The last post I wrote was six months ago (October 18, 2015) and before that, three months (July 18, 2015). To not write anything over the holidays, his birthday (Jan. 16) or his death anniversary (March 18) would've been unthinkable two years ago. Similarly, I'd never thought that weekly visits to the park (his gravesite) would cease but they have.
It has been a full seven years since Josh left us and while he remains frozen in time as a 17-year old teenage boy, I continue on the conveyer belt of life which has a way of filling the gaping hole of loss, and softening the sharp, ragged edges which once cut incessantly.
And while his absence is always with me, it is more like a shadow rather than an "in-your-face" punch.
So in my experience, the adage is true: "Time heals."
I am careful to say "in my experience" because I can only speak for myself. Everyone's experience is uniquely theirs, not subject to critique or judgement.
But sadness hovers, especially when twice today, I've been asked if my contact information could be given to newly grieving moms. "Yes, of course," I say, "along with the URL of this blog."
And my heart breaks for them.
Showing posts with label grief. Show all posts
Showing posts with label grief. Show all posts
Monday, April 18, 2016
Thursday, June 18, 2015
Six Years and 3 Months Later: Thoughts from "Heaven's Coast" by Mark Doty
Mark Doty's work as an award-winning poet and memoirist is impressive (see biography on poetryfoundation.org).
His first prose work, Heaven's Coast (1996) is a grief memoir, written after the death of his beloved partner, Wally Roberts. Having been on my wish list for a long time, I finally ordered from Amazon at the beginning of the year and read it last month.
Heavily dog-eared and underlined, I related to many of his descriptions of death, grief, sorrow and the slow business of recovery.
Wally died in 1994 from AIDS. Mark was with him to the very end and vividly describes the body, post-death:
While waiting for the ambulance to arrive on that horrible day, Josh's body was more a shell of him. And seeing his body again several days later at the funeral home, I remember thinking is this really my son? It does not look like him. The essence - that which made the body Josh, was gone.
The funeral director encouraged us to have an open casket saying that it would be better for his friends if they saw his body - a concrete, visual evidence of his passing would help with closure. So we did have a viewing period before the service began. I spent that time in the lobby, accepting condolences but in hindsight, I would rather have been at the casket to see friends and family say good-bye.
Another moving part of the book was the search for the right word to describe his feelings - I will quote the whole passage as paraphrasing would not do justice:
So we are in our 7th summer without Josh. The girls have moved back home and once again, our home is full of energy. And in addition to our two Shih Tzu-poos, Buddy and Benji, we also have Gillian's dog, Huck (formerly Tyler and Em's) and Sydney, Lauren's dog.
We can re-name our home "The Anderson Hotel and Kennel" - which Josh would've loved.
RIP Josh
Love you and miss you....
His first prose work, Heaven's Coast (1996) is a grief memoir, written after the death of his beloved partner, Wally Roberts. Having been on my wish list for a long time, I finally ordered from Amazon at the beginning of the year and read it last month.
Heavily dog-eared and underlined, I related to many of his descriptions of death, grief, sorrow and the slow business of recovery.
Wally died in 1994 from AIDS. Mark was with him to the very end and vividly describes the body, post-death:
Without spirit, the body closes back into itself like an old piece of furniture, an armoire whose ancient wood is still fragrant, resinous, whose whorled grains and steady sleep refer back to the living tree. The cabinet is an elegy to the tree from which it arose, the body a brief unkeepable elegy to the quick and shining self.Apt analogy of the indescribable - the non-living body of a beloved.
While waiting for the ambulance to arrive on that horrible day, Josh's body was more a shell of him. And seeing his body again several days later at the funeral home, I remember thinking is this really my son? It does not look like him. The essence - that which made the body Josh, was gone.
The funeral director encouraged us to have an open casket saying that it would be better for his friends if they saw his body - a concrete, visual evidence of his passing would help with closure. So we did have a viewing period before the service began. I spent that time in the lobby, accepting condolences but in hindsight, I would rather have been at the casket to see friends and family say good-bye.
Another moving part of the book was the search for the right word to describe his feelings - I will quote the whole passage as paraphrasing would not do justice:
Grief is too sharp and immediate; maybe it's the high pitch of the vowel sound, or the monosyllabic impact of the word, as quick a jab as knife or cut.
Sadness is too ephemeral, somehow; it sounds like something that comes and goes, a response to an immediate cause which will pass in a little while as another cause arises to generate a different feeling.
Mourning isn't bad, but there's something a little archaic about it. I think of widows keening, striking themselves, clutching at handfuls of dust - dark-swathed years, a closeting of self away from the world, turned inward toward an interior dark.
Sorrow feels right, for now. Sorrow seems large and inhabitable, an interior season whose vaulted sky's a suitable match for the gray and white tumult arched over these headlands. A sorrow is not to be gotten over or moved through in quite the way that sadness is, yet sorrow is also not as frozen and monochromatic, to my mind, as mourning. Sadness exists inside my sorrow, but it's not as large as sorrow's realm; it comes and goes without really touching the overarching whole. This sorrow is capacious; there's room inside it for the everyday, for going about the workday stuff of life....Sorrow is the cathedral, the immense architecture; in it's interior there's room for almost everything: for desire, for flashes of happiness, for making plans for the future. And for watching all those evidences of ongoing life crumble in the flash of remembering, in the recurring wave of fresh grief.In this quote, I love the poet in Doty trying to match word to feeling, and the reasons why grief, sadness and mourning are discarded in favor of sorrow. This rings true and I find comfort in having a word that can encompass all the feelings one may have in a given hour, day, week, month or year(s).
So we are in our 7th summer without Josh. The girls have moved back home and once again, our home is full of energy. And in addition to our two Shih Tzu-poos, Buddy and Benji, we also have Gillian's dog, Huck (formerly Tyler and Em's) and Sydney, Lauren's dog.
We can re-name our home "The Anderson Hotel and Kennel" - which Josh would've loved.
RIP Josh
Love you and miss you....
Monday, May 18, 2015
May 18, 2015 - Six Years and Two Months Later: A Poem by Edward Hirsch
As noted in prior blog posts, poetry has become an unexpected source of comfort. And with a few clicks I recently searched, found and bought a book-length elegy by a grieving poet who lost his twenty-two year old son in August 2011.
I read Gabriel: A Poem by Edward Hirsch in one sitting.
I also found this New Yorker article in which Hirsch speaks about his loss and the genesis of the poem.
The front jacket says this:
Hirsch chose to write this tribute of his son's life and simultaneous exploration of grief in three-line stanzas without any punctuation, not even a period at the end. It is highly accessible, even to a poetry novice like me.
While the poem is not divided into sections, it reads as though it were. For example, I did not read the section that went into detail about Gabriel's autopsy report as I could not, and still have not read our son's report. It stays folded in the envelope from the coroner's office in a large trunk which sits in our family room, holding Josh's keepsakes.
Below are the stanzas that speak to me and why.
I like how he describes certain memories of Gabriel....
RIP Josh and Gabriel
I read Gabriel: A Poem by Edward Hirsch in one sitting.
I also found this New Yorker article in which Hirsch speaks about his loss and the genesis of the poem.
The front jacket says this:
Never has there been a book of poems quite like Gabriel, in which a short life, a bewildering death, and the unanswerable sorrow of a father come together in such a sustained elegy. This unabashed sequence speaks directly from Hirsch's heart to our own, without sentimentality....Hirsch's account is poignantly direct and open to the strange vicissitudes and tricks of grief....Hirsch mixes his tale of Gabriel with the stories of other poets through the centuries who have also lost children, and expresses his feelings through theirs. His landmark poem enters the broad stream of human grief and raises in us the strange hope, even consolation, that we find in the writer's act of witnessing and transformation. It will be read and reread.I agree.
Hirsch chose to write this tribute of his son's life and simultaneous exploration of grief in three-line stanzas without any punctuation, not even a period at the end. It is highly accessible, even to a poetry novice like me.
While the poem is not divided into sections, it reads as though it were. For example, I did not read the section that went into detail about Gabriel's autopsy report as I could not, and still have not read our son's report. It stays folded in the envelope from the coroner's office in a large trunk which sits in our family room, holding Josh's keepsakes.
Below are the stanzas that speak to me and why.
I like how he describes certain memories of Gabriel....
When he learned to crawl he pulled himselfand
Forward on his arms a little at a time
As if he were climbing Arizona Beach on D-day
When he colored his hair blueGabriel was not an easy child to raise which Hirsch acknowledged...
The sink was covered with blue dye
As if the sky was turned upside down in a bowl
Chaotic wind of the godsand
He was trouble
But he was our trouble
Some nights I could not tellGetting ready for the funeral....
If he was the wrecking ball
Or the building it crashed into
Not knowing who I am
I was lying beside him
In the coffin I still couldn't breathe
And so I woke up in the shadow
Of morning black light
And put on my mourning clothes
His mother also slipped into blackHow I felt when viewing my own son...
Treachery of the parents
Who outlive their son
The funeral director opened the coffin
And there he was alone
From the waist up
I peered down into his face
And for a moment I was taken aback
Because it was not Gabriel
It was just some poor kidand
Whose face looked like a room
That had been vacated
I leaned over and kissed him
On the forehead
It was chilly and hard
I kissed him on the lips
They were stone cold
It was like kissing a corpse
I started keening and wailing
A sob came out of my body
A sound I had never heard before
It was animalistic primalOn grief and mourning....
The wailing the terrible keen
Kept bursting out of me
Grief broke down in phrasesand
And extrapolated lines
From me without myself
I did not know the work of the mourning
Is like carrying a bag of cement
Up a mountain at night
The mountaintop is not in sightand
Because there is no mountaintop
Poor Sisyphus grief
Look closely and you will see
Almost everyone carrying bags
Of cement on their shoulders
That's why it take courageand
To get out of bed in the morning
And climb into the day
Lord NothingnessHe ends with a question that echoes in my heart...
When my son's suffering ended
My own began
It was Gabriel it was not Gabriel
Wild spirit beloved son
Where have you fled
RIP Josh and Gabriel
Wednesday, March 18, 2015
March 18, 2015 - Six Years Later
Our son Josh, died by his own hand 6 years ago. It was a Wednesday, just like today and just like any other day. It is 7am now and six years ago, I awoke, showered, was in my office preparing for a client meeting, saw Tim leave for his own meeting; naive and oblivious to what I would find three short hours later.
Anyone close to Josh can probably think back and remember exactly where they were, what they were doing and what they felt upon hearing the tragic news.
Death, grief, sorrow, pain, heartache, memories, living with loss, living in spite of loss are very difficult to navigate early on and even six years later. Emotions are unpredictable as I do not know how I will feel or react today. I know there is numbness as last night, I heard of another teenage suicide in our area which could've put me in a tailspin but instead, I felt nothing except sorrow for the grieving family.
I want to share another "blessing" from John O'Donohue's book, To Bless The Space Between Us which has been a recent source of comfort to me.
RIP Josh
Anyone close to Josh can probably think back and remember exactly where they were, what they were doing and what they felt upon hearing the tragic news.
Death, grief, sorrow, pain, heartache, memories, living with loss, living in spite of loss are very difficult to navigate early on and even six years later. Emotions are unpredictable as I do not know how I will feel or react today. I know there is numbness as last night, I heard of another teenage suicide in our area which could've put me in a tailspin but instead, I felt nothing except sorrow for the grieving family.
I want to share another "blessing" from John O'Donohue's book, To Bless The Space Between Us which has been a recent source of comfort to me.
For The Family and Friends of a Suicide
by John O'Donohue
As you huddle around the torn silence,
Each by this lonely deed exiled,
To a solitary confinement of soul,
May some small glow from what has been lost
Return like the kindness of candlelight.
As your eyes strain to sift
This sudden wall of dark
And no one can say why
In such a forsaken, secret way,
This death was sent for...
May one of the lovely hours
Of memory return
Like a field of ease
Among these graveled days.
May the Angel of Wisdom
Enter this ruin of absence
And guide your minds
To receive this bitter chalice
So that you do not damage yourselves
By attending only at the hungry alter
Of regret and anger and guilt.
May you be given some inkling
That there could be something else at work
And that what to you now seems
Dark, destructive, and forlorn,
Might be a destiny that looks different
From inside the eternal script.
May vision be granted to you
To see this with the eyes of providence.
May your loss become a sanctuary
Where new presence will dwell
To refine and enrich
The rest of your life
With courage and compassion.
And may your lost loved one
Enter into the beauty of eternal tranquility,
In that place where there is no more sorrow
Or separation or mourning or tears.
RIP Josh
January 16, 1992 - March 18, 2009
Wednesday, February 18, 2015
5 Years and 11 Months Later - "For Grief" by John O'Donohue
I recently read Tara Brach's book, True Refuge: Finding Peace and Freedom in Your Own Awakened Heart and was intrigued by some quotes by John O'Donohue, an Irish teacher and poet. I bought two of his books: To Bless the Space Between Us: A Book of Blessings and Anam Cara: A Book of Celtic Wisdom.
This "blessing" really resonates....
This "blessing" really resonates....
For Grief
by John O'Donohue
When you lose someone you love,
Your life becomes strange,
The ground beneath you gets fragile,
Your thoughts make your eyes unsure;
And some dead echo drags your voice down
Where words have no confidence.
Your heart has grown heavy with loss;
And though this loss has wounded others too,
No one knows what has been taken from you
When the silence of absence deepens.
Flickers of guilt kindle regret
For all that was left unsaid or undone.
There are days when you wake up happy;
Again inside the fullness of life,
Until the moment breaks
And you are thrown back
Onto the black tide of loss.
Days when you have your heart back,
You are able to function well
Until in the middle of work or encounter,
Suddenly with no warning,
You are ambushed by grief.
It becomes hard to trust yourself.
All you can depend on now is that
Sorrow will remain faithful to itself.
More than you, it knows its way
And will find the right time
To pull and pull the rope of grief
Until that coiled hill of tears
Has reduced to its last drop.
Gradually, you will learn acquaintance
With the invisible form of your departed;
And when the work of grief is done,
The wound of loss will heal
And you will have learned
To wean your eyes
From that gap in the air
And be able to enter the hearth
In your soul where your loved one
Has awaited your return
All the time.
RIP Josh
Love,
Mom
Friday, January 16, 2015
Happy 23rd Birthday Josh!
Sad today as it would've been Josh's 23rd birthday. My parents went with me to the park to put some balloons on his stone.
Today hits home (yet again) why the loss of the child is so devastating for it is not only the physical absence a mother grieves but the loss of everything in the future. Birthdays are an especially painful reminder of what should be but isn't.
Josh should be in his early 20's, figuring out who he is and what he wants to do with his life.
He should've been with us at our Thanksgiving holiday in Asheville, NC - eating, chilling, playing Cataan and poker, watching sports with Tim and Tyler - everything a kid would do during a week with the family.
He should've been home with us over Christmas and New Years.
He should've come with us to NYC this week to see Gillian perform with her new band of which she is the lead vocalist and Uncle Steve (my brother) is the guitarist. He would've been amazed and proud.
He should be his little cousin Keilani's # 1 fan - and vice versa. There are times when she smiles that she reminds us of Josh.
Today hits home (yet again) why the loss of the child is so devastating for it is not only the physical absence a mother grieves but the loss of everything in the future. Birthdays are an especially painful reminder of what should be but isn't.
Josh should be in his early 20's, figuring out who he is and what he wants to do with his life.
He should've been with us at our Thanksgiving holiday in Asheville, NC - eating, chilling, playing Cataan and poker, watching sports with Tim and Tyler - everything a kid would do during a week with the family.
He should've been home with us over Christmas and New Years.
He should've come with us to NYC this week to see Gillian perform with her new band of which she is the lead vocalist and Uncle Steve (my brother) is the guitarist. He would've been amazed and proud.
He should be his little cousin Keilani's # 1 fan - and vice versa. There are times when she smiles that she reminds us of Josh.
Tears have flowed intermittently as I remember the day he was born and the joy he brought to our family.
Happy to have a healthy baby boy - a little surprised too as the doc said he was supposed to be a she!
Poor Tim - so tired taking care of the other three at home and getting ready for our arrival....
Josh completed our family....
RIP Josh.
Happy Birthday.
Love you and miss you.
XXOO
Monday, January 5, 2015
For A Parent On the Death of a Child - by John O'Donohue
For the Parent on the Death of a Child
by John O'Donohue in
To Bless the Space Between Us
Your child awoke in you,
Your heart a perfect cradle
To hold its presence.
Inside and outside became one
As new waves of love
kept surprising your soul.
Now you sit bereft
Inside a nightmare,
Your eyes numbed
By the sight of a grave
No parent should ever see.
You will wear this absence
Like a secret locket,
Always wondering why
Such a new soul
Was taken home so soon.
Let the silent tears flow
And when your eyes clear
Perhaps you will glimpse
How your eternal child
Has become the unseen angel
Who parents your heart
And persuades the moon
To send new gifts ashore.
RIP Josh
Love,
Mom
Tuesday, November 18, 2014
5 Years and 8 Months Later - New Picture
While browsing through Facebook recently, my heart stopped when I saw this picture (new to me) posted by a friend whose son was a good friend of Josh. She emailed it to me right away.
This is so signature Josh - the cool dude doing something funny. I am guessing it was taken in 2005 when he was 13 years old and in 7th grade. When I look at this picture, I try and peer into his mind and heart. Was he aware of the impending doom? Certainly doesn't look like it. My mind wanders back to that busy time looking for signs.
He didn't like school and was struggling with motivation in some of his classes. Was this something I should've picked up on?
He had a hard time getting up at 6am, but who wouldn't especially if one didn't fall sleep until 11pm or midnight?
He was a quiet kid at home but still engaged - piping in with funny comments at just the right time - making us laugh.
He excelled in athletics (football and lacrosse), which filled him with confidence and satisfaction. We attended every game to cheer him on.
I remember him being somewhat of a homebody. He would just as soon chill at home with us and the dogs as be with friends. I contrast this with my girls who HAD to be with friends 24/7.
Definitely into video games and very good.
In short, Josh completed our family. He and his older brother book-ended the girls. His easy going nature complemented the frenzy of a large, busy family. I still remember his periodic strong admonishments: "Chill Mom!"
This is an emotional post to write - bringing up memories of a happier time. Who knew that in four short years, his death would kill our family? Strong words, I know, but true. When a child dies, the grief is much more than the loss of the loved one. A part of me also died as well as the family that we were at the time. Nothing is the same and can ever be.
So it is loss upon loss upon loss. And grief upon grief upon grief.
And a suicide death complicates this even more.
So now, after 5+ years, while the pain, sorrow and anguish is not front and center like it was at the beginning, when it does pop up as while writing this post, it is still indescribable and inexpressible.
RIP Josh.
Saturday, October 18, 2014
5 Years and 7 Months Later - Book: "Poetry as Survival" by Gregory Orr and Original Poem: "No Answer"
I have just finished reading Poetry as Survival by Gregory Orr, a professor of English at the University of Virginia. I loved it; it felt like I was taking a seminar course on how poetry, specifically the personal lyric, has the power to save, heal and transform the individual suffering from trauma.
He begins with his own personal tragedy. At twelve, he was responsible for a hunting accident which killed his younger brother. His parents did not blame him but neither did they console or comfort him, being overwhelmed with their own grief. Two years later, his mother died unexpectedly after a routine medical procedure. The grief and guilt was overwhelming.
Through his high school English teacher, he found poetry and like Anne Sexton, it saved him. He wrote his first poem and did not look back. And this book is like a treatise, an argument - laid out carefully as if by an expert lawyer - on the healing powers of the lyric, personal, "I" poem in dealing with personal chaos caused by trauma.
He argues that from the time language was invented, when confronted with destabilizing human experience and emotions, man has used the lyric poem to express the inexpressible, to say the unsayable, to give order to chaos so that the poet could not only survive but then be connected to fellow sufferers. Poetry is then a way out of the silence and alienation that come from personal crisis.
And to describe the indescribable, poets have the tools of figurative language: symbols, imagery, similes and metaphors that can be subtle or in-your-face. The more intuitive and surprising, the better.
For example, the ONLY way I could ever write about that horrible morning was in a short, terse, sparse poem. This describes what I saw, felt and heard.
He begins with his own personal tragedy. At twelve, he was responsible for a hunting accident which killed his younger brother. His parents did not blame him but neither did they console or comfort him, being overwhelmed with their own grief. Two years later, his mother died unexpectedly after a routine medical procedure. The grief and guilt was overwhelming.
Through his high school English teacher, he found poetry and like Anne Sexton, it saved him. He wrote his first poem and did not look back. And this book is like a treatise, an argument - laid out carefully as if by an expert lawyer - on the healing powers of the lyric, personal, "I" poem in dealing with personal chaos caused by trauma.
He argues that from the time language was invented, when confronted with destabilizing human experience and emotions, man has used the lyric poem to express the inexpressible, to say the unsayable, to give order to chaos so that the poet could not only survive but then be connected to fellow sufferers. Poetry is then a way out of the silence and alienation that come from personal crisis.
When someone, in the throes of a powerful and disturbing experience, turns instinctively to the writing or reading of a poem, it is because they sense the personal lyric can be a powerful aid in helping them survive and make sense of their experience.Echoing Anne Sexton's thoughts that poets are artists and as such, must turn to and examine the abyss of internal pain and inner chaos in order to write authentically; for them, the confines of the poem and the tools of language provide a safe place from which to do so. For the page is a finite space to house the words that speak the unspeakable. The poet can use formal techniques such as meter and rhyme which can further exert control and structure. Even in free verse, there is structure - albeit informal.
And to describe the indescribable, poets have the tools of figurative language: symbols, imagery, similes and metaphors that can be subtle or in-your-face. The more intuitive and surprising, the better.
In the personal lyric, the self encounters its existential crises in symbolic form, and the poem that results is a model of this encounter. By making such a dramatized, expressive model of its crisis, the self is able to acknowledge the existence, nature, and power of what is destabilizing it, while at the same time asserting its ultimate mastery over the disordering by the power of its linguistic and imaginative orderings.I can relate. I have instinctively turned to poetry as a means to express my deepest thoughts and feelings - see posts. While they are the work of a true novice, I re-read these poems and are taken right back to the moment, thought or feeling. They still ring true.
For example, the ONLY way I could ever write about that horrible morning was in a short, terse, sparse poem. This describes what I saw, felt and heard.
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.
Monday, August 18, 2014
August 18, 2014 - 5 Years and 5 Month Later: Quote from "The Namesake"
I've recently finished Jhumpa Lahiri's poignant novel: The Namesake, and want to quote from the end (not to worry; there are no spoilers).
An unexpected, tragic death - especially of a child - has no comparison in terms of the ginormous, heavy imprint on a mother's life, psyche and being. Especially when it never should have happened.
And yes, I feel the compassionate, omniscient narrator is correct in articulating that my whole life was, is and will be about accepting, interpreting and comprehending what happened. I will also add "process" and "integrate" to the list. A lifelong endeavor that has no blueprint, no instruction manual, no "How to Deal With the Death of Your Child For Dummies" - the lonely journey begins the millisecond the brain comprehends the unthinkable.
I envision this journey like floating on a river. "Pre-Josh", this river was fairly calm with some turbulence due to what was going on with him at the time (see post for details) but certainly nothing unmanageable or out-of-control. But when I realized that our beloved Josh was gone for good, it felt like out of nowhere, an immense, terrifying waterfall was in front and down was the only way I could go.
The fall could kill. Surviving is a feat.
Then comes the realization that one has forever left the calm river with manageable turbulence for a completely different route, this grief journey - full of angry, churning white water, huge boulders, terrific undercurrents that alternately suck you under and let you go and tributaries which spit you out in whirlpools called Unbelief, Guilt, Regret, Sorrow, Shame and Anger - pools that spin you around in one place for seemingly forever before propelling your battered body to another dizzying vortex.
It is a disorienting, frightening journey that occurs in the depths of one's soul and is very difficult to understand, much less describe to others. This is what makes the journey a lonely one.
But now, five years later, my journey is on calmer waters and I've occasionally found myself in the pools of Acceptance and Peace. Visits here do not last but at least I've found them. For a long time, I questioned their existence or if I would ever experience them.
So to get back to the quote, the narrator says that in the end, the event that was the mistake or accident or thing that should never have happened becomes that which prevails and endures.
Prevails and endures for the departed and those left behind.
RIP Josh….
In so many ways, his family's life feels like a string of accidents, unforeseen, unintended, one incident begetting another……And yet these events have formed Golgol, shaped him, determined who he is. They were things for which it was impossible to prepare but which one spent a lifetime looking back at, trying to accept, interpret, comprehend. Things that should never have happened, that seemed out of place and wrong, these were what prevailed, what endured, in the end.EXACTLY….this describes my life with Josh's death…actions and consequences…one thing led to another and before we knew it, he was gone.
An unexpected, tragic death - especially of a child - has no comparison in terms of the ginormous, heavy imprint on a mother's life, psyche and being. Especially when it never should have happened.
And yes, I feel the compassionate, omniscient narrator is correct in articulating that my whole life was, is and will be about accepting, interpreting and comprehending what happened. I will also add "process" and "integrate" to the list. A lifelong endeavor that has no blueprint, no instruction manual, no "How to Deal With the Death of Your Child For Dummies" - the lonely journey begins the millisecond the brain comprehends the unthinkable.
I envision this journey like floating on a river. "Pre-Josh", this river was fairly calm with some turbulence due to what was going on with him at the time (see post for details) but certainly nothing unmanageable or out-of-control. But when I realized that our beloved Josh was gone for good, it felt like out of nowhere, an immense, terrifying waterfall was in front and down was the only way I could go.
The fall could kill. Surviving is a feat.
Then comes the realization that one has forever left the calm river with manageable turbulence for a completely different route, this grief journey - full of angry, churning white water, huge boulders, terrific undercurrents that alternately suck you under and let you go and tributaries which spit you out in whirlpools called Unbelief, Guilt, Regret, Sorrow, Shame and Anger - pools that spin you around in one place for seemingly forever before propelling your battered body to another dizzying vortex.
It is a disorienting, frightening journey that occurs in the depths of one's soul and is very difficult to understand, much less describe to others. This is what makes the journey a lonely one.
But now, five years later, my journey is on calmer waters and I've occasionally found myself in the pools of Acceptance and Peace. Visits here do not last but at least I've found them. For a long time, I questioned their existence or if I would ever experience them.
So to get back to the quote, the narrator says that in the end, the event that was the mistake or accident or thing that should never have happened becomes that which prevails and endures.
Prevails and endures for the departed and those left behind.
RIP Josh….
Sunday, August 10, 2014
Poem: "Remember" by Christina Rossetti (1830-1894)
Poetry has become a surprising source of comfort the past 5+ years. And recently, my interest in this genre has heightened.
A poet that I have come to love is Billy Collins. I took several of his collections to our summer vacation and spent relaxing afternoons on the front porch, reading aloud and transcribing favorites into my poetry journal, complete with a glass of wine or summer ale, or both. See post on reading blog for more.
I recently found and have been listening to free online poetry courses:
The main thing I've learned from the courses and the blog is how to be a "close reader" of poetry. To date, I've been content to add poems to my book without much thought on how and why the poem touches me. Maybe because to do so invites dormant pain and suffering to surface. This certainly happened yesterday when I journaled through Rossetti's short but powerful poem at a new coffee shop, close to Josh's park. Luckily no one came by to see if I was OK - who knows, maybe women shedding tears while reading and writing is a common occurrence.
A poet that I have come to love is Billy Collins. I took several of his collections to our summer vacation and spent relaxing afternoons on the front porch, reading aloud and transcribing favorites into my poetry journal, complete with a glass of wine or summer ale, or both. See post on reading blog for more.
I recently found and have been listening to free online poetry courses:
- Poetry: What It Is and How to Understand It by Margaret Soltan, Associate Professor of English, George Washington University
- Modern Poetry by Langdon Hammer, Professor of English, Yale University
The main thing I've learned from the courses and the blog is how to be a "close reader" of poetry. To date, I've been content to add poems to my book without much thought on how and why the poem touches me. Maybe because to do so invites dormant pain and suffering to surface. This certainly happened yesterday when I journaled through Rossetti's short but powerful poem at a new coffee shop, close to Josh's park. Luckily no one came by to see if I was OK - who knows, maybe women shedding tears while reading and writing is a common occurrence.
Remember
by Christina Rossetti
Remember me when I am gone away,
Gone far away into the silent land
When you can no more hold me by the hand,
Nor I half turn to go yet turning stay.
Remember me when no more day by day
You tell me of our future that you planned:
Only remember me; you understand
It will be late to counsel then or pray.
Yet if you should forget me for a while
And afterwards remember, do not grieve:
For if the darkness and corruption leave
A vestige of the thoughts that once I had,
Better by far you should forget and smile
Than that you should remember and be sad.
In my journal:
Death took Josh away - he is gone….gone far way to a "silent land" where I cannot follow. No more can I tousle his hair or tap his behind or talk about what the future may hold. So there are multiple deaths that I grieve - not only his physical presence but his future, our family's future. I was reminded of this when looking at a friend's family photo at her daughter's recent wedding - this I will not have.
"It will be late to counsel then or pray" - Death is irrevocable, irretrievable, irreversible. Whatever one meant to do or say, once Death comes, it will be too late. This is also difficult with a tragic, unexpected death - one is not prepared physically or emotionally for such a sudden, abrupt end - there are too many loose ends. I call them Would've, Could've and Should've which in turn, fuel Regret and Guilt, close cousins to Grief.
The poem acknowledges Death as "darkness and corruption" but whose power is limited. A "vestige" is left - these are the mannerisms, sayings, quirks, habits, tendencies, like and dislikes that made Josh, Josh. Death has no ownership over these memories; they remain with the living.
I can hear Josh in the final words - "Mom, it is OK if you forget for a while - don't feel guilty when it happens. And when you do remember, I would rather you smile than be sad."
I will try but easier said than done, my son.
Tuesday, February 18, 2014
4 Years and 11 Months Later - Poem: Grief by C.K. Williams
The tragic deaths of two high school boys two weeks ago have brought back memories of our own loss which occurred almost five years ago. Can it be that long already? In some ways, it does feel like a lifetime ago but at other times, it feels like yesterday.
During that difficult week, while thinking about the two boys and our son, I turned to poetry - specifically, an anthology edited by Kevin Young called The Art of Losing: Poems of Grief & Healing.
These are excerpts from Grief by C.K. Williams. Although it is about the poet's grief over his mother's death, there is much about the feeling of grief in the first few terrible days that is universal.
Is this grief? Tears took me, then ceases; the wish to die, too, may have fled through me,
but not more than with any moment's despair, the old, surging wish to be freed, finished.
I feel pain, ….even pain for myself, my incomprehension, my fear of stories never begun now, never ending.
But still, is this grief: waking too early, tiring too quickly, distracted, impatient, abrupt,
but still waking, still thinking and working; is this what grief is, is this pain enough?
I go to the mirror: someone who might once have felt something merely regards me,
eyes telling nothing, mouth saying nothing, nothing reflected but the things of the world,
nothing told not of any week's, no, already ten days now, any ten days' normal doings.
Shouldn't the face evidence anguish, shouldn't its loving sadness and loss be revealed?
Ineffable, vague, elusive, uncertain, distracted: shouldn't grief have a form of its own,
and shouldn't mind know past its moment of vague, uncertain distraction and sureness of sorrow;
shouldn't soul flinch as we're taught proper souls are supposed to, in reverence and fear?
Shouldn't grief be pure and complete, reshaping the world in itself, in grief for itself?
My face beneath your face, face of grief, countenance of loss, of fear, of irrevocable extinction;
matrix laid upon matrix, mystery on mystery, guise upon guise, semblance, effigy, likeness.
Oh; to put the face of grief on in the morning; the tinting, smoothing, shining and shaping;
and at the end of the day, to remove it, detach it, emerge from the sorrowful mask.
Stripped now of its raiment, the mouth, caught in its last labored breath, finds last resolution;
all the flesh now, stripped of its guises, moves towards its placed in the peace of the earth.
Grief for the earth, accepting the grief of the flesh and the grief of our grieving forever;
grief for the flesh and the body and face, for the eyes that can see only into the world,
and the mind that can only think and feel what the world gives it to think and feel;
grief for the mind gone, the flesh gone, the imperfect pain that must stay for its moment;
and grief for the moment, its partial beauties, its imperfect affections, all severed, all torn.
RIP Josh. I envision you have found these boys and are showing them the ropes in the world you now inhabit. One day - we will be together again.
During that difficult week, while thinking about the two boys and our son, I turned to poetry - specifically, an anthology edited by Kevin Young called The Art of Losing: Poems of Grief & Healing.
These are excerpts from Grief by C.K. Williams. Although it is about the poet's grief over his mother's death, there is much about the feeling of grief in the first few terrible days that is universal.
Is this grief? Tears took me, then ceases; the wish to die, too, may have fled through me,
but not more than with any moment's despair, the old, surging wish to be freed, finished.
I feel pain, ….even pain for myself, my incomprehension, my fear of stories never begun now, never ending.
But still, is this grief: waking too early, tiring too quickly, distracted, impatient, abrupt,
but still waking, still thinking and working; is this what grief is, is this pain enough?
I go to the mirror: someone who might once have felt something merely regards me,
eyes telling nothing, mouth saying nothing, nothing reflected but the things of the world,
nothing told not of any week's, no, already ten days now, any ten days' normal doings.
Shouldn't the face evidence anguish, shouldn't its loving sadness and loss be revealed?
Ineffable, vague, elusive, uncertain, distracted: shouldn't grief have a form of its own,
and shouldn't mind know past its moment of vague, uncertain distraction and sureness of sorrow;
shouldn't soul flinch as we're taught proper souls are supposed to, in reverence and fear?
Shouldn't grief be pure and complete, reshaping the world in itself, in grief for itself?
My face beneath your face, face of grief, countenance of loss, of fear, of irrevocable extinction;
matrix laid upon matrix, mystery on mystery, guise upon guise, semblance, effigy, likeness.
Oh; to put the face of grief on in the morning; the tinting, smoothing, shining and shaping;
and at the end of the day, to remove it, detach it, emerge from the sorrowful mask.
Stripped now of its raiment, the mouth, caught in its last labored breath, finds last resolution;
all the flesh now, stripped of its guises, moves towards its placed in the peace of the earth.
Grief for the earth, accepting the grief of the flesh and the grief of our grieving forever;
grief for the flesh and the body and face, for the eyes that can see only into the world,
and the mind that can only think and feel what the world gives it to think and feel;
grief for the mind gone, the flesh gone, the imperfect pain that must stay for its moment;
and grief for the moment, its partial beauties, its imperfect affections, all severed, all torn.
RIP Josh. I envision you have found these boys and are showing them the ropes in the world you now inhabit. One day - we will be together again.
Sunday, February 9, 2014
RIP Timmy
A couple of weeks ago, I found an article on Facebook, printed it out for myself and made a mental note to post on the blog.
After the very sad events of this week, it is a perfect time to share. Our community is reeling over two suicide deaths at Langley HS where both Lauren and Josh went to school. We know one of the families as Timmy's older brother Peter, was a good friend of Josh's and came to our home over 4 years ago to console us. And now, tragically, we are returning the favor.
When Josh died, the friends of Tyler, Lauren and Gillian came from all over to be with them. Peter's friends are doing the same for him. And they are the same boys that came to our home in March 09 so it has been like deja vu for all of us.
Two of his friends joined me in my weekly visit to Josh's park yesterday. One asked, "what can I do to help Peter? It is hard to know what to do and what to say." I just shared what helped us and what it comes down to is very simple - just being there….through thick and thin and over the long haul….just as they have done for us and I know they will do for their suffering friend.
While writing this morning, I came across the article within the pages of my journal and have cut and pasted in it's entirety below as I could never do proper justice by paraphrasing.
Please read and pass along to others - those who have suffered unbearable loss/trauma and those who seek to help them.
A New Normal: Ten Things I've Learned About Trauma by Catherine Woodiwiss.
I wasn’t really expecting painful things to happen to me.
I knew that pain was a part of life, but — thanks in part to a peculiar blend of “God-has-a-plan” Southern roots, a suburban “Midwestern nice” upbringing, and a higher education in New England stoicism — I managed to skate by for quite some time without having to experience it.
After a handful of traumas in the last five years, things look different now. Trauma upends everything we took for granted, including things we didn’t know we took for granted. And many of these realities I wish I’d known when I first encountered them. So, while the work of life and healing continues, here are ten things I’ve learned about trauma along the way:
1. Trauma permanently changes us.
This is the big, scary truth about trauma: there is no such thing as “getting over it.” The five stages of grief model marks universal stages in learning to accept loss, but the reality is in fact much bigger: a major life disruption leaves a new normal in its wake. There is no “back to the old me.” You are different now, full stop.
This is not a wholly negative thing. Healing from trauma can also mean finding new strength and joy. The goal of healing is not a papering-over of changes in an effort to preserve or present things as normal. It is to acknowledge and wear your new life — warts, wisdom, and all — with courage.
2. Presence is always better than distance.
There is a curious illusion that in times of crisis people “need space.” I don’t know where this assumption originated, but in my experience it is almost always false. Trauma is a disfiguring, lonely time even when surrounded in love; to suffer through trauma alone is unbearable. Do not assume others are reaching out, showing up, or covering all the bases.
It is a much lighter burden to say, “Thanks for your love, but please go away,” than to say, “I was hurting and no one cared for me.” If someone says they need space, respect that. Otherwise, err on the side of presence.
3. Healing is seasonal, not linear.
It is true that healing happens with time. But in the recovery wilderness, emotional healing looks less like a line and more like a wobbly figure-8. It’s perfectly common to get stuck in one stage for months, only to jump to another end entirely … only to find yourself back in the same old mud again next year.
Recovery lasts a long, long time. Expect seasons.
4. Surviving trauma takes “firefighters” and “builders.” Very few people are both.
This is a tough one. In times of crisis, we want our family, partner, or dearest friends to be everything for us. But surviving trauma requires at least two types of people: the crisis team — those friends who can drop everything and jump into the fray by your side, and the reconstruction crew — those whose calm, steady care will help nudge you out the door into regaining your footing in the world. In my experience, it is extremely rare for any individual to be both a firefighter and a builder. This is one reason why trauma is a lonely experience. Even if you share suffering with others, no one else will be able to fully walk the road with you the whole way.
A hard lesson of trauma is learning to forgive and love your partner, best friend, or family even when they fail at one of these roles. Conversely, one of the deepest joys is finding both kinds of companions beside you on the journey.
5. Grieving is social, and so is healing.
For as private a pain as trauma is, for all the healing that time and self-work will bring, we are wired for contact. Just as relationships can hurt us most deeply, it is only through relationship that we can be most fully healed.
It’s not easy to know what this looks like — can I trust casual acquaintances with my hurt? If my family is the source of trauma, can they also be the source of healing? How long until this friend walks away? Does communal prayer help or trivialize?
Seeking out shelter in one another requires tremendous courage, but it is a matter of life or paralysis. One way to start is to practice giving shelter to others.
6. Do not offer platitudes or comparisons. Do not, do not, do not.
“I’m so sorry you lost your son, we lost our dog last year … ” “At least it’s not as bad as … ” “You’ll be stronger when this is over.” “God works in all things for good!”
When a loved one is suffering, we want to comfort them. We offer assurances like the ones above when we don’t know what else to say. But from the inside, these often sting as clueless, careless, or just plain false.
Trauma is terrible. What we need in the aftermath is a friend who can swallow her own discomfort and fear, sit beside us, and just let it be terrible for a while.
7. Allow those suffering to tell their own stories.
Of course, someone who has suffered trauma may say, “This made me stronger,” or “I’m lucky it’s only (x) and not (z).” That is their prerogative. There is an enormous gulf between having someone else thrust his unsolicited or misapplied silver linings onto you, and discovering hope for one’s self. The story may ultimately sound very much like “God works in all things for good,” but there will be a galaxy of disfigurement and longing and disorientation in that confession. Give the person struggling through trauma the dignity of discovering and owning for himself where, and if, hope endures.
8. Love shows up in unexpected ways.
This is a mystifying pattern after trauma, particularly for those in broad community: some near-strangers reach out, some close friends fumble to express care. It’s natural for us to weight expressions of love differently: a Hallmark card, while unsatisfying if received from a dear friend, can be deeply touching coming from an old acquaintance.
Ultimately every gesture of love, regardless of the sender, becomes a step along the way to healing. If there are beatitudes for trauma, I’d say the first is, “Blessed are those who give love to anyone in times of hurt, regardless of how recently they’ve talked or awkwardly reconnected or visited cross-country or ignored each other on the metro.” It may not look like what you’d request or expect, but there will be days when surprise love will be the sweetest.
9. Whatever doesn’t kill you …
In 2011, after a publically humiliating year, comedian Conan O’Brien gave students at Dartmouth College the following warning:
"Nietzsche famously said, 'Whatever doesn’t kill you makes you stronger.' … What he failed to stress is that it almost kills you.”
Odd things show up after a serious loss and creep into every corner of life: insatiable anxiety in places that used to bring you joy, detachment or frustration towards your closest companions, a deep distrust of love or presence or vulnerability.
There will be days when you feel like a quivering, cowardly shell of yourself, when despair yawns as a terrible chasm, when fear paralyzes any chance for pleasure. This is just a fight that has to be won, over and over and over again.
10. … Doesn’t kill you.
Living through trauma may teach you resilience. It may help sustain you and others in times of crisis down the road. It may prompt humility. It may make for deeper seasons of joy. It may even make you stronger.
It also may not.
In the end, the hope of life after trauma is simply that you have life after trauma. The days, in their weird and varied richness, go on. So will you.
After the very sad events of this week, it is a perfect time to share. Our community is reeling over two suicide deaths at Langley HS where both Lauren and Josh went to school. We know one of the families as Timmy's older brother Peter, was a good friend of Josh's and came to our home over 4 years ago to console us. And now, tragically, we are returning the favor.
When Josh died, the friends of Tyler, Lauren and Gillian came from all over to be with them. Peter's friends are doing the same for him. And they are the same boys that came to our home in March 09 so it has been like deja vu for all of us.
Two of his friends joined me in my weekly visit to Josh's park yesterday. One asked, "what can I do to help Peter? It is hard to know what to do and what to say." I just shared what helped us and what it comes down to is very simple - just being there….through thick and thin and over the long haul….just as they have done for us and I know they will do for their suffering friend.
While writing this morning, I came across the article within the pages of my journal and have cut and pasted in it's entirety below as I could never do proper justice by paraphrasing.
Please read and pass along to others - those who have suffered unbearable loss/trauma and those who seek to help them.
A New Normal: Ten Things I've Learned About Trauma by Catherine Woodiwiss.
I wasn’t really expecting painful things to happen to me.
I knew that pain was a part of life, but — thanks in part to a peculiar blend of “God-has-a-plan” Southern roots, a suburban “Midwestern nice” upbringing, and a higher education in New England stoicism — I managed to skate by for quite some time without having to experience it.
After a handful of traumas in the last five years, things look different now. Trauma upends everything we took for granted, including things we didn’t know we took for granted. And many of these realities I wish I’d known when I first encountered them. So, while the work of life and healing continues, here are ten things I’ve learned about trauma along the way:
1. Trauma permanently changes us.
This is the big, scary truth about trauma: there is no such thing as “getting over it.” The five stages of grief model marks universal stages in learning to accept loss, but the reality is in fact much bigger: a major life disruption leaves a new normal in its wake. There is no “back to the old me.” You are different now, full stop.
This is not a wholly negative thing. Healing from trauma can also mean finding new strength and joy. The goal of healing is not a papering-over of changes in an effort to preserve or present things as normal. It is to acknowledge and wear your new life — warts, wisdom, and all — with courage.
2. Presence is always better than distance.
There is a curious illusion that in times of crisis people “need space.” I don’t know where this assumption originated, but in my experience it is almost always false. Trauma is a disfiguring, lonely time even when surrounded in love; to suffer through trauma alone is unbearable. Do not assume others are reaching out, showing up, or covering all the bases.
It is a much lighter burden to say, “Thanks for your love, but please go away,” than to say, “I was hurting and no one cared for me.” If someone says they need space, respect that. Otherwise, err on the side of presence.
3. Healing is seasonal, not linear.
It is true that healing happens with time. But in the recovery wilderness, emotional healing looks less like a line and more like a wobbly figure-8. It’s perfectly common to get stuck in one stage for months, only to jump to another end entirely … only to find yourself back in the same old mud again next year.
Recovery lasts a long, long time. Expect seasons.
4. Surviving trauma takes “firefighters” and “builders.” Very few people are both.
This is a tough one. In times of crisis, we want our family, partner, or dearest friends to be everything for us. But surviving trauma requires at least two types of people: the crisis team — those friends who can drop everything and jump into the fray by your side, and the reconstruction crew — those whose calm, steady care will help nudge you out the door into regaining your footing in the world. In my experience, it is extremely rare for any individual to be both a firefighter and a builder. This is one reason why trauma is a lonely experience. Even if you share suffering with others, no one else will be able to fully walk the road with you the whole way.
A hard lesson of trauma is learning to forgive and love your partner, best friend, or family even when they fail at one of these roles. Conversely, one of the deepest joys is finding both kinds of companions beside you on the journey.
5. Grieving is social, and so is healing.
For as private a pain as trauma is, for all the healing that time and self-work will bring, we are wired for contact. Just as relationships can hurt us most deeply, it is only through relationship that we can be most fully healed.
It’s not easy to know what this looks like — can I trust casual acquaintances with my hurt? If my family is the source of trauma, can they also be the source of healing? How long until this friend walks away? Does communal prayer help or trivialize?
Seeking out shelter in one another requires tremendous courage, but it is a matter of life or paralysis. One way to start is to practice giving shelter to others.
6. Do not offer platitudes or comparisons. Do not, do not, do not.
“I’m so sorry you lost your son, we lost our dog last year … ” “At least it’s not as bad as … ” “You’ll be stronger when this is over.” “God works in all things for good!”
When a loved one is suffering, we want to comfort them. We offer assurances like the ones above when we don’t know what else to say. But from the inside, these often sting as clueless, careless, or just plain false.
Trauma is terrible. What we need in the aftermath is a friend who can swallow her own discomfort and fear, sit beside us, and just let it be terrible for a while.
7. Allow those suffering to tell their own stories.
Of course, someone who has suffered trauma may say, “This made me stronger,” or “I’m lucky it’s only (x) and not (z).” That is their prerogative. There is an enormous gulf between having someone else thrust his unsolicited or misapplied silver linings onto you, and discovering hope for one’s self. The story may ultimately sound very much like “God works in all things for good,” but there will be a galaxy of disfigurement and longing and disorientation in that confession. Give the person struggling through trauma the dignity of discovering and owning for himself where, and if, hope endures.
8. Love shows up in unexpected ways.
This is a mystifying pattern after trauma, particularly for those in broad community: some near-strangers reach out, some close friends fumble to express care. It’s natural for us to weight expressions of love differently: a Hallmark card, while unsatisfying if received from a dear friend, can be deeply touching coming from an old acquaintance.
Ultimately every gesture of love, regardless of the sender, becomes a step along the way to healing. If there are beatitudes for trauma, I’d say the first is, “Blessed are those who give love to anyone in times of hurt, regardless of how recently they’ve talked or awkwardly reconnected or visited cross-country or ignored each other on the metro.” It may not look like what you’d request or expect, but there will be days when surprise love will be the sweetest.
9. Whatever doesn’t kill you …
In 2011, after a publically humiliating year, comedian Conan O’Brien gave students at Dartmouth College the following warning:
"Nietzsche famously said, 'Whatever doesn’t kill you makes you stronger.' … What he failed to stress is that it almost kills you.”
Odd things show up after a serious loss and creep into every corner of life: insatiable anxiety in places that used to bring you joy, detachment or frustration towards your closest companions, a deep distrust of love or presence or vulnerability.
There will be days when you feel like a quivering, cowardly shell of yourself, when despair yawns as a terrible chasm, when fear paralyzes any chance for pleasure. This is just a fight that has to be won, over and over and over again.
10. … Doesn’t kill you.
Living through trauma may teach you resilience. It may help sustain you and others in times of crisis down the road. It may prompt humility. It may make for deeper seasons of joy. It may even make you stronger.
It also may not.
In the end, the hope of life after trauma is simply that you have life after trauma. The days, in their weird and varied richness, go on. So will you.
Wednesday, September 18, 2013
4 and Half Years Later: Emerging From a Cocoon
Something inside of me is different. It feels like a small pilot light has been lit and instead of blowing out as in past months, it is stays alight.
Another image that describes this new feeling is a cocoon. Unbeknownst to me, I have been enveloped in a grief cocoon for the past four-and-a-half years, since that awful day that Josh left us. According to the dictionary, a cocoon is "something that covers and protects a person or thing." That sounds right.
I have been enveloped in a web of grief, sorrow, pain and heartache which has been reinforced with the tough fibers of guilt and regret. Mixed in this protective layering is the unresolved question of "why?"
If this image has a color, it would be grey as that is what has permeated my view 24/7. But intermittently, over the past few months, some rays of light have broken through.
Now, it feels like I am emerging from the grief cocoon and enjoying once more favorite activities such as shopping. I have recently bought new dishes. I've also gone shopping with my daughters whereby I've ended up with more new clothes than they.
I have found motivation to finally work on a scrapbook that a dear friend from college sent to me four years ago, all ready to record Josh's life in pictures. It has been sitting, patiently waiting for the time that I could cull through hundreds of photos, separate by year, to determine which would make it into this precious keepsake - without the sadness that prevented the exercise in the first place.
Another sign is the purchase of a new bedroom set, to replace an inexpensive but functional set that we bought upon our return to the U.S after living overseas - over 20 years ago.
Emerging from this grief cocoon, I feel like I've joined the living. Things that I cared about in the past are making their way into my consciousness again. It is like I've been a zombie - functioning in this world but not really a part of it. Going through the motions but not really caring. Living but with a deadened heart.
The grief is still there as evidenced by the tears as I re-read this post and type these words. But now, grief exists alongside this spark of life and together, one step-at-at-time, we will move forward together.
Another image that describes this new feeling is a cocoon. Unbeknownst to me, I have been enveloped in a grief cocoon for the past four-and-a-half years, since that awful day that Josh left us. According to the dictionary, a cocoon is "something that covers and protects a person or thing." That sounds right.
I have been enveloped in a web of grief, sorrow, pain and heartache which has been reinforced with the tough fibers of guilt and regret. Mixed in this protective layering is the unresolved question of "why?"
If this image has a color, it would be grey as that is what has permeated my view 24/7. But intermittently, over the past few months, some rays of light have broken through.
Now, it feels like I am emerging from the grief cocoon and enjoying once more favorite activities such as shopping. I have recently bought new dishes. I've also gone shopping with my daughters whereby I've ended up with more new clothes than they.
I have found motivation to finally work on a scrapbook that a dear friend from college sent to me four years ago, all ready to record Josh's life in pictures. It has been sitting, patiently waiting for the time that I could cull through hundreds of photos, separate by year, to determine which would make it into this precious keepsake - without the sadness that prevented the exercise in the first place.
Another sign is the purchase of a new bedroom set, to replace an inexpensive but functional set that we bought upon our return to the U.S after living overseas - over 20 years ago.
Emerging from this grief cocoon, I feel like I've joined the living. Things that I cared about in the past are making their way into my consciousness again. It is like I've been a zombie - functioning in this world but not really a part of it. Going through the motions but not really caring. Living but with a deadened heart.
The grief is still there as evidenced by the tears as I re-read this post and type these words. But now, grief exists alongside this spark of life and together, one step-at-at-time, we will move forward together.
Sunday, August 18, 2013
4 Years and 5 Months: Grief IV
I wrote this poem after being in the hospital due to a recent medical issue. One of the first things that happened in the emergency room was hooking me up to an IV (intravenous therapy).
Grief IV
by Sue Anderson
I am eternally hooked to an IV
a grief IV - one 'specially made
for mothers like me
whose child is gone
never to return.
No tousled hair to rub
no warm body to wake
No "hey Mom, what's for dinner?"
no parental exhortations.
Instead, an empty chair
a vacant place in photos
A weekly visit to his park
quiet and still; a peaceful resting place.
Thursday, July 18, 2013
4 Years and 4 Months: Dead But Not Dead
My grief journey has taken a very unexpected turn in terms of my reading. For the past nine months, after reading Winter of the World, an engrossing novel about World War II by Ken Follett, I have been obsessed.
Since then, I have read or listened to 25 books on WWII: biographies, memoirs, historical fiction, non-fiction and have watched the two HBO series Band of Brothers and The Pacific and as well as Hollywood's renditions of the war: War and Remembrance, Patton, Midway and Memphis Belle. I have ordered 17 more books from Amazon and have another 20 books on my wish list. I have never been interested in history, much less military history before now.
Why the fascination? And how does this relate to my grief journey, knowing that somehow it must?
I find the first question easier to answer; in fact, the following bullet points are what I wrote on the first page of my WWII study journal:
I wrote that reading drama by the four greatest tragedians (Aeschylus, Sophocles, Euripides and Shakespeare) was cathartic. I also noted that while my external life had contracted to a small circle, my internal world had expanded with the exploration of ancient Greek and Elizabethan literature.
Since then, my mind's eye has jumped centuries to the greatest drama of human history: World War II. And instead of reading about characters created from imagination, I am learning about real life heroes and heroines - about the grisly business of war and how in the midst of either witnessing or experiencing unspeakable horror, one can keep their human dignity and find the resilience and fortitude to keep going.
The cathartic affect is still a paradox: i.e how can reading about someone else's pain and suffering cause a purging, cleansing and connection to my own deep feelings?
In recent days, I have been drawn to the classic memoirs of two Marines who fought in the Pacific Theatre, Helmut for My Pillow by Robert Leckie and With the Old Breed by E. B Sledge. These brave men were featured in Tom Hanks/Steven Spielburg's HBO mini-series, The Pacific.
The title of this post comes from a quote in Leckie's book as he ruminates on a post-battle scene in Cape Gloucester on the island of New Britain.
Said another way, just because life has disappeared or no longer inhabits the flesh, it does not mean that it has been obliterated or destroyed. How this works, I do not know but I believe it.
I wrote the following in my journal:
You remain alive in our hearts.
Since then, I have read or listened to 25 books on WWII: biographies, memoirs, historical fiction, non-fiction and have watched the two HBO series Band of Brothers and The Pacific and as well as Hollywood's renditions of the war: War and Remembrance, Patton, Midway and Memphis Belle. I have ordered 17 more books from Amazon and have another 20 books on my wish list. I have never been interested in history, much less military history before now.
Why the fascination? And how does this relate to my grief journey, knowing that somehow it must?
I find the first question easier to answer; in fact, the following bullet points are what I wrote on the first page of my WWII study journal:
- This war spanned the entire globe - it was a true world-wide conflict.
- It was a two front war against Nazi Germany and Imperialist Japan.
- Transformation of the United States was unprecedented from an isolationist country to full and total commitment to war as we would only accept full and unconditional surrender of the enemy - no peace negotiations.
- Enormous sacrifice of human life.
- Countless inspiring stories of valor and courage.
- Sometimes, the outcomes of battles came down to pure luck.
- War politics personified in the larger-than-life Big Three: Roosevelt, Churchill and Stalin.
- War and larger-than-life generals: Eisenhower, MacArthur, Rommel, Montgomery.
- War and citizen soldiers: college students, farm boys, salesmen, factory workers - regular "Joes" turned soldier.
- Homefront in war - changes in the workforce primarily for women and Negroes.
- Holocaust
- Post war - the "Greatest Generation". What did they do? How did they fare?
- Post war politics: Cold War to Korean War to Vietnam War
I wrote that reading drama by the four greatest tragedians (Aeschylus, Sophocles, Euripides and Shakespeare) was cathartic. I also noted that while my external life had contracted to a small circle, my internal world had expanded with the exploration of ancient Greek and Elizabethan literature.
Since then, my mind's eye has jumped centuries to the greatest drama of human history: World War II. And instead of reading about characters created from imagination, I am learning about real life heroes and heroines - about the grisly business of war and how in the midst of either witnessing or experiencing unspeakable horror, one can keep their human dignity and find the resilience and fortitude to keep going.
The cathartic affect is still a paradox: i.e how can reading about someone else's pain and suffering cause a purging, cleansing and connection to my own deep feelings?
In recent days, I have been drawn to the classic memoirs of two Marines who fought in the Pacific Theatre, Helmut for My Pillow by Robert Leckie and With the Old Breed by E. B Sledge. These brave men were featured in Tom Hanks/Steven Spielburg's HBO mini-series, The Pacific.
The title of this post comes from a quote in Leckie's book as he ruminates on a post-battle scene in Cape Gloucester on the island of New Britain.
I stood among the heaps of dead. They lay crumpled, useless, defunct. The vital force was fled. A bullet or a mortar fragment had torn a hole in these frail vessels and the substance had leaked out. The mystery of the universe had once inhabited these lolling lumps, had given each an identity, a way of walking, perhaps a special habit of address or a way with words or a knack of putting color on canvas. They had been so different, then. Now they were nothing, heaps of nothing. Can a bullet or a mortar fragment do this? Does this force, this mystery, I mean this soul - does this spill out on the ground along with the blood? No. It is somewhere, I know it. For this red-and-yellow lump I look down upon this instant was once a man, and the thing that energized him, the Word that gave "to airy nothing a local habitation and a name," the Word from a higher Word - this cannot have been obliterated by a quarter-inch of heated metal. The mystery of the universe has departed him, and it is no good to say that the riddle is solved, the mystery is over - because it has changed residences. The thing that shaped the flare of that nostril, that broadened that arm now bleeding, that wrought so fine that limply lying hand - that thing exists still, and has still the power to flare that nostril, to bend that arm, to clench that fist exactly as it did before.
Because it is gone you cannot say it will not return; even though you may say it has never yet returned - you cannot say that it will not. It is blasphemy to say a bit of metal has destroyed life, just as it is presumptuous to say that because life has disappeared it has been destroyed. I stood among the heaps of the dead and I knew - no, I felt that death is only a sound we make to signify the Thing we do not know.This is a profound thought written by one who, after looking at the dead; no, really, deeply looking at them, contemplates what has occurred and after deep reflection, is convinced that a piece of metal cannot destroy the "mystery of the universe" that resides within our earthly vessels, nor can a plain, brown extension cord.
Said another way, just because life has disappeared or no longer inhabits the flesh, it does not mean that it has been obliterated or destroyed. How this works, I do not know but I believe it.
I wrote the following in my journal:
Death is not the end but rather the beginning of another beginning.
or
Death is not the end but the transition to another form of living.And perhaps the living bears some responsibility for as long as our loved ones are remembered, they stay alive. I underlined this passage from Doris Kearns Goodwin's Pulitzer Prize winning book, No Ordinary Time: Franklin and Eleanor Roosevelt: The Home Front in World War II. This little verse, given to Eleanor by a friend after FDR's sudden death, encouraged her to "make the rest of her life worthy of her husband's memory. As long as she continued to fight for his ideals, he would continue to live."
"They are not dead who live in lives they leave behind. In those whom they have blessed they live a life again."RIP Josh.
You remain alive in our hearts.
Thursday, June 13, 2013
My Fibonacci Poems: Gone and Negative Space
Reading and writing poetry is a small but significant part of my Grief Journey. Poems, via careful choice of words, can house deep, profound thoughts and feelings within a relatively short amount of space. Since I am not a verbose person nor a prolific writer, this form has suited me - see post of my fledgling attempts.
I have been reading through the posts on last month's National Poetry Month Blog Tour, hosted by Savvy Verse & Wit and came across this post on Fibonacci poems by Tabatha Yeatts.
In 2006, Gregory K came up with the idea to marry the mathematical Fibonacci sequence and poetry. "The Fib" is a "six line, 20 syllable poem with a syllable count by line of 1/1/2/3/5/8 – the classic Fibonacci sequence."- see his original post.
My first attempts at the Fib:
Gone
Life
Death
He's gone
by his hand.
Sun and moon have stopped;
irrevocably changed - damn Death!
Negative Space
Blank
Void
Empty
Negative
space in my red heart,
un-fillable except by him.
I have been reading through the posts on last month's National Poetry Month Blog Tour, hosted by Savvy Verse & Wit and came across this post on Fibonacci poems by Tabatha Yeatts.
In 2006, Gregory K came up with the idea to marry the mathematical Fibonacci sequence and poetry. "The Fib" is a "six line, 20 syllable poem with a syllable count by line of 1/1/2/3/5/8 – the classic Fibonacci sequence."- see his original post.
My first attempts at the Fib:
Gone
Life
Death
He's gone
by his hand.
Sun and moon have stopped;
irrevocably changed - damn Death!
Negative Space
Blank
Void
Empty
Negative
space in my red heart,
un-fillable except by him.
Saturday, May 18, 2013
4 Years and 2 Months - Chronos vs. Kairos Time
My 5th Mother's Day, sans Josh, has passed. I didn't expect to feel sad the day before but sure enough, on the way to teach my morning cycle class, I started thinking about Josh and next thing I knew, big fat tears were rolling down my cheeks. I only had a few stoplights to get myself together and in the right frame of mind to lead an energetic workout.
Grief is like that sometimes: a spigot that suddenly turns on and with much effort, can be turned off.
I have been thinking a lot about the concept of time after reading a profound passage in Styron's haunting novel, Sophie's Choice where the protagonist Stingo quotes George Steiner, an essayist who wrote about the Holocaust and more specifically, about the disconnect between the horrors faced in German concentration camps and normal life experienced by millions of others, within the same timeframe - see link for actual essay.
I felt this disassociation the split second my eyes saw death and my heart, soul and psyche comprehended our new reality. I began living in two genres of time. In my world, the sun stopped, echoing my zombie-like feelings and exemplified the un-natural state of life. Externally, the sun and moon exchanged places, as per usual. This is what is hard - the "as per usual" piece. It was incomprehensible that everything continued as normal: neighbors still walked their dogs, kids got on the school bus, people went to work, shopping, to the gym. How can you act as if nothing has happened? I wanted to shout.
In doing some research, I found this helpful article: How Long is This Grieving Going to Last? by Elizabeth Harper Neeld on Legacy.com. In it she talks about two kinds of time:
Chronos time- chronological time. "Measured by a calendar. Chronos time is counted in days, weeks, months, years. Chronos time describes a continuum of past, present, and future."
Kairos time - "the time within which personal life moves forward. Kairos is an ordered but unmeasured kind of time outside of space-time."
She says that the integration of our grief takes place in kairos time, not chronos time so that "the mere passing of days and weeks and months and years does not within itself bring integration of our loss." Furthermore Neeld postulates that this kairos time is longer than what non-grievers will think.
So true! This thinking is exposed with unhelpful comments such as "It's been a year - you should be feeling better by now" or "give it a few months and you will feel better."
Another google search brought up this blog post, The One Greek Word You Ought to Know by J.R.Briggs. These quotes bring more clarity to these Greek descriptions of time:
I will end this post with Neeld's thought-provoking questions and uplifting conclusion:
Grief is like that sometimes: a spigot that suddenly turns on and with much effort, can be turned off.
I have been thinking a lot about the concept of time after reading a profound passage in Styron's haunting novel, Sophie's Choice where the protagonist Stingo quotes George Steiner, an essayist who wrote about the Holocaust and more specifically, about the disconnect between the horrors faced in German concentration camps and normal life experienced by millions of others, within the same timeframe - see link for actual essay.
Precisely at the same hour in which Mehring and Langner were being done to death, the overwhelming plurality of human beings, two miles away on the Polish farms, five thousand miles away in New York, were sleeping or eating or going to a film or making love or worrying about the dentist. This is where my imagination balks. The two orders of simultaneous experience are so different, so irreconcilable to any common norm of human values, their coexistence is so hideous a paradox, Treblinka is both because some men have built it and almost all other men let it be - that I puzzle over time. Are there, as science fiction and Gnostic speculation imply, different species of time in the same world, 'good time' and enveloping folds of inhuman time in which men fall into the slow hands of the living damnation?In the margins I wrote: Different species of time in the same world? Yes! Grief time vs. normal time.
I felt this disassociation the split second my eyes saw death and my heart, soul and psyche comprehended our new reality. I began living in two genres of time. In my world, the sun stopped, echoing my zombie-like feelings and exemplified the un-natural state of life. Externally, the sun and moon exchanged places, as per usual. This is what is hard - the "as per usual" piece. It was incomprehensible that everything continued as normal: neighbors still walked their dogs, kids got on the school bus, people went to work, shopping, to the gym. How can you act as if nothing has happened? I wanted to shout.
In doing some research, I found this helpful article: How Long is This Grieving Going to Last? by Elizabeth Harper Neeld on Legacy.com. In it she talks about two kinds of time:
Chronos time- chronological time. "Measured by a calendar. Chronos time is counted in days, weeks, months, years. Chronos time describes a continuum of past, present, and future."
Kairos time - "the time within which personal life moves forward. Kairos is an ordered but unmeasured kind of time outside of space-time."
She says that the integration of our grief takes place in kairos time, not chronos time so that "the mere passing of days and weeks and months and years does not within itself bring integration of our loss." Furthermore Neeld postulates that this kairos time is longer than what non-grievers will think.
So true! This thinking is exposed with unhelpful comments such as "It's been a year - you should be feeling better by now" or "give it a few months and you will feel better."
Another google search brought up this blog post, The One Greek Word You Ought to Know by J.R.Briggs. These quotes bring more clarity to these Greek descriptions of time:
Chronos is quantitative minutes. Kairos is qualitative moments.
Kairos is pregnant time, the time of possibility – moments in our day, our week, our month, our year or our lifetime that define us. It is a crossroads. It has the ripe opportunity to make you bitter or better. It is a teachable moment. It is the right or opportune moment. They are rarely neutral and always leave an impact on us.and:
Kairos moments are a string of moments that possess possibility – clarity brought on often by pain, uncertainty or crisis. They force us to be absolutely present: to ourselves, to God and to the experience of reality that we’re facing.and the bottom line:
As human beings, all of our growth happens in kairos moments.
Personal reflections from my journal:
Chronos time: Four years and two months.
Kairos time: this is what my journal and this blog have chronicled. Or better said, this blog, my reading blog, my journal are all critical to my kairos time - tools to help me integrate my loss. Chronos time just marks points of kairos time, like mileposts on a road - a very long road - a lifetime road, what I have called My Grief Journey.
Intuitively, I know this journey is not bound by physical time (chronos) but is internal, personal, subjective. There will be epiphanies, setbacks, ruts, obstacles, wrong turns, U-turns, hairpin turns, bumps, potholes, hills, valleys and maybe mountain tops.
Chronos time: Four years and two months.
Kairos time: this is what my journal and this blog have chronicled. Or better said, this blog, my reading blog, my journal are all critical to my kairos time - tools to help me integrate my loss. Chronos time just marks points of kairos time, like mileposts on a road - a very long road - a lifetime road, what I have called My Grief Journey.
Intuitively, I know this journey is not bound by physical time (chronos) but is internal, personal, subjective. There will be epiphanies, setbacks, ruts, obstacles, wrong turns, U-turns, hairpin turns, bumps, potholes, hills, valleys and maybe mountain tops.
I will end this post with Neeld's thought-provoking questions and uplifting conclusion:
"What insights have I had? What have I realized? What meaning am I making of this terrible loss?"
The good news is that healthy grieving does result, at the time right for each of us, an experience of integration. We take stock and say: I am changed by our loss, and I have changed my live as a result of my loss. And we are not shriveled permanently like a dry stick because of our loss. We can feel alive again…probably wiser, maybe quieter, certainly full of gratitude and a desire to contribute from what we have been through.
And all in good time. All in good kairos time.
Sunday, April 28, 2013
Guilt and Regret - April 28, 2013
This is an example of how reading good literature makes me face difficult thoughts and feelings that might otherwise be unexplored.
I have been slowly making my way through Sophie's Choice by William Styron. Slowly because of the number of new words to look up, define and write in my personal lexicon and also, to savor the gorgeous prose, just like one would deliberately slow down to enjoy a delicious dessert.
Sophie, the hauntingly beautiful protagonist is consumed by guilt. The writer-narrator Stingo is witness and describes it as:
Combining these two ideas made me think of how I would personify my feelings, namely Guilt and Regret. This is what I wrote in my journal:
Guilt and Regret - like two peas in a pod; siamese twins, joined at the hip. When one shows up, the other comes by default. I wonder if there will be any point in my grief journey when Guilt will part for good, taking up residence with another poor soul; when I will be able to say clearly and soberly that I did all that I knew to do, that Josh did this to himself and therefore, I am not at fault? I wonder.
There are moments now when these absolving thoughts float through my head but always, either softly in the background, or loudly in my ears, Guilt says, "No! You should've known, seeing it coming, been on your guard, questioned him, talked to him......prevented his death."
Then Regret chimes in with her soliloquy which repeats like a broken record, unable to get out of the verbal rut: "what if...if only... would've....could've...should've..."
I endure their mental flogging as just punishment for not being a good mother, for although I tried to be, I was not attentive enough, not what he needed me to be and now my Josh is dead - ergo, my fault.
I've come to accept Guilt and Regret's tenacious hold for it is the price of motherhood. Moms protect. Moms guard. Moms are willing to die in order to save their children. Moms are not supposed to outlive their precious offspring. Good moms do not have a child who takes their own life.
So deep down, I believe Guilt and Regret words:
I should've been different.
I should've been better.
I should've seen something - a sign - even when no one else did.
I should've known and so been able to prevent his death.
And what it really comes down to is this most painful thought:
If Josh had a different mom, maybe he would be alive.
I have been slowly making my way through Sophie's Choice by William Styron. Slowly because of the number of new words to look up, define and write in my personal lexicon and also, to savor the gorgeous prose, just like one would deliberately slow down to enjoy a delicious dessert.
Sophie, the hauntingly beautiful protagonist is consumed by guilt. The writer-narrator Stingo is witness and describes it as:
Guilt. Hateful guilt. Guilt, corrosive as brine. Like typhoid, one can harbor for a lifetime the toxin of guilt.In another part, Stingo personifies his lust in a way that puts the reader in the body of a virile twenty-two year old male virgin, completely obsessed with sex.
Combining these two ideas made me think of how I would personify my feelings, namely Guilt and Regret. This is what I wrote in my journal:
Guilt and Regret - like two peas in a pod; siamese twins, joined at the hip. When one shows up, the other comes by default. I wonder if there will be any point in my grief journey when Guilt will part for good, taking up residence with another poor soul; when I will be able to say clearly and soberly that I did all that I knew to do, that Josh did this to himself and therefore, I am not at fault? I wonder.
There are moments now when these absolving thoughts float through my head but always, either softly in the background, or loudly in my ears, Guilt says, "No! You should've known, seeing it coming, been on your guard, questioned him, talked to him......prevented his death."
Then Regret chimes in with her soliloquy which repeats like a broken record, unable to get out of the verbal rut: "what if...if only... would've....could've...should've..."
I endure their mental flogging as just punishment for not being a good mother, for although I tried to be, I was not attentive enough, not what he needed me to be and now my Josh is dead - ergo, my fault.
I've come to accept Guilt and Regret's tenacious hold for it is the price of motherhood. Moms protect. Moms guard. Moms are willing to die in order to save their children. Moms are not supposed to outlive their precious offspring. Good moms do not have a child who takes their own life.
So deep down, I believe Guilt and Regret words:
I should've been different.
I should've been better.
I should've seen something - a sign - even when no one else did.
I should've known and so been able to prevent his death.
And what it really comes down to is this most painful thought:
If Josh had a different mom, maybe he would be alive.
Thursday, April 18, 2013
4 Years and 1 Month later - April 18, 2013
Josh has been top-of-mind lately as it is a big week for the Josh Anderson Foundation (JAF). We have brought suicide awareness speaker Jordan Burnham back to Northern Virginia to speak to middle schoolers, high schoolers and parents about his depression, suicide attempt, and how he found ways to cope after his miraculous survival. Check out ESPN's E:60 Special to learn more about his story.
He spoke to the entire student body of three schools: Lake Braddock Middle School, Lake Braddock High School and W.T Woodson High School - about 6,000 students.
We held parent sessions the night before he spoke to the students and roughly a hundred parents came out. I wish there were more. I attended these sessions and at both, during the Q&A, parents asked him, "In retrospect, what could've stopped you from going out your 9-bedroom story window?"
Of course, my ears perked up as this is the question I ask myself over and over about Josh: What could've helped him?
His answer reinforces JAF's mission. Jordan simply said that he needed to hear a speaker like himself: someone young, who talks confidently and unashamedly about his struggles with depression, suicidal thoughts, time in a mental hospital, skepticism about therapy, medication non-compliance and alcohol abuse while in high school. That he needed to be educated about mental health issues and know that it was not only okay but it was actually courageous to be open and seek help.
As I sat listening to his story, I couldn't agree more. Teens need to hear from people they perceive as cool - someone they would like to emulate. Lectures from adults go in one ear and out the other whereas a powerful, honest story like Jordan's will impact and inspire them. As he told parents, his main goal was to give kids permission to own up to their emotions/feelings and to do whatever they can to get better. I believe Josh would've been impacted by listening to such direct and unafraid talk about mental health.
One of the schools had two suicides this school year. My heart dropped when I heard this.
The counseling staff at the other school said that kids were coming to see them because of Jordan's story. GOOD!
Jordan's parents are lucky that their son miraculously cheated death. I wish that were us. But at least we can do something so that Josh's death is not in vain. We can work to save other teens, by providing hope and education so that they will NEVER turn to suicide.
But as rewarding as all of this is, it does not take away the deep. bottomless sadness that overwhelms me - even four years later. I have finally gone through Josh's desk and closet and have found strands of his hair which I keep in his wallet along with driver's license and AAA card. This is next to my computer along with his passport, issued in August 2007. The pages are empty as he never had the chance to go abroad.
The loss feels very raw right now, like when a deep wound reopens. But this is what grief does; it ebbs and flows, recedes and advances, diminishes and lengthens, very much like the waves of the sea. Today, after Lauren had spoken at a Safe Community Coalition breakfast about the work that JAF is doing, she was approached by an administrator at Josh's school, who said that despite dying in their sophomore year, his friends took him with them throughout the rest of their high schools days - all the way through graduation. Hearing this is bitter-sweet; it helps me to know how much he was loved but is tough to contemplate once again, the negative space of his passing.
RIP beloved son. We are keeping your memory alive while working to save others.
He spoke to the entire student body of three schools: Lake Braddock Middle School, Lake Braddock High School and W.T Woodson High School - about 6,000 students.
We held parent sessions the night before he spoke to the students and roughly a hundred parents came out. I wish there were more. I attended these sessions and at both, during the Q&A, parents asked him, "In retrospect, what could've stopped you from going out your 9-bedroom story window?"
Of course, my ears perked up as this is the question I ask myself over and over about Josh: What could've helped him?
His answer reinforces JAF's mission. Jordan simply said that he needed to hear a speaker like himself: someone young, who talks confidently and unashamedly about his struggles with depression, suicidal thoughts, time in a mental hospital, skepticism about therapy, medication non-compliance and alcohol abuse while in high school. That he needed to be educated about mental health issues and know that it was not only okay but it was actually courageous to be open and seek help.
As I sat listening to his story, I couldn't agree more. Teens need to hear from people they perceive as cool - someone they would like to emulate. Lectures from adults go in one ear and out the other whereas a powerful, honest story like Jordan's will impact and inspire them. As he told parents, his main goal was to give kids permission to own up to their emotions/feelings and to do whatever they can to get better. I believe Josh would've been impacted by listening to such direct and unafraid talk about mental health.
One of the schools had two suicides this school year. My heart dropped when I heard this.
The counseling staff at the other school said that kids were coming to see them because of Jordan's story. GOOD!
At Lake Braddock High School gym
Speaking with students afterwards
Middle school students line up to speak to him
W.T. Woodson auditorium - two sessions allowed him to speak to the entire student body
Jordan's parents are lucky that their son miraculously cheated death. I wish that were us. But at least we can do something so that Josh's death is not in vain. We can work to save other teens, by providing hope and education so that they will NEVER turn to suicide.
But as rewarding as all of this is, it does not take away the deep. bottomless sadness that overwhelms me - even four years later. I have finally gone through Josh's desk and closet and have found strands of his hair which I keep in his wallet along with driver's license and AAA card. This is next to my computer along with his passport, issued in August 2007. The pages are empty as he never had the chance to go abroad.
The loss feels very raw right now, like when a deep wound reopens. But this is what grief does; it ebbs and flows, recedes and advances, diminishes and lengthens, very much like the waves of the sea. Today, after Lauren had spoken at a Safe Community Coalition breakfast about the work that JAF is doing, she was approached by an administrator at Josh's school, who said that despite dying in their sophomore year, his friends took him with them throughout the rest of their high schools days - all the way through graduation. Hearing this is bitter-sweet; it helps me to know how much he was loved but is tough to contemplate once again, the negative space of his passing.
RIP beloved son. We are keeping your memory alive while working to save others.
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