Third Passover: Dayenu

Last year, the symbols of this holiday triggered tears, and I could barely free myself from endless questions about Noah’s suicide in order to be fully present for the four traditional questions of the Passover seder. This year, we are again in denial about the holiday, not wanting to face all the work of preparing for it--but really just not wanting to face another big family holiday without Noah, especially one that came only a week after his death in 2013. 

So when a friend brings up the word dayenu for contemplation at our Jewish meditation group, it takes me a while to face it. Dayenu is a favorite song of thanksgiving during the seder that recounts the series of miraculous events in the Exodus story and at the end of each says Dayenu – it would have been enough, it would have sufficed. As in: Had God brought us out of Egypt and not divided the sea for us, Dayenu. 

I knew that I couldn’t say Dayenu for the years we had with Noah because 21 years are not nearly enough. So my first impulse was to try to say Dayenu to Noah for all the things that didn’t happen, but could have had he lived: 

Had you come home from college and taken a long break to rest and regroup, Dayenu.

Had you taken a long break and decided not to go back to school, Dayenu.

Had you not gone back to school and drifted for a long time without a focus, Dayenu.

Had you drifted for a long time and kept us at a distance, Dayenu.

Had you kept us at a distance and insisted on tackling your demons on your own, Dayenu.

Had you tackled your demons on your own and lived an ordinary life, Dayenu.

The verses stall, not fitting. I wish Noah had known that it would have been enough had he simply lived; we loved him and would have helped him however we could to tame the demons. But would I truly have had compassion for his struggles? Would I have accepted his choices, his limitations, our continued estrangement? Don’t it always seem to go/that you don’t know what you got till it’s gone. 

Before I am engulfed by that sea, other verses come to mind to clear a path:

Had we had the loving support of our family but not that of our friends, Dayenu.

Had we had the loving support of our friends but not that of our community, Dayenu.

Had we had the caring support of our community but not the help of support groups, Dayenu.

Had we had the understanding help of support groups but not that of therapy, Dayenu.

Had we had the insight of therapy but not the healing of nature, music, yoga, writing-- Dayenu.

Had we had the healing of many things but not the health to restore our lives, Dayenu.

This litany, more in the spirit of Dayenu, could go on for many verses. We are deeply grateful for all that helps sustain us through grief.

What do we want to leave behind on our personal journey of liberation, and what do we want to take with us? I want to leave behind my oppressive memories of Passover from the past two years, when it felt literally contaminated by Noah’s suicide. I want to find a way back to my love of the holiday so I can create new memories in years to come.

*Note: The illustration is the Dayenu page from The Golden Haggadah, made c. 1320 in Barcelona. Thousands of artful haggadahs are still being made today to accompany the ritual of the seder meal.

Year 3, Day 1: Memorial Bracelet

Today, day 1 of year 3 since Noah's death, I am excited to be wearing a bracelet in his memory, made for me by my dear friend Ellen.* I love looking down and seeing this circle of Noah's life around my wrist, a constant reminder that I can see, touch, and kiss. Precious stones, precious life.

Here is what each piece means to me:

- dog charm for Noah's bond with Wags (our family dog) and other people's pets
- turquoise for his love of the ocean, surfing, sailing, kayaking--and his dream of circling the globe
- croissant charm for his time in France, his passion for cooking and good food
- peridot for his green eyes, his eye for film and photography, the mountains we hiked as a family, the Marne River where he lived on a houseboat in France
- 3 balls for his years of juggling with his dad, brother, and others at festivals and family events
- golden pearl for his beautiful mind and tender soul
- heart charm for the love he gave and received from all of us who hold him in our hearts
- amethyst (my birthstone) for his place in my soul and mine in his

* For more info on memorial bracelets, please see the Resources page of this blog

Wrestling with Time

From the day of Noah's suicide almost 2 years ago, time was frozen in shock. It, and we, stayed suspended in disbelief for months. One ruined day or night dissolved into the next. Calendars with future dates, pointless except for memorials; prior dates, precious because Noah was still alive. We hated time, so desperately did we want to wrench it back. The ordinary time we took for granted we would always have with our son, snatched away. How could we possibly move forward?

Time hangs like a hammer, says essence in her moving grief song, “Shape of You .” 

Will it ever, ever be/Time for time to pass?

Grief is supposed to get easier with time and mostly, it has. I feel less buffeted and bereft, with shorter crying spells. My husband and I can usually function in the world, find things to enjoy, no longer see everything through the lens of loss. I can even choose, sometimes, when and how I will mourn rather than being overcome—though I cringe to say such a weird thing. Last night, for instance, I thought of looking through a box of memorabilia, but I felt tired and watched TV instead.

Before the first anniversary of Noah’s death last year, we were re-living the trauma of his decline, his last days at home, finding him dead. If my husband had taken a final hike with Noah on March 5, he was thinking of that on March 5. If my last conversation with him was a Monday, I was ruing that day as the clock ticked down. This second year, the dates are less haunting or triggering.

Still, the other day, when I saw a sign with instructions for CPR, I flashed on the neighbor who rushed to help when I found Noah in the garage. Things could have been even worse without him there, I tell my husband. We go over each moment in that fateful day’s events, weeping at the kitchen table. I wish you didn’t have to be the one to find him, my husband says, twice. It’s nobody’s fault, I say. Except Noah’s. (And not his fault either, if he was ill.)

I want to compile all our photos and videos of Noah in one place, to know they are safe and accessible. What’s the rush? says my husband. He isn’t ready to archive his son. He wants to keep stumbling on stray photos and emails. There's a lifetime ahead of us to mourn and remember Noah. If we do it all now, what will be left?

But if we wait, what will be left? Already, so much has happened without him. The young people in his world have moved on with their lives while he stays forever 21. His untimely death hijacked time, held back the waters for a long, ghastly moment like some parting of the sea. But eventually, the waters close again around his absence, filling it with the onward rush of life. We want to remember, to hold on, to feel the presence of our lost ones, but the traces of them dwindle, crowded out by the present. At least, that’s how it’s been for me as the years go by after a loss. With time, there’s simply less room for the dead in our lives, less occasion to think of them and cry for them. That may be natural. I just can’t bear to think it will happen with Noah.

More experienced survivors would say that with time, we find a new place for the person in our hearts that merges with who we have become since losing them. But right now it feels like another layer of loss: The same time that heals also carries us further away from our loved one--and our love.

What I Want

March Madness for some; March Sadness for us as the 2-year mark approaches.

I’m back to making lists, like I did in the early months. Now: What I Want.

What I really want: while gazing out the window one day to see him walk up the drive, whole and healthy, smile spreading as he sees me, bearing gifts from his 2 years away, telling me it was all a big mix-up; he’s sorry, he’s back, he loves me, stop worrying.

I can’t have that, so I focus on other things.

I want to remember Noah always, healthy, happy, himself.

I want to dredge up more family memories, hear memories I never knew from his friends, see photos I never saw--recover memories of his life till they outweigh those of his death and decline.

I want Noah’s young friends and relatives to talk about him openly, remember him always, and cherish their precious lives. I want to stay in touch with all of them.

I want to have all the time I need to grieve and write.

 I want to keep sensing, when I see certain pictures of him, that his beautiful green eyes are still looking right at me, as if sitting at the kitchen table.

I want to feel his presence when I expect it, like at the ocean, and when I least expect it, anywhere, anytime.

I want to see Noah in my dreams and recall what I saw when I wake up. I want to feel his love and hear the message he has for me.

I want to look at the star jasmine that blooms so sweetly in the yard in March and remember Noah’s spirit--not the deadening of it and the funeral and all the people who came to the house in spring of 2013.

I want to design a beautiful memorial bracelet for him and wear it every day. I want to look at it and remember his loves and our love for him and have people ask me about it so I can talk about him.

I want to understand his state of mind and what happened. I want to understand why young people kill themselves.

I want to meet more mourning moms and talk, walk, cry, and heal with them.

I want my words to move people and help people.

I want to find a way to memorialize Noah that helps other young people who are struggling.

I want to cherish always within reach my love, tenderness, and compassion for him.

I want to sustain the intimacy and more open communication we have with some treasured friends and family since this loss--and be there for them when they need us.

I want to spend more time with my living son and hold him close, never taking him for granted. I want him to find a way to deal with life’s sadness so it won’t overtake him. I want him be happy.

I want to be inspired by Noah to live more fully and freely in the moment--to seek out friends, fun, adventure.

In prayer or meditation, when I focus on breathing in ahavah (love) and breathing out simcha (joy), I want to be in touch with the love we had with Noah and the joy he brought us without feeling bitter. And I want to be open to the possibility of love, joy, and even celebration as we restore our lives.

Feb. 14, 2015 - @ almost 2 years

Death with Dignity v. Death by Suicide

I am easily triggered lately with the 2^nd anniversary of Noah’s suicide approaching. My tears burst from a full-face grimace. I see a young quadriplegic on TV fighting to regain his strength and I think, why didn’t Noah fight for his life? Instead of moaning like an injured animal, I emit howls and growls of protest. I am back to fixating on “this did not have to be.”

I hear a segment on NPR about a “good death” and the death with dignity movement. I remember my mother's death at home from cancer at age 47 and am relieved to hear physician/writer Atul Gawande concede that there’s really no good death since it nearly always entails indignities, decline, discomfort, and loss, if not pain. I have been a lifelong believer in death with dignity, home hospice, and palliative care for the terminally ill. But talk of a good death right now gets me howling. As a mother who lost her young adult son to suicide, I’m too close to the worst kind of death.

Death with dignity can be a rational choice made by a terminally ill person after getting second opinions and exhausting medical remedies. Death by suicide, some say, is also a choice made by desperate people who can see no alternative. But if it is a decision made by a disturbed and distorted mind—especially a not yet fully developed young person’s brain--is it truly a choice? 

Death with dignity can ease the pain and passing of a terminally ill person, ideally in the company of their family and friends and with supportive end-of-life care. Death by suicide ends the pain of the suffering person and passes it on to their family and friends, denying us a chance to help or say good bye. It forces survivors to look directly into the face of death and despair and to recognize not only our lack of control over the actions of others but our limited understanding of their minds.  

Death by suicide does violence to the body of one person and to the soul of many, leaving a trail of destruction and doubt. It puts the health, happiness, well-being and sometimes lives of survivors at risk. It is a violation of trust with our loved ones, yes, and it is a tragedy. But it is also a violation of the social and natural order—a small-scale crime against humanity. It scares me to be so blunt, but that’s what it amounts to when we consider the collateral damage. No wonder suicide has been so widely forbidden and punished across time and cultures.

I will always try to understand my son’s suicide and suicide generally. I will try to be compassionate with those who take their lives and with those who suffer with (or without) mental illness. I will continue to join survivors and others who call for breaking the silence and advancing research and services around mental illness and suicide. 

But I will not make excuses for my son or others who kill themselves. I am too hurt and angry. I miss Noah too much. I hate suicide too much. I will continue to rail and howl against the violence he did to himself, to everyone who loved him, and to our world.

To my fellow survivors and others who find this harsh, I'm sorry. This is how it feels today; I trust I will not always feel this way. I know our loved ones were not criminals who intended to hurt us or our world; they were lost in terrible pain. But I am howling against their actions right now. This did not have to be.

Unsteady Ground/Under Construction

I recently made a tough decision about beginning semi-retirement in order to have more time for myself. Since Noah's suicide, I have felt too pressed to commune with his spirit and honor my needs for grief work, writing, spiritual practice, and other self-care. I hated having to put those needs aside day after day to attend to other obligations. I am fortunate to have the option of making this decision, and friends who knew that wondered why I was hesitating. Why was I torturing myself over this? All I knew was that it was triggering deep-seated self-doubt and reminding me of old patterns that predate this loss.

The wise facilitator of my support group pointed out that any decision while grieving is hard. But it's especially hard after suicide loss because we have come to doubt the decisions we made about our loved one while they were alive. We have been weighted by guilt over the "what if's" and "if only's"of our actions leading up to the suicide--and those questions can still haunt us, even if they no longer obsess us. As grieving parents, we failed in our responsibility to protect our child. The disastrous decisions we made or failed to make imprint on our mind to freeze new action and obscure the way to decisions.

It doesn't make rational sense but it makes intuitive sense. It reminds me of one reason that my husband doesn't want to leave home for long trips. He wasn't home when Noah killed himself or when I found Noah dead; my husband came home that day to the worst nightmare and a crime scene. So when he leaves the house, he sometimes worries that something horrific could happen while he is away. Just as when I come home to a quiet, empty house, I sometimes dread that something horrific has happened to my husband or our pets.

As suicide survivors, we can no longer trust ourselves or our judgement or the ground we stand on like in the past. We have become the unreliable narrators of our own lives. We are scrambling to get our footing in a house whose foundation has been shattered and that we are reconstructing--like building the plane while flying it.  

"The loss of someone important to suicide assaults the assumptive world of the mourner," writes psychologist John R. Jordan.* "The suicide brings into question all of the things that the bereaved individual took for granted about the identity of the deceased, the nature of their relationship with that individual, and the mourner's own identity. . . . [S]uicide inherently challenges the belief that all human beings fear death and want to live, as well as many other guiding assumptions by which the survivors may have operated." Sound familiar?

The mourner's ultimate task, Jordan suggests, is to construct a "coherent narrative" about the suicide that is compassionate and "bearable for the survivor." This can take a long time. My fellow mourning mom, Marjorie Antus, finished her narrative nearly 20 years after losing her teenage daughter to suicide (see her new book, My Daughter, Her Suicide, and God: A Memoir of Hope on Amazon)--and she says that the journey continues.

From unsteady ground, I've decided to take time out for my narrative. I hope I will come to trust my decision.

*From Jordan, J. (2011). Principles of grief counseling with adult survivors. In J. Jordan & J. McIntosh (Eds.), Grief after suicide: Understanding the consequences and caring for the survivors. NY: Routledge.