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Every grieving parent knows how memories can be both our greatest delight and our sworn enemy. The former will bring joy and fondness and bathe our day in happy reminiscing. The latter slices a knife into our already aching hearts. The fact that the catalyst is one and the same, having power to comfort or destroy, hints at the dangers of memories. We begin to think of them as land mines, avoiding memories at all costs. Why else would it have taken me three years to clean out my sons room? Why would I look at boxes labeled “Luke’s college writings” or “treasures: Lucas. SAVE” and shudder, knowing full well that I lack the physical and emotional energy to confront whatever these boxes contain. Why would my Vilomah–grieving mom-friends flat out refuse to go through their child’s belongings, or move households, or in some cases even enter their deceased child’s room. For years?

My hope is to make friends with memories. Allow the feelings to ebb and flow. Realize that nothing is either black and white, that every life experience can be viewed from opposing angles. Ultimately, I want to LOVE and LAUGH when memories of my son drop in unannounced. When a seemingly innocent Facebook post “we thought you would like to share this memory” doesn’t wrack me with sobs, as I mourn the loss of my beautiful child. When dusting under the little ceramic toothpick holder he made in preschool–so flawed and charming–brings a smile instead of a tear, as I think of his chubby little hands forming, and later messily but lovingly painting the cylinder.

This week a Ninja memory snuck into my day. While putting away Christmas ornaments (I know, I know, I left them out WAY too long this season, but then again I haven’t even done any decorating since that fateful day in 2014) I came across a wooden canoe paddle made by my son at summer camp. His name Lucas Boyd burned by his own 11-yr old hands into the handle. The ‘L-u-c’ confident and bold, followed by a tentative rush of letters ‘a-s   B-o-y’ and a flourished ‘d’ almost like relief at the end. A treasure that I could NEVER get rid of. Along with the ceramic toothpick holder (now containing Angel Cards), a High School project on Tibet (written by LC Boyd), a grocery list (circa 2013) ‘chicken, eggs, milk, OJ, salad. Lamb, lobster for special occasions’ and a hurried note to self (same year) ‘Learn to cook Thai food!’ followed by ‘Best moves to capture the King’ (in chess) along with a cryptic series of letters and numbers.

Do these memories make me smile? Certainly. But often, the tears flow. It can be challenging, at times impossible, to Keep my focus after a visitation from my son. Still, I hope these Ninja Memories continue to sneak into my mind and day. Tiny little reminders of a time when life was fine, whole, and tangible.

On October 24, my son’s third Angel date (for the uninitiated: the day my child died), I was surrounded by my best friends of several decades, raising our glasses and voices in memory of Lucas, eating his favorite foods, telling stories into the Vermont night. Three years ago I could not have imagined such love and laughter, feeling almost at peace. Did I miss my son? Tremendously. Yet I was so grateful for the lives he had touched, and for my continued interactions with our community, who knew and loved Lucas in different ways: my dear friend (a midwife) who helped usher him into this world, another who babysat for him, others who have been his ‘aunties’ from the start. I learned about my child that night. These cherished memories fill out the Lucas I knew and loved and offered a more complete picture.

The following day, a friend called me and asked “are you sitting down?” While we had been celebrating the too-short life of Lucas, a message had been left on her home phone. (Yes, some people still have landlines!): the son of one of our mutual friends had died just two days before, while skiing in the Chilean Andes. He was 25 years old. The irony struck us both like an iron fist. We never imagined that our circle of friends would lose another young man, especially a man so full of vitality and joie de vivre, at the tender age at which I lost Lucas.

I dedicate this blog to the memory of Caleb Ladue, a hearty, daring, caring, utterly charming, brilliant young man. A bright spark, who touched lives and hearts across the continents. Caleb, you are forever missed.  Continue reading “Bound by an Angel date”

Vilomahs, this is an excerpt from the book Option B, by Sheryl Sandberg and Adam Grant, which I came across in Time Magazine (April 24, 2017) and have been wanting to share. Sheryl (Facebook COO) lost her husband Dave in 2015 to heart failure. He was 47. Her words, written after she emerged from the shock of sudden death, will ring true for widows and widowers as well as bereaved families. Sheryl addresses the important topic of how to speak frankly about grief after the death of a loved one, and how family and friends can offer support.

“In the early weeks after Dave died, I was shocked when I’d see friends who did not ask how I was doing. I felt invisible….When someone shows up with a cast, we immediately inquire, ‘What happened?’ If your life is shattered, we don’t.

People continually avoided the subject. I went to a close friend’s house for dinner, and she and her husband made small talk the entire time. I listened, mystified, keeping my thoughts to myself….I ran into friends at local parks who talked about the weather. YES! The weather has been weird with all this rain and death.

Many people who had not experienced loss, even some very close friends, didn’t know what to say….Their discomfort was palpable, especially in contrast to our previous ease. As the elephant in the room went unacknowledged, it started acting up, trampling over my relationships….Friends were asking ‘How are you?’ But I took this as more of a standard greeting than a genuine question. I wanted to scream back, ‘my husband just died. How do you think I am?’ I didn’t know how to respond to pleasantries. Aside from that, how was the play, Mrs. Lincoln?

The deep loneliness of my loss was compounded by so many distancing daily interactions that I started to feel worse and worse….I knew that people were doing their best. Those who said nothing were trying to not bring on more pain; those who said the wrong thing were trying to comfort. I saw myself in many of these attempts–they were doing exactly what I had done when I was on the other side.

I remembered the year before Dave died when a friend was diagnosed with cancer. At the time, I thought the best way to offer comfort was to assure her, ‘You’ll be OK. I just know it.’….Recently, a colleague was diagnosed with cancer, and I handled it differently. ‘I know you don’t know yet what will happen–and neither do I. But you won’t go through this alone. I will be there with you every step of the way.’ By saying this, I acknowledged that she was in a stressful and scary situation. I then continued to check in with her regularly.

I finally figured out that I could acknowledge (my) elephant’s existence….I told my closest colleagues that they could ask me questions and they could talk about how they felt, too. When people asked how I was doing, I started responding more frankly. ‘I’m not fine, and it’s nice to be able to be honest about that with you.’ I learned that even small things could let people know that I needed help: when they hugged me hello, if I hugged them just a bit tighter, they understood that I was not OK.

Until we acknowledge it, the elephant is always there. By ignoring it, those in pain isolate themselves, and those who could offer comfort create distance instead. Both sides need to reach out. Speaking with empathy and honesty is a good place to start.”

 

How do you throw a birthday party for an angel? Do you celebrate, reminisce, rejoice? Or do the feelings of pain, grief and emptiness reign? This is one mom’s answer, fully aware that there is no Correct response.

The question of birthdays gnawed at me after the death of my son. Every single painful day of that first year was a trial. Every day, hour, minute was my FIRST as a grieving mom. The FIRST Halloween without Lucas. The first Thanksgiving. Etc. The number 24 tortured me, since he died on the 24th. I hated November 24, despised Christmas Eve, resented January 24 for reminding me of my loss. Times of day also played tricks with me. His accident occurred at 10:35 pm. Most nights I was asleep well before that hour, but if not, sobs wracked my body and shook my soul.

At my first Compassionate Friends (TCF) meeting I listened in amazement as Vilomahs shared thoughts of how to approach birthdays and other milestones. For many members, years had passed, even decades. A few of us were raw in our sorrow, clutching our blue folders, choking on our words. I admired those bereaved fathers and mothers who casually described their plans to celebrate their Angel child’s birthday. His favorite restaurant. Her preferred meal. Invite family and friends, or have a low key, intimate meal at home, in a park, at the beach. No formula! I took all of this in, but on June 19, Luke’s 26th birthday, I found myself completely paralyzed by grief, unable to leave the refuge of my bed. My wonderful friends, understanding, sent 2 dozen red roses. Tears of grief mingled with those of gratitude. Still, I allowed myself the time and space to be truly present with the fact that Lucas died; he will not be in the physical realm again for birthdays or any other occasion. No hugs. No phone calls, “Hey Mom, what’s up?” Not even a lousy text. This is harsh.

Year 2, I was blessed to spend with my living son; even our beloved dog joined us dockside for a delicious brunch. We raised our glasses, toasted Lucas, shared stories, glimpsed butterflies flitting around us. They seemed to say, “I am here with you! Today and every day!”

Year 3.

Sitting here in the millenial shadow of Mt Abraham, aglow with the setting sun, my thoughts turn to endings, and by extension, beginnings. She presents a stoic countenance, completely unmoved by the extremes of Vermont weather, or by the changes tiny humans have wrought to her kingdom. I have spent countless hours trekking on her winding trails, through radiant birch stands, past giant moss-covered boulders, into fragrant pine dells. The mountain is a meditation. In my twenties I often climbed alone, drinking in the secrets and deep mysteries as I unraveled my own. The mountain is a confidante. At three years old, my firstborn Sylvan joined my father and me, scampering and exploring and delighting in every bend of the trail. The mountain is a teacher, an outdoor classroom, a living book. Two decades later, Lucas joined me on my Appalachian / Long Trail hike, culminating on Mt Mansfield. A dream fulfilled. The mountain rewards effort with euphoria.

My sons knew my end-of-life directives. “Scatter my ashes from the top of Mt Abraham”. They knew my favorite spots. I never doubted that both of my boys would outlive me, and carry out my wishes. Yet…it was I who carried the ashes of my son with me, close to my heart, on my late winter hike. Two years after Luke’s death, I felt some closure, an ending.

The other day I listened to a podcast by Griefwalker, whose simple wisdom struck me. “Transforming the language of death”. He spoke of our death-phobic society, and of the need to embrace real, direct talk as a first step, eliminating the euphemisms that are so often used in polite (avoidant) conversation. “She passed.” Or “He left us.” These terms, while softer and perhaps more digestible, do a disservice; they baby-foot around the reality and deny us the occasion to acknowledge this unescapable life event. I remember getting a phone call about a loved one who died suddenly and unexpectedly. “She’s gone”. My bewildered response was “Where did she go?” Thinking, we need to find her. It took several awkward back-and-forths of this nature until I grasped that she had died.

As a grieving Vilomah one of the greatest challenges has been to accept that my child is dead. I know I speak for all bereaved parents when I say we wish we could change this horrible new reality. I yearn to return to my mundane before-the-accident life, to hear my son’s voice, to hug his solid frame. Learning to accept the bitter emptiness is difficult because WE THINK WE ARE IN CONTROL of our lives. Yet as Griefwalker states, we do NOT “get to vote on every important event in our lives.”

Dear friends,

Today’s blog features a letter to the editor of Seven Days, Burlington, Vermont’s free newspaper, and was written by a former user (his words). I was so moved by it, I cut it out and have carried it in my wallet for weeks. If you know someone– or are someone–looking for help, please reflect on these words, so simply and bravely stated by a man who has found a way to turn his life around. The full letter, along with the article referred to, can be found at www.SevenDays.com.

“Thank you for your coverage of opioid addiction and its victims (“Death by Drugs,” January 25)….

…I spent a good deal of my twenties lying to everyone and I can say that the old adage ‘Honesty is the best policy’ simply couldn’t be truer. It’s hard, because to be honest as an addict often means giving up those last shreds of pride and dignity you are holding tightly. But don’t allow your shame to hinder your recovery. Use yor support systems and be honest with them and with yourself. I promise that you will feel a weight lift….

…Think about the things you want to do in your life, and do them. Don’t allow yourself to wallow in recovery. Activity and success are great deterrents of relapse, as is honesty.

To those who know people who are struggling, the previous advice holds for you. Honesty–embrace it. Turning a blind eye because it’s uncomfortable solves nothing. Keep at it, be direct, and let the person who is struggling know you are there for them.

I hope everyone struggling right now finds their peace.”

–David Zeidler

I couldn’t say it any better.

Everlastingly,

Be🐝

On January 7, I attended my seventh funeral in just over two years. I know I am approaching the age where skimming the obits and attending services become routine: expected, if not anticipated. People grow old and die. That’s life. However, only one of the services was age-appropriate. My dear friend’s stepfather, fully engaged in life in his mid-90’s, succumbed to old age. His family planned a beautiful celebration of his full and vibrant life. I can’t say the same for the other six funerals.

This dubious streak kicked off with the death of an alum from the high school where I taught for 15 years. The young man was 25, and speeding. He lost control and hit a pole. I shared this tragic story with my 25-year old son; the two of us planned to attend his service on Sunday. However, in an eerie twist of fate, 18 hours prior to the funeral, my own son was speeding, lost control, and slammed into a concrete pole. My life crashed and burned. When I emerged from the ashes of deep shock, disbelief and grief, it was to attend the funeral of the 30-yr. old son of a woman whose strength and leadership I greatly admire. Like me, she is a veteran teacher, who raised her children with grace, humor and unconditional love. She is also the facilitator of my local chapter of The Compassionate Friends, having lost her younger son a decade ago. In those meetings, she gave me hope that I would, someday, live and laugh again fully. When I learned the tragic news of her oldest son, my heart shattered for her and her family.  How is it possible to keep living after losing two children?! What kind of cruel test is this?

I would find out before the years end. My 30-year old daughter-in-law became another victim of the heroin epidemic. The shock and pain and hurt and anger enveloped me. O wretched death! Her October service, billed a celebration of Thanksgiving, struck me to the core. I found it impossible to give thanks for a life cut short at 30. A mother, leaving a motherless child behind.

I’ve heard well-meaning people say “It was her time.” “He lived a full life.” I was even told by a bereaved mom: “My child lived a whole lifetime in his 23 years on earth.” I can’t buy that. Regardless of whether they had found their soulmate, followed their earthly dreams, touched countless lives, even met goals found on a typical bucket list, NO! A quarter-century is not a full life! It’s 25 cents on the dollar. A life cheated. Love ones left clutching their gaping hearts.

As humans, we want to make sense of things. We want to understand. As vilomahs-grieving parents-we want to find answers to our “Why?” and “What if…?” questions eating away at us. A neat, logical little reason. But sometmes there is no sense. No reason. Life is unfair. Why is my big-hearted, good-natured, deep-thinking son gone? No answer makes sense. How can a wonderful, engaged, caring mother lose two of her sons? Isn’t there a limit on how much pain one may endure? How can a dear friend go running on a cold winter day, fully alive, and then collapse by the woodstove?  These questions gnaw at me. And remind me that compassion, love, grace, support, kindness are the only answers. Today, tomorrow, forever.

 

 

On Christmas morning 2016–the second without my son, the first without my daughter-in-law–I awoke after a very strange dream. A dream that, like many, was at once ordinary and extraordinary. I felt the presence of my son Lucas, simultaneously a boy of seven or eight and a young man of 25, his age at death. We were headed to a service at the large white church on a hill where I had sung the Messiah days earlier (in real life). Many people from years of our lives clustered around the vestibule, including childhood friends of my sons. Past and present melded in that dreamy way of the subconcious. Amaya–about nine in the dream, actually 30–wearing a pure white dress, while washing white glossy dishes with great intention. “I already washed them” I told her. “Yes, but they must be done exactly this way.”  Michael as himself, 30-years old and a pastor and husband, awaiting serenely at the pulpit. Without being told, I knew the sermon would somehow be about Lucas. Michael spoke of a white lamb. Was there talk of a sacrifice? Touches of red decorated the church. White church, white lamb, white clothing….blood-red highlights. Was this dream telling me about my lost loved ones?

Days earlier, I had begun to read the book Proof of Heaven, the reflections of a neuroscientist who had himself experienced the hereafter. For centuries, many people, from many walks of life, have described a similar experience, including the founder of Christian Science, Mary Baker Eddy. I long to believe in the continuum of existence, to know that Lucas, Ashley, and so many other lost loved ones, are nearby, just out of reach, still by our sides. Do I have or need proof? Certainly not. I have been given many signs in these few years.

Dreams are one of many ways I receive signs. Another is through spirit animals. Cloud formations, beautiful sunsets bring solace. So many encounters have touched my heart and soul, when I most needed to connect.

Yesterday I got the dreaded call. As the mother of a recovering addict, I expect it daily. I am continually on edge. The past two years have taught me more than the previous 50 about the ins and outs of drug addiction, including the heart-wrenching fear of loss. My son and his wife are long time users. They were functioning addicts. Any musings on my part would be met with “Ah, but they are so ….(fill in blank, wih an adjective not attributable to an addict… helpful, loving, easy-going, etc.).” I thought I was imagining things. But after the tragic accident of my younger son, the sheet hit the fan and my eyes were peeled open, by a horrible outside force. SEE! LOOK! UNDERSTAND! The force said. My life turned upside down. Maybe I don’t WANT to understand. But I had to.

Months of drug rehab, outpatient meetings, counseling, etc followed. Things were looking good. My son and daughter-in-law were re-integrating to society. But oh, the needle calls. The sting, the prick, the floatiness. (So I’m told.) Talk of triggers, and coping, and being real. Still, the needle calls. Someone confided, ‘when I hear of a fellow addict’s overdose, my first reaction is jealousy.’ Because s/he felt the prick, got the high.

Yesterday’s call was not just about someone. Or anyone. It was a call from the mother of my (ex) daughter-in-law, the mother of my beloved only grandson. “She’s gone.” she said. My brain can’t decipher. “Where did she go?” I asked. “She died.” Still I refuse to accept the words. That’s impossible! I just saw her 10 days ago! We were at the playground, we talked of concrete things like soccer balls, chicken nuggets, and winter coats. She did not SEEM to be a heroin addict. She was Ashley, my grandson’s mom. Chatting with another young mom, following the pack of children darting across the asphalt like little otters. Stopping only to lace up a shoe or get a Kleenex.

But Ashley, for whatever reason, made the fatal decision to feel one more sting of the needle. She fell from the bathroom to the hallway. Her own son, not even 5 years old, found her there, saw her turn blue, wailed at his inability to help her. Such deep pain. Such trauma inflicted on such a young soul. Eyes that have seen too much.

My own eyes won’t stop crying. Tears fall incessantly, while I make the plane reservations, pack the bags, feed the cats. I am sick and tired of this! Sick of tragedy, death, pain. Young people dying preventable deaths! A young mom, not the best mom, but not the worst. Offering a warm lap, a big hug, a ride home from school. A mom who knew the names of stuffed animals. “Do you want Racky Raccoon tonight, or Skookum?” I am so tired of drugs and their insatiable hold on our youth. Tired of death. ENOUGH I say!! Broken hearts litter our world like fallen leaves, getting kicked around in the commotion of living.

We must gather up. Gather together. End this tragedy. Only by naming our enemy will we triumph. One life saved is victory. Talk about it! Name the demon! Anxiety, depression, addiction: we are watching you! If you feel sad, reach out. Talk about it! If a family member or friend suffers from any of these feelings (and most of us do, at least at some point), listen. Be there. Care. These are the tools. Low tech. Simple. Available.

 

 

Living in South Florida, the beginning of hurricane season is as mundane and daunting as back-to-school. One look at the calendar tells us the days are approaching, yet we never quite know entirely what’s in store.

I try to ignore much of the media hype surrounding both. ‘Back to school sales’ especially bring me memories of stocking up with both of my boys; choosing backpacks, checking off items on teachers’ lists, longer each year. I watch the families chattering in the aisles with a certain envy. It seems like yesterday that I was browsing the bookstore with Lucas, on his college campus, looking for that special item for him, and a small souvenir for me. My son, a college student!

In the last few days, headlines of an approaching tropical depression have dominated the media. Yesterday, I bravely headed into the storm, echoing my mother: “a little rain never hurt anyone! I’m waterproof!” Ten minutes later I was back home, chastened by the cars off the road (drivers couldn’t see the lines due to the pounding rain), traffic lights out, and roads turned to waterways. My oldest son and I watched the drama play out from the comfort and safety of our recliner chairs, hot coffee in hand. Still, I told myself, “what’s a little wind and rain?”

This morning we had the answer, in the shape of a hole in the ceiling of one of the bedrooms. My nemesis, the popcorn ceiling, sparkled like icy snow in jagged chunks, covering the bookcase, floor, windowsill. Who knew that four square feet of ceiling–Sheetrock, plaster, & insulation–could be so heavy?

Friends and family offered advice, referrals (of contractors and companies) and sympathy. They were surprised at my stoicism. Yes, it will be a costly headache, a hassle, just one more thing to do before a planned trip. But I can’t summon the energy to FEEL upset, or shocked, or angry … at Mother Nature, or even at the roofer who left a smidgen of a gap between the tiles, where the water gradually seeped through. As I told one of the Vilomahs from my bereavement group, “I don’t worry about the small stuff anymore. And after losing a child, everything –by comparison– is small.”

The outer-lying bands of the system that soaked South Florida has become tropical storm Hermine, causing havoc along the Gulf Coast, flooding streets and homes, closing schools and businesses. The 2016 hurricane season is off to a robust start. As for the school year? Students in Hermine’s path barely had a chance to show off their backpacks or even learn their new classmates’ names. Memories of the first days in their new grades will forever be linked to TS Hermine. Far from mundane.

Meanwhile, like Hermine (expected to become a hurricane by September 1st), I hurtle along, sometimes weak, sometimes –to others’ eyes–fierce, gathering and losing strength, doing the windy and wind-blown dance of the Vilomah. The dance of the grieving mother. Loss of Lucas hits me like a wind-thrown brick, hurled at my aching heart. Creates a gaping hole, that Sheetrock and plaster cannot heal.

–August 31, 2016