BIRTHDAY BLUES


Dear Son,

You would have been 49 years old today.
Still in the prime of life.
This morning, as I prepared the incense holder in the Greek tradition, the tears rolled, unbidden, copiously down my face. I sat on the bed where you died, and talked to your picture.  By now, you should be tired of me saying the same words, over and over again.


I miss you.  I love you. Did you understand how much I loved you? If only you had needed a kidney, a heart, some organ that I could have given to you to make you healthy.  All so unfair!!!! Such a waste.


I wonder who else might be thinking about you today? Your Dad and I just looked at each other sharing our sadness and pain.  No one to call him and be silly on a morning phone call.

I really miss your voice, George.  You had a melodic and soothing voice.  Every time I heard, "Hi, Mom, whatcha doing?", I was happy.

The same words, the same thoughts over and over again.  And, identifying with all the parents who have lost a child.  Knowing how many of us are hurting, suffering, broken in a special way that only we know.  

I wrote in blue today, your favorite color. I didn't bake a cake.
For what reason?  On this day, St. George's day, as you knew, my dessert is deep, never ending grief.

Be at peace, my wonderful son.  Be at peace. 

Four years tomorrow.
That is how long you have been gone from us.
You chose to die on a beautiful Sunday morning at 6:37 a.m. on March 3, 2013.  You always were an early bird from the time you were born.

I never know how I am going to react on the day, days or weeks of the month that you died.  Just as I didn't really know how I was going to be after you died.  I was so caught up in your struggle as well as being in shock, so when a hospice worker asked how I would be when you died, I said, "I don't really know".

Well, after four sometimes blurred, sometimes too clear years, I know.

Being a mother, for me, was the prime mission that I have had in life.  Once you children were born, I was only in this world to make it good and loving for all of you.  I think you all got this
message.

Life doesn't care what our goals are.  It just is.  And so, when my daughter Alexia was born, after I had been ill for the nine months that I was pregnant, I mourned for years every March 18. Until finally, I woke up one day, and realized that I had not even noticed that the day had passed.  Not so with March 3.

We all mourn alone.  I write this blog through my tears, and my husband turns inward and cannot even look at me as I cry.  It is too painful for him.  I get it. No one, even the most understanding, can get into my head to really know how sad I am.
I have strange thoughts and rituals since you have died.  I still have a uterine "memory" that pulls at me when I think of giving birth to you. It's like cell memory, a place that is personal and not explainable.  I sleep every night with that awful pillow that you loved and wouldn't let me replace for you.  I greet you every morning and every night with a song that we used to sing. And, I go to sleep hoping you will visit me.

Next to my bed, is a tiny glass container with a lock of your hair.  It was starting to get some gray strands.  You would have been a really distinguished looking man as you matured because you had a stately stature and a very handsome face.  Not just my opinion.

None of these rituals bring you any closer to me.  Today, the last day you lay dying, I remember the constant groaning that were the only sounds you made for thirteen days.  A hospice chaplain, not your typical religious image, said that you were sorting out your life as you lay dying.  He told me that he could see you already walking in a field, with your dog by your side and that you were ok. He believed that he had a gift that allowed him to go into your mind, and that you had allowed it. Since you loved being in the outdoors, I wanted to believe him.

Once the morphine had been pumped into you, you never opened your eyes again.  When the hospice doctor woke you and asked if you wanted to stop the dying process, you adamently shook your head and said "NO"! Dying wasn't easy for you, George, but neither was watching your life fall apart from MS.  Aside from the fast progression of your disease and your physical disability and pain, you had to deal with emotional pain.  For a man with a huge heart, you learned that people can be weak and unthinkingly cruel. So many never called or visited you.  You needed to feel the love and friendship, and many just didn't take the time.  Your world got so small, and I cringed at the injustice of all that was inflicted upon you.

So, as I wait for tomorrow, the "day", I try and decide where I am in this valley of grief.  I have not accepted your death, a word you abhorred and said it was giving in to MS.  I am no longer in shock and certainly not in denial.  I am a different person and do not cling to this life and earthly existence since you have died.  My perspective has tilted.  I still feel love and pain for your children, and yes even your wife who did the unimaginable and was divorcing you.  I think of all the wonderful events you will miss and have already missed.  Graduations, football games, achievements of your beautiful children and eventually walking Stacia, your clone, down the aisle.  I am thankful for your two beautiful sisters and worry for my husband who has had many health issues since you died.  So, where am I in this life?

RESIGNED...a word that means I've had my core being hollowed out. What is left is a moving, talking woman who partakes of daily existence with half a heart.  Resigned...and not looking forward to seeing this anniversay come for years and years.  Missing you and always, always LOVING you.

Love,
Mom

INCONSOLABLE,Inconsolable, Inconsolable, Inconsolab


Yes, three years, eight months and some change.
I am inconsolable.  Our son, George, said, "Everyone will be sad and mourn for a while, but life will go on".
He wasn't a mother and he never had to watch one of his children die.  We, his Father and I, did.
We are inconsolable yet.

Both of us are inconsolable because we cannot call him and hear his voice. He talked with his Dad every day. They were silly, often, and laughed at stupid jokes.  Now, his Dad is inconsolable having no son to call.  
I am inconsolable because never again will I hear his melodious voice saying "Hey, Mom, whatcha doing"?
I am inconsolable because his oldest son will be 21 years old this month, and George will not be here to hug and admire him. I am inconsolable because his son will not share that first real step into adulthood with his Father.
I am inconsolable because after all this time I am still inconsolable.  Sure, I can forget and immerse myself in trivia for a time, but then, missing him, intrudes. 
I am inconsolable because I saw the new leader of our country ridicule a handicapped man. It reminded me of a blog entry George wrote when the same thing happened to him on St. Patrick's Day when he was trying to forget he was handicapped and alone.  I am inconsolable because so many in our country weren't offended by the lack of compassion for humanity that it exhibited.
I am inconsolable because this handicapped man and so many others, including George, had diseases that are still incurable.  Where is our focus?
I am inconsolable because I will never be able to bake another cookie for my son to enjoy. I am inconsolable because his death is forever, and I still am living while his life had real meaning, especially for his children.
I am inconsolable because I have no ability to detach myself from the hurt and pain his suffering caused him and us.
I am inconsolable every time I see a refugee baby, dead on a shore, because George's death magnified the tragedy of indifference.
I am inconsolable in so many ways, not the least during special days when George will not be in our company.
I am inconsolable because memories are not sufficient to take away my inconsolability.
I am inconsolable as I miss my wonderful son who got a shit sandwich, lost his health and chose to die.
Inconsolable, forever.

Another year without you.....

George,

Another year about to end and another starting.  Do you know what it means to me?  The horrible thought of another year without you in my life.  Each year takes me further away from when you were here, and no, it doesn't get easier.  It really hurts more because of the hopelessness of never being able to see, hear, touch or talk to you.

Sure, I have been reading blogs about grief, afterlife, mediums who swear that death is just a transition.  Doesn't really matter because all I have is this life and you are missing from it.

My memories of you fold into each other like molten lava...one leading into another, and all just reminding me that they are just that, memories.  It is not enough.

Here are some of the things I remember.  When you were in high school in the glee club.  We had come to the Christmas program, and during the performance, out steps this tall, handsome man in a black tuxedo.  His strong voice rang out in a solo, and it was you, handsome beyond words. What a surprise for us, and how proud we were of you.

Or, how about, how every night, here in Florida, when it was just you confined to bed and your two old parents trying to not give in to despair, you would call to me.  "Hey Mom, hurry up, it's Family Feud".  I would rush to lay next to you in bed and watch that really stupid show, just to keep you company, like your wife used to when you lived together.Guess what...I cannot stand to see Steve Harvey anymore.  Too sad.

I haven't baked a cookie since you died.  Too hard for me because baking and crying  are not a good mix.  I made cookies each week for you, and you would ask for one, and then say, "got another one Mom?"  No, I will never bake another cookie because you cannot eat it.

I watch your Dad sit in the garage at night, sometimes smoking a cigar.  You never really liked to smoke, but you would light a cigar stub that you nursed for at least a week, sitting in that behemoth wheel chair and just talk with your old Dad.  Now, he just sits and stares at empty sky, perhaps remembering those moments.

Memories are supposed to bring comfort.  Not for me.  They just make me realize how much I miss you, how much I long for you to be here, healthy, back in your old life, content with your family.  I couldn't heal you and I can't get you back.  It sucks and how I always hated that phrase.

So, this new year, I will count to three for the years you have been gone...and wonder how I can stand to live for how many more years.....without you in my world.

Look At the Moon

It is two years tomorrow since George left this earth.
I did not think that I would be able to ever write again on this blog.
Grief and longing are so profound that no words can adequately express the depth to which they go. I can only say that for these last two years, I have lived in  a dark place.

There have been moments of light.  Seeing my grandchildren and knowing they are healthy and joyful has been like sunshine caressing my face.  You know the warmth of that feeling.  Honestly, though, not a day has gone by when I have not cried, remembering George when he was ill, and lamenting the moments that will never be.

I have sought comfort in music, poetry, writings of other mothers who have lost their children.  I absorbed the sorrow, the pain, the longing of all those who have been thrust into this valley of grief.  It is truly a lonely place no matter how many others inhabit it.

My daughters have been so understanding. They have had to deal with their loss as well as mine.  And, my husband, how can one ever understand what it means to a man to lose his only son, his legacy, his counterpart in manhood? We have all shared our loss in many ways, but deep inside, we mourn alone.

George's children.  How can I possibly know what they are feeling?  I only understand that they will no longer have a most wonderful father to guide, love and cherish them.  Memories will grow dim, but hopefully the essence of who he was will forever influence and comfort them.

Last week was one of the worst that I have ever experienced.  My mind began the countdown of George's last days with us.  It was  physically and emotionally wrenching.  I sunk as low as I ever have in these many years.  And, then, NIko, George's son called me.

How I have worried for Niko, the eldest.  We talked about George, and then Niko did the most amazing thing.  He wrote and sang a song about George and life.  I cried for hours after I played it many times.  But, you know what?  His song and wisdom, cracked that canker of sorrow that has been my companion for too long.  The poison flowed out with the tears.  

Niko acknowledged the difficulties in life, but said that he and George did not want me to be sad.  Imagine.  I played the song over and over and will forever.
His final line, "look at the moon, he's all around"  Look at the moon.

I will.

GEORGE BOKOS...BEFORE MS...A FINAL TRIBUTE

March 2, 2014

Tomorrow, March 3, 2014, is the first anniversary of George's death.
I have chosen to write a tribute for him on his blog, Thegreekfromdetroit.com.
It is about who George was before MS became his destiny.
From this time forward, I will try to dwell in the good memories that we have.
He would have wanted it that way.

In loving memory of a wonderful son......

Hilda

Lamentation of a mother

One year ago on this date,
George was alive and miserable in his bedroom in our home.  
Today, I am alive and miserable remembering each day last year, even though much of it has become a blur.
Anticipation, not filled with hope, but with dread. 
Little did I know then, that in less than two weeks, our beloved son would be dead.

Oh, he had told us in no uncertain terms that he was NOT going to live in the state that MS had placed him.  That he would not want to live to continue to deteriorate, become more dependent, lose more function, remain isolated from all that made him who he was; children, a loving woman, work, physical strength, friends......PURPOSE.

Now, he saw himself as an imposition on two aging parents, dependent on a caretaker to wash and assist him in his most intimate functions.  He saw a man who would never have a woman hold him intimately, care for him as a husband, share all his life with him.  He saw no future hope in all the drugs being touted by the pharmaceutical companies and the MS Society.  He saw that he could not live with his four children, guide them, play with them, understand and participate with their changes and maturing.  

He envisioned nothing but pain, deterioration and dependency.  
"This is NOT who I am, Mom, and you know it". Yes, I knew it and understood his every word.

Now, I am a shell of who I was.
I walk, talk, smile, socialize.
I knew that I loved George.
I knew that we had a special bond.
I was willing to care for him for the rest of my life.
I never really knew how much I really loved him.
I never fully comprehended how much I would miss him.

The world expects that I move forward.
That I remember all the good times and find peace that George is no longer suffering.
It doesn't work that way.  I have sat all this month remembering the terrible February last year when he suffered, realized his life would never get better and knew that the future held only more pain, suffering, loneliness and decline.
He worried about us caring for him.  He didn't want any more ambulance rides, hospital visits, fighting for doctors to help him, sadness over his loss of love and friendships.

I can't explain how the light has gone out of my life.  I try to be uplifted with love for my grandchildren, but then I am so sad that they are growing and becoming so wonderful and beautiful and George is not here to see them.
Nothing makes me really happy.  I smile and participate, resemble the old me, but still feel like a ghost.  I am the ghost, lost in this world and wanting my son to be with me.  

I don't know if I will ever recover, find meaning in this life.  Look forward to anything.  I cry when I think of George's kids, their lives going on and he is not with them. Sadness prevails, and no matter how good my fake face is, I am not there.


Just like George is not here or there.  I do not see him in the sky or feel him in the night or see him in my dreams.  He is lost, gone.  I do not want to believe that he is reborn to another life, as in reincarnation.  I do not want someone else to have his love, his beauty, his humor.  I am selfish.
I think he is just gone, belonging to the past, no longer any part of this world and not believing that there is another one in which he can exist. I hope I am wrong.


I just want him. 

I just want him.........



  (Photo taken early in George's diagnosis.  Symtomatic, still functioning, but struggling with treatments and adjustments.)