25

Josh and me, January 1989, Big Bear, California. 

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Hi Josh, 

I was going to start your annual birthday letter with, "I'm alive!!!"  But then I kinda winced because immediately following that, I thought to myself, "oh, that's right, but you're not . . ." and I kinda felt like a huge heel.  However, you already know how I'm feeling because you made a nightly visit a few nights ago and we had a long talk about everything, and you know I didn't mean it like, "Neener neener, I'm alive and you're not."     It's just that after this past year and my lack of wanting to live among the living, I'm just kinda surprised (but so very grateful) that I'm still here.  But I'm happy, really happy that I'm here.    I'm glad you waited to stop by again, during my dream time, when it was legitimate sleep and not the awful sleep of the morbidly depressed.    For once I'm on on the light side of the tunnel and not hunkered down in the deep, dark, miserable depths of it; this time around I feel like I have a better chance of hanging around for a lot longer.   It's weird how that happens.  I'm not questioning it though, rather embracing it and moving forward. 

You still have that weird habit of talking to me in Ben Affeck's voice, which even after you visiting in my dreams for several years now, has never gone away.   Gotta tell ya kiddo, it's still unsettling.  Of course, if you opened your mouth and the late Ronald Reagan or Bob Hope came out, that would probably be just as unsettling, if not more so.    Speaking of two late greats, do you ever get a chance to see them hanging out up there?  Is Bob Hope perpetually running a USO show for all the men and women who never made it home from the front lines, and is President Reagan still walking around telling people to "Win one for the gipper!"?    I should probably ask you these things while you're here, but I can never remember to.    I wonder what it must be like, for one who has eternity to do anything and everything?  

There are so many more questions I want to ask you when you come to visit, but then when I'm awake I remind myself that it's not really you, and that it's just a product of my subconscious mind, helping me work through things . . . things like losing you.   While I'll probably never "work through" it, it's nice to finally be able to write about this when I'm not in the midst of the deep, dark, yucks, and instead, from a brighter place.    That doesn't mean I still don't have my bad days, days I just want to curl up and cry because for some reason the pain of your loss and missing you just rushes at me like a tsunami.   I'm learning how to cope better with the ocean of grief that time really never dries up completely, just pushes you towards the shallow end instead of trying to force you under in the deep end.    In the shallow end I can get my footing so that when those waves of pain and grief wash over me, I don't end up under so much water, fighting for my life. 

Even now though, even all these nearly 23 years later, I still feel a little guilty for being happy and for being able to think about you without feeling like all the happiness has been sucked out of the world and I'm left with nothing but gray, swirling mists of misery.    I suppose that might always be part and parcel of living with your memory rather than living with you.    There's also the guilt that comes along with not caring about myself enough to ask for help with coping skills, until recently.  But let's face it, sweetie, I never was very good at coping with life's pot holes and pitchforks.   I don't suppose, until recently, I even cared if I was or not.   That's all pretty selfish if you think about it.   While I can't change the past, I have control over how I cope, how I react, and how I deal with the coming bumps in the road.  Maybe I am growing up - maybe even growing older and wiser, after all.    I just wish I could have grown older and wiser while watching you do the same.  I suppose that part of losing you will never ever really change, or go away.  I'll always wish for what can never be.   I'll always wonder what could have been, might have been. 

There are certain things that haven't changed though.  I still don't know what to say to others who have lost a child.   Recently a good friend of mine lost her 18 year old daughter in an awful car accident (Go find Deanna, and give her a great big hug from her mom!) and I sat here, spending hours trying to find the right words.    In reality there aren't any "right words."   I think it's more about just being there when needed.  To not disappear like so many others do after the death of a child.   I know it's hard.   It's awkward and it's painful.  You just want to give the bereaved parents their space.   But when it all calms down?  When all the casseroles, cards, and cakes stop being dropped off?  Well, that's when it gets even harder.  It's too quiet and there's this void that's been doubled suddenly.  Not only do parents who have lost a child ache in the worst way for that empty space where their child used to be, but the comforting commotion of people milling around, doing things, making noise to fill this barren space, well, they're no longer there either.   

I get it, it's hard to know how to continually be there for someone when something like this happens - you don't want to impose yourself on their space and pain, so if I can't give you the right words to say (because trust me, they don't exist), just know that simple phone calls, cards, letters, emails, just something to let the grieving parent know you're there, means a lot.    Go ahead and drop off another casserole, or cookies, or call to see if you can stop by for a visit.   Sometimes just knowing someone is still there helps cushion the blow from when it all goes too horribly quiet after the exterior "noise" stops.  

So Josh, I guess maybe I did have something to say after all, to people who just don't know what to say when a close friend loses a child.   We all process loss and grief in our own ways, but at some point, we all need to know we're still connected to the living, and that everyone hasn't abandoned us.  

Sometimes when we least feel like living, it is in fact that connection to the living that keeps us tethered to the earth.  

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Tethered.   Connected.    Anchored.  

Anchor. 

Josh, if I guess there's one word to describe the past year (it's odd, but I stopped viewing years as "school years" or January 1st to December 31st, after you died.  My "New Year" always turns over on April 30th.  It has for nearly 23 years) it's been "anchor."    I have some amazing anchors in my life, people that you and I have talked about during your "visits."    If it weren't for those anchors I'm not sure I'd still be here.    During the course of the year I realized my ship was sinking and there were holes that needed to be patched and I needed to cast off dead weight.    I did both, with the help of my "anchors."    I realized that it wasn't enough to know that I needed to fix my "ship" if you will, but that I had to want to as well.   They say that alcoholics and drug addicts all know they need to sober up, but until they want to, nothing will change.   I guess the same can be said of food addicts too.    I've realized that I don't need the food to be my friend anymore.  I've been using food to replace you, to numb the pain, and to be my "constant" for almost 23 years.    I've been using food as something it was never intended.    While the pain of your loss will always be there, I've learned better ways to cope with it, and to process all the events in my life, after you died.   Food never really helped me do all that to begin with, it just made it easier to avoid it all, and in all reality, it gave me a better excuse to avoid living.  The more food I shoved in my mouth, the more excuse I had to not live my life.  

Knowing I need to lose the weight has always been there, but I don't think I really really wanted to until just recently.   The rotten part though is that it just hurts so much to even move at this point.  Like every other stumbling block, I'll get past the pain in that as well.  Unlike grief though, the more I push through, the easier it will get, so there's that I guess.    I'm not even miserable any more when it comes to the whole weight thing.  I mean, physically, yes I'm miserable.  Anyone my size would be, but with the help of my anchors, my doctors and a little yellow pill,  I've stopped moaning about my lot in life and decided that even if I can only, literally, take one step at a time, that I want to do it.   It's one step more than I took yesterday and will hopefully be the one step that pushes me tomorrow, to take one more step than I did today. 

If you're up there looking down, I hope you're cheering me on.  

Miss you lots, baby boy . . . but love you more!  

Comments

[Beth]

Dear sweet Audrey! Maybe we can encourage each other in this battle against depression and food addiction. I need to lose 200+ pounds. The arthritis in my knees, hips, and lower back is so bad that I barely walk. I UNDERSTAND where you are! If I can be an anchor for you in this area ... I'm here!

And your Josh sounds wonderful! My Josiah is just a little younger. Still with me ... for now. He has a heart defect (physical) and a beautiful heart that wants to do missions in the Middle East. I always knew he was a temporary gift. I'm grateful I've had him this long!

I am so glad to hear that you are doing better! I'm sure Josh is turning cartwheels of joy and will be cheering you on in the next battle too!

Hugs dear girl!

[boB Cleveland]

There are some things that are hard to do because of the nature of the deed. Climbing Mt Everest would fit that. But the things in this life we find hardest to do are simply things we don't want to do. Anything we don't want to do is hard. Until, that is, we do it.

Sounds as if you've discovered that, for which I congratulate you. And what Beth said .. Josh would be so happy that you're getting better!