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!

Seven Years

Seven years ago today, at 5:05 A.M., we said our final goodbye to Paul, 19.

Gil woke up in the wee hours of the morning today, thinking he heard me calling Paul's name.  I wasn't...at least, not out loud.

My day is different than I'd planned, since Analice is home from school, recovering from a virus.  Tomorrow I'll visit the grave and go eat lunch at a place Paul liked, and watch a movie he enjoyed; probably "The Fugitive" or "Independence Day", which is what I'd planned for today.

In the meantime, I pondered some things in my quiet time. I of course thought about the last moments.  The last time I touched Paul's warm face. The last time I put my arms around him. The last time I heard his heart beating; heard it's last beat.

Now he is behind the veil where I can't yet go, where beauty is indescribable. Where pain doesn't exist. No darkness. True life. Yes, that gives me some comfort.

But I'm a Mom.  I want to touch him, hear his voice & laughter, see his smile AND his tears. Listen to his woes and joys. Watch him with his daughter. Watch him grow into a young man, as I 've watched Laura grow into a young woman.  Depend on him for certain things. Ask advice....or give advice.

Instead I have to always look to the past. There are no new memories, no new pictures, no new stories. I hold onto them tightly, as well as hold onto his cell phone, his wallet, his clothes that have been lovingly made into a quilt by someone else who loved him. They're my last link with him, until I join him behind the veil.

God's mercies are evident.  Paul didn't suffer.  I got to touch him and say goodbye before he died; although he couldn't hear me.  I have a grave to visit. We have a church family, and friends, who surrounded us with prayer, presence, food, listening, tears, hugs. We had angelic nurses, and one compassionate doctor. We had an organ donation coordinator who had walked this road with his sister, a tender man, kind.

I've not shared God's largest mercy with very many people.  The mercy of knowing.  I prayed one time, at Paul's hospital bed, for the miracle of healing.  God plainly told me "no, he will die". I never asked again.  It gave me peace and strength to know that.  I didn't tell anyone else, I didn't talk anyone else out of praying for a miracle.  This mercy was mine alone, given to me because I needed it.  I had to be the strong one, for Gil and Laura, so I needed that knowledge.  I needed to know that truth, for all the hours ahead, the decisions that had to be made, for the strength to say "OK it's time" when we needed to take Paul off of life support. 

As I walked around Paul's body that last hour, touching him everywhere I could, to remember the feel of his body, first felt inside me, kicking, some were watching.  A friend later told me that when the nurse came in to say "it's time", and I touched him like that, that it looked like I'd dealt with that kind of a decision every day.  Calmness, strength, acceptance.  I was able to do that only because of the MERCY God gave to me, in telling me from the beginning what would happen.

I fell apart later, and my falling lasted a long time.  And though I didn't FEEL the mercy quite as strongly, I look back and see the mercy in big and little ways.

The next mercy will come when I step behind the veil and again feel my son's warm body, see his smile, and hear his new stories.

Grief is a weird thing. After six years, ten months of being without my son, of course, the acute pain has lessened.  His death is part of the fabric of my life.  I don't get quite the same jolts when something triggers a memory.

Lately I've thought about Paul more often, probably because fall is here and the death anniversary is approaching.

But I think, honestly, it's because his daughter is facing some behavior problems in school, and growing up...and he's not here.  Not here to see, of course, but also not here to be her Dad, to make the decisions I'm forced to make.  I do wonder what his view would be, as he would understand her way of thinking much better than I do.

As I drove yesterday, I was overcome by a deep, overwhelming longing to see his face, to hear his voice.  How empty I felt, how lost.

One more time?  No....I want a lifetime of seeing his face & hearing his voice.

Denied.

Robbed.