So much for my journal...
Wednesday, October 16, 2002 --  12:34pm
Posted by Bar


I don't know how long it's been since my last "Good-bye" e-mail to you, but
suffice it to say:  I miss you!

I haven't written one word in my journal and I feel as though I'm about to
implode from all sorts of things that I want to tell somebody and if it's
not going to be me, it's going to have to be you!

I hope you don't mind a random note from me every so often....

This morning I was thinking about how lonely not being a mom is.  It's the
strangest thing.  I dream about a time when Forrest and I will meet again in
some new and mysterious dimension.  Then I wonder if any of that is
possible.  Then my mind spins around and can't bear the thought of being
just me for the rest of eternity.  I have these visions of somehow
intertwining with Forrest in this incredible, uplifting spiral of love and
light.  It's as though the idea of being separate from him for the rest of
what we call time is simply impossible; not bearable; not desirable in the
least.  When I get into this thought process, I remember him saying to me
just before he died, when I had no idea that his days were numbered:  "Mom,
we have everything we need right here."  I may have told you this before,
but his words keep coming back to me.  I end my frantic thoughts of needing
to be with him again with his own wisdom:  that I have everything I need
right here.  I have love.  I have what I had before, I just don't have touch
and that is all.

(And believe me, in the moments that I need to touch him, not having touch
is gigantic, but when I can calm myself down, I find comfort in the notion
that I still have love.)

One of the stories that I wanted to share with you happened to Peter last
weekend:

Albany Medical Center sponsored a weekend retreat for families that had lost
a child to cancer or leukemia.  Peter went for the whole weekend; I could
only go for the memorial service on Saturday afternoon.  At the conclusion
of that service, we were all asked to make little wooden sailboats that we
would then launch on the nearby lake.  Each of the boats had a sail that the
family members could decorate with messages to their child, brother or
sister.  When we'd finished putting them together, a bagpiper led us down to
the lake.  They had asked me to sing "Grace" while the boats were put in the
water, so I did that.  Peter told me later that while I was singing, the air
was motionless and the boats wouldn't move away from the shore.  Apparently,
as soon as I sang the final words of the song, the wind came swooshing down
and pushed the 40 or so boats out of the cove we were in out into the bigger
lake beyond us.  We sang "Lean On Me" and everyone dispersed.

When I got home that night, Peter had left me a message saying that after
dinner, the staff had asked him to go out in his kayak to retrieve all of
the sailboats.  He went off and found all of them in one spot hovering
around a lilly pad or something.  Only one was missing:  Forrest's.

I heard his message, and I got the chills.  My sense was that Forrest was
somehow playing hide and seek with Peter.

When Peter got home Sunday, he told me that he'd gotten up early Sunday
morning to go in search of Forrest's boat again.  It was 7 am and a very
pretty day.  He found the boat on the far side of the lake in the middle of
the water floating along by itself.

I don't know about you, but that story is remarkable to me.  How is it that
Forrest's boat was the only one to separate and that Peter was the one who
was asked to retrieve them?

It's all a wonderful mystery to me.

I guess I should finish by saying that Peter and I are doing ok.  The
retreat last weekend was powerful for Peter.  It was exhausting, but also
valuable to be around people who wanted to talk about their child as much as
he wanted to talk about Forrest.  It was also very important for us to
witness the sadness and loss that the medical staff felt during the memorial
service.  In many ways, they were hurting more than the families who have
had time to process their loss 24 hours a day, 7 days a week.

My friend's husband died on that same Saturday, so we left for the funeral
on the following Monday and Tuesday.  Going to the funeral, singing "Amazing
Grace" for him and for my friend, their children, their families and
friends, and then going to his burial, was very difficult and also somehow
beautiful.  I don't know.  I guess seeing that life and death are a part of
everyone's life and that we are all hurting at different times makes my own
pain more bearable.  I think, also, that understanding some of what my
friend is feeling allows me to comfort her and that always feels good but
especially when I'm hurting myself.

It's good to write you again. Thank you for having me in.
Bar

Stones in the Water
Wednesday, October 30, 2002 --  4:52pm
Posted by Bar


I am not sure what I want to write I just know that I want to write it.
Seems the last couple of days have been pretty much a one-way trip into
confusion. And even as I write that, I realize today I feel much better.
Maybe that's because I have a very groovy scarf  around my neck. I forgot
that I owned this scarf until in a frenzy of cleaning last night, I
rediscovered it tucked away in my closet. As it turns out, it's VERY COLD
here today and I need the scarf even as I sit here typing e-mails.

The confusion I'm suffering from comes from feeling more and more separate
from Forrest. Time is moving on and I'm still in love. I feel like he is
moving farther and farther away and that I am still here all by myself. I
keep getting a stronger and stronger hit that he is fine and well - as
always - but that I am not. I am realizing on a deeper and deeper level that
he and I are two distinctly different entities and that one of us is doing
better than the other. What it leaves me with is a loneliness that isn't
exactly sad, but that I am just a little bit overwhelmed with. I mean,
without him, I really do have to figure out who I am. I really do have to
understand that ultimately I am by myself. Even having Peter right here in
the house doesn't take away this profound sense of being separate. It's
really odd, because at the same time that I am feeling very apart from
Forrest (and everyone else for that matter), I am also feeling deeply
connected to the source of everything. The proverbial veil is still very
much lifted for me and I feel a wonderful sort of bliss even as I get it
that I'm on my own. What it all boils down to is that I feel as though I
finally understand that I am on my very own path. It's a path that I create
and which I make decisions about.  Forrest has his path; I have mine.
Without him here, mine requires more definition from me and that is the
challenge (and also the source of my distress).

I have been reading a lot. Challenging my mind a lot. Asking  many
unanswerable questions a lot. Walking and singing a lot. It's finally
quieted down around here enough that I am able to take time to go inward and
for that I am grateful.

When I took my walk this morning, I got to the place where I have to cross
a creek to get to the other side. Sometimes the creek is flowing so rapidly
that I am terrified to leap across the stones. They get slippery and I
suffer a fear that I never had as a kid facing the same problem. Peter and I
have been really working on my fear and gradually I've gotten better at
jumping across the creek, but still, my terror is often paralyzing. This
morning I was particularly interested in crossing it because I wanted to
take a long walk, and when I got to the creek, someone had put new and
bigger stones across the water. I can't explain this, but I had the feeling
that it was done for me somehow. Someone did it. The stones were very
strategically placed and make it possible for even the most terrified of
mortals to cross the water. And yet yesterday they were not there. I got
very choked up, said 'thank you' to whomever the stone-layer was, and went
on my way.

It was a great way to start the day.

Hope you've had a good one yourself,
Bar