I will never know for sure why my son chose to leave us because he is the only one who can tell me. Even so, I still want to try to understand. For those who knew him, they may find understanding helpful in their healing process. I do not know what it provides for me to write down what I think I know and understand. Perhaps writing it down stops my brain from continually spinning.
He did not share his diagnosis widely with his friends. I assume he did not want to be different, or maybe guys do not share that kind of personal information.
My son was diagnosed with attention deficit disorder (ADD)/attention deficit hyperactivity disorder (ADHD) when he was in the second grade. ADD/ADHD is a neurodevelopment disorder that comes with inattention, distractibility, and can be accompanied by hyperactivity and impulsivity. It affects 2%-12% of all children, and for 40%-60% of those affected children, it continues into adulthood. It can be linked to addictive behavior, greater use of alcohol and marijuana, anti-social personality disorder, and high risk of self-injury behaviors (Balazs, J. and A. Kereszteny, 2017). He did not share his diagnosis widely with his friends. I assume he did not want to be different, or maybe guys do not share that kind of personal information.
Two symptoms of ADD are the inability to follow through and avoidance of tasks that require mental effort, so he rarely would follow-through on seeking mental health services.
My son’s second-grade teacher suggested he be evaluated for ADD/ADHD because of the symptoms he displayed in class. He was such a happy boy, full of interests, talkative, caring, but he could not focus. Looking back, my husband and I see there were signs while he was in the first grade. He and his best friend were in the same classroom together. His friend was a lot like him, happy, full of energy, bouncing off the walls. They played hockey together, snowboarded, played T-ball. Every day a note came home from his teacher that he had been given a strike for misbehaving. Five strikes in a week brought us the luxury of talking to his teacher. At first, we just thought the notes were the consequence of young boys being boys. We are thankful for his second-grade teacher who figured out the cause of this behavior.
Our son went through a series of medications for ADD/ADHD. He did not like how they made him feel. He could not sleep. He would lay in bed, awake for hours, thinking of stories. He would sometimes draw them out in cartoons while under the glow of a flashlight. The medication made him more emotional. When he reached high school, we never forced him to take his medication because he hated how it made him feel, less in control. As a secondary illness, he would get migraines. I think stress was the cause. He would need a day of sleeping to overcome a migraine once he could get the migraine medication to stay down. At its worst, the occurrence of migraines was weekly. Later, when he was finishing up high school, he educated himself on ADD and wished we would have forced him to take medication.
When our son turned eighteen, his pediatrician moved to a hospital position, and we needed to find a new primary care doctor. His pediatrician never referred us to other mental health professionals, and I did not think to ask. We were on our own to find one. When he started college, we needed to locate a psychiatrist near the out-of-state university he was attending. Even though I found one, I could not schedule appointments on his behalf for privacy reasons. Two symptoms of ADD are the inability to follow through and avoidance of tasks that require mental effort, so he rarely would follow-through on seeking mental health services.
He had these bursts of greatness, and he enjoyed learning, but his ADD made it hard to manage everything required of a high school and college student.
My son was smart. He was good at math, completing high school math up through Advanced Placement (AP) calculus. He started college with credits for AP macro-economics. In his second year in college, he took an architecture class. Each person in the class had to design and build a hanging bridge out of popsicle sticks. He spent many late nights making the bridge in his dorm room. I remember him telling me it was an engineering effort to carry it across the campus in one piece. The judging was both on style and weight-bearing. The professor tested it based on how many books it could hold. His bridge held the second most number of books in the class. He excelled in his college microeconomics class, receiving accolades from his professor for his ability to grasp the concepts, propelling him into leadership roles on group assignments. My son also was a good writer. He was a sensitive person, thought a lot, and was able to channel his depth of thought into papers for school.
He had these bursts of greatness, and he enjoyed learning, but his ADD made it hard to manage everything required of a high school and college student. We created a 504 Plan (Section 504 of the Vocational Rehabilitation Act of 1973) with his high school and college, but he was on his own to ask each teacher/professor for accommodations, for example, asking for a mentor to help his manage deadlines. The 504 Plan does not require the teachers to be proactive in helping the student. One teacher told me, “I just cannot offer one to one help with over 100 students in my classes.” My son had to do it on his own. Young adults want to be like everyone else. They do not want to bring attention to themselves in a peer environment, so he rarely would stand up for himself to obtain needed accommodations. Earlier, I mentioned a symptom of ADD is difficulty following through, so that reality was already stacked up against him, undermining attempts on his part to follow through on using a 504 Plan.
He loved school, he loved learning and was a good writer. He wanted to be an economist, work in the banking industry, move to the British Virgin Islands, and sail. He just struggled to get through college with the symptoms of his ADD/ADHD.
Relationships
I read in research materials that those with ADD/ADHD will have difficulty with relationships, both at home and with friends. My son struggled with this in high school. He was self-aware and articulately wrote in college about how depressed and desperate the lack of friends made him feel when he was sixteen. He wrote about the importance of building relationships with friends. He wrote about his focus on trying to be a good listener and not complaining about his life, his parents, and his obstacles; he understood that complaining made his friends uncomfortable. He focused on how to be a good friend, to go the extra mile for them, and built genuine friendships across the globe. I know this because of the outpouring we have received and the beautiful stories his friends have shared with me.
I discovered he was a good writer, perhaps because he was sensitive and was aware of his feelings.
He never dated much even though he would receive pages and pages of requests each week on Tinder, a social search mobile app enabling users to chat if both are agreeable. Many of his friends are females. He was such a nice guy and good- looking. He just did not like casual dating and the pressure that comes with it. He had one serious girlfriend who broke his heart. I found a journal of letters in his room after they broke up. Reading these letters is when I discovered he was a good writer. I think it is because he was sensitive. We talked about his writing. I am thankful I had a chance to tell him he had a gift for writing. As his mother, it was hard to see him go through that heartache.
He had a his tendency to avoid things that were difficult, like finding a job and dating. He told her he smoked marijuana socially, but it did not impact his executive functioning.
My son’s close friend died two-and-a-half years before him. This friend was wise, non-judgmental, a confidant with whom to share his “secrets.” My son shared his struggles with his friend who dealt with cancer most of his life, practicing to maintain composure. It is hard for a young person to lose a friend at such a young age. It impacted him, and I do not think his friend’s death is anything he ever got over, having spent so many of his developmental years with him in his life.
As an adult in his twenties, he was happier living with friends than at home. In the last year, after moving in with a friend, the parental deal was he had to seek mental health care. He saw a therapist for six months, went to the psychiatrist once, but was not interested in medication. He stopped seeing his therapist once he found a job, and he seemed happy. After my son’s death, his therapist was willing to share some things with me about my son. As with all people who had known my son, she was outwardly upset because he was such a wonderful person. She shared that their discussions center on how to cope with his ADD. They talked about his tendency to avoid things that were difficult, like finding a job and dating. He told her he smoked marijuana socially, but it did not impact his executive functioning. They talked about suicide. He said he never had a plan, never thought about it seriously.
I spoke with his employers. They too were outwardly upset. His last boss cried on the phone when we talked. They each shared beautiful things about my son. “He took his job seriously.” “He went above and beyond,” they told me. “He was so well liked.” “Such a happy person.” He stopped working at his last job, four months before, to look for something he liked better. He was making progress. He was working on his resume, looking for jobs. The week after his death he received notification that he, having passed the exams, had been granted his bartender’s license. He kept his apartment clean. We went grocery shopping. He did social things with friends.
My son was never diagnosed with other correlated mental disorders such as depression, anxiety, or substance abuse.
My therapist directed me to a national resource on mental illness, National Alliance on Mental Illness (NAMI). Through Twitter I connected with the Minnesota chapter; they have been a useful resource for me to understand what my son had to face. At my request, they have shared relevant information from medical publications.
A high correlation exists between those with ADD/ADHD and other psychiatric disorders. A high correlation, 33%-38%, exists between ADD/ADHD and cannabis abuse/dependence (DeMaria, Peter A. Jr, 2016).
My son was never diagnosed with other correlated mental disorders such as depression, anxiety, or substance abuse, which have well-known risk factors for suicide. He told me he was not that bad off, not like others seeking institutional and outpatient mental health services. I believed him. He did not want to take medicine to function with his ADD/ADHD; he did not like the side effects such as insomnia and anxiety.
I now have learned that young adults with ADD/ADHD and other related disorders may use marijuana as self-medication to relieve their symptoms (DeMaria, Peter A. Jr, 2016). Several friends told me he was smoking marijuana every day (some say it was only social). His dad and I never knew.
I will never know for sure the cause.......
I know everyone from whom he bought (the street marijuana). I know the originator of each of his sources. I know how much he purchased each time.
From what his friends shared with me after his death, he displayed signs of withdrawal and despair that they each individually noticed. It is hard to say if other undiagnosed mental disorders were the primary cause or if the substance abuse reduced his executive functioning and caring, which triggered the despair, and heightened the impulsive tendency that comes with ADD/ADHD.
We are not better off with out him.
I have read stories about those who attempted suicide and survived. Some of the survivors thought, at the time of the attempt, the people in their lives would be better off without them. If my son felt that, I hope where ever he is now, with his friend, my mom, and his aunt and uncle, he can see we are not better off. I wonder if God shields those in their new spiritual place from seeing us grieve because it would be so painful for them to see their loved ones hurting.
I miss him, as do his friends and family. I miss the future life I wanted with my son. His death did not need to happen. His life could have been saved that day. I will forever live with this.
Cited References
Balazs, Judit and A. Kereszteny, Attention-deficit/hyperactivity disorder and suicide: A systematic review, World J Psychiatry. 2017 Mar 22; 7(1): 44–59.
Published online 2017 Mar 22. doi: 10.5498/wjp.v7.i1.44
<https://www.ncbi.nlm.nih.gov/pmc/articles/PMC5371172/>
DeMaria, Peter A. Jr, Cannabis Use Disorders and ADHD, Journal of Addiction Medicine: January/February 2016 – Volume 10 – Issue 1 – p 70; doi: 10.1097/ADM.0000000000000184
Letters to the Editor <https://journals.lww.com/journaladdictionmedicine/Citation/2016/02000/Cannabis_Use_Disorders_and_ADHD.12.aspx>
Other References
https://namimn.org/education-public-awareness/health-library/
<http://www.chadd.org/Understanding-ADHD/For-Parents-Caregivers/Education/Section-504.aspx>
I can no longer care for him in the manner I did before. I now need to figure out how to still be his mom.
Losing the life of my son is life-altering as I miss him, and I also miss my future as a mother – loving and taking care of him as my son. I no longer can care for him in the manner I did before. I no longer can give him a hello hug when I see him and tell him, “I love you” when we say goodbye. I can no longer take him grocery shopping, give him gifts, make him a birthday cake, take him on trips, give him advice, nurture him when he is sick. I can no longer have philosophical and political discussions with him. I can no longer have conversations around the kitchen island with him. There we would share the music we loved and YouTube clips from late night talk shows that made us laugh or sparked a philosophical conversation because they were controversial. I will not be able to celebrate his wedding, help him move into a home, and care for and love his children.
I now need to figure out how to still be his mom.
The strain on Life and Loss-Oriented Grief
It is common for family and friends to expect a “return to normal.” This expectation can cause the grieving family to be cut off from their social circles and become isolated.
Gone with my son is the quality of life I had envisioned for his father, his sister, and me, his mother. The realism of this is overwhelming. I have been reading medical literature on grief from the loss of a child. It says that intense grief will last at least four years, with ongoing grief in perpetuity in waves. This is now our future.
The medical literature indicates it is common for family and friends to expect a “return to normal.” This expectation can cause the grieving family to be cut off from their social circles and become isolated. Friends and family feel uncomfortable being around those for whom a “return to normal” is impossible. It is better to acknowledge the loss and grief than to do a “gloss over.” I know this is difficult, but it is so hard sometimes just to chit-chat like nothing has happened, especially during a prolonged conversation, like at a sit-down dinner. My son and my grief over his loss consume my life, and I cannot think or experience much else at this time.
Among the secondary mental health risks for the grieving family are long-term depression, anxiety, plus physical health symptoms such as headaches, stomach aches, neck and backaches, and other body pains. All of which may occur from carrying the burden of grief. It appears I am not alone here in experiencing these symptoms.
I do not want to work through this. He deserves to have me feel this grief and guilt.
In one of my earlier blogs, I wrote about guilt, the feeling we failed to protect our child. Research indicates this is a common experience for the parents who have lost a child. It is not unique to me, not something I alone am working through. This is common, and this is what I feel. I do not want to work through these feelings; I want to live with them, experience them, because I love him, and he deserves to have us feel this grief and guilt.
Coping with the Spiritual Loss - Stories of His Life
I also want to keep him current in the lives of his family and friends. I am trying to figure out how to still care for him in this new future.
While dealing with my loss-oriented grief, I also want to keep him current in the lives of his family and friends. I am trying to figure out how to still care for him in this new future. I have read this is common, that it helps us as parents to retain our identity as parents of one loved and lost. I continually place fresh flowers at his grave site, splitting the bouquet with his friend who lies right next to him. I have printed every picture I can find of our son and placed each one in an album. His room is still like it was when he lived at home the year prior. I cannot give anything away.
I have been writing. I write to my son almost every day. At first, I was trying to figure out why; to learn and to understand him, to document his last days in a dialogue format. Now I mostly share what I miss. I write stories of my memory of him. I have read that keeping these memories alive provides a spiritual connection, maintains a continuous bond that honors him.
There are hundreds of pictures on Facebook of his time with his friends. They were his world as he grew older. Go through the pictures you have of him. There is a story. There are stories where there are no pictures. I have asked friends, coaches, employers, and extended family to write stories of their time with him. Some have, and they are beautiful.
Surely, dear family and friends, there are more…
I want to know the things he said, the things you did together, the times that made you love him. The stories can be big or small, funny or meaningfully deep, from the time when he was little, or more recent. Write them as you think of him. Share small pieces at a time. Please do this sharing now, so we can connect and experience him in your world before you move on in your life and further away from your time with him.
I am not implying that you will forget my son and your memories. This request is about sharing that you miss him and how and why you are struggling, and for what you are longing. This tells me you loved him too. Your remembrances are a way to connect us that we will have for the rest of our lives. Your stories will settle deep within our souls. And, you will receive love and appreciation back from us, your readers.
I have shared my contact information on my Facebook posts with links (look through my timeline or my son’s). You can contact me through the Contact tab on my blog or in the comments section of any post.
My daughter told me this is her favorite holiday, better than Christmas. Pictures on the walls and shelves of our house capture the memories.
Holidays and other life events are hard now without my son. I know this kind of “hardness” having to experience it when my mom died; I was twenty-three. Now, without my son, the ”hardness” feels ten-times more difficult to bare. The milestones we have celebrated without him so far: his twenty-fourth birthday, Mother’s Day, Father’s Day, and my husband’s birthday. Mine is coming up. For now, the only reason we “celebrate” these milestones is for my daughter.
The Fourth of July holiday is nearing. My daughter told me this is her favorite holiday, better than Christmas. One year we went out of town over the holiday, and my daughter sternly informed me I was never to do that again. There are so many good memories celebrating the Fourth of July as our children grew up. Pictures on the walls and shelves of our house capture the memories. Each year I would tactfully decorate the house in the spirit of the holiday to put my family in the mood for the celebration.
The township on the lake celebrates the holiday in picturesque small-town fashion.
We are fortunate to live near a large lake in a suburb of a large city and have family who even lives closer, giving us access to all that comes with a lake in the summertime. The township on the lake celebrates the holiday in picturesque small-town fashion. The front porches on the cottage style homes sport American flag buntings and banners. Flags adorn the streets and sidewalks. World War II-era cars are brought out and bear flags erected on the hoods and rear bumpers.
When my children were in grade school, the preparations started early. A couple of days before, my husband and son, and later my daughter, would build model rockets from a kit. We always went out on the lake the day before with friends, first on a sailboat, and when the kids got older, a speedboat. When my son was younger, he would just be finishing the summer baseball season.
Their Dad and I would get up early to decorate the bikes for the parade and make the food we were bringing to share. Each of us would wear patriotic attire selected in advance. The truck would be packed up with the bikes, cooler full of food and beverages, and head to our cousin’s house for the 10:00 A.M. parade. I created a Fourth of July music playlist we listened to during the morning preparations. The parade consisted of the children on their decorated bikes, strollers, or scooters. Our aunt and uncle would come into town for the week trailering my Uncle’s golf cart for the older second cousins to drive in the parade.
We would walk along with our two children on the parade route, pushing my daughter’s stroller, and later walking alongside as she rode her bike. My son was independent on his bike riding with his older cousin’s. The parade watchers consisted of the homeowners along the route and residents of the neighborhood.
My husband became resourceful bringing my son into the planning. there were 25 plus adults and children all vying to get water from the only outside source, one coveted water spicket.
After the parade, there was a carnival at the township park. The dunking tank was a highlight for my son. One of our cousin’s and his family lived right up from the park and would host a backyard cookout with the extended family, their friends, and neighbors. It was a tradition after everyone was fed, a water fight would ensue. The funny thing about it was there were 25 plus adults and children all vying to get water from the only outside source, one coveted water spicket. Parents and kids, usually composed and well-behaved, became sneaky and ruthless. As the years passed, the adults become more resourceful. Large Tupperware and mixing bowls full of water would come out of the house, carried by the moms who waited inside for the right moment to ambush their targeted victim. Adults on the sidelines used small children as shields (reasons for not being a target).
My husband became resourceful bringing my son into the planning. One year the two of them brought their own water source, large 5-gallon buckets hiding in the back of the truck pre-filled with water from home. He armed my son with a water blaster that would hold the most substantial amount of water he could carry and still have the precision to create a good soaking.
The children and their fathers approached the launching pad when it was their turn, like astronauts walking to the Space Shuttle.
After everyone was sufficiently soaked, we changed our clothes and then headed to a different neighborhood park to shoot off model rockets. The tradition started as a school project for one of the older second cousins, and it continued and grew from there. The children and their fathers approached the launching pad when it was their turn, like astronauts walking to the Space Shuttle. We did it every year until the older second cousins moved on to backyard sand volleyball.
My son was a terrific croquet player, and my daughter was right there with him. They would play in our backyard, him being her coach
Around 3:00 P.M. we headed to my husband’s other cousin’s home for a serious tournament of croquet, dinner, and fireworks over the lake. White was the attire for the occasion or something along those lines. Ralph Lauren style would be fitting; J. Crew for the younger participants. My son was a terrific croquet player, and my daughter was right there with him. They would play in our backyard, him being her coach. She made it to the final round the last two years and tied for second place in the most recent one. The evening would end around midnight. Our aunt and uncle both have passed now; our aunt just last November, the same day of the month my mom died. Each of us missed their presence as well.
The next day, when my son dropped off the boat keys, we had the pleasure of exchanging stories about our days.
When my son got older, he did his own thing. A couple of summers he worked away from home at a summer camp. Last year he took the boat out on the lake, during the day, packed with friends up to the limit the boat could legally hold. Facebook records happy times with his friends on the boat beginning back when he was in high school. He brought a friend to the house in the morning to make guacamole and sandwich wraps.
I played patriotic music from a variety of genres in the background to get us in the mood. The music I exposed my children to comes from all genres and created a connection we had to each other. I discovered my son took this with him after logging into his Spotify account.
My playlist included the classics played by the Boston Pops; country by C.W. McCall, Lee Greenwood, Toby Keith. Jazz artists Louis Armstrong, Ray Charles, and others. Easy listening artists such as Bing Crosby and the Andrew Sisters. Finally, rock/pop by Jimi Hendrix, Bruce Springsteen, Don McLean, and Bob Dylan.
My daughter and I were busy salvaging a strawberry cupcake trifle, and their father was chopping the ingredients for the dish we traditionally share: Black Bean, Tropical Fruit, and Queso Blanco Salsa (Van Aken, 2003) modified because I make it now from the taste. While working on the cake, I guided my son and his friend through the instructions for guacamole, one of which was to mash the avocados. I periodically checked in on their progress. I did not provide adequate instructions: I found his friend smashing the avocados on the cutting board, not in a bowl! The next day, when my son dropped off the boat keys, we had the pleasure of exchanging stories about our days.
Nothing new can happen between us, just memories now.
The model rockets and supplies now sit on the shelf in the basement. The handmade decorations I saved from their bikes and the house are packed away. Nothing new can happen between us, just memories now. There is no more boating with him, no more helping him to be a host, no more friends over to our house. No more new stories of his day.
I will treasure the memories I have of my aunt and uncle interacting with my children, treating them special, as if their own grandchildren.
Introduction
My primary intent for writing this blog, at present, is to share the bereavement journey of a parent who lost a child, and who lost a child to suicide. My purpose is to make a connection with those in similar situations. For them to realize they are not alone feeling and experiencing this new world they have been given. It also is to inform those in our world what we are experiencing.
I want to feel the emotions I reference in this blog out of respect for my son. I love him.
The intent is not to “work through” anything. My son is no longer with us. His death is final. There is nothing to work though. I want to feel the emotions I reference in this blog out of respect for my son. I love him. He deserves that I feel these emotions: grief, guilt, and many other emotions. Please read on.
Chronic Sorrow
I went through several therapists before I found the right one, but each of them agrees with the authors of the article, “When Sorrow Never Stops” (Lightfoot & Stricklin, 2016) that the death of a child is the most horrendous, severe, and debilitative form of bereavement a person can experience. There is no cure. It is something you learn to live with. My psychiatrist tells me that time helps, but the timetable is different for each person. I attend a survivors’ support group, and the majority are parents. For some parents, it has been three years since they lost their child. They say living with the loss gets better, but the pain remains. There are still tears when they speak of their children.
My devastation is two-fold: the loss of my son and the loss of my projected future. I will never see my son again.
The medical designation for this kind of grief is “Chronic Sorrow,” a person experiences ongoing despair because of a significant loss. The shortened list of emotions includes sadness, sorrow, despair, guilt, anger, disbelief, pain, and anxiety. The chronic sorrow is intertwined with brief events of happiness within the more extended periods of grief and suffering that has no end in sight. This kind of grief is forever (Eakes G. G., M. L. Burke, M. A. Hainsworth, 1998).
My devastation is two-fold: the loss of my son and the loss of my projected future. I will never see my son again. I will never have any new experiences with him, feel his touch, hear him laugh or talk. I will never again see his beautiful face, see him happy doing the things he loved. I will never see him mature beyond his young age of 23.
I lost my hopes and dreams: what I envisioned for my remaining life. In a 2009 article, (Ronen, R., W. Packman, N. P. Field, B. Davies, R. Kramer, J.K. Long) write that parents of a lost child feel like a portion of themselves has died as well. I had two children, and one is gone. There is a hole that cannot be filled.
Someone told me that my son would want me to move on. Even if I get out of bed, go to work, have new experiences, they will never be with him. I will never again get to see my two children experiencing life together. Simple things like him teaching her how to drive the boat. Dancing together at weddings. Going to Broadway shows together. Walking through museums, the two of them teasing each other, making up stories on the meaning of the art. Walking through the streets of New York City, shopping, helping each other choose a pair of celebrity brand sunglasses. Experiencing eating at memorable places together.
I now see my life as two: the life before he died and the life after. I will never get the life I envisioned. That life is gone forever.
We four talked about the family trips we wanted to take together. He was to help me plan our winter holiday trip to Hawaii. We talked about Europe, renting a high-end car and driving the iconic roadways that were highlighted in the BBC show Top Gear. He even found a villa to rent. I will never get to see him have a family and bring them into ours. Our lives will now just consist of my daughter and her future. I feel sadness for my daughter as her future life is forever changed.
I now see my life as two: the life before he died and the life after. I will never get the life I envisioned. That life is gone forever.
I would like to escape, run away, change my life, in the hope that the pain will go away. I know I cannot do that; I have a daughter who needs me.
It is challenging to envision going back to the routine I had before. I have yet to set my foot back into the gym or do any form of exercise. I previously loved to cook and entertain; many times, with or for my children. Those days are gone. Holidays will be unbearable and going back to the holiday routine, without him there, will be excruciating. I would like to escape, run away, change my life, in the hope that the pain will go away. I know I cannot do that; I have a daughter who needs me to resume traditional activities, to provide her with some consistency. I live my life for her.
I had asked my therapist for literature on the grief of a child, so those in my world could understand what I am going through. This grief of chronic sorrow is both physical pain and emotional pain that will never go away (Arnold & Gemma, 2008). My dad told me he thought he was doing fine; then he read one of my blog posts, and it brought back his pain. I told him that the pain would be a “forever” as is learning how to cope with it as an ongoing journey. There will be periods of excruciating agony. He let out a sigh and said, “Yes.” It is about coping. He lost his wife, my mom when she was fifty-one. Each person must find their coping mechanisms.
For me, it is not my faith. I feel God betrayed me, and I have great anger projected in that direction. Those in our circle try to push their faith on me. I respect their choice to go to their faith. It just is not for me. I am not alone in this. One article states, ”God often becomes the target of choice for anger” (Triplett, 2010). I have found writing down my thoughts is a way to release my built-up emotions. I write to my son almost every day, letting him know how much I miss him, what I have learned about his life, how sorry I am for everything, intertwined with my memories of the way we were.
If you wish to walk a little way with me on my bereavement journey, the thing that you can do is not being judgmental. Be a listener. Ask deeper questions beyond, “How are you?” I will never answer anything but “Fine.” to that question. Talk about my son. Share what you are missing about him. Verbalize your grief. Do not wait for me to reach out to you to ask for anything. I rarely will call you first.
I am thankful for those in the suicide survivors’ loss support group. Going there once a week is the thing I do for myself. It helps to be with people like me. It also helps to be with our other friends who have lost a child. I am so thankful they have extended their friendship to my husband, daughter, and me.
I am also thankful for my friends and extended family who call me, text me, and listen to me.
References
Arnold, J. and P. B. Gemma P. (2008). The continuing process of parental grief. Death Studies, 32(7), 658–673. doi:10.1080/07481180802215718
Eakes, G. G., M. L. Burke, M.A. Hainsworth M. (1998). Middle-range theory of chronic sorrow. Image: The Journal of Nursing Scholarship, 30(2), 179–184.
Lightfoot, C. and S. Stricklin, (2016). When Sorrow Never Stops, from the Journal of Christian Nursing: January/March 2016 – Volume 33 – Issue 1 – p 22–29. Web Site: https://journals.lww.com/journalofchristiannursing/Fulltext/2016/01000/When_Sorrow_Never_Stops.10.aspx
Ronen R., W, Packman, N. P. Field, B. Davies, R. Kramer, L.K. Long (2009). The relationship between grief adjustment and continuing bonds for parents who have lost a child. Omega: Journal of Death & Dying, 60(1), 1–31. doi:10.2190/OM.60.1.a
Triplett, W. (2010). The sun will come out tomorrow. Bloomington, IN:Universe.
