The icky part

After 5 1/2 years of being without Paul, most of the horror regarding the circumstances of his death is gone. OK, not gone. Just different. Just like the pain. Different.

However, the horror rears its ugly head now and then. I wonder what people would think if they knew what sometimes happens in my mind....

Yesterday Analice and I were face to face and she asked why she has long eyelashes and I said, "your Daddy had long eyelashes" and then we talked about her brown eyes and his brown eyes and my brown eyes.....

The entire time we were talking about our eyes, I was having horrible flashes of a knife heading to Paul's eye. I was cringing inside, horrified, wondering if he saw it coming, if he felt pain, how long he suffered. I imagined him lying on the ground, bleeding....horrible images, horrible thoughts.

And all the while my mind was conjuring up horror and my heart was beating faster and my stomach was tied in knots and I had horrible pain in my chest and groans in my mind of "oh Paul" and "my poor baby", I was talking to my granddaughter about eyes.

I looked normal, spoke normally, but inside I was a mass of horror. It left me drained.

And no one knew.

Until now....

And so, today is Paul's 25th birthday. The birthday is an incredibly empty day for a mother. No gifts to buy & wrap. No cake to bake, balloons to buy. No meal to fix or restaurant to choose. No memory-sharing. No quarter-of-a-century jokes this year.

Today two friends took me to lunch at Olive Garden, pampered me something awful....I loved it and I needed it! I thought I wanted to be alone, but I didn't.

Happy Birthday, Son. I miss you.

A Poem

I got this poem from a grieving parents newletter. It's written by Crystal Armes Gibb of Illinois.

RHYME OF PAIN

Pain is not removed by TIME, though grief may seem less defined.
When someone we love dies, the very heart and soul will cry an endless stream
of aching tears with pain that follows us for years.
The foolish man is heard to say that TIME will take the pain away.
Though it lessens and subsides, the fact remains: our loved one died.
And missing the one so dear does not diminish,
for it's clear, no matter how much TIME goes by,
the empty longing makes us cry.

Unexpected

The flashes of memory come unexpectedly. Reading the newspaper article about Gabby Giffords this morning flashed me to a memory of a nurse putting something into Paul's I.V. bag and me asking what it was.

Another flash to the kind, kind, direct gaze of the doctor as he said "no" in response to my question, "So there's no hope?"

I cringe as I feel the pain and horror once again. I let myself dwell in the memories and feel the pain for a bit.

Then I go on reading the paper.

Five years ago those memories, and others, were constantly on my mind, no let up, as my mind processed the horrible reality.

Sometimes I'd beg God for relief.

Slowly, slowly, as time passed, my mind could think on other things for longer and longer periods of time.

No longer a constant torment, the memories are still there, waiting to pop up when prompted.

And it's OK. I've learned to welcome the jabs of pain, the remembering.

Memories processed.
Reality accepted.

Yet I will never forget and never fail to be horrified.

And so, five years has passed since my son died. I'm not waxing poetic this year. I have sobbed. I have spent time with friends. I have been touched by prayers, cards, flowers, candy, hugs, and others sharing memories of Paul.

But when all is said and done, he's still not here. I have no one like him in my life, no one who cares for me in the special way he did. I miss him and I always will.

I remember walking down the hospital hallway with the chaplain and seeing Paul wheeled down the hall intersecting the one we were traveling. Gil was horrified to see the gauze patch on Paul's eye, but I said, "We can deal with a missing eye; at least he's alive."

That's the hope I had. The hope that was dashed a while later when the doctors talked to us. So much worse than a missing eye.

There's another family grieving today. One of Paul's kidney recipients died on the operating table, so this is a grief anniversary for another family out there who had their hopes raised, only to see them dashed.

Life does go on. But it will never be the same. I wonder what Paul would have been like today? I can't know. But I will always miss that sweet, frustrating, kind, helpful, obstinate, laughing, anger-filled young man!

Rest in peace, my son. I love you.

I'm sorting through old pictures, trying to organize them and put them into albums. I'll scrapbook some of them.

Lately I've been in 1986 and 1987. Paul was born in March of 1986 so I've been traveling down memory lane when he was a baby. Mostly I smile, sometimes I laugh, sometimes I ache. And sometimes I'm angry. Angry that I can't sit down with Paul and show him how he looked as a baby, and hear his laugh and see his face.

Yesterday one of Paul's friends came by with his wife and one year old son. Beautiful family and I've not seen this young man look happy -- until now. I'm glad he's found his place in the world as well as a wonderful woman.

In the midst of my joy for him, I can't help but feel cheated. Cheated that Paul didn't have the chance to straighten himself out, make a life, feel some happiness, have a future.

Today Analice started first grade. Paul wasn't here to share her joy, to give her advice, to drop her off at her classroom, to see her new Tinker Bell backpack.

It's not fair and I don't understand. I choose to trust that God knows best, but it hurts.

I drove by that street today. I looked down it, as I always do, forever-unanswered questions running through my mind.

I drove on to the church I go to once a year for this event, this gathering of the grieving; the grieving whose loved ones ended up being organ/tissue donors.

I listen to people sing and read and talk. I cry. I watch a slide show of your faces, the faces we no longer see except in a picture album or a frame. In your picture you are playing your blue guitar and smiling with joy. I cry. I say your name into a microphone and receive a sun catcher butterfly. I cry. I light a candle and think of you, your face flitting through my mind, different ages, different expressions. I cry.

I chat with people I see only here at this ceremony once a year. I chat with a childhood friend of yours. I choose a flower to take home to your daughter.

I cry on the way home.

I pass that street once more. That awful street where you were fatally hurt.

I cry.

I go into my room and put the new butterfly on the window. Your death will always haunt me, but your gift of life gave extended life to others -- your generosity lives on.

I touch the butterfly.......and I smile.