Time Heals All Wounds?

When someone you love passes from this life to the Summerlands you start to count the passage of time in a completely different way.  At first it is one breath at a time, one excruciatng, heartbroken moment at a time.  Eventually it will be by the day, then the week, and finally a month.  But that first month after their passing seems like an eternity that went by in the blink of an eye.

When Jeremy died I marked the passage of time in such a way.  At first it was a week at a time, then it was one month after he died...two months...three months...six months...a year.  For awhile I went to the cemetary to "see" him every week, then every month.  Now I only go once or twice a year.  He is not there.

The first year is horribly excruciating.  It is the first year without your loved one to share life with. The first birthday without this person, the first holiday season, the first trip of the season to the beach or whatever it is you did together and enjoyed doing.  The joy just gets zapped out of your life. 

Nine years ago today I put my son's cold body into the ground and said goodbye for good.  I probably won't say anything to anybody about what today is to me, but my heart still hurts.  I do not want sympathy.  In writing this, I hope that someone whose heart is aching from a horrendous loss will find this blog and know that with time, it will get better.

When Jeremy died I dreaded the holidays more than ever before because it started with his birthday around the time of Thanksgiving.  Then winter comes and with the New Year the cold weather and darkness that have always sent me spiraling into some kind of seasonal depression.  Finally February comes along with the hope of spring to appear soon, the time of new life and new beginnings but also the time when I can kind of bring to a close the cycle of his birth, his death and his burial. 

The bulbs and seedlings are coming up in my yard now.  The trees are getting new leaves and some plants are blooming.  I am reminded of that never-ending cycle of birth, death and rebirth.

And I remember the young man my son was, I wonder what he might have been. 

It doesn't hurt quite as much now, but it does hurt.  Time took away much of the pain and even the memory of it, for which I am grateful.  But I will never, ever forget.

Peace,
Amy

I Love You, Bud. I Miss You.

Love Forever,
Mom

Dreamtime

I'm in a department store, looking for something but I'm not quite sure what, when I hear a familiar voice behind me say "hello Mother".  My heart skips a beat and  rises to my throat and I turn around to see my son, my handsome boy that I buried in the cold, hard ground nine years ago, standing in front of me.  Very much alive.

In that instant, I know the blood has drained from my face and my body is shaking.  I can feel the warmth of wet tears on my cheeks as I stare at his face, aged a few years, but yes, this is most definitely my son!  Instantly my mind tells me, this is not possible and I feel my legs giving out from under me.  I cannot find my voice...  I want to hug him, to hold him, to kiss his  face and hear his voice.

He grabs me before my body crumples to the earth and holds me up. 

And then, and then, I awaken from my dream and my heart cries out in agony.  NO!  NO!  I want to go back, I want to hear his voice again, I didn't get to hug him! 

My irrational heart will occasionally direct my brain to do what I cannot in reality do: see my son in my dreams when I miss him the most.  It almost feels cruel, this dream time because always, it feels as though he as been ripped from my life once again and the ache in my heart that I am usually able to ignore now comes back with a vengence. 

It was nine years ago, probably to the day, that I saw him last.  It was nine years ago that he left this world.   

There is a part of we humans that cannot accept the absolute and total finality of death.  It is so cruel, so heartbreaking to those of us left behind.  The day my son died a part of me died with him and I have not been able to recover that part of me.  It's just gone.  I am better, but I am by no means whole.  And still I cry for the life ended too soon and too young with so much living yet to do.  I wanted the world to stop as my world had, but it didn't.  The world kept spinning around the sun and humankind kept living.  I had to keep living, too, but sometimes I feel guilty about that.  It should have been me that died first, not my son. 

I am at peace now with his passing a great majority of the time.  It took awhile to get  to this place emotionally.  But now and then, on his birthday, on his deathday, I remember and I cry because I loved him so very, very much and was blessed to have had him in my life and to have been his mother.

I miss you, Bud. 

In loving memory of:
Sgt. Jeremy R. Smith, US Army Reserves
November 1981 - February 2004

Letter To My Son

Dear Jeremy,

Happy Birthday!  Tomorrow would have been your 31st birthday, had you stayed on this earth long enough.   I truly wish you had, that we would be celebrating your special day together with a birthday cake (made by me, of course), your favorite meal and maybe a beer  to wash it down. 

I wonder, had you still been alive, what you would have done with your life in the past nine years since your last birthday on this earth.  Would you have survived Iraq?  Would you have come home wounded and worn, as so many have?  Would you have gone back to finish school?  You were so good at working on computers and I know you would have been great doing something related to technology. 

Would you have married and had children? 

Sometimes, in quiet moments, I imagine I can hear your footsteps walking up the driveway to visit or imagine what it would be like to pick up the phone when it rings and hear your voice on the other end:  "Hello, Mother..." as you always did when you called. 

I don't cry so much anymore, except on those days like tonight and tomorrow, when  I remember your birth.  31 years ago tonight I was in labor with you, my little Thanksgiving baby (because you were born the day after Thanksgiving that year) who stole my heart and wrapped me around your cute little baby fingers.  The first chance I had to be alone with you in the hospital, I unwrapped your from your swaddling blankets and counted every single finger and toe and checked over every inch of your body to make sure all the required body parts where there.   Then I swaddled you back up and held you close, feeling the baby soft hair on the back of your head on my lips as I softly kissed your head.  Your baby smell has stayed with me my whole life.

I miss you, my pain in the ass son who loved to torture and tease me and your sisters.  I miss your smile, your laugh, your sense of humor and  even arguing with you.  I miss those horrible  Jenco jeans you loved to wear  and that darn Curt Cobain T-shirt you wouldn't take off.  I swear, that thing could have gotten up and walked on its own, it was so dirty! 

The last time I saw you in my dreams, I asked you what it was like on the other side  of this life and you told me "It's just different" then you went away.  Come to see me soon, in dreamland, it's been so very long.

Happy Birthday, my darling son. 
I love you for ever and ever,
Mom

Remembering My Soldier Son

Sgt. Jeremy R. Smith

US Army Reserves

Nov. 1981 to Feb. 2004
961st QM

It is Memorial Day weekend and I am thinking about my son.  It's been a long time since I wrote about him. 

Thoughts of him when he was born,  perfect and beautiful, capturing my heart.  It was love at first sight.  As do most babies, he had day and night mixed up and his exhausted  young mama was often in tears.  I was just 19.  I tried  to breastfeed him, but his  appetite was so voracious  he ended up injuring me, so I had to quit.  He was a good, happy baby who smiled and laughed a lot  and loved to be silly.  When he was learning how to walk, it took him a while to figure out that he didn't have to be holding onto something to walk, he always had a toy in his hand.

When Jeremy was eleven months old, his sister, Danielle, was born.  In his limited vocabulary, he couldn't say her name, but he would walk up to her crib and put his little hands through the bars of her crib, touch her, and called her "Sissy", a name that stuck with her for many years. 

Later, when  his baby sister, Jaime, was born, Jeremy couldn't have been more proud. 

My son had a dry, crude sense of humor.  He loved to ride his  bike and play video games.  Jeremy loved baseball with a passion but didn't have the patience to play very well.  We collected baseball cards together starting when he was a little boy in the 80's (I still have them).  He was smart and often bored at  school.  He disliked authority and didn't respect teachers who were idiots. I can't count how many times I got called in to his middle school and high school because he was in trouble for something or another.  In high school he pissed off the wrong crowd of kids and was afraid to go to school.  At home his teenage years were turbulent.  He tried drugs and we had to send him to rehab twice.  Eventually his dad and I got him into a GED program, which he finished.

Jeremy fought with his sisters and his parents, sometimes violently.  It was a hard time for all of us.  Looking back, I can see how screwed up all our lives were and that Jeremy was trying to be the adult, the father figure, because  the adults in the house weren't very good at being adults.  He did his best to protect his sisters and me.  If there was just one word I had to pick to describe my son it would be protective.

Jeremy was good with computers and was my "go-to-guy" for computer problems.  He loved to build his own.  He joined the Army Reserves a few months before 9/11 happened because he wanted to go to school.  That was the only way for him to get an education.  He went to ITT and excelled. 

When his dad and I divorced, shortly after Jeremy turned 18, our own relationship became pretty stormy, but eventually we were able to make amends and become close again.  I was surprised at how mature he had become. 

Jeremy got his orders to report for active duty just before his 22nd birthday.  Two days after his birthday, his stepdad and I drove him to Huntsville to report in.  He was going to Iraq.  After several months of training, his unit was ready to go in February.  When Jeremy came home on leave in December for Christmas, he handed me a folder filled with papers.  He gave me power of attorney to take care of his  business while he was gone.  He had a copy of his will and gave me instructions on what to do if he didn't come home alive.  I didn't want to talk about this, but he insisted.  I remember that moment all too well.

And then, the very last day I saw my son -- ever.  Five days before he died, he'd been home on one last leave of absence and we drove him back to Ft. Hood.  I hugged him and kissed him goodbye and told him I loved him and got in the truck, choking back my tears.  I didn't want my son to see my fear or my tears, I wanted to be brave for him.  Then I ran back to my son and kissed and hugged him again.  I knew...somehow I knew down deep inside I would not  see him again and I was absolutely helpless to do anything about it.  I let my tears fall on his cheek and let him see his mother's emotion. And then I cried most of the way home.

Jeremy died in a car accident just a few days before he was to go to Iraq.  He faced his future with courage and bravery and was ready to go and to serve his country.  In the end, my son who never expected much out of life, became my hero who met his challenges and conquered them and in the process became this extraordinary young man who loved his family and was fiercely loyal to me, his sisters and his stepfather.  I will always be so very, very proud of him and what he accomplished in such a short amount of time.

It's been eight years now and I often search crowds for his face, wish he'd call me on the phone or send me an email.  I wish he'd walk up my driveway and say "hello Mother" the way he always did, and tell me he'd been on some secret mission he couldn't tell me about.  I wonder what he would have done with his life when he got back from Iraq, if he'd be married and have children.  I miss the smile he always tried to hide and how he made me laugh when I felt down.  He would have loved that Jaime married Mark (who he knew) and I think he would have loved Misty, Dani's wife.  Jeremy would have adored and spoiled his nieces and nephews rotten.

In the end, I am grateful and blessed to have been Jeremy's mother. 

Love never dies. 

I miss you, my sweet son.

Peace,

Amy

Death Day

Today is  my son's death day.  There is no other way to describe what today is.  When we are born, we have a birth day, a day to be celebrated.  To say that today is the anniversary of the day he died makes it seems so meaningless when that day had a very highly profound impact on my family.  So I call it his death day.

There are two days that had the most profound impact on my life -- the day I became a mother through the birth of my son and the day he died. 

I don't want his death day to be filled with sadness and sorrow, although I am sad.  Time does not heal all wounds, it just covers them up and leaves scars.  I am blessed to have been Jeremy's mom and to have had him in my life, if even for a short time.  His sisters and I love him and miss him.  We remember the good times and the bad.  But mostly we just wish he was still here with us to share in our lives and living his own.





And so, today, I remember Jeremy's baby face when he was born, the joy of holding him and counting his fingers and toes for the first time, his baby smell and how he wouldn't go to sleep at night when he was a baby.  I remember him fighting with his younger sisters and protecting them at the same time.  I remember how he didn't like people to see him smile, so he hid it all the time.  He was both a pain in the ass and a sweetheart. 

Jeremy would have especially loved that Jaime married Mark.  He would have loved his nephews and nieces.  He would really love Dani's Misty and her family.

I would give everything I have to have my son back, but that will not happen.  I used to listen for his footsteps coming up the sidewalk rush to answer the phone hoping he would be on the other end and search for his face in crowds.  Now I see him in my dreams now and then.

Until we meet again the Summerlands, my beloved son...

Peace

Mourning During the Holidays

It's a fact of life that we all have to deal with at one time or another in our lives. People we love die and it hurts down to the deepest core of who we are as human beings when they do. We grieve their passing because we loved them and we miss them terribly.

The holidays can be a very, very hard time for us. Because I have so many friends who are going through tremendous loss this holiday season, I thought it would be a good idea to share some things that I have learned over the years since my son died about getting through the holidays. Some of these things I am also sharing via TAPS (Tragedy Assistance Program for Survivors), a magazine put out by the military to help those of us left behind cope with this profound loss in our lives. This is a particularly helpful publication, but you can't buy it anywhere, it comes to you automatically when you are the person declared the survivor of an active duty military person who dies.

The first thing I suggest/advice... Do only what feels right. If you don't feel like putting up a Christmas tree, if you don't want to go to all those holiday parties, if you don't want to put up lights, then don't. It's okay. Your home should be a safe place for you, and if you want to lock yourself up in your house and not be reminded that it's the holidays, at least for a little while, then you have this sanctuary to retreat to. If you don't want to go out shopping, then don't go out shopping for presents. Do your shopping online if you must.

The important thing is, right now, when you are grieving and mourning, you need to be kind to yourself, not get stressed about stuff that's really not all that important in the long run, and not let other people tell you what you should be doing. This time is about you and your grief. Reach out to people who are supportive and kind and understanding.

I have found that people are uncomfortable when I talk about my son. But it's important to me to talk about him, to remember him, to not let his memory die. My daughters, husband and I talk about him frequently when we are together as a family, almost as if he is still alive walking among us, and I find great comfort in this. Say the name of your loved one, talk about him/her. It's important.

The first year after my son died I did not want to put any Christmas decorations up. No tree, no lights, nothing. But my husband and I talked about it and he reminded me that our wedding anniversary is in December and he thought it would be good to celebrate the light and joy we bring to each other's lives by decorating our house and honoring that after nine or ten months of intense mourning. We covered our house in lights and it was beautiful. We put up the tree and decorated it, I decked the halls and put ribbon on the chairs in the dining room. I put up the little table top tree we bought my son's last Christmas home in honor of him. We were so broke that year and this was the only thing we could afford as all our holiday stuff was in a storage facility in another city and we couldn't go get it. I put miniature ornaments on it and set it in a special place in honor of my son. Since then it's become known as Jeremy's tree and it goes up every year, even though the lights no longer work.

The next year I didn't want to do anything again. But I did because it was my very first grandson's first Christmas. I found myself, year after year, putting the tree and decorations up for my daughters and my grandkids. We continued the tradition of gathering for Christmas Eve for dinner and family time. It was important for me to show that life goes on and the rituals we had as a family continued for the sake of my family but most especially for my daughters. Even though my son was dead, they stilled lived and loved me and grieved him every bit as deeply as I did. I wanted them to know I loved them with all my heart.

Last year was hard. My whole family was living out of state and it was just my husband and I at home. My mood was black and ugly and I felt pretty rebellious about this whole family holiday happy/happy joy/joy bullshit of the season. One day I went to my local Garden Ridge and found several colored trees complete with lights! I seriously considered the hot pink and the tinsil trees, but eventually settled on the black one. I took it home, put it up and covered it in nothing but the brightest, shinest, reddest ornaments I could find. That tree made me feel good. Almost everything else stayed on the shelves in the closet.

My point is, this holiday season and every holiday season and even every day of the year, be kind to yourself. You are not crazy even though you think you are. Your heart aches and you've cried rivers of tears and you miss that special person gone from your life so much your whole body aches. It's completely normal. It's also completely normal to not want to participate in humanity at this time in your life, so don't feel guilty about it.

Take your time, figure it out and eventually you'll learn to live with your new normal that is your life. Right now you feel like Humpty Dumpty, but eventually you'll find all those pieces of yourself and you'll get them put back together again. Don't rush the process, it may take years. And that's okay.

Peace,

Amy

Grief/Mourning

This weekend, on a campout deep in the Texas woods with many of those whom I hold near and dear to my heart, I met a woman who is angry. She is angry at the Gods, she is angry at life and she is angry at her situation. She called down the wrath of the Gods, dared them to challenge her, to beat her, to apologize to her.

You see, her dear husband died four months ago in a motorcycle accident -- which was quite unexpected and very much a shock for this woman. Her emotions are very, very raw and new. She is hurting to the very core of her being, her heart is broken and her world is completely and utterly flipped upside down and inside out.

She wanted to argue with everyone who tried to tell her...it's not about you. His death had absolutely nothing whatsoever to do with you... We tired to tell her, don't challenge the Gods. But she would not listen. She dominating group conversations and demanded by her very presence the attention of every person in the group over and over again.

Alcohol made her more beligerant. She dominated everything.

The thing is, she is a sweet soul, I could feel it buried underneath her anger and her grief. I saw it when she got up early the next morning before anyone else and picked up the garbage and things left behind from the festivities of the night before.

When I encountered her, as she was finishing picking up after us, I asked her to sit and talk with me awhile. I asked her about her husband and what happened, how long ago and let her talk.

Then I shared with her that I, too, had suffered a loss that totally rocked my world and turned it upside down and inside out. I told her, I promised her, that this, too, would pass and that in time she would find her "new" normal, she would not hurt so very, very much and she would learn how to deal with her pain. I promised her there would come a day when she would realize that her every waking moment was no longer about her husband and her pain. I told her my own belief, what helped get me through the first two years or so when it hurt so much, that I believe we come to this earth to learn what it is to be human, and we choose what experiences we will have so that we can learn and to grow. To experience the death of one we love so very dearly is one of those things that comes with being human beings, it is unavoidable and a very painful part of our journeys.

She focuses on the last moments, worried about whether he suffered. I know how she feels, but for the sake of my sanity, I could not dwell on those thoughts when my son died.

What I didn't tell her, and I would if I could have that conversation with her again is that the first year is the absolute hardest, when you go through the first of everything without the one you love. I would tell her to not let other people tell her how to grieve or for how long, but to take the time she needs to grieve in her own way. I would tell her she is not alone, that her reaction is very normal and it's okay.

This woman has people who love her and are caring for and watching out for her very lovingly. I am glad for that.

It's hard to watch someone going through that kind of wild, angry, passionate grief. But sometimes, one can find comfort from a stranger who can show a small kindness in listening and sharing. I hope that in some small way I gave her some measure of comfort to help carry her through this terrible time in her life. I'll probably never see her again, but if I do, I'll be sure to check and see how she's doing.

Peace,
Amy

For Jeremy

I love you. I miss you.

Love forever,
Mom

The Willow Tree

From now until the end of February I am going to do my best to post stories and things on my blog that are not political and that are things others might find positive, inspiring or just interesting. I wrote about my cats the other day. Yesterday I wrote about my daughter's graduation.

Today I want to tell you about the willow tree growing in my front yard.

It started as a stick, about two feet long, as part of a flower arrangement that I received from two very good friends, Mike and Polly, when my son died in 2004. The flower arrangement was actually a pot of azaleas in full bloom and they were gorgeous. Someone stuck this stick in the pot that was very pretty in the way of willows -- it was not straight, it curled around on itself and all over the place. So, I left the stick in the pot because I though it was pretty.

Well, in a few weeks I noticed that the stick was sprouting leaves! Cool, I thought to myself, I'll just let this thing be and see what happens.

A couple of months later I had to remove the stick that was now becoming a small tree from the pot of azaleas. So I put the little tree in the flower bed next to my front door, never thinking that it would really do much more than it was doing at that point. And there it stayed for the next year. That little willow tree just got taller and taller and its branches became leggier and leggier until I had to dig it up and move it again to a place in my yard where it would have room to grow and not block my front door!

Here we are, five years later, and that little stick has become a quite tall willow in my front yard! Its upper branches are taller than the first story of my house!

The significance of this willow tree is great to me. It represents the cycle of birth, death and rebirth that I believe each and every one of us experiences. What began as a stick that was cut from its life source eventually became what is now a graceful, flowing willow tree when it was put in soil and nurtured.

I am emotionally attached to my willow tree. It gives me hope in something out there larger than myself that is continuous.

I have always felt an affinity for the willow trees. It began when I was a child in Idaho and my friend's family had a huge weeping willow in their yard. Teena and I spent many hours as young girls playing in, under and around that tree. We could swing on its low-hanging branches and loved the shade it gave us from the hot summer sun. I loved to climb it every chance I had.

As an adult, I am long past the age of climbing trees -- though I truly wish I could because I just love trees and when I climbed them as a young girl, they made me feel happy. My heart felt very heavy and sad last week when we had to cut down our rotted out old oak tree in the front yard even though it was a danger to our house and the neighbor's house.

I did some research on Willow Trees that grow in Houston this week and learned that mine is called a Corkscrew Willow or -- and this is the name I like best -- a Dragon's Claw Willow. How cool is that?

Peace,
Amy

Hey, Bud

It's Mom. I just wanted to take a few minutes out of my day to say hello. It might be a good time to play catch up on the family stuff, huh?

I think we've all finally caught our breaths and are learning to live our lives in a world where you are no longer. It's been the hardest thing I've ever had to do.

Your sisters are doing pretty good. Dani is graduating from school today and we're all going to be there (even your dad, who flew in just for the occasion!). She's been studying auto mechanics and fell in love with hydraulics. She's been at the top of her class and has stubbornly refused to miss any days. I'm really, really proud of her and we're all going to do everything we can to make today special for her. If you were here, I know you'd be proud of your sister, too.

Did you know that Jaime and Mark got married? Amazing, I know. Mark is still his pain-in-the-butt self, but in a good way and he absolutely adores Jaime. As for Jaime, I don't think I've seen her so happy in a long time. They are having their first baby in June and, hopefully, Mark will be able to get home on leave just in time for the baby to be born. It's a little boy, boy the way.

You would love Aiden. He's getting so big! He talks about you sometimes, like he knows you or something and that's pretty neat. The little guy has quite a big personality for someone his age. But, that's probably just "Gramma" talking!

Maxx and I are doing good. These days we mostly just work, eat, sleep and watch TV but with the weather getting better again we've been out working in the yard and stuff more. We both work strange schedules and hardly ever get days off together, so it's hard to plan much of anything. We do like to go hang out with friends on Wednesday nights for what I call "really bad karaoke" night -- and no, we don't do karaoke but it's a good excuse to get out of the house!

Well, Bud, I love you and I miss you every single day. Your being gone doesn't hurt quite so much all the time anymore, but once in awhile, like today, my heart and my soul come to the surface and just feel so sad.

I love you.

Until we meet again,
Mom

I Love You

ltr, Jeremy, Jaime, me, Danielle. Our last picture together.

For my readers, both old and new, family and friend, I wrote this piece about two years ago when I was approached by a couple of producers who were working on a play in New York City. It was accepted to be part of the play but, sadly, it never got off the ground. I am no longer under contractual obligation to not share this piece, so I present it to you this day, five years from the day I last saw Jeremy.

Five years is a lifetime, yet it is the blink of an eye. I have come a long way from the days of absolute devastation I felt immediately after Jeremy's death, and so has the rest of my family. On the fifth anniversary of her older brother's death, my daughter, Danielle, will be graduating from a trade school and embarking on a new life. The rest of us will be there to celebrate with her and we will make what has been such a sad day for all of us a happy one for Danielle.

My family, my daughters and my husband, have given much. We have cried rivers of tears and grieved beyond belief. But we are alive! We survived! And I think, in the end, that is what Jeremy would want for us to do. We have now come full circle, according to the calendar on my wall.

To my daughters, Danielle and Jaime, know that I am profoundly proud of both of you. You are amazing women and I love you very, very much.

To my husband, Maxx, thank you for being there for me and with me. You have been my rock and my soft place to fall. I love you with all my heart and soul.

And to Jeremy's dad, without whom I would never have been Jeremy's mom. Thank you.

In peace and love,
Amy
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“I love you,” three simple words that mean so much. They are the last words my son ever said to me. And they are the last words I ever said to him.

They were spoken at the end of a phone call the night before my only son, my firstborn child, died in a car accident. He was 22 years old and on one last final leave of absence from the Army before he and his unit were to leave to go to Iraq.

Jeremy was born on a cold November morning, the day after Thanksgiving that year. I remember that it snowed that day. From the moment he was born he stole my heart. I drank up every moment with him, from the dirty diapers, that baby smell, the late-night hours walking the floor, his cute little baby smiles. He was a happy baby and, later, a good little boy. When his sisters came along, he was a good big brother, too.

When he was a little boy, Jeremy got into trouble a lot, like many little boys do. One day, he and his sister, Danielle, were playing and he did something he shouldn’t have. Danielle threatened to tell on him. Jeremy, not wanting to get into trouble, came running to me as fast as he could to tell me what he had done himself, hoping to not get into trouble.

As Jeremy grew older and the turbulent teenage years hit, we was in trouble much of the time, but he always loved his sisters and me. For some reason, he felt a fierce sense of needing to protect us, often taking the role a father would take, even though he had one in the house. We had to remind him often that he was not the boss, which didn’t sit well.

When Jeremy was 19 he joined the Army Reserves, a dream he had had for a long time. He loved his weekends spent with the Army. One Army buddy tells the story of meeting Jeremy for the first time on an Army weekend. They were sitting in a room with a bunch of other members of their unit and had to introduce themselves to the group. Jeremy stood up and said “I’m Jeremy and I like beer.” He was the “computer guy” for his unit because he loved to work with computers.

During the week, Jeremy went to school and studied computer science. He excelled at this and got good grades.

Two days after Jeremy turned 22, his step dad, Maxx, and I took Jeremy to report for active duty. He was going to Iraq. As I fought back my tears and my fear, I couldn’t help but think how strange it was that I had spent 22 years trying to protect this young person from all harm and here I was, taking him to report for duty and to go to a war. Every shred of my being cried out that this was wrong. But Jeremy was proud to be serving his country. He looked so grown up, so handsome, in his camouflage uniform and boots as he unloaded his bags from our truck. He smiled that smile he had when he didn’t want anyone to see him smiling as he talked with the other members of his unit and introduced Maxx and I to various people he would be going to Iraq with. When the time came, I hugged and kissed Jeremy goodbye, not knowing when I would see him again.

Jeremy came home on leave for Christmas that year, unexpectedly. We spent every moment we could with him, talking, laughing, watching movies together and drinking up every precious moment. For military families, you never know when you see your loved one, if it will be the “last” time. He stayed with us through New Year’s, and then had to go back to Ft. Hood.

On this trip, Jeremy brought his Last Will & Testament, handed it to me and informed me that I would be the sole inheritor of all he owned, his life insurance, everything. He also gave me his Power of Attorney in the event anything happened to him. As we sat and talked about these things, tears fell from my eyes. Every ounce of my soul screamed out “This isn’t right! This can’t be right!” Jeremy and I talked about what he wanted me to do in case he died. We talked about the war and how things were going in Iraq. As we talked, I kept thinking, “This isn’t happening.” My young son, now a man, expressed to me that he wanted to go to Iraq to help the people of that country have a better life.

Unexpectedly, Jeremy was able to come home on one last leave of absence around the beginning of February for four day weekend. We were thrilled to have the chance to be with him. Again, we drank up every single moment we had together, again not knowing that it would be our last.

At the end of his leave of absence, Maxx and I drove Jeremy back to Ft. Hood. It was a cold, rainy Monday and it was dark by the time we arrived at his barracks on the base. I remember standing there, on the side of the road next to his barracks as Jeremy and Maxx got out of the trunk, went around the back to get his things. Maxx and I waited while Jeremy took his bags inside, and then came back out to have a cigarette with me and to spend our last moments together. I choked back my tears as hard as I could.

I did not want to leave this handsome young man that I had spent all of my adult life raising. The fear that gripped my heart was just….just indescribable.

We finished our cigarettes and ground them into the dirt with our shoes. I summoned up every bit of strength I had in my body and tried really hard not to cry in front of Jeremy. I had to be strong for him. I HAD to be strong. He was scared to go to Iraq. I couldn’t let him see my fear and worry.

Jeremy and I hugged each other as hard as we could for a few minutes. Then I kissed him and walked away to get in the truck as Jeremy and Maxx said their goodbyes. I opened the door of the truck to get in, looked down and saw my hand on the inside handle as I heard a sob escape from my body. Before I knew what I was doing, I ran back to Jeremy, tears steaming down my cheeks. I let him see me cry this time. I held him as close as I could. I touched his face and kissed him, smelled him. I asked him, begged him, to be careful over there. “Come home safe,” I said.

Maxx and I got in the truck and I cried for a long time. I knew. Somehow I knew it would be the last time I would see my son alive.

Five days later, on Friday the 13th at 7 o’clock in the evening, there was a knock on my door. I opened it and there was a uniformed Army Sergeant standing there, asking to come in. I knew why he was there.

I Love You -- Part II

I was home alone that night. Maxx and I had been sick all week long, and that was the first time all week, since leaving Jeremy at Ft. Hood, that either of us had been able to leave the house. Maxx had gone to pick up some much-needed groceries and had only been gone five minutes.

“Ma’am, the Army regrets to inform you…” The words hung in the air as the Sergeant stood in my living room.

My legs gave out and my body slid onto the couch.

“There has been an accident” he said.

I wasn’t hearing, although my heart knew, what this man was telling me. “Is Jeremy okay?” I asked.

“No, Ma’am. Your son as passed away,” was his response.

I called Maxx and told him only to come home now. He was back faster than the speed of light, hearing my shaky voice on the phone. The Sergeant stayed with me and repeated to Maxx what he had said to me.

I knew Jeremy would not come back home alive. I just thought he would die in Iraq, not in a car accident. What the hell was he doing in that car? Where did he get the car? Did he suffer? Was anyone else hurt? All of this flew through my mind in an instant. The Sergeant had no answers.
My heart cried with pain and grief the likes of which I had never known. It was a very physical ache in my heart that set in that night and did not go away for many, many months. At the same time, a strange sense of emotional numbness set in that also stayed for a long time. This and only this is what enabled me to get through the next tasks that I had to perform.

The military always assigns an officer to help the families of those who have died while on active duty to get through the paper work and arrangements that have to be made. The next day, our Officer came to see us in the midst of a house full of friends and family. I had to decide on what kind of casket would be my son’s last bed. Maxx helped me find a funeral home and made an appointment for us to go there the following Monday. I had made all the phone calls the night before that changed the lives of every single member of my family.

Jeremy’s injuries were so severe that we were cautioned by the Army and, later, by the Funeral Director, that we did not want to see his body. I elected to take their advice and remember my son the way he was the last time I saw him rather than broken and torn. Sometimes, now, I wish I had asked to see the tattoo on his arm just to verify for myself that it was, truly, my son in that box.

I was consumed with making sure every single detail of Jeremy’s funeral was perfect. It was my last responsibility to him as his mother.

At the funeral, Jeremy’s paternal grandfather was giving a eulogy, talking about how virtuous Jeremy was. I started giggling. I was reliving the moments when we had picked Jeremy up for his last trip home. The three of us, Maxx, Jeremy and me, were sitting in the cab of the truck, driving down Interstate 45 and Jeremy asked me if he could use my washing machine when we got home to wash some clothes. I told him of course he could. He then proceeded to tell me that he had got lipstick on some of his clothes a couple nights before while visiting a “titty bar”. I guess if you can call loving women virtuous, then Jeremy was virtuous!

Later, while sitting on a bench at the cemetery, when the funeral was over and I had been presented with the flag that covered Jeremy’s casket, I broke down. I realized I had completed my last earthly responsibilities to my son. My life as Jeremy’s mother was finished and I had to learn how to continue on with my life without him. As I tried to stand, I could not get up. My legs defied me even as the tears rolled down my face once again. I sobbed as I had not done all week. My friends, my sister-friends gathered around me, each taking a turn touching me and holding me, giving me their strength.

Memories of Jeremy flooded my head and heart. I could see him as my baby, remembered exactly how he smelled when he was tiny and I would sit and cuddle with him in the wee hours of the morning. I remembered how, when he did something he shouldn’t do, he would come to me and tattle on himself before his younger sister had the chance. I remembered how proud he was the year he played Little League Baseball and how much he loved his cat, Cuddles. So many memories about a life cut short too soon.

It’s been three years now since Jeremy died. Now, when people ask me how many children I have, I have to stop and think about the answer. I gave birth to three beautiful, amazing children. Only two are living now. But I am still and always will be Jeremy’s mom. I still search for his face in crowds and wait for his footsteps in my driveway. All that I have, all that I am, I would give up just to touch his face one last time, to hear his voice, to see his face. Sometimes I am angry at Jeremy for being so careless in a car, for dying, for causing so much pain. I get angry because parents are not supposed to bury their children. They should not die before we do. It’s just not the natural order of things.

I don’t think the pain ever goes away. You just learn to live with it.

Remembering Jeremy

There are some dates in our lives that will be forever marked "special". Tomorrow is one of those days.

Not just because it's Thanksgiving, but because it would have been my son's 27th birthday if he were still alive.

It's hard for me to believe that it's been five years since we spent Jeremy's 22nd birthday with him, which was also on Thanksgiving Day that year. It was on Saturday that my husband and I took Jeremy to report to his Army Reserves Unit to report for active duty. He was in the 961st Quartermasters.

One of Jeremy's friends from the 961st called me today. It made me feel so good to know that he still thinks about and misses his friend. Thank you, Mario, for your phone call. You cannot know how good you made me feel.

Yes, I am sad, but I think the sadness has been replaced by a sense of being grateful for the time I had to be Jeremy's Mom. I will always remember the moment of his birth and his big, beautiful eyes looking up at me. I will forever remember his first words and his adorable baby face. The sound of Jeremy's voice is burned into my heart -- especially the way he said "Hello, Mother" when he called me.

So, this Thanksgiving Day, I give thanks for Jeremy and his life.

I give thanks for my beautiful, amazing daughters that I get to spend the day with.

I give thanks for the gift of my grandson, Aiden, who is my joy.

And I give thanks for Maxx, my husband, partner, lover, best friend and confidant without whom I would not have been able to live through so much heartache and sorrow.

I am truly blessed.

Oh, and Jeremy, I feel you. I know you are looking over my shoulder. And I love you with all my heart, always and forever.

Peace,

Amy

The In-Between Time

It happened right when Maxx left for work this morning. It was that in-between time when it's neither night or day, when the light starts to reach my part of the world, but the sun has shown above the horizon...

I stepped outside with my coffee to greet the morning, and in that light, the growing things in my yard seemed so much more green than usual, giving off a luminescent glow, almost.

It was that magickal time, where we stand at a doorway between the worlds, between time. And I gave quiet thanks with a grateful heart that I was allowed, on this morning, to see the beauty around me before my neighborhood fully awakened.

A wise teacher once told me: "All things are perfect in their own time." I'll try to remember that.

Peace,
Amy

Mom's Lesson

Photo by Andrew Stern
When I carried my unborn children within my womb
I was full of hopes and dreams and wonder…
I wondered at the life we had created, growing within me
And the first seeds of love were planted when I learned of that life.

I wondered what this little one would do with his or her life
What kind of person he or she would be.
I wondered if this precious soul would achieve the dreams,
The hopes, the aspirations of its heart and dearly hoped it would be so.

I walked in the Valley of life and death
To bring the unborn through the birth canal to be born;
Flooded with relief at the first cry,
The long hours of pain and fear quickly forgotten.

As my children grew, I felt great joy in their first smiles, the first steps
I could kiss away the tears and the sores and the heartaches.
When they were little, my children thought I could fix anything
A toy, a scratch, a spill – no problem!

I did my best to protect my children from all that would bring them harm,
And from the bogeyman under the bed and in the closet or around the corner.
I did my best to teach them to protect themselves and to be kind to others.

Eventually all children grow up and become adults.
They make their own decisions and all I can do is watch
And hope and pray they will be the right decisions
And that they will not bring themselves undue harm.

I want to help them; I want to fix what they have done,
Sometimes I cannot. Sometimes I should not.
This I have learned. And maybe, as a Mother, this is my greatest lesson.
But still…

I cry, I weep, I sorrow when they fall and hope and pray they will get back up.
I hope… I pray… I love them unconditionally
Sometimes, that is all I can do
I can’t make everything better. Sometimes they have to do it themselves.

by Amy Branham
May 16, 2008

Who Cares?

Honestly, folks, aren't you sick and tired of hearing about what baseball players have used steroids and which ones haven't? I mean, really, don't we have more important things to worry about? And, more importantly, does't our Congress have more important things to investigate? Like, oh I don't know, the lies of Bush & Co. told to take us into war? The possibility that our President has committed treason while holding the highest office in the land?

I'm just sick and disgusted with our do-nothing Congress! They cave into the President's wishes time after time and give the spoiled brat what he wants even though the People are telling them not to. I can't help but wonder what the hell is going on and why they are doing this. Is someone paying them off that we don't know about?

They promised they would end the war, but they haven't done that. They promised they would take better care of our vets when they came home from the war, but that isn't happening either.

I'm irritated and downright angry that they are giving the telecom companies retroactive immunity for spying on American citizens illegally. Years ago I thought, well go ahead and spy on me. I'm doing nothing wrong. Now, even though I'm not breaking any laws whatsoever, it irritates me that, because I disagree with my government, they might and probably have, listen to my phone calls and read my emails (and I do have reason to believe this has occurred). This is an invasion of my privacy, plain and simple.

There are lots and lots of other things that are just getting under my skin right now, but I can't think straight, can't get my brain to shut down and I can't get my fingers to cooperate with my brain. Such a cunundrum...

Guess I'm just irritated today. Four years ago on this day was the worst day of my life -- or the second worst, I'm can't really decide. I learned my son was dead. It's pretty hard to try and have a positive outlook on this day. I just feel rotten...

Peace,
Amy

I Miss You...

A song written by Tom Chelston, whom I have come to know and associate with from time to time... Thanks, Tom.

Posted in loving memory of my son, Sgt. Jeremy R. Smith, who died four years ago this week in a car accident before he was to leave to go to Iraq with his Army unit.

I love you, Bud. I miss you.

And I'll never forget...

Love forever,
Mom

Letter to my Son

Dearest Jeremy,

Tomorrow would have been your 26th birthday. As I sit here and think about you, I wonder what your life would have been like had you lived, had you not been killed in that damn car accident before you were supposed to go to Iraq. I wonder how you would have been when you came home and I wonder what you'd be like now. I just wonder.

I wonder if you would have married by now and had a baby or two for me to bounce on my knee, cuddle with and read stories to. I wonder where you'd be living and what you'd be doing with your life by now. There are so many "I wonders"... I could go on all day.

When you were born, I never, ever, in my wildest dreams, expected this -- for our family to be so torn apart and torn up over your death at such a young age.

We miss you, Jeremy, every single day. I wish you were here, and sometimes I feel as though you are here, watching over your family. You sisters have told me of dreams of you where you are just there, sitting in a corner or in a chair watching, not participating. And it gives them comfort to know you are still there in some way.

I miss you with every beat of my heart. I miss your laugh, your smile, you sense of humor and your hugs. I miss your sense of needing to protect me and your sisters. I miss your bumming cigarettes from me and being annoying just to get my attention. I wish you were here to fix my computer problems...you know how computer illiterate I am!

I wish you were here to see and play with your nephew, Aiden. You would adore him just the way all the rest of us do. He'd really love his Uncle Jeremy, too.

We're all doing okay, really. The holidays are hard, especially Thanksgiving. At the end of the week Jaime and Aiden will be living back in Houston with us, so all of us will be close together again, which will be REALLY nice. Maxx is doing good. We've both been sick a lot this year and are now having a bout with the flu.

I know you're still out there in some form, somewhere... I feel your love and sometimes your touch. I hear your voice in my heart from time to time and I can definitely hear you say "Mother" in that way you said it when I do something really goofed up!

Know that I will love you, always and forever, until the day I die and join you wherever you are...

Love always,
Mom

Thanksgiving Memories

Well, we made it again, another year through Thanksgiving. On some of the online political groups I a part of, there has been much discussion about NOT celebrating Thanksgiving for one reason or another. One reason is because it has become a somewhat secular holiday. Another reason is because people think it is terrible to feast on meat or to participate in the overeating that comes with the day. Still other people feel guilty to indulge in so much when there are others who have so little.

I guess people can see what they want in any event or holiday. We each take away from our participation or lack of participation different things, depending on where we are coming from emotionally, mentally and physically.

My family has continued our tradition of cooking the turkey and stuffing ourselves with all the good foods we don't eat at any other time of the year. This year my daughters, Jaime and Dani, along with Aiden, joined Maxx and I as we journeyed to the home of Maxx's parents where we were joined by his brother and wife and their two children. It was a house full of people, to say the least. They are religious people, but they do not force it upon others and they are considerate of me and the feelings of my daughters and Maxx on this day, in particular. I deeply appreciated the moment they took to remember my son and to add that they knew it was a difficult day for us.

We made it through the day and I actually did pretty good until after the late feast, at which time I took the time out to step outside, smoke a cigarette by myself in the cold night air and remember the one who wasn't there with us anymore, my son, Jeremy. It was 26 years ago on Thanksgiving night, after all of the Thanksgiving feast had been finished, that my water broke and I went into active labor with my son. Eight hours later, in the early morning hours on the day after Thanksgiving, my beautiful son was born.

It doesn't matter what day of the month Jeremy's birthday falls on. For me, it is Thanksgiving and the day after that will be forever impressed on my memory.

Jeremy's last Thanksgiving home was also his 22nd birthday. He had planned to feast with his father, who had come down to see him off as Jeremy had to report for active duty in the Army the Saturday after Thanksgiving. Maxx and I had not planned any great Thanksgiving feast that year as I had to work and our daughters were both living in other cities. But Jeremy called and wanted to come to our house and stay after an argument with his father. Later that day, our Thanksgiving feast and Jeremy's birthday dinner consisted of spam and taters with gravy. Jeremy ate the dinner with us, however wary he might have been. He did not complain or make any faces or smart remarks. He just seemed to be happy to be with us.

We did not know, we could not have known, that it was his last Thanksgiving and birthday with us.

Two days later Maxx and I drove Jeremy to report for active duty in the Army Reserves, where he would receive training for the next two months before his unit left to go to Iraq.

Now Thanksgiving has a different meaning and importance for me. I will not feel guilty for participating in the feast nor for feeling grateful for those people in my life and things that I treasure so very dearly.

I have been homeless -- therefore I am grateful to have a home to live in.

I have been jobless -- I am grateful for the job I have.

I have spent many holidays without friend or family other than my kids -- I am grateful for the family that I am a part of and that they still put up with me!

I am very grateful to the Gods or whatever it is that is Divine that has seen fit to bless my life with two wonderful daughters and a stepdaughter. I am grateful to be blessed with three beautiful grandchildren and an incredibly patient son-in-law. I am blessed and thankful for a family of in-laws who are patient and kind even though I'm not sure they understand me. My in-laws are accepting of my crazy daughters and that means a great deal to me.

I am grateful from the depths of my heart for my delightful, kind, loving and amazing husband, Maxx, who still makes me laugh.

Yes, I mourn the one who isn't here among us anymore, I still miss him with all of my heart. I will miss him every single day of my life as long as I live. I am grateful to have been blessed to be Jeremy's mother. Thanksgiving Day, more than any other, symbolizes to me what was and what is the reality in my life.

In peace,
Amy