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.

How Many?

April 3, 2010

Our spring break destination this year, was California to visit Mark’s parents and have vacation time as a family. We were sick of the cold and rainy Chicago weather and were ready for days where jackets weren’t required. We’d spent the first half of our week letting the kids be spoiled by their grandparents and having quality time with them. We’d gone horseback riding, played board games and rooted on our favorite teams in the NCAA men’s basketball tournament.

While at my in-laws, Merrick had his missing Jordan moments and he shared them with me. His sisters and grandfather invited him repeatedly to swim and play basketball at the community rec center. Merrick politely but strongly declined. I sensed how displaced and sad he felt. As he and I sat together in chaise lounges along the pool I asked Merrick if he was having any tough moments. He told me that his Grandpa’s invitations were still too hard to accept. He talked about the times he and Jordan had spent at this same rec center and all the good times they had together. As Merrick wistfully conveyed, “All the things I want to do take two. My two was with Jordan.” I let those words settle into me before responding to him. I tried reassuring him that as his sisters got older he would find it easier to join in and play games with them that now seemed too difficult. We shared a look and I told him, “I know you miss him.”

After staying with Mark’s parents, our plan had always been to take the second part of our trip as a family vacation in southern California. It was our first true vacation since Jordan died. We were all excited but cautious at the same time. We would be revisiting L.A. for the first time without Jordan. While we were visiting my in-laws, the emotions attached to visiting L.A. flooded me. We were going to visit Los Angeles, the place where Mark and I met. The place where Jordan was born and our little family lived for two years. We were going back to the beginning of our experience as a family. Los Angeles is the cornerstone of the memories of my experiences as a wife and it is where I learned to be a mother. We were going back to this place, only this time without the son who allowed me entry into motherhood. I was starting to have doubts as to whether I could revisit all the places that now served as reminders of the “before Jordan died” years. Mark shared in my apprehension and he gently told me, “We’ll be okay. We’ll be together.”

My reluctance to revisit certain venues was in direct conflict with the wishes of my children. The girls wanted to go to Disneyland because they had no memories of their earlier trip when they were preschoolers. Disneyland had been a destination for our family since Jordan was a toddler. Mark’s parents used to live in Orange County, 15 minutes from Disneyland. It was easy then to spend a half -day there and then come back to my in-law’s home to rest before heading back to Disneyland for the evening. I’d told Mark through tears, as we sat at his parent’s house, I didn’t know how I was going to make it through a trip to a place we’d always shared with Jordan. I still heard Jordan’s little boy voice echoing the excitement of all the wonder and magic a place like Disneyland holds for children, and my excitement at watching things as a first time mother through his eyes.

I extended my anxiety about going to Disneyland to Merrick. I worried that being at Disneyland might evoke too many memories of Jordan that Merrick would find hard to bear. He surprised me though. His demeanor was one of showing his sisters all the fun things he and Jordan used to do. He was taking his role as big brother and tour guide enthusiastically. One of Merrick’s goals for this trip to Disneyland was to ride Space Mountain. On our previous trip to Disneyland he reminded us that the ride had broken down as Mark, Jordan and he stood in line. He was determined to ride it on this trip. I was relieved to see his excitement and that he was going to Disneyland with eagerness and anticipation.

I didn’t let my apprehension intrude on our plans. Disneyland was part of our itinerary. We stood at the entrance, our first trip there as five. At the entrance we were asked, “How many?” on the rides we all rode together, “How many?” When we had dinner and looked for a table, the same question, “How many?” The question was ringing in my ears and the answer was incomplete. Our family has pictures that could fill many scrapbooks of our children riding rides together and having as Mark calls it, the “Mickey” experience. On this occasion for me, Jordan’s absence was palpable. His absence from our group was making me angry. We answered the “How many” question “five” every time. I wanted and needed to add every time, “But we’re supposed to be six. My oldest son is gone, that’s why we’re five.” I never spoke those words aloud but they haunted me all day.

The weather was beautiful and the crowds were not overwhelming as we strode around the park. On the rides with speed and jerky movements, I sat on a bench and waited while Mark and the kids waited in line for the thrill rides. Merrick was the first to point out to me that they cautioned against riding these rides if you suffered from neck or back injuries. I qualified. Waiting turned into watching and then thinking; too much thinking about days past and how hard it was to be in a place that we’d always been before with Jordan. Here we were, not at a new destination uncharted by us as a family, but a familiar one and we were making new memories. I felt pangs of guilt and mother loss putting a stranglehold on the day. I fought hard to stay in the present and not feel guilty that we were somehow forgetting Jordan or leaving him behind if we had too much fun. I was tempted more than once to strike up a conversation with those sitting near me. I felt they needed to know about Jordan. I wanted to tell them, “I’m here with my family, but not all of my family. I have another son; he was killed in a car accident when he was 19. He was our oldest.”

I had to look away from those sitting next to me so as not to tell them of my loss. I was trying to figure out a way to make Jordan surreptitiously a part of our day at Disneyland. The feeling of loss was overpowering. I wanted so much to be in a different time. A time where Jordan stood in line with us, he and Merrick teasing each other and looking out for their sisters together. I closed my eyes, hidden behind my sunglasses and calmed myself by thinking of an image of a chair on the beach with nothing but the sounds of the ocean. I took deep breaths and then opened my eyes when I felt less frantic. I willed myself to watch all that was going on around me as a distraction. I watched a little girl not yet two walk and try to catch a duck that had made his way into the park. Her grandmother held her hands to steady her. She followed as quickly as she could but the duck proved elusive. I looked at all the passersby in their collection of ridiculous Disney hats, everything from Mickey Mouse ears to “Pirates of the Caribbean” Jack Sparrow hats, complete with locks of hair. Everyone with hats walked with such ease and comfort in headgear that would look ridiculous anywhere else. I wondered as they passed, “When will these adults have another opportunity to wear these hats?” I laughed and decided that that I wanted a picture of Mark and Merrick in the “Jack Sparrow” hats. They along with Jordan loved the Pirates of the Caribbean movies and had seen the first one together. I reminded myself to tell them when they got off their ride that we’d go to the “Mad Hatter” store and take pictures of them wearing the hats and making what I knew would be ridiculous faces.

As our day came to an end, we were all exhausted. I forgot about my picture- taking goal until Kendall reminded me. We made our way to a store near the entrance of the park and found the hat section. I picked out the “Jack Sparrow” hats and the girls found “Mickey” wizard hats from the movie “Fantasia.” I had them all group together and I snapped my first picture, and then took one more for good measure. Merrick took the camera and looked at the digital pictures, laughing as we headed out of the store to the parking garage.

On our way out of the store I saw a father talking with his son in the checkout line. His son spoke animatedly as he put on his “Mickey” gloves and wizard hat while his dad assured him it was okay for him to put them on as they waited to purchase them. I smiled at the comfort and ease between father and son. I only saw the back of the father’s head but something about him felt familiar. As we walked outside, a woman stood holding her pre-school aged daughter, singing to her as she held her close to keep her warm. I smiled at her as I walked quickly to catch up with my family. As we walked I saw the man I’d seen in the store up ahead talking with his family. His voice sounded so familiar; then I realized why, it was the actor Jeffery Wright who has starred in such movies as “Syriana”, “Cadillac Records” and “Casino Royale.” I leaned towards Mark and asked, “That’s Jeffery Wright isn’t it?” Mark replied, “Yeah, I saw him in the store but I didn’t want to bother him. He’s here with his family.”

I had a different feeling entirely about going up to him. I immediately heard Jordan’s voice in my head. Jordan loved Jeffrey Wright’s work as an actor. After Jordan was accepted to Amherst, Jeffrey Wright was one of the famous alum’s that Jordan excitedly referenced. His excitement and comfort in his decision grew the more he learned about “his” school and about those whose work he admired who had also attended. I increased my pace and matched that of Jeffery Wright’s. I spoke, “Excuse me, your Jeffrey Wright aren’t you?” He looked at me politely but with the weariness of one who is recognized and approached too often. He responded, “Yes I am”, continuing his pace. I quickly spoke, “I know you attended Amherst College and I wanted to say hello. My son also attended Amherst.” At the connection between he and Jordan, his face relaxed and he replied, “Oh he did.” I then told him about my Jordan.

“Our son Jordan was a student, but we lost him in ’08. He was killed in a car accident when he was 19.”

“Oh, I’m sorry to hear that.”

“Well, he was a big fan of your work and when I recognized you I wanted to say hello.”

Hearing of Jordan’s death and realizing my reason for interrupting his time with his family changed Mr. Wright’s pace and approach to me. He continued talking with me, asking what year Jordan would have graduated. When I told him he would have been in the class of 2011, he made a connection I had forgotten. He suddenly said to me, “Two-thousand eleven, I spoke to that class.” My voice shook as I spoke and his wife, the same woman I’d observed holding her daughter outside of the store looked on with a compassionate smile. It all came together for me. I said to him, “That’s right. Jordan was so excited that you were speaking at Orientation. I remember him telling me about hearing you speak. You made a great impression on him.”

Mr. Wright asked me my name again, trying to commit it to memory and then introduced himself to Mark, Merrick, Lindsay and Kendall. I told him of Jordan’s dean who he also knew and of our plans to establish an annual scholarship at Amherst College in Jordan’s name. I held back tears, so happy to meet him and so grateful that as we left Disneyland the experience that felt missing from the day happened. I had my opportunity to talk about Jordan. I felt him near and someone whose work he admired and respected, now knew about him. Jordan came to the park with us that day. He revealed himself as we left. “How many”, could now be answered six.

Category:

getaways, grief, guilt, loss of child, motherhood, mourning, new traditions

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Hopes and Wishes

March 22, 2010

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Category:

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

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Soundtrack

March 15, 2010

I just left Lindsay and Kendall at school where I watched a fifteen minute presentation of what they’ve learned in their Monday after-school dance class. After the presentation they are off to another school project that won’t end until five. I have an hour to fill. I always call the time between my driving shifts as limbo time. It’s not enough time to go home and get anything done, and too long to sit and wait for them. I decide to head to Walgreen’s to pick up poster board for Lindsay and the spiral notebooks Merrick requested. I then head to Starbucks, book in hand to kill the rest of my time.

I already know dinner will be takeout. I made peace with myself earlier today about that fact. After traveling last week, it always takes me a few days before the fatigue induced by traveling and the effects of  lupus subsides.

So, here I am sitting at Starbucks drinking a tall skim latte, waiting for Lindsay and Kendall to be done. I try to read, but my mind is too restless. Every attempt to blend in with the patrons who are reading, pounding away on laptops or talking with friends is futile. My mind is racing, taking me to thoughts of loss and what now. Being still too long without distractions pulls me into grief and longing for any day before October 12th, 2008. I pull a piece of folded scrap paper from my purse and start to write. I’m realizing how hard it is on this day to sit still without crying or  screaming.I remember reading the book, “Damage” by Josephine Hart over 20 years ago. In the story the main character upon learning of the death of her son, beats and punches her face and body to still the pain in her heart. Of course she learns self-mutilation does not quell grief.

I think of “Damage” and I want to scream out, “Do you people know how hard it is to sit here, drink coffee and read? My son is gone. He died, he’s gone. I need you all to know his name.”  I want to pummel his name into all of their memories. I don’t take any of these actions. I sit, sip my latte and continue to alternately read and write on my scrap paper. I wait for it to be 4:50 so I can pick up the girls.

I realize as I’m writing and my heart is swamped with sadness, my feet are  tapping along to the beat of the jazz-real jazz(as my father would say) music playing in the background. Here I am writing about my grief, how hard it is to suppress tears and screams, and my feet are on another journey, keeping beat to another tune. I look up from my writing and really listen to the song. I smile and hum along. It is a song from the album, “Black Talk,” by Charles Earland.  I’m swept back to childhood and hearing the cut, “I Love You More Today Than Yesterday” wafting from Daddy’s basement stereo system. I close my eyes and remember him whistling and singing along, “I love you more today than yesterday, but only half as much as tomorrow.”

It’s 4:50 time to go. I let my feet lead me out the door, a new song in my head. “I love you more today than yesterday.” Thanks Daddy.

Category:

anniversaries, chronic illness, death of son, family support, grief, Jordan, lupus

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Be Good to Yourself

March 14, 2010

The tether sorrow has on my heart isn’t quite as tight as it was in the months right after Jordan died. I can physically feel the progress being made as my mind and body make the shift towards acceptance that Jordan is really gone. As I feel myself leaning toward acceptance, just as quickly, I feel myself trying to stop the progression. Acceptance is still too big of a message for my heart to hold.

Most of the times when I remind myself to, “Feel what I’m feeling” it is in response to sad and painful emotions I experience bubbling inside me. It has been easier to allow myself to feel grief than allowing myself to feel excitement or happiness. Accepting too much joy in my life seems like distancing myself from Jordan and his memory. Time has taken on a different dimension. No matter how many days I watch go by since Jordan’s death I don’t want to measure losing him in days. I know it’s been over a year since October 12th, 2008, but as twisted, as it seems to me, having his death be closer in time means his life is also closer to me in time. How can I ever feel joy that isn’t tempered with sadness if one of my children is gone?

In spite of nagging doubts that time makes things easier, I keep going. I found myself two weeks ago feeling an emotion that has laid dormant- excitement. Mark had a conference to attend in Florida and as he told me the details, I realized I wanted to go with him. I felt excited and as he talked, I quelled the impulse to admonish or question myself about my feelings. I impulsively called my mother to ask her if she could stay with our kids, before Mark told me all the details of the conference and before I could talk myself out of going. I wanted to go with him! I was allowing myself to “feel what I was feeling”, even positive feelings.

Grief plays so many tricks and comes in so many forms. It’s as though I have a meter inside of me that will only allow in so much joy before a warning signal registers. I find myself proceeding cautiously not wanting to move too quickly into what looks like happiness. Since losing Jordan, I know how quickly happiness can be taken away. I was impacted by these cautious feelings  as I prepared for my trip to Florida. One day as I drove to pick the girls up from school, I uncharacteristically had the radio on a music station and was singing along. I was taking in my excitement and relieved that I was still looking forward to my trip. As I approached a stop sign I heard sirens in the distance. All it took was the sound of sirens to turn my excitement into anxiety. Since the car crash that killed Jordan, I don’t know how to ignore sirens. I’m trying to learn to make them less powerful. For me sirens signal warning, danger, sickness, accidents, weariness, fear, longing, grief, crashes, tears, pain, sleepless nights, 5 instead of 6, Mother-heart loss. Sirens mean stop!

I stop at a stop sign and take deep breaths, attempting to pull myself back on the path to the present. I remind myself that sirens don’t have to mean someone in my family is in danger. The sirens aren’t headed to the girls’ school. They are safe. Someone would have called me if they weren’t. Merrick is safe at home. I just left him. Mark is at work and I don’t need to worry. The sirens sound but I don’t have to bring them into my heart.

I cling to my travel plans and shake off my fears as I pick the girls up from school. I know that I need time away. Mark and I are both so weary. This trip will be our first time away as a couple since Jordan’s death. I need to take care of myself even though it doesn’t come easily. Treating me, being good to me have always been hard even as I extol self-care to family and friends. A reminder I give out  with complete sincerity is, “Be good to yourself.” I know it isn’t grammatically correct. My saying should be, “Be good to you.” Somehow having the word “self” in relating my wish of self-care to others makes it more impactful. Like most people, it is easier to tell others they should take care of themselves than receiving and putting into practice that same message.

I told a friend of mine via email about my plan to go to Florida with Mark. She was excited for me and told me to pamper myself and get a massage. It’s not as though she was the first person to suggest a massage as a way to ease my stress and anxiety. I still have the gift certificate given to me by a friend for my birthday last March. I’ve gotten close to making an appointment, gone so far as picking up the phone to dial the number and then putting the phone down. I wasn’t sure if I was ready to be in such a contemplative silence, alone with my thoughts. My counselor has also talked to me about self-care asking me, “What are you going to do for yourself this week?” I tell her about the gift certificate and she always tells me what a good idea it is. The gift certificate continues to sit on the desk in our office, even as my back and neck hurt. Taking care of “self” does not come easily.

In Florida I went with my impulses and scheduled a massage. Mark was in meetings most of the day and the pain in my back and shoulders was letting me know how beneficial a massage would be; especially when all I had to do was walk downstairs and have someone help me. In the locker room as I changed out of my clothes and into a robe for the massage, doubt came back to visit. I burst into tears in the changing room. My mind raced with so many thoughts, “What was I doing getting a massage? How would I handle the silence? Would the silence be filled with “what if’s” and “missing my boy” thoughts?” I thought about Dawn’s words, “treat yourself to a massage.” She was the reason I had the courage to schedule the appointment. Dawn telling me to get a massage came from a different perspective. She and I became friends because of our shared fraternity. She lost her 15-year-old son suddenly, 4 years ago. He was her oldest child and she knows the heartache and pain that threatens never to subside. She also has told me that time will lessen the pain. I booked the massage in one of those, “before you change your mind” moments.

The last time I had a massage was last May when I went with my dear friends on Mother’s Day weekend to a resort in Wisconsin to rest and regroup. I had attempted to back out of the trip saying to one of my sister-friends, “I don’t think I’ll be good company.” Her response was calm and quiet, “We’ll take you however you are.” Another sister-friend was more blunt but just as loving, “If we have to tie you up and put you in the car, you’re going. We love you and you don’t have to pretend with us.” They cared and watched over me that weekend. Every moment I knew their safety net was close by. Now here I was, almost a year later attempting true self-care. I sat in the locker room and cried for a few minutes. I then told myself that I’d try the massage and if I got overwhelmed I could always stop it and go back to my room. I was in control of what happens.

My massage, my walks on the beach, the time away were restorative. My grief came with me of course and I made room for it. Tears came more than once as I thought of my family, and my beautiful boy who is gone. Excitement and happiness came with me as well. When Jordan died, I never thought I’d feel excitement again. I’m moving forward, breath-by-breath. For now heartache and a burgeoning happiness will have to reside together inside of me. I’m slowly learning that feeling happy doesn’t diminish my love for Jordan. Be good to yourself Jackie, it’s okay.

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Uncategorized

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Calls

March 8, 2010

Yesterday was a hard day. All day I thought about how much I missed Jordan and giving anything to hear his voice. Some days hit me so hard. I don’t try to figure out what triggers especially hard days of grief, the reasons make themselves apparent. Sometimes grief knocks me over and the triggers are easy to trace. At times it will be a whoppingly inappropriate question coming from someone who should know better, “You have a son in college right?” Other times it is seeing the grief of my husband or children as they struggle with their own pain of loss. Sometimes it is unexpectedly coming across something that belongs to Jordan and being transported to the “before” days. During the Christmas holidays, I absentmindedly picked up an old comforter and as I brought it close I could still smell Jordan’s scent on it. I was brought to my knees. I held it, inhaled and wept.

I’m learning that grief can hit hard with whispers too. Today it seeped in and took hold little by little. The day started off sunny, but as the day grew grayer so did my mood. The gray day was also affecting Kendall. Lindsay had plans for the day, but Kendall was feeling agitated because the lack of plans was making her uneasy. I needed her to know that she could be with herself, and be at home without the need for plans with friends. She struggled to think of something to do and then sank into a chair with an anti-stress, squeeze balI that she was tossing into the air. She dropped it more than she was catching it. She positioned herself in a chair right outside my room as I lay on my bed determined to ignore the sound and prayed for strength and healing.

Lupus was causing physical aches. I had taken a bath and stretched trying to care for my body. I wanted and needed to rest, but I also wanted and needed to be with Kendall. I knew that I had to be present for her. I was aware that lately I had been retreating when not feeling well either physically or emotionally. I didn’t want her to learn that grief was something that always had to be endured alone. I prayed a specific prayer. I asked God to help me to think of a way to be with my child so she knew that she wasn’t suffering alone and to give us both some peace.

I allowed myself to rest, even as the sound of the ball echoed in the hallway. After I rested for a while, I figured out what the two of us could do that wasn’t taxing to me physically but allowed us to be together. When I got up and went into the hallway Kendall was gone. I stopped in the office to look for a Studs Terkel book Merrick could use for his history paper. As I looked for the book I came across another book entitled, “Healing Your Grieving Heart for Kids: 100 Practical Ideas.” I looked at the book trying to remember when I purchased it. As I flipped through it, I realized it was a book Lindsay had borrowed from the library of the family support group we attended last year. I took the book downstairs and found Lindsay and Kendall sitting in the family room reading. Kendall seemed much less agitated than she had earlier. I asked her if she wanted me to give her a manicure while Lindsay was out with her friends. She gave a hint of a smile and said, “Sure.” I then told Lindsay about finding the book. I told her I would mail it back to Willow House. I showed Kendall the book and read a few of the suggestions aloud to Lindsay and her:

28. Play Sports

32. Pack a Memory Box

36. Hug

37. Hold Hands

38. Clean Your Room (This one got a big laugh and the girls demanded to see if I was making it up.)

39. Pray

I gave the book to Kendall and told her to look through it because it has some good ideas. Kendall flipped through the book and started reading things to Lindsay and me. She read:

42. Put up pictures of the person who died

49. Eat Something Weird (try a food you’ve never tried before)

53. Listen to Music

She looked through the book quietly for a little longer and then returned to her previous book. The three of us then sat at the table and had lunch. Kendall was feeling better and so was I.

After Mark left to take Lindsay and run errands, Kendall and I set up our manicure station. I had Kendall soak her hands in a bowl of warm soapy water. I remembered the old Palmolive soap commercial with Madge the manicurist and smiled to myself. Kendall picked two colors that she wanted alternated on her nails. We talked easily about school and our upcoming trip for Spring break. Merrick wandered downstairs while I was painting Kendall’s nails. He readied our dog Nessy to take her for a walk. I told him when he got back it was his turn for a manicure.  He looked at me in mock horror, bringing his hand to his chest. He finally agreed when he realized all I wanted was for him to soak his hands so I could push his cuticles back, no nail polish involved. As he and I sat, he asked me about the Oscars. I told him I didn’t have a best movie pick because I hadn’t seen enough of the movies. He told me his prediction and choice for “Hurt Locker” even though he loved “Avatar.”

After Merrick went back upstairs I felt the weariness of earlier in the day returning. It was such a gloomy day. Rain drizzled and my body ached. I wanted to lie down, but felt that missing Jordan would make resting too much of a struggle. I wanted more than anything to talk to Jordan. To have a conversation with him on the phone while away at school was such an ordinary wish that now could not be granted.

Jordan’s voice is captured in so many ways. He made music. He loved to make beats and would rap/freestyle over them. One that I treasure has him talking to Merrick in the beginning, while music plays in the background. He then starts to freestyle. There are days when I listen to “Jordan’s Rap” over and over and cry. Just being able to hear his voice connects me to him. As I stood at the kitchen sink, I realized that Merrick asking me, “Which movie do you think is going to win the Oscars?” took my grief and covered it with longing for Jordan. Merrick was so excited about watching the Oscars. I shared a bit in his excitement making predictions in certain categories.  All the while, grief was seeping in and my longing to be able to call Jordan was growing stronger. I thought about his cell phone. I haven’t disconnected it yet. I almost did on Friday. I called AT&T but hung up. I wasn’t ready to ask them about getting a recording of Jordan’s voicemail message, or recording his voice on my own. Having to explain the reason I needed the recording is still so heartbreaking and takes so much energy. Plus, there are so many in our family including Lindsay, Kendall and Merrick that still from time to time call his cell phone just to hear his voice.

When Mark came home I expressed how much I wanted to hear Jordan’s voice. I told him,

“It’s Sunday and we call Jordan on Sundays. I want to hear his voice. The Oscars are coming on and we would talk to him and debate our picks.”

Mark told me he had a similar moment in the car when he was listening to the Lakers game on the radio. He missed Jordan and had the same desire to just call him and talk about the game. I stood by the sink and cried. Mark rubbed my arm and just said, “I know.” Grief was creeping in and I had to make room for it and let it happen.

I watched the Oscars with Mark as Merrick bounced in and out of the room to check our reactions to certain categories. Mark and I made a point of changing the channel so as not to see the montage of movie industry artists who died in 2009. Watching the list of those lost brings too much additional pain. I went to bed, willing myself to fall asleep as I hoped that the images of seeing Jordan in the casket and sitting at the memorial service, that were trying to crowd my mind would dissipate. Jordan is gone. I hear his voice on his voicemail message, in his songs, and on the video recordings we have of his life. Grief comes to call in different ways. Today it crept in and followed me around. I’ll never stop missing my boy or wishing to have more time with him.

Early days

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family support, grief, lupus, Mother of Four, motherhood

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Jordan’s Room

February 25, 2010

I came home from my exercise class a few Saturdays ago to find Mark sitting tensely while eating lunch. He chewed mechanically as my daughters flanked him at our kitchen table. Both of them were having lunch as well but were animatedly talking to each other. As I wearily sat down to take another drink from my water bottle both girls started talking to me at the same time, “Daddy said we can have our own rooms.” I looked at Mark not knowing how to take this latest development. He looked at me with a mixture of exasperation and battle fatigue. Before I could speak Kendall said, “I’m gonna move into Jordan’s room.” “Jordan’s room,” how could she move into his room and it still be Jordan’s room? I told them their Dad and I would talk and figure out the best time for them to have separate rooms. I added, “It will probably be this summer or after your first semester of middle school.” They were in agreement with this plan and left the table talking about paint colors and how they would arrange their new rooms.

I knew the day would come when my twin daughters would want and be ready for their own rooms. I had several friends with twins older than my own, and I looked to them for guidance as to what to expect with certain situations. I knew that my daughters wouldn’t always want to share a room. One day their individual needs for privacy would override having a comrade to face fear of darkness, or a partner for late night chats. Space for them to have their own rooms wasn’t the issue. I’d just imagined it and planned it so differently than how it has turned out.

Jordan often talked about what he wanted to do after graduating from college. He wanted adventures while travelling the world and then going to grad school. I often joked with him that I would vicariously accompany him because he was living his young adult life with such excitement and voracity; exactly what his father and I wanted for him. When Jordan was away at college he typically called us on Saturday afternoons, usually with a sleepy voice. His Saturday routine was to awaken in time to make it to the dining hall before it closed and then call us when he got back to his room. He was so excited about being a sophomore and having a single room, but more excited that his dorm also housed the dining hall. He figured he could add at least fifteen minutes to his sleep regimen. When he made his Saturday calls, I usually asked him what his plans were for the weekend.  He talked of campus parties, “chillin’ in a friend’s crib” or occasionally going away for a long weekend with friends from his school or to visit friends at other colleges. One outing I remember in particular. He and his friends were going on a day trip to a park with a lake that was a few hours from school. Jordan recounted the day to me telling me that they bought food, hung out, and swam in the lake. I remember asking him why they would want to swim, because it was only May and the water in New England was still cold. He replied to me, “It was cold, but it was fun.” He then told me he was the first to jump into the water from a group of rocks that bordered the lake. Jordan brushed off my concerns reminding me that he was a certified lifeguard. I said to him, “You’re not certified to jump off rocks. Please be careful.” Whenever I told Jordan to be careful his reply was always the same, “Yes Mom, I know.”

Living life to the fullest

Jordan wanted to spend the second semester of his junior year abroad. His college had a wonderful international program and he planned to take advantage of it’s offerings. He wanted to see the world before as he said he, “got married and had kids.” Jordan’s freshman year of college  had been so good for him. He studied hard, played hard and was making lasting friendships. Whenever people asked Mark or I how Jordan was doing in school, our reply was always the same,” he’s doing well and he picked the school that’s perfect for him.”

We didn’t get the scenario we planned or prayed for. College graduation, travel adventures, marriage, and family are not to be for Jordan. His room sits empty most of the time. I look into his room and my eyes always gravitate to a poster we had in the vestibule during the Memorial Service. It is the picture of Jordan with his acceptance packet from Amherst mounted on poster board. All around the picture are messages from family and friends. There are messages from his friends that I’ve read so much I feel I know them by heart:

  • Jordan, I love you and miss you. R.I.P.
  • You are always with me.
  • You were so much in so little time.
  • R.I.P. Jordan keep making moves.
  • Your spirit lives on through those who knew you.
  • Keep smiling up there, the world needs that.

The poster sits atop his dresser, but is becoming overshadowed by clothes from the dry cleaners hanging on the door knob and Mark’s suitcase from his latest business trip on the bed. Jordan’s desk holds remnants of worksheets when one of the girls used his room to study. The girls when asked about Jordan’s room respond, “It’s kind of a storage room.”

In many respect Jordan’s room will always be at our old house. That bedroom at “1116” was the one Jordan claimed and made his own. It is the room that took him from elementary school, all the way through high school and his first semester of college. It is the room I remember when I close my eyes and think of Jordan “at home.” I remember when Jordan was packing his things as he prepared for his freshman year at Amherst. He sat at his desk gathering items he planned to take with him. When Jordan was home he usually had music playing. Mark and I would joke that, Jordan came with a soundtrack. On this particular day, “This Christmas” by Donny Hathaway played as he looked over the dorm checklist he’d downloaded from the Internet. I remember peering into his room with a puzzled look and saying, “Dude Christmas carols in August? What’s going on?” His reply to me was straightforward, “Christmas songs remind me of home, and I just want to feel home right now.” I left his room that day aware of how much I was going to miss him but also feeling assured that he was ready to go.

When we moved into our new house, our old house hadn’t yet sold. After Jordan died, as “1116” languished on the market I couldn’t bear to go inside. It was Jordan’s house and he was gone. Any minor repairs or checks of the house were left to Mark. There were times that I sat in the car while he went in to turn off lights left on by a realtor, or to check the thermostat. I would wait in the car barely able to look at the house. The day came however, when I had to go into our old house. My journal entry about that experience is below:

Tuesday, March 3, 2009

Our old house is on the market. It looks like we will close soon and it will belong to another family. Our old address was 1116. I went inside 1116 today. It was the first time I had been inside since Jordan died. 1116 was Jordan’s house. We moved there when he was six. Most of his childhood years were there. All of his teenage years were there. This house was the one he remembered, the one he called home. We didn’t move into our current house until January of 2007 when he was a freshman in college. He always said our old house was “his house”.

I hadn’t been back to the house since Jordan died because I wasn’t sure I could walk in without having an ache for him bigger than the one I already am trying to bear. I didn’t know if I could. I didn’t know if I wanted to.

Necessity finally trumped fear and emotion. I had to let the handyman in to ready the house for the final walk-through. My first thought was to open the door as I stood on the porch and point him upstairs. But, I opened the door walked in and felt-no pain, no fear. I showed him up the stairs and what needed to be done. When it was time to go downstairs he went ahead of me to get supplies from his truck and I told him I would be down in a moment. I turned down the hall and went into Jordan’s room. I walked directly to the far wall, kneeled down and read what he had written as a pre-teen. “Jordan was here”.

I touched the wall because it was a place Jordan had touched. I wasn’t afraid. I was so grateful for what truth was written on that wall- JORDAN was here! 1116 has been demystified. There is no place that Jordan isn’t. He’s with me always.

Picture I took of wall in Jordan's room-"Jordan was here"

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Looking Too Soon

February 19, 2010

Jordan's candle

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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Valentines-Transformation

February 13, 2010

Jordan and Lindsay 12/07

This time last year, 2/12/09:

Jordan,

The boxes with the programs were emptied today. They have been under the bench in the entry since October when the programs were printed for your Memorial service. I glimpse at the boxes everyday when I walk past, always planning to move them or get rid of them. Until today something always stopped me, I didn’t feel ready.

Today your sisters needed boxes for the Valentines they would receive at their Valentine’s Day parties. Impulsively I said, “There are boxes under the bench but let me get them.”

Lindsay asked “Why?”

She didn’t understand why I insisted on getting the boxes. I told her the boxes held extra programs from the Memorial Service. I explained that we didn’t use them because the front picture was too dark.

Lindsay told me “I can get them.”

She quickly went to the entry and brought the box into the family room, trying so hard to impress me with her industriousness. She opened the box, looked at one of the programs and said, “You’re right the picture is too dark it doesn’t look like Jordan.”

She flipped through the program, reading it and asked, “What are ushers?”

I explained the function of ushers at funerals and memorial services. She then said, “That’s nice, his best friends were ushers.”

She then read the poem I wrote about “My boys” on the back of the program. The next question of course was, “Why aren’t Kendall and I in the poem?”

I said, “Oh honey, I wrote that one day when I was watching your brothers together.”

She said, “It’s a good poem, I like it. What should I do with all these programs?”

I said, “Let’s put them in a bag.”

She said, “Okay I’ll get it.”

She quickly got up and grabbed a black trash bag from under the sink. She was determined to do the job alone and resisted my attempts to help her.  Her only comment during her task was, “Mom, I can do it.”

After she emptied out the programs, Lindsay looked at the empty box and said, “This box is perfect for Valentines. I’m going to decorate it and make it beautiful.”

For me, she already had.

Happy Valentines Day

With eternal love,

Mama

Poem on Back of Program

Mother to Son

Jordan is a poet

Merrick is poetry

Jordan has the words to captivate a nation

Merrick has the movement, the smile, the soul of honesty and love

There is magic in words and movement

Together they reveal the essence of life,

both poet and poetry,

spoken word and dance and song.

I can listen to and watch them forever

My boys

Jackie Moore (2002)

Today, 2/13/10:

A few days ago I posted a query on Facebook asking, “What was your most memorable Valentine’s Day?” I kicked off the discussion by relaying the memory of a Valentine’s Day from my grad school days when my roommates and I went to a Bingo Hall with the mother of one of my roommates. It turned out to be an evening filled with laughter, girl talk and the hopes of winning the jackpot (not to be).

For the last few months I have been in search of a Mother’s Day card, that Jordan gave me when he was a junior or senior in high school. It holds special significance because it was handmade of construction paper with Jordan’s handprints on it. Jordan wrote the following on the card,

When I was in preschool, teachers seemed to think that putting handprints on a piece of paper or a paper plate and using it as a gift for any holiday was a great idea. Although I’m no longer in preschool and my handprints barely fit on the paper, I decided for Valentine’s Day I’d give you a gift that hearkened(sp) back to my younger days. Happy Mother’s Day Mom!

Jordan then signed the card, “Love, Your oldest little boy, JORDAN” with the J backwards in the same way he used to write his name as a kindergartner.

All the places I thought I’d stored the card turned up empty. I finally decided that the best way to find it was to stop worrying over and looking for it. If and when it was meant to be found, I would find it. Tonight as I polished the writing piece above, I searched for one of the programs from Jordan’s memorial service. I reached into the top drawer of our file cabinet and there on the side of the hanging files amongst other papers, was the card from Jordan. I’m sure I’ve checked this spot before but clearly not well enough. Tonight I pulled it out of the drawer, sat and looked at it, held my hand against Jordan’s handprint and cried. I found it just when I needed to find it. Now my most memorable Valentine’s Day, albeit a little early is the Valentine’s Day of 2010.

Rediscovered Valentine

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celebrations, death of son, family support, holidays, loss of child

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Scrabble J

February 9, 2010

I see the letter J

I don’t think of Jackie or Julie

I think of Jordan

Joy and Jordan

Jubilation and Jordan

Sippy cups full of Juice and Jordan

Jeans and Jordan

Justice and Jordan

Jazz and Jordan

Hat at a Jaunty angle and Jordan

J-man, Jordan

Just Jordan

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Getting Jordan Ready

January 31, 2010

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

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

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