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.

I'm Finally Ready for a Weekend

It's Friday night and I've wrapped up another day, another week, with the girls with the same mix of elation, exhaustion and frustration that I feel I end almost every day.

I did manage to put a balanced meal on the table. Of course, that doesn't mean they ate it, but at least I tried. I can prove that by the piles of dirty pots and plates, the macaroni dropped on the stove top and squished into the edges of the high chair. That I'm hungry three hours later is as much a testament to the fact I can't even focus on a meal when I prepare one as it is to trying to fix what they will eat instead of what I might want.

In fact, the kitchen isn't the only disaster area. The playroom is wall to wall toys; the living room has caught the overflow, much of it towed by the baby as she wandered back and forth and shifted gears from one room to the next -- a slobbery Duplo block, an escapee from the Little People zoo, a bit of macaroni that was stuck to her pants; the new work table (handily crafted in Pinterest style from the old crib) has already been decorated with crayons and two kinds of glue.

The day has passed like most others. I spent the morning grooming and bathing dogs -- no walks today due to the weather -- writing my blog and trying in vain to find a web hosting site that works well so that I can create my own domain for it. That's followed by the girls' arrival and a brief flurry of early activity punctuated by lunch and on milder days some outdoor play. In the afternoon we have naps that may be ushered in quietly or by threats of bodily harm for E2 and the baby and on some days E1 as well. While they rest, I do kennel duty again, with E1's help on days she doesn't sleep. Sometime along the way I grab a necessary cup of coffee or two, then Papi's home, naps are over and it's time to fix dinner.

Three nights we leave before dinner for activities -- mine or the girls -- but the night's we're home we've started doing crafts after dinner. That's another challenge for me (coming up with something, I really enjoy the process) but a quiet activity that lets the working man of the house retire since his 10-hour workdays start early.

Regardless of the day, or the week, we never get done what I hope we'll get done. I'm always undone by the diverse needs of three very different little girls at very different points in their development. Whatever achievements I manage with one, I usually feel I've neglected the other two and just trying to keep all three safe, fed and suitably rested on some days is a balancing act I feel lucky to manage.

I'm frustrated not only by my inability to do what I would like to with them, but my inability to successfully meet their expectations. E1 tends to have high expectations of miracles from Ma -- and my successes, which this week included a weighted blanket that seems to help her sleep, are often dimmed by my shortcomings as she cannot understand why it takes more than one day to make the crocheted turtle pillow we've agreed on. I'm frustrated because even though we are learning tools to help E1 handle her SPD, I have trouble remembering to do them, or finding time, or convincing her to participate, and I don't feel like I know enough to be a real help sometimes. I'm frustrated by not being able to be perfect and create memories that are flawless in my mind, because I know that the moments and even life are so ephemeral.

I'm elated when I do manage to accomplish anything -- the blanket for example -- and that we did, in fact, construct a pompom caterpillar on Monday night and tonight we did cutouts of their hands with a heart in the center. They were quite nice when decorated with glitter glue. Then E2, practicing with scissors (another mess entirely) cut off one of her fingers -- not her own, but the construction paper hand. I'm elated that I fixed a meal and that E3, at least, was willing to try everything on her tray and ate well, a true accomplishment since at 11 months she refuses to eat from a spoon so only finger foods work for her, although her definition of a finger food is broader than most. I'm elated when I make it anywhere on time, most notably to my exercise class, Awana, and their gymnastics. I'm elated when we have a positive night at gymnastics, because sometimes dealing with a handful of little people through nearly two hours of classes stretches my last nerve.

I'm exhausted, not just by the energy demands of three little girls, but by tending to my kennel, which even when slow as it tends to be this time of year requires time and care to operate smoothly and when busy, well, that's another big demand entirely. I'm exhausted by the fact that sleep seldom comes before 11 p.m. and sometimes midnight and I'm awake and heating coffee before 7 a.m., although lately I've managed to not be up before 6 o'clock. I'm exhausted by the emotional toil the last month has taken on me and my family and my relationships and inner peace. Some days, I'm even exhausted by this blog, although most of the time I find it therapeutic to unload whatever is on my mind.

So it's Friday night and the house is quiet. My Lab is barking and howling at some sound apparently only he can hear in the front yard, but only the clicking of the keyboard breaks the silence inside. It's time to turn out the lights and turn down my brain, but I'm not yet ready to relinquish my hold on the day.

Instead, the musings of a former coworker and friend who blogs about her own small child, (Anarchy in the Sandbox) have reignited the pain I feel for a lost little boy, and her dreams for her daughter made me revisit the dreams I once had for him. Instead I sit at my computer, a mental picture of him hovering behind my eyes and tears on my cheeks, as thoughts of what I lost do battle with fresher memories of slender wrists and toothy grins, tearful entreaties and gleeful celebrations, and "Ma! I love you" shouted and whispered at random times through another simultaneously tiring and priceless day.

It's Friday, and for most of two days I'll be Angela or Sweetheart, friend or lover, dog sitter or classmate. But behind all of those identities, I'll still be Momma to my daughter and my lost boy and Ma to three little miracles, even if like a super hero, I'm not always dressed in my special snot and sticky-hand covered wardrobe.

Now enough of this. For the first time in four weeks I don't dread the weekend and the lack of distractions it brings. I've got a turtle to crochet and a house to clean before Monday arrives. I need to get some rest.

Everybody Hurts Sometimes

If you're on your own in this life
The days and nights are long
When you think you've had too much of this life to hang on

Well, everybody hurts sometimes
Everybody cries
Everybody hurts sometimes
And everybody hurts sometimes
--Peter Buck, Bill Berry, Michael Stipe, Michael Mills (performed by R.E.M.)

The other day I was talking to a good friend on the phone and she said she just could not imagine what I was going through. She just wanted to spend some time with me.

Not too long ago, I remember when she was going through a really tough situation where I didn't think I knew how to identify with her and we cried and laughed our way through it. Since I've known her she's said hard goodbyes to parents and siblings and lives every day with the prospect of another heartbreaking loss.

Through the last five short, and yet seemingly endless, weeks, I've realized that most of the people we come into contact with on a day to day basis can feel some version of our pain.

As unique as my grief felt on Dec. 15th, it was like a drop of rain falling into a summer pond at the start of a storm. All around me, I've found there were nearly identical drops of rain falling, other mothers and fathers who have lost their sons and daughters, and different drops from the loss of siblings, spouses and parents. I've realized that there are very different drops from all sorts of losses -- the loss of health, the loss of independence, the loss of divorce, even the loss of a career. There is a storm of loss and grief going on around us while we are focused on our own individual drops of pain.

I've also realized that while the source of our grief is very different, making us think that our situations are so unique and sometimes beyond what anyone else endures, our pain is very similar.

Whatever loss we are grieving, what we are really grieving is the loss of the future.

As humans, we have the unique ability to think about the future. We envision watching our children grow to adulthood. We think about their lives and the spouses they may bring into our families, their future happiness, unborn grandchildren. Even if we don't sit down and daydream about the lives they will lead, our minds make these possible futures seem a part of the reality that we expect to live.

The same is true with any kind of loss. Either consciously or unconsciously, we plan for the future. We plan to grow old with the the person we stand beside and say "I do." We intend to be able to do certain things for ourselves. We plan to have our brothers and sisters to share our lives. We expect to have our parents until some undefined point in our future. We think we'll have our careers to support us until we retire.

Then those futures are gone and we grieve. Yes, some of these griefs are more intense and stay with us. In all likelihood, we will find another job and perhaps another spouse. We may adjust our expectations for our health or the health of those around us so that life goes on and that loss becomes our new normal. We come to accept the time that our parents leave this life, even though we still miss them. The loss of a sibling or friend varies with how close we manage to stay, and eases as life moves on without them.

Everybody grieves and hurts at some time.

Losing a child is a bigger ripple in the peaceful pond of our lives. I realize both from my own limited experience and that of people who have endured their loss years ago, that while the ripples from other grief may subside this pain will never pass.

I think in many ways it is still because we are grieving that future, because with the loss of a child we lose not only their future but our own. We lose a link to a time we will never see.

As mothers, we lose all the potential we created when we grew them inside our bodies for nine months of careful eating, swollen ankles and pain. As parents, we lose the baby we held in our arms and all the unrealized dreams we saw each time we looked at them as they grew.

We never lose the past, however long that was and however many memories we managed to store in our hearts and minds, but we lose the future. We lose knowing the person they would have become in a few more years. We lose having them to love, and to love us, as we grow old. We may lose the children they never had and all those possibilities as well.

There is a bond in grief that those who have not lost a child can retrieve and find some empathy for us, just as when they have loss we can relate with a small part of what we feel.

Everybody hurts. I've come to believe that the difference isn't so much in the intensity of the pain as in the duration.

Everybody hurts and I have come to realize that the pain for a while may seem unbearable, no matter what the loss. It's just that for some of us, it will never entirely go away.

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.

Was There Something Everyone Missed?

Among all the "what ifs" and "should have beens" that have swirled around me for the last four weeks, a new one was added to the mix last Tuesday.

After four years of believing our little E1 was just a bit more moody and sensitive than we expected, perhaps spoiled, perhaps just immature, a trip to Winston to see a specialist resulted in a diagnosis of Sensory Processing Disorder and a plan to begin therapy.

It also opened a whole new door of "what ifs," especially when a friend who had lost a family member to drugs told me he had struggled with SPD, as it is called for short, and been unable to cope or find a successful treatment or therapy regime; especially after my daughter mentioned there was often a genetic link, if not to a parent then to a close family member.

What if all the many things we always thought of as "just Ethan" were really symptoms of a disorder we had never heard of that could have been treated? What if when he said the drugs silenced the noise around him so he could concentrate, he really wasn't talking from purely an addict's perspective? What if Ethan had been born 15 or 20 years later when the Internet gave a concerned parent the research tools to try to find out what might be wrong with their child?

Among the many what ifs, this is one I couldn't change. But it is one I have to ponder.

We might never have found a diagnosis for E1's occasionally odd behavior, had it not been for the Internet and a mother determined to know. Although she was slow to talk, she was within the realm of normal. Although she forces her world to follow a schedule, her mother was a firm believer that being on a schedule was good and doesn't handle disruption too well herself. Although she is prone to meltdowns, she's only 4 and we don't really expect her to be in total control of her emotions.

Most of the world only sees E1 as an outgoing, bubbly little girl because most of the time we, meaning her parents and I as her secondary caregiver, have learned to manage her. Her physician said she was extremely bright. Her Sunday school and Awana teachers are delighted with her intelligence and eagerness to learn. No one outside the inner circle suspected there was anything different about her.

But her parents and I saw a little girl sometimes reduced to hysterics by the temperature of her food or her inability to do something she thought she should master. We saw a little girl who derailed from her schedule by an overnight trip or an extended family outing might take days to get back to herself. We saw a little girl who sometimes said "I can't" when asked to do a simple task, and who was consumed by her inability to do so.

Her mother was determined to know if we were doing something wrong, or should be doing something differently. If it wasn't us, then she wanted to know what it might be, especially if it were something that needed to be treated. Occasionally we bounced ideas off one another, but nothing in the spectrum of emotional disorders we had heard of seemed to fit. Then while searching the internet she found SPD and began reading articles by adults who have the disorder left untreated, she began looking at checklists and finding that E1's behavior ticked off a lot of yes answers.

Although I don't think anyone else was convinced, she called her pediatrician for a referral for SPD testing. In the meantime, Ethan passed away and our concerns for E1 were both secondary and more meaningful. In that, I meant we sort of forgot that the evaluation was looming, but were determined that if there were anything to be done for her it would be done because some part of me will always worry that there was a diagnosis no one made for my son.

I cannot look at E1 and say that Ethan was like her as a child. Of course, his preschool days were nearly 20 years ago, but they are characterized in my memory by an easy going little boy who never liked to be alone, not the demanding preschooler that E1 has become. His schedule was flexible, he could sleep anywhere. If anything, one would say he was her polar opposite.

On the other hand SPD is a condition in which sensory information is incorrectly organized or misinterpreted by the brain, so it can have different manifestations. From the present, I cannot go back and evaluate a checklist to find out if his behavior might have also resulted in a lot of affirmative answers, because I simply cannot remember.

Yet there is a similarity I have noticed, a hesitation in how to respond sometimes to a new situation and sometimes to something that you would think they would have been familiar with. I can see it in their smiles, captured in posed photographs of two very different small children, who both look a little uneasy and uncertain. It's a similarity that goes beyond curls and blue eyes, beyond the tiny pearls of baby teeth and one that had, even before Ethan's death, occasionally sent an icicle of dread through my veins. Each time I glimpsed that similarity, I was filled with determination to do anything to save E1 from Ethan's pain, even before his life ended.

Now we have a diagnosis and a path to follow that will in all likelihood lead to a happier future. And I'm wondering if the same path might have saved my son, had I, his doctors, his school counselors, or even the counselors he saw later, been more familiar with this disorder. I wonder how things might have changed if by the time we were concerned about him, he had not learned to mask his differences, fake normal and bullshit his way through any psychological testing. I wonder about the little boy who didn't fit in and had only a few close friends and how we accepted that was just Ethan, when perhaps there was more going on. Perhaps this wasn't the disorder that drove Ethan, but what if it was and it was just a matter of no one knowing and no way to find out. Even today's literature says SPD is often misdiagnosed, although it occurs in somewhere between 1 in 20 and 1 in six children.

Thanks to the internet, today's parents aren't limited to the knowledge of their peers and doctors or even what they can find in a library. They have the whole world at their fingertips and it requires only time and determination to pursue a solution when something doesn't seem right. I didn't have those tools and I won't blame myself for what we may have missed in our ignorance.

I will, however, urge today's parents and grandparents to be open to the possibility that your child isn't a bad kid or just a different kid, that sometimes there is something else going on. If you feel like they're having trouble coping or fitting in, look for answers and keep looking until you find a definitive yes or no. Maybe they are just unique and there's nothing wrong with that, but if they don't like who they are or they aren't comfortable in the world we as we know it, it could be that by looking for an answer you wind up saving a life.

I cannot go back and change the past, but you may be able to change the future.

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.

Can I Really Forgive Him for Dying?

Pushing myself through the rituals of Friday morning, thinking about Ethan, I had an unsettling thought.

Forgiveness.

Last year my goal for the New Year was to find a way to forgive someone in my life that I was struggling to love or forgive because the pain that person inflicted was ongoing. Through a lot of prayer, I was able to do that by focusing on the positive things in my life that were there because of them -- even if those things happened years ago.

When I saw someone's post on Facebook earlier this week about forgiving someone to achieve peace, I thought, yes, I nailed that one.

Then, yesterday morning out of the blue I realized I still have a lot of forgiving to do and at the top of that list right now is Ethan.

Although I learned a lot of lessons about love from him over the last seven years, I had not yet embraced the lessons of forgiveness.

Several years ago when I found him sleeping in his car in my driveway one morning, God drove home to me a lesson about love. Ethan was screwed up and not living the life I envisioned he would live; he wasn't living life to its full potential; he was wasting the gifts of talent, intelligence, love and support. Yet I still loved him with every fiber of my being. In that moment, I realized how the love we read about in the Bible -- the love that God feels for us when we mess up, sin, don't choose the path that He lays out for us to a full and happy life -- is real. There is such a thing as unconditional love, even when we aren't close to one another or denying its existence.

I loved Ethan unconditionally and did my best to make sure he knew it.

And time and time again I forgave him for the things his addiction made him do. I forgave him the physical and emotional havoc he left behind sometimes, because I loved him. Even while I did my best to limit his ability to cause physical pain, I didn't expect an apology after he called on a rant or neglected something that was important to me. I accepted that was the way he was and I was just glad he called again. I accepted and forgave every emotional blow in the hope there would come a time when things would be better and we could put it all behind us.

Until the other morning, it felt like I had done enough forgiving.

Then I realized I have to forgive him for dying. Even though he's beyond all need of anything I can ever give him, I have to forgive him for me. I have to forgive him every stupid mistake and bad choice that put him on the road to dying alone in his apartment. I have to forgive him for shutting us all away so often that no one missed him for days. I have to forgive him for squandering the life I fought so hard to give him.

Just as, at some point, I have to forgive myself for any way I may have failed him (a bridge I'm not ready to cross, and yes I know I did my best), I have to forgive him for things that ultimately slipped out of his control.

I have to forgive him for becoming an addict, because I know that once he found the drug that spoke to him, it was as powerful and insidious as Satan in the Garden of Eden. It whispered to him in lies and promises about special knowledge and gifts, special visions and experiencing the world in a way he could not without it. It made him feel things the real world didn't deliver. I cannot understand addiction and that desire to escape and I'm glad, but I have to forgive him for being overwhelmed by it.

I have to forgive him for not fulfilling the potential I saw when the doctors pulled him from my abdomen and placed him in my arms, a big, healthy, beautiful baby boy. I have to forgive him for disappointing my dreams, for not being able to find himself again and for not sticking around to take care of me when I get old.

Where time and again I've felt some version of survivor's guilt because of the families grieving a lost child who had done nothing wrong, who was caught up in some horrible tragedy of time or place or birth, I have to forgive him for no longer dodging the fate that had for so long been waiting. I have to forgive him for involuntarily choosing not to be part of our lives when he could have been, because now he cannot choose.

Ethan often said he wished he could die, and I have to forgive him for those thoughts and for finally having that wish granted.

I have to accept that he was doing his best to make his way through a world that was more painful to him than it is to me, a world that somehow didn't make his heart sing the way it sometimes does mine. I have to accept that while having people who love and need me is sometimes enough to get me through a day, it wasn't enough for him. I have to accept that he didn't always feel he had a purpose and that being without a purpose leaves you vulnerable to things you cannot control.

So today, in writing this and acknowledging the things I hadn't forgiven, I'm taking what I hope are the first steps toward letting those hard feelings go. Not because he needs me to do so, but because in order to live and breathe freely again, in order to have peace in my heart, this is what I need to do.

Already I feel lighter and I think the journey toward forgiveness is underway.

A Dog Would Be Easier, But I Still Choose Children

Like most parents, there have been times in my life when I've struggled to understand couples who choose not to have children.

Of course, with previously poor picks in husbands, there were times when the only reason I could see to be married was to to produce a child within bounds that my family found acceptable. Once I found a true partner, I came closer to understanding the choice some people make to remain childless. In fact, there were times when I could find the same tinge of envy they might feel (or not) when looking at someone else's baby's pictures.

Those little voices that whisper in our minds about different choices we might have made often chose different sides of the debate.

One little voice might envy them their ability to travel, to decorate without worrying about how fragile or sharp an object might be, to have time to explore their hobbies, to sleep at night without worrying about a child's needs, not having to worry about someone else's future.

Another voice would remind me of the things they are missing: a child's sticky fingers wrapped around my own, smearing sunscreen on fat baby wrinkles, listening to a little one breathe at night, watching a child with my eyes perform at a band concert or walk across a graduation stage, seeing a person who grew inside me fall in love, get married, and produce little people of her own.

Regardless of those voices, I know I chose the path I sought without any regard for all the pitfalls. Even knowing where it has taken me, I would not go back and undo my decisions. Although the family I have will always have a piece missing now, the pieces that remain bring me enough joy to offset the pain.

At the same time, when accepting condolences from childless couples who instead have dogs, I've had to admit that the dogs are easier. That just as there has always been that little voice envying childless couples their freedoms, a little voice says "Hey, you love dogs. Wouldn't it have been easier to have dogs instead?"

Dogs, for those of us who truly love them, are much like little (or not so little) four-legged, non-vocal, furry children. For many people they become surrogate children when the human children move away from home. We lavish them with love, share our homes, praise their accomplishments and care for them in many ways like children.

But while we have to worry about illnesses and accidents and know that we can expect to outlive them, we're spared many of the responsibilities and pains that come with children.

We don't have to worry about their friends. Heck, we control who they hang out with in ways we can never control our children once they reach a certain age. Peer pressure and the desire to have the right clothes and toys means nothing to our dogs. Clothes are generally unwelcome and toys just a bonus. No need to plan ahead for college or to worry about them moving back into a nest we had grown used to having empty because they aren't going to leave home.

We can prevent unwanted pregnancies. A quick trip to the vet and they won't even have a sex drive, let alone out of control hormones. (Humping totally aside.) No awkward conversations about natural urges or birth control either.

We don't have to worry about their success or failure in the world. Their world is pretty much our home and a little bit of socialization and training can assure that they succeed. There are no jobs, bad influences, broken hearts, drugs, depression and failures to hurt them. All they have to do is listen to us and we can assure their lives are good.

Yes, there is heartache. When they are sick, no matter how old they are, they cannot tell you what really hurts and a good diagnosis and proper treatment are up to your vet. Managing a chronic condition is entirely up to you as they won't help take care of a bad leg or back.

Then there is the ultimate pet owner's heartache of making the decision to help a pet out of this life. I've made that decision too many times and know I'll do it again. I've sat holding animals I've loved for their entire life or even for a portion of it, letting them feel my hands and smell my scent as I told them I loved them while a veterinarian administered a fatal dose of medication. I've also had a dog die unexpectedly while undergoing treatment, and just knowing I wasn't there for her made it even worse.

Yet that pain, multiplied 100 times over 100 days doesn't touch losing a child.

When I've lost a dog, I've been able to go out and get another. No, they're not a replacement, but in a few months they begin to fill up the blank spaces in my life where the other dog lived. It's the natural course for loving a dog. Last May I had to help my Jack Russell Al out of this life when a sudden cancer overwhelmed his body. I held him in my arms while he breathed his last and brought him home and laid him to rest. A few weeks later I rescued another dog and Willie, while far from being Al, means there isn't a blank space where I'm used to seeing him.

There are no replacement children to be had. I can't go out and find one who looks about the same and bring him home. Even if I could, if there was some way to find that mother-son connection again, I'd face the same painful gamble that his choices wouldn't be good and his life not turn out the way he and I would have wanted.

There would still be the possibility that we don't admit to ourselves as parents, but accept the day we bring home a dog, that one day I'd be standing beside another grave.

No, I don't really wish I'd never had children. Or stopped at one and got a dog.

The challenges and heartache included, I've found parenting and grandparenting to be my choice and the choice, even if the clock were turned back and I had foreknowledge, that I would make again.

But for those who have made different choices, I will admit that sometimes I feel a bit of envy. If other choices would have made me just as happy, I could have been spared this pain.

Pushing Through an Unexpected First

Earlier this week I made a trip to Winston-Salem to one of the many doctor's offices clustered in the area near Hanes Mall.

With three little ones and the various things they are occasionally tested or treated for that involve more specialized services than we have here, that's not an uncommon thing for me to do with my daughter and the girls. It was nothing serious and we decided to make a day of it and enjoy the trip.

Then when we started talking about the address and planning the route, street names seemed vaguely familiar. When we made our turn, it was an all too familiar street.

I was plunged into one of those firsts I've been anticipating and was totally caught off guard.

After Ethan began having seizures in 2009 and lost his driver's license and ability to work, I found him a small apartment in Mount Airy and got him a referral to a treatment center that specialized in seizure disorders. I didn't understand his addiction and I thought at that time that such a serious physical consequence would make his stop using. I was trying to help him regain his life.

At least once a month we made the trip to Winston-Salem and the turn next to his favorite Taco Bell to take us to the doctor's office. Either before or after the visit we'd stop and load him up on burritos, maybe go in and share a meal. When we made the same turn by the same Taco Bell, I knew what was supposed to be a fun trip was going to be plagued by memories instead.

Those monthly trips to Winston were the most time I was able to spend with my adult son, and for the most part they were enjoyable despite the fact we were going to a medical facility.

We shared music and conversation in the car. Sat down for a meal together (not always at Taco Bell) and usually stopped for Krispy Kreme donuts on the way home -- one box for him and one for me. The drive from his apartment to the far side of Winston took the better part of an hour each way and once we added in the meals, we spent a lot of time together on those days.

Yet now, they're just a dim memory of mostly good times. There's no special memory of a moment shared and nothing to cling to from that time. The seizures got better with medication, but he wasn't really interested in the therapy the psychologist recommended. We weren't surprised when she said he was far smarter than he was letting himself behave or that he had some issues he needed to work through. He never admitted he was still using dextromethorphan.

The only trip that stands out in my mind was one that also included my oldest (and then only) granddaughter, still a toddler at the time, and a bitterly cold December day. On our way home, sometime after our last stop, Ethan snapped. It was totally irrational and I blamed it on having to share what was usually "his" day with the little one. He began cursing me and wanted out of the car while still in Forsyth County, threatening to open the car door at 60 mph. Finally, back in Surry County I pulled over a few miles from his apartment and let him out. He had to walk home in dangerously cold temperatures but I could not persuade him to calm down. I know now he had probably carried some of his little friends in his pocket, dosed at some point during the outing and was high.

I'm sad that I can't remember a smile, or a song he enjoyed and instead can only summons his rage.

But I know we had peaceful times together and perhaps more pleasant memories will come in time. I can remember how he devoured whatever we sat down to eat. I can remember how he loved the fresh donuts and how we'd sit together, often outside in the sunshine, and talk about other people and things in our lives. I can almost summons a memory of his laugh and smile during one of those times. Perhaps it will be clearer in the future.

Despite the fact I wasn't driving and was with a different group, the memory of those trips cast a shadow over our journey. There were odd moments when I just wanted to break down and cry and over the course of the afternoon I became "cranky" as my daughter said. There was nothing I could do to manage that, it was just something I had to push through, something that I'm fairly sure will get easier with time and repetition. Soon new memories will push the old ones aside and as much as I hate to let Ethan fade, trips with little ones will more and more take the place of the trips I made with him.

While we had fun, and I'm glad that I made that trip with my daughter and the little ones instead of stumbling on those memories all alone, I was relieved when we were finally homeward bound. And I'm not sure but what it may have been memories as much as day-old donuts that caused me to not enjoy our final stop at Krispy Kreme (but seriously those were some stinky stale donuts and I even put one in the trash).

Without warning, I find I've survived a first I didn't see coming and I know this year will bring a lot of those, as well as the ones that I'll try to prepare myself for emotionally. I think those times, however they come on me, are just going to be a matter of survival and getting through, an effort to make new memories and find some way to cling to the good while releasing the bad.

Maybe next time I'll be able to eat a donut with a smile at a memory -- or if not next time, before too long.

The Love that Broke My Heart is Free Now

I love Ethan more than I have in a long time.

No, that's not quite right, I love him more freely now, without the constraints I'd had to live with for the last seven years.

While death removed him physically from my life, it also removed the bonds of his addiction. Not only was he set free, but I was freed as well.

There's nothing as hard as "tough love," but for years that's the only kind of love I could allow myself to express. To love as freely as my mother's heart desired risked my sanity and safety and that of others I love as well. So although I loved Ethan with every fiber of my being and took every opportunity to tell him so, I could not express it in the way I wanted to for a long time.

I didn't realize how bad it was until I used his birthdate for a password the other day. I realized I had not done that for a long time because there was so much pain in our relationship. Just typing his name or birthdate on a regular basis would have been like cutting myself over and over. Now, because the ongoing emotional anguish of his life is over, even though I'm grieving, I can let that guard down. That string of numbers has a pure meaning now, not one that is as tangled and twisted as an angry black snake.

Not everyone who has dealt with addiction can understand that. Not everyone manages to achieve the level of separation that I had to have to survive. You see, I love Ethan but I didn't think I could survive his addiction. It wasn't just a matter of finding him high and that being hard to live with, it was the fact that his highs could trigger psychosis, hallucinations and violence. I feared my son.

People will tell you that the love we had for one another would have kept me safe, but they would be wrong. His best friend told me that the drug-fueled anger that drove them had no bounds and would not have been stopped by love, because love didn't have a place in those highs. My career in journalism had sent me to the side of a road where a man in handcuffs cried on his front porch because he'd finally snapped and killed his mother; it had taken me to the death chamber at Raleigh where I watched the life drain from another man who had been crazy on drugs when he chased his mom and stepfather into the yard of the home they all shared and gunned them down. It was a fate I wanted to spare us both when I made him move away.

While I missed his laugh, his jokes and his smile, I never knew which Ethan might be living in my house. When I took him places after he lost his license, I never knew which one would suddenly be in my car. I could never predict which innocent conversation might trigger an outburst, when my slowness to respond might provoke his anger.

I hate that I didn't see him more and yet realistically I know that I probably saw him as much as either of us could manage. Because we loved each other so much, our inability to be what the other person wanted hurt as bad as not seeing one another. We broke one another's hearts over and over again.

Yet, I always tried to answer when he called because it was my only chance to hear him. I always hoped I'd get the young man with some goofy story to tell, the one who was so easy to make happy and so full of love and caring. But sometimes I got a young man whose speech was garbled and whose words were full of pain and despair and who I often could not understand no matter how hard I tried. Sometimes I got the angry man that nothing could satisfy and my inability to say yes would end the conversation with cursing and a disconnect.

When we planned a family gathering, other than Christmas which still overrode his addiction to provide delight, he was just as likely to decide at the last minute that the safety and security of his walls was preferable to the love and hurt in the eyes of his family. Just as he longed to be with us, I know that at times we were just more than he could bear. I know his addiction took over and there were times that the only thing that brought him any pleasure was the drugs.

Loving Ethan has been a struggle for a long time. Losing him puts an end to the struggle, but not the love. I didn't love his physical body, I loved the soul that lived within. Now the physical body is gone, so I can no longer see, hear or touch him, but the Ethan I love is still part of me and always will be.

Learning how to live with that love and his loss is going to take a long time -- possibly the rest of my life.

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.

My Non New Year's Resolutions

I didn't plan to make any New Year's resolutions this year, not beyond trying to stay physically and mentally afloat for what I anticipate will be the continuation of the most painful year of my life.

After all, how could I look ahead with any big plans to a year that will be so filled with heart-breaking firsts? Certainly I couldn't think about the items people tend to put on a New Year's resolution list, because most of those things are meaningless to me right now.

Yet, I've found in reading some friends' resolutions, that there are things I expect from the coming year beyond survival. Things that, following God's lead and with His help, I should resolve to do in 2014 and all the years to follow.

1. Exercise my faith and grow my relationship with God.

As hard as it is for me to accept, Ethan's life and death had a purpose that I don't understand. I do not believe that it was coincidence that I had been blogging just long enough to have made it a part of my routine before Ethan's death. Some mornings I do not want to write, but I feel that is part of our purpose and the earthly journey Ethan and I made together. There are a lot of people hurting and if knowing they are not alone brings them the same relief that it does me when someone sends a message back, then I have to keep doing this. Many days it is my faith that God has a plan and this has to have a purpose that keeps me going.

But I don't want anyone to think that just because I seem to work through my emotions in black and white it's easy. It's not. I cry a lot. Sometimes it is just the sadness and sometimes it is anger. Instead of just crying, I have to remind myself to talk to God at these times and ask Him for help and guidance. The answer may be scripture or song or a vision, or it may be the sudden ringing of the telephone when someone has felt that was just the time to call. God answered my prayers and finally gave my little boy peace and healing. It wasn't the way I wanted my prayers answered, but sometimes the answers are unexpected. The answer won't always be so black and white and if I don't take time to listen and wait on God, I may miss the messages and healing He wants me to have.

2. Keep moving and living my life.

It's easy to get stuck in grief. I want to say especially the grief over losing a child, but while it may be more difficult to accept for a parent, there are many kinds of loss that we grieve. Whether it is a pet, a spouse, a parent or a sibling, or even a really close friend, it is easy to allow ourselves to give in to selfish grief. Our lives can become all about our pain and our inability to cope with it. We can shut out the people who still need us, the people who would help us, the people who are grieving with us. We can allow our grief and pain to suck the joy out of our lives and simply stumble through the motions of living. I know there may days when I feel I need to stop and let it consume me for a while, but anyone who God has chose to leave living has a purpose and it is not to sit around and feel sorry for themselves because of someone else's death. Those who are gone are free from pain and suffering and it's our place to live on.

The other side of that coin is to deny our grief. I know there are people who don't allow themselves to grieve because someone has to be the strong one in a family torn apart. Or perhaps grief can be avoided by refusing to accept reality -- especially for people like me who had a sometimes stormy and strained relationship with the one who is gone. While either of these choices may seem outwardly strong and at the very least as far removed from self-pity as possible, they still cut us off from human emotions and a human process that we have to embrace as part of living. They keep us from being emotionally available to loved ones grieving with us and they stop us from helping one another by learning to grieve and live on together.

For me living my life means picking up the threads of old routines that were dropped three weeks ago. It means digging out my knitting needles and starting a new project, stepping on the scale again, going back to my exercise classes, taking the girls back to Awana and gymnastics, planning activities for the future. Some of these things aren't as important as they were, and some have taken on new meaning, but they're all steps in moving forward and living again.

3. Help others.

This used to be simple, like stuffing a few dollars in the Salvation Army kettle, taking groceries to the food pantry in town, or helping to stuff food boxes for the holidays. It's not simple for me any more.

I feel there are too many people grieving the little losses of addiction or the earthly loss of a child and that too often we all feel alone. I promise to be honest and keep reaching out, even when it hurts. I want to help build a network of support where we can bear one another's burdens, love one another, encourage one another to feel not only the pain but the joy of living, and count on God for the final answers and help we need to get through the hard times.

4. Make good memories.

There have been times when I've thought that I wouldn't mind dying, but I want to live long enough to be a memory for my granddaughters. As they say, dying is easy, living is hard.

But the kind of memories I leave, the kind of memories I make every day are important. Although it's tough some days, I want to go to bed each night without a regret in the way I've lived the day God gave me, in the way I've treated the people close to me, or in the way I've reached out to make sure that family and friends who I don't see every day know what they mean to me.

---

So there it is, a simple list. It doesn't involve numbers on a scale or in a bank account; it doesn't involve kicking a bad habit or taking up a good one; it doesn't involve getting organized or a better job, or many of the things we typically put on our list of resolutions.

Even more importantly, it's not a list that will ever be checked off as accomplished. These are resolutions not just for 2014, but for the rest of the life God has given me live. It's not the life I expected or wanted a few short weeks ago, but it's the one I've been given. While it may pass as a vapor, it's my reality now and I intend to make the most of it.

I Didn't Tell a Friend -- Maybe Because She Wasn't

The other day in Walmart, I ran into a friend I hadn't seen in years.

That could be the beginning of a lot of stories. It is the beginning of a lot of traffic jams and sometimes aggravation for Walmart shoppers, but at the same time virtually everyone's path crosses at Walmart at some point. I once ran into the guy I had a crush on in the 11th grade at Walmart, which wouldn't be such a huge shock if he didn't actually live in Tennessee.

The friend I ran into on what was virtually my first time away from home since Ethan's death more than two weeks ago was carrying a toddler on her hip and asked if I'd seen her husband, which I hadn't. I was pushing a cart loaded with the youngest granddaughter while the older two were burning off some pent up energy by running up and down an aisle. Years ago, one of her sons and Ethan had spent time together at church and our homes. She drove the school bus that carried him to elementary school. We were members of the same church, although I haven't seen her there recently.

Do you want to know what we talked about? Would you care to guess?

We talked about babies. Turns out the baby on her hip wasn't her newest grandchild, but a little boy she's adopting. She wanted an update on my granddaughters. I held her little boy so she could go to the restroom (her reason for looking so desperately for her husband).

Neither of us mentioned Ethan.

I don't know why.

There is a very real chance that she didn't know, although it seemed that the news spread fast. We're not even Facebook friends any more, and I don't know that she keeps in touch with her former church family or reads the newspaper to see his obituary. I'll have to admit, if something had happened to one of her children, I don't guess I would have known.

But she knew my little boy from the time he was seven and the bus didn't come on the first day of school, because the boy who lived here before us was also named Ethan, and she knew he'd moved. She saw him every school day and at church on Sunday. He sometimes went home with her to play Nintendo with her sons. We sang together in the choir. When our children were older, we sat together and caught up on where they were and what they were doing.

Yet she never asked about him, and that omission tells me she knew, but just avoided the conversation. She never even asked how how I was, firmly keeping the door closed on that conversation. She may have been sorry that she bumped into me, and had it not been for the toddler and her need, she might have took a turn down an aisle before I spotted her.

I get that. Really I do. People think they'll upset you by asking. Talking about it will make me cry, whether to a friend or a total stranger, like the nice lady from Northern Hospital calling about the payment I forgot to send the week Ethan died. But not talking about it doesn't make the pain go away.

While I'm willing to give her a pass because I understand if she was reluctant, I'm still struggling to understand why I didn't tell her.

It's not that I'm unwilling to talk about it, or even that I don't want to examine my pain. I've discovered that I'm perfectly good at baring my soul when it comes to this. I've discovered that it helps me deal with and work through it. I've discovered that it's a whole lot better than pushing it down inside where it would simmer and leave me unable to help not only myself, but anyone else.

Her reluctance, or more accurately avoidance, I understand at some level. You don't want to poke at another person's pain.

Accepting my own complicity in pretending that my life is OK, however, is something new for me to deal with. Realizing that I'm not going to bring it up, even when it should be perfectly acceptable to do so, is something I'm still processing.

Yet, I know it's a common reaction. Out of my friends and acquaintances who I've known for years have lost children, there has only been one who would honestly share their pain and I know that honesty sometimes has people turning away. Honesty has a price that we may be hesitant to pay.

I think we also come to realize rather quickly, that some people we once considered friends aren't really. They shy from our pain and are eager to accept our lies when they're forced to ask how we're doing. It's amazing how quickly we can sense the sincerity in a question, and surprising who will turn out to be our true friends -- not necessarily the people we might have expected, but not only the people who understand our grief either.

Our lies and silence when talking with people who don't fit the bill for true friends are also an act of kindness and self preservation on our parts. I feel like I'm carrying around a big bucket of pain, and that I don't want to splash it on someone nearby who isn't prepared to deal with it. At the same time, although my tears are healing and never in short supply, I'm not sharing them with just anyone. Only people that I feel really care will get to see me cry.

I've Already Been Grieving A Long Time

When my son, Ethan, was found dead in his apartment two weeks ago he had been dead for several days.

Even though Dec. 15, 2013, may wind up being the date on his tombstone, what really died that day was hope. What died that day were the hard to kill dreams that someday, somehow my beautiful, talented boy would find a purpose in life that no one else could give him and quit killing himself a little bit at a time. What died that day were my still harbored hopes that he'd get clean and become the man he always dreamed of being.

Although there is no indication his death was suicide, Ethan had been killing himself for a long time and, little by little, the people that loved him had been forced to let him go. All we had left were our hopes, our dreams, our prayers, and when he was clean and in the mood to be sociable, little glimpses of the Ethan we so wanted all the time.

Addiction may end in death, but it is in reality a lot of little deaths. The death of personality, stability, contact, interaction, early dreams, relationships, health and so much more.

I've been saying goodbye to Ethan for so long, that I thought this last goodbye would be only a little more difficult than many of the others. I was wrong, the finality makes it far worse, but the fact remains that while it's another level of grief, I've been grieving a long time.

Ethan was a wonderful, caring child who never wanted to hurt anyone. He turned into an angry teenager who demanded my attention on his schedule, my support for his demands. He was verbally and emotionally abusive when it was just the two of us at home. He punctured his walls and doors with knives and fists, and had no regrets for breaking things that weren't his. Although he couldn't support himself or make all of his own decisions, he refused to comply with any standards outside of his own. Household chores (taking out trash and emptying the dishwasher) weren't done. He overloaded the dryer until he burned it out and I started doing his laundry. A HAZMAT suit would have been needed to enter his room. Still, sometimes we connected although I couldn't get him to see life from a different point of view; one where he needed to be responsible and think about a driver's license and job, where he needed to think about school as a step toward his dreams, one where he would always need to follow someone's rules to get ahead.

When he turned 16, he decided that since he was legally an adult in North Carolina, that meant he no longer had to do anything I wanted. He was, by God, grown. The drug use, which I think had probably only been spotty until then, undoubtedly increased. That was the year I feel like I began to lose my son. The young man I interacted with at times bore only a passing resemblance to the boy I had raised.

I've been grieving him for seven years now.

People who have never dealt with addiction cannot understand that special kind of pain. It comes from forcing yourself to let go, to realize that there is nothing within your power that can be done to change them. It comes from accepting that they must make the change if it is to be made.

You force yourself to stop running to their rescue, to stop giving them money (although I was always willing to buy food), to stop trying to tell them what's wrong because all it does is make for an angry conversation without changing them. You may stop mentioning their addiction, they'll lie or defend it and it's just another barrier that keeps away those few stolen moments of happiness.

You quit expecting them to behave like a non-addict. They often don't show up for family gatherings, they don't see the need to work, they don't bathe or do laundry. They don't answer the phone. They don't have regular contact with anyone. Their health deteriorates.

And each time you realize they won't do that little thing, you grieve. You grieve for the person that they were once upon a time, the person that they sometimes become again in your mind.

In the last two weeks, I know I've grieved as much for the Ethan who should have been as for losing my son. If you've not dealt with addiction, you cannot understand. I'm not grieving some perfect son, but the boy who slipped slowly away from us a little bit at a time. I realize sometimes when I beat myself up over something that I didn't do, that it was probably only the Ethan that has been largely gone for seven years that would have wanted to do that any way. That even in the moments between planning it and accomplishing it, he might have become someone who wasn't interested.

I've grieved over not taking more advantage of the sober times, not making more effort to pull him back into the family after he had forced or scared us away. I've grieved over not making the time to share his successes. I've grieved over hopes and dreams and all the "what ifs" that I can dredge up sometimes.

And then I remember him high in a fit of anger, when my normally docile lab suddenly stepped between us hackles raised and a threatening tone to his bark. I remember garbled conversations, the fact that he couldn't be counted on even with an advance invitation and a car at his door, the fact that I never told him he could not come to my home if he was straight, the fact that there were months at a time when he had a license and a car, but didn't choose to spend time with me.

And I grieve again for what we lost in bits and pieces to the drug that finally pulled him under one last time.

Wading the Ocean of Grief

"When the waves are taking you under
Hold on just a little bit longer
He knows that this is gonna make you stronger, stronger
The pain ain't gonna last forever
In time it's gonna get better
Believe me
This is gonna make you stronger"

I realized last week, two days out into this journey, that this kind of grief is like an ocean.

Sunday I was on the shore and the ocean was just something to look at and consider.

Monday I was struggling to stay on my feet through what often felt like the force of hurricane waves. By Tuesday I recognized the grief came in waves that would almost consume me, then subside for a time. They were irregular and storm driven, not the paced, rhythmic waves of a normal tide.

However hard the waves of grief come on me, that is how they feel. It's like I'm walking along the beach, maybe even enjoying a break in the clouds and a ray of sunshine, when a wave comes out of nowhere and suddenly I think I'm going to drown. I feel my ability to go on sliding out from under me like the grains of sand pulled out to sea by an outgoing wave. And once the waves hit, I know that I'll be pounded for a while before I'm able to struggle free of the water again.

So far none of the waves have pulled me so far out to sea that I cannot find my way back to my feet and back to the sunshine, but I'm still walking in the water's edge. I cannot get away from the grip of the sea.

I don't remember this sort of all consuming pain when my grandmother died. I loved her, but she'd had a long good life and I know she was ready to go. She'd had time to make peace with those around her and we had a chance to make peace with her. If there were things we wanted to say, because she had been ill, we had a chance to say them. Although her actual death was a surprise because her health had seemed to be improving, it was something we could accept.

Losing Ethan is a whole different level of grief. Losing a child, through a long illness when you have to accept that barring a miracle it will be over, through a sudden tragedy that takes the healthy child you hugged a few minutes earlier, through the series of small deaths brought on by addiction when it seems that you've said goodbye to bits and pieces of your child for years, is something we just aren't prepared for. There's no reasonable expectation that we have in our minds that yes, we'll be outliving our child. Ever. In any version of reality.

Then it becomes our reality.

A path we had tried not to even look down becomes the path we have to walk every day for the rest of our lives. Right now it's a dark and scary place where I look for glimpses of light just to keep moving.

It is prayers that keep pulling me along, because although people keep telling me I'm strong no one is strong enough to do this on their own. It is three little girls who drown me in a different kind of wave -- one of noise and motion and fights and cuddles -- and keep that dark sea of grief at bay. It is the kindness of friends and strangers who care about me, or who have felt a variation of my pain and want me to know they understand and that while I won't forget, in time it will get better.

When I began writing two months ago, this is not the story I expected to tell, but this is a story that seems to resonate. While we put on our "normal" faces and go about our lives, too many of us carry grief, or fear of this grief, down deep in our souls. Facing it makes my pulse race and my eyes stream, but I cannot push it away. If doing this lets someone else know that they aren't alone, then perhaps there is a purpose to it. Perhaps walking this dark path at the side of a stormy ocean we cannot see is easier together than alone, even if we cannot reach one another's hands. Perhaps knowing there is someone else on the path will make the walk a little easier.

It feels at times wrong to share my pain and let strangers inside the wall I feel I must build to hold myself together. And then a message from someone I've never met tells me they've been down this path and that they want to help me, or that they've stood on the beach where I was a week ago and they are as afraid of the waves as I am, and I know this is what I'm meant to do now.

That everything we've been through won't be for nothing if I can help someone else, if we can somehow save someone else from the journey Ethan took.

Somehow, like everything else in life, it will make me stronger and prepare me for something I need to do. I just wish to my soul that there had been another way to do it.

'I Just Don't Know What to Say'

Ten years ago, a friend of mine lost her daughter in a car accident. I knew she had to be in such incomprehensible pain, and I didn't know what to say.

We didn't have the fairly safe option of sending a post on Facebook, or a text message. I knew that to offer any sympathy, I would have to confront that raw pain. I would have to pick up the phone and let myself dip my toes in a dark lake where I didn't want to go, a dark lake where it would be too easy to drown.

So, for a long time, I didn't talk to her. Our jobs had changed and we weren't in as much contact anyway. Then came the day when I saw her across a drug store parking lot. I still remember thinking she hadn't seen me and I could just go in because she was almost to her car. Instead I called her name and walked across the lot to talk to her.

I still didn't know what to say, but it didn't matter. She didn't need to hear my words, she needed to feel my support and caring. She needed to talk about her daughter, her family, their process and pain, and for a long time I stood and held her and listened and cried.

This week she came to my house and held me and listened to my rambling voice and ignored the uncombed hair, wrinkled clothing and unmade face and the chaos of three small children and three small dogs beneath our feet. Before she left I apologized for not coming to her sooner.

In the last few days, I've received support from strangers who somehow found this blog and sent me comments or Facebook messages. I've been overwhelmed by the calls and texts and visits. I've been lifted up by the people in my life, some of whom I don't really even know beyond casually, who have gone the extra mile (sometimes literally) to let me know they care. But like my friend, who may have noticed that I didn't call, there have been people I know and care about who have been absent.

While I have wanted them to call or reach out in some way, I understand their absence, because at one time I did the same. Although we're fairly comfortable talking to someone who has lost a parent -- after all, that's the "natural" order of things -- and we come closer to being able to deal with the loss of a spouse or sibling, the loss of a child is something that we don't want to think about.

I understand that you don't want to get near a parent's grief because you think you can imagine how bad it is and you just don't know what to say or do. For a parent, the loss of a child is the worse thing you can imagine, and I can tell you it is worse that you can imagine. You don't want that pain to touch you, even from someone else. You don't want to imagine being pulled into that dark lake and knowing that your child, that baby that you held when they were born, that you helped learn to walk, ride a bike, and all the millions of things along the way to whatever point they have reached, is gone.

I understand, because that knowledge will knock the breath from your chest, set your heart racing and send you reeling through your days, looking for bits of a normal life to hang on to.

But from this side of the invisible wall that separates parents with living children from parents who have lost a child, I can tell you that reaching out is what we need.

Except for those few special people who I know who have already walked this path for different reasons, you won't know what to say. And here's a secret, even if you've lost a child, you still don't have any words that will take away the grief from another parents' heart, all you have then is the knowledge that it is something you can survive.

However people have reached out to me, they have said, "I don't know what to say." And do you know, I don't expect them to? I don't expect my pastor to have some magical answer from God or some scripture that will give me understanding. I don't expect my best friend to be able to make me smile. I don't expect the people that I've worked or played alongside to have the words to help fill this hole in my heart. I don't expect other parents who have lost children to be able to do more than offer me hope.

All a grieving parent needs is a hug, a shoulder to cry on and an ear that isn't already tired of hearing the same broken story that we come to feel we've repeated a million times. We need to cry. We need to touch life. We may find a hug that reminds us of the one that is gone and if we do, I'm sorry, but we may ask you for a hug a hundred times before the pain in our hearts eases one iota. We need to talk about our child because we know that child is dead, but we need to know that others remember that he lived. If you were the child's friend, share your memories and pictures. If you never knew them, let the parent give a memory. Just be there.

This week, my words have been about the struggle to save him from himself. Sometimes they have been about my guilt, because whatever happens to a child, a parent will feel some responsibility. With some people they have been about my hope that this can somehow be part of helping someone else and making a difference. There will be a time when I want to talk about how wonderful he was before he changed, when I let myself take down the photo albums and cry over the baby, the little boy, and the adolescent that I lost inside the broken young man who died. There will be a time when I slowly begin to take out my dreams for him and weep over them because they will never come true.

Everyone who has reached out to me, be they fellow travelers in this land of grief, friends, or strangers, has helped me keep going. They've helped me hold myself together because they have said they care, because they've sent up prayers, because they've been willing to listen in one way or another to what I needed to say, because they've let my son into their lives and grieved along with me.

No, there is nothing anyone can say that makes it better. As my friends who know have said, it's not something you get over, it's something you get through and live with. This will be my reality for the rest of my time on earth. Maybe there will be days when I don't think about it, and I'm sure in time it won't consume me, but it always will be a part of me.

So what can you do when there's nothing you can do?

Don't flee from the pain of a grieving parent because you don't know what to say. Don't avoid talking about the child you knew or mentioning the loss. Don't worry about doing the wrong thing. Don't feel helpless in the face of our pain.

Open your ears, your arms and your heart and be honest. Go ahead and say, "I don't know what to say." It's OK. No one does. We'll do the talking for you.