Lost in Space

Posted on June 5, 2016 by edcol52

It has been nearly two months since I visited these pages. For some reason, the imperative to write is strangely absent. I have had thoughts of writing about Passover, Mother’s Day, the onset of the summer with Father’s Day, a string of birthdays that we won’t celebrate, ideas have popped into my head, but I lack the will to actually sit and pound out the few hundred words necessary.

I came across this today and thought I would share it. This mother echoes much of what I have written, and for the record, it holds just as true for Fathers.

http://iloverecovery.com/mothers-not-supposed-bury-children-marybeth-cichocki

I have has a few dreams where Jake has visited, and a friend of his just had a visit from him in her dream last week. He is around. He is still with us. That will never change. But underneath it all, I guess what has kept me from writing anything coherent is that I miss him so terribly much, it is debilitating sometimes. No, all the time. It is the sometimes that I can overcome that disability and go on with the semblance of normality my life has become.

I expect this is another phase I am going through, and one day soon, I will pour eloquence onto the page as never before. We’ll see.

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Letting Go of the Dream

Posted on April 18, 2016 by edcol52

I had a session with M., a biofield healer, the other day. She was repairing my energy fields and at one point she said, “You have to let go of your dreams.” I didn’t ask her in what context she meant that but the statement struck me like a thunderbolt.

We all have dreams. I’m not talking about those wild roller coaster movies we have when we are sleeping, but the things we dream about having or doing. We have dream houses, dream cars, dream vacations, dream jobs, dream relationships; our lives are fueled in part by our dreams. We strive to make those dreams come true.

When I became a parent, many of my dreams centered on my son, my family, our future. We used to “dream build” together. We’d put pictures of houses we liked, pictures of beautiful private planes, boats, places we wanted to visit, up on the refrigerator. We’d talk about how we wanted our lives to unfold, the family compound we’d build on Kauai, traveling the world together in our jet, the success Jake would have as a photographer, an inventor, a chemist, a chef, the things he pursued with such passion at various times throughout his life. At one time, those dreams seemed within reach. We had no doubt we could make them come true.

During the last few years of his life, my dreams became simpler. I just wanted him to survive, to emerge whole and unscathed from the turmoil his life had become, to uncover the root of his discontent and exorcise it once and for all. We still harbored those other, more grandiose dreams, but they were shoved to the back of my mind as we fought for his spirit and soul.

Then came that dreadful December 28 and all the dreams vanished like smoke in a hurricane.

When M. said I had to let go of my dreams, I realized that in some ways I still cling to how I thought my life would be, the ‘before’. I know that life is over, but there is a part of me that won’t let go. I have to let go of all those past dreams, the remnants of my prior life – the life that exploded on the day Jake died. It simply doesn’t exist. He took all of our dreams with him. I have to face my new life with a new outlook. No longer a dreamer, I have to take each day one at a time. It is easy to say, much more difficult to do.

So how do we do that? How do we let go? I don’t have the magic answer yet, may never have it. We get on with our lives, making it up as we go along; I don’t have a clear picture of my future. We grind through the days, getting from morning to night, but we no longer talk of how our lives will be, no more dream building. That family compound in Kauai is just a chimera now. The shadow of a life from long ago.

More than two years into this new life, I am living the life of the ‘after’. Outwardly, it seems fairly normal, but on the inside, it bears scant resemblance to that old life, the life of ‘before’, a life lost forever – now just the figment of a dream.

Some days we talk of selling everything, buying a little camper van and hitting the road. Shedding our old existence like dead skin. Divesting ourselves of the material things that anchor us to this place, to our past life, making the disconnect total. But the thing is, we will always take a part of Jake with us. He will accompany us wherever we go, and that is as it should be. He lives in those dreams, the remnants of the past. That is why it is so difficult to let them go once and for all. It is as if I would have to let him go too, and I cannot do that.

It is a delicate balancing act, holding on to his spirit, yet letting go of the dreams we once inhabited. We inch along a tight wire stretched across the chasm of memory. Don’t look down, keep moving, eyes fixed on the distant other side. Some days we make progress, and it seems a bit closer. Some days it seems as if we will never get there, wherever ‘there’ is. Some days it’s all we can do to keep from falling.

 

 

Posted in Coping, Dreams, Healing, Jake Colman, Progress | Tagged , , , , , , , | 6 Comments

A Little Bit of Light

Posted on April 3, 2016 by edcol52

There is a light that burns in every Jewish synagogue, the Ner Tamid.

In Judaism, the sanctuary lamp is known by its Hebrew name, ner tamid (Hebrew: נֵר תָּמִיד), which is usually translated as “eternal flame” or “eternal light”. Hanging or standing in front of the ark in every Jewish synagogue, it is meant to represent the menorah of the Temple in Jerusalem as well as the continuously burning fire on the altar of burnt offerings in front of the Temple.[2] It also symbolizes God’s eternal presence and is therefore never extinguished. It is also intended to draw parallels between God and fire, or light, which is emphasized throughout the book of Exodus in the Torah. Additionally, it is often used to symbolize the light released from the shards of the receptacles that God used to create light and goodness. ~Wikipedia

Ever since Jake died, we keep a candle burning on our kitchen window sill for him. Nothing fancy, we get the 3-day candles from the 99¢ store; there is a box of them on the floor of our living room behind the little Dansk day bed. Sometimes we miss lighting a new one in time and it burns out overnight. When I come in to the kitchen in the morning, I get a jolt seeing the tall empty glass with the bit of wax residue and the square of metal that held the wick on the bottom. I hasten to retrieve a new one and light it right away, even before I put up the water for my morning tea. I expect we will maintain our own ‘eternal light’ for the rest of our lives.

We keep it burning for reasons of our own, there is no custom or ritual in Judaism that prescribes it.

When Jake was younger, he fell in love with candle making. It started on an elementary school trip, they made sand cast candles on the beach. He was always fascinated with process and making things, and true to form he threw himself into this new art form. He graduated from sand candles to pouring elaborate candles in a variety of shapes and colors. We made the trek out to General Wax in North Hollywood many times to procure huge slabs of various waxes, molds, wicks, colors, sparkles, pots, tools, all the accoutrements of the trade. He even had a little business selling votive candles to local restaurants. He began by making them himself, but the orders got so voluminous, and the process so laborious, that he soon figured out to just take the orders and have the votives drop shipped from General Wax right to his customers. All he had to do was make the call and pick up the check. As he got older, the candle business fell by the wayside as did his candle making hobby. We eventually sold all the gear as he had moved on to bigger and more incendiary pursuits. Like welding. But I digress.

The ever-burning candle reminds me of that eager little boy asking the managers of the restaurants we dined in, “Would you buy candles from me?” Reminds me of his making decorative candles and selling them, buying cases of round candles, tall candles, fluted candles, tea lights, votives, oil candles, and finally electric LED candles. (We still have boxes of candles in the garage.) Reminds me of the young man who led candle making for the kids in our synagogue every Hanukkah, the festival of light. He was definitely into light and fire. I smile every time I think of it

Jake had a million candle-power personality. He could light up a room with a smile. He brought so much light to the ones he loved and loved him. He sparkled with enthusiasm, with knowledge, with care, with humor, with friendship, with wit, with thought, with the sheer joy of life. Our little candle is but a shard, a pale glimmer of the light that Jake took with him when he left this world. By keeping that tiny flame burning, it brings a little more light into the world in his honor.

Our candle serves as a beacon for his spirit, a light to guide his way home when he comes to visit. In the same way, it is a beacon for my spirit, an eternal connection to the possibility of his return. Not that I expect him to knock at the door, I gave up hope for that long ago. But I know he does come to us periodically. He comes to me in dreams. Sometimes so vividly, I know it is a visit from him. Sometimes his presence is vague and ill-defined, but he is there. Sometimes I can sense him during the day: a sound, a smell, a song on the radio. He is here. He is wherever we are.

We tend that eternal light with the same love and care that we tended him during his life.It is a token of our undying love for him. A symbol to the world that we can never let him go completely. That he dwells in our hearts and soul for as long as we live. That our love never wavers, never goes out, and that love illuminates our lives and the tiny corner of the world in which we live.

Shine on, Jakey Jake. We’ll leave the porch light on for you.

 

Posted in Honoring Jake, Jake Colman, Jake's Spirit, Memory, Visions | Tagged , , , , , , , , , | 7 Comments

Losing Petie

Posted on March 29, 2016 by edcol52

These words ring true for anyone who has lost a child. Wanting to die, wanting to live, holding on to the past and facing the future. Thank you, Barb, for such eloquence and truth.

barbkent's avatarlearning to let go 2016

No matter how long I live, I will never be able to write in words what losing my child has made of me.  It’s a schizophrenic life.  One of holding on and letting go, of wanting to die and dying, and one of wanting to live and living.

I live.  He is brought to life.  He dies, I die but I live.  I want to die, I want to die, I want to die, yet I live.  He wanted to live, he wanted to live, he wanted to live, yet he died.  I live.  I want to die, I want to live.  My mind dies, my body lives.  My mind wants to live, my body wants to die.

Some days I live in the past and cannot see the future, others I cannot look into the past and crave the hope that only the future holds.  I am pitied for…

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Past or Present?

Posted on March 12, 2016 by edcol52

When talking with people, people who may not be familiar with your story, people who you have just met, there comes a moment that every parent who has lost a child dreads –the question, “So, do you have children?”  If you have children who are alive, the answer is a bit easier to come by, but for me, Jake was our only child, so how do I answer that? In the past or the present? Have or had? It is a bit of a dilemma. Even though Jake isn’t alive, I am bound to keep his spirit and memory alive, so for me, there isn’t really an accurate response. I am not willing to relegate my fatherhood to the past, but technically, I no longer have a son. Do I say,”Yes I do”? That invites more questions such as: “what does he/she do?” How old is he/she?” etc., and the conversation gets dicier as it goes on. Do I say “Yes I did”? More accurate but invariably triggers the second dreaded question, “What happened?” I have been somewhat circumspect in this second answer for the past two years. Mostly I just say “It was an accident”, and let the asker assume I mean an auto accident. I don’t get into the details, not everyone needs to know. The third answer, “I did once but he died” is a sure-fire conversation stopper. Direct, yes, but depending on who is asking, can end the conversation in an uncomfortable silence or can trigger the “what happened” inquiry, and we’re back to square two.

Perhaps, the answer, “Yes I have a son, but he passed away”, might be the best, albeit somewhat contradictory, choice; past and present all at once. All of them have the ability to unleash the emotions that bubble so close to the surface, whether I can keep them subdued is a random and unpredictable affair. Sometimes I can talk about Jake with a clear and rational tone, dry-eyed as I relate some anecdote or other, or depending on the vagaries of my feeling that day can talk about the how and why of his passing. Other times, I can barely mumble a reply and excuse myself from the conversation. I never know which one will show up.

For me, he is still such a vital presence, or as has been observed, his absence is such a massive presence, that to talk about him in the past tense doesn’t feel quite right. I am reluctant to let him go. And yet, it happened. What’s past is past, and all the equivocating won’t alter the reality. I had a son, and he is no longer with us. Had. Past tense. It’s as if I have to keep repeating that to convince myself of the truth. His death, and my life without him, is still so surreal that some days I cannot believe it happened. Still in the WTF stage. Still so bewildered that our lives came to this. It wasn’t supposed to be like this. But it is. The past is past. Cliché? Yes. That bright future we all looked toward has been shattered forever, overwritten by events of that past. I am unsure of my own future now. So we only have the present. Each moment ticks away, the days flit by, weeks pile up and the years grind on. Now more than two. Soon enough it will be five, ten, twenty, and yet each moment is “the present”. There is really nothing else, and in each of those moments, Jake lives. If only in our memories, the memories of those who loved him and whose lives he touched, but he lives.

So I think that last answer will suffice. I have a son. He is no longer with us, but I have a son. Will always have a brilliant beautiful boy. In a way, he is immortal now, as long as we remember him, remember the past he so vividly inhabits and keep him close to us in the present. Past and Present all at once.

How do you answer that question? Past or present?

Posted in Daily Ramblings, Grief, Jake Colman, Observations, Progress | Tagged , , , , , , , , , | 19 Comments

The Waiting Room

Posted on February 13, 2016 by edcol52

This is my new blog, The Waiting Room Project. I began the project three years ago while I was waiting for Jake at a doctor’s appointment. I started photographing the waiting rooms I frequently found myself in. It blossomed into an exploration of waiting, places in which we wait, why we wait, and unknowingly into a photographic journal of my life. Please visit and let me know what you think. It is brand new and a work in progress. I will be sharing past photos from the project and how each one relates to what was going on at the time. In some ways it relates to the Fountain, as many of the photos document events that preceded Jake’s passing and became a chronicle how my life changed afterwards.

This page is an introduction to the project, please start here: Read Me First

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Dear Newly Bereaved Parent

Posted on February 3, 2016 by edcol52

This is an essay I came across today. It’s honest and true. I would say many of the same things. The thing is, two years ago, all I would have heard, should someone have read this to me, all I would have heard would have sounded like the adults in a Peanuts cartoon. IN those first awful months, all you can do is concentrate on breathing and making it through each minutes. I guess if you knew these words to be true, it might help you make it through those minutes. I don’t know. I read a lot of words after Jake’s passing, and the pain and anguish was still indescribable. As the author says, how we survive is up to each one of us, and we each has a host of companions on this lonely road. People we know and love and people we haven’t yet met.

Dear Newly Bereaved Parent

Posted in Blog, Coping, Grief, Healing, Jake Colman, Observations, Other Media, Progress, Sadness, Support | Tagged , , , , , , , , | 1 Comment

6 Things About My New Normal

Posted on January 14, 2016 by edcol52

Grief literature is filled with the concept of the “new normal”. It is usually portrayed as the goal for people grappling to rebuild their lives after a traumatic event. The idea is, in a situation which appears so surreal – the destruction of your previous life by the death of a child (or other loved one) – you will, with the passage of sufficient time, self-examination, and the care and concern of others, arrive at an equilibrium, the new normal, in which you will find some kind of peace. This will differ for every person. It is the Holy Grail of grief therapy. After two years since Jake’s death, there are aspects of my daily life that may appear normal. I say appear normal. But some aspects of this state of being, things that affect me, things I think about, are anything but normal. Here are some of the things that have become ‘normal’ for me in the past two years.

1.) The most random and seemingly unconnected things can bring me to tears. 

Oh yes, there are all those triggers out there, many of which I can see coming, that I am aware of. But lately, I find myself weeping over seemingly unconnected things. Seemingly, until I take a moment to work backward to find the kernel of sadness. For example, I was watching a football game the other day. The game was just starting, and as some minor celebrity or other sang the National Anthem, I found my eyes welling up with unstoppable tears. It isn’t that Jake and I shared a love of football, didn’t spend idyllic Sundays watching the games together, he actually hated it, more accurately was supremely indifferent. When he was a kid, he called it Crash-Smash. Later he ridiculed it saying he didn’t want to watch millionaires in shiny pants get up off the ground for three hours. Always so eloquent. I’m not that great a fan either. Don’t have “my team”. For me, it is more like mental knitting, except at the end I don’t have a sweater to show for it.

So I sat there, with those fat, liquid tears dripping down my cheeks and tried to figure it out. And it hit me. They also sing the ‘Star-Spangled Banner’ before baseball games. When Jake was younger, we used to get last-minute tickets to Dodger games online, and went to many games together. Mostly day games, as I had my own business and could afford to take the time off. We always had great seats, usually right behind home plate. We sang the anthem with gusto together before every game. During one game, Barry Bonds fouled a pitch back into the stands behind us, whereupon it rolled down several rows of empty seats and ended up between my feet. I picked it up and handed it to Jake. In all the years I have been going to Dodger games, it is the only foul ball I ever came close to. I still have that baseball.

So that was the connection. That stupid, ‘Oh Say Can You See” years later on TV brought me right back to Dodger Stadium and those Boy’s Days so long ago without my even realizing it. Other equally random things, a passage in a book, a sound, an image, affect me in unpredictable ways. I never know when one of these hidden triggers will strike; there is no way to guard against them. The usual ambushes strike less frequently, but with no less a vengeance.

2.) Every happiness has an asterisk.*

There is no more unbridled joy. I am never really excellent. There is a persistent undercurrent of melancholy that runs through my life. Perhaps I am not allowing myself to be happy without reservation, but that is part of my new normal. Things I once relished, have but a lukewarm attraction. We don’t go to concerts much, rarely a movie, parties only with close friends if at all. I can be at a gathering or a party, seemingly enjoying the company for the moment, but in the back of my heart, there is a missing piece that won’t let go. I have come to accept this.

There are also those times where T. and I are doing something together that Jake would have loved, and can wordlessly acknowledge that to each other with a look or a tear. There are things we did with Jake, museums, the JPL open house, certain restaurants, places, that we find it extremely difficult, if not impossible, to do. It will be difficult to travel to Hawaii, Ensenada, New York, anywhere we travelled to as a family without sadness coming along in our carry-ons. I have come to accept that I will never be as happy as during our Hawaiian vacations. Ever. Those carefree days lazing in the warm sunshine, swimming together in the limpid, silky ocean. Sleepy afternoons in the tiki hut, not saying anything, just being together. True paradise on Earth. Paradise lost. So those travels, whenever we get around to going, if we do, will be tempered with that feeling of loss, of longing for those days when my family was whole and happy together.

3.) I have very little empathy for other’s misfortunes.

When others tell me of some minor tragedy they have experienced, I nod, make the appropriate noises to indicate I sympathize with them, but inside, my reaction is more like, “whatever”. I understand each person experiences tragedy differently, and the scale of that tragedy varies for every individual. Even when someone tells me of the loss of a mother or father, someone who has lived a full and complete life, it is difficult for me to whip up real empathy. And don’t expect much sympathy if you have lost a wristwatch, had your car dinged in a parking lot, your drain got stopped up, or any of the million little setbacks we encounter every day. I just can’t equate that to what I have gone through, we have experienced the unthinkable. It is not to belittle someone else’s loss, or to compare their situation to mine. As I say, each person feels grief in different ways to different degrees. But somewhere down inside, I am comparing. Hey, I am deeply sorry your dog died, but give me a break. I think that having succumbed to such agony for so long, the absolute pinnacle of grief, I have tripped an emotional circuit breaker to keep from shorting out completely. Not only do I not feel the same empathy for others, I don’t feel the same joy or excitement I did before Jake’s death. (See above) Perhaps it is a defense mechanism, but maybe my pain has drained my reservoir of emotions and there isn’t much left. Everything is at about a 4 or 5 on the scale and nothing can really move the needle either way past that. The universe has savaged me beyond reason. There is nothing it can do to me that would be any worse.

4.) I am exhausted all the time.

Most people awake from a night’s sleep refreshed and ready for the new day.  I find myself almost as tired when I wake as when I went to bed. I don’t seem to recharge fully, and often get up reluctantly, simply because I think I must. By mid-afternoon, early evening on a good day, my battery is depleted, and I am ready for bed. I don’t usually give in, I manage to make it to a reasonable bedtime, but I always want to just climb into bed and pull the covers over my head. I have read that this is a symptom of depression, and I accept that on some level, I am depressed. This whole thing is so damn depressing. What is most disheartening, is that no amount of therapy, medication, or soul searching will bring him back. Others who are farther along on this journey tell me I am still at the beginning, that I am in the early stages of grieving. After two years I am still a novice. When do I get to graduate to veteran griever? Will it make any difference?

5.) Holidays are no longer times to celebrate, merely times to ‘get through’.

I have written about this before, and now it is a permanent state for us now. What are billed as joyous times, when most people gather with family and friends, we now mostly lay low. We acknowledge them, but we don’t truly celebrate any of it. Shabbat, Passover, birthdays, Mother’s Day, Father’s Day, anniversaries, Thanksgiving, Hanukkah, the moments where we had the very best of times, remind us that those ‘best of times’ are gone forever. These are truly the worst of times. We have new days to remember too. The days of his passing and funeral. New Year’s Eve will never be the same. All we have left are the memories, which brings me to …

6.) I am angry that all I have of Jake are memories.

I am filled with a quiet rage that I have to ‘remember’ my son. The storehouse of remembrance I possess is all that I will ever have. I won’t make any new memories, won’t share any new experiences, won’t see him marry, raise a family of his own, find success and fulfillment in meaningful work, won’t see any more of his wonderful art, will never bless him, hug him, kiss him, see him. I am angry that I can’t bequeath anything of mine to him, in fact it is the reverse. I have inherited some of his belongings. I use his camera, some of his knives, his tools, read his books. This anger simmers beneath the surface, and has transformed from the blind fury I felt during those first few months, into a constant companion. I don’t know if I can ever forgive the universe, God, Jake, or myself for what has happened. I know it is something I must let go of, but for now, it is just part of my new normal.

•   •   •

I read that many grieving parents have found a place that is more gracious than the one I inhabit. They have transformed grief into gratitude, have new awareness of the preciousness of life. Perhaps I too will come to that place in time. I already know how precarious life is, what a thin thread binds us to this world. I do appreciate every day I have; I know what a gift each one is. It is difficult to reconcile this with the priceless gift that has been wrenched from our lives, from so many lives. This paradox, the contradiction between the appreciation for each day and the indifference I now struggle with is, perhaps, the most significant hallmark of my new normal, something I may never reconcile. Perhaps in another year, two, five, ten, this current “new normal” will metamorphose into something else. Until then, I will do what I can to bear the unbearable sorrow, something unthinkable that has become the new ‘normal’.

 

Posted in Coping, Daily Ramblings, Grief, Jake Colman, Observations, Progress, Sadness | Tagged , , , , , , , | 8 Comments

Another Double Whammy

Posted on January 8, 2016 by edcol52

Wednesday was Jake’s 2nd yahrtzeit, the anniversary of his passing in the Hebrew calendar. As I have written, the Jewish calendar is lunisolar and the dates drift around with respect to the Gregorian calendar we all use; the two dates rarely align on the same day. This year was no different, the Jewish date 25 Tevet coming a week later. As in all Jewish “holidays” it began on Tuesday night with the lighting of a 24-hour memorial candle. We keep a candle burning all the time for Jake, and another for T.’s sister who passed away a few months ago. So we had three candles burning on our window sill above the kitchen sink. It is also incumbent to say the Mourner’s Kaddish at each of the three daily prayer services, evening, morning, and afternoon. So it isn’t enough to have one supremely sad day each year to reflect on the passing of our beautiful boy, we now get to do that twice each year, and three times on that day.

We gathered at our little shul on Tuesday evening, along with a minyan of our friends, the people who have been there for us since the beginning of this hideous ordeal. There were fewer people than last year, and the group was somewhat subdued. Not exactly a celebration. Our rabbi spoke about the Sefirot, the attributes of the three Patriarchs, Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob. Each one has a different aspect that represents his character: Abraham is Chesed – kindness, Isaac is Gevurah – strength or severity, and Jacob is Tiferet – beauty, the balance between strength and kindness in compassion. And that was our Jacob. Strong of purpose, immeasurably kind, compassionate to a fault, endowed with a beauty of spirit and balance. Afterwards, we sat and toasted to Jake, had a little something sweet to eat and cried together.

The next morning, Wednesday, we again met at shul for the morning prayer and then headed to the cemetery. I haven’t been there since the unveiling last year. We don’t go there to visit, to decorate, it is far too difficult to be there. However, it is a custom, nearly an obligation, to visit the gravesite at least on the day of the departed ones passing to read tehilim (psalms) and say kaddish. When we left for the cemetery, a light drizzle started to fall from the leaden grey sky. It had poured rain the night before, and rain was forecast for later that day.

Our little caravan arrived just after 8 AM. The drizzle abated, and we made our way through the soggy world to the little stone beside the fountain that marked his resting place. The rain had left the stone muddied, so we cleaned it off as best we could. We didn’t have the 10 men necessary for the minyan, so we couldn’t say another kaddish, but we read from the book of psalms. There is a special one, 119, that is made up of verses that correspond to each letter of the Hebrew alphabet. We spelled out Jake’s name, Yakov Shmuel, reading each verse in order of the letters. A palpable sadness hung over our group, T and I clutched each other for support. As we read, the sky started to brighten, the clouds shifted and jostled against each other, and by the end of the reading, the sun broke through, flooding the cemetery with a pale cold light. As I stood there, enveloped in sadness, the memory of the worst day of my life came rushing back. The sea of people, the unadorned wood coffin, the unimaginable agony of watching them lower our son into the raw brown earth, throwing shovelfuls of dirt into the hole, hearing it crash against the wood. I can never forget that sound. Standing there screaming at the sky, wondering how this could have come to pass. Two years later, there are still no answers. There will never be answers.

We returned home, and I crawled into bed, unable to do anything. I woke around noon, thinking it was evening. I rattled around the house the rest of the day, out of sorts, feeling detached from the world, waiting for the afternoon and the last of the three services to say one more kaddish. Many of the same people came together for the Mincha service. I discharged my final obligation with tears in my eyes. A toast to Jake’s memory, and that was it. In a way it affected me more than the week before, that 28th I can never forget. Maybe sharing the day with people, being at the grave, the contradiction I now feel between the spoken prayers and my inner indifference, brought things into a sharper focus. I don’t know. I do know that I am now destined to repeat this for the rest of my life; reliving that dreadful day twice a year, every year.

Posted in Ceremony, Coping, Friends and Family, Grief, Honoring Jake, Jake Colman, Sadness, Support | Tagged , , , , , , , | 5 Comments

December 31, 2015

Posted on December 31, 2015 by edcol52

The following post is from last year at this time. That joyous, pineapple martini New Year’s Eve seems so far away, like a fragment of a dream remembered upon awakening. Two years ago we sat in our home, the first night of Shiva, with our friends and family, bewildered, our lives shattered in an instant. New Year’s Eve forever altered. Stripped of its anticipatory promise for a new beginning, for great things to come in the year ahead. Now simply one more holiday to grind through, made all the more terrible by the memory of what we were doing on the last of December in 2013.

As always, my thoughts go back to a December 15 years ago. We wanted to do something memorable at the turn of the millennium, so we packed our bags and jetted off on an impromptu trip to Arizona. Jake was 10. T and Jake had never seen the Grand Canyon, so we flew into Phoenix, hired a car and drove to the South Rim, arriving after dark. The next morning revealed the awe-inspiring view of one of Earth’s true wonders. We hiked a few hundred yards down the Bright Angel Trail to get the sense of what it is like in the canyon. The perspective changes immediately once you get a few feet below the rim. You truly get the sense of being inside the Earth. After returning to the surface, we drove along the rim, stopping for a picnic lunch at one of the many continually changing vistas with the magnificent layer cake of the planet on full display.

We then headed south on a whirlwind drive to Tucson to visit one of my dearest and longest time friends. I have known S. since second grade and it is a miracle of life that we remain in touch and friends to this day. We had a lovely few days in Tucson and at midnight on December 31, headed out into the street to bang on pots and pans to welcome in the New Year. It was one of those purely exultant times, together as a family.

Now our celebrations are muted. Not so much celebrations as the turning of the calendar page. It is all so arbitrary. December, January, July, September, what’s the difference? What promise can a new year hold for me now? Another 365 days without my precious son. Revelry replaced by Resignation. Anticipation replaced by Indifference. If this sounds rather bleak, well, it is. Just part of my “new normal”.

This year, my wish remains the same for all the weary travelers as last year – may you find those islands of peace in this storm-tossed sea upon which we now sail. So on we go, down the River of Tears, across the Ocean of Heartbreak. Landfall and safe haven are a long ways off, shrouded by the mist of days to come. Perhaps the bleakness will subside a bit, we can only know how this new year turnes out next December 31.

Peace.

December 31, 2014

Posted in Coping, Friends and Family, Grief, Honoring Jake, Memory, Sadness | Tagged , , , , , | 5 Comments