I went back to work, back to Pleasant Hill High School, two weeks after the accident. Now looking back, I realize it was more selfish than anything else. At the time I thought it was the right thing to do, that the students needed me. At some level, I am sure that is true, but the reality is that high school age kids are much more resilient than adults.
Other than the students, my reasoning for returning to PHHS was I wanted to be "normal," not "that woman who was in the car accident" as I felt when I was out in public. I wanted to feel like some part of my life had not been pulled out from underneath me. But the reality was there wasn't going to be anything "normal" for quite some time.
While at school, I was able to focus, to stop my brain for eight hours at a time. That was freedom! I could focus on the students, on the curriculum, on the task at hand. But once I returned home, I was unable to function. All I could do was wallow in my misery.
Once a hub of activity and family noise, our house was now very quiet. At times it felt like a refuge or a safe haven, and at other times it felt like a tomb. One thing was for sure, I felt Patrick's and Olivia's presence in our house and that was what kept me going each day.
I remember laying in bed and feeling as if Patrick were laying behind me with his arm under my head. It felt so real and so alive. I thought I was going crazy. I didn't understand death, nor do I claim to understand it now, but, the therapist I was seeing told me this was not uncommon. As she explained it, "death is a thin veil between here and there" and she would point to the ground for "here" and the sky for "there." I completely trusted this woman. She had told me that the connection that I felt would always be with me, it just would change over time.
For many weeks, probably months, I was looking for ways to touch the "there". I was so fearful of not feeling that connection I felt in the first weeks that I constantly tried to force some feeling, some emotion, or some memory to evoke a connection to Patrick and Olivia. Some days it worked, but most days I felt as though it was like sand slipping through my fingers. I could never get a firm grasp.
Because of this fear, my therapist suggested that I begin to write to Patrick and Olivia. I asked her what should I say? Her suggestion, whatever comes to mind.
So I begin to write letters:
April 30, 2003
Dear Patrick and Olivia
Well, here I am again thinking of our lives. Someone cleaned up your crosses at the side of the road on 58- and you know I feel guilty, like it should have been me. That maybe I'm neglecting you two and not doing my duties.
It feels so strange, I don't know what I'm supposed to do. Or what is right or wrong. It just feels awkward and awful! You know these new freshmen coming in will never feel your presence, your strength or your love. Nor will they know the joy of Olivia. I hate that - I really hate that!
It just doesn't feel right. We are supposed to be a united front, a threesome that is unstoppable and yet here I am. I guess now I am three in one - but it still isn't right. I miss you and love you with all my heart! Please know that and PLEASE stay near! I NEED YOU!
Katie
I wrote probably 100 letters like that. The content was different, but the theme was always the same: DON'T GO AWAY! I could never get away from sounding desperate and lonely.
There are many memories I have of that first year after my families deaths. But strangely, I don't have much recollection of writing these letters. It's as if I am reading someone else's journal baring their soul. I realize now, it was the first steps I would take towards acceptance.
Thursday, November 11, 2010
Thursday, November 4, 2010
The Beginning of Grief
The affects one person has on others is often not known or understood until it is to late.
I think this is definitely true in Patrick's case. Seven years later, I am still learning of the profound presence he had in others' lives. It truly amazes me. Just last year, the counselor at Cottage Grove High School told me she had talked with Patrick shortly before we moved to Oregon. She told me how impressed she was that he would take the initiative to learn about the kids and the community before taking on his position at Pleasant Hill High School.
The first week after Patrick, Olivia and Runa's deaths was almost a grace period. There was an infinite amount of support, friends and family milling around our house and around Eugene. A constant buzz of people filled our little house on East 43rd. I was never alone with my own thoughts and it was oddly comforting.
Our refrigerator had enough food in it to feed an army, however, none of it appealed to me. In that first month I lost about 20 pounds because I just couldn't eat. Grief has a funny way of showing up in our bodies and for me it was food.
The school memorial service was held that Friday, March 21st in the school gymnasium, right before Spring Break. The school gym was packed, people were standing in the doorways and the halls. I chose to sit in the bleachers with the students, instead of in the front row with my family. I wanted them to know I was there with them, that we were going to pull through this together.
The whole memorial thing was surreal. It was almost as if I was having an out of body experience. I remember sitting in the audience listening to teachers and students talk about Patrick and Olivia and thinking this isn't really happening. What my brain knew to be the truth had not quite penetrated my heart.
The following day was the memorial for family and friends at Mount Pisgah. Again, I had no real feeling one way or another about what was happening. It was as if I were frozen in time. I think really what was happening was my brain and body were protecting my psyche from what was going to come in tsunami size waves later on.
I started to mark time. In my journal, I kept tally marks on the inside cover of how many days had pasted since their deaths. Each week was circled in red ink marking another chunk of time. As I go back and read my journal, I note that much of that first year was writing about the previous year and what activities we were doing as a family.
As reality slowly dripped into my heart, I felt the gaping hole that existed; the loneliness, the emptiness, the void of laughter, the loss of life. I felt the affects Patrick, Olivia and Runa had had on my life too late. I couldn't be grateful, I could only grieve.
I think this is definitely true in Patrick's case. Seven years later, I am still learning of the profound presence he had in others' lives. It truly amazes me. Just last year, the counselor at Cottage Grove High School told me she had talked with Patrick shortly before we moved to Oregon. She told me how impressed she was that he would take the initiative to learn about the kids and the community before taking on his position at Pleasant Hill High School.
The first week after Patrick, Olivia and Runa's deaths was almost a grace period. There was an infinite amount of support, friends and family milling around our house and around Eugene. A constant buzz of people filled our little house on East 43rd. I was never alone with my own thoughts and it was oddly comforting.
Our refrigerator had enough food in it to feed an army, however, none of it appealed to me. In that first month I lost about 20 pounds because I just couldn't eat. Grief has a funny way of showing up in our bodies and for me it was food.
The school memorial service was held that Friday, March 21st in the school gymnasium, right before Spring Break. The school gym was packed, people were standing in the doorways and the halls. I chose to sit in the bleachers with the students, instead of in the front row with my family. I wanted them to know I was there with them, that we were going to pull through this together.
The whole memorial thing was surreal. It was almost as if I was having an out of body experience. I remember sitting in the audience listening to teachers and students talk about Patrick and Olivia and thinking this isn't really happening. What my brain knew to be the truth had not quite penetrated my heart.
The following day was the memorial for family and friends at Mount Pisgah. Again, I had no real feeling one way or another about what was happening. It was as if I were frozen in time. I think really what was happening was my brain and body were protecting my psyche from what was going to come in tsunami size waves later on.
I started to mark time. In my journal, I kept tally marks on the inside cover of how many days had pasted since their deaths. Each week was circled in red ink marking another chunk of time. As I go back and read my journal, I note that much of that first year was writing about the previous year and what activities we were doing as a family.
As reality slowly dripped into my heart, I felt the gaping hole that existed; the loneliness, the emptiness, the void of laughter, the loss of life. I felt the affects Patrick, Olivia and Runa had had on my life too late. I couldn't be grateful, I could only grieve.
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