Fathers reflect on grief - MISS Foundation

Jimmy Carrauthers’ tattoos honor his stepson
Edwin, who died at age 10 in a brutal attack.
FINDING PURPOSE IN GRIEF
<strong>Fathers</strong> <strong>reflect</strong> on grief
<strong>Fathers</strong> often grieve in isolation, trying to be strong for everyone
else. This Father’s Day, we honor four Arizona fathers willing to
talk about this most difficult of journeys.
Jimmy Carrauthers
Edwin Anthony Pellecier, Jr.
Nov. 17, 1998 - Dec. 26, 2008
As Jimmy Carrauthers of Phoenix sits
down to talk about his late 10-year-old
stepson Edwin, he shares a treasure trove
of images of a beautiful little boy on the
tiny screen of his iPhone.
“To this day I walk around numb,”
says Carrauthers. “It’s something I’m still
trying to get used to.”
Carrauthers, who was in the Air Force
at the time, was dating Edwin’s mother,
Jessica, when he met the 2-year old and
his older brother, Anthony, in 2001. The
boys’ father was not a daily presence in
their lives. “I grew up without a father,”
Carrauthers says. “I didn’t want Edwin to
endure that absence as a child. I made a
point to be there for him.”
Though he and Jessica did not marry,
and eventually ended their relationship,
he stayed in contact with the boys. Edwin
was like a son to him and to this day
Carrauthers considers him his stepson.
“It wasn’t the traditional father/son
relationship; it was its own special thing,”
he says. “He was a friend, a buddy.”
Edwin was an animated, pure-hearted
child. In the eight years Carrauthers
knew him he saw a child who wasn’t
ready to grow up because he was having
too much fun. The little boy often served
as a subject for Carrauthers’ photography
and the short films he produced while
attending Collins College in Tempe,
working on his bachelor’s degree in film
and video production.
Edwin and his 8-year old cousin
Jesse were playing in a local park on a
clear December day in 2008 when they
were randomly, brutally attacked by a
schizophrenic man wielding a bat. As
traumatized family and friends kept
vigil at the boys’ bedsides for four
agonizing days, it became clear that
neither would recover.
“I lost a lot of faith that day, in that
hospital,” says Carrauthers. Both boys died
on the same day, Dec. 26. Jesse passed
first; Edwin died just hours later.
“Edwin and Jesse were inseparable,”
says Carrauthers. “They were my
inspiration. My photos and videos are all
I have left of them.”
A professional contact told him about
the MISS Foundation, an organization
dedicated to supporting families who
have lost children of any age, from any
cause. He joined a planning committee
for the 2010 MISS Conference, a
bi-annual event, and volunteered to
donate video and photography services.
“MISS opened doors for me. I met so
many people I could relate to—people
who understood, who appreciated
my work. They knew the difference
between sympathy and empathy,” says
Carrauthers. Like him, “they were
living it.”
Carrauthers’ goal after he left the
Air Force was to get into filmmaking,
but he is now on a different path, with
a different purpose. Before leaving
Arizona—and unimaginable, painful
times—behind, he will make a journey
to Tucson, where Edwin and Jesse are
buried. As this issue goes to press, he is
visiting family in Oklahoma before he
follows his Korean heritage and heads
to South Korea to teach English to
young children.
“There are things I need to do,” says
Carrauthers. “I’ve been lost. There’s more
to this. I’m trying to find it.”
Jason Freiwald
Braden Jason Freiwald
Oct. 4, 2004 - Mar. 23, 2008
Third in a series by Mary Ann Bashaw | Photos by Daniel Friedman
A healthy 3-year-old boy, brimming
with life, tends to take over a household.
Parents see to his constant needs and
marvel at his progress, rapid growth and
the positive qualities he is beginning to
exhibit as he socializes with siblings at
home and peers and adults at preschool.
June 2011 | raisingarizonakids.com 2

When a routine, outpatient procedure
becomes necessary, the parents become
extra vigilant, anticipating anxious
hours ahead but also the recovery at
home in loving, caring familiarity. This
is how it should have been for little
Braden Freiwald. But this is not how
it turned out.
“Braden was never sick,” says his
dad, Jason Freiwald of Chandler. “But he
had some issues with the swelling of his
tonsils and adenoids, so it was decided to
remove them.”
Braden was feeling a bit off the
night before and the morning of his
tonsillectomy, but he was cleared for
surgery. When he came home that
afternoon, his fever spiked and he
became lethargic. Freiwald and his wife
Billie were in constant contact with the
hospital, which relayed instructions
intended to reduce Braden’s fever and
keep him comfortable.
Braden slept with his mom that
night, with Freiwald in another room;
everyone needed to try to get some
3 raising arizona kids | June 2011
rest. But Freiwald awoke early the next
morning to his wife’s screams. Braden
was blue and not breathing. His shocked
parents called 911 and started CPR. He
was resuscitated and airlifted to Banner
Desert Samaritan Hospital in Mesa.
Braden had no brain function.
It was inconceivable to be losing
their young son this way. But Braden
never recovered. On Easter Sunday of
2008, four days after he returned to the
hospital, he was taken off of life support
and died.
In the midst of their shock and grief,
the family (Billie has two older children
from a previous marriage) put together a
loving tribute to Braden. More than 300
people came to the funeral, including
the paramedics who tried so desperately
to save his life. In the coming months,
Freiwald says, they would search “high
and low” for some kind of child-loss/grief
resources. They tried several counselors
and support groups before finding the
MISS Foundation. Freiwald discovered
that “it’s amazing what comes to the
Jason Freiwald of Chandler and a
portrait of his son, Braden.
surface and what you can learn from
others by sharing experiences.”
He was surprised to find that “family
and friends can’t be there in the capacity
you hope or expect; they go by the
wayside very soon afterward. People
expect you to get back to life as if nothing
happened.” He also discovered that dads
too often grieve in isolation, trying to be
strong for the rest of the family. Freiwald
felt open to therapy: “I trusted the process
and accepted that we needed outside help.
The MISS group became our family.”
He spent the first year after Braden’s
death “in a raw state. Life is wrapped
around the tragedy. Days and weeks
drag on, and then you don’t know what’s
coming one, two, five years ahead.” He
speaks of “emotional tidal waves” that
come with each benchmark, each holiday
and birthday.
Then came the decision to have
another child, with new fears thrown on
top of grief. Braden’s sister Hope was born
in July 2009, but not before Billie found
out two months into the pregnancy that
she had Stage III breast cancer and had to
undergo a double mastectomy.
Amid these experiences, Freiwald is
working to include Braden’s memory in
the mundane tasks of day-to-day life: “I
try to carry him with me and bring him
into the present. It helps fill the hole in
my heart.” A memorial for Braden is in
progress in the Healing Garden at Mercy
Gilbert Medical Center.
Freiwald believes that too many
dads don’t seek help—and should.
“Give it a try,” he recommends when
he encounters a grieving dad who resists
therapy. “How will it be any worse than
where you are now?”
Mark Eide
Kathryn Ellen Nicole Eide
Jan. 2, 1993 - Dec. 22, 2009
Mark Zackary Aspen Eide
Nov. 22, 1994 - Dec. 22, 2009
Many of us who live in the Valley have
made the trip to Casa Grande or Tucson.
We’ve driven along I-10, taking in the
sparse, open desert on both sides of the
highway. It is typically an uneventful,
even boring, drive. But something tragic
and indelible happened on this stretch of
asphalt. Mark Eide of Casa Grande, father
of two vibrant teenagers who lost their
lives here on Dec. 22, 2009, recounts the
story of their too-short lives. Katie was
16, days shy of her 17th birthday. Zack
had turned 15 the month before.
Just two grades apart, the siblings
were active in sports at Casa Grande
Union High School. Katie played club
volleyball. Zack was a runner—in both
cross country and track—and also played
club football, where his bright personality
and blond hair earned him the nickname
“Sunshine” from his coach.
“Zack never met a stranger,” says his
dad. “He would tackle you, then help
you up.”
The siblings were very close, although
they could push each other’s buttons.
Zack was interested in World War II guns.
He also liked bows and arrows and often
tried his hand at target practice. Katie
was dedicated to helping animals and
particularly interested in sea creatures. The
family—Eide and his wife Sandie also have
a 21-year-old son named Matthew—took
many road trips together.
Each child was offered a trip of their
choice upon high school graduation. Matt
chose Greece and Rome, where they all
went as a family. (Matt couldn’t stay at
the University of Arizona in Tucson after
the deaths of his siblings; he joined the
Coast Guard and left for boot camp last
month.) Katie spoke of Australia, so Eide,
his wife and Matt went scuba-diving off
the Great Barrier Reef on her birthday
this past January. Eide thinks Zack would
have chosen Alaska.
Eide and his wife were at work that
Tuesday when they got word of the
accident in which their children perished.
Before noon that day, a sudden dust storm
roared across I-10, causing a fiery crash
Mark Eide of Casa Grande with
photos of Katie and Zack.
June 2011 | raisingarizonakids.com 4

Jacob Blain Christen of Chandler
holds a picture of his infant son, Leo.
involving 13 passenger vehicles and nine
tractor-trailers. Katie was driving Zack
to the Dairy Queen at Picacho Peak to
rendezvous and spend a couple of days
with a friend who had recently moved to
Tucson. They would typically have gotten
onto I-10 near their home, further down
from where the accident happened. But
on this day, Katie first took Zack to his
girlfriend’s house so he could drop off her
Christmas present, a ring.
Several months after the accident,
the Eides found out about the MISS
Foundation. Eide was leery of support
groups: “I didn’t want someone to tell
me from a textbook how I should be
feeling.” Soon they met founder Joanne
Cacciatore, Ph.D., who has worked with
the Eides through her Center for Loss
and Trauma.
“It never leaves your mind,” Eide
says. “It consumes your entire being.
You think of all your plans….” His
voice trails off. He looks for comfort
in meaningful signs in his day-to-day
5 raising arizona kids | June 2011
routine, but even in his dreams he knows
that his children are gone.
Eide felt that it made people in town
“nervous and uncomfortable when I
talked about Katie and Zack, so for a
while I stopped. Then I decided these
were my babies. I’m going to talk about
them anyway.”
He notes people’s misperception that
grieving is “easier for the dad, since he
didn’t carry them in the womb.” But he
dismisses that theory, saying, “Everybody
grieves differently.”
He tries to take time as it comes, with
no expectation of what path his grief will
take, without anticipating “a magic point
where I’ll find peace.” He compares his
grief to a scab that never heals. Relief
comes at times, but then something about
his lost children simply tears off the scab
and the cycle repeats.
Support from Eide’s employer (he is
an electrician for Arizona Public Service),
the community and compassionate
friends has been invaluable. More than
1,000 people attended the memorial
service. A trust fund and scholarship have
been established in his children’s names.
Cacciatore has inspired Eide to work
with the city to build a memorial park
for Katie and Zack.
This wou ld have been K atie’s
graduation year. She would have gone to
the prom. Zack would have continued
to grow into the handsome, considerate
young man he was becoming.
“They were at the next stage of their
lives,” Eide says. “They were already
showing the positive traits of the kind
of people they were going to be.” This
thought brings him comfort, but
doesn’t fix anything. Grieving fathers
cope in different ways, he says, “but
the bottom line is everyone wants their
babies back.”
Jacob Blain Christen
Leonidas Lucien Blain Christen
Mar. 23, 2010 - April 8, 2010
As Jacob Blain Christen of Chandler,
a software developer, sits down to talk
about his late infant son, he cites a sad
irony. He has just filed his 2010 taxes
and, because of current tax laws, he is
able to claim Leo as a dependent. He
finds no redeeming value in this fact
but has nonetheless followed the filing
instructions.
The first sign of a problem came
21 weeks into his wife Jennifer’s first
pregnancy. At 26 weeks, her baby was
diagnosed with hypoplastic left heart
syndrome (also known as HLHS),
a rare congenital defect in which
the left side of the heart is severely
underdeveloped. To compound the
situation, Jennifer had pre-eclampsia—
hypertension in pregnancy—so the
welfare of both mother and baby were
of great concern.
Despite these obstacles, she gave
birth to a beautiful six-and-a-halfpound
baby boy. He seemed to have
none of the other developmenta l
issues associated with HLHS, but his
Men and grief
condition required being whisked away
to the neo-natal intensive care unit at
Phoenix Children’s Hospital. Eight
days later, Leo had his first surgery.
(HLHS babies typically must endure
a series of operations between birth
and age 4 before a more long-term
corrective procedure is performed.)
“After surgery he stabilized and looked
like he was recovering. His vitals looked
good,” says Blain Christen. His parents
kept a constant vigil at his side.
Blain Christen was lying on the
couch in Leo’s hospital room late that
April night, with Jennifer nearby, when
Leo’s heart stopped. A menacing alarm
sounded. Nurses rushed in and tried for
45 interminable minutes to revive him,
to no avail. A clot—always a risk with
this kind of newborn heart surgery—
was to blame. At 5 a.m., Christen and
his wife drove home, in separate cars,
without their son.
Through the fog of grief, the bereaved
couple searched online for support. “We
were sinking,” says Blain Christen.
Society pressures fathers to be strong and
stoic, holding up others. Emoting is seen as a
weakness.
<strong>Fathers</strong> typically feel overlooked, particularly
when they are so often asked, “How’s your wife/
partner?” instead of “How are you?”
Women’s friendships are based on emotional
connections that can help ease them through
grief. It’s difficult for men to seek support outside
the family.
They found MISS Foundation support
groups in Tempe and Peoria, which they
considered well worth the distance.
Blain Christen finds that relationships
with parents outside of the MISS group
have changed. “No one [outside of
MISS] mentions my son,” he says. MISS
is “the only place where people recognize
us as parents.”
The couple are expecting Leo’s little
sister in August. Jennifer is on bed rest
until then. Blain Christen admits to
feeling “happy and terrified at the same
time.” RAK
Mary Ann Bashaw, of Phoenix, is the mother of Claire
(20) and Hannah (17). This story is third in her 2011
series on “Finding Purpose in Grief.” Her earlier stories
are archived at raisingarizonakids.com.
reprinted from the june 2010 issue of
www.raisingarizonakids.com
“Feminine” mourning is emotion- and lossoriented.
“Masculine” mourning is task- and
restoration-oriented. There is nothing wrong with
either approach, as long as there is integration and
acceptance of both styles.
Grieving fathers should be free to do things in
their own way, in their own style, free of judgment
or pressure. The best way to help them is to listen
and just be there for them. When they are ready
to reach out they need patience, tolerance and
compassion from those around them, including
employers, peers and friends.
— Source: Joanne Cacciatore, Ph.D.,
founder of the MISS Foundation (missfoundation.org)
June 2011 | raisingarizonakids.com 6