Fourth Deathiversary...Am I "fine?"

This fourth "deathiversary" was a good example of the awkwardness of grief wedged into the mundane.

For my hubby it was a workday, so he carried his sadness in his pocket and went about his day with necessary normalcy.

I had "cleared my decks" in preparation for these days of memory. With no appointments or plans, I left my heart all the room to feel however it wanted to feel about these days. 

There are two consecutive days that I mark each year; the day that our Michael took his life and the next day, when he was found by a friend who went to his home to see why he hadn't come to work.

In many ways, these days passed in completely normal ways. The sun shone, we ate meals, we took the dog out for potty walks. Also, I took a lawn chair up to the cemetery and hung out for a while. His ashes don't live there yet, but the headstone is in place. Aside from the cemetery time, anyone seeing me through most of either day would never have guessed it was a heavier day than most. It all looked very...normal.

And then there is the other side. It looks like any other day, but it also looks like this weary mom lying in bed, curled around a metal box packed with the crumbled bones of our beloved son, breaking my heart.

I rarely let the agony out to play.

Based on comments I've received, from well-meaning people who love me, I guess people think that if I'll just let the feelings out, they'll...I don't know...pass...or dissipate. And I'll be fine. Like if I just have one really good cry (as if I haven't!) then I can dust off my hands and...move on.

Here's the thing...there is no bottom to this pain. 

It's not walking through the fire...as if it has an exit or end that leads to the rest of life. It is living life, every day, in the fire. This is not something I pass through, to get to the rest of my life.

This IS the rest of my life! 

The. Rest. Of. My. Life...

...I will live with the very present, painful reality of the death of our child. That will never change. It will never go away. It will never be okay. It will never stop being permanently, intensely painful. No amount of grieving will change what is true- that our son is no longer alive.

Yes, I seem "fine" most of the time.

Also, I am always this intensely heartbroken, deep inside where most people do not see.

I just cannot go through life wearing my agony on the front of my face.

I don't stuff it out of sight and pretend it's not real. I am always fully aware of its presence, existing alongside everything else. I experience peace and fun and even delighted joy. 

And all of it is alongside this also-truth  of deep sadness.

Because I seem "fine" most of the time, it can seem to some people that maybe it's really not that bad. For those who wear all of their emotions openly, I can see how this could be confusing. This is not how I roll. My life has taught me to hold my true feelings in one place while functioning in another. This practice of compartmentalizing enabled me to hold onto my sanity in the wake of Michael's suicide. It makes it possible for me to function, and even to live a full and happy life, while also holding close the truth of my terrible sadness. This does give the impression that I am, somehow, fine, because I am not visibly in torment and can often speak of our loss calmly.

(Sidenote: Being "fine" takes a tremendous amount of energy. It's part of why I am often very tired.)

All appearances to the contrary, let me say...

Having our beloved Michael kill himself is always, in every single moment, waking or sleeping, the most shocking and agonizingly hideous truth of my entire life. 

It is horrible in ways I cannot even begin to explain. Always. Every moment.

Yes, I live with the matchless, blessed peace of God filling and healing my heart.

Also, having the peace of God does not mean not being sad!!!!

Even with the very real peace of God, it's not a one-or-the-other deal.

I have the peace of God. 

I am also very sad.

And that is okay.

 

A new, sharp edge to the stone of grief

I forget how much I am actually carrying, until I list it out.

It's a lot.

Top of the list: the loss of our child. Our son Michael died four years ago by suicide. I carry all of the intense grief and trauma that surrounds that.

Also on the list, though I, in the way of my family, am usually matter-of-fact about it:  my dad lying in a nursing home bed. My over-the-top, wildly energetic, exhaustingly enthusiastic dad, with his numerous interests and ceaseless font of words and ideas... lies quietly in a nursing home bed. On my visits, if he puts a couple of words together, it's a delightful moment and rare treat. The first time I visited him there, I made it through our time together, then broke down in the hallway as I left. It is so hard to see this vibrant man so quiet and still. Also...we are so grateful to still have him with us, and our times visiting him are sweet. But...because of the magnitude of my grief for our son, my deep sadness over my dad's aging process gets sidelined.

Except for moments like just happened, when the simplest thing can blindside me.

I was scrolling Instagram, avoiding the many things that I need and want to be getting done. I watched this brief, sweet video of a young woman giving her grandpa a coffee mug that says, "You put the great in Grandpa," to let him know she's having her first baby. 

I was smiling, and then the next moment I was crying. Sobbing, my heart breaking....for yet another moment our family will never get to have with my dad. Not the grandpa, surprised and delighted, excitedly hugging his grand-girl and saying how happy he is for her, as the whole family is gathered, celebrating this joyous moment together. 

We don't get to have that. Not with my dad.

My dad will never sing to his great-grandchildren as he did to his little girls. He will not take them fishing or camping, teach them how to tell a sparrow from a starling, or show them tiny wildflowers in the grass. He won't take them for hikes like he did with my children, or tell them stories from his interesting life. All of that....it's just...gone.

And with all of the things I've processed these past ten years, as his health first limited him to nearby towns, and then his town, and then his home, and now a bed in a nursing home...I had never thought of this...that someday I may have grandchildren, and if he's still here, they will only know him as a quiet, sometimes foggy man, lying in bed with Westerns playing on a muted TV.  It's some time since he was able to play an active role in my own kids' lives, and now I'm floored by the fact that he will have almost no part at all, if any, in the lives of their children. And that is breaking my heart.

Grief is like a hard stone, obsidian maybe, with many facets and sharp edges. You may be all-too-familiar with its shape and the way it hurts, but then it turns and a new edge cuts you in a fresh place. Every new cut hurts. Every fresh way you realize what is lost, whether through death or through changes brought on by age or circumstances, hurts all over again. 

Today, a sweet little Instagram post ripped my heart out. Grief is like that.

It is exactly like that. Sneaky. Hiding in unexpected places.

You are not alone.

The past week:

On Wednesday, we learned of some heartbreaking things happening in our family.

On Thursday, I heard of a serious situation in the life of a young person who is like family to me.

On Saturday, at four o'clock in the morning, I was driving a family member to the emergency room.

On Tuesday, we got the news that a long-time family friend had suddenly died.

And that a family member's brother had died.

All of this...in just one week.

It's a lot.

 

Last summer and into the Fall, we got news of a death among our family and friends at least once a week. In the space of six weeks, six women that I know lost their husbands. 

This constant news of death is heart-breaking and heavy.

Also...we're not unusual. 

If you're feeling weary...you're not alone. People speak of "compassion fatigue." There must also be such a thing as...tragedy fatigue. For many of us, these past two years have been a nearly non-stop stream of tragedy and heartbreak. 

News of a trauma or death is like taking a body blow. It hits, and leaves a mark. Some blows are lighter, while others bruise deeply. Over time, we heal from such blows. These past two years have been like being stuck in the ring with the world heavyweight boxing champ, in a bout where the bell never rings. For many of us, the blows just keep coming, with  little chance to catch our breath, let alone heal.

It is taking a toll. We are weary and sad and our hearts are very sore.

At the same time...this is the marrow of life; standing in the hard places with one another.

In the wake of our son's death three and a half years ago, people were lovingly careful of me. They did not come to me with sadness or hard news. I was deeply grateful for their thoughtfulness. I was carrying all I could carry. While I am still, always, devastated by our own loss, it is good to see that I have healed enough to walk with others in their pain. I am glad I wasn't sheltered from the news of pain and hard concern in the lives of people I love. I am glad to once again be someone a friend can come to, with a heavy heart, asking for prayer. It tells me that I am, in fact, healing.

If you are exhausted from the endless stream of bad news, you are, sadly, not alone.

Also- good news! You are not alone! My friend, you are not alone. 

We can either plod along in a stunned parade, staring blankly at our own inner wastelands, or we can put our arms around each other and walk together. I think of soldiers from some old-time war, making their way back from the Front. I picture one guy wounded in the leg, while the other has an arm in a sling and a bandage over his eyes. The one guy puts his arm around the shoulders of his friend, to take the weight from his injured leg. In return, he acts as the "eyes" for his friend, so he doesn't run into obstacles.They could each struggle along alone, but instead they make that trek together. 

Our "wounds," and the heavy loads we carry may be different, but we can help each other along. We can, at the very least, help each other to feel less alone. When we're able, we can put a shoulder under the burden of our friend and help bear the weight for a while. 

Sometimes, all we can carry is our own suffering.

Sometimes, we are able to help carry the suffering of another.

Always, it is good to remember that we are not alone.

We are not alone in our suffering and in our care for the suffering of others.

If you are in a hard and heavy place today, and feeling alone, may I just say...I see you there. 

My heart goes out to you, with all that you are carrying. 

I see you.

And I pray that the peace of God will gently gather you up and carry you.

I pray that you will feel his loving comfort, so tender with our wounded places.

I pray that you will know that you are seen and loved, and that you are not alone.

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.

The Juggling of Sorrow and Joy

 I've written about this awkward balancing act with sorrow and joy before, but it is on my mind again.

Yesterday was my husband's and my thirty-third wedding anniversary, which is a joyful accomplishment and testament to God's grace. We've walked through some hard years and are grateful for the healing God has done in our marriage. I savor the sweetness we have.

Yesterday also marks the last time I ever talked to our son Michael.

Three years ago, on our thirtieth anniversary, Michael called. I had a lovely visit with him. We talked for about forty minutes about all kinds of things. I loved hearing his enthusiasm over dreams and ideas, trips he wanted to take, new career possibilities and a cookbook he wanted to write. 

One week later, we got the devastating news that he had taken his life. 

I miss him so badly. 

I am so glad for that final conversation with our beloved son.

Also...that precious memory now casts a shadow over my joy on our wedding anniversary.

In the three years since our hearts were shattered at the news of Michael's death, one of the big things we've learned is the carrying of both sorrow and joy. Neither cancels out the other.

Sorrow cannot kill joy.

Joy does not magically "solve" sorrow.

Instead, we learned to hold both at the same time. 

The most joyous event on our family's horizon this year is the wedding of our youngest child. Her engagement was the big bright spot in the surreal mess that was 2020. Her fiance is a wonderful young man and they suit each other well. Their wedding will be a day of true joy. 

Also...her brother Michael should be here.

He should be there to stand in the line of groomsmen, along with our other son. Our older daughter is Maid of Honor. All of our children will be up there, except for Michael.

He should be there with his big laugh and love of celebrating.

He should be here today, as we move our daughter into the home she'll soon share with her new husband. Michael was great about showing up for moving days, and his strength was a huge help.

I am excited to help with the moving-in today. This is a fun and happy occasion. 

I am thrilled to celebrate our daughter's wedding next month. That will be a truly joyous day.

At the same time, I carry sorrow.

Michael should be here.

The Spear That No-one Sees

There is a spear shoved through my middle,
jagged, splintered, rusted, rough
skewering me to a moment in time:

The sober-eyed officer standing just inside our front door,
kind in his terrible duty.

"Michael has been found deceased...
It was suicide."

I am impaled, forever suspended
in the thick of that crushing moment.


A savage blade
shoved violently,
twisting and tearing,
through my heart's core.

And yet...

Because I seem so outwardly fine, so normal...

I move, talk, breathe, chat,
cook, smile,
write, love, laugh,
find joy in simple daily things...

Few may realize how,

...every moment of every day...

I still struggle to understand
how to live in a world

where our son is dead.


Sometimes,
even I forget

the jagged shaft
protruding
from my body;
it's heaviness and heft,
the relentless pressure
as it shoves aside my heart and lungs,
leaving me aching and short of breath.

Every moment.
Every breath.
Every beat of my heart.

In those rare moments,
I frown upon myself for being less,
not doing more.

Forgetting how
behind it all
sits Michael's mom,
shaking her head

...shaking...

Bewildered.
How can it be true?

Pierced to my bones
Frozen
Trapped in the echo

"Michael has been found deceased...
It was suicide."

Songs that help my heart

There's a playlist on my Apple music app that I turn to when my heart needs help. It starts with two beautiful, powerful songs that we sang at our son's memorial service. Because of the deeply personal connection to those songs, they usually move me to tears. This can be very healing and needed. Also, it's important that I not sink down that hole and vanish.

I built this playlist to meet my heart in that hard and tender place, and then to gently lead me back to a place of peace. As I listened to these songs last night, I thought they might be helpful to others.

Those first few songs take me to such a worshipful, healing place. I've added others that maintain that sense of love and worship. Here's the full list:

O Come to the Altar (Elevation Worship)
Reckless Love (Cory Asbury)
Thy Will (Hillary Scott & the Scott Family)
Do It Again (Elevation Worship)
There Was Jesus (Zach Williams & Dolly Parton)

{the whole album by Elevation Worship: Acoustic Sessions 2017}
Songs on the album:
-O Come to the Altar [again]
-Fullness
-Resurrecting
-Yahweh
-There Is A Cloud
-Yours (Glory and Praise)
-Overcome
-Here As In Heaven
-Mighty Cross
-Do It Again
-Here In the Presence

Songs from a different playlist that I'm thinking about adding because of how they breathe life to my heart:
Who You Say I Am (Hillsong Worship)
So Will I (Hillsong Worship)
Broken Vessels (Amazing Grace) (Hillsong Worship)
O Praise the Name (Anastasis) (Hillsong Worship)
Everything (Lauren Daigle)
Rescue (Lauren Daigle)
Fight Song/Amazing Grace (Piano Guys &Wasatch and District Pipe Band)

I hope you find something here that comforts and uplifts your heart.