Category: Grief

For a long time I felt like I was living the same day over and over. The same thoughts, the same visions, the same pain, the same foggy days and the same sleepless nights. Every morning, grieving parents like me wake up to face the fact all over again that their beloved child has died. Many of us suffer from PTSD, anxiety and depression as a result of bearing witness to the exact moment of their unspeakable loss.

I have watched the movie Groundhog Day many times over the years. I even own a copy on VHS. I love the movie for many reasons, but now, I love it because I feel that it uniquely describes many aspects of the grieving process.

At the beginning of the movie, Bill Murray’s character, Phil, is faced with a job that he doesn’t want to do, which is covering the Groundhog Day festivities as a weather man in a quaint little town. He is so miserable about it that the other characters don’t want to be around him. He says and does a series of things that portray him as being extremely unlikeable.

Likewise, facing the loss of a child is the hardest thing that a parent will ever have to endure. It changes our personality. We may go through a time when we are angry and miserable and no one wants to be around us. Friends may begin to avoid us and even family members fade away. Only the strongest, most loyal, and possibly the most stubborn will stay by our side.

At the end of day one, a fierce storm approaches and the cast of characters is forced to stay overnight. When Phil wakes up the next day, it’s actually the same day over again. Of course, he finds this unbelievable, and begins to notice every detail of the day. Over the next while in the movie, Phil repeats the day several times, taking the opportunity to see if there is any way that he can change what is happening to him. He tries to explain it to his coworker Rita, played by the lovely Andie MacDowell, and of course she thinks he’s losing his mind. He feels trapped.

Sometimes the same could be said for the grieving parent. Is there any possible thing that we can do to change what happened to us? No. Every day we wake up and the outcome is the same. It can truly feel like we’re going insane, or that there is no hope, knowing that we will never see our child’s face again.

Next, Phil falls into a deep depression. Seeing no way out of this endless loop in his existence, he continually tries to end his life in a variety of elaborate ways, only to wake up the next morning with everything exactly the same. While it’s entertaining because it’s only a movie, it certainly makes me reflect on how hopeless it can feel at times when you’re bottoming out under a grief tsunami and cry yourself to sleep, only to wake up and feel exactly the same way.

It’s the next part of the movie that I find truly inspiring. Phil begins to fall in love with Rita, and spends his days finding out all about her. Also, he learns about many of the people in the town and how he can help them. His heart begins to change and he manages to be there at the exact moment that he is needed to be of service to others. He also embarks on a wonderful journey of self-improvement, learning to play the piano, how to speak French and memorize poetry, becomes a doctor, a sculptor and so on. The movie never tells us how many days, months or years he repeats, but over time, he seems to grow accustomed to his fate and makes the absolute most of it. As he changes and evolves into a kind, generous and loving person, Rita begins to fall in love with him. Only then does he manage to break the cycle and they wake up on a brand new morning, which he greets with amazement, gratitude and great joy. He begins to talk about the future.

I can now see how for many, grief can evolve in the same way. For a time, months or even many years, you may find yourself in what feels like an endless loop of suffering, encompassed in your broken heart and weary mind. Therein lies the choice. We can continue to feel trapped by our loss, or we can let it be a catalyst for change. Ask the questions:

“What small change can I make today to improve my life now?”

(keep a routine, take a walk outside, call or text a friend)

“What lessons can I learn from this experience?”

(Life is short, time is precious, love is what matters)

“Am I living in a way that would make my child proud of me?”

(self-care, follow your passion, set goals)

Of course, there is no single answer that fits everyone. There never is. Everyone will grieve differently and in their own time. Some days, the good ones, the fog lifts a little and we can see a little further. The rest of our days here on earth lie stretched out ahead of us. The journey of a bereaved parent is unwanted, unenvied, and uncharted. The only one who can decide where it will lead is you. Please don’t give up. Tomorrow can be different.

Similar in some ways to the self-induced flu following that second bottle of red or one too many margaritas, the Grief Hangover is a Thing. A real Thing.

Now, it’s not fair to myself or any other grieving mom to keep that comparison as simple as it sounds. Unless I was to describe it as a never-ending hangover….but that’s not it either.

My grief will walk with me for the rest of my days. This I know. It’s like my shadow. As I approach the 4 year mark of Colton’s passing, I feel that I have a greater understanding of so many things. I see my grief changing, because I have changed. My belief system has changed. At times, my grief has had profound effects on both my physical and mental health. I am definitely still learning what to do for myself when I am feeling overwhelmed and totally alone.

My circle of support is small yet mighty. I have one or two that check in on me, for which I am grateful. My husband is my rock and a great source of strength. That being said, I knew that an extended period of time without him would be a challenge. The entire time he was planning and preparing for his time away I was mentally creating a huge list of things that I absolutely needed to get done in order to keep myself busy.

Plus, I knew that I wasn’t going to be completely alone. I had Jesse.

Colton and Jesse had/have a friendship that goes back many years. They went to high school together. There is an awesome photo of the two of them at Prom that I will always cherish. When it came time for Colton to move out and try living on his own, I found comfort in the fact that Jesse would be his roommate. I remember how touched Colton was when he told me that he would be Jesse’s Best Man when he got married. And then, when Colton was in Hospice, both he and I were profoundly grateful that Jesse’s newborn son would have Colton as his middle name. A beautiful tribute. Flash forward to today, his little family is about to move here to begin their next chapter, and in the meantime, this special house guest and I have had time to talk. As any grieving mother will tell you, one of the most precious gifts is to talk about their child who has passed, and possibly catch a glimpse into a part of their life that was previously unknown.

So we talked and shared stories, things he did and said that made us laugh, his favorite foods, little things (but aren’t those the best?) and it was great. Better than great.

The hole that Colton’s death has left in my life is in the middle right now. I’m at the stage, I guess, where the loss of him is a gaping hole right in the middle of everything. I can look way, way back on the other side of the hole where he used to be, and I can still see everything clearly. So clearly. All of the good times and all of the challenges and all of the love that I would never ever change. 4 years ago, I was trying to prepare for this massive hole to appear but how is that possible? I could clearly see the hole on the horizon, and I could not, try as I may, stop it from coming. In the days, months, and now years since, I’ve been struggling to stay out of the hole. Imagine my back against a wall of Colton and all of my memories, trying to inch my way along the edge of the hole, desperately trying to get to whatever the other side is without falling in. Sometimes, all I want is to fall in the hole.

Anyways, even though conversation about Colton is literally one of my favorite things in this life, it is still gut-wrenching and very hard on the heart. I know that tears are ok. They’re fine. I think I can safely assume that everyone expects them of me. Eventually they caught up with me the other night. The first wave hit me, but it was ok. It didn’t knock me off of my feet. But the second one did. I found myself crying the rest of the night and into the following morning. Then, I remembered the list.

Now, let me explain the “Hangover”. I don’t sleep well anymore. I’m sure this is a common grief side effect. So when I woke up, my head ached like I’d really gone on a bender, but not in the same way. I feel pressure on both sides of my head just above my ears. I have extreme brain fog. So I get up and make a coffee. Follow routine. Make the bed. Feed the dogs. Have a shower. But instead of doing these things in rapid succession, each thing takes what feels like an eternity. I walk into the living room, pick up dog toys, look out at the ocean. I can’t remember why I came in here. I go outside, thinking that yard work is on the list. I can’t stay on task. I feel exhausted, so I go back inside and lay down. Get up, repeat. Tell myself that those dogs can’t go and walk themselves, so I wander, still in a fog, around the neighborhood and let them sniff every little thing that they want to because I don’t care how long it takes.

Day 2. Still foggy and tired. I start feeling very disappointed in myself and vow to be productive. I drink a bunch of water. I walk the dogs on a totally different route down by the water. I mow the lawns. Whoops….too much. I had wanted to go downtown and pick up a few things and now I’m exhausted. But I actually feel a bit better. I watch a few upbuilding YouTube videos and call it a night. Finally slept.

Today I woke up rested and clear headed and I know this Hangover has passed. Whew! I made it through another one. By myself. I spent these days alone for two reasons. One, it’s not my style to burden anyone with my grief, Randy is out of cell range on a mountain somewhere, and I didn’t want to throw it on Jesse. Two, I most definitely know that this is my grief journey and ultimately, I must learn to navigate the “hole” of loss and I must learn how to care for myself when I occasionally fall in.

If you are in the “hole” and you expect a “hangover”, my only advice would be to be kind to yourself. Please don’t try to check off items on a list of things to be done. Listen to your body. Grieving is a physical as well as a mental activity, and it takes a tremendous amount out of you. If you have that thick, cloudy feeling and your body is in pain, lay down and rest it. Drink water to replenish all of those tears because you know there will be more that need to be shed. Listen to your breathing and try to be in the moment. Sometimes the moment sucks. However, the moment has value, great value. That is grief. Grief is love.

Along with the vast majority of bereaved mothers, I’ve found that as the years go by it becomes increasingly difficult to maintain relationships that are connected to our child’s passing. It makes sense. Colton’s friends are now approaching their 30s and their lives are busier than ever. They have families of their own. They are building their careers, buying their first house, doing all of the normal things that Colton should be doing.

I can only assume that this same explanation applies to some of my adult relationships that have disintegrated since Colton’s passing. It just doesn’t apply to them any longer, they don’t think about it, and as the years continue to put space between us, the event that stays in my mind and affects my daily wellbeing has completely vanished from theirs. This is the truth. It’s difficult for me, but I do understand it. Fortunately, I’ve also reconnected with friends that truly understand loss and who have been very supportive of my grief journey. I now make a very conscious, thoughtful choice about who I connect to, as it seems that my tolerance for anything negative in my life has seriously diminished.

Then there are the one or two friends that have made a point of keeping in touch. My son touched their lives in a profound way. They have not forgotten him. He was like a brother to them. The love they feel for him is still a constant in their lives. The years that have passed have perhaps softened the pain for them and the love and respect for Colton has remained. These are the truest of the true and for me, staying connected to these few helps to keep Colton close.

One of Colton’s very best friends brought his wife and three children to see me yesterday. His second son carries Colton as his middle name, as he was born just two weeks before Colton passed. Colton was able to hold him in Hospice and I was able to witness what a profound blessing this gesture was for him. He felt that now he was leaving a lasting impression. He knew that he made a difference and that he was loved. It was, and is, a beautiful gift. For me, seeing how quickly this young family is growing up puts the passage of time into perspective. It shows me once again what I’m missing out on as I will never be a grandmother. It forces me to realize that whether I am daily aware of it or not, we are all moving forward with our lives. We’re not moving away from him, but in fact we are bringing him along with us. And there is huge comfort in that if we let there be.

Social media becomes an important tool in this regard. I am able to keep track of his friends’ lives from the safe distance of my computer, and when the opportunity arises, as it did for me yesterday, I have the ability to reach out and stay connected. It certainly isn’t something that should be forced. Thankfully for me and for those truest of the true, it isn’t. And that’s a beautiful thing. I can’t help but feel that Colton’s energy was there, seeing the new baby, listening to the conversation, watching the boys chase Louie around the yard and shooting bubbles with water guns.

There are so many things in life that seem out of our control. Certainly, the loss of a child is first and foremost. It changes everything. From that moment on, our lives evolve into something different because of the huge space left by the one we loved the most. No one can replace Colton. That space shall remain unfilled. However, it seems that there is still plenty of space available to add something new, along with “his space”. It’s up to me to fill it with what makes me feel good and fulfilled and at peace.

It starts with staying connected.

Anything can trigger your feelings of loss. A photograph, the lyrics of a song, a certain smell, a date on the calendar, seeing a product on a shelf. It can make a very private thing turn into a public spectacle.

Heading into the first Christmas season after Colton died, I was on the job as Assistant Store Manager in a brand new grocery store in Calgary, Alberta Canada. During this time of the year, the store is inundated with countless pallets of merchandise that come on little cardboard display stands known as shippers. The goal is to build and put these out in strategic locations as quickly as possible to capture sales as customers are shopping spontaneously for the Christmas season. Most of them are chocolate. Some of them only come in at Christmas time, and shoppers rush to get their families’ favorites before they sell out.

Colton had a favorite too, the Terry’s Chocolate Oranges. Every single year, without fail, I would buy one for his stocking. So, there I was on my hands and knees building a Christmas display when I got to the shipper of his favorites. In a split second I froze. The familiar lump formed in my throat, and my breathing felt constricted. The tears burned and began to roll down my face. The now-familiar pain racked my body and I started to panic. I remember almost stepping back from myself, and thinking “Whoa, get it together girl, its just a shipper of chocolate”, but it was far too late for that. So, I loaded a deck with cardboard and made a hasty exit into the warehouse where I only had one or two team members to deal with rather than a hoard of Christmas shoppers. I remember the sad looks, the kind words of compassion from those that understood grief. I remember calling Randy to tell him what happened and hearing his encouraging words. Finally, after a few minutes I was able to acknowledge the intensity of the trigger and move on with my work day.

It strikes me as hard today as it did back then to relive that moment. To relive any moment that drives home the fact that Colton will not be here to enjoy it again.

Then, just the other day I was looking through the weekly flyer bundle that comes in the paper. On the front page I saw that lemon meringue pie was on sale this week. A simple thing. But, once again, it was Colton’s favorite pie. Again, the familiar lump in the throat, the shortness of breath, the tears. It’s years later, but the reaction is the same. So I got to thinking, “Is this the case for all of the bereaved mothers out there?” I am on a Facebook group of mothers who have lost their sons, so I posted it as a question to the group. I could not believe the response! My messages were flooded by over a hundred mothers who happened to see my experience and feel it as their own. Comments came from all over the world about how they haven’t been able to set foot in a grocery store since their son died for fear of seeing his favorite cereal, his favorite frozen pizza….whatever it was. I spent the next couple of days responding to these mothers, if only to let them know that they are not alone, they are not crazy, they are grieving. When I can, I try to lift their spirits a little, in hopes of lifting my own. I had a brief but funny comment or two with a mom whos son worked in a grocery store and had wanted to teach her turkey bowling…! She thanked me for her chance to smile at the memory. To me, that’s such a valuable thing now.

Many days come and go and I can look at his pictures and smile, and the memories warm my heart, even if they are accompanied by sadness and grief. Still, there are days when I avoid looking because I am too close to the edge of my grief. I am pretty sure that this feeling is universal in the world of the bereaved mother, but even if it isn’t, it’s mine to deal with.

When I am overcome with emotion, I write about it. Yes it’s painful, and yes, I cry a LOT when I do it (as I am now). Still, there is more room out than in, and at least for me, I feel better when it’s out. Sometimes I feel like I’m just making room for more grief but that’s ok too. This is not going away and will continue until my last grateful breath. And, if someone who is grieving reads this and feels a connection to it, a camaraderie if you will, then it’s worth it to me. On one hand, I write this blog to leave a lasting account of this grief journey and to immortalize my memories of Colton, the ways my life has changed since his passing, and as a way of dealing with feelings that are sometimes too big and too difficult to share on any given day. It helps me keep him present. But also, I do it so that there’s a chance that I’ll reach someone who’s hurting the same way that I am, and that by reading it they gain a better understanding that what they are going through can be managed, can be nurtured, can be cathartic.

There will be triggers. They are everywhere. The time of day, a photo, the season, a birthday, the date of your loved ones passing. Images, sounds and smells that bring us to a long lost moment in time. They can’t be avoided, but perhaps recognized, acknowledged, held for a moment in remembrance, then let go….

Like their favorite Christmas chocolate or a piece of pie.

It was an absolutely gorgeous weekend here and Randy and I had the opportunity to be out on the ocean in our boat. We had the opportunity to stay overnight in an off grid cabin, a three bedroom home beautifully set up in a private bay. On the way out the water was a little rougher than usual but Randy handled the boat with no problems and we were enjoying being out on the water. About halfway to our destination, we started talking about spreading Colton’s ashes, as I haven’t been able to do this yet. Just as we began talking about it, we saw the spray of a whale, so Randy slowed the boat in time for us to see a Humpback come up out of the water and show us a fin or two. He remarked on the coincidence of this happening just as we were talking about Colton. It was a very special, magical moment. Shortly after we arrived at the cabin and settled in. The dogs were having a great time exploring. We were able to set some prawn traps about a ten minute boat ride from the place, excited to collect prawns the following morning. I sunbathed on the deck while Randy took a little kayak to the other side of the bay to collect a bucket of oysters that we cooked on the barbeque later that evening. I mean, it really couldn’t have been a better way to spend the day. The sky was blue, the weather warm, the ocean as gorgeous as ever.

We were up at 6 am the following morning to run out and collect the prawns. Everything went off without a hitch and after returning to the cabin, 71 prawns were processed and bagged and ready to take home. We cleaned and packed up and got the dogs in the boat to start the journey back. The ocean was calmer on the way in and we spoke about how great it was to have the opportunity to do this, to live here, to have a boat and be out on the ocean exploring this beautiful place.

And then as I was looking out at the sun reflecting on the water, it happened. A grief sabotage. Out of the clear blue sky, in the happiest of moments, after a wonderful weekend, came a picture in my head that made me close my eyes and feel the all-to-familiar stab of pain to the heart. This time the image was of my daughter in law and I washing Colton’s body and changing him into his favorite black T shirt and track pants shortly after he had passed. At the time, it had seemed the most natural thing for she and I to do this, and we didn’t want to give that intimate task to the Hospice nurses. It was a graphic image of a traumatic, horrible time of sheer beauty and love. A few final tender moments spent alone with the person we loved the most. It is a memory that sometimes I wish I didn’t have and other times I cherish. And in this particular moment of relaxation, gratitude and joy, it came as quite a shock to my senses.

So, I sat there quietly dealing with this and eventually Randy looks over to see the tears rolling down my face and he asks me what’s up. As I explained what had just happened to me we both gained another level of understanding about how grief works. Sometimes, like just then, it swoops in with a gut-punch of a memory that nearly knocks you from your chair. And as swiftly as it comes, it goes, leaving you reeling with the impact.

Fortunately, I was able to acknowledge the memory, validate it, send my love to Colton and let it go. I am not always able to do that, so for that I was grateful. We went on to take the boat to a fresh water lake to relaunch and let the motor run free of the salt water of the ocean, and the rest of our weekend continued to be as lovely as the beginning.

This isn’t the first time I’ve been grief sabotaged, and I can guarantee it won’t be the last. My mind is full of these images and memories of the trauma I’ve experienced while losing Colton. The pain that I feel when they flood my mind is as sharp as it was in the moment. Possibly sharper as I was numb with shock and disbelief at the time that it happened. They are a vivid reminder of so many things. Not only of the tragedy of Colton’s illness and passing, but of the intense feelings of helplessness, overwhelming feelings of emptiness, and the never ending love that a mother has for her son.

Meaning: a feeling of thankfulness, appreciation.

Next poses the question: What the hell does gratitude have to do with losing my son?

Am I to be grateful for the experience of watching him get sick and die before my eyes? Well, no, not initially. But, in the long term, after what seems to be an eternity of sleepless nights, heart-wrenching pain, panic, anxiety, depression, and the endless hours spent searching for answers, meaning, anything…yes. Even after crying an ocean of tears?, yes. Can Gratitude and Grief sit in the same chair together? Even get along? Yes.

I feel like I waited a long time for Colton. When he arrived I believed there was nothing more beautiful than this amazing child in my arms. That full head of dark hair and those gorgeous blue eyes! At 26, I was nervous but ready to raise the best little man that I could. He was never a problem, always such a joy to have with me. He grounded me, made me a better person than I would’ve been without him. Yes, it was a challenge. He seemed to never quite be in perfect health. Always a runny nose like a new puppy, or a fever. I was stuck trying to find out why, and there were many, many trips to the Dr.’s office or to the Emergency room when he was little. But we always persevered, the two of us.

When Colton was nearly three, I tried to give him a brother or sister but it was not to be, and I miscarried in the fourth month. At that moment, I knew that it was going to be just Colton and I against the world, but we had each other.

I did my best to instill in him the skills and lessons that he would need to be a happy and independent man, and he was. We had the love and the close-knit bond that I wanted and that I will always cherish. If there was something he wanted to tell me, he did. No matter how embarrassing or personal the questions were, I answered them as a mother, sometimes as a father, always with love and always with logic and truth. We had mutual trust.

It’s a helpless feeling when your child gets sick. After exhausting everything that you have in your skill set, you’re left with leaving it up to the professionals, and then you have nothing to offer but love and support. But, aren’t those things of the greatest importance anyway?

Was I a Good Mother? That is a loaded question to ask yourself. Of course, there are things that in hindsight I would’ve handled differently. Lots of things. But I wouldn’t have changed the relationship we had for anything, because nothing compares to it. I was told by so many of his friends that I was his favorite person, and of course there were lots of “love you momma” moments for me to treasure, but I still have doubts. Did I do absolutely everything in my power to save him? I believe so. It’s a tough pill to swallow that I will never know for sure.

There are so many memories of times that we shared. Movie nights, huge dinners {he was such a meat and potatoes boy!) and lots of times that he was there for me. He was my “pilot car” on the ten hour road trip to say goodbye to my father before he died. Even at his age, he was wise and always had a well thought out opinion when asked for it, gave it with a maturity, logic, and tact beyond his years. As if it’s not obvious here, I am an extremely proud mother.

They say a person can be judged by the company they keep, and what those people say about you. Never in my life had I seen such an outpouring of love and affection than that from his friends. It was a beautiful testament to who he was.

Colton knew how to show gratitude. In Hospice, he had decided to ask for medical assisted death. This was an option for him, however he would’ve had to go back to the hospital and he very much wanted to stay in Hospice. So, he opted for sedation. After the decision was made and he told those of us closest to him, he did a truly remarkable thing. He got up, walked up to each of us in the room, one by one, gave a hug, thanked them and told them he loved them. Then, when he got to me he said “and I love you most” as I held him. He tried to correct it momentarily by saying “I love you all the same” {with the others chuckling softly) but I said ” Ah but I heard you, and I’m taking it”. I was never more proud of him than I was in that moment. I still can’t believe that he did that. It was amazing.

In the three and a half years that have passed since he left, I have looked for things to be thankful for. I spent countless hours online researching grief, death, what happens when we die, what happens when we almost do (NDEs), and ways to survive, and even possibly thrive, as a bereaved mother. I researched what happens to those who are left behind. How do we change physically, emotionally, and spiritually when we lose a child? Grief is a powerful emotion, equal to Love, and has tremendous effects on us, our relationships, our families, our health, our mental health and our communities. It’s a big deal. And, it largely gets ignored.

Those that know me know that I have a deep love for the ocean and a deep love for my husband. The fact that we now live on the Island and I am able to stare at the ocean every day, good or bad, is an amazing blessing. The ocean relates to grief in many ways, the most obvious being that grief can wash over you like a tidal wave and sweep you off of your feet. But also, the lapping of the waves on the shore, the salt air, the seashells , the whales, and even the sound of it can soothe the soul. There is no place on earth that I would rather live, and for Randy and I, this is home. The transfer here meant that I was to be on leave for a time from work. Now, nearly a year has passed since we got here and my time at home has been an amazing gift. Not only did I take the opportunity to tend to a few health issues that I’d been ignoring, but it gave me the time to grieve properly that I did not take after Colton’s Celebration of Life. I’ve had a bit of an overhaul, if you will. It’s done me a world of good. There are some things in life, and in death, that cannot be forever swept under the carpet. The carpet of pain, shame, depression, isolation and anxiety. Grief is one of those things.

Over time, I’ve learned a lot about my own grief and how I react to it. I’ve also learned, sometimes unfortunately, how others react to it. Although it’s a universal thing, each person’s grief experience is unique. No one can do your journey for you, and no one is qualified to give you your own personal set of directions for the trip.

So, I am able to see my grief from a different perspective, with Gratitude. I’m so thankful that I had the opportunity to know this sweet hearted, kind and generous person, my son. I learned more than I thought I’d ever need to know about a great many horrible things. I also learned more than I thought I’d ever need to know about a great many wonderful things. And maybe, if knowledge really is power, then maybe, just maybe, that makes me a little bit stronger.

Thank you, Colton, for being mine. I am so grateful that you are.

Last night I went to bed early with a pressure headache. I had been working outside all day so I thought maybe I got too much sun or was a bit dehydrated. I couldn’t sleep but that is nothing new. Those who are grieving often can’t sleep, or have trouble falling asleep, as our minds are full with memories and painful images that run on a loop. I drank 2 1/2 liters of water throughout the night, trying to alleviate the headache, which of course meant getting up to pee. After getting up at 3:15am I didn’t think I’d fall back asleep, but then I had a dream of Colton. He was much younger, maybe 17 or 18. The details of the dream are weird and make no sense so I won’t type them out. The highlight of the dream for me was a hug. I got one. The rest was sad, resigned and ended confusingly, I woke up with a huge gasp as I couldn’t catch my breath, and then the tears which woke Randy up concerned and upset. Then his alarm went off. And that is how today started.

It made me think this: What the hell, I was doing so well lately, several good, happy days in a row, and now this? Then I thought, I won’t let it consume me today. Sure.

Colton doesn’t visit all that often in my dreams, and I often wish that he would. I’ve come to understand that the better frame of mind that I am in, the greater the likelihood that it will happen. So, it makes sense that it happened last night.

Shortly after we returned home after his Celebration of Life, maybe a month and a half or so, he came for his first visit. He was sitting on the edge of the bed looking at me. He was wearing a red t-shirt. He was smiling a beautiful happy smile. He looked younger than 26, more like 19 or 20. He said “I’m here now”. I said “in Heaven?” He leaned toward me so I leaned toward him and he said “You smell good, I’ve missed that smell”…and then he was gone. Of course, I’m sobbing as I type this because it was SO REAL. I can still see every detail of that brief moment.

Sometimes I would think I’d hear him calling me. One night this happened and when he finally reached me I clearly heard his voice yell “Mom!” and I sat up in bed and said “What?” before I realized that it was in my head.

Coming up to the first Christmas without him, he came to me in a dream to tell me what to get for his girl as a gift. He made a motion with his hands like something was very thin, and then I saw the leather bracelet on his wrist (they wore matching ones for a while). Then he gave me a little side hug and said “I’ve gotta go now momma” and it was over. The next day I told Randy about the dream and how I saw bracelets in a shop downtown that I thought might be what he was talking about. So, we went to check it out. We walked into the little gift shop and there was a tray of several different kinds. As I picked one up I said “I wonder if this is what he meant?”. As I read the engraving I had to laugh because in all one word it said “absofuckinglutely”, so I bought it and that was that. Later when I gave it to her and told her of the dream, she said “that sounds like him”.

When the pandemic was a few months along and the fear was intense, I was working on the front lines for my company as the Assistant Store Manager in Calgary, Alberta. Health protocols were changing several times a day, customers were hoarding toilet paper and dry goods and were rude and fearful. It was the most stressful of times. Once during this time, Colton came to me in a dream. In the dream someone came up to me in the store and said “your son is outside crying.” I ran outside and he was sitting in a car in the parking lot. When he saw me he got out and we hugged. He said “Mom, I’m so sorry you have to work during the pandemic”. I said, “will I get Covid?” He said, “No, I’m protecting you”. Then he was gone. In the dream, some of the people could see him and some could not. It was a great feeling of comfort for me at the time. I also happen to believe that he was protecting me, and from that moment, although I followed all the protocols anyway, I never feared that I would get the virus.

There have only been a handful of visits from him. When it happens, I remember each and every detail and they stay with me. It’s not like a regular dream that you forget by the time you’ve had your breakfast. One time, it was just a young, sweet version of him that was so happy and just wanted a big, arms out hug from me. He had his bleached hair so that told me that he was maybe 10 or 11, There were no words, just a big smile and a tight warm hug. I say warm because I could feel it. And then it was over. Then I wake up and I cry and cry and it’s hard to breathe and it takes a long time to recover, but I wouldn’t trade those visits for the world. They are like precious “new” memories, if that makes sense. But man oh man, they are hard on the heart.

Sometimes I feel like he’s doing his best to get through to me. In hospice, I gave him permission to haunt me and we smiled at each other. He just said “I’ll see what I can do”. I feel like I try to get through to him every single day. But really, it’s just that there’s so much that I want to say to him or show him that I just talk to him. Out loud. I mean, why not? You never know he could be right there beside me. There’s been many occasions when our dog will sit at attention and stare at the corner of the room. I get up and look but there’s nothing there. Or, maybe he’s stopped by to hang out for awhile. It got to the point that when that happens now I just say “Hi honey”.

I remember years and years ago after Randy and I bought our first house together in Prince George, Colton told me that when we weren’t there that sometimes he liked to lay on our bed because it was so comfy and watch TV or use the computer. I told him that was weird but ok and never thought much about it. After he passed one of his friends sent me a YouTube video of he and Colton dancing around like wackos in our bedroom because that’s where the computer was and they were goofing around online. Of course it was painful and comforting at the same time. In fact, there are a collection of goofy videos that I can watch if I need to. Finding them later was like finding lost treasure, and I watched them over and over again. Less so, now, but it’s comforting to know they’re there if I need them. Then, in Alberta, Randy and I would be watching TV downstairs and we would hear someone get off of our bed and walk across the floor. We’d just look at each other and say “you heard that, right?”. I believe he’s still around. That sweet loving energy is with me. It brings me comfort and rips my heart out at the same time.

I’m sure that every bereaved parent would agree with me.