Category: death

Long Shot

Mr. Lucky died. I found out he died the same way I learned he was alive, in a post on Facebook between a political rant and a photo of last night’s dinner. Just yesterday I saw a photo of him and his adopted brother, Mr. Max. They were sleeping the way small animals and children do, in a mix of limbs forming a pile of sweetness.

From the start, he was a long shot. His adopted Mom found him on a sidewalk and knew, right away, that something was wrong. She loved him anyway…in an irrational way…in a way someone loves a cat she grew up with…or the way someone who knows what it feels like to be kicked to the curb loves a kitten who was.

Daily postings revealed sleepless nights spent wielding an eye-dropper in a manner enticing enough to encourage the kitten to eat. I read her words. I studied her photographs. I imagined what it would be like to be completely responsible for the welfare of something so utterly innocent and gray and furry and sweet. I soon began every morning with a click of the mouse, anxious to know how Mr. Lucky was doing.

I’m not a cat person, but I’ve lived with cats. As a kid, we always had cats. My mother loved cats. Her favorite was named Cleo. She called her Cleo-Meo. She was calico and long-haired and if anyone other than my mother deigned to touch her, she left marks. Her death, at a ripe old age, devastated my mother. She never replaced her.

Many years ago I found a stray kitten in the ivy surrounding our shed or, to be more accurate, he found me. A white and gray ball of fluff, he approached me, mewling. I picked him up, cradling him against my chest. Needle-like claws pierced my shirt as he climbed to curl up in the spot where my neck meets my shoulder, leaving me no choice.

“Look what I found.”, I said to my partner, the cat-lover, whose face softened as he reached out to touch the kitten. “Too bad we can’t keep him.”

“We have to keep him.”, Roger countered. “He can’t live out there!”

Plucking the kitten off my shoulder, he walked away.

“He can stay in the spare room. We’ll keep the dogs away from him.”

The kitten lived in our spare bedroom for nearly a month. Keeping his end of the bargain, Roger cleaned up after him. In exchange, I relented to his suggestion that we allow the kitten to visit our bedroom at night before we went to sleep.

I held my breath every time Roger opened the door separating our dogs from the tiny kitten. They knew he was there. I’d seen them sniffing around the door.

On that night, I listened as I always did. The knob turned, the door creaked, and what happened next can only be described as chaos. I maintained my position against a stack of pillows on my side of the bed, even as I knew the horror taking place down the hall. I steeled myself against the words he’d say, making it true and, when he said them, my grief poured forth in a scream of accusations. There were only two possible explanations for what happened; stupidity and carelessness. To this day I can’t accept one without wondering about the other.

When Lucky’s mother offered her friends an opportunity to participate in his care, I jumped at the chance. Others followed suit. Soon Lucky had a following, and a special kind of formula, and a cozy bed. I clicked the button that would magically send money across the country to a person I’d never met to assist in the care of a cat I only knew from pictures on the internet. Even as I did it, it felt a little crazy. But isn’t life a little crazy? Doesn’t every day present us with risks we wouldn’t take if we thought about them, even a little bit, ahead of time?

The greatest risk of all, of course, is love. There are no guarantees with love. You may not be loved back. You may invest lots of time and effort, and a large amount of your self, in someone who can’t or won’t reciprocate. You may carry a child and raise him into adulthood only to watch, desperately, as he makes choices that end his life and, in many ways, yours as well. Or you may take a chance on a long shot kitten whose death hurts more than you expected. What matters is taking the chance.

Two

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I want a cigarette. Bad. I’m sure I could scrounge up a pack if I looked hard enough.

I can taste it. It wouldn’t be menthol. He doesn’t smoke menthol. And it’d be short…much shorter than the ones I used to smoke. I would breathe deep. I’d fill my lungs and then feel the burn as smoke poured out of my nose.

I want a drink. Make mine a whiskey…cinnamon flavored whiskey and coke, please…on ice, of course. I want whiskey at 9:43 in the morning. I want to scorch the back of my throat as it slides down.

Cake would be good. Bakery cake with sticky white icing. A decorated cake…pink flowers…green leaves…no writing, please. And the inside should be yellow and spongy and leave gooey brown goodness on the bottom of the plate when you slice it.

Yesterday morning I looked at myself in the mirror as I dressed for work. My face, despite the artificial glow of carefully applied foundation, bore no expression. Good Morning America played softly in the background as the words “Happy New Year” came to mind.

Only it’s not happy. It’s not happy at all. Not that it’s not ever happy, there are happy days. But this day is not happy. So it’s a new year but not a particularly happy one… so far.

I hadn’t realized this before…this marking of the year that I do in my head. In a way it’s a relief as it serves to explain why January 1st has little to no meaning for me anymore. My year doesn’t begin and end at the same time as everyone else’s. My year ends on February 25th and begins again on the 27th…if I make it.

I leave the “if” in there because I need permission not to. On this day, more than any other, I grant myself permission to consider what would happen if I didn’t. Because, I don’t have to. No one does. Life is a choice we make every day. Someone else said that first, I know. Maybe that person, like me, experienced the capriciousness of life. Maybe they lost someone.

I don’t like to use the word “lost”. I didn’t lose Trey. He died. Actually, if anyone is lost, it’s me. I’m lost. More lost on some days than I am on others, but I’m always lost. I’m navigating a path I never thought to take. And yet, now that I am on it, I often try to imagine what would happen if I had to start all over again. What if I became even more lost? What if the thing that I never thought would happen happened again? Because that is the one thing I do know. The one thing I do know is that the worst does happen.

It’s a gray day, as it should be. It was this way last year, too. I suspect it always will be.

You can’t prepare. It hits you about a week out, without warning. Sadness covers you like a blanket. You feel the weight of it and you carry it around all day until, at last, you can close your eyes and escape. With any luck, sleep takes your blanket and leaves a respite in its place. It might last a day, two days. This year I was lucky, I had a few good days before the words “Happy New Year” appeared as though written in red lipstick on the mirror in front of me. And that was that.

Yesterday my boss’s face appeared over the top of my cubicle.

“Enjoy your time off tomorrow.”

Filled with irrational rage, I stood up and left the space without speaking. A big part of me hopes he realizes sometime today. That same part, the hurting part, the part that I’m allowing to run rough-shod over any and everything today and only today, that part hopes that he feels like a worm when he remembers.

It’s 10:43 now. I’m still in my bathrobe, my hair looks like shit, and I’ve never needed a mani/pedi more in my whole entire life. But, I’m not smoking and the half-empty can of Coke Zero on my desk remains untainted. The jury’s still out on the cake. My son and I are having lunch. He, too, is marking another year. He and my daughter-in-law are choosing the restaurant. I may choose to eat cake.

That’s what today is about; making choices and leaving room…deciding not to smoke, how to dress, what to eat, and whether or not to live. And, I’m leaving room…for tears, irrational emotions…and, quite possibly, cake.

Last First

Tonight, at 10:36 pm, exactly one year will have passed since I received the news that my son, Trey, was dead.

Within minutes I had my first conversation with a county coroner.

Within the hour, two policemen stood on my front porch.  I’d never had policemen on my front porch before.

Two days later I wrote my first obituary.

And, the next day I designed a funeral program for the first time.

Five days after the call came in, I greeted the first guests to arrive at the first funeral I’d ever arranged for one of my children.

Despite never having done so before, my brother-in-law led the service beautifully.

Afterwards I hosted my first wake.

Friends and family, anxious to express their sympathy, appeared at my door; some for the first time.

Eight days after my son died, I returned to work from bereavement leave.  I’d never taken bereavement leave before.  I’d never been so bereaved.

A couple of days later I made my first request for a copy of my son’s death certificate.

The following Wednesday, my oldest son visited the sheriff’s department for the first time to collect his brothers “personal effects”.

Easter was the first family gathering that didn’t include Trey.

Several weeks later, we maintained our tradition of having a combined birthday party for both Trey and his older brother.  For the first time, Trey didn’t attend.

Not since before my youngest was born had I celebrated Mother’s Day with just three children.

On September 1st, I spent my birthday knowing that, for the first time, I could never have the only thing I really wanted.

For the first time in decades, I served Thanksgiving dinner without having to answer the question, “Are there any onions in here?”

As Christmas neared, I realized that for the first time in years I wouldn’t need to order that expensive chili water from Hawaii.  I hadn’t anyone to give it to.

For the first time since 1997, I placed Christmas gifts for only three children under our tree and, during our Christmas party, no one visited the dessert table before dinner was served.

This past Sunday I didn’t watch The Oscars on television.  It was the first time I’d missed watching since I was a kid.  The last time I watched, I had to pause the show to answer the telephone.  It was February 26th at 10:36 pm.

Today is the one year anniversary of my son’s death.

There will never be another one year anniversary.

There will be another first.

This is the Last First.

Mixed Blessings


2013 started out gray.  2012 ended the same way.  For most of the last week the skies have been heavy, bloated, on the verge of crying.  I know this feeling.  I spent a good portion of last year feeling this way.
I don’t like to hear someone say “This day can’t be over soon enough!” or “I wish it was Friday already!”.  Ask my son how many times he’s heard me say “Don’t wish your life away!”.
And yet, as I sit at my desk watching the first few drops of rain ping one leaf at a time on their way down, I am aware of a sense of relief that a new year has begun, that the old one is finished, and that we’ve careened past yet another milestone no more damaged than we were going in.  And, I am grateful.
Thanksgiving was different; not bad, not difficult, just different.  Christmas was different, too…a little sadder, and angry, but not in a fierce way.  Angry in a wistful way.  Wistful as in “Isn’t it a shame he chose not to be here?”  Because, he did.  Trey chose not to have Christmas with us.  And we know how to do Christmas!  We have great Christmases! I don’t understand why he wouldn’t want to be here…
There are lots of things I don’t understand.  
I don’t understand why a general practitioner happily rewrites a middle-aged woman’s Zoloft prescription for months on end, but when that same woman suggests her adolescent son might also benefit from anti-depressants, he refuses without listening and looks at her as though she should be ashamed.
I don’t understand a therapist who, after several unsuccessful attempts at getting an obviously troubled teenager to open up, dismisses his mother with “You’re wasting your money and my time.  Don’t bring him back until he’s willing to talk.”, or a high school counselor who, upon being alerted by a classmate that a student is cutting himself, shakes her head at the parent saying “We simply can’t have that here.”, as though mental illness is somehow catching and another kid will see his scars and think them cool and before you know it everyone is cutting.
Anyone who tells you mental illness carries no stigma never tried to get help for a disturbed child.
I do understand, though, the horror inherent in the realization that the weapon-wielding monster might have been my son and the ever-present fear that the next time he might not be pulled over before crossing the center line.
My son is dead but he didn’t take anyone with him.  I understand that.  And, I am grateful.
I am told that the black hole in my memory where last January and most of February used to be is normal.  I likened the space to a blank chalkboard when describing it to my therapist who agreed that the missing chunk of time may, indeed, contribute to my feeling that every moment since is a do-over.
In one of those moments, several weeks after I began seeing her, I realized parts of me I hadn’t missed are back.  My wounds are healing, as all wounds do, by reclamation.  The “skin” has grown back, not as new skin but as a continuation of the old, only better, stronger, scarred and thus resilient.  I like her, the woman I am becoming; the one I was before but newer, stronger, with a chance to be better.
That is his gift.
He always did that.  He always brought me gifts.  From the time he was very small, if he went outside, he came back in with pockets full of rocks and handfuls of dandelion heads.  He was sure every rock was a gem.  And they were.  I kept them all.  
At Thanksgiving last year he brought me bird’s nests to add to my collection.  He frequently came across them in his work and saved them for me.  Some were square, as though formed inside a box.  Some were round and tiny.  And one had parts of blue eggshell inside.
And he wrote me notes like the one I found a few weeks ago while cleaning out a file cabinet.
Thank you so much from all of us.  Without you I/we would be nothing.  In my whole 21 years you have never let me down.  You are absolutely without question the best mom in the world. I love all you guys with all my heart.
Thank you.
Love, Trey
 

 

© Copyright 2007-2013 Stacye Carroll All Rights Reserved

http://www.thewriterslife.net

Warm Whispers


I have a thing for sleepwear.  I like cotton nightgowns, silk nightshirts and girly pajamas.  I own six bathrobes; one of them purported to be “The Softest Robe Ever”.  It’s soft, alright.  It’s also very fluffy, and putting it on makes me feel like a lavender-hued Stay Puft Marshmallow Man.  I hold on to it for those two or three days a year when the temperature dips so low that warmth trumps frump.
Two of my robes are girly.  The silky peach one channels Hedy Lamarr.  The sheer black one was an impulse purchase from a Victoria’s Secret catalogue.  It has bright pink feathers at the collar and cuffs.  I’ve never worn it.  But you never know…
The red robe is short, made of cotton and features a very large dragon embroidered down the back.  It’s one of my favorites.  Depending on my mood while wearing it, I either feel like a prize fighter or a naughty Geisha.  
The black one is heavy and hooded and used to belong to a man.  It’s a Bill Blass.  1998 was a very good year.
The one I wear is flannel and plaid, tartan plaid, in blues and greens.  I remember tearing open the Christmas wrap covering the box it came in, and looking around to see what my sisters’ robes looked like.  For several years, since we all had married, my mother bought four of the same thing in different colors.  One year it was sweaters.  Mine was beige.  Have you seen me?  Well you can’t if I wear beige.  
Blue and green are not my colors either.  I’m more a red and black or, better yet, a turquoise and silver kind of girl.  And plaid?  Honey, please…
And yet, that’s the robe I wear.  I take care to make sure it hangs on the outside of the hook so that in the morning, as I stumble out of my bedroom and into the bathroom, I can grab it without thinking.  
This morning I noticed a hole…a slice really…in the back.  The fabric around the slice was thin, very thin; thin enough to make me wonder if the slice wasn’t really a tear; a surrender to time.   The discovery inspired me to inspect further.  As it turns out, there are lots of holes, some of them bigger than others. 
But, you would expect that in a 30 year old robe.
This morning, as I drew the robe around me, I felt her. 
 
I imagined her hands on the robe, as she chose it, as she wrapped it, and the image comforted me.  
“It’s going to be alright.”, Mom whispered.  “You’ll be fine.  He’s here with me, you know.  Your boy is here with me.”

© Copyright 2007-2012 Stacye Carroll All Rights Reserved

http://www.thewriterslife.net

Getting Crazy

 

For the first time since my son died, I’ve been left alone for longer than it takes to visit the chiropractor or have a music lesson.  
It was my choice.  I could have tagged along but it costs so much to board the dogs, and then there are the chickens.  With temperatures soaring above 100 degrees every day they need extra care.  I’ve put ice in their waterer several times daily, fashioned a pool out of an over-sized plastic bowl, and managed to gather the eggs before they fried inside their shells.
I had all kinds of plans.  
First and foremost, I thought to write.  All that quiet stretched before me like a highway I could litter, uninterrupted, with words I wouldn’t forget while answering questions like, “Do you think I should get a Ford F150 or a Chevy truck? ”  He’s 15, and that learner’s license burns a serious hole…
Malaise hit me on Friday afternoon, just before I left the office.  I did what I always do, I ignored it.  I bought dinner, I went shopping, and I baked four loaves of chocolate zucchini bread.  I’d promised the boys they could take some on their trip.  I’d also promised the kids next door they’d get a loaf out of the next batch.   And, there’s that co-worker who greets me with hungrily expectant eyes every Monday morning.
Once the travelers were on their way, I was disappointed to walk inside the house and discover all the usual “stuff” needed doing.  The kitchen was a wreck, the furniture needed polishing, and there was no way I wasn’t capitalizing on oven-like temperatures.  I had laundry to do.
I’ve noticed this phenomenon before.  For some reason, as soon as I’m left alone at home for any length of time, every imperfection is magnified a-thousand-fold; as though, suddenly it’s all mine, and I’m responsible, and if it’s needs fixing I need to fix it, before someone comes and sees it.  I’m sure it all stems from the time when I was 22, and a new Mom, and my Mom came to visit; only I didn’t know she was coming.  There’s only so much you can stuff under the couch cushions before its actual dimensions start to change…
By the time I finished housekeeping, it was 5 o’clock.  The day was done and the chair, now that I had a chance to sit in it, was cozy.  
This morning, malaise made another appearance.  Only this time, I was alone.  I didn’t have to ignore it.  I could languish in it.  I could baby it.  I could sit and wonder why it came, and what it meant, and I could doze.  So I did.
There was a point, during one of my treks to the henhouse, when I knew I could be crazy.  Nuts, even.  It was after I’d dumped the ice.  The latch on the gate refused to slide back into place.  The fact of my leopard-print pajamas became important somehow, as I wrestled with the handle; winning, at last.  And, I knew it, absolutely.  Were it not for all the reasons I have to be sane, I would most certainly be crazy.
It would be easy, really. I can tell, having considered it, that it’s just a slide, and not a very long one; not one of those really, really high ones that scorch the backs of your legs on your way down.  It’s a short one, like the one attached to the swing set we had in the backyard when I was a kid.  It got hot, too.  But, it was so short, it didn’t matter.
And slides are easy.  You just let go.  You just stop trying.  You slide.
My friend lost two sons.  They died within a few years of each other.  She’s never been the same since.  
Now I know why.  
From my new vantage point, white-knuckled at the top of the slide, I understand.
She let go.

© Copyright 2007-2012 Stacye Carroll All Rights Reserved

http://www.thewriterslife.net

Learner’s License

My 15-year old is learning to drive.  Even as we walked into the DMV to get his learner’s license, I couldn’t imagine sitting in the passenger seat while he piloted my vehicle; my new vehicle, my favorite-car-in-the-whole-wide-world that, even after nine months, boasts bonafide “new car smell”.  Just the thought of it made me all jumpy inside.  So, I didn’t think of it.
I supplied Shane with a Georgia Driver’s Manual a couple of months before his 15th birthday.  He rifled the pages with his thumb, barely concealing his humor at the thought that he might actually READ the book.  However, after pulling an all-nighter with his best friend who had tested several months before and therefore “knew what he was talking about”, Shane scored a 95 on the exam; a fact of which he apprised me even before flashing his paper license.
Though I hadn’t paid attention as we drove in, driving out I realized this particular branch of the DMV was situated at one end of an otherwise abandoned strip mall, meaning the only cars parked were the ones directly in front of the office.  In the kind of fit of spontaneity I’m known for, I parked the car and motioned for Shane to change places with me.  To his credit, and possibly because it’s not the first time his mother has had some kind of hare-brained notion that required his participation, he jumped out, ran around and slid underneath the wheel as though it were home.
I took the liberty of installing a few virtual stop signs along our route, just to give him practice, as we took several turns around the parking lot.  Twice, a car piloted by a “real” driver took advantage of the landlord’s misfortune, by cutting across the painted lines on its way in or out.  We both froze.  Fortunately, Shane froze on the brake.  I took this as a good sign.
We’ve been out several times since then.  He’s still a little heavy on the gas when first starting out and corners are a bit tricky, but we did manage to traverse a rather scary intersection without incident on the way to the grocery and back.  We took a drive with purpose.  I think that’s a big step.
The guilt didn’t start until Monday.  
It was a nagging thing.  It kind of pulled at me, demanding attention.  At stray times, throughout the day, Trey’s face swam into view along with an incident; a time when I felt inadequate, a situation I felt I’d mishandled.  I managed to quash them usually.  I ran the tape inside my head; the one that says “This is normal.  Everyone does this.  Don’t let it get you down.”.  If I had a dime for every time I’ve heard THAT song…
But he kept coming.  I remembered the time his father called him a “sissy”, the way he clutched at my leg through my skirt, and the feeling of desperation in knowing what a pitiful shield I made using only my hands.   There were rides to school…rides necessitated by Trey’s bad behavior at the bus stop…that seemingly provided fertilizer for arguments he saved for just this opportunity.  Eventually, I remembered he couldn’t argue if I didn’t participate.  Sometimes, then, we talked.
There were visits with counselors, arguments with his step-dad, and a notebook filled with completed homework he’d never turned in.
These reels played alternately, randomly, for two days before I recognized the catalyst.  
I didn’t teach Trey to drive.
The realization startled me at first.  How could that be?  Who could have taught him?  How does such an important phase in a child’s life go unnoticed, unaccompanied by a parent…especially when there’s only one?
That afternoon, I received an email from a friend who always seems to know “when”.  She reminded me she’d always listen, and I began writing.  About halfway through, the missing pieces fell into place until the whole messy picture became clear and a new mantra began to play inside my head.  “You were not a bad Mom.  You were not a bad Mom.  You were not a bad Mom.”
This afternoon, I received a note from Trey’s boss’s wife, Amy.  Over the years, she’d grown very fond of him.
“The guys are here today working on Bo’s in ground trampoline. While they were eating lunch, Bo walked up to Mike and so sweetly asked, “Where’s Trey?” Out of the mouths of babes… YOU are NOT forgotten, our precious friend!!”
And, I’m reminded it’s not just me.  This isn’t the first time that I’ve discovered, when I’m missing Trey more than usual, I’m not the only one.  That knowledge doesn’t make me miss him any less.  As a matter of fact, reading Amy’s note took me to a place I haven’t been in weeks.  What it does do, though, is remind me he is loved, as am I.
Today, I am thankful for blessings who give you room to grow.

© Copyright 2007-2012 Stacye Carroll All Rights Reserved

http://www.thewriterslife.net

Birthday Boys

                    

 

Looking back, I can’t think of anyone I’d rather have shared a pregnancy with than my friend, Dottie.  She uses her grown-up name now.  Everyone calls her Dot.  But, I knew her when.  I’ll always call her Dottie.
From the time we met, we shared lots of things.  We shared stories and dreams and worries and fears.  When Dottie had to pull (This would be the literal “pull”, not the figurative one.) her husband out of a local bar, I kept the baby.  When my son dropped a crystal ashtray on his sister’s head, I called Dottie’s Dad for help.  When Dottie’s mother held a Tupperware Party, she knew she could count on me to be there, and when the Datsun pick-up I’d paid $300.00 for wouldn’t start, Dottie gave me the keys to her Pontiac land-yacht.
I was pregnant with my third child.  Dottie was carrying number four.  We scheduled our prenatal appointments for the same time when we could.  Rather than separate exam rooms, the clinic was comprised of one very wide corridor divided into curtained sections just big enough for the midwife, the exam table, and the stirrups.  Were it not for those women wearing stethoscopes around their necks, one might have thought they had stumbled into the changing room at a maternity clothing store.
I was instructed to take off my “bottoms” and “hop up on the table” (This would be the figurative “hop”, not the literal one.) while the midwife called on Dottie who waited two curtains away.  Resting my hands atop my mountainous abdomen, I tried not to eavesdrop until the words “no heartbeat”, at which point I stopped breathing in an effort to hear every word.  My own heart raced as they scheduled the ultrasound that would reveal whether or not Dottie’s baby was alive.  And when it came time for my exam, I both wished the midwife would hurry, and wondered how wrong it would be to ask questions.  Dottie hadn’t asked many.  It was as though she knew. 
 
Her baby was fine, and mine was, too.  They arrived just a month apart.  Dottie’s son, Carey, was born in April, and my son, Josh, in May.
Three years later, I gave birth to a second son.  He split the boy’s birthdays, arriving two weeks after Carey’s and two weeks before Josh’s.  For the last twenty-nine years, April has been a time of celebration that began at Easter and ended , appropriately, with Mother’s Day.
Dottie lives in South Georgia now.  She might say she could see Jekyll Island from her kitchen window, but that would be because she was trying to convince me to visit, not because she actually could see it.  I’ve seen her just once in over ten years.  
I did see Carey recently.  He’s very tall and looks very much like his father.  He celebrated his twenty-ninth birthday a couple of weeks ago, which means Trey’s birthday is this week…Saturday, to be exact.  
Only Trey isn’t here to celebrate.
It hasn’t exactly sneaked up on me.  It occurred to me in early March, just as it has for the last twenty-six years.  It was just a few days after Trey’s memorial service.  I hadn’t gone back to work yet.  Josh was here and so was Jennifer.  We talked about it.  We planned it.  Somewhere deep down I knew we had to.
And now I don’t want to.  I don’t want to the way a toddler doesn’t want green beans.  I want to scream.  I want to cry.  I want to scream while I cry and then I’ll stomp my feet and no matter what you say I won’t go.  I won’t!
Because, he’s not here.  
People say things like “He’s not gone.  He’s always with you.”
No he’s not.  He’s not here because I can’t hug him or smell him or hear him call me “Ma”.  I never understood why he did that.  No one else ever called me that, just him.  He always called me “Ma”.  And now no one ever will again.
Who will blow out the candles?
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