Take your platitudes and leave

There was an article in the NY Times yesterday about what not to say to a grieving person. It said never say, “Everything happens for a reason.” 

And that is good advice because when you say “everything happens for a reason” to a grieving person, they may want to punch you in the face. Because most people are polite, they will not punch you in the face, but don’t be surprised if you are kicked out of their inner circle of safe and trusted friends.

People said this to me shortly after Riley died. They also said this to me after Riley was born and we were told that he would need three heart surgeries to survive (though he ended up having six during his 11 years). Luckily for them, I restrained my fists. But it makes me wonder how this asinine phrase became a popular reply to grief. Please give me an example of when this has been useful. Seriously.

I imagine it comes from religion where we’re meant to put our faith in some greater power who has a master plan. And the only way we can make sense of a child’s death, or a young parent’s death or your house being swept away by a hurricane, or any other tragedy, is that it must serve some higher purpose.

But, honestly, life is random. We are powerless. And if we acknowledged this unspoken contract with the universe, we’d probably stay home more often. Because we get into metal boxes and move at high speeds on highways. We let our kids go to school. We know that people walking around are carrying guns. We know that there are contagious diseases. We live in earthquake zones or in places dubbed "Tornado Alley." We know that there are alligators and bears and bacteria that can overwhelm our immune systems. Every single day we don’t die is pretty astonishing. And getting to live another day is not because some higher power granted me the opportunity to do so because I am good or deserving. It is just luck. I think luck is too terrifying for most people to acknowledge.

So, what do you say when someone you love is faced with unimaginable tragedy? The article recommended: “I am so sorry for your loss. I don’t know how you feel, but I am here to help in any way I can.” Or something like: “I am always just a phone call away. I am here for you.” And, of course, if they are sharing with you how they are doing, validate their feelings. 

The article reminded me that I've been wanting to read Everything Happens for a Reason, and Other Lies I've Loved, by Kate Bowler.

If you are incapable of being there, of sitting with discomfort, of saying something less painful than "Everything happens for a reason," please, just take your platitudes and leave.

Grief and your 21st birthday

Walking hand-in-hand with your little sister to school, the school you went to, was surreal on your birthday. I could hear the sounds before we even rounded the corner at the bottom of our hill. Laughter came at us before we could see any smiles. We could hear car doors slamming before we saw any cars. The bell rang at the neighboring school. 

As we got closer, so much came into view. There were hundreds of students with messy hair and dusty backpacks. There were water bottles and lunch boxes. There were light-up sneakers and jackets tied around waists. Some children were helping to raise the Californian flag on the flagpole. Some children were opening car doors in the drop-off line. Some were huddled with friends, giggling. Some were walking alone towards their classrooms. I looked for you. I always look for you. 

Just before heading up the ramp toward her classroom, I just stopped and took it all in. A school full of students, hundreds of students from hundreds of families. 

Then it occurred to me. I felt my head shaking back and forth in disbelief. None of them, not a single one of those kids was alive when you were alive. None of them were even growing in their mama’s bellies. Not a single one. So much life since you died. An impossible amount of life has happened in the last 10 years. 

After your sister tucked her backpack into her cubby and found her name card, I kissed her head and breathed the scent of her hair. Then, with green nail polish in honor of you and your favorite color, I began to run. And run and run and run.

Love leaked from my eyes and it was even harder to breathe than normal because crying and running are not very compatible. And while I was running, I was sad and mad and jealous and angry and sad some more. Even when thinking of your smile. Even when thinking of your laugh. Even when thinking of your jokes.

Do you know what baseball and waffles have in common? The batter.

Even when thinking of your love for school and books and reading and math. Even when thinking of you with your best friend (who is now in college, who is now old enough to buy alcohol). Even when thinking of you sitting on my lap. Even when thinking of you making garlic toast for breakfast. I love you.

Grief and The Question

The question was already rumbling in my stomach when my thoughts rose into consciousness this morning. I rolled from one side of the bed to the other as the uneasy feeling lingered. My husband had already gone to a meeting. I inched to his side of the bed, rested my head on his warm pillow and waited. Waited for the right answer to appear.

The sun had yet to color the sky, but I could sense movement from the other room. The preschooler was awake, needing the bathroom. “I had a thought that turned into a dream,” she said, as I tucked her back into bed. “What was that?” I asked. “Me getting into the car to take dad to the airport with you.” I smiled at her as I pulled the blanket around her shoulders. “That’s a nice dream,” I said, "but dad isn’t going to the airport for a long time and so you need to go back to sleep." As soon as I got back into my room, she was sitting up, waiting for it to be time to get up for real.

Even as I showered, as I dressed, as I pressed my foot into the gas pedal, I was still wondering about the question. And the answer. You see, I was going to talk to a woman I went to graduate school with that night. She had read all about Riley’s hospitalizations and surgeries when I wrote about him more than a decade ago. I cannot even recall the last time I saw her, probably at graduation. Or shortly after at a party at her house in San Jose. I can’t remember if she was at his memorial. If she was, I certainly haven’t seen her since then.

But when we talk on the phone, I will say hello. She will say hello. Then she will say, “How are you?” And I have no idea how to answer that question, especially when asked by someone I haven’t talked with in so long. Someone who hasn’t witnessed the howling, the blood-shot eyes, the twitchy version of myself that exists when I leave my safe bubble at home, when I venture into the world. The half-eaten version of me, even though I look normal on the outside. Or normal enough. The mom of a 3-year-old.

This woman didn’t witness all the months when I didn’t leave my bed. And after that, when I didn’t shower or comb my hair and wore the same thing for six or seven days in a row because I didn’t know how to get dressed. The woman who cut off all of her hair to look ugly, hoping to match how I felt on the inside. When we talk, this woman will hear the fast-forwarded version of me. The one that can talk on the phone, the woman who has taught creative writing and who founded a literary magazine in grief’s wake. The one that lights up talking about narrative arcs and creating three-dimensional worlds.

And all this thinking about the different versions of me since Riley died in 2014 makes me wonder how I got here. How did the accumulation of time and space from Riley’s death allow me to do those things, to get to the place where I can wonder how I should answer that question. Early on, that innocent question felt so offensive. It doesn’t anymore, and when I’m at the checkout counter, I can say, “Fine, thanks. How are you?” But wondering about it in the context of this pending phone call feels splintered. And strange because I am different from before Riley died. And I am different from the time just after Riley died. And I’m different from before the baby was born. I’m still broken, like a bone fracture that wasn’t set and the malunion impairs function longterm. I’ll always be broken, impaired. But I’m also other things. And I won’t necessarily cry when I talk about Riley.

As I downed a hot cup of tea in the moments between scratching things off the to-do list, I figured it out. When she asks the inevitable question, I will say, “I’ve been wondering how to answer that question all day.” Because it’s the truth.

Grief and Riley Run 2020

The Riley Run is coming (No running required!) Save the date... April 19, 2020 #rileychallenge #wewanttoseeyou 

Grief and flashbacks

How do you go to bed the night before your child will die? Is he cold? How do you brush and floss? Is he in pain? How many sleeping pills do you take? Does he know that he’s dying? How many minutes beforehand do you take them? Is he scared? Do you look at Facebook before you begin all of this or do you wait until you’re closer to turning off the light? Does he know that you went home? Do you send a message to tell people that your son is actually still alive even though someone has posted that he has died? Does he know you're coming back? In that email, do you tell them that while he is still alive, he probably won’t be this time tomorrow? Does he know the surgery failed? How do you undress and climb onto the cold mattress? Does he have brain damage? How do you sink your head into the pillow and pull the blankets over? Is he angry? How many minutes will it take before the sleeping pills paralyze the limbs so that the shaking stops? Has he heard you screaming? How many more before they punch you into blackness to make the hours pass? Does your screaming scare him? When the alarm knocks the blackness aside, how many seconds will it take before nothingness is replaced with knowing your child will die today? Was it wrong to let the kids see him? How do you push the blankets back? Does he feel trapped? How do you lift your head from the pillow? Has he wanted to die? How do you raise your body from the mattress warmed from the hours of nothingness? Does he blame you? Do you see if anyone has responded to the email that you sent last night? How much is he aware of? Do you do that now or do you wait until you’re ready to turn the light on? Did you ask the right questions? How many minutes before you take the Ativan? Did you choose the wrong hospital? How many anxiety pills do you take? Did you choose the wrong surgeon? As you wonder how many to take, will you also calculate when you’ll be able to take the next dose? How did you let this happen? How long will you stand in the shower before you remember to wash? What should you have done differently? How will you comb out the knots and style your hair? Does he know that he will die today? How will you decide which skirt to wear? Which blouse to wear? Which boots to wear? Did someone make a mistake? Will you brush? Will you eat? How will you walk out the door and get into the car? Will he be relieved? Will you notice all of the other cars rushing to work or to school? Does he know that you want to die and be with him? Will you need to lean on your husband as you walk toward the hospital and into the room where the machines that have been keeping him alive will be turned off? Does he forgive you? Will you recognize the sounds coming from your body? Does he know that you love him? When the machines are quiet, how will you walk away? Does he know that you will always love him?

Grief and October

I’ve been anticipating you the last several weeks and here you are. You just show up and expect everyone to get excited about fall sweaters and boots and thick socks. You’ve been pounding on the windows trying to get my attention and I’ve done my best to ignore you. You’re not good at taking a hint.

You punt the sun up into the brisk morning, and then speckle the sky with pink and orange clouds as the sun hangs in the west. It gives everything a warm and cozy glow. I hate it when you try to be cute. It doesn't suit you, and you can’t fool me. Yes, you bring pumpkin spice and pumpkin pancakes and cinnamon brooms because you want me to like you. But I don’t. I never will. I know who you really are.

You stand up a little taller than normal because you carry all of the lasts like badges sewn onto your freshly ironed shirt. His last day at school. His last puzzle. His last joke with his best friend. His last family dinner. His last middle-of-the-night picnic (something we did before every hospital visit). His last words to me (I love you, too, mom). His last hug. His last surgery. His last day. His last breath. And with all of those lasts and this death, you rally humanity to celebrate death and gore and blood and the stuff hospital nightmares are made of. Skeletons hang from trees. And tombstones appear in front yards. And bloody severed limbs lie on seemingly-normal neighbors' front steps. It’s all part of the festivities, you say. Lighten up, you say. I can’t lighten up. I have no interest in your kind of fun. Death isn’t fun. Or festive. Or light.

As I walked the dog around the darkened streets tonight, I couldn’t remember if Riley’s last day of school was today or tomorrow. I should know. If he had a pre-op day, then his last day of school was today. If he didn’t have a pre-op day, then his last day was tomorrow. Why can’t I remember if he had a pre-op day. My feet take me past his school and the gate that he exited through on that last day. I pause by the wall next to the playground across the street. That was where I waited for him after school that day, where I waited every day. Riley’s best friend rolled his backpack for him. There was an awkward, “Well, I guess I’ll see you sometime” goodbye between them, since we weren’t sure how long he’d be in the hospital postoperatively.

All of the images start lighting up. They've been on stand-by all these months waiting to affront me. I keep them close to the surface. Why should I forget. I wouldn't want to. It was part of his story. It's who he was. It's what happened. But most of the time, there is a sheen covering them so that I can drive. So that I can shop for groceries. So that I can cook dinner. So that I can play games with my other children. So that I can kiss my husband like I mean it. But this time of year, the sheen is scratched away. All the rawness is exposed. And there's something about this fifth anniversary.

That last day at school plays in my mind as I stand by the wall next to the playground. I start imagining alternate endings. I hate the forever of this ending. It makes it hard to breathe. My lungs keep insisting on pulling in air, but my throat tightens. I open my mouth because getting oxygen into my bloodstream has become a conscious effort instead of an unconscious reflex. My heart bangs on my ribs. It happens a lot this time of year. Fuck you, October. And then I back away from that scene. It's late and my feet start taking me home. 

Grief and WTF

Riley would be 16 ½ today. Instead we’re 18 days away from the fifth anniversary of his death. And to be clear, him being dead for four years, 11 months, and 12 days really is no different from him being dead for five years. The pain of grief is unchanged, really. A handful of days or months really doesn’t change the pain of living without him.

But it’s those shifts in time that change the language I use to talk about how long he’s been dead that make it harder. Even though it’s just a word: one versus three versus four or five. Five is all the fingers on one hand. It's all the toes on one foot. It's the number of points on a starfish. Clock numbers are five minutes apart. A musical staff has five lines. Five can be all of those things. But it can't be the number of years my son has been dead. It can't possibly be the number of years that my lungs have continues to inhale and exhale. It can't be the number of years my heart has continued to beat after his stopped beating. It just can't be.

Five feels like bus coming toward me while I stand on the street and watch. It’s not coming fast. It’s inching toward me. It has been every day since he died. But it’s getting closer now. I could smell the exhaust if the wind were pushing it the right way. I won’t move; I’ll stare it down, just like the others. And when it finally reaches me, the grill will push into my torso until I fall to the ground and it rolls over me. Crushing me all over again. Because this bus isn’t the first vehicle to run me over. That first month. The sixth month. The first year. And so on. But five has a new kind of meaning. Half a decade. I can’t help but say, WHAT THE FUCK.

Grief and certain death

My husband has been asleep on the sofa downstairs for almost two hours. I assume that means he’s died. He’d been to the doctor yesterday and wasn’t feeling well today and he said earlier that the medicine he’d been prescribed made him feel funny, a bit wobbly. So now he’s asleep downstairs trying to recover from the thing that has made him feel unwell. Meanwhile I’m upstairs with our crying newborn daughter. I can’t bring myself to check on him. To watch from a distance to see if his chest rises and falls. To listen for each inhale and exhale that would assure me that his heart and lungs continue to cooperate as they work to circulate blood and oxygen through his veins, to his organs, to his brain.

If I check on him and he is dead, it means that I’ll need to call 911 and there’s no turning back from that. It would be another division in my life separating before from after. It would be another grief so loud shouting into my already sore ears. It would pummel me in new ways and bash my heart already bruised from profound grief. And I’d have to raise our newborn as a single parent. Without my love. My rock. The man who has helped me walk the life as a bereaved parent. So for now, I will stay in denial upstairs with our crying newborn and hope that she falls asleep soon. She’s been crying on and off for hours now.

You see, my 11-year-old son died four years ago. And since then, it feels like everyone will die as soon as they’re out of sight. Before school ended my living biological son was off at Yosemite for the week with his class. The whole 7th grade went. Mothers posted online about how much they missed their kids. They said they wandered from room to room sobbing because they longed for the faces and bodies of their babies. The ones that they grew in their wombs and who became tweens. They imagined their kids would walk in the front door any minute from baseball practice or from having lunch downtown with a friend. I wish I hadn’t read those posts. I wanted to reply: “You know that they’re alive, right? That they’ll be home on Friday?”

And while I felt that way, there was a dichotomy. There could have been a bus accident as they drove back from Yosemite. I was (secretly) convinced that there would be a bus accident. An inferno and twisting metal stealing more children’s lives. There are so many ways for children to die. I’ve learned all about them from my grief group for parents whose children have died. They can choke on their dinners; they can have bowel obstructions; they can have cancer; they can die in car crashes or get hit by cars. They can have rare medical conditions; they can have heart defects, like my son. They can get murdered; they can have concussions; they can get crushed in freak accidents; they can kill themselves.

Please stop crying baby girl.

But when she does finally stop crying and she is quiet in her bed, I worry that she’ll stop breathing. That she’ll choke on spit-up and that she too will be gone from this world. All of my beloveds extinguished because life doesn’t care if I’m a good person or a bad person or a mediocre person. Life doesn't care about what I deserve or don’t deserve in the aftermath of my son’s death. One child’s death doesn't somehow protect me from other people dying, from other tragedies, from my own demise. There will be blood clots and pulmonary embolisms. There will be cancer. Or a car accident. A plane crash. Anaphylactic shock. Blood poisoning. It won’t be pretty. Death never is.

I pull the blanket around her body, quieting her flailing arms and her sad cries. She finally settles in her bassinet, and I listen for the pulling and pushing of air, the pushing and pulling of limbs against cloth. She sighs and my muscles relax for a moment. Glancing outside, I see the brittle leaves, the brown stalks, the wilted branches. I let all of the plants in the garden go -- too many things to keep alive. Too much responsibility. I focus on the ones that matter most.

A sneeze followed by creaks on the steps lets me know that my husband hasn’t died. Not today, anyway. He walks into our room and I push my index finger to my lips before pointing to the baby. I sit near her and wait for her to wake, wait for her to cry again, her sounds indicating her aliveness.

And then the cycle will begin again.

Grief and wanting to die

My two boys

In the last four years, I’ve met many bereaved parents. One of the commonalities is that the desire to live vanishes after your child dies. It doesn’t matter if you have other, living children (I do). It doesn’t matter if you have a loving spouse (I do). Nothing matters. Because the worst thing has happened. And all you want to do is go wherever your dead child has gone. Which is away from this planet. Away from the pain, a screaming, invisible pain that permeates into every cell in your body. Because nothing matters at all. I wrote about my death wish in the latest issue of Six Hens.

Grief and hair

There he was sitting in a chair in the row in front of me at tonight’s middle school holiday band concert. We didn’t speak, and I didn’t tousle his blond locks, but I was so tempted. This tempting boy and his messy hair. The hair that looks just like Riley’s hair. His 11-year-old floppy mess, something he called his “straight afro.” Tufts rose in different directions, defying gravity and any comb. 

Between songs, I dug my phone from my purse, poised it to take a picture of my 7th grader who was performing. But in reality, I wanted to take a picture of this rounded head with the perfect, messy hair. This lookalike even wore a black sweatshirt with a red hood, just like Riley had. It would have been creepy, I decided, to take a photo and so I denied myself the pleasure of taking this head of hair home with me as a souvenir of tonight’s visit from Riley. I tried not to stare or alarm his father who sat at his side. 

I desperately wanted to tell Riley’s best friend who sat two chairs to my left. I desperately wanted to tell Riley’s stepbrother and stepsister who sat two seats to my right. I desperately wanted to tell Riley’s dad and stepmom who sat behind me. I wanted everyone to share in this moment, to agree that indeed looked just like the back of Riley’s head. Fortunately I found a crumpled tissue hidden at the bottom of my purse to blot away the emotions that came with feeling so close and then instantly reminded that he, my sweet son, is so far away.

Grief and Halloween

As the van rolls down the winding street, it passes a torso climbing from the gutter. The torso is topped with a head, its face painted white with exaggerated clown lips and topped with a shock of red hair. It's holding a red balloon in an outstretched arm. In the adjacent driveway, a skeleton straddles a motorcycle.

As I head to the library, the grocery store, the Post Office, a row of skeletons lines our neighbor’s front yard across the street from the elementary school. As I drive around town, there are bloody severed limbs on porches. There are partially decomposed bodies dangling from trees. There are bloody mummies. There are blood-splattered tools.

It’s gruesome. Horrible. Triggering. I’ve seen enough bloody bandages, exposed bone, pools of blood, and thick black stitches holding together skin. I’ve seen blood-splattered floors. Blood on the machines designed to hold the bloody fluid pouring from tubes leaving my son’s body. I see these things when I close my eyes. When I’m trying to fall asleep at night. When I have another nightmare. And now they are everywhere during the day. When my eyes are open.

When did blood and death and gore become mainstream entertainment gleefully displayed in front yards? I don’t know how to avoid it because it’s everywhere. I hate this time of year. I hate this holiday. For a society that tends to avoid talking about death and dying and grief, we sure love to slap it around for fun at the end of October.

Should I put my son’s ashes on display in the front yard? Should I scatter his collection of lost childhood teeth on our sidewalk? Or maybe put them in a small bowl next to our mailbox? Should I hang his t-shirts on a clothesline across the front porch? I suspect that would be in poor taste. Because actual death is offensive.

In the meantime, if you pass the middle school in my town, you’ll see a yard with a large decorative -- if that’s what you call it -- tombstone at the end of their driveway. In large letters across the front, it says “RIP Max.” Max is their son’s name. Is it fun to imagine that your child has died? Even when you know a family whose son has actually died? When you've been to their house and talked about grief? Should I put a tombstone in my front yard with Riley’s name on it? Would it still be funny?

I miss when Halloween was about pumpkins and kids dressed as firefighters or dinosaurs or cows and bunnies or Mario and Luigi. And the gore was restricted to rentals from the local video store.

Seriously people, WTF?

Grief and chances

Riley - perfect at 11

Two of the last three nights I’ve had Riley dreams. When I wake, instead of aching at the realization that my son is dead, I have a moment to reflect on the beautiful make believe world my mind let me wander in for a bit. Even though -- as dreams are -- they are nonsensical as they unfold in unlikely places in unlikely situations, they are as close to bliss as I get.

Two nights ago, I was in an imaginary physical therapy nursing homes on the east coast owned by friends from college. It was illogical that I’d traveled across the country with several bereaved families, my ex-husband, his wife, and our family dog. But that’s exactly what had happened. And while we were there, my dog injured herself in the rain and my physical therapy friends used their expert skills to rehabilitate her while all of us stayed indefinitely at their imaginary nursing home, waiting for her dog body to heal. Even though it was nonsensical and illogical, it was also fantastical when an inviting light beam shone from the ceiling. It was a magical spotlight and when I was under its brilliant beam, Riley was there. Alive, communicative as ever. Three-dimensional. And still 11 years old. His brother was eager to have a turn.

Eleven will always be my favorite age. Riley was perfect. Perfectly curious about maps. Perfectly aware of the importance of family and telling people that he loved them. Perfectly excited about learning and reading. Perfectly content with always having vanilla ice cream. Perfectly sized for sitting in my lap. And perfectly loud in my household with four children, a dog, and a bunch of chickens. It was a heartbreaking moment earlier this year when I realized that no one in my house would ever be 11 years old again. I wrote about it here in the Fall issue of Six Hens.

Grief and celebrations

Riley with Freddie

There’s a warm glow radiating from the dining room. I can see it from where I’m sitting outside in the dark. I haven’t moved in an hour. It wasn’t dark when I landed on the sofa outside, but it engulfed me and I feel invisible. I like feeling invisible. But I don’t understand the warm glow inside my house. It looks so inviting and I can see the family photos on the walls. I can see the green impasto painting I bought on Etsy, its swirls drawing one’s eyes around and around. You can’t see the dust from here or the cob webs. Everything looks nicer from outside when you peer through the windows. It doesn’t look like the house of family with a dead child.

It also doesn’t look like the house of family whose daughter is celebrating her 16th birthday today, either. There are no balloons or streamers. There are no envelopes or bits of wrapping paper. There are no birthday candles. Although there was a large kitchen mess this morning when her dad made eggs Benedict (her favorite) and waffles (Riley’s favorite) with strawberries and whipped cream. He’s a good dad, that one.

Every single day there is a struggle to be present in the day while being sucked into grief’s vortex. And to be fair, I like grief’s vortex. It’s familiar and I feel like after almost four years, I understand how it works. I’m over here by myself observing other people over there in the real world. I am only an observer these days. I cannot participate in anything without feeling angry or sad or mad. Today, I’m angry. I am annoyed. At everyone. For having a birthday in the first place. For wanting to sing that song that people sing. For being excited about presents or eggs Benedict and whipped cream. For wanting to be together and talk about how exciting it is to be 16 and all the things that kids who are 16 get to do, like get a learner’s permit. It doesn’t matter how many times I go round and round with my therapist. I know intellectually that I’m not actually angry that my stepdaughter is having a birthday or that people want to celebrate that. I’m angry that Riley is dead and that he’s not here celebrating with us or that he doesn’t get to ever turn 16 (or 12 for that matter).

But emotionally, it’s hard to understand those things when all I want is for Riley to be here. My stomach is hurting. Everything is hurting. Mostly my heart, though, even though I am used to feeling my heart hurt all of the time.

Most of the celebrating seems to be done now. I can hear the dishwasher whirring. I can hear the TV chattering. I can see the dog curled up on her bed snoozing. It’s time to get some bubbly water for my upset stomach. I'm looking forward to crawling into bed and falling asleep, the only place where I don't know that Riley is dead.

Grief and showing up

I’d been up at night, fretting for weeks before the annual run in honor of my dead son. This year, it was held three years, six months, and one day after he died. I’d been trying to think of what to say to all of the kids that would be at this year’s run. Something uplifting about grief? I couldn’t think of anything uplifting. Something profound about showing up even when showing up to confront grief is hard? Something about how grief is forever because death is forever? Maybe a funny story about Riley? Maybe something about the importance of remembering?

I kept feeling like I was supposed to have some speech prepared. Sometime to say about grief to his peers who are now in high school, some lessons I’ve learned, some silver lining crap. I kept picturing my moving speech the foundation of some Ted Talk I would eventually produce on grief since I’m a grief expert these days. But no thought bubble appeared over my head helping me know what to say. All I kept thinking was that I have nothing because grief is awful and unrelenting and forever. I haven’t learned anything. I will never not be sad that my son died. I will never not be angry that he was stolen from me and his family and this life.

I honestly don’t know what I ended up saying when confronted with a group of dozens of his peers and their families who decided to spend the most beautiful day of the month thinking about Riley, running in the heat, and being offered hot chocolate at our house after the run (hot chocolate -- one of Riley's favorites -- seemed like a fabulous idea when I thought of it weeks earlier when it was much colder). As I stood in front of them, their expectant faces watching me, I could hardly find my voice. It wobbled and broke as I marveled at their size, them being there when they could have been just about anywhere.

I was humbled that they showed up. It made me feel slightly less alone that day. Another bereaved mom friend who was there said I had a glow about me. I think it was sweat combined with the way I feel when I’m in the middle of something to do with Riley. When it’s okay to say his name, okay to cry, okay to talk about him to people who don’t feel uncomfortable hearing his name or stories about him…at least in that moment. It’s the closest it feels to him being alive now.

Grief and labor

Labor has begun. Only it isn't in my abdomen, the tightening of muscles as contractions mount. No, this time, it's in my heart, my pulse accelerated. My feet twitch and there is a heightened anxiety coming on. Rapid pulse, almost hyperventilating. This labor isn't about giving birth to a baby. This is emotional labor, the intensity of reliving grief anniversaries. Tomorrow is Riley's 15th birthday. And while his birthday is unrelated to his death, it is a distinct marker that he is not getting older. His shadow life is growing up, a teenager with a deepening voice and peach fuzz and hairy legs, while his actual life ended three-and-a-half years ago.

Fifteen years ago tonight, I was 10 days past my due date with my first baby. Contractions would begin around 3 am on April 2, and would continue until 11:20 pm, when my 8 pound, two ounce boy entered the world in a frenzy of activity. Doctors surrounded us, even though I was oblivious to their concerns, about his heartbeat that had decelerated during contractions. About his failed APGAR tests. Tonight, in this heightened emotional state, I have created a flurry of tasks to accomplish. I'm too twitchy to be still.

Riley came into the world, and in a matter of hours, everything stopped being real. The certainty of walls and ceilings and the physics of gravity and the science and technology that gave me a monitored hospital birth were gone. I went from being an exhausted postpartum woman to an exhausted postpartum woman who was told that in order for her infant son to survive, he would need three open-heart surgeries. And he would need the first one in a matter of days.

We agreed to those life-saving surgeries. And then we agreed to some more. And my son still died. And I continue to get donation requests from the hospitals that treated him. They show pictures of children who have survived, who have lived beyond expectation. Those children are smiling and their parents are smiling. And yet, my son has died and they think that I want to give them more money. I write "Return to sender" on the envelope. I also write, "Please remove me from your mailing list because my son, despite his six heart surgeries, has died."

Tomorrow will come, and I will wake and put on my Riley grief bands. I will wear my Riley necklaces. I will wear green, his favorite color. I will hike in the hills near my house and visit his tree stump decorated with his name. I will donate blood to help some other person in need of blood. I will sob and the technician will ask if it hurts and I will say that my arm feels fine. I will make his favorite dinner. And I will hate that he is dead. Just like all of the days. And I will wait for this nightmare to end, the one that makes my son dead while I am alive. I just want to wake up into a world where my son is in 9th grade. Where he is at the table eating Honey Bunches of Oats or garlic toast for breakfast. Where he will get 15, and 21, and 30, and 75, and all of the ordinary years in between.

Grief and introductions

There is a woman. You might know her. She is tall with dark hair and she was on the trail Tuesday with her two dogs and two friends and their dogs. I know her friends, but I had never met this woman before we introduced ourselves to each other that morning. This woman who I'd never met before has a son. He's in 9th grade now, but he went to Central Middle. Just like Riley. And I can't stop thinking about her. Or about her son.

I keep wondering if her son was in Riley's 6th grade math class before he died. Maybe they sat next to each other. Or maybe he was in his English class. Maybe he sat in front of Riley. Or maybe behind him. Or maybe he was in orchestra with Riley. I wonder if he also played viola for the few weeks of the school year that Riley played viola. Or, perhaps he played cello when they were both in 5th grade and Riley played cello. Did they talk to each other at recess? Did they ever have lunch together? This boy who went to the same school as Riley and who was also a 6th grader when Riley died. They must have known each other. Or at the very least, they must have been acquaintances. The school isn't that big, after all.

From there, I wonder if this boy has a handprint on my garage door from the first anniversary of Riley's death when we made our first handprint memorial and dozens of classmates came to our house and stood in line to participate. Does he have a handprint on Riley's bedroom door from when we made our second handprint memorial? The one with the Tabasco Riley bottle? Did this boy talk about Riley with his mom when he found out that one of his classmates had died? His mom, this woman I'd never met, who happens to have a son who is the same grade that Riley would be in, if he had survived his last heart surgery. The surgery that was supposed to give him a normal lifespan. The surgery that was supposed to let him run and fly on airplanes without oxygen. Our sons must have known each other. Maybe this mother and son came to Riley's memorial after he died. Maybe they ran the Riley Run together and maybe that boy has worn a Riley Run t-shirt to school.

Does this woman know about my son at all? It's possible that her son didn't know Riley and never mentioned him in their home. That idea paralyses me. It's one of the reasons I'm intimidated by this unknown woman and her son, who I have been thinking about since Tuesday morning. She either knows about my son. Or she doesn't know about my son. If she does know about him, she didn't mention him when we introduced ourselves to each other on the trail as the dogs trotted around our feet, their tails wagging.

Then again, I didn't mention Riley to her either, even though we talked long enough to know that she and I have sons who went to the same school at the same time. I wasn't brave enough to ask if her son knew Riley. She wasn't brave enough to say that her son knew Riley. Or didn't know Riley. But if she doesn't know about my son, then Riley's life and death were invisible to this family who also lives in my town, whose son was in the same school and in the same grade as my son who is now dead. Impossible, yet possible. And frightening.

It's only in retrospect, though, that I realize that she may not have known that I was Riley's mom. I feel like I walk through the world with a sign above my head. But how could she know that I am Riley's mom, unless I say that I am Riley's mom? Sometimes it's so hard to say out loud. Not because I don't want to say his name. On the contrary. I want to say his name, but I want to say it, knowing with certainty that his name and his life and his death will be treated with the tenderness it deserves.

If I bump into this tall woman with dark hair on the trail again, perhaps I'll ask her so that I don't have to wonder anymore. But taking a chance is scary because I put my wounded heart in a stranger's hands. Will they treat it with the tenderness it deserves? So much tenderness is needed, all of the time, because my heart is so sore from all of the beating it's done without him these last three years.

Grief and Becoming Tapatio: Day 3

Who could have guessed that today was going to be tricky draping fabric day. What I imagined was a pretty straight forward bit of red paint under Tapatio Riley's torso turned out to be rather complex. Something about how the lowlights and highlights blend from one to another and back again so quickly as the fabric folds over on itself. It's not perfect, but once I put the white lettering on top of it, I don't think the imperfections will be as noticeable. The neck tie is similarly complex with folds, shadows, and highlights. Will definitely need to tweak it on the next painting day. I also started on the yellow jacket. I ran out of yellow house paint and resorted to kids' paint. Needless to say, it's just not the same. It is far too watery, and despite going over it several times, my sketch lines are still visible. But at least I can get an idea of how it's coming together. #feelingpleased #HotSauceRiley #RileyForever

Grief and my beating heart

Sunset, before the world falls into black.

Pressing into my jugular, I wait. Wait for the irregular heart beats--they don’t happen much anymore. Stress, they said. But I listen for them with my fingers. I want wrong beats to exert themselves. I keep anticipating more palpitations. Side effects from the medicine, they said. It’s terrifying when they happen, especially if I’m driving and everything falls into a black tunnel for a moment. But there’s something about wrong beats or extra beats that make me feel connected to Riley. Grief broke my heart. So I listen with my fingers pressed into my neck, feeling each beat as it pushes back against my fingers. Waiting. Waiting. Waiting for my heart to be in sync with his. Just like it used to be.

Grief and Becoming Tapatio: Day 2

Tapatio: Day 2: Riley in unfinished sombrero

As the second anniversary of Riley's death approached in October 2016, I felt the need to take his love of hot sauce and somehow make him part of it. On his bedroom door, I transformed his name into his favorite Green Tabasco. From there, we carted his bedroom door to school and his classmates put their handprints on his door. We then put his bedroom door back in place. So now his Tabasco name and all of those classmates' handprints hang in the upstairs hallway.

On the third anniversary, I transformed Riley's name into a Cholula hot sauce bottle. I replaced the woman on the bottle with Riley's likeness. It was the first time I painted him. It was terrifying because it felt that so much was at stake. It felt like final product would be a direct representation of how much I love him. When it was done, I loved it, although the general consensus was that I had painted a 20-something-year-old version of him. 

And I've started again. This time it's transforming him into a Tapatio hot sauce bottle. This is how he looks on Day 2 -- his 11-year-old likeness in an unfinished sombrero. I wish I'd been documenting the progress of these painting projects from the start. Earlier today, for example, Riley's mouth in this painting was lower. I wasn't sure if I should move it. After talking to his brother and grandmother, I moved it up about a centimeter. And when I stepped back, I couldn't believe how much it looks like him. It was a good decision. I stared into his eyes all afternoon. #HotSauceRiley

Grief and flipping a switch

My kids; Riley is the green one, obviously.

It’s not like I can flip the switch and stop wanting a baby. I thought it could be that easy; just decide to stop. But it hasn’t been like that at all. Sure, I’ve stopped going to doctor appointments that examine my ovaries and the follicles ripening within. There are no more estrogen pills or progesterone suppositories. I don’t take the CoQ-10; I don’t take the Inositol; I don’t take the Omega-3s; I don’t take the prenatal vitamins. I don’t take the others whose names I’ve forgotten. There are no longer three weekly pill organizers on my dresser packed with my morning, afternoon, and evening pills.

I keep thinking, now I can focus on me. Take the pilates class or learn to play piano. Go on some adventure that I wouldn’t be able to do with a protruding pregnant belly or a new baby. Watch me sleep in on Sunday morning--no one kicking my bladder. Watch me have a glass of wine or three--no reason to stay sober. Listen to me crunch on another cookie--it’s not like eliminating sugar helped my uterus hold any babies.

Sure I like fantasizing about exotic travel and wondering what my husband and I will be doing after our youngest goes off to college in seven years. And I like not being bloated and swollen from the hormones. But it’s not that easy to just stop the yearning. It’s been a complicated dance with grief and desire in the wake of my son dying. This dance must have been nature’s way of ensuring that our species continued thousands of years ago, when most babies likely died. This primal urge to procreate in the face of a child’s death.

Didn’t know we’d been trying to have a baby? Don’t feel left out. It was a carefully kept secret because I couldn’t bear the idea of anyone asking me if it was pregnant yet. I broke my silence about it in the latest issue of Six Hens.

There are still sharps containers in my closet, though, packed with used syringes waiting to be dropped off at the local fire station. There are also the unused syringes, the different sized needles for liquids of different viscosities, depending on whether they were meant for the fat in my belly or the muscle in my ass.

Now that we’re done trying, the desire still lingers quietly. But it’s more like a spiderweb on the on the bookshelf rather than a wasp in my nose. None of it really matters because with a baby or without a baby, Riley is still dead. Every so often, I’ll see him out of the corner of my eye. Like last night, when his brother put on my rectangular glasses. There he was for a second in my camera’s viewfinder. Still just out of reach.