Jordan Chartier

August 12, 1989 – July 30, 2013

Son, brother, grandson, nephew, cousin, friend.

His loss has changed us all and his absence is felt daily.

This sorrow filled year seemed to drag on forever and yet it feels far too soon to have arrived at the anniversary of his death. He would have been 25 this August – and we find ourselves immersed in memories of his childhood and in thoughts of the future we have lost; unfilled ambitions and dreams of the man he might have become. The emptiness, the flatness, of life without him, is stark and profound. There is nothing heroic or noble about grief.  It is painful hard work, and it lingers a long time.

We want to express our heartfelt gratitude for the love and support we have received this year – it truly meant the difference between standing and collapsing. We are also grateful to those who are honoring Jordan’s memory by committing their time and passion to the Neural Health Project; the first ripple in a much needed wave of change.

His spirit lives on in his family, his friends, and his community. We are all better people for having him in our lives and hearts. He was our light and our love. He “lived and laughed and loved and left” and the world will never be the same without him.

http://www.legacy.com/obituaries/thestarphoenix/

Grief fills the room of my absent child,

Lies in his bed, walks up and down with me,

Puts on his pretty looks, repeats his words,

Remembers me of all his gracious parts,

Stuffs out his vacant garments with his form.

William Shakespeare

He is gone, yet I see him everywhere; in actual memories and hopeful imaginations. I see him in the crows flying in the morning light. In the rainbows disappearing into a rolling field. I see him reflected in Niko’s eyes as we press our foreheads together in shared grief. Driving down a street I will catch a glimpse of a young man, head close shaved, hoodie up, coffee mug in hand and my heart momentarily leaps in hope.

I sit in the garden across from his empty chair and he is there; head tilted back, Niko at his feet, the sun warm on his face.

My God, I miss my boy. Every day, I expect to open the garage door and find him having a smoke in his favorite camping chair. Every day I expect this great hole inside of me to get just a little smaller, but instead it grows. I miss his laugh. I miss his calloused hands and his giant smelly feet. I miss his voice. I miss his dirty room. His wit. His smile. The way the crook of his neck smelled when he let me wrap my arms around him for a hug. I loved him long before he was even born and nothing, certainly not death, can diminish the love I feel. He travels with me always.

Those who are near me do not know that you are nearer to me than they are
Those who speak to me do not know that my heart is full with your unspoken words
Those who crowd in my path do not know that I am walking alone with you
Those who love me do not know that their love brings you to my heart

Rabindranath Tagore

 It is usually late at night when the weight of his absence falls most heavily, threatening to bring me to my knees. I find myself immersed in memories of his childhood and in thoughts of the future we have lost; of the man he might have become. The emptiness, the flatness of life without him, is stark and profound.There is nothing heroic or noble about grief.  It is painful hard work, and it lingers a long time.

Oh my sweet Jordan, you “lived and laughed and loved and left” and the world will never be the same without you. 

Invictus is a Victorian poem written by the English poet William Ernest Henley. The word invictus is Latin for “unconquered”. Nelson Mandela found strength and inspiration in the poem and would read it to his fellow prisoners in the Robben Island Jail. I printed out the poem and taped it to the kitchen cupboard just after Jordan got home from his first hospitalization in Penticton. I told him the background – that it had inspired Nelson Mandela to hang on and stay strong – and I told him that I believed with all my heart that he too had the strength to be the master of his fate, the captain of his soul.

Now both Jordan and Nelson are gone and the poem still faces me every time I reach for the salt and pepper. While a reminder of our lost hopes, the words still remain a source of comfort. I doubt we will ever take it down.

Out of the night that covers me,
Black as the pit from pole to pole,
I thank whatever gods may be
For my unconquerable soul.
In the fell clutch of circumstance
I have not winced nor cried aloud.
Under the bludgeonings of chance
My head is bloody, but unbowed.
Beyond this place of wrath and tears
Looms but the horror of the shade,
And yet the menace of the years
Finds, and shall find me, unafraid.
It matters not how strait the gate,
How charged with punishments the scroll,
I am the master of my fate;
I am the captain of my soul.

This past weekend I was once again reminded of why Saskatchewan is such an amazing place to live. When you live in a sparsely populated province that produces winters filled with snow and ice and brutally cold weather and then follows it with a “summer” of flooding and tornados – you have no choice but to rely on your neighbors. This land breeds hardy stock; folks who live their lives with integrity and authenticity. You won’t find six degrees of separation here – it usually only takes two to find a connection – to a cousin, a hockey team, a small town you lived in the year you worked a construction crew.

Spending time at the “cabin” (oh no, we don’t call it “cottage country” here in Saskatchewan) is another link that binds many of us together.

My family has been blessed by the foresight of my grandfather; who first camped at Sunset Bay on the shores of Emma Lake back in the 1940’s and then bought a lake front lot from Mr. Guise when he subdivided his land in the 50’s. The main cabin was built in 1958 and the “new” addition went on in the late 60’s. While we have made a few necessary renovations in the years since we took it over (like a sink in the bathroom and a deck that has more square feet than the cabin itself) it retains much of the original construction. We fondly refer to it as “the heritage site” – a place people can visit and reminisce about the good old days when you had an outhouse, an ice shed and you walked to the pump at the bottom of the hill for your drinking water.

We are surrounded by other fourth generation lake people and I used to recite the names of all the families on Guise beach during countless trips down the back lane, heading to the store at Macintosh Point.

Last July our Emma Lake friends and family were staggered by the sudden deaths of Jordan and of Ian Buckwold – two unexpected and tragic losses within weeks of each other. The support we have received has truly meant the difference between standing and collapsing. Last weekend we had the honor and the pleasure of gathering with many of our lake community to share a meal and witness the unveiling of The Neural Health project – an initiative that Greg and I firmly believe will change the outcome for all the other Jordan’s out there.

Greg has often talked about the layers that bipolar disease wrapped around Jordan’s mind and how those layers changed Jordan’s perception of the world and how others perceived him. But we always knew that somewhere in in his mind was still the real Jordan. So “Somewhere in Mind” feels like the perfect tag line for the Neural Health Project. We need to change the system. We need to get somewhere other than where we are. We don’t yet know exactly what that end result looks like, but it’s out there. We have somewhere in mind and we have started the journey towards it.

 It was such a humbling experience and I have searched for days to find words that would adequately express our gratitude to those involved for opening their hearts and their homes to host those spectacular dinners and for the passion with which they are approaching the neural health project.

Listening to them describe their vision and seeing how their message resonated with the audience, having people approach us during the evening to express their commitment to the project and to honoring Jordan – it touched us deeply.

It wasn’t an easy weekend – telling Jordan’s story always comes with an emotional cost. In my more selfish moments I sometimes wonder why I am fighting for the greater good when nothing I do will bring my boy back. And I am often left feeling guilty after sharing our experience – wondering what Jordan would think about us sharing his story so publicly and so honestly. Would he see it as a betrayal of his privacy or would he approve of us finding somewhere positive to direct our grief?

As we pulled away from the cabin Monday morning, a crow circled in the sky above and “Cups”  began to play on the radio. Message received son. We’ll carry on.