THE BEAUTY OF MEMORIES

Beauty is often not the things we see with our eyes but the memories of things we see with our hearts. Memories are what I have left and memories are what I cherish the most.

When I first thought about what the second puzzle piece describing who I am should be I thought that I would write about the beauty of life. And some day I may indeed write about that but what kept coming back to me as I tried to compose my thoughts was the importance of memories. I then decided that would call this post and my puzzle piece "The Beauty of Memories."

Not all the memories I have of my son are beautiful but they are a record of his life and who he was and how I remember him. They are also a record of my life and a record of his brother and sisters lives because he was and is a part of us. We become who we are because of interaction with each other.

We have our pastel memories, our bright and sparkling rainbow memories, and we have our dark memories. All become the tapestry of our lives. How boring life would be without trials. If life were forever beautiful and perfect, there would be no emotional or mental growth. There would be no stretching of our wings to fly; or facing down the dragon and the celebration of victory after the battle.

As I examine this part of me, this puzzle piece, it takes much time because there are so many, many memories. Some that make me smile, some that make me laugh, some that give me comfort, some that bring peace to my troubled spirit, some that make me so proud, some that make me cry, and some that take me where no mother ever wants to go.

I have both a photograph and a drawing I did of Christian on display in our entryway.

I pass them many times in a day and each time I look at him the words that spring forth from my soul are always the same. "Oh baby, baby." These are more than words. They are a Mother's cry for her lost child. They come from a place of heartache and anguish. A place of agonizing pain.

At the same time I see in him so much love and so much life. He was my gift to the world. We didn't have him with us for as long as we would have liked but he was a treasure while he was here. He taught me so many things. He made me believe that I was important and that I could accomplish great things. Not things that would make me known to the world but the knowledge that I could be a positive force in the lives of others. He made me believe in myself.

Christian was able to see the beauty in things that most people miss. He loved the beauty of the earth and had a true understanding of how to use the bounties of nature. Where he acquired that knowledge I don't really know but he was constantly amazing me.

I remember a time when we were hiking through the forest and I accidentally brushed up against some stinging nettles which at once began burning and itching. He gathered some fronds from a certain fern; rubbed the underside of the frond against my leg; and the burning and itching immediately stopped. Another time after we had gone blackberry picking he showed me how to get the blackberry stains out of my clothes without using any chemicals. After his brother accidentally ingested a poisonous mushroom and came close to dying, he made it his mission to learn to identify all the mushrooms and toadstools in the forests of the Pacific Northwest.

He also had a great capacity for love and compassion. His family and friends were the recipients of that beautiful love. He spread his sunshine all around and we basked in his glow.

He had his faults and my memories of him include those as well. He could stay angry for a very long time. One year I gave him a waffle iron for his birthday. I'm not sure why I thought that was a good idea but apparently I did. He loves to cook and I knew he didn't have one. What I didn't know (because we never had one) was that he hated waffles. After he left our house he threw it out the window of the car into our neighbors yard and then wouldn't speak to me for a couple of weeks. I thought he was an ungrateful, spoiled brat so I wasn't very happy with him either. Years late it became a joke between us.

There are so many memories of him with his boys; his successes with his job; his pride in his home; the pleasure of getting to know and appreciate his friends and the loves in his life. My memories of him as one of the "Jet Set Crew".

And then, of course, there are the memories of his last two years. Not happy memories. Hard memories to think about. Such a dark road to travel back on.

My mind will always go back to those hard times. I often wonder why when I think of Christian that my mind goes there first when there were so many more beautiful times in his life. His sad, lonely eyes haunt me. In the end even his smile was sad. Remembering that makes me feel so sorrowful. It crushes my heart.

How I wish all my memories of him were only of the good times, the happy times. Unfortunately that isn't possible. And while some of my memories may be hard to think about, I am glad that I have them. As I have said before, I am so glad that he didn't make that journey into the darkness alone. I am glad that I was with him and that he trusted me enough to share what he was going through. I was unable to change the outcome of those trying times but it gives me peace knowing he knew how loved he was. And that is a comforting memory to hold in my heart.

Yes, there is so much beauty in our memories and these memories keep my son alive. So today I have taken another puzzle piece out of my big, red puzzle box, called it "The Beauty of Memories", examined it, and added it to the puzzle of my life.

MESSAGE IN A BOTTLE

If I took a bottle and cast it into the sea
Would it someday come back to torment me?

If I listed all my sadness, worries, and pain
Would the sea take it away never to be felt again?

Is it possible that life's tempestuous, violent, and fiery storms
Could be captured in a bottle? From my heart could I remove the thorns?

If I wrote about every hurt and every salty tear
Made a list naming and describing every fear

Then put that list in a bottle and then corked it up tight
Would nightmares stop waking me in the middle of the night?

If in humility, I got down on my knees and sent up a prayer
Would God's angels carry it down to a watery eternal grave?

Or would that bottle be carried to the white beach in a distant land
Would it be tossed with shells, blown by wind, and covered with sand?

Or would it be found and lifted up by a curious brown native hand
Would the cork hold tight against the efforts of child, woman, or man?

If opened like Pandora's box, will the pain be carried on the wind
Through black inky nights and through boiling skies to be returned to me?

I wake up with a jolt! The bottle, the message, the list was no more than a dream
The pain in my heart never left. Was never carried away on rolling waves it seems.

The loss of my son will always be keenly felt and that is as it should be.
Through loss I have learned what is most dear and precious to me.

If I write a message, place it in a bottle, and toss it into the sea
It will not be about pain but about courage, hope, love, and family.

These things and my God are what is most precious to me.

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"If some lives form a perfect circle, others take shape in ways we cannot predict or always understand. Loss has been a part of my journey. But it has also shown me what is precious. So has a love for which I can only be grateful." --- Theresa Osborn ---

A MONSTER BEHIND EVERY TREE

It was a crisp autumn day in Southern Maryland - an Indian Summer. The family had gathered to celebrate Thanksgiving. The women were busy in the kitchen and the men were ... well, the men were doing whatever men do while waiting for the women to call them to the table to enjoy a splendidly prepared holiday meal. The year was 1952 and I was six years old. My little brother had just turned five and our older brother was either nine or ten.

Steven, Linda and Donald at the zoo in Washington D.C. - 1952

Young children have little to do on such occasions except to wait and find ways to entertain themselves. Not wanting us underfoot, we had been sent outside to play. Our grandparents, Grandma and Grandpa Fort, lived deep in the country far away from much of anything.

They lived in a large old farm house with high ceilings and big, big rooms. A most amazing house. On their property there were outbuildings to explore - a huge old barn, a wash/cook house, and an ice house. Structures which told stories of a way of life that now existed only in memories and in books. My grandfather added a kitchen to the back of the house; and in that kitchen there was a modern stove and an ice box. The ice man still drove up in his truck and delivered a big block of ice for the ice box. I always found it to be a wondrous thing to watch my Grandfather break up the ice with an ice pick. He gave me small pieces which melted slowly on my tongue. For me an awesome treat and a little bit of heaven.

Having done it many times before, it didn't take long to explore the outbuildings. We then found ourselves bored with nothing to do. Surrounding our grandparents' property was the deep woods. Now we had been told not to go into the woods. In fact my Grandfather had been quite firm about it but on this fine crisp Fall day that shady place seem to beckon. My older brother, Donald, assured my little brother Steven and me that he knew his way around the forest having explored it on his own on many occasions. (This was more likely just wishful thinking and the bravado of a young boy.) I was very, very reluctant to go beyond the grassy lawn but he, being much older and wiser at nine or ten, was so sure of himself that Steven and I found ourselves following him into the trees.

What an adventure!!! Soon any fears and hesitation disappeared. The leaves had fallen from the trees and lay on the ground in a deep mosaic blanket of yellows, oranges, reds, and browns. We ran with breakneck speed around and between the trees kicking up the leaves as we ran. Because the leaves were so deep and thick, there were times when we found ourselves falling face first into small ditches which was great fun. The woods were filled with our laughter and squeals of joy. Never had I had so much fun or felt so carefree. We pretended that we were riding imaginary horses. Mine was named Buttercup. How fast you can run when on an imaginary horse.

Eventually we grew tired from running and stood together still laughing from the excitement and exhilaration. We leaned against the trees to catch our breath. It was then, as we stood there, that we slowly and collectively began to realize that we had no idea of where we were. As we turned around and around, the friendly forest became foreign and frightening and ominous. Suddenly for a little girl whose favorite book was The Grimms Brothers Fairy Tales there was a monster hiding behind every tree. My heart began to race and Steven and I began to cry. Donald, even at his young age, somehow knew that he had to get control of the situation. He told us not to be scared that he knew the way out. He dried our tears, took our hands, and we began to walk.

We walked and walked and walked. Each time one of us fell into a hidden dip in the ground, it was no longer funny. Steven and I would erupt into another bout of tears which would require Donald to comfort and reassure us all over again. If you have ever been lost in the woods, then you know how everything soon begins to look alike. There are no landmarks to show you the way. You become totally disoriented with no sense of direction. All there were were trees as far as you could see. Trees that all looked alike. The more we walked the more lost we felt. It was hopeless. We were tired, cold, hungry, and frightened. I was sure that we would be devoured by wild animals - or worst - at any moment. If any of you saw the movie "The Blair Witch Project, you will remember how scary the deep woods of Southern Maryland can be.

As we trudged on, tears that wouldn't stop began streaming down my little cheeks. I was certain that I would never see our Mother again or our grandparents. Just as I thought I couldn't take another step, in the far distance we heard the deep voices of our uncle and grandfather calling out to us. My memory blurs at this point. I don't remember how we found each other. All I can remember is my uncle gathering me up in his warm arms and carrying me out of the ocean of trees. My grandfather must have taken Steven and Donald under his care.

After we were returned to our grandparents' house and were safely in our Mother's arms, we, of course, were in terrible trouble and I think everyone had a turn at scolding us. I'm pretty sure there was a spanking also. As bad as all that was, it paled in comparison to the joy in my heart.

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JUMPING FORWARD TO FEBRUARY, MARCH 2012

The past four weeks have brought into sharp focus the feelings I had when I found myself lost in the woods at the age of six. I experienced the same fears of not being able to find my way; those same feelings of uncertainty; and at times I was overwhelmed with feelings of anxiety. Life is forever giving us new experiences and at times these experiences are neither pleasant nor desirable.

I have faced the tragedy of losing a child to death by suicide - a loss I feel every day; but I now know what it is like to sit by the hospital bed of a spouse - or anyone you love - waiting to see if he or she will live or die. You sit there in the hushed quiet of the Critical Care Unit knowing the chances of survival are almost nile. And it is horrible. Family takes turns standing by him, holding his hand, and speaking encouraging words.

Machines breath life into a still body; other devices suction his mouth and lungs; tubes of one sort or another inserted into almost every part of his body; all the tests and the explanations of the doctors and nurses. The stern faces and quiet voices. The request to immediately bring in my husband, Patrick's Advance Directive and Durable Power of Attorney. The emergency procedures that required my signature and at times a speedy return to the Critical Care Unit.

Besides not knowing how you will survive life without your rock, your love all the uncertainty of your financial future slaps you in the face; and you realize just how much you don't know about where things are and what might need to be done. At 52 this was not suppose to happen to my husband. Being left alone is something you try not to think about; but late at night when all the family has left, it is there like a childhood monster behind a tree.

At the end of each long, painful day, I would fall into fitful dreams of either finding myself lost in the forest with the threat of trees falling in on me;

or I would find myself trapped in a child's painting. I would be stuck at the edge of a lake with a canoe that had no oars. No matter how hard I pushed I couldn't get the canoe into the water and going toward the sunrise.

I am happy to report that we had a successful outcome. Although Patrick had an extremely rare presentation of a bacteria call Fusobacterium nucleatum which created nine permanent abscesses in his brain, with accompanying abscesses in his lungs and in his liver, he did miraculously survive despite the odds against it (and will be written up in the medical journals).

When Patrick awoke from the medically induced coma, he said to me that he had had "a long ride on a dark horse but the power of prayer had pulled him through the darkness."

There will be challenges to overcome; and his ability to work and our financial future is still questionable but we will face whatever comes hand in hand. We have already fought the battle, climbed the mountain, and came out victorious on top.

I only wish others in our grief community had had the same success. For them my heart breaks because I now know what it is like to sit by that hospital bed knowing the person you love is only holding on by a thread; to sit and listen to the machines; to endlessly watch the monitors. And to pray a thousand prayers.