Grief's grip still holds family tight

A year after losing their Terran, the Robinsteins struggle with old wounds and new stress.

By CAMILLE C. SPENCER, Times Staff Writer
Published October 7, 2007

Kim and Dennis Robinstein and their son Cephas, 13, have dinner at Terran's grave on Sept. 28, the one-year anniversary of the 10-year-old's funeral. Terran who suffered from Hirschsprung's disease, died after receiving a seven-organ transplant.
	[Zach Boyden-Holmes | Times]

ADVERTISEMENT [janel Schroeder-Norton | Times] At age 5, Terran enjoyed backyard time with his brother, Cephas. Terran could play outside for just 15 minutes a day.

Day after day, for hours, Kim Robinstein sits in a lawn chair next to her son's grave.

Sometimes, she watches Terran's favorite movies, like Hercules or Tales from the Crypt, on a portable DVD player.

Other days, she listens to melancholy songs on an iPod. Sarah McLachlan's Angel or Michael W. Smith's I Can Only Imagine.

When it rains, she holds an umbrella above her head. During funerals, grieving families walk around her.

Once, she fell asleep. A groundskeeper at Trinity Memorial Gardens woke her up to tell her the cemetery was closing.

"It's my only place of peace," Robinstein said. "I can go there and talk to T. I can scream. I can cry. He doesn't talk back to me, but I can say things there I can't say anywhere else."

* * *

It was a year ago that Robinstein's 10-year-old son Terran lost his battle with a disease that robbed him of his childhood.

From birth, Terran battled Hirschsprung's disease, which caused his intestinal tract to malfunction. He was unable to eat solid foods, so meals came in an IV. He eliminated waste through a hole in his abdomen into a bag.

After a seven-organ transplant -- Terran received a small and large intestine, stomach, esophagus, pancreas, liver and spleen -- doctors hoped his condition would improve.

It did -- for about a week.

Then he lost consciousness and couldn't breathe. He bled to death at Jackson Memorial Hospital in Miami-Dade County.

Terran and his health problems had been the focus of Kim's life for a decade. His death left a void in her life she has been unable to fill. Now, she sleeps often and avoids people.

For awhile, it looked like her marriage would come apart.

Filling the void

Terran spent more of his life in hospitals than at the playground. After he died, Kim Robinstein held his funeral at home. She laid him beneath a Power Rangers blanket in his bedroom. Friends and family filtered in to say goodbye.

Robinstein blamed doctors at the hospital for Terran's death and filed a complaint with the state. There was an investigation, but the findings didn't support her allegations.

As Robinstein's grief took hold, she wondered how to refocus her life. But her new focus was the same as the old one. She put up photos of Terran all over her Port Richey home and continued posting on his Web site, www.terranstransplant.com.

She had a sign made for the back window of her car that reads "In Loving Memory of Terran Robinstein, 8/16/96-9/24/06. The Ultimate Power Ranger."

And she placed a glass shadowbox frame in her living room. It holds the last pair of socks Terran wore and a paper flower on a Popsicle stick he made in the hospital. It reads "World's Greatest Mom."

Nothing seemed to help. Kim missed the boy who loved Coke-flavored Slurpees and playing video games. The boy who, if he had gotten well enough to leave the hospital, longed for dinner at Red Lobster.

"All I did was cry and think about suicide," she said. "I'd wake up every morning, upset that I was awake."

Then there was her family.

Robinstein said Terran's loss took a toll on her 13-year-old son Cephas, who brought home a report card riddled with F's. Now he's being homeschooled.

While Kim threw herself into preserving Terran's memory, his dad, Dennis, found himself a cause: researching how hospitals care for children like Terran who need organ transplants.

The couple, married for 27 years, grew apart and considered divorce. Then, a few months ago, came the argument.

Healing begins

Kim is not sure how the it started, but this much she does recall:

"He (Dennis) said, 'You know, I lost a son, too,'" she said. "I finally got it through my head that Dennis and Cephas missed him. I felt like I was the only one. After the argument, things changed."

Soon after, she and Cephas began talking more. That was especially true after the family car broke down, and the two had to walk everywhere to run errands.

And when Dennis lost his job last month, Kim found something they could do as a family to make money: deliver newspapers for the Tampa Tribune.

"It gives us all something to do together," Dennis said. "Regardless of the pay, it helps."

It takes time

Grief counselors say anything that can distract a family from focusing on the death of a loved one can help them heal.

"I don't know of any worse loss than losing a child," said Linda Peterman, a Tampa mental health counselor. "It's definitely one of the worst experiences anyone can have. They are going to need more support and time than anyone else grieving."

Peterman said the length of Terran's illness may also be affecting the family's grieving process.

"We are all different, and it takes time," she said. "They've been doing nothing but take care of this child. Now, they are expected to take care of themselves."

Kim Robinstein said sometimes, she's not sure if she will ever heal from her loss.

"I'll never get over it," Robinstein said, "I'll just learn how to deal with it."

Coming together

On Sept. 28, Kim, Dennis and Cephas went to the cemetery again. It had been one year since Terran's home funeral.

A song called Ships of Heaven by Blackhawk blared from the speakers of the family's red Mazda, parked nearby on the curb.

Don't cry for me when I'm gone
Keep the faith and be strong ...

Beneath a sunny sky, the three sat on a blue blanket, ate Little Caesars cheese pizza and talked about Terran.

Next to them was his headstone, the one with Power Rangers figurines glued on top and the picture of a smiling boy whose life ended before it really began.

On the back of the headstone, it reads:

"Those who we have held in our arms for a little while, we hold in our hearts forever."

Camille C. Spencer can be reached at cspencer@sptimes.com or (727) 869-6229.

[Last modified October 6, 2007, 22:08:29]