The descent into hell.

Not all memory loss is a result of aging. Regardless of the reason, memory loss or rather a constant distractedness is frustrating. I have a good memory, always pictured my brain like an enormous filing cabinet, knew where the files were, could access names, dates, to-do lists. Now the files are covered over, not taped shut, but more draped with memories.  I try to remember something and instead I see a picture of a seemingly unrelated image. I virtually shake my head and go back to what I was doing, what detail was I trying to remember, what was I supposed to be doing next? Sometimes I remember what I was doing, sometimes I forget to do something and that is a hateful feeling.

The first step in the descent is a free fall, until you hit a ledge so hard you can’t breathe and a hand chokes your heart.

I can’t always remember what I was supposed to do, but I remember the image. Our old wood floor in the dining room, shiny black dress shoes and a black stripe on olive green dress pants. It is the image that I saw when the state trooper told us that our son, Justin, was dead.  He had asked us to sit down before he told us. The image rarely leaves my brain, always the black stripe. The first step in the descent is a free fall, until you hit a ledge so hard you can’t breathe and a hand chokes your heart.

We are actually having to speak to people about our now dead son, Justin.

The state trooper doesn’t tell us how Justin died, he waits respectfully until we can speak. We call our priest. We ask how. Details of the accident are sketchy, the officer knows it was a single vehicle fatality. He hands us names and numbers to call in Minnesota. The first of the yellow legal pads. He gently asks us if we would like him to make the first call to the police officer in Minnesota to get us started. The second step in the descent. We are actually having to speak to people about our now dead son, Justin. This is a forced fall, duty and responsibility push you off the ledge and you continue the descent.

More details, the first picture of the upside down vehicle in the water. The third fall is brutal, you aren’t at the bottom yet, the ledge is somewhat wider here, this is where you set up a temporary camp to work from, you organize from this foreign spot. Almost a respite, you are unaware that there are darker and deeper falls ahead.

Film reels, except there is little movement, more like stills. That is my memory, still photos that insert themselves with more and more frequency.  A tug-of-war, wanting to remember Justin, having no new memories of him to replace the visuals burned in my brain, the retrieval system that doesn’t want to work because of the pain of remembering.

Brain trauma does not always have to be physical, the sudden death of a child affects the brain.

I start to research and read, I know this is normal for grief, but I want to know why.  Why is the parental brain on grief like this, why are we exhausted, why are we never the same, literally, our brains are different now. I start to dig and find volumes on brain trauma and the anatomy of the brain. Brain trauma does not always have to be physical, the sudden death of a child affects the brain. The frontal lobes of our brain is the executive suite, the understanding, thinking, and reasoning parts of the brain.  Traumatic memories seem to lodge in the primitive part of the brain, the brain stem, they have their own energy, their own life and are not processed like normal memories. The frontal lobes shut down bringing memory loss, brain fog, loss of concentration and there exists a disconnect between the two sides of the brain, the right and left. Those memories will never go away, but they do need to move from that reptilian part of our brain to the frontal lobes, but the door is shut and the memories have no ambulation of their own. I keep reading, for the nerd in me is now intrigued.

I come across a group that works with grief and healing, they provide opportunities for people to be creative. Dancing, drumming, writing, storytelling, no prior experience or talent necessary. Creativity opens up the frontal lobes again and facilitates processing of memories and events. Now I am really captivated and start digging deeper. I come across more academic writings on the subject. The author suggests that creative activities that require both hands are especially helpful as both sides of the brain are engaged. Mechanical pursuits, gardening, artwork, all seem to bring order and calm.  And it is not about being “good” at whatever your are creating or doing, it is simply about re-integrating the brain. Think of matted networks and short-circuits, imagine creating new neural pathways, it is harder the older you are, but exploration into neuroplasticity shows that old brains can learn new tricks. No surprise that meditation, prayer, and exercise all facilitate the ability to heal trauma and encourage creativity. The world leaves us little time for creativity and playtime. To create without expectations is unheard of, our mindset of being “productive” overrides that natural response to play, to create, to try new things, learn new skills just for fun. What then when it becomes a matter of living or being dead to life?

…every time I get back up I am different, it is never the same person that stands again to walk.

I would like to think that we are in the deepest part of the descent, but I don’t know that to be true. I long for Justin more than I did this time last year, more than I did this time last month, it is summer, he should be home in a couple of weeks for a short visit, it is still hard to reconcile that he will never pull into the driveway again. The further down we go the less our lives look like they did 21 months ago, the less we have in common with our old life, it is an interior hell, isolated from that singular life that no matter how bad things were, he could always bring hope and joy.

What does it take to start the ascent?  To climb again after you thought progress was being made only to slide into an icier ravine, to accept that falling is part of the process. I will tell you that every time I get back up I am different, it is never the same person that stands again to walk.  But I get up, and I try something different, I don’t have to make the climb all at once, one foothold at a time is all I have to do.