Letter to the Newly Bereaved

The friend of a dear friend lost her adult son to suicide last week. This letter goes out to her and to the thousands of others who, every week, are newly bereaved with suicide loss.

 

Dear Friend:

I am so sorry for your loss. I don’t know much about you, your loved one, or your situation. But I know you are likely in shock, traumatized, horrified, hurt beyond measure. I don’t know how you have grieved in the past or how you will grieve now. But as a fellow survivor of suicide loss, I hope you will find something here that resonates with you and reminds you that you are not alone in this terrible place.

How can this be happening? Whatever your loved one’s history and state of mind, however much you knew or did not know about it--you are in shock. You may feel numb or fall apart. You may feel physically assaulted, as if a limb or your heart have been ripped from your body, as if you are being crushed by a huge stone. You may not be able to focus or reason, to eat or sleep or breathe properly.

I just want to crawl in a hole. Be gentle with yourself and with the mourners close to you. Wrap yourself in a cocoon where you feel safe in these early days or weeks; hibernate if you wish. With your own deep need for comfort, it may be tough to comfort family members; leave that to others. If you have a spouse or partner , it can be lonely and scary as each of you grope your way through grief. Give each other space, be there when you can, and try to stay in touch, with faith that you will be more present for one another in time. 

I don’t even know what I need right now. Let people know what happened so they can take care of you. Ask for help; see lists from other survivors, like my "10 Ways to Help a Family After a Suicide" or one for bereaved parents . Accept the support that is offered, on your terms; it’s OK to say “no” or “not now.” You are released from all social obligations for the moment and hopefully, from work or other obligations. Nothing is normal, and it won’t be for a long time.

I have no energy. The body takes a hit . Don’t be surprised if your health goes haywire. This is where shock takes root. Go slow. Walk around the block. Take naps, or just lie down quietly. Meditate for five minutes, maybe with a guided meditation for stress or healing. Remember to breathe. Find a doctor who understands that you are suffering from shock and grief. 

I can’t stop crying. Don’t fear tears , though they can be overwhelming. Let them flow through you, again and again, washing you clean like a rain, till the next storm. It can help to know there is a friend you can call, a safe place you can visualize, a piece of music you can play, or a faith community you can visit to steady yourself. Find an expressive release—write, draw, dance, pray out your grief. Shout and pound out your anger, too; it’s natural to feel abandoned and betrayed. Let it out.

Why? How? What if . . .?  Questions rush in. You’re searching for clues, even if you know that you’ll never know anything definitive. We need to search as long as we feel the need—maybe forever. Our task as mourners is to build a "coherent narrative" of the suicide that is "compassionate and bearable," according to psychologist John Jordan. 

I should have, could have, would have. . . . Self-blame may haunt you. Especially if you lost a child, you may feel that you failed in your most fundamental duty as a parent . None of us are mind readers; all of us are flawed; mental illness, when present, can be a beast. Breathe in compassion for yourself—and for your lost one. We can’t forgive ourselves until we forgive the person we lost to suicide, and vice versa. That can be the longest, hardest road. If you have a spiritual practice, try to reclaim it bit by bit, even if you're angry at God or the universe.

What now? Therapy can help, preferably with a professional trained in grief and suicide loss. Consider mind-body treatments like EMDR to process your intense feelings and guide you through post-traumatic shock into post-traumatic growth. Do yoga or tai chi to keep the flow of energy moving. As my fellow survivor blogger Dianna Bonny says, the "work of healing" comes from "being present to your pain" and "honoring yourself through a regular practice of self-care and compassion."

You are not alone. There is a community of suicide loss survivors that will reach out to you and share their journey toward healing. When you're ready, check out support groups for survivors in your area here . See the resources for survivors and information on suicide at American Assn. of Suicidology , Speaking of Suicide , and Alliance of Hope for Suicide Survivors . At the latter site, you can sign up for a free, well-moderated community forum where you can pour out your heart and find a response, 24/7, including a space for the newly bereaved. Whenever survivors meet and share stories through web sites, support groups, and other gatherings, it is indeed an alliance of hope that we create together. 

I invite you to browse this blog, especially the posts from the first couple years under Archives, or by using key words in the search bar in the top left corner, for my chronicle of suicide loss. I welcome your comments or personal e-mails (see About this Blog). 

Right now, you are as hurt and broken as a person can be. Know that you will not always feel this way. Keep moving through your grief. Reach out for love and support; there's a lot of it out there. 

Wishing you comfort and courage,

Susan (aka Mourning Mom)

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.