If Only




If only you could have seen your brother graduate, you would have been so happy and proud.

If only I could hear you sing Three Little Birds one more time.

If only you could kiss my tears away.

If only I could see the smile that made my skies blue.

If only you were here, I would never be lonely again.

If only I could, I would never let you go.








i carry your heart with me(i carry it in
my heart)i am never without it(anywhere
i go you go,my dear;and whatever is done
by only me is your doing,my darling)
i fear
no fate(for you are my fate,my sweet)i want
no world(for beautiful you are my world,my true)
and it’s you are whatever a moon has always meant
and whatever a sun will always sing is you

here is the deepest secret nobody knows
(here is the root of the root and the bud of the bud
and the sky of the sky of a tree called life;which grows
higher than soul can hope or mind can hide)
and this is the wonder that’s keeping the stars apart

i carry your heart(i carry it in my heart)

~e. e. cummings




My older son CJ is graduating from high school this Friday. In two weeks he will be leaving for his summer job in another state, and from there he goes on to college even further away. I am so proud of the man he is becoming and of his many accomplishments, and although I expected to have mixed feelings, I did not expect the intense wave of grief that has overtaken me.

In the months since my last post, my grief for Kai has taken on a deeper and more profound place in my life, to the point where I have been unable to write about it. This grief, mixed with the reality of CJ’s departure now upon me, has made me feel that I am utterly lost, adrift in a nameless gray sea without any idea of where I am, where I am going, and even where I have been.

Our children anchor us. They provide purpose, meaning and direction in life. But what purpose, meaning and direction do we have left when our child has died?

I know some of the answers people give to this question, but these answers are of no comfort to me right now.  

I only hope that in time, my path will become clear.  And I hope to make both of my children proud. 

The Journey


When your child dies, you no longer fit into the normal world. There is now an enormous disconnect between my outward self and my inward, or true self.  I believe many, if not most people maintain a disconnect between the outward and inward self, but for me, the disconnect is magnified now to a degree that I could never have envisioned before Kai died.

I am convinced that a large part of the intense physical exhaustion of grief comes from the sheer effort of living, essentially, as two people.  How many times a day am I asked the usual question we casually ask each other, “How are you?”  How many times do I respond as expected, “Fine?”  How many times do I lie?

I am not fine, not at all.  What kind of person would be fine after burying their child, their own flesh and blood, their future?  Yet I keep up the façade, the image, the glossy airbrushed version of myself that I present to the world.

A few people have penetrated the shell and refuse to let me disappear, and were it not for them, I would not be surviving this new life.   These people know who they are.   They are family and friends alike… their emails and texts arrive consistently and often mysteriously at the right moment, their cards appear in the mailbox and their gifts appear on the doorstep or at the gravesite when least expected and when most needed, their flowers are left on the kitchen table when I come home to an empty house, yet again.

Yes, grief is a solitary journey, perhaps the most solitary journey one can take in this life.   But I am not walking this path alone, and I am eternally thankful to those who are quietly walking beside me.


Grief can be described in many ways and with many words, none of which fully capture the experience of grieving the death of a child or close loved one.  But right now, if I had to pick one word to describe my state of being, it would be raw.

I am raw.

When I first began riding motorcycles, I had a minor accident that resulted in what bikers call “road rash” on my right arm and hip.  My arm took the brunt of the fall and the skin on the back of my arm was shredded from my elbow almost to my shoulder by the pavement when I hit on my bare arm and kept going.  When the paramedics arrived and treated my injuries by washing them out with water, the pain was so excruciating that I began to faint.  I’ve had my share of injuries, but in terms of sheer agony, none compared to that injury.   I would guess there were thousands, or perhaps millions of nerve endings left exposed when my skin was torn off my body.  Nerves are not designed to be exposed.  They are meant to be covered, allowing us to feel sensations to a certain acceptable limit, as the nerves are shielded and protected by our skin.  That is, until there is a trauma that rips away that protection.

The experience of my grief for Kai feels similar to road rash, except that this trauma has broken my heart and shredded my soul.   There is no comparison to my physical injury.

The pain of a broken heart is intense.  I have real, physical pain in my chest when my sorrow is at its most acute.  The pain of my shredded soul is even worse.  It is as if all my skin is gone, exposing every single nerve ending.   I thought by now the raw pain might begin to diminish, even ever so slightly, but the opposite seems to be happening.

Perhaps this is why I have developed what I consider to be an odd obsession in the last seven months since Kai died.  I am utterly obsessed with soft blankets.   I look for them in stores, I search for them on the internet.  I found a small, throw type blanket for $15 at the local Walgreens and so far I have bought seven of them.  When these blankets are new, the fleece side is the softest thing I have ever felt in my life, softer even than Kai’s blue blankey, the one we buried with him.  Once I wash one of these blankets, the initial incredible softness of the fleece that I bought it for is lost so I buy another one.   I have one on my reading chair, one on my kitchen chair where I work on my computer, and every night I sleep with the newest one, the one that has yet to be washed.  I will not go to bed without it.  When I wake in the night and reality washes over me, I wrap it around me all the way up to my head.  The softness of the fleece soothes me in a way that nothing else seems to and often I am able to fall asleep again.  But it doesn’t make the agony of my longing for Kai go away.

My arm and hip healed in time.  I have gravel and dirt permanently embedded in the scars, a reminder of the trauma of my motorcycle accident, but they do not hurt any longer.   Will the same ever be true for my soul?



When Kai died, instantly the color went out of my world.  I mean this literally as well as figuratively.  Literally speaking, my vision changed.  Everything appeared to me in dull, muted shades; mainly shades of gray, brown, beige, and pale green.  I could still tell that something was red as opposed to blue, for example, but the world looked faded, ugly, dirty and monochromatic.

I have always loved color.  To this day, I love to look at a giant box of crayons or colored pencils.   I love colors like cornflower blue, sunshine yellow, bright magenta.  I love to look out my back window in the early morning and see the richly colored purple flowers that bloom every night in abundance on the Mexican heather at the base of the palm trees in my backyard.  When I visited Arizona and the Grand Canyon, I was mesmerized by the rich terra cotta and deep red colors of the rock formations and canyons, and by the endless blue of the sky at 8,000 ft. above sea level.  Color is important to human beings.  We need color in our lives.

Kai loved color.  Everyone who knew Kai knew that his favorite color was red.  After all, what respectable firefighter wouldn’t love red?  I think he also loved fluorescent orange, because he drew all over his playroom walls with a pen of that color.  I didn’t mind so much.  It was pretty.  It still is, and as long as I live there, always will be.

Life has seemed so cruel since Kai died, and part of the cruelty of my new life was losing my ability to see and be moved by color.  I am told that this is a symptom of severe post-traumatic stress disorder, or PTSD.  I’m sure that I have PTSD.  No mother that I know could see her child the way I saw Kai that day and not have PTSD.

Slowly, very slowly over the past couple of months, color is starting to return to my life.  The world still looks pretty dim to me most of the time, but I am starting to begin to see colors in nature again. I can see them most clearly when I look at the sky.  A gorgeous sunset brings tears because once again I can see the exquisite shades… the beautiful blues and golds in particular.  I like to think that while I am watching the sunset from this side, Kai sees even more magnificent colors from his side, where the Sun never sets.



There is nothing I wouldn’t give, do or pay to have you back.

Tea Cup Ride


Since the day he left us, I have been longing for Kai to appear to me in a dream or vision and tell me how much fun he is having in heaven and how he is waiting for me and loves me.  I just want to see and hear him, even if only in a dream. But this has not happened. 

I have a lovely young coworker who has experienced great personal tragedy of her own and who has been quietly sympathetic and supportive of me during this time.  Yesterday she respectfully sent me an email letting me know that she had dreamed of Kai, who she never met, and asked if I would like for her to share with me what happened in her dream.  Of course, I wanted to know.

She wrote the following:

We were all at the picnic party, then I saw him riding the tea cups.  He had on a polo shirt, brown and beige stripes, or brown and white, can’t remember.  He had a big smile on his face and he looked at me and he told me to tell you:  I’m ok where I am, I’m not scared, not afraid, I love you and I want you to be happy.  He looked really happy in the dream, he was smiling all the time.

Kai did have a brown and white striped polo shirt.  We rode the tea cup ride at Disney World a little less than two months before he died.  He loved that ride.  The faster we spun, the more he laughed.   He smiled the whole time we were on that ride.  He smiled most of the time in life.

I know he is smiling in heaven.  I know he is happy and beautiful and bursting with life while he waits for us.  And riding the tea cups. 



rays of sun

We’ve had several days of rainy, dreary weather in South Florida and the weather, coupled with the seven month anniversary of Kai’s death on Monday have contributed to make the last week or so particularly difficult for me.

Grief is a terrifying journey.  Just when I think I have hit the bottom, I sink even lower.  At this level of sorrow, very little can be done to blunt the pain or distract from the feelings of utter despondence.   Focusing on anything is difficult, anger boils to the surface quickly and easily, and crazy thoughts present themselves with alarming frequency and intensity.  During these times I’m too raw to even form any kind of prayer, so I just simply say, God, help me.  Do something, anything to help me or I will not make it another day.  What’s happened is simply too much to bear.

And then yesterday afternoon, I was driving home from work and realized to my surprise and relief that I felt slightly lighter and more stable.  I felt a shift in energy from black to gray.  Nothing happened to cause this shift that I could pinpoint, no change in my circumstances.  But I knew what it was… a reprieve.

I’ve had a few of these reprieves in the last seven months.  Some have lasted only an hour or two, some have lasted a few days.  None will last forever.  I know this now.

Those who are unfamiliar with grief might say that this lightening of my mood is a sign that things are getting better or that I am “healing.”  Nothing could be further from the truth.  There is no healing from this, not yet anyway.  I hope that someday I might heal, but I believe healing will come in the same way that an amputee heals.  The wound may not bleed unless something irritates and reopens it, but the limb will never return.

We do not expect an amputee to heal and move on with his or her life as it was before.  This is impossible.  The amputee goes on living, but with major and permanent limitations and often lifelong phantom pain, the body’s way of mourning the limb that should be there but was taken away unnaturally.

Why then do we expect people to “heal” or “move on” from the death of a child or an extremely close loved one, a loss exponentially more profound than the loss of a limb?  I do not believe that I will ever truly heal nor move on from Kai’s death, but I am thankful for the occasional reprieve.