Anger turned upside down = depression

It pisses me off that so few mention your name. That they put me on a pedestal because I didn't relapse when you died. That the rain falls as surely as my tears. That you died and I miss you everyday. That I didn't get a big enough scholarship to go to grad school. Didn't I work hard for it? Don't I deserve it? When I was in college, I had a goal, and that kept me going in a positive direction. That gave me a purpose. And now, I feel lost. And anger burns, so I hold it in and now I have a blister growing in my brain. But even the blister doesn't erase the guilt, the loss, the hopelessness I feel. I'm like a dog paddling through the sewer and the smile that I pasted on my face to fake my way through every hour has turned into a bitter grimace. Why didn't you wear your seatbelt?

I can't seem to forget...

She barfs words into the phone
I hold them to my ear
And scream silence into a purple pillow
She can’t see that I can’t get no satisfaction
With the birthday blues
May the month of mixed blessings
And dreams built like clichés falling
into a void of skipped numbers and
things I can’t seem to forget.

Mixed up month

May is a mixed up month. Spring boxes with winter, and the daffodils bloom in spite of a cold north wind bringing with it hard hail that bites and bruises.

It's difficult to write my last column for The Sentinel, especially the day after Nik's birthday, which this year fell on Mother's Day. I don't want this to be a sad column, but it's hard to be happy when the May wind rips through the hole in my heart. I miss my son, and this year, dreaded the special day set aside for all moms.

So, instead of participating in production day weekend at The Sentinel, my daughter and I drove to the crash site to visit the place Nik died. We smoked a camel cigarette in his memory and resigned the yield sign near the tree his car hit.

Later, we planted two trees for Nik, a flowering Hawthorne and a dwarf peach. We dug into the rich soil, unearthing three boulders and several worms. The sun flitted in and out, threatening rain. We put the trees in their holes, added a handful of Nik's ashes, a shovel full of horse manure, and potting soil.

When Nik died, I didn't think I would ever write again, much less return to college. But I had tasted the ravages of grief when my husband died May 2, 1993, and I could not go down that dangerous dark path again. I made a decision to live, and returned to finish my senior year at LCSC to study parental grief.

A year later, I came back to NIC as the online editor and got to take art classes. I used words and art to help me trudge through my mourning. And these tools have given me new perspectives on life.

I will especially miss The Sentinel, Nils Rosdahl, our adviser, and the talented students I have worked with. I am grateful to both LCSC and NIC in giving me a voice for my grief. Because I have a voice, I can still sing, in spite of the cold wind that howls in my heart and the never ending longing to be with my son.

May, the month of mixed blessings. Two blue birds have taken up residence in Nik's garden. I will get to watch them build their nest and see their babies take their first flight.

Life is glorious.
Page 1 of 1

May, the month of mourning

May marches in with mixed blessings. The bluebirds have returned and the flowers spew out their colorful bouquets that tease and tantalize the senses.

But a May wind shreds through the hole in my heart. I thought I could turn my bad luck into something good, that humanity would help lift my spirit so I could do grand and glorious deeds. But no one wants to hear a sad story. They turn their eyes down and secretly think, “Better her than me.” They say I’m brave, shake my hand, and walk away.

I wanted to find meaning in my son’s death. I set lofty goals and marched toward them, working hard and setting a fierce pace. But that wasn’t good enough. And who in his or her right mind would give someone like me, a recovering addict and mental nut case, the money to go for the goal and get the master’s degree I’ve dreamed of since the sixth grade.

Really, it doesn’t matter, because nothing can replace my son. And that wind rips and roars, tearing me apart. Sometimes it’s all I can do to fight my way out of bed. Screw it. I made my bed and I’ll sleep in it. It’s cozy and warm. I’m safe and insane. No one can touch me.

I have moments of relief. Like riding on the back of a flying horse, the ground beneath me a blur and the horses feet a delightful cadence that nulls the wind pounding at my heart. I’ll sit in Nik’s garden and watch the bluebirds sing and the geese fly over me, honking at each other.

But it always comes back to him. The car rolled and flipped ejecting him through the windshield. Why didn’t he wear his seatbelt? Three police officers came to the door heralding the bad news. An instant member of the worst day club, that morning plays repeatedly in my brain. I sit on the chair and say, “but it’s his birthday tomorrow, He’ll be 18. His father died 15 years ago in a similar accident. Please go away.”

I go back to bed, but people come over and no one knows how to make the coffee. So, I get up and do it. They bring food but how can I eat? My blue-eyed prince is dead and life has no meaning.

Unbelievably, I returned to school to honor my son. I returned to school because I could not trudge the same path I took when my husband died. I decided to live. But my school days are numbered. They offered me a scholarship to my dream school but it only covers a fourth of the tuition and I don’t have what it takes to keep banging a dead door. I’m done.

Going to school has made me a better person and helped me get through the worst day of my life. I am grateful to NIC and LCSC for helping me receive my bachelor’s degree and make something better of my life. I will miss The Sentinel most of all, for it has given me a voice in a loud and fast-paced world that doesn’t always care. Being the online editor also gave me the opportunity to take drawing classes, which I used to help sort through my grief. The hole in my heart has gotten smaller because of these educational institutions.

He didn't wear his seatbelt

What if?

It all comes back to you, Nik. And your death. I create art in you memory, allowing my grief to sift from my fingers to my drawing pad. When something good happens, like buying that beautiful mandolin, I cry, “I’d rather have Nik.” When something bad happens, it kindles the embers of my sorrow, stirring up my tears like a tornado.

I try to change my life for the better, to do grand and noble things in your memory. And when I fail, as I often do, the wind howls through the hole that your death created, ripping my heart apart.

I have been accepted to Whidbey Island Writers, Nik, but have not, as yet, received a scholarship so that I can attend. It was a grandiose idea, a childhood dream. And if it doesn’t happen, I will be cut adrift. My schemes shattered and the idea that I could better myself to find some kind of meaning in your death destroyed.

I miss you, Nik. Every day.

Pets, angels in disguise

Lafcadio’s mom liked to cat around. A ferial female, she showed up on my friend Greg’s porch with five frisky kittens. He provided food and shelter and when they were old enough to give away, he trapped them in a cage. My son died and my daughter moved out, taking her cat with her. I needed a cuddly companion, so I came by and selected the biggest one.

Lafcadio didn’t have wings but he was an angel in disguise. A long hair gray tabby, he had the softest coat and the gentlest purr. He seemed to sense when I was sad, and he’d sit on my lap and churn away with his purr box until I smiled.

When I couldn’t sleep at night, I called him and he would sit on my pillow until I fell asleep. In the morning, he’d be on the end of the bed, entwined in my robe.

Lafcadio always had problems jumping up on things, and I thought that perhaps he needed eyeglasses. A month ago, he tried to hop up on the drier and hit the ground with a bang.

At first, I thought he had sprained his right rear leg, because he’d take a few tentative steps and fall on his right side. It seemed to get better, but he kept on trying to jump up on things, and then he began to wobble back and forth like a drunk. I checked him for ticks (they can cause parallazation), and poked and prodded his hind legs. He was not in any pain, but I wanted to know what he had and if it could be fixed.

I loaded him up in the cat carrier and took him to the vet. He weighs almost four pounds and meowed like a banshee in the car.

Lafcadio did not need glasses. He had congenital spine problems. The vet prescribed Prednisone, a steroid, which did not help him.

I didn’t mind having a crippled cat, and as long as he could get to his food and the litter box, I took care of him. His condition deteriorated rapidly. He dragged himself around with his front feet. His back end failed, and he lost bladder control. I hoped that his little heart would just give out, because I did not want to make the decision.

I carried him around and set up his food and water by the wood stove because he liked to sleep there. When I opened the front door, he’d wiggle his way to the porch to soak up some sun.

When he stopped purring, I knew he felt miserable. I made the call to the vet, wrapped him in a towel, and drove back to the vet. Lafcadio was terrified. He hated the car. He had lost his voice, and when he opened it to meow, nothing came out.

I held him in my arms and watched the tranquilizer take hold. I hope he knew I stayed with him until the end. His veins were so small that they had to give him the shot in the heart. He went quickly.

I buried him in Nik’s garden next to the bird feeder with a handful of Nik’s ashes. Nik didn’t like cats much, but I think he would have loved Lafcadio.

Lafcadio brought me great comfort and showed me unconditional love. Like I said, he was an angel in disguise. And now he has wings.