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day of listening

"When the one you love dies, you lose them everywhere — not just in the past, but in the future, all the possible futures." — Megan Devine

Today, the Friday after Thanksgiving, is the StoryCorps' National Day of Listening, when people are encouraged to sit down with a loved one and record a meaningful conversation. I wish I could be with Rader today to talk about his life. Not about his death. Those questions could wait for another time.

But I'd like to know, for instance, all the reasons he liked the video game Shovel Knight. He played it a lot in the last few months of his life, and I never sat down and watched him and asked what he enjoyed about it. He didn't want to talk about school, or his feelings, or a lot of other things, probably like any other 15-year-old boy.

He would have talked about Shovel Knight. If I had asked.

There's a possible future in which we could be having that conversation today, on the day after Thanksgiving, relaxing at home together. He could show me the characters and tell me about the quests, and share with me the silly things that made him laugh, and the clever twists that impressed him in the way the game was crafted. Maybe then we would talk about the kinds of games and projects he was creating, and also what sorts of new ideas he hadn't started working on yet.

Instead, I have seen my husband play a little bit and I've read about Shovel Knight on Wikipedia. I can pick up hints of what probably appealed to Rader. But they're just guesses. Any enjoyment I can get from the game will always be separate from Rader, not together with him.

I wish today I could listen to my kid.

Friday 11.23.18
Posted by Susan Ward
 

holiday grief advice: having an exit plan

She felt as if she were brimming, always producing and hoarding more love inside her. But there was no release. Table, ivory elephant charm, rainbow, onion, hairdo, mollusk, Shabbos, violence, cuticle, melodrama, ditch, honey, doily… None of it moved her. She addressed her world honestly, searching for something deserving of the volumes of love she knew she had within her, but to each she would have to say, I don’t love you.

Bark-brown fence post: I don’t love you. Poem too long: I don’t love you. Physics, the idea of you, the laws of you: I don’t love you. Nothing felt like anything more than what it actually was. Everything was just a thing, mired completely in its thingness.

― Jonathan Safran Foer, Everything Is Illuminated


Thanksgiving Day, I don't love you. Macy's Parade, I don't love you. Volumes of love within me. Nothing worthy to receive it. So it dams up. Clogs my throat. Clenches my fists. Presses behind my eyes. Rages in my brain.

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Where is Rader? Where is the 8-year-old who made this turkey, thankful for his Nintendo Wii game system? The 10-year-old who included computer, video games, and again the Wii, along with food and home on his Tree of Thanks? Why does time keep trudging forward, why do holidays come again and again, why—HOW—does the world go on without him in it?

Boxes of Halloween and Thanksgiving and fall decorations, I don't love you. In fact I'm going to cull you down to just the kids' old school projects—like the toilet-paper-roll pumpkins—and a probably a couple of eyeball-themed things (beach ball, candle) because they make me smile a little bit. I'll keep the gobbling plush turkeys: the only reason I opened the boxes today to begin with. I don't care about those other decorations. They were for the kids. Anything my surviving child (home from college) doesn't want is going away: some to Goodwill, some to the trash. You mock my pain. I don't love you.

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Observing the holiday the same way we did for 14 years in this house, only now without Rader, I don't love you. In fact, I hate you. Hear me? I hate you! How could you do this to me? How can we eat the same food in the same room off the same plates? How can we pass the cranberry sauce and the stuffing as if Thanksgiving were exactly as it always has been? How can I give thanks? I know, I know, I have so much to be thankful for. My own voice tells me that. And I do. And I am. But thankfulness, right now I don't love you.

Christmas celebration, I don't love you. Running away to Disney, that's an idea I love. Running away. I believe sometimes you need to run away. "Having an exit plan" is probably the best and most profound piece of holiday grief advice I've heard. Not feeling bound by anyone's expectations of how you should participate in any event, tradition, or ritual. Listening to yourself and being attuned to your own needs. Understanding that it's perfectly valid to choose to leave when that's what's best for you in the moment. And then sometimes the exit plan is running away. There are all kinds of exits. Christmas season, I don't love you.

Going through the motions, I don't love you. But that's what I'll do today. That and maybe throw out some old Halloween junk that doesn't belong here anymore. And hope that I feel some relief from that. Letting go of stuff that weighs me down. Ready to run, if 'away' is where I want to be.

"Happy Holidays," I don't love you. I do still love your music, some of it, and your twinkling lights. So maybe we can reach a truce. Not a truce, really, because it has to be entirely on my terms. Yeah, no, I don't love you.

No.

Thursday 11.22.18
Posted by Susan Ward
 

habits

I got up early this morning to drive to work, to teach a class at the indoor rowing studio where I'm a certified instructor. As I was leaving at 10 'til 7, there was a mom walking her little kids in the cold and dark to the bus stop where the neighborhood entrance intersects the main road.

Rader never rode the bus; it wasn't an option for the schools he attended. And we didn't have to get going that early, either. Montessori started at 8:30; so did middle school. High school started at 8:45. But still I felt a twinge as I saw what that mom was doing for her kids, what any mom would do, a habit born of love. And Rader filled my mind as I drove on to the gym.

My new-to-me car, which I got a year before Rader died, has seat warmers — I had them on today, since the outside temperature was in the 40s. He never liked to admit he was cold (and wore shorts most days of the year unless I insisted he put on long pants), but he loved the seat warmer. I even bought him a heated blanket that plugged in to the car outlet, and he snuggled up under that every cold school day of his last winter. I loved that I could care for him in that way, that I could meet a need he wouldn't admit he had.

I don't keep that blanket in the car anymore. Who would use it? My husband has his own car. Our surviving child is off at college. Most of the time, I'm alone there now.

After teaching my class, I went to the grocery store to buy the rest of my Thanksgiving provisions. It's been 17 months since Rader died, and grocery shopping doesn't envelop me in a dark fog anymore. At first, it was so hard to walk past the items I would have bought for him: the Nilla Wafers and the turkey pepperoni and the chocolate pudding. It felt like they shouted, accusingly: "You don't need me anymore!" But each time I've been there since has dulled the knife a little. Grocery shopping is back to being an ordinary chore, just a habit.

Finished with rowing and shopping, I sit in this room, at this computer, the way he did every day with most of his free time. I'm here every day now, too: writing, working on the website for the foundation we started in his name, finding and posting suicide prevention and mental health and grief support resources on our social media. Except on Mondays, when I post something about Mario, Rader's favorite video game character. Mario Mondays are great. I've made Mario Monday a habit.

I took this job, pursued certification as an indoor rowing instructor, because I didn't have to drive Rader to school anymore. I started thinking about it months before he died, six days short of his 16th birthday. He would be getting his license and driving himself to school. What was I going to do with myself in the mornings when, after 14 years, I wasn't responsible for taking anyone anywhere anymore? After he was gone, it took me almost a year to set my plan in motion. I attended the certification workshop in May and taught my first class the week of his death date in June. I gave an impassioned off-the-cuff speech to my rowers on World Suicide Prevention Day, September 10, urging them to #BeThe1To ASK, if they were concerned about someone they knew. I wrote a poem about Rader and rowing during poem-a-day National Poetry Month in April, and an essay in August about how losing him drove me to learn to teach. I submitted both pieces with my packet of certification requirements in the middle of September. The master instructor who informed me a couple weeks later that I was successful in my application mentioned how my poem resonated with her.

Once you've learned the basics of the stroke, the indoor rowing machine is all habit, muscle memory. One of my roles as an instructor is to provide visual and verbal cues to my rowers to pay attention to aspects of their form that tend to degrade when they're tired or unfocused. I find the same thing is true for me in everyday life. The good I want to do starts to break down when I'm distracted or depleted. It helps to know I'm surrounded by a community of people who remind me to literally and figuratively sit up tall, relax my shoulders, and breathe deep.

Monday 11.19.18
Posted by Susan Ward
 

there is a beauty only found in grief

This piece is written to my fellow grievers in the writing group.

Thinking about the beauty only found in grief brings to mind the Japanese concept of kintsugi, in which broken pottery is repaired using resin mixed with gold. The object is returned to use, and its broken places are not covered up, but are highlighted and made beautiful: golden repair.

In some ways, I have felt that Rader's death destroyed the familiar person I was before, and it seemed that a new, unknown person appeared in her place. But if I apply the idea of kintsugi, I can see that all the pieces are still "me," bound together again by something lovely and strong. We grievers are beautiful because we have been broken yet not destroyed. We have been trampled down, but we rise. We were brought to a standstill, then have begun to move again—maybe not always forward, but moving.

All my life, my concept of repair has been that to be good, it must be invisible. Therefore broken was bad, something to be hidden. It's refreshing, maybe even revolutionary, to embrace brokenness in my own life, to shine a light on it. To stand up and shout about it!

We the Tribe of After are beautiful. We love our lost ones with abandon. Fear does not stop us; we crack ourselves open. I am enriched by you sharing your stories and yourselves.

There is a beauty found in grief: the beauty of a thing subjected to more force than it could bear, but that survived.

Sunday 11.18.18
Posted by Susan Ward
 

silver run falls

There’s a certain hour of the morning at this wintering time of year where the sun shines through my bathroom window, through the glass shower enclosure, and sparkles off the water as it cascades down on me. Not today, nor any day this week, as it’s been nothing but rainy and bleak outside. But some days.

We have woods out back, and privacy, so the shades on that big window are always drawn up. I love to stand there on those mornings with the sun on my skin and the water droplets, a thousand tiny prisms, scattering its light. It feels primitive, in a way, like a sun-kissed waterfall in some beautiful and solitary place far away.

There’s a waterfall I love, where the water thunders loud and cold down a 20-foot drop into a shimmering pool. It’s just a short walk away from the road, and always busy in the summer. But when the weather starts to turn, when I’m driving past and see the parking area empty, I stop and take that walk. At the end, Silver Run Falls roars and pours down just for me. I scramble over the rocks to stand at the base of it, feeling the spray. I allow its noise to quiet me. As thousands of gallons of water rush past, I am still. Sometimes I call up the memories of being there with my husband and children. Rader was in that place, alive. Heard that roar. Felt that spray. We swam in the mountain-cold water, searched the bottom for pretty pebbles, picnicked on the boulders. Once, together, we were amused to see a lady walk the trail in high heels.

Recently I saw a woman emerge from her car there with a pair of hiking poles. I bet the flat, 200-yard journey was not quite what she was expecting. But when she came to the end, I hope the falls were the exact destination she was seeking. They always are for me.

Thursday 11.15.18
Posted by Susan Ward
 

who is the person you lost?

Given the opportunity to tell you about Rader, I find myself tongue-tied. I could say anything; maybe that's what makes it so hard. How to distill down an entire existence?

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Does it sound crazy that what I want you to know about my child who died by suicide is that he loved life? Humor was so important to him. He looked for the silliness in everything. We got a kick out of things like reading signs at night that had bulbs burnt out, and trying to make sense of what was left illuminated. (Google images of "signs with letters missing" if you don't know what I mean.) And every contact in his phone had letters transposed on purpose, or misspellings. I think I was omm.

These two pictures from his last Christmas are some of my favorites. We went out to dinner with the Ward side grandparents and aunt and uncle and cousins, and I took this photo by the Christmas tree in the restaurant. I told my kids to squeeze together like they liked each other, and got these smiles as a result. The next week, we went to Disney, and in the Pirates of the Caribbean gift shop, he tried on all the fingertip tentacles. Clearly he thought this was hilarious! He was a 15-year-old boy.

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He was a 15-year-old boy who had the whole world ahead of him. He could do complex math in his head and had a weird sixth sense for what direction he was facing at any given time. He seemed to understand computer programming languages as if each one was his native tongue. He decided early in elementary school that he wanted to become a video game designer, figured out what steps were required to do that, and never wavered from that path. He published some very sophisticated games and projects on a variety of platforms — including, of course, some things that were completely ridiculous. As he liked them.

What would have come next? What would he be doing now, halfway through his senior year of high school? What would be funny to 17-year-old Rader? I have some ideas. Frequently I find things I want to share with him. If only.

Tuesday 11.13.18
Posted by Susan Ward
 

into the darkness: round two of 'writing your grief

In January 2018 I participated in Writing Your Grief, a 30-day workshop through Megan Devine’s Refuge in Grief. I’ve continued to write since then, but felt it was time for some more accountability and input, so I joined the next level workshop, Round Two. I’m sharing my work with a new group of grieving writers, so I’ve repeated some details you may have seen before if you’ve read some of my previous pieces. If you’re new, the basic explanation is that Megan sends out a writing prompt: generally some quotes on a topic along with her thoughts, and we are invited to write whatever comes up in response. Some of the writing is intensely private, as you might imagine, so you won’t see my work from every day posted here, but most will be.

With this prompt, I started off rambling, but then I feel like I got somewhere. I guess that's a pretty good metaphor for the whole journey so far.


Taking stock of my surroundings.

"You enter the forest at the darkest point, where there is no path. Where there is a way or path, it is someone else's path."—Joseph Campbell, The Hero's Journey: Joseph Campbell on His Life & Work

"There's a journey she must go on now, and she does not want to go." — Megan Devine

I'm already on the journey, on the path. I've been making my way through the dark woods now for 17 months. That would be one month for every year of my son's life, if he were still alive. But he's not, and that's how I entered the forest 17 months ago. I did not want to go on this journey. What I wanted didn't count.

My surroundings: It's not as dark as it was, and this place feels familiar now. I've learned the language and some of the customs. I can get by here.

"Into the darkness they go, the wise and the lovely." ― Edna St. Vincent Millay

It's warm and comforting to think I might be wise or lovely. I wonder why they are the ones going into the darkness.

Every journey starts at the beginning. So that's where I'll begin.

I went into the darkness on June 7, 2017. My son, Rader, was 15, and his next birthday was less than a week away. He had just finished 10th grade: it was a tough year, but now it was summer and he could relax and enjoy. He'd been on antidepressants since March. He seemed to be doing OK; we couldn't see any adverse reactions, and we stopped monitoring him so closely. We left him alone at home that evening. When he first started the meds, we were with him all the time. But he seemed to be making progress. We started to breathe again. Then he was gone. He had ended his life.

Looking back from a distance, I see what my surroundings were. Yes, it was dark. Everything was unfamiliar. And I was completely unprepared. I carried nothing with me that would be of any use for survival. I had no applicable skills or abilities. I knew in the abstract that people died by suicide. I knew my child was depressed and anxious. I knew the medications carried the possibility of suicidal ideation in young people. I knew there was such a thing as the dark. But knowing that something exists and being engulfed by it are very very different.

Yet even in the darkest woods of Rader's loss, I never felt what he felt. From the beginning I had some hope that there was a journey to be taken, that there was life to live, even if it looked nothing like I imagined or ever wanted. And that there would be some value in my new existence, that I would find a worthwhile way to move in it, even if there was no way out. The weight of the thought that he had no hope at all, saw no light at all, felt completely alone, is crushing. That even in my worst moments, I still was so far from feeling the inescapable despair he felt. My heart rips open at the thought he could see no other option, no way to keep living another moment. He didn't know that what seemed so real to him, the only reality he could conceive, would pass if he could just hold on.

I don't know that I was wise when I went into the darkness. But I believe with my whole heart that there is wisdom to be found there. Even if I just learned to survive the day, and when I have the strength, to shine a light for the next person who shows up, dazed and stumbling as I had been.

Monday 11.12.18
Posted by Susan Ward
 

BeThe1To ... ASK

If I could change anything about my approach to Rader's mental health in the months before his suicide, it would be this: I would ask the question, "Are you thinking about suicide?"

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It's not that I wasn't asking anything of the sort. When he started on an antidepressant in the spring, I read him the black box warning. I wanted him to be clear that while antidepressants are helpful in many cases, sometimes for young people, they have been reported to cause suicidal thoughts. And so I told him, if he should begin to have such thoughts, it would be scary, but to know it was just the medicine's influence on the chemicals in his brain; to tell us about it, and we would fix it. And for weeks, because we didn't know how he would respond to the medication, we didn't leave him alone at all. At first, he said he didn't feel like the medicine was doing anything. Then he said maybe he was starting to feel a little better. After six weeks or so, the psychiatrist felt he seemed to be tolerating the drug and we could increase the dose. We did that and didn't see any signs of negative side effects, so we relaxed our supervision somewhat. 

Once we started allowing him to be by himself again, I would check in with him every time I was going to leave the house. I would walk into the computer room (he was always working on making new games or projects) and tell him where I was going and how long I'd be gone, and that he could reach me on my phone whenever he needed. I would ask him if he was OK. What I meant was, "Is it safe to leave you; are you thinking of harming yourself?" But I didn't come right out and say that. I was afraid to, afraid of the power of suggestion, that if I mentioned suicide, it could push him in that direction. I didn't know studies * * * have proven that old idea wrong. 

And so that Wednesday night, the first one after school got out for the summer, I went to see him at the computer, and I told him where everyone in the family was going to be, and when we'd get back, and that he could text me if he needed me. And I asked if that was OK, if he was OK. And he said yes. The last thing he ever said to me was that he was OK. 

So ASK is the first of the five action steps that BeThe1To has for communicating with someone who may be suicidal. It's the one that hits me the hardest, because I didn't know. If you're concerned about someone's mental health, please ASK. If you don't know how, or what to say, Seize the Awkward can help. Studies show you don't have to be afraid to be direct. 

ASK. It's a matter of life and death.  

Tuesday 09.04.18
Posted by Susan Ward
 

what I intend for this section

I enrolled in a grief writing session in January 2018, through Megan Devine's Refuge in Grief and using the 750words site. For the first 30 days, I wrote an essay every day having something to do with Rader and my grief. After the course was over, I continued to write, and when National Poetry Month came along in April, I wrote a poem every day. Many of the prose pieces I wrote, and most of the poems, I published on my personal Facebook page. It has never been my intention to write a blog; I want to write a book. But there is a space here on the website for a blog, so I've put up just a couple of my pieces. They're ordered chronologically with the newest at the top. I would prefer to have a clickable list instead. That requires a revamp, which I'll get to as I keep working on the site. — Susan

Thursday 08.23.18
Posted by Susan Ward
 

like a pile of rocks

A recent writing prompt from Megan Devine (refugeingrief.com) included the following passage. “I was tired of well-meaning folks, telling me it was time I got over being heartbroke. ... (A death in the family) is like having a pile of rocks dumped in your front yard. Every day you walk out and see them rocks. They're sharp and ugly and heavy. You just learn to live around them the best way you can. Some people plant moss or ivy; some leave it be. Some folks take the rocks one by one, and build a wall.”

― Michael Lee West, American Pie

It's true that many (most?) people expect you to "get over" your loss at some point. We seem surprised at someone "still grieving" years after the death that dumped the pile of rocks in the front yard. "She's just never really gotten over it." How many times have you heard something like that said? Or even said it yourself? I have, back before I had my own pile of rocks.

What do you suppose such a "getting over it" looks like? Maybe they're expecting that we never will mention the name of the person who has died. That we won't get teary-eyed or choked up if we do talk about them. That our life will be about something else. The fact I have daily involvement with the foundation we started in Rader's memory — promoting mental health awareness, suicide prevention resources, and grief support, as well as our scholarship fund — is a sure indicator I haven't gotten over it. Right? I definitely have not moved on. Evidence: I'm writing this piece right now. "Still grieving." Rocks in my front yard.

I clearly remember when I was approaching the six-month mark from the day of Rader's suicide. Oh, how I wanted to stop time. You know why? Other people. I knew that when I reached six months, I would not have "just lost" my son. My terrible loss would begin to be viewed as something in the past, and I knew it would quickly continue to recede into what was perceived as the *distant* past. Six months would become a year, which it has. And people are noticeably less moved by anything when there's a little time and space around it.

Yet when my 15-year-old son, Rader, ended his life, it felt as if that pile of rocks was dumped not just in my front yard, but on ME. Imagine going along in your regular life, when suddenly you wake up under a pile of rubble. It sounds like I'm describing surviving an earthquake. So you come to, and you're under all these rocks. You try to make sense of it. What happened? How did I get here? You do a physical inventory: what parts are hurt, what can I move, what's just bruised and what serious injuries are there? Then you have to figure out how to begin. Who, if anyone, is going to help you get out from under? What extraordinary measures might you have to take to help save yourself? But then here's the next question. Once you're out of immediate danger, what will your ongoing recovery look like? In the parts of you that were crushed or gashed, how much function will you regain, and what kind of work over time will it take to get there?

Sorry, not sorry, world. I'm not getting over it. I'm not moving on. I never will have achieved "closure" to your satisfaction. I might not have "just lost" my son, but I always will have lost him. Maybe eventually, though, I will build something pretty with my pile of rocks.

Thursday 08.23.18
Posted by Susan Ward
 

whales, oceans, and what we carry

This week's writing prompt from Megan Devine (refugeingrief.com) was "whales, oceans, and what we carry." Here are my thoughts on that.
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I read the stories of J35 (Tahlequah), the grieving orca who carried her dead calf for 17 days in July and August as she swam with J pod in the Pacific. Seattle Times' environmental reporter Lynda V. Mapes posted daily updates for the first week or so, and occasional ones after that. Of the articles from various sources I read in those first few days, I found Mapes' to be the most interesting and factual, not engaging in sentimental speculation or anthropomorphism, as many other outlets' "fluff pieces" did. She interviewed scientists who study animal behavior, mammals, and orcas specifically. They concurred that J35's behavior was indeed grief-driven, that it wasn't entirely us projecting ourselves onto her actions and interpreting her through a human lens.

Since I am not writing a news story, I feel free to explore the metaphors called forth by the mourning orca. J35 literally carried her loss with her, the body of her dead child. According to the articles, it seemed she had the support of her pod as she continued to grieve in this way.

As a human in modern civilization, I did not have the choice of carrying the body of my dead child. Such things aren't done. I did not even get to see him the night he died. He was alive in the evening when I left, and he was not a couple of hours later when I came back to the flashing lights and activity that felt so incongruous with the utter stillness inside of me at the news of his suicide attempt. (I was not sure he was dead until I was told so after I reached home.) Hours later, someone — the coroner, one of the first responders — encouraged us not to watch as they carried his body out of our house after they had finished their work. First they had tried to save him, then they had done whatever investigation needed to happen, and now it was time to take him away. So, I walked down the street away from the house. I think that's when I called my dad to tell him Rader had taken his life. Slowly all the emergency vehicles cleared out, the neighbors (part of our pod!) went back home, and we were alone. Really truly alone. We only were alone that first night, I'd say from about 11 p.m. to about 7:30 a.m. That's a wild guess. Everything is such a blur. The other members of our pod started to arrive early in the morning, to help us carry what needed to be carried.

A couple of days later, at the funeral home, I was able to see Rader's body, touch his hair and face and hands. He was dressed in the clothes we chose for his cremation. It would not have been proper for me to attempt to pick him up, to carry him, at that time either. Also he weighed about the same as I do, and was taller — in a practical sense, I couldn't have carried him for long.

So if not the body of my child, what is it I carry? I suppose it's the weight of remembering him, seeing to it that he is remembered in this world. And all the contributions he would have made — if the crisis he was in had been survivable — those all are lost and will never be known. So also I carry the weight of doing the good in the world he doesn't get the chance to. I feel the need and desire and motivation to make not just my own contributions, but his. And the weight of my sadness; every day, I carry my sadness like a mantle on my shoulders. It's a garment I can't remove. I couldn't lay it down after 17 days, or 17 weeks. I won't be able to let it go at 17 months or 17 years.

But my loss has transformed me into someone who knows better, now, how to be part of a pod: to be present, to accompany, to support. Not to rush, judge, or abandon. It doesn't help to push someone in grief to "get over it," to "move on." No disapproving observations like "are you still ...?" or "you really should just ..." or "it's time you ...". J pod, they stuck with J35 as long as she carried her calf. They slowed down for her. That's what the pod does.

Tuesday 08.21.18
Posted by Susan Ward
 

music appreciation

I spent a while yesterday putting together a new playlist for my indoor rowing class. A couple years back, I started thinking about the time when my son, Rader, would begin driving himself to school. How after chauffeuring him for fourteen years (beginning when he was in two-year-old preschool a couple days a week), I would suddenly not be responsible for taking anyone anywhere in the mornings—and what was I going to do with myself? That's when the idea of becoming certified as an indoor rowing instructor took root.

As it turned out, the reason I didn't drive him to school last year, when he would have been 16, is because he took his own life right before his birthday. Rowing was one of the ways I coped with early grief. I showed up at my regular rowing class just a few days after Rader died. And as I stuck with it, thoughts of becoming an instructor came back into focus. Shortly before the one-year anniversary of Rader's death, I completed the first half of my certification process, and the week of that anniversary, I taught my first class.

I love it. Teaching indoor rowing is even more fun and fulfilling than I hoped it would be. I am getting to know new people. I used to attend only evening classes, and now I'm teaching mostly morning classes, so it's a different crowd. I'm developing my own teaching style. It's interesting to figure out who I am up there in front of the class, where I have to be louder and more gregarious, a "bigger" version of myself. But the most unexpected pleasure of my new line of work turns out to be creating the music playlists.

Years ago when I discovered podcasts, I basically stopped listening to music. I loved hearing stories, and began devoting all my listening time to This American Life and The Moth and Welcome to Night Vale, to Radiolab and 99% Invisible, to Serial and Reveal. Rader and I listened to some of these together, on those car rides to school: mostly Snap Judgment and Wait, Wait, Don't Tell Me.

But when I started teaching classes in June, I found I wanted to be more hands-on with the music selection than just choosing a CD from the stack at the gym. I put together my first playlist on Amazon Music, basically all my favorite songs I could think of that were upbeat enough for a good workout. I included "Beyond the Sea" from the Finding Nemo soundtrack, because I love Nemo, and that song got good feedback, so I thought maybe I should use it as a jumping-off point for another playlist, kind of a crooner (Tony Bennett, Michael Bublé)/swing/big band theme. In that list, I included Michael Bublé singing "Crazy Little Thing Called Love," which is most familiar to me from the 1980 Queen version, written as a tribute to Elvis Presley. So then I made an 'Elvis and covers of Elvis songs' playlist.

I had no idea that in teaching rowing, I would rediscover my love for music. So many of these songs just make me happy when I hear them. It makes me happy to think of a song that's perfect for one of my playlists. And these days, I'll take my happiness wherever I can get it.

My latest playlist, the one I worked on yesterday, has a summer vacation travel theme. I call it Beaches and Boats. I'm debuting it in my class tomorrow morning, and I can't wait to see how well it sets the mood for a good, hard row.


On a related note, this past April for National Poetry Month, I wrote a poem every day as part of my grief writing work. Here with its explanation is my rowing poem from April 23.

Thursday 08.02.18
Posted by Susan Ward
 

Taking the Measure of Myself (with an Ergometer)

I lost my 15-year-old son, Rader, to suicide on a Wednesday night last June (2017). In so many ways, I had no idea what to do or how to react, and looking back, that time is just a blur. But I did know one thing: I needed to take care of myself, whatever that might mean. So the following Monday, I was back at the gym, in class with my friends, working out on the rowing machine (also known as an ergometer). I needed to be. Had to take action.

National Poetry Month: Today's poetry prompt was to write an action poem. So I wrote about rowing.


Taking the Measure of Myself (with an Ergometer)

Since you’ve been gone, I’ve rowed 600,000 meters on the erg.

Each stroke— 
the catch: where I'm coiled like a spring, 
the drive: the hard push through the feet as I straighten my legs, 
the finish: the lean-back where I bring the handle that represents the oars to my chest, 
and the recovery: the slow and relaxed return to the starting position— 
propels me backward through the waters of my imagination.

I glide across a mirrored lake, or fight the chop and current of a wide river. 
When I close my eyes, I’m alone out there, 
with the warm sun, and the gentle breeze I create with my own motion, 
and the sounds of the water as my oars push through. 
I lose myself in the rhythm of it.

Stroke after stroke, 
I'm rowing away, 
away from the dark clouds, 
away from the dark thoughts, 
away from the dark times. 
Away from the mundanity of the day, 
away from the people who don't understand, 
away from the tasks of a life that goes on
even when we wish we could just stop it and take a break
and get away.

But not just away. 
Stroke after stroke
in my imagined watercraft, 
I'm rowing toward, 
as if it were a vessel, a sweet chariot, 
that could bring me to wherever it is
you have gone.

Six hundred thousand meters, 
and each week I row more, 
taking the measure of myself
with an ergometer.

tags: aprpad, refugeingrief, poetry, Concept2, Greenville Indoor Rowing
Monday 04.23.18
Posted by Susan Ward
 

Flaming Katy Kalanchoe

We made our getaway, Flaming Katy and I, 
on a hot July day. 
Packed up the car and drove north
to the quiet house on the lake
in the small mountain town
where peace awaits me
when I can't find it anywhere else.

I ran away with Katy and the gang
and when we arrived at our destination, 
I carefully arranged the flowerpots on the back patio and dock
overlooking the lake
where Katy with her fern and tricolor plant, 
and the huge glossy peace lily and the basket of African violets
and the beautiful big container garden
could bathe in the rain and bask in the sun
or just enjoy the mountain air
as I tried to come to terms
with the event that brought us together: 
my son Rader's suicide the month before.

We were inundated with flower arrangements— 
so many that after the funeral, we gave some away
to the friends and neighbors who had
cared for us in every way those first few days. 
But the houseplants I kept
because it helps me to care for them
and I feel rewarded when they thrive
and challenged to rise to the occasion when they falter
but the stakes are low; 
it's not too much pressure.

I think Flaming Katy needs a new, bigger pot, 
and a little less water, 
but the African violets are blooming
and the peace lily— 
from the class of 2019 at Rader's high school, his class— 
is thriving.

I took the plants on vacation with me
partly because I hadn't had them long enough
to give anyone else instructions
on how to care for them in my absence. 
But also I just like to have them around
and so maybe this summer
we'll run away together again. 
————-

National Poetry Month
Today's prompt was to take the name of a plant for your title and write from there. Flaming Katy seemed like the obvious choice.

IMG_1761.jpg
tags: aprpad, poetry
Sunday 04.22.18
Posted by Susan Ward
 

Kilwin's

A favorite poem (about a favorite thing).

Kilwin's

There's a candy store on Main Street
in the small mountain town
where we took a last-minute vacation
one long-ago summer
when you were little—
and then continued to visit
every summer since,
finally buying the house on the lake
we had fallen in love with
while making memories there
year after year.

The store is a chain, a franchise,
but when one opened up in our hometown
a few years back,
I decided to pretend it didn't exist
because Kilwin's was our special place there.
It should not be here.

We would go, you and I,
and order scoops of ice cream.
You loved Chocolate,
especially if there were marshmallows on top.
I loved Toasted Coconut
or Perfect Apple Pie.
And the last quart you chose
was Marshmallow S'more.

It was still in the freezer
of our house up there
when you died,
waiting for you to finish
what was left of it.
So I did, thinking of you
with every cold spoonful,
trying to fill my empty self up.

Monday 04.16.18
Posted by Susan Ward
 

battle scars

battle _____

Battle Scars

Sore and bruised,
I have been through it
and have the scars to show it.
Cleaved nearly in two
Half my heart
torn from my chest
How do you heal from
That kind of catastrophic injury?
And yet
Again I stand, if barely

An unevenness, roughness
A thickening of my soul
I feel it
In a constricting of my
Range of motion
I’m not quite free to do
The things I used to do
Not without a constant dull ache
And sometimes a sharp pain
Reminding me
That I’ve been through it

But scars mean healing is taking place
Imperfect healing
Slow and ongoing
The broken places mend
Evidence of my battle
Etched into my very skin

tags: aprpad, poetry, battle scars
Monday 04.09.18
Posted by Susan Ward
 

Case of the Missing Person

There's a missing person
in my home and heart

It's hard to explain
the way
the lack of him
hangs over everything
occupies all the space
sucks up all the air
so I can't get a breath

A nothingness
that is everywhere
The rules of subtraction
somehow don't apply

His absence carries
so much weight
I might be crushed by it
at any moment

And how can
something that isn't there
be inescapable? 
a darkness in the middle of the day
a swift and deadly current
unseen beneath the still surface
Relentlessly it tugs at me
pushes back against all attempts at progress
its invisible opposition
never letting up

It's exhausting

And what I haven't said
about this missing persons case is there's another person missing: 
The silver-lining person I was
The bright-side one
who believes
everything turns out OK

If you see her, 
tell her I miss her.

_____

National Poetry Month, April 2018 Poem-a-Day prompts from Writer's Digest. Today's poetry prompt was to use Case _____ as the title of your poem. "Case of the Missing Person" was one of the suggestions Writer's Digest offered for filling in the blank.

Wednesday 04.04.18
Posted by Susan Ward
 

How to help someone who is grieving

Susan Ward
March 7, 2018

Nine months ago, I lost a child. His name is Rader; he was 15; he died by suicide. You can't imagine what these nine months have been like for me. And that's exactly why I'm writing this piece for you. The idea of trying to interact with me or someone else who has suffered a loss probably unnerves you. But grieving people are everywhere and impossible to avoid, so let's discuss some strategies for these uncomfortable interactions, preparing you for next time someone you care about loses a loved one.

We as a society and as individuals are terrible at responding to someone experiencing grief. We don't know what to say. We don't know what to do. We don't want to make the person sadder and we don't want to make the situation worse. So often, paralyzed by our fear of being wrong, we default to saying nothing, doing nothing. I want to urge you to take the risk and reach out to the person you care about who has lost a loved one. I have some specific suggestions to help you.

First, in offering comfort to someone in grief, you have to let perfectionism go. Look at it this way: You are not going to be able to say something to them that fixes their situation. Do you never know the right words? That's just fine, because the perfect words of comfort do not exist. You can't take the hurt away. You can't cure your friend of their grief. So let that go. Don't listen to the voice saying that nothing you do will make a difference. It is true that you can't erase their grief. But there is so much you can do that is helpful.

You can be thoughtful. You can choose a condolence card that is meaningful to you and doesn't contradict the griever's own beliefs, if you are aware of them (and if you aren't, maybe it's best to stay more neutral). You can send flowers or a plant. We loved those, and I still feel joy every day from nurturing the potted plants we were given. You can think of and follow through on acts of service for the person. Early on, just do something. Later in grief, ask what will help (at first it can be overwhelming for the grieving person to have to direct you on how to help them).

Let me go back to talk about very early grief for a moment. Here are some things that made a real difference to us in the early hours and days after losing our son. If you are close to the newly bereaved person, go see them as soon as you can. Remember, you don't have to say the perfect thing. Just be there. Hug them, if they would like a hug. "I'm so sorry," is almost always an appropriate thing to say. Those friends who showed up at our house — first thing in the morning after the night my son died — gave me hope, just by their appearing.

If you happen to be one of the first people to arrive at the house, look around for things that need to be done. In most cases, there soon will be quite a few people going in and out, in the days following the loss. Help make the house ready for those visitors. Clean a bathroom, straighten the kitchen, make room in the refrigerator and freezer. If family may be coming to stay, ask if there's anything you can do to get the guest room ready: change the sheets, or vacuum the floors. Remember it's possible the bereaved person may feel possessive about some of these tasks. As someone who actually enjoys doing laundry, I had to put a sign on my washer saying that I find laundry therapeutic, and please leave it for me to do myself. But I wasn't resentful of whomever it was that had tried to lift the laundry burden from me. Your grieving friend may or may not feel up to interacting with you, but they care that you're there.

If you arrive after those preparatory things have been done, bring food. Often the bereaved person doesn't feel much like eating. Something easy to "pick at," like a fruit and cheese platter, can be a great choice. We also received an Edible Arrangement, which was pretty, delicious, and reasonably healthful (some of the fruit was chocolate covered, but it was still fruit!). A deli tray made it easy to make a sandwich when we felt up to having one. Remember you are probably not feeding just the family that has had the loss. Many of their guests will have a snack or meal while visiting, as well.

Also in those early days, think through practical matters you might accomplish for the bereaved. When my son died, he had upcoming appointments with the dentist and eye doctor. Understandably, I was in no shape to call those offices to tell them to cancel the appointment because he was dead. One of my friends made those calls for me. We had college orientation scheduled for our other child, that needed to be postponed. A friend on the college staff took care of that for me, and another friend cancelled our hotel reservation. So ask your grieving friend if there are any phone calls you can make for them. There might also be people they want informed of the death, but don't feel up to calling.

When the time comes for the visitation and funeral or memorial service, always attend. (Unless you're one of the people staying behind at the house to have the space and food ready for the crowds that arrive after the service. That was a HUGE help!) Make sure your name is legible when you sign the guest book. And if there's any chance the family won't know who you are, write a brief explanatory note in the book. There are a few names in our son's guest book we can't read, and a few we can read but not identify. We wish we knew who those unknown people were, who cared enough for us and Rader to come to his service.

When you go through the receiving line, remember again that there's no perfect thing to say. One great thing you can say is the name of the person who has died. If you have a memory of that person you'd like to share, do so, either in person there if you can without holding up the line too much, or written in a card. But even if you didn't know them (many of the people at Rader's service knew us much better than they knew him), it still delights the ears of the bereaved to hear the name of their loved one. And it doesn't have to be the deepest, most thoughtful thing ever said. "I know you will miss Rader so much," is fine.

Understand that probably beginning the day after the service, the hubbub in the house is going to subside, friends and family who have traveled from out of town will return home, and the bereaved person may feel suddenly alone. Check in with them. See if they'd like to share a meal with you (they may still have a full refrigerator and need your help!). Tell them you are thinking of them. Ask if you can do a chore or an errand for or with them. There may even be cleanup still to help with, following the exodus of the crowds.

To help your grieving friend, keep reminding yourself that there is no "right thing" to say or do that will solve the problem. Grief is not a problem to be solved. It is something the person must learn how to integrate into life as it goes on. Knowing that there's not a secret right answer should free you to just follow your heart and be kind and present for them. (There ARE some things you could say that make the person feel worse. Google "what not to say to a grieving person" for tips about that.)

Be patient with them. And again, after some time has passed (weeks, months), ask them how specifically you can support them in their ongoing grief. Maybe they want to look at pictures of their loved one with you, and cry together. Maybe they want to go out with you to a funny movie and laugh again. Maybe there are tasks related to the loss they need to accomplish but are having trouble making progress with. Ask what you can do to meet needs that may not be obvious.

Truth is, we are all going to suffer loss. Let's stop feeling awkward about how to respond to it.

Wednesday 03.07.18
Posted by Susan Ward
 

wondering what remains

January 27, 2018

The writing prompt was about "wondering what remains, and also claiming your fear of forgetting." Specifically what it said doesn't matter so much. Here's my response.
_______________________

I don't want to write about whether not counting days means I should worry that I'm forgetting him. I don't want to let the thoughts in of whether I'm grieving "right" or falling apart enough or whatever the fact that I'm going on living might mean about my love or my fitness for parenting or the coldness of my heart. Unbreakable? I don't want to write about those things or think about those things. They're always dancing around the shadowy edges, just out of sight. Terrifying things that want to devour me.

I haven't counted days or observed the seventh of every month, but I remember six months approaching. It would be Pearl Harbor Day, which is always of note to me because my paternal grandfather was there, on the USS Raleigh. It was a year before my dad was born, so if John Wesley Nesbitt had not survived, the family line would only have continued through my uncle, already a few years old.

Six months. I didn't want it to have been six months. If Rader has to be gone, I want him to have just gone. I want to have just lost him. I think because to me it always feels that way, but I believe other people interpret that the passage of time as "healing all wounds." That if it's been six months, or now seven, coming up on eight, I must be well on my way, moving through the stages of grief. Stop here, step step step, stop here, step step step. Forward ho.

"What does a shift in your grief, even a tiny, momentary one, mean to you? What does it say about loss? Or love?"

What even is a shift in grief? Is it being able to smile or laugh again? We had long-time friends, including one we hadn't seen in almost 30 years, converge on our house within days of Rader's death. Of course there was a pall over everything. But there was certainly some smiling and laughter, as old stories were told and old times revisited. A shift in grief. Is it being able to watch an episode of a favorite series that includes a suicide or a depiction of a hanging, and detach from it enough to get through it? I've been able to do that.

I can't torment myself with "what does it mean if this" and "what does it say about me if that" and "who am I if I'm functioning this way" and "what kind of person would ..." I mean, I do torment myself with those things, to some degree. I try not to. I don't want to keep ascribing some kind of deep philosophical meaning to every little thing.

What I want to assert is that whatever it is — a shift in grief, or the day Rader's absence is not my first conscious thought, or something that looks like some other kind of "moving on" — all it says about loss, about love, is that every person grieves uniquely. I'm sure it wasn't the intention, but I feel like when I read this prompt, it invites me to criticize my own grieving, and I really do not need an invitation to that party.

I feel so prickly about this subject. This proverb (28:1) keeps coming to mind: "The guilty man flees though no one pursues." No one is attacking me, yet I fight. No one is accusing me, yet I defend. No one pursues me, yet I run.

Is learning to accept the way I grieve as simply the way I grieve the lesson of Writing Your Grief for me? Is this the whisper of Oprah's illustration?

“The only time I’ve ever made mistakes is when I didn’t listen. So what I know is, God is love and God is life, and your life is always speaking to you. First in whispers … It’s subtle, those whispers. And if you don’t pay attention to the whispers, it gets louder and louder. It’s like getting thumped upside the head, like my grandmother used to do … You don’t pay attention to that, it’s like getting a brick upside your head. You don’t pay attention to that, the whole brick wall falls down. That’s the pattern I’ve seen in my life, and it’s played out over and over again on this show.

“What I’ve gleaned from this show: Whispers are always messages, and if you don’t hear the message, the message turns into a problem. And if you don’t handle the problem, the problem turns into a crisis. And if you don’t handle the crisis, disaster. Your life is speaking to you. What is it saying?” — Oprah Winfrey, May 25, 2011

Is my grief normal? Is my grief OK? The whisper says yes, yes, yes.

Let me hear.

Saturday 01.27.18
Posted by Susan Ward
 

an unrecognizable place

January 21, 2018

Today's prompt was a photo and the idea of what in your new world would you want to show the loved one you lost.
_________

The photo in the prompt shows a landscape obscured by snow. Hard edges and landmarks are smoothed over. Any paths that exist are hidden beneath the white expanse. Whatever was familiar is now disguised. "Both literally and figuratively, the one who has died would not recognize this place where you live now."

But snow melts, and the old landscape emerges. My new world, though, is not going to change back. And it's not a place I would want to show Rader around. He didn't know my new world would orbit around a black hole, requiring constant vigilance to keep from spinning into. He couldn't have foreseen the oppressive fog that descends upon me at, of all places, the grocery store, where I no longer stock my cart with Goldfish and gala apples and Nilla Wafers and bananas that are still a little bit green because he doesn't like them too ripe. He wasn't aware that in his absence I would struggle to sleep, to eat, to work out, to read, to focus, to cook, to shower, to get dressed, to leave the house, and to be what I needed for my husband, my surviving child, and my mother.

I wouldn't want to show him the worst, because I would never want him to feel guilty, or to think that I felt by dying, he meant to hurt me. And I wouldn't want to show him the best, because I wouldn't want him to falsely conclude I was getting along OK without him. I don't want him to know that the black hole, the new center of my universe, looms threateningly, that it's there all the time, and that if I manage to put it out of my mind for a moment, it surges back sickeningly, like the lurch of an elevator, or a near-miss on the highway.

There are things he would have loved, in my new world. There was a total solar eclipse, right on our front lawn. It was beautiful and spectacular and breathtaking, literally cosmic. Mattie and I gasped in wonder and held hands and wandered around in amazement as it came and went. And felt the ache of his absence because we so wanted him to share it with us. But it was 10 weeks too late. Ten short weeks in all of time. In cosmic terms, he missed it by a microsecond.

I think he would have enjoyed Thanksgiving at Folly Beach, although I don't know if we would have gone, would have so clearly needed the change of venue, if he were still here. I know he would have liked to see our lake frozen over at the cabin this winter. I am sure he would have listened with me to Paula Poundstone's new podcast, spun off from Wait, Wait, Don't Tell Me, our Monday morning drive-to-school standby.

I feel the burden of having to experience these things on his behalf now, to appreciate them for two. Like when I was pregnant, only the world I'm in now is the horrible bookend to that exciting anticipation of a new life. There was a before Rader. There was all that was Rader. And now there's an after Rader, with a black hole in the middle, and no end. No, this is no place I'd want him to see.

Sunday 01.21.18
Posted by Susan Ward
 
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