Sharing my mourning journey as my family learns to live a new normal after the death of my 19 y.o. son in an auto accident on 10/12/08.

Archive for the ‘anger’ Category

A Fraternity Not of One’s Choosing

As many of you know on February 25th my blog was featured in the NY Times Motherlode column. I assumed that given this is the season when students are hearing or waiting to hear from colleges about their acceptance my post about Merrick’s college wait would resonate with many. Our situation does not mirror everyone’s because while grieving the loss of son while away at college, I’m readying another to leave for school. It is a paradox that shifts the earth beneath me. I had no idea my piece would elicit such strong reactions. Comments ranged from empathy and understanding to pure disdain. At times I wondered if some of the readers read what I wrote before commenting. I was accused of being elitist because Jordan went to Amherst College. Jordan’s school is many things; elitist is not one of them. They welcome students of all backgrounds. There was also innuendo that because Jordan died in a car accident, drugs or alcohol was involved. Jordan died on a clear fall night at 9:30 pm. Fatigue was the culprit not anything else; even though why that matters to a grieving parent fails me at this time.

I know I didn’t have to read the comments but I did and I’m glad. Mixed in with accusatory comments were many that understood the point of my writing. Losing a child upends your world. The family that is left behind learns how to navigate the world with sorrow and loss as a new thread woven into life. We keep going and continue to ready our children to be independent, gracious, honorable human beings.

One commenter in particular gave me pause. He wrote:

I think this mom’s letter reeks of status and privilege. Her kids are going to elite private schools like Amherst and she worries as he “readies himself to be on his own”. Puleeeeze. Places like Amherst bend over backwards to ensure students are happy and successful, providing everything from psychologists to academic advisors to climbing walls to vegan cafeteria options. We have moms in this country who are sending their sons into tough inner-city schools because it is all they can afford. We have moms in this country who are sending their sons into the marines and thus into Iraq or Afghanistan. I want to read their letters.

14 readers recommended his comment. His letter above all others made me feel the need to explain the death of a son or daughter. Recently a dear friend lost his adult sister to cancer. My first thought was of his mother and the heartache that cannot be wholly defined that I knew she was feeling. It was the same reaction I had while watching the Winter Olympics seeing the mother of the Georgian luger holding her head in her hands devastated by the news of her loss. It is the way I felt when Kelly Preston and John Travolta lost their son and the way I feel when I see or read about parents who’ve lost children in combat. We are all members of fraternity not of our choosing. Perhaps the letters of mothers of soldiers lost in combat might be more interesting to some readers. What I know is that no matter whether your child died while away at an elite institution, community college, war or coming home from a party, having police show up at your door at 1:30 in the morning and delivering news that is every parent’s worse fear is an equalizer. There is no hierarchy of trauma from grief.

My husband and I have not hidden our grief from our children but we have been careful to not burden them with our grief either. They know we are here for them and we continue to nurture their spirits and interests wanting them to follow their dreams. A toll has been taken on my heart that may never fully repair. In spite of this fact, my commitment to be present for all of my children is fierce.

I’m grateful for the support and understanding I receive from those who read my blog. I’ve been humbled by those who’ve written to me telling me how my words have helped ease some of their pain. I’ll keep writing. I hope you’ll keep reading.

Category:

Amherst College, anger, auto accident, college, death of son, grief, Jordan, legacy, Mother of Four

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Mind Over Matter

I’m downstairs, listening to my daughters who are upstairs simultaneously practicing flute and clarinet. They’re in separate rooms but I have no idea how they can practice without messing up the other’s timing. Tomorrow is a snow day! It is the first my daughters have ever had since being in school. They are beyond excited. Merrick found out his high school is closed tomorrow as well, the first time since the mid 1970’s. Before he could fully relax he asked me, “Mom, they really said school is closed. You’re sure?” So we’re all hunkered down for the storm. Mark is home and aside from the howling winds our house feels safe.

I’m working to bring safety back to my spirit. When I emailed Edward to ask about the accident I did so without letting anyone know. Mark wishes I’d stop, not wanting me to hurt anymore than I do now. He thinks we know enough and that any additional details will only hurt me more. He may be right. The mother in me, Jordan’s mother, can’t rest without understanding the whole of the truth of that night. Mark’s afraid I’ll be haunted by what I find out. I’m afraid I’ll be haunted if I don’t. I check my email as usual everyday, not expecting to see a response from Edward but bracing myself just in case there is one. So far he has not responded or acknowledged my query of him. There may never be a response.

I did fantasize when I saw the mailman across the street today that perhaps Edward was writing a real letter and that was why I hadn’t heard from him yet. I know I’ve asked a lot of him. What I’m learning from my own experience about trauma and PTSD are that the things the mind does to protect the heart are astounding. Edward may be in full protection mode and unable to even go back to that night.

Mark reminded me when I told him about finally realizing that Edward put his t-shirt to the back of Jordan’s head not to his forehead, that I’d know that all along. So gently he said to me, “Remember, the coroner and James (a family friend who is an ER doc) told us that he couldn’t survive an impact like that to the back of the head.”

I remember that Mark talked to the coroner in MA by phone and James was also on the line. He told me afterwards what they said. What I remember from that conversation is him saying, “Jordan was asleep. He didn’t feel any pain.” That’s what my mind took in and that’s what my heart could handle. Almost 2 1/2 years later the shock and blur of Jordan’s accident are not as constant and I can’t explain to anyone why I crave details now.

I read a short story a while ago entitled, “The Girlfriend.” It is in a book by Maile Meloy called,Both Ways Is The Only Way I Want It. In the story a father seeks out the girlfriend of the man who murdered his daughter after the trial where the man is found guilty. He wants to know every detail of that night that he can find. What the father ultimately finds out makes him feel worse, almost a party to the crime instead of somehow more settled. I’ve thought about that story  a lot wondering if I’ll end up like the father having too much information that will have to somehow keep house with my pain not ease it. I just don’t know.

I found an entry in one of my journals from 11/10. The entry is entitled, “Why Do This.” Meaning why write a blog, why am I writing a book? I had a long list of reasons some of which are:

  1. To feel closer to Jordan
  2. To stop being afraid of being happy
  3. To accept that my boy is gone
  4. To figure out how to diffuse some of this pain

The last item on my list was:

5.To ask all the questions that I want answers to, even if there aren’t any answers.

Category:

anger, anniversaries, auto accident, college, grief, guilt, maternal instinct

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Sweet Honey In The Rock To End The Day

To all of you still visiting my blog I say thank you. Writing has been difficult for me lately. Grief doesn’t follow any specific path and I’m learning to lean into what is happening so that as my friend Tom tells me I can, “Feel what I’m feeling.”

I was fortunate to hear Sweet Honey in the Rock perform this past weekend. If they’re ever in your town make sure to see them. One of their songs put writing in my heart again. Your comments are welcomed and needed. Thanks

My morning started with the thought, “Why did they get to keep their sons and I didn’t.” I sat up straight in bed knowing that no more rest would come. All that day the, “Why them and not me,” feeling latched on invading most of my thoughts. I wanted Jordan. It was snowing out and I wanted to call him, hearing his sleepy voice as I described what home looked like in a blanket of snow.

“Are you warm enough? Are you wearing your heavy coat?”

“Yes Mom, I’m fine.”

That’s the conversation I wanted but there’s no number to call anymore. I stayed in my pajamas most of the day, which is such a rarity for me that my kids asked if I was sick. I told them, “No, I’m just looking at this snowy day and trying to feel cozy.” I knew later in the evening I’d get dressed because Mark and I were going to a concert but the day was spent wrapped in warmth wondering when the hurt of longing would lessen.

The night was icy and the snow had the crunch of cold. As we walked to the car bracing against the wind, Mark and I joked, “This better be the best concert we’ve ever been to.” Sweet Honey in the Rock was singing at a local college and I was excited to see them. Since college I’d missed going to their concerts for a variety of reasons but I was determined to hear them sing. They sing a mixture of folk, gospel, spirituals, jazz, blues and all of it with their voices as the only instruments. My college friend Melissa was the first to rave about their concerts. Everyone who saw them told me that you leave their concerts transformed.

As we settled into our seats a woman we’d met at the reception before the concert sat next to Mark. She was an administrator at the University and we talked at the variety of guests that came to perform. While making small talk she asked, “How many kids do you have?” Mark told her, “We have 4. Twin girls who are 11, a son who is 18 and our oldest boy was 19 when he was killed in a car accident.” I studied my program as he talked knowing the story by heart but still flinching when he said, “killed.” I briefly looked up and made eye contact with our row mate as her eyes offered condolences and then went back to the program. The lights dimmed and the concert began.

After a lively upbeat intro song called “Denko,” one of the singers introduced the song they were about to sing saying, “All of us have plans for what we want to happen after we die. Sometimes those plans are followed, sometimes they’re not.” She then went on to sing, “When I Die,” with the rest of the group repeating in perfect harmony the phrase, “When I Die,” as her, “music.” As the song started, Mark reached over and rested his hand on my knee. I could tell by his touch that he worried about the hard start to my day and if this was a song I could bear to hear. I squeezed his hand, closed my eyes and chose to be a part of the song.

Jordan’s voice was in my head as I sat up straighter swaying to the refrain, “When I Die, When I Die.”

“When I die, I want to be cremated.” That was Jordan’s desire expressed to Mark and me. We filed it away in the far recesses of our hearts because we didn’t think we’d need to carry them out. Gratitude filled me because we’d listened to Jordan and carried out his wishes. Then a perfect voice sang out, “When I die let my spirit breathe, let it soar like an eagle to the highest tree,” and I touched my throat as I imagined Jordan’s spirit soaring higher than it ever could on this earth. I opened my eyes briefly then quickly closed them back tight. I needed to experience this song without distraction. It meant hearing it and feeling it without worrying about what others around me were doing or how I looked to them.

“When I die, when I die,” the song continued and I thought of Jordan’s ashes and our need to spread them far and wide to signify the world traveler he would have been. I feel guilty that it is taking us so long to spread his ashes. It has been two years and we’re only starting to plan the journeys for Jordan’s ashes. The words to the song entered my body interrupting all guilty thoughts, “Well, well when I die you can cast me out into the ocean wide.  Let my spirit cry, let it enter the tears that make the ocean deep and wide.” Eyes still closed I saw Mark and I standing on a beach releasing Jordan’s ashes into the sea saying goodbye and safe travels one last time. The tears started to fall and I did nothing to stop them. The song held a truth that freed me from one of my burdens. I whispered to myself, “What do you believe? What do you believe? Then the answer came, “Jordan is safe. You don’t have to worry about him anymore. Jordan is safe.”

I leaned back into the song and rocked as I heard the next refrain,

“Oh, oh, oh when I die, toss me out into the winds of time

Let my ashes roam, blow here blow there

I know I’m gonna find my true home”

Tears streamed down my face as the song washed over me. The truth was there begging to be accepted. “When I Die.” The when for Jordan was an answered question. There is nothing I can do about the when. I listened to voices covering and comforting me and asked my heart to accept that Jordan is safe. In the long nights when sleep won’t come and all I want is to have my boy home, I can take comfort if I choose to believe Jordan is safe. I don’t have to worry about him any more. Many questions linger but that one can be put to rest if I allow it.

The fact that he is gone and he’s here is settling in and slowly finding it’s rightful spot within me. I feel him in the bright red cardinal that perches outside my window, peering in looking straight at me as I call him Jordan by name. Jordan’s spirit is in the coincidences of his name appearing or being overheard when I miss him most. He is in the emails, texts and notes from his friends reaching out to me when I ache for him. A beautiful song opened a small part of my heart to that truth. My sorrow hasn’t evaporated and my heart is not burden free. But there is a feeling of relief akin to joy to be able to put one of my worries to rest. Jordan is safe. No more harm can come to him.

“When I die, let these bones take root, let the seed that been planted let ‘em come up bearing fruit”

Category:

anger, anniversaries, auto accident, cremation, death of son, grief, Jordan, motherhood, mourning, spreading ashes

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Gratitude and Envy

Our last Thanksgiving with Jordan. Mark is the photographer.

It is such a hard time of year. From the beginning of August with my daughters’ birthdays and Jordan’s birthday until the close of New Year’s Day my family and I swing between apprehension, anticipation, joy, dread, and enough longing and sadness to fill a room.  The holidays make the feelings of wanting to have my son back even more overpowering. Even though I’ve tried to limit my awareness about college kids coming home for Thanksgiving, it doesn’t matter too much because my internal clock still chimes, “Jordan would be home now.” These feelings surge and then ultimately quiet and I work hard to remember a quote my sister emailed me recently,

“Anxiety does not empty tomorrow of its sorrow, but only empties today of its strength.”

–        Charles Spurgeon

I pull at my reserves of strength even as I envy my friends whose kids are travelling home in the next days. I’m ashamed sometimes at how much I want what they have. I hunger for errands and tasks associated with, “my kids home from college.” Things like driving to the airport, waiting for a glimpse of my overworked, too tired student to fall into the car so happy to be home. Or wandering the aisles of the grocery store buying cereals and foods I don’t normally buy because they are Jordan’s favorites.

Strength for me means reminding myself to do just this day without burdening my heart with too many, “what ifs.”

Gratitude is mixed with heartache because even in the midst of sadness and longing I feel the acceptance of change no matter how miniscule happening within me. This Thanksgiving as in the last two I know Mark will end his prayer before dinner with the words, “and let there always be a seat at the table for Jordan. Amen”

To all of you missing a loved one this Thanksgiving I extend my family’s prayer to yours. Let there always be a seat at the table. Wishing you hope and light.

 

 

Category:

anger, auto accident, college, death of son, family support, loss of child, Mother of Four, mourning

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Reading Jordan’s Gratitude List

I am participating in an online workshop given by my dear friend Tom Zuba called, “Living With the Holidays.” The workshop started on November 1st and the exercise yesterday was to:

Consider gathering a few items that connect you to the person (people) you love that have died.  Find a space for them.  In your bedroom.  In your home office.  Somewhere in your house.  It can be a place you pass often…or it can be an out-of-the way place in your house.  A destination, if you will.  A place you consciously have to decide to go to.

I thought a great deal about what items connected me to Jordan. I have pictures of him that I love and chose a few of them. I knew I wanted one of his shirts that still faintly holds his scent. His Ipod is something that I love scrolling through reading the titles of  and listening to the vast and varied  music, so that is in my “Connectedness” collection. I wanted a book because of Jordan’s love of reading, but couldn’t figure out which one to choose. Last night I sat down in the chair on our 2nd floor landing, something I rarely do, looked down and saw a book with an encircled half-moon and stars on the cover. It is one of Jordan’s journals from his youth. I flipped through it seeing his early attempts at rap, the beginnings of short stories and a gratitude list.

I sat reading and rereading  Jordan’s gratitude list, touching the page and smiling at his undeniable penmanship.  I remember when he wrote the list. I owned a copy of “Simple Abundance,”  by Sarah Ban Breathnach that I’d purchased right after it came out in 1996. I hadn’t followed it prescriptively but I liked the notion of focusing on gratitude.

One night when Jordan was in junior high and Merrick was in 3rd or 4th grade, the three of us  sat at our kitchen table and talked about gratitude. I don’t recall what prompted the conversation but we talked about the aspects of your life, not just things, that you are grateful for. I told them about gratitude journals and getting into the practice of writing down what you are grateful for before you go to sleep. I was going to make my gratitude list, before I went to sleep and challenged them to do the same. They were both reluctant, “Why do we have to write it down? Can’t we just think about it?”  I assured them that it was their list and they didn’t have to read it aloud or share it with anyone. The power was in taking time to reflect and to commit to writing those things you may take for granted but that bring peace and joy to your life.

I felt an instant connection to Jordan when I read his gratitude list. Even as I wonder how I can live in a world that took Jordan away, reading his list made me realize he is still bringing me peace and joy. In moments when I am so battered from the aches, tears, and sleeplessness that come from missing him, he reminds me about gratitude.

Here is Jordan’s List:

The List (Things I am grateful for)

  1. My friends and family
  2. My health
  3. The good neighborhood I live in
  4. My being able to eat every night
  5. My knowledge
  6. My good school
  7. My home
  8. Being able to concentrate at school
  9. People who care about me
  10. The luxuries I have that others don’t

Jordan drew a line after number 10 and then added the following:

11. My sisters

12. No homework

13. My bed

14. Sleep

I found Jordan’s journal as I faced another sleepless night wondering how long I would hurt so much. Having to accept, not just know, but come to full agreement with my heart and soul that my child is dead is the hardest thing I’ve ever faced. It is a journey of recalculating what truth means, of acknowledging how much pain I hold inside me and it is about wanting to feel better even when it means saying goodbye to my boy again and again.

I read Jordan’s words last night and added my own to the list.

I am so grateful to be Jordan’s mother and still have the opportunity to learn from him.

Category:

anger, anniversaries, auto accident, chronic illness, college, death of son, grief, guilt, Jordan, learning to exhale, Mother of Four

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Back To School

When my kids go back to school, it is always an anxious time for me. When I was working quasi part-time (4 days a week) I chalked my anxiety up to the stress of working and keeping track of all the beginning of the year activities like, open houses, parent “meet and greets” and the start of soccer season. It’s been over 10 years since I worked outside of the home and I still react to the beginning of the school year the same way. I know that my angst stems from more than just an overloaded schedule.

The physical energy needed to obtain what everybody needs always brings on distress for me. Heralding the school year with the lunch boxes and school supplies, carpooling and homework assistance typically brings on a lupus flare. In years past, because of being ill from lupus, I missed one open houses. On these occasions, Mark would go without me, taking copious notes knowing what questions I would ask of him about the teachers and the curriculum when he got home.  It didn’t matter how well he handled the task alone. It didn’t matter how quickly my kids got over their disappointment that I wasn’t going to meet their teachers that particular night. I felt guilty that I wasn’t going. My inner critic badgered me with questions like,  “What’s wrong with you?” “Can’t you suck it up for a couple of hours?”  The guilt and self-criticism got worse once I stopped working. “You’re not even working and you still can’t pull it together to go to your kids’ schools.” Even though one of the best remedies for a lupus flare is rest, for me it was hard to come by with such a harsh inner critic at the helm.

With time and help, I’ve learned to quiet but not silence my very intense inner critic. When I feel myself going down the, “You should be able to…” path, I’m quicker now to take care of myself and remember to do what I always urge others to, “Be good to yourself.” Still, I’m wrestling with my “back to school” demons as Open Houses kickoff this week for my kids. At both the middle school and the high school, the open houses are conducted the same way. Parents/Guardians follow their child’s daily, albeit abbreviated, schedule and meet all of their teachers. Going to my daughters’ school, which was also Jordan and Merrick’s middle school isn’t presenting any problems for me. It is going to the high school that has me paralyzed. Mark isn’t sure he’ll be able to go this year and I’m not sure I can go alone.

For Jordan’s freshman year at the high school, Mark went to the first open house by himself. That first year he came home to tell me of all of Jordan’s teachers and his workload. I listened eagerly, liking what I heard and determined not to miss another open house. In the years that followed, Mark and I went to the high school open houses, bumbling along with all the other parents through the 4-story building with its mazes of hallways. It was easy to get turned around because the numbering of rooms follows no logical order. Walking the halls of that massive high school trying to find classrooms has always been difficult for me. I am self-diagnosed as spatially and directionally challenged. Offering me assistance by telling me to travel east or that a building is on the northwest corner sounds like a foreign language. When Mark and I lived in Houston I called him from work during one of our first days there to give me directions to the supermarket. This time was before cell phones or I would have kept him on the line until I reached my destination. Instead I relied on directions written on a scrap of paper. He started his directions with, “When you get to the top of the street, make a left.” I immediately stopped him. I snapped, “Remember who you’re talking to. When I get to the end of the driveway which way do I turn?” I’ve always needed “left”, “right” directions with plenty of landmarks thrown in for cushion. Each time I’m at the high school for a meeting I ask for directions along with the room number and allow myself “getting lost” time.

Last year was our first open house at the high school for Merrick even though he was a junior. He did a mid-year transfer from a private school his sophomore year, so we missed the previous year’s open house. While I’d been as far as the “Welcome Center” to drop off Merrick’s registration forms, the open house was the first time back, walking the halls of the high school since Jordan died. There was trepidation for both Mark and I, wondering how it would feel to bump into teachers we hadn’t seen since Jordan died or even sit in classrooms that he once occupied.  With all of our sorrow and fear, we were determined to go. Our children need to know that we are fully invested in their presents and their futures. I kept telling Mark, “It’s Merrick’s school now too.”

We walked from our home to the high school holding hands while catching each other up on our days. We entered the school and were forced into the crush of other parents angling for a place in line to pick up their child’s schedule. There wouldn’t be much time to reminisce. I was relieved. I wanted my focus to be on Merrick, even though every thought had as its backdrop images of Jordan walking the halls. I was hoping too that we wouldn’t run into any well-meaning friends or acquaintances that would ask with pity filled eyes, “How are you?” Pity is hard to accept. Loves, concern, compassion, even discomfort from others are feelings I understand. Pity makes me angry. For me someone showing pity presupposes knowledge and understanding about how I’m feeling and what the grief I’m enduring. It always feels laced with relief that the loss didn’t happen to them. I had my guard up, staying vigilant and hoping that no one would say anything inappropriate about my loss (“He’s in a better place”) or feel the need to update me on their children’s lives even though I hadn’t asked. Hearing people talk about how much their children loved being away at college and that they were planning to see them for parents’ weekend hurt so much in the first year after Jordan died. I was so traumatized by grief that I rarely did more than stand and nod when people would update me on the college experiences of their children even though I wanted to turn and run.

After Mark and I went to several of Merrick’s classes we started to relax a bit. As we stopped to look at the schedule to see where Merrick’s next class was, an acquaintance with whom we shared several mutual friends stopped us in the hall to say hello.. We’ve known each other since Merrick and her son went to preschool together. She wanted the update on Merrick’s transfer to the high school and asked how our daughters were doing. We talked of how big the girls were getting and yes how time flies given that both of our sons are in high school. We stood smiling and then she said, “You have a son in college too, right?” In the seconds after the questions Mark and I looked at each other wondering which of us would answer. How could she not know about Jordan? I stayed mute knowing that the only other gear I had was rage. Mark calmly said to her, “Jordan was killed in a car accident last October.” Her hand flew to her mouth and she said, “Oh my God, I knew that. I’m so sorry.”

Mark told her not to worry. I stayed silent and focused my attention on her right ear. I didn’t want my eyes to meet hers anymore. She kept talking, nervously saying how dangerous the roads were and how she always tells her son to be careful. I thought but didn’t say, “Yeah that was our mistake. We didn’t tell Jordan to be careful. PLEASE STOP TALKING!” The last thing I heard her say was that she almost got into a car accident earlier that day. She said, “Almost”, I didn’t want to hear the word almost and accident strung together, not when my son is dead. Panic was rising in me and it finally dawned on me that I didn’t have to keep standing there listening to her. I had to get away, so I started moving towards the water fountain. An old neighbor of mine popped into my path, hugging me and asking who Merrick had for his guidance counselor. I looked up to see that my acquaintance had vanished. She no doubt couldn’t find a way out of the conversation either and was relieved to have a quick exit. After briefly speaking with my neighbor, Mark and I looked at each other and exhaled deeply. The bell for the next class was ringing and we both wanted to meet the rest of Merrick’s teachers. As we started to walk towards the next class I gripped Mark’s arm in panic, remembering the one place I didn’t want to happen upon, the newspaper room. Jordan was on the newspaper staff starting his sophomore year. He loved the work and the camaraderie and would often be at school until very late into the night when they were doing layout. Thinking about Jordan’s connection to that room and knowing how fragile I was I whispered in Mark’s ear, “I don’t want to go by the newspaper room. I can’t handle that tonight. That’s too much.” I was shaking my head and trying not to cry. Mark asked one of the student guides in the hall where the newspaper room was. She pointed in the direction and told him how to get there, assuming that was our next destination. Mark thanked her and we set off in the opposite direction. He held my hand and said, “We know where it is. I don’t want to go there either. Now we won’t accidentally go by it.”

Going to the rest of Merrick’s classes I was reeling from the trauma of being asked, “You have a son in college right?” and trying to stave off all the reminders of before Jordan died, that being at the school was bringing up. I wondered as I sat at the desks, “How do my kids do make it through school everyday?” I was fidgety and could barely sit still let alone focus on what the teacher was saying. I am amazed at their strength and resilience. At the end of the evening, Mark and I left the school through the door closest to our home. We took a few steps and then I began to weep. Mark put his arm around me as I said repeatedly, “You have a son in college, right?” and then bitterly answered the question, “No we don’t. We used to, but he’s gone. Our son is dead.” I cried and spewed out a variety of responses to the question we’d been asked until we were in front of our house. Mark and I stood there for a moment catching our breath and preparing to enter our home. As we walked in, Merrick met us in the entry. With eager eyes he asked, “So how was it? What did you think of my teachers?” Without pausing Mark and I both said great and gave him the details of our evening he needed to hear.

I’m keenly aware of my desire to be emotionally present and available for my children. The vigilance I carry for my kids and me to ward off unintentional but still hurtful comments is on high alert. I haven’t decided what I’ll do about Merrick’s open house if Mark can’t come. I’ve thought about contacting Merrick’s teachers to see if there’s an alternate time they’re available to meet. Maybe I’ll still go. It’s not as though I haven’t walked the halls of the high school by myself since Merrick started there; I have, numerous times. It’s still hard. Each time I visit, I whisper the same thing to ready myself, “It’s Merrick’s school too.”

Category:

anger, auto accident, death of son, grief, guilt, loss of child, lupus, motherhood

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Business Matters

All week I’ve felt unsettled because of the searching process Mark and I had to go through to find the documents needed to close Jordan’s checking account. Earlier this week, I wrote about my fear that someone was fraudulently using his account. Last Friday, Mark spoke with someone from Jordan’s bank and found out the account has not been abused. The last activity on the account was on 10/12/08, the day Jordan died. Even though we are relieved, we know it is time to close the account. It is also time to close us off against fraud and try to ward off the kind of anguish this event has caused. We know we’ve taken too long to handle this business matter but every link to Jordan when he was alive is so hard to sever. It took me a year and a half to stop Jordan’s cell phone service. When I finally cancelled the service, it wasn’t planned. I was at the store upgrading my phone and when they asked about the other number on the account I was able, without explanation, say that the line was no longer needed.

I’ve handled some business matters preemptively, to stave off future pain. Things like notifying the fitness club that Jordan’s no longer a member, so they won’t send newsletters in the mail addressed to him with fitness tips. I alerted the dentist’s office of Jordan’s death so they were aware before his siblings came in for an exam. The dentist’s office was notified also because I couldn’t stand the heartbreak of seeing the 6- month, “time for a cleaning” reminders meant for Jordan.

Other business matters associated with Jordan’s death are harder to complete and require a level of choreography and planning that is surreal. Phone calls are rehearsed. I act out both sides of the dialogue trying to ready myself for all the questions that might be asked. For each call, I steel myself against the, “What happened?” question. There are times when I am more able to talk about the details of the accident, times when I need to talk about how Jordan died. Selfishly, it has to be on my terms. I don’t always have the emotional energy or trust my voice to tell the details of how Jordan died. Details or not, I know that I’ll have to say out loud, without equivocation, “My son died.” On most days that stunning, chilling piece of information is enough to resolve the affairs at hand.

Mark handled most of the business transactions related to Jordan’s death. He was executor of Jordan’s estate and given Power of Attorney. While both of us read the accident report, Mark was the only person other than a dear friend, who picked up the death certificates from the funeral home, to read Jordan’s death certificate. I’ve never seen a copy of the death certificate. I’ve only held the envelope that contains them. We’d been advised by our attorney to get multiple copies of it for the times when we would legally need to show proof of Jordan’s death. Having to prove my child’s death will never feel right. Living with the loss of a child is already doing the unimaginable. When Mark told me the reasons we’ll need to show Jordan’s death certificate I’ve moaned, “Have whoever needs proof to look at before and after pictures of you and I. Our eyes are proof that our son died.”

Confronted with the realities of what could happen if we left Jordan’s account open, we decided to gather the necessary documents and go to the bank together. As we searched, Mark and I realized that the documents related to Jordan’s death have not been kept in any orderly manner. Mark’s efforts to protect me from accidentally coming across the accident report or death certificate served to make them hard for either of us to find. He couldn’t remember where he put them and became more and more agitated as he searched. He finally located the death certificate(s) and laid the envelope that contained them on the kitchen counter while he went to search for the power of attorney letter. I looked at the envelope. I haven’t read the death certificate because I don’t want to know the time Jordan was pronounced dead. I know it is a number I won’t be able to shake from my head.

The death certificate was right in front of me. I touched the envelope. I yelled to Mark, “Maybe I should just read it. Part of me thinks I shouldn’t be so worried. I should just read it.” Mark came into the kitchen and said, “You don’t have to if you don’t want to. It’s hard to read. Don’t do it today.” I took a breath and then nodded my head in agreement, knowing he was right. I sat down and waited for Mark to locate the checking account statement. While I waited, I kept glancing at the envelope with the death certificates lying on the counter. Just looking at the envelope, the proof of death, took me back to the shock and rawness I felt in the weeks after Jordan died. I looked at the envelope, hating the fact that his death certificate means there’s no need anymore for his birth certificate. I know exactly where Jordan’s birth certificate is. My kids’ birth certificates are kept in a secure place so they can be easily found when needed for things like passports or wedding licenses. Jordan doesn’t need his birth certificate anymore. How am I supposed to bear that fact? I’m so angry that one of my parental duties now is maintaining order over legal documents associated with Jordan’s death. I have to close his checking account, a hallmark symbol to him of his increased responsibility and burgeoning adulthood.

Jordan is supposed to be in charge of Mark and my affairs, as we grow older. Our will stated that when he reached 25 he would be the legal guardian of his siblings. We told him of this responsibility the summer he turned 19. His response, typical of him was, “Cool.” We had no doubt that he would fiercely love, protect and provide guidance to his brother and sisters if anything happened to his dad and I. We told him of our belief in him and he told us he could handle it. That was the plan. That’s why it’s hard to have a file, a folder or anything dedicated to documents needed because Jordan is gone. Jordan should be here.

Category:

anger, grief, Jordan, loss of child, Mother of Four

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Detective Work

The check was posted, “8/8/10.” I stared at the notice from the collection agency. Neither Mark nor I had written a check for 546.00 to a cell phone company, yet here was a notice saying we had 30 days to pay the uncollected amount or to dispute the charge. This was the second notice we had received in the mail saying we owed money to a collection agency for bounced checks. The only problem was that the check number and amount didn’t match any of our accounts. I searched our accounts online and didn’t see any activity or check number that made me suspicious.  Just as I started feeling relieved, a pang of doubt hit me. What about Jordan’s checking account? I didn’t even know if Mark ever closed that account.

Mark was still at work and the thought of calling him to relay my fear that someone was fraudulently using Jordan’s account didn’t sit well with me. There was nothing he could do from work and the news would only upset him. I also had a selfish reason for not telling him until he got home, I didn’t want to hear him say, “Just wait until I get home, we’ll figure it out together.” I didn’t want to wait. I thought I’d go crazy if I had to wait.  I wanted to immediately clear Jordan’s name. I felt like the anger that has been simmering within me since this school year began, finally had a target.

I focused my anger and my attention on figuring out if someone had taken over Jordan’s checking account. The first thing I needed was Jordan’s account number. I started in our office. I opened drawers looking for old bank statements. What I found instead were old pictures, expired credit cards (why?) and enough staples to make people wonder if we were hoarders. When did we get so disorganized? I looked in the file drawer hoping that Mark had made a file and labeled it “Jordan’s info,” or something similar that would let me know I was circling the right area. Our office yielded no clues. Next I went to Jordan’s room. His valet tray still lies atop his dresser. Old keys, a grocery store card and loose change are all that occupy it now. My search became more frantic and conspiracy theories raced through my head,

“What if it was someone that knew Jordan that’s using his account?”

“What if one of his friends in the car with him stole his checkbook after the accident?” “But Jordan never carried his checkbook, that doesn’t make sense. Still you don’t know. You still don’t really know what happened that night.”

“What ifs” lead me to search my bedroom in particular Mark’s nightstand drawer. I pushed aside irrelevant items, intent on finding a bank statement. I reached into the back of Mark’s drawer and pulled out a sandwich bag. The plastic bag held Jordan’s wallet, a bunch of crumpled receipts and a paper bracelet from one of the concerts he attended while in Baltimore. I pulled the bracelet from the bag. The word “LOVE” was stamped on the bracelet. I held the bracelet and wondered why LOVE didn’t save Jordan from the accident. I wasn’t surprised Jordan kept the bracelet. He inherited the sentimentality that both Mark and I share. I put the bracelet back in the bag and removed the receipts, which I’d seen before but never looked at too closely. I knew they were from his last trip and the night of the accident. I carefully smoothed each receipt before reading it. I felt like I was preserving evidence but for what reason I wasn’t sure. There were toll way receipts and receipts from fast food restaurants. I looked through each receipt, talking to Jordan as I scanned them,

“Why did you eat so much junk food? You knew it wasn’t good for you.”

“Why were you paying so many tolls? Did the other guys pay their share?”

I continued looking and shaking my head, trying to stay detached so I could finish my task before I had to pick the girls up from school. As I looked closer at one of the receipts from Taco Bell, I saw the time of the transaction.  The receipt read, “8:52pm 10/12/08.” I reread the time again. Jordan was ordering Taco Bell 40 minutes before the accident. Could that be right? His friends said he was asleep at the time of the accident. Could he really be asleep 40 minutes after ordering food? Did he eat it? Were these boys/Jordan’s friends telling us everything about that night? I kept staring at the receipt willing it to divulge information that can only come from the boys in the car with Jordan that night.

When will Jordan’s friends be able to fill in the details of Jordan’s last hours, minutes? They are the only ones who can tell us what the accident report can’t. We’ve cobbled together the sequence of events from the accident report and a few sparse emails from the boys in the car that night. I keep calling them boys even though all of them were seniors in college at the time of the accident. From my vantage point as a mother, my son’s friends are boys the same way my mother’s friends still ask how the “girls” are, when referring to my sister and I.

We continue to wait for details about 10/12/08, not knowing if they will bring us some relief or haunt us. Will we regret knowing more? Are Jordan’s friends sparing us some gruesome detail they are too traumatized by to put it into words? Have they made some pact to protect themselves against implications of wrongdoing? These are the places my mind wanders. The math is simple and the answer is the same every time. Three boys live and one is gone. No amount of questioning or detective work is going to change that fact. Even as I wonder, I tell myself that until the boys prove themselves otherwise they are Jordan’s friends. I try so hard not to let heartache turn to bitterness. With a sigh, I took one last look at the receipts and then carefully folded them and put them back into the plastic bag.

Lastly, I pulled Jordan’s wallet from the bag. It was the wallet I’d given him as a birthday present on his 18th birthday just weeks before his freshman year of college. He always carried it in the right front pocket of his too baggy jeans, along with his ipod and keys. With shaky hands I opened the wallet and pulled out contents. Inside were his Amherst College ID, his bankcard, and his driver’s license. I looked at his license with the vertical picture signaling his “under 18” status. I wondered why he hadn’t changed it when he turned 18. I looked at the dates closer and realized his license didn’t expire until his 2010 birthday. He would have gotten an updated license when he turned 21. I looked closely at Jordan’s license picture. It was taken on the day he turned 16. He looked so young, not even old enough to drive. Jordan was the youngest of his friends and was determined to have his license as soon as he could. His dad drove him to the Department of Motor Vehicles the morning of his 16th birthday. I glanced at his Amherst College ID but couldn’t look at it for long without feeling regret and anguish.  I placed all the cards back in the wallet they way I’d found them. I closed the wallet and rubbed my hand against the leather. The textured leather was smooth in places that suggested how Jordan held it. I put my hand on the wallet carefully placing my fingers on the smooth parts hoping to mimic Jordan’s handling of it. I brought it to my face and held it against my cheek. I closed my eyes and felt the softness of the leather. In my hand the leather of the wallet became Jordan’s cheek held close to mine. I kissed the wallet, telling my boy how much he is missed and loved. The tears I’d held at bay all afternoon rushed out changing me from amateur detective to grieving mother in the blink of an eye.

Category:

anger, auto accident, birthdays, college, grief, Jordan, loss of child, motherhood, mourning, rage

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How Can I See You

The other night I asked Mark what was the latest video we had of Jordan. I want and need to see him as close to the age that he was right before he died. I need to see him in motion. I need a Jordan review, to make sure that the way I’m remembering his voice, his mannerisms, his movements are holding up.

Every year watching his friends and peers go back to college is tough. This year it feels like a physical wound that I’m nursing. I’m the walking wounded, carrying on with my responsibilities and routines but always reminded of the ache fueled by hopes and dreams left undone.  I’m trying to let this wound of anger, sadness and longing subside in its own time. While it’s here it is proving stubborn. Reminders of Jordan as a college student are everywhere and they feed my sadness. I learned recently that Jordan’s school is ranked as the top college in the country. I imagine how proud and yes smug he would be about, “his school.” I think about all the opportunities that would lie ahead of him. I imagine what path he would be choosing next.

Right now, I’m so angry and hurt that he’s not here. When I read about the college rankings, the first thing that I thought was, “I can’t wait to talk to Jordan about this.” Just as quickly I know he and I can’t have the kind of conversation that I want to have. In those brief seconds when I forget I can’t call him or get his reaction to something I’m stunned and grateful at the same time. Every once in a while I have the briefest drips of time where in my mind Jordan didn’t die. It is oddly comforting.

Anger (Why Jordan?), confusion (How did this happen?)and longing (I want my son back!) are driving my need to see him in motion. Pictures aren’t enough. I want to be as close as I can to viewing and witnessing the embodiment of my son. Mark is trying to find the last recording we have of Jordan. He thinks it’s from August of 2008 when he took Jordan back to school his sophomore year. The night I asked Mark about the latest video we have of Jordan, I cried myself to sleep holding Mark’s hand. All I could say was, “I need to see him.”

I’ve circled back to watching and want to share with you the video made by Jordan’s friend Matt for Jordan’s Memorial Service. It is a beautiful tribute to Jordan, made by a talented, true friend.

Category:

anger, college, grief, loss of child, Mother of Four, mourning

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Tell Your Story

It’s been several days since I’ve written on my blog. I’ve been trapped in a warp of sadness since my children started school that has finally eased enough for me to write.

The first week of school for my kids was last week. Since Jordan’s death, transitions are harder and I’m more preoccupied with the coping mechanisms of my kids. They carry the burden of loss with them and stay on guard against thoughtless and/or cruel comments. As my husband and I have learned to prepare ourselves for the “How many kids do you have?” question, my children have also learned to prepare for the “How many siblings?” question. Depending on the situation their strategies as does mine, differs. My daughters have stammered and trailed off while speaking when someone has questioned their math when they say they have two brothers. They’ve heard responses like, “I thought you only had one brother. Where’s your other brother?”

As the girls are starting at a new school this year, I made sure that I informed the school administration of our family’s loss. Even though we live in a tight-knit community and they are attending the same middle school that both of their brothers attended, I didn’t want to assume that Jordan’s death was known to all. I just want to provide as much cushion and buffering that I can for my kids when they’re out in the world. The girls first day of school went well. The only anxiety and angst was the typical middle school variety, nothing out of the ordinary.

Merrick’s first day unfortunately was not the same. At the end of the school day as I drove to pick up my daughters, I saw Merrick walking home from school. I waved and slowed down to tell him where I was going. He surprised me when he said, “Can I come with?” I of course agreed but felt that something had to be wrong for him to be so close to home and want to run an errand with me.

He hopped into the car and started telling me about his first day. He told me about his teachers and that his first day went “okay.” He talked a little longer about which of his friends was in his lunch period and then the reason for his accompanying me came out. He told me that one of his teachers recognized his last name and asked him if he had an older brother. He responded by saying, “Jordan?” The teacher then asked, “How is Jordan doing?”

As Merrick talked, I shouted, “Oh No!” and pulled the car over to the curb.

“Oh Merrick, I’m so sorry. God, on your first day. What did you say?”

“I didn’t really say anything. I just kinda’ mumbled and looked down.”

“Well what did your teacher do?”

“Finally moved to the next person and started talking to them. I almost came home. I didn’t know what to do.”

“It would have been okay if you came home. Talk about  minefields. You could have come home if you wanted to.”

“I know. I still felt weird but I stayed. Can you tell my teacher about Jordan?”

“Of course I will.  I’ll make sure all of them know. I didn’t think I needed to notify the school this year. I guess I should have.“

“Thanks Mom. I just don’t want any big display in front of the class. I just want them to know.”

After I assured Merrick all of his teachers would be notified about Jordan’s loss, our talk turned to other parts of his school day. I asked him if he got a new lock for his locker, and what he had for lunch. I gripped the steering wheel trying to stay calm. Inside I was screaming. In the midst of our conversation Merrick suddenly changed the subject and asked, “Do other kids who’ve lost somebody go through stuff like this?” I took a breath and told him yes.  I then told him about a woman who is a member of the same online writers’ group as I. I’d received an email from her that same day commenting on one of my blog entries. I told Merrick that she lost her brother in a bus crash when she was 14. I hoped that Merrick would gain some solace and feel less alone hearing of someone else that lost a sibling.

Later that same evening I emailed my new friend to tell her about Merrick’s experience on his first day. She responded saying she knew the feeling and that unfortunately the same thing happened to her all the time when she was in school. She offered to talk with Merrick whenever he needed. Her offer got me thinking about the best way for my kids through the stories of others to feel less alone.

Please Help

I have a request of all of my readers that I hope you can honor. My children need something I can’t give them. They need to know from those of you who have lost a sibling or parent, what your experience was like and how you cope (d). We’ve been to family support groups and they have met other children who have lost a parent or a sibling. They’ve read books on kid’s grief and my husband and I have read to them.

I’ve done the things I know to do to ease their pain and to help them understand they’re not alone in their feelings. I know the upending grief of losing a child. As much as I offer comfort, I can’t give my children the perspective of someone who suffered a traumatic loss as a child. I feel helpless and heartbroken as I watch my children ache with sorrow. I know I can’t take away their pain anymore than my parents can take away mine. I’m hoping that their sorrow can be eased as they search for reassurance that the experiences and feelings they have are not unnatural or theirs alone.

Those of you who lost a parent or sibling as a child are needed as guides. My children need to hear from those who know the pain of losing such a loved one during your childhood or adolescence. Please share your stories in my comments section. On days that bring Lindsay, Kendall and Merrick confusion and pain, I know they will gain solace and reassurance from being able to read or have read to them the experiences and feelings of those of you who have coped and learned to live with loss. Please pass this post along to others who you think can help. I thank all of you willing to help ease the heartache of my kids.

Category:

anger, brothers, high school, loss of child, Mother of Four, motherhood, mourning

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