After the flurry of activity surrounding the funeral, our house was so, so quiet.
Even with the five of us still here, it felt empty.
Because Dominic was gone, gone, gone and he was not coming back.
And the silence pounded into my head and heart until it became a scream:
How do I DO this?
Read the rest here: How Do I DO This? The Question Every Bereaved Parent Longs to Ask
I was one of those people years ago who set her sights on starting and maintaining a blog.
I thought I would post a few times a week and share anecdotes about my family and critters, insight into daily living and inspiration from Scripture and interesting quotes.
No, not THIS blog-the other two I started and quickly abandoned to who-knows-where in cyberspace.
Trouble was that the subject matter, while near and dear to my heart, wasn’t personally compelling enough to keep me disciplined and actively writing.
If someone had said, “Pick any topic to write about”, child loss wouldn’t have been in the first million choices.
No one CHOOSES child loss (Thus the name of the blog: The Life I Didn’t Choose).
But untold numbers of parents EXPERIENCE it every year. This very day, parents somewhere got a knock on the door or a phone call or sat next to a hospital bed as life slipped slowly from their child’s tired body.
Since I was already journaling and had walked this Valley for nearly a year and a half, it dawned on me that the ramblings I’d put down might be helpful to another heart. So I started THIS blog in September, 2015.
And I’ve been here ever since.
I’m not in the raw, breathless place I once was. But grief and loss are part of every breath I take, part of every moment I experience.
I miss Dominic. I still consider death an enemy. Every day I hate what was stolen and long for what was. I mourn the changes grief has wrought in my family. I wish things were different. I discover new ways loss impacts my life and new ways of coping with it.
So I keep writing.
I don’t want anyone to feel alone in this journey. I don’t want anyone to think there’s no way to survive. I don’t want a single broken heart to doubt that God is here and that He will help you hold onto hope.
I’ll spill my heart out in words until the words are exhausted.
It helps me.
I pray it helps others too.
I think it was somewhere around two months from Dominic’s departure when my heart realized life was moving forward whether I granted permission or not.
Not only folks on the fringes and the “bigger world out there” but close by-in my own family, my own circle of intimate friends-people were making plans, having birthdays, going places and doing things.
I wanted to scream.
Could the world not take more notice that it was absolutely NOT business as usual? Was I the only one whose heart was so shattered that the thought of another sunrise was painful? How could I walk into a future that didn’t include Dominic?
By the grace of God, I did it.
No one can keep the world from turning, the sun from rising, time from ticking by.
But it took a great deal of strength and courage.
First it was a “grin and bear it” kind of courage. I strapped on my armor and tucked a hankie in my pocket. I could show up and smile (a bit), talk (awhile) and muddle through.
Sometimes it didn’t go so well. I had to apologize and leave early. And I was always exhausted.
Then it was an “I’m going to be present for my family” kind of courage. The last thing I wanted to do was shortchange my earthbound children. I worked to get a better handle on my thoughts and emotions. I learned how to pre-grieve major events and milestones. I found I could bring Dom with me by wearing a meaningful piece of jewelry or tucking a keepsake away where I could touch it if I needed to.
I was able to laugh (most of the time), make small talk and write dates on the calendar again.
Now the courage that helps me hold on as I’m pulled forward into the future is informed by the fact that every passing day is one day closer to the reunion my heart longs for. What first seemed impossible is now habitual. Sorrow and joy can coexist. I don’t have to be empty of one to feel the other. The future is not my enemy-it’s where I can and will love ALL my children, husband, family and friends well until the day we are in eternity together forever.
My love for Dominic is Background Music to everything I do. But it doesn’t always demand my full attention. Sorrow is no longer all I feel and Dominic’s absence no longer all I see.
Sunrise is still hard to face some days.
My heart will always long for the time things were as they should be instead of how they are.
But I’m thankful for the courage to step into the future even when I’m afraid.
Some people say they’d love to know what life has around the corner.
Not me.
At least not much past tomorrow morning.
If my husband and I had known thirty-five years ago what our lives would be like along the way, we may very well have turned tail and run in the other direction!
There have been many, many good things in those years.
We have four beautiful children whom we love so much. Two are married and their spouses are a blessing to our family.
It’s a brand new feeling to watch your son with his.
There have been a fair number of not-so-good things too.
Job layoffs, illness, the death of Hector’s parents one right after the other and the stress and strain of life’s details when it seemed we couldn’t get a break.
But nothing compares to burying Dominic.
How does a heart learn to live with a giant piece missing?
We have, though.
We’ve muddled through.
The commitment we made all those years ago has stood firm.
It’s battered, crumpled, muddied and torn, but it remains the guiding promise of our lives together.
The morning Dominic ran ahead to Heaven, after I made the awful phone calls I reached for my journal.
I knew if I didn’t start spilling the grief onto paper my heart would explode with sorrow.
Since I learned to hold a pencil I’ve been writing.
It’s how I sort my thoughts, figure out my feelings and express my heart.
A few months after and I found several online support groups.
There I learned a whole other Language of Grief and Loss. The more I read what others shared, the better I understood my own experience and understood how to communicate that truth to others.
You might not keep a journal or write poetry or craft lengthy essays about your pain and that’s just fine. There’s no magic in written words.
Find a safe space or person and speak it aloud.
Sorrow unspoken swells.
It can’t be contained.
It will absolutely consume you.
You anoint my head with oil; my cup overflows.
~Psalm 23:5b
I remember standing in our field with my husband at sundown one day, thankfulness and grace and mercy and wonder flooding my heart-and I whispered, “surely my cup overflows!”
Surely, God’s hand is in this, is on our lives-He has brought us to this place of blessing.
And that’s how I used to always think of that verse-the cup overflowing with goodness and blessing.
But what about when the cup overflows with sorrow?
Read the rest here: My Cup Overflows
“Death ends a life, not a relationship.” ~ Tuesdays with Morrie
A parent’s love doesn’t end simply because a child leaves this earth.
The relationship is not over as long as a bereaved parent’s heart beats.
So we face a challenge: How do we express love to and honor relationship with a child out of sight and out of reach?
We tell our stories and theirs. We start foundations or fund scholarships or do Random Acts of Kindness in honor of our son or daughter. We lobby legislators and city councils. We fight for changes in medical protocol. We post pictures on social media to keep their lights bright in friends’ and family’s memories.
And we say their names.
Because death can take a body, but it can’t steal a relationship.
I got a new kitten the other day.
For those of you following along, it’s not like I needed another animal in my personal zoo.
But my precious companion, Roosevelt , died in April.
Which was just in time to make the anniversary of Dominic going to Heaven, his funeral and his birthday harder since I didn’t have my favorite cat’s calming presence in my lap when grief overwhelmed me.
Once all the family festivities died down (seeing our grandson, celebrating our daughter’s wedding) I realized I really needed another cuddle bug.
My two other indoor cats are giants-great at hanging close to me but lousy at sitting in my lap.
So, meet Miss Tilly the Kitty.
Isn’t she the cutest?
I’m trying to do on purpose what I did by accident with Roosevelt.
I’m working on orienting her to me, getting her comfortable being held and training her as a good traveler on the cart and in the car. I need her to sleep next to me in the bed at least until I fall asleep.
So far, so good.
After one day going around with me to feed in the morning, she’s no longer afraid of anything except the donkeys’ loud greeting. (Which could make a grown man jump if he didn’t expect it!)
She makes me laugh. She runs like a bat out of you-know-where between the living room, kitchen and dining room. She’s entertains me and herself for nearly an hour at a time by rolling a jingle bell ball around on the floor.
And she’s been really good company.
As I’m typing this, she climbed in my lap which is exactly what I want her to do. She lies down with me at night and sleeps so hard I can reposition her like a limp dishrag. That’s what Roosevelt used to do,so I’m hopeful. I’ve slept better the past few nights than I have since he died.
Today Tilly finally convinced one of the big cats to play with her a little. The other one just shakes his head and walks away. I’m calling them the “bachelor uncles” because all they really want out of life is a routine that includes plenty of food and peace and quiet. I think they are not pleased I’ve brought this young whipper snapper into their previously predictable home.
They’ll adapt.
Eventually.
As for me, I’m enjoying the animal therapy.
❤
One of the most interesting (and best) pieces of advice on relationships I ever read was this: Imagine the person with whom you contend as an infant or a very elderly individual.
Try it.
Pick someone who rubs you the wrong way every which way to Sunday and think about him or her as a tiny baby or a frail and feeble grandparent.
I’ll wait.
Did you feel some of the hostility melt away when the image of your “thorn in the flesh” as a helpless human came into focus?
It works every time for me. It doesn’t mean that I won’t have to address any underlying issues between me and whoever. But it does tame the mean and vengeful out of me.
It makes me tender when I talk to a friend or family member about a testy topic. It helps me be kind to the cashier who has picked now to count out her drawer just as it’s my turn after I’ve been waiting in a long line. It moderates my reaction from road rage to a more appropriate and safe, “Oh, well!” when cut off in traffic.
It makes it easier for me to be gentle.
Gentle: 1. having or showing a mild, kind or tender, temperament or character; 2. moderate in action, effect or degree; not harsh or severe.
~Google Dictionary
Truth is we are surrounded every day by people who are one unkind word away from falling apart. We drive down the highway with strangers whose lives are filled with pain. We work and eat and worship and play with folks who carry wounds we know nothing about.
I don’t have to understand everything about someone to appreciate that there is more than meets the eye. All of us have scars and secrets, stress and strain, unmet needs and unseen struggles.
So I try to give the benefit of the doubt, assume the best, extend grace, be humble, choose love.
I want to walk gently among my fellow humans.
At minimum I hope to do no harm. At best I hope to encourage another heart to hang on and keep trying. Most of the time I probably fall somewhere in between.
There are all kinds of doubts that creep in and take up residence in a mind after child loss.
Most of them have to do with the child that ran ahead to heaven.
But many are also about me: “What should I be doing? Where should I go from here?”
For those of us active in church ministries, we wonder, “When do I return to service?”
Read the rest here: The Danger of Rushing to Serve After Loss
thelifeididntchoose 