An Emotional Connection to The Music from Frozen, Frozen II
In the movie, Frozen II was a personal message for the three of us, his father, sister, and me, to keep going one step at a time, no matter how inconsequential; to do the next right thing.
When visiting family over the holidays, the lot of us always take in a blockbuster movie. Sometimes the whole group of parents and children went to the same film; other times we split up. The movie choice historically was from the latest Disney Animation, Harry Potter or Marvel series, or other independent family comedies.
In 2013 the Disney movie Frozen released in theaters. It was my daughter’s choice to select that holiday because she is the youngest of the cousins at fifteen years old. The other cousins were adults, the next youngest being my son at nearly twenty. Frozen was not my son’s first choice, but we all went along. Fast forwarding, the movie was a box office hit with the best original song, “Let It Go.”
“Let It Go” has become the anthem for those living on the margins, struggling with mental illness or other challenges, giving them the empowerment to uncloak what they have been hiding and accept the things that made them different. The song permits a person to let go of the past, or whatever was holding one’s self back (i.e., fears, doubts, insecurities) and releasing from the expectations of others.
My son had a connection with the song "Let It Go" from Disney's Frozen
The movie came out when my son was in college at Montana State University. I found the song on my son’s Disney playlist on Spotify. He introduced the movie and music to his exchange-student friends. A college friend shared he had great enthusiasm for the film. It was their go-to movie when feeling melancholy. For amusement, he would send his friends’ humorous Frozen-themed memes through the Snap Chat application (How I wish those were retrievable). He would sing the ballads on road trips, and these were his best performances.
I wonder if the song has special meaning for my son, similar to those on the fringe who have shared their attachment to the song or perhaps he loved the song simply because it is a great one and a way to connect with friends.
The Video Gift - Singing "Let It Go"
Every story, thought, memory, picture, and video of my son that someone shares with me is a gift. I received such a gift last summer. One of his friends from Kent, United Kingdom, who worked at the same summer camp in PA, shared a video. My son is singing “Let It Go” with a karaoke machine in a small town bar with camp friends.
Her additional gift was a story, which I am sharing with you.
“A video with friends and your son has just popped up on my Facebook timeline from five years ago today. In the video, I am singing karaoke, and your son is dancing and singing along with our two other friends.”
“The camp where we worked is located outside of Poyntelle, PA, in the Village of the Preston Township. The backdrop is beautiful rolling foothills of the Pocono Mountains, surrounded by many gorgeous lakes and ponds.”
The villages are not municipalities, so the Census Bureau does not keep records of the population size, but I did find on bestplace.net the population size of Poyntelle at 20. There are seven named streets in the township. The town supports two summer camps outside of the city limits, one being Poyntelle Lewis Village, where my son worked for two summers.
“There was a small group of camp workers above the drinking age. On the rare evenings free, we would venture out to have a drink and have time away from the campers. We became close friends from these fun nights out.”
“The only bar in the town is The Poynte, and The Poyntelle Dragon was the bar’s signature drink, meant for sharing, which we did. We played lots of card games and shuffleboard. After an evening of fun, we would stumble home around one or two o’clock in the morning, knowing well we had to be up at around seven am the next day. The night the video was taken was especially fun.”
“I have so many fun memories with your son, and I still think of him, especially during the summer, when my camp pictures pop up on Facebook.”
I am thankful for my son’s friends. I remember him telling me how special and consequential they were to him. I can see why.
Tissues are required for Frozen II. The music lyrics from the song "The Next Right Thing", have a special meeting for the grieving, in despair, or feeling betrayed.
Frozen II was released shortly before Thanksgiving this year. The three of us, my daughter, her father, and I went to see it together, keeping with tradition. Once again, there is a list of accolades for the movie and the music. Similarly, there is a song for those struggling mentally, grieving, in despair, or feeling betrayed. It encourages at a time when things look hopeless, by doing one positive action at a time, doing the next right thing – not giving up.
The lyrics are so relatable, especially for my daughter, who lost her brother. The character Anna is struggling at a pivotal time in her life and longing for her older sister, Elsa. My daughter saw the movie beforehand with a close friend and forewarned me to bring tissues. She was correct. I sat with the movie replaying in my mind for weeks. Then I went back to listen to lyrics. Comprehending one phrase at a time, then all together.
Verse 1
“I’ve seen dark before
But not like this
This is cold
This is empty
This is numb
The life I knew is over
The lights are out
Hello, darkness
I’m ready to succumb.”
Verse 2
“I follow you around
I always have
But you’ve gone to a place I cannot find
This grief has a gravity
It pulls me down
But a tiny voice whispers in my mind
You are lost, hope is gone
But you must go on
And do the next right thing,”
Verse 3
“Can there be a day beyond this night?
I don’t know anymore what is true
I can’t find my direction; I’m all alone
The only star that guided me was you
How to rise from the floor
When it’s not you, I’m rising for?
Just do the next right thing
Take a step, step again
It is all that I can to do
The next right thing.”
Bridge
“I won’t look too far ahead
It’s too much for me to take
But break it down to this next breath
This next step
This next choice is one that I can make”
Verse 4
“So I’ll walk through this night
Stumbling blindly toward the light
And do the next right thing
And with the dawn, what comes then?
When it’s clear that everything will never be the same again
Then I’ll make the choice
To hear that voice
And do the next right thing.”
(Anderson-Lopez, Kristin, and Robert Lopez, 2019)
In the lyrics was a message that when the grief is holding us down, to keep going; to do the next right thing,
In the lyrics is a message for the three of us to keep going one step at a time. It would be so much easier to hide under the covers and not get out of bed. Not face responsibility or pursue any feeling of happiness given this complex grief and devastation from the loss of my son and my daughter losing her only sibling.
I do not know how to operate in my new life, and looking too far ahead is painful because he is not there with us in the same way as before. It is okay just to have the ability to get through the next day. It is okay to be where I am at in my life. Later, I may have the strength to take on more. At his moment, I take it as a sign to do things a little at a time.
Let It Go
I am sharing the Facebook video of my son singing “Let It Go, with his friends in that small-town bar, where they are the only patrons that evening. I cannot download it or make a copy of it, so I recorded it with my phone. It is grainy, but it still is fantastic — a joy to watch. Everyone is beautiful, but my son is strikingly handsome, beyond what his mother thinks.
References
Bell, Kristen. “The next Right Thing.” The Next Right Thing. Kristen Anderson-Lopez, Robert Lopez, Dave Metzger, Tom MacDougall, 2019.
Album: Frozen 2 (Original Motion Picture Soundtrack)
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My anger problem is a symptom of something else, my grief from the loss of my son.
I received an invoice for services from a psychiatrist my son say two and a half years ago. At the time, I encouraged him to see a psychiatrist to treat his attention deficit disorder (ADD). He previously was treated by a primary care physician and before that, a pediatrician. He only saw this doctor once. He renewed his prescription, made a subsequent appointment, but never kept it. I know this because my son was under 26 years of age, and he was on the family health insurance. I pay the bills, and the clinic billed him a no-show fee. I talked to him about why he did not keep the appointment. He shared with me the psychiatrist wanted to do a learning disability assessment; he felt she was headed down the wrong track, and insurance would not cover the tests. Really, the psychiatrist did not click with him, so I let it go. At least he was seeing a therapist.
The haunting bill for services from two and a-half years ago.
I know I paid that particular bill two and a half years ago. It is in my health savings account (HSA) billing history. I previously downloaded the payment history for our tax records and that information was archived on my computer.
I called the clinic’s billing department. I explained I was inquiring about the bill for my deceased child. She asked for his birthday and address. This seems like an innocuous question, but my voice quivered as I answered. She then followed up with, “What can I do for you?”
I composed myself, no longer crying, and said in my new angry voice, “Why the fuck are you billing me for services two years old, which I paid, for a person who is no longer alive, for services that did not help, as he died by suicide?”
Her immediate replies were not adequate. She said I did not need to swear, and then went on to blame the insurance company, and directed me to inquire with them.
I deepened my voice, in a shortened tone, and replied, “Unfortunately I am educated on the feelings of losing a loved one to suicide and anger is a familiar feeling; you are a behavioral health clinic, you should be prepared to deal with people like me.” I went on, “You are requesting payment for services that did not prevent his suicide. Your clinic is asking for payment, not the insurance company; therefore, I am calling your clinic, the billing party.”
I then firmly requested she finds a supervisor who was capable of dealing with my inquiry.
I could hear in her voice she was crying when she asked me to wait and then put me on hold.
While waiting, I found my spreadsheet documenting full payment. After a long wait, another person took the call, apologized, said she was sorry for my loss, then told me to disregard the invoice. I thanked her, ended the phone call, and immediately shredded the bill.
I told my loss support group, "I have an anger problem."
A couple of days later, I shared this story with my suicide loss survivor group. I started my account with, “I have an anger problem.” The group reconfirmed my story is not unique, meaning, anger is really grief, and it comes out in uncharacteristic ways such as swearing.
The encounter also includes undertones of other issues for me.
As time passes, my tolerance is less for others who make foot in mouth mistakes. These mistakes are not intentional, some realize once it is out there, others have no idea what they said or did that did not sit well with me. Things like, connotations to stop feeling the way I am feeling, not acknowledging the debilitating cognitive and physical effect grief has, wanting me to be back to the way I was before my son died. Avoidance because they do not know what to say. All of these things are a more significant symptom of our culture where we do not talk about unhappy things. How will society understand grief when no one talks about the reality of it?
As I hear other loss survivor stories, I am gaining an intolerance for the flawed U.S. health care system and health insurance. They need to acknowledge their inadequacies by looking at the growing statistics of those with mental health conditions and the suicide rates, take it seriously, and then listen to those who have accessed it. These institutions and policymakers should pay the same attention to the mental health crisis as they do for solving cancer, diabetes, opioid misuse, heart disease, and the most recent publicized illness of the year.
"I sat with my anger long enough until she told me her real name was grief, (TheMindsJournal)."
A friend reminded me of this meme I have seen on social media and its relevancy. Two women are sitting side by side on a brick wall, one dressed in white, another in black. The quote is,” I sat with my anger long enough until she told me her real name was grief, (TheMindsJournal).”
If you read anything about grief and grief symptoms, the list will include anger. I have learned from others who have written about suicide grief, that anger can become a scary comfort. It is easier to fall back to anger than feel the other emotions of guilt, shame, blame, depression, despair, anxiety, immense sadness, loneliness, etc.. There are at least ten other emotional effects I can name. If you are a lost survivor, you likely know the others from experience.
Turn anger into something productive.
I am sorry to the person who landed with my phone call, as she was not responsible for making me a victim of their accounting incompetence. My therapist, if I still saw one, would probably tell me I need to turn that anger into something productive. Right now, in year two, I am too tired to be productive. The fog has partially lifted and replaced with the black reality that my son is not coming back.
The reality is, Year 1 sucked, Year 2 sucks too. I will never get over this. You do not heal from grief, there is no cure. I have learned from others further along in their grief, that with time, you learn to deal with it better. They have learned to change the pain from reactive to proactive, doing something positive for themselves, to advocate, or honor their loved one publicly. I have read stories of loss survivors who go on to do inspirational things like public speaking, starting a non-profit, writing a book, hosting a podcast, running a marathon for a cause.
Personally, I am proud of the accomplishments of new friends who are recent fellow survivors. They do amazing things every day given the circumstances, like celebrating the life events of their child’s friends, write inspirational stories for publication, lead large organizations, teach our children, give back to the community, find the will power and physical stamina to do a headstand on a paddleboard, and find happiness in the small things.
I will try to be positive and recognize my accomplishments, like doing any form of exercise, passing on the weeknight glass of wine, not hibernating in my room all evening, eating a healthy meal, and calling a friend back.
It is likely you are in the ripple effect of suicide; 40-50% of the U.S. population has been exposed to suicide.
It is likely someone close to you will die because everyone will die. Now imagine someone close to you die by suicide. Most people cannot because the thought of it would be too painful.
Here’s the thing: there is a ripple effect of suicide, and there is high probability you are in that ripple but do not acknowledge it. A research-based estimate suggests that for each death by suicide, 147 people are exposed (6.9 million annually) – as many as 40-50% of the population has been exposed to suicide in their lifetime based on 2016 representative sample results. The number of survivors of suicide loss in the U.S. is more than 5.3 million (1 of every 62 Americans in 2017), (suicidology.org).
Take the time to learn about the grief process, for yourself, for someone you support, and not just about suicide loss survivors, but grief in general, because everyone dies. Stop pretending life is only sunshine and roses, or your isolated world will come crashing down on you eventually, and you will not be ready to deal with it.
September 8th through the 14th of 2019 is National Suicide Prevention Week. NAMI.org has published an edited version of this post on their blog as part of their campaign to bring awarness. Thank you NAMI.
National Suicide Prevention Week is the Monday through Sunday surrounding World Suicide Prevention Day. It’s a time to share resources and stories, as well as promote suicide prevention awareness.
Resources
If you are supporting a loss survivor, or if you are part of the ripple, you can find useful resources at these websites:
More Related Blog Posts
Anger Abounds – An emotion that comes with grief
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Illustration by Shout
Those who have not lost a child told me work is a good distraction. Those who have lost a child told me the same.
There are many famous lines from the Nora Ephron directed and co-written 1993 romantic comedy, Sleepless in Seattle, starring Tom Hanks and Meg Ryan. The film contains parallel stories of two people looking for love. Sam is widowed and is seeking a love that is magical, like the one he had with his wife. Annie is looking for a love that is equivalent to Gary Grant, and Debra Kerr’s Hollywood portrayed love story, depicted in An Affair to Remember.
“Work, work will see you through this.”
The quote I recall did not make the list of those I found on the internet. It is from a scene after the death of Sam’s wife, where Sam’s boss tells him to take some time off from work, for a mental break, and take his son fishing. Sam replies by regurgitating the plethora of unsolicited advice he has received, quoting one, “Work, work will see you through this.” It is the quote I remember now because it is relevant to me. Sam and his young son have to figure out how to live with their grief and the hole in their lives. Work as a tool is the advice he receives from well-intended supporters.
I went back to work after 6 months, from my son’s death, first part-time, and then gradually full-time. At least that was the plan. Part-time quickly led to overtime due to the work demands of my job.
I am not the person I was before, everything seems so much harder, including work.
This job seems so much harder than it did before. It is hard to concentrate. The 10 hour day bombardment of emails, instant messages, and working on the weekend is way beyond tolerable. The before me would be fine with the workload, taking it on, and leading through it. But I am different. Even though this work has meaning, it really is not worth the sleepless nights thinking about how to get the job done, and the risks I need to circumvent. I lay awake at 3:00 am replaying the conversations I had during the day, the actions I ran out of time to complete, pictures in my head of presentation material I need to create, and discussions with leaders I need to undertake.
"How are you?" Is that really a question or an opening statement?
Each meeting someone starts the conversation with the ubiquitous question, “How are you? How was your weekend?” On a recent Friday, after a long week, I replied, “I will never answer anything but fine to this question. I do not think people are prepared to receive a truthful response.
The person I was having this conversation agreed with my statement and then opened up sharing, “I am recovering from a terrible cold, and I was up in the middle of the night with my baby.” I was polite. I did not share, “I am beyond terrible. I am living with an incurable broken heart caused by grief, decreased mental and emotional strength, and a soul that is forever changed. “
I avoid work dinners and small talk. I join meetings last, so I do not have to listen to co-workers describe forgettable events and minor struggles like they are materially significant.
Between meetings, I open up email’s to respond. If the answer is not quick, and I have to think through it, my mind quickly moves on to another topic. My eyes move from the keyboard to computer screens, but not registering anything worthwhile. In the evening after the bombardment of the day is over, I weed my way through my desktop full of open emails, unread messages, and open files. Work days move into work evenings so I can have silence to concentrate.
The Grieving Brain
My mind operates differently than before. I miss appointments. I put them in my calendar and set reminders on my phone to alert me, and I still miss them or show up a day early. I quickly forget passwords, or where I wrote them down, and where I put things. I miss my exit, having to double back. I once accidentally gave the little dog the bigger dog’s medicine and thank goodness I came to my senses in time to dig it out of her throat.
I have a short attention span, memory loss, and anger easy. My grief also impacts me physically. I feel tired and weak and have little desire to exercise or eat healthy food. There is a trauma aspect for going back to work, as it brings back all of those memories of my life before he died and the immense anguish and guilt that comes with it.
There is medical research that proves the grieving brain has more activity than a healthy mind, linking to mood changes and the performance of organs.
“[W]hen brain imaging studies are done on people who are grieving, increased activity is seen along a broad network of neurons. These link areas associated not only with mood but also with memory, perception, conceptualization, and even the regulation of the heart, the digestive system, and other organs.” Crook, Thomas, Ph.D. (2011), Prevention Magazine
I am giving myself leeway. Achieving an average performance rating is my new "exceeds exception."
I don’t know if I want my same thinking capacity back, because it puts me back to where I was before my son died; working. I want a simpler life, where I am not bombarded with endless questions and decisions to make.
A friend and suicide loss survivor said she operates at 50% of her before thinking capacity. She prefers repetitive work, where extensive thinking is not a requirement. My symptoms and feelings are similar to those of other loss survivors.
For now, I am on the road of inertia because doing something else takes the energy I do not have. My therapist urges me to envision doing something else with my life, as I do deserve to be happy. Start by taking little steps to gain the strength to make the change.
I have comfort in knowing I am not crazy. Grief brain is real. I am giving myself some leeway not to expect my performance to be at the same level it was before; achieving an average performance rating is my new “exceeds expectation.”
References
Crook, Thomas. “This Is How Your Brain Reacts To Losing A Loved One.” Prevention, Prevention, 13 Dec. 2018, <www.prevention.com/health/memory/a20441690/how-your-brain-reacts-to-grief/>, viewed 16 Feb. 2019.
Losing a family matriarch or patriarch causes multifaceted grief.
My uncle, my mother’s younger brother, recently left earth for his eternal home. His health took a quick downturn, and he was gone in a couple of days. His family and my extended family are now left to grieve his absence and figure out how we will keep the larger family together, as he was our glue. Losing him is multifaceted grief.
My mother’s siblings are my connection to my mother, who departed this earth thirty years earlier. My mother has two older sisters. Her sister, five years her senior, also has passed.
My mother and her brother were two years apart. After her death, my uncle took on the role of matriarch for our family, filling in for my mother. He drove through the mid-west to attend our major family events. He kept the tradition of big family gatherings centered around a smorgasbord of comforting home-cooked food, and my aunt facilitated after dinner competitive games, that make the shyest person show their hidden personality. I learned from these traditions, that eating and cooking together is a foundation for family bonding, and hence, a prescription for the soul.
My mother's family taught me that eating and cooking together is a foundation for family bonding, and hence, a prescription for the soul.
As I aged, I realized I needed a connection to my mother’s family. The more lonely I became in my life, the more I craved their unconditional love and emotional connection. Stepping into their embrace was like walking into my childhood home, swarming me with the warmth of my memories. The next time we see each other, we pick up where we left off.
My daughter has told me she needs these connections. There was immediate bond to second cousins, her great aunt and uncles, and my cousins. We live in separate states, so it requires an intention to build these family relationships. My daughter did not grow up with them. I started making it a priority to build these relationships when she was in high school, my son was already out of the house.
After my son died, I met with mental health and spiritual professionals. They told me I need to find that maternal/paternal-like person who could put their arms around me to comfort me. That person was my uncle. And I was so lucky because my uncle’s comfort came as a package, with his wife, my aunt.
My uncle shared stories about my mother and her siblings, and my grandparents. I am so thankful to have those stories. He told me about the silly emotionally charged arguments amongst his siblings. He told me about his regrets and faults. He created an environment where there were equal standing and respect, so we could openly share our points of view and have deep conversations, regardless of generation or place in the family hierarchy. He did not demand respect just by being. He sincerely earned his respect by creating a genuine relationship with each person in the extended family, regardless of age.
Respect is not based on hierarchical position within the family structure, but by creating a genuine relationship with the family members.
Having gone through trauma, I am more in-tune with my mental health. I need those people in my life I can talk to about my emotions and struggles and they share about theirs with me. I need people who are willing to talk about the taboo, beyond the superficial. I need people in my life who I can go beyond sharing what you would put in a holiday letter.
Creating and living in a family environment where you can talk about real-life and taboo subjects is essential for your mental health.
My daughter is so insightful. She told me early on that one of the reason’s she needs my mother’s family is that they talk about real life. This is so important for one’s mental health. I also find this in my loss survivor support group. I have learned from them to stand up for myself and to make my mental health a priority, and tell it like is. I need those two and a half hours each week, so when someone asks me, “How are you?”, I can tell the truth, that I am not fine. I am dying inside. There is a popular podcast titled, “Terrible, Thank You For Asking.” Its purpose of telling real-life stories brings the subjects and emotions to the forefront to remove the awkwardness of talking about human feelings and struggles. It brings these subjects into normal conversation. Give it a listen.
I also learned a therapist is essential, just like having a primary care provider. I am not ashamed I see a therapist. Society should accept and encourage having a therapist, beginning at a young age, like seeing a pediatrician. We all need to work to remove the negative stigma and discrimination that comes with behavioral health.
Right before my uncle left this earth, I was able to get a message to him to tell him what he has meant to my family and me. I also gave him a message to deliver to my son. I miss my uncle, but I know he is taking care of my son for me, and that brings me some comfort.
I hope putting my thoughts and stories down on paper will be read by my loved ones in their afterlife. Believing that helps me get through my remaining life, without them with me, on this earth.
Tell me about your family culture and how it does or does not bring remedies to your soul by leaving a comment, in the "leave a comment" section. Scroll a little further down and you will find the section.
The holidays are a time for the family to gather and enjoy each other, engaging in traditions. Social media streams pictures of gatherings, perfect family holiday photos, and pictures of smiling people doing fun things. If this is your lens, you may tend to think others will have the same perspective, “If holidays are happy times for me, they must be for everyone else.”
I ask that you put yourselves in other’s shoes and become aware that holidays can be a difficult time for those who are isolated, feeling anxious, have depression, or are grieving.
I now join others who will have an unhappy holiday. My sister asked me if there was anything I wanted to do to “celebrate the season” this year, the first without my son.
When writing this blog entry, I realized this November, is the thirty year anniversary of my mother’s death, my thirty year wedding anniversary, the one year anniversary of my children’s favorite great aunt’s death, (who also died on the same day and month as my mother), and the first Thanksgiving without my son.
My son filled every space he entered with his beautiful face and dry humor that caught you off-guard. He was so engaging with his warm personality. He loved everything that made the holiday sparkle, especially being with his friends, who all came together back home over the holidays. He was planning to move into a house with his friends. He would have asked me for left-over holiday decorations to decorate their house. His to-be roommate had a turntable. He once asked if he could borrow from our vinyl collection when they move in together. He loved holiday music, his favorite singer being Michael Bublé. I too love holiday music and have more holiday vinyl than any other genre. He would have asked to borrow some.
I come from a family where holidays and celebrations include the tradition of preparing and eating good food. Food is not just the enjoyment of all of the sense, but it is also a way for us to be together, participating in the happiness of these preparations. My son loved to eat good food, and he recognized and appreciated when he had it. It was so fun to see him enjoy the gourmet meals I meticulously planned out and prepared which usually include delicacies only offered on special occasions.
His holiday favorites were my Aunt LaDonna’s recipe for scalloped corn (a Thanksgiving tradition), shrimp cocktail recipe from Mustard’s Grill, ribeye roast with wasabi cream sauce from epicourious.com and his grandpa’s molasses crinkle cookies. I have enclosed the links to them, but keep in mind, I usually use a base recipe and then modify to my taste.
Scalloped corn was absent from the Thanksgiving table this year because we forwent the whole event. But my son may have enjoyed it. I realized he is in the same place now as my Aunt Lavone, my mom, and grandma, all excellent cooks.
Our other traditions at family holiday gatherings included playing card games, video games, and the battle of ping-pong which he was the champion. He became skilled at the game after a year in college, where they played in his college dorm. My son played football for a time in high-school. This skill was useful during the annual Thanksgiving day game, now dedicated to him by his cousins.
He would dress up for church and family gatherings in classy attire that showed off his good looks which when he smiled, you could not resist going in for a hug.
He appreciated the hours his sister, and I spent on decorating the house interior and two fresh evergreen trees, one for each living space, making sure he commented on how beautiful it looked. I decorate the largest with Waterford ornaments. The second with ornaments collected on family trips and those passed down from ancestors. He was in charge of putting the electric train his grandfather gave him, around the tree in the living room.
We all would gather to decorate the exterior of our cape cod style home in a Currier and Ives holiday theme. He and his sister lighting the trees and bushes.
Now, I cannot follow these traditions, as they heighten the emptiness we feel because he is not here.
I sit on conference calls from my home office, where people so joyously share about how they spent Thanksgiving and how they are spending time with their families for the other holidays. Many do not know about my grief. Those that do are not self-aware that my silence in the conversation is because of the pain these holidays bring to me.
Mental health experts say “If holidays were a special time in the past and you try to recreate a time long gone, you are setting yourself up for sadness. Create new memories (NAMI, 2014).”
So for right now, please be patient with us as we try to figure out how to do this and do not expect us to participate in the same traditions we did before. It is also important to recognize my son’s “empty chair” and grieve along with us. Say his name, and tell us what you miss.
Scallop Corn
My mom would make scalloped corn every #Thanksgiving. After her death, my sisters and I carried on the tradition. This dish brings all of the memories of my Grandma, and a small Midwest farming town to my mouth. It is warm, creamy, sugary and full of freshness. I adapted the recipe from my mom's, which was missing the fine details, such as measurements of the ingredients.
Cream Style Corn
In place of canned cream corn, I make my own. I adapted this recipe from The Gourmet Cookbook.
Molasses Crinkle Cookies
My son's grandpa makes these cookies every year for the holidays. They are the favorite of his grandchildren, and my husband, my son's father. The originating recipe is from Betty Crocker.
Five months ago, the life I knew left me, along with my son. He was the most beautiful, infectious, consistently warm, kind, pleasant person, and he was a genuine friend who cared. He should not have died. It was a bad day, things fell through, and he was alone. No one would have thought this was possible. Later we learned he was self-medicating with marijuana. Reflecting, we know there were signs, individually noticed. We just did not put them together.
I now write a blog to express what I am feeling and experiencing on this new journey. Maybe what I put down into words will resonate with other parents who have lost a child to suicide.
My therapist gives me assignments, ‘so to speak.’ She wants me to do something for myself each week. She gave examples like getting a massage, going to yoga, having lunch with a friend. My good thing each week is to attend a suicide survivors support group.
A brochure came in the mail shortly after my son died. I wondered how did the sender know; did this come from a friend, the funeral home, the police? I put the envelope away in a box for over two months. Then one day I pulled it out. My current therapist was no longer meeting my needs, and I was looking for someone who dealt with suicide. The support organization included referral services. It turned out, the referral was not a good fit for me, but through it, I learned of other services–ongoing services that connected me with others just like myself.
At first, I was not ready to hear other people’s stories. They were so vivid and traumatic. I soon got past that and realized I needed this group because they were like me. No one really understands unless one is in the same situation. I now go almost every week as a part of my therapy. People are in different stages of their journey. For some it has been years since they lost their loved one, others less than a year. Listening and sharing with others regardless of their stage is helpful.
I learned from them I am not crazy for feeling the way I do at the different stages. They have given me permission to say, “no” to certain obligations that really do not matter in the big picture, because I just am not ready. They ask, “How was your week?” and, “Do you have any milestones or events coming up that may be difficult?”
I am sharing my support group resource with you. If you are affected by the loss of someone to suicide, whether a friend or family member, think about finding a support group for yourself or a loved one.
Another thing I appreciate is that I, too, can be there for someone else, even, at a time when I wonder why I should get out of bed.
I know this is life changing, losing my son, and I will never be the same, but, one day, I will learn how to live in this new life, just like others have in my support group.
I am sharing my support group resource with you. If you are affected by the loss of someone to suicide, whether a friend or family member, think about finding a support group for yourself or a loved one.
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 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
