Gratitude for Those Who Receive Our Broken Hearts

The season of gratitude is often dreaded by those who’ve lost loved ones to suicide. It’s not just feeling out of step with the holiday mood. It’s that our capacity for gratitude and joy has been grievously wounded. After my son Noah’s suicide, I felt disconnected from prayers and daily gratitude practice; I simply didn’t have the heart for them. I went through the motions but it took at least a year or two to sincerely feel grateful again.

Tomorrow, November 23, many of us will take part in International Survivors of Suicide Loss Day, sponsored by the American Foundation for Suicide Prevention. Over the years, I’ve been grateful to know there’s a place to gather with others who understand at this stressful time. We create space to step into each others’ stories and shared sorrow. It’s a time to feel grateful for community and for the the people we’ve lost. (Visit this site to find a gathering near you on Saturday, November 23.)

I’m also grateful for chance encounters with other grieving parents. Who knew I would find one of those moments at a ceramics exhibit? Massachusetts-based potter Steven Branfman lost his son Jared to brain cancer at age 23. As a form of Kaddish (the Jewish prayer for the dead) in memory of Jared, Branfman began making a chawan (Japanese tea bowl) every day for a year. It wasn’t until nine years later that he felt ready to glaze and fire the 365 bowls with his signature raku technique.

Though I didn’t get a chance to see the documentary film, “A Father’s Kaddish,” about Branfman’s project, I saw an exhibit of 80 of his small, round cups, each with its own texture and color palette, each marking another day’s meditation on loss. Immediately, I wanted to hold and own a chawan, to celebrate the creativity that bubbles up out of the morass of grief. I was drawn to a bowl with pale green and emerald glints that remind me of Noah’s eyes and the sea he loved, with rough edges evoking how unfinished Noah was at 21. I like how the bowl fits perfectly in the cup of my hands and how I can feel the hands of the potter in its ridges and indentations. To my amazement, when I bought the piece, the artist wanted to meet my husband and me to exchange stories, and we had a sweet phone call together about our sons. I’m so grateful to have this artwork that began as a container for another parent’s grief that now can hold my own.

Just as I will always be grateful for the friends and family who’ve held me in my grief, especially in those most difficult early years.  “I was blessed to be one of those people who received your broken hearts” after Noah’s suicide, a grief therapist wrote to my husband and me. I’m touched that she finds this to be a blessing. I know what she means from when I’ve had the honor of supporting others bereaved by suicide.

To my fellow survivors: May you be surrounded by love and care this holiday season. May you take the opportunity to thank those who’ve received your broken heart, to remember who or what has helped hold your grief. May you feel a glimmer of gratitude return to your soul—if not this season, then maybe the next.

A Mother's War-time Eulogy and Grief After Suicide

 Moments of collective grief can be tough for suicide loss survivors. Often, we turn away because we’re already living in a world of pain and can’t bear any more. Other times, we feel keenly attuned to public grief because it mirrors our own .  

So it was for me listening to Rachel Goldberg-Polin’s eloquent eulogy for her son, Hersh, one of the six Israeli hostages murdered by Hamas in Gaza two weeks ago. My heart ached for this courageous mother, somehow able to speak her unspeakable pain in public so soon. Though the circumstances clearly differ, some of her words echo the feelings of parents bereaved by suicide. I want to highlight parts of the eulogy here in the belief that every grief informs another and unites us in common humanity.

For 23 years I was privileged to have this most stunning treasure, to be Hersh’s Mama. I’ll take it and say thank you. How many of us begin with gratitude when speaking about our loss? It took me many months after my son’s death to be able to say the word again, much less to own it.

Now I no longer have to worry about you. I know you are no longer in danger. Goldberg-Polin endured 11 months of anguished waiting, not knowing her son’s fate, while she advocated tirelessly for his release. Many suicide loss survivors undergo years of worry about struggling loved ones, not knowing when they might get a 3AM phone call. Some feel relief when death frees loved ones from their torment—and themselves from constant vigil.

You squeezed into your young life a lot of experiences. And that gives me relief and comfort. Hersh was a beautiful, dark-haired young man with an open-hearted smile. He looked like he could have been a cousin of my son, Noah, who had also lived multiple lives by 21. Many bereaved parents describe the great vitality of their children. If a life is to be cut short, let it be a rich life? Small comfort, but something.

Hersh’s father spoke at the funeral of having “failed” Hersh and the other hostages. His mother spoke of the sickening feeling that we all could not save them. I think we all did every single thing we could. How we survivors can relate to self-blame, one of the hardest things to cope with after suicide. Experts advise that if we put ourselves on trial for a loved one’s suicide, we should consider all the evidence, including the ways we tried to help.

As we transform our hope [that you would be rescued] into grief and this new unknown brand of pain, . . . help shower us with healing and resilience … help us to rise again. How many survivors kept hoping that our loved one would find relief from some treatment, would feel joy again and return to their former self? We keep hoping until suddenly, it’s too late. Every morning, the unbelievable shock of their absence. Every hour, how we must wrench our poor hearts from worrying and hoping about the living to mourning the dead.

I know you’re right here, Hersh’s mother said, pointing to her heart; I just have to learn to feel you in a different way. How, I continue to wonder, do we learn to love a memory?

To the Goldberg-Polin family: Thank you so much for sharing your grief. May Hersh’s memory be a blessing.

To the parents of Palestinian children killed in Gaza: Though your grief is no less intense, we hear less about it in the media. I hope that one day, we can hear your stories and eulogies more fully in English to better understand your experience. I’m reminded of how, years before the current conflict, bereaved Israeli and Palestinian parents came together in organizations like Parents’Circle-Families Forum to mourn their loved ones and build relationships for peace.

To my fellow suicide loss survivors: Some days, we need to practice self-care and turn away from the sorrows around us. Other days, I hope we can recognize and greet others walking the mourner’s path, wherever they are in the world.

Announcing "In the Mourning Grove," My New Poetry Collection

To my fellow survivors & friends:

I’m writing to let you know about my new book, “In the Mourning Grove,” a collection of poems in the key of grief, now available for pre-order from Finishing Line Press.  

It was my dream to have a collection published in honor of Noah around the 10^th anniversary of his death, and I’m very glad to finally announce the book’s arrival. Half the book is elegies about Noah and the experience of suicide loss, while the other half explores a range of losses, from parents’ divorce and early deaths to the loss of innocence and the passing of a beloved pet. Fellow poets have called the poems “vivid and visceral,” “unflinching and gorgeous,” noting that they “teach us about heartbreak and resilience” in ways that are ultimately life-affirming. “When some people bury a loved one after a suicide, they bury memories of their loved one’s life,” writes Dr. Kita Curry, former CEO of  Didi Hirsch Mental Health Services, Los Angeles. “This brave and loving book highlights how important it is to continue to celebrate and find solace in their lives.”

I would so appreciate it if you’d pre-order a copy today for yourself and others at: In the Mourning Grove by Susan Auerbach – Finishing Line Press. Not only will you get the discounted pre-order price but if you order before September 13, 2024, you will help boost my royalty percentage. (All royalties will be donated to suicide prevention and suicide loss organizations through the Noah Langholz Remembrance Fund, as with my previous book, "I'll Write Your Name on Every Beach.") Your copies will be mailed by the publisher when the book is released on November 8, in time for the holiday season.

Many thanks for considering my request. I hope you'll find the poems meaningful.

Yours,

Susan

              

Of Birthdays, Rainbows & Trauma

My son Noah would have been 33 today. How I wish I were making him apple pie à la mode, his go-to birthday treat in the last years of his life. Or at least talking to him on the phone, wherever in the world he might have been. (My guess is he would have been in France helping the host family from his exchange student days move out of their beloved houseboat and into their first-ever home on land.) My husband and I went to a French bistro called Entre Nous last night to reminisce about Noah and the food and people he loved. How I wish that Noah were still among us to enjoy that place, to have a rendezvous with me to reconcile “between us.” How I wish that I did not need to start a new computer file called “Blog Posts – Year 11 and Beyond.”

I was recently interviewed for the podcast “Untethered: Healing the Pain from a Sudden Death”  by traumatic grief specialist Dr. Jennifer Levin. It was an occasion to look back over the years and explore how my grief has evolved with time. The biggest change is simply that grief takes up less space in my heart and mind than it did in the first 3 or even 5 or 6 years after Noah’s suicide. In the early years, the intensity of traumatic loss filled my every waking moment, and my role as a suicide loss survivor was at the core of my identity, relationships, and activities. Gradually, with a lot of work processing the loss, the intensity subsided, leaving room for other feelings and experiences. Joy, faith, and gratitude crept back in. Grief and regret over losing Noah will always be a part of me, ebbing and flowing, but they no longer dominate my days. I hope this gives hope to the newly bereaved after suicide who question if it ever gets better. (Dr. Levin’s podcast  is on a break at the moment but I recommend browsing past episodes to learn from many types of suicide loss survivors, as well as grief experts, and checking out the resources on her website .)

There are signs of this shift in grief orientation as I walk through the house and notice my different reactions to pictures of Noah and my living son, Ben. The pictures of Noah are years old and static; they will never be replaced by newer ones. The pictures of Ben are ever-changing on a digital picture frame full of his adventures and our family gatherings. I blow kisses to images of both my beautiful boys. But when I see Ben, my heart quickens in anticipation of talking with him, visiting him, traveling with him, seeing him with his cousins and grandparents—all the ways we continue to deepen our relationship and enrich each others’ lives. With photos of Noah, there is no promise of connection, no future together—only memory, weighted with regret and unanswered questions.

Lately, I’ve been feeling Noah’s presence in a more vital way in, of all places, the bathroom. Some afternoons there’s a trick of the light there that bounces off a bevel in the mirror, bending into little rainbow shapes on the tub and floor. Rainbows are rare in our southern California skies and I long ago decided that any sighting of them is a sign from Noah—even if he, unlike his biblical namesake, never got a chance to witness the miracle of a rainbow after the deluge that engulfed him. When I see the little wisps of rainbow spectrum in the bathroom, they cheer me. It’s as if Noah’s spirit found a way to reach out after all in the most humble of places at unpredictable moments. In a poem to him, I wrote: “You are teaching me not to seek/ but to notice what is given.”

Speaking of poems, I want to leave you with excerpts from a couple that may resonate. First from “trauma is not sacred” by Kai Cheng Thom :

all bodies know how to heal themselves given enough

time …

beneath the skin of every history of trauma
                there is a love poem

waiting deep below

And from Padraig Ó Tuama’s “The Lifeline”:

            When death sounds, I forget most

            of what I learnt before …

            I carve that hole in my own

            chest again, pull out all my organs once

            again, wonder if they’ll ever work again

            stuff them back in again. Begin. Again.

To my fellow survivors: Wishing you many lifelines as you move through grief.

11 Years Gone: What We Place on Our Hearts

In honor of Noah's 11th death anniversary today, I send out excerpts from a heartening teaching by Rabbi Yael Levy to all who are bereaved or suffering:

What do we place upon our hearts

When our hearts are broken,

Weary,

Anguished,

In despair?

 

We place upon our hearts

Names of those we love.

We place upon our hearts

Names of those who have loved us,

Names of those whose challenges, joys,

Pain and achievements we carry.

 

I place upon my heart

The intention to be present,

Even in the face of loss and grief.

I place upon my heart the intention

To seek the light

Shining in the brokenness,

Always.

 

I place upon my heart tender memories of Noah and and the intention to carry him with me, always.

March Sadness: Tugs of the Season

The three weeks leading up to Noah’s deathaversary have always been harder for me than March 19th itself. Those were the days 11 years ago of bringing Noah home to heal, only to helplessly watch his decline as he refused treatment. Before mental illness robbed our family of Noah and his love, it robbed us of the chance to help him.

I used to start counting down the days to March 19 after my February birthday. Last March, I was busy preparing for the 10^th death anniversary with love notes and travel plans; the anticipation of celebrating Noah’s friendships kept me hopeful, even buoyant. This year post-birthday, I got COVID and couldn’t think about loss or much of anything.

Now the familiar downward tug of March sadness is back. While trying to recover my strength, the double blow of COVID and grief has literally stopped me in my tracks. I’ll be 15 minutes into an easy neighborhood walk and need to sit down. I’ll plan two things to do in a day instead of one and need a nap by 1pm. I toss and turn all night. As in the aftermath of the suicide, the body takes a hit.

I woke up this morning with my mind on Noah and his illness. Bryan and I like to dwell on what our son might be doing if he were alive but we tend to skip over how he would have had to battle his illness or learn to manage it. So much damage had already been done to the boy we knew and loved by the time he took his life. That’s a tough truth to remember. Might he have emerged from the ordeal with new self-awareness, deeper love and compassion for others, openness to mindfulness or spirituality? Might our family have found a new balance?

An old friend who came to be with me right after Noah died hasn’t visited much since then. She was here last month, overtaken by tears at one point. “I keep thinking about Noah,” she said. “It’s so sad and there’s nothing to be done.”

So what to do? I take a hot bath in the middle of the day. I make a lot of soup. I cuddle with the dog and marvel at the chickens. I put on the last gift Noah ever gave me, a silky black shirt covered with odd little chickens. I reread a chatty letter in Noah’s careful handwriting from 2008, signed “miss you” and “love.” I remember a dream with messages flashing in hot pink and purple lettering on his memorial stone. I couldn’t read the words. But what mattered was that they were from Noah in colors I associate with his spirit. What mattered was that I felt his love.

It's been a cold, rainy winter. The star jasmine vines that usually announce the month have been slow to spill over the fence with their entrancing fragrance. I’ve been checking and the blossoms are doubling now from morning to evening. The first rock rose and California poppy are out in the garden and we are awash in backyard eggs. March sadness may be a perennial but harbingers of spring abound. What matters is to notice.

To my fellow survivors: What’s it like for you as your loved one’s deathaversary approaches? What do you notice shifting over the years? Wishing you comfort, courage and clarity as you move through your days.

Past & Present Connections: Where Will Your Love Go?

I’ve had this list of resolutions on my office wall since 2017, four years after my son Noah died by suicide. Though I rarely notice the list anymore, I’ve internalized much of it. I tell Noah he should have been here for a family party or my reunion with his old friends or the latest Kore-eda Japanese film. I nurture my friendships and love to spend time in mountains, near and far. I wrote a book of grief poems that will be published next year. Still, I wish I did more things more often in his name: visit his grave, travel, relax.

When I made the list, I was desperate to stay connected with the living Noah, much less Noah’s memory. I could already feel him taking up less space in my heart and mind. From then till now at the 10-year mark, I’ve agonized over what has felt like a gradual, inevitable loosening of the bond as the pleasures and demands of the present rush in. Noah’s struggle and horrific death no longer crowd out everything else as they once did.

Our son, Ben, just gifted us a digital photo frame loaded with photos of his (Ben’s) life, our beloved little Frenchie, trips together. I wanted to add pictures of Noah but my husband said the pictures on the frame should be from the present. This startled me: does Noah belong only to the past? All the pictures we have of him are at least ten years old while everyone else is moving on in their lives. How can that be?

Ben has given us wonderful photos of himself and his art, which we gladly display. Was the digital frame another way to assert himself in our home amid plentiful images of and by Noah on the walls? Does our living room feel like a shrine to his brother that leaves him out? I plan to talk with Ben about this in the new year and may reconsider. At the moment, I still want to walk by and sit near signs of Noah’s presence in our lives.

It is often said that grief is love with no place to go. I felt that so acutely in the early years, as if I had a phantom heart; I kept reaching for it but it was utterly shattered. As if all the love and care and worry for Noah that had flowed for 21 years suddenly hit a mighty cliff face and exploded into an abyss. No outlet. No response. No home for the love I thought would fill a lifetime.

As I document on this blog, it took time and effort and a lot of support to let grief open my heart again. Sometimes I found places to bring my love; sometimes they found me. Sometimes I was (and still am) more numb than I want to be. The journey continues …

Wishing everyone heartening connections in the new year.

To my fellow survivors: Wishing you more hope and healing in 2024. If you feel grief is love with no place to go, how might you revitalize that precious flow of love you had with your lost one? To what or whom might you now direct it? What’s on your list of ways to cherish their memory?