Snow Changed My Perspective, at Least for a While

Snow days have made everything a bit different the last few days.

I've eaten too much, sat around the house by myself and probably not gotten enough exercise, even though I did get outside every day and do chores as well as ride my bike.

When I saw Ethan's name tattooed on my wrist while getting ready for bed Saturday night, I realized I had allowed the snow, which made everything outside my home address feel unreal, make my grief unreal as well.

Ethan preferred the winter to the summer, not that he ever spent a lot of time outdoors. He liked cold and never wore long sleeved shirts and seldom a "real" coat, even on the most bitter days. Snow days, however, would have worked their magic on him as well. When he was a boy he'd have been out in it as long as he was allowed, coming in with wet clothes and soaking feet to take a hot shower and warm up.

Yet for some reason I haven't felt sorrow that he missed this snow. The transformative blanket of the snow seems to have also covered my heart and insulated it from my grief.

Trying to uncover the reason, I think it's because dealing with the snow, the worry of digging out and knowing family had to be on the roads, forced me to live in the moment for a few days.

Perhaps this is how the women 100 years ago survived burying baby after baby. Could it have been that the struggle just to survive meant less time to dwell on the child who was no longer there? When you were trying to nurse the rest of the family through a measles outbreak, or make sure you had enough food to get through the winter without the convenience of a quick trip to the grocer, you surely didn't have time to fall apart for anything.

In the cemetery where Ethan is buried, there is a row of small, nearly identical tombstones bearing the names of dead children; children who died within a few weeks time during some disease outbreak and who were all the children of the same parents. Even before Ethan's body joined the bones of those lost children in the hard Virginia soil, I had wondered how their mother managed to keep going. Why weren't her bones resting beneath a tombstone bearing the same dates? How could she stand, time and time again, by those small holes in the ground and say goodbye to her babies without curling up and dying as well?

When we laid Ethan's body to rest, I remembered those children and the others at whose graves I stood throughout my whole life and wondered. I thought of Ethan's tombstone there among them and the questions his death at 23 might create in the generations to come. I thought of those other mothers, burying their children and wondered how they had found the strength to walk away from the graveyard and go on living.

I wonder if during the last few days I've come to understand their strength, if not to possess it. Although survival was never a question for me, the intense focus on the moment changed my perspective.

It was not that I didn't think of Ethan, or that I didn't sometimes feel sad for his loss, but my focus on the living strands of my family trying to stay warm and navigate through the snow, on my isolation, on concerns about others I cared about who had to be out in the weather, kept my attention. The vast well of grief that sometimes opens unexpectedly in my chest has been closed since the day the snow swept in five days ago, and that's a long time for me.

The state truck passed yesterday, although a neighbor's farm tractor, more accustomed to plowing red Carolina clay than pushing 18 inches of pristine snow, had opened the road and cleared my driveway on Friday. The ground is still white and the world not the view I'm used to seeing, so I have to wonder how my emotions will shift yet again when life returns to "normal."

However it changes, I hope I can remember to give my energy and my focus, my emotional stability, more to what is here and now, what is real instead of what could have been, what I have instead of what I've lost.

I know that will be a step in the journey and one I may have to repeat many times before it becomes habit. Still, I hope even when the sun shines and the red mud returns, that I can hold on to the memory of the peace of snow.

The Ghost of Birthdays Past

Yesterday we had a wonderful party, but there was a ghost.

It was the shared birthday of E2 and E3 -- the third birthday for the middle child who last year got a baby sister for her birthday and the smash cake extravaganza of a first birthday for the least of the grandbabies. Mom had gone all out and planned a splendid affair with the theme of Princesses and Pirates, because although she has three little girls, there are a lot of little boys in her circle of friends. The same cast of characters that I've come to expect at every birthday party for four years was there with some new additions, but we were missing one.

Ethan.

It was a glorious party. Beyond the cake, which featured the princess of the year Sofia (Sofia the First) as well as Jake (from Jake and the Pirates) there were games, tiaras and swords, eye patches and wands. Although I saw one father of three wearing his daughter's tiara, the boys pretty much avoided the girl glitz. Little girls, however, were apt to be wearing tiaras and carrying swords. From turning on the princess bounce house, where there was much joy to be had, to Little Miss with pink frosting in her hair, a pinata on the church playground, and baby after her bath in the kitchen sink, it was an action packed two hours. Odds are good that everyone slept well last night. I think I even relived bits of it in my dreams.

I was photographer for the event, looking for special images to capture the day for Mom and the girls. After 25 years as a journalist at small papers where I did double duty as photographer, that's the role I'm generally assigned. That, along with an unofficial co-host (a role grandmothers get when there are so many little ones) kept me pretty busy.

Sometime during church service, however, while I was anticipating a big time, it hit me that there would be a ghost at the party -- or not at the party, depending on how one looked at it. After the party, after the cleanup and the loading of tired and cranky girls, packages and leftovers, I completely fell apart.

I knew that I would have to fall apart on his birthday, but I didn't realize every birthday party was going to bring on the pain.

Ethan loved birthday parties. He loved children, and cake and, although whatever it was that made him feel separate always kept him standing in the background, he would have been there. E1 would have been so happy to see him. Although he wasn't around a lot, she doted on him and her sisters would have come to do so as well.

At all the birthday parties, he's been a shadow in the background. One I didn't always take the time to photograph while focusing on the little people, but who I can find bits and pieces of in most of my birthday pictures.

Yesterday, however, there was no warm, swallowing hug, no smart remarks about my pirate get up, no beautiful smile, no big, gentle hands catching little people, or getting a second helping of cake, or helping with cleanup.

The last time I saw him was at E1's birthday in August, nearly four months before he died. He'd been using again, but not that night and he enjoyed visiting with cousins, eating grilled hot dogs, cake and homemade ice cream in my front yard. I made not one single, decent photo of him, although I can still feel that last hug in the driveway when he left with my parents (he didn't have a license any more), still see him getting in the car, riding in the back seat while my dad stopped to make some smart remark before leaving.

I wish the party hadn't take so much of my time and that I'd had more time to just be with him, but there's a million of those things I would change if I could have a redo. None of them are an option, so I just have to learn to live with my regrets.

Learning more about addiction, I know that although he seemed to have fun, he didn't get the pleasure from those gatherings that we do. I've learned that his drug took over his mind so much that it was the only thing that could bring him real pleasure and that, perhaps, he stood back not just because he often didn't feel he fit in, but because in the back of his mind he may have been thinking about when he left and getting high again and how he knew that would hurt us but he couldn't stop himself.

I know he was filled with love for his nieces, his sister, and the rest of his family and friends, but not enough love for himself to realize that somehow, he was worth taking care of and saving. I know he would never have wanted to ruin a party for any of us, he would want to enjoy it with us.

Yet these parties and family gatherings, the times when I could have usually counted on seeing him, are going to be the toughest times for a while. I'd grown used to his absence in so many ways that it's almost easy to get through the days without focusing on the fact that he's not just a phone call away and he's not going to randomly call me. Almost. And when we are all together, there's enough activity that one often silent young man, may not be missed in the heat of the moment.

It's afterwards when everything becomes a memory that I store away that his memory is buried a little further back under the new memories. It's while I'm downloading pictures and almost looking to see where he was at. It's while I'm looking at the faces of children and remembering another child long ago. That's when it hits me like the train that didn't cause the crossing guard to drop, sending me spinning into dark places where I feel my heart shatter into a thousand pieces yet again.

I'm glad the girls share a birthday, so there will only be two of these parties to get through this year, not three. But I already know that the one in mid August will be hard. I will want to be very busy and very involved, not looking for another ghost in the shadows.

Because he won't be there at all, although he'll be everywhere for me.

Ethan's memory, his ghost if you will, caused me pain yesterday, but thinking about him this morning has brought me smiles as well as tears. That ghost that lingers around birthday parties is one I'll have to come to terms with and, eventually, be happy to see because it's a happy spirit and those are happy memories. What makes them painful is that they are just that, memories.

There will be no new memories, but Ethan lives forever in my heart.

Lessons I've Learned From Grief -- Part Two

Life is full of grief.

When I was little, I grieved over my cat running away or breaking a toy. When I was older I grieved because the boy I liked didn't like the girl with frizzy hair and braces, because my grandparents had the German shepherd I'd grown up with put to sleep without letting me say goodbye.

By high school, it seems I grieved over everything.

I still remember how bad it hurt to find out that my first date had stayed for the second show at the movies and hooked up with someone else. I grieved the loss of my two best friends when the ex-boyfriend of one of them asked me out, turning me into a social pariah my senior year. I grieved that the boy who sat behind me in social studies and aggravated me would never ask me out because we were just friends.

Then real life came rolling along and I discovered there were bigger things to grieve about and bigger hurts that lasted longer, like a marriage where I was the only one who was ever at home, first in an empty house and then with a baby. I grieved for the dog I'd had since I was a teenager, the cat who wiggled her way into my heart then ran across the road, another dog, for the end of that marriage, the loss of my paternal grandparents, the loss of the job I wanted to do for all my life.

But I picked myself up and went on to another marriage where I learned about addiction and pain and the grief of loving a person who couldn't always be the person you loved, until I couldn't love him any more and be safe or sane and I grieved another marriage. I found another job I loved, and another, and wound up grieving for them as well. I grieved the loss of more dogs, a few more cats, my maternal grandparents.

I thought that each grief helped prepare me for coping with the next one, and maybe it did. Grief was brought on by losses that were harder to get over, harder to pick myself up from. Yet even as I mourned the loss of my Jack Russell terrier Al last spring I thought, "How do people survive those really big losses without some training from the little ones?" Saying goodbye to hamsters and cats and dogs, teaching our hearts about mourning and recovery, surely has to help when it's our grandparents, our parents, or someone else.

And maybe it does, but it seems that we're in training for those foreseeable losses. We have to be able to envision a world where we say goodbye to those people. It's part of the reality we accept as we grow older and those comparatively little losses, while they may stagger us at the time, are like the training wheels on our bikes and they teach us to balance and keep going.

I've learned, however, that nothing trains you for losing a child. Nothing prepares you, even the doctor's diagnosis, the sudden silence of a fetal heartbeat, standing by the bedside of a child who is no longer really in the body you've bathed and cherished, or watching them slip away through years of addiction. Nothing.

No matter how much you think you're prepared, as a parent, all you do is hope for a mistake, a miracle, even misidentification. It cannot be your child that is dying, or your child that is dead. Even now I wake up some mornings hoping it's all been a bad dream. I go to bed at night hoping I can dream about him, just so I can see and hear him again.

Losing Ethan taught me that there is no way to be prepared for dying, no real way to be prepared for living. Love opens us up to the most incredible pain that destroys us in ways that no physical trauma ever can. Yet we do it, and do it again because it also brings us unmatched joy and because it is who and what we are meant to be and do.

But just as I learned about grief, I learned about myself. There were lessons I learned on that morning six weeks ago, lessons I've learned every day since, and lessons I continue to learn.

I didn't know I'd be able to share my pain. Really. There was a while when it felt like something I should lock into a box in my heart and treasure as something that separated me from the world. It wouldn't take the place of Ethan, but I could love my pain and suffering. I could keep it to myself and take it out when I was alone to wallow in self pity. I could wall it up and, without meaning to, let that wall stand between myself and the people I cared about and who care about me. I could let that wall keep me from moving forward down the path I've been given to walk.

But somehow that didn't happen and I know from messages and calls, from unexpected hellos and hugs, that God is using me to help other people. I never aimed to be used in this way, but I cannot deny it and turn away either. I've always had words in my heart and although I've never used them this way, it was because I never had these words to use. There was a reason they were always there and perhaps this is it. I didn't know that so many people were hurting, and that my words would be more than a salve to my own battered heart, but perhaps the words that they needed as well.

I know that is a singular lesson of my grief, but there's a greater lesson in grief that many of us learn unexpectedly. As my capacity to endure pain has grown beyond anything I expected, I've found that I not only grieve for myself but for the world around me. When I learn of someone else's loss, I stand at the brink of the same pit they are falling into and remember the pain of the plunge. When someone is in pain, battling a difficult diagnosis, struggling with an issue in their lives, I want to help. I want to reach out and tell them someone cares, even if it is someone they hardly know or don't know at all. I pray for people I've never met because I cannot reach them to let them know I care.

It seems in tearing down the wall that would have held my pain in, I've also torn down the one that kept the world's pain out.

When I manage to leave the house, I realize that I see the world differently. I don't feel as harsh toward the less than perfect people around me, more caring toward the seemingly disenfranchised, a desire to hug people who look as though they need one. I'm less inclined to be judgmental because I realize so many people are like me, burdened with things that not everyone knows.

The world is a tougher place than we realize when we are living our blissfully unaware, day-to-day lives and dealing with the easy things like getting where we're supposed to be on time, doing household chores, paying bills and even fighting over the things which turn out to be inconsequential.

When we finally have to cope with the hard things, we realize we're actually not as tough as we thought.

If we're lucky, we realize that about everyone and like many things about grief and loss, it changes who we are.

Lessons I've Learned from Grief -- Part One

While I've ranted and raved about my own emotional train wreck in the wake of losing my son, I've learned a lot about not only myself but the people around me. I'm not sure which lessons have been the most unexpected.

I've learned the world is full of more heartache than I ever imagined, and that my particular brand of pain -- the loss of a child to drug addiction -- is far too common.

I've discovered other people can understand my pain in many different ways.

By reaching out, I've met people who have experienced very similar losses to addiction. Included in this group of struggling parents are those who are so close to this pain every day, that they can almost feel it. Like I was for years, they're already grieving the loss of the child they thought they knew while loving the one they have. They're fearing that phone call that will destroy their final hope. Others, like myself, are dealing with that final loss. On either side of goodbye, there is a bond that means we can talk to one another in ways we cannot talk to anyone else. In addition to our pain, we deal with so many questions about how things might have been different. We deal with people judging us for not doing enough or maybe too much. We deal with our own inaccurate sense of failure in somehow not producing a child who could face the world unaided by the crutch of an addiction.

There are other people whose childloss is different -- different circumstances, different degrees of preparation, small children as well as those who've walked through childhood, even adult children -- who also share my pain. At it's heart the loss of a child and all the potential we saw in that child from birth is the same. We have lost a piece of ourselves and will never feel whole again.

Still others grieve for something else. Any loss is the loss of dreams, whether it is a beloved pet, a job, health, a parent, or a child, pain is pain. There are degrees of hurt and the duration may vary, but virtually everyone knows about loss. Our grief is a shared bond and I've been humbled by the outpouring of love and kindness from friends, virtual strangers, and people I only met because of my loss.

I've discovered that my friends who are blessed to have no real idea at this time in their lives also care. They've sent cards and messages, they've telephoned and showed up on my doorstep. They've been a good reminder that the world isn't completely filled with pain or uncaring strangers either. Even my friends who seem to have disappeared during this time in my life are a reminder that not everyone is strong enough to share this burden for someone else, and I'm working on releasing the nugget of resentment that I sometimes feel at their absence.

Beyond that are the random people who humble me the most. They are the people who I don't really know, and who, as far as I know have no reason to fear or understand my pain, but who still keep reaching out to me with gestures from the heart. They leave me staggered at their love and generosity and realizing even through the tears, that they are showing me God's love in ways I never expected.

While everyone who reaches out is doing their part to help everyone they touch heal and live, those people who don't feel my pain, who didn't even have names before Ethan died, can bring me to unexpected tears. Out of those tears, sometimes, I find an equally unexpected blessing, not only in what they have done, but what it may take me a little while to see.

Although I rant and rave to the heavens about my feelings, about how God was supposed to take care of Ethan and by gosh this wasn't what I meant and I'm so hurt and alone, I'm not forgotten. The cards unexpectedly delivered and the angel that brought me to tears weren't just the thoughtfulness of people who want me to know they care. They were the works of His hands and feet on this earth.

We Need to Remember Joy is a Random Thing

What brought you joy last week?

It's easy sometimes to get so caught up in the things we struggle with that we fail to give proper credit to the things that bring us happiness, however fleeting.

I spent a good part of my weekend blog hopping, to the extent that it seems some bloggers spend all their time writing about blog hopping. It was a perhaps necessary exercise to see how other people write and try to expand readership (following those I found I liked and getting some new followers myself) but out of all my blog hopping, Monday morning I found inspiration. Anna Elizabeth, who had commented on several of my blogs, also blogs at The Five Facets and her blog, which show up on Google+ feed (yes I know, who cares) was about random things that brought her joy last week.

I decided it wouldn't be bad to take a moment or two to think about the things that brought me joy last week -- heck, that would probably be a good habit to get into. SO I did, even if it's not Thankful Thursday. I'll call it Thinkback Tuesday.

1. Sledding with the girls. Sure, the snow sucked and there was only a couple of inches of really slick stuff that DOT never really addressed, but for two little girls who can't remember a significant snowfall, it was enough. A small hill, a good sled and snow bibs and we were able to enjoy time outside.

2. A doughnut with E1. Watching her eat her chocolate-covered, creme-filled concoction while her busy little eyes were focused on the fresh doughnuts rolling off the conveyor belt was priceless. Indeed, the whole morning's outing was an unexpected joy.

3. Deer hams from a virtual stranger. Three phone calls on Saturday had me meeting Josh at the interstate where he had two hams in a tub from the extended bow season in Elkin, NC. He'd hunted all season and while he still enjoyed hunting, his need for meat had slipped. One was cut up and went into the freezer and the second into the crockpot for this week's protein addition.

4. Watching the sourdough sponge rise. Unless you've done it, don't laugh. You can actually see the dough breathing. About 10-12 hours into its expansion, the bubbles rise and burst causing the dough to move and wiggle. The fact that each batch brings me closer to perfection (or what I want it to be) and that I've been using the bread for sandwiches, etc., only adds to my fascination with step two of the process.

5. Singing in church. Sunday morning, after struggling with worship songs for weeks and finding my peace with "Keep Making Me," I was able to sing with the congregation without feeling like I had to hold back. It was the "Revelation Song" and it didn't matter that the big screens weren't working because I knew it from my heart and sang it out with joy.

6. Walking with Rebel, Macy and my husband Saturday afternoon. The first day of February turned out fairly nice and my big yard dogs haven't seen me nearly as much as they would like this winter. They were practically doubling up in enthusiastic tail wags, walking on my heels and, in Macy's case, bouncing off of me in their excitement. Hubby hadn't walked as much as he would have liked last week either, so he joined us and we all took a brisk stroll down the road and back.

7. Zumba. Well, Zumba almost always makes me smile and even more so as I'm feeling ties to my classmates that I never had before. After the aggravation of missing another night class on Tuesday thanks to the aforementioned snow, I was at Move2Melt just a little late Saturday morning and, other than realizing I still had gum in my mouth and having to run spit it out, didn't miss a beat of music, although I won't say I was always with it. Dancing makes me happy. My classmates make me smile.

8. A Super Bowl commercial that made me laugh out loud. It was for Chevy, the first one with the bull and romance in the air and "You Sexy Thing" for a soundtrack. I grew up around cows and it was just hilarious to me. Pretty soon after that the game was so bad that I didn't even watch, but that one made me laugh.

9. A diaper blowout. Yes, those are generally bad things, but this one was beyond the realm of bad. It was just hilarious because E3 had not only covered herself, but somehow managed to shoot poop out of the top of her diaper and leave a trail across the playroom. Much cleanup, a stinky baby and all, it was just too funny to not laugh.

10. Two little girls yelling "Ma!" and wrapping tiny arms around my legs when we rode over to watch the Super Bowl at their house. That will always bring me joy, although I know the voices and range of reach will change. When they are so excited that I'm at their house, despite all the time we've spent together in the week, it's especially priceless.

There, 10 things to be thankful for last week and a reason to take the time to note the things that bring me joy this week as well. Perhaps a challenge to each of you to do the same and share? Maybe, little by little, we can realize our lives are better than we take the time to recognize in the moment.

I've Been Broken, Willing or Not

I came to a shocking realization Saturday on my way home from Zumba.

I'm a better person than I would have been if I had not lost my son.

Even writing that and refreshing my realization of that hard truth brings a tear to my eye,

From the first time I heard the song "Keep Making Me" by the Sidewalk Prophets, it sent chills through me. It was not a song -- in fact a prayer -- that I could pray. I shied from it. By the time I really listened to the words I was already as broken as I felt I could be.

Make me broken
So I can be healed
‘Cause I'm so calloused
And now I can't feel
I want to run to You
With heart wide open
Make me broken

Make me empty
So I can be filled
‘Cause I'm still holding
Onto my will
And I'm completed
When You are with me
Make me empty

During Zumba I hugged sweaty women that I previously didn't know, and may still only know as the person who dances in a certain spot each week. If I'm lucky, I know their first names. After class I spent 30 minutes standing in the warm January sun in the parking lot talking to someone I would never have met.

Nowadays I pray for, encourage, and cry over people I've never met, and people I've come to know in the last two months. Sometimes, I've met them face to face and sometimes they are just voices on the telephone and perhaps pictures on Facebook. Some exist for me only on Facebook or Google+. They are people who I know because we share a fear or a pain that often cripples us. It has drawn us together like children together while a storm rages. There is nothing we can do for one another but share our stories, hold one another, and pray that we and, sometimes, those we love, survive.

Before losing Ethan, although I had more empathy for the families struggling with addiction and the young people who had lost their way, I didn't feel this.

I was so damn independent and self-sufficient. I didn't worry about anyone else. Zumba class was just a place where I showed up and burned some calories and left. I didn't really care about the other people there, not in the way I should, because I didn't know them and didn't take time to know them. I didn't need to know them. They didn't need to know me.

I could handle life and whatever it threw at me because I always had -- even Ethan's addiction. Sure, I realized I needed to pray, because that was how I had coped with a lot of things, but I had never been broken. I could still separate myself from the rest of the world because my pain and their's didn't overlap.

Then Dec. 15 came and my world changed.

I was not only broken, I was shattered.

No, I didn't crawl in bed with a bottle of wine, photo albums and Ethan's old sweat shirt (although some days that's still an option), but the tough shell that kept the world out was gone.

When I broke, I did it in the most public way that I knew how. Isolated in my little corner of the world with my little circle of friends, I posted it on Facebook and then, struggling to wrap my head around what had happened, I wrote about it in my seldom read blog. I invited my little world into my pain because I just didn't know how to cope any more.

What I found out was that my little world suddenly expanded and the shell that held me together had also held everyone out. I hadn't just been taking care of myself, I had been making sure I didn't have to take care of anyone else.

My world now is a far different place and not just because Ethan is not in it. I'm a different person. Grief, this particular kind of grief tied to so many things that no one wants to talk about in drug addiction and death of a child, has changed me in ways I would never have expected that go far beyond loss.

Instead of feeling like a diamond, something intact on its own, beautiful and hard, I'm a sponge. I'm soft and open to the world and I soak up the hurt, the hopes, and the worries of so many people who share any part of what I've gone through. I think of them. I wonder about their days. I pray for them. Many of them do the same for me.

I struggle with writing, with saying what needs to be said instead of the right thing. I'm prayerfully trying to understand if this is what God wants me to do and if I'm doing it correctly. I'm stumbling through my days looking for light, waiting for the touch of angel wings or the sense of my son's nearness, looking for understanding not just of what happened, but of life and death and what comes next and why.

I wish there had been an easier way to become this person, this woman who really, genuinely cares and reaches out and who may have something to offer. I wish there had been an easier way to realize down to my bones that this life, as all consuming as it feels, is just a small part of who we are and what we do. I wish there had been an easier way to let God really touch me and know what He needed me to know for the moments in time that it has happened.

But I had to be broken. And I've come to understand that healing doesn't mean going back to what I was before, it means being better. Even if it's only because I take the time to care.

Time to Put Limits on My 'Therapy' Sessions

After being completely derailed in December, I feel like I've simply sloughed my way through January.

I know that I have to be kind to myself and allow myself time to grieve, but the simple truth of the matter is I'm tired of the way I'm living so, with the advent of a new month if not a new year, I've got to recommit myself to doing not just a little better, but a lot better.

Yes, there is a difference between being kind to yourself and completely wasting the air you breathe. Lately, when I'm alone, I'm simply wasting oxygen.

I'm pretty sure I've said this before, but the fact is I feel like I'm stuck here. Even when I'm not wallowing in grief, I cannot find the motivation to do what I need to be doing. Instead, I tend to settle into my computer chair and write, and while the writing is good it has begun to feel addictive. I think if I didn't have the grandchildren, I could spend my entire day at this computer, writing, sharing, reading other people's stories and then repeating the cycle.

If nothing else, it's making me need reading glasses and when I look at the clock, which I normally hide behind my coffee cup, and realize that the children will be here in just a little while, it doesn't leave me much time to take care of my other needs.

Therapy is limited to an hour long session and I'm going to have to put a limit on my blogging/networking time in the same manner.

That sounds almost as scary as saying "This is my last cigarette...my last drink."

Seriously, I'm already thinking of ways around the limit, like on weekends, or if I've already checked off the other items on my to-do list.

I used to exercise regularly if not religiously. Sure, the weather has sucked, but there's a Bowflex and a recumbent bike in the bedroom at the other end of the house, along with small free weights, an exercise ball and a host of other goodies that I need to be using. I know that I would, in fact, feel better if I were using them.

Not so long ago I also ate regular, healthy meals. Now I can't even make up a grocery list that isn't entirely for the three little people because I cannot think of a thing that I want to eat. Although my sourdough bread experiment will eventually create a health alternative and does get me eating a whole grain bread periodically, I'm likely to forget breakfast until time for little folks, skip lunch or eat their leftovers, and be left scrounging for dinner when I'm famished which is not a good combination for healthy eating.

While I don't often read a lot of other blogs, I participated in a blog exchange this weekend where I found two other women refocusing their lives on taking better care of themselves as well, and that means I've got blogging friends to help me be accountable, even if we're only connected in cyberspace. If we get to feeling off track, we can check to see how someone else is doing.

So, starting today I'm planning for an hour of exercise beginning at 9 a.m. How's that for concrete? If I manage more on Tuesday (PiYo and Zumba night) then bonus, but I can't wait until snow calls off class and be scrambling around. That won't work. And slow walking my house dogs or gymnastics with the girls will not count. Two days off will be allowed -- Wednesday for E1's therapy and the drive and Sunday as it is a day of rest.

Computer time on weekdays must end at 9 a.m. and I'll leave myself some flexibility for now on weekends, as long as I get back to my lingering projects (E1 still needs a turtle, and then her sisters will need something, too).

At the same time, I'm going to start putting a lot more thought into what and when I eat. No more starvation at dinner time with no earthly idea what to put on the table. Darn it, I'll have to plan ahead. Right now I'll plan on a fatfest for the Super Bowl and go from there. But I already know it means I'll have to buy fresh green stuff and eat it instead of feed it to the chickens after it goes bad. It may be back to salad and bread, with a little pasta or rice on the side for my hubby and some sort of protein to fill us up.

And wow, would you look at the time? It's 8:30 a.m. which means if I'm going to make 9 a.m. Zumba, I need to wash down this oatmeal cupcake, wrap up this blog and get going.

I know I can do this. Encourage me all you can.

Letting Go of Painful Memories

Thursday morning, E1 and I performed an exorcism of sorts.

We drove to Winston-Salem to a play therapy appointment then stopped at Krispy Kreme on University Parkway and ate a doughnut.

It sounds simple on the surface, and before I made the trip with my daughter and all three Es earlier this month, I would not have been expecting ghosts around every corner. But after the earlier trip derailed me so badly, Thursday's journey was loaded with a bit of trepidation on my part.

Not so long ago, I made the same trip on a monthly basis with Ethan. We followed the same route from Mount Airy down U.S. 52 and across Winston to Stratford Road. We didn't go to the same clinic, but it was on the same street. We always stopped at Krispy Kreme and bought doughnuts on the way home, sitting inside or at one of the picnic tables on the sidewalk to enjoy part of our purchase and catch our breath before the final dash home.

Ethan was visiting an epilepsy clinic for treatment of the seizures he had begun having. His abuse of dextramethorphan was a likely trigger as it is one of the cited risks for overuse. Because it was causing so much physical damage -- he was gaunt and prone to falling in a seizure at any time -- I wrongly assumed that my intelligent son could see the harm and stop. I did not realize he was still using and was, in fact, addicted to the drug during the 18 months or so that we made the regular journey.

Each month on appointment day I would drive to his apartment -- I paid for the apartment and utilities because we were such a volatile combination when he did use that I was afraid to have him at my home where it was often just me and E1. He would come out and meet me and we made the drive down and back in a mostly companionable atmosphere. Sometimes we argued over music; sometimes he slept or feigned sleep. Often we talked, spending the closest to quality time that we managed at all during his adult life as after a few seizures he typically declined invitations to go anywhere. (At the time I blamed the seizures, now I blame the drugs.)

He was on Medicaid and we went from the time the seizures began until his 21st birthday, when he no longer qualified. The seizures were largely under control. He still had a prescription for medication when he was arrested after an altercation with a store manager who caught him shoplifting. He was still taking the Rx when he went into psychosis after taking the DXM and threatened his new roommate (who was also using) with one of his Japanese swords. He spent the next three months in jail and our relationship was irreparably harmed to the point I did not visit him (oh, what I would give for the chance to do so now) although we did write regularly.

So making that journey, even for an almost entirely different reason, was one I dreaded, but felt I needed to do. E1 goes each week for an hour of activities aimed at helping her reprogram her nervous system to be more "normal" and her mom and I have agreed to rotate driving duties while the other adult stays with the smaller girls.

I was looking forward to the chance to see what they do and perhaps gain a better understanding of what we're doing with our at home activities. I also anticipated some fun in the trip, as any one-on-one time is a treasure when I'm generally so badly outnumbered.

Heading down, of course my thoughts turned to Ethan. There was no big boy in the seat next to me, but I was in a different car, so it didn't seem quite so empty -- especially with the back seat full of car seats. I felt a bit teary eyed a time or two.

Then I looked in the rearview and saw E1, with her adorable kitty-cat hat and her focus entirely on the Kindle she had brought along for entertainment. Instead of a tear, I smiled and the ghost that had threatened to occupy the passenger's seat -- a painful, hurt ghost, was replaced by a happier ghost who enjoyed our outings, even if they were part of living a lie. That ghost was more of a happy memory of stops at Taco Bell and a bag of burritos, of missing the turn, getting caught in traffic or failing to set my clock ahead for daylight savings time and being late, of enjoying chocolate-covered, creme-filled doughnuts at a picnic table while we people watched and felt the warm sun on our faces.

Driving home afterwards, E1 was eager for a doughnut treat and wanted to go inside and pick out her own. I was up enough to feel ready to deal with those memories as well, so we did.

There were no unhappy memories there either, just a warm memory of the handsome young man I called a son enjoying himself and new, good ones to be made with the beautiful little girl I call a granddaughter.

While she enjoyed her pick -- the same chocolate-covered, cream-filled concoction he would have chose -- I joined her and added a cup of coffee. We spent a while at the window watching Valentine shaped pastries make their way from dough to glazed.

I came home happy, not burdened with guilt and not dreading a return trip.

I know not all my journeys will be that easy. We're talking about a family trip to the Outer Banks in the spring -- the place Ethan, his sister and I had our absolute best quick vacation, and I know there may be some of the same ghosts there. They should be a laughing, happy little boy who had not yet begun to battle his demons, and I don't know whether they will be easier, or harder to face. But we will find out.

I'm beginning to believe that Ethan's ghosts and I can come to terms with one another, gradually. I'm beginning to believe I can make peace with the past.

Still Searching for the Rhythm of My Life

I can't seem to get going these days.

I want to blame the weather and say that things will get better when I can get outside, and I know that at least in part that is true.

But I cannot blame the weather for what sometimes feels like a total inability to get anything constructive done. Last winter I remodeled my kitchen for crying out loud. Monday I walked a few dogs and scraped together a couple of meals consisting largely of frozen or reheated ingredients.

I cannot keep up with anything I plan these days and unless it's a well ingrained habit with commitments to someone beyond myself, I don't even do things I'm used to doing every day. Even things I enjoy.

Since Ethan died I feel like I'm rattling around inside myself and can't quite make everything fit and work together. People tell me I look tired, and I am. They tell me I've lost weight, and I don't think so, but I don't weigh. I also don't exercise daily, don't eat healthy, and drink way too much coffee.

I might get around to having breakfast by 10 a.m. after spending hours at the computer each morning. While I know that my keyboard time both for my blog and social networking are eating a lot of my mornings, I also know I need the therapy and interaction it brings. I need to limit it more, which would be easy if I could get motivated or get out, but not eliminate it.

So while I've gotten better at being alone and managed to find some parts of the person I lost with my son Dec. 15, I'm not all here yet and realizing that makes me sad at a different level.

Sometimes I'm not grieving for him, I'm grieving for me and the person I used to be.

I want to know what happened to my motivation, my get up and go, my darn can-do attitude. More importantly, I want those parts of myself back and I don't know how to retrieve them.

I've never been one for schedules, at least as far as what I'm doing is concerned, but I think until I can get all the parts of my life working a little better day to day, I'm going to have to make one for myself. Instead of fumbling through my day and ending it tired and aggravated, I'm going to have to start saying that at this time, I do this.

For instance, I need to have been away from the computer an hour ago (the cuckoo just reminded me it's 10 a.m.). I should have had breakfast no later than 8 a.m., instead of puttering through the kitchen for a banana and almond butter just before I sat back down at the computer.

That's going to require some planning on my part and some determination to make myself do the things that make me feel better beyond my twice a week trips to Zumba. (And thanks to the weather, I've missed one of those the last two weeks which does not help in the least.)

Making myself do the things that are right for me is an unfamiliar concept but I think once I force myself into better patterns (repeatedly, because I get the feeling I've had this conversation with myself, at least in part, before), it will eventually sink in. After all, I have managed regular wardrobe changes since realizing I was at gymnastics class in jeans I'd had on for days.

I think sometimes that mental t-shirt I want to wear could be as much for me as for the rest of the world. You know the one that says "My son died. Give me a freaking break!"

There are days when I'm tempted to make one to wear to all the places where I wind up feeling like I'm just not good enough any more, like the grocery store. I feel like I should be on crutches, or have an arm in a sling because there's so much hurt that I'm dragging around that just doesn't show and while I don't want a lot of fake sympathy or pity, there's a reason that my hair is still in the braids I put it in yesterday and I'm wearing no makeup.

Perhaps I need to mentally wear that shirt for myself sometimes and give myself a break. At the same time, I think the danger is in letting myself live in that shirt. My break can only last so long. I have to get back to the rhythm of life.

My Faith is Strong, But I'm Struggling With Worship

I realized Sunday, in the midst of what turned out to be one of the best weekends in ages, that one of the hardest places for me to be lately is church.

It's not so much that I'm mad at God, although I am and He's letting me work through that, but that to worship freely I need to let down the barriers that help hold me together the other six days of the week.

Don't get me wrong, I've not dodged church as a result. In fact, my church family -- especially my Sunday school "siblings" and a few close church friends -- have been people I can turn to when I have an earthly need. Although I struggled with going to church that first Sunday afterwards knowing that the sincere hugs and condolences would be hard, I've gone every week.

Sunday school class goes fine. I probably don't share as much of what I'm going through on a day to day basis as I once did -- if anyone is familiar with the pain of loving Ethan, it's them -- but I can still contribute to the lesson. Being with a group that supported me for so long is good, even if we don't talk about it.

It's the worship, the music and song that gets me. Sometimes it's the sermon as well, where I just can't wrap my mind around how all this earthly pain ever stacks up to anything good.

When it comes to the music, it's probably the same root cause that has me switching from listening to KLOVE on my radio in the car, to playing CDs. At first I blamed it on the few commercials (especially those for Teen Challenge, an addiction treatment program that Ethan refused to attend), but I've realized it's because I cannot control what they are playing or even skip a song that strikes too many chords in my heart.

At the same time, I'm finding it easier to deal with in the car because it doesn't matter if I cry as long as I can still see the road. I've come to terms with the lyrics of a lot of songs that cause me pain and reached the point that I can generally sing along even if I simultaneously cry. If I find I cannot handle it, I can push the skip button or stop singing, which allows some of my defenses to come back up.

In fact, the first week that I started getting out, I spent most of my time in the car crying, no matter what my destination. While I was eager to get out, I found those alone times with Christian music, which frankly is all I've listened to in years other than my old stuff, were tough. Even if I had the girls in the back, I would cry between point A and point B, then put myself together enough to go on.

I've found that same problem carries over into the worship part of church service. I'm not sure if that means that playing the music in the car is a worship, which at times it does feel like, or not, but it does leave me struggling to get through the start of our church service Sunday mornings.

I cannot hit the skip button if the song the choir or congregation is singing causes me pain. I cannot change the station. I cannot turn it off.

When the pastor encourages us to celebrate our Lord in our worship, I stand there with my jaw locked trying not to cry, or perhaps losing the battle and just hoping I don't break down completely. Depending on the structure of the service, it may be all I can do to get through to the end having exhausted my emotional reserves early in the process. Although I do listen to the sermon, sometimes the lesson has a hard time taking root.

Because to be quite honest right now, I'm struggling with my relationship with God. It's hard to be close to someone you're angry at and I don't understand why any of this had to happen. Reminding myself that I'm not supposed to and that the world is an evil place where bad things happen only gets me so far.

Through some terrible paradox, while I'm angry at God, I have to depend utterly on my faith in Him to be able to make it on a day to day basis. I have to have faith that there is a reason for pain -- mine and Ethan's and all the other pain that I've become much more intimate with in the last five weeks -- or else I would sink into utter despair.

That this life is just a short part of our existence and the things that happen here are passing is hard to accept when mortality is all I know. Even accepting that, the need for pain and suffering and what impact it can have on our souls still baffles me. The Biblical lessons about how we endure trials here converting to treasures in heaven just don't satisfy my need to understand what's happening now.

I don't think church can help me deal with these things so I guess church may just be tough for a while.

I know these are issues God and I have to work out on our own in long, mostly one-sided conversations with me doing the talking. My answers some in brief flashes of insight, visions that might be dismissed as daydreams, the words of people I don't really know that without this pain I would never have touched, the ability to make someone else feel less alone during the hardest times of our lives.

My answers come in faith and hope in things I have not seen and won't see at church, but that I nonetheless believe in and which keep me going seven days a week.

Feeling Guilty For Feeling Good

There are times when I find myself enjoying the day and I almost feel guilty. A brilliant sunset, a warm doggy snuggle, or even enjoying a movie and laughing with friends can send a pain through my heart if I let it.

I know so many moms -- some face to face and some just through cyberspace -- that when I have a good day, I wonder if I've missed some important step and gotten too far ahead of myself.

I'm far from done with grieving, I know, but I have never been as consumed by it as some people are. Is it because I had been grieving in bits and pieces for years? Is it because the addiction that stole my son had damaged our relationship so that I didn't even really know him any more? Is it because he did not have a part in my day to day life? Is it because the demands of life haven't allowed me the time I need to do it right?

Ethan's loss wasn't a sudden one, like parents suffer when a child dies in an accident or from a previously unknown health condition. It was gradual, over time. It was as though he had an illness that was likely to prove terminal, but doctors had not given him some set period of time. No physician ever told him, "Barring a miracle, you've got six months to live." At the same time, I knew deep in my heart that if he did not stop, it would kill him somehow.

Still, like parents who live with a terminally ill child, I hoped for that miracle right up until the day I learned he was gone. Miracles do happen, and although I'm still inclined to turn the radio or TV when I hear of someone beating addiction through prayer, the fact that Ethan didn't get that particular miracle doesn't make them any less real. I guess if they happened for everyone, we wouldn't call them miracles any more.

Yesterday, the thought crossed my mind as I headed to town for my Zumba class and to have coffee with a friend that I still feel like the tractor-trailer loaded with grief may hit me. I may think I've crossed the road, only to find out there is another vehicle coming the way I didn't look. I may be like the squirrel on the yellow line, scrambling in every direction and not seeing the truck that is going to get me just when I think I'm home free.

Has the toughest part of losing him passed, or will it hit on his birthday, or Mother's Day, or maybe next year on the anniversary of his death? Will it accumulate with every day that I don't hear his voice until I finally crumble? Will it be a song that reminds me of him, or cooking a pot of macaroni (his favorite food, which of course, the girls love)? Will I see a young man walking on the side of the road who all of sudden takes my breath because just for a minute he's Ethan and this whole horrible thing has been a nightmare?

Or will it be all of those things, as I have a sinking suspicion it may be.

Perhaps I can hope that it will be like a receding tide and the highest waves have already crashed ashore. Sure, there will still be big waves that knock me off my feet and they'll be brought on by the little things and all the big things as well. But most of the the time they may only wash around my ankles or remind me of their presence as they crash before coming ashore.

Perhaps, instead of feeling guilty for having a good day with friends or family, I should feel grateful for those times when I'm free for just a moment from the burden of grief.

There are people who proclaim on a warm January day, "We'll pay for this later," when I choose to sit in the sunshine and enjoy the break without worrying about next week's Arctic blast. Perhaps I need to learn to look at my grief the same way. Yesterday, I was spared the heartbreaking pain and I enjoyed the day. I won't waste the good times worrying about the hard times that may come.

Dancing My Way Back To Living

Surrounded by Your glory, what will my heart feel?
Will I dance for You, Jesus, or in awe of You be still?
Will I stand in Your presence, or to my knees will I fall?
Will I shout hallelujah? Will I be able to speak at all?
I can only imagine. I can only imagine.
Bart Millard (performed by Mercy Me)

I've always loved dancing.

Maybe not dancing so much as moving to music. From the time I was small I liked to dance with no reason.

Dancing always felt like celebration. It was a celebration of life, of being able to move and hear the music and feel it in my bones. I'm pretty sure that heaven is full of that kind of celebratory dancing where you just cannot be still because you feel so good.

Despite my strong Southern Baptist (which we of a certain age or older all know means dancing is a sin, nevermind that they did it in the Bible) upbringing, I grew up dancing. Whether it was square dancing at school, flatfooting with a local band, clubbing on my own (I never managed to pair up with a dancer), a few rounds of belly dancing classes, or dancing around the living room with or without a toddler on my hip, I've never stopped dancing.

It's not always about celebration any more, but sometimes it's about sanity. When I'm silently counting out the steps to a dance choreography, there isn't room for much else in my head. When I manage to remember the steps, it brings a spontaneous smile. If I think of Ethan during class, I have to push the thoughts away or lose my place. There's no time for grief or worry or planning or anything else but keeping time and moving.

I can't remember now when I first started Zumba, although I know it was my friend's enthusiasm and the fact that she had opened a studio of her own that got me going. Nowadays a week without one or two classes is a hard week to get through.

The women who lead my classes and my classmates at Move2Melt, many of whom I don't even know by name, are a different kind of support group. They're a warm smile and how are you and sometimes a hug. They were faces far from home that showed up, along with a few members of my church and two of my doggy family, at Ethan's funeral. During the last month they have repeatedly blown me away with their love and caring and made me feel far less isolated than my circumstances force me to be on a day to day basis.

Every chance I get, they're also a mental and physical escape from my house where the walls threaten to close in completely and from my mind where, left untended, my thoughts wander to dangerous ground.

The day after Ethan was found dead, I went to a Zumba class. I couldn't stand sitting at home feeling like I was turning into a shell of myself. At least there, part of the time, I could concentrate on where to put my feet instead of what had happened to my son. It was a thin lifeline, but it helped pull me through. As soon as the holiday hiatus was over, I was back for the first class and have been going to classes two days a week since as my schedule and the weather allow.

And although it isn't always about celebration any more, sometimes it still is.

Sometimes I'm celebrating being able to get out of the house and move when so much conspires to keep me weighted down by a blanket of grief. Sometimes I'm celebrating that even though I was never an athlete, I keep up with the high intensity moves of an hour long dance class, often after a 45-minute PiYo class. Sometimes I'm celebrating that dancing still feels good, whether I get the steps right or not.

Right now dancing is a lot like life for me.

I have to keep moving, even if I get the steps wrong.

Finding the Road Back Begins With Taking Steps

Yesterday I made 12 dogs very happy.

I slipped on my old Reeboks, not the new ones that are still decent to wear out, the grungy ones with the soles coming off; dug my handmade fingerless gloves out of the storage bench; grabbed a toboggan someone gave my husband when he worked at the golf course; put Pa Booker's old orange windbreaker on over my sweatshirt and stepped out the door.

It doesn't take a lot to make dogs happy.

As soon as I got the shoes and windbreaker out, my little house dogs knew there was a walk in the works, although they could only hope they would be included. Their hopes were a bit dampened when I went out the door without them, but their turn eventually came.

My yard dogs, Rebel and Macy, were over the moon immediately. They are used to traveling up and down our long, dead end road with me a couple of times a morning. Lately, however, they've had to make the rounds of the neighbors' houses on their own. And while they've been free to pursue the neighbor's cats and bits of old deer carcasses without me, they've missed the companionship of our walks.

Following through on the promise I made myself earlier in the morning, I pulled out leashes and rounded up dogs until everyone who was seriously interested in a walk had enjoyed one. One group of three larger dogs making a brisk trip down the road and one group of seven small ones wandering at a more leisurely pace. Rebel and Macy were on my heels both times, which is where they've longed to be for five long weeks.

It was a welcome return to a once daily routine that I let slip in early December when I came down with my first cold of the season. I was still in cold recovery mode when Ethan died -- in fact I had stayed home from church that morning because it was such miserable weather and I felt so bad.

Although walking with dogs had been a combination of meditation, therapy, and cardio exercise for years, it fell from my routine as easily as cold rain falls from a heavy winter cloud. It was as hard to pick back up as that same drop of rain would be if one were trying to recover it.

I'd made a few attempts at walking the last few weeks, but only with the bigger dogs who were more eager to get out and move. Each time I would start out with the plan to walk the little dogs as well, but I'd decide I was too cold, or just not in the mood.

Yesterday, however, I followed through. The rhythm of our strides felt good and familiar to my bones, even when I was juggling a few less than cooperative little dogs. The climb up the steep grade at the end of the road, which I normally don't notice, was a stern reminder of how I had neglected my routine as I could feel the burn in my legs. The chill of the weak January sun was still a welcome light to my soul, just as the arch of the cloudless blue heavens spoke to me of depths I cannot imagine.

Although I've spent many a morning walk in prayer for my son, I didn't need to do that yesterday. Ethan no longer needs my prayers. Instead I spent both walks humming the tune to an upbeat song entitled "Gold" by Britt Nichole, which I don't even know but for some reason had stuck in my head. And I did allow myself to think of him, never actually walking with me but sometimes randomly running out to meet me and once taking time to make my picture with the dogs on a day much like yesterday. (Like Ethan, most of the dogs in that picture are gone now, yet it's the only time I've had someone make my picture with the dogs.)

When I finished the walk, I jumped into day 17 of the 30-day challenge hanging on my refrigerator. I was glad to see those muscles hadn't suffered the same fate as my underused walking legs, although I did have to go for two sets instead of doing them all at once.

No, I didn't book a salon appointment, or get my nails done (any of them), but I ended the day feeling victorious over a lot of the apathy that has consumed me for the last month.

The old routines felt like what they were, familiar old habits that help keep me centered and make me feel alive. They were things I need to do to be true to myself. They won't take the place of what I lost, but giving them up will only make me feel worse not better, and there is no need to punish myself or avoid the simple things that bring me joy.

Perhaps, in time, the morning walks will again be a comfortable communion with God and the world around me. I'll pick up the conversation again on more friendly terms, instead of the brokenhearted discourse I've lately shared. Perhaps as well as peace, I'll find some of the answers I seek in the quiet broken only by footfalls on asphalt and the jingle of a dog's tags.

At least I know I'll begin to find myself again.

I Realize I've Misplaced a Lot of Myself

I realized Thursday evening while inspecting a random smear of strawberry yogurt on my jeans that I really couldn't remember when I had put on clean clothes. Was that a fresh smear, or not? Was it really strawberry yogurt?

I could remember showers and clean underwear. Wardrobe changes for church and workouts, but just everyday clothes, no.

Unless I plan ahead, most mornings I just grab whatever I've had on the day before. The dogs and children don't care and they will quickly turn anything that is actually clean into something covered in wet paw and nose prints, and smears of everything from strawberry yogurt to snot and poop. If I aimed to stay clean I'd be undergoing a wardrobe change every hour or so. Most days I look like I'm ready to star in an episode of "What Not to Wear."

The amount of clothing in the hamper this morning says that I've changed clothes occasionally or it's been a really long time since I did laundry. The basket of clothes from which I pulled the clean jeans, tank, and long-sleeved shirt argue that it hasn't been that long.

The fact of the matter is that having abandoned a nice wardrobe when I decided to spend my time with dogs and children, the cleanliness of my clothes stopped being a priority. When things that I had really given some thought slipped off the radar, the state of my wardrobe became a non-issue altogether.

So I've put on clean clothes, that was fairly easy. At the same time, I really have to start paying attention to the things that mean something to me.

I used to exercise, not only for weight management, but for health. I was self-motivated and rode my recumbent bike a time or two a day. Between DVDs and YouTube, I could grab a PiYo or Zumba session any time. I keep a 30-day Ab/Squat challenge on my refrigerator and was midway through repeating it for the second time in December when along with Ethan it sometimes feels like I lost myself. I can't motivate myself any more. I do go to class a couple of times a week, but that's support and companionship as much as exercise. Even then, a song can trigger an emotion that will have me slipping down the stairs to hide out in the restroom while I regain control of myself.

Aside from high intensity workouts, I used to walk lots of dogs almost every day -- health and really bad weather were my only excuses -- and I really enjoyed it. The dogs enjoy it and it is good for the mental health of everyone involved. Now just a slight chill in the air, and face it, it is January, will be enough of an excuse to send me back into the house most mornings. I miss it, yet I haven't been able to convince myself it was worth the effort more than a couple of times in the last month.

While I used to aim to eat healthy, now food is just something that I eat, when I can muster up an appetite for something. Cravings generally haven't been for what I know is good for me, but it seems its either eat what I want or nothing. While that may be balancing out (I wouldn't know as I also haven't resumed a relationship with my scale, but my clothes aren't changing in their fit, but then again if you wear them a while -- oh, who knows), I don't have any numbers to be sure and skinny isn't the same as healthy.

I vaguely wonder if a day at a beauty salon/spa would make me feel better, but my hair hasn't been professionally handled in almost five years and I went shampoo free a year ago, so I don't imagine it would handle the shock well. Although I know the gray ages me, the thought of maintenance to fight it is too daunting to even begin. At the same time, I've never had a manicure or pedicure and with the dog wrestling of a typical week and the random acts of gardening that even now are likely to crop up, my nails are a wasteland. A massage might feel nice, but at the same time it would create that prolonged period of quiet that I've worked to avoid the last month, so it's questionable.

My poor husband is another topic. While not Ethan's father, he did love and care for him, which is more than his birth father managed to do. He cannot touch my grief, however, but tries to support me and tell me that it's OK to feel as I do and work my way through it. Still, between our schedules and my general lack of self motivation, I feel he's getting short changed in a lot of ways that I need to start correcting.

What little energy I have most days is exhausted on three small girls who hit Ma's house wide open. They are completely devoid of any care for my physical appearance, emotional stability or level of energy. They are a great tsunami of need and self absorption (like any small children) that sweeps everything away just for a little while. They are my daily salvation because I can't give myself much slack in dealing with them -- it's not an option. With them I have to be fully alive and alert, no matter how much coffee it takes.

In other words, I'm all to hell and I know it.

At the same time, I've found that finding out what is wrong is often the first step to fixing it. Just as I have to recognize a problem, facing it head on and evaluating it helps get me moving toward correcting it. That's the plan here.

I've cocooned myself in my home with three little tyrants and one noble knight for a while now. I may not emerge a butterfly, or even one of those not quite pretty gray moths, but I don't think I can keep tolerating the person I'm letting myself become.

The sky is blue and cloudless and I think there are dogs waiting for me as soon as the sun tops the trees. Seeing me bundled up in sneakers with leashes in my hand will give them a joy they deserve for always being there. I think walking down the road and back may be the first steps back to finding me.

Not the same me, who still thought life would eventually work out and prayers be answered, but a version of me just the same. A me who realizes prayers are answered in ways we don't understand and that we will never, this side of heaven, know the meaning of the faltering steps in this journey we call life.

Thirty-two Days And Counting

I survived the first anniversary of sorts. Despite my worries, I didn't fall apart, even when the memorial necklace I ordered off Etsy turned up in the mailbox shorthly after noon. Somehow, it seemed only fitting.

I know that at least for a while, the 15th of every month will bring a sense of dread. Now it's been one month, soon it will be two, then three, six, a year. Life, God willing, will keep rolling on and pulling me right along with it, no matter what part of the past I might want to cling to.

A friend who lost her son several years ago told me earlier this week that the dread was usually worse than the actual date itself. It turns out she was right. Thinking about how it was going to be had a whole lot more weight to it than actually living the day itself.

I've found in one month that the problem with grieving is that life gets in the way.

No matter how much some part of me has wanted to do the sackcloth and ashes bit and sit in a corner pulling my hair, there is an even larger part of me that wants to live each day fully, maybe doubly because Ethan isn't living it any more. His legacy isn't going to be about grief, it's about living and making a difference, about reaching out to other people who are hurting like I am and propping one another up on days that we feel like we're falling, its about doing everything I can to help keep this pain from happening again, even if it is only in one life.

I don't know how I'm going to do all that, but I know weeping and wailing won't do it. They won't even come close.

Not only do I want to live and make a difference, I decided years ago that I couldn't let his addiction wreck the rest of the family. I could not always be there for him because other people needed me -- not just his sister, but my first granddaughter and through the years her two younger sisters. Because I'm not just "Ma," but babysitter as well, I can't take time off from family life to grieve. I can't take bereavement days from what is a 40-hour-a-week labor of love.

Meeting their needs on a day-to-day basis gets in the way of worrying about the needs I can no longer meet.

You cannot spend too much time languishing on might-have-beens, when you're surrounded by what might be; you cannot spend too much time thinking about what if, when the sudden silence in the other room probably means someone is either writing on a wall or playing in a sink.

So, just as it has for every day since Dec. 15, the needs of the living -- mine and the people around me -- pulled me through the day yesterday.

The diagnosis of SPD (Sensory Processing Disorder) in E1 has added a new twist to those days as yesterday was not only the one month anniversary of losing my son, but also her first full therapy session. Like physical therapy, which having undergone it I know hurts, it appears this therapy has some lasting aftereffects as well that aren't all positive. Trying to learn how to help her, better judge what is going on in her head, and continue to deal with occasional meltdowns is a facet of my days that goes beyond dealing with three preschool children.

It means my plate is always full and yes, as people keep telling me, I look tired.

It would be easy to say I have too much to handle, and looking at everything going on in my life, I'd have to agree.

That's why there are days when I have to put some of it aside and not handle it. There are days when I give it to God and don't have time for it any more, although I may have time another day and, without so much as a by-your-leave, take it back.

Thanks to the demands of life, I've found that the easiest thing to set aside and leave in God's hands is my son, because he's already in God's hands and has been for his entire life any way. While I need God's help to get through every day, God has work for me to do as well and that work I cannot pass to others. Ethan doesn't need me any more, either through my physical efforts or my mourning.

No, that doesn't mean I don't still grieve him and feel his absence, or that there won't be days when that grief pushes everything else aside for a while.

My place, however, is living. It's marking off another day and going on.

Denial Doesn't Work for Me Any More

Some people specialize in denial.

A family member read one of my early posts about Ethan's death and his response was "Why did she have to say he was an addict?" Seriously. He hasn't been encouraged him to read any others and he's not going to brave the computer on his own. To him the subject is probably closed.

Before Ethan died, I avoided using that term in conversation with anyone who didn't already know my son. I talked around the issue in a lot of ways. Ethan had problems. Ethan lacked motivation. Ethan couldn't find a job. Ethan just hadn't figured out what to do with himself. There were a lot of phrases to cover up what was really going on his life because even hinting at addiction made him angry. It hurt him, and I didn't want to cause him more pain, so I avoided it.

Ethan, however, could read through my words and would take offense. When my 30 days of thanksgiving included appreciation for him and the lessons I had learned from his less than perfect life, he was angry that I had told everyone he was an junky. I had not mentioned the exact nature of his problem but he knew what his problem really was and felt that I had shouted it out. We had not spoken for weeks after that incident other than the angry text messages that followed in the evening after reading my post. That post appeared exactly one month before I learned of his death, a fact I had not realized until I went back to hunt it.

The truth cannot hurt Ethan now, but I think it may free me and perhaps others.

I know that only by being truthful about what his life and mine was like will I be able to find any peace with the past. It is only by being honest about what I'm feeling now that I'm able to work through my emotions, try to find a way to move forward and possibly help someone else as well.

I'm honest because I don't know any other way to be right now.

I think for some people real honesty, especially about their own emotions, is as impossible as reaching the moon from their front porch. They may see it as protection, perhaps for themselves and those around them, or maybe as a kind of strength. It is neither, because it denies reality and in avoiding pain causes a different own kind of hurt. The best way to get better, to get through, to heal, even if it is a healing with scars, is to be honest.

Some days the hardest thing in the world is to be honest about what I feel. A random thought will cross my mind with all the emotions it triggers and I wonder how I can share that. Yet my choice is a simple one.

Do I pretend I don't feel that way? Do I lie or just gloss over reality?

If I did that, would my words have any meaning? Would I feel any better? Could I reach anyone who is hurting and be able to help them if I denied my own pain?

Since the phone call four weeks ago today telling me that my son was dead, I've discovered an ocean of pain and I've found that I'm far from the only one who is walking near it, being splashed by its waves, and occasionally struggling to get my head above the water and make my way back to shore. The love and support I've received from this group of fellow sufferers, lost parents who are struggling to move forward with a life that doesn't quite have the meaning it once did, has been tremendous. Struggling with my emotions, I've found I'm often grappling with something they are feeling as well and it's only by being truthful that I help any of us, especially myself.

Many days, knowing we're not alone with the anger, pain, fear and questions helps us to be the person we need to be that day. Just as it may be a random message or phone call that carries me through the day, I hope by being truthful in my grief, I can help someone else through their day as well.

Some people specialize in denial because its easier than facing hard truths about who they are, what they've done, how they feel.

Stripped of our unspoken dreams, our roles as parents unfulfilled, our children missing like the limb of a storm-damaged tree, we tend to lose that veneer of civility that makes us say the right things. Unable to deny one of the hardest truths we'll ever face, I think we find a more honest person less able to tolerate the phoniness of so much of the world. I know that's what I've found huddling in the shell that used to be me.

I no longer take today or tomorrow for granted, realizing at any moment for anyone this could be the last time. I cling harder to those around me and work to nurture the friendships that have survived this storm and those that have been born out of it. I have more compassion for the struggle in everyone's lives and respond with kindness instead of looking the other way. "I love you" is becoming a staple of conversation with not only family, but friends as well.

For some people, facing the truth is something to be avoided at all costs because the truth is painful, the truth touches a core that they don't want disturbed. There have been times when I was part of that group, avoiding the truth about a marriage gone bad, a family problem, a health issue I didn't want to discuss. There have been times when it was easier and didn't feel like a lie to say, "I'm fine."

That's no longer my truth and a lie I can't quite swallow any more. This pain goes so deep, I've found no way to avoid the reality. There may be times when I say nothing, but when I talk about this pain I can only speak the truth.

Walking in The Valley of the Shadow of Death

The Lord is my shepherd; I shall not want.
He maketh me to lie down in green pastures; he leadeth me beside the still waters.
He restoreth my soul; he leadeth me in the paths of righteousness for his name's sake.
Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil: for thou art with me; thy rod and thy staff they comfort me.
Thou preparest a table before me in the presence of mine enemies: thou anointest my head with oil; my cup runneth over.
Surely goodness and mercy shall follow me all the days of my life: and I will dwell in the house of the Lord forever.
Psalm 23

When I was a preschooler, I learned the 23rd Psalm with my grandfather's encouragement.

I don't know why he picked those verses, but I know as a reward I got to go into the nicest department store in town and pick out a dress. They told me I chose the most expensive one in my size and it still hangs in my closet, waiting to be worn by another generation of little girls.

Whatever his reasons for choosing it, that is certainly the only chapter of the Bible I could quote from memory; some of the few verses I could easily identify.

In the last three weeks, those verses have taken a different memory from what I always assumed they meant. Although they haven't changed in that David spoke of God as the one who protected and cared for him in all situations, my view of one of those situations has changed. In verse 4, I'm not sure if David was writing about his mortality which I had always assumed, or his own journey into grief because, like me, he lost a beloved son. I don't know about the history and how it lines up with his songs, but I know that I now read those verses differently than I did a few weeks ago.

To me, the valley of the shadow of death isn't where I go when I die or when my life is endangered, it's where I've been for weeks now.

Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil: for thou art with me; thy rod and thy staff they comfort me.

This verse has repeated in my head countless times since the call informing me that Ethan was dead.

My walk has been on a dark path because of the shadow of death. It isn't my death. It isn't sickness and the threat of my own mortality. The shadow of death is grief and it has changed the light through which I view the world. It's a shadow that adds a bittersweet edge to everything I do, a fear that some other next time won't come, that all my tomorrows will feel like today.

And yet, the Psalm reminds me to fear no evil, for God is with me and I will have comfort.

I've never considered myself a "good Christian," for lack of a better way to put it. God is as real to me as the sun that shines on my face on the hottest day of July, but I have lived a far from perfect life even when I knew better. I never thought I was favored by God, even when I managed to come through some of my dumber stunts unscathed. I never felt I had an inside track, because my prayers seemed to fall on unlistening ears as often as anyone else.

But as I've walked through the valley of the shadow of death, I've found out that God really is listening, it has been I who wasn't hearing. Time after time, when I've needed help just to keep going, the phone has rang, a song has played on the radio, or I've seen in my mind the answer to my prayer or felt just how wrong I was to let my feelings of despair consume me. I do not need to be afraid that everything is not under His control or that there won't be something to ease this grief.

I'm certain that skeptics would say I'm delusional and that the God I believe is caring for me doesn't exist or at the very least doesn't care. But coincidence is a term that I don't place a lot of faith in, and my life since losing Ethan has been too full of sudden answers and gifts of understanding. No, not the total understanding of why that I would wish to have, but an understanding that lets me accept the way my life has suddenly changed and keep on living.

I no longer see myself alone in this valley through which so many of us are walking. I see myself with new friends who travel the path of life under the same dark shadow. I see us all reaching out to one another and guided by the shepherding hand of God.