You are fading, but not forgotten

Laura, you felt so close and real to me again today.  I cried over you again today, which I haven't done in a long time.

As a therapist I sometimes work with people suffering with their grief, and I have recently been working with a woman who lost her son a few years ago when he was in his late 20s or early 30s from complications of a health problem.  Losing you has made it so easy to relate to her experience, which has made me a good fit for her as a therapist--even though I can never understand the depth of the grief of a parent losing their child.

As Autumn gets older she reminds me of you more and more, and sometimes I wonder what would happen if I were to lose her.  Luckily, she doesn't seem prone to depression like you had.  But I wonder what I would do if she were to die in a car wreck or something.  It makes me think of so many memories from her infancy up through her now-15-year-old-self, all of that history, all of that love I have for her.  I hate seeing her suffer, even through normal teenage things like uncertainty over how much she should open up to other people.  Seeing her suffer even over little things hurts so much that I can't hardly talk about it with Emily without feeling stressed because of my impotence to make things better.  The older I get, the older my kids get, the thought of losing them is so painful that it causes me panic and I immediately have to put thoughts like that out of my mind.  This only gives me the slightest inkling of what it must be like for this woman to have lost her adult son unexpectedly, and an even tinier inkling of what it must have been like for Mom and Dad to watch you suffer, and then eventually die.  If that happened to me with one of my kids, I would unravel.  I would be lost forever.  I don't know how Mom and Dad have managed not to. 

Maybe I am especially sensitive to my own feelings today, because I have been thinking a lot this last week about my own mortality, because I am turning 40 on Sunday, and because my blood sugar has been harder to control this last week (I might have to break down and actually make a habit of exercise soon).  Maybe it's because Emily has been working on the quilt for Mom and Dad made of your clothes.  I'm not sure why.

This woman I work with is so afraid to let go of her grief because she is afraid that when she does, her son will fade and then eventually be gone forever.  Today in session I felt grief over your death so acutely, at least in part because I realize that you are fading in my memory.  Part of it is probably because of my aging mind.  But a bigger part of that is a self-defense factor, because if you weren't fading it would be so hard even now to deal with your death, even though this year will mark 10 years since your death.  I just kind of assumed that after 10 years of grieving over you it would be a lot easier.  I guess it is, but I was really surprised today how intense the feelings still can be.

This woman is also worried about others not remembering her son once she is dead and gone.  We talked today in therapy about how to let the memories live on.  I pointed out that at Iowa State there are a few statues or busts of people who are gone but not forgotten because they have an image to remember them by, and usually a plaque with some story, fact, or anecdote about them.  I asked this woman today what sculpture she would make of her son, and what she would want written on the plaque by the sculpture, in order to help others remember the essence of who he was.

I found myself thinking about what picture I would use for your sculpture, and what I would have you doing in the sculpture.  I realized that I would probably use the picture at the upper left of this blog title, and I would have you in front of a piano.  Or maybe I would use a different picture, of something other than you smiling, because of how intense your face could look as you played the piano sometimes, or at other times how transported and peaceful your face would look as you played.

I think I would have your sculpture sitting at the piano because my fondest memory of you for years has been the time I went to visit you at your apartment and you took me into the common room in the recreation area, where there was a piano, and you not only played "Samson" by Regina Spektor for me, but sang it too.  Usually you didn't sing to me, but that day you did.  I had never heard the song before, and it was beautiful how you played and sang it.  I wish I had a video of you playing and singing that day, but I plan to watch and re-watch that scene when I eventually get to the other side and get to watch the highlights of my life.

I opened up your blog today to show the woman a way that we can immortalize loved ones who are gone through writing about memories, and I was really dismayed to see that I haven't posted on your blog for almost 6 years.  When I can remember specific things it usually hurts too much to think about them long enough to write them up and post them, but sometimes I don't post because I can't remember specific stories much any more.  It seems like Emily, with her amazing memory, remembers more about you than I can, and that saddens me greatly.

I am devastated that my three youngest children have no memories of you.  Zephyr was only about 6 months old when you died.  Like this woman I work with, I fear you fading in my mind.  I don't know what anecdote I would put on the plaque next to your sculpture, because my memories are fading, and that makes me very sad.  I still miss you.  I still wish I could call you and tell you funny jokes, and hear you laugh uproariously.  I don't want you to fade, but if I'm being really honest, I don't know if I am strong enough to have you still be that sharp in my memory, and for me to continue to feel the intensity of your loss.  Like Regina Spektor sings in the song you played and sang for me, "You are my sweetest downfall."