Walk with me

Leaving Boulder is emotional. I’ve fallen in love with this town. Our previous visits were short and full of tasks. Assembling IKEA furniture, attending workshops, picking John up to take him to the World Cup Downhill. Only enough extra time for a meal or two. This time, unseasonable weather brought out the best in everything and everyone. We had time to explore the hiking trails, drive through neighborhoods, meet people. I always tried to picture a place where John could live. He wasn’t a big city guy. He wasn’t a beach guy. This town was perfect for him. I could picture him spending his life here.

Driving to the airport Paul alternates between the Cal vs. Colorado football game and the Oakland A’s vs. Texas game on the radio. It’s a nice distraction when I can focus on it, but I can’t. I miss scoring plays. My mind drifts in an out of what could have been. Paul is out-of-it too. Exhausted and emotionally drained. We miss the toll way turnoff and I have trouble explaining how to get back on it. We are not our usual efficient tag-team travel partners.

I look out the window at the other cars. I picture John driving in the little red Honda Fit, Ally the dog riding shotgun. He was very late to the airport on his last visit home, just over a month ago. Any time my kids travel, I picture them en-route to the airport, checking in, boarding, looking out the window at the view, landing. The cruel reality settles in. John won’t be speeding along this road to the airport ever again. He won’t do anything again.

I feel lucky we make it back to the rental car return without incident. “Do not operate large machinery” should be a directive for us. We should not be driving. We are barely functioning.

The shuttle is waiting as we shove the last bits of stuff into our bags that had been rattling around in the car. We are overburdened. The driver is respectfully patient. She offers help, defusing the tension from the other shuttle riders.

Our bags go in the rack. I am carrying the tote containing John’s ashes. It’s heavy. I wonder how heavy. John, at two weeks old heavy? At six weeks old heavy? At three months old heavy? Paul offers to hold it. I can’t let go. I want him near me. My boy is in this box on my lap. How can it be? I’m taking my boy as dust in a box in a bag on an airplane. Precious cargo. I think of a sign hanging in the back of a car. I think of a baby car seat. I think of the care in choosing just the right quilted cover for that newborn car seat. I think of carefully practicing how to buckle it into the back seat of our car 22 years ago. The wave comes. Panic, tears, instability, lightheadedness.

Somehow we arrive at baggage check. We can’t remember what the funeral director told us about flying with human remains. He told us six days ago. It feels like six years ago. There are rules. I try to speak, to tell the agents I have my boy in a box in a bag. But the emotion speaks first. They start to cry. They say, “No, it’s not a concern to the airline, it’s a TSA issue.” The airport is quiet. Apparently Saturday night is a good time to fly out of one of the nations biggest hubs. They finish our check-in in silence. They guide us toward security. The airport echoes with silence.

Still through tears, we pass through the particularly official looking TSA I.D. checker. I watch as my boy in a box in a bag goes through the x-ray. I think of the ultrasound 22+ years ago. “This is your baby’s heart. See all four chambers? His head measures just right for 18 weeks.” Then he rotated and we caught a glimpse of his gender. We were having a boy.

I can’t control the tears any more. I can’t handle any more memories, any more hard things. I can’t do this.

By the time everyone is up and going, we have a tight window to get packed up and out of the house.  Shelby gets up and packs quickly and efficiently.  I am vacuuming dog hair, striping beds.  Paul is tidying up the kitchen, cleaning out the fridge.  Matt needs to be pried out of bed.  He is grumbling, surly.  I need him to communicate with me.  I need him to want to be with us.  I don’t want to loose him to distance, sadness, or the inability to be around me.

We lay out options for the day.  Suddenly the activities that sounded just right yesterday sound all wrong.  We didn’t know how we would feel then.  We can only gauge our feelings 15 minutes to an hour out. Something else has come up for Shelby.   Matt stands his ground.  “Why do I have to?” like a stubborn two year old or a blossoming teen.  “I don’t want to go to the dog park”.  “I don’t care about the soccer game.”  I care.  I want to see the things Shelby has talked about.  Things John loved to do.  I want to go to the soccer game. Shelby’s friends are playing.  Kenzie is playing.  Kenzie is hurting.  Kenzie just lost a week of school in mourning and practicing the guitar and the songs for John’s memorial.

I am reminded once again that grieving is not a team sport. Paul and I go off to do what we want to do.  What we need to do.

Our choices are flawed.  The dog park is hot and desolate.  Not many doggies.  Ally isn’t interested.  We don’t play the way John played.  We don’t know how John played.  We go to the soccer game.  No dogs allowed, even if she is a service dog.  Not without her documentation.  We tie her up and go in without her.  She yelps and barks so loudly we can hear her over the game.  Paul is stressed about her.  He is hot and hungry, tired and cranky.  He leaves with the dog to rendezvous with Matt.  I am alone in a crowd.   I am invisible.

Matt, Paul and Ally return at halftime with the service dog documents. We retreat to the shade under the bleachers and lie down on the cool grass.

Lying down, I suddenly feel vulnerable and the tears start to flow, quietly, slowly, just squeezing out, running down the side of my face.  I take a risk and tell Matt how I feel.  “I need you.”,  I say. It’s loaded.  I need him to stay alive.  I need him to stay connected.  I need him to make it through this emotionally.  But I don’t say all that, I only say “I need you.”  I see in his eyes that at that moment he gets it.  He softens.  He will give me some time on the grass under the bleachers.  He offers up a few thought about the future, tomorrow, next week, this semester.  He tells me that Shelby is OK.  She has perspective.  She is smart. But her brain is cluttered and unable to process much like all of us.

We leave tomorrow. I don’t really want to go home; too much left to do and to experience in Boulder. But I know that it’s time to go.  Feeling stressed. Not sure why. Still can’t think straight or function normal tasks. Next month’s rent check must get to John’s room mate Jordan. The window screen that Ally frantically shredded needs to be repaired. The toilet backed up. We need to mail stuff home. We should close John’s bank accounts before we go. It would be easier in person. I’m forgetting everything everywhere. Where are my sunglasses? All our water bottles have gone missing. Where are the keys? They were just in my hand! Added pressure to get emails back to people. I want to finish a recap from Wednesday. I’m getting texts and emails from people asking how I am, worrying why I went silent. I check messages constantly but can’t reply. Too many. Too much to say. But I want people to keep texting, reaching out. It helps me. I want to connect with the people who mean so much to me. I’m having a hard time breathing. All I can do is send an emoji heart in return.

Paul is stressed too. But that task list is looming. We need a moment to connect. Share. Communicate.

Our moment offers us just enough clarity for our practical, logical selves to show up. Two weeks ago we were capable people. Now we are not. We are able to develop a plan. I will wrap up my writing within 15 minutes. We will tackle the remaining tasks on a circular driving swoop around town. Our reward, a strenuous hike. It gets done.

The hike up Sanitas Peak is described as nature’s stair master. 1,300 feet straight up in under a mile.

http://www.thetrailgirl.com/2011/09/26/mount-sanitas/

It is what we needed. Just us. Hiking at elevation. Sucking oxygen in. Can’t get enough in. Have to slow down. Blood rushing. Heartbeat pulsing in my ears. Wiping the sting of salt and sweat from my eyes. Intense focus exclusively directed to the secure placement of my next footstep on the trail. Good to have only that to think about. Lips are chapped. All I can think about is how much I want some chapstick. I’m thinking about chapstick and not about John. It’s a relief to not think about John.

First stop is at the Lion’s head. The view is emerging, vistas expanding. I expect to be sad, overwrought with emotion by being near the lion. I am not. I feel good. Healthy. Strong. Suddenly, maybe, a little bit like a lion.

Each meter of elevation gain offers another familiar landmark. Castle rocks in Sunshine canyon where we hiked yesterday, 29th Street Mall and the job John hated, Boulder Reservoir where John spent so many happy days last summer, Pearl Street and the job John loved, Lost Gulch Overlook where we had his memorial, the Flatirons where we hiked with Kristian on Monday, an eternity ago. The Rockies. Denver. Out an infinite horizon to the middle of the continent.

A late dinner reservation means time to catch up on communication and life’s responsibilities that don’t stop because your son dies. I change a doctor’s appointment. I want to tell the receptionist why I have to change it, but she doesn’t ask and I don’t tell. Paul calls a handyman working at one of our properties. His voice is cheerful. No reason to explain why he can’t be at the apartment to meet him. No reason to bring him down.

There is time to rest, to shower, to get dressed at a leisurely pace, to care about how I look.

Matt and Shelby have gone missing all day. Literally and also emotionally. They are distant and snippy and uninterested in any of our suggested activities. They are late, sleepy, full of excuses. They are hurting. They are dealing with it in the way that they need to. I want them to be part of our grief team but it is an individual sport. They seem to be supporting each other. I hope so. I can’t ask. I can tell they want me to stay out of it right now, so I try to.

We meet them for a late dinner at Pizzeria Locale. Paul took John there four years ago when he was deciding if he should pick CU over Montana. Shelby and John went there on their last night together. They share their stories. It feels invasive and voyeuristic to take Shelby back here. I want to be here. I want to taste the food that he ordered but I didn’t think how hard it would be for her. Should I tell her how much it means to me to have her do this with us? I hope she just knows.

Looking forward to a day without an agenda, without a long list of horrible things to check off. Back at Spruce Café. Coffee with Paul, Matt and the Tillitts. Not too early. With the memorial behind us, I was anticipating feeling a little better but I’m still distracted and sad. No appetite. Karen wants to share a favorite hike before their flight. I am anxious to see it.

Starting from our house, we pass through a neighborhood heading toward Sunshine Canyon.

Approaching the trailhead, a rock outcropping became visible. As we got closer, there appeared to be a lion’s head at the top of the rock on the left.

John had just recently got a tattoo of a lion on his side. This is the only photo we have of it.

John always liked lions. When he was three, he wanted to be “Scar” from the Lion King for Halloween.

And he shared this on Facebook in February.

And when he called feeling sad after Shelby left for Argentina in July, I sent him this.

It seemed fitting that we were hiking under the watchful gaze of the lion in the rock.

It was a short and beautiful hike with wildflowers still blooming thanks to Boulder’s summer thundershowers. All along we were touched by physical things that were embedded in two of the readings at yesterday’s memorial service. Milkweed, a Monarch butterfly (a very tattered one), blue jays. Tall shafts of grain shimmering in the morning light, licking our arms as we passed. John was with us.

 Crossing to Safety by Wallace Stegner  (excerpt)

Still none of us found anything to say. Air moving uphill from the woods and lake stirred the seeding flower-heads of Delphinium that rose above the wall. A Monarch butterfly caught in the draft was lifted twenty feet over our heads. I saw Sid look away to follow the Monarch’s movement. Perhaps he was fantasizing, as I was, that there went part of what had once been the mortal substance of relatives who had passed before this, absorbed by the root of a beech tree in the village cemetery, incorporated into a beechnut, eaten by a squirrel, dropped as a pellet in a meadow, converted into a milkweed stalk, nibbled and taken in by this butterfly, destined to be carried south on a long, unlikely, interrupted migration, to be picked off by a flycatcher, brought back north in the spring as other flesh, laid in an egg, eaten by a robbing jay and laid as another kind of egg, blown out of a tree in a windstorm, to melt into the earth yet again, and thrust upward again, immortal, in another milkweed stalk preparing itself to feed more Monarch butterflies.

Do not stand at my grave and weep

I am not there. I do not sleep.

I am a thousand winds that blow.

I am the diamond glints on snow.

I am the sunlight on ripened grain.

I am the gentle autumn rain.

When you awaken in the morning’s hush

I am the swift uplifting rush

Of quiet birds in circled flight.

I am the soft stars that shine at night.

Do not stand at my grave and cry;

I am not there. I did not die.

-Mary Elizabeth Frye

Breakfast at Spruce Cafe with the Tillitts. Darling spot. Under other circumstances I would notice the details and have interest in the menu. I’m here, but I’m not here. I can only process simple thought. I snapped and lashed out. Idle chatter cluttering my brain. I am overwhelmed and need a moment to walk alone. All 7 of us over to John’s to pack the boxes and pack the truck. It has to be done today. Our friends with a moving company have a truck rolling through Boulder heading to California today at 3:00. A huge relief to us, but it comes with that deadline. Super emotional and stressful. All John’s worldly goods in boxes, labeled out on the sidewalk with his bike, his bed, his golf clubs and skis. We can’t handle it. Too many memories. Too many shattered plans. Shelby, standing alone in his empty room, weeping. Vacuumed trails neatly crossing the carpet, like he had never lived here. How can I help her? How can she help us? How can we make it through this?

A long afternoon break suddenly became a matter of life and death. Shelby and I retreat home to chill, eat, catch up and work on stuff. Karen, David and their daughter Kenzie dispatched to do all of our “to do’s”. Did I even make eye contact with them as they left? Did I say “thank you?” They are off for supplies for the memorial service. Kinkos, sign board, terra cotta container, clothes line, clothes pins, pens, glue. David, multi-tasking. Making lists while coordinating with the videographer. Karen trying to feed us. Paul and Matt take the U-haul to the next town over to meet the moving van. They help put it all in the truck to California. I pick up a message from the mortuary. “John’s remains have been inurned and are ready to be picked up”. Stunned. Immobilized. Did I really just get that call? I’ve received that call before about my dad, but this is not the same. Sad and natural for my dad. This feels like a huge chunk of me just died. Next thought, completely incongruous. “Well, it’s convenient for Paul and Matt to pick him up on their way back from dropping John’s stuff at the moving company. .” A metaphor for my brain function/lack of function.

Regroup. Matt and Shelby are done. Finished. Emotionally drained beyond any previous life experience. They can’t function. They can’t help. They can’t think. They can’t speak. They need comfort from their friends, John’s friends. Each other. They go.

Karen, David, their incredible daughter Kenzie, Paul and I drive up Flagstaff Road to the Lost Gulch Overlook. Details that elude the younger generation need to be attended to. They haven’t done this before. They don’t know how much needs to be done.

How long does it take to get up the road? Mileage markers and distance need to be communicated. We need to set the stage for the memorial. Where should the speakers stand? We juggle into various positions testing them out. Everyone needs to hear and see. Can everyone find a place to sit on these rocks? Which way to we face? Where should the video camera shoot from? How cold will it be tomorrow at this time? We should remind people to bring a jacket and wear sturdy shoes to navigate the rocks. The laundry line of John’s tee shirts should be strung from which trees? Do we have enough laundry line? New idea…let’s bring the photo boards up here and hang them on the last five trees, then take them to the reception after.

A quintet of sorority girls arrive. Athletic, fresh faced, laughing. Snapping photos with their phones. Posing with the view that defies description but ends with Rockies and clouds and sunshine filtering through like a sympathy card in the drug store. We timidly ask them and the Goth couple smoking cigarettes how they would feel if they arrived and found a memorial service in progress. Faces turn somber. “Oh! No problem. It’s all about respect up here. It’s a beautiful place. There are other nearby spots to go see the view. Yeah, people would be cool with it.” Hugs. Silent and awkward. Beautiful eyes and skin embracing me… One after another. “I’m sorry for your loss”. Through the tears Kenzie exclaims, “Look! A rainbow!” We looked. It intensified for a moment, and then it faded away. John approves.

To the Lazy Dog roof deck to finalize the reception. Home, change, dinner at Pasta J’s . Exhausted beyond belief.

I woke in the bleakest grey pre-dawn. Consumed by nightmarish thought, tossing and turning, the hours inched on, but the dread was oppressive. Finally resigned myself to the fact that sleep would not return, I lay in bed with tears seeping out. How was I going to make it through this day? I can’t even remember what we did all morning. What I do remember was that I was overcome with anxiety and terror of our next visit to the mortuary. What would be the right choice to have his body wear the last time? What should we send with him? Should we see him? If I saw him, would it haunt me forever, or would the reality of it be a comfort?

Collective deep breaths, we gathered our things and headed out on the most difficult errand of our lives. We stopped at John’s apartment. Once in his room, the decision was easy. We simultaneously and individually concluded, Alabama athletic shorts (worn at least 500 times and washed far less), mismatched high white Nike socks and his straw hat. We debated briefly on the tee shirt, there are so many, but quickly settled on the USA shirt he wore as much as any other and looked great in. It wasn’t as hard as I thought it would be.

We drove in silence, the drizzle on the windshield somehow comforting. Some of us crumpled up our love letters, John style, and stuffed them in his pockets. Some of us slipped them in neatly. We added a snip of fur from Ally’s tail and a lock of Shelby’s hair. A family photo, the last one of all four of us together, taken a month ago on the front porch of the home John lived in since birth. A copy of a poem from a childhood friend. A letter from the younger brother of another one. “OK. I guess that’s it then.” We felt good about our decisions. We were happy to have him have these things. It wasn’t as hard as I thought it would be.

Now we were faced with whether or not we wanted to say good bye face to face with the beautiful body that contained his lively and loving spirit. Someone had to identify him. It could be done with a photo, but Matt wanted to see him, so that responsibility was spoken for. But what should I do? I had seen my mom and my mother-in-law in the moments after their death and the image haunted me for months. I chose not to see my dad and have regretted it ever since. I had sought council from friends as to what they would do. It was one of the many things that left me spinning in the night. The baby faced funeral director described the scene and setting in his soft monotone. It didn’t sound that bad. I decided to go in, get far enough away from him that I couldn’t see him, and slowly inch forward calculating my comfort level. Matt, already in there, was surprised at my arrival. Paul followed. Shelby waited with Ally outside. I made the right decision. The door creaked open. Ally had been whining and pawing at the door so Shelby led her in. While we were inside, the funeral director had mentally prepared Shelby for the experience. Though imaginably difficult, in the end we were all content with our decision. Ally too, after sleeping next to John for the last 4 months, wanted and needed to know herself. There was closure. It wasn’t as hard as I thought it would be.

Maybe all the hard things were not as hard because they existed in the context of all the other hard things. But maybe hard things are made harder when they are anticipated. Would it have been better if I had taken each moment as it had come?

Knowing we would need it, we scheduled a hike with John’s good friend Kristian. He knew the perfect place and welcomed us with a massive hug with his massive arms. The trail up the Flatirons was still green in spots with wildflowers still in bloom. a got of summer thunderstorms. The trail traversed meadows and woods and deposited us onto shale pile overlooking Boulder.

Returning to our cozy retreat, we each found a way to restore ourselves. A rest, a shower, a cry, a phone call, messages read. No time to reply to all of them, but a huge comfort to read.

Saturday morning when we were preparing to leave Orinda, we received a text from friends Karen and David Tillitt…

“Karen and I want to come to Boulder to give you whatever love and support we can. We’ll arrive Monday afternoon. Just send a yes or no. No explanation needed. Our hearts are with you.”

I couldn’t process the information, so I couldn’t respond. I asked Paul what to do. He couldn’t answer. He couldn’t think. Maybe he couldn’t even speak to answer. I pushed the button on my phone distracted by another task. Three hours later as we were leaving for the airport we got another message,

“We arrive late Monday afternoon. Staying at 937 Spruce Street. We will see you soon.”

Suddenly it was Monday afternoon and they were there with hugs and tears and support and anything and everything we needed. A debrief with wine and snacks on the terrace of our place. A walk to town. Normal dinner conversation interwoven with ideas for the memorial, planning the move out of John’s apartment and scheduling it all in the tight window of the next few days. How could we have hesitated for a moment that we could do this without them? How can we ever let them know what it means to have them here?

An early morning walk to town. Time on the peaceful terrace to write and reflect. Matt and Shelby up. Time to face the work that must be done.

Go to John’s apartment. Into the living room. The couch where he died. An ashen, soft spoken room mate who didn’t sign up for this when he offered a room for rent on Craigslist. Tears. Violent and unpredictable. It is really true. He is gone. His room, the crazy jumble of a young guy not too bothered with hangers, folding, laundry, order. Hugging his pillows, lying on his bed, smelling him through the fibers of his tee shirts. It’s not enough. It’s too much. Off to the mortuary. Tall guy with the scripted conversation. His first job? How could anyone do this for a living? Get me out of here. I don’t want to be here. I am not supposed to be making these decisions about my son. Not enough air in the room.Too many questions. His script isn’t really comforting. Nothing can comfort me. We escape. Some decisions put off for tomorrow. Progress made. Back to the apartment. Better now. Folding, sorting, discovering, remembering. Stories shared with artifacts found. Lots of memories. Some laughter. Today’s goals accomplished, we head home to our lovely retreat to catch up with texts, emails, planning and preparations. A shower washes away the tears. A walk to the Lazy Dog Bar and Grill, John’s workplace for the past 6 months. His friends for dinner, his co-workers stopping at the table with hugs and stories. Laughter. Sunday night football, chicken wings. Normalcy. I look down the table expecting to see John. Manager comes to the table. “This is on us. He was the best guy, everyone loved him here. We will miss him so much.” Yes, me too.

It began as the worst day of my life so far. The fog of shock and lead blanket of unimaginable grief had reached massive weight after many hours without rest. The dread of what lay ahead looked impenetrable.  Somehow we got packed and to the airport without forgetting anything vital. I credit those friends who came and acted on my brain and body’s behalf. Baggage check, security, flight delay, queuing up, baggage claim, car rental …all such familiar and automatic experiences seemed unnatural.  “Have a great flight”, “Welcome to Denver!” “What brings you toBoulder?” Phrases that hit like a punch in the stomach.

Driving northwest to Boulder in the gray of twilight and clouds felt like being marched to the executioner. How can I arrive in the town where somewhere, my beautiful boy’s body lies cold and alone?  Breathe. A reminder in the form of a bracelet pressed thoughtfully into my hand on Friday mid-day. Courage. Strength. Forgiveness. Protection.  Attributes contained in the polished stones in my pockets, magically gifted to me by a lifelong friendFriday night.

We arrived at the Zen cottage carefully selected for us by friends who rushed in on Friday morning.  John had been gone less than 24 hours, and there was work to do, arrangements to be made, and it was done.  They could not have picked a more perfect spot. Boulder’s character, charm and beauty surround us.  We walked a few blocks to the bustle of a college town on Saturday night.  Perfect temperature, sweet smelling air.  I see what John loved.

Shelby picked one of John’s favorite restaurants for dinner. Beautiful, delicious, innovative, lively. A pillar that is a fish tank full of graceful and prehistoric jellyfish.  Sushi that is art and flavor blended.  Music that is soothing, lively, original and innovative.  A bartender’s hug with words that comfort. “He made me feel special” “He treated me like an old friend” “He was one of a kind” “We planned to play football together this Fall” “Here. Have a Serrono Splash, it was John’s favorite!!”  I remember that John had told me about it on his last visit. Blended, green, a basil leaf floating on top and a spicy kick with every sip. I  taste what John loved.

Dropping Shelby and Matt off at a house full of John’s gathered Miramonte friends merged with Boulder friends.  A hug from a former Matator teammate.  The exalted wiggled enthusiasm from Ally the dog. Kisses from the doggie who he loved beyond measure. I feel what John loved.

Return to the cottage. Dripping with unimagined exhaustion. Eyes burning, aching. Depleted of fluid. Collapse into a downy bed and cool smooth sheets, I am wrapped in a natural sleep undisturbed by dreams or nightmares.

The day ended far better than I ever could have hoped. I am with my boy.