Can't Ignore What Consumes You

 Some days -- indeed, some weekends -- are best ignored.

The weekend before my son's death is a great example.  I had to leave him on Friday to go to my daughter's school out of state.  He seemed stable, provided for, and generally OK.  Little did I know that the depraved and evil nurse who had cared for him in the hospital was waiting to ply him with dangerous drugs.  She just needed me to not be around to protect him.

When I returned from out of state on Sunday, Mat was eager for me to come home.  I had texted him as to when my plane would land, and at that very moment, as the Southwest flight was touching down on the tarmac at Burbank airport, my phone lit up with his text:  "are you home yet?"   

I rushed from the airport to him.  We had a glorious time, with a Mexican dinner, driving to downtown LA while listenting to Bad Religion and other of his favorite music, then back to Pasadena where we shopped at Trader Joe's and picked up all his favorites:  low fat cheese crunchies, honey roasted peanuts and green apples. He loved a green apple just before bed.  And water.  Many bottles of water.

We made plans for me to pick him up the next day (Monday) to take him to college and get an incomplete in his classes as the flare up of his illness kept him from finishing school -- where he had been doing so well- and to see his doctor.  I felt good when I left him at his temporary housing that night.

Of course, it has always haunted me that maybe I should have brought him home, like he wanted.  But no, I wanted him to commit to seeing his doctor and getting the incomplete and then he could come home.  "Boundaries," I was told, were necessary.  I now know that's not necessarily true.

I will never say that was the right call.  I should have brought him home, to his place of comfort and safety.  To the place we would watch The Daily Show, South Park, Family Guy, and Dave Chappelle and have such great conversations while eating pizza or my homemade tacos.  To the place that always made him feel safe and loved.  But I left him at the temporary housing. God forgive me.

On Monday,  he was not the same.  Not at all.  He was angry, he didn't understand about the incomplete in his classes or how that would matter.  He acted incoherent.  I went to see him and he was agitated.  Nothing I said calmed him down, yet he didn't want me to leave.  I feared him being with me in this state of agitation, yet I knew if I called any kind of  "authority" he would immediatley snap to when they arrived and say, "whatever are you talking about?  My mother is totally off base."  

Our mental health system was broken then, and is even worse today.  We cannot get real, meaningful help for those we love so much.

That evening was my last text to him.  I said I loved him no matter what.

I was awakened at 2 am knowing something was wrong.  I didn't know what it was. 

The next day, when I tried to reach him, I had no luck.  I called the manager of where he was temporarily staying and asked for a "wellness check."  He told me in broken English that my son "was sleeping."  Something in my gut said that was not true.  I called the paramedics, then jumped up from my desk at work, drove like a maniac over the freeway to where he was staying, and by the time I arrived, a curt, unfeeling fireman came across the courtyard and said, "are you the mother? He's gone."

No one would let me see him.

I sat down, struck as though Lucifer had stabbed me with a dagger into my soul, and was lost in the unreality of it all.

No tears are enough when your child dies.  

When his "memorial day" comes each year, I re-live that God-awful time.  I second guess myself.  "I should have let him come home."   Others have told me, yes, but maybe it would have been the same result.  And then you would have found him dead directly.  I know that would have been far worse.  But that doesn't stop the unreal pain that comes around each June 10.

As it turns out, the date of his death ended up being the same day his beloved dog Balto (purebread Husky, as as sweet and gentle a soul as you will ever find) died the same day, many years later.  After my son died, Balto became my lifeline, my reason to continue, my companion, my reminder of the persistence of life. Mat whispered to me everyday, "Mom!  Have you taken the dog for a walk!  He needs his walk!"   It was the ultimate sychonicity that this wonderful dog, Mat's best friend, and my best companion, left me the same calendar date as my son left me.

I remember a few months before his death, Mat telling me he wanted to leave the state, and take only his xbox and Balto.  

I think I should have let him go.  His spirit and soul wanted to be free of the societal restrictions that we all seem to live in.  He might have found that freedom on the open road, which is where he wanted to be, with his dog.  I worried too much about them.  I should have let him find that path.

The evil nurse Cari gave him the drugs that killed him and kept him from finding his way, from living his life.  May she find karmic or God punishment for what she did to him.

Even after all these years, I reconstruct that weekend, that last great time with him.  Could I have saved him if I had brought him home?  There is no way to know that.  That doesn't stop me from thinking I could have altered his path.  All I know is that I miss him more than I can express, that I can't stop thinking about where he would be, what he would be doing, all the experiences we would share today.  We were in many ways twin stars circling the same sun.

So on his Memorial Day, as with every memorial day, all I can do is remember that last sweet hug and his "I love you Mom" and hope, with all my heart, there is an afterlife where I can see him again.

Every bird, every feather, that comes to me says there is an afterlife.  I pray that those feathers and birds are whispering divine truth.

June 10 consumes me.  I can't ignore it.  Each year I survive it and wish I didn't have to go through this.

Regardless, on this, my son's "memorial day," I shed more tears and proudly say, "I love you, Mat.  See you on the flip side."

Birthdays Never Die

Today is my son's birthday.  His death does not erase his birthday.  I have come to the place where I can celebrate his birthday, not with cake and parties and presents, but with a warm glow of remembering the day he was born, the joy I felt in bringing new life into this world.

That sensation of bringing new life into this existence is so joyful and overwhelming, that it never diminishes and certainly never goes away.

The first few years after his death, his birthday loomed like execution day for a condemned prisoner.  I knew it had to come, but I wanted it to somehow skip over me.

Finally I understood that his birthday celebrates the smart, witty and caring young man who left me way too soon, but is still is in my heart and the hearts of others he touched. His transition to another realm -- heaven, the universe, another life through reincarnation [whatever you believe] -- does not diminish the light and spark he brought with him to this realm beginning on the day he was born.

That spark lights my way, brightens my life.  His unique and impactful spirit changed my life and continues with me every day.

To any of you who have friends, family or even work associates or acquaintances who have lost a child or spouse, please, please, don't be hesitant to send a text or card to acknowledge the day, to show them their child or spouse had an impact and -- as Mat's aunt says to this day -- that their life mattered.  To the parent or spouse who remains, that recognition is like the sunlight breaking through the storm clouds. 

Happy Birthday, Matthew.  I love you now and always and will always be grateful that your spirit chose me to be your mom.

Copyright 2023 

 

Bell Jars and Time Passages

 Humans have a need to mark time.  A need to commemorate events, the passage of time, milestones.   Like birthdays.  Birthdays are great.  We celebrate the person who was born, and the life we have with them.  It's a needed and usually positive ritual.

Tonight was the birthday celebration of one of my favorite family members.  Our small but mighty immediate family gathered in a special restaurant for a meal curated by our friend who is a wine and food coordinator, and it was fantastic.  But the longer I sat there, and watched interactions of my family -- and particularly, the two sets of father/sons, I became acutely and painfully aware of the absence of both my son and my husband.  

They have been gone for more than a decade.  And yet tonight the pain of missing them, and missing the relationship that they should now be having, was profound.  

How strange that a happy, positive, warm and upbeat family birthday dinner would suddenly turn dark, but so it did (but of course, only for me).

Tonight proved, again, that grief just sneaks up on you when you least expect it.  You can't guard against it.  I turned silent at the table but fortunately others were oblivious to my darkness and continued their conversations and laughs and celebration.    

Have you ever felt alone despite being surrounded by people, especially when they are people you know?  It is eerie.  Sylvia Plath described that feeling in her seminal work, "The Bell Jar."  It is as though the giant glass bell jar descends upon you, shutting you off from others.  They see you and you see them.  But you are not connected.  Not a part of what they are.

That was tonight.  And no one saw that the bell jar had come down upon me.  Because no one at that table could have had any clue of what it's like to observe the time passages in someone else's life and understand acutely that those time passages with people you love were snatched away from you.

I am not bitter or angry that others have been spared the grief I have endured, and that keeps kicking me down.  Each of us has been given our unique life paths.  Some paths are easy, some are not.  Mine happened to be not so easy.   

I've taken to pondering the question of why humans grieve, and why we do not "get over" the loss of someone we love.  As a former biology major I think, it must be due to genetics, or evolutionary preference, but in reality, nothing really accounts for it.  Only when one injects a spiritual component does a possible understanding happen.  Somewhere, in the mind, soul, cellular structure, or all of them, there is a sense that those who are gone still exist in some form and in some place.  We wish there was a way to have them with us in the only existence we know -- this one.  And knowing they are beyond us is the basis for grief.

We honor the passage of time by notches on the wall to show the growth of children;  marks on the calendar to show days passed and days to come; of holding celebrations honoring birthdays and anniversaries.  When we cannot make those marks or celebrate those times with those we love -- and know it will never happen again -- we cannot help but feel isolated, alone.  Even at a table filled with love and friendship and conviviality, the aloneness captures those of us who grieve.  The bell jar comes down again.

Copyright 2022

Memorial Day for Every Kind of War

 Memorial Day is an odd combination of memorial services for fallen soldier/military, and a day off to spend with family and friends.  It's a tough day for me, not because of any direct connection to a fallen soldier (although my children's grandfather is buried at Arlington, having been killed in action in Korea when their dad was an infant) but because of my hometown's Memorial Day celebration.

My son really wanted to be in the military.  Not only in honor of his grandfather, but in honor of his favorite aunt who proudly served in the Army.  He was never able to take the final step to enlisting as his illness always got in the way of judgment and opportunity.

We honor our service members here in town.  We celebrate their service and their sacrifice.  It's a community wide event.  My kids and I always participated in the local events.  And so of course on this day I can only think about my son in the high school marching band, marching in the parade, or riding his scooter to the park for the city-wide fireworks show, or watching the Jazz Band from the high school and telling me how he was aiming to play bass in the band.  Like the military, Jazz Band never happened due to his challenges.

Today, many years later, there is still a parade with the high school marching band, still a fireworks show where the kids show up with their friends and have a good time, still the Jazz Band playing to the crowds.  

As much as I enjoy the celebrations, it is hard to not be sad.  He was there.  Now he's not.  I am as alone and grieving for this loss as much as any parent whose child was lost in a battle far away from the hometown.

As I've written before, a Gold Star Mother (one who lost her child in war) is honored and revered.  But a mother who simply lost her child to another type of battle is ignored.  I am resigned to that, on every day except Memorial Day when I see his smile and golden hair either marching down the main street playing  the marching band version of the french horn, or riding his scooter around the park while the festivities are going on.  Today, on Memorial Day, I remember that I lost my son to a different kind of war -- a war of illness, of drugs, of evil nurses who prey upon the vulnerable.

His death as a result of a different war does not diminish my respect and honor for all the servicemembers who sacrificed.  Any loss of a child is the deepest kind of loss.  Whether by war, or gunfire, or evil nurses, or drugs, or stupid accident, it is the same outcome:  days and nights of mourning, mostly in silent in a world that would rather not remember the pain of losing a child.  

I'm grateful for Memorial Day, even with the pain, as it is a reason to publicly remember my son.  As the military heroes are remembered, so too are our children we have lost from other, more local wars.  Today, while at the park listening to the Jazz Band, I see him sitting beside me, sharing his aspirations, always wanting to move forward to new goals.  He lost his life in the battle of life.  Not while wearing a uniform, and so not put up on a memorial pedestal, but while trying to find his way despite so many obstacles.  Regardless, like the soldiers in battle somewhere far away, he was still my son, his battles cost him his life, but still his life mattered.  I will remember and honor that spark, that spirit, that joy that he brought to me and to so many others, for my entire life.

I close this post with his favorite parting phrase: Peace Out.  

Bookends

Time it was, and what a time it was, it was

A time of innocence

A time of confidences

Long ago, it must be

I have a photograph

Preserve your memories

They're all that's left you

   - Simon and Garfunkle

It was November 14.  So long ago.  My best friend Heidi and I were sophomores.  We had attended a fancy reception for all the pre-law students.  Just awful.  We returned to the dorms fairly disgusted with the rich college kids we were surrounded by.   We came back asking ourselves, what were we doing with those people.  We knew in 30 years they would be no different than they were tonight.  Effetes.  Privileged.  Smug.  We didn't want to fall victim to that.

Feeling at odds with our chosen college/career path, and out of sorts with the world, we changed out of our formal wear and into jeans.  The night was clear and comfortable, and Heidi and I decided to go for a walk.  

We came downstairs to the dorm reception area, and there he was.  Long hair, oversized tape recorder slung over his shoulder,  mic in one hand, silly grin.  "Good evening, ladies, the weaker sex,  most of whom are women..." he said in his best DJ voice.  It trailed off after that because we were SO upset at the levity in contrast to the pomposity we had just experienced.  Heidi shoved the mic back into him, saying, "what do you mean, women are weak!!" and we walked out, intending to walk under the stars in the clear night air and calm ourselves.

Shortly into the walk, just a few dozen yards from our dorm, she decided she wanted to go on alone.  I honored that.

And that changed my life.

I returned to the dorm, having really no place else to go, and "he" was still there.  I was fascinated.  My dad was a musician and growing up I had been in radio stations, live music venues, recording sessions and the like, so a guy with a tape recorder was not really so out of place.

We bonded instantly. I've often tried to understand why, but it defies logic. We were different in so many ways, and yet, oddly, had much in common.  Both orphans.  Wickedly smart.  Terrific sense of humor.  Later, we would talk about having been together in a previous life.  I came to believe it.  

We got married almost five years later.  Until the end, we celebrated two anniversaries -- November 14,  and then our wedding day on April 5.

It was a tumultuous life, full of highs and lows, fabulous great experiences and terrible nightmares, music and drama and the law, but it was a life I could not have had with anyone else.  Despite all the good and bad, and the joy and anguish, the bond that was instantly ours on November 14 never went away.

And so, when his spirit left this plane many years later on July 23, I was devastated.  Despite difficulties and depressions, Steven through it all was my rock, my best friend, my biggest fan and greatest cheerleader.  Even in our darkest days, he would support me in my work and cheer me on.  When I needed advice, he always gave it.  I knew whatever I needed was just a phone call away.  And I like to believe I was the same to him.

The end came as a shock.  It was a sudden illness that he ignored and by the time he realized the gravity, and reached out for help, it was too late to save him.  

I recall being in the hospital surrounded by his family, being offered comfort, and also being offered pharmaceuticals because I was so distraught.  But what I remember most was the sense of being utterly alone. Such a big part of my life and my identity was now gone.

I soldiered on, if for no other reason that to comfort our children, but they found no comfort and they suffered greatly with the loss.

Only now, years later, can I think back on my life with Steven, and have gratitude for all it was.  And understand that the pain was part of  our growth and that the good part needed the bad part to appreciate all we were and all we had.  Now, for me, there is no "bad" or "good" -- it simply was our life and I wish it had not stopped so abruptly.  There's so much I would love to share with him now, including the memory of the anniversary of the night we met.

I have a large framed photograph of Steven and me that recently came out of hiding.  It was taken when we had been together less than a year.  He was working at the Hollywood Bowl and I was standing next to him at the mix board obviously discussing something of great importance.  An  unknown photographer snapped our picture from a distance.  The candid shot so perfectly captured us at that moment in time, young and intent and earnest.  Our daughter insisted it be hung on the wall in our home, a place I bought last year, so it is a place Steven was never in.  At first I was uncomfortable having it there, but it has come to be a bit of a comfort to me.  Looking at it now brings a slight smile, as it reminds me of the life that was, and of the beginning, and of the end, of our time together.  

And now, tonight, the anniversary of the night we met, when the night air is as comfortably cool and invigorating as it was all those years ago, I look at the photo with a wistful thought and just a dash of melancholy.  I celebrate who we were, the bad days and good, the fun and not so fun, and our building a life and then our trying to redefine it when what we built fell apart.  Tonight, I celebrate that beginning, and I celebrate the "us" that was.

Bookends.  November 14 to July 23.  I have a photograph.  And memories.

Wish you were here.

copyright 2020

Grief and the Death of Normal

When I first started this blog, I only considered the loss surrounding a child.  Then I added spouse,  and then I added best friend.  Now....in what the world has become, I add the loss of life as we knew it.  The loss of normal.

For those of us who have suffered loss, we know what it means to lose something.  But it means a person, someone who has been a major part of our life.

Now, we have lost our normal way of life. 

Those who have not gone through the grief journey do not recognize the grief path. But with the pandemic, and the FEAR that we now all live with, comes the familiar stages:  we ignore the gravity of the situation (let's bake bread!  Let's go walking!  Let's do jigsaw puzzles!).  Then there is the reality (OMG, I can't go to work, I''m not getting paid, I can't celebrate a birthday/wedding/annivesary).  Then there is the reality that things are not as they were.

Welcome, world, to the grief that we survivors have been living with.

Grief.  It sucks.


First published 4/20/2020

The Life and Death Decider

I have usually encountered death in a sudden, unexpected way.  (The exceptions are my grandmothers, who lived into their 80s -- which now seems somehow a bit young but for their generation was old. )

Now, I am confronted with a new face of mortality.  According to the doctors, I am faced with the unfathomable choice of deciding when my friend of almost 20 years will die.

She was taken to the hospital a week ago.  She has been in and out of a coma since then.  She is not able to communicate her thinking or her wishes as to medical care or anything else.

10 years ago she appointed me her power of attorney.  She has no other family.  Her only child is severely autistic and not able to decide on anything more than what he wants for his birthday dinner.  And so it goes that when she cannot communicate her wishes, the doctors look for someone who will make her decisions for her. So, that means...…..

I'm the decider.

As much as this is a burden no one should carry, I'm comforted in knowing that at least this choice is in the hands of a person who is her friend and who cares about her.  Otherwise, it would be the courts appointing a professional conservator who no doubt would decide that extra medical interventions only "prolong the inevitable" and would give the order to terminate  all medical support.  In other words, pull the plug.  I'm just not willing to do it right now, because she still has function and will and spirit.

My friend is fighting to stay in this plane of existence. She lives for her son and is trying to return to him.  I know that.  I have pledged to give her the support and medical care to enable her to make a comeback.

If she loses the fight, then I am comforted with the knowledge that I did not hasten the end.

She has brain function.  She responds to my voice by moving towards me, opening her eyes, struggling to speak despite the ventilation tube (needed because her oxygen levels were too low).  She wiggled her toes when the doctor asked her to. She comes around when I mention her son.  She responds to pain stimuli.  She tries hard to open her eyes and to talk, despite the tube.

I have had the doctors say, "but what about the quality of life?  She likely will never be the same."  That may very well be true.  But if she survives this medical downturn, and maintains some conscious connection to this plane, then she will still be here and somehow able to connect with her son.  He has been her reason for living for far too long, and so long as she shows signs of cognition and function,  I will not be the one to willfully terminate that connection.

But the pressure to do so is enormous.  I do not fault the doctors.  They only see the outward suffering.  They cannot understand as I do that all she wants is to go home and be with her son.

Perhaps that is why I fight for her.  To be that connected with one's child -- as I was (and am) to my son (and daughter) -- is beyond rational explanation.  I cannot and will not be the force to interfere with that.

My own son was killed by those who wanted to break the bonds between us in order to advance their own selfish purposes. And they were nurses!!!!!  Their souls (I hope and pray) will suffer for such depravity. But their evildoing helped me see that I cannot be the one who decides to sever the earthly ties between a parent a child.

I will continue to advocate for my friend.  She must be the one to rally and come back to consciousness, or to give into the light and transition to a new existence.

Her medical condition is quite serious.  I am not naïve enough to believe she will simply get better and go home.  She may never be who she was.  But I will give her the opportunity to stay with us.

Should she now pass on, I will grieve our friendship, and yet be comforted in knowing I did all I could to give her the opportunity to stay in this life.

I have prayed about this situation.  Does that seem odd to you?  For one who has lost as much as I have, to do something as impractical as "pray?"

Over the past few years, I have returned to prayer.  Don't laugh or scoff.  It is the act of acknowledging that one needs help -- or is asking for help for another in need.  It recognizes that we are not the center of the universe, and that there are forces beyond our full comprehension or control.

And so to whom does one pray?  To the universe?  To God?  To Jesus?  To the candle on my shelf?  Here is where my prayers go:   To the Higher Power by whatever name we choose to give her/him/it.  I choose to call this Higher Power by the simple name "God."  Somebody bigger than you or I.

My prayer -- my request for help -- is that Mary answers the question "leave" or "stay" by deciding to stay (contrast to my BFF Heidi who left so quickly and before I even knew she was so ill) and that I will hear the answer even if she cannot say it or act on it.

Whether she survives or passes, I will be comforted by knowing that she trusted her health decisions to me.  I pray I continue to make the choices that are best for her.

copyright 2020

Clutter/Connection

I've been trying to declutter my home in anticipation of moving to a new place.  It's not easy or pretty to wade through the piles of stuff and things that accumulate over a 20  year period.  All of what I must go through, box by box, reflects a life that in so many ways no longer exists for me.  It's a veritable archaeological dig.  

Most folks, faced with the task of decluttering, can go through the photos, school papers, drawings, yearbooks, boy and girl scout uniforms and pins and sashes, and simply remember with a smile what happened years ago.  And so often found treasures can be shared with those who helped make the treasure.  "Remember when you made this for me?"   "Didn't we love to take the kids to the book store on Saturday where they bought all these books and comic books?"  

But sometimes life just smacks us upside the head and rearranges all plans and paths.  You can go through the clutter and find that there is no one to share  the memories with.  You sit there, and cry, and no one is around.  All you can do is remember, and hold on to whatever object transports you back to a time in your life "before" it was all taken from you.

When your child or spouse or best friend is taken from you, you cling to anything that was ever part of them.  It's how we fool ourselves into staying one step ahead of the pain of loss.  We can time travel back to a time when that person was here and tragedy had not wiped out that part of our life.

In trying to unclutter, I am forced to relive big pieces of my life gone forever.  There is no continuation of what my son was, or what he did, or what he could have done.  My son's life ended just short of his 21st birthday.  It is not possible to look at his picture proudly holding the French horn, or hanging out with his friends at music camp, or dressed in his Boy Scout uniform receiving his Arrow of Light award, or his photos with his sister and Santa, without jumping ahead to the dark days that awaited him and his ultimate tragic death.

In the process of uncluttering, I find myself refusing to toss out any piece of paper or photo or object that has any connection with him, no matter how tangential.  I foolishly soothe myself with the notion that if I can't hold on to him, I can at least hold on to something that was connected with him.

Several years have passed since that unspeakably awful day in June when "I heard the news today" that my son had died.  My life since that day has been divided into things that existed "before" and things that came into existence "after."  It is a silent calculation I do not share with anyone because it seems so macabre, and indeed it is.  But this is how I have come to define my life.    "When did I last paint the house/replace the mattress/travel to San Francisco/buy these shoes?"  "When did I last visit this place/person?"   "When did I stop going to movies/listening to music?"   Always, the answer is "before" or "after" that horrific day in June.

As I force myself to go through boxes of paperwork, school work, photos, cards, mementos, and leftovers from "when he was still here" I force myself to come to grip with reality.  He is not the  photo. He is not the poem he wrote to the great love of his life, Denise.  He is not the scrapbook of his piano recitals.  He is not the hospital records. He is not his Ramones Tshirts or his jeans. Those are just tags, snapshots, Instagram photos posted in my mind.  

My son is part of my cellular structure.  Even if all those tangible objects vanished, he would still be part of me.  Knowing that makes it a bit easier to cull through the chaff and keep only the wheat of these objects stuffed into boxes in my garage.  So, in my effort to declutter in anticipation of a move out of the home we shared, I will keep what brings me joy in remembering when he was in this plane and physically in my life.  My baby boy, my life's joy.  Your sister and I miss you every day.  And we miss you with or without the physical reminders.

But still I will hold on to the physical reminders.  Your dinosaur baby blanket, ironically made for you by my best friend Heidi, who I also lost too soon.  Your notes and cards.  The Brio train set.  Favorite books. Herds of plastic dinosaurs.  Books and comic books.  Photos.  The sand painting from the Hopi on your trip to Arizona with your archeology class.  The leather bracelet with your drawings on it that you made for me in 6th grade.   Somewhere, somehow, all of those items and more still carry part of your spirit and give me a bit of peace.

Not clutter.  Connection.   It's good to have more than feathers, and dreams.  These objects may be just clutter and junk to the Marie Kondos of the world, but to me they are part of you.  They remind me that a bit of your spirit remains with me.  And so I find a bit of joy...sad joy....but still joy in these physical reminders of you.

Copyright 2019

Gratitude on Mother's Day

It's Mother's Day.  A difficult day for everyone -- moms, kids, and Those Who Should Do Something for a Particular Mom -- because of the over the top social pressure to "honor mom" or someone who "is like a mom" or is your significant other's mom, or the mom of a mom -- you get the point.  Expectations aren't just big on this day, but enormous.  Thus florists, chocolate purveyors (including those who sell dipped strawberries), garden centers and Hallmark win the day.

You would think that Mother's Day for someone who has lost a child would be unbearable.  Or that those whose mom died recently would just rather not acknowledge the day. Ignore the day, it will go away, and so will the pain.

But life is like the white pearl contrasted on the black velvet.  We only see the pearl's true beauty due to the contrast.  And so it is that without death, we cannot fully see the beauty that is life.

When we lose someone that a great friend of mine referred to as a "core person" -- be it child, spouse, parent, sibling or friend -- our life just isn't the same.  It will never be the same.  Impossible.  The fabric of our being and soul has been ripped.  We can try our best to repair it, but you can always see the stitching, and maybe the rip was too big to ever be fully repaired.

When our soul has been ripped by a grievous loss, we can chose to:  1) ignore the loss; 2) wallow in the loss; 3) be vanquished by the loss or 4) find a way to move forward and embrace the loss as part of a different life.

I used to criticize those who just couldn't move on from someone's death.  What's wrong with them that they can't be strong enough or self reliant enough to get back to their life?

I no longer judge.  We  take the path that fits us at that moment.  Each grief journey is our own and no one can tell us how far to go, where to go or how to get there.  We can see guideposts, or mile markers, offered by those who care about us, but how we make our grief journey is strictly up to each of us.  No one, even if your loss has been of the same core category, can fully know how another's soul has been damaged by the loss.  We can only be company on the journey, but the one with the loss must make their own way.

Gratitude defines me now.  I am beyond grateful that I am in category 4 -- I found a way to move forward and embrace my  multiple losses as part of  what is now my different life.  But don't misunderstand -- I remain sad, and feel deep grief, and so many times feel utterly alone and abandoned by the universe.  But there is something, which others have called resilience, that has allowed me to experience that aloneness and embrace it but concurrently embrace joy and peace and contentment.  It is indeed a new life for me, and I have come to realize it is a good life.

Gratitude overwhelms me -- for the life and experiences and most of all the love and joy I had at various times over so many years with my son, my husband and my best friend.  It is gratitude that saved my spirit and continues to do so.

I first learned the power of gratitude when I attended various 12 step meetings -- open AA , Al-Anon, and even Cocaine Anonymous.  To experience people struggling with the Siren call of addiction, and those crushed by their loved one's addiction, is to know that life inevitably is unfair and uneven.  But I saw -- indeed, I felt -- not just pain and struggle, but hope and happiness and redemption, all of which was rooted in gratitude.

Every day -- every single day -- I find something to be grateful for.  Did I  find a penny in an unexpected fold of my briefbag?  Did I have a butterfly land at my feet?  Was there a feather on my seat when I opened the car door?  [All of which happened to me in the week leading up to Mother's Day.]  Or bigger -- grateful for the day, for my daughter, for those who have come to be my new BFFs, for my family, for success in my business despite the relentless kicks in the butt that life kept giving me during those very dark years.  I have embraced the concept that only gratitude puts everything in perspective, and transforms what might otherwise be a shitshow into a well lived life.

And today, Mother's Day, I have more to be grateful for.  First, I was able to become a mother.  So many have not, or chose not to only to later realize they should have.  Both of my children were and are special beings who were placed in my care by whatever force or power or being that exists, and who received more love and nurturing than I ever thought I was capable of.   Without my children, and the love and challenges each of them brought, I would not have been able to expand my heart and my spirit and be who I am now.

Today I have another point of gratitude.   I have stayed away from the blog for a long time, between computer issues, press (crush?) of work, and a vague sense of not having anything more to say.  But my sister in law -- truly a "core person" in my life [and the one who was my son's favorite] returned to the blog and realized it had been taken down.  Had she not done that, and more importantly reached out to me to find out why, I would not have realized the domain had expired and all my postings would have been lost forever.   I averted yet another loss.  She gets special thanks for alerting me to this.

Grateful  -- for causing me to return, and to realize that this blog, and writing, is important to this revised new life, as a way to repair the tears in the fabric of my soul from the death of those so vital to me.  Grateful that I am reminded that my new life is different, but not separate from the me who used to be.  Grateful for those who continue to join me in my journey.

copyright 2018

Ball and Chain

If you haven't had to deal with the death of a family member, you probably haven't had to consider death certificates.  In addition to personal information and next of kin, it states the primary "cause of death" as well as contributing factors.  So, for example, death could be due to atherosclerosis; sepsis or blunt force trauma.  "Contributing" factors could be  pneumonia, diabetes, etc.

That's the clinical stuff.  The County Coroner is supposed to classify the death.  However, to the family, to the survivors, your loved one is dead.  No longer here.  Does it matter how it happened?

Well, as a matter of fact, it does.  To some, it matters a great deal.

Take, for example, suicide.  No one ever wants to say his or her loved one committed suicide.  It was an accident!!!  Or, it was part of a nefarious plot (look up Vince Foster (of the Clinton entourage) for a great conspiracy theory).

The idea that someone you love would willingly take their life is for most folks too much to bear.

And so it is with addiction.  The idea that someone took drugs and died of an overdose is also too much to bear.

If you read my earlier post on "The Hierarchy of Death" you know that there are "acceptable" causes of death and not-so-acceptable causes.   We want our loved one to be part of the "better" reasons that she/he died.  It places us higher on the "worthy of sympathy" scale.  Military or cancer deaths are just about at the top of preferred deaths; drug overdoses and suicide are in a race for the bottom.

Recently, a friend of mine received word that a family member had been found dead in bed.  This person had a history of drug use, and of being in and out of jails and rehab.

When a known addict is found dead in bed, the immediate thought is "overdose."  And so for my friend that's what she and everyone else thought.  My heart was heavy, knowing the pain she was suffering as she had tried so often to "rescue" him from his addiction, to somehow free him from the demon that served as his ball and chain.

So imagine my reaction when my friend texted me the next day to say that "thank goodness" it appears her family member may have died from a "seizure" not an "overdose."  She thought that death by seizure would be "much easier to take."

I had to think about that for a while.  How is death ever "easier to take"???

But of course.  We do not want our loved one to have died of an overdose.  Oh, the shame!  If they died from an overdose, clearly it was our fault. We didn't do "enough" to keep them from the drugs. We are somehow to blame for their addiction and their death makes us look bad!  We could have prevented the overdose!

Here's the cold truth. You cannot prevent it.

Repeat:  You. Cannot. Prevent. It.

You might postpone it, and save someone from an overdose today.  But only if the addict WANTS to change their path will the path be changed.  You cannot change their path.  That is their journey alone.  [I make exception for the scum of the earth that supply drugs to known addicts and encourage their use or make money off their use.  They are death merchants and should be held accountable.]

As family members, we always believe we can change them.  But we can't.  Worse, we -- the family and friends -  are judged by others if our loved one dies from suicide or addiction.  It is always seen as somehow our fault.  We "let them" go astray or failed to protect them.

I will spend the rest of my life spreading this truth:  That no one can free another of whatever ball and chain binds them.  We can only accept them and love them and make them know we are ready to support their efforts when they decide to admit to and manage their addiction.

Right now, there is a plague of overdoses on opioid medication (particularly Fentanyl).  I'm glad that the tragedy is being given a public forum by elected officials as well as family members (like the mom who posted photos of her son on life support after he took Fentanyl, shortly before they removed life support and he died.)   Giving a face to addiction, and removing the shame, will benefit all those who must confront another's addiction.

Also, I am glad to know that Narcan (which can reverse the effects of opioid overdose) is being supplied to first responders who can prevent deaths.  It's true, if you catch an overdose in time, Narcan can save lives. First responders should have had this drug in their kits a long time ago.

But the story not being told is what happens after someone is revived.  Do they change?

The sad truth is, many do not.  Addiction is as part of their genetic make up as the color of their eyes, or their preference for chocolate vs. lemon.  Only if the addict makes the decision to confront his or her addiction is there any hope of avoiding the inevitable outcome of "jails, institutions or death" [go to an AA or NA meeting and eventually you will hear this truth.]  That's why the first step of any 12 Step program is to "admit we are powerless over alcohol/drugs."  Only when the addict admits the problem can the addict ever hope to try to deal with the problem.

We cannot get them to admit it.  Only they can do that.  We are indeed powerless over their addiction.
So how does this reality fit in to the Hierarchy of Death that I wrote about in a prior blog? And about my friend's loss of her family member?

No one wants to admit their family member died of an overdose.  It sullies their memory.  They were a "drug addict" and that makes us look bad too.  Had we just sat down and had more dinners with them as kids.  Or had they just gotten involved in sports.  Or gotten to the right therapist.  Or if the parents had not gotten divorced.  Or if only had they gone to church regularly. Or lived in a better neighborhood.  Or if we had just kept them productive at a job or hobbies.  The list of "if only we'd done....." goes on to infinity.

All bullshit.

All that matters is that they have the addiction genes, the genes were triggered, and after that it's their journey.

"Well it's been 10 years and a thousand fears, and look at the mess I'm in.
A broken car and a broken nose, an empty bottle of gin.
Well I search and I pray,
In my broken down Chevrolet,
And I'm singing to myself, there's got to be another way.

Take away, take away,
Take away this ball and chain,
For I'm lonely and I'm tired, and I can't take any more pain.
Take away, take away,
Never to return again,
Take away, take away, take away...."

[Social Distortion, "Ball and Chain"]

So my friend, like so many others, cannot confront the reality that her family member's demon of addiction did not go away.  She needs to believe he died of something else, anything else, other than addiction. Yes, maybe he did die of a seizure.  Or a heart attack.  But years of mistreating one's body with drugs or alcohol will lead to seizures and heart attacks.  Yet how much easier it is to say to the world, "so sad, he was doing better, and he suffered a seizure."  Far better than to say the dreaded word "overdose."

And far better to not  think that we -- and the addict -- failed.

Many folks don't know that Bill W., one of the two co-founders of Alcoholics Anonymous, who lived many years sober, asked for whiskey on his deathbed.  Pardon the pun, but that is a sobering thought.

For my friend, I hope she comes to peace with whatever the coroner finally states as a cause of death. The loss of her loved one is no less tragic or no less worthy of sympathy and support whether it was a seizure, or a heart attack, or an overdose.

Survivors of loss feel the same pain and gaping hole in our psyches regardless of the cause of death. Those who have lost still need love and support -- and no judgment -- from the rest of us.

Give love and give hugs and most of all, don't judge the cause of death.  It's still death.  And someone still grieves.  Let's not give them more to grieve.


copyright 2017

Who Knows Where the Time Goes

I love to write.  But keeping my life afloat and investing so much energy into running my business has taken its toll.  I have had no room for writing.  It is a true casualty of my work.

But today, with a cloudy, post-rain sky, and the cold we are not used to in Southern California still upon us, I took a little downtime to come back to the blog.  And to my utter amazement, saw that my last post was April 2016.   Who Knows Where the Time Goes (anyone remember that Judy Collins song??  Haunting.....)

Time loses perspective after someone you love dies.  You do not have a clue where or how it goes.  You sometimes have no realization of days passing.  You wonder how you got from June to July, or from morning to night, and don't have good recall of anything you did.  A person drowning in grief never knows where the time goes.  Or even if it goes.

In the first few weeks after my son died, I found myself sitting outdoors under a large navel orange tree that graces the far front corner of my property.  It was a favorite place of his to sit.  I often would join him.  He and I shared more than a few conversations sitting under the orange tree.  Quality time for us.

Then, after he was gone, I found a little peace by sitting under its great branches again.  Sitting there, with no awareness of the passage of time, became a daytime reality anchor.  In the evening, my anchor was walking the dog (his dog).  But during the day -- at least when I was home and not distracted by the numbing routine of "back at work," I would find myself sitting on the cast metal open weave bench that was almost hiding under the branches of the old tree, just starting at the house, the expanse of lawn, the trees, the sun, the sky.  It was an amazement to me that life seemed so normal, back under the orange tree.  How could the house be standing?  How could the sun rise and set and move across the sky?  Why did the plants keep growing?  Why was I still alive?

Questions to which there is no answer, when grief has kicked you so hard you struggle to breathe.

I cannot know why I kept breathing.  Why I kept going.  Why I went to sleep, woke up, drove my car, spoke to people, did my work, drank my coffee, walked the dog.  It was as though there were 2 people inside me.  One, the mother who had lost her only son, her first born, her tether to life; the other, the practical, rise above adversity survivor.  For a long time I did not know which one would win.

Under that tree, I found myself saying, over and over, like a mantra, "Mat, how am I supposed to live the rest of my life without you?"   Eventually, I heard in my head the 12 step entreaty to take one day, or one hour, or one minute, at a time.  I remember hearing veterans of the addiction wars saying that eventually the "one minutes" turn into hours, then days, and finally years.  I never understood the depth of that concept until I needed to survive minute to minute -- because imagining living with that excruciating pain of loss for more than another minute was just too much to comprehend.

And here I am.  Millions of minutes later.  Still living.  Finally enjoying music again.  And laughing, a real, from the heart, laughter.  Living and not just getting by.  Perhaps seeing a glimpse of love again.

The survivor in me prevailed, but I doubt through any conscious thought.  It turns out the survivor part of me was a lot stronger than I sensed during those first few months after losing what I thought was my necessary connection to life and the world.

I came to understand that despite that the despair which in the early days of grief engulfed every cell of me and told me life no longer was in my future, somehow my soul determined (without any input from my conscious self) that my journey here was not through.

I am very glad that my journey didn't end.  That my survivor self won out over abject despair.

At times while these millions of minutes have passed, I have reminded myself that women endure great pain to give birth to our children.  So, it seems fitting that we endure even greater pain when our children leave this existence before we do.  But just as we return to our individual lives after life comes forth, we must return to our individual paths after that life leaves us.  We are our own individual souls with separate journeys and lessons,  and that remains true even after the loss of a soul we thought we just could not live without.

And so, now, years later, I indeed wonder, where has the time gone?  How has so much time gone by without my constant awareness of the clock ticking and of time's minutes melding into the great span of years?  It's been an amazing, although gradual, revelation to myself:  I no longer survive one minute at a time.  Sometimes (like at his birthday or his memorial day) I regress to needing to get through the day by each minute or hour.  Yet now the minutes of those 24 hours zip by and then it's the next day and the next day, and then, voila! - life has gone on another week and month without my collapse.

I look back at the landscape of my life created in the past few years, and see it painted and sculpted by the grief journey I've traveled.  Miraculously, that landscape is no longer barren, but reflects that I have continued to live.  I realize all of this really has been my path, and my life.  The pain of my losses continues to inhabit my being every day on some level, but it no longer keeps me from continuing on my soul's journey in this existence.  And I find myself more than a little glad that somehow, the survivor part of my being saved myself from that journey on the river Styx and returned me to a path of light.

For those who have helped me navigate back to my life, I will be forever grateful.  For those who choose to join me or remain with me in the path that is now my life, I will welcome the company with both love and gratitude.  And with anyone who dares to love me knowing where I've been, and what the pain of grief has done to my soul, there shall be great love to share.

Where has the time gone?  To a place where I have hope that, someday soon, love and affirmation will finally cover over the dark pools of pain.

Copyright 2017

Don't Ever Look Back?

What a great title.  Thank you, Katy Perry, for suggesting that we all have a choice to not look back.  But guess what....you are wrong.  Wrong, wrong, wrong.  Sometimes looking back is all you can do.

It's where we can dwell with those who can no longer be a part of our present.  So we have to look back in order to keep them in our present.

I have not posted in almost one year.  One year.  It seems like nothing.  Because it more or less is nothing.  My life is now measured in how long since my son died.  That's the only relevant metric.

Ask anyone who grieves a loved one.  You will find that their lives are measured by what has happened since their death.

People want us to move on.  To find closure.  But I'm here to tell you that.....nope.  Not happening.

When you have lost a child...a best friend...a spouse....all you can do is look back.  To not do that is to erase them from your life.  Humans hold on to memories.  It keeps the departed part of the present, but to keep them "here" we have to remember they were "there."  Of course, looking back doesn't erase the awful reality that they are NOT part of the present.  Only we are here.  And they are gone. But looking back helps one cope with the enormity of the loss.

That's why, (as I've written earlier in this blog) if you know someone who has lost a child, best friend, sibling, spouse.....talk to them about the person.  Say the person's name.  Let the grieving person share memories.  It really, really helps.

The interesting part is that most of us who are afflicted with grief find a way to "manage."    Take me, for example.  I have a thriving business.  I'm active in my community.  I have friends and usually make time for them unless my business keeps me way too busy.  (In fact, being busy is one of the "reasons" (excuses?) for not blogging for so long.)  But every day, something nips me on the ankle...catches me out of the corner of my eye...makes me teary eyed.....I see my son, my best friend, my husband....but I see them "there" and not "here."

I can't help but look back to life "before."

And all my friends, and all my family simply cannot know the depth of my losses...of my aloneness and the isolation that comes with grief.

Looking back brings a bit of comfort.  Without memories we are not "us" but a shell who knows only the moment.  Some might say that brings peace.  I say I'd rather have my former life a part of my present life even if I find myself crying over  a song, or a particular food, or (like today) finding my son's report card from elementary school.  It's all me, all of it, the pain and the past and the present.  I will keep the memories a part of me.

I had that life with them.  I am in large part defined by that life.  I will look back and keep myself intact.

Have you ever heard about someone who even after 10 years could not bring themselves to get rid of their loved one's clothes, to clean out the closet?   Did you scoff at that?  Ridicule?  Criticize? Getting rid of the tangible physical objects means we are shutting off the ways we have to look back, or to keep a connection to that person we loved.   Some folks can call Goodwill or Salvation Army within a month of their loved one's death.  Most of us can't.  I used to criticize.  No more.  Although my son's room looks nothing like when he was here, and is now a guest room/multipurpose room (used mostly by his sister who I think feels more than a little connected to him that way) it is still "Mat's room" and always will be.  It's not looking back.  It's a stuck reality.  A reality I don't want to let go of.  Not yet.  Maybe not ever.

And yes, in case you were wondering, I have most of his clothes still.  Can't quite bring myself to let them go.  At least they are in a big box and no longer hanging in his closet.  As they say in 12 step, one day at a time.

What I've come to understand from all my losses is that it is OK to not let go of the past reality.  As we go farther along the grief path, we learn to live in the "new" life, yet we have those times when we look back and return -- in our heads -- to life as it was.

And we find a way to cry and smile and be with them again.

To look back and celebrate the life that was.

Then return to the life that is.   With a smile that comes from the love we will always feel.  It helps hide the abyss in our "now" life created by their departure.

You are here, alone, in the moment of today.  But the way to keep close those who have left us is to always, always look back.


copyright 2016

The Hierarchy of Death

Memorial Day.  Or Decoration Day if you're from the South.  A day when almost everybody loves soldiers.  The day is filled with flags, and parades, and remembrances, and eloquent verbal salutes to those who gave their lives in service to their country, the great US of A.

My son's grandfather died in Korea, so I think of Harold and his sacrifice on Memorial Day.  Age 26.  Killed in action.  Left two little babies, age 9 months (my husband) and 20 months (his sister).

The whole country honors Harold and all the others who died in uniform.  A sea of white tombstones covers Arlington, where Harold is buried.  I have a wonderful photo of my kids taken at Harold's tombstone at Arlington.  They flanked the white monument.  They both looked appropriately sad, even though Harold to them was only a family story, and a photograph.

Harold was a hero. He died in the service of his country.

But what else do I know about Harold's death?

The anguish of his mother, my husband's grandmother.  She was a "Gold Star Mother" -- honored because her child (in this case, her only child) died in combat.   But she was at her core a grieving mother who, as she wrote when she sent me pictures of her at the same tombstone where I took my kids, "never got over losing him."

Her grief was real and lasted her entire life.  The grief of every parent who loses a child is real.  But Mary (Harold's mother) had something else:  societal support of her loss.  Her son died a hero!  He was serving his country!  God bless our troops!  You are a Gold Star Mother!

For those of us who have lost our sons or daughters in circumstances not so noble,  we are not so lucky.  There is no Gold Star for grieving parents whose kids happened to have been killed in gang violence, or in a traffic accident, or by drug overdose, or by disease.

BUT:   that doesn't mean we are all lumped together.  Oh no, far from it.  You see, there is a hierarchy of death.  The human mind can't help but "rank" every aspect of existence (where you live, who you marry, what car you drive, what your job/career is, etc.)  Death is no different.

So if it is your fate to suffer the loss of a child, I hope your child is in the military.  The parent of a soldier who died in service (even if friendly fire) ranks at the top of the hierarchy of death.  That parent will have no shortage of support and comfort from friends, family and even total strangers.

For the rest of us, we scramble.  Or we are silent.  Or we ignore the true cause of death so as not to be judged.  But every one of us who has lost a child understands the competition to show our child's death as more worthy of sympathy and support than another child's death.

Why is it not enough to simply say your precious and beautiful child died?

But it isn't.  The world doesn't work that way.  Inquiring minds want to know.  What happened? How did this child die????  And thereafter, let the judgment begin.

Parental competition is not confined to what college your child is in, or what career he or she has chosen.  Even in death, parents want to show their kids are more worthy, that they are on top of the "competition."

From what I have seen, parents fare better with public support if their child died as a result of something totally and completely out of their control -- such as a horrible disease (cancer, leukemia) or an accident where "the other guy" or some unforeseen force was at fault.

You lose sympathy points if your child was at fault for the accident that claimed his or her life.  You definitely go to the bottom of the sympathy list if your child  died while under the influence of something or if he or she suffered from mental illness.

You have some social support if your child died due to any kind of gun violence (again, assuming the child was not a willing participant in the violence).  This means the non-gang member killed by gang violence,  or the victims of lone shooters like the young man who went on a rampage in Santa Barbara in 2014.  My heart broke when I saw the Richard Martinez, the father of the 20 year old young man who was one of the victims.  The dad has since given up his career as a lawyer in order to advocate for gun violence.  Wow, does he get all kinds of support and affirmation. Of course it can't heal the loss, or repair the hole ripped in his psyche from the loss of his only child, but it has to help to know that Christopher's death was at least on the level of a noble one -- an innocent young man who was the victim of random gun violence.  Mr. Martinez now has a cause he can use to channel his grief and try to bring some "good" out of the "awful."

Notice how so little is said of the shooter, Elliot, a young man of privilege who was plagued by mental illness.  No noble death there.  Yet I have no doubt his parents grieve as much as Mr. Martinez.  But they rank lower on the hierarchy because their son was "at fault."

And by the way, how many folks caught that Mr. Martinez reached out to Mr. Rodger, Elliot's dad? That was perhaps the most positive news story to come out of the tragedy.   They are both grieving fathers who lost sons.  When you have been forced into the reality of "grieving parent" sometimes it just doesn't matter how each of you arrived there.

What of the parents who must suffer through the knowledge that their child committed suicide? Who comes forward to publicize that?  Oh no, says society, suicide is shameful.  Others say, What did the parents do wrong? Why did they not get their child help?  Maybe they were bad parents and this was the child's cry for help that they didn't pay attention to?  Maybe karma came back to bite them hard!  Maybe somewhere somehow they caused this!

No, of course no one says that to their face.  But it's there.

And what of the parents who suffer when their child dies from a drug overdose?  No one steps up to offer support for that.  Drug addict.  Overdosed.  Of course.  What else would you expect?  They just didn't raise that child correctly, else he/she would not have turned to drugs. Why didn't they get their child the right kind of help?  Why didn't those parents do something to keep the child away from drugs?

Oh, the cruel and hateful and ignorant concepts that people have.  And that they project, even if they never utter a word to the grieving parent.

It is far nobler to be the parent of a deceased child if the death was due to a "better" and more acceptable reasons.  If your child can't be a soldier, at least be a cancer victim, or a victim of a stupid driver's negligence or random violence.  Lots of support there.

For everyone else, oh, well, they say, we are so sorry for your loss.  Now let's not talk about it ever again because we all know the kid either had it coming, or brought it on him/herself, or  it was inevitable.

Do I have a ranking for what's the worse type of death, in terms of getting any kind of support or affirmation?  No, I don't.  Each of us carries our own level of judgment.  To some, suicide is the worse. Others, stupid tricks like trying to skateboard between two buildings (actually happened).  Still others, drug overdoses are at the bottom.  In all cases, unless there was a nobility to the death, the grieving parent(s) is usually just not spoken to (see prior blog, "It's Not Contagious.")

Bottom line:  it doesn't matter one bit how one's kid died.  HE OR SHE DIED.  That is all that matters.  For you fortunate enough to have never experienced this soul-crushing pain of losing a child, please be supportive of anyone you know who has suffered the loss.  It DOES NOT MATTER how the child died.  Don't ask the question.  If the person wants you to know, they will tell you.  If not, let it go.

Just let it go.

My wish is that Memorial Day continues to remind us to celebrate and honor our fallen soldiers, but to also remind us that many children have been taken from their parents under all kinds of circumstances.   They all grieve.  They all deserve support and love for the loss of that child.  We whose children were not soldiers don't get to hang flags and hold parades for our children.  Yet our children still lost the battle of life and our grief is just as great as any parent.

We should mourn all our children who left us too soon.  Mourn without judgment.  Mourn in equal measure. No matter how they were taken from us.

Copyright 2015

Otherside

Music haunts me.  More to the point, music keeps biting me in the ass.  And I keep letting it.

Music has been integral to my existence.  You can read it in these blog posts, where I seem always to link something to a song or lyric.  That's what my head does in virtually every setting -- a phrase, event, reaction seems to trigger a song lyric.

My father was a musician and I grew up surrounded by jam sessions at our home, being taken to radio stations, live performances, and of course the clubs my dad and his band played.

Ironic that I was surrounded by such loud music all of the time, yet I was partially deaf as a child (until I had surgery at age 11 -- what a miracle to my world, but that's a story for another time).  And how further ironic that just 2 months after I had full hearing restored to me, my father died.  And along with him, for a while, the music died too.

But music wouldn't leave me.  I took violin lessons.  I sang in the school choruses and church choir, and surrounded myself with the radio and records (yep, both kinds, 33 and 45).  I had a head for lyrics, and a love of rhythm and beat, and collected as much music as my meager allowance (and rather restrictive mother) would allow.

I met my husband when I was 19 and he was 20.   He was wearing a tape recorder, headphones and carrying a mic when I first met him, working for student radio station KUSC and for the "audio yearbook."  In retrospect, it was an obvious attraction.

After that, it was like reliving my childhood.  My world became filled not just with the music on disc, but with radio stations, live shows, recording sessions and other musical madness.  Steve went on to become a well known audio designer and engineer, specializing in live shows, radio broadcasts, music festivals, and pristine live recordings.

And so I transitioned into adulthood still being surrounded by (loud) music.  Unlike my childhood, which was limited to country western and church music, this time I was surrounded by classical, jazz, blues, big band, avant garde, rock and folk music.  I loved it.  I sometimes tired of it. But it was always there.  It was my life.  

When my son was born, I hoped that he too would love music.  I would dance with him as a baby, and he would smile that enormous smile of his, lighting up his hazel blue eyes   We sang along with Disney videos.  I sang with the radio, and to him, in the car.  He started going to live shows when he was just a few days old.  The loud sounds never disturbed him.

To my amazement, hope became reality.  At age 9, he begged me (yes, begged) for piano lessons. His elementary school had a music teacher and he loved the class.  He wanted to play piano.  So he did.  (I gave him lessons.)  By age 11, he had been in 3 recitals and was learning to play Scott Joplin (he knew how much I adored Joplin's rag music).

He arrived in middle school and expanded his talent to the electric bass (yes, of course I gave him lessons).  He joined the orchestra.  At his audition, the music teacher said, "he's got perfect pitch" and promptly assigned him the French horn, one of the more difficult instruments.  He relished the chance to play it  (yes, of course I gave him lessons).   He also played in the marching band, and was selected to play French horn in the Idlywild summer honors symphonic band.

Music was huge in his life.  He continued to play all three instruments until his world completely fell apart with his estrangement from his father, followed by the death of a special father figure to him, soon followed by the death of his beloved uncle, another father figure to him.  

Ultimately, my son, who would introduce himself to a new French horn piece by transcribing (in his head!) the horn music into piano music, playing it on piano, and then playing the notes on the horn, would call himself a "music retard."  How wrong he was.  How it broke my heart to see him have such a disconnect with his talents.

On the other hand, he never left music, and indeed he surrounded himself with music -- radio, CDs (I still have most of his collection -- it was huge), and downloads on the computer. (He kept losing his iPods.)  Our home (and the car) was never quiet.  And he didn't have just a single type of music.  Like his dad (with whom he had a definite love-hate relationship, probably because they were so much alike) his tastes ranged from rock, punk, jazz, blues, electronic, reggae, rap, hip hop and alternative.  Even the Beatles.  Or should I say, because they are among my favorites, especially the Beatles.

I had hoped that his love of music would help him get through the pain he was feeling over all the losses of the father figures in his life.  Music helped, but it was never quite enough.

The greatest gift of all of this, for me, is that he and I shared the music.  When he was just entering the terrible teen years, I took him to a free outdoor concert and like a protective mom hung around despite not knowing who the heck "Rage Against the Machine" was (I learned).  That started us on a journey of shared music.  We listened to music in the car and at home.  He'd play newly found jewels for me, or excitedly share about a new group or artist.  I found myself with yet another great connection, on a visceral level, with my troubled teenage son.  And I realized that I actually enjoyed Social Distortion and Bad Religion and Rancid and Sublime and Flogging Molly and all the other edgy music he liked.

Our last evening together we enjoyed a Mexican feast (his favorite food, next to sushi), shopping at Trader Joe's and driving downtown together.  I cherish that car ride because we were able to share the music.  Bad Religion had just released a new song and we discussed a perceived change in their style, but agreed they were still good.

Less than 36 hours after sharing the music on that car ride, my son was dead.

At his memorial service, my family helped me put together a selection of songs.  I chose Social Distortion, Red Hot Chili Peppers and Bob Marley.  I remember trying to get people to sing along (lyrics were passed out).  It was crazy.  Everyone was in shock and disbelief that he was gone, but Mat would have wanted people to have a good time.  There was just too much pain to have any kind of a good time.  But still the music played and some people sang and I stood up and sang too.

It literally took YEARS for me to be able to listen to any of his music.  I stopped playing the radio in the car for fear that one of "his" groups or songs would come on.  And because his dad had died suddenly only 11 months before my son, I had already stopped listening to anything classical.   My world became very, very quiet.

Grief gradually loosens its grip on you (it never, ever fully lets go), and slowly it allows some of the old activities to be reintegrated into the present.  It's never the same, of course, but at least it's tolerated and maybe can engender some good memories.   To the outside world it looks as though you are "better" or "coping."    No, not really, it's just that for many of us worn down by grief, there are a few nooks and crannies as time goes on that the grief does not completely fill, which then gives us room to add back pieces of the things we used to do.

I started listening to KROQ again.   My daughter would play some of Mat's downloads in the car.  I slowly lost the chest-tightening, kick in the solar plexus feeling when I heard the familiar songs (except "Angel" by Flipsyde -- still gets me crying with fresh grief).  I even started singing them again.

Every single time I hear a song from our shared times, or any song from a favorite group, the reality of my son's death covers me again.   Yet I listen.  I sing along.  I feel a small bit of peace in listening again.   In a way, I am connected with my son despite him being "on the other side" [from a Chili Peppers song]:

How long how long will I slide
Separate my side, I don't
I don't believe it's bad
Slit my throat, it's all I ever

I heard your voice through a photograph
I thought it up it brought up the past
Once you know you can never go back
I've got to take it on the otherside

I heard "Otherside" today while driving, and all the years rolled back and there I was, sitting in the car, listening, and at one point I thought for sure Mat was there in the passenger seat.   I like to think we were brought together again by the music.  Sigh. I guess to really know how the connection continues, "I've got to take it on the otherside."  

Some day.  Not today.

My beautiful son, thank you for the music we share.  May you always be surrounded by and connected to it, and to me.  


copyright 2015

Still Crazy

The loss of anyone leaves a big, fat gaping hole in one's being.  A black hole, that sucks out all light and keeps it from escaping.  A bottomless pit where the stone you toss into it never hits bottom.

Grief.  Goddamn grief.

I am weary of grief.  I am tired of trying to fill the hole.  I've become Sisyphus, the Greek dude who was condemned to pushing a boulder up a hill, only to have it roll down, and start the process over.

Whoever conjured up that character must have been plagued by grief.

Years roll by since my great losses.  I function, I get through the days, and then for no reason I find myself enveloped by loss and that sense of being totally alone.  Almost like in a vacuum.  And because it's a vacuum, there are no molecules to carry the sound, so truly, no one can hear you scream.  No one can hear you even speak, or cry, or whimper.  You're on your own.

And yet I function so well.  Just ask my colleagues, my family, my friends.  But what the hell do they know.  Nothing.  They cannot hear me.

The Saturday Night Live 40th anniversary special aired recently. I watched it and enjoyed it. But it plopped me right back into the depth of grief.  Why?  Well, my husband and I loved the show, and even though he worked many Saturday nights ( he was in "the business") we found a way to watch it right after his own shows, or we'd hurry home from the gig to watch (pre-TIVO days, of course).  Worse, he and Dan Aykroyd were twins (honest to God, we would be out in public and people would ask for his autograph), so watching Dan perform was like seeing my husband again. Plus Steve could imitate any Aykroyd bit perfectly.  I was transported back in a nanosecond to laughing over Bass-o-Matic and the Blues Brothers.  

It has been days since the special, and I'm still caught in the grief hole and can't seem to get out.  Steve and I should be laughing together right now.  Instead, I just laugh alone.  And laughing alone when it should be shared is very sad indeed.

On the heels of that special show came a matter I was handling that involved traumatic injuries to a young man who was, almost to the day, a year younger than my son.  And defending the doctor and hospital that caused his injuries (by prescribing a new drug without proper monitoring and follow up) were two young men not too far off from my son's age.

Wow.  A young man dies.  Another suffers traumatic injuries. Two others go on to professional careers.  The fickle finger of fate.  It's fucked up.

I can't stop thinking about what my son would be, or where he would be, or what he would be doing. That's fucked up too, because there's no way to know.  But I keep playing out scenarios.  It's like the kid's books where you can choose your endings.  But I know how his story ends.  That part never changes.  But I keep trying to play out how it SHOULD have ended.  More trying to fill the hole by busying the mind with stupid, useless exercises.

Grief isolates you.  You realize damn few in this world can truly understand the sense of aloneness, of isolation, of being adrift.   So you just don't share any of it with anyone, ever.  Besides, that's what shrinks and blogs are for, right?

What fills the hole?  Every one has his or her own filler.  Some, it's ignoring the truth and just returning to life.  Some, drugs or alcohol or sex or a combination thereof.  Some, it's work.  Some, it's marathon running or cycling other endurance sports.  Some, nothing fills it and they are slowly dragged into the hole, like quicksand, and they exit this existence.

For me, I work.  A lot.   It can always be justified as "accomplishing" something.  Or building my business.  Or some other positive attribute.  But I am really trying hard to fill that hole and not let it consume me.  Running from the tsunami, if you will.

Funny.  My BFF and I had talked about using work as an escape just shortly before she died.  She agreed that it would be easy to use work that way, and I laughed as I told her how grateful I was for her because she was there for me to always share with -- which means I didn't have to use work to escape.

Yeah, well, we know how that turned out.  Fucked up.  You need a shared history friend to really be able to deal with grief.

The take away from this?  If you know someone who has lost someone super close to them (a friend of mine calls it a "core person" which is a great description) just know that they have this hole, and try to be one of the ways the hole is filled.

Either that, or sit down and share whatever alcoholic beverage they prefer.  And let them talk about the lost one.  And have a good cry.  And then take them out and do something crazy/fun.

On the SNL 40 show, Paul Simon sang one of my favorite songs.  I always thought I'd be able to sing it with Steve, as we were pretty crazy when we were kids. Or with Heidi, as we were pretty crazy too. Simon's voice is pretty much gone, but his lyrics are as powerful as ever:

"I saw my old lover on the street today,
She seemed so glad to see me, I just had to stay.
And we talked about old times
 and we drank ourselves some beers,
Still crazy after all these years."

Yes, we would still be crazy.  No holes to fill.  Just a shared history to take a little farther down the path, together.


Copyright 2015

Butterfly

Sometimes life just kicks you in the butt, and usually when you least expect it.

I started this blog at the urging of my best friend, Heidi.  She said I had a story to tell, and I should tell it. Grief just isn't talked about in any depth, she correctly noted, until a person is slammed with the loss of someone or something and then the emotions are too strong to absorb any words of wisdom about how to handle it.  She said I had a way of telling the story of living despite grieving that might help others who have lost someone, or know someone who is grieving.

After months (or was it years???) of her nudging and encouragement, I finally listened to her and started the blog.  I wrote a long time on the first entry and realized I was completely absorbed by the process.  I lost track of time.  I wrote, and edited, and polished, and finally finished.  I read it over and knew that writing about grief was what I needed to do.

I began it on September 30, my son's birthday.  I finished in the wee hours of October 1.  I felt good, and accomplished.  But the maiden voyage into blogging was not complete until I sent it to my BFF for her blessing (or at least her feedback).

She wrote back and was effusive in her praise -- yes, yes, this is it, this is what you need to be writing, so that others can know, and can deal with grief.  We had a wonderful exchange about it, and I felt at ease, with the validation that only a most-of-your-life friend can bring you.

We were friends for 45 years.  Most of my lifetime.

Then, 10 days after my first post, she died.  Died.  I still can't quite fathom it.  She was fatigued, she fainted twice, she went to the doctor, the blood test said leukemia, and 48 hours later, she died.

I thought the death of my husband was awful.

I knew the death of my son caused part of me to die.

Her death has ripped away a big part of me, because she was with me for so much of my life.

This new cosmic kick in the butt has kept me from writing the blog.  This new grief shoved aside other grief and left me staggering, like an old, beaten boxer, carrying the scars of all the fights before, covered by the fresh blood of the current fight.  Yes, I am a fighter, and I remain, but I wish I had endured less pummeling.  Fact is, life does what it wants to do.  Some of us get more than our share of kicks in the butt.  So it goes.

"In the clearing stands a boxer, and a fighter by his trade,
And he carries the reminder, of every glove that laid him down,
Or cut him, 'til he cried out, in his anger and his shame,
I am leaving, I am leaving,
But the fighter still remains."

-Simon & Garfunkel, "The Boxer"

Just now am I able to write the words, "she died."  45 years of friendship is gone.  No more giggles.  No more funny emails.  No more serious emails.  No more long phone calls.  No more being able to give advice, and take advice.  No more plans for trips and visits and sharing stories.  No more "Heidi Cookies" at Christmas.  No more.

She has been gone for two months.  It is a blur, and I try to not think about the lack of emails, the lack of phone calls, the birthday cards and presents that will never be sent.

Death is endemic to life on this planet.  Although I can still say without hesitation that the death of a child is a loss like no other, I see that the loss of a best friend -- who was more like my sister -- comes pretty damn close.

One thing I will miss, among many trillions of things, is sharing with her the symbols that would come my way, that became my belief that my loved ones were communicating with me.  (See previous blog on "Feathers.")  She absolutely believed in angels, and knew there were communications from those who have "translated" [as she called it] to a different existence (she never thought death was the end, but the beginning of a new type of life).

And so, a couple of days after I heard the news, I found myself thinking about our many conversations about the spirit world, and communications from those that have left, and wondered whether there would be a something from her.  I said out loud, "Heidi, I know you will find a way to communicate with me, and I will be looking for it."  

Not too long after that, perhaps the next morning, I was walking to my car and enjoying the warmth of the late fall sun.   My car was parked under the large Chinese elm tree in front of my house.  As I opened the car door, I looked up into the now mostly leafless branches, and suddenly a butterfly appeared.  It hovered and fluttered over the car for quite some time, and as I looked at it, a smile broke out.  "Aha!  It's you, Heidi!   I knew you would find a way to come to me.  Thank you."  And yes, the tears welled up, but truly they were happy tears.

I get many butterflies in my yard, mostly the deeply colored orange and black Monarch type.  But this butterfly was a completely different color -- grey with yellow -- that I had never, in my entire life, seen before.  And, never, in the 15 years of parking my car under the Chinese elm tree, did I ever see ANY butterfly in that tree.

I have not seen that butterfly since.  I have not seen any other butterfly in the Chinese elm.

I know it was Heidi.

Her voice and her encouragement continues both in my head and my spirit.  I started this blog to share the grief journey of my son.  Yet there are many grief journeys and her loss has added a new dimension to my understanding.  It's not a loss I would have wanted or chosen, but like the other "involuntary" losses I have been hit with, it is a loss with lessons.

I will keep writing.  For me, for others, and for her.

To Heidi, may your spirit journey be even better than you envisioned.   I miss you, my friend, but hope your spirit is as light and as free as the butterfly you sent to me.


Copyright 2014