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....

I haven't posted anything in awhile. Leaning into my favorite post-Robbie mantra, "Don't should on yourself," I am simply stating a fact, not beating myself up over that fact. Life is busy. Retirement...HA! Those gray dots on the Google calendar? Good thing there is only one per day and not per event. I would need a full room sized screen to hold all of my upcoming dots. All good, by the way, even the (stupid) doctor appointments and the like. Get checked people! Take care of yourself or you cannot take care of others and/or the other fabulous things you want to do with your days. *stepping off soapbox for the moment Last week, I was lucky/blessed to lead the 2019 RCWP Writing Retreat. It was the second summer of this retreat, as I became the RCWP Writing Events Coordinator after retiring from teaching June 8, 2018. 😁 Leading events similar to this is one of my main goals now that I am officially no longer teaching. This year...indescribably powerful interac...

The Evolving Monster of Grief From  Second Glance , Jodi Picoult, page 303 “He imagined that no matter how it came about, losing a child was something that you kept coming back to, like the hole in your gum when you lost a tooth or a scar you’d worry with your fingertips-a disfigurement that you felt over and over.”    ‘Then’ Losing a child, something that so many people have written about, and some have been able to give me a moment or two of comfort, empathy. Losing a child is the event that a parent is forced to come back to, over and over and over again. Not because we want to remember the loss, but because we have no desire to forget the love that causes that “hole in your gum”. If only it were in the gum. The loss, instead, is deep inside our hearts. Losing a child isn’t anything that can be described to another person, not even someone who is, unfortunately, in the same club. Every person’s loss is his or her own monster. Every day is it...

Dreamy Longings  Locked in her dream, she knew better than to fight it. She had been here before, but something felt different this time. She could feel him here, just beyond her reach. If she rushed, she would wake up again without seeing him. The scenario had played out too many times for her to doubt at least that much; so, she forced her body to go quiet, stilled her beating heart, closed her eyes, and let the mist swirl around her without fear. When she opened her eyes, she was outside, the foggy dream mist blanketing the greening grass of her front yard, rising and falling amongst the leaves of the two large maple trees, spreading out over the landscape. Pulled by an invisible force, she moved forward, and the smoky covering swirled away to expose her mailbox. She didn’t want to reach inside, but she felt helpless to do otherwise. She wanted to go back into the house, find her boy, though she knew in this dream he was half grown, his body taking on more of a man’s shap...