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

Jordan’s Friends

Jordan and Matt

Jordan and Matt

Senior Prom

Senior Prom

The friends that Jordan grew up with continue to be his friends today. Jordan’s core group remained fairly constant from first grade throughout his life. There have been other special friendships that have developed. There are of course, young men and women that he met in summer programs and at college who were dear to him and are now dear to my family and me. That first group of friends however was the touchstone. They are the children, now men who learned from each other about fun, loyalty, adventure, and at Jordan’s death sorrow of losing one’s own.

One of the first things I knew I had to do after we found out that Jordan had been killed in a car accident was to notify the parents of one of his best friends and have them notify the other parents. In this age of instant information, I couldn’t have Jordan’s dearest friends finding out he was gone because someone had posted it on Facebook or MySpace. I knew how much these guys loved Jordan and they needed to be comforted as they were told. Around 5:30 am I made the call to the parents of Jordan’s friend who had become our friends because of our children. I knew the news for them would be so devastating. Matt’s house was Jordan’s second home. They loved my son and would struggle to tell Matt because of their own grief. The shock, screams of “No” and tears that met me on the other end of the phone line let me know that telling Jordan’s friends would put them in a place of grief and lost innocence. It was clear that for our community of parents something we never wanted to imagine had happened. One of our worst fears had been realized. Death had come suddenly and intruded in such an ugly way. Any vestiges of innocence that still clung to our children and to us were stripped away. One of their best friends, one of our children was gone.

All of these boys were away at school and had to be called so their families could notify them about Jordan. I made it clear that the core group of friends, the boys who had played together since first grade, – who went to each others birthday and block parties playing “cops and robbers” and “ghosts in the graveyard”, who went to their 8th grade dance getting dressed up in suits and nudging each other to ask girls to dance, and who went to senior prom with the infamous camping trip afterwards-these kids grew up together in front of my eyes and had to be told gently. That morning our house was filled with the parents of these buddies. They all assured me that their sons knew and then they told me-“I’ve never heard him cry like that.”

Such a departure from the scene when I had last gathered with the parents of Jordan’s friends at Jordan’s graduation party. Mark and I had a joint party for our sons, our youngest son about to enter high school, and Jordan off to college. The party was held in our backyard, although Jordan and his friends took over and hung out in the basement. I only had one planned activity for that day and it was to briefly have our family say a few words to our sons and for my sister to present Jordan with a scrapbook she had made for him entitled “Blink”-as in “the blink of an eye.” Jordan and his friends begrudgingly made their way from the basement looking uncomfortable amongst all the fawning adults as if at any moment someone was going to pinch their cheeks and call them “precious”. Jordan most of all looked annoyed. He hated public displays, especially those given by his parents. That day however I was not going to let his scowl deter me from the gift I wanted to give him. Jordan was blessed to have both sets of grandparents alive and well and able to see him graduate from high school. I wanted them to be able to say a few words to Jordan and his friends. Jordan quickly straightened out his attitude when I gave him my “mama look” and said for everyone to hear -“I see your face buddy. You’re just going to have to deal with it. We love you and we’re going to show it.”

Each of his grandparents said how proud they were of him and knew great things were in store for him. When it was my father’s turn to talk he changed the tone a bit. He spoke to Jordan and his friends in a way that I’ve decided is distinctly his own. He told them, “Look around. These guys you’ve been hanging out with since you were little boys are your friends for life. Don’t ever forget that. Don’t let distance, or interests, or anything make it so you don’t stay in touch with each other.” Daddy then told them about one of his best friends that he claimed to have known “since the womb” because their mothers were friends when they were pregnant with each of them. Daddy told them, “to this day Fred and I call each other once a month to give each other hell. Our families get together and we make sure we stay in touch. So, look around and remember, this is where your first friendships started, don’t forget them.”

I thought about that day as Jordan’s friends came home to say goodbye to their friend. Here were the guys who’d envisioned their friendships lasting the way my father’s had, well into old age. But a member of the core group was gone and most of them were feeling the pain of a significant loss for the first time. When they came home they gathered at each other’s homes to mourn Jordan together. One mom told me, to see this group of “cool dudes” sitting together openly weeping over the loss of their friend humbled her so.

All of them came to our home before the service to pay their respects. They also did so much more. Billy asked if it would be okay for him to wear a polo shirt to the service. Jordan always wore polo shirts and he wanted to honor him in this way. Quinn and Pat usually so reserved, hugged me with such openness that spoke volumes about their love for Jordan and their need to feel connected to him through us. Matt made a special video of Jordan with family and friends to show at the service. Lucas took a deep breath and through tears played “When the Saints Go Marching In” on his saxophone to end the service. And, as we received guests after the service, the mother of Jordan’s friend Sam told me what her son had done to honor Jordan. Sam attends a military college on the east coast and after hearing the news about Jordan asked that the school play taps to honor his friend. Sam’s mom then presented us with the flag that had flown the morning taps was played, folded military style to honor a fallen comrade. Sam was at the service but too distraught to give it to us himself.

These are the boys my son has a friends. They visit us whenever they are home. They come by to say hello, check on us, give us updates on their lives and talk about their friend. They also connect with Jordan’s younger brother whom they’ve all adopted as their own little brother. They come to our house because they know it’s a safe place to remember and miss Jordan. These boys, these young men who loved my son are now friends to my family. It is bittersweet every time we see them. I love these boys. I honor and respect their grace and maturity. They visit, and then they are back out into the world, something I’ll never get to see Jordan do. Every time they leave I weep as I watch their backs heading down the walk. Having them in our lives has given us so much. We treasure every visit.

Jordan's 10th Birthday party

Jordan's 10th Birthday party

Category:

anger, anniversaries, auto accident, brothers, college, death of son, facebook, friends, Generation Y, Jordan

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Leaves

Fall is here and I’m not ready. This year as opposed to years past I’m forced to live, breathe, act differently as I struggle to discover a new normal and make it tangible. In the midst of my search life goes on and the seasons continue to change. Ready or not fall is here again, proof that the world keeps turning no matter how hard I want to go back and make things as they were.

I always loved fall. The changing seasons is one of the main reasons I knew I didn’t want to continue living in Southern California. Every January however, when the skies are perpetually gray and the meteorologists feel the need to qualify the cold with harsh adjectives like bitter, raw, and icy; Chicago doesn’t seem like the place for me. But fall has always felt good to me. I like the crispness in the air. I’m a sweateraholic so I love being able to pull a sweater from my collection and put it on feeling warm and cozy but unencumbered by coats, hats and scarves. Fall felt good to me most of all because of the vibrancy of the sky and all the brilliant colors that the trees hand us as gifts. There is something about the brilliance of fall leaves that awes me every year. Walking in my neighborhood looking at the awning of brilliance only fall trees bring made me believe in miracles. It has always felt like a miracle I was allowed to watch. My daughters know how much I love the beautiful colors and since they were small would bring me leaves of varied hues and type that they collected when they were out playing.

My daughters and I had already started our collection last fall. We were keeping them in a folder and I was showing them how to press leaves so that we could display them throughout our house. We took the leaves, put them between sheets of newspaper and then placed the heaviest books we could find on top of them for a few days. When we removed the books and looked at the leaves they were perfect specimens. They were dry without being crumbly and they had a resilience to them that allowed them to bend without breaking apart. We had started our collection.

After October 12th, 2008 the day of Jordan’s death everything was viewed through a haze. Colors, shapes, the brilliance of fall were a backdrop for shock and pain. In the days after Jordan died Mark and I took many long walks together. The only thing we knew for sure was that we couldn’t be far from each other. Neither of us felt able to drive but staying in the house all day amidst our well- meaning families was at times overwhelming. Sometimes we needed it to be just the two of us. The two people who knew and felt like no one else what it was like to lose Jordan, our oldest child. We walked, sometimes in silence, sometimes talking about our beloved son, and sometimes quietly weeping. We would find a park bench sit and allow ourselves to feel the exhaustion and weariness that had taken hold of our bodies and souls. Our boy was gone. We were in shock, and numbness surrounded us.

During our walks I continued my leaf collecting. Even in my haze, I felt purpose. The leaves I collected would be part of a scrapbook I would make. The leaves would sit amongst the many cards and letters we received from family and friends.  So many of the cards and letters detailed special memories that were new to me of Jordan from those that knew, loved and admired him. I cherished every note that we received. I kept them to reread on those days when my worse fears surged and it felt that I was the only one who longed for Jordan and remembered him. Those fall days were the backdrop for my “mother loss” pain.  It seemed only fitting that the earth should say goodbye as well. The leaves were the Earth’s notes to my son.

I couldn’t give up on life as much as I missed my child and wanted to be with him. I needed to touch and feel the good things the world had to offer. Those fall leaves were a symbol of that beauty.  The leaves I collected on those walks were treated the same as the ones my daughters and I collected. I pressed them and then displayed them on the table in my entryway. I happened to look down at one of the leaves and saw that unlike the others that were golden yellows, maroons and reds, there was one that at the center had a

Jordan's leaf

Jordan's leaf

circle of green. It was my Jordan leaf. It still held green. How had I not noticed the green center when I picked it? When I got this leaf home and examined it all I could do was cry. Here was this leaf that had gone against the cycle of nature. The green center the heart of the leaf showed me what I was feeling about my child. The leaf like Jordan fell too soon.

Category:

anger, anniversaries, death of son, grief, Jordan, loss of child, Mother of Four, motherhood, mourning

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Anniversaries

Jordan and his beautiful smile. The way we remember him.

Jordan and his beautiful smile. The way we remember him.

The word anniversary has become a charged word at my house. My husband and I sat on our porch last week talking about the fact that the 1-year anniversary of Jordan’s death is approaching and how we’ll prepare our children and ourselves for this day. As we sat and talked I looked up at him with a sudden memory and said, “We’re skipping September and going straight to October. It’s only September 9th. We’ve forgotten about our wedding anniversary.” We both stopped and looked at each other. Our wedding anniversary is September 17th and we had both forgotten about it. Anniversaries have different meanings now, those to celebrate, and those to endure.

I’m struggling now to figure out how October 12th, the day of Jordan’s death will be spent. I say spent, not remembered or commemorated because it is a day I just want to get through. His birthday was the day we honored and celebrated his life. What do you do on the day your child died? October 12th this year is Columbus Day. All of my children have the day off from school. The fantasy I had was that I’d take the kids to school, and that Mark and I would be home and just be still and let whatever emotions were inside wash over us and spill forth. No, to be honest that scenario is my second choice. My first choice is to find a way to make 10/12 disappear. I don’t want to relive it again even though I relive it regularly. It has become more than a memory it is part of my fiber. As the day approaches my resistance to reliving this day grows fiercer.

I don’t want to remember the phone ringing at 1:33 am with a call from our local police telling us two officers were on their way. The call came because the police showed up at our old address, the address on Jordan’s license. When the dispatcher called she said, “Two officers are at your door.  My husband replied, “No, I’m sorry you’re mistaken.” Then the banter back and forth about addresses and finally the mix-up is fixed and the dispatcher says, “The officers are on their way.” Then she hangs up. Mark gets up throws on sweat pants and goes downstairs to wait for the officers. We have no idea why they’re coming. Had someone tried to vandalize or break into our old house that was currently on the market? Is that what they needed to tell us? A problem with the house was the only thing that entered my mind. Mark went downstairs to wait. I stayed in our bedroom, which is at the top of the stairs near the front door. I laid there thinking-“Why would they come here if it’s about the old house?” “ Wouldn’t they tell us to meet them there? “

The doorbell rang before I got any further into pondering the police. I heard them ask my husband his full name. Then the officer’s voice was so low, a murmur so quiet that I couldn’t make out words. I sat up because the quiet talking was making me nervous. I started to pull on sweat pants so that I could go downstairs. Whatever they were talking about I wasn’t going to stay upstairs. Just as I was pulling on the sweatpants I heard the word “Massachusetts”. Whatever they were talking about was about Jordan. He was our Massachusetts. Nothing else in Massachusetts mattered to us. Thoughts raced through my head, first concern, “had he been hurt in an accident?” The next second it was anger, “that damn boy if he got into trouble and is in jail for something stupid he did with his friends I’m going to kill him.” All of these thoughts raced through my mind but not once did the thought of Jordan being gone ever enter my brain. That thought even now seems impossible. Not Jordan. By the time I was heading down the stairs I heard the tail end of what the officers were saying and I heard Mark scream. Scream isn’t the right word; he let out a guttural moan that I had never heard before. I reached the bottom of the stairs and saw Mark sitting on the bench in our entry with the two officers standing nearby one with his hand on Mark’s shoulder. When Mark saw me he got up to tell me what I’d already heard from the top of the stairs. I put my hand up and in a shaky voice said, “No, they have to tell me.” I stood on the rug under the light in our entry and I looked up into their faces daring them to say it again. I already had my arguments ready to show them they were wrong and they didn’t know for sure. I let them talk.

“Ma’am at around 9:30 pm eastern time your son and three friends were travelling on I-91 in Holyoke MA about 20 minutes from their destination. The car veered off the road crashed through a guardrail, dropped 30 ft and landed on the road below. Your son didn’t make it.”

I challenged them, “How do you know he didn’t make it? How can they be sure it’s Jordan?”

They kept calling me Ma’am. “Ma’am he had identification on him and his friends at the scene identified him.”

I knew it was true when the officer said Jordan had identification on him. Jordan always had his wallet with him. He always had his wallet, Ipod and phone wherever he went. I couldn’t make what they said untrue. I was out of questions and out of stalling tactics. I had to let the news in-Jordan is gone. Somehow Mark was standing beside me. I looked at him as he cried. He told me the other boys were pretty banged up (I later found this to be untrue. All three of Jordan’s friends walked away from the accident) but that Jordan didn’t make it. Then we cried together. We held each other and cried even though all my brain was saying was NOT JORDAN. NOT JORDAN.

Our cries and moans woke our other children and in less than 10 minutes we were telling my son and daughters what happened to their brother. We all stood huddled together crying and comforting. My 16 yr. old son like me tried one last time to make the news untrue. “ He’s just hurt right, he’s not gone.” I had to tell him again, “No baby he died in the accident. He’s gone.” All we could do was cry.

October 12th, 2008 the day Jordan died. Now the anniversary of that day approaches and my mind won’t release me from that night. The day is coming no matter what I do. My husband and I are thinking, praying and consulting with others about how we’ll get through this day for our children and ourselves. I know that we’ll talk as a family about what we’re feeling and not hold anything inside. No matter how much I wish I could shield my children from the pain of this day I know I can’t. They will feel their pain and look to their parents for comfort, and we will absorb as much of their pain as we can. Right now it hurts as much as it did then. Not Jordan. Even as a year without him approaches I still say Not Jordan.

Category:

anniversaries, death of son, family support, grief, loss of child, Mother of Four

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