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 ‘loss of child’ Category

Glimpses of Senior year and wondering, “What if?”

Jordan’s friends are seniors in college. They are at the points in their lives when it is decision-making time, job hunting or grad school applications? One of Jordan’s best friends came out to support Merrick last night as he performed in his high school’s Spoken Word showcase. Merrick told Q about his performance and invited him to come.

After the showcase, I watched Q interacting with Merrick, congratulating him on his performance and reminding Merrick, “Let me know when you’re performing and I’ll be here.” Q is a man now. I hope I didn’t stare but I intently watched him, his maturity exuding from his easy banter with Mark and I and his comfort in his own skin. Where was the shy boy who used to play video games in my basement? Time does not stand still. Even though Jordan only got  to spend 6 heartbreakingly sweet weeks as a sophomore in college, his friends are now making plans for the next stages of their lives.

When I got home later that night I checked my email and saw that another of Jordan’s friends had sent me a message. K excitedly told me that she had been accepted in the Teach for America program and had been assigned to the city she’d requested. I’m so honored that she shared her news with me and that finally she is comfortable enough to call me Jackie although I love when she introduces me as, “Jordan’s mom.”

Reading her email it is clear that I’m on the sidelines. I’ve been left wondering about Jordan and what his next steps would be. What would he look like now? Would the mustache he was earnestly trying to grow be a part of his look now? Would he have shifted from jeans and a hoody to a different style of dress? Would he be applying to law school? Would he be following his love of music and seeking out an internship in the music industry? Would the pull of politics have him travelling back to DC to further his social justice and policy reform interests or would this be the year that he travelled abroad? Jordan what would you be doing now?

Jordan’s amazing friends pull me to the present and future that I otherwise could only imagine my son occupying. At the same time they are a haunting reminder of what Jordan is missing, of what my family is missing. Flashes of pride, envy, anger, and joy strobe inside of me as I wonder, “what if,” and “why,” about my son and stay connected with these children who are now young adults. They give me glimpses, a small enticing taste of what Jordan’s senior year in college may have been like. It is a beautiful, delicate, sometimes burdensome gift, but I would never reject it.

Jordan is forever 19. His friends have futures that are promising and bright. Their love for Jordan and care of my family is a glimpse of God’s grace that I’m embracing. Gratitude, sorrow, tears and respect commingle as I willingly witness the passage of time in the form of Jordan’s friends. As our pastor friend who eulogized Jordan said, “It is living with the roses and the thorns.”

Category:

college, death of son, friends, Generation Y, grief, Jordan, loss of child, Mother of Four, motherhood, mourning

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Seeing, “The Stinky Cheese Man”

We went out to dinner today to have our birthday dinner for Merrick’s 18th birthday. The Cheesecake Factory has been our family spot for celebrations since we’ve lived in Chicago. As we sat waiting for our table I watched a family leaving the restaurant. A little girl of about 7 was holding a book upside down as she walk out. I turned my head and read the title, “The Stinky Cheese Man.” The book is a parody or “The Gingerbread Man,” and other fairy tales. Jordan whose wit and humor started at a young age loved that book. He loved to read it to himself and aloud to his brother. I touched Merrick on the shoulder and pointed to the little girl. He saw the book and then looked back at me poking his lip out in an, “Aw,” moment. We had talked about Jordan so much in the last weeks and now we watched as one of Jordan’s favorite childhood books passed by.

As we make our way through October, reminders of Jordan seem to be everywhere. Thoughts of Jordan’s death and memorial service and then Merrick’s birthday collide at times. Merrick works hard to feel celebratory on his special day. Merrick and I talked about his ambivalence about turning 18. He sees it as much as the close of a chapter on childhood friendships that will necessarily separate as he and his friends go off to college next year; as he does the burgeoning of adulthood that he must ferry without his big brother as promised guide.

I’ve told him that he never has to put on a face or emotion of happiness or excitement if that’s not how he feels. The notion I had of what turning 18 would be like for Merrick are tempered by the trauma and tragedy that have encroached on his month. Merrick claimed the month of October as his own. Now we struggle to push through the month without losing our bearings. Today a childhood book expressed our loss. I never thought, “The Stinky Cheese Man,” would make me cry.

Category:

loss of child

Celebrating 18

My wonderful son is 18 today. I am so grateful to have him as a son. He is wise beyond his years, funny, compassionate, giving and so loving.

Happy 18th Birthday Merrick. You’ll always be my baby.

My sweet little boy

The handsome young man

Category:

loss of child

So Grateful For Jordan’s Tree

Jordan's tree with his elementary school in the background

In the days leading up to October 12th, the anniversary of Jordan’s death, I was thrust back into the pain and numbness I felt right after he died. Walking down the hall towards the front door of my house or hearing the phone ring, shifted me back to 2008 and all those traumatic October days. As much as the leaves changing signals fall, it also starts the anniversary days. One thing I knew I needed to do to and I hoped it would make me feel some peace was to visit Jordan’s tree.

Jordan’s tree is a crabapple tree that was donated by his sisters’ Girl Scout Troop through a Park District Program. In the summer of 2009, their troop leader called me asking if they had my family’s permission to have a tree planted in Jordan’s memory. My answer was of course an emotional, “Yes.” I was so touched by their offer and also the courtesy and grace they showed by asking how we felt before proceeding with the tree planting.

On August 8, 2009 the day before what would have been Jordan’s 20th birthday we had a tree dedication ceremony, which was attended by family and friends. The Girl Scout Troop had a plaque made for us to use at the ceremony because the permanent plaque that would be placed at the base of the tree wasn’t ready yet. The plaque given by the Girl Scout Troop starts with a line from a poem by Margueritte Harmon Bro, “We thank thee for special trees which will always stand large in our memory.” The quote so fittingly expressed the sentiment of the day.

To conclude the ceremony, the Pastor of our church said a prayer and also placed a piece of cloth over one of the branches. He called the cloth, “Jordan’s Mantle.” He encouraged all of us to cut a piece from the cloth and keep it with us as a symbol of some aspect of Jordan that we wished to carry forward. He spoke of Jordan’s passion for social justice, his love of music and reading and his dedication to family and friends. Everyone that was there cut a piece of the cloth. Many of our family and friends keep their piece of mantle cloth in their wallets

Last week, I went to see Jordan’s tree for the first time this fall. I walked up on his still young tree thinking of Merrick’s words to me the summer before, “I want to tie a piece of the mantle cloth on one of the branches, so when I’m 80 I can come and stand under the tree and look for the cloth.” The spirit of hope and looking towards the future embodied in Merrick’s words made Jordan’s tree even more of a legacy. I came to visit the tree and to see the permanent plaque that was finally in place. The plaque was supposed to be placed at the base of the tree in the months after it was planted. There were problems with the manufacturer, then the weather made installation impossible. When it was finally installed, it was put at the wrong tree. The irony of the Park District’s placement is that they put the plaque at a mature tree that shaded the baseball diamond. Jordan took many practice swings before going up to bat under the shade of that tree. When I first saw the plaque under the “baseball,” tree, I wondered if Jordan was in on the joke. I know he would have found it funny that the plaque started off at the baseball diamond and not near the park bench.

The plaque stayed at the “baseball,” tree until this fall because cold weather and frozen ground settled in early last year and prevented it from being moved to its rightful place. Unfortunately the Spring thaw did not quicken the actions of the Park District, despite the efforts of a very determined volunteer in charge of the tree dedications. As fall approached this year, I urgently called the volunteer again alerting her that Jordan’s tree still did not have its rightful marker. When October 12th arrived,  I wanted to be able to go and sit near his tree with everything in order. The wonderful volunteer, Mrs. Holmes, must have stood and watched them move the plaque because the day after I called her, she left a voicemail message telling me the plaque was moved.

On October 13th, I sat on the bench near Jordan’s tree as its branches framed the children playing in the distance. It is a tree that overlooks the baseball diamond where he played little league baseball and the field and playground where he ran, jumped and climbed as a little boy. It is the perfect place for his tree.  I look at his elementary school in the distance and remember my son as a boy getting every bit of use out of his 30 minutes of recess. His clothes were always the proof that he played hard. His pants were worn at the knees and he came home with unexplained rips in his shirts. There is also the infamous day that he called me, needing a whole new set of clothes including socks because he and some of his friends couldn’t resist jumping and splashing in a mud puddle. Jordan’s tree anchors those memories now.

As much as fall hurts now with its memories of late night calls and police visits broadcasting loss, it is still a time of  beauty. I am amazed that in the shock and numbness of grief, the Technicolor show of nature still beckons me. Even in the days after Jordan died I couldn’t help picking up beautiful leaves as I walked. Two years later I know that the fears I had right after Jordan died, that fall would annually mock me with its brilliance as I stood with my loss are unfounded. The brilliant colors of all the trees still thrill me just as they did before Jordan died. I don’t look away from all the beauty. I stand beneath the trees looking up at the brilliant golden, red and orange leaves with the sun filtering through them. Beauty can coexist with sorrow.

The plaque at the base of the tree shows a beginning and ending year for my son’s life. It will never feel right or fair that Jordan’s year of death precedes my own. In the midst of my grief, I’m so grateful that I can sit and look at a living monument, honoring Jordan’s memory. Everyone that walks by can look at Jordan’s tree and hopefully pause and read the plaque, knowing that he is loved, honored and remembered. 

Category:

anniversaries, death of son, friends, Jordan, loss of child, Mother of Four, mourning

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Always

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

Jordan,

We’re all missing you, remembering you and most of all, loving you always.

Mama

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Category:

loss of child

The Johnson Sisters Come To Call

 

Jordan's Candle burning in remembrance

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

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

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

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

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

I shakily said, “All of it.”

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

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

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

Nanny holding me.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Category:

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

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Cushioning The Impact of the Day

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

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

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

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

Here are other gestures of love by family and friends:

Jordan we love you

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

 

 

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

 

 

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

 

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

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

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

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

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

Category:

anniversaries, grief, loss of child, mourning

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“I Love You More Today Than Yesterday”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Pictures that always make me smile:

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

Jordan’s Soundtrack:

\”Wanted Dead or Alive\” by Bon Jovi

\”This Christmas\” by Donny Hathaway

Category:

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

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Fall Is Here and I’m Trying Not To Fall

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

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

“It’s been three years.”

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

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

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

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

Family pictures

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

Category:

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

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“Ever True To Brown”

One of the calmer poses with friends in front of the Van Wickle Gates

As I wrote about on Monday, this past weekend I took a brief sabbatical from my daily routine. My plans started to crystallize on the day of my wedding anniversary just 7 days before the event. I talked with one of my best friends, Michele, and she told me she was going to our alma mater, Brown University to celebrate homecoming and the Black Alumni reunion. As she and I talked, I realized I wanted to go to the reunion too. I didn’t feel apprehensive or nervous about attending, just excited. I’d been at my 25th college reunion in May ’10 and had left feeling shaken and lost. While I was there I kept thinking, “Jordan would be finishing his junior year. He’d officially be a senior now.” It hurt seeing the dorms, students sitting on the green talking or strolling with their backpacks in tow.

For this trip my guarded feelings about being overwhelmed by sadness and regret had lessened. I was cautiously yet eagerly looking forward to my weekend away. Excitement and anticipation feel foreign to me since Jordan died. My guilt that being happy might mean forsaking Jordan’s memory is starting to weaken and not visit so often. The thread that has joy and guilt intertwined is slowly unraveling. I can sometimes imagine as so many have promised that there is room in my heart for new experiences that aren’t weighted down by grief. I still wonder if it’s okay to feel happy and peaceful, questioning whether I should give in to the feelings of joy or stay guarded against a trigger that might send me careening into grief and sorrow. For this trip, I chose to accept the happiness I felt. There would be no over analysis. My weekend would be spent with friends who’d rallied around me on so many occasions especially after Jordan died. If I needed them they were there as a buffer, distraction or comfort.

I arrived at the reunion and shared a hotel room with Michele and another dear college friend, Doreen. From the moment we saw each other, we picked up where we left off 25 years ago. We reminisced about our younger selves and had earnest talks about our present lives, offering accolades, comfort and advice to each other. It was the grown-up version of a sleepover complete with giggles and the occasional thrown pillow.

I stepped onto campus for the first time Saturday morning to attend one of the forums. I saw friends I hadn’t seen since Jordan died. We hugged and shared our, “You look great” comments with sincerity. There were so many hugs with added whispers to my ear of, “I’m praying for you,” or “Keep holding on.” I was able to whisper back, “Thank you for reaching out to me. It means so much.” Never once during the weekend was I worried about expressing joy or sadness. I smiled, laughed and even giggled with friends without concern that I didn’t fit the image of a grieving mother.

One lecture that held particular interest for me was being given by one of my former professors. As I entered the building, it felt good to sit in a lecture hall with folks who all shared the same look of eagerness and appreciation for learning. My professor/mentor/friend and the person who pointed me on my professional path to developmental studies was about to begin her talk. I hadn’t seen her or communicated with her in at least 15 years. During my junior and senior years, I’d been a student in her Child Development class and also worked as a research assistant on her study of teen mothers and their toddlers. We both shared a loved of applied research and of children. I made sure to get to her talk on, “Immigrant Youth and the American Dream,” early so she and I would have a chance to talk. I knew she didn’t know about Jordan’s death and I wasn’t sure how I was going to tell her. Over the years I’d sent her Christmas cards with pictures of my kids so she knew about my family. With time and my moves our contact dwindled.

I walked down the aisle of the lecture hall, recognizing her from behind by her telltale “messy” bun hairdo and trademark hand gestures as she spoke. I stood beside her, waiting for her to finish her conversation. She looked up and did a double take and then we hugged. Her first words to me as I sat beside here were, “Oh my God, your kids must be huge now.” I shook my head yes and then no. I took a breath and without preface said, “I lost my oldest son in 2008.” She put her hand to her mouth and I told her the story of the accident. As I got to the words, “Jordan was dead at the scene but his friends walked away,” I sobbed and let her engulf me as I cried. The buzzing sounds of conversations from the filled lecture hall surrounded us but it didn’t matter to me. I cried with someone who remembered my son as a baby. I pulled out my phone and showed her pictures of all of my kids. She touched my cheek looking at me with such benevolence and grace and asked if I would be around after her talk. I told her I would and went back to my seat. As I sat back down I found a tissue in my purse and wiped my eyes. Her talk began and I sat at rapt attention feeling energized and transformed into a student again. She found me outside the lecture hall and we continued our conversation. We talked of family but also of research and program ideas that have started to percolate in my mind.

At lunch later that afternoon I told Doreen and Michele how alive and engaged I felt. The rush of energy, light and what felt like pure oxygen to my brain was exhilarating. It was the first time since Jordan died that I’d had such a full interactive day of activities. Talking with friends, being fed intellectually at forums and lectures, and even gathering for pictures where my smile came naturally and made it all the way up to my eyes was amazing. I told them I felt like I’d been in one of those oxygen bars in L.A. and had a hefty dose. I topped off my Saturday by walking around campus with friends as we asked strangers repeatedly, “Would you mind taking a picture of us,” at all of our old haunts. I struck one ridiculous, silly pose after another laughing all the while. (Those will not be displayed on my blog. :)) We joked that given our giddiness, people were going to assume we’d been drinking when all we’d imbibed was frozen yogurt.

After our photo shoot we made our way to the football game where the stadium was packed. I sat down realizing what a full day it had been and that I was tired. My friends talked me into coming to the game instead of going back to the hotel by describing the bands’ antics.  Brown’s band does not take itself too seriously even though the musicianship is great. During halftime, they lay at the endzone flat on their backs while the other team’s band plays. When it is their turn, their idea of a formation is to run at top speed seeing who can reach the 50 yd line first.

As I sat with alumni, families from the area and current students I talked a bit with friends and then started to watch the game. My gaze started to linger on a group of students standing by the fence. They looked like current students and had the carefree, nonchalance that hanging out while in college can bring. My heart ached for a moment as my thoughts went to Jordan and imagining him standing at a football game with friends. I looked away and then found my gaze pulled back to the same group of students. I felt myself freezing in a moment of heartache and I didn’t want to. I purposely looked away wondering where I could focus my attention when there were students all around me. I lifted my gaze and at the horizon was a perfect harvest moon. I watched it as I took deep breaths, telling myself, “you’re okay, you’re okay.” For the rest of the evening when the sights and sounds of youthful invincibility felt like they were closing in, I put my eyes on the horizon and the yellow moon. As the clock wound down, Brown beat Harvard 29-14!

The final event of the weekend was a worship service Sunday morning at the chapel. I was excited that my friend Katani would be singing, although she’d informed me at the football game that it would only be one song. I couldn’t convince her to do more even by saying, “I came all the way from Chicago to hear you sing.” Katani’s singing voice exudes the essence of her spirit. She is faithful, sincere, charming and funny. I have always loved to hear her sing. Any play or concert she performed in while we were in college, I was in attendance. After Jordan died, she called me one evening telling me of a CD she was working on. She told me one of the songs she especially wanted me to hear because she felt it would be a blessing to me. Before I knew it my dear friend sang to me over the phone. I stood in my kitchen, tears streaming down my face so grateful.

Katani was one of the first people I saw as I entered the chapel with Doreen and Michele. As I took my seat I looked around at all the faces in the room. There were alumni from various years as well as current students. I thought about the times I’d been in this chapel and the things I’d prayed about. I looked at the program and readied myself for a beautiful service.

The service was a time of renewal and grace. I look forward to sharing that part of my weekend with you as well.

Here is a clip from Youtube where you’ll see what I mean about Katani’s singing. She is the second performer. Enjoy

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loss of child

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