Grieving Ryan

  They say to expect anniversaries to be hard. These are not celebrations with cake and balloons, but they mark the passage of time just the same. A year of life, a year of death, a moment to note as we humans  attempt to make sense of an ever shifting dimension.  But which day is the anniversary? A year ago today, February 15, Ryan said his brief, unclear goodbyes. He miscued his mother so I wouldn't suspect and he swallowed the pills that ended his life.  It was a year ago tomorrow that my world went sideways, that I told his father and his sister. Feb 16 is the date on the death certificate. Legally Ryan ceased to be the moment I told the 911 operator it had happened.  So which day is the anniversary? The day it happened to him? Or the day it happened to me? Which day do I mourn and cry and fall apart? Which day brings it all back as if it were happening right now, as if I'd just held him a moment ago and now he's gone forever? Which day? All of them. 

 I scattered his ashes in a place we both loved. At least he loved it when he loved anything, before the joy slipped away and all that remained was the struggle to get through the day. It's a beautiful place in a part of the country I thought I would never leave again, until I did. I won't be here to visit him two weeks from now when he'll have been gone a year. So I'm here today instead.  Low tide, quiet water, a gentle breeze, and, of course, the damp. The lapping of the waves is overtaken by the roar of war planes doing their maneuvers from the nearby base. Ryan would have loved the planes and hated their noise. You can't cover your ears and run away from them the way he used to do from the blender.  For me they are a symbol of everything wrong in the world - violence, abusive power, greed, convoluted ideas of freedom that mistake the ability to harm for safety. They represent uncounted millions that could have been resourced for helping kids like mine and thousa...

 I've never been a big fan of Valentine's Day. I don't mind the red glitter, though it has haunted my house for months and years following a homeschool party. The wasted paper and pre-diabetic sugar highs are no worse than the other Hallmark holidays. The billions spent on roses, chocolate and various bits of pink and red fluff would be better spent on other things, but so would a lot of other dollars. The worst, really, is the way the holiday creates expectations in relationships that generally do more harm than good.  I've developed a practice of discussing expectations with any potential valentine well ahead of the day. I generally aim for some small observance that is low stress and appropriate to the relationship at hand. If I studiously avoid feeding capitalism, I can generally navigate the day with warmth and connection. It can be nice.  So it was that last year Jamie and I enjoyed a casual early dinner out and a walk around a lake for Valentines. No cards, no gi...

  When women labor in birth, they sometimes become overwhelmed and say, "I don't want to do this any more." as if there is some choice in the matter.  I never got to that place as I labored to birth my babies, but I find myself there now as I labor in his death. Fruitlessly I say, "I don't want to do this any more." I don't want to dissolve into tears at my husband's loving and concerned expression. I don't want to close my eyes for sleep and be flooded with the image of his cold, pale face in death. I don't want to spin through the thousand things I might have done if only I'd known. I don't want every announcement of 988 to echo with "too late, too late, too late." I don't want my stomach to twist with the literally gut-wrenching pain of losing him.  I don't want to wonder if January will forever be a desperate stretch between the holidays he isn't here for and the anniversary of his death in February. I don...

 I started recreating my family photo board today. It's a magnetic board covered collage-style with photos of my children's childhood. Children running, climbing, playing, puzzling, swinging, exploring, and laughing. Their little faces smiling and studious and the occasional smirk. They remind me of the homes we lived in, the places we visited and the people we shared that time with. So many happy memories came flooding back. And it's exhausting.  The tears weren't a surprise. As I gathered the photos and the magnets, I grabbed the tissue box too.  I miss the young man I had breakfast with on February 15, 2022. Even in depression he was a joy to be with. I was incredibly proud of him. I miss the bright child in the photos even more. Over 17 years I captured the moments of joy that came between the tantrums and the pain. The boy on the board had escaped the struggle for a time and become his true self: strategic genius, eager explorer, loving brother, tender animal-lover...