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 ‘motherhood’ Category

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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Opening the Boxes

Jordan on his way to check out his new dorm room sophomore year.

Jordan on his way to check out his new dorm room sophomore year.

We knew they were coming. Jordan’s college dean had given us almost to the hour the time when FedEx would deliver the boxes that held all of Jordan’s belongings. His dean has told us that at some point between 10am and 12pm the boxes would arrive. The clothing, books, school supplies, all the things a 19-year-old needs to live away from home, were winding their way back to us separate from him. To ease the arrival of the boxes, the dean had told us how the Amherst staff that packed the boxes had labeled them. We had already made special arrangements to donate certain items. His refrigerator, rug, lamp, etc. would go to the A Better Chance (ABC) program. Jordan volunteered there his freshman year, mentoring and tutoring high school boys and had planned to do the same his sophomore year. We knew Jordan would want ABC to have things that would benefit the boys in that program.

Out of denial, bravado or plain shock, Mark and I decided we needed to be alone when the boxes came. We had gone back and forth as to whether we should have someone with us when the boxes were delivered. We knew it was going to rip our hearts out to stand and watch as the possessions of our 19-year-old son came home without him. Mark insisted that placing these boxes in our basement was something he needed to do. He cleared a space in the basement to make room for the boxes and then we waited. We had helped Jordan buy, pack and unpack all of his college things for the last two years.  In our grieving parental logic it made sense to us that we should bear the responsibility and the honor of putting them away.

Mark had taken Jordan back to school for his sophomore year. It had been just the two of them. The first time they had extended time together in such a long while without Jordan having the distractions of competing for his father’s attention from siblings or another parent. Once they got to Amherst, Mark took Jordan to Target to buy toiletries, school supplies, snacks for his refrigerator and anything else they could think of, or whatever I called to remind them to get.

Father and Son together.

Father and Son together.

The two of them also had time to just be together, hanging out as father and son. Mark let Jordan choose where they ate every night and came home gulping down Tums after all the junk food he forced down. They went to the movies together and as Mark said, “Talked for the first time man to man about anything and everything without reservation or embarrassment.” Mark glimpsed the adult friendship he would have with his son.

Jordan indulging his dad's need to capture every moment. Here he is about to open the door to his dorm room.

Jordan indulging his dad's need to capture every moment. Here he is about to open the door to his dorm room.

Mark was there with Jordan as he got to his new single room and unpacked the boxes that had been in storage. Jordan unpacked, Mark forever the photographer catalogued every moment, much to Jordan’s annoyance. When most of the boxes were unpacked they took a break and had lunch together before Mark made his way to the airport and back home. They hugged goodbye knowing Jordan would be home for Thanksgiving. We would all see him then.

At the beginning of October as Jordan’s sisters missed their brother more and more, I suggested they write him letters to help tide them over until they saw him in November. One sister wrote about how she couldn’t wait until Thanksgiving because she missed him so much and added a drawing of our family, complete with sunshine, flowers and a rainbow. Jordan’s other sister wrote him a song entitled, “Miss You”, called him and sang it to him before we mailed the letters. We all eagerly awaited Thanksgiving when our whole family would be together again. Thanksgiving held out a promise that would not be fulfilled. October 12th, 2008 forever changed our trust in events happening as we assume they will. Jordan wouldn’t be coming home for Thanksgiving. We wouldn’t sit at a table as family of 6 again.

Even though Mark and I decided that only the two of us would be home when the boxes came, I decided I couldn’t watch them being unloaded and stored. I didn’t want to see them. They represented remnants of a life, my child’s life that shouldn’t be packed away but should still be flourishing. I told Mark, I wasn’t ready to see the boxes and would busy myself in another part of the house until they were stacked in the basement. Fate had other plans. The doorbell rang with that double/triple ring of deliverymen as I was downstairs and Mark was finishing a call. I was willing to wait for Mark to open the door until I heard the thud of the first box on the front porch. I had to tell the FedEx deliveryman that we needed the boxes unloaded around back at our basement entrance not on our front porch. He looked at me with annoyance and I had to let him know this wasn’t an ordinary delivery and we needed gentleness. I explained, “Our son was killed in a car accident while he was away at school. These are all of his possessions. I know it’s extra work for you to take them around back, but if you wouldn’t mind we’d appreciate it. My husband is waiting for you back there.” Tears caught in my throat and compassion covered his face. He apologized, told me he was sorry for my loss and quickly started taking the boxes to the basement entrance. I looked out the kitchen window to make sure Mark was back there and I saw one of the boxes. There it was, labeled, “Jordan Moore-Fields ’11” on the first line and “Shoes” on the second line. Class of 2011 was how he was still known at Amherst, even though that dream was gone. The box marked shoes contained the shoes Jordan and I had bought at the beginning of the summer before he set off for DC for his internship. Once again glimpses of the man he would be as he chose styles appropriate for the workplace and extended his fashion beyond sneakers.  That memory flooded back by reading the word shoes on a box. I never made it upstairs. I sat at our kitchen table and wept as I heard box after box being loaded into the basement. Finally tears turned to screams as I called out Jordan’s name and just kept saying, “No!” Soon Mark was beside me and we wept together for all we had lost and the irony that these boxes labeled with Jordan’s name could never contain all that he had or was. The deliveryman finally called out to us and told us everything was unloaded. He left a note on the receipt again expressing his condolences.

My younger son came home the day the boxes arrived asking if he could go through them. I kept saying, “No your dad and I aren’t ready to go through them yet. Give us a little time.” He would let a day or so pass and then ask again. It took me days before I could look in the direction of the basement where the boxes were stored. I finally asked my son, “Is there something specific that you’re looking for?” All he said was, “I want his clothes. I want to wear them.” I realized that we were all grieving Jordan’s loss differently. What I wasn’t ready to face, my son need to have close to him as a symbol of comfort from his brother. The next day I went downstairs and opened one of the boxes marked clothes knowing that giving Merrick a few items until we went through all of the boxes was necessary. I found what I was looking for and took them up to his room and placed them on his bed. When he came home from school I told him as he ambled up the stairs, “I put a couple of Jordan’s shirts on your bed.” He looked at me and asked, “Is it the Malcolm X t-shirt?” I said, “Yes, and the Run DMC.” He gave me a grateful, relieved look and said, “Thanks mom.”

The weekend after I gave my son the t-shirts, Mark decided he would unpack some of the boxes. He wanted to make sure Jordan’s laptop, mpc and other electronic equipment were in working order. These items held the links to Jordan’s thoughts and creativity. Mark unpacked these things and then decided to keep going and open the box marked desk items. He was stopped short as he opened the desk items box and there on top laid the letters from Jordan’s sisters. The letters that talked about seeing him for Thanksgiving had been sitting on Jordan’s desk. Mark came upstairs weeping, needing to be held as we both sat, grateful that we’d raised a son who was not ashamed to display the letters of his younger sisters for all his friends to see.  Jordan loved his family, it is a truth that will always bring us comfort.

Weeks passed and one day I decided it was time to demystify the box corner and go through my son’s things. I went through box after box. Making piles of things I knew Merrick would want, books that we would keep because we knew they were special to Jordan, and a box of toiletries and cleaning supplies that brought me to tears. That box beyond all others showed just how little time Jordan got to be a sophomore in college. Most of the items were still unopened. An entire box filled with unopened bottles of lotion, deodorant, laundry detergent, tissues, soap, etc. We didn’t want him to run out of anything. He never got to use them.

Then I came to the box that made me laugh and talk out loud to my son. I opened a box labeled clothes that contained his dirty laundry.  That box brought back the running discussion Jordan and I had on a weekly basis, and all the wonderful talks we had. Jordan would typically call me during the day a few times a week as he walked back to his room after class. He would call me with his trademark deep-voiced, “what’s up”, telling me about his classes, his assignments and how nasty the lunch selections were in the cafeteria. I would listen and laugh then ask my trademark question of when he last did laundry. He always evaded the question or spoke of the amazing powers of Febreze. Now, here I sat in our basement with a box of his dirty laundry. I said out loud, “Boy I told you to do this before you went away for the weekend. I knew you weren’t going to finish it even when you said you would.”

I dragged the box into our laundry room, and started sorting it so I could wash his clothes. Mark called while I was starting this task to check in and see how I was doing. I told him I was going through Jordan’s boxes and was washing his clothes. He immediately became alarmed begging me to wait until he got home. I told him I was okay and I needed to go through the boxes, for me it was time. He still worried about me doing the laundry wanting to spare me any undue pain. He suggested that we get someone to do the laundry because it seemed like it would be too much for me. I took a breath and told Mark, “I have to do this. Don’t you realize this is the last time I’ll ever be able to do his laundry, to do something maternal like this for him? I can’t cook for him, or send him care packages or shop for him anymore. Doing these loads of laundry is the last thing I can do for Jordan.” I knew I would probably cry as I folded every piece, but I couldn’t imagine anyone else doing this job. It was my last maternal act of caring for my son.

Category:

brothers, college, grief, Mother of Four, motherhood, mourning

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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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The Chime Ache

Jackie with thoughts of Jordan always close.

Jackie with thoughts of Jordan always close.

I had coffee this morning with a new friend. It was our second time getting together and already we talk like old friends. We were introduced to each other through a mutual friend who thought we would be good for each other. Her family like mine is part of a fraternity whose members are not there by choice. Jordan was killed at 19 on October 12th 2008, her son died at 21 in December 2008. When we talk we share our mother sorrow and look towards the other knowing that understanding will be reflected back. I told her how hard the last two weeks have been. Watching all of Jordan’s friends returning to college circled me back to sorrow and anguish that I hadn’t felt since last October. Jordan’s birthday was August 9th. He would have been 20 years old. Watching his friends continue with their lives is so bittersweet. I love and applaud them and ache for me all at the same time.

I wake up in the middle of the night sometimes crying, sobbing the words “I want Jordan to be 20. I want him to be a junior. I want him to come home.” All three things are physically impossible but for now the only reality that is acceptable. The sorrow is so physically present in my body that it had to be named-the chime ache. The days when the pain of loss is weighted in my chest the chime ache is present. It’s an ache that acts like the chime of a clock. Each chime says and feels “Jordan’s gone”.

We have a dead son. In the middle of the night that is how the reality of losing Jordan comes out. It is matter of fact, short and to the point. Sometimes I sit straight up in bed and hold my knees and put my head down. “How can this be?” “ Jordan where are you?” “Please come home we need you.” Even after 11 months disbelief is so intertwined with my sorrow that sometimes just looking at his picture will make me think if I wait long enough I can make him come home. Acceptance that Jordan is gone cannot be fully embraced because that means not seeing him anymore, at least on this earth. It means that he is really gone. For those who have never lost a loved one I’m not even sure if I’m making sense.  All I know is that I have days when the force and reality of his death are so powerful that I can’t move from the chaise lounge portion of our sectional. I sit there and stare out the window for hours wondering what I am supposed to do now? The only thing that lifts me from this grief trance is the part of my brain that still knows that I have 3 living children who need me and rely on me. On my grief trance days my body stores my physical and emotional energy for them. I’m determined that they know that they are loved and I make myself present for them. I never want my children to feel that I’ve checked out emotionally to such a degree that they begin to wonder if they matter. I love all of my children. All of them are worthy of my time, love and attention. They know my grief also. They’ve seen me cry, they’ve asked me “what’s wrong” and I’ve been honest in saying to them “I miss Jordan and I’m having a bad day.” They understand because grief sometimes hits them in the same way. Having a “missing Jordan” time is well understood in our home. The chime ache can strike at any hour and needs no explanation beyond the words-“I miss Jordan.”

Category:

grief, loss of child, Mother of Four, motherhood, mourning

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