endurance

Week 30

I’ve written over 60 posts since my Mom ended her life, and maybe a handful of them have alluded to other people. I try primarily to write about my own experience, but some dramas obviously include my husband, dad, and siblings. I work not to tell their stories, though our stories are intricately untwined, but their stories are their own. Their experiences are their own: their own stories to share, their own experiences to suffer, and it’s not my place to create memoirs of their lives.

However, today is different.

I dedicate today’s post to my Daddy 💙

My Daddy, who’s had to endure what no one should endure. My Daddy, who’s had to be too strong his entire life. My Daddy, whose life has never been easy. My Daddy, who’s lost a son. My Daddy, who’s lost his partner and best friend. My Daddy, who’s fought his whole life to create a better life for his family, but whose family betrayed this life.

This weekend is my parents’ anniversary. It was Wednesday this week before I realized just how much that fact stings me. I know it’s agonizing for my father.

I journaled a few weeks ago mourning the loss of both my parents. I miss when I had parents, now I just have a parent and my parent is having to reinvent himself because my mother left us without warning. I love my Daddy, I love every version of my Daddy, but I miss the version of my Dad that had my Mom.

I miss the security of having two parents who loved each other so deeply. I miss them randomly dancing with each other in the kitchen. I miss their adoring eyes. I miss their fun. I miss their smiles, I miss their joy together. I miss their partnership. I miss admiring them. They endured so much together — always together — they loved to be together. My Mom used to say that being apart for my dad for more than a couple days was agony, especially after my brother died. They helped each other. They loved each other. I mean, they really loved each other.

Together, holding hands, laughing, sharing, just being together. They could do anything together.

Together, they build a beautiful life. They raised a beautiful family. They helped us children through tragedy after tragedy. They cared for us during all seasons. I miss that, I miss them. They seemed to have every answer in the world — not proudly, not that they told us every answer in the world, but that they simply lived a life that testified that anything could be conquered and endured together.

But now here’s my Daddy, my wonderful Daddy, mourning his wife on the anniversary of their beginning. The anniversary when two names became one, and my mom was crowned with a new name and a new life.

They escaped the turmoil of their upbringing and built a beautiful life for each other and their children. A life built on love, centered around family, and upholding the strongest foundation any child could long for.

I love my Daddy.

I’m grateful for this life he curated for me and my siblings. My brothers have a strong and beautiful sense of family that we inherited from my Daddy. Family has always been the most important thing to my Daddy, he sacrificed so much for us.

He’s the best Dad in the world. He always has been. I’ve never seen someone so kind, tender, and loving to his wife like my dad was to my mom. I love spending time with him, I love living near him, I love working with him. I love that he’s my Daddy.

I love his depth, I love his beautiful mind. I love his realism and his commitment to continual growth. I love his vulnerability and honesty. I love him. I love him so much. I love that he always helps me, I love that he listens to me and speaks life and truth into me. I’m so grateful for my Daddy. He’s the best.

I’m so sorry, Daddy. I’m sorry you have to live through this, too. I know Momma loved you. I’m so sorry she left us when she was unwell. I know you would have done anything to prevent this. None of this is your fault, Daddy. I’m so sorry for all the hurt and pain and wrongfulness that has come since her death.

I love you, Daddy. I’m so sorry that every day without Mom sucks, and I’m sorry this weekend amplifies that pain.

I’m so proud of you, Daddy. I’m so proud of your battle to continue living each day. I’m so proud of you for doing the hard work of healing each day. I’m so proud of you for being my Daddy. I love you, always. I love every version of you, and I’ll always love you.

Week 27

“Merry Christmas!” “Happy Holidays!” “Joy to the World!” We proclaim in the darkest season, with the brightest lights illuminating our obsidian neighborhoods. The most light-centric and joyous holidays amidst the coldest and darkest moments of the year — it’s a beautiful tradition. Warm hot chocolates in our hands and cozy candles on our shelves, and sorrow in many of our hearts.

Yes, firsts are hard. First Christmas without Mommy. Mommy, Mommy, Mommy. Holidays are particularly difficult because they are family-centric: extended families gather and honor traditions. Most of our siblings have kids… all my nieces and nephews have a Mommy. My husband has a Mommy, and his Momma has a Mommy too. Everyone has a Mommy… except me and my siblings. “Why don’t I get to have a Mommy?” I ask Scott, through reddened eyes. Most of us have a spouse, too, except my Daddy. She’s gone now. Holidays and family gatherings like these amplify the isolation we already feel. The void my mother left companions us always, but holidays can make it feel as though a spotlight highlights the void.

Togetherness, though, feels like medicine for this severing pain. When something like this happens to one’s family, uniting with surviving family members is like taking aleve or ibuprofen: we’re all fully aware of the gaping wound, we all still feel it, but there’s a measure of relief in each other’s company. Days leading up to the reunion pass slowly and agonizingly. We hold our breath until we can hold each other in our loving arms, united by our terribly sealed past and fighting to press on towards a healthier future.

There’s ease with this reunion. There’s a peace in shared pain, an unspoken understanding, and a space to speak about a pain only we few understand. It provides a chance to process together and to share our pain… togetherness brings healing.

This Christmas, this thought assails me: two-thousand years ago, a baby lived and died and changed the world. Six months ago, my mother died because she wanted to meet that baby. She didn’t want to wait any longer to meet her precious Jesus. These days, I often wonder if my family would have been far better off without the Church (global, not any specific church). The idolization of heaven has killed two of my family members. That’s not what Jesus wanted, I know, but our pain-saturated culture seems obsessed with this unobtainable paradise.

The point of life is not to get to heaven, and heaven is not our home… at least, not yet. Heaven may be God’s dwelling place, and it may be the land of the dead, and it may be a place of renewal and eternity, but heaven isn’t everything and it’s not the point of our existence.

Jesus came to restore the earth. Jesus came to heal the earth. Jesus didn’t come so that we would scorn and leave the earth, and Jesus didn’t come for Christians to wish their lives away hoping in heaven. On my Mom’s best days, she knew that. She taught that, she lived that.

I’m not sure if my family would have been better off without the Church, but I think dreams of heaven are dangerous to those who suffer from mental illness.

Bring heaven to earth. Bring healing to earth. Bring joy to earth. Bring peace to earth. Isn’t that why Jesus came?

Your kingdom come, Your will be done

On earth as it is in heaven

Week 25

May grace find you.

May peace meet you wherever you are, no matter what you’ve done.

May forgiveness absolve you.

May bitterness flee from you.

May friends support you when your feet no longer hold you.

May kindness wrap itself around you.

May goodness follow you.

May hope guide you.

May you heal from suffering others cannot imagine.

May you know earnest people that heal the pieces of you that betrayal broke.

May you thrive after living through what no one should endure.

May you shine truth where lies once prevailed.

May those who scorned you see reality.

May those who betrayed you open their eyes to your suffering.

May those who wronged you know the depths of your hurt.

May those who ruined you know forgiveness.

May compassion win.

May happiness enter your life once more.

May sorrow carry the beautiful pieces of your shattered life.

May heartache find solace in friends worthy of trust.

May you learn to tend to sorrow.

May you grow to carry what cannot be fixed.

May you speak to the language of pain and sorrow.

May you know to honor your frail heart.

May you live through the unspeakable with unquenchable light.

May you remember kindness when your life is cruel.

May you breathe deeply when life takes your breath away.

May you love while your heart breaks.

May you balance complex emotions: sorrow, anger, happiness, bitterness, forgiveness, all as they cycle through.

May you teach the language of sorrow to a world committed to avoiding pain.

May you face tragedy and tend to her reverberations all your days.

May you linger in moments of depth.

May beauty overcome the wasteland.

May compassion overflow the rivers of sorrow.

May loveliness harbor the oceans of pain.

May grace run wild in the landscape of your life.

May you endure what you never should have lived though.

May you endure what will always hurt.

May you endure what defines the character of your life.

May you love,

May you be loved.

Week 24

She’s not dead in my dreams. She’s never dead in my dreams. Sometimes she’s a ghost, but she’s never really dead. She’s always responsive… or ignoring me, but nonetheless she’s active.

But they’re always about death. In the first few weeks, I most often dreamed that she was a ghost or just too busy to talk to me — in these dreams, I knew she was dead. She wouldn’t talk to me in these dreams. I begged and pleaded for her to talk with me, but I could never quite reach her.

Now, nearly six months later, we catch her before she chooses fatality. Sometimes it’s just me and Mom. Sometimes my husband, Dad, and siblings are there too. She talks to me in these dreams. I/we are always trying to talk her out of it — to talk her out of dying. To beg her to stay. But they all end the same — I wake up. I remember she’s gone and she’s never coming back. Sometimes that brings tears to my dull eyes, sometimes it cultivates anger and protest, and sometimes it steals my breath and replaces it with anxiety.

I watched Where the Crawdads Sing the day before my Mom died, and I remember feeling so comforted when the main character’s mom walks out of her life forever. It’s a main plot of the movie — trying to figure out how a mother could leave her young. I remember thinking my Mom would never.

Ha. Isn’t life ironic like that? It’s so cruel.

* * * *

This has been of the hardest weeks to do anything. To get out of bed, to go to work, to want to do anything. I’d rather turn my phone off, ditch work, and cut myself off from the rest of the world for a couple of weeks and just sleep.

Scott woke up the other night to the sound of me screaming: he reported that I was staring at our fan, shrieking. One of the strangest part about night terrors is that one won’t recall the dream whatsoever, and people experiencing night terrors won’t typically wake up on their own. They’re not very common for adults, but almost always caused by immense stress. It’s unsettling to wake up to the sound of yourself howling in horror and shaking violently.

And then you have to go to work the next day, put on your best “I’m okay” face and complete whatever task is due by whenever deadline, half alive. A shell of what once. A candle burnt to its wick, melting whatever potential was once there.

The closer we get to the Christmas, the less I want to get out of bed. But I have end of year deadlines, places to be, things to do. So we trek on, one abysmal step at a time.

* * * *

I look forward to dreams now. They’re the one place I get to interact with my Mom, even though they’re just visages from my broken heart and my weary mind. Ever so briefly, it feels like she’s with me again, even if the dream is sad and dark and heavy. At least I “saw” her, at least I could spend just a few minutes with her ghost.

Week 19

I leave old sticky notes from my mother around the house because… what else should I do with them when I find them? I don’t want to throw them away and I don’t want to put them away, either. So they sit out, collecting dust, beguiling to be read, hauntingly there.

In the first few weeks following Mom’s death, so many loving people gave and gave and gave. Aside from meals that nourished my whole family, people gave me face masks, candles, stickers, socks, etc.

Peoples’ hearts can be so beautiful in heartbreak.

At the time, I had so little capacity to process the gifts, so I set them aside as if part of a collection. Now, I can’t even remember who all gave things. Someone gave me a necklace — I don’t remember who now. She gave a card, but it was separated from the necklace. I can’t remember who to say “thank you,” to… but…

Thank you.

Thank you each person who gave food or a card or some piece of comfort. Thank you for reaching out, thank you for reading these, thank you for commenting, thank you for showing up and bearing witness to a pain that seems as unbearable as it is. It’s not easy or comfortable to watch this incomprehensible level of pain. I know many of you who knew and loved my Momma hurt too, and many of you who simply know me hurt for me. Thank you for giving out of your pain and for showing up.

I tried to go through that collection of gifts — those tokens of love and comfort — yesterday, 133 days later, but I still can’t get through it. It’s still too raw, it’s still too fresh of a reminder that my world was ripped apart… that my Mommy is gone. Yet, the things that I got through reminded me of all the love you have given me and all of the love you had for my Momma. It felt raw to touch and see these gifts of love from people I could not even remember. So I will try again another day, and be reminded once more of all this love.

Love is all we have left, and love is both enough and not impossibly enough at all. But love does, as the old saying teaches, “bears all things, believes all things, hopes all things, endures all things. Love never ends,” and what is grief but love that persists?

Week 14

Sorrow upon sorrow.

“Painful” is the word I most often use to describe this liminal and tormenting reality, but it’s not just emotionally painful.

We are whole beings: sorrow and stress affect our entire bodies as much as they affect our minds.

I started to experience heart complicated about a year and half before Patrick died. These moments manifested as a chest pain, a resting heart rate of around 145 bpm, and a persistent murmur. They grew worse after my friend Walter died, and worse after Patrick died.

My parents finally convinced me to go to the doctor a year after Patrick died, when my chest pain and exhaustive heart rate seemed more of a regularity than an exception. Doctor after doctor and test after test finally lead to an ultrasound of my heart that revealed that my heart aged far quicker than the rest of me. The stenosis resembled someone in their 50s or 60s, not that of a 22 year old. They gave me a beta blocker and told me I’d likely need a pacemaker by the time I turn 35.

I began EMDR, a form of intensive trauma therapy (10/10 recommend), a few months after the diagnosis. To my surprise, I hardly needed my medicine anymore. I restabilized and seldom needed the beta blocker to calm my overreacting heart. Every few years, my cardiologist will continuously monitor my heart for a couple weeks to check in and I received fairly positive results from my last exam in 2023. Healing my mind healed my body, but not entirely.

Since my Mom took her life, I’ve had 56 episodes. These days, sometimes even the beta blocker seems to have little power against the arrhythmia. I wonder what an ultrasound would reveal now. I wonder if the timeline for my inevitable pacemaker draws nearer and nearer.

I’m so tired. Everyday feels like a fight. A new drama, a new hurt, a new layer.

Grief haunts the mind and lives in the body, terrorizing its hosts with one complication after another.

And then you add the drama, all the extra losses, all the disappointments that coalesce to prohibit the griever from feeling alive.

I feel like a ghost, living among ghosts haunting me from their violent deaths. I feel like a ghost, haunting my friends who are vibrant with life while I am trapped by these deaths. I feel like a ghost, left behind in this unforgiving world.

Week 10

This has been one of the hardest weeks to get out of bed. Perhaps it’s a mix of jet lag, allergies, and grief. Perhaps it’s simply reality sinking in deeper and deeper as the days pass away, each new day taking me farther away from my mother.

I woke up at 3 am other day with the slightest fever and spent the next few hours weeping and feeling the weight of this catastrophic loss. I want my Mommy, I yelped again and again and again. She always made sure to stop by if I was sick, even if it was just for a quick hug or to play with my hair, but mainly just to make sure I was okay. She’d bring medicine, ginger ale or Gatorade, maybe some soup, and all the compassion in the world.

But no more Momma.

I’ve gotten out of bed every day since she passed. I’ve brushed my hair and my teeth each morning and each night without fail. Last week, I finally started putting some jewelry on… it’s funny the little things you do or don’t do in deep grief… but this week I have not wanted to get out of bed at all.

Several grief books discuss the experience of derealization and depersonalization — the out-of-body feeling where one can’t ground himself/herself to the present moment. The sense that the griever is observing oneself from outside his/her body, feeling robotic or numb. I find this occurring most often in large groups and, hence, I am a bit uncomfortable and almost alarmed amidst them. These group activities become a source of anxiety and tension, where I end up spending an inordinate amount of energy on pretending to be normal or pretending to have fun.

The good thing about pretending, though, is that it can often result in positive experiences, but at the cost of an exponential amount of energy.

I think I am pretty spent from the few social activities I have mustered the courage to participate in. I’m not quite sure how one finds balance in this. Maybe I need to plan more one-on-one activities with patient listeners, eager to indulge me with their empathy and kindness. Buuut scheduling that is exhausting, too.

Thus, in the end, everything is simply hard. So excruciatingly difficult and sad and painful.

I’m still getting out of bed, I’m still brushing my hair and my teeth each morning and each evening, but this week it’s seemed to require so much more from me than past weeks.

Friends have done their best to help ease the suffering and mental load, showing up with kindness by bringing me soup, dropping in just to give me a hug, and so much more, and I’m so grateful for that. More grateful than I can probably communicate, but…

It’s a living nightmare, and that’s the reality of living with pain that cannot be fixed. Time and new memories will heal, but not today, not this week, not anytime soon.

Week 9

Traveling while grieving can become a sick game of “how many places can I be sad in?” Each new experience serves as a reminder of how I can never share any of this with my mom.

Grief mutes the senses and dulls the atmosphere. It prohibits its host from experiencing anything to the full. The infamous brain fog clouds everything one’s eyes behold and rains on the memory of one’s memory newest experiences.

Traveling is helpful, I suppose, in that it requires a massive amount of focus from one’s mind — one must keep moving, walking towards the goal of his or her next destination. One’s loss can’t be at the forefront of the mind when navigating unknown places, but the ache is there. It’s always there.

Death is such an unwelcome visitor, knocking on the doors of our lives and bursting them open despite our protests. Illnesses can creep in to poison’s one’s life, accidents can wreak havoc and destroy life, wicked people can barge in and steal life, but what is this?

What is this?

How terrifying that one’s own mind can betray itself and create death in a most unnatural way. How terrifying that we can’t even see it coming.

And then there’s the stigma: Stigma about grief, stigma about suicide, stigma about mental health, and the deep shame these stigmas create for people who struggle and for survivors left behind by those who lost the battle. Stigmas that prevent people from getting help. How can one reach out for help when everyone around them expects to have the answers?

Our church did not/has not publicly acknowledged my Mom’s death — my mom, a highly influential staff member of the church. What type of message does that send to the stigmatized? What message does that send to the thousand who attended her service and who are in deep mourning?

Maybe they don’t address it because they’re terrified of it, too. Silence always helps, doesn’t it?

Ignoring problems never makes them go away: Silence simply suffocates the suffering, and stigma shames them into solitude.

There should not be shame in “having demons.” Life is abundantly difficult and misery isn’t something to be ashamed of. There should not be shame for having a good life and still struggling with terrible intrusive thoughts. You should be safe to voice that. You should not be shamed or silenced for voicing how horrible life can be and how tormenting your own mind can be. Even God acknowledged that it was not good for man to be alone. Even Jesus acknowledged that life is troublesome. Even Jesus asked for a different way out.

I return home from a trip I aimed to keep very private — there’s a comfort in enjoying quiet and hidden moments after the world discovers something so deeply personal out about one’s life — but all I can think of is the fact that my Mom won’t be there when I get home.

She used to say that she couldn’t wait to get home after traveling because “there’s no place like Florida.” She loved its warmth and its beauty and its vibrancy. She loved that it was home, and she built her home in the loveliest ways.

I can’t reconcile how someone who loved life so much, and who loved me so much, could execute the cruelest action against all that she loved.

I wish she thought that she could get help. I’m sickened that she couldn’t verbalize her struggle. I hate the stigma, I hate the silence, I hate the finality.

If you have ever — ever — ideated, please speak out. Seek a professional counselor and share your ideations. Don’t let shame kill you. Don’t let shame destroy everything that you do love in life.

Be there when someone gets home. Be there when your friend gets home. Be there when your family gets home. Be there to welcome your loved one back. Don’t let stigma take that from all of us.

Week 7 – Tips for Communicating and Helping People in Mourning

Tips for Communicating with a Person in Mourning

  • Be gracious. Do not be surprised if someone deep in mourning gets a little snippy with you, is irritable, is not very talkative, or tends to dominate the conversation. It’s not you, it’s that mourners have a lot got going on. I know many of you reading this are likewise deep in mourning — be gracious with yourself and with your family. I’m sorry if those around you haven’t experienced much grief — it’s incredibly hard to fathom a grieving mind if you haven’t experienced a deep personal loss.
  • “I’m sorry” may feel like such a weak thing to say, but it encompasses a tremendous amount of emotion and care. The short phrase empathizes with the mourner and often creates an understanding between two hurting people.
  • Acknowledging the situation is better than avoiding the topic altogether. It may be awkward to speak up, but a simple “I see you,” goes a long way 💙
  • The less decisions a person in mourning needs to make, the better. Mourning requires an enormous amount of mental energy, and helping make a decision alleviates a bit of mental fatigue.  Don’t be surprised if a griever locks up / shuts down if you ask them what you perceive to be a simple question. Nothing is simple in grief. Nothing. 
  • Presence is best 🤍. Be here, share here, create space here.
  • It’s okay to ask “How are you doing?” It’s a simple phrase that shows you care, but monitor your tone while asking. There’s a significant difference between an excited “how are you!?” and an empathetic, “so, how are you doing?” Odds are, a mourner is not likely to match excited energy.
  • It’s not okay to ignore the situation. I get it — it’s awkward and you may not know what to say nor how to act, but a simple acknowledgment of “I’m sorry for your loss,” is preferable to pretending to act normal. Talk about the elephant in the room. It’s all that the griever thinks about. Occasions where I feel like I have to act “normal” — where I have to pretend to ignore the grief that’s on my brain 100% of the time — are my least favorite.
  • It’s okay to ask if a mourner wants to talk about it — if you’re close friends with the mourner, they may crave the kindness of a listening friend. If you are more of a stranger to the bereaved individual, the mourner may be incredibly uncomfortable talking about the situation. No matter the reaction, it’s okay to ask. Better to ask than to ignore the situation.
  • Letters just might be my favorite form of communication. I’ve received a few letters and even packages from people and they are incredibly thoughtful and sweet. Unlike a text or phone, letters are calming — there is little pressure to respond and they are crafted with care. Sending a mourner a letter is a kind thing to do, and it means more to the griever than you realize. Even if a griever does not reach out after receiving a letter — the griever likely forgot — that letter meant a lot. 
  • Calls are easier to answer than text and/or instant messages, but a mourner might not always want to talk and they will likely forget to call you back. Don’t feel bad if you call multiple times – calling shows that you care. Texts and instant messages are great too! I just tend to only answer about 2-3 messages a day, so it can take a while to get to them. 
  • Keep inviting, even if the mourner keeps turning down invitations. Celebrations are incredibly difficult for a mourner, though we are truly happy for others. Grieving makes one sensitive and easily overstimulated. If a mourner thinks an event will be triggering, he or she is likely not going to attend the occasion. Triggers mean tears or irritability, and a mourner will not want to take attention away from someone else’s event by letting their emotions surface. Mourners want to support their friends, but they have very little capacity to do so.
  • Understand that it’s really difficult for mourners to leave their home. Seriously, I barely want to leave. My home is such a safe place, anywhere outside home is simply uncomfortable. Leaving home takes a tremendous amount of effort.
  • Remind the griever how much he or she means to you. Again, someone in mourning simply can’t show up for their friends in the same way they did before. This can make a griever feel incredibly isolated, feel like a bad friend, and anxious about their relationships. Mourners need a lot of reassurance and reminders that they are loved and are not a burden. We are hyper aware of how little we can give in relationships, and that scares us.
  • Declaring “Your mom is always with you,” is not helpful. Perhaps it will be in the future, but in the first few days it’s more of a reminder of the chasm between my life and my mom’s death. This phrase is Especially painful for a suicide survivor, who are left with an incredibly deep abandonment wound; thus stating she’s with me when it feels like she chose to leave is incredibly painful. 

Tips for communicating with Suicide Survivors

  • If a cause of death is not published immediately, it is likely because it is due to a highly sensitive cause of death, such as suicide; it is rude to ask the family “What happened?” prior to the family’s announcement. Curiosity is natural, but be courteous of the family when a cause of death is not published. 
  • Starting a sentence with “I’m sorry to ask you this,” or “I’m sorry to pry, but…” typically indicates that it is an inappropriate question to ask. Do yourself and the bereaved a favor and do not ask that question. 
  • Do not ask someone how their loved one took their life. This is insensitive and the information rarely helps.
  • Do not ask if foul play was involved or if it’s possible that it was not a suicide. Suicide is one of the harshest ways someone can die — a survivor of suicide wishes more than anything else that their loved one did not take their life.
  • Do not ask if their loved one left a note. This is an incredibly sensitive area. Suicide is incredibly confusing and damning, and information regarding a note is incredibly private and sacred. If a loved one did leave a note, it’s not likely that the survivor would want that information published. The absence of a note, likewise, contributes to the confusion of the situation. 
  • Listen. Survivors have a lot to talk about and a lot to process. Create a safe space for the wounded, and be patient. It’s difficult to put deep thoughts and feelings into words. A survivor may want to share details surrounding the suicide, and that should be considered a privilege (not a right). This sacred information should be honored with respect and reverence. Know that what a survivor shares is private: honor a survivor’s trust and do not share the sensitive information entrusted to you.
  • Saying “It doesn’t matter how they died,” is dismissive. When someone takes their own life, there is no natural cause, no illness, and no accident to blame. Thus, someone bereaved by suicide can only blame the person who committed the act and his/her self. Suicide creates an arduous mental cycle.
  • Don’t speculate why they did it. I’ve had several people tell me that my mother likely ended her life because of the loss of her son. You’re essentially telling me that my life and the lives of my siblings and father did not matter enough to stick around for… that’s a pretty mean thing to say. Let me make it perfectly clear that you have absolutely no idea why she ended her life, so do not come to a survivor with a list of possible reasons you think their love one did it.

Practical Ways to Help

  • The Go Fund Me is still active: https://gofund.me/e4fe4ebf this provides freedom for us to be out of work for an extended amount of time. Giving here eliminates the stress that comes from lost wages. 
  • LiveWell Behavior Health, the organization that Mom used to work at and the place many of my family members are currently receiving therapy, created the “Harmony Project” to “carry forward her legacy by fulfilling one of her deepest dreams: helping others find healing and wholeness. The Harmony Project provides scholarships to individuals in our community seeking meaningful mental, emotional, and spiritual support through professional mental health services.” You can read and donate here: https://www.livewellbehavioralhealth.com/center This is such a beautiful way to honor my mom and we couldn’t be more grateful for all that LiveWell has done for our family.
  • Lawncare: My Dad has a beautiful lawn with gorgeous trees and plants, buuut of course weeds grow incredibly fast here — if you drop by, maybe scan the lawn before coming inside and pick some weeds if you are willing and able to.
  • Meals: The meal train was incredibly helpful! Please do this for your grieving friends. While a meal train is no longer necessary and we are getting back into “normal routines,” it would be nice every once in a while if someone called and said “I’m bringing dinner Tuesday!” and offers their company. Someone deep in grief may not be ready for company, but a meal is always welcomed. Deep grief makes one feel as if he or she must relearn every simple skill they’ve known for years. 
  • Gift cards: People gave many gift cards and this was and is incredibly helpful. As I mentioned before, making dinner every night can be overwhelming in general… it becomes even more overwhelming when mourning consumes all of one’s energy. Gift cards for coffee or even sweets like Crumbl are super sweet as well. Someone even gave me a massage gift certificate and that was super sweet and helpful too — I can’t tell you how incredibly tense my body is right now. Grief manifests in the body as much as it does the mind. 
  • Any little act of service helps: Small tasks are incredibly helpful — doing a load of laundry, wiping down a counter, windex-ing a mirror, etc. Sometimes it’s hard for me to even remember to put a pair of shoes on. It’s invaluable to notice those little things that may be neglected and to help one another out.

Education/Book Recommendations:

Educating yourself is one of the most helpful things you could do for my family, and ultimately your own. No matter what, everyone eventually dies. Educating yourself now will create a culture of empathy and understanding for my family and, ultimately, will prepare you and your family for when you face unimaginable loss. 

  • Surviving Suicide Loss by Rita A Schulte, LPC, is a book my family has asked many of our close friends to read. While there are differences between the author’s situation and my family’s, it will provide a glimpse into the depth of our struggle. It discusses the mental load that suicide survivors wrestle through, and provides insight into mental illness. Stigma is an enormous hinderance to both those who complete suicide and those left behind. Amazon link: https://a.co/d/8dmsDun
  • It’s OK That You’re Not OK by Megan Devine is an excellent book that discusses the cultural dismissal of grief and loss. We live in a culture that has left behind the art of lamentation and grief, leaving mourners with even more confusion to their natural response to tragedy. Amazon link: https://a.co/d/bHe9yHY

Thank You

Ultimately, I want to thank you for the tremendous support you have shown me and my family. 

Grief makes one’s soul raw and incredibly sensitive to both pain and compassion. Thank you for your care and love for me and my family. 

If any of these tips help and if you read any of the books, please let me know! I’d love to know your thoughts.