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 ‘death of son’ Category

Getting Jordan Ready

Jordan and I at his sixth grade graduation ceremony.

I had always shopped for my family’s clothes. There were family jokes about my shopping prowess, even with my extended family when we were all together. I remember one Thanksgiving when my brother-in-law looked around my parents’ family room and observed, “Jackie dressed all of us.” Everybody looked down and realized they were wearing some article of clothing I had picked out for them as a gift.

I always liked the fact that I could shop for my teenage sons and they trusted my taste. Jordan would seem a bit surprised at times when I would come home with a t-shirt or sweatshirt that was exactly the kind of thing he would have picked for himself. I still remember when I bought him a t-shirt with a picture of Tupac Shakur on the front. Jordan loved the shirt and asked how I knew he was, “Into Tupac?” I told him, “I’ve known you for a long time. I notice what you’re listening to and reading.” I would also jokingly add, “I wasn’t born with the name “Mama”, I used to be a teenager too.”

“The funeral home needs the clothes for Jordan.” My sister-in-law Cheryl leaned down and gently whispered these words to me when she came back from running an errand. Cheryl had told me before that they needed the clothes by Tuesday, but I had been unable to collect them or ask anyone else to do it. The time had come for me to dress my son for the last time. When Cheryl came in, Mark and I were sitting in the living room with our family friend Larry who had come over to meet with my sister Julie. She was going to assist Larry in writing the obituary for the memorial service program. Julie could provide details that only family would know. When Larry arrived, Julie was at our church with Mark’s other sister Leslie. They were meeting with our Pastor to finalize arrangements for the memorial service.

We’d asked Larry to write Jordan’s obituary not because he was a professional writer, but because his son Matt was one of Jordan’s best friends and Jordan spent a good part of most weekends at their home. Matt’s house, more correctly, Matt’s basement was the hangout for Jordan and all of his friends. I used to tease Larry and his wife saying that there were times that they saw more of Jordan than Mark and I did. I knew they loved and respected Jordan. Larry was Jordan’s little league baseball coach and took as much pride as we did in his academic accomplishments. He was the first person to come to mind to handle the task of giving account of the life of our sweet boy. We knew that Larry would do Jordan’s short, but full life on this earth justice. Jordan had vacationed with Matt and his parents on a trip to Mexico when they were in elementary school. For the trip, we had to fill out forms giving Larry and his wife permission to carry our son to a foreign country. They were Jordan’s “In Loco Parentis (in the place of a parent)” for the trip, and trusted caregivers for the rest of his life.

“The funeral home needs the clothes for Jordan.” I knew that when Cheryl made the request this time, I could no longer avoid picking out clothes for my son. We were having a private family viewing of Jordan’s body on Thursday before the cremation and before the memorial service on Saturday. Cheryl had to take the clothes to the funeral home that same day when she and my in-laws went to make sure everything was in order for the viewing. There was no time left. For me it was the first of many things that I would deem as my “last time as his mother” gesture. I understood the finality of my task but I didn’t know how I was going to get through it. With all of my apprehension I didn’t ask for help. I needed to get the clothes alone. I knew that picking out clothes this time did not signal a party or celebration no matter how hard I tried to will away October 12th.  My “mother self” was in control and compelled me for this last time to pick out clothes for my son the way I always had.

Mark and I had decided Jordan would wear a suit because we knew that is what he would have wanted. Even as a boy, Jordan was transformed when he put on a suit. He stood taller, acted more mature and emulated his dad. The first suit Jordan wore that wasn’t from the boys’ department was for his eighth grade dance. He had to accompany me to the store because he had grown taller and needed to be measured for his first suit in the men’s department. He and I went to Men’s Wearhouse and I explained to him how they would take measurements to determine his suit size. As we looked around, Jordan picked out a black suit with a grey pinstripe. I was surprised at the conservativeness of his choice, thinking that he would pick something more colorful and flashy that matched the suits of the athletes and hip- hop stars that he liked and saw on television. When I expressed my surprise to him about his choice, he just shrugged and explained he liked the way his Dad looked in a suit and that was the look he was going for. The evening of the dance, Jordan came downstairs tie in hand asking his dad for help. Prior to this occasion Mark or I would tie the boys’ ties, but this time, Jordan wanted to learn so that he would be able to do it himself. I sat watching for a few moments as Mark simultaneously tied Jordan’s tie and provided verbal instructions. I jumped up to get the camera realizing that this was a special father/son moment-Mark showing his oldest son how to tie a tie- that we’d want to capture and be able to look back on as a milestone moment.

Jordan getting ready for 8th grade dance.

For every occasion after that initial “man’s” suit, Jordan held true to form and always went for a look that could have easily taken him to any courtroom, or boardroom. He always looked so grown up and so handsome in a suit and he knew it. I used to tease him about learning how to accept compliments. Whenever he would come downstairs preparing to go to a dance at school or church, or other special occasions, we would all tell him how nice he looked and he would reply in his deepening voice with an exaggerated, “Yes I know” and we would laugh. I always told him how much like my father he was at these times. Daddy’s response to the same compliment was always with mock indignation, “You don’t have to tell me, I know I look good.”

“The funeral home needs the clothes for Jordan,” echoed in my head as I walked up the stairs, leaving Mark talking with Larry. “You can do this, just get the things and give them to Cheryl. You’re okay.” I repeated that phrase over and over as I went up to Jordan’s room and opened his closet door. I knew exactly what he would wear and that there would be a set of headphones in his pocket. Jordan never went anywhere without his Ipod. I wanted to make sure he would have headphones in his pocket to symbolize that fact. I immediately went to Jordan’s dresser hoping he’d left a spare set of headphones in his room. I looked in his dresser, feeling uncomfortable like I was snooping. In his top drawer I quickly found a spare set of headphones and placed them on top of the dresser so I wouldn’t forget them. I stood for a moment and then opened his closet door. I picked up the hanger that held the black suit he had worn to his high school graduation. I then picked out his goldenrod colored shirt that he wore for his Senior High School portrait.

He loved that shirt. That past summer he told me that one day during his internship in DC while on the train he had been complimented by a lady who told him that the color looked really nice on him. I then pulled a tie from the rack on the side of his closet. It was a tie that he picked out for a “Sadie Hawkins” dance at his high school and had worn numerous times after that occasion. All of these clothes were still in Jordan’s closet because he had left them behind when going back to college in August. His intent was to take his more formal clothes to school when he came home for Thanksgiving.

I touched his suit and shirt and was overcome remembering all the occasions Jordan had worn a suit. My mind started racing, “What am I doing?”, “How did this happen?”, “Not Jordan, not Jordan.”  I leaned against the closet door clutching the hangers that held his clothes and tried not to fall down. One small moan escaped my lips and then I said, “No” directed forcefully to me.  I was determined that I would dress my child for the last time. I was his mother and I needed to have this last chance of doing what I had always enjoyed doing, but what was now so heartbreakingly ceremonial and final.

I looked through Jordan’s dresser trying to find a white t-shirt to go under his shirt because that is how he always wore his shirts. I couldn’t find one in his drawer and thought to myself, “He probably took all of his to school with him. I’ll just get one of Mark’s.” As I walked across the hall to my bedroom the absurdity played out in my head, “He doesn’t need a t-shirt, it doesn’t matter anymore.” I shook my head as if that would knock loose the reality that these clothes would be the ones we saw when we walked into the funeral home viewing room, and they would be the ones he wore when he was cremated.

Just as these thoughts overpowered any notion I had that I could do this task alone, my sister came upstairs and asked me what I was doing. I told her that Cheryl needed to take Jordan’s clothes to the funeral home and I was getting them together. She asked how she could help and I told her I couldn’t find his dress shoes. Once again the voice in my head said, “He doesn’t need them anymore.” I continued looking for a t-shirt and black socks with, “He doesn’t need them anymore” ringing in my head. I met Julie outside of Jordan’s room where she held the shoes. She shakily said to me, “When I bent down to get his shoes, I smelled the clothes that were on the floor and they still smell like him. I tried to make a joke and said, “Those are dirty clothes he left behind, be careful.” She continued in her somber, trembling tone, “I don’t care they smell like Jordan.” I tried to keep going.

For some reason I couldn’t find black socks in Jordan’s dresser or in Mark’s dresser. I was becoming manic, turning over the socks in Jordan’s drawer trying to find a plain black pair, then going to Merrick’s room looking for plain black socks. I was on my way back into my bedroom when Mark came upstairs and asked what I was doing. I told him, “Cheryl needs Jordan’s clothes to take to the funeral home.” Mark quickly replied, “Baby why are you trying to do that by yourself I would have helped you.” I was adamant but had started to tremble; I shakily said to him, “No, I always got his clothes and I have to do it this time too.” I then said to Mark, “I can’t find black socks, I can’t find black socks.” It was too much. I couldn’t keep going. I couldn’t gather my son’s funeral clothes as though I was helping him prepare for a special occasion. I remember Julie saying, “She’s gonna fall Mark do you have her?” As I crumpled down, Mark grabbed me, holding me so tightly and gently at the same time and carried me to our bed. All I could do was scream “no”, “no”, “no.” Mark lay on the bed with me. We faced each other and clung to each other as he soothed me and whispered in my ear, “I know how you feel”, “I know how you feel.” My screams brought both of our families into our bedroom. I felt hands touching my hair and face and rubbing my back as I wailed and moaned and asked Jesus to help me.

As I began to calm down I felt Mark’s grip on me tighten and he suddenly moaned and said, “I always tied his ties. You weren’t supposed to get his tie. I’m his dad I tied his ties.” I held him as he had held me moments before. I whispered in his ear, “I know how you feel”, “I know how you feel.” We lay that way clinging to each other on the middle of our bed with our families touching and soothing us. Suddenly I heard my sister’s voice in my ear as she hummed a song from our childhood church that she used to sing. As she hummed, “Everything Will be Alright”, I felt my breathing returning to normal and the words of the song easing the sorrow that was weighing me down. The words to the song echoed in my head,

“If you put your trust in Him, although your candle may grow dim. After the storm clouds all pass over everything will be alright.”

Mark and I lay there hearing the humming and the soothing, loving voices of our family. We were able to release each other and sit up. They laid hands on us, encircled us and gave us strength to keep going.

Jordan's senior portrait

Jordan and I after his high school graduation ceremony

Category:

cremation, death of son, family support, grief, high school, loss of child

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Wish You Were Here

“Jordan should be here.” The ache of sorrow that courses through my body can be boiled down to that one statement. He should be here because his birthday came and went and we celebrated his life without him. He should be here because there were no calls for his siblings or his parents on their birthdays. He should be here because of the empty seat left at our table at Thanksgiving and Christmas, and because of all the presents I didn’t get to buy that would have been perfect for him.

Clothing, pictures, videos, anything Jordan ever wrote, have become my treasure chest of memories. I rediscovered what is now one of my most cherished pictures of my son and I together. It’s a picture taken on my birthday about 4 years ago. It is the birthday I received an iPod nano and felt I could share in the music “techy” talk with my sons and husband. Jordan sat next to me as I opened my gifts that year and leaned his head on my shoulder as I looked at my gift. I look at that picture many times during the day seeing the joy on both of our faces and wondering what laugh we were sharing. I touch his face, I whisper to the picture “you should be here.”

Jordan and I sharing a joyful moment on my birthday.

I watch my 17 year old son Merrick as he prepares for his final exams, full of his typical anxiety as he has never felt comfortable with tests and becomes more nervous the closer the exam date gets. The attempts his dad, teachers, and I make to ease his anxiety are met with compliance some days but on other days when it’s all too much, the cavalier bravado that only a teenager can master rises to the surface as an annoying weapon as he yells out from his room on the mornings he’s running late to school, “I’m keeping it real.” He’s “keeping it real” and I’m standing outside his door not knowing whether to bang my head against the wall while screaming, curl up on the floor and cry or bang his door down and drag him to school myself. Fortunately, these scenarios happen only in my mind. I breathe deeply a lot and I go downstairs determined to ignore his attempts to push my buttons and try to sift the chaff from the wheat, the grief from the typical teen angst. I stay calm on the outside because I know we’re all suffering and ignoring his nonchalance, which covers so much pain and confusion seems the best tact to get him out the door and started with his day. We’re all changed. In our own ways our behavior, words and sleepless nights echo what we’re all feeling and hoping could be true-“Jordan should be here.”

Merrick talks to me about wanting the week of exams to be over so he can rest. I remind him that junior year is tough and yes “you will be tired”. He always asks, “Did Jordan get nervous about finals?” I tell him “yes. “ Jordan should be here” because he is the person I would be calling now to give Merrick a pep talk. As a sophomore in college, he would have wise words for his brother about studying and not getting overwhelmed and telling Merrick, “you can do this.” Merrick would leave the call feeling focused and less burdened. He would have had the chance to complain about his dad and I and how “we’re on his back” in a way you can only do with your siblings. Jordan would have told him, “That’s how they were with me too.” The camaraderie they shared would have shored Merrick up and given him the boost he needed to get through that day.

I watch Merrick alternate between studious and weary and wonder how should I interject myself into my son’s process. He wants to do well, he has to study, but his mind takes him to so many places beyond the walls of high school and the upcoming exams. He sees the images of Haiti’s destruction and death and like his dad and I have a kinship with the grief we see on the faces of the survivors. A part of us reaches back to the first moment of knowing of the death of Jordan and we wail inside and shudder with the faces of the people of Haiti whose grief is so graphically displayed. After losing a loved one, viewing others’ displays of grief is with a lens tinged with fraternity and sorrow. I recognize the sobs and the wails, because I’ve cried them. I see the women holding their heads in their hands in grief and pain and I know it is done to try and block out if even for a second the new reality and life they must face, because I’ve held and still hold my head the same way. Total destruction did not befall my family. Our house still stands, food, water, medicine, all the necessities are in ample supply. But like anyone who has lost a loved one, how that person died is secondary to the tragedy of loss. There is an ever present longing to have your loved one back. Talking to mothers who have lost children in a variety of circumstances has taught me this lesson about grief.

As we manage our loss we are grateful for the friendships we’re forming with Jordan’s friends. As has become one of our new and treasured traditions, all of Jordan’s closest friends drop by whenever they are home from college. Two of his lifelong friends were over the day before they went back to school and sat and talked with Mark and I for a couple of hours. Football was on in the background and I sat across the room and observed Mark and Jordan’s friends watching the game together and talking about who they saw going to the Superbowl. Bouncing off the walls were the words “Jordan should be here.”  As the talk turned to how they were doing in school, and what they were thinking of majoring in they told us of their latest venture to form a music production company and the time they spent over break recording their latest mix tape. “Jordan should be here”, continued to echo in my head almost to the point where I thought I would have to leave the room. All of these young men, friends since childhood stepping into a new venture and maintaining the bond of friendship that saw them through grade school, block parties, sleep away camp and going off to college. “Jordan should be here.” As they got up to leave Mark and I walked them to the door, happy as usual to see them, but feeling all the while how bittersweet their visits are.

As they were leaving Merrick came in from hanging out with his friends and Jordan’s friends remarked on how tall Merrick is. I looked at him and realized he’s taller than both of them.  I wonder, “When did he get so tall?” and how is it I hadn’t noticed. I say my final goodbyes and leave them to talk with Merrick. I hear their voices in the entry as they stand and talk for another 30 minutes about music. I listen for a bit and hear how easily Jordan’s friends embrace Merrick into their conversation and respect his point of view. I hear the energy and excitement in all of their voices. For me, it is time for this day to end. I go upstairs with the words of the guys’ talk of their new music group wandering through my thoughts, knowing that Jordan would have played a big role in their group if he were here. I go upstairs only wishing to sleep and not linger too long on the thought that is permeating my being, “Jordan should be here.” As soon as I get upstairs I take the medicine my doctor has prescribed to help me get the sleep that has eluded me for months. I take it even as I hear the guys still in our entry talking to Merrick. I need sleep to come quickly. I need to focus on a new day. The unfairness that is surging inside me must be quelled. I’m hoping sleep will quiet the longing for my son, if just for a little while. Jordan should be here.

Category:

brothers, death of son, friends, motherhood

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Reconfiguration

Our family at Jordan's tree dedication ceremony

The prism of motherhood has put me through my paces. I try to reconcile the two realities of time moving that I face. I have Jordan stopped in time in 2008 and my children who keep me in the present. Happy New Year (?), I’m not sure that phrase will ever slip easily from my lips. In the midst of my resistance to time having the audacity to move forward as I try so desperately to redo the past, are my beautiful children who beckon me forward. My daughters in their excitement ask for the hundredth time just to be sure, “Mama can we stay up until midnight”  My son requests, “Mom, can you get sparkling cider for New Year’s Eve?” Of course to all their questions the answer is yes. Yes, we’ll ring in the New Year. We’ll toast the end of 2009 and the beginning of 2010. We’ll spend New Year’s Eve as a family all having our longing for Jordan, but also a need to welcome a new year.

My ambivalence about New Year’s Eve started right after Christmas. I found myself angry that the principles of Physics could not be applied to change how I needed time to work. January 2010 means the start of the 2nd year without my boy. I know I’ll never stop marking time by how long he’s been gone. Marking a year without Jordan was heartbreaking, and yet it was closer to when he was alive. The passage of time is moving me away from when my child was on this earth. Where is the healing in that reality?

Even as I struggle to find the strength to move forward, the other facets of my motherhood prism present themselves in working order. A few days ago I was conscious of my behavior as I moved through the drugstore intending only to buy batteries for Merrick’s camera and toothpaste. Right next to the batteries was a display of New Year’s party items. Before I knew it, I was buying horns and sunglasses in the shape of 2010, imagining the kids at midnight as Mark and I took pictures. I knew the kids would like the horns and glasses and that made me smile. There was only a brief hesitation as I remembered Jordan and Merrick on New Year’s Eve in the new millennium, wearing sunglasses in the shape of 2000.

The brothers ringing in 2000

“Have ten years really gone by?” would have been a question of wonderment before Jordan died. The passage of time would have been my only thought as I picked the new sunglasses, which now included some for the girls who were babies in 2000.  Time now is a passage between past and present; the future is still a place I’m not ready to face. Making it through one day, one moment, one breath is all the planning I can handle now.

When I think of the past it is where six resides. The past is where the question, “How many for dinner?” was always answered “six.” When our family of six traveled by plane we sat three and three. Now, as my family learns to be five I watch the faces of strangers as they smile and look at our little family, sometimes saying, “You have a beautiful family.” I say thank you, but inside I say more. Inside I cry out “we’re really 6 not 5. I have an older son, he’s not with us anymore.” I never reveal that detail unless someone asks me how many children I have, but it is always on my mind.

We went downtown a few days ago, so the girls could go ice-skating and Merrick could check out a new comic book store. As we walked in our typical fashion with Mark in the lead and I bringing up the rear, to make sure there were no stragglers in the bunch, I watched my family with wistfulness and pride. Jordan’s spirit swirls around and within us. Our love for him is so vast. We all miss him and are blessed to be able to share our fun and wonderful memories and our sorrow and tears over losing him with each other. Our family is being reconfigured and it is an evolution. Being five is not by choice but it is new and strange and providing comfort all at the same time. My children are my gifts; my marriage is my respite and my blessing. My family is the touchstone for all that I do and the reason I continue to believe that love is what heals and keeps my heart going.

This is the second year that the clock will chime twelve and I won’t hear Jordan’s voice. But, like last year at midnight we’ll sing out his name to an open sky. He’ll hear us and know he’s never forgotten. Happy New Year Jordan, you are eternally my son, I am eternally your mother.

My Jordan

Category:

death of son, getaways, grief, loss of child, Mother of Four, mourning, new traditions

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Pet Therapy

Our Nessy

Our Nessy

Pet Therapy

On June 14th, 2009 our family became the proud, slightly anxious owners of a terrier mix puppy. My children had wanted a dog for years. They had used every argument imaginable as to why our family needed a dog as a pet. The timing was never right though. Jordan started asking for a dog when he was in elementary school. With his prepared list of rationales he would detail how a dog would enhance our lives. He of course promised to take care of the dog and his dad and I wouldn’t have to do anything. Of course he got his younger brother in on the begging. They made quite a convincing pair. The only drawback was Jordan’s allergies, which were so bad an allergist recommended in Jordan’s presence that we wait a year or two to see if the medication he was taking would stabilize his symptoms.

Not to be outdone, and as if he were checking the days off on a calendar, Jordan at around the one year mark came back again requesting/begging for a dog. This time he was armed with information. He had been on various websites and researched the best types of dogs for someone with allergies. He also reminded his dad and I yet again that we both had dogs growing up and “didn’t we want our children to have a pet too?” When Jordan set his mind to something and did his research I always thought, “future lawyer in the making” and imagined him before the Supreme Court. I had always taught him if he was going to have an opinion, have an informed one. He certainly took that message to heart and when it came to getting a pet, my direction to my son was coming back to bite me in the butt.

Just as Mark and I started researching breeds and giving serious consideration to adding a dog to our family, we were startled to find out that there would be a different sort of addition to our family. I learned the surprising news as I went in for my annual exam that I was pregnant! A few days later the news went from surprising to shocking as an ultrasound showed that I was having twins. I can still hear my husband’s voice when I called him after the ultrasound appointment to tell him the double news. All he said over and over was, “You are lying”, “You are lying”. I assured him that I saw the two beating hearts for myself so the news was true that I was pregnant with twins. Any thoughts we had of getting a dog were put on indefinite hold, and there was no argument that could sway me. I explained to Jordan and his brother that raising a puppy was like raising a baby and I couldn’t raise three at a time. I knew even though they didn’t believe that no matter how much they promised to do everything for the dog, I would be the one who would end up being the primary caretaker.

Luckily, twin sisters proved a great diversion for the boys and talk of dogs ended- until the girls started asking for one. My response to them was, “I’ve got four kids and that’s all I can handle right now.” They soothed themselves with every toy dog that was on the market. Whenever someone asked them what they wanted for a gift it was always some type of stuffed animal dog.

As the girls got older something shifted in my doubts about pet ownership. I saw how much the girls loved dogs. I also saw how responsible they were. They would ask people walking their dogs past our house if they could pet their dogs. They volunteered to walk our neighbors’ dogs. They also asked me if they could sign up as volunteers at the local animal shelter. They wore me down. Now that the girls were older and I wasn’t as exhausted as I had been in my first years as the mother of four, I was willing to consider getting a dog. Unfortunately, there were two problems: 1) Mark suddenly was totally against the idea. He thought our lives held enough chaos, noise and energy, and 2) Jordan was a senior in high school. When I told Jordan we might get a dog his response to me was simple and succinct, “You can’t”. He reminded me that he always wanted a dog and I said no, and now that he was about to go off to school it was unfair that we would even consider getting one. His guilt trip worked. I knew I could make Mark come around to the idea of pet ownership, but I didn’t want to make Jordan feel left out of such an important family experience.

Then suddenly everything was different, Jordan was gone and our family struggled everyday to redefine and feel our way into what family life meant for us without Jordan. After Jordan’s death, the girls continued asking for a dog and I hesitated, more because of my own physical and emotional state than any dislike of owning a dog. I felt that I spent most days crying or catatonic and knew I couldn’t care for anything else. Time moved on and Mark and I began to feel that a dog might offer a distraction to our family. The unconditional love a dog gives in the midst of all of our heartache and sorrow sounded comforting and right. We were pushed over into the yes column when our son Merrick spoke privately with Mark and asked in such a plaintive voice, “Dad can we please get a dog?” Clearly our family needed some pet therapy. On June 15th, 2008 we became the proud/anxious/slightly reluctant owners of a 3-month-old terrier mix puppy that we adopted from a shelter.

The name we decided on was Nessy. It was my Merrick’s idea. “Ness” was Merrick’s favorite character from a video game called “Earthbound.” A running joke in our family has been Merrick’s long time affinity for unusual names and when he hears one he likes proclaiming, “I like that name. I’m going to name one of my kids that.” So far he’s up to about 60 kids. “Ness” was the first name he liked so much that he bequeathed it to his firstborn. Jordan used to tease Merrick that no matter what he really named his first child, Uncle Jordan was coming to the hospital, picking up the baby, looking down on him or her and calling the baby “Ness”. We would all laugh as Jordan teased Merrick. I would sit watching my family and imagine the scene of brothers moving to a new stage and becoming uncles to each other’s children. What a beautiful image. Merrick never forgot the “Ness” exchanges with Jordan. He could no longer have the brother/uncle moment with Jordan. He had lost that day, that memory; Merrick would be given naming rights of our new dog.

Merrick wanted to call the dog Nessy and no explanation to Mark or me was needed. His sisters resisted at first. They had names they had chosen that leaned towards things like “Sporty” or “Fluffy”.  I explained to them that the name Nessy represented a special bond between Jordan and Merrick. I understood even if they didn’t that the memory of Uncle Jordan coming to the hospital would never happen. This was Merrick’s way of honoring that occasion that would never be realized. The girls understood Merrick’s need to honor Jordan and agreed to the name Nessy.

Nessy has been a godsend to our family. The girls are so happy and excited and our new pet is proving to be a wonderful diversion for them. They take their responsibility seriously and don’t have to be reminded to care for her, so far. She has also been a source of comfort to both of them. Nessy always finds her way into their laps when they are heartbroken and weeping and having a “missing Jordan” moment. As Mark and I sit holding and talking to them, Nessy sits quietly nuzzling their faces. I’ve watched Mark after a long day of work relax as he sits and is welcomed home not only by his children but by the tail wagging and nuzzle that our little dog offers.

For me Nessy has eliminated my ability to stay inside all day, even on the days when the world outside seems too much and all I want is to curl up and undo all the pain my family has suffered. There have been moments when I’m lying on the couch staring out the window with my chin on the armrest and I’ll suddenly feel a paw on my arm and see this little tail-wagging machine that will not be ignored. I know she needs to be walked. With her big brown eyes she speaks volumes, “I can pee outside or in here on the rug, it’s up to you.” She is persuasive, and I get up, put my shoes on, get her leash on and we’re off, out into the world. Suddenly the place I’d been peering out onto from my grieving spot, I’m now a part of and it feels okay. I walk; I look at the sky, the trees, nod at passersby and realize I have more energy than I thought. I always return home feeling better than when I left and I am renewed. I’ve been outside and taken a walk I would not have considered if it weren’t for my dog. Nessy makes sure that I connect to the world and nature everyday.

She has done so many things for our family but the thing I am most grateful for is how she has become a barometer of my teenage son’s mood. The days when he is too quiet and I can tell grief and sorrow are overtaking him, I can ask him if he’s okay and he’ll reply, “Yeah, I’m just tired”. I know it’s more than fatigue that keeps him in his room, lying in bed with his arm covering his eyes. Nessy however can jump onto his bed and he never turns her away. I’ll hear him quietly say “hey girl” and pet her as she snuggles next to him. Merrick has forged a bond with Nessy that calms him and gives him peace. This bond took awhile but it was certainly worth the wait.

When we first got Nessy, I noticed that Merrick unlike his sisters was hesitant to hold or pet her very much. After a couple of days of noticing his reluctance to get attached to our new pet, I asked him what was wrong. He said that Jordan wanted a dog more than any of us and it didn’t feel right that now we had one. I had to admit to him that I too experienced a similar sadness and regret the entire ride home after we picked up Nessy. Bringing our new dog home was the first family experience we had that didn’t include Jordan. I struggled with the fact that we were making new memories and moving forward and Jordan wasn’t a part of them. Merrick and I both experienced that “Jordan should be here” feeling.  Merrick was facing such ambivalence. I knew how much he wanted a dog. Watching him struggle with the guilt of feeling he was betraying his brother was so painful to watch. I offered him a story that I hoped would ease his guilt and allow him to love our new pet.

I relayed the conversation Jordan and I had last summer 2 months before he died. One afternoon as we stood in the kitchen, Jordan out of the blue pronounced that it didn’t matter to him anymore whether we got a dog or not because once he had his own place he was getting a dog. As I relayed my conversation with Jordan, Merrick looked at me surprised because he had no idea Jordan had made such a statement. I then told Merrick about the first dream/vision I had of Jordan after he died:

Jordan was standing in his blue sweater and jeans; hands in his pockets with a huge, beautiful smile on his face. Seated right next to him was a beautiful collie.

Through tears I said, “Jordan got his dog, Merrick.” Merrick just looked at me and said “Thanks Mom.”

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brothers, death of son, family support, grief, mourning, pet therapy

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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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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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