A patient recently told me that six months after her mother died she felt as if a fog had suddenly lifted. I have experienced something similar, but I describe it in different ways.
In the first few months I felt as if I had blinders on. I couldn't look around me, I only saw what was right in front of me. Driving with me was an experience, at one point Emily got out of the car and confiscated the keys from me. I only laughed when people asked when I was going to get my own motorcycle, I sure didn't need to be in charge of a bike in this condition. I think I first realized the blinders had been removed sometime in November when I was driving on a familiar road. I drove past an area that once had been wooded, and for the first time noticed that it was cleared. This obviously did not happen overnight, but I was seeing it for the first time.
Another way I have been describing this fog is that I was seeing things in shades of gray. Nothing had any brilliance. The world looked flat and one dimensional, just the way I felt. We were invited to many veteran and patriotic events over the summer so I know that the flag alone should have lent plenty of color, but I didn't see it. I can't tell you when I first saw glimpses of color again, I think it came back gradually. I only recently walked outside and thought, "What a beautiful day." I saw the blue sky and the sparkle off the snow.
I know there will be hard times ahead of me yet, but I'm happy to say that I am getting back to the land of the living and seeing it in full color.
Friday, February 25, 2011
Friday, February 18, 2011
Year of Firsts
I have been trying to figure out why I've been having a terrible couple of weeks. There is no special dates that fall in late January or February, I'm not feeling that the winter has drug on too long and Dave and I have been keeping busy working on the golf benefit. Why then am I in such a panic? It came to me the other day when yet another person talked about getting past all the "Firsts"
That comment scares me. Is something magical going to happen when I finally get passed the first year? Am I suppose to stop thinking of him or feeling blue? Or are others going to be less tolerant of my talking about him or my moods just because I made it though all the firsts? At a seminar for survivors last fall I heard numerous times that many people feel the second year is worse than the first!
I couldn't figure out why the statement bothers me so much until the other day when it occurred to me that I haven't been viewing things in "Firsts', I have been reliving the "Lasts". The last time I spent a holiday with him, the last time we took him to the airport, the last time I hugged him, the last time I talked to him, and worst of all, this time last year he was still alive. I think that is what frightens me, in a few short weeks that will all be gone, no more last year. I look at the date each day and wonder where could a year have gone?
You may think that the lasts are harder to deal with, but I don't think so. The date of the last time I talked to him is coming up. It was a Sunday morning, as usual, he'd ask if he woke us up, and I would lie and tell him no. While he was deployed we would each get on a phone because you never knew how long you would have to chat, ten or fifteen minutes is normal. That commercial of the family all racing to the phone to talk to their son and brother is brutal to watch, it is too close to reality. Anyway, that morning he didn't want to get off the phone, he just wanted to hear our voices. We talked for two hours!! This is a happy memory, it was a gift.
I'm not saying that the "Firsts" haven't been difficult, I just have chosen to focus on the "Lasts". I don't think I would have changed anything about them, I don't really have any regrets. I always ended our conversations with "I love you". Maybe that is why they are easier, good memories are better than thinking about a future without my son.
That comment scares me. Is something magical going to happen when I finally get passed the first year? Am I suppose to stop thinking of him or feeling blue? Or are others going to be less tolerant of my talking about him or my moods just because I made it though all the firsts? At a seminar for survivors last fall I heard numerous times that many people feel the second year is worse than the first!
I couldn't figure out why the statement bothers me so much until the other day when it occurred to me that I haven't been viewing things in "Firsts', I have been reliving the "Lasts". The last time I spent a holiday with him, the last time we took him to the airport, the last time I hugged him, the last time I talked to him, and worst of all, this time last year he was still alive. I think that is what frightens me, in a few short weeks that will all be gone, no more last year. I look at the date each day and wonder where could a year have gone?
You may think that the lasts are harder to deal with, but I don't think so. The date of the last time I talked to him is coming up. It was a Sunday morning, as usual, he'd ask if he woke us up, and I would lie and tell him no. While he was deployed we would each get on a phone because you never knew how long you would have to chat, ten or fifteen minutes is normal. That commercial of the family all racing to the phone to talk to their son and brother is brutal to watch, it is too close to reality. Anyway, that morning he didn't want to get off the phone, he just wanted to hear our voices. We talked for two hours!! This is a happy memory, it was a gift.
I'm not saying that the "Firsts" haven't been difficult, I just have chosen to focus on the "Lasts". I don't think I would have changed anything about them, I don't really have any regrets. I always ended our conversations with "I love you". Maybe that is why they are easier, good memories are better than thinking about a future without my son.
Friday, February 11, 2011
Yoga
Taking care of myself after Curtis' death was not a priority, or something I just didn't think to do. I needed something for myself, so I joined a yoga studio.
Something I learned shortly after starting, besides my apparent lack of strength, is that I had been holding my breath, definitely since Curtis' death, but more probably since he had left for boot camp. When asked to take in a full breath, I would stop after only a few seconds, my lungs were full. Another thing I notice is that my practice will follow my moods. At times I'm solid and in balance, and there are days that I'm unable to concentrate and fall out of posses. But overall, I've come a long way since the beginning, and I feel it has helped me tremendously.
I've been desperate to feel Curtis near me. I have mentioned that I do not dream of him, but I do not feel his presence either. This bothers me so much that it hurts. I have had a particularly tough week with mini panic attacks and a feeling that I am forgetting something, but for the life of me I cannot remember what it is. During my yoga class the other day, I was all over the place. By the end of class I had changed my mantra to "Come to me Curtis" I know it sounds desperate, it sure sounds like it to me!
That afternoon, while home for lunch, I spotted a bald eagle floating lazily above me. It was a bitter cold day, and we were nowhere near open water. Thank you Curtis, I know you are with me.
Something I learned shortly after starting, besides my apparent lack of strength, is that I had been holding my breath, definitely since Curtis' death, but more probably since he had left for boot camp. When asked to take in a full breath, I would stop after only a few seconds, my lungs were full. Another thing I notice is that my practice will follow my moods. At times I'm solid and in balance, and there are days that I'm unable to concentrate and fall out of posses. But overall, I've come a long way since the beginning, and I feel it has helped me tremendously.
I've been desperate to feel Curtis near me. I have mentioned that I do not dream of him, but I do not feel his presence either. This bothers me so much that it hurts. I have had a particularly tough week with mini panic attacks and a feeling that I am forgetting something, but for the life of me I cannot remember what it is. During my yoga class the other day, I was all over the place. By the end of class I had changed my mantra to "Come to me Curtis" I know it sounds desperate, it sure sounds like it to me!
That afternoon, while home for lunch, I spotted a bald eagle floating lazily above me. It was a bitter cold day, and we were nowhere near open water. Thank you Curtis, I know you are with me.
Friday, February 4, 2011
Address Book
My address book has changed drastically since last April. I've been told this can happen, but it has taken me by surprise how different it looks. There has been some long time friends and family members that we have not heard from, but for the most part the numbers have gone up substantially.
I think Dave describes it best when he talks about this new path we have been placed on, and you are either on this path with us, or occasionally merge on to it, or you are not. We can't be angry or hurt that some choose not to, we just don't have the time nor the energy to be.
Some joined us immediately when they showed up to the wake and funeral, we may not have known them then, but have had an opportunity to get to know many of them since. One in particular we met last week at a Patriot Guard get together, she has been walking this path with us silently and unseen. Janell is a mother of an Army soldier about the same age as Curtis. After hearing about Curtis' death she knew she needed to do something, so she quietly attended his funeral. After seeing the dignity of the Patriot Guard she soon joined them. It makes me feel good that Curtis had such an impact on people he never knew. Her story of her first mission while relearning to maneuver a bike is hilarious! Every member of the Patriot Guard has a story and a big heart, I am so glad I get to hang out with them, and grateful to call them my friends.
Gold Star families are another group that has filled my book. It is a group none of us ever wanted to be part of, but it is where we ended up. For us this path is not a walk, it is a march, but so many are enduring it with grace and dignity. The support, advice and tears I share with them have gotten me further than I could have alone. Jamie is a wonderful young lady we have met that lost her brother a few years ago. She moved here from Florida shortly after his death, but talked to very few people about it. She wrote on Curtis' memorial wall and she and Dave started a rapport. She has since visited us several times and opened up about her experience. I believe this has helped her to deal with her brothers death better, and we have gained another friend.
There are so many more I feel blessed to have met, so many caring people that I would have never known. My book may be full, but I can always find more space for people like this.
I think Dave describes it best when he talks about this new path we have been placed on, and you are either on this path with us, or occasionally merge on to it, or you are not. We can't be angry or hurt that some choose not to, we just don't have the time nor the energy to be.
Some joined us immediately when they showed up to the wake and funeral, we may not have known them then, but have had an opportunity to get to know many of them since. One in particular we met last week at a Patriot Guard get together, she has been walking this path with us silently and unseen. Janell is a mother of an Army soldier about the same age as Curtis. After hearing about Curtis' death she knew she needed to do something, so she quietly attended his funeral. After seeing the dignity of the Patriot Guard she soon joined them. It makes me feel good that Curtis had such an impact on people he never knew. Her story of her first mission while relearning to maneuver a bike is hilarious! Every member of the Patriot Guard has a story and a big heart, I am so glad I get to hang out with them, and grateful to call them my friends.
Gold Star families are another group that has filled my book. It is a group none of us ever wanted to be part of, but it is where we ended up. For us this path is not a walk, it is a march, but so many are enduring it with grace and dignity. The support, advice and tears I share with them have gotten me further than I could have alone. Jamie is a wonderful young lady we have met that lost her brother a few years ago. She moved here from Florida shortly after his death, but talked to very few people about it. She wrote on Curtis' memorial wall and she and Dave started a rapport. She has since visited us several times and opened up about her experience. I believe this has helped her to deal with her brothers death better, and we have gained another friend.
There are so many more I feel blessed to have met, so many caring people that I would have never known. My book may be full, but I can always find more space for people like this.
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