For you, Andy.

As the anniversary of my Andy's smile having left this physical world approaches, I always feel compelled to write something about my precious boy.  But as the 11th year approaches, and actually falls on that Friday that changed my world forever, I feel very different inside.  I feel more vulnerable.  And I am scared that I am not the strong person I thought I was.

Now having confessed that, I do have to reassure many, especially my children, that I am not wanting to join his spirit.  I am not suicidal but I am not embarrassed to admit that the idea has crossed my mind several times.  That confession may result in some individuals having less confidence in me as a Psychiatrist.   On the contrary, who better to sit across the desk from the mother whose son was shot in the streets of Cleveland.   I KNOW their pain.  And when I reassure them that I will guide them through this process of catastrophic grief I can say that with confidence.

But the empathy is cracked and the voice is not ringing loud and proclaiming that there will be victory in recovery.   It really never happens.  No one but Andy's family knows the pain of burying their son, their brother.  And though I never would compare the loss of a child to the loss of a sibling, Andy was a piece of me and he took it with him when he died.

Did you know I lost his twin?  Ultrasounds were not performed in those days so when I discovered bleeding at 12 weeks and passed some beautiful mass in the shower I thought I had miscarried.  When the Obstetrician did the ultrasound, I saw his figure floating freely.  Tears of sorrow turned to tears of joy.  I don't really tell that story, but as I said above, I am very vulnerable and need to talk about the joy of having Andy in my life.  It was highlighted at that very moment.

I think one of the most challenging times of my life following Andy's death was when we lost our home to the consequences of, shall I say, the economy.   When you live in a home for 20 years and collected every precious school paper, apology letter slipped under your door at night, favorite stuffed animals, etc., you cannot possibly be told to gather up and be out in a matter of weeks.    So here is my big confession.  After realizing that I could never find nor gather all of the precious memories of my family - the pictures, the baptismal outfits, the crib - I made the statement that I would rather douse the house in gasoline and burn with it than have a dumpster with a sliding board from every window collect my possessions.  I think I meant it at the time.  It represented another huge loss.  I have since reconciled that miserable historic moment in my life and now describe it as another learning moment from God.

God, what do you have planned for me?  I have understood that from pain comes growth.  I have been a fairly good student but a reluctant one.  Mother Theresa once quoted something about God not giving us more than we can handle.  She then followed up with, "I wish he did not have that much Faith in me".  Well, I feel that way at times too but I am attempting to turn this current pain around.  Here is my first breakthrough.

Christmas is a tough time as it was Andy's favorite time of year.  I am Blessed to already have a few things in place to help me.  First of all, my brilliant son, Peter, did something special.  He now has Andy's acoustic guitar.  Andy played Blackbird for me one week before he died.  Those are the facts you need to know.

So, to break through the sorrow, I asked Santa for an acoustic guitar.  And to add to the joy, Peter downloaded a tutorial from him, playing it on Andy's guitar, for me.  I still cry when I sit down to learn but it is a good thing to work through.   I plan to play it at Andy's gravesite on Friday, January 16th.  I think he would like that.

I am putting this blog out a bit early.  I had more strength today to write.  As the bitter cold of January continues, my ability to write a tribute on his anniversary may not be as successful.

I loved my tribute last year and encourage all to revisit that blog.  It was the best one I had written.  Sorry, Andy.  Mom is a bit down in the dumps but my fingers are becoming more calloused and the strings are bringing our song to life.  That is a good thing.  And I know that I need to work through this.

My thanks to Peter for such a precious gift.  Thank you, Jim, for the guitar.  Thank you, Molly, for asking me how I am doing and giving me hugs and kisses.  And thanks to my sisters, Eloise, Elyse, and Ellen, for being there for me,

Just like Blackbird I am taking these broken wings and learning to fly.  I am taking these sunken eyes and learning to see.

Grief is a process.  I continue to seek God for strength and I thank all of my family and friends for their support.  And Andy would like that.