Tag Archives: family

Stress Relief Lotion

12 Jul

I am tired of my sorrow.  Aren’t you, the reader, ready for me to move on from it?  The question is neither rhetorical nor literal.  The question is shameful.  Shameful, how is that?  The question implies that the author (me) considers the reader to be in a state of consideration of the writer.  The very essence of the question is full of the self centered entanglement which is a common secondary condition of a grief-filled state.  In other words, or more plainly written, it is difficult to think outside of oneself, when the one-self is hurting.  The pain inside is ever encompassing of the soul, it clouds the view of the outside and angles the lens toward the infliction.  The last time I wrote a blog post was May 27, 2014 and I haven’t wanted to hear my inner voice since then–I still don’t, though at this moment I am having a hard time ignoring it.

Quite frankly, I am exhausted.  I am struggling as result of jet-lag, returned this week from a foreign land, and the time difference has my sleep cycle completely turned around.  Consequently, I’m tired and my defenses are down.  In this past month and a half I have thought of writing.  I thought of a blog post when I went into one of our kitchen cabinets to put something away and found the 1950’s rocket-shaped ice crusher we bought for our son when he was a teenager.  We have one ourselves and he grew up loving it.  At about the age of 15 (or so) he announced his desire to have one for himself for his future home/life.  So my husband and I kept a lookout for one for him every time we would pop into an antique shop.  We did eventually find an exact copy, though the color scheme was different from our black and white model, as was customary in the 1950’s.  His rocket-ship, ice crusher is iconic robin’s-egg blue, translucent style.

1950's ice crusher

Crushing ice, space aged style.

I pulled the saved item from the cupboard and showed it quizzically to my husband.  Thankfully, my ever loving spouse has learned to read my mind and he gave me an answer without having to hear the auditory version of the question.  What do we do with this now, this additional reminder of our hopes and dreams lost?  Well without conversing on the matter, we both decided it was more hurtful to have it saved away for the day that would now never come, so Brian removed our black and white model and in its place, in honor of the son we love still, hangs the robin’s egg blue.  That was a blog post I didn’t feel like writing at the time it happened.  As I sat at the computer to translate my feelings, I couldn’t abandon the thought of how heavy my sorrow is for me, and how I don’t want to continue to share its burden.

Yet here I am sharing.  And why?

I don’t know, and perhaps the answer is as simple as, “I can’t sleep.”  I think, too, I haven’t had the strength yet to offer encouragement to others.  And encouragement for this road of life is what we need most.  Lamenting with me over and over again is brutal–exhausting–stagnating.  And it is the stagnation that keeps me from creating works at the level I inwardly hope to achieve.

And yet, in the suffering is a profound beauty–a blossom–a light.

Today I had such a wave of memories flood over my soul.  Memories of my son’s childhood, memories we shared together.  When memories flood in, their goodness is always overshadowed by the cessation of the hope of tomorrow.  Not my tomorrow directly (though most definitely, indirectly) but by my son’s tomorrow.  True, his tomorrow is infused in a glorious, peaceful eternity, but it is grief from our (my) loss of which I write, and so we will not confuse the matter by focusing on the heavenly realm–funny how my hope is in Heaven and my faith hinges on me spending my eternity there, but having my loved ones attain it before me is not something to which I favor–the paradoxical side of living.  …sorry, I became distracted.

The beauty within my sorrowful day was that of  the simple gesture of kindness from my husband.  My daughter had a routine doctors appointment today and I was to accompany her.  I announced an hour ahead of the scheduled time that I would meet her there, as I intended to arrive by foot.  Her appointment was with her pediatrician, my son’s pediatrician, the doctor who stood by Cole’s side from his earliest days as an infant to his last days on earth.  I was already emotional, flooded by memories of summers past so what the heck, a trip to the doctor would be no big deal.  And by walking, I would have time to get my emotional self together.  About 5 minutes into my departure I hear a loud noise coming up from behind.  I knew the sound well, a skateboard.  I turned and there was my husband, Brian.  My love who loathes a walk, especially a long walk, especially in the heat of the day; all of which were exactly what he was facing by being by my side.  He reached me and got off his board, took my hand and walked with me as I cried.  You know what?  I haven’t stopped crying all day and now it is after midnight.

Oh to be at a place where I can offer you, the reader, a more positive message.  A message of “go for it” and “be all you can be!”  How I would love to uplift rather than invite you into my sorrow, again and again.  How I would love to selfishly be above it myself.  Above the hurt of loss.  But I am not there yet.  The desire is sparked, to be sure, though the follow through is lagging a bit behind.

 

“Dead art thou! Alack! my child is dead; And with my child my joys are buried.” ~W. Shakespeare, Romeo and Juliet Act IV, sc. V

 

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Pushing Up Daisies

27 May

I have visited my son’s grave twice now in the last 24 hours.  Yesterday Brian, Esther and I decided to drive to Miramar for Memorial Day–it seemed fitting as Cole is buried in the National Cemetery there.  And then again today, by myself on my way home from work.  I was compelled to stop by mostly to see if the flowers we left graveside were still present, after all I pass by the exit twice daily so stopping by is an easy affair.  I can report to you they are, including the floral heart on the grass at the base of his stone, created by his sister from daisy petals she plucked from the bounty.

Yesterday, in honor of Memorial Day, the cemetery was bustling with activity.  They held a service at 1:00p.m. and families were gathered a plenty in all parts.  This evening, however, I was alone.  Alone with the wind and the rows of marble headstones, one of which bears the name and details of my son.

On Sunday I actually did what I had set out to do, according to my last post, which was to “get at it.”  I ventured out and met up with a couple of friends whom I had put off for over a year.  We had a nice visit and took a small walk together around the Newport Beach back bay.  It was a lovely time and I enjoyed it.  But upon my drive home, I caught the view off to the east side of the freeway, of the orange balloon of the Great Park in Irvine.  And memories of my time with our family of 4 came flooding back.  We went together, after Cole’s surgery and when he was well and able enough to manage a slight excursion, to the Great Park and together braved the heights of the hot-air orange balloon.  Seeing the ball suspended as is its custom, and feeling the loneliness which instantly was upon me due to the vacancy of the passenger seat to my right, my longing for my son returned anew and my previous resolve to get a move-on in life, away from my grief, flew out the window and more than likely landed-SPLAT-on the large orange sphere.

So today when alone, alongside the marker on the green, I couldn’t help but want this undeniable truth to go away.  All of me wants to dig him up and out of his silent grave.  Not because I wish him back to a place of continual and constant suffering, but because I miss him.  I miss my son.  And I’m not ready to let go of that just yet.  I still want to live out the fantasy that he will return.  Or the preposterous idea that the reality which I face does not, in fact, belong to me.

Do you know that it is more natural for me to drive in the carpool lane than it is not?  I had the honor of caring for my son the last two years of his life and as result I was always, “two or more.”  I find myself on auto-pilot, engaging my blinker and maneuvering toward the carpool lane entrance until I, at just the last minute, catch myself and pull out.

Yes, I pray daily for strength.  And yes, I have a goal to “get at it” for the sake of others and to honor, in my living, my Heavenly Father as well as my son.  But for right now I’m just not ready.  I am not assimilated to this new reality, more time is required apparently.  Now I can tell you that The Bent 3 are ever committed to living life without being ruled by fear.  And I can also tell you that this is no easy task.  Especially after a difficult loss.  For it is common place to want to cling tighter to those around you, fearful of loosing even more of that which you hold dear.  But we know too well, if we give fear even an inch, it will take over, and a paralyzed and ineffective life is what remains from its admittance.  So we press on, even as fear attempts to coerce our attentions, we press on.  And I assure you, I am pressing on.  But…

There is no timeline in grief.  Yes, I would like it to magically be one year.  And yes, the first year is most difficult because every celebration and/or significant date on the calendar reminds of memories past which previously were shared with the loved one lost.  And yes, as the second year comes around there are different memories to focus on.  But to think and to strive to adhere to the one year rule is not realistic.  Not today; though on Sunday a glimpse of progress shone through.

Blue dyed daisy petals, shaped into a heart, lie at the base of a headstone…there is no getting over it.

 

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The Fringes

11 May

Today is the day set aside to recognize motherhood.  Mother’s Day, as it is so named.  As a mother in mourning I think most of my loved ones expected this day to be a hard one for me.  As it turns out, it is no more difficult than the everyday I make it through my sorrow and move onto the next.  As it turns out this day is most difficult for my daughter, the sister to my fallen son.  This is the day the two of them, TOGETHER, would plan and execute the details of ensuring I was without doubt of their devotion and honor.  I must say, they were quite good at it…my daughter still is.

But if the sorrow has hit anyone more than the other, today is her day.  Her brother, her partner in all things familial is missing from her equation and, for her, there is no way to avoid his absence this day.

For me–no matter where my children are I am still a mother.  Whether I can be with them or not, on this particular day, I am still a mother.  And in being a mother, my society honors me–just look at all the store sales happening this weekend in honor of this day.  Granted, being showered with blessings from my own children is not comparable on the same scale as saving a few bucks–it trumps the monetary gain tremendously!  But point being, there are no guarantees of being with ones children on this particular day and yet as a mother I still have opportunity to be acknowledged.  Not so for the sister, left hanging out on the fringes because the obvious position of the mourning mother obfuscates the internal bleeding of the sibling.  Of course I am receiving text messages, emails and calls reflecting supportive thoughts for me on this day, but she is not.

And now she is left to navigate the sentimentality of maternal love while being barraged with sorrow.  Her quandary’s resemble something like this:  Does she show her mother her angst and risk causing burden to her on what she is accustomed to believing is a “special day for her mom?”  How is she to push through the vacancy left by her dearly departed when this day keeps shoving her loss in every step of her path?

To add insult to injury, the death of our beloved Cole will make it’s first anniversary mark this coming week.  May 17, 2013 we received the dreaded news.

Today my husband is somewhat on the fringes as well.  He has lost his mom a few years ago and his grandmother shortly afterward, both of whom were two of his biggest fans.  He is quite without a large portion of his extended family, and yet today he is supposed to do two things, honor his own mother and honor his wife, the mother of his children.  Now he, too, is stuck with a day that serves as a great reminder to the many losses he is suffering.

My sister, Auntie to my children, is also the overlooked mourner.  The sufferer on the fringe who sits in the shadow of her sisters pain.

This is a tough day, to be sure.  But today, as a mother, I honor those who are not privileged to have a day which recognizes them in the manner that Mother’s Day recognizes me–in my mothering and in my loss.  My heart goes out to you, the sister, the aunt, the grandmother, the friend, the husband–my soul loves you.

Today, with this post, I honor Esther Bent, Brian Bent and Leah Smith–

Happy Mother’s Day!

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