Mother's Day Musings for Mental Health Awareness Month

 A parent is only as happy as their unhappiest child. When you have a child who struggles with a mental health condition, you realize how alarmingly true this truism is. I was so desperate and distraught when my son Noah was in crisis, I couldn’t think clearly about how to communicate with him or help him. Nor could I fully take in information that might have helped guide our family through those terrible months before his suicide.

I’m reminded of that nightmare time today, Mother’s Day, during Mental Health Awareness Month, when the media is full of reports on mental illness and the failures of our mental health system. Tears spring when I read about other mothers with kids in despair. Like the mother on suicide watch with her 12-year-old son, who was waiting for an opening in an inpatient treatment center. “It was the scariest two weeks of my life,” the mother said. There was a poignant photo of her with her arm around her son, sitting under a tree in the dark, heads bowed. Or the mother of a precocious, deeply depressed adolescent who lay with her arms around her son’s broken body in a hospital bed after the boy jumped from their apartment building roof. “I just held him and caressed him,” she said, knowing he wouldn’t survive. I did the same nine years ago when I held Noah’s head in my lap on the floor of the garage, waiting for the paramedics after a neighbor did CPR. I stroked my son’s warm skin and called his name over and over, knowing he was gone.

At least, I think, the 12-year-old boy was still young enough that he was afraid and agreed to a safety plan. At least, I think, his mother could keep him on a suicide watch. Why didn’t we do the same? What was it about Noah that made us worried sick but not so vigilant as to supervise him 24/7? Noah suffered for two years but my husband and I saw little of it in person; he was away at college or on his own in another city on a year off from college. We saw mainly the beginning and the end of Noah’s struggle with clinical depression, anxiety and PTSD. At ages 20 and 21, he wouldn’t talk with us about it or let us talk with his therapists; we couldn’t even make an appointment for him with a psychiatrist. The sense of helplessness and ignorance—his and ours—was devastating.

The personal is the political – another truism. Each of these wrenching stories is part of a larger problem. There’s the shortage of treatment options, the rise in child suicide, the surge in depression and suicidal thinking during the pandemic, the dearth of mental health awareness and education. Just as the pandemic has exposed so many fault lines in our society, so, too, has it laid bare the shameful gap between mental health care needs and available services.

The crisis in our mental health system may not affect most people directly – until it does. It’s never too late to inform ourselves and everyone around us about mental health and suicide prevention, never too late to have the “mental wellness” talk with our children or advocate for the accessible, quality mental health care that all our families deserve. Out of love for our children, living or dead, struggling or thriving, let’s commit ourselves to action for mental wellness this Mother’s Day. (Including our own self-care!)

To my fellow survivors: This can be a tough day for those of us who have lost a child, especially if the loss is recent. It may help to check out my blogpost,  this reflection by a mourning mom  or the many resources of the Alliance of Hope for Suicide Loss Survivors. 

Other Mothers: Living with Mental Illness

Years ago when I was a new professor, a friend who was active in the National Alliance on Mental Illness (NAMI) asked if she could give a presentation on mental illness in my classes. To my eternal shame, I declined. I didn’t think it was relevant to my students or course content. Really, I was recoiling, buying into the stigma. My friend and her family were desperately coping with their son’s descent into schizophrenia, and I didn’t want to bring that into my classroom. Mental illness was someone else’s problem.

 

Yesterday, I finally apologized to my friend. I told her that now, I give presentations in my classes on mental health and suicide awareness with the same urgency she once had. That I include suicide prevention information in my blog, my new book, and public speaking about suicide loss. These concerns are everyone’s problem. But it’s hard to get anyone’s attention, outside of a captive audience, until mental health conditions or suicide get personal. 

“My son was mentally ill and he took his life.” It’s taken another friend months to be able to make this statement, frozen with tears. It took more than three years after my son Noah’s suicide to understand that my family, too, was living with mental illness. Like another struggling young man and his family in Kay Jamison’s Night Falls Fast, Noah’s illness moved faster than his or my acceptance of it. My book traces the fraught dawning of this realization and my still uneasy membership in this community.

Before Noah’s suicide, I would have read from a great distance another mother’s lament about living with her son’s opioid addiction. “We’d known him since he was in the womb,” Judy Chicurel writes of her adult son, “but that wasn’t the same as knowing him now.” Yearning to connect, she conjures a quiet scene of night fishing together. This, she imagines, would soothe her son’s mind and allow the two of them to speak freely of “everything and nothing”—except his condition, his many relapses and rehabs, “anything that would cause him to crawl back into himself and become invisible.”  
 

Though Noah was never a drug addict, I’ve been that mother: desperate, bewildered, helpless, and exhausted as my child’s mind spun out of control and he retreated ever further from love and help. How I contrived, too, to set the scene where he could relax and return to the Noah we knew, full of conversation, charm, and curiosity. Instead, there was this hunched, haunted stranger at the table. Whatever I did to try to try to reach him, he rebuffed me with silence or “I don’t know.” Like my husband and me, Noah was desperate, bewildered, helpless, and exhausted. 

Was there some gateway drug in his youthful experimentation that messed with Noah’s brain? After his death, we learned that a bad marijuana edible triggered a massive anxiety attack; were there more such disasters we’ll never know? “The gateway to all of it is life,” Chicurel insists; “what happens, what you experience, what you choose to take in and decide to leave behind.” What Noah took in from life and what he couldn’t leave behind, like a good friend’s suicide, may have been too much for his sensitive soul to bear. But no one chooses to be seized by addiction or other mental illness. The only choice, I think, comes in finally summoning the will to get treatment and commit to it, and some people are simply too far gone for that.

“I hope this is the last time,” Chicurel says of her son’s latest visit to rehab. “I hope he can finally feel the love that surrounds him.” How Bryan and I yearned for the same opening for Noah, who spent the last months of his life seemingly cut off from feeling. How I regret not pouring out my love to him every day of the weeks he lived with us. “The last time” sparks hope for the families of addicts and those prone to manic and psychotic episodes. “The last time” for suicide loss survivors reminds us of all the moments that we didn’t know were the last chance to cherish our lost ones. 

And for all that we share, there is the crucial difference between a mother like Chicurel and a mother like me: she can always hope to take her son night fishing and see him, one day, free of pain.

With Hearts in Hand: Grief Tokens and the AAS Healing Conference

While groping in my purse for a pen, my hand closes on two little hard objects. One is a tiny, pointed crystal, the other a strip of porcelain with “always” printed on one side and “believe” on the other. I’ll always love you, I think. I’ll always believe you loved me and loved life as long as you could.

I never took notice of such things before losing Noah to suicide. But in the pit of early grief, I needed little tokens to anchor me, sprigs of lavender in my pocket to breathe in calm. Now I collect talismans from survivor gatherings--ceramic hearts, gratitude stones, miniature origami cranes-- to carry with me or array beside photos at home. In my wallet, a fortune cookie promise: You will find happiness in mind and heart. On my wrist, the nine charms of a memorial bracelet , each an emblem of Noah and our connection. Thus fortified, I go out into the world.

I got the crystal a few weeks ago at the closing ceremony of the annual American Assn. of Suicidology (AAS) Healing After Suicide Loss Conference , which was the highlight of a long day of talks and workshops. The session was led by Iris Bolton , a wise, warm, and gracious founder of the suicide loss survivors support movement and author of the classic, My son . . . my son. . .: A guide to healing after death, loss, or suicide (Bolton Press, 1983) as well as the new Voices of healing and hope: Conversations on grief after suicide (Bolton Press, 2017). Iris slowed our breathing and brought our hearts into the room with the mellow tone of Native American flutes and drums. We passed tissue boxes around and introduced ourselves to our neighbors. I can’t remember what was said, only that some 40 years after the death of her son, Mitch, Iris could speak to the pain of all in the room, from the stunned newly bereaved to the stalwart 20-year veteran. She invited each person to come up and choose a crystal from the table, then form a big circle around the room. We spoke, first, the names of those we had lost and finally, one word for our feelings in that moment. Thus held gently in community, we could return to the world.

It wasn’t like that at my first healing conference in 2014, about a year after Noah’s suicide. I went desperately seeking answers, but the onslaught of information on suicide prevention and postvention (care for survivors) couldn’t penetrate the daze of my grief. I was especially shaken at the time by the stories of people who had attempted suicide and lived. By the end of that day, the closing ceremony felt rushed and formal, leaving me exposed and bereft in the hotel lobby.

This time, three years later, I could hug and reassure other mothers, enjoy meeting people, recognize some names on the conference program, and marvel at the many ways survivors had “turned grief into action” with research, advocacy, and outreach. I could show people notices for my book that will be out in a few months, I’ll Write Your Name on Every Beach: A Mother’s Quest for Comfort, Courage, and Clarity After Suicide Loss, and feel a rush of gratitude when they pointed to the title or the cover photo (of Noah’s name written in the sand) and said, “I’ve done that, too!” In the conference registration area, I could find the color-coded heart stickers for name tags and put a red heart (for losing a child) on one side of my name and a purple heart (for losing a parent) on the other and feel relieved to publicly wear my heart(s) on my sleeve. And I could see others with similar stickers and strike up a conversation with, “I see we share a heart.”

To my fellow survivors: Indeed, we do share a heart, whether a sticker on a badge, a token in the hand, or a memory of a loved one. I hope you have a chance to unburden your heart in the company of others who understand your grief. See the Resources section of this blog to find support groups in your area or an online community like Alliance of Hope for Suicide Survivors  , and consider attending the next AAS Healing Conference, Saturday, April 28, 2018, in Washington, D.C.

Milestones in the Parallel Universe

After each milestone, I expect an arrival of sorts, a sign. I should be in a different place after the third anniversary of Noah’s death, right? I’m further along the mourner’s path but still on that path, as if in some parallel universe. I step onto the treadmill of ordinary life for a while till I tumble off again and onto a parallel track, slower, more circuitous, with blind curves. 

The tears come less often now, more a fleeting sprinkle than a drenching downpour. So, too, sadly, do thoughts and memories of Noah. I’m less preoccupied with his life and death, more preoccupied with my own. I wear my loss and my identity as a mourning mom less and less visibly. “Over time, the sadness moves from our skin into our bones,” writes Claire McCarthy, who lost a child. “It becomes less visible, but no less who we are. It changes into a wisdom, one we’d give up in a heartbeat to have our child back.” 

 

I was teary again this weekend. It started at the communal memorial services that mark the end of Passover, when I felt my husband trembling beside me. First I held him, then he held me. This morning, I crumpled thinking of what Noah might have written in a card for his dad’s upcoming birthday. So I wasn’t surprised to learn that yesterday, May 1, 2016, was Bereaved Mother’s Day. I’m gratified that mothers who’ve lost children—mostly through miscarriage or infant death--have organized for recognition of their parallel universe of motherhood. Their efforts bring sweetness to this bittersweet time of year for mourning moms.

Spring is still full of landmines for our family. The anniversary was prolonged this year since there was a month between Noah’s secular anniversary and the yahrzeit, or personal memorial day, on the Jewish lunar calendar. In the weeks before and after the anniversary, my body signaled the date with a dull, persistent pain in the abdomen as if to say it’s always here. This has been happening like clockwork for three years with no apparent medical cause. Like it did at the beginning of this journey, the body still says no and stops ordinary time. 

 

We hosted a Passover Seder again this year, again without our usual energy. Now it's almost my husband’s 60^th birthday and he’s said no to any parties or grand gestures; “I’ve kind of forgotten how to celebrate,” he admits. 

I seem to have caught my husband’s wariness of planning trips away from home; the prospect feels too complicated and exhausting. But maybe for good reason: We’re planning a celebration of Noah’s life at our home on what would have been his 25^th birthday in June. One of Noah’s gifts was bringing people together. So we’re inviting his local and far-flung friends, along with family, and hope it will be a chance for people who loved Noah to meet, reunite, share memories and Noah’s favorite foods. It’s hard to see past this event to know how we’ll feel or what this milestone will mean.

Meanwhile, I’m very pleased about two milestones that coincided with the third anniversary. First, we finally started a small nonprofit foundation, the Noah Langholz Remembrance Fund, thanks to my husband’s diligence. The fund will support suicide awareness/prevention efforts, as well as organizations and activities that interested Noah and shaped his life, like international student exchange and wilderness experiences. Second, I finally completed a draft of my book about losing Noah. Now it will wend its way through comments, revisions, and publisher queries. All of us who loved Noah carry his legacy with us, but it’s largely invisible. Both the fund and the book will make Noah’s legacy visible in ways that we hope will be healing and enriching for others.

Culminations and Arrivals

‘Tis the season of culminations, celebrations, and changes. It marks a passage for me as I begin semi-retirement and open the way for other pursuits. Walking the mourner’s path has led me to this place of uncertainty and possibility, though it doesn’t yet feel real. 

More imminent are culminations linked to the Jewish holiday of Shavuot, with symbolism that may have meaning for others in a state of flux. The holiday commemorates the Jews receiving the Torah at Mt. Sinai after years wandering in the desert. It is connected to Passover by the agricultural practice of 49 days of Counting the Omer in preparation for the wheat  harvest, which has been reinterpreted as a spiritual practice of moving from slavery to freedom. Rabbis Zimmerman and Enger suggest an intention for each stage of the seven-week journey: Waking Up; Setting Out; Entering the Wilderness; Being in the Unknown; Finding Our Way; Becoming the Vision; and Arriving. These evocative themes map onto the journey of suicide loss as we try to rebuild our lives and recover our balance.

I’m more familiar with the early stages of the journey; I hesitate to say I've arrived. I haven't reached any closure, peace, or enlightenment, nor is that clearly the goal. I'm still overcome with intense, though shorter, bouts of grief and guilt. But I may be reaping the first surprising fruit of the harvest on this journey: I have recovered my breath, and it is deeper and fuller than I remember. Many mornings, I come awake bathed in long, sustaining breath. Instead of being constricted by mourning, the breath flows free and expands. With this fuller breath comes a fuller sense of gratitude that I worried I'd never recover. I’m grateful that I knew and loved my lost child. I’m grateful for the love and support that got me through the worst of the pain so far. I’m grateful to be alive and healthy.

Next week brings another chance for arrival as I take part in an adult bar/bat mitzvah celebration. It’s the culmination of two years of study and the choice to deepen my Jewish practice and membership in community. When I hold and chant from the Torah, I will be symbolically—like my ancestors in the desert—“taking [my] place at the mountain with all of the Jewish people, . . . coming home, being whole.” With the momentousness of the occasion, with all those who are and are not present, there will be tears. The difference is that these tears will be bittersweet and shared. On Mothers Day I could focus on the affirmation I would never receive from my lost child—or affirm my love for him and my living son. At my bat mitzvah, I can choose to focus on who is not there to give me their blessing and on the mountains that Noah can no longer climb—or I can be amazed by the blessing of all those who have helped carry me on this journey and who are rooting for me to have something to celebrate.

The two years of preparation for this day coincide with the two years that we have been living with the loss of our son. For much of the first year, I couldn’t concentrate on learning and couldn’t help seeing everything through the lens of loss. I stuck with the class because I had wanted to do it for a long time and dimly thought it might give me a stake in the future, beyond loss. That it has. I thank God and lots of people for allowing me to reach this season.

To those who are suffering: may you let in a little light to be present to the joy and power of culminations. And may you honor wherever you are in your journey.

Another Mothers Day: Hallmark and Anti-Hallmark Moments

(With baby Noah, Isle of Mull, Scotland, 1992)

Another beautiful spring Mothers Day. I hadn’t thought much about it in advance, unlike the dread of the past two years. I knew there would be another breakfast out with my in-laws, then quiet time by Noah’s stone in the Children’s Memorial and Healing Garden, plus a call from my living son. As if these plans might blunt the longing.

 

It may be a Hallmark holiday, but it speaks to a deep need for affirmation, appreciation, and connection. Many women feel conflicted, disappointed, or alienated on this day. For us mourning moms, there will be no chance of a message from a lost child or a simple meal together. Not this year, or ever again. We are banished from that particular Hallmark moment.

Instead, there are texts, cards, even an impromptu visit from women friends who are watching over me on this bittersweet day. One card said: “There are no words for the ones we have nurtured, lost, and hold in our memory.” I am touched by the mothering in these gestures. 

How to feel affirmed as a mother when your child takes his life? When you can’t shake the sense that you’ve failed in the most fundamental way as a life-giver and nurturer, whatever the complex circumstances surrounding the suicide? Early today, I couldn’t help sinking into the catalog of my flaws that sits at the ready for these anti-Hallmark moments. I’ve been trying in recent years to cultivate compassion and learn to be gentle with myself and others—a gift my own mother couldn't offer. Had I learned that lesson sooner and modeled it for Noah, might he have been gentler with himself for feeling so adrift and depressed? 

At the restaurant, I see a beautiful boy of about five strapped into a wheelchair, barely able to eat or talk. I am mesmerized by him and by his mother’s attentiveness and smiling ease. Does she enjoy this day and get the appreciation she deserves?

As I walk into the park with the memorial garden, I think of how our boys used to flop down on the grass here, sweaty and satisfied with themselves after juggling their way along the mile-long stretch of the small town’s 4^th of July parade. I am grateful to have had the chance to be a mother with two beautiful, healthy boys who could take care of themselves, learn and grow and live full lives. 

(With both my sons, Thanksgiving, Chapel Hill, 2010)

If we wait for others to affirm us, we may always be disappointed, I think as I sit by Noah's stone. Rather than wait, rather than enumerate the many ways I fell short as a mother, I can affirm my love for my children. I am grateful that I got to raise Noah and love him and be loved by him and shape him and be shaped by him over 21 years. I am grateful for our walks and talks and stories and meals and travels and movies and holidays and memories. I am supremely grateful to have known Noah and been his mom. And I am grateful and so fortunate to continue to be a mom with a living, loving son (below).

To my fellow mourning moms: I hope it hasn't been too hard a day. I hope that today or on some future Mothers Day, you can allow yourself to count blessings rather than failings. Instead of waiting for the affirmation that will never come, to affirm our love of life and within it, our bond with a lost, much-loved child. And to celebrate the bond we have with our other children or loved ones.