Every father believes in his  role as protector of his family
He has been assigned the job of fixer and problem solver.
He has been told since his youngest days that he must be strong—must not cry.

But each father among us has had to face that point where no amount of fixing, problem solving and protecting has been able to stop our child’s death.  And inside, we must ask ourselves about our failure, and we must face our lack of omnipotence.

Father’s Day is often a forgotten holiday, overshadowed by the longer-standing tribute to mothers.  But for the bereaved father it is a poignant reminder of bitter sweetness; sweet in the memory of a loved, now lost, child; bitter for the death and pain and recognition of inability to stop what happened.

Fathers do not often have a chance to share their hurts and concerns.  Oftentimes they are unable to do so, a remnant of childhood learnings about the strength and stoicism of “big boy.”  A father may even be uncomfortable opening up to his wife, and the wife who pushes him to talk may be pushing too hard.

Father’s Day does not have to be a time when everyone pours out of the woodwork to say, “I’m sorry we haven’t talked.  Let’s do it now.”  But it can be a time when the  family gives Dad a hug, does something special, helps with the chores, and mostly, lets him know how important and needed and loved he is.  It is some of these things that he has lost with the death of a child.  And, like Mother’s Day, the day set aside for Fathers does not have to be limited to a Sunday in June.  It can be any day and every day.

Fathers often show their hurts differently, often internally.

But  They  Do Hurt.

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Happy Birthday Cloressa
I love you dearly,
Dad, Joseph Isaacs

Cloressa Danielle Isaacs lived from March 4, 1982 to September 10, 1996

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My Darling Son, Gary,

On December 18 2000 you decided to take your life.  Since that day my life will never be the same.
I’m so sorry that you were in such pain, and I couldn’t help you because I didn’t know.
I love you so much, and I feel so bad that I can’t help at all.  I wish I had known you were in such pain so I could help you more.  My heart is broken since December 18, 2000.
I miss you so much and I miss telephone calls every night at 10 o’clock.  I can hear your voice and you always say, “What are you doing, Mom?”
I want to tell you that I am very proud of you.  You had so much to offer, you had so much talent, and you were so smart, and you didn’t know it.
You left so many treasures.  Your framing, and all the things you did. You made beautiful things.  Your videos look and sound so good.  I’ll treasure these for the rest of my life.

I consider myself very lucky and thank God for having a son like you all those years.  I consider it a gift from God for having a son like you.  I don’t want to live without you, but, I don’t have any choice, so I have to try.

Your father is also very upset.  He doesn’t talk too much about it , but, he loved you very much.  For your son, Michael, it breaks my heart.  He is very sad.  You two loved each other so much, and he was so close to you.  He doesn’t understand why you went away.  He hasn’t come to see us yet, because he is so scared.  We miss him very much.

I pray to God that you have peace in heaven.  You were the love of my life, and I will never forget you until the day I die.

Good bye  My Love…

Love,  Mom

PS. I like the figurine so much, it filled my heart that you left it for me.  I think the fish is for Michael, but, he hasn’t seen it yet.

Written by Mary Shaw, Rancho Cordova, California, December 2001
Gary Shaw lived from July 14, 1964 to December 18, 2000.

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Like a comet blazing across the evening sky,
Gone too soon.

Like a rainbow fading in the twinkling of an eye,
Gone too soon.

Shiny and sparkly and splendidly bright…
Here one day, Gone one night.

Like the loss of sunshine on a cloudy afternoon,
Gone too soon.

Like a castle built on a sandy beach,
Gone too soon.

Like a perfect flower that is just beyond your reach,
Gone too soon.

Born to amuse, to inspire, to delight….
Here one day,  Gone one night.

Like a sunset dying with the rising of the moon,
Gone too soon…      Gone too soon.

reprinted from Suicide Bereavement Support, SW Washington & NW Oregon,  July 1998

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Grief is a smorgasbord where you do down the line picking a little of this and a little of that.

Grief is like a jigsaw puzzle, some people get all the edge pieces together first and work from the outside in.  Others dump everything out on the table at once and dive right into the middle.  Some never open the box at all, they just look at the picture on the lid and wonder why what’s inside doesn’t match or make sense.

You meet a lot of people when you start a jigsaw puzzle.  Some are full of advice, or they may try to make the puzzle look the way it ought to be instead of the way it is.

But, once in a while, you meet someone who shares their own finished puzzle and helps you make sense of yours.  Then you find it is not as hard as before.  Some of the pieces fit together more easily, and you sigh with relief….and remember.

reprinted  from Suicide Bereavement Support, SW Washington & NW Oregon, July 1998

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I see your smile in the brightness of the summer sun.
A gentle breeze is the touch of your hand on mine.
A wave breaks softly on the shore,
and I hear you whisper,
“Remember me.”

A winged bird begins it flight into the distant sky.
The sound of children’s laughter fills the air.
The evening stars become your eyes,
and I reply—
“You are ever near.”

reprinted from TCF Orange Coast Chapter Newsletter, June 2001

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I sat & watched the waves come in & out.
I looked for you there, but you weren’t about.
I saw a young child about your size,
And I thought it was you, till I looked in his eyes.
I heard a strange voice call your name,
And I thought for a second you were home again.
I went to the jetty where you used to fish;
I gazed at the stars and made a wish.
Then I closed my eyes and I heard you say,

I love you, Mommy,
but it can’t be that way;
I can’t come back to earth
as you know
But I will live within you
wherever you go;
For I am with God in a
place so divine
Where there is no pain,
no space and no time.

Then I opened my eyes and I walked away
And I’ve known where you are since that day.

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Forgive me if I do not cry
the day you die
The simplest reason that I know is
Fathers are not supposed to cry
I figured you would expect me
To be strong
To act the way I would have taught you
Forgive me, my son, if I do not cry
The day you die…Forgive me if I do….

these  above sharings reprinted from “Mayday” SOS Newsletter, Batavia, IL   June 2001

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With each raindrop that falls
The Earth is nourished
Drinking the water of life,
Becoming stronger, growing with love.

Listen to the wind soaring through the trees,
It has the strength to move mountains.
Leaves dance down to the Earth
Each a different color, a different beauty.

Soon it becomes cold, and the rain turns to snow.
Snowflakes dance down to the Earth
Blanketing each seed, protecting the Earth
From nature’s harsh cold.

At night, when all seems dark,
The moon’s light will guide us.
The Earth is watched from far above,
Stars glimmering, dancing with light.

Like changes in season the tides turn over.
It’s the love of angels, reaching down upon the Earth,
Dancing for us, if we just stop for a moment
And look out the window of life.

by Elizabeth Anne Gannon, Stormville, New York
Bereavement Magazine, Nov/Dec. 1998

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How does life get so unbearable for someone who is loved so much

This eternal question will never be answered by those of us left behind
The pain cannot be expressed in words, but can be seen on our faces

A tidal wave of emotion fills our spirits with anger, grief, sadness, and love

I for one will take more time to listen, and spend less time talking
When faced with a choice I will no longer take the selfish option
How many times could I have changed my schedule so I could be there
Why does it take a tragedy for families who love each other to show it

I will spend the rest of my time on earth letting the people I love know it
This poem is meant not to blame ourselves, but to open our eyes
No mother, sister, father, or brother should ever have to go through this

Life will never be the same

In memory of Jeffrey Alan Bolden
By:  Scott Garcia

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