What I should have said

7 years ago, right now, Rick’s “Memorial” service was being held. You know, the one I wasn’t invited to. I went anyway. I let their “father” do whatever he wanted. I had fought for my children for their entire lives. Right then, I couldn’t fight anymore.

My Leslie Ann said it best that day. She stood up and told all those people that they weren’t talking about Rick, they were trying to make themselves feel better. Then she took my hand and we walked out, followed by many of my sons friends. I remember putting the fear of Mr. God into Billy Gant…. he hid from me at Norman’s benefit. And the woman who told me that it was my fault but I shouldn’t blame myself? She still has a face and teeth. I should have reminded the witchb that my son had told HER he was going to kill himself, not me. He told me he was coming home.

I am sad for most of the month of August. Most of the time, I feel like Rick has been forgotten, but in reality there is just so much sadness in the month that people try not to remember.

I REMEMBER

I remember the screaming red head who would not be quiet until put into the incubator with his brother.

I remember the two year old in the snow, announcing that he was going to live where there was snow when he grew up.

I remember our treks to General Jackson’s Pizza. They had an all you can eat buffet in a single wide trailer behind the bank. They made these pizza dough things that Rick loved. When they saw us walking up, they immediately made A LOT of them. They loved those bright shining red heads. Everyone did.

I remember, “Let’s talk, Mommy”. I was fully aware that “let’s talk” really meant “it’s my turn to distract Mom so my brother can do something he isn’t supposed to”. But we always talked… which led to the Crisco oil ice skating party, drinking the bottle of Tabasco, “painting” their walls, and hundreds of other things.

I remember the little boy standing adamantly at McDonalds. “We haven’t tipped”. We were NOT leaving until we tipped, because, “Mommy, you said if you can’t afford to tip then you can’t afford to eat out”. So we tipped at McDonalds. It became tradition.

I remember the little boy who got dressed up to go to the beach. And I do mean dressed up. Long black pants. White button down shirt. Shining shoes (His brother looked like a Bohemian). I remember him morphing into a young man with six pack abs that never wore a shirt unless forced. I remember the day he burned so badly. I told him he was supposed to be going for sex appeal, not sex a peel. He just laughed at me.

I remember giving him his first credit card. He had $200.00 to spend on back to school clothes. Jason was in the funky, radical stuff. I looked around for Rick, unable to find him for a moment. Then I found him. He was in the suit department. He bought a navy blue blazer, a red shirt, a tie and dress shoes. I remember listening to Beetoven with him, while J stuffed his fingers in his ears.

I remember him knowing when I had a migraine without a word from me, giving me my injection, tucking me in bad, checking on me. I miss that. I miss the wonderful back massages, the strength in his hands, I think I need a massage!

And I remember. I remember the day the light fled from his eyes. We were in the kitchen. Rick got out an (empty) container of Ben & Jerry’s. And that is the moment it hit him. The gorgeous light fading. “Who am I going to blame now, Mom? Who do I blame now? He’s not coming home, is he?” Shortly after that he moved to his “father’s”. It was one of the few times I actively fought against a decision he made. The witch in me knew it was the beginning of the end.

I remember, Rick. I remember your compassion, your volatility. I remember you always wanting to help. I don’t remember why, but I remember holding your dive certification hostage to make you do something you didn’t want to do. You were SO angry… and then we laughed for months.

I remember you cradling Buford. “He like me, Mom. None of our other dogs liked me”. That wasn’t true, but it was his perception. It made it true to him.

My dearest Rick, I am sorry that I couldn’t find the strength to stand up for you that night. I’m sorry that some things that were allowed to happen, happened. I will love you to the ends of the universe and back. Wait for me.

Mom
Maximum respect,

Brenda Adkins, always Red’s & Red Man’s Mom

The Memory Bank

I decided a long time ago that your brain is like a bank. You deposit memories, to relive later. It’s also like a photo album, because, if you close your eyes, you can SEE that photograph that was never taken.

I’ve been doing that a lot this week. I remember seeing Jason for the first time. We were having problems with the anesthesia, and they wanted to knock me out. I refused until both of my sons were here. Rick was crying the first time I saw him. Jason looked me right in the eyes. No tears. Yes, I know newborn babies can’t really “see”, but he stole my soul in that instance. I wanted to touch him, but there were too many tubes and “stuff” attached to me. I can close my eyes and see it today.

Then there is the actual photograph that I don’t have. I’d taken them to one of those 8×10 for $1.00 things, where they try to get you to buy more pictures. Only, I couldn’t afford to buy more pictures. But I can still see it. Jason, sitting straight up, arm around his brother. Rick, leaning over forward with his shoe in his mouth. They were dressed in white, and their red curls were to their shoulders. I’ll never forget it.

I remember when he was three. Red curls bouncing everywhere. Tears streaming from those beautiful blue eyes. “Don’t make us go, Mommy. Please don’t make us go. We hate it there. Please, Mommy, please.” They had to go to their “father” ’s. I’ll never forget that face, or the feeling that accompanied being forced to make them go.

The adorable red head in the wheel chair at “Dinny Word”. The look on his face when Cinderella blew him a kiss and waved to him. It was love at first sight. He talked about it for days.

The eight year old, going shopping with Granny. I desperately needed a nap, so my Mother took them shopping. We were in Melbourne, visiting Rocket Scientist Number One. Mom gave them money to buy whatever they wanted to. The look of total glee on both of their faces when they returned. Hands behind his back, Jason asking what I thought they’d bought. They had taken the money Granny gave them and bought a dragon (I collect dragons) for me. Even at eight, Jason was much more likely to give than to take.

The ten year old, running for the State Youth Championship in Alabama. He was the youngest there… his age group was 10 -14, but he was the only 10 year old to qualify. The disappointment when he came in second—to a fourteen year old. I remember that face so clearly.

The Christmas party. He was 15 or so. There had to have been 100 people in and out. Somehow Crown Royal became involved. I’m not allowed to drink Crown Royal. Just not a good idea. Jason’s laughing face putting me to bed. When I got up the next morning, the house was spotless. He’d cleaned it.

His first high school hurdle race. He came in second, to Alvin. Alvin was preening and strutting. Jason chased him down to congratulate him. For four years they were rivals and friends. Sometimes J won. Sometimes Alvin won. But Alvin told me that J had taught him about sportsmanship. In Tallahassee, at the state qualifier, Jason and Alvin helping each other stretch. I see that picture so clearly. The looks of amazement on the faces of many of the other athletes. Here were two young men competing against each other to be the best, and they were HELPING each other. That was my J.

There are lots of pictures in my head. Then there is the last one. The one I wish I could make go away. The one that haunts me the entire month of March. I can feel the strength of his hug, the warmth of his arms. I can see the tears running down his face. I see him driving away, tears still flowing, one last look at his home, at his Mother. Arm raised in farewell. The last time I saw him alive. March 20, 2000. He didn’t die until May. I looked, but I couldn’t find him. Why couldn’t I find him, while he was still alive? How could he hide so well? That last look isn’t just a picture in my memory bank. It is burned into my soul. At 6:30pm, it’s been 9 years. It’s really only been 9 seconds.

Times are hard right now, but we have so much to be grateful for. Play with your kids. Maybe now our kids will start playing outside again, instead of sitting on the couch with the newest video game. Take your child for a walk. Go to the zoo. Don’t yell at them for tracking mud in the house… go outside and play in the rain with them. Please don’t take their childhood for granted. Every day brings something new, something special, something magical. Hold on to that.

I miss the “stuff” strewn all over the house. I miss the empty (except for one spoonful) ice cream containers in the freezer. I miss the (very expensive) television being used as a nightlight. I miss an unexpected flower, or a tee shirt he thought I’d like lying on my bed. I miss the missing CD’s. I miss it all, more than I can tell you. And it never goes away.

Take love where you find it. Don’t throw it away. Take joy where you find it. Don’t take it for granted. Don’t take for granted that someone will know you are thinking of them. Tell them. Please remember that some people, even in a crowded room, are lonely to the bone. Reach out to them. Life is incredibly short, even if we live to 90. Treasure your friends, and let them know what they mean to you. Live the three “r” ’s…. Respect. For self. Respect. For others. Responsibility, For your actions. I know how hard it is, but try not to hold grudges. Some people that I thought were my friends hurt me badly. I’m trying not to let that hurt take control. It’s hard, realizing that people you love simply mouth the words to you, not meaning them at all. Simply be grateful for the good times together, and realize that they were either a reason or a season, not a lifetime.

Walk good and be blessed. I pray to all the Higher Powers that my life is never yours.

For those of you who pray, please hold my dear Butterfly Sister Rosaleen in your thoughts and prayers today. This is the day her Anthony chose to move to Heaven. I can promise you, the pain is as real now as it was then.

Maximum respect,

Brenda Adkins, always Red’s & Red Man’s Mom
https://www.theovernight.org/index.cfm?fuseaction=extranet.personalpage&confirmid=10013449

“Habby Babatimes Day!”

“Habby Babatimes Day!”  Two small little boys with brilliant blue eyes and bright red curls, gleefully holding “flowers” (also known as weeds) that they had picked for me.

 

“Happy Vabentimes Day!”  Those same two small boys, happily giving me red paper hearts that they had “written” on.  I still call it Vabentimes Day, just like I still sometimes call spaghetti paskebbie.

 

“Happy Valentine’s Day, Mom.  We love and miss you.  J & J”  Flowers, sent to me at work while they were at college.

 

“Happy Valentines Day, Mom.  I love you.”  A note, left with a pink carnation.  9 years ago today.  My inimitable habit of not throwing out flowers until someone gives me new ones is why I still have that dried pink carnation.  It is my single most treasured possession.  I wonder why, as often as I receive flowers,  I am so rarely given pink carnations?  Only once since Jason died.  Only once.

 

For me, Valentines Day has always been about my boys and me.  We always celebrated it.  We went to dinner at a nice restaurant.  We went to a movie.  We laughed and played and joked and made fun of each other. They gave me flowers (or weeds, depending on your point of view).  They made cards for me.  I gave them gifts.  Stuffed animals when they were small.  He Men during the Masters of the Universe phase.  Atari games (remember those?).  As they got older, a check.  It was what they wanted most.

 

Valentines Day 1999 was no different.  I sent them both a check.  Weeks later, Jason told me he had lost his, and wanted me to write him another.   He was having some issues at the time, and I doubted him (I am the Queen of not balancing checkbooks.  Heck, I don’t even write it down.)  After he died, I found that check among his “stuff”.  I’ll always regret doubting my child.

 

This Vabentimes day, remember that you don’t have to be in a “relationship” to celebrate the day.  It’s a day to laugh out loud and fill the world with love.  It’s a day for good, positive energy to flow around the world, lightening the darkness.  Celebrate with your child.  Your best friend.  Your dog.  Yourself.  Celebrate being alive one more day.

 

Drink a glass of good red wine.  Eat a piece of pizza.  Indulge in the chocolate.  Life is too short to say, “I’ll do it tomorrow.”  Do it today.

 

Live.  Above all, live.

 

Happy Vabentimes Day, my dear friends.  You are my steady rocks, and I love you more than there are words.

 

Princess

 

Thanksgiving

November 28, 2008  12:11 am

 

For everyone else, Thanksgiving is over.  For me, it has just begun.  You see, Thanksgiving is the fourth Friday in November… sort of like Christmas is really December 26.  I remember when I did it, moving Thanksgiving and Christmas.  The boys were 3.  Their “father” and I were supposed to alternate holidays.  That really seemed unfair to my children, knowing that when they got older they would feel bad no matter which house they were at, because they missed their missing parent.

 

So, even though it hurt, not having my children on those special family days, I moved them.  I didn’t want them to have to pick where to be.  Ever.  There were a couple of times that I broke my own rule, and took them to my big brother’s for the holiday.  They loved their Uncle Alan and Aunt Vicky so much.  And Leslie.  Good grief, from the day that child was born, they adored her.  I can still hear them.  “We’re your big brothers, you know.”  So, for me, Thanksgiving has just begun.

 

It is so hard to believe that it has been 10 years since I shared Thanksgiving with both of my children.  1998 was the last time we were all together on that fourth Friday.  In 1999, my J was in jail, and Rick wasn’t speaking to me.  I had refused to bail him out of jail in October.  He didn’t speak to me for three months.  I thought that would be the most painful day of my life.  I said it then, and I said it Christmas.  Jason was home, but Rick still wasn’t speaking to me.  I wish I’d been right.  I wish those had been my most painful holidays.

 

Maybe it’s because it is that two digit number, one of those “significants”, the reason that my soul feels torn from my body.  The pain is raw and rough and ragged.  It feels brand new.  I want to run away and hide, but I can’t.  Thursday, I made dressing.  And sweet potato soufflé (we don’t do casseroles at my home.  My sons think it is an evil word).  And “mashpers”.  I caught myself before I peeled the entire bag of potatoes.  Didn’t matter if I made 5 pounds or 10, there were never any left,   I made way too much dressing.  I don’t know how to make it in a smaller portion.  There was never any left.  I told them I didn’t know how to make more.  They told me I’d have to learn when their kids were born, because I never made enough.  And peas,  But the only way you eat peas is in the crater you made in your mashpers so you can’t taste the peas.  I didn’t make their corn, or their fruit salad, or their sour cream pound cake, or a Brenda pie.  I didn’t do celery and carrots to munch on.  I didn’t make the rice (I used to tease them.  “Would you like some starch to go with your starch…. oh, and your other starch?”).  I did buy cranberry sauce.  We had a one bite rule.  If I made it, they had to have one bite of it.  Only I told them that the rule didn’t apply to me, because I do NOT like cranberry sauce.  That would always start one of those, “when MY kids are born….” conversations.  I miss those conversations.

 

Thursday was a piece of cake.  I went to work, smiled and was bouncy happy cheerful silly Princess Sassy that everyone expects to see.  Now?  The tears are right behind my eyes, but I still don’t know how to let them fall.  We had a tradition.  We ALWAYS went shopping after we ate our Thanksgiving dinner.  Today, instead of having a nice dinner and facing the mob, I’m going to Dothan.  I have two huge cement running shoes in my Angel Garden.  I’m going to take them and put them on their graves, with bright perennial flowers, and hens and chickens, and maybe a fern.  I’m going to take a really nice bottle of wine from Steven’s cellar (thank you, Steven!) and drink it.  And I’ll get Penrose sausage, and Pure Peppermint Sticks.  And leave them there.  Plus a bag of M&M’s.  M&M’s were J’s thing.  After J died, Rick told me that every time they parted, Jason gave him a bag of M&M’s, and told him to eat one when he missed him.  Only they called them niminums.  Maybe I need to eat some niminums.  But I don’t think it will help.

 

It is my fervent prayer, one that I send out to the Universe daily, that no one ever understand what I feel.  Please, think I’m crazy.  Tell me to move on.  Tell me to get over it.  Because you saying those words means you have no CLUE how I feel.  And that is a very good thing.

 

I’m going to quote Dolly here.  Don’t be concerned for me, because, “I’ll be fine and dandy.  Lord it’s like a hard candy Christmas.  I’m barely gettin’ through tomorrow, but still I won’t let sorrow bring me way down”.  I will be the words they called me, the ones tattooed on my shoulder.  “Beauty Strength Courage Wisdom Grace”. 

 

Thank you, Mr. God, for letting me know them.  Thank You for the way too short time I had with them.  They’re the best thing I ever did.

 

Bren, Forever Jason & Rick’s Little Mother

 

 

Maximum respect,
 
Brenda Adkins, always Red’s & Red Man’s Mom

24 Inches

24 inches.  Give or take an inch or three.  Not so much, I know.  Such a small amount, to mean so much.

 

Rick was 18 1/4 inches long.  Jason was 18 3/4, and always stayed that half an inch taller, no matter how much his brother argued to the contrary.  Not-quite-19 inches is really tiny.  Really, really tiny.

 

“Okay, Princess has lost her mind (yet again)” is likely going through your brain.  But have patience with me, please.  I’ve not been able to write for a while now, and the words are coming slowly.  It’s been the oddest thing.  I usually just sit down, and out comes the drivel.  It (and I) have been silent lately.  That’s why.  I sit down, but nothing happens.

 

I remember my first haircut, when I was 16.  I still have that mass of red somewhere, likely in a box in the attic with lots of other childish things that I find it impossible to part with.  That’s another odd thing.  My hair is the color it was when I first cut it, oh so many years ago.  Yes, over the past years I’ve helped the red out, but what is in this picture is all my natural color.  Almost as if I have come in a circle.  Not the way I’d planned to complete this circle.  Nowhere near.  Yet still a circle. 

 

I was pregnant with my boys when I cut my mop, you see.  I had never had a haircut.  So Ann (yes, I remember) put it in a pony tail and cut it, giving me the tail…. not as gently or as reverently as Hollie did, but giving it to me nonetheless.

 

There’s another oddity.  Jason loved a girl named Hollie.  He loved her til the day he died.  HER Mom, also named Brenda, had “old woman hair”, hair like I was never supposed to have.  I still don’t have “old woman hair”.  I refuse.  Hollie knew exactly how to cut my hair, with not much input from me.  (Her–How do you picture your hair?  Me–Cut.)

 

Jason and I had a deal.  We always kept our deals.  I actually WORE that damned Auburn tee shirt he gave me for Christmas one year.  We keep our word.  Might not like it, but we keep it.

 

Our deal was simple.  I was going to cut my hair when he graduated from Medical school.  At one not so long ago point my hair was hitting my knees.   Every now and again, I’d “chop” it.  Wash it, twist it in a knot, and whack off some.   But I couldn’t actually CUT it.  That would be admitting that he isn’t going to graduate Med school.

 

At some point, I have to get on with my life.  I think I’ve been doing okay so far, this getting on thing.  I pray that no one reading this ever finds out whether I’ve done a good job or not.  I don’t want you to know what I feel on a continual basis.  I simply do.  not.  want.  you.  to.  know.

 

Sunday, October 19, I cut my hair.  It was a very big step for me.  It’s a lot like when I learned to walk the first time.  Sometimes, learning to walk is very hard work.

 

Jason isn’t going to graduate from Med school.  BUT  his death is going to continue to save lives.  Just like he’d planned.  I’ll see to it.  With short, but not “old woman” hair.

 

Walk good and be blessed.  Remember that Angel wings surround you.

 

Forever.

 

 

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When is Cinco de Mayo

When is Cinco de Mayo

 

Cinco de Mayo.  May 5.  I’m sending this on May 5 instead of May 7 for a couple of reasons.  First, and foremost, Cinco de Mayo was Jason’s favorite holiday, above all others.  (“Mom, Shannon asked me when Cinco de Mayo is!!”  That look that only Jason could have, eyes twinkling, shit eating grin.  I knew, but asked him anyway.  “What’d you tell her?”  The grin got broader…. “I told her I thought it was sometime in June…..”  Yep.  My kid.)  Second, I’m having my tonsils out tomorrow, so I don’t know if I’ll be a functioning human being Wednesday.  We’ll see.

 

For Jason.  May 5, 2008

 

“Mom, I’ve got some news.”

 

“Okay, sweetie, good news or bad news?”

 

“Well, kind of… both.  Which you want first?”.

 

I can remember having that conversation.  We had it more than once.  I don’t remember what the “good” news versus the “bad” news was.  There was never any really bad news where Jason was concerned.  Oh, there was the night he came to me, SO embarrassed, not knowing where to turn.  I’m reasonably certain that conversation started with “I’ve got some news”, although I can’t be certain, because he had woken me from a sound sleep.   He’d smashed his windshield with his fist, because of it (I’m not sure if that was the good news or the bad news!).  He was WELL past the age where most young men become “men”….. but he believed as I do, in respect for self, respect for others, and responsibility for your actions.  He knew, even at such a young age, that if you gave someone your body, you were giving them a piece of you that you could never take back.  He’d done that, and he didn’t know how he was supposed to feel.  How incredibly blessed was I as a parent that I am the one he came to, the one he said, “okay here’s what happened.  Now what do I do?”  Of course, I did my best not to let him see me laugh, and explained that what had happened that night was a natural part of life.   We talked all night, about love, and sex, and the difference in the two, and how he would experience both at some point in his life, and learn Life Lessons from both.  Oh, and just by the way…. he loved Hollie til the day he died.

 

As Jason’s eight Angelversary hits me,  I am left to wonder.  What has happened to our world?  Why do so many people not value LIFE any more?  How did we turn into a “ME ME ME ME ME” people?  When did how your actions effect other people stop mattering?  When did it become okay to cause someone a LOT of pain, just because you can?  When did constant anger, aggression and rudeness become the norm, rather than the exception?  When did it become acceptable to show a total, complete lack of respect for others?   When did, “It’s not my job” become a mantra?  When did it become acceptable to simply disappear from someone’s life with no explanation?  Yes, I have had to let some toxic people out of my life.  But they know exactly why…. because I had enough respect for myself, and for them, to tell them.    When did it become okay for everything to be someone else’s fault (I’m late for work because my Mother didn’t dry my clothes.”  HELLO??????  They’re your clothes and it’s your job).  I.  Don’t.  Understand.  And I don’t think I want to.  

 

When I remember Jason, and his baby brother, I remember the “please”, the “thank you” the “Ma’am and Sir”.  I remember holding the door open, and helping older ladies (even if they were the ripe old age of 25, compared to their 10) out with their groceries.  I remember the ENTIRE track team refusing to let me go to the restroom by myself, because they didn’t like the way the opposing team “looked at their “Mom”.”  Where did that go?  I remember, “let me help you with that”,  “I’ll do that”,  “You sit down, please.  I’ll take care of it.”  Where did that go?  What has happened to our young people?  Jason (and Rick) would be appalled.  I have a vivid recollection of being at the movies with J.  Three were two kids behind us, cutting up (it was a serious movie).  First, he turned and looked at them.  Next, he gave them the “glare”.  Then, he calmly got up,  walked around to them, and explained that they were bothering his Mother, and it would be best if they stopped.  That was all it took.  There are a couple of young men at work who remind me a lot of them (their Mom knows who they are).  I can’t imagine them speaking to someone the way many people find acceptable now.  I can’t imagine hearing anything but, “Yes, Ma’am” when asked to do something….. even if that yes ma’am is said through gritted teeth, as many of my sons’ yes ma’am’s were.  It would be unkind to others to call them by name, but this is a public thank you to their parents.  You raised four remarkable children, and I am very proud to call them friend.

 

Usually, on my sons’ Angelversary’s, or birthday, I remind you to LIVE your life.  Today, I want to remind you of something a bit different.  Yes, you need to grab every single moment of joy that life has to offer you.  At the same time, you have a responsibility, as the future of mankind, to remember respect.  Respect for self.  Respect for others.  Responsibility for your own actions.  Period. 

 

You have a responsibility to own your actions.    You are going to become what YOU become, not what your parents are, or your friends are.   You owe it, to YOURSELF, to be who YOU are.  Not who your parents think you should be.  Not who your friends think you should be.  Who YOU are.  Life is NOT easy.  There’s a lot of pain involved, a lot of heartache.  It is up to you to rise above it, learn from it, and become a better you.  Carl Jung said, “I am not what happened to me, I am what I choose to become”.   I agree with him.  Yes, the deaths of my sons’ has changed me.  But who I have become since they died rests on my shoulders.  I owe it to them to be who they believed I was.   It is MY choice to always try to behave with honor, courage, dignity and grace (I didn’t say I always succeed), when I’d rather have a tantrum like a three year old, or crawl in my closet and never come out.  Because of who they believed I was.  The times I try to drink it away?  That’s my responsibility, too.  By the way, you can’t drink it away.  Just thought I’d tell you.  

 

So, I’ve got some good news, and some bad news.

 

The good news?  Jason lived.  He was here.  He laughed and loved.  He saved lives.  He taught me to see beauty everywhere.  He showed me what courage was.  Injuries that would cripple most young people were ignored by him, as he continued to compete (Remember he ran most of a season with a cracked hip.  Yep, my kid.).  He showed me the beauty of giving, when he helped his fiercest county rival stretch before a race…. then was the first to congratulate him when he won.  He taught Alvin, too.  Alvin is a coach now.  He teaches teamwork and good sportsmanship.   Because Jason taught it to him.  He shared my sarcastic sense of humor, and made even the “frowniest” (his word) person smile.    He instinctively knew what people needed… the clown, the son, the grandson, the quiet listening ear, the gentle words of advice, the smile, the gentle hug, the kick in the ass…. he just knew what was needed.  And he did it.  He left everyone feeling a lot better after they’d been around him.  He taught me the sheer exuberance of running (yes, he had to drag me more than once.  Now I’m itching to get well so I can do it again), the joy in “skopping  and hipping”, the fun of playing in the rain.  In all his years of lifeguarding, he never understood people rushing from the water for shelter when it started to sprinkle.  (“Gee, Mom, whatcha think is gonna happen?  They might get WET?”).   He taught me how to cry, because he was a sensitive soul.  He couldn’t stand to see someone suffering, or needing something.  He’d give you the shirt off his back, literally.  I know.  I’m the one who had to replace “lost” items.  He was also the most creative excuse meister I’ve ever known.  His “scuses” were definitely…. different.  Problem was, they worked on everyone except his Little Mother.  That young man could sell ice to an Eskimo and make them think they’d gotten a good deal.  People were attracted to him like moths to a flame.  Charismatic, charming, handsome, BUILT, a natural leader.  Like I frequently do (on vacation!  Really!  Never any other time!), he never actually started the mischief (not criminal mischief.  Silly, fun mischief that harmed no one).  He planted the seed, watered it carefully, watched it grow…. and then sat back and watched.  My kid.  To his toes.  From the day he was born.  Jason continues to save lives.  I have the emails and message board postings and phone calls that tell me that me not being afraid or ashamed to tell his story has kept someone from ending his life.  That is a very good thing.   Jason taught me to be kinder than I have to be, because everyone is fighting some kind of battle.

 

The bad news?  He no longer walks this Earth, not in a corporeal body.  Yet, he lives.  As long as we remember, he lives.  And he continues to have a positive impact on this world.

 

For those of you who say I need to “move on” and “accept my sons’ deaths”…. I have.  In a 24 hour span, I have had a regular guest bring someone whose child ended his life 2 weeks ago to meet me.  She said she needed to know that she could still live, and that if I could, maybe she could.  If I were silent, it would, number one, dishonor my children.  To be ashamed of how they died would be to be ashamed of them.  I refuse to do that.  Iris Bolton says that every death brings a gift.  You just have to look for it.  I think mine is to help others walking this path, and to keep others from having to walk this path.  Then, I had a couple of biker’s in the bar.  I was being my usual mouthy self….. my regular bunch was there, and we tend to raise a ruckus.  It makes them smile, it makes them happy, and it makes them come back….. and I truly love them all deeply.  I wasn’t about to leave these to guys out of our shenanigans, so I drew them into it.  Then one of them told me that this was his kind of “grand hurrah” weekend.  His friend looked shocked.  It isn’t something he talks of.  He told me a lot, and I listened.  Then I was quiet (yes, me) for a few minutes.  I told him I had asked my personal Guardian Angels to watch over him during his surgery next week.  And I told him, with total conviction, that he’s going to be fine.  He’s promised to come back to JJJ next Bike Week.  He came in melancholy, with that “look” in his eyes.  He left with a sparkle in his eyes that wasn’t there before.  His friend remarked on it.  My gift.  From my son.  Because I believe to my toes that I will see him again next year.  And I’ll buy his first beer.  All because of Jason, I helped 2 people in less than 24 hours.  Is that a gift, or what?

 

Many, many of you have told me that, if I ever need anything, let you know.  So, I’m giving you a challenge.  I learned with Jason and Rick’s deaths that those are generally just words.  Prove me wrong.  Click the link in my signature.  Donate ONE DOLLAR to the American Foundation for Suicide Prevention.  One dollar.  Nothing more, nothing less.  Then forward this to 10 of your friends and ask them to do the same thing.  THAT is what I need.  To help save a life.  Because life is so very precious.  The most precious gift we are given is love.  Don’t throw it away needlessly.  If you fubar, say so, learn a life lesson, and move on.  Times are tough right now, but tomorrow will be better.  I refuse to believe anything else.  Life might take some unexpected twists and turns, but, in the end, it all works out.  Try to live your life so that you can look at yourself in the mirror every morning and like what you see.  Don’t be afraid to say I’m sorry.  Don’t be afraid to say I fubared.  Accept responsibility, deal with the consequences, and go forward.  Much easier said than done.  I know.  I’ve lived it.   Remember,

 

“I forgive you” has nothing to do with you and everything to do with me.

“I’m sorry” has nothing to do with you and everything to do with me.

  

 

“I love you” is the same.  I say it, not because you need to hear it,  but because I need to say it.

 

 

 

My personal prayer to Mr. God and whichever Higher Being you believe in is that you find what you search for.  Then, when you find it, grab it with both hands and never, ever let it go.  Those we love are gone too quickly.  Don’t waste a single moment.

 

Dearest Kidlet, I love you.  Forever.  I miss you.  Forever.   I need you.  Forever.  And I will be who you believed I was.  Forever.  Run with the wind and party with the Angel’s, my Little Love.  Save a spot for me, please.  I’ll have a Ciroc on the rocks and a shot of Jager, thank you.  Make something fruity for your baby Bro, and pour my Andy a Miller Lite.  Mom will have whatever has alcohol in it.  See you when I see you.

 Maximum respect,
 
Brenda Adkins, always Red’s & Red Man’s Mom
 http://www.theovernight.org/index.cfm?fuseaction=extranet.personalpage&confirmid=10009264

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