Grieving Ryan

Happy Birthday Ryan - Through the Years  18 years ago, May 31, 2004  was his birth day. 10 lbs, 2 oz of the sweetest baby ever.  * 2005, he hadn't said his first word, "ball", but it was clear he loved them. ** 2006, he got two cakes, the first near Grandma's house. He climbed all over the rocks and shore that day. A month ago we scattered his ashes in these same waters.  2006, the second cake was to share with his friends at his "Dirt Party". They had a fabulous time, digging, in the mud, spraying water and eating cake. *** 2007, was all about bikes. We gathered his pals and their bikes and found treasures all over the best bike park around. **** 2008, four years old and we played with boats at the beach. ***** 2009, they built cars, raced cars and ate cars and fun was had by all. ****** 2010, a train cake a treasure hunt of puzzle clues. ******* 2011, 7 years old and loving Super Mario Brothers.  M & R were so excited to model the Mario and Luigi relay

 For years I have searched for answers for Ryan. I've read books, scoured websites and watched youtube videos in hopes of understanding what he needed. When someone mentioned a new medical or therapeutic method, I've compulsively asked myself if it might help Ryan. Old habits die hard. I'm no longer searching for answers for Ryan. In part because he's gone, I'm finally giving my own health the attention it has long needed.  When I find myself wandering the internet health world it is in hopes of finding better health for me. And still I ask myself if the thing I'm learning about can help Ryan.  It can't, of course. That's the thing about death. Anything else, whatever hell he might have lived, however bad things got, whatever damage he did to himself or others, the hope for health survived. That all changed the morning I found him cold in his bed. He had died hours before. Hope died the moment I touched him and knew that he would never breathe again.  Ho

I cried yesterday and at first didn't know why. I cried out an ordinary sadness, the grief of an ordinary loss on an ordinary day. I cried out the pain of disconnection when my love and I missed each other. I cried the grief of past hurts long gone, but still remembered. I cried the pain of unhealed wounds, of growth trying to happen, of knowing myself in a way I haven't been ready to see before. For the first time in three months I cried tears that were not about Ryan. And then I realized that it was the first time, and of course, I cried for Ryan. Like every other marker, every first, every last, every new frame around his life and his death, the thought itself brought back the gut-wrenching loss of my son. Even so I am comforted by a bit of ordinary life, a moment much like so many moments before.  In Before I cried a lot as I contemplated life and loss. As Jamie and I found our way together old wounds surfaced often, ready to be noticed and perhaps healed. Sometimes he held

Ryan died because he lived in pain, not just near the end, but much of his life, beginning before he had the words to tell me.  Ryan died because in a capitalistic medical system, resources of research, medical education and marketing focus far more on things that create profit for corporations than those that merely save the lives of children. Our doctors know how to write prescriptions and reassure (dismiss) parents, but they do not know how to help a child like Ryan.  The first hints of Ryan's pain and unusual neurology came early. He was 18 months old when he broke his right arm in a sensory seeking game of "spin me on mom's office chair". The surgeon who inserted the pins assured me that my son would spend days watching TV on the couch. I imagine that's what most kids do. Ryan never slowed down, never seemed to experience pain, was energized rather that fatigued by pain meds - all signs his doctor didn't know to read as indicators that he might need somet

Mothers Day They said holidays would be hard. I believed them, but I didn't expect it for Mothers Day. I remembered how little interest Ryan had had in Mothers Day, how my celebrations had involved him little, if at all. I thought this day would not be about him this year either.  I was wrong.   I've thought of Ryan all day long. I've remembered how happy he was to participate in family celebrations, including this one. Except last year, when he refused to even go to Grandma's house. In hindsight it was a sign his depression was worsening. What might have been different if I had seen it that way then? Jamie and I made crepes for breakfast, the ones Megan would have made if she was here. Sweet memories of my thoughtful girl. As I mixed the batter, pulled the berries from the freezer, I remembered last time I made them, for Ryan, a rare request. The movements of opening the package and the feeling of berries in my hands recall memory deeper than consciousness. Visceral, u

I carried rosemary on my wedding day. Rosemary for remembrance, As I married the man I love, Rosemary to remember my beloved. A single spiny sprig, Tactile, scented, Textured and spicy Like life, like his life. I held rosemary as I pledged my love To the man I adore Who adores me Who came running that day When I found my beloved had left me. The scent of rosemary was on my fingers  As he slid a ring on my finger, As my fingers slid a ring onto his. Rosemary for remembrance Because my son was not there. Neither was I, Though I did not know it. Earthy rosemary from the ground Grounded me, But it could not bring me fully present When I didn’t know I wasn’t. I said the words and meant them. I gave a ring and promised my love. I looked into the eyes of my love, And promised him forever. I smiled and I cried, I hugged and kissed and blew bubbles, But I didn’t feel the fullness of it. Didn’t feel the fullness of joy, Didn’t feel the fullness of grief, Didn’t know I wasn’t feeling, Until I did