Tsunami: The Aftermath of a Suicide Crisis

My brother Carson died by suicide December 7, 2004 -- the anniversary of the bombing of Pearl Harbor, two weeks before Christmas, and two weeks before his 35th birthday. It was also two weeks before the Asian tsunami. As the world reacted to that disaster, the aftermath of Carson’s death similarly hit our family, as we too were flooded, overwhelmed, and left helpless. The news of his suicide crashed tsunami-like around us – totally engulfing us in despair and darkness. Frozen and in shock, we fought for every breath, thinking “This cannot be happening.” I confused night with day, day with night. I remember feeling very, very vulnerable. I would be driving to the airport to pick up a guest for Carson’s memorial service and I would look up and have no idea where I was or what I was doing. Then I would be hit by a wave of panic as I were sure everyone on the road was going to hit my car.


After the birth of my third child in September, I had been on maternity leave for the months leading up to Carson’s death. I had burned up all my sick and vacation time, and the three days we are given to grieve a first degree relative. I needed to resurface and go back to work. I remember coming up for air and looking around; the landscape had changed because my brother was no longer in it. Everything looked and felt different. Things that were so desperately important at work before no longer mattered. I both dreaded and welcomed my first day back to the office. Dread because I just didn’t care anymore; desired because I missed the structure and sense of purpose my workplace provided me. I remember the first day back. I opened my office door to see a pile of cards and flowers on my desk. My inbox was filled with well-wishes, many from people I didn’t even know. I knew with this level of support that I would be okay. My workplace gave me the flextime to access our Employee Assistance Program and attend support groups, which I did. They told me to do what needed to do to get back on my feet, and I am forever grateful for their kindness during this very trying time in my life.

Just like the tsunami, the ripple effects of Carson’s death spread deep and wide, and to this day still continue to affect others. Thanks to social media, I am still connecting with people Carson knew who are just now learning of his passing. His co-workers and business partners established a scholarship in his memory designed to help young entrepreneurs get to college. This loving affirmation of my brother’s life carries on his gift of helping others and gave many of those connected through his work a chance to honor his life.
The aftershocks of the trauma were severe at first, some of them predictable like on Father’s Day, his wedding anniversary, his birthday, and certainly his death anniversary. Others caught us off guard, like the time I was digging through a box of photos. I found a picture that I had forgotten about, of us dancing at my wedding. Not many brothers and sisters dance to their own song when they get married to another person, but Carson and I had a song: Whitney Houston’s “I Will Always Love You.” Whenever we heard it on the radio we would belt it out to each other at the top of our lungs as silly as possible. At my wedding, Carson and I twirled around the dance floor – my hair coming out of the up-do, his shirt hanging untucked from his tuxedo. And someone snapped a picture as we joyously sang the chorus, eyes locked and laughing. When I found this picture, I wept and wept. Then I made a copy of it to hang next to my computer at work, so I would never forget.

As with the tsunami, the rebuilding process has been long and hard, requiring many systems of support. In this sense I often feel lucky, because unlike many survivors of suicide I had a workplace that was supportive, a faith community that understood his suicide as the fatal outcome of a mental illness (not a crime against God), and a network of friends and co-workers who did all the right things.

I don’t tell this story because I want pity or because I need sympathy. While losing Carson has clearly been the most difficult experience of my life, I have been given many gifts along my grief journey. I was reminded of this by the leader of the rock group Seether, who lost his younger brother to suicide and wrote a song called “Rise Above This” on the album Finding Beauty in Negative Spaces. This too has been my experience in grief. I have found depth in relationships and spirituality and an unwavering calling of vocation. No, I don’t want anyone to feel sorry for me. I tell this story because so few families do, and thus, people think it can never happen to them. While I am humbled by this experience, I am also hopeful. Suicide is arguably one of the more preventable causes of death, so I also share this story in hopes that others will come forward and say, “I too have been affected, and I want to make a difference - how can I get involved?” And finally, I share this story because people who are in a suicidal crisis often think they those who love them will be better off without them. I am here to tell them that suicide causes a legacy of trauma and pain that continues for generations. No matter how hard it gets, you never know what is waiting for you around the corner.

On the Power of Ritual to Make Meaning for Survivors of Suicide Loss

Reprinted with permission from the American Association of Suicidology's Newslink newsletter

Many of us who are caught up in the conspiracy of busyness are often cut off from our grief. In many cultures in the U.S., we are trained to be fearful of death; we are conditioned to “get over” our loss and move on as quickly as possible. However, as a Jewish prayer states, “We do best homage to our dead by living our lives fully even in the shadow of our loss. Our grief is what allows us to begin to live our lives fully again after loss.” One of the ways I have found to work through the grief and loss of my brother’s suicide is through healing rituals.

Rituals are symbolic actions that usually acknowledge or honor transitions in our lives and can be very powerful tools for processing our emotions. For one, they can provide some containment for what feels like a chaotic, out-of-control experience. We usually don’t know what to do, especially in the aftermath of an unanticipated trauma like suicide. Rituals sometimes have very soothing, reassuring aspects to them and give our minds something meaningful to focus upon.

Many other reasons for the effectiveness of rituals exist. When words don’t suffice, rituals offer symbolic means to communicate. Community rituals help build a sense of solidarity. As we try to figure out a “new normal” in our individual and family lives, rituals can help give us structure. Rituals can become intentional releases like pressure valves; they can bring forth cherished memories and connect us to what matters most. Every year I engage in and facilitate a number of rituals for myself, my family and my community. Here are some:

Rituals of remembrance: Probably the most common rituals for grieving a loss are rituals of remembrance. Lighting candles in honor of our loved ones is a powerful and beautiful acknowledgement of the light they brought to the world. Saying the names of our deceased loved ones out loud also has a strong impact. I remember after my brother died by suicide, I was at a complete loss on what to do on Father’s Day for my Dad. When I meditated on this question, the image of a Weeping American Elm flashed in my mind’s eye. Planting a tree together provided a ritual that symbolized Carson’s enduring spirit and the seasons of our lives. Watching the tree grow reminds us that our bond with him continues.
Rituals of communication: Rituals of communication can give us the opportunity to say the things we couldn’t or didn’t while our loved one was alive. One way to do this is by writing a letter or a poem to our loved one.

Rituals of nurturing: Grieving is hard work, and often we are so overwhelmed by the intensity of our emotions, we forget to take care of ourselves. In the process, we can find ourselves drained or continually sick, and this just adds to our misery. Having a “comfort box” nearby can give us some ideas on how we can replenish ourselves. Soothing music or aromatherapy might be nurturing for some. Other people might include religious passages or affirmations that they find grounding. Pictures or stories that make us laugh or warm our soul can also help.

Rituals of reflection: In our busy lives we often find it hard to pause and reflect on where we have been, where we are at and where we are going. Rituals of reflection give us the space and structure to do this. Sometimes this form of ritual can be through meditation or prayer. Others times we may find journaling or drawing serve this purpose. I find long periods of meditation open up channels of thought or insight I cannot get in any other way. I follow these practices with journaling around the insights I have received, and I often look back on these entries to “connect the dots” of themes in my entries.

Rituals of community connection: Many of the local and national suicide prevention walks offer rituals of community connection as a way to publicly honor our loved ones and create a sense of belongingness among bereaved people. I have seen balloon releases, dove releases, and “mardi gras” bead wearing as examples of these community practices. At our AAS conference each year we have our survivor quilts (quilts made to honor our loved ones who died by suicide) displayed. These group rituals let us know we are not alone in our pain.

Rituals of release: Sometimes we have places in our grief that seem to get in our way. Guilt, anger, and regret can fester and keep us stuck. For rituals of release, some people have written these thoughts out on paper and then have burned the paper as a symbol of letting these toxic emotions go. Others have buried symbols of these emotions in the ground.

On the anniversary of my brother’s death, I bring out everything I have that reminds me of him. I usually take the day off from work and have the house to myself. I watch videos, look at pictures, and read the letters he wrote to me. I smile as I read the 10-year-old handwritten note he send me while I was at summer camp. I cry as I watch the video of him joyously playing with his daughter. I look at the pictures of us hugging at different ages in our lives and think, “he loved me, he loved me, he loved me.” And I put my finger right on the grieving, because I never want to lose touch with why I do this work. I will always remember, and I believe he walks with me as I go on this journey.

At the close of the Healing after Suicide Conference in April, we will have a healing ceremony for survivors of suicide loss. If you have a ritual you have found to be particularly powerful that can be done in a large group setting, I would love to have your ideas. Please, email me at Sally@CarsonJSpencer.org.
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For more resources for Survivors of Suicide Loss visit the American Association of Suicidology: click here.

The Carson J Spencer Foundation offers families recently bereaved by suicide iCare Packages (semi-customized resources packets). For more information: click here.

What rituals have helped you or others who have been bereaved by suicide?