In one of Rob’s art classes he did a small painting that he didn’t think much of, but I loved. He promised me I could have it once the class was over and his portfolio graded and returned. It was one of his first attempts at painting, a sunset over water in pinks and oranges and yellows. I’ve been searching for it since he died. Today, quite accidentally, I found it.

It was a sequence of events that led me to the painting. I’d been having a hard day and finally retreated to one of my favorite spots to be alone with Mother Nature and do some reading on art and healing. Eventually it got cold, and with park closing time approaching, I came home to pick up where I’d left off.  The painting came to mind again though, and for some reason I decided to look in one of Rob’s portfolios – the one I thought held nothing but blank paper and an assortment of leftover materials. A little digging there uncovered the long lost painting, along with some others I’d never seen before. It was, of course, a happy discovery. Now the search was on for an empty frame.

As I rummaged through the closet I found, not a suitable frame for Rob’s painting, but some of my own old artwork including a design for a labyrinth I had envisioned years ago. It struck me how very much has changed since the time I was designing that labyrinth, and how much of ourselves we tend to lose to the march of time and the more urgent demands of daily life. Most of us get another chance at things like that if we wait long enough and it was important enough, but Rob lost that battle; he was still fighting to find himself and develop his talents amid the very real pressures of our daily lives, and time ran out.

When your child dies much too soon, before he’s had a chance to leave his own mark on the world, you feel a very real drive to do that for him. You need to ensure that although he’s gone there will be something real and solid left behind so that others will know he was here. I’m in the process of doing that now. I thought it was for Rob, and indeed it is, but perhaps it’s a bit more. There’s no denying that I’m still lost myself. So I suppose in creating a legacy for my lost son, I’m trying to find myself again as well. And that’s okay. In fact, it’s right, because it’s what Rob wanted for me. I’m just trying to paint a beautiful sunset for both of us.

It’s been a while since I’ve posted. I’ve struggled to know what to write, didn’t really feel like talking about it, but the words are starting to flow now and that can only mean that I’m finally ready to release them. There have been setbacks.

The first came in the form of an ugly power play in the workplace just as I was heading home for the Christmas holiday. I do get how people can be, how office politics can be, even how I might unwittingly contribute to them, and yet I’m never prepared for such things when they’re directed at me. It caught me completely unaware and sent me reeling backwards into deep depression and uncontrollable anxiety. Back to Rob’s death and beyond. It was as if all the crisis and tragedy of the past decade – including Rob’s death – were crystallized into one excruciating hammer of grief and anguish, and I was nearly paralyzed by it. I felt completely and utterly without hope. And oh, by the way, Merry Christmas.

Two months later, with the ongoing help of doctors and counselors, I have worked my way through it to a great extent, becoming mostly functional just in time for the onset of Rob’s death day (2/23), and birthday (3/5). Those I have managed in the best way I know how – in retreat with nature. On the anniversary of Rob’s death I went back to a spot on the Eastern Shore (of Maryland) that was the only place I found any peace and comfort at all in the weeks following his death. I sat on the bench of a wooden overlook platform by a marsh of the Chesapeake Bay, and as I started speaking to Rob, there raised a slight breeze and the sun appeared from behind the clouds. All at once my little corner of the world was suffused with light. “And this shall be a sign unto you.” It was a good long talk with Rob, followed by a good long walk through wood and meadow and along water’s edge. I found peace. On his birthday I drove to a different spot, for a similar outing, and thought more than a little about Rob as a child at different ages and stages, and other happier birthdays. It was a slightly more bittersweet day.

Now I’m trying to put these sad dark months behind me the best I can. I’m still fighting depression – I don’t sleep well, I have difficulty concentrating, and I can’t remember or keep track of a thing. I’m still angry at the time and the progress I’ve lost as a result of the bludgeoning I received in the workplace. I was so close to turning a corner, so relaxed, so optimistic about what I might accomplish in those two months I lost, that it’s hard to forgive and forget. I’ll try of course, but I think what I’m realizing as I – hopefully – begin to emerge from the darkness is that more changes may be in the wind. There have been signs that Rob is trying to tell me to be prepared for it. The time draws near for movement.

There it is again, that ever present theme of light following darkness, of death and rebirth. Spring is nigh upon us after all.

So Thanksgiving was successfully managed, and now we’re heading into the big one – the Christmas holidays. My survival strategy is not fully formulated; it’s been coming together in bits and pieces. Which leads me to one of the best things I’ve done for myself lately – art therapy.

The last week in November I went for the first time to an art therapy group. There were perhaps a dozen people, all with different stories but united by a common thread of trauma and recovery. For the first hour we worked on individual art projects – some of us starting fresh, some with works already in progress. Faced with a conference table filled with an assortment of art materials, I had a decision to make. Since I’d wanted to experiment with collage for some time, it didn’t take me long to move in that direction. An hour wasn’t long enough to complete it, so I brought it home to work on.

I’d already been doing research on the use of the creative arts for healing and self-renewal. I’d purchased the book Art and Healing: Using Expressive Art to Heal Your Body, Mind, and Spirit, and I’ve set up a tiny ‘art studio’ area in my kitchen. If I had the luxury, I would spend hours sitting at that table engrossed in the business of creating. As it is, I’ve worked on it in snatches of free time, mostly over the weekends. And as I do that, I’m finding that this process of collage is a great metaphor for my life now.

In selecting words and images for my piece I looked for anything that evoked strong emotion in me – representations of where I’ve been and where, to the best of my knowledge, I’m headed. I leafed through magazines to find the bits and pieces – snippets here and snippets there.  Now I’m making decisions on which to keep, which to discard, and where to trim away what’s superfluous leaving only the essential. I’m sorting, arranging, and rearranging. Right now it’s only a concept; some portions are starting to emerge, but others are still shrouded in mystery. It’s taking more time than I’d like. The design decisions are sometimes difficult. But that’s the way it works. Eventually it will be solid and cohesive. Eventually the fragments will come together to form a new and meaningful whole.

Just like my life.

As the Thanksgiving holiday comes to an end, I’m sorting through thoughts and emotions. Last year at Thanksgiving time, the first without Rob, my mother was hospitalized and my mental and emotional energy was consumed with the twin tasks of trying to handle the circumstances of her condition, and mine. I barely noticed the holiday.

This year as Thanksgiving approached I found myself thinking – though rather benignly – “Be thankful? Really? I can manage neutrality, but thankfulness may still be beyond my reach.”  At the same time I was surprised to find I wanted to have the family for Thanksgiving at my place and to do the cooking myself. It felt right, though I couldn’t imagine why. It was confusing.

But it was right. It wasn’t frenzied or exhausting. I planned ahead and took Wednesday off so I wouldn’t be rushed. On Thursday I enjoyed cooking, setting the table, and selecting music before the family arrived. The dinner turned out well, a late afternoon feast by candlelight, and we continued to relax together until well after midnight. I think they would agree, it was quality family time.

The past two days I’ve spent a lot of time resting, walking in the woods with my cats, and wondering – as Dr. Seuss’s Grinch would say – “How can it be so?” How is it that I can have this heightened sadness and longing for my son, and at the same time reap such peace and happiness from the holiday? It’s still confusing. To try to make sense of it, I started a mental list of the things I’m thankful for right now, this weekend. Here’s what I came up with:

• I’m thankful for my family, and the happy time we spent together on Thanksgiving Day.
• I’m thankful for the faith that keeps me going.
• I’m thankful for the quiet woods right outside my door, and beautiful sunny fall days to ramble there with my cats at my heels.
• I’m thankful for the comfort my cats bring me – their bond with each other and with me, the little family the three of us make.
• I’m thankful for the gifts of time and silence, of rest and of peace.
• I’m thankful that I am – very, very slowly – finding new direction for my life.
• I’m thankful for hope.

I guess the answer is that our emotions are not mutually exclusive, one replacing another in linear fashion. We are complex creatures. Sadness can exist alongside peace and fulfillment, and for me now that will always be the way of things. Mixed blessings perhaps, but I can be thankful still. And I am.

The altar

As the end of the Celtic year draws near, I feel the dark sadness of ‘the dying time.’ Stress in the workplace has dominated the month of October, leaving me exhausted and discouraged. The past few days, as Hurricane Sandy threatened and then raged, I’ve had time to rest. But with rest comes physical renewal, and with physical renewal comes the strength to grieve again. It’s a pattern I’ve become very familiar with. Necessary but difficult.

How to summarize it? I feel sad, angry, frustrated, and yes, threatened. At times it feels as though the harder I try to rise above, to do good in spite of sorrow, the more the world pushes back. It’s hard to remember that the world isn’t in great shape either; even harder to care. I need to remember that I’m in that depressed state I’ve come to recognize. I need to remember that I can’t force my way out of it, I have to ease my way out of it. I need to remember what I used to tell Rob…not to struggle so hard against it, to “ride the wave” and I’ll get through it. And apparently I need to cry. And cry.

And when that wave finally casts me once again upon the shore, I will pick myself up and remember what I’ve accomplished over the past weeks and months, despite the difficulties. I will keep following my heart with the knowledge that the way will once again open up before me – it just won’t always be easy. I will get back to the work I’m trying to do in Rob’s memory. I’ll do some more ‘grief reading.’ I will try to stay strong in the knowledge that the sea of despair hasn’t yet drowned me, it just tosses me around for a while and then throws me back on solid ground, back on my feet. I will continue to pray, and I will remember these words that I wrote last year at this time:  “I will draw the darkness of the short, cold days around me and rest. I will allow myself to incubate, to develop. I will cast my thoughts like seeds into the earth and let them germinate. And I will hope for new life.”

It’s October 10th and I’m just getting around to my September post. September is a tough month. The start of a new academic year is a busy time in a university registrar’s office; it’s just the nature of that work. So there’s that. But the change of any season is a notoriously hard time for those who have suffered devastating loss, and I think the transition to autumn is perhaps the second hardest for me. The days get shorter and the landscape gradually becomes bleak. It can be hard to keep things light.

Autumn was always a hard time for Rob too. As early as his elementary school years I came to learn that he would struggle from September until the holidays. He could never really settle in until January. So I guess it should come as no surprise that he’s been on my mind in a different way these past weeks. There is almost never a moment that he’s not in my mind on some level, but I’ve learned to carry him with me in the back of my consciousness. I survive his loss by making him an abstraction. When his memory pushes its way to the forefront – as at the onset of autumn – when I stop and really remember his face, his laugh, his crazy antics, his intelligence, the feeling of his hugs and the depth of his love and caring, it’s very nearly more than I can bear. Even now. And then I fall hard.

I miss you so, my little pumpkin seed.

I have chronic neck and lower back issues from arthritis and old injuries. The kinds of injuries that you think you’ve dealt with and healed from at the time, but that come back to haunt you later in life. They’re mostly kept under control through regular chiropractic care and physical therapy. The pain or stiffness is generally associated with what the doctor calls ‘transitional movements’ – getting out of bed, going from sitting to standing, bending over, etc. I’m uncomfortable during those transitional movements, but once on the other side I feel better. My muscles and joints have had a chance to stretch and flex; the action is beneficial. It strikes me as a good metaphor for my life.

The other night I finally reread the chapter on Transcendence in Ashley Bush’s book. Bush says that “grievers who transcend gain a different perspective on their loss and see it in a new light…they can see the loss as an integral piece in the puzzle of their lives.” But, she adds, “There is one additional, important step. Transcending the loss is about striving to make the experience an ultimately positive and redemptive one. It is about grievers resolved to using their pain in a meaningful and inspirational way…to…insist that something tragic can and will lead to something meaningful. These grievers have discovered the gifts that flow from grief…transcending loss means choosing a path of transformation in spite of and including the pain.”

Though I didn’t have a word for it at the time, it took me less than a week into the mourning process  to know that transcendence was my goal. I need something good to be born of Rob’s death. I need it for myself, and I need it for Rob. Now that I’m moving out of disorganization, and as I continue to synthesize, I’m thinking more actively of what that good work might look like. With the help of a local pastor I’m brainstorming and talking it out, doing some research, letting it begin to take shape in my mind, and very slowly connecting with interested others in the community. But my heart and my mind are stiff and achy; the mental and emotional effort still almost painful. Getting from synthesis to transcendence is transitional movement.

Soon I’ll be reading the second half of Transcending Loss. It deals with the author’s road map for reaching transcendence – SOAR. Spirituality, Outreach, Attitude, and Reinvestment – it’s a hopeful sounding acronym, and one that shouldn’t be hard for me to embrace. I’m looking forward to it. If I keep stretching and flexing, if I keep managing the discomfort of transition, then maybe – just maybe – I can still soar.

“When a star dies in the universe, its light continues to penetrate the darkness for many millions of years. Our loved ones are like stars in the heavens now, and although their lives have ended on this earth, their lights continue to shine. Their influence endures”
~ Ashley Davis Bush, Transcending Loss

I’ve been reading Transcending Loss. At first I was afraid it wasn’t going to be the book I’d hoped for; the first 47 pages devoted to what I already know only too well – the pain and emotional disorganization that characterizes the first year or more following the death of a loved one. It wasn’t until Part II: The Lifelong Impact of Grief that I began to find what I was looking for – a little bit of a road map to the next phases of the process.

One of the things that I’ve struggled with, continue to struggle with, is the idea that I somehow have to move on without Rob. It’s a big hurdle for most bereaved parents; no matter how it’s phrased, moving on feels like leaving behind. In Transcending Loss I found the comforting idea that I “cannot and should not sever the ties. Your loved one is in your heart, in your soul, and wrapped intrinsically into who and what you are…Just because the person is dead, it doesn’t mean your feelings or the relationship dies.”  What a relief it was to read that.

But how does one do that, exactly? How does one “synthesize” as the author calls it? Part of the answer lies in doing some things that she acknowledges aren’t mainstream in our (American) cultural approach to death, but that she recommends and that really appeal to me. They mesh well with my spiritual beliefs. Here are a few:

• I’m trying to remember to ‘talk’ to Rob, even to ask him the questions that I didn’t get a chance to ask while he was still alive, or that I’m just thinking of now – maybe nothing will come of it, but you never know. If I really pay attention, maybe the answers will be revealed in ways that just take a little more work to ‘hear.’ Lately I’ve started saying ‘good morning’ each day to Rob and all my loved ones on the other side, and asking for their help and protection throughout the coming day. It happened because the other morning on the way to work I looked up at the sky and suddenly felt them all there, as present as if they were corporeal. In the evening I try to remember to express my thanks and say goodnight.
• I’m purposely trying to talk about Rob with others. People do often tend to freeze momentarily when I say his name (as the book predicted) and I sense them waiting for me to break down. Sometimes I feel like I might, but I notice that I’m very slowly becoming able to think about times in Rob’s life, things he did or said, and take at least an equal amount of comfort in the memory as pain. That’s new.
• I’ve started going through the things in Rob’s room and closet, thinking about how I might use more of his possessions around the house, deciding what to keep and what to give away, and what to do with his room.

It isn’t easy. I’m doing a lot of what the author calls “retriggering” – mentally reliving those early days and the searing pain of his loss. But it’s been therapeutic nevertheless. I figure I still have one foot in disorganization, but I’ve got at least one foot in synthesis. It’s enough for right now.

Next: Transcendence

I’m not wondering whether or not there’s an afterlife; I’m pretty solid on that question. What I’m wondering is if I can ever again truly find happiness and meaning  in my life here and now, after the death of my son. Much of my mental free time over the past month and a half has been spent pondering that. How do I learn to live productively with this new invisible handicap? Who am I now, what do I want for myself, and what is there that could possibly lend shape and substance to the rest of my life?

So it was with great interest that I read the article, “Grief Has No Closure (Fortunately)”, that was passed along to me by a friend. Appearing in the Huff Post’s blog, “GPS for the Soul”, this quick recap of author Ashley Davis Bush’s book, “Transcending Loss: Understanding the Lifelong Impact of Grief and How to Make it Meaningful” struck several chords – deeply. Here are a few excerpts:

Loss is lifelong — Loss is our most universal experience. We carry the remnants of loss with us every day. Let yourself grieve and feel your pain, riding the waves of feeling….understand that “normal” grief never quite goes away. While it changes over time, its impact endures.

Love is eternal — You are still in a relationship with your dear one. This love is an integral part of who you are….They will always be a part of your life.

You are changed — Don’t expect to return to your “old self.” You are living into a new self. This self has new attitudes toward life, toward death, toward spirituality and toward your own life’s meaning and purpose.

Much of this is common sense I suppose, but the affirmation still helps. It’s the last concept that I have, at times, wanted to scream from the hilltops – “I am forever changed. Don’t expect me to be who I was. I am not.”  I grant you it’s confusing, even for me. Much about me remains the same, but I have changed – continue to change – in so many subtle ways. And even I can’t predict where and how those changes manifest; it seems to be a very gradual, very organic evolution. So I’ve ordered Ashley Davis Bush’s book; I hope her insights will continue to inspire me. I’ll let you know.