Child loss makes so many things more complex.
I wrote this awhile back in an attempt to help those outside this community understand that every. single. day. we who have buried a child face an emotional minefield of choices.
“One of the things I’ve been forced to embrace in the wake of child loss is that there are very few questions, experiences or feelings that are simple anymore.”
Read the rest here: It’s Complicated
Shame is a shackle as sure as any chains forged from iron.
And it often finds its home in the hearts of those who bury a child.
Bereaved parents may feel shame for lots of reasons:
The list could be endless-on the other side of child loss our brains pick apart every interaction, every choice, every moment that could have gone one way but went another.
Grief is WORK.
But it is impossible to make my way through the pile of emotions if I’m shackled by shame. I can’t move freely and effectively if I’m bound hand and foot by things I can’t control and can’t change.
In the midst of all this work, some bereaved parents find they are immobilized by depression and/or anxiety and need medication to help them through.
And they feel ashamed.
Can I just say this?
There is NO shame in seeking help.
There is nothing shameful about using whatever tools are available to make this awful journey more manageable.
A wise and kind doctor friend said, “Medication does not make the sorrow and pain go away, but it can calm the mind and create space so you can do the work grief requires.”
You are not a failure if you need medical help to quiet your mind. You are not weak if you take a pill to keep from feeling like you’re going to come out of your skin. You have done nothing wrong if you can’t sleep and require a sleep aid to allow your body the rest it needs to carry on.
Don’t compare your journey to anyone else’s.
You are unique. Your path through this heartache is your own.
Do what you need to- for YOU.
Shake off the shame.
It comes up over and over in support groups for bereaved parents:
Am I normal?
Am I doing alright, coping well, making progress?
Do others struggle to get through a day even months or years after losing a child?
I want to reach through the computer screen and hug each one.
Yes.
Yes.
Yes.
You. are. NOT. alone.
Labels and categories can be helpful. When cruising the grocery aisles I’m thankful for the signs that point the way to “vegetables” or “baking needs”.
But labels can be harmful when applied to people.
Thankfully public discussion rarely includes some of the ugly words I heard growing up.
And that’s a good thing.
It means we are free to talk about the things that really matter without having to clear the hurdle of offense.
This trend has yet to take hold in wider circles when speaking about or speaking to bereaved parents and other hurting people.
From the outside looking in, we tend to classify struggling hearts as either “strong” or “weak”. We apply standards based on our own experience and background to determine whether or not a particular soul is “handling it well” or “crumbling under the stress”.
The problem with labels for hurting people is that it puts extra pressure on them and lets those around them off the hook.
You probably mean it as a compliment when you say, “You are so strong”.
But I know it’s not true-I’ve gotten very good at holding it together in public and at saying all the right things when I meet folks on the street.
I can look you in the eye, recite answers to the question of , “How are you doing?” by focusing on the current status of my surviving adult children. What you probably won’t notice among the well-rehearsed lines is I never share my heart-I never tell you how I FEEL.
If I opened that vault there’s no telling what might spill out.
You walk away confirmed in your opinion that I am doing well, that I no longer need any active encouragement or ongoing prayer. I’m off the “ministry list” because I am past the point of crisis and doing just fine.
Or you may see me at a vulnerable moment and think, “She’s weak” or “She’s really struggling”.
I AM weak and I DO struggle.
If you are tired of hearing about the ongoing struggle, how tired do you imagine I am living it?
If you wish I would “get over it”-how much more do you think I wish it never happened?
You may give up because it’s too much trouble to keep reaching out. You may tuck me in the basket of lost causes because you think I’m not committed to keep trying.
It’s easy to draw a line in the sand and decide that you will go thus far and no farther in extending help or encouragement or grace because you CAN walk away.
But I am not a lost cause.
Each day Jesus meets me in my weakness and brokenness and gives me the strength I need to carry on.
And He often does this through people-people who choose to walk alongside and not label me or my journey. People who are committed to continue even when they are tired of helping carry the burden and sick of hearing my story.
Grace–abundant grace-given and received is what makes life livable.
Love, not labels is what I need.
It’s what everyone needs.
As much as I hate the mashup of Halloween/Thanksgiving/Christmas that assaults my senses every time I walk into a store, it IS a reminder that, like it or not, the holidays are coming.
I wrote these posts a few weeks back so that grieving parents and their families could begin to think about and make plans for year-end celebrations.
I know it’s hard-it continues to be hard for me as I approach the third (!) set of holidays without one of my children at the table.
But it is harder without a plan.
So here are links to the posts. I pray they are a small help for heartbroken mamas and daddies:
Grief and Holiday Plans: Working Out the Details
Grief, Holidays and Hard Conversations
Grief and Holidays:What the Bereaved Need From Friends and Family
Practical Ideas for Dealing with the Holidays after Child Loss
The doctor I see every six months or so for my rheumatoid arthritis always fusses at me.
One of the routine questions is, “How’s your pain level?”
I usually say, “About a three.”
And then she looks at my hands and my feet-at the swollen joints and twisted toes-and shakes her head.
But here’s the deal: sure they hurt, sure I can’t do all the things I used to do, sure I have to do many things differently than I did them when my hands and feet were unaffected by this disease-but I’m STILL moving and doing what needs to be done.
I don’t really know how to do anything else.
And that’s how it is with this grief I lug around-it’s heavier some days than others-but I’m STILL moving and doing what needs to be done.
This is not the life I thought I would be living, but it’s the life I have.
So I make accommodations for my sorrow just like I make accommodations for my hurting hands and crooked toes.
I am not in control of everything, but I can control some things.
I would not have chosen this life for myself, but I can make choices that help make it bearable.
Those hours before I planted one last kiss on my son’s forehead, I held his hand.
I nodded at the people filing past to pay their respects with my arm tucked behind me, desperate to cling to my child.
And I’m still clinging.
I will not let him go.
I don’t care how many days or months or years march on taking me further from the sound of his voice, the touch of his hand or the brightness of his smile-I refuse to release my grasp.
It’s hard for someone who has never buried a child to understand why we who have are compelled to speak about them, to post pictures of them, to air our great grief and share our great hope of reunion.
I didn’t have a clue before it was me.
But this is all we have.
There will be no new experiences, no fresh memories, no photos marking higher achievements or life passages.
So I will hold onto Dominic as a little boy who was so stubborn he would sit in the floor and cry in frustration because he couldn’t yet crawl.
I will hold onto Dominic as a young man who could argue anyone under the table until they gave in because, right or wrong, he wasn’t giving up.
I will hold onto Dominic who taught himself how to play the drums and pounded away when I took my daily walk so that it wouldn’t be too loud for my ears.
I will hold onto Dominic who talked his way into a program that admitted few students even though he had missed the first semester of classes.
I will hold onto Dominic who could fight like a banty rooster when he was mad but be as tender as a mother hen with someone who was hurting.
I will hold onto Dominic who would have never wanted this for me, who would have done anything he could to prevent this great sorrow resting on my shoulders.
I refuse to let go.
Because he is my son.
There is no past tense for a mother’s love.
Humpty Dumpty sat on a wall
Humpty Dumpty had a great fall
All the king’s horses and all the king’s men
Couldn’t put Humpty Dumpty together again.
~children’s rhyme
Shattered beyond repair-that certainly describes my broken heart in the first days, weeks and months after Dominic’s leaving.
I felt like Humpty Dumpty.
The pieces were too small to find, much less glue back together in anything resembling wholeness.
And the essence of the “old me”-the person that existed before loss-was spilled onto the ground, leaking strength and life and joy into the dry earth.
Humpty Dumpty had no hope-the king’s men and horses were powerless to breathe life into the lifeless bits and pieces that were left.
But I don’t have to depend on the king’s men or the king’s horses.
I have access to the King Himself.
I am not separated by a veil from the Mercy Seat.
I can come boldly before the Throne of Grace and pile my broken life on the Altar of Hope.
Now that we know what we have—Jesus, this great High Priest with ready access to God—let’s not let it slip through our fingers. We don’t have a priest who is out of touch with our reality. He’s been through weakness and testing, experienced it all—all but the sin. So let’s walk right up to him and get what he is so ready to give. Take the mercy, accept the help.
Hebrews 4:16 MSG
The One Who made me can remake me.
He IS remaking me.
I have no illusions that the cracks won’t show.
But I am trusting that my new fragility will make me both more grace-filled and more grace dependent.
We think leaves fall when we turn the calendar page to Autumn months.
Piles of red, gold and orange land beneath trees that grow increasingly barren until one day they are truly naked.
But leaves begin to fall as early as July-hardly noticed because they drift down lonely, one by one.
No one is looking for them then.
And green grass grows tall to hide them.
We think people live to the fullness of years. They begin in spring and pass through all the seasons before the cold winter claims them.
But some survive only one season, or two–never enjoying the fruitful harvest of the latter years the younger years of hard work are meant to produce.
Unlike early falling leaves, early deaths are perceived and acknowledged.
Shocking and unexpected, people gather round to discuss the tragedy, the sorrow and the lost future of one who dies young.
But then they go away-caught up in the seasons of their own lives.
And the green grass grows tall to hide the ones who left too soon.
No one is looking for them anymore.
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:
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.
thelifeididntchoose 