Is it my fault?

Did I do something wrong? Did I miss something? Could I have done something differently?

What could I have done to save my child? Where did I drop the ball? Where did I let my child down?

There are many stages of grief. Some people say there are eight, some say there are five, while others say there are eleven or so. But this is the one stage of grief that everyone has on their list. Some call it anger – anger that we didn’t do something we could have – or that the doctors didn’t do something that we could have asked or pushed for. Some call it reflection – where we reflect on what happened and deal with it. While others call it self-blame. No matter what you call it, no matter where it lies on the list, no matter how much you don’t want to face it, every bereaved parent does. It is a healthy and a required step to deal with, and resolve, in order to move on to the next stage of your grief.

Fault, blame, responsibility, maybe omission, accountability. Whatever you call it –  was it my fault? That is the question that haunts so many of us.

A couple we are friends with, lost their child when she fell down a flight of stairs after she had drunk too much.  They were not there, she was in his twenties and lived alone. She came home from a wedding and while trying to open the door to her apartment, she lost his balance and fell backwards down the stairs. They blamed themselves for a long period of time. They were mad that they didn’t drive her home that last night to make sure she got into bed. They were mad that they didn’t teach her better not to drink so much, or to ask someone for help if she was in no condition to get home alone. But as off base as that is, as much as we all see it was not their fault, they still had to reflect on what they could have done differently. In no way could they have foreseen this. No way could they have brought her up differently to prevent this tragic accident. But still, it took them time to get over it and realize that they were not to blame.

For many parents, especially those of young men who pass away from drug overdoses, it is particularly hard. They looked at their sons over several months or years and watched as they deteriorated. They saw what was going on and the drugs taking over their child’s life. They helped them by sending them to rehab facilities, both locally and far away. They spent tens of thousands of dollars at the best places that were available. They helped their sons by bringing them to doctors who were so called “experts” on addiction. They educated themselves on addiction in order to help their boys. They stayed home with them when they needed it. They showered them with love and praise and gave them everything they could to help them get through the addiction.

And yet, they died. And yet, they still overdosed. They ran away from the facilities, they found the drugs they needed, they got back together with those who were such terrible influences on them. And they tragically died. Very young.

Those parents ask themselves every day – what could I have done differently? What more could I have done? Where did I fail my son? And they cry over it. Not only for their loss, but for the blame that they feel.

But they didn’t fail. There was nothing more they could have done. They tried their best and their children knew it. They spent their money wisely, and they did their research. But addiction is a massive disease, and there are no rehab facilities that really work. Addiction is overwhelming and all-consuming. Some people, especially those with co-occurring disorders(*), just can’t get over their addiction. The doctors and the therapists just don’t work sometime. It is hard for me to say, and hard for many to understand, but these young men were destined to pass away young. They were stricken not only with ADD, ADHD, OCS, but they also had very addictive personalities.

Their parents go through a long time of remorse and thinking of what else they could have done. And until they learn that they did everything they could have, it is hard for them to get over their grief and pain. No, it was not their fault. If their sons were here today, when they come to them in their dreams, when they come through a psychic, they all say – it wasn’t your fault – you did everything you could do.

Even for me, was it my fault? I look back and question myself. Three days before Andrew passed away he asked me for a new skateboard to go to and from classes with. His current one (of many) was getting old and slow. I of course wanted to make him happy, so we went out the next day and bought him one. It had great IBEK 7 gliding ball bearings built for speed, and wheels built for cornering and traction, and the board itself had great flex designed for control. But was it too much for him? Was the board over his abilities? If I had bought him a slower, cheaper, board maybe he would not have fallen that day and broken his hand. And if he had not fallen and broken his hand he would not have taken the medications the doctors prescribed. And if he would not have taken the medications, his lungs would not have shut down at night. And he would still be with us today. That thought process plays out in my head over and over again. And the doubt that I could have done something different is always there.

It has taken me a long time, but I realize it was not my fault. There was nothing that I could have done to stop what happened. If I had made him wear wrist guards, would that have helped? Maybe. Or a helmet? Maybe. But it was not to be. This is the way he was, this is the situation that happened, and what happened was a freak accident, and it caused my son his life. It changed so many other lives as well. But it was no one’s fault. It was not his fault, nor was it mine. And that has taken me a long, long time to realize.

A friend’s son passed away recently of complications from cystic fibrosis. She is going through the blame process now, and I feel for her. She was there to protect her son. She was there in the hospital to make sure he got the best medical treatment possible. She did all that. She fought for him, she guarded him, she held his hand. She did everything right – and yet he is gone. She is left with dealing with his loss and the blame game.

Unfortunately he was stricken with a debilitating and deadly disease. She loved him. He was a successful person in life because of her. He taught Yoga and Philosophy – that she should be proud of. In her thoughts, did she do enough to protect and save him? It will take her weeks, or months, or years. One day she will come to peace with her answer. She will be at ease, realizing that she did everything right. He passed away because of a disease – not because she missed something, or for something she could have done. She has to realize that one day in order to move on in life, in order to properly grieve, in order to smile one day. She will always cry for her loss, she will always cry for her son, but the tears will be of memories, not of fault.

We all have to realize that one day. As I said, for some it takes months, for others it takes years. And for some, the unfortunate few, it never happens.

Even for the parents of a child who passed away from a brain hemorrhage in just a few short hours – could they have gotten him to the hospital faster, or could they have recognized he was tired sooner? It was not their fault.

Or the parents whose child was kidnapped and murdered. Did they not teach her to be safer? Did they not give her the tools to properly protect herself? Did they not teach their son not to race his car? Where did they fail? Where did they mess up?

Or the child that passed away in a ski accident, or playing hockey, or from anorexia/bulemia. It was no one’s fault. It just happened.

Is it their fault? No. No. No. Easier said than accepted. Easier listened to than learned. It is one of those stages of grief that many grieving parents get stuck in – sometimes forever. But it is one that we all must face, and we all must look into the deepest recesses of our minds and deal with. We have to realize we did protect our children the best we knew how. We did everything we could have done to protect them, to love them, and to shelter them. But somehow they passed away. Somehow they got cheated out of the rest of their lives. And in order for us, those that they left behind, not to get cheated out of the rest of our lives, not to cheat the family that they left behind, we must face this question and answer it. Answer it only to ourselves. And then move on to loving our missing children forever, knowing that they are still loving us and will be there forever loving us.

“You cannot save someone – you can only love them” – anonymous

For more information on co-occurring disorders – please see the Harris Project –https://www.facebook.com/theharrisprojectCOD      

Andrew was 21. We had 21 amazing years with him. Julius was only two and a half. Lisa was thirty four.  But their losses are equally hard on us.

We had Andrew for only twenty-one years. Or should we say we had him for a full twenty one years? We got to watch him grow up, to learn to walk and talk and go to school. We were able to be there with him to celebrate his Bar Mitzvah and to stand with him for his high school ice hockey senior night. We watched him graduate high school and get into his first choice college. We even got to help him select his major and make it three-quarters of the way there. We feel so blessed for the time we had him.

Buy what did we miss?  There are so many things. We missed to chance to see him graduate from college. We missed him starting his first job and hearing about his first day at work. We miss joining him as he started a family, and having children of his own to raise. And most of all we missed him growing in a fine father and family man.  And we missed so much more.  But we did get to see so much.

Mark and Elaine had their wonderful daughter, Lisa, for thirty four years. They got to experience many of the childhood and teenage events we had with Andrew, plus more. They were there to celebrate their daughter’s graduation from law school. They saw Lisa grow into a successful attorney over the years, buy her own apartment in Manhattan, fill it with beautiful art, and make partner at her firm. These are things we will never see.

But does that make it harder or easier on them losing her?  Are they more blessed than we were with the time we had Andrew? They got to see so much more than we did. They got to have their daughter for another twelve or so more years than we had our son. They experienced so much more. So maybe it is harder – they became so much more attached over those years and grew to know her so much more. Or was it not so devastating? She had lived a lot longer, she experienced more, and she left them with so many more memories.

And then there is Julian. He passed at only two and a half years old of a brain hemorrhage. His parents were only able to shower him with love and affection for thirty-two months. Were they better off than us?  Their time together was so much shorter. But they never got to hear Julian speak his first sentences or watch him learn to run and play. They never saw him make friends or have his first day in school. He never told them that he loved them – like Andrew told us so often.  That must hurt them so much never to have heard these words. They nurtured him for two and a half years, only to have him taken away suddenly and with no warning.

And now they live with watching other children, Julian’s friends and relatives, grow up all around them. They know in their minds that Julian would have started school this year – and they missed dropping him off his first day. His friends are now speaking and talking in sentences and asking questions. They are running around and playing and growing, something that they will never experience with their son.

Is it harder on the grieving parent who only had their child a short time and never got to experience these milestones of their children’s lives? They put so much time, patience and love into the earlier years and to have nothing to show for it all of a sudden. Now they have to live their entire lives asking themselves what would it have been like if our beloved child was still here. Or is it easier on them because they never had the years to get attached to their child and to develop that relationship that takes years and years?

How about the child that passed at fifty of cancer? He leaves behind a loving wife and three young children. How hard it is on his parents? They had him for so many years, he has left behind a legacy of grandchildren that will continue to grow and love. Although he is not with us anymore, his family is, and that means so much.

It’s not just us who lost Andrew. Everyone lost him.

Now for the reality? There really is no difference. No one suffers less, no one suffers more. How long we had our child makes no difference at all. The parent who lost their daughter after a year suffers just as much as the one who’s love was for twenty-one years, or fifty years. The fact is, losing a child is a devastating loss.  There are no words that can be spoken to a parent who lost a child to give them comfort. The loss is so devastating, so indescribable, that there is not even a term to describe a parent who has lost a child – for any reason, at any age. It is something that just puts a parent into a place that can not even be described.

Why did I write this then? Why, if it is so hypothetical, so speculative, to compare the losses? Because it is something that we talk about in our bereavement groups. It is something that other parents talk to us about, both bereaved and those lucky enough not to be. It is something that should be talked about and needs to be talked about.

There is a saying that we hear a lot in our new circles – it almost sums it up.
When you lose a parent, you lose your past.
When you lose a spouse, you lose your present.
But, when you lose a child, you lose your future.

I hope you understand this.

What does it mean to have a relationship with someone? Does it mean talking to them on a consistent basis? Seeing them once in a while? Having fun together? Bouncing ideas off of them? It means a lot of different things to different people, and it is almost impossible to really define. But as I see now, it takes on a whole new definition; a whole new set of parameters.

I still have a relationship with my Andrew. I need to. It has evolved into something different, and is still evolving. It is very esoteric, very emotional, almost hypothetical. But it is still my relationship with my son. and as I said before, I need to have this relationship if I am going to stay sane and emotionally stable for the next five, ten, or whatever years I have left.
It is very different from my relationship with Nicole. I see her every couple of weekends. I get to watch her play hockey and get to cheer for her. I get to hug her after games and tell her how proud I am of her. We go out to dinner, I take care of her fish, I get to help her wash and clean her car, and we text once in a while (probably more than we talk). I get to ask her how school is, I worry about her when she is hurting, and share in her joys when she is happy or excited about something in life.

With Nicole, we are still growing. The relationship we have is still developing, and will for our entire lives. I find joy in making her happy. I love to cook for her when she is home and eagerly await her feedback about my attempts. She is coming home this weekend for a few days. I am making a frittata with caramelized tomatoes, spinach, potatoes, and onions for breakfast of Saturday and inviting grandma over. Saturday night I am grilling marinated flank steak, seasoned sliced baked potatoes, spinach, and some dumplings for an appetizer.  I am making spinach pasta with fried panchetta one night with grilled romaine lettuce and blue cheese salad. And we are making fresh sushi rolls together on Monday (spicy shrimp rolls, shrimp tempura rolls, salmon rolls, and more).

It’s a lot of work, but it is more enjoyment than work. It gives us time together when we prepare and cook – time that I cherish. Deeply. The one comment that we will make a few times over the weekend – Andrew would have liked this. Or maybe he wouldn’t have. But we will talk about him. We will keep our relationship with Andrew alive through our conversations about him. We use the soy sauce that he loved and that he picked out – he was very picky about his soy sauce and only let us buy one brand. Maybe we won’t say anything about it, but we know we are using his soy sauce, and that would make him happy.

But back to Andrew….

I still talk to him. I still tell him how I feel, how I miss him, what I am feeling at that moment, that I still can not believe he is gone. I sit in his room sometimes and look around and imagine him there. I remember the good times when he used to build with his Lego’s, and when he used to take apart his paintball guns and replace parts and rebuild them. I keep his closet clean, I refold his clothes for him once in a while, and rearrange things around his room so I can see different things at different time. I have his Titans Hockey jacket hanging on his doorknob now so I see it every time I walk down the hall. Before that it was his black and white checker flannel shirt.

He is no longer physically here, he no longer tells me about life and what he is doing. But on many levels I am much closer to him now than I ever was. I used to think about him a lot. I used to have him in my thoughts much of the time, as well as Nicole. But now he is constantly in my heart, he is constantly with me. My relationship with Andrew is still very give and take. I get so much comfort thinking about the wonderful, but much too short life he enjoyed. I get a smile on my face knowing that he loved life, he loved what he did, he loved to travel and snowboard and live in Boulder. He loved his friends, and he had such a great relationship with his close friends that he enjoyed. The thoughts he gives me are cherished, and the memories he gave me for twenty one years are what keeps me going these days.

I started to scan the photographs we have from when Andrew and Nicole where born, to when we got digital cameras. There are hundreds of them, and I look at each one and smile as I set it down on the scanner. Each one of them brings back memories and builds my relationship with him.

Some can say that he is no longer here, and can’t give me anything going forward. I disagree. Just like a father who’s children grow older, move away and start their own loves, he is left with the memories of them growing up, going to school, playing sports, and traveling. These are the same memories I have of my son. As I remember them through thought or pictures, they build that relationship with Andrew. And they keep that relationship alive for as long as I can remember him and in my thoughts and love him in my mind.

As we get older, we forget things in life. We get new memories and forget the old one’s, it is a natural cycle. That is why I have to keep my relationship with Andrew growing. I can’t bear to lose a single thought of him. I can’t bear to forget a single detail of what he did in life, and how he looked and how he smelled, and how he drove, and how he loved. This is why I write about him. I need to be able to one day look back over these journals and pictures and make sure I never forget Andrew.

Dreams and fantasy – that is what helps us all get through the day. No matter how real or unrealistic they are, they help us survive.

The one dream I have, along with other grieving parents, is that one more day. That one day that I can have Andrew back. I have no other dreams or wishes. Just one. Just to have him back for one day.

What would we do? I have given that so much thought. I have spent hours sitting in the chairs by his fire pit thinking about it, planning out the day, wondering what it would be like.

What comes to mind is to talk to him the entire day – that is if I could ever let go of the hug I would give him first. We would have breakfast – a frittata with eggs and potatoes – he loved to wake up to that in the morning. Although I have been making it for a while now, he still loves Grandmas the best. I am sure he would hug Daphne and Buzz. Every morning the first thing he did was to jump on my bed and roll around with the dog and cat, hug them, shower them with praises, and make them feel so very loved.

After we eat, I am sure he would want to take a shower – a long hot shower. He really relaxed in the shower and always said it gave him piece of mind. I still have his body soap in the shower, and I actually bought a couple of more of them – Dove Men’s Care Extra Fresh. Once in a while when I shower I will use just a dab of it. Just that little dab makes the whole bathroom smell the way I remember Andrew. It brings back such a visceral memory of him – like he is standing there and I can still smell him. It hurts, but the memory is so clear and vivid.

My father holding me and my sister, many years ago.

We would sit outside by his fire pit, all four of us, and talk for hours. There is so much I wanted to tell him, but never got the chance. Of course he knew he was loved so much, but there is so much more. There are things you wait to tell your son as he grows up, everything in time. But we have no more time. I told him a little about my dad, but not enough. I told him about how I grew up, and the difficult time I had without a father, but did I ever tell him that it worked out okay? I don’t know, but maybe he knew that. What did he think of me as a father? I promised him I would take care of my health and do my best to be there for him and Nicole as long as I could during their lives. I never broke that promise.

And the things I have for him, I want to show them to him. The things he was supposed to have one day. I have my father’s war ribbons and decorations (he earned a Silver Star as well as two Purple Hearts) and his Eagle Scout patches.  – Stuff that I am so proud of, that I wanted him to know about. But I wanted him to be a little older, a little more mature, before I shared them with him. Maybe after college. I wanted him to have my grandfathers cuff links – they are so beautiful. It was supposed to be his gift when he started his first job. They are still in my jewelry box now, but I know what I am going to do with them at least. I have a baseball that was given to me by my team when I played little league so many years ago, that was signed by everyone on the team. It has been on my work bench getting worn all these years. I only played one year, but I drove in the winning run one game and they gave me the signed game ball. My father was so proud of me that game; I remember it to this day. That is something I would have wanted him to keep on his desk, or have on his night stand for him to remember me by one day when I was gone. I would spend some time showing him these things – knowing he can’t take them with him, but that he would appreciate knowing about.

Hey, do you know how to set up a NAS box? Or do you know how to change anti-freeze or change the oil in your car? Can you help me fix this thing or that thing? Have you ever seen 2001: Space Odyssey, or Animal House? Wanna watch it with me today? These are all things that I have thought about since he is gone. All the things that I never got to say to him, show him, teach him. So many things that I probably would need more than a day. But I would have such a need to show him so much stuff – just so he would know.

We would just sit there and talk. Dorothy, Nicole and I would just look at Andrew and feel so lucky to have these hours with him.

Andrew used to be upset that it took me too long to do some projects around the house, procrastinating until I eventually got to them. He would joke that maybe it would be done before he came home for the summer, or came home for spring break. Well I’ve gotten through the list of those projects, and I would want to show him that. I know he would smile, and that I have learned not to procrastinate too much. That is something that always bothered him, and I promised him I would change it – and even now I am keeping my promise to my son.

We would leave him alone with Nicole for a while. He wants to hear about how she is doing in college? How difficult it was for her – her first day of school without him there to talk to. How was your first year, he would ask. How are your teachers and your classes. And most important – how is the food in school? He would tell her stories of his first few years of college, and how sorry he is that he never got the chance to finish. He would be so proud of her playing college hockey, and wearing his number to honor him. Andrew was a person of few words, but I am sure he would tell her so much about college and how proud he is of her and what she has accomplished so far in her life.

There is so much more to the day that I imagine.

But after I write all this, after I think about all of this, it would not really be like this. We would spend the day, the entire day, with Andrew snowboarding in Vail. That is what he loves, that is what set him free, emotionally. They might have beautiful mountains where he is now, but nothing like Vail. Why would I be so greedy as to deny him one more, one last day of snowboarding. There is so much we need to tell him, need to show him, need to hold him. But he knows all that. We would just let him snowboard. And we would be there and watch him smile, try to keep up with him, and just let him enjoy his day, not ours. It would be his day.

And then we would sit there together as the sun goes down over the mountains. And, as he told Dorothy when he came to her in her sleep on Mother’s Day, he would get up and say “You know I have to go now”.

It has been a year now. A year since we lost our dear Andrew. A year since our dreams of watching our son grow into a man, watching him get a job, get married, have children, have been cut short. In a tragic second, we went from proud parents of a son about to embark on his senior year in college, to grieving our son forever. We went from a happy life of enjoying music, food, and friends, to spending much of our time crying and talking to each other about Andrew and our love for him.

It has been a year. The longest and hardest year of our lives. We have had some terrible days, and some not so bad days. But never a good day. We now enter our second year, which we hear is harder than the first. And then our third, and forth, and fifth, and on and on. It will never end for us. The grieving, the crying, the missing. We will live with it for the rest of our lives. The form our grieving takes might change. We might change. But we will be grieving in our way.

Some people have asked us if we are okay now. It’s been a year, it has to get easier they say. Pam tells a story about the fact that she is five or six years out, and although her grieving has evolved and has changed, she is still grieving. Her friends find it hard to accept that she is still hurting, still grieving after all these years. The fact is her son is still gone – he is still not with her physically. She still lights candles for him, still talks to him, now more than ever. And probably will forever. But her friends can’t understand – how can they?

The fact is we, too, will grieve for a long time, probably our entire lives. When we go to a wedding, of course we will be happy for the bride and groom and for our friends. But we will also cry knowing that Andrew will never get married. He will never have the joy of walking down the aisle and saying I Do, and being introduced as Mr. & Mrs. Andrew Grosser – and that hurts. When our friends have grand-children, we will share in their joy. We will smile with them and hold their grandchild and be happy for them. And again, we will cry. We will cry for the fact that Andrew will never know the pure love of raising a baby and watching that baby grow up. He will never stand there proudly as his son reaches his Bar Mitzvah, reads from the Torah, and becomes a man.

For all these things, and more, we will be there for our friends, and hopefully they will be here for us. But our grieving will not end, we will not, and can not, get over it. We are on a path that very few travel. It is a path of sadness, sorrow, and loneliness. But we will be on that path the rest of our lives.

When a parent is lost, it is the proper order of life. We grieve for our parents, we expect them to pass before us, and we eventually move on. We go back to work, we start to go out again, we have our children and our future. It is the normal cycle of life.

When we lose a spouse, it is harder. They are our present, they are our life partner. We know that one day one of us will pass before the other, and the one left to grieve will do just that – grieve. For a month, a year, a few years. But then again, they will move on. They may meet someone and fall in love again. They will go on with their lives and enjoy old age with someone, and sit on the porch someday not alone, but with someone new. We would want them to. They are not replacing their lost partner, for no one can do that, but they are moving on.

With the loss of a child, you lose your future. And you never get over that.

Some people are surprised that parents grieve for years and years. They expect us to get better, they expect us to move on with our lives. It’s been two, five, ten years – and yet you still light candles and cry? You still visit the cemetery every week? You still invite people over for Andrew’s birthday? Yes we do.

Just a few weeks ago we watched as the names of the victims on 9/11 were read, many of them still have parents alive and where someone’s child. And we watched as their parents grieved and cried on live television, and it was okay. We understand their grief, and have compassion for them and their loss. It has been thirteen years and they still grieve, and people are alright with that, and the public grieves alongside them. Then why is it different for those of us who lost a child not on 9/11? Why are we expected to get over it sooner? Why are we questioned after a year or two or three?

I am of course not comparing our loses to those lost in that tragedy, but the fact is our children are gone as well. The parents of Sandy Hook children will grieve for the rest of their lives as well, as will the parents of the children taken in Norway. Although our children were lost in different ways, we will all grieve for the rest of our lives.

So, do we get over it ever? No. But we learn to deal with it. We learn to deal with the hole in our hearts, we learn to deal with the forever empty bed in our home. We learn to smile again, we learn to enjoy some things in life. We start to put our lives back together.

Some things will also make us cry. For me it is hearing any Beatles music. Andrew loved The Beatles, he understood and appreciated their music. Whenever I hear them, I am just overwhelmed. For Dorothy, it is a young man on a skateboard, for she always sees her Andrew on that skateboard, enjoying life.

So when you see us, any grieving parent, please understand that we are still grieving, and always will be. But out grieving takes different forms over time, it evolves, and we learn to deal with it different. We might light candles, we might have a birthday cake every year, or keep our children’s pictures all over our home. It is our way of connecting and never forgetting. It is our way of grieving.

And to be honest – we don’t ever really want to get over it.

I sit outside in Andrew’s garden as the flowers are all dying. I remember planting them just a few short months ago, and watching them grow and flourish, just as I did with my son. I watered them, took care of them, protected them from the elements, and they flourished, just as I did with Andrew. They were beautiful and full for so long, as was he. They gave other peace and comfort when they sat here amongst their beauty.

Now, they are gone. Nothing I could do, nothing I could do to protect them, nothing I could have done to save them. They, like my son are now gone. The flowers, like all grieving parents children, are gone. We took care of them, we nourished them, we guided them to grow, but now they are gone, and we grieve.

We must now face winter. It is cold, dark and barren. As many of our hearts are. Nothing grows, the days are short, the nights are long, almost unbearable.  For we must now face the winter of our lives without our children. And just like winter, we have no idea how cold it will be, or how long it will last.

For us, all of us, this winter will be cold and long. And like grief, we can’t get around it, we can’t climb over it or go under it – we have to face it and deal with it. We will each deal with winter in a different way, as we do with our grief. Some of us hide and cry, and keep interactions to a minimum – we feel we must grieve alone. For others, we reach out, we ask why, we go to support groups. We need to hear from others that we will be okay one day.  Some of us start  foundations. We need to feel we can prevent other parents from suffering the loss we have suffered. We will all do something – and if we even do nothing, that is still our way of doing something.

We all deal with our own winters in our own way. That is what we need to do. But, we will all make it through winter, as we will make it through our grief. One day we will smile again. One day we will plant again and see flowers. One day we will see spring and we will know we made it through this winter, we know we will survive our grief. How long or how cold will winter be? How dark and how long will the nights be? We don’t know, no one knows. But we will make it through, we will see spring one day.

The last picture of Andrew and Todd. The last of hundreds of pictures of them living their lives and growing up together.

The very last picture of Andrew. He was truly happy in Boulder, and fit in there so well.

To all of our friends, family, relatives, co-workers, peers, distinguished alumni;

We know you mean to say something meaningful, sympathetic and meant to ease our grief and pain. We know you are reaching out to us in our time of need. We know you are trying to be our friend and our comfort.

In our bereavement groups we talk about what our friends and family say to us. And as nicely as I can put this, for all the grieving parents, please think before you speak. Think about what you are really saying. Think about the real meaning of your words. Think about it for a moment before you say it.

This is not a rant, or a bitching session, or letting off steam. This is one of the many topics we discuss in our bereavement parents meetings, and sometimes it hurts. We are strong enough not to respond to these phrases the way we would like to, but weak in that they really do hurt us. We are strong enough to make it past these conversations, but weak because we cry alone.

This is meant for anyone who is the friend of a bereaved parent. Many, many of us want to say what I am writing here, but don’t have the forum to say it – I do. So please, after you read this, and if you relate to it in any way, please share it. Please let others who are much more fortunate than us and have not experienced the grief we carry each day read this as well. You will be doing a great favor to so many people, and maybe sparing a grieving parent the pain of hearing what I am listing below.

Really? Did someone say that?

1. “I know how you feel.”  Are you serious? Do you really know what it is to lose a child? Do you know what it is like to lose the most precious thing  you have ever held in your arms? Maybe you have lost a mother and/or father, even a sibling. But as we all know, that fails in comparison to the loss of a child. We don’t even know how we feel much of the time. Between the grief, between the crying, between the constant struggle to get out of bed every morning, we are at a loss for feelings much of the time. Please, no one really know how we feel but ourselves.

2. “He/She is in a better place now.” Really? Do you feel that our children that have been taken from us are in a better place now? Do you think they are better off there than here next to us? And I quote this from another grieving mother – “then tell me which one of your children would like to go to this better place tomorrow and be with my son.” I know is sounds a little harsh, but if my son is in a better place now, as some people believe, then is there a child of yours that you would want to join them? There is no better place than right here, right next to me, right in my arms, right here sleeping in his bed every night instead of where he is now.

3. “G-d only gives a person what they can handle.”  I am not really sure what this means, or is meant to mean when it is said to someone. Most people can “handle” the loss of their child, as most people can handle just about anything. But to think that one person can handle the death of their child better than another, or that G-d makes a conscious decision that this person is stronger and can handle such a devastating loss is just nuts. We are not “handling” the loss of our children, we are simply living and dealing with it the best we can. When a devastating flood hits a certain region of the country, does G-d do that because those people can “handle” it better? Probably not. And we don’t handle it well. We cry, many of us stop working, most of us stop living our lives – that is not handling it. That is surviving.

4. “At least you have other children.” So the child that was taken from me was of less value, less love than the children I have left? I should be grateful that I still have my daughter and that minimizes the loss of my son? I know grieving parents that lost one of their three or four children, and it hurts just as much as the parent that lost their only child. You cannot put a value on each child, and when one is taken, the value of the remaining children goes up to compensate for the lost child? It does not work that way unfortunately. We love each and every one of our children, as everyone does, equally. We treat them the same, we love them the same, we try to make each of their lives unique. When one is taken it is devastating, and it actually hurts the other children that remain behind more than you can imagine.

5. “Everything happens for a reason.”  Everything happens. Period. Is there a reason why it happens? Probably not. When the father of a family of four dies in a car crash, or the doctor working on a cure for cancer dies, is there a reason? Is the reason that our children died part of some divine plan? How about when someone loses their job and their life is ruined – is there a reason for that? There is no reason my son died – or none that I can accept. It was an accident, and that’s it. For someone to say that there was a reason behind it hurts. How would you feel sitting in the hospital with a broken back and someone comes in and tells you that your fall happened for a reason? How would you feel?

6. “You’re so strong.” No, Not really. We are not that strong. We are surviving. That’s it. We cry every day, usually more than once. We see our children’s rooms and their prized possessions and our knees give out and we lean against the wall for support. We rely on the calls and e-mails and the support of other grieving parents to get us to keep moving forward in our lives. When we smile, we are trying to be happy. When we laugh, which is rare, we are laughing because our children want us to laugh. When we are with others and appear to have a good time with them, we do so because we know our children would want us to have a good time. Then we leave, and cry in the car the whole way home because our children are not here with us.

7. “You make it through the first year – the worst is over.” And your basis for knowing this pearl of wisdom is what? You’ve went through the loss of a child and have some insight that we do not have, or that other grieving parents do not have. As a matter of fact, the second year is worse than the first – or so we hear from so many in our situation. The one year mark is a milestone. We have had the first Thanksgiving without Andrew. We have had the first New Years Eve, a night we have always spent together, without our son by our sides. We have celebrated his birthday last year with our friends and family, but Andrew was not there. And  you know something? We are going to celebrate it this year as well. We are going to toast him on New Years Eve, and we are going to miss him at Passover reading the four questions. All this is in year two, as it was in year one, and it will be just as hard, if not harder. And in year three and four and five. Yea, we made it through the first year, but the worst is yet to be.

8. “Are you better now?”  Actually no. I will never be “better.” I will move ahead with my life, I will work when I can, I will one day go out and have a good time – but I will never be better. I lost my son, how can I ever really be better? I might be good one day, the whole in my heart will be bearable to live with, but it will always be there. I will never be the person I was before I lost Andrew. None of us will ever be better. We have all changed. This goes the same with “are you over your grief now?” No, we are never over our grief. Our children are gone, forever. We will never be over grieving for them.

9. “I didn’t want to bring up your son/daughter because I didn’t want to remind you of him/her.” Please, don’t worry about reminding us of our children. They are on our minds from when we wake in the morning with a tear in our eyes to when we fall asleep crying at night. We think about them when we sit at our desks, when we are at breakfast and when we eat without them at dinnertime. They are always on our minds – more than anything else, ever. What would be nice is if you did talk about our children – if you are comfortable and strong enough to do that, we would like that. It shows us that you care, that you are our friend, that you, too, miss our children. My closest friends talk about Andrew with us all the time, and mostly in the present tense. The help us remember him and remind us that he will never be forgotten by anyone.

10. “I don’t deal well with death.” Neither do we. We hate the fact that we have to deal with the death of our children, but we have to. We deal with it every day. We know there are many people don’t deal well with death. They will come to the funeral, come sit shiva, go to a wake. But then they disappear because they can’t deal with death. Maybe they are afraid that it will effect their children, maybe they are afraid to be uncomfortable during a conversation, I don’t know. Some people who don’t deal well with hospitals and won’t visit friends when they are in the hospital. Maybe because of infections, or  because they can’t look at sick or ill people. That is pretty understandable. . .almost. But not having the ability to overcome your fear of dealing with death to comfort and help a friend who desperately needs it in their time of sorrow? There are still friends of ours who we have not spoken to much, if at all. Now a year later, because we are told that they can’t deal with death. We’re sorry that the death of our child makes you uncomfortable.

“I am sorry for your loss.”
A gentle hug.
Kindness.
Friendship.
That is all we seek.

Since Andrew’s passing, I have received dozens and dozens of notes, letters, e-mails, IM’s, from his friends, teammates, and our family. I have kept all of them and when I have the need to hear about my son, I read and re-read them. It brings me to tears every time when I read them, but they are tears of happiness to hear how he was loved by so many and how he helped and changed the lives of so many.

I have put together some of them below to share with you. They are unedited and have come to me over the past year. There are so many more, I will share some time soon.

Enjoy

From A.N.:
Dear Perry – today I had quite the unusual encounter… It started off with GoogleEarth, I was looking at maps and decided to take a “street view” of Rocky Ridge.. and nostalgia started to kick in. In particular, this story came to my mind – I remember one day, Andrew and I were practicing or yo-yo skills, when we realized we sucked. Our goal was to beat Max (the German boy up the street) in a yo-yo “sleeping” competition (where the yo-yo keeps spinning, once all the string is drawn, typically when tricks are preformed) and Andrew had this great idea – why not put WD-40 on the bearings of our yo-yos so that we could beat Max, and sure enough it worked like a charm, and we became the yo-yo king and queen of the block! Max was stupefied because we all had the same model yo-yo!! But I digress.. anyway as my work day was coming to an end, we have to chase the chickens around to put them back in their coop. It’s always a struggle, and we have to walk pretty far into the woods to go find them. And, this one particular chicken, orange/bass in color, looks me dead in the eye, jumps out of the coop and proceeds down into the woods. I followed him quite some ways, nothing out of the ordinary. But then — and I kid you not Perry, I walk in these woods everyday, along with my co-workers, this chicken sits down by a hockey puck in a clearing of tall grass. I’ve never seen the hockey puck, and I walk that path, everyday!!! And oddly enough – my whole day fit together in a strange puzzle of nostalgia. I am so sure that was Andrew somewhere, laughing at our times growing up together…….

Andrew playing shuffleboard with his East Hill Farm family.

From K.N.
Perry, I am so sorry to hear about Andrew. I regret being unable to make it yesterday to the services. He was truly part of my farm family and I have so many fond memories of him.

I remember one year at the farm, when they had those hand sanitizer wipes in the barn, he took a bunch with them for no other reason but to be funny. All week, he kept cracking jokes about them, and with anyone else, those jokes would have gotten old. But with Andrew, it was funny every time.

I remember all the times we went to arts and crafts together. We made lots of bead bracelets and fuse bead crafts. We’d always trade at least one craft every day with each other. And, he would sit there until his was done, even if Todd, Lauren and myself had already finished.

I remember him as someone who got along with everyone. Nothing negative ever seemed to faze him at the farm. He was always so upbeat and positive. Just the way he would enthusiastically get up and say hi to Daisy every single time you walked by with her just showed his true self even more. His sense of humor, his kindness, and light-hearted spirit are qualities I will always remember him for.

I’m so saddened that this kind of tragedy has happened to such an amazing family like yours. You all have touched me with your kindness throughout the years. Andrew will always have a special place in my heart. Sending all my thoughts and love your way. 

From another A.N.
Hi Perry, Hope you, Dorothy and Nicolle are doing okay. My mom was just playing with a rubix cube and it made me think of Andrew…he is the one who showed me the algorithm to complete the cube….of course I couldn’t’ figure it out but he was a good teacher! I just wanted to share that with you. We think about him everyday – he was a good friend. I remember he drove me to school so many times junior year during finals, and senior year before I got a car – he’d see me at the bus stop and tell me to jump in his car. And he would drive barefoot. If you ever need anything from us we’re right down the street. Our thoughts and prayers are with you all

From B.P.
Andrew really was a great person and one of the friendliest people I have ever met. He has inspired me to live my life to the fullest each and every day.

From L.U.
Andrew was such an amazing person. I went to my first ever music festival with him and my older brother Henry. We camped out for The Gathering of the Vibes in Connecticut for 3 days and it changed my life. I saw how carefree, worldly and full of joy Andrew and all of the other concertgoers were. It changed my taste in music completely and opened my eyes to a world I never thought existed. Andrew will always hold a special place in my heart for this and I am so thankful to have met him and created such amazing memories with him and my brother. I miss him so much

From B.G.
Hi Perry, I just now found out about Andrew… Absolutely shocking. I was definitely one of the few people who really got to know him being that we were roommates for the better part of two years. Those years were really special to me; Andrew had a certain aura to him that was truly unique, truly profound. He had such a light that emitted from his smile, such a positive glow that was unmistakable. You could instantly feel the atmosphere of a room brighten whenever he walked in – kid was special.

I spent so many days and nights philosophizing with him about everything from consciousness to politics to the value of being a good person, and everything in between. He always had something new to offer to the conversation that changed my perspective; I learned so much through and with him. Every once in a while, I find myself laughing in reminiscence about things we talked about, the witty comments he would make, the way that he could turn anything into a smile.

I just want you to know that when it comes down to it, Andrew, specifically, has positively influenced my life, and he lives on in my own life in how his presence has affected me. I will always look back fondly on my time spent with Andrew, and how I’ve grown through his being a good person.

He was so smart – everything he came into contact with was left with a residual glow that was simply beautiful. My heart hurts for you and your family, especially because he was all the way out here when it happened. I just want to reassure you that his time spent out here really was a blessing to many people, and that in my experience with him, he made me smile more times than anyone else I’ve met out here. If there is anything I can do to help you or your family to ease this process of transition, please do not even hesitate to ask. I am going to get together with some people from the dorms in his honor- one last hoorah for the beauty that was Andrew’s life.

From A.D.
I didn’t want to send this message too soon so I thought that now would be a better time. I wanted to tell you how sorry I am for your loss. I understand that there is nothing anyone could ever do to make the pain go away but I wanted to tell you how much I loved spending summers at EHF with Andrew and Nicole.

He was always smiling when he played hockey – he loved to be part of the team.

This was pretty typical at our home during hockey season. Nicole would hang out with everyone until they all fell asleep. Daisy would never want to be left out.

The best memory I have of Andrew is when Nicole and I decided to wake up really early on the LAST day you guys were at the farm and DUMP cold water on him. I just remember how after we dumped this water and woke him up he was NOT upset and was just laughing! ( Nicole and I were hysterical ) It’s a memory that is just so simple but stays with you for a long time. Both your kids are outstanding and hilarious and KIND people and I am so happy that I was able to meet Andrew and your family and shared wonderful memories. I am thinking of you during this difficult time, always.

From A.B.
You raised a great kid. I’m thankful everyday i got the chance to meet and be friends with such a wonderful individual. andrew truly touched the hearts of so many people. thank you for doing such a good job with him. he gave nothing but respect since day one.

And finally, from M.J.
I’ll always remember our last conversation. I dropped you off at your house just hours before you left for the airport to fly to Colorado. Although I wish every day that we could talk just one more time, and of all the conversations we had, I know our last conversation was the perfect one because it reminded me of the great, selfless friend that you are. I use the word “are” because the things you told me are still with me and always will be. It has been a sad day, undoubtedly, but it is the happy memories of you that carry us through days like these. Thank you for everything and I love you brother.

Food. What a topic. But in so many ways Andrew and Nicole’s lives are so defined by food and food related stories.

Andrew never had this before, but when he saw it on the IHOP menu the last day I was with him, he wanted to try it. He was quite surprised how steak tastes in pancake batter and deep fried. He was obviously not concerned about the calories or fat.

Andrew loved his food. He ate almost anything and everything. Both of my kids grew up at grandma and Poppi’s house, they spent hours and hours in Poppi’s garden. They learned to enjoy vegetables grown fresh from the garden, raw, grilled, in a salad, wherever. They loved veggies.

Both of them also loved sushi. We made and ate sushi at home from when they were very young, and they were both pretty accomplished at making their own. Whenever we traveled we like to make at least one meal a sushi meal. The only issue is Andrew and his soy sauce. He is pretty particular about his soy sauce. I remember I brought home another brand one day and he was not happy. He tasted it and promptly sent me back out for ‘his’ brand.  There might be a minor difference in the flavor, but he would always know when we switched them on him.

He was never really into fast food – didn’t eat at McD’s or BK much, But he did enjoy the local pizza shop.

Nicole loves fast food. When she goal tended for the state championship final game, one of the parents told her if she had a shutout, which was almost impossible in the championship game, the parents would buy her anything she wanted for dinner after the game. Given that incentive, on about forty shots, she pulled off a shutout. Her reward? We had to stop the bus with twenty kids and thirty parents at McD’s on the way back home, 10PM, in a snowstorm, somewhere in Syracuse. The team very graciously let Nicole order first. Her order – “The Dollar Menu.” The cashier looked at her and asked her what she wanted. She repeated – “The dollar menu.” Again, the cashier looked at her and then Nicole made it clear – “The entire dollar menu, all twenty two items.”  From burgers, to a shake, a sundae, chicken sandwich, fries, etc., the entire dollar menu. And to everyone’s astonishment she sat in the bus and finished the entire dollar menu, courtesy of the team parents. That was a one time splurge, she does not eat like that now! But she was very happy that bus ride home. Three bags all to herself. While others had a burger or a drink, Nicole was in heaven.

One of Andrew’s favorite meals – nice juicy bone-in steaks with escargot in herb butter. We had this in his honor on the 25th.

Andrew experimented as well. We ate a few times at my favorite restaurant in Port Chester – Chavin, a small Peruvian restaurant. Andrew had eaten there a couple of times with me and enjoyed it, so when the four of us went for my birthday one year he was happy to go back. There were some steak specialties on the menu, some rice and beans, etc. But after perusing the menu for a few minutes, my son ordered the skewed cow heart over french fries and rice. He was always in for experimenting new food and this was no exception. Although only I accepted a taste from his plate, he seemed to really enjoy that meal, and said he would re-order it another time. Even when we went to the Korean BBQ, he would always order something new and always wanted to try something different.

From when the kids where babies, Uncle Roy has been coming over at least once or twice a week. Roy and Dorothy, and sometimes I would help out, would make pretty elaborate meals for the five or six of us (once Roy got married). They would make Italian meals, Greek, Jewish, Mexican – and not the usual meals, but some exotic different plates. Nicole and Andrew would not want to miss these meals – for although they were very different, the food was always a treat. Sometimes the cooking would take three or four hours on a Saturday or Sunday, and we would finish dinner in an hour – but spending the day with Roy cooking was always fun. Roy even talked about this in his eulogy last year. We all looked forward to these well planned out, specialty meals.

The first time we had people over our home last fall was our annual wine dinner. It was a hard day for me to cook so much for so many people, but I know Andrew used to enjoy my cooking, and that was my motivation to continue this annual tradition. Each item on the menu was something that he enjoyed, and I made them the way he liked it. After everyone had gone, Dorothy and I did a toast to Andrew, knowing that we did this dinner in his memory.

Nicole last summer started her own garden, using some of Poppi’s seeds, but all of Poppi’s motivation. Although he has been gone for a few years now, Nicole talks about her namesake all the time, and she is so proud that she is carrying on his tradition of a full garden. Last year we had an abundance of fresh vegetables, and gave away over two thousand peppers. The zucchini was the largest we had ever seem, and the tomatoes were abundant. I remember Todd coming over at the end of August and picking several of the cucumbers and eating them right from the garden – he was amazed at the way fresh cucumbers actually tasted. We love Todd, but there were none left for anyone else, but he really enjoyed them and Nicole was very happy about that.

This year the garden is once again flourishing, and I hear that we are in expansion mode for next year, which I am very happy about. It keeps Poppi’s memory alive, and makes everyone enjoy the summer just a little bit more.

So this year, for Andrew’s anniversary, we decided not to stay home and cry all day alone, or even with friends and family. For Mother’s day, Nicole bought Dorothy tickets to the Greenwich Village Food Tour, and what a better tribute to Andrew than taking the day and spending it eating our way around Greenwich Village. We followed our very entertaining tour guide for three hours of culinary treats from Murray’s Cheese, to pizza, to rollatini and canollis. While we had a very special time, just the three of us, we know Andrew would have enjoyed this as much as we did, and we know that he was there with us every step of the way.

Now we start our second year without Andrew. As Cynthia and Pam and other grieving parents have told us, time is no longer marked by the calendar or the year.  Time is marked from when our lives changed. The calendar means so little now, our timeline of life has changed.

What is important is that we have made it through the first year. We did not do this alone, for we could not have made it through the last year by ourselves.  We made it through with the love and support of so many people. From our family to our friends, Dorothy’s colleagues to my close knit network of ACCs worldwide, from our new friends in bereavement groups to my clients and hockey friends. Almost everyone has stepped up, made a call, taken us under their wing, joined us for lunch or dinner, done something to show us how much they love us and want us to survive this terrible tragedy. There is a special blessing for each and every one of you. But more important, you know who you are, and we know who each and every one of you are that has helped us.

Thank you so much. Now on to the second year of our lives, which we hear is harder than the first. So please keep calling, keep coming over, keep joining us for dinner, and keep up with us, we need it now more than ever. And as I have said before, yes, we will cry, and please, cry with us. And We will talk about our Andrew, and please talk about Andrew with us.

I recall this day last year.

We spoke to Andrew a few times during the day. His hand was hurting him for he had broken it on Friday and had it set on Saturday. He was going to get some books today for school then relax for the day. School started tomorrow.

He was looking forward to starting his senior year – his last year of school. He worked so hard for the past three years and he was glad to be finishing up. Although he knew he probably needed his masters degree, he was about to complete college. Graduating was something he was looking forward to so much. We talked to him taking just the four classes, a little less stress for him, a little easier…and then just completing his degree over the summer with a couple of electives. He was happy that we were not pushing him to finish in May, but rather over the summer.

We talked about his job. He had a full time permanent job with a software company in Denver starting when he graduated. It was his dream job, making great money, living in Boulder, easy hours and and he got it before he even started his senior year. That took so much pressure of him.

We talked about Jovi. She was with her mom for the weekend and he missed her – although she was gone only a few days. He was very happy with her, and we know that they loved each other unconditionally. He loved her youthfulness and the fact that she accepted him for whatever he was. He loved to buy her little gifts – like candles, or Hello Kitty notebooks and bags. Whatever he bought her, she was so happy with. And she would bring him food when he was studying, and they would hang out and hold hands for a little while until he had to go back. It was their special time together.

He asked about Buttercup – our new cat. We got her a week before he got home from college in June and he spent a lot of time with her over the summer, along with Daphne. He hinted at getting a cat out there for the two of them, for his apartment allowed them, but he wasn’t sure the two of them could care for one – they were not that responsible.

He reminded me to drive his car every few weeks to keep it in working order and make sure it didn’t freeze up. But I had to drive it slowly and had to be careful – I wasn’t allowed to drive it like he enjoyed driving his little sports car. The fact is I could barely fit into the car so performance driving it was pretty much not an option.

We talked about some other stuff as well, but it seemed insignificant. When I was there just two days before, we bought some sushi salmon for dinner. He made some white rice, cut up the fish, made his own rolls. He used the little soy sauce bowls we had bought last week. He was very particular about his soy sauce. He liked a couple of brands and would only use them. He told us that he was going to eat dinner now, then relax, watch some TV and head off to bed. He would talk to us Monday and tell us how school went on the first day.

We were so happy that he was happy. We were happy that he was in such a good place mentally and emotionally. Everything was good.

Then he went to sleep.
Forever.

There was so much more for him to do, but it was not to be.
There was so much for him to experience, but he never would.
There was so much more for him to tell the world, but we will never know.

We miss you and love you so much.
Today is going to be so hard.
And I don’t want to go to sleep tonight at all.