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INDEXEleven sections, 173rd year, No. 61Copyright 2013,The Cincinnati Enquirer

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THERULESOFGRIEVING

You don’t haveto say anything.

It is OK to cry.

It is fineto eat pizza. Follow these boys through

a school year at Moelleras they emerge from

the loss of their parents.

A special section

SUNDAY, JUNE 9, 2013 CINCINNATI.COM /CINCINNATIENQUIRER @CINCIENQUIRER OHIO

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Theyarestillboys

Through a school year atMoeller High, a group of boyslearns to grieve.Changed

forever, they have lost theirparents – but not themselves.

THE ENQUIRER /// SUNDAY, JUNE 9, 2013 S1

Phillip Bryant has only one memoryof his mother and it feels like adream. It is the morning and he is4 years old and he is standing nextto her bed. He is wearing pajamasand he is shaking her hand trying

to wake her up, but he cannot.Her hand is so cold.Phillip is 17 now, and it is the start of his

junior year at ArchbishopMoeller HighSchool. He sits in a room between the nurse’soffice and the chapel, attending the all-maleschool’s grief support group. Eight boxes ofpizza and two large, flat Tupperware contain-ers holding chocolate chip cookies are readyfor the boys. The cookies are baked perfectly,pulled from the oven just a touch short ofdone by the mother of a freshman who hadn’tlost anybody. She heard about the group andwanted to do something nice. The food sits ona chair next to a conference table surroundedby boys, who never stop eating.

Phillip looks at the faces around the table.Some of the boys are friends he has knownfor years. Some are freshman he has nevermet. Each boy introduces himself and sayswho has died. Some have lost a friend or agrandfather, but most have lost a parent. ❯❯

Story by John FahertyPhotos by Carrie Cochran

THE RULES OF GRIEVING

The Smallwood brothers, ChuckandWilliam, lost their dad to liverdisease in 2011. Chuck keeps his hairlong. William keeps his short. Boththink it is important that people knowtheir father’s liver disease was genet-ic, not because of drinking.

Andrew Kraus lost his father andstill doesn’t like to hear his namecalled out over the school intercom,because that’s how he was summonedto the office in January 2012. Hismother was there, and the news wasbad.

Zach Deck’s mother, Jaimie, diedin 2010 when she was 32. She diedsuddenly, at home, after a blood clot

broke loose and entered her lungs.Zach woke that night to the sound of apanicked call from his stepfather to911. He still cringes each time hehears a siren.

Phillip will learn their stories thisyear, but on this day he will keep hismemory of his mother close. It is nota secret really, it is just his own. May-be he will share it later.

Today he has other concerns. Phil-lip is just beginning to realize thetruth of his latest loss: He is an or-phan. He has no parents, no moneybeyond a monthly Social Securitysurvivor’s check and suddenly it feelslike he has nowhere to go.

Many children have lost or will lose a parent. A full 3.5 percent ofchildren younger than 18 will lose their mother or father, according to theSocial Security Administration. As people now become parents whenthey are older, this number is likely to increase.

Parental death is one of the most traumatic things that can happen toa child. It increases the risk of mental health problems, including de-pression, anxiety and post-traumatic stress symptoms. It can also meanless academic success and low self-esteem.

But children do not have to fall victim to their grief. A six-year studyof 244 youths by researchers at Arizona State University shows thatchildren who work through their emotions will heal better. That childrenwho work in groups will realize that they are not alone and that theirfeelings are legitimate.

» Phillip Bryant finds comfort in this crucifix. He explains why itmatters so much to him. Watch the video at Cincinnati.com.

A photo of PhillipBryant Sr., above,before the accidentthat would changehis life. Peopleoften tell PhillipBryant Jr., left, howmuch he looks likehis father.

S2 SUNDAY, JUNE 9, 2013 /// THE ENQUIRER

The Oct. 3 meeting is thefirst grief group meetingof the school year. The airis still warm, the sun isbright, summer is hangingon.

Sheila Munafo-Kanoza and PatBuckley, two women with ties toMoeller and an intimacy with grief,will lead the group. They look likemoms.

Munafo-Kanoza explains the firstthree rules of the group: You do nothave to say anything, it is OK to cry, itis fine to eat pizza. The recitation ofthe last rule was not necessary; all ofthe boys are already sitting beforepaper plates they have stacked withsometimes four and five pieces ofpizza. The stacks are high enough to

actually lean.Munafo-Kanoza asks the boys to

hold their hands in front of them andmake a fist. A tight fist. This, shesays, is what grief can feel like. Thenshe asks them to wiggle their fingersand loosen the muscles up their arms.Their bodies relax, their hands be-come useful. This, she says, is whatworking through grief can do to yourwhole person. It will not be easy, shesays, but it will work.

ThenMunafo-Kanoza takes out anold backpack. It is filled with rocks.She tells the boys to pass the back-pack around and to remove one rockeach. The rocks have words on them.The boys look around. This feels alittle trite, but they are good boys anddo what they are told. As the bag

moves around the table, each re-moves a rock. Some notice the bag isnow held together by duct tape. Thisbag has been filled with rocks before.This is not its first table.

The words taped to the rocks aredifficult, the emotions are the onesthey are not supposed to talk about.The boys start talking.

“I’m angry all the time.” Aboutwhat? “Life in general.”

“I feel cheated.”Chuck says that, every time the

family goes out to dinner, just himand his mother and his brother, hekeeps looking at the empty chair atthe table.

“Every table in the world has fourchairs, and we have to sit there, afamily of three,” Chuck says. “Youlook at that chair and it feels like youare missing somebody.”

Zach feels guilty when he doessomething wrong. “I feel guilty aboutthe stuff I do, the stupid decisions Imake,” Zach says. “I feel like it woulddisappoint mymom.”

Will, Chuck’s brother, talks aboutguilt. He remembers his father’s lastweeks in October 2011. After nearly adecade of illness, his liver failure wasacute. He was in hospice. “I wish Icould have helped himmore,” Willsays. “At the end, he was always thir-sty, but I couldn’t even give him wa-ter because he was on dialysis. Therewas a sink right next to him, but Icouldn’t even give him water.”

The boys all sit very still and beginto look at their hands. They under-stand this type of pain and respect it.They all seem afraid to move. Theroom is quiet now, andWill continues.

“The last night, I held my dad’shand. He was sedated, so he was kindof out of it. But it felt like he wasafraid. I kind of thought I should staythat night, but I went home. Threehours later mymother called and hehad died.”

But Phillip stays quiet.Phillip’s mother died in December

2001. He is not exactly sure how shedied at a young age. There was a backsurgery, she reacted poorly to themedicine and her heart failed.

But that was just the beginning. In2008, Phillip’s father, Phillip BryantSr., a roofer, was working on an elab-orate structure on family propertytwo hours outside of town. It wasn’treally a home, and it wasn’t really atree house. It was 1,200 square feet,and it was up in the trees.

On Labor Day weekend in 2008,Phillip’s father was working on thestructure. He took a break, fellasleep, rolled from the tree house,landed on his head and broke hisneck. Phillip’s one parent was badlybroken, but he survived as a quadri-plegic.

Phillip and his father were close.The son took care of father, bandag-ing bedsores and helping with every-thing. They could not enjoy physicalactivities, but they could speak forhours. And they did.

Phillip’s father lived for four yearsuntil the night of June 19, 2012. Phillipheld his father’s hand that night, afterhis father had died, until it began togrow cold like his mother’s hand.

The standard of care for dec-ades for children who had suf-fered a loss did not help. Think-ing it was best, adults urgedchildren to move past their lossas quickly as possible. Mourningwas broken.

“Children have always beenthe forgotten grievers,” saidAndy McNiel, executive directorof the National Alliance forGrieving Children. “The ideawas that they would forgetabout it. That it was too muchfor them to handle, that theywould be better off if we pre-tended it didn’t happen. None ofthat was true. They may stoptalking about it, but they arealways thinking about it.”

This, McNiel said, couldmake children withdraw orbecome angry. They might workthrough their feelings in un-healthy ways. Then, as adults,they might not trust people.They could become stuck intheir grief.

“You hear about it all thetime from adults who lost theirparents when they were kids,”McNiel said. “It impacted mymarriage, it impacted how Iraised my kids, it impacted mywork. It doesn’t stop.”

Sheila Munafo-Kanoza, left, and PatBuckley, below, are the the leaders of theMoeller grief support group. They bothhave suffered losses in their own lives.Munafo-Kanoza lost her husband andBuckley her son.


Nov. 8 feels like fall. Thehigh temperature willbe only 52 degrees andthe air is still. It is acasual dress day atMoeller. The boys wear

sweat pants and T-shirts. Their hair isthe kind of messy you see only at anall-boys school.

Buckley andMunafo-Kanoza tellthe boys they will start in the chapel,where each boy will light a candle forthe person he has lost. One by onethey walk to a table in front of thealtar, pick up the lighter and saywhom they have lost.

“I light this candle for my dad,” “Ilight this candle for my grandmoth-er,” “I light this candle for my bestfriend,” “I light this candle for mydad,” “I light this candle for my dad.”...

They are so casual in the way theysay it, there are no tears, no drama.Their loss has become part of themnow. But as the first boys go back totheir seats, the scope of the loss in theroom becomes clear. The candlesbegin to cast shadows in the darkroom. They boys sit and wait for theprocession to end.

Then they go back to their regularmeeting room and start eating pizza.

“It’s good to take time to remem-ber those who have died,” Buckleysays. “Sometimes when there is dark-ness, seeing a little bit of light is im-portant.”

On this day, math teacher JamesJewell sits at the table. Buckley andMunafo-Kanoza invite teachers to thegroup meetings to show the studentsthat adults have grief to work throughas well. They do it for another reason,too: It is a good reminder to the teach-ers that some kids might seem likethey are having a hard day because,in fact, they are having a hard day.

Mr. Jewell is holding a pair of bin-oculars. He tells the students that hegrew up with seven sisters, so he andhis father were close. When he wasabout 13 or so, he would go trappingwith his father to sell the skins formoney. “We grew up rural,” he says tothe astounded boys.

One morning, Mr. Jewell tells thegroup, his father mentioned, casually,how he wished he had a good pair ofbinoculars. So the boy saved his mon-ey from the skins, right up to thedime, and one day bought the bestpair of binoculars at the local huntingshop. The store owner, Mr. Jewellremembered, offered to pay the taxon the binoculars since the boy didn’tknow such a thing even existed.

Mr. Jewell’s father died when hewas 19, and now he sat before theboys, in his 60s, telling the story, hold-ing the binoculars, tears runningdown his checks. “These bring back alot of fond memories for me,” he said.“I’m crying now, but these are reallygood memories.”

The boys sit mesmerized. An adult— a teacher, no less — sharing a storythey could be telling themselves. Andhe remains so affected by the deathof his father, who has been gone forso long. For the students sittingaround the table, it feels like proofthat what they are going through isreal.

Zach goes first after Mr. Jewell.He shows a photo of his mother,standing in her kitchen. He has car-ried the photo since she died. He likesit, he says, because she looks pretty,

and because she is smiling. “Hersmile was nice, but when you lookclosely, you can see her teeth aren’tperfect. She was country.”

He tells the group how he left thephoto in his pocket one day when hewashed his pants. The photo lostmuch of its luster. “Oh, man, I criedfor four days,” he says.

The Smallwood brothers share aradio that their dad used to listen to.He loved Kentucky basketball andReds baseball.

Andrew speaks of a photograph.But this is not a photograph of hisfather, it is a photo of Andrew. An-drew’s parents were long divorced.Andrew’s mother was, by a wide mar-gin, the more stable of the two par-ents. His father had seen hard times.Andrew said, “He loved me the sameas any dad, he just made bad deci-sions.”

Some days it seemed all the two ofthem could talk about was sports. Onone of those days, Andrew told hisfather he was giving up soccer andwould pursue football. His fatherthought this was a terrible idea. Youare too small, he said. Soccer is yourbest sport, he said. But Andrew couldnot be swayed. Somehow this seem-ingly small deal became a big issueeven though everybody knew it

should not.After his father died, Andrew and

his sister went to their dad’s home toclean out his belongings. That’s whenhe found it. “I found something in hispillowcase. It was a Cincinnati En-quirer photo from last year. My pic-ture was in the paper playing football.He thought that was outstanding,”Andrew said. “When I found that inhis pillowcase, that made me feelreally good. He was proud of me.”

Phillip understood this story about

fathers and sons and sports. Phillipchanged sports with every season.Football, basketball, baseball as a boy.He loved to see his dad at the games.After his fall from the tree house,Phillip’s father could not go to gamesoften. But they could talk about thegames when Phillip came home. Nowhe had nobody to talk to.

Phillip was living with his grand-mother, his father’s mother, but it wasnot working. It did not feel like fam-ily.

Archbishop Moeller High School would not seem to be a place thatwould be on the leading edge of changes in how people grieve. Since itopened its doors, it has stood as a traditional example of an already tra-ditional type: the all-male Catholic high school. The school emphasizesfaith, academics and athletics while forming its ideal, the Man of Moeller.

But the school’s motto, “Nova bella elegit Dominus,” from the book ofJudges, 5:8, speaks to what may seem a surprising mission. It translatesas: “The Lord has chosen new wars.”

This battle was chosen on Sept. 28, 2000, when a beloved teacher col-lapsed in a hallway and died. Jim Crone was an institution at Moeller. Hegraduated in 1965, the school’s second graduating class. He went to col-lege and returned four years later to begin his teaching career. It felt likehe had been there forever. His death rattled the students, so the schoolbrought in Buckley and Munafo-Kanoza, two women familiar with griefand Moeller. They are with Companions on a Journey, which providesgrief support to children, teens and adults.

Buckley andMunafo-Kanozamet one-on-one with each student who hadseen their teacher fall. That was the beginning of the grief group at Moeller.

Moeller math teacher James Jewell holds his father'sbinoculars. Mr. Jewell's father died when he was 19. As a kid,he saved enough money to buy the binoculars for his father.

» Chuck Smallwood, top, and Will Smallwood, above,lost their father. They speak about their memories of

their dad, including his love of the Reds baseball andKentucky basketball. Watch the videos at Cincinnati.com.



The skies are dark and rainis falling, but the mood isebullient at the start of theDec. 4 meeting. Threedays earlier, the Moellerfootball team had won the

state football title, the first in 27years for a school that prides itself onathletic accomplishment. Four of theboys sitting at the table this day weremembers of the team.

And perhaps equally exciting,today there are burritos. Bags ofChipotle sit on the table, and, ofcourse, more cookies. For teenageboys, grief does not mean losing yourappetite. After a fewminutes of chat-ter and gorging, Buckley calls forattention. “OK, boys, if you could putyour food down, we’re going to pray.”

Munafo-Kanoza takes out a stackof pink pieces of paper. Across thetop, underlined, it reads: “The Griev-er’s Holiday Bill of Rights.” It in-

cludes a series of reminders thatthese boys are allowed to be happy ornot during this season. That they areallowed to honor family traditions,begin new ones or simply withdraw ifthat is what they need.

The second right tells the boys thatwhen somebody asks them how theyare doing, they can tell the truth, orsimply smile and say they are fine. Itis their choice.

Munafo-Kanoza then tells the boysthey will be making Christmas orna-ments today. They are instructed toinclude a note to their loved one. “Tellthem how you are doing. A little mes-sage. Maybe you want to say: Dad, wewon state. Or I got an ‘A.’ Or maybe:Dad, I’m doing better.”

They all start with their notes.They lean over the small pieces ofpaper and scrunch their faces writingnotes in elfin print.

And these boys are, uniformly,

awful at arts and crafts. Their handsare quickly covered with glue, theirornaments look like globs. They aresloppy and nonsensical. But theirnotes to those they have lost aresomehow elegant.

Chuck says: “A lot of times when Iwrite something to my dad, I hope hislife is a little bit better. He was sickevery day for nine years,” pausing tocount the years on his fingers. “So Ijust wrote that I hope he is relaxingand enjoying himself.”

His brother Will draws a hammerbecause his father was “a hard guy,” across because of his faith and a foot-ball because he loved football. Thenhe explains why he added 42 stars tothe ornament. “Because when he wasin college, he won a Twinkie-eatingcontest by eating 42 Twinkies.”

The room laughs.Zach announces that he wrote “You

are my sunshine” because this wasthe song his mother used to sing tohim. Then, he goes to back to work,humming, quietly. It seems he thinksnobody else can hear him.

It is not clear if she did know, orZach does know, the lament of thatsong recorded by many and madefamous by Ricky Nelson, Willie Nel-son and Ray Charles:

You are my sunshine,my only sunshine,You make me happywhen skies are gray.You’ll never know dear,howmuch I love you,Please don’t take my sunshine away.The other night dear,as I lay sleeping,I dreamed I held you in my arms,When I awoke dear, I was mistaken,And I held my head and cried.You are my sunshine,my only sunshine.

This will be Zach’s third Christmaswithout his mother. It will be Will andChuck’s second Christmas withouttheir father. It will be Andrew’s firstwithout his dad.

Phillip has been through 11Christ-mases without his mother. But he hadalways had his father. Now his dad isgone, too.

And living with his grandmother isnot a good fit. She still has not givenhim a key to the house, so sometimeshe sits and waits for her to comehome.

Other families look out for him. Hetries not to wear out his welcomeanywhere, so he rotates friends’homes to spend weekends. The Freyfamily, which had known him foryears through their daughter, takeshim on boating trips. He works on hiscar with his coach.

Phillip wants a family and thinkssometimes of asking to move in withhis friend John. But he never does. Itis John’s last year of high school, andPhillip thinks he should have thattime alone with his dad.

But Phillip stays quiet.

Sheila Munafo-Kanoza andPat Buckley have both experi-enced grief and a connection toMoeller. Munafo-Kanoza’s hus-band, Vince, died after a longillness on their son’s first day atMoeller in 1993. Buckley’s sonDan, a Moeller graduate, waskilled outside of a St. Louis barin 1995 after coming to the de-fense of a woman who was beingharassed by some patrons.

The two deaths could not havebeenmore different, but bothwomen say they were buttressedby the support they receivedfrom theMoeller community.They also knew firsthand thedifficulty for children of mourn-ing. Munafo-Kanoza’s three chil-dren had to mourn their father.Buckley’s daughter and remain-ing five sons had to experiencethe loss of their brother.

“We both knew children weregrieving at Moeller,” Buckleysaid. “Our sons were grieving atMoeller.”They both knew chil-dren needed help through theprocess. The two womenmet andbecame close on the Rome trip in2000 and began discussing waysto form a grief group at Moeller.

» Zach Deck’s mother died in2010. Zach still keeps the stuffed

dog she, and his stepfather, gave himwhen his sister was born. Sometimes heis afraid people will forget his mother.Watch the video at Cincinnati.com.


After a prayer, Munafo-Kanoza begins the Jan. 8meeting by asking theboys about their Christ-mas. It is a warmwinterday, and the boys look

like they would still like to be onChristmas vacation. They all say fine.It was just fine. “It was great,” Zachsaid. “I got a pingpong table and re-mained ungrounded.”

Some of the eight pizzas today havefrench fries as a topping. They wentfirst.

Math teacher Connie Ring is withthe group today. Mrs. Ring tells thestory of losing her stepfather whenshe was 10, in a car accident.

“On his way to work,” Mrs. Ringsays of the crash that killed him. “Daddidn’t come home.” Her response wasto withdraw from the world aroundhere. To shut down emotionally. Shestayed that way, she says, for 15 years.Mrs. Ring chose math because it pro-vided right answers and wrong. Whendone properly there is no confusion.

The boys sit quietly and nod theirheads. This makes sense to them.

Eventually, Mrs. Ring re-enteredthe world. Today she is married withtwo children and happy.

“I am so impressed by you guys,”Mrs. Ring said, looking around thetable. “As high school students youknow you cannot go through thingsalone, that you need to express your-self and to feel things. You guys arewalking through your new normal asteenagers.”

Then the boys begin to talk. Onebegins about the burden he feels athome. The family dinners he feelscompelled to sit though, even when hewould rather, sometimes, just sit in hisroom. He has more things to do now athome, because his father is no longerthere. And worse, nobody can teachhim how to do them. “Sometimes I getangry because now I am theman ofthe house.”

Munafo-Kanoza stops him cold.This, she says, is not true. And itmakes her a little crazy. A boy doesnot become theman of the house whenhis father dies. It is not fair, it is notright, and she hears it all the time. Sheasks the boys who lost their father ifthey had heard that now they were theman of the house. They all raise theirhands, sheepishly, as if it was theywho did something wrong.

“I hate it when I hear that at a fu-neral. Some person says to a youngman: ‘Now you are the man of thehouse,’ ” Munafo-Kanoza says, gainingsteam. Clearly, this sentiment wasexpressed to her sons when their fa-ther died. “And all of those boys, youcan see their shoulders slump. You canfeel the weight on them. It’s not true.You are not men. You are still boys.It’s too much.”

Then she asks the boys how theyare really doing. She wants to knowwhere they have peace of balance.

Chuck, the long-haired Smallwoodbrother, says his strength is to perse-vere. His father fought to the end, hesays, so he can too. He finds solace inmusic. “I feel most balanced when Iam listening to music or playing theguitar,” Chuck says. “I don’t have tothink or remember. It’s just my ownlittle spot.”

Will, the short-haired brother, sayshe feels most balanced when he iswrestling or training. “People think itmakes me feel alive because I get to

inflict pain, but it’s not that. I feelmore pain most times. It reminds methat I am alive.”

Andrew says he feels best when hegoes to church or spends time with hismother or when he is running track.“It feels like my dad is running withme.”

Phillip sits quietly at the table. Overthe Christmas vacation, his relation-ship with his grandmother had deteri-orated completely. Terri and RobertFrey, with three children of their own,could not stand by and watch.

“Oh, my God, I love him,” Terrisaid. “He was changing bedsore ban-dages, things no teenage boy shouldhave to do. And nobody should bewithout a home at Christmas.”

Phillip was at the Freys’ homewhen he learned on Christmas Evethat he needed a place to stay. TerriFrey could not stand by any longer. “Iwanted him to be with family onChristmas,” she said. “I wanted him towake up on Christmasmorning sur-rounded by love.”

Terri spoke with Robert. They hadthree children of their own and twojobs. And so they planned to have a

long discussion. It took a couple ofminutes.

Over Christmas break, Mr. andMrs. Frey bought a futon and carvedout a room for Phillip in their alreadycrowded house. “He never had a keyto his grandmother’s home,” Terrisaid. “The first thing we did when hemoved in was give him a key and say:‘This house is your home.’ ”

They spoke to Phillip’s grandmoth-er about becoming his legal guardians.She thought it was the right idea. Thenthey went and spoke to administratorsat Moeller and filled out paperwork.

“On the form, it says: ‘Are you indanger of being homeless?’ We had tocheck yes, and I started crying,” Mrs.

Frey said, and then she cried again. “Iwould never let that happen.”

On this day, Phillip speaks.Maybe he feels it is time. Maybe

the math teacher’s story gets to him.Maybe he is feeling comfortable in areal home for the first time in a longtime. Maybe he just has something tosay.

He talks like the story has beenrunning in his head. Like people allknow the beginning and he can juststart in the middle. “My dad fell whenhe was building a tree house. It’s a bigtree house, like 1,200 feet. I’d like tofinish that sometime for himwhen Igrow older,” Phillip said. “It’s a bigtree house. Like a house in the trees.”

Grieving for children has changed significantly over the past three dec-ades. The idea that children should be protected from death replaced bythe notion that childrenmust confront their feelings. That they should talkabout it and cry about it and share their experiences.

Now psychiatrists and therapists, and seemingly every person connect-ed to the field of grief, agree that the chances for a child to grow in to ahealthy and well-adjusted adult can be improved by working through thegrief. It has become the standard of care.

It seems, perhaps, William Shakespeare was right in “King Henry VI,”in which he wrote: “To weep is to make less the depth of grief.”

Connie Ring, a math teacher at Moeller, holds a photo of her stepfather. Her stepfather died in a caraccident when she was 10, and she says that she withdrew from the world for 15 years.


On Feb. 6, a new boy sitsin the classroom. Hedid not lose a parent,but the death is recentand the pain is real.He does not seem to

know where to look or what to say, soBuckley asks the rest of the people togive him some advice.

Phillip speaks first. “I would say tothank the people that are there foryou. So many people will help, makesure you thank them right away. It’shard to remember later.”

Andrew advises the new boy tokeep coming to these sessions. Hesays it helps him. “There are so manypeople going through what I was go-ing through. I could talk about ithere.”

Chuck warns him to be careful of“regular stuff.” That, he says, is whatcan really knock you down. “Stuffaround the house can get you,” Chucksays. “A toaster or a coffee makerthat they used to use, and now it’s justthere. Kind of a reminder that he isnot using it.”

Again, the room grows quiet. Someof these boys have been in these ses-

sions for half their high school years.They know when it is best to be still.

This would be the new boy’s firstand last meeting.

Munafo-Kanoza lets the roombreathe for a moment, then she handsout paper and pens. “I want you towrite you a letter, as if you are yourbest friend.” She advises them to givethemselves advice. To focus on areasthey knowmight need improvement.

The boys look down at their paper,then at Buckley andMunafo-Kanoza,then at each other. This is a highschool boy’s existential crisis.

The questions begin:“So wait, who am I?”“Do I know everything about me?

Because there is stuff even my bestfriend doesn’t know.”

Buckley settles them down. “Comeon guys. This is you writing to you.You know everything.”

These are good boys. They pick uptheir pens, lower their foreheadsclose to the table and begin writing.

After 10 minutes, Munafo-Kanozaasks the boys about their letters. Shetells them they can say what theywrote, or they can talk about what

they were thinking when they wroteit.

Andrew goes first. “I always gotmy homework done before my daddied. Then I stopped. My junior yearwas a disaster,” says Andrew, now asenior. “I’m getting back to working. Itold myself to keep doing that and tobelieve in myself.”

This is a common theme. Munafo-Kanoza asks the boys to raise theirhands if they have lost their confi-dence since their loss. They all raisetheir hands. Confidence in high schoolis tenuous enough that losing some-body will steal it away. It is hard toget back.

Zach praises himself in his letter.He is proud of some of his changes. “Itold myself – I know, funny, right? –that I started going to church. I don’tcuss anymore and I’m working onbeing less prejudiced.”

Chuck tells himself to work on hisanxiety, to make better decisions, andnot to try to change himself to pleaseothers.

Will sends himself a quote he hadlearned. “I am not shackled by fear,insecurity or doubt. I feel those emo-tions, drink them in and then swallowthem away to the blackness of hell. Iammotivated by accomplishment, notpride. Pride consumes the weak, killstheir heart from within. If I fall, I willget up. If I am beaten, I will return.”

Will is not eating pizza this daybecause he needs to make weight forwrestling. He looks up from his letterand says: “I like to look up motiva-tional quotes online sometimes to getmyself going.”

Phillip is brief and to the pointeven with himself. His letter, he says,was simple. “I told myself to not putup a barrier around me. I do that alot.” This touches a collective nerve.All of the boys seem to be self awareenough that they are trying to protectthemselves from further hurt andloss. They do not know exactly whatto do about it, but they know it is true.

Munafo-Kanoza has led these

groups enough that she knows a mo-ment when she hears one. She jumpsin. “Imagine if you had put up thatbarrier around you with the personyou lost. You would have such re-grets.”

One of the boys says his fatherdied when he was in eighth grade, andwhen it was time to go to the funeral,the family realized that the fatherwas the only one who knew how to tiea tie. “My uncle had to come over andtie it for me.”

Buckley ends the meeting with aprayer. Munafo-Kanoza tells the boysto find a quote they like and to reallyread it. Then she shares her own:“Hope is faith holding out its hand inthe dark.”

Phillip has a stable home life nowfor the first time in his memory. Helives in a house with a mom and a dad.He does not call themMom and Dad,but they have made him a home. Heeats dinner with them every night.Mrs. Frey even goes to his rugbygames.

At a high school rugby game, thereare sometimes a total of 15 “fans.” Ahandful of moms, some grandparents,a girlfriend or two and a couple ofkids who were probably stuck atschool waiting for a ride. Terri Freywatches the games with almost nounderstanding of what is happening.Most around her don’t know either.But she is there. She feels like sheneeds to be.

Over the past 25 years, teengrief counseling has become anestablished discipline. When theFernside Center For GrievingChildren open its doors 27 yearsago, it was the second child-centric grieving center in thecountry. It served 16 children.Last year, the center in Blue Ashhelped 1,300 children grieve.And now there are more than300 centers like it across thecountry.

Vicky Ott is the executivedirector at Fernside. She seesthe work it can do. “A child thatis given the opportunity to proc-ess their grief is able to beginthe healing process now insteadof later or even as an adult whenother issues may arise. We hearfrom so many people, oftenadults volunteers at Fernside,that they wish there had been aFernside for themwhen theyexperienced a death as a child.”

» Andrew Kraus lost his dad in Januaryof 2012. Andrew knows his father

loved him, but it is good to be reminded.Watch the video at Cincinnati.com.


When the boys meetonMarch 8, it feelslike the school yearhas tilted. The dayis cold, winterwon’t let go, but

people are beginning to look forward.There is a nervous energy in theroom, but the boys are still hungry.

The stacks of pizza form on plates,and the eating begins in earnest.Buckley has raised six sons of herown and tunes her voice to the rightpitch to gather their attention. “Putyour pizza down and bow your heads.It’s time for prayer.” The boys smileand do as they are told.

Munafo-Kanoza says she wants totalk about forgiveness and asks themif it is hard. Andrew’s father died of adrug overdose. He says he wishes hehad knownmore about his father’stroubles. He wishes he could havehelped himmore.

One of the boys says he has a hardtime forgiving himself for going to abasketball game when his father wasin hospice. “I wished I had spent thattime with him. I think maybe Ithought he wasn’t really going to die.But he did.”

Buckley reminds the boy that hewas only in eighth grade when hisfather died. And then she remindshim that his father was probablythrilled that his son was playing agame. “I promise you, your fatherwould have wanted you to be playingbasketball.”

Chuck then discusses the some-times-excruciating pain of losing afather who was sick. “During thattime, you kind of wished he could bebetter. That makes me feel bad,” thenhis voice slows. “Don’t get me wrong,I was glad to help. I would be glad todo anything to have him around justone day.”

After their father’s death, thebrothers were approached by JimElfers, the director of Moeller’s Pas-toral Ministry program. Elfers talksto all students who suffer a loss andinvites them to attend the grief group.

The group becomes a brotherhood.The boys are all very different. Someof the freshman look like children.Some of the seniors look like grownmen. There are cool kids and musickids and jocks and nerds. They aretied together only by their loss, andthis group. But that connection mat-ters.

They stop each other in the halland ask how they are doing. Some-times they sit together at lunch.Sometimes they just nod and smile.Andrew says it is enough to knowthere are other students goingthrough what he is going through. Hethen tells the class that he is back todoing well at school. “I made secondhonors. I said I was going to get mygrades up, and I did.”

Buckley says she is proud of him,and wants to know how he did it.“Well, I kind of just started doing myhomework.”

Zach said coming to the group washis way of making sure he got achance to talk about his mother. “Iwant people to know her,” Zach said.“I don’t want people to forget she washere.”

Phillip begins to speak even morein this session. He says his father diedof heart failure which was a result ofquadriplegia. The death was not ex-pected, he says, but it was not a sur-

prise. He tells the class that when heheld his father’s hand that night, itreminded him of his mother’s hand.He says he can still feel how cold herhand was.

“I remember touching her handand trying to wake her up. It was thecoldest thing I could ever feel,” Phil-lip said. “When I touched my dad’shand it was still warm, but it remind-ed me of it so much.”

After the group, he said he is gladto be a member. “It’s enjoyable. Youcan actually talk and you realize thereis a brotherhood. There are peopleyou can go talk to.”

At the end of the meeting, Munafo-Kanoza tells the boys that their loss isnot something they will ever get over.That, she says, is silliness. But it canand will be managed. “This deathdoes not have to define you,” she said.“But it will redefine your life.”

Then she says that sometimes,when a person feels darkest, the bestthing to do is to be kind to others. Shehands each of the boys three penniesand tells them to put them in theirright pocket. “Each day I want you todo three things that make a differ-ence for somebody,” she says. “Asyou do something good, I want you tomove one penny over to your leftpocket. I want three pennies in yourleft pocket every night.”

Phillip stands up, puts the penniesin his right pocket, and walks out intothe hallway.

Loss is difficult at any time of life. It can be particularly difficult forteenagers, who are still navigating their way, sometimes clumsily, to-ward adulthood. They know they need help but are sometimes reluctantto ask for it. And often, because of their youth, this is the first death theyhave ever known.

Fernside, which focuses on youth grief, surveyed 790 recent partici-pants in its grief program to find out whom they lost. Thirty-five percentlost their father. Nineteen percent lost their mother and the same propor-tion lost a grandparent, while 13 percent lost a sibling. The remaining 14percent lost a more distant relative, a friend or a neighbor.

Now that Fernside is helping young people, leaders next plan to turntheir attention to other underserved groups. Fernside will try to reachadults with developmental disabilities, children with significant emotion-al or behavioral challenges and teens who are incarcerated.

Jim Elfers, above, is the director ofMoeller's Pastoral Ministry program. Heis one of the facilitators of the griefsupport group. Mr. Elfers lost friends inhigh school and college.At right, Will Smallwood, foreground,participates in the grief group. He and hisbrother, Chuck, have participated sincetheir father passed away.


The April 10 meeting comestwo days after Easterbreak. Spring has arrived.The air is warm and alittle rain will fall. Muna-fo-Kanoza asks the boys

how their time was, and if Easter wasOK. All say they are fine, then theysay their prayer, then they begin toeat their pizza.

The faculty member today is phys-ical education/health teacher andvarsity football coach John Roden-berg. He tells the boys that he is 48years old, and that he lost his dadwhen he was in eighth grade and thatsome days it is still hard. Grief, CoachRodenberg tells them, is a long road.

“Everybody puts their arm aroundyou for the first month,” Coach Ro-denberg says. “And then they aregone. They still care, but people havelives to live.”

He tells the boys that he was look-ing for his shoes when his motherdrove home to tell him what had hap-pened. He says he still gets a littlepanicked when he can’t find his shoes.Coach Rodenberg is old school. Hishair is cut close, his sentences areclipped. He is the football coach whojust won the state championship, andhe is sitting in the room telling theseboys that he stills gets a little un-nerved when he cannot find his shoes.They get it.

One of the boys, who has lost hisfather, says that every time he comeshome, he needs to find his mother.Over break, he says, he came homeand his mother’s car was in the drive-way, but he could not find her. Hechecked every room in the house, butcould not find her. He began to panic.He was going through the house againwhen he looked out a back window

and saw her, pushing his little sisteron the swing. He had forgotten tocheck the back yard. He waved helloand then sat down and caught hisbreath. He didn’t tell his mother thestory and says he never will.

Munafo-Kanoza and Buckley hadasked the boys to bring in photos ofthe person they lost. Some have actu-al photographs, some turn on theirphones to retrieve them.

One of the boys, an exchange stu-dent from Japan who lost his mother,shows a photo of his family on vaca-tion in Okinawa. “It is my whole fam-ily. My brother and my sister and mymom and dad,” he says in heavilyaccented English. “It is nice becausewe look like a good family.”

The boys in the group all pay par-ticularly close attention when one ofthem is talking about their family.And now that they are showing pho-tographs, they even stop eating.

Andrew shows a photo of his moth-er and father shortly after they weremarried. They were divorced whenhe was a baby, so there are not manyphotos of the two of them. Andrew istense this day. He has a test comingup and a track meet that night. But helooks at the photo and smiles for thefirst time. “They look really happy,”he says.

Zach shows the photo of his motheragain. “Mymom has the biggestsmile, it was so pretty,” Zach said.“But she smoked, and she was a hill-billy, so there are, if you look realclose, a couple of teeth missing. I lovethat, it’s a hillbilly smile.” He passesthe photo around for people to seeher.

Phillip has a photo of his dad in hisphone. This photo was sent to Phillip,recently and unexpectedly, by one ofhis father’s roofer friends. “I wasn’texpecting this, and I didn’t even knowit existed. Then I just got it. I love it.”

When Zach’s mother died inMarch 2010, he left his home inUnion, Ky., and his stepfatherand half sister to go live with hisfather in Mount Healthy. Hisfather, Dale Deck, and his part-ner, Samantha, have four chil-dren between them, one of hers,one of his (Zach), and two togeth-er. Dale drove him back andforth to his school each day forthe rest of the school year soZach could stay with his friendsfor the remainder of the schoolyear. That was two 60-mile roundtrips per day. Dale and Saman-tha havemore rules than Zach’smother, Jaimie, did, and he bris-tled some. But things feel likethey are coming together. “I amproud of him,” Dale said. “I’mglad he got through all of this.”

When Ted Smallwood died inOctober 2011, it was not un-expected. In fact, Ted was al-ways very honest about howsick he was and the likelihoodthat he would die young. Afterhe died, Will and Chuck’s moth-er, Pam Smallwood, wanted theboys to talk about their feelingsbut feared they would not. WhenMr. Elfers told her about thegrief group, she had low expec-tations. “I said, ‘Hey, if you canget them to go, great.’ ” The boyswent and said they liked it.When she learned they wereactually sharing their thoughtsin the class, she began to cry. “Ijust can’t believe it. That’s suchgood news,” Pam said. “Theynever talk to me about it; I thinkthey are trying to protect me.”

Andrew’s mother, GinaBrown, knew Andrew would bedevastated by his father’s deathin January 2012. Andrew alwayslived with her, but he loved hisfather. And the death was acomplete surprise. “I slept onthe couch for months afterward,I wanted to hear Andrew if hegot up,” Gina said. “Sometimes Iwould hear him wake up andstart crying. It would break myheart.” But Andrew, a fairlyquiet type, never resisted talk-ing about his feelings. She haswatched himmature. She sayshe is more empathetic. But shemisses her boy who did notknow real sadness. “Fernsidetells you they will be OK, butthey will never be the same.That really hit me hard,” Ginasaid. “The old Andrew is gone,he is not coming back.”

John Rodenberg, Moeller headfootball coach and physicaleducation/health teacher, holds afootball in honor of his father.Rodenberg lost his father in theeighth grade. He has fondfootball memories with his fatherand visits him in the cemeterybefore the start of every season.

HOWWE TOLD THIS STORYLast summer, reporter John Faherty approached grief counsel-

ors Sheila Munafo-Kanoza and Pat Buckley and asked if he couldreport on their work at Archbishop Moeller High School.The boys and school counselor Jim Elfers were generous

enough to allow Faherty to attend all of their meetings. Therewere no limits placed on what Faherty could or could not report.They did so in order to show grief and the difficult process ofworking through it.In the story, we identify the five boys we focused on during

the year and with whom we spoke outside of group. We alsospoke to their parents and guardians. Other boys in the groupare not identified by name.

Reach reporter John Faherty at [email protected].

Photojournalist Carrie Cochran can be emailed at [email protected].

OnMay 1, as part of anannual tradition, thegrief group walksfromMoeller HighSchool to the Montgo-mery Inn. An anony-

mous donor pays for the lunch.Mr. Elfers speaks to the group for

the last time of the year. He urgescompassion. “You guys know as wellas anybody that we really don’t knowwhat somebody else might be carry-ing with them,” Mr. Elfers said. “Al-ways build people up. Never tearpeople down. Be kind.”

Buckley andMunafo-Kanoza askthe six seniors in the group to standup and explain what is next for them.One is going to Ohio State University.One is going to Miami University.One will be going to school in Colora-do. One will be returning to Japan,where he says, nobody ever speaks togroups about loss.

Andrew tells the group he will begoing to the University of Cincinnatiand hopes to be study to become aveterinarian. Chuck says he will go toNorthern Kentucky University andsays he plans to become a socialworker with a minor in music.

Buckley then asks the juniors inthe group to stand up. “You will bethe leaders next year,” Buckley tells

them. “Pay attention to the newmem-bers, especially the freshmen.”

Phillip stands, although he is notsure how he will be able to affordMoeller next year. Tuition is $11,000,although the school has reduced thatby half for him. He knows the Freysare already beginning to worry.

Mr. Elfers reminds the boys thatbeing new can be difficult. “It can beintimidating,” Elfers said. “A simplehello, a kind word, can go a long way.”

Then the boys all sit and eat. Afterlunch, of course, some chocolate chipcookies. The restaurant decided tolook the other way when the cookiescame in because everyone under-stands that the cookies mattered. Asthe boys ate the cookies, consumingthem each in two slow bites, BuckleyandMunafo-Kanoza handed out notesfor the boys to thank the baker. Theyall did sincerely.

On the walk back to school, the sunwas high and bright and warm. Phil-lip had a rugby game the next day,and Terri Frey would be there, ofcourse. He had a question he wantedto ask. For the first time in his life,Phillip would be buying a Mother’sDay gift. “There are so manychoices,” he said. “Are chocolates allright? I think I want to buy her choco-lates.”■

HOW TOGET HELP OR OFFER HELPIf you have lost a loved one, programs are available to help

people of all ages. Companions on a Journey provides griefsupport to children, teens and adults. Last year, Companionsassisted more than 4,000 people throughout Greater Cincinnati.Information: www.companionsonajourney.org, or 513-870-9108.If you would like to help any of the boys in this story, contact

Archbishop Moeller High School President Bill Hunt at 513-791-1680, extension 1305 or [email protected].

The school address is 9001Montgomery Road, Cincinnati, OH 45242.

» In the kitchen of the Frey home, Melissa Frey, 15, rubs the heads of her new “big brother,” Phillip Bryant, left, and her little brother, Josh. Terri Frey,right, had just woken Phillip from an afternoon nap. For a video of Phillip talking about how the last year has changed him, go to Cincinnati.com.


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