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 ‘mother of four’

How Can I See You

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

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

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

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

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

Category:

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

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Express Yourself

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

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

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

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

“Why didn’t you call us?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Preparing to read my letter to Jordan

Category:

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

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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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Reconfiguration

Our family at Jordan's tree dedication ceremony

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

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

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

The brothers ringing in 2000

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

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

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

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

My Jordan

Category:

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

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Dear Jordan

Jordan standing atop a memorial during his first day at Amherst College.

Jordan standing atop a memorial during his first day at Amherst College.

Dear Jordan,

It has been a year since you died. It is still hard for me to say the word died and your name in the same sentence. Even as I struggle I feel your spirit near me. I felt it on Mother’s Day from the moment I woke up. It was a day that I approached with dread but all I felt was peace. You were with me the whole day. I had all four of my children with me. At the end of that day as I went to sleep I thanked you for always being my son and for letting your spirit so strongly be felt that day. Your spirit feels near so much even as I struggle to learn to live without you on this earth.

I know that it was no coincidence that on one cold, cloudy day last winter as I sat curled on the couch crying and screaming out your name that you had a hand in what finally calmed me. Receiving a letter that day from your freshman year roommate written on notebook paper with perfect penmanship, he apologizes for taking so long to check in on us. His letter so beautiful talked to me of all the things he felt he had learned from you. Studying hard, but also looking up from the books and his sport’s commitments to take in all that college life had to offer. You made him embrace the whole of his experience. His letter ended with a request that I cherish to this day. He asked if it would be okay if he wore your birth date as his football jersey number for the 2009 season. He sent me a picture recently and 89 is prominently and proudly displayed on his jersey. You my dear son made such an impact and I continue to be proud and amazed by all you did in your 19 years, 2 months and 3 days of life.

Your influence has been felt in mundane ways that I know that are not coincidence. I know you’ve played a role with your sisters and sports. You know how competitive your sisters are. During soccer season last year, the last game of the season, just weeks after you died, one of your sisters had made numerous goals, and one had none. All your sister wanted was to score a goal. There we were, the last game of the season and I’m asking you as I stood on the sideline, “Come on Jordan, your sister needs a little help. Please help her score a goal. She needs to feel that joy.” Minutes later, there she is in front of the goal and with ease kicks the ball in to score. Everyone cheered, no one louder than I, but I also looked away to compose myself and wipe away the tears. I knew you’d been there.

For softball season last year the last game arrived and once again we were faced with the situation of one sister with hits and one without. She had walks, strikeouts, foul balls too numerous to count, but no hits. All she said before the last game was, “I haven’t had a hit all season.” Her last time up to bat I walked away from the group and I talked to you. “Jordan, your sister needs a little help. She wants a hit, help her get one.” The next thing I hear is the crack of the bat and your sister racing to second base. I looked up and thanked you because I knew what you had done. Even without seeing you, I felt your presence.

We continue to think of ways to honor you and feel you near. Your dad and I have started a meditation garden in your honor. We pulled weeds, cut back ivy and planted a tree as a start to the garden. We plan to sprinkle some of your ashes in the garden to always have a part of you at home. At the front of the garden is a statue of a child hunched over a book reading.

Statue we found in antique shop for meditation garden.

Statue we found in antique shop for meditation garden.

You always loved to read and I always loved watching you read. You better than anyone I know seemed to have mastered the art of relaxation. Relaxing in a chair, iPod and noise cancelling headphones on playing your favorite music, and your book of choice. You always managed to look so peaceful and so cool at the same time.

Jordan always with a book handy.

Jordan always with a book handy.

It’s ridiculous really to imagine you in the meditation garden. If you were here, we wouldn’t be preparing such a space. If you were here, the sadness that lingers in every morning and evening would not be fathomable. If you were here, your brother would not have retreated so far into himself and work so hard to catalog every memory he made with you. His birthday just eight days after your death would not be a day that now ties him up with ambivalence. As much as your presence is felt, there is no denying how much you are missed. I can’t explain the longing that seeps into our house some days. It affects all of us. We’re missing your energy, your deep voice, your silly dances, the distinct teasing you had for each of your siblings.

Assigning the words random, senseless, untimely to your death will never feel right when I talk about you. Not a person like you, who I knew from the time you were 2 would bring wisdom, humor, compassion and light to the world. I’m still brought to my knees with the unfairness of losing you. I’ll never stop longing to have you back. Acceptance is a word that mocks parents who have lost a child. Why would I want to accept that my firstborn, my helper, my co-book club member, my emerging friend is gone from this earth for good? I’ll learn to tolerate your absence, to live through it, to survive. I’ll even come to a place where I hope I’ll be able to help others who’ve lost a child. To help them know that the pain lessens and we manage to keep going. There will never be a day however, that you don’t cross my mind, heart and soul. Never a day when I don’t long to conjure you up, make you reappear and turn all of these hurtful, mournful days into a nightmare that has finally ended.

On this day October 12th, 2009, the last of the firsts, I know we are slowly, carefully, forging our new normal. What will always be my truth is what has carried me since I learned of your death: You will always be my oldest child. I will always be your mother. For eternity you are my son. I love you. Eternally, I am the mother of four.

Love,

Mama

During one of our vacations, Jordan pointing to the vastness that lay ahead.

During one of our vacations, Jordan pointing to the vastness that lay ahead.

Category:

anniversaries, death of son, grief, loss of child, Mother of Four, mourning

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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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