Category Archives: memory

REMEMBERING

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24. TELL THE STORY, OVER AND OVER AGAIN IF YOU FEEL THE NEED

  • The “story” relates the circumstances surrounding the death of the child, reviewing the relationship you had with the child, describing the aspects of the personality of the child who died, and sharing memories, good and bad. (HEALING A PARENT’S GRIEVING HEART: 100 PRACTICAL IDEAS AFTER YOUR CHILD DIES; Alan D. Wolfelt, PhD; 2005)

Funny, just today I was remembering a night Joseph, his sister, and I had gone out to dinner at a place called Steak and Ale. It may have been Christmas Eve. We had been served our dinners and the waiter was serving our drinks. Maybe he was new at his job, because he took a glass from the inside of the tray and as he lay it down on the table, the tray tipped forward, a soda glass fell, and the liquid poured right into Joseph’s dish. His sister and I held our breath. Joseph very calmly said, “I was eating that.” His steak had been perfectly prepared. The waiter apologized, removed the dish and brought him another. I don’t remember if it was cooked as well as the first. My daughter and I have talked about this incident. She recalls holding her breath in anticipation of his reaction.

Joseph could be intense. At that age, though, I don’t think he had the strong reactions he did when he was younger. I used to describe him, as a young child, as wearing his nerves on the outside of his body. When he was happy, he would jump up and down flapping his arms. When he was upset, he would wail uncontrollably.

I remember taking him for blood work. We had to hold him down in the chair, while he screamed, “Why are you trying to rip my arm off?!”

Once, while in line at a cash register in J C Penney, maybe I grabbed his arm a little too tightly, or he thought so anyway. He yelled, “Why do you hurt me every day?!”

Another time, we were at the pediatrician’s office. After checking out at the front desk, I turned around and Joseph was gone! I panicked, looking around frantically. I found him outside, kneeling on all fours in the snow by our minivan, leaning down, eating the snow. He was fine. He must have walked out the door as someone else came in or left. Nobody noticed???!!!

My older daughter once told me that a teacher, who Joseph later had for second grade, loved to watch him waddle down the hallway like a penguin, and hoped he would one day be in her class. (My daughter, eleven years his senior, was friends with this teacher’s daughters.) She really got him, this teacher. He would quickly finish his work; and, she would get him to help others who were having difficulty with the classroom’s computers. One night we attended a science fair at the school. The teacher was manning a table with tangrams. She saw us coming and said, “Joseph can do this!” with a smile. When I ran into one of her daughters at a town event in a park recently, I told her to tell her mom how much I appreciated how she was with him. (I have probably done this multiple times over the years. I still think of her fondly.)

SAYING HIS NAME

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23. USE THE NAME OF YOUR CHILD

  • When you’re talking about the death or about your life in general, don’t avoid using the name of the child who has died. Sometimes others are afraid to use the name in your presence out of fear that it is painful to you. If you use the name, others will know that they can use it too. 

CARPE DIEM: Flip through a baby name book at a local bookstore or library and look up the name of your child. Reflect on the name’s meaning as it relates to the unique person you loved. (HEALING A PARENT’S GRIEVING HEART: 100 PRACTICAL IDEAS AFTER YOUR CHILD DIES; Alan D. Wolfelt PhD; 2005)

I would like to begin here by saying that I still love Joseph, in response to the “unique person you loved” prompt above. My love for him is ever present. It did not die with him.

I don’t hesitate to use his name; and, I am ever grateful to hear others say it. It is a pleasure to know that they, too, remember him.

I don’t need to go to a bookstore to look up the meaning of his name. I can, “Ask the Google,” as we say in my family:

The name Joseph has its origins in Hebrew and holds significant meaning. Derived from the Hebrew name Yosef, it translates to God will Increase. This name has deep roots in biblical history, prominent in the narrative of the Old Testament. Joseph, son of Jacob and Rachel, was a central figure whose life and virtues are vividly recounted in the Book of Genesis. (accessed at https://www.ancestry.com/first-name-meaning/Joeseph)

The only surprise is that the name translates from the Hebrew to “God will increase”. God certainly did increase. Joseph was the fourth of our children. When I was pregnant with him, I woke from a dream one day and said, “How about Joseph Francis?” I had previously been considering James Andrew, the name of my great grandfather from Scotland. His father didn’t like the idea, having an uncle “Jimmy” of whom he wasn’t particularly fond.

I was thinking of Joseph, for the dreamer of the Old Testament, mentioned above as the son of Jacob and Rachel, and also for the earthly father of Jesus. I always called him Joseph, not Joe or Joey. When he was little, his father called him Josie, which was picked up by some in the family for a while. Josie reminded me of the Clint Eastwood character, The Outlaw Josie Wales, although his dad pronounced it with a softer “s” sound. My grandkids called him Uncle Joe. His friends called him Joe. He called himself Joe on his FaceBook page. One of his sisters called him Broseph. She still does when she posts about him.

FAMILY IS COMPLICATED

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22. COMMUNICATE OPENLY WITH YOUR FAMILY

  • Your partner and your surviving children are hurting, too–each in their own unique ways. Nobody can (or should try to) take away the hurt, but talking about all your thoughts and feelings since the death helps everybody feel supported and understood. 
  • Is yours an “open family system,” in which members openly talk about the death, the person who died and their grief? Or is yours a “closed family system,” in which members pretty much keep their thoughts and feelings to themselves and don’t feel safe mourning among their own family? (HEALING A PARENT’S GRIEVING HEART: 100 PRACTICAL IDEAS AFTER YOUR CHILD DIES; Alan D. Wolfelt, PhD; 2005)

Hmmm…I thought we were an “open family system.” We mentioned Joseph’s name all the time. But we talked about him, mostly, in the present tense. Like he was still alive and with us. We still talk about our experiences of feeling him near, making himself known to us. 

The day after I found him, I went to my youngest daughter’s apartment, after she called me. She already knew about Joseph’s death having gotten the news, I assume, from one of her siblings. She hadn’t returned my call to find out why I’d left her a message the night before. She took my hands, when I entered her apartment, looked me in the eyes and said, “It’s not your fault; and, you’re going to need a lot of therapy.” I felt such relief, hearing her say those words. I was sure everyone in the family would blame me. My ex-husband, my children’s father, even came to the apartment and was supportive of me in his own grief.

Years later, when I told her what her sister had said. “the last time you told someone they were homeless, they killed themselves,” she kind of nodded and shrugged. So maybe she does blame me. We don’t talk about it. We don’t talk about how we feel in our grief. She and I, and her daughter, took a trip out West for Joseph’s 30th birthday. The night of his birthday, we were all tired, having spent the day sightseeing…that was the day we kayaked the Colorado River. I guess we’d all said we were tired and I suggested maybe we not go out. She snapped at me and said my granddaughter still needed to eat. At dinner, there was mostly silence. Several times I tried to bring up Joseph and talk about him. We would be interrupted by the wait staff, or something, and the conversation never got off the ground. She may have been doing things on her phone. I just remember feeling alone, although we were all together. I got the impression she was angry with me and maybe would have preferred I wasn’t there. I was in a lot of pain that night, having been in the kayak alone, she and my granddaughter sharing one. Paddling against the current was difficult. I slept on a sofa bed, while they shared the bedroom. It was terribly uncomfortable. I ended up closing it and sleeping on the sofa instead. I struggled to sleep, and thought about changing my flight to go home the next day. But…morning came. I think we talked a bit, and I stuck it out. It was, all in all, a beautiful trip. We saw the Grand Canyon, Joshua Tree and Zion National Parks. But it was terribly bittersweet.

She volunteers with the American Foundation for Suicide Prevention (AFSP) and shares openly about her experience in posts, as their Social Media Ambassador, so I do see how see manages her grief. But, again, we don’t talk about it. And, I am only now getting to experience my own grief and mourning…almost twelve years later. Our relationship is improving.

I don’t have a partner. My renewed relationship after Joseph’s death survived almost three more years, but we didn’t talk about our grief either. I remember watching the film, “The Passion,” and afterward kneeling down on the living room carpet where Joseph’s body had lain and crying, maybe screaming, identifying with Mary, having lost her Son. My partner left the room. I suppose he didn’t know what to do with me. I don’t think I ever even considered he might be experiencing any grief over Joseph’s loss. He’s married now. 

My relationship with my eldest daughter is improving. We communicate via email, although we live in the same town; however, the emails are more frequent and conversational.

My other son, well, he still isn’t speaking with me. It’s been almost 11 years. So…could it be related to Joseph’s death? I saw him at my mother’s wake and funeral. I said, “Hello, Son;” and he looked like a deer in the headlights. So, I walked away. He stood in for a picture with me, his younger sister, and my granddaughter that his girlfriend took. My eldest daughter didn’t come to either the wake or funeral.

It’s a complicated family. Aren’t most?

THE QUESTION

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21. PREPARE TO ANSWER “THE QUESTION”

  • “How many children do you have?” What was once an everyday, friendly question is now a loaded gun. (HEALING A PARENT’S GRIEVING HEART: 100 PRACTICAL IDEAS AFTER YOUR CHILD DIES; Alan D. Wolfelt, PhD; 2005)

I remember, shortly after Joseph died, sitting in my therapist’s office, crying, and asking him – when someone asks me how many children do you have, what do I say? I remember him looking at me with the care and compassion he always held. I don’t remember his response.

Now, almost 12 years later, I just reply as though he were still alive. I have four children. If they ask boys? Girls? I answer, two boys and two girls. If they prod further, depending on who they are, why they’re asking, and the context of the conversation, my answers vary. I’ve had people ask what my children do for a living. That’s complicated even with my living children, because not all of them talk to me. But, I have learned that families are, in general, complicated. 

Yes, some underlying anxiety upon being asked the question still remains. I remember being at some sort of function and talking to someone who had asked about children. The conversation went further and I told them about Joseph’s death. When someone else asked the question, she answered, for me, that I had 3 children. I suppose she thought she was being helpful, but I found it offensive.

I WILL SEE YOU AGAIN

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20. MOVE TOWARD YOUR GRIEF, NOT AWAY FROM IT 

  • Our society teaches us that emotional pain is to be avoided, not embraced, yet it is only in moving toward our grief that we can be healed.
  • Of course, it’s also necessary to dose yourself with your grief. Sometimes you will need to distract yourself from the pain. But in general, you should feel that you’re moving toward your grief – toward an understanding and acceptance of it. (HEALING A PARENT’S GRIEVING HEART: 100 PRACTICAL IDEAS AFTER YOUR CHILD DIES; Alan D. Wolfelt, PhD; 2005)

I stopped by the cemetery over the Christmas holidays. Someone had left a little decorated Christmas tree. It was windblown. I straightened it up and smiled. I assume it was left by his dad, or maybe his sister. Someone had also hung a panda ornament from the grave stone. Joseph loved pandas.

I am consciously moving toward my grief, finally. For so long, the trauma of finding him dead, and my guilt as a result, were in the way. I remember that he lived. I am taking time to allow good memories to arise and feel joy in having known him. Yes, he struggled, and I worried about him, but there was so much joy in having had him in my life.

We travelled to Washington, DC, he, his sister and I, to see the baby pandas at the National Zoo when they were kids. I still have the stuffed animals I bought for him there. Recently, my daughter bought supplies for an event at my granddaughter’s high school, and, inexplicably, a toy panda was in the packaging. He finds ways to show us he’s around.

I will be watching something on TV and a memory of him rises up, sometimes, sadly, it’s a scene of someone dying by suicide having used the method he chose. I allow myself the sadness and the tears in remembering. Sitting with them, just with the sadness, not the guilt. Guilt is such a cruel emotion. It can be useful, sure, but sometimes it just wields its blade to cut and hurt. I tell clients, just say, “Hello, Guilt, I see you,” and let it pass. I know how hard that is to do. I will work on giving myself the same grace.

I miss you, Joseph. I wish you would have stayed. Maybe you would have a family now. I would love to see you with your own kids. I think you would have made a wonderful dad. I love you, Son. I will see you again.

BEING HERE NOW

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16. BE AWARE THAT YOUR GRIEF AFFECTS YOUR BODY, HEART, SOCIAL SELF AND SPIRIT.

  • Grief is physically demanding. The body responds to the stress of the encounter and the immune system can weaken. You may be more susceptible to illness and physical discomforts. Grieving parents often describe their grief as a pain in the chest or a physical ache. You will probably also feel sluggish or highly fatigued. Some people call this the “lethargy of grief”.
  • The emotional toll of grief is complex and painful. Mourners often feel many different feelings, and those feelings can shift and blur over time. 
  • Bereavement naturally results in social discomfort. Friends and family often withdraw from mourners, leaving us isolated and unsupported. Mourners often feel out of place in a setting they once felt a part of.
  • Mourners often ask, “Why go on living?” “Will my life have meaning now?” “Where is God in this?” Spiritual questions such as these are natural and necessary but also draining. 
  • All four facets of yourself are under attack. You may feel weak and powerless, especially in the early weeks and months. Only over time will you gain the strength to fight back.

CARPE DIEM: 

If you’ve felt physically affected by your grief, see a doctor this week. Sometimes it’s comforting to receive a clean bill of health. (HEALING A PARENT’S GRIEVING HEART: 100 PRACTICAL IDEAS AFTER YOUR CHILD DIES, Alan D. Wolfelt, PhD, 2005)

Usually, I just pick a snippet from the page, but today, all of it grabs my attention. It all rings true for me. It’s a snowy day here in the northeastern US. I’m enjoying being in my nice warm home, with a blanket on my lap, and a cup of tea. My kids would laugh about “my nice warm home”. I keep it at 65 when I’m up and 60 when I’m out or in bed.

Grief certainly is physically demanding. It’s a full-body experience. As my rent heart mends back together, I can finally feel the grief and externalize it into mourning. I could always talk about Joseph’s death, but a part of me still didn’t believe it. I remember at the burial site, standing at the foot of his casket. I didn’t sit with the rest of the mourners. I stood opposite the Deacon, who prayed the final prayers at the head of the casket. We looked into each other’s eyes. “May perpetual light shine upon him…And may his soul and the souls of all the faithful departed, through the mercy of God, rest in peace. Amen.” It was all so unreal.

My friend from Maine had driven me to the funeral home where I met my ex-husband, his wife, and our daughters, to make the “final arrangements”. Just as we were leaving to go there, a Deacon from my church and his wife came to the house. I told Deacon Steve and his wife, Lois, that I had called the rectory the night it happened. His response was, “Where was your community?” If only I had called them directly…The priest I spoke with only told me that the funeral home would call them to make arrangements. 

The funeral director was a lovely man, who had also lost a child. Her portrait hangs in the entryway. I was okay while we sat at the desk in his office…or as okay as I could be. I don’t know that I said anything. When we were led into the showroom to choose a casket, I couldn’t enter the room. I backed out and went outside to be with my friend. I don’t remember if I went back in. It was that sense of unreality. That rending between what was and what I accepted. Again, I say that it is only recently that I believe he is really dead…through the process of working through this book and having been to Dr. Wolfelt’s presentation.

I am always in pain, in most of my body. I have been diagnosed with fibromyalgia, which was basically a rule-out of other diseases. I know, and I teach, that we carry our traumas in our bodies. This is the heaviest of the traumas I have experienced. The burden is made greater by my guilt and all the “what ifs” and “if onlys”. I have participated in various grief groups, in-person and virtually. They have all been helpful in one way or another. The suicide survivor groups have probably been the most helpful and I have made friends through them. No one else understands the depth of this particular loss. We see each other socially as well.

Social situations are very difficult for me. I prefer one-on-one get-togethers. Anxiety and a sense of just not fitting in anymore interferes with going to parties, celebrations, and group events, except for with the survivors, who feel the same way and give comfort to each other as a result of this understanding.

Day to day living can seem pointless at times. Heavy. But I have learned to Be Here Now, again, as Baba Dam Rass would say. There is a sacredness in each moment, each breath.

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.

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.

Eulogy for My Son

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I awoke from a nap one day when I was pregnant with my fourth child, and said to his father, “How about ‘Joseph Francis’?” True story. That’s how he got his name. Joseph for the dreamer of the Old Testament and, of course, the foster father of Jesus, and Francis for the Knight of Assisi. He was baptized at Mass – on the very altar from which his Mass of Christian Burial was celebrated – on the Feast of the Baptism of the Lord, as a demonstration for his brother Eric’s 4th grade religious education class.

I used to say that Joseph wore his nerves on the outside of his body. As a young child, his feelings were often apparent and intense…when he was joyful, he would flap his arms and jump up and down. When he was upset, he fell to
pieces.

Even from a young age, logical explanations were comforting to him. In elementary school he was concerned that he might be kidnapped. While other children may have needed only to hear that it wouldn’t happen, Joseph needed a reason why. I told him the family wasn’t rich enough for anyone to bother. Oddly enough, this alleviated his fears.

Joseph was brilliant. When he was about 2 years old, maybe 3, he went for a walk with his Grandma Martha – my paternal grandmother – and, after a brief period, said to her, “Perhaps we should go home now.”

One day when I picked Joseph up from a summer computer camp, the instructor told me that he’d been teaching the kids how to program a musical scale when he heard “Ode to Joy” coming from one of the computers – guess whose.

Joseph was a thinker, an over-thinker, and a “make-you-think”-er. He had a way of asking questions that not only would make you curious as well, but would make you wonder why you never wondered why before. His sister, Jessica, said that while Joseph was living with her, she couldn’t help but turn to Google every five minutes to research things that came up in conversation.

He loved to draw. As a child, Joseph was inspired by the “Captain Underpants” illustrated series and began drawing his own comics. As he got older, his artwork gained influence from video games, graphic novels, and anime. The comics he
drew featured original – and usually fantastically absurd – characters and plot lines.

Family and friends could always count on him for silly, sweet, unique gifts for birthdays and holidays…and sometimes for no reason at all. Joseph was caring, sensitive, and kind. The time and thought he put into preparing those gifts were characteristic of Joseph’s love for his family and friends. He enjoyed creating presents, but not as much as he enjoyed seeing how happy they made everyone.

Joseph loved to experiment. Once he and his sister Christine stole Comet from above the kitchen sink and bleached the grass in the front yard. I was furious, but they thought it was hilarious. Suffice it to say that I found a safer hiding spot for the Comet after that.

He once kept a caterpillar in a bug box hoping to see it turn into a butterfly. It had made a cocoon, but the box was invaded by ants. They chewed a hole in the cocoon and ate the caterpillar. When Joseph went outside to find that his beloved test subject was gone, he swore vendetta against ants. He took his revenge by holding a magnifying glass over them in the sun with one fist raised high in the air.

Joseph believed that his father was the most successful person he knew. It amazed Joseph how much knowledge Frank has, particularly because Frank is self-taught. Joseph was impressed by his father’s business knowledge and admired Frank’s building and gardening skills. He respected his dad’s dedication to supporting his blended family of eight children and grew to love his second mother, Karen, who treated him as her own son.

George Carlin once said, “Here’s a bumper sticker I’d like to see: ‘We are the proud parents of a child who has resisted his teachers’ attempts to break his spirit and bend him to the will of his corporate masters.’” Joseph’s free spirit and strong will contributed to difficulties getting through school, but his parents – and even the teachers he frustrated – loved Joseph for his creativity and passion.

Anyone who ever met Joseph loved him from the get go. His gentle, loving spirit will live on in the hearts and minds of all who knew him.

Memory and Human Rights

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The photo above is of the plaque outside the Museo de la Memoria y Los Derechos Humanos, the Museum of Memory and Human Rights, in Santiago, Chile.  It is the only photograph I took, but what I saw and felt that day will remain forever vivid in my memory.

The museum chronicles the holocaust of Chile during the Pinochet dictatorship, 1973 to 1990.  Our guide spoke only Spanish; our professor would translate as needed.  Since most of our group understood Spanish, there was little translation done.  My Spanish is not so good; and, in a situation that evokes strong emotion, I hear very little, even in my native tongue.  As we entered the Museum, I already had an overpowering feeling of dread about what we were about to witness.  The Pinochet era was filled with human rights abuses and many were tortured, killed and/or disappeared during his reign.

I tried to pay attention as we moved through the building, but one of the first exhibits we saw was a metal-framed bed with a large battery and electrical cables attached that was used as an implement of torture.  I heard very little after that.  We moved from exhibit to exhibit, from floor to floor.  My breathing became more and more labored until, finally, I was close to hyperventilating and tears poured from my eyes.  I dropped out of the tour and found a glassed-in area in which to sit with my feelings.  As I gazed through the glass, on the wall across the way I saw an array of photographs, hundreds of people who had been disappeared never to be heard from again.  And that was only a small percentage of them.

The awareness of unmitigated evil was all around me.  I breathed in the bad and breathed out the good – a yogic exercise I had heard of before but never understood until that moment.  Evil exists in this world.  The German Holocaust was not an isolated blip in the history of the world.  It continues.  We must keep our hearts and minds open to seeing it where it is and confronting it.

In the United States it is more clandestine and insidious.  It exists when corporations are considered people, children are allowed to go hungry and without healthcare, and millions populate prisons having passed through the cradle to prison pipeline.  I will keep my eyes open and speak the truth.

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