Silence

Often times when people are silent we assume everything is going well.  We think "no news is good news".

Most of the time, in my experience, silence is the epicenter of sadness.  It is when we are silent that we are hurting the most. In silence is an emptiness that cannot be explained or filled. 

I sometimes go days or weeks without writing. It's not because I have nothing to say, it's often because I don't know how to say it.  Most of the time silence reflects the darkest of hours, not the most peaceful.

I find this to be true with any grief, really.  I have friends going through incredible sadness and hard times and they are silent.

Society, though, does not want to hear of grief. We force others to keep quiet, deal with things on their own, and not share their true feelings.  People are often intimidated by others grief, either because they want to make it better and can't or it makes them aware of their own hardships they'd rather ignore. 

One thing I am learning through my own journey of grieving and healing is to be more compassionate to others grief.  I check in with my friend more and encourage them to feel comfortable talking to me. I try to have open ears and a closed mouth.  I want others to know they aren't alone, even when it feels like it.

People who are hurting can't be fixed by anyone but themselves.  They need to be heard, not mended or instructed on what to do.  They just need to know "I'm here for you and I love you". 

The saying "silence speaks a thousand words" is so true.  Sometimes the best thing we can do is sit together, hold each others hands, and let the silence heal what words cannot.

Time

Grief has no concept of time. Space is empty and fluxes.

There are days when it seems like losing Colton happened in another lifetime. The thought of his loss is so surreal and abstract that it can't possibly have really happened.

Sometimes the facts begin to blur and it's unclear what really happened, what order, what truth and what fiction are interwoven into his story.

There are times when telling people I have four children feels like a lie because I can't recall if that really happened or was it just a horrific dream. I have that moment in time locked up so tight and hidden in its dark place that sometimes it feels more like a nightmare than the living hell.

Reality strikes though. It always wins out. When it does I am right back in those moments. Every second ticks like a thousand hours. Every word, motion, detail is sharp as a razors edge slicing into my soul. Every detail etched and engraved into my being. I could write it out verbatim, a script to a horror story too scary to watch.

Time does not lessen the blow when reality crashes down. Time does not ease that pain, soften the memories, or dull the ache. Time is but a number that loss laughs at. Time is a reminder that no matter how much passes it'll never be the same as it was before that moment when there was no more time; when what you treasured, what you'd been counting down in months and weeks and days in delightful anticipation is gone.

Time stopped, yet the pendulum still swings. Keeping pace. A silent hymn of marching forward, a booming thundering reminder. Time heals nothing. Time is not merciful. Time is just empty space.

Surviving

Sometimes I feel like that's all we are really doing in this world. Just surviving another day.  Waking to face the challenges, and lucky to lay our head down at night and do it all again the next day.

I have so many friends going through the hardest of times right now.  Separations, parental loss, miscarriage ... People struggling to find their way in this crazy world, not sure where to turn or what to do next ...

We all have our struggles and we all have our grief. I don't know that I have a single friend or acquaintance who hasn't, at some point, thought "will I survive this?".  The situations vary, the source of the struggle never quite the same ... but grief is pretty universal.

Sometimes I wonder if I have survived Colton's death.  I mean, I'm still breathing. I'm still functioning. I have a job I perform at daily, and great kids that I competently care for, and complete the day-to-day needs to live.  But did I really survive?

Last night I had the weirdest array of dreams.  I had dreams of happy days with Brian, before we lost Colton. I had dark dreams of after Colton (and even woke in a post-Colton signature cold sweat and panic attack).  I had dreams of what could have and should have been, and dreams of what I hope will be. 

I woke up thinking "Did I survive?".  Did I ... really? No.  The person that was before Colton long died.  She is but a memory.  An unattainable mystical being of many moons past.

And I look at my friends, as they are facing their own struggles and devastation. And I see that I'm not alone. I see that parts of them have been broken beyond repair. I know, as I watch them struggle, that they will not be the same on the other side.

Will they survive, in the literal context of waking up tomorrow and continuing forward?

Yes, I suppose they will. 

But when forced to survive we are never the same.  In order to survive we must change, must adapt, must leave behind something in order to move forward.  Sometimes we come out stronger immediately. Sometimes it takes a lot of mistakes, a lot of collateral damage, a lot of "what the fuck happened" before we get there.

I didn't survive Colton's death.  Nothing survived Colton's death.  But I will keep surviving life without him. I will be okay. We will all be okay. Just never, ever, the same.

Cullen

Cullen will never know how much he's touched my life.  Well, actually, I'm sure he knows.  See, Cullen is always looking down on this world.

Twelve years ago today my friend Leah said hello and good bye to Cullen.  Twelve years.  Cullen was born with Potter's Syndrome.  He was undiagnosed, so when Leah met him she had no idea she would, very soon, be saying good bye.

I remember the day Leah told me about Cullen. 

I felt like an ASS that day.

She was wearing a beautiful set of emerald earrings and I commented on how beautiful they were, and that emerald was my birthstone and asked if it was hers too.  She then told me that, no, emerald was her son's birthstone.  The son she lost. I am pretty sure I said a hurried I'm so sorry. I don't remember if it was that day or sometime later that I asked what had happened. 

I remember, though, feeling fear.  Now I recognize I was afraid of her pain. Afraid of her story. Oh my God, her SON died.. .. ..

Leah takes off Cullen's birthday every year. Every year I thought "it must be so difficult".  You could feel a shift in her the week(s) leading up to his birthday and heavenly day.  Shortly after it would lift, however that period of time was dark and sad for her. I always felt melancholy for her, and sympathetic ... I never imagined I'd find empathy someday, too.

I remember going to work the day I confirmed Colton was gone.  I remember waiting until 8 when the doctors office opened and called to come in.  I remember going to Leah and telling her I had to go be checked.  I remember telling her I hadn't felt him move.  And I remember in her eyes that shared knowledge of what was to come....

Today Cullen turns 12... and I know that for Leah it feels like just yesterday she held his precious little body in her arms.  Years go by but a grief so deep doesn't age.

Happy birthday, Cullen.  You are thought about and loved so very much.  By your mommy and by those of us she has shared you with. xoxo

April Showers

I have always disliked the month of April. It seems every year it's a complete mess, the world is flipped off it's axis, and I cannot wait for it to be OVER.

This year, obviously, has been the same.

May, though, isn't so much easier.

Mothers Day is just a few weeks away.  There are certain holidays, dates, periods of times, that are more bittersweet than others after you've lost a child.

Mothers Day is definitely one of them.

I will do something special with the kids.  What, I am not sure yet.  I do know, though, it will include a trip out to see Colton.

I feel so fortunate to have my other children. I think with great sadness of all the childless mothers.  The mothers who have no children here on earth with them, yet are mothers just the same. I pray their families acknowledge them, acknowledge the child or children they've lost.  I know how hard the day is for me, I cannot imagine the pain they must feel.

I feel blessed to be planning my daughter's first birthday party.  I feel blessed to be celebrating my own birthday, just the day before Mothers Day.  I feel blessed to every day wake up with the knowledge I am surrounded by love, both here on Earth and all around me.

April showers be gone please ... May flowers and a blooming abundance of hope lie ahead.

Simplicity

 

I know my heart. I know my journey. I know my pain.

 I also know my hope. I know my healing. I know my love.

 

 And I pray they never do. 

If given three wishes I'd wish 

To hold my son

To have a healed heart

And for NO ONE to ever have to bury their child.

How lucky I am to have Colton.

While this pain is great, my love for him is greater. 

How lucky I am.

A Story Never Told

One of our greatest joys in life (at least for me, probably most) is sharing our lives with others. We have pride in the life we live, the people we chose as our partners, and the children we create.  Part of the joy of bearing children is watching them grow and seeing how they integrate into this crazy world and how the world takes them in.

I find sadness that no one will ever know Colton.  I was blessed to know him. I know that he had hiccups often.  He preferred laying on my left side (would he be a lefty like dad??).  He liked spicy food and loved pizza (momma's boy!!).  He mellowed in a warm shower and celebrated when he got ice cream.  He danced to mine and Logan's voice, and mellowed to his dads.  He would poke back and forth with me, and curl up in his dads palm.  He was calm, overall.  Would he have been the same on the outside?

I grieve that I won't know that answer. I also grieve that neither will anyone else.  I got to know him through all those months I was blessed to carry him, know him, and love him.  No one else will ever know him like I did.  And that brings it's own agony.  The agony of the untold story the grew inside me. The story  no one else will ever know.

How I wish Colton could have stayed and told his story to the world.

Destruction

You, my sweet, are entwined in my soul.

You are part of every breath I take,
Every laugh I make,
Every tear at stake.

The silence of your heart
Tore me apart

The silence in the night
Stole my light

The night you left my womb,
The agony did consume

The calm in the air
I could no longer care

Captive by the longing
Following paths into wronging

Others who I loved, who I also missed
I was so lost, so sad, so pissed

I lost you, lost me
Why couldn't anyone else see?

The pit was deep, destroying, and dark
The bite of anger much worse than the bark

All gone now, the past did crumble
Only a sorry, so meek, could I mumble

Rock bottom is softer than the hell
Of losing it all, the abyss in which I fell

I reach to you,
Will you grab my hand too?

You, my sweet, are entwined in my soul.
Pull me toward your light, out of this hole.

Peace

In this moment, right this second, I feel peace.

We went for a walk tonight, ate, played, talked to granny and poppa, then got ready for bed.  As we rocked, Delaney reached up and touched my face and my heart melted away.

I made acknowledgements and realizations today I have avoided. I let go of unrealistic attachments that held me in place. I accepted realities that will never change. And I felt peace.

I cannot change other peoples feelings regarding the loss of Colton. Everyone is doing the best they know how. Its different for each of us, how we handle this crazy emotion called grief. Its not right or wrong, its just our way. To pass judgement, to hold it against someone, to yearn for something more ... it won't help and can only hinder healing.

I have held on to things of this world ... Colton's bedroom, his chair, his clothes, grasping to all that remains in our world of him.

But the wise words of Logan have really been playing in my head. Colton is all around us all the time. He is the air we breath, the laugh we bellow, the tears that fall. He is enveloped in our hearts and our fabric of life. He is everywhere!

I was told today Logan and Delaney and no one else can heal me. That I'm dysfunctional because I relate them to my grief and healing. I disagree. I believe the the love we share with the people around us is what heals us. I think the absence of that paralyzes and destroys us. The innocence,  the purity, and the LOVE I share with my children ... there's power in that. There is healing. There is peace!

Love does heal. Love conquers all.

There's a saying "one step forward, two steps back". Well, its quite amazing when the two steps back are a running start for a huge jump forward.

Peace.

In finding my voice. In confidence in myself. In joy in my love ... and in my loss.

Collateral Damage

A few weeks ago Logan was upset, about what I don't even remember, and he proclaimed "I just want to be with my brother!".

I immediately thought he meant his older brother, who is living back South with his father. I said, "You know you can't just go see Jo". To which he replied...

"NOT JONAH. COLTON!"

My heart stopped, dropped to my gut, and tears boiled.

I didn't say anything. What could I say.

I finally mustered "Why would you say that?".

He burst into tears and said "I just miss him so much".

Sometimes as adults we get so lost in our own grief, in our own lives passing us by, that we forget about the collateral damage.  I know that Logan thinks about his brother often, yet we don't talk about him often. I forget that, just as I need others to ask me about Colton, maybe he needs to be asked about him too.

All I could say was I miss Colton too.  And I wish he were here, with us.  And that it would crush me if Logan was with him, as that would mean I lost Logan too.

Logan replied that Colton is with us. He's always with us.  That he protects Delaney and that he feels him all the time.  What comfort I gained from that! What power in his little words.

He went on to express he just wishes he could hold him and play with him, like he does with Delaney.  He wishes that he knew what he looked like and they could play catch.

Logan would have been an AWESOME big brother to Colton....

I feel so alone in my grief sometimes. And I wonder if Logan does, too.  I am learning that I can't expect others - Logan especially - to talk to me about Colton. Maybe I need to make that effort.

I have to be careful who I share with. I learned that the hard way.  Even his father I cannot trust with my feelings of loss and longing.  But I'm not alone in my grief.  And that is something I need to remember, and respect, and honor.

And talk about ...

Maybe not a rainbow ... but definitely my sunshine.

Clouds stormed on my day.

And my sunshine shown down on me, brightening my day. I thank God for my miracle. I pray he continues to protect her. I pray for guidance and serenity for me. I pray for her father, for clarity and guidance.

And I thank Him. I get it. Maybe rainbow isn't the right term for me....

But sunshine is almost too mild for how much she lights up my life and heals my heart!

I Came in Like a Wrecking Ball

Grief is like a wrecking ball.  It swings through, destroying everything it touches.  The quake subsides and you think it's past when it rivets back on the pendulum and slams into you again.

Through time the span widens, the time between impact broader.

If you know anything about physics or the laws of gravity, though, you can guess what that extra time does to the momentum and point of impact.

*SLAM*
*CRASH*
*CRUMBLE*

Where the hell did that come from? How long has the grief been suspended in space, so that when it hit it debilitated me?

Two days ago I found myself gasping for air. The thought of Colton slammed into me, knocking me from my precarious perch of sanity and mobility through life. I spiraled down a dark, all too familiar path of despair.

Last night I lay there, at the bottom of that pit. I laid there, my arms wrapped tightly around a stuffed monkey that protects the sound of my sons heartbeat, and covered in the only blanket to ever touch and protect my sons skin.  Desperately begging it to protect and comfort me.

I sobbed myself to sleep. Engrossed and devoured by the horrific reality ... my son died.

Some days it doesn't seem real. It feels like a story someone told me.  Something make believe from someone else's book of life. A bad dream. A fallacy of my memories.

When the memories crash into me I sucomb and drown in the pain of the reality.  Acknowledging I didn't feel him, no heartbeat on the dopler, no movement on the ultrasound, no waves of boom-boom, boom-boom....

Silence.

Yet that wail...? That primal deep wail of excrutiating pain and overwhelming grief....

Holy shit, that's me...

Shhhhhhhh .... No one can hear! What if you scare someone else? Make them uncomfortable?

Silence came with a price. I silenced my screams in that moment to spare everyone around me. Not realizing that was the first time of many. Not realizing silence meant death for me, too.

I lie to everyone daily, including myself. I walk around like a whole person, with a whole life, with a whole heart. I am a shell. I am what was left after that primal scream ended and the silence began.  Just like the ultrasound, just like my sons heart. Silent and dead.