Twelve Years

You would think twelve years would diminish the pain, dim the grief. It doesn't. In some ways, yes. It is not the constant terrifying companion it was in the first years. We get better at closing the door on it and keeping it at a distance. We go on with our lives, and learn to live without him. We learn that we can be happy. We learn that we can keep grief under wraps most of the time.

But the there are those days that memories flood back. Mostly, they are cause for joy, amusement, delight. We love remembering Leif and his life. We think of him every day. But sometimes memories bring back the pain.

There is no way I can ever forget the details of April 9 and 10, 2008. I manage to keep them at bay most of the time, but when the date rolls around on the calendar, I can't do it. It all comes crashing back.

I am supposed to be strong. I was always supposed to be the strong one, beginning when I was a child. And I try. People think I am. But sometimes, it's too hard.

Twelve years is a long time. And yet, it seems like yesterday. And yet, it seems like forever.

I miss him.

Seeing an RX8 brings a flood of memories.

No matter where we go, it's startling when we come across something that is immediately associated with Leif, that hits like a blow of memories and all the expectations that come with them.

It's not common to see silver Mazda RX8s. Every time I see one in the Tampa Bay area, it's as though some area of my brain registers that it must be Leif driving along, no matter how much my conscious mind knows it can't be him.

It seems even stranger when it happens nearly half a world away. At the end of May, when we were in Cobh, Ireland, I caught this view of a silver RX8. As always, it brought a flood of emotions, all the associations...Leif's car (which of course, it wasn't), where was Leif? I missed him. Wished he were there, like he once was.

Are you over it yet?

Peter asked me on our bike ride yesterday whether I was "over" Leif's death after four years. I told him no, that I still felt like the man we sat with at a German American Club Christmas Party a couple of years ago whose 17-year-old daughter had committed suicide some fifteen years ago . . . that it still hurt just as much, just not as often.

We didn't continue to discuss it then, but today I asked him whether HE was "over it," and he said he thought he was. But then it occurred to me that so often we use words in different ways. What did "over it" mean to him? So I asked.

He said he still thinks of Leif "all the time" and misses him, but that life must go on and that he was able to enjoy our trip to Germany.

I guess my definition is different. I knew all along that life had to go on, and since Leif died I've helped take care of my mother through a broken back and a broken hip, and now am helping her with another move. We've traveled to Egypt, South America, Alaska, Germany, India and Russia since Leif's death, and I've enjoyed the trips. Most of each day I'm busy and functioning well. I don't dwell on his death the way I did for the first three years after he died. I cry more rarely, but I still do get tears in my eyes, and once in awhile grief still comes back for a pity party.

If being "over it" means being able to function and enjoy life most of the time, I guess I am . . . but if being "over it" means it no longer hurts or affects me, or that I no longer miss him, or that I no longer question and wonder why, no, I am not "over it," and I don't think I ever will be.

There is something so integral to one's life about being a parent, about loving someone so completely, that even if we can eventually let go of the daily depths of grief, we can never really let go of the person we love and miss so much.

I was thinking just today, again, of all Leif's things I still have and what to do with them when there he had no family to give them to, no children to wonder about their father, no grandchildren who would like having his things.

I was thinking of all the memories that we cherish, how glad I am to have them, and yet how hard it sometimes is to remember and know what we have lost.

There are so many days I'd like to write on this blog but find no time. The demands of life have closed in and taken away the time I used to spend each day here with "Remembering Leif," and it may seem to the casual reader of the blog as though I am no longer remembering as often or as deeply, but that would be untrue.

I'm glad I had the time in the first two years after Leif's death to write more often, even daily, to be with him in my mind's eye and share those moments in some inner way with him. Now those moments are fewer, but not because I think of him any less.

I think Peter, too, wishes for more of that time. He checks the blog every day and waits to see whether I've written anything new, tells me I should write something, even if it is short. He may be "over it," but he's not over wanting to see the photos and read about our son.

This photo of Peter and Leif was taken in the back yard of our old stone house in Manhattan, Kansas, in June 1976 when Leif was a year-and-a-half old. He had been playing in the little wading pool and gotten tuckered out, so he climbed up on daddy and fell asleep in the sun, all cuddled up, safe and warm. He must have felt so snuggled up and loved . . . and he was. It's a precious moment, to have a little boy asleep on you like that. They both were so young then.

Four Years Since We Saw Him

Today it has been four years since we last saw Leif alive. Four years ago, March 23rd was Easter, and Leif came driving down from Tampa to have dinner with us. He was relaxed and happy, in love, seemed to be taking things in stride. We had a good visit, a good discussion. I can picture him just as he was that evening, first sitting across from me at the kitchen table and later in the green recliner in the living room with his hands behind his head.

I'm glad our memories of that last precious visit are good ones, that it was a pleasant evening together, glad I gave him the $20 for gasoline, since he'd said he didn't have the money to fill up his tank to come for dinner! I wish I'd give him $100.

There was no hint that he was desperate or suicidal. In fact, it seemed just the opposite. I remember that both Peter W. and I felt he seemed better than he had at Christmas or his birthday. Either we misread him completely or something changed dramatically in the following two weeks.

It still seems unreal to me that he won't ever show up for dinner again, that he won't ever bring his laundry with him, that he won't ever send me a text message. Unreal, but I know it's true. It doesn't seem like four years could possibly have passed since the last time I saw him.
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This photo of Peter W. and Leif was taken in Puerto Rico at Hacienda Buena Vista in June 1991 when Leif was 16 years old, with his trademark Oakleys hanging around his neck, of course.

Remembering Never Ends

Memories are triggered by almost anything, at any time, even when least expected, and they bring with them so much emotion. Not only the emotion of the time they happened, but all the emotions that are associated since that time, including happiness, love, wonder, nostalgia, longing, and grief.

For us, like so many others who have grieved for loved ones, especially those who have lost a child, the holidays will always hold those memories of the happy days gone by, all we shared, and bring to the fore all we will miss this holiday season. I am trying to keep focused on gratitude that we HAD those wonderful days, those years we enjoyed so much with our sons during the holidays.

Today I was doing some straightening up in my home office and came across something I don't remember even seeing or noticing at the time I received it. It's a pamphlet for parents about the death of a child called, "The Saddest Loss," written by Jane Woods Shoemaker. It was sent to us in a packet by USAA, the company that Leif dealt with for his car loan, vehicle insurance and a checking account, after I notified them of his death.

It's probably just as well that I didn't read it then. I don't know whether I would have been in any condition to really appreciate its message. It won't change anything, but reading it now is like an acknowledgement of all we have been through. I haven't read it fully, but these phrases stood out:

"The death of one's own child is so devastating you may not feel like reading this booklet right away."

Perhaps that's why I didn't. Perhaps that's why I don't even remember seeing it before.

"When a child dies, parents grieve harder and longer than with any other loss."

I can't know whether that is true, as I haven't experienced every other loss, but I do know it is the most devastating thing that has ever happened to us.

"The ties of love and hope that bind parent and child are the most powerful in human relationships."

I've written about the role of our hopes for our children, and the bond between me and Leif, and how I wonder if deep in us somewhere, even our DNA knows of the loss; certainly our bodies and brains respond to the loss in deep and profound ways.

"The suicide of a child leaves parents with so many unanswered questions. It is the most difficult loss to accept."

The questions will always haunt us, as long as we live and are capable of thinking.

The booklet deals forthrightly with the emotions surrounding what to do with your child's possessions, and how parents hold onto their child by keeping possessions. How well I know that feeling . . . and also the sadness that comes from disposing of them, which feels somehow disloyal.

"Memories are the worst and the best aspects of grief."

Yes, and that is the crux of it. We WANT to remember. We WANT to keep our child alive in our hearts and minds, but as the memories come, the grief comes along with the happiness, so many times.

There is a section on "Memorials," ways to memorialize one's child. Here, I have perhaps fallen victim to my own feelings of grief, for she writes, "A memorial should be a celebration of the child's life, not an expression of your grief."

She gives some examples, but my memorial for Leif is this blog, and it cannot be truthful without acknowledging grief. I found that out as I wrote it. If you have followed this blog these three-and-a-half years, you may remember that when I started it, the day we found him, I said I wanted it to be about the "remembering the good times." But it was and is not a biography that progressed in linear order through his life. It is not just a series of stories about him. It is a collection of thoughts, stories, emotions, which all intermingle, just as life does.

Here is a sentence from the last paragraph of the booklet, "Recovering from grief does not mean that you get over the death of your child."

Yes, every parent I've talked to who has suffered the death of their child says this. You never get over it, but you learn to cope. You learn to go on. You learn to handle the occasions the sadness and nostalgia return. You learn to be grateful for the years you had. You learn to treasure every memory and every photo. You learn to be thankful for them.

And you will never, never forget.

Leif will not be with us this holiday season, not in person, not on this earth, but he will be in our hearts.
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This photo was taken of Leif in Hawaii in July 1984. He was nine years old. He looks happy, confident, adventurous. 

Reminders of Leif

Yesterday we went to an event in Tampa. On the way home, Peter remarked that we were passing the way to Leif's apartment. We don't ever pass that point on I-4 without thinking about that, and feeling sad that he isn't there. I asked Peter whether he misses Leif any less and he said no, that there are always reminders, and that we won't have him with us again this Christmas. The years keep passing, but we still miss him.

When I was singing with the German American Chorus at the Lutheran church service in German last Sunday, Pastor Stiller's sermon was about finding the joy in Christmas, and was particularly directed at those who don't have that joy and belief in their lives. Although it was a good acknowledgement of the difficulty some people have being happy during the holidays whether through grief, sadness, depression or loss, and a message of why it is important to be childlike in our faith and joy, it did not create that in me. I still miss Leif and it still hurts. There will always be that sadness in the holidays, the reminders that he isn't with us.

That doesn't mean I don't enjoy Christmas or the preparations for it. As I've written before, there comes a time when joy and sadness coexist. It's an odd mixture and I can cycle from happy anticipation and busy-ness to sadness in seconds.

I was thinking, for instance, about the gifts we are giving, and what we would have given Leif this year, had he been still alive, what foods he would have wanted for the Christmas celebrations, how his towering frame would have filled the door when he came in.

Today, I saw this report of a multi-car crash in Japan, involving eight Ferraris and a Lamborghini. I knew Leif would have had plenty to say about that! He loved those cars and photographed them whenever he saw them. He had a toy model Lamborghini he'd kept since childhood. The photo above is one he took of a Lamborghini Countach at an auto show in Chicago in February 1987. I'll never see an exotic sports car without thinking of Leif.

What Leif Really Wanted to Be

 From the time he was very small, Leif wanted to be a jet pilot. I suppose some of the things that influenced that desire were visiting Air Force bases, traveling on jets when we moved from one continent to another or traveled, seeing movies like "Top Gun," and all the science fiction movies he saw with incredible flying machines. Two more big components would have been his love of speed and the skies. And lastly, the glamor of it, the cool factor, appealed to him.

He wanted so badly to be a pilot. We were the kind of parents who always tried to help our boys learn more about their interests and be supportive of them. When we lived in Hawaii, Peter W. took Leif to the reserve component of Hickam Air Force Base where a pilot gave Leif a tour and took him up into the cockpit of a jet fighter. Leif was in his element. It was a very special day for an 8 or 9 year-old. This would have probably taken place in 1984. Unfortunately, the photos don't have dates on them.

Leif lived his childhood dreaming of this career and planning on it. Although we all knew he could not definitely count on being selected for AF pilot training, he assumed that was what he would be.

I've posted before his high school essay about when he found out his eyes would not pass the flight physical and what a blow it was to him to have to give up this dream. It must have been even harder on him when his brother, who didn't really want to fly, was at the Air Force Academy and was selected for pilot training. Life is full of ironies we cannot foresee.

Leif tried to capture the feeling of speed by driving his cars and motorcycles like a demon, and would have dearly loved to be a race car driver. He would have been a good one, but that career was closed to him, too, due to the financial requirements.

I read a quote, which I can no longer find, that the death of one's dreams is one of the saddest things that can happen to a person, and that unless we replace the dream we've lost with a new one, a new plan or hope for the future, we flounder.

Leif did try to find new dreams or hopes, whether as an Air Force officer (starting with ROTC), or as an army enlistee, whether with love, or with the gaming and gadgetry he enjoyed, but none of those hopes and dreams came true. It was as though the heavens had determined that nothing he tried would work. How thankful I am that I did not have to live through all the disappointments he suffered.

In the past couple of weeks, we have, as always, had so many reminders of Leif. Yesterday I drove past a Japanese restaurant where we took him to dinner one December. We watched the movie, "Thor," and talked about what Leif would have thought of it. We went out to dinner at another Japanese restaurant and parked next to a silver RX-8 like the one he used to drive. Today I used the computer he built to check how something looked and worked on a Windows machine. Every day I use phones he gave us.

When he died, we lost some of our dreams, too, dreams for his future, dreams of how our future might be with him in it. I miss him every day.

I thought yesterday, after watching an episode of House, about all the babies that die before they are even born, the miscarriages that take their tiny lives, often because they are in some way not viable. Then there are the children who never make it to adulthood because of some congenital problem or disease. And then there are those who do make it to adulthood, but are cut down by, again, some congenital problem or disease, and lead short and sometimes problematic lives.

Perhaps Leif fit into that latter category in some way we will never be able to know for certain. Perhaps that genetic heritage of depression doomed our beautiful son in a myriad terrible ways. But that doesn't mean that he wasn't beautiful, brilliant, funny, loving, generous, kind, and loved. That his meteor only burned a short time and was gone doesn't take away from all that 33 year streak brought us . . . the good and the bad, the happiness and the disappointments. The memories are ours, those we treasure and those we wish had never occurred.

We don't get to choose in life just to have the happy moments. We have to take it all, the good and the bad. Life isn't fair, it just is. It certainly wasn't fair to Leif, and it still hurts every day to think about how he reached that point where he decided to put a bullet into his head. But I'm still glad I had the chance to love him. Still glad of all I learned from him. Still glad he was mine.

This photo of Leif was taken at Avebury Circle in England in June 1980 near sundown. He was five-and-a-half years old.





"The Moving Finger writes; and, having writ, Moves on: nor all thy Piety nor Wit Shall lure it back to cancel half a Line, 
Nor all thy Tears wash out a Word of it." 

 — Omar Khayyám

And yet, our tears come despite their futility. Our love endures despite it's powerlessness to bring back the times and loved ones we miss. Our memories flood back though they will not convey one embrace to the past. We cannot forget, though we must go on.

The Bond With One's Child

I've written in posts shortly after Leif died that it felt like having a part of me cut off, and though it still does, like an amputee, I am learning how to live with it, though that doesn't mean I will ever stop missing him. I have speculated that there is something very physical about the bond between a mother and child, something in the DNA, perhaps, that knows when it is missing, but now I've read a study in Scientific American that has a different and compelling explanation. It says that the brains of new mothers change and areas grow as they bond with their infants. There literally are neural connections that are deep and strong, physical ones, not just psychic bonds, or are they one and the same? The article, "A New Mom's Changing Brain," by Nathan Collins, explains how these changes occur and what the effects are. The entire article is not available with this link, but if you have access to a good public library that has databases or a college or university library that does, you can access it there.

I found myself wondering just how profoundly my bond with Leif had changed my brain, and how acutely my brain, and thus my feelings, suffers from the lack of him and the bond being supported by his presence in my life. Is this at least partly why mothers (and perhaps fathers, too, for someone needs to research that) grieve so terribly over the death of a child, no matter what age they are when they die?

I also wondered whether love of any kind, romantic love, friendship, also creates changes in the brain, demonstrable proof of the response to another. I'll bet research would show that, too, but that it would be in some ways different than the response to one's baby.

I have felt sad that I haven't had time to post on this blog for the past 12 days due to other family needs. The living have to take precedence over the dead, and although I know that and believe it, still I felt as though I were neglecting Leif during this time, not giving him the time I want to devote to his memory, not keeping up the blog as well as I would like to do during the last part of the third year since his death. I can hardly believe that in only 18 days, it will be three years since he died. I still don't want to believe it, still want him back. It doesn't seem like three years could already have passed.

I was talking to my neighbor and friend whose son died six years ago this month and she said she heard a man whose son died man more years ago answer the question about whether it hurts and less over time this way, "No, but it hurts less often." She agreed with that, and so do I.

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These photos of Leif were taken in our quarters at Fort Buchanan, Puerto Rico around February 1991 when Leif had just turned 16 and was starting to let his hair grow longer. They are unusual because I think this was the only tan outfit or shirt he ever had. Tan was not his color or a favorite of his, so I don't even really know how or why he got it. Note the acid rock t-shirt under it.

Christmas Eve 1976

I posted photos of Christmas photos of Leif for nearly every year of his life the past two Christmases. It's so hard to believe this our third Christmas without him. There is still a hole in my heart. I am enjoying our time with Peter Anthony and our grandchildren, but Leif is still missing, and the memories and the longing do not fade. I don't want to let it show, don't want to spoil everyone's good time with my sadness. How is it possible to be happy, joyful, and sad at the same time?


These photos were taken on Christmas Eve in 1976 when we were living in Charlottesville, Virginia. Leif would be two years old a month later. He was a darling child, and at this age knew all his shapes (including octagons, pentagons, trapezoids, etc.), his numbers and letters and could recite the entire "Lorax" by Dr. Seuss word for word, exactly. He was curious and active.

That Christmas we were fortunate to have a big family gathering, with my mother there, and my brother Donovan and his family and my sister, Lannay.


I wish I remembered what was in the shoebox Leif has. He loved boxes almost as much as what was in them.

I am so thankful for all the photos we have, the memories they bring back, the good times we had. These photos from 34 years ago are the treasures of my heart.

Memories, Music and Christmas

This weekend has brought two days of strong emotions for Peter W. and me, emotions brought about by memories triggered by music. It's amazing how deeply music affects us, how closely music can be tied to memories.

Yesterday we went to the Christmas Tree Lighting Ceremony sponsored by the German American Club. We go every year. For Peter, it was the sixth one; for me the fourth. It's a nice tradition, with carols in German and English, and German Christmas cookies, Stollen and coffee afterward.

I was doing fine and enjoying it until we started singing "O Tannenbaum," and then the tears welled up in my eyes and I just couldn't stop them. Peter got misty-eyed, too. The song brought back such dear memories, of our boys during Christmases in Germany, of Peter Anthony singing this song with the Sachsen Kinderchor, of Uncle Helmut lighting the real candles on the fifteen-foot tall tree, of Aunt Toni with little "Peterle" and "Peterle" with his little train conductor hat, all excited about his first electric train when he was two. Of Peter A. singing the part of Joseph in the Christmas Cantata in Sachsen and Katterbach. Of Leif with such joy on his little face opening presents in Japan when he was five or six. Of baking our traditional Norwegian Christmas cookies and bread together. Of all the Christmases we spent with our children when they were small and it was so magical for them.

It's embarrassing to cry in public, something I try hard to control, but the memories brought by the music were too much for me. I loved those days so much and I miss them.

It was "O Tannenbaum" that got me started, though I had trouble with some of the other songs, too. And then Peter W. said that when he sang "Sleep in heavenly peace" at the end of "Silent Night," he was thinking that he hoped Leif was sleeping in heavenly peace, and I lost it again. Just writing this tears stream down my face. I remember saying, "I wish he were just sleeping. But I hope he is at least at peace."

Without the music, I got through the rest of the day without tears, but today I was fighting them again when I was performing with the Women's Chorus. I don't know what it is about the act of performing that changes the depth of feeling of a song. I've been singing those songs all fall without a problem, but just like last year at the concert, there were certain words that choked me up and I couldn't sing for a few measures. One of them was "Merry Christmas, darling. We're apart, that's true, but I can dream and in my dreams I'm Christmasing with you." "I'll Be Home for Christmas" is another one that stabs.

The holidays can be very hard for those who are alone, lonely, depressed and unhappy, or not with those they love, or who have lost someone they love near the holidays or recently. Leif has been dead for two-and-a-half years, and this will be our third Christmas without him. We won't spend it alone and are grateful and happy that we will be with Peter Anthony, Darlene and our grandchildren, and my sister, Lannay and her family. It will be a happy time, and we will enjoy it, but there will be an empty space in my heart for Leif, and I will no doubt fight more tears when I hear certain songs or miss him most acutely.

When our boys were young, Christmas was such a wonderful adventure, full of their wonder and anticipation, their eagerness, utter joy. How fortunate we were to have those days, those moments, those memories. Even with the tears, they are a treasure to be cherished and held close.

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This photo of Leif and Peter A. was taken on Christmas Eve in Japan, probably in 1981 when Leif was six years old.

Forever Linked

I don't understand families that treat their family members badly and hurt each other. I don't understand families that don't keep strong ties. There are so many that seem to feel it's just an onerous duty to spend time together.

And then there are families like mine that love to be together and gladly travel great distances to do it, families like mine that find it an important part of their identities, that want to be in contact. The mothers in my family are always bonded to their children, as I am bonded to mine. We are forever linked not just by a family name and "blood," but by love and shared memories.

It's those memories that come back, the happy and the sad, to keep those links alive, even past death. I remember Leif every day, but there are so many different things that trigger memories. Tonight it was a show on television. Peter started watching a science fiction show that took place in space and featured a fighter pilot, just the kind of show Leif would have chosen, would have loved, and would have commented upon. The moment I saw the space ships I thought of him and how he would have liked it. I will likely never look at a sci fi show or movie again without associating it with him, or see NASA photo of outer space without remembering the NASA images he had on his computer, or see the stars and moon in the night sky without thinking of him.

While we were in Egypt we saw some "falling stars," and I've seen one more since we got home. Those I associated with both my sons, Leif, because they were in the heavens at night, Peter A. because of his interest in planetary defense against asteroids.

I am forever linked to my sons, or, at least for my lifetime.

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This "stairstep" photo of me with my sons was taken in Hawaii in the summer of 1980, when we were stopping there for a few days of vacation on the long move from Germany to Japan. Leif was five years old.

So Many Reminders

On Tuesday I attended the funeral of a neighbor, a man who died of a stroke at 79, someone who had been active in the community, raised several children, a man who was friendly and outgoing. He will be missed, not only by his family but by the community he served.

As I was there at the funeral service, a Catholic Mass, I was struck by how different it is to have a funeral for someone who has lived a long, full life, who has raised children, enjoyed grandchildren, contributed to many organizations, had a host of friends, and someone like Leif who was only 33 and had none of those things. There is an additional and burdensome sadness in knowing he never had them and never will, in realizing that so much was missed.

These people, at least outwardly, all were so sure of their belief in the afterlife and what it would mean, while Leif was a nonbeliever and I think that if there is an afterlife, it is vastly different than our imaginings of it.

The funeral made me profoundly sad for a couple of days, and no matter how many times I told myself how fortunate I am, in so many ways, and to count my blessings, not just mourn for what I have lost, I could not shake it, but then I started to come out of that low place and appreciate the beauty around me. The full moon last night. The lovely sunset. My home. My wonderful husband. My son. My grandchildren.

It's funny how a small and unusual thing can give you a lift. This evening, I stepped into the garage to check whether Peter had closed the garage door when he left. He hadn't, but before I could press the button to close it, a little brown wren flew in, perched for just a tiny moment at the back of the garage, and then flew back out again. I knew we had wrens somewhere in our bushes, but I rarely see them, and never that close or in the garage. It was something sweet and precious, that moment, and it made me think of all the moments gone by that I can remember with love and joy . . . even if their memory also brings sadness that they will never come again.
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This photo of me and Leif was taken on July 20, 2004 at the dining room table of our old stone house in Manhattan, Kansas. It was a wonderful evening, one of those warm memories. Peter A. was there with his family. Leif's friend Michael was there to visit. We decided to use Peter W's German beer steins. Leif, Peter A. and Michael had provided a supply of interesting and unusual beers for all of us to try (Leif, the beer connoisseur), and we were telling stories and jokes, laughing, taking pictures. It was one of the happiest evenings with the family together, one of those memories to be treasurered. I am showing Leif a photo I took with my camera, and this one was taken by Peter W.

Dreams

The mind is a strange thing. It has it's own logic and memory in dreams and creates stories and realities all it's own. And it apparently does not accept death. I say that, because although my father died in 1960, I still occasionally dream about him, and it is never in the past. It's always in the present, and he is an old man. He's been lost, and I've found him.

I don't often remember my dreams, but I woke and remembered I had dreamed about Leif a few days ago. It was a vivid dream, though the details quickly grew misty. In my dream, Leif was a young adult, maybe in his mid-twenties. He had gone on a trip with us somewhere (as he often did) and for some reason he didn't what to go wherever I was going, in a strange city. Like so many dream locations, it was not someplace real, not someplace I have ever actually been.

So he took off on his own, so like him. I was wandering around a business area looking for something, met some friends, and we went to dinner. Leif called me on our cell phones and he sounded lost. Not physically lost. He knew where he was, but he didn't know where I was and what I was doing, and he was suddenly lonesome and sad. He asked, "Why does everything have to turn out wrong?"

I remember feeling bad for him in this dream, and telling him how to come join us for dinner.

That's all I remember of the dream, except for a few details about how the location looked, but the dream seems significant and telling to me. Leif wandering around alone, asking why things turned out badly. And alive.

Perhaps I have dreamed of his death. Perhaps I have dreamed of my dad's death. If so, I have not remembered those dreams. So far, in the only ones I ever remember they are alive. Not happy. Not well, but alive. And so real.

I find myself now thinking of Leif more and more as a child and not as the man he was when he died. Why is that? Is that because he was "mine" then? Is it because those were happier days? It is because in those days I could solve the problems and keep our family whole? Is it because he was such a beautiful child?

I don't know. He was a man nearly as long as he was a child, in his years on this earth, and when I picture him and am not looking at photos, I picture his tall frame coming through my front door.

So many memories, good ones, bad ones, happy and sad ones, but he lives only in my dreams.

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This photo of Leif and me was taken in Hawaii in 1983, he was eight-and-a-half years old.

The Power of Memories and Associations

The last time I saw this view, Leif was with us. It was twenty-two years ago and he was thirteen years old. This photo of him was taken on that trip. As Peter and I were walking in the Heidelberg Castle gardens this afternoon, I couldn't help but remember that he had been with us on that trip, and it suddenly made me inexpressibly sad. I cried, and I said to Peter that little did we know at that time we would only have him for twenty more years.

A few days ago, we saw a fancy Audi sports car that we immediately both said Leif would have loved, and today Peter spotted an unusual vehicle, a BMW motorcycle that had a cab around the driver. I had to take a picture of it, because I knew Leif would have been interested in it, though of course he is not here for me to show it to.

Just days before that, we had a rip-roaring thunderstorm, innumerable flashes of lightning and plenty of thunder accompanied by a downpour that knocked an amazing quantity of debris off our live oak trees, and Peter said how much Leif would have loved it, how he liked to watch the lightning, and we remembered how he went out onto the porch of our old stone house in Kansas to watch such storms.

Everywhere we go, everything we do, is covered with a layer of memories of Leif. Sometimes many layers. I want to remember him, but often the way memories surface or pop up unexpectedly surprises me. It sneaks up on me.

How could his life end like that?

There are hours when I don't think of it, don't think about him, when I'm absorbed in the moment and the sadness over his death and depression is pushed aside or covered over and I think I'm doing better, much better, that it's time to focus on life and my living family. That feels right and good.

And then, out of the blue, something will remind me of Leif and his death and it floods back and I find myself asking again, with tears in my eye, "how could his life end like that?" I will never know. No matter how many times I think over all that happened to him, all the heartache and disappointment, all the debts he created and all the hopes that were dashed, I will not really fathom it. I look at these photos of that beautiful little boy, so innocent and sweet . . . most of the time; he could have quite a temper . . . and it's not even comprehensible how he could go from that sweet little fellow to the man I saw lying on the floor of his kitchen.

Memories are so bittersweet. I am glad for every one of them, even the bad ones, no matter how much I wish they hadn't happened. Life cannot be without hurt, it seems. Many of my memories are sweet, but thinking of them also makes me feel so acutely that I will never have more, that he is gone forever.

I remember the day we took this trip to Lichtenau, a village not far from where we lived in Sachsen bei Ansbach, about a mile and a half. We could see Lichtenau from our house, especially from the second floor balcony. It's a picturesque place with old half-timbered buildings and a small castle that we explored. I think the boys were as fascinated with these goats as they were with the castle, though. I caught Leif just as he was heading off to explore something else.

Both boys are wearing sweaters that were hand-knit by Peter W's Aunt Kathe, who lived in Stuttgart. This photo was taken in August 1978. Leif was three-and-a-half and Peter Anthony was nine going on ten. August in Germany can be chilly. It was a brisk day but a lovely one for a family outing.

Grief is universal, yet solitary

Today I was reminded again that while we feel our grief intimately and alone, and often hide it from the world, we are not alone in suffering through those feelings of loss and sadness.

I was going down the street delivering notices about our annual homeowners' association meeting to people who live on my street whom I've either never met or just met once, and rang one doorbell to find a woman whose husband had just died five days ago. They had been married 59 years. She was remarkably composed and she invited me in; she wanted to talk. I was glad to be there with her, to hear her story. She kept saying she shouldn't be "bending [my] ear," but it was good for her to talk and good for me, too, to be reminded that death is part of life, part of love, part of the human condition, and that I am not alone in losing someone I love.

She spoke so lovingly of her husband of 59 years. Think what it must be like to be alone after 59 years with a beloved companion. We shared other things in common. Both of us are military wives. Both of us had children who served their country in the armed forces. Both of us had lived in Germany, albeit at different times. And we even both use Macintosh computers. I was amazed at her composure and bravery, how she spoke of her memories and what she needs to do for her future.

She kept saying, "we," referring to herself and her husband, and then said, "I guess I have to stop saying 'we.' People won't want to keep hearing about my husband."

I said, "No, keep saying 'we.' Your life for 59 years was 'we' and that doesn't go away. That's who you are. The 'I' begins now, but your past will always include your husband." I hope she realized what I meant.

I know I can't erase Leif from my life. I will talk about him whenever I am reminded of him, whenever I remember something that fits into the conversation. I think it's the sadness and the weeping that people don't want to see, after a time. They understand it in the first few months after a death in the family, but then they just want it to be over, for you to move on. But suppressing grief is one thing, and pretending someone didn't exist and not talking about them is quite another. That's like denying their life, denying its value.

We had Leif for 33 years. It wasn't enough, but it was precious, and I am grateful for those years. In writing this blog, I spend a lot of time looking through, scanning, and repairing photos of his life, and it keeps him fresh in my mind, bringing back memories of times we seldom thought about as well as times we often told stories about. I keep him bound in my heart. I treasure the memories.

When all is said and done, what do we have from life but our family and friends and our memories. They are the true measure and riches of our lives. My life was infinitely richer because of my two sons.

And, of course, it's the loss of that richness, that treasure, that hurts so much.
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This photo was taken in our quarters in Honolulu, Hawaii, in April 1984. I no longer remember why Peter W. and Leif were so tired that they sacked out on the couch together, but as usual I was there with my camera to capture this sweet picture. Leif was nine years old.

Leif & His Dad & Peter A. at Manoa Falls, Hawaii - August 1983 - Age 8

What memories do we hold most dear? Is it the family holidays like Christmases spent together? Birthday celebrations? Trips? A special time making something together, like Leif and I often did, whether it was a Western town created with popsicle sticks, a giant R2D2 cookie, a papier-mache Daruma-san, or pancakes?

Or was it the day trips and outings that we took so often, going somewhere to see something new, see a movie, take a hike?

I don't think it's possible to choose, though there might be a special memory among any of those things. Photos are such a treasure, a wonderful way to preserve at least a piece of those memories, and often, the photo will bring back so much more.

Like this hike we took up Manoa Valley on the island of Oahu. This was shortly after we moved to Hawaii in the summer of 1983. As usual, I was busy reading as much as I could about our new surroundings and what we could do there, and I found out about the trail that went up the valley to Manoa Falls.

When we went, it was a hot, sticky day, and the hike through the "jungle" (it was practically a tropical jungle) was humid and there were some pesky mosquitoes, but it was truly beautiful, with incredible philodendron vines and so many new kinds of trees and plants. New for us, anyway. The trail was very wet and we got quite muddy.

At the end of the trail was a lovely, clear pond formed by the falling water, and Manoa Falls. You could swim in the pool and we peeled off our clothes (bathing suits on underneath) and plunged in. I took this photo when Peter W. (in the navy blue outfit) and Peter A. (in the green shorts) were just starting to get ready for a swim. Leif, in the dark blue trunks with the stripes on the side, at left, was all ready to jump in, true to form. There was another family there and you can see them in the background.

The boys had a great time splashing each other and cavorting around. The water was wonderfully cool in the damp, tropical heat. It was a treat.

Eventually we had to get dressed and head back down the trail to "civilization" and home.

I wonder if either of my boys remembered this hike, or so many of our other outings. Our experiences make up our lives, but how many of them can we recall?

The Endless Questions

Yesterday I was talking to my friend who lost her son to suicide with a gun four-and-a-half years ago. She told me, tears sliding from her eyes, that she still can't bring herself to look at all the family videos, the photo albums, and boxes of mementos. She still doesn't feel like decorating for the holidays or celebrating them. She met a long-time friend who asked her whether she had stopped asking "why" and she said the would never stop until her eyes "closed for the last time." She said that it took her three years, but she got to the angry stage where she asked why her son thought it was all right to do this terrible thing to his family, to leave her anguished for the rest of her life . . . and then felt bad about her anger, because for him to take his life, he must have been so unhappy.

I told her that I had thought a lot about that question of why, and I, too, will be asking it forever, but unlike her, I don't think that finding out the answer will bring any closure or make me feel any better, because no matter what the answer would be, it would just raise MORE questions, the whys behind that answer, and many others. I don't think we can ever really come to grips with the why of our sons' deaths, because I don't think there is any reason that will be truly comprehensible to us. The only thing that would be, would be to walk in their shoes and experience what they did, to feel what they felt, and I don't want to do that, even if I could. I don't want to experience a life that would make me want to end mine.

Four-and-a-half years, and we will be coming up on eighteen months in just a couple of days. Those months seem at once endless and so short, to have flown by. How can Leif have been gone from us that long already? It still seems as if he could come driving down the street any day.

I am sad for my friend that she can't look at all those videos and pictures and remember all the good times they had with their son, that it's so painful she would rather hide them away. It's the opposite for me. I want to see every one of them. I want to search them for signs of what his life was really like, what it meant, whether he had real moments of happiness, whether there were indications of his misery. I want to see his face, look at his eyes, remember that he LIVED, and how important he was and is to us. Yes, seeing them makes me cry sometimes, but I would rather see them and cry than avoid them. It's the only contact I have other than my memories, and I crave it. I have come to understand, though, why some people want to avoid all mention of or reminders of their deceased loved ones, because they can't bear the pain. For some people, it's easier to keep things out of sight. There is no pretending they will also be out of mind.

She has no outlet for her grief and her memories like I do with this blog. I am trying to preserve Leif's memory for the world, not that the world cares, but some people in it care, and care deeply. But even if others were not here reading what I write, looking at the photos of Leif and the things he loved, I would still want to do it.

Today I was driving down the street to our house and thinking as I often do that Leif drove there. When he lived here, he drove it at least twice a day. Later after he moved to Tampa, he would drive down for dinner or to come help us out with something, or to see his brother's family when they were visiting. All those places associated with him in some way. All those things we used to be able to ask him about, get his advice, like car repair. I had to have my mother's car fixed today and they were recommending a service I knew nothing about, didn't know whether it was a good idea or not. I would have asked Leif about it, and he would have given me good advice, just as he would about anything electronic or mechanical, and I miss having him there to ask.

Peter W. was going through a box of photos and papers and found the "coupon" I scanned above. Unfortunately, I don't remember when Leif made it or gave it to me, and no date was written on it. I think it must have been when we were in Japan, because he wrote his name in cursive and was still going by the name "Leif" instead of the nickname "Alex" he switched to when we moved to Hawaii in 1983. He probably was in second grade, although I don't remember them teaching cursive that soon, and I'll bet it was for Mother's Day.

You can see that Leif was not particularly careful about coloring it. Coloring pages was never one of his chosen activities. Drawing, yes, but just the drawing part, not coloring it in. He was more interested in line and function than color.

The coupon says,

"To Mom from Leif
This Free Coupon Good For One of Your Choice: (Circle One)
Hug
Chore
Breakfast in Bed
Be An Angel for a Day"

There's nothing circled, and that makes me wonder if I ever even got this coupon, because surely I would have used it.

It strikes me that these choices are hardly equal and certainly moving upward in difficulty for a child to fulfill. What would I have chose, from an earnest little boy? I'd give anything for a hug now.