Our condoences to Keith, aka Nittany Ram

My condolences to you and your family.

i wish you well.

So sorry to hear this… thoughts to you and your family Keith.

Thanks, everyone.

Sherri’s death was completely unexpected. I can’t describe how difficult the last two weeks have been.

I appreciate your kind words. The support I’ve gotten from everyone around me has made all the difference.

Keith,

I was stunned and saddened to see this news posted. Words fail me at these times. Every sentiment, however deeply felt and sincere, seems trite or cliche coming out of my mouth.

When my daughter died in 2001, I got a phone call from a friend of mine with whom I had been close in high school. He had experience with grief and loss himself. His wife – also a close friend of mine – had had to go through labor and birth to their only son who had died in the womb the day before, like 3 days before his expected Due Date. He called to warn me that people would say goofy things to me, and that I should accept the loving intentions with which things are said, and pay less attention to the words. And that was good advice because I heard things about my daughter being “in a better place,” or “what a blessing it is that she doesn’t have to suffer any longer” from my own immediate family, as well as friends and acquaintances.

About 6 or 7 years later, I saw a play called “Rabbit Hole” which is the story about the aftermath of a couple whose young son was killed by a car when he darted into the street after a stray ball. The mother of the boy had had an elder brother who had died from a heroin overdose some 10 years earlier, and at the beginning of the play, her own mother arrives to stay with the couple. At one point in the play, the bereaved mother asks her own mother if the “feeling ever goes away.” She puts down her sewing and reflects, and says something like, “No, but it changes over time. It’s like a brick in your pocket. You’re very conscious of it at first, but after a while, it just becomes this thing that you carry with you all the time. And then, one day, something will remind you, and you’ll feel the brick there, and you say to yourself, ‘Oh…THAT.’ And it becomes a part of you.”

That really hit home with me, and I started to silently cry sitting there, hoping nobody would notice because I was surrounded by students and a couple other teachers who were chaperoning the trip with me.

I will say that, quite often, when I notice the brick, I think about how supportive the board was to me when this happened. The responses I got to my post announcing my daughter’s death were overwhelming. It meant a great deal to me, and I’ve never forgotten it. There was a tremendous amount of sympathy expressed to me by people I’ve never met face-to-face.

And I want to make sure that you know that you are truly loved and respected by all of us here, and your grief is a pain in my heart. I’m proud to consider you a friend, and I want you to know I’m thinking about you every day, and wishing you a glorious recovery.

Jeff

Zooey wrote:

Keith,

I was stunned and saddened to see this news posted. Words fail me at these times. Every sentiment, however deeply felt and sincere, seems trite or cliche coming out of my mouth.

When my daughter died in 2001, I got a phone call from a friend of mine with whom I had been close in high school. He had experience with grief and loss himself. His wife – also a close friend of mine – had had to go through labor and birth to their only son who had died in the womb the day before, like 3 days before his expected Due Date. He called to warn me that people would say goofy things to me, and that I should accept the loving intentions with which things are said, and pay less attention to the words. And that was good advice because I heard things about my daughter being “in a better place,” or “what a blessing it is that she doesn’t have to suffer any longer” from my own immediate family, as well as friends and acquaintances.

About 6 or 7 years later, I saw a play called “Rabbit Hole” which is the story about the aftermath of a couple whose young son was killed by a car when he darted into the street after a stray ball. The mother of the boy had had an elder brother who had died from a heroin overdose some 10 years earlier, and at the beginning of the play, her own mother arrives to stay with the couple. At one point in the play, the bereaved mother asks her own mother if the “feeling ever goes away.” She puts down her sewing and reflects, and says something like, “No, but it changes over time. It’s like a brick in your pocket. You’re very conscious of it at first, but after a while, it just becomes this thing that you carry with you all the time. And then, one day, something will remind you, and you’ll feel the brick there, and you say to yourself, ‘Oh…THAT.’ And it becomes a part of you.”

That really hit home with me, and I started to silently cry sitting there, hoping nobody would notice because I was surrounded by students and a couple other teachers who were chaperoning the trip with me.

I will say that, quite often, when I notice the brick, I think about how supportive the board was to me when this happened. The responses I got to my post announcing my daughter’s death were overwhelming. It meant a great deal to me, and I’ve never forgotten it. There was a tremendous amount of sympathy expressed to me by people I’ve never met face-to-face.

And I want to make sure that you know that you are truly loved and respected by all of us here, and your grief is a pain in my heart. I’m proud to consider you a friend, and I want you to know I’m thinking about you every day, and wishing you a glorious recovery.

Jeff

Thank you Jeff. I’ve sorta been wandering around in a fog or I would have replied to this sooner.

Your friendship means a lot to me. I will always regret not trying to meet with you when Sherri took me to California a few years ago as a surprise birthday gift. Thinking back on our interactions here and on Facebook never fails to make me smile.

The people on this board are of a singular quality. I truly value everyone here.