it's fall, again, and I miss you. 🤍

As the year 3 mark approaches – I find myself in a quiet and melancholy place. Year one was shock and horror, people, appointments with the DA – almost a blur. I learned how to listen to books to put me to sleep – as I couldn’t read, and I am still struggling to finish one book the old fashioned way, although I’ve started many. Brain fog, disbelief, searching, what-ifs.

It was a year of people not knowing what to do with us, of mountains of tears and extreme emotions.  Of anger and profound sadness.  A year where food lost its flavor and coffee became all that tasted good.   

I avoided people, places, and questions.  It was a year that I couldn’t talk about him without crying, where I dreaded any kind of get together because of the questions that were asked and because of the reality of the lives we were living.  I said no.  I know it hurt people’s feelings, but how could they possibly understand how a wedding or a graduation party ripped our hearts out?  How we felt like a black cloud everywhere we went, and we didn’t want it to infect anyone else.  

How could they understand the shift in people’s faces on a day to day basis when they looked at us normally, and then remembered…and we had to deal with it time after time.  Or the conversations we politely endured about how blessed people were and how great things were going for them.  Or, of how irritated they were with their kids, family, etc.  Honestly, all we wanted to do was hide.  John was dead. The expectation was for us to act normal, do normal, to attend, to celebrate, and be merry.  

I remember a function I felt compelled to attend and I had to go by myself, something else I hate. I sat in the back. I’m often told of someone else in the room that has lost a child or invited to go sit with so and so when I purposefully picked an isolated spot. How can they understand that I can barely stay put in my chair?  How do you explain that to people? That I want to bolt. That this is so incredibly uncomfortable that I want to scream?  That being in a room full of people gives me intense anxiety. That no, I don’t want to strike up a conversation with strangers and that I’m tired of pretending and dreading the moment when the question gets asked. . .how many kids do you have?  How will I answer?  How will they respond?  Will the festive mood get sucked away? Will I be placated and told a worse story?  Or will they pat my hand and say I'll see him again?  

And, that while it may be comforting to talk to another loss mom, your happy celebration isn’t the place I want to attempt it at.  With a total stranger.  Trust me, she doesn’t either.  No, those conversations are saved for a quiet place.  A one-on-one place.  Those conversations are hard.

Year one was a lot of racing back home or never leaving.  Of days where the only place I went to was the post office in a town of 200, and, only if there were no cars.  It was a year of fighting for John, a year of firsts, a terrible, terrible year.  It was living in a nightmare, and it remains so.  Every day.

Year two they say is often worse than year one. Ha. How can anything be worse than that?  Well, it’s true.  You are still in shock, still feeling completely displaced in this “new life” – but without the support of year one and less understanding. By now the acquaintances have come and gone. They don’t understand that you cannot “call them when you need something”. And they, for the most part, disappear.  They don't want to upset you, assume you have a ton of support, or just plain can't handle it. It's too depressing. You're different. And you talk about drugs too much. 

As an awkward introvert, I am almost entirely incapable of telling anyone what I need. I’m not going to call and tell you I’m having a bad day – unless it’s so bad that I can’t stand it anymore and I trust you absolutely and completely, and even then, what can you say? There are no words to fill the empty aching for him in my heart.  

A few times, the Lord would send a message to a willing heart, and they would “just happen” to call.  At precisely the moment I thought I would explode. I remember two occasions where I was pacing back and forth, sobbing, not knowing how I could possibly do this when my phone rang.  Thank you, Lord, for those times.  

In year two, you find out who you can talk to and who you can’t. Who it makes uncomfortable when you mention his name, and who you can speak freely to.  You feel so very grateful for the people that showed up, but you find it incredibly hard to handle the rejection of those who left.  And you feel desperately thankful for the few people who stayed, despite your new personality.  Which as you can imagine, isn't always super pleasant.

You cling to the loss mom groups and your heart hurts for all the dumb things you’ve said or done in the before.  Only, you find that you still don’t have the right words or actions – you still write better than you speak, and you still say the wrong things.  

You find that you really aren’t much of a comfort in loss – and honestly, how can you be?  It’s not like this thing can be mastered and taught.  After all, it’s year two and you are still not okay. Grief lasts a lifetime. No grief is the same.  Some losses are expected, some are not.  Some losses you get to say goodbye, and some you don’t. None are easy – but some are so completely unnatural you’ll never “get over” it.  

Yes, maybe in some cases you can remarry or have more children . . .but seriously folks, if you think that takes away one ounce of the devastation of losing someone you love with all your heart, you are mistaken. It's an addition, never a replacement.  If someone who has lost their person finds someone additional to love, rejoice with them. If they have another child, celebrate, but don't forget the one that didn't live.  Some losses you will heal from, indeed you will, and I have.  I’m no stranger to loss. But this one?  My son?  John?  Never.  No healing from this.  I will carry it to my grave. 

Year two is lonely. It’s quiet. It’s a year where you sink or swim.  A year where I ate everything with the coffee.  A year of sugar.  A year of finding what works for you.  It’s a year of seconds, of hoarding photos and dreading the holidays and the anniversaries. It’s a year where you stop hearing their name and you desperately want to hear it, hear stories, know that someone is thinking of him.  Where life moves on and you to are expected to as well.  

For me what helped was talking to other moms about their experience and how they were coping. It helped to ask them questions, find out what was normal.  It was a year of coming to terms with my hatred of the pills that started John’s addiction, and a realization that the opioid crisis was a man-made problem. A greed problem. A conspiracy of evil.  It made me ask questions and research.  It made me sign up for classes and learn about what he was suffering from. That opioids are heroin.  Heroin is a word that scares people.  And it should.  It levels the playing field and brings much more awareness to what we are saying yes to.  I learned to stand up for the people suffering from Substance Use Disorder, and I learned how it changed them.  I learned to treat it as a disease and give it the respect it deserves. To stop stigmatizing people because of what they deal with, and to choose my words wisely.  After all, I understood how much John hated it - he wasn't doing it to be rebellious or because he wanted to hurt us.  He hurt.  He had a disease.

So now I’m very suspicious as to what big pharma is pushing next.  What is the new “safe and non-addictive” drug?  In the meantime, I said yes to my own prescription and had to face a new juxtaposition. The med bottles I hated?  Well, now I have one.  I know that medications save lives.  I’m not a fool. But I also know that it can take lives. That they can lead to horrible addictions and side effects, and that it’s a delicate balance.  More people are dying, not less.

I am grateful for the medicine that has allowed me to speak about John, and what happened to him, without crying, for the most part.  I can tell people his story and talk to folks about their story without turning into a hot mess with a huge headache.  For that I am grateful. I hope at some point I can leave it in the past and remember it as a tool, but if not, I’m okay with that.

Year two was a year of dealing with the truth.  John isn’t going to walk back in the door.  There won’t be a daughter-in-law, grandkids, a sibling for Kate or an uncle for the babies, no wedding, no anything.  The reality of it is emptiness.  Year two was a terrible, terrible year.

Year three, which concludes shortly, was much the same as year two. Lonely. Fewer tears thanks to the medication – but also less writing and even more isolation. I have found in year three what I always knew – I need alone time, but too much makes me really, really sad.  

I’ve been blessed with some people in my life that aren’t afraid of my loss and I can trust with John, and with my feelings.  I have come to the realization that my job in life really hasn't changed. That instead of full-time mom, I am the support crew for the grandkids and my little family. 

Yes, Fall has become an even harder time of year. Brian is especially sad, if that’s possible, during the fall harvest, and Kate has her hands full. I’m happy to be able to be available for them all.  Family is number one – it always has been, and they need me. They need my strength and my availability. And I am happy to be that.  It gives me purpose and reminds me of why I am here.  

I've come to terms with the fact that Brian is a better conversationalist and he needs to talk about it more than I do.  He likes to talk about John and has no problem approaching others about their loss. He needs that.  It pains me to watch him walk through all the “last places, last jobs, last days, last conversations and last fields” each Fall, and to see the plans he had melt away . . .to see the joy leave.  But he is so amazing at putting himself in someone else's shoes or coming alongside them in their pain.  But he does it constantly and that worries me.  

While I am good at walls, pretending, and putting on my “hide the grief” mask, he often is not.  Just the other day, he came in from another long day and said he had been thinking about me losing my son and how hard it must be on me, as his mother, to have carried John, gave birth to John, only to see him leave this life.  While I'm trying NOT to go there, to live in my quiet bubble, he is always thinking about it and he immerses himself in the day to day suffering and news that makes him sad - but it's also made his faith stronger.  

That morning, after finding John, his first thought was for me. He has the kindest heart and is filled with so much compassion. When he heard about the latest tragedy, he recognized the names - a nurse that was so kind to him and his father in the ER, and he cried. He reached out. He speaks of it every day and prays for them.  He knows the pain of losing one’s flesh and blood, and he feels it so deeply.  

I hate seeing him in pain or seeing him being hurt by careless words or the insensitivity of others.  I’m a nine – I’ll avoid conflict with all my being – but if you hurt someone I love, the gloves are off. Be kind. He’s not okay.

No, year three hasn’t been much fun either. Fall has always been hard and is even more so now.  I suspect that most of the years will be similar. I’ve been told that we are still so fresh in it, although it feels like a lifetime, and I wonder how much harder it can possibly get. But we keep plugging along.  Believing that all our days are numbered and, as long as we keep waking up, we have work to do.  

I find that I can’t tolerate much drama. All this senseless arguing on social media - where does that get anyone? Be nice. Let people figure it out for themselves.  Your post isn't going to change their mind. Your opinion is just that - yours.  Stop being a troll. Rant over. . . to continue, I also find my conversation skills are lacking, my concentration poor, that after a couple hours of people, I need to go home. I'm more tired. Less interested.  Drinking less coffee and finally making better food choices.  I love my dog, and the calm her presence brings, and I’m truly thankful for those of you that understand my weird and still want a place in my life.  I have a hard time believing that I am someone anyone wants to purposely be around, and I have a hard time inviting anyone in. I spend most of my time with animals and children, and that's okay.  

I’ve also noticed that the loss moms have become just as quiet. We don’t talk anymore. It’s so strange. We were each other’s lifelines, but we all seem to have entered a different phase. But I know, and I'm sure they do to, that we are bonded for life, and if one of us needs the others, we'll be there.  Year three is a terrible, terrible year.

You learn to live with your truth in silence. You go home where you are surrounded by “them”, and you write or cry or talk to them.  You hold their things, sit in their room, wear their clothes, and let yourself pretend for a few moments that you can still feel them there.  And then you slip that mask on and go on pretending.  

I guess that’s what it all boils down to.  As the years pile on, you get better and better at pretending you’re okay when you aren't. You just learn to hold it inside.  And sometimes, you don't say no, sometimes now, you go. . . because you truly are happy for your friends and want to be a part of their joy and with them on their special occasions, but first, you have to learn to stay in your chair.   

Comments

This comment has been removed by a blog administrator.
Thank you for sharing!!! So very, very honest... I so love you, Kristin, and I always love hearing about John and your grief process... 😢💔💔 I think there are definite hallmarks of each year after loss, even though we all grieve differently. I am approaching year 4 in February, and there is still such a heaviness that engulfs my heart. I continue to shed tears daily. Thankfully, I have animals and young children in my life, too! I am thankful for the “chores” that keep me moving forward, because most days I have zero motivation. It’s so tempting to want to stop... My prayers are with you, sister. Always.
~Michelle Martinez 💗🙏💗
So thankful for your beautiful heart Michelle. Love you. ❤️
Tracy said…
I saw your post on lovewhatmatters. And when I saw the icon I was like what?! Is that schlegel?! It sure is a small world.
We were in the same unit in Alaska in 2015.
I had just arrived as a new medic, and through another medic ended up friends with John.
After his injury, I never directly dealt with him in appointments as it was preferable a Male medic do that due to the nature, but I know that he never got his specialist appointment in Anchorage because command deemed it was more important that he do irrelevant field training over and over again.
As I grew as a medic over the years, and the same things happened to countless soldiers I found purpose in fighting for soldiers to have their health put over the mission, especially when that meant putting someone way up in rank in their damn place. Sadly my time at the healm was too late to fight for John, but seeing it as a baby medic did touch me.
We had many good times together in our friend group of "cell block C" soldiers. From hiking in denali, to wandering the festival of the midnight sun, pickup games, or merely hanging around the barracks and bars, he was full of joy and memorable smiles. I am at fort drum ny now, and many of the people from Alaska are here too, and we still speak of schlegel often. He is and will always be alive and loved in our hearts!
This comment has been removed by the author.
Tracy, thank you for reaching out. We love hearing from people who knew John. Thanks also for validating what he kept telling us about they "higher ups" not being willing to take him to the specialist in Anchorage. That is hard to hear - you wonder if it would have changed everything, and then you tell yourself you can't keep asking the what-if's. I'm so thankful he had caring people like you in his life and I'm so proud of you for standing up to the system.

Please, if you read this, find me on Facebook - keep in touch, tell the rest of Cell Block C to reach out! I love to keep in contact with his Army brothers and sisters. We miss him so much - it's nice to live through you all and keep up with your life events. Again, thank you for reaching out!
Unknown said…
Kristin, a friend, Debbie, directed me to your blog/vlog. I will be devouring it. We just lost our 22 yo son, Jarrod, on Jan 24th, this year. He died suddenly, without warning. I found him dead on the floor of our NM home, when I arrived to check on him. We live in Colorado. Your descriptions ring so true to my ears. It is comforting to know I'm not alone in how I feel. While our son suffered from mental illness, depression, bipolar, suicidal ideation....that isn't why he died. But poor mental health played a role. He'd had a lousy year since covid began....my only small consolation is that he isn't in agony anguish and sadness anymore. but, we are. Thank you for sharing yourself.
I’m so sorry for the loss of Jarrod. Yes, they are safe and okay, but we are not. It’s a devastating loss a child. I’ll be praying for you and your family. Debbie is a great friend and gets it. It’s been a blessing to know her. We need each other. ❤️