The fall of my Junior year in college, I left my college in New Jersey to study with Syracuse University in London. I had applied to the Syracuse program because I needed a change from my college, which had begun feeling small.
I wanted to spend a year in London, but was afraid of feeling homesick. I fully intended to meet friends from my hometown and travel during winter break. The Syracuse program gave me the opportunity to extend my stay to a year if I was happy. About two weeks in to my semester in London I decided to stay for the full year.
I loved my time in London. Words can’t describe what a wonderful and exciting experience it was for all of us who studied there. We were young, practically still children, full of hopes and dreams.
34 years ago today the dreams were taken from 35 of my fellow students. The tragedy of Pan Am flight 103 changed all who it touched. For those people who were connected to the disaster over Lockerbie, Scotland: I remember.
Pictures flow through my mind…
Traveling for the first few days of winter break with my roommate, Deirdre
Leaving London
Traveling to Amsterdam, Cologne, Munster, Brugge and Brussels
Arriving at the Brussels train station where Deirdre and I would part ways:
She to a family she knew in Belgium,
I back to London to meet with friends for Christmas.
Liz, at the train station saying “There has been an accident on one of the planes”
Me stupidly saying “was anyone hurt?”
Being told, “Everyone is dead.”
Darkness fell,
Walking from the Syracuse center after laying flowers on the steps…
Being approached by another student “Sarah, thank God…I did not know your last name, there was another Sarah from our program on flight 103.”
Slowly finding out who I had known:
Ken Bissett, who sat next to me on the flight to London and was supposed to return for spring semester…
Miriam Wolf with her vibrant hair and welcoming personality.
The others: Pamela, from Bowden; Turhan; the Cocker twins…
Feeling guilty that I had not been on the plane.
Lighting candles all over Europe, in remembrance for those that had died.
Moving through the dark. Finding light. Letting go of the guilt.
Authors note: I wrote this 4 years ago, on the 30th anniversary of this tragedy, and published it last year as the first story on this blog.
While I was growing up, every evening my siblings, parents and I would meet in the family room for cocktails. We kids would have soda. My mother probably had a glass of white wine and my dad often had whiskey. Cocktail hour was a time for us to come together and talk. Dinner was still being prepared and we didn’t rush through it, like one might at a meal; it was nice. There were times that I would miss these gatherings because of my swim team practice, but that was only for a brief period of my childhood.
My father drank his whiskey “neat”: no ice, no water; almost anyone who knew my dad was aware of this. He held his liquor well. If he had a few drinks too many, you couldn’t tell; the man was as smooth as his drink.
When my siblings and I grew up, and moved out of the house, my parents would come together at the end of their busy work days and continue the tradition of cocktail hour. One night during such an occasion, the pleasant evening my parents were having took a turn and my father ended his life. Just like that: no warning, no note. My mother was left trying to make sense of what made my dad snap. He ended his life in front of her eyes.
The fall that my father died, I had just started to run again. Running was my therapy; time for me to process what had happened. At the time, I didn’t run with music. One song kept playing through my mind; it was “Whiskey Lullaby”. The circumstances of the man in the song were very different than my father’s, but it was these four lines that stuck in my mind:
I ran with these words playing through my head. The run would eventually end with tears in my eyes and a lump in my throat.
That fateful night he put the whiskey to his lips and pulled the trigger; he no longer had the strength to go on. Dad didn’t think, but only acted, leaving trauma in his wake. Unlike the woman in the song, my mother had the incredible strength to get up off her knees…
For me, the “her” in the song was my father’s life: he had suffered so much and he was tired.
Music sometimes resonates with you for a certain reason. “Whiskey Lullaby” filled me with sadness; it evoked an image I didn’t want to see. When my father died, I couldn’t listen to contemporary music of any kind. For a few years following my father’s death, the music from my youth were the songs I chose to listen to; these tunes filled me with the sound from a time when my family would sit around talking, sharing our day, while my dad drank his whiskey: “no ice, no water”.
Authors note: We are nearing the end of September, which is National Suicide Prevention Month. Suicide can happen any day of the year and any month; awareness should be always be present. Remember to support those around you. Know the the risk factors and warning signs of suicide (https://afsp.org/risk-factors-and-warning-signs). There is also a National Suicide Prevention Lifeline, the number is 9-8-8. Please ask for help, if you need it. Learn to recognize the warning signs that might lead to suicide. Unfortunately, my father didn’t ask for help and we hadn’t recognized the signs that told us he was in distress.
Last year I published the following story about the day my dad died. Today is the 13th anniversary of his death, I am reposting this story as it was written last year.
My Dad
I find irony in the fact that September is National Suicide Prevention Month. This is the month the unimaginable happened to our family. The date will be forever embedded in my memory: Thursday, September 16, 2010.
Twelve Years…. It is hard to believe that so many years have passed since that night. The year that followed is what I call a lost year. What is a lost year? To me, it is a period of time where I am pushed out of my comfortable, benign life to face a hostile, unknowing reality.
I remember that night like it was yesterday. We had sent our youngest child to bed early because she refused to eat her dinner. I felt awful because she cried herself to sleep. As my husband (Greg) and I read a bedtime story to our middle child, the phone rang. We ignored it. The phone stopped ringing and then immediately started to ring again. I said this call must be important, so Greg answered the phone.
The next thing I knew, the phone was being handed to me: “It is your mom”, Greg said, “you need to talk to her”. My mother was on the other end of the line crying, someone from 911 told me that my mother needed to talk to me. Then I heard “Sarah, your father has killed himself”. I told her I would be there as soon as possible.
I threw some clothes into a bag. Greg gave me some cash and asked if I was sure I could make the 1.5 hour drive, to my parents house, by myself. My eldest child asked me what had happened. I said “something is wrong with BopBop, I need to go see Nana.”; it was hard to believe what my mother told me was true. We had just seen my parents the previous Sunday. My father seemed off the day we saw him, but he had a lot weighing on his mind. I just thought my dad was concerned with a heart issue that might impede the upcoming surgery that he had scheduled.
With my bag packed, me partly in shock and denial, I got into the mini van. Driving into the night, a light rain started. On auto pilot the minivan drove, with me behind the wheel. How could my mother be helped before I got to her? Friends, I needed to contact someone who would go to mom. She couldn’t be alone.
Luckily, the hands free cell phone law hadn’t gone into effect. Dialing a number I knew by heart, into my little Nokia push button phone, I called the mother of a good friend of mine and at the same time a good friend of my mother’s. She would know what to do to support my mom. The phone rang for a long while. Finally the answering machine picked up, but this wasn’t the sort of thing to leave on an answering machine. Hanging up, I thought of someone else to call; this time the operator was dialed, because I didn’t know the number. Again, no answer. Old family friends…who could I call? I finally settled on somebody. “Just a friend”, I thought, “that is what she needs”. I called the operator again and another number was dialed for me. Finally, there was a voice on the other end of the line: Bob. I told him what had happened and he said that he and his wife would go right over.
On that long drive in the dark rain, the phone calls went on. There was a call to my sister, who was unreachable at the time. Eventually we spoke. She said she would make the calls to the rest of our extended family: our brother, aunts and uncles. The last call I made was to a close friend who talked to me through part of my drive, but then she had to go. Before she hung up she checked to make sure I was ok. “Yes” was the word that left my mouth, but really was I all right?
When I reached my parents house, there was a police car in the driveway. The lights were flashing in the drizzle like you might see in a movie. Bob was out there waiting for me with an umbrella. He said we needed to go through the front door. For some reason I couldn’t go in the door that I always went in. The door that lead to home: through the hall to the kitchen and then to the family room. I so rarely went through the front door. I didn’t really understand what was happening. Then it occurred to me that not only was Bob a family friend, but he was my parents lawyer. An investigation was underway.
As I was led into the living room, I saw all the friends that I had tried to contact, but had failed to reach. My mother sat on the couch, looking frail. I think she was all cried out at the time. There was a little spray of blood on her sweater and a small spot on her face. These are the things I remember.
The rest of the night is a blur. Anne, the first woman I tried to contact, asked us to come home with her. My mom’s friend and assistant, Sandy, offered to take my dad’s beloved dog to her house, just until my mom got back on her feet. Bob said he would go to my grandmother’s house in the morning to tell her what happened to her eldest child. I told him, “I need to be the one to tell her”. In the end, we agreed that he would pick me up at Anne’s house in the morning and we would go together.
I don’t know how I slept that night. The next morning I did the hardest thing I have ever done in my life: I sat with my almost 95 year old grandmother and told her that my dad, her son, had taken his life. She put her hand on her heart and started to cry. Then she straightened and said “I need to be strong for all of you”. My grandmother, who had lost her middle child to death by suicide 40 some Septembers before this, wanted to be strong for us. She knew how to survive the unbearable.
Anyone who has experienced a tragedy, knows that life can change in the blink of an eye. Our lives were forever changed the night my father ended his. We will never know why my dad chose to do what he did. His death was instantaneous.
I find irony in the fact that September is National Suicide Prevention Month only because of my experience twelve Septembers ago. At the same time I am extremely hopeful that, because of this month, more people are aware of how to help prevent suicide. Remember to support those around you. Be aware that different events may cause someone to consider suicide. Know the the risk factors and warning signs of suicide (https://afsp.org/risk-factors-and-warning-signs). There is also a National Suicide Prevention Lifeline, the number is 9-8-8
I hope that sharing my words this September will help you or someone you know realize that it is OK to ask for help or at least help recognize the warning sign that might lead to suicide. Unfortunately, my father didn’t ask for help and we hadn’t recognized the signs that told us he was in distress.
I hear the loons calling again this summer; that lonesome, haunting cry that only this bird can make. Have you heard it? In the summer of 2019, I heard the mournful wail of the waterfowl at all hours of the day and night; it was strange. I remember this so clearly, it sounded as if the loons were echoing the sadness inside my soul…
Play this video to hear the loon call three times.
Four years ago, at the end of June, my husband and I took our son (Bay) to a residential treatment program in Los Angeles. The weekend was a quick trip out and back from the east coast. We left early on a Saturday morning and came home the next day. Arriving home, exhausted, we had new information. We would need to be out in LA more than we had thought: being physically present was extremely important. Family therapy could be on Zoom, if need be, but it would be beneficial if at least one parent was in person as many weekends as possible. Saturday mornings, in treatment, there was group therapy: first the parents of the residents would meet; then everyone who was in attendance that day would gather for a “multi-family” group. After the second session of “group”, we would have lunch and visit with our child for a few hours. Until the afternoon that we dropped off Bay, we weren’t truly aware that the whole family needed to participate in the healing process.
My youngest daughter was due at camp in Ontario, Canada the weekend after we dropped off Bay. The camp is a little over an hour away from where we spend time each summer. Early in the week, my husband and daughter packed up the truck and drove north and west to our cottage. Saturday June 29th, my husband dropped our 13 year old off for a fun-filled month away from us. The next week I was at home with our dog and two cats. During this time, I looked for the cheapest round-trip flights from Toronto to Los Angeles, booked accommodations, cleaned house, and took some time each morning to run or swim. I was bone tired.
Almosta week later, I loaded the minivan with my bags, said goodbye to our cats and put our dog, Murphy, in the back of the mini van. Driving on only a few hours of sleep, I surprisingly made it to our summer home without incident. That evening, all through the night, and the days following the loons were calling; it seemed they never stopped the their haunting cry…
On July 4th, we left the mournful sound of the loons at the lake. We had an early flight, from Toronto to Los Angeles, the next morning. July 5th, several hours after we left Toronto, we arrived in LA; family therapy was to take place in the afternoon. Once we arrived at the residence, we sat in the counselor’s office with our son. By the end of our family session, we were no longer sitting with our son, but with our daughter; the pronouns Bay was using were “she” and “her”. We knew back in April that Bay experienced gender dysphoria, not because he communicated this to us, but instead told a doctor in the emergency room; it was written on his discharge paperwork. Until that day in LA, we didn’t really know what that term meant for our child. Gender dysphoria is distress at the gender that was assigned at birth. People who have gender dysphoria are often depressed with suicidal ideation. We were grateful our teenager was able to explain that he was actually a female and share with us the start of his gender exploration. In our minds, Bay was still our son. The pronouns hadn’t changed for us yet ( as reflected in this segment of my story).
Our middle child wanted to”come out” to his sisters and grandparents in his own way. So, for the time being, my husband and I were keeping a secret from most of our family members. We also learned that Bay was trying to decide on a new name. I told him that when he chose another name I would mess up. The correct pronouns would come with time, when I got in the habit of using them. There were tears all around, but this was our child and we would love and accept him for whomever he was.
The next day, Saturday, was family visitation. We went to the parent group in the morning; it was extremely helpful to hear what other parents were going through with their children. I am not sure how much I contributed. That summer I could barely get out my words without crying. Bay didn’t want to do much with us on Saturday afternoon. He said he was “annoyed and sick of us”. We were sure he enjoyed his past isolation at home, so connecting with his parents was low on the list. My husband and I felt saddened as we watched the other families and their dynamics; everyone had something they seemed to share: music, games, etc. Bay wanted to do nothing. In the past, Bay enjoyed playing games with us. He was no longer interested. That Saturday, our child really just seemed to wish we would leave. From over 2000 miles, I heard the call of the loon echoing in my mind.
On Sunday, my husband went back to Canada; I flew to San Francisco to stay with my sister and her family. During my time in Northern California, I was still emailing and talking on the phone to therapists at the treatment center. I recently found two emails I sent that week.
One of these email’s was to Bay’s therapist. Another was to a clinician at the center who’s background work is in gender and sexuality (this man was the reason Bay was here); to protect the counselor’s privacy, I will call him “Khalid”. During the time I was in San Francisco, my sister, a therapist, was a great comfort and I did confide in her. Also, one of my closest friend’s had come to stay at my sibling’s house, to spend time with me. I told her about Bay’s exploration of gender. While I was in the City by the Bay, I was given the space to talk about what was happening in my life or not say anything at all. I chose to share. The loon’s mourning call was softer but still lingering within me.
By late Thursday morning, I was headed back to LA. I met with Khalid on Friday morning. My learning curve about gender identity went way up that day; some of the things I’ve learned have taken place over the last four years.
When I said to Khalid in my email ” I don’t see any feminine qualities in him/her….” I was viewing Bay through the gender standards that society has impressed upon us.
Late Friday afternoon I had family therapy. Saturday morning was spent at Bay’s residence going to groups, having lunch and visiting. The morning of July 13, Bay came out to to the multi family group; the amount of support and acceptance the people gave her stopped the reverberations of the loons that were so far away.
Sunday morning I left Sunny California and flew to Toronto. I was utterlyexhausted, and felt sure that it must be draining to be in therapy and working the healing process everyday. Perhaps this is the idea of intensive therapy: you let negative thoughts and habits flow out of you and try to fill your mind with a more positive ways of thinking and coping.
After six hours on the plane (in addition to all the time before and after the flight), I was finally in my minivan heading north, toward our summer home. I felt the loons circling my thoughts. I was weeping when friend reached out by text (I was using Siri to read and answer). He asked: “How is your son?”. I answered: “I no longer have a son.”. At that moment I realized I was in mourning. My child hadn’t died, but I was grieving the loss of a “son” and an idea of what I thought my life was like…I arrived late in the evening to our cottage. As I lay trying to sleep, I heard the mournful sound of the loon beckoning me to join it’s cry.
To see Part 1 and 2 and 3 of An Unexpected Journey, follow the links:
Last Thursday night, I laughed so hard I cried. Less than 24 hours later my tears were caused by sadness…
As a Christmas present for my husband, I had purchased tickets to a comedy show, along with an overnight in a nice hotel and some activities the following day; this event took place last Thursday and Friday. We left our 17 year old to watch our two remaining pets: Snicker (our aging cat with cancer) and Murphy (our elderly dog); this is something she has done before. However, Murphy had been acting odd since the beginning of the week.
I can’t remember the last time I laughed as hard as I did Thursday night at the show. The next morning I texted my 19 year old (who lives nearby) and asked her to go by the house to let our dog out, before she headed to work. Mid-morning, we received a text saying that Murphy was stumbling a lot. My husband and I made the decision to cut our day short and head home. As we drove, I began to wonder if that day would be Murphy’s last. Surely this beautiful spring day wouldn’t take away our beloved family member. With my heart heavy, the tears came to my eyes and I thought “I am not ready to grieve him yet.” In the last year and a half, three of our pets have died: one of our two cats (of the same cancer her sister, Snicker, now has) and my youngest daughter’s two Guinea pigs. Luckily, we do not yet have to mourn the loss of another animal. Murphy is OK for now. In fact, today, our 14 year old mutt appeared even spry as he lunged at an unsuspecting car on our morning walk.
Grief is a hard thing to experience. The mourning process is not only about the death of someone you loved, but it could also be the extreme sadness you feel at the ending of something: a relationship, a job, the person you were before something bad changed who you are now; these are just a small handful of things that can be mourned. People often suggest that the death of a pet helps children understand what it means to die. The problem is that it is almost impossible to teach someone how to grieve. Everyone’s mourning process is different. You can explain to someone the “stages of grieving” which are “denial, anger, bargaining, depression and acceptance”, however everyone experiences these phases differently.
You might ask “Can the loss of a pet be as traumatic as the loss of someone you love?”. In my unprofessional opinion, the answer is, yes. Grief is mourning the loss of something or someone you love. The intensity and the process might be different, however the sadness is still there. Society treats the way we mourn our animal companions differently than the way we grieve our human loved ones:
“Although grief over the loss of a cherished pet may be as intense and even as lengthy as when a significant person in our life dies, our process of mourning is quite different. Many of the societal mechanisms of social and community support are absent when a pet dies. Few of us ask our employers for time off to grieve a beloved cat or dog because we fear doing so would paint us as overly sentimental, lacking in maturity or emotionally weak. Studies have found that social support is a crucial ingredient in recovering from grief of all kinds. Thus, we are not only robbed of invaluable support systems when our pet dies, but our own perceptions of our emotional responses are likely to add an extra layer of distress…”
Grief does lessen with time, but never fully goes away. Life is different because you have experienced a loss. For some people grief stays and doesn’t fade into the background of their life:
“For about 7 percent of those who are bereaved, however, grief sticks around in a deeply painful manner, preventing them from moving forward and healing. Prolonged grief—also referred to as complicated grief—traps these individuals in a loop of despair from which they can’t escape.”
I think of grief as being like a giant wave: Picture yourself standing on the sand in the shallow water. All of the sudden something happens in your life that is like a giant wave knocking you down. The swell of grief makes you feel like you are drowning. Rising back to the surface might take a long time, and you might feel as if you are lost in the ocean. Eventually, you will move forward with tentative strokes and head toward solid ground; this may take a long time. The sea of grief can be rough and may pull you under again. At some point, perhaps sooner than later, you begin to swim. When you are finished swimming in your grief you will reach land. The landscape will feel different because something important was lost. You have survived and it is your job to treasure the good memories of whatever it is you have grieved.
Having mourned many losses…people, pets, relationships, ideas…I should be an expert by now. Every single “death” has been different. I have learned more about appropriate ways to grieve as I have aged. When I was a child, I would face my mourning mostly alone, retreating behind closed doors. As a young adult, I handled my grief inappropriately and drank too much. Then, as I grew older I would run until I couldn’t breathe and the tears would come; running helped me through my grief. Sadly I had to stop running, because my knees gave out. After over 30 years of running, this was another kind of loss. “Since I can’t run, where will that leave me the next time I have to mourn?”, I asked myself in the car last Friday afternoon, then I remembered laughter. My husband helped me get through my father’s death by making sure we had a comedy to watch….There were so many movies and re-runs of Two And A Half Men. Again, when we were in that extremely difficult period of our lives, and felt as if the world was crumbling around us, we turned to funny, light, entertainment. I am sure, if I remember how I survived the hard times before, I will get though another loss. I know that grief never fully goes away, but will dull with time.
For now, we play in the shallow water, with the waves lapping at the shore. We hold up those who remain, with whatever support we can. My best advice is to live your life to the fullest. When you are knocked down by that giant wave, maybe you can find the laughter through the tears. Eventually, remember playing on the beach of life and think fondly of that which you have lost.
Recently, a New York Times headline read: Libyan Operative Charged In 1988 Bombing is in F.B.I. Custody. A friend messaged me the article, saying “this must stir some emotions”. My response was, “…This time of year, every year since 1988, I feel it.” There is something in the cold, damp air, that comes in December that makes my body remember that time 34 years ago. You know the saying: I feel it in my bones….that is what it is like for me, but instead of a premonition, it is a remembrance of the past.
A day later, another friend sent me a text: “Thinking of you today as Pam Am bomber is in the news.” I am grateful that I have people who understand how that terrible incident still lingers somewhere inside me. Thinking back from the time that I first heard the news and the days following, the question comes to me: Did I share my pain and sorrow with the good friends who I spent the holidays with, or during the time we traveled together? The answer is most likely no, I tried to keep my emotions hidden back then. Some people called me stoic.
Shortly after I was told of the explosion of Pan Am Flight 103, I left my friend Deirdre (who I had been traveling with) and went to the airport in Brussels to fly back to London for the holidays. It was December 22, 1988, less than 24 hours after the fire in the sky. Getting close to my boarding gate, I went to a pay phone and called home; it was important to let my family know I was alive and well….both my mother and I were in tears as we spoke.
Still weeping, I bought a newspaper to try and understand everything that I had learned just a few hours before; that is when my uncontrollable crying started. A young woman came to me and asked me in heavily accented English what was wrong. I pointed to the paper, unable to talk. She said “Don’t worry, that won’t happen to us.” There was no way for me to explain, nor did I have the energy to try…
When I arrived in London, I must have gone to the house where my friends, Mike and John, and I were staying for Christmas. My memory fails me. We were staying in a house that my cousin, who was studying at the London School of Economics, and some others were renting for the year. Had everyone who lived there left the house for the holidays, or was my cousin still in town? I can’t imagine that I went to an empty house, in a strange part of London, and stayed all alone….
What I do recall about the days and weeks following are fragments of memory:
Mike and I planning Christmas dinner: Going into the shops asking strangers how to cook a turkey Neither of us, at age 20, had cooked a holiday feast before. That was a good day
Spending Christmas Eve at my local pub: The Ashes. Talking all night to Kevin, the Scottish man I had a crush on, about Lockerbie. He understood the heaviness I felt. His family home was near the town where the plane came down
Leaving London and traveling with the Christmas group: Mike, John, Meredith (John’s girlfriend), and Amy (Meredith’s) friend.
Arriving in the wee hours of the morning to Strasbourg, most of us falling asleep on our backpacks, while we waited for dawn in the train station. Mike staying up while we slept to make sure the stranger near us didn’t steal anything .
New Year’s Eve near Munich: firecrackers going off in the crowd. Me feeling scared and upset…. all I could see was what the plane might have looked like in that darkest night in the sky
Saying goodbye to Meredith and Amy.
Venice in the winter with Mike and John The three of us off to Padua to see Grazia, a friend from high school. My Italian friend telling me not to go to Milan- it was dangerous for a young woman traveling alone.
Leaving Mike and John as they headed south and I west
Arriving in Milan to find the youth hostel closed. Getting back on the train, arriving in Zurich after dark, not knowing where to go. Thankful for once for “Loud Americans” as I tried to figure out what to do. A group of young women, all students abroad, took me to the private hostel where they were staying
Checking into the International Youth Hostel the following day bumping into Deirdre while she was brushing her teeth. Catching up on the last few weeks
Heading different directions over the next few days.
Solace in Interlaken, as I hiked by myself on the land between two lakes
A train to Innsbruck, Walking down the corridor, passing compartments to find a seat. I heard someone behind me: Sarah?!”, a voice called Looking over my shoulder, there was my friend, and roommate, once again
We traveled together the last days of our semester break. Munich: our last night on the European Continent. Running into a friend of Deirdre’s, The three of us spending the evening in the Hofbrau House. Late at night we boarded a train to take us to the ferry to England…. A 5:30 stop at a station, just long enough to purchase the best bratwurst ever!
Arriving back in London, without a place to live we headed to a hostel we knew A block away from the hostel, I stepped off the curb, twisted my ankle, and the full weight of my backpack came tumbling down…. My friend, laughing hard, asked if I was okay. No, not okay,I could barely walk Stumbling along beside Deirdre, as she carried both our packs to the hostel…
Had I gone home for Christmas 34 years ago, one of the students on Pan Am flight 103 might have been me. The young men and women on that plane, from Syracuse program in London, were the students on my flight to England earlier that year. Perhaps I would have been on the other plane that transported my fellow classmates home. I will never know; a different choice was made.
All these years later, the realization hits me with two scenarios of what could have happened if I went home for the holidays in 1988: I might no longer walk this earth or I would have sunk into a deep depression that would have been hard to climb out of. By deciding to stay in Europe, I lived. Traveling with old and new friends, helped me to focus most of my energy on something else. The trauma of that event lingers within me, however every Christmas Season I think of my friends and how they helped me make it through those awful days after Lockerbie.
What do you envision when you hear the word ”joy”? I envision a bright light, full of happiness. Over the last few weeks, I have learned a little about the life of Joye Lange. She has had a life full of tragedy and trauma, but a brightness seems to glow within in her. Here is Joye’s, story as told to me:
Me as a baby
My name is Joye. I was born in Chicago in 1952, two years after my brother Larry was still-born. My parents called me their bundle of joy. Perhaps this is how they came up with my name? At birth, I fought really hard for 12 days in an incubator. Born a “blue baby”, my respiratory system wasn’t developed well at birth. I also had pulmonary hypertension from the beginning of life. The Catholic nurses in the hospital insisted that “E” be added to the end of my name, for the word extraordinary. That is how my name became Joye.
We moved to sunny Southern California in the end of 1952. I wouldn’t have lived past the age two if my folks didn’t move to a warmer part of the country. We loved living in California from the 1950’s to 1990’s. Many wonderful and crazy experiences! One fond memory of mine was having Ron Howard open the door for me at Valley College. Fun years were spent there, but I still had my share of traumas and health issues.
My little sister had an accident when she was about two and I was six. My sister got her head cut open. Our grandpa and I brought her to the doctor just in the nick of time. Also, when I was six our mother had to make a choice to save her life. Mom was pregnant, with by brother Wesley, but had tumors along with the fetus. I don’t think that my parents really wanted to terminate the pregnancy, but decided to. None of us were the same emotionally or mentally after that. My dad drank and my mother smoked cigarettes throughout my life, but after the pregnancy was terminated it was much worse; they used these things to self medicate.
When I was a little older, measles, mumps and chicken pox made me sick. Sledding a Mt. Pinos, left me with a broken foot. Then at age eleven, I was hurt when I stepped between three boys fighting near my pregnant teacher; ligaments were torn from that incident. In my teen years, I had my share of sexual abuse.
George and me on our wedding day
In Los Angeles, I helped hostess with the VFW2323 . On January 4, 1969, I met a wonderful guy named George at a USO Dance. He was a Canadian who joined the USMC. The corps took him to Vietnam from 1967-1970. We married in 1972. Two sons blessed us. We lost one baby, in 1977. In 1986 I had a total hysterectomy. The agony didn’t stop there. At the workplace in 1987, I was exposed to toxic chemicals. The trauma was so bad! The fact that I am still alive to talk about it makes me grateful!
Me, George, and our two boys
Our son James (Jim) was shot in 1989, at the age of 15. He was brought back to life after dying on the operating table three times the night of his operation. Sadly, Jim died in 2013. Something happened after my son died: I dreamt of my brothers, both of them as adults. Larry, my first brother hugged me really hard before he had to go back to heaven. Wesley, looked just like my son Jason; he had long hair and was really tall. Dad said to me in the dream “see I told you he was really nice” .
We moved to northeast Ohio in 1993, where we still are today. I love everything about my experiences here! Well, almost. There were also traumatic events in the Buckeye State: My husband lost his hand in 2002. Three nervous breakdowns were suffered by me over the years (in 1989; 1998 and 2015). I have many health problems too.
Jim and Jason 1978Jim, Me and Jason at their cousins wedding
My sons Jason and James Lange taken in 2013. Jason on the left is a filmmaker. James was a writer and a medical assistant. He passed in 2013.
Me : present day
Now at the age of 70, I am enjoying retirement. Traveling, writing and graphic designing keep me busy. In August, George and I will celebrate our 50th wedding anniversary! A life lived full of ups and downs, but I wouldn’t change much. I have learned a lot over the years!
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