5th Annual Running to Remember Josh on March 15, 2014

This year's 5th Annual Running to Remember Josh was a blast!  We are so grateful for all our friends and family who came from 10 states (DC, VA, MD, MA, CT, NY, GA, TN, TX and  CO) to run and support our crucial mission - the prevention of teenage suicide.

Thanks to ALL our donors, we have blown out our $30,000 goal with over $44,000 raised!!

Flags made by friends in Georgia - luckily Rox was able to bring them on the plane with her!

We know you were with us in spirit!

Loading up on carbs the night before….

Donna Sanson, Karin and Luca (family friends) ran in memory of her Timmy...

Runners and supporters on Constitution Ave in the heart of Washington DC at the start

Mile 6 - up the hill…Gillian and friends looking good!

Tyler, Lauren and friends looking good too….

Donna at the finish….Timmy was with you every step of the way.

Gillian and friends excited at the finish! 

Tyler, Lauren and posse at the finish….

Tailgate afterwards…..carb re-load

Well done runners!!!

All for our beloved Josh - we love and miss you….

Dedicated to saving other young lives...

RIP JOSH

January 16, 1992 - March 18, 2009

Click here to see more pictures

March 18, 2013 - 5 Years Later: Song - "Slipped Away"

I don't know how to start this post - has it really been 5 years since Josh decided to leave us?   On the one hand, it seems like a long time ago, perhaps even longer than half a decade; on the other, it feels like yesterday.

It was a busy weekend with so many of our family and friends in town to run and support the 5th Annual Running to Remember Josh (big annual half marathon fundraiser) - a nice distraction as time moved us closer to the date of our family's personal tsunami.

This song resonates with me today; I listened to it while visiting Josh.  Click here to listen.

Slipped Away

by Avril Lavigne

I miss you, miss you so bad

 I don't forget you, oh it's so sad

I hope you can hear me

I remember it clearly

The day you slipped away

Was the day I found it won't be the same

I didn't get around to kiss you

Goodbye on the hand

I wish that I could see you again

I know that I can't

Oh I hope you can hear me

'cause I remember it clearly

The day you slipped away

Was the day I found it won't be the same

I had my wake up

Won't you wake up

I keep asking why

And I can't take it

It wasn't fake

It happened, you passed by

Now you are gone

Now you are gone

There you go

There you go

Somewhere I can't bring you back

Now you are gone

Now you are gone

There you go

There you go

Somewhere you're not coming back

The day you slipped you away

Was the day I found it won't be the same

The day you slipped away

Was the day that I found it won't be the same

I miss you

My faithful friend Rox was in town for the fundraiser and had a chance to visit Josh on Friday.  She brought roses, some thoughtful items for his tree and lots of pictures.  I went today - you will see the drastic change in weather.  Luckily the snow came on Sunday - after everyone had left. 

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

Mom

4 Years and 11 Months Later - Poem: Grief by C.K. Williams

The tragic deaths of two high school boys two weeks ago have brought back memories of our own loss which occurred almost five years ago.  Can it be that long already?  In some ways, it does feel like a lifetime ago but at other times, it feels like yesterday.

During that difficult week, while thinking about the two boys and our son, I turned to poetry - specifically, an anthology edited by Kevin Young called The Art of Losing: Poems of Grief & Healing.

These are excerpts from Grief by C.K. Williams.  Although it is about the poet's grief over his mother's death, there is much about the feeling of grief in the first few terrible days that is universal.

Is this grief?  Tears took me, then ceases; the wish to die, too, may have fled through me,
but not more than with any moment's despair, the old, surging wish to be freed, finished.
I feel pain, ….even pain for myself, my incomprehension, my fear of stories never begun now, never ending.

But still, is this grief: waking too early, tiring too quickly, distracted, impatient, abrupt,
but still waking, still thinking and working; is this what grief is, is this pain enough?
I go to the mirror: someone who might once have felt something merely regards me,
eyes telling nothing, mouth saying nothing, nothing reflected but the things of the world,
nothing told not of any week's, no, already ten days now, any ten days' normal doings.

Shouldn't the face evidence anguish, shouldn't its loving sadness and loss be revealed?
Ineffable, vague, elusive, uncertain, distracted: shouldn't grief have a form of its own,
and shouldn't mind know past its moment of vague, uncertain distraction and sureness of sorrow;
shouldn't soul flinch as we're taught proper souls are supposed to, in reverence and fear?
Shouldn't grief be pure and complete, reshaping the world in itself, in grief for itself?

My face beneath your face, face of grief, countenance of loss, of fear, of irrevocable extinction;
matrix laid upon matrix, mystery on mystery, guise upon guise, semblance, effigy, likeness.
Oh; to put the face of grief on in the morning; the tinting, smoothing, shining and shaping;
and at the end of the day, to remove it, detach it, emerge from the sorrowful mask.

Stripped now of its raiment, the mouth, caught in its last labored breath, finds last resolution;
all the flesh now, stripped of its guises, moves towards its placed in the peace of the earth.
Grief for the earth, accepting the grief of the flesh and the grief of our grieving forever;
grief for the flesh and the body and face, for the eyes that can see only into the world,
and the mind that can only think and feel what the world gives it to think and feel;
grief for the mind gone, the flesh gone, the imperfect pain that must stay for its moment;
and grief for the moment, its partial beauties, its imperfect affections, all severed, all torn.

RIP Josh.  I envision you have found these boys and are showing them the ropes in the world you now inhabit.  One day - we will be together again.

RIP Timmy

A couple of weeks ago, I found an article on Facebook, printed it out for myself and made a mental note to post on the blog.

After the very sad events of this week, it is a perfect time to share.  Our community is reeling over two suicide deaths at Langley HS where both Lauren and Josh went to school.  We know one of the families as Timmy's older brother Peter, was a good friend of Josh's and came to our home over 4 years ago to console us.  And now, tragically, we are returning the favor.

When Josh died, the friends of Tyler, Lauren and Gillian came from all over to be with them.  Peter's friends are doing the same for him.  And they are the same boys that came to our home in March 09 so it has been like deja vu for all of us.

Two of his friends joined me in my weekly visit to Josh's park yesterday.  One asked, "what can I do to help Peter?  It is hard to know what to do and what to say."  I just shared what helped us and what it comes down to is very simple - just being there….through thick and thin and over the long haul….just as they have done for us and I know they will do for their suffering friend.

While writing this morning, I came across the article within the pages of my journal and have cut and pasted in it's entirety below as I could never do proper justice by paraphrasing.

Please read and pass along to others - those who have suffered unbearable loss/trauma and those who seek to help them.

A New Normal:  Ten Things I've Learned About Trauma by Catherine Woodiwiss.


I wasn’t really expecting painful things to happen to me.

I knew that pain was a part of life, but — thanks in part to a peculiar blend of “God-has-a-plan” Southern roots, a suburban “Midwestern nice” upbringing, and a higher education in New England stoicism — I managed to skate by for quite some time without having to experience it.

After a handful of traumas in the last five years, things look different now. Trauma upends everything we took for granted, including things we didn’t know we took for granted. And many of these realities I wish I’d known when I first encountered them. So, while the work of life and healing continues, here are ten things I’ve learned about trauma along the way:

1. Trauma permanently changes us.

This is the big, scary truth about trauma: there is no such thing as “getting over it.” The five stages of grief model marks universal stages in learning to accept loss, but the reality is in fact much bigger: a major life disruption leaves a new normal in its wake. There is no “back to the old me.” You are different now, full stop.

This is not a wholly negative thing. Healing from trauma can also mean finding new strength and joy. The goal of healing is not a papering-over of changes in an effort to preserve or present things as normal. It is to acknowledge and wear your new life — warts, wisdom, and all — with courage.

2.  Presence is always better than distance.

There is a curious illusion that in times of crisis people “need space.” I don’t know where this assumption originated, but in my experience it is almost always false. Trauma is a disfiguring, lonely time even when surrounded in love; to suffer through trauma alone is unbearable. Do not assume others are reaching out, showing up, or covering all the bases.

It is a much lighter burden to say, “Thanks for your love, but please go away,” than to say, “I was hurting and no one cared for me.” If someone says they need space, respect that. Otherwise, err on the side of presence.

3.  Healing is seasonal, not linear.

It is true that healing happens with time. But in the recovery wilderness, emotional healing looks less like a line and more like a wobbly figure-8. It’s perfectly common to get stuck in one stage for months, only to jump to another end entirely … only to find yourself back in the same old mud again next year.

Recovery lasts a long, long time. Expect seasons.

4.  Surviving trauma takes “firefighters” and “builders.” Very few people are both.

This is a tough one. In times of crisis, we want our family, partner, or dearest friends to be everything for us. But surviving trauma requires at least two types of people: the crisis team — those friends who can drop everything and jump into the fray by your side, and the reconstruction crew — those whose calm, steady care will help nudge you out the door into regaining your footing in the world. In my experience, it is extremely rare for any individual to be both a firefighter and a builder. This is one reason why trauma is a lonely experience. Even if you share suffering with others, no one else will be able to fully walk the road with you the whole way.

A hard lesson of trauma is learning to forgive and love your partner, best friend, or family even when they fail at one of these roles. Conversely, one of the deepest joys is finding both kinds of companions beside you on the journey.

5.  Grieving is social, and so is healing.

For as private a pain as trauma is, for all the healing that time and self-work will bring, we are wired for contact. Just as relationships can hurt us most deeply, it is only through relationship that we can be most fully healed.

It’s not easy to know what this looks like — can I trust casual acquaintances with my hurt? If my family is the source of trauma, can they also be the source of healing? How long until this friend walks away? Does communal prayer help or trivialize?

Seeking out shelter in one another requires tremendous courage, but it is a matter of life or paralysis. One way to start is to practice giving shelter to others.

6.  Do not offer platitudes or comparisons. Do not, do not, do not.

“I’m so sorry you lost your son, we lost our dog last year … ” “At least it’s not as bad as … ” “You’ll be stronger when this is over.” “God works in all things for good!”

When a loved one is suffering, we want to comfort them. We offer assurances like the ones above when we don’t know what else to say. But from the inside, these often sting as clueless, careless, or just plain false.

Trauma is terrible. What we need in the aftermath is a friend who can swallow her own discomfort and fear, sit beside us, and just let it be terrible for a while.

7.  Allow those suffering to tell their own stories.

Of course, someone who has suffered trauma may say, “This made me stronger,” or “I’m lucky it’s only (x) and not (z).” That is their prerogative. There is an enormous gulf between having someone else thrust his unsolicited or misapplied silver linings onto you, and discovering hope for one’s self. The story may ultimately sound very much like “God works in all things for good,” but there will be a galaxy of disfigurement and longing and disorientation in that confession. Give the person struggling through trauma the dignity of discovering and owning for himself where, and if, hope endures.

8.  Love shows up in unexpected ways.

This is a mystifying pattern after trauma, particularly for those in broad community: some near-strangers reach out, some close friends fumble to express care. It’s natural for us to weight expressions of love differently: a Hallmark card, while unsatisfying if received from a dear friend, can be deeply touching coming from an old acquaintance.

Ultimately every gesture of love, regardless of the sender, becomes a step along the way to healing. If there are beatitudes for trauma, I’d say the first is, “Blessed are those who give love to anyone in times of hurt, regardless of how recently they’ve talked or awkwardly reconnected or visited cross-country or ignored each other on the metro.” It may not look like what you’d request or expect, but there will be days when surprise love will be the sweetest.

9.  Whatever doesn’t kill you …

In 2011, after a publically humiliating year, comedian Conan O’Brien gave students at Dartmouth College the following warning:

"Nietzsche famously said, 'Whatever doesn’t kill you makes you stronger.' … What he failed to stress is that it almost kills you.”
Odd things show up after a serious loss and creep into every corner of life: insatiable anxiety in places that used to bring you joy, detachment or frustration towards your closest companions, a deep distrust of love or presence or vulnerability.

There will be days when you feel like a quivering, cowardly shell of yourself, when despair yawns as a terrible chasm, when fear paralyzes any chance for pleasure. This is just a fight that has to be won, over and over and over again.

10.  … Doesn’t kill you.

Living through trauma may teach you resilience. It may help sustain you and others in times of crisis down the road. It may prompt humility. It may make for deeper seasons of joy. It may even make you stronger.

It also may not.

In the end, the hope of life after trauma is simply that you have life after trauma. The days, in their weird and varied richness, go on. So will you.  

January 18, 2014 - 4 Years and 10 Months - Afterlife?

A lot happens in a short time frame: Thanksgiving, Christmas, New Years, Josh's birthday and another month anniversary that now brings us ever closer to the 5th year anniversary on March 18th.   In years past, these months were very hard as each holiday was a blistering reminder of our loss.

But this year, instead of feeling constant grief with the occasional respite, I felt more at peace with the occasional grief flare-up.  Maybe it is because of some new thoughts regarding the afterlife, the reality of heaven, and the idea that Josh's spirit is very much alive.

Last month, while in Dulles airport waiting to board a flight, I wandered into a bookstore and came across the book, My Son and The Afterlife by Elisa Medhus, MD.  After reading the blurb on the back cover below, I had the strong feeling that Josh led me to it.  So not only did I get the book, but devoured it within a couple of days.

Dr. Elisa Medhus never believed in life after death.  As an accomplished physician, she placed her faith in science.  All of that changed after her son Erik took his own life and then reached out from the other side. 

Intimate, heartbreaking, and illuminating, go on an incredible journey from grief and skepticism to healing and belief.  Based on Medhus' wildly popular blog, ChannelingErik, My Son and the Afterlife provides answers to the most universal questions of being human. 

At once tragic and uplifting, Erik speaks from the other side with candor, wisdom, and depth as he describes his own experiences and provides new answers about the nature of souls, death, and the afterlife - answers that have the potential to change our lives forever.

Erik died on October 6, 2009 - almost 7 months after Josh.  Have they met?  I wonder.

The book is essentially a transcript of her questions and his answers (via medium).  It is information overload: strange, surreal, and difficult to process.   The following bullet points are what I wrote in my book journal:

• Afterlife is a reality
• Our two-dimensional (space and time) are a very small part of the overall reality
• Souls depart the physical body upon death but retain their essence, memories, everything that makes them unique.
• Souls want to remain connected to their loved ones on earth and are able to give signs, play pranks, show themselves and communicate - click here to read about our signs from Josh.
• Reincarnation exists
• Unconditional love for ourselves and others is the ultimate goal of being human
• This energy, life-force, soul, spirit exists in all living things: humans, plants, animals

Along with Dr. Eban Alexander's book, Proof of Heaven that I read last summer, there is much to ponder.

Then last weekend, when Tim and I went to see Savings Mr. Banks, we saw the preview of Heaven is for Real, based on a true story in which a young boy experienced heaven in a NDE (near death experience) - see their web site for a video interview with Colton and his parents.   It is amazing.

As I process this information, I find the bitterness and anger lessening, being replaced with nascent...unusual feelings of hope and peace.  I feel more assurance that Josh is in a better place and is hopefully doing just fine.

. 

Happy 22nd Birthday Josh

Josh would be twenty-two today.  I spent some time over the weekend thinking about 22 things that I remember and miss most since he's been gone.   Some made me smile, other memories brought tears.

Written to him in my weekly letter:

Josh,
In honor of your upcoming birthday, here are the 22 things that I remember and miss about you…

1. your smirk
2. your well-timed, funny, zingy comments
3. the sound of your slippered feet shuffling on the floor
4. your deep, manly voice
5. waking you up in the morning for the 1st time
6. …and 2nd time
7. …and 3rd & 4th time (it was actually very annoying but I miss it now)
8. your humming while in the shower
9. how you looked over my shoulder while I was preparing dinner…sniffing and commenting on how good it smelled
10. how you liked to eat grilled cheese sandwiches with salsa
11. your go-to after school snack - 2 packages of ramen
12. my weekly washing of your nasty football practice uniform
13. my washing of your game day uniform by which I could tell what happened (where you fell on the ground, etc)
14. teaching you how to drive
15. going shopping together for clothes, shoes, sports gear
16. how if I took you to the grocery store, all sorts of miscellaneous, random items would end up in the shopping cart
17. you sleeping on the couch with Buddy and Benji
18. you sleeping on car rides, listening to your iPod
19. watching Patriots games together
20. the marathon watching of 24 we did one summer
21. chilling in the pool
22. and even your reprimands of "chill out mom!"

RIP.

Love,

Mom

Christmas 2013

Hard to believe it is our 5th Christmas sans Josh.  All the boxes of Christmas decorations stay in the basement - I only have the motivation/energy to put up a tree and wreaths on the front door.

The 5th year of our white Christmas tree - in memory of Josh

I found this ornament while organizing my closet a couple of months ago and put it next to his initials….right in the front of the tree

RIP Josh.  We love and miss you.

4 Years and 9 Months Later - Dec. 18, 2013: Song "Into The West"

I am still in the habit of visiting Josh every Saturday - last weekend, I put up his wreath and hung up some ornaments on the tree near his final resting place.  A new part of my weekly ritual is listening to a beautiful song called "Into the West" by Annie Lennox.  It is featured in the third Lord of the Rings movie, Return of the King.

It was sent to me by Gillian shortly after Josh died but for some reason, I was not ready to listen to it until a couple of months ago and now it is what I listen to while clearing his stone and getting ready to write my weekly letter.  

"Into The West"

by Fran Walsh, Howard Shore and Annie Lennox

Lay down
Your sweet and weary head
Night is falling
You’ve come to journey's end
Sleep now
And dream of the ones who came before
They are calling
From across the distant shore

Why do you weep?
What are these tears upon your face?
Soon you will see
All of your fears will pass away
Safe in my arms
You're only sleeping

[Chorus]
What can you see
On the horizon?
Why do the white gulls call?
Across the sea
A pale moon rises
The ships have come to carry you home

And all will turn
To silver glass
A light on the water
All souls pass

Hope fades
Into the world of night
Through shadows falling
Out of memory and time
Don't say: «We have come now to the end»
White shores are calling
You and I will meet again

And you'll be here in my arms
Just sleeping

[Chorus]

And all will turn
To silver glass
A light on the water
Grey ships pass
Into the West

RIP Josh - we will be together again one day. 

Love,

Mom

Thanksgiving 2013 - Original Poem: His Eyes

Our 5th Thanksgiving sans Josh.  It was a quiet one with just our immediate family.  I guess you can say that we are getting used to his absence - in the past, especially the first couple of Thanksgivings, Josh's death filled the house.  There was no getting around "it", ignoring or denying "it" - you just had to endure.

In quiet moments, it is still very sad.  Like when contemplating what to write on this post or when writing some lines of poetry at Starbucks.  I wonder what the young, chatty girls with their pumpkin lattes think when their glances fall on a middle-aged woman, sitting alone, wiping her eyes with a tissue. 

Over the last couple of days, I worked on a short poem about this particular picture, taken by Gillian at their brother's college graduation in 2007, less than two years from his death. 

His Eyes

by Sue Anderson

His eyes twinkle in two-dimensional form,

with a merry thought or private joke

or just plain teenage silliness.

Pictures capture a person's soul,

said my friend 

after my son died.

Which explains the photos

all over my house.

4 Years and 8 Months Later - Bar Fundraiser for JAF

Last Thursday, at our 2nd Annual Fall Bar Fundraiser, where many came to provide financial support for the Josh Anderson Foundation, I experienced dichotomous emotions - like oil and water in the same container but maintaining their own separate space, was joy and sorrow, bitter and sweet.

Joy at seeing the tremendous number of friends and colleagues whose generous donations allowed us to exceed our $10,000 goal by almost 50%.  Emails and letters of those who could not attend as well as conversations at the event underscores the support for our crucial mission - to provide teenagers with the mental health education, resources and support so that they will never turn to suicide.

This article, Giving Teens Strength to Keep On Living, published in our local community paper the  day before the fundraiser, exemplifies what the money is being used for.

Sadness, of course, as to why we were there - a reminder of our personal tragedy.  But the next night is when the grief really bubbled over.  I was home alone, walking around our silent house, looking at the myriad of pictures chronicling the growth of our big family, each photo bringing back memories of vacations, sporting events, weddings, and holidays - all the precious moments that us moms treasure, and it hit me once again, as if it happened last month and not over 4 years ago, that our Josh is gone.

Being alone, through tears, I started talking to him.  "Why did you do it Josh?  Why did you do something that we cannot fix or change?  Why did you do something so permanent?  Why didn't you say anything?  Why didn't you tell me?  I would gladly trade places with you if that would mean you could be here…..I would've taken all your pain upon myself if that would keep you alive.  If someone in our family had to die, I wish it were me, not you."

In my mind's eye, he is equally sad and remorseful in response, "I'm sorry mom - I didn't know what I was doing.  I wish I could take it back and come home."

For us, it is too late.  But hopefully not for other kids and their families.

Getting ready to sell drink and raffle tickets

Josh's picture and the JAF banner

What makes this event special is the support by young adults…..

…..and not so young adults

Tim showing a supporter the big screen TV which was showing pictures of Josh and JAF events

Two moms of Josh's friends manning the table

Our new JAF T-shirts

4 Years and 7 Months Later - Out Of Darkness Walk in DC

On September 28, 2013, Gillian and two friends participated in American Foundation for Suicide Prevention's (AFSP) Out of Darkness Community Walk in Washington DC.  There were close to 2,000 participants and over $100,000 was raised. 

.......RIP Josh......

4 and Half Years Later: Emerging From a Cocoon

Something inside of me is different.  It feels like a small pilot light has been lit and instead of blowing out as in past months, it is stays alight.

Another image that describes this new feeling is a cocoon.  Unbeknownst to me, I have been enveloped in a grief cocoon for the past four-and-a-half years, since that awful day that Josh left us.  According to the dictionary, a cocoon is "something that covers and protects a person or thing."  That sounds right.

I have been enveloped in a web of grief, sorrow, pain and heartache which has been reinforced with the tough fibers of guilt and regret.  Mixed in this protective layering is the unresolved question of "why?"

If this image has a color, it would be grey as that is what has permeated my view 24/7.  But intermittently, over the past few months, some rays of light have broken through.

Now, it feels like I am emerging from the grief cocoon and enjoying once more favorite activities such as shopping.  I have recently bought new dishes.  I've also gone shopping with my daughters whereby I've ended up with more new clothes than they.

I have found motivation to finally work on a scrapbook that a dear friend from college sent to me four years ago, all ready to record Josh's life in pictures.  It has been sitting, patiently waiting for the time that I could cull through hundreds of photos, separate by year, to determine which would make it into this precious keepsake - without the sadness that prevented the exercise in the first place.

Another sign is the purchase of a new bedroom set, to replace an inexpensive but functional set that we bought upon our return to the U.S after living overseas - over 20 years ago.

Emerging from this grief cocoon, I feel like I've joined the living.  Things that I cared about in the past are making their way into my consciousness again.  It is like I've been a zombie - functioning in this world but not really a part of it.  Going through the motions but not really caring.  Living but with a deadened heart.

The grief is still there as evidenced by the tears as I re-read this post and type these words.  But now, grief exists alongside this spark of life and together, one step-at-at-time, we will move forward together.

4 Years and 5 Months: Grief IV

I wrote this poem after being in the hospital due to a recent medical issue.  One of the first things that happened in the emergency room was hooking me up to an IV (intravenous therapy).

Grief IV

by Sue Anderson

I am eternally hooked to an IV

     a grief IV - one 'specially made

for mothers like me

    whose child is gone

never to return.

No tousled hair to rub

     no warm body to wake

No "hey Mom, what's for dinner?"

     no parental exhortations.

Instead, an empty chair

     a vacant place in photos

A weekly visit to his park

     quiet and still; a peaceful resting place.

The Josh Anderson Foundation: Working to Stop Teenage Suicide

The mission of the Josh Anderson Foundation (JAF) is simple - to provide young adults with the mental health education, resources and support so that they will never turn to suicide.

Due to Lauren's efforts, much has been accomplished over the past 18 months.  In fact, JAF is featured in the August 2013 episode of SAMHSA's Road to Recovery television series entitled "Young Adults in Recovery: Meeting the Needs of the "Millennial Generation""


SAMHSA stands for Substance Abuse and Mental Health Services Administration.

Click here for the JAF segment.

4 Years and 4 Months: Dead But Not Dead

My grief journey has taken a very unexpected turn in terms of my reading.  For the past nine months, after reading Winter of the World, an engrossing novel about World War II by Ken Follett, I have been obsessed.

Since then, I have read or listened to 25 books on WWII:  biographies, memoirs, historical fiction, non-fiction and have watched the two HBO series Band of Brothers and The Pacific and as well as Hollywood's renditions of the war: War and Remembrance, Patton, Midway and Memphis Belle.  I have ordered 17 more books from Amazon and have another 20 books on my wish list.  I have never been interested in history, much less military history before now.

Why the fascination?  And how does this relate to my grief journey, knowing that somehow it must?

I find the first question easier to answer; in fact, the following bullet points are what I wrote on the first page of my WWII study journal:

• This war spanned the entire globe - it was a true world-wide conflict.
• It was a two front war against Nazi Germany and Imperialist Japan.
• Transformation of the United States was unprecedented from an isolationist country to full and total commitment to war as we would only accept full and unconditional surrender of the enemy - no peace negotiations. 
• Enormous sacrifice of human life.
• Countless inspiring stories of valor and courage.
• Sometimes, the outcomes of battles came down to pure luck.
• War politics personified in the larger-than-life Big Three: Roosevelt, Churchill and Stalin.
• War and larger-than-life generals: Eisenhower, MacArthur, Rommel, Montgomery.
• War and citizen soldiers: college students, farm boys, salesmen, factory workers - regular "Joes" turned soldier.
• Homefront in war - changes in the workforce primarily for women and Negroes.
• Holocaust 
• Post war - the "Greatest Generation".  What did they do? How did they fare?
• Post war politics: Cold War to Korean War to Vietnam War

I think the answer to the second question, "How does this relate to my grief journey?" can be found in my September 2012 post: "He Who Learns Must Suffer".

I wrote that reading drama by the four greatest tragedians (Aeschylus, Sophocles, Euripides and Shakespeare) was cathartic.  I also noted that while my external life had contracted to a small circle, my internal world had expanded with the exploration of ancient Greek and Elizabethan literature.

Since then, my mind's eye has jumped centuries to the greatest drama of human history: World War II.  And instead of reading about characters created from imagination, I am learning about real life heroes and heroines - about the grisly business of war and how in the midst of either witnessing or experiencing unspeakable horror, one can keep their human dignity and find the resilience and fortitude to keep going.

The cathartic affect is still a paradox: i.e how can reading about someone else's pain and suffering cause a purging, cleansing and connection to my own deep feelings?

In recent days, I have been drawn to the classic memoirs of two Marines who fought in the Pacific Theatre, Helmut for My Pillow by Robert Leckie and With the Old Breed by E. B Sledge.  These brave men were featured in Tom Hanks/Steven Spielburg's HBO mini-series, The Pacific. 

The title of this post comes from a quote in Leckie's book as he ruminates on a post-battle scene in Cape Gloucester on the island of New Britain.

I stood among the heaps of dead.  They lay crumpled, useless, defunct.  The vital force was fled.  A bullet or a mortar fragment had torn a hole in these frail vessels and the substance had leaked out.  The mystery of the universe had once inhabited these lolling lumps, had given each an identity, a way of walking, perhaps a special habit of address or a way with words or a knack of putting color on canvas.  They had been so different, then.  Now they were nothing, heaps of nothing.  Can a bullet or a mortar fragment do this?  Does this force, this mystery, I mean this soul - does this spill out on the ground along with the blood?  No.  It is somewhere, I know it.  For this red-and-yellow lump I look down upon this instant was once a man, and the thing that energized him, the Word that gave "to airy nothing a local habitation and a name," the Word from a higher Word - this cannot have been obliterated by a quarter-inch of heated metal.  The mystery of the universe has departed him, and it is no good to say that the riddle is solved, the mystery is over - because it has changed residences.   The thing that shaped the flare of that nostril, that broadened that arm now bleeding, that wrought so fine that limply lying hand - that thing exists still, and has still the power to flare that nostril, to bend that arm, to clench that fist exactly as it did before.  

Because it is gone you cannot say it will not return; even though you may say it has never yet returned - you cannot say that it will not.  It is blasphemy to say a bit of metal has destroyed life, just as it is presumptuous to say that because life has disappeared it has been destroyed.  I stood among the heaps of the dead and I knew - no, I felt that death is only a sound we make to signify the Thing we do not know. 

This is a profound thought written by one who, after looking at the dead; no, really, deeply looking at them, contemplates what has occurred and after deep reflection, is convinced that a piece of metal cannot destroy the "mystery of the universe" that resides within our earthly vessels, nor can a plain, brown extension cord.

Said another way, just because life has disappeared or no longer inhabits the flesh, it does not mean that it has been obliterated or destroyed.  How this works, I do not know but I believe it.

I wrote the following in my journal:

Death is not the end but rather the beginning of another beginning. 

or 

Death is not the end but the transition to another form of living.

And perhaps the living bears some responsibility for as long as our loved ones are remembered, they stay alive.   I underlined this passage from Doris Kearns Goodwin's Pulitzer Prize winning book, No Ordinary Time: Franklin and Eleanor Roosevelt: The Home Front in  World War II.  This little verse, given to Eleanor by a friend after FDR's sudden death, encouraged her to "make the rest of her life worthy of her husband's memory.  As long as she continued to fight for his ideals, he would continue to live."

"They are not dead who live in lives they leave behind.  In those whom they have blessed they live a life again."

RIP Josh.
You remain alive in our hearts.

4 Years and 3 Months (OBX vacation) - June 18, 2013

A couple of weeks ago, we went on a vacation to the Outerbanks, NC.  In years past, this beach mecca was a favorite destination during spring break.  We teamed up with other families and rented big homes on the beach - Josh loved it.

This year, three generations filled our large oceanfront house, from my brother's inquisitive, energetic 19-month old baby to my parents - still going strong at 77 and 83 years old.

It is our 5th summer without Josh and it is during family vacations that his absence is acutely felt. Gillian remarked that these times are especially hard as this was when she and Josh would spend hours together - talking, joking and laughing.

It hit me hard on our 4th day.  It started on my habitual early morning walk on the beach while listening to Ingrid Michaelson's poignant version of Somewhere Over the Rainbow.  Then I sat down on my sand chair and wrote a list of activities that I could just picture Josh doing:

• boogie-boarding over waves with his cousin, Greyson
• throwing the football around with cousins, Mitch and Lydia
• watching Star Trek in the in-house theatre room
• snoozing on the couch with the dogs
• playing poker
• discussing Dr. Who with Ava
• playing pool with uncle Steve and Greyson
• catching sand crabs
• in the jacuzzi with his sisters
• flirting with baby Keilani

I fell into the grief vortex, wracked with pain and sorrow - the sand crabs undisturbed by my sobs.  Attempts to describe these feelings were scribbled on the blank pages:

It is still painful - feels raw - piercing right to the depths of my heart and soul  - a mother's pain...

• deep

• never ending

• un-explicable

• emotional torture

• lazer sharp, pointed, stabbing pain - making it difficult to breathe

• fueled by guilt, regret, remorse

• a longing for life which will never be fulfilled

• a deep, profound sadness which feels bottomless

• like a boat which enjoyed calm seas and is now pummeled by waves - relentless, furious, uncaring, fierce, brutal, attacking

I was exhausted the next day - spent and drained.  The rest of the vacation passed with the awareness of Josh's absence, translated into a dull ache instead of the acute pain.   We saw dolphins every day which I've always taken as a sign of Josh's presence.  Then on the last day, an unmistakable sign occurred right outside our deck - a huge, beautiful, full rainbow - right on the ocean.  

Josh,

The whole family missed you on this vacation.  Thanks for letting us know you were with us.

RIP
Love,
Mom

My Fibonacci Poems: Gone and Negative Space

Reading and writing poetry is a small but significant part of my Grief Journey.  Poems, via careful choice of words, can house deep, profound thoughts and feelings within a relatively short amount of space.  Since I am not a verbose person nor a prolific writer, this form has suited me - see post of my fledgling attempts.

I have been reading through the posts on last month's National Poetry Month Blog Tour, hosted by Savvy Verse & Wit and came across this post on Fibonacci poems  by Tabatha Yeatts.

In 2006, Gregory K came up with the idea to marry the mathematical Fibonacci sequence and poetry.  "The Fib" is a "six line, 20 syllable poem with a syllable count by line of 1/1/2/3/5/8 – the classic Fibonacci sequence."- see his original post.

My first attempts at the Fib:

Gone
Life
Death
He's gone
by his hand.
Sun and moon have stopped;
irrevocably changed - damn Death!

Negative Space
Blank
Void
Empty
Negative
space in my red heart,
un-fillable except by him.

4 Years and 2 Months - Chronos vs. Kairos Time

My 5th Mother's Day, sans Josh, has passed.  I didn't expect to feel sad the day before but sure enough, on the way to teach my morning cycle class, I started thinking about Josh and next thing I knew, big fat tears were rolling down my cheeks.  I only had a few stoplights to get myself together and in the right frame of mind to lead an energetic workout.

Grief is like that sometimes: a spigot that suddenly turns on and with much effort, can be turned off.

I have been thinking a lot about the concept of time after reading a profound passage in Styron's haunting novel, Sophie's Choice where the protagonist Stingo quotes George Steiner, an essayist who wrote about the Holocaust and more specifically, about the disconnect between the horrors faced in German concentration camps and normal life experienced by millions of others, within the same timeframe - see link for actual essay.

Precisely at the same hour in which Mehring and Langner were being done to death, the overwhelming plurality of human beings, two miles away on the Polish farms, five thousand miles away in New York, were sleeping or eating or going to a film or making love or worrying about the dentist.  This is where my imagination balks. The two orders of simultaneous experience are so different, so irreconcilable to any common norm of human values, their coexistence is so hideous a paradox, Treblinka is both because some men have built it and almost all other men let it be - that I puzzle over time.  Are there, as science fiction and Gnostic speculation imply, different species of time in the same world, 'good time' and enveloping folds of inhuman time in which men fall into the slow hands of the living damnation?

In the margins I wrote: Different species of time in the same world?  Yes!  Grief time vs. normal time. 

I felt this disassociation the split second my eyes saw death and my heart, soul and psyche comprehended our new reality.  I began living in two genres of time.  In my world, the sun stopped, echoing my zombie-like feelings and exemplified the un-natural state of life.  Externally, the sun and moon exchanged places, as per usual.  This is what is hard - the "as per usual" piece.   It was incomprehensible that everything continued as normal: neighbors still walked their dogs, kids got on the school bus, people went to work, shopping, to the gym.  How can you act as if nothing has happened? I wanted to shout.

In doing some research, I found this helpful article: How Long is This Grieving Going to Last? by Elizabeth Harper Neeld on Legacy.com.  In it she talks about two kinds of time:

Chronos time- chronological time.  "Measured by a calendar.  Chronos time is counted in days, weeks, months, years.  Chronos time describes a continuum of past, present, and future."

Kairos time - "the time within which personal life moves forward.  Kairos is an ordered but unmeasured kind of time outside of space-time."

She says that the integration of our grief takes place in kairos time, not chronos time so that "the mere passing of days and weeks and months and years does not within itself bring integration of our loss."  Furthermore Neeld postulates that this kairos time is longer than what non-grievers will think.

So true!  This thinking is exposed with unhelpful comments such as "It's been a year - you should be feeling better by now" or "give it a few months and you will feel better."

Another google search brought up this blog post, The One Greek Word You Ought to Know by J.R.Briggs.   These quotes bring more clarity to these Greek descriptions of time:

Chronos is quantitative minutes. Kairos is qualitative moments. 

Kairos is pregnant time, the time of possibility – moments in our day, our week, our month, our year or our lifetime that define us. It is a crossroads. It has the ripe opportunity to make you bitter or better. It is a teachable moment. It is the right or opportune moment. They are rarely neutral and always leave an impact on us.

and:

Kairos moments are a string of moments that possess possibility – clarity brought on often by pain, uncertainty or crisis. They force us to be absolutely present: to ourselves, to God and to the experience of reality that we’re facing.

and the bottom line:

As human beings, all of our growth happens in kairos moments.

Personal reflections from my journal:

Chronos time:  Four years and two months.

Kairos time:  this is what my journal and this blog have chronicled.  Or better said, this blog, my reading blog, my journal are all critical to my kairos time - tools to help me integrate my loss.  Chronos time just marks points of kairos time, like mileposts on a road - a very long road - a lifetime road, what I have called My Grief Journey. 

Intuitively, I know this journey is not bound by physical time (chronos) but is internal, personal, subjective.  There will be epiphanies, setbacks, ruts, obstacles, wrong turns, U-turns, hairpin turns, bumps, potholes, hills, valleys and maybe mountain tops.

I will end this post with Neeld's thought-provoking questions and uplifting conclusion:

"What insights have I had? What have I realized? What meaning am I making of this terrible loss?"

The good news is that healthy grieving does result, at the time right for each of us, an experience of integration. We take stock and say: I am changed by our loss, and I have changed my live as a result of my loss. And we are not shriveled permanently like a dry stick because of our loss. We can feel alive again…probably wiser, maybe quieter, certainly full of gratitude and a desire to contribute from what we have been through. 

And all in good time. All in good kairos time.