Paul has been gone for ten years. Grief changes shape, becomes more a part of who I am with very few surprises. I usually know the situations or destinations that will spark a longing for Paul and bring a few tears. I have come to welcome those times, to savor the memories and even the pain - which in itself has changed shape.

During the early years of grief there were many situations that caused what Alan Wolfeld calls a "grief burst"; they hit me out of the blue and were intensely painful.

After 10 years, I am rarely surprised by them.

Rarely. But not "never".

Last night during Analice's band concert I knew that I would, at some point, feel the pain of sadness that Paul was missing this next milestone; that Analice was missing the presence and pride of her father; that I was missing seeing them together. Not surprised, knew it would come, welcomed it when it did, shed a few tears, made it a part of me. Filed it away.

Then the surprise. That unexpected punch in the gut, choking back sobs (as opposed to a few tears down my face), wrenching pain (as opposed to the gentler 10-years-later pain). The shock, the "ut oh, can I sit here and not lose it?" feeling.

A song from the 80's, performed by the middle school rock band. A song called "Kryptonite" that Paul sang ALL THE TIME. In his room, in the car, leaping around corners to sing it to me; he even left it on the answering machine one time (I have that tiny cassette somewhere...).

As they sang, the memories flooded in, memories I hadn't thought about for years. His voice, his face, his grin. It's not a song I ever hear, even as an "oldie", as I don't listen to the right stations for that.

It was hard to sit there in one way. In another way, I welcomed it. Welcomed the memories that hadn't come to the surface in a long, long time. Welcomed seeing and hearing Paul in my mind in a fresh way.

Because I don't get any new memories anymore. And after 10 years the memories tend to be the same ones, triggered by the same things.

Surprised. Another bend in the road, another milestone. Another something to tuck in my heart. That song went through my mind all day today and I savored all the memories they stirred. A something "new" to hold onto for a while.

Nine years seems like a turning point in my grief journey. Or maybe it's just how I'm processing this particular year. My mind & heart are much more focused on the future we are missing, rather than what happened in the past. Possibly it's because more and more of Paul's friends are married and having children, getting settled into their careers, etc. One thing I learned about grief a long time ago is that my heart can hold opposite & conflicting emotions all at the same ...time;I've learned to live with "side by side" emotions and thoughts. In this stage of my life, of my grief, the conflicts come in the form of 100% joy and excitement for these young people I love as they experience the delights of this life God has given us; side by side with a distressing bout of jealousy and sometimes, anger. Grief is complex, as are human emotions and responses. This morning I am more consumed with "what Paul is missing; what we are missing" than with "what happened 9 years ago".

However, no matter what I feel on any particular day,and this day in particular, it all boils down to: Paul is gone from the earth. The days of his life, written in God's book, ended on Nov. 6, 2005. I search my mind for memories, distressed that his face and voice aren't as easily retrieved. I enjoy driving through Wichita because I know that places will trigger memories and feelings. I'm glad we live in an age that allowed me to take pictures so that I have memories preserved more clearly than my mind seems to be able to preserve.

Death is final. On this earth. Only One has risen from the dead, but because of Him, I have hope. I know this isn't the end. I mourn only the future on this earth, but can rejoice that there is an eternal future yet to come.

So, today, I mark another year that I can't see, touch, or hear my son. I hurt, I wonder why. And yet, there is peace that the Lord is faithful, is in control, and I can leave the questions with Him.
Paul, I miss your clomping boots, your laugh, your quiet helpfulness. Some things I don't actually MISS, but they were all you, and I would prefer to be dealing with them, rather than without them, without you. I miss being able to talk with you; we were alike in so many ways. I miss all of the 19 years I had with you, and I miss a future that will never be. My heart is forever broken.

The beginning of fall always stirs up the memories of Paul. Not that we don't think of him every day, but Gil and I both have had him on our minds more than usual the past couple of days. Yesterday as I drove to meet my friend, I found myself writing a letter to Paul in my head.

"Dear Paul, the intersection where you had the wreck is having a traffic light installed. The entire road is changing shape as they make a new exit/entrance off of 235. Analice is 10, can you believe it? She is enjoying her new school so far. I want to put fall flowers at your grave, but the monument people haven't yet fixed the vase, so it's 

 sitting in the garage. I'll visit, anyway, but I can't bring flowers, for the first time. It makes me sad. Laura is getting married soon. I wish you were here to be a groomsman, to dance with her again, as you danced with her at Erin's wedding."

On and on. I know I'm not telling him the changes in our lives, but rather, trying to grasp how much time has passed, how much he has missed, how much we have missed, trying to process it in my own head.

Fall. It used to be my favorite season, but I hesitate to say that anymore. I do like the weather turning cooler, but what fall really means to me is another reliving of "the last time..." incidents, and dealing with the death anniversary of my son. I think lately I've told people who ask, that winter is my favorite season.

Dear Paul, I've discovered another way I've changed, since you died...."

The digital clock at my bedside is yours. It startled you awake early each weekday morning for work. I can't bear to hear the alarm, so use it only to mark time's passage.

Today I watched it click to 5:00 A.M. 

Eight years ago the machines keeping your body alive were turned off at 5. Today I watched each minute pass, remembering your face, the last beats of your valiant heart.

Silence. 

Waiting.

Rules and laws.

I remember everything.

5:05.

She said, "Time of death, 5:05 A.M.".

November 6, 2005.

This morning your life slides through my mind from beginning to end. Precious memories. Sweet baby gurgles. Funny boy, mowing the carpet. On and on through the years, good and bad. Laughter and tears. Music. Tall young man. Heartache. Laughter. Life.

It was too short.

Paul David, forever my baby boy, my tall young son. There's no one like you in my life. I think about you every day. I miss you every day.

I'll honor you by being me, because you hated hypocrisy. I'll honor you by raising your daughter and telling her about you. I'll honor you by trying to be a better friend, because so many called you "my best friend".

The minutes continue to click on by and I must start the day. The little girl with your eyes will soon be awake.

Another day of life. Another day without you. And yet you're always here. Paul. My only son. I miss you.

Memories are triggered by so many things.  Passing a particular place as you drive. A smell. Words.

Words I heard on the news this weekend sparked a memory that happened eight years ago today.

When a trauma occurs you later find that there are HUGE chunks of time you can't recall to memory.  What I've discovered, though, is that certain MOMENTS are crystal clear.

This weekend when I heard the words "he's been unresponsive since..." I was immediately transported back to the ICU unit at St. Francis Hospital, November 5, 2005. 

The room was quiet, and somewhat dark, except for the glow of the monitors posted at Paul's head. He was quiet, as he'd been ever since I'd seen him, attached to machines, his body warm, but not moving. I sat on one side of his bed, holding his limp hand, stained and calloused from hard work and guitar playing.

On the other side of the bed sat a doctor.  The only doctor I liked during this entire ordeal (although I have to add that the nurses were all ANGELS, very special to me to this day). He was young & compassionate.  (I found out later he was the neighbor of JoBeth Rood, who told him that Paul used to mow her yard when they lived in our neighborhood, and that she and I are friends.) 

He'd been explaining all the medical facts to me, what had happened, how it affected Paul.  I promise to not tell you all that.

The part of the memory that feels like it happened yesterday, and that the newscaster's words brought me back to were these:

Me: "So, is he in a coma?"

Dr.: "No.  He's been unresponsive since he was brought in."

There was a period of silence as I processed all he'd just told me, along with the answer to my question.  It verified what God had told me hours earlier.  But I had to ask, and the doctor waited, knowing I had to ask. He kept his eyes on mine.

Me: "So. There's no hope."

His eyes continued to look into mine.  He shook his head at the same time he said, "no."

My memory stops at that point.    Honestly, I have no idea if we talked longer, or if he left me alone to cry and ponder.  That's what I mean about huge chunks of memory being gone. 

My friend, Karen Werner, once asked if it was a hard decision to decide to donate Paul's organs.  I said, "No.  The hard thing is to accept the fact that your son is gone and there is no hope."

For me, that was the moment in that dark and quiet ICU room, sitting with my son and a kind doctor. 

I think this explains my feelings well; I found it on Pinterest.

I didn't write it...

...but someone posted it on Facebook.

THE CORD

We are connected,
My child and I, by 
An invisible cord
Not seen by the eye.

It's not like the cord
That connects us 'til birth
This cord can't be seen
By any on Earth.

This cord does its work
Right from the start.
It binds us together
Attached to my heart.

I know that it's there
Though no one can see
The invisible cord
From my chld to me.

The strength of this cord
Is hard to describe.
It can't be destroyed,
It can't be denied.

It's stronger than any cord
Man could create.
It withstands the test,
can hold any weight.

And though you are gone, 
Though you're not here with me,
The cord is still there
But no one can see.

It pulls at my heart,
I am bruised...I am sore
But this cord is my lifeline,
As never before.

I am thankful that God
Connects us this way
A mother and child
Death can't take it away!