Infinite Gravity Indeed

This post has been in the works through several dozen iterations these last six months.  It is likely that I will update or edit more than once.

I'm more than half a century old now. I can say with irrefutable certainty that all of us; 

Every.  
Single.  
One of us; experience loss. All of us lose things, time, memories, space, or sensation. And we lose people we love. Eventually we lose ourselves too, but until then, with the passage of time, we lose people. For each of us, those losses come in different forms, different ranks of most painful, most severe. Most sudden or devastating or shocking. But each of us, all of us, have something that hurts us the most. Or will hurt the most.

For me, today, the thing that feels sharpest and worst, like an infinite gravity pulling me down forever, is two of my six kids. My son Maxwell died by suicide 8 years ago the morning of July 13, 2014. Then just a few months ago, I lost my daughter Suzanna on May 30th.  

We can never be certain of why others do what they do. Even when it's us, and we think we remember why we did what *WE* did, there are so many factors, so many prompts, so many reasons or influences on our memories, so much that confuses or fogs our vision of the reality and truth of it. Blood tests can tell us the chemistry, witnesses can tell us what they remember seeing. Videos or photos can provide a visual narrative of what happened, at least the recorded record of it. Even in circumstances where the person is available to tell their version of the story, like with our own actions, it may add up to pretty close to the "what" happened, but we can never be certain of the "why." It is a narrative we cannot know for certain until God pronounces it.  

The "Why" is ultimately like Schrodinger's cat I think, a human condition wave function we cannot reliably observe or measure. So my certainty that both of my kids were experiencing forms of delusion or psychosis may be open to questions, be something others may suspect as otherwise, but I would ask that you just accept it as a precept of my writing. Don't ask for my justification of that conclusion, and if you happen upon evidence of anything else, come back to me in the future with it, not today, not now.

Today, I hurt. My heart aches. I can feel the weight of it physically in my shoulders, they hurt. Everything I see reminds of one of them. Or both of them. All of them.

The Father's Day certificate my kids all prepared for me 13 years ago for our Lord of the Rings Online Kinship Contest. We were winning. All six of them signed it, and left personal messages.  

The badge sleeve that holds both of my ID cards for work. It was issued to Suzanna years ago, one summer while she was doing an internship locally, she left without turning in her ID that year. I kept the lanyard while turning in the ID for her, and it has fit my two current cards perfectly ever since.

Photos of them. Letters or notes from them. To them. Pictures of places we went together. A DVD of that one Scouting Bike trek I did with my sons in 2010, where Max went whitewater rafting with the older group without me before they all caught up with us, so we could ride the final 180 miles together for the rest of week.

My mind nearly always turns to a sort of review of what I could have done, should have done, to predict their actions. To prevent them. I know they know, they KNEW, they were loved. I know they knew that such a loss would harm us, would hurt us, would be awful for all of us. My thoughts never drift to blaming them, except for maybe blaming any recreational substances they might have used that could have disrupted or harmed their capacity to rationally think. My thinking is always focused on me, on what I could have seen, should have seen. I should have forecast those choices that hurt them, and then stopped them, help them, intervene and save them. My heart feels the love for them both. I sense, in retrospect, their missing stillness of peaceful, patient living that would have helped carry them through whatever awful moment led them to make that last choice. Life can be such a repetitive process, a drag we weather and endure. The moments of delight and joy and peace are sometimes so very few and far away from each other.

I feel like I know so much, and yet can share so little. Why couldn't I then, can't I exude that peace now, that comfort and quiet joy? Why?

I believe in an afterlife, and I am certain they both regret leaving us so painfully. I am desperate to tell them I love them. I forgive them. I want to hold them once more. Just once more. But I can be honest it wouldn't be enough, it would be again, and again, and again.  I will always want just once more.

Since Max died 8 years ago, our family has spoken often at suicide prevention events, to youth about avoiding substances that can harm you, skew or disrupt your thinking, or professionals in our region. It devastates me, often multiple times a day, to consider the number of times Suzanna worked, volunteered, ran 5Ks doing the same kind of outreach and support.

Don't all of us know how loved we are? Don't we know how precious we are?  Didn't I tell them, show them, hug them enough?  I know, I know I cannot just collect the blame, I cannot be in charge of others.  I know we hugged them both, I know they knew we loved them.  Know that we love them still.

The ache I feel is survivable, I have endured it hundreds, thousands of days by now.  And as I have said in other places at other times, survival is victory. I make it through the low points, and have been very fortunate to have good relationships with others that knew and loved them. With friends and family that know and love us now.

We have enjoyed the shared meals, the treats, the gifts. It is often nearly debilitating trying to manage a normal day's worth of tasks and chores, remembering the number of times I did it with either of them. Both of them. Or when they would resist or grumble about it.

For some, entertainment can be a coping skill for loss. Noise and image filling the void. For others withdrawal and isolation do it, the quiet calming or silencing the noise of grief.  I can be honest again and just acknowledge that I like to share.  Communicate. Lecture, or teach, or just talk/type.  The back and forth of it helps and comforts me.

As I first wrote, we all lose someone. And in a like manner, we can all be effective in reducing that loss.  If you know someone, anyone, and you remember them but don't know how they are, reach out.  It doesn't have to be a close friend, or a family member, just reach out.  Tell them you value them, you love them, you remember them.  I know sometimes anyone can be distant or estranged from others we really do dislike, there's no rule that requires you to seek a close relationship with someone you don't like, or even someone who is a self-declared enemy.

But you can communicate that you care about them, that you are glad they are. That they are alive, they are having another day, and that they have more days ahead.

And if someone you know or love or worked with, if you lose them, then take a deep breath and go to the next person.  And the next.  Again and again and again.  It's a big planet, and there are a lot of us on it, and we can be good to as many as possible.  The mortal eventuality that we have lost someone is never a reason to stop being good to the rest of them.

If you are ever hurting or in doubt, tell me, so you can hear the utter certainty in my voice and tone that I love you.  I might not be able to hug you in person, but we can make an appointment, and every hug makes me feel better, maybe it will help you too.  Or if you just need someone to listen, tell me and I will quietly attend your words.  If you know someone that needs to talk, I can make that work too.  If you know someone who has experienced a loss in their circle, their ache can also be met and helped by your attention as well.

We've had a handful of inquiries about what can be done or what we need, our Venmo ID is @John-Landbeck, (because we are still paying those bills) my email address is my last name at gmail.com, (because I do love to talk/chat) and yes, we still eat (and mostly enjoy) any dropped-off treats.

But my absolutely sincere plea is to talk to your people.  Even if you feel like you have nothing to offer, even if you think you have no people, even if for you, you think you are too blue or sour or grumpy to make a difference.  Try.  Try again.  If things go wrong, then try once more.  It is absolutely one of those times where it's better to have tried and failed, than to have failed to try.  Because I remember those last hugs with my kids, those last talks, I remember them every day, and derive some small peace/comfort from those memories, even with the aching sadness that they were the last, they were sincere, and they were loving.