missing – Page 14 – thelifeididntchoose

Twenty-Three Years, Ten Months, Fifteen Days and Holding

Today would be Dominic’s twenty-ninth birthday.

Except it isn’t.

Because I have absolutely NO IDEA if anyone is aware of the passage of time in Heaven or if birthdays are even a thing there.

So instead of celebrating another year with my third born, I’m celebrating the years I had with him-too few as far as my heart’s concerned.

I am oh, so thankful for the time I had.

But my heart cries, “More! More!”

I’m no good at this “birthday in absentia” thing. This is the sixth time May 28th has rolled around without Dominic here to eat cake, open presents or break his usually strict dieting rules and gobble down pasta.

A couple of years I’ve purchased a cake in secret at a local bakery for a child that shares Dom’s birthday.

Most years I’ve quietly remembered the events leading to his birth including what now feels like a prescient experience: my obstetrician’s nurse came into the room as I was waiting for a C-section delivery and whispered, “Dr. H is here, but his daughter completed suicide yesterday”. *

When they brought Dom close to my head so I could kiss him before they whisked him away and sewed me up, tears streamed down my face. I really had NO CLUE, but I realized (in a tiny way) that this man was here ushering life into the world as his own heart was breaking for a life that was no more.

All I could say was, “Thank you! I am so, so sorry.”

And I meant it.

Now I know what it cost him to be there. What it cost him to see a family made larger at the moment his (earthly) family had been made smaller.

This year we are at my oldest son’s home savoring the first precious moments holding our grandson. Born too early, his story could have ended badly.

It didn’t and for that I am thankful.

Ryker’s original due date was May 27th-one day before Dominic’s birthday.

It’s fitting that we have a new life to celebrate even as we celebrate missing Dom.

I’ll be honest, I don’t know how to merge these two lives, these opposite feelings, this joy and sorrow meeting in my heart.

I vacillate between overwhelming sadness and overwhelming gratitude that my grandson’s story is beautiful, remarkable, nearly miraculous.

So today I will try to honor Dominic-who he was, who he still is (even more so and perfectly in Heaven!) and the precious gift of another generation to love, nurture and cherish.

I’ll try to lay aside the awful knowledge I carry in my heart that any day things can change. What you never think can happen DOES happen.

I’ll celebrate love.

Because love lives forever.

Always.

*Dominic was killed instantly in a single vehicle motorcycle accident April 12, 2014.

Child Loss: Adding Up The Missed Milestones

So we went to my niece’s high school graduation this week.

It was another in a recent long line of events Dominic was not here to celebrate with us.

Another set of pictures missing his grin, his shoulders, his goofy antics, his presence.

It’s really beginning to add up.

And it hurts.

We were plunged headlong into some important celebrations in the first two months after Dominic left us-two graduations and a wedding. But there was a kind of lingering aura that made it a little more bearable. Everyone involved KNEW Dominic. So while he was not there bodily, he was present nonetheless because so many people carried a piece of him in their hearts, had stories to tell and made comments about how he would have done this or that.

My niece obviously knew Dominic. And that’s a comfort. But the last time he saw her she was just entering her teen years. Now she’s leaving high school headed toward adulthood.

Fiona’s new husband never met Dom. His friends are a world set apart from our pre-loss life. His family knows Fiona lost a brother and me a son but they have no idea how that fact changes everything. They can’t. They don’t have anything to compare it to.

My sweet little grandson will grow up hearing stories but never seeing the man behind them. He will perceive Uncle Dominic as a tale told sometimes with tears and sometimes with laughter but never be the target of Dominic’s sometimes wicked humor nor feel the comfort of his strong arms.

In some ways five years might as well be a lifetime.

So much has changed.

So much I want to talk over with Dominic.

So much I wish he was here to see.

I know he is perfectly content in Heaven with Jesus. He’s not missing out on a thing! But I can’t stop my heart from selfishly wanting him here with me as well.

It’s like playing a piano with a sticky key-somehow the melody is always just a little off.

Never quite right.

❤

For You, a Moment; For Me, a Lifetime

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.

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.

I wonder how many lives have been cut short by the effects of grief. I know some folks have tried to research it, but it’s so hard. Because grief ends up doing things to bodies that look like aging or like other disease processes and it’s really difficult to tease it out.

But those of us who live this life know.

We know.

What’s a moment for everyone else, is a lifetime for us. What is a date on the calendar, a trip to a funeral home, a casserole delivered to a door in hopes of lifting spirits for everyone else, is so much more for us.

I don’t begrudge your ignorance.

I celebrate it!

My heart breaks every single time another name is added to the roles of “bereaved parent”.

I think a lot about the generations gone before. Before vaccinations, before penicillin, before so many modern blessings that lengthen life and give hope where there used to be none.

I think about the families involved in WWI and WWII. I understand the need to call the first war “The Great War” and assume such atrocities would stop mankind from falling headlong into them again.

But it didn’t.

So, so many families that made the highest sacrifice.

So, so many parents that hung that photo of their son or daughter on the wall and never moved it-because they were as frozen in time as their child.

I have a friend who does home-based physical therapy. She often goes to the homes of elderly patients and lovingly and gracefully listens to their stories. If it is part of their history, they almost always point out the child who never grew older and tell the tale of how much they miss him or her.

It’s so, so hard for others to understand how very different child loss and out-of-order death is from any other loss in this life.

But it is not a moment.

It is not even a week or month or years.

It’s a lifetime.

We miss them and mourn them for a lifetime.

Repost: Just Plain Hard

I wrote this last year about this time but it suits me this year too.

So many big stressors combined with dozens of small ones have me begging God for relief. The end is not in sight but I DO know how the story ends.

If I can hold onto hope -which I manage to do most days-and make space for my heart on the days I just can’t, it will be alright.

Maybe not soon and certainly not in this lifetime. But it WILL be alright. ❤

Today is full of tears.

No real reason-other than the obvious one-but so many things coming together to remind me this life is hard, hard, hard.

I find on this side of burying Dominic that when two or three other stressful events pile one atop the other I crumble. Sometimes it’s other family members doing the best they can to muddle through and sometimes it’s physical pain or disappointment or the random “ya-ya” stuff of life in community with other people Whatever it is, the weight-in addition to grief-just absolutely overwhelms me.

I used to be stronger.

Or at least I thought I was stronger.

Read the rest here: Just Plain Hard

Meltdown

One of the blessings (although I didn’t realize it at the time) of the early days of this journey was the immediacy of my response to triggers.

Something would upset me and I would react right away.

Nearly five years in and I’ve developed such excellent coping skills that I am rarely caught off guard, cry in public or respond dramatically regardless of what happens.

So this past couple weeks of on again/off again stress has been met, for the most part, with a calm demeanor and a “can do” attitude.

But it caught up to me last night.

All the pent-up, piled-up stress and grief poured out of my heart and dripped down my face.

I had a good, old-fashioned meltdown.

Smack dab in the middle of overwhelming thankfulness that my grandson is doing well, my heart reminded me that Dominic is not here the enjoy it. I remembered that Ryker will grow up and never see Dom’s amazing dexterity on the drums or hear his witty remarks or be caught up in his powerful hands and held overhead until he squeals to be released.

And I realized once again that while I love, love, love the blessings God sends my way, there’s no cosmic scale where those blessings eventually counter-balance the desperate longing I have for my son.

I have so appreciated the messages from other bereaved parents who “get it”. They know that I am absolutely overjoyed my son and his wife are spared the horror of child loss. But they also know that my mama heart still yearns for my own son even while rejoicing in the birth of theirs.

I’ll be OK.

A few tears, a quiet evening, reflection on truth and my heart will manage to find a way.

Repost: It’s Been YEARS, When Should I Mention My Missing Child?

This came up in a bereaved parents’ support group and I thought it was a great question: “When you meet someone for the first time, do you tell them about your missing child?”

It’s one of those practical life skills bereaved parents have to figure out.

I remember when it dawned on me a few months after Dominic left us that I would meet people who wouldn’t know he was part of my story unless I told them.

It was a devastating thought.

I had no idea how I would face the first time it happened.

Read the rest here: It’s Been YEARS, When Should I Mention My Missing Child?

Background Music

Another bereaved mom wrote that she was better able to cope now than she had been a year ago.

And thanks to Facebook memories she had proof.

Several comments down a second mom wrote something that got me thinking-when, exactly, did Dominic’s loss move from the forefront to the background?

I’m not sure I can pinpoint a day or moment when I realized that sorrow was no longer ALL I feel and Dominic’s absence no longer ALL I see.

I remember when more experienced loss moms posted and talked about grief being gentler and quieter I thought that they were out of their minds.

How in the world would this breath-robbing, heart-stopping, crippling pain ever be anything close to “gentle”?

How could the pulsating, blasting, all-consuming noise of loss become softer?

In the first days, months and even years, everything about loss was so loud it was all I could hear.

Rock concert, standing-next-to-the-giant-speakers-loud.

So loud it shook my body and made me want to cover my ears. There was no way to block the sound, no silent corner where I could retreat and hide. Just relentless pounding noise and pain.

But little by little, in imperceptible increments the volume decreased.

Now, missing Dominic is the background music to everything. A quiet tune I hum in my head that keeps me company all day and invades my dreams at night.

If I take a moment and pay attention or when other things quiet down, it moves again to the forefront.

My head and heart are never free of the music Dominic brings to my life. He is the soundtrack to my days, the lullaby as I fall asleep.

No longer an ear-piercing scream demanding attention, grief is now mostly a quiet song in a minor key.

Never silent.

Always playing.

A Whole Series of “Lasts”

One of the things even the most uninformed person understands about loss is that the first birthday, the first Thanksgiving, the first Christmas and all the “firsts” after loss will be hard.

But one of the things no one tells you about is that a heart will mark the “lasts” just as much.

The last time I saw him.

The last time I spoke to him.

The last time I hugged his neck and smelled the unique fragrance that was my son.

Every year as I approach the anniversary of the day Dominic left this life and stepped into Heaven, I also remember all the last times.

It’s hard on a heart to think about and wish that somehow I had made more of those moments. I long to have just one more opportunity to say what needs to be said, to see his smile, hear his voice, and hug his neck.

But there’s no going back.

So part of the pain of marking the milestones is knowing there is no way to change a thing. Not only the FACT that my son is gone, gone, gone. But also the FACT that whatever I said or did or left unsaid or undone is utterly and undeniably carved in stone.

I don’t know why this anniversary is hitting my heart harder than last year. Maybe it’s because I recognize how much life has happened since Dominic left us. Maybe it’s because I think in terms of decades. Maybe it’s because there are so many exciting family celebrations that he won’t be part of.

I have no idea.

But it’s nearly five long years since my son crossed the threshold of his family home. It’s nearly five years since I heard that familiar deep “Hey!”. It’s nearly five years since I waved him down the driveway and hollered, “Be careful!” as he drove back to his apartment.

I am thankful for the faithful love of my God and my family. I am thankful for the compassionate companionship of friends. I am thankful that I am still standing after the awful blow that I was sure would knock me so far down I’d never get up again.

But I miss him. I miss him. I miss him.

I will never be able to watch the early spring flowers bloom again without also remembering that it was those blossoms that heralded the good weather that lured him to take his motorcycle that night.

I will never hear Spring Break plans without counting the days between his last Spring Break trip and the day he met Jesus.

I cannot step outside and smell the grass growing, feel the breeze blowing and hear the birds singing without my heart skipping beats and doing the math. Today marks less than two months before the day he left us.

I understand that for others-if they remember at all-Dominic’s departure is a day circled on the calendar.

For me, it’s an entire season.

I mark every single day that led up to that day. I remember every single conversation, meeting, text and phone call. I remember all the things I did and regret all the things I didn’t do.

While the world is celebrating new life, I’m remembering a life that ended.

Child Loss: At Night, It’s Still Fresh

It happens most often as I am drifting off to sleep.

There is this one spot on the bedroom bookshelf where my eyes landed that first night-one paperback spine that instantly transports me to the moment I had to close my eyes on the day I found out my son would never come home again.

And it is fresh.

Absolutely, positively fresh.

Like “just happened” fresh.

You’d think that nearly five years of intervening experience, nearly five years of grief work, nearly five years of trying so darn hard to learn to tuck that feeling away deep down so it can’t escape would have worked whatever magic time is supposed to work.

But it hasn’t.

Oh, most days I can lock that lid down tight. I can distract my mind, busy my hands and keep my heart from wandering too close to despair.

Darkness though.

Shadows and silence and stillness give room for the memory to rise to the surface.

And it does.

My son is never coming home again.

Fresh.

Absolutely, positively fresh.

“Just happened” fresh.

❤

Child Loss: Marking the Milestones

When your child is born you take notes.

You plan to mark this day as a special milestone for the rest of your life.

You absolutely, positively NEVER think you will have to mark another one: the day he or she leaves this life and leaves you behind.

But some parents have to mark both. The dash in the middle is shorter than we anticipated, and our child’s life ends before ours.

So how do you do it? How in the world do you observe the polar opposite of a birthday?

Here are some ideas (shared with permission) that parents shared recently in an online discussion sparked by one mom’s very honest admission that she just didn’t have it in her to create another video montage from the same old photos to mark yet another year without the earthly companionship of her precious son:

Don’t do anything. That is an option. We do not have to draw a red circle around THAT day on the calendar, gather folks as if it’s a celebration. As one mama said, “Yes, the day they left us does not need to be ‘remembered’.” For some parents, going to work like it’s a regular day, engaging in whatever normal activities are required, ticking the hours off on the clock until night falls and the earth turns to the next day may be the very best choice. Another mama wrote this: “I have friends who celebrate a ‘heaven day’ for their son. I can’t. I just can’t. If it were up to me, I would probably go camp somewhere all alone, and not move a muscle for the entire day.”

Do something big (or small). Some parents choose this day to hold an annual “Celebration of Life”. It might take the form of a balloon release, or lantern release at home, at a park or other outdoor venue or at the cemetery. It might be lunch or dinner out at your child’s favorite restaurant or at home with your child’s favorite menu. Invite friends and family to join you and ask that they bring a photograph or memory and share. One mom said that such an event kind of happened organically and spontaneously when contacted by her son’s widow: “We went to one of [his] favorite restaurants. Told funny stories about him, talked about how missed he is, then went o his grave and put fresh flowers.”

Serve others. Did your child have a special interest in a particular charity or community organization? Maybe you can spend this day volunteering or raising awareness/money for that group. Often having something to do helps a heart from sinking into despair. If the group allows, maybe put up a sign saying, “Volunteering today in honor of __________” and attach appropriate photos of your child. Some parents whose child died from cancer or suicide or violence participate in walks or fundraisers that highlight those causes.

Encourage Random Acts of Kindness (RAK). I plan to do this one in April. It will be seven years (!) and I can barely stand it. But so many of the comments from Dominic’s friends after he left for Heaven went something like this one, “He was always doing something for someone else. Fixing their car or showing up when they needed an encouraging word.” He was known for his many acts of generosity and kindness and I feel like he lives on in the hearts of others because of that. I had cards printed ( I intentionally let his “dates” off) which I will distribute well in advance of April 12th for friends and family to leave behind when they do a RAK in memory of Dom. Vistaprint and other online publishing companies offer reasonable prices and will guide you through the process step-by-step.

Escape. Lots of us find being at home (alone or in the company of others) too hard to bear. Many received word of their child’s death at home and as the day creeps closer, the memories crowd every corner of mental and physical space and are inescapable. So sometimes parents plan a trip around this time. Go somewhere your child would have loved to go or go somewhere he or she enjoyed visiting. Take photos and post them in honor of your child if you want to.

Focus on family. You may not want to be alone, but the thought of being with anyone outside your closest grief circle is overwhelming. That’s OK. Spend time with the people who, like you, are most affected by your child’s absence. You don’t have to do anything special. You can make room for them to speak or not speak about their grief as they choose. Sometimes just having another warm body in the room is enough to ward of the chill of despondency.

Flip the script. For those of us who believe that this life is not all there is, the day can be one of celebration. Our children have escaped life full of sorrow and trouble and are safe forever in the arms of Jesus, where we will also be one day. Waiting is hard, but waiting is not forever.

Simply allow yourself to feel the full force of missing and grief. “As far as his death day, for me, that is a day when I allow myself to fully feel and express the pain of my loss. It is a way to (temporarily) empty myself of all this pain, so I can breathe again to face another day. I will sit in his sweatshirt, listen to reflective music, cry a lot, talk to him, pray to God, and just allow myself to feel all the pain and emotion that everyday responsibilities cause me to stuff away.” If you can manage it, taking the day off work and giving yourself grace and space to grieve in ways that are denied so often may be the very best way to experience the day.

Here’s a list of ways some parents honor their child on this day:

Giving away stuffed toys with a card or note explaining why.
Taking goodies to first responders and/or nurses who were served their family during an accident or illness.
Handing out Bibles or books in memory of their child.
Making memory baskets for parent whose child will be born straight into heaven.
Adding to a scholarship fund or other charitable fund in honor of their child.
Placing balloons, flowers or other special decorations on their child’s final resting place.
Lighting candles, releasing butterflies, balloons or lanterns.
Placing a memorial advertisement in a local paper.

Do or don’t do whatever helps you make it through those twenty-four hours that represent another year of sorrow, another year of missing.

There is NO wrong way to mark or not mark this day.

It’s up to you and your heart.

And absolutely does not require anyone else’s permission or approval.

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