authenticity – Page 69 – thelifeididntchoose

No Comparison

One of the hardest parts of blogging for me is that I am committed to authenticity. As best as I am able, I try to be honest and transparent.
This entry was tricky.
I never, ever want to minimize ANYONE’S pain-in my mind there is no hierachy of misery. But I also want to let those outside the child loss community see how much it hurts to have our loss compared by others to their very different losses. We would much rather you simply take our hand or hug us or sit silently with us on the mourning bench.
So, here it is. I hope you receive it in the spirit in which it is intended.

It is just so hard to accept that remaining silent is often better than saying the wrong thing.

It seems like every quiet space MUST be filled with chatter-especially in our overstimulated world of screens and noise boxes.

But, I promise-if you and I are speaking, and I choose to expose my heart-I would rather you take my hand or hug my neck and say nothing than tell me, “I understand exactly how you feel.”

Unless, of course, you do.

If you have buried a child, then please, please, please tell me that! We will cry together.

But there is no comparison between losing an aged aunt, full of years, and losing a child, full of promise.

There is no comparison between losing a job, a house or a dream-any of which have the potential for restoration in this life– and losing a child–whom I will not see until I reach heaven.

There is no comparison between losing a pet and losing my son.

It’s the difference between being hungry because you skipped lunch and starving to death because you don’t have access to food or water.

One is uncomfortable and the other is excruciating.

So, while I deeply appreciate your desire to empathize with me, please don’t try to stretch your limited experience with loss to include my own.

It hurts my heart and minimizes my pain.

There’s just no comparison.

cant-fix-it-my-family-is-always-achingly-incomplete

Repost: Exploding the Myth: God Doesn’t Give You More Than You Can Handle

You know, I don’t expect those outside the Body of Christ to have good theology-that’s like expecting me to be able to explain thermodynamics.

Ain’t gonna happen-it’s outside my scope of understanding and practice.

I do expect those who have spent a lifetime reading Scripture, studying Sunday School lessons and listening to sermons to know better.

But many don’t.

Read the rest here: Exploding the Myth: God Doesn’t Give You More Than You Can Handle

Grief Brain: It’s a Real Thing!

I’m looking right at her.

I know her. In fact, I’ve known her for years. But please don’t ask me her name.

I have no idea.

It happens to all of us-meet someone in the store or at the Post Office and you just know you know them, but cannot-for the life of you-remember a name.

Chatting on, you search mental files desperately trying to make a connection you can hold onto. Five minutes after she walks away it pops up-oh, yes! That’s so-and-so from such-and-such.

Imagine if instead of searching mental files without success you can’t even find the file cabinet and start to wonder if one ever existed.

That’s what “grief brain” does to you.

Here are a few more examples of things that actually happened:

Someone would say something to me and I hear them as if it’s another language-I have absolutely NO IDEA what they just said.
I had to write a list each morning of the most basic things to do (like eat) so that I didn’t forget to do them. I had to tape the list to the kitchen cabinet because otherwise I lost it.
I could no longer walk away from the stove when it’s turned on-I burned more than one pot of peas.
There are times I couldn’t remember my phone number or street address when asked.
I answered the phone, heard a familiar voice only to be confused about exactly who was on the other end of the line.
I became momentarily “lost” on familiar streets or in familiar stores.
Sometimes I literally couldn’t remember what day it was.
I forgot appointments, meetings and what time church starts on Wednesday night.

I began to wonder if I was losing my mind.

And, in a way, I was.

At least the mind I had BEFORE my son was killed.

The initial shock was only a beginning. Ongoing stress and related hormones as well as increased blood pressure, poor sleep, anxiety, profound sadness and being forced to acknowledge my own lack of control bombarded my mind for months. Pathways I’d relied on for most of my life were changed or destroyed.

If you think of the brain as an interconnected web of associations, functions and activity, it’s easy to see that rerouting or destroying some of the connections makes it harder to access information and do tasks.

“[W]hen brain imaging studies are done on people who are grieving, increased activity is seen along a broad network of neurons. These link areas associated not only with mood but also with memory, perception, conceptualization, and even the regulation of the heart, the digestive system, and other organs.” Prevention Magazine

It’s no wonder that I found it difficult to think and do the most routine tasks after child loss!

My mind was fundamentally altered.

It’s not as bad now as it was in the beginning.

But I still struggle to remember things that used to come easily. I still hear words that I don’t always understand. I depend much more on paper and pencil to keep track of important dates, appointments and phone numbers than I used to. And I never walk away from the stove.

If I make a lunch date with a friend, I ask that she message me the day before to remind me. If I don’t comprehend what someone is saying, I request that they repeat it. I keep a paper copy of important information in my purse and an electronic copy on my phone.

It’s frustrating sometimes, but it is not a moral failure that my brain isn’t as sharp as it once was.

What was embarrassing at first is now something I openly acknowledge.

I ask for help and I don’t apologize.

It’s really OK.

Featured image via: bedraggled & kicking

Rearview Mirror

I talk about Dominic “running ahead” but it feels like I‘m leaving him behind.

I know he’s the first to Heaven and I know I’ll join him, but my daily experience is that I am the one moving forward and he is the one stuck somewhere, unable to catch up.

I absolutely HATE that his footprint on my life grows smaller with each passing day, each new memory made without him, each event at which his smiling face makes no entrance.

I can’t stop the accumulation of bits and pieces that make it harder to spot his unique contribution to the collage of my life.

I am in no danger of forgetting him.

That’s not what I fear.

But bringing what he still is to me into a conversation, into view for others to see and appreciate is getting more difficult.

When I mention him, people don’t know whether to be sad or happy, question my sanity or rush past hoping I’ll change the subject.

There’s just no natural seque between the living and the dead.

And it hurts my heart to watch the gap grow wider.

Good News

Reading through the Sermon on the Mount, it’s easy to feel defeated.

Jesus ripped off the Pharisees’ masks. He gave people a peek behind the curtain-unveiling the sin that hid beneath a facade of outward obedience and seeming righteousness.

Jesus also strips away any pretense that I can follow the “rules”.

Sure I may not murder anyone, but hate and malice-how am I supposed to get through this life without calling someone “fool”?

Line after line of impossible standards-righteousness that goes way beyond the Ten Commandments!

I am hopeless and helpless.

Jesus makes just that point-on my own, in my own strength, dependent on my own efforts, I’m lost.

That’s what makes the Gospel the Good News!

God in His mercy and grace has offered the only true hope–the righteousness of Christ, the Perfect Sacrifice and atonement for sin.

When I walk into church and pretend I “have it altogether”, when I refuse to display my brokenness and my need for forgiveness, I obscure the beauty, value and truth of the Gospel.

I raise a barrier between those who need rescue and the very means by which they may be saved.

We are all broken.

We are all lost.

Our only hope is Jesus.

May we be bold enough to be honest.

Deflated

Backing up my rear tire hit the edge of a little stump and the sidewall blew out with a loud “whoosh”.

No fixing that. No way to plug it or patch it or make it work for just a little longer.

That tire was toast.

I bought a new one.

But imagine if that wasn’t an option. Imagine if I had to take the ripped apart shreds of what was left of that tire and cobble it together to make do. Imagine if it barely held air, had to be pumped up each morning and needed attention every mile or so just to keep going.

That would be exhausting and enough to make you wonder if traveling anywhere was worth it.

That’s how my heart feels these past days.

When Dominic ran ahead to heaven it was like my heart exploded into a thousand tiny bits. So many fragments with no way to put them back together.

But getting a new heart isn’t an option-I’m stuck with this broken one.

And I have to keep on going. Even when it takes every ounce of energy to hold it together, even when I can barely make two steps without feeling like it’s going to fall apart again, even when I want to give up.

So today, and maybe tomorrow too, I’m going to just sit here.

I’m going to give myself permission to acknowledge that my heart is broken, I feel deflated and defeated and pushing through is not something I have to do if I don’t feel like I can.

I’m pretty sure the feeling will pass.

I’ll gather strength and manage to glue the bits back together in a day or two, add air and travel on.

I always do.

No Remedy

Our family has a reputation: If it’s broke, sick or something just plain hard to do–call us.

We are not miracle workers but we are hard workers. We can’t fix everything, but we will try to do something.

But there’s one thing we can’t fix.

One thing none of our skills can shape into a victory in the shadow of defeat. One thing that will not give in to elbow grease or commitment to persevere.

We can’t fix Dominic’s being gone.

We can’t make it better.

We can’t undo the deep hole his absence has carved in our hearts and our lives.

And that is very, very hard to live with.

Choosing to See Wounded Hearts

I can see her all the way down the aisle-even if she doesn’t say a word, I know.

I know.

She‘s carrying a burden wrapped in love and buried deep inside. Someone she poured life into is no longer here. The missing and the daily sorrow is etched on her face even as she smiles.

What to do? What to do?

Making a decision without her better half to help her is overwhelming. She wants to cry but holds back the tears because, “What would people think?”

So I go up to her and tell her what I think: “Would you like some help?”

That opens the floodgates.

“I’m looking for hairbands-something to match my white hair. I have so little left-losing it because of stress, you know. “

Silence while I help her look.

“My husband passed three months ago. We were married 60 years. I just can’t believe he’s gone.”

I tell her about Dominic-brief version-so she knows that I understand.

“He’s not suffering anymore and I guess I should be better. But I just miss him!”

I take her hand and look into her beautiful eyes-eyes that are full of love and compassion and sorrow-and tell her that she will miss him as long as she lives. That’s how we’re made.

Great love means great grief. A shared lifetime can’t be severed by death. We carry that sorrow because our hearts still carry the love.

And I tell her that no one has the right to rush her along. Her wounded heart is a witness to love. It’s a tribute to her husband and the life they shared. It’s testimony to the power of God in her that she can bear the wound and still remain.

We prayed, and hugged and both went away refreshed.

Walking wounded has made me much more aware that God places people in my path who are wounded too.

I want to be the person that stops, no matter what. I want to be who God created me in Christ Jesus to be. I want to walk in the good works He has laid out for me ahead of time.

It’s a way of redeeming this sorrow and weaving something beautiful from my tears.

God has made us what we are. In Christ Jesus, God made us new people so that we would do good works. God had planned in advance those good works for us. He had planned for us to live our lives doing them.

Ephesians 2:10 ICV

I’m Only ONE Grieving Mama

I was reminded (again!) that when I share my journey, it may (and does!) look very different from another mama’s journey.

I really appreciate that reminder because I never, ever intend to speak for anyone but myself.

I write because it helps me wrangle my own thoughts, feelings, experiences and questions into some sort of reasonable order not because I think I’m documenting a generally applicable description of grief.

Sometimes other moms have given me permission to share their thoughts and I try to indicate that by using quotes or a general heading. And sometimes I have asked a question in our closed group and received permission to share insights gleaned from the answers to write a post on a specific topic.

My path through this Valley of the Shadow of Death is unique.

It is as unique as the son I buried, as the life I’ve lived previous to and since my loss, as my personal relationship with Jesus, as the weaknesses and strengths I bring to the task.

I have surviving children. Not every grieving mother does.

My children are all adults. Many grieving mothers are in the midst of the busy child-rearing years.

I don’t have a career. Other bereaved mothers must get up, get dressed and go to work every day.

I don’t have any grandchildren to cuddle but some mamas do.

I find silence helpful-solititude healing. Others find silence frightening and feel abandoned.

I don’t want to be distracted from the work grief requires. Some work hard to run away from the pain.

Scripture is my bedrock, laid down before Dominic ran ahead to heaven. Not all bereaved parents believe in Jesus nor use the Bible as their guide.

So take what’s helpful, leave what’s not.

And if you ever want to add to what I’ve written, leave a comment. [REMEMBER these comments are PUBLIC.]

I have always envisioned these posts as conversation starters, not the final word.

My prayer for each bereaved parent who reads these words is that they will feel the Father’s loving arms around them, that He will flood their broken hearts with His grace and mercy. I ask that He give them strength for each new day and that He guide them toward His truth and give them hope.

Much love, my friends.

~Melanie

What to say? What to do? Loving the Grieving in Public Places

Last week I wrote about some strategies I employ when in a social situation: Surviving Social Situations After Child Loss.

But if you are the friend, family member or acquaintance milling around who bumps into me or spies me across the room, here are some things you can do and say that will help me as well:

Be aware that the greeting, “How are you?” sometimes feels like a challenge instead of an invitation. I’m scrambling for words to express my true condition without ruining the mood of the gathering. It would be so much better if you simply said, “Hello” or “I’m happy to see you” without additional comments about how long it’s been.

Don’t pose or push for answers to questions that are primarily designed to satisfy your own curiosity. If I give a brief reply, take the hint and move on. If I say I can’t talk about it, drop the subject. If I turn the conversation back to you, pick it up and carry the ball. Public spaces are not the place to try to draw me out. If you are concerned about me or want to REALLY know how I’m doing, take me to lunch or bring me dinner or invite me out for coffee.

Notice my body language. If I am fidgeting or hugging myself or backing away or crossing my arms it’s time to let me go. I may hold my tongue but my body will give you abundant clues that I’m nearly at my limit for social interaction. Give me permission to end the conversation and preserve my dignity.

Hugs are almost always wonderful. Physical touch conveys love and compassion without requiring any response. If you know me well enough to hug me or squeeze my hand, please do.

Don’t corner me-physically, emotionally or spiritually. Backing me into a tight space makes me feel trapped. If I’m on the end of a pew or aisle, don’t ask me to scoot down so you can join me. I’m there in case I need to make an exit. Don’t stand too close to me while we’re talking-my need for adequate personal space has greatly increased since Dominic ran ahead to heaven. Don’t throw Bible verses at me or ask me how Jesus is meeting me in my sorrow. These are things we can talk about together, in private, in a way that makes space for me to be honest and express emotion without fear of embarresment.

Don’t make comparisons between my missing child and person featured in the wedding, baby shower or engagement party we are attending. Trust me, I’ve already done the math. I already know the distance between Dominic’s homegoing and this day. I am already mourning one more thing I’ll never get to see him do.

Please don’t use this time to tell me about another bereaved mother you “just want to introduce to me”. I am open and willing to walk with others on this journey, but this is not the time nor the place to put me on the spot. If you know of another mom that needs my help, write me a note, give me a call or text me.

If I leave a room, don’t follow (unless you are a very close friend). Let me go. I will return if I can and if I can’t, I won’t. Text me if you’re concerned. If I come back, let me slip in without any fanfare.

If I cry, hand me a tissue or a handkerchief. Don’t ask, “What’s wrong?” Besides the obvious, I may not have an answer for you.

Please help me move conversation along when I lose my train of thought or seem at a loss for words. Grief makes it hard to think sometimes, especially when in a crowd and/or a place with lots of background noise. Give me permission to end a conversation-it probably doesn’t have a thing to do with YOU-I’m just running out of steam and need a few minutes’ respite from having to talk.

Attending social events is exhausting for me now. I want to celebrate birthdays, weddings, anniversaries, graduations-but that means a lot of people and a lot of unknowns. Dozens of potential triggers, any one of which might conjure a grief wave that can drown me.

I do what I can to be prepared.

But I’ll take all the help I can get.

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