Wednesday, December 14, 2016


When your primary occupation for years and years has been mothering, and then when your child takes his life, you know people are judging your skill as a mother, and you know this because you did it yourself, before, with friends, speculated about why a child would take their own life, and always it came back to bad parenting. And as a mother whose primary occupation for years and years has been mothering, you feel defeated, and you act particularly upbeat out in public with your children, especially at their school, proving to the world over and over again that your son came from a good home with a loving mother. But you question yourself, your ability to mother, wondering if anything you do really makes a difference, exhausted by the most basic daily tasks, so that a simple trip to the dentist with your children feels like an accomplishment above and beyond what it should, because making the appointment, and getting everyone dressed and there on time requires monumental effort. 

"See, I am a good mother," you say to no one in particular, and to everyone who might think you're not.

Thursday, September 22, 2016

Grief is like . . .

Grief is like a colostomy bag.

It's this thing you carry with you, tucked away, hidden.

Ever present on your mind, distracting, demanding.

People who know about it don't talk about it out of politeness.

People you've just met get uncomfortable if you mention it, so you learn not to.

You can't blame them for not wanting to hear about your shit.

Wednesday, July 20, 2016

Grief, grief, grief

Grief is boring. My blog is boring. Who wants to hear one more word about grief? I know I don't.

But I can't get away from it.

My primary identity is as a grieving parent. I don't remember feeling this way about other difficult things I've dealt with. I'm the parent of a child with Down syndrome, but it's never felt like my primary identity. I'm a cancer mom, but, again, it's never felt like my primary identity. But this? This is huge.

Mark died over 20 months ago. That's a long time. And no time at all.

If you've never lost a child and you think you can possibly imagine what it's like, you can't. It's like trying to explain to expectant parents the amazing feeling of love you have for your own kids. You can't really understand it until you experience it.

There's little that interests me these days. I keep my family loved, comforted, fed, and clothed. When I'm not actively engaged in any of those activities, I just exist. Joy comes in little bursts, and then it's back to the grind of grief. Not crying all the time, just weighed down.

Grief, grief, grief. Ugh.

Saturday, March 19, 2016

No Happy Ending

Everyone loves a good story. People gobble up tales of those who overcome adversity. You see it on magazine covers, hear it in the "feel good" stories on the news. Some sort of difficulty is faced and overcome, the person learns a lesson, grows, and is changed for the better. I often listen to Christian talk radio in the car. It seems recently the programs have all featured people who've had bad things happen, but who are now able to share how God saw them through, a neat package of adversity tied up with a big bright bow.

Three weeks before Mark died I spoke at a women's retreat. I told the women about the times I faced adversity and how I grew with God's help. I told the story of my husband's mom coming to live with us, how we felt it was the right thing to do, but how it was very difficult to carry out on a daily basis. I told them how things started off great, then went sour, but how my attitude changed and I came to appreciate her. I was also able to tell about John's birth, how hearing the words "Down syndrome" knocked the wind out of me, and how I felt God revealed to me the blessing John is. I challenged the women to seek God and trust in him. Happy, happy.  Adversity overcome. Yada, yada, yada. It all feels like a cruel joke now.

The morning of the retreat as we gathered, a murmur went through the group when one woman came through the door. "I'm surprised to see her here," someone said. When I asked why, I was told her adult son had taken his life that week. I knew I had nothing to offer that woman. All my happy talk about overcoming adversity couldn't touch what she was going through. As I spoke I specifically avoided making eye contact with her. What did it feel like to lose a child? What did it feel like to lose a child to suicide? Little did I know what lay ahead for me.

So here I am nearly 17 months after my own son's death, February conveniently including a 29th this year so I could properly count the month. I am stuck in my adversity and see no way out. I wrote before about hanging onto my faith, and I'm trying, I really am, but I'm angry at God. I don't think I'll ever be able to talk about this event with a positive twist. Could I tell a nice group of women at a retreat on a Saturday morning that I cuss like a sailor, that I use the f-word freely, that without it I feel unable to properly express my continued bewilderment and incredulity? Would any nice Christian want to hear from a woman who's abrasive and coarse?

There's nothing happy here, no positive twist. There's only broken and frustrated and sad with the ache of missing, missing, missing.

Thursday, February 11, 2016

Carpe Diem: Seize the Carp

I need a lot of downtime, whole days with nothing on the schedule.

I'm not the mother with a successful photography business raising five kids, two with special needs. I'm not the mom selling real estate while juggling the schedules of three boys in various sports. I'm not the mom who after hearing that her daughter had a lifelong intractable seizure disorder reacted by painting her home's interior. These are all women I know--real people!--but that's not how I operate.

It takes me a long time to react to new situations, to figure out where I'm going and what I'm doing. It took me three years to get used to the idea that I needed to register for summer sports in February. Who thinks about summer when you're just trying to stay warm in February? I was always the mom running to someone's house with a registration form and check in March.

I can handle only one event at a time. All my attention focuses on the band concert dress that needs to be hemmed before the band concert on Tuesday completely forgetting that another child needs an outfit for a choir concert on Thursday.

Have you ever seen the videos of people in boats traveling down a river while Jumping Asian Carp fly out of the water and whack them? That's me. That's how life feels. Make dinner, hem the dress, find the shoes, go to church, go to speech therapy, read the book, answer the e-mail, go to the play. Life keeps coming at me like those Asian Carp. I duck my head and bat them away one by one, but I need to stop often and crawl into the bottom of the boat to rest.

I don't have a type A personality. I don't even have a type B personality. I'm way down the alphabet at C, D or E.

None of this was helped by Mark dying. Now I see the carp coming, duck down and just hope no one notices I'm not even batting them away anymore. I celebrate the fact that I've managed to keep everyone in clean underwear for the last year. Seriously. Everything beyond that is gravy.

And what made me think about this today? John has needed to have his nails clipped for about a week. I beat myself up this morning as he was getting on the bus and I realized I had forgotten . . . again. Off he went to school with claws on his hands. But wait! I thought. His iPad is charged!

His teacher won't appreciate it, but today that was the carp I was able to knock down. I'm hunkered down in the bottom of the boat. All other carp are being ignored. 

Tuesday, January 12, 2016

Letting Go

I've come to realize that the only way to go on living without being debilitated by grief is to let Mark go. Last year at Christmastime I could have told you what he wanted. This year, I didn't know. What new interest would he have discovered? What new gadget, trend, or sport? I don't know. I don't know because Mark is gone.  Just gone.

Every day I wake up and he's not here. Letting go feels like sawing off a limb in slow motion. Every single day.  Saw . . . saw . . . saw. He's not here. He's not coming back. He was here and we have great memories, but we're not making new ones with him. We're making new memories without him. That hurts like hell.

Every day I go about life the best I can, still weighed down by grief, trying to move on. Saw . . . saw . . . saw. I have the sense that people around me expect more of me.

Every day when you get up and enjoy your morning coffee, I'm here slowly sawing off a limb. You head out to face the day with the buzz of a little caffeine. I head out to face the day with the pain of the sawing still throbbing.