VENICE, ITALY 1964

Written April 12, 2011
Sorrow and Grieving is like a trip to Venice



It had been decided months before graduation that my high school graduation gift would be a trip to Europe. The year was 1964 and my life was as perfect as any eighteen year old's life could be.

I had a wonderful, loving, deeply spiritual family. My father's prestigious position with the Federal Government ensured that we were financially secure and afforded us many opportunities that most of America didn't have. Both of my parents were very intelligent and felt education was of the utmost importance. They also felt that travel was a very important part of our education. So when my high school made available a chaperoned trip to Europe in the summer of 1964, to my very great surprise and delight, my parents quickly agreed and encouraged me to go. I was so excited that I literally could not sit still.

The trip was as magical as I had envisioned. I made new enduring friendships. I saw and learned about things and places I had only read about. In the eight countries visited there were tours of palaces and cathedrals, art galleries, historic sites, fabulous fountains; and we visited many famous cities. And in those cities we saw among other things a bull fight in Spain, went to an opera in Italy, and a Shakespearean play in England. In Rome we went to the Vatican, the Coliseum, and the catacombs. Each country offered a variety of things and places that were particular to that region and for me it was all new, exciting, and wonderful. We experienced new foods - wonderful, exotic food. There were adventures and misadventures - like sneaking out after curfew to explore the city or go on a date with someone we had just met. It was indeed a life changing time in my life and a stepping stone into my life an "an adult".

I am so thankful that I kept a journal of each day of my trip. How I enjoy rereading it and reliving my experiences.

My memories of that trip are still vivid in my memory. So this past week when I saw a painting of Venice by Stephen Scott Young, warm memories came flooding in on a rolling tide. The receding tide pulled me back to a time and place that holds a special place in my heart and whose images are forever imprinted there.

The painting brought back one specific memory. Every night at forty minute intervals a gondolier pushed his gondola below our hotel window singing Santa Lucia. His operatic voice was amazing. It carried far in the quiet of the night and drifted in and around the buildings, down the canals, and under the bridges. And as amazing as it was, it was much too loud for sleeping patrons. So we were awaken repeatedly throughout the night. A pleasant and not so pleasant memory. The first time, and perhaps the second and third, I hung out the window totally mesmerized. The sixth time I was pulling the pillow over my head and mentally begging him to stop or at the very least sing a different song.

The painting is very, very faint and I struggled to make out the details. Because of this, I decided to try and replicate it for this journal entry. Not a great duplication - not even good really - but fine for this purpose.

One of the things I remember most about Venice is that we could smell it long before we got there; and by the time we arrived our noses had adapted and we could no longer smell the strong scent of raw sewage. Without the smell, the city of water with its small walking bridges (and no automobiles) was beautiful, unusual, and captivating.

I think sorrow and grieving is, in a lot of ways, like a trip to Venice. In the first year everything is like the very, very unpleasant approach to the city. We are acutely aware of the deep agonizing pain that fills our every moment and we think that we won't survive. But as time passes we realize that we will survive and we begin to adapt - much like we did when we arrived at the canals of the city. Sorrow becomes such a part of us that living without it no longer seems a possibility.

Sorrow also brings with it great difficulties - like searching out the correct walking bridge among the maze of bridges that will allow us passage from one place to another. Sorrow also prevents easy passage from one stage of life to another. We get stuck. Our grief allows us to see the beauty and excitement around us but stops us from being full participants in living and enjoying those things. As much as we long for it, grief holds us in its stony grasp and never lets us fully engage in life as we use to know it. I wish that I had answers on how to overcome sorrow and grief but I don't.

On occasion there are truly joyful moments in my life. I am so grateful when the veil of sadness parts and I am able to see the beauty of the people around me and the beauty of nature that surrounds all of us. So I will do my best to adapt to this new life and live it the best I can with as much joy as I can; and be thankful that each morning brings with it a new beginning.

St. John 16:22 "So with you: Now is your time of grief, but I will see you again and you will rejoice, and no one will take away your joy." (NIV)

NO CHILD LEFT BEHIND: A REALIZATION AND A CONFESSION

The following composition which I named "The Sibling" comes from not only my own shortcomings but also from a compilation of the experiences of other survivors with their children. Children sometimes left behind, or left out, during our grieving process. We don't do it intentionally. Never intentionally.

When we lose a child or a loved one, our grief and our love for the one that has been plucked from our lives is all encompassing. Everything and everyone else disappears from our thoughts. It isn't our fault. That is just the way grief works. While we should make a real, conscious effort to not make other family members feel less important to us, most of us just don't have room in our overburdened hearts, minds, or souls to do it. Nor do we have the energy to try. Not in the beginning anyway.

From my own experience, I convinced myself during that first week that they were here with me that I was being really, really strong for my children. Their rock in a stormy sea; but now I know that isn't what was going on at all. I wanted THEM to be here FOR ME. I wanted their love and their support and their understanding. I wanted to feel their arms wrapped around ME. In retrospect I wasn't being strong, I was numb and I was needy. And they, inspite of their own grief, took care of me, protected me, loved me, and did all the things I couldn't do. They, not me, were the strong ones.

Now that some time has passed and I think back on those first six or seven months, I realize that in reality I was an emotionally absent mother. I was not there for them. I did not acknowledge the depth of their suffering, their grief, their sorrow, their anger, and their pain. I didn't think about the huge void Christian's death had left in their lives. I was certainly aware of it but I didn't have the capacity to fully absorb it. They were made to suffer in silence - away from me. GRIEF IS SELFISH. I became the center of my own universe. I locked myself and my emotions inside and pushed everything else out. And for that I am truly sorry.

Only one of my children still lives with me and he doesn't really live with me. He and his family live in our guest house next door so the following poem, if you want to call it that, is mostly based on what others have told me and what I imagine I might have felt if I had lost someone I loved dearly and my parents disappeared emotionally from my life when I needed them the most.

The attached painting is by Robert Christian Hemme and is titled "A Broken Heart".

THE SIBLING
written August 12. 2011

He is gone. Gone forever.
I will never again see his smile
Or hear his voice or share his laughter.
Lying on my bed,
Alone in the dark, in my room.
Heart broken, emotions so raw, so new
Tears flow. I am unable to stop my sobs.
Face distorted, I scream into my pillow
Why, Why, Why? Why did you leave me?
Didn't you know how much I loved you,
How much I needed you?
How much I would miss you?
Suffering in silence. Alone.
With only my memories of you
To keep me company
And tear my heart in two.

I listen to my mother's muffled crying.
I know her face is buried in her pillow.
Every night I lay in my bed
And listen to her anguished cries.
Everyone says give her space, give her time,
She'll come around. Be patient.
Be understanding.
But what about me? What I'm feeling?
Does anyone even care?

A house divided. Each feeling
And living in their own pain.
My father is distant. Unapproachable.
It's like he has built walls around himself
And cemented himself inside.
He sits and stares straight ahead.
His face is blank.
His body is still here
But I think his soul must have vanished.

Tempers short, why does she yell at me
Why does he sit and say nothing
I am not the source of their pain.
I am already hurting, why hurt me more?
Love me, I'm still here, I'm still alive
Don't I count? Am I nothing to you?

Act out! Look out!
Anger boils and bubbles
Words of hate flow like hot lava
Oozing and gushing. Red and Hot.
I will make you feel MY pain.
I will not tiptoe around you.
I will stamp my feet!
You WILL see me! You WILL hear me!
You WILL know I'm still here!

Leave your room Mother,
Get out of your bed.
Take off your robe, Get dressed.
Make me breakfast. Smile at me.
Say I hope you have a good day.
Hug me before I walk out the door.
Show me you love me too.
Please Mother ... Love me too.
Tears flow down my cheeks
Love me ...please. I'm still here.
I loved him too.
Look at me. See my pain.

Why do you shut me out? What?
You don't mean to?
The look in your eyes is far away.
Your hug too weak.
Your smile barely a smile at all.
Your weariness makes me tired.
You turn and walk away.....
To return to your room
Leaving me alone in the kitchen.
I watch you walk away from me.
I feel lost and empty and defeated.

I turn, I open the door and I, too, walk away.
Closing the door behind me.


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For help, encouragement, understanding, and support and for a place where you can interact with other survivors of suicide, you can find support groups on facebook at:

"One Life" Bereaved by Suicide

Never another you (suicide support group)

In loving Memory of... for Parents who lost children to suicide

Messages to Heaven

Stepping Stones... Surviving the Loss of a Loved One to Suicide

Collateral Damage: Images of Those Left Behind by Suicide


And for those of you that have lost a child for reasons other than suicide:

Loss of an Adult or Young Adult Child

Missing our Child

Grieving Mothers

TRAVELING EAST, GOING HOME

It was almost dusk. The speeding tires against hard asphalt blocked any sound that might have been heard. It erased all whispered secrets and drowned out any quiet sounds of crying from lonely hearts. Occasionally soft ripples of laugher was carried over the sound of the tires and made its way to my ears. I placed my head against the cold glass of the window and curled up a little tighter under my coat. This Greyhound bus had been my home for the past three days - day three of a five day trip. I was going home. Christmas was just four days away and I looked forward to the comfort of my own bed and the warmth of my family. When I closed my eyes, I could imagine their smiling faces and warm embraces welcoming me home.

I had never been this far West before. Previously I had traveled no further west than Texas. Beyond the sprawling, bustling cities of the east and the midwest, I had crossed the vast windy plains of Nebraska with its tall swaying grasses that seemed to go on forever; and the open cattle ranges of Wyoming before being greeted by the splendid snow capped mountain ranges in Utah.

I had returned from busing all over Europe in August and was anxious for another trip before accepting the responsibilities of a new graduate from high school and starting a job with the Federal Bureau of Investigation (the FBI) in Washington D.C. A job already secured and which was scheduled to begin in February. Not quite being ready to leave the close proximity of home before moving to a distant state, I had decided to live in an apartment and work for a year before going on to college. This trip was going to be my last great hurrah for a while. I had left home before Thanksgiving to visit friends and check out the Brigham Young University campus - my college of choice.

It had been an amazing trip! Full of fun, new experiences, new friendships. After staying in the dorms on campus for two days, I was invited to stay with the family of the missionary that had baptized me. I had never visited a home so warm and welcoming. Every morning began and every evening ended with family prayer. Among many other things they took me snow skiing - another first - and Mrs. Smart taught me how to bake bread. I was made to feel like one of the family but when they ask if I could stay for Christmas which was a week away, I had to tearfully say no. I had never missed a Christmas at home and it was time for me to return.

It was a long trip from Utah to Maryland. There were enough seats on the bus so no one had to share a seat if they didn't want to. However, when we stopped for breaks or meals, everyone was friendly and helpful. In an odd and slightly dyfunctional way, those of us that traveled together for several days began to feel like a little family. I liked, and was comfortable with, our little bus group. When we did talk, it was interesting to hear all the different stories of where they came from, where they going, and why.

Everyone had their own story - a soldier that left home as a child and returned as a man was going home to his family for the holiday and away from the horrors of war in Vietnam; a new Mormon convert, carrying her television set on her lap, was leaving behind her old life and in search of a new, better one in Salt Lake City where she would not have to defend her beliefs and where she knew she would be welcomed with open hearts and open arms; an immigrant with broken English was going to meet family-eager to find a better life in a new country. Each leaving something behind and looking forward to the future and new beginnings. One could not help but feel inspired by such faith in the promise of a new future. I, too, had faith that my future would be as big and as wonderful as theirs. It never entered my mind that there might be disappointments in their lives and in my own.

All of my evenings were spent the same way. I looked out the window until I got sleepy and was then lulled into a deep sleep by the serenade of singing tires against the hard road. My purse had become my pillow against the cold of the glass.

I enjoyed looking out the window. As evening fell, Christmas lights were turned on and curtains were left open. Most of the houses sat a distance back from the road - farmhouses mostly. Some of the houses had probably been there since the road running in front of their property was a dirt road. This was a time when two-lane highways cut across the landscape of America instead of the sterile freeways of today. A time when life was slower and the people seemed a little warmer and more friendly.

As we sped past I was enchanted by the lights which lined the rooftops and the outline of brightly lit Christmas trees in the front windows. The houses were too far away to see anything clearly but it made me wonder who lived there. What was their story? Were they happy? Had laughing children made this their home. Had they run laughing up an down the stairs and through the halls? Had the wife/mother stood in the kitchen preparing dinner, waiting for her husband to come home and sit down to a hearty meal. Or maybe he was just finishing up his farming chores. Perhaps the children were all grown and now the house was quiet with just Mom and Pop there. Maybe there was just a widow or widower living alone - hopefully happy and content with their life and their memories; and enough to do so their days were full and rewarding.

Or had it been a sad house? An abusive demanding parent. Or could a child have died leaving an empty hole in the parents' hearts. I preferred to think of it as a house full of love like my own home in Maryland.

Had the family gathered on the porch in the evening during the summer to escape the heat of the house - until mosquitoes or gnats had driven them inside again? Did they sit out there telling stories and sharing memories? How many different families had lived in this house? or had there been only one family that had passed it down through the generations from one family member to the next?

So many stories - individual and shared - in the houses we sped past and with my travel companions. And I had my own story. So much had happened since I graduated. A trip to Europe, a trip across the United States. What would the future hold? I had no idea but I thought it would be glorious - full of adventures, new experiences, and new people just waiting to become part of my life. And somewhere out there there was a man that would become my forever love, my husband. We'd have a house full of children and we'd live happily ever after.

For a young girl with her life ahead of her and in her Pollyanna way of thinking, there would be no unhappiness and no sorrow. There was no room for sadness in her perfect little world. No divorce, no heartbreaking loss of a child, no struggles, no worries. She had a lot of growing up to do and a lot of knowledge and wisdom to acquire.

Life, as they say, is our greatest teacher and life's lessons the most lasting. It would be a good life. Not a perfect life but a good life. It would be filled with learning experiences. It would have its ups an downs; it would be marred with fear, uncertainty, disappointments, unfulfilled dreams, sadness - overwhelming sadness, hurt, and pain; and it would be enriched with great happiness and good fortune, and lots of love. She would be blessed with beautiful, loving children and grandchildren; a wonderful, trustworthy, loyal, and devoted husband. She would have her God and her faith to sustain her through the good times and the bad times. And she would learn that while she might be lonely, she would never be alone. The lines of communication with Heaven are always open - 24,7 and you never get a recording or a busy signal.

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When Christian died, I turned away from communicating with God. Not because I blamed Him for Christian's death because I didn't. For some reason unknown to me then and now, I felt a great separation from God. This was the first time in my life I had ever felt that way. I know in time the feeling will pass but even today, eighteen months later, I still do not feel the closeness I once did. In time, as in most things I have discovered on this journey, the answer will be revealed to me when God decides the time is right. While I may not feel as close to Him as I once did, I still have absolute faith. When an idea comes to me that is bigger than anything I could have come up with on my own - an epiphany if you will - or an answer to a burning question arrives out of the blue when I least expect it, I know where it comes from. While I may not be talking, God still is. And His patience with this distant child is infinite.