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
