The Loss of Robin Williams and Why We Must Keep Talking About Depression

Yesterday, along with the rest of the world, I got the horrible news that Robin Williams had died. Even worse, he had taken his own life.

I found out via a breaking news email, tiny text in a few sentences on my cell phone. I gasped, and had to read it twice before I could answer my husband’s cries of “What’s wrong?”

I felt sick. Of course I didn’t know Robin Williams personally. I was just a fan. But anytime I read of anyone losing a battle with depression, committing suicide, I feel this way. It can be a stranger I read about in a newspaper article, a random obituary. It makes my heart hurt, because I know that pain.

After I read the email, my husband and I immediately turned to the 24 hour news channel on the television, and watched as the story unfolded. Already, stars and mourners were sharing their shock and memories of Robin Williams. I watched as social media turned into a place for people to grieve openly, and I was pleasantly surprised to see compassion dominate the postings. People were so shocked that someone who had given them such happy and touching moments in their lives was, in reality, suffering so much. They wished they had known--wished they could have helped somehow. It was hard for people to fathom how someone who had brought so much joy to the world could have possibly not felt that same joy returned to him.

Suddenly, total strangers offered their contact information out to the world—if anyone needed someone to talk to, just call, just write. YOU are important. YOU matter. People began to realize that if this could happen to someone like Robin Williams, it could happen to any one of us. They wanted to help. I found myself tearing up at the outpouring of love in honor of this man’s passing.

All I could think about was his last moments. I cannot claim to know his personal suffering, but like anyone who has battled severe depression, like anyone who has attempted suicide and been in that low, horrible place, I felt I knew something few people know. There is just a darkness that is like nothing else, that you can’t escape, that you can’t see a way out of, that envelopes you and hurts like nothing else. You feel worthless in a way that is bottomless. You feel like such a burden to everyone and everything and that you will be relieving the world of you and your problems if you are gone. There is nothing more painful, more confusing, and more horrible than those moments. You want to die and you don’t. You want to the pain to end, you want so badly to be anything other than this dark, horrible thing that you are.

I hated so badly that someone so gifted, so genuine, who had given so much, felt that way, and was alone like that in his last moments. But everyone who dies like that is alone in those moments, and it always hits me the same way when I hear about it. I hate it.

If we learned anything from Robin Williams’ death, we learned that depression can affect anyone. It doesn’t matter how rich, how talented, how popular, or well thought of you are…depression doesn’t discriminate. It can crawl in on shadowy feet into the minds and souls of any one of us. It isn’t a choice or a mood. It is a disease, and it can be fatal.

I was so, so fortunate to have survived my battle with depression, that lasted most of my adult life. I am one of those people who will always have to be careful, always aware that depression will be just below the surface for me, easier to inhabit my psyche. For me, it feels like a rope around my waist, loosely hanging now, as I am healthy and fine, but with the threat of it always being able to pull tight and drag me down. I have to know and understand my triggers, take care of myself, not let myself get too stressed by work (or life), get enough sleep, take medication, and seek help if I feel myself slipping.

What I think was also apparent as I watched social media erupt with love and grief last night, was so many people shared their own battles with depression. It’s almost absurd that we have the stigma that we do, when almost everyone either has suffered from depression or is close to someone who has. It’s as if we are all keeping this big, stupid secret about something that is painfully obvious and happening all the time to all of us right before our eyes. Because it is. Life is so hard. We all struggle. We all need help sometimes. Keeping quiet is what leads people into lonely rooms to take their lives. We have to keep talking.

If Robin Williams had been just another comedian, he wouldn’t have touched people the way he did. Sure, everyone loves to laugh, and someone who makes you laugh is always welcome. But the reason Robin Williams was so beloved is because he surprised us. He was one of the most gifted funny men out there. He could truly make you belly laugh like no one else. But then, almost out of nowhere, he appeared on screen in serious roles and showed all this heart and made us weep. There was such a true genuineness in his dramatic roles, they were as touching as his comedic roles were funny. There are so few people in the world with that much range, that much depth—to be able to pull off both comedic and dramatic roles the way that he did. I believe he felt things so deeply, he gave so much and we, his audience, felt that too.

To me, he always seemed a little tortured, fighting something—in a beautiful way. You could tell he felt everything, deeply. That’s why his performances rang so true. I have just felt so sad by this loss, all the performances we won’t see, what we will miss out on now that he is gone. But most of all, I can’t quit thinking of his last moments, and I am haunted.

My hope in all of this, in all of the compassion, the sadness, and the realization is that out of this huge loss, a conversation will start and continue. This is the best example of the fact that depression can affect ANYONE. Robin Williams has left an amazing legacy of his work onscreen, but my hope is also that another legacy will be that so many lives will be saved because we all kept talking, and more people came out of the shadows, and stayed out of their lonely rooms and more people reached out for help.

I think he would have loved that. Don’t you?

Please, if you are contemplating suicide, know that you are not alone. YOU ARE IMPORTANT. YOU MATTER. No matter how bad things are right now, they can get better. Reach out for help.
Call this hotline—I have called this number before—they save lives and they can save yours:

1-800-784-2433 (1-800-SUICIDE)

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Before and After: The Tragedy in Newtown

I don’t have anything new to add to this conversation. I don’t have any wise words about why a young man chose to kill his mother, then 26 innocent people at an elementary school, then take his own life. I have assumptions regarding mental illness, pain, being at an age when serious mental illness often takes its strongest grip, and access to guns that should only exist in the military or on the movie screen. But those are assumptions. They help me reason through moments when I want so badly to understand, but in the end, they are just guesses.

Nothing in recent memory has upset me as much as the tragedy in Newtown, Connecticut. I have cried when watching television coverage, I have wept when reading articles detailing events that no kindergartner or first grader should ever experience. Most troubling, out of nowhere over the past week, I have shed tears when simply thinking about all that happened. How will the parents that lost children ever get those images out of their heads? How do they somehow find peace after losing a child so senselessly? How will the surviving children ever again see school as anything but a war zone- a temple of fear- a place of loss and terror? How will the community ever lift this cloud of grief? How do you contemplate, plan, and attend countless funerals in such a tiny town- all leading up to the Christmas holiday?

One thing that struck me from the beginning, on that Friday when the news was just breaking, was what school was for me at that age. It was a safe haven. I absolutely adored kindergarten especially, but all through my elementary years, school was my safe place, my favorite place. I knew what to expect, there were no unplanned shifts in tension or trouble as there were at home. I still had my own anxieties, but they had nothing to do with not feeling safe or worrying gunmen might come into the building and harm us. It’s bad enough for the children that have been exposed to the news about Newtown, and then must return to their school building and hallways, trying to readjust to the new normal the world has created. But how in the world will the children that survived this massacre in Newtown, who actually witnesses their teachers and friends murdered in front of their eyes, ever wall the hallways of any school now or later in life, without flashbacks and fear, looking over their shoulder on the way to the library for lurking dangers?

This breaks my heart. Their innocence is gone. Children are thankfully resilient and mighty, and have an ability to face the sadness life gives them and make it part of their new being in a magical way. But, I fear this is almost too much to ask, even of the most resilient child.

What I am thankful for in all of this madness is that we, as a country, are finally talking about gun control. To be clear, as I always try to be, I am not in favor of taking away all guns from everyone. I only want automatic assault weapons that have no business in anyone’s hands off the market. Illegal. Nearly impossible to get. Will it solve all the problems? No. Will we never again have another tragic shooting in a school or workplace? Sadly, I doubt that will be the outcome. But, I believe strongly that it will lessen the numbers and instances. One other thing I have learned is that if you are on the other side of the gun argument, I cannot change what you think, and you cannot change my view. I am not going to try here. At least we are all talking. At least I am seeing a shift in Washington, and I believe newer laws and restrictions will come out of this tragedy to make a difference.

This tragedy changed things because so many of the victims were so young, so innocent, so defenseless. But honestly, in the face of an automatic weapon, we are all defenseless. I couldn’t help but think about the parents of victims of other school shootings such as Columbine, other parents who have fought for gun control after the loss of their child in such a senseless manner. I am sure these parents are happy to finally see gun control discussed, but I wonder if they aren’t thinking—“why wasn’t my child’s death important enough to make this happen?” It’s a fair question. Maybe we wouldn’t be in such pain right now, maybe we wouldn’t have lost 20 six year olds if this had been addressed earlier.

After Columbine, I remember there was a lot of anger and hatred for the gunmen. Everyone was lashing out at their parents, assuming they were somehow responsible, that they knew everything their children were planning, or that they were so neglectful that this tragedy left blood on their hands. I was part of that group that could not believe the parents had no idea what was about to happen—the weapons, the planning, the anger. For a long time, I kept that opinion. Then, I read Susan Klebold’s heart-wrenching essay. Later, I read the book Columbine by Dave Cullen, and I realized that the truth is far murkier.

After the tragedy in Newtown, I didn’t see the same public reaction of absolute hatred for the gunman. I saw the reaction more towards the true cause of any tragedy like this—mental illness and gun control. This is where the concerns should be. Until we figure out what is breaking people, what is bringing them to their knees and to the point of making a decision to kill innocent people in large numbers, we won’t be able to prevent future tragedies.

I wish I knew an answer. I wish I could turn back time and bring these tiny children back to their families and make the community whole. I wish I didn’t think about what their last moments were like- how confusing and terrifying everything must have been. How, I am sure, they wanted their mommies and daddies in such scary circumstances. I wish their parents didn’t have to have those same thoughts, which must torture them in ways that are unimaginable.

All I can do now is hope for their healing. Hope for some peace in a tiny town that couldn’t have seen evil approaching in such a horrible, final way. Hope that whatever change we bring about as a country helps guide some lost souls to a place of healing instead of lashing out at the world in such deadly actions.

Truly, all that is left to do is hope.

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Measuring Time

Marina Evelyn Keegan, 1989-2012

Two nights ago, I scrambled to remember where I was at the age of 22. I pulled out photo albums, counted months in my head, and scanned through my memory for some clear recollection. I have an overall picture of that timeframe in my mind, and the minute I go there, I feel a little sick. I wasn’t where I was supposed to be, wasn’t where I wanted to be, wasn’t nearly on the path that so many people thought I would be.

It seemed like everyone I knew or had ever known was slipping easily from one life stage to the next, doing the right thing, the expected thing—graduating from college, getting married, starting life. I was stuck, stalled, irreparably lost. I felt so much more a failure than I ever imagined I could be. I was nowhere near graduating or marrying anyone. For me, surviving was such a battle, taking all of my energy. I couldn’t understand how everyone else made it look so easy. It had once all seemed so easy to me, too.

I had glided through grade school, slid easily from middle school into junior high, and then with only a few bumps in the math and science arena, graduated high school with honors. All the hard work, limitless expectations, my own perfectionism, and predictions from teachers past and present seemed to have come true.

Then, I went off to college and completely lost my bearings. For a person who fretted over every single paper and test result for 12 years, I found myself caring little about the classes I sat through in college, my mind wandering, my stance unstable. I had no idea who I was anymore. In the entire time I grasped to regain something of my former self while in college, I never did. I had a few bright semesters when I seemed to catch hold of some of that glimmer, but the next semester would engulf the one before, erasing the effort it had taken everything to muster, figuring into a grade point average that barely registered.

Not a single day went by that I didn’t think about everything I wasn’t. Everything I hadn’t become. All the people I had disappointed. Most of all…me.

I don’t like to go back to that time. Even though I understand why I was so lost now—looking back—it is still a time of failure. It is the dizzying first years of lost time for me. What followed was so many more years of stops and starts, but still that small voice inside that said “you are not good enough”. I lost so many years of my life to that voice- the voice of depression and my childhood- navigating the way for me for too long. I still wish desperately to turn back time, to be the confident person I so wanted to be…to have successes and accomplishments behind me instead of recovery and recuperation. I know it all adds up to who I am now, and where I am now, which I would not change. But somehow, knowing you lost decades of time simply because you saw yourself through your alcoholic father’s eyes instead of your own…well, it makes you yearn for an epic do over.

I can’t say enough that I know I am where I am supposed to be, somehow I know that in the deepest part of myself. So I have made peace with all of it. It doesn’t keep me up at night the way it once did, there is more good in my life than bad, more good fortune than sadness. It has all worked out.

Six hundred words into this post, I am just now to the reason I started writing it. What got me thinking about that age, that time, was a devastating death. I didn’t know Marina Keegan, but I wish that I had. I feel in a way, that I knew a part of her through her words.

Marina Keegan, a 22 year old Yale graduate, was killed this past Saturday in a car accident, just five days after graduating. She was, among many things, a truly gifted, amazing writer. I felt a bit foolish as I cried reading her last essay, one she penned shortly before her death for the Yale newspaper. But I did cry, and for the next forty eight hours, I was affected deeply by the loss of this person, this stranger.

It’s easy to see why someone would be affected. So many people have been. Her last essay went viral, and thousands and thousands of people read it, posted it on Facebook, tweeted links to it, and shared their grief over a bright life cut so short. So ridiculously short. Her own words, “We’re so young. We’re so young. We’re twenty-two years old. We have so much time…”, were such a sad statement of hope from someone who should have had so much more time.

What I think really got to me was learning more about her. Marina was not just a gifted writer, she was this whole person who knew who she was, who felt comfortable in her own skin, and who was doing all of these things she had set out to do. After the death of anyone, particularly of someone so young, the sound bytes and quotes can seem almost too perfect. Of course everyone will only say the nicest things. But, there was such a ring of sincerity and genuineness to the things written and said about Marina Keegan. In the end, her own words shone above all else.

In the privileged world she came from, she doubted herself, her future, and the privilege itself. She took nothing for granted, and questioned her own ease of feeling “special” at times. She was a very real, very genuine person, who at age 22 had accomplished so much, and had much more to do. I am infinitely sad that I will never read another essay of hers. I am infinitely grateful that I did read her words, that I got to know her a little bit, and that with so many others I can send out some hope into the universe for her family. What a loss for them. But what a beautiful job they did in raising someone who saw herself as capable of all the things she could be, and realistic about the world and all it offered, and all that she had been given. The voice she followed was her own.

I thought so much about how- if questioned while I was still in grade school, or walking the halls of junior high- my teachers would have predicted such a successful path for me. Maybe not at Yale, maybe not a job at the New Yorker just days after graduation, but these teachers saw my potential as endless and hopeful. They all told me so, over and over. They each in their own way did everything right to empower me and help light the way for my next steps. Something else was louder to me, and took over. My teachers had little to no indication, as I was an expert secret-keeper, all by design.

I thought so much about how Marina’s life was all these right, wonderful things, and all that ended, senselessly.

In thinking back to that time in my life in comparison to hers, I didn’t feel jealousy for all her accomplishments, for her strength and talent, I felt strangely proud. None of that is easy. As young woman out in the world, no matter what privilege you derive from, no matter how “easy” wealth can make your journey, it is still hard. I know so well how hard it is. It is especially hard to share your fears so openly…to question the wealth you come from so openly…to so fiercely face the world with all of your beliefs and sense of self intact.

Marina Keegan was not perfect, I am sure she made big mistakes in there somewhere. I know there are a million other stories out there just as sad, with other bright lights extinguished with just as much promise and talent. But hers spoke to me. It took me so many years to find my voice, to see myself. I saw moments of myself in her words, the way she felt and saw things, and I marveled that it had taken me 20 years longer than she to get the courage to be that person, to share those things.

What does keep me up at night- especially recently- is just the fragility of it all. The unbelievable unfairness of so many things. I wonder why someone like Marina Keegan is lost to the world, when others who do nothing but add pain, crime, and ridiculous 15 minutes of fame and shame to our collective culture seemingly breeze through life, averting disaster—or even discomfort.

I can’t resolve this in one blog post, or a dozen more. I can only be angry and confused and wish things were different.

Tonight, I can read Marina’s words, and be grateful for another day-- and be thankful that in reading her words, I am more inspired than ever to keep writing my own.

All of us, whether it’s 20 years too late,  one semester into college, or right on track in our own lives, can take the baton where she has left off and share our stories, find our strength, and go from here.

I didn’t know Marina Keegan, but I think she would like that. In her own words...

“What we have to remember is that we can still do anything. We can change our minds. We can start over... We can’t, we MUST not lose this sense of possibility because in the end, it’s all we have.”

---

To read another of Marina's essays, Song for the Special, click here.

Remembering Marina Keegan

Dennis Car Crash Victim was Yale Writer

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Loss, Loyalty, and Love

Some photos are so powerful. In one shutter click, a moment is captured that would otherwise be blinked away, and the lesson in that moment lost.

Even as I believe that, I can't remember the last time I simply looked at a photo and cried.

That happened when I saw the photo above tonight.

This was the caption below it:  During Navy Seal Jon Tumilson's funeral yesterday, his trusted canine friend Hawkeye guarded him one last time.

So heartbreaking.

Here is a video capturing the moment live:



To read more about the brave Navy SEAL who gave his life in service to our country, click here.

I hope Petty Officer Jon Tumilson is resting in peace, and that his faithful companion Hawkeye is being given lots of extra love tonight.

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A Peanut Butter Pie in Memory of Mikey

I have written before about my somewhat irrational fears about losing my husband Shea. There are times when I sit and worry and even cross the line to obsessing about it—which I know is ridiculous. I don’t worry about him leaving me, I worry about losing him to illness, an accident, whatever, I have quite a list of possible ways that I try to keep at bay.

I think part of it is that I waited so long to find this love, and I can’t stand the thoughts of losing this man who is my soul mate, my best friend, and the best thing that has ever happened to me. The other part of it is just life and the constant stories I read about people losing loved ones in an instant- without warning- and it reminds me how fragile and unfair life can be.

Exhibit A is the story behind this food writer’s request. Jennifer Perillo is asking those who read her blog to make her husband’s favorite Peanut Butter pie in memory of him. Mikey Perillo died this past Sunday from a sudden, unexpected heart attack that robbed Jennifer of the chance to say goodbye or make his favorite dessert one last time. In Jennifer’s own words:

“I kept telling myself I would make it for him tomorrow. Time has suddenly stood still, though, and I'm waiting to wake up and learn to live a new kind of normal. For those asking what they can do to help my healing process, make a peanut butter pie this Friday and share it with someone you love. Then hug them like there's no tomorrow because today is the only guarantee we can count on.”

This video on her blog of him dancing with his daughter brought me to tears this morning.

So, today I am going to the grocery store to buy condensed milk, peanut butter, cream cheese, and all the other things I need to make this pie. And I will hold my husband a little closer and give thanks for another day with him.

Hug those you love, and visit Jennifer’s blog and send her some love, and jot down the recipe and make this peanut butter pie for Mikey.

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There's Something Wrong with Aunt Diane

On July 26, 2009, Diane Schuler was driving a minivan with her two children and three nieces inside. They had just left Hunter Lake Campground in upstate New York to head back home to Long Island.

They never made it home, and what happened on that trip is a horrible mystery that ended in the deaths of eight people.

Diane drove on the Taconic Parkway in the wrong direction for almost two miles before crashing head on into an oncoming SUV, killing herself, her daughter, all three of her nieces, and the three men in the SUV. Her five year old son was the lone survivor.

Several calls were made from inside that minivan before the crash. One was from one of Diane’s nieces who called her father (Diane’s brother) frantically telling him, “There’s something wrong with Aunt Diane”. Everyone in the family was panicked, trying to reach Diane, trying to get authorities to locate the car. Diane had previously called her brother and his wife, once that morning when things were fine, chatting about day to day things. Only twenty minutes after that last “normal” call, everything changed.

Calls after that from Diane were nearly incoherent, with Diane sounding disheveled—not making sense. It seemed as if she was having some sort of medical episode.

After the crash, an autopsy was done on Diane Schuler. It was revealed that her blood alcohol level was almost twice the legal limit (equaling about ten drinks), and large amounts of marijuana were found in her system. Family and friends were shocked. By all accounts, Diane Schuler was a responsible, intelligent woman; an excellent mother, and a beloved aunt, wife, and sister. Her nieces adored her. She had a job making $100,000 a year, and was well regarded and respected by her coworkers.

The pieces just didn’t fit. How could this have happened, and what really happened?

I learned about Diane Schuler’s story by watching the HBO Documentary, “There’s Something Wrong with Aunt Diane”. I actually ended up watching it several times, and making my husband watch with me. I couldn’t stop thinking about it. This was a tragedy on so many levels.

Diane’s husband Danny was featured in the documentary, and he and his sister-in-law Jay were the most prominent faces in the film. It has become Jay and Danny’s mission to clear Diane’s name and to try and find out more about what happened that terrible day. Both believe something medical happened, as the Diane they knew was not an alcoholic or a heavy drinker. They both admit that she occasionally smoked marijuana. But Jay denies that Diane would have ever done anything to intentionally hurt the children- her own and her brothers-that she loved so much.

In the documentary, a full portrait is painted of Diane. At the age of nine, her mother left her family, and Diane became the “mom” in a house full of brothers. Maybe because of this early trauma, Diane became a typical “Type A” personality, needing to be in control, to have things planned and in place. Almost everyone interviewed that knew about Diane mentioned her needing to be in control and being incredibly organized—almost obsessively so. But she wasn’t neurotic or distant, she created a warm, wonderful world in all her plans and organization, and was deeply loved by her husband, children, brother, sister-in-laws and her nieces—who were especially dear to her.

The events of July 26, 2009 and every moment of Diane’s life leading up to that day are a complete contradiction. This is obviously a passionate issue for those who lived in the area and remember the crash, and even for people like me that are just learning about this via the documentary. People immediately demonized Diane as a “drunk” and a “monster”. The documentary shows comments people made on websites, underneath news stories about the tragedy. Diane is called horrible things, damned by those who maybe only know the sound bytes or headlines surrounding the case.

No one will ever know what happened. You cannot deny the alcohol and marijuana in her system- the autopsy was repeated and DNA tested twice. But, the story is not that simple. If Diane had a history of erratic behavior, drinking heavily, or irresponsible activities, perhaps there would be more blame to place. It makes me so sad that someone’s life is reduced to a moment that we will never know the full truth behind.

I cannot imagine the pain that Warren and Jackie Hance (Diane’s brother and sister-in-law) have endured—in one moment, they lost all of their children, three beautiful girls. It pains me, and I have thought of them every day since first seeing this documentary.

But Diane Schuler was not a monster. I believe something happened that morning, and she made poor choices, perhaps not in her right mind. It is maddening to watch the videos of her less than an hour before the crash, stopping at a gas station, looking normal, and in no way drunk or even confused. She stopped at a McDonalds that morning to get all the kids breakfast, and the staff there remembered her, and were certain she wasn’t drunk or acting unusual or erratic. And she was completely normal at 11:37am when talking to Jackie Hance on the phone, and did not give Jackie any signs of alarm. Only 20 minutes later, that all changed.

In the documentary, Danny Schuler, (Diane’s husband) doesn’t do himself any favors. He comes across as defensive and distant, angry and defiant. As he and Jay search to try and clear Diane’s name, their inability to do so only causes his frustration level and defensiveness to rise. But, as people in his community and across the country demonize his wife, and attack his family, I wonder how this has contributed to who he is now. His choices recently (and after the documentary was made) don’t help matters, and I can honestly say I have been disgusted with his latest choices- which include suing Warren and Jackie Hance, as Diane was driving their minivan that day- the day they lost all three of their daughters.

I felt so badly for Jay Schuler—Diane’s sister-in-law, who was trying desperately to clear the name of a beloved family member that she truly did not believe could have made the choices that led to the accident. Jay was certain that there was going to be some medical explanation, but there wasn’t. I believe Jay’s only motivation was to clear Diane’s name for the family, and for her surviving son Brian. Watching Jay read the horrible things people said about her late sister-in-law was heartbreaking.

Whatever happened that day, I do not believe there is any evidence that Diane did anything intentional to hurt the precious children in her car, or the three men in the other vehicle. A terrible, horrible, unthinkable thing happened, but this should not the only legacy for a woman who led an otherwise normal, beautiful life.

I have been guilty of reading articles over the years and making snap judgments. It’s easy to become enraged over the acts and coincidences that happen, no matter how unintentional, that take the lives of others, especially when there are children involved.

Watching this documentary, I want so badly to turn back time. I want to stop the tape and rewind it, get those kids out of that car—get Diane out of that car—stop it all from happening. I cannot imagine what the close family members go through, what they wish for, how they are haunted. And not knowing the truth, not having that closure, has to be maddening.

Somehow, Diane made poor choices that morning, horrific choices that led to a disaster. Perhaps she had a hidden drug or alcohol problem. Perhaps her husband even knew more than he is saying. But, it doesn’t matter. It truly doesn’t. The blame is hers- she was responsible for what happened that day. But we are all so much more than our worst moments, our worst choices. Diane Schuler is gone, and the answers went with her. Eight lives were lost. Nothing can bring them back. But in the days leading up to that accident, in all the days, months and years she was someone’s wife, someone’s mother, someone's aunt, someone’s sibling, someone’s child, someone’s best friend…she was loved, respected, and today she is missed. She was more than one day, more than a bad choice or choices. 

And I for one hope she rests in peace.

Follow this link for more information about the HBO Documentary

Please read this beautiful article by Jackie Hance written with so much grace and strength.

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For Joanie

(click on photo to enlarge)

I first met Joanie in 2008 after reading an article about the death of her daughter Keri. Keri had ALS, and died at the age of 29, only two years after being diagnosed. She had a baby girl, and the disease had left her unable to hold her, change her, or do the things all young moms in their 20s should be able to do. Her daughter Kellyn was only 10 months old when she died.

I read about Keri, and noticed we had several things in common. We were both in marketing, Keri had also been into theater and acting in high school, and she wanted the same things I did. I couldn’t imagine having to prepare to die at the age of 29.

I found out about a local ALS Walk scheduled for that spring in Charlotte, so I signed up for Keri’s team. Within minutes of signing up, I received an email of thanks from Joanie. We emailed a bit back and forth, and I expressed my sorrow for her loss of Keri, and asked about Kellyn. Joanie was so sweet, thanked me about a million times for signing up for the Charlotte walk, and immediately recruited me for any and all things I could do in the fight against ALS. She had that way about her. You were in this with her from the minute you met her, you didn’t really have a choice.

I know if Joanie knew I was writing this, she would want me to write about Keri, about the battle against ALS, about the conference she started in memory of her daughter, about the scholarships in Keri’s name. She wouldn’t want me to write about Joanie. So, I have included all that info, but now I want to write just about Joanie.

Joanie was an artist, an amazing one. Her paintings and drawings of Keri and Kellyn were the ones I saw most, but her talent was evident. Her artistic eye was also apparent behind the camera, her photographs were beautiful.

When I walked up and met Joanie and her husband Harold at the ALS walk, my first reaction was how tiny she was! She was such a petite little thing, but that impression lasted about two seconds. Everything about Joanie was big—her heart, her spirit, her love for Keri and Kellyn, her determination, her energy…I couldn’t keep up with her.

She had battled her own illness- lung cancer, initially diagnosed in 2005, then returning in 2007. She was undergoing chemotherapy while trying to be her daughter’s support and strength. She worried about being there for her and Kellyn. I never totally knew all of the details of her illness. I would ask, and she would give me a short answer, then redirect the conversation to her work to fight ALS, and of course, to Keri.

But honestly, if you met Joanie, you felt her grief in losing Keri so deeply—more deeply than anything—and that stayed with you. It was apparent in her every word and movement. The loss of Keri took such a huge part of her heart and soul. As we walked together for ALS in Charlotte, Joanie hung back and talked to me for hours. I learned so much about her that day, about  Keri, and all the burdens Joanie carried. She was always gracious to ask first about me and my life, what was going on, what I wanted…but the pain and weight of the loss of Keri was so huge for her. She channeled every ounce of her being into working on The North Carolina Conference for ALS (which she created and managed), now in its fourth year. I believe she had to be doing something all the time, focusing her energy in any way that she could help someone else who was suffering, or in just helping people to remember Keri. I always felt she had to keep moving, keep doing, so as to not drown in her grief. I think anyone who has lost a child will understand those words. It broke my heart for her.

She adored her granddaughter Kellyn, and it did my heart good to see the way Kellyn could get THAT smile out of Joanie. Only Kellyn could do that it seemed. Kellyn is a carbon copy of her mom, she couldn’t look more like Keri, and every time I would write Joanie I would say that, and it tickled her to death. She would ALWAYS say- thank you so much for saying she looks like Keri.

Joanie and I were last in touch in March via email. We had emailed back and forth about nothing really, just catching up. In typical Joanie style, she had given me her uncensored opinion about several things. I loved her bluntness and inability to sugar coat anything. If you asked Joanie a question, you were going to get her honest feelings, no two ways about it. I respected the hell out of her. I have tortured myself in the last 24 hours because it was my turn to respond to her email, and I just didn’t. I kept reminding myself, and her email got lost in a sea of others. She wasn’t waiting on a response to anything in particular, I just wish I had sent her one more note.

Somehow, I didn’t know that Joanie’s cancer had come back. And then, last night, I got the news that she had died. After I heard, I scoured her Facebook page, and there was little evidence, except in the last few days with people posting on her wall, first sending prayers to her and Harold, then people expressing shock and sadness over her passing. We hadn’t been in touch as much over the last six months, and I am at least thankful that we were in touch in March.

I told Joanie countless times how much I admired her strength, her ability to love, and her fierce, fiery determination and endless efforts in the fight against ALS. I told her in person, and I wrote those words to her. I just wish I had known her cancer had come back, so I could have told her one more time.

Joanie would tell me to get over it. She would tell me she knew how I felt. She would tell me to just tell all my friends to support local ALS efforts and to spread the word about the conference. So, I will. But just one last time Joanie—let me say that you were an inspiration, a force to be reckoned with (in the best possible way), an amazing—and I mean AMAZING mother. Thank you for the chance to know you. And love you.

Read articles about Keri here and here. 

Information about this year’s conference.

The website that Joanie started in Keri’s memory.

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Mistrial

I did not watch the Casey Anthony trial every day, although I have friends and family who did. I have read several articles about the country’s fascination with this particular case and the trial, many of the authors of these articles accusing those who were glued to their television sets as having a morbid curiosity, or perhaps enjoying the live version of Law and Order. I am sure in some cases this is true, but I think the majority of people out there were just plain outraged that this woman took her child’s life and showed no remorse, much less a moment of grieving for the death of her sweet toddler.

Casey Anthony fit the role of villain very well. Nothing made me more angry than seeing pictures of her partying in bars, a huge smile on her face, drinking and dancing on tables, days after her daughter’s death. This was not a grieving mother. This was a habitual liar, most likely a sociopath, celebrating her newfound freedom. She later said these bar visits were part of her own personal “investigation” to find her missing daughter. Please.

I have tried to make sense of today’s verdict. I have tried to tell myself that maybe the prosecution didn’t prove the case, or provide the jury with what they needed. I have tried to tell myself that since I didn’t watch every moment of the trial, perhaps I didn’t see something obviously missing to make this jury come to the conclusion that seemed so clear to everyone else.

But I can’t make it all make sense. If this mother had ever shown one ounce of sadness over the loss of her daughter, maybe I could have some peace with this, but I doubt it. If she hadn’t lied, celebrated, and waited until she had no choice but to report her daughter missing because her own parents demanded it and called 911. Maybe. But probably not.

Many people have also compared this trial and outcome to the OJ Simpson trial. It is easy to draw parallels. In both cases, we all knew that the defendants were guilty. It seemed a foregone conclusion that a guilty verdict would follow. In seeing and hearing my friends responses after the verdict was read, I was taken back to that time and the OJ case, and remembered the same outrage. We all want to believe in our justice system and that the bad guys that do evil things will be punished. When it doesn’t happen, it is more than unsettling. If the truly identifiable bad guys walk away unscathed—how can we know we are safe? How do we believe in justice again?

The saddest part in all of this is that a child died a horrible death and was disposed of. Casey Anthony got what she wanted, a life without a child, and her freedom. She will likely not serve another day in prison.

I watched the verdict live today, and noticed her parents were emotionless as it was read. They simply got up and left the room. Their lives are ruined any way you look at it. They will likely have to take Casey into their home, after she so viciously trashed both of them during the trial. Either way, they will suffer immensely and will never have “normal” lives again.

I want to believe in the justice system. I believe everyone deserves a proper defense and their day in court. I hate the tactics the defense attorney used, and I hate even more that they worked.

I also hate that as the nation is riveted and angry over a miscarriage of justice, more children are being abused and neglected than any of us want to think about. If we all took that anger and reached out in our communities to help somehow through programs like Guardian ad Litem, or similar efforts, it is the only way we can really hope to change or help prevent things like this from happening. After working as a Guardian ad Litem myself years ago, I was appalled to see the number of cases of extreme abuse and neglect that existed in one county during a few weeks at a time. The number and severity of cases was staggering. I felt as if I had lived in a bubble for so long, not seeing what was going on even a few doors down in my own neighborhood. There are cases like Casey Anthony’s every day that slip under the wire somehow.

In this case, justice was not served. The evil bad guy did not get the deserved verdict. The only way I know to feel like I am doing something is to reach out where I can and try and do some good—to try and sway the balance of good vs. bad a little. It won’t turn back time and make the jury deliver the right verdict, it won’t undo what happened today, nothing will. But it will give me something to do with this anger and disgust I am harboring right now. And hopefully, somehow I can tell myself that this child’s death was not in vain.

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Justice for Henry --You Can Help

I am going to ask for your help. I am going to ask for a few seconds of your time to sign a petition. Your signature will mean the world to a family who has lost their dear son, brother, cousin, nephew, and grandchild. His name was Henry Louis Granju and he was murdered.

I have written about Katie Granju before, and the tragic loss of her son Henry. (see posts here and here). I have been deeply touched by Katie’s love for her son and her strength in fighting for justice for him. The loss of a child under any circumstances is the worst imaginable tragedy, and for Katie and her family, this devastation has been heartbreaking. I have wept as I have read her words—filled with such pain and loss—sharing a story she can barely believe herself. I have watched videos of Henry and have seen photos of him from all stages of his life—toddling around in diapers, posing for family pictures, and holding a guitar in many of them, his love of music evident from the look on his face. Without knowing him personally, I could just see something in him—a beauty he could give to the world—so many gifts. Sadly, his life ended last year when Henry was just eighteen. Eighteen. He had so much more to give, so much more to do- he had only just started.

Henry battled addiction—a fact his family has never denied or tried to hide. He struggled to find his way back to being sober.  

But Henry died because he was murdered. And he suffered. He was beaten and suffered while the criminals involved in his attack (and who provided the drugs for him- a lethal overdose) refused to call for help and let him suffer for too long.

I cannot stand to think of anyone I love in that situation. I cannot imagine as a mother how painful life is after losing your son this way.

What has been worse is the way that Katie and her family have been treated by local authorities and the DA’s office. I have been shocked to read correspondence sent to her by the very people that should be her champions…Henry’s champions. They have been anything but. I have been awed by her ability to hold back telling the world these horrible things—while hoping and waiting that somehow justice would be done for her son. She waited as long as she could.

Now, she has told the whole story—piece by heart-wrenching piece. Not only has this mother lost her son, she has single-handedly had to fight to just get the authorities to do their jobs. Thankfully, she is starting to get support through lawyers that have stepped up to help, and through some articles and national media outlets.

Because Henry battled addiction, the authorities have called him an “unattractive victim” and have seemed to send the message that some cases, some people don’t matter as much as others. I don’t believe that.

I have written about how much I have learned and been changed by Henry’s story. Learning about this beautiful, talented boy who comes from a wonderful, loving family has shown me how much we all judge people and terms like addiction- even on some small level. We think of an addict, and an image pops to mind. But, anyone is at risk--whether it’s addiction or mental illness or life paths we can never imagine—we are all steps away at times from our whole world turning upside down. We can all say “I never would” or “My child would never”, but I promise you, no one knows what may happen tomorrow.

And all the Henrys out there…they are someone’s son, someone’s cousin, someone’s brother, someone’s daughter, someone’s sister, someone who is LOVED- no matter their mistakes or choices.

Henry was and is loved. He is remembered. He was a beautiful, talented boy who did not deserve to die the way that he did. I have to believe there will be justice for that.

Please help. Please take a few seconds and sign this petition for Katie, for Henry, for his family. And for all the other Henrys out there.

Click HERE to sign the petition asking that Henry’s case be fully investigated as it should be.

Other important links:

The Justice for Henry Granju website

Henry’s Fund- started by Henry’s family to help other teenagers in need of treatment for addiction

Katie's blog- Mama Pundit – she outlines all of the details of Henry’s case part by part here.

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Preconceived Notions

When you hear about an addict--what image does that conjure? Do you think fearful thoughts, judgmental thoughts, compassionate thoughts...or prefer not to think about it at all? I can say in all honesty that years ago, probably even when I was old enough to know better--I was judgmental when thinking of an addict, throwing this person I heard about in a category of failure or depravity that I couldn't imagine being close to.

I cannot begin to say how deeply I have been affected by Katie Granju's story of the loss of her son Henry. I know that initially it was just because in following her blog and her writing, I felt as if I knew her, even just a little, so it was very much like feeling the pain for a friend.

I had read her blog entries, following Henry's struggle for life daily. I read her words and worried for her, hoped for Henry, and learned more about him along the way. Something struck a chord with me. Something deeper.

And then, Henry died.

I have hurt for Katie, but somehow related to Henry in a way I couldn't understand. I am not an addict, have never faced addiction. But, I have suffered from depression and battled it many times alone and in secret because of the stigmas attached to any kind of mental illness. I have been so close to the edge of not coming back. I know that place. I cannot compare my suffering to Henry's. But I know what it is like to feel at the mercy of something that is harming you--and in the face of it being powerless to help yourself or make the right choices. It is horrible, frightening, maddening. And more than heartbreaking.

Then, Katie published Henry's eulogy, given by his father. This series of words made me catch my breath:

...Henry was a brilliant, beautiful baby and child who from the very beginning, simply felt the world more deeply than most of the rest of us. This special sensitivity was both his blessing and his curse. His inborn and intense empathy and intuition gifted him with a natural creativity that he expressed musically and in writing. However, it also caused him great suffering, a suffering that he never seemed to be able to shake completely, and which he eventually attempted to mask in ways that hurt him more than they helped him. Henry was – in so many ways – just too sensitive for the world into which he was born.

A few people who have been close to me forever--who know me well--and who have seen me in darker moments, have often described me in this way--feeling things more deeply....too sensitive for this world...I can see myself in that way. It has been a battle for me my whole life to separate myself more- to not be so deeply hurt by others, by the world around me. I was so struck by the realization that none of us can judge what we would or wouldn't ever do or be. We are all closer to the edge than we care to know. I could have easily slipped into the abyss. The path I took was not so different from Henry's, it was just another form of masking that pain. I think of the harsh judgment I have had in the past thinking of addiction--of addicts. And now, I feel I understand more than I would care to.

Part of the reason I have been so touched is that I am so grateful at this moment for my life, for survival, for making it through everything even though I fervently believed that I would never feel the joy, love, and peace that I do now. I wish with all my heart that Henry had made it through this to feel the same. I have no doubt he would have. The world lost an amazing person--not an addict. A beautiful boy, a beloved son, brother, cousin and friend.

I rarely post a video of this length on my blog, but I ask you to take the 20 minutes to watch it. It is Henry Louis Granju's life in pictures and video. Watch these images and ask yourself tough questions. Make others you know ask themselves tough questions about how we judge people battling addiction and those who love them. And if you have children...please hug them, love them, tell them how amazing they are. Do this in honor of Katie and Henry.

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Losing Henry

Henry Louis Granju 1991-2010

Through blogging I have come to know people all over the world, some I keep in touch with daily and are some of my closest friends, others are my writing “teachers” that critique my work honestly and help keep me on track. Then there are other bloggers that are such a source of pure inspiration to me—I read their work with awe, coming back each time to help me find a starting place for my own writing.

This was definitely the case for me when I started reading Katie Granju’s blog. I forget how I found her, but I am so glad that I did. While she and I on the surface don’t seem to have much in common- there is something in her writing that strikes a familiar chord with me and inspires me all at once.

So many people describe her writing as brave and honest—and it always is. But recently, she was braver than ever. She wrote about her son Henry and his battle with addiction. What prompted this was an overdose and viscous assault that brought Henry to intensive care, clinging to life. She had written around his addiction in the past, keeping this secret, this private pain. I understand that completely. These things are hard to share with close friends and family, much less the world. Friends and family can be judgmental, the masses can be brutal. But in sharing it, she has no doubt opened the door for so many parents, so many people battling addiction, and so many people who haven’t seen the human side of this illness to learn, to help, to heal.

Katie kept a bedside vigil with Henry as his condition has progressed, slipped, improved, then worsened. I read her words—the unconditional love of a mother—not seeing her son as an addict, but as the person she knew and loved. The joy of her life no matter his mistakes or problems. Her will to bring him back was unfailing. She peppered her posts with pictures of Henry—some when he was so young- holding a Harry Potter book too big for his hands…he and his siblings dressed up and smiling for family celebrations…Henry as a teenager with dark black beautiful curly hair smiling at the camera with his wise eyes…I have wept for her more than once. I wrote to Katie one night. I had to. I told her that her love for Henry—the way she was not judging him—just loving him and being there for him was so incredibly important—so amazing. Most people reading that would think that any mother or parent would do the same. The sad truth is, that is not the case. Especially with cases of illnesses that aren’t as “accepted” such as mental illness or addiction, some parents can’t see the illness and only see someone making bad life choices. Maybe over and over. It is hard. I do understand how hard it can be. But the pure love in Katie’s words, all the beauty she saw in her son…it has me crying now. And I know that he knew that, knew that he was loved for the beautiful person he was.

Henry died on the last day of May. I do not know how Katie found the strength to write her son’s obituary. But she did. Bravely, honestly, beautifully. As always.

One part of one of her posts has stayed in my mind, I think of it so often.

He was sleeping far more than he had previously and speech was becoming more limited. For the first time, he started using nonsense words or in one case, a very distinct made-up word that he used as a toddler and hadn’t used since.

In Henry’s distress, in moments when he was, perhaps, far away in another place, fighting this damage to his brain, he went back to this moment as a toddler using this made up word that Katie recognized immediately. This speaks to so many things—the memories our mind holds onto—our subconscious…but what I like to think is that Henry went back to a safe place in time, when things weren’t so complicated, when all he knew was love and joy. I think he returned there—to that familiar feeling-- because he was again feeling so loved and safe in his last days here—with his mom Katie always at his side.

Katie’s original post about Henry's illness:

http://www.babble.com/CS/blogs/homework/archive/2010/05/01/a-parenting-secret-i-am-no-longer-willing-to-keep.aspx

Katie’s blog:

http://mamapundit.com/

If you have a moment, please send her a note of love and encouragement. She is also fighting for a thorough investigation into Henry's assault.

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He Remained a Gentleman to the End

I have tried to keep the darkness I am experiencing right now from becoming too raw and broken in my posts here and on Facebook and the variety of other places I write these days. It is difficult, as the times I write most freely about anything are ironically the times when I am struggling. I think it is my way of coping, some way of letting the pain find a window to escape through.

So tonight, I was searching through a poetry site I had never been to before. I love to search and find poetry that mirrors my journey or pain, and I am often astonished at how someone else's words seem to capture the struggle in my heart and mind. I came upon the following piece:

Drawing from Life

by Reginald Shepherd

Look: I am building absence
out of this room's air, I'm reading suppositions into
summer's script snarled on a varnished floor.
It looks like a man. That knot's his hand
waving good-bye, that stippled stripe of grain's
the stacked-up vertebrae of his turned back.
Small birds (sparrows or finches, or perhaps)
are cluttering the trees with blackened ornaments (burning
in the remnant light of August eight o'clock), and noises
I can't hear. Chirring there, chittering. The window's closed.

I am assembling a lack of sound
in this locked box, and dotting all the i's
these floating motes present (my composition), I am not lonely
for the palpable world (midges I dap hands for
and kill), shivering into darkness underwater outside glass:
what's left of light sinking from zero down to less,
cobalt down to zaffer, deeper to purple-black
where divers drown. The swimming landscape's
all mistake (one world that shuts air into
my submerged terrarium), and I am luck.

I was so taken with this piece, the flowing prose, the tangle of words I read and think I could never put together... I wanted to find more by this poet. I searched through the site and Google and found a few other beautiful pieces, and was so excited to be discovering a talent I didn't know about, and looking forward to reading more of his work as he wrote more to add to his already extensive library.

Then, I saw a link for his blog. I was so happy, as I looked forward to reading his thoughts on the craft, as well as just getting to know him better. I clicked on the link for his blog, and began to read the most recent entry. I literally gasped a little out loud.

I suppose I should have publicized these a bit earlier, but I don't always have it completely together lately. In any case, there have been a number of publications of Reginald's poetry and essays since his death last fall.

Since his death last fall. How? Why? As I read more, I found that the writer of the posts was Reginald's partner and love, Robert Philen. Reading Robert's entries, one can almost see him struggling with every word. It seems hard for him to write the word death. His pain is real. Reginald died after a battle with cancer. He was only six years older than I am now.

The blog contains more of Reginald's work, and he was astonishingly talented. I still marvel at his words and the way he turns an overflow of descriptives into something so simple and striking. Just beautiful. As I read more of his blog tonight, it was so sad to see his last entry, detailing his current hospital stay, and then two weeks later, a post from Robert about his death.

What a loss to not know years more of his work. But what a find tonight to be discovering him. I am off to read more. I realized that I can still go and learn about his thoughts on writing, and just learn more about him as a person. He has two years of blog entries left behind as a gift.

The title of this post is a quote from a nurse who cared for Reginald near the end of his battle with cancer. I thought it was such a beautiful thing to say.

I leave you with one more piece of his work, and below it, the link to his blog.

YOU, THEREFORE

For Robert Philen

You are like me, you will die too, but not today:

you, incommensurate, therefore the hours shine:

if I say to you “To you I say,” you have not been

set to music, or broadcast live on the ghost

radio, may never be an oil painting or

Old Master’s charcoal sketch:

you area concordance of person, number, voice,

and place, strawberries spread through your name

as if it were budding shrubs, how you remind me

of some spring, the waters as cool and clear

(late rain clings to your leaves, shaken by light wind),

which is where you occur in grassy moonlight:

and you are a lily, an aster, white trilliumor viburnum, by all rights mine, white star

in the meadow sky, the snow still arriving

from its earthwards journeys, here where there is

no snow (I dreamed the snow was you,when there was snow), you are my right,

have come to be my night (your body takes on

the dimensions of sleep, the shape of sleep

becomes you): and you fall from the sky

with several flowers, words spill from your mouth

in waves, your lips taste like the sea, salt-sweet (trees

and seas have flown away, I call it

loving you): home is nowhere, therefore you,

a kind of dwell and welcome, song after all,

and free of any eden we can name

To visit Reginald's blog, click here.

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Senseless Tragedy

Cynthia Furr and her 2-year-old daughter McAllister died last Saturday, the victims of

two drivers street racing.

It has taken me a few days to be able to post about this story. Things like this make my blood boil--senseless fatalities, stupid actions, all by people old enough to know better.

This past Saturday, here in NC, a twenty-year-old man, Tyler Stasko, and a FORTY-FOUR-year-old woman, Carlene Carol Atkinson, decided to race on a public road at a little after 6pm. Of course, the race got out of hand, and the car Stasko was driving plowed into the car of a woman innocently driving out of her neighborhood. She, her two-year-old daughter, and a thirteen-year-old boy who was riding with them were all killed.

I have read comments from readers of the articles about this case that feel passionately about the punishment the drivers should receive, and several people have commented that the intent was not there. No one intended to kill anyone. Excuse me, but if you are driving a 3000 pound vehicle at top speed on a public road at 6pm in the afternoon, you lose the option to claim no intent as far as I am concerned. If you are over the age of six, you know that this is dangerous, stupid and could cause your death or someone else's. By the age of 20, and certainly by the age of 44, you can well grasp this concept.

Here in the Charlotte area, it seems we have a problem with street racing, and I think it's time we started treating these incidents for what they are: serious crimes; and when innocent people die because of these actions, it is MURDER, plain and simple.

Another piece of information that contributes to my strong feelings about this case are that Stasko already had a traffic violation under his belt, for failing to stop at a stop sign and having no operator's license. But Atkinson had 16, yes SIXTEEN speeding tickets already behind her. AND she left the scene as soon as Stasko crashed, not waiting to see the aftermath, or take responsibility for her part in it.

Nothing will bring back the victims. But we shouldn't wait for one more senseless tragedy before we get tough on these crimes.

Related articles:

Investigators seize 2nd car suspected of racing

Driver in fatal wreck jailed

Woman linked to wreck has 16 tickets

photo courtesy of www.charlotteobserver.com

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