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.

Posts tagged ‘auto accidents’

Waiting For The Repairman

Does anyone remember those, “Baby on Board,” signs that were prevalent in the late ‘80’s and ‘90’s? They seemed to be suction cupped to the window of every other car on the road. I thought about those signs this morning and how I never got one after Jordan was born because it seemed to me that people should drive safely regardless of whether there was a baby in the car or not.

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We’re still waiting to see if the video camera we sent in for repair will come back to us with images of Jordan in the last months before he died. The repairman called again recently to say that they needed to repair the motherboard and wanted our approval because they couldn’t guarantee that our hard drive wouldn’t be lost. If the hard drive is lost in the process of repairing the machine we lose the footage that’s on the camera. When the repairman asked what I wanted to do, proceed, or not with the repairs, my response was silence, then a heavy sigh and then a plea.

“The hard drive holds footage of our son. He was killed in a car accident. We need it.”

“Ma’am, I can’t guarantee that the hard drive won’t be damaged. Can you have your husband call me back and tell me what you want to do?”

Another long silence as I try to keep the tears out of my voice.

“Um, I’m not sure what we should do. I’ll have my husband call you.”

“Thank you, Ma’am.”

Mark called the repair center and told them to go ahead with the repairs. This morning while I showered I thought about the camera and visualized the repairs being done, hoping that they’re being extra careful so we have more memories of Jordan. I finally shook my head and thought, “Whether you have the footage or not, Jordan’s still gone. Stop putting so much importance on the camera. It doesn’t bring Jordan back.”

I realized how ridiculous it was that I’d poured my heart out to the repairman as though with my camera he’d be extra careful and more professional and with everyone else’s repairs he did slipshod work. That’s how I got to the baby on board signs in my meandering way. I would hope that the repairman always does his best work, just like when I saw the, “Baby on Board,” signs I hoped that everyone drove responsibly. Now I wish I’d wrapped the car Jordan was riding in on October 12th, 2008 in, “MY BABY ON BOARD,”signs and that doing so would have kept him alive. There are no magic formulas of protection or safety. I’m sitting with that harsh reality and waiting again for a box in the mail.

Category:

anniversaries, auto accident, death of son, Jordan, Mother of Four, mourning, prayer

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Mind Over Matter

I’m downstairs, listening to my daughters who are upstairs simultaneously practicing flute and clarinet. They’re in separate rooms but I have no idea how they can practice without messing up the other’s timing. Tomorrow is a snow day! It is the first my daughters have ever had since being in school. They are beyond excited. Merrick found out his high school is closed tomorrow as well, the first time since the mid 1970’s. Before he could fully relax he asked me, “Mom, they really said school is closed. You’re sure?” So we’re all hunkered down for the storm. Mark is home and aside from the howling winds our house feels safe.

I’m working to bring safety back to my spirit. When I emailed Edward to ask about the accident I did so without letting anyone know. Mark wishes I’d stop, not wanting me to hurt anymore than I do now. He thinks we know enough and that any additional details will only hurt me more. He may be right. The mother in me, Jordan’s mother, can’t rest without understanding the whole of the truth of that night. Mark’s afraid I’ll be haunted by what I find out. I’m afraid I’ll be haunted if I don’t. I check my email as usual everyday, not expecting to see a response from Edward but bracing myself just in case there is one. So far he has not responded or acknowledged my query of him. There may never be a response.

I did fantasize when I saw the mailman across the street today that perhaps Edward was writing a real letter and that was why I hadn’t heard from him yet. I know I’ve asked a lot of him. What I’m learning from my own experience about trauma and PTSD are that the things the mind does to protect the heart are astounding. Edward may be in full protection mode and unable to even go back to that night.

Mark reminded me when I told him about finally realizing that Edward put his t-shirt to the back of Jordan’s head not to his forehead, that I’d know that all along. So gently he said to me, “Remember, the coroner and James (a family friend who is an ER doc) told us that he couldn’t survive an impact like that to the back of the head.”

I remember that Mark talked to the coroner in MA by phone and James was also on the line. He told me afterwards what they said. What I remember from that conversation is him saying, “Jordan was asleep. He didn’t feel any pain.” That’s what my mind took in and that’s what my heart could handle. Almost 2 1/2 years later the shock and blur of Jordan’s accident are not as constant and I can’t explain to anyone why I crave details now.

I read a short story a while ago entitled, “The Girlfriend.” It is in a book by Maile Meloy called,Both Ways Is The Only Way I Want It. In the story a father seeks out the girlfriend of the man who murdered his daughter after the trial where the man is found guilty. He wants to know every detail of that night that he can find. What the father ultimately finds out makes him feel worse, almost a party to the crime instead of somehow more settled. I’ve thought about that story  a lot wondering if I’ll end up like the father having too much information that will have to somehow keep house with my pain not ease it. I just don’t know.

I found an entry in one of my journals from 11/10. The entry is entitled, “Why Do This.” Meaning why write a blog, why am I writing a book? I had a long list of reasons some of which are:

  1. To feel closer to Jordan
  2. To stop being afraid of being happy
  3. To accept that my boy is gone
  4. To figure out how to diffuse some of this pain

The last item on my list was:

5.To ask all the questions that I want answers to, even if there aren’t any answers.

Category:

anger, anniversaries, auto accident, college, grief, guilt, maternal instinct

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The Need To Know

The back of his skull was crushed, that’s why Edward put his shirt under Jordan’s head not on his forehead like I’ve assumed and imagined he did for two years. The email from Edward that he sent on 8/29/09 told me plain as day, “I put my shirt under Jordan’s head to stop the bleeding.” I came across the email yesterday when I was cleaning up my inbox. Instead of skipping over it as I have for over a year I read it and it was the first time that the events of that evening made their way through my grief.

Jordan was dying when Edward pulled him from the car. The coroner’s report said his brain stem was damaged and that he never had a chance to wake up. My version of the events of that night was tidier. Jordan was asleep during the accident. He hit his head and never regained consciousness. I held that version until I saw the 2009 Winter Olympics and the luge accident where the athlete was killed. There was so much blood around his head. It was the first time I connected a head injury with blood.

My sister commenting on my “Looking Too Soon” post about the luge accident, wrote that her husband cleaned the blood from Jordan’s shoes. Reading her comment brought to my knees, hyperventilating and getting my first true glimpse of how horrific the accident scene must have been. What she knew and how she told me were things I wasn’t prepared to accept so I rejected her comment never allowing it space with the other comments on my blog, as though that would change the truth.

Everything I’ve written about the accident has Edward putting his t-shirt on Jordan’s forehead, a far less serious injury than the one described in the accident report and the coroner’s report. I read both reports and missed the details that gave the accurate depiction. In my version, the fantasy of a mother with a son who died, I wanted Jordan to go to the hospital so I could sit by his bedside and lie next to him and tell him, “Mama and Daddy are here,” until he drew his last breath.

He died on the side of the road and the blood that had to be staved wasn’t from a cut on his forehead but from the base of his crushed skull. It took me a year to realize that the cleaned up body with the bandaged forehead that I viewed at the funeral home wasn’t the body at the accident scene. My heart and mind for some reason are now willing to acknowledge more of  the trauma I blocked out before.

Seeing Edwards’ email yesterday I felt like I was reading it for the first time. It reignited all the questions I had about that night that only he, Christian and Matt can answer. Needing to know has started to overwhelm me. I emailed Edward yesterday unable to wait any longer to ask the questions that keep haunting me:

Did Jordan cry out in pain?

Why didn’t he wake up with all the commotion of you guys screaming when the car went out of control?

Did he wake up?

What did you say to him when you stayed with him while Christian and Matt went up the hill to wait for the ambulance?

Was he unconscious the whole time?

Did he ever say anything?

I’m not sure what I’ll do with the answers or if they’ll ever come, but I couldn’t stop myself from asking. For a while I played a counting game. When Edward, Matt and Christian are 25, no 30, maybe when they’re married or fathers, maybe then they’ll tell me exactly what happened that night. I’ve prevented myself from asking too much so far because the trauma those boys experienced on the side of the road watching their friend die has not escaped me. But it hasn’t changed the fact that trauma happened at home too, when the police came to my door and took safety away from my heart.

Edward is 24 and in my email I tried to explain why I couldn’t wait any longer. I told him: You’re right, Jordan is on my heart and mind everyday. I struggle with the fact that I wasn’t there to hold him, care for him and say goodbye. You did those things for me. But I have all these questions that require your frankness and as much recall as you can muster.

I’m envious of all the parents who got to touch, hold or sing to their children when they knew they were dying. I wonder what kind of person envies another parent who has lost a child? I battle with my shame. Edward is a complex person in my life. He drove the car when the accident occurred but he also carried Jordan from the car, held him and talked to him until the paramedics came. Edward was the driver and Jordan’s last caretaker, facts that are so entangled in my mind I don’t always know if they can be separated. Right now I have so many questions. The trauma of that night retreats at times and then rears up revealing specks of truth that I can no longer ignore. As much as it hurts I have to know what happened to my boy.

Category:

auto accident, college, death of son, grief, guilt, Jordan, loss of child, maternal instinct, Mother of Four, winter olympics

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Sweet Honey In The Rock To End The Day

To all of you still visiting my blog I say thank you. Writing has been difficult for me lately. Grief doesn’t follow any specific path and I’m learning to lean into what is happening so that as my friend Tom tells me I can, “Feel what I’m feeling.”

I was fortunate to hear Sweet Honey in the Rock perform this past weekend. If they’re ever in your town make sure to see them. One of their songs put writing in my heart again. Your comments are welcomed and needed. Thanks

My morning started with the thought, “Why did they get to keep their sons and I didn’t.” I sat up straight in bed knowing that no more rest would come. All that day the, “Why them and not me,” feeling latched on invading most of my thoughts. I wanted Jordan. It was snowing out and I wanted to call him, hearing his sleepy voice as I described what home looked like in a blanket of snow.

“Are you warm enough? Are you wearing your heavy coat?”

“Yes Mom, I’m fine.”

That’s the conversation I wanted but there’s no number to call anymore. I stayed in my pajamas most of the day, which is such a rarity for me that my kids asked if I was sick. I told them, “No, I’m just looking at this snowy day and trying to feel cozy.” I knew later in the evening I’d get dressed because Mark and I were going to a concert but the day was spent wrapped in warmth wondering when the hurt of longing would lessen.

The night was icy and the snow had the crunch of cold. As we walked to the car bracing against the wind, Mark and I joked, “This better be the best concert we’ve ever been to.” Sweet Honey in the Rock was singing at a local college and I was excited to see them. Since college I’d missed going to their concerts for a variety of reasons but I was determined to hear them sing. They sing a mixture of folk, gospel, spirituals, jazz, blues and all of it with their voices as the only instruments. My college friend Melissa was the first to rave about their concerts. Everyone who saw them told me that you leave their concerts transformed.

As we settled into our seats a woman we’d met at the reception before the concert sat next to Mark. She was an administrator at the University and we talked at the variety of guests that came to perform. While making small talk she asked, “How many kids do you have?” Mark told her, “We have 4. Twin girls who are 11, a son who is 18 and our oldest boy was 19 when he was killed in a car accident.” I studied my program as he talked knowing the story by heart but still flinching when he said, “killed.” I briefly looked up and made eye contact with our row mate as her eyes offered condolences and then went back to the program. The lights dimmed and the concert began.

After a lively upbeat intro song called “Denko,” one of the singers introduced the song they were about to sing saying, “All of us have plans for what we want to happen after we die. Sometimes those plans are followed, sometimes they’re not.” She then went on to sing, “When I Die,” with the rest of the group repeating in perfect harmony the phrase, “When I Die,” as her, “music.” As the song started, Mark reached over and rested his hand on my knee. I could tell by his touch that he worried about the hard start to my day and if this was a song I could bear to hear. I squeezed his hand, closed my eyes and chose to be a part of the song.

Jordan’s voice was in my head as I sat up straighter swaying to the refrain, “When I Die, When I Die.”

“When I die, I want to be cremated.” That was Jordan’s desire expressed to Mark and me. We filed it away in the far recesses of our hearts because we didn’t think we’d need to carry them out. Gratitude filled me because we’d listened to Jordan and carried out his wishes. Then a perfect voice sang out, “When I die let my spirit breathe, let it soar like an eagle to the highest tree,” and I touched my throat as I imagined Jordan’s spirit soaring higher than it ever could on this earth. I opened my eyes briefly then quickly closed them back tight. I needed to experience this song without distraction. It meant hearing it and feeling it without worrying about what others around me were doing or how I looked to them.

“When I die, when I die,” the song continued and I thought of Jordan’s ashes and our need to spread them far and wide to signify the world traveler he would have been. I feel guilty that it is taking us so long to spread his ashes. It has been two years and we’re only starting to plan the journeys for Jordan’s ashes. The words to the song entered my body interrupting all guilty thoughts, “Well, well when I die you can cast me out into the ocean wide.  Let my spirit cry, let it enter the tears that make the ocean deep and wide.” Eyes still closed I saw Mark and I standing on a beach releasing Jordan’s ashes into the sea saying goodbye and safe travels one last time. The tears started to fall and I did nothing to stop them. The song held a truth that freed me from one of my burdens. I whispered to myself, “What do you believe? What do you believe? Then the answer came, “Jordan is safe. You don’t have to worry about him anymore. Jordan is safe.”

I leaned back into the song and rocked as I heard the next refrain,

“Oh, oh, oh when I die, toss me out into the winds of time

Let my ashes roam, blow here blow there

I know I’m gonna find my true home”

Tears streamed down my face as the song washed over me. The truth was there begging to be accepted. “When I Die.” The when for Jordan was an answered question. There is nothing I can do about the when. I listened to voices covering and comforting me and asked my heart to accept that Jordan is safe. In the long nights when sleep won’t come and all I want is to have my boy home, I can take comfort if I choose to believe Jordan is safe. I don’t have to worry about him any more. Many questions linger but that one can be put to rest if I allow it.

The fact that he is gone and he’s here is settling in and slowly finding it’s rightful spot within me. I feel him in the bright red cardinal that perches outside my window, peering in looking straight at me as I call him Jordan by name. Jordan’s spirit is in the coincidences of his name appearing or being overheard when I miss him most. He is in the emails, texts and notes from his friends reaching out to me when I ache for him. A beautiful song opened a small part of my heart to that truth. My sorrow hasn’t evaporated and my heart is not burden free. But there is a feeling of relief akin to joy to be able to put one of my worries to rest. Jordan is safe. No more harm can come to him.

“When I die, let these bones take root, let the seed that been planted let ‘em come up bearing fruit”

Category:

anger, anniversaries, auto accident, cremation, death of son, grief, Jordan, motherhood, mourning, spreading ashes

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11-18-49 Hike!

 

Halloween circa 2002

It is the last day of October. In the shower this morning I stood and cried, thinking of Jordan, freshly feeling the pain of losing him, and how we lost him. Water fell around me as the intrusions of traumatic days and dates surged causing me to sob. In 2008, October 11th was the day Jordan told me he was going to Baltimore. The 12th is the day he died in a car accident. On October 13th, in the early morning hours the news of his death was forced upon us. The 16th is the day we viewed his body one last time at the funeral home. The 17th was the day he was cremated and the 18th was the day of his Memorial service.

On the heels of all these days comes October 20th, Merrick’s birthday. A bright spot that feels flung at us after the pounding traumatic remembrances early October brings. The 20th is the gasp of air given to my family after being held underwater for days by shock, flashbacks, turmoil and grief. I got to breathe a little knowing there was life to celebrate even though it was swirling with the vestiges of death and loss that wafted around us.

Merrick approached his 18th birthday with resolve and reflection. I asked him what he thought about such a milestone birthday, being able to vote, society’s view of him as a quasi adult? He felt more circumspect than excited. “This time next year my friends and I will be scattered around the country, attending different colleges. Our time as, “the guys” hanging out together like we do now will be over. “ I listened to his words, hearing no cynicism only the matter-of-factness that is a by-product of facing the loss of his brother. “The world is yours,” promise, so giddy and hopeful in it’s bumper sticker mentality doesn’t resonate the hopefulness the way I always imagined it would for all of my children. Merrick has firsthand knowledge that nothing is really promised. I selfishly wanted Merrick to proudly declare, “I’m 18,” with excitement. He didn’t and he wasn’t. I watched him try to find traction for celebration after days of lost sleep, quiet contemplation and wanting. The ultimate and unreachable gift, his brother to congratulate him on being 18 was unattainable. Awareness of mortality, embracing moments, and a loss of innocence were firmly placed in Merrick’s path in the month of October.

Yesterday my parents were here briefly as they started a train trip to the West Coast. They’ve always wanted to travel cross-country by train, replete with sleeper car and the luxury of time. October 28th was their 49th wedding anniversary and after years of talking about travelling by train, this year they are doing it. They sat at my kitchen table talking about the books and movies they brought along with them for their trip. I go through my checklist and they tell me they remembered the camera and look forward to sitting in the observation car watching the landscape float by. They’re finally taking one of their dream trips and a part of me senses how final it feels. As independent as they are, Daddy needs a wheelchair to get him onto the train. I ask him if he has his medication and how his arthritis plagued ankles are holding up? His response is as it always is, “Oh girl, I feel good. The doctor says I’m fine.” I ask who is picking them up from the train station and they tell me their high school friend will be there to meet them. Daddy laughs, excited about catching up with old friends. He tells me that his friend wanted him to bring him a taste of moonshine. I laugh along with him but am relieved that none of them will be drinking moonshine. Clearly their West Virginia roots are still firmly entrenched. Mark takes them to the train station and I stand in the driveway waving and yelling, “Have fun.” I walk back inside thinking and praying, “I hope they have a good time. Don’t let anyone get sick.  Bring them home safely.”

Today is Halloween and I witness my 11 year old daughters pour bags of candy into a basket that will be empty by the end of the evening after all the trick-or-treaters make their way by our home. The girls’ excitement this year is less about running from house to house filling their candy bags to the brim, than it is about attending their friend’s haunted house party. Wanly I watch them, glimpsing the teenagers they will soon be. They are my youngest and my wish to have time stand still, to keep their youthful exuberance about costumes and counting their candy at the end of the evening, “Mama, I got 3 BIG candy bars,” is overpowering. I’m stuck in a nostalgia time warp that is making me teary in wanting things I cannot have. The days of having a parent accompany my daughters, waiting on the sidewalk as they run from house to house, racing to ring the doorbell are over. They look forward to trick-or treating with a group of their friends. If I want to hear them say, “Trick or treat,” this year I’ll have to force myself on them or follow them from a distance. They are acting like typical “middle schoolers” and my gratitude that they embrace normal activities without being too weighted down by grief is tempered by wariness and melancholy. What am I doing letting them explore the world and have independence? Am I insane? I’ve lost a child, yet I keep encouraging my others to find their way in the world.

I made it through October again. A new month beckons and as ceremonial as it is, I’m relieved that the calendar page is about to turn. I need the surges of grief and middle of the night weeping that are now hallmarks of October to be quieted.

Category:

anniversaries, auto accident, brothers, celebrations, cremation, death of son, grief, guilt, Halloween, insomnia, motherhood, mourning

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The Johnson Sisters Come To Call

 

Jordan's Candle burning in remembrance

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

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

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

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

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

I shakily said, “All of it.”

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

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

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

Nanny holding me.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Category:

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

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Fall Is Here and I’m Trying Not To Fall

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

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

“It’s been three years.”

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

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

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

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

Family pictures

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

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

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Back To School

When my kids go back to school, it is always an anxious time for me. When I was working quasi part-time (4 days a week) I chalked my anxiety up to the stress of working and keeping track of all the beginning of the year activities like, open houses, parent “meet and greets” and the start of soccer season. It’s been over 10 years since I worked outside of the home and I still react to the beginning of the school year the same way. I know that my angst stems from more than just an overloaded schedule.

The physical energy needed to obtain what everybody needs always brings on distress for me. Heralding the school year with the lunch boxes and school supplies, carpooling and homework assistance typically brings on a lupus flare. In years past, because of being ill from lupus, I missed one open houses. On these occasions, Mark would go without me, taking copious notes knowing what questions I would ask of him about the teachers and the curriculum when he got home.  It didn’t matter how well he handled the task alone. It didn’t matter how quickly my kids got over their disappointment that I wasn’t going to meet their teachers that particular night. I felt guilty that I wasn’t going. My inner critic badgered me with questions like,  “What’s wrong with you?” “Can’t you suck it up for a couple of hours?”  The guilt and self-criticism got worse once I stopped working. “You’re not even working and you still can’t pull it together to go to your kids’ schools.” Even though one of the best remedies for a lupus flare is rest, for me it was hard to come by with such a harsh inner critic at the helm.

With time and help, I’ve learned to quiet but not silence my very intense inner critic. When I feel myself going down the, “You should be able to…” path, I’m quicker now to take care of myself and remember to do what I always urge others to, “Be good to yourself.” Still, I’m wrestling with my “back to school” demons as Open Houses kickoff this week for my kids. At both the middle school and the high school, the open houses are conducted the same way. Parents/Guardians follow their child’s daily, albeit abbreviated, schedule and meet all of their teachers. Going to my daughters’ school, which was also Jordan and Merrick’s middle school isn’t presenting any problems for me. It is going to the high school that has me paralyzed. Mark isn’t sure he’ll be able to go this year and I’m not sure I can go alone.

For Jordan’s freshman year at the high school, Mark went to the first open house by himself. That first year he came home to tell me of all of Jordan’s teachers and his workload. I listened eagerly, liking what I heard and determined not to miss another open house. In the years that followed, Mark and I went to the high school open houses, bumbling along with all the other parents through the 4-story building with its mazes of hallways. It was easy to get turned around because the numbering of rooms follows no logical order. Walking the halls of that massive high school trying to find classrooms has always been difficult for me. I am self-diagnosed as spatially and directionally challenged. Offering me assistance by telling me to travel east or that a building is on the northwest corner sounds like a foreign language. When Mark and I lived in Houston I called him from work during one of our first days there to give me directions to the supermarket. This time was before cell phones or I would have kept him on the line until I reached my destination. Instead I relied on directions written on a scrap of paper. He started his directions with, “When you get to the top of the street, make a left.” I immediately stopped him. I snapped, “Remember who you’re talking to. When I get to the end of the driveway which way do I turn?” I’ve always needed “left”, “right” directions with plenty of landmarks thrown in for cushion. Each time I’m at the high school for a meeting I ask for directions along with the room number and allow myself “getting lost” time.

Last year was our first open house at the high school for Merrick even though he was a junior. He did a mid-year transfer from a private school his sophomore year, so we missed the previous year’s open house. While I’d been as far as the “Welcome Center” to drop off Merrick’s registration forms, the open house was the first time back, walking the halls of the high school since Jordan died. There was trepidation for both Mark and I, wondering how it would feel to bump into teachers we hadn’t seen since Jordan died or even sit in classrooms that he once occupied.  With all of our sorrow and fear, we were determined to go. Our children need to know that we are fully invested in their presents and their futures. I kept telling Mark, “It’s Merrick’s school now too.”

We walked from our home to the high school holding hands while catching each other up on our days. We entered the school and were forced into the crush of other parents angling for a place in line to pick up their child’s schedule. There wouldn’t be much time to reminisce. I was relieved. I wanted my focus to be on Merrick, even though every thought had as its backdrop images of Jordan walking the halls. I was hoping too that we wouldn’t run into any well-meaning friends or acquaintances that would ask with pity filled eyes, “How are you?” Pity is hard to accept. Loves, concern, compassion, even discomfort from others are feelings I understand. Pity makes me angry. For me someone showing pity presupposes knowledge and understanding about how I’m feeling and what the grief I’m enduring. It always feels laced with relief that the loss didn’t happen to them. I had my guard up, staying vigilant and hoping that no one would say anything inappropriate about my loss (“He’s in a better place”) or feel the need to update me on their children’s lives even though I hadn’t asked. Hearing people talk about how much their children loved being away at college and that they were planning to see them for parents’ weekend hurt so much in the first year after Jordan died. I was so traumatized by grief that I rarely did more than stand and nod when people would update me on the college experiences of their children even though I wanted to turn and run.

After Mark and I went to several of Merrick’s classes we started to relax a bit. As we stopped to look at the schedule to see where Merrick’s next class was, an acquaintance with whom we shared several mutual friends stopped us in the hall to say hello.. We’ve known each other since Merrick and her son went to preschool together. She wanted the update on Merrick’s transfer to the high school and asked how our daughters were doing. We talked of how big the girls were getting and yes how time flies given that both of our sons are in high school. We stood smiling and then she said, “You have a son in college too, right?” In the seconds after the questions Mark and I looked at each other wondering which of us would answer. How could she not know about Jordan? I stayed mute knowing that the only other gear I had was rage. Mark calmly said to her, “Jordan was killed in a car accident last October.” Her hand flew to her mouth and she said, “Oh my God, I knew that. I’m so sorry.”

Mark told her not to worry. I stayed silent and focused my attention on her right ear. I didn’t want my eyes to meet hers anymore. She kept talking, nervously saying how dangerous the roads were and how she always tells her son to be careful. I thought but didn’t say, “Yeah that was our mistake. We didn’t tell Jordan to be careful. PLEASE STOP TALKING!” The last thing I heard her say was that she almost got into a car accident earlier that day. She said, “Almost”, I didn’t want to hear the word almost and accident strung together, not when my son is dead. Panic was rising in me and it finally dawned on me that I didn’t have to keep standing there listening to her. I had to get away, so I started moving towards the water fountain. An old neighbor of mine popped into my path, hugging me and asking who Merrick had for his guidance counselor. I looked up to see that my acquaintance had vanished. She no doubt couldn’t find a way out of the conversation either and was relieved to have a quick exit. After briefly speaking with my neighbor, Mark and I looked at each other and exhaled deeply. The bell for the next class was ringing and we both wanted to meet the rest of Merrick’s teachers. As we started to walk towards the next class I gripped Mark’s arm in panic, remembering the one place I didn’t want to happen upon, the newspaper room. Jordan was on the newspaper staff starting his sophomore year. He loved the work and the camaraderie and would often be at school until very late into the night when they were doing layout. Thinking about Jordan’s connection to that room and knowing how fragile I was I whispered in Mark’s ear, “I don’t want to go by the newspaper room. I can’t handle that tonight. That’s too much.” I was shaking my head and trying not to cry. Mark asked one of the student guides in the hall where the newspaper room was. She pointed in the direction and told him how to get there, assuming that was our next destination. Mark thanked her and we set off in the opposite direction. He held my hand and said, “We know where it is. I don’t want to go there either. Now we won’t accidentally go by it.”

Going to the rest of Merrick’s classes I was reeling from the trauma of being asked, “You have a son in college right?” and trying to stave off all the reminders of before Jordan died, that being at the school was bringing up. I wondered as I sat at the desks, “How do my kids do make it through school everyday?” I was fidgety and could barely sit still let alone focus on what the teacher was saying. I am amazed at their strength and resilience. At the end of the evening, Mark and I left the school through the door closest to our home. We took a few steps and then I began to weep. Mark put his arm around me as I said repeatedly, “You have a son in college, right?” and then bitterly answered the question, “No we don’t. We used to, but he’s gone. Our son is dead.” I cried and spewed out a variety of responses to the question we’d been asked until we were in front of our house. Mark and I stood there for a moment catching our breath and preparing to enter our home. As we walked in, Merrick met us in the entry. With eager eyes he asked, “So how was it? What did you think of my teachers?” Without pausing Mark and I both said great and gave him the details of our evening he needed to hear.

I’m keenly aware of my desire to be emotionally present and available for my children. The vigilance I carry for my kids and me to ward off unintentional but still hurtful comments is on high alert. I haven’t decided what I’ll do about Merrick’s open house if Mark can’t come. I’ve thought about contacting Merrick’s teachers to see if there’s an alternate time they’re available to meet. Maybe I’ll still go. It’s not as though I haven’t walked the halls of the high school by myself since Merrick started there; I have, numerous times. It’s still hard. Each time I visit, I whisper the same thing to ready myself, “It’s Merrick’s school too.”

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anger, auto accident, death of son, grief, guilt, loss of child, lupus, motherhood

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Business Matters

All week I’ve felt unsettled because of the searching process Mark and I had to go through to find the documents needed to close Jordan’s checking account. Earlier this week, I wrote about my fear that someone was fraudulently using his account. Last Friday, Mark spoke with someone from Jordan’s bank and found out the account has not been abused. The last activity on the account was on 10/12/08, the day Jordan died. Even though we are relieved, we know it is time to close the account. It is also time to close us off against fraud and try to ward off the kind of anguish this event has caused. We know we’ve taken too long to handle this business matter but every link to Jordan when he was alive is so hard to sever. It took me a year and a half to stop Jordan’s cell phone service. When I finally cancelled the service, it wasn’t planned. I was at the store upgrading my phone and when they asked about the other number on the account I was able, without explanation, say that the line was no longer needed.

I’ve handled some business matters preemptively, to stave off future pain. Things like notifying the fitness club that Jordan’s no longer a member, so they won’t send newsletters in the mail addressed to him with fitness tips. I alerted the dentist’s office of Jordan’s death so they were aware before his siblings came in for an exam. The dentist’s office was notified also because I couldn’t stand the heartbreak of seeing the 6- month, “time for a cleaning” reminders meant for Jordan.

Other business matters associated with Jordan’s death are harder to complete and require a level of choreography and planning that is surreal. Phone calls are rehearsed. I act out both sides of the dialogue trying to ready myself for all the questions that might be asked. For each call, I steel myself against the, “What happened?” question. There are times when I am more able to talk about the details of the accident, times when I need to talk about how Jordan died. Selfishly, it has to be on my terms. I don’t always have the emotional energy or trust my voice to tell the details of how Jordan died. Details or not, I know that I’ll have to say out loud, without equivocation, “My son died.” On most days that stunning, chilling piece of information is enough to resolve the affairs at hand.

Mark handled most of the business transactions related to Jordan’s death. He was executor of Jordan’s estate and given Power of Attorney. While both of us read the accident report, Mark was the only person other than a dear friend, who picked up the death certificates from the funeral home, to read Jordan’s death certificate. I’ve never seen a copy of the death certificate. I’ve only held the envelope that contains them. We’d been advised by our attorney to get multiple copies of it for the times when we would legally need to show proof of Jordan’s death. Having to prove my child’s death will never feel right. Living with the loss of a child is already doing the unimaginable. When Mark told me the reasons we’ll need to show Jordan’s death certificate I’ve moaned, “Have whoever needs proof to look at before and after pictures of you and I. Our eyes are proof that our son died.”

Confronted with the realities of what could happen if we left Jordan’s account open, we decided to gather the necessary documents and go to the bank together. As we searched, Mark and I realized that the documents related to Jordan’s death have not been kept in any orderly manner. Mark’s efforts to protect me from accidentally coming across the accident report or death certificate served to make them hard for either of us to find. He couldn’t remember where he put them and became more and more agitated as he searched. He finally located the death certificate(s) and laid the envelope that contained them on the kitchen counter while he went to search for the power of attorney letter. I looked at the envelope. I haven’t read the death certificate because I don’t want to know the time Jordan was pronounced dead. I know it is a number I won’t be able to shake from my head.

The death certificate was right in front of me. I touched the envelope. I yelled to Mark, “Maybe I should just read it. Part of me thinks I shouldn’t be so worried. I should just read it.” Mark came into the kitchen and said, “You don’t have to if you don’t want to. It’s hard to read. Don’t do it today.” I took a breath and then nodded my head in agreement, knowing he was right. I sat down and waited for Mark to locate the checking account statement. While I waited, I kept glancing at the envelope with the death certificates lying on the counter. Just looking at the envelope, the proof of death, took me back to the shock and rawness I felt in the weeks after Jordan died. I looked at the envelope, hating the fact that his death certificate means there’s no need anymore for his birth certificate. I know exactly where Jordan’s birth certificate is. My kids’ birth certificates are kept in a secure place so they can be easily found when needed for things like passports or wedding licenses. Jordan doesn’t need his birth certificate anymore. How am I supposed to bear that fact? I’m so angry that one of my parental duties now is maintaining order over legal documents associated with Jordan’s death. I have to close his checking account, a hallmark symbol to him of his increased responsibility and burgeoning adulthood.

Jordan is supposed to be in charge of Mark and my affairs, as we grow older. Our will stated that when he reached 25 he would be the legal guardian of his siblings. We told him of this responsibility the summer he turned 19. His response, typical of him was, “Cool.” We had no doubt that he would fiercely love, protect and provide guidance to his brother and sisters if anything happened to his dad and I. We told him of our belief in him and he told us he could handle it. That was the plan. That’s why it’s hard to have a file, a folder or anything dedicated to documents needed because Jordan is gone. Jordan should be here.

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anger, grief, Jordan, loss of child, Mother of Four

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Detective Work

The check was posted, “8/8/10.” I stared at the notice from the collection agency. Neither Mark nor I had written a check for 546.00 to a cell phone company, yet here was a notice saying we had 30 days to pay the uncollected amount or to dispute the charge. This was the second notice we had received in the mail saying we owed money to a collection agency for bounced checks. The only problem was that the check number and amount didn’t match any of our accounts. I searched our accounts online and didn’t see any activity or check number that made me suspicious.  Just as I started feeling relieved, a pang of doubt hit me. What about Jordan’s checking account? I didn’t even know if Mark ever closed that account.

Mark was still at work and the thought of calling him to relay my fear that someone was fraudulently using Jordan’s account didn’t sit well with me. There was nothing he could do from work and the news would only upset him. I also had a selfish reason for not telling him until he got home, I didn’t want to hear him say, “Just wait until I get home, we’ll figure it out together.” I didn’t want to wait. I thought I’d go crazy if I had to wait.  I wanted to immediately clear Jordan’s name. I felt like the anger that has been simmering within me since this school year began, finally had a target.

I focused my anger and my attention on figuring out if someone had taken over Jordan’s checking account. The first thing I needed was Jordan’s account number. I started in our office. I opened drawers looking for old bank statements. What I found instead were old pictures, expired credit cards (why?) and enough staples to make people wonder if we were hoarders. When did we get so disorganized? I looked in the file drawer hoping that Mark had made a file and labeled it “Jordan’s info,” or something similar that would let me know I was circling the right area. Our office yielded no clues. Next I went to Jordan’s room. His valet tray still lies atop his dresser. Old keys, a grocery store card and loose change are all that occupy it now. My search became more frantic and conspiracy theories raced through my head,

“What if it was someone that knew Jordan that’s using his account?”

“What if one of his friends in the car with him stole his checkbook after the accident?” “But Jordan never carried his checkbook, that doesn’t make sense. Still you don’t know. You still don’t really know what happened that night.”

“What ifs” lead me to search my bedroom in particular Mark’s nightstand drawer. I pushed aside irrelevant items, intent on finding a bank statement. I reached into the back of Mark’s drawer and pulled out a sandwich bag. The plastic bag held Jordan’s wallet, a bunch of crumpled receipts and a paper bracelet from one of the concerts he attended while in Baltimore. I pulled the bracelet from the bag. The word “LOVE” was stamped on the bracelet. I held the bracelet and wondered why LOVE didn’t save Jordan from the accident. I wasn’t surprised Jordan kept the bracelet. He inherited the sentimentality that both Mark and I share. I put the bracelet back in the bag and removed the receipts, which I’d seen before but never looked at too closely. I knew they were from his last trip and the night of the accident. I carefully smoothed each receipt before reading it. I felt like I was preserving evidence but for what reason I wasn’t sure. There were toll way receipts and receipts from fast food restaurants. I looked through each receipt, talking to Jordan as I scanned them,

“Why did you eat so much junk food? You knew it wasn’t good for you.”

“Why were you paying so many tolls? Did the other guys pay their share?”

I continued looking and shaking my head, trying to stay detached so I could finish my task before I had to pick the girls up from school. As I looked closer at one of the receipts from Taco Bell, I saw the time of the transaction.  The receipt read, “8:52pm 10/12/08.” I reread the time again. Jordan was ordering Taco Bell 40 minutes before the accident. Could that be right? His friends said he was asleep at the time of the accident. Could he really be asleep 40 minutes after ordering food? Did he eat it? Were these boys/Jordan’s friends telling us everything about that night? I kept staring at the receipt willing it to divulge information that can only come from the boys in the car with Jordan that night.

When will Jordan’s friends be able to fill in the details of Jordan’s last hours, minutes? They are the only ones who can tell us what the accident report can’t. We’ve cobbled together the sequence of events from the accident report and a few sparse emails from the boys in the car that night. I keep calling them boys even though all of them were seniors in college at the time of the accident. From my vantage point as a mother, my son’s friends are boys the same way my mother’s friends still ask how the “girls” are, when referring to my sister and I.

We continue to wait for details about 10/12/08, not knowing if they will bring us some relief or haunt us. Will we regret knowing more? Are Jordan’s friends sparing us some gruesome detail they are too traumatized by to put it into words? Have they made some pact to protect themselves against implications of wrongdoing? These are the places my mind wanders. The math is simple and the answer is the same every time. Three boys live and one is gone. No amount of questioning or detective work is going to change that fact. Even as I wonder, I tell myself that until the boys prove themselves otherwise they are Jordan’s friends. I try so hard not to let heartache turn to bitterness. With a sigh, I took one last look at the receipts and then carefully folded them and put them back into the plastic bag.

Lastly, I pulled Jordan’s wallet from the bag. It was the wallet I’d given him as a birthday present on his 18th birthday just weeks before his freshman year of college. He always carried it in the right front pocket of his too baggy jeans, along with his ipod and keys. With shaky hands I opened the wallet and pulled out contents. Inside were his Amherst College ID, his bankcard, and his driver’s license. I looked at his license with the vertical picture signaling his “under 18” status. I wondered why he hadn’t changed it when he turned 18. I looked at the dates closer and realized his license didn’t expire until his 2010 birthday. He would have gotten an updated license when he turned 21. I looked closely at Jordan’s license picture. It was taken on the day he turned 16. He looked so young, not even old enough to drive. Jordan was the youngest of his friends and was determined to have his license as soon as he could. His dad drove him to the Department of Motor Vehicles the morning of his 16th birthday. I glanced at his Amherst College ID but couldn’t look at it for long without feeling regret and anguish.  I placed all the cards back in the wallet they way I’d found them. I closed the wallet and rubbed my hand against the leather. The textured leather was smooth in places that suggested how Jordan held it. I put my hand on the wallet carefully placing my fingers on the smooth parts hoping to mimic Jordan’s handling of it. I brought it to my face and held it against my cheek. I closed my eyes and felt the softness of the leather. In my hand the leather of the wallet became Jordan’s cheek held close to mine. I kissed the wallet, telling my boy how much he is missed and loved. The tears I’d held at bay all afternoon rushed out changing me from amateur detective to grieving mother in the blink of an eye.

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anger, auto accident, birthdays, college, grief, Jordan, loss of child, motherhood, mourning, rage

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