Category Archives: Untimely death

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.

Two Years Gone

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Two years ago today I buried my youngest child.

On July 5, 2014, at about 11:20pm, after getting off my shift as a residential counselor at a psychiatric children’s home for adolescent girls, I had difficulty opening my front door. The key and the door knob turned, but something was blocking my entry. I pushed against it, imagining the doormat had somehow turned up. It wasn’t the doormat. Someone had moved my ottoman in front of the door.

I don’t remember if the light was on or if I turned it on. I think I must have turned it on because there would have been no one home. To my horror, I found the cold, stiff, dead body of my son hanging from a beam in my living room.

I SCREAMED and SCREAMED. I muttered, “Oh God, Oh God, Oh God”, “No, no no”. And screamed. No one heard me. No one came. I’d dropped whatever I was carrying, looked at him, felt his body. I ran around in circles trying to find the house phone. It didn’t occur to me that I had a cell phone with me when I came in. 

I finally found the phone and dialed 911. It rang and rang. I tried again. Again it rang and rang. It was like one of those dreams when you’re calling for help and the call just won’t go through. Third time I finally got an operator. “911, where’s your emergency.” I answered her questions. Then she directed me to cut him down and start CPR. I knew he was gone. This was no longer my son. This was just the shell of who my son used to be.

Obediently, I found a pair of scissors. I held his body with one arm and cut the rope with the other. I lowered him to the floor and cut the noose from his neck. There was a deep, red groove. I tilted his head and began compressions. His mouth wouldn’t open. His jaw was clamped shut, no space between his teeth. I had the operator on speaker by now and asked if I could breathe through his nose. She said ok. I tried. I continued compressions until the police arrived, the whole time just hearing air escape as I pressed down. 

I was aware that he did not look distressed. There was no sign of struggle.

When the police arrived, an officer took me into the kitchen and directed me to sit down. I rocked and rocked and hyperventilated. He told me to “calm down”. I looked at him and heard what he said. I tried. In my head I said, “You’ve got to be fucking kidding me!” He was young.

Another officer took me upstairs. I tried to get into my bedroom, but I’d locked the door after hiding my son’s antidepressant in my nightstand to prevent him from taking another overdose. He had made three suicide attempts two years before. I couldn’t find the “key” to get in. I don’t think I ever found it.

And so I sat in his bedroom, on his bed. Still rocking. By myself. While police were downstairs. A detective came up to speak with me. He asked if he could call anyone. Did I want him to notify anyone? Did I want my cell phone to call anyone? I answered no to all. I finally found something…a screw driver, a paper clip…I don’t remember…and got my bedroom open. I grabbed my rosary, pulled out my meditation cushion and sat, praying the Chaplet of Divine Mercy. The detective popped his head in to ask me something. I responded.

At several points, the detective asked me if there was someone he could call to take me out of the house. I said no. I wasn’t leaving the house while my son’s cold, dead body was still there.

At some point I started making calls. I don’t remember in what order. I called his father ‘s cell phone, no answer. I left a message requesting a call back. I called his house phone, no answer. I left the same message. 

I called my oldest daughter and told her her brother was dead. She asked how he did it. I told her. She hung up on me.

I called my other son. He was horrified and continued to call me back throughout the night to check on me.

I called my other daughter. No answer. I don’t remember if I left a message. She recalls seeing the number in the morning as a missed call and thinking her brother had reached out to her and she missed him. So, maybe I didn’t leave a message. 

I called my neighbors, hoping to spend the night with them after everything was settled. No answer. I don’t think I left them a message.

I called my church and spoke with a priest who told me not to worry, that the funeral home would contact them and everything would be taken care of. He’d pray. I thought about asking him to let the deacons know but couldn’t put the words together.  

Finally, I called my ex-boyfriend, at work, an hour away. He said he’d come.

I hadn’t wanted to call him. He’d relapsed on alcohol earlier in the week. I’d been away on a (almost) cross-country trip. I called him the night before I was flying home and realized he’d been drinking. He picked me up the next day. I’d decided I didn’t want him completely out of my life. He went and got a script for Antabuse. That was June 30.

On July 4, I knocked on my son’s bedroom door. He wasn’t home but had left his air conditioner on. I went into the room to turn it off and opened a drawer looking for a shower curtain I’d put there while he was living elsewhere. I found drug store bags and empty cold medication packages. His drug of choice was DXM, dextromethorphan. He had relapsed as well. The receipt was dated the same day as the drunken call with my ex.

I went to work that night intending to discuss it with him when I got home. The discussion didn’t happen that night. He was either asleep or pretending to be.

Next morning, or maybe early afternoon, I knocked on his door, told him what I’d found – though I hadn’t been looking for anything. I asked him for his key. I told him he couldn’t be in the house when I wasn’t home…and I was leaving for work in a little bit. I told him, “My heart is broken”. I told him he had to be out of the house by Monday. This was Saturday.

When I was leaving for work, he walked out with me and sat at the table on the deck with his phone, which was not active for calling, but he was able to use the wireless internet connection from the house. I asked him if I could give him a ride anywhere. He said, “I have nowhere to go.” Those are the last words I heard from him.

I texted both of my daughters and his father letting them know what was going on. My daughters both responded that I was over-reacting. No response from his father. None of us had any sense of his being in trouble that day. And we have pretty good sixth sense.
I don’t know for sure how he got into the house. A couple of windows were unlocked, but the screens were in place. Some days later I found my garage was unlocked. I think I must have left it unlocked the last time I’d been in there. 

I was sure that I killed him. Although, intellectually, I know that’s not true, I still feel responsible from time to time. 

This year the anniversary seems even harder than last. Perhaps I was still in shock then. My then ex is back in my life. We’re living together now. He showed up that night. I cut him off for a while after the funeral, but we’re trying to make it work. He’s the only one, besides me and the police, who saw my son’s body that night. He’s sober.

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.