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.”
So many people think grief grows smaller over time.
But that’s not it at all.
Grief remains precisely the same size, occupies exactly the same space in my heart.
Instead, life grows around the grief so that the proportion of my attention and my emotions and my daily routine relative to grief changes.
I’m thankful for that!
I couldn’t have borne the initial heaviness for a decade. I couldn’t have (and didn’t want to!) feel that awful, piercing pain every minute of every day for ten years.
So how is Christmas differentNOWfromTHEN?
How do I celebrate, how do I mark Dominic’s absence, how do I carry the weight of missing along with the joy of living?
I have some small rituals that help my heart hold onto hope.
I light candles and I sit silent watching the flame. I build fires in my fireplace and allow darkness to fall while I celebrate the brightness that keeps it at bay. These remind me darkness cannot conquer the light.
I place ornaments on my tree that hold space for Dominic and for my missing of him. Little drums shimmer in the glow of Christmas bulbs. Even if no one else notices, I do and it makes me smile.
I decorate his resting place. I’ll be honest, I don’t feel close to him there. The grave isn’t where HE is. I actually feel closer to him in the home which was the hub of family activity for decades. BUT, my decoration reminds others who visit that here lies someone who is loved and missed.
I celebrate my living family. I want each of them to know that love lives forever. Yes, I miss Dominic, but I cherish each moment I have with them. Sometimes it costs me greatly to put on the smile and bake the cookies, but I’m still making memories and I want them to be sweet.
I set aside time each day (hopefully!) to give my heart a break. My habit is to wake before the sun so I have time to myself. In the silent darkness (candles or fire burning) I allow my heart to explore the edges I can’t afford to attend to in the busyness of daylight. I cry or journal or listen to music.
I have practical habits too.I write everything down. I don’t depend on my still deficient grief brain to remember details like what I’ve already wrapped. Calendars are my friend.
I try to remember that grace is boundless. I cannot exhaust the riches of the love and grace of Jesus. If I do less-than-my-best, grace abounds. If family or friends disappoint me, grace fills the gaps.
I have shared here since 2015-just eighteen months after Dom left us. My ongoing prayer is that sharing helps other hearts hold on to hope.
It’s a lifetime of missing, a lifetime of adjusting to the reality that one (or more) of the children we birthed is not here to share the present.
But that doesn’t mean life isn’t full and full of love, life and laughter.
My wish for you this season is not “Merry Christmas” but is, instead “Hopeful Christmas”.
May you see the love, light and life of Jesus in every sparkling bulb and flickering candle.
I’m a little better today. Thank you so much for all the prayers, well wishes and love.
I just couldn’t let December break forth on hurting hearts without extending some understanding and encouragement.
So I’m sharing this post from last year.
To be honest, not much has changed but I AM better at pacing myself and recognizing that what may be molehills to others (probably were to me Before) are mountains NOW.
So I will content myself with showing up-even if I can only offer reruns.
❤ Melanie
When I was a little girl I never thought about how the holidays impacted the adults around me. I figured it was all about ME. Or at most, me plus my brother and Santa Claus.
I was blissfully unaware of budgets and baggage.
Now I know better.
The holidays require us to wrap more than presents. They force us to wrap all the pain and expectation and hope and heartache in a giant package and serve it up hot and ripe for dissension and disappointment.
thelifeididntchoose 