Category Archives: Children

I GIVE MYSELF GRACE

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14. KNOW THAT GRIEF DOES NOT PROCEED IN ORDERLY, PREDICTABLE “STAGES”.

Be compassionate with yourself as you experience your own unique grief journey (HEALING A PARENT’S GRIEVING HEART: 100 PRACTICAL IDEAS AFTER YOUR CHILD DIES, Alan D Wolfelt, PhD, 2005)

I have finally, after 11+ years, arrived at a place where I can give myself some grace. I no longer feel the need to punish myself for my son’s death. I write this with some trepidation, although I note that I did not write “I no longer blame myself or feel guilt”.

I have finally arrived at the place where I can truly mourn his death. The horror of finding him is less obtrusive. It no longer blunts the grief as much. 

I visited his grave the other day. I straightened the angel on the decorated Christmas tree someone left there…likely his dad or sister. They also left a panda ornament hanging on the headstone, one of his favorite animals. It was bitter sweet. I believe I said, “Hey Brat,” as I looked at his photo embedded in the stone. I didn’t stay long, but it was different from other visits. I was present. I remained in my body.

I think having both of my daughters and my grandchildren with me on Christmas Eve helped to bring along this softening. I feel more at peace. I am ending this year on a more self-compassionate note.

SELF-COMPASSION

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BE COMPASSIONATE WITH YOURSELF

CARPE DIEM

What are you beating yourself up about these days? If you have the energy (and you won’t always), address the problem head-on. If you can do something about it, do it. If you can’t, try to be self-forgiving. (Alan D. Wolfelt, PhD, HEALING A PARENT’S GRIEVING HEART: 100 PRACTICAL IDEAS AFTER YOUR CHILD DIES, 2005)

What am I beating myself up about these days? Same as always…shoulda, woulda, coulda. If someone came to me with my story, I would be horrified for them, at the trauma of finding their dead child. I would give them grace, listen with compassion and empathy.

But for myself, no. There is nothing I can do about it now. He is gone. Can I forgive myself? That is the hard part. That is the journey I am on now. Because until I do, forgive myself, I cannot get to the grief that lives inside me, externalize it into mourning, and develop a new relationship with my deceased son. I cannot believe that he forgives me. That last day plays over and over in my mind…wishing for a different outcome…

He had made multiple attempts in the past that had no relation to anything I said or did. But that day, the day he died, was after I told him he needed to find somewhere else to live. We had an agreement, no drugs or alcohol. I had found empty packages of cold medications with DXM, dextromethorphan, his drug of choice, robo-tripping. Big deal breaker. I gave him the rest of the weekend to get out. I had locked him out of the house while I went to work…at a psychiatric children’s home…I had offered to give him a ride somewhere. He said he had “no place to go”. In retrospect, that was a big red flag. I had reached out to his sisters and his father, letting them know what was going on. I left him sitting on the deck, using the wifi on his phone. 

We took the teens at the group home to fireworks that night. I left work telling a coworker that I had to go home and deal with my son. I had trouble getting the door open and when I finally did…I screamed and screamed…had difficulty getting through to 911. I will spare you the gory details. One comment only…a police officer kept saying, “Calm down, calm down”. I looked at him as I tried and, in my mind, said, “You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.”

He had found a way in. I could not understand how, but later found my garage unlocked. He must have done that before we walked out of the house.

I have two other children with mental illnesses, who have made attempts in the past. One was living in my house with her husband and son, while I lived and worked in Germany for over a year. She had lost her job shortly after she moved in, so the plan for her to save money and buy a house by the time I came back did not happen. I was not prepared for the condition of my house when I returned…a filthy, hoarder situation. It took me two days to clean my bathroom…a whole bottle of bleach just to get the scale out of the toilet bowl. 

All of our communication while I was away was pleasant. The first indication I had that anything was wrong was a quick pan through one room in our last video call before I came back. I asked if the house was clean, but realized later that she never answered me.

I reached out to my county’s Intensive Family Support Services (https://naminj.org/resources/intensive-family-support-services-ifss/) for help. I had a wonderful consultant, who managed the program, and I attended support group meetings.  About a month after my return, my daughter had a psychotic episode and ended up in the hospital. While she was there, I went through her stuff and got rid of garbage, unused medications, including ketamine she was getting through the mail, and THC vapes. I created a contract, which she refused to sign, but, I informed her that by coming back to my home, she had agreed to it. 

As you can imagine, the history with my son loomed large over the situation. Fortunately, I had the support of my IFSS consultant, who even came to the house to meet with us. After a while, my daughter got herself a hotel room. Her son was staying with his father. I was left with her husband, for whom English is a second language, and all their stuff. After about a month of this, I gave her 30 days notice to vacate. It was a difficult decision, but one I needed to make for my own sanity and well-being. I rarely hear from her, but I reach out via email from time to time. I have learned that I can make plans through her with my grandson, which is a blessing.

What a Long, Strange Trip It’s Been

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I’m staring at a blank page.

I’ve told my writing group I thought I’d make a commitment to post on my blog after we meet every two weeks. It’s been a while since I’ve seen them. We try.

Although, as you can see, my blog is called Be Kinder Than Necessary, the posts are hit and miss, and disjointed. When I get around to writing something, I post it.

And here I sit.

I was trying to write a memoir of a failed relationship. Gathering snippets from my journals and building a narrative around them. I haven’t gotten to that in a while either. A subsidiary of Project Write Now, an organization that runs groups for writers of all ages, is doing a book incubator over the course of a year. I have thought about applying to get that memoir done. They really want it to be a new project, so I think I don’t qualify. They ask for a writing commitment of 14 hours a week. It seems both doable and astronomical. I guess it wouldn’t hurt to do the application. The cost is an issue for me as well. They are offering scholarships, though.

I haven’t even written in a journal for quite some time. Writing is a great release for me. I recommend it to my clients all the time. I even have a new journal. I recently went on a trip out west. We did a whirlwind tour of some of the most barren and beautiful landscapes in four states! The trip was in honor of what would have been my deceased son’s 30th birthday. He’s gone 7 years now. He died by suicide. I still have so much guilt around that event.I meant to bring the journal with me, and didn’t. I was totally unplugged for the trip, having forgotten my phone at home. Although my daughter and granddaughter both had phones and laptops with them; and, I tried to log in to my FaceBook and Google accounts, I couldn’t. The devices weren’t “recognized” and, of course, texts to confirm it was indeed me, were sent to my phone, which was thousands of miles away.

Being unplugged wasn’t the worst thing that could happen. It meant I was completely off from work, out of touch with clients. I had a book with me. So I read in the quiet times, which was nice. On the other hand, being with family, day in and day out, for 8 days was a challenge. Our temperaments are different, sometimes opposed. The shared, emotional, heart-to-hearts I was hoping for didn’t happen. We hit a rough spot about 2/3 of the way through the trip, on my son’s birthday,  after which I didn’t sleep, and I asked my daughter to drop me off at the airport and I would figure out a way to change my flight. I wanted to go home. We muddled through, and the trip continued. I thought leaving would ultimately make things worse rather than better.

I was feeling invisible, the fifth wheel. Sleeping on a pull-out sofabed didn’t help, especially after a 3-hour kayaking tour. I was hurting. Closing it up and sleeping on the sofa was much more comfortable. I’m not in the best of shape – overweight and sedentary – with fibromyalgia pain. While the accommodations were beautiful for the 3 nights we spent in Las Vegas, a one-bedroom apartment, I thought we were going to have separate rooms; and, I would be sleeping in a bed. When I tried to discuss this with my daughter, it didn’t go well. It was too late to do anything about it at that point anyway. Although, I suppose they could have given me the bed.

I didn’t ask.

SEVEN YEARS AGO

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Seven years ago today I buried my youngest child. He was 22 and would never live to see 23. At the cemetery, I stood at the foot of his casket while Deacon Steve performed the burial rite. I held the rose I would place on top of the casket when I said my final goodbye to his body. I think it unnerved the deacon, my standing there, not taking a seat under the tent meant for mourners. I don’t know that to be true. All I knew was that I had to stand with him, until the end.

It’s unnatural, burying one’s child. He’s frozen in time, forever 22. This year he would turn 30. What would he be doing now? Would he still be in his room, upstairs, creating computer programs/games? Apps? Beats? Those delightful cartoons? Would he be on his own? Perhaps with a family? Might I have more grandchildren to cherish? Would his jet-black hair be tinged with grey? Would he be clean-shaven or have a mustache and/or beard?

I sit in his room now, most nights, to watch TV. Last night, after watching a film on Netflix, I turned on my back and put my legs up the wall. I don’t remember now what triggered it, but I bawled my eyes out. It hits me like that now and again. Seven years ago yesterday, we held his wake. People poured through and I embraced each and cried in their arms, except for one. I still can’t believe she had the nerve to show up, but that’s a story for another time. It has nothing to do with Joseph. Maybe there were others I didn’t fall into, but she’s the one I remember most clearly. Anger replaced grief, momentarily. Even my therapist showed up and one of the members of my psychodrama group. Honestly, I have no idea who all came, or who didn’t. I have a copy of the sign-in book somewhere…but some of the pages are missing.

To all who showed, to all who sent flowers or food or cards, or thought of us at that time, great love and gratitude. If I didn’t send you a thank you, please forgive me. I tried, but I couldn’t get through them all.

The Sound of Children Playing: a writing prompt at Project Write Now, Red Bank, NJ

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At the beach. I close my eyes. Face to the sun. I hear the waves crashing. Seagulls calling.

I note the sound of children playing. “Daddy, help me build a castle.” No response. I open my eyes. A little one, in solar protective swimwear, holds her pail in front of her. Sad face. Daddy sits in his beach chair, ear buds in, looking at his not-so-smart phone. My heart breaks for her.

I want, oh-so-much, to join her…to scoop her up, run down to the water and fill that pail. Pick up some shells and stones along the way. Come back and build a sloppy-but-magnificent castle in the sand.

I yearn to yank those god-awful earbuds from her ignorant father’s ears, take his phone and throw it into the sea.

Jesus, man! Don’t you see the magic in front of you?! This blessed child will be little for only so long! A blink of the eye! LOOK at her! Really SEE her! LISTEN to her! Hear the little voice that will all-too-soon be silenced in our so-called “halls of learning”. Teach her just how magical, how precious she is! Let her know: “Yes, Baby, I see you! I hear you! You matter to me, more than all the distractions of the world.”

Put away that little black box. Better yet, throw it into the sea. “Today I set before you Life and Death. Choose LIFE!”

For God’s sake, man, see the magnificence of the sun, sand and sea before you! Teach her about what REALLY matters!

Look at the sand! Do you see how tiny it is…one little grain of said? And all of these little tiny grains of sand make a BIG, BIG beach!

Fill that pail with water. Show her a drop. All those little tiny drops make a BIG, BIG ocean!

Look at the sky! What colors do you see? Are there clouds? Are there birds? Do you see that sparrow over there? What is a land bird doing on the beach? Crazy, right?

Oh, Baby…If I wouldn’t scare the hell out of you, I would hold you in my arms and tell you how wonderful you are. But I know it wouldn’t matter coming from me.

Wake up, man!

So, I close my eyes again, and I pray a little prayer…and I hope his battery dies.