6th Mother's Day - Song: I Turn To You

Holidays for me are now measured in relation to Josh's passing.  Instead of this being my 29th Mother's Day, I mark it as the 6th, sans Josh.  Tim and the kids work extra hard to make sure this day is special; I even received a recording of Gillian singing this song to me with sweet thoughts at the end - like an audio card.  I think she would be embarrassed if I posted her cover of the song so you can click here to listen to the original artist.

I Turn To You 

by Christina Aguilera

When I'm lost in the rain,

In your eyes I know I'll find the light,

To light my way.

When I'm scared and losing ground,

when my world is going crazy,

You can turn it all around.

And when I'm down,

you're there pushing me to the top.

You're always there 

giving me all you've got.

For a shield from the storm,

For a friend, 

For a love to keep me safe and warm,

I turn to you.

For the strength to be strong,

For the will to carry on.

For everything you do,

For everything that's true

I turn to you.

When I lose the will to win,

I just reach for you and I can reach the sky again.

I can do anything, 

'cause your love is so amazing,

'cause your love inspires me.

And when I need a friend,

you're always on my side.

Giving me faith taking me through the night.

For a shield from the storm,

For a friend, 

For a love to keep me safe and warm,

I turn to you.

For the strength to be strong,

For the will to carry on,

For everything you do,

I turn to you.

For the arms to be my shelter through all the rain,

For truth that will never change,

For someone to lean on.

For a heart I can rely on through anything.

For the one who I can run to 

I turn to you.

For a shield from the storm,

For a friend, 

For a love to keep me safe and warm,

I turn to you.

For the strength to be strong,

For the will to carry on,

For everything you do,

For everything that's true

I turn to you.

Happy Mother's Day Mom. I still turn to you...whenever I have a problem...whenever I need a friend.  I'm so thankful and lucky to have you as my mom.  I love you. 

Of course, listening to the song made me cry but not because of how touched I was to have this dedicated to me but because of Josh - how I was not this way for him and because of that he is gone.  I've come a realize a very painful truth recently and that is, while I have 100% forgiven Josh for his action, I have not forgiven myself.

Any my feelings go deeper - I do not even feel forgiveness is deserved and as I peer into the future, I cannot imagine a time when this would be true.

I know this feeling is irrational and untrue but it is deep, strong and powerful.  So I know there is more healing to be done within my heart.

RIP Josh - my biggest regret is that I was not a better mom to you.

Love,
Mom

Guilt and Regret - April 28, 2013

This is an example of how reading good literature makes me face difficult thoughts and feelings that might otherwise be unexplored.

I have been slowly making my way through Sophie's Choice by William Styron.  Slowly because of the number of new words to look up, define and write in my personal lexicon and also, to savor the gorgeous prose, just like one would deliberately slow down to enjoy a delicious dessert.

Sophie, the hauntingly beautiful protagonist is consumed by guilt.  The writer-narrator Stingo is witness and describes it as:

Guilt. Hateful guilt. Guilt, corrosive as brine.  Like typhoid, one can harbor for a lifetime the toxin of guilt. 

In another part, Stingo personifies his lust in a way that puts the reader in the body of a virile twenty-two year old male virgin, completely obsessed with sex.

Combining these two ideas made me think of how I would personify my feelings, namely Guilt and Regret.   This is what I wrote in my journal:

Guilt and Regret - like two peas in a pod; siamese twins, joined at the hip.  When one shows up, the other comes by default.  I wonder if there will be any point in my grief journey when Guilt will part for good, taking up residence with another poor soul; when I will be able to say clearly and soberly that I did all that I knew to do, that Josh did this to himself and therefore, I am not at fault?  I wonder.

There are moments now when these absolving thoughts float through my head but always, either softly in the background, or loudly in my ears, Guilt says, "No!  You should've known, seeing it coming, been on your guard, questioned him, talked to him......prevented his death."

Then Regret chimes in with her soliloquy which repeats like a broken record, unable to get out of the verbal rut: "what if...if only... would've....could've...should've..."

I endure their mental flogging as just punishment for not being a good mother, for although I tried to be,  I was not attentive enough, not what he needed me to be and now my Josh is dead - ergo, my fault.

I've come to accept Guilt and Regret's tenacious hold for it is the price of motherhood.  Moms protect.  Moms guard.  Moms are willing to die in order to save their children.  Moms are not supposed to outlive their precious offspring.  Good moms do not have a child who takes their own life.

So deep down, I believe Guilt and Regret words:

I should've been different.
I should've been better.
I should've seen something - a sign - even when no one else did.
I should've known and so been able to prevent his death.

And what it really comes down to is this most painful thought:

If Josh had a different mom, maybe he would be alive.

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?"

All Sorrow Feels Ancient - All Death Feels New

I recently came across one of the most profound sentences in all my reading since Josh's death.  It was not from the actual book, Fugitive Pieces by Anne Michaels - which I quickly looked up on Amazon and Goodreads, saw enough that interested me and have downloaded the sample onto my iPad - but rather, was included in a list of simple sentences in Priscilla Long's book, The Writer's Portable Mentor.

All sorrow feels ancient.

Only four words which rings so true.  Why?  What is this "ancient sorrow"? These were the questions I sought to answer in my journal.

I envision this "ancient sorrow" like a wide moving river, flowing through time and space, generations and centuries, across cultures and species, picking up all sorrow in its wake.  And I'd like to presume that this "ancient sorrow" is the most intense, the most constant, the deepest and harshest when connected to the loss of a child.

I was oblivious to its existence but no more.  Intimate with it now - I am floating on it, living in it, and have been drinking from it daily, for over three years.  This "ancient sorrow" fills me up and I know that each day, others' sorrow adds to it.

Which brings me to my next thought: Death is inevitable.  One day, life will end.  It is a known fact, a reality.  But for some reason, despite the millions of people who have already "passed away", this intimate, carnal knowledge of death is unknown.  One cannot really "know" how it will feel - the loss of a loved one - until it happens to you.  We can read about it, watch movies, listen to songs and even be moved to tears but will not really know it until we experience it first-hand.

Why?  This seems very cruel. Why can't an ancient knowledge and understanding of death be imparted to us, down through the generations so that when it happens, we might have some familiarity, some understanding, some comprehension to help us navigate through the intense emotions?  Instead, we are left to our own devices: to struggle, weather and survive the impact of an emotionally destructive tidal wave, tsunami or hurricane - for that is how loss feels.

Yes, to quote Anne Michaels again, "All sorrow feels ancient."  What I will add is this:  All death feels new.

RIP beloved Josh.

A Sinkhole

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Denial vs Disbelief

It has been a little over 2.5 years since Josh has left us and I have been thinking a lot about two words: denial and disbelief.

Denial is one of the 5 stages of grief noted by Elisabeth Kubler-Ross in her landmark book, On Death and Dying, published in 1969.  These stages (denial, anger, bargaining, depression and acceptance) were originally applied to those facing death from a terminal illness.  The audience was later broadened to include those who suffered a catastrophic loss.

Webster-Merriam's definition of denial is simple: refusal to admit the truth or reality of something unpleasant.  This is not me.  Not when Josh's absence is evident every day and the last interaction with my beloved boy is now over 2.5 years old.  The memories of a frozen seventeen year old are etched in my mind and branded on my heart.  And as I look to the future, that number will only get bigger and bigger and perhaps more painful, not less.

Words that describe disbelief are amazement, astonishment and incredulity.  This is me.  I am still amazed that our son took his life.  I shake my head in disbelief.  I know it is true but my mind has difficulty comprehending the fact.  This picture is by my computer.

Sometimes I stare at it wondering how the unthinkable happened to Josh, to us, to our family, to me.  How could it have happened?  How could it have gotten so bad in his mind?  How could a kid with everything get to a point where nothing mattered except finding a permanent way to deal with his loss and pain?  Maybe part of this disbelief is wrapped up in the constant, unanswerable question of why?  But if I knew why, would it be easier to believe?  I don't know.

This picture was taken in 2003, six years before "IT" happened.  I look at our smiling faces, totally oblivious to the impending doom of which we are now survivors.  It is hard to write these posts as I am forced to face my thoughts and feelings head on.  I am still so very sad that he is gone.  I still feel a mother's guilt which is now mixed with self-pity - a strange concoction.

When You Sign On To Be A Mother

I have been reading A Widow's Story by Joyce Carol Oates, a prolific writer who, like Joan Didion, has penned her "grief journey" after the unexpected death of her life-long husband.  She struggles terribly and being childless, her loneliness is acute and painful.  I expect to be writing more posts on my thoughts from this brutally honest and poignant memoir.

But with my third Mother's Day without Josh in the rear view mirror, this particular quote struck me.

"When you sign on to be a wife, you are signing on to being a widow one day, possibly."

What about when you sign on to be a mother?  My thoughts below. 

"When you sign on to be a mother, you are signing on to experiencing a love so vast and immense, it is incomprehensible until you feel it - the first time you hold your child.  For until this point, you have felt what you thought was love - for your parents, siblings and spouse.  But nothing compares with this love, a mother's love - overwhelming, fierce and immeasurable.  

You are no longer you - a woman, daughter, sister or wife - no, you have entered that sacred realm of a mother. With a love so feral, you would fight anything and anyone to protect your child. Where the decision to forgo your own life, if it meant the life of your child is ready-made, and if it came down to it, non-negotiable.  No sacrifice is too big, you would do anything."

The only problem with loving your child this much - with all your heart and soul - is that this love, which makes you a good, caring and sacrificial mother, also makes you vulnerable.  You are exposed.....to death, that merciless monster who could take your child away; by illness, accident, violence or in my son's case, suicide.  You never expect to bury your child and when you do, a part of you dies and is buried too.  This is the horrific "cost" of being a mother.

Is it worth it?  Well, what is the alternative?  Protect yourself by not having children?  Or if you do, hold back on your love?  No - these are not viable options.  So you just have to pray, that if the unthinkable happens, that you, with the help of faith, family, and friends can survive the immense grief, a mother's grief.

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.)

Happy Birthday Josh - January 16, 2011

Josh would be 19 years old today...if he were alive. These months are harder than usual because they make up a "season of grief", as one of my books calls it. This happens when your deceased child's birthday and death anniversary fall within a three month period of time. Add in Christmas and New Years and it is a triple header.

I was going to Josh's grave site today to place "Happy Birthday" balloons, lost in thought while listening to an audiobook, and was jolted to reality by the harsh, loud sounds of an ambulance and fire truck racing by. They turned into a subdivision and I was immediately brought back to the day that Josh died. I had called Tim, hysterical, after finding Josh. He called 911 and before I knew it, sirens were screaming down our street and stopping in front of our home. Paramedics came racing up the stairs and shooed me out of his room. I remember looking out the front window, seeing the red trucks and thinking, "I can't believe this is happening to us."

Today, as I watched the trucks enter the neighborhood, I thought of the poor soul in need of help and hoped that it was not too late. Then I thought of those paramedics who have answered other 911 calls last year and found teenagers, just like Josh, dead by their own hand. How many have there been in our area? How are the parents and families coping? How do the paramedics handle seeing such tragedy?

As time marches me towards the 2-year death anniversary on March 18th, like a conveyer belt that I cannot escape from, I think about my "grief journey". Words flow through my mind that describe the terrible work needed to come to grips with the loss of my beloved boy. Words like:

• assimilate
• integrate
• incorporate
• comprehend
• take in
• reconcile
• come to terms with
• adjust to
• accept
• resign
• submit to

The magnitude of losing a child is so great, that the reality can only be faced in small doses. Only as much as a mother's breaking heart can bear. There is a frailty and fragility to my soul now - despite what may be seen from the outside. Painfully aware that our family is not immune to tragedy, my greatest fear is if something happened to one of our other three children. I tell God that I could not survive it and beg Him to please spare them. "If one must go," I say, "take me."

Today was cold and blustery at the cemetery with the wind cutting through my jeans and gloves. "Partly sunny, partly cloudy," the weatherman would say. The ringing chimes in the trees reminded me of church bells. While securing the balloons to the vase, I noticed two items placed in the hole that holds his vase. I didn't recognize them as Josh's but they very well could be. I don't know who has done this or the significance of the items, but am happy that others visit him, just as I do.

Happy 19th Birthday Josh. We love and miss you. R.I.P.

Love,

Dad and Mom

19 Months Later - October 18, 2010

I have just started reading two books: Beyond Tears: Living After Losing a Child by Ellen Mitchell and When the Bough Breaks: Forever After the Death of a Son or Daughter by Judith Bernstein.

The book by Mitchell compiles thoughts and quotes from nine women who have lost their children; the youngest was 16 years old and the oldest was 28. Bernstein lost her 26 year old son in 1987 to cancer. She did not find the kind of support books that exist today so she set out to write one - interviewing 55 people who had lost a child at least 3 years old and had been gone at least 5 years at the time of the interview.

It helps me to read these books - like dropping in on a support group at will. If there is a story that does not help, I can skip it. If it is too much, the book is put down for a later date. If something hits home, I can underline, highlight, dog-ear the page and write in my journal until thoughts and feelings are analyzed and exhausted.

It helps but it is not easy. As Bernstein says:

No one ever taught us how to mourn, how to deal with the intense emotions, the isolation, the chaotic thoughts, the dizzying ups and downs. No one gets an instruction book about how to deal emotionally with the death of any loved one, let alone the death of one's child; it's too unthinkable. Mourners are in turbulent, unchartered waters without a guide (5).

And because grief and mourning is very specific to the individual, (i.e. what helps me may not help someone else), you are on your own, even in spite of tremendous support from family, friends, or professional counselors. The grief journey can only be traveled by the individual mourner, one step at a time, one day at a time. There is no proxy. I cannot pay someone to travel in my stead. I could possibly deny or postpone the journey but in time, it will be forced upon me.

After nineteen months, I am, of course, still on this journey. The crushing, heart-breaking and relentless grief experienced in the first months after Josh's death has given way to another grief. Mitchell calls it "shadow grief". A good analogy. Always there, though not always seen.

I wanted to share a quote from her book that I have been thinking about lately.

When your children are here, you tend to take them from granted. When they are gone you think of them twenty-four hours a day.

So true. While I think about my other three children daily, Josh is present 24/7 and his death colors my life like a lens through which all experiences pass. For example, I think about him during my reading, no matter the book, genre or subject matter. A recent example will illustrate.

Through convoluted means, which I don't mean to get into now, but could be another post entitled something like "Grief Journey Creates Reading Journey", I bought and read T.H. White's classic, The Once and Future King and loved it. The book is a wonderful story of the Arthurian legend: the boy who pulls the sword from the stone and becomes King, Merlyn, Lancelot, the Knights of the Round Table, Camelot, Queen Guenever and the Quest of the Holy Grail. But how can anything written in the years between 1938-1941 have anything to do with Josh, you ask?

In another post, I wrote about Josh's special connection with dogs. The following passage made me think of him and what would be his dream job.

In Sir Ector's kennel there was a special boy, called the Dog Boy, who lived with the hounds day and night. He was a sort of head hound, and it was his business to take them out every day for walks, to pull thorns out of their feet, keep cankers out of their ears, bind the smaller bones that got dislocated, dose them for worms, isolate and nurse them in distemper, arbitrate in their quarrels and to sleep curled up among them at night. He would talk to them, not in baby talk like a maiden lady, but correctly in their own growls and barks. They all loved him very much, and revered him for taking thorns out of their toes, and came to him with their troubles at once. He always understood immediately what was wrong, and generally he could put it right. It was nice for the dogs to have their god with them, in visible form.

Another passage, describing Sir Lancelot's view of himself was more sobering.

There was an impediment of his nature. In the secret parts of his peculiar brain, those unhappy and inextricable tangles which he felt at the roots, the boy was disabled by something which we cannot explain. He could not have explained either. He hated himself. The best knight in the world: everybody envied the self-esteem that must surely be his. But Lancelot never believed he was good or nice. Under...there was shame and self-loathing.....

I circled this passage after reading and wrote, "was this Josh?" Maybe not what he felt for most of his life, but what about those last days? What about the last hours? He needed to get rid of a problem. What if he thought the problem was himself? Trying to understand his suicidal mindset is futile, I know, but I still ask.

And so I continue to muddle through my days - reading, thinking and writing - with "shadow grief" attached.

God Bless

THE QUESTION - Over Eighteen Months Later

Where has the time gone? It has been over eighteen months since Josh's passing. So hard to type the three italicized words. Not only that, there are several ways I could say it. For example, very straightforwardly: "It has been over eighteen months since Josh's death." Or if I wanted to indicate how he died: "It has been over eighteen months since Josh's suicide." Or if my fingers cannot type the "s" word, I can say: "It has been over eighteen months since Josh decided to leave us."

All say the same thing - he is gone. No longer here. No calls....no texts.....no jokes....no smirk....gone.

It has been over eighteen months and in some ways, I still can't believe it. Yes, the room is still empty. Yes, it is just Tim and I at home with our dogs. Yes, he was not in our family Christmas picture last year. Yes, I "visit" him every weekend and bring fresh flowers, trim the grass around his stone, scrub the dirt away and once done with my little "chores", sit and write a letter to him. Yet in spite of these truths, it is still hard for me to believe that he is really gone. I can't explain it. Maybe in God's mercy, it is His way for this awful truth to seep into my heart, mind and soul rather than be borne full force as He knows a mother could never survive.

But the reality hits me in other ways. Recently, I went to a friend's baby shower. Most of the women were strangers and while in the past, I would've engaged them in conversation about such innocuous things that are part of "mother talk" like: how many kids do you have, how old are they, what are they doing, etc., I was panicking internally that someone would ask me these questions. So I was a quiet guest, aloof and stoic. There was nothing in my demeanor or body language that would invite conversation. I was successful. No one approached me and asked THE QUESTION. As a result, I felt a bit sad while driving home. "Pre-Josh", this would've been a time to be refreshed as a woman and mother - connecting with others about life, family, and children. Instead, I felt empty. But small price to pay as THE QUESTION needed to be avoided at all cost.

In Suzanne Redfern and Susan Gilbert's book, The Grieving Garden: Living With the Death of a Child: 22 Parents Share Their Stories, there is a whole chapter devoted to this issue.

One of the incidents many of us dread the most is being hit with THE QUESTION when a stranger asks about our children. It feels like a body blow to our most tender and vulnerable places. THE QUESTION is excruciating when it assults us in situations like a dinner party, the dentist's chair, or an airplane seat. What do you say when you're asked, "How many children do you have?" (pg 31).

One parent's response

Even though I know my answer, I still dread hearing THE QUESTION. Most of the time I can feel it coming. It's often especially hard, as for many people, discussions of their children are "happy talk", relating how much they enjoy watching their children grow and be happy. I know my answer is going to change the atmosphere from happy to horror, as all suddenly contemplate the worst fear of every parent - loss of a child. After "the answer" from me, there's "the reaction". All of us have experienced the reaction of totally ignoring what's been said. Maybe the other party even immediately changes the subject. Maybe a quick acknowledgement and then back to "happy talk" (pg 35).

What more "happy talk" occurs than at a baby shower??? No, THE QUESTION had to be avoided at all cost. In fact, as shown in the next example, one can get very adept in avoiding THE QUESTION.

Last week, I was at a training meeting for work. The night before, several of us met at the hotel bar for drinks before dinner. While most of my work colleagues know about our tragedy, some did not. I was talking to one "uninformed" colleague and the conversation got around to children. She turned to me and began asking THE QUESTION. I immediately focused on what was showing on a nearby TV screen and made some comment that distracted her and everyone else. Mission accomplished. It was a very deliberate move on my part, but one that still feels foreign.

At this time, I am most comfortable with parents that knew Josh or have kids who knew him. We recently went out to dinner with 3 such couples and I was genuinely interested in knowing what was going on with their sons who have gone off to college. Keeping up with their kids is a thin thread to Josh - what he might be up to if still alive. The night did not pass without some tears on my part as we remembered him, but thankfully, they understand and are not afraid of my emotions.

There are ripple effects to Josh's passing, his death, his suicide in terms of how my life has changed. The way I interact with others at a baby shower or a work event is one small example.

God Bless

Reminders - September 10, 2010

In a previous post I had shared about a cross stitch pattern, Footprints, that I was working on as part of my grief journey. As one who is notorious for beginning projects and letting them languish for years, I finished this in record time. When completed, off I went to the craft store, taking advantage of their 50% sale to get it matted and framed. It now is on the living room wall, next to the piano, on which numerous items received in the months after Josh's death are displayed.

These items, like many other pictures around our house are reminders not only of our beloved Josh but of our loss. This blog is also a painful reminder. When I read previous posts or write a new one, I have to be ready. Prepared to feel the loss or the "abyss" as one mother , whose 21-year old son died after being hit by a car, puts it in the book, The Grieving Garden: Living With the Death of a Child by Suzanne Redfern and Susan Gilbert. Her description of the abyss: "the searing sense of the full realization of his death....breathtaking, staggering intensity of pain...shattering, unbelievable quality of knowing that my child is gone."

This is what she felt on a daily basis in the days, weeks and months after his death. Then, nine and a half years later, she writes:

I live the bulk of my life at a safe distance from the edge of the abyss. Those early months and years, I often felt that I was right on the edge. Living so near to that abyss left very little room in my life or heart for anything else. And I truly didn't think I would survive if I fell in. Now, while its always in my peripheral vision, my field of awareness, I'm usually not at the edge. But I can go there. Sometimes I am swept there unexpectedly. Other times, on anniversaries or simply on a quiet afternoon, I can choose to go there and feel this primal grief, that bottomless sorrow. For me, to hold his life forever, forever alive in me means that I must also hold his death forever alive in me. I hold it all: the gift of him, the miracle of his life and being, and the abyss. (249-250)

These words really spoke to me. Especially the words: primal grief and bottomless sorrow. This is accurate. This is true. It is what I feel when the loss of our son hits me. When the reality of his death slaps or smacks me in the face. There is no consolation, nothing that can be said or done to make me feel better.

Then the other reality sinks in....that life goes on. The living must continue to live. Josh is gone, but I am not. And so, I have my time of weeping while writing this post, and then onto other things. It is like living on an emotional roller coaster - quite draining. This is why I reserve writing blog posts for the weekend. It is too much emotion for the week as I work in a fairly high-stress job. So it is trying to manage. Cope. Deal. Figure out what I can handle and what I can't which is not easy. And while reading books is helpful, this grief journey is individual. It is unique for each person. So in many ways, one has to figure it out as they go. And with the help and support of family and friends, hopefully I can come through on the other end.

I will end this post with photos of my finished project - in dedication to our much loved and missed boy, Joshua.



God Bless

Her Name is Grief - August 3, 2010

In the past, when reading or hearing of other family's tragedies, I had thought ourselves lucky that we had been spared, then quickly knocked on wood. We had four children who were easily conceived and born, slept through the night at 6 weeks old, did not suffer from colic, and were well behaved. Tim was 100% engaged as their father and in spite of our different personalities, we rarely disagreed on how to raise them. We had no experience with death of an immediate family member as both mine and his parents are living - we haven’t even suffered the loss of our dogs.

Death and his close cousin, Grief rarely intruded in my life, except for example, while reading a sad story. Also, I do cry easily at movies, even an animated one like Lion King, when a character that I care about, dies. At those times, Grief, like a shawl, drapes over my shoulders, enveloping me in her sorrow but is easily discarded when closing the book or walking out of the movie theater. I am now aware that this was only a glimpse of her, a shadow of her true self.

Since Josh's death, on that fateful day of March 18, 2009, Grief, in all of her overwhelming fury, domination, and expansivenss; with no mercy, respite, or break -the "real deal" has come to stay. She invades my heart, soul and mind and when full blown, fills every cell and crevice within my body. Nothing is off limits or sacred. She is with me everywhere, all of the time; no matter what I do or where I am at, she is there. She has now become a part of me. I cannot escape. There is no place to hide, she finds me everywhere.

Strange. What gives her such strength? Such tenacity? Such power? It is tied directly to the love for my boy, who is now gone. Because I love him so much, I grieve so much. And I will love Josh until the day I die, so it stands to reason that I will also grieve until the day I die.

I feel her everywhere. In a picture of Josh, she is there. When I see a kid who has the same kind of build as him, she is there. When I think of places we have been or things we have done, she is there. For example, we are now on vacation in Vermont, a place where he has been. Sometimes, Josh and I would play golf with Tim, in a "best ball" format. With the strokes given (1 if less than 250 yards, 2 if more), it would be quite competitive. I will never forget his smile when a well struck 9-iron would sail 150+ yards, the distance of my driver - sad to say.

During a recent round of golf, on a particular hole, the memory of playing with Josh was so vivid, I could almost "see" him. I remember it being a perfect match of our good/bad shots. We used my drive which landed left of the fairway. His second shot put us in front of the green on the right. We used my pitch up to the green and he made the putt. Anytime we beat Tim on a hole, we would quietly give each other a fist pump. I am happy for this distinct memory, but Grief finds me as well.

I want her to go, but not really for she is proof of my love for Josh. And so, in a weird way, I embrace her, revel in her strength, marvel at how powerful she is. I want her to stay for I fear the time when I don’t cry for him. Would that mean that my love has lessened? Or that I am forgetting him? Or is it possible that as time goes on, she gets weaker, so other emotions can come back? For early on, she is so big, so huge that all other feelings are crowded out. In that way, she is quite selfish and jealous. But maybe over time, she will shrink, so there is room for others - like joy, happiness, peace, contentment, and hope.

I am glad that I don’t feel her 24/7. I know she is there but she lets me get on with other aspects of my life: family, job, working out, reading, etc. She does not control every waking moment, of which, I am thankful. I don’t think I could handle it - way too much. I can hear her voice:

"You have to feel me from time to time. I can’t be pushed back or down for a long period of time. I need to come up and breathe, explode, be felt. Otherwise, it will be worse for you. I know it’s hard, but you have to let me come up. You have to feel me - not all the time, but some of the time. I am not an ogre. I am actually here because of you. For if you didn’t love Josh so much, I would not have a reason to be with you. So do not be afraid. Do not hate me. Do not despise me. We are both here together because and only because of your love for Josh.”

So there it is. Love, death and grief - intertwined. I can’t change what has happened and because of that, she is here to stay.

God Bless

Grief Journey - How Long?

As mentioned in the Mother’s Day #2 post, I have read a short book called Life After The Death Of My Son: What I am Learning by Dennis Apple. This father lost his 19-year old son due to complications brought on by mono. He died in his sleep on the family room couch and was discovered by his dad. It was a totally unexpected death of an otherwise healthy young man. He wrote this book 17 years after the death of his son and I have found much that validates my own feelings/experiences with gentle guidance for the long road ahead.

On the grief journey:

• First year was a daze - living a parent's worst nightmare.
• Second year, facing painful reminders on the calendar, "we knew we were in this for the long haul."
• Parents who have lost a child are in a fog, like waking up from general anesthesia, for years, not days.
• "Bereaved parents feel as though they're on a long, sad march but have no final destination. We feel as though this overwhelming sadness will be with us forever."
• "Bereaved parents are also learning how to play hurt, but the casual onlooker has no idea how badly they've been injured or how long it will take to recover."
• Grieve until the "cup of sorrow is fully drained."
• In the author's case, it was five long years before he and his wife were ready to move forward with their lives.

Although it is daunting to think that my grief journey is in it's infancy, I don't shy away from this truth. Deep in my heart and soul, I know it will take a very, very long time to recover from or be reconciled to Josh's death. How long? I don't know. Why so long? Apple gives some answers.

Why the death of a child, in particular, is so hard:

• Losing a child is like "having your heart ripped out of you, without the aid of an anesthetic."
• It is unnatural - summed up in this saying: "When I buried my parents, I buried my past; when I buried my spouse, I buried my present; but when I buried my child, I buried my future."
• A child carries the parent's DNA. Everything connected to the parent that was in that child dies as well: physical features, mannerisms, idiosyncrasies, etc.
• This death is unique, creating a cascade of other losses: future birthdays, graduation celebrations, first job, wedding, first home, grandchildren.
• Parents grieve over these additional losses.

I've learned that losing Josh has been a compound loss. Loss upon loss upon loss. Like dominoes - one falls and so they will eventually all fall. One event that builds upon itself. This is why it has been so overwhelming.

Why it will take as long as it takes:

• "As a parent mourns the death of her child, the mourning itself provides the connection between the parent and the child....an invisible umbilical cord that keeps the two connected. To cut the cord would be abandoning the child. Few grievers understand this truth, and it is the reason we become resentful of those who try to hurry us through our grief. To us who grieve, it feels as though they - the buck-up-and-get-over-it people - are trying to separate us from our child."
• In fact, people who try to push grieving parents towards a quick resolution, show that by doing so, they have not suffered this loss. Fellow bereaved parents know better.
• A good response for those well-meaning people: "People close on houses, not the death of a child."

The whole concept that mourning Josh maintains my connection to him is not something I could have articulated prior to reading this book, but it is true. And even the thought of someone saying "I should be over his death by now" makes me angry. I hope this is never said to me.

Why it means so much to keep up with Josh's friends:

• "Grieving parents keep a mental record of the age of their child, and they carefully watch whose who were friends of their child as they continue on."

Aha! This is why I like receiving emails, calls and visits from Josh's friends. Why I am happy to accept a friend request on Facebook. Why I know what college choices have been made. Why I have graduation photos in small frames on a table with Josh's pictures. Why his friend's sports photos are on my fridge. Why Tim goes to see his friends play football, basketball, baseball and lacrosse. We still want to know what goes on in these boy's lives - those who are the same age as our Josh would have been.

Do you ever get over it?

• This author's answer, seventeen years later: "No, you never get over it. It gets different, but you never get over it. For us, the first five years represent the worst of the nightmare. We'll have a big scar on our hearts forever."

Surely Josh did not know this would be the consequence of his fatal action. But I wish he did, for maybe that knowledge would have saved him.

God Bless

Death Changes Everything

I feel like I am stating the obvious when I say that death changes everything. Not only death, but more specifically, the death of a child.

In my reading, I have "graduated" to books that deal with parental bereavement, not specifically related to suicide. I say, graduated, because these books did not interest me in the past. I only wanted to know what survivors of suicide had to say or what their experiences were. I am now ready to look at the feelings and experiences of a broader group of unfortunate parents, those who have lost a child - at any age, by any means.

I have found much in the book, After the Death of A Child: Living with Loss Through the Years by Ann Finkbeiner. According to the introduction, the author lost her only son at age eighteen via a train accident. Her motivation in writing the book was to determine the long term effects on parents when their child dies. This was of personal interest and yet, little research or articles/books could be found. So she decided to interview a number of parents and write her own book.

Two major things were learned.

First: Letting go of a child is impossible. No matter how long it had been since the death of their child, none of the parents had "gotten over it". Yes, the pain of the death had receeded, but not the loss itself. A psychologist named Dennis Klass wrote: "The bereaved parent, after a time, will cease showing the medical symptoms of grief, but the parent does not "get over" the death of the child. Parenting is a permanent change in the individual. A person never gets over being a parent. Parental bereavement is also a permanent condition" (pg. 20).

One mother described it like this: "When other people die, it shakes you but you stay right side up. When a child dies, it flips your world over completely" (pg. 152).

Second: A child's death is disorienting. Words that parents used to describe this catastrophic event: inexplicable, unattributable, unnatural, senseless, wrong, unfathomable. And because it is so unnatural, accepting the finality of death is difficult. This book suggests it takes a year for the reality to sink in while the finality takes hold in the second year. This explains why many parents find the second year worse than the first. This scares me. How can anything be worse than the first year?

So parents have to live with a reality that does not make sense, while always carrying around the memory of their child. A tall order. One mother put it this way: "There's always this sadness. Even when you're happy, you've still got this sadness. I'm just dragging around this little bit that's sad. In a way, it's a handicap that we've got. It's there, and I think it always will be" (pg.201).

I think so too. An analogy that comes to mind is amputation. If one loses a limb, such as an arm or a leg, this is a permanent change which will require adjustments for the remainder of life. The loss is ever present. Affecting everything. A handicap that never leaves. One must find the strength, stamina and will to live with it and in spite of it.

A child is part of a parent's heart and soul. Losing a child is like being subject to an internal amputation. Perhaps not visible, but the loss is always there. In fact, when I look at myself in the mirror, I see it. A hole. An emptiness that only Josh could fill. A mother whose eyes can fill with tears within seconds. With all the tears that I have shed, it is surprising that I am not a dry, shriveled up person. Or maybe I am - on the inside.

We are in our second year without our beloved Josh. Parents interviewed for the book said that it took 4, 5 or even 6 years before they began to feel somewhat normal. This makes sense to me. It is so hard to describe the devastation felt - it is like our "Ground Zero". Nothing will be the same. As Tim says, "All we can do is to take one day at a time."

Thanks for the continued thoughts and prayers. I am not ashamed to say that we still need them.

God Bless.

Happy Easter Josh - April 4, 2010

Spring is finally here! After a harsh winter with record snow falls, the DC area is showing signs of rebirth. Cuttings of the earliest blooming trees, bushes and bulbs, (cherry blossoms, forsythia, and daffodils) are what I put in Josh's vase, in celebration of the new season.

We are now into "year 2" of our lives without Josh. It feels odd to write this for at some level, it seems like yesterday that the unthinkable happened and now, here we are, over a year later. How am I feeling these days? The answer is best described by the analogy of emerging from a "grief cocoon" - slowly ready to look at what is going on around me, reach out, take part, make plans and move forward with life.

The operative word is "slowly". In The Worst Loss: How Families Heal from the Death of a Child by Barbara Rosof, this quote describes my year:

Grieving is the hardest work we do. Simply put, grieving is the work of coming to terms with the fact that the person we love is dead. It is terrible work, and utterly necessary. If we do not grieve, we stay frozen in pain; only by grieving can we enable our lives to continue. Grieving families learn their own measure. What they once felt they could not bear for a day, parents find they can bear every day, only because they must. Acute grief, with its disorganizing symptoms and loss of function, slowly gives way to the long, long haul of mourning. This long haul is the work simultaneously, of building a life in which the child does not live and in keeping the child alive in our heart (pp 47-48).

I have not thought of grieving as "work", but rather something painful to be endured. This blog, however, is the evidence of the "hard work" done over the past twelve months. It is not only a web memorial to Josh, but a record of the tasks outlined in the following quote:

When you lose someone you love, your world changes forever. When you lose a child, it falls to pieces. Nothing can ever be the same again. Through grieving you must reassemble a world in which you can live. This new world is not built in a day or a year. Parents say they work with these tasks intensely for two to four years and, one way or another, for the rest of their lives. When a child dies, bereaved parents must:

• Face the finality of the loss;
• remember past memories and experiences with their child;
• sort out what aspects of their child they can keep and what must be let go;
• deal with a sense of failure and personal diminishment; and
• build a life for themselves without their child (pg 51)

Reading this book has validated my own experiences and feelings. The massive scanning project that has overtaken my dining room is a way for me to re-live memories of Josh, as I look through pictures at every stage of his short life. Every memory that his friends have shared are like precious puzzle pieces, giving way to a fuller picture of our son. Many blog posts and journal entries have described the difficulty in accepting Josh's death and the overwhelming guilt due to the cause.

And it seems like every experience, conversation or event can be related back to Josh - in some way. This is natural, at least from the point of view of a clinical social worker who has lost two children of her own. Her comment resonates with me:

What I always stress to parents is to take care of themselves and to give themselves time. Most people's timetables for grieving are ridiculously short. Allow yourself two years to get to where your child isn't at the center of your awareness all the time....that's if you're straight with yourself and let the feelings come. If you try and suppress it, it'll take you longer. Then for most people, it's another two years before they feel their lives are reliably back on track. It is a long process, but I haven't seen any way to speed it up (pg 60).

And so the "grief journey" continues. Perhaps not as acute as before, but by no means, close to being over. This may be the most challenging realization for friends and even family - to understand that we have traveled through only one phase of our journey and that our "grief work" must continue. And it cannot be hurried for there are no shortcuts. The way to the other side of grief is through it.

I end this post with poignant words sent on a recent card, which are a source of comfort to me.

God has not promised
skies always blue,
flower-strewn pathways
all our lives through;
God has not promised
sun without rain,
joy without sorrow,
peace without pain.

But God has promised
strength for the day,
rest for the labor,
light for the way,
Grace for the trials,
help from above,
unfailing sympathy,
undying love.

Kristone

God Bless

My "Josh" tattoo - March 13, 2010

When we walked in for our appointment today, the place was buzzing with activity. Three artists were busy working on tattoos that were as varied as the people getting them. A high school girl accompanied by her friend and mother, and two others, male and female, probably in their late 20's. I was with two of Josh's friends, one of which was also getting a tattoo, in memory of him.

Josh's friend wanted his initials, "JLA" in light grey. I brought samples of his written work, as his friend wanted it in his writing.

For my tattoo, Josh left a very short note on that fateful night, with two sentences and his name. "Josh", possibly the last thing he ever wrote is what I wanted on the inside of my left forearm; small enough where I could hide it under my watch if needed, but still in a place where I could see it.

Getting ready - my pulse had quickened and sweat beads were forming on my brow. I must not be the only customer that experiences this, as a strategically placed fan was turned on by the artist, when he saw my discomfort.

I could not watch the procedure. And, contrary to other's experience, this did sting!

My beloved son's name, written on the night that he died, etched not only in my heart, but now on my skin.

"Pre-Josh", I would have never set foot in a tattoo place. But neither would I be writing on a blog. Or training for and running in a half marathon, which happens in less than a week. I've learned that "all bets are off" when you lose a child. The inconceivable has occurred, at which point, to deal with the loss, sorrow and grief, anything is possible.

I have also learned that grieving is personal. What helps one person deal with their loss may not be sufficient or appropriate for someone else. No matter how well meaning, it is not helpful to judge or criticize how someone grieves the loss of a loved one. The only exception I can think of, is if self-harming behavior is the result.

Grieving is also complicated, especially in the case of a suicide. And it is a lonely journey that must be taken to arrive on the "other" side - peace and acceptance. I have to admit, that almost a year into this "grief journey", I do not feel any closer to experiencing peace. I have to believe it will come but do not know when. Nor do I have any expectations. When you love someone as deeply and thoroughly as a mother does a child, how can there be a timetable?

So I continue to take one day at a time for this is all I can do. And I keep ending my posts with the same truth - Josh's tragic and sudden death has been more bearable due to the love, support, thoughts and prayers that we continue to receive.

God Bless

11 Months Later - February 18, 2010

For some reason, these blog posts have become more and more difficult to write. Is it because the raw, open pain that desperately needed an outlet has lessened to an ever present throb that I must learn to live with on a daily basis? Or is it because when I sit down to write a post, I must face my feelings about Josh's tragic suicide and right now, it is easier to just watch TV and work on my "Footprints" cross stitch pattern. Or read a book. Or work on my photo scanning project. Even cleaning the house, doing the laundry, running or working are more preferable than facing my feelings.

Strange - a few months ago, my feelings and thoughts were in constant need of expression, whether via my journal or this blog. A dormant writer emerged from the overwhelming depths of pain, sorrow, guilt and grief. These days, the well has run dry. The budding writer has retreated. My mind is blank when sitting at the computer. For what else is there to say?

All the questions that went round and round in my head after finding our beloved Josh no longer alive are still there - no answers have been found. How are we dealing with this unbearable loss? "One day at a time" remains our motto. How is my heart? It is still broken. Has it become easier to accept his premature death? No, it is still unbelievable.

Grieving over the death of a child for a period of months is mentally and emotionally exhausting. I feel empty. Like someone has popped a balloon and all that is left is a small piece of elastic material. Any energy I have is reserved for getting through each day: working, keeping up with the house, training for the upcoming half marathon, and being there for our surviving children. After that, there is nothing left.

Maybe my mind and heart have needed a "break" as after today, time will be marching on toward the 1 year anniversary of Josh's death - March 18th, 2010. All three of our children will be home and I hear friends from out-of-town plan to travel to be with us. I would like to do something special, but have not gotten very far in making plans for when I start thinking about this day, all I can do is cry.

Our lives were completely shattered when Josh decided to leave us. It is hard recovering from something like this. Thank you for continuing to remember us in your thoughts and prayers. We do feel them and it does help.

God Bless

My Journal - My Friend

In the post Writing To Heal, I share how the act of writing has become a life preserver for me, saving my life. This was written at the end of August, and four months and three major holidays later (Thanksgiving, Christmas and New Year), it is still the case - even more so. And as I look to the future, with Josh's 18th birthday on the horizon (January 16th) and the ever looming one year anniversary date on March 18th, I suspect that without my new friend, I would not survive.

My journal writing over the years has been sporadic and if I look back on the entries, very boring. Pretty much a list of activities done by myself or members of my family. Not much color or emotion.

Since Josh's death, I have already filled three blank books. Thoughts, questions, emotions and feelings such as hurt, pain, sorrow, and grief are scribbled in these pages. I am doing a lot of reading and as I journal through the books, it helps me to remember what I've read, and internalize key thoughts and ideas.

For example, I can relate to the author of The Suicide Index. Joan Wickersham was already out of the home, married with a child when her father shot himself. Fifteen years after his death, she began penning this memoir. She ponders over the same questions that I have.

What was it about him that made him add up the reasons and come up with dying as the right answer? Had he been adding up reasons? Was it possible to arrange rational causes in a column and arrive at an irrational result? Was his death a rational act, or an irrational one? Was his suicide a decision he made, or a force beyond his power to control? Did he have a choice? If so, then he did something unforgivable. If not, then how can we blame him? (69, 229)

I read this book quickly, with my customary underlining, writing in margins and dog-earring the pages that speak to me. Let's just say that I would not be able to resell this book or even give it away. After finishing, I set it down for a few days. Then came back, re-read what I marked, and opened up my journal. This is what I wrote about the above quote:

First of all, will I be obsessed with these questions fifteen years from now? I hope not, but knowing me, I probably will be. "Queen Analyzer" - that could be my middle name. It is like taking a thread - a question or thought and following it to where it leads. Problem is, the answer is unknown, or if it could be known, it is complicated. Cannot be one answer. Someone cannot commit self-murder as the result of a simple answer - like he was a teenage, impulsive, spur of the moment, wasn't thinking, his brain was not fully developed. Too neat, like an accident. Cannot explain an accident, it just happens. Unavoidable. Chance. Nothing could be done. I am therefore absolved of all guilt as a mother of a child who committed suicide. Sorry, I can't accept this. I cannot or will not let myself off the hook that easily. So while some of this may be true, I reject it as the only answer.

I currently write in a bound black book with unlined pages which I found for around seven dollars. Being the control freak that I am, I was unsure about writing without any lines. "Be free, write big, small, diagonally across the page, draw - whatever you want to do," the "how-to" journal books have said. Surprisingly enough, I do like it. And I've found a type of pen that I like too. A disposable fountain pen which I've ordered from Staples. About two dollars per pen, it is a little pricey, but I like how it feels across the page.

So with my unlined blank book and my fountain pen, when I sit down to write, I feel at home. With a friend. A confidante. Available 24/7 - without judgment, critique or the need to "fix" me. Willing to take whatever I give: good, bad, ugly and downright horrible. Can take my tears without getting uncomfortable or the silence without needing to fill the space with words. Willing to listen to all of my emotions, regardless how irrational they may be.

Sometimes I have been unable to sleep and so I take my journal downstairs, intending to write while in front of Josh's tree. Most times, I get sleepy, lay down and fall asleep with the lights and beautiful white tree being the last image in my tired mind - my journal doesn't care. Nor when I wake up at 6:30 am with some thought that I have to get down on paper - no problem. Completely unselfish - only there for me - as much as I want to give or as little. Hours and hours in one day and only a couple of quick minutes in a week - my friend is always there.

How could I survive the overwhelming loss, sadness, grief, guilt, despair over Josh's young and tragic death without it? Simply put, I could not. My feelings, without a safe outlet, would churn, boil, bubble up and explode. I can now understand why some people turn to alcohol after tragedy to mask the pain. Instead of this type of harmful activity, I can bring a nice cup of tea or glass of wine to my room, sit down and pour my feelings onto the pages of my journal.

There is not a human who could be this type of friend to me. I could not be this for someone else, but a ninety-nine cent spiral notebook or seven dollar blank book can be. And so I say, "Thank you, journal, for being there for me over the past nine-and-a-half months - the most horrible that I've had to endure - that any mother would have to suffer. You have kept me sane. You have saved me and will continue to do so. Thank you for being my friend".

God Bless

A Mother's Love - December 31, 2009

It's been my tradition at the end of every year to "take stock" in my journal: highlights, accomplishments, work, family, review of goals, etc. I just can't bring myself to take pen to paper this year as what would I say? Everything pales in comparison to the loss of our beloved Josh. This is not only the event of the year, but of my life. Nothing will be the same for me since that fateful day on March 18, 2009......ever. Why is this?

What was just an intellectual truth to me, has now been lived and experienced. Grief is directly proportional to love. Love much - grieve much.

In the book, Silent Grief: Living in the Wake of Suicide, Christopher Lukas and Henry Selden write: "The guilt and depression among parental survivors does seem to be more intense and longer lasting than among others. Every single parent to whom we talked expressed this same feeling: their "job" had been to protect their child - and they had failed" (127).

One cannot measure the love a parent has for their child - no matter how old that child is. And while a father's love is intense, I still don't think it is the same as a mother's love. And it doesn't matter how many children a mother is blessed to have, as her heart just grows to accommodate the same, intense love for each one.

These thoughts were roaming in my head one night and the next morning, I had to write this poem down. I dedicate this to my fourth son, Joshua Lee Anderson, whom I love with all of my heart and soul and therefore am grieving with all of my heart and soul.

A Mother's Love
by Sue Anderson
(12/29/2009)

A mother's love,
if expressed as hope,
is never ending.

A mother's love,
if expressed as energy,
is boundless.

A mother's love,
if expressed as space,
is immeasurable.

A mother's love,
if expressed as truth,
is irrefutable.

A mother's love,
if expressed as substance,
is indestructible.

A mother's love,
if expressed as understanding,
is unfathomable.

A mother's love,
if expressed as sacrifice,
is unquestionable.

A mother's love,
if expressed as devotion,
is unconditional.

A mother's love,
if expressed as time,
is eternal.

Rest in peace, my dear, beloved son.

God Bless.