door, n.
- an opening by which you can enter or leave
- barrier by which entry is closed or opened
Entry - exit, access - barrier, arrival - departure, threshold.
Doors represent many things in life. Metaphorically, doors get knocked on by opportunity, slammed in rebellion, thrown open to fresh breezes, hidden behind, objects of grand entrances and tumultuous leave-takings, held wide in welcome, locked tight for protection and privacy, left open a crack for light into a child's nighttime bedroom. We laugh behind them, we cry behind them. We keep things hidden behind them from others and ourselves.
Here are a couple of stories about doors in my life. The first is told in third person and was written about 17 years ago. The second is more of an elegy to my son, my first-born, who as some of you know, died many years ago.
THE DOOR
They are gone now-- all of them. Three children grown and off in worlds of their own. The door stays shut in the afternoon.
She hears the chirping voices of children in the neighborhood passing by from the elementary school around the corner. She hears the carpool doors slamming as kids from junior high rejoice in their freedom. She hears the hot cars racing around the block, radios going full blast full of high schoolers, taut and high-spirited.
Still the door is shut tight and she is on the other side wondering how she feels about the door that is never going to burst open again. In her mind, ghosts pass through that portal all the time. She can look at that door, and depending on her mood, see one of her children coming through at any age .
It was always important to her to be there when they came home, not just for the obvious reasons, but because she was fascinated and curious about what their days had wrought and the changes that it had brought about. She always felt that she could notice these changes more clearly than at any other time. Their guard was down. Like soft pupae coming out of a cocoon they were in transition, one self shed for another. Sometimes the change was easy for them to make and took place in a split second, but there were days when they challenged all her skills to keep their parts together until their shells could harden.
She did all the obligatory things; inquiring about their day, distributing snacks, but her greatest pleasure came from just watching them, listening to their interchanges, playing their straight man, looking at their handiwork, reading their stories, counseling their complaints.
Her husband use to wonder aloud how she could stand all their chatter, "It would be different if they said something meaningful." But she knew it was all had meaning. It was the only way to make sense of the puzzle of their lives, to understand their very intricate beings. They needed an audience to unfold these productions and she was grateful for the opportunity to watch their private plays evolve.
She marveled at their scriptwriting abilities, particularly the one they were writing for her. Sometimes, it was like charades and she had to guess who she was supposed to be. Their clues often left much to be desired, especially during their adolescence when she had to negotiate the emotional land mine course they had laid down. During those years she was not so happy to see them stalk through the door daring her to do or say anything that was right. It was then she longed for their younger selves, smelling of playground dust, leading less complicated lives.
They had all succeeded in passing through the treacherous mine field and made it to adulthood without serious injuries. And she had made it through without any noticeable scars. One by one they had walked out that door to start their own lives and left her in the peace and quiet she thought she always longed for. The curtain had rung down on the play of their childhood, but the ghosts could visit anytime.
~~~~~~~~~~
BEHIND A DOOR
I only open this door
when I am very lonely
Four narrow shelves
three stages of a life and a memory
of a life finished
before it was completed
The child's shelf
holds meager samples of long ago
when life was seemingly simple
fur-less teddy bears, half-blind and oft repaired
things soft and flexible - precious
The boy's shelf
holds toys of harder edges
little metal cars, cartoon books
a pinewood derby car missing one wheel,
a Charlie Brown pillow made by my hands
with love in every needle shove
The man's shelf
more austere so formal
the Navy yearbooks, medals awarded,
commendations, dog tags, and a sailor hat
The memory shelf
a letter from the ship's chaplain
telling me in the most formal tones
of the fine ceremony on the wind-lashed deck
The twenty-one spent brass cartridges of a salute
Maps of the Pacific indicating the spot of your committal
And a beautifully folded flag
Dark blue triangle, smooth white stares
never to be unfolded
never to be used
Four narrow shelves
three stages of life
and a memory
of a son's life finished
before it was completed
~~~~~~~~~~
I have always been of the nature to believe that something good can come out of life's tragedies. The challenge of living through adversity is to 'leave the door open' to the lessons it brings. This belief was sorely tested when my son committed suicide. After the first wave of grief subsided, I thought, "What possible good could come from this?"
For a time, I attended a support group for people trying to cope with the suicide of a loved one. It was a safe haven to bring one's grief as everyone in the room knew without saying a whole lot just how devastating this event was in our lives. There is an overwhelming isolation that goes on with the aftermath of suicide.
One of a parent's greatest fears is the thought of losing a child. Within that realm, each possibility carries it's own set of guilts. However, the rest of the world looks at you and wonders what did or didn't you do to prevent this 'optional' death of you child. Not only do you constantly ask yourself that question, but the perception qualifies the support you get in the aftermath. Because of that general attitude from mere acquaintances, I developed the tendency to try to protect my friends from my feelings as I saw the confusion in their faces. Instead of taking solace, I tried to give it. That is just the way I deal with things.
Suicide is such a loaded subject. This week on Dkos, we had that subject thrust into our midst with our fears regarding Buffy Orpington's intentions in her latest diary. I watched and read in amazement at the depth of feeling and caring that that event brought out in this community. I was very touched by the lengths that 'strangers' went to to try and find her and get her help. To say the least, it brought back a lot of memories, bad ones, of all the trauma that swirled in my family for a couple of years.
When the debate began to change regarding if we had the right to intervene and violate Buffy's privacy, I was nearly torn in two. There was the "Yes, save Buffy at any cost," and the "No, she is a grown woman who can make her own decisions regarding the quality of life she wants to live." From this bifurcated point of view, I watched the stories pour across the pages from 'been there, nearly done that,' to 'this is what a loved one did and this is how it affected my life.'
Again, I circled back to the central question: is there any way something good could come out of this pain? Essentially, I want to reach out to anyone left behind in the wake of suicide who wants to talk, needs to vent or just needs to know that someone understands and cares.
I don't wish to intrude, I not asking for sympathy, nor do I want to cause an uproar. I just want you to know that I am offering myself as a sounding board and a sanctuary for the walking wounded of one of grief's worst nightmares.
So now that I have opened the door, the questions I am pondering are these:
- Is this a place (Dkos) to discuss the aftermath of suicide?
- Would you like to see a separate diary on this subject?
- Have I made you too uncomfortable with this diary?
- Any other thoughts or opinions you have on this subject.
I am willing to discuss this here and now or at any time in the future. If you would like, you may contact me at my email address, Cronsense at aol dot com