looking at two years

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beautiful son, boy, broken, child, cry, depressed, depression, Distraction, grief, grieving, heartbreak, little boy, loss, Mental Health, Noah, pain, quotes, sad, sadness, serenity, son, son noah, suffering, swimming pool, tragedy

The calendar is only one of a legion of things that feels like assault. Life goes on. Things change. People come and go in each others’ lives just as surely as the earth’s ancient cycles.

Yet, in many ways, I feel stuck in this strange altered life where I perpetually feel as if I’ve lost a limb. I know that I have to find a way to adapt but sometimes I still feel so angry at, and tortured by this loss that it’s all I can do to put one foot in front of the other. Most of my free time is spent in solitude because of the fear that outside my safe places I can’t control the risk that someone or something might send me into a tailspin.

At the same time, my triggers are so engrained in me that I don’t even think about them much anymore except to avoid them: swimming pools, the smell of chlorine, the boys section at department stores and the 6 block radius surrounding the Accident Site are the big ones. I often wonder when and if these aversions will ever be less intense. If I will ever be able to face another swimming pool or go anywhere near THAT particular swimming pool again. What I will do with all of Noah’s toys and belongings, still boxed and undisturbed in the garage.

But mainly, what I ponder lately is how I am to live this life now. How I want to live it. It always kind of bothers me when I talk about Noah with someone I’ve just met and they say something like “I don’t know how you go on.” Whoa man! That’s a tough one to which I’m never quite sure how to respond. What do I say to that? Do I offer up reasons, as if they were excuses, about why I DO “go on?” The truth is I don’t know how I go on either. But I do, like it or not; with lots of help from Denial, Distraction and Displacement. Living in 3D the only way I know how.

As the two-year mark approaches, I can say that in some ways my life has been better than last year:

• I know how to do today and I try to be gentle with expectations of myself for tomorrow.
• I don’t cry every day anymore but at night I still hold tight to the quilts made from Noah’s clothes.
• I still prefer the safety of my home; though I do appreciate and love my friends and family for pulling me out from time to time whether I want to or not.
• The shrine that was my living room has normalized somewhat, with some of my treasured relics now packed away.
• I’m working on facing and dealing with my tendency to engage in or overdo things that aren’t really good for me.
• I’m trying to practice being grateful: I don’t think of all the misery but of the beauty that still remains.  – Ann Frank

So. The truth is that I still feel broken. I can debunk the old saying now and say that time heals nothing. I still feel bewildered and overwhelmed. Progress and growth come slowly and only after a lot of difficult and exhaustive work. Every day is still a battle and almost every night is too. My brain has given me some pretty amazing dreams but the nightmares are agony. The battle is always there. But I’m trying to have “the serenity to accept the things I cannot change; the courage to change the things I can; and wisdom to know the difference.” I know I cannot change what happened, but accepting that Noah left this existence and in the way that he did…is still a daily struggle.

The Things I Cannot Do

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angel, beautiful son, blessing, boy, broken, child, crazy person, cry, dead, death, dying, faith, grief, grieving, heartbreak, insight, little boy, loss, love, memories, memory, Mental Health, Noah, pain, sad, sadness, son, son noah, suffering, tragedy, writing

Almost two years.

TWO.

Two years later. And there are still so many things I cannot do. I still cannot see or be near a swimming pool. I’m a renter now. And sometimes I look at homes for sale. But I somehow cannot bring myself to leave this place where I have landed.

I know that I need a new mattress. But the one that I sleep on now is the same one that I used to “throw” Noah onto and tickle him like crazy. The couch and chair are worn and tattered. But somehow, I cannot replace them. They are the same pieces of furniture on which I held my sweet son! I covered them with old, worn blankets when he was sick…just in case he threw up on them. My washer and dryer served their duties when he was sick or had accidents. So there is no “upgrading” for those items.

I recently invested in new pillows for my own bed and somehow, even that was difficult. The memories of HIM, snuggled up with me in the morning light, watching Sponge Bob Squarepants, still haunts me somehow. The old pillows are in Zoe’s room now…in the hopes that she might want them. Keep them, somehow, as I have for this past year or so. And I think of the brand NEW pillows that I got for him when I got his new big-boy loft bed. The one with the drawers hidden in the staircase leading to the bed, only 16 inches from the ceiling; the bookshelves and desk tucked in underneath like a secret clubhouse. And how I never saw that clubhouse, those drawers…ever again. Not after… I had removed the flower shaped drawer pulls; replaced them with regular knobs. Painted the pink cork board gray. And Noah said…nonchalantly…which was HIS way…how he preferred this color over the bright pink that it used to be. And my mind wanders, trips on the fact that this comment was a mere 2 days before he died. Before his accident. Before I never really saw HIM again.

And there is still so. SO. So. much that I cannot seem to let go of. SO much that I still cannot get past. Maybe someday I will. Maybe Santa Claus and the tooth fairy and the easter bunny and magic really does exist and I will magically find a way. And maybe not. Either way…I am ok with it. Because whatever it all turns out to be or mean…I will always love him. I felt HIM, inside me, the first stirrings of life. And I was there as his last few breaths escaped his little body. He was always – WILL ALWAYS – be a blessing in my life. Regardless of what a mother / son relationship should be, my little boy and my Zoe will always be the light of my life. My gift to the future:

http://www.katsandogz.com/onchildren.html

Love. Just Love. It’s ALL that Matters.

And my love is strong and transcends ALL. Even death.

Choices, Gratitude

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The complexity of my internal struggles these past few months has been too tiring to understand, let alone to try to put into words. So, this Christmas I managed to put up a tree, hang stockings and do a little baking. Though I feel less volatile and panicked, I don’t know that I will ever be able to say that I have healed. Which I suppose is to be expected.

Although sometimes it feels like people around me expect me to just “get over it” and “move on,” I try to be kinder than that to myself as I go forward in the best and only way I know how. I manage to get through most days remembering the joy that Noah brought, but there are still times when it all just kind of hits me. And people around me either understand or they don’t. I try to remember that the reactions and actions of others are more about them than they are about me. I have to take care of myself and not worry too much about what others think or say. Noah would want that. He would want me to take good care of myself.

Of course there are several things that are still difficult. I can’t come within a mile or so of the apartment complex where Noah lost his life. I can’t look at swimming pools or anything to do with swimming. I can’t walk past the little boys’ section at department stores. I can’t quite look at all the videos of Noah and Zoe playing together. And Christmas is worse. I still can’t watch Frosty the Snowman or Rudolph. I can’t stand Christmas carols. When I bake, I am still hyper-aware and meticulous about cleaning up any spilled flour, knowing how sick it would make Noah when he “got gluten-ed.”

The memories of Noah are bittersweet as I struggle to come to terms with the fact that this is my life now. He existed. He brought so much love and joy. But there isn’t a single thing I can do to change the past. I will never know why he had to die. I will never stop hurting.

But what I can do is honor him with my life. I can tell his stories. I can look around me and see all the people whose lives are forever changed because of this one little boy. I can laugh when I remember him, just as well as I can cry. I can choose to let go of the anger and anguish and I can choose to remember what he taught me. I can choose to be eternally grateful that I did not lose Zoe – that she is still here, growing, learning and loving.

I can choose gratitude because – after three major losses in my life in only six months’ time – if there is one thing I know, it is that everything can change in the blink of an eye. Nothing lasts and sometimes what you think you have a firm hold of can slip through your fingers before you know what happened. Savor every day. Let the furniture be dusty so that you can play that board game with your kids for the millionth time. Because time is precious.

This may not be the life I had planned. There are always going to be things that I CANNOT choose. All I can do – all any of us can do – is make the right choice right now in this moment. And I choose love. Because that’s one of the things I learned from Noah: if I can live the rest of this life with love as the foundation from which my choices and my life spills forth, I will have managed to truly live.

Noah’s treasures

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I am meeting Noah’s kidney recipient on Saturday and have so much hope and fear around this. Part of my son, the life that formed inside me, the life I nurtured for 7 years, is in this woman. Literally. Stop and think about that for just a minute. Part of Noah is literally living and working inside someone else. I am excited to meet her because I hate that she is a stranger. I need to know who she is – her family, her story. Perhaps I am looking for a reason somewhere: a reason why Noah had to leave this earth. And I know I will not find it in just one place, but I look for the big pieces to give me strength. I know that the moment his consciousness left his body, the focus of energy that made up his potential in this life was dispersed into the far-flung corners of all reality. I wonder if the legacy, the ripples he has created by touching the lives of so many others, is bigger now because his body is gone. Had he lived, would he just be another kid in his class? Another citizen of the world and the universe of billions of beings? Another schmo just trying to make his way in this life?

Of course, I would have rather had him grow up, struggle like the rest of us, be just another face you might see on the street. But that’s just my selfishness asserting itself, because I’m thinking of my own pain. If Noah had the choice, which I believe that on some level he did, he would have wanted to be bigger; to create the biggest possible positive change at whatever the cost. Even if it made Mommy sad, the payoff would be so much bigger. And Mommy would eventually see that.

So, the rest of my life, or at least a part of it, is a kind of treasure hunt. It’s a bunny that sits in the backyard staring at me as I watch him from across the lawn for an hour. It’s a mother, daughter, sister and friend who is now healthy because a part of my son has replenished her very existence. It is all the nurses who so lovingly cared for Noah, then went home to hug and spoil their own children. It is all the tears, the sadness of everyone: Noah’s family, teachers, friends, parents of friends, doctors, nurses, specialists, surgeons, fellow officers, readers / listeners of the story of his life and the transformation that that continually manifests in those people.

It is every time I say his name: Noah Michael Davis. I honor him.

The knowledge that my little boy has created so much positive change in the world in such a small amount of time is so powerful that it’s overwhelming sometimes. I don’t know where to put all of it. The emotions and reactions surrounding this knowledge ebb and flow and fight each other inside of me at all times. I’m proud that he found a way to be such a positive force in so many lives, but I’m angry and miserable that I had to say goodbye to “my baby.” I’m jealous that he has done all of this when, after 36 years on this earth, I am still just trying to begin to understand how I might create what he has so easily accomplished. My humanity and motherhood just wants to hold him again. Watch him grow. But my soul, my heart, knows that he is working and fulfilling his purpose. He’s not gone. Just gone from my sight and my arms. This is another battle that is constantly underway within me. I know the sides that I WANT to win in these little constant wars within but when the guilt starts to bubble up, I hold fast to my Mothers’ Heart and I cannot let him go.

These little battles are what make it so hard to get out of bed some days. To care about paying bills, making dinner, going to work or even just going on with any kind of life can be so difficult. So I try to remember that his soul is still doing it’s work and mine needs to continue in my work, whatever that is or means. And maybe he’s given me the gift of a purpose within all of this. Maybe not. But I cannot ignore the possibility, so I continue searching for Noah’s treasures in the world and within me.

a year in review

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I have had trouble writing lately. There just seems to be so much: feelings battling with other feelings, thoughts confronting and shaping beliefs, depression clouds moving in and coloring all of it at times. It’s hard to get any of it into words and these last few months have been more about distraction as a coping tool.

Tomorrow, July 5, will be what some refer to as Noah’s “Heaven Date.” The anniversary of the day he was officially pronounced to have died. But for me, it isn’t really about that specific day, but the process spanning several days that culminated in the finality of my son’s existence. I find myself obsessively reviewing the journal from Noah’s caringbridge website (http://www.caringbridge.org/visit/noahdavis), comparing the dates and times of the updates with the times now. I don’t really know why. Maybe a part of me wants to honor his process; remember with a clearer head what was so traumatic and shocking at the time, that it has become this nightmarish blur; the details of which I strain to recall.

Over this year, this painful alternate reality, I have tried my very best to cope. Desperate for comfort, I have leaned on friends, family and sometimes complete strangers to see me through.

Even without his actual presence tangible beside me, his Spirit, now one with the Universe, reaches across all boundaries:

• The parents I know watch their children like hawks when they go swimming now.
• They would never let their child swim in a pool where it is too dirty to see the bottom.
• When I am missing him most, Noah leaves me little signs like a wild rose on the ground where there are no rose bushes or wild rabbits making a home under my best friend’s porch across the street from me.
• While searching for something else on the day after Mother’s day, I came across a recordable Hallmark card from last Mother’s Day. Opening it, I was delighted and crushed to hear Noah’s bright voice “Happy Mudders Day!”
• I was invited to create a Dia de los Muertos altar in honor of Noah last fall, where I got the opportunity to share Noah’s story with countless others who visited The Mattie Rhodes Center during First Fridays, local school field trips and a beautiful celebration honoring the Day of the Dead.
• I have cultivated a relationship with one of Noah’s kidney recipients and look forward to exchanging information and hopefully meeting her someday. She is a lovely, very grateful woman who needed a very specific match for a successful transplant. Noah’s kidney was her perfect match.
• Chief of Police Larry Larimore, upon learning of Noah’s fondest wish to be a police officer when he grew up, was a catalyst for making Noah’s dream a reality. On August 27, 2012, what would have been Noah’s 7^th birthday, Noah was sworn in as an honorary member of the Shawnee Police Department and awarded the Medal of Valor for the lives he saved through organ donation. (P.S. Watch the full ceremony here but fast forward to about 20:00 to get to the actual ceremony)
• Noah’s story, especially his swearing-in as an honorary Police Officer and awarding of the Medal of Valor, was shared through countless local news stations and newspapers.
• Officer Amanda Pandolfi of the York Regional Police in Ontario, Canada has a photo of Noah posted on the inside of her locker. She says, “I see him every morning when I report for duty and every night before I go home to my own kids.”
• My dear friend Alyson, who happened to be going through a rough patch in her own life, somehow managed to take all the clothes that Noah had at my house and create three beautiful quilts; each one a work of art and loving testament to Noah. Zoe and I cried when we saw them, remembering his favorite shirts, the ones he always tried to wear backwards and the little pockets where he would stash his matchbox cars.
• While in the hospital last year, Zoe made a friendship bracelet for Noah and tied it around his ankle. She made matching bracelets for all the family and friends who visited us and for anyone who wanted one. Noah was cremated wearing it.
• While Zoe and I were in Italy, we were in awe of the beauty and love around us and were accepted immediately as part of Isabella’s family. It wasn’t until my bracelet broke – the one Zoe made to match Noah’s – that I cried. I realized later that it was the longest amount of time that I had gone without crying in over a year and a half.
• Zoe promised to make me another one. 🙂
• After Noah’s accident at the apartment swimming pool, the City of Overland Park, Kansas required them to have a certified Pool Maintenance Technician on staff. (Shouldn’t they all? From what I understand, semi-private swimming pools – apartment pools, hotel pools and the like – are not required to have a swimming pool maintenance specialist on staff.)

I’ve had some changing to do this year also. When I first moved into my new place, it took a long time to come to terms with the fact that this is my life now. Sometimes I still struggle with that.

I had lots of help from co-workers and close friends who moved me from the apartment across from that horrifying swimming pool (which I never had to go back to) to my new home and helped me organize my things. It’s an enormous understatement to say that I had too many loving caretakers around me to count.

Still, I feel like I have yet to “settle in” completely, which I suppose is an expected metaphor for my life. Noah’s toys and books still sit in unopened boxes, too painful to approach for now. Someday when I need him, I will open and savor each little item; slowly, one by one.

For a long time, my new home was more like a shrine. Photos, toys and memorabilia everyplace I looked. It was comforting and I felt like it kept him close to me. But over the last month or so, as this week has crept closer and closer, I’ve had to tuck some things away. It’s just become too sad. I still display his photos here and there along with Zoe’s, his ashes on the bookshelf with his Suzy bunny and the shadowbox with his police badges. I know that no matter how hard it is to accept sometimes, Noah’s Mom is not the only role I have to play in life. I’m Zoe’s Mom too. Ben’s Sister. Dan’s Daughter. Employee. Friend. Confidante. Noah would want me to be the best I can be in these roles and I work to make him proud.

I also feel compelled, on mornings like this one when I feel strong, to create positive change in the world from my loss. Perhaps that means advocating for stricter, more enforceable regulations for semi-private swimming pools, education on pool safety or perhaps matchbox cars for pediatric patients. Maybe all of the above. When I am stronger and the grief-bursts subside a little I will know.

No doubt my grief is raw again now as I look at the calendar disbelieving that it has been a year since I’ve seen Noah, heard his laugh or held his hand. Over the last year, I have struggled to comprehend the traumatic events that I witnessed in rapid succession: his limp body jolted by CPR compressions, his cold blue fingers, toes and lips, the way the oscillator blew up his little body like a balloon because his lungs were too damaged to contain the air pumping into them, watching the team of doctors and surgeons try to revive him during the three times that his heart stopped, the last sponge bath I gave him one year ago today, talking to him and then finally kissing him goodbye that next day.

I have tried very hard to replace these horrific memories with good ones: Christmas mornings, knock-knock jokes, snuggle time, bedtime stories and songs. But recalling the events of “one year ago at this time…” is hard to escape.

I will always struggle. I will always miss Noah. I will always love Noah. Although I can no longer say that I have no regrets in life (the what-if’s can be awful), I can move forward. I can experience joy, laughter and love. I can remember him with a smile. I’m not always strong and I still break down. But I know that it is possible to move forward knowing that his little hand is always on my shoulder.

so it has been a while…

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…and I really can’t say why. it’s just been a roller coaster.

some days i am my normal self. some days not so much. but lately i have done a lot better than usual. i really have to thank Cuky Choquette-Harvey for the major steps in my recovery from this profound grief. Yes, my Buddhist faith has been a major source of strength. And, no doubt, I have been nothing short of DESPERATE for ANYTHING that might ease the pain or lessen the grief that has become a part of me. But nothing has come close to the relief that has been afforded me through the comfort of Lomi Lomi and through Cuky.

I know. It seems a bit strange: aligning chakras, hot stones, spiritual cleansing and what may seem like voodoo crazy new-age weirdness. But I have to say: it has been the most healing, profound experience of my life. And I have only had two sessions with Cuky. Cuky is not only a Lomi healer; she is an empath. Every visit with her is like a visit with not only my true spirit and self, but a visit with my mother and with my son. She knows things and unlocks things deep inside me that no one but me would know or realize.

So I have been a bit reticent about posting about it here, but that is the truth. I practice Nichiren Buddhism. I believe that my mother and my son are well taken care of in a spiritual realm that I can only dream of. And somehow, some way…this connects me with the absolute that are the loved ones that I so dearly miss. Noah dances in my peripheral vision, my sweet mother whispers in my ear as I go about my daily life. And I realize, yet have always known, their voices whispering in my ear. What they would say, do or think. Those of you who came to visit Noah in the hospital with me know what I mean. A mother knows what her child would say, do or think in any given situation. Just because his body is no longer something we can sense doesn’t mean that intuition is lost.

My cord and my ties to him transcend earthy, tangible metaphors. I live for him; through him. He, and all of those who have transcended their earthly bodies, do not cease to exist. Not really. They continue with us. Through us. And even if Noah was 6 and my mother wasn’t event 60, they continue with us and through us. Not just in our memories and hearts, but for real. Their love; their connection with us is real. Never doubt that. They are always at our sides: loving, laughing, growing with us. It is this that sustains me and keeps me alive in this incarnation at this time. It is this truth – not belief but actual truth and proof – that brings a real comfort to me.

XOXO

Helloooo Anger / the Dream

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I’ve been to the grocery store a dozen times since Noah’s death. I’ve battled the reflex to grab his favorite gluten-free foods. In the beginning, it was so painful that I had to abandon half-full carts and run out crying. I’m stronger now and it’s been a while since those days. But something tripped me up Friday night when I went to restock my kitchen. Something about the Ian’s chicken nuggets next to the gluten-free waffles that Noah loved so much, made me….just absolutely and completely furious. It was as if a switch had been thrown inside me and I could see red.

I recomposed myself and continued shopping, all the time thinking about what this feeling was and where it came from. It wasn’t until I was pushing my cart out the door and the tears came that I realized I was angry. I was angry! I don’t get to buy Noah’s favorite foods anymore. I don’t get to make him dinner, balance his meals, bribe him with cookies in exchange for a clean plate. No longer do I have this joyful, bouncing little ball of energy with whom I can witness and share in the joy of childhood.

Of all the people in the world, all of the terrible people…murders, child molesters, prisoners on death row who are slated to die quickly and painlessly. Drug traffickers, rapists, abusers and pedophiles. Of all the people in this world who might, by whatever standard, “deserve” to meet their end…it is my lively, quirky, funny, joyful, innocent little 6-year-old boy who had to die that day. And at the bottom of a filthy swimming pool.

Yesterday evening, I was explaining all this to my therapist. I said, “you know how there are all those stages of grief? I think I’m experiencing anger now.” Her response was “Well it’s about time!” HAH! I love her. I was already having a bad day, crying off and on all day and my depression was really showing. Yes, I have my beliefs about what happens after death. But what if it’s all B.S.? What if I will never actually get to see him again? What if all these occurrences and dreams that I think are glimpses from him and the universe are just my mind trying to reconcile this horrific truth? That he’s gone means he’s gone and all the things I’m looking forward to after my own death is for nothing? I can’t handle that! I left my session with the advice to try to realize that it’s just my depression talking and not really what I believe and what has been proven to me through my experiences.

Then, as if to further underscore that, I had a vivid and amazing dream last night. I woke up bursting with it. Sometimes dreams are difficult to put into words or lay down on a timeline, but I knew I had to get this one down before I forgot. As I type these words, I have been writing for two hours trying to get this dream, and then this blog post, down in words. I had to bullet-point it, then go back and put it into order. I hope this recount of my dream speaks to you as loudly as it did to me:

• a memorial was being held for Noah at my old apartment to commemorate a foundation or something that had been established, possibly by the MTN or the company I work for. He was saving more lives through this foundation or project and through it, he was creating a legacy of sorts, the details of which were very fuzzy to me in the dream.
• it was somewhere in the mountains
• I had to drive around a bit to find the right building – I almost didn’t remember where I had lived. It was a completely different apartment complex from the actual one in real life but in the dream it felt familiar and I knew when I was at the right place.
• Chris was Hurley from Lost
• at the memorial, Jason and I were planning to have a “divorce ceremony” to celebrate our divorce. this all felt very normal – like it was something everyone did when they divorced. the ceremony was to take place in the same manner as a wedding but shorter. the pastor who married us was there to perform the ceremony.
• when I got to the apartment, I fell apart. there was a small metal tub set into the floor of the front porch and in the dream I knew this to be the place where Noah had died. with the help of many others, and after collapsing many times wailing and tearful and crying, I made it inside. it felt like I had lived there but it also felt kind of foreign.
• I explored every room in the apartment painfully, crying. it hurt my heart so much to do so but I knew, and everyone around me knew, that I had to get through it. I was surrounded by friends and family: my mother’s friends from MTN, the emergency service workers who tried to save Noah, all the doctors and nurses, the Chief of Police, perhaps everyone I have ever known or met. They gently guided me through the rooms and memories. the lady who lived in the apartment had just moved in or out and there were boxes everywhere.
• in Noah’s old room (which was nothing like Noah’s actual old room), there was a crib where I imagined him laying peeking up at me with a silly grin on his face because he was too old for a crib.
• I kept finding things that were his: old shirts, a shoe, a toy. I would imagine him there with me in every room. I reviewed my memories of what happened in each room.
• Then we rehearsed the divorce ceremony, though Jason had not yet arrived. During rehearsal, I learned that they had planned not for an official divorce ceremony between Jason and I, but for an unofficial wedding for Chris and I. Instead of rings, we were to receive pins commemorating the foundation. Well I wasn’t about to marry anyone, unofficial or not, so I called the whole divorce / marriage ceremony thing off and decided to make it a slideshow memorial for Noah. It felt like that’s what it should have been all along.
• I hugged and kissed everyone afterwards as they left.
• The lady who lived in the apartment seemed eager for me to leave as more and more people were leaving. I was scared to leave because I would again have to walk by the front porch basin where he had died. it would be too painful and I didn’t know if I could handle it. I thought about going out the back door, but my dad gently encouraged me not to devalue all the work and progress I had made in coming there. I had to be brave and face it all right then and there. When I finally stepped out the front door, flanked on all sides by those closest to me, Noah was with me and I realized that he had been with me the whole time. I had just been so distracted and caught up in the event that I didn’t see him. The memories I had relived in each room were actually him, there with me. I was scared to touch him, or to acknowledge him to anyone around me – I didn’t want to make him leave. This time, I didn’t just walk past that metal basin in the floor. I crouched next to it, put my hands on it. I marveled to others that I thought I remembered it being deeper. I cried but not as hard this time – Noah was beside me, smiling and comforting me.
• When I got in my car to drive home, he was still with me. Finally alone with this apparition, I gushed about how much I love and miss him. At one point, I asked him if he were my angel and he just smiled and shook his head – not to say no in response to my question – but as if there was just so much I didn’t understand.
• driving home from the memorial, I could see Noah right next to me in the passenger seat. I was looking at him every chance I got and he was smiling: bright and joyful. when he reached his little hand out to take the steering wheel it made me nervous and I thought he was goofing around. until I realized that he had taken the wheel to swerve out of the way of a semi truck that had drifted into my lane. I looked at him after that, shocked, and he just smiled proudly.
• instead of going home, we decided to meet up with Zoe at some street festival. people were camped out in their tents and RVs, which we parked behind. Zoe hadn’t seen him yet, but I knew Noah was still there somewhere. I wanted her to see him but knew he had to do it in his own way. I told her all about seeing him and that he was there with us. While the other festival spectators were trying to get a view of whatever show or festivities were going on, we were straining to find Noah. Finally we saw him, but he was smaller, posing behind thistles and blades of grass…peeking between the blades mischievously. I pointed him out to Zoe and was thrilled that she saw him too. my instinct was to grab my phone to take photos; he was so cute!
• To my surprise, he allowed Zoe and I to take several photos of him. I realized almost immediately when I woke up, that he was being a bunny (Noah had a special connection with that animal and it always seemed like wherever he was, a bunny or rabbit wasn’t far away). Demonstrating, in a way. Then Zoe and I, realizing that it was ok, just shamelessly started taking photos of him against the backdrop of the mountains, telling him to smile, come back up the hill a little so he didn’t seem so small anymore.
• We all went home and continued to play with Noah and take photos the entire way. We learned that we could touch him, talk to him, interact with him and he was still there. He showed us things in our minds that I cannot remember now. We were overjoyed to be all together again.

This may not make sense to you, but to me, it speaks volumes. It reminds me of who I am, what I believe and why I believe it. To me, it is a message from Noah, reminding me who I am. Reminding me that he is here, guiding me. Protecting me.

The laws of physics tell us that energy cannot be created or destroyed. I hope – no – I believe and KNOW that Noah’s energy is still here. HE is still here. There is no die, no death, no finality. He holds me up, still, with his playful spirit. Just in a different way.

…and I’m still kind of pissed off. I’m only human, right?  🙂

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some days, like today, I wake up feeling pretty strong. I shower, get dressed and sometimes even wear make-up or accessorize. I get to work on time and I’m productive.  I feel a sense of accomplishment and pride when I’m crossing things off my to do list and thinking about ways to improve processes or help my department and the company for which I work. It feels familiar; good.

Then, sometime in the afternoon I don’t know what happens. Maybe it’s the time of day that my mind would start to wander….what to make for dinner…what can I accomplish when I get home…that sends me back to the dark side. Maybe it’s that uncanny Mom-yearning we all feel when we miss our child. I love having photos of both of my children around me at work and I feel like it gets me used to the idea that he’s not really GONE gone…he’s just taken on a different form. It feels comforting to look at it that way: that he’s always with me. But once in a while, I will look at a photo…and I can’t help but think these awful things.

I look at his neck, where those thick tubes went to his heart for the life support machine. I look at his soulful green eyes and remember pulling back his eyelids and hoping for a flicker of some sort. I remember his hair and the feel of it under my lips. His hand slipping casually and automatically into mine when we walked together; later holding it and photographing it so that I could remember later on…

some days, I can’t even get out of bed. I wake up from restless sleep or maybe just a few minutes / hours of sleep and I hate that I woke up at all. I drag myself up and sometimes can’t even bring myself to take a shower. The responsibilities of the day weigh heavily on me and the day seems never to end, clouded by depression.

I’ve also started having the most horrific nightmares. I shudder to even remember them and could probably never actually speak them out loud. My subconscious unleashes a fury sometimes when I’m asleep and woo, let me tell you. It could rival any horror movie out there.

I know that I’m supposed to move on with life, and I’m trying. It’s just so difficult when the pain is so intense. When I’m feeling good, I get lots of things done and make grand plans to accomplish more (by the way, my idea of “grand plans” = clean the house, finish a project, etc.). But the strength always seems to fizzle out so quickly and the housework gets out of hand. Then I sit, depressed and overwhelmed, at the amount of things-to-be-done all around me and I just want to crawl in a hole. So much to do that I just want to say forget it all. Maybe I’ll feel strong enough later.

At some point, I think it would be good for me to sit down and try to envision what I want my life to look like. Instead of focusing on the black hole of despair that threatens to eat me alive, maybe I could try to inspire myself with some things to look forward to or work towards. Unfortunately, I’m still in a place where I need to work towards cleaning this house and getting to the grocery store. 😦 blech.

on being a hermit

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So it has been a while since my last post. I found that the only way to deal with the holidays was mostly through mindful denial, which included not blogging, journalling or reading a whole lot. Holidays were so hard. I got gifts for those closest to me and I did most of my shopping online, which was helpful. But ignoring all the decorations and the excitement of the holiday season in those around me was the most difficult. It was very low-key for my family this year, which seemed most appropriate.

Still, the office holiday parties and “what are your plans for the holidays?” chatter was hard to avoid. Thus, whenever possible, I stayed holed up at home. It has been more comfortable, more predictable to stay home as much as possible. I can control what I’m exposed to here in my own little hobbit-hole and there are less unexpected surprises and triggers. The hardest thing has been making it into the office at least for a little while each day. These past few weeks, getting out of bed, showered and clothed has been the most difficult part of the day. The snow on the ground mocks me just as much as the hot summer sunshine did 6 months ago and it still feels so fresh even though the world around me has changed so much.

My brain comprehends the differences in my life. It’s my heart that hasn’t caught up. It’s as if the only way to comprehend what it means for time to move on is to live it: to wake up in the morning and realize it’s another day, another week, another month. December 28 marked one year since my mother’s death. It was also the day, this year, that I signed the final divorce papers to file with the court. I am really fine with the divorce; Jason and I remain close. We are the two people on earth who knew Noah best. And I think Noah would love that we’re friendly and that we still care about each other. I am completely ok with the divorce itself…is it’s just the acknowledgement of another unsuccessful life endeavor that bothers me. So I stayed in my PJs all day cuddling with Zoe and crying off and on.

So now here is this new year. I feel like I’m bracing myself for it; well against it, really. My fear is that this endless dumping of tragedy might never end. Just living each day is painful enough…and I’m afraid of what another day might bring. In the first few weeks after we left the hospital, it felt like a dream. Like I would wake up in the morning to find Noah there wanting breakfast. Sometimes I would swear I saw him and for a split second my heart would leap like it wanted me to run and grab him and never let go. Now, almost 7 months later, it sometimes feels like the time I had with him WAS the dream. Which is not a feeling I could describe as better or worse, but the guilt that goes with it is so incredibly heavy.

I have to remind myself that grief comes in waves. That it gets more and less painful for various amounts of time. On Saturday, I got sick of being a hermit and took Zoe for a little post-holiday shopping and to the local arcade. Sunday, we met Amy for lunch then walked around the Plaza a little. I’m just so tired of being sad. I can’t help being sad, grieving, but it’s so exhausting. Sometimes I want to just put it aside. And sometimes I’m able to do that. But, for now at least, it’s difficult to do that sometimes. Especially when the tide comes in and brings that pain again.

P.S. Noah loved cars. And I mean this kid REALLY loved cars. Everywhere we went, you can bet he had at least one matchbox car clutched in his little hand. He had hundreds of them, too, and played with them daily. I still smile when I remember waking up every morning to the sound of him shuffling through them. So I decided that it might be a good idea to make ornaments out of them and send them to friends and family instead of the traditional holiday cards. In response, there were many people who sent photos of Noah’s cars hanging on their trees and trim…it was amazing! It feels good to know that something he loved and treasured so much can enjoy the holidays with everyone who knew / knows / loves him. That was the best gift I could have hoped to receive this year. So a big, heartfelt THANK YOU to those lovely souls!

denial

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It is this time of year that is hurting the most. Thus, I find myself burying my feelings as much as possible. Noah LOVED Christmas. He would be seven by now and in the past couple of years or so we had the joy and pleasure to witness his realization of the magic of the season. This is such a holiday for kids! The carols, reindeer, Rudolph, decorating the tree, baking cookies, visiting and writing to Santa, counting the days, all the holiday movies and cartoons on TV. Shopping! Even the bite of crisp air in the mornings seemed to have magic in it: the steam from our breath as we got in the car for the trip to school.

And now, without the innocence of childhood all around me every day it all seems to have evaporated like that fat man up the chimney. Last year, as Jason and I planned and packed which ornaments and decorations should go with who, we knew that this Christmas would be different: my mother would be gone (she passed away peacefully three days after Christmas last year), Jason and I would probably be divorced and there would be adjustments and allowances to make, given those changes. How little we knew, then, how different this year would be. Hollow. Meaningless. I cringe at anything to do with the holidays: commercials, lights, carols, cartoons. It all just literally makes me sick and I just want it all to be over.

Noah loved Christmas, though. Every year, he would watch Rudolph the Red Nosed Reindeer at least daily. When the snowman in the story, afraid of the abominable snowman, hides behind his umbrella, so did Noah:

I’m sorry for the poor quality of this photo. I was laughing so hard, I could hardly take the snapshot with my phone.

Another of my favorites of Noah from last year was when he realized that his long underwear and pajama shirt were both red. Just like Santa. So Noah got some toilet paper, made a beard and proclaimed “Look Mom! I’m Santa!!”

How hilarious is that? He was such a funny little man. His excitement for Christmas (and Hanukkah!) was just infectious and he made me laugh every day no matter the time of year.

Look at that proud little face? How can you not smile?

Not to mention his multiple letters to Santa. Some of them made it to the North Pole and some did not, but he just loved writing and drawing so much that once he got started he just couldn’t stop.

Here is one of my favorites:

He showed this to me (the cars are meant to be Lightning McQueen and Mater) and of course I told him I thought it was wonderful. He was discouraged with himself, though, and said “Why did I put that I want A cars? That doesn’t make any sense” That’s my boy. Grammar is important. Even though I reassured him that it was perfectly fine and that Santa would of course know what he meant, this one did not make the final cut to actually be sent to Santa at the North Pole.

For school, he had to draw / write something about what holiday he celebrates:

I sure do love that kid. He always made me smile. And when I think of these memories, I still smile, it’s just not the pure mommy-joy that I used to feel. Now it’s accompanied by heartbreak. He was such a good artist and we used to love coloring together and making art of all kinds.

In fact, I think I will create another page here on this little blog dedicated just to Noah’s art. Please check it out. He drew the most amazing pictures of cats.

Somehow in writing this post, I have managed to cheer myself up a little. I’ll take it.