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’

How Many?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Oh, I’m sorry to hear that.”

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

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

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

Category:

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

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Looking Too Soon

Jordan's candle

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Category:

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

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Valentines-Transformation

Jordan and Lindsay 12/07

This time last year, 2/12/09:

Jordan,

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

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

Lindsay asked “Why?”

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

Lindsay told me “I can get them.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

I said, “Let’s put them in a bag.”

She said, “Okay I’ll get it.”

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

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

For me, she already had.

Happy Valentines Day

With eternal love,

Mama

Poem on Back of Program

Mother to Son

Jordan is a poet

Merrick is poetry

Jordan has the words to captivate a nation

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

There is magic in words and movement

Together they reveal the essence of life,

both poet and poetry,

spoken word and dance and song.

I can listen to and watch them forever

My boys

Jackie Moore (2002)

Today, 2/13/10:

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

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

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

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

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

Rediscovered Valentine

Category:

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

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Getting Jordan Ready

Jordan and I at his sixth grade graduation ceremony.

I had always shopped for my family’s clothes. There were family jokes about my shopping prowess, even with my extended family when we were all together. I remember one Thanksgiving when my brother-in-law looked around my parents’ family room and observed, “Jackie dressed all of us.” Everybody looked down and realized they were wearing some article of clothing I had picked out for them as a gift.

I always liked the fact that I could shop for my teenage sons and they trusted my taste. Jordan would seem a bit surprised at times when I would come home with a t-shirt or sweatshirt that was exactly the kind of thing he would have picked for himself. I still remember when I bought him a t-shirt with a picture of Tupac Shakur on the front. Jordan loved the shirt and asked how I knew he was, “Into Tupac?” I told him, “I’ve known you for a long time. I notice what you’re listening to and reading.” I would also jokingly add, “I wasn’t born with the name “Mama”, I used to be a teenager too.”

“The funeral home needs the clothes for Jordan.” My sister-in-law Cheryl leaned down and gently whispered these words to me when she came back from running an errand. Cheryl had told me before that they needed the clothes by Tuesday, but I had been unable to collect them or ask anyone else to do it. The time had come for me to dress my son for the last time. When Cheryl came in, Mark and I were sitting in the living room with our family friend Larry who had come over to meet with my sister Julie. She was going to assist Larry in writing the obituary for the memorial service program. Julie could provide details that only family would know. When Larry arrived, Julie was at our church with Mark’s other sister Leslie. They were meeting with our Pastor to finalize arrangements for the memorial service.

We’d asked Larry to write Jordan’s obituary not because he was a professional writer, but because his son Matt was one of Jordan’s best friends and Jordan spent a good part of most weekends at their home. Matt’s house, more correctly, Matt’s basement was the hangout for Jordan and all of his friends. I used to tease Larry and his wife saying that there were times that they saw more of Jordan than Mark and I did. I knew they loved and respected Jordan. Larry was Jordan’s little league baseball coach and took as much pride as we did in his academic accomplishments. He was the first person to come to mind to handle the task of giving account of the life of our sweet boy. We knew that Larry would do Jordan’s short, but full life on this earth justice. Jordan had vacationed with Matt and his parents on a trip to Mexico when they were in elementary school. For the trip, we had to fill out forms giving Larry and his wife permission to carry our son to a foreign country. They were Jordan’s “In Loco Parentis (in the place of a parent)” for the trip, and trusted caregivers for the rest of his life.

“The funeral home needs the clothes for Jordan.” I knew that when Cheryl made the request this time, I could no longer avoid picking out clothes for my son. We were having a private family viewing of Jordan’s body on Thursday before the cremation and before the memorial service on Saturday. Cheryl had to take the clothes to the funeral home that same day when she and my in-laws went to make sure everything was in order for the viewing. There was no time left. For me it was the first of many things that I would deem as my “last time as his mother” gesture. I understood the finality of my task but I didn’t know how I was going to get through it. With all of my apprehension I didn’t ask for help. I needed to get the clothes alone. I knew that picking out clothes this time did not signal a party or celebration no matter how hard I tried to will away October 12th.  My “mother self” was in control and compelled me for this last time to pick out clothes for my son the way I always had.

Mark and I had decided Jordan would wear a suit because we knew that is what he would have wanted. Even as a boy, Jordan was transformed when he put on a suit. He stood taller, acted more mature and emulated his dad. The first suit Jordan wore that wasn’t from the boys’ department was for his eighth grade dance. He had to accompany me to the store because he had grown taller and needed to be measured for his first suit in the men’s department. He and I went to Men’s Wearhouse and I explained to him how they would take measurements to determine his suit size. As we looked around, Jordan picked out a black suit with a grey pinstripe. I was surprised at the conservativeness of his choice, thinking that he would pick something more colorful and flashy that matched the suits of the athletes and hip- hop stars that he liked and saw on television. When I expressed my surprise to him about his choice, he just shrugged and explained he liked the way his Dad looked in a suit and that was the look he was going for. The evening of the dance, Jordan came downstairs tie in hand asking his dad for help. Prior to this occasion Mark or I would tie the boys’ ties, but this time, Jordan wanted to learn so that he would be able to do it himself. I sat watching for a few moments as Mark simultaneously tied Jordan’s tie and provided verbal instructions. I jumped up to get the camera realizing that this was a special father/son moment-Mark showing his oldest son how to tie a tie- that we’d want to capture and be able to look back on as a milestone moment.

Jordan getting ready for 8th grade dance.

For every occasion after that initial “man’s” suit, Jordan held true to form and always went for a look that could have easily taken him to any courtroom, or boardroom. He always looked so grown up and so handsome in a suit and he knew it. I used to tease him about learning how to accept compliments. Whenever he would come downstairs preparing to go to a dance at school or church, or other special occasions, we would all tell him how nice he looked and he would reply in his deepening voice with an exaggerated, “Yes I know” and we would laugh. I always told him how much like my father he was at these times. Daddy’s response to the same compliment was always with mock indignation, “You don’t have to tell me, I know I look good.”

“The funeral home needs the clothes for Jordan,” echoed in my head as I walked up the stairs, leaving Mark talking with Larry. “You can do this, just get the things and give them to Cheryl. You’re okay.” I repeated that phrase over and over as I went up to Jordan’s room and opened his closet door. I knew exactly what he would wear and that there would be a set of headphones in his pocket. Jordan never went anywhere without his Ipod. I wanted to make sure he would have headphones in his pocket to symbolize that fact. I immediately went to Jordan’s dresser hoping he’d left a spare set of headphones in his room. I looked in his dresser, feeling uncomfortable like I was snooping. In his top drawer I quickly found a spare set of headphones and placed them on top of the dresser so I wouldn’t forget them. I stood for a moment and then opened his closet door. I picked up the hanger that held the black suit he had worn to his high school graduation. I then picked out his goldenrod colored shirt that he wore for his Senior High School portrait.

He loved that shirt. That past summer he told me that one day during his internship in DC while on the train he had been complimented by a lady who told him that the color looked really nice on him. I then pulled a tie from the rack on the side of his closet. It was a tie that he picked out for a “Sadie Hawkins” dance at his high school and had worn numerous times after that occasion. All of these clothes were still in Jordan’s closet because he had left them behind when going back to college in August. His intent was to take his more formal clothes to school when he came home for Thanksgiving.

I touched his suit and shirt and was overcome remembering all the occasions Jordan had worn a suit. My mind started racing, “What am I doing?”, “How did this happen?”, “Not Jordan, not Jordan.”  I leaned against the closet door clutching the hangers that held his clothes and tried not to fall down. One small moan escaped my lips and then I said, “No” directed forcefully to me.  I was determined that I would dress my child for the last time. I was his mother and I needed to have this last chance of doing what I had always enjoyed doing, but what was now so heartbreakingly ceremonial and final.

I looked through Jordan’s dresser trying to find a white t-shirt to go under his shirt because that is how he always wore his shirts. I couldn’t find one in his drawer and thought to myself, “He probably took all of his to school with him. I’ll just get one of Mark’s.” As I walked across the hall to my bedroom the absurdity played out in my head, “He doesn’t need a t-shirt, it doesn’t matter anymore.” I shook my head as if that would knock loose the reality that these clothes would be the ones we saw when we walked into the funeral home viewing room, and they would be the ones he wore when he was cremated.

Just as these thoughts overpowered any notion I had that I could do this task alone, my sister came upstairs and asked me what I was doing. I told her that Cheryl needed to take Jordan’s clothes to the funeral home and I was getting them together. She asked how she could help and I told her I couldn’t find his dress shoes. Once again the voice in my head said, “He doesn’t need them anymore.” I continued looking for a t-shirt and black socks with, “He doesn’t need them anymore” ringing in my head. I met Julie outside of Jordan’s room where she held the shoes. She shakily said to me, “When I bent down to get his shoes, I smelled the clothes that were on the floor and they still smell like him. I tried to make a joke and said, “Those are dirty clothes he left behind, be careful.” She continued in her somber, trembling tone, “I don’t care they smell like Jordan.” I tried to keep going.

For some reason I couldn’t find black socks in Jordan’s dresser or in Mark’s dresser. I was becoming manic, turning over the socks in Jordan’s drawer trying to find a plain black pair, then going to Merrick’s room looking for plain black socks. I was on my way back into my bedroom when Mark came upstairs and asked what I was doing. I told him, “Cheryl needs Jordan’s clothes to take to the funeral home.” Mark quickly replied, “Baby why are you trying to do that by yourself I would have helped you.” I was adamant but had started to tremble; I shakily said to him, “No, I always got his clothes and I have to do it this time too.” I then said to Mark, “I can’t find black socks, I can’t find black socks.” It was too much. I couldn’t keep going. I couldn’t gather my son’s funeral clothes as though I was helping him prepare for a special occasion. I remember Julie saying, “She’s gonna fall Mark do you have her?” As I crumpled down, Mark grabbed me, holding me so tightly and gently at the same time and carried me to our bed. All I could do was scream “no”, “no”, “no.” Mark lay on the bed with me. We faced each other and clung to each other as he soothed me and whispered in my ear, “I know how you feel”, “I know how you feel.” My screams brought both of our families into our bedroom. I felt hands touching my hair and face and rubbing my back as I wailed and moaned and asked Jesus to help me.

As I began to calm down I felt Mark’s grip on me tighten and he suddenly moaned and said, “I always tied his ties. You weren’t supposed to get his tie. I’m his dad I tied his ties.” I held him as he had held me moments before. I whispered in his ear, “I know how you feel”, “I know how you feel.” We lay that way clinging to each other on the middle of our bed with our families touching and soothing us. Suddenly I heard my sister’s voice in my ear as she hummed a song from our childhood church that she used to sing. As she hummed, “Everything Will be Alright”, I felt my breathing returning to normal and the words of the song easing the sorrow that was weighing me down. The words to the song echoed in my head,

“If you put your trust in Him, although your candle may grow dim. After the storm clouds all pass over everything will be alright.”

Mark and I lay there hearing the humming and the soothing, loving voices of our family. We were able to release each other and sit up. They laid hands on us, encircled us and gave us strength to keep going.

Jordan's senior portrait

Jordan and I after his high school graduation ceremony

Category:

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

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We Keep Going

The way we'll always remember him.

The way we'll always remember Jordan.

The word anniversary with its festive context mocks all the pain, dread and heartache that enveloped me as I waited for the day that marked the death of my child. In the weeks preceding October 12th, 2009 I felt a foreboding as waves of grief rippled through me, forcing me to physically feel the sorrow that Jordan’s’ death brought. I was pulled back to the days before Jordan’s accident as though I was about to play a role in a re-enactment. The eeriness of remembering minute details about the day before and the day of the accident played on a reel in my mind. This year on 10/11 I touched my cell phone in the afternoon, remembering this time last year when Jordan texted me, telling me he was going to Baltimore from NY (why didn’t I stop him? Why didn’t I tell him he had to follow the original plan and stay in NY?). The night of 10/11 this year at 11:30, I wept standing in the kitchen as Mark held me, remembering Mark calling Jordan’s cell phone and leaving a message telling him to call us and let us know he was back at school safely; not realizing he was already gone when we called. Forcing myself to finally go upstairs to bed, afraid of what memories or nightmares would take hold. Sleep didn’t come, even with the help of sleep aids. I laid in bed searching out every sitcom I could find, wanting anything that would be mind numbing and just wash over me. Grief overruled my plan to deny its existence. At 1:30am the sobbing started as I remembered the doorbell ringing and innocence being snatched from my family forever. To this day every time I hear a siren my first thought is, “That is what it sounded like in Massachusetts the night Jordan died.”

We made it through October 12th, 2009;we survived. Now a new year begins. I’m determined that the anniversary of his death will not be treated as the measuring stick of our survival and moving on without him. The date of his death will not be the context in which he’s remembered.

Time has moved on and as much as I want to stay close to the days leading up to October 12th 2008 because those days contained my son, I am moving through each new day. There was such a pull to will the anniversary day away and somehow stay closer in time to when my boy was on this earth. Time doesn’t allow such wishes, even to grieving mothers. With each day I feel the stronghold of my grief loosening its grip for brief moments of time.  The lessening of the grief at times brings the fear that I’m moving farther away from my son who will eternally be 19.

The first anniversary of Jordan’s death meant the first year of many to come where there would be no new memories of my child. Different memories will come for our family now as we move forward and experience new things without him. As ridiculous as it seems to me, I’m starting to worry that I’m forgetting Jordan. I don’t mean the person he was or all the memories I’ll cherish forever, but the actual flesh and blood child that I bore. It’s getting harder for me to remember what his cheeks felt like when I’d quietly touch his face as I walked past him seated at the table eating a snack and reading the newspaper.  I’m starting to forget the texture and wave of his hair, when I would touch the back of his head as he leaned down to kiss me goodnight. I stare at pictures of him, I watch old videos, and I call his cell phone (which we haven’t had the heart to disconnect) to listen to his voicemail message, to hear his voice. Missing Jordan is a part of me now.

In the first weeks after Jordan died my grief was primal. I had moments where I felt I would go insane if I couldn’t be with him. I felt like all the mother animals you see on documentaries that root around, pace and become stressed when they can’t find their cub. I was that creature, that mother. The need to be near Jordan, to feel his physical presence, hear his voice, all threatened to make me fall apart. I paced like a lion, weeping, crying out my son’s name, wailing, willing him back.

The only thing that soothed me was to hold one of his pillows from his dorm bed. All of Jordan’s things had been mailed from his college and placed in a corner of our basement. I would sit in a rocking chair in our basement and hold the pillow the way I used to hold him. The pillow still held Jordan’s scent and I inhaled as deeply as my lungs would allow, just breathing in his scent. I wept, screamed, and I rocked as I breathed in, hoping to have a moment where I could feel and sense his essence. It was never enough, but it calmed me. I keep that pillow stored in a plastic bag hoping that it will keep Jordan’s scent forever. I still open the bag and pull out the pillow and inhale the essence of my child.  The need is not as frequent, but I can’t imagine it will ever fully go away.

A year ago this week I couldn’t fathom that the world would keep spinning and I would find strength to keep going and want to live. But, I’m here. I chose life with all of its doubts, pain, conflicts and yes even glimpses of joy. Those first weeks after Jordan died the very thought of this mourning journey easing did not seem possible. I read books on grief that offered advice on healing. I always came to the last page and would stare at the book feeling disappointed and angry. I always thought, “These words didn’t bring him back. They didn’t tell me how to get to the place where the pain doesn’t threaten to drive me insane.”

I realized what I was searching for didn’t exist. The best advice I was given was by those who had lost children and had lived longer without them. They told me, “In time you’ll feel better. In time your heart will feel real joy again.” There were no prescriptions on how long or the steps to take to ease the pain. The people who had lost their beloved children answered me honestly when I asked when does it get better. They simply said, “I don’t know. It’s different for everyone.” I was so glad to have that advice as the calendar came back around to October 12th this year. I knew not to expect any magical relief. It was a day of sorrow, but the day before was harder filled with “what ifs” and the day after was excruciating because it revealed in the starkest form that we keep going and we do it without Jordan. Birthdays, holidays, vacations will all continue to happen and now we’ll do them not for the first time but again and again.

We keep going, with Jordan always in our hearts.

Category:

anniversaries, grief, Jordan, loss of child

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Out in the World

Relationships are eternal

Beautiful days hurt. The sky is so clear; the weather is warm but carries the vestiges of fall. So beautiful it’s almost perfect. The kind of day that makes you feel like you should be outside enjoying these last warm days, feeling the sun on your face. I try to get out everyday but I don’t always succeed. Sometimes, I don’t make it farther than my front porch but I know the sun on my face is a healing power. The warmth and light that will help keep depression at bay.

Everyday is not a bad day. There are days when I can leave the house feeling okay. I’ve put on clothes that make me feel good about myself, a little make-up and have a hopeful energy that propels me out the door.  On other days no matter how I feel I have to leave the house because of meetings with the kids’ teachers, going to the grocery store, doctor appointments, etc. Even on some of these days I’ll look put together. Nothing about my appearance suggests that inside there is sorrow bubbling under the surface. I met a friend for lunch on one of my put together days. She commented on my outfit and how nice I looked. My response to her was “smoke and mirrors”. I told her that I learned after battling for years with lupus that if you look okay people assume you are okay. Smoke and mirrors are my protective armor against the pitying looks accompanied by the singsong “How are you” you get in a small community when everyone knows your world has crumbled but some don’t want to get too close to the pain for fear it might be catching. Smoke and mirrors however only help for a little while. There comes a point when the sadness in my eyes and the way my mouth unbeknownst to me is downturned into a pout/grimace override any appearance tricks. I have the look of frailty and vulnerability.

I told a dear friend Tom , who has suffered tremendous loss -yet lives a life of hope that includes joy- about my dilemma. I told him I wish our society still allowed public mourning and was more comfortable with death. Joan Didion in her book,”The Year Of Magical Thinking“ quotes Geoffrey Gorer who in his 1965 book Death, Grief and Mourning describes our society’s rejection of public mourning and “gives social admiration to the bereaved who hide their grief so fully that no one would guess anything had happened.” This is the world we live in, wearing mourning clothes are no longer in vogue and yet there needs to be some way the world can know when they are dealing with a person fragile from the forces of losing a loved one. There are t-shirts and wristbands for everything else; mourning should get its own special dispensation. I need a way for the world to know on my truly frail days to please be gentle with me I’m grieving and my heart is so heavy. For me gentle means not staring if you know me and aren’t going to say hello, it means patiently allowing me the extra time it sometimes takes to find my wallet or give the correct amount of money because my hands are shaking, not taking offense if I don’t say hello, especially if I have a far off distant look. I’m learning that there is no timeline on grief and that what I ask of the world I have to respectfully ask of myself. Be gentle, don’t rush, someone precious has been lost. Jackie, be good to yourself.

Category:

grief, loss of child, lupus, mourning, self-care

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The Chime Ache

Jackie with thoughts of Jordan always close.

Jackie with thoughts of Jordan always close.

I had coffee this morning with a new friend. It was our second time getting together and already we talk like old friends. We were introduced to each other through a mutual friend who thought we would be good for each other. Her family like mine is part of a fraternity whose members are not there by choice. Jordan was killed at 19 on October 12th 2008, her son died at 21 in December 2008. When we talk we share our mother sorrow and look towards the other knowing that understanding will be reflected back. I told her how hard the last two weeks have been. Watching all of Jordan’s friends returning to college circled me back to sorrow and anguish that I hadn’t felt since last October. Jordan’s birthday was August 9th. He would have been 20 years old. Watching his friends continue with their lives is so bittersweet. I love and applaud them and ache for me all at the same time.

I wake up in the middle of the night sometimes crying, sobbing the words “I want Jordan to be 20. I want him to be a junior. I want him to come home.” All three things are physically impossible but for now the only reality that is acceptable. The sorrow is so physically present in my body that it had to be named-the chime ache. The days when the pain of loss is weighted in my chest the chime ache is present. It’s an ache that acts like the chime of a clock. Each chime says and feels “Jordan’s gone”.

We have a dead son. In the middle of the night that is how the reality of losing Jordan comes out. It is matter of fact, short and to the point. Sometimes I sit straight up in bed and hold my knees and put my head down. “How can this be?” “ Jordan where are you?” “Please come home we need you.” Even after 11 months disbelief is so intertwined with my sorrow that sometimes just looking at his picture will make me think if I wait long enough I can make him come home. Acceptance that Jordan is gone cannot be fully embraced because that means not seeing him anymore, at least on this earth. It means that he is really gone. For those who have never lost a loved one I’m not even sure if I’m making sense.  All I know is that I have days when the force and reality of his death are so powerful that I can’t move from the chaise lounge portion of our sectional. I sit there and stare out the window for hours wondering what I am supposed to do now? The only thing that lifts me from this grief trance is the part of my brain that still knows that I have 3 living children who need me and rely on me. On my grief trance days my body stores my physical and emotional energy for them. I’m determined that they know that they are loved and I make myself present for them. I never want my children to feel that I’ve checked out emotionally to such a degree that they begin to wonder if they matter. I love all of my children. All of them are worthy of my time, love and attention. They know my grief also. They’ve seen me cry, they’ve asked me “what’s wrong” and I’ve been honest in saying to them “I miss Jordan and I’m having a bad day.” They understand because grief sometimes hits them in the same way. Having a “missing Jordan” time is well understood in our home. The chime ache can strike at any hour and needs no explanation beyond the words-“I miss Jordan.”

Category:

grief, loss of child, Mother of Four, motherhood, mourning

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Waiting for the Mail

I will always be the mother of four. When people ask how many children I have I immediately say four and if they look at me with that “go on” look I tell them. I have a 16 year old son who is a junior in high school, I have 10 year old twin daughters who are in 5th grade and I have a son Jordan who was killed in a car crash on October 12, 2008 when he was 19. Since Jordan died I live breath by breath. I am learning that relationships are eternal. Jordan will always be my son and I will always be his mother. Grief is teaching me many things. This first posting is a glimpse into my mourning journey.

Waiting for the Mail

There is only one other time that I wanted to avoid the mail.

It was the day my oldest son, Jordan, was expecting his admissions letter from Amherst College– whether it would be the thick or thin envelope. If I even saw the mailbox I would know. If there was a bulging envelope, he was in. It was news that he should receive first. It was his experience and his news to share with others. I didn’t want to take that surprise or joy from him.

And, if it was the thin envelope I wanted to allow him the time to compose himself if he needed to before he had to tell anyone else that he hadn’t gotten into his first choice school. That day I made sure I didn’t drive by the front of our house. I didn’t want to see the mailbox, bulging or not. When I came home that day I drove through the alley and parked in the garage. It took everything in me not to peek; but I didn’t.

It was Jordan’s news to share and I wasn’t going to steal even a piece of his joy.

I busied myself while watching the clock. He would be home by 3:15. He would see the mail in the mailbox and he would know his future and soon after I would know. I waited in the den where I usually waited for him. I always sat in the same chair and he would sit at the computer. It was our way.

I had learned not to ask too much about his day, when I did the details were few and sketchy. But, somehow when I happened to be sitting in the chair in the den and he came in and sat at the computer checking his email and looking at ITunes, elements of his day flowed naturally and easily. He would talk about crazy things that happened at lunchtime, or something odd or wonderful that one of his teachers said. It was our time and it always felt like a sacred space.

As I waited that day for the Amherst letter, I heard the door open and then I heard him yell,“YES!” It was pure joy. I had the camera ready just in case and as he rounded the corner not having to call out or look for me because he knew where I’d be. I captured the joy as he held up the thick packet from Amherst with the most beautiful smile on his face. He was happy, relieved and on his way. It was a moment I’ll never forget. I told him how I’d come in the back way so he could get the mail. I wanted him to have his moment and he was awed my generosity. He thanked me as he hugged me in our sacred space.

April 6, 2009: I again knew what mail was coming. We knew the accident report detailing all the information of the October 12, 2008 car accident that killed Jordan would be in our mailbox today. I knew it would be here today. I knew I’d be home alone when it came. I promised my husband Mark I wouldn’t open it and I haven’t. But, I did get the mail and I saw the thick envelope from Massachusetts and knew what it was. I could have let the mail sit on the floor in the foyer.

But, I heard it drop through the slot and I knew it was here. We had waited 5 months for this report: the report that would give us all the information of that still unbelievable night that took our child away from us. Our attorney and the State Trooper told us the report would include the interviews of Jordan’s three friends who were also in the car and walked away without being seriously hurt, the interviews with witnesses to the accident and the report of the re-creation of the accident.

These would be the items contained in the big envelope that came today.

All I could think was, when we read it we’ll know what the last moments of our child’s life were like. The accident was a time that I wasn’t there waiting for him. It was the one time I’d give my life to hold him or to tell him to hold on. That night I couldn’t create a sacred space between my child and me. The first time I waited for mail for Jordan I was able to capture joy on his face.

This time I couldn’t be there to even say goodbye.

I’ll always wonder if he needed me. I hope he knew that just like the day he got into his dream school, with my heart I was as close as around the corner; always waiting and wanting to be there for my boy.

Two such different times, one where my heart almost burst with pride and now where my heart is ripped out and must mend in its own time. I have to figure a place to put this new pain. My relationship with Jordan is eternal. And as this pain eases, the sacred space that we shared will be renewed and I’ll find a way to share both the joy and the sorrow in that space.

Category:

auto accident, college, grief, loss of child, Mother of Four, mourning

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