Walking Though a Tunnel of Grief

In one of my writing classes at Chabot, the teacher said that if you experienced something tragic, wait at least seven years before even attempting to write about it. I tried writing about my son's death anyway and I came up with gibberish. He was right. I still had things to work out. In 2000, I tried again and wrote a feature article not so much about Jason, but grief. This is an edited and updated version of that article that was published in the Cal State East Bay paper that year.

Caution was a word often ignored by my son, Jason, and I failed to successfully teach him cautious behavior. If I said, "Careful, you'll hurt yourself," that was his cue to prove me wrong. Or he would patiently pat me on the head and say, "I'm careful, Mom." The problem was, he continued his risky behavior, daring death until February 1995 when his dare was answered.

That day, I paced in our home, not knowing what to do next. The sheriff had just left from telling me that what is a parent's biggest nightmare, particularly mine, was now my reality. Jason, my 21-year-old son was dead.

I never felt more alone. My husband was making his way through traffic on 880 from San Jose, knowing only there was trouble. The sheriff hadn't arrived when I called him and I didn't know if Jason was in trouble or if the worst had happened. I just missed my 17-year-old daughter when I called the school to tell her to get home. She was already on her way to Scotts Valley, an hour away, for skating practice. All I could to was leave a message for her at the rink to turn around and come back. My mother-in-law couldn't come to be with me because her husband was in the last stages of Alzheimer's and she couldn't leave him, and they couldn't locate my sister at her work. I was going to be home alone for a while... with my thoughts and pain that anesthetized normal brain function. My existence was placed in a sort of surreal, fuzzy ozone.

I tried to make sense of the events that led up to Jason's death. His friend, Brent was moving to Utah, the sheriff said. Jason, being the friend he was, spent the night with him to help him pack his apartment the following morning. Jason shot himself, the sheriff said and after talking to me and searching the cottage where he lived, suicide was ruled out. It was an accident -- just like that -- no second chances.

Even though I never allowed guns in our house nor did I buy toy guns for Jason when he was growing up, he still had a fascination with all kinds of weapons, especially guns. When he moved out, he began collecting antique guns. But the one that killed him was a brand new Magnum. He had apparently saved up for it for months and it was his pride and joy. But the question kept going through my head, why the hell didn't he have that thing locked up? Why was it loaded and why wasn't the safety on? He was apparently playing with it and became the victim of his own stupid carelessness, but I didn't want my thoughts to go there. I didn't want to accept that he was still responsible for the finality of his fate. I wanted to turn back the clock, rescue him and get my son back. I just wanted to understand why this had to happen.

Our family had been spared tragedy up until now. I guess people react differently when faced with it. I didn't scream or become hysterical. The sheriff was probably grateful for that. How many times did he have to make these sorts of visits? I think I went into total shutdown. I remember thinking how odd it was that even the surface of my skin seemed numb. Mentally, the facts didn't sink in; did not compute.

Oh, there were tears. They came in rhythmic waves that rolled over me without warning, crushing my heart and lungs. It was so hard to breath at times. But when it ebbed, I fooled myself into thinking the worst was over -- I could handle it -- I had myself under control. Then the next wave hit.

I had friends in the past who lost loved ones. I always found it awkward, wanting to give comfort, yet I felt helpless and afraid to say something wrong. So I usually mumbled some platitude and backed off until a better time. So when some of my friends did the same thing, I understood.

I've always believed that adversity brings lessons. Now that I have walked through that long, dark tunnel of grief, I've learned a thing or two about it and I'm not afraid to talk about death and the process of grief.

First, I came to realize just how much emotions and logic run on two separate tracks. That's why platitudes are so empty; without meaning. I certainly chanted a whole mantra of them to myself. But few words or even my own faith could ease my pain, especially in the first few months.

Second, I learned that the only way to get through that dark tunnel of pain is to go through it. There are no shortcuts. It's personal for each individual as is the time it takes to come out the other end whole. When someone would call me after Jason's funeral and ask, "How are you doing?" I would answer honestly and say, "I don't know." Emotions can't be predicted. I could be fine and even want to go out and do something, but I never knew when that wave of despair would roll over me again and I couldn't face anyone. I could only say how I was doing at that particular moment.

From the beginning of that terrible time, I came to appreciate those little moments when the pain ebbed away for a little while and my mind was on other things. It was like a little mini vacation and, with time, those moments stayed a little longer and the waves of pain gradually lost intensity.

Third, I discovered that I wasn't alone. I was amazed at the number of people who seemed to come out of the woodwork, acquaintances who would share of their loss of a child. One man had lost his wife and children in a horrible car accident leaving him with no one. I recognized that I wasn't the only one suffering. I found that the best way to find comfort and healing was to reach out to others who are hurting too -- I didn't have as much time to wallow inside of myself. It's a powerful medicine.

Finally, I became greedy for stories. I still cherish the memories others have shared of my son and the things they used to do. The most poignant one was told by one of his best friends, Tommy.

Tommy said that one warm summer evening, he and Jason didn't have anything particular going on, so Jason asked him if he wanted to go to "Charlie's house." Tommy said sure.

Jason drove him to the Lone Tree Cemetery and parked across the street. Tommy had no idea who this "Charlie" was and was surprised when Jason jogged across the street and proceeded to climb the cemetery fence.

"What are you doing, man, you're going to get us in trouble," Tommy said.

"Don't worry, it's cool," said Jason and jumped down on the other side. Tommy shrugged and followed. Jason led him down the hill to the far back of the cemetery. In a clearing among a grove of eucalyptus trees was a circle of old graves, most of them sepulchers. In the center was the stump of an old tree big enough for two guys to lay back and look at the stars.

Tommy didn't tell me what they talked about, but he said they must have laid there for hours watching the stars and just talking about life.

Several months after Jason's funeral, my husband and I decided to find "Charlie's house" after visiting Jason's grave. Just down the hill and to the left from where Jason lay, we found it, just as Tommy described it. "Charlie" was Charles Ward, a historical Hayward resident. His sepulcher looked like a miniature mansion...Charlie's house. I looked up through the circle of trees and imagined that night when Tommy, Jason and "Charlie" talked about life.

The years have passed. I've been through the tunnel and survived what I didn't think at times was survivable. I've come to finally accept that there is no answer to why. One can't make sense out of a senseless death. So if anyone asks me now how I'm doing, I can honestly say, "Just fine." I think of Jason daily with fond and humorous memories. I mention him frequently in conversation. And those little packages of grief? They come to me on rare occasions, but
no longer intense and I can deal with them.