There is so. much. pressure. on grieving parents during the holidays!
A constant tension between the world celebrating the “season of joy” and a heart that carries great sorrow.
Perhaps more than any other time of the year we may ask the question:
Category: Dominic
Dealing With Anxious Thoughts
I no longer have to imagine the worst thing that could happen in the life of a mother-I know exactly how it feels.
And if I allow my heart to ponder that too often or too long, it consumes me.
So I am learning to take those anxious thoughts captive, learning to make them live in only a small corner of my mind instead of taking it over completely.
It takes effort and discipline, but it’s possible.
I don’t have to live the rest of my days a quivering mess- afraid of every sunrise, every phone call, every mile my family travels:
- I confront my fear with facts: The absolute truth is that it is no more likely I will lose a child today than it was the day I lost Dominic. I’m not good at determining odds-if I toss a coin ten times and it lands on “heads”-I’m convinced that next time it HAS to be “tails”. But that’s just not true. EVERY time the coin is tossed, it has exactly a 50/50 chance of landing on “heads” or “tails” regardless of what happened last time. That’s not how it FEELS, but that’s how it IS.
- I refuse to feed my fear: I don’t linger over news stories that play up danger or magnify the possibility of catching rare diseases. Do these things happen? ABSOLUTELY! But are they likely to happen to me or someone I love, probably not. I will not fuel the fire of fear that threatens to rage through my mind.
- I take reasonable precautions: My family wears seatbelts. We take our vitamins and go to the doctor when we need to. We eat right and exercise. We don’t walk across streets without looking both ways. These were all things we did before Dominic’s accident and we continue to do them now. Not one of them would have made a diference that night but they help me feel better.
- I limit my exposure to uncertainty: If I’m concerned about someone, I call or text. It’s that simple. I don’t have to live for hours wondering if they are OK. I’m careful not to infringe on my adult children’s lives by a never-ending series of contacts, but they understand my heart. We try to be mindful of letting each other know we arrive safely to our destination.
- I exercise control in other areas of my life: Anxiety is a beast that grows stronger the more out of control I feel. I cannot keep my family absolutely safe-it’s not in my power to do so. BUT, I can control some aspects of life. So I do. Even cleaning out a messy junk drawer helps bolster my sense of control. Small, easy to complete projects feed the part of my brain that says, “You can do this!”
- I limit caffeine and other stimulants: Increased heart rate, rapid breathing and sweaty palms are signs of anxiety. Caffeine can produce these effects even when I’m not anxious. If my body is feeling this way, my mind is quick to jump on board.
- I practice distraction: There are times when I find myself feeling anxious despite my best efforts. When that happens, I am learning to distract myself. I find something to touch, smell, hear or taste that can help me regain composure. I count backwards from ten or twenty. I hum a song or recite a Bible verse. I add numbers in my head or do multiplication tables.
- I live in the present: I have no idea what tomorrow holds. If I allow my heart to dwell on what might happen, I will be useless for today. So while I make marks on the calendar for appointments, I wake each morning determined to live right now.
Because, really, that’s all any of us has.
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The Odd Bits That Break My Heart
Oh, how I wish it were different!
The odd bits that break my heart-
The moment my three living children are in the family room, joking and laughing-but his voice is so obviously missing.
The moment I say to one son, “Have you texted your brother?” and don’t have to give a name, because there is only one brother left to text.
The moment I go down the list of who-I-have-heard-from-in-the-last-24-hours and it is short a single name. I know where Dominic is.
The moment I realize that it has been three years (!) since I bought him a present, asked him for a Christmas wish list, checked in to check his schedule so I can arrange family dinners and holiday get togethers.
The moment I count plates or cups or places at the table-always one less, always one empty chair.
Yes, there are good days.
Yes, I am so very thankful for each moment I have with the ones left.
But if counting blessings is supposed to undo my heartache I must be doing it all wrong.
If focusing on the “now” is a way to ignore the “then” I need more practice.
No matter how hard I try, I cannot get over the hurdle of wanting things to be like they were.
I am not ungrateful. I cherish every single second we are together.
I hold every farewell close to my heart.
I make a mental picture of the face, the smile, the wave-because when you learn the hard way that this time might be the last time-you don’t take anything for granted.
I cling to the promise that one day we will be reunited.
But right now, it’s hard.
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Light Bearers and Candle Snuffers
One of the rituals I observe when the time changes and night closes in so very early is to light a candle each evening in the dark.
I’ve done it for years but now as I do it, I think of Dominic.
It is my small way of declaring the truth that darkness will not win.
It’s my protest against despair and hopelessness that threatens to undo me–threatens to undo ALL of us at one time or another.
Because when I sit in the circle of the glow of that single candle, I’m reminded that no matter how small the flame, darkness cannot overcome the light.
I’m reminded that I can be a light bearer or a candle snuffer.
I can help others find hope or I can douse the tiny flame that still burns in their troubled heart.
Dominic was a light bearer.
After his death, the University of Alabama newspaper, The Crimson and White ran an article that said in part:
“Dominic was always very mechanically inclined and sort of became the law school mechanic,” close friend and classmate Joe Heilman said. “We are all poor college kids, so when we had questions, we would always go to him. This year alone I think he worked on five different law students’ cars and wouldn’t let them give him any more money than what it cost to replace the part.”
Heilman said Dominic’s selflessness far surpassed that of most people.
“He was one of the most hospitable people that I had ever met,” Heilman said. “I don’t have Internet or cable at my apartment, and when he found that out, he handed me the extra key to his apartment, no questions asked, and just said, ‘Come over whenever.’”
“He was exactly the kind of friend that everyone wants to have and that everyone tries to be,” Jonathan Mayhall, another friend, said.
All my children are light bearers.
They bring light and life to everyone they meet. They encourage, help and minister to the people in their lives. They stop for strangers, buy meals for the homeless, show up when friends are moving and put people first.
I encourage you, friend, as these nights get longer and darkness seems so very present-light a candle.
Sit in the circle of its glow and think how bright that little light shines in the black around you.
And remember that we all have the power to be light bearers, no matter how dark the night.
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Another Milestone
I began this blog almost a year and a half into my grief journey.
At first I wasn’t fully committed to writing on a regular basis.
I certainly never thought I’d write every day.
But this month marks a milestone: From November 1, 2015 to today I have posted at least once a day. Not every post original-some reposts of my blog or links to other blogs.
But I’ve shown up.
And it has been helpful to me, even if it hasn’t helped anyone else.
I had been journaling since the day I got the news but was too raw and too hurt to share my thoughts with anyone but God.
Goodness, I’d been journaling for almost 20 years and never expected to share any of it with anyone. It was my way of working through hard emotions, recording insights and venting things that wouldn’t be helpful for others to hear.
But here I am-letting so much of it out to the world.
Every time I press “post” I still tremble. Am I saying something helpful? Hurtful? Foolish? Wise? I never know until I get some feedback.
I appreciate everyone who has commented on or “liked” or shared a post.
It gives me courage to carry on.
My only ambition for this effort is that I remain authentic, faithful and honest about the journey through the Valley of the Shadow of Death.
I want to finish well. I want to make Dominic proud.
It is my way of redeeming the pain.
Thank you for joining me in the journey.
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Repost: Thankful But Broken
Thanksgiving has always been my favorite holiday.
My birthday sometimes falls on the day itself, and I have often been able to celebrate with extended family and friends-a full table of food and a full house of fellowship.
I love the colors of fall, the scents of cinnamon and pumpkin, the freedom from gift-giving pressures that lets me focus on the people in my life.
Read the rest here: Thankful But Broken
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Repost: Slow Fade
Each time Dominic should be here but isn’t, I lose just a little bit more.
“It would be easier, in a way, if it happened all at once.
If the vivid memories of his voice, his laugh, his body language, his sense of humor just disappeared-POOF!-now-you-see-it-now-you-don’t. Then I could make a single adjustment.”
Read the rest here: Slow Fade
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No. It’s a Complete Sentence.
When news that Dominic left us spread, our yard was filled with friends and family here to help bear the burden of grief and loss.
Our house was bursting with people and food and phone calls-more coming and going than our gravel lane had seen in a lifetime of living up in the woods.
It was beautiful and terrible all at the same time. Beautiful because we were not alone in our sorrow and terrible because it was due to that sorrow they were here.
In those days between the accident and the funeral I was boundary-less.
People hugged me, fed me, cleaned my house, cut my grass, tended the animals, asked me questions, told me stories and I just accepted it-whatever “it” was-because I was utterly unable to do anything else.
But in the weeks that followed, as the pain made itself more at home in my heart-as it expanded to fill every nook and crevice-I realized that I had to put up some fences.
My oldest son was getting married just a couple months after the accident.
There’s a lot of stuff to do for a wedding as most folks know. So I got a phone call one week after Dominic’s funeral and the person on the other end launched into a long saga regarding a minor detail and expected me to 1) listen attentively; 2) care as deeply as they did about something that absolutely didn’t matter; and 3) join with them in light-hearted, laughter-filled banter.
I just. couldn’t. do. it.
So I didn’t.
I politely but firmly explained that I was unable to continue the conversation and that in future they needed to contact me through my son. I promised I was 100% committed to making the wedding happen, to doing my part and to being as happy as possible on the day.
But until then, unless it was a true emergency, please leave me alone.
Drawing a boundary created space for me to DO what needed to be done without the added burden of extra emotional baggage.
Before Dominic left us I was a “yes” person.
Need help with an event? Why, sure I’m available.
Need someone to take your Sunday School class? Absolutely.
Keep your toddler? Just drop him off-we’ll play with the critters all day.
Phone call counselor and Homeschool Help Hotline-that was me.
Not anymore.
I’ve learned that if I am to have the energy needed to do necessary things, I have to protect my heart. I am too weak to carry everyone else’s burdens. If I am going to survive this journey I’ve got to prioritize.
I still listen.
I still help.
But I do it in a more healthy way-with respect for myself as well as others.
It is OK to say, “No.” And I don’t have to offer a reason. It’s a complete sentence all on its own.
All of my children had urged me over the years to draw boundaries. But I had grown from a parent-pleasing first born into a people pleasing adult and I just couldn’t do it.
Dominic even crafted a wire sign that hung on my kitchen curtains in the shape of a cursive “no”.
He made me repeat the mantra: Lack of planning on your part does not constitute an emergency on my part.
He’d be proud of me for finally taking his advice.
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You Can Only Hold On To What You Refuse to Let Go Of
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.
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Relentlessly Forward
The sharp shard stabs deep when I’m unprepared.
Drifting off to sleep
Driving down the road
Doing the laundry.
He’s not here.
He’s not coming back.
His living presence is taken from me.
His smile,
Unseen.
His voice,
Unheard.
His arms,
Out of reach.
Untouchable.
And the gap widens every day
Between the last time and this moment.
No way to slow it down.
No path to go back.
