This is the word I don’t wish to use.

We are FOUR. We are not…three.

The first time I was knocked off my feet by that number was when someone said, “Get together for a picture.” Glen, Blair and I – three – gathered arm in arm with smiles on our faces and before the “click” of the camera, I called out, “Family photo!”.

And it hit me. Like a ton of bricks. Our family of FOUR had turned into…three.

I don’t think that the photo exists. The photographer probably saw it as a bad shot, possibly a blurred shot with an untimely movement. Because as I said, “Family photo” – the reality hit me and I turned and buried my face in Glen’s side with a gasp of disbelief. With the shock of our new reality.

The photographer probably deleted a blurred shot. But it wasn’t a bad shot. It was a telling moment. It was one of many moments…since then and to come.

Navigating the holidays just brings home this new number in our lives.

Three

With FOUR always lurking, lingering in my heart.

We are FOUR.

We are FOUR.

Glen. Joyce. Niels. Blair. = FOUR

Sunday Morning – I’ve said Sundays were going to be difficult. The truth is…I’m never sure which day will be hard.

This Sunday is a bit different. It’s the first day of December. It’s my birthday and Niels is not going to be here to celebrate with me.

I woke up thinking about him. I often wake up and have a short talk with him. Today I found myself “walking” through his Sunday routine with him – at least as much of it as I can surmise.

Sunday was his D&D day – Dungeons and Dragons. I’m sure he slept in late enjoying a day “off”. He eventually would have gathered his D&D kit and made his way to BART to get over to Berkeley where he met his friends. He’d stop at Trader Joe’s for snacks to share (Sophie told me he always brought a stuffed TJ’s bag) and then they’d spend the afternoon creating a new world together. His D&D friends told us about his love of a good battle and his love of collaborating on a story line. They loved the humor, passion and joy he brought to their gatherings. One of the things I’ve collected from his condo is all of his notes where he developed his characters and their world. They were scattered in various notepads and notebooks and I haven’t had the courage to read them yet. They seem so personal to me. I remember when we made our trip to Disneyland a few years ago (for Star Wars), he explained the world he was creating…it was all foreign to me…I tried to understand as he patiently described his characters (that’s not even the right word), plot and how they played the “game” each week. (I don’t think they call it a “game”.)

On Sundays, after his afternoon in Berkeley, he’d make his way to his home or maybe just straight to our house (also his forever home). When he arrived, I’d hear the door open, wait for him to drop his stuff in the dining room and for Dug to go bark at him before he’d come into the kitchen/family room. I can hear and feel all of those sounds so clearly. The expectation of him coming over on Sunday was always a highlight of the week.

After initial greetings, we’d all chit chat about his D&D day and then we’d all settle into our routine – watching some sporting event, sharing about our weeks, Niels often helped me out in the kitchen and then there’d be some serious discussion in which someone got passionate about making some point and…Groundhog Day all over again!

We’d have dinner and I always made a dessert on Sunday. i tried to have a Niels favorite one week and a Blair favorite the next. (Blair’s was always chocolate, Niels’ was always fruit.) Glen would usually head to bed and Niels would hang out a bit longer. Sometimes I went to bed to let Niels and Blair have some time to discuss life together. I loved nothing more than to hear their voices and laughter from the other side of the house.

I didn’t always walk Niels to the door because sometimes when he was ready to leave…he was ready. But I often did and I’d give him a hug and say have a great week or some such nonsense and I usually told him “i love you” and he always replied, “I love you, too”. And I’d watch him walk down the path to the street and head home…ready for his work week…and I’d be thinking about next Sunday – what to have for dinner and dessert, what stories we could tell about our weeks, what plans we could make…

And that was his Sunday. At least as I knew it.

So this morning, December 1st, as I woke up thinking about Niels and about my birthday…I heard the front door open and close. I heard him pile his stuff on the dining room table. I heard Dug barking as he came into the kitchen and I greeted him with a hug and a smile and I asked about D&D, I told him my birthday plans and I said…

I love you. Stay close. Be with me. Sunday. Every day. Always.

How does it come down to the pieces? One piece at a time. One memory at a time. One strand of hair at a time.

Piece by piece I feel you slipping away.

How do I hold on to all of the pieces that make you you?

All of the pieces that make you who you are, who you were.

You were more than the Star Wars figurines I’ve saved.

You were more than the cozy sweatshirt I’ve saved.

You were more than the books that you loved that I’ve saved.

You were more than the brush full of your hair that I’ve saved.

You were more.

How do I save you for my heart?

How do I save my heart?

How do I hold on to all that was you.

How do I keep you from becoming a fading memory?

How do I hold on…to you???

How do I hold on..to me?

How do I hold on?

It feels like the beginning of something.

Or is it the end of something?

What do I say?

I loved him?

He was the best son a mom could ever have?.

He was complicated?

He had the brightest smile?

The biggest, deepest, heartiest laugh?

He was kind, caring and patient?

He could talk to anyone about anything?

He was a “renaissance” man/boy?

He was a helper – just like Mr. Rogers taught him?

Nothing seems like enough. I can’t find the words.

I miss Niels Allen Thomas.

I love Niels Allen Thomas.

Niels Allen Thomas

I stare into the skies, the ocean, the hills, the trees …searching for you.

Searching for a sign that you are there.

That you are here.

That you see me.

That you hear me.

That you are still a part of me.

And then…you are in my dream.

You are in my heart.

You are mine. I am yours.

Forever.

I don’t think the grief that I’m experiencing is the same emotion that Charlie Brown was talking about as he navigated his relationships with his friends. Is there a “good grief“? I’m trying to figure it out.

I’ve been experiencing grief in a way that I never expected. And there is no handbook to prepare me. Actually, I never thought I’d need a handbook for this grief – the grief of the sudden death of our firstborn, our son – Niels. Niels Allen Thomas.

What is this path or journey or process of grief? There’s no map to follow. The “sounds” of grief aren’t planned or predictable. But here’s something I’m noticing…for me…

I was just on the phone with Glen talking about the rolling waves of grief. I find myself caught up in the normal, daily tasks of life and also the unreal/surreal tasks of planning the celebration of Niels….creating invitations and remembrances, texting with people, reading notes, opening cards, answering phone calls, opening the door to a visitor, etc.

As I’m in the throes of these acts that are focused on Niels…I’m functioning on a cognitive level. I’m disassociating myself from the content of the tasks. It’s kind of an out of body/mind process. But…then I experience a moment…where the realization of what I am actually doing hits me in the gut. Am I actually planning the celebration of the life of my son? How can that be?

At the moment of this gut punch, I literally take a big gulp of air and I am stopped in my tracks. And I sob or my tears silently trickle down my cheeks. And I wonder…how can I possibly be functioning on a cognitive level? Shouldn’t I be crying…all of the time? What is wrong with me? After all…

…my son, my firstborn, my “mini-me” is not on this earth. I can’t bring myself to say that he “died”. And “passed away” is such a bland term…I don’t know what to call this new thing in my life.

What I do know – what I feel in that moment where I break from the cognitive and go to my gut…is that Niels won’t be walking through my door on Sunday for our weekly family dinner. I know that I won’t be hugging him good-bye when he heads home with his “to-go” box with leftovers from a favorite meal. I know that I’m going to miss him every day – and especially Sundays – for the rest of my life.

And…I don’t know how “grief ” can ever be “good“.

A high school friend (thank you, Kim) sent me a column about the falsity of the “Five Stages of Grief” – Denial, Anger, Bargaining, Depression, Acceptance. We’ve all heard of them and as things go when something becomes popular in society…they’ve been misinterpreted in multiple ways. First, they weren’t developed to describe the grief of losing a loved one. They were actually intended for people who were facing their own imminent mortality. And even more confusing is that in our group (mis)understanding, they have been interpreted to arrive in our hearts in a linear fashion. Grief is much more chaotic than linear.

The author of the column, Mari Andrew explains her thinking about grief. She notes that words are cerebral and really don’t adequately describe grieving because loss is not something that occurs in our head. It occurs much more gutterally – in our belly, in our gut.

AND she goes on to say that it is SOUND that better describes the “stages” of grief. Sounds that emanate from our very center. From our core. Sounds that bubble or burst to our surface unbidden.

Sounds, not words.

This rings so very true. When I think of my current state of being, I think…What sound is rising from my soul?

When I wake up in the morning – what sounds do I make? Do I sigh? Do I whimper? Do I cry softly? Do I hum a familiar, favorite tune?

When I open the door to his condo – do I gulp before entering? Do I clear my throat and get to work? Do I cry softly as I pick up his hairbrush full of his long curly hair?

When I hear the happy voices of the kids on the block, do I sigh remembering those early years on our street? When I see the F1 race on tv does the gut punch of remembering how he loved following his team cause me to burst into a sob?

That evening at 9:09 when I heard the doorbell ring, paused the DNC on tv and opened the front door to the two WCPD officers…When they asked if I was NT’s mom and if they could come in, when I screamed down the hallway to Glen, when I looked at the terror in B’s eyes as she stood in the kitchen doorway, when the female officer nodded at me knowingly, what sound did I make?

I only remember seeing the dining room buffet as I looked from B back to the officers. That cabinet is full of so many family heirlooms – Lenox gifts from my dad, a vase from Glen’s grandma, teacups from Aunt Janet, photos of family trips…so many tender memories of people we have loved – all contained behind those three glass cabinet doors. And all I wanted to do was to open those cabinet doors and throw all of those memories to the ground. I wanted to hear them shatter.

Because…what sound does one make when their life has been shattered?

I made it through the dark better than the night before. Sleep did come. Dreams did not.

Waking in the dark before the sun rises, I wonder…will it?

And then…it does and I find myself watching the dawn of yet another day. Feeling the new and ever-present weight in my heart. The closeness of my tears. My trembling breath….

I find myself noticing that the birds are chirping and singing as the sky brightens…they are telling me that if I listen…if I watch…if I wait…I will hear the joy of their morning song again.

But will I?