It's Hard Because You Never Know When . . .

Hebrew language class last week: We are, as I've been writing about in my other blog, learning Hebrew by reading the story of the binding of Issac in Genesis 22. Our professor began the summer by talking about the story as a great narrative: the promise, the tension, the human effort to achieve the desired result, the apparent solution, the challenge, the final resolution. It IS a great narrative.

But we began with the promise: to Abraham and Sarah, of many descendants, as many as there are stars in the sky.

There will be no descendants for me, not through Chicago Son. Not through the tall young man whom I had once imagined teaching his children to play soccer on the beach. I think that if you had scanned my insides as that particular lecture began, you would have seen my stomach turn completely over, quite literally. At least that's how it felt, physically, in my gut. On the outside, I looked like a student taking notes. On the inside, I was on the verge of throwing up.

The whole month of June: God, Abraham, a son's life in the balance. Sarah, who never again speaks in the text as we know it, to either her husband or his God. Not really the most auspicious beginning for my study of Hebrew.

Today: a mammogram. Last August I had spent one of my last CPE mornings, as things wound down, scheduling all kinds of overdue medical appointments. I got one of them in before Chicago Son died, and then cancelled all the rest.

The technician today was lovely and did her job quickly and efficiently; only a couple of the scans were as painful as they all used to be. I'm sure she thought the tears clouding my eyes were the consequence of physical sensitivity; she dropped a couple of hints to the effect that I might make an effort to come back more regularly. I distracted myself by looked at the pictures: the high-def results are much more intriguing to the untrained eye than the old ones. But I don't have much interest in repeating the experience. All I could think about were the three children I nursed during years when it seemed that optimism was not unwaranted. One of them in particular.

Ahead

I keep thinking that I might write something, but none of it is bloggable.

We have a stack of birthdays and anniversaries ahead.

Our 35th wedding anniversary for one. I told the kids the other night that had their brother lived, I would have started dropping hints last winter about the big party they were expected to throw.

We have decided that a quiet family dinner is as much as we can manage.

September 2 looms ahead.

People tell me repeatedly that the second year can be worse.

Five Things: Self-Recrimination

It's the most distinctive aspect of loss to suicide ~ one which, apparently no one escapes:

The self-blame, the questioning, that conviction that had you seen, understood, said, done something differently, your loved one would still be alive.

People often blame themselves after a loved one dies. They blame themselves for things beyond their control ~ if I had only left five minutes earlier or later, if I had only made her a reservation for tomorrow, if I had only gotten up before noon or gone to bed after midnight. They blame themselves for the outcomes of events over which they did, in fact, have some oversight but, ultimately, no control. In Giant Famous Hospital last summer, I frequently heard refrains along the lines of ~ if only we had gone to a specialist sooner, if only we had not gone to a specialist, if only she had done that clinical trial, if only he had stayed home and accepted hospice. Self-blame is rampant when people imagine themelves to have had the knowledge and will and capacity to save someone, whether from death itself, or from prolonged suffering prior to death.

In the case of suicide, however, the all-encompassing and overwhelming nature of self-recrimination puts it in a whole different league. What did I miss? What did I fail to understand? What could I have done differently? THIS IS MY FAULT.

My own experience in the first weeks and months after our son's death was that whenever I wasn't consumed by my sense of loss, by the realization that my son was truly and completely gone, I was obsessed with the examination of every detail of his life, especially in its final months. Every word he said or wrote, to me or to anyone else. Everything he did, everyplace he went. Every detail of our last conversations, of the appearance of his apartment, of our last week-end together.

I was sure that something would tell me what I could have done to avert this catastrophe.

It is, perhaps, worse for parents ~ although, how would I know? I have experienced this loss only as a mother.

I recall, oddly enough, the first time that one of my children had any kind of physical injury. Our boys were eighteen months old and we had gone to Florida for a week in February. I had bought them some inexpensive sneakers, not wanting to spend much money since I figured they would outgrow their shoes before it got warm enough at home for them to run around outside.

A day or two into the Florida trip, Gregarious Son had a blister on his heel. What was I thinking, to buy such cheap shoes off the shelf? I wondered. I felt terrible that his playtime in the sunshine was hampered by a sore foot, and went off to purchase some sandals so the blister could heel.

If a mother can feel that responsible for a blister, imagine how she feels when another of her children dies by suicide 23 years later.

It is a terrible, pervasive horrific sense of guilt. I have replayed every word, every glance, every gesture, brought them all out into the open and examined them under a multitude of microscopes.

There is, of course, no satisfactory answer. In the Suicide Surviors group I sometimes attend, we talked one night about what we know now that we wish we had known then. But we didn't know then, and we couldn't have known ~ for, despite the depth of pain that most of us feel during various dark periods of our lives, we do not respond with thoughts of sucide. We couldn't have known, because it was nowhere within the realm of our personal experience or imagination that someone might respond in such a way, might even be thinking about any such thing,

The intensity of the feelings of self-recrimination are the one thing that I have found does fade. It helped to read a Suicide Survivors document that said, "If you had been responsible for this death, it would not have happened." It has helped to listen to other survivors articulate the same feelings, to see their love and concern for their loved ones, to see and hear about what they invested in people now gone, to be able to respond to them without hesitation and with a sense of absolute assurance that they are not to blame ~ and to realize that they can say, do say, the same to me.

I no longer spend much time thinking about what I should have, could have, would have done.

But I would have. I would have done anything.

Reaching Out

Last night we hosted a little gathering to celebrate the college graduations of a fabulous foursome ~the Lovely Daughter and three of her friends from Montessori days. All of the girls, as well as all of their brothers and sisters, attended a small Montessori school through the eighth grade, forming friendships that have weathered the years and graduating in tiny classes of children who knew each other almost as siblings. I think there were 13 students in the Lovely Daughter's graduating class, and 15 in her brothers' class two years earlier. Small but cohesive groups, as Chicago Son's funeral sadly demonstrated, when young people who had met long ago over the pink tower showed up from New York, Oregon, and Toronto, along with teachers who had known them since they were three years old.

It has been such a delight to watch our girls grow into the wonderful young women they have become, and even more of a pleasure to see their friendships sustain and strengthen them through three different high schools and five different colleges. They are so appreciative of each other's gifts and differences, and they have so much fun together. And they have offered us as well the gift of friendship with a terrific group of parents, all of them (us) just quirky enough to seek out something of an alternative education for our kids and stick with it for as long as it was available.

Last night ~ sitting out in the yard as darkness fell and candles were lit, eating grilled chicken and strawberries and ice cream, all with people who have been friends to all of our children throughout their educational adventures ~ was a good first try for us, the very first attempt we have made to host anything at all in our home since Chicago Son died. I missed him every second, but I know he would have approved the laughter and memories of days gone by.

There Are Moments

Two back story items:

I belong to a liberal, progressive church ~ but we are diverse and not all identical in our theology or politics by any means. (I personally am pretty far over on the liberal and progressive end of the spectrum.) In fact, one of the cool things about our church is that we are not all on the same page and yet we worship together and talk together and confront issues together without rancor, something the PC(USA) as a whole sometimes struggles with.

I grew up in a farming community and my family was in the grain business for most of the last century, which means that corn and soybeans were staples (again (sigh) no pun intended) of dinnertime conversation in my childhood.

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I went to church today so that I could be present, insofar as I was able, to the celebration of the 20th anniversary of our senior pastor's ordination (15 of those years with us). It was a little TOO celebratory for my present frame of mind, but I was glad that I went. Lots of energy, humor, appreciation, and genuine joy.

Then I went to the grocery. The first person I ran into was a woman whom I see maybe once or twice a year, and have not seen since Chicago Son died. She was at the store with her younger daughter, who attended the same high school as my own Lovely Daughter and sang in the music program as well.

As I've said, I sometimes avoid people in public places if I haven't yet talked with them about Chicago Son. But I wasn't in an avoidance mood today, which was a good thing, because this woman and I practically ran into one another.

I have never seen someone move so fast to get out of my way. Our grocery is a very sociable place and it often takes a long time to get out of there, because of the many conversations among friends who haven't seen one another in awhile. But wow ~ this woman said "hello," moved on, and visibly looked into the space beyond me as we encountered one another a few times over in our travels down the aisles. No expression of condolences, no conversations about our daughters' college adventures, no mention of it finally being warm enough for the local pool (where at one time in our lives we whiled away many an afternoon).

I understand -- sort of -- the awkwardness, but this friend is a SOCIAL WORKER.

OK, enough said. My next encounter was with an older lady from church, who has, to my recollection (which we all know is not the best) said nothing to me about Chicago Son. We had exchanged pleasantries about the celebration this morning and started to look over the produce when she stopped and said, "You know."

OK, I thought, I'm OK; I'll be fine with whatever she says.

"You know, I get a lot of medical newsletters," she continued. "And I get one from a Dr. So-and-So. And he says that our increased use of soy in so many products is contributing to the increased prevalence of homosexuality among young people today."

I must have looked just a little astonished, because she went on to elaborate for a minute or two. I decided to try some humor, which I doubted that she would understand, but ~

"Well, um, you know, soybeans paid for my education!" I said brightly.

"But ~ " she tried to continue.

I decided that I needed something from another aisle.

There are encounters in which I would give anything at all, even more than usual, for the company of Chicago Son and his wit.

Sunday Morning Prayer

Terrific prayer over on Search the Sea, courtesy of Mompriest at RevGals.

A Dream

I was driving down the highway in a small car, to Michigan, I think.

(There are a lot of reasons for my destination to have been Michigan. The most obvious is that yesterday someone protested a Facebook quiz that identified Michigan as her ideal state, which got me to thinking about how much I love Michigan, and about a wonderful long week-end we spent there with all the kids, and about Chicago Son's exuberance up on the dunes at Sleeping Bear. Another possibility? I was in Michigan when he died. Another? Someone else I know goes to Michigan almost every week to visit an ill family member.)

Suddenly I realized that I couldn't see. I thought that I was falling asleep at the wheel, and shook my head a couple of times. My vision would clear for a second and then cloud over again. I could feel the car running onto the ground at the edge of the road, and I thought that I should pull back onto the highway, and then I thought that I should let the car glide to a stop in the grass. But since I couldn't see anything, I realized that I had no control and couldn't choose.

(I don't think that this part requires much interpretation. No vision. No control. No choices.)

Next thing I knew, the car was smashed into a zillion pieces scattered all over the highway, and I was sitting in the seat, kind of rocking back and forth, in the middle of the road. The police came and I found myself in a huge barn. I had lost my wallet and a dragon mask that Gregarious Son has hanging on his wall, something he treasures from a family vacation in Florida many years ago. I don't know why I was taking it to Michigan, but I was frantic about losing it. A police officer, a woman wearing jeans and a t-shirt and making dinner in another part of the barn, showed to me to a closet in the barn where they kept evidence. Behind the huge and glossy mahogany door was another set of smaller doors, and behind each of them another set, and behind each of them another. Each set of doors opened magically to the next set of even smaller doors.

(Shattered life. Can't find the pieces. Behind each "answer" is another mystery. But the mysteries, the questions, are treasures, secreted behind beautifully polished doors.)

I find myself standing out side the barn, using a cell phone I don't recognize. I think it belongs to Chicago Son. I am calling the Quiet Husband, who says he has not yet left to pick me up. It will take him hours to get there. I am beside myself; I want to get out of there and go home. I need someone to help me.

(A couple of days ago I received an email from someone who said he really didn't know how to take all of this away, and then offered me a few good suggestions. It was oddly comforting, to have someone I treasure, someone who is nearly 80 years old, acknowledge that there is no solution. If he doesn't know, then no one does, I had thought to myself.)

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This dream is from early this morning. I had decided to try to go back to sleep after waking up around 6:00. I kind of wish I had stayed awake.