I’m entering 2023 with trepidation around the 10th anniversary of my son Noah’s death. I feel called to do something different than our usual trip to a beach town, where we look through photos, watch the dogs frolic, and write Noah’s name in the sand.
I’ve
decided to focus on Noah’s birthday month in June rather than his death day
month in March. I hope to have a series of visits with his far-flung friends
and cousins, most of whom we see only rarely, and raise a toast to Noah’s
memory. Is it too much to ask them what makes them think of Noah or what memory
is clearest after 10 years? I’m hungry to add their Noah memories
to my own, which seem to fade and shrink with each passing year. Maybe it's more
considerate to ask them what they imagine Noah might be doing right now if he
were still with us, or what would be exciting or dismaying him in the world.
Maybe that’s a happier thought than trying to summon up a memory.
I’ve
been taking an eye-opening class about receiving and extending love. The
teacher asked us to bring to mind a moment anytime in our lives when we felt
truly loved and seen for who we were—not as part of a perfect relationship,
just a sense of a moment. I was surprised at how many moments came to mind and
how many of those were related to Noah’s death. And how easy it was to call up
those memories when the teacher asked us to imagine that person or persons
standing behind us, holding us up.
So
instead of focusing on Noah on his death day this year, I’ve decided to turn my
attention to the circle of love that sprang up around us after his suicide and
cushioned some of the pain of those early years. To all those who showed up at
our house for the shiva memorial after the funeral and formed a wall of sound
during the prayers when I felt very small and could barely speak or sing. To those
at synagogue who literally had our backs as they sat behind us at services when
we were crying. To the friends and family who checked in and surrounded us with
care as they listened to our anguish, brought us food and books and healing
oils and walks and plants and homemade bread. To those dearest ones who kept
calling and listening and encouraging as I bushwhacked through the wilderness
of grief. I was thinking of the guardian spirits who lifted me up and urged
me on with the epitaph in my memoir, “They will bear you up on their palms
lest you stumble on a stone” (Psalm 91).
So I plan to spend Noah’s 10th death anniversary reading the cards and notes we saved from the time of Noah's death and reaching out with personal notes to everyone I appreciate from those early years. I want to let them know how much I took their love to heart back then, how it
sustained and amazed me and moves me still. What a blessing at the worst time
in my life to have been the recipient of such an outpouring of care and
compassion. Such an experience is truly transformative. Moving through terrible
grief within the safety of that circle of care allowed me to bit by bit, open up my wounded heart.
To
my fellow survivors: What comes to mind when you think of moments when you felt
truly loved? If some of those moments were in response to your grief, have you
thanked the people who supported you lately? Next week – or anytime!—is a good
time to send those love notes. . .
