My heart hurts every time a name is added to this awful “club” no one wants to join.
One more family knows our pain.
One more family has an empty chair at holiday gatherings.
But I am thankful for the moms and dads that share their hearts in bereaved parents’ groups. I’m thankful for the safe space to speak honestly about what this life feels like and the challenges that greet us in this Valley.
Read the rest here: Magical Bear Traps
Someone posted this image yesterday on Facebook-they had received a copy in a therapy session and found it a helpful way to picture grief.
I wanted to share it because perhaps you may find it helpful as well. ❤
I think it’s one of the very best ways to think about grief for several reasons:
It didn’t take long after Dominic’s leaving for life to ramp up and obligations to pour in. We had two graduations and a wedding within two months of his funeral.
Then there were thank-you notes to write, dishes to return and every day chores necessary to manage a home and family.
No escaping what must be done.
It took me a little while to realize that if I was going to survive this lifelong journey I had to make some changes in how and when I responded to requests to do something, be somewhere or participate in outside events. Because no matter how worthy the request, there was only so much of me to go around and I was forced to spend nearly all my energy and time and effort on figuring out how this great wound was impacting me and my family.
I cannot overemphasize how much strength and energy is needed to do the work grief requires.
At first, turning down a request or asking someone to reschedule was relatively easy-the loss was fresh in their minds and they were gracious and understanding. As the weeks and months and now YEARS have passed, it is harder. Not always because they don’t understand but because I sometimes hold myself to an untenable standard that says I should be better by now. I should be able to do all that I could once do. I shouldn’t be so sensitive to the date on the calendar or the place we might meet for lunch or the rainy weather that brings my mood down.
But I’m not able to ignore all those things and sometimes I just can’t do what someone else would like me to be able to do.
So I keep repeating the mantra, “grace and space” to myself.
I need grace-from my own heart FOR my own heart– I must cut myself the slack I would be happy to extend to others.
I need grace from friends and family. I cannot help you understand exactly what it’s like to be me. You can never know all the ways I ache for the life I had before Dominic ran ahead to heaven. You could never imagine all the daily pinpricks my soul must suffer as I walk in this world and am reminded of what I’ve lost.
So you will have to take it on faith when I say, “I just can’t do that”.
I need space.
I need space between me and the noise of the world and the shouting urgency of “to do” lists and project deadlines. So much of the work I must do is silent, solitary work. It takes hours and hours of thinking, talking to God, reading Scripture, journaling and just being alone to sort this all out.
I’m not rejecting YOU-I’m trying to preserve ME.
It isn’t selfishness, it’s love for my family. I refuse to add to their burden by running myself into the ground. I won’t choose to make life harder for them by creating an unecessary crisis.
I don’t know when I might (or IF I might) return to the busy bee I once was. Right now I can’t even imagine it.
I think I will need grace and space for a very, very long time.
As a follow up to the repost a couple days ago: Why is Anxiety Part of Child Loss?, I wanted to share this entry.
Here are some practical ways to deal with anxious thoughts, take them captive or redirect my focus so that they don’t rule my heart.
Please feel free to add any helpful tips in the comments section below. We learn best from those that share our journey. You may have the very words that will encourage another parent’s broken heart!
I no longer have to imagine the worst thing that could happen in the life of a mother-I know exactly how it feels.
And if I allow my heart to ponder that too often or too long, it consumes me.
So I am learning to take those anxious thoughts captive, learning to make them live in only a small corner of my mind instead of taking it over completely.
It takes effort and discipline, but it’s possible.
I don’t have to live the rest of my days a quivering mess-
Read the rest here: Dealing With Anxious Thoughts
One of the most challenging things that faced me immediately after Dominic’s funeral was that we had two college graduations, Mother’s Day, Father’s Day, his birthday, a wedding and my own thirtieth wedding anniversary within two months.
Thankfully we had some amazing friends and family that stepped up and filled in the gaps.
How do you celebrate when your heart is broken?
How do you make merry when you can barely make it out of bed?
How do you NOT cheat your living children when you’ve buried their sibling?
In the three years since Dominic ran ahead to heaven we have marked the occasions above as well as Christmases, Thanksgivings, my father’s 80th birthday, my husband’s 65th birthday, my daughter’s graduation with a master’s degree and receiving Dominic’s posthumous diploma from the University of Alabama School of Law.
In between these mountain tops were multiple hills of accomplishment that required more or less recognition and affirmation.
So the question comes up: “How should I celebrate [fill in the blank] now that my child is gone?”
The short answer is: However best suits your broken heart, the wishes of your immediate grieving circle and your circumstances.
And you owe no one else an explanation of why you make that choice.
Now, I’ll warn you that not all the choices you make will be received well by others who might be impacted by your decision. Extended family, no matter how much they may want to understand, often won’t.
I get that-traditions are hard to turn loose. Family habits are hard to change. If everyone is used to getting together to open Christmas presents it can seem selfish when one person says they just can’t do it.
But no one but a grieving parent can truly understand that the most random things can trigger uncontrollable anxiety and overwhelming sorrow. And no one but a grieving parent can know how much energy it takes to JUST SHOW UP.
Every single time my son SHOULD be here with us but ISN’T, is another stark and undeniable reminder that he is gone, gone, gone.
So this is how I make the decision about how to celebrate [or not!] any particular holiday or occasion: I ask my husband and children first what will best meet their needs, feed their souls, help them face the day with minimal stress and/or sorrow.
Then I stack that against the expectations of others that may be involved.
Where they overlap, we join in. Where they don’t, we politely decline. And if there is a way to bend standing traditions to accommodate our grief, I will often propose a compromise.
I try to be thoughtful and plan ahead.
I try to let anyone else involved know as far in advance that we will either be participating (or not) so they can make their own plans. But I reserve the right to back out last minute if I wake up and find out I simply can. not. face. the. day.
So far I’ve realized that having a plan takes a great deal of stress out of the system. Being honest with extended family and friends is so much better than trying to fake it and finding out halfway through the meal I just can’t.
Choosing to stay home is kinder than making a scene and ruining the gathering for everyone.
Sometimes my suggestions have been met with resistance.
That’s just going to be part of this life.
I’m learning to stand up and speak my truth even when others don’t understand or like it. I work at being kind but I won’t be bowled over by someone else’s lack of compassion.
So much of life this side of loss is outside our control. We do not have to live up to others’ expectations of how or when or where we celebrate [or don’t!] birthdays, holidays or other special occasions.
None of us chose to be bereaved parents.
No one but us has to carry this heavy burden.
If we are going to do it well, we will have to make choices about the battles we fight and the additional burdens we allow others to place upon us.
It’s OK to say, “No.” It’s OK to do things differently. It’s OK to not do them at all.
Be free!
The best remedy for my heart on the days when grief rolls in like morning fog and refuses to burn off with sunshine is hard work.
If weather permits I go outside and move hay bales, pick up limbs, cut weeds or do anything that requires large muscles to accomplish the task. The goal is exhaustion so I can sleep.
If the weather doesn’t cooperate, I’ll try to tackle jobs inside that I otherwise tend to ignore. If you ever see me cleaning the bathroom or kitchen sink fixtures with a toothbrush, just leave me alone-I’m working something out.
So these past days leading up to Dominic’s birthday, that’s what I’ve done.
I sheared sheep, raked out a hay shed, moved hay, medicated horses, dogs and goats, picked up limbs brought down by rain and high winds, vacuumed, washed clothes, cleaned bathrooms and organized (sort of) my closet.
The ungrateful sheep and the silly cat kneading his paws while I’m bent over shearing her.
Skinks are some of the happier surprises when moving hay. Snakes and ants not so much.
The good thing about so many critters that eat grass is that I rarely cut it.
Now I’m worn slap out!
I think I’ll hit the sack.
You are not going crazy because you can’t remember your best friend’s name.
You haven’t lost your mind because you can’t find your car keys, or the purse you put them in, or get lost in a store.
It’s grief brain.
And it’s a real thing….
Read the rest here: Grief Brain: It’s a Real Thing!
So, more than twenty years on a farm and I can NOT back a trailer. Nope. Can’t do it.
One day I spent hours trying to teach myself how to do it. Never was able to do anything other than manage to jackknife the trailer, go unhook it and start over.
When I go somewhere with a trailer I do one of two things: (1) I find a space where I can drive in and be able to just make a loop or (2) I find the nearest person who CAN back a trailer, hand them my keys and ask them to do it.
I feel NO shame.
But that’s not the case with other things I can’t do. So many times I try to avoid admitting that I am unable to meet certain people’s expectations or do certain things that I either used to be able to do or feel I SHOULD be able to do.
I think the reason I don’t mind outing myself on trailers is because that confession usually gets a laugh or a knowing look from the person who helps me or an admission from someone standing near at the feed store that they also have trouble backing up a trailer.
But when I say, “I just don’t think I’m up to teaching VBS” or “I’d love to come to that event but I’ve reached my social quota this week” or “I’m still struggling with driving by that spot or eating at that restaurant” it’s often met with (at best) a quizzical look or (at worst) a comment about how I should be “better” by now.
And then I DO feel shamed. I feel like I don’t measure up, like I’m not as valuable as the next person or that I have failed some cosmic test.
You know what though? That’s a reflection on other people’s lack of compassion and experience or their personal insecurity NOT a reflection of my worth.
It is really just fine for me to admit my limitations because EVERYONE has limitations.
I can’t lift a 250 lb barbell. But I can whip up dinner for fifty people. I can’t read Chinese but I can read Dr. Seuss with an accent and hit all the rhymes on cue. I can’t run a marathon but I can work all day without complaining (most of the time).
I’m human (surprise!). So are you.
I have some limitations as a result of burying a child. You may have limitations because of age or disease or something else I don’t know about or can’t see.
That’s OK.
Let’s make a pact: I’ll take you as you are and you can take me as I am. I’ll help you when you need help and you can help me when I need help.
We will extend grace and receive grace as needed to make life work.
Isn’t that really the essence of human community?
I belong to several bereaved parents online communities and this question comes up again and again-it was the first thing I asked a bereaved mom just after Dominic ran ahead to heaven:
“Will this suffocating pain remain sitting on my chest, smothering the breath and life right out of me? Will I ever be able to stop crying? Will it ALWAYS feel like this?”
The short answer is, “No, it won’t.”
For those of us who follow Jesus, we know that eternity with Him will be filled with inexpressible joy and peace. Whatever pain and sorrow we have carried down below will be swallowed up by redemption and restoration. He has promised both to collect our tears in His bottle and to wipe them away.
The longer answer is, “It depends.”
If I cling tightly to my sorrow, focus my eyes and heart only on what I have lost, then I will continue to feel overwhelmed.
How can it be otherwise?
I have lost more than I can comprehend-both what WAS and WHAT WILL BE. My son is gone, gone, gone. And that is not going to change on this earth.
I can’t play mind games and trick myself into thinking it will. My heart knows the truth and it won’t be fooled no matter how hard I try.
BUT-if I turn and face the pain, embrace it, feel it and work on healthy ways to carry it-then I can begin to breathe again.
There is no way through but through. I have to let my heart feel all the feels. Stuffing or ignoring them is not an option. They will not be ignored forever.
There’s no way around grief and loss: you can dodge all you want, but sooner or later you just have to go into it, through it, and, hopefully, come out the other side. The world you find there will never be the same as the world you left.
Johnny Cash
I can choose to equip myself with tools for working through them. Counseling, journaling, learning to lament, sharing with a trusted friend are all healthy ways to process pain.
And because I believe in Jesus, the most helpful thing I can do in this Valley is look to my Shepherd. When I focus my gaze on Him, on His character and provision, my heart is strengthened.
Make no mistake-the missing and sorrow are still there-faith is not anesthesia! But there are other feelings that take up residence alongside my pain-hope and courage and grace.
I have to choose.
Am I going to work through this pain or simply be crushed by it? Will I allow my Savior to heal my heart or will I refuse His aid?
My heart is still beating either way.
I confess: I AM a cat lady.
Not the one with the dozens living in the house and stinking up the place but the one who relies on her furry pal to get her through hard days.
I raised Roosevelt from the day he was born.
His mom was a sickly outdoor cat that had never made it through a successful pregnancy and was not a candidate for being spayed because she wouldn’t have survived the anesthesia.
So the day I heard a tiny “mew” outside my window I hardly expected the sight I beheld. Here was mama kitty utterly amazed that she had birthed a baby, walking off the edge of the porch with a tiny black something still attached by the umbilical cord.
She could have cared less.
I grabbed scissors and a towel and rescued the little darling without much hope of his surviving.
But he did.
That was seven hospitalizations, two surgeries and one giant heartache ago.
He has become my comfort companion, my purring pal, the one who knows before I do that my RA is flaring, my heart breaking.
I am thankful for this oasis of comfort in a desert of hurt.
I am thankful that the God Who made me also made animals to bring healing in the midst of heartache. Oh, so thankful for a husband that puts up with my crazy “save everything that breathes” personality and doesn’t mind if a cat sneaks up the side of the bed in the middle of the night to get cozy in the covers..
When Dominic died, I remember sitting in my chair as the parade of sweet friends and family came over to cry with us. Roosevelt sat with me the entire time. His warm body reminded me that I was still here even when my limbs seemed to float away into the ether and my mind wasn’t entirely certain that what I saw or heard was real.
I have learned to count my blessings.
And while the majority of them walk on two legs, at least one has four.
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