A Mother’s Journey through Grief: A Pathway to Healing

I am a survivor of adult child loss. Thirteen years ago, in July of 2012 I first learned, in the most devastating way possible, that my son suffered from a severe mental illness: I found him dying from a self-inflicted wound. When Jonathan returned home from the hospital after surviving this first suicide attempt, he asked me, “What would you have done if I had died?” Without hesitation, I replied, “I would have laid down in my bed and asked God to please take me too, right then.” His expression shifted from surprise to sadness. “Maybe,” I remember thinking afterwards, “if he knows the depth of my pain at losing him, it will somehow keep him from ever again attempting to kill himself.” But I did not understand the intensity of his suffering. In those moments nothing could penetrate his anguish – no other thought, feeling, or concern for any other person could enter his mind. He believed that we would be better off without him. He was clearly incapable of considering anyone or anything besides ending his own pain. And, while we strove mightily in the months following Jonathan’s suicide attempt, both to help him heal and to protect him from his suicidal urges, we lost our battle in December of that year – a mere five months later. Jonathan died at 21 and while already forced to confront overwhelming trauma, I began a journey of overwhelming grief.

My response to his question posed after his initial attempt had been sincere. I could not imagine surviving his death. Indeed, during the initial aftermath, the intensity of my emotional pain was so profound and all-encompassing that I truly felt as though my body could not bear the devastating level of pain and would give out. Unable to withstand the burden of this loss, my heart would simply stop beating. Yet, there I was, after his death, sitting shiva, still breathing, and my heart still beating. I was living through something I once thought impossible, albeit in a state of indomitable sadness. Everything – every action – even breathing – felt overwhelming. Nothing would ever be as I had once envisioned; my life had assumed a different trajectory.

In those first days, weeks and months following Jonathan’s death, I lived in a state of altered existence, as though walking inside a bubble of impenetrable sorrow. Nothing existed outside the pain in my soul. Even the act of leaving my home was an enormous challenge. I could not face people and felt as though I existed in a box disconnected from all people, completely isolated. I merely existed.

Eventually, I managed to accomplish daily tasks and to talk with people, but everything passed through a filter of grief. Interactions and events felt muffled, colors were faded, music was muted, and happiness felt distant. Every conversation, no matter how routine, was contextualized by my loss. Simple questions like “How are you?” prompted polite responses, while my inner world cried out in pain. Similarly, whenever my daughters were mentioned, my thoughts returned to Jonathan, the child who was absent. Every interaction was shadowed by internal anguish.

While living life through the “filter” of grief, I left my home and interacted with others only when necessary. Shopping trips were carefully planned around times and places that would avoid encounters with people who knew me, and the need to exchange pleasantries. How could I explain crying in the supermarket when I saw Jonathan’s favorite foods, or his favorite iced tea? My grief shaped the boundaries and contours of my life.

Eventually, grief evolved from being the “filter” through which I experienced life to the background “wallpaper.” All events occurred against the backdrop of my sadness and grief. The joy of my daughters’ weddings was partially offset by Jonathan’s absence. I thought – “Yes, it is wonderful, they are getting married; but Jonathan is not here.” My daughters, as well, sought to mark their joyous wedding days with a reminder of their missing little brother. When we gathered as a family, I was always keenly aware that Jonathan was not there. With sadness always in the way, happiness and joy could no longer dominate my heart as they always had in the past. Jonathan’s absence had become the context of my life.

Over the past 13 years, through therapy, attending a support group, and education about grief with experts like David Kessler, I have learned to integrate my sense of loss into my daily life and to think of my son with love. Jonathan remains a part of my thoughts every day; but I understand that his story has ended, while mine continues. He and my grief are part of the mosaic of my life and any attempt to wrest him from the past, or recapture my time with him, or keep him “with me,” except in memory, is futile and ultimately leads to depression.

I accept that moments of sadness will persist and are inevitable due to the depth of love and cherishment I held for my son. It is now possible for me to live. I can smile and feel it in my heart and appreciate the beautiful aspects of my life and the world. This is a blessing. It has enabled me to love my son totally and purely. The loss is no longer solely about me and my pain; it is about missing Jonathan, who now resides in my memory and heart as an indelible part of the story of my life. While I will always feel grief, I have found a way to coexist with it.

There are so many kinds of losses that one can suffer that impact the course of our lives: the loss of a parent, sibling, child, beloved relative or friend, the loss of pregnancy, to name a few. We question ourselves, feel guilt, anger, blame, and so many other emotions. We seek rational answers when sometimes there are none. And, yet we go on even as the path of our lives takes an unforeseen dramatic shift and veers off course. For me, acknowledging the end of Jonathan’s life coincides with the end of a portion of my own life as well – a part of my own future is gone.

It is my hope that by sharing the arc of my own grief journey, though each person’s journey is fully their own, others who have faced painful losses will find solace and faith that they too can experience genuine joy again. I wholeheartedly believe that the support I had found at distinct stages of my grief made an enormous difference. In the beginning, the cocoon of loving and caring friends and community was invaluable, but nevertheless this support ran its course. Joining a support group and seeking grief counseling was extraordinarily helpful. I found that feeling understood and having my grief witnessed by people who could empathize was healing and irreplaceable. There are few others with whom you can speak so openly and frankly about the full range of your emotions ranging from the harshest anger to the deepest anguish and grief. I found it so helpful that I even became a certified grief counselor and have spoken with many – unfortunately there are many – bereaved parents.

Despite all my progress, the grief journey does not end, as activators periodically arise that reduce me to tears – special family events, holidays, birthdays, Jonathan’s yahrzeit. It is a lifelong journey. I strongly encourage all who have experienced the trauma of loss to reach out to find support from others who can truly understand and empathize. It is not a sign of weakness to reach out. Not only is it a sign of strength, but it can help you regain the ability to “breathe freely” again. By allowing yourself this immeasurable assistance you will hopefully once again learn to “live” and not merely “exist”.

Once upon a time, I had a son, named Jonathan Aryeh Roth. He died on Sunday, December 16, 2012, the day after Hanukkah, the third day of Tevet in the Hebrew calendar. If anyone finds comfort from my words, may it be for the merit of Jonathan’s soul, and may his soul ascend to the highest gates of heaven, and his memory be a continual blessing.