June 2025

Reprint From 2013

“If you had a good dad, then Father’s Day can be sorrowful and maybe even bittersweet as you remember good times.  If you had a more difficult relationship, the day can bring up feelings of loneliness and sadness.  Or if you’re a father suffering the loss of a child, it can amplify those feelings of loss and bereavement.”

                                                “Walter Carter Funeral Home”

We move gently, easily, in this season we call summer. Father’s Day is a part of every summer. Remember, as children, the gifts we made for our dads? Cards smeared with glue, ash trays (okay, let us all remember that I grew up in a time when everyone smoked) made with love, even dandelions picked as his special bouquet. We all got a bit older and the gifts became store bought and, maybe, a bit more sophisticated. I remember saving money to get my dad a special picture for his desk. After he died, I found it tucked in his desk drawer with the card I’d gotten. “Gosh”, I thought, “what a hideous work of art.”

As some of us married and had children of our own, we often had to squeeze some of those Father’s Days or extend them out a bit to include extended family. We all lived intensely in the moment.

One day, we expect to have our dads die ahead of us. For me, being 27 years old, my dad died way too soon. He was only 61 and died of emphysema.

When my dad died, I remember 2 close friends saying how much they envied the fact that I had my dad for “so many years.” One had her father die when she was 7. The other was 10 when her dad died. They envied the fact that my dad was able to walk me down the aisle and to see his grandchildren.

The very things that I was to be grateful for are the same things many of you have never had. Fathers who died way too young by ending their own lives left daughters who had “others” walk them down the aisle. They left sons who never knew them except through stories and pictures.

Wives who had husbands die way too young, by their own hands, had to explain to public school teachers, Sunday school teachers, and others who worked with their children that “Father’s Day” needed to be expanded to include “an important male” in their young child’s life. Making a gift for a father that no longer was alive is a difficult time for a child. “Make it for your grandfather, or your uncle, or a special neighbor,” teachers learned to say.

When Father’s Day arrives, it is a difficult day for many. How often do we hear at our meeting that parents of a child who died by suicide have to “put on a happy face for our other kids” while their heart breaks over that absent, now deceased child? How often do we hear wives stressing out, surviving children stressing out, and siblings stressing out over this holiday?

All of us “mourn for the loss of what was but also for what will never be.” Eventually, we “gently, lovingly let go.”

“Accept that he is gone” a now ex-friend told me when I faced my first Father’s Day without dad. That was 2 months after he died. June, in fact, was one difficult month for my mom and I since their wedding anniversary was also in June. I can remember turning red in the face and sputtering to this now ex-friend, “I don’t have any choice to accept that he is gone. THAT is not my issue. MY issue is that he IS gone, and I don’t like it.” (I would also like to mention, in a petty way, that her large intact family had just gotten back from a trip, paid for by her dad, and were about to gather at her brother’s for their usual Father’s Day tribute which actually went on, each year, all week-end).

You and I are grieving what we had. You and I are grieving what we can never have again. You and I are grieving what will never be. I know that for those of us who are many years past the death, we have gently, lovingly let go. Or…if you’re like me…I didn’t so gently, lovingly let go. Always, always, always, we will hold on…even just a bit…to what we can never have again. Guess what? That’s okay.

Let us all be especially mindful of those facing their first Father’s Day without their dad, child, uncle, brother, husband…

My dad did not die by suicide. That is the “extra” painful piece that holds its grasp over many of you. That “extra” painful piece is mine to own at Mother’s Day. The fact is, however, that no matter how “they” died, we miss them. Carry your memories with you….think of them…speak of them…whisper their name…shout their name. We meet this month a day after Father’s Day. Bring your fears, your concerns, your stories. Just remember this one thing: If you are able to do this, take a few moments, and go off by yourself. Think of your loved one and, if you are able, give thanks that they were in your life. Think of their face, their voice, their smile. Remember something happy and celebrate the life that was…If you are able to do so, don’t let their final act define who they are/were for you…We love them still…

The post The Love We Still Carry: A Father’s Day Reflection appeared first on Suicide Prevention Services of America.

May 2025

“Just put your hand in mine
We’ll walk in the sand together
Just let your heart drift through
Our life
 You’ve always been there
 You’ve always been there
I’m never alone
No way, no how, no when”
-Procol Harum (Somewhen)

 Several  thoughts, dates and  pictures,  have converged with music this month to bring the above quote to this newsletter. It’s the first stanza of what could be considered a sort of love song for a couple;  yet, with Mother’s Day coming and  my garden beckoning , I think of my mom when I listen to it.   I always feel that Mom is with me, in me, and, for sure, a part of me.  Or is it that I’m a part of her?  Either way, the lines bring to my mind a picture of me holding Mom’s hand when I was about 2 years old.  We, when I was older, DID walk in the sand together.  Her heart is in my life and, as I said, I am never alone as I never feel like I am without her.

     Another piece of this series of thoughts is Kayla’s Hope Blooms Gala, a fundraiser held  recently to raise money for Kayla’s Hope Foundation.  The pictures that Kayla’s mom, Ruthie, posted of Kayla with her family and friends brought the song to me again.  Kayla Brooke Lehman was 15 years old when she took her life on April 7, 2018.  Her mom, dad, and sister have worked tirelessly to raise awareness and money for mental health. Many organizations (yes, SPS for sure!) and scholarship winners with Kayla’s name on it have been helped by this foundation.   When I hear the song, I picture the 4 of them, hand-in-hand, walking barefoot on the beach.  Her heart is forever intertwined with theirs.  They are never without her spirit within them.    

     I have the song playing right now. I’ll encourage you to look  it up and listen to it as I now hear it as a love song for anyone who has had a loved one die;  parent, spouse, child, sister, brother, niece, nephew, friend….A song with it’s lyrics and oh so beautiful music can mean anything to anyone.  I have had a lot of death in my life but…then…I’m old.  I’ve seen a lot.  My Bill died 2 1/2 year ago.  This song is ours. 

     The most recent death in my life-at-large, is that of a friend’s husband.  The death was sudden (heart attack).  Death by suicide is also sudden with the same immediate shock.  The additional piece (suicide) is further reaching for we survivors as it adds so much more.  But I think of my friend and what it feels like to have a spouse die.  Bill didn’t die suddenly but his death still rocked my world.  My friend, also my daughter, Jen’s friend, ran into Jen this past week-end.  Jen offered her condolences.  Beth said, “I need to call your mom to have coffee with her.  Now I get it.”

      Ultimately,  as I’ve said before, it’s the death with it’s finality that we are left with.  Our loved ones made the decision to take their own lives.  We acknowledge that and we acknowledge that multiple layers of our recovery are based on their final decision.    Suicide is a harsh and often violent death.  They made a choice.  Beth’s husband didn’t make a choice to take his own life but he’s dead.  Our loved ones died.  They are dead.  The ultimate equalizer is death.

     How we choose to move forward after the death of our loved ones is what matters.  We have Celebrations of Life or funerals or…nothing.  We are left with ashes in an urn or a gravesite.  Then what?  The first and second years after the death are filled with hard, raw pain.  On the outside, we look like “normal” to anyone who sees us.  Close friends and family see the pain we carry in our eyes.  We move forward, stunned that the rest of the world continues at a rapid speed.  We change.  We soften.  We are forever changed.  We value relationships more.

 We attend or sponsor causes in their name.  We reach out to those who come after us after they have had a loved one die. 

Now we “get it”.

    “So just put your hand in mine

      I’ll walk forever by your side

      You know I’m yours

     I know you are mine

     And when we’re gone

     We’ll meet again

     Some way, somehow, somewhen.” 

     We’ll meet again…some way, somehow, somewhen…

Until then, keep them close.  Feel them.  I know you’ll always love them…I love each and every one of you.  You have/are survived/surviving.  You have/will thrived/thrive…

Somewhen….

The post Some Way, Somehow, Somewhen appeared first on Suicide Prevention Services of America.

Reprinted from 2019

“Each substance of a grief hath twenty shadows.”

-William Shakespeare

I learned a new title for myself this past week:  “veteran survivor”.  Translated in my mind, “veteran survivor” means I’ve been at this a long time.  Indeed, I have!

     This September 5, it will be 40 years since mom died.  I am 10 years beyond the age she was when she died.  I wrote about this at the time and how strange this made me feel.  It still feels strange.  Suddenly, Mom, my role model, became younger than I.  Of course, in my mind, she’s still my mom, still older and wiser and still the one who gave me so much love.  The next year, as I officially became “older”, the strange feeling returned.  Throughout the year, each day, in fact as I think of her, she’s always older than I. 

     Here’s the thing:  in a logical world, this is not to be; well, that’s MY logical world.  People expect their parents to die before them, I get that.   This past year, the mothers of 3 of my friends died.  Two of the women were in their ‘80’s and one in her mid-90’s.  This is what I always thought I’d have.  When I hear daughters complain about their aging mothers, I want to scream.  I don’t; often I comment on how fortunate they are to have their mothers still here on this earth.  Sometimes I even say,

    “I don’t envy you your current circumstance, but I DO envy the time you’ve had with her.” 

     I always thought mom would die in her ‘80’s or 90’s; I thought she’d see my kids grow to adulthood, to see great-grandchildren, to continue to be HERE.   I thought she’d come to terms with dad’s death which had been expected for several years.  I thought she’d come to terms with my moving to another state.  I thought she’d come to terms with the job change.  But…it was simply too much for her to endure, and I think she endured it for 2 plus years after her prior attempt 4 months after dad died.  I think she struggled every single day as best she could.

     Those of us who have had loved ones die by suicide are called loss survivors.  There are often subgroups that form:  moms who have had kids die by suicide or widows who have had husbands take their lives.  For all of these years that I’ve been a loss survivor, I have met very few women who fit into my category of a motherless child.  All of the national conferences I’ve attended, all of the workshops I’ve done have not helped me to find many other women with the same loss.  When I actually DO meet one like myself, I can feel the excitement of wanting to know what it’s like for her. 

     Look back at the above quote:

     “Each substance of a grief hath twenty shadows…”

      The layer upon layer of “veteran loss survivors” stuns me at times.  For the past 10 years, I roll my new “layer” around in my head.  I think such thoughts as,

    “Mom said getting older takes its toll (wait, she never got to this age)” or “What would mom look like today?  Would she have had arthritis that would have let me know what I was in for?  Would her hair be totally gray?”

     Another feature of this “older than my mom was when she died” are the questions at the Dr.’s office that begin like this:

     “What ages were your parents when they died?”  (They were both 61 years old.)

     “What did they die of?”  (My dad died of complications from emphysema and my mom took her own life.)

    What follows for a few seconds is total silence and averted eyes.

     In a way, this eliminates further issues of aging that would have been experienced  by my parents.  What runs in my family?  Hmmmm….not quite sure.

     Let’s flash to the eye Dr.

     “You have cataracts.  Almost everyone gets them. “ How old were your parents when they got them?”  

     My children were robbed of a loving, caring grandmother as they grew up.  I only had 1 grandparent when I grew up as the other 3 were already dead.  My dad’s mom died when I was 16.  She lived with her daughter and son-in-law and my 3 cousins in Chicago.  I loved her and she loved me but I never had that closeness I saw that so many of my childhood friends had.  I’d hoped my kids would have that.  They were 8, almost 7, 3, and 11 months when she died.   Their paternal grandparents lived in Arizona.

     When mom died, I also became an orphan.  I was an orphan and a motherless daughter.  NOW I realized I was an adult!  Funny how the mind works, huh?

     I think of my mom, Ellen, many times a day.  Sometimes, I still yearn for her; I want one more touch, one more hug.  I sometimes forget what her voice sounded like but if I concentrate hard enough, it comes back to me.  She died alone, in her home.  No family member was by her side.  She died from despair, loneliness, and grief. 

     If I could’ve had it my way, she’d die at 103 surrounded by generations of a loving family.  Her body would simply wear out.  She’d die with a smile on her face.  She’d die content and at peace.

     It, apparently, was not meant to be….       In me, however, her love continues…as does my love for her…

The post Veteran Survivor: Older Than My Mother Ever Was appeared first on Suicide Prevention Services of America.

March 2025

I want to thank my long-time survivor friend, Wendi, for posting this on her survivor site today. It’s just the inspiration I needed for this column.

Mom’s birthday is March 4th. Daughter, , Jen, pointed out to me years ago that “March 4th” is a sentence; a command. What a great sign that was for me! March forth I did.

When I think of Mom, I think of all that is in the quote above. She was a very kind, caring person. She left many lessons with me. Often, I speak of her as in, “Mom taught me this”, or” I learned this from Mom.”

I recently went through her cookbook that consisted of all of her recipes, notes of events she’d cooked for, number of people attending the event, and what she’d do differently next time. I chuckled at some of her comments, such as, “I worked all day on this and no one offered to bring anything in the way of help.” That just made me chuckle. I remember her telling me that as she was growing up, women were expected to memorize recipes; that writing them down wasn’t acceptable. Now I go to the internet for recipes!

I have often written that speaking their name keeps them with us. Telling stories about them and hearing stories about them keeps them with us. As survivor of a year recently asked me if there’s a time when “we” should stop talking about “them” because she continues to talk about her daughter. People still shut down. I was able to get her to say, “Oh….that’s not MY problem, that’s there’s.” Indeed it is.

My first career was as a third grade teacher (1969-1974). Mom worked in the same school. She was the librarian soon to be changed to “the learning center lady.” The kids loved her and she loved them. The woman who taught next to me, Marie, was about Mom’s age. I just read last week-end that she just died at 105. Why couldn’t I have had that? Well, if I had, I wouldn’t be writing this now, would I? On this birthday, Mom will be 107.

In August, I was at a church near me for the 63rd wedding anniversary celebration for my 6th grade teacher, Joe Popp, and his wife, Dona. I had Joe’s oldest daughter when I taught. All 4 of his kids knew my mom and each one had a special story to tell me about her. Each story was an act of kindness and love. That was Mom. When the world boar down too hard over and over again for 2 ½ years, she couldn’t fight any more. I believe that each day since her husband died, each day over those 2 ½ years, she got up determined to move forward. As each “blow” came to her, and there were many, she struggled to keep up but finally – at last – had to stop. I know she thought of her 2 daughters, her grandchildren, her sister, brother-in-law, and niece and nephews. I also know she simply couldn’t take one more change.

Not one more change. Not one more day.

As survivors, over the years, we think more of what we had. I had 31 years of her. She was 61 when she died. I remember my childhood as being wonderful, filled with reading and music and laughter. My family didn’t take fancy vacations or, for that matter, many vacations at all and when we did, it was to a rented cabin in Wisconsin on a Lake and I loved it. I went to Camp Quarryledge (YMCA) every year from the ages of 6-12. Mom and I would play canasta. We loved to shop together. We were “besties”. When her picture is before me, she is smiling and the kindness shines from her eyes. I am grateful to have had her. When she so abruptly left me, I was heartbroken and devastated. Somehow the light left me eyes as well.

As survivors, we follow a process/path. Each one of us follows our own unique path but the coming together as a group and sharing our own path helps others to not feel so alone. I think of a book I read a long time ago entitled, “One of Us Died and One of Us Went Crazy.”

I believe that my mission is absolutely to carry her light forward and to live each day, often, for both of us. She’s in my head, she guides me, she is my resource for living a loving life filled with kindness. I can truthfully say to you that I can think of her without thinking of how she died. I think of her life in totality. I would not have traded one day of loving her and being loved by her. Her death was about HER pain and HER inability to move forward any more.

Let us remember the joy they brought us, the days filled with their love for us, and that they continue to now move forward with us. They left a legacy. Honor it….Embrace it

The post Honoring the Legacy, Embracing the Love appeared first on Suicide Prevention Services of America.

“The problem with death is absence.”
Roger Rosenblatt

I have several clients right now, and I know there are some brand new people attending the SOS group, where their loved one has been dead long enough that what is blatantly clear to them is the “goneness.” In our initial shock and denial which are 2 pieces of the grieving process, the absence of our loved one is not felt as keenly as, say, a year later. We tell ourselves all kind of things like, “They’re just on an extended vacation”, or “They’ll be home when…” In reality, the longer amount of time that ensues between the death date and “today”, the harsher is the feeling of their absence.

After a death, the hole within us is huge. Eventually, as time goes on, if we grieve actively (the opposite of denial and pushing our grief away), the hole fills in until it becomes smaller and more manageable. This isn’t happening in a year or even in two years. We begin to laugh and then feel guilty that we’ve laughed. We begin to move forward in our lives without them because they’re forever frozen in time. For me, it was finally accepting that when the telephone rang, it would NOT be mom. For me, it wasn’t me reaching for the phone to tell her something. The letters she used to write to me didn’t come any more, even though it took me months to stop looking for them.
For many new survivors, Valentine’s Day is a hard day, especially if it’s a spouse who died. Or maybe it’s NOT a hard day if your spouse died but you think it “should” be because of the expectations society puts on us.

After any death, within a few weeks, our initial support moves further away from us. People resume their own routines. What support are we left with? Each one of us has to have some support. The SOS meetings are supportive, counseling is supportive. Who do you call, who is your “person” or, better yet, who are your “people” who you can turn to? We/I/you need “people”. Those who are with us as we traverse the new path before us. Who do you reach out to on especially bad days? Who will listen to your story over and over again. Your need is great; your support system, which may be only 2-3 people, is necessary.

There is nothing that prepares us for a death by suicide. Society has the old stigma in place, for some, and with others, the acceptance of suicide as a means of death is just part of who they are. It’s acceptance we need and want.
I received several emails from a friend of a survivor. The friend had tried for several months to get her friend to SOS. She succeeded in January. The day after the meeting, I received a lovely email from the friend telling me how warm and welcoming the group was. She said the leader was especially “compassionate and knowledgeable”. (Kim, I believe that was you. Sending hugs to you.)
She also said that, initially, her friend didn’t talk (not unusual at all for a newcomer) but that eventually she did. When a brand new person walks into an SOS meeting, it’s acceptance and understanding that they feel. Connections are made, bonds are formed.
What comes from a suicide, are small “gifts” which is what my mentor was told by a monk after her son died. Of course she was angry when she heard those words and said that she didn’t want any gifts. I will say that resilience is one that comes. Resilience- “A ladder for climbing out of deep wells and muddy pools.”

Self-knowledge- knowing who you are and what moves you down to the darkest corners of your soul.
Surrender – the art of moving along with the flow of an uncompromising life.
The above words and definitions come from “A Journal for Bad Days”, by Eveline Helmink. She provides “self-care strategies to get present when things aren’t perfect.” I find it helpful.

As you grapple with the permanence of death, you will also see “signs” that remind you of your loved one. I can still feel my mom around me when I garden. I can look at photo albums and remember wonderful times. I can still return, if I allow myself to, to the moments I learned of her death and the guilt and torment I suffered for years. It isn’t a healthy thing to do.

My husband, Bill, died 3 years ago. The day he died, a deer walked alongside me down my walk from the backyard, through the front yard, to the street. All the time I was talking and crying. The deer eventually walked down the road, up the hill, and crossed the highway. The deer come often – singles or in two’s and three’s – to let me know that Bill is with me. Bill’s brother died on Friday, January 24th. Bill’s sister lives in my home in a separate apartment. She’s 88 and on 24/7 oxygen but quite mobile and articulate. The next day, we both looked out our windows at the same time and saw the deer. Just one. Just my Bill. Signs bring me comfort.

May your month, the shortest of the year, be filled with love for yourself and then love for others. May you give and receive both….

The post “The problem with death is absence.” appeared first on Suicide Prevention Services of America.

                         than the best day in 2005.”

     -from Father Charles Rubey, LOSS

lifted with love from Obelisk, Jan. 1994.

YEAR END THANKS…. FROM STEPHANIE:

Let your New Year begin, remembering that the best tomorrows are built with better todays and good tomorrows. (Not my quote, someone else’s).

You all survived the holidays. I’m proud of you. Be pleased. Give yourself a hug and don’t ask (as one survivor recently did) “How will next Christmas be?” WHO CARES? NEXT YEAR???

There were 37 survivors at our December Memorial meeting. Our candlelight memorial was beautiful and touching. The simplicity and beauty of the candles was awesome. 37 grieving people stood in a circle and were close enough to each other to touch elbows. The pictures of those who have gone on before us looked out at their grieving loved ones from central table. Twenty-nine candles were lit. A central candle sat amongst the pictures while 37 others surrounded it.

One by one, we said something a good-bye, a shared memory, a Merry Christmas. One by one we cried: one by one we blew out our candle, until only the central, centered candle remained lit.

“They say it is better to light just one little candle than to stumble in the dark. Tonight 37 candles were lit. As you leave this room and go out into the cold, dark evening, carry the light of this person with you. For if you carry the light that was the life of your loved one within you, that person will not have gone out of your memory.”

It is my fervent hope that as we enter January, that light remains burning within us.

You have survived: Thanksgiving, Christmas Eve and Day, New Year’s Eve and Day.

While many people say that they “hate January,” let us remember that the days are now getting longer, spring seeds can be ordered, and SOS is January 15^th.

I offer you the following survivor New Year’s resolutions:

1. I resolve to live one day at a time.
2. I resolve to put myself and my health first.
3. I resolve to look at the nice things I did for (insert loved one’s name).
4. I resolve to look for three good qualities in each person I deal with (including myself).
5. I resolve to work on my grief (remember: grief work I work).
6. I resolve to balance each piece of grief work with something fun or nice. (It need not cost money, i.e., a walk alone, 15 minutes of quiet time, a phone call to a friend).
7. I resolve to cry when I feel like crying and not apologize for those tears.
8. I resolve to treat myself with the same respect I give others.

We have entered a new year. Some of you are still in the first year of your grief, when life seems so uncertain, and you are hit on a daily basis with waves of grief.

Some of you are on the middle road of grief- 2 or 3 or 4 years have passed. Waves of grief may overtake you on a regular basis, but you are feeling more in control of your life.

Some of you, (like myself), are back in the fast lane. We turn the calendar to a new year and marvel that it has been 8 or 10 or 12 years. We haven’t forgotten… we never will/ Though we remain forever changed, we reach out to pull the newly grieving to us… we educate, we teach, we support. For us, at this point, it is not enough to be a survivor. We have to thrive. As we reach back to help one who is stumbling.

It is important to remember that life is always changing. The uncertainty of life is what puts lots of people off, but we accept that uncertainty is part of the foundation of life, we can roll on from there. No one knows better than those of us who have survived a sudden death, that the cold winds of change move quickly.

None of us needs to beat ourselves up with “I should have said,” or “Why didn’t I do.” Let us begin today to remember that “the best tomorrows are built are better todays.” You can’t change what happened. You can’t change what you did or did not do. You can change how you will behave from today on out. You can decide to focus on today… and on you…

“Let your New Year begin…

The post “Let your New Year begin…” appeared first on Suicide Prevention Services of America.

As far as possible, without giving away a piece of who you are, be on good terms with those who matter to you.

Speak of your grief quietly and clearly and whenever you feel it: allow others to listen to you tell your story again and again.

Stay away from those who drain you and be with those who give you a sense of peace.

If you compare your grief with the grief of others, you may become faltering and discouraged; always there will be people in different stages of grief. Know that you are where you need to be for you.

Enjoy your small steps of success along the path of grief. You have worked hard to attain each one.

Keep interested in your own plans and your own life.

Exercise caution in activities and traditions. Take care of yourself; be good to yourself. Set time limits on outings and events. Accomplish a few things and then rest. You heroically survived a death; you can heroically survive the holiday.

Be yourself. Cry when you feel like crying. Talk about your loved one when you are so moved. If “the world” can’t handle a name or a memory, then the world will have to learn…as you are learning. Don’t be bitter when someone talks of love. Love is still a rare and precious gift.

Listen, if you are able, to those of us who are farther down the road in our grief. We walked where you are now walking. We remember that searing intense pain. It has gotten better for us. It will get better for you…

Nurture yourself. Take a break from all the “why’s” and “what if’s”.

Fatigue and loneliness are not your friends. Reach for a tired peacefulness and some time alone.

Be gentle with yourself. You are a survivor of suicide. You have survived the death by suicide of someone you loved. You can survive anything. You are still a pretty nice person and you have a right to be happy. Someone you loved was in unbearable pain and they ended that pain. Don’t allow them to pull you along. You have a right to live. Their reasons may not be clear to you and that’s okay. At last, the why’s are unimportant.

Therefore, be at peace with yourself and with your God, whoever you believe He/She is. In the noisy confusion of the holiday season strive to be at peace with yourself.

In spite of all that you have faced, it can still be a beautiful world. Find new meaning in the word Christmas.
Take care of yourself. Reach for happiness…

The post 2020 Christmas Desiderata (something desired as essential). appeared first on Suicide Prevention Services of America.

 “… and to everything there is a season…”

November is the month of Thanksgiving in America. In the beginning stages of our grief, we aren’t thankful. Just the opposite, in fact. We’re bitter and broken and wandering in the desert, so to speak. We are strangers in a strange land; foreigners in a world not of our choosing. We were thrust here by circumstances we did not choose. The rituals we used to observe have lost their meaning. Things we used to do to prepare for a holiday now seem overwhelming and remind us of that gaping absence.

In the middle stages of our grief, we may be able to reach out and pick up some threads of our former life. We may be able to incorporate some of those threads into our new being. We are able to observe new rituals while keeping some of the older ones.

In the latter stages of our grief, and, for the rest of our lives, we learn to live without…

without their physical presence, without their thoughts, without their aging. Our world – forever changed – does not forget them. The reality, however, is that we go on in a new and different way.

Thanksgiving is a favorite holiday of mine as it was of my mom’s. Perhaps the idea of gratefulness, the idea of “bringing in the bounty”, and the idea of family and friends coming together (without the need for gifts like at other gatherings) was intriguing to us. As a young child, we would drive into Chicago and spend the day with grandparents, aunts, uncles, and cousins. In my later teen years, we would often be in our own home with family and friends. I remember the year that I had my first really serious boyfriend. What to do? Eat with my family? Eat at his house? Eat two meals?

My very wise mother settled it without blinking an eye. She invited his entire family to our house! Mom was always good at including people who otherwise had nowhere to go so often the table would be crowded with both people and food. As a married woman with children, my two oldest children and my youngest child were baptized on Thanksgiving.

I clearly remember the first Thanksgiving after mom’s death in September. My family drove from Indiana to my sister’s house where I proceeded to drink enough champagne before dinner so that I went to take a nap and missed the entire meal! How clever of my subconscious to protect me from the inevitable pain of sitting at my first holiday meal without mom. Thanksgiving became a struggle those first few years. I had to learn to give myself permission to do what worked best for me in my grief process.

If this is your first Thanksgiving without your loved one, you will need to do the same thing. While those around us would like to carry on as if nothing has changed, we know that the world will never be the same again. We learn to take care of ourselves and, often, in doing that, we teach others what we need. So often I have had survivors tell me that people have told them they’re “being selfish” by not just “going along.” Our world has collapsed and we are asked to “go along” to make others feel better. My answer to that: “No!” We need to teach them what we need. In so doing, we offer a piece of our reality to others.

I am always thankful for the love of my mom. The things she taught me, the gifts she gave me, and the traits I have that were hers, speak well of a loving, caring woman. I know that each and every one of you remember your loved ones and all that you gained from having them in your life. I often see you laugh while you are weeping because you are sharing a memory. I believe that we are all here for a reason. I think that every life experience that we have has brought us to where we are today. These excruciating times of death and loss are unexplainable in our minds. But, as I have said so many times before, like the legendary bird the phoenix, we rise from the ashes that this suicide has left us in. We are capable of carrying on our lives and rising up out of sadness and into a life of light and life and joy. It takes a long time for that to happen but it DOES and WILL happen.

I will think of all of you on that national day of Thanksgiving because I am thankful for each and every one of you. Think of each other… Think of your loved one… and Care for yourself.

The post A Season for Grief, Gratitude, & Growth appeared first on Suicide Prevention Services of America.

-Daphne DuMaurier

     As I sat with a survivor today, the topic turned to what “their” last moments were like; what depression, mental anguish, and hopelessness filled their minds and for how long had they struggled?  THIS is what we as survivors are left with.  We work through the feelings as they come – over and over again.  We get through the firsts, the seconds, and the thirds…We watch other daughters with their living moms, other parents with their living sons and daughters, other spouses with a living spouse, other siblings with all of their family in front of them, on this earth.

     The painful hell we live trying to imagine their final moments is, yet again, something we can summon in a heartbeat.  

     “She is in Heaven; she is happy; all her pain is gone.”

     Okay, I can run with that.  Eternal life.  

     “She’s back in many forms.  She’s where you feel her.”  

    Yep, I can go with that as well.  

     There IS a tranquility of sorts that eventually came for me.  Or, perhaps, just the acceptance of the horrible thing that had happened TO ME!  I couldn’t change it or wish it away.  Eventually, the shock was replaced by the goneness.  The phone ringing did not mean she was on the other end. The smell of her perfume did not mean she was entering the room. 

     In a moment, I can return to that day, that minute.  I have, however, learned to rechannel it…or not.  Not?  Perhaps I have to sit with it yet again and then let it go.  Sitting with it doesn’t mean I’m worse or that I haven’t grieved or even that I’m falling backwards. It can be a moment.  It’s a flash in time.  The process goes rather quickly.  Why?  Because the outcome is always the same.

     As I work in my garden or drive to work, I can pull to me the essence of my mom:  her kindness, her generosity, her love and, then, her overpowering sadness.  I wonder where we’d all be if she’d lived and survived a 2^nd suicide attempt. There are things worse than death.  What if she’d lived and been in a coma for years?  I’ve known people that that has happened to.  

     Here’s how I put it in context. I pick one of the very few times in my life that I was in pretty bad physical pain.  I try to equate that to mom’s emotional pain (this is my story…bear with me!)  Once my pain ended, by a drug or surgery, I felt better.  So I tell myself that her pain was bad for quite a while and now it isn’t.  Boom!  Done!

          This is when I can feel “the freedom and the peace, even at times the joy, of another world where there is no more pain.” I think of the first time I walked into Disney World, in 1972 or 1973 and felt joy and peace and happiness.  This, then, is how I imagine where she is right now.  How can it be any other way?

    We end our SOS meetings with this:

     “I don’t know why.

     “I don’t have to know why”

     But I DO know why.  Mom’s multiple losses over the years only added to her depression.  She simply could not do it one more day.

     The absence of my mom is a part of me just as is the joy and love we felt in the presence of one another is a part of me.

     I am the daughter of suicide.

     I was raised to beyond early adulthood by a mom who loved me and gave me strength and joy.  I have a solid foundation under me because of my parents.

     So, if you and I can return to that moment, let us agree that we can also feel the love and the comfort. 

     She’s in the butterflies and the orange flowers.

     She’s in the air around me.

    Mostly, she’s in me and I’m of her.  

   Each and every one of us can say the same.  Feel the power of their love.  Pull the memories to your heart.  I guess it’s true that we weren’t promised “forever”; but it would have been lovely to have had them with us longer…

     I am surviving…

     You are surviving…

     Feel the community of survivors…     

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happiness as if they had surprised a

butterfly in the winter woods.”

– Edith Wharton

     September will mark 45 years for me since Mom died. She took her life sometime over Labor Day Week-End in 1979. She was dead about 2 days before she was found.

     This is the time of year that I allow myself to wallow – to dive deep into my grief and grieve not only for her and for my loss of her, it’s also the time I find myself grieving for others in my life who have died.  My heart is especially heavy this year as I think of the death of my colleague of 30 years, Kari Evans, and of the death of my best friend’s son, Sean.  Kari died May 15 at the age of 52.   Sean died May 27 at the age of 45.  Both deaths were sudden and unexpected.    Grief calls to grief.  The grieving for one brings back the grieving for many.

     My pattern of wallowing lasts from about 10-14 days, I allow myself to dive deeply into my grief.  I cry, I’m sad.  I take walks in nature, and I think and remember. “Nature” can be in my garden or walking to the river at the end of my lot or walking through a park or a forest preserve.  But this is not a straight time of deep grief.  That’s why the above quote called out to me.

     I try to think back to when I felt some happiness after Mom died; I can’t truly remember when but I had 4 children who brought me great joy.  I had friends that came forward to help me and…yes…who made me laugh.  I DO remember the first time I laughed from my belly and then felt immediately guilty; my mom was dead, and I was laughing.  You’ve all felt this.

     This past weekend, I attended the 65^th wedding celebration of Joe and Dona Popp.  Last year I wrote about being at his 88^th b’day party.  Joe was my 6^th grade teacher.  He was the teacher and the one adult who, besides my parents, helped me to believe in myself.  He looked at a fat girl with pink glasses who thought little of herself and saw leadership, writing and reading skills, and musical talent. Other classmates also say this is what he taught them- self worth.

     The event was lovely.  Joe and Dona attend St. Michael’s Roumanian Byzantine Church in Aurora (they live in Oregon, IL.)  The celebration came in the form of a blessing at the end of the 2-hour mass (no, I wasn’t there for all of it) and then food and laughter in the basement of the church. Their 4 children and their spouses, kids, and grandkids were there.  As a new teacher returning to my elementary school to teach in 1969, I had their oldest daughter, Lisa in my class.  Here’s the really cool thing:  all 4 of their children knew my mom as the Learning Center Director.

     I always plop myself at the family table.  Those kids regaled me with great stories about my mom.  The stories told of her kindness, her compassion, her love for kids, and her “twinkly eyes”.  I felt such joy!  I never expected to be connected to so many wonderful memories and stories.  Mary talked about how Mom would save books for her (“books she thought I’d like”).  She said it was Mom who instilled a love of reading in her.

     If you are new in your grief, you will find yourself smiling or laughing and then feeling guilty.  Your loved one is still dead. While they didn’t mean to take us with them, their death ended THEIR pain and suffering, and that pain and suffering transferred to you.  It’s hard to remember that WE had nothing to do with THEIR decision to die.  It was theirs and theirs alone.  What we wouldn’t give to have them back, huh?  Back, however, in a good emotional state.  Back feeling happy and wanting to be a part of life.  

     “They seemed to come suddenly upon happiness as if they had surprised a butterfly in the winter woods.”  

     Happiness will return to you one day.  Life with all its joy presents itself when we least expect it to, especially in that first year.  

     The butterfly is a major symbol in my family; daughter Jen talks often of the monarch that is grandma who also comes with grandpa to visit.  I was filled with joy this year to see how the milkweed I’d planted had flourished.  My backyard garden is filled with butterflies of all kinds. 

     Each of us sees a sign from “them”.  The joys and sorrows of our lives weave in and out.  That they lived at all, we are grateful for.  It’s easy for me to say, as many others have, “Don’t let their life be defined by that final moment.”  That’s often hard for us to remember to do.  Look at pictures, tell stories, read their writings…. Savor the moments – greet them with joy – when you hear stories, as I did, at an event.  It comforts me to know that people still remember mom with her beautiful smile and her kind ways.

     Look for your “butterflies” or whatever your symbol is.  “They” are all around us….

     Be gentle with yourself….                                                                                                                        

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