I should have known. I should have been there. I should have called, texted, spoken one more warning or given one more hug.
Should. Should? Should!
I have yet to speak to a bereaved parent who does not harbor guilt of some kind over the death of his or her child.
Not one.
Read the rest here: Nagging Guilt in Child Loss
Last week was a roller coaster.
My first grandchild-a boy-was born prematurely on Saturday after several days of heart stopping, breath robbing drama as his mama went back and forth to the hospital three times in as many days.
My son, his father, is deployed overseas and paddling as fast as he can to get home.
I am twelve hours away and leaving early this morning to go down and do whatever I can to help. My daughter-in-law’s mother is there and I’m not offended to believe she will be better suited to help her daughter than I am.
But I’ll stay for a bit just to be an extra pair of hands.
I’m sure anyone who gets the news that mama and baby are in trouble is frightened. It doesn’t take much for a heart to fear the worst.
But for someone who knows exactly what the worst feels like, there’s a whole other level to this terror.
Fear of what you don’t know can’t hold a candle to fear of what you know by experience.
I spent Saturday in anxious prayer, begging God for grace and mercy. I had no idea how much it took out of me until after I heard baby and mama were doing well and the sun went down. Exhaustion swept over me like a heavy blanket and it was all I could do to make it upstairs and crawl in bed.
I am beyond thankful that this story has a hopeful ending. The little tyke only weighs two pounds but appears to be a fighter.
It will be a long, hard climb for him to mature enough to leave the hospital. There will be challenges along the way.
But his mama is on the road to recovery and his daddy is on the road (flight!) home.
I’ll spend some of the time driving down finishing the baby blanket I was making before he made his early appearance.
Every stitch is a prayer.
I don’t know what tomorrow holds.
But I’m thankful today is a good day.
I’m a grandma! ❤
Almost four years and I still have those moments.
I know from other grieving mamas that I always will.
But sometimes they catch me by surprise.
Motoring home from Walmart, a campaign sign catches my eye. The candidate is young and running for District Judge in our county. That could have been Dominic.
Breathe in. Breathe out. Repeat.
Read the rest here: Breathe In. Breathe Out. Repeat.
Most people are familiar with SAD-Seasonal Affective Disorder-a cluster of symptoms mimicking depression that develop in otherwise healthy folks when the shorter days and longer nights of winter limit sunshine exposure.
Fewer folks know that nearly every bereaved parent has his or her own version of SAD which has nothing to do with daylight/darkness cycles and everything to do with the calendar.
For me, it starts in February and runs through May.
The last time all my children were together was mid-February 2014 as we celebrated the youngest’s birthday. I remember sitting outside on the unusually warm day and chatting about random things. There were two upcoming graduations and my oldest son’s wedding.
Someone said, “Hey, we should get a picture.” Someone else said, “Nah-we’ll be making lots of pictures this spring.”
So we didn’t take one.
Every year that’s the day my heart marks the beginning of the end.
The beginning of a march toward the most awful thing that has ever happened to our family.
Then there’s the day Dominic came out to the farm to fix a friend’s car. They needed the tools and shed to do the job. We joked and talked and shared a meal.
Then I hugged him and he went on his way.
That grease-stained jacket is still hanging on a peg in the downstairs bathroom.
Spring Break. I thought I’d see him again before classes resumed but a trip that lasted a day longer than it was going to meant he drove directly to his apartment. So a couple of weeks passed before he was able to plan another weekend trek out to the house.
I had just exchanged a series of messages with him, sharing photos of the heavy rains that ran our creek out of the banks and almost into the elevated roadway.
We ended our texts with “I love you. See you Saturday!”
My heart still accuses me for neglecting the days between the last time I saw Dominic and the last time he drew breath. If I had known then what I know now…
But we don’t, do we?
So on my season goes.
From February and all the “lasts” to April twelfth and the devastating news that my son would never come home again.
Then my heart marks the funeral, cleaning out his apartment and the first family celebration of which one of my children was not a part.
A few weeks later is Dominic’s birthday on May twenty-eighth when he doesn’t get any older but I get further away from the last time I hugged his neck.
A long sad season indeed.
Every parent who is missing a child has their own. A time when he or she wishes the world would both stop to take notice and spin faster to make the days pass.
My heart and body respond even if my mind tries to pretend these weeks are really no different than the rest of the year.
My son is still missing.
My heart is still yearning.
This is still the life I didn’t choose.
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.
I only recently came across this quote by Mark Twain.
It’s from a letter he wrote to a close friend after his favorite daughter, Susy, aged 24, died of meningitis while her parents were abroad.
It is heartbreaking and utterly perfect.
Read the rest here: “Why Am I Robbed, And Who is Benefited?” Mark Twain on Child Loss
When I was asked several months ago to speak to a group of hospice care workers, I titled the presentation “Lifting the Veil on Grief”.
One of the topics I covered was how experiencing the death of a loved one-especially out-of-order or untimely death- can cause even the staunchest believer to doubt.
And the first thing I said was, “Doubt in the face of overwhelming sorrow and hard circumstances is absolutely normal. But doubt is NOT disbelief.”
So often friends, family, clergy, social workers and others want to steer hearts away from doubt because they are afraid that entertaining questions or expressing disappointment in God will always lead to someone losing faith.
That is untrue.
When my son ran ahead to Heaven, I reexamined everything I believed.
But I did not “lose” my faith.
I never once doubted that God was still working, was still loving and was still in control.
But I most certainly had to drag out every single thing I thought I knew about how He worked, loved and superintended the world and examine it in light of my experience of burying my son. It took a long time to work through all the pat answers I had been offered and myself doled out to others for years that didn’t fit with my new reality.
One of the ways I did that was to journal my questions, complaints, anger and disappointment. I wrote it out.
Many of the Psalms are precisely that-David and others crying out to God, begging Him for understanding and for a sliver of hope. As the Psalmist breathed out his doubts and fears, the Spirit of God breathed fresh life into his soul.
My journals are filled with strong words and strong feelings. They are also filled with, what I believe, God spoke to my heart in response. Sometimes it was in the form of a Bible verse, sometimes a memory, sometimes song lyrics or a prayer. And sometimes the pages are simply a record of how my Shepherd gently led me through a particular hard moment or day or week.
So if you are struggling with doubt-let yourself off the hook.
You can’t deny it.
And you don’t have to.
You’re in good company.
Grab a notebook and pen and start writing. Just begin. Don’t edit yourself in fear someone may read it one day. God knows anyway.
When you’re done spilling, sit quietly in the Presence of your Shepherd. Listen to what He may be speaking to your broken heart.
I have done this for decades through many hard things- child loss being the hardest.
The Lord is faithful to meet me right where I am and fill me with His Spirit.
He’s never leaves me without hope when I turn my heart toward Him.
One of the commitments I made out loud and in my heart the day Dominic left us was this: I was not going to let his death tear my family apart.
I was not going to let him become the sainted brother that stood apart and above his siblings.
I was going to continue to give as much of my time, effort, love and presence to each of the three I had left as I had done when there were four on earth beside me.
I’ve been more or less successful in keeping this promise.
I have no doubt that if you asked my living children, they could give you examples when I’ve failed. Some days are just too much. Some events are too hard to attend.
Some moments I am overwhelmed
and undone
and there’s no way to hide it.
But I’ve learned a few things that help me be present, attentive and joyful for the beautiful things that are happening around me.
One of those is to set aside time whenever possible to “pre-grieve” an upcoming celebration or gathering.
I allow my heart to feel all the things it needs to feel. I journal the questions and comments and (sometimes) anger that would otherwise overflow and ruin a moment. I write to Dominic and tell him how much I miss him, how much I wish he were here and how very hard it is to mark another happy occasion without him.
I mentally rehearse walking in, greeting people, making small talk.
I think ahead to any big moments that might tap emotions I need to hold in check. I even plan an “escape route” should I need it. Just knowing it exists has always been enough so far.
Sometimes I find a song that suits my mood.
I cry.
And then I choose a token I can wear or slip in my pocket to remind me that I’ve got this.
I can show up and smile (honestly) because I’ve already loosed the dam of grief and let the stored up torrent flow over the spillway.
I’ve learned the hard way that memories are precious. I don’t want the ones I’m making now to always be tainted by sorrow and loss.
Dominic is never far from my thoughts and always in my heart.
I’m not abandoning nor forgetting him.
I honor him by honoring his siblings.
Love lives.
I’m one of those people that will answer a stranger’s question in a store if I think I can help.
It’s how I’m made.
Sometimes, though, that sense that “if I CAN help, I MUST help” is a burden.
I end up taking responsibility for all kinds of things that I shouldn’t. I step in when I should just walk away. I try to make folks happy when it is not in my power to do so. I clean up messes I didn’t make and rob the one who DID make them the opportunity to grow and learn through a mistake.
And, to be honest, I empty myself of the limited energy and resources I have this side of child loss.
I’m trying to do better.
I’m trying to let go and let others take their lumps.
I’m trying to shoulder only my OWN responsibility. Because in the end, it’s all that I can really control.
MY words, behavior, actions, efforts mistakes, ideas and consequences.
The rest is up to others.
It’s really hard to wrap my mind around what exactly Dominic is doing now that he’s not here with me. Sometimes I try to create a narrative or a scene or a story line that gives me something to hold on to.
It’s not easy though.
So I absolutely understand why some parents think of their missing child as their “guardian angel”. But that just doesn’t correspond to what Scripture tells me about what happens after death.
I firmly believe that there is a heaven and that my son is there, in the presence of Jesus and the saints that have gone before.
Read the rest here: Is My Son My “Guardian Angel”?
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