Thursday, February 19, 2009
Pain
I miss you so much. Sometimes, I can't wrap my brain around the missing. It's too big. You were so full of glorious life. How can you not be at all?
Monday, February 16, 2009
Headwall
Nik keeps drifting into my thoughts. Something about the bitter snow that is finally falling out of the sky like candy, innocent and free, and snowboarding down the slopes of Schweitzer in the middle of a storm. I remember buying Nik his first board, a used, child-sized Burton that I had to buckle to his foot every time he got off the lift. Nik snowboarded liked the Roman god Mercury with wings on his feet and helmet. He had a grace that seemed to defy gravity.
Ryan, his best friend and kindred spirit, already delivered some of Nik’s ashes to the South Bowl shoots, terrain I never could sojourn. I’ve waited for new snow to bring my boy back to Headwall, where he would always challenge me, “Come on Mom, let’s do Headwall. You can do it. Follow me.”
He forced me out of my comfort level, showing me new terrain, riding ahead of me and then waiting above a cliff or rock so he could wow me with his expertise. I liked the rear position, and like a mother hen, I’d keep track of my babies. Plus, I didn’t like him to see me board. I’m that slow.
We used to go up with their school. Once the principal saw me ski, he made an allowance and let me snowboard (the kids had to ski). I led packs of rookies to the backside, herding them into the Outback for a cup of hot chocolate, and then delivering them back to the bus. Once, Nik arranged for me to take his group, and they took me to Terrain Park so they could practice their tricks. I went through the half-pipe without falling. We went night skiing with discounted tickets, packing microwave popcorn and cups of soup. It was something we all loved to do, and eventually, I saved my pennies and every year bought season passes as Christmas presents.
Schweitzer is best in the middle of a storm. The fair weather skiers stay home and I can make fresh tracks every run. This year has been difficult. The winter started with a bang and then slammed the brakes on. I’ve kept a baggy with Nik’s ashes in my pocket, waiting for the perfect storm.
My friend, Monique, my brother, Rex, and daughter, DaNae and I loaded our gear and headed up this morning. We made fresh tracks on Loophole, and talked about bringing Nik to Headwall. We decided it was too crunchy off the groomers, and planned to send Nik from the top of Headwall, and then ride down the Ridge.
We peered over the edge of the run. The sky, laden with gray snow, felt heavy. I pulled the bag of ash out, and took my glove off. My goggles blurred with my tears as I set some of Nik’s ashes free. He flew down the slope, innocent and free.
Monique looked at me, and said, “Let’s do it.”
She dropped first, and DaNae and Rex followed her. As always, I came last. I stopped at Nik’s rock and emptied the bag. He did flips and kickers in the wind, and then, he was gone.
“Well, Nik got us to do Headwall,” Monique said.
“Yes, best run of the day,” Rex said.
I turned right, toward the quad, performing my famous (in my head) wide-angle turn, the one that keeps me from going too fast; the one that ensures I won’t fall and break my neck. We headed back to the Quad, took one more run, and then headed in for tea.
Ryan, his best friend and kindred spirit, already delivered some of Nik’s ashes to the South Bowl shoots, terrain I never could sojourn. I’ve waited for new snow to bring my boy back to Headwall, where he would always challenge me, “Come on Mom, let’s do Headwall. You can do it. Follow me.”
He forced me out of my comfort level, showing me new terrain, riding ahead of me and then waiting above a cliff or rock so he could wow me with his expertise. I liked the rear position, and like a mother hen, I’d keep track of my babies. Plus, I didn’t like him to see me board. I’m that slow.
We used to go up with their school. Once the principal saw me ski, he made an allowance and let me snowboard (the kids had to ski). I led packs of rookies to the backside, herding them into the Outback for a cup of hot chocolate, and then delivering them back to the bus. Once, Nik arranged for me to take his group, and they took me to Terrain Park so they could practice their tricks. I went through the half-pipe without falling. We went night skiing with discounted tickets, packing microwave popcorn and cups of soup. It was something we all loved to do, and eventually, I saved my pennies and every year bought season passes as Christmas presents.
Schweitzer is best in the middle of a storm. The fair weather skiers stay home and I can make fresh tracks every run. This year has been difficult. The winter started with a bang and then slammed the brakes on. I’ve kept a baggy with Nik’s ashes in my pocket, waiting for the perfect storm.
My friend, Monique, my brother, Rex, and daughter, DaNae and I loaded our gear and headed up this morning. We made fresh tracks on Loophole, and talked about bringing Nik to Headwall. We decided it was too crunchy off the groomers, and planned to send Nik from the top of Headwall, and then ride down the Ridge.
We peered over the edge of the run. The sky, laden with gray snow, felt heavy. I pulled the bag of ash out, and took my glove off. My goggles blurred with my tears as I set some of Nik’s ashes free. He flew down the slope, innocent and free.
Monique looked at me, and said, “Let’s do it.”
She dropped first, and DaNae and Rex followed her. As always, I came last. I stopped at Nik’s rock and emptied the bag. He did flips and kickers in the wind, and then, he was gone.
“Well, Nik got us to do Headwall,” Monique said.
“Yes, best run of the day,” Rex said.
I turned right, toward the quad, performing my famous (in my head) wide-angle turn, the one that keeps me from going too fast; the one that ensures I won’t fall and break my neck. We headed back to the Quad, took one more run, and then headed in for tea.
Sunday, February 8, 2009
Birthday Present
I turned 50 yesterday. My sister and friend Monique planned a girls party, and we ate fabulous food, told stories, and laughed plenty. Mom gave me her best China, packed in a storage container, and Jenny gave me a killer set of tools. I cried a little when Bob Dylan sang “Where have you been my blue eyed son” in the background. That’s always been my favorite Dylan song, and of course, it made me think of Nik.
Last night, Nik came to me in my dreams. He had on a white mask. He seemed surprised to see me, and didn’t say anything. He reached across the table, and clasped my hand. I woke up sobbing, but was grateful for his gift.
Last night, Nik came to me in my dreams. He had on a white mask. He seemed surprised to see me, and didn’t say anything. He reached across the table, and clasped my hand. I woke up sobbing, but was grateful for his gift.
Saturday, February 7, 2009
Confronting Grief
The car, traveling at least 70 miles an hour, rolled and flipped, ejecting Nikolas Jesus Aguirre through the windshield. He had a blood alcohol of .17, which matched his age. The bottom rear end of the Ford Explorer hit a tree with a circumference of 30 inches 12 feet above the ground, splitting the tree in two. The car and the tree landed on Nikolas, crushing him. He died May 8, 2008, a day before his 18th birthday.
Sometimes it feels like my heart has been hacked with a rusty razor blade. My grief spurts out like wasted blood, like the rain that rattles the roof, and my tears spill unheeded. I don’t understand anything and I hate feeling like this. I would have gladly died for my son, Nik.
At first, I thought I’d drop out of school and never write again. And then, I decided to live. I wrote letters to Oprah, trying to find a grand finale and spread the message, don’t drink and drive, and for Nik’s sake, wear a seatbelt. She sent me a form letter reply. I ranted, raved, made a video, joined a community activist group, became a student ambassador and created a blog, attempting to find meaning in my son’s death.
And just when I think I have grief licked, some young man walks down the street with Nik’s smile. The wretched lump in my chest, the weak knees and the buckets of tears that cascade down my cheeks returns, uninvited, unintended and unwanted.
I have to confront my grief everyday. I wear my son’s memorial necklace like an amulet, a luck charm and a potent reminder of his sweet smile. Better yet, I’ve decided to do a good deed every day in his memory, so at the end of the day, I can say, I am a better person because he died.
I told my friend Wendell to call his estranged son, and because of that, they now have a relationship. I shoveled roofs for friends in need, visited people I hadn’t seen in years, and had a guest come for a weekend. I plowed my neighbor’s driveway, bought my dog a toy duck, and took my daughter out to dinner. Sometimes, it’s as easy as putting the shopping cart back, and sometimes, it’s as simple as saying hello to a senior citizen.
Everyone dies. And those of us who remain can make the world a better place to live in by remembering our lost loved ones and doing something nice for someone else in their memory.
It doesn’t take the hurt away, but it brings a touch of sanity to the grief process.
Sometimes it feels like my heart has been hacked with a rusty razor blade. My grief spurts out like wasted blood, like the rain that rattles the roof, and my tears spill unheeded. I don’t understand anything and I hate feeling like this. I would have gladly died for my son, Nik.
At first, I thought I’d drop out of school and never write again. And then, I decided to live. I wrote letters to Oprah, trying to find a grand finale and spread the message, don’t drink and drive, and for Nik’s sake, wear a seatbelt. She sent me a form letter reply. I ranted, raved, made a video, joined a community activist group, became a student ambassador and created a blog, attempting to find meaning in my son’s death.
And just when I think I have grief licked, some young man walks down the street with Nik’s smile. The wretched lump in my chest, the weak knees and the buckets of tears that cascade down my cheeks returns, uninvited, unintended and unwanted.
I have to confront my grief everyday. I wear my son’s memorial necklace like an amulet, a luck charm and a potent reminder of his sweet smile. Better yet, I’ve decided to do a good deed every day in his memory, so at the end of the day, I can say, I am a better person because he died.
I told my friend Wendell to call his estranged son, and because of that, they now have a relationship. I shoveled roofs for friends in need, visited people I hadn’t seen in years, and had a guest come for a weekend. I plowed my neighbor’s driveway, bought my dog a toy duck, and took my daughter out to dinner. Sometimes, it’s as easy as putting the shopping cart back, and sometimes, it’s as simple as saying hello to a senior citizen.
Everyone dies. And those of us who remain can make the world a better place to live in by remembering our lost loved ones and doing something nice for someone else in their memory.
It doesn’t take the hurt away, but it brings a touch of sanity to the grief process.
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