Walk with me

Yoga today at my favorite local studio in Walnut Creek.  Not a flashy, multiplex yoga chain.  Not the overused, stinky-carpeted, crowded vault in a pricey health club. This simple studio is true to the core values of Yoga.  Small, clean and un-crowded. Peaceful.  Joyous. The mid-day Yin class focuses on stretching into a pose and holding it for minutes at a time.  Paying attention to breathing.  Eyes closed.  Another place.

We begin with breathing.  Seeping into my remembered consciousness drifts the calm voice of Norman Elizondo, the family wellness counselor at Open Sky Wilderness.  He used these same words when teaching us how about breathing-as-grounding at the family wellness weekend.  With looks like a Monk, the charisma of a successful CEO, his smile warms to the core the moment your eyes connect.  One of the best people I have ever met.

Norman and John on graduation day

One last hug before we go

Back into my own body in this place in this moment, the instructor chooses poses that my body has needed, releasing accumulated tension and soreness.  The studio is warm, almost too warm.  The soft wood floor feels alive under my body.  A gentle breeze floats through the open glass doors.  Three freeways intersect above, and the incongruous hum of traffic sounds more like a distant roar of the ocean and takes me to a far off place.

Norman’s visit to my consciousness makes me think of John doing Yoga in the Colorado wilderness.  A required daily ritual.   John was inflexible and participated begrudgingly.   John…..

John’s group. Daily yoga practice. Breathtaking setting.

Inflexible, reluctant John

I’m lying on my back, arms reaching flat on the floor, straight out, like I’m on the cross. Hips elevated on a bolster, feet flexed, legs together straight up in the air, defying gravity, illogically comfortable, blood draining toward my heart.  My eyes are closed but I hear the instructor light some incense.  I smell the high desert of southern Colorado as she says, “Sage.  It releases the old.  Welcomes the new.”  My thoughts float up and they mix with the smoky sage scent of the incense.

Sage. I’m in Colorado again.  Back in the Colorado wilderness with John.  Back this time for graduation day.  John has been there for 10 weeks, for 70 days.

Norman is also in charge of graduation weekend, a three day event that starts with parents meeting in Durango for a day of preparation, connecting, instruction, mindfulness, breathing, yoga.  Day two begins with a two hour drive to our kids, recently relocated from their summer location in Colorado’s San Juan Mountains to the winter wilderness in the middle of nowhere around Four Corners.

We would meet our kids with ceremonial protocol, hiking out to them along the last segment of the trail in a “trust walk”.  Falling in line behind Norman we grab the shoulder of the person ahead forming a one armed conga-line.  Silent, eyes closed, feet shuffling along an uneven dirt roadway.  We scuffle forward slowly. Senses sharp, I listen for our children with great intensity. Is that the sound of a drum in the distance? No. Up a trail, our awkward, oversized, 20 person human centipede is challenged by the shifting terrain. Focusing acutely on all senses, not too long before Norman says, “Stop. Keep your eyes closed and drop your hands to your sides”. Senses aching now. Stretched even more than I thought possible.  Were they close?  I tried to smell them, to feel the air shift, to somehow feel their closeness.   Then, “Take a quarter turn to your left, and keep your eyes closed”. We stood for an eternity in silence; perhaps a minute or so.  Then he said, “Open your eyes”. The mesa spread out before us, an infinite desert landscape.  Perched at the spot where the geography sloped away, our children were far, far off in the distance, shoulder-to-shoulder facing us. A mirage.  I was already taking steps in their direction when Norman released us, “Go to them”.  Squinting. Darkened silhouettes against purple buttes and a red horizon.  John, identifiable by his broad-shouldered physique, his head tilt and gait. I walked as fast as I could, but my legs were weighted and uncooperative.  Protocol and composure absent.  Primal instinct seized me. I had to get to him and I broke into a run.  Reaching his embrace, he felt enormous, larger than life.  Snuggling into his bear hug, I took in his smell of herbs and smoke and fresh air and earth. He smelled like sage.  He looked down at my tear stained face and smiled broadlyand chuckled,  “Hi Mom. You ran!”

The yoga instructor chants.  Her voice is high and sweet.  I’m drawn back. Back to this moment as we settle into shavasana, the last pose of yoga practice.  Before we drift into our last meditation she says,

“Sometimes you find yourself in the middle of nowhere. Sometimes in the middle of nowhere you find yourself.”

I hear Norman’s voice again. He’s telling me to breathe.  Breathe deeply into the emotion and let it happen.  Tears well up and out and down my face.  I breathe.  The tears keep flowing and I breathe again.  I breathe deeper and suddenly I’m lost in my breath.  I float up and out somewhere into the sparkling darkness under my closed eyelids.  I float into tranquility.

One last time the instructors gentle voice calls us back to our bodies, back to the soft wooden floor of the yoga studio in Walnut Creek.

Namaste.  We sit, we bow, we stand, we disperse.  I walk into the warm afternoon sunshine holding myself tall and at peace.

Trampled By Turtles is the name of a bluegrass band.  I tried very hard to find out how they came up with that name.  I finally found a quote from their banjo player Dave Carrol who reluctantly offered, “We were trying to avoid at all costs, a name that sounded like a bluegrass band. Trampled By Turtles sounds like an unlikely and slow accident.”

John’s most recent musical passion was for bluegrass.  He even expressed an interest in learning to play the banjo, which resulted in his acquiring my stepmother’s old banjo.  It sits in his room, still waiting to be re-strung and refurbished.  Another ghostly reminder of what could have, should have, might have been.

A day and a half after John died, we were in Boulder and had to start thinking about a memorial. Should there be music? What music?  Matt and John connected over music, and Matt’s familiarity with John’s playlists made him the go-to decision maker.  As we sat on the patio of our rented cottage, Matt scrolled through music, considering, thinking, remembering.  “This would be good.” he said as he clicked on “Alone” by Trampled by Turtles.  Hearing only a few lyrics/stanzas of the music, I agreed with Matt.  It was the right choice.

We asked Kenzie Tillitt if she could learn the songs, and she did. Almost overnight.  On the day of the memorial she performed them beautifully, etching a soundtrack into our incomprehensible experience.  At the close of the memorial service, we all sang the chorus  as she performed “Alone”.

When I saw that Trampled by Turtles was playing at the three day Winter WonderGrass Music Festival in Squaw Valley (coincidentally our home away from home), I knew we had to go.  It became a journey to be with John. A pilgrimage.  Other friends wanted to come too.  It became a celebration.  Kenzie’s parents, bought a single-day ticket for Saturday. They happened to pick the day that Trampled by Turtles would play.  But they picked that day before the schedule was announced.  An awareness crept in. An increasing number of coincidences were falling into place.

Then, another surprise.   Kenzie was supposed to be spending the next week, her Spring Break, in Spain playing soccer with her CU team.  Suddenly she was attending the concert with her parents, with us.

Attending a three day music festival felt like entering John’s world, his life, his loves.  I kept seeing him in the crowd.  Laughing with friends.  Tasting beer in the beer garden.  Dancing a little.  Striking up a conversation with the person standing shoulder to shoulder with him. Being overly enthusiastic about the smaller, newer bands getting their first starts in the side tents while the main stage was being re-set.  I could picture his excitement that Fireside Pizza and Moe’s Barbeque were providing the food.  His absolute favorites. (a coincidence?)

I wanted to be as close to the stage as possible when Trampled by Turtles played.  We began to edge forward to establish our “territory” when the set-up bands were playing.

First up, California Honeydrops, reigning from my hometown, Oakland.  (another coincidence?) We had never heard of them, but loved their soul/funk vibe, suggesting the music of MY youth.

The next band, Elephant Revival, hail from Boulder (yes, coincidentally John’s most recent home town).  I wondered if John knew of them.  If he ever heard them play at the Boulder Theater.  I liked them. They were artful and original.  A contemporary expression of bluegrass.  Their use of traditional bluegrass instruments like the washboard, musical saw, and stompbox was a surprise.  Unexpected and joyful.

I discovered this on their webpage:

“Where words fail…music speaks. Music unites us in ways that no other medium can. Even when we don’t understand one another’s languages – we can be moved by a rhythm, soothed by a song”

Finally it was time for Trampled by Turtles.  The crowd had reached its maximum capacity and was pressing down on us, edging us toward the front of the stage.  Winter’s crisp night air prickled and sharpened my senses.  Intensifing my anticipation.  With a huge roar from the crowd they were suddenly on stage and playing.  The space between us filled with the music that had come to symbolize John and my loss of him.  A loss resulting from an unlikely and slow accident. It broke me.  I wept continually throughout the performance.  I wept and smiled and laughed and sang and danced and clung to Paul and hugged my friends and felt John more strongly than I have felt him any time since his death. 

Our group made it onto the website as one of the “official” photos of the festival. (see red circle)

They finished their night with “Alone”.  I knew it was going to be the next song before they began to play.  I knew it with a certainty that John had whispered it into my ear.  In the quiet pause of anticipation, I reached out for Kenzie and with arms linked, our group sang and cried and remembered together.  The soundtrack of our loss.  Remembered forever, together. Thank you John, for the incredible, magical experience.

We started to see a grief counselor. When we settled into her office the first time, she opened by stating, “Grief is a marathon. It’s not a sprint. In most cases it’s an ultra-marathon that could last for 30 years. Don’t expect to race through it. You can’t.”

My world is grey. January grey. Winter grey. A foggy artistic black and white photograph. Leafless trees covered in snow fading into a soft mist. I miss John so much it hurts. There is a stone in my stomach. I’m not hungry. I’m disinterested in food. I’m disinterested in anything pleasurable. I want to pour myself a cocktail at three in the afternoon, knowing that it will dull my pain. I want to be alone. The tears flow freely and frequently. I self-diagnose my condition. I am depressed. My marathon route is currently coursing up a very steep hill, or a cold dark forest, or both.

Joan Didion said it beautifully and succinctly:
“A single person is missing for you and the whole world is empty”

Friends are worried. There is visible relief on their faces when I say, “We are seeing a grief counselor.” They want me to be fixed. They don’t want to me to be depressed, to hurt.

“What will cheer you up?” I’m asked.

Time. Time will fix it.

I intellectualize that the marathon route is particularly challenging right now. I have to keep jogging down the trail to get to the next section. The part where the view gets better and I can look back and see how far I’ve come.

I want to get over this, through this. I want to be freed from the weight of the grief. I want to be able to experience the remainder of my life without the burden of John’s loss. I want joy more than sorrow. I want John back.

I’m drawn to his music. Some songs remind me of a time he acted as DJ. “Mom, listen to this one! This is a great one!” Every note, each harmony are laced with intense emotion. Some have such poignant lyrics or melodies that I have no choice but to weep.

I look at photos of him. The recent ones particularly catch my attention. I find myself scrolling into him, to his arm. I reach out to touch him and can almost feel his skin. His arm, his shoulders were the last physical contact I had with him. The most recently familiar. Long ago, kisses and snuggles on my lap gave way to hair tussles, punches on the arm, and an occasional gratuitous hug. But in recent years, I still got his arm. A soft touch to his forearm over a sentimental conversation at the dinner table. A gentle pat to his shoulder to add comfort and meaning to my thoughts. Still almost hairless. Youthful beauty so soft to the touch, yet strong. Dense muscles ripple under the surface. The loss is incomprehensible, still unbelievable.

The imagining of my loss is so different from the reality of it. Unexpected is normal. Normal is gone forever. A piece of the chess game that is our family has gone missing and we can’t play the game the same way anymore.
Addendum: This was written in periods over the last two months. I appreciate that I have been able to sit with my depression, feel it, reflect on it, chronicle it. Allowing myself to wallow in my sorrow and respect the grieving process has helped. To those who read this now and worry about me, don’t. Because of this processing and writing, I’m coming out of it. I’m going to be OK. I thank you for your support as we travel life’s journey.

Every second of every day someone is born and someone dies. Every so often you read the exact numbers, but that’s more or less the case.

In the kitchen, I pour my morning coffee as the television newscaster delivers the daily tally. A teenager is shot, an apartment fire kills three, a fatal car accident, another military casualty. Later, in the car, an NPR story drifts into my consciousness from the car radio. It’s punctuated with audio of Middle eastern mothers shrieking over the murder of their children. Every day, in numerous formats, we are assaulted with reminders of death and the pain it inflicts. I had become desensitized to it.

Suddenly with a new perspective, I intimately relate to those numbers, those statistics, those shrieks. Each of those deaths is a son, a brother, a loved one. Lives will be rocked. Parents and siblings and children will be tossed into the whirling disbelief that I am in. Flung into an emotional funnel cloud. Spinning, feelings out of control. Mental function on pause.

I’m driving. I’m lost in thought about John’s death. I am in a sea of cars in a tangle of freeways in a huge metropolitan area. All those people in all those cars. Driving beside me, behind me, ahead of me…who of them is suffering the loss of a loved one?
Who in these cars driving by me is distracted by their thoughts, feeling like I am?

One world, a giant organism, sloughing off cells and generating new ones. Death is a part of life. None of us is immune.

With a world of people suffering loss every day, why does it feel so out-of-the-ordinary? If death is part of life’s experience, why am I so ill equipped to deal with it?

There is a spot in the cranium where the soul enters and leaves the body, or so I was told recently.

35 years ago, long before I knew about the spot in the cranium, I saw my mother’s soul leave her body. About twelve hours before she died she had become uncharacteristically agitated. Cancer had filled her lungs and barely enough oxygen was getting to her brain. She was having difficulty communicating, like a stroke patient. She couldn’t find the right words. But she was insistent, pleading. She mustered a strength that we thought had long gone and she sat up at the edge of her bed. With an imploring glint in her eye she repeated, “I want to go! Get me on the boat! Let’s go!” She chanted the same thing over and over making eye contact with each of us. Then she stopped. She looked down at her hands, neatly folded in her lap, and with a winded, defeated breath turned and lay back in the bed. She closed her eyes and slipped into a coma. We sat with her all night, her breath becoming increasingly labored and infrequent until there wasn’t another. In that one moment, she went from being my mom, the funny, fun loving, beautiful, smart, witty person I loved more than anything, to merely a human form. A skeleton with flesh and skin. A cadaver candidate. What had changed with the last pulse of blood oxygenating her flesh? Nothing but the departure of her soul. I swear I could almost see it floating away. Was it an exhaustion induced specter? I swear that it wasn’t. I saw it and felt it.

So recently, when I heard about this hole in the cranium where the soul enters and leaves, I wondered when John’s soul entered his body? Did his soul enter his body when his body was inside my body? As he wriggled and twisted inside me, his unique personality was evident months before he was born. He was definitely born with a soul. It was there before he took that first breath and cried that first cry. I was there. I saw it and felt it.

With the realization that I had shared a body and a soul with my children, I finally had an accurate description of what motherhood is. We have been a vessel for their body and their soul. They were part of us. They are so much a part of us that we have to work impossibly hard to let them NOT be a part of us. And it’s why it hurts so much when they go.

Many errands to do today. My car is dirty, so before I set out, I decide to wash it. Suddenly, out of nowhere, I want to lie down in the driveway and sob. Another blindside. I’ve been hit with a wall of sorrow. I’m not sure I can do anything but lie down in the fetal position in the driveway. I steady myself physically and emotionally by leaning on the hood of the car and in less than three minutes it passes. I set out, on my way, as though it didn’t happen.

First, the dry cleaner. Anna says, “We think of you every day”. I give her a hug, wipe away a few tears and trundle the massive load to the car.

Then Peet’s. John’s 4th grade teacher is walking out as I’m walking in. Big hug. She indulges me with a 15 minute conversation, balancing her bag of beans as the coffee in a paper cup cools. She says, “I hope today is a better day than yesterday.” She offers, “It’s a mysterious journey.” She shares, “The memorial was powerful. There were cars parked all the way to the bottom of the hill and around the corners.” I wasn’t aware that she had attended. I cry. We laugh. We connect. I leave feeling warm and comforted.

Now to the bank. A nice conversation with Manny. Last time I was there I was teary and shaky. It feels good to complete three transactions with no tears. Just a routine day at the bank.

Across the street to the pet store. Normal interaction with the sales people as they help me select a variety of things. In this setting I’m operating the way I did before I lost John. A mental acknowledgment….check! I’m doing better than I was a few weeks ago.

Jewelry store. Same. Ordinary. No big deal.

Post Office. My neighbor arrives and settles into the line behind me. No mention of John. She had sent a condolence card so I know she knows. I don’t know if she came to the memorial, she doesn’t say. I ask if she is still hiking as frequently, and if I can join her sometime. I text her my number. Still no mention of John. Slightly awkward, a new normal, it didn’t hurt. I barely noticed.

Another bank. I go in to close the account that I opened when John started college in Montana. At the time it was the most seamless way to transfer money into his student account. We haven’t touched it in years. I’ve been meaning to close it. I’m walking by, so why not now? Easy. No hassles. I’m not compelled to explain why I don’t need the account anymore. She doesn’t ask why. I’m surprised at myself. With the oppressive remembering that the account was for John, I’m surprised that I don’t want to curl up in a ball on the floor of the bank. I can function.  I can walk, and I walk out with $452 in my pocket.

Now the book store. I see one slightly familiar face. Maybe she is a Miramonte parent who sat next to me at a back-to-school-night long ago, or just a longtime Orinda resident whose path has crossed mine enough times that she is recognizable. We engage in a conversation about the Anne Frank special that was on PBS last night. We connect and I’m not overcome with a powerful urge to tell her that my son had died 4 months ago. Another marker. I am getting better.

One last errand. The pharmacy. A long wait. With a new year comes new insurance cards, new numbers, new plans and everyone has to be patient while it gets sorted out. A friend, who I met 30+ years ago when I had the Children’s Shop comes in and gets in line behind me. Big hug. We have plenty of time to talk and have a good conversation about her kids, about how we are doing, about everything. It feels normal.

When I get home I take a mental survey of the tasks accomplished and the long list of interactions I’ve just had. It was a lot. But I’m not a wreck. I’m actually feeling pretty good. I’m making progress.

Last day of the year, 2014.  Remembered as the worst year of my life. The entire year is forever tagged as the year of John’s death. Today I can think of no happy days.  RIP JAC 1992-2014.

I still can’t believe he’s not in Colorado.  Too busy, or somehow unable to be in Mexico with us.  I’ve tried to imagine him here with us, at the end of the table with his brother and his friends, but I really can’t. Maybe there is a slight glimmer of him.  Throwing the football on the beach with Casey and Jamie V. Having drinks in the sunset pool with the gang.  Dos per uno, horra feliz. Overindulging at dinner every night.  But he isn’t here.  His ghost isn’t even here. I can’t picture him here.  He must be in Colorado.  Maybe Colorado is his Heaven.  Maybe that is where I will always imagine him.

I picture him in Boulder.  He is riding his bike with Ally running alongside.  He’s getting ready for work or he’s heading to Japango for some sushi.  His tennis shoes are wet because he wore them in the few inches of snow that fell last night.  He was too lazy to look for his boots.

Missing him hurts.  But the pain is something I can feel.  It connects me to him and helps me remember him.  It keeps him here with me.  Forgetting him is worse. No mention of him creates a vacuum where I wonder if he ever existed.  Was his existence a long dream that is already fading? I think of the movie Back to the Future, when, if things were changed in the past, it altered the present and the person effected began to pixelate and gradually disintegrated away.  I don’t want John to pixelate or disintegrate away.

It’s all hard. Recently, there have been gatherings, first encounters, where he hasn’t been mentioned. His loss not acknowledged.  His absence denied.  Well meaning loved ones must somehow assume that no mention of John is protecting me, preventing me from remembering that he is dead.  Cheerful greetings and lively accounts of meaningless events are pushed to the front, creating a cushion, a protective barrier from any mention of him.  The toxic pain of his absence.  No eye contact with my grief.

I appreciate the friends and family who unblinkingly face their discomfort and my pain to ask the intimate and difficult questions. Those who bring him up.  We can discuss the larger life issues of love and loss, beauty and pain, altered futures, changed family structure.  We talk about the ghost in the chair at our table, the empty seat in the car, the unused airplane ticket.  It is a comfort to me to be able to process this with people who love me, who loved John.  Those who are “all in” with me.

I refuse to forget him.  Remember with me. Cry with me.   I would like to believe that is what will get me through.

The horrible months following my mom’s death in 1980 have provided training for this time.

Things I remember from when my mom died:

I remember that after a few weeks, I realized that I had just experienced my first few minutes in an hour where I wasn’t sad, where I wasn’t thinking about how she had just died.  I remember those minutes gradually shifted to hours free from thoughts and sadness and ultimately to days and even months when I didn’t think of her, to a new place where I wasn’t sad.

I remember that the first of everything was so impossibly hard.  The first Thanksgiving, Christmas, her birthday, my birthday, Mothers Day.  Each year they got a tiny bit better.  There were still tough days, like our wedding day.  Marrying Paul without them ever meeting each other.

I’ve had to live with the frustration that I couldn’t adequately describe her to my kids, my friends, to Paul. She will always be just an image in a photo to them.

34 years later, her birthday is still hard.  Mothers day too. But I don’t cry all day in bed.  I might choke up or shed a tear, but mostly I am full of stories of her humor, her wit, her love of animals, her passion, her artistic ability, her beautiful smile, her grace, her classy, sassy personality.  I smile remembering her, grateful for the time we had.  How lucky I was to have her as a mom. How she was my world. Her wisdom remains with me.

I know someday this will be true with John.  I’ve been here before.  My mother taught me.

It’s been a rough few weeks since my last post.  I had so much optimism and bravado about getting out in the world, but it was all optimism and bravado. We went out to dinner with friends to Postino in Lafayette.  That’s it.  End of story.  I still haven’t made it to the grocery store or Peets or the drycleaner.

I’m consumed with the details of John’s Memorial service scheduled for December 21^st.  So much to do.  It’s all I can think about.  My mind is filled with thoughts and ideas about what I will say.  What would be meaningful to say?  How I can actually say it?  How I will survive that day?  Scanning photos and creating slideshows. Coordinating a caterer.  What about music. Is this really how I am spending my days? It is surreal.

We were all supposed to be together today. When we parted in August, we knew we would be together on November 22^nd.  John and Paul and I had flights to Boston.  Our hotel was booked.  We were taking John to visit the East Coast for the very first time. He was going to see Matt’s school, Matt’s fraternity, Boston, New England, my great-grandmother’s grave, my grandmother’s childhood home.  We had plans to walk the Freedom trail and go to Sturbridge Village and eat Italian food in the North End and  lobster in Back Bay.  John was going to hang out with Matt and his friends. We had train reservations for today to New York.  I booked our hotel in New York on May 5^th.  A suite on the upper west side near the Museum of Natural History.  Neither of the boys had ever been to New York. Paul and my visit  last Fall inspired us to share it all with them. The museums, the park, the 9/11 memorial, a show, the High Line, Ellis Island. It would be  better this time because we knew what we were doing.  We would be with them.

Shattered dreams.  Dashed hopes and expectations. Matt is in Laos.  I wonder exactly where.  It’s already Thanksgiving there. He’s eating street food, noodles for $1.50 US.  Happy Thanksgiving Matt! We are here.  Embraced and entertained and supported and distracted by wonderful friends who care for us so dearly. Friends we love.

Matt is having a great adventure.  We are well cared for.  But it’s all wrong.  This is not the plan.  The plan was for us to have children who we cared for and loved and supported and struggled with and cheered for and hugged and kissed and fed organic food and sent to specialists and inoculated and buckled and helmeted and taught to swim and set limits and gave chores to and quizzed on their spelling words and counseled and grounded.  They were going to go college and get jobs and find love and get married and have kids and we would travel together and spend stretches of time at the lake where we would laugh and swim and boat and ski and love all over again.  We did our job.  They were supposed to stay safe.  They were supposed to out-live us.

Our world is rocked.  Our first boy is gone.  Our plans are altered.  We start anew.  A new life with one son and no expectations except to enjoy this moment.  Be in this moment. Survive this moment. Appreciate this moment and see what tomorrow brings.

(humming the Diana Ross tune) I want the world to know that I am coming out of the house.  It’s been seven weeks and if I don’t try soon, I think it will get increasingly, impossibly difficult.  I am going to attempt to resume my normal routine. The grocery store, the dry cleaners, the farmers market, the driving range, coffee, perhaps a sporting event and maybe even dinner or a movie in my own neighborhood. I want to be with my community.  With the people who knew John, the people who love us.

I’m scared. I’m afraid of the unexpected.  I don’t know who I will encounter around any corner.  The uncertainty of who I’ll see and how each of us will react is terrifying.

I know how you feel. You won’t be expecting me.  You won’t know what to do when you see me.  You will feel unsure about what to say. You will feel uncomfortable.  How could anybody be comfortable with this? I have never been comfortable facing another person’s loss. By avoiding the subject, I thought I was protecting them.  I didn’t want to remind them of their loss. I didn’t want to make them feel sad.

We haven’t been trained to deal with this. It doesn’t happen very often. Over the past weeks I have frequently heard, “No one should have to bear the loss of a child. It is out of turn.  It is not the way it’s supposed to be”.  And a friend who knows our pain said, “In our world, death has been relegated to the old.  One feels very alone with the death of a child”.  It’s true.  Before our parent’s generation, children died more frequently than the rest of the population, but that’s not the case anymore.  I get it. It’s every parent’s worst nightmare.  It’s my worst nightmare.  It’s a nightmare that I can’t wake up from.  But loss is not contagious, so please don’t avoid me.  Avoiding me, won’t make it easier the next time you see me.

I’m thinking that some ground rules might be helpful.

1. Please don’t pretend you don’t see me. Don’t be scared to look at me.  If you don’t want to say anything just give me a little wave and a smile, or blow me a kiss, or make your hands in the shape of a heart

.

2. If you have a moment, please talk to me.  If you have a memory of John, or would like to talk about him, please do. Don’t be afraid to cry.  If I cry, it’s OK.  I cry all the time anyway.  I think of him all the time anyway.  Your moment with me will actually make me feel better even if there are tears.

3. If it’s too hard for you to talk, just give me a hug. I will understand simply with your embrace.

4. Don’t ask me how I’m doing because that is too hard to answer.  Suggestions for other things to say are:

“I was just thinking about John earlier…”

“I love you”

“He was loved”

“You all have been in my thoughts and prayers”

“It doesn’t seem possible”

“I’m sorry for your loss”

“I can’t imagine what you are going through”

“I miss him too”

“I wish I knew what to say”

“I don’t know what to say”

“I have no words.”

I am a grieving mom who is scared and hurting. This is uncharted territory for me. I didn’t have a choice about loosing John. I don’t have a choice about being in this abyss of grief.  I understand how difficult it will be to approach me, but I expect that we both will feel a lot better when we part.  We are a community. Share my loss by sharing your sadness with me.

I think it’s time to leave the house. I can’t be afraid to any longer.