Where have all the flowers gone?

Where have all the flowers gone?

Long time passing.

Where have all the flowers gone?

Long time ago.

Where have all the flowers gone?

Girls have picked them every one.

When will they ever learn?

When will they ever learn?

The lyrics in Pete Seeger’s anti-war song from the 60′s, guide us through the marriages of these girls to young men who would be called to war and to the graveyards that would be their fate. When will they ever learn? the song concludes plaintively.

“Mesmerized by the coverage of the Newtown massacres, I could not get this tune out of my head,” said Dr. Lloyd Sederer. “More carnage. Only this time, young children, not even young men and women, but innocents who will never come of age.”

Every parent who loses a child needs help coping. The parents of those children are in shock and very angry at the injustice of it all.” Dr. Sederer was referring to the song above when he wrote this.

*                         *                         *                         *                         *

Those parents went through the first trauma and shock and not long after when that wore off, it gave way to their cruel reality. The grieving process is not only the crying period; they have cycles of sadness with an overwhelming despair and rage, leaving an unimaginable void.

A suggestion for journalists ?

How about starting a project whereby people who have relatives, friends or acquaintances who suffer from a mental illness, attend senior level classrooms of universities where the students are learning to be journalists. They will all benefit from the information provided about the various symptoms of mental illness, treatment and recovery. There should be a consumer (a person suffering from a mental illness) as well as a social worker who will do some explaining if necessary. This will be a good opportunity for the students to get an inkling of what it is like to live daily with a mental illness, both for the consumer and his/her family.

They will be able to talk about the misunderstanding, fear and stigma associated with this illness. Stigma towards people with a mental illness has a detrimental effect on them and their families.

Stigma means a mark or a sign of shame or disapproval. It emerges when people feel uneasy or embarrassed to talk about behavior that they perceive as different. The stigma surrounding mental illness is so strong that it places a wall of silence around the issue.

 We need volunteers to watch the media for examples of material that inaccurately or negatively portray mental illness. By making phone calls,writing  letters or e-mails to the editors or reporters as well as op-ed pieces, volunteers can tell the media what was done in the wrong way and how it harmed people. They can also point out ways of rewriting the same thing in a more delicate and empathetic way.

 

The grief after losing my husband

 

Losing my husband

On February 12th 2010,  my husband passed away and three years later while standing at the cemetery many thoughts crowded my mind as I stared down at his tombstone.

I remembered how shocked I’d been when he’d told me that many of his possessions had taken to hiding in mischievous places, and then I thought back to the time we’d visited Prague. We spent carefree days walking through that interesting city, holding hands and absorbing its various sights and sounds. One particular day, I felt tired, so sat down on a bench in one of the busy tourist squares while my husband decided to walk for a bit longer. He said that he would be back in half an hour. But he did not return. Much, much later, he arrived in a police van. I was in the exact spot where he’d left me which was now deserted, and watched a policeman escort my husband out of the police car and walk toward me. He asked whether I recognized the man with him. “Yes, that’s my husband,” I cried. ”But how on earth did you find me ? He explained that they had driven to every square in the tourist area of Prague. I felt so relieved that I almost kissed him. My husband seemed embarrassed but showed  no other sign of agitation. However, he was unable to explain what had happened. We returned to our hotel and from that moment on, I did not let him out of my sight. The following morning he was surprised when I accompanied him on his early  morning walk, obviously having no recollection of the previous day’s ‘adventure.’

On our return home, we visited a geriatric neurologist and the diagnosis of dementia, probably Alzheimer’s, slowly crept into the picture.

His sudden death was hard to grasp. Although he suffered from Alzheimer’s Disease he was still able to go walking if he kept to his regular route. Of course he wore a Medical Alert bracelet with all the information I could squeeze onto it. Maybe because he was an Accountant by profession, he was still good with numbers and was able to play bridge even though he forgot so much else. He actually played his last game of bridge the day before he passed away.

The day he died, he went for his regular morning walk and did not return. A policewoman came to my door to tell me that he was in the hospital and that I should go immediately. He’d suffered a massive stroke and when he was discovered lying on the grass in the park by some joggers, they called for an ambulance.

Because of the suddenness and the shock of his death, my feelings were magnified. The unimaginable had happened. There was this immediate destruction of the world as I knew it. The person I loved and who provided me with security, was gone without warning. It was both a physical and an emotional shock. Helplessness and vulnerability, fear of the future wtihout him, of the loneliness and the sudden emptiness that awaited me was unbearable and I had difficulty sleeping. I felt as if I were drowning. We had been married for 51 years and known one another for 54. And the worst part was that I was unable to undo this loss. I took two steps forward and then one backward. One day I was married and the next, single, alone and grieving.

Keeping busy was my best therapy. I dug in the garden and wrote furiously. I doubt whether there is an expiration date for grief. It comes and goes in waves. It’s an emotional handicap that I get up with every morning and live with all day; and then, take it to bed with me. I’d lost the daily companionship of my loving husband and best friend. The loneliness is worst as evening falls and on special days of course. I also had the extra burden of being there for my children and grandchildren while struggling with my own grief. As it turned out, we supported one another.

 After losing so many near ones and dear ones, I began putting down some of my thoughts, and this is what I came up with.

When the sun sets, I remember them,

When the wind blows, I remember them.

When the spring comes, I remember them.

When I am tired, I remember them.

When I am sick at heart, I rememer them.

When things go well, I remember them.

And then I realize that the only cure for grief is to grieve; to grieve for as long as is necessary.

How to help a grieving family after a suicide

Grief and grieving

It was difficult for people to know what to say to us after we’d lost a child in such a shocking way but don’t let fear of saying the wrong thing prevent you from reaching out. We appreciated those who were there for us and visited often. I felt cut off and if my friends had not kept coming, I think I might have felt isolated, blamed and stigmatized. I know that there were people who blamed us.

It did not help when the odd person said; “’Things will get better. At least David is no longer suffering.’  Did she say things would get  better? That was inaccurate and would not be true for a very long time to come. It was also a hollow assurance. I felt as if that person had not really wanted to hear me express my pain and grief.

The worst thing that anyone could do to me was ask for a detailed explanation of how David died. Of course we spoke about it, but much later. There were times when we felt as though we were being grilled by a policeman or a lawyer when asked; ‘Did he leave a note?’ “Did you suspect anything? Did you keep an eye on him all the time?’

What we wanted was to reminisce about David’s life at school, his life as a sportsman or simply as our son. We wanted to talk about him. Suicide was not the most important thing about David. We wanted to share stories and memories, hear his name mentioned, listen to someone remind us how he had made candy floss when he was young, for example, and had the whole neighborhood in our garden lining up to buy some of this goo. We wished we could talk to his cousins about their memories as our children had spent so much time together.

If someone had asked; ‘Do you want to talk about what happened?’ that was fine, but only if the person had been prepared to listen – really listen.

I appreciated it when someone offered to run errands, cook, bake or shop for us, or simply sit and keep us company. When I was asked, ‘What can I do to help?’ I was most appreciative and accepted the help.

When I returned to work I appreciated it when people asked how I was coping because I was still grieving. It went on for a long time. There were friends who acknowledged emotional days such as David’s birthday or the anniversary of his death, by calling or mailing. This was a touching way of them to demonstrate their support.

 

Blogging for mental health day

I’m blogging for mental health day even though I am a bit late. Please click on the link below.

<a href=”http://www.yourmindyourbody.org/mental-health-month-blog-day/“  title=”I’m Blogging for Mental Health.” target=”_blank”><img src=”http://www.yourmindyourbody.org/badge/APA-BlogDayBadge-2013.jpg” width=”136″ height=”174″ alt=”I’m Blogging for Mental Health.” border=”0″ /></a>

Grief after losing pets. How children behave

Another kind of grief

If children are old enough to reason, they are old enough to sense accurately when they are being left out of important discussions about things that maybe should be spoken about in front of them. When my grandchildren lost their beloved dog, it mattered to them a great deal. Their pet was the first death that they had experienced. They’d developed a strong attachment to Bonno as this dog had become their playmate and protector.

They grieved and needed support and guidance to understand their loss and to mourn. They wanted to remember him always. They were young and only had some understanding of death but I am not sure whether the youngest comprehended the permanence of it. Their parents spoke to them about their dog and when they went to bed that night, their father buried it in the garden. Next morning he took them to the site where one of them wrote the dog’s name while the other drew a picture that his mother pinned onto the post that had been erected. The third child was much older.

Their parents answered all their questions honestly. When their cat was attacked and died of her wounds a few weeks later, the process was repeated. They spoke a lot about the loss of two pets in such a short period of time and asked whether they could get another dog. Their parents obliged and they love the new dog very much.

Not long after these upsets, my husband passed away and the youngest, who was four at the time, said;

 ”Is grandma going to bury Pappa the way Dad buried our pets?” When my children related my grandson’s words to me, it was the brightest part of my day because of the natural way young children have of saying things. 

More thoughts on a suicide in my family

My son, David’s suicide had drawn an invisible line between the rest of the world and me. I lived grief day by day, endless days, wondering how I’d survive the next one, burdened by my anguish. I had moments of tears, moments of agony and even moments of laughter which  a psychiatrist said was bordering on hysteria; my way of grieving.

During the week after David’s funeral, one of my daughters was called to the telephone. It was a school friend who she had not seen nor heard from in years and I heard her say; “Thanks for calling but I can’t talk now. My brother ended his life. She actually named it, proclaimed it, then she came to me and said; “I realize now how much emotional energy I’ve used all these years trying to hide David’s illness and I know that my friends know about him but I could not talk about it. I felt as if I were choking. I am sorry. Dad tried so hard to help me too. I wish it had been different.”

“I understand and I want you to know, that in time, both you and your sister will be able to talk about your brother to the people who are closest to you and who love you. It’s hard for you to believe that now, I know. I love you both.”

The worst part of David’s death was that it kept recurring. Every day I found evidence that my son was no longer with us. No more heartbreaking calls – as he phoned many times a day. The arrival of his death certificate and then, reams of pages -  a clinical post mortem. I wondered whether the typist had shed tears while doing her job.

Then I remembered something that David had said when he saw me working at my computer. “So, you are writing a book, Mom. It’s a good thing that there’s no neurosis in this world too insignificant to merit its own paperback.”

Now tell me, does that sound like a very sick person talking? The ultimate journey in coping with a new life without David had to be undertaken together with my husband and children. We had to fill gaps where loss and horror had struck. Bits of my anger began to dissolve, anger I’d harbored because my son had dared to contract schizophrenia, anger at the world for not understanding this illness then, anger at the medical profession once again. So many professionals had evaluated, assessed, tested and treated my son and prescribed a menu of group therapy, art therapy, vocational therapy and psychotherapy, yet his death was proof to me of the failure of modern psychiatry. I think that they are still struggling in the dark, as we were.

I ache with memories but also remember the happy times and I long for a hug. I wish I could tell my son again about all the times he’d made me proud and brought me joy.  My recovery began when I gave my son an unconditional pardon and told him that I loved him despite the fact that he took my son away from me.

Siblings’ grief after their brother’s death by suicide

One of our daughters was a teenager when her brother ended his life; the other, was studying and the mother of a toddler. aged three and a half. They needed comfort and understanding from us but most of the time, they needed to try and cope with their own feelings and lives. My husband and I listened to their anger, blame-placing, guilt as well as their sorrow. We encouraged them to talk. We mentioned David’s name often and basically we were there for them while trying desperately to cope with our own feelings that were in shreds.

Their emotions came in intense waves. They felt guilty – why him? Why did it happen to their brother and not to them? How come they were unable to help him? They were shocked even though we had warned them that this might occur. But, warning is very different from what actually happened.

A sibling suicide death creates incredible life changes for the survivors. The death of their brother didn’t only emphasize their own mortality, but also destroyed the fabric of the family as it had been. Older generations are supposed to die first, aren’t they?

The importance of sibling relationships cannot be emphasized enough. Chances are that the longest relationships in our lives will be with our siblings since we are generally just a few years apart in age. Because our sibling ties are so strong, we witness more life changes than anyone else does. We have shared experiences and memories, shared bedrooms and chores, family celebrations and tensions – a history and a whole heritage. We have been bound by love and jealousy, we have stuck up for and fought one another and stood together against our parents on occasion. We have grown up together, sharing so much until the death of our brother severed that connection.

For the above reasons, sibling grief can be prolonged and complicated. They felt an intense sense of loss. With the passing of their brother, they lost an important sense of family ties and especially, security. Suddenly a family member, not much older than them, had gone, and they had to reorganize and redefine their roles. I know that they tried to overcompensate in an effort to make up for what we had lost.

Losing a sibling to suicide sets up what I now know is called complicated grief. As if suicide grief is not sufficiently difficult, adding in the factors relating to sibling loss, reminds us of how unique the sibling bond can be. I have no doubt that until then, my daughters had thought that they were immortal because who even thinks of facing death at their stage of life? They learned the hard way that life does not hold unlimited promises. I think that they were also angry at the mental health professionals for their lack of success with their brother’s case. They alternated between isolating themselves and being with friends as they tried re-entry into their social spheres once again.

My late husband and I were young when we married in 1959 and instilled in our children the importance of family, volunteering and being good people. We also showered them with love and attention. Growing up, we took the three of them on car vacations and camping trips. Holidays were special times in our family. We also felt that it was important to give each of them extra-special attention on birthdays. When David became ill, the voices in his head took over and he was no longer the same person. He studied and worked but when the voices became more insistent, they destroyed his concentration and peace of mind.

We all learned that to a rational, functioning mind, suicide is such an irrational, incomprehensible, senseless act that it was hard for us to believe that someone we loved so much could have done that. We now know that that he was in such terrible pain that he could no longer think of anything but the ending it.

Mental illness and suicide are still stigmatized by our society. The aftermath of our tragedy has been noticeable in our family as well as the extended family. Some chose to isolate themselves from the rest of us. Many banded together to try to cope with the ramifications of our monumental loss.   Our daughters think of their brother every day, as we do,  and when we gather for family celebrations and he is no longer with us, there is a huge gap in the spot he used to occupy. There is no doubt that David’s suicide changed us all.. It also forced us to join a club that we had not wished to join – the survivor’s of suicide club. Sometimes when life deals one lemons we have to learn to make lemon juice.

Their brother, David, was almost 34 when he took his life in 1996. During his stay on Earth, he touched many lives. He loved reading and surfing, was a hard worker, responsible, reliable, and dependable until paranoid schizophrenia took over.

No one ever gets over a death. It simply becomes a part of one and we will live with it till the end of our lives.

A message from our daughters to their brother – Like Mom and Dad, we hope that you have found the peace you were denied here on Earth. We miss you. We love you.

The grief after a suicide in the family

A LIFE INTERRUPTED

On Friday 17, February, 1996 I felt as if an earthquake had rocked my world due to the chaos that came with it. The very foundations of our family circled crumbled when the call came to tell us that death had claimed our son. The resultant anguish was ours to bear. I felt as if David had taken my life too. And he was not yet 34.  But I could not cry. I had used up all my tears. What a terrible way to end one’s life. Will I ever heal? Will my family ever heal? Overwhelming emotions left us reeling. Could we have done something to stop it? No. We’d been warned years before that it might occur, that our son might end his suffering. He’d entered the military with the highest health profile one could score, and on his release, he was with us physically, but mentally, he was missing in action. Paranoid schizophrenia was the diagnosis but, he was medication resistant.

A suicide is different from other deaths. My son didn’t die according to the rules. He left us far too soon. Death by suicide is sudden and violent. We had to deal with the police and then go through the waiting period while a post mortem was carried out. After hearing how it had occurred, I found myself replayig his final moments over and over in an effort to understand – maybe because I was unable to get those thoughts out of my head.

Word of David’s suicide flew faster than sound and the doorbell did not stop ringing. When my parents died, I lost a piece of my past, but when my son died, I lost a large part of my future which left me reeling. People felt painfully uncomfortable in our presence but at least we did not feel isolated. I think it must be one of the most difficult of losses to bear. The same way that mental illness carries a stigma, the same stigma is associated with a suicide. I remember a woman saying; ‘But he wanted to end his life you know, so …’ In other words, was she intimating that we should have felt less pain?

Before leaving for the cemetery to bury our David, my husband spoke to us quietly; “I want you to remember that David did not take his life. He took what schizophrenia had made of it. He ended his agony and I thank my son for putting a stop to his suffering. I hope that he has found the peace of mind he so desperately sought, the peace of mind that eluded him during the last 16 years of his life. Now, we have to face the tragedy of our loss.’

We buried our son, and on that dull winter’s day, I talked to him for the last time, while in the cold, still air I heard a thousand birds sing their songs of life. All the people who had loved him could finally say farewell, even those who had not coped with his schizophrenia but they knew how to handle death. So many friends, family and neighbors stood, shoulders touching, breath mingling in the icy air into one great sigh for our loss. I whispered goodbye. So much left unsaid. I ached to see him on his surfboard. I heard the thud of earth and he was gone. He didn’t even say goodbye. In a tumble of memories, I saw David’s smile superimposed on the painful image of his anguished, tortured expression. I love you, David. Rest. 1962 – 1996

 Few people knew what to say to us, how to behave. All we wanted was to talk about our son, about his extreme pain and his lack of peace of mind, Some stayed away which was probably easier for them. We understood but it was hurtful. We did not blame ourselves for what had happened. All my family needed was to concentrate on healing and grief recovery. It had not been easy for any of us to watch our child suffer and feel as helpless to ease his pain as we’d been.

It might seem to some people that suicide is a selfish act by leaving near and dear ones behind to deal with the fears and the  grief. But, he was mentally ill and a person who takes his life intentionally is not in possession of a healthy mind.

Shock was our first reaction. Then came the numbness and an indescribably overwhelming sadness. I was also very angry with the mental health profession for their inability to help our son. I knew that he was medication resistant and could not survive as he had no peace of mind at all, but that didn’t help then. Hearing voices all the time must have been indescribably painful. All he wanted was a good job, someone to love, and peace of mind…not much to ask for, is it?

I knew instinctively that I had to use the word suicide when talking to people. I had to get used to saying it. People were shocked at first. The healing and coping process required me to talk about my feelings, about the sadness, anger and hurt. I wrote everything down too.

My husband and our daughters each grieved in their own way. We visited our son’s grave quite often at first, but when we stood in front of the icy slab of marble, we felt that it could not possibly be our son in there. Home again, I held a snapshot of him on his surfboard and spoke to him.

There were painful reminders everywhere. I gave his surfboard away together with his surfing magazines. He’d loved them so.

Birthdays and holidays were so difficult. Going into his bedroom was impossible at first. Friends did not know what to say but by being there, it was a great comfort to us all. Nothing could return to the way it was. We took one day at a time. It was so difficult.

Every year, on the anniversary of our son’s death, my family chooses to be alone. We go to the cemetery where my late husband read a prayer; we speak to him in turn and cry a whole lot, but we do not feel like having a lot of people around us. I don’t know why, but that is the way we all feel.

To this day when people ask me how many children I have, everything comes flooding back in a flash. Nobody has said anything wrong, but that’s the way it will always be. When I see men of his age with wives and children, my hopes and dreams for him that came to nothing, wash over me. I doubt whether we will ever get over the shock and I know that our son will always be in my thoughts.

So difficult to write about

I have been trying to write about the grief felt by myself and my family when our son died so tragically and for the first time since I started blogging, I have had trouble getting it right. Sitting in front of my laptop and thinking of the best way to get it down clearly, I have deleted more than I have written. I took a long break and I think that I will have it ready to post at my usual time tomorrow. In my part of the world it is May 15 at 10:00 a.m. My readers from all over the world are in different time zones, however, it will be up at the time you usually read my blog tomorrow. I apologize for any inconvenience as I know how irritating it can be to search for a blog that has not been posted. Please bear with me.