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:

• 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

And found the blog: A Poem for Every Day in which the blogger provides thoughtful and personal commentary on favorite poems.

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.

June 18, 2014 - Five Years and 3 Months Later

Since Josh's death, I've become an avid journaler.  An important part of my self-care is to have a place (my journal) to absorb my feelings - from the mundane to the intense.  These emotions are like colors which range the gamut from subtle, muted and ever-present grey, which to me is the color of grief, to bold, neon, in-your-face and overwhelming.

Sometimes, it helps to have an open-ended question to start a journal entry such as this recent one: Where am I on this grief journey?   I wanted to share the answer on this post.

Well, I am here, meaning still alive.  Tim and I are still together which is worth noting as my suicide survivor books say that a higher than average percent of marriages do not survive the death of a child.   Pictures of Josh still fill our home.  I have no desire to move as memories of various events in our home (except for that awful day) are not painful.  The dogwood sapling planted in his memory in our front yard is growing - strong and healthy.

I think about Josh every day.  It is strange how the deceased occupies the mind more than the living.  I would like to think his soul, or essence or energy survived death and is on the "other side," not bound by space and time.  I hope he is at peace - no longer suffering, although my life-after-death themed books tell that unresolved issues follow our loved ones- i.e. suicide will not make them disappear.

If his actions have resulted in a karmic debt, perhaps we are helping to repay through the good work done in his name (The Josh Anderson Foundation).

This grief journey is greatly influenced by my reading and in more recent months, by Josh as I believe he led me to this book last December:  My Son and the Afterlife: Conversations From the Otherside by Elisa Medhus, MD.  And books beget books as evidenced by what I've read since the beginning of the year (see reading blog for my thoughts on these books):

• Many Lives, Many Masters: The True Story of a Prominent Psychiatrist, His Young Patient and the Past-Life Therapy That Changed Both Their Lives by Brian Weiss, MD
• Life After Life by Kate Atkinson
• Bridges to Heaven: True Stories of Loved Ones on the Other Side by Sue Frederick
• On Life After Death by Elisabeth Kubler-Ross
• Life After Death: The Burden of Proof by Deepak Chopra
• The Seven Spiritual Laws of Success by Deepak Chopra
• Reinventing the Body, Resurrecting the Soul by Deepak Chopra
• Life After Life: The 25th Anniversary of the Classic Bestseller by Raymond Moody, MD
• Kripalu Yoga: A Guide to Practice On and Off the Mat by Richard Faulds
• The Untethered Soul: The Journey Beyond Yourself by Michael Singer
• Warrior Pose: How Yoga (Literally) Saved My Life by Brad Willis aka Bhava Ram
• Power of the Soul: Inside Wisdom for an Outside World by John Holland

Upon reflection, my daughter Lauren, has also shaped this journey.  Since Josh's death, she has been diagnosed with PTSD (post traumatic stress disorder) which manifests itself as anxiety and depression.  Thankfully, she is very open about her struggles and actively pursues healing and recovery.  She has found excellent therapists and convinced of its benefits to mind and body, has become a yoga practitioner and teacher.   She has encouraged me to attend classes at a nearby yoga studio and has wanted me to join her at Tara Brach's weekly meditation classes in Bethesda, MD.

At first, I was skeptical and reluctant but am now a full-blown believer.  I suppose it started when I accompanied her to the Kripalu Center for Yoga and Health in April where we attended the Yoga In Schools Symposium.  To be in the midst of so many like-minded people dedicated to this ancient healing practice and wanting to bring it into schools to benefit our youth was inspiring.   There is a palatable aura and energy within that place that seeped into my being and has remained ever since.

Because of these influences, my grief journey has turned a significant corner.

• I take 2 -3 yoga classes a week. On the other days, I practice yoga/meditation on my own.  
• I've taken a meditation class that met once a week for 8 weeks
• I've signed up for a 200 hour yoga teacher training to begin in the fall
• I am much more aware of my breathing during the day.  Taking deeper inhales and exhales, I can't believe how much this small change has helped manage stress during a busy work day. 
• When I wake up in the middle of the night worrying about something, I now know these thoughts are just electrical impulses, nothing more.  With practice, I can release and watch them evaporate like a puff of smoke dissipating in the air and then go back to sleep. 

In retrospect, I see clearly how clueless I was "pre-Josh"….in my own world, detached from the pure consciousness (soul) within.   (And this is despite many years of involvement in a fundamental Christian church which is a whole other story for another time or another blog).  Then after his death, I was consumed with grief, sorrow, pain and guilt, covering my mind, heart and soul like a blanket of fog - thick, dense, grey, impenetrable.

But over the past several months, the fog has slowly lifted.  Because of my reading and daily yoga/meditation practice, I feel awakened and enlightened, knowing I've just started on a lifelong journey of spiritual discovery and experience.

So now I ponder this question:  If Josh had not died, would I be on this path?

Probably not and this is sad to me.   Why did it have to take such a profoundly tragic event to wake me up?  To get my attention?  To make me into a seeker of timeless spiritual truths?  To open my mind to the fact there is much more than this physical world?  

Letter to Grief - Almost 4 years later

Time relentlessly marches me closer to the four-year death anniversary on March 18th and I am powerless to stop him.  The house is quiet; I am alone.  I understand Paloma when she says "that silence helps you go inward" (in The Elegance of a Hedgehog, a recently read favorite book).   I need this silence to try and understand how I feel.  To help, I wrote a letter to Grief in my journal - read this post to see how I picture her.

Dear Grief,
You came into my life suddenly, without warning almost four years ago. I had not known you before, having never lost someone close to me.  And not just someone, but my own child whom I nourished in my womb and bore into this world over 21 years ago; who now lies frozen in time as a 17-year old man-boy; who, for reasons still unknown to me, decided to leave this world: no, how I really feel is that he decided to leave me.  I know I shouldn't take it personally (that he was not thinking of me that fateful night but of his own pain and suffering and the best way to end it), but as his mother, I can't help but take it personally.

And wonder yet again what I did wrong, or perhaps better said, what I didn't do.  For I plead "guilty" to the charge: sin of omission.  I torture myself thinking I should've done this or that; I should've said this or that.  But of course, it is too late and nothing I think, say or do will bring him back.  Death is permanent.  Irreversible.  Irrevocable.

Which is why you are still here and will continue to be until the day that I am reunited with Josh.  I am curious about one thing: when the inevitable happens and my elderly parents pass away, will a different version of you come or will more of you pile onto the current you?

If I am to guess, I would say that the part of you associated with Josh's death will be distinct and separate, perhaps only added to - heaven forbid! - if something happens to one of my other three children.  If that were to occur, I think you would become so enormous - a monstrosity - that I would crumble and break under the sheer weight: I could not survive.

For now, I acknowledge your presence without fear, flight or fight.  I do not fear you as I've learned that you are a measure of my love: love much, grieve much.  I know I cannot flee you for you reside within, so wherever I go, there you will be.  And fighting you is useless as your strength far exceeds my own.

I guess the question most on my mind is this: "What next?  Where will you be taking me on the 5th year of our journey?"

The Grief of Achilles in The Iliad

I have recently read The Iliad by Homer and was struck by Achilles' reaction upon hearing the news of his best friend's death in battle.

...the black cloud of sorrow closed on Achilles.  In both hands he caught up the grimy dust, and poured it over his head and face, and fouled his handsome countenance, and the black ashes were scattered over his immortal tunic.  And he himself, mightily in his might, in the dust lay at length, and took and tore at his hair with his hands and defiled it......Antilochos mourned with him, letting the tears fall, and held the hands of Achilles as he grieved in his proud heart, fearing Achilles might cut his throat with the iron...(Book 18: 22-34).

Many journal writing books espouse an exercise called "free-write" whereby for a certain length of time, you write whatever comes to mind.  The pen does not lift from the paper and you do not stop.  Even if it means writing the same word over and over until another thought or image flows from mind to pen to paper.  I decided to devote a couple of 15 minute sessions to this quote.  In focusing on the first sentence, this is a portion of what I wrote in my journal:

When Achilles heard about Patroklos' death, his reaction was both emotional "black cloud of sorrow" and physical.  This black cloud - not grey, not cream, not white as clouds usually are, but black, dark, ebony, rich and deep - this cloud closed on Achilles.  Enveloped him.  He was in a fog of sorrow - for that is what fog is - a cloud resting on the earth's surface which can become so thick, one cannot see.  If driving, one must pull over.  If flying, the plane is grounded.  A fog will render you senseless - cannot see, hearing is muted.  All sense of direction lost; landmarks are invisible.  The world is alienating, distorted and frightening.  In a fog I feel insecure and vulnerable like someone or something can come out to grab me.   To be in a 'black cloud of sorrow' - nothing will look or feel the same.  Everything is felt, seen, tasted, heard through the fog.  Like lens on a glass - everything will look black.  Feel black.  There is a black veil or sheath covering everything.  Living, sleeping and breathing in the black cloud of sorrow so that it is internal - no longer out of the body but within.

The next day I wrote this:

When Achilles heard about Patroklos' death and was enveloped in the black fog of grief, sorrow, pain and woe, he had a physical reaction.  An outward sign of inward pain.  He bent down and grabbed dirt, dust, Earth and poured it over his head - a self baptism - rubbing it all over his face.  Priam, King of Troy did something similar when he heard of his son Hektor's death - he took dung and smeared it on his head and neck.   Both fouled themselves saying my beloved is dead; I do not care about outward things any longer.  Why dirt? Why dung?  What would be the equivalent today?  Maybe someone who is so depressed they do not shave or shower, put on make-up, deodorant or perfume.  They wear the same thing, day after day.  Who cares what you look like or wear in the 'black cloud of sorrow'?  Achilles then drops to the ground, this mighty warrior whom no man could stand against, lays prostrate on the dirt in agony and grief.  Then, in an effort to feel real, searing, physical pain, he takes tufts of hair in his hands and yanks them out.  

Writing all this made me think of our reactions on that dreaded day.  And specifically how one of our daughters, whom Tim could not contact as she was in class - oblivious and naive to the tragedy that would change her life, listening to the lecture, taking notes and answering questions posed by the professor - when she heard the news from two best friends who were waiting outside the door, she collapsed and become almost catatonic.   Her friends somehow got her back to her room where she just sat on the bed while they packed her bag.  UVA is a good two hours away and thankfully, these two friends (angels) drove our girls home.  There is no way they could've driven themselves.

Feeling faint, knees buckling, doubling over, collapsing, sobbing, gasping, screaming, throwing up, punching walls, breaking things, or just going numb and still - all are physical reactions to the sudden news of a beloved's death.  Instantaneous and uncontrollable - each body will react differently as the mind absorbs the unthinkable and unimaginable.

I will end with this quote from The Iliad, ancient literature written centuries before Christ, of another vow from the living to the dead.   Achilles says of Patroklos:

I will never forget him, never so long as I remain among the living and my knees have their spring beneath me.  And though the dead forget the dead in the house of Hades, even there I shall still remember my beloved companion (Book 22: 387 - 390). 

I could say the same of Josh.  RIP beloved son - you are still remembered and will be as long as I have breathe in my body and even afterwards.....

Death, Grief and Suicide in Hamlet - Part I

There is so much in Hamlet that resonates with me.  I have read through it twice; once on my own (using the No Fear Shakespeare version, which has the original play on the left side of the page and a modern translation on the right) and another while watching Kenneth Branagh's 4 hour movie adaptation.  I have written out long sections in my journal and pondered the relevance.   If you have never read Hamlet, I would encourage you to do so.

Hamlet is prince of Denmark. His father has been dead two months and to his chagrin, his mother Queen Gertrude, has married his father's brother, Claudius.  Hamlet's grief and despair knows no bounds as he witnesses this wedding on the heels of his father's funeral.  As a result of his melancholic disposition, he suffers a rebuke from the new King.

But to persever in obstinate condolement is a course
Of impious stubbornness.  'Tis unmanly grief.
It shows a will more incorrect to heaven,
A heart unfortified, a mind impatient,
An understanding simple and unschooled (I, II, 92-97)

Basically Claudius is saying, "stop grieving and move on."  And that it is "unmanly" to be so despondent.  "How dare Claudius judge Hamlet's grief", my reading voice retorts.

When Hamlet is alone, we see the depths of his despair, wishing that suicide was not an act against God.  I don't like reading this but understand that for centuries, the church taught that suicide was an unpardonable sin.  We will see this again with the gravedigger's and priest's response to Ophelia's death.

Oh, that this too, too sullied flesh would melt,
Thaw, and resolve itself into a dew,
Or that the Everlasting had not fixed
His canon 'gainst self-slaughter!  O God, God!
How weary, stale, flat and unprofitable
Seem to me all the uses of this world! (I, II, 129-134)

At the end of Act I, the ghost of Hamlet's father reveals to Hamlet that he has been murdered by Claudius.  He wants his son to exact revenge for the loss of his life, wife and crown.  In parting, he voices what all the dead would say:  "Adieu, adieu, adieu.  Remember me."  I love Hamlet's response - his commitment to remembering his father.

Remember thee!
Ay, thou poor ghost, whiles memory holds a seat
In this distracted globe.  Remember thee!
Yea, from the table of my memory
I'll wipe away all trivial fond records,
All saws of books, all forms, all pressures past
That youth and observation copied there,
And thy commandment all alone shall live
Within the book and volume of my brain,
Unmixed with baser matter (I, V, 95-104).

"Remembering Josh" is the title of this blog - for a reason.  "Running to Remember Josh" was printed on the backs of this year's marathon/half-marathon shirts purposefully.  Is it too exaggerated to say that one of my life's ambition and goal is to remember my beloved son?  No, I don't think so.  It feels like a solemn, honorable duty - one that I could never tire of.  It is why his pictures are still all over the house, why I have a tattoo of his name, in his handwriting on my arm, why I visit his gravesite every week and write a letter to him, why I sometimes wear his clothes.

As long as Josh is remembered, he stays alive.

3-18-2012 - Three Years Later

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"After a Funeral" by Diana Athill

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Haunting words.

Poem - "No Answer"

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

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

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

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

No Answer

by Sue Anderson

1/29/2012

No answer,

   Voice silent.

No response, 

   Mind gone.

No sight, 

   Eyes unblinking.

No movement,

   Body stiff.

No breath,

   Chest still.

No beat, 

   Extremities blue.

No life,

   Hope abandoned.

Why?  I screamed,

   No answer.

Life, Death and Phone Calls

We received happy news in the family - a new baby!   My sister-in-law had gone into labor and without knowing what happened, I went to bed.  When I woke up, I grabbed the phone and called my mom.  You know times are different when your 75-year-old mother's first response was "Oh, didn't you see the email?"  Then, "she had a healthy baby girl!"

My journal entry later that morning:

Pre-technology revolution, pre-email, it would've been phone calls to family members.  We had our list of people to call after each of our kids were born - strange - just remembered it is the same list of who to call when someone dies.  At birth and at death - the first people you call are immediate family.

I had to call Tim - after I found Josh.  Poor guy - he was on the Beltway and had to drive home after hearing the news.  After the worse was confimed, we had to call our children.  Tim did that.  What do you say?  How do you tell your children that one of their siblings is no longer alive?  I don't know.  I am glad that I did not have to make those calls.

I did call my mom and practically screamed the news to her - "JOSH IS DEAD...HE KILLED HIMSELF."  I let her tell my brother and sister, I think.  I then had to call my boss and tell him why I couldn't go to a client meeting that day and why I wouldn't be back to work for an undetermined time.  Being a father himself, he was full of compassion.

Within several short hours of these calls, our family began rallying around us.  And now, over two years later, we have a new baby in the family whom we will surround with love and support.

This is what happens in my journal.  I begin writing about one thing and then my thoughts flow to memories that still reside close to the surface.  Tears flowed freely as I recalled that horrible day and the phone calls made.

RIP Josh.  I wish you were hear to see your new baby cousin.  You are forever loved and missed.

Thoughts from "A Widow's Story" by Joyce Carol Oats

I read this moving memoir in May and wrote a post soon afterwards with the intent of writing more.  I journaled extensively while reading so have my "notes" from which to write a post - which I've attempted numerous times.  Why so hard to get started?  As I sit and ponder this question, no answer comes to mind, only possibilities.

Maybe it is because I only have a set amount of emotional energy and since reading the book, I have taken a job at another company and have been supporting my parents through my dad's recent health issue (two surgeries to address a leg aneurism).  And while I like my new job and my dad's recovery is going well, both situations have been prolonged and stressful.

Or maybe this task, for some unexplicable reason was one that I could not do at the time I tried. When this happens, I've learned the important lesson of being "kind to myself".  The last thing this grieving mother needs is additional undue pressure.

Another example where I've not pushed myself is with regard to Josh's room, more specifically his desk and closet.  My self-prescribed task is to go through his things meticulously, with a fine-toothed comb, looking for clues.  You'd think this would be one of the "must do" tasks, completed well within the first year of death.  Maybe for another mother, but not for me.  And I cannot explain why, only that I can't.  It is not time, even though almost 28 months has passed.  I am not ready.  For what? For the possibility of finding out why our funny, intelligent, athletic, well-liked son took his own life?  For fear of the anticipated flood of emotions as I look through his personal items?  I don't know.

Now to the book.   There is so much that I could relate to which tells me that when it comes to the sudden and tragic loss of a loved one, be it Oates' spouse of 47 years who succumbed to a hospital contracted staph infection, or a seventeen year son who died by suicide, the feelings are similar.

Much of Oates' writing is via stream of consciousness, which allows her thoughts to flow uncensored to the page (or so it seems).  On the night her husband died, she was sleeping peacefully at home, anticipating Ray's release in a couple of days.  Then the phone rang. She left for the hospital in the middle of the night, obeying the speed limit and traffic lights (why?) and did not make it before he died, which was on February 18, 2008....exactly 13 months before Josh.  Now, dates are always relative to March 18, 2009 - always.

That I was sleepting at the time when my husband was dying is so horrible a thought; I can't confront it....And so I'd been eating when my husband had succombed to that terrible fever that precipitated his death - the thought is repulsive to me, obscene....It was the most horrific thought - my husband died among strangers.  I was not with him, to comfort him, to touch him or hold him - I was asleep, miles away.  Asleep!  The enormity of this fact is too much to comprehend, I feel that I will spend the remainder of my life trying to grasp it.

I, too, slept, woke up and showered, and was working in my office while Josh as dead in his room.  By suicide!  My baby!  The beautiful, happy boy that is in all the pictures on my fridge, all over my house.  How could this be??  Over 2 years later - that question is as fresh as the week after it happened.  Like her, I will spend the rest of my life trying to grasp it - make sense of it, comprehend and understand it which will probably never happen.

On the death certificate:

I will discover on the death certificate noting that Raymond J. Smith died of cardiopulmonary arrest, complications following pneumonia.  12:50 am.  February 18, 2008.

I have not seen Josh's death certificate....Tim has.  He told me, "No need to look."

On getting perspective with what really matters:

The minutiae of our lives: telephone calls, errands, appointments.  None of these is the slightest significance to others and but fleetingly to us yet they constitute such a portion of our lives, it might be argued that our lives are a concatenation of minutiae interrupted at unpredicatble times by significant events. 

This rings true.  I was attending to such minutiae (which escapes recollection), on that fateful morning when life was turned upside down, when a part of my soul died, when a hole was formed in my heart that only Josh can fill.  Such tasks now, compared to the overwhelming loss of a beloved child, are nothing....just necessary nuisances.

Oates' thoughts on the hospital vigil which I can relate to because of my dad's recent hospitalizations:

There are two categories of hospital vigils.  The vigil with the happy ending, and the other.  Embarked upon the hospital vigil as in a small canoe on a churning white-water river you can have no clear idea which vigil you are embarked upon - the vigil with the happy ending, or the other - until it has come to an end.  Until the patient has been discharged from the hospital and brought safely home.  Or not discharged, and never brought home.

Her husband wanted to be cremated.  While Joyce was at the funeral home making arrangements, with no advanced warning whatsoever, she was asked to identify Ray's body.  Completely unprepared, she elected not to do so.

I will regret this moment.  I will regret this decision.  I will never understand why at this crucial moment I behave in such a childish way, as if my husband whom I love has become physically repulsive to me.  How ashamed I will be, at this decision: like a child shrinking away, hiding her eyes.

Those in our immediate family were able to say "good-bye" to Josh on Friday night, before the funeral service the next day.  I remember walking across the parking lot of the funeral home with a pit in my stomach thinking over and over, "I don't want to be here....I don't want to be here."  It was inexplicably hard, requiring tremendous courage, but so very necessary - to provide a sense of closure.

Oates's grief analogies which I found interesting but did not quite understand:

Advice to the widow: Do not think that grief is pure, solomn, austere, and "elevated," this is not Mozart.  Think of crude coarse gravel that hurts to walk on.  Think of splotched mirrors in public lavatories.  Think of towel dispensers when they have broken and there is nothing to wipe your hands on except already-used badly soiled towels.

What I wrote in my journal:

Think of emotional pain so deep that it hurst physically.  Think of more tears than what you thought possible for a body to produce.  Think of waves - relentless, constant, pounding with no relief in sight.  Think of being inside a pressure cooker - to the point of explosion.  Think of driving on a straight, narrow road with nothing but dead, brown grass on either side and a completely grey sky.  There is no end in sight as the road goes to infinity.

Think of a powerful, swirling vortex or whirlpool where you are caught helpless, swirling around and around, eventually swallowed up.  Or think of a piece of debris whirling around and around in a never-ending, violently strong tornado.  Or think of a roller coaster that shakes you so hard that you are scared, sick and end up with a terrible migraine.

I will end this post with quotes from two of her friends:

Grief is exhausting and requires the strength of an Olympic athlete.

Suffer, Joyce.  Ray was worth it.

Thoughts from "The Hours" by Michael Cunningham

Earlier this year, I read Take the Dimness of My Soul Away: Healing After A Loved One's Suicide by William Ritter, in which a movie called The Hours was referenced (see blog post).   Since then, I have not only watched the movie but have also read and journaled through the Pulitzer Prize-winning novel.   And while the story is about how three women's lives are interconnected, despite living in different time periods, one of the major threads that tie them together is suicide.

It is common knowledge (although unknown to me until Josh's death put "suicide" front and center in my mind), that Virginia Woolf died by drowning in 1941, after putting large rocks in her coat and walking into a river. She is the first woman we are introduced to in the prologue of The Hours.  In the note left for her husband, her personal despair is clear as well as her belief that she is a burden to him, especially since she does not think recovery from her growing madness is possible.

"Dearest,   I feel certain that I am going mad again: I feel we can't go through another of these terrible times....So I am doing what seems the best thing to do....I can't fight it any longer.  I know that I am spoiling your life, that without me you could work...I can't go on spoiling your life any longer.  I don't think two people could have been happier than we have been."   V

The second woman introduced is Mrs. Laura Brown who is pregnant with her second child in the year 1949.  She is unhappy in the role of housewife and mother and being an avid reader, she finds escape through books.  It is while soaking in the beautiful prose of Woolf's book, Mrs. Dalloway, published in 1925, she thinks, "How, could someone who was able to write a sentence like that - come to kill herself?  What in the world is wrong with people?"

My journal note: Encircled question mark and "How could a bright, healthy, popular, athletic boy, with the whole world in front of him, kill himself?"  This is STILL the unanswerable question that remains in the back of my mind, firmly lodged.  Will it still be there five, ten, twenty years after his death?  Will I ever be able to let it go?  I don't know.

Back to The Hours.  The story moves back and forth in time, depending on the character.  While the prologue begins with Woolf's suicide, the novel places her back in time, 1923 to be exact, when she is actually writing Mrs. Dalloway.  It is difficult work as her mind does not always cooperate.  She often took to walking and used the time to think through the plot of her books.  On one such outing, she muses: "Clarissa Dalloway, will kill herself over something that seems, on the surface, like very little.  Her party will fail, or her husband will once again refuse to notice some effort she's made about her person or their home.  The trick will be to render intact the magnitude of Clarissa's miniature but very real desperation; to fully convince the reader that, for her, domestic defeats are every bit as devastating as are lost battles to a general."

My journal note:  Devastated and desperate, defeated soul = suicide

I will now quote a lengthy passage from the book - of Laura Brown's contemplation of suicide, of life and of what leaving her family might mean.

"It is possible to die, Laura thinks, suddenly, of how she - how anyone - can make a choice like that.  It is a reckless, vertiginous thought, slightly disembodied - it announces itself inside her head, faintly but distinctly, like a voice crackling from a distant radio station.  She could decide to die.  It is an abstract, shimmering notion, not particularly morbid.

It could, she thinks, be deeply comforting; it might feel so free: to simply go away.  To say to them all, I couldn't manage, you had no idea; I didn't want to try anymore."

 My journal note: "Did Josh feel this way?"  Continuing with the passage:

"She could leave them all behind..in this battered world....saying to one another,  We thought she was all right, we thought her sorrows were ordinary ones.  We had no idea.  

How could any of them recover from something like that?  Nothing she might do as a living wife and mother, no lapse, no fit of rage or depression, could possibly compare.  It would be, simply, evil.  It would punch a hole in the atmosphere, through which everything she's created - the orderly days, the lighted windows, the table laid for supper - would be sucked away."

My journal note:  Yes - the question to ask is how can anyone truly recover from the suicide of a loved one, be it mother, father, wife, husband, brother or sister?  Is it the absolute worse thing you can do to a loved one?  And yes, when Josh died, I felt like a hole was punched in the atmosphere of my "normal" life and sucked it away.  It is gone and irretrievable.  We must find a "new normal".

Scary quotes on suicide ideation (in Laura Brown's head)

"Still, she is glad to know (for somehow, suddenly, she knows) that it is possible to stop living.  There is comfort in facing the full range of options; in considering all your choices, fearlessly and without guile.  She imagines Virginia Woolf, virginal, unbalanced, defeated by the impossible demands of life and art; she imagines her stepping into a river with a stone in her pocket."

"She takes the bottle off the shelf, holds it up to the light.  There are at least thirty pills inside, maybe more.  She puts it back on the shelf.  It would be as simple as checking into a hotel room.  It would be a simple as that.  Think how wonderful it might be to no longer matter. Think how wonderful it might be to no longer worry, or struggle, or fail.  What if that moment at dinner - that equipoise, that small perfection - were enough?  What if you decided to want no more?"

My journal note:  suicide ideation and fixation.  Where death becomes "wonderful".  Escape.  A solution.  The right solution.  A permanent solution.  Very scary to think the mind, following a certain path, can end up here.  Is this what happened to Josh that fateful night?

(There is a third woman, Clarissa Vaughan living in New York City in 1998.  She is called Mrs. Dalloway by a close friend who is a former lover and poet, dying of AIDS.  I will bypass writing about her for fear of spoiling to plot.)

The movie came out in 2002 and was up for 9 Academy Awards.  I did not see it at the time, deeming it "too sad."  However now,  I was eager to read the book and watch the movie.  This makes me see, yet again, how Josh's death has changed me - in deep, fundamental, inexplicable ways.  My motives in reading or listening/watching any type of media are different. My tolerance level for certain subjects is higher.

I do not fear reading about tragedy and death with subsequent passages on sorrow, grief and pain.  I have felt it.  I am living it.

God Bless

Joan Didion's Grief Journey in "The Year of Magical Thinking"

For those who have lost a loved one, I would highly recommend this book.  Like C.S Lewis in A Grief Observed, Joan Didion, as a writer takes pen to paper to chronicle her grief journey.  More than usual dog-ear and underlining in this book.  Thoughts and quotes below come from my journal, written a week after Josh's second year death anniversary.

Just a few short days after her husband suddenly died from a heart attack while eating dinner, she wrote:

Live changes fast.   Life changes in an instant.   You sit down to dinner and life as you know it ends.   The question of self-pity. 

Nine months later, she began writing this book.

It was in fact the ordinary nature of everything preceding the event that prevented me from truly believing it had happened, absorbing it, incorporating it, getting past it.

Yes, this is how I feel about "it".  An ordinary Wednesday. I was working, getting ready to leave the house for a meeting.  Tim had already left.  I went to give Josh the phone and at first, saw that his bed was empty.  Strange.  Then went all through the house looking for him.  Could he have left the house?  No, we would have heard him.  When I went back into his room, I found him.  Why me?  Why by myself?  Why didn't Tim find him before leaving?  I haven't been able to think or write about this until now.

She writes about the impact of grief:

Grief, when it comes, is nothing we expect it to be...Grief is different.  Grief has no distance.  Grief comes in waves, paroxysms, sudden apprehensions that weaken the knees and blind the eyes and obliterate the dailiness of life.

The power of grief to derange the mind has in fact been exhaustively noted.

She writes about the look of the bereaved:

People who have recently lost someone have a certain look, recognizable maybe only to those who have seen that look on their own faces.  I have noticed it on my face and I notice it now on others.  The look is one of extreme vulnerability, nakedness, openness.  It is the look of someone who walks from the ophthalmologist's office into the bright daylight with dilated eyes.  These people who have lost someone look naked because they think themselves invisible.  I myself felt invisible for a period of time, incorporeal.  I seemed to have crossed one of those legendary rivers that divide the living from the dead, entered a place in which I could be seen only by those who were themselves recently bereaved. 

After some time has passed, she experiences fears - of being alone, getting hurt and dying.  My fears are different.  I fear the "other shoe dropping" - that something will happen to one of my other three kids.

I don't normally quote long passages in my journal or on this blog, but this one, I must:

Grief turns out to be a place none of us know until we reach it.  We anticipate (we know) that someone close to us could die, but we do not look beyond the few days or weeks that immediately follow such an imagined death.  We misconstrue the nature of even those few days or weeks.  We might expect if the death is sudden to feel shock.  We do not expect this shock to be obliterative, dislocating to both mind and body.  We might expect that we will be prostrate, inconsolable, crazy with loss.  We do not expect to be literally crazy, cool customers who believe their husband is about to return and need his shoes.

In the version of grief we imagine, the model will be "healing."   A certain forward movement will prevail. The worse days will be the earliest days.  We imagine that the moment to most severely test us will be the funeral, after which this hypothetical healing will take place.  When we anticipate the funeral we wonder about failing to "get through it," rise to the occasion, exhibit the "strength" that invariably gets mentioned as the correct response to death.  We anticipate needing to steel ourselves for the moment: will I be able to greet people, will I be able to leave the scene, will I be able even to get dressed that day?   

We have no way of knowing that the funeral itself will be an anodyne, a kind of narcotic regression in which we are wrapped in the core of others and the gravity and meaning of the occasion.  Nor can we know ahead of the fact (and here lies the heart of the difference between grief as we imagine it and grief as it is) the unending absence that follows, the void, the very opposite of meaning, the relentless succession of moments during which we will confront the meaningless of life.

Wow - what a passage.  What truth.  This is why I read.  To understand.  To illuminate.  To find words, sentences, thoughts, passages that express with such precision and uncanniness what I think and feel.  I say "yes, yes, yes" to it all.  If in church, I would shout "AMEN!"

Didion is right, the funeral is not the problem.  Our home was calm and quiet the morning of Saturday, March 21, 2009.  Seemed even more so after the three days of family, friends and kids who came to pay their respects.  It was just our immediate family at home, getting ready. We had all worked on what we were going to say.  Tyler, Lauren and Gillian read aloud what they had written.  Lauren was running around in a green cover-up for her bathing suit that could in a stretch, be mistaken for a dress.  At one point, Tyler actually thought she was wearing it to the funeral - too funny.

I wore a black dress that was bought on sale a few weeks prior, never thinking the first (and so far only) time I would wear it would be at Josh's funeral.  All arrangements had been made.  We drove to the church.  I remember it being a bright, sunny day.  The foyer was beautiful.  Flowers, photo collage, his big football photo, lots of light.  All the people.  All the kids.  Being surprised at how many came.  The service was what we wanted - a loving, uplifting tribute to a beloved young soul who impacted many.

No, the funeral is not the problem.  It is as she says - the days after, when the reality sinks in, when everyone is gone and the absence is really, deeply felt.  The loss of a child to a mother is so enormous that I am convinced, it can only be felt in stages for if I felt everything at once, I could not survive.  My heart would literally break.

It has taken over two years before I can think and write about the day I found Josh and of memories from the funeral.  I am sad but dry-eyed.  What does this mean?  The beginning of acceptance?  Of understanding?  That I've absorbed his death into my life, my being?

I had another "wow" moment towards the end of her book when she references listening to Israel Kamakawiwo'ole's "Over the Rainbow" which was played at Josh's funeral and is part of the playlist accessible on the side of the blog.

I will close with this quote which is why I have no plans to stop writing on this blog. And why Didion did not not want to finish her book.

I know why we try to keep the dead alive: we try to keep them alive in order to keep them with us.

God Bless

23 Months Later - February 18, 2011

C.S Lewis, celebrated author of beloved books such as The Chronicles of Narnia and Mere Christianity poured out his heart in a journal after the passing of his beloved wife, "H".  His honest and gripping thoughts are recorded in a small book called A Grief Observed. 

Being a journal writer myself, the foreword by author Madeline L'Engle resonates:

"It is all right to wallow in one's journal; it is a way of getting rid of self-pity and self-indulgence and self-centeredness.  What we work out in our journals we don't take out on family and friends.  I am grateful to Lewis for the honesty of his journal of grief, because it makes quite clear that the human being is allowed to grieve, that it is normal, it is right to grieve, and the Christian is not denied this natural response to loss."

There are a number of quotes from the book that speak to me.  One analogy, however, accurately describes the impact of the devastating loss on a survivor's life.  No matter how long it has been since the death.  It reinforces what is mentioned in a previous post, that I will NEVER "get over" Josh's death.

"Getting over it so soon?  But the words are ambiguous.  To say the patient is getting over it after an operation for appendicitis is one thing: after he's had his leg off it is quite another.  After that operation either the wounded stump heals or the man dies.  If it heals, the fierce, continuous pain will stop.  Presently he'll get back his strength and be able to stump about on his wooden leg.  He has 'got over it.'  But he will probably have recurring pains in the stump all his life, and perhaps pretty bad ones; and he will always be a one-legged man.  There will be hardly any moment when he forgets it. Bathing, dressing, sitting down and getting up again, even lying in bed, will all be different.  His whole way of life will be changed.  All sorts of pleasures and activities that he once took for granted will have to be simply written off.  Duties too.  At present I am learning to get about on crutches.  Perhaps I shall presently be given a wooden leg.  But I shall never be biped again."

Then later he writes:

"Did you know, dear, how much you took away with you when you left?  You have stripped me even of my past, even of the things we never shared.  I was wrong to say the stump was recovering from the pain of amputation.  I was deceived because it has so many ways to hurt me that I discover them only one by one."

At present, I have a prosthetic leg which works pretty well.  In fact, so well that people who meet me for the first time would not know that I am an amputee.  That I am a mother who has lost a son.  I function at at a high level on my job, teach three aerobics classes a week, am interested in renewing previously enjoyed experiences like skiing, am planning a trip to New Zealand with Lauren to visit Gillian while there for a study abroad program, and for all intensive purposes, to someone on the outside, I have recovered.

But that is a facade.  You see, the chopping off of my leg was so violent, like the horrible scenes from Civil War movies when the poor solidiers had no anesthesia when faced with the ax; that to recover completely from this deep wound or trauma may never happen.  I am lucky, I suppose that there has been no complications from the amputation.  No insomnia or nightmares.  No anxiety or depression.  No suicidal thoughts of my own.  But there is fear.  That something will happen to one of my three surviving children.  That as a mother,  I might suffer more.

(See post on my reading blog for more.)

Grief Journey to Reading Journey - Chronicled in a New Blog

Since Josh took his life on March 18, 2009, I have been on a grief journey that is chronicled in this blog.  Curiously, this has given rise to another journey which a new blog will cover - a reading journey.

I have always loved a good book.  My definition was pretty specific. It had to be a fast read, a real page-turner.  Moving plot, engrossing story, believable characters.  Mystery, suspense, drama, romance, spy, thrillers - as long as the story moved quickly, I was happy to read it.

My reading was strictly for pleasure.  I wanted books that took me to another place.  I read quickly and skim the "boring" parts.  A very impatient reader.  Not appreciative of well constructed sentences or paragraphs.  I only wanted to read that which moved the plot forward.  Everything else was superfilous and unnecessary.

My habit was to read at night before going to sleep.  The problem with this, however, is that I retained very little of what I read.  So much so, that within a couple of days of finishing a book, I could not tell you the names of the characters or the basic plot.  In one ear and out the other.  But that was okay since it was all for pleasure anyway.

Then came my personal 9/11.  The day I found our youngest of four, our seventeen-year old son, dead.

Since that day, reading was no longer just for pleasure. It became necessary for my survival. I looked for books that helped me cope with his death.  This has taken me to new genres - ones I would never have looked at "pre-Josh".

• survivor of suicide books
• how to journal books
• parental bereavement books
• on suicide
• memoirs

From writing in a personal journal and on a public blog, I see the impact of words.  I have a greater appreciation and respect for authors  who can evoke feelings and emotions in a few short sentences. Who can use words to describe scenes so clearly that as a reader, you feel like you are there.

I was a Biology major.  And having despised high school English, I took one English class in college - and only because it was required.  As a result, I have not read many  of the classics.  Regretfully, the breadth of my reading is narrow.

Now, I am ready for a change.  I want to expand my reading horizon, by using lists like 1,001 Books to Read Before You Die.  I want to be a more thoughtful and discerning reader.  I want to become a better writer and the best way to do this, is to read.

We are nearing the 2 year mark since Josh has left our family.  My reading and writing have been a life preserver - I could not have survived without them.  I am actually excited about what adventures await me in books and look forward to chronicling them in the new blog. 

My Journal, My Friend

It is no exaggeration when I say that journal writing has saved me.  For it is where, day or night, I can pour out my heart without inhibition or censorship.  It is a place of safety and freedom where openness and honesty are paramount.  What I truly think and feel, the "real" me, resides in its bosom.  The good, bad and ugly.

The pages welcome my pen.  They do not judge.  They seek not to fix.  I am completely understood so clarification or re-explanation is unnecessary.  Sometimes it is a purging; my hand cannot write fast enough.  Other times, my thoughts are flitting and incoherent so cannot be snagged and immortalized on paper.  Many times, I journal about quotes from my reading that help solidify an unconscious thought, feeling or question.  Many such as the previous post or, this one, have ended up here.

As a mother, I have the horrible and nightmarish task of processing the suicide death of my 17-year old son, my baby.  Much lies underneath, in my sub and unconscious mind.  My journal is a place to face what is there with the faith that I'll only "see" what can be handled.  Many times, it is convoluted and strange.  Other times, it is just repetitive, like "why did he do it?"  Who know how many times I have written those words.  Or it is ever evolving.  Random thoughts today may be solidified or revised tomorrow.

Regardless, in these pages, I can think through, ponder, and ruminate on my "stuff",  which over time, is helping me to process Josh's death and the devastating impact to my heart, soul, mind and psyche.

Two helpful books are 1) Creative Journal Writing: the Art and Heart of Reflection by Stephanie Dowrick and 2) The New Diary: How to Use a Journal for Self-Guidance and Expanded Creativity by Tristine Rainer.  Some of my favorites quotes in Dowrick's book:

"I want to write, but more than that, I want to bring out all kinds of things that lie buried deep in my heart."   Anne Frank

"We do not write to be understood; we write in order to understand."     Cecil Day-Lewis

"Truly, it is in the darkness that one finds light, so when we are in sorrow, then this light is nearest of all to us."   Meister Echkart

Rainer writes how a diarist, Anais Nin "used the diary not to escape from life but to live it more fully and deeply."  A number of journal writing books and memoirs have referenced "The Diary of Anais Nin" which is actually seven volumes.  I was lucky enough to find six at a used bookstore over the summer.  I'm currently reading through Volume I and the most meaningful quotes are below:

"I have been trying to be honest, day by day, in the diary."

"The diary began as a diary of a journey, to record everything for my father.  It was also to be an island, in which, I could take refuge in an alien land, write French, think my thoughts, hold on to my soul, to myself."

It is "the only steadfast friend I have, the only one which makes my life bearable; because my happiness with human beings is so precarious, my confiding moods rare, and the least sign of non-interest is enough to silence me.  In the journal I am at ease."

Since Josh's death, less than 2 years ago, I have filled up four books and am working on my fifth.  The fourth, and only book that I plan to use going forward has blank pages.  Uncertain about it at first, I now love the freedom to write, diagram, draw arrows, box, illustrate, list, color - anything I want within the pages.  The best news is that I found Piccadilly large notebooks that are the perfect size and price at Borders - for $5.99.  Whenever I see them, I stock up.

Writing utensils are important too, so say other books.  I agree now that I've found the perfect "journal-writing" pen, the Varsity disposable fountain pen by Pilot.  They are a bit pricey at $3.29 each but are worth it.

Is anyone else writing in a journal?  Are there things that have helped you? 

Another Suicide in Fairfax County - Similar to Josh

Yesterday, this article appeared in the Washington Post.  My heart sank as I read the words, "The apparent suicide of a 15 -year-old high school football player in Fairfax County has sparked concerns about the school district's disciplinary policies, which critics say are overly punitive and often debilitating for students."  Oh no, not another kid!  Not another family!  Not another mother!  Poor, poor mother.  

The article says he is an only child.  My heart breaks even more.  Her son will be buried with his football shirt #45.  Josh was buried in his #33 South Lakes jersey - the one he is wearing in the picture on the right side of this blog. 

As I as reading through the article, I was steeling myself for it.  For when his death would be mentioned.  It was at the end.  "Noting the 2009 death of Josh Anderson, 17, who committed suicide as he awaited hearing on a second marijuana offense: One death was enough.  Not a second one."

I didn't cry when I read this article.  I just felt numb and empty.  And very, very sad - knowing the pain facing his parents - now and in the months to come.  No, the tears did not come until hours later;  after doing the laundry, going to the grocery store, working on a new blog for myself, a reading blog; after trying to sleep and not being able to, finally getting up to write in my journal - that is when it hit me.  Note: my thoughts below are raw and uncensored; right from my journal.

The poor family.  His poor friends.  Another kid - dead.  I don't know what to write or how I feel.  Why?  I should be feeling a lot with this but just numb.  Blank.  Why has my handwriting shrunk all of a sudden?  While I am writing this?  My mind and heart are blank.  School officials are not saying much or what they say is status quo.  I HATE FCPS AND THEIR POLICIES.  That kill - literally - kill or if not kill, they maim and destroy our children.  Teens who are not bad and evil - they're just dumb.  They are guilty of being dumb.  Doing stupid things.  Thinking they will not get caught.  They don't connect behavior and consequences.  Impulsive.   

I guess this is what I really feel - that if we didn't live here, would Josh still be alive?  That in my heart of hearts, I place a lot of blame on the Zero Tolerance Policy - which subjected our son to a humiliating, degrading interrogation by cold-hearted School Board Hearing Officers.  So horrible that he could not face it again. Then I turn to myself.   I BLAME MYSELF.  That I did not see his inner turmoil.  That I didn't help him cope.  That I wasn't there for him in the way that he needed.  That if someone else were his mother, maybe he would be alive.  I feel complicit with his death.  That my good wasn't good enough.  I am so sorry Josh.  I am so, so sorry.  

I couldn't write my usual letter to him today - maybe this is why.  I didn't make the effort to visit him today - maybe this is why.  I couldn't sleep - maybe this is why.  This is really what is going on - MAJOR GUILT.  And now that I've allowed my conscious mind to see and feel it - it is smothering me.  

I am guilty.  

I am not the mother he needed. 

I was not enough for him. 

I am the reason he is dead.

It was 2 am when I wrote these words.  The empty kitchen was witness to my refreshed grief.  And even when the words flew from pen to paper, I thought, "It is 2am.  You are tired, emotional and not thinking straight.  Better go to bed."  And I did.  For some reason, it is cathartic to purge myself of all crazy thoughts and feelings onto empty pages that don't speak back, try to reason with me and say that I am talking rubbish.  No, my journal pages just take it.   I went to bed feeling empty, drained and exhausted. 

Woke up thinking about the last sentence I wrote the night before.  Do I really think I am the reason he is dead?  No, of course not.  In fact, if I were awake that fateful night, I would have tried to physically restrain him from his fatal action.  He would've had to knock me out to continue with his plans.  

So I understand that he did this to himself.  But I do feel, in the depths of my soul, a guilt that cannot be shaken or reasoned away.   I remember reading something early on that struck me, but I found it hard to relate to.  Not any more.  In the book, My Son, My Son: A Guide to Healing After Death, Loss and Suicide, Iris Bolton writes about guilt:

Guilt is perhaps the most punishing stage of all.  I remember that first day sitting on my bed saying over and over, "What have I done wrong?  If only I had done more." My senses told me that I'd failed as a parent, failed myself, failed my son.  The word I used to describe my condition was foul.  Irrationally I thought I must indeed be foul for my son to prefer death to living with me and our family.  Guilt hits hard and flits in and out of other moods. 

I am lacking as a parent.  Or more specifically, as Josh's mother.  And I don't write this to solicit vehement comments to the contrary.  Everyone has a cross to bear and I think this is mine.  I can't absolve myself of this guilt.  For how could I not be found guilty when my own son chose to take his life?   

Suicide of a child means enormous guilt for the mother.   Any child.  Any mother.  Cause and effect.  One leads to the other.  It is what a mother unwittingly signs up for, once she has given birth to her baby. Or first holds an adopted child in her arms. It is a tragedy that you can never be prepared for, never expect to be part of your family history.  So when the nightmare occurs, when it really happens to you, the waves of shock and disbelief eventually gives way to guilt.  A guilt so large, it defies measurement. 

Tim sent me a link to another article in the FairfaxCityPatch called "Student's Death Opens Old Wounds."  The "old wounds" refers to Josh's death.  This will never be an "old" wound for me.

22 Months Later - January 18, 2011

A dear friend recently lost her father and I sent her a sympathy card with this saying:

"To remember is another way to love"

I have seen evidence recently of how much Josh is loved and continues to be - even almost 2 years later. Two days ago, there were almost 100 posts on his Facebook wall from friends wishing him "Happy Birthday" and sharing how much they loved and missed him. And not only on his birthday, but on high school graduation day, before going to college, during the holidays - friends posted throughout the year.

The tear spigots turn on as I read these posts - so sincere, so poignant, so genuine. I am moved by how his friends, despite everything going on in their lives, have not forgotten him. The uninhibitedness with which they express their love - this from both guys and girls. How could he not see how much he was loved? How many would be affected by his death?

The book, I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings, is a moving memoir by Maya Angelou, who describes her life as a young black girl trying to understand why she is judged by her skin color when she feels as human as any white person. These words are towards the end of the book, when she speaks of the "coming of age" process. It really struck me.

To be left alone on the tightrope of youthful unknowing is to experience the excruciating beauty of full freedom and the threat of eternal indecision. Few, if any survive their teens. Most surrender to the vague but murderous pressure of adult conformity. It becomes easier to die and avoid conflicts than to maintain a constant battle with the superior forces of maturity.

I wrote in my journal:

For some reason, this rings true of Josh. Describes the vulnerable teen. What our young people face. Pressures from within, from their peers, from adults - parents, grandparents, teachers, coaches. Are there some kids, whose internal make-up need more time to mature and develop before asked to navigate the space between adolescence and adulthood?

Are there some kids, so adverse to conflict, that they would literally rather die?

We wanted Josh to grow up, be mature, be responsible, act his age. "Forty years ago," I'd say, "kids your age were going off to war with guns in their hands. Can you just PLEASE think about the consequences of your behavior before doing something really dumb?"

Our expectations obviously did not help him cope with life. Didn't help him with finding an alternative to suicide. Did we expect too much? More than he was emotionally ready for? It is a difficult question because we think, at times, that since he was the youngest and the baby of the family that we did too much. Maybe didn't allow his character to be tested enough. I vacillate back and forth - did we expect too much of him or not enough? Were we too strong or not strong enough? Did we push him too much or not enough?

I find myself on a mental merry-go-round with these thoughts. None of which will change the situation - the fact that he is gone. So it is futile, I know, but my mind doesn't want to let it go. It is a form of "guilt jail" built for myself so that no matter where I turn, as his mother, I am responsible. I was not good enough. I did not give him what he needed. I did not notice his fatal frame of mind. I missed something. I did not do enough or I did too much. I did not say enough, or I said too much.

Many times I tell myself, "You did the best you could," and sometimes, I believe it. But not always. And back in the "grief jail" I go - even twenty-two months later.

The Death of a Friend

I was baking cookies the other night when a friend's call informed me of the sudden death of another dear, gracious, sweet friend. A few weeks ago, I had learned that she had been diagnosed with cancer and was awaiting test results and prognosis. I don't think anyone thought her death would be this sudden. I mistakenly thought there would be time to reconnect as we had not been in touch since Josh's death.

My friend has lived a long life - full of love. Love from husband, children, grandchildren and friends. She lived life to the full and with great gusto. She traveled extensively - listening to her itineraries would leave me exhausted! I can't imagine her having any regrets except that she's left her loved ones without warning.

My journal has become my confident. I write what I am thinking and feeling - just to get things out. This is what I wrote on hearing of her passing:

She has passed away! I can't believe she is gone! So fast! Her poor family: husband, daughter and sons. How tragic to be so sudden but maybe she was spared tremendous suffering. Maybe this is God's mercy. Poor, poor family! I hope she is able to be with Josh. It comforts me to think they may be together.

I am no stranger to death now. To what it means - the catastrophic impact to your family and to what you know to be true, real or tangible. How thin the line is between life and death - literally seconds or a few minutes. One minute - alive. The other minute - gone. And so final, irreversible, undo-overable. Cannot take it back. Cannot push replay. This is what is so difficult about death - the fact that it is FINAL. Cannot change. Powerless. Neither fame, earthly power or money can undo death.

When enough happens to shut down critical bodily functions, whether by illness, accident, old age or violence, and the line is crossed, death has arrived. Life has gone. Evidence of life is gone - no breathing, no movement, no pulse, no reaction, no response. A stiffness - so unnatural to see a body with no life. Empty. A shell. No energy. Nothing happening on a micro or macro level. Quiet. Still. Gone. Absent. And eventually taken out in a black body bag, put on a gurney and into a waiting van for a final trip to the morgue.

And that was the last time I saw and touched my beloved Josh.

It will be two years in March, and I can still vividly remember the morning I found him. I try not to think about it very much but occasionally I do. It is like a bad dream, except I know it is not. It happened. And when I go and make my weekly visit to his grave site tomorrow and see the stone with his name, date of birth and date of death, I will know, once again, that this is my reality.

God Bless

New definitions: Impulsiveness and Sadness

In mid October, our local library held their annual used book sale. Hardback books were $2 and almost all paperbacks were 50 cents. Very dangerous for someone whose love of books and desire to read has been rekindled in the wake of Josh's death. I came home with two big shopping bags of books and spent less than $25.

In most of the books I've read, "post-Josh", regardless of genre, storyline or author, something hits me. The Reader, by Bernhard Schlink was no exception. In it, I have a new way of looking at impulsiveness and sadness.

Written in the first person, the protagonist, Michael Berg looks back to a life changing event, and cannot determine why he acted the way he did.

I don't know why I did it. Often enough in my life I have done things I had not decided to do. Something - whatever that may be - goes into action; "it" goes to the woman I don't want to see anymore, "it" makes the remark to the boss that costs me my head, "it" keeps on smoking although I have decided to quit, and then quits smoking just when I've accepted the fact that I'm a smoker and always will be. I don't mean to say that thinking and reaching decisions have no influence on behavior. But behavior does not merely enact whatever has already been thought through and decided. It has its own sources, and is my behavior, quite independently, just as my thoughts are my thoughts, and my decisions my decisions (my emphasis).

Those of us with children have asked the question, "why did you do it?" many times and have heard the somewhat annoying answer, "I don't know". The quote above describes this common phenomenon and puts forth the idea that behavior is not always linked to thought or decisions and in fact, can be it's own entity and completely independent. A scary thought. Penned in the margin of my book is "definition of impulsiveness?" for isn't that what it means? That sometimes we do or say something without thinking or making a rational, conscious decision and afterwards, think, "why did I just do (or say) that?" But by then, it's too late. The deed is done.

Is this what happened to Josh that dark night? An impulsive act that was not grounded in thought and conscious decision? Behavior that ran amuck and did "it's" own thing, resulting in the most horrific consequence - his death? Now it is my turn to say, "I don't know."

In another chapter, Michael looks back to a happy time of his life, but because of events that happened since, rather then feeling happy in his memories, he only feels profound sadness.

Why? Why does what was beautiful suddenly shatter in hindsight because it concealed dark truths? Why does the memory of years of happy marriage turn to gall when our partner is revealed to have had a lover all those years? Because such a situation makes it impossible to be happy? But we were happy! Sometimes the memory of happiness cannot stay true because it ended unhappily.....Is this what sadness is all about? Is it what comes over us when beautiful memories shatter in hindsight because the remembered happiness fed not just on actual circumstances but on a promise that was not kept?

I wrote in the book margin: "promise of an intact family" for this was taken away in the never-to-be-forgotten moment when I found Josh's body.

My journal entry: "My memories have been re-ignited with the photo scanning project. All significant days in Josh's short life have been recorded and seeing them again, re-living the events has only heightened the pain. But I don't regret the project. I want to remember. These memories now serve to keep him alive. It doesn't make me "happy" and so I agree with this quote. Some well-meaning people have said things like, "just think of the good times" or "hold onto the good memories" as a way to get past the pain and grief, but it doesn't work, at least for me. There might be a time, in the far distant future, when my memories of Josh will bring joy. Right now, that is not the case. They only serve to remind me of the unkept promise.

God Bless

Thanksgiving 2010

Our second Thanksgiving without Josh has passed. Incrementally easier than last year. Lauren and Gillian came home so along with my parents and brother, there were seven of us at the table. A week ago I confessed to Tim that having no motivation to shop and cook, I'd rather order a turkey and ham meal from Safeway. He promised help from himself and the girls and so we did sit down to a home-cooked meal, one of the tastiest. Not over cooking the turkey and taking the extra step to make stuffing from scratch were the keys. As we were eating I did, of course, think of Josh along with his older brother who could not be with us and how they both would've had several helpings of the stuffing, one of their favorite sides.

As the day approached, I tried to think back to the last Thanksgiving we had with Josh, in 2008. Unfortunately, I don't remember that much, just snippets, probably because we did not do anything that memorable. Now I know that whenever family gathers, we should take advantage of the time to build new memories. And so yesterday, after being stuffed with drink, food and desserts, we cleared the table and played Taboo and Euchre. Then joined thousands of other crazy people who went to Tysons Mall at midnight. Definitely a memorable experience - through probably not one to repeat next year.

My journal has become a place of self-exortation.

Sue - look at it (Thanksgiving) differently. It is the being together that is most important. The food, etc will get done. Just be happy that family (sans Josh) will be together. Make new memories. Be in the moment. Share love. Give love. Don't be focused on the "to do's". Be focused on family. Be engaged. Be thankful that we will be together.

"Post Josh", I do have a greater awareness that any holiday could be the last. On the one hand I admit that this is a morbid and depressing thought. But had I been more aware in 08, there would be more vivid memories of the last Thanksgiving with our beloved Josh. I want to avoid having this type of regret in the future.

Hope everyone is having a wonderful Thanksgiving with family and friends.

God Bless