Lost

It has been over a year now since we lost our son. In one of the many support settings that I find myself in these days, we were discussing the terms we use to describe the deaths of our children: "died", "lost", "passed away". I prefer "lost". Sometimes, when I am wandering around, pretending to be normal, I ask him "where did you go?" And I feel as though he is lost and he just can't find his way back. But I guess it is really us who are left behind who are lost.

Those who believe in heaven have an answer to this question. I was enlightened about this place by a fellow mother who had lost her child (she had also lost her house after her daughter got sick, but this did not seem to bother her as much as losing her child). She informed me that my son Oliver was now in his perfect body (what this means, I have no idea, but I'll take a guess that it means he does not have a giant tumor on his back and that his lungs have no tumors, even though I don't think those things are necessary there). So anyway, he is in heaven, along with her daughter. Her daughter is in heaven with him, baby-sitting him. I guess, until I get there? I don't know what my dad is doing. Why isn't he taking care of him? Maybe he didn't make it up there? The logistics of heaven are killing me. Actually, that's not what's killing me, but that is for another day.

So I decided to write today because this grief thing really diminishes one's productivity. We Americans are so obsessed with our productivity. It's as though it is the only most important thing in the world, being productive, just for productivity's sake. Productivity should be a means to an end, not the end. And at that, I am going to go do something less productive.