With all that has happened - losing Christina - I feel like I have been thrown into my worst nightmare of being tossed into a black, churning pool of water and cannot swim. Drowning. My worst fear. Just when I come up for air and feel like I just might make it, I find myself pulled under. I cannot see and cannot tell which way is up. That is what grief has been like for me. I am out of my element and worry that I will not be able to save myself.
But perhaps...maybe...I am learning to swim through the grief, pain, regret, guilt, and sorrow. I've been reading a lot and that always helps me. But I still find myself shocked that I must become knowledgeable about the grieving process and losing someone to suicide. Although I've always worried about losing a child of mine in a tragic way, and although I had often worried about Christina killing herself because of her chronic struggle with her emotions, even then...even when I worried, I never truly thought something like this would really happen. Or perhaps, I never allowed myself to believe it. Every mother's nightmare, to have to bury her own child.
Yet, here I am, learning, reading, processing, assimilating. Sometimes what frightens me the most is just how prevalent suicide really is. Knowing that I am not alone offers some comfort, but also adds to my pain: empathic pain. Pain on behalf of all the other moms and dads, siblings and children who have lost a loved one this way.
I've been through many, many rough spots in my life. I have dealt with having my heart broken, living in poverty, and losing my home. I have survived being sexually abused as an adolescent and finding out that two of my six children were sexually abused. I have mourned the loss of my hometown, my youth, and have survived two broken marriages. I have wrestled with child abuse, toxic faith, and depression. And yet, every time I was reduced to being nothing more than a wounded puddle on the floor, I somehow found the will and determination to pick myself up and try again.
Yet, in spite of all the previous traumas, nothing seems to compare to this. I will never, ever be able to remove that image from my memory of her lifeless body, still warm, but clearly void, hanging in her room. And I wonder: Can I do it yet again? Can I find the willpower and determination to overcome, to heal, to rise above, to accomplish restoration, and to move forward? Honestly, I believe I can, and I will. Somehow. I remind myself that I have five other children - and ten grandchildren - even though right now, the only one I can think of is Christina. I remind myself that I am at the threshold of starting to work on my master's degree and have vocational dreams to pursue. I remind myself that Life IS worth living, even while wishing Christina could've felt the same way. Somehow, in spite of being tossed overboard, I am learning to swim and am struggling defiantly to stay afloat. If I can survive this, surely there will be nothing left that I cannot do. Surely there will be no roadblock that I cannot plough through. Surely there will never be a wall to high for me to climb.
And so I continue to make my attempts to surface and take a life-saving breath. Yes, I still plunge into the depths of despair from time to time (as I did Sunday); but they are temporary submersions. As I continue to read and consult with other parents who have lost children via suicide, I get support and encouragement that although this is hard - very, very hard - it is not impossible.
Look: I see the shoreline. I will be there soon.
Showing posts with label losing a grown child. Show all posts
Showing posts with label losing a grown child. Show all posts
Tuesday, July 5, 2011
Sunday, June 26, 2011
FOREVER CHANGED
It's been less than six weeks since Christina's been gone. I'm still at the beginning of the grieving process, and still assimilating her absence. So many thoughts race through my mind every conscious moment of each day about what this all means in the Big Scheme of Things.
I wish I believed in Heaven. What a comfort that would be to trust that there was a God that would bring me to Heaven upon dying where I would one day be reunited with my daughter. But I don't. I can't. I want to, but I can't. For all I know, we simply cease to exist upon death. But how much nicer it would feel to be comforted by a belief that I'd see her again. So I am desperately seeking answers about the afterlife; I've become obsessed with the paranormal. Can I communicate with her and her with me? Will it help if I create an altar in her honor and light a candle? If I sit by her gravesite, will she know I am there? Does she "see" all of us? Is she aware of how deeply and profoundly she is missed? Is that really her speaking through the Tarot cards? Was that unexpected chilly breeze I felt on my back while doing the dishes her? Or, when Michelle and I were sitting at the kitchen table talking about her and the light began to flicker and the bulb suddenly burnt out - was THAT her??
Then there are the thoughts about how this has changed me. I am not who I was when I woke up on May 18th. I was, that morning, thrust into a new identity: A mother who has lost a child, a suicide survivor, a grief-stricken individual. How can I ever be who I was prior to her leaving: she took part of me with her.
Some say I will become stronger as a result of this trauma. I believe that is likely. But I may also become somehow less than I once was, since part of me is forever gone. I certainly FEEL like less. A part of me is missing. I feel distant from Life right now, as if part of me is truly there, on the Other Side, with her. Part of me died with her. If she had only known...
Some say I will be able to help others as a result of this experience. I believe that is likely too: as a grief counselor, as a crisis counselor, as the founder and facilitator of a grief/suicide survivor support group, as an author of a book...all of those are potentials. But it's hard to be excited about those opportunities because they are not worth losing Christina. Still, if I can save just one life as a result, Christina will have indirectly been the reason.
I am forever changed because I am now so painfully aware of just how devastating a suicide can be. There was a time when I felt it was a human right to take one's own life. But now...now I am not so convinced. Sure, those who are terminally ill seem to deserve the right to a dignified death (Dr. Kevorkian-style). But that is not really the same as suicide...is it??
I am frightened by the statistics:
* There is one suicide every 15 minutes in the United States.
* It's the 11th leading cause of death.
* Slightly more than HALF of all U.S. suicides are done with firearms.
* Some say there are about 25 attempted suicides for every suicide death.
* There are an estimated 6 survivors for every completed suicide, which means that in the U.S., there are currently about 4.6 million people who have lost a loved one to a suicidal death.
- Taken from the American Association of Suicidology (http://www.suicidology.org/) -
So yes, I am forever changed, with part of me forever deleted, and with a new facet to my identity. I want to survive. I want to feel joy and happiness again some day. I want to reach out and help others, some day, in honor of my daughter. But for right now, I am just a grief-stricken mom, overcome by morbid intruding images of that last day with her, and forcing myself to smile and interact with my still-present grown children and grandchildren. I am forcing myself to get out of my bed and into the sunshine of the day. I am forcing myself to face each day, one moment at a time. In fact, I am forcing myself to behave as if I am alive, because regardless of feeling like losing her has killed me, it has not; I am very much alive - but still very much in pain. I am forever changed.
I wish I believed in Heaven. What a comfort that would be to trust that there was a God that would bring me to Heaven upon dying where I would one day be reunited with my daughter. But I don't. I can't. I want to, but I can't. For all I know, we simply cease to exist upon death. But how much nicer it would feel to be comforted by a belief that I'd see her again. So I am desperately seeking answers about the afterlife; I've become obsessed with the paranormal. Can I communicate with her and her with me? Will it help if I create an altar in her honor and light a candle? If I sit by her gravesite, will she know I am there? Does she "see" all of us? Is she aware of how deeply and profoundly she is missed? Is that really her speaking through the Tarot cards? Was that unexpected chilly breeze I felt on my back while doing the dishes her? Or, when Michelle and I were sitting at the kitchen table talking about her and the light began to flicker and the bulb suddenly burnt out - was THAT her??
Then there are the thoughts about how this has changed me. I am not who I was when I woke up on May 18th. I was, that morning, thrust into a new identity: A mother who has lost a child, a suicide survivor, a grief-stricken individual. How can I ever be who I was prior to her leaving: she took part of me with her.
Some say I will become stronger as a result of this trauma. I believe that is likely. But I may also become somehow less than I once was, since part of me is forever gone. I certainly FEEL like less. A part of me is missing. I feel distant from Life right now, as if part of me is truly there, on the Other Side, with her. Part of me died with her. If she had only known...
Some say I will be able to help others as a result of this experience. I believe that is likely too: as a grief counselor, as a crisis counselor, as the founder and facilitator of a grief/suicide survivor support group, as an author of a book...all of those are potentials. But it's hard to be excited about those opportunities because they are not worth losing Christina. Still, if I can save just one life as a result, Christina will have indirectly been the reason.
I am forever changed because I am now so painfully aware of just how devastating a suicide can be. There was a time when I felt it was a human right to take one's own life. But now...now I am not so convinced. Sure, those who are terminally ill seem to deserve the right to a dignified death (Dr. Kevorkian-style). But that is not really the same as suicide...is it??
I am frightened by the statistics:
* There is one suicide every 15 minutes in the United States.
* It's the 11th leading cause of death.
* Slightly more than HALF of all U.S. suicides are done with firearms.
* Some say there are about 25 attempted suicides for every suicide death.
* There are an estimated 6 survivors for every completed suicide, which means that in the U.S., there are currently about 4.6 million people who have lost a loved one to a suicidal death.
- Taken from the American Association of Suicidology (http://www.suicidology.org/) -
So yes, I am forever changed, with part of me forever deleted, and with a new facet to my identity. I want to survive. I want to feel joy and happiness again some day. I want to reach out and help others, some day, in honor of my daughter. But for right now, I am just a grief-stricken mom, overcome by morbid intruding images of that last day with her, and forcing myself to smile and interact with my still-present grown children and grandchildren. I am forcing myself to get out of my bed and into the sunshine of the day. I am forcing myself to face each day, one moment at a time. In fact, I am forcing myself to behave as if I am alive, because regardless of feeling like losing her has killed me, it has not; I am very much alive - but still very much in pain. I am forever changed.
Saturday, May 21, 2011
LOSING CHRISTINA
LOSING CHRISTINA
by Ruth Martinez on Sunday, May 22, 2011 at 12:13am
WARNING: FAMILY MEMBERS SHOULD PROBABLY NOT READ THIS BECAUSE IT CONTAINS SOME GRAPHIC DESCRIPTIONS OF "THAT MORNING."
Writing is the only way I know of that helps me process and release my emotions when they overwhelm me, and so I must write about losing Christina.
In some ways, I lost Christina long ago. She died just the other day at the young age of twenty-three, but her struggle with Life and her recurring bouts of sadness and despair began when she was an adolescent, entering her teen years. At first, it seemed like normal teenage angst. It will pass, I assured myself. Besides, our household and family life at the time was stressed and perhaps even dysfunctional. So I let it slide, often frustrated by her impulsivity and extreme emotions.
She said she felt unloved and felt that I treated her siblings better than I treated her. I remember one therapy session she had in particular. Her therapist called me into their session and asked me if I felt I treated all my children the same. I answered, "No. I do not treat them all the same. In fact, I cannot treat them all the same because they are all different and unique individuals of different ages; therefore, while I do not treat them the same, I believe I treat them equally and appropriately, based on who they are, taking their ages, levels of maturity, individual needs, and personalities into consideration." "Wow," she said, "Good answer."
It is no secret that Christina put those who loved her most through hell at times. She could be verbally vicious and emotionally volatile. Instead of accepting hugs, advice, and words of encouragement when she was distraught, she would lash out, push us away, or say such hateful, hurtful things that we would retreat and give up.
When Christina WAS in a good mood, I would often jump on the opportunity to encourage her to find a passion to attach herself to - a goal, a focus, a purpose. But there was always a sense of walking on eggshells because she could quickly and without warning interpret my advice or encouragement as "telling her what to do." She was extremely pessimistic, so the smallest bump in the road would be proof that the world was against her.
I hoped that when she became a mother she would be infused with the joy of being loved unconditionally by her son...and then by her daughter. While it is true that she loved her children deeply, they often saw her at her worst. She admitted to me on several occassions that she KNEW her moods were extreme, but that as much as she wanted to, and as much as she tried, she could not control her thought, emotions, or extreme behavior - they controlled her. And she hated that part of herself. I encouraged her to lean upon the extended family in the household when she felt like that, but instead, she resented our "interference" with her parenting.
The morning she took her life was like no other morning and yet like any other morning. I could see she was in one of her "moods." But I also knew she had gotten into a huge argument with her sister the day before. She loved her sister. They had become very close over the past few years. So I was not surprised that she was both sad and angry. I was not surprised when she said, "I don't even want to be alive anymore," that morning...the last words she said to me. I had heard those sentiments from Christina countless times before.
Retreating to my room with her 3 year old daughter in my arms after trying unsuccessfully to comfort her, I decided that I would call the Emergency Mental Health hotline to find out how to get an adult child admitted. Intuitively, I felt that perhaps this time, it was different. I worried that perhaps this time, she really would attempt to take her life. But then another voice in my head told me not to be so dramatic. She's done this before, I reminded myself. And the voice continued, "Just because you want to be a licensed counselor doesn't make you an expert Ruth. This is Christina we're talking about. She'll be fine."
Still, I decided that I would make that call as soon as Brian returned for work. I didn't want to make the call with Christina's daughter in the room with me. I didn't want Christina to hear me making the call. Brian would likely be home soon, I told myself, and then I'll call.
Brian DID return home that morning. Ada, Christina's daughter, greeted him. He held her. They chatted casually for a few minutes. I left my room to pour another cup of coffee. I guess I'll be making that call, I thought to myself. I returned to my room.
And that's when I heard Brian's yell: NOOOOO! Ada, RUN! Go!! Get out of here!!! COME HERE! COME HERE! HELP ME!!
I came running down the hall to the other end of the house to their room. Part of me already knew. And then I saw her, lifelessly hanging from the beam in their room, and Brian trying to lift her up to put slack in the rope.
Christina's brother, hearing the commotion came running. "Call 911" I yelled as I struggled to lift my daughter so Brian could release her from the noose. And it seemed it was a perfect noose. "How did she know how to do this?" I wondered. She was still warm, but lifeless. We couldn't release the tight grip of the rope. "Help us!" I yelled to Stone. The three of us struggled until finally the rope released her and she fell into my arms. I laid her on the couch behind us. She was so limp. Her lips and eyelids were cyanotic with visible petechiae in the whites of her eyes. The ligature mark around the front of her neck was incredibly deep and already purple. Her tongue was bluish, swollen, and protruding.
I went to administer CPR, but Brian said he couldn't feel a pulse. I searched desperately for a pulse, did not detect any breath or heartbeat, and then it hit me: It's too late. She's dead...
I held her, hugged her, and cried. "Baby girl! Why??? Why did you DO this??"
Paramedics arrive and tell us to leave the room. "No," I tell them. That is my daughter. I will stay out of your way, but I will not leave.
Police arrived. I was informed our home was now a potential crime scene. I was ordered to leave the room. Again, I resisted. "They found a very weak pulse," the officer said. "Let the paramedics work on her."
A weak pulse?? I should have done CPR!! I should have given mouth-to-mouth resusitation!! Why did I give up so easily?!
They took her to the ER. It doesn't look good, the ER physician told me. We think she's brain-dead, they said. She was on life support.
The CT scan looked promising: No spinal fractures. Carotid arteries, in good shape. Still, unconscious, not breathing on her own. Don't get your hopes up.
She was moved to ICU. Still on life support. Family members began flocking to her bedside. When a family member would talk to her, Christina would shed a tear or two. Just a biological response. One of the staff members said she could hear us and we should talk to her; another said she was brain-dead and heard nothing.
A long day of holding her hand, calling her name, crying, begging her to wake up. Giving up hope, and yet hoping for miracles. Waiting for her father to arrive from Louisiana. Hoping he'd make it in time.
Twelve hours after taking her down from that beam the nurse came into the lounge where I thought I might try to sleep for an hour when her dad would likely arrive from O'Hare. "Ms. Stone, we need you to come to your daughter's room. There has been a change in her condition."
I practically ran to her room. "A nurse will be here in a moment to explain what has happened," her brother and I were told; but it was clear to me: She had flatlined.
I lost Christina - again - but this time, for good.
About an hour later, she was removed from the life support, cleaned up a bit, and I went to her bedside once more. Her color was now completely gone. She was quickly losing body heat. And I held her in my arms one last time and cried.
Writing is the only way I know of that helps me process and release my emotions when they overwhelm me, and so I must write about losing Christina.
In some ways, I lost Christina long ago. She died just the other day at the young age of twenty-three, but her struggle with Life and her recurring bouts of sadness and despair began when she was an adolescent, entering her teen years. At first, it seemed like normal teenage angst. It will pass, I assured myself. Besides, our household and family life at the time was stressed and perhaps even dysfunctional. So I let it slide, often frustrated by her impulsivity and extreme emotions.
She said she felt unloved and felt that I treated her siblings better than I treated her. I remember one therapy session she had in particular. Her therapist called me into their session and asked me if I felt I treated all my children the same. I answered, "No. I do not treat them all the same. In fact, I cannot treat them all the same because they are all different and unique individuals of different ages; therefore, while I do not treat them the same, I believe I treat them equally and appropriately, based on who they are, taking their ages, levels of maturity, individual needs, and personalities into consideration." "Wow," she said, "Good answer."
It is no secret that Christina put those who loved her most through hell at times. She could be verbally vicious and emotionally volatile. Instead of accepting hugs, advice, and words of encouragement when she was distraught, she would lash out, push us away, or say such hateful, hurtful things that we would retreat and give up.
When Christina WAS in a good mood, I would often jump on the opportunity to encourage her to find a passion to attach herself to - a goal, a focus, a purpose. But there was always a sense of walking on eggshells because she could quickly and without warning interpret my advice or encouragement as "telling her what to do." She was extremely pessimistic, so the smallest bump in the road would be proof that the world was against her.
I hoped that when she became a mother she would be infused with the joy of being loved unconditionally by her son...and then by her daughter. While it is true that she loved her children deeply, they often saw her at her worst. She admitted to me on several occassions that she KNEW her moods were extreme, but that as much as she wanted to, and as much as she tried, she could not control her thought, emotions, or extreme behavior - they controlled her. And she hated that part of herself. I encouraged her to lean upon the extended family in the household when she felt like that, but instead, she resented our "interference" with her parenting.
The morning she took her life was like no other morning and yet like any other morning. I could see she was in one of her "moods." But I also knew she had gotten into a huge argument with her sister the day before. She loved her sister. They had become very close over the past few years. So I was not surprised that she was both sad and angry. I was not surprised when she said, "I don't even want to be alive anymore," that morning...the last words she said to me. I had heard those sentiments from Christina countless times before.
Retreating to my room with her 3 year old daughter in my arms after trying unsuccessfully to comfort her, I decided that I would call the Emergency Mental Health hotline to find out how to get an adult child admitted. Intuitively, I felt that perhaps this time, it was different. I worried that perhaps this time, she really would attempt to take her life. But then another voice in my head told me not to be so dramatic. She's done this before, I reminded myself. And the voice continued, "Just because you want to be a licensed counselor doesn't make you an expert Ruth. This is Christina we're talking about. She'll be fine."
Still, I decided that I would make that call as soon as Brian returned for work. I didn't want to make the call with Christina's daughter in the room with me. I didn't want Christina to hear me making the call. Brian would likely be home soon, I told myself, and then I'll call.
Brian DID return home that morning. Ada, Christina's daughter, greeted him. He held her. They chatted casually for a few minutes. I left my room to pour another cup of coffee. I guess I'll be making that call, I thought to myself. I returned to my room.
And that's when I heard Brian's yell: NOOOOO! Ada, RUN! Go!! Get out of here!!! COME HERE! COME HERE! HELP ME!!
I came running down the hall to the other end of the house to their room. Part of me already knew. And then I saw her, lifelessly hanging from the beam in their room, and Brian trying to lift her up to put slack in the rope.
Christina's brother, hearing the commotion came running. "Call 911" I yelled as I struggled to lift my daughter so Brian could release her from the noose. And it seemed it was a perfect noose. "How did she know how to do this?" I wondered. She was still warm, but lifeless. We couldn't release the tight grip of the rope. "Help us!" I yelled to Stone. The three of us struggled until finally the rope released her and she fell into my arms. I laid her on the couch behind us. She was so limp. Her lips and eyelids were cyanotic with visible petechiae in the whites of her eyes. The ligature mark around the front of her neck was incredibly deep and already purple. Her tongue was bluish, swollen, and protruding.
I went to administer CPR, but Brian said he couldn't feel a pulse. I searched desperately for a pulse, did not detect any breath or heartbeat, and then it hit me: It's too late. She's dead...
I held her, hugged her, and cried. "Baby girl! Why??? Why did you DO this??"
Paramedics arrive and tell us to leave the room. "No," I tell them. That is my daughter. I will stay out of your way, but I will not leave.
Police arrived. I was informed our home was now a potential crime scene. I was ordered to leave the room. Again, I resisted. "They found a very weak pulse," the officer said. "Let the paramedics work on her."
A weak pulse?? I should have done CPR!! I should have given mouth-to-mouth resusitation!! Why did I give up so easily?!
They took her to the ER. It doesn't look good, the ER physician told me. We think she's brain-dead, they said. She was on life support.
The CT scan looked promising: No spinal fractures. Carotid arteries, in good shape. Still, unconscious, not breathing on her own. Don't get your hopes up.
She was moved to ICU. Still on life support. Family members began flocking to her bedside. When a family member would talk to her, Christina would shed a tear or two. Just a biological response. One of the staff members said she could hear us and we should talk to her; another said she was brain-dead and heard nothing.
A long day of holding her hand, calling her name, crying, begging her to wake up. Giving up hope, and yet hoping for miracles. Waiting for her father to arrive from Louisiana. Hoping he'd make it in time.
Twelve hours after taking her down from that beam the nurse came into the lounge where I thought I might try to sleep for an hour when her dad would likely arrive from O'Hare. "Ms. Stone, we need you to come to your daughter's room. There has been a change in her condition."
I practically ran to her room. "A nurse will be here in a moment to explain what has happened," her brother and I were told; but it was clear to me: She had flatlined.
I lost Christina - again - but this time, for good.
About an hour later, she was removed from the life support, cleaned up a bit, and I went to her bedside once more. Her color was now completely gone. She was quickly losing body heat. And I held her in my arms one last time and cried.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)