When my daughter was learning to walk, I would hover near-ready to catch her if she fell.
I covered sharp corners or moved furniture so that the chance of injury was minimized. I clapped and cooed each time she made a little progress-pulling up, cruising around the edge of the sofa and coffee table-those tentative moments when she was brave enough to let go and then plop on her bottom.
And finally, when she made her first unassisted steps between the security of holding on and my waiting arms.
It was a judgement free zone.
I wasn’t looking for technical perfection or measuring progress according to any external metric.
I didn’t rush the process. I couldn’t do it for her. I could only support her own efforts toward the goal we both had in our hearts. I never despised her baby steps.
They were a beginning.
And everything has a beginning.
When Dominic ran ahead to heaven, I felt like I was physically, mentally, emotionally and spiritually knocked to the floor. I had no idea how I was going to make a life after this great blow. I could barely get dressed, much less do anything that took more thought or energy than that.
I was overwhelmed. I had to learn to walk all over again.
And I did it with baby steps, in a judgement free-zone I created for myself where I refused to gauge my progress against anyone else’s.
Because baby steps count.
Here are some of the baby steps I’ve taken and am still taking:
Got up, got dressed, bought groceries.
Cooked dinner.
Cleaned the bathrooms.
Went to church.
Remembered a birthday and sent a card.
Drove to an unfamiliar place to meet someone for lunch.
Exercised.
Made phone calls.
Went to work.
Volunteered.
Slept through a whole night.
Organized a party.
Showed up to graduations, a couple funerals and a wedding.
Kept doctor’s appointments.
Laughed.
I have yet to hit my stride and I don’t think running is in my near future, but I am moving forward. I’m making progress. I don’t have to meet a timetable or get anyone else’s approval.
I know that when I first stumbled onto a bereaved parent group, it was one of the things I was looking for: evidence that the overwhelming pain of child loss would not last forever.
Some days I was encouraged as those who had traveled farther down this path posted comments affirming that they could feel something other than sorrow.
Some days I was devastated to read comments from parents who buried a child decades ago asserting that “it never gets better”.
Who is right?
What’s the difference?
Do I have any control over whether or not this burden gets lighter?
It was eleven years in April since Dominic ran ahead to Heaven and I’ve learned a few things since then.
Time, by itself, heals nothing. But time, plus the work grief requires, brings a measure of healing.
If I cling with both hands to my loss, I can’t take hold of the good things life still has in store for me.
Longing for the past all the time only brings sorrow. I cannot turn back time. Days, weeks, years will keep coming whether or not I choose to participate in them. I will rob my heart of potential joy by focusing exclusively on the sorrow I can’t undo.
Daily choices add up. When I lean into the small things required each day, I build confidence that I can do the bigger things that might still frighten me. Making phone calls eventually helps me show up to a meeting or to church. I strengthen my “can do” muscle every time I use it.
Doubt doesn’t disappear. Facing my doubt forces me to explore the edges of my faith. It does no good for me to stuff questions in a drawer and hope they go away. They won’t. I have to drag them into the light and examine them. Doubt is not denial. If God is God (and I believe that He is!) then my puny queries don’t diminish His glory. He knows I’m made of dust and He invites me to bring my heart to Him-questions and all.
My mental diet matters more than I might think. I have to be very careful what I feed my mind. If I focus on sadness, tragic stories, hateful speech and media that feeds my fears and despair then those feelings grow stronger. If instead I focus on hopeful stories, good conversation with faithful friends and inspiring quotes, verses and articles I feed the part of my heart that helps me hold onto hope.
I need a space where I can be completely honest about what this journey is like. Bereaved parents’ groups have been that space for me and have been an important component of my healing. But even there I must be cautious about how much time I spend reading other parents’ stories if I notice that I’m absorbing too much pain and not enough encouragement.
Grief is hard.
It’s work.
And that work is made up of dozens of daily choices that are also often difficult.
I don’t expect to be healed and whole this side of eternity. But I do know that if I consistently do the work grief requires I will be stronger, more whole and better able to lean into the life I have left than if I don’t.
I want to live.
I want to honor my son by living a life that’s more than just limping along, barely making it, struggling for each step.
I know I’m not the only one who carries a calendar in my head that threatens to explode like a ticking timebomb.Days that mean nothing to anyone else loom large as they approach.
The date of his death.
The date of his funeral.
His birthday.
My birthday.
The day he should have graduated from law school.
On and on and on.
How can I survive these oppressive reminders of what I thought my life would look like? How can I grab hold of something, anything that will keep my heart and mind from falling down the rabbit hole of grief into a topsy-turvy land where nothing makes sense and it’s full of unfriendly creatures that threaten to gobble me whole?
It would be lovely if life were neatly divided into seasons or sections.
But like so many things, there are no clean lines between now and what used to be.
Who I am today is shaped by who I was the day before.
I think that’s one of the things I enjoy most about fiction-authors are free to wander back and forth among character’s thoughts, past experiences and present reality.
It makes for a more complete story.
Each year about this time (in the waning days of my Season of Sorrow) I usually stop and take stock of how far I’ve come and how grief continues to shape my life.
There are many, many ways I’ve healed and am healing:
I no longer cry every day.
I feel true joy!
The pain of losing Dominic doesn’t dominate me although it plays like Background Music-not always demanding my attention.
I celebrate my family and my family’s milestones with genuine excitement and once again enjoy planning get togethers, birthdays and (most!) holidays.
I function at a higher level and am able to rejoin some groups and participate in some activities I just couldn’t manage in the early years.
I’ve made peace with the questions that won’t be answered this side of eternity.
I’ve incorporated traumatic loss into my understanding of Who God is and how He may work in world while accepting I don’t always like it.
I attend baby showers, weddings and even funerals without bringing all my lost dreams or personal sadness to the event.
I laugh-a lot. It feels good again to belly laugh at family memories or new jokes.
I can extend hospitality once more. That was a core component of my pre-loss life and personality and I missed it.
But there are many ways in which grief and loss continues to inform how I walk in the world:
I absolutely, positively cannot multitask! I have to break daily chores into single actions so I can focus and accomplish one thing at a time. I used to be able to cook, talk on the phone, bend over and motion to a child needing help with school all at once. Not anymore! Just recently I lost an important piece of mail most likely because I was looking at it while chatting to a family member. I put it down and cannot for the life of me remember where it is.
I become anxious when around too many people-especially if they are people I don’t know or the venue is one with which I’m unfamiliar. This even happens in the car driving in new places. I was never an anxious person before. In fact, I was typically the voice of calm in a group of friends panicking over some small detail that went awry. I try not to share my anxiety, but it’s there and it takes a huge amount of energy to corral it and keep it from escaping into wild demonstrations like running from a room. (I do a lot of counting/visualizing/breathing and self-soothing.)
I don’t like noise. To be fair, I never really did but now it’s exacerbated. Shopping can be a real trial when stores insist on blasting music in hopes it makes patrons feel like spending more money. I, for one, just want to get what’s on my list and get the heck out of Dodge! I love children but I can’t tolerate the incessant chatter little ones bring to a Sunday School classroom or a Vacation Bible School craft table. I used to be the first one to volunteer for those posts but I just. can’t. do. it. anymore.
I crave predictability. I know, I know, of all people I should understand control is an illusion. I do. But the tiny details of life-like planning meals, choosing clothes, cleaning routines and evening quiet times- are things I want to be able to count on. Routine is my friend. It helps my mind (such as it is) operate on reliable pathways. I’ve never been a big fan of random, but now it’s something I try to avoid at all costs.
I need solitude. I’m still processing some things. I imagine I’ll be doing that the rest of my life as different experiences from NOW interact with my loss. I cannot do that in the presence of others. I need to think, reflect, write, read and walk it out. That means I have to devote time and space to being alone. If circumstances prevent me from quiet solitude for too long my blood pressure climbs, my patience disappears and little things grow large.
I don’t sweat the small stuff (usually-see above!). If time, effort or money can remedy it then it’s just. not. a. problem. I’ve learned the hard way that life and love are the most important things in life. Everything else might be nice but it’s not essential. I’m not minimizing the stress and strain of broken pipes, wrecked cars or lost jobs. It’s just that eventually those are situations that can be fixed. And lest you think I’ve not experienced any of those, I have. My first thought whenever anything happens I once perceived as “the worst thing that could happen” is, “It’s absolutely, positively NOT the worst thing that can happen”.
I need to observe a careful rhythm of commitment and freedom on a daily, weekly and monthly basis. I always kept my big calendars each year and tossed them into a box of “if I ever need to know these things”. When I look back on how busy we were as a young family I’m astounded at the pace we kept, the places we went, the hours I was frantically working to fulfill all our obligations along with the things we just wanted to do. I’m sure some of this is a function of age-I’m no spring chicken any more-but I know in my bones it’s also a function of the ongoing toll grief takes on my body, mind and soul. I can only manage a few days of busyness in a row until I need a complete shut-down for at least twenty-four hours or more. I refuse to schedule any but the most difficult to get appointments in a week where I’ve already inked in other commitments.
Sleep, regular exercise and good food are necessary for me to face life with a good attitude. This is probably true of most folks but just a day or two of fast food, no outdoor walks or interrupted nights and I’m toast. I’m not a whole foods, organic everything kind of gal but I try to eat a variety of fresh and less-processed meals. When I’m home I have an almost two mile path through woods and up gentle inclines that builds muscle, exercises my lungs and body and gives me ample time to drink in the beauty of birds, wildflowers and leafy trees. If you’ve ever been to my home you know that the rest of the crowd can stay up as long as they want to but I’m headed upstairs between eight and nine. Of course I get up before the sun, so my total hours are roughly the same but there’s something about that pre-midnight sleep that restores me like no other.
I could probably list dozens more, less obvious, ways grief still shapes the me of today. But it no longer binds me like it did in the early days. I’m better able to work around the difficult bits and still make a meaningful life with the people I love.
What’s changed and what is still the same eleven years down the road of child loss?
I’ve thought about this a lot in the past few months as I prepared for, greeted and marked another year of unwelcome milestones since Dominic ran ahead to Heaven.
Some things are exactly the same:
Whenever I focus solely on his absence, my heart still cries, “Can he REALLYbe gone?” I am STILL A Mess Some Days….
The pain is precisely as painful as the moment I got the news.
It’s just as horrific today to dwell on the manner of his leaving.
I miss him, I miss him, I miss him. I live every day with his Tangible Absence.
I am thankful for his life, for the opportunity to be his mama and for the part of me shaped by who he was.
The absolute weight of grief has not changed. The burden remains a heavy one.
Daily choices are the difference between giving up and going on. I have to make Wise Choices in Grief.
My faith in Christ and my confidence that His promises are sure is the strength on which I rely. I have been Knocked Down But Not Destroyed.
I passionately look forward to the culmination of all history when every sad thing will come untrue.
Some things are very different:
Dominic’s absence is no longer all I see.
Sorrow and pain are no longer all I feel.
I’ve learned to live in spite of the hole in my heart-his unique place isn’t threatened by allowing myself to love others and pouring my life into the people I have left.
Joy and sorrow are not mutually exclusive. They live together in my heart and I can smile and laugh again while still pining for a time when things were different and easier.
I am Stronger because I’ve carried this burden for years. I’ve learned to shift it from side to side.
The darkness has receded so that I see light once more. I’m not as prone to fall as fast down the dark hole of despair.
My heart longs for reunion but has also learned to treasure the time I have left here on earth.
I’ve never hidden the struggle and pain of this journey.
But I don’t want those who are fresh in grief to think that how they are feeling TODAY is the way they will feel FOREVER.
By doing the work grief requires, making wise choices and holding onto hope a heart does begin to heal.
I am not as fragile today as I was on the first day.
I try not to pull the “life’s short” or “you never know” card on people very often.
But there are lots of times I want to.
When you’ve said a casual good-bye to a loved one thinking it’s not that big of a deal only to find out the last time was The LAST Time, you learn not to let things go unsaid or unmended.
It’s never too late to begin the habit of speaking love, blessing and encouragement to important people in your life.
Even if it makes them (or you!) uncomfortable.
Maybe especially then.❤
I’m not sure when I began practicing this but I make a habit of telling people I love them even if it makes them uncomfortable.
I remember saying it to my granddaddy who never told anyone-asfar as I know-that he loved them.
I spoke it over each child as soon as she or he was laid in my arms.
Growing up, I closed every telephone conversation with, “I love you” and taught my husband to do the same.
I also try hard to tell people other important things right when I think of them, instead of “later”-whenever THATmay be.
I’m so, so glad I do and I did.
I have many regrets about Dominic’s too-soon departure from this life.
But I don’t have this one: Unspoken words of love and affirmation.
The last time he was home, it was nearing final exams and I felt like I needed him to know how very proud I was of him and how very much I admired the man he had become. So I stopped him as he was leaving, turned his strong shoulders to face me square, and looked him in the eye to give him words of blessing.
I didn’t get to hold his hand as he left this life.
But I’m confident as he breathed his last, he knew he was loved.
Don’t waitto tell the people that are importantto you that they ARE important to you.
Don’t save words for “next time”, “later” or “when we get together again”.
I think often about the things my children know that others don’t have to know.
The fact that life is precious, short and never guaranteed no matter how young or healthy you may be.
The reality that doing everything right or keeping your nose clean or staying “prayed up” doesn’t guarantee you’ll be spared from death, destruction or devastation.
It’s true that several generations ago folks grew up knowing all these things as a matter of course. But we’ve forgotten so much of this with antibiotics, life extending interventions, emergency medicine and abundant food, water and other resources.
I never interact with my earthbound kids without thinking about all the ways we are changed because death has invaded our home and our lives.
❤ Melanie
My youngest son worked hard to retrieve some precious digital photos from an old laptop.
Being very kind, he didn’t tell me that we might have lost them until he was certain he had figured out a way to get them back.
So he and I had a trip down memory lane the other evening.
It was a bumpy ride.
Because for every sweet remembrance there was an equally painful realization that Dominic would never again be lined up alongside the rest of us in family pictures.
The British have a saying, “mind the gap” used to warn rail passengers to pay attention to the space between the train door and the platform. It’s a dangerous opening that one must step over to avoid tripping, or worse.
I was reminded of that when I looked at those old pictures-my children are stair steps-averaging two years apart in age.
But now there will always be a gap between my second and fourth child-a space that threatens to undo me every time we line up for a picture.
I cannot forget that Dominic SHOULD be there. I will never, ever be OK with the fact that he is missing.
To be honest, I miss him most when the rest of us are all together. The space where he should be is highlighted because all the others are filled in.
No one else may notice, but I have to step carefully to keep from falling into a dark hole.
It took me nearly two years to hang a wall calendar again.It took that long, plus some, to add anything to it besides close family birthdays and doctor’s appointments.
I would record what I did AFTER the fact, but I just couldn’t let my heart make plans.
Because I had made plans–lots and lots of plans-before Dominic ran ahead to heaven unexpectedly and wrecked them all.
There’s another reason looking forward is hard on my heart:
No matter how wonderful the event, no matter how anticipated the birth, or wedding, or graduation, or party-there will always, always, always be one person missing.
Sometimes, I still find making firm plans difficult.
I warn friends that I may get up the “morning of” and decide that I just cannot do it. The closest ones (the only ones I really have left) totally understand and never pressure me otherwise.
As the years have passed, I’m now able to look a little bit further into the distance. I’m able to pencil in some fun things more than a week in advance.
I can look up ideas on Pinterest again-ideas for birthday gifts months away, for dinner table decorations and for craft projects to occupy the hottest parts of summer days.
I’ve even boldly formed a ministry, { http://heartacheandhope.org } and committed to retreats and meetings for the whole year!
So if you are in the early days and find thinking about tomorrow too daunting, take heart, dear one.
Eleven years later and I’ve learned to take Dominic WITHme as I walk into tomorrow after tomorrow without his physical presence.
I’m finding ways to keep him close, to have him near, to share him with others so that the vibrant man he was (and still IS-in heaven) is remembered and honored.
The fact is that tomorrow comes whether I am dragged kicking and screaming into the new day or whether I go willingly, with purpose and with grace.
thelifeididntchoose 