Refelctions On My 60th Birthday

My surviving child calls me because it's my birthday. She wants to know I am working at having a reasonably good day; that I am meaningfully engaged and feeling something approaching happiness. I put on a shiny voice for her. She has enough stress in her life. She doesn't need to worry about me. But the truth is, more than anything else, today just feels like another marker of misery in my failed, sorry life. The truth is, I am tired of this, and just want it to be over. Still, I do my best impression of a content and centered person. If nothing else, I succeed at relaying how much I care about her, and the things going on in her life. Of all my affectations, this is the one that is true. I tell her I have to run because my landline is ringing with a potential job prospect. That is kind of true. But she's a smart girl, always has been. She calls me back a half hour later because she doesn't trust my disposition is as sunny as I pretend. She doesn't tell me that's the reason she called back, and we both pretend we don't know that it is.

Just the same, something odd happens to me during the course of this second phone call. She starts talking about her 3 year old son (my grandson) Vaughn. He's a fascination to her, and seeing his spirit and intellect evolve and grow is a revelation. She sucks me in with this conversation, because he's a revelation to me too; an amazingly complex, beautiful puzzle assembling itself in front of our eyes. And while I realize she's a very astute and accomplished young woman all on her own, I remember I taught her to look at life this way; as an intriguing puzzle to figure out, give language to, and do "sense making" around. I realize this intellectual habit is enriching her spirit; enriching the enjoyment of watching her baby boy grow. And in that moment, I feel engaged and grateful more than detached, empty, and regretful. We chat this way until she has to go, suggesting she and Vaughn Skype with me later. And as I hang up the phone, I hope against hope this engaged, grateful feeling lingers a bit, until I put my shiny face on with them again later this evening. It took her some effort, but if I'm honest, I must admit her conversation hurled a shaft of sunlight through my stormy, cloud covered spirit. And as birthday presents go, that's as good as it gets these days.

Ann, Forever Justin's Mom

TO MY BELOVED JUSTIN ON HIS SEVENTH MEMORIAL DATE

Dearest Justin,  
As of today, I am seven years away from you. And that feels excruciatingly far. I wish the last time I hugged you was a week ago. And that it had been only four days since I heard your voice on the phone. And I wish I was expecting your call in the next few days and waiting for your visit accompanying me to the 4th of July fireworks you know I love so much. And knowing you, I would understand that you believed watching your aging, but still crazy Mom getting so excited about fireworks was a perfect way to spend some time with me. This awareness and quiet caring are among the things I miss most about you.

 
I recently came across this picture in your cousin’s photo album. You were about 14 when it was taken; already grown into your young man look, but retaining vestiges of my baby boy’s gentleness. I see kindness in your face, coupled with a calm determination so characteristic of you. You have a subtle, barely discernible smile in your eyes, and an overall expression that is thoughtful and serious at the same time it is open to the revelry around you. And even through your Urkel-like glasses you are beautiful. I love this image of you, and the remembrance of your spirit it evokes. I long for the day when looking at it brings only warmth, joy and a sense of being present with you; the day when anguished, heart stopping loss is not associated with this image at all. But I fear no matter how long I live, I’m unlikely to get there. Actually, time feels like the enemy in this regard, since the distance from you as years pass create their own trajectory of grief and pain. But cherishing and remembering you are more important than this pain my love. It is seven years ago today. I will miss you always. And you will be present with me forever.

Eternally, Your Mother

6/30/13 

Things They Left Us

The quote below is derived from science literature about a recent discovery on fetal cell duration in the mother’s body. This amazing scientific fact inspired the poem that follows entitled, “Things They Left Us” 

 

‘Scientists have recently revealed that a mother's bloodstream contains not only her own cells, but a small number of her child's as well, and some may remain in her internal organs decades after the baby is born. Scientists discovered cells from fetal boys and girls have been found in mothers "four to five decades following the last pregnancy." That fetus may have grown into a middle aged pharmacist, and still his cells are inside his mother.’

 Things They Left Us

We live among our dead;

We mothers of lost children;

Carry their remnant DNA inside us;

In uterine lining, heart and brain;

Haunting our very cells.

Viscerally present but not visible;

Unavailable to touch but forever felt.

For postpartum eternity we carry them.

They will never leave us. Yet they are gone.

This is another way we hold them that is beyond control.

It cannot be willed away through determination or purpose.

It is empirical reality. It is physical fact, this flesh of my flesh.

You left yourself with me before permanently leaving my sight.

How could I not grieve you forever?

 Forever Your Mother

4/19/13

Images of Justin

Response To Another Mother Of A Beloved Lost Child

The following post is a response to another mother who lost her son to suicide recently (April of 2012). Her name is Jill, and her son, Charlie, was just a few months over 12 years old when he took his life. Jill and I are members of an on-line support group called POS (Parents of Suicide) whose participants share feelings and experiences about their loss. The sentiments she expressed resonated so much with me. In the following excerpt from her post, Jill describes her existence in the aftermath of Charlie's death. 

"The obliteration of all of your dreams at once. The knowledge that any path you take from here will
never be an acceptable change in direction. Nothing we do from here will make my life what it should have been. I have handled a lot of abrupt turns in the course of my life. This isn't a turn. Not one thing that happens after the death of Charlie will ever be greater than the pain of his loss. The rest of my days
are to be survived, endured. The most I hope for is to minimize the torture and pain. ........  Damn, it's a long march to my grave from here."

My response:

Hi Jill,
I seldom post, but your comments here caught my attention, and they totally resonate with me.
June 30, 2013 will mark seven years since I saw my son Justin, or heard his voice (except on family videos). I'm not one to tell you how this pain will become more gentle in the future. Everyone has their own journey. All I can tell you is, while my pain has changed, it's still very much there. It's no longer the "hair on fire" jump out of my skin kind of pain that only a loss of consciousness can diminish. Now, it's more like a slow burn. It's like an old injury from a disfiguring, nearly mortal wound. And it aches chronically. Sometimes I can successfully ignore the pain. Other times it breaks through with a vengeance, only easing up after I take to the bed for a time out. Sometimes the time outs are aided by  generic xanyx medication. Other times, simple exhaustion from brief, intense crying jags do the trick. These episodes happen regularly. During the periods when the chronic pain is more muted, I can bask in the warmth of a POS retreat; I can enjoy a good movie or talking with friends; I can get excited about pictures my daughter emails me of my grandson, or look forward to holding him in my lap during our next planned visit to NY. And while the muted pain is always there, lurking beneath current events, it doesn't stop me from feeling the joy of that particular moment.

I suspect this negotiated truce with full-on pain is as good as it's gonna get though. I believe it will always threaten. Sometimes it will take charge. But I'll continue to surf through it until it retreats to its underground lair. And it'll wait there for me until the next time. I'm a good bit older than you Jill, but I must agree, the rest of my life (however long or short it is) feels like it's gonna be a long, hard slog. In the meantime, the best I can hope for are as many moments as possible where the joy surfaces, and the pain is muted. I continue to hope such moments are worth it, or that I'll move into some increased level of awareness that make me certain it is. As a person who continues to listen, read, and strives to understand, I hold on to the possibility that in this lifetime I can evolve to a place unimaginable to me now. And in that space, I'll find peace, and a deep, true wisdom. I think I'd be able to really feel Justin if I could get to that space; feel him in a way that made him fully present for me. And if that could happen, holding on will have been totally worth it. We shall see.

Sincerely,
Ann, Forever Justin's Mom
9/9/81 thru 6/30/06
http://justin-woodly.gonetoosoon.org/
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=svGniIEdbZ8