It Was Never Plugged In At All

I have debated many times about writing about this topic. I don't want to know about this topic. I don't want to have been impacted by this topic. I don't want people to know that we have been impacted by this topic. But I feel like everyone is weighing in, so maybe I should also. 

Writing about this is gut wrenching.  My soul sears with pain for the mere fact that I can give my two cents. Robin Williams...we've all probably read the news articles and the 50,000 responses to the news that came yesterday. Robin Williams, a sufferer of depression, committed suicide. It all got to be too much and he made the decision to end his life. The man who made the world laugh, couldn't find a way to make himself ok with life, and so he ended it. 

There have been debates raging ever since. There's the camp that talks about how depression is something that people just need to get over. That if they just find the joy in life or find Jesus or find whatever they feel their soul is missing, then they wouldn't feel the need to commit suicide. There's the camp that angrily refutes this theory. That states that depression is a disease, much like cancer and that it kills just the same, in that the depression can erode away a person's will to live and make them want to end it all. There are people saying that Robin is finally at peace. There are people saying this statement will push all the suicidal fence-sitters into making a move and ending their own lives. There are a lot of experts weighing in, and a lot of people that are no where close to being experts weighing in. 

I am not an expert. I don't have a degree in psychology or psychiatry. I don't know much about depression. I am only a widow and my husband committed suicide. 

I have written on this blog for some time now and this is the biggest thing I have shared, I'm sure. I am very careful about what I share on my blog because I do not want this to be the way that my daughters find out about how their father died. I feel that emotionally my children are not ready to know how Brian died so I stick with my scientific guns and tell them that his brain stopped working and his heart stopped beating and he just died. Amelia, my smart little one, is beginning to catch on that this is not the whole story so she will quite frequently ask "No, mommy. HOW did he die." She has theories of her own. I squirm and get nauseous at the thought of telling her. She's seven. Does she fully understand death? Does she comprehend that death is final? Does she know she can't just kill herself and go see daddy for a bit? I don't know. My therapist quite often tells me that I will just know when the time is right and I know right now the time is wrong. 

Now, I can debate with the best of them what my thoughts and feelings are about suicide.  But I think that's the point that many are missing. All of these debates are our thoughts. Our own personal jaded thoughts based on our experience, or lack of experience, with suicide or depression or anxiety or...  I feel that there are other choices you can make. I feel, that for some, it is a coward-ish choice. I feel that it is not fair to the survivors. I feel that for some people it is a choice. I feel that some people that kill themselves aren't depressed. I believe that Brian was not depressed. He was scared. He was hopeless. He was backed into a corner and felt that ending his life was the only way out. He took the cowards way out. And I'm sure there are people out there that would jump down my throat and tell me just how wrong I am. That I am blaming a man that was depressed or hopeless and that he had no other choice. And again, those are your thoughts. But they are not mine. 

I have spent much of the last almost four years since Brian died angry. Wondering why. Wanting to know what his final thoughts were. Hoping and praying that my faith is wrong and that he at least got a chance to repent and go to heaven. Trying to read the notes he left and figure things out. Confused by the obvious two-path plan he had going. Questioning my own choices leading up to the day he died. What if I had called a bit sooner? What if I hadn't been so firm and so strong in my convictions? What if...there are a million of those when you are a survivor of someone who ended it all without much warning. And it also makes it difficult to recover when so many blame you for his passing. 

So, what's the right camp on this debate? Who has the right idea? Which side is the most accurate? When a tragedy like Robin William's passing happens, everyone has an idea. Everyone has an opinion about how he should have not killed himself. Or how he should have just pulled himself up out of depression and got over it. But is this really what matters most? Yes, suicide is a horrible thing. And depression and other mental illnesses are also horrible things. And neither are addressed well in our society, which gets more and more painfully obvious as time goes on. But, rather than debating the choices of a man who was suffering, rather than turning on each other and debating the ethics and morals of suicide, why don't we take a second to reflect on our own lives. 

Live! We don't do that much anymore. Breathe in every moment of life and live! Hug your babies as often as you can! Kiss your spouses. Ask your friends how they are doing. Stop working so hard your whole life and have fun with other people. Get to know other humans! Get off social media and be together! Have honest conversations with the people you love about life and feelings and sadness. Don't judge anyone! There's a poster that I've seen before and it's making the rounds again that says "Be kind. For everyone you meet is fighting a battle you know nothing about." This is so true! We are all going through something. In our society there is shame in asking for help. There is shame in depression and mental illness. It is weak if you can't get your life together. There is shame in needing therapy or happy pills or some sort of help to cope. This is ridiculous! What happened to love your neighbor? What happened to coming together to support those that need it most?

There has to be a change. I'm not even talking about a save the world change. I'm talking baby steps. Maybe start talking about depression or anxiety or PTSD or the other mental illnesses that many of us are afflicted with. We need to start caring about each other. We need to start helping people out rather than shaming them into isolation. We need to check in on our kids. On our parents. On our neighbors. On our friends. We need to pull together and try and fix our feelings around suicide and depression. THIS is important! These are the things that need our attention. 

So, love your neighbor. Be a small part of the change that is needed to heal our nation, to heal our world. Don't be afraid to ask someone if they are ok or if they need help. Don't be afraid to ask if your depressed friends have suicidal thoughts. Teach your children that there is no shame in sharing feelings and asking for help. And maybe someday, the suicide rates won't be one suicide every ten seconds. Maybe families won't be torn apart and maybe people that are suffering from mental illness will be able to admit that they need help. Maybe there won't be shame in admitting that you need help. Because there shouldn't be. Be kind...to each other and to yourselves. 

No matter where you sit on the fence in this debate, I think we can all agree to send our love and prayers to Robin's family. His wife and children and friends. Because we can debate the ethics and morals of suicide and depression until we are blue in the face and we may never come to an agreement. But, I think we can all agree to love and pray for Robin's survivors. Because, no matter the circumstances, being a survivor of someone who decided they couldn't take it anymore is one of the most painful things I have been through. Many aspects of Brian's death haunt me day in and day out, one of them being that I have two little ladies that I will have to explain this all to someday. I live each day in fear that I am messing it all up and doing none of it right. So, I pray. And walk each day with faith and love, knowing that God will give me the strength I need to make it through to the next day and to that moment where all will be revealed. So, agree to pray for Robin's survivors. I am almost four years out in my journey and it still takes my breath away to remember that day. I pray for comfort and healing for them as they begin this awful journey. 

Mr. Robin Williams, rest in peace. And now, I'm off to hug my babies and watch some of his movies and remember the laughter he gave us all. 

Be kind. For we are all fighting battles...

Helicopters

The sound of whirring blades has wafted into my house over the last few days, leaving me with a sad, sick heart. The news has been flooded with the stories of little Jenice who has been missing for days, and our airspace has been filled with helicopters. Border patrol and homeland security helicopters have been scouring the air, looking for any sign of the missing six-year-old cutie. Day and night they have been flying over, even hovering over our property as my girls and my niece and nephew were playing in the field, hoping for a sign of the lost little one. A community came together with hope and prayers that Jenice would be found safe and sound.

Sadly, the remains of a child were found today in the vicinity of where the girl went missing. And now a community mourns, even before official word that it's her. My heart is breaking, and the sadness for that little one is compounded by the fact that I can still hear helicopters. They are news helicopters this time, signaling a sensational story for them. 

If you think about it, helicopters rarely signify anything positive. Usually they are searching for something or someone that has been lost. Or they are the news, chasing down their next big story. Or it's airlift, coming to pick up a critical patient to take to Seattle. The helicopters of the last few days have been unnerving, especially as a mom of little girls that are around her age. 

Our one more thing mommy moment the past few days has been about helicopters. Why are they here? So I decided to take this opportunity to talk to them about stranger danger and what they should do if someone they don't know comes up. We talked about fighting back. And screaming. And that if someone was trying to take them or hurt them it was ok to hit a grown up. We talked about guns and  always telling an adult where you are going, even if it's just between neighbor's houses. And then tonight was different. Amelia wanted to know why there weren't helicopters. Where did they go? Is Jenice ok? So we talked about what happened. I told both girls she was found and that she was dead. That brought around questions too. Is she coming back? Is she with daddy? Why would someone kill her? Is someone going to kill me? We talked more about stranger danger. And we talked about even being safe in our own homes. And we cried together and we prayed together. For poor little Jenice. 

I will openly admit that I am judging her parents. I cannot imagine Amelia being missing for 24 hours before I worried and called the police. I wake up in the morning and wander through the house to check on everyone. Even if Sissy, our loyal pup, is not on her bed, my heart sinks a little and I start to search the house for her until I find her safe and sound. I can't imagine waiting a whole day before being worried if my kids were gone. I just don't understand, and maybe I shouldn't try. I am assuming the story will begin to unravel over the next few days and more light will be shed on the series of events that led to this tragic moment. So I will pray for her parents and have compassion on them for they lost a little daughter. 

On the other side of that judgement of the parents, comes judgement of society.  I wouldn't let that much time elapse before I was worried about my daughter, but why do we live with evil and why do we have to worry about the safety of our children? Why shouldn't my kids be able to wander among neighbors and family and friends and have the basic right of being safe? What has happened that we cannot trust strangers? Why do people feel the need to hurt or kill another human? I just don't understand. So I will pray for our community and for a society that just isn't safe anymore. 

There's a term that is used in relation to moms (or dads too) that hover over their children, restricting their ability to be independent. Ironically, they're called "helicopter moms". These are the moms that do everything for their kids, watch over them restrictively, don't allow them to bloom and grow on their own. And most of the time this phrase is used with a negative connotation. Teachers most often dread those helicopter moms.  There has to be a happy medium between the supervision that Jenise's family gave her, and the helicopter moms that smother their children. But I can guarantee that at least for a while, in the wake of the tragedy that happened just up the road from my home, that I am going to be a helicopter mom. I cannot imagine the pain that Jenice's mother is going through right now. And that's where my judgement fades because setting all judging aside, I am a mom. A mom of girls who are four and seven. A mom who sends her girls out the door to the neighbors without giving it another thought. And my heart shatters for Jenice's parents. You're not supposed to bury your kids and no matter the cause, no matter the actions of these parents, no matter the actions of the monster who hurt this precious baby, that's what these parents are doing. They are burying their six-year-old. And my soul gasps for them. 

So I urge you to pray! For our community. For those parents. For Jenice. For society. For your own families. Talk to your kids about stranger danger. And then hug them close. Now, excuse me while I go be a helicopter mom for a while. 

When I Said I Do...

Eight years can seem like a lifetime ago, and just yesterday all at the same time. Eight years ago, I woke up alone in my bed. This morning two little girls were laying next to me, snuggling in and begging for just five more minutes of sleep. Eight years ago I met my sister and my best girlfriends at the hair salon to get the most important updo of my life. This morning I pulled my long, graying hair back in a messy bun and called it good. Eight years ago I carefully did my makeup, listening to the photographer to cake it on so my pictures would come out perfect. This morning I looked closely at my old, tired, wrinkled face and decided that dropping Amelia off at camp didn't warrant any makeup application. Eight years ago my friends and I went out to breakfast to celebrate love and friendship and laughs. This morning there was no time for the stale croissant on the counter. Eight years ago my mom and my friends helped me into my beautiful white gown. This morning I pulled wrinkled shorts and a tank top out of the dryer as I yelled for the girls to get dressed quickly because we were late. Eight years ago I had butterflies in my stomach and my heart was doing flip flops as I anticipated walking down the aisle to join my soon to be husband for our wedding ceremony. This morning I had butterflies in my stomach and my heart was doing flip flops as I anticipated the emotions that would flood the day and the stabbing pain that would sear through me as I turned the calendar to August 5th, 2014...what should have been our eighth anniversary. 

Eight years? Really? I guess that's possible. I do have a seven-year-old. What happened to eight years? I can tell you what happened. It plays like a fairy tale at first. Meeting a man that I loved and loved me. Dating. A proposal. A wedding. A new house. A baby. Great jobs. A new car. Camping. Another baby. Family trips. Time together. We made it four years. And then he died. And now each anniversary is a reminder of what we had. And what we don't have anymore. 

This year is different for me. The cycle of grief is weird and hard and this year's anniversary is also weird and hard. All the anniversaries before, I was angry. So, so angry. I ignored feelings and shoved them down. I told everyone I was fine and moved through the day like nothing. This year has been a year of experiencing things from the sadness. I'm not fine, even though I will pretend to be. I'm sad on this anniversary more than any others I think. I cried most of the night last night as I thought about eight years ago. Thinking about all the little moments. I had heard people say that the day was so busy you don't remember the details of your wedding day so I made it my mission to pause at certain points and make a point of remembering each precious moment. I lingered a second longer at the cake table before cutting it so I would always remember the beautiful tiers and details. I looked at the sleeping baby Grace before kissing her and fastening her into the wagon as my flower girl. I paused and looked into my daddy's eyes as we danced our song together. I stopped and took in a deep breath as I walked up the aisle, seeing all of our friends and family there to love and support us. 

And then...that moment quickly turns to another day in our church. Brian's funeral service. Those same friends and family there, but in a much different setting. And the sadness hits me like a punch in the face, leaving my heart searing and me not able to catch my breath. I'm sad. I'm so, so sad. My heart hurts and feels as if it may burst into a million pieces. This is not what I had planned as I was carefully choosing flowers and a DJ and hand-making our wedding invitations. This is not how I pictured spending our eighth anniversary. Rather than date night with my husband to celebrate what an accomplishment eight years is, I'll most likely grab McDonald's for the girls and myself on the way home from dance class.  Instead of picking out something that is, um, pottery (the traditional 8th anniversary gift) I'll be going soon with Emerson to pick out glue sticks and pencils from her school supply list. 

And right there is where this all stops. How can I be sad when I get to be the momma of two of the most beautiful girls in the universe? Brian and I were madly in love eight years ago. We spent the four short years we had together doing the best we could as a couple. And we made two of the most precious gifts I could ask for. Amelia and Emerson are my heart and soul. They are my reason for going on each day. They are my drive for happiness and the ones that make me smile and laugh and stop the anger and tears. 

So, I celebrate this anniversary without the man that helped me form the Duncan family. And there are going to be things today that catch me off guard and make it hard to breathe. But I will celebrate this day for me and my girls: The anniversary of the start of our family. And it may be easier. I'm typing through tears right now and hearing our wedding song playing in my head so I may be lying.  But I do know that I am a lucky woman, a lucky mom, and I hope my girls always know how grateful I am to have had an August 5th. 

Sugar Bush

Today is August 2nd and I am struggling. With moments. With memories. With tears. With life. August 2nd was my grandpa's birthday. He's been gone many years now, but the pain of him not being here is just as fresh as if it happened yesterday...sometimes. 

He was one of the most important men in my life. I talked to him about everything. He always knew just what to say. He gave great advice. He gave great kisses. He hugged and held. I loved spending time with him. 

As if it were yesterday, I remember running through the field (Little House on the Prairie style!) to go spend time with him. As soon as I heard his transitor radio, that was carefully placed in the branches of an apple tree, turn on in the garden I would race to get ready, hop the electric fence, and run through the tall pasture grass to see what he was up to today. Picking blackberries. Hoeing the rows. Cutting dahlias. We would work together side by side and chat.  I would say something silly and he would laugh at me with his crooked smile and say "I'm not sure about you, Sugar Bush (his nickname for me)!" and he'd kiss my forehead and we'd get back to work. Picking beans. Shelling peas. Smashing oyster shells. Feeding chickens. I loved working with him. One of my most important jobs was chasing the little white butterflies off of the plants in the garden. He wore a black and gray cap that read "Sexy Senior Citizen" every day. He'd see one of those butterflies and toss me his hat and yell, "Go get it!" and I'd run after it. He'd laugh while I jumped over rows and ducked under grape vines to catch the darn butterflies. 

When it came time for me to go to the big city to UW, he and I still remained close. I called him every night at 7:00, because he didn't want me using my minutes on him. One night I forgot and I'm sure he had all of the Seattle Police Department searching ditches for me. My mom called in a panic telling me to call my grandpa. I remember crying as I was so ashamed I had forgotten him! We talked for a while and when I got off the phone, I set my watch alarm to go off at 7:00 every night so I would not forget again. 

I was halfway through grad school when I got the call at work that he was dying and I needed to get home. He was 93 at the time and had been struggling for a while. Our last hangout time had been watching the Huskies win the Rose Bowl at Harrison Hospital because he was having heart and lung troubles. I got off work and raced home as quickly as I could. My mom called me on the bus on my way home to tell me he had died. My phone cut out both times she tried to tell me so I never had to hear those words, but I knew. I sobbed quietly on the bus as I made my way to the ferry to get home to my family. I was devastated. And still am some days...like today...his birthday...

There are many times that I am so, so thankful that my grandpa wasn't alive to watch my life unravel like it did. At many points in that process I thought of him and what he would be thinking and saying during our struggle and I was so glad he wasn't around to watch it all. And on the other hand, I'd give anything to sit at his feet, sob in his lap, and hear him say, "It'll be ok, Sugar Bush..." and have him kiss my forehead. I miss him. I miss everything about him. 

This morning as I was going outside to empty the recycle bin, my girls ran out behind me onto the back deck. I heard them both giggling and yelling "Look, mommy!" I turned and gasped as I saw two little white butterflies dancing around my girls' tiny faces...their wings delicately fluttering and hovering around their heads. And I burst into tears and my heart leapt with joy for I knew who those butterflies were, and who they were for. My grandpa, and probably my grandma, just stopping in to let us know they're watching. They know. They know what I need and they know what we've been through. I can only hope that they are proud of me, and enjoying getting to know my girls from afar. Grandpa would have loved them so! And would have come up with the best nicknames for them ever. 

Happy birthday, grandpa!  I love you, and miss you, with all my heart...