I never expected to have to reach across time and space and heaven to touch my child.
I hate this divided life!
Imagining the worst thing possible can’t hold a candle to knowing it by experience.
Read the rest here: Juxtaposed
I never expected to have to reach across time and space and heaven to touch my child.
I hate this divided life!
Imagining the worst thing possible can’t hold a candle to knowing it by experience.
Read the rest here: Juxtaposed
I’ve had more than one person suggest I compile these blog posts into a print resource.
It would be a daunting task.
Much of what I write is meant to be a short, stand alone musing about one aspect of grief or another and I’m not sure how to weave individual posts into some sort of cohesive fabric or narrative that would be worth anyone’s time or effort to read.
So I have an honest question: Do you, faithful reader, think such a thing would be helpful?
Is it worth the time, energy, effort and seeking publisher permissions for quotes?
If you do think it’s a good idea, what format might be best? Short essays/posts collected by topic or a narrative of my journey punctuated by excerpts from blog entries?
This is NOT a vanity post, it’s a genuine question.
So let me hear from you.
Please.
❤ Melanie
It’s popular in books, self-help articles and even in some grief groups for people to declare , “Child loss does not (will not, should not) define me”.
And while I will defend to the end another parent’s right to walk this path however seems best and most healing to him or her, to that statement I say, “Bah! Humbug!”
Child loss DOES define me.
It defines me in the same way that motherhood and marriage define me.
Read the rest here: Child Loss DOES Define Me
If I got ten grieving parents in a room we could write down fifty things we wish people would stop saying in about five minutes.
Most of the time folks do it out of ignorance or in a desperate attempt to sound compassionate or to change the subject (death is very uncomfortable) or simply because they can’t just shut their mouths and offer silent companionship.
And most of the time, I and other bereaved parents just smile and nod and add one more encounter to a long list of unhelpful moments when we have to be the bigger person and take the blow without wincing.
But there is one common phrase that I think needs attention
Read the rest here: “He Wouldn’t Want You to be Sad” and Other Myths
I first shared this a few years ago when I really thought I should have reached a place in my grief journey where holidays weren’t as difficult as they were at first.
But what I realized then and what has been confirmed since is that every year has new and unique situations that make Christmas a fresh challenge each time.
This year is particularly difficult since our family will not be able to spend it together due to the pandemic. It makes an already melancholy season even more so.
❤
As the seventh Christmas without Dominic rapidly approaches, I am pondering the question: “Why, oh why, is Christmas so hard?”
I think I’ve figured out at least a few reasons why.
For me, probably THE biggest reason Christmas is hard is because it throws off the routine I depend on to shepherd my heart through a day. It’s easiest for me to manage when I have at least a couple of hours of quiet time each morning. I need those silent moments to let my heart feel what it needs to feel, to cry if I must and to orient my thoughts after, once again, “remembering” that Dominic isn’t here.
Read the rest here: Why, Oh Why, is Christmas So Hard???
As hard as I may try to help those around me understand how very difficult it is to walk on in this life I didn’t choose, my efforts often go awry.
I forget to make a phone call, I assume some plans are in place, I mistake silence for assent, I’m unaware of secondary pressures or I simply underestimate pent up feelings waiting for an opportunity to be expressed and what I thought would be a regular encounter ends up being an uncomfortable or painful confrontation.
And I’m trapped. No where to go, no where to hide. Stuck in an unfruitful conversational circle.
No matter how carefully I listen, how cautiously I employ “I” statements and affirm another heart’s perspective, it isn’t enough. Because what they really need from me is something I can’t give: to make life like it was “before”.
But we both know that’s not possible. So I become the sacrificial punching bag-the person they pummel until the negative energy is spent.
I want to agree to disagree and lay down arms. I want to walk away, hang up the phone, run and hide.
I don’t.
Because if there were a way for me to relieve this built-up inner pressure (without hurting another heart) I’d do it too.
But there isn’t. So I take the licks.
I add that to my sack of “Things You Have To Endure Post Child Loss” and carry on.
Limping.
Still moving.
Just barely, some days.
This has certainly been a year, hasn’t it?
For some of us, along with societal angst, fear, illness and loss (of income, dreams, opportunities), we are heavy laden with grief.
That makes everything harder when it’s most certainly already hard enough.
So while there may be fewer gatherings, parties, school activities and community events due to Covid19 you are probably already feeling some pressure to show up and be part of something, somewhere.
I want to take a minute to think about how important it is to make and maintain space for grief during this busy season.
You have to do it.
I know, I know-where to fit it in between all the other responsibilities!
If you don’t, though, the grief will out itself one way or another.
So may I offer the following practical suggestions for this upcoming holiday season?
Grief requires so. much. energy.
And you can’t spend the same energy twice.
So make space for grief in your holiday plans.
Something you hear early on in this grief journey is that one day you will find a “new normal”.
I hate that phrase.
Because while I have certainly developed new routines, new ways of dealing with life, new methods for quelling the tears and the longing and the sorrow and the pain-it is NOT normal.
Read the rest here: Nothing “Normal” About It
We all have one you know.
A story.
Many of us think ours isn’t important because it feels so small. We can’t imagine our truth blazoned across a headline.
Your story matters.
Read the rest here: Tell Your Story
There is so much work to do in grief!
So many chores that demand time, energy, effort and sheer determination.
Finding me again is one of them.
I think it’s hard for anyone whose family and close friend circle is complete to understand that I didn’t *just* lose Dominic when death claimed him, I lost the unique part of me that was reflected back from him. There is a “me” only he could draw out, make laugh a certain way, frustrate and tease over very specific issues.
Some memories were held between just the two of us. Now half the experience is buried with him. No matter how hard I try I can’t recall some of the details and even if I do they are only from my perspective.
Before child loss I was a mom who couldn’t imagine living without one of her children. Now I’m a mom who lives without one of her children. I still haven’t figured out all the ways that’s changed who I am and how I walk in the world.
Mirrors and photographs surprise me.
I know it’s my own face staring back but I barely recognize it.
I’m still searching for me.