Day One Hundred Seventy Eight

I must say it's been a rather challenging 9 days - so sick and without the distractions of my normal routine, the mind resting on memories and longing for days of the past. There were so many times when my mind would just flood with thoughts longing to be written down. There have also been a few days of numbness, not able to verbalize or recognize any feelings whatsoever. I can't wait for the day when I can remember what I live for.

Day One Hundred Seventy-Seven

The food was eaten. The relatives went home. The cards were written, the words were said. The flowers died and now the ashes are on the mantle. The well meaning friends don't come by, the good friends don't call. We are now alone in our grief. The solitude is incredible. The sorrow unbearable. Are we really expected to go on as if the passing of time will dilute the absence of our youngest son and brother? I've heard the words way too often, "If there's anything I can do please give me a call." I hardly have the energy and desire to get out of bed in the morning, let alone intrude on another's peaceful existence. For a person who's been used to fierce independence, am I really supposed to now pick up the phone and ask for someone to just acknowledge our loss? Who's the strong now?. I don't understand people and I don't understand why my son had to die - this just wasn't supposed to happen and nothing in my life has prepared me for it. I am bitter. I am confused. I don't know what is real and what is an illusion. I don't know what happens after we die, despite the fact that I want to believe our essence lives on. Does my belief in something change the reality? All I know is there is a hole in my life that will never be filled.

Day One Hundred Seventy-Six

I find myself watching TV or a video and wondering when it was made - what year? I can imagine the camera panning out, way out, out until I see exactly what Eric was doing when that TV program or video was made. I take comfort in the fact that while I'm watching, I know that Eric was out there, alive, doing something, anything, but not gone. Eric's goneness - I'm having a hard time with that - an incredibly hard time.

Day One Hundred Seventy Five

The season's beginning to wind down and the vegetables have certainly earned their rest. Never have I harvested as many bountiful offerings as I have this season. I do believe the wet winter was very kind to my fresh vegetable appetite. It's what I love about the summer - not so much the hot temperatures, although it didn't get about 100 degrees here all summer which helped my crop abundance tremendously. No matter how much water you put on the plants, temperatures above 100 degrees are deadly for the tender little veggies setting on the plants. The only downside of having a garden is the necessity to stay home and water it. Long summer weekends away are nice during the summer, but the plants suffer for it.

I started all my plants from seed this year, buying only heirloom varieties. The large squash are Ettiennes and I can't wait to cut into one of them. I'm just waiting for the right recipe inspiration. Maybe a squash and carrot soup as I have many heirloom carrots as well. They were especially prolific as they were the small round variety which doesn't take much soil depth. The little round ones are also very beautiful left whole and added to soup or stew.
As you can see, there are a couple of grape clusters. Bob and I picked 28 lbs on October 1st and began our little wine experiment. I had stopped by the local home brew-it shop and purchased a few items needed to make wine. Right now the mash is fermenting and we're hoping for a couple of bottles.

I have always loved the fall season - all the bounty of the garden which yields an ever bigger bounty as each summer passes, the turning of the leaves which have sheltered us from the sun during those hot days of summer, and the crispness in the air when the cold begins to creep in, pushing the warm thick air out into the sky where it will linger until another summer rolls around once again. I like to imagine it just playing high in the atmosphere waiting for it's time to return to the Earth once again. The birds are beginning their fly through and are now frequenting the yard in waves. The dog is curled up a little tighter among her blankets in the dog house. The waining of the light is making it difficult to get out of bed in the morning. The fall season is here once again and I am without all the familiarity of past autumns.

I am not as sad as I have been these past several months, and I believe a veil of numbness has descended and covered me. I'm not sure if it's a subconscious survival reaction as the autumn can be a very sad time of the year, bringing on a sense of melancholia. Long shadows from the lowering angle of the sun, give everything a presence that makes it hard to know soon they will be gone. It seems it's almost as if the sun wants us to remember how much joy, pleasure and protection those plants, in all their costumed splendor, gave us during the heat of the summer before they loose their leaves and hanker down for the cold of the winter. Maybe that's what happens to all of us - we loose our blood, our flesh and our bones to the season of death, but we sleep through the winter of our existence until we too can return to give joy, pleasure and protection to those we love and have loved. It is too cruel to believe we are just gone.

Day One Hundred and Seventy-Four

Sometimes I think I know what it must feel like to be a junkie as I walk down the hall and into the back bedroom where all of the remains of Eric's earthly life reside behind the green doors of the closet. I stand before them, anticipating the high I'm going to get when I reach in and pull his pillow and quilt close to my face and breath in deep, imagining him standing before me. All the times I walked into his room and recoiled from the smell, politely, yet sternly informed him he needed to pick up his dirty clothes and put them in the laundry, only to see him a few minutes later doing exactly that. Eric was fastidious in his person, always showering and making sure he was clean and he always had a good soapy smell. His room and bed was another matter. The room, no matter which one he was residing in as he lived in every bedroom of the house at one time or another, would be a chaotic mess of dirty clothes, pieces of paper, old used dishes, pens, pencils, bike parts, metal and sand and dirt, but when reminded, he would take a few hours and clean it up, surprisingly well for someone who could neglect it as he did. But Eric always smelled good, kept his hair clean, yet sometimes very wild, and often had a soft almost redish beard. I always loved it when he shaved his face clean - he had such a baby face and I loved the soft lines along his mouth when he smiled.

Now I savor what little I have of the things he used and wore - those things that still have his scent clinging to them, not the soapy smell, but the smell of dirt and bicycle grease that reminds me so much of Eric. I'll never wash his quilt. I will keep his pillow wrapped in it to preserve what lingers there and, ultimately, brings me back to when he was here.

Day One Hundred Seventy-three

I don't think I get a greater sense of joy than when I'm sitting on my back patio, surrounded by so much natural beauty and being serenaded by the crickets. It's interesting how their sounds layer on top of one another to produce such a loud chirp, as if it's one big cricket, and then, slowly, the sounds begin to effect a delay, just disrupting the synchronization enough to sound like there are many, many more crickets. Then, in an undisrupted symphony they somehow mesh again into one big sound. Maybe this is how the adage, "lulled to sleep" came into use - it's definitely a sound that would sooth the anxiety, calm the mind, and bring on slumber. Quite a sublime part of the night. I almost can imagine myself in a Tennessee Williams narrative. The cool of the evening after a hot, hot summer day. The chirping of the crickets, the water softly flowing in and out of the fountain basin, and the faint sounds of some New Orleans style jazz wafting up the hill from downtown and into my backyard. With my bare feet propped on the porch railing, I can picture myself wearing some shear linen nightdress - I'm already barefoot - and sipping on a mint julip waiting for Paul Newman to come walking up to the porch all sweaty and exhausted from putt'n in a hard days work on daddy's plantation. Ya'll know what I mean.

Whoa, back to the high desert of Carson City. The evenings are rather lovely here in the summer. Now I'm beginning to feel a cool breeze. But the mornings are sneaking in under a cooler layer of the next season and, as usual, the warm will not last. I can only hope for that Indian Summer that we always seem to welcome just as our Nevada Day rolls near. This is my favorite season, when the angle of sun makes the shadows a little longer, and the color of my surroundings gets deeper and less saturated with the green of plants growing in their glory. A time of change, visually mesmerizing. Fall will be good, full of many memories. But Winter will be another story.

Day One Hundred Seventy-Two

There are some sports that have what is called a "consolation" round. If you lose early enough in the competition, you are consoled in knowing that you may still have a chance to win something, even if it's not the big prize. I remember a consolation bracket in tennis. There were a few times when I was relegated to that designation and always felt rather exiled and not very consoled by having the ability to still be a "winner" at something. The fact that I had lost in the main competition was a disappointment that was not going to get any better by winning in the losers bracket. The main competition was what actually meant something to me. I rather feel that way about life right now. I've lost the chance to win the big prize and am now off in the losers bracket trying to make something good out of the startling reality I couldn't keep my son safe from harm.

Day One Hundred Seventy-One

When I first began this blog my intention was to write everyday. As I began, there were times when I just wasn't feeling it or other interests and commitments got in the way of actually chronicaling each day consecutively. Several times, entries became the conglomeration of several days as one entry. Then came the job at the legislature and I couldn't keep up. I vowed I would begin again once session was over. Then my world was turned upside down and I'm still hanging by my toes.

It feels good to be writing again as I love to put my thoughts on paper and see the words come to life as they describe my very human experiences. At times it's quite painful to introspect and reflect on the passages of one's life, but in the end, I am more contented with my thoughts and feelings if they are memorialized. I'm not sure, however, the exercise will be the catharsis I am hoping for. The rhyme and reason I am searching so desperately to find may never come. I only hope some semblance of joy returns, if only just to honor the fact that I was the conduit to have helped bring Jay and Eric into this world. Like all mothers, I just wanted so badly to see my sons living a joyous life. Now I'm afraid my husband is unduly suffering by witnessing my unending grief. I know he wants so desperately to take my pain away. I feel rather pathetic at times as I'm not the only one in this world who is grieving the loss of a child, unfortunately, even though my intellect knows this, my heart has not got the message yet, if it ever will.

I do know that when I rise in the morning, make my pot of tea, and step into the backyard to feed the dog and water my garden, I feel such a contentment that I have never felt before. I have always said Carson City never felt like my true home, but that all changed on April 20, 2011, when the memories forged here over the years became all that was left of a young man whose life began 23 years ago in this little town. I feel my home and yard have become my cocoon of those memories, collected over the past 19 years we have lived on Crain Street. So many, many memories of two little boys growing up and so many, many memories of two young men coming into their own. I love both of them so - they are my success, my greatest joy, and now one has become my greatest sorrow.

Day One Hundred Seventy

It seems like each day just blurs into the next. My days are mostly satisfying, especially those times when I'm at work, which is a total turnaround from any notion I've every harbored about work being enjoyable. I've always said my job never defined me the way it does for many people. I never understood those who could say their jobs were fulfilling. I always looked at employment as a means to live the life one desires to live and even with that said, I still couldn't stay at a job once I was bored with it. Restless, restless, restless - I thought this is what would define me to the end. Now I feel like I just want to stay put.

I had a dream the other night that was the most vividly real dream I've ever experienced. I was sitting on a mountain looking off toward a bay or ocean. There were hills rolling down to the water's edge and little bays and islands full of pine trees. It was nighttime, but it was lit up as though a huge full moon was near and even though it was night, there were many intense colors but very dark colors. The sky over the water was full of long, lenticular clouds with the light shining upon them. All of a sudden the land I was sitting on began to drift. The motion scared me but I told myself not to be scared, to go with it and "ride it out" if you will. It was a large mass of land moving away from the water and felt very powerful, almost as if I was riding an earthquake. Then the sky began to change and flash. The colors remained the same and it still appeared to be nighttime. I began to see abstract images in the sky and convinced myself I was dying. I was aware I could turn back, away from the images and stop the process of dying, but I didn't want to. I kept looking at the images which I knew were parts of my life. I saw Eric's eyes, his hands and other parts of him. I saw abstract images of his face, smiling. I wanted to see more and told myself to stay where I was and go with the experience. I was not afraid to die. I didn't desire it, but I didn't fear it either. I just remember the colors and serenity were overpowering. I don't remember any more of the dream.

Day One Hundred Sixty-Nine

Why did I not grieve so much at my father's passing as I have at my son's? What is it that makes it so difficult to accept and understand a child being gone as understanding or accepting the death of the one who gave you life? If we are only concerned with the ego then shouldn't the death of the host be more debilitating than the death of the progeny? In either case, it's the realization of the combination of two lives creating a distinctly unique whole that transcends the idea of the loss of one of the elements that created the new.

Each generation combines the history of two others. Every time a generation creates the next, the history of the past doubles and forms a richer history for each individual. The genetics, the experiences and the capacity for understanding and feeling is multiplied. Each generation becomes a more complex version of the last with an even more complex genetic make up than the one before it. Is there a point where we will no longer feel loss and love as deeply as at this moment because it will somehow get lost in the capacity of the human spirit to experience these emotions? Will we get so saturated that we become desensitized to it all? I only know that the pain I am experiencing now could not possibly get any greater for fear of total loss of the will to live. Whh is the depth of love only realized at the cost of great loss? I am dumbfounded at he need for existence.

Day One Hundred and Sixty-Eight

Last night was the first time since Eric passed that I slept well. I awoke at 5:30am and actually felt rested and satisfied that I fully remembered the dream I was having. My dream life has always been very rich. There were times when Eric and I would relate our dreams to each other, as almost a contest of stories. It was amazing how the images that crossed our conscious lives would be broken down into their essence during those dream states. Eric always won as his dreams were so fantastical. But I had a good dream last night, being with good friends and going to the opera. I think it's why I feel so refreshed and ready to begin another day this morning.

I don't need to water today as the garden got a double dose yesterday from both Bob and I. It's nice just to sit and watch the sun come up behind the trees in the backyard, making everything glow - everything is waking up. Even Meggie is still curled up in her doghouse. I had a lot of scrap redwood from the deck Eric built out front so, I built a good size doghouse that looks like a little building you might find in an early western town - it even has a little bit of a porch. I could write "Meggie's Saloon" across it's facade and it would fit right in along the main street in Virginia City. She seems to like it. The reason I built it was because I noticed she likes to be somewhat "confined" when she sleeps. It's probably due to the fact that she is kennel trained and used to being in a kennel when sleeping. Of course now, being part of the Kvam pack, she sleeps in style - no stinking kennel for her! She is such a sweet little dog and quite a comfort for me. The last time I talked with Eric, he was here at the house and had just come back from taking Meggie for a walk, doing his laundry and eating some spaghetti. I know he and Meggie would have been great pals. That's another reason why I think I slept soundly last night - I took Meggie for a walk up C Hill after work. It always feels good to walk especially in the evening when the sun angle creates those long shadows on everything gracing the surface of this earth. It just gives everything a more dynamic presence.

Day One Hundred Sixty-Seven

Everyday I say Eric's name three times. I burn incense next to the jar of his ashes. I throw kisses at his pictures. I have a vase of flowers in the middle of all the mementos I've placed on the tv cabinet. I look at the road carved into the mountainside in Ash Canyon where the tree, standing tall above all the others, appears as a sentinel marking the spot where Eric took his last breath. How to go on? That's what I ask myself everyday. I have to remember I have a loving husband whose heart and bones, together with mine, created our sons. And to the brother and son left behind, I given up all my love, desires and wishes, for him to carry on for me as I don't have the desire to press ahead with them myself. There is no one in this world that I love more than my boys and husband. I would give anything to change places with Eric.

Flesh and blood is a powerful thing. Without the tangible, things are only as they are imagined. The world that exists outside the tangible is a mystery and sometimes a treacherous mountain to attempt to scale. I feel a great need to explore the unknown but I also wonder if I have the energy and desire. The despair I feel is debilitating and it seems the only time I can plug ahead is in the mundane tasks of daily living and of employment. Sometimes, the more mundane a task is, the more easily it is accomplished which is the exact opposite of what has sustained me over the course of the last couple of decades. The joie de vivre is now the joie de mort. One does not fear death when your child has gone before you. The only fear is that the living will not understand that the grief transcends the love you have for them. The experience of absence is not equal to the experience of presence. Absence is overwhelming. Presence is reassuring.

I do not understand this state of being which is the human life. What is the purpose of matter and energy coming together to form a being? Isn't there purpose in everything, or is all of this just a random physics experiment? How cruel to be given the experience of deep love and then have it taken away by some random act of probability. Any yet, the cruelest thing of all is to want answers to questions that no one can answer.

Day One Hundred Sixty-Six

Yes, it's been awhile and much has transpired since my last post. My garden is my solace right now and as I look out and see everything growing tall and beautiful, I wonder at the idea that I can get such pleasure out of the cycle of life and death that so beautifully plays out season after season. The sunflowers are in their glory and some have already gone to seed, sustaining the multitude of birds that show themselves this time of year. The bees are all abuzz, covering the lavender in full bloom. I've wanted to pick some of the fragrant stems but am reluctant, knowing that I might take some of the joy from the bees who are covered by an armor of pollen. They look like little Samarai busily collecting their treasure before the hints of the next season steal it away.

I look out and see all of the projects that have kept us busy over the years we have been in this house - now reaping the rewards of jobs well done. And I see Eric all over the landscape as many of the projects were begun and finished by him. From the raised vegetable beds to the castle block retaining walls and the water fountain, the new deck out front and the paving stone driveway, his handiwork is a reminder of a life that has since passed. There was the baby, the boy and the young man, who all grew up here and left their mark among the people, places and things we have left. How many, many times in my life here in Carson City have I planned my escape from this place, but now, there is no ache to leave, just an ache to be where he was and always will be. Here in the garden is my Eden. The flowers are not perfect, the weeds still grow and there are the bugs, but as in life, it is the perfect mirror of beauty that still exists in imperfection. Even though Eric had his shortcomings, I still love him so and miss him. It is as C.S. Lewis said, "[His] absence is like the sky, spread over everything."

Day One Hundred Sixty Five

A whole week without blogging! I'll be working for the next five months so blogging may become a luxury. I'm going to diligently try but I don't think it'll become something that occurs on a regular basis. It does feel good to be working again and it seems very familiar to be back in a place where I used to work (albeit a very long time ago). The real good thing about it is planning our next vacation which will be to San Miguel Allende for the Day of the Dead. I've always said I wasn't interested in going to Mexico, but my old boss raves about this place so we're going to end up meeting her there. It should be fun, fun, fun. I love going with people who've already been there.

Day One Hundred Fifty-Eight

It might be a blessing that we ended up back in Carson as we're sitting here this morning watching the snow come down rather heavily. I don't recall seeing birds at the feeder when it's this bad, but they must be hungry as there are quite a few braving the large snowflakes to get at the seed in the finch socks. Just in the last hour there's probably been about a two inch accumulation. Where better to be than at home, our classical music playing in the background, sipping our tea and coffee and taking in the meditative sight of large snowflakes falling, rapidly frosting all of the objects that endure the seasons on their own. These are the times I feel fortunate to live in such a place that so beautifully showcases the many attributes of the four seasons. I know there must be many other places that are equally, if not more lovely than the current visage, but I'm thankful to be right here in this moment. It seems I've been chasing that illusive environment that will somehow provide the means to contentment and satisfaction, but then I'm shaken into the realization that "I" am still in each of the places that I'm hoping will redeem me. When I do experience peace at any one time, in any one particular situation, I believe I need to take it in and try to understand what it is that is giving me just that - it is inside me, not outside.

I think it's a startling revelation for one who does not believe in fate to come to the realization that much of what makes us happy comes from within. To be a believer in fate, one must also believe in an intelligent design which I'm not sure I believe exists. I've always maintained that one must create the life one wants to live and not wait for it to happen because of some force of design that is not defined or known. The only problem with that way of thinking, for me anyway, has been to accept the boundaries of one's own heart and mind. It's sometimes a sobering realization that I probably don't have the mental capacity to do certain things. For instance, I know I could never be a nuclear physicist - nor could I be an opera singer. There are limitations that all of us have to understand and channel desire and ability into a direction that provides the best possible avenue to fulfillment. The abilities we are born with need to be understood and grasped by each of us. Then, to take the abilities and do wonderful things by their means is the ultimate fulfillment. There are things that I would love to do that I know I can do but can't seem to muster the motivation, nor have I been able to muster the motivation to accomplish them. I've always wanted to write the great American novel and I'm sure I could write a book (maybe not the greatest) but I've only been able to come up with some great titles! I think the real need is to come up with an idea for the guts - don't ya think. It makes me wonder how people who do write great books come up with their ideas. Where did JK Rowling get her ideas for the Harry Potter books, for instance? I think that's totally fantastical and wish I had something that deep inside I could drawn on for inspiration. I'm probably too pragmatic in my thoughts. It's not that I don't try!

Day One Hundred Fifty Seven

We set off for Placerville to ring in the New Year with my brother but only got as far as Myers when the starter in our Suburban petered out. We were sitting in the cab of a tow truck at 3:30pm on our way back to Carson City and headed to the Chevy dealership and eventually back home. Needless to say, our New Year's was quiet and early. We did have the opportunity to buy a couple of lotto tickets as the jackpot was 249 million dollars and thought it would have been a good story to break down on New Year's Eve and end up winning the millions, but alas, it didn't happen so we're still scheduled to go to work on Monday as are everybody in our immediate family.