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 ‘loss of child’

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

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

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The World Keeps Turning

“Interesting how these days come and go regardless… you are still here and the questions remain.” (Facebook message from my friend Tom who knows loss too well)

I spent time on Jordan’s birthday sitting on the edge of my bed looking through the leather-handled box that holds mementos of him. Through sobs, I looked at some of my favorite pictures of him that I like to keep close so that I can hold them to my heart and then kiss his face. I re-read letters he had written to me as a boy, most of them of the “I’m Sorry” variety. I opened the bag that held his hairbrush, held it to my nose and inhaled trying to have him close by his scent. This was my private time with Jordan. Time to reflect on how big and wide my love and longing for him is. It is so hard to believe that the universe stays in motion when my world is upended.

On Jordan’s birthday my daughter Kendall suddenly asked if the mail would be delivered that day. I quickly answered, “Yes” and returned to loading the dishwasher. A few moments later after listening to her talk with her sister, I figured out why she’d asked the question. It was Jordan’s birthday and she assumed that it was a holiday and mail service would be stopped. The innocence of her question illustrated how all of us that love and miss Jordan were feeling. Why wasn’t there a pause in the Universe? The world should have stopped moving at least for a moment on August 9th because Jordan’s not here and his birthday is, again. As outrageous and illogical as it is, it is still hard to believe that the world keeps going when unbelievable heartache surrounds my family and I and keeps us tethered to sorrow.

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birthdays, grief, loss of child, mourning

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To Jordan On His 21st Birthday

Banner at Jordan's tree dedication, August 2009-his 20th birthday

Dear Jordan,

I woke up around 5:45 this morning because I thought I heard your cellphone alarm. In the distance I heard your signature ringtone of the flute interlude from the “The Boondocks” show. Merrick still loves that show by the way. I watch it with him sometimes but he doesn’t laugh as long or as hard as he did when the two of you watched it together.

When I heard your ringtone I sat up in bed and my first thought was, “I wonder why Jordan’s getting up so early.” That moment was fleeting as I became fully awake and realized I’d only dreamed hearing your phone. Even still, I lay back on my pillow, closed my eyes and smiled remembering all the times you were just down the hall. I couldn’t sleep after dreaming of you being so close but I wouldn’t trade that moment of fuzzy awareness when I thought you were safely home even though I did have to let it go.

Today is your birthday and I’ve been thinking so much in the past week about all the things I imagine you’d be doing with your life. In my mind you’ve told me about your semester abroad in London and your travels in Europe. Right now you would be planning what countries you want to visit in Africa as you prepare for your Senior year in college. Watching your friends mature and settle in on various interests gives me a portal into what things you might be doing now. Kathryn keeps in touch and has been so kind and giving to our family. I see why you liked her so much. She like you is a Political Science major. I can imagine the long talks you two would have about how you planned to change the world. Matt, Billy, Luc, Quinn, Pat and Sam come to visit regularly. They keep us updated on their lives and take special interest in what’s going on with us, especially your siblings. They are amazing young men. Some of them have started a music production company and have “dropped”(I’m learning the lingo) two albums. They have enfolded Merrick into their group and he has done a couple of songs with them. Their love for you shows in the care they give your brother.

I watched that crazy YouTube video, “Charlie Bit Me,” this morning. When I was on my computer it popped up on the Huffington Post site and I couldn’t help but click on it. I laughed as I watched it, remembering when you first showed it to us. I don’t know how many times we watched the video that summer but I do remember all of us taking on British accents as we conversed in the house. The laughter and fun you brought into our home will always linger. Rarely a day passes that your brother and sisters don’t start a sentence with, “Remember when Jordan….” We all miss you. Learning how to live as a family of 5 when in our hearts we are forever 6 is so hard. We keep going fueled in part by our love for each other and the love and sweet memories you gave us.

Today, August 9, 2010 I’m struck by how much I anticipated seeing you turn 21. Your birth date is 8.9.89 and today, 8.9.10, I can imagine you proclaiming in your deep voice how incredible you are because of the way the numbers aligned for you. I realize that all of your milestone birthdays have been milestones for me as well given you’re my oldest child. You taught me what “5” looked like, what to expect with a teenager and the thrills that come with 16 and 18. Even though 19 was the last birthday we shared with you on this earth, what a milestone it has become. I want you to know how much you are loved and missed. We will celebrate today, this day, because it gave us you. Happy birthday Jordan

Love,

Mama

Jordan celebrating his 19th birthday with his siblings

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birthdays, grief, Jordan, loss of child, motherhood

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8.9.10

Tomorrow’s date is 8-9-10. It is Jordan’s 21st birthday. I’m home today wondering how I’ll make it through tomorrow without crumpling and breaking. Today I keep agonizing over why I didn’t plan differently and have my family away for this weekend and tomorrow. Somehow the distraction of a different place seems like it would be a balm to ease us into honoring Jordan and celebrating his life. It may be “smoke and mirrors” to assume that a change of venue would mean hurting less. Right now it’s a chance I wished I’d taken. Today my mood has been one of longing and sorrow. Grief has me wishing I could transcend time, move to August 10th and keep August 9th as a day touched only by joy and celebration.

Last year was our first August without Jordan. We approached his birthday last year with trepidation and confusion. We knew we would ache for him and wondered how we would manage to celebrate his day. The day came and so did the realization that celebrating his life was vital to keeping his memory alive. This year feels harder knowing that last year was the beginning of our “August 9th’s” without Jordan. Tomorrow is a hallmark birthday, one of the final milestones of youth. It is a day that I looked forward to toasting with my son not in memoriam to him.

Tomorrow will come, as has every day since October 12th, 2008.  I hope and pray that intertwined with my sadness will be enough love to see me through. I miss my boy. I want Jordan back. I want him to come home. I want to sing “Happy Birthday” to Jordan and watch him proclaim himself officially a man. My heart is so heavy right now. The thought that tomorrow, especially tomorrow can come without Jordan on this earth makes my throat ache with tears.

Today I cry for all the things he doesn’t get to do or be. Would he have been the political pundit, expertly using what he’d learned as a Political Science Major? Or would he have followed his love for music, especially hip hop and jazz and became a record producer? When would he have married? Would he have travelled the globe having adventures and friends all around the world? Those are the things I wonder about and on good days dream about. I’m trying to let tomorrow,8.9.10, take care of itself without my worry and sorrow guiding its outcome. It will always be a special day because twenty one years ago, it gave me my firstborn. Jordan came into this world and gave me the gift of motherhood.

A special moment with my firstborn

Jordan at his 1st birthday party, laughing at his Dad whose trying to get him to blow out candle.

Jordan and I when we dropped him off at college his Freshman year.

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birthdays, grief, Jordan, loss of child, mourning

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Party Planning

I’m planning two parties right now, a sleepover for my daughters and a gathering for family and friends to honor my son Jordan. The paradox is not lost on me. My twin daughters’ birthday is exactly a week before Jordan’s birthday. My girls will turn 11 on August 2nd. Jordan would be 21 on August 9th. Sometimes I have to shake my head to clear my thoughts enough to do such parallel planning. I want my daughters birthday to be special and silly and fun just as 11-year old girls are. I’m putting extra care into their party because this year their attention has been more focused on their brother’s birthday rather than their own.

My daughter Lindsay was the first to ask about Jordan’s birthday. “Are we having a party again this year for Jordan’s birthday?” The thought had been running through my mind for weeks, but I wasn’t sure if I had the emotional energy to make it happen. Watching my family as August 9th approaches I realize we are all feeling Jordan’s absence even stronger than usual. We need to have a party for Jordan to soothe our hearts and make the equivalent of a shouting of his name from the rooftop. We need the world to know, “Jordan was here.” 08-09-10 is the birthday Jordan couldn’t wait to celebrate. Not just because of the freedom and status that being 21 brought but also because of the magical flow of numbers: 8,9,10. This flow of numbers as magical as his birth date, 8-9-89.

Banner hung at our house to welcome guests to 2009 celebration of Jordan's life

Last year I was compelled to have a gathering for Jordan’s friends in honor of his birthday. It was the first birthday we’d celebrated since his death. I worried about Jordan’s friends and wanted those friends who couldn’t attend the memorial service and even those who had, to have a place with our family knowing they were with others who loved and missed Jordan. The party was beautiful. Jordan’s friend Luc who plays the sax with the same talent and passion as any jazz great brought his band to our home and performed. Another friend Matt made a video of silly moments from their elementary and high school years and we watched and laughed together. I watched with gratitude as bridges between Jordan’s high school friends and college friends were crossed as they met and shared their own Jordan stories for the first time. It was almost perfect. I mingled with the kids and my friends in attendance until the moment when it was all too much. There came a point when all I could think was, “How could we have a party for Jordan without Jordan?”

“I miss my boy. I want him to come home.”

I made my way to my bedroom, quietly closed the door and lay on my bed and sobbed. After a few minutes there was a knock at the door and my sister Julie peeked her head in. Seeing my face she simply asked, “Is it okay if I stay in here with you?” I nodded yes and she lay down beside me and touched my shoulder. I cried and wailed and called Jordan’s name and she cried with me. I thought back to Jordan’s first birthday and the party we held. The party Julie and I planned together. Julie and I joked back then that we could go into the party planning business.

It is now weeks from Jordan’s birthday. Twenty years later Julie and I are planning a party for Jordan again. Jordan’s 17- year old brother has repeatedly said to me, “I want it to be huge.” He misses his brother and best friend so much and needs to see the love and longing for Jordan reflected back to us so we don’t feel so alone in missing and honoring him.

As August approaches my daughters’ excitement for their birthday is rising. The night of their party my husband and I will listen to the karaoke singing, glee filled laughter and whispering that sleepovers bring. We’ll hand out goodie bags as the guests leave and look at our daughters for signs of hazy contentment that comes from sleep-deprived fun. Then, on August 14th we’ll have an “Open Mic Night,” as suggested by Lindsay. Friends and family will gather to express themselves through poetry, song, dance, storytelling, however they see fit. We’ll pass the hat for “Jordan’s fund” and provide scholarships for college students. Great effort is going into both parties. Generosity and love is bestowed upon my children.

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birthdays, friends, grief, loss of child, party planning

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We’re Together

“I feel sad for no reason. I feel sad all the time, even when I feel happy. I can feel it right in my gut.” Lindsay 7/13/10

As Lindsay says “gut” she fiercely pushes her stomach with the palm of her hand. We are sitting in Panera’s having lunch and when Kendall gets up to get her forgotten piece of bread Lindsay looks at me and without warning tells me about her sadness. Before I have time to weigh what I should say, I look at her and blurt out, “That’s how I feel too.” Her look as I speak is one of relief but still questioning. I know how much it took for her to be so vulnerable and reveal the depths of her sadness. She’s looking to me to ease her pain and provide some understanding. I take a breath and hope I can make her realize that she’s not alone in her feelings. I tell her, “What you’re feeling is grief.” As I say these words Kendall slides back into her chair and hearing the word “grief” is instantly caught up with the conversation. She knows without asking that we’re talking about Jordan and how we miss him and long for him. I tell them both that sometimes grief feels like it is inside you and won’t ever go away.

I look at my girls and I tell them what on this day I’m not sure I fully believe, but I say it anyway, “We won’t always feel this sad. It will get better.”

Even as I navigate my own feelings of grief, I shore myself up hoping to be prepared for moments such as these. I stand watch, vigilant to the needs of my children who have been traumatized by the unimaginable loss of their big brother. My energy stores are for my children who need a mother that is emotionally present and with whom they can reveal their hearts without fear or worry. For our family, grief is a shared experience. They’ve seen me on days when grief and sorrow weigh me down and all I can do is cry. I’m honest with them when they come to me with worried looks and ask, “What’s wrong?” I always truthfully answer and say, “I’m having a tough time, I miss your brother.” Childhood does not mean that they don’t know what grief looks like or how it feels. As much as I wish I could take all of their pain and sadness away, I know I can’t. Even so, I never want them to think that the grief they feel is wrong or unnatural.  Mother love drives me to ensure that Lindsay, Kendall and Merrick know that they never have to carry their burdens alone.

As we sit quietly for a moment in our booth all lost in our own thoughts, I steal looks at my almost 11- year old daughters. I tell them of an idea I have for their upcoming birthday party and I watch as smiles almost reach their eyes. They tell me they like my idea. We sit and take some time to plan their party focusing our attention on celebration.

My love for them is immeasurable. My prayer that grief not fully rob them of their childhoods is prayed daily. I watch my daughters and I silently repeat to myself what I said to them earlier, “We won’t always feel this sad. It will get better.”

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family support, grief, loss of child, mourning

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Graduation Day

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Jordan's graduation

It is graduation day. I’m keenly aware of the preparations and ceremony associated with “our” high school’s commencement ceremony because I live a block away. Each year the high school stadium is transformed into a place of honor for the graduating seniors. As is the tradition of the public high school, all of the male graduates dress in black suits with white shirts and red ties. The young women dress in white dresses or pantsuits and carry bouquets of red roses. The school has used this tradition of dress since the early 1900’s and the pageantry is breathtaking.

This time yesterday my plan was to be away from home during graduation. I wasn’t sure that I wanted to hear the sounds of the school administrators announcing the names of the over 300 graduates with the requisite cheers from the crowd. I didn’t know how I would handle the strains of “Pomp and Circumstances” drifting from the stadium and settling in the air around my home. It felt too soon to absorb graduation season knowing that what seems like no time at all but in reality was 3 years ago, my family and I were the excited and proud people walking to the stadium to claim our seats and watch my son Jordan transform from high school Senior into incoming college Freshman.

In the weeks leading up to today, I’ve been preoccupied by angst and sadness as graduation season arrived. I’ve been unable to stop the angry feelings of unfairness in losing Jordan so suddenly and without warning. These thoughts have as a backdrop all the regalia associated with graduation season. The regalia serve as a taunting reminder of the joy I had when Jordan graduated high school and all the promise and energy he took with him to college.  I think back to Jordan’s last semester of high school and how it was filled with accolades and awards that seemed to portend a long, bright future. In the weeks before graduation one of the local papers gave Jordan one of their “Citizen Awards”after being nominated by his guidance counselor. The headline for the accompanying article read:

Moore-Fields was mentor, newspaper editor at OPRF

Aspiring political strategist headed to Amherst in fallmain.asp?SectionID=1&SubSectionID=1&ArticleID=8056

Jordan’s high school graduation was a further marker of his success and I couldn’t wait to celebrate him. Now it is hard sometimes to separate the anticipation and pride I felt in all of his accomplishments and goals from the cruel way we lost him. I struggle trying to reframe momentous occasions so that they will be less difficult to bear. I don’t want to live always feeling uneasy with celebrations and joyous affairs.

I have friends who have children graduating high school this year. I need them to know even in my absence from their celebrations that I stand proud of their children as they do of mine. Mark and I weren’t ready to attend the parties in their children’s honor even though in each instance we were so grateful and honored to be invited. It has been 1 ½ years since Jordan died and three years since Jordan’s graduation and it’s still too painfully soon to be in fellowship with friends on occasions that used to give us only joy. I struggled so much in deciding whether or not to attend my friends’ parties. In deciding, grief overwhelmed me as I thought back to Jordan’s graduation party and the anticipation we held for his future. I didn’t want my sadness to in any way be a damper on the festivities. I also wrestled with feeling self-conscious about attending a graduation party and being a reminder to others of how the happy lives we all want for our children can go so tragically wrong. I was so angry with death for stealing the joy and excitement I once carried. I wondered as I pondered each invitation, “Will it ever feel okay to truly celebrate?” To each invitation I replied with a “maybe” knowing that even if we decided at the last minute to attend we would be welcome. For Mark and me even at the last minute our hearts were heavy and we knew that dropping off cards of congratulations to the graduates was all we could handle.

Upon awakening this morning my mood and sentiment about being in the vicinity of the graduation ceremony had shifted. Before I got out of bed, I took time to remember how happy I’d been the day of Jordan’s graduation. I closed my eyes and held still. I remembered finding him amongst the graduates as they filed in to take their seats at the ceremony. “There he is, there he is,” I yelled. I cheered so loudly when his name was called, “Yea Jordan, way to go.” As I lay there, I could hear his voice in my ear saying “thank you” as we all gathered around to congratulate him. It was a lifetime ago and 3 years ago all at the same time. How is that possible? I held these images and sounds in my heart and decided they would be my guides for the day. The memories I have of my son serve so many functions. Today the memories of Jordan’s graduation will be buoys lifting me beyond my sadness to a place of gratitude and pride.  I got out of bed knowing that I wouldn’t need to escape the sights and sounds of graduation. They would be welcome in my day.

While out walking the dog today, I thought about the graduation that would happen in a few hours. I decided to walk to the corner that overlooks the field and stadium where graduation is held. I stood for a moment watching the workmen ready the grounds. I felt the shift in me as I thought of my youngest son who will be a high school graduate this time next year. There are days when I wonder if I can bear to have another of my children going off to college. I have to prepare my heart to once again be the excited and proud parent in the stands. Even in my sorrow despair never stays too long. This time next year I hope to sit in the stands and point out my son, “There he is, there he is.” And when they call his name I’ll cheer loudly once again and pray as I have before for a bright future.

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brothers, graduation, grief, high school, loss of child, mourning

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What Jordan Gave Us

A card my sister made in honor of Jordan's 20th birthday

Precious memories can be made in the most unexpected places. The summer of 2008 was our last summer with Jordan. It was filled with moments that are crystallized in my memory. Even at the time, they were beautiful “Jordan” moments where I held my breath not wanting them to end. Even then I knew the memories Jordan was leaving us were special. I chalked it up at the time to my sentimentality and nostalgic nature. I had no idea it would be our last summer with him. Even though I didn’t know this fact at the time, an inner voice told me, “remember these feelings, you’re in the middle of something special.”

Gift 1

Every time I pull my car into the garage I look around the walls, smile and then sigh. I’m looking at Jordan’s handiwork. To the outside world it’s a typical garage; for me it’s an improbable shrine to Jordan. The summer before his sophomore year of college, Jordan did odd jobs around the house to earn extra money to take with him to Washington, D.C. He was spending most of the summer in DC as an intern working for PIRG (Public Interest Research Group). When I offered the garage-cleaning job, Jordan leapt at the opportunity. Our garage was filled on one side with moving boxes, old toys, and gardening tools. Jordan’s task was to make our two-car garage ready to house two cars. As he worked, I would occasionally watch from the kitchen window to see him methodically emptying the garage of all of its contents so that he could sort through items and then replace only those things we really needed. I remember watching him thinking how mature and responsible he was becoming. I didn’t have to stand over him to make sure he did a good job. He asked questions of me when he needed to and took the job seriously. I saw glimpses of the man he would become and felt so blessed. Now whenever I enter our garage, I look up at the snow shovels and rakes hanging on hooks, the hula hoops leaning against the far wall and I think, Jordan’s hands touched these things and put them in order.

Gift 2

At another time during the same summer of 2008, Jordan and I went shopping to buy him shoes for his summer internship. After we were done shopping, we’d stopped for lunch when I got a return call from my doctor. I had called her earlier in the day to tell her of pain I was experiencing in my ankle. I assumed she would tell me to increase one of the medications that I took for Lupus. Instead she said that she wanted to examine me and asked how soon I could get there. After I hung up the phone I told Jordan of her comments and asked if he would mind driving me to the appointment since I hadn’t driven during our errand because of my ankle. He agreed in his nonchalant way with a, “No problem” and off we went.

I remember coming back into the waiting room after seeing my doctor to find Jordan asleep in a chair. When I went over and touched his arm, he looked up at me and as he stretched said, “Are you okay?” My reply to my son who at that instant with his sleepy look was my little boy again was, “Yes honey I’ll be okay.” Even as I allayed his fears I was so glad I hadn’t gone to the doctor alone. Now, every four weeks when I go to my doctor’s appointments I look at the seat where Jordan sat that day and think about how well he took care of me.

Gift 3

As is inevitable with twins, there are times when one is invited to an event and the other is not. In our last summer with Jordan, Kendall was invited to the beach with a friend and Lindsay was not. Lindsay was inconsolable, begging me to please call and see if she could also go to the beach as well. I told her I couldn’t do that and that there would be times where she was invited places and Kendall wouldn’t be. I reminded her that she had been invited to a friend’s house and Kendall wasn’t. Her unconvinced reply was, “but this is the beach.”

Jordan came downstairs to see a very disappointed Lindsay sitting on the couch as Kendall left with her friend. He went over to her and told her they could do something together. Trying to be helpful I suggested he take Lindsay swimming. Jordan vetoed this idea, mainly because the summer before he’d spent as a lifeguard at our community pool. Swimming, rather overseeing swimming, wasn’t one of his favorite pastimes. I decided to let he and Lindsay figure out what they would do together. Jordan thought for a moment and then asked Lindsay if she wanted to cook something. Lindsay’s face lit up and she went to the cabinet where we store our cookbooks. She pulled out the Williams Sonoma “Kid’s Cookbook” that Jordan and Merrick had received as a Christmas gift when they were younger.

Lindsay and Jordan stood side-by-side at the island in the kitchen flipping through the cookbook. They came to a recipe for “Buttery Pecan Cookies” and both decided that’s what they wanted to make. I went upstairs to give them time together. Jordan yelled to me that they were going to the store to get chopped pecans. I came downstairs to give them money for the store. I watched Lindsay excitedly put her shoes on and they were out the door. Lindsay’s regrets about going to the beach were long gone because she had one-on-one time with her big brother. I ran errands while they baked and came home to the smell of fresh baked cookies. Lindsay proudly showed me the plate of cookies she and Jordan made. I tasted one and told Lindsay and Jordan that we would definitely have to make the cookies at Christmas time and give them out as Christmas gifts. Lindsay was so excited about the cookies and wanted to make sure we saved some for her dad who was travelling on business. I told her we could freeze the cookies she wanted her dad to taste. She picked out two cookies and put them in a freezer bag. When her dad got home two days later there were still a few cookies left so he sampled from the ones left out of the freezer.

After Jordan died, I found the cookies Lindsay and Jordan baked together in the freezer. I held the bag up peering at it, trying in some way to conjure up Jordan. Just looking at the bag brought back so clearly the day they were made. The cookies remain in our freezer. Lindsay takes the bag out occasionally to look at them. Since Jordan’s death, she has started a new tradition. She decided in honor of Jordan, she would bake the “Buttery Pecan Cookies” on his birthday every year- all by herself.

Gift 4

Jordan made dinner for us one night when Mark was away on business. It was a night where I was not feeling well and he, unsolicited offered to make dinner. He made a dish he had perfected while in D.C., pasta with chicken that he sautéed with garlic and onions. While away and on a budget, Jordan quickly learned that the only way to make his money last was to eat out less, and cook more. I’d taught him the basics of cooking and sent him a care package of kitchen supplies during the first week of his internship. I sat at our kitchen table impressed as I watched Jordan prepare dinner. He talked as he cooked. I sat listening as he talked about the new friends he’d made while in D.C. and his internship duties at PIRG which were highlighted for him by frequent trips to Capitol Hill.

When we sat down to dinner that night, I was so proud of Jordan and the example he was setting for his brother and sisters. In yet another way he was displaying his ability to take care of himself and care for others. He was so proud as he served his siblings and I. We sat down to dinner that night and laughed and talked over a meal prepared by my son. That night watching Jordan, I was reassured that if anything were to happen to Mark or I, Jordan would be able to care for his siblings with love and a generous spirit.

The summer of 2008 was filled with bountiful offerings bestowed on my little family by a kind and grace-filled son. We had Jordan for nineteen years, two months and three days. During his time on this earth, Jordan didn’t amass any monetary fortunes or have time to realize all the dreams he so eloquently spoke of pursuing. His legacy however is made. Among the things he left us are improbable treasures in the form of: a garage with items neatly stored, a trip to the doctor, homemade cookies and a shared dinner. Who knew such simple things could pull at my heart with such force. I’m grateful everyday for the inner voice that so aptly told me to remember.

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gifts, grief, home, legacy, loss of child

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Year Two

“It is awful when one’s great capacity to love betrays a person… Each day, you negotiate an unfamiliar dark while doing your best to guide your children back into the light.” (Beverly Lyles in an email dated May 14, 2010)

“There is so much pain and no place to put it.” These words echoed in my head in the hours and days after Jordan died. I felt that I’d never have a reprieve from the irrational pain of losing my son so suddenly and senselessly. Lately, I’m finding myself rooted to my grieving spot. I sit on the chaise by the window, watching the world keep going, wondering again when grief will hurt less. In year one I sat sometimes for hours looking out the window and wondering, “How did this happen?” Now my lack of energy and grieving heart have brought me back to my grieving spot, sitting and wondering about life without all of my children on this earth. I get my kids off to school and my energy is gone. I’m in year two of living as a bereaved mother. My mother heart hurts and continues to cry out in disbelief. I wish someone had told me about year two. There are expectations that the rough part of grief is over and that I will start to feel the effects of time soothing the sorrow. I’m in year two when friends and family expect that there are more good days than bad. My days have taken on a somewhat comforting routine. There are still many days where I can barely run errands without the weight of loss pulling me home.

The world is going on and outwardly I participate in it. Spring is here and it has brought more anger than renewal. I’ve watched the flowers bloom and the trees bud. I see the lilt in people’s walks that only spring can bring. I look at them and I want to scream. The world is moving on and I’m rooted in a place of pain. I want to cry out, “I’m still in pain”, “I still can’t sleep”, “I still have a dead son.” Time hasn’t eased my pain.

The wave of grief I’m in now was so insidious in its approach that I was caught off guard. I am having a hard time imagining it is ever going to subside.  I’m not prepared for year two without my son on this earth. Year one provided cautions, advice and road markers to cushion the shock of birthdays, holidays, anniversaries and first vacations without Jordan. Year two has all those events coming around again and some are more painful this time than last. When does the advice and counsel I’ve been given that, “time will ease pain” kick in? I hurt and I am angry at the pain. It wasn’t enough that my son was ripped from this earth with no warning. I have to figure out how to keep going and keep my family going as well. Every time I ask, “how did this happen?” I know how ridiculous it sounds, and I know it’s a futile question. At those moments my anger turns inward. I tell myself, “You’re not helping yourself.” I am my harshest critic. Even as I criticize myself, I know I have to take care of myself so that I can care for my family. But here I sit staring out the window willing the pain of grief away, not sure how long I can endure this grief wave.

Grief brings on fatigue that threatens never to abate. Sleep provides little respite. I dreamed last week that I walked downstairs into our kitchen and Jordan was sitting at the table with his father and siblings. They were all laughing and talking. In my dream I stop at the base of the stairs and watch my family for a few minutes. I smile but even in the dream I know Jordan is dead. The rest of my family, however don’t know that he’s gone. I watch my family trying to decide if I should tell them the truth that Jordan is dead or join them in the fantasy and live as though Jordan is still alive. In my dream, I fret over the decision I have to make and wake up startled, right as I’m deciding that I could live with knowing Jordan is dead if I’m the only one who has to know. My sleeping hours and waking hours hold the same pain and conflicts.

Year two of grief has me focusing on what will become of my children whose childhoods are forever changed by loss. There are days when the cost seems too high to bear. I watch my children prepare for school on some days with a new type of fatigue that I know is the weariness brought on by grief. I’m tempted to keep them home. I want to find ways of protecting and fixing their pain. I want to say, “Let’s rest today. No school, no worrying about homework, just being together and resting.” I’m tempted but I stop myself. I can’t take away their pain or bear their sorrow for them. They all communicate with me well and let me know when they need a break. I can’t let my sorrow be the barometer for their day.  I want them to do well and know their capacity for good work and greatness. I’m awed by their ability to get up every morning and face their days, sometimes with hope and sometimes strength alone. In the midst of so much sorrow they strive to do well and find comfort in their routines. Year two is teaching me that no matter how much I desire to, I can’t carry my children’s grief for them.

My rational self knows that I can’t put a timeframe on when grief will loosen its grip. Grief is another chronic condition that I am learning to manage. As much as I’ve told myself that there is no linear path to grief, my mind has tricked me more than once into thinking that the heart-stopping pain I felt in the moments and days after Jordan died were over for good. I somehow decided that grief would return but would have a lessening impact and strength each time. It’s not true. Inside of me are wails yet to be released, heartache still so heavy, and so many unshed tears for the loss of my son.

A part of me recognizes that our society puts time limits on grief. The “shoulds” of decorum dictate that I act better even if I don’t feel better. I promised myself that I wouldn’t feel judged by other’s expectations of my grieving process. I validated the promise by putting it in writing in my journal-“I won’t let anyone tell me how to grieve for my son.” When I wrote these words I didn’t realize that I would be one of my harshest critics. Time is relative and doesn’t dictate the depths of pain or the length of sorrow. When I feel that grief’s heaviness will never end, I remind myself to look to others who have been on this journey of loss longer than I. There words are even truer in year two of grief- I have to take my time and not be ashamed of expressing my sorrow. My son died. He held so much promise and gave me such joy. His place on this earth was not fulfilled. I’m left to grieve my loss and all that could have been because of him. I have to take my time:

  • Time to be with friends and family who with few words from me, understand how my pain feels fresh
  • Time to sob uncontrollably
  • Time to lie in bed, with the covers drawn under my chin wishing for the “before” days
  • Time to smell Jordan’s pillow and his hairbrush, committing to my genetic memory his scent
  • Time to listen repeatedly to Jordan’s voicemail message and the songs he recorded. I don’t ever want to have to try too hard to recall what his voice sounds like.

When Jordan was born, motherhood taught me my full capacity for love. I never knew I could love someone so much. Jordan’s death is showing me that the pain of grieving for my child is equal in intensity. I’m still in the midst of the rage, pain, anguish and sorrow that are expected to quiet with time. I’m a mother who lost a precious son. I didn’t get to say goodbye. I don’t want to feel that I’m abnormal because my heartache feels fresh, even in year two. I’m mourning my son. I still need the compassion and generosity of spirit shown to me in the weeks after Jordan died. The world keeps going, I keep going; even so, I will never stop wanting my son back.

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anger, grief, guilt, motherhood, mourning

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“Mama What Do You Want For Mother’s Day?”

I’ve been feeling so tired and vulnerable thinking about my children and how to love them and protect them as they navigate their way through their days with grief as a companion. So many of my thoughts too, have been of Jordan. It is my second Mother’s Day without him and it is no easier than the first. I’d fooled myself into thinking that this year would be easier but it’s not. Grief has circled around and put me in a raw place. Every bud and flower of spring serves as a reminder that the world goes on whether I’m ready or not.

“Mama, what do you want for Mother’s Day?”  My daughter Lindsay posed this question to me a few weeks ago and she caught me unprepared. I was not ready to answer because I’d been putting off thinking about Mother’s day, as though that would make the day further away. I told her I didn’t know yet but I would think about it. She wanted to know what gift she could buy me. All I could think of were the things that I want and need that can’t be gift-wrapped.

Mother’s day has a new representation for me now. I am the mother of four. My oldest son is gone, killed in a car accident on October 12th, 2008. My other son is 17 and wears his weariness and grief like a backpack. He misses his brother so much. When he does share his sorrow with me he talks of the things he and Jordan won’t get to do together. On days when his friend’s complaints about mundane things make him angry and he wants to tell them, “Shut up. There are bigger things going on in the world” he instead wishes for his brother to talk with and counsel him.

What do I want for Mother’s Day? I want to know that my children can sleep without fear of bad thoughts or dreams. I want the longing and ache that has taken residence inside our home to go away for a while. As composed as my children are, able to attend school and do well, I’m occasionally jarred by an image that lets me know how close to the surface their fears and grief are. Just days ago I was driving home with my daughters when we had to pull over because of a fire truck passing us, sirens blaring. It continued up the street and then we started to drive again. As I made the left turn onto our block, fire trucks, ambulances and police cars blocked the corner where our house sits. Lindsay looked at the scene and said, “Merrick.” I touched her arm and saw the fear in her eyes and the vein in her neck pulsing. I told her, “It’s not Merrick. Merrick is fine. You don’t have to worry about your brother.” She then exhaled and said, “As long as it’s not Merrick.” I reassured her again still stroking her arm. We made our way to the driveway and I asked Lindsay before she got out of the car if she was okay. She told me she was.  She tried to recover by making jokes and talking fast but I could tell she was still unsettled. The girls let themselves into the house, and I sat in the car for a few more minutes.  I rested my head on the steering wheel trying to make sense of what just happened. Of all the places for a congregation of emergency vehicles to happen, it happened in front of my house and my daughters. It brought back all the painful memories of my imaginings of Jordan’s accident scene and I admitted to myself that when I told Lindsay that, “It’s not Merrick,” I was telling myself that too.  I fought back tears because I didn’t know if I’d be able to stop once I started. My daughter had just uttered her brother’s name when she saw emergency vehicles. She’s carrying right under the surface so much fear.

What do I want for Mother’s Day? I want to be present for my family. Right now, my insides are swabbed to saturation with the responsibilities, doubts, fears and sorrows that being a mother who has lost a child bring. Vigilance has not allowed me many opportunities to sit with myself and find respite. I need to remember how to be Jackie, how to nurture myself so that I can care for my family. I’ll talk with friends, I’ll read and maybe see a movie with Mark. I need to reconnect with the person I am. The person who believes that “joy comes in the morning.” I hope to continue to be strong even when weariness sets in. I resolve to honor my authentic self, to give that part of me the same nurturance and love I give others. I will try to find peace in who I am.  I take it as my right.

 

What do I want for Mother’s Day? I want my 3 living children to always love and respect each other. I see them reconfiguring their relationship with each other, having to find an internal place for their love for Jordan but also a new way of being siblings without their oldest brother as guide. I want my daughters’ fears to be eased when their dad or brother are late coming home. I want my children to always feel comfortable talking to their dad or me when they are troubled or sad. I want to be available to them when they need to express their sorrow. I want to continue to normalize our life and routine, to set limits for them so that they grow up understanding they have to earn what they get.

What do I want for Mother’s Day? I want my children to feel real joy without guilt. They are too young to live a life without real joy. I want to be a good mother to my children. For my second Mother’s Day proclaiming I am the mother of four and having three children to hold and have look at me expectantly for signs of  surprise and gratitude. I want them to see me be joyous. They need to know that they matter to me as equally as their brother Jordan. I will not let grief rob me of mothering my children and sharing a life of love and joy with them. On Mother’s Day, I will stand in that space reminding myself of the eternal relationship I have with Jordan, hoping to again feel his presence. In the midst of my sorrow, I will find the joy in what motherhood has given me. My gifts are eternal ones- Jordan, Merrick, Lindsay and Kendall.

Mother’s Day 2006

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grief, guilt, loss of child, mother's day, mourning

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