Almost four years and I still have those moments.
I know from other grieving mamas that I always will.
But sometimes they catch me by surprise.
Motoring home from Walmart, a campaign sign catches my eye. The candidate is young and running for District Judge in our county. That could have been Dominic.
Breathe in. Breathe out. Repeat.
Read the rest here: Breathe In. Breathe Out. Repeat.
Most people are familiar with SAD-Seasonal Affective Disorder-a cluster of symptoms mimicking depression that develop in otherwise healthy folks when the shorter days and longer nights of winter limit sunshine exposure.
Fewer folks know that nearly every bereaved parent has his or her own version of SAD which has nothing to do with daylight/darkness cycles and everything to do with the calendar.
For me, it starts in February and runs through May.
The last time all my children were together was mid-February 2014 as we celebrated the youngest’s birthday. I remember sitting outside on the unusually warm day and chatting about random things. There were two upcoming graduations and my oldest son’s wedding.
Someone said, “Hey, we should get a picture.” Someone else said, “Nah-we’ll be making lots of pictures this spring.”
So we didn’t take one.
Every year that’s the day my heart marks the beginning of the end.
The beginning of a march toward the most awful thing that has ever happened to our family.
Then there’s the day Dominic came out to the farm to fix a friend’s car. They needed the tools and shed to do the job. We joked and talked and shared a meal.
Then I hugged him and he went on his way.
That grease-stained jacket is still hanging on a peg in the downstairs bathroom.
Spring Break. I thought I’d see him again before classes resumed but a trip that lasted a day longer than it was going to meant he drove directly to his apartment. So a couple of weeks passed before he was able to plan another weekend trek out to the house.
I had just exchanged a series of messages with him, sharing photos of the heavy rains that ran our creek out of the banks and almost into the elevated roadway.
We ended our texts with “I love you. See you Saturday!”
My heart still accuses me for neglecting the days between the last time I saw Dominic and the last time he drew breath. If I had known then what I know now…
But we don’t, do we?
So on my season goes.
From February and all the “lasts” to April twelfth and the devastating news that my son would never come home again.
Then my heart marks the funeral, cleaning out his apartment and the first family celebration of which one of my children was not a part.
A few weeks later is Dominic’s birthday on May twenty-eighth when he doesn’t get any older but I get further away from the last time I hugged his neck.
A long sad season indeed.
Every parent who is missing a child has their own. A time when he or she wishes the world would both stop to take notice and spin faster to make the days pass.
My heart and body respond even if my mind tries to pretend these weeks are really no different than the rest of the year.
My son is still missing.
My heart is still yearning.
This is still the life I didn’t choose.
Another bereaved mom wrote that she was better able to cope now than she had been a year ago.
And thanks to Facebook memories she had proof.
Several comments down a second mom wrote something that got me thinking-when, exactly, did Dominic’s loss move from the forefront to the background?
I’m not sure I can pinpoint a day or moment when I realized that sorrow was no longer ALL I feel and Dominic’s absence no longer ALL I see.
I remember when more experienced loss moms posted and talked about grief being gentler and quieter I thought that they were out of their minds.
How in the world would this breath-robbing, heart-stopping, crippling pain ever be anything close to “gentle”?
How could the pulsating, blasting, all-consuming noise of loss become softer?
In the first days, months and even years, everything about loss was so loud it was all I could hear.
Rock concert, standing-next-to-the-giant-speakers-loud.
So loud it shook my body and made me want to cover my ears. There was no way to block the sound, no silent corner where I could retreat and hide. Just relentless pounding noise and pain.
But little by little, in imperceptible increments the volume decreased.
Now, missing Dominic is the background music to everything. A quiet tune I hum in my head that keeps me company all day and invades my dreams at night.
If I take a moment and pay attention or when other things quiet down, it moves again to the forefront.
My head and heart are never free of the music Dominic brings to my life. He is the soundtrack to my days, the lullaby as I fall asleep.
No longer an ear-piercing scream demanding attention, grief is now mostly a quiet song in a minor key.
Never silent.
Always playing.
I only recently came across this quote by Mark Twain.
It’s from a letter he wrote to a close friend after his favorite daughter, Susy, aged 24, died of meningitis while her parents were abroad.
It is heartbreaking and utterly perfect.
Read the rest here: “Why Am I Robbed, And Who is Benefited?” Mark Twain on Child Loss
There are more than you might think.
Most folks would count the date of death and maybe the date of burial or memorial service.
But a mama’s heart counts it ALL.
Read the rest here: How Can I Survive Grief Anniversaries?
One of the things even the most uninformed person understands about loss is that the first birthday, the first Thanksgiving, the first Christmas and all the “firsts” after loss will be hard.
But one of the things no one tells you about is that a heart will mark the “lasts” just as much.
The last time I saw him.
The last time I spoke to him.
The last time I hugged his neck and smelled the unique fragrance that was my son.
Every year as I approach the anniversary of the day Dominic left this life and stepped into Heaven, I also remember all the last times.
It’s hard on a heart to think about and wish that somehow I had made more of those moments. I long to have just one more opportunity to say what needs to be said, to see his smile, hear his voice, and hug his neck.
But there’s no going back.
So part of the pain of marking the milestones is knowing there is no way to change a thing. Not only the FACT that my son is gone, gone, gone. But also the FACT that whatever I said or did or left unsaid or undone is utterly and undeniably carved in stone.
I don’t know why this anniversary is hitting my heart harder than last year. Maybe it’s because I recognize how much life has happened since Dominic left us. Maybe it’s because I think in terms of decades. Maybe it’s because there are so many exciting family celebrations that he won’t be part of.
I have no idea.
But it’s nearly five long years since my son crossed the threshold of his family home. It’s nearly five years since I heard that familiar deep “Hey!”. It’s nearly five years since I waved him down the driveway and hollered, “Be careful!” as he drove back to his apartment.
I am thankful for the faithful love of my God and my family. I am thankful for the compassionate companionship of friends. I am thankful that I am still standing after the awful blow that I was sure would knock me so far down I’d never get up again.
But I miss him. I miss him. I miss him.
I will never be able to watch the early spring flowers bloom again without also remembering that it was those blossoms that heralded the good weather that lured him to take his motorcycle that night.
I will never hear Spring Break plans without counting the days between his last Spring Break trip and the day he met Jesus.
I cannot step outside and smell the grass growing, feel the breeze blowing and hear the birds singing without my heart skipping beats and doing the math. Today marks less than two months before the day he left us.
I understand that for others-if they remember at all-Dominic’s departure is a day circled on the calendar.
For me, it’s an entire season.
I mark every single day that led up to that day. I remember every single conversation, meeting, text and phone call. I remember all the things I did and regret all the things I didn’t do.
While the world is celebrating new life, I’m remembering a life that ended.
I firmly believe that our friends and extended family want to reach out, want to help, want to walk alongside as we grieve the death of our child
I am also convinced that many of them don’t because they don’t know how.
It may seem unfair that in addition to experiencing our loss, we also have to educate others on how to help us as we experience it, but that’s just how it is.
The alternative is to feel frustrated and abandoned or worse.
So here’s a list of helpful tips (and a great infographic!) for interacting with bereaved families:
Express condolences and show you care. Don’t avoid me, please! You cannot make me any sadder. I need to hear from you.
Refer to my child by name. Dominic is STILL my son. He is still part of my story. But because he’s no longer visible, his name often goes unspoken. Please talk to me about him, use his name, tell me a story of how he impacted your life or a memory that makes you smile. It makes me smile too.
Actively listen and be supportive. It’s hard to listen to someone tell you how much they are hurting and not offer advice or think of ways to “fix” them. I can tell you from experience that what I need most on my darkest days is for someone to say, “It IS dark. I’m so sorry.” Silence is OK too. Not every quiet moment needs to be filled with chatter.
Understand that each family and family member will grieve in different ways. You may have observed child loss before but what you saw in one family may not translate to the next. There are no hard and fast rules for this awful journey. The age of the child, family background and structure, manner of death-all these impact grief. In addition, mothers and fathers, sisters and brothers all bring their personalities, stage of life, beliefs and experiences to the journey. There were five of us left behind when Dominic ran ahead. We were each devastated but expressed it in very different ways. Nearly five years later, those gaps have widened, not narrowed.
Fathers grieve too. Sometimes support focuses almost exclusively on the mother. In part because of a common notion that mothers are somehow emotionally closer to their children than dads. In part because many men are less demonstrative and may do a good job hiding grief. Whatever the reason, don’t assume one parent is dealing “better” with the loss than another (mother or father) just because he (or she) is not crying openly. No one escapes this awful blow unscathed.
Don’t overlook siblings. Surviving siblings are sometimes referred to as “forgotten grievers”. If they are very young, people may think they are relatively unaffected by the death of a brother or sister. If they are grown and out of the home, people may figure that the siblings’ own, very full and very busy, lives keep them preoccupied. While some of that may be true-to an extent-most surviving siblings are deeply impacted by the death of a brother or sister, regardless of age. Not only have they lost a member of the family and changed birth order, they have also lost the family they knew, the parents they knew and a co-keeper of memories and secrets. Bereaved parents are often overwhelmed with grief for their living children as well as the child that is missing. One of the best gifts anyone gave me was reaching out to my surviving children. It helped my heart to know that they had friends who were supporting and loving them well.
Be yourself. People often feel awkward and stiff when approaching a bereaved parent or family member. That’s perfectly understandable. The bereaved seem so fragile (are so fragile!) that folks are afraid the wrong word or touch might shatter them into a thousand pieces. But what your friend or family needs right now is the you they’ve always known and loved. If you are a hugger, hug! If you are a storyteller, tell stories (appropriate ones, ones of the missing child). If you are a cook and cleaner, then cook and clean. Our family was blessed by our friends doing exactly what they had always done-come alongside in their own special way. So much had changed in our world that familiar touchstones, familiar routines and familiar faces were a real comfort.
Keep in mind words matter. Now is not the time to try to satisfy your curiosity about exactly “what happened”. Loud joking is rarely welcome. Many bereaved families find it hard to laugh in the first days, weeks, months because it feels like betrayal. Don’t offer platitudes intended to help them “look on the bright side” or consider that “it could be worse”. There is nothing worse than burying your child. Nothing. Listen and take direction from the person you are comforting. Follow his or her lead. And if something less than helpful slips out, own it and apologize.
It’s never too late to reach out. NEVER. Sometimes people stay away at first for lots of reasons. Or they show up for the memorial service and then fade into the background. After a bit, even if they want to reach out, they may feel embarrassed by the long absence. Don’t be. So many people stop calling, visiting and texting within the first weeks that your outstretched hand of friendship will be a welcome beacon of hope. If you need to, apologize for your absence. Be honest. Admit you were scared or whatever.
Then show up.
Stick around.
You don’t have to be perfect.
Just be present.
I remember as a young mother of four working hard to keep my kids safe.
Next to fed and dry (two still in diapers!) that was each day’s goal: No one got hurt.
It never occurred to me THEN to add: No one got killed.
Because the most outlandish thing I could imagine was one of them falling or touching a hot stove and us having to rush to the emergency room.
Then I became a mother of teens and one by one they acquired a driver’s license and motored away from our home.
That’s when I began to beg God to spare their lives.
Read the rest here: What is Safe?
A few decades ago, faulty research methods made popular an inaccurate statistic that a disproportionate number of marriages fail after a couple experiences child loss.
Like many urban legends, once fixed in the minds of many, it’s nearly impossible to dislodge.
And that is more than unfortunate because when marriages falter (and they often do) after child loss, some people just give up because they think failure is inevitable.
But it’s not.
Marriage is hard under any circumstances. It requires sacrifice, compromise, communication, change and most importantly, commitment.
Any stressor makes it harder.
I can’t think of a bigger stressor than child loss. It’s no surprise that many marriages tend to flounder in the tsunami of grief, sorrow and pain that follows the death of a child.
But grief rarely causes the problems that surface, it simply makes them unavoidable.
Suddenly all the energy that was once available to deflect, to distract, to pretend is gone. And things that have gone unaddressed for years or decades can no longer be ignored.
It’s important to make that distinction because if child loss is the only reason a couple can’t find their way, then giving up might make sense. Anyone who lives with child loss knows that the pain, sorrow and missing will never go away. We become better able to deal with it, but it is something we will carry for life.
If, however, child loss is simply the force that shook other problems loose, then working on those specific issues is not only possible, it’s doable.
Here are some common conflicts in marriage that surface after child loss:
Different ways of expressing (or not expressing) emotion. Men and women often grieve differently. You and your spouse may have always dealt differently with strong emotions but until it was grief, it went unnoticed. Sometimes these differences cause conflict because one spouse cries openly while another rarely mentions their missing child. To the open griever, it feels like her spouse doesn’t care. To the secret griever, it feels like his wife is dramatic and out of control. If you don’t talk about it, the gap grows wider and can become unbridgeable.
It’s OK to grieve differently. But it’s not OK to blame someone for grieving differently. Ask questions. Give grace. Listen carefully. Grant space.
Blended family dynamics that have gone unaddressed. Some bereaved parents are no longer married to the mother or father of their child. They have remarried and are part of a blended family. Any differences in grieving styles between spouses can be exaggerated when the biological parent feels like the stepparent “doesn’t get it”. Sometimes the bio-parent becomes bitter that his family circle has been broken while his spouse is spared. The list is practically endless but nearly always starts with things in the relationship that were always there-favoring one child over another, a sense that the stepparent never cared for her spouse’s children as much as for her own, or other silent resentment.
Before you assume that the only reason your spouse isn’t crying at all or as much as you is because it wasn’t HIS child, think carefully about it. Have there been rumbles in your relationship before? Consider the full sweep of how your spouse treated your missing child-is there ample evidence that he or she loved your child well?
Don’t jump to conclusions. Ask questions. Give grace. Listen carefully. Grant space.
Underlying health problems. Sometimes child loss causes or uncovers health problems. If you or your spouse suffer from heart disease, diabetes or other chronic health issues, the stress of burying a child can make any or all of them worse. Child loss can also push marginal mental health to the point of requiring counseling and/or medication. Chronic pain tends to get worse. Thyroid medication often needs to be adjusted. All of these things can make someone grumpy, short-tempered, less likely to extend grace and mercy. Add that to the stress of child loss and it’s no wonder spouses may find themselves at one another’s throats.
One spouse may be motivated to take better care of him or herself while another may give up and give in, refusing medication or treatment for the most obvious health problems. Frustration and a sense that the unmotivated spouse is making life harder for everyone adds to family stress.
If you find yourself or your spouse acting out of character, a thorough physical examination and blood work can expose underlying health problems. Appropriate medical intervention will make a huge difference. Counseling is often an important part of that intervention.
Old wounds. Child loss is such a deep wound! It frequently uncovers other, older wounds as well. You or your spouse may have wounds from earlier in your marriage or from earlier in life before marriage. Many, many times we cover these up and *almost* forget them. But when a heart is shattered in the aftermath of burying a child, all those tender places become exposed. Whatever tricks we’ve used to keep them hidden just don’t work anymore.
If you feel like you are reacting disproportionately to everyday stresses, stop and listen to your own heart. Is there an offense behind the offense you think you’ve suffered at the hand of your spouse? Is there an unhealed wound shading the meaning of words and actions that otherwise wouldn’t upset you?
I could list a dozen more examples of the complex reasons a marriage may struggle after child loss.
I won’t.
Marriage is a commitment. A difficult, trying, time consuming, energy zapping commitment under the best of circumstances.
Child loss may be the worst of circumstances.
But remember that child loss alone is rarely the reason a marriage flounders.
Look deep.
Grant space.
Ask questions.
Strain to hear what your spouse is really saying.
Give grace.
We can’t bring our children back but we can choose to fight for our marriages.
They do not have to become another casualty in this life we didn’t choose.
Please hear me.
I do NOT blame you that my son and my sorrow have drifted down your list of “things that need attention”. Your life is as busy as mine once was and your calendar full of commitments and celebrations that require your attendance.
There is no way you would know it’s 69 days until the fifth anniversary of Dominic’s sudden absence.
There is no reason for you to be aware that as the southern landscape turns to spring, my heart and mind turn to death.
But it’s the truth.
Read the rest here: When It’s Been YEARS-How to Bless a Grieving Parent
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