For the past month, though our family has no loved ones in the Middle East, I’ve been immersed in collective grief over events in Israel and Gaza. As when the nation mourned 500,000 COVID deaths or yet another mass shooting, I found myself easily caught up in the global anguish; I was already bereaved and it didn’t take much to remind me of losing my son Noah to suicide. I could cry along with masses of people I didn’t know because I know how it feels to mourn or to lose a child. I felt especially vulnerable as the war intensified and anti-Semitism flared around the world; as in the aftermath of suicide, so much of what was trusted and taken for granted is in disarray. I hope any of you feeling overwhelmed by the news can pace yourself and set limits on your media consumption, just as survivors learn to “dose” our grief.
I also found myself suddenly in tears reading about the suicide deterrent steel nets that are finally being installed at the Golden Gate Bridge. More than 2,000 suicides have taken place there since 1937. Why did it take
so long to build a physical barrier? I cried out of frustration for all the
deaths that might have been prevented. I cried because there are still so many unprotected
“suicide bridges” out there, including one in my home of Pasadena, CA. And
because there are no physical barriers possible for some means of suicide. I
wondered whether Noah had ever considered jumping when he was living in San
Francisco and riding his bike over the Golden Gate, taking in the magnificent views.
So many ways you could have died, I wrote shortly after his death. On
surfboard, snowboard, motorcycle—/just one blindsiding wave, curve, car. …
Maybe I’m more triggered than usual because I’ve been reading Sushi
Tuesdays: A Memoir of Love, Loss, and Family Resilience by Charlotte Maya. Her 41-year-old husband jumped to his death from an office
building in my town. It’s been several years since I read a grief memoir and it’s
bringing back lots I’d forgotten about the aftermath of suicide, from dealing
with the coroner to having to take care of others in their grief. Maya’s story
is especially vivid in depicting her and her young children’s anger at being
abandoned and betrayed—an emotion that is often given short shrift in the
suicide loss community. She also has much to say about the heartening support
the family received from a seemingly endless supply of helpful “Janes” in her
community.
“Grief is like a heavy sandbag at your feet,” a survivor friend
tells Maya. “And if you do not pick it up, it will trip you for the rest of
your life. But when you do pick it up, you will notice there’s a little tiny
hole in the bag. That’s where the grains of sand start to fall out.” Maya struggles
with the sandbag as she goes through a highly self-aware, intentional grief process. “If
there is to be any healing,” she writes, “learning to navigate the storm will
be key. What a shame it would be not to be changed by the experience.”
Lifting up and checking out that sandbag is key to post-traumatic growth, as many of us have found. The image reminds me of Edward Hirsch’s lines in Gabriel,
a book-length poem about the sudden death of his son:
I did not know the work of mourning
Is like carrying a bag of cement
Up a mountain at night …
Look closely and you will see
Almost everyone carrying bags
Of cement on their shoulders
That’s why it takes courage
To get out of bed in the morning
And climb into the day.
