A few days ago, I unexpectedly found myself in the emergency room...the same emergency room where Christina was taken. It triggered pain. I kept looking in the room where she had been, as if I might still see her, as if she might still be there. But no. The room was empty. All I could hear was the now-familiar question that ruminates in my mind: "WHY?"
When I was released, I went into the ER waiting room to text family members for a ride home. I peripherally noticed that I was alone in the waiting area except for a young man who, by his appearance, was a heavy metal fan. His multiple links of heavy chain jewelry and colored bandana reminded me of my own metal-head kids, but I was too self-absorbed to be concerned with his presence.
The TV was on in the waiting area but it was just a distant familiar noise of news that no one cares about featuring the usual issues of non-importance. Yet, a snippet of a story bled through to my awareness: An athlete claiming to be a Christian and boasting about his prayers to God to help him and his team win. I shook my head unconsciously to the athlete's arrogance and at the same time, the young metal-head said, "Well Hail Satan!" I was instantly charmed!
We both spontaneously recognized our mutually shared perspective on the news story - and perhaps on religion in general and faster than the speed of a sound byte, we shared our irritations with the common religious assumptions in our culture and we found ourselves in agreement with our conclusions about That Which is Unknown. He identified as a Taoist and talked about the paradox of the chaotic order in the world and in the Universe at large. While we differed in our chronological maturity, we were kindred spirit.
I thought about Christina. She would've LOVED this guy...a peer who, like Christina, still capitalized on shock value. I remembered the images I took from Christina's Facebook page of religious criticisms, observations, and humor, and I began to show them to this young man. He loved them, as I knew he would. I told him they were my taken from my daughter's Facebook page and he commented about how he'd like to meet my daughter. My joy quickly departed and I told him that she took her life just ten months ago. He too became solemnly quiet and expressed his condolences. I told him she was bipolar and struggled for many years with her internal emotional pain. I told him briefly about the brutal reality of having to help my son and son-in-law take her down from the beam from which she hung herself. And then, without saying a word, he pushed back his sleeves exposing multiple sights of self-injury and even a recent suicide attempt. My eyes met his and I told him, "I understand."
He said he was schizophrenic and that no medication has helped him so in an effort to self-medicate, he has turned to alcohol and now struggled with mental illness AND alcoholism. He confided that he has wrestled with suicidal ideation for a long, long time and even made several attempts. At other times, the desire was there, but the courage to follow through was not. He looked into the barrel of a gun - more than once - but lost his nerve. He had once written his farewell, gathered razor blades and filled a tub, but again could not follow through. Currently, his ideation involved stepping out in front of an oncoming semi or freight train.
I asked him if he had family or friends who loved him. He said he did. I asked him if he loved them. He said he did. So then I said, "All that spiritual stuff we just talked about...do you believe that our paths crossed today on accident?" He looked startled. "No, I don't. I believe everything happens for a reason." So I agreed with him. I said, as if I were thinking outloud, "So then, I wonder WHY...WHY would our paths cross? I'm grieving the suicidal death of my daughter, and you are here because of your emotional pain and desire to end your life. What are we supposed to learn from each other?"
He asked me if my Christina had family members and friends who loved her. "More than she ever imagined," I told him. I told him about Christina and Mary. I told him about her children. I told him that we will never be the same without her and that our pain will never go away. At best, we must simply learn how to live with the pain of losing her.
Silence.
Then I told him, "I know why our paths crossed. I am here to tell you this: I know your pain is great. Death would bring relief, for you. I know that. I understand. You would leave your pain behind. But it would be magnified and left for the ones who love you most to carry. I am asking you if you can promise me that you will reconsider and make a commitment to stay alive." He wasn't certain he could agree to that. I didn't expect him to be able to agree, really. "Ok," I said, "then will you consider this: IF you reach a point where you are determined to end your life, will you do it in such a way that your body will not be so damaged as to further increase the pain and trauma your loved ones will experience? They will want to - NEED to - see you, touch you, kiss you, hold you, one...last...time."
He gave me total eye contact and said, "I never thought of it like that before. I mean, I never thought about what would happen after I..." I told him I understood. I told him that I believed that the reason our paths crossed was so that I could beg him to stay, so that he could see what it is like for someone to lose a loved one by suicide...to expand his comprehension of the situation. "If I leave you with one thought," I told him, "it would be to NOT take your own life, in spite of the pain...and to never forget the pain you see in my eyes."
At that point, my ride arrived and I told him I had to leave. He asked my name and told me his. He put out his hand to shake. As I took his hand, I looked him in the eyes and said, "It was a pleasure to meet you. I thank the Universe for arranging this serendipitous moment. I will never forget you."
He said he would never forget either. I pray his memory lasts a lifetime...a very long lifetime of survival, recovery, and newfound happiness. Is that too much to ask, considering God apparently helps athletes and sports teams win, upon request??
Showing posts with label suicide. Show all posts
Showing posts with label suicide. Show all posts
Wednesday, March 28, 2012
Sunday, January 15, 2012
REDUNDANCY
I suppose there are only so many times that I can write about how much I miss Christina and how the grief has effected me before it becomes truly redundant; yet, here I am with a strong sense of hypertypergraphia - a need for the catharsis that comes from putting it into words.
Last week, it would've been her 24th birthday; this week will mark the 8th month since she's been gone. We - all but one of her 5 siblings, most of her nieces and nephews, her two children, her partner, one of her brothers-in-law, two of her sisters-in-law, me and Jim - went to her grave. Her kids wanted to sing Happy Birthday to her...bring her birthday cake. So we gathered there and did that. We released 24 red and black balloons (her favorite colors). I worried that we are giving her kids a mixed message about death: If we leave things on her grave (cupcakes, cans of pop, candy, cigarettes, flowers, stuffed animals), do they think she is somehow still around, able to get what we leave for her?? Yet, I sense it is cathartic for them to participate in this ritual, just as it is for us.
Personally, I would've preferred an afternoon of solitude at her grave. Had I been afforded that option, I would have cried and yelled and screamed. I still carry the biggest "WHY??" imaginable, for which there will never be an answer that satisfies. There will never be a response that triggers an, "OH! Yes, of course. Okay, NOW I understand." And I've tried; I've tried to justify it. I remember her saying that her kids would be better off without her - and I see that at some level, she was right: her bipolar mood swings were so intense and so unfair to Damien and Ada - and in truth, there is more peace and stability without her. That hurts. We've also come to the mutual agreement that her actions that morning were firmly rooted in impulse; she didn't REALLY plan to hang herself. That hurts too, knowing had she just taken a deep breath, practiced some cognitive restructuring, thought stopping, and shifted her attention elsewhere, she'd likely still be here.
I struggle with disbelief and shattered faith. All that spiritual stuff that I embraced about the seasons and cycles of Life seem empty and meaningless; just a different brand of magical thinking. Death is the end; without proof of an afterlife, nothingness is all I have. And still I find myself in a state of disbelief, as if all these images of her death are remnants of a nightmare; surely if I walk back into her room right now I will find her sitting at her computer. But no. I must always correct myself; she's really, really, dead. She's not coming back, ever. Apparently, my final act as her mother - going to the funeral parlor to fix her hair and makeup - was not enough to confirm the brutal facts. Handling her embalmed body was not enough to shake the doubt. Why? Because I was not fully present for any of it. I functioned on automatic pilot, never taking a moment to take a breath and SEE what I was doing. I simply DID it. I felt the heavy stiffness of her overly-embalmed body; I saw my Christina under the rigid expression of death; but I didn't accept it, as blatant as it was.
I've also come to realize that my sense of grief is primarily on behalf of her children. As her mom and especially as a mental health counselor, I realize the years of bipolar depression took its toll and that she could not have been expected to carry that psychological load forever; I find relief in knowing she found an end to her chronic pain. But for her kids, I cry. My tears are THEIR tears. But also my grandmother's tears; she too lost a mother when she was only a child (a car accident, according to the family story, but recent generations have suspected possible suicide). My grandmother mourned the loss of her mother until her own passing. My tears are also a return of the tears I cried when my own mother came within minutes of dying when her appendix ruptured. I was not even 9 years old, but I overheard how close she came to dying - and I was profoundly traumatized by the experience and by the realization of the fragility of life. Here one moment, gone the next. A lot for a child to ponder. And, my tears are also for my paternal grandmother who lost a son. His death was brutal and preventable; it was the result of repeated incestuous rape and subsequent colon perforation and hemorrhage. And since Christina died, my tears are also for every sad story I hear: suicides as a direct outcome of bullying; missing children; murdered children. My former optimism is fading.
And then the paradox: Even while I struggle with these issues daily, internally, and often subconsciously, I am functioning. I have redecorated, turning this house into more of a home. What was a living room unused is now a freshly painted and redecorated office complete with new bookshelves and desk. What was formerly just the-room-with-the-pool-table has become the freshly painted living room with new laminate flooring, a flat screen tv and console soon to be delivered, and new sofa/sectional soon to be purchased. And it fills me with joy to successfully complete a creative project like these. And then there's school. Another semester begins in just a few days and I am eager: textbooks are purchased, new folders have been labeled, and I found a great deal on a lambskin leather briefcase that I'm absolutely smitten with! In spite of the tears and often along side the grief, Life moves forward. I find moments of happiness, joy, satisfaction, and love. Perhaps they are not QUITE as grand as they once were; perhaps they are more fleeting or are tempered by the underlying pain...but they're there.
So I unload the pain with my words and sigh with the relief that comes with purging, with telling the story, with redundancy, and wish it could've been that easy for Christina to find HER relief.
Last week, it would've been her 24th birthday; this week will mark the 8th month since she's been gone. We - all but one of her 5 siblings, most of her nieces and nephews, her two children, her partner, one of her brothers-in-law, two of her sisters-in-law, me and Jim - went to her grave. Her kids wanted to sing Happy Birthday to her...bring her birthday cake. So we gathered there and did that. We released 24 red and black balloons (her favorite colors). I worried that we are giving her kids a mixed message about death: If we leave things on her grave (cupcakes, cans of pop, candy, cigarettes, flowers, stuffed animals), do they think she is somehow still around, able to get what we leave for her?? Yet, I sense it is cathartic for them to participate in this ritual, just as it is for us.
Personally, I would've preferred an afternoon of solitude at her grave. Had I been afforded that option, I would have cried and yelled and screamed. I still carry the biggest "WHY??" imaginable, for which there will never be an answer that satisfies. There will never be a response that triggers an, "OH! Yes, of course. Okay, NOW I understand." And I've tried; I've tried to justify it. I remember her saying that her kids would be better off without her - and I see that at some level, she was right: her bipolar mood swings were so intense and so unfair to Damien and Ada - and in truth, there is more peace and stability without her. That hurts. We've also come to the mutual agreement that her actions that morning were firmly rooted in impulse; she didn't REALLY plan to hang herself. That hurts too, knowing had she just taken a deep breath, practiced some cognitive restructuring, thought stopping, and shifted her attention elsewhere, she'd likely still be here.
I struggle with disbelief and shattered faith. All that spiritual stuff that I embraced about the seasons and cycles of Life seem empty and meaningless; just a different brand of magical thinking. Death is the end; without proof of an afterlife, nothingness is all I have. And still I find myself in a state of disbelief, as if all these images of her death are remnants of a nightmare; surely if I walk back into her room right now I will find her sitting at her computer. But no. I must always correct myself; she's really, really, dead. She's not coming back, ever. Apparently, my final act as her mother - going to the funeral parlor to fix her hair and makeup - was not enough to confirm the brutal facts. Handling her embalmed body was not enough to shake the doubt. Why? Because I was not fully present for any of it. I functioned on automatic pilot, never taking a moment to take a breath and SEE what I was doing. I simply DID it. I felt the heavy stiffness of her overly-embalmed body; I saw my Christina under the rigid expression of death; but I didn't accept it, as blatant as it was.
I've also come to realize that my sense of grief is primarily on behalf of her children. As her mom and especially as a mental health counselor, I realize the years of bipolar depression took its toll and that she could not have been expected to carry that psychological load forever; I find relief in knowing she found an end to her chronic pain. But for her kids, I cry. My tears are THEIR tears. But also my grandmother's tears; she too lost a mother when she was only a child (a car accident, according to the family story, but recent generations have suspected possible suicide). My grandmother mourned the loss of her mother until her own passing. My tears are also a return of the tears I cried when my own mother came within minutes of dying when her appendix ruptured. I was not even 9 years old, but I overheard how close she came to dying - and I was profoundly traumatized by the experience and by the realization of the fragility of life. Here one moment, gone the next. A lot for a child to ponder. And, my tears are also for my paternal grandmother who lost a son. His death was brutal and preventable; it was the result of repeated incestuous rape and subsequent colon perforation and hemorrhage. And since Christina died, my tears are also for every sad story I hear: suicides as a direct outcome of bullying; missing children; murdered children. My former optimism is fading.
And then the paradox: Even while I struggle with these issues daily, internally, and often subconsciously, I am functioning. I have redecorated, turning this house into more of a home. What was a living room unused is now a freshly painted and redecorated office complete with new bookshelves and desk. What was formerly just the-room-with-the-pool-table has become the freshly painted living room with new laminate flooring, a flat screen tv and console soon to be delivered, and new sofa/sectional soon to be purchased. And it fills me with joy to successfully complete a creative project like these. And then there's school. Another semester begins in just a few days and I am eager: textbooks are purchased, new folders have been labeled, and I found a great deal on a lambskin leather briefcase that I'm absolutely smitten with! In spite of the tears and often along side the grief, Life moves forward. I find moments of happiness, joy, satisfaction, and love. Perhaps they are not QUITE as grand as they once were; perhaps they are more fleeting or are tempered by the underlying pain...but they're there.
So I unload the pain with my words and sigh with the relief that comes with purging, with telling the story, with redundancy, and wish it could've been that easy for Christina to find HER relief.
Saturday, August 13, 2011
DROWNING IN A SEA OF WORDS & PHRASES
Ok, so I'm a compulsive writer. Writing helps me purge my ruminating thoughts. I live primarily in my head, and rarely in the present moment. Tonite, I sense it is time to release the thoughts and perhaps the resulting catharsis will allow me to sleep.
Naturally, I am thinking about Christina. It's been almost thirteen weeks and I am surprised (though, not really) by how hard it is to process and accept that she is gone. On the one hand, it is undeniable. I have the haunting images of what she did, the vague, dream-like memory of her funeral, and of course, all the documentation of her death to solidify the reality of her passing. And, each day passes without seeing or hearing her, adding to the reality of the situation. Still, in spite of all the evidence proving her death, I feel a huge sense of disbelief, as if "this" could not possibly have happened. This is a chapter in my life that I did not anticipate, even though at some level, I always knew it could happen. And yet...I find myself saying to myself, "it just CAN'T be true."
The other day, I was returning home from the store and living my life as if it were unchanged when suddenly, I thought of Christina and thought, "Christina's dead" and it made me shudder, as if hearing it for the first time. It was as if my subconscious was taking it upon itself to remind my conscious mind of the facts. Instantly, that awful image of her hanging from that beam flashed into my mind's eye and I gasped, as if seeing her like that for the first time. Every time that happens, I feel traumatized all over again, like it is registering for the first time.
I find myself self-absorbed in thoughts about her childhood and feel overwhelming guilt for having been spread so thin. Was I EVER available to her?? The guilt just keeps building and building within me and I wonder if I will ever be able to escape the sense of failure. I failed her. I did not provide what she needed. I could not be what she wanted in a mother. I let her down. I brought her into the world, and she resented it.
Then, as if reality is just too harsh, my thoughts wander into more philosophical and metaphysical realms in regards to Christina. Who was she? What were her past lives like (assuming reincarnation is true) and what residual pain did she bring with her into this one? It often seemed as if her soul was grieving - even from her infancy and early childhood. So much sadness there. And so I question The Universe, wondering about Life, spirits, heaven, god, eternity, and our divine purpose - or if any of those things are even real.
Since losing Christina, I have a much more profound need to know the answers to Life's questions, yet am equally frustrated by the realization that I will NEVER know. Do I really think I am the first to wonder what happens after death or to want proof of eternal survival of the soul?? And not being able to have those answers angers and frustrates me. It is no longer good enough to theorize and have have suspicions about the afterlife; I need proof. And there is none. No proof exists. It all requires a leap of faith, which I refuse to give in to. That is far too dangerous. Somehow, I will need to accept the not-knowing and not being able to know for certain. But at this moment, I struggle with it all.
More than anything, I miss her and still cannot fully comprehend and accept that she left us - forever. Forever gone. NO! I cannot fathom that! I want so badly to scream. I want so badly to just fall apart and sob uncontrollably...and feel guilt because I've not done that. Guilt. Always more guilt. But the screams remain within me. There has been neither opportunity nor a safe space to let it out freely. It scares people. It will even scare me, if and when it should happen. And yet, I know it is eventual.
I need to spend an afternoon at her gravesite - alone. This much, I know for certain. I need to talk to her, even though I realize she won't be "there" to hear me. Or will she?? In spirit form, will she, can she, might she be there?? It's what I hope, but cannot prove. It's gonna require that leap of faith. Ugh!! So I tell myself that I should just do it, just in case she can somehow be aware. And if not, at the very least, I might experience some catharsis. Some relief. Some peace and healing. Maybe just staring at her gravesite will help me process the truth of her death.
But for now, it is still very unreal. It is still difficult to truly accept. Life - all the demands of daily life - get in the way and distract me from processing the facts. And perhaps that is WHY I continue to be haunted by the evidence...
Naturally, I am thinking about Christina. It's been almost thirteen weeks and I am surprised (though, not really) by how hard it is to process and accept that she is gone. On the one hand, it is undeniable. I have the haunting images of what she did, the vague, dream-like memory of her funeral, and of course, all the documentation of her death to solidify the reality of her passing. And, each day passes without seeing or hearing her, adding to the reality of the situation. Still, in spite of all the evidence proving her death, I feel a huge sense of disbelief, as if "this" could not possibly have happened. This is a chapter in my life that I did not anticipate, even though at some level, I always knew it could happen. And yet...I find myself saying to myself, "it just CAN'T be true."
The other day, I was returning home from the store and living my life as if it were unchanged when suddenly, I thought of Christina and thought, "Christina's dead" and it made me shudder, as if hearing it for the first time. It was as if my subconscious was taking it upon itself to remind my conscious mind of the facts. Instantly, that awful image of her hanging from that beam flashed into my mind's eye and I gasped, as if seeing her like that for the first time. Every time that happens, I feel traumatized all over again, like it is registering for the first time.
I find myself self-absorbed in thoughts about her childhood and feel overwhelming guilt for having been spread so thin. Was I EVER available to her?? The guilt just keeps building and building within me and I wonder if I will ever be able to escape the sense of failure. I failed her. I did not provide what she needed. I could not be what she wanted in a mother. I let her down. I brought her into the world, and she resented it.
Then, as if reality is just too harsh, my thoughts wander into more philosophical and metaphysical realms in regards to Christina. Who was she? What were her past lives like (assuming reincarnation is true) and what residual pain did she bring with her into this one? It often seemed as if her soul was grieving - even from her infancy and early childhood. So much sadness there. And so I question The Universe, wondering about Life, spirits, heaven, god, eternity, and our divine purpose - or if any of those things are even real.
Since losing Christina, I have a much more profound need to know the answers to Life's questions, yet am equally frustrated by the realization that I will NEVER know. Do I really think I am the first to wonder what happens after death or to want proof of eternal survival of the soul?? And not being able to have those answers angers and frustrates me. It is no longer good enough to theorize and have have suspicions about the afterlife; I need proof. And there is none. No proof exists. It all requires a leap of faith, which I refuse to give in to. That is far too dangerous. Somehow, I will need to accept the not-knowing and not being able to know for certain. But at this moment, I struggle with it all.
More than anything, I miss her and still cannot fully comprehend and accept that she left us - forever. Forever gone. NO! I cannot fathom that! I want so badly to scream. I want so badly to just fall apart and sob uncontrollably...and feel guilt because I've not done that. Guilt. Always more guilt. But the screams remain within me. There has been neither opportunity nor a safe space to let it out freely. It scares people. It will even scare me, if and when it should happen. And yet, I know it is eventual.
I need to spend an afternoon at her gravesite - alone. This much, I know for certain. I need to talk to her, even though I realize she won't be "there" to hear me. Or will she?? In spirit form, will she, can she, might she be there?? It's what I hope, but cannot prove. It's gonna require that leap of faith. Ugh!! So I tell myself that I should just do it, just in case she can somehow be aware. And if not, at the very least, I might experience some catharsis. Some relief. Some peace and healing. Maybe just staring at her gravesite will help me process the truth of her death.
But for now, it is still very unreal. It is still difficult to truly accept. Life - all the demands of daily life - get in the way and distract me from processing the facts. And perhaps that is WHY I continue to be haunted by the evidence...
Wednesday, August 3, 2011
OVERWHELMED WITH PAIN AND SORROW
Yesterday, it was officially eleven weeks since Christina took her life and it is not getting much easier. True, I've had some days that felt almost normal; but just below the surface, the pain remains. And, without warning, the images of That Day re-emerge. My mind may forget - for small chunks of time - but my body remembers.
I've been thinking about that a lot these past few weeks - about how the body remembers, even when the mind is otherwise occupied. The memory of this trauma, I've come to realize, is stored primarily in my face, throat, arms, and chest. I know why: as we struggled to take her down, I wanted to scream, but could not. I knew that for the sake of the kids we had to act quickly and quietly. So the screams within my were trapped in my throat. Then, in our physical efforts to take her down, I held her up to take the tension off her neck so that the cord could be loosened and removed. In the process of holding her, I felt the weight of her body in my arms. I held my breath, perhaps because I knew she could not breathe (had she any life left in her), but perhaps also just because of the physical effort. I held her - and my breath - until my chest hurt. And there, the memory of the trauma remains. I fear I will always remember, physically, what it felt like to take her down from that beam. And when those body-based memories surface, I feel it again, almost like re-living the experience, and I fear I will be forever haunted by it.
And so, even while Life goes on, there remains a part of me that is stuck in those moments of struggling so urgently, so desperately, and so overwhelmed with pain and sorrow, as we hurried to release her. Those moments of shock, disbelief, and yet stark realization that my daughter had killed herself - that paradox - remains forever embedded in my mind, body, and soul.
Is it any wonder then that I would suddenly begin to cry, without warning? Can I truly expect to be free of the trauma?? Nothing - nothing has ever traumatized me so greatly and so deeply. I now, as a direct result, fear losing another loved one. I fear tragedy. I know now that anything can happen. I know now that Life can turn quickly to death, happiness to pain. Anything can happen. BAD things can happen - without warning. And even if there IS warning, it can go unrecognized.
Some have said that Christina would not want me to suffer endlessly like this; but I wonder. She resented me so deeply. Was this revenge? Did she do this to me, intentionally, in anger and hatred? Did she laugh to herself before taking that final step off the couch as she envisioned the pain she would inflict upon me for the rest of my life? Or was she simply not thinking at all? Was she thinking only of ending her own misery, as others have concluded? I'll never know. I'll never be quite certain. And in the uncertainty comes more pain.
I want desperately to resolve this. I want to be able to evaluate what has happened, picking it apart, and creating an explanation that I can live with and that will allow me to close that chapter and move on; but I have not been successful in that endeavor. Every time I think I have satisfactorily synthsized all of the events leading up to her action, and subsequently resolved the aftermath, I unearth another aspect of the trauma that I must confront and come to terms with. Most recently, it has been my regret (oh, how I despise regret) for calling 911. We should have instead allowed ourselves time with her right here at home. There was nothing the paramedics could have done. And the police were an unwelcome intrusion. What she did was not a crime. A tragedy, yes. But not a crime.
And so I have felt overwhelmed - not so much by what happened eleven weeks ago, but with Life intruding upon my ability to process what happened on That Day. I resent that Life goes on. I resent that I feel as if Life has not afforded me the opportunity to fully process her death before moving on to yet another day, another week, another month. Time is having its way with me. And I resent Time's intrusion.
I've been thinking about that a lot these past few weeks - about how the body remembers, even when the mind is otherwise occupied. The memory of this trauma, I've come to realize, is stored primarily in my face, throat, arms, and chest. I know why: as we struggled to take her down, I wanted to scream, but could not. I knew that for the sake of the kids we had to act quickly and quietly. So the screams within my were trapped in my throat. Then, in our physical efforts to take her down, I held her up to take the tension off her neck so that the cord could be loosened and removed. In the process of holding her, I felt the weight of her body in my arms. I held my breath, perhaps because I knew she could not breathe (had she any life left in her), but perhaps also just because of the physical effort. I held her - and my breath - until my chest hurt. And there, the memory of the trauma remains. I fear I will always remember, physically, what it felt like to take her down from that beam. And when those body-based memories surface, I feel it again, almost like re-living the experience, and I fear I will be forever haunted by it.
And so, even while Life goes on, there remains a part of me that is stuck in those moments of struggling so urgently, so desperately, and so overwhelmed with pain and sorrow, as we hurried to release her. Those moments of shock, disbelief, and yet stark realization that my daughter had killed herself - that paradox - remains forever embedded in my mind, body, and soul.
Is it any wonder then that I would suddenly begin to cry, without warning? Can I truly expect to be free of the trauma?? Nothing - nothing has ever traumatized me so greatly and so deeply. I now, as a direct result, fear losing another loved one. I fear tragedy. I know now that anything can happen. I know now that Life can turn quickly to death, happiness to pain. Anything can happen. BAD things can happen - without warning. And even if there IS warning, it can go unrecognized.
Some have said that Christina would not want me to suffer endlessly like this; but I wonder. She resented me so deeply. Was this revenge? Did she do this to me, intentionally, in anger and hatred? Did she laugh to herself before taking that final step off the couch as she envisioned the pain she would inflict upon me for the rest of my life? Or was she simply not thinking at all? Was she thinking only of ending her own misery, as others have concluded? I'll never know. I'll never be quite certain. And in the uncertainty comes more pain.
I want desperately to resolve this. I want to be able to evaluate what has happened, picking it apart, and creating an explanation that I can live with and that will allow me to close that chapter and move on; but I have not been successful in that endeavor. Every time I think I have satisfactorily synthsized all of the events leading up to her action, and subsequently resolved the aftermath, I unearth another aspect of the trauma that I must confront and come to terms with. Most recently, it has been my regret (oh, how I despise regret) for calling 911. We should have instead allowed ourselves time with her right here at home. There was nothing the paramedics could have done. And the police were an unwelcome intrusion. What she did was not a crime. A tragedy, yes. But not a crime.
And so I have felt overwhelmed - not so much by what happened eleven weeks ago, but with Life intruding upon my ability to process what happened on That Day. I resent that Life goes on. I resent that I feel as if Life has not afforded me the opportunity to fully process her death before moving on to yet another day, another week, another month. Time is having its way with me. And I resent Time's intrusion.
Thursday, July 7, 2011
EMPATHIC GRIEF...AN EPIPHANY
I have had a bit of an insight...and epiphany...about my grieving process, and so I shall share. You all know that I write for the cathartic effect; the sharing is actually a byproduct of the technology.
I have come to the realization that I would likely be further along in my grieving had Christina not been a mother. Had she not left two children behind in my household, I think I would be more able to cope with her leaving. In essence, I am grieving the loss of my daughter, but I am also grieving empathically; I grieve on their behalf.
I noticed that since Christina took her life, I have needed my own mother much, much more and am grateful I have her to turn to. And today, I realized why:
When I was in 3rd grade...I was 7 years old...my mom's appendix ruptured. She went to the ER, but they sent her home, erroneously. Later that day, her pain became even more unbearable and she returned to the ER. This time, she was properly diagnosed and the appendectomy was performed. I was devastated by my mother's hospitalization; deeply traumatized by her absence. That first night when she was in the hospital, I was laying in my bed with my usual insomnia. I could hear the adults in the house talking about what had happened. And I remember my father telling my uncle, "...and the doctor said if we had waited another 15 minutes to get her to the hospital, I would've had to kiss my wife goodbye because she would've been DOA." While I did not know what DOA meant, I understood exactly what he was saying: My mom came within in minutes of dying.
The fear of losing my mom originated much earlier than her ruptured appendix however. Even prior to that, I remember being told about my grandmother's tragic childhood. HER mother had been killed when she was struck by a car walking home from work one night. My grandmother was only about 8 years old at the time she lost her mother and she carried her grief with her throughout her entire lifetime. I could see it on her face and hear it in her voice; even when my grandmother was happy, she was sad. And knowing her story very early in my childhood triggered a lot of fear and separation anxiety within me; I knew from an early age that fate alone could take a mom forever.
The remainder of my childhood was filled with the fear of losing my mom. Then, as I became an adult and had children of my own, I feared that something would happen to me that would leave my own kids motherless. Being a motherless child has been my greatest fear...for myself, then for my own children, and eventually for my ten grandchildren.
And then IT happened.
While there is no doubt that my grief has everything to do with losing Christina, I believe it is amplified by this deep-rooted childhood trauma-based fear. What I have feared most in life has occurred. Yes, I lost my daughter. But in addition to losing my daughter, Damien and Ada have lost their mother, just as my grandmother had lost hers and just as I had nearly lost mine.
Strange, how my life...and even my generational history...has primed me for this experience. A common thread. There are some in the family who suspect that my grandmother's mother's death was not an accident, but a likely suicide, but we'll never know for certain. All we can do is speculate. But whether she died due to a mental illness like Christina did, or died as the result of being struck by a car, she died leaving my grandmother forever a wounded child. She often told the story of her mother's death: how she was waked in their home without being embalmed, how my great-grandmother had been dressed in a beautiful pink satin dress, and how my grandmother had been brutally traumatized when blood began to leak from her mother's nose and got all over the pink dress as they were getting ready to transport the casket to the cemetery. And how my grandmother never recovered from losing her mother.
While Damien and Ada never saw Christina that morning the way WE saw her, nor did they see her attached to all the life support equipment, they will still forever be motherless chidlren. The Christina that they saw at the memorial service looked sort of like their mom, and sort of NOT like their mom. Even though she shed no blood as my great-grandmother did, it still could not have been anything less than traumatic - though necessary - for them to see her that way on the day we buried her. And so I mourn, on their behalf, fearful that they will forever carry that trauma, as my grandmother did and as their father does (for he is also traumatized by the unanticpated and tragic loss of his mother during his teen years).
So I grieve, exponentially and empathically - for my motherless grandchildren, and for motherless children everywhere.
I have come to the realization that I would likely be further along in my grieving had Christina not been a mother. Had she not left two children behind in my household, I think I would be more able to cope with her leaving. In essence, I am grieving the loss of my daughter, but I am also grieving empathically; I grieve on their behalf.
I noticed that since Christina took her life, I have needed my own mother much, much more and am grateful I have her to turn to. And today, I realized why:
When I was in 3rd grade...I was 7 years old...my mom's appendix ruptured. She went to the ER, but they sent her home, erroneously. Later that day, her pain became even more unbearable and she returned to the ER. This time, she was properly diagnosed and the appendectomy was performed. I was devastated by my mother's hospitalization; deeply traumatized by her absence. That first night when she was in the hospital, I was laying in my bed with my usual insomnia. I could hear the adults in the house talking about what had happened. And I remember my father telling my uncle, "...and the doctor said if we had waited another 15 minutes to get her to the hospital, I would've had to kiss my wife goodbye because she would've been DOA." While I did not know what DOA meant, I understood exactly what he was saying: My mom came within in minutes of dying.
The fear of losing my mom originated much earlier than her ruptured appendix however. Even prior to that, I remember being told about my grandmother's tragic childhood. HER mother had been killed when she was struck by a car walking home from work one night. My grandmother was only about 8 years old at the time she lost her mother and she carried her grief with her throughout her entire lifetime. I could see it on her face and hear it in her voice; even when my grandmother was happy, she was sad. And knowing her story very early in my childhood triggered a lot of fear and separation anxiety within me; I knew from an early age that fate alone could take a mom forever.
The remainder of my childhood was filled with the fear of losing my mom. Then, as I became an adult and had children of my own, I feared that something would happen to me that would leave my own kids motherless. Being a motherless child has been my greatest fear...for myself, then for my own children, and eventually for my ten grandchildren.
And then IT happened.
While there is no doubt that my grief has everything to do with losing Christina, I believe it is amplified by this deep-rooted childhood trauma-based fear. What I have feared most in life has occurred. Yes, I lost my daughter. But in addition to losing my daughter, Damien and Ada have lost their mother, just as my grandmother had lost hers and just as I had nearly lost mine.
Strange, how my life...and even my generational history...has primed me for this experience. A common thread. There are some in the family who suspect that my grandmother's mother's death was not an accident, but a likely suicide, but we'll never know for certain. All we can do is speculate. But whether she died due to a mental illness like Christina did, or died as the result of being struck by a car, she died leaving my grandmother forever a wounded child. She often told the story of her mother's death: how she was waked in their home without being embalmed, how my great-grandmother had been dressed in a beautiful pink satin dress, and how my grandmother had been brutally traumatized when blood began to leak from her mother's nose and got all over the pink dress as they were getting ready to transport the casket to the cemetery. And how my grandmother never recovered from losing her mother.
While Damien and Ada never saw Christina that morning the way WE saw her, nor did they see her attached to all the life support equipment, they will still forever be motherless chidlren. The Christina that they saw at the memorial service looked sort of like their mom, and sort of NOT like their mom. Even though she shed no blood as my great-grandmother did, it still could not have been anything less than traumatic - though necessary - for them to see her that way on the day we buried her. And so I mourn, on their behalf, fearful that they will forever carry that trauma, as my grandmother did and as their father does (for he is also traumatized by the unanticpated and tragic loss of his mother during his teen years).
So I grieve, exponentially and empathically - for my motherless grandchildren, and for motherless children everywhere.
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.
Monday, June 13, 2011
LOOKING FOR A RHYME OR A REASON
I've heard it said that there is a reason for everything and I myself have often claimed that "everything is as it should be" as a sort of life-mantra to explain the rough spots in life; but this time, those cliches offer no comfort. How can this be a justifiable, "should-be," part of my life??
It will make me stronger, it's been said. Will it, really? And, aren't there better ways to gain emotional strength than losing a daughter to suicide?? What kind of sick logic is that?
Some have said that god will give you nothing that you can't handle. Really? And what about Christina? Wasn't she given more than she could handle??
While I believe that, in the end, I will survive, recover, heal from my grief and move on, I will also be forever changed. She has taken part of me with her. Is it a part of me that I can do without? What "part" of me has left with her? I'm not sure what that means, but know that some part of me feels...gone.
Then there is my irrational preoccupation with the paranormal as I desperately want to sense her presence. She can't be just...gone. I need some proof that she is still somewhere, still aware of us, still in existence, somewhere, somehow. I light candles, hoping to attract her spirit. I watch tv shows about ghosts and hauntings trying deperately to find some proof that what I want - a sign from her - is possible and not just wishful thinking.
I remember when my grandfather died and several weeks later, I "saw him" while at a restaurant. It was a very real, yet unreal experience. It's not that I rule out the paranormal. I've lived in two "haunted" houses and know that the unexplained happens. But while those two homes were apparently inhabited by something from the other side, it was more or less meaningless (and unnerving) because the ghosts were not mine but just some unknown remnant of the past. When I saw my grandfather at the restaurant, I got the impression he was saying, "I'm still around. Remember me like this. This is who I was." Will Christina do the same? Will she offer me some proof, some message, some tangible evidence that she is still "out there?"
I look at the collection of photos we have of her - lots of them - and she seems so strong, so self-confident, so beautiful; but then I get a flash of what she looked like when we found her, or how helpless and lifeless she appeared attached to all the life support equipment and I wonder: Why?? How could this be real? Why did this have to happen?? She had so much potential. So why didn't she see that?
I want to go to the cemetery; but then again, I know I am not ready. I can't. I simply cannot. I fear the emotions that still simmer just below the surface. Sure, I've cried. But I'm no where near being done with that. Not yet. Perhaps never will the tears be fully gone.
So why? Why?? How does tragedy fit in? Why do bad things have to happen? How do we rise above a tragic loss and accept it as something that "should be?" I feel confused, as if my acceptance of Life has been shattered. I feel somewhat bitter and jaded, as if I am building a wall or donning a coat of armor to protect myself from the harshness of Life. Help me Christina! What am I supposed to do from this point on? I want to honor you, to "be there" for your kids; yet I feel so empty now and so mortally wounded. How is what you did supposed to be something that will strengthen me when, right now, I feel weaker and more vulnerable than I've ever felt before. So, what? Where is the rhyme or reason? Where is the bigger picture that will explain it all? Why? How? And, where are you now??
It will make me stronger, it's been said. Will it, really? And, aren't there better ways to gain emotional strength than losing a daughter to suicide?? What kind of sick logic is that?
Some have said that god will give you nothing that you can't handle. Really? And what about Christina? Wasn't she given more than she could handle??
While I believe that, in the end, I will survive, recover, heal from my grief and move on, I will also be forever changed. She has taken part of me with her. Is it a part of me that I can do without? What "part" of me has left with her? I'm not sure what that means, but know that some part of me feels...gone.
Then there is my irrational preoccupation with the paranormal as I desperately want to sense her presence. She can't be just...gone. I need some proof that she is still somewhere, still aware of us, still in existence, somewhere, somehow. I light candles, hoping to attract her spirit. I watch tv shows about ghosts and hauntings trying deperately to find some proof that what I want - a sign from her - is possible and not just wishful thinking.
I remember when my grandfather died and several weeks later, I "saw him" while at a restaurant. It was a very real, yet unreal experience. It's not that I rule out the paranormal. I've lived in two "haunted" houses and know that the unexplained happens. But while those two homes were apparently inhabited by something from the other side, it was more or less meaningless (and unnerving) because the ghosts were not mine but just some unknown remnant of the past. When I saw my grandfather at the restaurant, I got the impression he was saying, "I'm still around. Remember me like this. This is who I was." Will Christina do the same? Will she offer me some proof, some message, some tangible evidence that she is still "out there?"
I look at the collection of photos we have of her - lots of them - and she seems so strong, so self-confident, so beautiful; but then I get a flash of what she looked like when we found her, or how helpless and lifeless she appeared attached to all the life support equipment and I wonder: Why?? How could this be real? Why did this have to happen?? She had so much potential. So why didn't she see that?
I want to go to the cemetery; but then again, I know I am not ready. I can't. I simply cannot. I fear the emotions that still simmer just below the surface. Sure, I've cried. But I'm no where near being done with that. Not yet. Perhaps never will the tears be fully gone.
So why? Why?? How does tragedy fit in? Why do bad things have to happen? How do we rise above a tragic loss and accept it as something that "should be?" I feel confused, as if my acceptance of Life has been shattered. I feel somewhat bitter and jaded, as if I am building a wall or donning a coat of armor to protect myself from the harshness of Life. Help me Christina! What am I supposed to do from this point on? I want to honor you, to "be there" for your kids; yet I feel so empty now and so mortally wounded. How is what you did supposed to be something that will strengthen me when, right now, I feel weaker and more vulnerable than I've ever felt before. So, what? Where is the rhyme or reason? Where is the bigger picture that will explain it all? Why? How? And, where are you now??
Thursday, June 9, 2011
GRIEVING
Perhaps it is too soon to say. It's been only three weeks since she's been gone. Only three weeks - three weeks that have both rushed by and have felt like months. But, regardless, my experience thus far with grieving the tragic loss of my youngest daughter is not what I expected.
I've always said that I don't fear death - just untimely death, and that was always in reference to my own moment of passing from this life. I had never really considered the loss of one of my offspring. Well, every mother fears losing one of their own, but it was a thought I never contemplated. Instead, as a mom, those thoughts would run through my head causing a shudder and perhaps a tear, but then the internal shout of "NO!" - banishing the thought from consciousness. Too painful to contemplate. No, the statistics were on my side: Mothers just don't bury their children.
I've had to face loss only minimally - until now. When my paternal grandmother died as a result of her diabetes, I was a young teen and had never been close to her. I went to the wake, saw her, and her death became part of my family history. No tears. No sadness. Just a fact.
When my maternal great-grandfather died, it was again a non-traumatic event. He was old. It was his time. Then, years later when my maternal grandfather died, I felt grief. But not like this. I was sad because I loved him like a father and I cried because I knew I'd never see him again. I thought about all the good memories I had of him, but again, he was old enough for it to be "his time" and a simple fact of life. I cried and knew I would miss him, but accepted his passing as a natural part of life.
Then, about ten years later, my maternal grandmother died. A week or two before, my mother had called and told me, "You may want to go see your grandmother. She doesn't seem to have long to live." I went to see her and clearly she was dying. She was transferred to a facility where she could get more care than the assisted living site she'd been living in for years. I went to see her again. Took a picture of her. But, it was clear she was on the threshold of death. I barely recognized her. She looked so small. One week later, she died. Again, I felt grief, but not like this. While she was like a mother to me my whole life, it was her time. She was ninety-two. I went to the wake and funeral and shed tears. But, I accepted her death, like that of my grandfather's, as being a normal, expected part of the life cycle.
Those have been my primary experiences with death. Peripheral acquaintences have passes, unexpectedly, and those were sad; but they did not involve grief - just shock, sadness, and then quickly processed. My life went on, in spite of their tragic departure.
Then, three weeks ago, my youngest daughter took her own life. At first, my grief was experienced as shock and numbness. It seemed so hard to believe - even though it was me and two other family members that took her down from where she hung herself. In spite of that visual memory that cannot be purged, it initially seemed unreal, surreal, and more like a bad dream than reality.
In the days that followed, I was side-tracked and distracted by phone calls, visitors, and planning her funeral. How do we explain her absence to her two small children? How do we pay for services? Where shall we bury her? What should she wear? She was an organ-donor?? Why didn't she leave a note? Can we put her piercing back in for the burial? Then, there were all the usual mundane tasks that still persisted each day: dishes needed to be done, clothes needed to be washed, kids needed to be fed, bathed, and comforted.
The day of the funeral, I felt as if I was attending some generic family gathering. Again, it seemed unreal, as if I was physically present, but not mentally. Emotionally, I was still numb and it seemed like things were moving too fast. I wasn't ready to bury her. I still needed to see her...to touch her...to process the fact of her passing. But that was not an option...at least, not one that I could afford.
Internally, I knew that it would be only after the funeral that the reality of my loss would sink in. Once there were no more calls to make, no more final plans to tend to, and once guests and visitors returned to the normalcy of their daily lives, only then would it likely hit me.
And that is the part that has surprised me the most so far: the paradoxical nature of my grieving. I can be functioning in one moment, as I tend to the tasks of daily life when suddenly, without warning, I feel overwhelmed with apathy, and find myself just sitting, mindlessly, lost in altered state of...emptiness, shock, pain, sadness, and yet wanting to scream, yell, and cry out loud to the world, "HOW DARE YOU ALL GO ON WITH YOUR LIVES?!! MY DAUGHTER IS GONE!! FOREVER!!!"
How can something that has caused such a profound and permanent change in my life not affect the rest of the world??
And then there are the disjointed thoughts that run through my head as I sit in this immobilized, frozen state of forced acceptance of a reality I want nothing to do with: How will her children ever know who she really was? What am I supposed to do now with all of her personal possessions? Do I say now that I am the mother of five children, or will I always be a mother of six - or, six minus one? Will she - can she - communicate with us from the other side? Did she plan to do this, or was it just one final impulsive act that was done without much forethought? Did she think we would find her in time to save her? What if it had been her kids that found her?? How often should I go to her gravesite? How long will I continue to walk through life feeling as if she took me with her??
And then, there are the changes in my daily life: I sleep for a few hours, then wake, drinking cup after cup of coffee hoping to feel alert. Then, back to bed. Sleep through most of the afternoon. Get up again. More coffee. Not hungry. Not motivated to accomplish much of anything. Evening comes, and along with it, deep sadness - as if the sun going down alerts me to the fact that another day has gone by, without her. The facts have not changed. And night falls. I am alone in the silence and find contentment and peace with the solitude, until the birds begin to chirp - and another day dawns.
The death certificate is ready for pick-up. Cause of death: asphyxiation. I knew that. But seeing it written on the formal, authentic, notarized, government-issued form jolts me into reality: Christina is dead. Cry some more.
Thank you notes need to be written and sent. Another welcome distraction. "Thank you for your kindness and generosity." "Having you present at my daughter's memorial was deeply appreciated." "The flowers you sent were beautiful. Thank you for your condolences."
Back to having nothing to do but ruminate. My religious beliefs are being questioned - by others and my my self. What do I believe? I remember telling one of the funeral directors at the cemetery that our family is "inspired more by nature than by scripture," and that best summarizes the foundation of my spiritual beliefs. At a spiritual level, I accept the life-death-rebirth cycle of life; but does that help me now? Only somewhat. I am agnostic; while I am open to the possibility of a god, a creator, a Master of the Universe, I also realize that all of our current religions are based upon mythological tales. Mythology can be inspiring, but they are made-up stories. While I am inspired by stories about Demeter, Persephone, Jesus, the Buddha, and many, many more, I realize that none are real gods - and that's okay; they remain inspiring. But, because I don't believe in a literal Heaven or Hell, I wonder: Where are you Christina?? Have you been reborn, reincarnated into another life? Have you been returned to the Earth only to return to basic, organic compounds? Is your soul, your spirit, lingering, watching from above, or just a figment of my wishful imagination?? And, I am frustrated by the lack of proof regarding the afterlife. While I am open to all the possibilities, I am also skeptical without scientific evidence and realize that my desires for signs and wonders from "the other side" is rooted deeply in wishful thinking.
A call comes in: Christina's teacher from the GED classes she recently finished. Christina's graduation has been scheduled for next month. "Ms. Stone, I chose your daughter of the 150 students I had this term to be the one I would honor by reading some of her essays - which were wonderfully written." I tell her what has happened. More condolences and shock. We are welcome to attend and would someone in the family like to accept her diploma on her behalf?" The call adds to my disbelief. How could she have done this when her life was finally beginning to show promise??
Then there is the room. That Room. The place where she did what she did. We removed the beam. It wasn't structurally necessary, except for Christina's last act. But now, it will always be "the room where it happened." I avoid it. Yet, every few days I approach the doorway, look inside, and see the events of that morning flash through my memory: her screams of anger? frustration? despair? I thought she had seen a spider that freaked her out. Hadn't she screamed like that just a week prior when she woke up because a spider was crawling on her? Flashes of her throwing herself down on the couch in that room, crying. Me begging her to tell me what was wrong. The next time I would see her - only an hour later - she'd be hanging there from that damn beam. Taking her down, lying her on the couch. The paramedics, laying her on the floor, injecting her, trying desperately to bring her back. And then, I must walk away. No. That room. It will never be anything other than...That Room.
So this is grief?? This madness? This altered terrain of flashbacks, longing to hear her voice, and unanswered questions? This is what it feels like to suffer the loss of a child? And, worst of all, I won't wake up from this, will I? No. It will only become more real. And me? I will be forever changed. Forever.
I've always said that I don't fear death - just untimely death, and that was always in reference to my own moment of passing from this life. I had never really considered the loss of one of my offspring. Well, every mother fears losing one of their own, but it was a thought I never contemplated. Instead, as a mom, those thoughts would run through my head causing a shudder and perhaps a tear, but then the internal shout of "NO!" - banishing the thought from consciousness. Too painful to contemplate. No, the statistics were on my side: Mothers just don't bury their children.
I've had to face loss only minimally - until now. When my paternal grandmother died as a result of her diabetes, I was a young teen and had never been close to her. I went to the wake, saw her, and her death became part of my family history. No tears. No sadness. Just a fact.
When my maternal great-grandfather died, it was again a non-traumatic event. He was old. It was his time. Then, years later when my maternal grandfather died, I felt grief. But not like this. I was sad because I loved him like a father and I cried because I knew I'd never see him again. I thought about all the good memories I had of him, but again, he was old enough for it to be "his time" and a simple fact of life. I cried and knew I would miss him, but accepted his passing as a natural part of life.
Then, about ten years later, my maternal grandmother died. A week or two before, my mother had called and told me, "You may want to go see your grandmother. She doesn't seem to have long to live." I went to see her and clearly she was dying. She was transferred to a facility where she could get more care than the assisted living site she'd been living in for years. I went to see her again. Took a picture of her. But, it was clear she was on the threshold of death. I barely recognized her. She looked so small. One week later, she died. Again, I felt grief, but not like this. While she was like a mother to me my whole life, it was her time. She was ninety-two. I went to the wake and funeral and shed tears. But, I accepted her death, like that of my grandfather's, as being a normal, expected part of the life cycle.
Those have been my primary experiences with death. Peripheral acquaintences have passes, unexpectedly, and those were sad; but they did not involve grief - just shock, sadness, and then quickly processed. My life went on, in spite of their tragic departure.
Then, three weeks ago, my youngest daughter took her own life. At first, my grief was experienced as shock and numbness. It seemed so hard to believe - even though it was me and two other family members that took her down from where she hung herself. In spite of that visual memory that cannot be purged, it initially seemed unreal, surreal, and more like a bad dream than reality.
In the days that followed, I was side-tracked and distracted by phone calls, visitors, and planning her funeral. How do we explain her absence to her two small children? How do we pay for services? Where shall we bury her? What should she wear? She was an organ-donor?? Why didn't she leave a note? Can we put her piercing back in for the burial? Then, there were all the usual mundane tasks that still persisted each day: dishes needed to be done, clothes needed to be washed, kids needed to be fed, bathed, and comforted.
The day of the funeral, I felt as if I was attending some generic family gathering. Again, it seemed unreal, as if I was physically present, but not mentally. Emotionally, I was still numb and it seemed like things were moving too fast. I wasn't ready to bury her. I still needed to see her...to touch her...to process the fact of her passing. But that was not an option...at least, not one that I could afford.
Internally, I knew that it would be only after the funeral that the reality of my loss would sink in. Once there were no more calls to make, no more final plans to tend to, and once guests and visitors returned to the normalcy of their daily lives, only then would it likely hit me.
And that is the part that has surprised me the most so far: the paradoxical nature of my grieving. I can be functioning in one moment, as I tend to the tasks of daily life when suddenly, without warning, I feel overwhelmed with apathy, and find myself just sitting, mindlessly, lost in altered state of...emptiness, shock, pain, sadness, and yet wanting to scream, yell, and cry out loud to the world, "HOW DARE YOU ALL GO ON WITH YOUR LIVES?!! MY DAUGHTER IS GONE!! FOREVER!!!"
How can something that has caused such a profound and permanent change in my life not affect the rest of the world??
And then there are the disjointed thoughts that run through my head as I sit in this immobilized, frozen state of forced acceptance of a reality I want nothing to do with: How will her children ever know who she really was? What am I supposed to do now with all of her personal possessions? Do I say now that I am the mother of five children, or will I always be a mother of six - or, six minus one? Will she - can she - communicate with us from the other side? Did she plan to do this, or was it just one final impulsive act that was done without much forethought? Did she think we would find her in time to save her? What if it had been her kids that found her?? How often should I go to her gravesite? How long will I continue to walk through life feeling as if she took me with her??
And then, there are the changes in my daily life: I sleep for a few hours, then wake, drinking cup after cup of coffee hoping to feel alert. Then, back to bed. Sleep through most of the afternoon. Get up again. More coffee. Not hungry. Not motivated to accomplish much of anything. Evening comes, and along with it, deep sadness - as if the sun going down alerts me to the fact that another day has gone by, without her. The facts have not changed. And night falls. I am alone in the silence and find contentment and peace with the solitude, until the birds begin to chirp - and another day dawns.
The death certificate is ready for pick-up. Cause of death: asphyxiation. I knew that. But seeing it written on the formal, authentic, notarized, government-issued form jolts me into reality: Christina is dead. Cry some more.
Thank you notes need to be written and sent. Another welcome distraction. "Thank you for your kindness and generosity." "Having you present at my daughter's memorial was deeply appreciated." "The flowers you sent were beautiful. Thank you for your condolences."
Back to having nothing to do but ruminate. My religious beliefs are being questioned - by others and my my self. What do I believe? I remember telling one of the funeral directors at the cemetery that our family is "inspired more by nature than by scripture," and that best summarizes the foundation of my spiritual beliefs. At a spiritual level, I accept the life-death-rebirth cycle of life; but does that help me now? Only somewhat. I am agnostic; while I am open to the possibility of a god, a creator, a Master of the Universe, I also realize that all of our current religions are based upon mythological tales. Mythology can be inspiring, but they are made-up stories. While I am inspired by stories about Demeter, Persephone, Jesus, the Buddha, and many, many more, I realize that none are real gods - and that's okay; they remain inspiring. But, because I don't believe in a literal Heaven or Hell, I wonder: Where are you Christina?? Have you been reborn, reincarnated into another life? Have you been returned to the Earth only to return to basic, organic compounds? Is your soul, your spirit, lingering, watching from above, or just a figment of my wishful imagination?? And, I am frustrated by the lack of proof regarding the afterlife. While I am open to all the possibilities, I am also skeptical without scientific evidence and realize that my desires for signs and wonders from "the other side" is rooted deeply in wishful thinking.
A call comes in: Christina's teacher from the GED classes she recently finished. Christina's graduation has been scheduled for next month. "Ms. Stone, I chose your daughter of the 150 students I had this term to be the one I would honor by reading some of her essays - which were wonderfully written." I tell her what has happened. More condolences and shock. We are welcome to attend and would someone in the family like to accept her diploma on her behalf?" The call adds to my disbelief. How could she have done this when her life was finally beginning to show promise??
Then there is the room. That Room. The place where she did what she did. We removed the beam. It wasn't structurally necessary, except for Christina's last act. But now, it will always be "the room where it happened." I avoid it. Yet, every few days I approach the doorway, look inside, and see the events of that morning flash through my memory: her screams of anger? frustration? despair? I thought she had seen a spider that freaked her out. Hadn't she screamed like that just a week prior when she woke up because a spider was crawling on her? Flashes of her throwing herself down on the couch in that room, crying. Me begging her to tell me what was wrong. The next time I would see her - only an hour later - she'd be hanging there from that damn beam. Taking her down, lying her on the couch. The paramedics, laying her on the floor, injecting her, trying desperately to bring her back. And then, I must walk away. No. That room. It will never be anything other than...That Room.
So this is grief?? This madness? This altered terrain of flashbacks, longing to hear her voice, and unanswered questions? This is what it feels like to suffer the loss of a child? And, worst of all, I won't wake up from this, will I? No. It will only become more real. And me? I will be forever changed. Forever.
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.
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