Author: Be

This year marks ten years since my son’s fatal car accident. October will be brutal: that’s a given. His June birthday also carries a good deal of emotion: happiness for the 25 years I got to have with him, along with the profound sadness of his absence.  For the past nine years, friends and family have gathered on his birthday in different configurations, from the very first—raw and painful—June day, when close family friends joined several of his high school buddies for a campfire and overnight at Oleta State Park, where he had worked.  That is where the Flip Flop Drop was born, while sitting around a blazing fire, eating brownies. More on that in another blog. For the next few Junes, I was in Vermont, where my dear friends—his aunties—supported me in remembering Lucas, from the silly to the sublime moments. I learned a lot about my son during these celebrations. Here in Florida, his loyal friends joined me for at least three birthday gatherings at his favorite beach, where we told stories, played live music, dropped flip flops, toasted Lucas and our cherished memories, and tossed frangipani flowers into the waves. One year we witnessed the emergence of a rare leatherback turtle baby ON HIS BIRTHDAY, which was rescued and summarily named “Lucas”. Pretty cool memories.

But this year, the pressure was on. I mulled it over, not coming to any great conclusions, until an idea came to me during a particularly healing acupuncture session. I remembered in 2013—the summer before he died–driving with Lucas from his girlfriend Jenn’s home in Kentucky, to his house in Florida. Along the way we hit traffic in SW Tennessee, and noticed we were in a water paradise! Lakes and flowing rivers. We said to each other it would be fun to visit that area, rather than just drive through it. Thus, I came upon to get together with Jenn somewhere near water in Tennessee, and spread his ashes. I knew it would be a meaningful reunion, as I had not seen Jenn since that first Mother’s Day (2015) when she made the trek down so I wouldn’t be alone. We had stayed in touch the modern way: Facebook, Facetime etc. But an in-person visit would make it special. I had no idea how special it would be.

I selected a tranquil, rustic setting in the woods of NW Tennessee. After meeting at a local Irish pub (surprisingly authentic for a small mountain town) we had a chance to catch up a bit. She had fish and chips; I ordered a sausage in puff pastry appetizer. Both were delicious. Then we shopped and settled into our rustic cabin in the woods, where we played a few games of Farkle and Rummy before retiring. Saturday would be a big day. The next day, after fresh chocolate croissants (thanks to Trader Joe’s) we set out for a local spot called Pebble Beach at “The Boils”, along the Roaring River. It felt very adventurous to be driving on back roads to such an isolated—but stunningly beautiful—place. We had decided we weren’t going to swim there. HAH! To get to an ideal location to spread ashes, we needed to get wet! Jenn had the idea to walk to a sandbar of sorts that divided the river, and walk downstream. We rolled up our pants, summoned our courage and braved the rushing water. It was worth it. Downstream, we found a quiet, private location for our mission. Alone–except for a 10- or 11-year old boy who ‘adopted’ us and surreptitiously followed at a respectful distance, cautioning us about this or that danger. It was so sweet. That boy reminded me of Lucas and his brother when they were children, picking up stones and making their own fun at any of the rivers we visited.

I had no words prepared, no rituals ready for the scattering of ashes. So I just opened my heart, grabbed a handful of ashes and began talking to Lucas. I told him how grateful I was to have him in my life, how much I—and others–missed him. And told him I loved him. The gentle wind carried the ashes across the flowing waters. Again and again, I found the words in my heart, then watched as the wind lifted his ashes and scattered them across the water. Some fell on the speckled stones, and I marveled at the white ash against the gray and black pebbled bottom. Then it was Jenn’s turn. She did the same, then fell into my arms, sobbing. “I didn’t know I was going to cry this much!” I knew exactly what she meant. The whole event was so cathartic and emotional without being maudlin. Our new friend walked us back to the main beach, warning us about slippery or deep areas, and Jenn and I headed back to the car, for part 2 of our gathering: horseback riding.

We headed up the winding mountain road to Lake Meadow Farm, like true adventurers. I had somewhat randomly selected a stable and made reservations weeks earlier, with no idea what to expect. It had just felt right. We arrived and knew we were in the right place. The farm is nestled in the mountains, overlooking lovely Cordell Hull Lake. After checking in, we headed to the barn to select our helmets, where we met the resident goats. There it was. One of the two goats was named “Little Bro Luke”. Jenn and I gave each other an amazed look. We were both thinking, “Well, that’s a cool coincidence.” Then we walked down the path to the ring. As we listened to the safety rules and prepared to mount our horses, our guide announced, “And today, I’ll be riding our lead horse, Skywalker.” Our jaws dropped. Jenn reached over and squeezed my hand. Now there was no doubt whatsoever: Lucas was right there with us.

We ended the impactful day in style, with drinks and appetizers at a lakeside marina. Surrounded by natural beauty and tranquility, we left a last Flip Flop Drop on a beach chair. The day had been so full. Our reunion exceeded expectations. I knew Lucas had guided me in my planning, and in a way had been present with us, through our long talks, laughter and tears.

Twenty five years was not long enough to have my son, his life cut short by a tragic accident. The ten years since his untimely death are unquantifiable. At the same time, yesterday and forever. I take some solace in knowing that he is watching and guiding me and his other loved ones. And in keeping his memory alive through the Flip Flop Drops and other meaningful ways. But deep down, like any mom, I would give anything to have him back, here on earth.

Some people have the gift to connect with the spirit world. Not only can they sense, but sometimes even see or hear other beings. While I have not had that experience, I have definitely felt–strongly–another presence. While going through my mom’s possessions I might get a strong feeling of her presence. Or while hiking a trail, I may feel my Dad right there with me. Many times on certain roads, I am overwhelmed with the feeling that my angel son is with me. Sitting right next to me! The feeling jolts me alive. “Hey, Lucas,” I say. “Good to see you.”

Another way to connect with a loved one is through a spirit animal. After Lucas died, I kept having sightings of raptors. They seemed to accompany me. A random sighting of an osprey or hawk is one thing. But these majestic birds seemed to seek me out, and follow me! Last fall, while driving to his crash site, I was pondering his death. At that moment a bald eagle– something I have rarely seen–flew from east to west, right in front of my car! It flew low enough for me to clearly identify it as an eagle. I was awe-struck.

A few days ago, just before Christmas, I took two of my grandsons to a park. We were leaning on a split-rail fence, looking at sheep. Suddenly my grandson said, “Look, a hawk!” There it was, just several yards away, resting–like us –on the fence. As we watched, it took flight. We felt blessed by its presence.

What a gift when one of my dear friends, Melissa–my midwife whose beautiful gentle hands lifted him to this world–told me of a Lucas visitation. Always very attuned to the spirit world, she is now honing that innate skill, to become a licensed medium.

She told me of a conversation she had last week with another evidence-based medium, who in the course of their session picked up the presence of a 20-something young man with brown hair. Melissa’s thoughts went to Lucas. And the next statements confirmed that it was him. According to the medium, the man expressed excitement about the Christmas season. “He feels lifted in this time of the year, this season.” She went on to say that he had a lovely smile. “He didn’t always smile, but when he did, he brightened the world.” The last part clinched it both for Melissa and me. He ended by saying “Enjoy this season for me.”

Oh, how much that means to me! And yes, I truly did enjoy Christmas. With my surviving son, his soulmate and their beautiful boys. Immersed in the moment. Joy and connection. It’s funny, almost every year I dig up an ‘artifact’ of Lucas’ and gift it to his brother. This year it was a long-sleeved T shirt (pre-stained!). With a hawk on it.

I have the best friends in the world. My family is pretty awesome, too! Support is crucial for a bereaved parent. Especially for those of us single moms. Our life turned upside down; we need anchors. This blog is about celebrating my angel’s birthday, and I am so grateful for the love and support on Lucas’ would-be 30th.

As any vilomah knows, there is never a second that our angel children are far from our thoughts. But special events, like birthdays and holidays, can be excruciating. The absence of our loved ones is magnified exponentially on these days, the sense of loss overwhelming. A part of us feels, ‘how can we celebrate, without __?’ (Fill in the blank with your child’s name). Maybe we feel guilty for any happiness we might eke out of the day.

My son’s birthday is squeezed in between the birthdays of a dear friend’s daughter and husband. As fate would have it, this year I was a guest in her home; laughing, eating lunch, celebrating with them was so life-affirming. Even though it was broad daylight, she made her annual commemoratory bonfire for Lucas. Her grandsons scampered around, collecting ‘firewood’, toasting marshmallows, and then we all sang Happy Birthday to Lucas in heaven. So poignant to hear their angelic, innocent voices. And again, of course, the tears mingled with the supreme joy of being with friends who knew and loved Lucas.

Later that day, another longtime friend and surrogate mama to both of my sons hosted a dinner in honor of Lucas. There were Pad Thai and tamales, because why not? There were Gin and Tonics. We told stories on her porch overlooking the skyline. Laughter and tears. And just like the first year after Lucas died, I baked him his favorite: brownies topped with M&M’s.

To all of you newly bereaved parents: I am so sorry. There are really no other words in the English, or any other language, to express such sorrow. But please know this. Some day, you will laugh again. Some day, you will raise a glass to friendship. Some day, you will double over in hysterics over the antics that your son or daughter pulled. And the tears will come then, too. Let them. You are building new memories.

There’s an old family story. Apparently in the steamy New Jersey summers, my great Aunt Mildred used to send her children outside to play, pull the shades and lock the doors, strip down to her birthday suit and clean the house. When I was a teen, having neither children nor a house, I didn’t give the anecdote much thought. In my twenties, I thought she was quirky. Oh, my quirky aunt. In my forties, I thought she was a rebel. Oh, my rebellious aunt. About ten years ago it dawned on me that maybe there is more to this story. Maybe a mental health issue?! Am I doomed? Are we all vacuuming naked?!

For about five years, I have had a title on my list of books to read, called Vacuum in the Dark. When I hear of a good book, I jot it down, without any qualifiers. Just a title. So when I finally ordered the book on inter-library loan, and sat down to read it yesterday, I was completely blown away. As often happens, It was the exact right book to read at the exact right moment. Is it quirky? Yes. Is it rebellious? Yes. Does the book somehow remind me of my great Aunt Mildred? Absolutely.

It’s time to be real. Too many families, for too long, have been sweeping things under the rug. Fact: My brilliant (admitted to Dartmouth) great-great paternal grandfather suffered some kind of social anxiety. He ended up a night watchman at his father-in-law’s shoe factory. We were always told this story as some kind of admonition. Don’t end up like Pop Chase! Never was it presented in a way to wonder about the real issues he might have been facing.

Fact: My father suffered a nervous breakdown, as it was known then, in his mid-forties. He had become so stressed that he lost his job, and developed a painful skin condition. I specifically remember, as a boisterous 7-yr old, tip-toeing around his looming, boxer-clad, ghost-like figure in the living room. Why wasn’t he at work? Why was he in boxers? What an upside down world! Dad was home after school and Mom was hushing us four ….”Shush! No noise! Your father is resting!” Eventually he moved out of our busy home into a studio apartment of sorts while he recovered.

Fact: My ex-partner regularly experienced bursts of anger over trivial matters (how an onion was sliced), and one time boxed me in the ear, resulting in spray of blood. I have seen my living son react like that, changing on a dime. One minute riled up. The next, completely calm. We called them ‘episodes’.

Fact: My niece suffered from Postpartum depression with her first child. Fortunately, her husband recognized the seriousness of the situation and took her to the hospital. She recovered, and now has three beautiful children, two of them teens. A teacher and active mom, she continues to advocate for mental health. When she felt herself slipping lately, she posted her feelings on Facebook. I was at once shocked and grateful. Thank you, millennials, for talking about the tough stuff!

Fact: Hours before my son Lucas died, he admitted himself to an emergency room, thinking he was ‘crazy’. The intern asked if we had a family history of mental illness. “No,” he replied. I quickly corrected the record. “Yes, definitely.” I wondered if the anecdotes we told of his ‘eccentric’ relatives were only stories to him, that somehow didn’t involve him. Young people can convince themselves of invulnerability, certainly. I also knew that he had just commented, a few days before, “Mom, I think I am two different people.” Upon hearing that and several other disconcerting statements, I made an appointment with a psychiatrist so he could discuss his jumbled thoughts with an expert. She recommended immediate treatment. Little did I know the hospital would release him without even a cursory glance by a psychiatrist, give him a bus pass, and basically send him off to his death.

Questions swirl around my brain every day. Would they have taken him seriously if he had looked rougher, like the other patients in the Psych Ward, who mostly arrived straight off the streets? Even in his disturbed state, Lucas came across as calm, well-spoken, dressed neatly in his signature button down shirt (for the pocket) and shorts. Would they have taken him seriously had he been dressed like a slob? Had he been female? Older? Younger? Would they have treated him if his problem had been physical–a broken leg, say–rather than mental? I want to believe the answer to that last question would be affirmative. But I will never know the answers to the other hypothetical questions. And not a day goes by that I don’t ask myself–for the good of society and for my own peace of mind–what is wrong with our health care system and what can we as individuals do to fix it.

Back to my great Aunt, vacuuming naked. With the curtains drawn. Or my dad, in boxers in broad daylight. Curtains drawn, of course. It wouldn’t do to let the neighbors know of his ‘episode’. Or my son, alternately pacing the halls and sitting shocked into silence at his beloved late grandma’s home, while he struggled internally with whatever inner demons had taken up residence there. With curtains drawn and even lights off. “Why are you sitting in the dark?” I asked him. “Are you doing OK?” “Yep. Just thinking.”

What if we turned on the lights? What if we talked about our stress, our fears, our demons? What if we admitted we are not perfect, or balanced, or whole, at least not all of the time? What if we–as my niece did–reached right out onto Facebook to say HELP! Every child knows that dragons and other terrifying evil beings thrive in caves, in darkness, in secrecy. If we stop vacuuming in the dark, if we reach out when feeling overwhelmed and connect with others, will we allow ourselves to heal? There is strength in numbers. There is also strength in knowing you are not alone.

Mental illness. Talk about it.

Sometimes the posts write themselves. They flow out virtually unassisted. I just have to keep writing. This is not one of those posts. The month of March has been excruciatingly tough. I was sick for most of it, that cough-y, croup-y, achy sick that makes you wonder what being dead feels like. And we had a family emergency, that made me wonder the same thing.

But March also was the month of TWO suicides in nearby Parkland, of Marjorie Stoneman Douglas students. Thirteen months after the school massacre, 16-year old Calvin Desir and 19-year old Sydney Aiello apparently felt that taking their own lives was a better option than living in pain. This is heart-wrenching. Their friends and family are left in the wake, speechless and gut-punched. After the vigils, and the memorial services, and the teddy bears and the Facebook posts, a question keeps gnawing at us. With all the money and resources that were thrown at schools, especially MSD, after the shooting, why was suicide prevention NOT on the table? Why were students hearing well-intentioned but potentially dangerous advice like “The best thing is to get back to normal.” What normal?! These young people experienced trauma. They saw their friends gunned down in front of their eyes. They suffered unspeakable pain. Survivor’s guilt is just one of the obvious results of living through terror. How many more?

I am not a therapist, or a counselor, or in any way prepared to offer professional advice. But I do know how it feels to lose a loved one to sudden death. And I know that NOTHING is normal after that kind of loss.

I also know that the language surrounding suicide needs to change. Saying these young people Committed Suicide seems accusatory. Weirdly similar to committing an offense, or a faux pas. Or a CRIME. Suicide is not a crime. It is a tragic choice-not-a-choice that very desperate people make. It is preventable. And part of prevention is increased compassion about the deeply misunderstood topic of grief. Let’s commit to using gentler terminology when discussing suicide. In March 2019, two Stoneman Douglas students died tragically by suicide. They took their own lives. May Calvin and Sydney be forever remembered.

After my 25-year old son’s fatal car crash, I became obsessed with how to honor Lucas. I wanted some kind of tradition, something meaningful, to remember him by. As a society we have really no road map for how to proceed. I made several calls about planting a tree, installing a bench. But I wanted something …everyday. A way to reach people like him…to put a smile on someone’s face. He was a barefoot boy. Growing up since age 7 in the tropical climes of South Florida and Mexico’s Yucatan peninsula, you couldn’t get shoes on him! He would kick them off, abandon them at the first opportunity. As soon as he was old enough to choose, he chose barefoot. That is, when he wasn’t wearing his beloved basketball shoes (Nothing like the sound of squeaky shoes on polished wood floor gymnasiums.) He went to college in flip flops, played sports barefoot, even climbed the highest mountain in Vermont (Mt. Mansfield) barefoot!

On the first painful birthday celebration after his death, friends and family gathered at Oleta State Park where he had worked. I don’t know why, but I showed up with an extra pair of flip flops. I had bought them on auto-pilot while shopping one day. I told a close friend, ‘I brought these flip flops in Luke’s size’ (size 11) ‘I don’t know what I was thinking!’ She said ‘I brought some, too.’ We compared them. Without each other’s knowledge we had each bought Size 11 flip flops. In the Same Colors: black, red and gray. Some time between breaking out the brownies while singing Happy Birthday and the roaring campfire, we decided to randomly leave the flip flops, one pair on the beach and another on a cabin porch. Luke’s best friend’s mom suggested we add a note: ‘a gift from Lucas’.

Thus the tradition was born. Friends and family leaving flip flops in various sizes and colors, in random places, all over the world. Ideally in June, near his birthday; but random acts of kindness know no boundaries. Along the way, my wonderful friends at Winning Image Graphics in Vermont desigxned a beautiful logo for our Flip Flop Drop, reminding recipients to Flip It Forward.

Last summer, during a particularly cold spell in Vermont, I decided to add socks (a Sock Drop!) and even PJ’s, always with the idea of surprising unsuspecting recipients. So when a friend and I drove cross-country in the fall, I thought, what better time to continue the Flip Flop and Sock Drop tradition?! We could reach so many new people and places! From Saratoga to Syracuse to Seneca Nation, from Cleveland to Columbus, from Louisville to Nashville, and Davenport and Gulfport, and innumberable places in between, flops and socks and more were dropped, tolls paid, coffees and beers and meals purchased, basically random acts of kindness ‘spreading smiles’.

Thank you to all of the people who got onboard and became kindness angels… Every little act of kindness creates ripples that go on forever. Let’s keep doing what we can to keep kindness alive. And, if you were a lucky recipient of a random act of kindness whether from Luke’s Flip Flop Drop or whatever, please share a sentence or two about your find, and we would love to see photos!!

For the past few weeks I have had constant reminders that I am in the right place at the right time. Sometimes we need these little affirmations, especially after suffering so much pain upon losing a loved one and wondering ‘why am I here when (s/he) is not?’

In the days after my son’s car accident, I was in complete shock; I was very lucky to have my dear family members and friends drive or fly in from five different states to 🐝 (Be) there for me. With them by my side, I was able to tackle some of the most difficult tasks: claim my son’s body and vehicle (in both instances my surviving son and I were discouraged from viewing Lucas or his cleft-in-half VW, so we gratefully allowed my cousins, both war veterans, to take over); retrieve Luke’s medical records; meet with the attending police officer; obtain copies of my son’s death certificate; deal with car insurance; etc.

Weeks or months later, it’s hard to say, I began my forays into the world. After all, I had to buy groceries, make appointments, complete certain daily tasks, etc. I did so with apprehension, never sure when a memory, sight or sound would strike. One example: I heard a young boy bouncing a ball incessantly in a store while his mother shopped. My son Lucas was a basketball player; his obsession carried over into every step or leap he took. He was always dribbling, making imaginary baskets, ghost dunking. Fast forward to a shopping expedition after the death of my son: The sound of the child’s ball rendered me helpless. It was like a punch in the gut. I left my groceries and fled.

The helpless feeling of not belonging in the world, of not having the RIGHT to exist, lingered for too long. What tiny baby steps have led me to where I am now, along with the realization that I can be open to the outside world and not be harmed by it. Several astonishing encounters of the last month or two have reminded me of the power and comfort in BE-ing present and engaging with others.

Last week, I was taking advantage of a seasonal sale, stocking up on footwear for my annual Flip Flop Drop (in June) in honor of my deceased son. Watching me pile dozens and dozens of pairs of sandals into my cart, the woman behind me asked jokingly, “How many feet do you have?!” I eventually explained to her the reason behind the Flip Flop giveaway: random acts of kindness in memory of my son, a barefoot boy who generously and sometimes carelessly left his own sandals behind. She responded with kindness and compassion, and offered me a hug. I thanked her for her kindness. She thanked me for sharing my story; we were both deeply touched by the encounter. “My name is B” I offered. “I’m Em, candidate for governor.” How amazing that here is a politician with heart, who truly listens to her constituents. Equally astonishing: the seemingly random factors that placed us together, in line at the check-out, at that moment. After all, I had been planning to drive straight home after work, but traffic was so bad I thought ‘I’ll just pop into the store, and let the congestion die down.’ Yet it was one of those ‘meant-to-be encounters, almost planned by an outside force. Human interactions like these are such wonderful affirmations of the goodness of others and the importance of sharing our stories.

For all the Vilomahs (grieving parents) out there, and for anyone who wishes to understand just a little about grief, know this: there is a beautiful world for those able to see it. Caring people can give us strength, and help to heal us in our journey. We must be open to these experiences, however, to benefit from the support of others. Grief: talk about it.

There is so much we don’t know about grief before losing a loved one. Like that feeling inside when you pass a familiar place and know that the last time you were there, you were together. Alive. Laughing, arguing, silent, it doesn’t matter. Or not even together. Just that your world hadn’t yet been shaken to its very core. Without even a hint of what was to come.

If loss of a child– against the natural order– intensifies that feeling, their sudden loss smashes it into smithereens. It’s a punch in the stomach every time. I’ll be driving on a road or passing a landmark–nothing memorable, nothing of importance, it could be the tilt of a mailbox, the slow curve or climb of a hill, a splash of color–and I will know in my bones that the last time I passed that way, my son was alive. The stomach tells me. Then the heart; finally the brain catches up.

As I was driving in a nearby neighborhood a while back, on my way to buy a mirror I found on Craigslist, my body told me. I felt a deepening dread, a hollowness. I was thinking everyday thoughts: Would the mirror match my dresser? Had I paid my water bill? Why do those palm trees look so great while mine are yellowed? My mind was following the GPS, looking for the next turn. My body screamed “you have been here before”. Nothing LOOKED familiar. But the ever-so-slight rise of the terrain, as I passed over a speed bump, jolted me into awareness. I peeled away the recesses of time and remembered that I had commissioned a birthday cake from a home baker, and picked it up in this very same neighborhood. I believe it was his 13th. A soccer cake. Green–the soccer field–with yellow, maybe a touch of orange, frosting. A tribute to Brazil, whose official jersey he wore? That was his soccer phase. By 10th grade he had moved on to basketball. The dribbling sound etched into my brain and heart.

This memory of a colorful cake, of happy times, slammed into me like a train. I pulled over to slow my breathing and wipe my eyes. Years have past, but the raw grief is just as painful.

There is a knowing in our bones. I picture a map of the world, with every single place I have traveled laid out on one dimension. Like the “where we fly” map on the last page of airline magazines. The routes are like bones, veins. I could superimpose my body on these routes, and they would match up. My arm, reaching to Santa Barbara, our 2005 summer vacation. My leg, toes pointed, tracing the spine of the Andes. Many fibers, up and down the highways and byways from North to South. A skeleton of shared experience, of memories.

Yesterday my sister and I took her granchildren to a nearby lake for a few hours of swimming and sand-castle building. She was driving, but as we approached the time-barrered sign, I felt the rise of the road and knew I had been there, BC. Before the Calamity. Before the knocking on the front door and the awful words “Your son is dead.” It doesn’t matter how many years have passed. Our bodies know. Our nerves flare up, with the geography of grief, the pain of remembering.

After settling the little ones in, I dove into the cool water and swam away my feelings.

Every so often I like to feature an article that caught my attention. In the June 7 edition of Seven Days I found a compelling critique of a previously published article about Vermont’s approach to the mental health crisis, which could just as well refer to the dearth of health care resources in the US. The letter to the editor submitted by John McCullough III of Vermont Legal Aid is titled ‘A Question of Psychiatry’. Excerpts follow:

“I was disappointed by your willingness to accept the prevailing orthodoxy that forced hospitalization and medications are a panacea for people with psychiatric diagnoses. The scientific research reported in Robert Whitaker’s book Anatomy of an Epidemic clearly demonstrates that popular notions about the nature of mental illness and the necessity and efficacy of psychiatric medications are not supported by the evidence. We should all question whether the power placed in the hands of the psychiatric establishment has done more harm than good.

What the article does well, however, is demonstrate how inadequate and underfunded the community supports in our mental health system are. It is unconscionable that our society should expect an untrained family member like the father in your story, no matter how well intentioned, to bear the burden of providing care for his severely disabled son in the middle of a psychiatric crisis.

One symptom of Vermont’s mental health crisis is the unprecedented numbers of people detained in emergency departments without treatment or even access to such basic necessities as social interaction and access to the outdoors. The cause of this crisis is not delays in involuntary medications. No, it is the failure of the mental health system to address problems before they reach a crisis stage, to avoid hospital admission by getting people help where they live, and to provide readily available housing and supports when they are ready to leave the hospital, that causes backlogs in psychiatric hospitals and emergency departments.”

Thank you, Mr. McCullough, for pointing out the “sad consequences of the inadequacy” of our health care system and offering some potential solutions. Will local and federal leaders step up to turn the tide of preventable, steadily rising deaths of the most vulnerable of our population? We should all be asking our elected officials, ‘where do we go from here?’

It was just another day, but yet it wasn’t. Three and a half years exactly since my son’s death. A regular day, driving mindlessly on a road trip, listening to the searing, soaring guitars on Edie Brickell and the New Bohemians album Ghost of a Dog. Just me, alone in the car, passing ghost towns of central Florida. ‘Motel Good Food Bar’ proclaimed a worn sign. ‘Beer Whiskey’ boasted another.

Edie played on, and the music pierced my heart. Music I have listened to dozens of times, BEFORE Luke’s crash. I felt like I was hearing it, really getting it, for the first time. References to death ‘I ain’t gonna kill myself’, confusion, pathos… the desperate cries of a young adult. Edie Brickell! Icon Paul Simon’s wife! Edie, whose music I used to teach English to Spanish-speaking kids decades ago. How did I not hear then, the uncertainty, the yearning, in her questions, ‘who will be there for me?’ ‘Mama, will you be there?’ Such honesty and vulnerability in these lines.

The piercing guitar, lilting strings, heartwrenching chords struck me to the core. Edie’s deeply emotional voice: ‘one day you just get tired of dying’. My tears flowed like the whiskey surely had in that broken down, long-shuttered  bar. I cried for my son, for who he was and could have been. I cried for his lost future. And I cried for every struggling young person feeling confusion and pain, wondering how to connect. I felt like a veil had been lifted, hearing Edie’s plaintive voice, trying to make sense of a chaotic and at times deeply disappointing world. She sings of pain, suffering, suicide, death. And, yes, of love and life and of sitting on a front porch watching the world.

The answer to MY question, why I was now hearing what I could not hear before deep grief, came to me weeks later. Why? Because I am a different person. Because we are all different after the death of our child. Because things that we used to enjoy may no longer  appeal. Familiar music may now seem foreign. A speaker at the first candlelight service I attended explained it this way:  Picture a vase, a beautiful vase. Now imagine smashing it on the ground. Although you may pick up every single tiny shard—which of course is not even feasible—although you glue it back exactly as it was, is it the same vase? It may contain all the pieces and colors of the original, yet it is most certainly shattered. Like the vase, bereaved parents—Vilomahs—add a new facet to our identity. Broken. In pieces; shattered. Yes we may paste on a smile and make every effort to socialize, yet inside we are broken.

Everyone grieves differently, but for the first two or three years after losing my son, music was repulsive to me. Especially the music that had any association with him. It felt like being punched in the stomach every time a song came on. My solution was silence. Silence was neutral. Silence was not invasive. This is a tiny part of how loss of a child changes us. How to go forward in our new, shattered identity? My best advice is Listen to that inner voice. Follow your gut. Join a group of bereaved parents, or an online forum. Make your emotional needs number one.

Even those of us who grew up in the Smiley Face generation (‘Have a good day’ a national mandate) can learn that it is OK to honor our feelings, to plainly say ‘I feel broken.’ When asked how we are holding up. As Edie sings in her raw, bending voice, ‘there are thousands of angels beating in my heart’; the pain of having a child snatched away is certainly the most terrible of life’s ironic twists. Talk about it.