I was talking to my husband the other day about how hard it is to describe the ongoing difficulty of living with child loss.
And this song popped into my head….
Category: authenticity
Confluence
Like most parents who have buried a child, a line is drawn through my life.
April 12, 2014 changed everything.
Whenever I hear a date or a memory drifts across my mind, I think, “that was so many days, months or years BEFORE or AFTER Dominic left us”. I can plot events on a calendar like I’m making a history timeline.
Put this one here and that one there. It seems so simple and straightforward
But daily life is much more complex.
I live in a world where “before” and “after” run together in a mighty torrent. And I can’t control the way they mix and churn.
These past few days I’ve been pet sitting for my eldest son, James Michael, and my daughter-in-law while both are out of town for work training.
They just moved from North Carolina to Florida and are still unpacking.
So while I’m here I’ve been helping to put things away and clear the boxes. I decided that working in the office was a good place to start-I figured I couldn’t do much damage by putting books on shelves and pens in cups.
None of these things belonged to Dominic.
But as I opened the boxes I was flooded with memories.
I found a scrapbook my daughter made for JM’s high school graduation-filled with photos of my three boys-years upon years of adventures, goofy faces, travel and achievement.
Another box held my son’s old Bible with a couple of church bulletins tucked inside. I was tossed back to the time when we all sat in the same pew, strong voices blending in worship, hands together in service-when I could not have imagined we would be one less-I only dreamed then of adding to the family, not taking away.
There was the graduation program from Auburn School of Veterinary Medicine.
Just weeks after burying Dominic we were celebrating the culmination of four years’ hard work. It was supposed to be a rip-roaring party, but it was a quiet dinner instead.
And then onto the mementos marking James Michael’s transitions since then: from single to married; from sheriff’s deputy to Air Force captain; from West Virginia to North Carolina to Florida.
All important events that were missing Dominic.
Celebrations and achievements that were a bit smaller because we are fewer.
Even as nostalgia swept over me, excitement also filled my heart because James Michael and his wife were beginning a new chapter.
I was happy to be helpful.
Encouraged that I could be of use in this season where many times I feel useless.
And I thought about rivers-rivers of time, of memories, of experience and of dreams.
Confluence: a coming or flowing together, meeting, or gathering at one point, especially of two rivers of equal strength.
This is where I find myself right now-swimming, drifting, sometimes drowning in the rivers
of “what was”
and “what is yet to be”
as they join in the “right now”.
Subtitles
My husband is the child of immigrants. And even thirty years after coming to America, my in-laws preferred their native Italian to English.
So when we would be in a crowded room, comments flying, I struggled to keep up with what was being said because I didn’t speak the same language.
As the years went by and our relationship deepened, I realized they had the same struggle when I would try to communicate complex truth in English. It wasn’t their heart language and some things just didn’t translate well.
Sometimes feelings got hurt because what one of us thought we were saying was not what the other person heard.
Subtitles would have been useful.
The other day in an attempt to keep my unwell body in a chair, I pulled up Amazon and picked a movie. It was in French with subtitles.
I thought, “I’ll try it.”
But as the movie went on, I realized that I was unable to give full attention to either the action of the movie or the subtitles that interpreted the dialogue.
It took way more effort than I was willing to commit to what was supposed to be a relaxing couple of hours.
So I turned it off.
Today someone in a bereaved parents group to which I belong asked if anyone else found holidays exhausting.
The comments were a resounding “yes”!
The more I thought about it the more I realized that a big part of what makes it so exhausting is a communication gap.
I am not the same as I was before burying a child.
My family is not the same.
Nothing is the same.
Some of the “not the same” is the gap between my understanding of how I have changed and the lack of understanding by others about how I have changed.
Many friends, extended family members and acquaintances continue to relate to me as if I’m the “old” me. That creates tension and requires energy to deal with-I either have to overlook it, try to help them understand or figure out how to deal with it some other way.
We’re just not speaking the same language anymore.
Sometimes I think subtitles would be helpful.
But even then it would still be exhausting.
No More “Smile and Wave”!
We live in a world of fake smiles, plastic body parts and cheap knock-offs. We’re so used to it that sometimes we can’t tell the difference anymore.
It’s part of our relationship patterns too.
We see someone we know out shopping and toss, “How are you?” at them anticipating the obligatory reply:
“I’m just FINE! How are YOU?” (Said with a deep southern accent and wide, lipsticked smile.)
But then something unexpected happens.
She says, “I’m having a hard time. I’m struggling. This week has been really stressful.“ (Spoken in a whisper, through tears.)
And I’m faced with a choice:
Do I shut her down or draw her out? Do I recognize the courage it took to be honest or do I dismiss her openness as inconvenient and inconsequential?
Me, I’ll take genuine, every time.
I will stop, find a quiet corner and allow her to share as long as it takes. I will pray or listen or hug or console until the storm passes.
Because that has been, and still is, ME sometimes.
Before Dominic left us, if you saw me in the grocery store you would have gotten the answer you expected. My eyes on my list, my head filled with the next thing I was going to do when I left with my buggy full, my heart unbroken and whole-who’s got time for chit-chat?
Smile and wave was standard practice as I moseyed on down the aisle.
Not anymore.
There is nothing, NOTHING, more important than people in this life.
If you want proof, ask a bereaved mama.
Because no one knows with more certainty, with more clarity and will tell you with more conviction that MORE TIME with someone you love is the ONE thing you would give EVERYTHING for-in a heartbeat.
So I will lay aside things and chores and to do lists.
I will give up entertainment and ignore the urge to check Facebook or Twitter.
Because the person in front of me is a gift.
And I want to unwrap that gift and be present for every moment.
Grief and Grace:What I Need from Friends and Family
You cannot possibly know that scented soap takes me back to my son’s apartment in an instant.
You weren’t there when I cleaned it for the last time, boxed up the contents under the sink and wiped the beautiful, greasy hand prints off the shower wall. He had worked on a friend’s car that night, jumped in to clean up and was off.
He never made it home.
So when I come out of the room red-eyed, teary and quiet, please don’t look at me like I’m a freak.
Please don’t corner me and ask, “What’s wrong?” Or worse-please, please, please don’t suggest I should be “over it by now”.
If you were reading a novel or watching a movie, you’d show more grace.
You would nod in understanding as the main character made choices that reflected the pain of his past. You would find his behavior perfectly predictable in the context of a life lived with a broken heart.
I can’t control what makes me cry. I can’t stop the memories flooding my mind or the pain seizing my heart.
I might be OK one minute and the next a blubbering mess. Grief doesn’t mind a schedule.
But there are some things you can do to help:
- If you are aware of the circumstances around my child’s death, be thoughtful when highlighting similar situations in conversation, in movie choice, in recommending books or news stories. I bump into reminders all the time, I don’t need to have them forced upon me.
- It can be particularly hard to celebrate milestones in another child’s life when that child is about the same age as the one I buried. Feel free to invite me, but give grace if I choose not to attend a birthday, graduation or wedding. I’m doing the best I can and I don’t want to detract from the celebration so sometimes I bow out.
- Ask me if, or how, I would like my missing child included in family gatherings. Sometimes I want his memory highlighted and sometimes I want to hold it close like a personal treasure. It might be different one year to the next. Just ask.
- Be sensitive to the calendar. Make a note of my child’s birthday, heaven day, date of the funeral or memorial service-these are important dates for me and they will be as long as I live. In the first months, maybe for years, each month is a reminder that I am that much further from the last time I heard his voice, hugged his neck or saw his living face. Those days are especially hard.
- Don’t pressure me to move faster in my grief journey. And don’t interpret a single encounter as the measure of how I’m doing. Be aware that it is often a two-steps-forward-one-step-back kind of experience. It is MY experience and will go as fast or as slow as it does. I can’t even hurry it along even though sometimes I am desperate to do so.
- Understand that the things I may share don’t paint a total picture. There are pains too deep, thoughts too tortuous, experiences surrounding my son’s death and burial too hurtful for me to speak aloud.
I admit that I never thought of any of these things until it was MY son missing.
But now I think about them all the time–not only for my sake, but for the sake of others like me. I try to walk gently and kindly, extending grace and love.
And honestly, that’s really all I want from anyone else-grace, abundant grace.
I will be weepy when it’s inconvenient. I will react when you can’t fathom why. I will stay away when you want me to come near. I will make choices you don’t understand.
I am truly sorry.
But child loss is not something I chose for myself, it was thrust upon me.
I am walking this path the best I know how.
When you extend grace and love me through the roughest places it makes all the difference.
Courage is a Heart Word
Courage is a heart word. The root of the word courage is cor – the Latin word for heart. In one of its earliest forms, the word courage meant “To speak one’s mind by telling all one’s heart.” Over time, this definition has changed, and today, we typically associate courage with heroic and brave deeds. But in my opinion, this definition fails to recognize the inner strength and level of commitment required for us to actually speak honestly and openly about who we are and about our experiences — good and bad.
~Brene Brown
I grew up in the Deep South where ladies were supposed to keep silent about anything “unmentionable”.
Problem is, that included many things that SHOULD be spoken aloud.
Because a conspiracy of silence forces those who are suffering to hide. It creates huge gaps between what goes on behind closed doors and public image.
And it causes those who are wounded to question the authenticity of their own experience.
In recent years we have dragged many topics into the light. We’ve made space in the public square for discussion of things we used to pretend didn’t exist.
But life after child loss is still a hushed topic.
The long road to healing after burying a child is rarely acknowledged outside the community of bereaved parents.
The FACT that as long as I live, my son’s absence will be a shadow trailing me, the burden of sorrow will slow my steps, the heartache of missing will shape my world is glossed over and set aside.
I understand why.
It is scary to speak aloud what you hope will never happen to you. It’s unbelievably frightening to admit that we really have no control over whether, or when, we or the ones we love might leave this world.
But I am not going to keep silent.
Not because I want pity or special treatment, but because I want that parent who just buried his or her child to know that you. are. not. alone.
I want you to know that what you are experiencing is not unusual.
I want you to understand that the horrible pain you feel is absolutely normal.
And I want you to be assured that you are NOT Crazy!
I will tell my story because even though it is hard, it matters. And even though it hurts, it can help heal another. And even though it isn’t finished, it can blaze a trail for others to follow.
Join me, be BRAVE, tell yours.
It Takes a Lifetime
I was reminded once again this week how the events surrounding death and burial are inadequate indicators of the profound change that has taken place in the lives of those left behind.
Standing at the graveside of a precious friend’s father, I remembered watching Dominic’s earthly shell lowered beneath the ground.
I was wholly unprepared for the days and weeks and months that followed.
No one had told me it was only a beginning…Loving Well: Transitioning From “Good-bye” to Grief
Move Over, Make Room for the Broken
I used to position myself at the end of the pew, just in case someone I’m not too comfortable with might come along and try to sit down.
It saved us both that awkward conversation where they ask if they can join me and I say “yes” with my mouth but “no” with my body language.
Frankly, I was at church to be lifted up so I could face the coming week with power and strength. I didn’t want to be dragged down by their reality of brokenness and sometimes bitter tears.
I don’t do that anymore.
I realize that most of what made me uncomfortable was other people’s pain.
Now I’m the one who’s broken. I’m the one who can’t get through “Amazing Grace” without blubbering.
And I’m the one that others hope won’t ask to join THEM.
But here’s the deal: God loves the broken. Christ came for the broken. It’s the broken and breathless who long for the Spirit to blow life across their wounded hearts.
It’s the hopeless and fearful that run faster to the safety of their Shepherd.
It’s the worried and weary who are thankful for a Burden-bearer.
When I refuse to move over and make room for the broken, I’m barring the way for the very ones who most desperately need the blessing. When I want my worship experience to exclude those who haven’t the strength to bring their own hearts before the throne of grace, I’m being selfish.
And that is sin.
Jesus went out of His way to heal the hurting,
to bless the broken and
to speak strength to the weary.
So now I sit in the middle of the pew and leave room for whoever God brings my way.
I want to be an open door, not a gatekeeper.
“Come to me, all of you who are weary and over-burdened, and I will give you rest! Put on my yoke and learn from me. For I am gentle and humble in heart and you will find rest for your souls. For my yoke is easy and my burden is light.” ~Jesus
(Matthew 11:28-30 PHILLIPS)
Not What I Had Planned
I don’t get to choose.
I don’t get to plan the way life is going to be.
Oh, I bring out the calendar and mark down the days: birthdays, holidays, special events and obligations.
But then one dark morning a knock stops the clock and makes the world spin faster all at once.
I’m suspended and plunged under in the same breath.
Frozen. Broken. Horrified.
How did this happen?
How is this my life?
My head and heart explode in pain.
Months pass. The days march on.
I still don’t get to choose what sunrise brings.
But looking back I’m grateful that when my circle was whole we chose love.
That when the days were unfolding we chose faith.
That even as the night closed in and the days grew dark we continued to cling to the one Hope that proves true.
I’m thankful that my heart was full of praise songs and Scripture and that when I couldn’t lift my hand to turn the pages of my Bible the Spirit used them to whisper courage to my soul.
This Valley is deep and the sun is often hidden by the towering mountains on either side.
I have learned two things:
I can’t determine how life unfolds,
but I can decide where to place my hope.
“I admit how broken I am in body and spirit,
but God is my strength,
and He will be mine forever.”
Psalm 73:26 VOICE
Thanks for Listening!
One year ago today I began sharing my grief journey publicly on this blog.
You can read that first post here.
It was (and still is) scary to expose my thoughts and feelings to a wider audience than just the pages of my personal journal.
I’m never certain that what is helpful for me is necessarily helpful for anyone else. But in writing it down I find that I am able to sort through things better than when I leave it bouncing around in my own head space.
I decided upfront that I would be as honest as possible about what I felt and how I was coping. I wasn’t sure if I would post only a few times or a lot, if it would turn into a day-by-day diary or a more sweeping revelation of deeper things.
I think it’s kind of been both at times.
And here we are, 366 days (it was a leap year) and 355 posts later and I’m still here and you’re still listening.
I don’t claim to have any special gifting or knowledge or ability. I am simply one mama whose love for both her child in heaven and her children still here demands that I speak out.
My heart is full of love and pain.
And my heart has been blessed beyond measure by those who read and share what I have written. I’ve met-in person and virtually-many bereaved parents who are helping me as I continue down this road.
I am so very thankful for each one.
I pray that for those who read these words and know the pain of burying a child, I am speaking things you may think or feel but are not willing or able to express.
And I pray that in hearing them spoken aloud, you are affirmed and encouraged that you. are. not. alone.
Dominic matters.
Your child matters.
It’s not only OK but absolutely necessary to admit that life after child loss is a struggle. It is also just fine to take your time working through the pain and sorrow and overwhelming changes child loss brings.
For those who read my posts and do not share this pain, I pray you gain insight into what bereaved parents feel and how burying a child changes EVERYTHING.
I hope you are better equipped to offer the ongoing support we need and crave. I hope you learn that this is not something we have chosen, it is something that happened to us.
And I pray that all of us will be more willing to extend grace, mercy and love to one another.
Words are not neutral.
They bring life or death.
They wound or heal.
May each of us be an instrument of healing for someone’s hurting heart.
thelifeididntchoose 