One Slip of Paper In a Box

September 5, 2017September 5, 2017 / djuanadreed / Leave a comment

You know how I say memories of Riley sneak up on me and knock me to the floor? Opening a box of a Scrabble game that I had brought with me to Kentucky did that. In an unsuspecting moment on a Sunday afternoon, I pulled the box out of the drawer. I hurried to open it to see if all of the pieces were in there. Games that were once a part of a family and have gone through years of being played sometimes lose their parts.

As I opened the box and laid out the board, I noticed that there were pieces of paper with scoring on them. As I looked closer, they included Riley’s name. And right there, right then… I began to cry. Memories flooded my mind of us as a family sitting around a Scrabble board at the kitchen table challenging each other’s words, laughing and scrambling to win with the most unique, impressive words hitting just the right squares on the board in order to increase our points.

From the scores, it looks like Bria got called away and that Riley, Dad and I continued to play. It seems that I got left in the dust and that it was a close competition between Riley and Greg. First of all, I’m loving the memory of us together playing a game. Memories of family and being together is always warming to my heart. I love that Riley and Dad battled it out and that Riley won. Greg has this lucky streak at any competition. We all gave it our best shot at beating him at something. So there was surely a big smile and some words of pride and boasting out of Riley’s mouth as he won that game that day.

Why do I cry over this little slip of paper? Because Riley should be here. Memories sting like a poison that starts with a prick on the finger and enters my veins spreading throughout me. I wiped my tears that Sunday and had a good time playing Scrabble.

The sting of that one memory from a piece of paper tucked in a box has invaded me for weeks. I want the opportunity to play a game with Riley again. I want the opportunity to touch him and kiss him. I miss his presence in my life. I miss his sense of humor. I want to sit on the couch across from him talking about nothing important and then sometimes talking about something deep and challenging. I want so desperately to see his smile again.

The scramble of the brain, to manipulate memories and thoughts during any given day in order to be like a normal person is very real as a grieving mother. It is memories of Riley that shake up a moment of normalcy. To organize my random thoughts of Riley so that I can function is normal now. To learn to enjoy my time and space in the present instead of wallow in my pain is my challenge. The only winning that happens with grief is making it through a minute, hour, sometimes a day without the debilitating pain of the loss of my son. I win at that sometimes. I lose at it too.

Still to this day people say to me, “With time it will get better” and the old common saying, “Time heals all wounds”. I often don’t handle it very well when I reply to such ideas. Time will not change this gaping wound left in me of losing my son. Healing is not in the future. I will learn better to live with it as life continues to move along across the board. As all things in life, change occurs. This is a loss in life not a win. I attempt to accept the loss and put on a brave face. I lose at that sometimes too.

Though fighting memories to function is a daily challenge, having them brings comfort as well. I know that’s kinda crazy, but it’s true. Is a memory of Riley that comes to mind a win or a loss? Neither. A memory of Riley is both. The memories are precious that I am glad I have. I had him here for 18 years. I wouldn’t hurt so much if I didn’t love him that much. Though invading and painful, I hold dear the memories I am reminded of like this one from a slip of paper in a box.

I Love You, Riley.

52 with a few more to go

May 8, 2017 / djuanadreed / Leave a comment

The reality of my age has hit hard this year. I just had a birthday and all of a sudden I am feeling weathered, withered, creaky with a swooshy brain. Parts of me have been creaking for a while now, but it’s just this new number that even sounds old. Recently when I complained about some strange symptom I had, my boyfriend said, “It’s because we are old.” Notice he says “we” as if that is going to lighten the shock of the statement. It doesn’t. He can be old. I don’t want to be old! I am not ashamed of the years I have lived, 52, or the year I was born, 1965. I just don’t like that old part. I mean, I don’t want to be.

Riley just had a birthday this past week on May 3rd. He would have been 21 years old. That day is a double whammy of a day since it is also the day that he died. It has been three years now. Nothing is different. It still hurts. It hurts bad.

The day before Riley’s birthday when I felt like I was holding my breath waiting for the day to be here and wishing it wasn’t coming, Tom was making dinner and I was standing in the kitchen keeping him company. We began talking about that being old thing again. He said he would go back ten years if he could- that it sounded good.

I said, “I wouldn’t because that would mean I might have to live ten years longer.” There, I said it out loud and then my tears leaked out.

Dealing with this pain, this grief that I am sentenced to for the rest of my life is real. To carry it longer sounds awful and too taxing. It’s a lot of work. I don’t know that I can do it any longer than the time that I have ahead of me now. Death is a welcome thought.

There is an end to it. I know that my friends that are carrying the grief of losing a child understand. There is a finish line I look forward to when the pain will stop and better yet, I will be with Riley again. It is a white line with flags and I do not fear crossing it.

To survive this grief of losing a child, I must put one foot in front of the other and keep moving. I must! Or I will surely wither away.

I get up, I get dressed and I keep moving because I have a life to live right now. After 3 years, I can smile at a joke. I can appreciate the beauty of my blue sky and green grass and blooming flowers here in Kentucky. I can feel challenged with my job and the pleasure of seeing the results of my efforts at it. I am thrilled with how my children are doing and how fast my grand-daughter is growing.

I sleep, I eat, I dance in the kitchen, I love and I am loved. I cry and I wipe my tears and I keep going. I bury my head under the pillow and I rest. My heart hurts so bad when I think about him that it feels that it is going to quit. I keep going anyways. I must!

I have made it 52 years, I can make it 48 more years if that is what God gives me, but don’t ask me to do one more day than I am destined to. Riley had only 18 years. I’d easily give him all of my years, but I can’t. This is my life sentence – this grief. And I will handle the withering, weathering, creaking with a swooshing brain avoiding the word, “old” the best I can and I will keep getting up and keep moving…Because I must!

I Love You, Riley.

A life that touches others goes on forever

April 10, 2017 / djuanadreed / Leave a comment

IMG_5340-2-3222307474-O A life that touches others goes on forever. I want desperately for Riley’s story to be instrumental in changing lives. We that knew him and loved him are forever touched by who he was. I speak and tell his story so others know Riley and his story.

Simply said, a grieving parent doesn’t want their child forgotten. That is natural. We want to talk about them and we don’t want you to be afraid to mention them. I want you to remember my young boy that was going to rule the world some day dressed in a baseball cap, cowboy boots and red cape and the young man who liked to discuss how the world could be a better place to live. He shared his smile with strangers and friends alike. His story is important.

In December of last year, I gave a donation in Riley’s name to Isaiah House Treatment Center, a campus of two facilities totalling 88 beds – a men’s drug addiction treatment program located in a small rural town called Willisburg, Kentucky. I have had the privilege of working with Isaiah House for four months now. What I know about this place is that after my many years of researching drug addiction treatment centers all over the United States, I have never and I mean never, seen a rehabilitation center that covers addiction treatment like this place. They are a non profit organization that operates on a very tight budget to provide the largest amount of comprehensive services possible in order to ensure a lifetime of recovery for the men that come through their doors.

I asked to share Riley’s story with the men. I wanted them to know my son and his story.

As I set up the slide show of Riley and sat down, some of the guys started filing in finding seats. Since we were sitting face to face, waiting for my daughter, Bria and the rest of the men to come into the room, we started talking. I don’t think they knew how much that helped me keep my nerves in check.

It had been awhile since I told Riley’s story. It’s never easy. It’s harder when I haven’t been doing it regularly. Visiting the memories of Riley dying is hard.

My imagination runs wild as I revisit the story. There is a visual picture in my head of the tab on his tongue in the snap chat he sent out. The smile on his face as he wrote what joy was like signing it, “acid”. The final hours of his life filled with terror, the cries for help that weren’t answered, the moments of him standing at the entry way of the front door with a gun under his chin. I don’t know how to tell the story without the details of how I lost my son. I HATE the details. I HATE drugs.

So what do you say to a group of adult men of all ages who know drugs very well, who could have died from drug use, but are still here sitting in front of you alive? I said the same thing I say to the kids in classrooms and school gyms. “You don’t know what you have in your hands. Please live. I want you to live.” I told the men I don’t want your Mom, Dad, grandparents, sisters, brothers, wives and children to feel the pain I feel every day. I relayed the message as not a warning of a first try of a drug, but of the possible consequences of one more use of a drug.

Those consequences happen in overdoses in mass numbers daily across the United States. The heroin epidemic is wiping out a generation. There are new synthetic drugs that are killing our sons and daughters as they hit the streets every time we turn around. There are too many parents that know the grief of losing a child to drug use. There are too many children in foster care because of losing their parents to drug use.

There were tears in the audience that mimicked mine as I spoke. At the end, the men had some kind and introspective comments about what they had heard Bria and I say. Each walked out with a “What Would Riley Do Bracelet” and I had accomplished telling Riley’s story one more time.

From there, they take Riley’s story with them and I will never know how it effected each one, but I know I shared it with the purpose that his story sticks with them.

The game room at Isaiah House is named Riley’s Game Room now. The Game Room has a television, an arcade game, ping-pong table, pool table, gaming system and guitars in it. Riley’s kind of room! It’s a great room to have Riley’s name on it.

Because A life that touches others goes on forever.

I Love You, Riley.

Tiny Hands that Hold my Heart

December 12, 2016December 12, 2016 / djuanadreed / Leave a comment

My heart is full when I am with my granddaughter. At 10 months, she isn’t still unless she is in my lap while I read her a book or while she is drinking her bottle. Her tiny hands are soft, touching and reaching for things. Her eyes light up with wonder at things around her. You can see her mind twirling as she touches her Dad’s socked feet and in return, he makes a funny sound. She looks back at him and stares quizacally. She uses her tiny hands to throw a tennis ball and then crawls after it to do it again. Everything she picks up goes straight to her mouth. She puts her tiny hands down to move quickly across the floor with an army crawl that Braden also did as a baby.

To watch her kick her feet smiling and reaching for her Daddy whenever he enters the room, makes my heart swell. She loves her Daddy. She has him wrapped around her tiny finger. Just as it should be.

I savored every moment with her and Braden when I visited them both a month ago. Every moment with someone I love is precious since Riley died. You don’t realize the depth of time and experiences with someone until they are gone. I will not have even one more second with Riley and that hurts beyond measure.

Braylin Riley is a happy baby. I cannot help from believe it is because, in some crazy way, that she has Riley’s name in her name. Riley was a happy baby too.

On my wrist, I wear Riley’s WWRD (What Would Riley Do) bracelet every day. It never comes off. I hand bracelets out when I tell Riley’s story. His bracelets are on the wrists of many people of all ages. The bracelets represent hope to me. Hope that whoever has one will remember Riley’s story, will repeat the story of how he died on a first try of a drug and that they themselves will not try or continue to use drugs.

Each time that I held Braylin as I gave her a bottle, she played with the bracelet putting her fingers under it, pulling on it, twisting it around my wrist over and over with her tiny hands. Watching her play with the bracelet caused me to weep the first time it happened.

Braylin Riley was touching Riley and his memory. She won’t ever have the privilege of knowing him. I believe she would have loved him like we all do. I think she would have been drawn to his smile and warmth like we all were. I am sad to know that she won’t ever have the chance to know her Uncle Riley though I know she will know of him.

I hope that Braylin will never come into contact with drugs. Reality is that she probably will. I fear what society will be like at that point when she will have to make the decision of trying a drug or not. I can’t worry about that today. We are far from that point. What I can do is savor the fact that Braylin is drawn to Riley’s bracelet as she plays with it with her tiny hands. She will see it there each time she sees me. She will play with the bracelet on her Daddy’s wrist, touch one on Aunt Bria’s wrist and tug on Grandpa Peterson’s too.

IMG_5272-XL Riley is here with us every day reminding us what life is and should be. His story reminds us how quickly without notice, life can be taken away by one decision. I miss my boy so very much. I am thankful there are tiny hands that touch a bracelet that reminds me of him and his unconditional love. Those tiny hands touch and hold my heart.

I love you, Riley.

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The Small Notebook

August 1, 2016 / djuanadreed / Leave a comment

There are moments that make you smile and moments that make you cry when you are a grieving mother. It is how it is. Some weeks more tears come than smiles. Some weeks you can keep the tears at bay. In reflection, you can instantly feel guilty that you were okay that week.

I reached into my nightstand drawer to jot down a “To Do”. You know, one of those things that you remember and then forget unless you write it down. This time I was going to have something in front of me to make sure I did the “To Do” instead of losing it in the mix of my busy mind juggling days. Out I pulled a small notebook that I hadn’t looked inside of in a very long time. I had forgotten what was inside until I opened it. Well, that won’t do to write a note in, I thought. I dug some more, found something available to write on and jotted my ‘To Do’ down.

Later, when I went back into my bedroom, I saw the notebook still sitting on top of my nightstand. I opened it and smiled. I had forgotten I had done this. I had put this little notebook aside many years ago- stuffed in drawers and boxes and yet there it was-still in tact. A moment of smiles had just crossed my path. Now, do I want to read further?

It is a tiny journal I kept that I wrote to the kids in as they grew.

When they were tiny, I wrote on their calendars of all their milestones and then some. First smiles, first words, rolling over, standing up and when their first tooth appeared. I wrote notes to them telling them what they were like at that age. Later I moved over to writing it down somewhere else. This was one of those somewhere elses.

Inside a photo of me, young and smiling, was placed between the pages. Look at me! I thought. There aren’t as many pictures of me since I was always the one behind the camera. Wonderful memories emerged as I leafed through the notebook. Memories I didn’t remember as well- small intricate details of their accomplishments, fits they threw, where we went, what we did.

Bria was and still is such a character. She was my first live doll. My first project as a mother. We didn’t have a car. We were together all day every day. Braden was Bria’s first live doll. I would catch her trying to lift him up to hold him without my help or put her plastic doll’s bottle in his mouth. I was amazed that he instinctively knew the sound to make as he pushed a toy car across the floor. He slept and ate with a basketball and was trying to fix and take things apart at a very young age.

Then in May of 1996, I wrote: Riley is Here!

And the curves of my smile turned downward and a lump in my throat developed. I read through it. I smiled as the memories popped out from the pages. Remembering my sweet baby boy despite the lump and rapid heart beat happening at the same time. He was a joy from the start who was always smiling. He was an easy baby. He made our family complete.

Smiles, tears, anger, broken heart, the joy of having him in my life for 18 years, the pain that he is not here anymore….those are the emotions that come and go in moments. Facing the emotions are important to keep yourself healthy when you are grieving. Tears cleanse. Tears wipe us out. Smiles give us a break. Smiles give our hearts a jump start. Smiles can make us cry again.

All of the emotions are here to stay til the day that I die. I wouldn’t have any of them unless I loved him with all of my heart. That I do.

I Love You, Riley.

Grief sucks.

May 29, 2016May 29, 2016 / djuanadreed / Leave a comment

Grief sucks. A parent’s loss of a child doesn’t compare to any other loss. I’m telling you it’s true. Right now my pain is worse than ever. May has been hard. This is the second May since Riley died. It feels rougher than the last. Maybe I got better at not concentrating on my grief and it has hit harder. Maybe I got better at keeping myself distracted. Maybe my life has been fuller this past year with my own business, finishing a basement, a birth of a grand-daughter and more. Maybe I am more awake and less numb at the two-year mark of his birthday and his death.

I can’t get away from the grief in my life. It is in my face every time I sit still. If I only could not be still, but I have to be still sometimes. It’s the worst when I try to go to sleep. I lay there and my grief, my loss eats at me and gnaws on my heart. It hurts. It is miserable. I hate it.

In the mornings it can be just as bad when I open my eyes. Some days I have a project or a place to be that I can concentrate on and then, at some point…I have to be still again. And there it is, the black clouds creeping over me and parking themselves on top of me, covering me from the sunshine. Tears like rain fall.

I just want my boy back with his smile, his humor, to hear his voice say, “I love you, Mom”.

In the club of parents who have lost a child we did not ask to be a part of, but were thrown into without permission, we have lost parents who have given in to the pain. They have quit the club to join their children. It is sad. It makes me angry that they quit. Yet, I get it. The pain must stop then. This emotional pain is awful. I have never lived with physical pain that I couldn’t eventually relieve. The emotional pain of grief can be shoved to the side in the midst of a day, but it’s always there waiting for you and it’s not going anywhere.

My son should still be alive. I don’t know why it had to happen to him. Why did Riley have to try LSD that night? Why couldn’t circumstances have been different to keep him from trying it? I don’t know. It happened. There is no rewind.

I spoke a lot this month to adults and teens. Each time I tell his story, I relive how special he was, how much I miss and love him and also the details of how he died. It’s not easy. Knowing a person might be impacted by his story and make a different decision than Riley did keeps me sure that this is what I am supposed to be doing despite the pain.

Grief sucks. Life doesn’t have to suck. I feel that I have to live to tell his story. I have to carry this pain. I have to grieve because there is no way around it. Living means more than grieving. My job is to savor the moments like finding lady bugs on my apple tree leaves and enjoying the site despite also discovering the cedar rust at the same time. That’s life.

I am thankful for that hug that reaches into my soul and lets it rest for a minute. For the hour on a hammock in the dark, under the moon, staring at the stars and feeling a peace that Riley is safely tucked in the heavens. For the sweet grand baby in my arms. For that phone call from my son. For that message from my daughter. Living for dancing in the kitchen, tasting a new food, experiencing something randomly new. For learning something I didn’t know. For the smiles and belly laughs that come to me.

Riley savored new sights and experiences.

I am thankful to be able to hear Riley’s voice in that video, his thrill in the sight of a rainbow on the beach in Hawaii that felt so close that we could touch it. I am reminded to be thankful that there is something else around the corner that will challenge me to be better, do better, grow and thrive in some way. Those are the good things and the reason I am here.

Grief sucks. Life doesn’t have to suck. (Somebody remind me of this later.)

I Love You, Riley.

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