Hold On

My eleventh grade English teacher showed us clips from the movie Dead Poets Society. The scenes she chose were somewhere in the middle of the movie; I’m sure we were learning about Whitman or Shakespeare and she wanted us to see Robin Williams recite these works in his attention-grabbing way. But the class discussion afterward inevitably turned to a scene she hadn’t shown us—the shocking event that occurs at the end of the film.

I remember our teacher walking to the front of the room and standing in silence for a moment before launching into a seemingly impromptu, impassioned plea to her teenage students to not use this film as an example of how to handle our problems. This character, she said, felt he had no way out, no options but to end his own life. But that conclusion was a lie, a permanent solution to a temporary problem. There is hope, she said. There is always help. Please reach out to someone if you’re feeling this way, she urged, her voice trembling. Do not end your lives before they’ve really even begun. Promise me.

I doodled flower shapes on the cover of my binder as her speech stretched out a little too long. Vicarious embarrassment, which had always seized me when someone got too emotional, too real, prevented me from looking at her. I snuck some glances at my classmates, thinking this display was a bit over the top. We get it, of course we know! No one in that room would ever do such a thing. It was just a tactic in a sad movie, or a news report from somewhere far away. It would never happen here.

And as far as I know, it didn’t. Not among those kids, not back then.

Last night I said goodnight to my twelve-year-old daughter and turned to leave her room. She chose that moment to open up about her day, telling me they got to play games in math the whole time, and that they didn’t learn any science because the school counselor took over the entire class period.

“He talked about suicide prevention,” she said. “He told us what to say if our friends talk about killing themselves, and what questions we should ask them, and what details we should find out. He told us we could be mini counselors for them but also we should tell someone.”

As I listened I felt that old protective reflex that I always have with her, my young and sensitive girl. I want to shield her from ugliness, from the sadness of others that seems to seep inside her and stay when she hears bad news. I wanted to hear more about these math games, not discuss teen suicide. She’s in the seventh grade. Does she really need coaching on such a heart-clutching, world-ending subject?

I pushed the reflex aside for once and asked my girl more questions. Because yes, she does need coaching. And so do I.

Twelve years ago when I lay on the delivery table, stretched and shaking to my core, and the nurse placed my pink, squalling daughter on my chest, my heart began to break. I didn’t know it then, but that first crack would only grow larger as she did, as I dreamed about her face, as my identity became tied up in her, as I learned her every part by heart and ached with newfound vulnerability.

Then came a baby boy, and my heart split wider and I clung to him, couldn’t stop kissing his beautiful cheeks, and he loved without reserve and the world went on while sad, hopeless things happened all around us. The specter of loss hovered right outside the door. But still, here came another girl, a screaming force of energy with clear blue eyes that stun and a grip on my heart that crumbles walls. And now here I am exposed, wound up in a tangle of pain and fear and love that all feel like the very same thing.

Because there are mothers in my town today whose sanctuaries have been shattered by the loss that is always waiting in my peripheral vision. There are mothers with sons they adore, sons with the brightest of futures, sons with some deep, gaping need inside who never told their mothers they were sad, never said they needed help, never gave the slightest warning, never will be coming back. What could they have done, these mothers? This question plagues my waking hours. What could they do? What can I do?

I know a girl who loves to draw, who is quiet but wants to star in plays, who feels things deeply; a boy who loves the rush of the wind on his face as he soars downhill on his scooter, who has already started to wonder if he’s good enough; a girl with fire in her eyes who rests her freckled cheek against my arm and cries about losses too big for her six tiny years. I say I know these children because I don’t really have them, can’t hold onto them the way I want to. The way they have a hold on me.

I went for a run today. I thought about those mothers (will never stop thinking about those mothers) and here came that stinging behind my eyes, that painful throbbing lump in my throat. The lump grew and grew as I ran, made my hands shake, pushed its way upward. And then it rushed out of my mouth, a sudden noise, a strangled cry that wasn’t me but really was. The truest me. I used to wonder why crying made my throat hurt, but now I know. It’s not so much the crying that brings that burning ache, but the trying so hard not to.