“My name is Erica but you can call me Loony” is how this young blogger introduces herself on the About page of her blog, “Thoughts of Lunatic”. She reminds me of Lala in many ways. This is one of her blog entries, a response to a bigot’s remarks about a lesbian who took her own life.
http://thoughtsofalunatic.com/2013/04/09/another-gay-suicide/
Lala and Grandpa, Atlanta GA, 3 months before she died
‘Shaken’ is too gentle a word to describe what happens to faith, family – life – in the aftermath of a suicide. Even the strongest synonyms offered in my thesaurus sound flimsy: shock, rattle, harm, impair. Only one word in the long, unsatisfactory list comes close: damaged. But ‘damaged’ implies the possibility of repair, and though there are areas of life that are still operational, one significant part will be forever, irreparably destroyed. The same is true for the rest of Lala’s family.
My father’s faith is an important part of his life and has always been present in my life. Not always consistent, but present. When I became a mother, it was clear to me that my father wanted his faith to be present in the lives of his granddaughters. This was something we did not see eye to eye on and I was surprised by the intensity of his desire. It seemed to me the older he got, the more fervent in his faith he became. We had many long…discussions…on the topic. My father claims I will argue with a fence post. I say, who needs a fence post when I have my father?
When Lala died, both my father and I felt we’d lost the argument. He doubted his faith, I doubted my motherhood. One of the “what-ifs” that yammered away at me from it’s fence post was the question of religion. If I’d followed my father’s wishes, would things have turned out differently? And while it may have been guilt on my part, I certainly got the feeling my father was wondering the same thing.
Thoughts on my father’s perspective have made into my blog posts on occasion, as in this recent aside on Marjorie Antus’ blog. My father left a comment there, and it was so beautiful, I wanted to share it in an actual post. I’ve invited my father to write more for the blog. I hope he does.
From Lala’s Grandpa:
The almost frail little old lady was back on my porch yesterday morning. She stops by about once a month to leave a couple of booklets her church publishes. Although I am always pleasant to her I generally don’t ask her any questions or engage her much in conversation in hopes she will move on. I am sorry to admit that but her faith doesn’t even want their members to vote. Having served in the military to safeguard those kinds of freedoms, I have a hard time with those beliefs. She always brings another person with her, rarely the same one though.
I did break my rules of engagement with her two months ago when she asked me “If you could ask God one question what would it be?” Before she could even catch her next breath I quickly shot back a question that surprised both her and me. It was “Why did God let my nineteen year old granddaughter commit suicide.” Well, the silence went on and on with the three of us just standing there on the porch. Finally, I broke the silence by offering a clarifying reason for my question. I said “My first lessons learned about God from childhood was that He was all powerful and could do anything. He caused so many good things to happen to good people. He took care of them.” Obviously I was thinking ‘Why didn’t he take care of my granddaughter?’ Lala had been a friend magnet her ent ire life. Everyone, young or old, rich or poor, black, blue, green or white, was shown respect by her and they all respected her right back. She was in a zone when she could defend someone. Even without a religious upbringing she was so Christ like. She lit up everyone’s life she touched. So, I have continued to ask ‘Why, God?’ We needed so many more like her on earth.
Shaye was wrong when she felt that I thought the lack of a Christian upbringing may have contributed to Lala’s suicide. She could not have meant any more to all the people whose lives she touched if she had gone to church every week. Shaye and Lala’s sister Mimi have shown their continued love for Lala in so many ways since she left us. I am proud of them both for showing such strength.
It did dawn upon me on my porch that day that I was in the presence of a religious person and that it was possible to interpret my question as containing at the very least some amount of selfishness. I am a frail human, after all. But I did witness the good Lala spread. I know how good it felt for me just to be around her.
I will admit that my faith has been shaken. I must have misinterpreted or misunderstood the Presbyterian concept of pre-destination. Our lives are not necessarily laid out for us in advance. We have far greater control over our own lives than I thought. There’s less security than I thought.
The little old lady and her companion left my porch that day without even attempting to answer my question. But I’ll bet she and her companion did talk about it in her car.
Shaye’s dad,
Jim
Mary was Marjorie’s daughter. She killed herself in 1995.
On her blog, Mary’s Shortcut, Marjorie addresses many of the issues all survivors of suicide struggle with. Marjorie is Catholic and applies her faith to the issues of suicide with special insight and clarity.
I do not practice any organized religion, but the belief that suicide is a sinful act resulting in eternal damnation to hell is a fear some of Lala’s friends and family members have. Though he has never said it explicitly, comments my father has made makes it clear he feels my failure to provide Lala with a Christian upbringing contributed to her suicide. Because my belief system is so removed his, I normally choose to avoid the topic entirely.
Marjorie’s latest post discusses the writings of Father Ron Rolheiser, a Catholic priest who has written on suicide. His thoughts resonated with me, and I found deep comfort within them. I had never heard of Father Rolheiser before today, and I am so grateful to Marjorie for introducing me to his wisdom.
The grief caused by the loss of a loved one lingers. Even after the searing pain cools to a deeply sheltered sadness and a respectable chunk of time has passed peacefully by, a sharp jab of longing can re-open the wound. A significant day, a song on the radio, an old photo found in the bottom of a drawer – no matter what triggers the renewed grief, the emotions can seem out-of-context in a world that has moved on.
The result is an intense feeling of isolation. Isolation caused by the absence of someone whose life made ours less lonely, more joyful. Isolation caused by a random moment of grief that no one around you shares, even those who have suffered the same or similar loss. Isolation caused by knowing there is no going back to the way things used to be.
When the world around us has moved on or circumstances prevent us from feeling comfortable sharing our grief, just knowing there are people in the same situation can help. Recently Lalasmom.com was among several other blogs mentioned by Franklin Cook in this article on his blog Grief After Suicide.
Carol, another bereaved mother whose daughter committed suicide, recently commented a link to her story which includes a list of books and websites she found helpful. Her page is a brave and frank description of her survival and I thank her for sharing it with me.
While both of the links mentioned above focus on loss from suicide – and suicide does present a specific set of issues – hopefully others can find solace there too.
On the wall of Lala’s room at school, where she died, was a painting she had made of a woman with her hands up as though pressing against a surface that confined her. On the back of the painting she had written, “No one can help you if they can’t find you.
Only you know when you’re feeling isolated. Unfortunately, people seldom just show up to make you feel less alone. While it may be the hardest thing to do, reaching out to others is sometimes the only way to make contact. Doing so might mean you’re showing up for someone who needed to be reached.
A few weeks ago I randomly stumbled across the Facebook account of a mother whose daughter had committed suicide. Her daughter, Hanah, shared a birthday with Lala. I reached out to Hanah’s mom and she reached back to me.
Last week, on my birthday, I was feeling quite isolated. After working long hours on a short-term job where I hadn’t mentioned it was my birthday, I arrived home late, tired and irritable. My boyfriend was there to greet me, but even so I still felt alone. No matter how much he cared, how could he understand what it was like to observe yet another special day without one of the people that had made my life so special?
Moodily, I looked through the mail: all junk and bills – except for one oddly shaped envelope with a handwritten address. It was a note from Hanah’s mom, along with a “hug from Hanah” – a bracelet commemorating Hanah’s life. It made my day to have someone who knows how I feel reach out and remind me I’m not alone.
Recently, NPR’s All Things Considered aired a story on the increasing rate of suicide not only in the military, but in the general US population. While reasons for the increase were discussed, impulsivity and its relationship with suicide was mentioned.
According to one of the guests, in studies that interviewed survivors of near-lethal suicide attempts, one-quarter of the respondents reported they had attempted suicide within five minutes of their decision to kill themselves. Only thirteen percent said they had waited one or more days. The remainder of the study’s subjects said they waited between five minutes to eight hours.
Changes the military has made to help prevent impulsive suicides include fences on bridges and packaging pills in blister packs. The blister pack solution is one I find particularly ingenious. In just the time it takes for someone to try and get a lethal dose of pills out of the package, the will to live can wrestle down the desire to die. And being found dead surrounded by a bunch of blister pack trash doesn’t carry the same dramatic impact as the over-romantisized image of an empty pill bottle clutched tight in a cold, hard fist.
When told Lala had killed herself, my doctor exclaimed in dismay that young people can be “so impulsive”. This is true. And studies prove it. It is important to watch for signs of depression and suicidal thoughts in an effort to circumvent impulsive behavior.
This year on Lala’s birthday, I woke up with John Lennon’s song “Jealous Guy” playing in my head.
“I was dreaming of the past, and my heart was beating fast. I began to lose control. I began to lose control. I didn’t mean to hurt you. I didn’t mean to make you cry…”
Lala loved this song, but Lala loved a lot of songs. Why, on the morning of her birthday, was THIS the one stuck in my head?
Supposing the dead can visit us in our dreams, Lala might have slipped this song into my sleep to tell me she didn’t mean to hurt me.
But I know Lala didn’t mean to hurt me, and Lala knew I knew. We dealt with that issue many times while she was alive. Part of being Lala’s mom involved minimizing the extent of her destructive impulses and helping her through the guilt, remorse and self-loathing that followed the times she lost control.
Besides, I had been the one waking from sleep, the dreamer…
“I was dreaming of the past…”
On both my daughter’s birthdays, I like to remember the day they were born. The excitement of this new life, pink and sweet, bundled up and held tight against my chest.
Yes, I had been dreaming of the past.
“…and my heart was beating fast…”
As the memories of Lala reach their end and I return to the understanding that no more will be created, a subtle nudge of panic bumps my heart rate. Sorrow. Regret.
In the aftermath of a suicide, the grieving are advised they “shouldn’t blame themselves”, ruminating on “what-ifs” and “whys” serves no purpose. But just as a song can pop into your head, so can an unwelcome thought. Unlike people who are able to genuinely dismiss negative thoughts, for me, to dismiss is to repress. If not confronted, a mob of emotion will break loose and run out of control.
“I began to lose control.”
Loss of control IS one of my regrets. Not loss of control after Lala died, but before. Most of Lala’s life I maintained a strong and protective presence as her mother. A few years before her death, challenging events in my life became a number greater than I was equipped to handle. I buckled. I broke. I lost control. The “me” Lala knew was replaced by someone frantic and insecure – weak.
At Lala’s funeral, one of her college friends told me that Lala had once said she would never have kids because she didn’t to burden a child with being so deeply loved. What did Lala mean?
I have “joked” that maybe if I’d just locked Lala in a closet she’d have grown up more resilient. Ha. In her last journal she had written, “When am I going to stop needing my mommy to save me?”
Had my love caused me to intercede too much, so much so that when I became unavailable, Lala did not have the resources to help herself?
Or, perhaps my relentless concern and vigilance only heightened Lala’s awareness of my love, which translated into my own need to see her survive. Like having someone peer over your shoulder as you try to complete a complicated task, the resulting anxiety can drive a person to distraction, until they are unable to complete the task. In Lala’s case, the task was staying alive.
“Of course we can’t blame ourselves,” those of us left behind by a suicide say, agreeing with friends who reach out to ease our pain. In the light of day, we believe what we say is true. In the realm of our unconscious, however, self-doubt inflates and floats to the surface.
Parent/child reconciliation is a common theme in the story of the American family. Benefitting from a perspective matured by time and life experience, the child understands the parent did the best they could and the parent understands their best sometimes wasn’t good enough. Forgiveness is shared, parent (not child) dies, cycle renewed.
“I didn’t mean to hurt you.” Words I never said to Lala. Would she still be alive if I had? Probably not. Still, somewhere deep inside, I must regret I didn’t get the chance, because I believe the song in my head wasn’t a sign from the afterlife, but from my own unconscious.
Dark clouds and cold wind set a melancholy mood when Mimi and I met at the cemetery the afternoon of Lala’s birthday. I told Mimi about “Jealous Guy” being stuck in my head.
“Lala loved that song,” Mimi said, “she always cried when she heard it.” Then, looking over my shoulder, Mimi exclaimed, “Look! A rainbow!”
I turned to see, in clear line of sight from Lala’s grave – a rainbow.
Forgiveness is shared.
Lala’s birthday rainbow
He will forever be remembered as evil incarnate. A beast who took the lives of 20 beautiful, innocent children and six of their brave and beautiful teachers.
“It’s crazy,” people say. “Why would he do such a thing?”
It is crazy. Adam himself probably didn’t know why he would do such a thing.
Adam was mentally ill. Like my daughter was mentally ill. My daughter took her own life, like Adam did. The difference – my daughter didn’t take anyone else with her. How odd it feels, to be grateful my daughter chose only to kill herself, that her violent impulses ended at her own skin.
This story provides an honest look into the life of a mother struggling with her mentally ill son as she works hard to keep from killing himself – and other people.
http://thebluereview.org/i-am-adam-lanzas-mother/
photo by Katy Park
I write this near midnight on November 2nd, on the Day of the Dead, or, as it is known in Mexico where the celebration originated, Dia de los Muertos.
This evening NPR aired a human interest piece by Anayansi Diaz-Cortes about the holiday. Diaz-Cortes describes how she travelled to Mexico in early October to be with her dying grandmother. When her grandmother dies, Diaz-Cortes doesn’t feel sad, like she expected, only numb. Four days after returning to Los Angeles, emotions still dull and subdued, Diaz-Cortes attends Dia de los Muertos at Hollywood Forever Cemetery. Filtered through the dark, dense layers of her unspent grief, the altars at the cemetery appear staged and garish, superficial creations inspired by Hollywood excess. But as she begins to connect with the living who built the altars, Diaz-Cortes also connects with their dead, their stories and the authentic expressions of love and longing the altars represent. Surrounded by those who await the homecoming of their dead, Diaz-Cortes is reminded of her own “muertitos” and the tears she expected when her grandmother died finally arrive.
Two years ago, while searching online for gravestones, I found an announcement for the 2010 Dia de los Muertos at Hollywood Forever Cemetery, where LaLa is buried. That year the event happened to be on October 30, the first anniversary of LaLa’s death. These minor coincidences conjured a metaphysical sense of significance in my mind. I emailed the event organizer that same night.
I am not descended from the peoples of Latin America. With my anglo surname and mid-western upbringing, I felt like an outsider, barging into a cultural event where I had no right to be. Still, I reasoned, LaLa loved Latin American art and literature. She studied Spanish throughout high school, and had travelled to Mexico and Spain. But what I really wanted was to participate in the ritual of welcoming home the dead. Deep inside, I wanted to believe it could happen, the dead, my daughter, could come home.
At first, I kept the altar idea to myself, imagining a quiet, spiritual communion between me and my daughter. I would build the altar, and friends could come to see.
That plan quickly evaporated. The first on board were a few of LaLa’s close friends, most of whom were art students at local colleges. I invited them to join in the altar making.
Then, early in October, the “quilting bee ladies”, the ones I figured must be tiring of their role as my grief-sitters, hauled me to a camp-out in Yosemite. One night, Becky, main organizer and instigator, plopped down beside me in front of the campfire and asked, “What are we doing on the 30th?” The word “we” took me by surprise. I told her I was building an altar. She asked, “What can we do to help?”
At that moment, my idea of a modest, somewhat traditional Dia de los Muertos altar exploded into something as glorious and unique as Lena and the people who loved her.
First over was Alison, who found a bucket of Pepto-Bismol pink paint in my garage and suggested we use that color for entire altar. Because she is a world-renown artist, I agreed. Later, I realized Alison’s choice was not one of aesthetics, but a tribute to Lena’s spirit.
Next up: LaLa’s friends. Sofia used broken mirror to mosaic the inside of the cabinet. Nora painted the outside with deeply colored waves and swirls that reminded me of the paintings of Japanese artist Katsushika Hokusai. Veronika focused on offerings and reliquaries, her most impressive contribution a collection of “LaLa Dolls”. Each doll wore a hand sewn replica of outfits Lena had worn.
Emma brought a book of art from the 1920s, and showed me the ones she liked best. I decoupaged the pictures onto an old sewing table that had belonged to LaLa’s great-grandmother.
My male friends showed up to help. They had been excluded from the quilting bee and other “girls only” gatherings my female friends organized. Bringing lumber and hardware, Ben tackled anything that pertained to structural integrity and power tools. Josh assisted and did some power tool wrangling at the cemetery during set-up. Dorian painted the frames that would hold photos of LaLa and other “muertitos” – friends, family and pets. Lena’s friend Kyle brought his Django Reinhardt skeleton puppet and staged a performance during the event.
The Friday morning before big day, anxiety overwhelmed me. Set up would begin at the cemetery that evening, and the altar seemed unfinished – skeletal. There had been a lull in helpers as people turned to their own lives, trying to get things done so they could help on Saturday – it would be a long day : completing the altar early Saturday morning, and taking it down right after the event. The cemetery required all altars to be removed by 3AM Sunday morning!!
When my friend Jane offered to come over, I eagerly accepted. She expressed skepticism about what she could do, “You know I’m not an artist, right?” I convinced her that if she could squirt glue and throw glitter, she could help. And she did.
As the time to load up and head to the cemetery approached, I got more and more agitated. What if no one showed up? How could I do this on my own? Why did I ever think I could?!? The air cooled in the late afternoon and its brisk chill reminded me of the evening a year ago when I had received news LaLa was dead. I was done. People would understand if I called it off–
And then, a line of cars turned onto my street. Three, maybe four. A calvary of friends, loaded with offerings for the altar.
Dia de los Muertos traditions vary across Mexico, but one account describes how, on the first anniversary of a child’s death, their life is celebrated by honoring the parents. Friends and relatives bring offerings to the family’s home. And so it was with my friends.
Alison and Teresa had gone to the flower market early that morning, purchasing at least one hundred marigolds. Cathy and Julia, teachers at the neighborhood elementary school had enlisted children to string the bright orange flowers into garlands. Cathy’s class made huge tissue paper marigolds. The paper mache skeleton that ended up sitting atop LaLa’s altar arrived with Julia, from an altar she had created in the school library.
Early Saturday morning more friends gathered at the cemetery to do the heavy duty decorating. Katy, Teresa, Merrilyn (bearing snacks), Julia, Karen, Julie, Becky. Ben came along with his future wife, Erin. (Showing incredible stamina, Susie, Merrilyn, Becky, Teresa – and Katy? – also helped bring it down at 1AM Sunday morning.)
Alison arrived that morning with tin skull masks she had made, a dollar store jack-pot of purple and silver sequined sugar skulls - and a hula-hoop.
“What are you going to do with a hula hoop?” I asked.
“Oh, I don’t know, it might come in handy,” she replied.
The hoop, trimmed with the paper flowers Cathy’s class had made, ended up at the top of the altar, the perfect finishing touch.
The day was extraordinary. Friends and strangers pored over the altar and its contents, asking questions, hearing my stories and telling their own, each memory bringing a lost loved one closer to home.
Mimi flew back from college for the weekend. She declared LaLa’s altar beautiful and one of the best she’d seen, which made me feel … content.
When Anayansi Diaz-Cortes recognized the elaborate altars at Hollywood Forever as genuine attempts to honor the dead, I felt relieved. Otherwise, Diaz-Cortes might have seen LaLa’s bright pink altar as a grotesque misrepresentation of a meaningful part of her culture, and nothing could have been further from my intentions.
By the end of my first Day of the Dead, I was wrung out – exhausted, emotionally and physically, but also very grateful. Only during Dia de los Muertos, a party for death and the dead, could I have spent the entire day in the cemetery where my daughter is buried, on the first anniversary of her death, having a good time.
You can see a photo gallery of the altar here.
Video of a parade that lifted my spirits when it passed LaLa’s altar can be viewed here.
anger aroused by something unjust, unworthy, or mean
- Merriam-Webster on-line dictionary definition of indignation
a strong feeling of displeasure and usually of antagonism
- Merriam-Webster on-line dictionary definition of anger
Anger is one of those emotions the grieving are expected to feel. But the dictionary definition doesn’t quite get at the heart of the matter. In my experience, “strong feeling of displeasure” is an understatement.
The “antagonism” mentioned in anger’s definition implies an “antagonist”. In the context of grief fueled anger, the antagonist would be, generally speaking, death itself. Though God sometimes becomes the bad Guy for those who view Him as the ultimate giver and taker of life. Sometimes the cause of death steps in to assume the mantle of villain. An illness, cancer for instance, can be seen as a malevolent actor with a will of its own.
Rarely do the grieving turning to death or God or cancer and declare, “I’m very angry with you!” No, the more likely scenario is a fist shaking accusation. “Death, how could you be so unjust?” “God, I’ve given you my faith, how could you prove so unworthy as to ignore my prayers?” “Cancer, why are you so mean?”
“Anger aroused by something unjust, unworthy or mean.”
The dictionary definition of indignation.
(-a personal note: sometimes the cause of death provides a more real and tangible antagonist. A drunk driver. A murderer. And in the case of suicide, the one who is being grieved. An agonizing paradox that I will, someday, address.)
Indignation does not remain focused on the primary antagonist. This loss, this stealing away of someone we love, no matter what the circumstances, feels so unfair! Unjust acts demand restitution; we want the world around us to understand and offer payment accordingly. Motivated by love and sympathy and their own indignation, people do their best to comfort the mourner, giving whatever they can to balance out the debt death has incurred. New acquaintances and those we encounter in passing during the early stages of mourning when grief is hard to hide, will frequently defer to our situation, pony up their share of social restitution and forgive us any debts our emotional ineptitude might incur. But their are limits to that generosity.
Walking my dogs shortly after LaLa died, I encountered a couple of older gentlemen I didn’t know, hanging out by their mailboxes, chatting. One of them said to me, “Come on, smile, it can’t be that bad.”
Indignation rose inside me. My first impulse was to give the man a righteous lecture against telling strangers how to feel since he had no idea what might be going on in their lives. Squelching that response (not an easy thing to do) I considered replying stoically, with careful kindness, that my daughter had just died, thus relieving me of my duty to smile. Imagining the discomfort such a response would cause us both, as well as extra time I might have to spend in his company as he offered sympathy or advice or countered with stories of his own loss – a sort of indignation duel – I swallowed those words, too.
Ultimately, I made what might have been the hardest choice – I kept my mouth shut and smiled. “Now, that wasn’t so hard was it?” the man asked, throwing extra fuel on my inner fire. Behind the smile, I gritted my teeth, telepathically flipped the man off, and kept walking.
One by-product of grief I’ve noticed in myself and others, is the limitlessness of indignation’s power. Over time the tides of sorrow and longing rise and ebb more gently, the occasional crashing swell more predictable, more seasonal. But indignation, seemingly unfazed by the cycles of the moon, free from the rhythmic lull of time, remains a rogue wave riding the open sea.
Still, indignation must be provoked. As a comrade of anger, indignation needs an antagonist.
Those antagonists pop up in some surprising places.
Recently the following email arrived in my inbox:
Hi,
I’m an editor on funny-commercials.org, a website bringing the world’s funniest commercials to one place. I hope you’re doing well.
I can see you have created a list of “funny websites” (http://lalasmom.com/comic-relief/funny-websites/) and I would like to suggest our website, which is regularly updated with funny TV spots.
If you have any questions, let me know!
With regards,
William
The linked videos William refers to are ones that made MiMi and me laugh in our early months of sadness. We watched them over and over again.
William aroused my indignation because I doubted he had visited Lalasmom.com. If he had, wouldn’t he have seen that the links I provide are personal to me and my experience? And shouldn’t he have made some reference to the subject matter of my blog in his “personal” email? Finally, does he really want his website linked to a blog about suicide?
Well, yeah, he does. Because the more visitors who hit a site, the more likely it is to make money. Why should he care where the hits come from? Just bring ‘em on!
For a minute I stew and simmer and consider deleting his email…
….but… I know how it feels to want to share a site with others. If no-one reads what I’ve written, I’m just talking to myself, and I do plenty of that already. As for the video links, I posted them for my benefit as much as the benefit of others – humans tend to enjoy things more when other people enjoy them with us.
And…couldn’t a little of my indignation be fueled by the fact that I knew his website wouldn’t be linking back to mine? I consider it good etiquette to reciprocate linkage, especially if specifically asked to post a link. Not only do both websites benefit, but it fosters a connection between related material. And shouldn’t mutual linkers have something in common?
Still, I had to admit, I respected this guy, William, for not just attempting to post a link to his site in a comment on my video page, but finding a way to send a polite, un-spam-like, request. His email WAS really, really polite. And he DID say he hoped I was doing well…
So I visited his site and found it to be straight forward, legitimate and apparently malware-free. They have ads – the first ones generated were for lovely Chinese women looking to get married, but most ads were pretty run-of-the-mill. In the “about us” section, the site is described as a place for people to share and review funny commercials. They welcome guest editors – I assume commercial aficionados who want to share what makes them laugh and discuss why. The content was sort of like a commercial lovers group blog.
I’m still a little grumpy that William’s request is one-sided and, given that, he didn’t take the time to learn about my site. He might have been more diplomatic in his approach if he had. But, the puffy indignation balloon in my chest has deflated.
I consider my funny videos link too personal to include just any site. However, I am posting the text of William’s email and the link to his site below. Maybe it will give someone who reads this a much needed laugh and lighten any residual indignation.
Fairhaven Grief Blog Editor Charity Gallardo, gathers bloggers with insightful perspectives on grief, mourning and death. One point of view I rarely see (perhaps because I don’t seek it out) is that of men, especially fathers, dealing with grief.
The Fairhaven Blog features bloggers that provide a man’s perspective. Recent blog posts include Brad Stetson’s exploration on the words we use to comfort the grieving and Ryan Rivera’s list of “mistakes” men make in handling their grief. Both these subjects have been themes some of my own posts, and I found Mr. Stetson’s post and Mr. Rivera’s post interesting.