It’s not true for everyone but it is true for enough of us. The second year after child loss can be especially hard.
Numbness and the rhythm of all the “firsts” in the twelve months following Dominic’s death kept me both anticipating the shock and protecting me from its full impact.
The second year was when it dawned on me that I was doomed to repeat this cycle as long as I lived.
I was absolutely overwhelmed.❤ Melanie
I remember very well the morning I woke on April 12, 2015-it was one year since I’d gotten the awful news; one year since the life I thought I was going to have turned into the life I didn’t choose.
I was horrified that my heart had continued to beat for 365 days when I was sure it wouldn’t make it through the first 24 hours.
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.
Of course the moment when the last breath leaves a body is noted and duly recorded because the law requires such. I can pull out Dominic’s death certificate (what an ugly thing to have to say about my child!) and it reads: Time of Death: 1:10 a.m. April 12, 2014.
But I didn’t know about it until 4: 15 that morning when the deputy rang the bell.
The first time I shared this I was trying to distill years of walking the broken road of child loss into a relatively few, easy to think about, “lessons”.
Since then I could add a dozen more but today I’ll only add one: Being a bereaved parent is not my IDENTITY but it impacts who I am in ways I’m still figuring out.
Just as being married or being female or being from the southern United States informs how I walk in the world and interact with others so, too, does having buried a child.
There’s a lot of pressure to pretend that’s not true.
But I won’t do that.
❤ Melanie
I’ve had awhile to think about this. Nine years is a long time to live with loss, to live without the child I carried, raised and sent off in the world.
So I’ve considered carefully what my “top ten” might be.
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.
Lifting our hearts and hurts to God, trusting He hears us, trusting He wants to help us, is the boldest act of faith. Wanting desperately to square our feelings with truth about who He is and how much He loves us takes time, effort and commitment.
Like Jacob, we may (most probably will?!) limp after the encounter but it is worth it.
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 youKNOW. 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 wasBEFOREbut 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.
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.WeDIDspend 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.
It’s absolutely normal that the space Dominic once occupied in the hearts and minds of his peers gets smaller over time.
He was only a part of their lives-lives blooming and bursting in the spring of their years.
They are moving and marrying and having children and building careers. If he were still living it may very well be they would have lost touch by now anyway.
I first shared this post in 2018 when I was approaching the four year milestone of Dominic’s leaving for Heaven.
By that time most folks who knew me when he died had relegated that part of my story to some ancient past that surely I was over by now. I’d met others who had no clue my heart skipped a beat on a regular basis because one of my children was buried in the churchyard down the road.
And even the closest ones-the ones I thought would understand forever-were sometimes impatient with my ongoing refusal to leave Dominic behind and be “healed” of my grief.
I was reminded of it recently when several bereaved parents shared some painful grief attacks suffered around the holidays even though it has been years or even decades since their child ran ahead to Heaven.
Truth is, I will never be fully healed on earth from the awful wound of child loss. I continue to be subject to the sharp stab of missing and longing that drags my heart back to the first devastating moment.
And when that happens, I can’t fake it.
What I long for more than anything as the tenth anniversary of his departure draws near is simply this: Let me be me, whatever that looks like.
So please don’t try to fit my journey into your mold.
❤ Melanie
Even in the very first hours after the news, my brain began instructing my heart, “Now, try to be brave. Try not to disappoint people. Try to say the right thing, do the right thing and be the example you should be.”
thelifeididntchoose 