For a moment–
Between wake and sleep-
All things are as I wish them to be.
Unchanged by time,
by terror,
by tears.
Warm and lovely.
Cocooned in my heart.
Category: Dominic
This is NOT Forever…
One breath
One glance
A single tiny detail transports me from here to there.
Takes me from doing alright to devastation
Changes daylight to dark and grips my soul with terrifying pain.
If I didn’t have hope to cling to
If I didn’t know that every promise of God in Christ is yes and amen
If I didn’t trust that my tears are recorded in His book,
my name written on His hands
and my life secure within His own I’d let the darkness take me under.
Breathe in
Breathe out
It will pass
THIS is not forever.
Forever is waiting for me
Dominic is already there-
Tomorrows without end.
No tears
No fears
No goodbyes
Open arms.
The Forgotten Ones: Grieving Siblings
I am always afraid that Dominic will be forgotten.
I’m afraid that as time passes, things change and lives move forward, his place in hearts will be squeezed smaller and smaller until only a speck remains.
Not in my heart, of course.
Or in the hearts of those closest to him, but in general-he will become less relevant.
But he is not the only one who can be forgotten. I am just as fearful that my living children will be forgotten.
Not in the same way-they are HERE.
They are participating in life and making new memories, new connections and strengthening old ones.
I’m afraid their grief will be overlooked, unacknowledged-swept under the giant rug of life and busyness that seems to cover everything unpleasant or undervalued.
If the course of a bereaved parent’s grief is marked by initial outpouring of concern, comfort and care followed by the falling away of friends, family and faithful companionship then that of a bereaved sibling is doubly so.
Surviving children often try to lessen a grieving parent’s burden by acting as if “everything is OK”.
But it’s not-it is definitely NOT.
Their world has been irrevocably altered. They have come face-to-face with mortality, with deep pain, with an understanding that bad things happen-happen to people they love-without warning and without remedy.
They are forced to rethink their family, their faith and their future without a life-long friend and companion.
Part of their history is gone.
If surviving children are young, it can be so, so easy to mistake the natural enthusiasm and excitement of youth for complete healing. They are often busy with events, education, work and life and the grief they still feel may go unnoticed-even by themselves.
But they need safe, consistent and compassionate care while they navigate grief and the enduring impacts of sibling loss. School counselors, grief counselors or mature and emotionally stable adult friends can be very helpful during this process.
It’s important to be alert to danger signals. Behavioral impacts may present in many ways:
- Anxiety (situational, tests, generalized)
- Risk taking
- Isolation
- Inability to enjoy previously enjoyable activities
- Withdrawal from family or friends
- Depression
- Self-harming behavior
- Drug or alcohol abuse
- Poor grades (may have given up or may not be able to concentrate)
- Extreme concern for other family members and their safety
If you observe any of these changes, get help. A grieving parent is rarely able to be the sole source of intensive counsel for a bereaved child-someone outside the grief circle may be a better choice.
Adult children-even those married and with kids of their own-are also changed forever by saying “good-bye” to a brother or sister. Addiction, depression and physical health issues can surface in the wake of loss.
It’s not always easy to connect the dots back to grief since life is full of stress and strain and they may need help.
My children have been blessed to have friends and loved ones who give them a safe place to go when grief overwhelms them or when other stressors on top of grief make life really hard.
If you know a bereaved sibling:
- Reach out.
- Be an encourager.
- Don’t assume that because time has gone by, they are all better.
- They may not want to talk about it and that’s OK. But if they do, listen. Without platitudes, without judgement-just be a safe place.
- And if you notice something that’s just not “quite right” try to get them the help they may need to make it through this hard place.
Bereaved families are often doing the best they can, but they can’t do it alone.
When you bless my earthly children, you bless me. When you give them space to grieve, you give me space to breathe. When you encourage them, you encourage my heart too.
Don’t forget them.
Please.
Unnatural
All the fears I thought I knew
All the what-ifs I pondered during inky nights-
None of them-none. of. them. prepared me for this reality.
I have thought many times of my own death. Anyone past twenty-five has to consider that the farther you get from high school the closer you get to the grave.
So I put foolish and risky behavior behind me. Eat fiber. Exercise.
Wise choices, that’s the ticket.
But what about random? What about unexpected? What about lightning strikes and sudden curves?
How do you plan for that?
I know I’ll end some day. That’s the way of things. And I’m OK with that.
My children.
They are my legacy. They are the keepers of my light.
They are the part of me that will live beyond me.
Except one of them.
I am his legacy-the unanticipated keeper of HIS light.
It’s not supposed to be this way.
Yet here I am.
Unnatural. Unacceptable.
Unthinkable.
Inescapably real.
A Little Extra Grace
Each day I am reminded by sights, smells, sounds and memories that Dominic is in Heaven and not here.
But there are moments and seasons when his absence is particularly strong-when I can’t breathe in without also breathing a prayer, “Father, let me make it through this minute, this hour, this day.”
And that’s when I need grace-from family, friends and strangers.
Anyone who knows ANYONE that lives with loss knows that Thanksgiving, Christmas, birthdays and remembrance days are sure to be especially hard for those left behind.
What some may not know is that there are other, hidden, pitfalls on this journey through the Valley of the Shadow of Death.
For many bereaved parents the beginning of the school year is one of them.
Even though my son was long past school age when he left, that shiny penny newness and promise of another year of school, another step toward maturity and the rest of life, another marker on the road to what every parent hopes will be a beautiful future is a painful reminder that my child won’t be doing anything new here on earth.
And a little extra grace goes a long way toward making this season easier to endure.
- A bit more patience as I walk slowly across the parking lot, lost in thought and unaware you are behind me trying to get on with life or park your car.
- A smile when I accidentally bump my cart into yours in the grocery aisle-having just passed his favorite food or smelled coffee and been instantly transported to his finicky passion for all things caffeine
- Calm responses when I jump to conclusions, cut you off mid-sentence or answer a query with a less-than-kind tone of voice.
Want to be especially encouraging to a parent missing their child in heaven?
- A text or message or a “thinking of you” card can turn a dismal day into one full of sunshine.
- Do you have a special memory or memento you could share? What a gift!
If you see us in these next few days and weeks as thoughts and hearts turn from summer to a new semester, be patient-we are once again reminded that our child’s earthly story has ended.
It’s a hard truth to embrace.
Every. time.
Move On Already!
How long has it been? A year, two, eighteen or twenty-five?
When. are. you. going. to. move on?
Aren’t you over talking about their birth story, their childhood, their school years, their spouse, children, moves and career? How many funny stories or sad recollections do I have to listen to?????
I mean, really-it’s been soooooooooo00 long since they were BORN!
Sound’s ridiculous, doesn’t it? It IS ridiculous.
We don’t expect parents to “move on” or “get over” their living children.
Why, why, why do we expect parents to move on or get over the ones they’ve had to bury?
My love for each of my children, on earth or in heaven, is life-long.
I wrote about it here: Love: The Reason I Grieve
Twelve Things I Love to Remember
It rolls around every month-the twelfth-that glaring reminder that on this day “x” number of months ago, I woke to the news Dominic was never coming home again.
This month is 28. Twenty-eight months-more than 28 moon cycles-over two years.
I don’t cry all day on this monthly reminder anymore-although I used to. And I have tried various ways to redeem it.
This month I decided to share twelve things I love to remember about Dominic. Maybe some things even his good friends didn’t know:
- Dominic HATED to lose. When he was a little boy we participated in a monthly skate session at a local roller rink. At the end of the skating time (to encourage kids to quickly take off and return their skates) there were foot races broken up by age and gender. Poor Dom-he was built like a gymnast not a runner and he. just. couldn’t. win. EVERY TIME, he’d come stomping off the floor, nearly in tears because he didn’t win. So many things came easily to him but this didn’t and it frustrated him.
- Dominic finished his undergraduate degree in three and a half years-double major-graduated Magna Cum Laude and delivered the undergraduate address for his graduation ceremony. I love that he was so goal-oriented and persevered even when it was really hard.
- He could subsist on rice and broiled chicken breasts when he was trying to work on muscle definition (he rarely missed a day at the gym) but when he was a little kid he hid candy along the side of his mattress. He remained a sucker for a good sugar binge, especially when stressed during finals.
- Dominic was scared of needles. His PCP finally shamed him into getting a needed tetanus shot but he hated it!
- He had a weakness for puppies, kittens and kids.
- If it had strings, Dominic could play it-mandolin, guitar, bass, banjo. And if you could coax rhythm out of it, he could make it sing. Never silent, never still-always making some kind of music. Boy do I miss that!
- Dominic never took “no” for an answer. He would doggedly pursue anything and anyone if he thought it was a valid case or course of action. He had an entire university policy overturned because he was able to demonstrate to the administration that its application was faulty. That’s part of what would have made him a great lawyer…
- He was an adrenaline junkie. He was the one that wanted to jump out of an airplane so he did.
- As an undergraduate he had a part-time job as a lifeguard at the student recreation center. He loved the job but hated swimming. He was an amazing athlete.
- Although he was an excellent orator, he didn’t really talk until he was almost three and had a speech impediment until he was into second grade. You would never have known it if you met him as an older teen or adult.
- Oh! Dominic was stubborn! I remember one afternoon when I had given an assignment to draw a leaf in his nature journal. He sat, without drawing, for over an hour because he insisted he couldn’t draw, wouldn’t draw and didn’t see the point in the assignment. I finally caved and said he could trace the leaf. I still have that picture as a testimony to his mulish side.
- Dominic had a great sense of humor and nothing was out of bounds if it made someone laugh.
I am so thankful God made me his mama. I love every memory I have. I really wish we could make more…
Another Day
I wake and you are still gone.
The cats tap-tap-tapping on my arms and face declare the day has begun despite the dark and I need to climb out of bed.
Why?
What difference does it make?
I trudge downstairs, put the coffee on, feed the cats and settle into my chair to read and write.
Habits.
Routine carries me through the day. There are things that need to be done.
The sun still rises-must be soon now because I hear the rooster’s escalating declaration that he, at least, can see the light.
One cat settles into my lap adding weight and warmth to the morning. I remember when I held you and your brothers and sister. I never tired of that sweet bundle bearing down on my heart.
I would do anything to feel it again.
But that can’t be. And I won’t hold your children either.
All of you was taken away.
Every last molecule, every last gene.
Nothing left but flat photos and memories that are increasingly difficult to piece together in rich detail.
The vital essence that sent shock waves through a room, the loud laugh, the snarky comments, the deep, deep voice that made you sound so serious-all gone.
Heaven is a real place and I know you are there.
But I want you here.
I can’t help it.
All the theological arguments don’t fill the hole in my heart where you are supposed to be.
Shake it off.
Here’s the sun.
Get to it.
Another day.
A Day in the Life
If you get up every morning and go to work-I applaud you!
Most of my days start with work, but I don’t have to go farther than my own property to discharge my duties.
But today I had to get going extra early for a doctor’s appointment with a specialist about 50 miles away. So I rushed through my morning chores, double-checked I had everything I needed and left home by 7:10.
I had to park in a parking garage-no easy feat when you drive a full-size pickup and the spaces are designed for mid-size cars. The low roof, confined space and limited light make me feel trapped and uncomfortable.
Every time I have to fill out health paperwork there is always a question or two that makes me think of Dominic. I shake off the beginnings of tears and wait to be called back.
My blood pressure is higher than it usually is and I’m a bit heavier than last time I was there-both things that make me feel like a failure and add to the voice in my head that says, “You aren’t good enough. You are doing something wrong or this wouldn’t have happened to you.”
My disease is progressing and although my doctor is kind, and patient, and fully aware of the fact that I’ve buried a child, she broaches once again a treatment option that has more risk but potentially greater efficacy.
I’m just not ready to take the leap.
So my anxiety mounts as I think of both alternatives: Submitting myself to a new treatment that may have grave consequences or giving in to the inevitable limitations that rheumatoid arthritis is imposing on my life.
She graciously puts off the decision for another three months but I know I won’t be in any better position to make it then either. I’m paralyzed now when I have to decide these kinds of things-torn between “doing what’s best” and “what difference will it make?”
Bloodwork means waiting in a area next to the infusion clinic and hematology departments and I am surrounded by people that are in dire straits. Once more, between the waiting and the thinking, I’m ready to be out of there.
When I get back to my truck, what had looked like a pretty good place to park has become a nightmare. Another truck beside me and two parked opposite have closed the space I should have had to get out to the bare minimum. And someone is waiting for my spot.
Oh, joy!
I try.
I really try to figure out how to get too much vehicle out of too little space.
Finally, in tears, I step out of my truck (now in what I think is an impossible position) and raise my hands in the air-I give up! You win!
The kind man that was waiting steps out of his car and guides me backward and forward (4 turns!) until I am free from the awful predicament. I thank him and keep going.
Before Dominic left us this day would have seemed like a tiny blip on the radar of life. It certainly wouldn’t have brought me to tears.
But the energy required to simply get up and get going in the wake of losing him means that I have so much less to spend on anything else.
I don’t suffer from anxiety.
I’m not depressed.
But there are many moments throughout the day when I am anxious or sorrowful.
One minute I’m fine. And then a series of events, phone calls or memories pile one atop the other until they become a load I can no longer bear.
It feels like I am always behind, always short on resources, always close to tears.
And no matter how hard I try, I am unable to simply “get better”. No matter how much I organize or plan or work at it, I always end up frazzled and frustrated and feeling like a failure.
I wish it wasn’t like this-this added burden in addition to the missing and the sorrow. Maybe it’s part of the missing and the sorrow. I don’t know.
But I’m ready for a day, a single day, when I feel just a little bit victorious..
How Do You Breathe?
It was the question I asked the bereaved mother that came to my son’s funeral.
It was the question a mother asked me as we stood by her granddaughter’s casket, surrounded by family and flowers.
And it is the right question.
Because when the breath leaves the body of your child, and you look down at the shell that used to be the home of a vibrant, living soul, you simply can. not. breathe.
What should be an autonomic, automatic, don’t-even-think-about-it bodily function escapes you.
When your lungs finally scream for oxygen, your body takes over, against your will.
And even more than two years later, it’s where I still live-between the conscious world of aching loss that drains me of the will to go on and the unconcious biology of a body still functioning without my permission.
I live in a no-man’s-land with one foot in the HERE AND NOW and one foot in FOREVER.
But there are no bright flags to mark its borders, no crossing guards to give warning to the people I mingle with every day that they are over there- outside my world of hurt-and I am stuck in here.
And so they wave from across the way, cheerful and unburdened by the weight of sorrow I drag around. They give me odd looks now and then, vaguely unsettled by my inability to plunge unrestrained into their fun.
Memory escapes them-what happened? how long has it been? shouldn’t she be over that by now?
They can’t understand, and I’m thankful for that.
“How do you breathe?”
Only the ones who share the secret knowledge know the answer to that question.
You learn to will your heart to keep beating and your lungs to keep filling because there are others who depend on you and who need you to stay.
You can’t hold your breath forever, even if you want to.
You lean harder on the hope you have in Christ.
You recite verses and hymns and fill your mind with the promises of Jesus.
And you beg the Spirit of God to fill you to fullness with His breath, His life and His hope.
I pray that God, the source of hope, will fill you completely with joy and peace because you trust in him. Then you will overflow with confident hope through the power of the Holy Spirit.
Romans 15:13 NLT
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