The Joy and the Pain of It

I am a mess.

We are not doing Christmas “up” this year in any big way, but there are still cookies to bake, and a tree to decorate.  I have a few presents to wrap.  And our schools are open this week, so there is substituting.  To add some distraction to Christmas itself, we’ve invited neighbors over for Christmas Eve afternoon, so I have a small get-together to plan.  And then on Christmas Day itself I am flying to my sister’s, so there is a bag to pack.

All of this is fun and do-able.  Everybody figures out how to make it work.

But I also messed up my alarm clock, so I overslept today.  And I shattered a glass while I was decorating.  And my head hurts.  And I am actually in a downright grumpy mood.

Which surprises me.

No doubt the work of grieving never ends, but it is easy to underestimate the toll it takes.   Unpacking ornaments that celebrate Molly’s childhood, or visiting with the  college students of neighbors who are home for break, or listening to some of the holiday songs that are on my iPod only because Molly liked them are on some level nurturing activities.  Warm holiday moments.  But they are also reminders of how much is gone from my life.  

Forever.

Oprah’s Favorite Things

I’ve learned a lot from Oprah Winfrey.  I value her rock-solid belief in a bountiful universe.  I am inspired by her challenge to Live Your Best Life – and I sense that there is a divine hand in her life story.  She is the right person for a lot of people at the right time, and God is in all of that somewhere.

She is also a great gift-giver.

So this year, I entered her Favorite Things Sweepstakes Giveaway.  Every day for 12 days (think “12 Days of Christmas”) I went online and typed my entry for the chance to win over 70 gifts personally selected by Oprah and others in her network. 

 

With the best of intentions I’ve perused the gifts for weeks, sure that my sister would enjoy Cat Cora’s Ugg Slippers and my neighbor (who has four kids and no income) would enjoy the indulgence of the Egg-Shaped soaps.  Another neighbor, who is facing his first Christmas without his wife of 40 years, was going to benefit from some of the food items, and I was going to keep the bags.

I admit that I was going to keep the bags.

Is that the problem?   Is that why I didn’t win?  I was really looking forward to being the sensational giver that one simply cannot be when one is substitute teaching to supplement unemployment insurance.  I was looking forward to being able to make the grand gesture.  But I also wanted a little fun for myself.

I didn’t win.  That‘s the up and down of it, and I am oddly disappointed.  I always knew the odds were nil – surely hundreds of thousands entered.  And I am going to throw the open house anyway – it will simply be more of a potluck than an extravaganza.  No gift table required.

I don’t really believe in coincidence.  I am sure that the twelve winners are exactly who the twelve winners should have been.  I just wish that one of them could have been me.

Art

I am NOT an artist.  Far from it. 

But yesterday, somewhere between finishing up a school paper, cleaning up a dinner party and answering phones for public television, I spent some time with my art supplies. 

It was a curious hour and a half or so.  I started without inspiration – beyond the fact that I wanted to do something holiday related.  Picture me with an air of frustraton paging through holiday cookbooks and children’s books in a struggle to find something I might be able to work with.  I settled on Christmas stockings. 

Great.

And then, as I spent more time with the stockings, I realized I wanted to capture loss – and the unshakeable belief I have that death does not get the last word.  And in the process, for the first time, I understood art as meditation. 

Surprising.  Not planned.

A gift.

The Family Sing

I still enjoy the holidays. 

Over Thanksgiving we had a family sing-along.  Trust me, this was a You Tube enhanced event, completley spontaneous, with no leader but lots of energy.  It stated with the best of The Lion King, moved on to Mulan, tackled a bit of Rent and ended up with hymns and church songs. 

And oh, I loved it
.

I could hear my grandmother singing “Now Thank We All Our God” from her tiny parish pew in rural Illinois.  Grandma was not a good singer, but she sure belt out the hymns!  We spent a lot of time as kids at her big house on the river and her little church was the site of both her funeral and my parents’ wedding.   So many powerful memories in one song.

I was re-living Molly singing “Seasons of Love” with other girls during a high school performance.  It was such a great moment on the stage and I remember watching and hoping that she was sensing that she was part of something big and wonderful and special.  And I also remember a vague awareness that she was really not understanding how wonderful she was.

Lion King songs brought back the day that Molly and a cousin saw Lion King on Broadway.  We went to McDonald’s before the show (high class, right?) and had great seats for the performance.  Wonderful.

There are just three generations of us alive right now.  But the whole family was there to sing – in our memories, in our hearts, in our midst. 

And that’s why I still love the holidays.   The veil is very thin at this time of year.  We can almost touch the infinite.   I will hear my grandmother’s voice; I will hang my daughter’s ornaments.  And I will celebrate that love never dies and is never ever wasted.

Thanksgiving Stillness

So here we are at Thanksgiving.   We are spending time in Plam Springs, CA with my inlaws and it is paradise for sure.   This is a new tradition for us, something we have done only since Molly died, but it is fun and sustaining and a good break.  Perfect weather.  A pool and a hot tub.  Some board games with a glass of wine.   A complete departure from our East Coast lives.

There is a lot of quiet.  That will be remedied by the end of the week  when a dozen neices and nephews are expected to descend on us.  But until then, there is beauty and stillness and an invitation to literally sink in to peace.

Maybe I will find some peace here.  Peace is different than the confidence and happiness that comes from constant motion.  Peace implies that I can be still long enough to let the cacophony of doubts and memories and confusions that always accompany quiet have their place in my heart and then leave.

So here I am.  Quiet.  Available.  Listening.  And eager to let the stillness give way to tomorrow's 5K race followed by the trip to the hot tub and a great dinner.

Happy Thanksgiving.

Nightmares

The dreams have been coming.

Hangings.  Everywhere.  I wake to them.

And then I get up and live my life.  Most of the people I interact with on a daily basis would be shocked to know that my daughter died by suicide.  At work, folks don’t know me well and for the most part I function either somewhat anonymously or at least at a reasonable level of competence.  I don’t ooze grief.

But that doesn’t mean.  For one second.  That the dreams go away.  Or that I am somehow “over” this nightmare.

Molly’s suicide is part of me.  Forever.  But I am not going to give these dreams more of my life than they have already taken.

I love the 5 year old mastering the monkey bars, the 10 year old at ease on a horse, the 14 year old with such incredible music and drama skills, and the 16 year old who chose to leave this life.  I love them all.

Part of my story is plainly horrific and emerges in sleep, but Molly is special and loved and even sacred to me.   I will not be afraid of my own memories.

Thank You, Collin!

My nephew had the choice to celebrate his birthday with a weekend in New York City, or to spend the weekend with us.  He chose to spend the weekend with us.

I don’t think that he is old enough (11) to understand how he has honored us with his choice.   For him, we are a safe place where there are plenty of video games and not too many rules or restrictions.  I don’t think we’re a service project.

I do think that Collin’s choice to spend his birthday weekend with us is a huge affirmation.  It suggests that we are good with kids – fun to be around – a choice worth making.  I know that Molly saw us that way too – I really do;  I don’t think her death was in any way about us.  But it is incredibly special to know that young people continue to look up to us, to need us, to seek us out.  Our nieces and nephews, Molly's friends, our neighbors - young people are at the heart of our healing.  And we are grateful.

So this weekend I’ll be baking a lemon birthday cake, buying some balloons, and heading to the local adventure park.  Maybe we’ll go to Dave and Buster’s.  I know we’ll play lots of wii. 

Collin has voted with his birthday in our favor, and I can’t wait to make it a special and fun occasion for all of us.

Vegas

Just got back from Vegas. 

Vegas has a definite underside.  It is smoky and LOUD and I was there over Halloween, so it was also particularly garish.  Crude.  I enjoyed the Osmond shows, and Human Nature – the Motown group – is great too, but basically I don’t need Vegas.

Except that Frances loves it, and sometimes you just have to do what you have to do.   My grandmother used to say, after losing her husband less than 20 years into their marriage, that she often wished she had going fishing with him more.  A cousin who lost her husband when their children were very young is comforted by the fact that she went to many Nascar races with him – even though she could think of plenty of other things to do.

If there is one thing I know it is that life can change in an instant.

So, my style is to find ways to enjoy Vegas once a year or so…  and over the years I have done that.   The spas are wonderful, and minimally priced if you just settle in for the day and don’t get any treatments.  The restaurants are great – particularly if you go for lunch when prices are lower than evening menus.  And I gamble a bit too, especially with the new fancy slot machines they have these days.  I can find ways to have fun.

I don’t love Vegas.  I am always glad to come home.  But the reality is that I am also relatively happy to go, because I am spending time building memories (ask me about the Vegas Timeshare presentation sometime!) and I have learned, from painful experience, just how sustaining memories can be.

49 and Counting

Aging comes up in my mind quite a bit now as I prepare to turn 50 in a few months.  When I envisioned 50 from the vantage point of my younger self, I modeled my imaginings on the “wise old woman” archetype.  I am sure that I thought that I would be watching my young-adult daughter move into her life, working at the top of my career, and enjoying the financial benefits that come with a good paying job and the absence of tuition payments.

I don’t need to tell you that I am 0 for 3 on that list. 

So, I am forced – really forced – to come up with a new description of me at 50.  

Let’s see.  I am building a new career by starting all over at the very bottom of the aspirational ladder; substitute teacher is about as basic as you get.  And I am loving it.

I have to count pennies, but I am living debt free (except for a mortgage) and that feels honest and fair.  I am finding that I genuinely enjoy bargain hunting and that there is a lot to discover in local resale shops.

More than anything, the real me at 50 is not sure of a whole lot, pretty humble about things, and far more reluctant to pass judgment than I used to be.  I know that I wasn’t a perfect mom to Molly and that I made some mistakes.  I know that for the most part we are all just trying to do our best, and I have renewed patience for the stumbling around that we all do.

I dye my hair.  I run 5Ks.  I eat my vegetables and limit (to some extent) how much wine I drink.   I take my blood pressure medicine.

Turning 50 is just fine.  One of my new realities is that I am much more willing than I ever was before to take risks.  What is the worse that can happen?  I will die?  I may not be seeking death out, but in some ways I will welcome it; whatever comes next, Molly will be there leading the way. 

There are too many of us.

In my work as a substitute teacher, suicide comes up all the time.   Of course, I live with the grim residue of suicide every day, but the fact that it is such an ever present topic in our schools reminds me that I am not alone as a suicide survivor.   There are too many of us.

Tragically, a local high school student took his own life last week.  A freshman.  Our community is large – maybe ten high schools – and the only way that I heard about the boy'’s death was shocked chatter in a teacher’s lounge. 

There was no notice in the paper, no obituary, no public word. I looked.  Everything is very hush, hush.  I guess that’s pretty typical; we didn’t place a public announcement either.  The people that needed to know found out.  But I will also admit that Molly’s death felt like a personal failure and at the time the last thing we wanted was public scrutiny.  I think I feel a bit differently now; whatever else her death is, it is not a personal failure.

My heart goes out to the boy’s parents and I hope that they discover fairly quickly that there are many of us – living right here in their own community – who live everyday with this loss.  We are hidden and unsure about how to be publicly supportive.  But we are here.

This is not the first suicide in our schools and administrators do not shy away from the topic.   Suicide awareness posters are publicly displayed;   just today a speaker in a high school talked about his suicide attempt; bullying prevention is part of the required curriculum at all grade levels; administrators are taking the possibility of suicide very seriously.

Of course, awareness will never be enough – but it is an important place to start.  It shocks me that at one point I actually thought that it wouldn’t happen to me.  I knew it might – I just didn’t believe it could.  And I was wrong.  

A Visit to a Meeting

I will admit I was hesitant to attend the mental health information meeting.  While I knew I would draw some comfort from the speaker who lost her daughter to suicide (and I did), I walked in to the room reluctant to admit that my life had anything to do with mental illness.

If the event had simply been presentations by people impacted by mental illness, I would have been just fine and chalked the evening up as a success.  The problem for me - and I know I am not alone - is mental health professionals.

The one at this particular meeting was down right jolly.   "Mental health treatment works," she said. "There are medications to control mental illness."  As if it was that simple.  As if those of us who lost everything to the mental illness missed the magic medication that was going to fix everything up just perfectly.   She had lots of support groups to offer.   I wanted to ring her neck.  (Figuratively, but you get the idea.)

Dear Mental Health Professionals,  here are a few tips from some raw experience:

1) Please stop comparing mental illness to diabetes.  I am really tired of that one.  Diabetes is diagnosed through specific tests and has an accepted regimen of care that does not include drugs that are labeled as dangerous for children and adolescents.  

2) Do not tell me that mental health treatment works as a universal truth.  It does not.  Suggest that many people are helped by mental health care treatment. 

3) Talk therpay will work for some.  But if  mental illness has a physical genesis (like the ever present diabetes, for example) then talking can't be expected to result in a cure.  Acknowledge that while medications are available, there are risks associated with them that need to be carefully worked through with a doctor.

4) Draw a picture of mental health treatment in strak contrast to physical medical care.  The primary model of doctor runs tests, get results and gives patient medication does not exist in mental health. In fact, the model works in reverse.  Sort of.  There are no tests.    Tell people that; coach patients and their families on how to work most effectively within the system.

5) Advocate for funds for research.  Always. 

Cleaning out Toys

Every parent has to clean out their children’s childhood at some point; it is not a task unique to those of us who have lost a child.

At least that’s what I told myself today as we went through bags and bags of Molly’s things.

We knew what to do with the fabulous doll house and the Barbie collection.  There is a family in the neighborhood with three girls under the age of 7.  The young (and at the time childless) parents had been wonderful to Molly when she was in elementary school, trusting Molly to walk their two dogs and providing a friendly eye over Molly’s comings and goings.  It was fun to give their girls Molly’s “good stuff.”

In fact, if I have a regret, it is that we didn’t do this sooner.  Although the Barbies were carefully stored and the doll house was covered, they seemed a bit dusty – a bit worn down simply by sitting in a box.  Toys are meant to be played with.

While we were at it, we gave the girls one of several china tea sets that Molly was given as a young girl.   Molly was never the tea set type; hopefully the neighbor girls will use it!

And then there were books and DVDs and storage boxes and other miscellaneous things that we took to Goodwill.  And some of the stuff is just trash…  like the dress up clothes and the bean bag toys.   Then, there are a few things, like Molly’s horseback riding clothes, that we are going to try and sell on eBay.

My back hurts.  This was not an easy day.  But my spirit is okay.  Much as I tried, I couldn’t find Molly in all of her stuff.  She was not there.   But if one child’s day is a little brighter because of a new doll house and some Barbie clothes,  and if another child gets some great horseback riding clothes at a good price, I know that Molly would be pleased with that.  And then maybe, just maybe, I’ll be able to find Molly after all.

Stepping Out..

Although understanding that I am a suicide survivor is essential to understanding who I am, it is not something that I share easily.

I have not reached out in activism.  I have not gone to support groups.  Heck, I write this blog with a nod toward my own privacy.

So it is difficult to consider accepting an invitation to attend an event about mental illness and teen suicide.  Although the speakers will be parents who lost a teenager to suicide, and I will likely relate to everything they have to say, I hesitate.  Who else will be there? Will they know me? Will I feel exposed for having simply walked in to the room? 

Despite the tears that flow in even thinking about the possibility of exploring the grief of suicide in a public forum, I am drawn to the event.  I imagine myself anonymously sitting on some folding chair, not even interacting.  Wait a minute, though.  What if only ten people show up?  I would have to interact.  Can I risk it?

The idea that I would have anything in common with the topic of teen suicide is horrific.  I don’t even want to admit it to myself.  Somehow, showing up at this event would be a huge acknowledgement  that I am a parent who has lost a child to suicide.

Maybe it is time.

Living on the edge….

 

 

I do a pretty damn good job of functioning on a daily basis, if I do say so myself.  I head to work everyday.  I laugh.   I have fun.

And I keep myself busy.

The alternative to busy-ness is to replay Molly’s life and death over again and again in my mind.  And within the replays are recurring pauses: was her suicide my fault?  Could I have done anything differently?  Am I a good person?  Was I a good parent? 

Endless.

A brief visit to the edge of boredom is a prayer.  A moment of connection.  But beyond that moment is a burning anguish that cannot be quenched and surely has the power to consume me.

I will not be consumed.  Not today.

A week after Labor Day

There is no way to stretch the summer any further than this.  It is done.  And to put a word to it, the end of summer is depressing.

At least I am thinking it’s that end of summer that has me so down today.  Maybe it is the weather, too – a week of rain will take a toll on anyone’s spirit.    Take the rain, consider the earthquake, hurricane, and flooding we’ve endured over the last couple of weeks and top it off with the 9/11 coverage; end of the world jokes don’t seem that far fetched.

And, despite the fun of being back to work, there is the predictability of it too.  And the predictable part can press ruts right down into my soul.  Routine CAN be good.  I know that.  I just have to make friends with it.

People are asking things of me. Which is great. I am happy about that. But it is tough too, because there is a piece of me that does not want to be generous. I don’t want to put myself out there, meet new people, tell and re-tell my story. Much easier to simply hang out at my own pace in my own little world.

My semester starts in a week.  And my volunteer commitments are gearing up as well.  Everything is just that tad bit out of my control, signaling that summer days are over.

I know that I say that I am trying to make the most of my days.  And for the most part I am.  Just not this one.

Feeling Good/Feeling Guilty

For the most part, I am a happy person.  Perhaps a bit impatient, but for the most part, happy.  And I know that in the scheme of things, I am a lucky person too.

Even as I type those words, however, I feel compeled to edit myself, questioning how it could be possible for someone to have lost a teenager to suicide and still be happy or consder themselves lucky.

Except that it is possible.   I am sad at times, in tears at times, unable to even think about it  at times.  But I also feel happiness and recognize the many, many ways that I have been lucky.  Heck, I am Molly's mom and that is one of the highlights of my life.  So, yes.  I am lucky and happy. No edit required.

Back to School

When so many things don’t seem to work out, and so much of life seems to move well beyond Plan B or Plan C, I am beyond grateful when things DO actually work out and easily slip in to place. 

Today – the first day of school – I got called for a two week substituting job.  I actually can’t believe it.  I figured I would go another two weeks before I would get a call.  And I was okay with that.  I have books to read and meals to cook and workouts to do.  It’s not like I would have squandered the time.

But I am REALLY happy to be going back to work.

 

As I have looked forward to this fall, I have been trying to live out patience, figuring that if I do my best to be available, introduce myself to people and take care of myself then opportunities will come my way.  It has always sort of been that way with me, but to state the obvious, patience is much easier to live out if you don’t have to wait very long.

Getting this early assignment is also a little nod of affirmation to the fact that I am substitute teaching at all.  Maybe I am good at this.  Maybe this is a good path for me.

Maybe things will work out. 

The Family Picture

Dad is turning 75 this week and a modest celebration is planned, the centerpiece of which is likely to be the taking of a new family portrait to mark the occasion.

Molly was in the last family portrait.

I’ll smile for the camera and everything.  I’ll stand just where I am told and wear whatever I am asked to wear.  But I really don’t want a new family portrait.  I understand that “everyone” will be there and that it takes an enormous amount of effort to get us all in one place.   We should mark the occasion.

Make no mistake, however.  Everyone is actually not going to be there.  Without including Molly, I don’t know if I will ever consider this picture a “family” photo.  Even posing for it is going to be difficult.

And yet.  I have many family photos in my home, several of which are ancestral photos of relatives who had died before I was born.   I treasure the photos because they connect me to myself; I can get lost in studying the hairstyles, clothing choices and even the individual smiles of those who came before me.  I sense their courage and know something about how their lives played out after the photos were taken.

If anyone takes the time to make a study of our family photos over the last 50 years, the births and deaths, marriages and divorces, adoptions and assorted partnerships will be evident.  This new photo will be one in a long string of many, many comings and goings.

But in this moment for me, this next photo is a painful reminder of all that I have lost.  I imagine that an observer, 50 years from now, will easily sense how much I mourned for the girl who after almost 17 years suddenly does not appear in this next family photo.

An Encounter

Today I was stopped and asked for directions to a path I know well but is difficult to find.  The folks were in a van – and it was full – two adults and maybe five kids.  Clearly an observantly Jewish group. 

I knew how to get where they wanted to go, but I could tell my directions were making no sense.  I was trying to direct them to a small, unmarked path between two houses. 

So I suggested that they just let me in their car so that I could direct them.  No skin off my nose – it was the direction I was going and I enjoy the random encounter.   And no security risk for me either.  Please – a car full of kids?  I was fine.

It was awkward for a moment.  The man smiled and said, “Well you look like a good sort; Is this a set up or something?  Can I see what is in your purse?”  I reminded him that he had stopped me.  He was smiling the whole time, a bit uncomfortable but willing to go with it.  The ride was about 5 blocks.

I think they were all a bit relieved when I directed them to park and got out of their car.   I pointed out the path, walked away and did not look back.  As fast as we were connected, we were separated again, but I am so grateful that we all took the risk.  Beats GPS for a change.

I instinctively liked the people.  They had a great spirit about them.  I hope they had a wonderful walk.

The Elements

Two years before her death, Molly described herself in a letter that was hidden away in a pocket of a journal.  I'm sharing some excerpts of the letter below; it was intended to be read after her death.   The text gets at what her life was becoming, how difficult it was for her to pretend that it wasn’t out of control and why she was so stubborn about not seeking honest help.

Remember..   this was a kid who was functioning relatively well in the world.  She was playing field hockey and badminton.  She rode horseback.  She was in school plays.  She got good grades.   She was socially awkward, but was relatively good at relationships in a one on one setting.  She was able to be honest in a journal, but carefully hid the journals and did not share them.

… My mind confused me sometimes.  I was never sure about anything except the Elements.   I’ve never told anyone about the Elements.  We are not to be spoken of to anyone.  I am an Element.  I was sent to watch over a few people, and to look for the other three Elements.  We are neither good nor bad.  We are simply here to watch and decide this world’s fate.  As crazy as that sounds, it’s true… As the leader, it was my job to watch over the Elements while still living as normal life as possible….  I had a hard time balancing my Element and mortal life.  Supernatural beings and worlds have never been accepted in society.  That is why the Elements were kept secret.

I am a visitor, one who observes but does not change the mortal world.  I am justice.  I am power.  I am spirit.  I am your faithful and humble guardian Air.

What the Heck?

Call Randy
911264239109002
Deliver to Madison Street by 1 PM
Chicken noodle soup with roast beef or the side.  Hold the lemon juice. 
Call Michelle about “the Order.”
Arizona, Phoenix – 3 hours earlier.  DST doesn’t apply.



And then, Molly had gone over the writing with a big red pen…..”WHAT THE HECK”

It is as if she allowed herself to be caught up her own internal story – which at some points she knew was not real – and then when she came out of it and saw how real it was becoming to her, she was horrified.  Scared.  Alone.

To Those who Preside at Funerals

I am guessing, from having attended too many funerals lately (one of them today), that presiding at funerals is very, very difficult to do well.   At today's funeral, and I completely missed the point he was trying to make, the presider gave at least 5 minutes of remarks explaining that Santa Claus does not exist.  I am not kidding.

I have walked away from each recent funeral feeling like the presider completley missed the boat, offering prepared remarks that failed to capture either the essential qualities of the person who had died or the shared experience of the people assembled.

So I thought we might do a public service here and share helpful suggestions to those who preside at funerals.  If recent experience is any indicator, we can only help.   Here are some ideas to get us started.

• Admit that presiding at a funeral is a really tough gig.   It's okay to say that no matter how well planned the remarks or how practiced the solists, the service will never capture the life, the energy or the love mourners share for the person who died.
• Suggest that the funeral/gathering/memorial can be seen as a commisioning service of sorts.  Point out that those who survive are the ones to hold the life, the memory and the love of the person who died and that they hold that responsibility for the the rest of their lives.  Ask folks to think back on one way they want to live out their loved one's legacy.
• Remember the wide range of religious views present in many groups of mourners and make every attempt to respectfully welcome and make comfortable those of various faiths.
• Remind the mourners that, though they may not know each other, they all share a common bond in that they had a relationship with the person who died.   Note that the bonds that unite us one to another are infinite and eternal even when they are not obvious. 
• Comfort the immediate family but not too personally.  This is not the time to have an intimate conversation, for example, about how tough it will be to grow up without a dad (Yes, I have seen that too).

Those are my thoughts.  What are yours?

Molly’s Journals

Recently, I have been going through the journals that Molly kept during the last years of her life.

“Going through” the journals doesn’t really get at what the activity is; “mourning with the journals” describes the experience much better.

There are incredible gifts within the pages: notes about how much she loves her family and friends and the recognition that she has help to deal with her challenges.   There are days that I cling to those entries for sanity.

But, oh there is pain too.   She describes a “parallel world that coexists with my mind but not reality.”  Describing that parallel world, she writes about herself as “an agent part of a corporation called The Company.”  She notes that her boss is “Danny who I apparently love.”  She explains that The Company is “sometimes considered terrorists because we had an incident years ago that killed 3 civilians and 2 officers.”   She goes on to say that “I recently retired from the agency but am currently working with Danny to find a new president of the agency and watch the gang that killed Mark and others.”  Geesh.    The entry was written in pencil…   but later she had gone over it with red ink, noting “Yeah, I’m insane.”

In another entry she notes, “I wish I could get a terminal illness so I could live life to the fullest.”    In a list of prepared questions for her therapist (which I don’t think she ever asked) she included things like, “Do you think I’m some sort of supernatural/non-human being?  Partially?”  And also, “I’m capable of killing someone, does that make me crazy?” 

Molly describes herself this way, “I live in 2 worlds, does that make me crazy?  They clash, making me hyperactive, paranoid, depressed, untrusting, cruel, apathetic…  driven by my head not my heart.”

This is a child who played sports, was in plays, got good grades, was unfailingly kind to her parents and had some good friends.   This is a child who was challenging to raise at times, but was never in trouble, did not use alcohol or drugs and learned, quite early in life I think, to hide her real life experience.  These journals were never meant to be seen.

My deepest sadness comes from the realization that in some ways, I never really knew Molly.  I think its impossible to really know someone who won’t be known.  But it still hurts.  It really, really hurts. 

2:30

It was 2:30 this afternoon when I realized I had accomplished most of the things that I typically aspire to (but don’t generally complete) as my beginning-of-the-day routine on “work days.”  You know the drill:

Sleep.  Goodness knows I am SHOCKED by how late I am sleeping.  Check.

Delicious and healthy breakfast – complete with a warm cup of tea and actually sitting down at the kitchen table.  Check.

Work-out – and by this I mean some cardio and some stretches.  Today was a walk and some Wii.  Check.

Preparing food for the rest of the day.  Among other tasks:  grinding flax seeds, squeezing lemon and limes into a pitcher of water and a quick run to the store to pick up dinner.  Check.

Meditation.  I have the newish Deepak Chopra guided meditation cd and I am trying to work with that.  And it is hard for me to do.  1/2 Check.

Unpack the dishwasher.   Enough said.  Check.

Now, I feel very balanced for having accomplished all of this as I “started” my day, but let us be abundantly clear:  when I have to be in a classroom by 7 AM this fall,  this program that ends at about 2:30 PM (after shower and getting dressed)  is simply not going to work. 

And that is part of the challenge of vacations.  In being re-introduced to a pattern and a pace of life that actually makes sense, the clock ticks and we are thrown back in to such a cacophony of commitments, schedules and pressures that it is easy to forget what we really want to be about while we walk this earth.  

How will I ever make the transition to working again?

I am not going to tackle that right now, even though the question of how to maintain this vacation equilibrium is inherent in every aspect of my time off.  For today I am really grateful that my pace is my own.  Others will own it soon enough.

A Nature Hike

Molly’s friends were mature and generous with us after Molly died – and so were their parents.

One of those parents died yesterday. 

This is the third death to touch my life in the last six weeks and I am once again brought up short.  Experience doesn’t make it any easier to find the right words to say or the right gesture to put out there.  I find myself awed in the wake of mourning.

I have experienced mourning as sobbing…  as pain…  as confusion and loss.  But I have also, and this summer is one of those times, experienced mourning as inspiration.  I see – I know – that a devastating diagnosis can come at any time; I want to be assured that I have lived out my opportunities when my physical or mental capabilities wane.

So, yesterday, a really challenging hike.  A hike in honor of my friend who died.  A hike over rocks that were here thousands of years before we were born and will be there thousands of years after we are gone.  A hike to revel in the creativity of whoever it is that sustains us and a hike to be reminded that while nature does not promise safety, she ultimately does offer comfort.  

 

Nature will not blink at our death or our injury.  She has seen death before and she is big enough – vast enough – to hold it. 

A Quiet Spell

Quiet.   NOTHING happening.  After a summer of travel, engagement, family, learning and adventure my calendar is empty for the next two weeks. 

In theory this is a good thing.  Theoretically, I can exercise, eat well, clean, meditate, read, paint, catch up with friends.  I am doing some of all of that, and feel the better for it. 

But without the plane to catch or the guest to entertain or the hostess to be just that much more pleasant for, my first thoughts of the day are not a joyous exclamation of “This is the the day the Lord has made, let us rejoice and be glad in it.”  No, my thoughts go more along the lines of, “How in the hell do I fill this day?”  Turns out that even with plenty of interests, days can be very long.

Mourning creeps in to these quiet days.  Self blame hides in the corners.  To some extent, I can welcome them – the self-pity, the blame the loss.  They are welcome to visit – but they cannot stay.

And that’s the challenge, isn’t it?   Having opened the door for overwhelming sadness and confusion – who require no invitation -  how do I gracefully suggest that they move on? 

My plan for today?  A visit to our local thrift store, a run and maybe I’ll try a new recipe tonight.  Tomorrow, I am hiking with some neighbors.    And that’s as far as I have it planned – because as challenging as quiet spell is, I sense that there are gifts here for me that I don’t want to squander in meaningless scheduling.

Bring on the quiet.  I am ready.

Thin

Molly was in my dreams last night…  ill, suffering, confused.   But alive.  Which is not that common of an occurrence for me; maybe 10 times in two and a half years Molly has visited my dreams. 

And then, this morning, in my ritualistic trolling through Facebook,  I have two completely independent inquiries from Molly’s childhood friends.  One of them, I imagine, knows that Molly has died.  One of them probably does not.  It has been years – many years – since I have interacted with either one.

I welcome the dreams.  And though I never know quite how to respond,  I am flattered by the childhood friends reaching out.  But I am really caught up in the synchronicity.

Why is all of this happening today?  At the same time?  What energy field has shifted that we are, independently, caught up in Molly?   Where is that thin surface that opened up for just a brief time?  I want to find it… put my hand to the veil…  say hello.  

Forgiving Myself

Did I listen to Molly as well as I should of?  No.

Did I understand the clues she was dropping about her suffering?  No.  Did I take the time to attempt to imagine what she might be experiencing?   Not really.

Did my pride in her many – many – accomplishments blind me to her mounting disintegration?   For a long time, it did.

Did I really understand – as opposed to know – that mental illness is potentially fatal?  Absolutely not.

And yet. 

Did I love her and give her everything I knew how to give?  Yes.  And did she love me?  Yes, again.

Did we have fun together and laugh and make wonderful memories?  We did.

Did she learn and grow and travel and experience the world?  In spades.

Did she love, and was she loved?  Absolutely.

I gave everything I knew how to give for 17 years…  and she returned those gifts with love and humor.  I was not perfect, but I did not cause her death and I do not hold myself responsible for it. 

There is pain in looking back with hindsight, because I see things differently now.  I know that in calling my attention to a news story about a girl we didn’t know who died in a very unusual car accident, Molly was trying to tell me something.  In insisting that she would not be able to go to a good friend’s graduation party (with no good reason), Molly was dropping a hint that I couldn’t hear.   There was another hint when she took so much comfort in learning that there was mental illness in her biological history; maybe I should have pursued that more.

I can see – it’s like a magnifying glass – that I was not perfect.  And I forgive myself for that.  

Visiting Portland

Why travel?   Having just returned to the east coast from a whirlwind trip to Portland, OR, I think it’s a valid question.  Cross country travel wears you down – body, mind and soul – in somewhat the same fashion that I imagine running a marathon does.  Not that I would know.

Travel is exhausting.  It is expensive.  It is uncomfortable and risky.  Yesterday, I travelled through six airports; if you want reviews on airports amenities, I am your girl.

And yet.  By traveling to Portland I was able to reconnect with a dear friend, find some inspiration in the landscape, and live outside of my own ruts and routines for awhile.  I saw myself strong: able to tackle a challenging hike, strike up conversations with unfamiliar people and make my way through airports well enough to get where I was going without breaking down in  heart-wrenching sobs.

My heart and mind were expanded just a bit on this trip, and while home is familiar,  as I rest, I see home and my life here through slightly different eyes.  And isn’t that the challenge of living after Molly’s death?  I need to build a new life out of the familiar; I need to evaluate previous routines and develop new ones.  I need so see myself in new situations and recognize my own strength.

So, I travel to challenge myself into a unknown future and  I am oh so glad that I went to Portland.

Born to Be Wild

Today was a cry in the shower kind of day.   A day that takes you by surprise, overwhelming you with mourning and confusion, grief, guilt, loss, uselessness.

That kind of day.

It was an IMAX movie with my nephews that set me off:  a simple nature story of orphaned animals being cared for, loved and then released into the wild.  I know I don't have to explain the connections.  You get it.

There are pieces of my life that are a horror story.  I have lived through a nightmare come to life.  I know I am not unique in that, and usually I am resilient enough to really celebrate  being alive while attempting to seek out and live some sacred purpose.

Today I don't feel worthy enough to have been given a purpose, let alone strong enough to live one out.  It's a temporary feeling; I know I will emerge from this.  But it is my reality today.  My entire reality.

Life in the 1800s

I wish I could have stopped my daughter’s suicide.  If I could have stopped her from hanging herself, even if I didn’t succeed, it would mean that parents have the power to keep their children who are struggling with mental illness alive.

Parents don’t have that kind of power.

Before antibiotics and immunizations and public health awareness, the death of a child was a tragic, but commonplace event.  It was so commonplace as to border on the expected, and families had many, many children with the hope that at least some would survive.

A family living in the United States in the 1800s would not have understood that their dying child had a condition curable with a round of penicillin; indeed, penicillin was yet to be invented.  Whatever else that family felt upon the death of their child, it is easy to imagine that guilt was not part of the equation. 

A brief 200 years later and we are less humble in the face of illness.  We expect to be able to predict illness, recognize it, categorize it, study it on the internet and subject ourselves to a treatment to fix it.  We are exceedingly fortunate that this modern expectation is realistic for a broad range of ailments that used to kill people by the thousands.

But we, whose lives are touched by suicide, are still that family living in the 1800s.  We don’t know what to hope for, we are humbled by the power of disease, and we grieve deeply.  We also know – even as we struggle to believe – that we are not at fault.

The doctors and scientists working on mental illness today are pioneers that deserve our support.  They are making progress every day.  But mental illness is still - too often - a fatal disease that whispers through a brain, takes root, and destroys all in its path.

And parents are essentially powerless, but to love,  in the face of the fury.

   

Visiting The Beach

Frances and I had some gas in the car and a place to stay, so we drove to the beach for the weekend. 

The beach holds fond memories for us.  We would spend weeks there with friends when Molly was in preschool.   We know where the grocery store is, have a favorite place to buy caramel corn, and prefer a particular beach-front shop for coffee in the morning.  It is familiar.

Returning to familiar places is tricky.  There – right there – is the playground Molly used to play on.  Remember how she dominated on the monkey bars?  And gee, those steps?  Didn’t we take a picture of all the kids wearing their tye dyed t-shirts sitting on those steps?  I sure hope the owners got the dye off the driveway;  I don’t think we managed to clean all of it up.

But that nostalgia for time gone by was part of the deal from the beginning.  Our remembrances are tinged with a particular loss, but all of the parents from those trips taken 15 years ago are experiencing waves of nostalgia.   That period of our lives is over; none of our children are still playing on the monkey bars. 

Frances and I had a good time.  We toasted each other and time gone by.  There was comfort in the familiar and while I won’t say that we necessarily felt Molly’s presence, we knew she had been there and been happy.  And that was enough.

Tools for Survival...

After Molly's death by suicide, some of our practical tools for survival were.....

• Travel.   We left our home town for a brief trip with a couple of friends a few days after the memorial service.  We were able to laugh (yes, laugh) and sleep  and reconnect and cry.  The unfamiliar surroundings were good therapy for our shockingly unfamiliar lives.
• Going back to work. Frances went back to work pretty quickly; I took a month off.  It was important for both of us to reconnect as much as possible with our typical routines.
• Saying Yes.  We welcomed any and all support, invitations and offerings even if we didn't think they were necessary.  And we still do.

Have you lost a loved one?  What have your tools for survival been? 

Musings on Prince Chalres

I am part of the Prince Charles Generation.  Do you know what I mean? 

The Queen has been reigning FOREVER, and shows no sign of giving up her job.  And at the same time, there is worldwide excitement about William and Catherine; if their recent North American trip is any indicator – and I think it is – the young couple have become hugely popular on the international stage. 

And then there is Charles.  With his son well positioned to become King and his mother doing just fine as Queen, thank you very much,  Charles has, in the hearts of many, been passed over.

Many of us have been passed over.  Our bosses won’t quit and the youngsters coming on board with their high-tech skills and their multi-cultural comfort are becoming the go-to people. 

As a card-holding member of Generation Charles I am perfectly happy to let the young folks do their thing (as if anyone could stop them anyway).   Let the under 40s  black-tie dinner attend, red carpet romp and fund raiser support. 

Looking at my own life, I know I need to step into a new type of leadership: a leadership defined by influence rather than position.  Influence, which is ours for the taking,  flows from relationships, character and attitude.  This summer I have been thinking about cultivating a leadership of influence this way:

• Appearance still matters.  Beauty queen looks are not required, but a healthy, groomed appearance and stylish, well fitting clothes go a long way toward enhancing influence.  (Hence, I am overdoing the exercise and can hardly move.)
• Zest plus wisdom is the winning combination:  Maybe its karaoke, perhaps skydiving, or even trying a new recipe based on a vegetable we’ve never heard of.  Influence is sustained by daring to be adventurous and young at heart,  while at the same time trusting the lessons inherent in our own life experience.   (I can report that I tried league Badminton for the first time this week!).
• Young people are cool.  From travelling with undergraduates in Paris to keeping up with my daughter’s friends, I can attest to the fact that the current generation of young people is fun to be around and doesn’t really see age.  They have been raised with so much diversity that age alone does not really phase them.   Stoginess phases them; age, not so much.   (To stay current with my nephew I wrote him a note today.  With a stamp and everything.  The young matter.)

Looking ahead, the face of leadership is going to be younger than we are, but the power behind the leader is likely to be from the Charles Generation.  We won’t be mentoring the younger folks as much as we’ll be working with them and offering guidance and support when it is requested.   We’ll have huge influence and we will know it.    (See Charles, Prince of Wales)

Paris Revisited

Ah, Paris.

How amazing to spend 10 days studying there.  There was enough of a “school” experience to keep loneliness at bay and enough of an “individual” experience to test my ability to stand on my own two feet.   Perfect.  Here are some of my take-aways: probably not what the professors had in mind, but true none the less.

1) Iceland is a fascinating place, but Iceland Air is tricky.  Iceland seems like a great country, and if Al Gore is right and global warming is upon us, Iceland may be one of the first casualties.  I’d visit soon if it is on your list. 

I guess I don’t blame Iceland for second guessing  TSA screening and requiring us all to be rescreened before we changed planes in Reykjavik (though I noted that Iceland does accept French screening; we were not rescreened on the return).  And I was okay – sort of – with being taken in to a private room for “random security screening”   in Iceland despite the fact that my plane was delayed and waiting for me.  It was not okay when there were no Iceland Air ground personnel in Paris and 250 people had to be rebooked due to a broken aircraft.   I would think twice before flying them again.

2)  The headsets in art museums are worth it.   They seem like just one more way to get tourist money, but the commentaries really make paintings come alive.  The Louvre and the Orsay are overwhelming enough – cough up the extra euros for some professional assistance.

3)  The current college aged students are really good people.  Most of the students on my trip were undergraduates.  Yes, there were some episodes with drinking too much (them, not me).  And yes, they tired quickly of museums.  But, they welcomed me and they embraced me and they invited me to lunch. 

 

4)  Americans are big and loud.   It was embarrassing but true.  We got “shushed” a lot and probably deserved it.  And on balance, we were much bigger than the Europeans.  All of the food and drink portions were smaller than I am used to, and no one was coming around in an apron with free refills of anything. There is a lesson there, no doubt. 

Overall, I loved having a room of my own, navigating the subways by myself and having the time to really sink in to such a vibrant city. 

The trip was exhausting in that everything everyday was new: the people, the experiences, the places, the expectations.   I was happy to come home.  I would happily go again.  And I am so glad that I stepped out of my comfort zone – just the smallest bit – and went.

Summer Vacation

I am really and truly unemployed for the summer.  No substitute teaching calls, no consulting gig and no school either. 

No excuses.

This week, I have felt unduly compelled to clean out kitchen cabinets, run a 5K, lift weights, shop at a farmers market (eat local!), hang out at the pool (vitamin D!) and read the Oprah Magazine (twice!).

This time off is hard-won and much appreciated.  I don’t want to squander it.

And more importantly,  I want to prove to myself that I can do this.  I have always used the excuse of my work/parenting schedule to explain why I haven’t eaten thoughtfully, exercised regularly, or made the most of myself. 

Excuses gone. 

It’s either live this summer to the max, or come to terms with the fact that I am a lazy slob!

Mourning with tears… and laughter

I may lose my readers over this one, but I am just going to spit it out and invite you to comment if you disagree.  We can disagree, can’t we?

I have attended two funerals this week and over the last two years I have done a lot of thinking about how I want to respond to the challenge that death brings to those left behind.  I know that I can't cry endlessly and continually relive these death experiences and call that living.

To be harshly realistic,  the death of a loved one is a commonplace event.  It happens every day in any number of ways to an endless variety of people.  Death does not seek us out uniquely; rather, death seeks us out universally.  No matter what PR firms may say in pharmaceutical ads, the human death rate is 100%. 

Whatever else the experience is, the loss of someone through death is  a call to live more fully and more boldly than we have ever lived before.   The experience essentially demands transformation.

Don’t get me wrong.   Death is sad and tragic and life-altering for those left behind.  We need to mourn.  But mourning is best described, I think, as the work it takes to build a new life.  Some of that work is tears.  Some of that work – a good deal of it, in fact – is laughter.