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.
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>
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.
I am so sorry for being, naïve, for not understanding you; not knowing what was going on with you.”
Every time I visit my son’s grave site I say, “I am sorry.” I used to go every day, and now I go a couple of times a week, but at each time, I say, “I am sorry. I am really, really, sorry.” The reasons may vary as to why I am sorry. It could be something new I have learned or remembered or just “Sorry for being so stupid.” Stupid for not understanding you; not knowing what was going on with you.”
In the last year of my son’s life, I tiptoed around sensitive issues because I did not want to create anxiety for him. I wanted home to be a safe place. I wanted to support him in his decisions. I regret this avoidance because I did not give him an opportunity to share with me his deep feelings and struggles. I know I flubbed things up while he was in high school and college. I was not enough of an advocate to fight the systems, both in the schools and later, when he became an adult, to push him into using the mental health care system. I did not pry enough. I said the wrong things.
We will never know for sure what drove him to it on that day; only he knows. He was never diagnosed with depression or anxiety.
I recall reading that half of the people who do take their lives or attempt to never had signs of mental illness. I trusted my son; he said he never had a plan. He was never that “bad off.” I should have educated myself. I should have encouraged him to keep seeing a therapist. I should have seen one myself to know what he was going through, having Attention Deficit Disorder (ADD). I should have been closer to his friends and more engaged. Maybe I would have put two and two together.
After talking with his friends, there were signs: signs of despair and withdrawing. At my request, my therapist has given me information on suicide, mental illness, and the use of drugs. We will never know for sure what drove him to it on that day; only he knows. He was never diagnosed with depression or anxiety.
He was diagnosed with ADD when he was in grade school. A symptom of ADD is impulsivity. Medical literature indicates street drugs (in this case marijuana) and mental illness do not go together. For young adults who frequently use marijuana, it can cause reduced executive functioning (planning, prioritizing, the stop and start of activities), as well as reduced caring, working memory, and follow-through. Marijuana heightens feelings and can cause anxiety and paranoia. Several friends told me he was using it every day, mostly smoked, and, as a fun group activity, baked into brownies.
I have retraced everything I said and did with my son during the months leading up to his death; looking back on what I did and did not do.
The suicide rate is increasing at alarming rates, and recently several celebrities have taken their lives. Death by suicide has surpassed the homicide rate. Because of this, there has been an increase in news coverage on suicide prevention. I recently saw an interview of suicide attempters who survived. One survivor said she thought her family would be better off without her. I wonder if that is the way his father and I made him feel: that he was a burden.
He was living with a friend and always seemed busy, always had plans. His friends were his world, and I felt if he were with them, everything was fine. On that particular day, he had plans, but they fell through. Even with all those friends, I wonder if he felt isolated.
I have retraced everything I said and did with my son during the months leading up to his death; looking back on what I did and did not do.
I failed my son. He was great in spite of me.
The feeling of failure is enormous. I failed my son. One of my son’s friends told me I should not feel that way. He said my son was a great person. He was smart, a forever scholar. He was caring, always showing kindness to others, not judgmental, and inclusive. I should be proud I raised such a great son. My son had friends from all over the world. We were fortunate that he shared their friendships with us, inviting these bright young people into our home and lives. They all recall my son as being so caring, putting others first.
He had a great sense of humor. He had passions for things such as educational podcasts, Minnesota sports teams, especially the Vikings. He loved Marvel movies, political comedians, and entertaining his friends. A gentle, sensitive soul, who appreciated the more exceptional things such as art, Broadway plays, and gourmet food. He was an adventurer and loved music and dancing. He had a great style and was so good looking. Friends lovingly used the word “Hot” in front of his name. He was good with children, worked at a camp in summer and the winter taught them how to ski. He had so much to offer. I feel like he was great, in spite of me.
I blame myself. I want to blame others. I want to blame his daily self-medicating use of marijuana.
I keep going through his pictures, and the beautiful stories friends and families wrote about my son. He was such a wonderful person. He should have lived. I keep saying, “This did not need to happen. His life was a life that should have been saved. It was just one bad day. It was just an impulsive act, and it could have been prevented.”
I blame myself. I want to blame others. I want to blame his daily self-medicating use of marijuana. Therapists tell me this was not my fault. Their words do not matter. Putting aside blame, I still feel great guilt. I will always feel this guilt. His death should not have happened.
By reading my blog, maybe there is an opportunity to help others or yourself.
Many of his friends have met or corresponded with me. I appreciate what they have shared with me. I am sure it was hard for them. If they or their families are reading this, please take in what I have written. Maybe there is an opportunity to help others or yourself.
Please continue to share your stories about my son. They are precious to his father, sister, and me. Thank you for each one.
They think they would feel differently and I should feel differently, but they really can’t put themselves in my place.
My heart is always heavy with emotion. I wake up and go to bed with emotions at the surface, where I am still fighting to hold them in. I set aside controlled releases of my feelings, at particular times and places, like in the shower, alone in the car driving, visiting my son at his grave site. The emotions vary between guilt, shame, anger, and blame. My therapist and survivor’s support group helped me understand that these are common emotions for a parent who has lost a child. They also shared that there is an increased propensity to swear and yell which I feel at liberty to do.
When no one is around, sometimes I scream and pound my fights. Sometimes the emotions are uncontrolled and just come out.
One evening after my daughter came home from work, we sat outside with the dogs in the backyard to talk and be together. These days it usually is with a glass of wine in hand. She had had a therapy session earlier in the day. We talked about the anger we feel. She shared she feels like hitting somebody or something. I am not angry at my son because he was the one with the mental illness. I am mostly angry at God and the world for letting this happen to my baby boy.
My son was loved by so many whom he took in with open arms and treated with generosity. He had a genuine concern for others; he consciously worked hard to be a compassionate listener and to be there for his friends. He was a great person for this world so why the hell was he dealt this hand? He deserved so much better.
I cringe when someone I know approaches me with cliche greetings. I also cringe when someone says, “I am praying for you.”
The things that may seem small to people who don’t know what it is like to lose a child are taking a toll on us. Those who don’t follow through when specifically asked to do something. Those who think they understand what I am going through — those who don’t think before they speak and say insensitive things. Keep in mind, the things you say might not be insensitive in a normal situation but can be to those who have lost a young person in their life. Previously hearing about your children’s accomplishments, your vacations, your latest purchases, house remodel, minor life obstacles, and so on, would be normal inviting conversations. Participating in this small talk is hard. I have to work hard to get myself in a place to join in these previously normal conversations. I cringe when someone I know approaches me with cliche greetings spoken in a happy tone (like nothing has happened) such as “How are you?” “Are you having a nice day?” “How was your weekend?” “Enjoy the rest of your day.” There is no real enjoyment anymore; the things we do that should bring enjoyment are now muted because there is this great hole in our lives. I also cringe when someone says, “I am praying for you.”
I feel it is something others need to do for themselves, so they can feel good, like they are helping me. I feel it does nothing for me and everything for them.
My therapist said that it is common to test or lose your faith after such a loss. I grew up Catholic, and my children were baptized as Methodist. While both my husband and I have the Christian faith, we were not big churchgoers after the birth of our second child, mainly because it took so much time on an already short weekend that was filled with kids’ activities and basic chores. Getting ready, driving to church, attending the service, socializing, and then driving back home took half of the day. We treasured our weekends because we both had long work weeks.
My mom had a strong faith, and so did I at the time. We prayed a lot, and so did many others: our faith community, family, and friends. She died at the age of fifty-one, the day before my wedding.
My son’s best friend died at the age of 22, almost two-and-a-half years before my son died. I had a whole congregation praying for him for the last six months of his life.
My dad always told me he was praying for my son after his friend died, as my son was struggling to find his way. All of the prayers did not change the outcome of these shortened lives.
After my son’s death, people tell me they are praying for my son, praying for me, praying for our family. Why? My son is already dead. At this point in my life, I no longer view it as a courteous thing to do. I feel it is something others need to do for themselves, so they can feel good like they are helping me. I feel it does nothing for me and everything for them.
They think they would feel differently and I should feel differently, but they really can’t put themselves in my place.
God failed my son, abandoned his family, and everyone who knew and loved him. Since I come from a family with faith, it is hard for them to hear my anger against God and why I do not believe in prayer. They think they would feel differently and I should feel differently, but they really can’t put themselves in my place.
I felt such relief when one of my family members told me that God deserves all of my anger and contempt. I appreciated not having to fight to have the right to my feelings of anger. I am wondering: Why do they not feel anger and contempt at God too? After all, they have lost a grandchild, nephew, and cousin.
Someone was offering to be with me on my terms and was offering (acceptance of the anger) what I needed.
There are heroic, unselfish gestures that people have done, such as being with his father, sister, and me in this difficult state. One of my family members gave me permission to scream and lash out. “We can take it,” she said. Relief is how I felt when I heard this. Someone was offering to be with me on my terms and was offering (acceptance of the anger) what I needed. That is how I felt when I heard this. Relief.
This story is my journey. Other parents will have a different experience. I appreciate when our support universe acknowledges what we individually need.
I see my life as two pieces — the life I had before my son died, and the life after. The life before me is now foreign to me.
Without doing anything consciously or intentional, my life keeps moving forward just because I wake up in the morning and get out of bed. This new life is not easy. I feel my feet; they are mounted in cement. Heart and chest are heavy. I feel nauseous like when you have to make a speech or do something that makes you nervous. These feelings never go away. They are part of this new life. I see my life as two pieces — the life I had before my son died, and the life after. The life before me is now foreign to me. Even though I remember my son like he was just here at the house visiting, I know I will never get that life back. I am watching it drift away, gone, over the horizon.
Now, what to do, how to move on without him in my present world?
Even though I have worked my whole adult life, have a master’s degree, and have been able to contribute materially to the financial support of my family, my world is and was about my children. Every dream for the future was with them, being together with them as adults as they grew into their lives. My two children were four years and nine months apart; he was her older brother. We had him with us for almost twenty-four years. He was so gentle, patient, and caring with his sister. They fought, of course, because she teased and egged him on. As they got older, they become closer. He would brag about her to his friends and proudly hang her artwork in his apartment. He was so proud of her. In one instant, our world and dreams changed forever. His father and I lost one of the main purposes of our lives: to watch the boy we raised develop his own life. His sister lost her only sibling, someone who was, she supposed, to be with her to share new life experiences.
Many trips and adventures we had yet to take. Holidays to share. Weddings, births, life celebrations to share. All gone.
People who have not lost a child try to relate themselves to my experience. Some share what they would do and how they would feel, but really can’t and should not try. My therapist told me that most parents could not put themselves into that place to envision how they would feel because it would be too unbearable. I have been told by my therapist and several others that losing a child is the worst tragedy anyone should have to face. Only those who have lost a child can provide an opinion on this statement.
Now, what to do, how to move on without him in my present world? I spent the first three months going through all his things, his phone, computer, notebook, meticulously writing everything down. I talked with his friends and employees at his place of work, trying to find answers and understand his suffering. These efforts offered some clarity, but they did not help. I have a feeling of guilt that compounds.
he family that is left behind could have secondary tragic effects because of the shame, guilt, anger, and blame survivors feel. I feel all these things in addition to denial and longing for him.
With the recent release by the Center for Disease Control and Prevention (CDC) of an alarming increase in suicide statistics and celebrity deaths from suicide, there has been an increase in media coverage on suicide prevention. An ABC News chief medical correspondent, Doctor Jennifer Ashton, shared on “Good Morning America” her personal experience when her ex-husband took his life. She said the family that is left behind could have secondary tragic effects because of the shame, guilt, anger, and blame survivors feel. I feel all these things. I am right there with her. These are my daily struggles in addition to denial and longing for him.
I will miss seeing him teach his sister things he was good at like dancing, driving the boat, and cooking. I will miss the two of them together in the kitchen talking about the latest Marvel movie, playing croquet, darts, and ping pong.
I miss him. I miss his hugs and his saying, “I love you too.” I miss his smile and humor. I miss talking with him about the current events and his views. His sharing the latest podcast he listened to, a forever scholar. I miss family dinners. I miss his sharing with me about a new musical artist he liked, a new playlist he created, or comedian he liked. Laughing together when we would watch the highlights from a “Saturday Night Live” that aired the week before. I will miss seeing him teach his sister things he was good at like dancing, driving the boat, and cooking. I will miss the two of them together in the kitchen talking about the latest Marvel movie, playing croquet, darts, and ping pong. I will miss seeing him dance; he loved to dance and was good at it. I will miss seeing him elegantly glide down the ski slope. I miss seeing how great he always looked. He had the most beautiful hair and such a sense of style. I miss the simple things he would let me do for him, like go grocery shopping with him. The list goes on and on.
I encourage seeking mental health services but it takes an effort to find the right fit.
So, I get out of bed every day for my daughter. I want to do the things that help her through this. I encourage seeking mental health services. It was an effort to find the right fit, but I think we are there now. Mental Health directories are vast, and they default by the distance from your location. You cannot sort on the category “bereavement of a child due to suicide.” The professional bios are too generic, and it is too time-consuming to research.
My first encounters with a mental health professional were them listening and hugging me at the end of 45 minutes. These sessions were helpful at first but not ultimately what I needed. I finally ended that relationship after several debacles on their end for things they said to me, did not do, and their inability to work with the short-term disability agency. I then saw a therapist referred from a support group. This therapist spent the first 25 minutes talking about her billing practices, so she did not have to deal with insurance.
I would ask these providers for medical materials on specific subjects. They would never follow through. Finally, I found someone who would. It was a stressful and lengthy process. Because my daughter is over eighteen, it was hard to help her through the medical treatment access process and insurance due to privacy laws. It is so burdensome and foreign to someone of her age. I could see where at some point she would be tempted to give up.
I wish there were a way to leap forward in time to when I am near the end of my life and able to stay in that future time. I would have lived my life; that future place would be easier.
Everything seems so hard to do, and it feels like a constant fight. I wish there were a way to leap forward in time to when I am near the end of my life and able to stay in that future time. I would have lived my life; that future place would be easier. I have to fight to receive short-term disability benefits. The outsourcing agency had little understanding of the debilitating effects of grief. The mental health professionals determining my short- term disability extensions seemed to think the outcome would significantly change from week to week, so they held out to get the latest doctor notes, missing the payroll cut-offs; a month would go by without pay. It was not until I started documenting “on the record” the unfair treatment by the agency and the Human Resource (HR) department, that I did get someone to listen. In the meantime, all of that fighting to be treated correctly takes a toll on my mental state. At the time to curate my son’s grave marker, the cemetery had little understanding of how to work with a family grieving for a young person. We worked with the cemetery at first as we did not know where else to go. It was the most frustrating month. Thank goodness for a friend who had also lost her son, who went through a similar experience; she connected us with a monument company that was more capable. These were things I just never thought I would have to fight for, let alone deal with, at this time in my life.
My therapist said I should let friends and family do things for us. Sometimes it is just hard to talk or be with people. It requires so much energy. I am so appreciative of those who keep asking.
I am so thankful for our brave friends who walk into our house and continue to be with us while we are grieving. I am so grateful for the friend who pulled off to the side road to find a survivor’s support group and was steadfast in getting me there. I am so appreciative of the friends who take us out to eat, invite us into their home, and want to know how we are doing and will let us talk about our son, who allowed us to laugh and cry. I am thankful for the extended family who calls me on the hard holidays, listen to me cry, rant and rave, and pass no judgment, and ask the deep questions to get me to open up to relieve emotions. I am so thankful for those who just text they are thinking of me, for those who keep asking can they clean my house, go grocery shopping, weed my garden, go on walks with me. My therapist said I should let them do these things. Sometimes it is just hard to talk or be with people. It requires so much energy. I am so appreciative of those who keep asking.
NAMI has published a version of this story on their website as part of the 2018 Suicide Prevention Awareness Month
