Alwaysmomof4's Blog

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.

Wish You Were Here

January 19, 2010

“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

4 Comments

Tagged with:

Home

January 4, 2010

Nanny holding me as a newborn

My grandmother who I always called/call Nanny is the one person in my life that loved me unconditionally. Not everyone gets an unconditional love person but I was fortunate to have such that. I never felt judged by her. She always made me feel smart and pretty and funny and loved. She didn’t live with us year round, but always had her own bedroom at our house. She lived in another part of Ohio but on her breaks from being a first grade teacher, she lived with us. Holidays, spring break and summers she spent at our house. She also managed during the school year to visit once a month for a weekend. On many of her visits to relatives and friends my sister and I were her willing travel companions. She was the grandmother in the neighborhood that all of my friends called Nanny and more than one told me they wished she was their grandmother.

When Nanny was in town, she was the person I went to at night when I couldn’t sleep. Sleep never came easy to me. Before I knew the word insomnia I had it. I would toss and turn and try to get back to sleep. As a young child, when Nanny wasn’t in town and I couldn’t sleep I would call, “Mama, Mama, Mama” until my mother bleary- eyed would come to my room and sleep with me. She would promptly fall back asleep and I would lie awake, grateful for Mama’s warmth but still wide- awake. When Nanny was in her bedroom next to mine, on my sleepless nights, I would climb into bed with her and whether she was asleep or not she welcomed me into her bed and talked with me until I fell asleep. In those late night talks she was the consummate storyteller. I learned of her elopement with my grandfather, of her pregnancy that ended in miscarriage. She talked about the son she lost who would have been a sibling to my mother had he lived. She told me about growing up in West Virginia as the oldest of ten. I know how she helped care for her younger siblings, and the antics and fights with brother and sisters closer in age. She talked lovingly of her “Mama” and “Papa” and growing up in a “God fearing” home and the importance of her faith. Because of her I felt I knew my grandfather who died at the age of 49 when I was a baby.

Nanny had her surprises too as she whispered about her teenage years, and sneaking into the shed to smoke cigarettes, Camels to be exact. She told me why she didn’t like to attend sporting events, that is until my sister and I started playing soccer. She recounted the story of attending a Friday night basketball game, which was the social event for the town, and becoming so enraged at the cheating going on by the referee that she resolved never to attend another game because she didn’t like getting swept up in the mob mentality that ensued. She was a kind, generous, practical joker, hard to anger woman, who prayed every night on her knees at her bedside (a practice that Jordan shared even though my grandmother was the only one in our household who prayed in this manner). She loved me like no one else ever has. My memories of Nanny are rich and in Technicolor. I talk to her often, and carry one of her handkerchiefs in my purse, just as she did. Nanny had hundreds of handkerchiefs, some she bought, some she made and/or embellished with crocheted lace around the edges. I carry a handkerchief to remind me of her love, and the strength I gained from her.

Our talks went both ways. She was my confidante as well. We talked weekly when I was in college. She would pray with me over the phone when I worried about a test or was feeling overwhelmed and homesick. The two scriptures, Psalms 121 and Philippians 4:13, will always be embedded in my brain and heart. She always asked if I was reading my bible and reminded me to pray.

Nanny experienced a stroke my sophomore year of college which affected her right side and her speech. She was 69 years old at the time and still teaching. I remember coming home to see her and visiting her during the summer as she regained strength at a rehab center. Even after her stroke, I would lay my head in her lap as she sat in her wheelchair and she would stroke my hair with her “good arm” as she called it. Our conversations became limited but her love for me was never stronger. She was the first person I told that I was getting married, even before my husband of 21 years knew. She and I sat together when I came home for our annual family reunion. I told her about Mark, the man I’d been seeing for two weeks saying, “I’ve met the man I’m going to marry. He doesn’t know it yet, but he’s the one.” Her response to me as she smirked and shook her head positively was “Hmm.” I’d never talked to her about a boyfriend before so she trusted my assuredness.

Her love for me was truly unconditional as she weathered my teenage years with more grace and patience than I deserved. I remember once when she was staying with my sister and I while Mama and Daddy were away for a few days. Nanny was already up when I came into the kitchen to get breakfast before going to my summer job.

“Want me to fix you something?”, she asked.

“No that’s okay.”

In typical impatient, exasperated, teenager fashion I found it annoying and not at all helpful that she was in the kitchen when all I wanted was to be quiet, sullen and left alone before starting my day. I got my breakfast (toast or a pop tart or cereal) and sat down. She sat down across from me quietly and didn’t try to make much small talk. All I remember thinking is, “Why can’t she take the hint that it’s too early in the morning and I don’t need company.” I kept looking down at my food and she sat absently wiping crumbs off the table and then she looked up at me and said, “You look real nice.” I looked up at her and mumbled, “thank you.”

I looked nice. Compliments were scarce during my gawky teenage years especially about the way I looked. She was certainly changing the morning routine. She had startled me out of my mood. There I sat thinking of ways to make her leave the room and she said the one thing that was so unexpected for me as a teenage girl. I felt her graciousness and love for me and looked up from my food to fully embrace and exchange the love she offered. I do know that after her compliment I came out of myself and talked to Nanny and let her into my day. She had to have noticed my “ugly” (as she would have called it) behavior and the way I was acting towards her. She looked past it and saw the granddaughter that she loved. I think Nanny telling me I looked nice was the first early morning compliment I had ever received, at least that’s how it felt. I knew she loved me.

One of my most cherished memories is the first time Nanny met Jordan. Mark, Jordan and I came to Ohio for Jordan’s first Christmas and what would be Nanny’s last. As we walked into the family room with me holding Jordan, Mark captured every moment. I had already told Mark to have the camera focused on Nanny. I wanted to forever be able to look back at her face the first time she saw her great- grandson, and the first time she held him; a permanent record of these two generations touching and being connected. Nanny reached for Jordan with her “good arm” and I placed him in her lap. He sat and looked up at her expectantly and she looked down and at him with love and just hummed to him. They were both content. I was so relieved. Nanny meeting Mark and being at my wedding had filled me with security. Having her hold my son, her great-grandson completed a circle that I desperately needed to form.

Nanny and Jordan meeting for the first time.

That Christmas Nanny made a gift for Jordan at her Adult Day care class. The gift was a playhouse constructed from plastic board through which she wove green, brown and yellow yarn. I remember how nervous she was as I opened it for Jordan. I looked at it and immediately showed it to my son. Once again Nanny’s love showed in every part of her gift. I watched the anxiety on her face ease as she saw the joy I had in showing my son the homemade gift that only Nanny could have given him. Even as a young boy he recognized the significance of a gift from a great-grandmother he knew only through stories and pictures. He treated the playhouse with care and made sure that it was never damaged. Jordan played with it as a little boy and kept it on a shelf in his room when he outgrew it. To this day it looks as good as it did when Nanny made it for him. It was a gift that Jordan cherished until he died.

Nanny became ill with congestive heart failure and had to be hospitalized in the winter of 1990. By the time I came to visit her from California she was in a coma. I brought Jordan with me on that visit, knowing that between visits to the hospital my parents and I would welcome the life and energy a baby brings to a home. When Mama picked me up at the airport she tried to prepare me, describing that Nanny was on a ventilator, was uncommunicative and that her eyes were always closed. Even though I couldn’t get a full mental picture of my grandmother in this state, I was still ready to see her; I needed to see her. Mama told me that a family friend would watch Jordan while she and I went to the hospital. I had no idea she had arranged babysitting. I told her I thought she would watch Jordan while I went to see Nanny. She told me she wanted to be there when I saw Nanny. We dropped Jordan off at our friend’s home on the way from the airport. I lingered watching to make sure that Jordan was comfortable and wouldn’t fuss as we left. My mother’s friend teased me saying, “I’ve taken care of babies before, and I can take care of Jordan.”

After dropping off Jordan, Mama and I went straight to the hospital. When we opened the door to her room, I was glad Mama knew best and was there with me. Seeing Nanny in the bed, eyes closed, with the hum and rasp of the ventilator as the only sound in the room brought me to tears. I went to her bedside, kissed her, and whispered in her ear how much I loved her. I then pulled up a chair as close to her bed as I could and talked to her the way she had talked to me so many nights. I told her about her great-grandson, I talked about my husband, grad school, and all the things she would have asked about if she were able.

After seeing Nanny in a coma and hearing the prognosis from the doctor, I knew as I traveled back to California that the day would come, when I’d get the call telling me that Nanny was slipping away. When Mama called to tell me that the doctors didn’t know how much longer Nanny had to live, Mark, Jordan and I flew to Ohio so that I could see her for what would probably be the last time. Mark drove me to the hospital and waited in the hallway as I said goodbye. I went into her room to spend time with her by myself and she and I talked. I had what would be my last words with Nanny and I knew she could hear me. I told her that if she could understand me, to blink once for yes and twice for no. I asked her if she understood and she blinked once. I leaned down next to her and I told her I knew she was tired. She blinked once and then a pause and then another blink. She was telling me she was tired. Then there was a flurry of “yes” blinks. I told her I understood how tired she was and that it was okay to go if she was ready. She blinked once again and I stroked her hair and tried to comfort us both. I wanted her to feel some of the unconditional love that she had surrounded me with. “Nanny I love you. It’s okay to say goodbye.” She blinked at me again and I turned to leave. Mark came into the room leaned down and kissed her goodbye. I knew I’d probably never see her alive again. I didn’t want to go but it was time for me to go back home. I knew she loved me and I could feel our connection even though she couldn’t move and the fluttering of her lids is how she said goodbye.

During the days of Nanny’s illness, I always wished I lived closer to Ohio so that I could have come quickly when Nanny reached the end of her life. I would have made sure she didn’t die alone. I would have been at her bedside or in her bed. I would have stroked her hair, and laid my head on her chest in our typical pose and told her I loved her and that she wasn’t alone. All the nights she stayed up with me so I wouldn’t be alone, to give her that same gift would have brought me such peace. Saying goodbye to Nanny was hard but I saw her suffering and how tired she was. She was ready to “go home.”

At the other part of my family circle was the loss of my beloved son. Jordan left in the “blink of an eye” and I didn’t get to say goodbye. The thought that I couldn’t be with him as he took his last breath will always haunt me (I know it will). I take comfort in and have expressed my gratitude repeatedly to Jordan’s friend Edward for pulling him from the mangled car, taking off his own t-shirt to apply pressure to the cut on Jordan’s head, talking to him until the paramedics came, and for crying out in anguish when the sheet was pulled over Jordan’s head. Edward’s cry was my cry, Edwards care and words to my boy were the exact actions I would have taken. He fulfilled the role of friend, but also caretaker. He cared for my boy the way I would have if granted the access to be there. Jordan didn’t die alone.

Jordan is not alone now, he’s with Nanny and all the loved ones at our meeting place that went before him and has come since. Now they sit together again. I think of them often. I ask Nanny to watch over my boy. I know she does. I miss them both. There are moments of sorrow when I cry out through anguished tears, “Oh Nanny watch over my boy. I can’t stop missing him. I know you love him. Help me to relearn how to trust God’s love and peace. You taught me Psalms 120 and Philippians 4:13. Those scriptures helped me through college, grad school, multiple surgeries and near death experiences. Now, my faith is so shaken, my strength is brittle.”

Comfort does not come easy. I’m waiting for heartache to ease. Right now missing Jordan makes my sleep fitful and causes me to wake up in the middle of the night clutching Mark’s arm and saying, “I want Jordan hanging out in Matt’s basement with his friends, I want him sitting on our couch watching football with you, I want him home.”

“Home”, Nanny wanted to “go home” to be with her Savior and have eternal life, Aunt Frances, Nanny’s last living sibling cried out just last month“I want to go home” as pain filled her body and 90 years on this earth felt like enough. I call out, “Jordan come home” and I want him on this earth, sitting next to me, going back to school, leading by example with all the energy and plans 19 years of life give you. There are so many ways to define home. My heart searches for the right definition of home to ease my worry and bring peaceful sleep. Jordan is home with you now Nanny. I know you are taking care of him with unconditional love.

Category:

Uncategorized

5 Comments

Reconfiguration

December 31, 2009

Our family at Jordan's tree dedication ceremony

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

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

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

The brothers ringing in 2000

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

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

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

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

My Jordan

Category:

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

4 Comments

Tagged with:

To Do List

December 9, 2009

Decide what’s for dinner
Help Lindsay with her homework
Start laundry
Pack for trip to Delaware for Aunt Frances’ funeral
Summon courage to board plane and attend first funeral since Jordan died
Make new holiday traditions for my family to ease our sadness
Remember not to discard all of our old traditions-that’s where Jordan lives
Accept moments of joy freely, however brief
Shake off guilt that I can’t participate in my daughters’ Girl Scout outing on Saturday
Start thank you notes that are long overdue from last October so I can stop feeling so guilty
Stop feeling guilty about thank you notes
Remind Merrick to do practice tests for ACT’s Saturday
Resolve fear of sending another of my children off to college
Try to quell my anger at God
Hope that I can sleep all the way through one night
Walk the dog
Order Christmas cards and mail in time for Christmas
Meditate
Allow my children to help me stay in the present
Remember to breathe
Grieve for my boy the way I need to without apologies
Remember to eat
Accept when people tell me I’m a good mother
Forgive myself for Jordan dying
Remind myself that grief is not a linear journey
Keep living, keep going

Category:

Uncategorized

7 Comments

Bringing Jordan Home

December 6, 2009

Jordan's candle

Two weeks ago on Mark’s birthday as I shuffled through the mail to get the cards sent by family and friends to put on the table with the gifts for Mark to open, I saw the letter from the funeral home addressed to Mark. I knew what it said without having to open it. We had yet to pick up Jordan’s remains from the funeral home and I knew the letter was telling us it was time to come and pick them up. Tonight was not the time for Mark to see this particular piece of mail. I placed it underneath a pile of catalogs to make sure Mark wouldn’t see it. This was a piece of mail I would make sure he didn’t open or even see on his birthday. I retrieved the cards and proceeded with our typical birthday rituals. Before I went to bed that night I found the letter and opened it knowing I would wonder about it all night if I didn’t open and read it. As I had known, the letter did say it was time to pick up Jordan’s remains. I went to bed that night sleeping off and on but spending most of my time telling myself it was time, we needed to bring Jordan home.

The next morning as Mark dressed for work I told him about the letter from the funeral home. He told me he would call them and handle the arrangements for setting up a time to pick up Jordan’s remains. Later that day Mark confirmed with the funeral home that we would pick up Jordan’s ashes the week after Thanksgiving. I had a week and a half to prepare myself to do what I hadn’t been able to do for over a year. Having Jordan cremated had been one of the easier decisions we had to make after Jordan died, because he’d made it for us. On one of our Thanksgiving drives to Ohio when Jordan was in high school, I was telling Mark my father’s desire to have his ashes spread in the hills of West Virginia near a lake where he played as a child. Jordan chimed into the conversation and said that his desire when he died was to be cremated as well. He appreciated the eco-friendly aspects of cremation and liked the idea that his ashes could be in a place or places that he wanted them to be. We never dreamed that Jordan’s request would have to be honored by us, his parents.

This year all the way to Ohio and the entire time we were there I kept thinking of Tuesday, the day Mark had arranged for us to pick up the remains. I didn’t know if I could go, but I didn’t want Mark to go alone. Tuesday came and Mark came home from work early. We sat in our family room and I told him I wasn’t ready to go to the funeral home that day. I explained to him that bringing Jordan’s ashes home meant all the tricks I’d been using to have moments of denial were being stripped away. His remains, the real proof of our loss would be in our possession. I asked him, “Why does it have to be today?” All he answered was that he had arranged this time and was ready to go and bring Jordan home. He explained to me that if I couldn’t go, it was okay he would go by himself. I immediately objected to that scenario and asked, “Can’t you get someone to go with you if I can’t go?” Mark looked at me with tears in his eyes and explained why picking up Jordan’s remains and bringing them home was something he felt was our responsibility.

He reminded me of Jordan’s birth and retold me his birth story of the day Jordan was born:

When Jordan was born, there was a part of that experience that was just between you and Jordan. I have always honored and respected that bond and that aspect of nature. When I left the hospital after Jordan’s birth it was about 5:30 in the morning. I remember going to Denny’s to eat breakfast and telling the waitress that I was a new father and I had a son. Before I went home to rest for a while, I bought a newspaper to have as a keepsake of the day Jordan was born. I always loved that newspaper cover because it had the picture of the shuttle Columbia being launched the day before. I just remember thinking what a perfect cover for the day my son is born. The sky is the limit for him. When I brought you and Jordan home from the hospital I did it with love and the responsibility that comes with being a husband and a father. Now it’s time to bring our boy home again. I brought my little family home when he was born. I’m going to bring my son home now. I have to.

Image of the newspaper Mark bought on the day Jordan was born.

I didn’t push anymore after Mark explained how bringing Jordan’s remains home was so intertwined with his role as a father. I just asked him to give me one more day to ready myself so that I could go with him. To prepare myself I needed to have an idea of what the container would be like and what if any process we would have to follow. I called the funeral home and told them we wouldn’t be coming that day but would be there the next day. The lady assured me that was fine; we could come any day that week that worked for us. I then asked if we needed to call before we came. She said no. I stumbled a bit as I took a breath and tried to formulate the most burning question I had. Through many “um’s” I finally told her that to prepare myself I needed her to describe in what type of container we would be picking up our son’s remains. She very gently and patiently explained that the remains were separated into four plastic bags as we’d requested and would be in a cardboard box. A cardboard box was how we would find our boy.

We had requested the ashes be separated into four bags because we planned to bury part of Jordan’s ashes in the memorial garden in our backyard, so that a part of him would always be home with us. The other bags would go with us as we travelled to places Jordan had planned to go on his adventures. We will take his remains and spread them at the places he dreamed of going but didn’t live to see.

On Wednesday, December 2^nd, 2009 exactly 414 days since we were last at the funeral home when we had the family viewing of Jordan’s body before the cremation, Mark and I went to the funeral home again. The funeral home is 5 minutes from our house, but I’ve managed to avoid driving past it for over a year. We parked in front of the funeral home at a meter, not in the parking lot as we’d done the first time we were there. The parking lot was where we parked when we came to view Jordan’s body. This time we put money in a meter to take care of the final task with the funeral home. As we walked up the sidewalk Mark reached for my hand, but they were buried deep in my pockets. I was fixated, watching an elderly Asian women pulling bread from her pockets to feed the sparrows that lined the bushes along the sidewalk. Her method of feeding looked more like stalking. I kept watching her slipping up behind birds and stealthily dropping crumbs to the ground. She then spotted a squirrel and came up behind it trying to sneak up on it so she could give it breadcrumbs too. I watched her as we walked and then too soon we were at the door of the funeral home. I had to face forward and look at the door. The sign clearly read, “ring bell.” Mark pulled on one door, then the other door. I pointed to the sign, “We have to ring the bell.” He said, “Oh, I didn’t even see it.”

The funeral director came to the door and welcomed us in with a, cordial and gentle, yet professional manner. He shook our hands and told us to have a seat. We sat for a few minutes and I watched the housekeeper vacuum the room used for services. Suddenly the funeral director was back with an evergreen colored shopping bag, the funeral home name and logo on the side. It was the same green shopping bags they used to give us the extra programs, photo displays and the guest book from the memorial service. He gave Mark a paper to sign, and then explained that the best type of container to put the ashes in would be one with a wide opening. As he spoke I wondered if the container we had chosen was going to work. I didn’t think it would, but I didn’t have the strength to speak. We were then on our way.

It had taken us 414 days to come back to the funeral home and only five minutes to pick up the remains of our son. As we walked to the car with Mark carrying the bag, I saw the elderly Asian woman across the street, hand still in her pocket crumbling bread and then stealthily dropping crumbs into the bushes where birds flocked. I wanted to think about this woman and whether this routine was something she did every day. I started to make up a life story and a routine for her as we walked to the car. I watched her as she walked down the street to her next feeding spot. Thinking about her meant not thinking about the bag Mark was placing in the backseat. Mark held the bag and I looked away, not ready to look inside the bag to see the cardboard box; a box no different from any box that had been shipped to our home carrying items ordered from catalogs. There was the irony, how could the same kind of box that I had opened and used so many times before now hold the remains of one of my most precious loves. I couldn’t look in the bag.

Mark came around to the driver’s side and we were both in the car with the doors closed. I sat staring straight ahead not able to speak. Mark asked me if I wanted to go home and I shook my head no. I told him I just needed a few minutes. I asked, “Can we just sit here a few minutes so I can get myself together?” He nodded yes and placed his hand on my leg. I looked out the window at the funeral home and then the tears came. No words came out only moans, sobs and tears. I cried for all that we’d lost and the pain that accompanied every step and transition we had to make in accepting the death of our son. We had the ashes of our son in the car with us. We were taking him home. We had avoided this step for over a year because it signified a truth and finality that I couldn’t fully embrace. I still want my boy to come home. The bag in the backseat says unequivocally that he won’t, he can’t. I didn’t want to face this moment. I wanted to continue to find a way to undue time and fix October 12^th, 2008. The bag in the backseat, which held Jordan’s remains, was taking us down a different path. A path that held a future of days, celebrations, and memories that Jordan wouldn’t ever experience. I wept until no more tears came. I took a breath, looked at Mark and told him I was ready to go.

We pulled away from the curb; I exhaled and told Mark I wasn’t ready to go home yet. We decided to go to lunch. Even as I said the words, “Let’s go to lunch”, I felt insane. What were we doing acting normal and doing something as mundane as having lunch when the shopping bag was in the backseat? The whole lunch was such an out of body experience. I knew that we were postponing going home and putting Jordan’s remains in the place we had decided on because taking a little more time meant that we didn’t have to face the truth that the bag held. I watched myself go to a local Greek restaurant, make small talk with my husband and eat lunch. I ate food after going to the funeral home to pick up my son’s remains. It was surreal watching myself have this typical experience meshed with the unimaginably painful sojourn we’d just crossed. I’d been placed in a world that felt undone.

Finally, it was time to go home. When we pulled into the driveway, Mark hurriedly got out of the car and bounded up the stairs. He forgot the shopping bag. As he unlocked the back door to our house I called out to him, “The bag is still here. I looked at the bag and hurriedly said, that’s okay I’ll get it.” The automatic side door slid open and I picked up the bag, still not looking into it. Not looking into it didn’t matter anymore; the weight of the bag surprised me. I hadn’t known what to expect, but I wasn’t imagining that the bag would be so heavy. Mark quickly took the bag from me and I said out loud, “It’s heavier than I thought it would be.” All he said was, “I know.” Mark took the bag and put it in the living room. We had allowed ourselves time to get Jordan’s ashes, place them in our home and deal with our initial feelings before the kids came home from school. We decided that they aren’t ready to know that his ashes are home. For now Mark and I own this information and the emotions it brings for our children and us.

Somehow the hour got late and we still hadn’t transferred Jordan’s remains to the container we had chosen. I looked at Mark and said, “Merrick will be home in about an hour we need to take care of it.” We both wearily got up from our seats in the family room and with the same dignity and somberness we’d shown at the viewing of Jordan’s body opened the box. Mark had retrieved the container we were going to use, and I dusted it off even though it was already clean. We sat side by side, I on the corner of the couch, he in the chair next to the couch and he pulled out a plastic bag of ashes. As soon as I saw the bag I knew we’d have to get a new container, the opening of the one we had was too small. Mark attempted to put the bag in but it didn’t fit.

As I looked at the bag suddenly all the memories I had of my child flooded back and blurred together. How could this be? The baby I brought home from the hospital swaddled in blankets was now ashes contained in a plastic bag. Mark put the bag back into the box, and I began to scream. I screamed and I screamed. I screamed and the words, “No”, and “I want my boy”, and “He’s my baby, he’s my baby” echoed through our house. I pounded the walls, I wailed, I wanted to leave. I screamed until I was hoarse and my throat was raw. Mark got me to sit and held me as I moaned and sobbed. We had been given our beautiful baby boy to bring home to love, nurture and raise. Now we sat looking at a box of ashes that used to be our vibrant, firstborn son.

Our boy is gone. We will take care of his remains and do our best to honor his memory by spreading his ashes and making some of his wishes and dreams come true. No matter where his ashes travel, he’ll always be my baby. I won’t ever stop longing for him.

Category:

cremation, grief, loss of child, mourning, spreading ashes

11 Comments

Happy Thanksgiving

November 24, 2009

Our last Thanksgiving with Jordan. Mark is the photographer.

Every year since Jordan and Merrick were young, well before my daughters were born my parent’s home in Ohio has been the place we’ve spent Thanksgiving. The drive to my parents’ home was always a fun-filled time for our family. My greatest pleasure and comfort was looking back into the car as we started our journey and seeing my little family safely together and all within reach of me. I would always look at Mark and smile. He would always say to me, “I know, you love when we’re all together and have uninterrupted time like this.” He was right. Everything in my world felt right as long as I could look back and see my children, and reach over and touch my husband. All I really needed was in that car.

When we’re coming for Thanksgiving my parents start to prepare weeks in advance. My mom calls me from the grocery store asking what cereals the kids like, and what types of drinks to buy. She wants everything to be perfect down to the exact brand of items that we use at home. She wants us to walk in and leave worry outside. Mark and I used to joke when the kids were younger that going to my parents’ house was like going to a bed and breakfast. We could sleep as late as we wanted because when our kids woke up Oma and Pop were there to take care of them. When Mark and I finally roused ourselves from bed realizing how tired we had been, there was always breakfast waiting for us. Going home for Thanksgiving has always meant being cared for and nurtured and definitely fed. It’s not a Norman Rockwell painting by any means, there are spats, and people being short with each other, and never enough room for all the cooks in the kitchen, but it’s home.

Tradition holds a significant place in my family. My father always carves the turkey, I make the cranberry sauce, and a few other side dishes, and my sister always tries one new vegetable recipe and sets a beautiful table that could be photographed for any home magazine. My mother makes the dressing, cakes and potato salad. My sister has always been the potato salad taster until Jordan was old enough and realized how much he loved it. Then, he too was in on the tasting. One of the cakes Mama always made was a lemon pound cake. It was a recipe she got from my brother-in-law’s grandmother. She learned to make it because Jordan loved it so much and would take chunks that can’t be civilly called slices. Jordan had his siblings convinced that Oma made this cake for him alone and he always said it was “Jordan’s cake”. I finally realized what he was doing and had to convince his siblings that they didn’t have to ask him before getting a piece of cake.

Jordan loved Thanksgiving. It was I think his favorite holiday. He loved Christmas too, but loved both holidays for the same reason. He loved having family together and he loved to eat. From his early teen years Jordan had the same Thanksgiving Day ritual. He would eat breakfast, but not too much, and then wait for dinner. No matter how my mother, sister or I tried to convince him that he might get sick if he waited all day and then gorged himself, he would not be moved. Year after year he applied the same strategy, and year after year we would all watch in amazement as this tall skinny kid put away food like 2 grown men. His strategy clearly worked for him. My parents love to cook and nothing gave them more pleasure than watching Jordan eat, and then as Merrick got older watching him try to keep up with Jordan.

When we sat down to eat each year Mark blessed the food and prayed in a way that would make any preacher proud. The rituals and traditions don’t stop there. Since the age of four my daughters have been our after dinner entertainment. It is always a pre-planned show that they practice before we arrive. We all gather in the living room and they make their entrance and treat us to their latest variety show. As they got older and learned to read and write they would make tickets and pass them out before the show. They acted as ushers as well as performers. The funniest memory of their performances is the year my father came into the living room and wearily sat down in a chair after cleaning the dishes from dinner (yes, that was another tradition-Daddy cleaned the kitchen every year). My sister was still sitting in the living room and Daddy asked her, “What time does the show start?” She told him, “Daddy you missed it Lindsay and Kendall already did their show while you were in the kitchen.” My father responded with indignation, “Shoot, I’ve got a ticket for a show and I expect a show.” My sister and I laughed so hard we were crying. These are the memories Thanksgivings of past years bring.

My daughters' after dinner show

Last year was our first without Jordan and all of my memories are filtered through numbness and grief. I can’t recall too many of the occurrences of that time. The one vivid memory I do have is willing myself into the car so that we could be on our way. The thought of driving to Ohio without all of my children, made me feel like a bad mother. My safe time with my little family had been shattered. It felt like if we went we were leaving Jordan behind; I didn’t know how to do that. We’d never taken this trip without Jordan. I wasn’t sure I could do it.

The picture of Jordan I look at and talk too most often.

Before we left I went into Jordan’s room and looked at the poster we had made for the memorial service. It has the picture of Jordan when he received his acceptance letter from Amherst College. All around the picture are notes of love and remembrance to my son from family and friends. I looked deep into his eyes, touched his beautiful smile and then kissed the picture. Before I made my way to the car I went into the basement and picked up Jordan’s jacket that he usually took back with him to school when he came home for Thanksgiving. I picked it up hugged it and inhaled the hood which still held his scent. I wanted to bring as much of him with us as I could. After I completed these tasks, I made my way to the car. Everyone was in the car, motor running and I finally was able to come out and join them. We were on our way, doing the best we could.

Thanksgiving dinner and the time we spent at my parents’ home last year resonated with all of us trying to bear our own grief and take care of each other at the same time. Last year there was no lemon pound cake, Mama couldn’t bear to make it. I don’t remember the girls doing a show. We were all somber and together for the first time since Jordan’s death. We made it through, but filled our time and busied ourselves differently than we had in years past. It was a quiet time.

This year as we prepare to go to my parent’s home, my childhood home, Mark has made the request of arriving before nightfall as we prepare for our journey. He wants to make sure we leave early enough in the day so that we arrive before dark. He had the same request last year. Since Jordan died driving on the highway at night has too many shadows and “what if” thoughts. We both look at the side rails and imagine the car our son was in falling over a guardrail 30 feet to the ground. Every time we cross bridges I imagine the car falling in slow motion 30 feet and landing on the right side, the side Jordan was on, before righting itself. I always physically shake my head to clear these images away. The night Jordan and his friends were going back to school, it was a clear night, no fog, and no rain. It was dark but not late. The accident occurred around 9:30 pm. Fatigue caused the crash, it’s that simple and that difficult to grasp. We both wonder why they didn’t pull over or help each other stay awake. Nightfall on the highway stirs these questions and images; we travel during the day to outrun them.

This year there is still hesitation and wistfulness as the time draws near for us to make our road trip. Merrick has already admitted that he is having a harder time this year than he did last. He has repeated to me, “It’s not the same without Jordan.” I comfort him and share his loss and pain. There are, however, emerging signs of hope as well. My daughters have started practicing for their show, and along with my sister are planning a Jackson 5 song complete with dance routine. When I talked to Mama the other day, she asked if I wanted to resume our annual Friday shopping trip which we have done for years, getting up at 6am and at the mall by 7am. I told her yes, this year it sounds like a good idea. She also reeled off the things she has prepared and said without hesitation, I’m making the chocolate and the lemon pound cake. We’re having “Jordan’s cake” on the menu again.

New traditions will have to be threaded in with the old as we keep going, learning to live without Jordan. As we sit down to our Thanksgiving meal with family this year, our prayer will be the same as last year. It will be a prayer filled with thanks, wistfulness and honor. We will thank God for his blessings and for providing us with his grace. We will ask for continued strength and say as we did last year, “There will always be a seat at the table for you Jordan. You will never be forgotten.”

Rest well my sweet boy. You are missed today and everyday. Happy Thanksgiving

My wonderful son with his beautiful smile

Category:

family support, going home, grief, loss of child, Mother of Four, mourning

1 Comment

Tagged with:

Brother Talk

November 23, 2009

Brothers and confidantes

Merrick stayed home from school the other day. He wasn’t sick, except with grief. I saw the signs that weariness was settling in on him as the week wore on and I told his dad, “I don’t know if he’s going to make it through this week. He looks like he’s barely making it.” After practicing and performing in the Spoken Word Showcase at school, doing a history project, studying and taking an English quiz and a Physics test all in one week, he hit the wall. He came to me Friday morning and said, “Mom, I don’t feel good, I can’t go to school today.”

“What’s the matter?”

“I just don’t feel good, my stomach is bothering me.”

“Merrick you’ve got to talk to me honestly. I need to know what’s going on if you are staying home.”

I went into Merrick’s room and sat on his bed. He was lying down on his side and we started to really talk. It finally all spills out. He tells me how his mind has been racing about school and about the upcoming holidays. He hasn’t slept well in days and the night before he didn’t fall asleep until around 3am. He is exhausted and can’t stop thinking about how different everything feels without Jordan.

The day before when Merrick came home from school I took advantage of the fact that his sisters were staying after school for a project. I knew we could talk without being interrupted and I chose this time to ask him simply, “How are you feeling? We haven’t talked in awhile about how things are going at school and what your thinking about Thanksgiving this year.” Merrick looked at me and gave me a vague response about school starting to “get crazy” and he was just trying to deal with that. I probed and was finally able to get a description of what “get crazy,” meant. He finally gave me examples of the types of things that were on his mind.

He talked about his distaste for how kids in remedial classes are treated differently when they get in trouble as opposed to their more achieving counterparts. Earlier in the week he witnessed one of the security guards tell a white male student to go to the detention center. Moments later he saw the same security guard grab a black male student by the collar and forcibly take him to the detention center. Merrick has always internalized the inequities and injustices he sees around him. He is one of those individuals that worry about the world. Merrick worries about the incidents that occur in the microcosm of his high school world and how these incidents shape the larger world.

As I listened to Merrick I recognized the angst brewing inside him. I had seen it before. Merrick has always been shy and slow to warm up around his peers. Seeing others bullied or treated unfairly has always made Merrick uncomfortable and made him shrink inside himself a bit so as not to be targeted. The times his quietness has been misjudged as weakness and he has been the target of bullies, he has quickly let his strength both physical and inner be known. Those who targeted him realized how much they have underestimated him. Regardless of how he handles himself, when school situations are overwhelming he stays close to the wall and keeps his head down. He doesn’t like confrontations and has a term for how he handles them, “ghosting”. Last year he was starting to come to terms with these “ghosting” behaviors and learn to not take high school and it’s occasional unfortunate but inherent culture so seriously. Jordan had been his mentor and confidante on that journey.

As he relayed his worries, I said to Merrick, “I know you’ve always had these worries about bullying and kids being targeted. You and Jordan used to have long talks about your feelings about high school. What did Jordan say to you about your worries and fears.” Merrick looked at me, exhaled and then with a far off look that held such longing told me about his “brother talks.” He said Jordan always told him that he had too much “righteous anger” inside of him. Jordan wanted Merrick to understand that certain aspects of high school were wrong, rude, and unfair, but trying to absorb and figure them all out was not Merrick’s responsibility. Merrick said to me, “Jordan always told me to let go of some of my righteous anger so that I wouldn’t miss out on the good things that high school also had to offer.” Merrick thought a moment and then continued, “He told me that college would be different and I would have more freedom and choices; I’d see the difference and be more comfortable.”

I looked at my son and told him all the things Jordan had told him still held true. I begged him not to forget the advice his brother had given him. How much he missed his brother filled the room. All I wanted was to suggest ways for Merrick’s loneliness and longing for his brother to be eased. I told him to keep talking to Jordan, write to him, write poems about him, and express his feelings in his freestyle and spoken word. I reminded him that I talked to Jordan all the time. I wrote him letters and felt connected to Jordan because of these actions. I told him the reason I started my blog was to share my thoughts and feelings about my love for and loss of Jordan. Merrick’s weariness made him wary of my suggestions but he said he would try. Merrick then revealed that his biggest sadness was that the holidays were approaching and he blurted out, “I feel worse this year than I did last year. It’s not the same without Jordan.” All I could say to him was, “I know, it’s not the same. But, I don’t want you to think there’s anything wrong with you because you feel worse this Thanksgiving than you did last year.” I wanted him to understand that grief is not a straight path that we walk on where everyday is a progression that leads us to a destination. I assured Merrick that he is not alone in feeling it is hard learning to live without Jordan.

I didn’t tell Merrick, but I knew that last year shock and numbness had enveloped our family and allowed us to move through the days without facing the full rawness the pain of not having Jordan with us brought. Feeling worse this year was a sign of the numbness of our grief wearing off. As hard as it is we are moving closer to acceptance. It is not a linear path and it does not follow any calendar ever invented. As those on the grief journey longer than my family have been reminded me, time eases the pain but time is relative and personalized to each mourner’s heart. I hugged my son and offered this same promise.

My family goes into this holiday season longing for a son, brother, grandson, nephew, and friend. For my family I know that what I remind my children when they are sad and weeping over our loss still holds true, we will love Jordan together, and we can miss him together. Jordan will always be in our hearts.

Merrick always keep Jordan close to your heart.

Category:

brothers, family support, grief, high school, loss of child, Mother of Four, mourning

1 Comment

Tagged with:

Trusting Again

November 13, 2009

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

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

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

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

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

Tom responded,

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

God,

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

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

What is prayer for?

I pray for mercy

My heart still hurts

I pray for peace

I still can’t sleep

Prayer doesn’t soothe

It doesn’t benefit

It doesn’t protect

I prayed for safety

It didn’t work

I need to sleep

I want my son

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

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

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

Category:

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

4 Comments

Tagged with:

Celebrations

November 6, 2009

Brothers that were buddies from the start

On October 20^th, 2008 I wrote the following in my journal:

Jordan’s gone. The pain is everywhere and there’s no place to put it.

It’s Merrick’s birthday. I got up, got the kids off to school and stumbled back to bed. Mark held me as I slept and he stared.

Later, I got up and curled my hair, put on make-up and changed my clothes. I made sure to put on a necklace, earrings and a bracelet, the things Merrick has seen me in before. The things I wear when I want to feel like I look good.

My heart is so heavy and aching with missing Jordan; I also have joy and this wonderful gift whose name is Merrick. Today is his day and he will be celebrated.

Those are the words written in my journal 8 days after Jordan died. Within 8 days were the death of one child and the birthday of another. I was saturated with pain and sorrow and my son’s 16^th birthday was here. He was upon one of the “big” birthdays, the one that puts you on the threshold of independence and starts the pull from adolescence into young adulthood.

Since the age of 5, Merrick claimed the month of October as his own. The first day of October he would come downstairs and in a loud voice announce, “It’s Oc-toh-berrr” just like one of the World Wrestling Federation announcers. It was his signature call that we all awaited. Then every day until his birthday he would count down and ask me the same question, “Hey Mom, you know my birthday is in 19 days?” Then the next day the same question as the countdown continued until finally his birthday arrived. My response everyday to the countdown question was the same, “Yes Merrick I know your birthday is in 19,18,17… days. I was there for the actual birth.” Last year like clockwork came the “It’s Oc-toh-berrr” call. He was so excited at finally being 16. He talked about getting his learner’s permit and then his license. He told me he knew he’d have to run errands and pick up his sisters “Just like Jordan.” He was so excited that he was about to be 16.

I asked him if he wanted to do something special with his friends for his birthday. He gave me an exasperated look and explained that girls got together for birthdays and had “little parties” but that’s not what guys did in his generation. He told me, “let’s just do what we always do.” Our family tradition for the kids’ birthdays was to go to Cheesecake Factory for dinner, order cheesecake to go, and came home to sing “Happy Birthday” and open presents. I told Merrick, “then we’ll do our regular routine”.

Jordan helping Merrick celebrate his 13th birthday

Our regular routine, even saying those words is difficult now, but planning for Merrick’s birthday is probably the last time I said or felt anything that was like “our regular routine.” October 12^th, 2008 the day Jordan died has taken the words “regular routine” from our vocabulary -at least for now. There may come a day when those words feel right to say again. We celebrated Merrick’s birthday last year, all of us with such heavy hearts. Merrick did his best to be cheerful but there are pictures from that night that make me cry every time I look at them. Pictures of Merrick with a faraway look, lost in thought, clearly not thinking about celebrating. Every time I look at a certain picture I wonder if Merrick is thinking what I was thinking, “Jordan would/should be calling right now.”

Merrick lost in thought as we sing "Happy Birthday" to him on his 16th birthday.

Merrick hearing his brother’s voice wishing him a happy birthday was missing from the day. That birthday call was part of the regular routine since Jordan had been away at college.

Right after Jordan died Merrick and I talked and he expressed his sadness, but also his belief that Jordan’s spirit would be with him always. He admitted to me however, that he was relieved that Jordan didn’t die on his birthday. He said to me, “I don’t think I could take it if that had happened. This is already too hard.” Even though Jordan didn’t die on Merrick’s birthday it has changed October for all of us, but especially my son who lost his only brother and his claim on the month of October.

This year as the first day of October came; I waited but knew there would be no cry of, “It’s Oc-toh-berr”. Merrick no longer claimed October. Merrick was so subdued and didn’t mention his birthday at all for the first week of the month. One day as he and I sat at the kitchen table eating lunch, he said to me, “Mom, there are two good things happening in October.” I asked him, “What are they?” His reply was about a new video game and a new movie coming out that month. I looked at him across the table and then gently said to him, “And your birthday.” He looked at me and said quietly, “Oh yeah, that too.”

How I ached for my boy. He needed so much gentleness and care. The 8 days that separated his birthday from the loss of his brother weren’t lived in real time. They were more like one extended day that should never have been. I didn’t push any false cheer on Merrick. I knew the result of that would be him forcing himself to act happy to make his family feel at ease. I had to let him feel whatever he needed to feel as his birthday approached. It hurt seeing how changed he was from years past. Merrick had gone from treating his birthday as a national holiday to seeming wary and just trying to make it through the day. It was one of those moments as a parent when you stand helplessly by watching the pain of your child and know that it is a burden you cannot fix. There is no way to take away the pain.

As Merrick’s birthday approached, Mark told me what gift he planned to get for Merrick. He was planning on buying him the Sony Playstation 3, even though we couldn’t really afford to right now. Mark’s only care was trying in some way to see a glimpse of excitement and joy in Merrick’s eyes. Any talk of money and budgets from me were futile. Mark was determined that whether it worked or not he was going to surprise Merrick with a gift he knew he wasn’t expecting at all. He wanted to see a glimpse of joy amidst the quiet pain haunting our son’s face.

A few days before his birthday I asked Merrick what gifts he wanted since he hadn’t asked for anything. Merrick told me that he needed a couple of sweatshirts and a new wallet. He needed a wallet because his had been stolen from his gym locker a week before. Most of the contents of the wallet had been found in an empty classroom including his school ID and learner’s permit, but he was most upset that “Jordan’s mantle” was gone. The mantle Merrick referred to was a piece of cloth that had been cut from a larger cloth our Pastor used during the tree dedication ceremony we had for “Jordan’s tree”.

Friends cutting cloth from "Jordan's mantle"

The tree was donated by my daughters’ Girl Scout Troop and planted in Jordan’s honor at the field overlooking the elementary school all four of our children attended. Our pastor explained that the cloth represented a way for all of us to honor Jordan’s memory by carrying forth Jordan’s work, loves, interests and personality. The pastor placed the mantle cloth on a branch of the tree and urged everyone to cut off a piece and keep it with them and decide what aspect of Jordan’s personality and life they wished to emulate and keep alive. He talked of Jordan’s sense of adventure, his social activism, love of family, love of reading and learning new things, and his loyalty as a friend. The mantle cloth represented all of these attributes and Merrick as did everyone at the ceremony cut a piece for himself. He told me that he kept the cloth in his wallet. He was most upset that when the contents of his wallet were found, the mantle cloth was not among them. I assured Merrick that we still had the larger piece of cloth and that he would be able to cut another piece.

The day of Merrick’s birthday arrived and with the help of his sisters who had excitement to spare Merrick began to look forward to the celebration we would have after school. I tried to glean and soak up the excitement and energy my daughters were feeling but it wasn’t enough. The reality that my family was starting year two without Jordan to participate in our celebrations weakened me and made me weary. I struggled for most of the day trying not to concentrate on how many celebrations we’d have to have without Jordan. Last year shock had acted as a buffer to the pain of losing Jordan. This year, the first anniversary of Jordan’s death, reinforced that my boy can’t and won’t be coming home. Imagining having to muster the energy and excitement for all the holidays to come overpowered me. “How could we every truly celebrate again when someone, our Jordan, was missing from the table?” “Would any holiday, or vacation ever feel right?” “Could our family make new memories without Jordan that felt joyful and not tinged with sadness?” Those were the thoughts swirling through my head on my son’s birthday. I was so anguished and upset with myself that I was having so much trouble preparing my mind and our home for Merrick’s birthday.

I spent most of the day in bed, crying off and on and so tired. I tried to figure out how I was going to get the things done, and get myself in the right state of mind to be present for my family and especially my son. The list of errands I needed to run to make Merrick’s day special was on a reel in my head: pick up balloons, get cards and gift bags, and have everything out to welcome Merrick home. The list of things was minimal but my weariness made it feel close to impossible to accomplish these simple tasks.

Then it happened, the part of me that never lets me fall too deep into despair took hold. There came the point during the day, when my sorrow and fatigue started to feel like wallowing and self-pity. I knew I had to shake the depression and take care of my child. I reminded myself as I have times before, “I am the mother of four.” October 20^th was my beloved, amazing son’s birthday, he would be celebrated and it would include all the traditions he had come to expect. Despite Merrick’s hesitation and the strangeness all of us felt at celebrating a family event without Jordan, we had to, and we needed to. As parents it was Mark’s and my responsibility to help Merrick reclaim his birthday in a way that showed our joy at celebrating him and the day he was born.

Merrick changed our routine a bit and asked that we order dinner “in” since his birthday was on a school night. When he came home from school, his chair was festooned with balloons as is our tradition and after dinner we sang “Happy Birthday” and took pictures as he blew out his candles and opened his presents. He opened the presents and cards from his grandparents and his aunt and uncle, the gag gifts his sisters bought for him, to make him laugh, and the presents from Mark and I. He liked the clothes I’d chosen for him, and then I handed him a gift bag that was just from me. He opened it and saw that it was a wallet, exactly like the one that had been stolen from his gym locker. I told him to open it and he saw that I had put a dollar inside. I explained that his “Oma”, my mother, had always taught me that you never give a person a wallet without money inside. I then told him to look into one of the folds. He opened one of the folds and pulled out the piece of “Jordan’s mantle” that I had tucked inside. Merrick looked at me tearing up and said simply, but with so much gratitude, which is his way, “Thanks Mom.”

Merrick and I after he opened his gifts.

Then it was on to the final gift. Mark had spent the afternoon setting up the Playstation 3. He had wrapped one of the controllers as Merrick’s clue to the “big” gift. Merrick opened the package and very quickly put two and two together. All he could say was, “Wow, I never expected to get this. This is awesome. Thank you. Thank you.” The look on his face erased any worries I had about our budget. Excitement and joy crossed the eyes of my son who has been weighted down with so much loneliness and sorrow. No matter the cost, that gift was worth every penny. We all went upstairs so Merrick could check out his new system. For the next couple of hours he and Mark were upstairs tinkering and making sure that it worked perfectly. After I came downstairs I heard Mark and Merrick laughing and talking and knew that Mark had done right by our son.

Merrick checking out his new gift

That night as is his nightly routine, when he was about to go to bed, Merrick came into my bedroom to hug me and say goodnight. Before he left to go to bed he looked at me and said, “This turned out to be a good birthday.” I looked at him and said, “That’s what we wanted for you. I’m glad.” With everyday my family is relearning a new normal and celebrations are no exception. We keep going.

Category:

birthdays, brothers, celebrations, grief, loss of child, Mother of Four, mourning

6 Comments

Tagged with:

Sitting with Anger

October 28, 2009

A pic of Jordan I keep in my journal. The fortune reads,"Sorrow of parting will bring happiness of reunification."

There have been over 365 days without Jordan. Marking a year did nothing to ease my sadness. I had this fantasy that if I made it to a year without my son, then there would be relief, some acceptable change. I fantasized that someone would pop out and say, “Well, you’ve shown you can handle heartache, loss and pain. We know now you’re a strong person. Open that door over there, and see your son again. This past year has been a horrible dream, but you passed the test.” Even as I fantasized, I knew there was no test. It’s my life. The days without Jordan keep accumulating and I’m approaching another holiday season without him. Another year without him is here and the fury I feel has caught me off guard.

Sadness is with me always, but anger and sometimes rage have dropped by and are making time for me as well. I’ve never felt this kind of fury before. I never knew anger could hurt so much and be so debilitating. I’ve screamed, I’ve wanted to break things, punch, kick and physically hurt someone or something, just to release the swell of anger that threatens to sway me into instability. Even with the anger, the good girl that I’ve always been brings reason and I realize I’m too ladylike to break something. I can’t even bring myself to pick up the Amherst college mug that Mark ordered for me when Jordan was a freshman. I want to break it. I want to hurl it against a wall and scream, “No, I want my son back.” I hate looking at it. For me it represents the lost dreams of my child, the future we thought he had. Mark and my children still proudly wear their Amherst gear and it gives them comfort. My daughters drink cocoa from the mug. I see this mug that I used to drink out of every morning, feeling closer to Jordan as I imagined him in class and now I want it shattered into a million pieces. I have a mug and not my son.

Residual anger that leeches on and can’t be shaken is new to me. I’m comfortable with depression, sadness, and guilt; these are the emotions I’m willing to associate with grief and even expect. The strength and vitriol of my anger surprises me. It has shaken me to my core. My sense of control already weakened, threatens to bottom out completely making me question what kind of person I am?

I’ve started having nightmares where I’m a college student again and I wander the halls searching for my dorm room. I look around in my dream and see everyone going on their way seeming to know their destination and I struggle to remember where my room is. Everyone I ask points me in a different direction. I always wake up panicked and before that first real moment of consciousness I really believe I’m in college. Then, when I’m fully awake I realize that college is a goal I’ve already accomplished and the one I want in college is Jordan. When I have this dream I have to fight to get out of bed in the morning. I lay there thinking, wondering, “How did this happen?” and “Jordan you’re supposed to be in school” and my most plaintive plea, “Jordan please come home.” Sometimes I’ll drift off just to imagine if only for a moment that Jordan is in his junior year, preparing for class and even picture what his room looks like. It is such small comfort. No amount of fantasizing eases the aspects of grief that I’ve come to know and endure. Now, suddenly anger is a regular part of my grief.

My anger has presented itself in so many forms. Sometimes it’s the impatience I have for my children as they come home from school and clamor for my attention and to tell me about their day. Sometimes it’s the edginess I take with me when I’m out running errands and am so tightly wound that a part of me wishes a salesperson would be rude to me just so I’d have someone to unleash some of my pain and anger onto.

I’ve had anger for everyone. This weekend the rage I felt was directed at Jordan and me. I railed at myself for not being more vigilant. Why didn’t I follow my instincts and call him while he was on the road? Why didn’t I give him money for a bus ticket so he wouldn’t have driven with his friends?

I talked to Jordan too.I laid on my bed and out loud, through tears I expressed my anger towards him with so many questions, “Jordan, why did you change the plan without asking if it was okay? You texted me when your new plan to go to Baltimore was already underway. Why didn’t you stay in New York? You could have stayed with Malcolm or Matt. It was your friend’s birthday that weekend. You were supposed to hang out with him. Why did you have to go to Baltimore? Why were you talked into clubbing and concerts? Why did you go? I want you back. I want you to come home.” After ranting and questioning my son, I’m spent and cry myself to sleep. I wake up later when Mark comes to check on me and I realize hours have past. Acting out my rage has exhausted me, but its release has also calmed me.

I have moments of fury for Jordan’s friends who were in the car with him during the accident. Jordan’s friends who walked away from the accident with nothing more than a bruise or a scratch. “Why didn’t the driver pull over if he was tired? Why didn’t one of the other boys act as co-pilot and insure their safe passage back to school? Why didn’t the other families whose sons were in that car have to share this unbearable pain and grief? Why just my son gone?”

I’ve received cards, calls and letters from the parents of these boys and as I read their expressions of condolence and prayer a part of me appreciates their generosity and another part thinks only, “You still have your son.” All four families experienced this horrible accident. Their sons have to live with the horrific memory of seeing their friend die, which I know will forever haunt them- but they’re still here. How do I make sense of having such horrible, conflicted feelings? I’ve prayed for these boys, who are Jordan’s friends. I wrote them a letter last winter as I worried over them and the guilt they must be feeling. I hadn’t heard from them since the accident but I needed to reach out to them. I wanted them to know Jordan, not only as their friend, but as my son. I sent them the following letter:

January 27, 2009

Dear E, M and C,

I know you all are in your last semester at Amherst. I think a lot about the three of you and wonder how you’re doing. From what Jordan told me about you all I know that you have grand plans for your futures and are excited to be out in the “real world”. Jordan always had an adventurous spirit. I knew when he was a little boy that he would want to see the world. He had his first sleepover when he was three. It was born of necessity given that I was in labor with his younger brother three weeks earlier than expected. He stayed with his best friend’s family and wasn’t afraid only excited. He liked being with his friends.

As I’m sure you noticed Jordan’s friendships were varied. He never pigeonholed himself into one group or one type of friend. You guys were a couple of years older than he but you found common ground. He made friends with incoming freshmen as well as his fellow sophomores. Jordan understood and honored friendship. He didn’t betray trusts, he didn’t judge and he was loyal. I know about his friends through him. He and I talked a few times a week. He would call me on his way to his room after lunch, or on his way to the library in the evening. When I called him, he would at times be in the room of one of you guys. I could hear the chatter and the partying in the background on a Wednesday night and would tease him by telling him to put me on speaker so I could tell you all to “Go To The Library!”

I didn’t realize the impact Jordan had on so many or learn the depths of his friendships until his Memorial Service. There were elementary, high school and college friends in attendance as well as friends he made and stayed in touch with from a 6 – week summer internship program he did after his sophomore year in high school. We were saddened that you couldn’t be there to say goodbye, but I hope you’ve spoken to your friends who were there and gotten a sense of how deeply Jordan was loved by those he touched. We’ve received letters from those who couldn’t attend with their own wonderful memories of our Jordan. We’ve learned so much about his generous spirit, sense of fun, and as one friend put it-“If time travel were possible, we voted Jordan most likely to fit in no matter where he landed.”

Jordan could be quiet and reserved until he got to know you, and then could be as silly as anything you’ve ever seen. I hope you got to see that side of him. He also was never afraid of new challenges. I always tell people the story of his first day of kindergarten. When I dropped him off at his new school he said goodbye to me at the door and walked in. There were no backward glances or need for one more hug. That was how Jordan lived-if he was nervous he didn’t like letting it show. He was excited with all the possibilities and opportunities he saw before him. He was having a tremendous time at college and was looking forward to and planning his next adventures. He talked of travelling to South America, Africa, England-anywhere and everywhere.

I’m sure you know how much our family misses Jordan. He was our oldest child, an amazing son and big brother. I also know that all of your lives have been forever changed. Jordan’s death is a fact that can’t be denied or erased. That is a reality we all share. I ask one thing of all of you-make the choice to live full lives. Please push the words “what’s the point?” out of your minds. The point is simple- You are on this earth to live a life filled with meaning and purpose. Don’t squander such a gift and opportunity. I hope the memory of Jordan is in the fabric of your being. I hope his smile; wit, sense of fun and adventure, and his quiet charm are the aspects of him that you hold onto. You young men are just starting your lives. My hope is that you honor Jordan’s memory, not out of guilt, shame or obligation but because he was your friend.

With deep sincerity,

Jackie Moore

Mark and I met with Jordan’s friends and their parents in Boston in July for the first time. We had the boys in our home to honor Jordan on his birthday. But one year later, right now, I’m outraged that they can continue a life that my son will never see. I pray through my tears and rage that these boys will understand that their days of feeling youthful arrogance and invincibility are over. They can never claim those traits again, maturity and responsibility must take their place. One of their friends died, my son died. It is a reality we all face in our own ways. We are bound together for the rest of our lives because of the loss of Jordan.

I’ve no choice but to face anger and make room for it in the same way I have for sorrow, guilt and despair. It’s not going anywhere so clearly it needs to be acknowledged and expressed. I have to learn how to sit with my anger, just as I sit with the other expressions of grief. I have to accept that anger is a part of my mourning journey. For now, anger has come to call and as it courses through me I need to be still and let it have its say. All I have is time, and I pray to use it in a way that allows me to move on, learning about myself and no matter the emotion or stage of grief I’m in, always trying to honor the memory of my son.

Category:

anger, anniversaries, college, grief, Mother of Four, mourning, rage

3 Comments

Tagged with:

Alwaysmomof4's Blog

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.

Wish You Were Here

Home

Reconfiguration

To Do List

Bringing Jordan Home

Happy Thanksgiving

Brother Talk

Trusting Again

Celebrations

Sitting with Anger

Categories

Recent Posts

Archives

Blogroll

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.

Search

Categories

Recent Posts

Archives

Blogroll