healing – Page 8 – thelifeididntchoose

No. It’s a Complete Sentence.

When news that Dominic left us spread, our yard was filled with friends and family here to help bear the burden of grief and loss.

Our house was bursting with people and food and phone calls-more coming and going than our gravel lane had seen in a lifetime of living up in the woods.

It was beautiful and terrible all at the same time. Beautiful because we were not alone in our sorrow and terrible because it was due to that sorrow they were here.

In those days between the accident and the funeral I was boundary-less.

People hugged me, fed me, cleaned my house, cut my grass, tended the animals, asked me questions, told me stories and I just accepted it-whatever “it” was-because I was utterly unable to do anything else.

But in the weeks that followed, as the pain made itself more at home in my heart-as it expanded to fill every nook and crevice-I realized that I had to put up some fences.

My oldest son was getting married just a couple months after the accident.

There’s a lot of stuff to do for a wedding as most folks know. So I got a phone call one week after Dominic’s funeral and the person on the other end launched into a long saga regarding a minor detail and expected me to 1) listen attentively; 2) care as deeply as they did about something that absolutely didn’t matter; and 3) join with them in light-hearted, laughter-filled banter.

I just. couldn’t. do. it.

So I didn’t.

I politely but firmly explained that I was unable to continue the conversation and that in future they needed to contact me through my son. I promised I was 100% committed to making the wedding happen, to doing my part and to being as happy as possible on the day.

But until then, unless it was a true emergency, please leave me alone.

Drawing a boundary created space for me to DO what needed to be done without the added burden of extra emotional baggage.

Before Dominic left us I was a “yes” person.

Smiling stylish woman showing sign excellently, isolated on red

Need help with an event? Why, sure I’m available.

Need someone to take your Sunday School class? Absolutely.

Keep your toddler? Just drop him off-we’ll play with the critters all day.

Phone call counselor and Homeschool Help Hotline-that was me.

Not anymore.

I’ve learned that if I am to have the energy needed to do necessary things, I have to protect my heart. I am too weak to carry everyone else’s burdens. If I am going to survive this journey I’ve got to prioritize.

I still listen.

I still help.

But I do it in a more healthy way-with respect for myself as well as others.

It is OK to say, “No.” And I don’t have to offer a reason. It’s a complete sentence all on its own.

All of my children had urged me over the years to draw boundaries. But I had grown from a parent-pleasing first born into a people pleasing adult and I just couldn’t do it.

Dominic even crafted a wire sign that hung on my kitchen curtains in the shape of a cursive “no”.

He made me repeat the mantra: Lack of planning on your part does not constitute an emergency on my part.

He’d be proud of me for finally taking his advice.

Feelings; The Bane of my Existence — Boxx Banter

From my friend and fellow bereaved mother, Janet Boxx.

Choosing to go THROUGH grief is frightening, and hard, and takes so very much work, energy and commitment.

I, too, would often rather think about my grief experience than feel it. But it is the only hope for healing.

“How do you feel about that?”, Ruth, my grief counselor asked. Tears filled my eyes and choked my throat as I desperately tried to prevent them from falling, to prevent a sob from escaping, while my mind grappled for words to define my feelings. For such a wordy person I find it ironic how completely […]

via Feelings; The Bane of my Existence — Boxx Banter

I am NOT Crazy!

It was just over a year after Dominic’s accident and a friend forwarded an article about odd behaviors of those who were “stuck’ in grief. Along with the forward was a little tag, “Reminds me of you.”

It hurt my feelings.

And it was inappropriate.

Because not only had I not participated in any of the listed behaviors (most of which anyone would deem odd and some that were actually harmful) but as far as I could tell, I was doing pretty good, considering.

Considering I went to bed one night with four children alive and well and woke in the wee hours of the next day to the news that one was dead.

No warning. No good-byes.

Just gone.

In the months since that day I had gotten up each morning and taken care of necessary tasks. I was not abusing alcohol, drugs or food. I was still exercising when I could.

And I was engaged with my family -working with them to put the pieces of our shattered lives and hearts back together again.

Yes, I cried. A lot. No, I didn’t like to be around crowds. I stayed at home much more than before. I struggled with anxiety when anything out of the ordinary happened. I found small talk hard to follow and forgot things (still do). And I was not participating in many “extra” activities.

I slept with Dominic’s pillows every night-it was a way to touch what was left of him.

But I was functioning.

My friend’s reaction to the fact that I was “still” grieving after a year is not all that unusual.

I speak to bereaved parents who are often made to feel by others as if they should “be over” the death of their child.

They are told to “move on”.

Or, in faith circles, to “be happy he is in heaven”.

Most mental health professionals agree that child loss is probably the most difficult loss anyone has to bear.

A simple Google search will turn up dozens of articles that support this understanding of a parent’s heartache and lifelong struggle to embrace the pain of losing a child.

Yet most people are unaware of this fact.

So I’m here to tell you-grieving mama, grieving dad-you are NOT crazy!

You are not overreacting to one of the most awful things that can happen to someone. Out of order death is devastating!

When asked about his son years after he had died, Gregory Peck replied:

As I’ve written in a previous post Am I Normal?

No one thinks it strange that the ADDITION of a child is a life-long adjustment.

So, why, why, why is it strange that the SUBTRACTION of a child would also require accommodation for the rest of a mother’s life?

I understand that if you haven’t walked this path, you can’t REALLY know what it’s like-even if you try.

I don’t want you to know this pain by experience.

It’s awful and unrelenting.

What I do want you to know is I am NOT crazy for missing my son. I am NOT crazy for wishing I could turn back the clock.

I am NOT crazy because this devastating, paradigm shifting, unbelievably painful event still impacts my everyday life.

Please don’t treat me like I am.

The best help a friend can offer is a listening ear-no judgement-and a hug that says, “I love you. And I’m sorry.”

Heart Wide Open

Grief and loss broke my heart and life wide open-no more hidden corners, no more walled-off spaces.

And the vast expanse left by Dominic’s absence will be filled.

Nature hates a vacuum.

What I pour into my heart or allow God to pour into it determines whether I am changed in a way that blesses me and others or not.

I don’t have a choice in being broken.

But I have a choice in being filled. I can position my heart to hear from God and to dwell on His promises and Person or invite bitterness to move in.

I pray that you will have greater understanding in your heart. Then you will know the hope that God has chosen to give us. I pray that you will know that the blessings God has promised his holy people are rich and glorious.

Ephesians 1:18 ICB

No Substitute for TIME

Healing can’t be hurried.

Read the rest: No Rush

I Am What I Am

The cartoon character Popeye responded to critics with “I am what I am”.

And while this phrase can be used to excuse all sorts of bad behavior, there is a ring of truth to it.

Every one of us is the sum of our experiences. Each of us is hemmed in by what we know and how we are made.

We are more than the things that happen to us.

But, in part, we are Defined by Moments.

June Challenge: Eight Legs and Eternity

Day Eight of Kathleen Duncan’s June 1-30 challenge.

The prompt: Write a story with eight legs or turn the eight sideways and use “infinity” (eternity) as your prompt.

Eternity is a long time.

Just try and wrap your mind around it.

But when you bury a child, that’s what you think about-the forever that comes when he left his earthly body and entered the Presence of Jesus.

So many hard days followed, so many tears, so much pain. I wanted to escape to eternity with Dominic.

I would be there eventually anyway, why not now?

But it’s not up to me to determine when I go. So I remain, and try to find a way to make the days count, be useful and stay hope-filled.

And eight legs have helped me stay rooted in the “now” when my heart longs to be in “forever”.

That first Thanksgiving after losing Dominic in April, we visited our oldest son and his wife in West Virginia where she was a vet.

Touring Lillie’s office, we were introduced to two fluffy, orange kittens that had been abandoned by the road and brought there in hopes of finding a home.

One look and I was smitten.

It took less than five minutes to decide to take them back with us to Alabama.

Who could resist those faces?

At dinner that night, we brainstormed possible names. I still have the list in my notes on my phone: Kit Kat, Pumpkin, Scratch and Sniff, Cheetos, Doritos, Tostito.

We decided on names that reflected their roots- Moonshine and White Lightning.

After all, West Virginia is home to as many stills as hills.

Once we got back, their needs became part of my morning routine-a constant and undeniable reminder that I HAD to get out of bed. And they made me laugh!

Here is Lightning soaking up the sun in front of the picture window.

Moonshine’s personality is more relaxed-why sit when you can lay down?

I used to be able to pick up both of them with one hand, now it takes two hands to pick up one of them!

They have grown into good companions, great mousers, soft lap warmers and serious purr machines.

I’m very glad these eight legs live in my house.

They’ve been excellent therapy for my hurting heart.

Benefits of Pet Therapy:

lowers blood pressure

improves cardiovascular health

releases endorphins (oxytocin) that have a calming effect

diminishes overall physical pain

the act of petting produces an automatic relaxation response, reducing the amount of medication some folks need

lifts spirits and lessens depression

decreases feelings of isolation and alienation

encourages communcation

provides comfort

lowers anxiety

creates motivation for the client to recover faster

reduces loneliness

The Sound of Silence

Busy, busy, busy and noisy, noisy, noisy.

Every day is full of activity and every minute full of sounds-television, radio, Itunes or Pandora.

I am, at the same time, hyper-connected and dis-connected. My mind is often full but my heart can feel empty.

If I can move fast enough or create sufficient distraction, then maybe I can ignore the harder questions, the deeper thoughts, the uncomfortable feelings that I would rather not explore.

Being in one’s own company alone with God is challenging. Without the noise of outside distraction I am forced to face my fears and hidden darkness. And in the quiet I find that the easy answers leave me empty and unsatisfied. I must listen carefully for the still, small Voice that whispers comfort.

If I want to hear from God I need to embrace solitude and make space to hear.

Unhealthy Denial

Ignoring pain doesn’t make it go away.

The world we live in is a broken place where bad things happen and life can be hard.

Sometimes believers in Christ can convince themselves that admitting their world is dark with pain or suffering or questions diminishes the power of God–that it speaks ill of God or that it means God is insufficient to uphold us in our weakness.

If I pretend that I’m never afraid, or that I never experience darkness, I am denying others my aid.

Even worse, I may be shaming them to silence, sending the message that if they are experiencing pain, something is wrong with THEM.

God of the Day and God of the Night

A Good Day

Last Friday, my oldest son received his USAF captain’s bars. True to form, his path to this new achievement was unique and memorable. I’m so very proud of him and of his commitment to excellence.

And that meant that he was leaving San Antonio and headed to Maxwell AFB for Commissioned Officer Training. So he was able to swing by home on Sunday!

Sunday afternoon, my kids presented me with this beautiful “Family of Love” necklace for Mother’s Day. It has all their names and birthstones so I can wear them close to my heart. I love it!

James Michael brought me flowers-lots of purple, my favorite color.

And then we were joined by Joe and Seve, two of Dominic’s good friends from Law School. Joe surprised me with this amazing handmade plate from his recent travels to Turkey. I appreciate the love and support of these fellows and their ongoing commitment to remember Dominic and honor our family.

We had Robbie and Jonica over for supper with their new daughter. I got to cuddle this sweet baby and be reminded that love still lives and life goes on.

And no DeSimone adventure would be complete without an “emergency”. While getting food ready and on the table, we discovered a minor plumbing problem that flooded the downstairs bathroom, the laundry area and into the garage (all downhill-literally and figuratively).

So while we girls ate supper, the men worked at repairs.

Just like old times-one boy went in one direction, another went the other way and Julian manned the homefront. Thankfully, they were able to get things back in working order sooner rather than later. But not before I exhausted our supply of 24 full-sized “clean-up” towels that were washed in bleach the next day!

The evening ended with lots of laughter and plenty of carbs.

And a rare opportunity for a group photo that had me surrounded by all my children within reach. (Thank you, Alison, for snapping the picture!)

We miss you, Dominic.

And we can never stand close enough to squeeze out the giant hole you’ve left.

But we are living like you lived-making the most of the moments-and loving each other.

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