I thought I had at least a passing understanding of what grief is, what it feels like, how it impacts a heart before my son died.
But I was wrong.
Until you live with it day in and day out for weeks, months, years you really just. don’t. know.
There are so many feelings wrapped up in what we call grief. So many surprises along this path.
Who knew that the same heart that would do nearly ANYTHING to spare another parent the awful burden of child loss could also be wildly jealous of that same parent’s intact family?
At the recent Our Hearts are Home bereaved parent conference, this was a hot topic.
Bereaved parents battle anxiety on a daily basis:
* Are my surviving kids and spouse OK?
* What do I say when someone asks, “How many children do you have”?
* Why can’t I remember anything?
* Will my boss understand that I am just unable to perform my job duties as I used to?
Worse still, is the unexpected wrong number in the night that sends your heart racing and ends all hope of further sleep.
This post is for you, my precious fellow travelers.
❤ Melanie
Grief has a traveling companion: Anxiety. And it is relentless.
Before Dominic ran ahead to heaven I had no idea that along with sorrow, missing and heartache, I would have to battle a creeping sense of dread that could turn an ordinary day into a nightmare.
I’ve learned to plan ahead and minimize triggers I can identify, but sometimes I find myself suddenly overwhelmed with no easy means of escape.
This came up in one of our closed groups again: That friend who thinks that because we have endured the worst, we are somehow uniquely equipped to listen to and bear up under their fear of the worst.
If your child survives a car crash, some other terrible accident or illness-please, please know that NO ONE is happier than I am you are spared. Let me “like/love/whatever” your post in support.
But don’t DM me with a list of “what could have happened”.
I already know. I’m living it.
❤ Melanie
Dear Mom Whose Son Survived the Accident,
I want you to know that I am beyond thankful that you will be spared my pain. I prayed for your son as you requested-begged God to spare him.
They say misery love companybut I say misery loves comfort.
It’s hard to explain to anyone who is not part of the child loss community that even though we would NEVER have chosen to join their ranks, these folks are some of the most amazing, compassionate and ENCOURAGING people in the world.
I just got home from Lynchburg, exhausted and definitely looking forward to rest, but also encouraged and excited to keep company in person and online with some of these brave souls.
It was an amazing two days sharing hearts and stories, getting to hug necks and spending time listening to parents speak about their precious children.
I am always encouraged when I look around a room and see real conversations taking place between two earnest faces who are clearly experiencing “me too” moments.
So, so much grace, comfort, love and compassion flowed!
Oh, there were tears but there was also lots and lots of laughter.
Lots of conversation around meals and coffee.
We were free to speak aloud many of the words we are so often forced to swallow in daily life. No one was shocked anyone was *still* missing his or her child or slept with her daughter’s pillow, a toddler’s stuffie or in their son’s old t-shirt.
We rehearsed THAT MOMENT and how it divided time into before and after.
Knowing glances passed when one mama shared how painful it is to have family never mention her boy. And again when a dad asked about what to do with all the anger he felt.
NO explanation necessary.
We understand.
What a joy to help other parents hold onto the hope I have in Jesus and His promises to redeem and restore what the enemy has stolen and destroyed.
I witnessed hearts knit together in sorrow and love.
Of course the moment when the last breath leaves a body is noted and duly recorded because the law requires such. I can pull out Dominic’s death certificate (what an ugly thing to have to say about my child!) and it reads: Time of Death: 1:10 a.m. April 12, 2014.
But I didn’t know about it until 4: 15 that morning when the deputy rang the bell.
The first time I shared this I was trying to distill years of walking the broken road of child loss into a relatively few, easy to think about, “lessons”.
Since then I could add a dozen more but today I’ll only add one: Being a bereaved parent is not my IDENTITY but it impacts who I am in ways I’m still figuring out.
Just as being married or being female or being from the southern United States informs how I walk in the world and interact with others so, too, does having buried a child.
There’s a lot of pressure to pretend that’s not true.
But I won’t do that.
❤ Melanie
I’ve had awhile to think about this. Nine years is a long time to live with loss, to live without the child I carried, raised and sent off in the world.
So I’ve considered carefully what my “top ten” might be.
Friday was ten long years since Dominic left for Heaven. It’s hard to wrap my mind around the distance between the last time I hugged him and now.
But I can still feel the shape of where his shoulders would fit in my arms.
I know exactly who I’m missing-and I miss him every bit as much today as the first moment I learned he wasn’t coming home.
❤
When I imagine something I’ve never actually experienced-even when I might say “I miss such and such” -it’s not the same as when I’ve had something and it’s been taken away.
I can only miss the imaginary in an ephemeral, insubstantial way. I miss what I once possessed in a tangible way.
I know exactly the size and shape and sound and substance of the person that SHOULD be here but isn’t.
This weekend I am privileged to be sharing both my hurt and my healing with fellow bereaved parents.
I can’t say there haven’t been tears but I can tell you there’s also been laughter.
There is great solace in reaching out your hand and having it gripped by an understanding soul. None of us wants to be alone in this journey.
You don’t have to be.
❤ Melanie
A sweet friend made sure I had Nicholas Wolterstorff’s book, Lament for a Son, in my hands just days after Dominic’s accident. And it was one of the most helpful, kindest gifts I ever received.
It still lives by my chair and I look at it often.
It might have been the similarities in circumstances that took our sons-his died in a mountain climbing accident, mine in a motorcycle accident-or it might have been our shared theology, but when I read his words, they spoke my heart.
I fell asleep last night thinking about that Friday evening ten years ago when I closed my eyes on the world I knew only to open them to a world I wish I could forget.
It’s odd how these anniversaries play out-there’s the actual date (which, if I’m honest isn’t usually nearly as hard for me) plus the litany of days that lead up to the date and reconstruct the weekend that ended in tragedy.
The Friday night/Saturday morning combination bring me to my knees even ten years later.
Only someone who has endured the doorbell or the phone call can truly understand how dozens of tiny prompts create a mental, physical and emotional response that can neither be ignored nor controlled.
Every year is different. Every year brings more recent memories that don’t include Dominic intermingled with what now feel like ancient ones.
Every year has new challenges to face with a worn out heart that sometimes simply wants to fall asleep and dream it all away.
❤ Melanie
Friday, April 11, 2014:
Julian and I went to a college honors banquet and came back to the house to find Fiona home for the weekend. I called Hector and texted with James Michael.
I turned out the light and went to sleep.
No warning shots across the bow of life rang out to let me know what was coming.
But that Friday was the last day I spent misunderstanding the awfulness of death and the absolute uncertainty of life.
Today is National Siblings Day. It’s fun for those of us who haven’t had to bury a brother or sister to post silly photos and memories.
But for those who have lost a sibling today is bittersweet.
Want to know how to love someone who is missing a brother or sister?
Ask them for a favorite memory. Tell them you recognize it hurts. Don’t dismiss their grief and rush to ask about a surviving mother or father.
Love them. Be there.
❤ Melanie
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.
thelifeididntchoose 