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?"

3 Years and 3 Months Later - June 18, 2012

On my usual Saturday visit to Josh's gravesite, I happened to notice the dates on nearby markers and realized that many others have died since March 18, 2009.  How had I not seen that before?

Curiously, upon seeing other 2009 dates, my first thought was that was before/after Josh and secondly, 2009 seems like so long ago.   And when I saw a 2012 date, I thought,  Wow, that was just recently. 

This is another indication of time's relentless movement forward.  It hit me that I should expect the empty spaces around Josh to fill up over time.  That he is not the only one who died or will die and I am not the only mother or family member who grieves.

As I have mentioned in previous posts, on these weekly visits, I write a letter to Josh in a blank book specifically for this purpose.  In Alexandra Johnson's book, Leaving a Trace: On Keeping a Journal,  she talks about keeping a travel journal "as if writing a long letter to a close friend.  By writing for someone else's eyes, you have to supply context - place names, sights, interesting local information."

This made me think about my letters to Josh.  For the past three years, they have housed regurgitations of the same question (why, Josh, why?) and my feelings (sad, bad or mad), interspersed with the telling of family events/trips.   But as I explained to him in this week's letter, I am ready to go a different direction.

I feel a need to tell him of what is going on in our lives and in the world around.  For example, I told him about smartphones, apps and my iPad as these are new products and services that he would be interested in.   What other innovations, changes, ideas and experiences will I be writing in future letters?

So now I have a new job on my weekly visits.  I am the traveler who will document life for my son who can no longer see, hear, feel, touch or smell.

March - tough month

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

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

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

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

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

Love,
Mom
XXOO

Happy Thanksgiving Josh

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

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

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

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

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

Love,
Mom

2 Yrs and 8 Months Later - Nov. 18, 2011

Another month has gone by and instead of time lessening the impact of Josh's death, it has become deeper, broader and just "more". What may be contributing to this are the following upcoming events: Thanksgiving, Christmas, New Year's, what would be Josh's 20th birthday and the 3rd year death anniversary.  Each of these would be tough - all together, very tough.

As I have shared in a previous post, it is my custom to visit Josh each week and when I am done cleaning off his stone, I sit and write a letter to him.  Here is what I wrote this past week.

Dear Josh,
It is Tuesday afternoon and the time that the park is cleared of all flowers.  This mandatory cleaning ends on November 21st, right before Thanksgiving.  I was late putting fall colored flowers in your vase so you may have them for a week or so, before your Christmas wreath gets placed.   

This is my/our third year without you for Thanksgiving and Christmas.  Where has the time gone?  The impact of your death is ginormous, but better seen from a distance.  Just like how viewing the damage from a hurricane is more easily seen the further away you travel.  Up close, you couldn't see that it wiped out most of a town, but a before and after shot from the sky would show the devastation.  

This is how I feel about your death.  As time goes on, the impact is even greater and deeper and wider and broader than at the beginning.  How enormous the impact of your life and your death.  So sad.  

I hope you are at peace.
RIP beloved son.
Love,
Mom

Gorgeous June Day - Letter to Josh

It is my custom to visit Josh every weekend.   I have a box in my trunk complete with garden tools, scrub brush and paper towels.  I also have one of those collapsible chairs that came in handy when the kids were playing sports and bleachers were either non-existent or inadequate.

After doing my usual "chores" such as trimming the grass around his stone, scrubbing the dirt, (who knew how much collects around the letters each week?),  and the occasional bird junk off his marker, I set up the chair and prepare to write my weekly letter to him.   Here is today's letter.

Dear Josh,

I wish you were alive - especially today as it is the most beautiful June day!  The sky is blue - a light blue with swirls of very thin, wispy white clouds - not the puffy ones with edges and definition - but rather, like a very thin layer of frosting on a cake - so thin, the color of the cake shows through.  Or think of a blue canvas, with a very, very light white layer that will change the color of that blue to something lighter - a mixture of blue and white.  That is today's sky. 

The sun's rays feel good - my skin tingles as its temperature slowly rises.  The air is not humid or muggy but feels cool when a breeze kicks up.  This same breeze moves through the big tree nearby and when I look up, the individual leaves move back and forth as though waving "hello".  Sometime each leaf moves, other times, the whole branch moves up and down or side to side.  What if each leaf had its own note?  What a symphony that would be! 

Sometimes I come and it is too hot to sit in the sun.  Not today.  If I had a towel, I could lay down and fall asleep - right here, close to you.  Fall asleep while listening to the rustling leaves, sweet chimes and chirping birds with the sun's warmth like an invisible blanket. 

What I am saying is this: that it is a beautiful, no, a gorgeous June day and you should be here!  Alive!  To experience and enjoy it with me.  It is unfair that you are gone.  You could've survived - it wasn't that bad, was it?  You just hit a bad patch, okay, a horribly bad patch but we could've worked through it.  Couldn't we have?  

 Why didn't you give me a chance to help you?  Why didn't you give me a chance to prove how much I loved you?  What I would've done to ensure you lived?  To ensure that you would've chosen life?  I'm sorry you didn't let me.  No, I'm kind of mad you didn't let me.  Actually, sometimes I am really pissed that you did this to yourself, your family, your friends, and to me.   Why did you take that choice away?

And at the end of the day - at the very end of it all - you actually got your way.  Do you regret it?  Or not?  Is whatever you have now - no burdens, worries or cares - worth it? 

I don't know.   I wish you were here.  R.I.P.  

Love,  Mom

Merry Christmas Josh - December 25, 2010

Christmas letter to my deceased son....

Good morning Josh - Merry Christmas! We are here with family and I can't help thinking about where you'd be or what you'd be doing if here. Would you be sleeping on the window seat in your Big Boppa's office or with Tyler and Emily in the other home? And at dinner last night, would you have been at the TV tray or at the table because you are bigger?

Gillian got out the stockings to bring with us. I can't remember yours - I wish I could. Your picture is on the tree - so sad. But I am glad it is there.

I'm sorry you are not here with us.
I am sorry I wasn't there for you.
I am sorry that I didn't do enough for you.
I am sorry that your solution was self-destruction.

I miss you.
I love you.

Mom xxoo

God Bless

20 Months - November 18, 2010

Time is flying by - how can it be 20 months since Josh has died? It still is unbelievable to me and the same questions swirl in my head. How can this be? What happened? Why him? Why our family? Why didn't he say something? What could I have done?

My post today comes from a journal that I bring when visiting Josh. In it, I write letters to him. The one I am sharing comes from two days after my birthday, which was a sad and emotional day.

Dear Josh,
It is sunny and warm in the sun. I have made the usual run to Safeway. I like the sunflowers as they last over a week. The ones from two weeks ago are done - many of the petals have fallen off. The rest I have put on the grass - bright yellow petals marking where you lay - your final resting place.

The wind brushes across my cheeks and lifts the pages as I write. Chimes sing softly, harmonizing with each other above the drone of mowers in distant parts. Brittle leaves rustle in the wind, making their own distinctive sound. Their last stand before falling to the ground in days to come. It is a different sound than in spring or summer, at the height and fullness of life. I look up and see one leaf loosen its hold and with the wind, fall gently to the ground, scattering haphazardly on the grave sites below. A leaf would have to travel a good distance to land on your site.

It is quite and peaceful here. On the one hand, it is what I prefer. On the other, I wonder where are the living of all the dead around you? I guess over time, visits cease. Will I be able to stop coming? Right now, it is routine. I don't even think while driving - the car knows where to go.

It's been a rough couple of days, Josh. Started on my birthday. I wrote in my journal and all I could think about was the fact that you weren't here. The impact of this horrible reality hit me anew - too much, too sad. I don't want to be getting older, "celebrating" another year of life while you are dead. It hits me again how unnatural it is that you have predeceased me! Never expected! Never imagined!

Yesterday was hard too. I worked on the Halloween slide show for the blog and seeing all the pictures of you, so cute and adorable, with family and friends. Seemingly happy. You did have a happy childhood, didn't you? While working on this, I got sadder and sadder. I could feel my heart breaking inside and it became hard to breathe. Grief is so painful, Josh. It physically hurts.

At 17, your life is done. It makes me so mad I want to hit something, over and over. But there is nothing I can do. No remedy. No fixing. No going back. You've done something to yourself and ultimately to our family that is irreversible. I don't think you knew because if you did, how could you go through with it? No, I have to think that it was extremely impulsive and you were not yourself. I wish you did something that would've indicated your state of mind without being fatal.

Death is final Josh!
Silly boy.
But loved and missed by me and EVERYONE.

Love,
Mom

God Bless

Congratulations LHS and SLHS graduates

The past few days have been cloudy, overcast and rainy in the Washington DC area. But today is a beautiful day, with bright sunshine and blue skies, fitting for Graduation Day for the two high schools that our Josh attended.

Having gone through this with Josh's three older siblings, I think back to what it was like, and perhaps the feelings and thought bubbles in their minds. Amazement while getting dressed, thinking, "Wow, is it really here?" Bittersweet feelings: sad that one chapter of life is ending but excited (and a little scared) at what new experiences and friendships lie ahead. Jittery nerves while lining up with fellow graduates, waiting for the start of the ceremony. Pride when walking up to receive the hard earned diploma. Sheer joy when it is all over - surrounded by friends and family - hugs, handshakes and high-fives. Pictures, pictures and more pictures - causing twitching faces due to all the smiling. Off to family celebrations, then ANGP (all night grad party), then whatever is planned for the summer.

It is a special day for parents as well. I remember feeling many of the same things: relief and amazement that high school is over, thinking, where did the time go? Pride while watching them receive their diploma; happiness at seeing their joy. Congratulations to other graduates and families marveling at how these kids are all grown up, ready to embark on their futures, hoping that we have given them the tools to succeed. Wanting the whole week to be a special one: hosting family members, graduation parties, attending various events for seniors, volunteering at ANGP. It is their graduation, but it feels like that for us as well.

Admittedly, it has been a sadder than normal week for me as I can't help but think about what we would be doing if Josh were still alive. How different things would be. Another big event that he (and we) are missing out on.

One consolation, and it is a big one, is knowing that Josh has not been forgotten by his friends and the community. I've received a couple of emails which have touched us deeply.

I am the parent of a former classmate of Josh's (my daughter sat next to Josh throughout 6th grade at Forestville) and am also co-chair of this year's Baccalaureate at LHS for the Class of 2010. As you may remember from your older kids, Baccalaureate is an independent, interfaith, celebration of graduation with music, prayer, and reflection. We are all conscious that, in an ideal world, Josh would have been graduating with this class. As a result, one of the groups of performers have asked to dedicate their song ("Three Little Birds" by Bob Marley) to Josh. We recognize how hard this week in particular and want to let you know that Josh will be in everyone's hearts and prayers.

As high school graduation approaches, we want you and Tim to know that Josh will be in all of our thoughts. The seniors who were promoted from Forestville in 2004 will be having a kickball game and potluck dinner. As a group, we are planning a class contribution to Josh's memorial fund. Josh's blessed memory will always remain in our hearts.

While we were invited to both events and to the graduation ceremonies of both schools, it would be too difficult to attend. It is enough to know that he has been and will continue to be in the hearts of friends and classmates. I will end this post with pictures taken from a couple of yearbooks that we have received.

Inside cover of the 2009 McLean Mustang Yearbook

Half-page dedication in LHS yearbook

We appreciate so much what others have done to ensure Josh's memory lives on.

God Bless

Memories: Like Priceless Treasures

About two weeks after Josh died, a singing group at his high school, the South Lake Singers performed a moving song called Prayer of the Children at the SingStrong competition, which they dedicated to our son. (Click here to view the YouTube video on a previous post.)

A few weeks ago, I received an email from one of the singers who has since graduated and gone to college. With permission, both the email and essay are below.

"Although Josh and I were not close friends, I am good friends with many of the people that love him dearly and the few times that I did hang out with him I was always struck by how kind he was to everyone and in every situation. I regularly read your blog and keep your family in my thoughts. I am now in college, and for my freshman writing seminar my first assignment was to write a personal narrative. There were no constraints to the assignment, and with a lifetime of experiences behind me I did not know what to write about. So I sat down at my computer and just began to write, and the words that followed surprised me. I ended up writing about my experience performing "Prayer of the Children" with South Lakes Singers at SingStrong and your son. I know that the words I chose could never do him justice, and a stranger reading my paper would never understand just how wonderful he is and how much he did for the world, but I decided to share it with you so you would know that he touched and changed the people that were even on the very outskirts of his life."

I remember standing on that stage and experiencing the overwhelming feeling of unity. All of our heartbeats were suddenly one and we felt the steady beat pulsing through our connected fingers. It’s as if we were all tied together by one string; sixteen people who come from completely different places emotionally, mentally, and physically, that were suddenly all the same. We came together for one cause and we made our message clear.

I loved the time of day when I would get to put away my notebooks and binders, stand on the risers and hear the sounds of music circling all around me. There was nothing like singing to make me forget about anything real going on in my life and just let me focus on the intricate details of music. To feel the harmonies and dynamics take me away into a different world so separate from anything going on in my real world was a release I looked forward to each day. During my senior year of high school, my choir started working on a very memorable piece called “Prayer of the Children” by Kurt Bestor. It is so incredible and overpowering, the first time we heard it my teacher played it over the loud speakers in our class room and the music pushed through the whole room, threatening to make the walls expand. The voices jumped out of the speakers towards us, bringing with them the emotion of the whole song. After hearing the piece, I was thrilled to be able to try our hand at performing it, but I didn’t know if we would ever be able to match the intense passion with which the recorded choir sang. We had many excellent performers in my choir, but emotional connection is something we had always struggled with. We were good at singing the correct notes with the correct rhythms, but conveying the emotion and overall message of a song was foreign to most of us. We had never experienced the things that many songs are about like loss, heartbreak, or intense grief and we didn’t know how to find that place within ourselves where we would be able to fabricate those emotions to replay them through the song. Every class our teacher would try to get us to connect and understand what the true meanings of the lyrics we were singing were, but we were never able to reach that point on our own.

During my senior year of high school, a great tragedy struck my community. A beloved, talented, and incredible boy took his life very suddenly. Never in my life have I seen people so open with their emotions. To see football players break down and cry was heartbreaking but very connecting at the same time. This was, and remains, a very sad experience, one of the saddest things I’ve experienced in my life, but I strongly believe that everything happens for a reason and I knew that we would all be able to find a way to learn from it. To see everyone’s grief plainly expressed all over their faces shows how important Josh was to them as a friend and to our community as a whole. Nobody was ashamed to admit that losing Josh was a painful thing, and this reminded us all that even if it is not expressed every day, there are always people in our lives that care about us. He reminded us that even in the deepest and darkest shadows of life, we have to remember that those shadows wouldn’t be there if there was no sunlight to create them.

After Josh passed away, everyone was distraught. He was truly one of the most strikingly kind people I have ever met, and I know that he left a positive impression on everyone. He was an amazing athlete, helping our team score touchdowns every game but more significantly always keeping up a positive attitude in everything he did. To say it was shocking to find out Josh would no longer be flashing his quirky smile in the hallways is an understatement, he is missed every single day. There are clearly things we did not know; things he was aching to be helped with, things he was struggling with so hard internally. Josh’s struggle gives meaning to the lyrics:

“Can you hear the prayer of the children?

On bended knee, in the shadow of an unknown room

Empty eyes with no more tears to cry

Turning heavenward toward the light”.

He gave our song a meaning.

The choral program at my high school was awesome and my teacher worked so hard to ensure that we had every opportunity available to us. Because of her efforts we were able to host the East Coast A Cappella summit, an amazing event that invites professional a cappella groups from all over the world to perform and raise money for Alzheimer’s research. Every year there is a high school competition and the winner gets to open the big show on Saturday night. It is very competitive and a huge honor for the winner to be able to stand on the same stage as legendary professional groups. My choir was preparing “The Prayer of the Children” for the summit, but after Josh passed away we questioned whether something as mundane as a choir performance was appropriate during a time of such struggle. We didn’t know if we would be able to get through it, just a week after the passing of someone who was a great friend to many of us. The words are incredibly moving:

“Can you feel the hearts of the children?

Aching for home, for something of their very own

Reaching hands, with nothing to hold on to,

But hope for a better day a better day

and are so central to Josh’s struggle, and for one of the first times we were finding an unavoidable connection between our music and our lives. Even in a time of intense sorrow and emotional pain we understood that maybe our connection to the meaning of the music could be a small way to help us deal with the passing of Josh.

Standing on the stage wearing black with Josh’s number 33 painted across our chests, gave us a physical reminder of what we would never forget: what experience brought meaning to our song. In that moment on that stage I felt like part of something bigger. In light of such a huge and devastating loss that could never be replaced, we were also creating something. A connection among us and with our audience through our music-through the powerful words, the raw emotion, the crisp rise and falls of our voices as they went from loud to soft that made goosebumps rise up on the arms of all sixteen of us singing our hearts out. And that’s literally what we were doing-letting everything go from that terrible week and finding solace in the message of the music. We all felt our voices join in the air with the loss, the anger, the grief, and our need for Josh, but in that air we also found our strength. Together we would be okay by uniting ourselves in the music and for the first time feeling a connection that not only transformed our performance of the song, but brought us together in all of our times of need.

During that performance, we sang ‘Prayer of the Children’ for the first time without a physical conductor standing in front of us guiding us through the piece. We just stood there, sixteen people who come from completely different places emotionally, mentally, and physically, that were suddenly all the same. As we all lined up on the stage and clasped hands we were ready to show what we were learning from the harsh reality we were plunged into and how it gave meaning to the words we had previously sung so mindlessly over and over again. There was no cue to start, we all just knew. We felt the music within each of us because the song was no longer just a song. It was a message, it was a connection, it was Josh.

I am so grateful that Josh's friend took the time to share this with us. Any memory of our beloved Josh is a priceless treasure - stored in my heart forever.

God Bless

Surviving Suicide

Our daughter has recently attended a survivors of suicide support group in Atlanta at which those who lost fiance, parent, son, daughter, sibling, friend to suicide gathered. It was very emotional as these survivors shared their thoughts, feelings, pain and grief. One young lady is just like our daughter: one of four children where the youngest, a brother, took his life. One marked difference however, which I see as tragedy upon tragedy. She said that all of her friends have abandoned her.

Our daughter was shocked and immediately thought of herself. "What if my friends did that? How could I ever get through or "survive" this horrible loss?" It prompted her, upon returning home, to email her closest friends a note of thanks for being there: supporting, encouraging and loving her through the past 12 months.

As I shared this with Tim, we shook our heads with incomprehension. We felt sadness and sympathy for this young lady who is trying to make sense of a devastating loss and marveled at how our experience has been completely different. We have felt nothing but the highest level of support from the community, work colleagues and friends. And very important to me, Josh's friends.

I shudder to think what it would be like if we felt shunned or judged because of what Josh did to himself. One of the reasons that I think we are doing "as well as can be expected" is because of the love, thoughts, and prayers still being received. Our half/full marathon run has raised over $3,000 so far. The letters and notes that accompany the generous checks are full of support and encouragement. We hope to well exceed our goal of $4,000. This keeps me going on the challenging 10 mile runs that are part of my training.

And as each day goes by, I hear of more of ours and our children's friends who plan to be with us over that weekend. To remember Josh: tell stories, laugh, cry and just be together. It makes what would be an unbearable 1 year anniversary something to share with those who love and miss our beloved boy.

I have visited with several of Josh's friends in the past couple of weeks. One is organizing a "black out" on March 18th at school (participating students wear black to remember Josh). Another said that several of his friends have approached the principal to ask if an empty chair could be placed in what would have been Josh's seat at graduation. "Yes" was the answer, with our permission. When asked, all I could do was nod in affirmation as the tears rolled down.

I received an email from another of his friends who sent a copy of her well researched and thought out position paper for English/Government titled: "The Zero-Tolerance Policy in Schools Is Not Effective". I am encouraged to see students study, think about and write about policies that affect themselves and classmates. And in our case, a tragic and senseless loss of a young, vibrant life which was directly linked to such a policy.

A few weeks ago, I visited Josh and found this letter to him. With permission, this is what it said:

Josh,

I don't know where to begin. There's so much to say. I wish you were still here so badly I can't describe it. It's incredible how much your passing has affected us all. I wish that so much had been different, but most of all I wish you were still alive. I feel like I could have been so much of a better friend to you. I am sorry that you didn't have enough reason in your eyes to stay with us. I miss you always & forever. I hope that wherever your are, you are happier now then you were on earth.

I feel the same way as what is penned in this heartfelt note by a young friend.

I speak for Tim and each one of our children when I say that without the love, support, encouragement and prayers from family and friends, we could not bear our loss.

Thank you and God Bless

Happy 18th Birthday - January 16, 2010

I have been dreading this day and now it is here. Just typing the title causes my eyes to fill with tears. What can I say? What is there to say? Nothing really, except that I wish with all of my heart that Josh were still here. To be celebrating his 18th birthday with his family and friends, not with balloons on his grave stone saying "Happy 18th Birthday."

If he were still alive, what would we be doing? Those that knew him could attest that he did not like parties where he would be the center of attention. In fact, the last birthday party that I was allowed to organize was his 13th. How could I know that there would only be four more?

Below is a slideshow of photos from Josh's birthdays, beginning with the wonderful day he came into our family.



My dear friend, Roxanne and her son have flown in today to be with us. We went to visit Josh with arms full of balloons, flowers and photos. When we got there, we found a letter to Josh from one of his friends. Tim and I were moved by the sentiments expressed. With his permission, this is what it said:

Dear Josh,
Hey, your birthday is on Saturday so I have come to visit you. I think about you all the time. You were a great friend, who always looked out for people who needed it, especially me. We were very close for a good while, and I considered you one of the most important people in my life. I miss you so much, and I am so sorry for whatever situation led to your final act. However, I feel your death has helped so many people realize what they have in this life. I am so thankful to you for making me more appreciative and grateful for everything. I pray for you and your family often, and I hope your soul has found a peaceful place to rest. I will never forget you and everything you meant to me.

Love,
Your friend,
Always,
Kas

We spent a good amount of time decorating "Josh's tree" with photos that Roxanne had laminated, laying rose petals on the grass and positioning his balloons. Below are pictures of our handiwork. As Rox said, "Anyone who sees this will see a much loved soul". I agree.










Josh,
We love and miss you so much, especially on this day. Do you like the balloons? One is from Grandpa and Grandma. And Gillian thought you would like the dog with the shades. I will never know why you felt that leaving us was your only option and I confess that this question haunts me every day. I wish you could have understood how important you were to so many people. Maybe if you had realized this, it would have saved you. Please watch over us as it is still so very hard. We take one day at a time - it's the only thing we can do. I pray you are at peace, my beloved son. One day, we will be together again.

Love,
Mom

Give Sorrow Words

Give sorrow words.  The grief that does not speak
Whispers the o'refraught heart and bids it break (Macbeth IV, III, 211-212)

Yesterday was our 26th wedding anniversary. Tim and I found each other in college, fell in love, got married and had our first child eighteen months later. After seven years, our fourth, Josh was born. Having four children while just turning thirty and thirty-one ourselves is quite a challenge. With the support of our faith, family and friends, however, we managed to navigate the bumpy waters of raising a large family.

As time passed and the children grew, while celebrating our 10th, 15th, 20th and 25th anniversaries over a romantic dinner, one of us would always remark how lucky we felt. Lucky that we found one another; lucky to have four beautiful, bright, talented children. When others gave us positive comments about our family, we simply said, "We have not done anything to deserve this - we feel so blessed."

No more. Unbelievably, we are now part of a small minority of parents who have had to bury their child due to the violence of self-murder. Our lives do not feel very blessed right now. We are not so lucky anymore. In fact, we are extremely unlucky - to have someone commit suicide anywhere in the family tree, in any generation, is profound. To have it happen in your own nuclear family - within your four walls, in the sanctity of your own home is incomprehensible.

One minute, we were normal parents - dealing with all of the joys, challenges and issues that face anyone who is raising kids. The next minute - in a millisecond, in the time it takes to register a thought, take a breath, blink an eye - we were no longer a normal family. What happens to other people, other parents, other families has just happened to us.

In an instant, our entire world - life as we knew it - was gone. Changed forever. Irrevocably altered. Turned upside-down. Shattered. Devastated. Disintegrated. Blown up. Thrown out-of-whack. Discombobulated. There aren't enough words in the English language to describe the effect of suicide on those of us left behind.

The old "normal" is gone and there is no going back. Josh's loss and the mode of his death will forever be a part of our family. Henceforth, his absence will be felt at every family gathering, every holiday, every milestone event such as a graduation, wedding or birth.

And now, a "new" normal needs to be found. I suppose this is all part of the grief journey - to "right the ship", so to speak, so that life can go on - without the physical presence of our Josh. As a result, different words have found their way in my journal: recalibration, rebalance, reinvent, reintegrate and reboot.

Because of my analytical nature, my journey involves processing everything in my head: asking the unanswerable questions, coming up with every possible answer and thinking through each one ad nauseam - it is exhausting, but necessary. For me to get through this pain. To get to the other side.

For I do see light at the end of the tunnel.

During the week, my mind is taken up by work; things are busy as there is more than enough to do in an eight-hour period. I think this is good as it gives my thoughts a break. So on the weekend I visit Josh's grave, read, think, and cry. And plan what I will write on the blog. It is difficult, but critical. Just as air, food and water are necessary for survival, so facing the pain, sorrow and grief in my writing, head on, through this blog, is essential for healing.

Week by painful week, I feel the light getting closer - moving towards recalibration & rebalance. The new normal. I am reluctant to say peace, because how could I ever be at peace with Josh's death? Acceptance - yes. Peace - no.

I see this movement in the letters I write to Josh and will end this post with what I wrote yesterday....

Dear Josh,
I am sitting in the car by your grave site because it is raining outside. I am kicking myself for not coming yesterday when it was sunny and warm. I am starting to let myself understand what was going through your mind that night and perhaps earlier. The dark place or tunnel in which you found yourself: maybe overwhelmed and exhausted with life, and perhaps even contemplating getting help, but in the end, the thought of reaching out was unappealing. Perhaps your future seemed more like a dream than a reality and in general, your life felt out of control. And this was the only way you could be in total control.

Is this how you felt?

In a book that I am reading, the author recounts a very scary 12-hour period when she had a loaded gun on her bed with every intention of ending her life. She says that in that whole time, not once did she think about her family, her kids, her therapist - nothing but her pain. Everyone important to her was outside of her mind and not even a factor.

Was this true with you?

You would not hurt a flea - you had such a tender heart. I have to believe that you would never intentionally want to cause me this much pain. But the reality, son, is that it has. When my mind goes to the place where your death is before me, I have a physical reaction. I feel the blood rushing to my head, my mouth grimaces in pain, my eyebrows furrow, my entire face tightens and the tears flow unchecked - all within a couple of seconds.

This can happen anytime - while talking on the phone with someone who doesn't know and before getting off she asks a very innocent question, "How are your kids doing?" While driving in the car, doing yard work, taking a shower, listening to a song. Anytime, anyplace, with anyone. I cannot control these emotions. So although you did not mean to hurt me, it has - so deeply, so profoundly that I am forever changed.

And it is more than hurt, Josh. If you had died by illness, accident or even murder, a part of me would've have died too. I think any mother who loses a child prematurely, whether in the womb, a baby, child, teen or adult would feel this. But when I found you dead - by your own hand - there was a whole other part of my heart and soul that died. I can't describe it - there is a deeper pain knowing that you were suffering so much in your mind - for how long, I do not know and that death was your only option. How can I ever stop feeling as your mother, connected to you in the womb and who gave birth to you seventeen years ago, that I should have known? I should've have done something more?

In my mind, I know that it is unrealistic to think that I should be a mind reader. You didn't want anyone to know so no one did. But I can't help wishing that you had opened up and shared your heart and pain with me or someone who could help you. Because if you had done this, maybe you would be here now. Maybe we would be a lot closer as I came to understand your inner turmoil.

I would've have done anything to help you - to save you. There is nothing that would be too much. I don't say this flippantly - I would give you anything: a kidney, my liver, my blood, my life. Without a doubt. Without question. I would trade places with you if I could. You were only seventeen; I am almost fifty. My life for yours - absolutely.

But this is not to be. I suppose a saving grace is that your story is saving others. It is making people think more - especially those who struggle with the dark thoughts. My prayer is that what is on your blog will prevent their own demise. But I would take it all back to have you here with me - my baby boy.

I am moving forward - slowly. Doing things and finding interest in things that I stopped after you died - like watching Food Network, Numbers, and House. I am cross stitching the "Footprints" pattern and it is helping me. I have been watching the baseball playoff games with Dad although the Red Sox are not doing well - one game from begin eliminated. When watching, I cheer with enthusiasm.

William Shakespeare said, "Give sorrow words". I guess this is what I am doing - in my journal, in my letters to you, in your blog.

You are free from your pain and suffering. But when yours ended, mine began. I know you didn't mean for this to happen but it has. I forgive you - I hope you can forgive me.

I love you son.
Rest in peace.

Mom xxxooo

September 18, 2009 - Six Months Later

I have been dreading this day. Six months since our beloved son decided to leave us. Why? This question still haunts me. I rack my brains to find some clue, action, word or deed that would have alerted us to Josh contemplating suicide, much less going through with it. I can't come up with anything and it drives me crazy.

I ask God, "Why did this happen? Why did you allow our dear boy to take his life? Why didn't you stop it? Why didn't you give my mother's intuition a nudge?" Surely I would've acted on it. I would've have asked the hard questions. I would've forced myself into his world to make him see this was not a viable option. Now it is too late. I am too late.

God is silent. He wants me to trust Him which is hard. But I am trying. I picked up this cross stitch pattern that I plan to work on while on my grief journey. It is a story that has been around for a long time but maybe there are some who have not seen it in a while or have never read it.

Footprints
One night a man had a dream. He dreamed he was walking along the beach with the Lord. Scenes from his life flashed across the sky and he noticed two sets of footprints in the sand, one belonging to him and one belonging to the Lord.

When the last scene of his life flashed before him, he recalled that at the lowest and saddest times of his life there was only one set of footprints. Dismayed, he asked, "Lord, you said that once I decided to follow you, you'd walk with me all the way. Why at the troublesome times in my life, the times that I needed you the most, would you leave me?"

The Lord replied, "My precious child, I love you and would never, never leave you. During your times of trials and suffering when you saw only one set of footprints...
That was when I carried you."

I have read this several times in my life and it has given me comfort. But there was always a part of me that knew that I had never known real suffering. Now I know. So it is at this time, when a part of my heart feels like it has died, that I have to ask myself, "Do I really believe?"

So part of my grief journey involves the testing of my faith. Is it possible to come through this "fire" with a faith that is stronger and more genuine than ever? I hope so because I know that being at peace with Josh's decision/death will have to involve trusting God. With Josh. With me. With our family. Believing that good can come out of this horrible, unspeakable tragedy. Believing the story above.

There is a bestseller that will soon be out as a movie. I read the book, The Lovely Bones by Alice Sebold quite a while ago but as with many other things, I have a whole different perspective now. Anyone who sees the back of the book will know that this is a story about a 14-year old girl who was murdered and in heaven, is able to watch what happens on earth - with her friends, her killer, her grieving family. She sees her father writing in his journal and as I read this I wonder, "does Josh see what I write? Does he see this blog? Does he see how much he was truly loved?" I can only hope. And so I end this post with a letter to him.

Dear Josh,
I am sitting by your grave site. It is a cool, cloudy day. The mowers have come through so I've had to clear the grass clippings from your stone. Since it is cooler now, hopefully the fresh carnations that I've placed in your vase will last for a while. There is a little breeze so I hear your chimes. There are seven now in "your" tree. I am the only one here so it is quiet and peaceful.

It has been six months since you decided to leave us. I still do not understand why but know I need to accept your decision. As a mother, it is so hard. I can't help feeling like I failed you. If only you could have told me what you were really feeling inside. I would have done anything to help you. And not just me - your dad, siblings and friends too.

In your short life, you've had such an impact. I've been re-reading the comments on the blog about you. All of your friends say the same thing - that you were one of the kindest and nicest kids - who would never say anything bad about anyone else. You brought a smile to all who knew you. You made people laugh. Quieter than most, but when you spoke, people took note. Smart. A great team player. Being a surprise baby, you were always special to us. But I didn't realize, until hearing from your friends after you were gone, how special you were to them.

My son, there is nothing that I can do now except to try and accept what has happened and move on. I'll tell you, it is not easy. Sometimes I have a busy day at work and almost forget what has happened. Then I remember and it hits me like a punch in the stomach - to where I can bowl over in pain. I guess this is to be expected from a mother who has lost her baby. I know you didn't mean to cause this much sorrow and grief. I only hope that you are at peace and know how much you are loved and missed by your dad and I. You were a surprise gift given to us over 17 years ago and we cherish every moment that you were a part of our lives.

PS - I read in the paper of a 15-year old boy who threw himself in front of a train in Maryland. This is now the 6th boy between the ages of 15 - 22 that I've heard who has killed himself. I don't know the circumstances of this poor boy but some of the others, I do. They were like you, from families who loved them dearly. What did we do wrong? What is happening in our society where young men are choosing not to live? I don't know the answer, but it is scary.

PPS - You are buried in such a beautiful place - like a park. So Grandpa and Grandma have bought plots not far from where you are. So when their time comes, you can keep each other company. Also, when we got a grid map of the place where you are buried, Grandma was the first to notice that you are in section #33! We looked at each other in disbelief. It still amazes me when I think about it. Maybe Dad and I will buy plots so that we can one day be all together.

Rest in peace, beloved son. Be our guardian angel.
Love you with all of my heart,
Mom

Would anyone else like to write a letter to him? Please feel free as a comment to this post.

God Bless

An Inseparable Friendship

This slide show is in loving memory of the wonderful friendship of Josh Anderson & Bryce Armes.

Josh,
I will never have another best friend like you. For 17 years you were my very best friend and brother. I see you everyday and hear you. I don't even go 30 minutes without thinking of you. I know your death has changed so many lives. Lives you would not even think of. You closed your eyes to get people to open theirs. I will always think about you and love you man, you are my best friend. You will never be forgotten.

Love, B-rice - Rest in Peace my Brother

Five weeks after burial

Today was the first time that I went to Josh's grave site by myself. I took my journal and this is what I wrote.....

Josh,
I am sitting in the shade of a bit tree by your gravesite as it is quite warm today - the first really warm weekend of the year. There is a slight breeze and I hear your wind chimes gently sing. Last week, Grandma put a butterfly wind chime in "your" tree. I found a Langely Saxon lanyard in your room which I placed today. The trees are blooming - especially the bright pink dogwood. It is really beautiful here.





Gillian came home last night - she is finding it hard to be at school where everyone carries on as normal, despite her whole world being turned upside down in the last 5 weeks. We had a long talk about her future - whether she would take a semester off, or even go back to UVA or transfer elsewhere. The bottom line is that we want her to do what is best for her.

We felt the same way about you. Why couldn't you have talked to us about all of your feelings regarding your future - we would've listened and worked to figure out a solution for you. And if you couldn't have talked to us, why didn't you talk to someone else? So many people cared for you and would have listened.

Maybe you tried to and it was just too hard. Or maybe you didn't even know how to articulate all of the feelings you had. One of the hardest things for me is to think that you were suffering so much in your heart and mind by yourself - all alone. And that sometime, taking your life presented itself as a viable option and, in the end, became the only and right option for you.

I am having a very hard time understanding this as there is no way that I felt there were no options left. Yes, maybe things might have been a bit tougher or maybe there would be a few more obstacles to overcome, but your life was not at a dead end.

I only wish that Dad and I could have conveyed this to you more concretely so that even if you didn't have your own faith in the future, you could have lived off of ours until yours took root.

But now, it is too late as I write this with tears dropping on the page of my journal. For whatever reason, you did not reach out for the help that was there. Or we did not open our eyes enough to see the signs that you might have been giving off.

I only hope and pray with all of my heart that you are in a better place - where you can watch over all whom you love - and be at peace.

Farewell my beloved son,
Mom

Happy Easter - Day 25

I am writing this as a note to Josh.
Happy Easter Josh. Dad, Lauren, Gillian, Rachael and I met Grandpa and Grandma at your grave site this morning. It was a beautiful day, but a little cold. A little later, Roxanne and Jade visited you too. Here are some pictures taken from today.

Rachael found another chili pepper wind chime to put on the tree. Now there are four wind chimes that have been put in the tree especially for you. They sound really nice together when the wind blows. There is also a South Lakes lanyard with a football that was put there by Coach Huber.





We put a lot of flower petals on your site. Grandma brought an Easter Lily. Roxanne and Jade put red flower petals down so that with everything together, it looks like a beautiful flower quilt.






Josh - I have been praying for a sign from you that everything is okay. Others have been praying this as well. Today - I think you gave us this sign. Below is a picture I took today. Lauren and Rachael were watching a random football movie on TV and I asked Lauren to stop the movie so that we could all say "hi" to Grandpa and Grandma. When we got into the family room, your sister told me, "Mom, look at the TV." Grandma thought the girls were watching one of your game films, but it wasn't. One second earlier or later, we would not have seen this image on the TV. Your number, 33. Your color, blue. All of us who saw this, said or thought the same thing, "Josh is here with us." Thanks for giving this sign to all of us, but especially to me.



We miss you so much, it is painful at times. Here is something that Judy shared with me. One of her friends, Joan Stokes, had a terminal illness and passed away in May, 2008. She had time to prepare for her death and wrote something that was put on her prayer card. These words comfort me.

Death is nothing at all - I have only slipped away into the next room. Whatever we were to each other, that we are still. Call me by my old familiar name, speak to me in the easy way which you always used. Laugh as we always laughed at the little jokes that we enjoyed together.

Play, smile, think of me, pray for me. Let my name be the household word that it always was. Let it be spoken without effort. Life means all that it ever meant. It is the same as it ever was: there is absolutely unbroken continuity. Why should I be out of your mind, because I am out of your sight? I am but waiting for you, for an interval, somewhere very near, just around the corner. All is well.

Nothing is past, nothing is lost. One brief moment and all will be as it was before - only better, infinitely happier and forever - we will all be one together with Christ.

God Bless Josh. We miss you and love you.