Five Years

Kathe Kollwitz, Lamentation 1938

It's barely comprehensible that it has been five years since my son Patrick died.  That five years ago today, we brought home his ashes.The hurt, pain, longing, grief....it's all still here. It's with us every day. Sometimes it's just a low hum in the background and sometimes it's the loudest sound in our world. The loss of a child is indeed a grief like no other.

If I talk about it less, it's because I feel like people just don't want to hear it anymore. Or people will think I'm "stuck" (as I heard one person said about me), not moving forward. And when I don't talk about Patrick when I'm thinking about him, or when I'm missing him, then I feel less than authentic. My silence on this, my solitary tears, separate me from people more and more often these days.

So that's how it is, five years tending the grief garden. I'm not who I was before. I've learned to live with enormous pain and grief while engaging with a creative, healthy and joyous life. It amazes me that when I touch the grief place, it is as raw and painful as it ever was. It amazes me that I have moments of pure bliss and contentment. It amazes me that my being can be composed of such powerful, conflicting emotions, that I feel cursed and blessed at the same time. But that's how it is.

A poem I wrote last week:

tomorrow my son died.
today i hugged him for the last time.

this today my daughter texted
that she misses me.
i texted back
i miss you more

then cried in my cereal.
i ate strawberries & tears for breakfast.
i made that my facebook status.
i tweeted it.

i think i'm like Persephone.
i spend half my life
with the dead.

i think i'm like her mother Demeter.
i move through the land in disguise,
sorrow and stones weighting the hem of my dark cloak.

oh. please. i'm not Goddess in archetypal myth.

i'm a mortal mother whose child died tomorrow
like mothers' children do      every.  day.

tomorrow my heart cracked open,
its infinite capacity exposed
so everything started tumbling in.

tomorrow i began this endless poem.

i'm always imagining it is reposeful
under winter's earth,
how the withered stems of dreams
still dream in the roots below.

it's all in-breath.

and always - so far-
the day after tomorrow
the sun has returned
color rises
warmth kisses

out-breath begins.

Ah, we miss you, Patrick, and always will.  Love, love, love...

Birthday memorial 4 - Patrick

24 years ago today, Patrick came into this world...I remember looking at the tiny hairs on the top of his ears and being filled with awe at the miracle of his life coming through us...and just a year before, in that same hospital, I had almost died...his birth made an amazing joyous circle for me, his death another circle, infinitely sad...

No. 17 in the flood of '93

in the flood of ‘93

we fled our home
waded into the night
into a black sea
that glittered and moved
in moonlight
where the parking lot
should be.

with one tote bag
hastily packed,
dolls and towels
and string game books
and crosswords
and knitting,

we would be amused
in disaster.

Patrick was still
with us then,
just a small boy.
Molly screamed,
Shaun thought his art
would be safe on the bed.

Later, we’d go back
to salvage.

There’s a picture of Patrick,

in the hotel elevator
clutching an armful of cereal box
robots, creations
that survive
now only
in memory & pictures

as Patrick himself
now only
survives.

--Zann Carter 04.17.09

Remembering Patrick (as if we ever forget...)

Patrick Michael Burkett
January 31, 1986 - March 18, 2006

Little boy....

drawing Spiderman....

motorizing a rubber band car...

constructing robots... (oh, his elegant hands)

playing chess with sister Molly...

loving his big brothers, Ian...

and Shaun...
and sometimes just barely tolerating Shaun....


taking part in the UU ceremony of dedication....

Young man...

first playing guitar....

...playing cool with friends...
just playing cool...

rockin' out....

Rock in Peace, Patrick
beloved son, brother & cherished friend

check out:
Blues For Patty Project
Music created by Patrick's Dad, his nom de sax is Papapatty.
Blue Memorial is a special tribute to Patty and Breezy Nights is original Patty with Papapatty sax added.

Six Months Since Patrick Died

"Let your children be as so many flowers, borrowed from God. If the flowers die or wither, thank God for a summer loan of them."
-- Samuel Rutherford

Six months ago today, we lost our son Patrick.
Two whole seasons have passed without him, yet he has often been present in sweet and mysterious ways.

I'm not sure that I have ever written here about how he died. I think I need to do that. I'm not sure why, but I need to do that. And the story seems to want to be told today.

For two years, our family went through with Patrick the terrible journey so many families go through when a member struggles with drugs and alcohol.

I never wrote about that because I wanted to protect Patrick's privacy. He was so young. I felt he deserved a chance to recover and move forward in his life without his mother broadcasting his problems over the Internet.

The very short version is that Patrick was excessive in everything he did, for good or ill. People always talk about him in superlatives-- 'he was the best metal guitarist' 'he was the funniest guy I know.' When he drank, he drank too much. When he practiced guitar, he practiced for hours. When he did drugs, he did too many kinds and too much.

After his terrible accident in November 2004, in which he fractured every bone in his face, we were grateful beyond words that no one else was involved and that he lived. We thought he would change his behavior. He didn't. The medical and legal consequences merely gave him an almost unbearable burden on top of the burdens he was already carrying that caused him to try to "fix" himself with drugs and alcohol.

For another year, we rode the roller coaster of addiction with him. In January of this year, we began to see changes. His light was returning. He got a better job. He had a better place to live and was expressing some pleasure in simple things like fixing up his "...lair."
He was nicer, more thoughtful.
We thought he was clean and sober.
We didn't realize he was just trying and only sometimes succeeding.
On March 15, he got his driver's license reinstated and he and I picked up the used Malibu we'd bought for him. He and I had the best day we'd had in a very, very long time.
I hugged him and told him it felt like we had just completed a terrible, difficult journey together and a new one was beginning.

I saw him one more time, on March 17, St. Patrick's Day. I hugged him for the last time, standing on the street by his new car. We spoke once more, by phone, around 5:30 that afternoon. I was in my therapy session. Usually I turn off my cell phone, but I hadn't that day.
I said to my therapist, "If it's Patrick, I'm answering it."

I'm so glad I did. He said he had some money in an envelope for me. And his last words were "I love you, Mom."

What we know is this: He was very, very happy that day. Lots of people saw and spoke to him, and that's what they remember. He bought some things at the Dollar Store, he went to the mall. He wound up at a party. He got home around 5 a.m. on the 18th and he put on some music.

Then he just put his head down on the table in front of him and never got up again. The description of the scene allows us the comfort of being fairly certain that his death was peaceful and that he did not suffer.
The official cause of his death was "accidental polypharmacological overdose." A contributing factor was listed: an enlarged left ventricle of his heart. We know from our own research that very likely he damaged his heart from drug use.

He was 20 years and 46 days old.
We do thank God for the summer loan of him.
But the summer was way too short.

Rock on, Patrick....we will always hold you close in our hearts....

" Emptiness is bound to bloom, like hundreds of grasses blossoming."
-- Eihei Dogen, Sky Flowers