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
Saturday, July 15, 2017
Sunday, February 26, 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
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
Thursday, April 7, 2016
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
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
Wednesday, May 27, 2015
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
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
Saturday, March 14, 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
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
Wednesday, February 18, 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
Saturday, December 13, 2014
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
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
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