I'm trying to wrap my head around some contradictory numbers.
Today we celebrated Kol's 17th birthday, and today Kol is still 9 years 7 months and 24 days old, the same age he's been for the past 7 years 4 months and 6 days.
In a little less than two weeks, Kol's baby sister, who is 7 years 4 months and 16 days younger than him, will turn 9 years 7 months and 25 days old, and become older than her big brother.
In a little less than 2 and a half years, Kol will have been dead longer than he was alive.
And someday, Kol will probably have a niece or nephew who is older than him. And possibly more than one. Hopefully more than one. (No pressure, girls).
Happy birthday Kol. You should be 17 today, but you're forever 9 and two thirds. We're thankful for each and every one of the 3524 days we had with you, but we wish we were at 6209 days and many, many more yet to come. We love you and we miss you every day, but today we're missing you even more than usual.
Friday, September 27, 2019
Tuesday, May 21, 2019
When will it suck less?
"They" say that the first year after a death is the hardest for those left behind. "They" are wrong. Kolbjorn died 7 years ago. These last 7 years have been hard. All of them.
After a funeral, or even sometimes during a funeral, we hear that the "firsts" will be hard. The first birthday. The first Christmas. The first anniversary of the loved one's death. Then it will be easier. I believed this, too. Until my son died. I read in a book about grief that the grief a parent feels at the loss of a child is the most intense grief anyone has to suffer. I don't know if I agree with that - everyone experiences grief differently - but I do know that it is the most intense grief I've ever experienced. I was blindsided by the intensity of the grief I felt, and continue to experience, and how all-encompassing, life changing Kolbjorn's death has been. The hole in my chest, the heaviness in my heart has not changed since the moment I accepted that Kol would not be taking another breath. The only difference now is that it has become a part of who I am, and I am forced to learn, second by second, how to incorporate that into my daily life. The more time that passes, the more I learn how to do that. I've learned how to smile, swallow, and be silent when I'm too choked up to speak. I've learned to look past the awkward, sometimes thoughtless, sometimes even rude comments, to the intent behind those words, and appreciate that they were probably meant to comfort. I've become a much quieter, and, I think, a more private person.
The first year after Kolbjorn died was hard. We had to deal with the shock of his death; in spite of 2 years of cancer treatment, I truly did not believe Kol would die. We spent that first year learning just what it was like not having Kol with us, and learning how to be a family without him. The second year was harder than the first. The shock had worn off, and we began to realize the execrable reality that Kol would never be a part of our future. If you talk to other bereaved parents, some will say that the 3rd year gets better. Most parents that I've spoken to will say that at the very least, the 3rd year is just as hard as the 2nd. I'd say it was harder for me. My emotional reserves were non-existent. Grief is so incredibly exhausting.
Year 4. I'd like to say it was better. I know I tried to tell myself then that it was getting easier, but it wasn't. I dreaded each special occasion. Obviously, Kol's birthday was tough, but so were his sisters' birthdays, Christmas, Easter. Mothers' Day. The anniversaries were even harder. Kol's day (the day he died), May 21. The day of the brain surgery, May 29. The day we learned the lesion was not just a benign tumour, but an aggressive sPNET, June 7. Fathers' Day.
The 5th Christmas was finally easier. It was a relief. Finally. I thought the grief wouldn't be so all-encompassing from now on. Then came Kol's day - the 5th anniversary of his death. It was the hardest day up to that point. Five years seemed like such a big milestone - a long time, and yet it still felt like only days since Kol had died. It started days before May 21st, 2017. I was emotional. Not sad, but easily triggered, on edge, remembering. Since that day, some days have been hard, some easier. Like a roller coaster. Still. And that's normal.
Please notice that I'm talking about grief. Grief is not sadness. It is not depression. It's not even bereavement. These words are not interchangeable. I've had people tell me that Kol wouldn't want me to be sad. I'm not sure what they mean when they say this. I can't avoid feeling sad. I will feel sad at times. But the sadness is temporary. I was sad that Kol wasn't at his sisters' graduations. I'll feel sad that Kol won't be at weddings, that he won't be on the stage with his grad class. I'm sad that Annika doesn't have many memories of her brother. I wonder, however, if those who've told me not to be sad meant that I shouldn't still grieve. And that's impossible. Because I can't change the fact that Kol died, and that there is a hole in my life as a result. Maybe they mean I should be glad that Kol is in heaven, in a much better place, so I should be glad for him. I am. I don't actually worry about what Kol is doing. I've always instinctively felt that he's fine. I'm selfish. I grieve for me, and my girls, and Kol's friends, and all of those whose lives Kol might have impacted had he lived. Maybe they mean that I shouldn't let grief affect my day to day living. Except that grief is now part of me. I can't escape it.
I can embrace the life that I do have. I think we as a family do embrace life more than we ever did before Kol died. We cherish what we have, and our priorities have changed. We laugh lots. We experience joy - not just happiness. We do things together as a family - things we choose to do, that we want to do, not just things that we feel we should do. We make a conscious effort to do those things that are most important to us. I like the strength and character, and depth, and insight that I see in the girls, and I know that Kol's death has caused them to grow, and shaped them into the amazing people that they are. I'm thankful for that - and so incredibly proud of them. They like who they are, and the lessons that they've learned through Kol's death. We all fully acknowledge that we are who we are because of Kol's death, and most of the changes are good! But that still doesn't mean that our grief from losing Kol is ever going to go away, and I'm selfish enough to wish that he were still alive - experiencing life with us.
I know that that hole and the heaviness in my heart will always be there. I don't know if it will change. Probably. Sometime. Sometimes I notice the feelings of grief more than I do at other times, and sometimes I'll express those feelings, or allow them to show, but they're always there. I just read an article about Keanu Reeves, talking about grief. He said “...it’s about the love of the person you’re grieving for, and any time you can keep company with that fire, it is warm. I absolutely relate to that, and I don’t think you ever work through it. Grief and loss, those are things that don’t ever go away. They stay with you.” We grieve for the loss of the life that Kol will never have, for the future we expected to have that will not happen, for the experiences that we miss out on because Kol's not here to influence them.
Today is harder again. I'm still exhausted by the grief. We're sick and tired of missing Kol, of wishing he were here, of wondering what he'd be doing, who his friends would be. He should be here. This is my struggle. Our family's struggle. Our community's struggle. I choose to accept the pain, the warmth. The grief won't ever go away. We know we're not grieving alone, that most people who read this also miss him dearly. It makes me happy to know our family is not alone in our grief - that so many others care and remember Kol enough to think of him, and to grieve with us. We thank you all for your support, for the poem, for your letters, texts, kind words, emails. The grief is part of who we've become, and we're stronger people because of it. We appreciate the highs more because we understand the lows. I just wish sometimes it wasn't quite so hard.
After a funeral, or even sometimes during a funeral, we hear that the "firsts" will be hard. The first birthday. The first Christmas. The first anniversary of the loved one's death. Then it will be easier. I believed this, too. Until my son died. I read in a book about grief that the grief a parent feels at the loss of a child is the most intense grief anyone has to suffer. I don't know if I agree with that - everyone experiences grief differently - but I do know that it is the most intense grief I've ever experienced. I was blindsided by the intensity of the grief I felt, and continue to experience, and how all-encompassing, life changing Kolbjorn's death has been. The hole in my chest, the heaviness in my heart has not changed since the moment I accepted that Kol would not be taking another breath. The only difference now is that it has become a part of who I am, and I am forced to learn, second by second, how to incorporate that into my daily life. The more time that passes, the more I learn how to do that. I've learned how to smile, swallow, and be silent when I'm too choked up to speak. I've learned to look past the awkward, sometimes thoughtless, sometimes even rude comments, to the intent behind those words, and appreciate that they were probably meant to comfort. I've become a much quieter, and, I think, a more private person.
The first year after Kolbjorn died was hard. We had to deal with the shock of his death; in spite of 2 years of cancer treatment, I truly did not believe Kol would die. We spent that first year learning just what it was like not having Kol with us, and learning how to be a family without him. The second year was harder than the first. The shock had worn off, and we began to realize the execrable reality that Kol would never be a part of our future. If you talk to other bereaved parents, some will say that the 3rd year gets better. Most parents that I've spoken to will say that at the very least, the 3rd year is just as hard as the 2nd. I'd say it was harder for me. My emotional reserves were non-existent. Grief is so incredibly exhausting.
Year 4. I'd like to say it was better. I know I tried to tell myself then that it was getting easier, but it wasn't. I dreaded each special occasion. Obviously, Kol's birthday was tough, but so were his sisters' birthdays, Christmas, Easter. Mothers' Day. The anniversaries were even harder. Kol's day (the day he died), May 21. The day of the brain surgery, May 29. The day we learned the lesion was not just a benign tumour, but an aggressive sPNET, June 7. Fathers' Day.
The 5th Christmas was finally easier. It was a relief. Finally. I thought the grief wouldn't be so all-encompassing from now on. Then came Kol's day - the 5th anniversary of his death. It was the hardest day up to that point. Five years seemed like such a big milestone - a long time, and yet it still felt like only days since Kol had died. It started days before May 21st, 2017. I was emotional. Not sad, but easily triggered, on edge, remembering. Since that day, some days have been hard, some easier. Like a roller coaster. Still. And that's normal.
Please notice that I'm talking about grief. Grief is not sadness. It is not depression. It's not even bereavement. These words are not interchangeable. I've had people tell me that Kol wouldn't want me to be sad. I'm not sure what they mean when they say this. I can't avoid feeling sad. I will feel sad at times. But the sadness is temporary. I was sad that Kol wasn't at his sisters' graduations. I'll feel sad that Kol won't be at weddings, that he won't be on the stage with his grad class. I'm sad that Annika doesn't have many memories of her brother. I wonder, however, if those who've told me not to be sad meant that I shouldn't still grieve. And that's impossible. Because I can't change the fact that Kol died, and that there is a hole in my life as a result. Maybe they mean I should be glad that Kol is in heaven, in a much better place, so I should be glad for him. I am. I don't actually worry about what Kol is doing. I've always instinctively felt that he's fine. I'm selfish. I grieve for me, and my girls, and Kol's friends, and all of those whose lives Kol might have impacted had he lived. Maybe they mean that I shouldn't let grief affect my day to day living. Except that grief is now part of me. I can't escape it.
I can embrace the life that I do have. I think we as a family do embrace life more than we ever did before Kol died. We cherish what we have, and our priorities have changed. We laugh lots. We experience joy - not just happiness. We do things together as a family - things we choose to do, that we want to do, not just things that we feel we should do. We make a conscious effort to do those things that are most important to us. I like the strength and character, and depth, and insight that I see in the girls, and I know that Kol's death has caused them to grow, and shaped them into the amazing people that they are. I'm thankful for that - and so incredibly proud of them. They like who they are, and the lessons that they've learned through Kol's death. We all fully acknowledge that we are who we are because of Kol's death, and most of the changes are good! But that still doesn't mean that our grief from losing Kol is ever going to go away, and I'm selfish enough to wish that he were still alive - experiencing life with us.
I know that that hole and the heaviness in my heart will always be there. I don't know if it will change. Probably. Sometime. Sometimes I notice the feelings of grief more than I do at other times, and sometimes I'll express those feelings, or allow them to show, but they're always there. I just read an article about Keanu Reeves, talking about grief. He said “...it’s about the love of the person you’re grieving for, and any time you can keep company with that fire, it is warm. I absolutely relate to that, and I don’t think you ever work through it. Grief and loss, those are things that don’t ever go away. They stay with you.” We grieve for the loss of the life that Kol will never have, for the future we expected to have that will not happen, for the experiences that we miss out on because Kol's not here to influence them.
Today is harder again. I'm still exhausted by the grief. We're sick and tired of missing Kol, of wishing he were here, of wondering what he'd be doing, who his friends would be. He should be here. This is my struggle. Our family's struggle. Our community's struggle. I choose to accept the pain, the warmth. The grief won't ever go away. We know we're not grieving alone, that most people who read this also miss him dearly. It makes me happy to know our family is not alone in our grief - that so many others care and remember Kol enough to think of him, and to grieve with us. We thank you all for your support, for the poem, for your letters, texts, kind words, emails. The grief is part of who we've become, and we're stronger people because of it. We appreciate the highs more because we understand the lows. I just wish sometimes it wasn't quite so hard.
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