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 ‘anniversaries’ Category

With Friends Like These

There are so many people in my life who have shown me what true compassion and grace look like. Yesterday my family and I received so many communications of love and support and we are forever grateful.

I have one friend from college who showed me I could laugh again in the months after Jordan died. We had been out of touch over 15 years, even though mutual friends kept us updated on each other’s lives. I saved every email she sent and reread them finding wisdom, comfort and laughter in her words. I’ve already told her that she will have her own chapter in the book I’m writing.

The emails I received from her started 2 weeks after Jordan died. I would hear from her at least weekly. She offered comfort, “remember when” stories from our college days and so much understanding. Some days I would look out the window after receiving an email from her wondering if she’d been watching me. How else could she know exactly the comforting words I needed to hear? Laughter and tears accompanied my reading of most of her emails. It got to the point that as I sat with my laptop and would randomly start to laugh aloud or at times cry, Mark would simply say, “Bev?” and I’d read to him what she’d written and he’d share in my emotion.

Today I wanted you all to get a glimpse of my friend Bev. Here are condensed versions of emails she sent to me after learning of Jordan’s death and the one she sent on the 2nd anniversary.

What Bev Said

October 27, 2008 4:02:52 PM CDT

My  Dearest Jackie,

Beautiful, kind,  Jackie….Girl with  a smile and a kind word for everyone. I miss you dear friend and I am so  very very sorry.   All words seem inadequate. Because they are.  I won’t speak of religion, or espouse lay philosophy  in an attempt to comfort  or bring sense to your loss.   I know, there is not much that anyone can say  or do…there is only time.  We have been out of touch for far too long. But I want you to know, that you are loved.   I and so many of  our classmates  are thinking of you, hurting   for you, sending out prayers and love,   and lifting you up.  We are all with you right now.   I  want you to know that you are Sunflower- with a life force and a spirit full of light- outshining all the other flowers in the garden. I see pictures of Jordan , and I know who gave him that smile and that same bright, blinding life  force.   Consider this communique, my arms and heart,  extended across these many years and miles, to you.   Please know that I will do whatever I can to help you –  [  ]The only thing that  has changed with  me is that my figure is no  longer an hourglass, it is now a beer glass.

I  was laid off in June and (I have been throwing confetti ever since). …..and pretending I have a husband, a house and an income. I get my nails done, drink coffee at the local coffee shop, and  am in the middle of reading Anna Karenina. Sure, I am about to be evicted but.. ..could someone pass the  half and half?  Anyway, I say all of this to say, I have some free time on my hands.  And I want to see you. Let me help you in any way that I  can. [ ]I am calling you. Feel no obligation to talk if you are not up to it, or are busy. We go back too far to be worried about being polite.

I will be calling.
(If my phone ain’t disconnected)

Please be patient with yourself …. know that you are loved.

Beverly

October 12, 2010 7:38:34 PM CDT

Jackie,

I want you to know that today and everyday, you are in my thoughts, my prayers, hopes and wishes.  I am simply wishing for a measure of relief for your weary heart.   I don’t think I can ever tell you enough times how very, very sorry I am. Life proves itself to be so very unfair sometimes.  All references we make to karma,  and reaping what you sow,  can so quickly prove false and fall away when the unimaginable happens – leaving our point of reference, our guide for an ever changing, unpredictable world, shattered.  What karmic adage can make sense of the chain of events that took your precious Jordan away?    I know your world and everything you believe has been turned upside down by Jordan’s accident.  You follow the rules of life. You give the love. You nurture, raise, and shape this beautiful boy. You give him to the world, shiny, polished and perfect, and the world does what it will, as it will. as it has, making no sense and undoing  everything we have ever believed about how to be, how to do, right and wrong, good and bad.
Jackie, everyday, I imagine your mind still asks and wants to know why. Everyday, you  seek answers to a question that cannot be answered in a way that makes sense, and will give you peace. No because in this universe can explain and justify the loss of Jordan. My prayer for you today is that this unanswerable question, one day, will cease to gnaw at every level of your conscious and unconscious mind.  I wish peace inside your mind for you.  Fight on for the sake of your children, your parents, your husband, your friends. Fight on, because Jordan is right beside you, and wants you to know that he loves you, he has changed forms but he has never left you.  Beautiful mother, he is okay.  You will see him again.  Feel him now. Reach out and just hold him quietly.
Keep going Jackie. Sometimes the universe is cruel and senseless, yet it continues to require that we make our way through it sensibly and with sensitivity.   I’ve said this before, and I know, Jordan would not want his mother to be so sad forever.  The  depth of your love is greater than your tears, and your sorrow.  You will overcome. Everything is going to be alright. It may not be today. It probably won’t be tomorrow. It may not be any time soon. But Jackie, I promise, it will be. It will be . Keep going.
Love you much,
Beverly

Category:

anniversaries, college, death of son, friends, grief, Jordan, Mother of Four

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The Johnson Sisters Come To Call

 

Jordan's Candle burning in remembrance

I sat with my eyes closed in my counselor’s office. I’d come in for a second session last week because as the anniversary of Jordan’s death loomed closer I felt myself growing more anxious and afraid. The images of him lying in the coffin with the bandage on his head wouldn’t leave my mind. I was jumpy and weepy every time I heard a siren. I wanted to be able to go longer than a few minutes without crying and feeling like I was going crazy. My mind needed to be quieted.

My counselor sat across from me and told me to be aware of where I felt the pain and anxiety that was overpowering my body. I pointed to my chest, which felt like someone was squeezing my diaphragm and not allowing me to take a full breath. Then I touched my throat, which throbbed and felt like it was closing because of unshed tears.

She assured me she’d help me find a place for all the feelings that were overwhelming me. I leaned my head back on the chair hoping to find a way to ease my sorrow even if it was just a little bit. My counselor told me to imagine a container or a place that I could use to store the pain and help heal it. The thing that came to mind was a big, black bowl sitting on the grass. It looked like a huge salad bowl. My counselor in her low soothing voice spoke to me, “Do you have a container?”

I shook my head, “Yes,” as tears streamed down my face.

“Were you able to put some of your pain in the container?”

I shakily said, “All of it.”

I already felt relief knowing that I’d found a place for my sorrow. It didn’t feel like it was overpowering me anymore.

She continued, “ Now if you want to, you can send some source of healing to the container. It can be light, a higher power, anything that you think would help to be a healing force.”

With eyes still closed I took a deep breath and nodded my head to my counselor letting her know that I was imagining the healing of the pain. I knew who I wanted to help me with the pain. In my mind I called out to my grandmother (Nanny) to come and help me. She’d helped me before in sessions like these. In the months after Jordan died when I wondered what prayer was for, because it hadn’t kept my son safe, Nanny was my intercessory. I asked her to watch over my boy until I could see him again. I asked her if he was okay? I begged her to help me learn to talk to God again. In life and beyond I felt her unconditional love.

Nanny holding me.

I saw Nanny walk out and stand by the container. Then she said, “Come on now, we’ve got to help Jackie.” Then one by one my grandmother’s sisters all of whom are with her in heaven, appeared and stood around the bowl that contained the hurt my heart couldn’t hold.

To me all of them were fearless. One summer, when I was a child, during one of our family reunions in West Virginia, I’d seen them shift from sisters sitting around my aunt’s kitchen table talking, drinking coffee and playing Scrabble, to warriors. One of my cousins came upstairs from the bedroom portion of the house panic-stricken. With wide eyes and a shaky voice she said, “There’s a bat downstairs.” Nanny, Aunt Mary, Aunt Gaynel and Aunt Frances rushed from the kitchen table, one of them grabbing a broom on the way, as they went downstairs to kill the bat. Aunt Gaynel’s voice rang out, “You kids stay up there. I don’t wanna see any of you downstairs.” I stayed in the kitchen still perched on the red vinyl stool that was my post for watching the Scrabble game. I heard, “There it is,” “Be careful,” and “It’s over there,” float up the stairs as the sound of brooms and shoes and whatever they could use as weapons struck the walls and ceiling. I finally went outside to sit on the porch with my other cousins telling them about the bat. A little while later, one of the sisters put a Kentucky Fried Chicken bucket on the porch. My cousins and I dared each other to look into the container. I finally took my turn and quickly peeked in to see the dead bat lying on its back. Through the screen door I heard one of my great-aunts call out, “Ya’ll don’t get to close to that bat now.” I looked in the door to see them seated around the kitchen table again, Scrabble game and sister-talk resumed. Their actions and teamwork still rank as one of the bravest things I’ve ever witnessed.

Now as I sat with a tear-stained face in my counselor’s office, they’d come to help me. All of them knew about the kind of heartache contained in my bowl. Nanny had mourned the loss of a son from a miscarriage. During one of our late night talks when I was a teenager I remember her telling me, “It was a boy, and he was about this big,” as she held her hands a little less than a foot apart.

Next I saw my Aunt Gaynel determinedly walk up and grab Nanny’s hand. I swayed in my seat as I thought of the early morning call so many years ago telling us that Dougie and Dawn; her grandchildren had been killed in a house fire. She’d felt the same kind of tear soaked pain that my container held. I continued watching as Aunt Frances and Aunt Mary came and stood around the bowl. Aunt Mary’s hair was still pulled back in a bun. I couldn’t help thinking, “She looks the same.” She stood there with her sisters, who’d helped her mourn the loss of a son born prematurely. A son she tried to keep alive and warm by placing him near the open oven in her kitchen.  They helped her hold vigil because there was no hospital in West Virginia where she could take her brown- skinned baby and get quality care.

Then my Aunt Frances came and stood by the bowl too. She looked at me with all-knowing eyes. She’d stood and wept at the coffins of both of her adult daughters who were taken by illness. Witnessing her mourning helped me to accept that no matter their age, your children are always your babies.  My grandmother’s youngest sister Juanita was there too. I watched as they coaxed her to the circle. She moved slowly and Aunt Frances in her raspy cigarette smoke-stained voice said, “Hurry up you can help too.”

Juanita died when I was a child. My memories of her are as the “Cosmopolitan,” sophisticated sister. She could have graced the cover of any fashion magazine. She gave me my first real jewelry when I was about five. It was a birthstone jewelry set with matching heart-shaped necklace, bracelet and ring. The heartache she endured was inferred by my family, but never talked about to me. I felt Juanita’s love as she stood by the bowl with her sisters.

I took a deep breath in and exhaled slowly as they circled around the bowl. I talked to my grandmother, “Nanny, I’m so tired. It hurts too much. I don’t know how I’m going to make it through another anniversary. I miss my boy. I want him to come home. Help me.”

Nanny briefly looked at me and nodded her head. Then she and her sisters bowed their heads and began to pray. I couldn’t hear what they said but I’d heard all of them pray before. Their prayer was a balm of healing over my bowl of pain, longing and loss. I felt peace and protection coming my way. As I watched them pray, the tears that fell from my eyes didn’t burn so hotly. My breathing came easier and didn’t get caught in my throat. My hands that were clenched in my lap relaxed and I uncrossed my legs. As I sat feeling the tension subside in my body, I heard my counselor’s voice in the distance bringing me back to the room in her office. “Listen to the sounds out the window. Feel the floor beneath your feet and your back against the chair.”

I sat for a moment eyes still closed taking a few more deep breaths. I opened my eyes still not ready to make eye contact with my counselor. She sat patiently waiting for me to compose myself. After grabbing a tissue and wiping my eyes I looked at her. She gently told me, “The container and the healing image that you used today can help you whenever the pain feels overwhelming. Just take a few moments and close your eyes and allow yourself that comfort.” I looked at her attempting a smile as I nodded. Then for the first time in our sessions, I told her of the image I’d just witnessed. “My grandmother and her sisters held hands and encircled the bowl. They came to help me.”

She looked at me and simply said, “That’s beautiful.”

As I rose to go, I grabbed my purse, told her, “Thank you” as I always do and walked to the elevator. I put my sunglasses on as I reached the first floor. As I walked to my car I continued to feel the fierce love and protection of Nanny and my aunts. They are my role models of strength and resilience.

Today the phone rang and when Mark answered I heard him say, “Whose calling?” He then stood and walked out of the family room. The next thing I heard was, “Jordan passed away in 2008.” Like I’d done two years ago almost to the day at hearing Jordan’s name, I got up and followed Mark. I held my hand over my mouth waiting for him to finish the call. He then told me, “It was MoveOn.org. Jordan was on their volunteer list. They were calling to see if he wanted to volunteer again.”

Sobs broke through my hand covering my mouth and Mark held me as I cried. I sobbed at the pain that announced more precisely than any date on a calendar, “My son is dead.” He isn’t here to volunteer for his favorite causes. I don’t know what direction his interest in Political Science would have taken him. As I cried, the fact that Jordan’s been denied the opportunity to have new adventures and experiences made the ache of loss surge. He died. Even though I want to go and look for him to bring him home I can’t. I leaned against the doorjamb in the dining room, crying and thinking of all the things he wanted to do and be.

October 12th is the date Jordan was killed in a car accident, but everyday I struggle to learn to live without him. After the phone call from MoveOn, the images and sounds associated with losing Jordan threatened to overpower me. I took a moment and remembered the 5 sisters with their fierce love and arms of protection. I closed my eyes and saw them encircling and praying over my container of pain.

Back row(l to r): Aunt Mary, Aunt France and Nanny Front Row (l to r) : Aunt Juanita and Aunt Gaynel

Category:

anniversaries, auto accident, death of son, family support, grief, loss of child, mourning

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Cushioning The Impact of the Day

October 12th is the day that splits, “Before” and “After.”As this weekend starts, which feels eerily similar to the weekend right before 10/12/08, the day Jordan died; there are so many traumatic images and sounds that are forcing their way into view. There is so much pain that resurfaces this time of year. I can’t block out all the pain. Tremors of grief  force sobs and wails from me. The fierceness of mourning interrupts my sleep and makes me cover my ears every time I hear the sound of a siren.

Missing and loving Jordan are not done by me alone.  I’m trying to soothe my spirit even though I can’t change the fact that on the 12th two years ago, police officers came to my door and told me my son was dead. There is a balm that provides some comfort. It is thinking of all those who have expressed their love for Jordan and shown my family and I we are not alone.

On a table in my living room there is the framed picture of Jordan from his high school newspaper days given to us by his friend Claire. 

I think about the way Jordan’s friend Sam showed his love for his friend. The morning Jordan’s friend Sam found out about Jordan’s death, he had “Taps,” played at his military college. Sam had his parents present the 13 point folded flag that waved during its playing to us at the memorial service. This act of love and celebration of a life well lived are running through my mind as my longing for my boy is so powerful.

Here are other gestures of love by family and friends:

Jordan we love you

A card my sister made in honor of Jordan’s 20th birthday celebration

 

 

A friend of Jordan got an "Air J" tatoo in memory of Jordan.

 

 

During 2009-10 Amherst College football season, Jordan's friend Sean honored Jordan by wearing number, "89," in honor of Jordan's birthday.

 

Here’s part of a poem written by one of Jordan’s best friends Kathryn:

I miss him.
At night, when I’m lonely, sad, scared, feeling vulnerable, misunderstood
I miss the hell out of him
Even now when things go wrong, he’s the first person I think to call
It’s not until I pick up the phone that I realize he’s no longer on the other end
Sometimes I’ll make the call anyway
just to hear his voicemail
“hello this is Jordan…” 

I know he’s not RIP
He’s FIP
flying in peace
all around me

and
whenever I need him
just like always
he’s there.

There are many family and friends who like me are missing Jordan and wishing for a glimpse of his smile and to hear his voice once more. I am not alone in wanting October 12th to be an ordinary day.

Category:

anniversaries, grief, loss of child, mourning

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“I Love You More Today Than Yesterday”

There are so many sweet memories of Jordan that make me laugh and smile. Memories that always felt precious. I just didn’t know they would have to sustain me because he’d be gone. This morning as I drove my daughters to school, Lindsay broke out in Aerosmith’s song, “Dude looks like a lady.” I smiled as soon as I heard her and chimed in. That song is a part of our soundtrack because of Jordan. None of us know more than the refrain, because it’s the only part we heard Jordan sing. He was notorious for bursting out with a random song, just like his mother. 🙂

Jordan filled my world with his eclectic taste in music. He could come home from school singing Bon Jovi’s “Wanted Dead or Alive” and by the time he sat down at the table with a snack he’d segued to Marvin Gaye’s, “Trouble Man,” and then tidbits of hip-hop from artists like Nas or Common. In his sillier moods he would turn whatever you were saying into a song. My music-loving son turned,“We’re having salmon for dinner,” into an operatic refrain. I was also guaranteed to hear him sing, “This Christmas,” by Donny Hathaway, throughout the year. Jordan loved Christmas. Before he left for college the summer of ’08 he asked if our family could see the Joffrey Ballet’s performance of, “The Nutcracker,” when he was home for Winter break. It had been a couple of years since we’d gone and I was excited that he wanted to go. I told him I’d get the tickets early so we would have good seats. I had the Ticketmaster website bookmarked on my computer and planned to buy the tickets the week Jordan died.

As October 12th approaches, memories of Jordan and the gaping wound caused by losing him are colliding. I can barely breathe as I remember the last weekend Jordan was alive. I bragged about him while on the sidelines at the girls’ soccer game the Saturday before he died. The last phone call he and I shared plays on a loop in my mind. My last words to him were,” Be safe.”

I want time back. I want to hear Jordan singing as he moves through the house. I want to continue my debates with him on politics and society’s ills. I need the comfort of his frame seated near me on the couch as he reads or watches TV as I tell him to stop cracking his knuckles and his neck. I want another chance to watch him tease his sisters and brother and hear them yelling, “Stop it,” as they race after him.

Jordan’s love for his family especially his siblings was transparent. In their eyes he was larger than life. He had them convinced that the pound cake their grandmother, Oma, made every Thanksgiving was his and that they had to ask him if they could have a piece. Even after I told them the cake was for everyone, they still formed a rotating sentry to make sure he didn’t eat it all.

8/9/08-Oma's pound cake is Jordan's birthday cake

Every time the girls peel an orange they say, “remember when Jordan peeled that orange and there was just one long peel?” I tell them I remember, because I do. In the summer of 2008, I know they pestered him to show them one coiled peel one night before they were going to bed. Jordan slightly annoyed kept saying, “No, I don’t want an orange right now.” The girls went off to bed and a little while later so did Mark and I. My night owl son was the last one up. The next morning when I came downstairs I smiled when I saw the orange peel coil on the counter. The girls came downstairs and at seeing the orange peel said, “Jordan did it,” while taking turns holding it up.

At times I can close my eyes and have videos of Jordan come to life in my mind. The memories of time spent with him and of his antics are vivid and comforting. This time of year especially, the traumatic images borne of the horrific loss of him are just as vivid and compete for space in my mind. Flashes of seeing my son lying in a coffin mesh with all the vibrancy and light Jordan brought to me. I’ll never understand why he’s gone. I miss my boy. Having an anniversary that marks time after he was alive hurts so much. I don’t think I’ll ever stop saying when I’m sitting alone, “Jordan please come home.”

Pictures that always make me smile:

Jordan crooning to the sky-This picture always makes me laugh

Jordan’s Soundtrack:

\”Wanted Dead or Alive\” by Bon Jovi

\”This Christmas\” by Donny Hathaway

Category:

anniversaries, auto accident, death of son, gifts, grief, holidays, loss of child, Mother of Four, mourning

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Fall Is Here and I’m Trying Not To Fall

Fall is here. October is here. Today, Saturday, I’m at home after going to my daughters’ soccer game and I feel melancholy starting to cling to my heart. It is the same routine kind of Saturday that it was when Jordan sent me a text message saying he was on his way to Baltimore, a trip that would end with a car accident and the death of my son.

I realized it was October when I wrote a check earlier today. It is the second of the month and I wondered why it didn’t register yesterday that the month had changed. The anniversary of the day Jordan died is October 12th. For some reason I’d gotten it into my head that this year marked the 3rd year since Jordan died. It wasn’t until I received a card from a friend on Friday who said she was thinking of me as the 2nd anniversary approached that I reconciled the year. I read her words at first and disputed her claim.

“It’s been three years.”

The only way I was sure of how many years it has been was by doing the math. “Okay it’s 2010 and the accident happened in 2008. Oh my God, she’s right it’s only 2 years.”

I’m not sure how I measure time anymore. I told Mark of thinking we were approaching the 3rd year anniversary of Jordan’s death. He immediately understood my confusion. He told me, “Maybe you were counting impacts instead of years. That night when we heard the news was one, then marking two years since the accident makes it feel like 3 years.”

I nodded my head in assent as my throat ached with tears.

My family is in the season when thoughts of, “Before Jordan died,” and “Since Jordan died,” are the subtitles to our experiences, bringing with them an encroaching pain that shoves aside recent joy. It is October and the 12th will come. The pain and images of late night calls, police officers at the door and moans and screams of unimaginable loss threaten to shove aside recent joy.  We keep going knowing that not far from October 12th is the 20th a day to celebrate life and the birthday of my son Merrick. Please send us your love, your light and your prayers.

Family pictures

Joking for the camera as Jordan was off to his Senior prom

Category:

anniversaries, auto accident, death of son, grief, loss of child, prayer

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Blessings

We didn’t go to the open house at the high school. After all of my hand wringing, guilt and finally fortitude I wasn’t able to go. Mentally and emotionally I was prepared. In the end lupus took over. After a fitful night’s sleep, I woke up yesterday morning with swollen joints and fatigue. I probably could have soldiered through but I talked to Mark and we decided that we would email Merrick’s teachers and set up individual meetings with them. I was in bed early and looked at the clock realizing had I gone, I would still be at the high school. Taking care of myself while Mark supervised dinner and homework turned out to be the best solution.

I didn’t want to push myself too much yesterday and feel even sicker today. My 22nd wedding anniversary is today. I am so honored and proud to have Mark as my partner on our journey. Through health scares, moves and the ultimate loss, the death of our son Jordan, I have never doubted the strength of my marriage. Even in loss and sorrow when we’ve held each other and wept together I’ve been grateful that he is my life partner. I’m glad that I’m feeling better. Today is for celebrating 22 years with a man who brings perspective, comfort and so much laughter into my world.

Mark and I summer of '08

Here is the song played during our first dance at our wedding.

I’m feeling sentimental today and very blessed.

Category:

anniversaries, celebrations, death of son, loss of child, lupus

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Soundtrack

I just left Lindsay and Kendall at school where I watched a fifteen minute presentation of what they’ve learned in their Monday after-school dance class. After the presentation they are off to another school project that won’t end until five. I have an hour to fill. I always call the time between my driving shifts as limbo time. It’s not enough time to go home and get anything done, and too long to sit and wait for them. I decide to head to Walgreen’s to pick up poster board for Lindsay and the spiral notebooks Merrick requested. I then head to Starbucks, book in hand to kill the rest of my time.

I already know dinner will be takeout. I made peace with myself earlier today about that fact. After traveling last week, it always takes me a few days before the fatigue induced by traveling and the effects of  lupus subsides.

So, here I am sitting at Starbucks drinking a tall skim latte, waiting for Lindsay and Kendall to be done. I try to read, but my mind is too restless. Every attempt to blend in with the patrons who are reading, pounding away on laptops or talking with friends is futile. My mind is racing, taking me to thoughts of loss and what now. Being still too long without distractions pulls me into grief and longing for any day before October 12th, 2008. I pull a piece of folded scrap paper from my purse and start to write. I’m realizing how hard it is on this day to sit still without crying or  screaming.I remember reading the book, “Damage” by Josephine Hart over 20 years ago. In the story the main character upon learning of the death of her son, beats and punches her face and body to still the pain in her heart. Of course she learns self-mutilation does not quell grief.

I think of “Damage” and I want to scream out, “Do you people know how hard it is to sit here, drink coffee and read? My son is gone. He died, he’s gone. I need you all to know his name.”  I want to pummel his name into all of their memories. I don’t take any of these actions. I sit, sip my latte and continue to alternately read and write on my scrap paper. I wait for it to be 4:50 so I can pick up the girls.

I realize as I’m writing and my heart is swamped with sadness, my feet are  tapping along to the beat of the jazz-real jazz(as my father would say) music playing in the background. Here I am writing about my grief, how hard it is to suppress tears and screams, and my feet are on another journey, keeping beat to another tune. I look up from my writing and really listen to the song. I smile and hum along. It is a song from the album, “Black Talk,” by Charles Earland.  I’m swept back to childhood and hearing the cut, “I Love You More Today Than Yesterday” wafting from Daddy’s basement stereo system. I close my eyes and remember him whistling and singing along, “I love you more today than yesterday, but only half as much as tomorrow.”

It’s 4:50 time to go. I let my feet lead me out the door, a new song in my head. “I love you more today than yesterday.” Thanks Daddy.

Category:

anniversaries, chronic illness, death of son, family support, grief, Jordan, lupus

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Sitting with Anger

Sitting With Anger

A pic of Jordan I keep in my journal. The fortune reads,"Sorrow of parting will bring happiness of reunification."

There have been over 365 days without Jordan. Marking a year did nothing to ease my sadness. I had this fantasy that if I made it to a year without my son, then there would be relief, some acceptable change. I fantasized that someone would pop out and say, “Well, you’ve shown you can handle heartache, loss and pain. We know now you’re a strong person. Open that door over there, and see your son again. This past year has been a horrible dream, but you passed the test.” Even as I fantasized, I knew there was no test. It’s my life. The days without Jordan keep accumulating and I’m approaching another holiday season without him. Another year without him is here and the fury I feel has caught me off guard.

Sadness is with me always, but anger and sometimes rage have dropped by and are making time for me as well. I’ve never felt this kind of fury before. I never knew anger could hurt so much and be so debilitating. I’ve screamed, I’ve wanted to break things, punch, kick and physically hurt someone or something, just to release the swell of anger that threatens to sway me into instability. Even with the anger, the good girl that I’ve always been brings reason and I realize I’m too ladylike to  break something. I can’t even bring myself to pick up the Amherst college mug that Mark ordered for me when Jordan was a freshman. I want to break it. I want to hurl it against a wall and scream, “No, I want my son back.” I hate looking at it. For me it represents  the lost dreams of my child, the future we thought he had. Mark and my children still proudly wear their Amherst gear and it gives them comfort. My daughters drink cocoa from the mug. I see this mug that I used to drink out of every morning, feeling closer to Jordan as I imagined him in class and now I want it shattered into a million pieces. I have a mug and not my son.

Residual anger that leeches on and can’t be shaken is new to me. I’m comfortable with depression, sadness, and guilt; these are the emotions I’m willing to associate with grief and even expect. The strength and vitriol of my anger surprises me. It has shaken me to my core. My sense of control already weakened, threatens to bottom out completely making me question what kind of person I am?

I’ve started having nightmares where I’m a college student again and I wander the halls searching for my dorm room. I look around in my dream and see everyone going on their way seeming to know their destination and I struggle to remember where my room is. Everyone I ask points me in a different direction. I always wake up panicked and before that first real moment of consciousness I really believe I’m in college. Then, when I’m fully awake I realize that college is a goal I’ve already accomplished and the one I want in college is Jordan. When I have this dream I have to fight to get out of bed in the morning. I lay there thinking, wondering, “How did this happen?” and “Jordan you’re supposed to be in school” and my most plaintive plea, “Jordan please come home.” Sometimes I’ll drift off just to imagine if only for a moment that Jordan is in his junior year, preparing for class and even picture what his room looks like. It is such small comfort. No amount of fantasizing eases the aspects of grief that I’ve come to know and endure. Now, suddenly anger is a regular part of my grief.

My anger has presented itself in so many forms. Sometimes it’s the impatience I have for my children as they come home from school and clamor for my attention and to tell me about their day. Sometimes it’s the edginess I take with me when I’m out running errands and am so tightly wound that a part of me wishes a salesperson would be rude to me just so I’d have someone to unleash some of my pain and anger onto.

I’ve had anger for everyone. This weekend the rage I felt was directed at Jordan and me. I railed at myself for not being more vigilant. Why didn’t I follow my instincts and call him while he was on the road? Why didn’t I give him money for a bus ticket so he wouldn’t have driven with his friends?

I talked to Jordan too.I laid on my bed and out loud, through tears I expressed my anger towards him with so many questions, “Jordan, why did you change the plan without asking if it was okay? You texted me when your new plan to go to Baltimore was already underway. Why didn’t you stay in New York? You could have stayed with Malcolm or Matt. It was your friend’s birthday that weekend. You were supposed to hang out with him. Why did you have to go to Baltimore? Why were you talked into clubbing and concerts?  Why did you go? I want you back. I want you to come home.” After ranting and questioning my son, I’m spent and cry myself to sleep. I wake up later when Mark comes to check on me and I realize hours have past. Acting out my rage has exhausted me, but its release has also calmed me.

I have moments of fury for Jordan’s friends who were in the car with him during the accident. Jordan’s friends who walked away from the accident with nothing more than a bruise or a scratch. “Why didn’t the driver pull over if he was tired? Why didn’t one of the other boys act as co-pilot and insure their safe passage back to school? Why didn’t the other families whose sons were in that car have to share this unbearable pain and grief? Why just my son gone?”

I’ve received cards, calls and letters from the parents of these boys and as I read their expressions of condolence and prayer a part of me appreciates their generosity and another part thinks only, “You still have your son.” All four families experienced this horrible accident. Their sons have to live with the horrific memory of seeing their friend die, which I know will forever haunt them- but they’re still here. How do I make sense of having such horrible, conflicted feelings? I’ve prayed for these boys, who are Jordan’s friends. I wrote them a letter last winter as I worried over them and the guilt they must be feeling. I hadn’t heard from them since the accident but I needed to reach out to them. I wanted them to know Jordan, not only as their friend, but as my son. I sent them the following letter:

January 27, 2009

Dear E, M and C,

I know you all are in your last semester at Amherst. I think a lot about the three of you and wonder how you’re doing.  From what Jordan told me about you all I know that you have grand plans for your futures and are excited to be out in the “real world”. Jordan always had an adventurous spirit. I knew when he was a little boy that he would want to see the world. He had his first sleepover when he was three. It was born of necessity given that I was in labor with his younger brother three weeks earlier than expected. He stayed with his best friend’s family and wasn’t afraid only excited. He liked being with his friends.

As I’m sure you noticed Jordan’s friendships were varied. He never pigeonholed himself into one group or one type of friend. You guys were a couple of years older than he but you found common ground. He made friends with incoming freshmen as well as his fellow sophomores. Jordan understood and honored friendship. He didn’t betray trusts, he didn’t judge and he was loyal. I know about his friends through him. He and I talked a few times a week. He would call me on his way to his room after lunch, or on his way to the library in the evening. When I called him, he would at times be in the room of one of you guys. I could hear the chatter and the partying in the background on a Wednesday night and would tease him by telling him to put me on speaker so I could tell you all to “Go To The Library!”

I didn’t realize the impact Jordan had on so many or learn the depths of his friendships until his Memorial Service. There were elementary, high school and college friends in attendance as well as friends he made and stayed in touch with from a 6 – week summer internship program he did after his sophomore year in high school. We were saddened that you couldn’t be there to say goodbye, but I hope you’ve spoken to your friends who were there and gotten a sense of how deeply Jordan was loved by those he touched. We’ve received letters from those who couldn’t attend with their own wonderful memories of our Jordan. We’ve learned so much about his generous spirit, sense of fun, and as one friend put it-“If time travel were possible, we voted Jordan most likely to fit in no matter where he landed.”

Jordan could be quiet and reserved until he got to know you, and then could be as silly as anything you’ve ever seen. I hope you got to see that side of him. He also was never afraid of new challenges. I always tell people the story of his first day of kindergarten. When I dropped him off at his new school he said goodbye to me at the door and walked in. There were no backward glances or need for one more hug. That was how Jordan lived-if he was nervous he didn’t like letting it show. He was excited with all the possibilities and opportunities he saw before him. He was having a tremendous time at college and was looking forward to and planning his next adventures. He talked of travelling to South America, Africa, England-anywhere and everywhere.

I’m sure you know how much our family misses Jordan. He was our oldest child, an amazing son and big brother. I also know that all of your lives have been forever changed. Jordan’s death is a fact that can’t be denied or erased. That is a reality we all share. I ask one thing of all of you-make the choice to live full lives. Please push the words “what’s the point?” out of your minds. The point is simple- You are on this earth to live a life filled with meaning and purpose. Don’t squander such a gift and opportunity. I hope the memory of Jordan is in the fabric of your being. I hope his smile; wit, sense of fun and adventure, and his quiet charm are the aspects of him that you hold onto. You young men are just starting your lives. My hope is that you honor Jordan’s memory, not out of guilt, shame or obligation but because he was your friend.

With deep sincerity,

Jackie Moore

Mark and I met with Jordan’s friends and their parents in Boston in July for the first time. We had the boys in our home to honor Jordan on his birthday. But one year later, right now, I’m outraged that they can continue a life that my son will never see.  I pray through my tears and rage that these boys will understand that their days of feeling youthful arrogance and invincibility are over. They can never claim those traits again, maturity and responsibility must take their place. One of their friends died, my son died. It is a reality we all face in our own ways. We are bound together for the rest of our lives because of the loss of Jordan.

I’ve no choice but to face anger and make room for it in the same way I have for sorrow, guilt and despair.  It’s not going anywhere so clearly it needs to be acknowledged and expressed. I have to learn how to sit with my anger, just as I sit with the other expressions of grief. I have to accept that anger is a part of my mourning journey. For now, anger has come to call and as it courses through me I need to be still and let it have its say. All I have is time, and I pray to use it in a way that allows me to move on, learning about myself and  no matter the emotion or stage of grief I’m in, always trying to  honor the memory of my son.

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anger, anniversaries, college, grief, Mother of Four, mourning, rage

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We Keep Going

The way we'll always remember him.

The way we'll always remember Jordan.

The word anniversary with its festive context mocks all the pain, dread and heartache that enveloped me as I waited for the day that marked the death of my child. In the weeks preceding October 12th, 2009 I felt a foreboding as waves of grief rippled through me, forcing me to physically feel the sorrow that Jordan’s’ death brought. I was pulled back to the days before Jordan’s accident as though I was about to play a role in a re-enactment. The eeriness of remembering minute details about the day before and the day of the accident played on a reel in my mind. This year on 10/11 I touched my cell phone in the afternoon, remembering this time last year when Jordan texted me, telling me he was going to Baltimore from NY (why didn’t I stop him? Why didn’t I tell him he had to follow the original plan and stay in NY?). The night of 10/11 this year at 11:30, I wept standing in the kitchen as Mark held me, remembering Mark calling Jordan’s cell phone and leaving a message telling him to call us and let us know he was back at school safely; not realizing he was already gone when we called. Forcing myself to finally go upstairs to bed, afraid of what memories or nightmares would take hold. Sleep didn’t come, even with the help of sleep aids. I laid in bed searching out every sitcom I could find, wanting anything that would be mind numbing and just wash over me. Grief overruled my plan to deny its existence. At 1:30am the sobbing started as I remembered the doorbell ringing and innocence being snatched from my family forever. To this day every time I hear a siren my first thought is, “That is what it sounded like in Massachusetts the night Jordan died.”

We made it through October 12th, 2009;we survived. Now a new year begins. I’m determined that the anniversary of his death will not be treated as the measuring stick of our survival and moving on without him. The date of his death will not be the context in which he’s remembered.

Time has moved on and as much as I want to stay close to the days leading up to October 12th 2008 because those days contained my son, I am moving through each new day. There was such a pull to will the anniversary day away and somehow stay closer in time to when my boy was on this earth. Time doesn’t allow such wishes, even to grieving mothers. With each day I feel the stronghold of my grief loosening its grip for brief moments of time.  The lessening of the grief at times brings the fear that I’m moving farther away from my son who will eternally be 19.

The first anniversary of Jordan’s death meant the first year of many to come where there would be no new memories of my child. Different memories will come for our family now as we move forward and experience new things without him. As ridiculous as it seems to me, I’m starting to worry that I’m forgetting Jordan. I don’t mean the person he was or all the memories I’ll cherish forever, but the actual flesh and blood child that I bore. It’s getting harder for me to remember what his cheeks felt like when I’d quietly touch his face as I walked past him seated at the table eating a snack and reading the newspaper.  I’m starting to forget the texture and wave of his hair, when I would touch the back of his head as he leaned down to kiss me goodnight. I stare at pictures of him, I watch old videos, and I call his cell phone (which we haven’t had the heart to disconnect) to listen to his voicemail message, to hear his voice. Missing Jordan is a part of me now.

In the first weeks after Jordan died my grief was primal. I had moments where I felt I would go insane if I couldn’t be with him. I felt like all the mother animals you see on documentaries that root around, pace and become stressed when they can’t find their cub. I was that creature, that mother. The need to be near Jordan, to feel his physical presence, hear his voice, all threatened to make me fall apart. I paced like a lion, weeping, crying out my son’s name, wailing, willing him back.

The only thing that soothed me was to hold one of his pillows from his dorm bed. All of Jordan’s things had been mailed from his college and placed in a corner of our basement. I would sit in a rocking chair in our basement and hold the pillow the way I used to hold him. The pillow still held Jordan’s scent and I inhaled as deeply as my lungs would allow, just breathing in his scent. I wept, screamed, and I rocked as I breathed in, hoping to have a moment where I could feel and sense his essence. It was never enough, but it calmed me. I keep that pillow stored in a plastic bag hoping that it will keep Jordan’s scent forever. I still open the bag and pull out the pillow and inhale the essence of my child.  The need is not as frequent, but I can’t imagine it will ever fully go away.

A year ago this week I couldn’t fathom that the world would keep spinning and I would find strength to keep going and want to live. But, I’m here. I chose life with all of its doubts, pain, conflicts and yes even glimpses of joy. Those first weeks after Jordan died the very thought of this mourning journey easing did not seem possible. I read books on grief that offered advice on healing. I always came to the last page and would stare at the book feeling disappointed and angry. I always thought, “These words didn’t bring him back. They didn’t tell me how to get to the place where the pain doesn’t threaten to drive me insane.”

I realized what I was searching for didn’t exist. The best advice I was given was by those who had lost children and had lived longer without them. They told me, “In time you’ll feel better. In time your heart will feel real joy again.” There were no prescriptions on how long or the steps to take to ease the pain. The people who had lost their beloved children answered me honestly when I asked when does it get better. They simply said, “I don’t know. It’s different for everyone.” I was so glad to have that advice as the calendar came back around to October 12th this year. I knew not to expect any magical relief. It was a day of sorrow, but the day before was harder filled with “what ifs” and the day after was excruciating because it revealed in the starkest form that we keep going and we do it without Jordan. Birthdays, holidays, vacations will all continue to happen and now we’ll do them not for the first time but again and again.

We keep going, with Jordan always in our hearts.

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anniversaries, grief, Jordan, loss of child

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Dear Jordan

Jordan standing atop a memorial during his first day at Amherst College.

Jordan standing atop a memorial during his first day at Amherst College.

Dear Jordan,

It has been a year since you died. It is still hard for me to say the word died and your name in the same sentence. Even as I struggle I feel your spirit near me. I felt it on Mother’s Day from the moment I woke up. It was a day that I approached with dread but all I felt was peace. You were with me the whole day. I had all four of my children with me. At the end of that day as I went to sleep I thanked you for always being my son and for letting your spirit so strongly be felt that day. Your spirit feels near so much even as I struggle to learn to live without you on this earth.

I know that it was no coincidence that on one cold, cloudy day last winter as I sat curled on the couch crying and screaming out your name that you had a hand in what finally calmed me. Receiving a letter that day from your freshman year roommate written on notebook paper with perfect penmanship, he apologizes for taking so long to check in on us. His letter so beautiful talked to me of all the things he felt he had learned from you. Studying hard, but also looking up from the books and his sport’s commitments to take in all that college life had to offer. You made him embrace the whole of his experience. His letter ended with a request that I cherish to this day. He asked if it would be okay if he wore your birth date as his football jersey number for the 2009 season. He sent me a picture recently and 89 is prominently and proudly displayed on his jersey. You my dear son made such an impact and I continue to be proud and amazed by all you did in your 19 years, 2 months and 3 days of life.

Your influence has been felt in mundane ways that I know that are not coincidence. I know you’ve played a role with your sisters and sports. You know how competitive your sisters are. During soccer season last year, the last game of the season, just weeks after you died, one of your sisters had made numerous goals, and one had none. All your sister wanted was to score a goal. There we were, the last game of the season and I’m asking you as I stood on the sideline, “Come on Jordan, your sister needs a little help. Please help her score a goal. She needs to feel that joy.” Minutes later, there she is in front of the goal and with ease kicks the ball in to score. Everyone cheered, no one louder than I, but I also looked away to compose myself and wipe away the tears. I knew you’d been there.

For softball season last year the last game arrived and once again we were faced with the situation of one sister with hits and one without. She had walks, strikeouts, foul balls too numerous to count, but no hits. All she said before the last game was, “I haven’t had a hit all season.” Her last time up to bat I walked away from the group and I talked to you. “Jordan, your sister needs a little help. She wants a hit, help her get one.” The next thing I hear is the crack of the bat and your sister racing to second base. I looked up and thanked you because I knew what you had done. Even without seeing you, I felt your presence.

We continue to think of ways to honor you and feel you near. Your dad and I have started a meditation garden in your honor. We pulled weeds, cut back ivy and planted a tree as a start to the garden. We plan to sprinkle some of your ashes in the garden to always have a part of you at home. At the front of the garden is a statue of a child hunched over a book reading.

Statue we found in antique shop for meditation garden.

Statue we found in antique shop for meditation garden.

You always loved to read and I always loved watching you read. You better than anyone I know seemed to have mastered the art of relaxation. Relaxing in a chair, iPod and noise cancelling headphones on playing your favorite music, and your book of choice. You always managed to look so peaceful and so cool at the same time.

Jordan always with a book handy.

Jordan always with a book handy.

It’s ridiculous really to imagine you in the meditation garden. If you were here, we wouldn’t be preparing such a space. If you were here, the sadness that lingers in every morning and evening would not be fathomable. If you were here, your brother would not have retreated so far into himself and work so hard to catalog every memory he made with you. His birthday just eight days after your death would not be a day that now ties him up with ambivalence. As much as your presence is felt, there is no denying how much you are missed. I can’t explain the longing that seeps into our house some days. It affects all of us. We’re missing your energy, your deep voice, your silly dances, the distinct teasing you had for each of your siblings.

Assigning the words random, senseless, untimely to your death will never feel right when I talk about you. Not a person like you, who I knew from the time you were 2 would bring wisdom, humor, compassion and light to the world. I’m still brought to my knees with the unfairness of losing you. I’ll never stop longing to have you back. Acceptance is a word that mocks parents who have lost a child. Why would I want to accept that my firstborn, my helper, my co-book club member, my emerging friend is gone from this earth for good? I’ll learn to tolerate your absence, to live through it, to survive. I’ll even come to a place where I hope I’ll be able to help others who’ve lost a child. To help them know that the pain lessens and we manage to keep going. There will never be a day however, that you don’t cross my mind, heart and soul. Never a day when I don’t long to conjure you up, make you reappear and turn all of these hurtful, mournful days into a nightmare that has finally ended.

On this day October 12th, 2009, the last of the firsts, I know we are slowly, carefully, forging our new normal. What will always be my truth is what has carried me since I learned of your death: You will always be my oldest child. I will always be your mother. For eternity you are my son. I love you. Eternally, I am the mother of four.

Love,

Mama

During one of our vacations, Jordan pointing to the vastness that lay ahead.

During one of our vacations, Jordan pointing to the vastness that lay ahead.

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anniversaries, death of son, grief, loss of child, Mother of Four, mourning

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