When Remembering is One-sided

"I will remember you; will you remember me?" I've been so preoccupied with how we will remember Noah that until I chanced to hear this wistful song again the other day, I’d forgotten about Noah remembering us, his family. The silence at the end of the question sent me into a long crying fit in the car. 

Mutual remembering is the bargain we strike with those we love, even if we eventually break up or lose touch. They matter to us and we to them; we have shared some experience together; we recognize each other’s uniqueness; we are different for having known one another. This bond sustains relationships and makes us wistful at life’s passages, from graduations and weddings to the end of summer camp.

In families, it’s an unspoken covenant between generations that elders will not be forgotten; younger ones will tend our shrines. The young will carry us with them in how they see and act and look in the world, maybe even pass some stray bit of us on to the next generation. The whole taken-for-granted enterprise of family—what we bequeath to the young (for better or worse) and how they receive (or resist) it. Our little toehold on immortality.

But a suicide breaks the promise, nullifies the bargain. All of us who loved the lost person will continue to cherish them and carry them with us, but their particular way of holding us in their hearts comes to an abrupt halt. What should be a mutual exchange becomes woefully one-sided. This loss of part of ourselves happens with any death, of course, but it is compounded by suicide and especially a young person’s suicide, when there are no good byes. This did not have to be.

It strikes each time with a heavier sense of finality: The piece of my husband and me that became part of who our child was died with him. Our particular spark will never move through Noah and be reflected by him and re-imagined and passed on to others. We will never be regarded and remembered and loved in quite that inimitable Noah-like way again. We have to learn to live with the silence in this one-sided relationship of remembering.

Of Shaming and Naming

True confession: I'm ashamed of how I sometimes give in to the shame and stigma that still surround suicide in our society.

At my group adult bat mitzvah three months ago, I decided not to include the part of my speech about grief after suicide because I didn’t want to dampen the celebratory mood of other families with a reminder of our tragedy. (Also because I didn’t want to risk being any more weepy than I already expected to be that day!) As a result, I felt invisible during the ceremony compared to classmates who shared highly personal speeches. About a year earlier, when I read the bat mitzvah class a reflection on how the suicide made me feel cut off from God and holiness, one person commented, “too much information.” I felt shamed and shocked—only slightly mitigated by sympathetic hugs from others. So is it any wonder I was wary of sharing my experience in a larger setting on our big day?

At family gatherings, I still find myself self-censoring sometimes and not talking about Noah when he comes to mind for fear of bringing people down and sucking all the air out of the room. Is this a surprise when most relatives continue to avoid mentioning him?

On this blog, it took months for me to write Noah rather than N. When I made the change, it was a relief, as if restoring his personhood and our connection. But I keep my full name out of postings for fear that students or colleagues will Google my name, see the blog, and judge me; I don't want them to know this fact about me, especially if they don't know me well. The blog still lists Mourning Mom as the author. And I know I will need to check with my husband and son about using Noah’s last name in a book I'm writing based on the blog, lest it somehow harm them or sully Noah's reputation or our family name-- in the eyes of . . . who?

The most moving moment at gatherings of suicide survivors for me is the closing ceremony when we hold hands or light candles and go around the room each speaking our lost one’s name and their relation to us. Some people, like me, have more than one name to say. We stand up and speak the names with sadness, love, and pride. These names that are spoken less and less often in the world as time moves on. These lives that we will never forget. In that setting, we stand together against shame and stigma.

I was amazed last year to see thousands of young people at the Alive and Running run/walk for suicide prevention, noisily lining up for T-shirts and water like at any fundraising race. Afterwards, I thought of changing out of my T-shirt when I went to a nearby café; it was OK for the race, not in public. But the cafes were full of people in T-shirts proclaiming their affiliation with the cause or the name of the loved one whose memory they were honoring. The S-word was outed on a sunny Sunday morning while other people enjoyed their brunch or cappuccino, and there was no shame. This gives me courage.

I’ll be walking in the event again on September 27 in Los Angeles, still learning to stand without shame in public as a survivor of suicide loss.  Join me?

When Couples Grieve, Part 2: Travelling in Different Directions

Our three-week road trip last month turned into two weeks. We never made it to Glacier National Park. We traveled with differently weighted packs of grief taking up more and more space in the car. I was eager to see new vistas and explore the route together, like we had on a wonderful cross-country trip the year before Noah’s decline began. My husband, tied to home as steadying comfort, was anxious and glum being away. Little things sparked panic; normal pleasures felt flat. “Do you want to turn around?” I asked, but he said we should continue. 

Then, in an unfamiliar town, the dog disappeared into the woods at dusk and didn’t come to our calls. He finally turned up half an hour later, but not before turning my poor husband ashen at the thought of another loss. We managed to have a good hike the next day with friends—and the dog firmly on leash--but I knew something was still wrong when my husband refrained from climbing a higher peak from the overlook. The next day, he left the farmer’s market after a few minutes without even tasting the local apricots. This time, we decided to cut the trip short.

On the long drive home, my husband seemed relaxed and relieved to be heading back to the familiar. I was glad for his sake but worried whether we’d ever be able to enjoy traveling together again for more than a few days. Once home, we reveled in the tomatoes and peaches that had ripened in our absence. Then I caught a glimpse of our shrine to Noah and my heart sank. Back to this again, I thought; still here, still dead. The reminders of Noah that fill our home are what I need to leave behind for fresh perspective--and what my husband needs to hold close for security and comfort. I look forward to the newness of travel; my husband is wary of feeling “unmoored.” A support group facilitator tells me this kind of divergence is common for survivor couples.

After stewing in some glumness of my own, I plunged into a work project. I’m trying to see the shortened vacation as a blessing, forcing me to journey inward with creative and spiritual pursuits. Maybe soon, I’ll think about travel plans with friends or shorter trips with my husband. Slowly, he and I are debriefing what happened and seeking other things to look forward to together.

"Inside Out" Wrenches

Spoiler alert: If you’re planning to see the movie, you may want to read this later.

My husband and I have been looking for fun, escapist movies in the past two years far more than in the past. We routinely reject movies that deal with death or troubled people; I can’t even enjoy British mysteries if they dwell too much on dead bodies. But who knew that a Disney-Pixar movie full of the usual cleverness and whimsy would remind me of Noah’s struggles and bring on tears?

The movie animates the inner workings of the mind of 11-year-old Riley, with Joy in charge of the other emotions (Sadness, Anger, Fear, and Disgust) in a huge storehouse of colorful balls (memories). Riley is a happy kid until her family moves to another city. Suddenly, the emotions are alarmed to see Sadness tinging Riley’s sunny memories with blue and Riley sinking into an uncharacteristic funk. As memories are tainted, entire “islands” of experience—family, friendship, sports--lose their color and motion and and collapse. Joy and Sadness go on a quest to retrieve Riley’s lost “core memories” and revive the islands that make her who she is. But Joy is flummoxed by the situation, and ultimately, it is the power of Sadness that brings Riley home after she runs away, prompts her to speak her heart, and allows the family to reunite around supporting her in her sorrow. What an unexpected message for a Disney film!

I saw the movie a few days before Noah’s birthday so maybe I was primed to be triggered. I couldn’t help thinking of Noah’s despair when I saw everything in Riley’s world being touched by Sadness, over and over. “I can’t help it!” Sadness says, and indeed, Noah’s depression seemed to have a life of its own. Like Riley, he became a shadow of his former animated self. He didn’t know what to do with sadness and couldn’t easily express it. It was sadness that made him notice others who were lonely or unhappy and reach out to them at college, as people he barely knew attested at his memorial. Yet he was ashamed of his own sadness and convinced he just had to “man up” to his problems.

As Sadness took over, Riley’s mind went out of control. More and more memories started to dim, as they no doubt did for Noah. When Riley’s islands of experience started to crumble in the movie, so did I. The longer Noah suffered from depression and anxiety, the more he lost parts of himself—his wit, intellect, curiosity, confidence, interests, pleasures, and ties to family and friends. Watching each island self-destruct in the movie was like watching the dissolution of Noah’s mind, piece by piece. It’s like watching a house warmly lit from within gradually go dark, window by window. This seems to be what many families experience as they live with someone who is mentally ill. I was consumed with fear and helplessness in the last 8 months of Noah’s life, though I always believed the devastation could be halted and fixed. 

When Riley finally confesses her sadness to her parents, she says she was afraid to talk about it because she knew they wanted her to be happy. Were we as blind as Riley’s parents when the seeds of Noah’s sorrow were first taking root? Did everyone’s high expectations drive him to silence and shame as sadness became more overwhelming? Noah once said that no one really knew him. Did I argue too much with his despair rather than really listening and giving him hope? 

Two psychologists who consulted on the film wrote, “The real star of the film is Sadness, for Inside Out is a film about loss and what people gain when guided by feelings of sadness. . . . Its central insight: Embrace sadness, let it unfold, engage patiently with a preteen’s emotional struggles. Sadness will clarify what has been lost (childhood) and move the family toward what is to be gained: the foundations of new identities, for children and parents alike.”

If only we could rewrite the script for our lost ones. When their suffering and suicide have plunged us into such a well of sadness, how do we find what is to be gained and remake our lives?

Birthday

On your 24^th birthday

I move through the house, kissing

your head in every photo,

from toothless babe to troubled man.

No springy hair grazes my lips,

only cool glass. That

is all I have.

I venture into your closet,

grab a zip-locked pack of T-shirts

sealed with your scent. I open it fast

and breathe you in, still thick

with thrift-store musk, smoke and sweat.

I ration these releases

to last the rest of my life;

each time I fear the trace of you

will vanish. That

is all I have.

Later we go to the beach

where you used to surf, where we used to scan

the waves for your lean, concave form,

poised astride the board. But

you paddled out too far, dropped

over the horizon. Now

we see only other people’s sons,

their brave bodies braced against

the ocean’s pull. That

is all we have.

Driving home under mottled clouds,
we spot a rare smudge of rainbow—

your gift,

an afterthought.*



How to spend the birthday of our lost ones? Nothing feels right. It's a day like any other--feed the dog, do the wash--with hours we dread to fill. We can't spend the whole day in remembrance. We've tried to go places Noah loved or would have loved and do something that reminds us of him--but I didn't feel connected to his spirit at last year's restaurant or this year's beach, with others or alone. I still can't help comparing these outings to eating or traveling with him, and feeling envious of families that can do those simple things. It will never be a happy day for us. But maybe I am looking in the wrong places. The sky, gold-infused, stunned me on the way home. Maybe on future birthdays, we should think about gifts: the ones Noah had, the ones we gave him and he gave us, the ones we would have exchanged.

 *Note: All poetry on this blog is original unless attributed to others. All rights reserved.

Third Birthday

Trying to celebrate our beach-loving, dog-loving boy, who would have been 24 today.

Love Tokens

We're on a three-week road trip—the longest and furthest we’ve ventured together since Noah’s death. Until now, my husband has needed to stay close to home, where routines, familiar faces, garden, and pets are a comfort. Thankfully, our dog Lobo is traveling with us. 

As we walked, or rather, tumbled across a wild beach in Oregon in a ferocious wind, I was gladdened by Lobo’s leaping and frolicking. I wasn’t gazing out to sea seeking a flicker of Noah’s presence, like I often do at the ocean. I wasn’t even looking for a souvenir in the sand to bring home for his grave, a reminder of yet another trip he might have taken. I was present in the present rather than dwelling on what might have been or what once was, or summoning up a griefwave.

Dutifully, I drew  my usual big “Noah we miss you” heart in the wet sand at the far end of our walk. I had vowed to do this for Noah, a surfer and sealover, at every beach I visited that he would never see. The wind was already starting to blur the letters as I finished. I was feeling so detached that I forgot to put “xox” at the end.   

When we turned around, making headway against the wind took all our strength and attention. I could feel pinpricks of sand on my cheeks, the dragging resistance of each step. Hunched over, all I could see was the small square of blowing sand in front of me. Then suddenly, I noticed heart-shaped stones strewn everywhere, in black, white, gray, infused with evening light. Hearts, really? I looked again. Rough and jagged, but definitely hearts. This windswept beach was full of love tokens and I hadn’t noticed. 

Maybe I’d been looking in all the wrong places. Here, unbidden, were signs from Noah or the universe, imperfect and precious. The more I looked, the more I saw. 

The next day, I was drawn again and again to a viewpoint above the beach. I gazed out to sea, finally, and reconnected with a griefwave after a week or more of numbness. I thought of how numb Noah was in his last months, exiled from any love or laughter. We loved him, he loved us, and he knew this, I feel increasingly sure. If only he had loved himself--his imperfect, unfinished, precious self--and held on.