The Jennifer Syndrome - It's a Grave Situation
I have not posted in over a year for reasons explained at the end.
As we approach the fourth anniversary of Hans’s death we are not better. We are good enough.
Who Cares?
Few really care that Hans is dead. I understand that. And I suppose I shouldn’t expect many to have cared, or continue to care. You have your own worries and stresses, though I'm hopeful you, too, don't have a dead child. Before Hans died, if I had a friend whose child died, I cared. It doesn’t happen often in our own inner circle. We think we know more about death today, have become even hardened and callous about it because we see more of it via the internet. Since Hans died I’ve had several people I know say, “I don’t remember this many young people dying.” We just think it’s more because we see more, know more, are lightly connected more by the internet and, as a result, I believe it does make us somewhat less caring, seeing all that death.
I ask you, however, to think about your true friends, your close friends, or family – how many of them have had a child die while you knew both of them well? I can think of only a handful for me. I’ve had acquaintances whose child died, but I didn’t really know them or their child well, if at all, or only knew them by sight or association. I’ve met many beautiful fellow grieving moms after our children died, maybe having been an acquaintance of, or known of their children but not really knowing either of them before the death.
But I have had very few close friends or family to whom the most horrible thing that can happen happened, and while I knew them and their child personally.
I also know that the circumstances of the life and death of the child and the dynamics of the grieving family – indeed, the dynamics of our own family – affect how we feel about that death. It does matter how old they were when they died. It does matter what they accomplished in life. It does matter how they died. It does matter what kind of relationship the parents had, we had with the child before the death.
It does matter, right or wrong, how each of us view the death through the lenses of our own experiences, each of which can add a different layer of grief.
And people can be pretty mean in their opinions about how they feel about someone dying. How many times have you heard someone say, “What idiots,” or “There’s Darwin’s Principle in action – natural selection,” or, “If they’re that stupid they deserve it,” or, “How dumb and reckless.” Those things were said about Hans and his friends about the incident, some even to my face. It was an accident. Life is not risk-free. Why are some so callous about a fellow human's death?
The Jennifer Syndrome
I am troubled by people who think differently than I do – I call it, haha, the Jennifer Syndrome. How can anyone be mean, not care, steal, abuse, lie, kill? How can anyone think differently than I do? How can everyone not be sad that Hans is dead? How can people be so heartless about the death of the most beautiful miracle of God’s creation – a fellow human? I recognize it but I don’t like it at all.
Lack of sympathy hurts the most. People can watch an hour episode of the extremely popular show "This Is Us" and bawl for days over the death of a fictional character, but some of my close friends and family can't spend 20 minutes to read one of my posts. Hans’s death might be like a grain of sand for you to carry but it is like a boulder for me. I don’t expect you to carry my boulder, but I’d hope there'd be at least a little sympathy for how heavy it is for a grieving mother.
People sometimes care more about dogs and their well-being – dogs missing after a storm, being abandoned, abused, dying – than they do about children. Could it be because dogs are not really capable of evil (their most vicious actions are the product of instinct) whereas humans are born with the capacity for evil? Everyone knows I love my dogs, but it's wrong to care more for your dog than a child.
I still care about others, their accomplishments, their trials and tribulations, their triumphs and sorrows. I’m glad we can share more now via the internet and social media. Is social media bad? Sometimes. Is it a different way of sharing compared to previous generations? Yes. What have I got to lose by sharing? Privacy. Dignity. Honor. Maybe. Sometimes I don’t care about those things. Sometimes I do. All the time I miss Hans. I want you to miss him too. So I write to help sort my spinning brain, my crumbled heart, my broken world.
Hans's Gravestone
Who isn’t fascinated by graveyards? I’ve always been. I grew up attending the very old Christ Church in Port Republic, Maryland. We had to walk through the graveyard to get from the old church to the new parish hall, passing one of my favorite graves – that of a church rector who died in 1735. My maternal grandparents and an uncle are now buried there.
During daytime events, when our parents were busy with some function, we kids would explore the cemetery, and I would wonder about each of the people buried under those gravestones – what their life may have been like in the times they lived, how they died, especially the young ones, what clothes they were buried in, what they looked like. I’d always wish the gravestone would tell a little more about each of them. When the adults would hold evening meetings, we would play Ghost in the Graveyard. I think those buried there would have liked that – we weren’t being disrespectful or vandalizing anything – we just had some good clean fun, hiding and running and shrieking with excitement amidst headstones, old and new. I would love to see the same at Hans’s grave.
Hans, in fact, walked through the cemetery at Hospital Point on the grounds of the Naval Academy where he is now buried wishing he could have longboarded or sledded its beautifully steep and curvy little roads. Of course it’s not allowed as some may find it disrespectful, but if I were there visiting Hans, I would find it joyous and beautiful to find his friends or strangers enjoying the beauty of that old graveyard. His gravestone is the perfect place for a tech deck sesh.
Zatha and Hans knew of my interest in cemeteries and would even point them out on road trips, short and long, so we could stop to walk through them. On our way to the Blue Clay Bike Park one day when he was in high school, Hans spotted a tiny cemetery just off the 140 bypass near Porters Neck, North Carolina, in an area known as Futch Creek. We pulled over and entered through a low oyster shell wall. It was the old Futch family cemetery. Hans quickly pointed out two graves next to each, one labeled “Father” the other “Mother.” He said, “Look mom, here lies a Mother Futcher.”
We have to laugh, and I genuinely still do sometimes, or we will go crazy. Hans made the movie just below (some of which I filmed) from that day at Blue Clay.
We are honored that Hans is buried at the Naval Academy in Annapolis. They have requirements for whom they allow to be buried there, but any midshipman who dies while in service at the Academy is permitted to be buried there. You may remember our long line of connection to the Yard. My great uncle, grandfather, father, uncle, brother, and daughter all graduated from USNA and received their commissions, Zatha being the first Marine. My mother gave birth to my brother and I at the hospital there overlooking the cemetery. As a child I lived in Annapolis when my dad served as a USNA Company Officer and I started kindergarten at the Naval Academy Primary School. Our link to the Naval Academy is strong and it feels right to have Hans buried there.
We want his gravestone to tell a little story about him, a minuscule glimpse into what an amazing young man he was, like many of the incredible men and women the Naval Academy molds into officers. Eric says Hans’s monument is “data rich.” I still think it would be lovely if more gravestones could tell a little more about the person buried beneath it.
The stone itself is American-made and comes from a quarry in Pennsylvania. Most headstones are imported from other countries. It has beautiful depth and striations, just like the wet sand on our beach in Surf City. The shape of the stone matches the flow of life that defined Hans.
Of course we want Hans to be remembered in all of his fun-loving ways, hence the “In fun-loving memory.” At first I was dismayed when I saw his portrait on the face of the stone. I had assumed it would be a computer-generated exact likeness of the photo of him that we submitted, instead it is a hand-drawn portrait. But I have come to love the portrait because of how the unknown artist has interpreted and captured, if not enhanced, Hans’s features that are so beautiful and endearing – his big blue eyes and perfect eyelashes, his bushy “firebrow,” his wicked, crooked smile, his thick, gorgeous straw-like hair, his beautiful full lips, and even drawing some of his precious freckles. I am pleased that the artist was perceptive enough to capture all of that.
On one end of the monument is an etching of a wave, signifying his love of everything on and in the water (he was an Oceanography major at the Academy). If you look closely, you can find in the wave, on both sides of the stone, an etching of his actual signature to his girlfriend Alexis – heart times infinity plus one – his love for her, our love for him is beyond infinity.
The ocean edge of the gravestone is cut with a craggy edge, representing his love of rock climbing and mountains and snow. A climbing bolt is burrowed into that side from which to hang small tributes to him.
The smooth edge of the monument lists just some his favorite activities, by order of his preference. They are outward signs of his inward convictions – live every day like it’s already heaven on earth. There are too many activities in which he loved to engage that they wouldn’t fit – like carpentry, paintball, parkour, wakeboarding, cross country skiing, reading, on and on – but those few tell a lot about him.
Music is a universal language, and Hans was a talented drummer who loved music. On the Loewen side are the first words of the Navy Hymn, a song I’ve known and sung all my life, the first verse of which every Naval Academy midshipman learns – “Eternal Father strong to save whose arm hath bound the restless wave…” Hans was a restless wave, and now he has been bound up to heaven. If you have never heard this hymn, please listen to it someday.
Those of you have read my prior posts know how each of our kids has 'their song,' Zatha’s being “Sweet Child of Mine” by Guns n’ Roses, and Hans’s being “Shine” by Collective Soul. We played their songs on every anniversary of their birth, and whenever we felt like really dancing. Hans sure did shine when he was alive. That’s why the word “Shine” appears above Loewen.
Below his dash are the words, “Flow with kindness. Flow with love.” While we were in the trauma center with Hans, Zatha told us that one of Hans’s current favorite songs was “Sunglassey” by Akiine. We played it for him several times that week in the hospital before he died the second time. Those words are part of the song. Check the lyrics out sometime. I cannot listen to this beautiful song anymore.
On the base on one side it says, “Live like a warrior,” which Hans did – charging through life, up early, always going. On the other it says, “On a warrior’s path.” Hans may not have died in battle, but he died while in voluntary service to our country. He chose to serve.
The very top of his gravestone depicts the chain of direct links to our Naval Academy graduates starting with my great uncle, ending with Hans – a now broken link in the chain.
It is said a person dies twice: once when they take their final breath, and later, the last time their name is spoken. It feels good to hear Hans’s name said. It feels good to see it written.
But he’s not supposed to be dead.
Bad Analogies
My analogies are as bad as, like, whatever. Her lips were red and full, like tubes of blood drawn by an inattentive phlebotomist. John and Mary had never met, like two hummingbirds that had also never met. The little boat gently drifted across the pond exactly the way a bowling ball wouldn't.
I laugh every time I read those analogies, but a good chunk of my sense of humor disappeared with Hans’s.
Why do I feel the need to explain how I feel? I suppose all of us use analogies in attempts to describe to others what is going on in our heads. It helps us ask others to imagine, to sympathize, to care, to determine if it is similar to something they know so they can support the grieving person better.
My mind is always trying to make sense of what happened to Hans. Analogies help me process it. I feel like the main power switch of our life has been slammed off and all energy has been transferred to a single old frayed wire with a constant low frequency buzz.
Hans is dead. Hans is dead. Hans is dead.
Like the old AOL dial-up when you’d hear the long beep followed by the continued static.
Haaaaannnnnnnsssss … iiiiissssss … dddddeeeeaaaaddddddddd.
I feel like I have a tight rubber band wrapped around my heart. Sometimes it is stretched a little by fun activities with the people I love, with moments of finding beauty in the wind and the sky and water, when we are out biking or walking or paddleboarding, while playing my piano. But it always snaps back.
Hans is dead!
Though my mind knows that this is not necessarily true, I feel like I am the world’s saddest mother. How could anybody miss their child as much as I miss Hans? I’m sure most grieving mothers feel the same way. And I’m always sad because Hans – his soul, his presence, his energy, our memories – is getting farther and further away from us.
His death, our grief, is a predicament from which we cannot extricate ourselves. It is fact. It is real. It is permanent. I know this. I recognize it. I accept it. But I don’t have to like it. I hate it. I will never get over it. I will always be sad about it. I cannot forget it, or him, or ignore it, or him.
I Finally Get It
I am not fresh. I am not on my game. I am forever changed for the worse. As Eric says, grief makes us dumb. It makes us tired and sleepless. It is known to physically affect one’s heart forever. Will we ever be close to what we were before Hans died? Probably not. But we continually try to be.
I remember how beautifully loving our friends and family, Hans's friends, and the Naval Academy were when Hans died – the people who came from far away for his funeral, the people who fed Eric when he had to return home alone, those who brought us meals, the many who came and still come to visit, who wrote to us, and those who continue to write to us. I still marvel at the big and little things his friends have made and done in Hans’s honor since he died – beautiful artwork, tattoos, donations, planted trees, jewelry.
Every single gesture of remembrance is cherished.
I realize now that we are blessed when we mourn because we are comforted. I am absolutely not blessed that I must mourn. Hans's death is not a blessing. I am blessed when I mourn because I am comforted. I am blessed by the love shown to us in our mourning. There are so many of you who have blessed us in so many ways, big and small, and we love you for that.
But any moment there is quiet I am dumped into sadness again. I am alone in my particular motherly grief for him. I am stuck in my own personal grief box. Sometimes I don’t want to come out.
Life is Good
Is it? Is it good for me with half of my children dead? Life is good for all of you who have each of your children living, a roof over your head, food on your table. Life was good for us before Hans died. Now it’s just good enough.
I feel empty. Like I can only give my bare minimum to the world because such a huge part of our family is gone. My cup is almost full, filled close to the brim with my love for Eric, Zatha, my parents, my family, my friends, my blessings. But without Hans it will never again be full enough to “runneth over.”
Distractions keep me going, and I’m trying to utilize healthy distractions, but any moment I think about Hans I am a mess. I get confused and sad. The world goes on and I am forever sad. People expect me to just go on like everything is OK because I cannot change what happened. Duh. I know that I cannot change what has happened. But I also know I can never change how I feel about missing Hans. Hans is not just an amputated leg, a bad car accident, a lost job, a broken marriage. He was Hans. My child. Our son. Zatha’s brother. Hans.
Should I not think about Hans? Do you not think about your children, your spouse, your best friend, your siblings throughout your day? I am not behaving irrationally. I am not lying in bed all day, though sometimes I want to. I am not monopolizing conversations with only one subject. I just miss Hans. All the time.
It's like the mathematical identity we learned in school: one times zero equals zero, five million times zero equals zero. No amount of small happy times can change the “zero” of sadness I have that Hans is dead.
My daughter is alive. My son is dead. Do you ignore that your daughter is alive? Should you ignore that your son is dead? I can do neither. Zatha being alive doesn't negate or balance out the death of Hans. She is on her own scale. She is a perfect blessing. My honoring Hans doesn't diminish Zatha, and I don’t know why people think it does and I have been chided for supposedly doing it. We celebrate Z and all of her incredible accomplishments and love her beyond measure. But don’t ask me to stop thinking about Hans just because Zatha is still alive. I cherish our daughter. Always have. Always will. And I cherish Hans.
Nuts and Bolts
Year one was a complete blur. Year two was beyond description with despair. Year three was horrible. Year four was defeating. I still cry almost every day, you just don’t see it. I sleep more. I feel perpetually homesick. I hide.
Most of the time we have to go on like it didn't happen. We buy groceries. We mow the lawn. We have people over for dinner. I mostly fake it until I make it, though not all smiles are fake. A lot of happiness and love is real, especially when it comes to the people I love. But the rest of my smiles and energy are for other’s benefit. Carrying this boulder around makes absolutely everything more difficult, and I can't break it into smaller chunks to share.
We are changed, but not for the better.
Rarely does one radically change for the better when someone dies. We try to in the beginning but then we settle back into our old habits. It’s even that way now for us. Grief brings us down.
Grieving mothers are regularly criticized. I watched an episode of the Netflix show “The Returned” in which a grieving mother was chastised by her ex-husband (divorced because of the child’s death) for being “the perfect model of a grieving mother, lighting candles at the shrine” of her dead child. She lights those candles because she can’t call her dead child on the phone, or have them over for dinner on Sunday nights, or help them move into their new apartment, or ever kiss them goodnight again.
Positive talk is appropriate for every other challenge except the death of a child. Thinking positively about Hans's death is impossible. Success stories are, rightfully, lauded. Overcoming adversity to find that success, like winning an Olympic gold medal after losing the last time, is commendable. But Hans’s death is an adversity from which I will never find motivation to be more than I was before his death.
I’m not asking for more prayers or more dinners (though each of those were and are lovingly appreciated more than you can know). All I’m asking for is for you to sometimes give forever-grieving mothers a little more slack.
I am also not calling for skateboards and jeeps to be outlawed. Death is part of the human condition. So are poverty, evil, insanity, violence, and sadness. It is all unavoidable. But why can I not grieve or be sad about my son's death? Mary Todd Lincoln was destroyed by her sons’ deaths. I am expected to be happy. I am happy about most of my life, but absolutely not about Hans's death.
We grievers are made to feel, even told outright, that we shouldn’t “obsess” or dwell too much on our dead child, so we retreat from life. We retreat from parties and receptions and happy, giddy people. We retreat because people want us, expect us, demand us, to be happy. We retreat because people get tired of hearing about our dead child or our grief. They think we should just be fine, especially four years after his death. I am not. I never will be. I suppose I am just good enough.
Zatha wisely sums it up, “It doesn’t get easier, it just gets easier to hide the pain.”
