Tag Archives: Denial

Losing Weight

Losing Weight.jpgGrief is heavy. You carry that weight in your body, in your heart, and in your Soul. Some people are lucky enough to experience what I call the “Death Diet.” These lucky bastards are heavy emotionally, and yet they lose so much physical weight they become unrecognizable. Not so much for me. I’ve wrapped myself in comfort food. I’ve eaten my emotions. This sucks. It’s another facet of Grief that changes you. There’s no quick-fix, miracle diet that can help. The heaviness weighs more than pounds, more than tons. Sometimes you don’t even realize how much you are carrying until, one day, it begins to lift.

I know I’ve talked about the physical experience of Grief. I capitalize it because, really, Grief is an entity. It’s more than an emotion. Grief has substance and presence. It has characteristics and influence. When Grief first shows up in your life, it brings its close friend Denial. They work together to make their way into your body a little at a time. Grief is too strong to manage without the numbing influence of Denial. Occasionally their cousin PTSD sneaks into the mix unseen and hides. He’s an asshole. Grief changes every cell of your body. During my first year Since, I would forget people’s names. Even people I had known for years – even people in my family! I couldn’t hold a thought in my head, and I constantly forgot words I meant to use. I could hold a conversation with someone and shortly thereafter have no memory of what we talked about. There was a point where I really did think I had early Alzheimer’s or Dementia. It turns out that “Grief Brain” is a real thing. Seriously. MRI’s show that a person experiencing profound Grief has changes in their brain function. It used to drive Nason crazy having to repeat himself all the time. Thankfully, he’s a pretty awesome kid, and when we explained what Grief Brain is, he accepted that Mom and Dad were just going to be clueless for a while.

Eventually, Denial makes way for Reality to come in. Reality can be a jerk. It hurts. It takes the blinders off and lifts that numbing fog that surrounds you. Reality has a sidekick named Anger. Luckily for me (and everyone around me) Anger doesn’t mesh with my personality and never really took hold. Reality makes way for Acceptance. Acceptance is the hardest to allow into your life. Acceptance means that you give up the fight against What Is. You give up the hope that this is a nightmare and will end someday. You let go of the dream you had for your child’s life; for your family’s life. You allow for the fact that this is how life is going to be. Here’s the kicker that you don’t expect – It’s going to be ok. It will never be the same. It will never be what you wanted. Sadness will live in every moment of every day forever, and even with all that, life is still going to be amazing.

I knew pretty early on that I couldn’t heal living in the house that Nolan died in. Every morning I awoke in the bed where he spoke his last words. I got showered in the bathroom where he took his last breath. I would pass by the spot where he would lay on the floor and sleep in the afternoon sun. I would see where he stood in the kitchen looking up new recipes. I sat on the couch he slept on for a month. I put pellets in the stove he nearly blew up pouring lighter fluid in. I went up the stairs he slid down in laundry baskets and blankets. I put clothes down a laundry shoot he would climb up and play in. He was everywhere, and yet, he was nowhere. His room was frozen exactly the way he left it. Dust settled on everything because I couldn’t even walk upstairs to go near it.

Ray had a different experience of the house. He found comfort in living in the space that Nolan was so happy in. It was really hard to manage between us. I avoided being there, and he never wanted to leave. At one point, I told him I was moving and hoped that he would come with me, but even if he didn’t, I would be moving out in order to heal. It took some long talks and patience for him to get on board with moving. It took time for Nason to be ok with it as well. We had to promise him, cross our hearts, that we would not leave the neighborhood. We do live in a pretty awesome neighborhood, but houses here don’t come up too often and don’t stay on the market long.

It took a year for us to find a house that would feel like home. It’s tiny. I mean, really tiny. To downsize from 7,000 square feet to about 1,500 (and that might be an overestimate) is an undertaking. It’s been a leap of faith. We didn’t want to miss out on this new home waiting for ours to sell, so we had to just dive in head first. Carrying two mortgages is scary! In theory we could afford it if we budgeted carefully, but Reality seldom works out the way you plan. (If anyone wants to buy our old house, now would be great!)

We’ve been in our new home for a few weeks now. The strangest thing has happened. The air fills my lungs again. The music reaches my ears. Beauty is returning to the world. I didn’t realize how much weight I was carrying with me. I was used to the constant struggle to keep my thoughts from darkness. I was used to gearing myself up to enter those walls every night. Now everything feels different. I look forward to coming home after work. On my days off, I don’t want to go anywhere. I wake up in the morning, and the first thing I say is still “Good morning, Nolan,” but the tears don’t flow right away. When I go to bed, the last thing I say is still, “Good night Buddy. I love you,” but then I rest peacefully. Sometimes losing weight has nothing to do with pounds.

 

 

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Blank Pages

blank pagesRock Bottom is a scary place to be. It’s a dark abyss with seemingly nothing but pain and hopelessness surrounding you. Funny thing about Rock Bottom is that if you search way deep into the darkest depths, you can find a tiny spark hidden in the shadows. This spark is so very small and fragile, and if you’re not vigilant, you might miss it. I’m convinced it’s always there – for everybody.

I’ve been extremely vigilant these last few weeks. I’ve searched high and low in the dark and in the shadows. I’ve found that infant spark. I’m standing careful watch over that spark and encouraging it into a flame. Make no mistake, this is not an easy task. The winds blow hard and fast here in the dark. I need to be watchful; protective.

When I wrote last about 16-yr old Me, I focused on my downfalls. What I forgot – or couldn’t see – was how strong that version of Me is. Yes, she nearly destroyed me, but she also saved me. She saved me all those years ago, and I believe she saved me now too. I am working to acclimate her into my current Self. She’s chaos, but she’s also a lot of fun! More than anything, she is strong. I’m working to take those qualities and hold them close while I navigate these stormy seas. It’s working. I think.

I’ve been at my new job for a couple weeks now, spending a solid 8 hours a day outside my comfort zone. I’m learning about things I never thought I would ever need to know. Geek Speak – it’s a real language, and I’m learning it! (slowly, but still.) Someday I might even understand half of what Ray says! I really enjoy the people I’m spending my day with. It’s an eclectic group which makes for some really interesting discussions and banter. We laugh a lot. Being away from Nason is difficult. It’s an adjustment for both of us, and I think he’s handling it better than I am. The Grief I battle daily is still present, but I don’t have time to face it during the day. My hope of being distracted and busy to get through the hours has turned out well. Unfortunately, I didn’t realize that Grief compounds itself. What I push down all day rears it’s ugly head even harder on the drive home at night. I cry most of the way – all those tears I bottled up during the day. Sometimes a discussion during the day hits me hard, and I feel like I’ve been kicked in the stomach. I can’t run away like I could at school. I have to suck it up and keep trucking. Surprisingly, I’m able to do that.

Night time is harder than ever. The panic attacks are really bad. One night this past week, Ray came home again to find me on the floor, not breathing. He didn’t know how long I’d been there before he walked in. He was able to rouse me, but then I did it again, and again, and again, and again. Five times I stopped breathing that night, and he was getting ready to call 9-1-1 when I finally started to come around. Thankfully, Nason wasn’t home. He suffered through one with me the night before and was still raw from that. The nature of the panic has changed slightly. Twice I’ve had the cessation of breath without the hysterical crying beforehand. I’m not sure if this means things are getting better or worse. It’s a horrible feeling – almost like having the hiccups but instead of that little gasp, my lungs or diaphragm seize up. I’m literally physically unable to draw the air into my lungs. If I can fight past that to catch a breath, my lungs seize again and don’t allow the air out. It’s a terrible feeling, knowing that I’m going to pass out and unable to stop myself. This morning I was able to stop the process on my own, but it wasn’t easy. I should probably do some research about how panic attacks can manifest, but honestly, I’m afraid to find out. What if this means it’s getting worse?

Getting up and going to work after these nights is difficult. But I’m able to do it. I’m starting to feel the ground under my feet again. I’m starting to feel like I can walk again. I’ve taken ownership of my faults, actions, and choices. I am working to not take on the faults of others. I’m working to allow myself to be vulnerable instead of angry. I hate that part the most! I’m working on voicing my feelings and taking care of them myself. God love him, Ray is challenging me greatly in this area. We truly are a Yin-Yang. For years I’ve been his catalyst for growth, and now he is mine. Damn it.

I have come to see that there are nothing but blank pages in front of me. My life is a story in progress, and it’s not over yet. It’s tumultuous. It’s scary. It’s painful. It’s also humorous and filled with love. I get to choose the story I write. I choose to paint these blank pages with color. Every moment of every day is a choice, and I am choosing better. In the words of one of my favorite people,

This is the story of my life
And I write it everyday
I know it isn’t black and white
And it’s anything but gray
I know that no, I’m not alright
But I’ll be OK ’cause
Anything can, everything can happen
That’s the story of my life
Yes, I did just quote Jon Bon Jovi. Deal with it.

Rock Bottom

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Sometimes after you think you’ve hit rock bottom, you realize that you were wrong. There is so much further you can fall. That’s happened to me. I thought I had passed the worst. I actually wrote, “The draw of Death has released it’s iron grip on me. A little. I still think about it, but I know I made it through the worst.” How naive I was. How blind. Shortly after writing that, I learned the bottom can still drop out of rock bottom. You fall deeper into an abyss you didn’t see coming. You should have seen it , but you’ve become such an adept liar that you lie to yourself as much as everyone else. That’s me. The most adept liar I’ve ever met (and I’ve met some doozies!!)

I thought I was gaining ground, truly. I had found that adrenaline was a great escape from the Grief. I thought it was a healthy escape. It kept me active, engaged with my friends, enabled me to laugh, helped me feel the blood flowing through my veins again. Turns out the adrenaline was actually the dizzying affect of such a downward spiral that it turned me upside down, backwards, and inside out. I was in constant search of that rush. It was alluring and captivating. Incipient of the destruction to come. It began innocently enough, with a day filled with friends, laughter, and mayhem. A day unplanned. A day where the laughter flowed so freely and I felt like the Old Me again. It was the Old Me, but not the recently inhabited Old Me. red dress

This was 16 year old Amy come back from the recesses, from the darkest parts of my past, grabbing me in her arms and doing what she did best. Avoid feeling. 16 year old Amy is a nightmare wrapped in glitter and spKISSandex. She shines brightly, laughs boisterously, loves freely, engages easily, draws everyone in to her web. She’s hedonistic. She is the quintessential party girl. She’s a master manipulator, a liar, a deceiver. She has a selfish heart, and it’s only purpose is to avoid pain. She pays no attention to the misery left in her wake. I embraced her completely, not even realizing she was back. black dressThe psyche is a very clever entity. It creates all these self-defense mechanisms from trauma. 16 year old Amy is just that. She was created from years of trauma, mixed with a natural tendency towards mischief and needing to rebel against authority. She was born of internalized anger and rage. She was my Protectress. She is my restless spirit incarnate. She both saved me and nearly destroyed me when first she emerged. She did no different this time. 16 year old Amy has no business being anyone’s wife. She has no business being anyone’s mother.

When I found myself at the deepest, darkest bottom I have ever encountered, I had no choice but to look around at what I had done. With the depths of despair came the words from my Husband, “You need to leave.”  I hurt those that I was tasked with protecting. I hurt those that I love most in this world. I disappointed those who looked up to me. It was pretty sobering. Literally – as in it’s been 19 days since I’ve had a drink.

I reached out and begged for help – from the Universe, from Nolan, and from (finally) a grief counselor. Truthful truth is I had been crying out desperately for help for a long time. It’s not an easy thing to own up to your failures, but that’s what I’m trying to do. Being brutally honest with a counselor is so difficult. I don’t want to look in that mirror, but I have to. For as open as I’ve been about my Grief and this Journey, I hide 1000x more beneath the surface. The PTSD has been out of control for a long time. I’ve been self-medicating until a blackout blissfully removes all feeling from my heart. I’ve been told that my behaviors are a “Passive Suicide.” I can’t disagree with that.

I have failed utterly as a wife, as a mother, as a friend. I can’t take anything back. I know more than most that there are no magic time machines. No matter how desperately we want to go back, time moves in only one direction. It’s time I moved in that direction too. Forcing myself to face the feelings is something I battle every day. I want to avoid. I want to hide. I want to deny. I want 16 year old Amy to whisk me away to where the music is so loud you can’t hear yourself think. I want her to take away the pain. I can’t let her. I have to heal that part of myself as well. I’m learning that new trauma often brings up old forgotten traumas. Things you thought you had dealt with years ago resurface in a different light. <insert sarcasm font> It’s awesomely fun.

I’m taking baby steps forward. Tentative steps on broken glass. I know it will hurt, but I’m trying to tread gently. I took Nolan’s picture off the background of my phone and put Nason’s in its place. I’m hoping this will help keep my focus on him rather than my loss. I’ve given my notice at school and accepted a new full-time job. I have so many mixed feelings about this. I will miss the kids and the teachers so much, but school is fraught with triggers for me. I hear Nolan’s voice echo down the hall. I catch a glimpse of him out of the corner of my eye, and it cuts me off at the knees every time. I need to spend my days in a place with no memories. I need to fill the hours. Home isn’t my safe place anymore.

I don’t know if I’ll be able to salvage the wreck I’ve made of my family. The only thing I can do is to take care of myself better so that I can take care of them. Please don’t tell me I’m strong, because right now I’m not. I’m broken. I’m bruised. I’m vulnerable. Maybe I will get strong. Maybe I won’t and this “passive suicide” thing will rear it’s ugly head once more. I don’t know what the future holds. I only know that right now, in this moment, I’m trying to be a better human being.

NB13: The Nolan Berthelette Story

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I was approached a while back by a young film maker in New York who got wind of our story. Ashley Robinson grew up in Pittsfield, and she lived here until she was 8. Through mutual friends, her Mom, Rachel, found my blog and she began to read and follow my journey. She shared it with Ashely and it touched her deeply. She wanted to share Nolan’s story with the world. That was the humble beginning to an immense project.

Since then, we have met and filmed, shared and talked, cried and laughed. Ashely and Rachel have become part of our family, our Tribe. I feel like Nolan was the puppet master pulling the strings. There are so many parallels in our lives, and an instant kinship was formed. This process hasn’t been easy. Bringing up all of our memories has been hard. Even the happy ones brought us tears.

When we filmed my interview for the documentary, it was the first time I had shared the full story of what happened That Night. I’d given the basics to people who asked, but not many specifics – like the moment Nolan stopped breathing while my hand hand was on his chest; like immediately having to make the choice between the child I knew I couldn’t save and the one standing next to me; like seeing blood pour from his nose in torrents, like seeing the color leach from his body and the grey pallor of death fall over him. I talk about all of this and more in the film. It’s raw and morbid and so painfully honest. Going through all of it was the hardest thing I’ve done Since. But it was healing too, eventually. Bringing up all the details did cause a downward spiral at first. I was sucked into the depths of despair and spent many Grief Days in bed hiding. There was no help for it. Grief is a very physical process, and my body needed to shut down and just concentrate on breathing.

There were times when I sat in my car in the garage just willing myself NOT to turn it on. I tried to filter out the voice that told me I could see Nolan in just a few minutes if only I was brave enough to turn the key. I thought about just not feeling this pain anymore. Then I thought about Nason, Li’l N, (no use in using initials anymore since we’ll all be outed in the film anyway). I thought about him having to hear that I had left him, by my own choice. I was pulled right back into that moment when Ray started CPR on Nolan, and I had to choose between the child I knew just died and the child standing traumatized beside me. It was the same thing. I could go to Nolan, but there’s nothing I could do for him. I had to choose Nason. If he lost me too, I can’t even imagine how he could carry the pain, especially knowing I chose death over life with him.

Eventually I began to come out of it – and stronger than I was before. Laughter came and sometimes it wasn’t even forced. The draw of Death has released it’s iron grip on me. A little. I still think about it, but I know I made it through the worst. The temptation was strong, but I was stronger.  I’m getting there. Nason is my Light.

I am including some links here. If you’re reading my blog, then you are already a brave traveler on this journey with me. I hope you’ll help us spread the word about this documentary. Nolan’s life here has passed, but his work is not done. It’s up to all of us to carry his torch, and be a part of Nolan’s legacy.

YouTube trailer: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Pt4vvlQyGdA

The documentary Facebook page: https://www.facebook.com/NB13Doc?fref=ts

IndieGoGo Campaign (help fund the film!): https://www.indiegogo.com/projects/nb13-the-nolan-berthelette-story

The Documentary Website: http://imaginechanges.wix.com/nb13

Smoke and Mirrors

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When your child dies, you don’t lose them all at once. You lose them by increments, microscopic particles, little by little, bit by bit, second by second, hour by hour, day by day, month by month, year by year. The immediate absence of their physical body is shocking; traumatic. I imagine this is the same whether your child suffers an illness or is ripped from your arms in sudden tragedy. Even if you know it’s coming, nothing can prepare you for that moment when their breath stops, their heart quiets, and a silence fills your Soul never to have sound again.

This is what I’ve been going through and why I’ve been on hiatus from this blog. It’s been too much to carry – to heavy for words. I survived Mother’s Day. I survived a birthday. We survived Father’s Day. We managed to make it through Nolan’s one-year anniversary. The days continue to be wrapped in darkness. The panic attacks are back in full swing. The nights are filled with terrors only to awaken to find that is has become my life.

I’m losing Nolan in pieces. Sometimes it feels like he’s just not home, and I have to remind myself that he’s not coming home. I look for him everywhere, in everything. In every tree, in every leaf, in every whisper of the wind. I try to see him in every cloud and bird. I search each rock and flower and blade of grass to find something – something – that calls out to me from him. I was laying at the lake last week, just watching the clouds and talking to him in my mind. I could swear the clouds spelled “LIVE,” and I started to cry. The eagle chose that moment to soar over the lake, and I almost believed it was real. Part of me knows that he is still trying to reach me, but the bigger part is so wrapped in pain that it makes those signs easy to rationalize away.

Pieces of him drift away. Slowly, quietly. The emptiness is becoming familiar, routine. I still cry every day. Every. Single. Day. Endlessly. I see all the posts about Grief online and they don’t help. Grief is the price of love and all that nonsense. I call bullsh*t on that. Love has no price, especially the unconditional love for a child. Grief is what rises up and engulfs the energy that you used to spend on that child. All those thoughts about them, the physical energy in taking care of them, the emotional devotion directed towards them, your hopes and dreams for them – it all just hangs there like a specter hovering in your heart. It becomes Grief incarnate. It takes over every aspect of your life.

I am beginning to see the understatement that “New Normal” really means. It’s that Grief encompassing every part of you – mind, body, and Soul. It pushes out all color from your life. You actually become used to it. The constant battle of railing against the pain and trying to find the sun – and your Son – begins to feel familiar. Your shoulders slump under the weight of agony, your back curves, everything hurts, but you begin to desensitize yourself to the sensations. The fight is gone. Surrender is the only option.

All this goes on behind the smile and the “I’m ok,” in response to your “How are you?” All this happens behind the laughter of a joke you told or a memory you shared. Smoke and mirrors. People become more comfortable with that perception. They want you to be ok. They want you to be happy. They want you to laugh, and so you do. Only those who look beyond that surface, only those brave Souls who travel the same path really notice the laughter never reaches your eyes. They notice you always deflect questions about yourself. They know it’s self-defense. Self-preservation. Even with all my devotion to being brutally honest about this Journey, I have somehow become a Master of Smoke & Mirrors.

Whispers in Silence

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Relationships and marriages are hard work. We’ve all been told this, but there are some surprising events that can cause hardship for even the strongest couples. One of those is having a baby (or two or three or four or five). Going from a couple to a family is difficult whether the child is planned or not. Oftentimes the needs of each partner changes in a way that you wouldn’t anticipate. Her enjoying independent time while he goes away every weekend becomes something she resents – that he gets a “break” and she doesn’t. Her lavishing affection on an infant and being too exhausted to show him any becomes something he resents. Although they both love and adore the babe infinitely, the relationship can suffer greatly. All too frequently, people will slowly grow apart and not even notice until something drastic happens. Going from Wife to Mother and Husband to Father is a tremendously stressful time. The shift from a Family of Three to a Family of Four can be even harder. Add to that shifting towards a Family of Five or Six or Seven, well you get the picture. Differences in parenting philosophies often go unnoticed until an issue arises and if not handled well, can put the child in the middle of a lifelong battle. The stress of raising children, maintaining a home, finances, independence, family time, and couple time can destroy even the most committed couples. They are lost to becoming co-parents and roommates.

I’ve been watching this happen to so many of my friends over the last several years. Seemingly perfect families are breaking apart because the intimacy is lost between the couple. I don’t necessarily mean in a physical sense, but certainly in an emotional sense. It’s sad for everyone. I was once told, I think perhaps by my own mother, that you have to put your partner before your children because they will grow up and leave one day and your partner will still be there. It’s sage advice in an age where we worship our children to extremes. It’s also incredibly hard to do when most nights you want to smother your partner in their sleep.

You know what else is potentially disastrous to a couple? Losing a child. Today’s average rate of divorce is already at 40%-50%. Studies have shown that the divorce rate for bereaved parents is more than 8 times higher than the average. The needs of each bereaved parent is as diverse as the needs of each new parent. Men and women grieve differently. The primary caretaker grieves differently than the breadwinner, regardless of gender. While each parent grieves the same child, their relationship with that child has been very different. Their hopes and dreams, their experiences, their memories – they are all so intimate. One parent (generally fathers) may feel the need to move at warp speed. They can’t sit still because when they do, the grief rears up and overwhelms them. The other parent (generally mothers) might not be able to move at all. You may find them in bed for days / weeks / months on end, unable to stop crying. They may see the other parent’s movement as a sign that they aren’t grieving as deeply and didn’t love the child as much. The warp-speed parent might see the frozen one as stuck in grief, weak, broken. They can easily turn away from each other. Many times they simply don’t see the other parent at all.

Grief is lonely. You’re fighting so hard to keep breathing that you can’t see what’s in front of you. It’s easier to stop talking and looking to each other for support. I admit, I’m guilty of this. Too many times my tears went ignored (in my perception), that I began to hide them. I began to resent what I saw as his lack of compassion. In reality, I think my tears are simply too painful for my DH to contend with. His role has always been to protect our family, to keep us safe. He couldn’t save our son. Nolan died, literally, in his Father’s hands. He can’t protect me from this, and his own grief is so deep that often he can’t see past that. Of course, I’m making some assumptions here since I haven’t spoken to him about this. It’s my fault I’ve stopped reaching out. I can see where he tries. The brief hand on the back, the quiet given when I try to cry silently. Those are measures of comfort offered.

Yesterday we saw Nolan’s headstone for the first time. No words have been engraved yet, just his pictures on the stone. I fought tears all day at school, knowing what I would see. DH was trying to talk with me in the car since he doesn’t get my attention at all, and we do have some minutiae that needs dealing with. I’ve gotten pretty adept at silent tears, and when he noticed them, he simply stopped talking. My first reaction was that he was ignoring them and felt resentment, but then a whisper blew into my heart. Maybe it was Nolan, because he was always trying to explain his Dad to me. Nolan was, and I believe still is, the best parts of both of us. His mind was like his Dad, but his heart was all me. He understood both of us completely. The whisper helped me to see that my tears weren’t being ignored. DH was silently holding space with me while the pain gripped me tightly. The softest touch of his hand against mine brought me deep comfort. It told me he knew, he understood that there was nothing he could say or do, it told me he was there.

I think it’s important for grieving parents to hear those whispers. You aren’t going to be able to comfort each other the way each would want. You are completely broken. Anger and resentment are so much easier to feel than the loneliness of grief. It’s so easy to push each other away when you really need to hold each other closely. I’m sure I’ve failed miserably at offering the comfort my DH needs as well. We are on the same Journey, grieving the same child, but it’s an individual path. It’s such a dark place that it’s nearly impossible to notice the person walking next to you. Sometimes holding that quiet place while tears fall is the greatest comfort you can offer. Love isn’t enough to get a couple through grief. You need acceptance of each others’ failings. You need forgiveness because they can’t see beyond their own pain. You need compassion for their broken Soul. You need the whispers that allow strength in silence.

An Unexpected Visit

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A couple of weeks ago, on April 1 actually (no joke), a few of Nolan’s friends came over to work on a school project. I love that they still come around and feel welcome here. They don’t come as often these days, and I try to be okay with that. It’s healthy for them to move forward, and coming here is still painful. Sometimes when they are here, I have to go to bed because the pain of waiting to hear Nolan’s voice among theirs is just too much. Even on those days, it’s still a comfort to have them. It’s a piece of what my life should be like. I know they carry Nolan with them every single day and will for the rest of their lives. But I will admit, I miss them and the chaos they bring!

I had been struggling so very much, as you may recall from my last post. The Dream sent me into a tailspin that I was still stuck in when I got the text “Can we work on a project at your house?” from Nolan’s friends. I was thrilled to have them come. Later in the afternoon, I found myself standing in the kitchen making dinner, one of Nolan’s favorites, and listening to them work on the project downstairs. It was a movie they had to film, filled with antics and laughter. I looked out the window and saw them in bathing suits in the snow. I heard them splash in the pool and scream because we haven’t heated the pool in months. I laughed out loud and it felt wonderful. About that time, I tuned in to my thoughts, as I’ve trained myself to do quite often. If I don’t stay vigilant and allow my mind to wander, I end up in the midst of That Night with a panic attack on the horizon. So, I tuned into my thoughts and realized I was singing Sgt Pepper in my head repeatedly. Not the whole song, only the part that goes “It’s wonderful to be here. It’s certainly a thrill. You’re such a lovely audience, We’d like to take you home with us. We’d love to take you home.”

If there’s one major defining musical connection for Nolan, it’s his love of the Beatles. He found them around 8 years old and is the biggest Beatles fan I’ve seen. His prize possession is one of their original albums which once belonged to his Great Aunt. We found it going through boxes at his Great Grandmother’s house one day and his reaction was like every single holiday and birthday wrapped up with a bow and snacks. (He also LOVES snacks!) I’d never seen a kid react like that before. It was the Holy Grail of his young life. Nolan never outgrew his love for the Beatles. He had about 10 shirts with them on the front. Each time he outgrew one, it had to be immediately replaced. Projects for music class were always about the Beatles. A Hard Day’s Night was watched hundreds of times. He has books about them and at one point was convinced that it was all a big Conspiracy Theory and John Lennon was still alive somewhere. Arguments ensued over this for weeks. When he was 11, I took Nolan to see a Beatles tribute band and he was enthralled. I’m so glad I was able to share this with him. 249876_10150207282089640_597041_nAnyway, whenever I hear The Beatles, I know Nolan is nearby.

So there I was, standing in the kitchen making one of Nolan’s favorite meals, listening to his friends downstairs, and singing Beatles in my head. My next thought was “I’d really like a cup of tea.” Annnnnd my Keurig turned on. I was about 5 feet away at the time. In that instant, as it all came together in my head, I had the most peaceful feeling come over me. I knew, I knew that Nolan was right there. I felt him wholly and truly for the first time Since. In that moment, I was living the life I should have been living. It was a rare, precious gift, that moment. My worlds converged in that perfect space and time. Nolan wasn’t here, but he was here. I said “Oh hey Buddy,” just like I used to when he walked into a room. I felt him next to me. I almost expected to have to tell him to stay out of the kitchen because he always stole little tidbits of dinner when I was cooking. Then I said, “Oh Nolan, I’m so glad you’re here. I’ve missed you so very very much. I love you Buddy.” Tears fall as I relive this here with you, but in the moment, I was still surrounded by that incredible peace and love. I didn’t cry. I smiled. My heart lifted. Then the immediacy was gone and I knew he had pulled back. It didn’t feel like he was gone, though. It felt like he had gone downstairs with his friends. I didn’t mention it to them, but I wonder if they felt him that day too.

I’ve been getting stronger since Nolan’s visit. The feeling that he’s just in the next room prevails. I’ve seen signs of him everywhere. I’ve found coins after talking about him, walked into the band room at school and saw this: 11053353_10153258750474640_3241641477902725350_n

All the percussionists sign a pillow in the base drum at the end of their 8th grade year, and that’s Nolan’s signature sticking out. Coincidence? I don’t think so.

His visit has given me a strength I didn’t know I possessed. It gave me the strength to do this:  1229141019   0416151849(1)

This was a pretty significant endeavor, if you’ll remember. I started months ago with Project Extract Head from Ass and put away what had become a shrine to Nolan’s passing. It was one of the hardest things I’ve had to do Since, right up there with picking out a casket and pulling up the blood-stained carpet. I feel such a tremendous relief that it’s no longer looming over me. Know what else I did? This: 0417150828

That’s my office as I write this blog. It used to be a mountain of papers I couldn’t face. You couldn’t even seen my monitor past everything I’ve been avoiding. I feel like I have made tremendous gains the past couple of weeks. I still have to watch my thoughts carefully. I still cry every single day. I still can’t look at a picture of Nolan for too long. I still stay away from the thoughts that he died. I’m still fighting off panic attacks quite often, but I’m also getting stronger. I’m starting to feel the moments between my breath every so often. I’m starting to see shades of gray rather than black.

A friend of mine who has been in this awful club longer than I, whose child was a friend of my daughter’s in school and was tragically taken from this world at 16, is probably the most inspiring person I’ve met. She posted on her Facebook one day,

“What a beautiful morning. I am actually sitting on the deck in the warm sunshine, coffee in hand, thinking about life. Days like today, I remind myself how beautiful the earth really is and that we and the earth have all been created by the universe. My daughter is part of that universe now. I can not take all this for granted because of that. I will continue to sit here and listen to all the sounds of spring and be thankful we have all been given the chance to be here.”

Her strength amazes me. I’m not there yet, not even close, but I aspire to see the world again; to really see the world and find the beauty around me.

This Journey is the biggest, most monumental test of Faith I could imagine. I find my Faith holding on, sometimes by a thread, but still there. I believe with my whole Being that I am more than my body and so is my son. He has to exist in some form, somewhere. And if that’s true, then where else would he be than right beside me when I need him? He continues to be my Soulmate.