I started this blog after Joie joined our family. It was a way to share her life with the many friends and family who wanted to know how she was doing. From there it became a way for us to view our own journey. I blogged (sometimes with help from the kids), and we shared achievements and funny stories...and grief.
Like it or not, that's how Joie joined our family. And Gabby also (but that's another story).
Since this blog grew out of the story of Joie's loss, and our journey of grief and healing, we're sharing that part of our story. It's a difficult story to tell, even now, but one we need to tell over and over (and thank you to all who let us do just that).
Of course our story of loss will forever and ever be evolving, as will the people who lived it. It is a personal story, but one that needs repeating, both for us, and for others who experience loss and tragedy. At one point in the blur of months that followed our loss, I remember saying to one of the many therapists who helped our children through this grief process that, “I just want to do this the right way.” This therapist very wisely asked me: Do you know anyone in your life now that is going through what you’re going through? Of course I said no. The next question drove the point home: Have you ever known anyone ever who has gone through what you’re going through?
(Good point.)
And so it remains that there is no “right” way to do grief. It is individual. It is personal. It is painful. To us, grief has also been healing, transforming, and spiritual. It is that constant flux between the pain and the healing that propels us forward, and as life goes on, so do we. Living and loving are more intense, and meaningful, and although we wish (times 100,000,000) we could go back and make that day that forever changed our lives not happen, we can’t.
The story: In June of 2007, Tim’s brother’s wife died after an 11 year battle with cancer, and losing her felt like one of the worst losses ever. We were close to her husband and children as well, and watching them say good-bye was as much a part of our grief as our own sadness. I remember thinking at the time how everyone experiences major losses in life, and naively counted that as our major loss.
Only a few short months later, on August 18, 2007, I was back-to-school shopping with my children. In the chaos of juggling piles of clothes and shoe boxes, my phone rang and went to voicemail. A few minutes later I listened to the message from my brother: My sister Ruth, her husband, Nick, and their family had been in a car accident on the way to my family’s farm in Idaho. “Please go to the hospital to be with DJ” was the message. She had been life flighted down to Salt Lake City. I assumed that her parents hadn’t been able to fly with her and would get a ride down to the hospital. (DJ is Joie. See How DJ Became Joie.)
I dialed my brother back as I dropped all our shopping and rushed my children to the car. I remember saying, “So Ruth and Nick are driving down, right?”
I honestly don’t remember my brother’s response, because my brain couldn’t even process it. For some reason I heard him say they were in another hospital. I repeated that back, and then I remember hearing they were ok...all within what must have been only a few seconds of conversation.
I’m not sure how many times my brother repeated the message for me to hear it, but finally he said the words I would hear and will never forget: “Mary, DJ is the only survivor.”
I remember pulling out of the parking lot, thinking I couldn’t tell my children, then realizing they’d ask questions all the way to the hospital, and I knew for sure I didn’t trust myself to tell them while driving. I pulled into another parking stall a few spaces down.
Saying the words out loud brought forward all the tears that had been stalled by shock. My son remembers (and has told me many times) that I said I couldn’t remember how to get to the hospital. I remember my daughter crying all the way to the hospital, and having to tell her to be brave as we pulled into the emergency parking lot, “because DJ doesn’t know yet.”
In the emergency room, someone took my children to another room, and a doctor quickly briefed me as we walked down the hall. I remember him emphasizing that we shouldn’t tell her yet until they were sure she was more stable and could handle hearing the news. As I stood by her side washing dirt and throw-up from her face, I remember thinking, “This is what her mom would do if she was here.” And with that thought my own heartache threatened to come pouring out, so I quickly put the washcloth down and left the room. The rest of the afternoon was like that, standing by her side, then needing to leave to collect myself again.
I’ve realized since that a similar pattern continued through the next year or more with my family. I’d be there with them, and be strong and do what was needed to care for them, then escape, and grieve myself. I remember saying to one of my sisters, “I wish I knew what it was like to just grieve, and not have to worry about everyone else’s grief.”
The next days were a blur of family coming and going between our home and the hospital, discussions between family members about how Joie would be cared for, and conversations I don’t even remember with people who cared and wanted to show support. Our families were given our own room at the hospital for several days, and both sides of Joie’s family came and went. At one point I started receiving phone calls on my cell phone from members of the press wanting to talk to us. I was livid! How did they get our cell numbers?
In our outrage at having to respond to press calls in our grief, we learned the hospital had an entire department dedicated to press and media, and they had also been getting calls from people wanting to make sure this little girl had a family and was ok. They suggested that because of the community and media attention, we should hold a press conference, and assured us if we did the media storm would go away. They helped us prepare a statement, and guided us through how to respond to questions. Sure enough, following the press conference, the calls stopped.
Ruth and Nick didn’t have a will. From the beginning, Tim and I were among numerous family members who expressed willingness to have Joie become a part of our family. We wanted to care for her, and at the same time weren’t sure that we (or anyone) could do what it would take to raise her with all the genuine love and support of her first family. Ultimately, we lived closer than other family members to where her family had been living, and lived closer to grandparents and natural community support than others. We were in a position financially and physically to care for her, and had children near her age. As the bereavement coordinator at the hospital guided grandparents (who are next of kin in such cases) through the decision making process, they decided together that we would become Joie’s guardians. We were worried about reactions from other family members, but everyone was immediately supportive, and we’ve never felt criticism or disapproval from family or friends about having Joie as part of our family.
Within 5 days of the accident, Joie was in our home. We had no time to prepare, but had a lot of family support getting things ready for her to move in. The funerals were the following day. So much of the day felt like I was walking through a dream, and I kept wondering if I could wake up and make this all go away. At the same time, it was vividly real. I remember hugs and conversations of support. I remember hoards of people wanting to be close to Joie and feeling the need to isolate and protect her and let her have her own experience with that day. I remember three caskets lined up in the viewing room, and finding myself at the front of the line with Joie as our funeral procession followed the caskets into the chapel. Most of all, I remember sitting next to Joie as her tiny, broken body would shake with sobs during the service at the mention of things that would draw emotion. I remember her huge blue eyes looking up to me, pleading for me to make it all go away, and eventually breaking into sobs myself as we sat through the service together.
The outpouring of family and community support was incredible. Cards and letters came from all over the world from people who knew Nick through work, or had known our families over the years. At the same time, once people left our home following the funeral, I had never felt so alone. One afternoon when Tim was gone for a few hours, the feelings of loss and loneliness were so great I left the kids in front of the TV and went in my room and cried for what felt like hours. Tim called and I was sobbing so hard I couldn’t speak. Somehow I managed to tell him how I felt so alone; that all my family was together in Idaho and had left us alone in our home to make sure Joie had a quiet place to rest and heal, but never had I felt so empty. Tim was on his way home and asked if I wanted to drive to Idaho that afternoon to be with my family. I called my dad and sobbed to him also. I think at that point he would have driven from Idaho to get me if we hadn’t driven there first.
On our way to my parents’ farm, we stopped at the accident site, and at the hospital where Joie had first been taken by ambulance. We felt like it was important to thank the first responders and let them see she was ok. In Idaho, it felt good to be surrounded by family again, and the following day, we all gathered in a large circle in my parents quiet back yard and held hands in prayer. We were all there together, except for Ruth, Nick and Audrey. For those moments we were surrounded with love, and peace. The contrast between the intense loneliness and loss I had been feeling and those brief moments of peace surrounded by the love of my family was enough to sustain me for a little longer, and many times over the next few years when I couldn’t be alone, it was my family who supported and was there for me.
There was no way to have prepared emotionally for the years that would (and do) follow. Joie struggled, as did all of our children. Joie had lost her entire family, and in less than three months, our children had seen two families lose parents, and suddenly the idea that parents could die became very real. Our daughter, who was adopted, struggled with her own issues of loss. Even though she didn’t remember her birth family, the idea that to be in this family she had to have lost another family became very real.
What followed was almost a year of melt-downs, school problems, crying, fighting, oppositional behaviors, difficulty sleeping, bedwetting, problems with friends, disagreements about parenting, and exhaustion. On top of grief and the ripples of family problems, there was settling the estate, selling the house, sorting through an entire home of belongings, trying to maintain old relationships for Joie, negotiation and setting of boundaries with well-meaning people from Joie’s past, staying in touch with extended family members, paperwork... The list seemed endless.
I remember the first few times we started to catch glimpses again of “normal.” It was in little things, like siblings playing together without fighting, and bedtime going smoothly. It was in children asking to play with friends, and rediscovering their abandoned interests. In our new normal, I saw the personalities of my children return, and with that a layer of compassion and wisdom that hadn’t been there before. Not to minimize the loss in any way...for those who have walked this road, you know that’s impossible. But for us the healing has been just as real as the loss. As I said in the beginning, it is a story that will forever be evolving. It doesn’t define us, but it is a part of who we are...as are many other parts of our story.
Thanks for joining us in our journey.
To read the amazing story of kindness that surrounded Joie the day of the accident, see here.
See here for more information about healing.
For my own thoughts about getting through grief, see here.
Only a few short months later, on August 18, 2007, I was back-to-school shopping with my children. In the chaos of juggling piles of clothes and shoe boxes, my phone rang and went to voicemail. A few minutes later I listened to the message from my brother: My sister Ruth, her husband, Nick, and their family had been in a car accident on the way to my family’s farm in Idaho. “Please go to the hospital to be with DJ” was the message. She had been life flighted down to Salt Lake City. I assumed that her parents hadn’t been able to fly with her and would get a ride down to the hospital. (DJ is Joie. See How DJ Became Joie.)
I dialed my brother back as I dropped all our shopping and rushed my children to the car. I remember saying, “So Ruth and Nick are driving down, right?”
I honestly don’t remember my brother’s response, because my brain couldn’t even process it. For some reason I heard him say they were in another hospital. I repeated that back, and then I remember hearing they were ok...all within what must have been only a few seconds of conversation.
I’m not sure how many times my brother repeated the message for me to hear it, but finally he said the words I would hear and will never forget: “Mary, DJ is the only survivor.”
I remember pulling out of the parking lot, thinking I couldn’t tell my children, then realizing they’d ask questions all the way to the hospital, and I knew for sure I didn’t trust myself to tell them while driving. I pulled into another parking stall a few spaces down.
Saying the words out loud brought forward all the tears that had been stalled by shock. My son remembers (and has told me many times) that I said I couldn’t remember how to get to the hospital. I remember my daughter crying all the way to the hospital, and having to tell her to be brave as we pulled into the emergency parking lot, “because DJ doesn’t know yet.”
In the emergency room, someone took my children to another room, and a doctor quickly briefed me as we walked down the hall. I remember him emphasizing that we shouldn’t tell her yet until they were sure she was more stable and could handle hearing the news. As I stood by her side washing dirt and throw-up from her face, I remember thinking, “This is what her mom would do if she was here.” And with that thought my own heartache threatened to come pouring out, so I quickly put the washcloth down and left the room. The rest of the afternoon was like that, standing by her side, then needing to leave to collect myself again.
I’ve realized since that a similar pattern continued through the next year or more with my family. I’d be there with them, and be strong and do what was needed to care for them, then escape, and grieve myself. I remember saying to one of my sisters, “I wish I knew what it was like to just grieve, and not have to worry about everyone else’s grief.”
The next days were a blur of family coming and going between our home and the hospital, discussions between family members about how Joie would be cared for, and conversations I don’t even remember with people who cared and wanted to show support. Our families were given our own room at the hospital for several days, and both sides of Joie’s family came and went. At one point I started receiving phone calls on my cell phone from members of the press wanting to talk to us. I was livid! How did they get our cell numbers?
In our outrage at having to respond to press calls in our grief, we learned the hospital had an entire department dedicated to press and media, and they had also been getting calls from people wanting to make sure this little girl had a family and was ok. They suggested that because of the community and media attention, we should hold a press conference, and assured us if we did the media storm would go away. They helped us prepare a statement, and guided us through how to respond to questions. Sure enough, following the press conference, the calls stopped.
Ruth and Nick didn’t have a will. From the beginning, Tim and I were among numerous family members who expressed willingness to have Joie become a part of our family. We wanted to care for her, and at the same time weren’t sure that we (or anyone) could do what it would take to raise her with all the genuine love and support of her first family. Ultimately, we lived closer than other family members to where her family had been living, and lived closer to grandparents and natural community support than others. We were in a position financially and physically to care for her, and had children near her age. As the bereavement coordinator at the hospital guided grandparents (who are next of kin in such cases) through the decision making process, they decided together that we would become Joie’s guardians. We were worried about reactions from other family members, but everyone was immediately supportive, and we’ve never felt criticism or disapproval from family or friends about having Joie as part of our family.
Within 5 days of the accident, Joie was in our home. We had no time to prepare, but had a lot of family support getting things ready for her to move in. The funerals were the following day. So much of the day felt like I was walking through a dream, and I kept wondering if I could wake up and make this all go away. At the same time, it was vividly real. I remember hugs and conversations of support. I remember hoards of people wanting to be close to Joie and feeling the need to isolate and protect her and let her have her own experience with that day. I remember three caskets lined up in the viewing room, and finding myself at the front of the line with Joie as our funeral procession followed the caskets into the chapel. Most of all, I remember sitting next to Joie as her tiny, broken body would shake with sobs during the service at the mention of things that would draw emotion. I remember her huge blue eyes looking up to me, pleading for me to make it all go away, and eventually breaking into sobs myself as we sat through the service together.
The outpouring of family and community support was incredible. Cards and letters came from all over the world from people who knew Nick through work, or had known our families over the years. At the same time, once people left our home following the funeral, I had never felt so alone. One afternoon when Tim was gone for a few hours, the feelings of loss and loneliness were so great I left the kids in front of the TV and went in my room and cried for what felt like hours. Tim called and I was sobbing so hard I couldn’t speak. Somehow I managed to tell him how I felt so alone; that all my family was together in Idaho and had left us alone in our home to make sure Joie had a quiet place to rest and heal, but never had I felt so empty. Tim was on his way home and asked if I wanted to drive to Idaho that afternoon to be with my family. I called my dad and sobbed to him also. I think at that point he would have driven from Idaho to get me if we hadn’t driven there first.
On our way to my parents’ farm, we stopped at the accident site, and at the hospital where Joie had first been taken by ambulance. We felt like it was important to thank the first responders and let them see she was ok. In Idaho, it felt good to be surrounded by family again, and the following day, we all gathered in a large circle in my parents quiet back yard and held hands in prayer. We were all there together, except for Ruth, Nick and Audrey. For those moments we were surrounded with love, and peace. The contrast between the intense loneliness and loss I had been feeling and those brief moments of peace surrounded by the love of my family was enough to sustain me for a little longer, and many times over the next few years when I couldn’t be alone, it was my family who supported and was there for me.
There was no way to have prepared emotionally for the years that would (and do) follow. Joie struggled, as did all of our children. Joie had lost her entire family, and in less than three months, our children had seen two families lose parents, and suddenly the idea that parents could die became very real. Our daughter, who was adopted, struggled with her own issues of loss. Even though she didn’t remember her birth family, the idea that to be in this family she had to have lost another family became very real.
What followed was almost a year of melt-downs, school problems, crying, fighting, oppositional behaviors, difficulty sleeping, bedwetting, problems with friends, disagreements about parenting, and exhaustion. On top of grief and the ripples of family problems, there was settling the estate, selling the house, sorting through an entire home of belongings, trying to maintain old relationships for Joie, negotiation and setting of boundaries with well-meaning people from Joie’s past, staying in touch with extended family members, paperwork... The list seemed endless.
I remember the first few times we started to catch glimpses again of “normal.” It was in little things, like siblings playing together without fighting, and bedtime going smoothly. It was in children asking to play with friends, and rediscovering their abandoned interests. In our new normal, I saw the personalities of my children return, and with that a layer of compassion and wisdom that hadn’t been there before. Not to minimize the loss in any way...for those who have walked this road, you know that’s impossible. But for us the healing has been just as real as the loss. As I said in the beginning, it is a story that will forever be evolving. It doesn’t define us, but it is a part of who we are...as are many other parts of our story.
Thanks for joining us in our journey.
To read the amazing story of kindness that surrounded Joie the day of the accident, see here.
See here for more information about healing.
For my own thoughts about getting through grief, see here.
