Grief, Joy, Hope, and Healing

Our oldest child, Nathan, was born in September, on a Sunday, which seemed fitting for someone whose name means “gift from God.” He was an easy-going baby and could sleep anywhere. He had a supportive nature and enjoyed fishing — even into adulthood. 

So, when I attended my first National Alliance on Mental Illness (NAMI) suicide survivor support group three weeks after Nathan died and the peer facilitator asked me to share a funny story, I struggled to think of one. Who was Nathan? 

With the help of Nathan’s siblings and my husband — Nathan’s dad — we pieced together dozens of words, each one uncovering heartwarming memories of Nathan. Years later, I began to recognize how four words have guided each of my steps toward healing since Nathan’s death: grief, joy, hope, and the love and support we’ve felt from others.

Word One: Grief

My journey through grief began around 6:20 p.m. on Thursday, September 4, 2014. I had just gotten out of the car and was about to unload groceries — something so normal — when my daughter, Rebecca, called with the news that broke this mother’s heart: Nathan had died by suicide. 

The week after that call was full of challenges — being kept from Nathan’s body during visitation and not being allowed to display our family photos next to Nathan or speak at his funeral — worsening an already terrible situation. The day of his funeral, the church was full of people who knew and loved Nathan and us. Still, we felt like invisible outsiders at both Nathan’s visitation and funeral. Recognizing this, the funeral home representative and priest ensured our family had what we needed to grieve and begin healing. 

Despite all this added pain, we also received an outpouring of love and support. Beginning with the young women who lived next door, who heard my primal screams after receiving Rebecca’s call that September evening and came right out to offer help, people showed up and kept showing up. I learned to say “yes” when asked if I needed help. Family and friends came from all over the country to offer support. People walked up the same driveway where I heard that awful news carrying meals and ready to help carry the burden of our grief.

Word Two: Joy

The summer after Nathan died, I was walking by our local swimming pool when I saw a woman — a total stranger — with the most genuine smile. She looked so joyful, and anyone who saw her could see that. 

Though I had smiled — even laughed — since Nathan died, this woman’s smile touched my soul in a special way, waking something up in me that said, “I want that.” That day my quest to bring joy back into my life began. Choosing joy has had to be a very intentional decision for me, and it is a decision I’m glad I made.

Word Three: Hope

Before Nathan died, I had this notecard taped by my desk at work that read, “Just be patient.” This phrase, for me, is synonymous with hope — hope that our relationship with Nathan would improve and that he would, one day, feel like a part of our family again. 

After “the call,” I remember reflecting on “just be patient,” and thinking that strategy hadn’t worked and hope was gone. Later, after Nathan’s death, I was Christmas shopping at Pandora when the clerk showed me a charm that read, “Hope.” I bluntly replied, “Nope, that’s gone.” 

Three years later, we attended a TAPS suicide-loss survivor seminar in Phoenix themed “Hope in the Desert” — there was that word again. This thought-provoking theme, much like the joyous smile on the woman by the pool, made me revisit the idea of hope that I’d struggled with since Nathan died. I’ve worked to weave hope back into my life.

Word Four: Healing

I have gained strength, little by little, over the years by participating in our local, invaluable NAMI suicide survivor groups and TAPS Care Groups, retreats, seminars, and webinars. During my first Suicide-Loss Survivor Group meeting, I expressed that I felt different. The peer facilitator at the time agreed that I was different, making me fearful because I didn't know what being different would look like. However, years later, I have a clearer picture of what being different looks like: I have more compassion and, as a peer facilitator of the NAMI group and our TAPS Care Group, I strive to be a beacon of hope for new grievers and a reminder that they are not alone in their grief.

Judy Thomas is the surviving mother of Nathan Thomas, U.S. Army Veteran.

Photos: Judy Thomas