Secluded This First Year
I am on that long walk home. You ran ahead of me and your footsteps now echo the journey I must follow...
Terri Dreismeier
Secluded This First Year
I am bitterly cold; the brutality of the winds was relentless. The stone black walls that surrounded me began to crumble. The black clock of death has visited. I am petrified. I am paralyzed. I am an âme damnée.
“Save my son,” I pleaded. Tears streaming down my cheeks, my cold hands covered my fatigued and swollen eyes. I collapsed to my knees. Dark, faceless shadows were hovering over me. Yet a kind gentle hand pulls me back. “Hand him over; it is time,” said to me.
I woke up in a cold sweat at 3:00 a.m. Craig was sound asleep. The nightmare was so evocative; the willful message was hazy.
***
My tired, weary eyes opened very slowly as I gently wiped away the salty tears my lips tasted. It is 4:00 a.m. The early dawn seizes me. I am voiceless, silenced by my guilt, failures, and fears. The cocoon that I have encased myself in still dangles upside down on a dead twig. I knew I must get out of bed, and somehow, I mustered the strength and courage to slip out from under my warm, protective blanket, slipped on my soft, pink slippers, and tiptoed very carefully down the hallway. The espresso-colored hardwood floors remained hushed, not a single creak.
My two worlds are densely fogged. I drift ominously lost in disbelief. I step gingerly with abiding love. On top of the fireplace mantle, there sits the beautiful navy blue and gold urn full of your ashes, your kind and compassionate spirit. I paused. Adam Dreismeier-Jang, Soo Ho-the small, engraved gold plate reads. To the left, the Clavinova piano that joyfully endured your musical fingers, endless hours of practice, treasured memories with a closed lid. And all-around portraits of you and our family hung or framed and positioned just so, never once touched. Time has become cruel: How many breaths must I take before we reunite; how many steps must I walk?
The black and ivory keys started to frolic.
“Hello Mommy, a melody for you.”
On the day you entered heaven and gained your wings, I also died.
This dimly lit, opaque cocoon since April 12, 2023, continues to shelter me from the outside world. I have remained silent. My soul combats horrible, intense pain and suffering with so much unconditional love. Like a self-conscious caterpillar, something inside me was changing.
Do I dare emerge from the security of my own created encasement only to be rejected, unwanted, and unaccepted? I am a living, breathing creature. I am a camouflaged, masked secret. No one knows me. No one criticizes, judges, or whispers behind my back: I heard he took his own life; This happens all the time; Not Adam-He had so much to live for. I brawl with shame and taboos. Dangling here upside down on a dead twig, no one bothers me. Isolation is far better than breaking free.
Afar, I stare with glazed eyes. The world continues to spin, a merry-go-round, as I try to find my seat back on the horse I used to ride. I am a grief-stricken mother who will never see her only son become a great man. My life’s plan was unforeseeably changed and shattered into thousands of pieces.
Suddenly whispered in my right ear, “Mom, I want to live after death. I have been freed and liberated and can now live my soul’s purpose of helping and healing others beyond medicine.”
Hair raising goosebumps instantly covered my arms, how am I to continue loving and living when I have lost so much...
In my shelter hidden from the outside world, I am numb, exhausted, and trembling. The gift of the unexpected plunks my mind; Will I survive this painful yet also beautiful journey?
“Feel my golden light, Mom. ”Glimpses of Adam’s illuminating light shone through the small cracks.
***
Unchanged, every single early morning tears brim my eyes. I lift my right pointing finger to the top of my journal. I was nudged to turn one more page.
Saturday, September 27, 2008:
My family was peacefully slumbering. Adam was snuggled with his teddy bears while the Disney classic movie scores played softly in the background.
Love has no boundaries,
It grows through time
Love is enduring,
Wrapped in its warmth and protection,
Love is not only born,
It is strength, devotion, the heart of a family,
Love is always unfolding,
Something new will be around each bend,
Love is promising,
The link that bonds us together.
Two big, beautiful chestnut brown eyes soon peeked at me. “Good morning, Mommy.” Three soft teddy bears gave me Eskimo kisses.
***
The gaping hole inside me is deep; I throb all over. Traveling to Saint Bonaventure to collect your items only after six months was not part of the plan. After cleaning out your apartment and packing your personal belongings, Dad and I needed a break from the imprisonment death slammed upon us. To quiet our minds, we walked the 5-mile Allegany River Trail that intertwined behind the lush, green trees landscaping the campus. Spring, for some magical reason, had gloriously touched every aspect of the trail. April 26, 2023, the sun shone brilliantly, and the cool, crisp air made us feel alive, even if briefly.
Holding hands, we meandered. No words spoken. As we turned the final bend, the last sign indicated ½ mile back to campus. To the left, a family of deer nibbled along the grassy riverbank. Not one spooked nor moved. The kind, gentle creatures stared intently at us, especially the young buck with antlers not fully grown. A brave, caring, loving young man; it is you. We began to cry. Your warmth was penetrating and embracing.
On the path right behind the College of Health Sciences written in rainbow colored sidewalk chalk, “We are fine, and all is good.” Ironically, one of your most famous lines, “I am fine; all is good. ”Your masked disguise, always your contagious smile with one or both thumbs up. Agony concealed from everyone.
***
I verged on the edge of torture. I was not there like a good mother should have been to save her child. Upon our return to Council Bluffs, I ran to the mailbox every day for a month, awaiting a letter of full disclosure that never came. Each day, I force myself to take a breath and take one small step forward.
Warmer temperatures pitied our grief. Instead of traveling to New York to visit you, excruciatingly we are traveling back to Estes Park, Colorado for our annual family summer vacation.
At an elevation of 10,013 ́, Dad and I once more climbed Deer Mountain. You are with us in spirit. Each step towards the top of the summit brought a little peace; a sense of hope that life does continue after death. The six-mile trek was breathtaking and not much had changed over the years. The golden-mantled ground squirrels followed along pilgrimaging for every human crumb and morsel possible. The rushing waterfalls sang in the background. Instead of unpacking your favorite creamy peanut butter and Concord grape jelly sandwiches when we reached the summit, I took out a small glass vile. Inside were some of your ashes. Carefully, I unscrewed the tiny black lid, and we released you over the pulse of the earth. We stood in silence and wept, just the three of us holding on to unbounded love.
Dark blue circles blanketed my eyes. Sleep deprivation drained my body. I took a much needed 30-minute nap.
“There were so many beautiful white orbs greeting me. All the lives I have touched. The golden sun sat gently upon the horizon and over the crystal, clear blue ocean. The rainbow crossed the entire sky. I was welcomed by so much unconditional love, Mom.”
My heart pounding, I sprung up instantly. Craig still snuggled in the comfy, taupe colored Lazyboy recliner reading Experiencing Grief by Kenneth Haugk, said that I looked so peaceful.
“Adam is happy; he is in the most magical, beautiful place.” Through a small peep hole, I clutched a sight of heaven; I felt Adam’s soul resting eternally, reaching enlightenment.
***
I write to him on August 28, 2023:
I can love you more than yesterday,
I can think about you more deeply and honestly,
I can live more today than yesterday,
I can be brave and take one more step forward,
I can let you whisper in my right ear, “Embrace the change.”
My pain is still so intense; yet I feel closer to you than ever before-Why?
***
Death escorted a lost sense of purpose. I no longer know who I am. I scrunched even tighter in my sheltered cocoon.
On your birthday, the tropical aroma lingered tenderly. One single candle was placed in the center of the pineapple ring. Heart wrenching pain punctured through me.
The homemade chicken noodle soup simmered in the Dutch oven pot, while the homemade buttermilk bread baked in the oven. Hope was poured in the water goblets.
November and December were uninvited visitors. Tears fell like a rainstorm throughout the harrowing nights.
His empty chair sat there.
***
On the second day of 2024, my heart began to beat once more. The soft opaque cocoon slowly crackled, and my ears were intrigued. It is you.
“May the tide wash away the grief and unite with joy and love.”
“I am trying, Adam. But I need courage.”
My soul quivered as I set free some of my anguish and let your love pour in. Carefully, you attached a tiny pair of delicate wings to my back. Your nimble fingers tickled the center of my back.
“Mom, these are gifts from me to you. When you are ready, you will flutter in the right direction.”
I continued to breathe; I took one single step forward.
April 12, 2024, one year after you entered heaven and gained your wings. Salty tears were stinging my eyes and landing on my lips. I was reminiscing about the precious time we had with you on this earthly plane. My right ear rang loud and clear.
“Hold my hand, Mom, and let’s walk.”
We wandered around on an unmaintained trail. I step with trepidation.
“Where are you guiding me to?”
No clear answer was given. Your memories are the light that will lead my way.
I am still in my protective cocoon. I have not healed nor even finished surviving. I am both dead and alive. I unhurriedly release some pain that has tormented my soul this past year. I am a mother who has been mourning and morphing. The thin cracks started to let more of my son’s golden light illuminate through. He kindly reached in. I held his hand so tightly that I never wanted to let go. I know I must set myself free. I am terrified because I never want to lose my connection with him. Until my last breath, I promise to love unconditionally, become more compassionate, and think more deeply.
It has been 426 days since April 12, 2023, and at 2:00 a.m., my third eye saw beyond the veil. Terri, Terri, faintly calling as if a guest in the audience saved me a seat. Our hands clasped.
“I am here, every day with you, Mom.”
Your musical fingers vigorously expressing the horsehair bow on those tight strings. I wept tears of love. The clock struck 3:00 a.m. I felt exactly where I needed to be.
“My music continues, Mom. You will know when I am near. I love you, too.”
I have been secluded this first year. Evolving and shielding. Untangling my guilt, fears, and failures as I push past death and time. My son will always be my son although he no longer walks this earth. I feel so proud for he is a part of me. Our souls are eternally bonded with love prevailing over.
I inhaled one breath and took one more step forward on my birthday.
About the Author
Terri Dreismeier, lost her son Adam at the age of 22 to suicide. He was attending graduate school in New York. Like many transracial adoptees, Adam (Jang, Soo Ho Korean birth name) had been struggling with identity, acceptance, and belonging. Terri is currently a graduate student at UNO in the Advanced Writing Certificate program. She is finding healing and understanding through writing and is uniting Adam’s and her voice in helping other adoptees who might be experiencing loss and grief from abandonment. Adam wanted to heal beyond medicine. Terri was recently published in the anthology Adoption and Suicidality by Beth Syverson and Joseph Nakao, and spoke at KAMP (Korean Adoptee Means Power) held in Pella, Iowa.
