I am writing this article over the Labor Day weekend. Since I was a teenager, this holiday has been linked to a tragic event in my family’s life. As I reflect on what happened that Labor Day many years ago, when my twin brother Michael and I were 16, I believe the roots of my ongoing interests and ideas about resilience in the face of loss most likely began then.
In other writings and in several of my presentations, I have described what occurred that day. My brother, Irwin, was 25 and recently married. He was an Air Force officer who flew cargo planes with a crew from his base in California to the Far East. On that fateful Labor Day weekend, a call came to our house in the middle of the night. I did not hear the phone ring, but later, when I woke up, I heard my parents crying. The call is one any parent dreads, announcing the death of their child.
Irwin’s plane crashed after a stopover in Guam, and there were no survivors. Weeks later, we learned that terrorists (before the term was even used) had placed a bomb on the plane. The last transmission from the plane came six minutes after takeoff from Guam.
I clearly remember the shock and despair that filled our lives. For the first few days, I felt numb. The first time I cried following the phone call to my parents was several days later, when The New York Times ran a story about the crash, listing Irwin’s name and those of the other airmen. The article noted that there were no survivors. Somehow, seeing his name in print confirmed that the crash had indeed occurred and that Irwin had perished.
Irwin’s body was never recovered. Our family sat shiva, a Jewish tradition in which family and friends visit the immediate family of the deceased after the funeral to offer condolences and support. However, without a body, there was no formal funeral. For months, I entertained a thought I knew, intellectually, was impossible. Since Irwin’s body had not been recovered, perhaps he and other crew members were still alive and stranded on a deserted island.
That fantasy was never realized.
It’s funny what I remember from that time. One practice Irwin started when he entered the Air Force was to send a postcard from every new city and/or country he visited, often with a witty comment. I always looked forward to those cards, and I realized we would never again receive another postcard, including one from Japan, which was scheduled to be his next assignment, one he and his wife were eagerly anticipating.
A Reaction to a Death
One family dynamic that persisted for the next couple of years was that my parents could not speak about Irwin; doing so would invite unbearable pain. They even removed a photo of him in his Air Force uniform from the family room. My brother Michael and I would talk with each other about his death, and we were also fortunate to have other adults, especially at our high school, provide emotional support.
For years, as I reflected on my parents’ reaction to Irwin’s death, I questioned whether they had coped effectively with his loss. An outside observer might label their primary strategy as denial because they avoided discussing him. However, years later, in both my roles as a son and a clinical psychologist, I became increasingly interested in resilience and in the different ways people handle loss.
My initial, somewhat naïve, view of my parents’ behavior after Irwin’s death shifted as I reflected on what constitutes healthy coping. I came to believe that their apparent “compartmentalization” of his passing allowed them to remain loving spouses, parents, and grandparents. A couple of years later, when they were ready to speak about him and put his Air Force photo back up, it marked an important step in their grieving process. As I was to learn, there is no single “right” way to cope and grieve. Certainly, the death of a child of any age is one of the most difficult losses anyone will ever face.
Resilience and Loss
My thoughts and emotions about Irwin’s death were heightened this Labor Day weekend because of a new book that my close friend and colleague Sam Goldstein and I are writing. It focuses on resilience in the face of a family loss. In an early chapter of the book, I describe the events surrounding and following my brother’s death. The next chapter, recently completed, explores the “healing power of connections.”
In my March 2024 article, after the passing of my oldest brother, Henry, I emphasized the importance of connections and a “community of caring” for people who have lost a family member. Feelings of connectedness and belonging are an integral component of resilience, especially during challenging times. I would like to share a few thoughts from our forthcoming book in this article. I am aware that doing so is also a way for me to honor the memory of Irwin, a loving, kind brother who, while serving our country, lost his life at such an early age.
While our connections with and support from others are critical to healing from loss, it is not unusual, especially immediately after a loss, for those most affected to be uncertain about the types of support they need at that moment. They are often overwhelmed by sadness, anxiety, and the disruptions the loss triggers. In turn, those wishing to help may be unsure how to proceed. At times, the person mourning may want others to be present, while at other times they may prefer to be alone.
Psychologist Karen Reivich, in her Foreword to Lucy Hone’s book Resilient Grieving: How to Find Your Way Through Devastating Loss, emphasized the role of friendships and family in helping the bereaved cope with loss, as well as the different forms this support might take. She wrote, “Some people immediately reached out to those they loved; others found it more helpful initially to withdraw into a much smaller and tighter circle; but nearly everyone found they were sustained by the deep and abiding knowledge that they were tethered to other people. At the core of what enables resilience is relationships.”
Reivich continued, “We cannot change the past. All we can do is show up for the present and work toward the future we want.”
Entering My Senior Year of High School
In New York City, the school year typically began the day after Labor Day. Michael and I returned to New Utrecht High School in Brooklyn the week after Irwin’s death. We had seen several of our close friends who had come to our apartment while we were sitting Shiva. I knew that friends we hadn’t spoken with about his death would offer condolences when we returned to school. I truly welcomed their words of comfort, but I admit I was glad they were brief. I felt emotionally exhausted.
I look back with gratitude for several of the faculty at New Utrecht. One, Mrs. Grossman, knew Irwin. I don’t even know how the conversation started, but I remember her telling me that the death of a child was probably the most painful loss one could experience. She added that it was sometimes very difficult for parents to even speak about their child’s passing for months or longer. In an empathic way, she offered answers to questions I hadn’t even asked. Her simple words helped me to better understand what my parents were experiencing. When I became a father, I understood her words even more clearly.
And there was Ms. Gelber, the faculty advisor to the Comet, the high school yearbook. She appointed me co-editor-in-chief, and I loved working on the yearbook and building a warm relationship with a close-knit group of students. As an editor, she encouraged me to write an essay for the Literary Section. I struggled to choose a topic, and she suggested I pick a theme that was important to me. I began to write an essay about the loss of a parent. Although what I wrote wasn’t about a brother, in looking back, I’m certain it was, in part, rooted in Irwin’s death.
Reading the essay years later, I found it deeply psychological (perhaps a foreshadowing of my future profession) and dominated by a mood of sadness, pessimism, and darkness (in contrast to the optimism and resilience that would become my major areas of interest as a psychologist). When I handed it to Ms. Gelber, I worried she would say it was not suitable for the yearbook because of the dark emotions it captured. I need not have worried. After she read it, she praised not only my writing but also the honesty with which I shared difficult feelings. She said it would enrich the yearbook. I will never forget that moment.
These experiences during my senior year of high school taught me that an empathic, caring, and validating community is essential to healing as best we can after a significant loss. Sometimes saying little while communicating to the bereaved that we are there for them now and in the future can be very comforting to them. I know this from firsthand experience.
September 11, 2001
The 25th anniversary of the heartbreak and devastation of 9/11 is just a few days away. On that day, I was working at my home office and turned on the news shortly before 9:00 a.m., unaware of anything out of the ordinary. I saw the World Trade Center on the screen and was chilled to see a fire on the top floors of the North Tower. I was horrified—as were millions of others watching television—to see another plane crash a few minutes later into the South Tower. Both planes had been hijacked after departing from Boston. Within moments, we all realized this was an act of terrorism on a scale never before seen on American soil.
I glanced at the family photos in the same room, including one of Irwin, and began to cry. What was unfolding on the television screen suddenly evoked images of Irwin’s plane exploding. I cried for Irwin and for all who died in the terror that day, not yet knowing how many lives would be lost or how many of their loved ones would be affected forever.
When my wife, Marilyn, returned from an errand and I told her what had happened, she could tell I had been crying. She hugged me and said something so simple yet so profound: “I wish I had been here so you wouldn’t have to cry alone.”
No one should have to cry alone.
Years later, I was invited by Tuesday’s Children to give a presentation in New York City. The organization was founded to support children who had lost a parent in the 9/11 terrorist attacks. The group recently changed its name to Tuesday’s Promise, as it expanded its focus, listing its mission as: “Tuesday’s Promise provides lifelong support, meaningful connection, and accessible programs for those affected by traumatic loss to empower individuals and families to build resilience at every stage of life.”
Speaking with the group was an emotional experience. They shared their stories of loss with me, and I was impressed by their resilience. It was clear they recognized the power of connection and knew no one should have to cry alone.