Why I don't make posts about Suicide Prevention month

For me, September is hard. 

September...Suicide Prevention Month.

The ...whole entire month... when people are sharing posts on social media about suicide.

It's hard for me.

Don't get me wrong. I am profoundly glad and grateful for the many people who raise awareness with heartfelt and informative posts, and for the many working to save other families from such hideous loss.

People I know and love faithfully advocate during this month, in the hope that other families will be spared what they have watched us suffer. I am so glad that they do; so thankful. If you are one of those people- thank you. Truly, from the bottom of my heart, thank you.

Also...every post or article about suicide makes me flinch.

Seeing the word is like a sharp kick to the rawest nerve I have, deep in the core of that heavy wound. 

On a surface, yet true, level, I am okay. I really am. Also, in the deeper places, I am very much not okay. I never will be, because it will never be okay that our precious son Michael is no longer living.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 I have written before about the compartmentalization that enables me to function: how Kristie may be chatting with you and carrying on with normal life, but Michael's mom just ordered a headstone for her son, and Michael's mommy still stands frozen in tear-stained disbelief, unable to grasp the impossible truth that her child is dead.

While I think it is deeply, profoundly important and good that so many people are sharing hope and love and compassion and resources around the issue of suicide, I...cannot be one of them. 

Not yet. Maybe not ever. 

Because that word rakes claws across the bleeding heart of Michael's mommy.

"Don't let it ruin your vacation..."

A while back, I started to write about things not to say to a person who is grieving. People have asked me to help them know how to respond to loss and, as this is an important part of that, I feel I should share what I've learned.

What I learned while trying to write that post is that I have a lot of unprocessed, painful emotion around some things that were said to us in the past year. I pulled open that internal door and was floored by what poured out. I am not ready yet to talk about those things publicly.

I do think it is a deeply important conversation, though, so I thought I'd start talking about it through a trauma that is not quite so fresh.

Some of you know about a traumatic experience that our family had in the summer of 1994.

Lee and I had taken our two little children camping, along with our first Golden Retriever, Mandy.

We had camped at the Standish Hickey State Recreation Area on the Eel River in California.

I think it was on the second day of our time there that we walked over to play in the river. We have some wonderful pictures of our little two- and four-year old kiddos playing in the sparkling blue water in their bright orange life jackets.

What the pictures don't show is what branded that day on all our memories, for life.

As we were enjoying our fun water time, Lee suddenly said, "I think those people are calling for help." I had not heard anything, but he had. We gathered up our little troop and headed upriver. The shore was rocky, so we were wearing sturdy shoes. As we got closer, Lee heard what the people were shouting. He gave me his watch and rushed into the water, swimming across the deep hole to where a frantic man and woman stood, on the far bank.

A family with four or five growing boys was having a fun camping trip in the same park. One of them, a boy of around twelve, wanted to play on the river, so he took one of those floaty-mattress pool toys to use. He went in where the water was shallower and started floating down. At some point he fell off, and ended up in a deep pool.

He could not swim, and neither could his parents. They crashed through the shallower water upriver and scrambled along the rocky bank. They could see him down in the water, but they could do nothing to save him. They stood on the bank, helpless and desperate, screaming for someone to come.

Without hesitating, Lee dove down to the bottom of the hole and pulled up their boy. He was not breathing. We had no experience or training with life-saving, but Lee started doing what he could, trying to express the water and give him mouth-to-mouth. We were all so focused on the boy that it took Lee's startled shout to make me realize that the dad had disappeared into the water. Maybe he had a heart attack or stroke from the intense distress. We don't know. We only know that he was there, and then he was gone, sinking to the bottom of the same deep pool that took his son.

Leaving the boy up on the rocks with his mom, Lee again dove down to the bottom of that deep hole. He brought the man to the surface, but Lee was tiring so quickly that he could not hold him up pand bring him to shore. He had to let the man go. I told our little Heather, four years old, "Hold onto Mandy and Michael. Do not let them in the water!" I told little two-year-old Michael, "Stay with Heather!"

Though I am a poor swimmer at best, I headed into the water.

There was no-one else to do it. I had to.

I dove down, pushing myself all the way to the bottom of the hole, grabbed that big man by the arm, and hauled him to the surface. I have always been convinced that God sent angels to help me that day. The guy was tall and heavy, probably well over two hundred pounds...and I pulled him from twelve feet down to the surface, with one hand. Angels.

I towed him over and passed him off to Lee and the man's wife, then struggled back to the shore where our little kids waited. I barely made it. I was exhausted by the time I staggered from the water.

Like I said, we had absolutely no experience or training with life-saving, so it had not occurred to either of us to take off our shoes before diving in. We just didn't know. Wearing heavy sneakers to swim and dive, under intense stress, will do you in.

We had no background to help us. We were simply the only two people on that whole stretch of river, besides those frantic parents.

After I made it back to shore, another guy showed up and swam across to help. Soon, others came. I remember shouting, "Call 911!!!" over and over, until someone assured me that one of the others had gone to make the call.

Soon, the sirens came screaming. Professionals helped bring father and son across, using our kids' life jackets to help float them, and rushed them away in ambulances. It was much too late, as both were gone before we pulled them from the water, but still every effort was made to bring them back.

The ambulances left, and the crowd milled around, excitedly talking over what had happened. I saw this wife and mother standing, stunned, alone in the crowd. I went to her and wrapped my arms around her. I think I was the only one there who realized who she was. She held onto me so tightly.

That whole scene is a vivid scar on all our memories. For me, the worst parts are the memory of the man's face, as I pulled him up through the green water, lifeless.... and the desperate embrace of that suddenly bereaved wife and mom as I held her close in the faceless crowd.

For Lee, it was the trauma of being in the middle of such intense loss, and then the fear that he could not make it back across the river; the horror it would be to his own little family if he drowned in front of us. The possibility was all too real. It had just happened to this other family, and he was exhausted from all he'd done to help.

For the kids, the trauma lingered also. For Heather, it was the terrible responsibility of keeping a strong dog and a very young brother safely on the riverbank, while watching both her parents disappear into deep water, then struggle to make it back to shore. For Michael, the intense desire to do something was so strong that he actually thought he'd been out in there river with us, helping.

As I hugged that mama close, and thought of the immensity of her loss. I started to shake. Shock was setting in and I couldn't handle any more. I was only twenty-six. I did not know what else to do. I pulled away from that poor lady and we went quietly back to camp.

There was no question of staying. How could we possibly go back to having fun after such an experience?

A man we knew stopped by as we were loading up to leave. I think he worked for the Department of Fish and Game and had some law enforcement background. He was surprised to see us getting ready to go.

Here is where we reach the point of this story; the Things Not To Say part:

"You're going home? Why?"....

"Don't let it ruin your vacation."

We both just stared at him in disbelief.
I'm not even sure what Lee said in reply.

How do you even answer such a thing?

There we were, a young couple who had just pulled a dead father and son from the river bottom, whose two young children had just watched people die and seen us nearly drown trying to help, and.......don't let it ruin our vacation????

We did.
We let it ruin our vacation.

All we could think of was that sweet lady who had just lost her husband and her son within five minutes, and of her other boys, bereft of their dad and brother. We were in shock and deeply shaken. We headed home.

We left so quickly that we were long gone before the news reporters came looking for "heroes" to interview. The guy who swam over to help after Lee and I had pulled both of them from the river was credited as the big man who tried to save the day. Whatever. We shuddered at the thought of having to talk to anyone about it. It was horrifying.

But...don't let it ruin your vacation.

I think of that wife and mama every year when the middle of July rolls around, praying for her and her other boys, wondering how they're doing. I wish I could have held myself together a little longer; held her close for a few more minutes...helped her more.

I hope she's okay. I wish I could give her a hug.

Here's the thing: We should be impacted by tragedy and trauma and the sorrow of others.

Yes, it is terribly uncomfortable to be up close to suffering, but it is cowardly and selfish to sweep it away with dismissive words. Those kinds of words add damage on top of heartache on top of trauma. They leave scars.

It should ruin our vacation.

It should touch our deepest core and move us to reach out in love and mercy.

It should change us, and if we're wise, we'll learn from it and grow deep with compassion.

It should ruin our vacation, and it should change us for life.

~~~~~

*In memory of Gary and Linus Carter, who lost their lives that day, and of their family, who lost so much in one tragic afternoon.*

New Year's Eve....

2018.....

the year when Michael was alive....

and then he wasn't.


2019...

a year in which Michael is not alive.


It is breaking my heart, moving into this new year...leaving behind the last year of my life in which my son was alive.

When you wobble, widen your stance

My dad is an interesting man, full of ideas and theories and a wealth of knowledge. Our family has some wonderful memories of hiking and backpacking trips in wild and lovely places. Something I have been thinking of recently is one of his bits of outdoor wisdom. It applies to my current journey in a way I'd never considered before.

Some of our hikes to our favorite wilderness areas were conducted after dark. This may have something to do with lack of time management, or with Dad's boundless optimism over just how much he could accomplish before leaving town, but sometimes it was simply due to a pileup of delays. One time, our late departure was caused by Dad having five flat tires in the space of just one day! Yes, five! All four tires and the spare, one after another! He would just get one fixed and get back on task, and another tire would go. On that trip, we reached the trailhead at 9 pm, loaded up and started the hike down into the river canyon. We reached our campsite at midnight. Memorable. :)

On those after-dark treks, Dad would use the opportunity to teach us new skills. He is all about teaching in the moment! He showed us that even without a flashlight, once our eyes adjusted we could usually pick out the trail. We did have flashlights; he just wanted to show us that we could survive without them if necessary. He also showed us how, when it really was too dark to see the trail, we could still follow it by feeling it with our feet. Most mountain trails are slightly cupped, with the edges rising up a little. He showed us how, if we would widen our stance and set our feet further apart, we could feel the upward curve of the trail edges. This enabled us to follow the trail, even when we were blinded by the dark. It was slow going, but not impossible.

Lately, I have been thinking of this philosophy in broader terms. Often, if a person feels a little unsteady on their feet, just widening their stance will help. I have seen Dad do this as he has aged. Instead of a quick narrow stride, he walks a slower, more careful, wider-set pace. It gives him better stability. Any time you feel a little unsteady, a little wobbly on your feet, setting your feet into a wider stance can help. Even in the shower, with your eyes closed while washing your hair, widening your stance can keep you steady.

I have thought a number of times about how Dad's approach can apply to daily life...but then I took the idea even farther. In the past four months, under the heaving load of terrible grief and tremendous change, I have wobbled severely. I am usually a pretty independent person, tackling tasks on my own rather than letting others help. This journey has changed that.

I have needed the help of those around me, to help me keep going, to keep me from toppling over.

I have accepted offers of help with cleaning and packing, with errands, with just washing dishes so I could move forward. I said yes when a friend offered to launder Michael's clothes before they went into storage.

In a way, this is just like what Dad taught me on those trails through the night woods, decades ago. This path was too rough and too dark for me to walk it alone. My load was too heavy, and it threatened to knock me off my feet. So, I widened my stance. I took hold of the hands reaching out to help me. I accepted the support of my friends and community. I let them help me carry the load.

I also widened my stance in spiritual terms. I reached out for the support that was offered in my relationship with God, and in the promises of His Word. I grabbed onto God and leaned into Him, hard. I looked avidly for the evidence of His love and mercy in those first, very dark days, and I saw it so clearly. I fixed my thoughts on words like Psalm 34:18- "The Lord is close to the brokenhearted and saves those who are crushed in spirit." This helped so much.

So I encourage you, when you wobble, to plant your feet on firm ground and widen your stance. Take the hands of those who offer you support and let them help you to stay on your feet. Lean into the deep comfort of those spiritual resources, of our loving God and all His promises; hold onto them tightly.

It really does help.

A couple of unexpected things

In addition to the general feelings of exhaustion that accompany grief- the very limited reserves of emotional and physical stamina- I have noticed a couple of other effects.

In general, people see me as pretty outgoing and friendly. When I did the Myers-Briggs personality test online, though, I was surprised that my results showed me as being more than two-thirds introvert. Once I thought it over, it really made sense and helped me to build some better boundaries into my life. Through that, I learned that I really do need time completely by myself in order to recharge, so that I can have the energy for happy-fun people time.

I realized recently that in this grief journey, I am operating as if my Introvert percentage is much higher, more like seventy-five or eighty percent. I get drained much more quickly by human interaction and need much more time to recharge.

The other thing that I've noticed (and so have our girls) is thinner hair. Stress has varied, far-reaching effects within the body. In me, it heavily impacts my adrenal system and thyroid function. Thyroid function has a direct relation with the health of skin, nails and hair. The girls and I have all noticed that our hair is definitely thinner the past few months.

Not earth-shaking, but some effects of intense grief that I had not thought to expect.

Words that kept me from drowning...

I could also have called this, "My wooden box in the frozen ocean."

Usually, I have a terrible time memorizing things, especially (ironically) Bible verses. If I do manage to commit a Bible verse to memory, I can rarely remember the address (where to find it in the Bible).

Then, June 25th happened. In the week that followed, one verse became branded on my mind. I think this was a grace-gift from God, giving me words that I sorely needed, and imprinting them on my mind so I would have them at all times.

Psalm 34:18
"The Lord is close to the brokenhearted and saves those who are crushed in spirit."

Those words, and the truth within them, were the things I clung to that kept me from going under. In the wild, seething chaos of agonizing loss, I held onto those words as fiercely as if they were my only hope for survival.

That recognition of the depth of my devastation, and the reassurance of the loving, attentive presence of God in the midst of it, kept me sane.

I had not known this verse before that week. It came to me, possibly through the devotional book I have been using, and the words blazed in the darkness.

The comfort and hope of them helped me to breathe. I felt myself gathered up and held, cradled close to the heart of my loving Father.

Other words that helped greatly, in those first weeks:

Isaiah 43:2a (the first half of the verse)- When you go through deep waters and great trouble, I will be with you. When you go through rivers of difficulty, you will not drown!

You will not drown. Those words spoke directly to how I felt, for a long time. Not long before, I had watched documentaries on the earthquake in the Indian Ocean in 2004, and on the explosion of Krakatoa in 1883, and the widespread destruction caused by both events. The image of floodwaters that I had, after Michael's death, was not of a swollen stream, but more like what I'd seen of those catastrophes: nightmare chaos, being overwhelmed by churning water spiked with debris and full of horrors.

You will not drown.

In the midst of shattering loss and paralyzing shock...you will not drown.

I thought through the reasonable options for response to our devastating loss. In the past, we had sometimes said to one another, "How do people make it through life without Jesus?" Now, I looked with calculating eyes at the ways some people cope without that hope and help- turning on one another and tearing one another to pieces, turning to alcohol or other means to dull the sharp edges of the pain, losing my grip on sanity, and suicide. No, I was not feeling suicidal, but I did suddenly understand, from the inside, how it could look like a welcome escape from terrible pain.

Those would all be quite reasonable responses to the depth of our suffering...but each would come at a dreadful cost to myself, and to the people I love best. After looking at the options with curiously detached calm, I turned away, took a deep breath, and said, "Okay, I will do this by clinging to Jesus." He was, quite literally, the only way I saw through this dark valley that would leave me (all of us) whole, together, and sane.

I have sometimes thought of Jesus, and the world condition, this way: the entire earth is consumed by a devastating flood. Jesus is the one guy with a life boat, going everywhere, to every person, leaning over the side, reaching out and saying, "Come, I will take you to safety. Grab my hand!"

When I was a little girl, I accepted His offer. I prayed the little prayer, asking Jesus to be my Savior. At the time, I didn't really understand what that meant. It was very real to me, but I had a shallow understanding of the decision I'd made. Being a Christian, belonging to Jesus, was a part of my identity from then on, and I grew in understanding what that meant, but I had trust issues. Some things in my life had given me a skewed and faulty view of who God is, of what His character really is. How can you love someone you don't trust? And how can you trust someone whom you don't really know? Over the decades, through various means, my understanding of who God really is deepened and grew. It became more clear and true.

All that time, I had been fighting God. I pictured myself like a toddler, sitting on the floor and clinging to a post, with my arms and legs wrapped tightly around it. God was tugging on my waist, urging me to let go, but I thrashed and fought and whined and screamed...afraid of where He wanted to take me...when all the time, He was just trying to hold me close and take me someplace wonderful. Disneyland. The Pacific Ocean. Monument Valley. Hawaii. Paris. Because I didn't really know Him, I did not trust that His plans and ideas for me were good. About ten years ago, I finally let go of the post. I finally stepped out in trembling trust, letting God have every part of my life, and cautiously willing to go where He wanted to take me in life.

What a wonderful surprise it was, to learn that God is not distant, calculating or impossible to please. He does not use my life as some sort of objectively interesting experiment. He does not have some secret, unattainable standard that I will forever fail to meet. (That's the whole point- we can't meet the standard of His holiness, so He gave us Jesus, who does it for us! What a relief!)

He does not sit back in condescending disapproval, watching me struggle and fall.
No. He loves me. Loves me!!!
He loves me with wild affection, boundless wisdom, and infinite patience.

Zephaniah 3:17 has become one of my favorite verses in the whole Bible:

"The Lord your God is with you, He is mighty to save. He will take great delight in you; He will quiet you with His love. He will rejoice over you with singing."

That is how He loves me!

And in the weeks following Michael's death, I felt the reality of His love like never before.

Picture a tall, burly, bearded man, gentle in his power and strength. He sees a wounded little baby bunny, crouches down and gathers it into his large, callused hands. He cradles the bunny close to his heart, warming it and keeping it safe, murmuring reassurances in his deep, soft, rumbling voice.

That is how I felt, in the searing chaos of our horrible loss.
Cradled. Held. Protected. Carried. Loved.

"The Lord is close to the brokenhearted and saves those who are crushed in spirit."

Yes.

My heart was shattered, trampled and destroyed. My spirit was mangled and crushed.

But God, my infinitely wise, powerful, tender, compassionate Father, gently gathered up my broken, bleeding pieces. He held me close, and spoke quiet words of love over me. He soothed me and comforted me. He protected me, shielding me with His love. He infused me with strength far beyond my own. He grounded my mind with gentle sanity, quietly sure. He held me while I cried like I never have before. When my grief and loss pressed so heavily, suffocating me with their intensity, He lifted the weight from my chest and freed me to breathe. Every deep breath felt like a merciful gift.

He held me so close (The Lord is close to the brokenhearted).
He gave me strength and sanity and helped me to breathe (He saves those who are crushed in spirit).

In the agony of this terrible loss, I flung myself into His arms, and He caught me. I clung to Him, and He held me close, loving me in the midst of my pain.

I learned to understand, more deeply than ever before, that God is to be trusted.

When He is the only hope you have, you find that He truly is enough.

"The Lord is close to the brokenhearted and saves those who are crushed in spirit." Psalm 34:18

...words that kept me from drowning.

Joy is awesome, but.....

*I started writing this about a week ago and am just now getting back to finish it.*

The juxtaposition of true joy and horrible grief can feel very bizarre, but it is also starting to feel...normal. I mean, it is my new  normal, but I am starting to feel sort of comfortable in this place.

I have had several really wonderful experiences recently. I got to have a long-awaited trip to the coast with my mom and my sister. My two daughters spent part of one day with us. That whole time was a wonderful, joyous blessing. I was home for three days, and then went to see some dear friends a day's drive to the south, a visit that included another couple of days of "ocean therapy." It was a truly wonderful time. Two days ago, I got to go on a really special day-trip with three very dear friends. We had a really precious time together. The weather was glorious, the scenery stunning, and the time spent together was a true blessing.

In the course of these wonderful experiences, I felt refreshed and loved and...happy. For the first time since that awful day in June, I felt like myself. I smiled and laughed freely and joyously. It felt so good.

I know that for the people who know me and care about me, it is a tremendous relief to see me happy; to know that I am feeling refreshed, and having joy.

But here's the thing.....

The fact that I have had fun, and have felt joy...does not fix my grief.

The joy does not wipe away my profound sadness. It's not one-or-the-other.

The joy and the grief exist side by side.

For nearly four months, the profound sadness has dominated. There have been small, quiet bits of gladness, but the grief has towered over them.

All that has happened, with the wonderful, happy times in the past few weeks, is that the joy part of my life got a serious boost; the balance became less wildly uneven than it has been.

It's not that having fun times suddenly, somehow makes me all better.

This grief will never go away. It cannot be displaced or replaced by another experience, no matter how deeply joyful. The deep well of sadness will always be with me now, for the rest of my life. It will not always dominate, but it will never actually go away. It will exist alongside every other experience that I have. This is part of the bizarre, and sometimes jarring, nature of grief.  I can be walking on the beach on a beautiful day with a dearly loved friend, totally enjoying the time and drinking in the restful joy...while talking about the gut-deep agony of Michael's suicide. For me, the beauty of the moment does not lessen the pain, but also, the reality of my grief does not rob the moment of its beauty.

Restful days, beautiful scenery, time with people who are precious to me...while these things cannot lift away my pain, in a way I treasure them more deeply than ever before. It's sort of like taking a beautiful jewel and setting it against black velvet. The depth of the darkness behind makes the jewel shine more brightly, enhances the glitter of its facets, intensifies its color, and draws your attention to its beauty.

I will go on being very, very sad for a very, very long time. 

In the midst of this long, wearisome journey of pain, I am more grateful than ever for those moments of love, friendship, relaxation and beauty. I am grateful for the gift, because it is a gift, of genuine  laughter.

I am so grateful for the merciful gift of joy.

The Cousin George Construct

So, this is another of the things that have helped...

In the week following Michael's service, we moved out of the house we've lived in for over twenty-three years. As we packed, I heard from the other room, "Moooom?" The voice of distress.

I was in one storage room facing a box of Michael's Christmas ornaments. Our daughter was in the next room, facing a box of his childhood treasures.  We had both been punched in the chest, stopped in our tracks by the sight of these boxes.. We knew that this would continue to happen as we packed.

I really feel that this was a God thing, that He gave me this idea in the midst of that difficult moment.

"Okay," I said, "we need to reframe this so we can survive packing. Let's say this: we have this weird cousin George who left a whole bunch of his stuff in our house. Because he is so weird, he wrote someone else's name on everything."

We had so much to do, and we did not have the physical or emotional energy to have our hearts broken every time we came across something of Michael's. We needed a way to just keep going, to move past those moments without falling apart.

Curiously, the Cousin George idea really helped us! We have used it often.

Any time something is a little too close to the bone, a little too close to the deep pain, we "Cousin George" the moment. If we need to talk about something revolving around his death, and it's a moment when it just hurts too much to say his name, we say George instead. We talk about George's clothes, George's birthday, and so on.

There are still some things that are just too deep and too raw, that you just can't "Cousin George" your way out of, but in many moments this past four months, this way of reframing the situation has proven truly helpful.

How can I keep my kid alive?

This is something that I have been asked in the past few months. And I'm pretty sure that there are others who have not asked outright, though they'd like to. I've been finding out how very many people are just desperately trying to help a loved one stay alive.

I'm not going to go into detail about Michael's death on here. We did end up learning some things about what led up to that fateful moment. It might answer questions if I talked about it, or maybe even be of help to others, but several people in our family really feel that this is private information and so I'll respect their feelings by not speaking about it publicly.

What I would like to do is to share some really helpful and important things my family and I have learned about mental health. There really are some things that can make a genuine difference, and my deepest hope would be that maybe some bit that we've learned might be of help to someone.

***I do not presume to give medical advice- I just want to share things we've learned, to maybe point others in a helpful direction, to give ideas for folks research and try.*** 

>>> If you or someone you love is having suicidal thoughts, please please please get help! In a crisis situation, medication can be life-saving. Even if a person later shifts to "natural" remedies or lifestyle changes, the most critical thing in the moment is...life. What helps the person stay alive, right now today, is the right thing. There is a new suicide hotline number in the US: simply dial 988   

Michael was not in a season of depression when he died, but many people wrestle with depression and suicidal thoughts on a regular basis, and I'd like to speak to that.

Depression can have both neurochemical and emotional roots.

If a person's depression originates from emotional issues or trauma, it is vital to find a counselor who is a good fit, to really help them deal with this in a healthy way. It can truly help to talk with someone who does not have an emotional investment in their well-being. They can speak more freely to someone who won't be hurt by their inner truth. A counselor can also offer really helpful tools and strategies for coping. There should never, ever be shame over needing to talk to someone about inner problems, or troubles in relationship. Probably most of us would truly benefit from such counsel.

There are medications that can be truly helpful, easing one back from the sharp edge of the cliff. There should be no shame, ever, in needing medical help with mental health.

There are also medications that can actually increase suicidal thoughts. It is vital to be under careful supervision by a medical professional if a person is on anti-anxiety or anti-depressant medication.

They can be real life-savers, but can also have the opposite effect. It's really important to be careful with medications.

Now, here is what has been really good news for members of my family...

We have been learning some really interesting things in the past year, about the powerful link
between gut health and mental health.

The short version is that many neurotransmitters (brain chemicals) are actually produced in the gut (intestines). Isn't that wild? I had no idea. These are the things like Epinephrine, Dopamine, Norepinephrine, DHEA, GABA...the things that govern mood, motivation, focus, etc.

A person whose gut health is compromised often has depression and anxiety, and the reverse is true- that people with mental health struggles often also have compromised gut health. Sleep issues are also a big part of this loop.

All kinds of things can impact gut health. In my own situation, it was some heavy-hitting antibiotics that saved my life but wrecked my gut. I'm thankful to be alive, but I do deal with long-lasting consequences.

Even simple things like NSAID painkillers (i.e. ibuprofen) can kill off good gut bacteria. There is some really good information about this in the book "The Plant Paradox." I'm not sure that everything in the book is legit, but the information about what kills the good guys in our bellies is astonishing.

I see a Naturopath who has really helped me. In the world of naturopathy, there are all sorts, from complete quacks to those who really know what they're doing. Part of what I like about my doctor is that she uses normal things like blood tests to look for answers. I hope it's not too much information, but I did a urine test kit that she gave me, to check my neurotransmitter levels. It tested epinephrine, norepinephrine, GABA, DHEA, glysine, histamine, and some others I don't recall right now. The results were enlightening. Instead of taking anti-anxiety or anti-depressant medications, I take natural supplements that help my body produce what it needs. I really like this approach, as there simply are no harmful side effects.

A family member has taken a different approach to mental health, with impressive results. She already ate a diet low in sugar (she just doesn't like most sweets), does not drink, smoke or use any drugs, and eats a pretty healthy diet with lots of veggies....but she still lived in the gray wasteland of clinical depression, and had very low energy levels. She learned that sardines have something in them that can really help with certain neurotransmitters. She got some good quality canned sardines, and just started eating one or two each morning. The very first day, she felt a level of optimism that she had not experienced in many years. She has also addressed her gut health with high quality probiotics and raw fermented veggies- both of which help to restore gut health. Her energy, mood, and mental clarity are dramatically better than they have been in years. It is exciting to see!

The testing and supplements I have used are pretty costly. High quality probiotics can be costly. (but so are pharmaceutical medications!!) I believe that they are far cheaper than the steep cost of poor mental and physical health, but the cost is still a real consideration.

Sardines are a much easier, less expensive first step. A person could just eat them from the can (tons of respect if you can- that's too much for me!), or maybe make sardine toast- mashing them up on toast with maybe some avocado and hot sauce, or whatever is healthy and sounds good. Olive oil, roasted veggies, green onions, minced garlic....

Other things also impact mood and gut health, like sugar (America's drug of choice!!!). Cutting way back on sugars and refined starches greatly reduces inflammation in the whole body, which helps the gut and the brain, and pretty much everything else. Artificial sweeteners have all kinds of detrimental effects on many systems in the body (they're death to gut health!).

There are good things that are naturally anti-inflammatory, like coconut oil (preferably organic, unrefined). It is so good for our bodies and our minds! They're learning a lot now about the link between inflammation, elevated blood sugar levels and dementia. Including a healthy plant fat like coconut oil in your diet can make a big difference in overall health, and brain health in particular.

Lowering the glycemic index of your diet can really help with inflammation and gut/brain health- eating complex carbohydrates (like veggies), rather than simple carbs (like pasta, potato chips, sugary treats), and using natural sweeteners that have less of an impact on blood sugar (such as natural stevia, or coconut nectar).

So many of the pieces of advice for lifting the dark clouds of depression are difficult for a depressed person to implement. If it's all you can do to get out of bed and function, deciding to start up an exercise program can seem just impossible. For someone in that place, making a few dietary changes might feel more doable. Maybe they can start eating organic yogurt with live active cultures in it. That's a start. Maybe they can handle taking a probiotic supplement once a day. Maybe they can handle the sardine idea. That one is definitely worth trying. They're like tiny miracle fish. :)

I've been amazed to see how a few simple dietary changes can make a truly positive difference in the mental health of someone I love.

Here is another, very important consideration: be careful and informed about anything that you put into your body, even something "healthy." If you're on medication, do the research on what can interfere with it or cause bad reactions.

Also, be very careful and informed about stopping taking things. Never just quit a medication without talking to your doctor or pharmacist. Let someone who knows all the ramifications help you to wean off of medications, if it's safe for you to do so. Someone we love just had a stroke after she stopped taking her medication, because she felt it was too expensive. So, so sad.

Even things that people take to help get better results with exercise can have potentially serious or even fatal side effects. Be so, so, so careful with anything you put in your body!!! It's just not worth the risk. Also, be extremely careful about stopping taking things. That can also be so dangerous.

I really love that what has helped my loved one are things that have no dangerous side effects or damaging potential.

If someone you love is wrestling with depression and suicidal thoughts, my heart is so with you. That is such a scary, painful road. I pray that your story and theirs will have a happy, healthy ending.

I hope that maybe some bit of what we've learned might be of help to you and your loved one.

Sometimes, the mail makes me cry

It does.

I just got home, after being gone for over a week. It was a wonderful trip, spending time with our daughters, and my mom and sister, making beautiful memories. We had ocean time (a.k.a. "ocean therapy"), beautiful scenery, fun, adventure, cozy relaxation....a truly lovely, rejuvenating time.

When I got home, I greeted the ecstatic dogs and let them outside. They came right back in, to spend more time being excited that I'm home. What a sweet welcome. Before unloading the car, I thought I'd skim through the mail, to see if there is anything requiring immediate attention.

That one pile of mail triggered myriad emotions.

It included:
-notice of a lovely donation  by a family member in Michael's memory, to an organization that supports mental health. I was so touched by this. <3 <3

-a standard bank statement for one of Michael's accounts, which reminds me that I need to cancel the account
-a letter from his renter's insurance company, stating that in light of the recent payment, his policy has been reinstated.....except that this payment was accompanied by a letter explaining that he died three months ago, so....yeah. I'll need to 'splain it to them again, I guess
-a notice demanding immediate payment from Michael's phone company. Was that not among the bills I took care of several weeks ago? Must not have been. Okay, I'll call them tomorrow.

These are not the things that make me cry. Okay, the first one came close. It made me misty, and grateful for the kind gesture.

The other things, the practical stuff, does not wreck me.The bills and demands for payment are like heavy rocks that get handed to me. They're hard to lift, and some have sharp bits that poke and scrape, but I grit my teeth and get on with the job of dealing with them. They don't make me cry.

The one that broke my heart wide open, and left me doubled up sobbing over a lapful of papers and torn envelopes was this note:

"Dear Mr and Mrs (......)
We have received your payment on your son's account and are returning it. (....) sends our deepest condolences to you and your family during this time.  We are writing off his balance as we know this time can be a very expensive time and every bit may help. Our deepest sympathy..."

...and it is hand-signed by three members of their staff, and my check to them was enclosed.

Their kindness is beyond price.

This is what opens the floodgates.

Kindness.

It is kindness that undoes me.

The Beauty of Disrupted Plans

I have noticed something interesting in the past few months.

Usually, I don't switch directions very gracefully. Abrupt changes of plan usually ruffle my feathers. I get frustrated and upset when what I expected hits a roadblock and is thrown in a new direction.

Until recently.

You might be tempted to think that this is just because I've been dealt such a massive blow that anything else pales in comparison...which is true...but there is something else happening.

I have started to see a better best behind the frustration of my plans.

This is changing the way I see these disruptions. Now, instead of getting mad and grousing about it all, I have started to look ahead. This usually shows me the "why" behind the gear-shift.

If I look to the result of the change, I almost always see that this different ending is actually much better than the one I had planned.

Yesterday was a good example of this.

My dear mom had agreed to go with me on a difficult errand: a fact-finding mission to the monument place...the place where you order headstones. Gravestones. I have learned that we may need to order a marker six months or more before we actually want it installed, so I need to start this process now.

I was not sure just how hard this errand would be, and it helped to have Mom along with me.

We drove to the place and started looking around. It was difficult, but not horribly so. I thought it was considerate that the people let us just look around in peace. After a while, I went to the office, to ask if they could answer some questions for me.

On the door was a note: "Working at the cemetery. Back after 2 pm. We apologize for any inconvenience this may cause."

My first response was an inward groan. Great. Now I'd have to repeat this difficult trek.

But then I remembered the many times lately when I have seen my frustrations in a new light. I thought about what it meant that we could not sit down with someone right away.

Oh. This was much better. Much, much better.

Mom had been telling me that there are certain kinds of stone that are not allowed at the small cemetery where our boy's ashes will go. It is located near the small country town where my mom lives. Her parents, my grandparents, already lie there, and Michael will be near them. The water there is very hard, very harsh. When they water the grass, the stones get wet, and over time they can be damaged. A dark-colored stone would look bad very quickly, due to mineral deposits from the water. Also, I was pondering the merits of stone versus brass markers, and of flat versus standing.

Not being able to sit down with the monument folks right away turned out to be a blessing. It gave me time to go to the cemetery with my mom and walk around, looking at different markers, different styles and materials, and seeing how each stands the tests of time and hard water.

Today, when I go back into town, I will feel much better prepared to discuss the options. I have a much better, clearer idea of what works well in that particular setting. I will be able to ask specific questions, because I know now what it is that I need to know.

The frustration of my plan was the best possible thing that could have happened.

It led me to the much "better best" of feeling prepared and informed for the conversation I will have today.

This is one of the many ways that I see the loving hand of God gently leading me through this valley of shadow, lighting the way and cushioning many of the blows. I fully believe that it was no accident that we went to the monument place during the one time when nobody was around.

What looked like a frustration at first glance turned out to be merciful perfection.

Three Months

The twenty-fifth, three months ago, was a much different night. Breathless agony. Helpless tears. Wracking sobs. No sleep, not really. Just snatches, dragging awake to relentless bewildered desperate heartbreak.

Three months later, it looks different. Better. Easier. Horrible, still, but a sense of equilibrium mostly restored. As long as I don't look too closely or too long at my inner world.

This day was pretty good, partly because that's how I determined it would be, for my own sake.


I just wanted to get through this day in a fairly healthy way. To do so, I avoided prodding the wound with any sharp sticks. For example, I did not go to the storage unit today, to start going through Michael's things.

My day was comfortably filled, but not overfilled, with positive appointments.

I went to physical therapy this morning (my shoulder. long story). This was not comfortable, but very good, partly because my physical therapist Melanie is a lovely human being and I truly enjoy working with her. A little later, I joined a dear friend for Bible Study, and it was just right and spoke words of life to where my heart lives now. The gaps of my day were filled with ordinary things- tending to the dogs, eating, reading, working on the continuing task of bringing order to the lingering chaos of moving. This evening, when I passed the true three-month mark, the exact time the somber officer knocked on our door, I was at Tuesday Prayer with the same dear friend from earlier in the afternoon. Such a blessing, to be in the presence of love and kindness, sharing our hearts, talking of needs and blessings, so that that moment slipped by unmarked.

Mercy. Love. Kindness. Having these things gently in my day soothed peace into my heart and mind.

Not that I don't still walk in deep, bone-deep pain, three months later...but that I shaped this tender day to ease me past the mile-mark; to not cause fresh injury to the still-open wound of his loss.

God is good, so very good. He continues to softly love me, wisely help me, and strongly carry me through the deep waters. I am blessed by wonderful, kind, wise, loving friends who also help me walk this hard, hard road. I am blessed by a family who loves, who make this painful journey together, hand in hand, with gentle consideration.

In the midst of unbearable loss, I am deeply, greatly blessed in ways that help me to bear it after all.

I am grateful.

Oddly Normal

I think that it confuses people sometimes, that I seem so normal in the midst of this terrible tragedy. Some people think it's just weird, as if I'm not actually feeling sad. I can understand how they might think that, when they don't see any evidence of my sadness.

There are signs of it, but most people don't realize what they are. If I am wearing black, and those special jewelry pieces that hold a bit of Michael's ashes, and black cross earrings, chances are that I am having a hard day...but only those very close to me would pick up on those signs. I don't do those things to make a statement to others, but to privately honor the state of my own heart. Since I am fairly private with the depth of my pain, it is not obvious to most people.

Because I act so "normal" so much of the time, people end up sort of "forgetting" to treat me with care. This is hard. I seem fine, and carry on normal conversations, so I think it's hard for others to see where the lines are that maybe shouldn't be crossed.

No matter how fine I seem, in truth my emotional nerves are exceedingly raw. Being teased, mocked, put down, shamed, etc might usually irritate or offend me, or hurt my feelings. Now, these things feel like an assault; like acid poured on the raw bleeding skin of a terrible burn. I try not to lash out at people who say thoughtless things in the midst of this hard, hard time, but the truth is that these things really, deeply hurt. When someone says something that hurts, there is this sort of full-body shock at the sting of their words, as well as blank disbelief that anyone would think it remotely okay to say such a thing to someone in such pain.

But maybe they've forgotten the depth of the pain that my family and I are enduring.
Because I'm doing normal things, not hobbling around with bloodshot eyes and a tear-stained face.

Because sometimes I can talk about him quite naturally, without choking up.
Because sometimes I can say his name without instantly welling up with tears.

Hint: If I can't manage that, I don't do it.

As I think I've said before, even though a person is in the midst of catastrophic sadness, life just sort of grabs you by the face and forces you to keep doing all sorts of "normal" things, like planning and preparing meals, doing laundry, handling practical details of life, and having conversations about everyday things. This is hard, and feels very unfair and very surreal at times. This is also good, in that it pulls you out of your grief and forces you to breathe fresher air for a while. Life just, very forcibly, goes on.

I am a person who prefers to deal with hard things and deep emotions privately. I also feel that it would be wrong for me to victimize other people with my own internal reality, by flinging my pain in their faces. In general, I seek to help others to have a better day. This all plays into why I do seem so normal.

The truth is that I am far from okay.
My heart has been dealt a terrible, terrible blow.

While I look normal, going about and carrying on with life, talking and even laughing, there is this whole other reality that never, ever stops.

The part of me that is Michael's mommy fell to the floor screaming on the evening of June 25th, and she has never stopped. She never will. It will never, ever be okay that he is dead. She will never get over it. Deep inside of me, where the real, private, deepest feelings live, is a little room. This is where she is. If I open the door, I can hear her, screaming and sobbing, quite clearly. The only way that I can carry on, and stay sane, and function, is to kiss her on the head, and gently close the door.

The outside part of me then goes on with life, spending good times with my family and friends, caring for the dogs, talking to people, eating and laughing and just doing all of the things. Some days, normal is a mask that I wear to get through what has to be done. Some days, I am genuinely in a good mood and the smile and the laughter are real.

Inside, though, and not very far below the surface, the pain and shock and disbelief and terrible, terrible sadness swirl like dark, hard water.

Today is a good example of the vast dichotomy in which I now live.

I have had a peaceful, restful day, after months of intense emotion, and a catastrophic, exhausting tidal wave of change. It was just me here, with the dogs. I had a quiet, relaxed morning, enjoyed my devotional book while I ate breakfast, and found fresh insight in the passage of the Bible that I read. I rested. I had a lovely chat on the phone with my mom. I got two packages, with new jeans and new boots that I had ordered. When I put on this one pair of jeans, and the boots that I got to go with them, and saw how truly cute they are together, I actually squealed! LOL It felt so good to just be happy and excited about this simple, normal thing.

And then later, I finally sat down to pay Michael's bills. This is one of those very necessary things that has been nagging at me. These bills are almost three months past-due. This is really important, that they get paid. But it is hard. So very hard. Writing a letter to go with each payment..."We apologize for the delay in payment of this bill. Our son Michael passed away in June..." Oh, so hard.

The sweet high of this morning...the painful, heart-aching low of this afternoon.

This is reality.

While I seem normal and "fine," the truth is that in the background, I am still having to deal with things like this. We are having conversations as a family about when we might be able to survive going through Michael's belongings, when we might take his ashes to their resting place, and what that event might look like...about what kind of stone we might order, and how soon we have to set that process in motion.

So Kristie may seem fine, but Michael's mom is still having to deal with very hard things.

And Michael's mommy is devastated, and will never stop crying.

She shouldn't. Because this is really, really sad.

Because this is just not challenging enough...

By the grace of God and with the love, support, prayers, and help of so many, we made it through the service to honor Michael's life. Deep thanks to everyone who helped and who came, and who supported us from afar. <3 <3

It was a full, hard, wonderful weekend, with a gathering of family- some of whom we have not seen for many years. What a blessing that was, to be together with so many who love Michael. <3 What a blessing it was, to have Michael's friends and classmates and co-workers and just people who know our family, and others who have known the pain of deep and sudden loss, all come together to share that time with us, celebrating his life. What a blessing it was, knowing that a number of people had traveled a long way to be there. That meant so much to us! <3 <3

I confess, I have sometimes rolled my eyes at the term "Celebration of Life" as it seemed like a typically cutesy American euphemism for what is really happening. My feelings have changed abruptly. Yes, in a way this was a memorial service- a funeral- but it truly felt like a celebration of Michael's life; of who he was and the good memories so many of us have with him. If we had done the service right away, I could not have stomached calling it a "celebration," but because nearly two months had elapsed, this felt right. We truly gathered to celebrate his life. There were tears, but there was also joy and good memories and laughter, all of which were healing.

There had been stress and concern over whether we should move the service from our church, in case a great many people came to the service. Whenever I would think of doing that, though, I just felt sick to my stomach. For the peace of my heart, I needed to have the service at our little church; the home of our hearts. It worked out beautifully, to our great relief. Our pastor and our guys had worked hard to set up overflow seating, just in case, but in the end it was not needed. The church was full, but not crammed. Our pastor said that there were maybe three or four empty seats up in the balcony; otherwise, it was full. It felt just right- a full house to honor him, but nobody left standing or stuck outside.

Having made it through that hard, hard day did help my stress levels...for about a day...

...because this week, we are moving out of our home of twenty-three years!

Yes, because we don't have enough going on already. ;)

Actually, this is the carrying-through of a plan that has been in the works for almost a year. It just worked out that it is all happening at once, in the midst of this season of terrific loss.

The stress levels this past year were already high, as we talked through and planned for this tremendous life change. Then, Michael died. Stress levels went from almost unbearable to catastrophic. Truly, my stress levels are laughable. I am endeavoring to just trust Jesus, to let people help, and not to drown under the weigh of everything; to just do the next things, just take the next small step.

This is a huge life-change. My husband has retired from his job of twenty-three years (after thirty-five years total in his profession) and we are moving from the home where we raised our kids, and from the town that we love. It is very clear to us that this is the right thing for us...but that does not make it easy. We will be leaving our home, our wonderful church family and wonderfully supportive community. I will be leaving work that I truly love, teaching violin. It is especially hard as three of my former students, now adults, are wanting to have lessons again, along with my other students, who are so dear to me. I will be leaving areas of ministry in our church that I truly love- teaching in the Awana program, being on the worship team, and speaking from time to time about the persecution of Christians, raising awareness of their suffering and the need to support them in prayer. I love all of these avenues of teaching and ministry, and it is hard, hard to think of leaving them!! I will also be leaving a community of friends that is beautiful and wonderful; an extensive group of true "sisters of the heart" who have shared my life, helped raise our kids (so many "aunties!"), and walked with me through hard hard things and greatest joys. They have come alongside me these past two months in beautiful ways, to cry with me, pray for me and our family, and to help in so many, many ways. I will no longer get to be here, where I can see our son Josh several times a week, or pop over to see our girls, who live just six hours away. We will no longer be where we are just a day's drive from any of our parents, who are all close to or past eighty years of age. This is a cataclysmic level of change, especially in the midst of profound grief.

But, as I have told my husband a number of times this year, just because something is hard, that does not make it wrong. The right thing is often very, very hard. And this is hard.

It is also exciting. The hard road on the way to the good parts of this change will be very, very difficult, but there truly is good out there.

We are buying a pull-behind travel trailer- nothing extravagant, but comfortable, livable and sturdy. Lee will pick it up next Monday, after we move Anna's things into the house she'll share with several other girls this year.

The plan is to travel, with Lee working at different jobs. He is looking forward to doing some completely different things, after so many years in his career. We are both looking forward to seeing new country. Our travels may even enable us to see family and friends who live far away! I am excited about that. :) With my food issues, travel is usually cumbersome and difficult. This way, our kitchen will travel with us, which will make life just so much easier. Having few responsibilities and only a small space to care for will allow me to rest a great deal, which will hopefully bring an improvement with my adrenal and thyroid issues. I will also be able to write, which is very exciting for me, and which Lee is excited about, too.

I had worried so much about the empty nest and the impact it would have on me. As a full-time mom, the empty nest is like being forced into retirement after a long career. This is not an easy thing.

In actuality, it has been better than I expected. It really does leave more room for Lee and I to spend time together, as we're not consumed with parental responsibilities and kids' schedules. We deeply miss the kids, but also relish having evenings and Saturdays at home together- rather than being taken up with parent meetings and going to sports events. I dearly miss watching our kids doing what they love, running and jumping, kicking balls and throwing things...but free Saturdays are a true treat.

The richest surprise of the empty nest is that I started writing! Anna graduated, and about a month later, my brain started telling me stories that I just itched to write down! I have written the first draft of one book, and have begun a prequel and sequel to it, as well as starting two other books. The only problem has been that I cannot write to any great extent in the context of this life. I have only been able to do it if I am out of town away from family (which rarely happens), or by staying up all night (which my health cannot afford!). Trying to write during the day, with the interruptions of life, and my little ADD-ish brain, is purely stressful and not a joy.

This life of travel and rest will also allow me to write! This is one of the greatest excitements, to me, in this whole scheme. The leaving process is and will be so very, very hard, on so many levels...but out there, in that future where we've moved through all that hardness, is the excitement of writing; of honing and completing these stories that I love.

I will continue my blogs (this one, and the one on cooking and baking with food intolerances- https://sticks-and-twigs.blogspot.com/ ), and have thought about starting another, in order to share our travel adventures.

Writing blog posts has helped me a great deal since Michael's death, and I am so glad and thankful that you all are blessed by what I have written. That means so much to me.

So that is the state of our lives right now. We had a crew of friends here this morning, helping to sort and pack for our move in two days. Right now, we have taken a lunch break. I think I'll take a nap, before we start the afternoon shift of deciding and packing.

Thank you so much for joining me here, to walk with me on this terribly hard, curiously rewarding journey.

p.s. Just in case you're puzzled by this: <3 When I first saw those used, I was unsure what it meant and fear it might be something "naughty." Finally, I asked our kids, who laughed and explained that using < and 3 together makes <3  which is a heart, only sideways! :) I thought I'd explain, just in case anyone else wondered, as I did.

Helpful words that we've said to each other

In the first few days, Lee and I had a couple of conversations with our kids that sort of set us on a good path. This is the gist of what we said:

-People will say stupid, clumsy, thoughtless things, because they're human. Let's just decide ahead of time to have grace for them.

Not that this is easy. It's really one of those by-the-grace-of-God things. He gives us the grace to respond kindly when people say things that they really shouldn't. Taking this path is good for others, as we're not lashing out at them in hurt, but it is also very good for us. By taking the high road, we won't have the regret and relationship repair to deal with later. In our fragile state, it is better for us in every way not to come unhinged on others.

- If there are those few people who have no boundaries, who trample people in everyday conversation, and who just won't stop talking, we have permission to say calmly, "I really don't want to talk about this right now," and to just walk away.

Not in rudeness or harshness, but that it is okay and advisable for us to establish boundaries and a safe space for ourselves. We can be courteous and still not allow others to squash and trample us.

One of the many mercies of God that I have seen this past month and a half- the specific people I had in mind when having that conversation...have either behaved with uncommon tact and grace, or simply not crossed our paths! Such a gift. It helped us, though, to have had that conversation, to have given one another permission in a sense, for self-protection, and words to say should the need arise.

- However each one of us is doing at any given moment is the exact right way for us to be doing.

What we need to do or say, or not do or say, is the right thing. The things that help each of us are the right things. If we are feeling withdrawn or angry, there's no wrongness or shame in that- we just love on each other right where we are. This even extended to the family viewing time- that nobody was required to go; that we felt it would be a good thing to have done, and important to do together, but that each one of us had the choice and the freedom to do what felt right for us. We are trying to just be gentle with each other and let each other breathe, and to support one another as we all find a way to survive this and carry on.

Again, all of this is very much the grace of God operating in each of us and in us as a family. He provides a deeper well of grace and generosity than any of us could possibly have on our own.

Things that helped...and some that hurt

It has been really interesting to me, to walk this road myself. Horrible, but also interesting.

I've read about grief, and people have different perspectives on it. I thought it might be good to share how it has been for me, and what I have found helpful.

I've heard/read others saying that sending flowers was useless and they hated them, or that if one more person said, "I'm sorry for your loss" that they might punch them. I guess those people felt that since these things could not bring the loved one back, they were pointless.

Let me just say, this was not how it felt to me. :)

For me, the words, "I'm so sorry" are helpful and comforting. So are things like, "We love you guys," and "We're praying for you." These are words that are real. And simple. My brain was stunned. It could not take in more than a couple of words from other people. If someone said more than simple, straightforward things, I could not even process it. And if anyone, in those first raw, raw days, had tried to philosophize about our staggering loss....that is when I might have felt like punching them. But nobody did. People only said real, heartfelt, simple, broken, loving words to us.

We had quite a collection of bouquets for a bit, and it meant a lot to us. They were a visible, tangible reminder of the many people who were loving us and praying for us and sharing in our great sadness.

Things that have been hard, but that also helped
-Going to see him at the funeral home. Absolutely brutal, but also necessary, for us, and truly helpful.
-Hearing his name, seeing his photo. Painful, but also good.
-Talking about him; saying his name.
-Writing his obituary. Oh, so hard, but something I deeply wanted to do for him, and to do to the very best of my ability- to honor his life with the best that is in me.
-Seeing it in print. Even though I am the one who wrote it, who spent a over a week working on it, fine-tuning it, choosing the picture...still so hard to actually see it in the paper. But also good in the sense that I felt proud of the job I had done.
-The unbelievable kindness of people. The outpouring of compassion and kindness and sympathy has been absolutely amazing...to the point of being overwhelming at times. This definitely helped but at times we just needed a break from all the kindness. Which felt odd. But real. In those early weeks, it helped to just get out of town for a couple of days, to run errands where no-one knew us, to not receive any compassion or sympathy, to just breathe. The precious gifts of compassion have also served another purpose, at least for me. When I've had to be "normal" too much, pushing it all aside so I can function and talk to humans and get things done, I get sort of closed off and shut down. That's when I need to read one of those wonderful cards, full of loving, beautiful words. They rip the walls down and flood into my heart, and help me to cry again, which is so necessary for healing.
-Choosing urns. (one large one and a couple of small ones, one of which will travel with Lee and I in the next chapter of our lives). I really thought that this one would fall onto the list below, but in a strange way, this actually was good...in...choosing something (thank you, Heather, for the help with that awful task!!!) that would honor him and represent him well. Learning in the process how to know you're getting the right size. (General rule: every ten pounds of living weight = about 1 cubic inch of ash) This was helpful to know, as Michael was 6'2" and a mountain of muscle! The way it was sort of good- feeling really good about the urn we chose, that what we chose makes sense and feels right. 

Things that are just hard, and necessary, that we just have to get through.
-Going to get all his belongings from storage. Just oh, so hard.
-Knowing we'll need to go through them, much sooner than I'd like. Just because it needs to be done.
-Seeing the names of our family, our kids listed...but no Michael. True, but very hard. (Please, if you are someone who has done this in a card, please please do not feel badly. It is the actual truth; it's just one of those hard realities that we face now. He's no longer here. Also, it has meant a lot to Heather, Josh and Anna, that the cards are to them as well; that their grief and loss is recognized and acknowledged. This is a good thing. A real thing. Just hard.)
-When we do go through his things, knowing that I will be seeing and handling gifts that we chose or made with love and anticipation...and having to decide what to do with them now. Painful.
-Picking up his death certificates. The fact that there is such a thing as a death certificate with the name of our beloved son on it. Having to deal with them, for practical reasons. Hatefully hard.
-Working through the list of accounts that have to be dealt with, paid up and closed. Having to have
   those conversations, to say the words, over and over. Hard.
**Note: every person should have at least one other person on their bank account, as this makes everything so much simpler when tragedy strikes!! With so much business and bill-paying conducted online, it can be a nightmare for those having to sort things out. Because I was still on his bank account, I was able to authorize putting a hold on the account. When the automatic payments stop rolling in, companies quickly start sending paper bills. This told us which places we needed to contact, so we can get things taken care of. We were able to do a mail-forwarding order, so his bills would come to us.

Things that have been good and helpful to me
-Flowers, cards, and text/Facebook messages of compassion and love. These have helped so much.
-Hugs. All of them.
-Friends who came and hugged us and cried with us. They helped us to shoulder the load.
-Friends who did not come by, wanting to give us space. Also, so needed.
 **both- those who came to the house and those who did not- each was the right and perfect choice.
-Our family who dropped everything and just came. They were such a help.
-Our family who could not come, or who chose not to, realizing that we had ample help.
 **again- both those who came and those who did not- each was the exact, right thing to do. <3 <3
-Those who brought food and drinks over. It helped so much, when we had family here, that they were just fed and nobody had to figure it out or shop or cook. Even if I was just wandering around eating carrot sticks, it gave me peace to see everyone else having dinner.
-Those who, knowing we have a lot of food issues, did not bring food. (also a good and loving choice)
-Those who gave us Safeway gift cards rather than bringing food- also helpful, with all of the sudden
   expenses, and now as Lee has retired and we are going through that financial adjustment. (For those who don't already know this- our small town only has one grocery store- Safeway)
**each of these was the right choice for each person to make; each was a blessing. <3
-Those who did all of our grocery shopping those first hard days. Such a mercy!
-Those who ran errands, even the most silly (Me: Sharon, I just need a bottle of my allergy eye drops.) She went to the store and bought them for me. (Also me: Teresa, I just found out that Safeway has peach sorbet. *big shiny eyes*) She went to the store, just to get peach sorbet for me. <3 (p.s. I have more than one friend named Teresa, as well as Kelly, Kellie, Kelly, and Kelley. The sorbet fetcher was another Teresa, not our pastor's wife. Confusing, I know) :)
-Those who brought us bags of paper plates, plastic silverware and cups, and paper napkins. Such a great help! Not having to wash dishes was such a burden lifted.
-The friend who washed the girls' cars- such a simple thing, but it blessed them. <3
-The friend who came over and washed dishes after my mom went home. :) :)
-The group of friends who have worked together to keep my flowerbeds watered, for the past month and a half, so the plants would not die!! So, so helpful. Watering is usually therapeutic to me, but it takes energy that I just have not had.
-The friends and family who made all of those hard, terribly hard calls, to pass the terrible news to other family and friends who needed to be told. I am profoundly, eternally grateful that Lee and I did not have to make all of those calls!!!
-The friends who fielded call after call, from those who love us and just wanted to know how we were doing. Honestly, our phone hardly rang at all, those first two weeks. That was an incredible mercy. To every one of you who called someone else to ask how we were doing, thank you. To the friends who took all those calls, my undying gratitude. They were grieving too, and those many conversations were not easy. This was a great act of love and mercy.
-Our pastor and his wife, Ray and Teresa, who came that first horrible night, as soon as the police called them. They did not say a word; just came into the living room where Lee, Heather and I were breaking hard, pulled up chairs and cried with us. What love. They just sat with us, and grieved like family. Their hearts broke with ours. That was so perfect, and so good, and so real.  And then he made the call to the leadership where Anna is this summer, to give them the news, so they could let her know what had happened. Josh was here with us within an hour or two, Anna by the next day. For the next week or two, Pastor Ray made every hard call that needed to be made- to the funeral home and to the detective who handled our son's death. He was like a loving, steady wall, standing between us and the world while we grappled with our loss and pain.
-The friends who drove through that first hard night, and the leaders who drove to meet them, to get Anna here as quickly as possible. They had her home to us, along with her dear boyfriend, by three the next morning.
-The leadership there, who brought in Anna and her boyfriend Zach, and gave them the horrible news privately, and surrounded them with compassion and love and prayer. It was so hard, her getting this worst news when she was far from home. It made a great difference, having such wonderful people supporting and helping her. This loss has been terrible for Zach, who really liked Michael and "clicked" with him right away, and for Heather's husband Nick- he really loves our family (and we love him!). The devastation is deep and very wide-spread. All of our family is shattered, and droves of people are heartbroken, for our sake and their own, over the loss of Michael. He touched so many lives.  
-The officer who came to tell us the horrible news, and the detective on-site- who showed us great compassion and humanity in such a terrible situation. What a difficult job they have!!! They carried it out in a way that helped us. Also, the property manager of the apartments where Michael lived- again, such simple human kindness and compassion. This helped so much.
-Something that might seem odd to others, but was the right thing for me: memorial jewelry. I now have three necklaces and a bracelet, each of which holds a small bit of Michael's ashes. (On Amazon, they were not at all expensive, so I was able to get more than one) As a mom, it is agony to let go of that child that I have carried and held and loved for twenty-seven years. For me, it was right and comforting to do this, so that when I want to, I can just have a bit of him with me. The bracelet is for something specific: any time Lee and I are going to go do something that I would have been excited to tell Michael about, I will wear the bracelet and take him along. I learned quickly that it is pretty weird for people if I tell them that my necklace contains our son's ashes, so I'll just wear them quietly, when my heart needs the comfort of having him close.
-Wearing mourning. I know it's not so much a thing nowadays, but it served an important purpose. When those in mourning wore black, everyone knew to just be extra gentle with them. This was a good thing. My clothes are quite often a reflection of my inner climate. For me, to wear a form of mourning- dark clothes, black-accented jewelry, felt really right, those first few weeks. It was an outward expression of my deep inner grief. I ordered three sets of small, black cross earrings. I wasn't sure if the girls would want them, but they both did. We just quietly started wearing them. Some people noticed and some didn't. That was not the important thing. It was just the right thing for us, for our hearts, to wear that quiet symbol of our sadness.
-Tree therapy- getting out for a walk or gentle hike in the woods. Just being among natural things, smelling the fragrance of pines, especially, heals my heart and mind. <3 The friends and family who made that possible. One of the best things- after that first excruciating week, Lee and the kids and I just went to the woods on Sunday afternoon. We all spread out and just breathed. We didn't talk. We took the dogs along- they were ecstatic. I just laid on a blanket with a hat over my face for probably forty minutes, and listened to the breeze and the quiet, and smelled the fragrant air. The sky was blue, and the sunshine warm; there were wildflowers in abundance, birds talking quietly amongst themselves, and butterflies. It was perfect; so restful and so healing.

I know there are more things that have helped, but my poor brain is tired and wants to be done. As you can see, the list of things that have helped far outweighs the list of things that were just hard. So much kindness and so many mercies.

The wretched, blessed mix of this journey.

This journey is such an uncomfortable mix of the mundane and the horribly difficult. It keeps me continually on guard, a little off-balance, because it never settles down to be just one or the other. Okay, at first it was just pure raw agony. Then, as the first jagged edges started to soften a bit, and details of everyday life crept in, this awkward side-by-side became my everyday.

This has led to surreal moments, like...one of those early days, when I was just trying to eat something, anything that sounded palatable, because otherwise I couldn't eat at all, and gummy bears were the only thing that I thought I could stand when lunchtime came around. So, yeah, eating gummy bears while shopping for cremation urns on Amazon. That has to be one of the most bizarre experiences of my entire life. That wild juxtaposition of horror and incredibly benign did tickle the dark side of my sense of humor. It's a grim sort of humor, that, but it does ease the heavy load a bit.

Other days are more like a week ago Friday, when I had a long, wonderful lunch with my friend Sara, then stopped by the post office to get stamps, and on the way home, swung by the funeral home to pick up our son's death certificates.

Yeah.

That is my current "normal."

It is anything but normal.

This past couple of days were another jumble of very painful and solidly good. My husband Lee and I drove over to the other side of Oregon (the green side; we live on the brown side of Oregon). The first night there, we went to the RV dealer, to put down a deposit on the pull-behind trailer that will be our future home. Huge deal. Big, scary, exciting, terrifying step toward that new horizon.

The next morning, we went to the internet store to close Michael's account. Because according to their policy, they simply will not do this over the phone. So, okay. Let's do this. We went in, and were greeted by an employee- very friendly young lady- who asked how they could help us.

"We need to close our son's account."

"Okay, we can do that. Do you have Power of Attorney, or...?"

"We have a death certificate."

"Oh, I'm so sorry. My condolences."

"Thank you."

When our turn came, another employee called my name, very cheery and upbeat and eager to help.

And then we have the same conversation, sort of.

"How can I help you today?"

And the employee's name is Michael. Of course it is.

I was still sort of holding it together.

"We need to close our son's account."

And I was done saying those words, so I just slid the certificate across the counter to him.

And he was lovely and kind, and just took care of it, but by this time, the cracks were starting to show and I was fighting tears.

These poor young people, having to help us do this terrible, painful thing.

We were done sooner than we thought, and I was breaking, so Lee suggested we go to a park in the area, and just walk for a while. That was perfect. The park has paths that wind through oak trees; a quiet oasis in the city, and in the midst of a hard day.

After our walk, I could breathe a little easier.

We then got to go see our eldest, Heather, and tour their new apartment (her hubby Nick was at work). What a joy she is, and what a blessed joy to have that happy, fun interlude in our day. We drove to get lunch together (Qdoba- I'm slightly obsessed with their brisket burrito bowls!) which was fun and tasty, then went back to their apartment. Lee and I took a short nap (heavy emotion is very tiring) while Heather curled up and read on their couch.

The next part of our day was the actual, very difficult reason for our trip across the mountains. We went to the house of one of Michael's very best friends- the first time we've met him and his wife and their kids. These were some of the amazing, amazing friends of his who undertook the horrible, gut-wrenching task of packing up his apartment for us, in those first awful, agonizing days.

This was a grace beyond the reach of gratitude- that some of the people who loved him best in all the world spent hours in his apartment, where he had ended his life just days before, packing up everything he owned. They took that incredibly hard road, so we did not have to drive across the state and do it ourselves. There are no human words for what that meant to us, and for what it spared us.

**TMI warning- but this is important to know.

If you end up walking a tragic road like ours, this is very important to know.

Let me put this as delicately as I can.

It is not the job of police to clean up the site of a death. They take evidence- anything related to the cause of death, and the coroner collects the body, but the rest stays just as it was.

Exactly as it was at the moment of his death.

And these amazing people, some of the best friends of his life, went back into that place of the greatest sadness, and dealt with his belongings.

And they got rid of anything that bore any signs of his death...so we would not have to see it. Which was another, unbelievable act of mercy.

They are incredible people, with huge, loving hearts.

They threw out perishables from the kitchen, packed up everything else, and put it in storage for us.

...which was the reason for our trip- to go collect our son's belongings and bring them home.

We went to the friend's house and picked up the things they had at the house, as well as the key for the storage unit. He led us to the storage place, and made sure we were able to get in the gate. He offered to stay and help, but we kind of wanted to do this alone.

Heather had the option to help or not help (we are committed to every member of our family having the freedom to do this in the way that works for them!), and she chose to come along and help.

Oh, this was not easy. These are the clothes of our son and her brother. Gifts we've given him. The sleeping bag his grandpa (my dad) gave to him. The one piece of art from his wall- a Blues Brothers poster. The quilt his grandma (Lee's mom) handmade as his high-school graduation gift. All his interests and hobbies; the things he loved- his life, all in pieces that we had to load into a trailer to bring home. This....was not easy. This was hard.

We really tried to be practical, to just get on with the task.

I did okay as we unloaded the storage unit.

And then I wasn't okay. So I walked away and cried. And then I went back to help.

Heather is an awesome packer. Somehow, we got all of his belongings into that little U-haul trailer.

The trailer. The trailer is a whole other story. A frustrating saga that dragged on and on as we searched for anyplace that had just one trailer we could rent for this sad task.

Once we had it loaded, we drove to the restaurant where we would meet up with these amazing friends of our son (one we'd met earlier; the other we met at the restaurant), and their families, and Heather's husband Nick, to have dinner together.

This was a restaurant we only know because of Michael. As Heather said, any time we were with him for a meal, we wanted him to pick the restaurant, because every place he took us to was just so good. The last time we'd been there, Heather and I met up with Michael for lunch, just last October.

It was a little tough, but mostly very, very good to gather in that place, with these friends who loved him so much, and who had gone so incredibly above-and-beyond to do what needed to be done in those hard, hard days.

It was so good to meet these guys, and their awesome wives, and their cute, cute kids who loved our son. It was so good to hear their stories of his huge heart and generous spirit; to hear how he was such a fun uncle to their kids, and always bought them awesome birthday gifts.

We talked about some of the hard things, too, which was important.

Now, we're home again. We've unloaded Michael's belongings into storage here in town, and the dogs are super happy that we're home.

And we're tired.

It bears repeating: grief is just exhausting.

So, that is what this journey is like right now: this jarring jumble of searingly painful and oddly normal and deeply good.

It is gummy bears and choosing an urn for the ashes of our son and brother.

It is meeting wonderful, very real people in the most painful circumstances, and being blessed by their love for our son, and sharing laughter and fighting tears, and giving heartfelt hugs to people we've just met and hoping that's okay, and trying to express gratitude that is really too deep for words.

This gets weird very quickly

Okay, so among the other surreal tasks on our plate right now is planning a "celebration of life" service for our Michael. So, okay, I'm still pondering just what music is right for this. I've had some good suggestions offered, but I'm still looking.

I mean, this is a pretty tricky challenge.

I want music that has some relevance to Michael's life, that will also be meaningful in some way to us and to others, but that won't be depressing, that won't be inappropriate for playing in church...and that I/we can stand to listen to.

So, this evening, I resorted to a Google search. "What song can I use for my son's funeral that won't be depressing."

Oh, the oddest things popped up at the top of the list of results.

#2 - Uplifting, happy funeral songs

.....


No, seriously?

Yes, that is the name of the list. "Uplifting, happy funeral songs." That has to be one of the oddest things I've ever read. It just doesn't...fit.

And their list? Nope.

I mean, a couple are okay, and one is a tune I'd actually already thought of.

But, really?

They range from the slightly bizarre- "Always Look on the Bright Side of Life" from Monty Python (which would probably have made Michael laugh heartily, but fails some of the other parameters)... to songs I definitely do not consider either "uplifting" or "happy"- more sentimental and slightly melancholy.

Then, there's the #1 result of my search, which is titled, "Best funeral songs to go out to."
This page is broken down into categories: sad songs, happy songs, funny songs, etc.

Their happy list does have one thing in common with the other one. Can you spot the similarity?

• Always Look on the Bright Side of Life – Monty Python’s Life of Brian
• Bring Me Sunshine – Morecambe and Wise
• Don’t Worry. Be Happy – Bobby McFerrin
• What a Wonderful World – Louis Armstrong
• You Are the Sunshine of My Life – Stevie Wonder

Yes, this is the list of "happy funeral songs."

It did not take me long to figure out that both lists originated in the UK, which might explain the appearance of "Bright Side of Life" on both. Again, I do see the dark humor of it, but not all of the lyrics pass muster on the "can I play it in church?" list.

And really? "Don't worry, be happy"??? I mean, I want something uplifting, but that's just weird. It is, after all, no matter that we call it a "celebration of life," the honoring of the memory of someone who has died. I just can't see Don't Worry, Be Happy being what I want to hear on that day. Also, while I do like "What a Wonderful World," it's just does not fit the mood right now.

#3 on the results? "The 20 Most Upbeat Songs About Death." 

I am not kidding!!!!

Before I go look at #3, I must say that #5 actually scares me a little- "15 Songs You Should Play At Your Funeral."  Really??? Now, if the deceased jumps up and starts belting out tunes or playing DJ, that would be one funeral nobody would ever forget!!!

Okay, now what are the "20 Most Upbeat Songs About Death?" ....

List subtitle: "Just because the subject matter is sad doesn't mean you can't rock it out."
     .....right....
Frank Sinatra "I'm going to live until I die"
Cutting Crew "I just died in your arms tonight"
    ...as they say- 80s Goth prom- how is this "upbeat"??!!!
Saves the Day "At Your Funeral"
Oingo Boingo "Dead Man's Party"

...this is a very, very bizarre list. I wonder how depressed a person would have to be, to find some of these upbeat.

Wow. This is such an odd list.

Everything from "Seasons in the Sun" to "Grandma Got Run Over by a Reindeer."
Blue Oyster Cult to Hank Williams.
"My Darling Clementine" to Billy Joel and Ke$ha.
and the final offering...
"Another One Bites the Dust."  ....right.

...oh wait. There's one more.
"Send me to heaven in a Glad bag."

Thank you, and goodnight.

No, really. That's the last song title on the list.

Well, at least this search has not reduced me to tears! I have been mystified, confused, amused and even slightly alarmed, but not plunged into sadness.

This just confirms one of my life mottos: People are weird!!!

...what I want

I just kind of want to be someplace beautiful and peaceful, with wildflowers and water, and the wind shushing through pine trees, where everything is just happy and calm, and my son is alive. I mean, that's not asking for too much, right?

Normal Days

I just had a lovely phone chat with my dear sister Shanna, and in the course of our conversation I said, "I should probably write on normal days, too." She also thought that would be a good idea.

It helps a great deal, to pour out my heart in the hardest moments, but that doesn't give the whole picture. I want this blog to be a true representation of this journey, and not just a relentless hammering on the agony of the loss.

So, here I am, having sort of a normal morning.

I'm tired, because (surprise) I'm not sleeping well. We're working on that, trying different things. It's getting a little better, but I'm still tired. Along with all the other reasons for this, there is also a small, sweet dog who just misses me and decides that I need to be up. I should probably ask Lee to shut our bedroom door after he gets up, so I can sleep as long as I need to.

The pain of losing Michael never goes away, but it does shift to the background. Last night, I was grieving hard, and it was raw and all over the place. Writing about it helped. Sleep helped, even though I didn't get the hours I would have liked. A new day helps.

There's this thing that I think is very important. I have felt for a long time that it is morally wrong to victimize others by forcing horror or pain on them that they did not choose. For example, I think that people should be allowed to choose how fully informed they want to be about heart-breaking issues, like child-trafficking, genocide, and the abuse of children and animals. Forcing horrifying details onto other people, in my opinion, can be a form of emotional abuse. We don't know the private wounding of others, or their inner fragility. I really think it is wrong to assault others with images or knowledge that will cause trauma.

I feel similarly about my journey with grief.

Just because I am walking this unbelievably painful road, that does not give me the right to beat other people up with my suffering. I don't get to be rude or horrid to others, just because my life got really hard. I need to walk through this in a way that feels good and right to me.

I don't want to victimize others with my pain.

So, truly, there are days that just feel normal. Today, oddly, is one of them. Oddly, in light of the depth of my grieving yesterday.

This morning, I'm really okay.
This is a normal day.
I'm going to go start physical therapy on my shoulder. I'll do laundry. I'll take the dogs for a walk.

I am profoundly grateful for every one of you who grieves with me, with us, and for every bit of love and concern, and every single prayer uttered on our behalf.

I want you to know that while this road is supremely hard, there are also really normal moments and normal days. We do ordinary things and have ordinary conversations. We smile and laugh. We walk the dogs and plan meals.

We still have normal days.