Yellow Roses

I’ve been a survivor of suicide loss for over a decade now. 

The weight of that label has shape shifted more times than I can count now. 

These days it’s mostly a fact, a part of my story. Some days it is a punch to the gut, a sharp intake of breath, a familiar disbelief. 

In the first few years after my mom’s suicide I remember meeting fellow survivors who were 5, 10 and 15 years out from their person’s death and thinking it seemed impossible. 

I could not comprehend that I would be on earth for that many years without my mom. I was 23 when she died. The amount of years in front of me to live with my grief, to survive the death of a loved one by suicide, seemed insurmountable. 

In my work as a grief therapist one of the things my grieving clients usually ask at some point is “how long will I feel like this?”

They want to know the time frame for grief. They’ve heard people say the first year is the worst or the second year is the worst. They’ve heard they should be “over it.” They’ve heard there are five stages they must get through and then they’ll be okay. They’ve heard they’ll never get over it. 

Simply put, they want answers.

Unfortunately, I have none to give. Everyone’s journey is unique to them.

I do not give them any answers, but I do offer to stick with them, to create a safe space for their pain and to hold out hope that one day they will feel differently. I let them know that I have seen many people, myself included, find joy and peace, after experiencing devastating loss.

The other day, after being asked this question I wondered when did I begin to heal? Did it begin the moment I picked myself up off the floor after hearing of my mom’s death? Was it the first time I smiled again? Was it the first time I drove my car without pulling over to cry? 

I let the question bounce around in my brain as I pulled out of my driveway and saw the answer in my hedge of yellow rose bushes. 

When my mom first died I decided I would buy her favorite flowers, yellow roses, on the 19th of every month to mark the day of her death. 

On August 19th, one month after her suicide, I walked to a florist in my neighborhood.I purchased the flowers, chose the perfect ribbon and carried them home, tears streaming down my face. 

I did the same ritual for a few months.

And the one month, I couldn’t tell you when, I decided I’d buy the flowers at the grocery store instead. It was still painful, but I was able to buy the roses, and a few other items.

And then one month, I don’t know when, I didn’t go buy the flowers on the 19th. 

Instead I bought yellow roses on Mother’s Day, on my mom’s birthday and on her death anniversary. Even though I didn’t buy them as often, I continued to see them everywhere, my sign that my mom was nearby. 

Nowadays I only buy yellow roses on the day of my mom’s death. Even that seems less important than it once did, although I can’t imagine letting go of the ritual yet. Nor do I need to. 

What I have now are yellow roses planted all around my home. They wilt and die in the heat, they recover and bloom again. Sometimes I see one that is so striking I trim it and bring it inside, placing it next to my mom’s photo. I no longer see yellow roses everywhere and yet, they are all around me. They wither and flourish based on factors mostly unknown to me. They do not adhere to birthdays or anniversary dates.

Just like my grief, yellow roses will follow me wherever I go. I will plant them everywhere I live. They will adapt, grow, wilt and bloom again.

Just like my grief. Just like me.