It's been so very difficult for me to even think about writing. I keep thinking I should be figuring out how to bring him back, trying to figure out exactly what to do that will prevent this from becoming a reality. I still keep feeling there is something out there I can do to turn back the hands of time and that I must find it.   The idea that this is reality has not crept into my vocabulary yet. I've not yet let go of the idea I will wake up from this nightmare. Each day that goes by blurs into yesterday - tomorrow is the same as today and today is just as painful as yesterday. I can hardly believe it's been almost a year of Eric's absence because I'm still expecting him to walk in the back door.

Each day that goes by isn't immune to the longing for the same day last year. "When Eric was still alive," I've kept saying to myself as each day presents itself and I remember what we were doing last year at this time - when Eric was still alive. I dread the day when I can no longer say to myself, "last year at this time."And the day is looming as my anxiety grows.

The Loss Continues - Unrelentless

We lost so much, but nothing compared to what Eric lost. I can't even begin to try to imagine what he lost - I can't go there for fear I may not resurface from it. Unfortunately, we're the ones left behind to realize the loss and try to live through it. Knowing how much he loved life and how much we enjoyed reveling in the way he demonstrated that love, sometimes feels unbearable. I feel I'm being robbed. Everyday when I wake up and realize my life has changed so profoundly, inexorably, and miserably, and all I have is to anticipate the measly paycheck from a job that's slowly robbing me of the memories, feelings and grief I so much want to work through. The distraction of avoidance and having to deal with the ridiculousness of the day to day activities of the workplace - a place where there is no humanity, empathy or understanding.  Where are their redeeming qualities. I even hate the very people that Eric loved, the friends that wore him like their emblem and then let him fend for himself when he needed them most, the people Eric would have defended even if he didn't know them. He was always defending the behaviors of others, never had a bad word toward anyone. Never gossiped. Now the distrust I wish he had of had even an inkling of, pervades me. And the numbness - continually creeping in and out so that my lowest lows mimic the bare nerve laid out, waiting for the irritant to remind it of the pain that tells it it's still alive and suffering.

Oh Eric, why?

When it began

When I started this blog I had every intention to chronicle the life I intended to create in the next few years as a gate that I could walk through to the next passage of my life. I thought I had more or less figured out what I wanted to do, what I wanted to concentrate on and what would give me satisfaction now that my children were grown and walking the paths they were creating for themselves. I felt I had the opportunity to redefine my happiness and take it to a new level for not only myself, but my husband as well. How fulfilling to begin to realize the life we would be living in our later years. With all that has happened and the time that has slipped by, I feel I have been living someone else's life - a life that was not supposed to be mine. Although it has been nine months since Eric's death, I feel it was just yesterday. The grief is still raw and I'm drowning in a sea full of his absence. I try so hard to normalize my life and the relations I have with others, but the facade is beginning to wear on me and sometimes my anger at how normal everyone else's life seems, makes my sensitivities to the things people say quite overwhelming. My role has changed and I want so much to get to the place where I can take all of the love I have for Eric and do something constructive and meaningful with it instead of just trying to get through each day. The depth of Eric's humanity, joy and lust for life is what I so desire to try and verbalize because at times those qualities have eluded me.  To write down those precious memories in black and white would, I believe, help me deal with his death and give something to those who knew him and loved him. Those he didn't touch will have no idea. Those who did bask the light of his life will know exactly what I'm talking about. What little this would be to give back to one who gave me so very, very much love, laughter and meaning.

More now than every I feel the need to concentrate on what will put me back on that path of redefinition, get me over this hill so the tears of grief will be fewer and fewer. The sorrow replaced by the memories of joy over the 24 years that he graced our lives, giving us so many memories, those memories I wish to share of my little family that have given me a reason to live for the past 31 years. It will be my way of keeping Eric alive and chipping away at the immenseness of his absence. I'm sure this is the medicine, therapy, and a type of spirituality I will need to give me back some meaning in my life.

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.