child loss – Page 284 – thelifeididntchoose

Waiting With Hope

Oh, we mamas are experts at waiting.

We wait for nine months to hold that little person growing inside us. We wait for them to learn to crawl, walk, talk and read. And then we wait to pick them up at school, for piano and dance lessons to be over and ball practice to end.

As long as our children are with us, we are always waiting for something.

We never expect to be waiting to join them in heaven.

But some of us are.

And this waiting is real hard-not like the other times when I knew about when the waiting would end. Even though it was sometimes tiresome, lessons and practice wouldn’t last much longer than the appointed time.

I guess I believe there is an appointed time for this waiting to end as well.

I do believe that God has my life in His hands. When my work here is through, He will call me home, just as He called Dominic.

Trouble is, I can’t find a clock that tells that time. I can’t look at a calendar and know for certain THIS will be the day.

And not knowing how LONG I have to hold on is a huge part of what makes it

so.

very.

hard.

Sometimes I want to give up. Sometimes I want to let go of hope and dive into despair.

Some days I am afraid I can’t keep on keeping on.

Not. one. more. step.

But God has promised to meet me even here.

His Word tells me that there is a reward for those who wait with hope, who trust even when it seems foolish and who lean in even when they would rather run away.

But the eyes of the Lord are on those who fear him,
on those whose hope is in his unfailing love,
to deliver them from death
and keep them alive in famine.

  We wait in hope for the Lord;
    he is our help and our shield.
In him our hearts rejoice,
    for we trust in his holy name.
  May your unfailing love be with us, Lord,
    even as we put our hope in you.
Psalm 33:18-22 NIV

The Amplified Bible renders that last verse like this: “Let Your mercy and loving-kindness, O Lord, be upon us, in proportion to our waiting and hoping for You.”

In proportion to my waiting and hoping, God will fill my hurting heart with HIS mercy and loving-kindness.

He will strengthen me regardless of how many days I must walk in this waiting.

If I hold onto the hope I have in Christ, He promises not to let go of the other end.

Shake Off the Shame

shame

Shame is a shackle as sure as any chains forged from iron.

And it often finds its home in the hearts of those who bury a child.

Bereaved parents may feel shame for lots of reasons:

Circumstances surrounding the death of their child-suicide, alcohol, drug abuse;
Inability to provide the funeral or burial they want due to financial constraints;
Missing signs or symptoms of an illness that may have led to death;
Family dynamics that pushed a child away from home or relationship.

The list could be endless-on the other side of child loss our brains pick apart every interaction, every choice, every moment that could have gone one way but went another.

Grief is WORK.

But it is impossible to make my way through the pile of emotions if I’m shackled by shame. I can’t move freely and effectively if I’m bound hand and foot by things I can’t control and can’t change.

In the midst of all this work, some bereaved parents find they are immobilized by depression and/or anxiety and need medication to help them through.

woman looking through rainiy window.jpg

And they feel ashamed.

Can I just say this?

There is NO shame in seeking help.

There is nothing shameful about using whatever tools are available to make this awful journey more manageable.

A wise and kind doctor friend said, “Medication does not make the sorrow and pain go away, but it can calm the mind and create space so you can do the work grief requires.”

You are not a failure if you need medical help to quiet your mind. You are not weak if you take a pill to keep from feeling like you’re going to come out of your skin. You have done nothing wrong if you can’t sleep and require a sleep aid to allow your body the rest it needs to carry on.

Don’t compare your journey to anyone else’s.

You are unique. Your path through this heartache is your own.

Do what you need to- for YOU.

Shake off the shame.

grief-is-not-linear

Repost: I Am NOT Crazy!

It comes up over and over in support groups for bereaved parents:

Am I normal?

Am I doing alright, coping well, making progress?

Do others struggle to get through a day even months or years after losing a child?

I want to reach through the computer screen and hug each one.

Yes.

Yes.

Yes.

You. are. NOT. alone.

You. are. NOT, Crazy!

Strong or Weak? How Labels Harm the Hurting

Labels and categories can be helpful. When cruising the grocery aisles I’m thankful for the signs that point the way to “vegetables” or “baking needs”.

But labels can be harmful when applied to people.

label-jars-not-people

Thankfully public discussion rarely includes some of the ugly words I heard growing up.

And that’s a good thing.

It means we are free to talk about the things that really matter without having to clear the hurdle of offense.

This trend has yet to take hold in wider circles when speaking about or speaking to bereaved parents and other hurting people.

From the outside looking in, we tend to classify struggling hearts as either “strong” or “weak”. We apply standards based on our own experience and background to determine whether or not a particular soul is “handling it well” or “crumbling under the stress”.

The problem with labels for hurting people is that it puts extra pressure on them and lets those around them off the hook.

heard-stories-but-not-know-heart

You probably mean it as a compliment when you say, “You are so strong”.

But I know it’s not true-I’ve gotten very good at holding it together in public and at saying all the right things when I meet folks on the street.

I can look you in the eye, recite answers to the question of , “How are you doing?” by focusing on the current status of my surviving adult children. What you probably won’t notice among the well-rehearsed lines is I never share my heart-I never tell you how I FEEL.

If I opened that vault there’s no telling what might spill out.

You walk away confirmed in your opinion that I am doing well, that I no longer need any active encouragement or ongoing prayer. I’m off the “ministry list” because I am past the point of crisis and doing just fine.

Or you may see me at a vulnerable moment and think, “She’s weak” or “She’s really struggling”.

I AM weak and I DO struggle.

If you are tired of hearing about the ongoing struggle, how tired do you imagine I am living it?

If you wish I would “get over it”-how much more do you think I wish it never happened?

You may give up because it’s too much trouble to keep reaching out. You may tuck me in the basket of lost causes because you think I’m not committed to keep trying.

It’s easy to draw a line in the sand and decide that you will go thus far and no farther in extending help or encouragement or grace because you CAN walk away.

But I am not a lost cause.

Each day Jesus meets me in my weakness and brokenness and gives me the strength I need to carry on.

And He often does this through people-people who choose to walk alongside and not label me or my journey. People who are committed to continue even when they are tired of helping carry the burden and sick of hearing my story.

Grace–abundant grace-given and received is what makes life livable.

Love, not labels is what I need.

It’s what everyone needs.

never-forget-the-ones-who-helped-me-through-grief

Holiday Planning Helps for Grieving Parents

As much as I hate the mashup of Halloween/Thanksgiving/Christmas that assaults my senses every time I walk into a store, it IS a reminder that, like it or not, the holidays are coming.

I wrote these posts a few weeks back so that grieving parents and their families could begin to think about and make plans for year-end celebrations.

I know it’s hard-it continues to be hard for me as I approach the third (!) set of holidays without one of my children at the table.

But it is harder without a plan.

So here are links to the posts. I pray they are a small help for heartbroken mamas and daddies:

Grief and Holiday Plans: Working Out the Details

Grief, Holidays and Hard Conversations

Grief and Holidays:What the Bereaved Need From Friends and Family

Practical Ideas for Dealing with the Holidays after Child Loss

Accommodating Grief

The doctor I see every six months or so for my rheumatoid arthritis always fusses at me.

One of the routine questions is, “How’s your pain level?”

I usually say, “About a three.”

And then she looks at my hands and my feet-at the swollen joints and twisted toes-and shakes her head.

But here’s the deal: sure they hurt, sure I can’t do all the things I used to do, sure I have to do many things differently than I did them when my hands and feet were unaffected by this disease-but I’m STILL moving and doing what needs to be done.

I don’t really know how to do anything else.

And that’s how it is with this grief I lug around-it’s heavier some days than others-but I’m STILL moving and doing what needs to be done.

fall still moving.jpg

This is not the life I thought I would be living, but it’s the life I have.

So I make accommodations for my sorrow just like I make accommodations for my hurting hands and crooked toes.

I try not to over-schedule my days. If I have an appointment I mark it on the calendar and refuse to pile other commitments on top of it. That way if I’m wiped out I have some built in down time.
I prioritize what needs to be done. Whether it is for a week or a day, I jot down a list (still using paper-but a phone would work) and then decide what are the two or three MOST important tasks that must be done in that time frame. If I find myself running behind because it’s a hard grief day (or week), I can quickly make choices that ensure the needful things are done and the others laid aside for when I have more energy to do them. I’m less anxious about what I don’t get finished because I know I did the most important things first.
I build rest into my days. When I’m overtired, I’m more susceptible to grief attacks. I pause every now and then to sit or take a quick walk outside or simply change my work from detail-oriented to broad strokes. I have more flexibility because I work at home but even in an office it’s possible. My husband walks every day on his lunch hour-sunshine and physical activity make his afternoons easier to bear.
I ask for help. When I’m drowning in grief, I reach out for a lifeline. There’s no shame in asking for help. I have a good friend that I can text or call anytime I need to and ask for prayer or a listening ear. I belong to a couple of online grief groups and they are full of people who understand my pain and will lift me up in prayer and encourage my heart when it feels especially broken.
I accept my limitations. My toes don’t allow me to wear beautiful shoes anymore so I’ve learned to wear what fits instead of what’s in fashion. I am not the same person I was before I buried a child so I’m learning to live with the new me. I don’t like crowds. I don’t like unexpected change. I feel anxious in unfamiliar places and around strangers. I make choices that limit my exposure to those things when possible.
I shake off the really awful day. I can’t help that some days take a nosedive into terrible as soon as I leave the bed. I admit that grieving is hard, that it will continue to be hard. But I won’t let my worst days be my only days.

I am not in control of everything, but I can control some things.

I would not have chosen this life for myself, but I can make choices that help make it bearable.

losses-and-choices-nouwn

You Can Only Hold On To What You Refuse to Let Go Of

Those hours before I planted one last kiss on my son’s forehead, I held his hand.

I nodded at the people filing past to pay their respects with my arm tucked behind me, desperate to cling to my child.

no one can snatch them

And I’m still clinging.

I will not let him go.

I don’t care how many days or months or years march on taking me further from the sound of his voice, the touch of his hand or the brightness of his smile-I refuse to release my grasp.

It’s hard for someone who has never buried a child to understand why we who have are compelled to speak about them, to post pictures of them, to air our great grief and share our great hope of reunion.

I didn’t have a clue before it was me.

But this is all we have.

There will be no new experiences, no fresh memories, no photos marking higher achievements or life passages.

So I will hold onto Dominic as a little boy who was so stubborn he would sit in the floor and cry in frustration because he couldn’t yet crawl.

I will hold onto Dominic as a young man who could argue anyone under the table until they gave in because, right or wrong, he wasn’t giving up.

I will hold onto Dominic who taught himself how to play the drums and pounded away when I took my daily walk so that it wouldn’t be too loud for my ears.

I will hold onto Dominic who talked his way into a program that admitted few students even though he had missed the first semester of classes.

I will hold onto Dominic who could fight like a banty rooster when he was mad but be as tender as a mother hen with someone who was hurting.

I will hold onto Dominic who would have never wanted this for me, who would have done anything he could to prevent this great sorrow resting on my shoulders.

I refuse to let go.

Because he is my son.

There is no past tense for a mother’s love.

as long as I live

Relentlessly Forward

The sharp shard stabs deep when I’m unprepared.

Drifting off to sleep

Driving down the road

Doing the laundry.

He’s not here.

He’s not coming back.

His living presence is taken from me.

His smile,

Unseen.

His voice,

Unheard.

His arms,

Out of reach.

Untouchable.

And the gap widens every day

Between the last time and this moment.

No way to slow it down.

No path to go back.

Grief and Grace:What I Need from Friends and Family

You cannot possibly know that scented soap takes me back to my son’s apartment in an instant.

You weren’t there when I cleaned it for the last time, boxed up the contents under the sink and wiped the beautiful, greasy hand prints off the shower wall. He had worked on a friend’s car that night, jumped in to clean up and was off.

He never made it home.

So when I come out of the room red-eyed, teary and quiet, please don’t look at me like I’m a freak.

Please don’t corner me and ask, “What’s wrong?” Or worse-please, please, please don’t suggest I should be “over it by now”.

If you were reading a novel or watching a movie, you’d show more grace.

You would nod in understanding as the main character made choices that reflected the pain of his past. You would find his behavior perfectly predictable in the context of a life lived with a broken heart.

I can’t control what makes me cry. I can’t stop the memories flooding my mind or the pain seizing my heart.

I might be OK one minute and the next a blubbering mess. Grief doesn’t mind a schedule.

But there are some things you can do to help:

If you are aware of the circumstances around my child’s death, be thoughtful when highlighting similar situations in conversation, in movie choice, in recommending books or news stories. I bump into reminders all the time, I don’t need to have them forced upon me.
It can be particularly hard to celebrate milestones in another child’s life when that child is about the same age as the one I buried. Feel free to invite me, but give grace if I choose not to attend a birthday, graduation or wedding. I’m doing the best I can and I don’t want to detract from the celebration so sometimes I bow out.
Ask me if, or how, I would like my missing child included in family gatherings. Sometimes I want his memory highlighted and sometimes I want to hold it close like a personal treasure. It might be different one year to the next. Just ask.
Be sensitive to the calendar. Make a note of my child’s birthday, heaven day, date of the funeral or memorial service-these are important dates for me and they will be as long as I live. In the first months, maybe for years, each month is a reminder that I am that much further from the last time I heard his voice, hugged his neck or saw his living face. Those days are especially hard.
Don’t pressure me to move faster in my grief journey. And don’t interpret a single encounter as the measure of how I’m doing. Be aware that it is often a two-steps-forward-one-step-back kind of experience. It is MY experience and will go as fast or as slow as it does. I can’t even hurry it along even though sometimes I am desperate to do so.
Understand that the things I may share don’t paint a total picture. There are pains too deep, thoughts too tortuous, experiences surrounding my son’s death and burial too hurtful for me to speak aloud.

I admit that I never thought of any of these things until it was MY son missing.

But now I think about them all the time–not only for my sake, but for the sake of others like me. I try to walk gently and kindly, extending grace and love.

And honestly, that’s really all I want from anyone else-grace, abundant grace.

I will be weepy when it’s inconvenient. I will react when you can’t fathom why. I will stay away when you want me to come near. I will make choices you don’t understand.

I am truly sorry.

But child loss is not something I chose for myself, it was thrust upon me.

I am walking this path the best I know how.

When you extend grace and love me through the roughest places it makes all the difference.

Celebrating the Small Victories

This journey is a marathon, not a sprint.

marathon

If I keep my eyes focused on the miles I’ve yet to trod, I can be discouraged and tempted to give up.

But if I think about the miles I’ve covered and the progress toward healing that has occurred, I can gain strength to keep on going.

It’s hard.

That’s not going to change.

I have mountains yet to climb. I won’t always be victorious-I’ll suffer setbacks.

But today, I’m celebrating several small victories:

I spent two hours laughing hysterically with a friend over lunch.

We were so loud and having so much fun that the wait staff was undoubtedly convinced we had enjoyed a liquid lunch although we didn’t drink anything stronger than water. And it felt GOOD.

friends-laughing

I am teaching again.

Since I was a little girl lining my dolls up for pretend school, my heart has been inclined toward teaching. Through the years I’ve taught Sunday School, seminars, parenting classes, speech classes and my own children from kindergarten through high school. But it’s been awhile-a long while since I’ve had the energy to be the focus of a room full of people. It’s just a small class on Sunday nights, but it’s a start.

I cut my hair.

Now, you are wondering how is that a victory? But in the throes of despair after Dominic left us, I vowed that I would never cut it. Because (this is the biology nerd in me) my hair contained the only cells in my body that would not be shed and renewed. I wanted this physical part of me that existed when he was still here as a reminder of just how long it had been since I hugged him or heard his voice. But the other day I knew it was time. So before I could lose my nerve I did it. And I’m glad. He would definitely approve!

I baked shortbread for my mother’s birthday.

shortbread

Family celebrations are still very hard. When we are together, the hole where Dominic should be is that much more apparent. And shortbread was one of the only things that could tempt my fitness fanatic son to break training and indulge his sweet tooth. So I haven’t made it since before he left us. But it’s Mama’s favorite too. And I’m learning to experience these memories wrapped up in doing things we did BEFORE as a blessing instead of only as a painful reminder that Dominic is gone.

You may be very fresh in your grief. You may despair of ever making headway toward healing. You may FEEL like you will ALWAYS be held under the tidal wave of sorrow.

It does seem that way for a very long time-longer for some people than others and definitely longer than we would hope.

But please be encouraged!

Your victories will look different than mine, but they will come. If you face the pain and do the work grief requires, you can begin to heal.

No, you will never be the same.

I’m not.

I don’t want to be.

Burying a child has taught me many things for which I am grateful and the pain I carry is a testimony to the love I have for my son.

But I am learning to live again.

One small victory at at time.

hallelujah1

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