The Hierarchy of Death

Memorial Day.  Or Decoration Day if you're from the South.  A day when almost everybody loves soldiers.  The day is filled with flags, and parades, and remembrances, and eloquent verbal salutes to those who gave their lives in service to their country, the great US of A.

My son's grandfather died in Korea, so I think of Harold and his sacrifice on Memorial Day.  Age 26.  Killed in action.  Left two little babies, age 9 months (my husband) and 20 months (his sister).

The whole country honors Harold and all the others who died in uniform.  A sea of white tombstones covers Arlington, where Harold is buried.  I have a wonderful photo of my kids taken at Harold's tombstone at Arlington.  They flanked the white monument.  They both looked appropriately sad, even though Harold to them was only a family story, and a photograph.

Harold was a hero. He died in the service of his country.

But what else do I know about Harold's death?

The anguish of his mother, my husband's grandmother.  She was a "Gold Star Mother" -- honored because her child (in this case, her only child) died in combat.   But she was at her core a grieving mother who, as she wrote when she sent me pictures of her at the same tombstone where I took my kids, "never got over losing him."

Her grief was real and lasted her entire life.  The grief of every parent who loses a child is real.  But Mary (Harold's mother) had something else:  societal support of her loss.  Her son died a hero!  He was serving his country!  God bless our troops!  You are a Gold Star Mother!

For those of us who have lost our sons or daughters in circumstances not so noble,  we are not so lucky.  There is no Gold Star for grieving parents whose kids happened to have been killed in gang violence, or in a traffic accident, or by drug overdose, or by disease.

BUT:   that doesn't mean we are all lumped together.  Oh no, far from it.  You see, there is a hierarchy of death.  The human mind can't help but "rank" every aspect of existence (where you live, who you marry, what car you drive, what your job/career is, etc.)  Death is no different.

So if it is your fate to suffer the loss of a child, I hope your child is in the military.  The parent of a soldier who died in service (even if friendly fire) ranks at the top of the hierarchy of death.  That parent will have no shortage of support and comfort from friends, family and even total strangers.

For the rest of us, we scramble.  Or we are silent.  Or we ignore the true cause of death so as not to be judged.  But every one of us who has lost a child understands the competition to show our child's death as more worthy of sympathy and support than another child's death.

Why is it not enough to simply say your precious and beautiful child died?

But it isn't.  The world doesn't work that way.  Inquiring minds want to know.  What happened? How did this child die????  And thereafter, let the judgment begin.

Parental competition is not confined to what college your child is in, or what career he or she has chosen.  Even in death, parents want to show their kids are more worthy, that they are on top of the "competition."

From what I have seen, parents fare better with public support if their child died as a result of something totally and completely out of their control -- such as a horrible disease (cancer, leukemia) or an accident where "the other guy" or some unforeseen force was at fault.

You lose sympathy points if your child was at fault for the accident that claimed his or her life.  You definitely go to the bottom of the sympathy list if your child  died while under the influence of something or if he or she suffered from mental illness.

You have some social support if your child died due to any kind of gun violence (again, assuming the child was not a willing participant in the violence).  This means the non-gang member killed by gang violence,  or the victims of lone shooters like the young man who went on a rampage in Santa Barbara in 2014.  My heart broke when I saw the Richard Martinez, the father of the 20 year old young man who was one of the victims.  The dad has since given up his career as a lawyer in order to advocate for gun violence.  Wow, does he get all kinds of support and affirmation. Of course it can't heal the loss, or repair the hole ripped in his psyche from the loss of his only child, but it has to help to know that Christopher's death was at least on the level of a noble one -- an innocent young man who was the victim of random gun violence.  Mr. Martinez now has a cause he can use to channel his grief and try to bring some "good" out of the "awful."

Notice how so little is said of the shooter, Elliot, a young man of privilege who was plagued by mental illness.  No noble death there.  Yet I have no doubt his parents grieve as much as Mr. Martinez.  But they rank lower on the hierarchy because their son was "at fault."

And by the way, how many folks caught that Mr. Martinez reached out to Mr. Rodger, Elliot's dad? That was perhaps the most positive news story to come out of the tragedy.   They are both grieving fathers who lost sons.  When you have been forced into the reality of "grieving parent" sometimes it just doesn't matter how each of you arrived there.

What of the parents who must suffer through the knowledge that their child committed suicide? Who comes forward to publicize that?  Oh no, says society, suicide is shameful.  Others say, What did the parents do wrong? Why did they not get their child help?  Maybe they were bad parents and this was the child's cry for help that they didn't pay attention to?  Maybe karma came back to bite them hard!  Maybe somewhere somehow they caused this!

No, of course no one says that to their face.  But it's there.

And what of the parents who suffer when their child dies from a drug overdose?  No one steps up to offer support for that.  Drug addict.  Overdosed.  Of course.  What else would you expect?  They just didn't raise that child correctly, else he/she would not have turned to drugs. Why didn't they get their child the right kind of help?  Why didn't those parents do something to keep the child away from drugs?

Oh, the cruel and hateful and ignorant concepts that people have.  And that they project, even if they never utter a word to the grieving parent.

It is far nobler to be the parent of a deceased child if the death was due to a "better" and more acceptable reasons.  If your child can't be a soldier, at least be a cancer victim, or a victim of a stupid driver's negligence or random violence.  Lots of support there.

For everyone else, oh, well, they say, we are so sorry for your loss.  Now let's not talk about it ever again because we all know the kid either had it coming, or brought it on him/herself, or  it was inevitable.

Do I have a ranking for what's the worse type of death, in terms of getting any kind of support or affirmation?  No, I don't.  Each of us carries our own level of judgment.  To some, suicide is the worse. Others, stupid tricks like trying to skateboard between two buildings (actually happened).  Still others, drug overdoses are at the bottom.  In all cases, unless there was a nobility to the death, the grieving parent(s) is usually just not spoken to (see prior blog, "It's Not Contagious.")

Bottom line:  it doesn't matter one bit how one's kid died.  HE OR SHE DIED.  That is all that matters.  For you fortunate enough to have never experienced this soul-crushing pain of losing a child, please be supportive of anyone you know who has suffered the loss.  It DOES NOT MATTER how the child died.  Don't ask the question.  If the person wants you to know, they will tell you.  If not, let it go.

Just let it go.

My wish is that Memorial Day continues to remind us to celebrate and honor our fallen soldiers, but to also remind us that many children have been taken from their parents under all kinds of circumstances.   They all grieve.  They all deserve support and love for the loss of that child.  We whose children were not soldiers don't get to hang flags and hold parades for our children.  Yet our children still lost the battle of life and our grief is just as great as any parent.

We should mourn all our children who left us too soon.  Mourn without judgment.  Mourn in equal measure. No matter how they were taken from us.

Copyright 2015

Otherside

Music haunts me.  More to the point, music keeps biting me in the ass.  And I keep letting it.

Music has been integral to my existence.  You can read it in these blog posts, where I seem always to link something to a song or lyric.  That's what my head does in virtually every setting -- a phrase, event, reaction seems to trigger a song lyric.

My father was a musician and I grew up surrounded by jam sessions at our home, being taken to radio stations, live performances, and of course the clubs my dad and his band played.

Ironic that I was surrounded by such loud music all of the time, yet I was partially deaf as a child (until I had surgery at age 11 -- what a miracle to my world, but that's a story for another time).  And how further ironic that just 2 months after I had full hearing restored to me, my father died.  And along with him, for a while, the music died too.

But music wouldn't leave me.  I took violin lessons.  I sang in the school choruses and church choir, and surrounded myself with the radio and records (yep, both kinds, 33 and 45).  I had a head for lyrics, and a love of rhythm and beat, and collected as much music as my meager allowance (and rather restrictive mother) would allow.

I met my husband when I was 19 and he was 20.   He was wearing a tape recorder, headphones and carrying a mic when I first met him, working for student radio station KUSC and for the "audio yearbook."  In retrospect, it was an obvious attraction.

After that, it was like reliving my childhood.  My world became filled not just with the music on disc, but with radio stations, live shows, recording sessions and other musical madness.  Steve went on to become a well known audio designer and engineer, specializing in live shows, radio broadcasts, music festivals, and pristine live recordings.

And so I transitioned into adulthood still being surrounded by (loud) music.  Unlike my childhood, which was limited to country western and church music, this time I was surrounded by classical, jazz, blues, big band, avant garde, rock and folk music.  I loved it.  I sometimes tired of it. But it was always there.  It was my life.  

When my son was born, I hoped that he too would love music.  I would dance with him as a baby, and he would smile that enormous smile of his, lighting up his hazel blue eyes   We sang along with Disney videos.  I sang with the radio, and to him, in the car.  He started going to live shows when he was just a few days old.  The loud sounds never disturbed him.

To my amazement, hope became reality.  At age 9, he begged me (yes, begged) for piano lessons. His elementary school had a music teacher and he loved the class.  He wanted to play piano.  So he did.  (I gave him lessons.)  By age 11, he had been in 3 recitals and was learning to play Scott Joplin (he knew how much I adored Joplin's rag music).

He arrived in middle school and expanded his talent to the electric bass (yes, of course I gave him lessons).  He joined the orchestra.  At his audition, the music teacher said, "he's got perfect pitch" and promptly assigned him the French horn, one of the more difficult instruments.  He relished the chance to play it  (yes, of course I gave him lessons).   He also played in the marching band, and was selected to play French horn in the Idlywild summer honors symphonic band.

Music was huge in his life.  He continued to play all three instruments until his world completely fell apart with his estrangement from his father, followed by the death of a special father figure to him, soon followed by the death of his beloved uncle, another father figure to him.  

Ultimately, my son, who would introduce himself to a new French horn piece by transcribing (in his head!) the horn music into piano music, playing it on piano, and then playing the notes on the horn, would call himself a "music retard."  How wrong he was.  How it broke my heart to see him have such a disconnect with his talents.

On the other hand, he never left music, and indeed he surrounded himself with music -- radio, CDs (I still have most of his collection -- it was huge), and downloads on the computer. (He kept losing his iPods.)  Our home (and the car) was never quiet.  And he didn't have just a single type of music.  Like his dad (with whom he had a definite love-hate relationship, probably because they were so much alike) his tastes ranged from rock, punk, jazz, blues, electronic, reggae, rap, hip hop and alternative.  Even the Beatles.  Or should I say, because they are among my favorites, especially the Beatles.

I had hoped that his love of music would help him get through the pain he was feeling over all the losses of the father figures in his life.  Music helped, but it was never quite enough.

The greatest gift of all of this, for me, is that he and I shared the music.  When he was just entering the terrible teen years, I took him to a free outdoor concert and like a protective mom hung around despite not knowing who the heck "Rage Against the Machine" was (I learned).  That started us on a journey of shared music.  We listened to music in the car and at home.  He'd play newly found jewels for me, or excitedly share about a new group or artist.  I found myself with yet another great connection, on a visceral level, with my troubled teenage son.  And I realized that I actually enjoyed Social Distortion and Bad Religion and Rancid and Sublime and Flogging Molly and all the other edgy music he liked.

Our last evening together we enjoyed a Mexican feast (his favorite food, next to sushi), shopping at Trader Joe's and driving downtown together.  I cherish that car ride because we were able to share the music.  Bad Religion had just released a new song and we discussed a perceived change in their style, but agreed they were still good.

Less than 36 hours after sharing the music on that car ride, my son was dead.

At his memorial service, my family helped me put together a selection of songs.  I chose Social Distortion, Red Hot Chili Peppers and Bob Marley.  I remember trying to get people to sing along (lyrics were passed out).  It was crazy.  Everyone was in shock and disbelief that he was gone, but Mat would have wanted people to have a good time.  There was just too much pain to have any kind of a good time.  But still the music played and some people sang and I stood up and sang too.

It literally took YEARS for me to be able to listen to any of his music.  I stopped playing the radio in the car for fear that one of "his" groups or songs would come on.  And because his dad had died suddenly only 11 months before my son, I had already stopped listening to anything classical.   My world became very, very quiet.

Grief gradually loosens its grip on you (it never, ever fully lets go), and slowly it allows some of the old activities to be reintegrated into the present.  It's never the same, of course, but at least it's tolerated and maybe can engender some good memories.   To the outside world it looks as though you are "better" or "coping."    No, not really, it's just that for many of us worn down by grief, there are a few nooks and crannies as time goes on that the grief does not completely fill, which then gives us room to add back pieces of the things we used to do.

I started listening to KROQ again.   My daughter would play some of Mat's downloads in the car.  I slowly lost the chest-tightening, kick in the solar plexus feeling when I heard the familiar songs (except "Angel" by Flipsyde -- still gets me crying with fresh grief).  I even started singing them again.

Every single time I hear a song from our shared times, or any song from a favorite group, the reality of my son's death covers me again.   Yet I listen.  I sing along.  I feel a small bit of peace in listening again.   In a way, I am connected with my son despite him being "on the other side" [from a Chili Peppers song]:

How long how long will I slide
Separate my side, I don't
I don't believe it's bad
Slit my throat, it's all I ever

I heard your voice through a photograph
I thought it up it brought up the past
Once you know you can never go back
I've got to take it on the otherside

I heard "Otherside" today while driving, and all the years rolled back and there I was, sitting in the car, listening, and at one point I thought for sure Mat was there in the passenger seat.   I like to think we were brought together again by the music.  Sigh. I guess to really know how the connection continues, "I've got to take it on the otherside."  

Some day.  Not today.

My beautiful son, thank you for the music we share.  May you always be surrounded by and connected to it, and to me.  


copyright 2015

Still Crazy

The loss of anyone leaves a big, fat gaping hole in one's being.  A black hole, that sucks out all light and keeps it from escaping.  A bottomless pit where the stone you toss into it never hits bottom.

Grief.  Goddamn grief.

I am weary of grief.  I am tired of trying to fill the hole.  I've become Sisyphus, the Greek dude who was condemned to pushing a boulder up a hill, only to have it roll down, and start the process over.

Whoever conjured up that character must have been plagued by grief.

Years roll by since my great losses.  I function, I get through the days, and then for no reason I find myself enveloped by loss and that sense of being totally alone.  Almost like in a vacuum.  And because it's a vacuum, there are no molecules to carry the sound, so truly, no one can hear you scream.  No one can hear you even speak, or cry, or whimper.  You're on your own.

And yet I function so well.  Just ask my colleagues, my family, my friends.  But what the hell do they know.  Nothing.  They cannot hear me.

The Saturday Night Live 40th anniversary special aired recently. I watched it and enjoyed it. But it plopped me right back into the depth of grief.  Why?  Well, my husband and I loved the show, and even though he worked many Saturday nights ( he was in "the business") we found a way to watch it right after his own shows, or we'd hurry home from the gig to watch (pre-TIVO days, of course).  Worse, he and Dan Aykroyd were twins (honest to God, we would be out in public and people would ask for his autograph), so watching Dan perform was like seeing my husband again. Plus Steve could imitate any Aykroyd bit perfectly.  I was transported back in a nanosecond to laughing over Bass-o-Matic and the Blues Brothers.  

It has been days since the special, and I'm still caught in the grief hole and can't seem to get out.  Steve and I should be laughing together right now.  Instead, I just laugh alone.  And laughing alone when it should be shared is very sad indeed.

On the heels of that special show came a matter I was handling that involved traumatic injuries to a young man who was, almost to the day, a year younger than my son.  And defending the doctor and hospital that caused his injuries (by prescribing a new drug without proper monitoring and follow up) were two young men not too far off from my son's age.

Wow.  A young man dies.  Another suffers traumatic injuries. Two others go on to professional careers.  The fickle finger of fate.  It's fucked up.

I can't stop thinking about what my son would be, or where he would be, or what he would be doing. That's fucked up too, because there's no way to know.  But I keep playing out scenarios.  It's like the kid's books where you can choose your endings.  But I know how his story ends.  That part never changes.  But I keep trying to play out how it SHOULD have ended.  More trying to fill the hole by busying the mind with stupid, useless exercises.

Grief isolates you.  You realize damn few in this world can truly understand the sense of aloneness, of isolation, of being adrift.   So you just don't share any of it with anyone, ever.  Besides, that's what shrinks and blogs are for, right?

What fills the hole?  Every one has his or her own filler.  Some, it's ignoring the truth and just returning to life.  Some, drugs or alcohol or sex or a combination thereof.  Some, it's work.  Some, it's marathon running or cycling other endurance sports.  Some, nothing fills it and they are slowly dragged into the hole, like quicksand, and they exit this existence.

For me, I work.  A lot.   It can always be justified as "accomplishing" something.  Or building my business.  Or some other positive attribute.  But I am really trying hard to fill that hole and not let it consume me.  Running from the tsunami, if you will.

Funny.  My BFF and I had talked about using work as an escape just shortly before she died.  She agreed that it would be easy to use work that way, and I laughed as I told her how grateful I was for her because she was there for me to always share with -- which means I didn't have to use work to escape.

Yeah, well, we know how that turned out.  Fucked up.  You need a shared history friend to really be able to deal with grief.

The take away from this?  If you know someone who has lost someone super close to them (a friend of mine calls it a "core person" which is a great description) just know that they have this hole, and try to be one of the ways the hole is filled.

Either that, or sit down and share whatever alcoholic beverage they prefer.  And let them talk about the lost one.  And have a good cry.  And then take them out and do something crazy/fun.

On the SNL 40 show, Paul Simon sang one of my favorite songs.  I always thought I'd be able to sing it with Steve, as we were pretty crazy when we were kids. Or with Heidi, as we were pretty crazy too. Simon's voice is pretty much gone, but his lyrics are as powerful as ever:

"I saw my old lover on the street today,
She seemed so glad to see me, I just had to stay.
And we talked about old times
 and we drank ourselves some beers,
Still crazy after all these years."

Yes, we would still be crazy.  No holes to fill.  Just a shared history to take a little farther down the path, together.


Copyright 2015