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 ‘friends’

“Ever True To Brown”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Category:

loss of child

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Good Times

I’m still working on my thoughts about my getaway weekend. Here are some pictures from the weekend.

Catching up with classmates/friends after attending a lecture.


Standing in front of the Van Wickle Gates with friends

My Prince loving friend Doreen. You could always find her dorm room by following the music.

"Sex and the City" girlfriend moments on Doreen's amazing deck. What a view!

My dear sister-friend Michele who is the reason I said, "I want to go too."

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loss of child

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Fight, Flight or Freeze

Fight, flight or freeze. Most of us have heard of the “Fight or Flight” response exhibited when we sense a stressful situation or danger is approaching. Researchers have shown that as our stress levels rise, the brain relays a message to the body that it is time to run or to defend one’s self. Freezing in the face of danger is another observed response to perceived danger. Those who have suffered a trauma know that there are sometimes triggers that elicit the “Fight, Flight, or Freeze,” response. For soldiers a trigger may be hearing a car backfire and be reminded of wartime shooting. For those traumatized by a natural disaster, a crack of thunder or lightning brightening the sky will engender a response. For me, a grieving mother, late night calls, and the sound of sirens causes the anxiety and stress associated with reliving a trauma. Until today I’d equated my freezing in “awkward” situations as a sign of my weakness and desire to appear well-mannered instead of taking care of myself. I didn’t realize that hearing certain words triggered a response that would cause me to stand immobile and hope the person talking would stop soon. Words spoken by another caused me to freeze at my son’s open house last year. This weekend I froze because of words overheard at my neighborhood block party.

Our neighbor was hosting breakfast (you got it, the block party starts at 9am!) and I was looking forward to attending. I was pleasantly surprised but still guarded that I wasn’t dreading the day. Last year I was unable to attend any of the block party festivities because everything connected with it reminded me that the year before was our first block party at our new house, and our last summer with Jordan. The summer of 2008, I watched from a folding chair set up in the blocked off street as Jordan and Merrick drive to the end of the block, so that they could pick Mark up and go to the movies together. Jordan and Merrick coaxed Mark into going to see, “Tropic Thunder” saying they didn’t expect it to be good but it would be worth a few laughs. Through muffled fits of laughter they convinced Mark to go to the movies instead of staying at the block party. When Jordan drove up to the barricade at the end of the street, he got out of the car and waved to his dad. Mark was so proud as he said his goodbyes to our neighbors, telling them he was going to see a movie with his boys, that they, “Twisted his arm.” Last summer, the thought of attending the block party was overwhelming. I knew if I went, I would sit and stare at the barricade the entire evening thinking of our car pulling up and Jordan waving to his dad. I cried off and on that entire day.

This year when I saw the flyer for the block party mixed in with the mail I didn’t feel apprehensive or sad. I still thought about Jordan and Merrick picking Mark up for the movies but it made me smile. I was looking forward to finally introducing myself to our neighbors who were hosting the breakfast. Although we’d waved at each other and spoken on the phone once, we’d never officially met. After Jordan died, they sent us the most heartbreaking yet compassionate condolence card. They expressed their sorrow at our loss and told us of losing their daughter-in-law who died during childbirth. They wrote that when they saw all the cars parked in front of our house and so many people going in and out, it brought back memories of their son’s wife dying. Even though we had never met they offered their prayers and hopes for our comfort.

Although a little wary and weary, Mark and I took the cue from our daughters who had already made their way to our neighbors as we stood on the porch preparing to go to the breakfast. We walked across the street making our way onto the porch and introduced ourselves to our hosts. The four of us stood for a moment and then I thanked my neighbor for the beautiful card she sent us after Jordan’s death. As she said in the card, she repeated to me on her porch, “Seeing all those cars brought back all the memories. I felt so badly for you all. I just sat here and cried.” We shared a look that I hope conveyed my appreciation of the grace she and her husband showed my family. She then urged us to help ourselves to the breakfast buffet they’d put together.

I grabbed a cup of coffee and chatted with some of our neighbors. I stood with Mark for a while as we talked with a few others of a local house under perpetual renovation. As they continued talking I excused myself to get more coffee. After I filled my cup, I turned to see a friend standing with three other women that I vaguely recognized. I decided to join their group and say hello. As I entered their circle of conversation I heard the words, “You wouldn’t believe what a mess my daughter left her room when she left for college.” I stood there frozen. I looked down at my coffee and tried to figure out what to do. My mind was trying to coach me, “Of all the conversations to walk up on.” My next thought was, “You don’t have to stay, just smile and walk away.”

As I was having this internal dialogue, the conversation continued and one of the woman said, “I told her I’m not letting her have her diploma until I know she can take care of it.” The group laughed appreciatively. I stood rooted to my spot, staring at the freckled arm of the woman across from me. I have no idea what look was on my face. I tried telling myself, “Merrick is going to college soon, put this conversation in the context of Merrick, then it won’t hurt so much.” The word diploma started reverberating inside my head and I started wondering how I was going to get out of that circle. I still couldn’t move though. Suddenly I felt my friend’s hand on my arm. She pulled me away, gently smiled and picked up on a conversation we were having earlier. I could feel the muscles in my face soften as she and I talked.

Later that day I told Mark about standing in that circle of women, and being frozen in place, when all I wanted to do was leave. I blamed myself, “What’s wrong with me? Why is it more important for me to be polite than to take care of myself? I just stood there.” My dissection and analysis of the events was that I didn’t respond appropriately in an awkward situation.

I met with my counselor today and told her of my weekend “Freeze”experience, sharing how I have been chastising myself for not responding differently. She gently but firmly stated that my response was not strange for someone who has experienced a traumatic loss. Politeness and being manner able had very little if anything to do with my response to hearing a conversation about college and diplomas when Jordan would be a senior in college this year. As she talked to me she concentrated on the positive outcome that happened when my friend pulled me aside. She urged me to have a friend ready to help when a situation gets overwhelming. I told her that in the months after Jordan died I kept a buffer zone of friends who did just that. Clearly I need to ask for support in situations where I feel uncertain or overwhelmed. I definitely need to cut back on thinking, “What’s wrong with me?” I now know that in the face of triggers aka “awkward situations,” I sometimes freeze because my traumatic grief is too much for me to bear alone. Fortunately on Sunday, a friend saw my distress and pulled me to safety.

Category:

college, death of son, friends, grief, loss of child

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Still Going

The girls’ open house is tonight. They are so excited for Mark and I to go to each of their classes. Kendall has told me more than once not to lose the schedule she filled out for me. “Mom it has the room numbers for all of my classrooms. It’s very important.” I tell her I have her schedule and don’t plan to lose it. I’m laughing inside because while the middle school is new for my daughters it’s old ground for me. They know that both of their brothers attended the same school, and one of their brothers had the same teachers they now have. It’s new to them and that’s what matters. I’m feeding off of their excitement. I’m taking this opportunity to look at the open house and “their” middle school from the perspective of excited 6th graders’. My daughters have no need to expect  less from their parents.

Thanks to you for all of the comments, compliments, which I sheepishly accept, and offers to come with me to the high school open house. I am fed emotionally by the support of my online community and neighborhood friends. All of you are gifts. Just knowing that I have such a strong, wide net of support is comforting. I do believe my online friend Claire, would travel here to go with me to the high school  even though we’ve never met in person.

I’m not sure why I’m so haunted by the high school and the memories of Jordan that may pop out at any time. Jordan always loved “his” school. He like most teenagers was excited for the independence high school would bestow. Four quick years (and they do go by so fast) and then he’d be off to college. High school is the place where I witnessed the beginning of Jordan’s transformation from child to young adult. Having my oldest child start high school was symbolic for me as well. It was a new adventure for both of us. At the beginning of Jordan’s freshman year of high school, I wrote the following in my journal,

We’re turning a corner I’m not sure I’m ready to turn. Suddenly you’re pulling me along, eager to see what lies ahead. You’re not my little boy anymore. There are so many glimpses of the man you’ll become. The set of your jaw, the shape of your mouth and eyebrows, especially the bass that is pushing it’s way into your voice.

I can’t hold you back. I don’t want to. But your pace and mine have suddenly changed. You’re turning the corner and you still check in to see if I’m watching and following. But you had to let go of my hand to make the turn. I’ve got to let you explore and embrace this time, even if it means you’re not my little boy anymore. I’ll always be here for you, to support you and love you. Don’t forget to turn and wave.

Jordan in the high school newspaper room

The high school holds much symbolism, rewarding memories and reminders of the changes to come for my family and me. I have a son who is now a senior in high school and has college on the horizon. Just as I did with Jordan, I’ve got to let him explore and have his adventures. I’ve never been one to let my fears rule me for too long. Mark and I will attend the open house with the other parents tomorrow night. I may clutch his arm tighter than usual but my husband understands me, which is my blessing. I’m hoping this year will be easier than last; it certainly can’t get much worse! I’ll keep walking the grounds and the halls of the high school. By the time my daughters are freshman there it will feel so good to say, even if a bit wistfully, “My kids school.”

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death of son, friends, grief, high school, loss of child, Mother of Four, motherhood

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Freestyle

Merrick has been coming home for lunch everyday since school started. I’m trying to get used to this new development as it directly conflicts with the vision I had for my days once school started. I imagined the 6 hours I’d have as my time. One of the things that I miss during the summer when my kids are out of school, as much as I relish the lack of scheduled activities, are the chunks of time I have to myself that the school year affords me. My son’s new routine is making me realize just how much I looked forward to my “bastion of solitude”, interrupted only when I chose it to be. This school year, I’ve already started proportioning my days differently. Now, there is the block of time after dropping girls off at school until M comes home for lunch. The next block is after lunch until it’s time to pick up the girls.

It’s not as though I have to prepare meals for Merrick, or spoon-feed him but it’s an adjustment to how I spend my days. Even on days when I’m out, when I get back home, there’s no mistaking he’s been here. There are telltale crumbs on the counter, occasionally the TV has been left on (even though he’s not supposed to watch TV during school time), the microwave door is standing open, and there are condiments left out for me to either clean up or leave out and move around until he gets home and cleans up his own mess. For those of you wondering how I can complain about the habits of my children that drive me crazy in the midst of my loss, trust me I’m learning that wistfulness makes room for annoyance, anxiety, and impatience; behaviors most mothers would put on the “con” list of parenting.

Right now my son enjoys having his lunch break at home between morning and afternoon classes. After being at home for a little while midday, he seems energized when he walks out the door. I’m learning to make room in my “bastion” for him and his respite needs. Today while I was out for an appointment, I texted Merrick telling him I would bring home lunch. When I got home we sat together eating and talking. He told me how his morning went (“Good”), and which colleges he’s considering. I told him about an article I read in Time magazine that I thought he’d like. Then, as if on cue, he asked the daily question I get from all my kids, “What’s for dinner?” We can be in the middle of a meal and they still need to know what’s for dinner.

As Merrick was finishing up lunch and about to go back to school he reminded me that he had Spoken Word Club after school. Talking about Spoken Word made him remember  his first time publicly freestyling (rapping without prepared lyrics). He was in the basement of one of Jordan’s best friends. He talked about Jordan’s and now Merrick’s friend Billy, who was yelling and waving his hand throughout his performance. Merrick said with a laugh that Billy is the perfect hype man. He decided he wanted Billy to be on stage with him whenever he performed.

I listened to Merrick just as caught up as he was in his memory of his inaugural performance. As we grew quiet, I relayed a memory of mine from that time. I told him that whenever I think about him freestyling in front of Jordan’s friends, I remember Jordan words about his brother. I said to Merrick, “Your freshman year in high school when you were having trouble adjusting Jordan worried about you. He was away at school but he called one night to talk about you. One of the things he said to me was,

“ I wish Merrick could see how great he is. He freestyled in front of my friends before I did and he was good. All of my friends think he is cool.”

My voice trembled as I recalled my conversation with Jordan. I looked at Merrick whose eyes were as shiny with tears as mine. While looking down at his sandwich he said, “Jordan said that about me? I kind of remember that.”

“Yes he did. He always wanted you to know how talented and special you are.”

Merrick shook his head in agreement saying, “That’s right, I did freestyle before he did. He told me that.”

“Think of it this way, you were Jordan’s inspiration too. You two were good for each other.”

Merrick was silent for a moment, seeming to take in all we’d talked about. Then in the way he’s had since he was a little boy, he looked at me and in his most sincere voice said, “Thanks Mom.”

I watched him get up from the table to throw away the trash from his lunch and to retrieve his backpack. He ambled down the hall towards the front door calling out, “See ya,” as he left. I sat at the table a little longer hoping what Merrick and I had talked about would give him a boost. I realized as I sat, that my son and I could share the sacred space that lunchtime provides. It is true that wistfulness is with me all the time. On the positive side, it shares space with love, laughter and so many sweet memories. There are still many lessons for me to learn as the mother of four.

My sons deep in conversation

Merrick and Billy performing at our "Express Yourself" event

Category:

brothers, death of son, grief, high school

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How Can I See You

The other night I asked Mark what was the latest video we had of Jordan. I want and need to see him as close to the age that he was right before he died. I need to see him in motion. I need a Jordan review, to make sure that the way I’m remembering his voice, his mannerisms, his movements are holding up.

Every year watching his friends and peers go back to college is tough. This year it feels like a physical wound that I’m nursing. I’m the walking wounded, carrying on with my responsibilities and routines but always reminded of the ache fueled by hopes and dreams left undone.  I’m trying to let this wound of anger, sadness and longing subside in its own time. While it’s here it is proving stubborn. Reminders of Jordan as a college student are everywhere and they feed my sadness. I learned recently that Jordan’s school is ranked as the top college in the country. I imagine how proud and yes smug he would be about, “his school.” I think about all the opportunities that would lie ahead of him. I imagine what path he would be choosing next.

Right now, I’m so angry and hurt that he’s not here. When I read about the college rankings, the first thing that I thought was, “I can’t wait to talk to Jordan about this.” Just as quickly I know he and I can’t have the kind of conversation that I want to have. In those brief seconds when I forget I can’t call him or get his reaction to something I’m stunned and grateful at the same time. Every once in a while I have the briefest drips of time where in my mind Jordan didn’t die. It is oddly comforting.

Anger (Why Jordan?), confusion (How did this happen?)and longing (I want my son back!) are driving my need to see him in motion. Pictures aren’t enough. I want to be as close as I can to viewing and witnessing the embodiment of my son. Mark is trying to find the last recording we have of Jordan. He thinks it’s from August of 2008 when he took Jordan back to school his sophomore year. The night I asked Mark about the latest video we have of Jordan, I cried myself to sleep holding Mark’s hand. All I could say was, “I need to see him.”

I’ve circled back to watching and want to share with you the video made by Jordan’s friend Matt for Jordan’s Memorial Service. It is a beautiful tribute to Jordan, made by a talented, true friend.

Category:

anger, college, grief, loss of child, Mother of Four, mourning

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Messages

When the doorbell rang this afternoon, my first thought was, “solicitors” and I was right. Through the door I saw the telltale id tag on the lanyard. I sighed as I opened the door. As the volunteer introduced himself, I looked down at his clipboard and saw, “PIRG” stamped on the front. Tears welled in my eyes as he started his well-rehearsed speech. He of course had no idea that PIRG was the organization where Jordan interned the summer before he died; or that I would start to cry when he mentioned the credit card reform legislation recently passed by Congress. Jordan worked on that legislation. The group he was assigned at PIRG drafted key wording and lobbied Congress for passage of the bill that affected the marketing of credit cards to college students (Think about all of those banks readily handing out credit cards to eager college students.)

Jordan loved working in Washington DC, in particular on Capitol Hill. He would call me during the week to tell me about the “drops” he did of information packets to key lawmakers. He was also very fond of the cafeteria on Capitol Hill. Seeing the PIRG volunteer today brought back some wonderful memories and compelled me to reread emails Jordan sent me that summer. When I have encounters like the one today with the unsuspecting volunteer, I feel Jordan’s presence and get a reminder that he’s not too far away.

Another Reminder

Jordan typically wrote his first name and then instead of writing his hyphenated last name, he would write his initials: M.-F. He always complained about having a hyphenated last name and said that when he got married he would probably take the surname of his wife. I would tease him saying, “No, don’t do that. Be sexist, keep our name(s) going.”

Recently through one of Jordan’s friends, Jordan’s use of his initials took on more meaning. Jordan remained connected until his death to a group of friends that he met the summer before his junior year of high school at a program called Telluride Association of Sophomore Seminars (TASS). Even after that summer, the TASS kids maintained their friendships through texting and FaceBook. They also saw each other at a reunion hosted by TASS before they were off to college.  The program had such an impact on Jordan that he planned to apply to be a counselor. This summer might have been the one where he fulfilled that goal. Jordan’s TASS friends continue to keep in touch with each other and got together in NY this past summer for a reunion. Several of them remain close to my family and check-in with us, always reminding us how Jordan always spoke of his family especially his siblings.

DeAntwann, a friend of Jordan’s from TASS, wasn’t able to attend the “Express Yourself” event. He wanted to be a part of the evening though, and emailed me a poem expressing his memories of Jordan. Through his poem my world of Jordan expanded. I am so gratified to keep learning new things about my son. His friends are a gift.  I am so happy to share what DeAntwann wrote about Jordan:

Monday-Friday…

You were supposed to be the next Black President,

When I met you winds howling outside calmed down to a stand still,

Your demeanor so calm, so collective, so smooth,

I instantly thought to myself “man this guy is cool”,

And cool you were,

Delicately touching our hearts with your words,

You were wise beyond your years,

I picked up pounds of knowledge from you and I thank you,

I knew you for six weeks but it felt like eternity,

It was like we grew up together,

Childhood friends,

That knew everything about each other,

Favorite color,

Favorite song,

Things friends should know about each other,

I remember distinctively you coming to TASS with a knowledge of Hip Hop,

Pure Hip Hop,

Common, Lupe, Talib, and others I haven’t heard of until our encounter,

Easing that Chi-Town State of Mind on us,

You enlightened me without even trying,

You were the mediator,

Counseling any dispute that we had,

We went to you for our problems,

We went to you for answers,

When you passed away, my world started moving in slow motion,

I began to see it unfold,

Life was moving so fast and losing a friend held it to a stand still like rush hour traffic,

I still have a hard time knowing that you are gone,

But I know you are in a better place,

With every breath I know you watch over us,

We use to call you Jordan Monday-Friday,

Because everyday of the week we can count on you for anything,

Monday-Friday your heart was open to us,

Monday-Friday your friendship spoke volumes to us,

We miss Jordan Monday-Friday,

Even on the weekends…

Category:

college, gifts, high school, loss of child, mourning

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Express Yourself

My daughters Lindsay and Kendall were amazing to watch as they switched back and forth between planning their 11th birthday party and planning the, “Express Yourself ” celebration to honor Jordan for what would be his 21st birthday. They talked one moment of the elaborate sparkly cake they wanted for their sleepover and then the next asked if we could have mint chocolate chip ice cream and Oma’s pound cake at Jordan’s celebration. They wanted all of his favorite foods, songs, and people to be represented. Their energy and enthusiasm was awe-inspiring. I tried to keep up but sometimes as they reminisced about Jordan and the things he loved I looked away. I started to wonder why I decided to have with this event. Getting through Jordan’s birthday on 8.9.10 had been filled with laments. The “Express Yourself” event was five days after his birthday. How was I going to make it to that day without being engulfed in sorrow? The only purpose reminiscing about Jordan seemed to serve for me was that it made me want what I couldn’t have. I wanted Jordan back, so he could tell us too much fuss was being made about his birthday. I wanted to watch him turn 21 and go out with his dad for a beer. “How did we get here?” was ringing in my head.

Two weeks before Jordan’s celebration, I called my sister and told her I was going to cancel it. I felt more sad and apprehensive than any desire to be festive. I felt more like I was planning a memorial service. I couldn’t put my family or myself through that pain again. My sister Julie was the only one I let know of my plan to cancel the event. After I spoke with Julie, I wondered why this year it seemed harder than last to have a celebration of Jordan’s life. As I went to shower I realized the difference between this year and last, my friends. Last year my friends sat around my kitchen table asking me what I wanted the celebration to include, and then they handled the details. They told me I was doing enough by being there.

I realized why planning “Express Yourself” seemed so hard. Unlike last year’s celebration of Jordan on his birthday, this year I hadn’t let any of my friends in on the planning or the ambivalent feelings I was having. I’d put my own measure on time and decided that I should be able to plan this year on my own. Because it has been almost 2 years since Jordan died I decided that I should be able to handle planning the event. I knew my friends were busy with their own lives and I didn’t want them to feel burdened by my grief. I didn’t even ask my sister for help until late in the planning stages. The word “should,” I’d broken my own rule about grieving. There are no “shoulds.” There are no rules. Grief and mourning don’t follow any linear path to some final point of acceptance and healing. Every day is different.

Just as I was finishing my shower, clear now that it was not the celebration that was causing my sadness, but the isolation I had imposed on myself, Mark told me that my friend Jeanne called and wanted to know if I was free for lunch. Twenty minutes later I met Jeanne and Amy at a nearby Indian restaurant. We hadn’t talked, really talked to each other in months. As we sat and caught up over Indian food I finally told them how my summer has been fraught with sadness and anxiety, something I’ve managed to simply endure. It has been drenched with sadness and anxiety with “good days” being few and far between. Then the questions came:

“Why didn’t you call us?”

“I didn’t know what to say? I was just trying to make it through each day.”

“You can’t suffer in silence. We’re here for you.”

“I know you are. I didn’t know what I needed. I didn’t know what to ask for.”

As we sat and talked I told them how I’d considered cancelling the “Express Yourself” event. Amy gently reminded me of why I wanted to have the celebration. She said, “It is a lovely idea to honor Jordan’s memory by being with friends who love your family and who loved Jordan. Don’t over think it. It will be what it will be.” She and Jeanne went on to tell me that if at any point I got overwhelmed then I could go home, even if I only stayed for 5 minutes.

Once I accepted help and expressed my apprehension and confusion, I was met with such generous spirits. I watched as my apprehension turned to excitement. Amy and Jeanne deemed themselves the food committee and told me they’d have everything ready the night of the celebration. Julie kept in touch with Jordan’s friends and they planned the performances that would occur. I put myself in charge of tablecloths, candles, and of reminding myself when I felt down that celebrating and honoring Jordan was a source of energy and light. I held on to those feelings and looked forward to an evening spent with friends, many of whom I hadn’t congregated with since the memorial service.

On August 14th, friends and family gathered at the “Express Yourself” event. We looked at pictures of Jordan where we couldn’t help but smile. The spread of food was enough to feed an army and included cupcakes lovingly made by Lindsay and Kendall. The music playing in the background was from Jordan’s IPod. Throughout the evening people signed the “Express Yourself” guestbook and made donations to “Jordan’s Fund.” The evening of performances started with listening to “Jordan’s Rap” which I cry every time I hear. Hearing his deep, beautiful voice I imagine what wonderful things he would have done in this world. Julie read a poem written by Lindsay, which talked about the shade in her heart since Jordan’s smile is gone. Merrick and Jordan’s friends performed hip-hop and jazz music. I listened to the words of Jordan’s sister and watched Jordan’s brother captivate the room and I knew Jordan was proud.

Julie sang accompanied on saxophone by Jordan’s friend Lucas, “Look to the Mountain,” a beautiful song she and her husband wrote over 20 years ago upon hearing of the death of one of our dear high school friends David Saidel. She talked of the irony in singing again a song about a wondrous life that ended too soon. Later in the evening, Lucas with his brother Nick on clarinet and friend Jack on bass played, \”All Blue\”“a selection from Miles Davis’s, “Kind of Blue” album. Lucas introduced the piece by saying that it always reminded him of Jordan and him driving around together. He said that Jordan was his only friend that he could listen to jazz with, and they both loved Miles Davis. I took a turn as well, reading in a shaky voice “To Jordan on His 21st Birthday.” It was a good and necessary thing to socialize, laugh and cry with those who love my family and I. All those in attendance had their own sweet, memories of Jordan, which they so eloquently conveyed. I left that evening feeling grateful to be a proud, humbled, still hopeful mother of four.

Collage I made of pictures of Jordan that make me smile. The center picture of Jordan holding the sparkler and singing is my favorite.

Merrick and Jordan's friend Billy preparing to perform. Mark is acting as DJ

Preparing to read my letter to Jordan

Category:

birthdays, friends, loss of child, Mother of Four, party planning

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Hopes and Wishes

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Category:

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

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Wish You Were Here

“Jordan should be here.” The ache of sorrow that courses through my body can be boiled down to that one statement. He should be here because his birthday came and went and we celebrated his life without him. He should be here because there were no calls for his siblings or his parents on their birthdays. He should be here because of the empty seat left at our table at Thanksgiving and Christmas, and because of all the presents I didn’t get to buy that would have been perfect for him.

Clothing, pictures, videos, anything Jordan ever wrote, have become my treasure chest of memories. I rediscovered what is now one of my most cherished pictures of my son and I together. It’s a picture taken on my birthday about 4 years ago. It is the birthday I received an iPod nano and felt I could share in the music “techy” talk with my sons and husband. Jordan sat next to me as I opened my gifts that year and leaned his head on my shoulder as I looked at my gift. I look at that picture many times during the day seeing the joy on both of our faces and wondering what laugh we were sharing. I touch his face, I whisper to the picture “you should be here.”

Jordan and I sharing a joyful moment on my birthday.

I watch my 17 year old son Merrick as he prepares for his final exams, full of his typical anxiety as he has never felt comfortable with tests and becomes more nervous the closer the exam date gets. The attempts his dad, teachers, and I make to ease his anxiety are met with compliance some days but on other days when it’s all too much, the cavalier bravado that only a teenager can master rises to the surface as an annoying weapon as he yells out from his room on the mornings he’s running late to school, “I’m keeping it real.” He’s “keeping it real” and I’m standing outside his door not knowing whether to bang my head against the wall while screaming, curl up on the floor and cry or bang his door down and drag him to school myself. Fortunately, these scenarios happen only in my mind. I breathe deeply a lot and I go downstairs determined to ignore his attempts to push my buttons and try to sift the chaff from the wheat, the grief from the typical teen angst. I stay calm on the outside because I know we’re all suffering and ignoring his nonchalance, which covers so much pain and confusion seems the best tact to get him out the door and started with his day. We’re all changed. In our own ways our behavior, words and sleepless nights echo what we’re all feeling and hoping could be true-“Jordan should be here.”

Merrick talks to me about wanting the week of exams to be over so he can rest. I remind him that junior year is tough and yes “you will be tired”. He always asks, “Did Jordan get nervous about finals?” I tell him “yes. “ Jordan should be here” because he is the person I would be calling now to give Merrick a pep talk. As a sophomore in college, he would have wise words for his brother about studying and not getting overwhelmed and telling Merrick, “you can do this.” Merrick would leave the call feeling focused and less burdened. He would have had the chance to complain about his dad and I and how “we’re on his back” in a way you can only do with your siblings. Jordan would have told him, “That’s how they were with me too.” The camaraderie they shared would have shored Merrick up and given him the boost he needed to get through that day.

I watch Merrick alternate between studious and weary and wonder how should I interject myself into my son’s process. He wants to do well, he has to study, but his mind takes him to so many places beyond the walls of high school and the upcoming exams. He sees the images of Haiti’s destruction and death and like his dad and I have a kinship with the grief we see on the faces of the survivors. A part of us reaches back to the first moment of knowing of the death of Jordan and we wail inside and shudder with the faces of the people of Haiti whose grief is so graphically displayed. After losing a loved one, viewing others’ displays of grief is with a lens tinged with fraternity and sorrow. I recognize the sobs and the wails, because I’ve cried them. I see the women holding their heads in their hands in grief and pain and I know it is done to try and block out if even for a second the new reality and life they must face, because I’ve held and still hold my head the same way. Total destruction did not befall my family. Our house still stands, food, water, medicine, all the necessities are in ample supply. But like anyone who has lost a loved one, how that person died is secondary to the tragedy of loss. There is an ever present longing to have your loved one back. Talking to mothers who have lost children in a variety of circumstances has taught me this lesson about grief.

As we manage our loss we are grateful for the friendships we’re forming with Jordan’s friends. As has become one of our new and treasured traditions, all of Jordan’s closest friends drop by whenever they are home from college. Two of his lifelong friends were over the day before they went back to school and sat and talked with Mark and I for a couple of hours. Football was on in the background and I sat across the room and observed Mark and Jordan’s friends watching the game together and talking about who they saw going to the Superbowl. Bouncing off the walls were the words “Jordan should be here.”  As the talk turned to how they were doing in school, and what they were thinking of majoring in they told us of their latest venture to form a music production company and the time they spent over break recording their latest mix tape. “Jordan should be here”, continued to echo in my head almost to the point where I thought I would have to leave the room. All of these young men, friends since childhood stepping into a new venture and maintaining the bond of friendship that saw them through grade school, block parties, sleep away camp and going off to college. “Jordan should be here.” As they got up to leave Mark and I walked them to the door, happy as usual to see them, but feeling all the while how bittersweet their visits are.

As they were leaving Merrick came in from hanging out with his friends and Jordan’s friends remarked on how tall Merrick is. I looked at him and realized he’s taller than both of them.  I wonder, “When did he get so tall?” and how is it I hadn’t noticed. I say my final goodbyes and leave them to talk with Merrick. I hear their voices in the entry as they stand and talk for another 30 minutes about music. I listen for a bit and hear how easily Jordan’s friends embrace Merrick into their conversation and respect his point of view. I hear the energy and excitement in all of their voices. For me, it is time for this day to end. I go upstairs with the words of the guys’ talk of their new music group wandering through my thoughts, knowing that Jordan would have played a big role in their group if he were here. I go upstairs only wishing to sleep and not linger too long on the thought that is permeating my being, “Jordan should be here.” As soon as I get upstairs I take the medicine my doctor has prescribed to help me get the sleep that has eluded me for months. I take it even as I hear the guys still in our entry talking to Merrick. I need sleep to come quickly. I need to focus on a new day. The unfairness that is surging inside me must be quelled. I’m hoping sleep will quiet the longing for my son, if just for a little while. Jordan should be here.

Category:

brothers, death of son, friends, motherhood

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