Grieving Ryan

People ask me how I'm doing and I tell them, "Pretty well, except when I'm not." Not is less and less often. I've thought a lot about why I'm doing as well as I am.  Of course there are a lot of reasons, but one that stands out in particular: wealth and privilege .  As I have made my way through these last months, as I found him and called the police, as I made arrangements for his cremation and memorial, as I traveled to Atlanta; I did not, even once, wonder how I would pay for it all.  I didn't fear that the police would see my color and make assumptions. I didn't wonder if he had killed himself because I had failed to provide for him.   When I looked at grief head on and saw a long road before me, I cut back on my work and didn't worry about my income.  Because of many accidents of birth and circumstance, because of dozens or hundreds of happenings outside my control, I happen to have privileges of race and wealth and education that allowed me t...

Some days are harder than others. Sometimes there is not a reason. Sometimes there is. Today there is a reason. Today I explained to the deputy coroner that the part of the autopsy report where she described what I had said to her on the worst day of my life was simply wrong.  It might not matter to someone else. The real facts and her supposed facts all point in the same direction. The conclusion is no different. The toxicology report, his stomach contents, the diagnoses from his psychiatrist tell the tale. As far as I can tell they got all of that right. It may not matter that the deputy coroner manufactured a diagnosis of ADHD and a visit from Atlanta friends that never happened.  It matters to me. Truth has always been important to me. Many stages of my life would have been easier if I had been willing to tell the lie that made everyone comfortable. I didn't seek comfort in lies when I was 5, and I cannot countenance being misrepresented in a public document as I approach ...

 I called the coroner today. Four and a half months ago they said it would take two or three months for his bloodwork to come back from the state lab and confirm the expected toxicology. I hadn't heard from them. It took me weeks to gather the courage or strength or whatever it was I had today that I didn't have dozens of other times I told myself I'd call.   The report from the lab was on file, but in a too-busy office it took my call to prompt the completion of the autopsy report. A young compassionate voice called me back to tell me what they had found. No surprises. Lots of big words: Intoxication by  . . .  lots of syllables I can't remember, four drugs I think.  Now I'm watching the mail for the document that will give it to me in writing. Actually, I'm watching the mail for two documents. The honorary diploma that marks Ryan's accomplishment in high school is coming too. Honorary because he didn't complete the last required half credit in English....

Unfelt grief stacks up.  A white-blonde image falls across a mispronounced word. A whisper of remembered laughter leans in and a missed opportunity for connection lands on top. The grin of a milestone reached and the pain of the one that should be now collect like blocks. The unfelt loss and lightly noticed sadness stack up in a tower. Unshed tears crawl up and find their way into crevices and balance atop the bits and pieces of life well lived, settling in puddles of regret for healing that did not come. Day by day today's life is lived. In the life of after, one foot steps in front of the other. The illusion that grief is lessening makes way for things that matter to move forward unmarred by anguish. It's a useful, even necessary, pattern for continuing to live when he isn't. But grief isn't lessening. It's piling up in the corner leaving a clear space in which to live today.  Moment by moment, bit by bit, stifled sob by suppressed remembrance, the tower grows tal...

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...