Category: grief journey

Still Fighting Grief Brain

I first wrote about Grief Brain many years ago.

When I reshare that post, it always generates lots of comments from fellow bereaved parents.

Forgetting things and people’s names, misplacing important documents, sometimes even getting lost in familiar surroundings while driving-all common experiences following loss.

It feels like you’re losing your mind but for most of us, it gets better over time.

I’ve developed lots of habits and tricks that help me navigate my still-less-than-perfect memory and much slower processing ability since Dominic ran ahead to Heaven.

One of them is to carefully check when exiting my car that I have my keys, phone and payment method.

The other Saturday I was running a couple of errands early in the morning so I could cocoon the rest of the weekend, knowing Sunday was the anniversary of Dominic leaving for Heaven.

My first stop was our local feed store.

I got out of my car, opened the trunk and went in to purchase a couple bags of horse feed. When I began walking back to my car, I reached in my pocket for the keys and realized I didn’t have them. Panic set in (it’s never far away).

So I went in to the store to see if I left them on the counter. Nope.

Back out to car-not there. Damn.

As I’m standing there, getting ready to phone AAA and order a locksmith the young man who loads feed asks me what is wrong. I tell him and he says, “You know you can crawl through the trunk and into the back seat on these cars, don’t you?”

Of course I had no idea even though I’ve owned the car for fifteen years and knew the back seats folded down. Never had need of using that feature before.

So now I’m wondering how in the world my big behind and arthritic joints are going to navigate that space when the same fella offers to do it for me.


Can I just say I’ve never been more grateful to anyone in all my life as I was to that young man?

He wriggled and squirmed and wedged his not-too-slender form into that tiny space and popped up victorious in the back seat.

God bless him.

He walked away to continue working and it was then I reached into the driver’s side and realized my keys weren’t there. Not in the ignition. Not in my purse I’d left behind when I tucked the debit card in my pocket.

The WHOLE TIME they were in the key hole of the trunk. Accessible, available.

SIGH…

I slid my hand over them as if I was only closing the trunk down on the feed and drove off. Thankful. Embarrassed. Humbled.

Again.


I know everyone forgets things sometimes.

But those of us living with grief understand that this happens all too often.

And it doesn’t go away even when it gets better.

We just learn to live with it.

Twelve Years. For You a Moment, For Me a Lifetime.

Twelve years ago today I woke up knowing that at some point I’d close the lid on my son’s casket and never again see his face this side of Heaven.

For friends and family it was the moment when Dominic’s death was “over”. His story complete. His life appropriately marked and celebrated. It was the end.

For me, it was a beginning.

A beginning I did not want to embrace. But there was no going back, only forward, ever forward.

 Melanie

I used to look at tombstones in cemeteries and do the math between the dates. 

I was most focused on how long this person or that person walked the earth. 

I still do that sometimes.  But now I do something else as well. 

I look to the left and the right to see if the person who ran ahead left parents behind.  My eye is drawn to the solitary stones with the same last name next to a double monument clearly honoring a married pair.

grieving mother at grave

And then I do a different kind of math. 

I count the years between the last breath of the child and the last breath of his or her mama.

Because while that first date marked an end for everyone else, for the mama, it marked the beginning of the rest of her life- a life she never imagined nor would have chosen.  

Read the rest here: For You, a Moment; For Me, a Lifetime

Twelve 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 twelfth 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 4383 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 twelve 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.

Sometimes It Feels Like a Dream…The Gap Grows

Tomorrow will be twelve years since Dominic left this life and entered Heaven.

I had someone ask me last week how I was doing and, surprisingly, I could honestly reply I was doing OK.

Today, not so much.

The gap between life lived AFTER and life lived BEFORE is growing and while I cherish every new memory, the old ones are fading.

My cousin asked me about that yesterday and I told her that sometimes it almost seems like a dream-a family of four children, growing, learning and striving toward what I thought would be a future knit together in love and shared experiences.

Oh, you say, “But you still have three children and now you have grandchildren!”

Yes, yes I do. I am thrilled and work hard to be present for them and for every important moment they celebrate or sad moment they struggle through or ordinary moment when we sit having snacks outside under the sun.

But this mama’s heart was enlarged to hold another child who is now forever absent.

And that space is always present and always empty.

When my granddaughter joined Dominic in Heaven this January, it was another stark reminder that this world is not how God intended it to be.

Our family is shaped again by loss and missing and will always be holding space for those we can no longer hold close.

The Lord has been and continues to be faithful in giving me strength to hold on to hope and for that I am oh, so grateful.

He has gathered the ashes of sorrow and pain and fashioned them into a testimony to His love, grace and mercy.

These milestone days are (and always will be) hard.

But just like that first awful day, they only last twenty-four hours.

I’m confident that the morning sun will bring new mercy.

His grace is enough. His promises are sure. His love endures forever.

Silent Sorrow-National Siblings Day and Grieving Siblings

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.

Read the rest here: The Forgotten Ones: Grieving Siblings

This Is What Grief Looks Like

Today I was backing out of the driveway when my eyes landed on the tag of one of our other cars.

Suddenly I realized that I hadn’t renewed our tags this year.

They are due in January and, like other important dates graven in my over- organized brain, I literally NEVER forget.

But I did.

And I hadn’t even thought about it these three months until just now.

My sweet granddaughter, Holly, went to Heaven at Dallas Children’s Hospital January 4th. My elderly dad had eye surgery in Florida January 19th. I was home for exactly four days the whole month.

This is what grief looks like in real time twelve years later.

I still have six half grown kittens born a week before Holly entered the world . I brought their poor mama 700 miles because I didn’t want her to deliver while I was away welcoming my precious girl.

I just can’t let them go.

They are connected to her life, a source of joy, a reminder that death doesn’t claim every beautiful thing.

I’m probably going to keep them all because I can and because a farm can always use more barn cats.

This is what grief looks like twelve years later.

img_4728

I recently had a nuclear stress test and an echocardiogram. My EKG in January was just a little “off” so my cardiologist sent me for testing.

The results were good. No real issues other than that I need to get back to walking every day and should lose weight.

I finally activated a Fitbit tracker I bought months ago to track my heart rate, activity and steps.

This is what grief looks like even after over a decade.

I’m rapidly approaching another unwelcome milestone marking twelve long years since I heard Dominic’s voice, saw his face, hugged his neck.

I’m stronger.

I feel joy.

I don’t cry every day.

But if anyone thinks the absence of my son or my granddaughter doesn’t change EVERYTHING, they are wrong.

Twelve Years: Broken Hearts and Broken Lives

I woke one 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.

Twelve 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 twelve years now my heart drags itself into the light bearing a burden of darkness.

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.

Jesus, My Shepherd King

These past nearly seven months have been challenging, painful and oh, so hard.

I have returned again and again to my favorite and most meaningful image of Jesus as my Shepherd King.

Being the Great Shepherd, He cares tenderly for me even when I wander, even when I don’t know what’s in my own best interest, even when fear and pain make me doubt His good intentions and love for me.

Being the King, He has conquered every foe and has the power to redeem, restore and resurrect what the enemy has stolen.

When I can’t rest in anything else, I rest in this.

I’m so thankful for this truth.

I had a large goat and sheep herd for over 20 years. In that time I learned a great deal about a shepherd’s heart.

I was privileged to lead, feed and protect the creatures in my care. More than once, a lamb who was near death or an older animal, injured and despairing, was nursed back to vibrancy with tender care and attention.

My favorite way to picture Jesús is as my Shepherd King.

He is the Shepherd whose heart is always for me, whose love is perfect and my King who is supremely able and powerful to work His will in my life.

If even the idea of hope has long vanished, precious heart, lean into Him.

He will carry you until you find it again.

Holy Week: Resurrection-Reality and Reassurance

“The worst conceivable thing has happened, and it has been mended…All shall be well, and all shall be well and all manner of thing shall be well.”

~Julian of Norwich

I’m not sure when I first read this quote, but it came to my mind that awful morning.   And I played it over and over in my head, reassuring my broken heart that indeed, the worst had already happened, and been mended.

Death had died.

Christ was risen-the firstfruits of many brethren.

Read the rest here: Resurrection: Reality and Reassurance