days. I’m at the one-month mark since I finished my time in seminary. I’m enjoying my time. I used to beat myself up because I now have wonderful days. I don’t know why it hurt so much at the end of an awesome day…but…it did.
I’ve said many times that every single experience since my son died is bittersweet. I’m fortunate to have amazing days, long stretches of smooth sailing, and an occasional slump, but all those experiences I now experience without my son. There’s a tremendous amount of sadness – hopelessness even, not perpetually hopeless, but the kind of hopelessness that is truly hopeless. My son is gone; he will never return.
How does one handle those facts? You do. You just do. Nine and a half years ago has passed since my son died. Jesus Christ! It’s almost ten years since the last day I saw my son. I try not to sit and ruminate about that day, that evening, and the four and a half years I was in complex grief. I mean, grief is a natural outgrowth of loss, of having someone yanked from your reality; it takes time to adjust to the absence, to normalize the loss; it can be done.
I am coming to the close of a much needed break. I know this because ruminating about past events that hurt me is too easily done these days. I’m not busy anymore. I need to grieve, but I need to not stay there. How many of you do better with your grief if you’re maxed out, or even just busy enough to take your mind off the loss of your loved one for a little while? What do you fill your time up with? How is it possible that we can ache to the depths of our core and still function? Those of us who have found his/her/their footing again after the death of your loved one, know that keeping busy is a solution to hurtful rumination and extended suffering. Certainly, we’ll suffer when we lose someone – and there are too many variables to list why we grieve in gradations according to our emotional health, but … we grow away from chronic, acute, and complicated grief when we work the grief process, when we’re willing to take a hard look at the shittiness of the loss, and the deep visceral emotions that accompany when we’re able to see the truth of our loss without doubling over in pain.
I’m going to get busy again because it saves my life every time I find purpose and meaning despite my greatest loss. I just turned sixty-three and I’m feeling the tug because my son wasn’t here to celebrate with me and our amazing friends and family.
I have things to attend to, but not too many. I still have time to allow myself to miss my son, to weep, to laugh over memories, to remember how much I love him. Ooomph, that hurts.
I wrote poetry this morning. I wrote a missive for my personal Facebook page in which I thanked all the people in my life for being so amazing and for gracing my life with theirs.
When I’m down, I lift myself back up by remembering to be grateful for the things that currently bless my life. I actually do have too many to list. I’m very lucky.
Grief to Gratitude 