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 ‘auto accident’ Category

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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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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Road Trip Home

We visited my family in Ohio this past weekend. As we have done many times before, we loaded our bags into the trunk in that haphazard way you can do when you’re driving. We put the cooler with bottles of water and the bag with snacks within my reach and we were ready for our road trip. We’ve had the same basic routine since we started making the drive from Chicago to Ohio in 1995. We’re done with portable cribs, strollers and bags of baby toys, but we follow the same pattern.  We drove the same route we always take to my parents’ home and as much as I was excited to see my parents especially my father who I hadn’t seen since Christmas, being in the car as a family without Jordan is hard for us all.

Mark, the kids and I go to Ohio for Thanksgiving and usually visit another time during the summer. I used to revel in those car trips. As the side doors to our van closed, we would pull out of our garage and be on our way. I would always look back at my kids, sigh and then smile. I knew that for the next five hours we were all together and it just felt so safe and so good. Mark would always touch my hand as he drove watching me with my private smile, “You love this don’t you?” I always said the same thing, “I love when I have my little family together and I can look back and everyone’s within my reach. This is perfect.”

Mark, the kids and I have taken car trips since Jordan’s death. On many of them I can assuage myself by saying, “Jordan probably wouldn’t be going with us anyway.” I can’t play that same trick when we go to see my parents. There was never a time when he was alive that we went to Ohio without all of us going together. No tricks work. When I look back from the front seat at my kids, the change in my little family is glaring. There is an empty seat. We all work to make Jordan’s absence not hurt so much, but we all feel it.

Since Jordan died, we have been to Ohio a handful of times. It is getting easier to go as five instead of six but there are still parts of the trip that are traumatic for me. During the car ride, I silently pray that we don’t come across any accidents or see any ambulances racing by with sirens blaring. Those images are visceral and make me feel as though I’m at the scene of Jordan’s accident even though the only information I have about that night is from the accident report. I’m trying to learn how to look out the window without letting my gaze fall onto the guardrails. If I look at them too long, I’m mesmerized. I start to think about Jordan’s accident. I imagine the car he was in breaking through the guardrail and careening off the overpass dropping 20 feet.  I watch each guardrail as we pass it and I say silently to it, “Why didn’t you hold, why didn’t you hold, why didn’t you hold,” until I have to close my eyes to shut out the thoughts. I can’t stay with my eyes closed too long though, even if I need to rest.  I immediately start to think of Jordan’s last time in a car. I wonder as I lean my head onto my hand, how his head was resting when he died. I try to figure out a way to save him. I think if I could only change the way he was sitting, or wake him up before the impact (Why didn’t I call him?), I could make him come back. These thoughts are a part of my, “Magical Thinking.” There always comes the point in my desperate attempt to revise the truth, when I force myself to open my eyes and come back to my new reality. I’ll reach over and grab Mark’s hand. He’ll squeeze mine, glance at me and tell me it’s going to be okay. He fights his own demons as we make this drive.

In spite of my invasive thoughts, I manage to hand out snacks, change DVD’s and talk to the kids about the upcoming school year. There are still family jokes and “remember when” stories. We still maintain our travel ritual of all pointing to the sign that signals our cross into Ohio. As we’ve always done we say together, “Ohio welcomes you.” One of the kids will inadvertently say, “Yay we’re almost at Oma and Pop’s house.”

Going to visit my parents provides comfort food, no scheduled activities and more love than we can hold. Mama and Daddy have always made coming home mean being nurtured, especially since I’ve had my little family. When we visit and Mark and I are worn down and so tired we can barely stand, they express their love for us in the way they know how. They cook our favorite foods and they let Mark and I sleep in without guilt or worry as they watch over our children. They still live in my childhood home. The home I was raised in from the age of 2. Even with the changes to the neighborhood, there are still more houses on the street where I can name the families that live there than not. There are no perfect people or situations. My visits home are not always idyllic. My childhood home base however remains a secure place for me.

We continue our drive and finally come to my parents’ street. Lindsay or Kendall will say, “Mama there’s your elementary school,” which is at the top of the block. We make our way down the street and pull into the driveway. The girls race to the door to be the first to ring the doorbell as Mark and Merrick grab bags to bring inside. I partake in my new ritual of sitting for a moment and taking a few deep breaths. I’m glad to be home. I have to make time for the disbelief that clings to me as I reckon with the fact that our new mode of travel to Ohio is without Jordan.

Mama stands holding the door open hugging each of us as we come in. She briefly looks into my eyes as she hugs me trying to gauge how much heartache I’m carrying. I hug her and see my father standing in the family room. I go to him, accepting his big embrace and lay my head on his shoulder like I did when I was young. I tell him, “I’m glad I’m home.” He simply says, “It’s good to see you baby.” I then tell him I’m tired and want to lie down. In his signature joke that he’s always used he replies, “This ain’t no rest home now. You can’t just come here and eat and sleep.” And so with another typical ritual my visit begins. There are the sounds of my family all around me, interwoven with memories of Jordan in pictures throughout the house and the stories we all tell. It’s good to be home.

Picture taken at Mama and Daddy's house on Daddy's 70th birthday.Mark and I are standing behind my parents. My sister and her husband are to the left of my father.

Oma and Pop with Jordan and Merrick

Quick pic taken before trip back to Chicago

Last picture of Jordan taken at my parents' house. Image of Jordan's dad is reflected in Jordan's sunglasses.

Category:

auto accident, family support, going home, grief, loss of child

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Hopes and Wishes

In the months prior to Jordan’s death, my father was diagnosed with a serious illness. During the summer of 2008, he had outpatient surgery and a round of chemotherapy. After his chemo treatment we counted the weeks until his follow-up appointment, which would determine if his treatment had been successful. During the waiting period he reassured all of his family, “Don’t worry about me, I feel good.” I believed him. My mother’s side reports also conveyed that the doctors were optimistic and that he was feeling fine. His diagnosis however brought a reality I couldn’t shove away; I didn’t want to lose my parents. I felt like a 10-year-old again. I still needed them and knew they had so much more to offer their family and friends. Hints of illness and mortality didn’t jibe with the vitality they displayed, and the roles they fulfilled for each other as a couple and for their children and grandchildren.

Daddy’s diagnosis forced the fact of mortality into my field of vision and I couldn’t look away. During the time we waited for my father’s follow-up appointment I spent time with my counselor dealing with all the health scares I’d had as well as those of family members and how they were heightening my fear of death.  As my parents aged I knew that mortality was an issue we all faced. My grandmother was the closest person to me to die. Her death came as she was gripped with pain and suffering, and all of us that love her, knew she wouldn’t want to live in that way.

In the weeks after I learned of Daddy’s health issues, I prayed for his full recovery wanting him to have more years of living and living well. As with others of my generation, my perspective on aging has changed, as I’ve grown older. Years that used to seem “old” are now young to me. When I hear that someone in their 60’s or 70’s has died, my first reaction is, “they weren’t that old.” Even as I prayed for Daddy, I did my own research on his illness. I asked friends who were doctors their opinions about my father’s health. I did online research and I settled into an uneasy peace that everything was going to be okay.

Then October 12th, 2008 came and every fear and worry that occupied my mind seemed absurd and self-indulgent. October 12th took my child away. In my grief I chastised myself for not putting my full focus on my son. While I prayed for Daddy, I lost Jordan. My mother instincts lead me down a path of blame. How could I have let this happen to my son? Grief told me that my lack of vigilance caused Jordan to die. I should have prayed more fervently for Jordan’s safety and kept him tighter control of his activities. I felt I had taken my focus off my son. Had I been praying for the wrong thing? I didn’t trust my instincts anymore.

When we received the news of Jordan’s death at 1:30 in the morning, Mark and I immediately called our parents and siblings and tried our best to comfort our children. I lay on my bed with Lindsay and Kendall for a while, holding them close. When they grew tired they went to their room and slept together in Kendall’s bed, which is closest to the door. I checked on Merrick who was in his room with the door closed and the lights off. He kept telling me he was tired and was going to try to sleep. I could see how haunted he was by the news of losing his brother but knew I had to respect his wish to be alone. My only request was that he leave his door slightly ajar so he could call out to me if he needed to. He agreed and I hugged him and went downstairs. Later that morning I learned that before Merrick went to his room to mourn alone, he posted on Facebook at 2:48am, “Merrick is lifeless. A piece of him died.”

After settling the kids into an uneasy rest, Mark and I sat in our family room, willing a “decent” hour to come so that we could notify our friends of our loss. While we waited, we cried softly, trying to make sense of the information the State Trooper had given us. We kept repeating to each other our fervent hope that Jordan hadn’t suffered during the crash. After all the hopes and dreams we had for him in life our greatest one at the end of his life was that death came quickly and without pain. As we talked, our phone rang. The caller ID showed Jordan’s cell phone number. For the briefest second I held the hope that the news of him being gone was wrong.

Mark answered the phone and I heard him explaining to the person on the other end that the phone was our son’s and that he had been killed in a car accident. He asked the man to please get the phone to the State Trooper who would get it back to us. I then heard Mark say, “Thank you.” Mark hung up the phone and explained that the man had been fishing and as he walked along the side of the road he’d found the phone. From his description the phone was more than 50 ft from the accident site. The phone landed fifty feet from the car. The impact of the crash sent items careening everywhere. The impact killed my son. The man said to Mark, “There are papers and stuff everywhere down here, it’s a mess.” I screamed repeatedly as Mark relayed the call to me. Mark stood over me as I tried to muffle my screams against him. “How did this happen to us?” kept circling through my mind.

As dawn approached we started calling our friends. By 7:30am our friends started to fill our home, bringing food and solace. I remember trying to be a good hostess offering people water, juice, and coffee, and being repeatedly told to sit down. All of them saying, “We’re here to take care of you” as I tried to make the most horrible, unthinkable day seem less awful. If I sat down, if I let my friends take care of me, my hands would shake too much and the tiny thread of composure I kept, so as not to worry my children would disappear.

Mark and I repeated for everyone that came through the door the limited details of the accident that we knew. I felt that if I repeated the details of the accident enough times, it would start to make sense to me; even when I knew it would never make sense. I know now what people mean when they say they’re in shock. The morning after learning of my son’s death, I sat at my kitchen table, I talked even as I wanted to be unconscious and wake up with the horror of loss being erased. The only time I was alone was when I would go in the bathroom. I would stand and try and focus on what had happened to my world. “How did this happen?” “Not Jordan”, “Jordan where are you?” were repeatedly said aloud by me. I fought against the part of me that said, “You don’t have to believe it’s true, Jordan doesn’t have to be gone.” I knew he was gone, no matter how strong the impulse was to deny such an ugly truth.

The day wore on and friends came by to take Lindsay and Kendall to their home to play. Merrick kept to himself, playing video games and then briefly went over to a friend’s house. Two friends went to the airport to pick up my parents. Upon their return, I greeted Mama and Daddy at the door, I let them envelope me. No words other than, “I’m glad you’re here” were spoken by me. Mark’s parents were the next to arrive and just as quickly as our house had filled with friends earlier in the day they quietly exited and made room for our family and our shared grief.   In the evening my dear sister-friend Michele came and offered me the care and sisterhood I needed. We talked privately and she managed the people who came to drop off food and cards. She was as surprised as I when the pastor of her church arrived. We both discovered that her husband had called Pastor Wilson upon hearing of Jordan’s death.

Pastor Wilson came to minister to our family. He sat at our kitchen table, drinking tea, eating coffee cake and providing a calming presence to all of us. He spoke with Mark and I privately, never trying to offer answers to the unanswerable question of “Why.” Before he left he asked if he could pray with all of us. We all stood holding hands around our circular kitchen table. Pastor Wilson asked if any of us had something they wanted to say before we prayed. Through tears we went around the table and each offered our pleas, prayers, and words to our sweet Jordan. I remember Merrick saying, “I’m going to miss you Jordan.” Lindsay cried uncontrollably and simply shook her head no when the circle came to her. Kendall through tears said, “Rest in peace Jordan.” My mother, my in-laws, Mark and I spoke and I don’t remember what words we said. I do remember with impeccable clarity what Daddy said when it was his turn. With his head bowed he quietly but strongly said, “I wish it was me.” At the sound of his voice and his words I gasped and sobbed. No trades or deals are made when death enters your world. No parent should have to lose a child. No grandparent should have to lose a grandchild and see their child filled with a pain they can’t fix. All of those thoughts were embodied in Daddy’s simple plea, “I wish it was me.”

Category:

auto accident, death of son, family support, grief, mourning

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Looking Too Soon

Jordan's candle

I didn’t mean to see the images of the Georgian luger crashing, but I did. Earlier in the day, I’d heard the reports on the radio about 21-year-old, Nodar Kumaritashvili as I went to pick up my daughters from school. The reporter in detailing the luge accident, said the word “crash” repeatedly, and with such force, that I was driven back to my 8th grade English class with Mrs. Hughes explaining “onomatopoeia.” Crash was one of the examples she used to illustrate the meaning of onomatopoeia – a word when spoken implies or suggests it’s meaning. “Crash”, I wondered how I was going to find a way to live with that word. As I pulled up to the school, I changed the station, not wanting my daughters to hear about the tragedy that now was the face of the Winter Olympics. The young luger was the hope of his small village. I felt more in common with his family than I did anyone surrounding me in the carpool lane in my own village.

Later that evening I sat in my living room checking emails as Mark sat next to me and turned on the television. He turned to the national news and there sat Brian Williams, the NBC anchor, cautioning that the video of the Georgian luger was graphic and, “may be difficult for some of our viewers to watch.” I was one of those viewers. I already knew the details of the tragedy from the earlier radio report, I didn’t need to add any visual images. Mark offered to change the channel but I didn’t want him to have to be inconvenienced because of me. I sat with my index fingers in my ears and the rest of my fingers covering my eyes. I have used this same pose since childhood to block out any scary scenes or gory images. Mark knows the routine and at movies always nudges me when it is safe to uncover my face. I sat, waiting for the news piece to be over, repeating the phrase my counselor had given me when I told her I needed to learn how to quiet my mind. I silently repeated my modified version of a Buddhist chant, “May you be at rest, may you be at peace, may you be filled with loving kindness.”  I planned to keep repeating the phrase until the news story was done but I looked too soon.

I opened my eyes just as the luge flipped over the railing and landed on the other side of the track. I saw the crash. I quickly closed my eyes again (why didn’t I leave the room?) and resumed my “blockout” pose. Trying to quiet my mind wasn’t working. I kept asking Mark, “Is it over?” “Is it over?” He hadn’t nudged me but I opened my eyes anyway, only to see the paramedics at the scene giving the luger CPR. There was blood on his face and on the snow. I had forgotten about blood. My eyes stayed open as the news program went to his village. There, sitting at the table head in hands wailing, was his mother. I had no idea what she was saying as she wept and held her head but I knew her sorrow.

I made it through dinner that night, talking with Mark and the kids about their days of school and work. I listened more than talked because I wasn’t sure how much longer I would be able to bear the images swirling in my head. As the girls started to clear the table I went upstairs to my bathroom. I turned on the lights and the exhaust fan while closing the door. I sat on the closed toilet seat and wept. I sobbed with my hand over my mouth to insure that no screams could force their way out. I couldn’t have my children worried about me and have the images and sounds of my grief intrude on their sleep that night.

My mind raced with the image of the luge going over the railing, and then the car Jordan rode in going over the railing and dropping 30 ft. All I kept thinking was, “If the luger died going over that railing, Jordan didn’t have a chance.” I tried to calm myself and realized that the only way calmness was going to happen was if I gave in to the images and thoughts my grief had placed in my head, no matter how frightening. It was as though my counselor was whispering in my ear, reminding me that grief was like a wave. She had instructed me before saying, “If you imagine the thoughts and images of grief coursing through your body, as starting at the top of your head and exiting through your toes, you’ll feel more control than trying to suppress them.” She always told me that there are times when grief is too powerful to be ignored and will find a way to be expressed.

I exhaled and allowed myself to fully envision the accidents, both luge and car. Both were devastating and so graphic in my mind. I wept, I held my head and then I heard sirens coming from the fire station 2 blocks away. “Why sirens, now?” I thought knowing that I couldn’t incorporate the sirens into the devastating images already swirling in my head. For the first few months after Jordan died I wondered if we would have to move because the sound of sirens was unbearable. Every time I heard them I thought, “That’s what it sounded like the night Jordan died.” I held my ears and covered my eyes as I’d done earlier that evening and waited out the sirens.  Over and over I said, “May you be at rest, may you be at peace, may you be filled with loving kindness.” I tentatively dropped my hands from my face and opened my eyes hearing only the fan again.

Grateful that the sirens had stopped, I thought I could get up and wash my face. As I started to stand, the image of the luger with blood on his face and on the snow came into focus for me and I sat back down. I had forgotten about blood. There was blood when Jordan died too. The accident scene wasn’t just the wreckage of the car, crashing from 30 feet, landing on the right side (Jordan’s side) before returning to all four tires; there was blood. I started recalling more details from the accident report. Jordan had a cut on his forehead. The accident report stated that after Jordan’s friend, who was driving, dragged Jordan from the car, he held his t-shirt on the cut. Meanwhile Jordan’s other two friends went up to the road to flag down the police and ambulance. Jordan was lying on the ground unconscious and there was blood. The road was closed for 3 hours that night.

There had to be blood because there was a bandage on the right side of Jordan’s head when we saw his body at the funeral home. I saw him laying there in the coffin, remembering what his face looked like with the bandage on his head. I wept for my boy and felt as though I was standing at the accident site and then the funeral home. My boy is gone. There was blood. I sobbed and wailed with my hand over my mouth until I felt no more tears could come. I sat for a few more minutes and then exhaled and calmed myself while wiping my face and blowing my nose. I tentatively looked in the mirror at parts of my face at a time. I finally connected eyes to eyes with my mirror image, sighed and shed more tears. “How did this happen?” and “Why just Jordan?” were said to my mirror self.

I went to the door of my bedroom and called for Mark, adopting as normal a voice as I could. He came upstairs with a worried look as I lay on my side of the bed. I tried to tell him about the news and my reaction. I was unable to talk without crying and he held me as I repeated, “If the luger died over that railing, Jordan didn’t have a chance. I can’t watch the Olympics anymore, too many crashes. They keep saying crash.” He held me and let me cry and talk. Then the question I’ve only said a few times out loud came out forcefully and repeatedly, “They should have all died, or all lived, why just Jordan? Why just our boy. I miss him. I want him back.”

Mark sat next to me and shared in the injustice of losing our boy. He told me he had the same thoughts about the accident and was trying so hard to deal with his anger. We sat together as I wiped my face and tried to get my breathing back to normal. As we sat, there was a knock and Lindsay came in to tell us she was done with her homework. She looked at me and said, “Mama are you okay?” I told her, “I’m sad right now baby, but I’ll be okay.” She gave me a second look, smiled softly and then told me she was getting her shower. Mark got up, kissed me on the forehead and went back downstairs. I laid back on my pillow able to close my eyes and let the familiar household sounds of Mark’s footsteps creaking down the front staircase, music coming from my daughters’ room and Merrick loading the dishwasher fill my head.

Category:

auto accident, grief, loss of child, motherhood, mourning, winter olympics

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Trusting Again

Jordan in the newspaper room

Jordan's great smile captured by his friend Clare at school. This picture sits in our family room. I love that Jordan is looking back smiling at me every morning when I come downstairs.

I had coffee with a dear friend the other day. She asked how I was doing. As we talked further she wondered did I believe that as time passed I’d be able to have joy in my heart again. I told her I didn’t know. I hoped that I would believe in feeling joy again, that is as far as my commitment can go, the hope that joy might happen. I told her that at least once every day the thought, “I can’t believe someone came to my door and told me my son is dead” crosses my mind. She understood how surreal life continues to be as my family and I mourn and learn to live without Jordan.

Right now, glimpses of joy, real joy are tethered to guilt. Joy feels like leaving Jordan behind. Joy right now means accepting new memories, traditions, and a life that doesn’t include my boy. As my friend listened to why “hoping to believe” was all I could muster she responded by saying, “I’ll pray for you. Specifically I’ll pray that you embrace the belief that you’ll feel real joy again.” These were my friend’s words as she listened to my conflict and pain. Her faith was so strong and I was so grateful for her compassion and grace. She would pray for me. I clung to her words, even as I struggle to regain my faith, to have it be the anchor it once was in my life. She knows my struggle and has put joy reentering my heart on her prayer list.

My reluctance to believe that life holds joy that is not intertwined with guilt and sorrow are not new feelings for me. In the weeks after Jordan died, I was in regular contact via email with my friend Tom who knows loss intimately after losing his wife and two of his children over the last 20 years. I asked him the following question,

“Everyone who has lost a child says, “You don’t get over it, you get through it” and that grief is hard work and takes time. How do you get through the days and sleep at night without feeling eviscerated and numb at the same time?”

Tom responded,

“You don’t.  You try and allow yourself to feel everything there is to feel, as you are able.  Try to observe it all. Try to allow it to flow through you.  Every feeling and emotion will have a beginning, middle and an end.  I am living proof that you can learn to live WITH the death of your beloved son …and that your life will be filled with joy, again…impossible as that probably is to believe right now.  Try to hang on to that.”

The parents of one of my high school friends who was killed suddenly in a car accident in 1987 at the age of 23 sent me these words in the weeks after Jordan’s death:

“As your peers in this terrible fraternity, we want to help you. Time, distance and love have made us more understanding of the loss.” They then went on to write, “I can promise you that brighter days will follow. The days will never be the same but they will be bright, often illuminated by Jordan’s spirit.”

The words of my “fraternity members” echo in my head and I pull their words from my mind like reference books from a shelf and just sit with them sometimes; hoping that their words will wash over me and help me make it through the unbearable moments. Brighter days illuminated by Jordan’s spirit, what a wonderful peaceful image.

I am hanging on, as incredulous as it feels. Some days I live in disbelief  that I’m still a functioning human being. Death has torn me apart and I’m still here. The surreal moments in which I’m moving forward without the physical presence of my son, my children’s brother, feel like a strange fantasy, it has to be. I know it’s not. For now I hope, and I’m trying to learn to pray again. Prayer doesn’t come as easily since Jordan died. I told a friend and pastor who was my family’s spiritual mentor, and comfort in the days after Jordan died, “My faith is shaken. What does God do?” I revealed to him that every night when our family said grace we prayed the same prayer:

“Graciously heavenly Father, we thank you for this day and for the food we’re about to receive for the nourishment and strength of our bodies, in Jesus’ name we pray, and please keep Jordan safe. Amen.

No matter whose turn it was to pray, the prayer always ended the same way, “and please keep Jordan safe.” Every night that prayer was said. We prayed that prayer the night Jordan died. It didn’t work. When my friend said she would pray such a specific prayer for me about believing in joy again, I nodded grateful for her compassion, but left wondering, which prayers get answered? There are of course no easy answers to my questions.

Mark and I attended a grief workshop last spring and the woman sitting next to me articulated the feelings I had been struggling to grasp. She said, “I still believe in God, I just don’t know if I trust him.” As soon as she said the words I straightened up in my seat. She had put words to the internal struggle I faced daily. I didn’t trust God, because my most important prayer had gone unanswered. Jordan was gone even though we prayed for his safety. He was gone and his friends remained unharmed.

I have to figure out how to trust God again. My belief is still present, I know this because in the days and weeks after Jordan died when the pain of grief made me feel like I was suffocating I cried out the only word that my mouth could form, “Mercy”. I would lay curled up on my bed too exhausted and distraught to move, feeling like I could explode at any moment. With the bit of strength I had, I said over and over again, “mercy”, “mercy”, “mercy, Lord please.” Mercy was my plea until I felt my heartbeat calm, and I was able to catch my breath. I would finally feel soothed and able to face the next moment.

My distrust of God did not prevent me from praying for Jordan’s friends who survived the accident. In the hours after Jordan died, I got on my knees and asked God to be with them, to ease their guilt and give them the strength and peace they would need to live full lives.

As the days wore on and my heart was consumed with grief, my doubts grew and my trust in God waned. My pastor told Mark and I that being angry with God is completely understandable and that we should rail at God as much as we need.  He emphatically said to us, “Don’t worry, God can take it.” I needed to vent my anger and disappointment at God. I still had questions about why my prayers for Jordan’s safety had gone unanswered. I wrote to God hoping the answer would come. In December of 2008 I made this entry in my journal:

God,

You’ve made it so that I know my prayers don’t matter.

I can’t pray for the safety of my children it doesn’t work.

What is prayer for?

I pray for mercy

My heart still hurts

I pray for peace

I still can’t sleep

Prayer doesn’t soothe

It doesn’t benefit

It doesn’t protect

I prayed for safety

It didn’t work

I need to sleep

I want my son

My son has been taken from this life; words like trust, faith, and joy are incongruent with the surreal feeling of loss. For now I hope, I read, I rely on friends and clergy whose faith is stronger than mine to see me through. I want peace in my heart. My family still says grace every night and typically the person praying ends with, “and please keep Jordan in our hearts.” I know he’s always in our hearts, that fact I will always believe.

Even as I struggle to regain my faith, God still whispers to me in the most unexpected ways. The other night, with Mark out of town on business, my daughter said grace and ended with, “And please bring Daddy home safely.” With all that we’ve lost her prayer requested safe passage home for her father. The faith of my child is instructional in its honesty and simplicity. Her faith is still wide enough to include prayers of safety. She still believes.

What does God do? I think the answers are all around me. I’m slowly reaching out to explore trust again. It is not a linear path, but the diversions I have, bring lessons and I pray they bring me closer to my faith.

Category:

auto accident, friends, grief, guilt, Mother of Four, prayer, seeking joy

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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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Waiting for the Mail

I will always be the mother of four. When people ask how many children I have I immediately say four and if they look at me with that “go on” look I tell them. I have a 16 year old son who is a junior in high school, I have 10 year old twin daughters who are in 5th grade and I have a son Jordan who was killed in a car crash on October 12, 2008 when he was 19. Since Jordan died I live breath by breath. I am learning that relationships are eternal. Jordan will always be my son and I will always be his mother. Grief is teaching me many things. This first posting is a glimpse into my mourning journey.

Waiting for the Mail

There is only one other time that I wanted to avoid the mail.

It was the day my oldest son, Jordan, was expecting his admissions letter from Amherst College– whether it would be the thick or thin envelope. If I even saw the mailbox I would know. If there was a bulging envelope, he was in. It was news that he should receive first. It was his experience and his news to share with others. I didn’t want to take that surprise or joy from him.

And, if it was the thin envelope I wanted to allow him the time to compose himself if he needed to before he had to tell anyone else that he hadn’t gotten into his first choice school. That day I made sure I didn’t drive by the front of our house. I didn’t want to see the mailbox, bulging or not. When I came home that day I drove through the alley and parked in the garage. It took everything in me not to peek; but I didn’t.

It was Jordan’s news to share and I wasn’t going to steal even a piece of his joy.

I busied myself while watching the clock. He would be home by 3:15. He would see the mail in the mailbox and he would know his future and soon after I would know. I waited in the den where I usually waited for him. I always sat in the same chair and he would sit at the computer. It was our way.

I had learned not to ask too much about his day, when I did the details were few and sketchy. But, somehow when I happened to be sitting in the chair in the den and he came in and sat at the computer checking his email and looking at ITunes, elements of his day flowed naturally and easily. He would talk about crazy things that happened at lunchtime, or something odd or wonderful that one of his teachers said. It was our time and it always felt like a sacred space.

As I waited that day for the Amherst letter, I heard the door open and then I heard him yell,“YES!” It was pure joy. I had the camera ready just in case and as he rounded the corner not having to call out or look for me because he knew where I’d be. I captured the joy as he held up the thick packet from Amherst with the most beautiful smile on his face. He was happy, relieved and on his way. It was a moment I’ll never forget. I told him how I’d come in the back way so he could get the mail. I wanted him to have his moment and he was awed my generosity. He thanked me as he hugged me in our sacred space.

April 6, 2009: I again knew what mail was coming. We knew the accident report detailing all the information of the October 12, 2008 car accident that killed Jordan would be in our mailbox today. I knew it would be here today. I knew I’d be home alone when it came. I promised my husband Mark I wouldn’t open it and I haven’t. But, I did get the mail and I saw the thick envelope from Massachusetts and knew what it was. I could have let the mail sit on the floor in the foyer.

But, I heard it drop through the slot and I knew it was here. We had waited 5 months for this report: the report that would give us all the information of that still unbelievable night that took our child away from us. Our attorney and the State Trooper told us the report would include the interviews of Jordan’s three friends who were also in the car and walked away without being seriously hurt, the interviews with witnesses to the accident and the report of the re-creation of the accident.

These would be the items contained in the big envelope that came today.

All I could think was, when we read it we’ll know what the last moments of our child’s life were like. The accident was a time that I wasn’t there waiting for him. It was the one time I’d give my life to hold him or to tell him to hold on. That night I couldn’t create a sacred space between my child and me. The first time I waited for mail for Jordan I was able to capture joy on his face.

This time I couldn’t be there to even say goodbye.

I’ll always wonder if he needed me. I hope he knew that just like the day he got into his dream school, with my heart I was as close as around the corner; always waiting and wanting to be there for my boy.

Two such different times, one where my heart almost burst with pride and now where my heart is ripped out and must mend in its own time. I have to figure a place to put this new pain. My relationship with Jordan is eternal. And as this pain eases, the sacred space that we shared will be renewed and I’ll find a way to share both the joy and the sorrow in that space.

Category:

auto accident, college, grief, loss of child, Mother of Four, mourning

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