Photo courtesy of Nate Trimbach
Nate, 3, and his mother, Martha Trimbach, 34, who passed away Oct. 23, 1999 when Nate was 15 years old.
It was five years ago on a day much like today. The orange, red and yellow were beautifully dancing along the Ohio tree line. It was quite uneventful in the plains of the Midwest. The steady silence throughout the day was unnatural but hardly noticed. Every step, every breath was louder than the rest of the world.
She sighed, wincing a little and then looked at me and smiled pleasantly as she always did. I smiled back feeling a little uneasy because I could hardly comprehend the pain she felt. It wasn't that I felt uncomfortable, I just didn't understand.
She, of course, hid it from me all the more. I gave her a hug and told her I loved her, which was pretty much all I said to her. There just wasn't much to talk about. How could I?
We, however, continued each day like nothing was wrong. It seemed like autumn was mostly a blur. Every other detail seemed to fade in comparison to her.
Unconsciously, I daily muted other people's voices to focus on the wind and the naked branches. Conversations had never felt so trivial to me, yet I continued each day uttering inaudible words.
People told me the most ignorant things, as if they had helped. It didn't matter, only she did. By that point, her inner strength was clearly distinguished from her physical well-being.
It killed me to see her like this. But rather than staying by her, I fled. My heart was confused. Of course, I was very close to my family, but they too felt the same horrid silence. Yet, there was always a feeling like something was behind the solitude, comforting me.
She died in our living room on the bed that the hospice provided. I was not at home when it happened, but from the second I heard my father's voice on the other line, I knew. All time stopped.
Like a scene in a dramatic movie, only my heartbeat was at a normal pace -- everything else was in slow motion.
More often than not, nights were long and sleepless and filled with endless questions. Never, at any period of my life, had reality seemed so dream-like.
Senior Austin Musser, who lost his mother at age 7, once described his feelings to me: "I don't really remember which came first: the numbness, the sadness or the anger."
The questions, the disbelief, the doubt plagued my mind. I never doubted God. I doubted if there was any consistency in life. I felt betrayed, by something or someone.
I lost a lot of friends, because they cared only for temporal things. When the storms approached, they ran and I couldn't understand why.
The few that stayed amidst the pain and strife were built upon firm foundations. What then is consistent in this fast paced life? So many things in my life blew away with the wind.
So many things changed in those three months than had for the past 14 years of my life. Through my mother's death, I have learned to treasure those who loved me unconditionally; it showed me how to live my life. What this time of testing gave to me was a more focused look at what was constant; what really mattered: my family, my education, pursuing a higher standard in life, God.
Even through all of the changes that surrounded her death, before and afterward, there was an indescribable, still presence that guided and comforted me through this rough time.
In my opinion, things could have been worse. God looked out for my family and me and he still does. Why? If you can tell me, I'd like to know. The point is, He did.
My life is always touched by her death. I exist because of my mother; she ultimately molded me into the person I am, both in life and death.
I am reminded of a verse: "For you created my inmost being; you knit me together in my mother's womb. I praise you because I am fearfully and wonderfully made; your works are wonderful, I know that full well" (Psalm 139:13-14).
Therefore, I urge you, especially those who have lost a loved one, to continually perpetuate the memory of that person. By forgetting your loved ones, you will begin to forget yourself.