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历史上的今天
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{list wl as x}{/list}Never Forget Andrew – an on-going, long-term project. | An on-going project.
The newest entries are on the top, the first one's are on the bottom.
If you are new, please scroll down to the bottom and start from the beginning.
You will understand a lot more that way.
Moving. What a broad subject. Not moving on, or moving up, or moving others with your words. Just moving. Packing up everything you own, everything your family owns, your pets, your possessions, packing it all into a truck, and moving. Shutting down and leaving the home that you have known for so long and going to a new start. We all do it a few times in our lives, some more than others, others only once or twice. Sometimes we move for work, or for a larger place, or for downsizing. But where I am now, my mental and emotional place in life, moving has different meanings. Moving becomes emotional.
Andrew’s shelves. His snowboarding glasses, his many hats and sunglasses, pictures of Daisy, the manual to his car, Jovi’s birthday gift, and so much more of him.
Every day, every single day, I visit Andrew’s room. It might be for just a moment to touch something, smile, and leave. Or it might be for a few minutes to look at his belongings, do some remembering, and then get back to my day. But every single day I go into his room – I am with him for that moment. Sometimes when i am lost, I sit on his bed and ask him for advice. I think about what he would say to me, think about what his thoughts might be. I might just think about him, about his smile, about what his life could have been. It gives me great peace and comfort to have that place I can visit. His room. His stuff. His memories. It is such a large part of my moving ahead with my life.
Sometimes it is sad for me to go there, sadness beyond belief and something that no one can ever put into words. But those days are getting fewer and further apart as I learn to deal with this loss. But they are still there once in a while. The days that I go in there and smile and recall the good times, recall the blessing that I had with my son for twenty one years are getting more often. I look at his guitar and think about the joy and pride he had learning to play it. It still sits on his bed where he left it. I look at his high school yearbooks and read what his friends wrote to him, and I smile. I look at his team jackets and how honored he was to wear them and be part of the teams that he was on.
Then there are the things that only those who knew Andrew would appreciate. There is an arm rest from the high school auditorium. Why would someone want that? Who knows, but Andrew had it – and was proud that he had it. There are his pads of late passes and hall passes from high school. I don’t know, but I am sure his friends know why he had them. And his sneakers – for someone who never wore shoes, he had a lot of them.
His Ranger and Titans Jerseys, his hoodies and jeans. This is what we remember him in.
When I go in there, I connect with him. Much of his clothes are still where he left them – although cleaned, folded and put away. Some of his books, some of what he collected, some of him, is still there. And I need that, I need to know that and see that to get me through each day and to keep moving my feet forward. I can not see that day in the future where I can box it up, store it away, pack up what is left of Andrew and move away. Maybe one day it will happen, but maybe it won’t.
But for others it is different. And I understand that. For others, the site of their children’s room, seeing their empty space, seeing the toys that lay collecting dust, the clothes that will never be worn again, the books that will never be read, is just too much. The searing pain of their loss is brought back to them every time they pass that doorway. Sometimes the door is kept shut, so they do not have to see inside the bedroom. Other families keep the door open, and bear the sight of the room. Their loss is tied to that place, tied to that house, that used to be a home. For those parents, a new beginning, a new place, a fresh start, is what they need. They need new surroundings not tied to the past. Simply put –
They have to put their sons or daughters belongings away. They have to box up the memories, box up the clothes, the toys, the books, and prepare to move. They might sell the furniture, or donate it, or pass it along. But it does not go with them. It is too hard to keep it. They are downsizing, they are relocating, they are moving to a new place where the memories of raising their wonderful child do not exist.
One day they will open those boxes again and sort through what was their loved one. They might cry over a toy, a book, or a piece of clothes. But it is not an entire room of overwhelming memories. It is not the entire home where the spent so many loving years before that fateful terrible day. These tears might be of the happy times, the happy memories. These tears are the good ones that moved along with them.
Don’t be mistaken – when they moved they took their children with them. The memories, their love, all that was their child, all that they had, moved along with them, but they are moving. We never forget our children. No matter where we go, or where we stay, what we give away or what we choose to keep, our sons and daughters are always with us. But some of us have to move away and start over, while others chose to stay.
Why the difference? Why the irresistible driving force to stay put or move away? Just like all grief, just like we each handle our grief our own way – no one knows why, it just is.
This journal is written in honor of Emily, and in memory of Daniel, as a thank you for all of the parents that she has helped move ahead in their lives and all of the souls she has healed.
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“You’ve made it through the first year, the worst is over.”
Every grieving parent has heard that, numerous times. Whether it be from a friend, family member, colleague, client, or customer, we have all heard it, Dorothy and I included.
It might be worded a bit differently, might be said at different times, but we have all heard it all several times. When it has been said to us, we have smiled, we have been courteous, said thank you, finished the conversation, turned and walked away. We know the person saying it has such good intentions and means it to help us, but where they draw this idea from we don’t know – and we hope they never do know our pain. We listen to what they say, make eye contact, and smile at them, but inside we cry a little more. Inside we hurt a little more. Inside we know that is the furthest thing from the truth.
Last year during Thanksgiving, we sat at the table without Andrew. It was the first holiday for which he usually came home from college. It was his senior year and all of his friends came home to their families. Nicole came home. And yet…no Andrew. We had our turkey dinner, we had desert, we talked a little, but there was nothing to be thankful for.
Our Andrew was not with us. It was the first holiday without him, the first of many. We were realizing that this was our new reality.
Then it was Hanukkah and soon after my birthday. Both very empty. Then Dorothy’s birthday, Christmas, and his twenty-second birthday, and New Year’s Eve, and Nicole’s birthday. He was not here to celebrate any of them with us. We tried to make these special days as normal as possible, we tried to be with family and friends as much as we could. We tried to celebrate in ways that we could. But it hurt. It was always the first time.
It was the first Christmas tree at grandma’s house without Andrew putting on his favorite ornaments. It was the first year Dorothy and I went holiday shopping for one child, not two. It was the first birthday in so many years that my son did not call me to wish me a happy birthday. There were no gifts for Andrew anywhere. There were no cards for him, no calls, no nothing. And it was the first time. Everything was different. Everything was hard. But we made it through that season of firsts.
There were other firsts and events as well. It was the first Mother’s Day on which my loving wife’s only son did not call her. We sat at the Passover table for the first time and he did not participate in the four questions – for the first time. We went on a small vacation over the summer, for the first time, just the three of us.
Everything we did, everything we saw, everything in that first year was a first. And it was so hard to get through them. The first this, the first that. Every time anything happened, or we did something together, we realized Andrew was not there with us this year. We realized we were alone, the three of us.
People tell us that we made it through. Of course we did. We had no choice. We had to keep our feet moving, our lives had to go on. We still had to work, Nicole still had to go to school. We placed his headstone at the end of that first year with many of our friends, Andrew’s friends, and family by our side.The first year was over.
Then in September the second year started. And people told us that we made it through the toughest times of our lives, and many said it would get better. Even though they never experienced what we are going through, and hopefully never will, they reassured us that things get better. They never experienced their child’s birthday – AFTER their child was gone. We very much appreciate people talking to us, calling and visiting us, going out to lunch or dinner with us, and helping us. Without our great friends and family that we are grateful for, that first year would have
been so much more difficult. We are very grateful for the special people in our lives. Without the conversations we have had with them, the healing conversations, the stories we share, the sympathy that they show us, we don’t know what we would have done this first year.
That first year taught us one thing – over and over again. That Andrew was gone, that he was no longer with us. We cried a lot, just about every day. We looked at pictures of A they are all over the house, our computers and our phones. The shock wore off after the first few months. Then the pain set in. The realization that he is gone cut deeper every day.
But now we are in our second year. And it is worse, but in a different was. Here’s why:
Through the High Holidays, Thanksgiving, birthdays, Hanukkah, and so forth, Andrew is STILL not here. We know that. But we now have to face the cold fact that he will never be with us again. Ever. He is gone…forever. He will never help us carve the Thanksgiving turkey, or ever smile when he opens his Hanukkah gifts. He will never have dinner with Uncle Roy, or go skiing with Todd and Greg. He will never again help decorate or see a Christmas tree. He is gone forever. In year three, and four, and five and for the rest of our lives, he is gone. And that hurts more than the first year when he was just not here. We went from the deep pain that he is not here, to the searing realization that he will never, ever, be here again.
Yes, the first year was difficult – missing Andrew at every holiday, birthday and family gathering. But the second year is harder. We now have to face the reality that he will never again be with us for the rest of our lives. And that hurts.
I could not find any places in this post to appropriately put pictured of Andrew and the family, but I think the pictures I post are an important part of each post. So here they are at the end of the post. All showing how happy Andrew was all the time.
Apple picking – lots of fun
Showing surprise and awe at Bubby’s 65th.
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Nothing more beautiful than snow on the mountains in Colorado.
Several years ago a good friend of mine, Robert, had a terrible brain tumor. He knew what was happening in the beginning, and knew what he had and what was wrong with him. As time wore on though, he lost much of his short-term memory, and eventually middle term memory. As long as he knew you from years past, he recognized you. When Roy and I went to visit him in the hospital, he knew us. But when Andrew joined us, Robert did not know or recognize him, although he was there visiting him just a few weeks before. Robert slowly declined as the tumor grew, and he really did not question why he was in the hospital, or what was wrong with him. He could hold a conversation with you, and talk about life, and he always seemed happy. He didn’t know how sick he was, and never questioned the tests or the radiation treatments. He eventually went home, and passed away in the shower a few months later – never knowing what was going on with his health.
Never knowing that he was so close to death for so long.
Was he lucky? I don’t know. He was dying for well over a year, and he was never sad. He never cried about it, he never thought about what he was going to miss out on in life. He didn’t cry over not getting married, or having kids, or traveling the world. He was just happy all the time, all the way to the end. He had no idea he was ill, and had no idea his days were severely limited. He was just living his life.
Is this better than knowing?
Another lifelong friend of mine, Karen, also had a brain tumor that slowly took her life over the course of several years. But she knew it from the very beginning. She looked into the eyes of her two young girls and knew she would never see them grow into lovely young women. She knew she would never see them graduate high school, go off to college, and one day get married. When I visited her we talked about life and the past. She was bed ridden for months as her body slowly deteriorated over time, and she cried. She talked to her mom and to her sister and friends to make sure that her daughters were taken care of. She was so concerned for their well being, and she wanted to make sure they had a great life – even without her in it. She wanted to make sure they went apple picking and visited Disney World. She wanted them to know all about her. Dee and I saw here a couple of days before she passed, and we talked all night with her. She knew the end was so near, she faded in and out of consciousness, but wanted to tie up so many loose ends with so many people. Her body was getting more frail by the day, but she brought out that smile and laugh every time her daughters were there.
I can only imagine what she went through those last months. What would anyone go through knowing that they are going to die soon? We all know we are going to die, and it is a part of life. But we don’t know when, and we all hope it is far, far away. We don’t prepare for it mentally, we don’t prepare for it spiritually, and we don’t talk about it. It just happens one day, for most of us.
But those of us who know they are going to leave us soon, either from cancer, or a tumor, or whatever terrible cause, what do they do? It is terrible that they are going to die, but is it a blessing that they have time? They can talk to those they love and tell them everything they want to. They can tell them stories of the past, they can tell them things they never did before. In some cases they can make peace with relatives long forgotten, and bring back family into their lives. They have time to make things right, they have time. Maybe a few days or weeks, or months, but they have time to repair the past, they have time to make amends.
Or is it a curse? Knowing your days are so numbered. Knowing you will not live your life out, you won’t grow old. Living with the stress that every day you wake up you are that much closer to the end. Going for the tests and hearing the dreaded results day after day, week after week. Watching your body as the disease slowly kills you.
Some parents who have enough time have made video-tapes for their kids to listen to. Some have written long journals to leave behind. They know they are leaving and they want to be remembered, so they do whatever they can to leave something meaningful behind. They want to leave some sort of legacy, some proof they were here on this earth and made a difference.
But as I said before – how can they mentally handle knowing that they are dying? It must be such a burden, such an unnatural thought, something that our brains were never designed for. People can really only relate to something they know, and this is something that not many of us can really comprehend – knowing our days are so limited and so finite.
Andrew was in the first group – he never knew. He never knew he was going to die so young. He never knew he would not make it to graduate college, or get married and have a family. He didn’t know how finite his days were. He made himself sushi for dinner, he watched TV, called to say goodnight to Dorothy and me, and then he just went to sleep. That was it. He passed very quietly and peacefully in the middle of the night, not knowing what he has missed out in life. Not knowing anything.
He never let me know what to do with his car, or what to do with his snowboard – who should get it. He left his valuables just lying around in his room. His phone was charging, his computer was left on, his laptop was downloading music and videos. He had no reason to think he would not be with us in the morning. It was to be his first day of class, he bought all his books, he got his notebook ready, he even wrote in his calendar “First Day of Classes.” He didn’t know.
As I look back on this, and as I learn more about grief and suffering and pain, I am almost thankful for the way he passed – not that he passed, but the manner in which he was taken from us. Andrew was a fragile soul. He was a kind, gentle human being. He thought things out to such detail, and always questioned everything, in a positive way. He had compassion for anyone and everyone he met. He had no hate, no fear, no animosity in his life. He was happy every day – but he did not handle stress well. He loved everyone he knew, and always helped others. He had no enemies. His coaches always told us that no one ever disliked Andrew, His teachers welcomed him into their closed classrooms for lunch, just to sit and eat and listen to him talk about life. He loved to listen to others as well.
I know he never had the chance to say goodbye. He never got the chance to tell us things I am sure he was holding inside. But I am okay with that.
There is just something so peaceful about this picture of Andrew.
He never had to look into our eyes and say goodbye to his mother, his sister and me. He never had to tell us those things that bothered him. He never had to hold his beloved pets and say goodbye to them, knowing he would never see them again. That would have hurt me so much more. The pain that would have caused him would have been so much, I would not have been able to bear it. And I do not think he would have been able to handle that either.
So the question is – is it better to know and have the ability to make peace, but live with the knowledge the end is near? Or is it better to just lie down and pass – oblivious to the fact that your life as we know it is about to end?
So tell me – are you thankful for the way your close ones passed? Are you at peace with the way they were taken? Or would you have liked it some other way? Of course we would all have liked it not to happen, that is a given. But it did happen to us, and we are left here to think about it for the rest of our lives.
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I just left a small software conference and heard something very refreshing. The CEO/President and the Chairman opened the conference up with a pretty typical state of the company speech. What was refreshing about it was that during their opening remarks they said that over the past year they had made some mistakes, the made some misjudgments, they had stated anticipated changes and made decisions that had not come to fruition. All of the consultants there knew that already, but it was refreshing for them to say that, and to own it, it gave us a respectful perspective. We quickly moved on, now that it was dealt with, and the entire conference was very positive and successful.
I laid down that night and thought about Andrew, like I do every night. I made him promises and told him what I was going to do during his life. Told him how I was going to raise him and protect him. Promised him the sun and the moon. Of course he was only a few days old, and probably didn’t understand much of what I said, but I still made him promises. And to make is worse, I reiterated these promises throughout his life. To stand by him and to support him throughout his life, no matter what he did, no matter how he turned out. Now I am here, alone, staring at the darkened ceiling knowing that we never fulfilled these promises. Some of them he was too young for us to fulfil. Others we just never did. While many others we did fulfil in the short time we had him.
The other part was a little harder to face. Mistakes.
Andrew – I made mistakes during your life. Some of them caused you pain, some of them made you cry, other just made me cry. Some of them were obvious, while others were only visible in hindsight. But I definitely made mistakes. All parents make mistakes, we are not perfect, and raising a child is an on-the-job learning experience. We learn as we do, and as you grow. Maybe we learned a little too slow, or a little too late.
Most parents have a lifetime though to correct their mistakes. Or at least to make right by them. They talk to their children, they discuss what happened and they move on. Their mistakes become learning experience and help them as their kids grow up. Your mom and I don’t have that chance – and it sucks.
Most of the mistakes are small. Insignificant in the course of a lifetime. I always drove fast – and you learned by watching me from the back seat, which probably explains why you got let’s say more than one speeding ticket. I am sorry I didn’t slow down and set a better example for you. I know I upset you when I argued with someone over insignificant things, like a bad hotel room or a price discrepancy – and I tried not to when I was around you – but I did it way too often. I know it’s too late to teach you better, but you will be glad to know that I really don’t do that much anymore. You have taught me to be much more compassionate, patient, and understanding. Unfortunately too late for you to appreciate it.
But I know you know you have changed me for the better.
In the grand scheme of your short life, I know these broken promises and mistakes are minor. I know you had a great life, I know you know you were loved and cared for and your mom and I did our best to raise you – and we are doing our best to raise Nicole. I know these mistakes were insurmountably outweighed and outnumbered but your positive experiences, and I am at peace with this. I can close my eyes and recall the good memories. But I wanted you to know that I am truly sorry for these mistakes. Hopefully one day, somehow, you can let me know you forgive me.
All parents make promises that get broken. All parent make mistakes. But it is those of us who can put them into perspective and make them relative, who can properly love our children and grieve for them unconditionally. We cannot dwell on the promises we broke, the mistakes we make, the unspoken apologies – for they are in the past. We must remember our children, remember the good, remember the love, and hold on to that as we move one foot in front of the next.
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A lot of what I write about is what I hear and what we discuss in our bereavement groups.
I take in so much in these groups, I churn it, I digest it, think about it, and when I can, I let it out and write about it. Sometimes I use the person’s name who talked about it, other times so many people mention it that I just write.
In tonight’s meeting, Pam talked about a drive to go shopping on Route 84. She passed a pretty bad accident – ambulances, airlift helicopter, police cars, and mangled vehicles. But what caught her eye and her mind was the covered dead body on the side of the road. Obviously, someone did not survive the accident. She could not see if the person was a teenager, or a senior, or someone’s son or daughter, or mother or father. She didn’t know if the person was a reckless speeder who caused the accident, an innocent victim that was just driving along and had his/her life ended, or merely a passenger in the wrong car at the wrong time. She knew nothing – but there lie a dead body.
What we all thought, and Pam verbalized it so well, was that in a few minutes someone’s life was about to change. Someone, maybe parents, maybe a wife or a husband, maybe a son or a daughter, was about to get a devastating phone call that would forever change their life. This person laying under the blanket on the cold blacktop could have been someone’s only daughter, or someone’s father, or a husband. And the person or people left behind were going to get a call in a few minutes that will be the worst call they will ever get.
“Hello, this is Sgt Smith from the CT State Police, can I please talk to….”
And that’s it.
Right now, that person can be playing tennis, or working in his office, or at school, or on vacation somewhere having an amazing trip. They are living day-by-day, very happy with their life. But that will all end very soon. With just one call their life’s path will forever be altered.
Most people who see this scene look at the body and feel sorry for that person who is dead. They probably died too young. He or she was such a wonderful person with they were taken from this world way too early. There are so many thoughts for that person. But they are gone. They feel no pain now.
They have no grief. They are somewhere else, wherever that may be. But they are no more – they will not cry for those they left behind, they will not grieve for leaving this earth. Wherever they were going, they will not get there, whatever they were doing, will never be completed. All of a sudden they are gone.
But those they left behind. As grieving parents, most of us have received that call. We may have been at work, or at home, in the middle of the night, or on our cell phones. We have received that call. The call from some unfortunate person forced to give us the news that our child is gone. Gone forever from our lives. Each and every one of us can tell you exactly what we were doing before that call. What we had planned for that day, plans that never got completed. We were happy, we were watching TV; we were enjoying ourselves and feeling lucky to have such great lives. We were just going merrily along looking forward to so much. Then we got that call.
As grieving parents, yes we are sorry and feel for the person lying on the side of the road, bloody, covered, forever gone. But we feel for his or her parents, we connect with them. We feel for his or her wife or husband. We feel for the children left behind. We feel for that phone call. We relate to them so much more, we empathize with them – we are them. We are the ones who received that call which changed our lives. This call that devastated the happiness within our hearts. The call that forever changed the life path we were on.
All of a sudden.
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Causes, Passions, and Foundations.
We all have charities, causes, benefits that we like to support. It makes us feel good. Whether it be a center for the arts, a public school foundation, a food bank, or drug prevention – most people support some cause to some degree. I think this is great. Some people put in a few hours a year to work at a fundraiser one day, while others work several hours weekly for their causes. Some people can raise hundreds of thousands of dollars just by making phone calls to their friends and business acquaintances, while others raise money ten dollars at a time for their charity. No matter what you do, no matter how much you raise, it is important to be involved with something that is meaningful to you – for it is your emotional attachment to that cause this is your motivation.
It is not your friends or colleges asking you, not your moral obligation to do something – it is how that charity and cause has affected you that drives you do be involved on some level. It is almost a visceral reaction that causes your attachment to this cause.
Like many others, I have been involved with a few charities over the years. Attended meetings, helped at golf outings, raised some money, spread the word about a specific cause, etc. But was I passionate about? Not really. I guess that is why I was involved with them for a few years, and then moved on. Like most of us do. Our kids outgrow soccer, so we stop being on the board. Our kids graduate high school so we move off the educational foundation. We get a new job so we change our charities to be in line with our new company. But we move on because there was no emotional attachment to the cause.
Unfortunately, it is the traumatic and horrible experiences of our lives that forces us to change and re-evaluate this.
A friend of mine was the victim of a road side bomb in Iraq and suffered a traumatic brain injury. He has thankfully fully recovered and now runs a foundation for injured warriors –
a foundation that has raised and has invested over $20 million (yes million) to benefit our warriors returning home. This is an amazing feat. I am sure he was involved with many other charities before the accident – but now he and his family are passionate about this cause. They were personally touched by it.
Another friend of ours, Stephanie, lost her son to a drug overdose. The family spent tens of thousands of dollars sending him to rehab facilities, sending him to the best doctors and trying everything to help their little boy. Unfortunately none of these facilities were prepared to deal with a teen with co-occurring disorders. This is where the a person has a psychological disorder (ADD, ADHD, Addictive personality, etc), as well as a drug dependency.
Hence co-occurring issues. There is no real government position on this, the doctors are ill-equipt to properly help these children, and the medical/rehab facilities are at a total loss. Stephanie now spends countless hours every day and every week educating others, giving talks, raising money, and she even finds time to talk to other parents who children are going through this to give them advice and support. She is an amazing person who has found a cause that will help so many others families deal with this disease. She knows, and we all know, that what she is doing may prevent other families from facing the tragedy that she and her family has to deal with for the rest of their lives.
Tragically, Debbie’s son was struck and killed by a NYC transit bus while he was
standing on the curb waiting to cross the street. He was just standing and waiting when his life was cut short by a bus driver – one who should not have even been on the road. Since that horrific day, Debbie has been relentlessly working for NYC Safer Streets and was a major force in reducing the New York City speed limit to safer 25 MPH.
Her volunteer work with Safer Streets will save many mothers, fathers and families from receiving that terrible phone call that she and her husband received a few years ago. I am sure her work is not done yet. Although the speed limit has been reduced, there is so much more to do, and so much more that I am sure Debbie will do, to prevent the senseless deaths caused by motorists each and every day.
For Dorothy, Nicole and I, we are not trying to save someone’s life, or help our returning warriors, or make people drive safer. There are so many other people who have undertaken these worthy causes.
We have a different passion, that’s all. A passion that Andrew started many years ago. We are trying to help underprivileged children. We are trying to positively change their lives and help them be part of the team – whatever team that is for them.
We are trying to make sure that kids who want to play sports are given that opportunity. For those kids who want to play a sport but can not afford the equipment or the special clothes or the cost of a mouth guard, we want to make sure they can still participate. We don’t want to see children not play soccer because they cannot afford sneakers, or not play hockey because their stick is broken, or lack a baseball glove or lacrosse stick.
So many grieving parents that I see have taken up a cause. Many other people who have been profoundly effected by some tragedy have taken up a cause. And these causes are all worthy.
But why does it take this grief to make someone want to help others so much? Of course there are people who work just as hard at their cause who have not lost someone, or who have not been profoundly effected. They do it because they love it and they want to do it.
Nicole’s first high schools motto is “Not for Self, but for Service.”
Nothing about learning, or making money, or getting ahead in life – but service to others. I think that is great.
point of this entry? Get involved. Find something that you want to do. Don’t sit back and let the opportunity to help others pass you by. Talk to your friends and ask them what they do. Find something that makes you tear up or you can make a connection to. Help at a food bank (on a day other than Thanksgiving), walk dogs at a local shelter, help socialize stray cats at a cat rescue, collect coats for the homeless, help set up computers or build homes for returning vets. But do something. Get out of your chair and step up to life. Don’t rely on others to do it.
If someone was not passionate about breast cancer and started to raise money for research, do you thing the survival rate from breast cancer would be in the nineties?
If someone was not so passionate about not throwing away food every night, would City Harvest save some 136,000 pounds of food each and every day? And there are dozens of other examples of people getting involved to help others.
Don’t sit on the sidelines and let the opportunity to get that feeling of helping others pass you by. Sit up, take responsibility, get involved – it will change your life.
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I am sitting here on my flight from NY to Phoenix in row 7, just a few rows behind that infamous opaque curtain that covers the elite first class. I gaze up there where they get to eat Caesar salad, herb steak, and cheesecake for lunch, while I munch on the chicken I took from home and a bag of grapes I am traveling with. I don’t mind it. I have been upgraded to first class a few times, and while it was enjoyable, I don’t miss it.
What does come to mind is a regret. I see the people up there smiling, sitting comfortably in their wide seats, and getting pampered by stewardesses that are actually nice. It bothers me that Andrew will never have that experience. It bothers me that my son will never have the chance to be one of those who are pampered in first class. I know he would have enjoyed it.
What else has he been cheated out of? What else do I think about that he never got to do or see? Where didn’t he get to go? What did he forever miss?
He never got to Israel or Italy – and I know he wanted to go to those places. I know he wanted to go with Todd and Jeff to Israel – he talked to Jeff often about going with him one day. He wanted to see what so many people had so much faith in. He talked about going to Italy with Dorothy and Nicole – he wanted to see Bonefro, where Grandma is from, and share in her memories of her times there. He never got to go to either place.
He loved snowboarding. He went every chance he had when he was at school. He went to Vail more times in three years than most skiers go in a lifetime. He boarding every mountain there as well as the back bowl – where only the most skilled boarders dare to go. He loved Vail, and I got to experience it with him many times as well – it is some of my best memories with him in the recent years – especially the times Nicole went with us. When we were there he talked about going boarding in the summer up in Canada. He talked about going boarding in Italy and the Alps, maybe being dropped at the top of a mountain from a helicopter. Again, these are things he never got to experience – he only got dream about them. And those dreams are gone now.
As we all know, he loved to drive. He loved to drive his Jetta and absolutely loved to drive his six speed RX-8. Windows down, sunroof open, stereo wailing away, wearing his cool Ray Bans and his ski cap. He would have Eminem or some rap artist playing, but not too loud – he liked to hear the motor running and the sound the tires made against the pavement. Thanks to one of my closest friends, Andrew also got to experience driving an amazing Porsche. What a smile he had and exhilaration he felt. In that instant he knew he wanted one. He could feel that was in his future. All of a sudden he had a goal he wanted to achieve. We also talked about going to driving school in CT together – where they teach performance driving – emergency handling, high speed turns, handling spin outs, learning how to corner better and to really take advantage of what his Mazda could do.
But once again, he was cheated. We both were.
We were also supposed to play in an adult hockey league his last summer. But his broken hand prevented that. It took away our father and son time – it cheated us both. Luckily we did play in a few games together the prior summer, and I will cherish those memories. Andrew said I was too slow on the ice, and I couldn’t shoot – like I needed my son to tell me that. He said if I stand in front of the net, he would pass me the puck so I could score. I am not sure if that worked or not, but at least he tried. I see so many other dads from my adult league playing hockey with their kids, and I know I am being cheated out of that. I see the pictures of them together on Facebook, huge proud smiles on their faces. And I will miss that. Maybe Nicole will let me play on her team one day.
Making ice cream at the Farm
I look in his room at what he did have. Bracelets he made at the farm. Wrist bands from the cruises we took. An armrest from his high school auditorium. Some broken hockey sticks, trophies too many to count, and I smile at those things. I smile at what is there, what he left behind of his experiences.
Playing shuffleboard at the farm
I know he loved going to the farm. He had such good farm friends that meant so much to him. He kept everything he ever made at the farm to remind him of the good time. This past summer, our farm friends made Dorothy and me a scrapbook of pictures of Andrew, and notes from those who knew him at the farm. It means so much to us to have that scrapbook. We know how long it must have taken them to make it, and we appreciate it, we look at it all the time.
He loved to spend time with his friends in town, by the woods, or in a parking lot nearby. Just hanging out. He would sit out there with the same people for hours and hours and talk about the same stuff over and over again – all the while with no shoes on. I guess the no shoes was an Andrew and Wally thing.
I see his paintball markers (guns). He had pods, and masks, and bags, and all the other accessories that he needed to play for hours. Back in school, he and a bunch of his friends would go to Park Lane, where there were dozens of unexplored acres and they would play all day. They would break for lunch and grandma was always glad to make something for him and his friends, or we would have pizza brought in, then back to the paint.
Some of our closest friends with us on a cruise
He also has the ticket board I wrote about before. How many kids his age go to experience The Who in concert – not once but twice.
We all go to see an unforgettable evening with Meatloaf in the front of a very small venue. He went to numerous Jets games, Rangers games, playoff games, World Series, NBA Finals, and so on. He was a certified Scuba diver at thirteen and we dove all over the Caribbean – together – especially with his sister and mother.
There are so many things to smile at in his room. I have to learn, as so many others have, to treasure what he did get to see and do, to treasure what he treasured, and to know he had a great life.
So I look up in first class, and I know he never got to experience that. But what he did experience was amazing. What Dorothy and I were able to give him during his lifetime makes us happy. Now I can close my eyes, take my nap, and know that for the few short years that I had him, I gave him whatever I could.
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Is it my fault?
Did I do something wrong? Did I miss something? Could I have done something differently?
What could I have done to save my child? Where did I drop the ball? Where did I let my child down?
There are many stages of grief. Some people say there are eight, some say there are five, while others say there are eleven or so. But this is the one stage of grief that everyone has on their list. Some call it anger – anger that we didn’t do something we could have – or that the doctors didn’t do something that we could have asked or pushed for. Some call it reflection – where we reflect on what happened and deal with it. While others call it self-blame. No matter what you call it, no matter where it lies on the list, no matter how much you don’t want to face it, every bereaved parent does. It is a healthy and a required step to deal with, and resolve, in order to move on to the next stage of your grief.
Fault, blame, responsibility, maybe omission, accountability. Whatever you call it –
was it my fault? That is the question that haunts so many of us.
A couple we are friends with, lost their child when she fell down a flight of stairs after she had drunk too much.
They were not there, she was in his twenties and lived alone. She came home from a wedding and while trying to open the door to her apartment, she lost his balance and fell backwards down the stairs. They blamed themselves for a long period of time. They were mad that they didn’t drive her home that last night to make sure she got into bed. They were mad that they didn’t teach her better not to drink so much, or to ask someone for help if she was in no condition to get home alone. But as off base as that is, as much as we all see it was not their fault, they still had to reflect on what they could have done differently. In no way could they have foreseen this. No way could they have brought her up differently to prevent this tragic accident. But still, it took them time to get over it and realize that they were not to blame.
For many parents, especially those of young men who pass away from drug overdoses, it is particularly hard. They looked at their sons over several months or years and watched as they deteriorated. They saw what was going on and the drugs taking over their child’s life. They helped them by sending them to rehab facilities, both locally and far away. They spent tens of thousands of dollars at the best places that were available. They helped their sons by bringing them to doctors who were so called “experts” on addiction. They educated themselves on addiction in order to help their boys. They stayed home with them when they needed it. They showered them with love and praise and gave them everything they could to help them get through the addiction.
And yet, they died. And yet, they still overdosed. They ran away from the facilities, they found the drugs they needed, they got back together with those who were such terrible influences on them. And they tragically died. Very young.
Those parents ask themselves every day – what could I have done differently? What more could I have done? Where did I fail my son? And they cry over it. Not only for their loss, but for the blame that they feel.
But they didn’t fail. There was nothing more they could have done. They tried their best and their children knew it. They spent their money wisely, and they did their research. But addiction is a massive disease, and there are no rehab facilities that really work. Addiction is overwhelming and all-consuming. Some people, especially those with co-occurring disorders(*), just can’t get over their addiction. The doctors and the therapists just don’t work sometime. It is hard for me to say, and hard for many to understand, but these young men were destined to pass away young. They were stricken not only with ADD, ADHD, OCS, but they also had very addictive personalities.
Their parents go through a long time of remorse and thinking of what else they could have done. And until they learn that they did everything they could have, it is hard for them to get over their grief and pain. No, it was not their fault. If their sons were here today, when they come to them in their dreams, when they come through a psychic, they all say – it wasn’t your fault – you did everything you could do.
Even for me, was it my fault? I look back and question myself. Three days before Andrew passed away he asked me for a new skateboard to go to and from classes with. His current one (of many) was getting old and slow. I of course wanted to make him happy, so we went out the next day and bought him one. It had great IBEK 7 gliding ball bearings built for speed, and wheels built for cornering and traction, and the board itself had great flex designed for control. But was it too much for him? Was the board over his abilities? If I had bought him a slower, cheaper, board maybe he would not have fallen that day and broken his hand. And if he had not fallen and broken his hand he would not have taken the medications the doctors prescribed. And if he would not have taken the medications, his lungs would not have shut down at night. And he would still be with us today. That thought process plays out in my head over and over again. And the doubt that I could have done something different is always there.
It has taken me a long time, but I realize it was not my fault. There was nothing that I could have done to stop what happened. If I had made him wear wrist guards, would that have helped? Maybe. Or a helmet? Maybe. But it was not to be. This is the way he was, this is the situation that happened, and what happened was a freak accident, and it caused my son his life. It changed so many other lives as well. But it was no one’s fault. It was not his fault, nor was it mine. And that has taken me a long, long time to realize.
A friend’s son passed away recently of complications from cystic fibrosis. She is going through the blame process now, and I feel for her. She was there to protect her son. She was there in the hospital to make sure he got the best medical treatment possible. She did all that. She fought for him, she guarded him, she held his hand. She did everything right – and yet he is gone. She is left with dealing with his loss and the blame game.
Unfortunately he was stricken with a debilitating and deadly disease. She loved him. He was a successful person in life because of her. He taught Yoga and Philosophy – that she should be proud of. In her thoughts, did she do enough to protect and save him? It will take her weeks, or months, or years. One day she will come to peace with her answer. She will be at ease, realizing that she did everything right. He passed away because of a disease – not because she missed something, or for something she could have done. She has to realize that one day in order to move on in life, in order to properly grieve, in order to smile one day. She will always cry for her loss, she will always cry for her son, but the tears will be of memories, not of fault.
We all have to realize that one day. As I said, for some it takes months, for others it takes years. And for some, the unfortunate few, it never happens.
Even for the parents of a child who passed away from a brain hemorrhage in just a few short hours – could they have gotten him to the hospital faster, or could they have recognized he was tired sooner? It was not their fault.
Or the parents whose child was kidnapped and murdered. Did they not teach her to be safer? Did they not give her the tools to properly protect herself? Did they not teach their son not to race his car? Where did they fail? Where did they mess up?
Or the child that passed away in a ski accident, or playing hockey, or from anorexia/bulemia. It was no one’s fault. It just happened.
Is it their fault? No. No. No. Easier said than accepted. Easier listened to than learned. It is one of those stages of grief that many grieving parents get stuck in – sometimes forever. But it is one that we all must face, and we all must look into the deepest recesses of our minds and deal with. We have to realize we did protect our children the best we knew how. We did everything we could have done to protect them, to love them, and to shelter them. But somehow they passed away. Somehow they got cheated out of the rest of their lives. And in order for us, those that they left behind, not to get cheated out of the rest of our lives, not to cheat the family that they left behind, we must face this question and answer it. Answer it only to ourselves. And then move on to loving our missing children forever, knowing that they are still loving us and will be there forever loving us.
“You cannot save someone – you can only love them” – anonymous
For more information on co-occurring disorders – please see the Harris Project -/theharrisprojectCOD
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Andrew was 21. We had 21 amazing years with him. Julius was only two and a half. Lisa was thirty four.
But their losses are equally hard on us.
We had Andrew for only twenty-one years. Or should we say we had him for a full twenty one years? We got to watch him grow up, to learn to walk and talk and go to school. We were able to be there with him to celebrate his Bar Mitzvah and to stand with him for his high school ice hockey senior night. We watched him graduate high school and get into his first choice college. We even got to help him select his major and make it three-quarters of the way there. We feel so blessed for the time we had him.
Buy what did we miss?
There are so many things. We missed to chance to see him graduate from college. We missed him starting his first job and hearing about his first day at work. We miss joining him as he started a family, and having children of his own to raise. And most of all we missed him growing in a fine father and family man.
And we missed so much more.
But we did get to see so much.
Mark and Elaine had their wonderful daughter, Lisa, for thirty four years. They got to experience many of the childhood and teenage events we had with Andrew, plus more. They were there to celebrate their daughter’s graduation from law school. They saw Lisa grow into a successful attorney over the years, buy her own apartment in Manhattan, fill it with beautiful art, and make partner at her firm. These are things we will never see.
But does that make it harder or easier on them losing her?
Are they more blessed than we were with the time we had Andrew? They got to see so much more than we did. They got to have their daughter for another twelve or so more years than we had our son. They experienced so much more. So maybe it is harder – they became so much more attached over those years and grew to know her so much more. Or was it not so devastating? She had lived a lot longer, she experienced more, and she left them with so many more memories.
And then there is Julian. He passed at only two and a half years old of a brain hemorrhage. His parents were only able to shower him with love and affection for thirty-two months. Were they better off than us?
Their time together was so much shorter. But they never got to hear Julian speak his first sentences or watch him learn to run and play. They never saw him make friends or have his first day in school. He never told them that he loved them – like Andrew told us so often.
That must hurt them so much never to have heard these words. They nurtured him for two and a half years, only to have him taken away suddenly and with no warning.
And now they live with watching other children, Julian’s friends and relatives, grow up all around them. They know in their minds that Julian would have started school this year – and they missed dropping him off his first day. His friends are now speaking and talking in sentences and asking questions. They are running around and playing and growing, something that they will never experience with their son.
Is it harder on the grieving parent who only had their child a short time and never got to experience these milestones of their children’s lives? They put so much time, patience and love into the earlier years and to have nothing to show for it all of a sudden. Now they have to live their entire lives asking themselves what would it have been like if our beloved child was still here. Or is it easier on them because they never had the years to get attached to their child and to develop that relationship that takes years and years?
How about the child that passed at fifty of cancer? He leaves behind a loving wife and three young children. How hard it is on his parents? They had him for so many years, he has left behind a legacy of grandchildren that will continue to grow and love. Although he is not with us anymore, his family is, and that means so much.
It’s not just us who lost Andrew. Everyone lost him.
Now for the reality? There really is no difference. No one suffers less, no one suffers more. How long we had our child makes no difference at all. The parent who lost their daughter after a year suffers just as much as the one who’s love was for twenty-one years, or fifty years. The fact is, losing a child is a devastating loss.
There are no words that can be spoken to a parent who lost a child to give them comfort. The loss is so devastating, so indescribable, that there is not even a term to describe a parent who has lost a child – for any reason, at any age. It is something that just puts a parent into a place that can not even be described.
Why did I write this then? Why, if it is so hypothetical, so speculative, to compare the losses? Because it is something that we talk about in our bereavement groups. It is something that other parents talk to us about, both bereaved and those lucky enough not to be. It is something that should be talked about and needs to be talked about.
There is a saying that we hear a lot in our new circles – it almost sums it up.
When you lose a parent, you lose your past.
When you lose a spouse, you lose your present.
But, when you lose a child, you lose your future.
I hope you understand this.
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