So Many Words

Posted on March 28, 2014 by edcol52

Today is the 3-month anniversary of Jake’s death. It is still difficult to believe he is gone.

In these past three months, I have written many words, this post will take me past thepile-of-words-300x225 30,000 mark, posted hundreds of pictures, received hundreds of messages, calls, cards, and comments from friends, family, acquaintances, and strangers both through my mailbox and online. It is as, if I can assemble enough words, look at enough pictures, talk to enough people, tell enough stories about him, use his left-behind belongings, like Pygmalion, I can bring my Galatea of words to life and have my son here with me again. Sadly, that is not possible; there is no Aphrodite to breathe life into these essays.

His presence is always with me, surrounding me in nearly everything I do. This morning I shaved (after several days), using the vintage gold double-edged Gillette I bought for him on eBay only a few months ago. He was right behind me, watching me in the mirror. Occasionally, I will put on his wristwatch and wear it for the day. If I could find the Parker 45 fountain pen that I got for him, I would use it to write in my journal. I contemplated having new lenses put into his old frames to make reading glasses for myself, so I could be closer to him while I write.

A couple of weeks ago, we were in Ojai, enjoying the quiet and solitude of our friends home. Every afternoon, around 4 PM, a huge amber bee would hover over the wind chimes I restrung, hanging in the lower branches of one of the white birch trees. This bee would just buzz around, right at eye-level, never alighting, moving from one side of awebbee branch to the other, turning this way and that, sometimes facing me, sometimes away. His loud buzzing is what attracted me in the first place; I could hear it from fifty feet away. I wanted to see what creature was making such a large noise. As I watched this bee drifting through the branches only a few feet  from my face, I wondered aloud, ”Is that you, Jake?” Some months ago, he posted a photo of himself, wearing a garish yellow shirt splayed out on a stack of carpets in a Target store or some such place with the caption, “I’m a fucking bumble bee.” It would be just like his wicked sense of humor to come back to visit as a giant orange bee. “Is that you, Jake?”

There are signals and signs of him everywhere, it seems. I have yet to have meaningful dreams about him, but others have had very vivid dreams and indications of his presence. I don’t need to dream to feel him near me, I take him with me wherever I go. I always think, “Jake would like this”, or “Jake would laugh at this”, or “Look at that idiot. Jake would have something sarcastic to say about his pants”. Much of my daily experience is now focused through the lens of my awareness of his absence. As has been observed elsewhere by myself, and others, paradoxically his absence is such a huge presence now.

We are in Phoenix this weekend, visiting my cousin and her family. We will have Shabbat dinner with them this evening. Another cousin, another Jake, who is 221669_1017515672500_3391_nattending Arizona State University, will join us. When the two Jakes were younger, our Jake, who had been born a year or so before Terry’s cousin’s son, became Big Jake, and his cousin was Little Jake. Now “Little Jake”, is a handsome young man, six feet tall; we can no longer call him “Little Jake”. The boys were friends when they were kids, and remained close. (Big Jake on the right, Little Jake, seated on the left. Another cousin, Sam in the middle.) So we will have a lovely dinner, reminisce about our Jake, laugh together and cry together. For a time, we will bring him back into our midst once again, but it is at these family gatherings we miss him the most.

He will always live in our memories, in the remembrance of his friends and family, in the stories we tell about him, in the millions of words we speak about him, in the thoughts we have of him. He lives in the first thin rays of sunlight spilling across a beautifully manicured fairway, in the crunch of a perfectly cooked pizza crust, in the cold creaminess of exceptional gelato, in the kindness we do for each other, in the fierce loyalty of friendship, in the laugh of children, in the birds and the wind and the stars.

© 2014 Ed Colman

Posted in Ceremony, Coping, Daily Ramblings, Friends and Family, Golf, Honoring Jake, Jake Colman, Memory | Tagged , , , , , | 3 Comments

Going Through the Motions

Posted on March 23, 2014 by edcol52

There are several physical actions that take place during the Orthodox prayer service. One stands, sits, and bows at various places, to name a few. The actual words have lost much of their meaning for me, some of the phrases that speak of a Compassionate and Merciful God, a God who answers prayers, who protects and delivers his people from harsh judgements, just don’t ring true to me now. For years Terry and I prayed for that God to protect Jake; for whatever reasons, it didn’t work. Yet, I still do many of the movements anyway. I stand, I sit, I bow at the right times and places. Mostly I am there to say Kaddish; the truth is, I am just going through the motions.

It is the same in my day-to-day activities. I go through the motions. I do my errands, send in my resumes and job applications, make phone calls, show up on Wednesdays to volunteer at Venice Arts, bring in the Shabbat on Fridays, and so on.  I am living in each day, and I guess that is good, but my future is clouded now. I peer into the fog and can’t get a clear picture of what lies ahead. I am devoid of greater purpose than just getting through the day. I lost my direction, and haven’t yet found an alternate course. I have no confidence that this will turn out all right. I have heard it said that “All things work out in the end. If it hasn’t worked out, it isn’t the end yet.” Hah.

I have always had difficulty with the concept of an All Knowing Deity, the “magic man in the sky” who watches over us mere mortals, records our deeds, knows the outcome of all situations, hears secret thoughts, performs miracles, revives the dead, and renders judgement. (Revives the dead? Okay, let’s see what ya got. No?) My concept of spirituality and “God” is broader, more connected with the life force of the unseen universe. Yes, there are things in this world of which we do not know, forces at work we can’t see or feel. There is human consciousness, for example, one of the greatest miracles of all, a mighty force, but we can’t see it, feel it, touch it, hear it, or smell it. However, that consciousness can only perceive a fraction of what is really going on around us. Our view of the world is limited by what we take in with our senses. Our eyes see a tiny fraction of the electromagnetic spectrum, our ears can only hear a limited range of frequencies. Sometimes we may have the sensations that there is ‘something else there’, we just don’t know what or where it is. I often feel Jake’s presence around me; is he truly there or is it just a construct of my mind, longing to have him back?

We all have a divine spark within us, and where that spark goes when we die will always be a topic of debate and ineffable mystery. Faith plays a big part in how people perceive this mystery, those with great unshakable faith may have a better time of it than I am having. There must be comfort in knowing there is a Divine Plan to all this. I have learned that this is a random and capricious universe. Our ideas of what is and what isn’t change in a single heartbeat. Our lives turn inside out in the space of a two-minute telephone call. So much pain and anguish replace our own plans and dreams for the future. What kind of Plan is that? For whose benefit is this Plan formulated? Whose Plan is it anyway? I don’t intend to blaspheme here, nor denigrate anyone’s beliefs; it is just I am not so sure about that Plan, or if it even exists. If it does, from my perspective, any Plan that took my son from me for any reason is a shitty plan. If it doesn’t, well, what’s the difference?

And so, I live day by day, waiting for my own personal springtime to catch up with the rest of the world. How long that will take, I don’t know. Until it does, I’ll continue just going through the motions.

Posted in Ceremony, Coping, Jake Colman, Sadness | 8 Comments

Fixing Shiva

Posted on March 22, 2014 by edcol52

Shiva is the seven days immediately following a Jewish burial. It is the very beginning of the mourning process, a process that can take a lifetime. Typically, the mourners stay at home, and members of the community come to call. Not so much to console, but more to show support and sympathy. There are many customs surrounding this ritual, they differ from community to community. Some things hold true no matter what the prevailing custom may be, what religion you do or do not practice, or what your beliefs may or may not be. Here is an interesting take on how and how not to behave when making a shiva call.

Fixing Shiva

While this specifically addresses issues surrounding the actual shiva period, many of the thoughts and recommendations apply far beyond those first agonizing days.

I mentioned that often the best thing one can say to a mourner is nothing. This article explores why that is true.  Here is a suggested way to approach someone who has lost a loved one that works for many weeks, months and years afterwards. There is no expiration date on empathy. Compassion and consideration don’t have a shelf life. Sometimes just being there is enough.

Posted in Blog, Ceremony, Friends and Family, Grief, Kindness, Other Media, Support | Tagged , , , , , , , , | 3 Comments

Ojai Vignettes, Part 1

Posted on March 18, 2014 by edcol52

Driving north on Highway 1 again. Through the same blackened and blasted landscape of six weeks ago. Today, the charred hillsides wore the gauzy green mantle of new growth that signifies Spring in California. My internal landscape was slightly less dreary than on our first trip. Only slightly. Whizzing around Oxnard and through Ventura, with the bright promise of sunshine and clear cloudless days ahead, we turned onto the highway that leads into the coastal hills. The drive winding up the mountain to Ojai seemed much shorter this trip, we were there in no time. As the grey wooden gates to our friend’s home in photo 1Meiners Oaks swung open, tires crunching across the pea gravel drive, I had the distinct sensation of coming home. It is a welcoming place; now familiar through the few days we spent here in January.

The signs of spring are everywhere. The slender white birch sported shiny green leaves the size of half-dollars, the sycamores small yellow-green leaves, not yet the huge hand-size leaves they will wear in a few weeks. Even the majestic oaks showed new growth in the tops of their towering branches. Citrus blossoms filled the air with a sweet scent; white azaleas and pink camellias bloomed along with the magnificent purple irises rising from the ground. I somehow expected a rebirth of my own to match the rest of the world, but I am on a different cycle of seasons. It is perpetual winter. Not even winter. Winter has its own beauty, its own charm. For me, it is always the end of autumn, the days before winter arrives. All life lays dormant, hidden, trees barren, the world painted in austere shades of grey and brown, the very earth settling down for a long slumber. So it is with me. The dry brown leaves of my old life have fallen to the forest floor where they lie. Unlike the birches and sycamores here, the leaves of my new life haven’t yet shown themselves.

•••

On Friday, I restrung a set of wind chimes, an oddly satisfying task. I noticed they were in need of repair the last time, and I came with nylon twine and toolschimes to bring them back to life. I passed a pleasant hour working in the warm sun. Once finished, clapper properly adjusted, the wind catcher at the correct length, I felt a sense of accomplishment far greater than the small chore might suggest. Fitted with new strings, they tinkle merrily in the breezes that drift through the birch where they now hang.

In the evening we went to a local reform synagogue to say Kaddish for Jake. The service included their Purim celebration. The Rabbi gave the Cliff Notes of the Reader’s Digest version of the story, along with some dreadful songs, and his commentary. We weren’t really there for that, and it caught us unawares. The President of the temple did welcome us and asked if we would stay for dinner. Apparently they were having a Purim Pot Luck. When we declined, she seemed crestfallen, and turned away. At another time we might have been delighted to join them, meet some new people, but this night, the thought of being amidst people who were celebrating what is a joyous holiday, was unbearable. When the time came for Kaddish, we couldn’t even speak Jake’s name without tears. Shabbat does that to us now.

We silently walked the two blocks back to the house in the gathering dusk. We made our Shabbat dinner, (oak-grilled balsamic salmon, smoked cauliflower and beets, brown rice and a huge garden salad. Hey, no reason not to eat well. Jake would have approved), covered the beautiful homemade Challah our Rabbi’s wife baked, and poured out the wine. I picked up the cup and once again, as every Friday night since Jake’s death, could only whisper the blessings through my overflowing tears. Whenever we traveled, we always made Shabbat wherever we were. Lighting the candles with my family and welcoming the Shabbat Queen into our dwelling, be it hotel, motel, cabin, cave or tent, made it our home for that time. Now my family is diminished; there is Terry, and Jake’s spirit, only his spirit. How can I ever say the blessings again without sorrow? Jake was our biggest blessing and now he is gone. He will never share our Shabbat table again.

•••

We planned a full day for Sunday. Farmer’s market, picnic at Meditation Mount, wine (and pizza) tasting. We packed our lunch, piled into the car and drove the few miles into town. Terry is a farmer’s market junkie, and Ojai has a nice one. As we wound our way through the tables laden with a bounty of the freshest fruits and vegetables, local citrus, oils, lotions, fresh-baked bread, arts and crafts, I heard the faint notes of a pennywhistle. I followed my ears and discovered a trio of young women playing lovely Irish music; W3musicon the day before St. Patrick’s, most  appropriate. Fiddle, guitar and the whistle that lured me there. I listened for a spell, put some money in the open case in front of them and asked if I could take a few photographs. They said yes, and I snapped off a flurry of shots. During a break between tunes, I made a comment about the music and one of them asked me if I played. I do, or rather did, play the tin whistle; have for many years. When she asked me if I still played down in Los Angeles. I said I didn’t play much anymore and suddenly, out of the blue, a bolt of the sharpest anguish struck, and my eyes felt the familiar heat of impending tears. I just shook my head and, lowering my sunglasses, had to walk away.

Before Jake was born, I played music all the time. When Terry was pregnant, I used to put my guitar on her belly and play for him. I wanted him to love music as much as I, and he did. Just after his birth, some friends and I made a record of folk music for children. I played for Jake often, nearly every day, guitar, banjo, ukulele, he loved it. For a while his bedtime ritual included me sitting on his bed and playing music. Even at such a young age, his taste was eclectic. He loved This Land is Your Land, Mr. Tambourine Man, If I Only Had A Brain, and all the folk songs I grew up on. I was full of music. Time passed and the routine changed. The people I played with moved away, life impinged, Jake grew up and I played less and less. When that guitar player asked me if I still played, I realized that my muse had deserted me; that the music dried up. I have played music for most of my life. Clarinet in elementary and middle school, then on to guitar in high school and beyond. Dulcimer, banjo, pennywhistle and ukulele followed. For many years I played every day. Now, I can’t even imagine playing without tears just waiting to flow. My instruments sit in cases, gathering dust in my office. Or more accurately, in what used to be Jake’s room. I envision someday I will be able to bring myself to crack open the banjo case and give it a strum, or pick up the whistle and play a tune. Just not now.

Posted in Daily Ramblings, Food, Honoring Jake, Jake Colman, Memory, Photography, Sadness | Tagged , , , , , , , | 9 Comments

Save yourself: write now, tomorrow, or whenever

Posted on March 17, 2014 by edcol52

Yet another grieving parent on this lonely road. These are wise words. There is healing in pouring yourself out onto a page, no matter if anyone reads it or not. Private journal, public posting, scribble on a cocktail napkin, but get it out, written down. Thank you Deanna.

Posted in Jake Colman | Leave a comment

You’re Okay, I’m Not Okay

Posted on March 15, 2014 by edcol52

What do I say to the person who asks, “How are you doing?” The question is such a reflexive conversational device. People ask without even thinking. Most of them listen to the reply without really hearing what you are saying, they are already thinking about what they will say next. Casual conversation is usually like that. My answer depends on who is asking, and really, it shouldn’t. I recently heard a radio story about a young married couple, she is Russian, he American, and they were discussing the cultural differences in the response to this very question.

The Americans will tend to gloss over their feelings, and reply, “I’m okay”, no matter how they actually are. The Russians on the other hand are more inclined to let you know how they really feel, whether you want to hear it or not. The husband said, (and I paraphrase here because I can’t find the original story), “If someone tells me ‘I am terribly sad’, I have to respect that.” The key word here is ‘have’. He didn’t necessarily like being sucked into someone else’s angst. He was learning to deal with his wife’s family’s frankness, and she, his family’s reluctance to express their feelings.

So, do I answer that question like an American or a Russian? I do have Russian ancestry, so I guess the choice is mine. If the asker is someone who doesn’t know me, the cashier at the grocery store, or the waitress in the Mexican restaurant we ate at the other night for example, I will most probably respond with the “Oh, I’m okay” version. If I truly tell them how I am feeling (I am terribly sad), I then have to explain, the conversation can get uncomfortable, and I don’t really want to spend ten minutes reciting my litany of sorrow to a stranger, so I choose the path of least resistance. As do most of us.

Occasionally, I contemplate giving the honest answer; “I am terribly sad”. I wonder how the other person would react. I sometimes feel a little hypocritical just saying, “Fine”, when really I am not. I normally don’t have the energy to go into the details of why I am not “fine”, will not be “fine” for a long while, if ever. And I suspect the recipient of my honesty doesn’t really want to know how I am, they’re just asking for politeness’ sake. I guess if I had nothing pressing and wanted to really bum someone out, I could tell my story and see how they would react. Might be a worthwhile subject for a psychology research project, if it already hasn’t been.

If it is a casual acquaintance, who may know of Jake’s passing, I sometimes tell them I am doing a little better, and in fact, there are times when I am. A little better. Usually my answer is “Oh, you know, day by day”. They make a sympathetic face, nod knowingly, even thought they haven’t a clue, and might offer one of those wonderful platitudes I am so fond of. Really it is moment-by-moment, but again, I don’t want to get into a prickly discussion with a well-meaning friend who just doesn’t know how to act. Very few people truly do know how to act in the face of this kind of sorrow. It is not something we teach, not something we talk about, it is not a cause for celebrity endorsement. Can you imagine a “Grief Telethon”? Who would contribute?

Our close friends ask this question too, but most of them apologize just as quickly for asking. As I said, it is a reflex, and most of us speak without thinking. I joke with them and tell them I am going to get a big button made that says “Don’t Ask Me How I Am”, and wear it to remind them. To those folks, I can offer a meaningful reply; can really let them know how I am feeling at the moment. While they don’t understand, can’t really comprehend what I am feeling, they empathize with me, and their concern touches me deeply. I am grateful to have such friends in my life.

The truth is that I am not okay, far from it. I may look all right; my walk-around mask is pretty good. For the most part, I function reasonably well; manage to get through the days without collapsing in choking sobs of sorrow. But I am running on half a heart, half a brain. I forget things, (even more than usual), wonder what it is that I have to do. I fight off the waves of pain and anguish that lie in wait. I have learned not to think about certain  things, not to utter certain specific words that invariably bring on the tears. Pictures come to mind that have that power over me, I do my best to block them out before I dissolve. In spite of my best efforts, I am not always successful in staving off the spasms. They overtake me indiscriminately wherever and whenever they please, without mercy. I just have to ride them out. Sometimes they last longer than others, sometimes more acute, sometimes just a flash, a not-so-gentle reminder of the unspeakable torment that simmers below the surface

I question everything. I wonder what I would be doing right now, if Jake hadn’t died. For one thing, I wouldn’t be sitting here in this peaceful cabin outside the lovely little town of Ojai, California, on this gorgeous Saturday afternoon writing this. How different life would be. And the irony is that life would be the same as the ‘before’. Back then it was just unremarkable day-to-day living, with all the joys, frustrations, headaches, and happiness we once took for granted. Now, I long for the unremarkable, for the life where things made sense. I still run through the what if’s. What if I had done this or that, hadn’t done this or that. It is a pointless and futile exercise, but I can’t help it. I ask myself in what direction do I go now? What is it that I am supposed to do, and why? I used to know; much of what I did was for my son, both directly and indirectly. Now I no longer have that reason. So what’s next?

I am resigning myself to the fact that there will never be a day where I am truly okay. There will always be something missing from my life. I will get better at coping, my mask will get more convincing, easier to wear. In the meantime, I will answer that question, “How are you doing?” as need dictates. If my answer makes you uncomfortable, so be it. I have nothing to apologize for.

Posted in Coping, Daily Ramblings, Friends and Family, Grief, Jake Colman, Sadness, Support | Tagged , , , , | 9 Comments

Another Voice in the Chorus

Posted on March 15, 2014 by edcol52

A friend just sent me the link to Ms. Warren’s eloquent plea, and I also saw it re-posted on Rebecca’s blog. As both women have meaningful observations, I thought I’d pass this on. Rebecca is a woman who is much farther along grief’s highway than we are, and offers the perspective of time. What’s true, is that some things do not ‘get better’ with time, no matter how much of it passes. We never go back to our old selves, we are changed permanently. Those old selves are buried with our children. We all have to continue to let people know this; we no longer run on any external timetable. How we deal with this, and in what time frame differs with everyone. As I just said, we are all different in how we do this, yet we are all exactly the same in needing as much time and space as it takes.

Rebecca Carney - One Woman's Perspective's avatarGrief: One Woman's Perspective

The suicide of Rick and Kay Warren’s son made headline news a year ago. Rick is the founder and senior pastor of Saddleback Church, one of the largest churches in America, and author of The Purpose Driven Life and many other books. Recently Kay Warren posted this on her facebook page – her plea for understanding and for the support of true friends:

As the one-year anniversary of Matthew’s death approaches, I have been shocked by some subtle and not-so-subtle comments indicating that perhaps I should be ready to “move on.” The soft, compassionate cocoon that has enveloped us for the last 11 1/2 months had lulled me into believing others would be patient with us on our grief journey, and while I’m sure many will read this and quickly say “Take all the time you need,” I’m increasingly aware that the cocoon may be in the process of collapsing…

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Posted in Blog, Friends and Family, Grief, Healing, Jake Colman, Kindness, Memory, Other Media, Support | Tagged , , , , , , , | 1 Comment

Exactly the Same and Completely Different

Posted on March 12, 2014 by edcol52

As I have noted, many of the blogs I read resonate with me. All of the parents in the “lost children” club use many of the same words, metaphors, and analogies to describe their experiences. Externally, we seem to be so different; our situations, ages, and life experiences vary enormously. The circumstances of our children’s deaths are wide-ranging. I won’t get into the litany of causes; that is not important. What is important is that all of us, no matter who we are, where we are, how old we are, what the events surrounding the passing of our precious ones may be, have the same reaction. Feel OLYMPUS DIGITAL CAMERAthe same emotions. Walk around in the same fog, stand on the edge of the same desolate sea, have the same waves crash over us, the same hollowed-out feeling; we grope through the same darkness. We alternate between agonizing heartache and total numbness and every shade in between. We seek to find meaning in a seemingly meaningless universe, one that has taken our lives and turned them inside out in an instant. We are all ripped apart, devastated, crushed, dreams destroyed, futures stolen, hearts shattered into a thousand shards, nearly unable to go on, and yet somehow we survive. Despite our dissimilarities, at the core our grief is exactly the same.

And yet, we differ from one another in the myriad ways that humans do. The key difference here is that I have lost my son, but he wasn’t your son. In the same way, your child wasn’t my Jake. I can spend time with charming, witty, intelligent, beautiful young men, and for that moment, can enjoy their company, can smile for the time, but the underlying ache for my beautiful boy is not assuaged. Those wonderful boys are not he, can never be him. Each of our children, no matter how old, or how much time we had to spend with them, is an irreplaceable gift. We each had a special and unique bond with them. In this way our grief is completely different for every one of us.

Jake and I had a life of experiences together. Our conversational shorthand spoke volumes with few words. We shared many interests, could talk about the most diverse edbbqsubjects, moving from one to another without a hitch; photography, science, technology, (although he was miles ahead of me there), books, art, machines, cooking, food, the list goes on. I always looked at him through the lens of his entire life. It is strange. I could always see all the Jakes, from the moment he was born, through his toddlerhood, childhood, tweens, teens and on into young adulthood. All 24 years simultaneously. All the millions of images blended into the picture of the person who stood beside me. No one could ever replace that; it would take a lifetime to re-create. Really, it’s impossible, because each one of us is unique. There will never be another Jake. Just as there will never be another of your beautiful children to replace the ones you have lost.

We all express our grief in different ways too. Some of us write, some paint, play music, knit, find counseling, go to meetings, grief classes. Some of us withdraw, some strive to reconnect. Some seek out companionship, others shun it. We all cry. There is no right or wrong way to do this. It is intensely personal and what feels right for one can be abhorrent for another. This is another place where, in spite of our fundamental sameness, we differ from one another. We each have to find our own way through this maze, discover what works for us. What is similar is that our lives will never be the same. There is no going back to the ‘before’, only the forging of the new way to be in the ‘after’. The tools to do that are available to all, but each of us wields them in diverse ways.

I am still learning how to use those tools. I have a long way to go. Knowing you are all on liferaftthis voyage with me is scant comfort, but comfort nonetheless. We can share our knowledge of what works and what doesn’t as we learn together how to craft a new and different life. Like castaways, together we have to build a life raft to get us back to civilization. It is a daunting task. We have so few things to build with; there are so many missing pieces. But somehow, we have to learn to sail the Ocean of Heartbreak or remain stranded on the bleak and lonely shore.

Posted in Coping, Daily Ramblings, Friends and Family, Grief, Healing, Jake Colman, Support | Tagged , , , , , | 4 Comments

Where Are the Dads?

Posted on March 10, 2014 by edcol52

I have been out in the ‘grieving parent blogosphere’ for a while now. There are a lot of mothers posting the most beautifully eloquent writings about their experiences, their lost children, the struggle to rebuild their shattered lives. So far, I have encountered a scant handful of fathers who have dared to bare themselves on the interwebs. I wonder why that is. Is it because Men are expected to “be strong”, bury our emotions for the sake of our families, employers, friends, the world at large? I can’t tell you how many times friends have told me, “You have to be strong for Terry now.” All well and good, but who is there to be strong for me? Myself? I guess so.

Real Men Don’t Cry. Seriously? I guess I must not be real, because I cry frequently now; my emotions run perilously close to the surface. To the contrary, Real Men do cry. Their tears, no less bitter, are for the same things all parents who mourn the loss of a child cry for: the emptiness where there was once so much life and joy, the longing to hold their children in their arms again, all the times they spent with their kids, now over forever, the bittersweet memories, the shattered future.

In reading these blogs, both women’s and men’s, so many of their words, thoughts, and feelings resonate with me. But men are different from women; our role in creating a child and bringing him (or her) into this world is different too. A father’s relationships with his children are different than a mother’s. Their roles are different in raising their children. It might not be politically correct to say so, but they just are. Each combination, father/son, father/daughter, mother/son, mother/daughter is unique. A father does different things with his son or daughter, has a different connection, different expectations than a mother does. It is only natural that our response, our emotions will not be exactly the same as a mother’s. There are few forums for Dads to share their experiences, but our grief is just as deep seated, just as agonizing, just as debilitating, yet so few of us dare to share that in public.

One of the Dads out there has written a book about his story, interviewed fathers who have lost children, set up his web page to allow others a forum to post their thoughts and feelings. Another one has a video seminar and workbook you can download to help with your process. They both have been on this journey for some years now, and are doing what they can to help others. I applaud them. They opened the dialog and encourage others to participate. I am new to the party, still only 10 weeks in; I have so much farther to travel, so much more to learn.

I began writing primarily as a means of processing my own emotions, but if I can help others find some common ground, that elevates this endeavor to another, higher level. It isn’t enough to rail and ramble, publicly or privately; we need to connect. I welcome comments from other fathers who are members of this ghastly fraternity. We cannot take away the hurt, cannot repair each other’s lives, but we can come together to reassure ourselves that we are not alone. Give permission for us to rant and rave, cry and scream, do whatever our ragged emotions dictate now. Even though we will never be the same again, there will be some kind of healing that takes place over time. Only over time. Or so they tell me. How much time differs for each person, father and mother. But this much is clear, we cannot do this alone.

Posted in Coping, Healing, Jake Colman, Kindness, Progress, Support | Tagged , , , , , , , | 9 Comments

Empathy versus Sympathy

Posted on March 10, 2014 by edcol52

Here is a short little film that explains the difference between Empathy and Sympathy, a very important distinction to make when helping a friend or loved one who may be grieving.

deeincollingo's avatarMourningAmyMarie

What is the best way to ease someone’s pain and suffering? Quick fixes don’t work. Especially when it comes to dealing with a loved one or friend who is grieving. Reminding them to count their blessings may sound good on paper, but I can assure you they are well aware! Consider taking 2 minutes to watch this beautifully animated RSA Short, where Dr Brené Brown reminds us of the difference between empathy and sympathy.

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Posted in Coping, Friends and Family, Healing, Jake Colman, Support, Video | 3 Comments