We are having, what is commonly described, as a “big mast year,” which means, there are a lot of acorns in the yard caused by the weather and can be very localized in micro-climates.
We live in a suburb on a wooded lot. When we first moved in, there were many majestic red and white oak trees on and around our property. Many have slowly died from oak wilt. We still have several huge oak trees in our yard, and along the woods. In the Fall, when our two children were small, we would give them buckets to collect the acorns. My husband is a “want to be” botanist and is always collecting native seeds to stratify and plant in the woods that surround our home. Several years, he potted the acorns, in an attempt to grow them; though, resulting in a small success rate as the woodland animals usually ate them. To encourage the collection of the acorns, he would give the children a nominal monetary amount for each acorn they collected; more for those that had started to grow a taproot.
We are having, what is commonly described, as a “big mast year,” which means, there are a lot of acorns in the yard caused by the weather and can be very localized in micro-climates.
There is a slight wind today, and I can hear the acorns drop on the hard surfaces like someone is hammering or banging things around. When the wind blows hard enough, the trees rain acorns.
Oak varieties are my favorite trees. I love sitting under the majestic oak savannah’s. There are a couple of places in the metro area where savannah’s still existed. One of them is near a waterfall in the city. White oaks can reach heights of 150 feet. They take several centuries to reach this height, so when one dies, I have lost a living attachment to history, and a connection to the people that lived in this area before me. The trees in our front and backyard are stately. They have thick, heavy, long-gated branches, that spread over half of our one-acre lot. A leaf from the tree will cover my open hand entirely, and part of my forearm. These trees are hard to find in the nursery at a reasonable size, because they grow so slow, only 12 to 14 inches per year.
There is a slight wind today, and I can hear the acorns drop on the hard surfaces like someone is hammering or banging things around. When the wind blows hard enough, the trees rain acorns.
Now, what should I do with all of the acorns I collected?
I have started collecting them, and now it is like an addiction. I love how the acorns feel in my hands as I roll them around. They are so perfectly “acorn” shaped. My husband and I have talked about creating a meshed-in nursery, to keep the seedlings away from the critters, attempting one more time to see if we can be a “Johnny Appleseed.”
I have probably picked up one-fourth of what has dropped. I really should stop, and do something else. My son would be laughing at me, tellingly me politely, with a smile on his face, “ Mom, do you think you are going overboard, spending this much time collecting the acorns. What are going to do with all of these?”
My reasoning for collecting them is to save them from the blades of the lawnmower. It is hard to mow over the little sprouts of trees popping up all over the yard. Later, I will place them in woods, hidden from the site of the squirrels.
We had another “big mast year” when the kids were little. We had remodeled the house, and the back yard was being landscaped when we took these pictures.
I had this great person, and I failed to protect him. I failed to help him feel good about himself, to help him be successful at whatever he wanted to do; to feel supported. I failed to provide a safe place for him to share his suffering. I failed to see the signs.
I have been attending a suicide survivor support group for nearly four months. During the sessions, I connect with fellow survivors who are living through the grief after a loved one took their own life.
In a recent session, families were asked to share their loved one’s interactions with the behavioral health care system.
We learned that all of our loved ones had some degree of treatment or interaction with the system, including inpatient care. You know their ending; the treatment was unsuccessful.
Their experiences varied, but we were able to draw some conclusions:
- There aren’t enough behavioral health resources.
- Our loved ones were not appropriately diagnosed.
- When loved ones did seek care, providers were unable to emotionally make a connection with them to take treatment seriously.
- Our adult loved ones did not take action to seek or continue treatment on their own accord, after in-patient care. There was no provider follow-up to continue engagement.
- Providers were unable to find the right medication and dosage before time ran out.
- Therapists, psychiatrists, and facility doctors did not provide coordinated care.
- Our loved ones were not taught how to seek treatment during a crisis.
- They were not taught that it is normal and healthy to seek treatment.
- For those over 18, patient privacy laws hinder the family’s ability to interact with their loved one’s health care providers (while still maintaining some privacy).
- None of our loved ones voluntarily dialed 911, called a suicide hotline, or called their therapist.
- And of course, navigating the healthcare system is just foreign and cumbersome for young adults.
I had this great person, and I failed to protect him. I failed to help him feel good about himself, to help him be successful at whatever he wanted to do; to feel supported. I failed to provide a safe place for him to share his suffering. I failed to see the signs. Of the signs I did see, I failed to understand the seriousness of what they meant.
I have written about his before, but it weighs on me every second of every day.
There is a strong link between depressive disorders and suicide.
There was a mental health professional on the radio today who was bringing awareness to suicide prevention. He said there is a strong link between depressive disorders and suicide. He said that depression can come from a chemical imbalance between serotonin [ser’ a toe’ nin] and norepinephrine [nor-eh’-pin-ef’-rin]. That did not mean much to me, so I did some research. My master’s degree should be good for something; having taught me how to research and to write (though professionals may find the latter debatable). I am not a medical professional, so you may want to do your own research, but this what I found:
“Serotonin [ser’ a toe’ nin] is widely known for playing a major part in regulating moods. It has been called the body’s natural “feel-good” chemical because it’s involved in your sense of well-being. However, that’s only true when your serotonin level is within the normal range.” (Salters-Pedneault, Kristalyn P, 2018).
“Norepinephrine [nor-eh’-pin-ef’-rin] is a stress hormone. It’s mainly stored in the neurons (nerve cells) of the sympathetic nervous system with small amounts also stored in the adrenal tissue, which lay on top of your kidneys. As a hormone, norepinephrine is released into the bloodstream by the adrenal glands and works alongside adrenaline (also known as epinephrine) to give the body sudden energy in times of stress, known as the “fight or flight” response. As a neurotransmitter, norepinephrine passes nerve impulses from one neuron to the next.” (Purse, Marica, 2018).
“An imbalance of these two chemicals can lead to the person not understanding the options available to help them relieve their suffering. Many people who suffer from depression report feeling as though they’ve lost the ability to imagine a happy future, or remember a happy past. Often they don’t realize they’re suffering from a treatable illness, and seeking help may not even enter their mind. Emotions and even physical pain can become unbearable. They don’t want to die, but it’s the only way they feel their pain will end. It is a truly irrational choice. Suffering from depression is involuntary, just like cancer or diabetes, but it is a treatable illness that can be managed.” (Suicide Awareness Voices of Education, SAVE.org 2018).
There needs to be more research on mental illness and prevention needs to start in the pediatrician's office. There needs to be more education for parents and teachers.
There needs to be more research…on how to detect this chemical imbalance in the primary care doctor’s office. When you go in for your annual physical, medical providers should be able to detect this imbalance through a simple blood draw.
It should start when our children are in the pediatrician’s office. Parents and educators who interact with diagnosed children should take seriously all mental health diagnosis.
Parents and educators should be required to know the signs of suicidal ideation. Schools should be staffed with mental health advocates.
My son was smoking and ingesting street marijuana. We know he ingested the “day of.” I have asked my psychiatrist to help me understand what impact marijuana has on the body. My psychiatrist, along with every therapist I have talked to, said it is a drug, and it alters the brain. Street marijuana typically contains synthetics which adds an additional variable.
My question is; does marijuana also contribute to the imbalance in the brain?
My question is; does marijuana also contribute to the imbalance in the brain?
My son was a scholar and sought out information. I came across material on marijuana that was in the viewing history of his computer. These videos were neutral towards marijuana, but for obvious reasons, I grasped onto specific findings. I have summarized what I think is relevant to my son’s situation.
“Ingesting marijuana binds to receptors in your brain, making them continually fire and causes your imagination, thoughts, and perceptions to magnify, making every thought and feeling, feel like a significant one. Smoking marijuana has effects within minutes and lasts for two to three hours. Heating up marijuana in oil and digesting it delays the effect as it first needs to metastasize through the liver. It can last four to eight hours and adds an additional compound not found in smoking that increases its potency and lasts longer. It takes one to two hours to feel the effects and it is harder to control the intensity of the high, ending up higher than you intended to.” (AsapSCIENCE, 2017).
I read the comments posted on this video, which included people discussing their own experiences. Some users said, “When they ingested marijuana, they experienced hallucinations.” I think the experience can vary by the person based on their brain composition, how much they ingest, and other compounds found in the drug.
A second video my son watched said this about marijuana and mental health:
“There is moderate evidence, for people with mental health issues, it worsens symptoms, cognitive performance, and suicidal ideation and attempts.” (Healthcare Triage, 2017).
Some say marijuana is just for social gatherings or “fun”. It may have started that way for my son, but according to the medical community, if you have a mental illness (e.g. depression, anxiety, ADD/ADHD) it hasnegative consequences.
At my request, the National Alliance on Mental Illness (NAMI) gave me resources on marijuana and suicide. One of the medical journals reported on a study which found that “early and frequent use of cannabis is associated with the major depressive disorder (MDD) as well as suicidal thoughts and behaviors, a large twin study suggests.” (Yasgur Swift Batya, 2017).
- Marijuana worsens the ability to conduct executive functioning (to organize cognitive processes like planning ahead, prioritizing, stopping and starting activities, shifting from one activity to another and monitoring one’s own behavior).
- It also hampers the working memory (the ability to store and manage information for a short period of time).
- Frequent use of marijuana can also lead to not caring about things that are important, such as school or work. Kids and young adults using marijuana are less likely to keep up with their medication.
- Marijuana for some can increase anxiety, including paranoia. Street marijuana is usually stronger than medical marijuana as it may contain other chemicals.
- People with attention deficit disorder or attention deficit hyperactivity disorder (ADD/ADHD) are 2.5 times more likely to develop a substance abuse problem. (understood.org 2018)
Some say marijuana is just for social gatherings or “fun”. It may have started that way for my son, but according to the medical community, if you have a mental illness (e.g. depression, anxiety, ADD/ADHD) it has negative consequences.
I found these statistics on SAVE.org 2018 about suicide:
- Suicide is the 10th leading cause of death in the US for all ages. (CDC)
- Every day, approximately 105 Americans die by suicide. (CDC)
- There is one death by suicide in the US every 12 minutes. (CDC)
- Depression affects 20-25% of Americans ages 18+ in a given year. (CDC)
- Suicide takes the lives of over 38,000 Americans every year. (CDC)
- Only half of all Americans experiencing an episode of major depression receive treatment. (NAMI)
- 80% – 90% of people that seek treatment for depression are treated successfully using therapy and/or medication. (TAPS study)
- There is one suicide for every estimated 25 suicide attempts. (CDC)
- These statistics have led the medical community to call the cause of death by suicide a “crisis.” I never thought it (suicide in my family) would happen to us. Don’t be afraid to talk. Be there for someone else. Learn the signs. Help remove the stigma.
Share what you think. What has been your experience? Leave a comment at the end of this post.
To honor my son, his sister, father, and I will be walking to raise money for NAMI, Team Willpower! We would be honored if you joined us in whatever way you feel comfortable.
REFERENCES
AsapSCIENCE (2017, March 23). Our Brain on Edible Marijuana, video recording, YouTube, viewed 20 August 2018, <https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=pUhJnKKQDTE>.
Healthcare Triage, What We Know About Pot in 2017 (2017, February 13), video recording, YouTube, viewed 21 August,2018, <https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=yewlM8CtbQU&t=345s>.
Purse, Marica (updated 2018, May 03). What is Norepinephrine’s Role in Treating Mood Problems?. verywellmind.com 2018, viewed 21 August 2018, Retrieved from <https://www.verywellmind.com/norepinephrine-380039>.
Salters-Pedneault, Kristalyn P, (updated 2018, July 9). How Serotonin Regulates Different Body Functions, verywellmind.com 2018, Retrieved from <https://www.verywellmind.com/what-is-serotonin-425327>.
Suicide Awareness Voices of Education (SAVE.org) 2018, Depression, viewed 21 August,2018, Retrieved from <https://save.org/about-suicide/mental-illness-and-suicide/depression/>.
Suicide Awareness Voices of Education (SAVE.org) 2018, Suicide Statistics and Facts, viewed 21 August 2018. Retrieved from <https://save.org/about-suicide/suicide-facts/>.
The Understood Team, understood.org 2018, Experts Weigh In: Marijuana and ADHD, viewed 21 August 2018. Retrieved from <https://www.understood.org/en/learning-attention-issues/child-learning-disabilities/add-adhd/marijuana-and-adhd>.
Yasgur Swift Batya, MA, LSW, (July 31, 2017). Heavy Cannabis Use Associated With Depression, Suicidality. Medscape 2017, viewed 21 August 2018. Retrieved from < https://www.medscape.com/viewarticle/883614?src=soc_fb_share>.
He made friends from all over the world, in Montana, where he went to a university for two years, in Pennsylvania, where he worked at a camp for two summers, and in the state where he lived growing up.
After my son left us, I went through his computer, notebook, and phone, looking for answers or any connection to him. I found writing he did for a communications class. I think the assignment was around a personal reflection on communication behaviors and techniques to improve upon them, reflecting on the assigned class material. His writing is very personal. He only had one serious girlfriend. After she broke up with him, he shared with me a journal the two of them sent back and forth to each other. That is when I learned he was a good writer. He was in-tune with his deep feelings and was able to articulate those into words.
He made friends from all over the world, in Montana, where he went to a university for two years, in Pennsylvania, where he worked at a camp for two summers, and in the state where he lived growing up.
I am so angry with myself for not creating an environment for him to share them with me. I have read that this is common: for parents to go through the “could have, would have, should have” and regrets.
As I write this, I wish I could hear his voice again, sharing with me what he wrote in his paper about himself. I missed those chances, and I am so angry with myself for not creating an environment for him to share them with me. I have read that this is common: for parents to go through the “could have, would have, should have” and regrets.
In an excerpt from one of his paper’s, four years before, he shares this reflection of himself.
“There is one time this summer that sticks out. Two of my friends and I worked together painting residential exteriors through a college staffed painting business. We spent a lot of time together and became closer as friends. To pass the time while painting, and to distract us from the heat, one of my friends shared a personal relationship struggle that left him distraught.
[My son wrote what caused his friend’s struggle. I am excluding that piece because there are details that I think should remain private.]
“My other friend responds, comforting him perfectly. He asks great questions, being sensitive, empathetic, and is not quick to give advice. I, on the other hand, didn’t know how to react. This was the first time someone was opening up to me, and I didn’t know how to respond. I had never been in that situation before, listening or disclosing. I just stood there and painted. This was my chance to connect on a deeper level with a friend, and I couldn’t. I was so uncomfortable I didn’t even really make eye contact. If anything, I came off as judgmental because I didn’t acknowledge him through this process. If I opened up to someone, and they didn’t say anything, I would think they didn’t care how I felt. It would come off as very rude in my opinion. I didn’t mean to be rude at all. I didn’t know how to react because I had never been in that situation before.
” I have trouble relating to my friends on a deeper level. I don’t know how to go about it because I never disclosed anything as a kid and no one disclosed anything to me. …to create closer relationships with my friends I think the first step is to start opening up to them. I can tell them how I struggle in school, and I’m really worried about my future. It keeps me up some nights, and I am honestly scared. I could tell them how happy I am to have them as friends because they have pulled me out of a depression state before.
“A dear friend has cancer right now and is one of the nicest people I know. In these upcoming weeks, I would like to open up to him. If I disclose some of my “secrets” to him, I know he will make me feel comfortable and not embarrassed. He is going to want to hear the whole story and make sure I am okay. I know this will make me more open to the idea of self- disclosure, and then I won’t be awkward or uncomfortable when I am put in this position again. I will feel more comfortable when a friend is opening up to me or if I need to open up to a friend. This will help lead to a closer relationship with my friends.
“I need to take into consideration the impact self-disclosing will have on myself, the person listening, and the relationship. Reflecting, when I have self-disclosed, I talk and vent and wind myself up. I don’t care about anything besides me and my pain. That is not the point. The point is to fix the problem, whatever it may be.”
What he did not know, at the time of writing the reflection paper, is that he already excelled where he thought he was inadequate. He was consistent in his personality and drew people in.
What he did not know, at the time of writing the reflection paper, is that he already excelled where he thought he was inadequate. He was consistent in his personality and drew people in.
After his death, I asked family and friends to share stories of him. Each paragraph is an excerpt from a different author. And, these writers are not the same persons whose reflections appeared in a prior blog.
“What seems to rise to the surface when I think of my friend, are his traits. His gentle nature. His huge heart. His goofball sense of humor. His genuine interest in people. His kindness… that unconditional, contagious, unique ‘only he can have’ type kind of kindness. Just being around him made me strive to be a better person. I’m a firm believer that If everyone could be just a little bit more like him, the world would be a much better place. I’m thankful to have had someone to talk with about things like feelings and emotions during a period of my life where I wasn’t particularly open about that stuff. He would come over, and we would have long conversations about important subjects: our self-esteem, our values, and our general outlooks on life. That was one of the first times I’ve experienced vulnerability with someone. I’m thankful that I was exposed to his kindness on a daily basis.”
“I loved my friend for his lovely soul. I considered him as my brother as he was helping me with many things in my life as an international student.”
“Of all the people I know, my friend is honestly one the most down to earth and genuine people out there. I have sometimes struggled with stress and depression, and my friend was always happy to talk. As a person who had likewise struggled with mental health in the past, my friend was never judgmental or uncaring. He was always so able to relate and empathize with what I, and others, were struggling with, and that is such a valuable skill. He had a keen eye for how others were feeling and wouldn’t hesitate to check in and see what was up. It could be something as simple as a friendly text message or going out of his way to make you feel included at a party when everyone else would be okay just passing you by.”
“He was a sincere listener, always interested in hearing about you than talking about himself.”
He was everything he wanted to be.
There is more, but this conveys he was everything he wanted to be. One of his friends that he painted with that summer wrote about it. His reflection is one of the fond memories.
“The summer of 2014, the three of us found jobs painting houses in the neighboring metro areas. These were 10 hour days, 5 to 6 days a week out in the heat, climbing up and down ladders with 30 pounds of paint strapped to your side, and questionable safety standards. Not to mention we were all almost entirely covered with paint, head to toe; we weren’t the neatest crew. The reasons to not have fun were seemingly endless, but now when I look back at that summer, I remember it for how much fun it was. For every heavy ladder lifted there was a laugh shared, and for every hot day survived there was a bonfire to attend or a lake to jump into. My friend was there for all of those memories, and infinitely more outside of the summer of 2014.”
I want him to know how great he was and so impactful in our lives. He was a fantastic person, and I want to share all of what made him fantastic with you. Maybe by writing this all down, it somehow will get to him through us ingesting it into our minds, hearts, and souls.
All of those in the friend group suffered heartache, when their dear childhood friend, who had cancer, left this earth in 2015. Their suffering was added to when my son died. They lay to rest next to each other. When I visit my son, I visit with his friend. I hope they are dancing together.
I know there should be a conclusion here, a way to summarize and reflect this post’s content. I am struggling to do that. I want him to know how great he was and so impactful in our lives. He was a fantastic person, and I want to share all of what made him fantastic with you. Maybe by writing this all down, it somehow will get to him through us ingesting it into our minds, hearts, and souls.
I will keep writing, and you should continue to tell me about him. Writing can come in many social forms: text me, reply at the end of a blog post, send a message via Facebook, or use the contact page of this blog. Write so we can keep him present in our lives.
Share with me, with all of us, what you remember and miss about my son. You will connect with his friends from around the world, bringing us together to laugh, cry, and keep him current in our lives.
Write about your feelings, your longings, why this [suicide] is not fair. Write about what is broken. Write about change, awareness, and how to make it better. You can post in the comments section below, or send me a note through the contact page of this blog.
To honor my son, his sister, father, and I will be walking to raise money for NAMI, Team Willpower! We would are honored if you joined us in whatever way you feel comfortable.
My son was tender with his sister, born almost five years after him. He let her have the attention, and he was very patient with her.
For months after my son died, I would open the refrigerator, look, and then close the door, without taking anything out. I was too tired to eat. Now when I eat, I cannot stop, trying to fill something missing inside. I still open and close the refrigerator, but my “go-to” is anything chocolate, ice cream, and wine. A bonus is when I combine ice cream and chocolate in one bowl.
I have noticed clothes are back to fitting the way they used to, before my son died, meaning I am gaining weight. I know something will need to change, but as Scarlet O’Hara said, “After all, tomorrow is another day.” Meaning, I will deal with the weight gain later.
My daughter, and her friend, who was visiting for a long weekend, had not seen the movie, Gone With The Wind (1939 Academy Award, best picture, adapted from the novel by Margaret Mitchell,1936, set in the Confederate South during the Civil War). I saw it when I was in grade school and loved it. My older sister took me to see it in the small-town theater located in NE, where we lived. At intermission, while waiting in line at the concession counter, an older gentleman said he was impressed I could last through such a long movie. I was thinking, “It is awesome.” My daughter, who loves old movies, shared she did not like how Scarlett was portrayed nor that her relationship with Rhett Butler ended unresolved, leaving us unknowing if they will live happily ever after. She said it was a waste of three-and-a-half hours. My love for Gone With The Wind is something I will not be able to share and enjoy with my daughter, but I think I am okay with it.
My son’s friends told me that he loved his sister, always talking so highly about her. He proudly displayed her artwork in his apartment.
My son’s friends told me that he loved his sister, always talking so highly about her. He proudly displayed her artwork in his apartment. She told him he could take whichever pieces he wanted. He first took three canvases that she painted of one scene (technically defined as a triptych, which is a work of art that is divided into three sections). The subject is the “Tunnel View,” perhaps the most famous view in Yosemite National Park. The four of us, he, his dad, sister, and me, went there in August of 2016. It was a fantastic trip even amidst our arguing. He and his dad wanted to hike in, to the top of a rock dome before dawn, to be on top before the sun rose. As a mom, I thought it was unsafe, and it would delay our next stop, which in hindsight, was so not worth what they gave up. It was a once in a lifetime chance to do something exciting. It is one of my regrets.
He later took another painting, this one an abstract. His sister had done several abstracts for a high school art class. The three of us went through her artwork together. I pointed out one I loved for the colors, but I could not bring myself to hang it in the central part of the house. I said it reminded me of the female genitalia. They both laughed because they were thinking the same thing, and I think I shocked them because I said it out loud. It is still in the back closet.
One of his friends kept the Yosemite paintings, and they now hang in the house where four of them live. My son was looking for homes for all of them to live in the right before his death. After his death, he would continue to receive daily email messages of rental availabilities. I let the emails keep coming for a while, thinking there would be some deeply embedded connection to him, but now, I have unsubscribed to them.
He wished he could have spent more time with her.
We took videos of our children growing up, discontinuing sometime when they were in grade school. Perhaps it was when the camera stopped working, or when phones with cameras became available, or they started to protest being videotaped. After my son’s death, I had them transferred into a medium that we can watch with the latest technology.
Watching this pictorial history is painful right now, but what I did notice was how much tenderness my son had with his sister, born almost five years after him. He let her have the attention, and he was very patient with her. One of his friends told me my son once expressed a wish for more closeness in age to his sister’s, so they could have spent more time together.. When our children were in grade school together, my daughter would call out to him when they passed in the hall. I think this made him embarrassed and fearful of being teased by his classmates. What brother wouldn’t be embarrassed?
After we got home from the bookstore, I found my daughter later that day, up in the attic reading her collection of books from childhood.
My daughter and I recently went children’s book shopping for a baby shower gift. She loves buying books because she has fond memories of my reading to her. I read books to both of my children. I love children’s books, and I enjoyed taking my children to the library, going through the bins of books with them. For a while, it became an obsession. On Friday evenings, with a glass of wine, I would read through the library catalog online, reserving books. She has kept her favorite books in boxes in the attic.
In our video library, I found pictures of my son in her crib reading a book to her. The next day we were going to the state fair, and he was reading to her to encourage slowing down, so she could go to sleep. He read, The Monster at the End of This Book(Jon Stone, 1971, Golden Books). It was one of my favorite books to read to them because the content encourages the reader to do voices. My son was a slow reader, but she did not care.
Both of my children were slow readers, but that is not an indication of intelligence. My sister was a slower reader, and she is now an attorney, having passed the bar exam the first time. My daughter went on to become a member of the National Collegiate Honors Society, studying to be an architect. He never knew she got into the architect program. Hopefully, he does now, where ever he is at; maybe he had a hand in giving her the strength to meet the university’s requirements for acceptance into the architecture program.
After we got home from the bookstore, I found my daughter later that day, up in the attic reading her collection of books from childhood.
I do not expect everyone I encounter to know the month and the date of the day my son died. After all, he is my son, not theirs. But if you do want to know, he died March 9, 2018.
Parents in my suicide support group had shared stories of when they encountered an “out of the blue” emotional breakdown, usually triggered by something: a song they heard, a story someone shared, a place they drove past. I recently encountered one. If you ever face someone in one, I want you to know. It was nothing you did. They just happen.
My daughter and I recently went on an escape trip to visit with cousins at a lake house. My husband was not able to join us, but he would have loved it because there was lots of golf and boating. I do not play golf, but he does. And there was dancing. Dancing in the kitchen while cooking dinner and on the boat with the sun setting and the moon rising. My son would have loved this. We honored him by dancing.
It was the first time I remember laughing since my son died. It was a wonderful escape; I love the cousins all dearly. My daughter is so insightful. She told me she enjoys them because they do not shy away from the tough conversations. They share, they ask, they listen, they cry, they love. They are family. We are so lucky.
One evening they were sharing campfire stories. My cousins shared a serious story that happened a couple of years ago to them. They can laugh about it now, so the tale included funny undertones that made it enjoyable to hear. But it was a serious story involving a rattlesnake, embedded cactus needles, injured body parts, and hospitalization. The story deserved attention. The date it occurred was March 9. They remembered the date well enough to share it in the story.
I froze, my mind stopped. I could not focus anymore on the story. I was in a tunnel. I thought about stopping the story and saying, “That is the day my son died.” I could not speak. As they went on telling the story, I thought, “No, this story deserves to be told. My sharing, ‘This is the month and day my son died,’ would ruin it.” I then had to decide what to do. I could not speak, I could not listen, I could not move.
When I forced my mind out of the tunnel, I got up. As I was walking out to escape, I saw my daughter, conversing with someone nearby. I listened in on her conversation long enough to gain composure so I could return to the group, say good night, leave politely, and avoid spoiling the mood of the evening.
I do not expect everyone I encounter to know the month and the date of the day my son died. After all, he is my son, not theirs. But if you do want to know, he died March 9, 2018. We do not know the time. You would think over time, I would only remember his birthday, but I can remember the date my mom died before I remember her birthday, and that was thirty years ago.
If it were not for my son, our family would not have many of our friends.
I am honored to be the mother of my son. I had him with me, present in the flesh, on earth, for almost twenty-four years. I gave birth to him when I was twenty-nine. I am thankful that I was a bit older, so I have less time to live without his physical presence.
If it were not for my son, our family would not have many of our friends. He had a way of connecting with adults. He was always mature for his age, and his fun, high-spirited, respectful, and just darn-cute personality. Even though our son was an introvert, he would introduce himself and always strike up a conversation. When he got older, he became self-conscious about not attaining a college degree, so he shied away from events where he had to answer questions like, “So, what are you doing now?”
His dark brown eyes truly conveyed his spirit. His looks resembled his personality. Such a genuine and respectful person, going out of his way to being inclusive and inviting.
My son was good-looking. As his mother, I always thought so. He was such a cute kid, and he became more handsome as he aged. His friends shared, when they went out, that young women would stare at him. His Tinder account had many “swipe rights.” [On touchscreens, a quick way of indicating acceptance or interest is to “swipe right”; “swipe left” means dismiss.] The co-camp counselor friends loving called him, “Hot Will.” The young girls he chaperoned in a ski program, would vie for his attention on the bus. His sister’s friends would talk about how good-looking he was.
His dark hair was thick and wavy. He varied the cut according to the side he chose to part his hair. I never noticed this before, but my daughter told me this; being an artist, she pays attention to visual details. My son and I went to the same hairstylist. She shared that it is rare for someone to be able to style the part on either side of the face. He kept it long enough to accentuate the waves by styling them up and off to the side, using a styling gel or clay [A new class of hairstyling product made from volcanic ash.] Later he wore a beard and mustache trimmed close to his face. Sometimes he would surprise us, coming into the house having shaved them off. He would wait to see how long it took for us to notice. His sister usually was the first, laughing with him about the tease.
His dark brown eyes truly conveyed his spirit. His looks resembled his personality. Such a genuine and respectful person, going out of his way to being inclusive and inviting. I once asked him if he wanted to be a model. He was not interested, in the least bit, so I did not pursue it. I think he did not like attention.
He was always the best-looking guy in the room.
He loved clothes and being stylish. I enjoyed taking him shopping because he looked good in anything, and he let me participate in the selection. He preferred khaki pants over blue jeans. He liked shoes and wore a variety of styles: suede boots and shoes, including navy blue. Being a sailor, he had several pairs of Sperry Topsiders. He liked the look of sweaters, filled several drawers with them. Sometimes we would browse the Tommie Bahama shop, which was his style. I enjoyed watching him select clothes, trying on a few for fun, but never buying as this store was over what he would allow me to spend on his clothes. He loved sunglasses, and, boy, did he look good in them. He wore accent scarves with his winter pea coat and stylish socks with his dress pants.
My son was frugal; both of our children are. He did not like us buying him things. His computer and phone were old and out of warranty, but he did not want new ones. He never asked for much and was appreciative of the expenses we covered.
He worked for Eddie Bauer while in high school and the first summer back from college. He did his laundry; I watched him fold his clothes. His folding was an art form. He would fold each piece in a way that would display them in their storage place, with the creases in the right places. When his dad and I moved his things back home from the apartment in which he was living, I found his clothes perfectly organized in his closets and drawers.
He gave everything his all. At each of his jobs, in his adventures, building friendships, playing organized sports, being a scholar.
He gave everything his all. At each of his jobs, in his adventures, building friendships, playing organized sports, being a scholar.
While in college, he made lots of friends, took advantage of outdoor adventures, and tried new sports. He alpine skied ever since he was eight- or nine years old. He took his race skis out with him to the mountains of Montana when he went to college but quickly realized he needed snow skis and bought a used pair while out there. He wrote about the time he went ice climbing during his second year in college. He said it was the scariest thing he had ever done, having not done any rock climbing before. He loved the outdoors and took advantage of this in Montana, hiking in and around Bozeman and Yellowstone.
He later took his Minnesota friends on a road trip back to visit. It was such a memorable experience for him and his friends. I went through all of his pictures and videos on his computer, and from friends, from his time in Montana. He and his friends did polar plunges in the rivers flowing through the Montana mountains, taking long treks through the snow, then undressing in the cold to enjoy the hot springs more fully.
In his second year, he lived on the same floor as some international students. They took a road trip to Vancouver for spring break on a shoestring budget. We did not even know about the trip until I got a text from the phone company that they disconnected his cell phone because they thought it was stolen. He only used it one time when they were lost to get directions. We had to work with the phone company to get service reinstated (with international), so he could use it, if necessary. I remember him saying something like, “Oh Mom, I would have been fine.” He usually was.
He demonstrated to the rest of his teammates that even the smallest kid could tackle the bigger guys.
My son liked to stay active. While in high school, he raced on the alpine ski team. His senior year, he joined the lacrosse team. He played intramural baseball in the summer and football in the fall. When he was young, he was always one of the smaller kids in his class, but mentally, he was just as big. His dad, and his father’s dear friend (mine too), coached their sons in football together until high school. My son could make the perfect tackle, even against the largest kids.
Once when the coach asked for a volunteer to demonstrate how to tackle a larger opponent, our son volunteered, walked out on the field, despite both the coaches’ reluctance and obvious size difference. He successfully showed the strength of his power (mostly mental, but augmented by some physical maneuvering): the lineman went down. He demonstrated to the rest of his teammates that even the smallest kid could tackle the bigger guys. He got up from the drill with a huge smile. At our son’s funeral, his coach, our friend, shared this story. He said, “I think his performance that day at practice allowed us to be undefeated that year.”
His first year of high school lacrosse was his only year, but he made it count. He joined the team because his friends played. You would have never known it was his first year, scoring two points in the first game, showing up his friends who had yet to score in any season. He went on to score in other games. (I hope I remember this correctly, so friends, please send me a revised version if I have it wrong).
I realized he listened to the music I shared with him growing up, when he was at our house, at our parties, during dinners, and so on.
My son loved music. He purposefully crafted his playlists to fit each occasion: boat rides, road trips, parties at his apartment with friends, or just having them over to play video games. He had a playlist for cleaning and one for working out, one for singing along. Some were by genres: rap, electric, country, rock, Latino, Oldies, and Disney (I am not for sure if the latter two are official genre designations, but they were to my son). There was one for staying up late, and then there was jazz.
We figured out how to follow him on Spotify (a music streaming service). Shortly after he let us, I went through his playlists. That is when I realized he listened to the music I shared with him growing up, when he was at our house, at our parties, dinners, and so on. He incorporated my music into his playlists. The jazz playlist is what got me. What I mean is crying. Crying and crying. I never knew he liked it too, that I influenced him. I want to hug him and say, “I love you, too.”
A friend shared, "He was truly unattainable.”
He loved to dance. We would see him dance at home and at weddings. One of my aunts said he was the best dance partner she ever had. His friends talk about his dancing. They wrote stories about it, and there were videos. Several of his friends spoke at his funeral. His friend, speaking directly to him, said,
“Man, did you love to dance. No matter where we were, at your apartment, in a bar, on a boat, at the beach, in the car, or just walking around; if there was music playing, you were dancing. You were always the first to start and the last to stop. On top of that, you were a good dancer too. I will proudly admit that from knowing you, my dancing has improved tremendously and no longer embarrasses those around me.”
Another friend said, “He put us all to shame when he danced, being weirdly good at it.” There were good dancers in my family, aunts, and uncles who glided across the floor at my cousins’ weddings and anniversary celebrations. Once he said he would be willing to take ballroom dance lessons with me. That is how much he loved dancing; to take lessons with his mom. Please, if you have a video of my son dancing, send it to me.
His dancing drew attention to him, but so did his looks. A friend shared a conversation he had with him, “While we were out, I would always notice girls looking over at you. But you were oblivious, even when it was pointed out.” His friend went on to tell us, “You should have seen this kid’s Tinder [an online dating site]. He matched with so many attractive girls, and what’s more, is that you could scroll through his messages and see that most had even tried to start a conversation with him. He never reciprocated. It never made sense to me, but every time I asked if he were going to message any of them back, he’d respond with ‘Nah man, the match [itself alone] is good enough for me.’ He was truly unattainable.”
He is best known for how great a friend he was. He would want to be known for that; it was so important to him. I remember him saying he would do anything to spend more time with them.
I will share what others wrote about him, as he is best known for how great a friend he was. He would want to be known for that; it was so important to him. I remember him saying he would do anything to spend more time with them. He was very conscientious about being a good friend and wrote about being a better listener, communicator, and compassionate friend. Some friends have shared descriptions and stories about my son. I need to figure out how to share them with you, but for now, these are a few:
I learned many things from my friend. If you spent any time talking to him about his plans you would recognize his wanderer’s heart. He was a journeyman. His vision was filled with travel plans. Plans to teach skiing in France, plans to join a sailing crew on the Mediterranean, plans to find something greater than himself. Maybe on the slopes or at the whim of the winds he would find that indelible certainty that would make him wise. Although he didn’t think it and although I wish I would have called him every day to tell him, he already was.
Wise because it was from him that I learned to understand the irony. That the worst and greatest creation of man was simply the question, a student truth, he spent hours listening to podcasts and watching videos on philosophy endeavoring to be equipped with the tools of a good life. Our conversations were filled with what answers he had discovered, what truth he had crystallized.
To know my friend was to know commitment. Without question and for any need he would be available. It’s easy to show up for others in the warm breeze and the painless times. But what about in the bitter chill of circumstance or the shredding winds? It was in those times that he stepped up. Always at the tear of our seams, my friend was there, a reinforcing thread. Tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow we will remember him. Remember him not for all the things he could have done, but for all that he was, companion, adventurer, and philosopher.
Around my friend, it didn’t matter what you were doing; you were enjoying yourself. He was generous, kind, and adventurous, always preferring to be out on the water with his friends or skiing in Montana than doing nearly anything else. He seemed to find a way to bond with everyone. He was always more interested in hearing about you than talking about himself, but at the same time, he also loved to share his interests with others – a podcast he was listening to, new music he had heard, or even a dance move he’d learned.
It’s still hard for me to accept that he’s gone, but looking back on all of the memories that we made, I feel so fortunate to have had a friend as genuine as him. He was incredible, and his spirit of adventure, kindness, and generosity will be deep, deeply missed.
You may be gone now, but you will never be forgotten. I will cherish the time we spent together, and you will live on in my memories. I will continue to strive to be like you, always willing to learn and to show kindness to others, even surprising people with peanut butter and jelly sandwiches out of the blue just as you did. You ARE one of my best friends, and I will always think of you as such. To paraphrase Winnie the Pooh, “How lucky I am to have had something that makes saying goodbye so hard.”
I wonder, does he know how much his friends love him and what a great person they think he is.
I have filled picture albums with every picture I have of him, all of those posted on Facebook and forwarded to me. Those from growing up, vacations, and holidays
We moved all his things back into his room. It looks like he had just washed the bathroom towels; they were still fresh and fluffy, neatly hanging on the towel racks. Dishes were done, laid out on a drying towel. His laundry basket was full, and I brought it back into our house, in his bedroom, and left it unwashed. I laid out his pillows and blankets on top of his bed at home, unwashed too, so when I walked into his room, it still smelled like him.
I have filled picture albums with every picture I have of him; all of those posted on Facebook and forwarded to me. Those from growing up, vacations, and holidays. I still cannot comprehend that this is it. That he is no longer here. Oh God, he is no longer here. Tears, many tears falling down my face and on to this keyboard. A normal day in my new life.
I want to hear from you.
I purposefully kept the identity of the friends whose writing I included in this blog post anonymous, but I will share that they came from three of his close friends. He has many more friends and stories of his life. Some of you I have heard from, but there are more; surely, there are more remembrances, stories, thoughts, and conversations you had with him. Would you please share them with me?
I mainly write for myself, as my relief valve for all the pent-up thoughts and emotions trapped inside me, but I think there are readers beyond my daughter, who sometimes contributes, and me and my editor, who is my aunt. I want to hear from you too. Please post your thoughts below or contact me through the Contact page of my blog.
