Sunday, September 3, 2017
In Their Own Time: Surprising Gifts
My 18-year-old niece was visiting from out of town last week and hadn’t even finished hugging me when she said, “Here, I brought this for you.” She held up a huge portrait of Noah that she’d painted, based on a scene from an extended family trip to Alaska in 2005. I was shocked and touched to feel my dead son’s larger-than-life presence fill the front hallway, as if she’d brought him along for the visit. There was the familiar green-eyed gaze, the wild hair in the wind, the sardonic raised brow and full, slightly tilted lips; there, too, the bony shoulder, the weird thrift-store T-shirt. I loved that my niece pictured Noah in a land of adventure with his head in the clouds. Even more, I loved that she decided to create this tribute and give it to us. Best of all, I loved that she and her family had enjoyed living with this image of Noah for a few months before my niece was ready to part with it. Because in the four and a half years since the suicide, I hadn’t heard much about Noah from my nieces, who I know adored him.
Also last week, I had a visit from a dear friend of many years who hadn’t been able to reach out much in the first years of my grief, who now said she wanted to “immerse myself in Noah.” She gave me a lovely string of origami peace cranes made of azure blue and white fabric that reminded her of the ocean Noah loved—and reminded me of the wavy blue and white border that runs through Noah’s scrapbook. How did she know? My friend listened to my grief and pored over the scrapbook I'd made for the first birthday without Noah, marveling at his vitality and the many chapters of his short life. Seen through her loving attention, his spirit momentarily flared back to life and I felt a surge of gratitude.
Then I heard from an even older friend, who hadn’t contacted me since a brief condolence email in 2013. She was moved to write at the news of the publication of my grief memoir, I’ll Write Your Name on Every Beach: A Mother’s Quest for Comfort, Courage & Clarity After Suicide Loss. I was amazed to learn that Noah’s death had affected her deeply, plunging her into a “paralysis” in which, she wrote, “I fought against the information, barricaded myself from it, and (unforgivably) couldn’t communicate with you.” She apologized and promised to read my book, whose title made her cry.
Three surprising gifts in one week to restore connections and replenish my ever-shrinking storehouse of memories! It's never too late. Each response to the loss of Noah warms me and brings my child back to me in a new way, knowing that people are still thinking about him (and our family).
I’m reminded of a friend--usually quick with a thoughtful, handmade note--who confessed it took her a year to send condolences after a close friend of hers died of cancer. My friend was so dismayed by the death, she had no words to offer her friend's husband; the more time went by, the harder it was for her to break the silence.
Something similar happened with another friend, who sent us the most tender, generous letter about a year after Noah died—the more precious since we’d long since stopped receiving cards and messages. It’s no coincidence that this friend, like my two old friends who resurfaced last week, all have young adult sons who struggle. These friends are (or were) filled with dread on a daily basis and no doubt can’t (or couldn’t) bear confronting the end they fear for their own families. Or so I assume; maybe my friends and I will be better able to talk about all this in our own time.
To my fellow survivors: It’s hard to read what lies behind others’ silence after suicide. It’s natural for us survivors to feel confused, hurt, or angry when people close to us don’t respond when and how we’d like. They may be hurting more than we realize, both from the suicide and the challenges it touches off in their own lives. Let’s try to stay open to the possibility of loving gestures whenever and however they appear.