Category: grief anniversaries

Ten Years: It MIGHT Have Happened to You; It DID Happen to Me

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 company but I say misery loves comfort.

Read the rest here: An Open Letter to the Mom Who Was Almost Me

Ten Years: Tangible Absence

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.

Read the rest here: Tangible Absence

Ten Years, Sigh…

The calendar is relentless. There’s no respect for seasons of mourning or grief anniversaries or weeks of sickness or unexpected early births of grandchildren.

The sun rises, the sun sets and another day is crossed off into history.

So somehow-without my permission-I find I’ve woken to mark the tenth anniversary (do you call such a horrible thing an anniversary?) of Dominic’s death.

It’s humbling to realize I (and my family!) are not only still standing but flourishing. It’s horrifying to comprehend I’ve continued to live and breathe for 3285 days since Dominic left us.

Most days are pretty good.

Today is hard.

❤ Melanie

When the numbness wore off (maybe around six months) I remember vaguely wondering what years down the road would feel like.

I tried to project the “me” of that moment into the future and imagine how I might deal with life changes, new circumstances, an empty nest, grandchildren (if there were any) and growing older alongside the heartache of burying a child.

But just as it’s impossible to comprehend how the addition of a child utterly transforms a family, it’s impossible to understand how the subtraction of one changes everything just as much.

We are all so very different than we would have been if Dominic were still here.

Life most likely wouldn’t be any more perfect because we would each grow and change, find common ground and find points of conflict, make new memories and drag up old hurts.

Still, none of us would carry the deep wound and traumatic injury of sudden and out-of-order death.

THAT is impossible to ignore. Even ten years later it’s a red flag, a sticky note, an addendum to every family gathering and holiday.

So we carry on.

Like generations before us who have walked this world dragging loss behind them, we keep going. It shapes us but doesn’t limit us. It informs our views but isn’t the only thing that molds our opinions and frames our choices.

My faith in God’s larger and perfect plan helps me hold onto hope even as I continue to miss my son.

But today is a hard day and I don’t think that’s going to change as long as I live.

I’m getting better at remembering Dominic’s birthday in ways that honor who he is and the man he might have become. I can’t say I’ve figured out any good way to walk through the yearly unavoidable and unwelcome reminder of the day he left us.

I’m learning to allow the grief waves to simply wash over me without resisting them.

Eventually the hours tick away, the day is over and I find I’ve survived yet again. 

❤

Ten Years: Remembering the Last Day Before It All Fell Apart

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.

Read the rest here: The Day Before It All Fell Apart

Ten Years: Miles and Milestones

Tomorrow I’ll be headed out to the Our Hearts are Home Spring Conference (https://ourheartsarehome.org/conference) in Virginia.

For the first time, my husband will be joining me traveling to a speaking engagement. It has taken him longer to be comfortable sharing with other bereaved parents but he will be there to talk casually to fellow dads and to lend the strength that ten years carrying this burden brings.

We are choosing to break the journey into smaller bits so both our souls will be less taxed from travel when we get there.

Going slower and taking rests has advantages.

My primary topic will be “What, Exactly, IS Grief Work?”-something near and dear to my heart.

I’m committed (as those who gather here know!) to help the grieving and to help educate those who have, so far, been spared.

Getting ready and gathering my thoughts has propelled me into a whole new season of reflecting on the miles I’ve traveled in this journey and the milestones I’ve observed missing Dominic.

It has been good for my heart but also hard on my heart.

The dates for the conference correspond to the tenth anniversary (do you call it an anniversary?) of Dominic’s leaving for Heaven.

I knew this when I accepted the invitation but the reality of it is another thing altogether.

I’d appreciate prayers as I lean into ministering to other broken-hearted parents for the next several days.

I’m going to need them. ❤


Ten Years: What’s Helped and What’s Hurt

If I’m honest, the things that hurt in the first days, weeks and months could fill a book.

But now, I’ve developed a thicker skin and a better perspective.

If you are still early in your journey and, like me, a giant walking nerve, then your list would definitely be different.

I can narrow them down at this point to a few.

What really hurts:

  • Assuming you understand my pain (unless you also have buried a child).
  • Insisting that time=healing.
  • Ignoring the ongoing nature of child loss.
  • Questioning my faith because I question what happened.
  • Refusing space to share about my missing child.
  • Not saying Dominic’s name.
  • Acting like I should “be over it”.
  • Pretending like it never happened or Dominic never existed because it makes you uncomfortable to talk about him.
  • Not acknowledging my surviving children’s grief.
  • Ignoring the times of year when grief is especially heavy like birthdays, holidays, and the anniversary of Dom’s leaving.

What helps:

  • Admitting that you STILL might not know what to say or do to support me and my family in marking the loss of and missing Dominic. It’s OK. I’ll help you.
  • Listening. Even if it’s something you’ve heard before.
  • Reacting to social media posts about Dominic. I’d love to have new photos but I don’t. But I may be sharing a newly recovered memory or exposed feeling.
  • Notes, cards, messages and calls that let me know you KNOW. That you haven’t forgotten and that you still help carry Dom’s light in the world.
  • Granting space and grace when milestones loom large and my capacity for interaction is limited. Don’t ditch me because I don’t get back to you. Please.
  • Accepting that I will never be the person I was BEFORE but that I’m still a person. I need affirmation, love and kindness like everyone else.
  • Asking questions, staying curious and compassionate and allowing me to help you understand how grief is experienced over time.
  • Respecting my boundaries. These have changed since the early days but I still have hard stops that mark the edges of what I can and can’t do and maintain my sanity.
  • Sharing photos or experiences you may have had with Dom. He was an adult when he left us and there are parts of him I don’t know. I always love to see and hear about him. ❤
  • Patience. I didn’t get a manual on how to live after burying my child. I’m learning as I go. I make mistakes, say things I wish I hadn’t said, step on toes. I’m genuinely sorry. I’m doing the very best I can.

I will not say that Dominic’s death is good.

It’s not.

Death is awful and should be recognized for the enemy it is.

But I will say I have gained wisdom through this experience.

I’ve paid a price I would never willingly have paid. And I would trade it all for my boy in the flesh, my arms around him, his deep voice added to the chorus at our table.

I won’t waste it.

I will share it.

I pray every day that it helps other hearts walk this Valley and instructs those walking with us.

Ten Years: Broken Hearts and Broken Lives

I woke this morning to a frantic voice mail left overnight when my phone was on sleep mode which silences all but my few “favorites” from ringing through.

A precious young woman from my family’s past was reaching out because she knew I was a safe person. I wish I had been able to talk to her when she needed me most but I was left with the only option available: call her back and leave a voice mail message.

It’s a poor substitute for being there when someone is hanging on by a thread.

It made me think of the dozens of ways my children and I have learned to “be there” for broken hearts and broken lives.

It’s an easy yes for any one of us when someone calls and says, “Can you talk?”.

Even when it’s inconvenient or worse, we answer the phone and allow that heart to spill its contents until there is some relief and possibly some way forward.

Some days I’m tapped out.

I may not haul feed bags or lift boxes but my heart is wrung dry by mid-morning.

Hours long telephone conversations in which there is no real answer and no way to untangle complex webs of addiction or family history or personal trauma leave me needing a nap.

I try to take a break when I need to and come back fresh when I can.

In this Season of Sorrow I have a little less to give.

But I am committed to helping other broken hearts limp along toward healing for as long as I am able.

So many have helped me.

I want to share the gift. ❤

Ten Years: The Gift of Friendship

I hurt for hearts who enter the long road of child loss without the support of really, truly friends.

I have been blessed for nearly ten years with two precious hearts who- even though they have been spared the pain of child loss- chose to walk alongside me.

These women right here.

They came alongside and helped me remember that light still existed when darkness was all I could feel and all I could see.

They brought lunch to my home- over an hour away- and loved me, listened to me, didn’t toss Bible verses or correct me. They were much better friends than the ones who joined Job on the ash heap.

I can never repay the debt I owe them.

I’m so thankful that we are aging together and will spend eternity proving that grace, love and the Gospel transform hearts and lives.

I love y’all. ❤️❤️

Ten Years. A Decade. Wow.

Truth is, I’m stronger and better able to carry this burden of loss and missing than I was even two or three years ago.

But considering the dates, considering that it’s been TEN YEARS since I last hugged and spoke to Dominic, this “anniversary” is different.

I think about what happened in the space of a decade in my own life and it overwhelms my heart to realize that the Dominic I remember would most likely be a completely different person NOW than THEN.

In ten years I went from a college freshman to a mother of four.

In ten years I went from a mother of four to a mother of a high school senior.

In ten years I went from a mother with four children in college to a grandmother.

Who Dominic might be now is something I long to know but dread to consider.

It highlights all the life he would have lived between his death and today and I feel like a bit of an intruder to try to figure out what those years might have looked like. Each of my children have taken paths I could not have anticipated because they are their own persons.

I know many bereaved parents who have a vivid conception of who their child might be today. I’m just not one of them.

In light of eternity, ten years is less than a speck of dust.

But in light of a life lived, it’s greater than ten percent (for most of us).

For this mama’s heart, it’s more than I could imagine having survived on that dark morning.



Ten Years: Reflections, Regrets and Reality

I’m writing this today as springtime sunlight floods my window and the scent of grass and growing things wafts in the breeze.

I still feel the stir of life when the days grow longer and the laying hens gift us with eggs every twenty-four hours.

But for ten years now my heart drags itself into the light bearing a burden of darkness.

In memory of Dominic from an anonymous friend.

In the early years it totally eclipsed any promise spring might portend. Birdsong only reminded me of my son’s silent voice. Flowers smelled like death. The appearance of fresh growth highlighted the passage of time and the timelessness of missing Dominic.

It took a long while to learn how to be alive and also acknowledge the awful reality and sadness of death.



Now I can watch the faithful chickadee family (generations of them) who perch on a garden torch singing praise to the rising sun. I marvel when a daring chipmunk races to retrieve some tasty tidbit while keeping a watchful eye for my outdoor cats. I count the hours as the sun makes its path outside my kitchen window from darkest dawn to midday and beyond.

I put on and take off the garment of grief many times each day.

I regret springs spent doing anything other than reveling in the beautiful life of my beautiful children. I wish I had understood then what I understand now: Life is short, no matter how long it lasts.

Then a lovely memory pops into my mind and I know I did the best I could with what I knew at the time. We DID spend days playing and laughing and learning together.



It’s a battle, this remembering.

I don’t always have time to indulge my heart.

But for this season, this day, I’m giving myself permission.