Facing the Last First

Brandon was my 'first born'. Our lives are measured and celebrated by "First's". First tooth, first steps, first day of school, first kiss, first job. Some of us even have our 'first marriage' to put on that list, only to realize it was a rough draft and the final draft would be the so much more (love to Scott). This Sunday, October 9th,  will be the end of a  list of 'firsts' few want to embrace. 365 to be exact. Each morning since October 9th has been the start of something new. Our culture focuses on the understanable firsts - Thanksgiving, Christmas, Easter, Birthdays, Mother's Day and yes, they are as hard as everyone imagines. Oddly, of the holidays, Valentines Day was horrible for me. To be so keenly aware that Brandon will never come home with that warm twinkle in his milk chocolate eyes and his genuine soft smile and say he has met "the one". Knowing I will never be at his wedding or watch him hold a new baby that would be his pride and joy. His birthday, May 12th, we had his favorite Carrot Cake and sent wishes up to Brandon in Heaven. That was the easy part. The hard part was sweet innocent Sam asking, "Whewe B at?" and looking for him to share the cake with. But really what makes these the easy ones is that they are predictable, I knew they were coming. And, had I forgotten, others are happy to remind me because it is a topic people feel comfortable bringing up to someone in my position. Somehow everyone becomes an experts in the "first year". So, subtract out about 6 days of recognizable firsts and there are 259 days left of firsts for me to experience.

These other 259 days are sprinkled with days early on when I could hardly get out of bed, in spite of the fact I most likely didn't sleep more than about 3 hours. It has just been since Labor Day that I have actually slept through the night. Here are a few of my everyday firsts through the past year.

The first day I realized the bags under my eyes were here to stay and that the deepening of the crevasse across my forehead probably wasn't going anywhere either. Visual expressions of what my heart felt was literally written across my face.

The first Sunday after Thanksgiving when Daniel walked by my bedroom door and saw me crying. He came in, hugged me tight and told me with such conviction that he is always here for me and that anything I needed to say or do he would be here for me. My first glimpse at the changing dynamics of our family. Daniel had now moved up from middle child to oldest.

Followed by the first day (September 8th) Daniel told me how much he appreciated me listening to him and thanked me for the last year. I'm not sure who has supported whom more, but we have both clung to each other through each day this year.  Without Brandon to bridge Daniel and I together we have had to rebuild our own bridge. The bridge is made of trust, transparency and a comfortable knowing where we have both been and the trolls we had to slay to build the bridge.

The first day (March 1st) when I actually felt 'hope' warm my chest and expand my heart. I called Scott and through tears told him about this first, I could hear the fear he had carried since October 9th melt away in his voice and be replaced with his own hope that maybe, someday, he would get his wife back.

The first day, over Memorial weekend, we played cards in our new camper. Brandon loved camping and I always wanted a camper when the big boys were young. The simple act of a camping trip ripped my heart open knowing Brandon would never enjoy this with us. It was the first acknowledgment that the rest of my life would be filled with experiences that would always be weighted against Brandon's absence in sharing life with him.

Sam's first day of pre-school became a flashback to Brandon's first day of school. The vivid photo I have of Brandon sitting on the steps of our front porch, head cocked to one side resting in his hand, eyes off to the ground. I now know that every one of Sam's first will include the sting of a flood of memories when my first born did the same things. I am grateful for Sam's unknowing contribution of reviving memories of Brandon I might not otherwise get to enjoy again, however painful they are.

My first day back to work when someone asked me for the first time (yes, two 'firsts' in one day), "How many kids do you have? How old are they?". This line of questioning has become a game of Social Dodgeball for me anytime I am in situations where people try and make small talk. It is the dreaded question of all questions because there is no comfortable answer.

The first time I went to the grocery store and each aisle presented a favorite food of Brandon's that I would never buy again. It's a Mom thing, you know your kids so well, you don't put it on your grocery list you just know that when you hit the aisle with the plastic bowl of Chinese Hot & Spicy Noodles you'll just pick up a few to have on hand. It has been replaced by 'Take 5' bars for Daniel, Mojo bars for Jason and Annie's Mac & Cheese for Sam.

In a strange way I am looking forward to having 365 'firsts' behind me. Nothing will magically change on October 10th, there will still be many 'firsts' that will either be expected or sneak up on me and take me out at the knees. The hardest part of closing the door on the 'firsts' is my fear that Brandon will start to be forgotten.  That fear is what reminds me that the best way to keep Brandon alive is to be alive myself, to engage life and to appreciate that life will continue to present 'firsts'. This doesn't always come easy, there are many times with I have to fake it until I make it. The weekend after the 1-year mark I am doing my 'first' half marathon since before Brandon died. Only since August have I been emotionally able to run consistently enough to do this. Each step will be part of my personal passage to build an expanded heart that is able to love more, give more, appreciate more, forgive more and embrace the 'firsts' as they come... and maybe create a few of my own.

The Gooey Stuff: aka The Good Stuff

The Gooey Stuff is what  holds all the pieces, big and small, of the broken heart together. It's the small dots, and big clumps of Gooey Goodness that allow me to connect the brokenness of the ugly shards and splinters.

Some days I really have to hunt for the Gooey Good stuff. Some days the good stuff is so all over that I can't avoid it. This is my current list of Gooey Goodness

An unfinished creation by Daniel out by the garden.

• The baby birds in the tree in front of my house. How amazingly awesome that Momma bird felt my tree was safe enough to raise her babies in! I love to hear them chirp when she is out there feeding them. Yesterday I took Sam out to see the babies. His eyes go so big and he instinctively got quiet watching them. What a simple joy and how lucky that I have that in my front yard. Teeney Tiny Gooey Goo, but it thrills me and puts a piece of my heart back together. 
• My son Daniel - of course he has been HUGE GOO from day one for me. Daniel and I are closer than we've ever been. Not a day goes by that we don't connect. In addition to being an amazing athlete, Daniel is an artist... a graffiti artist. Artists are such passionate perfectionists! The Gooey Goo this week was Daniel asking me to help with the color palette of his current creation. Do you know how special I felt that my 19 year old son was involving me in his passion?! Goo to the highest power!
• Running & Biking - I have tried really hard the last few weeks to be more consistent.  I continue to struggle to do this for myself. Now, I must be transparent and share that I visited my therapist a couple weeks ago.  She gently threatened that if  I wouldn't use exercise to help alleviate the stress and anxiety that I should consider a prescription. My good friends Pride and Stubbornness got all wound up and knocked me off my pity pot. Then my friends Grief  & Lazy tried to step in, but Pride and Stubbornness are bad ass girls and won the fight. Grief started to cry and Lazy wouldn't get up off the couch long enough to argue so it wasn't even a fair fight. Yes, shocking but true, every time I go run or bike I feel 100% better! Admittedly I live where my exercise excursions are on single track trails or in the mountains where peace and tranquility embed themselves into every pore without any effort on my part. When I'm done the kinetic energy of movement has put gobs of Gooey Goo into one or two more spots and is now holding another piece of broken heart together.
• Fresh Basil from my garden - I love to cook, but my life is to busy to cook in a way that fulfills this passion. Last weekend however, I made fresh Feta Basil Pesto..... A-M-A-Z-I-N-G! What a simple luxiously pleasure. The kind of Gooey Goo that is slow to seep into little cracks and crevasses of my inner foodie and roll around all warm and soft. Spread on crackers, used as sauce of a pizza, tossed in with pasta and roasted chicken. It was a gift that gave pleasure for a week. Brandon was a foodie too. He would have loved all of it! Let me know if you want the recipe, happy to share the Goo! 
• Right now writing and sitting on my back patio as the sun comes up and warms all the Gooey Goo - Knowing that through this blog I am getting to connect with so much love. Friends new and old, fellow Moms, family and broken or not we can all build bigger hearts. Buckets of Gooey Gooing Good Stuff!

What is your Gooey Goo Good Stuff this week?  Expand yourself - find the Goo! 

Mountain Bikes and Climbing

 In my last post I made a reference to biking and a couple people suggested I get my bike out. Well, it has taken me over two weeks and a running injury to get my mountain bike out. Both of those are out of character for me. 1 – It has never been this late in the season and I haven’t been on my bike. 2 – In all my years of trail running I have never fallen and gotten hurt (this was a crushing blow to my runner’s ego J).

Mountain biking has always been a mirror for my life. As soon as I my tire takes hold of the dirt the ride will play out in a perfect symphonic reflection of my life in that point in time. Yesterday was no different. Lifting my bike off the hooks in the garage I could feel the weight bear down on my shoulders and the clumsiness of an upside down bike sway awkwardly above my head. Grief, I thought to myself. The heavy awkwardness of grief became visible as a mountain bike. But I love my mountain bike; it has taken me some amazing places and taught me some great lessons. Is it too much to hope that grief will also take me places that someday I will see the value in?

My choice of trails couldn’t be more aligned with the current status of my life. A nasty climb, a climb that is relentlessly steep, 2.3 miles of dry dusty dirt gaining over 1500 ft of elevation. I roll onto the trail and dodge around the wide green gate that separates this trail from others, “Private Property” the signs says.  Yes, grief is private property so, feeling like I meet the criteria, I see no reason for me not to continue on the trail. At the top of the trail you are greeted with a green picnic table under a wooden shelter. Given the fact that I haven’t been on my bike at all this year I tell myself I don’t have to make it to the picnic table at the top, I can turn around anytime. But I know I won’t. Not because I am a  talented climber, but because I love the downhill. So, I will grind my way to the top just so I can experience the fearless descent that raises my heart rate and I push the limit knowing falling down the mountain is much worse than falling up while climbing… but I like it! . It usually takes me 3x’s longer to get to the top then from the top down.

The trail forks and to the left the trail becomes narrow (singletrack as we say in Colorado) and rolls along the ankles of the foothills for a couple miles before appearing again on the side of the main road. To the right (which is what I take) the trail stays wide enough for a jeep, it’s dry, and rocky with little tuffs of plants spotting the middle line like lines on a road, only much more irregular. And it rises abruptly announcing its existence. When I woke up on October 9^th my road forked. One fork was the life I expected, gently rolling along the ankles of life undulating ups and downs that everyone has eventually ending on the main road with everyone else travelling their lives. Without having been given a choice I faced the trail to the right that day. And now I am physically living out the last nine months mounted on 26 pounds of grief.

I dropped my head, relaxed my shoulders and without much thought readjusted my gears so that I could spin up this first section. As I turned the pedals around and around and my breathing began to become audibly louder I glanced up the trail and saw another biker spinning his way up as well. I was reminded of the parents who had also lost children that reached out to me after Brandon died. They were further up the climb, still grinding away, but took time from their own slog to show me that it can be done. I was so grateful for those Mom’s and Dad’s in those first days. I desperately needed to know that people keep moving ahead even if it’s steep, rutted out, hot and unbearable at times. I needed to know that parents didn’t just give up and recklessly abandon the climb.

I did meet one parent, a Mom, who had abandoned the climb. I knew she had lost her daughter 4 years earlier and I reached out to her to meet for lunch. Our lunch was an awkward exchange of anger and resentment with her leading the charge. She would hunt for the smallest shard of anger in my words and pounce on them eager to fertilize them and grow them into something that would smother my desire to continue to climb. It was as if she wanted to pull me off my bike and drag me back to the green gate, forcing me to let go of my hard work that had gotten me that far. In ownership of my own climb, I was very angry in those early days (and still am sometimes). It wasn’t hard for her to find places to dig in, I gave her plenty to work with and she eagerly took them. She filled my head with how horrible the Holidays would be, how she hadn’t moved on, how her other child was in therapy (maybe it should be her in therapy), how her marriage had suffered, how she avoided social situations. But, in all this she did give me a wonderful gift. She showed me what I could and would become if I didn’t continue to climb, even if I had to get off my ‘grief bike’ and push it over rocks while leaning heavily on the handle bars gasping for air (yes, I have actually assumed this position while climbing and there is usually lots of cussing as well). As much as I hate this climb, as much as I wish Brandon was here now, as often and as much as I want to quit climbing, as exhausted as I am from forcing the pedals around one more (expletive) time… The alternative is not an option for me. I don’t want to be that person and some days it takes everything I am to not become that person. Brandon was fiercely determined and if I believe the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree he must have gotten it from somewhere! So I will grind away!

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.