First of all, it has been a technical roller coaster to learn more about blogging.  I wanted people to be able to comment on posts, because I so appreciated that on the Caring Bridge Site for Conor.  So, I spent many days, emails, “help” searches…and learned that for this platform>>> YOU CAN POST COMMENTS!!  What you have to do is actually put your cursor over the title of the blog entry and that will make it “live” and then click on it, and the post will come up with a section at the bottom for comments.  You cannot post comments if you stay just on the home page that initially comes up, (even though that site shows the blog post) –but you have to open up the post. SO – feel free to post comments – even on prior posts if you want….

But…the roller coaster I am thinking about is the emotional maelstrom that seems to be swirling constantly around my brain these days.  It is the experience of riding my bike home on a beautiful Seattle day from work:  appreciating how much I enjoy being able to bike commute (esp on a day when it is not raining) coming home…(appreciating my home that looks out over a neighborhood lake)…having just had the privilege of working with residents in obstetrics & gynecology helping them mature in their “doctoring” process –(helping them and watching them “mature” is such a terrific part of my job)…all of these such positive, lovely, privileged parts of my existence!  Then, it seems like 30 seconds later I am thinking of the dreams I seem to be getting nightly about scenes of the last frisbee tournament I attended before the Feb 28th accident:  In Tampa where all the boys were playing, – appreciating the Tampa sun after the MN winter- taking “group” photos in goofy handmade spray painted T-shirts that they used as their “uniform” until their new jerseys came in…parents were socializing on the sidelines–getting to know the parents and then… seeing those parents at a funeral 3 weeks later or a Memorial Service at Carleton 9 weeks later- the suddenness of the shifts.  Experience profound joy and contentment, and hold deep grief.  And they flip so fast.  Like in milliseconds.  Like life events.  Like hitting ice on a road.

Right now, I am at a medical research meeting in Washington DC, where I see many wonderful colleagues- some of whom I have known since Conor and Shane were wee lads.  People ask “how have you been?”  “How are the boys?”  I gulp.  Do I give them the  “Well, the last few months have been life changing” or the “Conor is back at Carleton and Shane is applying to college”, or the quick summary: ” Conor was in a tragic car accident where he lost 3 close friends, but has had a miraculous recovery and now back at college and playing sports again”….  and, then sometimes, especially if I am tired and it is a really good friend, I just start to cry. For months, I pushed down volatility to focus on the immediate.  I distinctly remember times, such as packing Conor’s room at Carleton to bring stuff home–when he was still pretty confused and disoriented and we did not know if he would ever go back to Carleton–when I felt tears coming, and I said “not now”.  For months there was a singularity of focus – the “protective mama bear” of being “rehab mom” for Conor and also of parenting Shane through his own trauma.  This singularity of focus and intensity removed ambiguity:  it facilitated the energy needed to respond and cope with each day and the weekly “changes” in Conor that made parenting so tricky as he was such a moving target.  More about that a different time. But what I was talking about to Buckley recently is that the “response” to all the months of “not now” seems to be freed up…where will I be on the roller coaster this minute?

So, I ride my bike, thankful for the time that allows this emotional maelstrom to filter through my heart, be modulated by the presence of God in my soul, and allow space to hold the Mt. Everest -type bigness of the events since Feb 28th.