GRIEF IS A LOT LIKE THE FIRST DAY ON A PLAYGROUND

ILLUSTRATED WITH PICTURES OF ONE YEAR OLD CHRISTIAN MICHAEL JORGENSEN,  my grandson.

Today two things happened simultaneously.  In the first, the words to the chorus of the old Paul Simon song "Slip Sliding Away" popped into my head:  "Slip sliding away, slip sliding away, You know the nearer your destination, the more you slip sliding away."  You know those songs that get inside your head and won't let go.  That is how that song was.  The second thing that happened was my husband, Patrick, put together a yard toy for the grandchildren.

You're probably wondering what in the world these two things could possibly have in common - especially in a blog regarding loss and recovery.  In my case, the loss of my greatly loved son to suicide.  It came to mind that grief is a lot like a very small child's first visit to a playground.  It can be confusing, frightening, and a time of great uncertainty.  The child enters into a strange world of overwhelmingly large obstacles and challenges.  He is confused as to what others are doing and can't figure out what his place is in this strange, new environment he finds himself in.

When we lose a loved one that is exactly how we feel also.  We are lost in this strange, new place we suddenly find ourselves in.  We do not know what to do or how to handle all the emotions that come flooding in.  We feel our old lives and everything that we thought we knew about life slip sliding away. Our hearts are broken in a way that we never experienced before.  We long for understanding and answers and we want someone to give us the love, comfort, and support we need.

Our emotions swing from low to high and back to low again.  It repeats itself over and over again.  Especially the first year.  We just pray that the binds that hold us won't break and send us crashing to the ground.  Like that small child all we can do is hold on tight and hope that we will land upright and on our own two feet.  Or maybe we'll just hang there until someone comes to rescue us.

At times it feels as though we are crawling through a long, dark tunnel.  We don't know where it will come out or if we will even find the end.

The journey seems so long, so hard, and so impossible.  In the beginning we don't even want to try.  We just want to give up and be given time to feel the unbearable. Without feeling and processing, we will be lost in a chasm of despair.

There may be in our lives those that unintentionally hurt us with their words, their good intentions; but eventually we learn that we must push pass these hurtful cliches and understand that those that say them don't know they are causing more pain.  As hard as it is, we must be large of heart and accept what they say with the love they intended.

I have been guilty in the first days of rushing to judge and condemn hurtful words uttered in ignorance  even though they were kindly intended.  I came to realize that tired cliches are made because loving souls don't know what else to say.  Pain is not their intention.  Lets not purposely use our words to cause them unnecessary pain.

We may also encounter the equivalent of the playground bully.  Those that are so hurt themselves that they strike out at us.  Foolish, foolish people that sling vile words of insult and accusations to ease their own conscience.  They do it because they cannot handle their pain and, for reasons foreign to me, try to transfer their pain onto the most vulnerable.  Often they turn their backs and refuse to allow a place for us in their lives.  Then years later when they realize how they have wronged us or to soothe their own conscience, they come to ask forgiveness and for our own peaceful state of mind, we grant their pardon of sin.  We must do that or risk waddling in hate ourselves; and where there is hate there is no peace or tranquility.

Life becomes such a wild ride of highs, lows, twists, and turns.

Try as we will, there is no way to avoid that scary ride.  Just when we think that we are growing, becoming stronger, in an instant the smallest reminder will spin our lives out of control and throw us into a state of depression.  Even with all our personal triumphs,  there will be difficult times; and while we will not need to completely begin at the beginning of our journey, it takes time to regroup and begin again.  These things are normal and are to be expected.  Do not be discouraged when it happens.

If we are really lucky, there is a loved one, or perhaps more,  there to assist us when the slide into the darkness takes place.  Loving hands to help guide us and a gentle arm to hold onto.  They offer a listening ear and let us know that they are there for us whenever we need them.

There will also be those times when we find ourselves alone and having been tripped up with a rush of emotions, we are confused and can't seem to be able to get up again.

Those times can happen at the grocery store when we see our loved one's favorite food.  Or for me it was in the mall.  It was our first Christmas without Christian and as I stood before a cashmere sweater that I knew Christian would have selected for himself had he been there, I dissolved into a weeping mess right there in the store.  I could barely stand or walk.  I have never felt so powerless as I did at that moment.  I had no control over my emotions.  I questioned if I would ever be alright again.

As time passed, I began to see myself as a survivor.  I learned that within me there was an inner strength.  I realized how important hope was.  I also learned that I didn't have to make the journey alone.

There are, unfortunately, a large number of us survivors.  They have held me up when I couldn't stand alone.  Their words of love have given me comfort.  Their understanding has given me strength to carry on.  There are no words to explain what their support has meant to me.  In times of greatest need they are my inspiration.  I am so thankful my brothers and sisters in sorrow have found their way into my life.  I am blessed to know them.

I will at times, even two and a half years later, find myself back in that dark place.  Last week, for example, just for a moment I forgot my son Christian was no longer with us.  I made a statement to my other son about something Christian could do now that circumstances had changed and suddenly I was hit in the face with the realization that no, Christian would not be doing that because he isn't there any longer.   I was sick.  I cried for the rest of the day.

Life gets messy.

But that is how life is.  We find obstacles in the way of our recovery but we find a way around them.  Like a Jungle Jim on the playground we may have to go over them or under them or climb through them but with God's help, or whatever higher power you depend on, we can keep moving forward, overcoming, developing, and evolving.

This journey of recovery will never be over for us.  Our pain is like that tall, tall slide is to a very small child.  We must climb to get to the top.  How we decide to perceive it after we get to that top landing is up to us.  We can feel joyful and exhilarated that we conquered all those stairs, made it to the top, and overcoming our fears slide victoriously to the bottom; or we can live lives of desperation and guilt and be forever afraid of the slide back down into pain.  There may be those that are even afraid to attempt the climb up.  I hope there are none or very few that would place those limitations on themselves.

I say lets keep climbing that mountain of pain and arrive victorious at the top.  When those times come that we find ourselves falling, remember that each climb back up makes us stronger and wiser.

Bless you as you get stronger in your struggles to survive.

Baby Christian sends his love.

MY FATHER, I wish I knew him

Frederick James Verity with me, Maryland, 1965

We lived in the same house; we ate at the same table; we went to church together but I didn't know my father.  He was a quiet man of few words, a brilliant man, an educated man, a spiritual man, a dedicated family man, and he loved my mother with all his heart.  He was devoted to her.  She was the center of his universe.

I remember the first thing he did every evening upon returning home from work.  He would walk into the kitchen, with his engineering magazine in his back pocket, and kiss my mother on the nap of her neck as she stood before the stove cooking.  She, not he, was the voice of the family - and he liked it that way.  He was slow to anger but had the wisdom to know that his temper could get the better of him if not contained.  Usually he just let our gentle mother handle the discipline and decision making.

Sometimes we witnessed his temper.  Occasionally he took my brother and me with him to play golf.  We weren't very good being so young but he was patient with us and taught us all the fine points of the game. I remember well the day he hit his ball out of bounds and into the trees.  Three times when he tried to hit his ball out the woods and back onto the course, his ball hit a tree and ricocheted back.  My brother and I made the mistake of laughing the third time.  He yelled at us and then threw his club whirling into the air and worst of all he said a bad word.

He scared us so as soon as we got home, we told on him and you know what?  Momma didn't even get mad at him for swearing.  We were shocked.  I don't know what kind of punishment we thought he'd get but we were sure something would happen "to teach him a good lesson".

Our father usually didn't speak to me or to my siblings unless he was instructing us in one thing or another.  That sounds strange but that was his way.  I don't know if it was because he didn't want to speak to us or because he didn't know how.  I suspect it was the latter.  He was, as I said, brilliant and often times those with superior intellect have difficulty with interpersonal communication.  Their minds are so logical that issues of emotion are baffling and discussions about the mundane workings of life are to them unnecessary.

Still he made a great impact on my life.  He taught me wondrous things.  The first, and the thing that I found most frustrating at the time, was he challenged my thinking.  He made me use my mind to develop my own views on the world and the people in it.  He taught me there was beauty and power in knowledge.

He also could make me madder than any other human being on this earth.  When I learned something new and exciting at school, I would be anxious to share it with the family at dinner.  He would anger me with his questions regarding where the information came from; was it fact or was it a theory; and before accepting information that was told to me, I should check it out for myself and make a determination as to if I wanted to embrace it or not.  Hey! it's school Dad where I go to learn! The information is suppose to have already been checked out.   I cannot tell you the number of times I stormed away from the dinner table to my parents dismay.

As angry as he could make me, he did teach me to question and to seek out answers.  He showed me the value of using logic to reason through problems; and he taught me, by example of his own cold, detached logic, that there was also a place for emotion in problem solving.  Our mother taught us empathy, compassion, and how to love.  She was the one that taught us the value of communicating with one another and communing with nature.  And although my father was a deeply spiritual man, it was she that showed us how to walk and talk with God.  Together they were the perfect balance.

One of the other things my father did was teach us about the Bible.  He would read us a Bible story every night after dinner out of this beautiful old book with the most breathtaking illustrations.  He made the stories come alive.  He also showed us maps in the Bible so we would know where the stories were taking place.  It was the most wonderful of times.

Both of my parents believed in the power of education through experience.  They took us to battlefields, museums, historic buildings, national monuments, the Smithsonian, to concerts, and we learned and explored as we traveled. My sister says there was never a capital building that our mother didn't love and need to see.

As wonderful as all those things were, and as glad as I am that he helped mold me into the person I became, I am sad to report that during all those years we spent together that we never had a personal conversation.  Never had a spontaneous conversation, a casual conversation.  We never had a revealing conversation of any type.  He knew as little about me as I knew about him.

I knew nothing about his childhood, his parents, and nothing really about his brother or sisters except what his sister, Aunt Grace, told me and she told me very little.   He was born and grew up in Brooklyn, New York.  Like others in a big city, they lived in an apartment (I didn't even know what living in an apartment entailed.)  They took the subway to school (sounded really, really scary to me). They had black friends while growing up and Aunt Grace didn't even know her mother was prejudice until she was a grown woman herself.

I know how that sounds - pointing out that they had black friends - but during the days prior to the Civil Rights Act being passed in 1964, segregation was everywhere in the United States.  An ugly part of our history but it was our reality at the time.  The majority of the time it prevented interracial friendships from forming.

I never knew how much he favored and endorsed equal rights for all men until after he passed away at age 51 of a heart attack.  It was because of his belief in financially supporting black business owners that I had my first and only encounter with Martin Luther King Jr.

While traveling from Maryland to Georgia we stopped at a black gas station.  It was also the day I discovered that Dr. King had maroon-colored eyes - as he stared down at me a little annoyed.  I was blocking his way.  I was so stunned it was him, I didn't move for a minute as I stared back into those eyes.  Those hypnotic eyes.  I think my mouth might have been hanging open.  I don't know for sure but I think it was.  Picture it.  A tiny, blue-eyed girl with messy dirty-blond hair ( messy because cars weren't air conditioned, the windows were down, and air blew in at hurricane force), with her mouth hanging open blocking the doorway.  Yup! I made an impression on him alright.  Annoying little bug.

It is sad to me that even though we spent a lot of time together as a family that I never got to know my Dad.  Sad that we never got to have a real conversation.  I'm sad that he never got to know who I was.  I so wish I had had the opportunity to know him on a personal level.  I think I would have liked him not just as a dad but as a human being.


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RECOMMENDED READING TO ANYONE THAT WOULD LIKE AN UNDERSTANDING OF SEGREGATION IN THE DEEP SOUTH:

BLACK LIKE ME by John Howard Griffin

The history-making classic about crossing the color line in the segregated South.

"The Deep South of the late 1950's was another country; a land of lynchings, segregated lunch counters, whites-only rest rooms, and a color line etched in blood across Louisiana, Mississippi, Alabama, and Georgia. White journalist John Howard Griffin, working for a black-owned magazine Sepia, decided to cross that line.  Using medication that darkened his skin to deep brown, he exchanged his privileged life as a Southern white man for the disenfranchised world of an unemployed black man.

What happened to John Howard Griffin---from the outside and within himself---as he made his way through the segregated Deep South is recorded in this searing work of nonfiction.  Educated and soft-spoken, John Howard Griffin changed only the color of his skin.  It was enough to make him hated... enough to nearly get him killed.  His audacious, still chillingly relevant eyewitness history is a work about race and humanity every American must read."

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Linda Verity DuBos:  This is a powerfully written book that will change everything you thought you knew about segregation in the Deep South.  It is shocking, disturbing, and enlightening.  I couldn't put it down once I started reading.  You will find yourself immersed in a world that you didn't know existed unless you lived it yourself.  Get this book, read it.  It will give you insight that you never imaged possible.

A BLESSING IN AN EMAIL: A GIFT FOR MOMMA

Lethargic, apathetic, indifferent, bored, and a little angry.  These are all words I have used to describe my recent state of mind.  It's as though I can't find anything that excites me - makes me want to get out of bed in the morning  I've exhausted myself trying to find something that will kindle a flame.  No, a flame is too big.  All I can hope for at this point is a spark.  And for that spark I would be thankful.

I have gardened; I have baked bread; I have cooked up a storm; I have painted picture after pictures; I have done some mixed-media art projects; I have tried my hand at fabric art; and I even folded dozens of origami canoes and then had to find something to do with them.  Nothing holds my interest for long. I even get mad at myself because once I start a project I feel compelled to complete it even when I don't want to (can you say obsessive-complusive disorder?).

And I have wondered if this is how I will spend the rest of my life.  Searching and never finding fulfillment.

I have been restless before but never to this extent and never for so long.  This morning, being extremely dissatisfied with how things are going (and after shamefully yelling at my dear husband and son for no valid reasons), I decided to think this through and try to determine when and why it all started.  My first thought was I'm having Summer Olympics withdrawals.  No, can't be that because it started long before the Olympics began.  As my mind drifted back, it suddenly became abundantly clear.

A little over a month ago my mother, brother, and sister-in-law came for a visit from their respective homes in Nevada.

When they arrived, Momma was sick and progressively became more and more ill.  Ill to the point that she was neither eating, drinking liquid, or getting out of bed.  We could get her to take tiny sips of liquids but that is all she would do (did I ever mention how stubborn she can be?).  I have never seen my 88 year-old mother that sick before.  Just at the point where we were ready to pack her up and take her to the hospital - over her protests - she rallied.  When they left for the trip home a few days later, she was still extremely weak and not altogether well.

The realization that our Mother could have, and some day will, leave us left all of frightened and shaken.  My mind has always known that the inevitable will someday happen but the heart says "never".  We began to question among ourselves how much longer she will be able to live alone.  Her memory is failing quickly and is much worse than it was even six months ago.  I fear the time for a serious conversation with her about what she wants is rapidly approaching.  A conversation that will be difficult because she is unaware of her decline in cognitive abilities.

All of this has made me realize that I have begun to grieve a transition in our lives that none of us want to face.  Her illness, her memory loss, and the confusion she often experiences has forced a reality upon me that I fear and that I don't want to accept.

Our Mother has always been the cornerstone of our spread-out family.  She is that bright beacon that shows us the way home.  Home being wherever she is.  In times of emotional sorrow, she has always been there with a warm hug and words of love, compassion, and wisdom.  She is my strength and my hope.  I grieve that I may be losing that part of her long before I am ready.  My heart is heavy with the thought.  For the mind to travel beyond that is too heartbreaking.

I did not know it previously but grief does not have to follow a loss.  It can precede the actual loss and comes unawares into our lives.  At times the fear of losing a loved one can be almost as debilitating as the grief we go through when the time finally comes.  Now identified, I can try to deal with my feelings and recognize them for what they truly are.

Two days ago I received an email from my sister, Debbie.  In that email she presented an idea for a gift for Mom.  She ask that we all (brother, sisters, our spouses, grandchildren, great-grandchildren) write down our memories of growing up with or getting to know Mom and our love for her.  She'll then compile all our writings into a book which will be given to Momma (and hopefully with copies to us).

How perfect I thought.  An opportunity to tell her all the things I hold in my heart and might have never told her except for this.  Initially, because of my lethargic, apathetic, indifferent, and ready-to-give-up-before-I-begin attitude, I was a little overwhelmed with the thought of such a large endeavor but now I feel invigorated.

I can take all those sad feelings, turn them inside out, and do something good and positive.  Already I feel better.  Or I will.  As soon as I get my own time-warped mind in gear.  What a blessing my sister's email has been to me.

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SAMPLES OF ARTWORK FROM THE MIND OF AN OBSESSIVE-COMPLUSIVE MAD WOMAN LIVING ON THE EDGE:



WATERCOLORS:

FABRIC ART:  I just discovered this art medium.  Everything is made with small pieces of cloth. These are my first attempts.

I received a photograph of my grandson, Benton, walking in the rain.  I just love it and tried to duplicate it in fabric.

MIXED MEDIA ART:  The base images were taken from the website of Cloth, Paper, Scissors.  I just added the embellishments.  I thought it would be fun to show a mermaid under water with an umbrella.

I made the panels for the umbrella with alcohol ink; I braided strands and strands and strands of thread to make the braided hair; I added the shell and starfish.

I made and added the star fish, stitched in the highlights for the hair, and made and added the bands around her hair and around her neck.

ORIGAMI CANOES:  Whatcha goin'a do with a dozen handmade and painted canoes?  Paint a beach picture and add them on.