Kristine E. Brickey

Since I lost my son, Robbie, on May 16, 2010, each day has been a new learning experience. I am no expert on suicide. I don't even know what that would mean. I do know that the people who love and support me have made all the difference. I do know that hearing from others who are members in this awful club helps me understand that the roller coaster of grief I feel isn't crazy, that I'm not alone, and that there is a way through to the other side of the waves of emotion.  Sadly, I also know that many people have been cruel and said and done horrible, awful, terrible things. Some were unintentional, but many others, done with intention. Everyone handles grief differently, but some need to lash out and inflict pain.  After originally posting this piece, some people decided to use it as a tool to shame and lay blame. Those people clearly had not read the post, but in an effort to ease the pain of a young woman, I temporarily removed it.  *Before reading this post...

Two weeks of vacation sit in my periphery. Two much needed weeks of time to simply let down after a hectic, wonderful, ultra-busy July (and June, and really a full year of 'retirement'). Yesterday, I began my drive home one day earlier than originally planned from 'up north'. A full week of riding and camping at one of my favorite vacation spots, followed by nearly a week with beautiful friends on Burt Lake, riding Northern Michigan trails (and non-trails), kayaking the Sturgeon, eating and laughing and snuggling with oversized lapdogs. But, I was ready to be home. I missed my donkeys and my usually standoffish kitty, Sassy. I missed my house, the wind chimes on my front porch, and the feels of 'home'. I'd been away from my husband, and wanted to wake up on my birthday beside him, so after an easy pack and load, I started down 75 South for what should have been an easy three hour trip. Thirty miles down the steep and winding road, something blew in my tr...

     A tiny sliver of something dark lies embedded in the tip of my left middle finger, unnoticed until this morning, though it must have been waiting there for at least a few days. Now, it takes up most of my attention, as I worry at it, poking my fingernails beneath in, attempting to dislodge the painful bit from my body.      It occurs to me, as I prod and poke away, that this time of year brings me splintered thoughts. My dreams are scattered with images of Robbie. I used to dream of him as a child: infectious smile, chubby cheeks, soft hair falling over dark eyes and black brows, chasing his sister around on his short, sturdy legs. This year, as the fateful day in May approaches, he is nearly grown when I dream. I  catch only glimpses of him as I sleep, from the side or as he moves down a hallway. There are brief peripheral sightings: his infectious smile, broad shoulders, strong jawline, short dark hair framing those beautiful dark eyes and brow...

From out of the sky, fell a mighty hawk. No nose dive, hunting for prey; but spinning and flapping, out of control, fighting against wind and air to stop its fall. It seemed the outcome was inevitable. Hopeless.  From the wheat field below, a woman watched, her heart in her throat. She’d needed to breathe, left the news behind, headed into the field, ran her hands over the tops of golden waves of grain. The sun had been warm on her face, when she heard the shot. Looked up. Watched in horror as the proud bird began its death dive.  Helpless. Sick to her stomach. Her hands covered her mouth, tears filled her eyes. She needed peace. She needed one day without cruelty and broken ideals. She needed one day without broken families, babies in cages, children weeping for their parents, stolen away as they went to work. She needed…to do something. Her feet were running before she realized she was moving toward the spot where the hawk would land. She needed to do something....