Darkness and Light: The Suicide Blog

My mother, who died in 2001, would have been 65 years old this past Sunday. I say died because that's what happened to her. She didn't 'pass away' as people are so fond of saying, as when an elderly person drifts off to peaceful sleep and simply doesn't awaken. Most people in my life know already that my mother took her own life. They may or may not know that in our last conversation she was angry and disappointed with me, and that I was the one to find her body the following day.

I've come to understand that this is a more common experience than many people realize. I've never been a part of a suicide survivors group or anything like it, but I've still had two girlfriends who lost their mothers this way and several acquaintances who have lost loved ones to self-harm as well.

Homecoming Queen, 1965

When I was young and my mother (who battled her whole life with trauma and mental illness) would threaten or attempt to kill herself, I would run a gamut of emotional reactions, ranging from absolute desperation to keep her alive, all the way to a self-protecting cold acceptance. The first was totally unlivable; the latter became a hardness within me that I have both battled against and called upon for strength in later years.

Even now, I cannot imagine the kind of pain she must have been in: how desperate she must have felt herself, or how in her calmer moments she must have regretted the behaviors that put such a distance between us. In my calmer moments, the naive writer inside me thought suicide was sort of a romantic, noble end. I thought of Sylvia Plath and Virginia Woolf and their tortured beauty. Buddhist monks burning themselves to death in protest of the Vietnam War. Romeo and Juliet.

The reality, when it came years later, felt both shocking and inevitable. I was stunned and saddened by her death, but also ashamed that I felt something else on both our behalf: relief.  After years of threats and attempts and close calls, decades of walking on eggshells and bending myself into impossible knots trying to avoid this very thing... the thing had happened. It could never be undone, and it could never happen again. As we said goodbye and scattered her ashes in a garden, I could not hold back the thought: It's done. She can never hurt me like this again.

It does hurt again, though. Over and over. I've written before about the longing I feel almost daily for my mother - whether it's the mother she was or the mother I wished for, I will never be sure. When I first heard my sons' cries in the delivery room, they echoed with her absence. She missed comforting me through a painful divorce, she missed meeting the true love of my life and father of my children, she missed my journey to Judaism and all the richness that has come with it. She has missed about a thousand nights or days when I have wanted to pick up the phone to call her: for advice, for comfort, for a laugh, for the gossip she was always willing to relate (with her own peppering of outrage, of course).

My parents, Huntsville, AL 1973

She missed the death of my father, with whom I firmly believe she was always in love and vice versa, even years after their divorce. I like to think they're together now, watching our kids and laughing at our trials. These things could be any story of a parent lost early, except there is an additional and painful element: choice. She chose to miss these things. At least, that's how it feels in my moments of anger.

Survivors of suicide are entitled to our anger. Nothing hurts quite so much as being left voluntarily by someone who was supposed to love you forever. You find yourself constantly wondering what you could have done differently, how you might have saved the person from their pain. You wonder what you did wrong. And all the platitudes and kind voices and "there, there, it wasn't about you," in the world don't make that feeling go away. At least not entirely.

Thirteen years later, and after working in a profession in which part of my job was to prevent people harming themselves, I have come to realize something else about my mother and others like her. It's almost ironic that my mother had Dissociative Identity Disorder (previously known as Multiple Personality Disorder) because in her true self state, she had almost no filter, no ability to be disingenuous. Maybe her brain needed to allow her to be more than one person because she had no ability to be anyone other than herself on purpose.

My mother didn't tell little conversational white lies or make small talk like the rest of us do. She didn't pretend to be interested when she wasn't, and she could not turn off the caring and empathic part of herself that reached out to all those in pain. If she asked "how are you?" it's because she really wanted to know. She could not walk away from a homeless person with a story to tell. She could not watch her poor neighbors go hungry even when she could barely feed herself. Until my father insisted that she stop, she picked up hitchhikers in our family van, even with my brother and me in the backseat.

For Mom, there was nothing about herself that was better or higher than anyone else, nothing that could be kept separate from the injustice she saw in the world. In the psychology realm, we would label this as a 'boundary issue.' That is true in terms of her own mental health, but it's also true that the world needs people like my mother. In many ways, her giving of her whole self to the world around her was the living example of the human spirit. She was the embodiment of the Jewish concept of Tzedakah, which means both 'charity' and 'justice.'

We need her and others like her, even though they wound us so deeply by not caring enough for themselves. My mother gave herself over to pain because that was her experience of reality, and yet she kept her faith in God, the world, my brother and others (and, I hope, in me).

I believe there are people in this world who feel things more deeply, more personally, than most of us can bear to do. Whatever the reasons, whatever the causes, they carry with them a kindness and vulnerability so deep that it is both a treasure and a burden. They either don't have or don't use the protective filter that "healthy" people use to turn off pain and heartache so that we can function. (Don't get me wrong, the world needs us, too -- someone has to keep things working and stay strong for those who are not strong themselves).

I believe we have to learn from those among us like my mother, those who might be labeled as 'too sensitive,' 'impractical' or even 'crazy.' We can learn from their artistic talents, unbridled empathy and sense of justice, because we need those to maintain our basic humanity. We also have to help ground them and keep them safe and strong when we can.

But we can't always.

Sometimes their burden is simply too much to bear. Sometimes the depth of their feelings becomes an abyss from which they cannot return, even though they might desperately want to come back to us. Sometimes we must stand at the edge and say goodbye, realizing that we cannot change who they are, nor can we alter or even fully understand their fate. We have to bear our own burden of their loss, with as much grace and genuineness as we can muster.

When my mom died, the world truly lost a light of love. It was extinguished in the darkness of her own personal torment, gone to a place I cannot know or understand. As for me, I will keep my filters and boundaries and "healthy" mental state - such as it is. I will stay strong for my family for as long as I am able, because hers will not be my fate. But I will think of Mom when we put coins in our Tzedakah box, and whenever I have an opportunity to create justice in my own little corner of the world.

I cannot bring her light back to our lives, but I can try to rekindle it in the family she never got to know. We can build on her legacy, and in that sense, the light will never really go out.

The Voice

It seems writers are always talking about voice. Finding your voice, choosing a voice for a story... and even, on some occasions, hearing voices. (No one ever said we writers were the most mentally stable crowd.)

On a personal note today, I'd like to join the rest of the University of Georgia's Bulldog Nation in saying goodbye to a familiar and beloved voice: our longtime football play-by-play announcer Larry Munson, who passed away on Sunday night. 

Larry Munson was a spirited and colorful part of my alma mater's football tradition, and for many of us who grew up in Georgia, he was as much a part of fall Saturdays as washing the car or raking the leaves. Larry called the games for 40 years in his signature gravelly voice, using metaphors that were always lively, if occasionally incomprehensible. [Many will long remember his remark, ''We just stepped on their face with a hobnailed boot and broke their nose!'' after a big touchdown pass against Tennessee in 2001.] Since his retirement in 2008, there has been a void on fall Saturdays for Georgia fans everywhere, a void that deepened Sunday night on the news of his death. 

For me, the loss of Larry Munson is not so much about football, but rather the echo of a deeper loss. To be honest with you, I was never a huge football person, and it's only been in recent years that I have embraced watching UGA football on a regular basis. In fact, during the five years that I studied at UGA, I went to maybe four football games. And even then, it was mostly for the pre-game beer.

When I was growing up, though, my Dad watched and listened to the games religiously. Never mind that he didn't go to UGA, never mind that he spent most of his career working for in-state rival Georgia Tech. He was a bulldog fan through and through, and I can still remember the crackling sound of Larry Munson's voice on the AM radio while Dad cleaned the garage or worked in the basement. I wasn't really interested in the game itself, but my Dad was my hero back then. I didn't think anything was more perfect than a sunny Saturday watching him working around the house in paint-splattered jeans and a sweatshirt.

In recent years, things had changed. Dad didn't do as much around the house anymore, and didn't seem to enjoy life with the same fervor I remember from my childhood. Our relationship changed, too, as our family went through a series of painful experiences. While we were always pretty solid, there were strains between us that didn't exist when I was a kid. It wasn't long ago that I found myself nostalgic and longing for those quiet Saturdays when things seemed simpler. When the sound of Larry Munson's voice was the backdrop for moments of calm amidst the chaos. 

When Dad was diagnosed with lung cancer earlier this year, I was especially devastated because I felt that the birth of my older son (and the expectation of the younger) had finally brought us together in a way that we'd been missing. In fact, we watched more Georgia football games together in the last two years than we had in a decade. The last time I saw my Dad, he came to our house in early September -- you guessed it -- to watch the football game. Georgia lost that game to Boise State, but it doesn't matter. We had a great time together, and I'm so happy we had the presence of mind to take pictures of our family in Red & Black, sitting together, with my one-month-old son cradled in his Granddad's affectionate arms.

Dad died a little over two weeks later. Needless to say, the rest of the season has been bittersweet for me. The Dawgs are going to the SEC championship, but my Dad isn't here to enjoy it with our family, or to tirelessly analyze every step of the way with my husband. This past Saturday I got a message from one of Dad's best friends in the world, who he has known and loved since graduate school: "Guess I'll never glance at a Georgia football game and not think of your Dad." Me, either.

When a public figure passes away, we all have our own connections and reasons to mourn. I know I am not alone in missing Larry Munson, not just for who he was for my school, but who he represented in my life. For the memories and feelings that come flooding back whenever I hear that famous voice.

Thank you, Larry. You'll be missed more than you know.

Haunted

Last night we took the boys Trick-or-Treating with some friends and had a great time. I didn't know whether Monkey would be able to keep up with the four- to seven-year-old crowd on his little two-year-old pirate legs, but he was a champ. I don't think he cares much about the candy yet -- last night he had perhaps his third piece ever and tried to eat the wrapper. Rookie mistake. But the thrill of running from house to house filling his bucket was irresistible and he loved every minute.

Apparently, the porch light code (lights on = candy, lights off = go away) either no longer applies or the people in this particular neighborhood weren't paying much attention to it. So the older boys who were leading our group adopted a scouting approach to each house, running ahead to ring doorbells and shouting back to the younger kids and adults whether each house held the promise of candy or was deserted. I'm not sure why, but after a while, they started saying that the empty houses were "haunted." I guess at six or seven, a lack of candy can be pretty scary.

So I started thinking about the concept of haunted houses. In my current philosophical state, I moved pretty quickly to thinking about haunted people. We all are, aren't we? Maybe not by ghosts and spirits, but by other things: Regret. Loss. Doubt.

Personally, I am haunted by mistakes I've made, things unsaid, and (perhaps more often) things I wish I hadn't said. I am haunted by song lyrics and poetry and even news stories. I'm haunted by longings for things I want desperately and things I can't even name. I'm haunted by reminders that life is short, unpredictable and makes no promises. Even when I count my blessings, I see their shadow -- the knowledge that everything is fleeting and nothing (no one) is mine forever.

Thirteen years ago I was hiking in the Scottish highlands, along a steep and rocky ridge next to a river valley. I'd been wandering around with nothing but a backpack and a credit card for nearly six months, and everything I owned was either strapped to my back or resting a few miles away in a tent, behind a tiny luggage lock. My companion and I had been hiking for hours in silence, waving away the midges and struggling for breath as we ascended into the thin Scottish air.

As we neared the top of a hill, we heard a sudden roar as a black RAF fighter jet zipped between our ridge and the one across the little valley. It flew past us almost at eye level, looking smaller than it sounded, and turned sharply to climb into the blue sky before disappearing over the next mountain. Another jet followed suit, and they both made a couple of passes between the mountains before eventually sliding off into the distance. (We learned later that the area in which we were hiking was a common training ground for fighter pilots to practice rough terrain).

Once they were gone, the beautiful mountain scene returned to its original quiet state and we almost wondered if we had imagined the jets entirely. It was pretty surreal. We continued our climb to the top of the ridge, took pictures, and worked our way back to the campsite a few hours later.

I can't say why, but I am haunted by that moment, even today. Maybe it was the intrusion of technology (instruments of war, no less) on my peaceful hike across the unspoiled Scottish countryside. But I have to admit that seeing the planes was a thrill, rather than a nuisance. Perhaps it was the way the scene changed and then returned to its former state so quickly -- a fleeting moment in time that can never be recaptured.

Or maybe it's because I felt freer in that moment than I have at any other time in my life. Even if it was a completely artificial way of existing, there was something liberating about being 22: carrying all I needed in one well-worn backpack, moving from place to place, snapping pictures and writing in my journal as though it were a real job. Climbing mountains just because they were there to be climbed.

Of course, I can't have that moment in my life back again. And frankly, I wouldn't want it back. There's too much that is wonderful and essential in my totally tied down, mortgage-paying, cheerio-sweeping life. But there are plenty of moments I would like to get back, to relive in a slightly different way. To hold my tongue in a precarious social situation. To speak up for someone who needed it. To hug my parents a little longer, and take the time to write down their stories, the ones I always assumed I'd be hearing again someday. So many choices I look back on and wish I could try out a different path. But then I wouldn't be where I am, wouldn't have the blessings I have. I'd be in an alternate universe that might be less perfect than my current life.

If you've read THE MARRIAGE PACT, you may have picked up on the theme of choices, and how they help weave the story of our lives. My next book is called REGRETS ONLY, and I hope -- through Suzanne's very unique lens -- it will at least touch on the idea of being haunted. By the past, by roads not taken, by moments and relationships lost forever.

Speaking of which, today is the first day of National Novel Writing Month (NaNoWriMo). While I don't think I can crank out the 3,000 words a day I would need to complete REGRETS before December 1, I'm planning to make major progress this month and will keep you posted.

If you've been waiting for a cue to take a leap in your own life, here it is: November is a great time to seize a moment and accomplish something you've always wanted to do -- whether it's write a novel or pretty much anything else. We cannot recapture the past, but sometimes we can avoid regrets in the future, or at least choose what kind they will be. Better to regret the pain of loss, than of never having put your heart on the line in the first place.

So, good luck and get busy (or unbusy, if that's your thing), because time really does fly.

Words, Words, Words

I've had language on the brain this week.

First and rather unpleasantly, there is the language of the law. Despite a house-wide lack of sleep, the major disruption in our family right now relates to one poorly-written phrase in an outdated will of my father's. It's a long story I can't tell in detail, but there's an outside chance that a few unfortunate words may mean that a substantial portion of the modest inheritance Dad intended for me, my brother and my children could be siphoned off to someone else.

So instead of being free to grieve his loss and undertake the management of his estate, I am gearing up for a potential legal battle that can only end in tears and wounded family relationships. While frustrating and heartbreaking, it's a survivable event. Whatever happens, life will go on.

It's well-known that the legal world does not always share language with the average person, or even common sense. I was talking about this the other day with a friend whose husband is an attorney, and she recalled a time when he ripped up a will they had recently written in case of emergency while they were traveling. Upon re-reading the document, he realized that one particular word in the will would actually negate their overall intentions and cause major problems for their friends and family. One word. Sheesh.

I can read something and think it means one thing, while my lawyer sees something entirely different. We both speak English, as did the author, but it's like the difference between me staring up at the starry night sky and Stephen Hawking regarding the same scene. One sloppy turn of phrase written 37 years ago could impact many lives today, and undermine the whole purpose of a document. A painful reminder to the writer about the power of words.

On the other, more fun end of life and the language spectrum is my two-year-old. He is learning to talk in the messy way with which two-year-olds do everything. He picks up words and phrases immediately after hearing them and uses them -- right or wrong -- over and over and over again. He does this with wild abandon, until eventually he narrows down their meanings on his own. (And on his own terms).

My son is absolutely reckless with language and does not worry a bit about being wrong. One of his favorite new word games is to hold up his index finger dramatically and say, "Mommy, I have ONE question." Of course I oblige and say, "What's that, babe?" and then he grins broadly and picks a nearby object as inspiration to give me a one-word response: "Car!" "Box!" "Window!" "Candle!"

When I gently try to explain that those things aren't questions, they're, well, things -- it seems to fall on deaf ears. I try giving examples of questions as demonstration: "How are you?" "Where are we going?" etc. But rather than picking up on the definition of the word 'question' by illustration, he just answers all the example questions. Hilarious. And then we go back to what he really wants to do anyway, which is play the "I have a question" game his way.

I don't press the point. I'm almost positive that by the time it matters, he'll have worked out what the word 'question' really means, whether I try to teach it to him or not. And honestly, I love watching him explore the world this way -- shoving the square peg relentlessly into the round hole, not caring whether it fits at all. He's absolutely confident in his worldview, even though it may change from moment to moment. It's wonderful.

In the meantime, I find myself singing to both of my boys more than ever. Not just the traditional lullabies and kids' songs, but the music my Dad loved. He used to have classic and folk rock stockpiled in the car for long road trips: Crosby, Stills and Nash; Neil Diamond; Elton John; Simon & Garfunkel; Joni Mitchell; Janis Joplin; Roger Miller; Peter, Paul & Mary.... and lots of others. At 16, I thought these artists were mostly lame and outdated (or at least, that's what I claimed when I wanted to listen to Guns 'N' Roses or Nirvana instead). But now, those songs are the legacy through which I fondly remember both my parents, and that I try to share with my children.

The other night, I sang "Goodbye Yellow Brick Road" to my two-month old while I rocked him to sleep. I thought about Dad and our road trips, and how the lyrics of that song used be so full of mystery to me -- before I had an adult's perspective. Now I see so many things differently, and I turn to wonder how my boys will come to love and explore the mysteries of their world.

As a mother, I can't promise what the future will hold for my kids. But I hope I can pass on some of the wonderful characteristics of my parents to them, even if only through snippets of melodies and old song lyrics.


As a writer, I realize I have to tie all of this together to create anything worthwhile. The reckless abandon and unadulterated joy of a two-year old trying things out -- unafraid of results. The surgical precision of the lawyer who must have every word at its best and most meaningful. The love of a daughter/mother trying to capture a legacy for her children.

Writing is a journey that mirrors life. Somewhere along the road, I have to embody all those things to tell the stories of my heart. I'm not always sure how to do that, but I'm lucky to have some wonderful souls in the minivan with me. And great traveling music, naturally.

Writing the Good Fight

I posted my last blog entry seven weeks ago today. Two days later, my son was born. A beautiful 8-pound baby boy who looks like his father and loves to be held by his mommy. He is my treasure. Big brother is so proud -- already trying to show him the ropes.

The birth was difficult, though, and ended with an unplanned Cesarean. This meant a challenging recovery for everyone in our family, especially since I couldn't lift our older son for 4 weeks after my surgery. We had lots of help from our amazing friends and family, though, and somehow made it to the four-week mark.

Then, just after midnight the next day, my Dad died. He had known about his lung cancer since May and was undergoing treatment, but we thought he was responding well and at least had a few more months left. So his death was both expected and shocking at the same time. I don't think I'm ready to write much about Dad just yet, but I know I'll get there. He has always been a voice in my head whenever I had a decision to make, and I'm pretty sure I will always be trying to make him proud.

In the meantime, I am trying to unravel the mysteries of the probate system, work through the normal sleep deprivation that comes with a newborn, and figure out what normal is like from here. Several people have asked me when my next book is coming out, and I'm flattered by what is a really good question.

A blank page is a challenge at any time. But when you're feeling beat down and overwhelmed by real life, it is especially hard to face. Don't even get me started on trying to conjure up readable fiction while bouncing a baby seat with your foot, trying to get a little one to sleep.

That doesn't mean I shouldn't take on the blank page. After several weeks away from writing, and away from my work-in-progress, I am realizing that writing is part of what makes me feel human and normal. When I can't get to my computer, I write in my head. I do this constantly, sometimes without even realizing I'm doing it. In the shower. In the car. In the wee hours of the morning while I'm nursing the baby.

It's not always fiction, and it's rarely the latest chapter of my current project. More often I write snippets of prose, stream of consciousness narration, random connections between real life and the million stories I create in my head. Some of these snippets make it out of the shower or the car and onto a page. They might get woven in with a current story, or simply jotted down for future reference. Others just float away with the steam. I've done this since I was a little girl, and it's part of who I am, even when it's hard to distill anything out onto the page (or the screen).

So, the answer to the question of when the next book is coming is, I don't know. Given everything that has happened, and the fact that it's taken me three hours just to write this blog while caring for a fussy baby, the pace won't be a speedy one. But it's coming. I've never been one to stay down for long, and writing is one of the ways I find the strength to get off the floor.

Pride, Joy and Sadness

It's been a banner few days at our house. If you've read the last couple of blog entries, you know that I somehow managed to wrangle what was a story in my head six months ago into an actual, published e-book yesterday. (The paperback and non-Kindle versions are coming soon.) It might sell 10 copies or 10,000, but I'm pretty proud of the achievement no matter what happens.

I'm not the only one earning my stripes at our house. Not only did Hubby single-handedly cut up an entire fallen tree in our backyard with a hack saw this weekend, but tonight he brought in the first squash from our summer vegetable garden, where he's been working all spring.

Monkey will be two in a little over a week, and he just learned to count to SIX, in the right order and everything. He's an amazing little boy with a sweet nature and a goofy sense of humor. He loves trains, just like his namesake, a man I knew as a loving grandfather and who raised my mother from the time she was nine. And in about three months, he's going to be a big brother to another little boy who I know will bring equal joy to our lives.

All of this good stuff is laced with a little sadness, since my mother is not here to share in it. She died ten years ago today, and it's hard for me to believe that a decade has passed. I've been thinking for the last couple of months that I would have more to say to mark this milestone: about mothers and daughters in general, and about my own mother specifically. Her spark, her humor, her seemingly endless ability to love those around her (especially my brother and me).

I have to admit, though, now that the day is here, I am at a bit of a loss for words. Maybe it's because both the happy and challenging events of the last couple of months have overcrowded the more reflective emotions of a loss I have lived with for so long. Obviously on some level that's true.

The other thing, the harder thing, is this: when someone you love chooses to take her own life, the grief is different, the pain is different -- even ten years later. Just as sadness lingers, ebbing and flowing with the events of the years, so do the guilt and the anger. I still miss my mom every day, a feeling that has intensified since Monkey came along and I know how much she would have loved and enjoyed him (and vice versa). Underneath that longing will always be two unspoken questions: "How could you choose to leave me?" and "What could I have done to stop you?" Of course there are no answers.

I know from talking to others who have lost loved ones to suicide that these questions are an inevitable part of our reality. I also know that nothing is that simple. So rather than try to unravel the mystery of her choice, or linger on the complexities of our relationship when she was alive, today I focus on what I loved about her: her passion for music, boundless generosity, deep faith, beautiful singing voice, wonderful laugh, enormous capacity for friendship, and much more.

I try -- with mixed results -- to cultivate those characteristics in myself, and I already see them reflected in my son day by day. I believe that is what life, however it ends, is all about: leaving behind something of yourself that can be cherished and passed on in the hearts and memories of those who follow. My mother's life was imperfect and her death tragic; but her legacy can be beautiful. Ten years later, that's the story I would rather write.

What I Would Say if I Could

If my mom were alive, she'd be 62 today. Anyone who's lost someone close to them knows that birthdays and holidays take on extra significance when you are missing someone important in your life. Days like this I often imagine what things might be like if she had lived.... and I always come to the conclusion that we'd still be driving each other nuts.

It seems we never really appreciate people until they're no longer around. I guess that's because all the friction of actually being in a relationship with another human being is taken away and we are left to enjoy and long for the relationship itself.

So sometimes instead of imagining what it would be like if she were still alive, I imagine what I would say to her if the gap between our two planes of existence (whatever that means) were temporarily bridged... if I could talk to her again from right here and now, or even send a letter to the proverbial Other Side. That letter changes daily, of course. Here's what it looks like today.


Dear Mom,
It sounds obvious to say that I think about you all the time, but I do. I miss you. I have always missed you, even when you were still alive but unable to be really present with me. But now that I am a mom myself, I long for you in a way that makes my heart ache with loss and missed opportunities.

You must know, from wherever you are, that we have a little boy now. He's named after your dad and has a funny, laid-back spirit just like his namesake. I imagine that you look in on him from time to time; and sometimes, when he laughs in his sleep, I think I can almost see you there, hovering around the edge of my reality, holding him in a way that only the two of you can know.

I know you are laughing when you watch me struggling with my new role -- especially at those frequent moments when I realize I haven't the foggiest idea what to do next. You'll be glad to know that the little guy has humbled me -- I've come to appreciate all you did for us in ways that I never did before.

So today, instead of just saying "I miss you," I'd also like to say "thank you." For loving me and making sure that I knew it, regardless of how hard life was for you. For singing to me with your beautiful voice (I try to sing to your grandson daily, but I didn't inherit your talent -- it won't be long before he's begging me to stop). For teaching me to be a part of something greater than myself. For doing everything you could to make me feel incredibly special and valuable. I didn't realize until long after you were gone what a tremendous gift that was, and what joy you took in giving it.

Thanks, Mom, for teaching me about love and inspiring me to share it. Happy Birthday.

A Decade in the Life: Part Two

Neither of us had so much as set foot in Austin before we pulled into town with a U-haul in mid-2000. We got a crappy apartment and I landed another temp job -- this time in the resource development department at the Red Cross, where I was pretty much guaranteed to perform better than the previous temp -- who had been mysteriously (and quite unexpectedly) taken out of the office by the SWAT team one afternoon. A few days with no sign of law enforcement, and I was hired. Thus began my career in fundraising.

For the next year or so, I learned the ropes in development – grant-writing, special events, schmoozing. Meanwhile, our close friendship (usually a good thing) and mutual stubbornness prevented MDexH and I from noticing the cracks in the foundation of our marriage. So we did what married people do – we bought a house, adopted two dogs, and added a kitten (who I found wounded and scared in the drive-thru of a Jack in the Box and brought home in a French-fry box). The music and culture in Austin was everything we’d heard it would be. Life chugged forward.

Until June of 2001, when a devastating event I’d been semi-anticipating most of my life came to fruition. I went home to Atlanta for a friend’s wedding; and made plans to see both my parents along with some of my lifelong friends at home. We’d arranged to pick up my mom – who’d had chronic physical and mental health issues nearly all my life – for lunch a couple days after the wedding.

As I called her to confirm in the days and hours before we were supposed to meet and continually got the machine, I began to have a sinking feeling that all was not right. We’d had a minor spat on the phone right after I arrived in town, and after years of struggling with her through mental illness and its accompanying behaviors, I was worried. When we arrived to pick her up and she didn’t answer the door, I finally called the police to help us get into her apartment and confirm what I’d feared: after years of suffering, the woman who created and nurtured my life and my brother’s had taken her own.

I won’t dwell on this part of my life for long – it could be a book unto itself, one that I’m not ready to write. But I will say that in the days and months following that horrible moment, I learned the depth and capacity of true friendship. Even though much of it is blurry at best, I remember distinctly that every time there was a decision to be made or pain to be faced, there was always the loving and helpful shoulder of a friend nearby to help hold me up.

There are particular friends and family who held my hand through the funeral arrangements, the funeral itself, and cleaning out Mom’s apartment – I haven’t forgotten how much that meant to me. And however strained our relationship might have been before or since, MDexH stood by me from the moment policemen opened the door with the news, and he quite literally kept me from hitting the floor. People sometimes ask how I manage to stay friends with an ex-husband, and I guess times like that are the answer.

A few months later, my personal grief was compounded by our national tragedy on September 11,2001. Again, I could write for hours about my own personal experience during that time. Instead, I’ll speed things up and just say that some typical career stressors at the Red Cross were compounded in the months that followed. So I left my job in 2002 and did another short stint as a freelancer before realizing that I still didn’t quite have the resources and discipline needed to make that career viable.

I ended up back into the world of development at a private Catholic high school. This put me on a new path in a number of ways: career-wise, I was catapulted into far more responsibility than I’d had in the past; socially, I found a group of colleagues who also became amazing friends; and spiritually, I got exposure to a religious culture with which I’d never been very familiar. Things were going swimmingly in my professional life. But by 2003, the strain in our marriage had become palpable, and was beginning to wear down MDexH and me both. Being really great friends was no longer cutting it for either of us, and we separated.

So in June 2003, I moved into my first apartment EVER that was just mine – no family, no roommates, just me. It was 480 square feet, just two rooms with a motel-style air conditioner cooling both, but it was my own little space and I treasured it. There was something amazing about being alone in an apartment, a thousand miles from my hometown, family and friends – it was a little scary and occasionally lonely, but I had an independence there that still makes me proud today.

I was lucky that summer (and beyond) to have the influence and support of many new close friends, in particular a good friend from the school where I worked. She was a wonderful, independent spirit herself and would’ve been an inspiration to me under any circumstances. As it was, she had learned just months after we met that she had a brain tumor, and was faced with invasive treatments as well as the possibility of her own mortality all at once. Never one to take anything lying down, she was determined to continue living life with gusto, and was constantly calling me to go out and explore new activities with her – from swing dancing to karaoke to late-night bowling.

If I’d had any inclination that I was going to sit home and mope about the divorce, she shattered it by saying “I have a brain tumor – what’s your excuse?” And so I went wherever she wanted me to go, made loads of new friends, and learned a lot about myself in the process.

One summer week she purchased from a garage sale the ugliest crocheted duck I’ve ever seen [I say that as though I’ve seen so many… and some of them tasteful!]. She stopped by my apartment while out for a bike ride, claiming she needed the restroom, and left the hideous little duck on my loofah sponge – quite a surprise for me the next morning. It became a game with a group of us: we would secretly try to pass the duck around from friend to friend by sneaking it into one another’s homes. Since then, I’ve learned that many families have a similar tradition with an old fruitcake or summer sausage. I prefer the duck!

For the next year and a half, I lived a life that was truly my own. I kept in touch with friends from Atlanta, of course, but I had the challenge and excitement of forming new friendships and relationships by myself. Since I had no family nearby, I was responsible for filling my own time, taking care of my own needs. It could be hard sometimes, but it was also thrilling to have so much freedom.

I experimented with online dating a little – actually just long enough that I can relate when people talk about the awkwardness of online dating. I developed a couple of relationships that never really had long-term potential, but I learned something valuable from each. One taught me that even an intelligent, strong, self-aware woman can end up in an unhealthy relationship with someone who is emotionally abusive; and the other helped me to see my own worth more clearly and expect the best from myself. Both prepared me in their own way for what was to come.

As 2004 drew to a close, I realized I was ready for another change. I loved my life in Austin in so many ways, but I began to feel rootless there, and missed my friends and family in Atlanta. When I went home to visit over the winter holidays, I realized it was time to find my way back. An old friend came to the rescue, and helped find me a job with his family’s business; while my best friend and her family opened their home to me (are you picking up on a theme yet?).

So in January 2005, I began taking my leave of the city I’d come to adore and the friends who had made it home for me. In that same month, the increasing hardship of the brain tumor’s effects and dwindling hope for recovery cost my dear friend her independence; and she decided to forgo further treatment and move in with her parents in another state. When I saw her that January, she was having trouble finding words, particularly to express her complex emotions. I knew, though, when she hugged me and handed me that horrible little crocheted duck, that she was saying goodbye. She died peacefully two months later surrounded by her family.

By mid-February, I was on my way to Atlanta: music blaring, hot tears rolling down my face, the crocheted duck in the center console, and Two the cat howling in the passenger seat for the entire 15-hour drive.

Love, Life & Loss

It would be impossible to write genuinely this week without first mentioning Sean. So I won't even try.

Sean Costello, a close family friend of ours and an unparalleled blues guitarist, died suddenly last week, to the dismay of all of us who knew him, and many who did not. This amazing young man, who I have known since he was 10 years old picking out complex guitar riffs with my brother in our basement, was just shy of his 29th birthday when he died. As many at his funeral and in the news articles have pointed out, he seemed to have a bright future ahead of him, both musically and personally. I know that his death leaves many -- not just those of us who knew him -- shaking our heads in sadness for the loss of such a wonderful spirit, and all that would've been created through him.

With his loss, we are also appreciating all that he did create: the tortured strains of his prodigious blues guitar seem to sound sadder and sweeter today than they ever have. If you knew Sean or loved his music, then please know that I'm sharing deeply today in your loss and grief. If you've never had the pleasure, do yourself a favor and visit his website or his myspace page, because Sean's music says it better than my words ever could.

It seems that death -- and sudden or unjust death in particular -- always seems to make us stop and re-evaluate where we are in our own lives. Many of us become reconnected with our spirituality and take a second look at our priorities. I've also read that whenever you lose someone important to you, you grieve not just that person's death, but every loss you've experienced before that as well. So in that sense, grief can be thought of as cumulative. Each loss has a more powerful impact on us because of all the losses before it.

For the average person reading this blog, that means increasing levels of sorrow that build slowly over a lifetime (hopefully one that is also filled with tremendous amounts of joy). For people who experience overwhelming losses -- the death of a child, the loss of an entire family, the horrors of genocide -- I can only imagine what a tremendous burden the grief is to bear.

Like many people, my own experiences with death have been wide-ranging -- from losses of close family members and friends to those with whom I shared a less intimate connection. Each experience has impacted me differently, bringing forth a different combination of shock, sadness, occasional relief, and on some level, joy.

I believe that in every death, there is an opportunity to find a new sense of joy and fulfillment in our lives. (I suspect this is true for all losses: whether it's a loved one, relationship, job, or even an idea we once held about ourselves or the world.)

When someone is taken from us, or chooses to walk away, we lose the closeness and intimacy we once had with them. But we also gain a perspective - painful though it is - on just how much that person impacted our lives. We have an opportunity then to honor them by relishing what was good in them, telling stories, singing, laughing, remembering, and learning as much as we can from the experience.

And if grief is cumulative, why not joy? Why shouldn't every moment we live be buoyed up and enhanced by the joy from our past, as much as it is grounded and made real by our losses?

My Rabbi, a wise and compassionate woman, once told me that we keep people alive by telling stories about them - passing on their legacy to future generations. She wanted me to know that even though my future children will never get to know my mother in person (she died when I was 25), they will know her through the stories I tell about her, the pictures I show them, and the way I honor and attempt to embody her spirit in myself.

It occurs to me that in many ways, I am made up of the people I have known and loved. Those who are still a part of my life continue to influence and enrich me every day. At times like this, I notice and appreciate them more. I try to hold them a little dearer. But the mark left on my soul by those who have moved on is more poignant: carved into relief by the sharpness of finality. I carry it all with me, I carry them with me, in everything I do.

From my maternal grandfather I carry the solace of long afternoon walks, a love of old things, the ability to laugh at myself, and a fanatical loyalty to the Atlanta Braves. His wife, my grandmother, taught me that personal strength can flourish well below the surface, and that a good laugh and a positive attitude can make almost any situation bearable. From my paternal grandfather I got a sense of history, strong work ethic, and the knowledge that a person doesn't need to talk much to command respect. And my paternal grandmother taught me to fish, to love the outdoors, and that a good story is worth far more than money -- even if you occasionally have to exaggerate the details for effect.

From my dear friend Laura, courage: to embrace life fully every single day, despite all its imperfections and hardships, to sing karaoke even when you're terrible at it, and to do the right thing no matter what anyone might say or think about you. And from my mother, I bring a thousand things. Among them, a love of music (even though, sadly, I didn't inherit her talent for it), a warm and easy laughter, and a generous spirit that reminds me no matter how bad my life or situation might seem, there is always a neighbor or friend who needs my help.

And as for Sean, even though it had been many years since we'd been in frequent contact, I will take with me his broad, shy smile (always my favorite among the facial expressions for which he was so well known), his music, and the way he proved every day that with passion and courage, any of us can defy, exceed, and redefine the expectations that seem to govern our lives. Wherever Sean is, wherever all those congregate who have been lost to this world, I believe with my whole heart that the message is the same for him as it is all of us....

Play on.