4 Years

Four years ago tonight I was in an ICU room finding out that Patrick was probably not going to pull through and survive his injuries.

I was in and out of consciousness at the accident. When I’d wake up, I’d ask where my boys were. I got a couple of different answers. They are working on them, I don’t know, or no one would answer me. I would later find out that Patrick had already been life-flighted from the scene of the accident. Bits and pieces of information were eventually given to me. Bryan was hurt, but okay. He had been admitted to the hospital. I figured Bryan was going to be okay. I had been able to see him at the scene of the accident. He was standing up and talking. I never saw Patrick.

I hadn’t seen Patrick since I had told him how proud I was of him and how well he handled the trip. He had horrible car sickness and car rides over 15 or 20 minutes were difficult for him. Information that I was given about Patrick consisted of Patrick has a broken leg, Patrick is in critical condition, Patrick could possibly be paralyzed.

That evening Rory and the neurosurgeon came in and told me that Patrick had a craniotomy and was being life-flighted to Texas Children’s. I was asking questions and preparing to care for him when we all got home. Rory held my hand; he’s not going to make it. I asked what’s the diagnosis, what percent of surviving are we talking about. I’ve never had a child survive with injuries this severe was the response I received. I’ve never prayed so hard, and I’ve never been so disappointed, crushed, and heartbroken that my prayer went unanswered.

It’s hard to believe that he’s not been here in 4 years. I try so hard to imagine him being 11. I remember Bryan being 11. I think Patrick would be similar, but still different, because they were different. He’d probably be almost as tall or me or maybe already taller. He’d be in that in-between space where he still wants to play and be little, but so ready to be older and not be treated like a little boy anymore. He’d probably stopped rolling his eyes just for fun and would be rolling them for real… He’d still be funny and even smarter than he already was. I could go on imagining because I have no real way of really knowing.

The grief is still very present. “They” say it gets easier or different in time. It has not. In fact, I think this year has been harder. The harsh reality is there. Patrick is dead. Killed. Never coming back. The numbness of everything that has happened ‘to get you through’ the first or second year of loss is gone. Year 4 and It’s just me. It’s just Rory. It’s just a handful of friends that for some reason can still take me however I show up. It’s just a weekly counseling appointment. Year 4 grief is unending. I don’t expect year 5 to be that much different.

We visited his grave today. We ate donuts and kolaches for breakfast. All week we will remember Patrick in some of his favorite ways.

I miss him every day. I still cry every day. A friend that is going through this loss journey asked me recently if I still cry. I assured her that I did. It was relief for her to know she’s not alone and crying every day is still a normal thing. I can’t imagine that there will be a day that I don’t cry for what I’ve lost. Maybe that will happen one day, but right now I can’t imagine that day.

If you knew Patrick, you’ll recognize him in this list immediately. If you didn’t get the chance to meet him, may you get to know him a little better.

Patrick:
1. loved red tennis shoes
2. loved numbers and everything to do with math
3. was learning computer programming
4. was fascinated with space and especially black holes
5. had a beautiful singing voice
6. wanted his own youtube channel
7. enjoyed being read to more than reading on his own
8. never learned to tie his shoes
9. had some signature Patrick dance moves
10. had a big heart and loved you unless you gave him reason not to (he was kind of like his momma on this one)

Nellie

I posted this on facebook because we were on our way home, and it was easier to type in the facebook format than to type it all into a blog post. Now that I’m home I’m going to copy and paste it over here. So, some of you will have already read it, but if you’re not on facebook it will be new to you.

We went out adventuring today. I’m supposed to get my car back tomorrow, so we decided it was safe enough for adventures. Currently, we are on I-45 heading home and skipping our usual Hwy 75 route in hopes of missing any deer. It’s also not dark yet.

Rory will do a blog post and share that so I’m not going to go into much detail on location and I don’t know the history yet, but we found a cemetery today. It had a historical marker on it. We decided to get out and walk around. I’m not sure what our fascination with old churches and cemeteries is, but they always catch our attention.

This marker caught my attention almost immediately. It was probably the lamb on top which I correctly assumed marked the grave of a child. Right next to her was the grave of her parents. Nellie Huron was just shy of 7 years old when she died in 1918. Her mother outlived her by 10 years and her father by 20 years. I had a whole conversation with a family I never met. I understood the parent’s grief. It may not have been exactly like mine. No one’s grief is identical but a hundred years ago they lost their baby. It was an oddly comforting thought to know I’m not the only one. I wondered if Nellie and Patrick have met. Do they grow up on heaven? Will they be 6 and 7 forever?

Is that a little bit of healing that I see?

This morning I got up a little earlier than usual and headed to the local meat and sausage market. I wanted to make kolaches. In this part of Texas, we call them kolaches. Most of the rest of the world calls them pigs in blankets. I had everything but the sausage. The sausage store is only about 10 minutes from my house. I was up and feeling like a drive, so that’s what I did.
The drive was of little consequence. I got what I needed, including my required box of milk duds, and headed back home. I preheated the oven and took out my trusty pampered chef cookie sheet. I opened the can of biscuits and placed them on the cookie sheet… that’s when it hit me. That trigger… my kitchen helper was not here to press the biscuits out, not here to carefully place the cheese and then the sausage in the biscuits. I thought to myself, I really need to start buying a smaller can of biscuits. Then I looked at the 8 biscuits that needed pressing down. I could hear his little voice, “mama I washed my hands. mama they’re clean. mama is this enough cheese? You roll them up, mama”. I let the memories of my sweet Patrick wash over me and I remembered how much fun he had helping me make kolaches and even more fun eating them! I smiled and enjoyed the memory… I didn’t let it take me down the road of being sad and having a whole day ruined because I was triggered. I smiled and remembered with fondness my sweet kitchen helper watching the minutes pass on the timer and waiting for the kolaches to be done. Ahh this is that healing thing they keep telling me about…

Christmas 2021

Holidays are hard because everything you do is steeped in tradition and memories.
Me. I said this.

It’s December…again. I’ve had 51 Christmases now so it should not be a surprise that this holiday comes around again and again. In my former life, I always looked forward to Christmas. I couldn’t wait to turn on Christmas music, watch every single Christmas movie ever made, decorate the house, bake cookies, attend church and Christmas concerts and plays, and buy the perfect presents for those Christmas morning memories. The list of things to do in December was endless and I loved it.

I loved our Christmas traditions–going out for hot chocolate at Starbucks or depending on the temperature, cokes and slushes at Sonic, and then riding around and looking at all the Christmas lights, Advent calendars and activities, making gingerbread houses, watching Charlie Brown and It’s a Wonderful Life, Rory reading Luke chapter 2 and The Night Before Christmas on Christmas Eve, putting cookies out for Santa and hurrying the boys to bed, watching their excitement as they walked out in the morning to see that Santa had been there, French toast for breakfast on Christmas morning, and then just sitting back and watching the boys enjoy their Christmas gifts as they sat in piles of toys and wrapping paper. That was Christmas and all the pieces fit together nicely.

Last year I finally managed to throw away all the cookie mixes, icing, and decorations I had bought in December 2017. I bought them so Patrick and I could bake cookies. He was my baking buddy and we had fun playing together in the kitchen. Unfortunately, we both got sick, and those cookies never got made. Then January came and we were back into our school routine, and I kept thinking we’ll get to them. Then Patrick wasn’t here.

Every year since Patrick died, I’ve made some kind of effort to keep celebrating Christmas the same way we had always celebrated. This year, I decided that I couldn’t keep trying to do that. I could not find any joy in the traditions that had once made our holiday complete. Dragging out decorations, putting up a tree, or buying gifts was overwhelming.

This year looks different at my house. There is no hurry to get things done by a certain time, there is no tree or inside decorations, no packages filling the house waiting to be wrapped, and no moment when Joy to the World touches my soul.

The Christmas music is still playing… sometimes I stop and turn it off because it brings more tears than happiness. I’ve baked more cookies than I have in years. It’s kept me busy, and I’ve enjoyed giving them away to friends and family. I’ve only watched a couple of Christmas movies. Rory and I pulled the projector out the other day and watched Elf on the deck outside. I made homemade hot chocolate. It was a very nice evening and I’m glad we did that.

This is Christmastime now. The days are too long. I can’t believe it’s not January or February yet. I’m grieving what I know should be but will never be again. Death and grieving are sad, but the holidays add an extra layer of sadness. Trying to put all the pieces back when there are pieces that are missing is hard…creating a new puzzle with different pieces is hard… so I keep baking cookies and asking Alexa to play Christmas music… and hopefully I’ll create some new pieces to the puzzle along the way.

Holidays and Grief

I’m certain that I have written about the holidays before. Every year it feels a little different yet it sadly feels the same. It’s never a good feeling and there’s no anticipation to celebrate. It’s ‘oh god I have to do this again.’ I try to change my frame of mind, stay busy, all that stuff, but the holidays basically suck the life out of me. I survive and move on. Like I said in my last post though, I’ve been doing better.

But today I was caught off guard by one of those weird experiences that happens from time to time. It used to happen a lot right after Patrick died. You think you hear him or see him or know he’s there, but he’s not. It’s common at first because just the day before he was there and you were talking to him and playing with him.

This morning I was attempting to make some apple fritters (which by the way was about a 40% failure, but that’s another story and we still ate them, so maybe only a 35% failure). At some point my blood pressure medication kicked in and I had to go pee. Somewhere in that minute of going to the bathroom and getting back to the kitchen I told myself that I needed to hurry and get back to Patrick. Oh god where did that come from? For those few seconds I had slipped back into my previous life and it felt so good. I never got a minute alone in the bathroom when the kids were little and that seemed like such a luxury to be in the bathroom alone… Then reality hit and I had to remember that no one was in the kitchen waiting for me…. just some dough and apples that I had mixed up. So, on and off for the rest of the day I have dealt with Patrick not being here. Hello grief, welcome back to Thanksgiving 2021. Quickly make your exit… I have to prepare for you to show up again for Christmas 2021.

Preparing for Thanksgiving 2017
Me: Patrick what ONE food do you want for Thanksgiving?
Patrick: Turkey but make sure it’s crispy and juicy. Oh and mashed potatoes but make sure they are hot and then macaroni and cheese and cherry pie.

Thanksgiving Day 2017
Patrick: This cherry pie is so good. I love the little cherry balls the best. Is it okay if I call this turkey leg a chicken leg?

One month

I thought I would do a little update here since it’s been a couple of weeks. Last time I wrote on here I was at a low point. It was probably one of the lowest if not the lowest point I’ve been at since Patrick died.

I don’t necessarily believe everything happens for a reason but whether we want it or not, things happen… all the time. One decision leads to another and sometimes things turn out okay and sometimes they don’t. Sometimes one decision leads to a whole bunch of little things that change your whole direction.

I resigned from my teaching position and I’ve never felt so much relief. I can’t explain how good it feels to be out of the classroom. I never thought I’d be the one saying that because I have been adamant that I go back to teaching. I remember 2 weeks after Patrick died, I was like I want to go back to school… foolish, I know, but I couldn’t imagine life without being in the classroom. Fast forward almost 4 years later and my teaching has run the gamut. This school year was unlike any I had had before and for the first time, teaching felt wrong to me. I was on the wrong path and definitely not enjoying it. Just like everyone else in the world I did not want to give up a steady income. That part really scared me. I don’t know how it will all work out but I’m going to have faith that it will. The bills are all paid and we aren’t going hungry.

It’s been a month since my doctor gave me a prescription to try. I have been medication resistant as I’ve talked about before. I’ve tried just about all the popular ones and they have either done nothing or exacerbated my depression. This one seems to be working. The first couple of weeks were a little touch and go but I’m finally getting some real sleep, and I have more energy to get out and do things. I’m not running the roads, being Ms. Sociable, or throwing any big parties, but I am living my life, setting boundaries, and enjoy the days. I’ve even been to a bible study… and I’m still not sure where I stand with Jesus but I kind of wanted to be around people so I went a second time… I don’t know if I’ll continue, but it’s progress and shows that I am getting better and not becoming a recluse.

Yesterday at counseling, I told my counselor that I’m still sad because it’s just sad to lose your child, but I am able to pull myself out of despair instead of letting it overtake me. She wrote a note in my file and smiled. I made my counselor smile–a few weeks ago we were both ugly crying at just how sad this all was.

I feel like there’s a little sunshine above my head. I’ve got some ideas rolling around and I’m making good use of my time at home. I feel happy and it feels good.

Medication

This post may seem disjointed, wandering and aimless. I feel all three of those things right now. At least I’m feeling something today. Here I am again in what seems like a vicious cycle that I can’t quite figure out… I can sometimes go days, weeks, and I’ve even had some good months all in a row, where I’m ok and I can deal with the grief and live my life. But then one little wrong move or one giant move and I’m not okay. I need help…

Last week I asked my doctor for medication… again. Each time I’ve tried the medication route it has been a failure. Last week I had hope that this time it would be different. You name it and I’ve taken it, it seems. Anti-depressants have one of 2 side effects for me. 1. I become suicidal, or 2. I completely check out, or 3. Ok 1 of 3 side effects. They bring out some odd little detail, which is normally an obscure habit for me, to the forefront. Once I took an anti-depressant and it brought all my OCD tendencies to the forefront. I had kept my sentence and word counting somewhat of a secret. A few people knew that I liked to count and make sure the words in my sentences ended in multiples of 5. I’d done that since sometime in high school… it had kind of faded as I had gotten older, but from time to time, I still catch myself counting words and rearranging them to make sure they are divisible by 5. This time though, I was sitting in my counselors office picking the polka dots and imaginary fuzz off my clothes. That was a fun couple of weeks-NOT!

My lack of success with medication begs the question, if the medication doesn’t work, then what? Is this just the way it’s going to be? Will I ever reach that place of being ok with my grief? It’s too complicated for me to even contemplate. In my mind, being ok with my grief is the same as being okay that Patrick died. I’ll never be okay with that. I’ll never be okay that Patrick died. Counseling will keep trying to unravel that. I think eventually it will, but I will always hold on to that little little shred of equating the two together.

Back to medication. What if it works this time? I’m not holding out much hope as I draw close to the end of week 1. But what if it does? Is it really working? Is it just masking how I feel? My body is begging for serotonin. In the words of my counselor, ‘…if I’ve ever seen anyone in need of serotonin, it’s you.’ Thanks… I’m trying. I’m fighting an uphill battle. The medication causes fatigue, which causes me to not want to go outside and walk, which reduces my chance of getting the serotonin I so desperately need, and since I don’t have enough serotonin, I’m depressed, rinse, lather, repeat–day in and day out. See you again in the morning or in my case lately, early afternoon.

Last week I was suicidal, this week I’m emotionless, maybe next week I’ll be OCD… dear god… what a mess… what a mess… I’d give anything to go back and change things…if I could just change 2 minutes either way… I’d be dealing with a different mess of life right now…

Don’t Pretend to Not Know What You Already Know

I think I got that title right… my friend has been telling me this or something like it for the past several days. It makes perfect sense even if I can’t remember exactly how she said it.

I was diagnosed with PTSD after the accident. I really didn’t know that much about PTSD. Before the accident if someone asked me what it was I would have equated it to something that military personnel are diagnosed with. I’ve since become familiar enough with it to know that anyone that has gone through a traumatic event can be diagnosed with PTSD.

I’ve dealt with the triggers as they came, prepared for some, and dealt with the fallout of when some caught me off guard. I knew going back to elementary school teaching there would be some triggers. I felt a little more prepared this time. Loose teeth… Patrick had 2 loose teeth when he died. Ok I can deal with little kids showing me their loose teeth. Birthdays…kids turning 8. An age Patrick never got to be. A party that we had already starting planning even though it was 6 months out. Ok I can deal with kids turning 8. That’s what kids do. They get a year older every year. I can handle this. Kids being in a rage and hitting me. That is foreign to me. No one has hit me since I got my last spanking at 14. My husband has never hit me. My kids never hit me. I’ve never had anyone so angry with me that they just decided that punching me repeatedly over and over was a good idea… that is until I taught 2nd grade. It was enough to trigger my PTSD, that until that moment, was held in check and well managed.

I knew that day that I was not in the right place, nor was I equipped to handle such behaviors in the classroom. That wasn’t the only behavior I was dealing with in the classroom. However, it is the one that has profoundly affected me. It’s the one that makes me never want to be in a classroom again. It’s the one that makes me want to grab that child’s parent and shake them and ask them what in the hell is going on here that makes your child behave like this. It’s the one that has me pondering and questioning those in authority and why they choose to see this as some kind of normal behavior and suggesting that I just need to deal with it, that somehow it’s my fault.

So back to pretending. I pretended for a few more weeks that I could handle this particular classroom. I was a good teacher. I did know what I was doing(contrary to the belief of some). Those things were real. I am a good teacher. I did know what I was doing. But I couldn’t keep pretending that I was in the right place. I couldn’t keep pretending that I could help this class. I couldn’t keep pretending that I could make a difference. I couldn’t keep pretending that I could do this everyday from 7:30-4:00. So I stopped pretending. Yesterday when I made the decision my body physically relaxed and I felt relief. Today I feel a little sad… I’ll deal with the fallout of knowing I will not be going back into a classroom, losing my income, feeling like I quit or gave up… I’ll deal but I will not pretend.

PTSD: What You Need to Know

Self Care Monday, Pedicures, and Fried Chicken Sandwiches

I went back and looked to see if I had written about self care. I was certain that I had, and I was right.

I’m working on self care again. A lot of times my self care is just a bubble bath, Dateline, and trash TV (which amounts to whatever stupid YouTube videos catch my attention).

I went and got a pedicure today. It felt so good that I decided to get a manicure, too. Later this evening I got to really thinking about self care. When you think about self care, what do you think about? I think I’ve been programmed to think of it as being selfish, taking away from what really needs to be done, putting myself and my needs ahead of other people. Those are the things that usually pop in my head when I hear the phrase, ‘self-care.’

I remember right after Patrick died a group of friends wanted to take me to get a pedicure or at the very least give me a gift card for one. I refused over and over again mostly because I did not want a stranger touching me. I still feel that way but I eventually relented and went and got a pedicure. I don’t need one all the time but when I do go get one, I spring for the most expensive one and I always come out thinking, ‘why did I wait so long to do this?’

Last night I wanted to die, really, really die. The end. We’re done. I was pretty close to the bottom. I somehow managed to fall asleep and wake up this morning. Later today I paid a stranger a wad of cash to rub my legs, feet, hands, paint my toenails and fingernails. You know what? I don’t want to die tonight. Am I still sad and depressed? Yes, but that couple of hours probably saved me from myself today. That and a husband and a best buddy that is here with me, monitoring me, making me check in, reminding me how much I am loved and how much I am still needed here. I still don’t know where to go from here or what to do, but today, right now, I know that I am loved and it is worth it to take a few hours to put myself first. Self care is not selfish. It is life-saving.

Some of my favorite self-care activities:

pedicure
bubble bath
trash tv
reading
writing
chapstick
chocolate
going for a ride
beach
junk food
fried chicken sandwich

Some self-care that is necessary but not always fun:

doctor appointments
counseling appointments
telling a trusted spouse or friend the truth about how you feel
eating healthy

Where Do I Go From Here?

It’s Sunday morning and I’ve started what is to hopefully be a week long reset and self care.

I’m back at square one. It’s a familiar place. I visit it often. I keep asking myself how do I keep ending up back here. Well for one thing, grief is not linear and the grief process should never have been shared as a list, like a grocery list that can be checked off.

Grief affects and usually is the driving force of many of my decisions. It’s a hard thing to balance knowing when you should listen to it, follow it, or dismiss it.

I probably should have listened to it more and even followed what it said in as far as trying to stay in my chosen career of teaching.

It is damn hard to be surrounded all day by children of any age when yours is dead. There are so many rapidly identified triggers and then there are the sneaky ones that you never anticipated, yet they both bring you to instant tears and anger.

You can’t teach when you’re crying or angry or both all the time.

Pushing aside my own trauma and triggers there’s plenty to be crying and angry about. It compounds the tiredness of my already weary and overloaded body and brain.

I’m in the wrong place. I chose to transfer campuses because I recalled with such fondness teaching younger students. I loved the buzz and the activity of an elementary classroom. I loved the silly stories they share, their unique look into how this crazy old world works, the incredible moment when I’ve really taught them something and they have really learned it. It’s magical. Elementary school is magical.

This year is not magical. My own flaws are hideous and puncturing into the magical force field that should protect my students and my classroom. Their innocence of what childhood should be like gets ripped away more and more every day. Everyone is hollering it’s covid, they’ve never had a normal school year. These things are true but that’s not 100% the culprit.

This year I’ve been hit by students, my classroom is destroyed by students on a weekly if not daily basis, things have been stolen from me in plain sight,, students have come to school without supplies, but when given the needed supplies they immediately destroy them. They come to school unbathed and in dirty clothes. They come to school abused and hurt. They lash out, they say mean and horrible things to one another. The vulgarity of their actions and vocabulary is the same as a hardened and crude adult. I don’t think it’s a covid issue. Covid might have amplified it, but this is not covid.

All those behaviors are an indirect trigger for me. I have such a hard time watching children behave this way everyday. I was told I need to normalize these behaviors. I cannot and will not make this normal. I cannot provide the wanted excuse to say this is okay. It is not okay.

Inside I am screaming these are precious gifts. Do you not realize what you have here? Do you know how much love, nurturing, accountability they need? Do you know that you are failing them? Do you know the hurt if one of them is lost?

I answer all of the questions in a whisper “I do.”

Where do I go from here?