What To Do When You're the One Who's Sick

Living with children during the cold and flu season is like playing Russian roulette.

No, seriously. You know if you play long enough, something is going to take you out. And you multiple the number of bullets in the gun by the number of children you're in close contact with.

I don't think the baby is really big enough to be picking up strangers' viruses yet, but I'm still spinning the chamber with two bullets in it and I was hit in early December with some sinus crap. Now there's a stomach bug making its way through the ranks now, apparently a norovirus, and I feel my days are numbered. I've cleaned my fair share of poop and puke in the last week and Mom has been sick as well. Although right now our focus is on the little people and getting them better, there's no guarantee that I've dodged the bullet as I'm often the last one to come down with whatever we're sharing.

So I dug up this draft from mid December, (I actually wrote most of it the morning of Dec. 15) when I was hit by our first virus of the season and when all the little girls and their parents had been sick.

Silly me. I thought I'd dodged the bullet that time as well. Then I got up a couple of days later feeling less than ideal. Actually, I woke before 5 a.m., two days running, just not feeling good. By the evening of the second day, I knew I was coming down with something and double dosing on Vitamin C and Zinc weren't going to save me.

You know that feeling when your body is just off. No real symptoms yet, and it's not like you could run to the doctor and get a preventative any way. Or a cure once you're actually sick. You do what you can to stay warm, take a little better care of yourself, and hope you can beat it off. Sometimes you do and you're likely to think you were just imagining feeling bad. Then there are the times you have to admit you're sick, can't get off the couch or you're going to die sick -- well, that is only an option if you're not the chief caretaker of little people who can't be expected to take care of themselves.

Moms can't take the day off from their children and unless I'm totally dysfunctional (an ear infection has done that once in the last four plus years), I don't take the day off from being Ma either. Generally, the little people roll in and I survive the day, although it may be touch and go by late evening.

Dealing with the virtually untreatable ailments of winter is one of the toughest battles most parents face. I know, we'd rather be sick than have to deal with sick children for a host of reasons. We know how bad we feel and have a larger selection of pharmaceuticals to treat our symptoms. When it comes to the children, we may never know exactly what hurts or how bad, and even then have a limited selection of doctor approved medications to dole out. While we may double dose ourselves into survival mode, we'd never do that to our children. And besides, when they're sick, we know it's just a matter of time because while we might manage to keep a germ away from them, they'll always share.

Even if parents had rather be sick themselves, it is the most miserable time. You cannot simply tell your child to leave you alone. No, you still have to care for them. You want to care for them. You're driven to care for them even when every fiber of your body screams for you to stay in bed. So you'll pull your chill-shaken body from beneath the blanket where you found a bit of comfort and fetch them a cup of juice. Or you'll hope the stomach virus doesn't hit too hard while you prepare them lunch. Ah, the joys of parenthood. Or in my case, grandparenthood.

So how do you cope when the children are jumping off the furniture and you've lost track of the baby because you just had to close your eyes for a second, even though you don't think you went to sleep?

For future reference, I looked for some ideas for when Mom (or Ma) is sick and toddler isn't. I think these are worth hanging onto, because winter is far from over.

1. TV time. Oh, I know, we hate the sound of children's shows sometimes and we don't like to count on television as a babysitter. But when the adult in charge is under the weather, relent. Depending on how sick you are and how good they are at entertaining themselves, consider using kids' shows or movies as an option. As long as you have good choices, it isn't always a bad thing.

2. Swap toys. Most children have more toys than they need to have out on a regular basis. You may have two toy boxes and keep one in backup reserve. Then you can rotate the toys on days you don't feel well. Another option is to dig the toys from the bottom of the box, where they've probably been forgotten, and reintroduce them.

3. Hide a few new toys. Seriously, what child doesn't get more than they need at every special occasion. Pick a toy that doesn't catch their eye quite as much during the gifting frenzy and put it away. We have birthdays this weekend, so we may have an opportunity to save a few items. When you need something new to entertain them, it will be there. Granted, you can do this with practically any toy that they don't play with on a regular basis simply by hiding it for a week or two. If by some miracle you don't need to pull them out, you can always celebrate the arrival of spring!

4. Take advantage of naptime. Well, if you're lucky enough that all your little ones still nap. Put yourself to bed when they lie down and don't get up until they do, regardless of what you might feel you need to do around the house.

5. Get the family pets involved. If you have a dog who likes to play fetch, let them play in the house as a treat for the child and dog. You may be surprised how long they are entertained and how much energy they burn, making naptime that much more effective.

6. Allow untraditional play. Does your toddler always want to pull out the tupperware and wooden spoons? Let them for a day. If you have something around the house that will entertain them that they aren't usually allowed to touch, but that is really safe, indulge them and take a break.

7. If you can talk, read to them. Most older preschoolers are willing to listen to way more books that you usually want to read, but since they don't take a lot of energy on your part, indulge them.

8. Be an obstacle course. This is best for baby or smaller children, and when you don't have a stomach bug. When you want to lie down, do it in the floor and let them crawl over you. E3 loves that now and she's not so big as to be uncomfortable. When her older sisters get into the game, however, they have to be reminded to be easy.

9. Get outdoors, if the weather permits and you feel up to it. Studies have shown that light exercise and fresh air help boost your immune system, so it may actually speed your recovery. If you have children, odds are good they have a few outdoor playthings that they can enjoy while you sit in the sun. Or, as an alternative, take a walk and the activity will warm you and tire your little one.

10. Ask for help. Oh, heaven forbid that we should admit we cannot do it all, but seriously, sometimes we can't. When Papi got home on the Friday I felt so bad, he inherited not only play, but discipline of E1 and E2. After getting tired of their bickering, he corrected them and they wound up snuggled on opposite sides of me, but at least the drama was over until Mom arrived. We do not have to be superhuman, just ask someone else to give you 30 minutes or an hour when you really need it. Maybe it's your partner, maybe a grandparent, or maybe another mom who will let you return the favor. Cut yourself a little slack and get well.

When you're sick and the little one isn't, it's really all about survival and getting better as quickly as possible, so take advantage of any trick in the book to get through the bad days. And remember that taking care of yourself is as important as taking care of them -- really -- because they can't have the best of you when you're not at your best.

It's Friday, and It's Five O'Clock Somewhere, Right?

So, it's Friday, and not every Friday is like last Friday, but at the same time, there is usually a common thread that runs through the day. Friday just has a different rhythm than any other day of the week.

Unless you are fortunate enough to be retired, rich enough to live a life of leisure, or work some odd swing shift hours where your days off come randomly over a two-week span, odds are good if you live in the civilized world, so to speak, come Friday you're tired.

Babies are tired of being dragged out of bed to daycare, kids are tired of getting up and going to school, moms and dads are tired of doing the required dragging to get kids to those places as well as working their jobs and keeping their household together.

My house, despite our general crazy stay-at-home centered lifestyle, is no exception and last week was fairly typical. Hubby has been working five 10-hour shifts, plus 8 on Saturday, so he's pretty wiped out early every day and more so on Saturday. The girls had logged their travel miles for the week to put in about 45 hours at my house, and E1 and I had made a round trip to Winston as well. We'd had an extra overnight adventure that felt more like a nightmare to some, and we'd dealt with snow and ice for days. I'd also had just enough dogs in the kennel to require regular care and made two trips to a friend's house to check on her dogs.

The day felt like Friday, and not in a good way, all day long.

It began with three little girls in a bad mood from getting up too early and tired from a week's worth of activities. It ended with a literal poop storm in the playroom when baby blew her diaper -- seriously, the girl poops like she's firing missiles and it goes up her back and, well, you get the picture.

Nothing, and I do mean nothing, suited the two big Es.

E2 arrived with her Kindle dead and nothing in the world she wanted to do as much as play her Kindle.

E1 was traumatized by the fact that she tracked in snow and then walked in it in her stocking feet.

Ma seriously began to consider that it was at least five o'clock somewhere. It was one of those days where I could genuinely understand the urge to take the edge off, somehow, and it wasn't even noon yet.

By 1 p.m., we'd had the never ending mealtime debate of what they will and will not eat and how much of what they agreed to eat must be consumed before it's considered a meal. They both wanted leftover Christmas candy to the tune of no, you haven't eaten your lunch, so that I finally dumped it all in the trash, along with the layer of M&Ms and yogurt covered raisins that covered the bottom of the candy jar. Nope, we're going sugar free, girls.

Baby wrapped up her meal of food throwing by finally agreeing to eat a bit of baby food if I would hold her on my left hip, which resulted in the hair on the left side of my head being smeared with baby snot and pureed banana, apple, pear.

Two wind down episodes of children's programming and they were all off to Lala Land, while I was off to clean the kennel and tend to the guests, my own dogs, and my chickens who had finally decided the snow was not something to fear even if it did make their feet disappear when they stepped in it.

Thanks to naps for them, we all survived the afternoon and even dinner, which everyone ate thanks to hubby's trip to the Walmart deli.

After dinner we settled on craft time in the playroom. We made toilet paper roll groundhogs in honor of Groundhog Day and talked about the myth surrounding the funny rodent and his shadow. (Sorry, my pictures are from another craft day of pipe cleaner spiders, but the craft itself isn't important anyway.) About halfway through the process, which does not involve E3 who was playing with blocks, E1 proclaims she smells poop.

I've learned not to question her nose, and sure enough when baby waddled on over to us, I caught a whiff as well. I grabbed the requisite wipes and Desitin (she's got some serious diaper rash going on) and eased her back onto the floor for a change. Poop went everywhere and as I swabbed her down I noticed the trail of crap across the playroom vinyl floor. There was poop on the tool bench, the train, the floor, and one super soft kitty pillow whose fate was suddenly up in the air.

Baby required a complete wardrobe change and I thought about calling in a haz-mat crew to deal with the sanitation. Seriously, we could have all used hosing down after that ordeal.

Of course, E1 and E2 waited patiently with their half-finished groundhogs while I cleaned up after baby -- NOT! All the time I'm cleaning they're commenting on the yuckiness of the mess and how long it is taking me to clean up and when will we finish.

When we did finish the lovely, Pinterest inspired creatures, they decided they weren't exciting enough and tattooed them with stamp markers and made them hats. E1 said hers was a fireman. I kind of liked him with his tattooed belly and big hat.

Then it was 8 p.m. and Mom was in the driveway and the week rapidly deflated like a tired balloon at the end of a big party.

I decided to savor the moment by preserving it (tada) and now it's well past five o'clock and I'm going to take the edge off. Happy weekend everyone.

He Was Just Another Addict, But Aren't They All?

Philip Seymour Hoffman was nobody special.

In fact, my reaction to his death last weekend was quite honestly, "Who?"

While a few of my Facebook friends noted his passing, and the talking heads began to proclaim the tragic loss of "one of the greatest actors of our time" all I could note was that his face was vaguely familiar.

But he was no one special, not to me, and not really to the thousands who will proclaim his loss and for a moment focus on the tragedy of another of our entertainment icons being consumed by his or her addiction, but who in a few months, weeks, or maybe even days will forget.

Hoffman was no one special to the people who will use him as another face in the war on drugs, another reason to beat their chests about how better laws, tougher sentences and more arrests will protect our society from drugs.

In reality, he was no one special to those who will try to turn the focus to the addiction, to people who are making their way through life seemingly complete but with holes that they try to fill with drugs. Even though they will be closer to the reality of what is needed to fix the problem, they'll be shut down by a society that still likes the idea of the gunslinger west where we could fight everything out. We can't fight mental illness and legislate it away, so we don't want to talk about it or recognize it as one of the biggest problems our society faces.

Besides, we want to think of mental illness as the homeless man in dirty clothes on the corner talking to himself, not the long string of a Hollywood millionaires and musical legends who despite fans, success and all the money they could ever need for treatment are found dead with needles in their arms or pills in their stomachs.

Often in their bathrooms.

Just like my son.

To be quite honest, my second reaction to Hoffman's death was anger. Anger that so many people cared about someone just because they were able to do the thing they loved and do it well. Anger that with all the success he had, despite the fact he'd been to rehab twice, he still didn't take advantages of the resources he had to get help. Anger that the media and our society turned him into someone special when in reality he was just another addict.

Just like Ethan.

Following on the hills of my anger was sadness. Not specifically for him, but for everyone who battles addiction. It isn't the availability of the drugs that is the problem, it's the craving. It's the lack of understanding in our society. It's the lack of care that will see them beyond the intense period of rehab and support them through the days following when life is still lacking something that they feel only their drug of choice can give them. It's a society that makes seeking a facelift or fake boobs far more acceptable than seeking care for a mental illness, because it's OK to want to look good but if you can't feel better with a prescription, well there's really something wrong with you.

Somehow we think you can't really be successful, or attractive, or popular or rich if you have a mental illness. So if you're any of those things, or ever want to be any of those things, then you cannot have a mental illness. So instead of accepting counseling or being truthful, the rich and powerful and the poor and downtrodden and those who just can't seem to find their way or feel like they don't quite fit in anywhere choose to self medicate. And it feels good, for a while, and then they are addicted and no matter how they try to convince themselves otherwise, they still don't feel good any more.

So they drink and drive, or take too much, or kill themselves slowly over time by using up their bodies faster than they can repair themselves.

Just like Philip Seymour Hoffman.

Just like Ethan Dale Funk.

Just like the many boys I've come to know through the memories of their mothers. Just like thousands of boys and girls and men and women do every day, killing themselves in numbers we cannot even begin to comprehend or maybe even care about until one of those lost lives is one that touches our own.

Philip Seymour Hoffman was nobody special. He wasn't the face of drug addiction and the war on drugs. He wasn't the face of mental illness. He wasn't even the face of a Hollywood icon. There is no one face. There are really thousands and thousands of faces with blue eyes and brown, bright smiles and never seen laughs, impeccable dressed and in need of a bath, those mourned by thousands and those buried in a pauper's grave with the name John Doe.

Philip Seymour Hoffman was nobody special, just like Ethan Douglas Funk and all those other faces were nobody special -- except to the people who loved them.

Hoffman was special to a woman and three children who aren't yet in their teens and who will never know their father in the way they needed to know him. At his age, he was probably still special to his parents and to a best friend or two who knew the demons he battled, but couldn't help him fight them. Those are the people who will wake up every day as I do with questions about why, and what could they have done, and whose lives are irrevocably changed by his death.

For them, for Hoffman's family, my own, and the thousands like us, I grieve, I say a prayer, and I continue to hope that somehow we can take off our gunslinger hats and talk about the real problem, even though it scares us.

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.

Proof of Heaven a Good Read for Grieving

On Saturday, I finished reading Proof of Heaven: A Neurosurgeon's Journey into the Afterlife by Eben Alexander, M.D.

I didn't go out and buy it after Ethan's death in search of some vision of heaven. Like a friend I made over the summer who had lost her son to a drug overdose a few years ago, or this blog that I began in September, it was one of the many things already in place when the need arose.

The book wasn't even something I picked up during December at all, and, although fewer than 200 pages, it took far longer to read it than I would have liked because if I got it out while the three Es were around, someone was sure to remove my book mark.

But with tears streaming down my face from the poem "When Tomorrow Starts Without Me," which was written by David Romano in 1993 and included near the end of the book, I finally finished it Saturday afternoon.

I had been warned that, being written by a doctor, the terms often slipped into medical and scientific and that it could be a heavy read at times because that terminology would be unfamiliar. But understanding that Alexander wrote the book at least partly to try to persuade fellow doctors that the Near Death Experiences, dreams and visions that he had once joined them in dismissing were real, helped me to skim the portions that were too difficult. They weren't necessary for me to understand to get what I needed from the book.

The book tells the story of Alexander's journey to the afterlife during a coma that should have ended in his death. He contracted bacterial meningitis and lapsed into a coma during which he was effectively brain dead. The part of his brain that could have dreamed or hallucinated his experience was not functioning and when he awoke, his family was in fact being called in to say their final farewells before life support was removed.

Before falling ill, Alexander attended church, but had no belief in his soul, a consciousness separate from brain waves, or an afterlife. He was a secular physician with no room in his mind for the NDEs of others or the visions they shared with him. From a purely scientific standpoint, he gave them no weight.

His trip beyond sent him back with a new understanding of life in that it is only a small portion of who we are and will be. He came back wanting to share the message that we are all loved, that we have purpose, and "All is well," which was his second phrase after awakening.

Alexander's glimpse of heaven wasn't what we typically come to expect or may have read in other stories recounting a NDE. But at the same time, he didn't spend as much of his story trying to describe what it looked like as what it felt like, both in an emotional way and in the way it felt to be there. His vision, however, helped me some with my grief.

The most meaningful bits for me came at the end of the book when he began trying to put what he had experienced back into perspective with his physical life and his understanding from training and years of experience as a neurosurgeon.

He wrote about his first visit back to church and how "I shuddered as I recalled the bliss of infinite unconditional love I had known... I understood what religion was really all about. Or at least was supposed to be about. I didn't just believe in God; I knew God."

And later "I felt like I was doing what every soul is able to do when they leave their bodies, and what we can all do right now through various methods of prayer or deep meditation. Communicating with God is the most extraordinary experience imaginable, yet at the same time it's the most natural one of all, because God is present in us at all times. Omniscient, omnipotent, personal -- and loving us without condition."

"The entire length and height of the physical universe is as nothing to the spiritual realm from which it has arisen -- the realm of consciousness (which some might refer to as 'the life force.').

"This other, vastly grander universe isn't 'far away' at all. In fact, it's right here -- right here where I am, typing this sentence, and right there where you are, reading it. It's not far away physically, but simply exists on a different frequency. It's right here, right now, but we're unaware of it because we are for the most part closed to those frequencies on which it manifests..."

He also writes about feeling at one with the universe and how all things are interconnected and everywhere at the same time in this other frequency.

Suddenly I knew how I saw Ethan in a sunbeam. For just a moment, perhaps, my frequency shifted enough to recognize his spirit there. I knew how my new friend whom I've never felt grieves that she can no longer feel her son, because her frequency has shifted the other way. I understand how sometimes I can almost see and feel him, because perhaps he is there, just the other side of my physical limitations, wanting me to know he's OK, while at the same time he's everywhere else and with God and my grandparents and the girl he knew in school who was killed in car wreck. Time and relationships and the things that bind us in this life aren't important or even real in the heaven Alexander saw.

There have been rebuttal books written from a "Christian" standpoint, but Alexander's book doesn't discuss theology or Christianity, or even very much what heaven itself was like, just his individual experience and his revelation that consciousness extends beyond our physical life and that, despite all his scholarly skepticism there is a God.

How we make our way to heaven, deal with our belief in God and our Savior, and make our peace with life in this earthly realm are up to us, but reading about a one man's conversion from unbelief to belief helped me. I believe it can also help others who are grieving, as well as those who are seeking answers and willing to accept a truth outside the realm of science and a heaven that doesn't need streets of gold to be the place where we can meet our God and Savior.

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.