The Maze of Grief

Today I hit a wall. It's been coming in waves for several days now, and I knew it was only a matter of time before it hit me full on. Well this morning, at 3:43 a.m, I knew it was official. For those of you who may not know, or don't read my blog regularly, we lost our son a little over 15 months ago. I've written about the Grief many times, and tried to explain as best as I can, what we deal with every single day. Lately, I've been finding myself wandering aimlessly through my Grief, and not quite ending up anywhere. It's like being lost in a maze, only it's a maze that has no end. There's a clear start, but no finish. Sometimes a path becomes clear for a while, and you follow it, but then out of nowhere, your path ends. In short... you hit a wall. Sometimes you know you are approaching a wall, because there are subtle signs. You can't focus, you're overly emotional, you feel like you are living in a thick fog, so you know it's only a matter of time before you stumble into something. Other times it's dates or times, seasons, holidays, or anniversaries that are approaching that you know will guide you right into a blocked path. There's no avoiding it, and there's no way around it. Sometimes you are stuck behind that wall for hours, sometimes days, sometimes weeks. Eventually, you drag yourself up and over the wall, and you keep going. If you're lucky, another path becomes clear for a bit, and you follow it. Seeking out the light whenever and wherever you can. If this sounds bizarre and confusing to you... Try living it.
This morning, at 3:43 a.m, I hit a wall. I know that because I woke up shortly before and my mind was a mess. No matter what I did, I couldn't clear it, shake it, or fall back to sleep. This is not uncommon for me, since I suffer from insomnia, but this was different. It's difficult to explain how, but it just is. You'll have to take my word for it.
Now I am trapped behind this wall. Though I am sitting at my desk, writing this post, I am only here physically. My head and heart are elsewhere. I function out of habit. I got up, showered, did my hair and makeup. I even put on some shimmery accessories. I drove to work, and I sang along to the radio. I put on my best "normal" face, and I am going about my business. Why? Because I have to. That's how it works. You don't get to hide from the world, or curl up and disappear. No matter how much you may want to, it's not an option. I can't scream and cry all the time, so I fake a smile. "Fake it til you make it." Wise words from a fellow grieving parent. That's what you do when you hit the wall. You fake it until you can bring yourself to climb up and over it, and really feel joy again. There's no way of knowing how long I'll be here. This isn't my first wall, and it certainly won't be my last. This maze is my life now...

Grief Do's and Don'ts

I never really thought too much about how to deal with someone suffering a great loss, until I was the one suffering. Then I got a crash course in it. 
When we lost our son, it occurred to me that the average person has no idea how to help. It isn't that they don't want to help, it's just that they have no clue what to do. And unfortunately, when you are in the midst of Grief, you aren't in a very good position to tell them, either. So I decided that it's time someone shared some helpful information on the subject. Now, keep in mind, this is just my opinion, so take it or leave it.

*DO- Be there for them. Hug them, hold their hand, sit quietly with them, let them know you love them.
*DON'T- Tell them you understand, unless you have actually been in their shoes. 
*DO- Bring over meals (even if they say they aren't hungry, they will need to eat, and are more likely to do so if it is made and right in front of them)
*DON'T- Offer trite words, like "It'll be ok in time." or "God only gives you what you can handle." or "There's a reason for everything." etc, etc, etc. Trust me, that is NOT what they want or need to hear, and it does not make them feel any better. 
*DO- Acknowledge their loss. 
*DON'T- Pretend like it didn't happen, or think that ignoring it will make it go away. If dealing with death makes you uncomfortable, imagine how they are feeling. Suck it up, and make an effort. 
*DO- Respect their wishes. Everyone grieves differently, so if they say they need some time or space, give it to them. 
*DON'T- Expect them to be over it, just because you are. 
*DO- Continue to check in, and ask how they are doing. Grief (especially when you lose a child.) is forever, not just during the funeral. 
*DON'T- Stop inviting them to things, and including them in special events. They may opt out for awhile, but the choice should be theirs, and they shouldn't feel left out just because you didn't know how to deal with them. 
*DO- Be patient. Grieving parents are dealing with emotions and issues that you cannot imagine. And anything can trigger a response. Please don't take it personal.
*DON'T- Expect too much. If you are waiting to see the person you knew before the loss, you may be waiting a long time. Grief changes people, so be prepared to deal with those changes if you want that person in your life.
*DO- Offer condolences, sympathy and empathy. They are appreciated, even long after the loved one has passed. 
*DON'T- Pity them. Yes, they suffered a great loss, but they are trying to be normal again, so treat them that way. 
*DO- Talk about their loved one. Share stories, photos and memories. Say their name. These things mean more to them than you'll ever know.
*DON'T- Act like their loved one never existed. Trust me, you aren't reminding them of their loss, they haven't forgotten it. 
*DO- Let them talk about their loved one. 
*DON'T- Shy away from it or change the subject. They need to share their memories, and if you care about them, you should listen.
*DO- Remember special days, and anniversaries. Send a note, or call them, or do something special to honor their loved one. 
*DON'T- Judge them. Grief is as unique as the individuals suffering, and until you have walked in their shoes, you have no right to make assumptions. Just because someone isn't crying, doesn't mean they aren't in pain. Sometimes a smile, a laugh or a joke is covering a broken soul, not a cold heart. 

Bottom line is this... Grief is hard. It's hard on the ones suffering, and it's hard on those trying to help. You are going to say or do the wrong thing from time to time, and that's ok. If you are sincere in your concern, and you are making an effort, they will see that, and love you for it. And when in doubt... just give them a hug. 

One Year

Last weekend was the one year anniversary of losing our son. I wasn't sure what to expect emotionally, but I figured it would be fairly awful. I wasn't wrong... 
Every day since losing Zach has been difficult. Some more so than others, but none have been easy. Reminders of what we lost are everywhere. There is no avoiding the memories that flood your mind, and replay like a film strip through your head. I see his face in crowds, and have to constantly remind myself that it's not him. 
So when people say "It gets easier with time." they are lying. Or they've never lost a child. It does not, in fact, get easier. Judging by this past week, I'd say it gets harder. 
One year has passed. One birthday, one Christmas, one Mother's/Father's day, one Labor day, Memorial day, Easter, etc. Just one. Three hundred and sixty five days. But how many more to go? Dan and I are still considered young, so how many more trips around the sun do we have to go? And all of them without our child. The thought of surviving even one more day is often too difficult a task... Especially this past week. This has been one of the hardest weeks for me in some time. I have felt physically weak, sick, exhausted, angry and hopeless. I have barely eaten or slept. I have found myself crying and unable to stop, several times. And I have watched the love of my life suffering as well, and felt powerless to help him. 
So when does this "easier with time" part begin? When does seeing parents and children together stop making your chest ache? When can you walk by your child's room, without looking in & hoping to see them? When does answering the "Do you have kids?" questions stop causing panic attacks? How long does it take before dusting the box that holds your son's remains becomes "normal"? So far, I can honestly say the answer isn't a year. 
I know we have no choice but to take it one minute, one hour, one day at a time. But it is by far the hardest thing I've ever had to do. And there are many days when I doubt my ability to go on. When I can't fake a smile any longer. When trying to stay positive gets to be too much, and I just break down. When I want nothing more than to close my eyes and pretend this has all just been a bad dream. When I would give anything to see my husband's eyes light up, even if just for a few minutes. To be able to give him even a little of the joy back that he has lost. 
This is our struggle. Our path in this life. And I have to cling to the idea that there is a reason for it. That we are meant to carry this burden for some purpose. And I know that Zach is always watching us, and I refuse to let him down. So I will pick myself up, dust myself off, and carry on as best I can. I will continue to channel my son's energy and love of life, and I will remind myself that I am doing it for him. And in my darkest moments, I will close my eyes and picture his smile. 
We survived one year... We can do this...

                             My little family... My heart and soul.

The Wound That Doesn't Heal

It's been almost 11 months since we lost our son. Eleven months since our world changed forever. People often ask me if it's any "better" now. I hate that question. I never know how to answer it. Losing a child isn't an injury. It isn't an illness. It's.... well, it's in a category all its own. And it doesn't ever get better. It is a permanent wound that will never heal.
Each day as a grieving parent brings new tests and challenges to face. There is no preparing for them. They hit you like a punch to the gut, and you are forced to deal with them on the spot. Things that used to seem so innocuous, like grocery shopping, doing laundry, etc are now reminders of what you lost.
Simple conversations are riddled with bullets to the chest. People talking about their children and grandchildren brings up painful memories and longing for what could have been.
Meeting new people invites the standard "Do you have kids?" questions that stop me in my tracks. How do I answer that? If I say yes, they will expect a follow up of information. Age, sex, etc. Then I have to explain that our son is no longer alive. Can you say awkward and uncomfortable? But if I say no, I feel sick to my stomach. I feel like in one simple word, I've denied 18 years of life. Like he never existed. There is no easy answer. Most of the time I just try and change the subject and hope they don't notice.
Daily life as a grieving parent is an obstacle course of emotions. Some obstacles you learn to maneuver, and others will certainly trip you up.
We are not the same as we were before the accident. There is no way we could be. Things that once brought happiness, now are shadowed by pain. For example, baby announcements... I love babies. I used to get beyond excited when friends and family were bringing new life into our world. And don't get me wrong, I am still happy, but I am also heartbroken. It's like the emotions are battling inside of me, and I never know which one will win.
Every party and event is just one more thing our son is missing from. It's difficult to celebrate when all you want to do is break down. But you can't stop participating in life, either. Because if you do that, you feel guilty. When you lose a child, you feel an obligation to live on for them. So when you quit doing things, or give in to the depression, you are in some way doing them a disservice. Yet when you smile and laugh, you feel guilty that they cannot. That is another constant struggle.
So does it "get better"? No. It gets different. The pain is constant. You think of your child 24 hours a day. The initial shock of losing them may be gone, but the emptiness and sadness remain. They become a part of you. They effect everything you do, and every part of who you are. You try to find some kind of balance in your new normal, but it isn't easy. Emotional triggers are everywhere, all the time.
The rest of the world moves on, but we are trapped in this awful time warp. Each night reliving that moment, and each morning, remembering anew your loss. Such is the life of a grieving parent. This is our journey.

Father's Day

Tomorrow is Father's Day. A day to celebrate the men who nurture, support, love and value their children. For my husband, it's another reminder of what we no longer have. Of what we no longer are... parents. 
I know how I felt about Mother's Day, and I've been dreading watching him go through this. There is nothing I, or anyone, can say or do to make him feel better. There's no magic cure for the sadness and grief. 
But I wanted to do something, anything, to honor the amazing man and father he is. Father's Day was always a big day at our house. Zachary spent weeks, sometimes months, deciding on the perfect gift for his Dad. And he rarely managed to wait til Father's Day to give it to him. He would just get too excited. So today, I want to share Dan's story with you...

 Dan (my hubs) was only 17 when Zachary was born. Still in high school, and still a child himself. Not an ideal situation by any means. He went to school during the day, and worked at night, to provide a life for himself and his son. He made sacrifices that MANY in similar situations never make. And when Zachary's mother decided it was too much, and walked away (when Zach was only 9 months old) Dan took on the full parental load. He had help, of course, from his family, but the brunt of everything was always on him. And as with most things, Dan took it in stride. He did what needed to be done, and he made sure that his son ALWAYS had what he needed. I met Dan when Zach was 4 years old. I fell in love with both of them almost immediately. We were an instant family. But I was only 19 and Dan was just 22. We were substantially younger than most parents of children Zach's age. 

 But Dan worked harder and did more than most men twice his age. And he came home every night to his family. We ate dinner at the table together, and he helped with homework. He never once shirked his responsibilities, or made excuses. And the love he had for his son was evident in every choice he made. 

He taught Zach to ride a bike, came to every soccer and basketball game, encouraged and disciplined when needed and loved unconditionally. The bond that my husband and son shared was apparent to anyone who knew them. They had an amazing relationship that was only getting stronger. In many ways, they grew up together, and so they were much more than just father and son. They were buddies. Zach knew he could come to his Dad for anything. He knew that no matter what the circumstances, his Dad would ALWAYS be there. To fix his car, to offer advice, to share a laugh and everything in between. Dan wanted to give his son the world, and many times worked long hours, weekends and multiple jobs to make sure that Zach had anything he needed or wanted. And all of this while still being an amazing husband, son, brother and friend. Dan is incredible. He has the biggest heart of anyone I've ever known. He's selfless, kind, loving, funny, strong and just plain incredible. 

 After Zach's accident, there was so much to do and so many important decisions to make. And all while grieving the loss of our son. As always, Dan's character shone brighter than ever. He stayed strong and did what needed to be done, and he did it with grace and compassion. I've always been so proud to be with him, and honored that he chose me to share his life, but never as much as I am these days. Each morning, when I watch him climb out of bed and start his day, I am reminded of his strength. Each night, when I lie down in his arms, I am reminded of his big heart. And each time someone shares a story about our son, and what an incredible person he was, I am reminded that he was just like his father. And tomorrow, when the world is celebrating fathers everywhere, I will be celebrating the most amazing father and man I've ever known. And I know that our son will be looking down on his Dad with pride and love. 
Happy Father's Day, Dan. May you always know how loved you are, and how lucky your son was to have you as his Dad. XOXO

If Only I Had Known...

Tomorrow will be the 10 month anniversary of losing our son. It will also be exactly one year since we watched him graduate from high school. Such an odd combination...
One year ago, I was bickering with my 18 year old (bull headed) son about what he was wearing under his cap and gown. I thought he should dress up, and he wanted to wear shorts and a t-shirt. I remember him telling me that no one would be dressed up, since they had their senior overnight party following. I still pushed for at least pants and nicer shoes. I lost. He ended up being right, and almost all the kids were very casually dressed, so he didn't stick out like the sore thumb I'd assumed he would. 
I remember watching our little boy, who had somehow grown into a man overnight, walk across that stage with his big grin. I remember thinking "Wasn't he just starting kindergarten?" I remember crying like a baby when they called his name, and the pride I felt at seeing him sport his Cum Laude  tassels, and holding that diploma. I remember every moment of that day like it was yesterday. I also remember thinking that we had such a long future ahead of us. College, a career, marriage, kids, etc. This was the beginning of so many amazing things. If only I had known the truth... Two incredibly short months later, we held his hand in a hospital and said our goodbyes. In a matter of seconds, his life was gone, and ours was changed forever. 
If I could go back one year, I wouldn't argue about shoes and dress pants. I wouldn't fuss over his hair. I would just hug him longer. I would tell him again how unbelievably proud of him I was. I would tease him, just to see his smile one more time. I would make him laugh, so I could hear that magical sound again. I would tell him all the things I wish I could tell him now. I would tell him I loved him a thousand more times. I would take hundreds more photos, to try and capture every second that I could. I would pause time, and hold on to my little family for as long as I could. If only I'd known then what I know now...

A random moment between my son & I, captured by a family member after the ceremony. I love this photo so much. 

                                                   My little family... Just one year ago...

Mother's Day

Saturday was the nine month anniversary of Zach's passing. It's still so hard to believe that he's been gone that long. So much has happened in 9 months... I think of all that he's missed and I get angry. Holidays and special events are especially hard. Those are the days when no matter how good at denial you are, you just can't avoid the pain. I don't even need a calendar to remind me. It's like I wake up knowing that certain days are just going to suck worse than others. 
Like Mother's Day... As most of you know, I did not give birth to Zachary. I entered into a committed relationship with his father when he was 4 years old (and I was 19) and we became an instant family. Right from day one, I knew he was mine. We had an immediate and strong bond that was undeniable. I never expected to have a family. To the best of my knowledge, that is something that was never going to be in the cards for me. I was fine with that. I didn't think I ever wanted to be a mom. Then I met Zach. And more than anything in the world, I wanted to be his mom. And as it turned out, he needed one, so it was meant to be. I stayed home full time with him for almost 3 years. I taught him to read, write, tie his shoes and more. Once he was in school all day, I took a part time job that allowed me to take and pick him up from the bus each day, and the freedom to request days off to volunteer in his classroom and attend field trips. I packed lunches, helped with homework, was the bad guy that made him clean his room and eat his vegetables, got up with him at night when he was sick, and so on. Once he was old enough to stay home for a few hours, I went to work full time. But I still volunteered in his classes and attended all field trips, plays, concerts and games. That was important to me. He was my son, and I didn't want to miss anything. We did so much together. We even attended the Mother/Son Dance every single year, until the cut off age. I loved him with every ounce of my being. I still do. I may not have given birth to him, but he was my son in every other way imaginable. He was the child I was meant to have. He was my gift. And each year on Mother's Day, he made sure to tell me what that meant to him. From the time he was very small, he did something special for me on that day. Even before anyone else accepted it, he always showed me how important I was to him. And that meant more than anything. From handmade cards and gifts, to the later years when he bought me things with his own money. They all meant the world to me. It was the one day of the year that I most questioned my motherhood. And it was a day that without even knowing it, he assuaged my fears. He made me feel important and special to him. He made all the sleepless nights, doubts and fears disappear, and just made me feel like a normal mom. His mom. The best title in the world. And he made me realize that I didn't just want to be A mom, I wanted to be HIS mom, and not only did he need me, but I needed him just as much. 
Now Mother's Day is just a few days away, and every time I turn on the TV, radio or computer, I am bombarded with reminders. Reminders that I am no longer a mom. Reminders that my son is gone. Reminders that he no longer needs me, but that I need him more than ever. 
I am dreading Sunday... If I could take a pill and sleep through the entire day, I would. But unfortunately, that isn't an option. 
I miss my son. The pain is indescribable and immeasurable. And while the rest of the world is celebrating their children and motherhood, I'll be grieving the loss of both.... 

                                  My Boy Child and I, years ago. 

Grief Anger

As I've said before, I don't think that my Grief has gone in any particular order or stages. It's been a hurricane of emotions right from the start, and that hasn't changed much. 
I'm better able to deal with some of them, but they are all still there. Still raw. Still fresh. It's been nearly nine months since we lost our son. Not long in the grand scheme of things. Too long to not see or touch your child. 
He would be finishing up his first year of college about now. He was so nervous to start. I have no doubts he would have done great, though. He was always such a smart kid. 
But I guess we'll never truly know how it would have gone...
It makes me angry to think about it. He had so much life ahead of him. So many things he never had a chance to experience. College, living on his own, true love, a career, marriage, children. The list is endless. He had such a zest for life. He loved every second of it. Even when most people were complaining, he rarely was. He'd just shrug, laugh and say "Oh well. May as well make the best of it." 
Maybe that's what makes me so furious. I know so many people who piss and moan nonstop about anything and everything. They are so miserable in their existence, and they have no passion for anything. And they live long and healthy lives. It's unfair. I don't wish ill on anyone, but I just don't understand how the wheel of life turns. Why do the good die young? Why are so many innocent and beautiful souls taken so soon, while others who bring nothing but negativity and ugliness into the world live so long? Why does it seem as though the scales are tipped in favor of evil? Or maybe it's just me. Maybe I am bitter now. Or maybe I have always been. I'm not sure anymore. I just know that right now, I am angry. I am angry that my son isn't here anymore. I am angry that he is missing out on so much. I am angry that I am missing out on so much with him. I am angry that life is unfair and that there is not a damn thing I can do about it. I am angry that I couldn't protect him. I am angry that my husband lost his best buddy. I am angry that my mother-in-law and sister-in-law lost their grandson and their nephew. I am angry that my nieces and nephews will never remember my son. Some of them will never meet him. I am angry that I'll never see my son graduate college, fall in love, get married and have children of his own. I am angry about so much, but mostly I am angry that I'm angry. 
I know it's the last thing Zach would've wanted. He would want me to laugh and smile, and enjoy life for him. I can hear his voice in my head telling me to knock it off and cheer up. I'm trying kid... I really am. But sometimes the anger gets the best of me. Grief is funny that way. 

                        One of Zachary's senior pictures. Just look at that smile.

What Now? (A poem)

What Now?

The house is far too quiet,
There's no music to turn down.
The laundry hamper's empty,
There's no socks lying around. 
No snacks inside the pantry,
No wrappers on the floor, 
There's no one here who needs me,
I'm not a mother anymore. 

No messes here to clean up,
No lessons left to teach.
No boo boos that need kisses,
No shelves that can't be reached.
No homework to be checked,
No lists and rules and chores.
There's nothing left for me to do,
I'm not a mother anymore.

Three toothbrushes in the bathroom,
But only two of us live here.
But you aren't away at college,
You aren't living somewhere near.
You won't need help with groceries,
Or tips on how to score.  
You don't need me now for anything,
I'm not a mother anymore. 

No more stockings to be stuffed,
No more birthday dinners made.
The sound of your voice in my head,
Will slowly start to fade. 
Memories of how you left,
Still hurt me to the core.
Each day is a reminder,
I'm not a mother anymore. 

I still have lots of love to share,
Some advice I'd like to give.
I wasn't ready to say good-bye,
You had so much life to live.
They say God must have needed you,
But I can't understand what for. 
He took away our only child,
I'm not a mother anymore. 

There will be no wedding dance,
I won't see you say "I do." 
I'll never be a grandma,
And spoil a child or two. 
I guess we never know
What the future has in store...
But I do know one thing,
I'm not a mother anymore.

-Teena M. Hauxwell-Finn
April 19, 2013

8 Whole Months...

April 4, 2013. Eight months to the day. I still can't decide if it's been forever or merely a moment.  Time hasn't held much meaning since the accident. I barely know what day of the week it is anymore. But the 3rd and 4th of every month seem to find a way to make themselves known. It's like a funk that I just can't quite shake. The ever present depression and black hole are bigger and stronger than normal. I sleep even worse than usual, and I wake up feeling lost. 
Zach was born on a 4th, and he passed on one as well. He also graduated from high school on a 4th. Which wouldn't seem like that big of a deal, except that it was his first major life moment, and as it turned out... also his last. He never had the chance to start college. He never got engaged, married or had kids. His entire life was wrapped up into 18 short years. It isn't fair. I try not to get angry. I try to be thankful that we had him in our lives at all. I try to remind myself that he made a bigger impact in 18 short years than most people do in a lifetime. But then I get even more angry. I think "Imagine what he could have done with another 18 years. Or 30, or 50." 
Why him? I hear people say "It must have been his time." and I think "Is that true?" Do we come with expiration dates? Is there an invisible countdown somewhere that is ticking off the hours and seconds of our lives? If this idea is supposed to make me somehow feel better, it doesn't. Why do some people get so little time while others get so much? Why are killers and rapists allowed to live while innocent children are taken? Is this truly God's will? If so, how does anyone have any faith? I don't. I refuse to believe in any God who allows evil to continue and innocence to die. It gives me no comfort. 
Eight months ago, a single moment changed the course of our lives forever. The path that we were headed down, suddenly became a dead end. I don't know where the road leads now. I'm not even sure there IS a road. Sometimes it feels more like we are stumbling blindly through a forest, with no clear trail. Each step just takes us further away from him. From our son. From the family that we once knew. Sometimes I want to just stand still, and make time stop. I'm afraid as time passes and we continue on, I will forget things. The sound of his voice, the way his eyes lit up when he laughed. The feel of his arms around me in a hug. I'm afraid the memories that seem so clear now will start to fade. I cannot make new ones. These ones I have, are all I will ever have. They are precious and fragile. Time changes things. I now live in fear that time will take these from me, too. When 8 months becomes 8 years, will I still be able to hear his laugh in my mind? Will I still remember each line of his face? The smell of his hair? 
It's been 8 whole months... and my son is never coming back. 

                                              My little family. It will never be the same.

Surviving...

Well... we survived yet another holiday. Nearly 8 months have passed since losing our son, and though it certainly hasn't gotten any easier, we are learning to deal with our new normal. 
Holidays suck. Since losing Zach, I've had absolutely no desire to celebrate any holiday. They just don't feel happy anymore. I thought that Easter would be easier, since he was well grown out of the childish Easter traditions years ago. But as it turns out, that doesn't matter. We still always colored eggs together as a family and had a blast doing so. We'd dye so many eggs, we didn't know what to do with them all. We still colored eggs this year, but it wasn't the same. Nor will it ever be the same again. 
We still always bought him a basket of goodies. Though it was more candy and car parts and less games and toys. But I still loved buying his favorite treats and making up a basket to surprise him with. I didn't get to do that this year. Nor will I ever get to do it again. 
The funny thing about holidays after losing your only child is that you not only mourn the present, you grieve for the memories of the past. And you mourn the loss of a future. Dan & I will never take another family Easter photo. We will never have grandchildren or great grandchildren to hide eggs and buy treats for. We will never make new memories with our son. Our holiday & family traditions died with Zachary. 
People invite you over to celebrate with them and say things like "It's just a dinner." That couldn't be further from the truth. Every act is a reminder that our lives are forever changed. Every smiling photo is one that he isn't in. Every get together is one that he should be a part of, and isn't. And never will be again. 
Holidays suck. And we still have some of the biggest ones ahead of us. Surviving the loss of a child is... well, there are no words to describe it. Painful, awful, never ending and heart breaking aren't nearly adequate. 

                               My boys coloring eggs together. I miss this...

Stages of Grief??

I've heard people talk about the stages of Grief before. The different steps you take to get to acceptance and moving on. While there may be some truth to those, I don't think they apply when you lose your child. 
After losing Zach, I haven't been riding a roller coaster of well established and easily defined stages. It has been a terrorist attack of emotions that come and go when they please, without consent from me. I don't think I've moved through any stages. I think it was more like they all hit at once and then just stuck around. While some emotions take an hour, or even a day or two off, they all come back eventually. And some of them bring new friends to the party. 
I don't think losing a child is like any other loss. Period. You cannot compare it to that of a friend, a parent or grandparent, a sibling or a pet. So the same rules of Grief just don't apply. Some of the feelings may be similar, but they are on vastly different scales. 
People often tell Dan & I that we are doing so well. That they are amazed at where we are in our Grief. I'm baffled by this. For starters, I don't feel like I am doing well. I feel downright crazy most days. And how does anyone know where we are in our Grief? I can't even answer that. I wouldn't know where to begin. So for those of you who are wondering how we are really doing, let me try and explain...
Dan & I are different than most people. We don't show the same types of emotions that most do. We have what I refer to as an emotional "lockdown mode" that we can control. Most people do not have this. They feel things, and it shows. In their faces and actions. We still feel things, we just do not share those feelings with many people. For the better part of my life, I have been called a bitch, heartless, cold, etc, by many people. And that's fine. I CAN be all of those things. But most people assume that because I am not SHOWING emotion, I must not be FEELING emotion. And that couldn't be further from the truth. Since losing Zach, Dan & I have felt and shown more emotions than either of us even knew we were capable of. But we've also locked down many, many feelings and kept them to ourselves, or select people. That is just who we are. 
If we walked around showing all the things we were feeling since losing our son, the fallout would be catastrophic. Most people just cannot handle dealing with a Grieving parent. The truth of what we are thinking and feeling is too much for them. And that is fine. So we deal with it together. And with the help of a very small, but amazing support group of friends/family. Being the way we are, makes it hard for others to judge how we are doing. I understand that. 
So, here is the best I can do. We are surviving. Some days are better than others. Distraction helps, but isn't a guaranteed fix. We think about Zachary constantly. Everything we see and do relates back to him. There is no escaping the reality that he is gone. We miss him with every fiber of our being and the pain is indescribable. That is our new normal. But we have also made the decision to use that pain as a reminder. A reminder to live, because Zach no longer has that option, and we do. So we've decided to live for him. To do all the things we know he would want us to do. To carry him with us in spirit constantly and use him as a catalyst to keep going, even when it gets difficult. We've adopted his attitude about life and let it inspire and motivate us. It doesn't always work, but it has made a HUGE difference in how we deal. We made our son a promise to get through this, and we refuse to break it. So we push on. Minute by minute, hour by hour, day by day. It is all we can do. We are not the same people we were before, and we never will be. 

Bad Days... Grief Style

We all have bad days. Those mornings when you know from the moment your eyes open that things are just not going to go well. 
With Grief, those days are not uncommon. But they don't have to start bad. They can change at any given moment, for any reason, or no reason at all. After losing a child, you are NEVER the same again. You have what I refer to as a "new normal" and it is far from normal. Most days it means hanging on to your sanity by a thread. A very frayed, tattered and weak thread...
These bad days are not the kind of days where a good laugh, a tall drink or any amount of sheer willpower can fix. They cannot be "shaken off" and you can't just decide to "get over" them. They will come and go as they please. The best you can do is try and stay positive, distracted and hope it eventually passes before full on depression sets in. That's it. There's no magic cure or instant fix. It is just a part of the "new normal" that Grieving parents learn to deal with. And if you have a loved one who is going through this, just be kind. Invite them to lunch or to go for a walk, ask them if they want to talk about how they're feeling, give them a hug or just sit with them. But don't tell them to suck it up, or move on. Don't tell them that being sad doesn't change anything. Don't remind them of the reasons they have to feel better. None of that matters, and it is just going to piss them off. A Grieving parent can NOT change how they feel. Nor should they be asked to. We lost a part of ourselves that we can never get back. Our heart is not merely broken, it is shattered beyond recognition. And though you may be able to sympathize, unless you have experienced it, you cannot truly understand. So don't pretend to. Don't compare what they are feeling to anything else. There is no comparison. Period. 
Dealing with a Grieving parent is a practice in patience and compassion. It is not for everyone. That is something I learned almost immediately. There will be few people who step up to the challenge and MANY who walk away. You just learn to accept it. Most people just want you to go back to how you were before the loss of your child. They want you to not be sad, or angry or hurt. They want you to move on, because they've moved on. What people need to understand is that you NEVER go back to who you were before. That person died with your child. You become a new and different version of yourself. You will always be sad, angry and hurt. And you will NEVER move on. You learn to deal, you continue living, but some part of your heart and soul remain frozen with the loss. Does this mean a Grieving parent cries all the time? Or is bitter and angry constantly? Not at all. (Though I'm sure there are some who are.) We still laugh and smile and find happiness in things. But there is a layer of sadness and pain below the surface at all times. And sometimes, it breaks through. Without permission or logic. Trust me, we don't like it any more than you do. But it is our reality. 
I hate Bad Days. I have always prided myself on being able to control my emotions and keep myself in check. Those days are long gone. Now, anything from a commercial, to a bag of cheese balls can trigger an emotional reaction. Public displays of emotion are the worst, but I'll be damned if they don't happen. Grief takes one look at your pride and says "Watch this." and makes of mockery of it. Grief wreaks havoc on even the best waterproof mascara. 
Bad Days and Grief go hand in hand. There is no way around it. So you do what you have to do to get through them and that's it. Personally, I use sarcasm and snarkiness as a tool, but that's certainly not for everyone. So if you are having a Bad Day, don't get angry at yourself. Just accept that you need some time and do whatever you have to. Scream, cry, eat, run, etc. There is no right or wrong solution. Don't let other people (who have no idea what you are going through) tell you how to feel or act. And if you have those amazing people, who have stepped up to the plate and continued to support you, turn to them. More than anything, they want to comfort and help... so let them. (I need to remember these things, too.) 

A Letter To My Son...

Dear Zach,

I dreamt about you last night. But that is nothing new... I dream of you almost every night. I relive memories and moments of your life. I hear people talk about their loved ones coming to them in dreams, and talking with them. Hearing them say they are ok and that they know they love them. I would give anything for a dream like that. Why don't you come to me? I have so many questions. Are you ok? Will I see you again someday? Can you see and hear me when I talk to you? I talk to you a lot. Sometimes I swear I can even hear your voice answering me in my head. Or hear you laugh at me when I do something stupid. 

I sat in your room for a long time this morning. I read a bunch of the messages that were written to you at the luminary service. I still haven't read them all. It's too painful... Someday I'll finish them. I like to sit and look at your photos and talk to you. Sometimes I wear one of your shirts. You used to think it was kinda cool when I would steal your shirts. Mostly because it meant you were getting bigger, and you were obsessed with getting taller. You wanted to be big, like your Dad, and I wanted to keep you little forever. I would have settled for just having you forever... 

I miss you so much. I miss our talks about anything and everything. I miss teasing your Dad together and cracking up at the goofy things he does. I even miss you two making fun of me and laughing so hard you were crying. I miss all the stupid little things we used to do as a family. I miss all the big things, too. Spring is coming, and that means all your friends are on Spring Break. I wonder if you would've wanted to go somewhere again. Maybe this year we would've gone somewhere with you. We'll never know now... As much as I'm looking forward to spring and warmer weather, I know it'll only make me miss you more. 

Each day that passes makes me miss you more. You've missed so much. It isn't fair. This world is such a shitty place, and people like you made it better. So why you? People ask me why I don't believe in God, and I ask them how I could. Would a truly loving and caring God take someone so young and so kind? Someone who lit up the world just by being in it. Someone who helped others and had such a giving heart. If there really is a reason for everything, then at the very least we should know why we suffer. Otherwise, why bother. I don't want to believe in a God who forgives the guilty and punishes the innocent. I hear people say that you are in a better place now. Where? And how do they know that? I hope for your sake that it's true. You deserve the best. I just wish you could tell me that you're ok. That you're safe and happy. That you aren't scared or in pain. I hate the not knowing. I hate not being able to fix it. There's no kiss or band-aid to make this all better and it makes me feel helpless. 

I know I'm just rambling on... there are just so many things I want to say to you. So many hugs I want to give you. There was still so much left for you to do. I hate this... Today is not a good day for me. I try and stay positive and do what I promised you, but sometimes I just can't. I'm sorry... Sometimes it all just gets to be too much. Maybe I'm not strong enough to do this. I could sure use your light today, kiddo. 

I love you bunches and bunches, Boy Child...

Gift of Life??

Yesterday we received a letter in the mail from a recipient of one of our son's kidneys. A woman with children close to Zachary's age. It was a life saving procedure for her. She feels so blessed to have a second chance at life now. A chance to see her children graduate college, get married, have children of their own. 

When we made the decision to donate Zach's organs, this was exactly why. We wanted other people to have a chance to live. A chance to do things our son would no longer have the option of doing. We knew it was the right thing to do and we did it without question. Since that day, I haven't thought much about it. We've heard a few things from Gift of Life since then, but for the most part, I haven't allowed myself to focus on that part of our situation. Until yesterday...

Reading that letter, I expected to feel something. Anything. But I didn't. I wasn't sad. Or happy. Or relieved. I was just numb. I am grateful that this woman has a second chance at life. That her children will have their mother for (hopefully) many more years. But to be completely honest, I just don't care that much. I'm touched that she chose to write us and thank us, don't get me wrong, but I just don't feel like I hoped I would. I had hoped to feel some kind of peace at the idea that a part of our son lived on. I don't. Am I glad that he saved lives? Absolutely. But it isn't as though it gives me a warm and fuzzy feeling inside. In some ways it actually makes me angry. This woman, this stranger, will get to see her children do things that we will NEVER get to see our son do. And she gets to do it because of him. It just doesn't seem right. I know that is WHY we donated. It makes sense in my head, but just not in my heart. Does a piece of Zachary live on? Yes. But it isn't something I can see, or hold. It isn't a part of him that I can connect to. When we made the decision to donate, I kept thinking "I wonder who will get his heart." because to me, that was my lifeline. In my mind, there was this possibility that someday, just maybe, I would get to hear and feel my son's heartbeat again. That I could close my eyes and pretend for just a moment that my son was still here. But they couldn't use his heart. It had been damaged from being revived so many times. That news crushed a part of me that I hadn't yet taken the time to acknowledge. Until yesterday... 

I've read that letter over and over, hoping for some kind of reaction. I keep thinking it should have some emotional impact on me, but it hasn't. It's just an overwhelming numbness. She hopes to meet us someday. Right from the beginning I said that I was open to that, and I am. But I know now, that it can't be for awhile down the road. I am just not ready for that yet. I also know that I need to respond to her letter in some way. Gift of Life sends you guidelines to follow. They suggest what you should say, and list the things that aren't allowed. The letter goes to them first for them to "check" and then they pass it on. Logically, I know that this is for both parties protection, but it seems so cold. So stiff and arranged. It makes it hard to know what to say. I may have to give this some time, as well. I just don't know how I feel right now... 

Gift of Life sounds so profound. You are literally giving someone else life. But at what cost? Maybe gift is the wrong word. When I give someone a gift, I feel excitement. I can't wait to see their reaction. I feel nervous. I hope they like it as much as I hoped they would. And I feel warm. It's a good feeling to give a gift. I certainly don't feel any of those things in this case. People keep telling us we did such an amazing thing, and how we should be so proud of ourselves for doing that. I don't get it. We did the logical thing. It just made sense to do it. And if it saved even one more person from feeling what we were feeling, it was the right decision. But we still lost our son. That fact didn't change. Giving away pieces of him doesn't make our loss any easier, or ease the endless ache we feel. Donating organs saves lives. That is a fact. But those lives were saved because our son lost his. This is a very unbalanced scale for me. I would easily trade any of those lives to have my son back. Does this make me a bad person? 

This is the part of organ donation that no one talks about. The ugly side effect of The Gift of Life. Am I glad that these strangers get a second chance at life? Yes. But I am also angry that our son didn't. Do I regret our decision to donate? Absolutely not. But does it make me "feel good"? Not really. Am I touched that this woman chose to write us and thank us? Certainly. But it doesn't change anything. Zach is still gone. I still feel empty. Maybe it's just too soon still. Maybe somewhere down the line, I'll feel differently. Who knows... But for now, I just feel numb. 

Grief: Six Months

Today is six months. Six months ago we said goodbye to you. Six months ago we watched as you took your final breath. Six months ago the light in our world went out. Six. Long. Months. It feels like forever, yet at the same time, it feels like just moments. In many ways, time has stood still since you left. I'm standing still. I'm standing at a cross roads, and I'm not sure where to go. I still relive that night over and over in my mind. I see your face as you are lying in that hospital bed, and the pain hits me like a punch each and every time. Each morning is a reminder that you are gone. I know time has passed, because I can mark the days that you have missed. Holidays, birthdays, etc. But looking back on the last 6 months, it is simply a film reel of moments and memories. Some good, some bad, but all of them missing one thing. You. 
Half a year. In the next 6 months, we will have to survive all the rest of the days and dates that are important, that you should be a part of. Mother's Day, Father's Day, special birthdays, spring, summer and more. They will pass by just like the others, I'm sure. In a fog. Not fun, not special, not meaningful. Just another 24 hours without you in it. 
I think about what you would be doing. Would you be enjoying college life? Would there be a special girl you couldn't wait to tell us about? Would you be planning another Spring Break trip with your friends? Whatever you were doing, I know you would've been doing it with a big smile and a positive attitude. 
I know you are watching over us all. We've all felt your presence and your signs and messages are coming through loud and clear. Thank you for them. 
Thank you for being the best son any parent could hope for. Thank you for seeing the best in everyone you knew, and the world around you. Thank you for all the smiles and laughter. Thank you for teaching me that family isn't about whose blood you carry, but who carries you in their heart. Thank you for showing me that life isn't measured in years, but in memories that last a lifetime. Thank you for bringing light and love into the world. Thank you for giving me the chance to be a mom. To be your mom. Which was the best job in the world. Thank you for being my angel. For giving me the strength to survive these past 6 months, and the hope that I can survive the next 6, and the 6 after that. I love you more than anything, and I miss you so much it hurts. But because of what you taught me, and continue to teach me, for the first time in 6 months, I honestly believe that we can get through this. It won't be easy, but nothing worthwhile ever is. And I can think of nothing more worthwhile than keeping your spirit and memory alive...

The Black Hole of Grief

Last night, I had a really good talk with my sister-in-law, Tonya. She is one of the very few people who has shown endless support and concern for Dan and I. She doesn't just ask how I'm doing, and if she does, she refuses to let me get away with saying "I'm ok." or "I'm fine." She digs deeper, and she asks real questions. When I talk to her, I feel like she is genuinely trying to understand where I'm coming from and she truly wants to help. She has one of the biggest hearts of anyone I've ever met, and when she cries with me, I know her empathy is sincere. That means more than she'll probably ever know, because that is such a rare quality. Now don't get me wrong, I have wonderful friends and family. I know that there is a large number of people out there who care about Dan & I and would be there in a heartbeat if we asked. But that's where the problem lies. We aren't going to ask. Grief is a strange emotion, and as I've said before, it is 99% private. More often than not, I am going to keep my feelings to myself. Not because I don't want to talk about it, though that may be the case sometimes. But mainly because I know that most people just don't want to hear about it. And that is fine. I don't blame them. So I put on my normal face, and I go about my life. They assume I'm fine, and I am perfectly happy allowing them that peace of mind. But the truth is, I am far from fine. And last night, while talking to Tonya, she mentioned how much she thinks writing about what I'm going through helps me. But she also told me how it helps her to understand what I'm dealing with and how she can better help me. And you know what... She's right. Writing has always been a form of therapy for me. I never thought about whether or not I was good or bad at it. I only knew that when I sat down to write, I felt better, like a weight had been lifted. That my mind felt clearer afterwards. I realized last night that I don't like to talk about my feelings, but I don't mind writing about them. So, in some strange way, this is therapeutic for me. And if by reading this, it helps someone else, that is just a bonus. 

One of the things that came up in our talk last night was what I refer to as the Black Hole of Grief. I've referenced this before, but I'm not sure I ever really explained what it is, or what it feels like. So here goes...

From the moment I walked into the hospital room and saw my son, I instantly knew that my life had been changed forever. I didn't need a doctor or nurse to tell me that he was gone. I just knew. My son was one of those people that exudes energy and light. His presence was felt from the moment he entered a room, and noticed as soon as he left. When I saw him in that hospital bed, his light was gone. Not just dulled, but extinguished entirely. It was in that moment, that the Black Hole became a part of my life. I've talked about those first moments before. How I wanted nothing more than to get in the car and follow him into whatever came next. And had the situation gone differently, who knows... I may have just done that. But I couldn't. Not only did my son need me, but so did my husband, and we had decisions to make, and questions to answer. But the Black Hole was there, just looming in the background. I'm not sure how to describe the Black Hole. It's like a physical presence that is constantly lingering by your side. It beckons you to fall in and forget everything. To give up. To be swallowed by the overwhelming pain and allow it to take over. It is the darkness that you struggle to ignore. It is the shadow that accompanies every bit of light that you fight to uncover. It is always there and it is very strong. From the moment I wake up, it is there. It's like a constant battle of wills. To get out of bed and keep going, or give in to the Black Hole and give up. Do I go to the party and TRY and have fun? Or do I give in to the Black Hole and wallow in my misery? Do I continue on in search of the light? Or do I give in and succumb to the darkness? 

I made a promise to my son that day at the hospital. I promised him that I would fight. That I would live for him. That I would try and be more like he was, and find the joy in life. That I would take care of his Dad and that together, we would make him proud. I knew when I made this promise that it would be the hardest promise I've ever had to keep. But I refuse to break it. It was the last one I made to him and sometimes it is the only thing keeping me from falling into the Black Hole. So I get up. And I get dressed. I put on my makeup, and I plaster a fake smile on my face. I fight the darkness with every fiber of my being, and I hope that someday, I win. I hope that someday the smile will be real, and that as time goes on, the Black Hole will get smaller and less powerful. This is my daily battle. And it is far from an easy one. But I have the most amazing angel on my team, and together, we WILL get through this. 

The Many Faces of Grief

It's funny how people think about Grief. I think a lot of people believe that if you aren't crying, you must not be sad. I can't begin to tell you how wrong that is. 
I had people approach me at the funeral home and say things like "I can't believe you're not crying." or "You don't seem very upset to me." I was so shocked, I didn't even know how to respond. Then a friend of mine arrived, who has also lost a child, and said "I see you are in robot mode. That's good." and I wanted to kiss her. FINALLY someone who understood what I was going through. When you suffer an extreme tragedy, you react in a million different ways at once. You are so overwhelmed with emotions, that rarely does one individual feeling supersede all the others. Well, except maybe numbness. Did I cry? Of course I did. And I still do. All the damn time. Did I scream and yell, and question why? Yes. I went through such an extreme range of emotions in such a short time, that I'm not even sure I had time to recognize them all. I am still experiencing new ones, in fact. And reliving a good deal of the old ones. That is what Grief does to you. It doesn't come in any particular order or arrangement. It can strike you at any time. In any place. And for as short or as long as it takes. Period. So to assume that because someone isn't crying, they aren't sad, is ignorant. 
If you've ever had to make life altering decisions in a limited time frame, plan and attend your child's funeral and grieve, all while attempting to maintain any bit of sanity you may still possess, you may understand what "Robot mode" is. It is survival mode, pure and simple. You put your emotions in lockdown and you do what you have to do. Is it easy? Hell no. And it doesn't always work, either. But it is THE ONLY way to get through. Losing a child is something no one should EVER have to deal with. It is unthinkable and more painful than anything you could ever imagine. And it never ends. 
But you still have to wake up each day and live. So in order to do this, you create a second face for yourself. And maybe a third and a fourth face, too. Whatever it takes to get through. You smile, you laugh, you act normal. But that is external only. On the inside you are ripped apart. Your heart and soul are barren and you wonder if you will ever truly feel happiness or joy again. 
Grief is more often than not, a silent emotion. It is hidden. It shows its face from time to time, but you learn to cover it up with fake smiles and pretend normalcy. You wear a mask and you push through. 
For nearly 6 months, I've lived this life. I show one face to the world, while the real one hides just below the surface. You say "I'm fine." or "Things are OK." and you change the subject. That is how you survive. It becomes your new way of life. This is my new normal. You may ask why. Why not show the world your Grief? And some people may choose to do that. I don't. Grief is a very private thing. I've never been one for public displays of emotion, so for me, this is how I deal. Sometimes feelings escape, and it is unavoidable. Triggers are everywhere, and there is nothing you can do at times, but succumb to the emotions. But the rest of the time, you put your mask on and you act normal. 
This is what Grief does. It changes you. So don't assume that person who looks "OK" or "Just fine" isn't sad, depressed or in unimaginable pain. Don't ask them why they aren't crying or think of them as cold hearted. They are dealing with things you probably cannot imagine, so just be kind, and sometimes, just offer them a hug. 

Struggle

Let me start by saying that I LOVE cars. Ever since I can remember, I have been fascinated by the looks and sounds of these amazing machines.

They come in so many different shapes and sizes, you could never see them all. I love the way that people take an automobile and make it as unique as themselves. I love driving. I love the feel of the car under and around me. I love the sound of the engine as you accelerate and the noise of a turbo spooling up. Each car has its own unique and individual sounds, and the best ones can be recognized in an instant. 

When I met my hubs, and found out that he was a "car guy", I was elated. I grew up with four brothers, but even though they all have an appreciation for cool cars, they weren't what I would call "car guys". I love that Dan (my hubs) is into cars. And not only does he love them, but he knows damn near EVERYTHING about them. Seriously, it's kinda freaky. But I love it. I love that I can ask him questions and he can answer them. I love watching him work on cars and learning new things. I love the passion and excitement in his voice when he talks about cars and car parts. It's adorable. And contagious. I find myself getting giddy over carbon fiber and blow off valves. 

Dan comes from a long line of car guys. His dad, uncles, grandfather, etc. all have this love of vehicles. So, it was no surprise when our son, Zachary, started exhibiting all the usual signs of engine fever. It was in his blood. As a child, he was always in and around fast cars, he probably spent as much time in a garage as a playground. And he loved it. When he got his first car, he couldn't wait to start changing parts and "making it better". So, of course between him & his Dad, they did. Some of my favorite family memories with my husband and son involve cars. From hanging out together in the garage, to car shows, race tracks and more. We were a self proclaimed car family. Team Finn. That was us. We watched car videos together, and bought each other car parts for birthdays and Christmas. On any given day, one or all of us was wearing clothing with our favorite car company logo emblazoned on it. Bickering over our favorite cars or discussing parts was dinner conversation for us. 

Now part of being into cars is understanding all the risks and dangers involved with driving. Especially when driving fast or recklessly. My husband has always been an amazing driver. It's like he has a sixth sense when it comes to cars. He is so in touch with his car, it's like an extension of his body. I am continually impressed by what I have seen him do in a driver's seat. It's awe inspiring. And sexy as hell. But he is also VERY careful to explain to others that he has years of experience doing what he does. So when our son started driving, he had it drilled into his head on a regular basis to NOT do these things. And for the most part, he listened. At least as much as any teenager with oil in his blood and a genetic case of engine fever is bound to listen. He had a healthy respect for the power and dangers that come with the territory. On August 3rd, 2012, our son, Zachary was involved in a roll over car accident. He wasn't drinking or on drugs, and he wasn't driving carelessly. It was just a freak accident. On August 4th, he passed away due to his injuries. He had just gotten a new car less than a week earlier. A Subaru, like his Dad. We were becoming a Subaru family, and he was so excited to show it off to his friends. A few days before, he and his Dad had put a brand new stereo in it and were making plans for all the things they were going to do to the car.

He never got the chance to do any of it. At 18 years old, our son died doing something he loved. Driving. This is my struggle. For all the love I have of cars, and all the joy they have brought me and my family, I now find them in my nightmares. I am haunted by the images of my son's last moments and the twisted metal wreckage that brought them to pass. Although logically, I know the car was not responsible for his death, I cannot help but think that maybe things would or could have been different if he hadn't been behind the wheel. I know that this is a futile battle waging in my mind, because things are NOT different, and no matter how much I wish it so, the past cannot be changed. But I struggle, nonetheless. 

Each time my husband gets in his car to go to work, or run an errand, my heart stops beating, and does not resume its normal pace until he returns home safely. I live in constant fear of another knock at the door or panicked phone call telling me my life is forever changed. Again. 

I encouraged my husband not to give up his love of cars. To keep finding joy in them, as I know our son would want him to. And I am grateful that he has resumed car projects and I have seen his spark return while behind the wheel of his beloved Subaru. I wish I could say the same. I find myself dreading getting in it. I am OK in our daily drivers. They don't bother me too much. Though I certainly don't find the same simple joy in driving as I once did. But getting into my husbands project car makes me feel sick to my stomach. Maybe it's because that is what we drove to the hospital that fateful day, or maybe it's because I know the raw power and speed that car possesses and now am all too aware of what can happen. I'm honestly not sure. But I do know that I am almost grateful for the winter weather that keeps it tucked safely in the garage. I hope that in time, these feelings will pass, and I too can find the happiness I once found in it. Because I DO love it. 

But I still struggle with these mixed feelings about cars. I love them and hate them equally right now. I love hearing my husband get excited about parts and videos, but at the same time, I am struggling with NOT wanting to hear or talk about them because it brings up difficult memories. I hope this is just a temporary feeling, and that in time, I can get over it. But for now, this is just another path the Grief has taken me down, and I have little choice but to follow it...

(My son, Zachary, with his beloved first car. This was one of his senior pictures.)

Messages of Love

Ever since I lost the first person I cared about, I've wondered what happens to them after their passing. But after losing my son, this curiosity has become more of an obsession. I'm just not sure what to believe...

I myself am not religious. I was raised in the church, but I just never bought into the whole God thing. It just didn't click with me. I believe in the concept of being good to one another and trying to be the best person you can, and many of the facets of religion as a whole, but not so much the part about a giant, all knowing, all seeing, yet completely uninvolved entity in the sky. But that is a subject for another day, so back to the subject at hand. 

What happens to us after death? It is a question that has haunted (no pun intended) people for eons. I have talked to many people about this, and have heard everything from "Nothing." to every version of Heaven you can fathom. I really don't want to believe nothing happens. And I find that difficult to believe anyway. It is a fact that we are made of energy. It is also a fact that energy cannot be destroyed. It can however be changed. This leads me to what I have come to believe. 

I think that when a person passes away, their physical body dies. But the energy that they possessed must go somewhere. Since I very strongly feel that ghosts & spirits are real, having witnessed this myself, the idea that a person's energy (or soul) carries on is feasible to me. 

I think we are surrounded by the energies/souls of those that have gone. I believe that just like every person in life was different, so are their souls in death. Some are more energetic, some are quieter, some are angry, some are happy, etc. So their energy manifests itself in different ways. 

I FEEL my son with me. Not in a physical manner, but in an energy that surrounds me. Sometimes it is stronger than others, but it is there. I can't explain it, and if you've never experienced it, you'll probably think I'm crazy. But if you HAVE felt the "presence" of a passed loved one around you, then you know what I'm talking about. 

Since Zachary's passing, myself and others have had signs & messages that we have no doubt are from him. Are we just yearning so badly for proof that he's not gone, that we are reading too much into things? I suppose that's possible. But isn't it also possible that we really are receiving some kind of clue that he is still here? I understand that there are coincidences in life. But when do repeated coincidences become something more? When do we stop making excuses and just accept that some things we just can't explain? Maybe you have to lose someone close to you. Maybe you just have to have faith. Whatever the case, I have chose to accept that my son is still here. That although his physical body is gone, his energy and his soul are not. 

For those of you that have struggled with Grief, and especially the loss of a child, you know the hopelessness and pain that it brings. The sadness and agony that are always just below the surface. If you've ever received a sign or a message from that loved one, you also know the unadulterated joy it gives you. Though it may only be temporary, it is a reprieve from the pain nonetheless. And isn't that the point? They want us to be happy. To carry on. Not to forget THEM, but to try and forget the sorrow. So they are reminding us that they are not truly gone, they have just changed forms. 

Maybe this sounds crazy to you, and that's fine. Sometimes it sounds crazy to me, too. But I am choosing to believe. I am choosing my son over nothingness. So if that makes me crazy, so be it. I can't say I have felt 100% sane these past 5 months anyway. 

So to those who think that their loved ones are sending them messages or signs. Whether they are feathers, butterflies, dreams, music or something else. Embrace them. Allow them to fill your heart and bring you some much needed peace. Even if only for a little while. Where's the harm in that?