There is a formula for grief, it is called the Kubler-Ross Grief Cycle. The idea is that the person grieving goes through seven stages: shock, denial, anger, bargaining, depression, testing, and finally acceptance. When I first heard of the Grief Cycle, I asked, "how does this work? One stage every month or so?" Much to my chagrin, I was told it would take three to five years for me to fully process and go through all the stages of grief.....THREE to FIVE YEARS!
In my personal experience, I don't think a person cycles through all stages of grief in order. I personally went straight from shock to anger, then maybe back to denial. Most days were just a muddled mess of all the stages, and I never knew where I stood.
My therapist wrote down the stages on a post-it which I posted on our bathroom mirror. Being such a concrete person, I wanted to know which stage I was experiencing and track my "progress". But I could never identify exactly which stage I was in, nor tell when a new stage was coming to sweep me away. For me it was like a tornado of stages. Just when I felt I had a firm grasp on one stage I was experiencing, I would be slammed by two or three others, all at once! I was constantly swirling around in the tornado's column, never quite knowing where it would land and do destruction next.
Denial, anger, and bargaining came as a box set. I would start my day denying that Patrick and Olivia were dead. By lunch I was in a complete rage that I was still alive. Then, I would spend the afternoon and evening bargaining. "If I promise to listen....if I work harder.....if I give up all my material things, will You bring Patrick and Olivia back?" I would ask why them and not me? Or if they were gone, how could I get to where they were?
After a while, I realized asking for their return wasn't going to work. I didn't grow up practicing any one religion, so praying to God felt uncomfortable and my untreated anger began to get in the way of believing something greater existed at all.
My friend, Jody came to live with me for the summer after the accident. To this day, I am indebted to her for her kind, selfless act of embedding herself in my life when the DAB box set were playing their loudest. I was moody, difficult to get along with, unable to make any decisions, and determined not to fall victim to the tragedy that had just been bestowed upon my life. Looking back, I am certain I could have done much more harm those three months if she had not been present. Even though it was difficult to do, Jody knew me so well, she was able to ground me and hold me accountable.
When school let out for the summer, I made myself extremely busy. I signed up for graduate classes at the University of Oregon and decided to train for my first ever, half-ironman triathlon. I thought, "heck, if I am too busy, the denial, anger and bargaining will go away, right?" Wrong! The grief tornado just turned up a notch from strong to violent.
One night in mid July, Jody and I were having dinner on our deck, a beautiful night to be outside, enjoying food and company. Out of nowhere, I turned to her said, "Next time we get in our car, I am going to be sure that I sit in back next to Olivia so I get hit by the truck axle too." My new form of bargaining: just blurting out shocking statements to anyone in earshot.
Denial took the form of uncontrollable crying. I had inherited a dresser from my grandfather when he died. It is a beautiful, old mahogany piece that has a barrel chest of drawers with detailed finish and iron drawer-pulls. It sat in Patrick's and my bedroom full of Patrick's clothes. Each day, at least twice a day, I would go through the drawers looking at his clothes. Then I would grab the corners of the dresser top, hanging on for dear life as I sob, wept, moaned, howled and cried until I had nothing left in my body. Oftentimes I found myself in a heap on the floor in front of the dresser.
I think the worse was my anger. It was quick and biting and I truly had no control over it. It became a familiar friend who guided me down the path of darkness. Often, I tried to leave it's lair only to find myself wrapped tighter in it's chains.
Anger took control of my life. Nothing was safe from my anger. I screamed at friends. I raged at strangers. My anger even found a way to make me believe I was a victim of life. The very thing I swore I would not do. I found myself closing off from the world, using the excuses: No one understands. They haven't experienced what I have. Their problems are little and petty.
Deep inside my conscience, I knew this anger was going to be my demise, yet it was so cunning, powerful and manipulative I couldn't break free. All the grace and poise I demonstrated early after the accident was gone. I was now the empty, hollow, angry shell of a person I had sworn I would never be. I needed help!
Monday, January 10, 2011
Wednesday, December 15, 2010
Trying to Rebuild
I look back now and realize how much people extended themselves for me during my time of need. The school staff supported me through the spring as I imped towards the end of the school year. Neighbors baked casseroles, did my grocery shopping and made sure my lawn was mowed. Patrick's friends, who were scattered all over the United States rallied around me; calling, sending emails and cards, and generally keeping tabs. Our families, Patrick's and mine, were a large part of my support system as I navigated life as a widow and childless mother. And my best friend, Jody, came to my rescue by leaving her life in San Francisco to live with me for three months. I am eternally grateful to all those who stepped up to the plate and stuck by me during some of the most difficult times.
One group of special souls were six senior boys at Pleasant Hill High School, who had grown close to Patrick over the span of their high school careers. Patrick had helped them with resumes, college applications, goal setting, and basketball coaching. But they had also become his friends...and he was their confidante. This group of boys were also in my first period Senior English class. Prior to the accident they were usually late, chuckling about being Seniors. But after the accident, that group of boys were always on time, most days waiting at my classroom door when I arrived at 7:30am. Waiting to make sure I was okay and ready for another day of school.
One morning in early May, one of the boys, Preston, came to me with a surprise. He said "Ms. Barr, I know your dog was in the car with you and I know you were close to her. My black lab just had a litter of puppies and I would like to give you one of the females, so you can have another dog."
I could hardly look at him. Tears welled up in my eyes as I tried to hold the flood gates together. Not wanting him to see how touched and deeply moved I was, I busied myself, straightening piles of papers on my desk. I told him that it was such a kind offer and a wonderful gesture, but I wasn't sure I was ready to have a puppy.
Preston said, "but Ms. Barr, we are all worried about you being alone. We would all feel better if we knew there was someone/something near by."
I declined again and added that I really couldn't have a puppy because Runa had done so much damage to our fence, yard and house. When I was at school, the puppy wouldn't be safe.
Preston left my classroom a little deflated but understanding.
That next weekend at about 9:00am, a truck full of tools, a wheelbarrow and bark-a-mulch pulled up in my driveway. Preston and five other boys from my class jumped out of the truck and one other car ready to get to work.
"We are here to fix your backyard" they told me. I was floored. Such generosity, kindness and compassion shown by this group of young men brought joy and sadness to my heart.
Preston, Jay, Andrew, Eric, and Josh spent the entire weekend at my house repairing the fence, replacing siding on our house that Runa had chewed, and laying the foundation for the new dog house they had built in their wood shop class the week prior. They spent the entire weekend repairing, cleaning and hauling... absolutely backbreaking work.
As they packed up to leave Sunday afternoon, Preston came back and asked, "You ready for that puppy now?" How could I resist?
I picked Elmo out of a litter of six puppies, she was the last female. (I named her after Olivia's favorite Sesame Street character. Liv adored the red, furry Elmo. Her routine each morning was to get breakfast, park in front of the TV, and eagerly anticipate Elmo's World. She never missed an episode and watch it in its entirety, even if she had seen it a hundred time. Elmo, by far, was her favorite.)
Elmo came home with me after school one night. She barked, whined and moaned the entire night, lonely for her family. I understood.
"I wish I could bark, whine and moan too," I told her.
"Does it make you feel better?" I asked. If it had, I would have done it every night and as loud as possible.
Elmo and I spent that summer getting acquainted, learning how to handle each other's personalities and foibles. She became my hope. My hope that life would resume again and that I could rebuild.
Runa had been the dog who witnessed my rights-of-passage into adulthood.
Elmo would be the dog who would witness my transformation into a new life.
One group of special souls were six senior boys at Pleasant Hill High School, who had grown close to Patrick over the span of their high school careers. Patrick had helped them with resumes, college applications, goal setting, and basketball coaching. But they had also become his friends...and he was their confidante. This group of boys were also in my first period Senior English class. Prior to the accident they were usually late, chuckling about being Seniors. But after the accident, that group of boys were always on time, most days waiting at my classroom door when I arrived at 7:30am. Waiting to make sure I was okay and ready for another day of school.
One morning in early May, one of the boys, Preston, came to me with a surprise. He said "Ms. Barr, I know your dog was in the car with you and I know you were close to her. My black lab just had a litter of puppies and I would like to give you one of the females, so you can have another dog."
I could hardly look at him. Tears welled up in my eyes as I tried to hold the flood gates together. Not wanting him to see how touched and deeply moved I was, I busied myself, straightening piles of papers on my desk. I told him that it was such a kind offer and a wonderful gesture, but I wasn't sure I was ready to have a puppy.
Preston said, "but Ms. Barr, we are all worried about you being alone. We would all feel better if we knew there was someone/something near by."
I declined again and added that I really couldn't have a puppy because Runa had done so much damage to our fence, yard and house. When I was at school, the puppy wouldn't be safe.
Preston left my classroom a little deflated but understanding.
That next weekend at about 9:00am, a truck full of tools, a wheelbarrow and bark-a-mulch pulled up in my driveway. Preston and five other boys from my class jumped out of the truck and one other car ready to get to work.
"We are here to fix your backyard" they told me. I was floored. Such generosity, kindness and compassion shown by this group of young men brought joy and sadness to my heart.
Preston, Jay, Andrew, Eric, and Josh spent the entire weekend at my house repairing the fence, replacing siding on our house that Runa had chewed, and laying the foundation for the new dog house they had built in their wood shop class the week prior. They spent the entire weekend repairing, cleaning and hauling... absolutely backbreaking work.
As they packed up to leave Sunday afternoon, Preston came back and asked, "You ready for that puppy now?" How could I resist?
I picked Elmo out of a litter of six puppies, she was the last female. (I named her after Olivia's favorite Sesame Street character. Liv adored the red, furry Elmo. Her routine each morning was to get breakfast, park in front of the TV, and eagerly anticipate Elmo's World. She never missed an episode and watch it in its entirety, even if she had seen it a hundred time. Elmo, by far, was her favorite.)
Elmo came home with me after school one night. She barked, whined and moaned the entire night, lonely for her family. I understood.
"I wish I could bark, whine and moan too," I told her.
"Does it make you feel better?" I asked. If it had, I would have done it every night and as loud as possible.
Elmo and I spent that summer getting acquainted, learning how to handle each other's personalities and foibles. She became my hope. My hope that life would resume again and that I could rebuild.
Runa had been the dog who witnessed my rights-of-passage into adulthood.
Elmo would be the dog who would witness my transformation into a new life.
Thursday, December 2, 2010
Widow Warriors
I need to acknowledge all those who have lost loved ones, before and after my experience. It is such a difficult process to go through. It is as if we have formed an unknown society of "people who have experienced traumatic loss." We can look each other in the eye and say "Yes, I know the hell you have experienced." To all those who are grieving a loss, this entry is for you.....
To this day, seven almost eight years later, I still hate to tell people my story. Not because it brings up emotion for me (that happens on a daily basis), but because I feel this burden of upsetting others. I watch their faces change, scrunch-up, and change color as they try to process the information I just gave them. When I tell people, especially new acquaintances, all conversation stops and I feel the need to fill that space with justification, telling people "It's okay, it happened a while ago and I'm okay with it." Yuck! At those times, I wish I would just shut my mouth and allow people to process and feel what they need to feel. Maybe one of these days I will find a graceful way to tell people "my story" and not feel the need to fill the empty space.
In India the widow/widower wears white for the first year after death. It is a sign of honor for the one who had past and allows others to know of the person's pain.
That first year after I lost Patrick, Olivia and Runa, I wished I could wear special clothes to let the public know that my heart was broken and to be tender with me. I felt hallow and naked. Even just a post-it note on my back saying: This woman lost her husband, child and dog in a car accident. Be nice to her and don't ask silly questions, would have made a world of difference.
We all go through our day, meeting strangers, talking and interacting with them. But as a grieving widow and childless mother, it's a different experience.
I travelled back to Winnetka, Illinois, Patrick's hometown, to attend a memorial service for Patrick and Olivia. At that time, I was probably at one of my deepest lows. I was struggling to make sense of each day. When I got on the plane to return home, I sat down in an aisle seat, rested my arm on the arm rest and took a deep sigh. An older gentleman across the aisle, gently reached over and touched me on the shoulder. He looked at me directly and said "Hang in there, I know it's hard now, but you are a beaming light of sunshine." I was perplexed. I thought, how does he know? Most likely he didn't, but it was the kindness of a stranger that made that plane ride bearable.
But there is the other side of friendly, innocent interaction that made me as a widow not want to face the public each day:
Shortly after the accident, still on crutches and with cuts on my face, I went to the pharmacy to get some medication. The clerk was a very nice man, just trying to help his customers. As I was paying he innocently said, "hey, be careful on your skateboard next time!" He meant nothing by it, but my emotions were so out of whack and I was so tender that I cried for the rest of the afternoon.
Or I think people just don't think: At the end of the school year, we had a small end-of-the-year party. I was feeling particularly brave and asked a teacher who was two cars behind us what he saw the morning of the accident, since I didn't remember much. He told me his rendition of the events and then added "You guys were our guardian angels that morning. If you had not been in front of me, that could have been me who died." Oops!
Now, I look back at those comments and chuckle. That teacher was being honest; he was grateful. He didn't realize it would soak up two or three therapy session of me telling my therapist why that made me so angry.
Our daily interactions are most often innocent and benign. We don't know the person's history or emotional state when we talk to them. I think we are just trying to be friendly and nice. When a person experiences a deep loss, some switch in our brain gets flipped and we process information differently. That is why some sort of clothing, or even a hat would be nice. It would remind people, "hey, this person's experiencing a difficult time, be nice, be friendly, but be cautious."
No matter how innocent, how friendly the comment may be, it cuts deep and we, the widow warriors have to continue on as if life is worth living and we have no pain in our hearts. And when we feel as though we could crawl in a hole and die, facing daily life, interacting with others becomes one of the most difficult tasks to face each day as we grieve our losses.
To this day, seven almost eight years later, I still hate to tell people my story. Not because it brings up emotion for me (that happens on a daily basis), but because I feel this burden of upsetting others. I watch their faces change, scrunch-up, and change color as they try to process the information I just gave them. When I tell people, especially new acquaintances, all conversation stops and I feel the need to fill that space with justification, telling people "It's okay, it happened a while ago and I'm okay with it." Yuck! At those times, I wish I would just shut my mouth and allow people to process and feel what they need to feel. Maybe one of these days I will find a graceful way to tell people "my story" and not feel the need to fill the empty space.
In India the widow/widower wears white for the first year after death. It is a sign of honor for the one who had past and allows others to know of the person's pain.
That first year after I lost Patrick, Olivia and Runa, I wished I could wear special clothes to let the public know that my heart was broken and to be tender with me. I felt hallow and naked. Even just a post-it note on my back saying: This woman lost her husband, child and dog in a car accident. Be nice to her and don't ask silly questions, would have made a world of difference.
We all go through our day, meeting strangers, talking and interacting with them. But as a grieving widow and childless mother, it's a different experience.
I travelled back to Winnetka, Illinois, Patrick's hometown, to attend a memorial service for Patrick and Olivia. At that time, I was probably at one of my deepest lows. I was struggling to make sense of each day. When I got on the plane to return home, I sat down in an aisle seat, rested my arm on the arm rest and took a deep sigh. An older gentleman across the aisle, gently reached over and touched me on the shoulder. He looked at me directly and said "Hang in there, I know it's hard now, but you are a beaming light of sunshine." I was perplexed. I thought, how does he know? Most likely he didn't, but it was the kindness of a stranger that made that plane ride bearable.
But there is the other side of friendly, innocent interaction that made me as a widow not want to face the public each day:
Shortly after the accident, still on crutches and with cuts on my face, I went to the pharmacy to get some medication. The clerk was a very nice man, just trying to help his customers. As I was paying he innocently said, "hey, be careful on your skateboard next time!" He meant nothing by it, but my emotions were so out of whack and I was so tender that I cried for the rest of the afternoon.
Or I think people just don't think: At the end of the school year, we had a small end-of-the-year party. I was feeling particularly brave and asked a teacher who was two cars behind us what he saw the morning of the accident, since I didn't remember much. He told me his rendition of the events and then added "You guys were our guardian angels that morning. If you had not been in front of me, that could have been me who died." Oops!
Now, I look back at those comments and chuckle. That teacher was being honest; he was grateful. He didn't realize it would soak up two or three therapy session of me telling my therapist why that made me so angry.
Our daily interactions are most often innocent and benign. We don't know the person's history or emotional state when we talk to them. I think we are just trying to be friendly and nice. When a person experiences a deep loss, some switch in our brain gets flipped and we process information differently. That is why some sort of clothing, or even a hat would be nice. It would remind people, "hey, this person's experiencing a difficult time, be nice, be friendly, but be cautious."
No matter how innocent, how friendly the comment may be, it cuts deep and we, the widow warriors have to continue on as if life is worth living and we have no pain in our hearts. And when we feel as though we could crawl in a hole and die, facing daily life, interacting with others becomes one of the most difficult tasks to face each day as we grieve our losses.
Thursday, November 11, 2010
Don't Go Away
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.
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 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.
Friday, October 22, 2010
The Letter
Everything comes from the seeds, and seeds die by being born. Truly, then, every part of our lives - even the good things - must one day cause us pain. this is the second higher truth: the truth of pain. (The Essential Yoga Sutra II.15)
On March 21, 2003, four days after Patrick and Olivia's deaths I received this letter in my mailbox:
Dear Katie,
I wanted to share something with you. I saw you and Olivia shopping together in Trader Joe's on the Saturday before your unimaginable loss. I passed the two of you several times during our shopping and happened to be in line next to each other at check out.
Each time I saw both of you , you were having wonderful interactions. Both of you had beautiful smiles. Olivia was sitting in the cart and she would look up at you with this beaming, angel face; you would look back at her with a matching look. I am sure other people noticed how happy the two of you were also. I though to myself about how lucky this little girl was to obviously be loved unconditionally. She just radiated all those many hours of love and good care. I wished every child could have that kind of experience.
I went home, gave each of my children big hugs and told them about seeing the two of you. I told them how sweet it was to see this mom and daughter in such a mutual admiration moment. Your face and that of Olivia was frozen in my brain.
I was completely heart sick when I heard about your loss. I am so sorry you lost your husband, daughter and family pet. I have shed many, many tears for the mom and little girl I saw in the store. I will forever remember seeing the two of you interacting with each other, it has touched my life.
I have begun to look into the faces of my own three children and notice things I may of missed or taken for granted.
I can't imagine what I can say and know that I am a stranger. From one mother to another mother, I am so deeply sorry. My thoughts and prayers are with you. I could see in the face of your beautiful daughter, you are a wonderful mommy.
Warm Regards,
Janene
The seeds of all that was good in my life were beginning to cause me pain.
On March 21, 2003, four days after Patrick and Olivia's deaths I received this letter in my mailbox:
Dear Katie,
I wanted to share something with you. I saw you and Olivia shopping together in Trader Joe's on the Saturday before your unimaginable loss. I passed the two of you several times during our shopping and happened to be in line next to each other at check out.
Each time I saw both of you , you were having wonderful interactions. Both of you had beautiful smiles. Olivia was sitting in the cart and she would look up at you with this beaming, angel face; you would look back at her with a matching look. I am sure other people noticed how happy the two of you were also. I though to myself about how lucky this little girl was to obviously be loved unconditionally. She just radiated all those many hours of love and good care. I wished every child could have that kind of experience.
I went home, gave each of my children big hugs and told them about seeing the two of you. I told them how sweet it was to see this mom and daughter in such a mutual admiration moment. Your face and that of Olivia was frozen in my brain.
I was completely heart sick when I heard about your loss. I am so sorry you lost your husband, daughter and family pet. I have shed many, many tears for the mom and little girl I saw in the store. I will forever remember seeing the two of you interacting with each other, it has touched my life.
I have begun to look into the faces of my own three children and notice things I may of missed or taken for granted.
I can't imagine what I can say and know that I am a stranger. From one mother to another mother, I am so deeply sorry. My thoughts and prayers are with you. I could see in the face of your beautiful daughter, you are a wonderful mommy.
Warm Regards,
Janene
The seeds of all that was good in my life were beginning to cause me pain.
Thursday, October 14, 2010
The Darkness Before the Dawn
In my office, I have a picture of Patrick on our wedding day. It is of him sitting in my Uncle Browne's desk chair before the ceremony in his backyard. His eyes are full of warmth and love and he is beaming from ear-to-ear. I look at that picture each day, it gives me hope and strength.
There is always darkness before the dawn!
By 9:00am on March 17, 2003 my life had gone into complete chaos. I learned both my husband and daughter had not survived the car accident we were in at 7:30am, and to top it off, our dog, Runa, who was in the back end of our car was missing. This was too much for my brain to process.
The nurse kept asking me for my parents phone number or address. They had recently moved and I couldn't remember it for the life of me.
"Do you know anyone here in town we could call?" A nurse asked.
"Well, there are our good friends, Steve and Linda Shuman...but I can't remember their number." My brain couldn't even do simple recall.
Luckily, the school had all the important numbers of people to call in case of an emergency. Steve and Linda were contacted, my parents were notified and all were rushing to the hospital.
For me, the world was moving in slow motion. I was escorted from the emergency room to a chaplain room off the main entrance. I remember sitting on a couch looking out the window watching the fog lift and the sun begin to shine. I pulled out a little picture of Olivia I had in my wallet and held on tight. I kept telling myself, "this is not the time to think, don't focus."
Little did I know around me, the world, our world, was moving at a fast pace.
By 10:00am the McCurdy family knew of the loss of their brother and son. All six McCurdy siblings were pulling themselves together enough to make arrangements to get to Eugene. Patsy McCurdy, Patrick's mom, had the burden of calling all her children and telling the story over and over again.
By 11:00am Steve Shuman had located our dog, Runa. She had been crushed in the back end of the wagon and brought to the City of Eugene impound lot. Steve took it upon himself to free Runa from the lot, take her to our veternarian, where they lovingly cremated her and had her ashes saved from me in a crystal ball, which still sits on my bookshelf in my office.
I had Runa since she was a puppy and I was 21 years old. She had grown up will me. She had experienced college, falling in love with Patrick, and the birth of our first child. Runa loved Olivia, and even at her old age of 13, she would let Olivia play dress up with her. Often, I would find Runa in Olivia's room enduring yet one more outfit for the day. It varied day-to-day, depending on Olivia's mood. Runa would ascend from Olivia's room dragging a superhero cape, strangling herself as she stepped on it with her hind paws. Or my favorite was the paisley bonnet and sunglasses. Runa was a very special dog.
Runa had developed a severe case of separation anxiety when we moved from California to Oregon. She couldn't stand to be by herself and began to destroy our house. She dug holes under the fence, torn the siding off our house and broke door frames, just to get to us. So, to save Runa...and our house, Runa began to go with us, EVERYWHERE, including school.
By 12:00pm my parents, my brother and his girlfriend, Carla, and the McCurdy family had begun to arrive at the hospital.
I was told I could go home, I didn't have any injuries, other than a broken kneecap, that would warrant me staying over night. But the very kind staff offered to let me stay for emotional support.
"We can check on you throughout the night, you don't have to face people who may come over to your house, your mom can even stay with you," said the afternoon nurse.
I decided to stay. Interesting, my decision was not so much because I didn't want to face my neighbors, or those who may come by. I wanted to stay because I knew Patrick and Olivia were there and that was my last connection to them. Somewhere in my brain, I knew if I left the hospital that soul-to-soul connection that connects a family would be lost and I couldn't bare that.
The rest of the day truly was a blur. I was moved to a room on the third or fourth floor. My mom and I took a few walks around the floor to stretch my legs and keep all the aches and pains my muscles felt from being in a car accident at bay.
By 7:00 my very best friend, Jody had arrived at the hospital with her mom. At the sight of her, I lost it. I didn't cry, but internally I was beginning to shatter. My heart was finally beginning to come out of the fog and with each new person appearing, my heart broke a little bit more. I was beginning to register why they had come to see me.
I thought, if today is hard, what will tomorrow bring?
There is always darkness before the dawn!
By 9:00am on March 17, 2003 my life had gone into complete chaos. I learned both my husband and daughter had not survived the car accident we were in at 7:30am, and to top it off, our dog, Runa, who was in the back end of our car was missing. This was too much for my brain to process.
The nurse kept asking me for my parents phone number or address. They had recently moved and I couldn't remember it for the life of me.
"Do you know anyone here in town we could call?" A nurse asked.
"Well, there are our good friends, Steve and Linda Shuman...but I can't remember their number." My brain couldn't even do simple recall.
Luckily, the school had all the important numbers of people to call in case of an emergency. Steve and Linda were contacted, my parents were notified and all were rushing to the hospital.
For me, the world was moving in slow motion. I was escorted from the emergency room to a chaplain room off the main entrance. I remember sitting on a couch looking out the window watching the fog lift and the sun begin to shine. I pulled out a little picture of Olivia I had in my wallet and held on tight. I kept telling myself, "this is not the time to think, don't focus."
Little did I know around me, the world, our world, was moving at a fast pace.
By 10:00am the McCurdy family knew of the loss of their brother and son. All six McCurdy siblings were pulling themselves together enough to make arrangements to get to Eugene. Patsy McCurdy, Patrick's mom, had the burden of calling all her children and telling the story over and over again.
By 11:00am Steve Shuman had located our dog, Runa. She had been crushed in the back end of the wagon and brought to the City of Eugene impound lot. Steve took it upon himself to free Runa from the lot, take her to our veternarian, where they lovingly cremated her and had her ashes saved from me in a crystal ball, which still sits on my bookshelf in my office.
I had Runa since she was a puppy and I was 21 years old. She had grown up will me. She had experienced college, falling in love with Patrick, and the birth of our first child. Runa loved Olivia, and even at her old age of 13, she would let Olivia play dress up with her. Often, I would find Runa in Olivia's room enduring yet one more outfit for the day. It varied day-to-day, depending on Olivia's mood. Runa would ascend from Olivia's room dragging a superhero cape, strangling herself as she stepped on it with her hind paws. Or my favorite was the paisley bonnet and sunglasses. Runa was a very special dog.
Runa had developed a severe case of separation anxiety when we moved from California to Oregon. She couldn't stand to be by herself and began to destroy our house. She dug holes under the fence, torn the siding off our house and broke door frames, just to get to us. So, to save Runa...and our house, Runa began to go with us, EVERYWHERE, including school.
By 12:00pm my parents, my brother and his girlfriend, Carla, and the McCurdy family had begun to arrive at the hospital.
I was told I could go home, I didn't have any injuries, other than a broken kneecap, that would warrant me staying over night. But the very kind staff offered to let me stay for emotional support.
"We can check on you throughout the night, you don't have to face people who may come over to your house, your mom can even stay with you," said the afternoon nurse.
I decided to stay. Interesting, my decision was not so much because I didn't want to face my neighbors, or those who may come by. I wanted to stay because I knew Patrick and Olivia were there and that was my last connection to them. Somewhere in my brain, I knew if I left the hospital that soul-to-soul connection that connects a family would be lost and I couldn't bare that.
The rest of the day truly was a blur. I was moved to a room on the third or fourth floor. My mom and I took a few walks around the floor to stretch my legs and keep all the aches and pains my muscles felt from being in a car accident at bay.
By 7:00 my very best friend, Jody had arrived at the hospital with her mom. At the sight of her, I lost it. I didn't cry, but internally I was beginning to shatter. My heart was finally beginning to come out of the fog and with each new person appearing, my heart broke a little bit more. I was beginning to register why they had come to see me.
I thought, if today is hard, what will tomorrow bring?
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