I’m ending Bereaved Parents Month by sharing this post because I still have moments when I marvel that I’ve survived.
❤
It was the question I asked the bereaved mother that came to my son’s funeral.
It was the question a mother asked me as we stood by her granddaughter’s casket, surrounded by family and flowers.
And it is the right question.
Because when the breath leaves the body of your child, and you look down at the shell that used to be the home of a vibrant, living soul, you simply can. not. breathe.
My life is filled with lots of different kinds of people.
Because of this ministry, I message or talk to bereaved parents every day but I also message and talk to friends and family who have no clue what living with child loss looks like.
I learn something from all of them.
I try to be open to support and encouragement even when it comes from unlikely sources.
I remember the first early, very tender, very emotional days, weeks and months when I felt like a walking nerve. Any stray word or look was likely to bring tears to my eyes and drive me into seclusion for hours.
I couldn’t imagine that anything anyone who hadn’t walked this path could say would be helpful.
How could it be when they just. didn’t. know?????
And yet…over time, my heart softened by pain and sorrow and I realized that while others may not know my particular brand of suffering, they are often carrying a burden as well.
Even if the size and shape of their load is different than mine, they are learning from the journey and some of their wisdom might help me just as some of mine might help them.
Self-care, good boundaries, safe friends who allow us to share openly when we are struggling, grace, helpful, healthy habits-all those things are useful regardless of what we are going through.
If I close myself off and refuse to share life with anyone who isn’t situated precisely as I am in this life I didn’t choose I will miss oh, so very much!
I love, love, love the deep friendships I’ve formed with other bereaved parents (although I hate, hate, hate the way we found one another).
Online groups, the community around this blog, at retreats and through book and Bible studies, these parents form the foundation of strength and encouragement that has helped my heart hold on to hope.
But I also have beautiful nonbereaved friends who listen to my stories, share my tears and fears and who have walked and continue to walk beside me on this rocky road.
So don’t overlook or undervalue support regardless of where it comes from.
Look around.
Listen closely.
You might just be blessed more than you think.
If your heart is struggling and longing for companionship, here are some online communities that might be just what you’re looking for:
Heartache and Hope: Life After Losing a Child (closed group)
When days become months and months become years it’s hard to explain to others how grief is both always present but not always in focus.
I’ve struggled to help those outside the loss community understand that the absolute weight of the burden is precisely the same as when it fell on me without warning that dark morning.
Dominic’s absence, if anything, has seeped into more places, changed more relationships and influences more choices than it did eleven years ago when I was only just beginning to comprehend what a world without him would look like.
My hardest grief season begins in November and runs to the end of May. Thanksgiving through Dominic’s birthday on (or near) Memorial Day are days full of triggers, memories and stark reminders that one of us is missing.
If I could fall asleep November first and wake up in June I’d do it.
But I can’t so I have to employ all the tricks I’ve learned in the over eight years since Dominic ran ahead to heaven to survive those particularly challenging months.
Here are ten ways I survive hard grief days:
1. I make lists of things to do. I’ve found that if I don’t make a plan for each day it’s far too easy to just lie around and feel sorry for myself. I use index cards but whatever works for you is fine. I list household chores, phone calls to make or notes to write, exercise, errands or whatever. And then I consider them non-negotiable. These are my marching orders and after my morning coffee I start down the list.
2. I do something creative. I crochet or arrange flowers or sew a little. Taking just five or ten minutes to make something beautiful changes my perspective. I have a can opener that takes the lids off without sharp edges and I make magnets for friends and family members or just to have on hand for a little gift.
3. I take a walk. I am thankful I can go outside on my own property and enjoy fresh air and country sunshine. I know not everyone has that option. But even a walk inside your office building or up and down a couple flights of stairs gets the blood pumping and releases endorphins. If I can’t walk, then I at least change my physical position-from sitting to standing, from standing to moving. Body position impacts my emotions.
4. I find something to make me smile. There is scientific evidence to back our common sense experience that smiling lightens our mood and helps our hearts. I read jokes or check out some of my Facebook friends that tend to post funny memes or stories. Sometimes I just “practice” a smile and even that can send feel-good hormones surging through my system.
“Don’t try to win over the haters, you are not a jackass whisperer.” ~ Brene Brow
5. I call or text a friend. Sometimes I just need to know that someone else is aware of my hard day. No one can undo my grief but when I feel there is a witness, it lightens the load somehow.
6. I stay off Facebook and other social media platforms. I love that I’m able to keep in touch with friends and family via social media. But it can be full of drama and negativity as well. So if I’m having a tough day, I remove the potential for it to be made harder due to random comments, posts or photographs.
7. I pet my cats. I have always been an animal lover. But I truly do not know how I could have survived these past four years without the companionship of my cats and other furry friends. Study after study confirms that being in the presence of pets lowers blood pressure and calms nerves.
8. I go with my feelings. There is no rule book that says I have to be tough and hide my tears. If I’m having a hard grief day it is perfectly acceptable to let the sorrow wash over me and let the tears fall. Sometimes fighting the feelings only prolongs my pain. Often a good cry is cleansing and I am much better afterwards.
9. I journal. There are things I need to “say” that are better kept between me, God and my notebook. I have kept a journal for nearly three decades. Many times just writing out my feelings, my fears, my thoughts and my frustrations is enough to take the sting out. There’s something about not keeping it all bottled up inside-even if no other soul reads it-that acts as a catharsis.
10. I copy encouraging quotes or Scripture and hang them prominent places throughout the house. I have notes tacked to my bed post, on my bathroom mirror, taped to the cabinet next to my stove, stuck on the fridge, slid into my wallet in my purse-absolutely everywhere. Because when my heart is hanging on by a thread, the smallest bit of encouragement is often enough to help me hold onto hope.
None of these things undo my grief in the most basic sense.
Dominic is gone, gone, gone and I will not see him or hear his voice until we are reunited in the Presence of our Savior.
But they DO help.
One of the most devastating aspects of child loss is the overwhelming sense that NOTHINGmakes sense anymore and that I have absolutelyNOcontrol.
Choosing helpful habits and actions gives me a way to regain dominion over a tiny corner of my world.
And that little bit of action strengthens my spirit and helps my heart hold on.
I know I’m not the only one who carries a calendar in my head that threatens to explode like a ticking timebomb.Days that mean nothing to anyone else loom large as they approach.
The date of his death.
The date of his funeral.
His birthday.
My birthday.
The day he should have graduated from law school.
On and on and on.
How can I survive these oppressive reminders of what I thought my life would look like? How can I grab hold of something, anything that will keep my heart and mind from falling down the rabbit hole of grief into a topsy-turvy land where nothing makes sense and it’s full of unfriendly creatures that threaten to gobble me whole?
When I was a young mother, my brother used to love to sit back and wait to see how many things I could do at once.
I could hold a baby, iron a shirt and talk on the phone at the same time. I could pick things up with my toes when I didn’t want to disturb the sleeping child in my lap and couldn’t reach the object with my hand.
Four children in six years, breastfeeding, homeschooling and taking care of all the household chores meant that I got pretty darn good at keeping multiple balls in the air at the same time.
Those days are over.
Like so many things at this point in my life I don’t know how much of what I experience and feel is a function of getting older (definitely middle aged here!) and how much is attributable to grief following the death of Dominic.
But this I do know: I am only able to focus on a single task, thought, desire or problem at a time. If I try to multi-task, I might as well cry, “Uncle!” from the start.
It’s a little discouraging.
Often I feel like I’ve wasted an hour or a day or even a week. What exactly did I get done?
But it’s also a kind of freedom.
My household isn’t nearly as busy as it once was so there’s really no need to rush from here to there or stack task on top of task.
I’m learning that taking time, talking to people for as long as they need me, doing something well even if I don’t do it quickly are all perfectly acceptable ways to spend a day.
And while I miss so much of who I was before Dominic ran ahead to heaven, I don’t miss the frantic craziness of trying to do too much in too little time.
I shared this last year around this time in response to many, many comments and questions from bereaved parents about what felt like random or unusual physical manifestations of their own grief.
I hope it helps another heart navigate this life none of us would choose.
It’s a well known fact that stress plays a role in many health conditions.
And I think most of us would agree that child loss is one of (if not THE) most stressful events a heart might endure.
So it’s unsurprising that bereaved parents find themselves battling a variety of physical problems in the wake of burying a child.
It happens in all kinds of ways. One friend just slowly backs off from liking posts on Facebook, waves at a distance from across the sanctuary, stops texting to check up on me.
Another observes complete radio silence as soon as she walks away from the graveside.
Still another hangs in for a few weeks-calls, texts, even invites me to lunch until I can see in her eyes that my lack of “progress” is making her uneasy. Then she, too, falls off the grid.
A tender broken heart can make all kinds of excuses for less-than-gracious behavior or words.
I know that often we grievers bear the brunt of others’ well-meaning but misplaced and sometimes downright painful advice, remarks, looks and gossip and that makes it easy to rationalize returning like for like.
But I’m not responsible for THEM, I’m responsible for ME.
❤ Melanie
Oh, how I need to learn to practice the pause!
I’m getting better, but still react when I should reflect.
I need to do thisEVERYtime.
Lord, help my stubborn heart slow down and give me grace to yield and allow You to melt it, mold it and make it more like Your own!
thelifeididntchoose 