As I mentioned in my last post, Andrew and I gave a talk at Nathaniel's old school (and what will no doubt be Benjamin's school when he grows up).
We were invited to talk at their fundraising event dinner titled 'An evening of Inspiration'.
Benjamin came along with us, and was the only baby (only child actually) at the event and he was on his very best behaviour and was delightful.
It was lovely to get a chance to see our old 'Natey community' again, including our dear Melinda (Natey's au-pair 'Minda'), all of whom have been so very supportive of us through the past year and a half, and well before that even.
The evening and the talks were held in the school hall which is where we held Nathaniel's memorial service, so it was very poignant and emotional to introduce Benjamin into the community in this way, and in the same place.....
This is the talk Andrew gave:
A Time of Darkness:
Surviving The Death of My Son… My Life’s
Greatest Disaster
Delivered at Alon Ashel pre-primary school
(Seapoint, Cape Town), “An Evening of Inspiration” dinner
Andrew Canter, August 23, 2018
Preamble
Jane and my little son --
our sparkling, intelligent, beautiful, fun Nathaniel -- died at the age of 28
months on December 30, 2016. He had been
a student*
here during that year, and thus Alon Ashel touched our lives and his life
touched the school community.
Many people here tonight
have been friends and supporters during our happy times with Nathaniel, the
dark time of his death, and now again the happy time of Benjamin’s new life
(now 4 months).
I want to thank you all –
thank the Herzlia community – for all you’ve given us, and also for the
opportunity tonight to tell part of our story.
We can all celebrate the new
life of little Benjamin, but it would be false to avoid how we got to this point. What
looks like a short trip from the despair of our Natey’s death to the joy of
Benjamin is really a long and continuing journey for us. As much as many of our friends and family want
to believe that having another baby is a sign that we are ‘healed’, that would
be a misconception. For example, because
my brain is juggling past & present, regret & joy I’ll probably muddle
Nathaniel’s and Benjamin’s names during this talk -- as I have many times in
the past few months.
What I want to share are
some elements of our journey thus far -- and where we hope it’s going.
Navigating the Darkness
As a starting point, there
will never be ‘closure’ on Nathaniel’s death.
Some say it’s like losing a limb: You can never regrow an arm, but you
can get used to functioning without it.
For me it’s like being stabbed in the heart: At first there is blood, damage
and sharp pain… it’s dramatic and acute… but over time, if you survive, it
becomes a permanent dull-ache… scar tissue: Never fully healed, but a chronic
impairment that you live with.
The night Nathaniel died,
I remember lying in bed with Jane and feeling my heart literally breaking. I know there is scar tissue there, and I can
feel it holds me back from complete immersion in love. My goal is to fight that impairment, and
throw myself into loving Benjamin the way he deserves.
More broadly, we are on a
journey from “anger” & “regret” to “acceptance” & “appreciation for
what we had”… we are hoping to be able to think about Nathaniel with some
happiness and not with sorrow. We don’t
pretend we are there yet – we are still on the road. Our walk so far from “acute pain” to “chronic
ache” has had several steps and survival strategies.
Nathaniel died on
December 30, 2016, and for the first few months of 2017 we lived in a
swirl.
You spend a lot of time
recounting all the tiny moments that led to disaster – knowing that the
slightest change could have completely altered the outcome. Along with that we faced guilt and shame: A parent’s
first job is to keep your child alive, and we failed. Generously, no one has imposed blame or guilt
on us – but we both carry it in equal measure.
Perhaps the first step –
the most vital step -- to our survival was that between Jane and I -- in the
moment of Natey’s death, in the intervening months, and now – there has been no
blame, anger or recrimination for each other. We know that what happened could have happened
on either of our watches, that we were jointly responsible, and shared joint
blame. The gears meshed, the
one-in-a-million event happened, and our little boy died. If we’d had any sense of blaming each other,
the entire rest of the story would have been radically different. We were partners before, during, after… and
now.
In addition to that, we
found out we both dealt with the disaster in similar ways.
For a start, neither one of
us hid from what happened: We watched the ambulance crew that night… we held
his body at the hospital, escorted it to the morgue... and said a final goodbye
at the morgue the next day. We took
pictures to cement the images, and as a final reminder of his beautiful face
and hair. Together, we looked death in
the face – literally – and that made it real and undeniable.
The grieving books advise you to confront and accept your loss –
because the shock is going to get you sooner or later. That rings true as, in some ways I find it no
easier to think about Nathaniel now than it was a year ago -- sometimes a photo
just shakes me. If we hadn’t continually
confronted the pain when it was expected, then it would be harder to deal with
months later when one would think the pain had faded.
Also, neither Jane nor I wanted
to push Nathaniel out of sight: We have wilfully kept him close-by in our lives
through, for example, our screen savers running his photo montage… our Facebook
pages… his toys, art and pictures in the house... we made a “Natey place” in
our bedroom… we light a memorial candle at family dinners… and we keep the
little wooden box of his ashes in the dining room. Poignantly, we also made “Natey Bear” – a
stuffed bear that wears one of Nathaniel’s sleepy-suits -- that slept with us
for many months.
For me, the most terrible thing has been that Nathaniel is drifting
away – floating backward in time. Jane
and I can’t stop that drift – but we certainly don’t want to hasten that
inexorable and sad fading of his life-force.
By now I can no longer conjure his touch, feel or smell… sometimes it
feels like I’m grasping at smoke to hold onto him: The memories are all we have
left.
Jane and I also coped
similarly by sharing our stories: Jane wrote a moving blog about all the
details of that last day of Nathaniel’s life – with all its happiness and fun… followed
by his death. I wrote and rewrote his
eulogy and life story – jotting down every single memory I could muster –
hoping, I guess, that it will help me re-capture Nathaniel in the years to
come. Jane and I both put all of these
writings online for those who wanted to share our loss.
We also both spent time curating
Nathaniel’s photos, videos, memories, documents… until, eventually, we realised
we’d been through it all, and there were no more memories coming.
We followed the advice to
“do what you can, when you can”. We both
went back to work within a couple weeks, but it’s fair to say our colleagues
cut us quite a lot of slack: We were more “at work” than actually “working”. At meetings I’d bring along my adult
colouring books to help me stay both distracted and focussed (and, by adult, I
mean ADULT!).
As it turned out neither
Jane nor I are “hide under the covers” kind of people: While there were months where we had no
interest in socialising, we remained engaged.
We tried to keep life moving forward professionally, personally, and we both
continued to exercise and take on some challenges. We had asked that mourners make donations to
the Red Cross Children’s Hospital, where eventually enough money was raised to
buy two new blood-oxygen machines – and a lovely plaque was placed in their
garden of remembrance.
At some point, unconsciously,
I guess we decided we couldn’t define our lives by our loss, but rather by the
lives we continued to lead. As Jane has
observed, “you don't get to choose what will happen to you in your life, but
you do get to choose how you'll respond.”
All along we have both
remained open to our feelings, and honest about them: When we had bad moments or bad-days we’d
verbalise it… we’d send a Whatsapp saying “I’m having a bad Natey day” – and we
both understood what that meant. We made
no effort – in private or public -- to pretend “everything is alright”.
As months passed we might have some time when we’d forget we
were supposed to be sad: But often people would ask, meaningfully, “How ARE you?” One can’t say “I’m fine”, as the answer is
always more nuanced. Part of the journey
is being pulled into the ‘role’ of the grieving parent… being reminded you are
mourning.
We came to realise we’d joined”the Club no one wants to belong to” -- parents
who have lost children. We heard many
terrible stories… and we realised there are far more members of that club than
one would expect. We met other parents
with equally sad (or worse) stories. As
we heard of others’ childrens’ deaths we felt it deeply and tearfully.
I learned to live with “The Shark”: He was always there, circling underneath me… sometimes
coming up to take a bite out of me… to pull me down… without any warning. Sometimes he still comes up for a bite… always
a surprise, usually triggered by a photo, memory or thought. But you find out you can struggle back to the
surface and keep swimming.
Making New Memories
With Natey’s death my
life’s plan was in tatters. I had come to
parenthood late in life… a new journey that was completely rewarding, exciting,
and energizing. That came to a crashing
halt -- my parenting duties reduced to paying tribute, mourning and packing
away my son’s life in a cardboard box and a hard drive.
Within days of
Nathaniel’s death I knew that I wanted to have another child: Frankly –
honestly -- without that direction, I would truly have been lost, aimless and
demotivated. I started that discussion
with Jane far too soon… and it carried on for a while as we discussed our
motives, aspirations and fears. But in
the end Jane and I agreed to re-embark on the journey… or, perhaps, to continue
our journey together.
That said, neither of us
felt ready to quickly have another baby – it was too soon, it felt too raw and
unsettled: You never really can rush a
pregnancy, and we didn’t want to try to force the issue when we were both –
particularly Jane – stressed and unhappy.
I remembered the scene from the book “Like Water for Chocolate” where Tita, the main character, sheds
tears of sorrow into the batter of a wedding cake she is baking… with the
result that all the guests at the wedding end up crying uncontrollably. I didn’t want to imbue “Baby #2” with sadness…
to mix our tears into his batter.
Benjamin was born a mere
16 months after Natey’s death. That unduly
short time was driven very much by our respective ages (43 and 55) and by a
doctor’s forceful advice: “If you are going to do it, don’t waste time!”
In any case, knowing the
path we were on gave me a timeline and the much-needed ability to make a plan. We entered what I called “The Interregnum” -- that
is defined as the period of time between the death of one monarch and
installation of the next: In this case the Interregnum was the period between
the death of the Prince (Nathaniel) and the birth of another Prince (Benjamin).
We knew there was a
danger of getting stuck in the past and stuck in sadness -- but we needed to
find a path forward. One of our better
coping mechanisms -- which I take full credit for (you won’t find it in the grief
guide-books) – was to try to “make new memories”.
So, in April 2017 – four
months after Nathaniel’s death – Jane, Griffin, Quinn and I – went on a trip to
Egypt: Chosen intentionally as a challenging destination. In Egypt you are either contemplating 5000
years of human history and civilisation, or you are dealing with the chaos of
Egypt itself. It ain’t a beach -- it’s
hard work! Being outside of our comfort
zones, it helped bring us all together. Of
course Natey was in our minds… and I recall sitting on a stone in a 3500-year-old
temple crying for him.
Continuing the idea of
making new memories, in July 2017 Jane and I went to Iceland. That turned out to be life-altering and I
want to tell you a bit about it.
In 2010 I’d planned a
trek in Iceland that was cancelled by the eruption of the volcano
Eyafjetlajokull (you remember, the one the grounded all flights in
Europe). The trek was on my bucket list,
and the Interregnum was a good opportunity to fulfil the goal. Also, one of Nathaniel’s middle names was
“Thor”, named after the Norse god of thunder (in Hebrew -- Ra’am – Thunder), and it seemed fitting to
visit his “ancestral homeland”.
The highlight of the trip
was a 5 day, 90 kilometre trek across the wild and beautiful terrain. Before going we had finally opened
Nathaniel’s box of ashes and taken a tiny vial -- with the intent to spread
them on the hike. Thus, Natey was very
much in our minds as we did the long trek across barren open spaces, volcanic
ridges, glacial terrain and raging rivers: We were carrying Nathaniel emotionally
and physically… toward the end of the group trek in a beautiful forested place
called “Thorsmork” – Thor’s Forest.
From there Jane and I
left our group, and hiked alone up the slopes of the Eyafjetlajokull volcano. As we climbed up and up we went above the
snow line, into wind, rain, snow and fog… and there at the top of the pass, beside
the two new volcanic vents – Magdi and Modi (named after Thor’s sons)… standing
in the barren volcanic rock, ash and dirt we paused to spread the tiny bit of Nathaniel’s
ashes. I remember taking off my glove,
pouring a bit of the ashes onto my palm and holding it out to the wind – hoping
it would simply blow away without my having to do it: But making it harder,
eventually I was forced to throw Nathaniel’s the ashes into the wind.
As if that weren’t enough
– we then had to continue to hike the final 30 km down to the coast… mostly in
driving wind and rain – such that despite having fully waterproofed gear we
were soaked through, frozen, muddy and sore.
The experience was nearly biblical in its enactment, and cathartic for
us: It was a moment of being with Nathaniel as best we could, acceptance of his
death, and a degree of letting go. As we
were leaving Iceland we stopped to put our first “Love Lock” for Nathaniel on a
steel bridge… and then Jane threw away the key to that lock into the cold North
Atlantic Ocean.
We knew this trip was
emotional and an important moment, but we only realised later that the
experience was a critical step in our journey.
Less than a week later
Benjamin was conceived.
Compassion
Compassion is one of
those highfalutin words I hadn’t really thought too deeply about… it’s used by
the likes of the Dalia Lama or Desmond Tutu.
But the past 20 months has taught us a lot about compassion: How the
sharing of sorrow alleviates the burden… how the recognition and understanding
of each other’s sorrow connects us and helps us carry the load. Compassion is the sense of knowing “you are
not alone”… and realising there is always someone suffering equally with, or
more than, you… and that they are also not alone. Everyone has grief in their life – whether in
the acute or chronic stages – and we are part of the community of humans who
will all suffer in our lives. Maybe to really understand
compassion one has to suffer.
In the wake of Natey’s
death we were flooded with compassionate love and support – much of from this
community: And that was a great help during this tumultuous period.
But importantly, that
compassion went both ways: We tried to comfort others who also suffered Natey’s
death – family, friends, his teachers, his loving nanny Xolisa, his loving au
pair Melinda. Also, we could see the
sadness and uncertainty in visitors and supporters: “What do I say to someone
who’s child has drowned? What shouldn’t I say?”
We really tried to make everyone comfortable expressing and sharing with
us.
Sometimes people said
things we didn’t feel: “It’s God’s will”; “It was meant to be”; “He’s in a better place”; or other thoughts
that didn’t really work for us. But we understood
it all came from a place of love, and accepted the sentiments of support
graciously.** Any well-intentioned support or condolence
was, and is, welcomed – particularly happy memories.
As a grieving parent one grants
oneself some self-indulgence, but one of my regrets is that I didn’t realise
the impact of Nathaniel’s death on my wider family. We recently took Benjamin on his “baby tour”
to the USA and in conversations came to realise how shattering his loss was. For example, one of his cousins was so shaken
as to have nearly dropped out of university for a semester. Being self-absorbed in my grieving, this was
a failure of compassion on my part.
Likewise, I’d been told that Natey’s death impacted on the entire
Herzlia community, and I have come to a better understanding of that now.
The Interregnum
While I ambled through the
Interregnum, Jane was hard at work being pregnant – she had a really difficult
pregnancy with persistent nausea, fatigue and -- later -- pain and discomfort:
There really was no easy time for her during that 9 months. And while I eased back into work, Jane
tackled her PGDip program at the UCT Graduate School of Business – quite an
intense process to take-on during months 0-6 of her pregnancy (and her peak
nausea)! She suspended those studies during
Benjamin’s final trimester… but has now gone back to finish the 2nd
half of the program with Benjamin only 3 months old!
During Nathaniel’s life I
had been writing him a letter about his story and my relationship with him. I continued Nathaniel’s letter after his death
-- but also started a letter to “Baby #2”.
At first we wanted a
clean break for a fresh-start -- and we hoped for a little girl. But at the 11 week scan we found ourselves in
the same clinic getting substantively the same news we’d had 3 years before: It
was a healthy little boy with all signs and measurements being positive.
As Baby #2 continued growing…
got through his 20-week scan… and he began moving inside Jane… I realised that pretty soon the “baby-to-be”
had to overtake the “baby-that-had-been”: My Focus was going to be drawn forward. I felt (and feel) guilt about that shift… as
my writings to Nathaniel have had to peter-out into apologies, regrets and
goodbyes.
Jane and I went to
Thailand for a relaxed “baby moon” in December 2017 (5 months pregnant)… we lit
a candle and shed some tears for Natey in a Buddhist temple, and we
contemplated compassion and the Buddhist ideal of letting-go. That learning experience was part of the
inspiration for one of Benjamin’s middle names – “Bodhi”: A Sanskrit name which means “enlightenment”…
and you may recall that the historical Buddha achieved enlightenment while
meditating under a Bodhi tree. In Hebrew
this became “Meir” – “one who enlightens” or “bringer of light”. We hope it imbues Benjamin Bodhi with
compassion and enlightenment – and so far that seems to be the case, as he’s a very
chilled baby. His other middle name is
“Achilles”, but we haven’t seen much of that part of his personality yet!
And now?
I commented earlier that
we couldn’t “make new memories” with Nathaniel: But that’s apparently not true…
we carried him our hearts to Egypt, Iceland, Thailand, and America. We bought him a silver cartouche and a little
white alabaster pyramid in Egypt (both now in his Natey-space). We thought of him – and cried for him -- while
we raced up Table Mountain***. We spread some of his
ashes on the volcano in Iceland and in a park in Chicago alongside some of my
mother’s ashes. We placed love-locks for
him in Iceland and Paris. We lit a
memorial candle with him in Thailand.
And, strangely, unseen photos of Nathaniel continue to pop out of old
cell phones, cloud storage, and friends’ archives.
While Nathaniel is always
with us I find that more and more I have to make specific time to “be with
Natey” – to listen to some of his music, quietly think about him, remember his
laugh, and cry for his loss. It’s not
too hard really, if I just pause in my intentionally-over-busy life – to walk
on the mountain or have a stretch – Nathaniel comes to mind.
As strangers see me with Benjamin
there’s that awkward question: “Is this your only child?” A simple “yes” would avoid the uncomfortable answers
of “He’s my only surviving child” or “I had another boy, but he died”. But to take the easy route would be to deny
Nathaniel’s life, push him further away, and would feel like a betrayal.
Jane and I continue to
seek that elusive state of “appreciating what we had while we had it” rather
than “regretting the loss of what might have been”. We still have a long walk to get there.
With Nathaniel we started
out to build something permanent, but it got swept away and we had to
restart. While the standard rule of
parenting is ‘don’t compare children’, one almost can’t help it. Rationally I know Benjamin does not (cannot)
replace Nathaniel – but I have occasional confusion: For example, I’ll think
“It would be nice if he had Nathaniel’s beautiful red hair, but I’m really glad
he doesn’t.” In that sense, it’s a
relief that Benjamin’s (mellow) personality is already visibly different than
Nathaniel’s (energetic). Perhaps we’ll
be a little stuck in this comparison period until Benjamin has surpassed
Nathaniel’s life span of 2½ years.
As we set out on
Benjamin’s journey I had fears of such comparisons: “Nathaniel was so perfect”
I’d said “we’ll never get that lucky again”.
But a good friend and advisor said: “Don’t worry Andrew, every child is
perfect in their own way.”
We will not imbue Benjamin
with our prior hopes or expectations for Nathaniel. Benjamin will have his own full life, he will
be his own person. But Jane and I cannot
deny being changed -- we have innate fear and uncertainty now, and that fear is
on several levels:
· - First – obviously -- we see and think about more risks: Life was always full of uncertainty, and we
were – we thought – very aware and cautious.
Yet even though someone was within a few metres of Nathaniel for just
about every minute of his 28 months (including the night he died) tragedy managed
to find us.
· - Nathaniel was so
wonderful that I felt we’d “won the baby lottery”, and I expressed that
feeling. Now I hold back my positive
judgement and enthusiasm about Benjamin as I’m afraid that I might ‘jinx’ his life.
· - In some sense I struggle
to see an unimpeded rosy, long-term future… somehow it seems shrouded in
uncertainty… I have fears for what might happen.
· - And, frankly, I also fear for self-esteem: Losing one child is a
tragedy… losing two would be a clear sign of irresponsibility.
At Nathaniel’s memorial
service – here, in this room – Cheryl Lazarus, speaking directly to the
school’s parents, wisely urged them not to live in fear nor impair their
childrens’ freedom and activities because of Nathaniel’s tragedy. I thought it was a wise and bold leader’s
statement, and something Jane and I now keep in mind as we move forward.
Without regard to
whatever fears we have or healing we have to do, our goal will be raise Benjamin
with all the security, love, and opportunity as we can – to make his life fun,
free, and full of adventure and learning.
Another step in this long
emotional journey will be enrolling Benjamin at Alon Ashel in January 2020: We will see Natey’s track… and Natey’s plant…
and Natey’s classroom… and Natey’s teachers.
It will be a little scary and difficult for us and all who knew him: But
I have little doubt that Cheryl will have done her homework, and will be ready
to prepare us all for that step with the same steady, sensible guidance with
which she’s helped us cope with Nathaniel’s death.
Jane and I don’t feel
inspirational – in part we feel like failed-parents trying to cope with a
life-disaster as best we can. But I am
inspired by Jane – who has shown resilience, perseverance, and a remarkable
willingness to help me through the darkness… and who has jumped back-in with
love and commitment to bring light into my life.
Thank you all again for giving
us the opportunity to share our story… for all the love, compassion, support
and generosity over the past couple years… and for joining us in the
celebration of the continuation of life -- particularly for little Benjamin.
---------
*The magic, of course, is
that Nathaniel didn’t know he was a ‘student’ -- he just thought it he was
playing and having fun.
**Sometimes people would
share their own grieving stories, and we tried to be as compassionate with them
as they were being with us. Others would
offer unsolicited advice on grieving, mourning or coping and we’d generally
take such advice in much the same way as one takes unsolicited parenting
advice, graciously and with thanks. Of
course solicited advice (or advice from experience or knowledge) was always
welcomed openly.
***Jane and I entered the
Table Mountain Challenge in 2017 – a race which entails climbing up the
mountain (and taking the cable car down) as many times as you can between
sunrise and sunset. We did 6 laps each.
