Tribute Video

Here is the link to the 'Tribute Video' I referred to in the last post. Thanks!

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=E2_hBPg2Hnc

Rewind 8,760 Hours

This week has been hard for me.  It was a year ago that Brandon left for Basic Training. One year ago today Brandon and I sat eating cheap greasy Mexican food. The Army puts the recruits up in a hotel the night before they ship out to basic. In typical Brandon style, he had forgotten his check book and needed me to bring it to him. The upside, we had a chance to go to dinner one last time before I wouldn’t hear from him for weeks and even then just hand written letters. Although I was happy to see him, I remember thinking, “How is he ever going to make it in Bootcamp? He still needs his Mommy!”. Now I would give anything for a dinner date with him. I would drive to Canada if that’s what it took. We ended up at a Mexican place simply out of convenience. We were quiet as we ate and I felt a sense of righteousness getting these extra last minutes with my son that other Mothers weren’t getting – their boys didn’t need them to bring them things at the eleventh hour.   As I drove into the hotel parking lot to drop him off I started to cry which, until Brandon died, was out of character for me. He leaned his tall lanky body across the car hugged me and said, “Don’t cry, I’ll be fine.” We hugged, he let himself out of the car and strode into the hotel with just a glancing wave my way. I have often wondered if somewhere deep inside me I felt the churning of something massive coming my way. I’m not (or never was) a crier. But from the time Brandon signed up for Infantry I could be brought to tears at the mere thought of him being in harms way. So possibly this week signifies the creation of the beginning of the end.

Brandon was assigned to what would become known as “Delta 1-19” at Ft. Benning, Georgia. He was 2^nd Platoon, RN#202. For the first time in the history of Army Bootcamp the group’s family was allowed a Facebook page. It was a 'closed group' providing updates on what was happening, answering questions and allowing a connection with other families going through the same thing. After graduation the page was closed but a group of Mom’s formed a page that became my life line for weeks after Brandon died. These women had never met me, some had seen Brandon, but none had met him. Yet these women poured love and support to me in every way conceivable. They sent gifts, they collected money for the Paver at the Infantry Museum where Brandon graduated and Sue made the Tribute Video on You Tube. At night when I couldn’t sleep I would go to this page and read what they wrote and connect to these strangers. It was like having 24 Moms to pamper my shattered heart.

Now this week, I find myself on the other side powerlessly watching a fellow Army Mom have her world decimated by the death of her son. On June 20^th a fellow Delta 1-19 soldier was killed in Afghanistan. This family is not part of the Mom’s group I’m in, like I was, she is a stranger to us. The donations for the Paver have already begun. But, for me I have been transported back to those early hours and days after Brandon died. By now she has begun meeting with her Army representative. After all, like Brandon, her son is the property of the US Army and they will be involved in every detail of the upcoming events. The service is on Saturday. Logistically I know what her week holds; what time will the funeral be, decisions to be made on a casket or urn, choose a guest books for the funeral, choose what ‘feel good’ verse or poem to be copied onto the service handout, decide what songs to be played, what will the sequence of events be, clothes to wear to the funeral (big decision since whatever you wear you want to burn and never see again), favorite scripture, to have a pictorial video or poster done, meeting with a spiritual leader, where to have a reception, meetings with the Army representatives, the list goes on. And I know from experience, as horrible as it is to choose the precise urn for your child, she will look back and realize this is the easy part.

The hard part is learning how to wear your new wool sweater of grief that used to be known as your life. Everything about life becomes uncomfortable, nothing fits the same way. Things you have done for years all of a sudden don’t fit anymore. Every summer I look forward to winding my way through the singletrack trails on my mountain bike on the beautiful foothills where I live. Yet, this year, my bike hangs in the garage as lifeless as I feel. Maybe this other Mom isn’t a mountain biker (let’s hope she isn’t, mountain bikers are crazy). But she too will find herself in the grocery store realizing that as broken as she feels, no one will notice, no one will point and stare at the wool sweater she now wears. She will just wiggle slightly trying to find the comfort that anonymity can bring.

I don’t know this woman, I have no way of knowing how she will navigate her voyage. She will count the days that turn into months, the "Firsts" and she too will remember 8,760 hours ago when life was comfortable.

I do know that for each of us this journey is very different and that every day (often multiple times a day) I make a choice to hang in there a little longer. I’m strong you say? No, I am crippled and broken by the loss of my son. But I am what is left of Brandon for the world to experience and I owe him being the best representative I can be.

Crying Myself Awake

 "You are one of the most spectacular women I have ever encountered in my life.I love you with all my heart and I've come to realize that. I want to thank you for everything you have done for me. You have made so many sacrifices for me. I am so grateful and blessed to have a mother like you. One of the most important things I've learned here is patience. It applies to everything. To life, to relationships, to love and even finding your 'personal legend'.  

Excerpt from a letter from Brandon when he was at Open Sky, July 2008

It happens only occasionally, but since Brandon died there are nights that I am awaken by the wetness of my own tears leaving salt tracks across my face. The tears are big and heavy. Perhaps it's an overflow valve of sorts. As the rest of me lies silently sleeping these big heavy tears escape from the valves and race away from the sadness that squeezed them out of my subconscious and released them into reality. I don't think they like reality anymore than I do. They race toward the pillow hoping to be reabsorbed into the softness of the cotton. I appreciate the pain the tears feel and wish my own comfort could be found in simply lying my head on the pillow and being held by it's soft cotton and goose down.

It happened this morning sometime between four and five in the morning. How do I know this? Because it wasn't until four that Jason came home. This is part of Jason's journey through grief. There is no right or wrong, which is part of the challenge, each of us must author our personal Owner's Manual. Jason's way is to stay away for as long as he can, both physically and emotionally. He has been a passenger watching his brothers struggle, fall, climb get back up, stand tall and mature into strong young men. This time however, he must learn to use his own compass to map.

The tears that escape at night and wake me up while leaving tell-tale tracks of salt across my face are escorted by my dreams of Brandon.  I try so hard to stay asleep and hang on to hearing his voice, feeling him hug me and seeing his beautiful smiling face. Once I have lost my grip on sleep and the tears pull me back from the love I feel in these dreamy moments, I lay in bed and force myself to remember each and every detail. What Brandon was wearing, where we were, what he said, how tall and strong he always is in my dreams. He is always happy and, except for one dream, we always hold each other. Each time I repeat to him how much I love him and miss him, over and over again until I feel I must really being saying out loud into the silence of my room. I truly believe he is with me in these dreams, the love I feel when I press myself into his chest isn't something I've ever felt before. The love is bright and radiant and has a sharpness to it. In these dreams my heart physically hurts in the same way it did the day I found out he died. Growing pains I tell myself... If my heart wasn't broken I couldn't feel the undetectable stitching, stapling, strapping, gluing and duct taping of the small pieces coming back together.  I also want to believe it's Brandon's way of reallocating strength and love to me so that I can make it through another day.  So that I can continue to rebuild my broken heart into one with huge expansion joints that enable me to love deeper for those in my life that deserve it most.

p.s.Yes, Jason got a stern talking to this morning and I woke him up at 10:00 to babysit Sam while I ran. Sam, who is working at potty-training, took it upon himself to flush his diaper (and shirt) down the toilet and pee on the couch while Jason was cleaning the bathroom. I think that is punishment enough!

Grief Bootcamp - The Initial Phase

"The past three days we have done team building courses. I repelled down Eagle Tower in just three jumps! The gas chamber sucks really bad. It felt like my skin was on fire and I was breathing in nothing but firework smoke..... p.s. you were right about me being in a lot better shape than most of the guys" ~Letter from Brandon at Bootcamp, July 16th

I supported Brandon's decision to join the Army. I wasn't happy he choose Infantry, as as Mom I would've preferred something safer, like trumpet player. And, like a Mom, I worried how hard Boot-camp would be for him, if it would make him or break him. Brandon wanted to take the path of most resistance, he needed to prove to himself he could do this and do it well. 

Now I was the one in Boot-camp, a different kind of Boot-camp, but the questions were the same - Would it break me or make me? This one however, no one would volunteer for. Each of us has unknowingly enlisted into this program, no one is immune.You too are signed up for Grief Boot-camp. The problem is you won't ever know when we are going to get called up. There is no warning, no way to train for it, no way to prepare and no matter what you do or who you are Grief Boot-camp will kick your ass.

The initial phase of my Boot-camp relied heavily on the use of sleep deprivation. Brandon said the worst part of Boot-camp was getting up at 0400 hours. HA- I can beat that! I was up and wandering the streets at 0300. The first night I walked over to the grocery store. It's only about a quarter of a mile, no 12 mile ruck march, but it's seemed like a 'normal' thing to do, after all it was open. I had never seen the store at that time of night and the brightness of it's expansive interior seemed out of place in contrast to the dark night and glowing empty parking lot. One checker, a couple stock boys and the floor cleaning crew gave me quick glances of acknowledgment that told me I wasn't the only one to come wandering into the store at this time of night. I walked with purpose up and down the aisles as if there really was something so important it couldn't wait until the sun was up. Remembering when I was 16 and my Dad died I knew there would be plenty of people around in the coming days, so I settled on coffee (and tea for my friend Beth who I knew would be around) and went through the self check out. How strange it was that my entire world had been decimated, my heart fragmented into little tiny indecipherable shards, yet on the outside I didn't look any different (sans the growing bags under my eyes). No one in the store pointed and stared, no one gasp when they saw me. It was an invisible Boot-camp where Grief was my Drill Sargent and I was the only Recruit.

I walked back from the grocery store, coffee in hand ready for the people who would need to make the coffee to appear busy and to have something to focus on and for those who needed to drink the coffee for the same reasons.

In the initial phase of my Boot-camp running came easily. Perhaps because it was what I knew to do and I was on auto-pilot in those first days. I could run through anything and since I was going to master this Grief Boot-camp I could  just run through this too. Back at the house I had now ground away over an hour of my new life sentence, it was 0400 and chilly enough for me to pull out a long sleeve wicking shirt and tights. I laced up my running shoes and stepped out the door. Standing at the edge of the curb I was unable to make a decision of which way to go, but I was sure it would be a long time before I would return to the fateful 'let my guard down' course. Apparently that was a bunch of crap. So much for flying downhill and letting go of my silly anxiety and fear, look where that got me. So, I turned right and headed into the flat terrain of the neighborhood hoping that running would excise my demons and knowing I had a full day ahead of me. I had to meet the Army Representatives at my ex-husband's house that afternoon.

Looking back on those initial days it's amazing what I remember. Actually how little I remember (an ironic similarity between birthing and burying my first born). As I write this I am searching the archives, trying to bring something up to fill in the gaps. Nothing. Big blotches of black interspersed with an occasional memory... running in the dark rain, picking out a box for Brandon's ashes, my mother-in-law's chicken and noodles (comfort food), buying shoes (for the funeral). With the exception of the cremation box it could be memories from any other week, but it happened while I was being initiated into Grief Boot-camp. Like the military's version of boot-camp, Grief Boot-camp breaks you down to the very raw core of who you are. It renders you weak, confused and wondering how long you can exist in such a violently shattered state. These initial days are just a warm up for the real stuff, the hard stuff, the questions (My personal favorite: "How many kids do you have?") and 365 days of anticipating each "first". I gave up exercise after the initial phase was over.

Beginning at the End

"I am happier than I've been in a really long time. It feels like the grip that 'fear'  has had over me for so many years is loosening. I can't imagine wanting my life to be at any different place than right now. I feel like I am finding peace and life has found it's flow. It feels really good!" 

~Personal Journal Entry, September14th, 2010

Over the last eight months I have often reflected back to the days between that journal entry and October 9, 2010. I sometimes wallow in how perfect life felt. Perfect for the first time since April of 2007. This very small sliver of time when I let my guard down, I let myself finally release the fear, the anxiety and the anticipation of 'waiting for the other shoe to drop'. Of course the other shoe wasn't going to drop! What could be left, I had run (literally and figuratively) through my middle son running away from home (for 10 days) and subsequently spending 15 months in various treatment programs in other states, another son who tried to commit suicide and he too spent time in wilderness therapy, the break up and make up of my current husband and the birth of my fourth son. During this time I collected therapist like an eight year old boy does baseball cards - individual, family, transitional, short-term, long-term. Really, hadn't I proved my resilience to the Universe for whatever it might have up it's sleeve? I met every challenge as an opportunity, to be a better parent and a better wife, and I had run and biked my way through all of. I ran full and half marathons, biked hundreds of miles and climbed mountains both literally and figuratively.

On Wednesday, October 6, 2010 we were leaving for Ft. Benning Georgia to see my oldest son Brandon graduate from Army Infantry Training. A decision long in the making for him and turns out something that fit him like a glove. I set out to get my run in before being on a plane all day. Only four and half miles, but living in the Colorado foothills of the Rocky Mountains it included the typical climbs and descents. Life was perfect and during that run, when I approached a long screaming downhill section,  I conscientiously let go of the past and accepted that my hard work, tears, perseverance and diligence had been paid in full. Time to embrace the life I had worked so hard for. I turned for home and embraced the gradual climb knowing that life would still challenge me but that the hardest climbs were behind me, or so I thought.

Seventy two hours later after enjoying the bliss of my family and being engulfed by seeing how Brandon had blossomed into a confident, strong soldier, I was side swiped with such velocity my heart had no choice but to shatter into pieces . Brandon was dead. In the first hours after I heard those words my heart physically ached, the pain was sharp and intense and I could do nothing but be an active observer in the breaking of my own heart.  How could this be, he had just flown home with us twelve hours before. On the way home from the airport he asked to be dropped at his Dad's house so he could hang out with his step-brother. Still dressed in his uniform as we pulled up I asked if he wanted to change his clothes. No, he was so proud of being a US Infantryman he wanted to show off his uniform while out with his friends he hadn't seen in so long. I hugged him tight, with a bit of apprehension and told him I loved him. Then I turned to Shane, the step-brother and said, "Keep my baby safe tonight". In reply as he peeled away from Brandon's embrace he told me, "Of course, I love him like a brother!".

And so began, and continues, the longest most excruciating climb of my life. In four days it will be eight months since Brandon died. It has taken me this long to get to where I feel sharing my story and creating this blog will not only emotionally benefit me but, hopefully be of benefit to others as well. My career and personal life have been focused on the benefits of exercise. I have counseled cardiac rehab patients on how exercise can help them. I have trained for and ran the Boston Marathon. Yet, in the initial trauma of my grief exercise didn't have a place. I was completely emotionally unable to apply my own rhetoric in healing myself. Nothing in my Masters of Exercise Physiology program taught me how to rehabilitate a broken heart. I am writing the manual from scratch.

Like any injury the body sustains, a broken heart never heals back the same way. But I would like to believe I have some control over how it is put back together. That may be my only hope that again some day I can let go of waiting (again) for the other shoe to drop.