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

Feathers

"When you see me fly away without you,

Shadow on the things you know,

Feathers fall around you

And show you the way to go.....it's over..."

Ah, Neil Young...one of my favorite musicians...wrote those lyrics.  It resonated with me the first time I heard it at the innocent age of 19.  I often sang it over the years.  How prescient those lyrics turned out to be.

I was a science geek of a kid. I loved collecting things....worms and caterpillars....dinosaur bones from a dig in the South Bay area....rocks of all shapes and sizes....leaves.   But not feathers.  I have no memory of ever finding feathers at any time, until after my son died.

 But I must provide some background in order to fully illustrate how significant this is.  

When my son was 12, he gave me a birthday present.   It was not what one would expect.  It was a small snow globe that had, perched inside, a perfectly formed bird...blackish...with soulful eyes. You could almost hear the song coming through the glass.  I loved it, even though I initially thought, that was an odd gift from a 12 year old to a mom who otherwise had little to do with birds. Yet the more I shook the snow, and looked at the bird, the more I felt oddly connected to it.  The little snow globe was promptly placed on the window ledge in my kitchen, and I looked at it every day. It remains a small reminder of the sweet 12 year old who picked out a special gift for his mom.

My son was not without challenges and difficulties very shortly after that birthday.  He was part of a youth therapy group at age 15.  Part of the healing work was going through a "transformation" ritual designed to help him shed his old persona and step into the new, improved one.  The group leader gave him a name:  Soaring Eagle.  He loved it.  So did I.

"Blackbird singing in the dead of night

Take these broken wings and learn to fly,

All your life

You were only waiting for this moment to arrive."

He was quite the musical talent, and "discovered" the Beatles when he raided my collection of CDs. Turns out the White Album, from which Blackbird comes, was one of his favorites.   The Beatles were one of the many musical interests we enjoyed together.

So why am I writing about birds and feathers???

After my son's memorial service, my BFF took me away for a short trip to Ojai. She thought I needed a change of scenery, and to just get into a calm space and try to manage the grief.  She was so right.  I needed that little trip.  Ojai is a lovely and peaceful place.  My husband had been the technical director of the Ojai music festival for several years, and I always found our trips there to be enjoyable, not just because of the music, but because there was a different energy -- restorative, it seemed --  throughout the town. It was a perfect place to go after suffering such an unfathomable loss.  

When we left Ojai on our way back to Los Angeles, we stopped at an expansive, tree filled park near the ocean in Ventura.  She and I had packed a picnic lunch and walked quite a ways to a table under a very tall tree (which in my mind was a pine, but it could have been almost anything tall and green.  I was still very much grief stricken and remember now only certain "big picture" items.  Tall tree.  Green.  Lots of rough bark. Cool ocean breeze.).

As we sat and enjoyed the sun, the slight ocean breeze, and the restorative quality of being surrounded by nature, I found myself breathing deep and smiling.  Since his death, I had been barely breathing at all, and usually with shallow breaths.  The sensation of breathing deep, sensing the sun on my face, and enjoying a bit of life was pleasant, albeit foreign to me after suffering so much.  I liked it.  It was a moment of respite from relentless grief.

As we packed up, and started walking back to the car, I realized I felt rather good. Then, as I walked by the Big Tree, there, right in my path, was an enormous black feather.  Just lying there.  I'm not sure why, but I picked it up.  It seemed to have called out to me.  I found another one before we made it back to the car.  My BFF did not find any feathers.  She immediately recognized the symbolism and said they were a gift from my son.  I thought it an interesting concept, found the feathers striking and attractive, and decided to keep them as souvenirs of the getaway trip.

As it turned out, those feathers were merely the beginning.  Ever since then, I have found feathers in abundance.  Walking along a downtown street.  Taking the dog for a walk.  In the middle  of my office lobby where there is no window that opens to the outside world.  Piled up outside my back door (with no evidence of a dead bird to be found).  Next to my car in an urban parking garage.

My spiritual friends tell me that feathers are a sign from our angels -- in this case my son -- to let us know they are around us.

My agnostic friends tell me they're just feathers, even though they acknowledge that I seem to find many of them (whereas they do not).

Others have shared that they too have found feathers after a loved one passed away.

I was not the only one to encounter the bird experience.  I learned, after my daughter returned home from boarding school, and before she knew about my feather discoveries,  that a couple of days after her brother died, a bird flew into the upstairs rec room at her house at school.  It flew around, sang and chirped, and she had been captivated by the sight and sound.  After she watched it for a few minutes, it flew away.  Never before had a bird gotten into the house.

And she too now finds feathers.  They always make her smile.  She gives them to me to add to the others that adorn various shelves and tabletops.

I now have quite a collection of feathers, of all sizes and colors. Once, while walking in Descanso Gardens in late October, I found an unusual feather -- sleek black with streaks of orange.  Another time I was walking the dog at night, with no moon, and suddenly, a small beam of light shown on the street, illuminating a pure white feather lying at my feet.

I have found feathers of varied coloring, some solid, some mixed, including black, blue, green, white, and tan.  I save them all and have grouped them in vases.  One of the best is a little, squat stoneware vase with a fat body and very thin, short neck.  My son hand painted it as an art project in elementary school. It has a symmetrical design in black and green with dots of white.  I had unearthed it earlier in a box that held lots of his childhood treasures. It holds some of the smaller, yet colorful, feathers, and the combination is quite harmonious.  It's one of my favorite displays of the many feathers I have found.  

As time has passed, it is not just feathers that I find.  A few years ago, I was injured in a car accident and was off work for 2 months.  It turned out my first day back to work just a few days shy of the anniversary of his passing.  It was oddly strange, a kind of disconnect, to be back in my office, after the extended absence, still not quite 100% better, and to have that juxtaposed with the impending memorial day.  (The first anniversary is a very difficult milestone to pass through....the others aren't exactly easy, but the first one is particularly painful.)

As I stood in my office, gazing out the window onto the balcony of the luxury condo building directly opposite me, I saw a large, stately and beautiful hawk, pacing up and down the edge of the balcony.  It kept looking at me and strutting back and forth.  It squawked many times.  I was transfixed by the appearance of this bird, as no bird had ever perched on that balcony before.  

I looked at the hawk.  I swear it looked at me.  It strutted some more, and after I started smiling, it trotted along the rail and then flew off. 

In the next 4 years that I spent in that office, I never again saw a hawk, or any other bird on that balcony.

Birds have also come to my home, and I don't mean just to munch the goodies in the bird feeders. So often,  I will walk out in the morning, and a particular long tailed black bird will perch on the fence just above me, or swoop over the grass and perch on the chimney, looking down at me.  It will circle over my head, perch again, and then leave.  At times, a large crow/raven will perch on the very top of a very tall cypress tree behind my house and scream "caw! caw!" while staring down at me.  It too has been seen on the chimney giving me the once over before soaring away.

I have no recollection of such visits or serenades or swoops before my son passed.   Some skeptics say of course they happened, but I just didn't notice them.  I say otherwise.  Science girl pays attention to such things.  Never happened before.  It is nourishment to my soul and balm for my grief for these birds and feathers to find their way to me.  I cannot know how it happens, but I am eternally grateful that it does.

Feathers have indeed been falling all around me.  And they do show me the way to go.   It is to go on with my life.  Without him.   Knowing that in some way, his broken wings of life have taught him to fly in spirit.  And that brings to me a welcome spark of peace.

copyright 2014

It's Not Contagious

Whether we consciously know it or not, fear permeates much of our existence.  As children, we fear clowns, or bogeymen, or monsters under the bed, or even our parents' punishments.  When we are older, we fear rejection, fear looking stupid, fear trying something new.  We fear being infected by someone with a contagious disease.  We fear losing our job, or being homeless, or outliving our money.

Parents, though, have a much deeper and more visceral fear.  We fear for our children's safety.  If they are ill, or in danger (such as in a war zone, or a public safety officer), we might actually articulate that we fear they will die.  Fear grips us.  It is powerful and palpable.

So, it was natural, I suppose, for most people to stay at arm's length, and in some cases actually avoid me, after my son died.  I finally figured it out.  They were afraid.  Afraid it would happen to them.

Afraid that if they got too close, the awful, worst nightmare might become theirs as well.  As though a child dying is contagious, which it is not.

They kept their distance because they were also afraid of saying or doing something wrong.  

Society gives us options and guidance when a parent or spouse dies.  Many sympathy cards fill the card racks, or pop up on the greeting card websites.  But the loss of a child or sibling is so out of the ordinary grief experience that suddenly none of the cards seems appropriate.

There is little in our society that gives people any clue about what to do when someone's child or sibling dies.  It's just too awful to comprehend.

I was a solo mother when my son passed away.  His dad, my husband, had died only 11 months earlier.  (Clearly, that was not the best year of my life.)  So I had no obvious person (i.e., the other parent) to turn to that terrible day when I found out that my son had died.

Although I was initially in the presence of others, I actually was very much alone.  It was like a bubble of opaque fog had surrounded me.  I was there, but not quite connected.  The worst part was finally going home.  You would think that family and friends would jump in to make sure I didn't spend those first few horrible nights by myself but no.........they didn't.  Amazing.

People did step up and do wonderful things for me.  It was just those first days (and especially nights) that were the worst of my life.  I ultimately felt very blessed by those who stepped in and kept me from facing those early nights alone.

My long time friend (truly my BFF) who lives in another state dropped what she was doing and made her way to me.  She stayed with me for a while (I was still in a daze of grief when she arrived and to this day cannot remember how long she stayed.)   She helped me through the really ugly parts:  making funeral arrangements, going to the funeral home to see my beautiful boy one last time, getting through the service, writing the obituary.  She also made it possible for me to keep going, making sure I ate, talked, stayed in the moment, just being with me so I was able to go on minute by minute.  She took me out of town and away from the house, which was exactly what I needed, even though I didn't know it.

My sister-in-law, who was very close to my son, also flew out from another state on short notice to be with me and help me handle all that needed to be done.  She is a "woman of the cloth" and so she did the memorial service.  She knew him so well, and had been a source of support for him, and she was able to put together a perfect service that fitted who he was and truly was a celebration of his life.

My sister and her family contributed so much.  They did so many things for me, from arranging the place for the service, printing up materials, reading at the service, and sending a big basket of goodies to the hotel where my BFF and I went. I'm sure they did more, but my grief blotted out reality on many levels.

My niece was very close to my son and even though she was a new mother to her own son stepped in and organized a session where she, my daughter, my sister in law and BFF sifted through boxes and DVDs of photos of my son.  Then my niece -- always so artistic and talented -- prepared a beautiful triptych of storyboards that showed my son in the various stages of his life that she put on display at the memorial service.  I still have them and they are a wonderful gift from her.  

Yet the truth is, at the (literal) end of the day, what I needed was companionship, another person with me to help keep the spreading and formidable and all encompassing darkness at bay.  Ultimately I realized that family may not always be able to provide that.  Mine did their best, but at night I was still alone.  Thankfully my BFF was there for me as soon as she could be.

My BFF is an amazing person, strong and resilient and "can do."  Her arrival and taking charge is proof that action can dispel fear or at least keep it at bay. She was like a godmother to my son...made him a dinosaur baby blanket when he was born, and that blanket was still in his room when he passed.  He loved it, although like any self respecting young man, would not admit it.  But he wouldn't let me put it away, either.  He had also traveled to see her (on his own) in the six months before he passed.  He enjoyed staying with her and her husband, talking politics, religion, spirituality, and life. They made sure he got to the airport to get safely back home to me.

Ditto with my sister in law.  She is a "can do" person and prefers action.  She too was very connected to her nephew and helped him through some tough times.  She was a great inspiration to, and motivator for him.

And what about my niece, who has her own son?  How did the fear not prevent her from doing all that she did?   All I can say is that she is an extraordinary, wonderful human being and was close to and loved my son, her cousin, very much.  Love can indeed conquer fear.

I also received cards in the mail, or at the service, and flowers and plants and edibles were left for me at home.  There were many expressions of sorrow and support.  A few people came by and spent a few minutes with me. Many, many people came to the service.  I was so awash in grief that I am sure I don't remember everything.

But paradoxically, what I remember is the overwhelming sense of ultimately being alone. Strange, is it not, that I would conclude that, after just listing all the outward expressions of support?  Grief that is the kick-in-the-gut, crush-your-chest-so-you-can't-breathe grief leaves you with impressions....and that's the impression.   Maybe it is rooted in the reality that I was alone for the first few days. And especially that first night. Alone.  I still can't believe I got through it.  The God awful nights.  I had to walk by his room to get anywhere in the house, and ended up shutting the door so I had the fantasy that he was just out for the night.  Trying hard not to listen for his car driving up, or him opening the door (to the house or the fridge or the microwave).  Trying to sleep knowing he was never coming home.

Yes, I was alone those first few days, but ultimately got through it and survived because so many showed their love and support, each in the way that they were best able to do.

There were those who couldn't call me, or write me, or come see me.  Most of them later said they just didn't know what to say, or do, or that it was so awful that they were afraid of making it worse.  I do not think the lesser of any of them.  We can only do what we can do.  Most unhappiness comes from unrealistic expectations.  When a  child dies, there should be no expectations either from the bereaved or from those around him or her, because everyone goes through the fear and anguish in his or her own way.  I have much gratitude for any contact, any expression, any effort to reach out, no matter how long it may have taken the person to reach out to me or in what form it took.

As weeks went by after his death, I resumed what seemed to be my life.  What I realized, though, is when people asked me, "how are you doing?" they didn't really want to know.  The first few times I said how I was doing (saying basically, not well) I quickly figured out that no one knew what to say in response.  So I just ended up saying that I was doing OK.  That was acceptable and avoided awkward pauses.

As more time went by, another horrible reality set in.  I was not "supposed" to talk about my son.  No one talked about him.  No memories, good or bad, no mention of his name.   It made everyone way too uncomfortable.   I have since learned that this is a very common experience for all of us who are members of this club of woe.

That absence of his name has tempered  somewhat, because I finally came to a place that allowed me to say his name, first in family gatherings, later in general conversation.  If someone else felt uncomfortable, so be it.  He was part of my life, and he remains a part of me.  People share memories of spouses and parents, and by Jove, I was going to keep my son's memory alive by sharing memories of him too.  I have found that the more at ease I am with mentioning him at appropriate times (talking about a particular Thanksgiving dinner, for example, or about an assignment for one of his classes, or when he worked in retail) the more comfortable others are in talking about him.

I really like it when people remember his birthday.  I even like it when they remember his memorial day.  It means he mattered.  He still exists on some level because he is remembered.

Now that I am at a place in my grief journey where I can talk and write about this without shedding prodigious quantities of tears (well, most of the time, that is) I want to share some thoughts on what to do when a friend, family member, co worker or neighbor loses a child.   To overcome your own fear, it's important to have a little guidance on what to do to help, or at least to not make things worse.  Action puts fear at bay. It's important to do something.

Just recently, the owner of a neighborhood shop that I have patronized for years gingerly approached me on this subject, saying that someone he knew just lost his son.  He had no idea what to say or do, and wondered if I had any suggestions.  I spoke freely, without tears or sorrow, because his question transported me back to those awful few days and weeks after I lost my son. I wanted to help that bereaved parent, and I also wanted to help the shop owner who felt adrift not knowing how to help.

I want to share the list of what, in my experience, is how to help.

First, if at all possible, BE THERE IN PERSON.  Go see them.   Sit down and LET THEM TALK (or not, as they are able) and especially LET THEM CRY.   That's important.  Sometimes after losing your child you just can't talk.  All you can do is gulp for air and cry.  Just let them. Tell them it's OK to cry.

Second, don't try to "find the right thing to say."    There really isn't anything "right" to say when the grief is so fresh and so venomous.  It's more important to just be there, but it's OK to say how sorry you are, what a terrible loss, and especially, what a great/wonderful/special/funny/talented/any adjective person he/she was.  And most important, don't be afraid to share a memory you have of the departed.  SAY THEIR CHILD'S NAME.   "I always laughed or enjoyed it when [name] did such and such."  Your talking about and saying the NAME of the child is a drink of cool water in their desert of grief.

Third, please do not say "I know how you feel -- when I lost my mother/father/husband/wife...."   The grief of losing a child is totally different (I have lost my mother, father and husband, so I am pretty confident when I say this).  Repeat:  losing a child is totally different.

Fourth, if you want to do something to help, understand that the bereaved parent will not know what it is they need.  Try to be specific:  Can I help you plan the service?  Can I bring food?  Can I video the service?  Can I help with preparing a photo collage?  Or better yet, just say "I am going to do x, y or z."  Also helpful is to show up with food and a pledge to come back at a certain time the next day to share a meal.  Or to take the parent out for coffee or tea or something to eat. Answer the door or the phone and run interference for visitors, deliveries, etc.  If nothing else, leave something with them (a simple vase with a couple of flowers, or a small live plant or --- gold stars for this one --- a photo you have of the child that they don't have). Physical reminders of someone's love and concern and support are wonderful lifelines when the grief becomes overwhelming, which it does, frequently.

I get it that others' fear of contagion remains, no matter how many years pass since losing my son.  I no longer take the fear, or the avoidance, personally.  But, I am careful in how (or if) I divulge my loss, and with whom I share it.  I try to be discreet.  I am not ashamed of being a bereaved parent, but I want no pity, and I want no fear.  I am not solely defined as a mother who lost her son.  It of course is a part of me, but it is not all of me.

Yet I also want people to know that the loss of my son informs so much of my outlook on life, and that my son will never stop being part of my daily life.  It's true. Every day there are thoughts of him.  Looking at the garden he loved.  Taking care of his beloved cat and dog.  (His cat passed away a couple of months ago, which rekindled the grief as it was another part of life with my son that's now gone.)   I still drive his car.  His sister and I laugh at things he used to do, or smile when one of his favorite songs is played, or we talk about his favorite movies or video games or TV shows.  Whether or not you believe in angels or the afterlife, the fact is my son is still with me and will be with me for the rest of my life.

The death of a child is not contagious.  But it changes everything.  When someone you know has been initiated into this club of woe, know that it is a time of transition for them -- painful, awful, gut wrenching transition.  Being there with them, especially when the tears fall and nothing can be said, is the greatest gift you can give them.

Doing something -- anything - for them and with them is also the best antidote for fear ....yours, and theirs.  

"It is better to light just one little candle than to stumble in the dark."  

Whatever you can do to conquer the fear, and to reach out to the grieving parent in whatever way you can, will be like lighting a candle in their otherwise impenetrable darkness.