authenticity – Page 59 – thelifeididntchoose

Here’s The Post I’ve Wanted To Write But Couldn’t Before Today

My husband was sued for discrimination by a disgruntled employee. The whole thing started heating up just after Dominic ran ahead to Heaven in 2014. The suit was filed just before Christmas 2015.

We’ve been living with this awful thing hanging over our heads for nearly 3 years. Thankfully, the truth prevailed and my husband was exonerated.

But it took a huge toll on both of us and on our whole family.

I sat in a courtroom a few days ago feeling nothing.

Absolutely nothing.

I was waiting for a verdict that had the potential to change the rest of my life but I could not muster a single feeling.

Because when you’ve watched your child’s body lowered beneath the ground, there’s really not much else the world can do to you.

I stared straight ahead as the jury walked in. I didn’t dare hope that they had found in our favor. I’ve learned that hoping for the best sometimes only hurts a heart worse in the end. Better to expect absolutely nothing and then if you get a tiny something, it feels huge.

In agonizing slow motion, the long verdict form was read.

The first question offered a sliver of hope.

But we had to wait thirty more minutes for the hope to be confirmed.

It was oh, so slow and very frustrating as the jury was polled, mistakes in counting were made, recounts were required but finally the numbers were recorded and everything was squared away.

Now on to the individual verdict form. Was my husband going to be held accountable for something he simply did not do? Was there still a shred of justice in this world? Could 12 strangers sift through three weeks of complex and often conflicting testimony and get down to the truth?

Yes!

They could and they did!

We both let out the breath we’d been holding and managed a tiny smile.

Twenty-one days in court, nearly three years with this lawsuit dangling like Damocles’ sword over our heads-over in the short minutes it took to read the verdict.

This trial has cost me more tears than I thought I had left.

Every legal pad pulled out of leather brief cases was a reminder that Dominic should be here with us, guiding us, reassuring us that he was on our side and no matter how things turned out there would be ways to make it right.

I cannot adequately express the toll this season has taken on my soul.

But I am overjoyed that the Lord saw fit to reach down and assure the victory.

If you see me on the street I might look a little dazed. It’s hard to accept something good has happened when all you’ve come to expect is something bad. So it may take me a few days to grow into an expression that reflects the beauty of the gift.

Bear with me.

I am so, so thankful.

Thankful for every prayer raised, for every encouraging text, message, email and card.

And thankful most of all for the absolute assurance that no matter what I may face in this life, not only is God with me, but you are with me as well.

It’s easy to be courageous when there are so many faithful friends standing behind you.

Thank you. ❤

Repost: Can I Just Be Me?

It’s tough leading in a dance you never wanted to learn, isn’t it?

Yet that’s what bereaved parents do every single day.

We carry our own burdens and also shoulder the burden of others in social encounters, working hard not to step on toes.

Sometimes, it’s just too much.

If I don’t mention Dominic, no one else does and that disappoints me.

If I do mention Dominic, the response is often sympathy or rushing to another topic.

Which is also disappointing.

If I smile, then I’m “so much better’.

If I tear up, then I’m “not over it yet”.

Read the rest here: Can I Just Be Me?

Can’t Run Away

You know that scene in Forrest Gump where he starts running and just can’t stop?

I thought that was a funny way to deal with grief when I first saw the movie.

But now I understand it perfectly.

If I could have started running, walking or even crawling away from the heartache in those first days and weeks I would have.

Truth is, though, you can’t.

No matter how far or how fast you run, it all comes with you. I have to live in the black and white reality of a world that includes my dead son. I don’t have a choice if I’m going to keep my sanity.

And I think that’s another kind of invisible wall that separates those of us who walk this Valley from those that don’t: we know-deep down, surefire, gut-wrenchingly-KNOW there are things you cannot escape.

You can’t outrun them.

You can’t wish them away.

You can’t ignore them.

You have to embrace them no matter how prickly, heartbreaking or impossible that seems.

And then learn to live with them.

Speak Up, They Can’t Read Your Mind

I’ll admit it.

I tend to be an emotional stuffer.

It never seemed like it was worth the drama to expose my feelings to others. It rarely resulted in changed behavior and often resulted in confrontation, retribution or worse.

So I learned to swallow tears, stuff pain and slink off into another room and lick my wounds.

But that’s hardly healthy.

And it cannot be sustained when a heart shatters into a million pieces.

Because trying to hide THAT pain is impossible.

It slips out eventually-usually in a way that is awful and untimely and creates more hurt and more drama than if I had simply owned up to it in the first place.

It may be frustrating, not to mention exhausting, that you have to take the time to help others understand what you need. But this is part of living with grief. It’s part of the healing, coping process. Plus, if you don’t, you’re setting yourself up for more awkward, painful moments. Therefore, communicating with your comforters — be it through a spoken conversation, a letter, or an email — is wise. You won’t have a great deal of energy to reach out to others, but find a way that works for you. Let your comforters know:

* what helps
* what doesn’t help
* the truth about how you are feeling
* how thankful you are for their friendship.”

~Samuel J. Hodges and Kathy Leonard, Grieving With Hope

It IS frustrating AND exhausting.

But I am learning (slowly, very slowly!) that it is oh, so much better!

Instead of energy spent on being wounded and trying to hide it, I’m learning to speak up, own the wounds and suggest ways to prevent them in the future.

I’ll be honest, not everyone around me appreciates it. I am sometimes met with exactly what I hate: confrontation, opposition, accusations of selfishness and no more understanding than I had before I risked transparency.

But at least I’ve unburdened myself of what I could. I’ve given them tools to use (if they want to) in helping my heart heal.

There is so little I can control in this journey.

This is one place I can give it a shot.

I Need A Little Help From My Friends

I’ve been asked to speak to a group of healthcare professionals and social workers employed by the hospice industry.

I plan to share a talk entitled “Lifting the Veil on Grief: the Ongoing Impact of Loss on Individuals, Families and Society”

But I need your help.

Because Dominic left for heaven suddenly, in a motorcycle accident, I did not have any interaction with the healthcare system specific to his death. And while I can speak about the grief that comes AFTER, I’d like to also speak a bit on what parents, siblings and other close family members need from these folks when a child goes to heaven in a hospital or hospice care facility.

So I have a few questions:

What did a nurse, hospice worker, social worker or other professional do that blessed you around the time of your child’s death?
What did they do that was unhelpful or even detrimental?
Did any professional present offer grief counseling or recommend a grief support group? If they did, did you take advantage of that resource? Why or why not?
What do you want these folks to know about your family’s experience?
What would you say if you could speak to them today, in light of your experience?

Please note that comments left on the blog site are PUBLIC. But you are welcome to comment in the closed Facebook groups where I post the blog everyday and those comments are PRIVATE.

You can also use the “Contact” link to email me comments that will only be seen by me.

I will not use any identifying information when compiling your comments so please share freely and in complete confidence.

I want to represent the bereaved parent community honestly, bravely and gracefully.

Your participation will help me do that.

Thanks in advance.

I knew I could count on you!

Obliterated

You think because you have “imagined” it, you have an inkling.

But you don’t.

You can’t.

Grief turns out to be a place none of us know until we reach it. We anticipate (we know) that someone close to us could die, but we do not look beyond the few days or weeks that immediately follow such an imagined death. We misconstrue the nature of even those few days or weeks. We might expect if the death is sudden to feel shock. We do not expect this shock to be obliterative, dislocating to both body and mind.
~Joan Didion, The Year of Magical Thinking

This was one of the most surprising things to me-that in spite of all the books I’d read, movies I’d seen, people I’d known (who had grieved a loss in my company)- I knew absolutely nothing of grief.

I did not know it would totally destroy who I was-leaving bits so small that I had no idea how to put them back together.

I did not know it would so completely block the light of the sun that I wouldn’t be able to tell day from night.

I didn’t know that it would change the taste of food, the smell of flowers, the sound of the wind so that everything I tasted, smelled and heard was death.

Thankfully, slowly, the bits have come back together and formed a semblance of the me that was before.

Before grief.

But not really the same. A hollowed out husk of who I was. Familiar shape without the substance.

I’m learning to live with the me that’s left.

Holding on to hope.

Leaning into love.

Original artist : Albert György
Bronze Statue located at Lake Geneva, Switzerland

Be Quick to Listen, Slow to Speak

I’m pretty sure that every single grieving parent I know has gotten at least one private message, text or phone call that starts like this, “I know that I haven’t lost a child, but…” and ends with some sort of advice that seeks to correct a perceived flaw in how the parent is grieving (in public) his or her missing child.

I know I did. It was the genesis of this post.

But before you hit “send” on that well-meaning missive, you need to know this:

You have NO CLUE.

None.

Truly.

No matter if you lost a spouse, parent, close friend or favorite pet-it’s not the same thing.

It isn’t even the same thing if you have faced a season when your own child was near death due to accident or disease.

If your home has been demolished due to wind, fire or flood and all its contents lost forever-that is awful and tragic-but not comparable to watching the body of your child lowered beneath the ground.

Just like everyone else who uses social media, what you see in public does not reflect but a tiny corner of the whole picture.

I write every day about loss. But loss is not all I experience 24/7. I laugh, I love, I live.

And while I may post my yearning for Dominic, I speak my heart to my living children every. single. day.

My faith has been tried and tested. I will not be false and pretend that just because I trust the finished work of Christ my heart has had it easy.

But I’m still holding onto hope with both hands.

faith does not eliminate questions but faith knows wehre to take them

faith is the radar that sees through the fog

My body has borne the brunt of anxiety and stress and grief. You can see it in my eyes and in my hips.

But I’m still standing.

My marriage has been stretched and strained.

But we are still clinging to one another.

So before you suggest ways I might need to trim my sails,

just remember you aren’t sailing the same sea nor facing the same storms.

❤

Bereaved Parents Month Post: But I Had All That BEFORE!

I absolutely understand that when people say things like, “Just think of all the wonderful memories you have” or “He brought you so much joy” they mean well.

Because it’s true-I have beautiful memories of Dominic. And he DID bring me great joy.

But I had those things BEFORE he was beyond my reach.

Read the rest here: But I Had All That BEFORE!

Keeping It Real: It’s STILL Hard

When I started writing, Dominic had been gone nearly 18 months.

Before I went public with my thoughts, I had filled six journals with page after page of ramblings, Scripture, quotes from books, questions and tears.

Those are some of my most precious possessions because when I look back I can see how even in the very first hours (yes, I started writing that morning) God was already bringing truth and healing to my shattered soul and broken heart.

In a couple months it will be three years since I started sharing here. And while I rarely look back on the posts in any orderly way, I can see that God has continued His faithfulness when I do.

But just like I promised when I wrote the introduction to my site, I will always be as honest as possible when I share.

So let me just tell you: It’s STILL hard.

Not in the same first, breath-robbing, soul-crushing, can’t-lift-my-head sort of way that makes a heart certain it can. not. survive.

But in a slow-leak, not-enough-air-in-my-tires sort of way that makes every road less comfortable to travel and necessitates lots of stops to make sure I can keep going.

I’ve just endured two weeks of one bad thing after another.

All of them have a solution which (on my scale) makes them hardly worth noting.

But each disrupted my life and will require significant time, energy and resources to address.

And for a heart that has learned how to make it by going slow, choosing predictable paths and incorporating lots of stops along the way, those kinds of disruptions create stress and strain on an already taxed system.

I will absolutely survive.

I’ve already survived the cruelest and most difficult days of my life.

But it’s no cake walk.

It’s still hard.

Overcome, Overwhelmed and Undone

The past seven days have been anything but the lazy, hazy days of summer.

There has not been a solid 24 hours where some kind of crisis didn’t find its way to my doorstep, across my driveway or into my living room.

Seriously.

On a scale of one to ten, none actually rank high in that there’s not a solution or plan of action.

But every single one of them raised my stress and anxiety to very uncomfortable heights.

I have no idea why I keep thinking maybe-just maybe-there will be a season of rest when I can get my feet under me, get my mind settled (a bit) and get the laundry put away.

There are good days.

But then there are bad ones right on their heels.

I’m 54 years old, raised and home educated four children, helped my husband with his career and a personal business, managed a small farm and cooked, cleaned and was the all around go-fer for my family while each one pursued his or her education and dreams.

But there has been no season as stress-filled and trying as this one: the season of grief, the season of missing, the season where I have had to admit that control is an illusion.

So many days I watch the sunset in defeat.

Overcome, overwhelmed and undone.

I know the new day will bring new mercies and that is how my heart holds onto hope.

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