3-18-2012 - Three Years Later

Many thanks for the emails, FB messages, texts and phone calls today.  And to my friend Rox, for coming all the way from Atlanta to be with us.  Getting on the computer late this afternoon, I saw this post on my daughter-in-law's blog which reminded me of a post written a little over two months after his death called Josh and Dogs.

I've been a bit numb.  The week leading up to today has been extremely busy with our two fundraising events - bar fundraiser on Wednesday and marathon/half-marathon run yesterday.  The support for both has been overwhelming and moving.  Despite the lack of time for true reflection, I did try to write a little in my journal this morning and here is the gist of my thoughts.

I am still in disbelief sometimes - not that Josh is gone - I know that is true.  It is more around the fact that it happened to us.  We are like many other close and loving families in our community.  Tim and I have been dedicated parents from the get go.  We were fortunate to have jobs that allowed both of us to be home during their younger years.  I don't think he and I ever disagreed on how we would raise our kids. We believed they should have rules and consequences if broken.  We worked hard not to discipline out of anger/frustration.  We were very involved in their academic, extra-curricular and social lives.  If they participated in a baseball, soccer, basketball, lacrosse, football game or dance competition, we were there.  Tim coached the boy's baseball teams.  We knew their friends.  The kids were our #1 priority.

We struggled and muddled our way through the difficult teen years.  I am sure we were too harsh at times and too lenient at other times.  In fact, our older kids have said that we lightened up a lot with Josh - letting him "get away with things."  Probably true since he was our 4th, and we unwittingly gave into  parental fatigue.  As I reflect now, I wonder if we unknowingly did or said things that made our kids feel competitive with each another.  And while we tried to have open lines of communication, I am sure we said our fair share of "because we said so" to the questions of "why?" or "why not?"

That said, we did our best.  And with a clear conscious, I can say that everything we did, while not always right, was motivated out of what was best for them.  So I struggle now with the inexplicable question - if you love your child(ren) with all of your heart and would do anything for them, and have hopefully proven that through the child-rearing years, how could this happen?

How could your son decide to leave?  A loving home?  Friends too numerous to count?

How?  Why?   I am always brought back to these two haunting and unanswerable questions.  And it is because of these questions that we are focused and passionate about the Josh Anderson Foundation.  We want to fund programs in schools that could have impacted our son to take a different course of action in the midst of his extreme despair.  We want kids to feel comfortable enough to be open about their issues and to get help before it becomes unbearable.  We don't want kids suffering alone. We want to stop teenage suicide so no other family will suffer the same tragic loss.

RIP Josh.
I love and miss you more than words can express,
Mom

Successful Bar Fundraiser - March 14, 2012

The support for the Josh Anderson Foundation (JAF) has been overwhelming.  Pulled together in just ten short days, with herculean efforts from one of Lauren's high school friends and her family, the bar fundraiser held at The Tavern in Great Falls, VA was an incredible success, bringing in around $8,000!  

Friends signed up to be guest bartenders, local businesses donated prizes for our raffle, The Tavern gave 10% of the bar proceeds, and generous individuals and companies sponsored the event.  

Lauren's high school and college friends came out in full force along with many from the community so it was a fun mixture of a young 20's crowd and those mine and Tim's age.  As a parent, it is gratifying to see how the younger generation has embraced and supported efforts such as the JAF.  

We have some exciting programs planned in the spring which I will share as they are firmed up.  Everything we are doing is focused on one goal:  establishing programs that promote Youth Mental Wellness so that no teenager will ever turn to suicide. 

"Darkness Visible" by William Styron

Another survivor memoir of an acclaimed writer - survival from himself.

This short 84 page book, published in 1990 and easily read in one night, is a poignant, powerful memoir in which Styron attempts to describe the indescribable - "the pain of severe depression is quite unimaginable to those who have not suffered it, and it kills in many instances because its anguish can no longer be borne."

Styron won the Pulitzer Prize in 1968 for his novel, The Confessions of Nat Turner.  Other well-known works include his first novel, Lie Down in Darkness (1951) and Sophie's Choice (1979).  He became clinically depressed and suicidal later in life (60's) although he admits that alcohol use probably masked the symptoms.

Styron has a beef with the word "depression" arguing that

"melancholia" would still appear to be a far more apt and evocative word for the blacker forms of the disorder, but it was usurped by a noun with a bland tonality and lacking any magisterial presence, used indifferently to describe an economic decline or a rut in the ground, a true wimp of a word for such a major illness.

Why do the blackest thoughts reside in some and not others?  He tries to answer this for himself and for the long list of other artists who succumbed to suicide, acknowledging that

bloody and bowed by the outrages of life, most human beings still stagger on down the road, unscathed by real depression.  To discover why some people plunge into the downward spiral of depression, one must search beyond the manifest crisis - and then still fail to come up with anything beyond wise conjecture.

Bottom line, who knows?

He describes the rapid descent of "anxiety, agitation, unfocused dread" and openly admits relating to Baudelair, the 19th century poet's words, I have felt the wind of the wing of madness.  He then very definitively says:

But never let it be doubted that depression, in its extreme form, is madness.  That madness results from an aberrant biochemical process.....such madness is chemically induced amid the neurotransmitters of the brain, probably as the result of systemic stress, which for unknown reasons causes a depletion of the chemicals norepinephrine and serotonin, and the increase of a hormone, cortisol.

This reminds me of Josh's psychologist's words when we spoke on the phone after his death. Somehow, that night, Josh suffered a psychotic break with reality.   I did not get it then, but Styron's words help give some framework to the comment.

As Styron's struggles intensified, he gives a vivid description of the mental pain and anguish that leads to suicidal thoughts.

It may be more accurate to say that despair owing to some evil trick played upon the sick brain by the inhabiting psyche, comes to resemble the diabolical discomfort of being imprisoned in a fiercely overheated room.  And because no breeze stirs in this cauldron, because there is no escape from this smothering confinement, it is entirely natural that the victim begins to think ceaselessly of oblivion.

He goes on to speak of the concept of loss:

It is the touchstone of depression - in the progress of the disease and, more likely, in its origin....the loss of self-esteem is a celebrated symptom...one dreads the loss of all things, all people close and dear.  There is an acute fear of abandonment....There is no doubt that as one nears the penultimate depths of depression - which is to say just before the stage when one begins to act out one's suicide instead of being a mere contemplator of it - the acute sense of loss is connected with a knowledge of life slipping away at accelerated speed.

He chronicles his own suicidal ideation and the reason why.

In depression this faith in deliverance, in ultimate restoration, is absent.  The pain is unrelenting and what makes the condition intolerable is the foreknowledge that no remedy will come - not in a day, an hour, a month, or a minute.  If there is mild relief, one knows that it is only temporary; more pain will follow.  It is hopelessness even more than pain that crushes the soul....the situation of the walking wounded.  

On the night he determined his own extinction, he "experienced a curious inner convulsion that I can describe only as despair beyond despair.  It came out of the cold night; I did not think such anguish possible."

He was so close to suicide but luckily for him, one song snapped him out of it.  He was voluntarily hospitalized the next day.  My thoughts upon reading this are, Why wasn't Josh saved?  Why wasn't he spared?  Why couldn't he have failed?  Why couldn't something have snapped him out of it?

"After a Funeral" by Diana Athill

I picked this book up in August 2011 at my local Border's closing sale.  The title caught my eye but the blurb on the back sealed the deal.

The story of how and why a talented writer came to kill himself - a classic memoir by one of our most esteemed authors.  When Diana Athill met the man she calls "Didi," she fell in love instantly and out of love just as quickly....With painful honesty, Athill explores the years she tried to help him, a period that culminated in Didi's suicide - in her apartment - an event he described in his journals as "the one authentic act of my life."

While I did not find myself drawn to the complicated relationship between Athill and Didi, a few quotes made it to my journal for further thought.

Didi was a diarist.  Like me, he wrote in his diary to survive.  Me from Josh's death, and he, from his own depression.

When I started writing I improved a lot, and then I discovered my salvation - a combination of salvation and writing.  My diaries.....I'd sit down and write - give vent to my feelings in writing, instead of in talking or behavior.  This would simmer me down, and I'd become normal again and often shake my head at the strangeness of it all.....In depression my diary becomes hopeless because it was writing it and reading it and seeing the way I sometimes am which often used to cause depression....This diary, then, this medicine, this dark and innermost secret womb of mine, is something I have created to save me (146-147).

Because I have no clues as to Josh's mental and emotional state which led to his fatal and irrevocable act, I want to read the suicidal ideation of others, whether from real people or fictional characters.  In fact, I have a little file box in which are recorded such quotes as below.  Morbid and a somewhat futile exercise, I know, because the only one who could tell me what he was thinking is gone, and who knows if he himself could articulate what dark thoughts were swirling in his mind, but still, I want to try and understand.

When I read such thoughts and copy the quotes in my journal or on notecards to file away, I wonder if Josh felt the same.  Then sadly, I wonder how many other young people or not-so-young people have similar thoughts.

Didi's feeling of self-repulsion were real and overwhelming.

Falling - falling - falling.  Perhaps I have been unable to touch my diary lately, except in short fits, because at times I am repulsive to myself, I don't want to touch me, to interest myself in me.  It is horrible to dislike your own self so much and there must be a vestige of genuine madness in all this....There is nothing I would welcome more than death at this moment, this very instant - here and now....I am left with what I am left with now: hopelessness, self-pity - and ugly and repulsive self-pity - and such despair, sadness loneliness and finally utter darkness....I have no affection or respect for myself at all.  I loathe and find intensely repulsive a man of my sort (53-55).

Because he was a faithful diarist, it stands to reason that he would record thoughts after ingesting a bottle of sleeping pills.

And the most dramatic moment of my life - the only authentic one - is a terrible let-down.  I have already swallowed my death.  I could vomit it out if I wanted to.  Honestly and sincerely, I really don't want to.  It is a pleasure.  I am doing this not in a sad, unhappy way; but on the contrary, happily and even (a state of being and a word I have always loved) SERENELY....serenely.

He did not die serenely at all.  Because he called a friend, (Athill thought he wanted a witness), he was taken to the hospital where his stomach was pumped.  But it was too late.  After ten days in which he "moaned endlessly," he passed away.

After reading the five volume diary he left for her, Athill's conclusion:

It was not intolerable that he had killed himself.  It was intolerable that he had been right to do so - that he had no alternative.  It was intolerable that a man should be so crippled by things done to him in his defenseless childhood that he had been made, literally and precisely, unendurable to himself....He was certain at too deep a level, in the very fibres of his being, that he was unworthy of love.  Being unworthy of love, he must be punished; and the only way he could secure this was by plunging out to the point where he was driven to punish himself.  To be murdered would be a fate much simpler, and less sad. 

Haunting words.

Prose Poem - "The Dead" by Billy Collins and "Where He Lay" by Sue Anderson

Poetry and survivor memoirs are what I have been reading lately.  I've finished How to Read a Poem and Fall in Love with Poetry by Edward Hirsch and Making Toast by Roger Rosenblatt.  I am currently reading The Art of Losing: Poems of Grief & Healing edited by Kevin Young.

Reading poems by fellow grievers is apropos for this month - the death anniversary month.  A jarring yet accurate description of March where the hindsight clock ticks away - for example, on this day three years ago, Josh was alive and unbeknownst to us and maybe even himself, would only be so for 7 more days.  This is where REGRET kicks in with her constant monologue of "if onlys" and "what ifs".

"If only" I had asked this or done that or said this or noticed that - maybe he would be alive.  Or "what if" we had decided to forgo the disciplinary hearing or "what if" I had woken up that night - would he be here now?  Nagging questions buzz around my head like an annoying, relentless mosquito.   Irrelevant questions for a past deed that won't let me go or I won't let go - I am not sure which.

Back to poetry.  Prose poems are most accessible to me - those which tell a story "preserving poetic qualities such as heightened imagery and emotional effects" (Wikipedia).  I simply wrote "wow" in the margin of this one.

The Dead
by Billy Collins 

The dead are always looking down on us, they say,

while we are putting on our shoes or making a sandwich,

they are looking down through the glass-bottom boats of heaven as they row themselves slowly through eternity. 

They watch the tops of our heads moving below on earth,

and when we lie down in a field or on a couch,

drugged perhaps by the hum of a warm afternoon,

they think we are looking back at them, 

which makes them lift their oars and fall silent

and wait, like parents, for us to close our eyes.

I've read a number of poems that speak to the funeral service and final resting place.  My subconscious must have been ruminating while asleep because when I woke up this morning, certain words and phrases were stuck, begging to be written down.

Where He Lay
Sue Anderson 

Traveling here, after an hour's hard work,

my voice breaking while telling my cycle class of your death and our fundraiser in one week's time, so that other kids do not die like you did. 

So much work on the Beltway; controlled confusion,

but as long as everyone stays in their skinny lanes, all OK. 

Where is everyone going?

This bright, blue Saturday morning? 

To places not like me. 

Driving down Braddock road,

the budding bare trees wave hello and ask,

"Going on your weekly visit, mom?"

Behind cars with Robinson Honor Roll and Virginia Tech and I Love My Dog stickers.

Where are they going? 

This bright, blue, crisp Saturday morning?

To places not like me.  

I pull up and the park is bare,

because twice yearly, they clear out all flowers, old and new. I guess if they didn't some would stay for years, and get ratty, detracting from the serene beauty.  

A red tent is set up in the distance with chairs.

So I know that someone has recently died 

and if that person was loved,

like Josh, fresh grief is consuming others somewhere. 

Where he lay, entombed in Mother Earth's womb forever,

where luckily there is no claustrophobia,

because the dead are unaware.  

Surrounded by fellow dead 

like poor 2-year old Amber,

who died the year Josh was born,

so it has been 20 years now and her grave shows it. 

No one comes to visit her,

so Mother Earth has not only enclosed her body,

but is consuming her marker. 

"That will never be Josh" my today voice says

but who knows where I will be in 20 years?  

Where he lay, frozen in time, 

by a fatal deed done in the early morning of 3-18-09,

while the house was quiet and I was sleeping,

a virgin, innocent, naive sleep. 

Where he lay, in a silken pincushion,

but where is the soul?  Gone? Still here? Hovering?

Is there a welcome party for other tragic losses

like a "Hospitality Club" for the dead? 

Help for the displaced soul to acclimate to new digs?

And once the dust settles, does Josh glide over

(for how do souls move?) and befriends? 

I envision him with a posse of other youngsters,

tragically pulled from this life to his,

by accident, illness, violence including his - by self.

Chilling, hanging out like kids do.   

But wistful...wishing....longing.....

to be ALIVE....to be BACK....to be HERE;

dealing with all the crap that our youth have to deal with,

but knowing that as long as one is alive,

there is hope for a better moment, hour, day, week, 

month, year or future.  Experiences, growth, change, maturity, love, life. 

Because he now knows that when you're dead, all that is gone.  Poof.  Done.  Over.  Kapputz.  Gonzo.  Sayonara.  Adios.  Au revoir.  C'est fini.

March - tough month

Part of my weekly ritual on Saturday mornings is to teach my indoor cycle class, visit Josh and write a letter to him.  This is what I wrote yesterday:

Dear Josh,
We are now in March - the month in which events occurred that led to your death.  How I wish....long... no that is not strong enough...I would give my life, and I mean it, to go back to that time, a "do-over", do things differently, ask more questions, probe, intervene, SOMETHING so that you would still be here...alive...with us.  Instead, I sit here in the car, after finishing my little housekeeping chores at your gravesite, looking at the chimes on "your" tree, (for we have really taken it over), and writing.  This is my time to "visit" you.

I received some new pictures of you in the mail.  In one, you were probably 9 or 10 years old, smiling broadly at the camera with your hand up, saying "hi".  My heart stopped for a millisecond when I saw it.  You looked so happy.  I kissed the picture and put my hand up to match yours, palm-to-palm.

We are preparing for the marathon fundraiser - 2 weeks from today and the bar fundraiser - 10 days from today!  I have shared about you and what we are doing with my aerobics classes, without tears.  But I cry now.  For you.  For what is lost.  For what could be that never will be.  Tears of regret, more than of sheer grief and pain.

I can tell you, Josh, that you are still in the hearts of so many of your friends and their families.  They have not forgotten.  I hope you are at peace.

Love,
Mom
XXOO

Teenage suicidal ideation in Romeo and Juliet

Most are probably familiar with this tragic play.  As young "star-crossed" lovers, unable to be together due to a long-standing feud between families, Romeo and Juliet would rather die than be apart.  The expression of their love is excessively romantic:

Juliet 

My bounty is as boundless as the sea,

My love as deep.  The more I give to thee,

The more I have, for both are infinite (II,II, 133-135).

Romeo

Heaven is here,

Where Juliet lives (III,III, 29-30).

They are idealistic, romantic, "all in", and willing to pay the ultimate sacrifice for their love.  

I find, however, in the suicidal ideation quotes below, their self-annihilating thoughts come from immature teen brains: impetuous and impulsive.  The tragic and irrevocable deeds are fueled by a black and white perspective, typical of teens.   If they can't be together, they don't want to live; it's as simple as that. 

It begins with Juliet.

If all else fails, myself have power to die (III,V, 243).

When Romeo hears of Juliet's "death", he goes to the apothecary for poison.

Let me have a dram of poison, such soon-speeding gear
As will disperse itself through all the veins
That the life-weary taker may fall dead,
And that the trunk may be discharged of breath (V, I, 61-64).

He is a young man and yet describes himself as "life-weary".  How can this be?

Profound speech by Romeo as he leaves with the poison:

There is thy gold, worse poison to men's souls,
Doing more murder in this loathsome world,
Than these poor compounds that thou mayst not sell.
I sell thee poison.  Thou hast sold me none.
Come, cordial and not poison, go with me
To Juliet's grave, for there must I use thee (V, I, 82-88).

He has turned away from life, for who would want to live in a "loathsome world" where gold truly is the root of all evil?  He longs to be reunited with Juliet.

As he opens her tomb:

Thou detestable maw, thou womb of death,
Gorged with the dearest morsel of the earth
Thus I enforce thy rotten jaws to open,
And in despite I'll cram thee with more food! (V, III, 45-48).

The tomb has "eaten" Juliet and he will soon give it more food - himself.

After Romeo opens the tomb and sees Juliet; a haunting speech in which he justifies suicide:

Ah, dear Juliet,
Why art thou yet so fair?  Shall I believe
That unsubstantial death is amorous,
And that the lean abhorred monster keeps
Thee here in dark to be his paramour?
For fear of that, I still will stay with thee,
And never from this palace of dim night
Depart again.  Here, here will I remain
With worms that are thy chamber maids.  Oh, here
Will I set up my everlasting rest,
And shake the yoke of inauspicious starts
From this world-wearied flesh.  Eyes, look your last.
Arms, take your last embrace.  And, lips, O you
The doors of breath, seal with a righteous kiss
A dateless bargain to engrossing death.
(kisses Juliet, takes out the poison)  
Thou desperate pilot, now at once run on
The dashing rocks thy seasick, weary bark.
Here's to my love! (drinks the poison) O true apothecary,
Come, bitter conduct, come, unsavory guide,
Thy drugs are quick. Thus with a kiss I die (V, III, 101-120).

He imagines that Death desires his beloved and so she needs his protection.  Once again, he describes himself as "world-wearied".

Juliet - after she awakens from supposed death and sees a dead Romeo:

What here?  A cup closed in my true love's hand?
Poison, I see hath been his timeless end...
I will kiss thy lips,
Haply some poison yet doth hang on them,
To make me die with a restorative.
Thy lips are warm. 

O happy dagger,
This is thy sheath.  There rust and let me die (V, III, 161-170)

I find these passages haunting.  Although fiction and written over four hundred years ago, I think it shows that when desperate, the teenage mind can fixate on death as the ONLY solution.  

In order to prevent teenage suicides in our time, this is what needs to stop.  We must get it into our youth's developing minds that suicide is NEVER an option to their problem.  What if Josh had known this?  Would he be here today?   

Thoughts for grieving parents from Macbeth and Romeo and Juliet

In these two plays, the loss and pain of grieving parents is captured by Shakespeare with succinctness and compassion.  I find the words relevant and authentic which attests to Shakespeare's ability to connect and convey deep human emotion using his unparalleled mastery of the English language.

The following two quotes are taken from Macbeth.

These words are spoke to Macduff by a fellow Scottish nobleman after they are told of the horrific murders of Macduff's wife and children at Macbeth's command. These two sentences articulate why I write in my journal and on this blog.  See this post for more thoughts.

Give sorrow words.  The grief that does not speak

Whispers the o'refraught heart and bids it break (IV, III, 211-212).

In the last battle of the play, a father loses his son.  These words articulate why a parent's sorrow over the loss of a treasured child will never cease. 

Your cause of sorrow

Must not be measured by his worth, for then

It hath no end (V, VIII, 44-46).

In Act IV, Scene V of Romeo and Juliet, the anguish expressed by Juliet's parents along with her nurse when they find her "dead" ring true.  

Capulet - Juliet's father

She's cold.
Her blood is settled, and her joints are stiff.
Life and these lips have long been separated.
Death lies on her like an untimely frost
Upon the sweetest flower of all the field. 

Death, that hath taken her hence to make me wail,
Ties up my tongue and will not let me speak. 

Death is my son-in-law.  Death is my heir.
My daughter he hath wedded.  I will die,
And leave him all.  Life, living, all is Death's.

O child, O child!  My soul, and not my child!
Dead art thou!  Alack, my child's death,
And with my child my joys are buried. 

Lady Capulet - Juliet's mother

Accursed, unhappy, wretched, hateful day!
Most miserable hour that e'er time saw
In lasting labor of his pilgrimage.
But one, poor one, one poor and loving child,
But one thing to rejoice and solace in.
And cruel death that catches it from my sight!

Nurse

O woe!  O woeful, woeful, woeful day!
Most lamentable day, most woeful day
That ever, ever, I did yet behold!
O day, O day, O day, O hateful day!
Never was seen so black a day as this.
O woeful day, O woeful day!

What stands out to me is the repetition of words.  This makes me think back to that horrible morning when I found Josh.   My brain froze and these phrases looped over and over in my mind for hours and even days: "I can't believe this is happening.....this is just a bad dream.....this can't be happening to us.....why, Josh, why?"

3rd Annual Running to Remember Josh on March 17, 2012

It is hard to believe that it is almost three years since Josh's passing.  While his absence is acutely felt each day, it has helped to channel our pain into something positive - the Josh Anderson Foundation, dedicated to promoting youth mental wellness.

After working in the corporate world for two years, our daughter Lauren, moved home in August 2011 to devote all her time to establishing the foundation and identifying programs that we will support with donations received.  We have raised about $16,000 the last two years and have a goal to raise that much in this year's 3rd Annual Running to Remember Josh.  (See pictures from the first year and the second year).

In her note below, she shares more details about the foundation's mission and links to the on-line giving page.

We are so grateful for all the love and support received,
The Anderson Family


Dear Friends,
The Third Annual Running to Remember Josh is coming up and all who are running are in training, motivated by what the foundation intends to accomplish in Josh's memory.  We have set the bar high on the amount of money we wish to raise for this year's fundraiser - and we hope you can contribute in some way.  Your contributions will go directly to The Josh Anderson Foundation, which works to promote youth mental wellness in our community.

The Josh Anderson Foundation was formed in the wake of Josh's tragic death on March 18, 2009 - and it has been a positive avenue for my family and I to channel our energy.  Our vision is to use creative programming to reduce the negative stigma that is associated with mental and emotional challenges, to increase the dialogue between youth, their peers and adults, and to provide youth adults with the knowledge that they are not alone and resources exist to help them.  Our hope is that teenagers know suicide is not an option.  We have quite a few events in the pipeline that will move us toward accomplishing this goal.

While I am running the marathon, my sister Gillian is running the half marathon.  Please visit our  fundraising pages (Lauren and Gillian) and consider sponsoring us this year.

We also accept checks made out to The Josh Anderson Foundation, sent to 1300 Carpers Farm Way, Vienna VA 22182.

My sincere thanks for your continued support - without it, we would not be where we are today - closer to helping create a more just and safe world for our youth.

Best,
Lauren Anderson
laurena40@gmail.com
Where there is a Will, there is a Way

Poem - "No Answer"

It is coming up on three years since I have been thrust on this grief journey by the tragic and irrevocable action of our youngest son, Josh. This blog was created with a duel purpose: to remember him and to chronicle the painful trek.  As I try to find ways to express myself, a new path has emerged, one evidenced by recent posts - POETRY.

I am losing myself in this unchartered world, profoundly impacted by the writing of newly found authors such as Lord Alfred Tennyson, Robert Pinsky, Anne Sexton, W.H. Auden, and John Berryman, while excited to discover more.

My attraction to this genre is surprising.  I've never been one for poetry, finding it too obscure, archaic and ambiguous for my simple taste and analytical mind.  I've not had the patience or motivation to read closely, dig deep for meaning, or make the extra effort to find and interpret ideas or supply connections.  I've gravitated towards the vast material written in prose form: fiction, memoir, biography, non-fiction.  And while I find prose easier to read and comprehend, it is far harder for me to write. Poems, at least right now, are an easier medium for me to portray a certain thought, feeling or emotion as evidenced by the three penned so far:  A Mother's Love, Silence Is the Answer and Over and Over Again.

For example, I have tried to write about the horrible day that I found Josh, not necessarily as a blog post but just within my own journal.  Where do I start?  What do I say?  How can I ever hope to convey what happened in that life-changing second?  Simply put, I cannot.  But when I was writing in my journal this morning, I started stringing words together that began describing that terrible morning.   The resulting poem says it all:

No Answer

by Sue Anderson

1/29/2012

No answer,

   Voice silent.

No response, 

   Mind gone.

No sight, 

   Eyes unblinking.

No movement,

   Body stiff.

No breath,

   Chest still.

No beat, 

   Extremities blue.

No life,

   Hope abandoned.

Why?  I screamed,

   No answer.

Can't Sleep - Words Fall Short

It is now 1:12am and I can't sleep.  I feel like writing a post but don't know what to say.  So am staring at a blank page with the cursor blinking, waiting for the next thought, word, sentence.  My mind is blank but that is an illusion.  I know I can't sleep because my mind won't turn off but try as hard as I might, my thoughts are slippery, elusive and refuse to be tamed.

So now, I turn to my feelings.  What do I feel?  Cursor is blinking while I think about this.  Answer: nothing.

So now I turn to books.  What have I read recently that can describe what I feel?  Or where I am at?  Ahhh, now I am getting somewhere.  Immediately, I think of two poems that basically say that when one is grieving the death of a loved one, words fall short.

Epilogue

by John Berryman

He died in December. He must descend
Somewhere, vague and cold, the spirit and seal,
The gift descend, and all that insight fail
Somewhere.  Imagination one's one friend
Cannot see there.  Both of us at the end.
Nouns, verbs do not exist for what I feel.

So maybe it is not that I don't feel anything....maybe it is that I have run out of ways to express what I feel.

Another poem that speaks to and for me:

In Memoriam A.H.H. - Canto V

by Lord Alfred Tennyson

I sometimes hold it half a sin
To put in words the grief I feel;
For words, like Nature, half reveal
And half conceal the Soul within. 

In words, like weeds, I'll wrap me o'er,
Like coarsest clothes against the cold;
But that large grief which these enfold
Is given in outline and no more.

RIP beloved Josh

Happy 20th Birthday Josh

The three month stretch from November - January is tough for right on the heels of Thanksgiving, Christmas and New Years is Josh's birthday, January 16th. He would've been 20 years old today. Luckily, I had the day off so while the country celebrated Martin Luther King's birthday, we met my parent's at Josh's park, with balloons and white roses. While serenaded by a chorus of chimes, we placed the petals on the grass.

The park is beautiful - still full of Christmas decorations

Josh's tree - packed with chimes and keepsakes

Balloons sent up to the heavens by Rox and her family

RIP Josh. We love and miss you, now more than ever.

Poem: "Over and Over Again"

This poem is dedicated to all those who grieve the loss of a loved one.

Over and Over Again
by Sue Anderson
(12/29/2011)

Tears trickle
Tears drip
Tears gush

Eyes water
Eyes well
Eyes overflow

Head fills
Head hurts
Head explodes

Grief ambushes
Grief tackles
Grief overwhelms

Life shocked
Life upended
Life carries on

Over and over again

"In Memoriam" Canto IV - "deep vase of chilling tears" by Tennyson

Break, thou deep vase of chilling tears,

that grief hath shaken into frost!

This says to me that tears of grief are deep - even, bottomless.  No matter how many are shed, there are as many or more to replace them - fed by an eternal fountain or wellspring of grief.  But sometimes the tears are frozen within, crystallized, like frost on blades of grass.  What will break them so they can freely flow?

Maybe a thought, a picture, a memory, a gift, a touch, a hug, a song, a quote, a book, a movie, a scene, a poem, a word, a dream, a look, a remark, a question, an answer, a day, an anniversary, a holiday, a place, a room, an item, a keepsake, a grave, an eulogy, a hope, a fear, a wish.

And despite the pain of tears - and maybe it is the avoidance of the pain that the tears are frozen - they are good for us.  If we find ourselves in this frosty state, we may need to do something lest we remain chilled, cold and frozen within.  For me, it is writing in my sacred journal.  It is reading books that make me think about death and grief.  It is visiting Josh every week and writing a letter to him.  It is seeing the pictures that cover my fridge door and fill end tables and the piano top.  It is wearing one of his shirts. It is sitting in his room reading and writing.  It is writing on this blog and on my grief journey blog.  These activities keep the tear ducts warm, free and open, ready when the need arises.

"In Memoriam A.H.H" by Lord Alfred Tennyson

Along with the poetry anthology, The Art of Losing: Poems of Grief and Healing, I plan to read Lord Alfred Tennyson's epic work, In Memoriam A.H.H. (1849) which was written over a seventeen-year period after the sudden death of his best friend and fellow poet, Arthur Henry Hallam at the age of twenty-two.  He died of a stroke.  Hallam was engaged to Tennyson's younger sister, Emily. Both Alfred and Emily named their elder sons after him.

In Memoriam A.H.H is considered to be not only one of Tennyson's greatest works but one of the great poems of the entire 19th century.  Queen Victoria turn to the lyrical work after the death of Prince Albert in 1861, "Next to the Bible, In Memoriam is my comfort."

Similar to the form of other long poems or epics such as Lord Byron's Don Juan or Dante's Divine Comedy, In Memoriam is divided into 133 cantos.  I never realized this beautiful quote is from canto XXVII :

'Tis better to have loved and lost
Than never to have loved at all.

I have found a web site which gives an easy-to-understand summary of each canto.  This will be very helpful to me as I make my way slowly through the poem.  I plan to write posts on what I learn.

Canto IV
Canto V

Poem: "Silence Is the Answer"

Treasures are found when you least expect it.  Since Josh's passing, I have been on the lookout for an anthology of poems focused on loss, grief and recovery.  On a recent trip to Barnes & Noble, I found The Art of Loss: Poems of Grief & Healing (2010) edited by Kevin Young, a contemporary poet who realized the need for such a book when his father was killed in an accident.

In the introduction he writes about his own experience with grief and of the purpose of the book:

To lose someone close to you is to enter an experience no amount of forethought or hindsight can free you from.  You must live through grief.  You cannot outsmart it, nor think through the fact of someone's being gone, and forever.  You must survive the sorrow.  

To lose someone today is to go into strange realms of "bereavement specialists" and sympathy cards and funeral arrangements - things you suddenly realize have been going on for a good while, without you, in something of a parallel world.  The world of grief can feel like that, a limbo realm that at the least gives you a strong perspective on the everyday world: Why are all these people walking around, oblivious to loss?  Why am I still here while my loved one is not?  Surviving any death can carry its own guilt.  It also brings on a slew of cliches, often offered in lieu of sympathy, that can sometimes cause more anxiety than comfort.  It is hard to know what to say.  The poems here seek to avoid cliche, in order to say what needs to be said. 

I have gathered the poems in this anthology to reveal the many ways poets seek to find words and form to contain loss and to fulfill the reader's need for comfort and companionship in the words of another.  Often, in death, everything else fails.

He has divided the book into six sections which mourners may find themselves in at some point during their grief journey:  Reckoning, Regret, Remembrance, Ritual, Recovery and Redemption.   I plan to slowly read through the poems and share my thoughts on subsequent posts.  This is a good project to start in the New Year - our third, sans Josh.

I will end this post with a quick poem that I penned the night I started reading the book.

Silence is the Answer
by Sue Anderson
(12/29/2011)

I can see him

in my mind's eye

healthy, happy boy!

What happened?

Where did he go?

What have I done?

What didn't I do?

And now I am left 

with an empty room and heart,

trying to understand,

trying to live.

Why him?

Why us?

Why me?

I ask.

Silence is the answer.

33 Months Later - December 18, 2011

Sometimes I think of the anniversary month in terms of "x" years and "y" months - like 2 years and 8 months. To title this post however, I thought of total months and in doing so, it is 33 - a very special number.  The number that I will forever associate with our son.  The number on the football jersey that is part of his final wardrobe.

33 months - already?  Time is no longer marching but whizzing by - at dizzying speed.  In a few short weeks, it will be January 16th, which would be his 20th birthday.  A few weeks after that, his third-year death anniversary.  So strange to think that it will soon be three years since he left us.  In most cases that would seem like a long time but not with death.  There is a different time frame associated with grieving which I wrote about last summer.  The words still ring true.

It has now been 16 months since Josh's fatal decision. One might think that it has gotten easier with the passing of time. But grief does not travel in a linear fashion. In my experience, the connection between grief and time is better described like an archer's target, with concentric circles around a bulls-eye, representing Josh's death. Each circle around the center corresponds to a period of time, say a year. As time moves on, the distance to the center increases but not by much. Meaning that any memory, word, song, thought, movie, photo or innocent question can bring back all of the emotions of that time. It is never far away. I know that five, ten or twenty years will bring some distance, but I don't think it will be that much.

How can I, thirty-three months later, still be writing on this blog?  Why does each anniversary month still feel significant?  Why does this grief journey, almost three years old, feel like it just started?

In her poignant memoir, My Brother, writer Jamaica Kincaid ponders the death of her younger brother, Devon. He died of AIDS at the age of thirty-three.

It's not as if the whole thing has not happened before, it's not as if people have not been dying all along and each person left behind is the first person ever left behind in the world.  What to make of it?  Why can't everybody just get used to it?  People are born and they just can't go on and on, and if they can't go on and on, then they must go, but it is so hard, so hard for the people left behind; it's so hard to see them go, as if it had never happened before, and so hard it could not happen to anyone else, no one but you can survive this kind of loss, seeing someone go, seeing them leave you behind;  you don't want to go with them, you only don't want them to go. 

And the same thought repeated at the end of the book...

...if it is so certain, death, why is it such a surprise, why is everybody who is left behind, who is not dead, in a state of such shock, as if this thing, death, this losing forever of someone who means something to you, has never happened before.  Why is it so new, why is this worn-out thing, death, someone dying, so new, so new?

I've never thought of it in this way.  Kincaid is right - death is an everyday occurrence, there is nothing new about it.  In fact it's presence is part of our subconscious; we know and accept that mortality is a part of life.  But I know now that this understanding is only intellectual and superficial - it does not hit the heart.  In fact, I am jealous of the un-grieved, those whose knowledge of death is simple theory and whose heart is unschooled.

For when death comes, and for me it was on a sunny Wednesday morning, March 18, 2009 when I found our son, that innocent world is shattered and life can never be the same.  A hard, cold, shocking reality covers and overwhelms every physical and emotional circuit.  The feelings are strange, suffocating and debilitating.  A trauma to the heart and psyche has occurred and full recovery feels uncertain.

One would think that the acceptance of death as a part of life would adequately prepare us but it doesn't.  Nothing can.  I guess what I am trying to say is that Death is a common occurrence but when it happens to you, there is nothing common about it.

I will end this post by sharing about what happened the other night.  There is an end table in the living room on which a large picture of Josh sits sturdily on a photo holder, along with other pictures.  While the girls and I were decorating the Christmas tree, the large photo came out of it's holder and tipped over - enough to make a noise and get our attention but not enough to wipe out the other pictures.  We couldn't understand why this happened for no one bumped the table.  Was Josh saying, "I'm here"?

An all white tree - in memory of our beloved Josh

Quote from Romeo and Juliet

I have two places to decorate for Christmas now: our home, which I haven't done, and Josh's park.  While traveling there this weekend, with wreath and ornaments in hand, I was listening to an audio course on Shakespeare's Tragedies.  The professor was talking about Romeo and Juliet, the famous play about two star-crossed lovers, willing to make the ultimate sacrifice.

He quoted a passage in which Juliet tells Romeo of the depths of her love:

My bounty is as boundless as the sea,
My love as deep, the more I give to thee
The more I have, for both are infinite.

This was written to describe a woman's love for a man but as I was listening, I couldn't help but think that this passage better describes another type of love - the purest, deepest, and most sacrificial ever felt by any human - the love of a mother for her child.  There is no rival.  For how many women begin with the same "Juliet-type" feelings for their own lover that over time, fades and in some cases, disappears altogether?

But a mother could never "file for divorce" from her child.  The notion is preposterous.  Whatever may happen, that bond and love, even if it flows one way at times (especially during the teenage years), is always there.  It can never break.  It will survive and perhaps grow stronger, even in death.

Josh's tree is the only one that still has leaves.  

Peace on Earth ornaments

RIP my beloved son. 

A Sinkhole

On the airplane today, while traveling back from Charlotte on a work-related trip, I was innocently reading an article in the December issue of Redbook magazine.  Next think I knew, my eyes were filled with tears which I was trying to discreetly wipe away.  Good thing the seat next to me was empty.

What could possibly have hit me so hard?  Reminded me of my loss and rekindled the grief that lies dormant below the surface, but is so easily awakened?

I have a name for when this happens.  In a previous post I call it a "grief mine."  In The Year of Magical Thinking, Joan Didion calls it the "vortex effect".  In Joyce Carol Oates' book, A Widow's Story, she calls it a "sinkhole."  In fact, I will quote the passage:

The widow must learn: beware sinkholes!  The terror of the sinkhole isn't that it exists.  You understand, sinkholes must exit.  The terror of the sinkhole is that you fail to see it, each time you fail to see it, you don't realize you have blundered into the sinkhole until it's too late and you are being pulled down, down...

The guilty article?  A Daughter Lost And Found.  The blurb that made me want to read it?  When Julie Mannix refused to get an abortion, her parents had her locked up in a mental hospital.  This is the story of the child she fought to save - and how they made their way back to each other."

Beautiful nineteen-year old Julie, a Philadephia debutante, gave birth to a healthy daughter, whom she named Aimee Veronica on April 19, 1964.  Unmarried, unsupported and unable to care for a child, she felt there was no choice but to sign adoptions papers after which  "my heart ripped apart.  I put down the pen, turned away and, on shaky legs, I left my baby behind."

After the birth, she was reunited with the baby's father and after marrying him, was disinherited by her family.  These are the words that got to me:

I thought of Aimee constantly in the decades that followed.  My longing for her triggered a series of deep depressions, which would come on quickly and linger for weeks; the passing years never softened them....Every year on April 19th, Frank and I celebrated Aimee's birthday, the date of which we had engraved on the inside of our wedding rings. 

This is a mother who longed for her lost child but because the adoption records were sealed, had no hope of finding her.  "There was nothing to do but pray that she was with a good family and growing up loved."  She did not stop thinking of Aimee - even after having two other children and even after the passing of decades.  And what really got to me was that at the time of her wedding, this young, childless mother wanted to have Aimee's birthdate etched in their wedding rings, despite having seen her precious newborn only once, and that from five feet away.  She never got to hold her, nurse her, sing lullabies and gently rock her to sleep.

I understand this mother.  I understand her grief, pain and guilt over losing a child.  I believe it when she says that time, contrary to popular belief, does not heal, remove or soften these feelings.  And that she thought of this child not just for days, weeks, months or years, but for decades.

This is an example of a mother's love and the depths of the attachment to her children.  Of the bond that exists in her heart long after the physical cord has been cut.  It is a relationship like no other and only a fellow mother can understand it.

It reminds me of the sacred, unbreakable bonds to my own children.  The ones for my three surviving children that give me great joy.  And the one to my lost child, my beloved Josh, whom I will never see again, that produces such sorrow and pain, it is literally indescribable.

In reading this article today, I unwittingly fell into a sinkhole, stepped on a grief mine and was swept up in a vortex.

Happy Thanksgiving Josh

On this beautiful cold but sunny day, perfect for Thanksgiving, while the turkey is roasting, I write a letter to Josh.

Dear Josh,
Happy Thanksgiving!  I can't help but imagine what you would be doing if here.  Let me try.... you came home from college on Saturday, happy to be home but wiped out, and with mountains of laundry.  After giving me the required hug and stooping to play with Buddy and Benji, who would be going crazy, vying for your attention, you would head straight for the kitchen to make sure the pantry and fridge was stocked, giving me a little smile after seeing that it was.

You would then stretch out on the couch with your favorite blanket, inviting the dogs to chill with you and promptly fall asleep.  I would work on your laundry and by the time you woke up, clean clothes would be in your room.  Sleepy-eyed, you would ask me the proverbial and all important question, "what's for dinner?"  Another smile would appear when I said, "Korean food", one of your favorites.

We probably wouldn't see too much of you, between sleeping and hanging out with your friends which would be okay, because you were home.  Then today - one of your favorite holidays because it combines two things you LOVE - the Thanksgiving meal and football (there are some good games on today), you would exude peaceful contentment.  At dinner, you would be your usual quiet self but would interject a well-timed remark that would make us all laugh.  After dinner you would be passed out on the couch again with "turkey coma".  Life would be good.  Let me say that again, LIFE would be good.

But instead of what I imagine in my head and heart, the reality is that you are not here.  At least not physically (I don't want to think of where you are physically).  I hope you are here in spirit.  Can you give us a sign today?  Or does it work best when least expected?  And even though it has been over 2 years and 8 months, I will end with the question that I still ask every day, "Why, Josh why?"

Love,
Mom