For Thor - 75 - Hide and Seek

Good morning, Thor, my darling, darling boy.

It's a cold December dawn that has me out of bed and writing to you while I sit in front of the wood stove sipping a cup of Irish Breakfast tea. Lady is curled up next to me; a warm, solid, little mass of furry love. She keeps me company in these early hours. The Christmas tree lights glow softly, reflecting off the ornaments we hung there last week. Many of them "yours" or your brothers'. Scooby Doo, Sponge Bob, Spider-Man and about a hundred Santas with tractors, trains and race cars bedeck the tree. This carefully curated collection, amassed over the years, tells a story of my three boys, what you loved, and what dad and I thought represented you each year of your precious boyhoods.

I'm glad the tree is up, but I didn't know if we'd even get that much of "Christmas" going this year, so I'm giving myself a pat on the back for getting this far. It's so hard for me to think about this annual celebration of family, and friends, and life and JOY when we are closing in on the first Christmas without you. And worst of all, we are closing in on the dreaded anniversary of the day you died, and my heart broke. It's the heartbreak that has me crippled, you know. It's always right here inside drawing me deep, like a drain plug in the bottom of a lake was pulled and no matter how much life tries to fill the lake it just keeps draining out. I feel like I've plateaued in the progression of processing your death, Thor. And maybe that's because I must focus on the business of living again. Work and the daily tasks of running a home call me away from the intense soul-work I was doing so steadily.

My whole life my personality leans toward the introverted side. I have a rich inner life that I find comforting and fulfilling, insightful and energizing. So, I like to have quiet, and I enjoy time alone when my thoughts and feelings can surface like colorful fish in a still pond. I retreat inside myself to recharge, reboot, find inspiration, and ask my inner knowing to show me what's next. Even so, I've always also had not just an ability, but a desire to engage with the world. I wanted to interact with others, work on projects, dream big dreams and make plans. I sought out conversation, collaboration, and camaraderie. Extroversion suited at times and balanced my life.

Dad and I had a good talk last night. He made an observation that I think is spot-on; he sees that since the trauma of your death, I've retreated inside myself totally, now. I am introverted completely. He sees that I've lost that enthusiastic willingness to engage outside myself, preferring and choosing, the relative safety, calm and breathless depths that exist in my personal retreat.

I have to say he's right on some levels. I'm going through all the motions, emulating how I used to live, but my heart's not in it. There are meetings to keep and lunch-time strategy sessions, and the daily banter with my team at work and every day I am there, doing it; getting it done and I even have a smile on my face. I really do like what I'm doing! But the truth is, I am only partially there. Most of me is still down here in the well of grief, hurt, sad, and utterly bewildered by the violent loss of my beloved son. Most of me is unwilling to allow the noisy world to run roughshod into this sacred space inside myself; where my broken heart still bleeds freely, and I can mourn your death without reservation or censure. I am the walking wounded, and on some days when the grief is particularly heavy, I feel like I'm the walking dead. No one can really know how much I hurt, how sorrowful I feel. It's sorrow that sets me apart from everyone else because it is so pervasive, influencing every thought, word, and deed.

It's like I'm looking through a glass, living from the other side of a barrier. I can see everything, and I can interact enough to keep up appearances and obligations. The gaping wound in my heart is a vast expanse which I am trying to reach across. My hope is that there will be time enough for it to heal. That I'll feel whole enough to step fully into the world, again and engage with joyful enthusiasm, the way I used to do.

Unless they know me really well, most people don’t even know this is what's happening. But your dad does. He feels my retreat most keenly because he cannot follow me there and therefore can't help me there, either. I think that if couples don't survive the death of a child, that this is why. There is no way for them to find each other when grief drives them to places where the other one cannot go. The saving grace is empathy and maybe a lot of patience.

One night this week I came home teary-eyed and downtrodden. I had cried almost the whole way home from work and my heart hurt so badly. We ate dinner, and I had a restorative glass of wine and settled in comfy clothes on the sofa. I still felt raw and disconnected by grief. Dad came into the living room carrying two shotguns; one was mine - which used to be his, but he gave it to me even though it's one of his favorites - and one was yours, Thor. So, dad asked if I wanted to trade my/his gun for yours. I lovingly held the gun and worked the action with a satisfying "schunk". It's a beautiful shotgun, all the more beautiful because it was yours. I made that trade as tears of appreciation welled up in my eyes. Then dad disappeared again and reemerged, handing me your deer gun - this time both of us had tears in our eyes. This is the gun we gave you for Christmas and that you used to put a heck of a lot of venison in the freezer. They now rest in my gun rack along with my pink plinkster which you were known to like to borrow. It was a sweet gesture that meant a lot to me, to have dad give me your guns. Of course, he said that now I'll have to get my tukus out there and shoot! Well, that's an easy thing to do. I love shooting. More importantly, he found a way to reach me where I am, here in the depths of sorrow. 

Being in the depths of sorrow has a purpose. I'm playing Hide and Seek inside myself. I'm in here, deep and seeking something. I want answers, I want to know where you are, Thor. I want to feel your presence and listen to the wind for a whisper that tells me you're around. I hide deep inside myself to protect this fragile broken heart, while I seek solace here in the same place. I rest the bottom of the well where I can reach out and touch the source of the stars and seek their timeless knowledge of who we are and why we're here. Is there any sense, purpose or reason to all of this? What is the point, exactly, of living a life on this planet? Why do we go through the motions of all this activity? What matters, in the end? What's the bottom-line calculation which, when analyzed at the end, means anything?

I dive deep and hide out, listening with all my senses to understand.

I seek, with an earnest query to What Is, I trust that the truth will be revealed. It might be time to earnestly seek a way back to living in joy, too.

One day, the seeker shall find.

Until then, I will try to live beyond the utter agony of heartache and step into life. One breath at a time. One step at a time. One interaction at a time.

I love you,
Mom