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Monday, November 10, 2014

Failure to communicate

There is a stack of unopened envelopes in the cubby downstairs. Red and blue and green and cream-colored paper displays my name and address neatly written in cursive. So many letters, so many names of people I’ve known at different times in my life. They have all gathered together to prop me up with their words. I don’t know what to do with them aside from put them in the cubby. That impressive collection of feelings is waiting to be felt as soon as I am strong enough to feel them.

Unread
Right now, opening them seems impossible. If I open them—when I open them—that will be the end somehow. The flood of support will be over. If I leave that stack of envelopes alone, there are still things to be said. And as long as I have that stack of letters, people are still thinking about us because their sentiments are unread, unsaid, waiting to hold me when I need to feel not quite so alone.

After Riley died, almost inconceivably, the World Series teams pitched and scored against each other. Children and grown ups slid into costumes and ate Halloween candy. Babysitters were hired, Saturday night cocktails were imbibed, and dinners in dimly lit restaurants were eaten. Now Thanksgiving is looming while the reds and greens of Christmas twinkle from shop windows. People are buying milk and condoms just like any other day because there is still cereal to eat and sex to have. The world keeps going. Yet, somehow I feel like I’ve stepped every so slightly from the earth’s surface and the wind is slapping me raw as the world keeps spinning without me.

All of our family and friends packed their neatly folded green sweaters into their luggage and left town a week ago. Riley’s celebration was the end for most people. But for me, it was the beginning of quiet. Of lonely. Of alone. Family may have returned to their own houses, their own towns, their own families, their own activities and distractions. But this is my house, my town, my family. Any activities or distractions I have are distorted because someone is missing. Our six-chaired table typically evenly balanced with four kids and two grownups is now lopsided.

Honestly, I don’t know what I’m doing aside from getting through the day so that I can go to bed at night and getting through the night just to begin the next day. I don’t know what I’m doing besides killing time. I have talked to no adults—aside from my husband—since family left. And as I pounded my feet along the sandy trail near our house this afternoon, I realized I’m terrified of talking to anyone. I’m afraid of seeing people I know. I’m afraid that someone might recognize me. Without the dog to walk, I might never leave the safety of my warm bed.

In all of this fear of communicating, I keep thinking of an email that a friend sent me after I told her that Riley would be having surgery. She wrote: “This news…reminds me of the special challenges you have been awarded (not quite the right words, I know) in this life. And yet... you do such an amazing job of being a person who glows and sends loving energy out beyond your skin to the people around you, which is such an incredible gift, and all the more special and awesome, given the fear and underlying uncertainty you live with.”

I thanked her for seeing those things in me and reread her words countless times in the weeks leading up to surgery. I hoped that those words could reinforce my unsteady frame, shield me from crumbing, disintegrating under the weight of what we faced, the unknown. It was almost a mantra: I want to be that person, I want to be that person, I want to be that person. The fact that I ever was that person seems incomprehensible. 

I cannot glow. I cannot send positive (or even neutral) energy to anyone because I am unable to communicate. I have not responded to text messages, phone messages; I have not read any meaningful email in a week. I cannot open that stack of letters. I no longer know how to be in the world.  

16 comments:

  1. Still here. Still Reading. Still hurting. April 2nd will always come before April 4th. You nor the rest of the family will ever be forgotten.......

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  2. Alexis10:09 PM

    You are still very much in my thoughts and those of countless others who love you. You will open those letters when the time is right, but that will not be the end. You inspire love in people just by who you are, whether it is dancing or writing, loving, reading, crying, or simply radiating the light within you. Now you are carrying a burden of loss that has no boundaries, that is inexplicable and overwhelming. That loss will always be with you, but so will the love you inspire in others. Suzanne, you are an amazing human being. Our love for you will always be there and will be made manifest as you need it, whenever you call upon it.

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  3. I love you, and know that all of us supporting you, don't need you to be in a place which different. We do not ask that you shift shape for us xoxoxo

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  4. Suzanne, you don't have to communicate. Just accept our thoughts and let our love, for you and Riley, fill you with comfort and strength. We are all grieving. Keep sharing your sentiments with us so our bond can help carry you through. Love Patty

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  5. As I read your words I am taken back to the very same place many years ago. Sharing your feelings here is communication enough. We've been thinking about you and your family, my parents have been thinking about you and we all know your struggles. No one could say a single thing that would make me feel the tiniest bit better about losing my son. 8 years later, I can say that the old adage, time heals, is true. You will cry less, you will move forward, you will begin to live again. But it will take time. And those who love you understand more than you know that you need this time to grieve your loss. You're an amazing woman and mother. I'm always available if you would like to talk. Hugs Suzanne.... Lots and lots of hugs!

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    1. I've thought about you so much in recent weeks...and honestly, you, Russ, and Maverick have been in my thoughts since I first met you all those years ago. But since Maverick died, I've watched you (from afar, thanks FB) be happy, get married, have other babies, and smile your beautiful smile. Because I've always feared Riley's death, I've watched others like you manage to continue being in the world. Right now, though, it's so hard to fathom getting to there from here.

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  6. Breathe in ... Breathe out ... Love is the most powerful force in the universe. May the love flowing towards you and around you sustain you today and each day. Sending blessings, love and light.

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  7. Anonymous7:38 AM

    Suzanne, keep breathing. One breathe at a time. xoxo

    - Cameron and Susan

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  8. Be gentle with yourself.

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  9. Anonymous3:04 PM

    Peace, and time, and space, and healing, and remembering, and strength, and love. All in good time. Hang in there, you will get through this, and there is a very special angel hovering overhead, watching over you and sending love and light your way, when you are ready to accept them.

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  10. Anonymous11:14 PM

    We are still here. Thinking of you all the time. The support will not end and I have never even met you. Much love...

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  11. Love to you Suzanne. You can only be where you are at. Your friends are sending you love and support. I love you and am sending you loving thoughts each day. I know you're receiving them without hearing from you.

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  12. Anonymous5:11 PM

    I too lost my son (congenital heart defect, multiple operations and eventual inoperable leaky valve leading to congestive heart failure at age 15). It's been 16 years, and reading your words reminds me so much of how it felt... still feels... You put it into words. Jonathan will always be with me, a part of me. One thing that happened after a time was that I thought people were ready to put his life aside much sooner than I was - it felt like people didn't want to keep talking about him, or they didn't know if talking about him would be painful to me. I was so grateful when one of my friends (a teacher buddy, Jonathan was in her class in first grade) started telling stories about him one day when we were at a geology workshop, sitting outside digging in a coal bed. She talked about his life, about funny things that had happened - and it was just such a relief to be able to TALK about him in a normal way. That he wasn't some painful subject to be avoided.

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    1. I think that is part of my fear, that people will expect me to get over it and move on so that I don't want to talk about him or make them uncomfortable because I keep talking about him. I don't want to stop talking about him. How could I? He grew in me and was in my life for 11 1/2 years. Just because he's died doesn't make him any less part of my life or any less part of who I am. He is in me as much as I was in him.

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    2. Anonymous1:21 PM

      I wish I were out there to give a "talk" to everyone who could cross your path on a daily basis to plain that the best way to honor Riley's memory and you as his mother is to talk about him - A LOT! I take all kinds of opportunities to talk about Riley on a daily basis. And you know what I am sure the Wealth Manager at Goldman Sachs who serves on a Leadership Council I Co-Chair might think I was strange for telling him about Riley this afternoon. That's ok with me. Everyone who knew and loved Riley - still love him and love you will be more than happy for you to talk about Riley as often and in much detail as you want.

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    3. Anonymous1:28 PM

      Anyone who is uncomfortable - that is on them. I remember the first talk you and Ken helped Riley give to his class when the kids were teasing him for being slow. I think adults could use a talk about the fear you mention above. xoxo Babs

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