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. 

Noticing

I've considered restarting my Blog for a while now. My personal coping process often involves extended lecturing or writing, blogging could be a way to avoid sending loved ones long emails instead. So here it goes today, as I review the series of occurrences that I just experienced from noticing things.

It started, as many things do, with the weather. I noted the temperature would be dropping below the level we'd set our house thermostat to, 74 degrees Fahrenheit. My kids have mostly embraced the better/more precise metric measurements, so they will trade temps in Celsius, so in case they are reading this, it was going to drop to below 24 on its way to 15 or 16 Celsius. 

So when I saw on Weather Underground it had reached 74, I opened my bedroom window first, and noticed a vine had grown up the wall and was visible in front of the screen.  We had put a lot of effort into clearing the front wall there of the vines, so I decided to walk out and pull that one down.

In doing so, I noticed that water was pooling on the driveway, which happens during heavy rain when the drainage area becomes blocked with leaves or dirt.  So, since I was running to Brad's later to pick up our weekly vegetable order, I decided to open the garage door so I could move the Hybrid out now, and also get a shovel to clear the drainage route.  Moved the car and grabbed a long handled trowel to make the drain work better.  It started to rain really, really hard, and since I was in it working, the soaking of my clothes didn't bother me.

After finishing the driveway, I walked around to the front window to pull down the vines growing below my bedroom, and noticed water was cascading over the gutters near the downspout.  Since I was already totally soaked, I got out the ladder we use when climbing to the roof, and went around to every spot where I could see water overflowing the gutters, and pulled out the gathered leaves/twigs/seeds/gunk.  Stopped the overflow, but wow, there was a LOT of water flowing out the downspout.  Good thing I cleared the drainage path on the driveway already, water was like 5 or 6 inches deep out there now, and I had a little stream of it rolling across the lawn and front sidewalk.

Happily, I did not notice anything else, so I put away the ladder and trowel, tossed the vines into the yard waste for collection next month, closed the garage door, and came into the kitchen.  Where I noticed the towels hanging back the back door there, which I had been intended to fold and put away since I'd taken our little pool down for the year and there would be no more swimming for a while.  Wow, THAT was a good happenstance, I used the towels around my legs/feet to keep from dripping rain water everywhere while I walked carefully into the bathroom to take a shower and wash off the detritus of cleaning the gutters.

So, my apologies for the multiple pieces of clothing hanging in the shower drying before I put them in the laundry.

And please tell me if you notice any other spots where water is coming over the gutter edges.  The gutters work great, it was worth the investment to replace them when we did the roof last year, but I still have to manually clear out some of the heavier leaf-fall.

Finally, I am NOT planning to make dinner tonight, let me know if you need me to pick anything up while I am out in a couple of hours.

Defiance Shirts - the Handmade Process

Jenni has been making Defiance Shirts for about a year now. She lets me help, when I am available.

We start with a stack of 100% cotton t-shirts.  These are usually picked up in batches of 5 or 10 by Jennilyn when she browses a thrift store, looking at the ones tagged on sale that day.  $1 or $2 each, they accrue until we have around 30.  That's what fits in our washer/dryer.  You can see the stack on the counter in front of Jennilyn.

We are wearing clothes that aren't going to be ruined by bleach.  This is a process that's rife with collateral bleaching...

Next, Jenni lays the stencil down on a shirt and sprays a few shots of pure bleach.  The stencil creates a negative resist to the spray.

On some of them, the effect is almost instantaneous.  It's an interesting process to see what the "under" color is after the bleach has removed the dye.

On others, the effect takes a few moments to really occur.  There have been a few shirts that had zero effect, but even the sturdiest usually will bleach out the pattern eventually.

Once the shirt has "turned" sufficiently, I quickly soak the shirt in a bowl of straight water (which turns a murky yellow due to the dye run-off) to remove any remaining liquid bleach, then rinse.

Then it gets a second soaking in a bowl of water mixed with vinegar, to stop the bleaching action.  It gets wrung out again, then set aside for the washing.

There is a slow wicking of the bleach into the paper layer of the stencil.  Eventually, we are going to have to replace it.  Jennilyn made it from an enlarged copy of Max's freshman BYU ID.  Very identifiable smirky look from Max.  When the pile of shirts is thick, sometimes she has to hold the stencil flat against the shirt, which is why she's wearing rubber gloves - bleach can "burn" the skin after long exposure.

Here's an example of a shirt that was slow to turn; this is what it looks like, still wet with bleach (it only looks like shading, but it's the dampness).

Jenni tells me I really help make the process go faster.  I'm just glad to be a part of it.

This is the basket almost full of shirts, ready to wash.  You can see some of the other colors we had to work with in this last batch.  It's more fun to see the mixture of shirts, though the most economical of batches was when we bought a 144 "remnant" shirts that were all brown.  Nice to get a large number, but the variety makes the process more interesting.

Striking, how that looks like Max, and like not-Max.  Backwards.

It is a sobering, tender, somber chore.  I touch my son's face, over and over again, smoothing wrinkles the way I once moved hair away from his peaceful, sleeping eyes (or gently wiped food from his baby mouth).

When we speak and distribute these shirts, we've been asked how we pay for them, or whether we would ever just buy them with the graphic silk-screened on to save time.  It seems to surprise people to find out we are hand-making them (I'd guess we've probably made about 500?  Maybe 600?).  Sometimes, people will discretely hand Jenni some cash to help with the next batch of purchases.  We appreciate the support.  When we spoke on APG in September, they were delighted to find out we didn't charge a speaking fee, and happy to reimburse for the purchase of our 144 shirts.

We don't mind the slow investment of a few shirts here, a dozen more there.  I keep hoping to spot one "in the wild" so I can ask the wearer where they got it.

I consider making these a reverent chance to see him, to share his story.

I miss him, and am grateful to hold him again, even a little, even like this.

Being a Dad

As long as I can remember, I wanted to be married.  I wanted to be a Dad.

I remember often "catching" my parents being affectionate. It's not like it's rare. I've amused myself over the years finding similar pictures of me, zeroing in on Jenni.

I knew really early, at an atomic level, that I wanted what they had.  I wanted to be happy like that.  I knew that being in love, being a family, being a Dad, I knew that it would be where I would become my best self, find my greatest happiness.

I was grateful to know early that being a parent wasn't about what I wanted.  It wasn't about the soaring joy of holding them in my arms when they were babies, wanting them to stay little forever.  It was about helping them become adults, doing a little shepherding, a little encouraging, letting them find their way, supporting them, finding that balance between correcting, helping, cheering, accepting.

“Marriage is more than your love for each other. … In your love you see only your two selves in the world, but in marriage you are a link in the chain of the generations, which God causes to come and to pass away to his glory, and calls into his kingdom. In your love you see only the heaven of your own happiness, but in marriage you are placed at a post of responsibility towards the world and mankind. Your love is your own private possession, but marriage is more than something personal—it is a status, an office. Just as it is the crown, and not merely the will to rule, that makes the king, so it is marriage, and not merely your love for each other, that joins you together in the sight of God and man. … So love comes from you, but marriage from above, from God.”  -- Dietrich Bonhoeffer 1906 – 1945

 So on Father's Day, I am grateful for my Dad.

I am grateful he has been careful and healthy, so he's still here in (relatively) good health.  I know it's frustrating to grow old and to have to start keeping track of details, to have to slow down and watch calories, take pills.  I want my Dad around for years to come.

I am grateful that he has had a chance to be a Grandpa to my kids.  They love Grandpa-time.

I am particularly grateful that he was always so kind towards my son Max, who at times was so frustrating.

I am grateful for the incredible time and attention he's paid as Sam has nurtured his interest in the fire department as it developed into a fully ripe desire to be a fireman.

I'm grateful for his tireless work ethic and his willingness to serve.

As my children have grown, as I have experienced the melancholy of adult problems (how I have longed to shed the burdens that cannot be solved, but only endured), I've wondered what kind of adult relationship I will have with my own children.  I've wondered if Dad is happy with how responsive, successful, engaged, his own children are.  I wonder if I can do better to honor him as a man and a father.

I'll try.

But I love you Dad, and I am grateful every day that I have you.  You are a good man, you are a great Dad.  I've spent my whole adult life being a father with you as my template.  As I consider the coming decades, I know I will continue to be grateful for your example as a Grandpa, too.

Happy Father's Day.

Nostalgia

Camping in May of 2013.  I *think* it was May 2013.

Our son Maxwell died over ten months ago.  As we near that sad anniversary, we are first moving through a season of smaller anniversary mournings.

The last time I drove Max to play practice.
The last time Max had dinner with us.
The last time I heard him sing.
The last time he texted me.

The last time we talked.
The last hug.
So many lasts.

So from two years ago, here are some pictures from the last time Max went camping with us.


It was Friday night, about a week after Stewart flew home from his mission.  We were going the next day to see the new Star Trek Into Darkness film.  It was the night our ward had a family camp-out.

I had ... forgotten that we'd invited Max to this.  So much of our interaction with him the past three years has been so dramatic (and traumatic sometimes), that it was startling to find him in these photos.  Nothing strange happened on this camp.  I didn't argue with him about anything.  It was just a normal weekend.

I do remember the kids playing basketball while the sun was setting.

It got pretty dark, pretty quick.

I remember this hoody.  If I recall correctly, we got it from the thrift store with the "dinosaur spikes" already attached.  Can't remember if no one else wanted it and since Max thought it was funny, he got it.  Or if I checked the weather, and knew it would be cool overnight, so grabbed some extra jackets for kids.

I think of Max, and I think of this pose.  He made it *all* the time.  1/4 turned away from the camera, smirking, thumbs up.

Annddd Suzanna makes *this* pose all the time too.  I love her exuberance in showing joy.

This was back when Sam was *not* yet taller than Stewart.  He is almost taller than me now.

Sam's super power is he can flap his arms at a blinding speed.

Where was Roxie Jane during the basketball game?

Sunrise through the trees the next morning.

Morning hot chocolate and pancakes.

I am grateful for our good memories, the good times we had.  If I had known this was the last time we'd go camping with Max, I would have taken more pictures.  I would have insisted someone take the camera and gotten a good family photo of all us, and our new massive 10-person tent.

If I had known.

There are more nostalgic memories to come in the next few months.  My Grandma Billie has moved into an assisted living facility, and her photo albums have come to me.  Most of the pictures in there of my family were given to her by us (which means I already have most of them somewhere), but going through them again has been a pleasant memory lane trip through photos we loved of people we love.

Mother's Day! Mothers Day!

My Mom with her Sisters Jackie and Candy.

My Dad with his Mom (Billie), her Mom (Me-maw), and *her* Mom (Maudie)

Mom playing cards with Grandpa Stewart, Uncle Ron, and Dad

Mom, standing behind her Dad (Howard), sitting next to her Mom and two sisters

Mom and Dad in Billie's place, looking very '60s.

Mom and Dad.  That looks more '70s.

Mom holding me!

Mom holding me a few months earlier!

As I have grown older, as a person and a parent, I've come to realize how much we become our own person.  Our environment, our genes, our family and friends all influence us.  But we choose who we are, and often those choices can be seen as embracing our family/environment, or as rejecting it.

But we grow up feeling loved because of our mothers.  Our Moms made us, literally.  Then, with all their mortal burden, they loved us.  I am grateful everyday for the Mothers that have led to me.  I'm grateful I felt loved, and grateful for the Moms who keep trying, every day, to make family.

I love you Mom, happy Mother's Day.

Just Around the Corner

My son Maxwell sang in a premier choir. When he began singing with the Maryland State Boychoir, he was a tenor, but as his voice matured, he moved into the bass section.

We are fortunate to have many of their performances on video.  A few were filmed by us, but never with a great camera.  Lots of MSB parents film the Boychoir, but again, usually with not a great camera.  The video and audio quality are never the strong points.  Jittery camera work is pretty standard.  I regret not trying harder to record more, but I am grateful for all that we have.

I can hear him. I can see him. And my heart, in the brilliant clarity of grief, fills in the spaces where his face is blurry.

When I am really missing him, I go for a virtual stroll, looking for new sightings of him.  I find other people on facebook and youtube who have uploaded pictures or videos he's in, and then look to see if I can find another one with Max in it.

I have become an expert on where to look for him.  I can tell what year the video was filmed from what choristers are in the front row.  When Max was a tenor, he was in the middle.  When he became a bass, he started singing from the back corners of the choir. Usually the far left, (stage left), but sometimes the far right.  The videos we have of Boychoir performances are a trade-off.  If they take in the entire choir, it's at such a distance that it is impossible to make out real details of individual singers.  If the camera is close, or zoomed in, Max is off-screen somewhere to the right or left.

Last week, I found a video and I knew that Max was singing with the choir. I recognized the singers, that they were his contemporaries.  Many of them were boys who sang at his memorial.

I sat through one whole song, begging the camera to turn just a little to the left to see where I hoped Max would be singing.  I resisted the urge to skip ahead.  I didn't want to miss a quick image if the camera only moved that way briefly.  And it feels ... disrespectful to truncate a performance of him.
 
After one whole song, a second one began.  The camera moved slowly to the left.

I gasped seeing Max. There he was.  Like he had walked around the corner of my home, or stepped into my office at work.

There he was.

For just a second, there he was.  Beautiful, alive, and singing.

The second passes, and I am lost in the watery embrace of mourning and memory.  The camera panned back to the right, and Max was gone.

Gone again.