It is often said that parents are a child’s greatest teachers. Children indirectly learn by watching their parents navigate the world. But these days I often contemplate the question “who really teaches whom?” Do we teach our children, or do they teach us? I vividly remember a dinner at home one evening. My husband at the time, Izzy, and I were sitting around the table having our normal dinner time discussions in which Izzy would tell us about something he read or learned that day. Izzy was a bibliophile and could not get enough to read. His desire to learn was insatiable. We constantly told him we appreciate how much he teaches us each night. During this particular dinner my husband at the time told us a story of a meeting he had with a spiritual advisor when he was much younger. He explained that this person said he would marry a woman with a child who would “teach him about life” and he was convinced these type of dinner conversations were what the person was referencing. Izzy was in essence a curator of knowledge for us and imparted us with new insight each evening. Izzy baulked at the story and was suspicious of such a prediction. He said, “What am I going to teach you about life?”

I am now confident in saying that my child has taught me more about life than I have taught him.

I wonder if Gail feels the same way about Kyle. In listening to her talk about the way he advocated for those around him, I assume that he did so because he learned the importance of taking care of those in need by watching his parents. So, was Kyle an advocate because Gail was? Or is she now an advocate for those in need because Kyle had been? Perhaps she is following in his footsteps rather than he was following in hers.

I often think we who lost children by any means, have learned unspeakable volumes from being their mothers. The more we contemplate our interactions with them, the more we can learn.

It is as if we have this treasure chest of wisdom gems bequeathed to us upon their death. It is often too difficult to open and search through it immediately following their death. Time is needed as a buffer before we can accurately sort through and appraise the jewels enclosed in the chest. Once we make time to dive into the treasure trove, we can select which gems we want to wear daily, which ones we want to bring out for special occasions, and which ones we want to keep locked up because they are too precious to risk sharing with anyone.

Gail’s son Kyle reminds me of my son in that they wanted to live life on their terms. They both seemed to be idealists who longed to live in a world that was fair and just. Both Gail and I are each striving in our own ways to bring our sons’ visions of the world closer to reality. One way we do this is by openly speaking about suicide with the hopes that the stigma surrounding it will eventually be eradicated.