The Long Goodbye

The Long Goodbye By Meghan O'Rourke, Slate Magazine.

I found this article interesting, thought-provoking, and so true. I have also written about how we hide our grief from others and there are no rituals to make it acceptable. She asks how we can do that. My answer is this blog. For three years I have written about Leif's life and death, about our grief, about our journey out of the deep hole of sadness. Although it is not a public ritual in the sense than I am in the midst of people when I write, it is public in the sense that it is on the web for all who are interested to read. I plan to follow her coming articles. They may be of help to readers here, too.

Although it is a "Long Goodbye," I'm not sure that there ever really is a "goodbye." I don't think we ever really accept, somewhere deep inside, that the person we love so much is truly gone.

NOTE; On the first page of this essay are links to others she has written on the subject of grieving.

A Way to Heal

Three years ago, two years ago, I would not have been able to do what we did today and be happy. The day would have been too fraught with sorrow. But sometime in the past year, I told Peter W. that instead of staying home and being sad on Leif's birthday, we should celebrate it by doing something he would have enjoyed, after visiting the cemetery, and I feel the same way about the anniversary days of his death. It's important to mourn, but it is also important to find some joy.

Yesterday, the third anniversary of the day we found Leif, we went to the beach. It was a gorgeous day, balmy, and the beach was full of people reveling in the wonder of it.

Then we went out to dinner at Two Senoritas Mexican Restaurant in Sarasota. Leif would have approved.

And last, we went out for a sunset cruise on "Le Barge," a boat that oddly has four live palm trees growing on the top deck, glitzy mermaids pointing the way, and live music in the Margaritaville vein. It was a beautiful evening to be on the water and watch the sun go down. Leif loved sunsets, and as I saw it set, I thought about his life, as though the setting sun was a metaphor for the sunset of his life, though his end was not beautiful.

I was at peace, and glad that we had gone to the cemetery the day before and said our words of sadness and grief so that today we could find beauty in our surroundings. Leif was with us in our hearts.

How to Help a Bereaved Parent - WikiHow

How to Help a Bereaved Parent (click on the title)

This is an excellent article and video from WikiHow on how to be a friend or relative to a grieving parent whose child has died, the best I've seen. Especially good are the short video and tips at the end. Three years ago, before Leif died, this would have been just "information" for me. Now I can relate to everything said and it is all so true. Save this or bookmark it in case you ever need it. I hope none of this blog's readers every experience the death of their child.
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The photo of Leif was taken at Lovers Point in Monterey, California in July 1980 when Leif was five years old.

A New Realization: I Lost a Friend

I was thinking again the past two days about how families stay close and how we become friends and I thought of two very different kinds of time together. There are the family gatherings where we all enjoy being in a group and sharing time with each other, the kind that cements family closeness but in which there's never really time for any kind of personal closeness or intimacy, time to talk in depth with another person. Those times are what cements a personal closeness as opposed to a group identity and closeness. So often, once children leave home, find their adult friends, become immersed in careers, move away and have their own families, we only have the first kind of visit. The one-on-one or just parents and adult child kind of visit happens infrequently if at all. It happens with siblings, too, for many of us.

When I was considering this, I realized why we felt so close to Leif. He WAS with us as an individual all of his life except for his years in the army. We had him to ourselves, with time to visit, time to talk about so many things, time to be close. And that revelation suddenly brought another one. I hadn't just lost a son when he died. I lost a friend. A dear and close friend whose company I enjoyed. It was a loss in so many ways, the loss of our son, the loss of his future, the loss of the grandchildren we'd hoped to have, but it was also the loss of a friend, and I realize I've been mourning that as much as the others, without even knowing it until now. I miss my friend.

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These photos were taken in Old San Juan, Puerto Rico in 1991 when Leif was sixteen years old. I'm with him in the second one. When I was in San Juan a couple of weeks ago I pictured him on those streets and down by the harbor.

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.

The Persistence of Grief and Mourning; Remembering How to be Happy

I was reading an article about how new experiences create new pathways in the brain. It was focused on positive new experiences, ones that would enhance one's life and help to keep the brain functioning. It talked about learning new things, trying new things.

What it didn't say was what happens to us when new experiences are thrust upon us that are negative, traumatic, or terrible. How do those experiences create new pathways in the brain? They do.

It occurred to me that the intensity of grief and mourning for someone as close and loved as a son, or for others a daughter, spouse, sister or brother, parent, someone deeply loved and part of one's life, must create new pathways of sadness and longing that are indelibly etched upon the brain.

When we are mourning our losses, we go over and over those pathways, over and over the ground, asking questions, trying to over and over to remember every detail and nuance, trying to understand and fathom how death could have taken away someone so loved. Each time we go over those details, think of our loved one, feel our grief, those pathways are strengthened. It can become an obsession.

Each time we think about the death; each time we think about our sorrow, it is reinforced, strengthened to rise again and again.

It's hard to get past grief because the neural connections we formed as the bonds with our loved one are still there, still yearning for that contact, and now, added to them, is a whole new set of sad ones related to their death and all that surrounds death; the funeral, disposing of their belongings, contacting friends and relatives, taking care of their affairs.

How can we get past it, when we are in essence practicing our grief a dozen times a day?

Some people never do get over it. They mourn and are sad the rest of their lives. Some get past it, manage to function, but are brought back to their grief when a reminder catches them. And some are able to move on after a time.

I've given a lot of thought to how they do it. I think first and foremost they have to want to get past their grief and sadness. They must have other good things in their lives and they must have hope. But I think the most important aspect of recovery is a conscious decision to work at it.

How does one do that? When we are depressed or sad, we don't feel like doing any of the things that would help. We don't want to be with people. We don't want to socialize. We don't want to have fun, because nothing sounds like fun. We don't want to exercise. In fact we don't want to do much of anything and we don't care about much, either. No matter what someone outside our grief might say we have that is positive and good (and regardless of whether we know we have much to be grateful for), we see and feel the hurt, the loss, the pain.

We have to also be able to forgive ourselves for wanting to return to a normal life, because there is a guilt about being happy when someone you love is dead.

Although I have come to see that much, what I don't know is how a person gets to that point, a point where he or she is able to do the things that will help them heal, to want to live again, to try to turn away from those strong and demanding mental pathways to something new and happier.

How does one "give up grief" when it has become the "habit" of the brain?

Does time heal? Yes, the acuteness of grief subsides, but what is left in its place? Sometimes lethargy, depression, and sadness. Sometimes they fade and the grieving person emerges into a new life at some point.

I think that partly what happens is determined by that conscious decision, which can only come when the deepest grief has passed, but another part is beyond our control. There are things in the brain we cannot begin to control. If we are saddled with a genetic disposition to depression, the death may well be the "switch" that turns on a lifelong battle with depression. Even when it is not a deep depression, it can sap the joy out of life and dampen down its pleasures.

I think Leif fell into depression when he lost his loves, not through death, but never-the-less through the death of relationships he so badly needed and wanted. To be cut off from love is excruciatingly painful.

For those of us recovering, we also have to somehow remember how to be happy. That sounds foolish to someone who hasn't been in this situation. Why would anyone have to remember how to be happy? But it's true.

I started thinking about that a few days ago while swimming outdoors at sunset. They sky was beautiful, the water warm, the evening balmy. Although I was glad to be swimming, I realized that I wasn't feeling the happiness and joy I used to feel in that very place and situation before Leif died, back in those days when I would look forward to a text message "conversation" with him later in the evening. I decided I needed to try to remember how I felt when I was happy, to remember what happiness was.

At first, I could remember WHEN I had been happy, and I could recount to myself things that had made me happy, but I didn't feel it. It still had the subdued, flat feeling of a mildly depressed person.

But I kept trying. On bicycle rides, instead of just looking down at the street and pedaling along, I made myself remember how I used to enjoy looking at the houses and yards to see what kind of landscaping they had, at the ponds, at the clouds, so often beautiful in Florida, and the birds. I remembered how I loved to listen to the mockingbirds sing. I didn't feel as I once did, but I began remembering that I HAD felt it and recalling what it was like.

In the pool, I remembered how I loved to float on my back and look at the clouds, swim toward the palm trees and marvel at how it was like being on vacation for a short time each day.

At home I remembered how good it felt to accomplish a task, not just what I had to get done each day, but something more, and something creative. So I created two photo books and began to work on getting some other things done that have been waiting for a long time.

This wasn't easy, especially the "getting things done" part. And it's not without backsliding. I don't yet feel as happy and energetic and motivated as I did before Leif died, and I don't know if I ever will. Even if I do, I know there will be days and moments of sadness and longing.

But I do know that I can find happy times again and that I have given myself permission to be happy. I do know that it is partly a choice, but partly a fight with my own brain and feelings.

Leif left a huge hole in my life. That isn't going to change, but I was thinking about another situation with someone I know and how she ought to make the best of her situation, and as so often happens to me, I turned the reasoning on myself. I asked myself, "Am I making the best of my situation?" I had to answer, "No."

So I am trying. It isn't easy and it won't be quick, but as I look back on the past 27 months, I recognize happy moments, however small or fleeting, along the way. I remember the first really happy trip Peter and I took in April 2009, to St. Augustine, and the best one since Leif died, to Germany in May 2010.

The tides of emotion will continue to ebb and flow. The rollercoaster ride isn't over. I know I am not yet a happy person, but I do have happy moments and I am working to have more of them.
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The photo of Leif was taken in our living room in Honolulu, Hawaii in about 1984 when Leif was nine years old.

Coming Home -- and not coming home

Travel and work are the best antidotes to grief and depression, even if they don't always work. Initially after Leif died, even traveling didn't take me far from sorrow and tears, but as the two years passed, I found that being gone from home allowed me to focus on my trip and destination, the people I was seeing, the sights, even though we always talked about Leif. It was as though I didn't expect to see him in those places, so his absence was not painful.

Coming home, though, has continued to be sad. Although I love my home and look forward to returning to it, once I get here I am struck again with Leif's absence, with his things in my house, and the knowledge he will not be coming here ever again. I remember that the guest room was once his room, that my office was once his living room, before I moved down here from Kansas. So many memories. So many years of expectations, of seeing him, loving him.

Peter is so good to me, tries to hard to cheer me up, reminds me of all the good things in my life. He's so loving and sweet, and he's so right. I have so much to be happy about, so many reasons to enjoy life.

But none of them bring Leif back or take into account how much I miss him.

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This photo of Leif was taken in Norway in the summer of 1977 when he was two-and-a-half years old.

A Step Forward

Yesterday evening we had our first real social event here since Leif died. The day of his memorial service, our neighbors organized a wonderful potluck supper for us, and we held the family reunion in July 2008, a event planned long before Leif's death. We enjoyed it, but it was colored with sadness at his absence.

Since then, we have gone to parties and attended social events, sometimes when we didn't feel like going but knew we should, but hadn't felt like hosting any ourselves.

While I will always miss Leif and have a deep underlying sadness about his death, I think that crossing the two year mark has finally brought me out of the depth of grief and into a time when I can enjoy life with less of that burden. I had thought for some time about having the neighbors over for dessert and finally felt like I really WANTED to do it, looked forward to it. It was fun making the invitations and making pies (pecan and lemon meringue, which Leif would have liked). Peter made a Black Forest Cherry Cake. It was even more or less fun to clean and straighten up the house for the party.

We had a good time with our wonderful neighbors and I felt good about all of it. Leif would have enjoyed it. He always liked our social gatherings. I was glad I could think that without feeling sad that he wasn't there.

Cultures have (or did) "prescribed" periods of grief, which used to be more or less enforced. In one way, those traditions were good, in that they gave a bereaved person a period when it was not only all right but expected to be in mourning, though in another way they were straight jackets that prevented people who were ready from moving forward with their lives. In our culture, that period used to be a year. That's enough for some people, not enough for others. I don't think one ever really completely gets over the loss of a child (or another loved one), but I think things are better after two years than one. One year is too short. Grief is too fresh, the loss too close.

At two years, I can see we've come a long way and realize that we have still further to go . . . and that we will continue on this path.

Today I can be glad for good friends and neighbors, and for coming far enough to want to enjoy the evening with them.
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This photo of my two beloved sons, Peter A. and Leif, was taken in Chiang Mai, Thailand, in December 1981. Peter A. would have his thirteenth birthday just days later, and Leif would be seven a month later. He has on his "tough guy" look.

Two Years Ago

Two years ago at about this time we were at Leif's apartment and found him dead on his kitchen floor. We knew when we drove up to the apartment building that something must be terribly wrong because he hadn't answered repeated phone calls, emails or text messages for a day, but when we saw both his vehicles there, our hearts sank and what little hope we had was gone.

If anyone reading this is contemplating suicide, think about this. Think about what it will be like for someone who loves you to find your body, to see you dead and what you have done to yourself. Such a death is not a simple closing of the eyes like you have seen in many movies, and if you use a violent means of death, it is a grisly and terrible scene.

Think about them having to call the police and then being required to leave while the police do their investigation, being required to stand by while they remove your body, how they will not be able to be with you. They cannot touch you. They cannot disturb the scene. They will be questioned, and depending upon the circumstances, they may even be suspected of causing your death. If not them, perhaps your friends. They are only doing their job, but it will be hurtful and horrifying. Luckily we were spared that, but many suicide survivors are not.

Think about the questions your family and friends will have, how they will always wonder what made you do it, whether they could have done anything to prevent it, the eternal whys, the sadness and grief they will feel, the future that will never be.

Think about the mess you will leave behind for them to try to clean up, not only the death scene itself, but your affairs, your belongings, your taxes, your finances, your vehicles, everything you own. Think about them having to clean out your dwelling, dispose of your possessions, and how heart wrenching all of that will be for for them.

Think about how it will never be over for them. It will be over for you, though you will have destroyed your future, but for them, it will be months if not years before they have completed all the tasks that must be done when someone dies, and it will be a lifetime of sadness, regret, questions and missing you.

Think about it and get help. Don't fall for the suicidal thinking that they will somehow be better off without you. They will not.

Two years ago we faced all this when we opened the door to Leif's apartment. What we saw is burned into our brains. What happened changed our lives forever. What we had to do was hard and sad.

My brother said that Leif didn't really want to be dead, "he just wanted all the shit to stop." How many people who kill themselves really want that, not death, but don't see any other way out? What a horrible price to pay, for everyone.

Life is precious but it doesn't feel precious to someone who is in misery and torment. Taking one's life ends that torment but it blocks any future and torments others for lifetimes. Some of them may never forgive you for it.

I've been confronted with people who think that there will always be warning signs of a possible suicide, that someone contemplating it will threaten to do it, and that those who do it always leave suicide notes. Not so. Many times there are no warning signs, except perhaps depression and withdrawal, but even those are often well hidden. Sometimes it's planned, but many times it is a quick decision in desperation. And most of the time there is no explanatory note, though even if there were, it would not bring much comfort.

Depression is dangerous. Depression with a gun in your hands is even more dangerous. Depression with a gun in your hand and getting drunk is lethal. Don't do it.

My family is broken. It will never again be complete. I will miss Leif all my life.

And I will always love him.

"Speaking of Grief" - Article by Jenna Baddeley in "Psychology Today"

Speaking of Grief, an article about how to share one's grief and how to respond to someone doing that, and how expressions of grief are painful for the listener.

I realize now that although I started this blog with the idea of "remembering the good times," it quickly turned into a means for me to express my love and grief without having to do so one-on-one with another person who might want to listen or be able to handle it without discomfort, and it evades embarrassment on both sides. Only those who want to read the blog will do so, and they can quit or avoid it at any time.

Peter has talked to me about the ending of it, and although he says I should make my own decision, he says he looks forward to looking for new posts. I've wanted and needed to do them, too. I wonder where our journey will take us. I do know that we are far better off emotionally than we were a year ago, but our lives are still affected by Leif's death, and in some sense, they always will be, for our future has forever changed and we will always miss him.

Yet we find pleasure in many things and although I feel sadness, especially on days like today, the anniversary of that terrible event, we have much to look forward to and much to share.

I have learned to listen to others' expressions of grief. I know what they feel. I can listen and not turn away.

Approaching Two Years Since Leif's Death

What more can I tell you about my son, Leif Ashley Garretson, his life, his death, and our love for him and mourning his loss? I began this blog the day we found him, April 10, 2008, not knowing where I was going with this other than wanting a way to remember him. Sometime in the past six months I came to the realization that near the two year mark I would have said nearly all I want to say, although some new memories may come to me, and will have posted nearly all of the good photos of Leif I have. I resolved to close the blog, or at least the frequent posting, on the second anniversary. I had hoped to reach a visitor count or 10,000 by that time. As of today, there have been 9,854 visits since May 15, 2008, which is when I first placed the ClustrMap counting visitors, so it's likely that 10,000 has been reached, though not by the counter.

I find that I still have a few photos and a few more things to say before I close the book this has become, so I will continue for a few more days. After that, I will only post once in awhile. As with any blog, frequent or daily postings bring more visitors, so I expect visits to trail off after that, and that's all right. It's been two years of intense feelings, remembrance, introspection. I don't think I will ever be free of grief and mourning, nor will I ever be ready to let Leif go, but at least the wrenching pain has lessened and I no longer feel the need to post every single day. Probably that has been helped by the impossibility of it while we were traveling to South America and Texas this spring, when I didn't always have internet access or even time to do it. Maybe it's best that I had that break in routine.

Coming home always brings home the loss of our son. Driving through Tampa on the way home from the airport we can't help but remember how he used to pick us up at the airport, where the freeway exit for his apartment was, how we met him in town for dinner at places like Thai Tani and Mr. Dunderback's and went to movies together. Even having our sprinkler system brought memories of Leif trying to find the buried sprinkler heads after we bought the house, using one of his swords to jab through the hard-packed sandy earth to find them. So much reminds us of him every day.

I loved every day of his life, from babyhood to his death, though of course any truthful mother has to admit there were trying times, times when I was mad at him, times he disappointed me . . . and he probably felt the same way about me. But that's the thing about a strong family tie; those times are forgiven. Love goes on.

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These photos of Leif in one of our apple trees in Sachsen bei Ansbach in Bavaria, Germany, were taken in June 1979 when he was about four-and-a-half years old. They seemed to go with spring.

"How Many Children Do You Have?"

Such an innocent question, one we all ask when we meet someone. Usually, we are all proud and happy to answer it, but it poses a difficult situation for those of us whose children have died. Do we answer with the number that are still living? (Even sadder for those who have none left.) Or do we answer how many we had?

It would be easier in some ways to answer that we have one son. That prevents the inevitable questions that lead to having to answer that one of our sons died, and then the questions about how, and having to answer that he shot himself, which always leads to a shocked silence. People don't know how to respond. Would you?

But it's not easier for me, because I cannot ever forget Leif, that he was and is a big part of our lives. He always will be. We had TWO children, not one, even though Leif is no longer with us. So, I always answer that we had two sons but one died. And I answer the questions truthfully. It may not be as comfortable as just telling about Peter A. and his family, but it's the only way I can do it. I cannot deny Leif's life, and I also think that avoiding the subjects of death and suicide is not right. People have tried too hard over the years to deny the reality of depression, mental illness and suicide. We have to be open about it or people will never feel it's all right to get treatment.

And how should someone who is confronted with the answer that the person they have just met lost a child, however they died? I don't know whether all bereaved parents would feel the same as I do, but I think the easiest thing to deal with is a simple, "I'm sorry. That must be very difficult for you." Just leave it at that unless the person seems to want to talk more about it. If they do, and you want to (that's another important consideration - don't feel you must if it is too difficult for you), then just say, "If you'd like to tell me about it, please do." If not, just say something like, "I'm know this is terrible blow for you. I hope you have someone to talk with about it," and go on to something else.

Don't be surprised at the emotional reaction of the grieving parent (and make no mistake, they will grieve all their lives, though in different measure at different times). Sometimes a parent who has lost a child can talk about it quite matter-of-factly and you might think they are "over it" or even callous about it, but that's not the case. It's just that at that moment, they are in control. Another time, the same parent might tear up or even burst into tears. It depends a lot upon what's been happening in their lives at that time. It's a lot harder, for instance, when milestones are close, like their dead child's birthday, Christmas, New Years (it's always hard to start a new year without a beloved son or daughter; New Years brings it home that another year without them has gone by and another one is coming), Thanksgiving, or other special days relating to their family. Sometimes they have had some significant reminder of their child that has made them feel especially vulnerable.

It's embarrassing to cry in front of other people, especially someone you've just met, so don't act like they are breaking down or get all flustered about it. If you feel so inclined, just give them a hug. Let them regain control. Believe me, they are fighting for it!

How many children do I have? TWO. The answer will always be TWO. Leif lived. He will always live in my heart.

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This photo of the four of us was taken by my sister Sherie in our old stone house in Manhattan, Kansas in July 1976. Leif was 18 months old. Peter Anthony was seven-and-a-half years old.

It's All Right to be Happy

I was driving along a couple of days ago, thinking of Leif. For some reason, I always think of him when I'm driving alone, and usually it makes me sad. I often talk to him then, though I have no illusion that he is there listening.

It was a gorgeous day, and I realized I was actually feeling happy, even though I was still missing him and thinking of him. The thought came into my head, as though someone had said it, "It's all right to be happy."

That made me think. I realized that a few days earlier, I had been happy on a bike ride, the same kind of happiness I used to feel before Leif died, a real appreciation of the beautiful day. Its not that there hasn't been any happiness since he died. There has, but it hasn't been the same. It's been in some sense subdued, or tinged with the knowledge of Leif's death and the sadness and regret that brings, the feeling of a hole in my heart that is never going to be filled.

These two instances of a real happiness, not weighed down by grief, were a window into what was and what I expect will be. The thought or voice telling me it was all right to be happy was something (me? Leif?) giving me permission to feel it without guilt. I asked myself the question, "What kind of a mother can be happy when her child is dead, particularly the kind of sad death Leif died?"

I think the answer is not simple. It depends on time. It depends upon the mother. It depends upon those around her. It depends upon being able to live through grief and mourning long enough to understand that it will in some sense always be with me, but it doesn't have to overwhelm everything else forever, that time and coming to terms (not peace, terms) with it will allow happiness to shine through, even while understanding that the sadness will still come back at times, and so will the tears. It depends upon the slow appreciation of something I knew all along; all of the good people and things I still have in my life.

I think some people carry grief like a badge, like a new identity, and don't know how to give it up, thinking there is something wrong with them if they do. I remember feeling that I would somehow be a bad mother if I could be happy again after Leif's death, even though I knew that was wrong. Feelings and ways of doing things can become a habit, too. Grieving is emotionally all-consuming at first. It wears off only slowly and slightly at a time, and it is right for the loss one has been dealt. The transition from that encompassing misery to the kind of sadness that comes over one occasionally when one thinks of certain things or is reminded of the loss is neither easy nor a straight path. It twists and turns. It doubles back. It ebbs and then crashes in full force. It was in the same week that I was driving home one night and was overcome by sadness, thinking that Leif would not be here for Christmas, the second one since he died.

I think it will be like this for a long time.

But it is all right to be happy, and I will be glad for the days and hours when happiness comes.

How I wish Leif had been happy, as happy as he was in this picture.

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This photo of Leif was taken in our old stone house in July 2003, when we were all sitting around the dining room table having a great conversation and beer (which Leif brought) in Peter W's German beer steins. His brother, Peter A. was there, and so was Darlene, and Marcus, and Leif's friend Michael. It was a happy evening.

Emotions are like being harnessed up to powerful horses

I was thinking this morning as I woke up that our emotions are kinds of like powerful horses that we are harnessed to. Sometimes we are in control of them; sometimes we are not.

Emotions are the real stuff of life. They are what makes it all worthwhile. Without love, joy, happiness, what would life be? Mechanical? Flat and boring?

We are forced to endure the other side of emotion, the sadness, pain and misery, the boredom and ennui, and the grief, because life cannot go on forever, because disasters happen, because those we care about sometimes hurt us, because illness and accidents take a toll. We have no choice but to experience them and feel them. That's when the horses get spooked an run away. We are not in control and it's frightening and miserable.

Because emotions cause chemical changes in the brain they aren't just something we can "decide" on and control completely. We are in some sense at the mercy of the runaway horses.

But we can fight to regain control. We can fight to bring our emotions back to something happier and more stable. We can sieze the reins and sometimes force our will upon them.

However that takes immense effort and a real desire to change one's feelings. One reason it is so hard is that the emotions are natural and we feel that. We feel justified in having them and giving in to them, and to some extent, it's necessary, but there comes a time when negative emotions can become like a bad habit, something we keep feeding and feeling because we don't know the way out . . . or even want to stay there because there is some other goal being met.

I've thought a lot about this in relation to grief. When we lose someone we love, it is not only their death for which we mourn, but the loss of a future together, the loss of our identity as their mother, father, brother, sister; the emptiness where they once filled our hearts. Grief is real and consuming.

But I think it could become a habit, and I think it's possible to want to hang onto it as proof of one's love. How can a good mother be happy ever again when her beloved child is dead? How can she ever get over that loss?

In one sense, she (me) never will. There will always be that sense of missing Leif, of life not being right or complete without him. But gradually, if she is healthy and willing to fight to regain happiness, it's possible to see that letting go of grief doesn't mean letting go of love, doesn't mean letting go of the bond of love and care for that child. Gradually, she will rein in the runaway horses and settle them down, make them trot along a path that leads to something better.

I really do think that it's hard to let go of grief without feeling like a bad mother. You have to come to terms with that, to decide (and yes, it is a decision) that spending the rest of your life making yourself unhappy over something you cannot change doesn't make you a better mother or even a good one; it just makes you unhappy, and that unhappiness spills over onto the others you love.

You can't rush this process. For some it takes a year. For some longer. Some will never get there. But in that initial period you have to let yourself grieve and feel it. You have to mourn, for it is a real loss, and the grieving is not just a mental thing, not even "just" emotional, but a chemical process in the brain.

At some point, though, and it's a point you have to recognize, you find that there are moments and hours when you are happy, when you feel "normal" again. At first they don't last long and you feel guilty when they happen, like somehow you shouldn't feel that way at all as the mother of a dead child. You might even talk yourself into a crying session to "make up" for the happy moments, to "prove" to yourself that you really are sad . . . and of course, you ARE sad, but you are beginning to find your way back out of the hole of misery. Now, when the sadness sets in, you find you can haul yourself up out of it like a tour-de-force. You can pull back on those reins and stop the runaway horses.

Before this point, the things you used to enjoy had lost their luster. Counting your blessings didn't help because you were still constantly reminded of what you lost. But at this point, if you are fortunate, you  begin to realize that life is still precious, that you have spent your time in mourning and it's time to emerge, groom those horses and set off down a better road, time to live the life you have.

That doesn't mean you won't have periods of sadness, times when remembering will bring some tears, or when some trigger you didn't expect will make you turn away to hide the emotions that start to run away again. But they will not be the fabric of your life, but a pattern within that fabric, and you will begin to weave a new way to live.

I sensed I had rounded some kind of corner about three weeks ago, roughly after Leif had been dead for 18 months. I no longer cried so much when I was scanning and working on photos to post on this blog. I could smile at them and feel love, more than sadness, but yes tinged with sadness. I could write posts without crying.

And I could feel enthusiasm for things I had enjoyed before, real enthusiasm, more than I have felt since his death.

Peter noticed this, too. He said the other day that it was the first time he remembers me being spontaneously happy since Leif's death. I think he is right.

Part of this is the healing of time. Part of it is Peter's love and support. Part of it is this blog. And the last piece is coming to the time when I can decide it is all right to be happy again. It is all right to feel less grief. It is all right to fight depression and sadness.

I think when we are at the point when we can tell ourselves this new story that we can slowly begin to change the chemical processes in our brains to something that allows happiness. It doesn't happen quickly and it isn't all or nothing. It's baby steps, but they are in the right direction.

We have to hold onto the reins. The horses are powerful, and they are also wonderful. Life without emotions would be empty and worthless. We need to treasure them, along with our memories, and then figure out how to guide them where we want to go.

I am fortunate that I am at this point. If I were someone like my father or Leif and suffered from severe, chronic depression, I would not be able to do this. Chronic deep depression is not something the sufferer can "decide" to get over, or more precisely, they might make that "decision" but they would not be able to change the chemical processes in the brain that cause that kind of depression. Grief could be said to be a short term "mental illness" because of it's symptoms, but it is a normal process. Clinical depression, however, is not a normal process and it doesn't clear up on it's own. It is the black hole of despair. I am sad that my father and my son went through such misery and found no way out.

I know I will have sad times when something hits me about Leif's death, but I think I am over the worst of the process of grieving. Now I look at these pictures and I smile with love and memories. It won't bring him back, but I am thankful I had him, thankful for those memories, thankful for the years we spent together.

Is it better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all? I think if you ask someone that, their answer will depend a lot upon how close they are to the loss. Even Leif, though, in his depression, answered yes. I will, too.
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These two photos of Leif and me were taken by Peter W. in Heidelberg, Germany in August 1978. He was three-and-a-half years old.

In the second one he is sticking out his lower lip. When I was growing up and we kids did that, my mother called it by a Norwegian name. I don't know how to spell them properly in Norwegian, so I can only do it the way it sounds to me. For a boy it was, "struteper," and for a girl it was "struteguri." I used that with my boys, too, so in the lower photo, Leif is a "struteper." Maybe a Norwegian reader will comment and correct me.

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 Would Have Loved It

Tonight I was looking online for birthday and Christmas gifts for my soon-to-be nine-year-old grandson, Marcus, and I couldn't help thinking how much Leif would have loved the things that are available today, particularly the computer games and the Nintendo DS and the games for it. If he were alive and had a boy of his own, he would have such a good time playing them with a son.

He had wonderful toys when he was a boy, too, particularly because of our three years in Japan. The Japanese shows and toys made it to Hawaii about the time we left Japan and followed us to the mainland USA, where he got interested in other things as well, like his radio-controlled model cars.

I still have so many of his computer games here, wondering what to do with them, ones he purchased as an adult. He loved the action, the simulations, the sci fi worlds he could inhabit.

Another thing I found on his computer was his iTunes subscription to marvelous photos taken by the Hubble space telescope. And Peter W. reminds me that Friday night was sci fi night on television, with his favorite shows.

His imagination soared. He found a creative outlet for it in his association with ZAON, but I wish he had done more on his own.

I remember shopping for gifts for him when he was a boy Marcus's age, and his delight in getting those gifts, how earnestly and devotedly he played with them, how thoroughly engaged he was.

He never outgrew those kinds of games, toys or gifts, in a sense; they just got more sophisticated (and expensive).

I was looking at the photos of him opening birthday gifts, remembering how much fun we had. Sometimes, in the sadness and mourning his loss, it's hard to remember that we had so many good times. I am so grateful for all the photos we took, because I will always be able to look at them and be reminded that there WERE good times, great times, happy times, for him as well as us and be glad for that. For every one of them.

We didn't know how good they were until they were gone. We appreciated our life and our family, but not enough. None of us really know the value of what we have until we lose it, no matter how much we love and are and are thankful for it.
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This rather pensive photo of Leif was taken in Osaka, Japan in February 1983. We were there because I was attending a conference of the U.S. Army Corps of Engineers, Japan District, and Peter W. came along with the boys and went signtseeing in Osaka while I was in the conference. Leif had just turned 8 years old. He still has the cast on his left arm from when he fell on the school playground and broke it.

Humbling Experiences

In the past few weeks, I have been humbled by comments sent to me about this blog, people I will never know telling me that they "stumbled upon" this blog and found it meaningful, possibly even life-saving. I am gratified that this has touched their lives, that my son has touched their lives, that his life has resonance for them. I thank them for telling me. That means a lot.

I am also humbled by those who suffer the same loss that we have, who mourn a someone close, especially a beloved child, and for those dealing with depression and bipolar disorder, or PTSD, struggling to survive or help a loved one do so.

My heart goes out to you, to your families. May you find hope, love and peace.

The Reality of Grief

Honesty about grief is hard. I want to remember the good times of our life with Leif. I want to focus on the handsome young man, the brilliant mind, the power and presence he projected, the beautiful child he was, the talents he had, but no matter how we try to do this, for now, at least, it is overshadowed by the terrible reality of his death.

The death of someone we love is always hard, harder when the death is by the loved one's own hand and choice. Leif left us no explanation, though he did leave us clues. Those of us who loved him have figured out in our own minds what went wrong and why he did what he did, but to us, there is no reason great enough to warrant his death. We can never feel what he felt.

Although I can explain it, it's like explaining why a flower grows. We can describe it, in botanical detail, but we still can't really explain the why of it. What makes it happen? The growth of a flower is something beautiful. Choosing death is not.

People ask how we are doing. They are concerned, and rightly so. This is a terrible process to go through, and it will be a long time before it is any easier and life becomes at all normal or happy. Others seem to think we should be over it. It's been over five weeks now. How long can we mourn? I pray they never have to deal with such a loss and find out.

There are so many reasons for such grief. Everyone understands the obvious, that we are grieving because we have lost our son and miss him. But there is so much more. We grieve because it is hard to know how unhappy he must have been. Hard to know we could not help him, though we tried. Hard to know he did not come to us with his misery and problems so that we could help him more. Hard to know he never found the love he needed. Hard to know he will never have children.

Hard to know he will never see the sun, the moon, the stars. Will never ride his beloved motorcycle or drive his car. Hard to know he never found a career that provided satisfaction. Hard to know he felt he had not lived up to his potential. Hard to know he was so alone, despite the friends and family who cared deeply for him. Hard to know how much misery he dealt with in the past few years, whether disappointment in love or accidents with car and motorcycle, whether robberies or not getting promotions or new jobs he applied for, whether financial difficulties or health problems. He had too much for his broad shoulders to bear.

For us, there is more. There is a loss of identity. It is as though a limb were cut off and a piece of us is missing. It hurts not just emotionally, but physically. There is the loss of his future, the loss of the time we would spend with him. He died just days before his father's 65th birthday, and he was always there for birthdays. He will never be there for birthdays, Mother's Day, Father's Day, Christmas, Thanksgiving. None of those days will ever be the same.

There is the sadness of taking his life apart piece by piece. Two of the hardest days for us were this past week. Simple things that surprised us with their emotional impact. On Monday, we turned in his military ID card at MacDill AFB. On Friday, we finally picked up a box of his belongings from his workplace. So simple, but so hard. It feels as though we are erasing his identity piece by piece.

In our hearts, we know that his identity from now on will be our memories, the photos, the few personal possessions we have of his, but all the rest will be gone from us. Although his military identity will be preserved in his resting place, and in photos, and in the beautiful flag case given to us by his friend Melissa, there was still something expressibly sad about turning in his ID card. It's the finality of it.

I was surprised how hard it was to get his belongings from work. He worked in a secure environment and we never saw the phone center cubicle where he worked. His supervisor brought his belongings out to our car in a box. I had a hard time opening it to see what was there. Nothing really surprising, not much at all, but again, it was like erasing one more piece of his life. Apparently, he had a puzzle on his desk that he was working on, and it is still there. His team members didn't want it disturbed.

Yesterday was also hard because we were talking to his bank about the loan on his Mazda RX-8 sports car, a gorgeous car he loved. It's hard to see it in our garage because it reminds me so of him, and how happy I always was to see him drive up in that car, but it will probably be even harder to see it taken away, and yet another important piece of the identity he built for himself gone.

For the gathering at our house the evening of his memorial services, I made a slide show of over 400 photos of his life from birth to his 33rd birthday. Seeing all of them at once made me realize that because Leif was always so big for his age, and a big man, and because he had always kept his emotions inside, even as a child, none of us had really seen his vulnerability. He carefully cultivated his code of "never show weakness," and he was very successful at it. Only by seeing all of these photos together did we see the vulnerability in the child and the man.

We knew that the problems and disappointments in his adult life had led to some very bad times for him, times when he was deeply depressed and fought with suicidal thoughts, but until this time, he had gotten past them and gone on with his life. It's hard to know that this time, he let no one in. I was worried about him, very worried, beginning last fall. He first denied depression, but at the end of November, he admitted to me in an email message that life was "very dark" and he was searching for a reason to exist. I was so alarmed that I tried to keep in close contact, tried to suggest he get help, but he brushed me off.

I felt better when he showed a keen interest in the Obama campaign, politics, a new computer, the game Mass Effect, and most of all, a new love interest. But apparently, his hopes came crashing down when he was unable to solve his financial problems and didn't want to turn to anyone else and admit he was in trouble. It's hard for his family and friends to forgive him for that. For me, I think it was the last straw in a chain of unbearable experiences that made him feel life would never be better for him. And that's the hardest thing of all, to know he had no hope.

We bring our children into the world with such hope for them, and Leif came into the world with so much good fortune, a family who loved him and could provide not only a good material life, but experiences around the world, good looks, a soaring, intelligent mind. We had such hopes for him. But he lacked a sense of purpose, and he needed someone to love. He never was able to handle finances and the paperwork details of life, and he had no direction for a real career. We will never know why. He may have inherited depressive tendencies. He certainly cultivated the identity he chose, the cool guy with the cool "toys," computers, fancy cell phones, motorcycle, guns, the infantry soldier, the gamer, and much more.

But in the end, none of that could bring him happiness or a purpose in life. We mourn for all that could have been, all we have lost, our own loss of identity as his parents, the hole in our lives where Leif always lived large. Most of all, we mourn for his unhappiness, for the sadness of his adult life and the end he felt he must make of it.