I cannot speak for others but in my case, it seems that I did not lose Dominic all at once.
In fact, I’m still losing him.
Bit by bit, a little at a time, nearly molecule by molecule, his mark on my life, my walls, my world grows smaller.
Read the rest here: Bit By Bit: We Don’t Lose Them All at Once
Reading back through these posts has been both painful and hope-filled.
One will be celebrating the healing my heart has experienced and the next will be mourning how much different my life IS from the picture of how I thought it WOULD be.
A theme running through them all is how very important it’s been for me to have safe people and safe places to express both.
I wake and you are still gone.
The cats tap-tap-tapping on my arms and face declare the day has begun despite the dark and I need to climb out of bed.
Why?
What difference does it make?
I trudge downstairs, put the coffee on, feed the cats and settle into my chair to read and write.
Habits.
Read the rest here: Another Day
Sometimes I schedule a post the night before and wake up to a day that contradicts everything I just wrote.
Grief is like that.
Good day. Bad day. Better day. Worse day.
I can barely predict one moment to the next, much less a day or a week.
It’s easy for me to become discouraged when I stare at my own feet-measuring paltry progress when I long for leaps and bounds.
But truth is, no life is lived primarily by giant strides. It’s mostly baby steps and falling forward.
Read the rest here: Baby Steps and Falling Forward
Some of us have stories that need telling NOW. We can’t wait until our age guarantees us a captive audience.
Because telling the stories helps our hearts.
A fellow bereaved mom who has a gift for finding exquisite quotes found this one:
Sometimes I think that if it were possible to tell a story often enough to make the hurt ease up, to make the words slide down my arms and away from me like water, I would tell that story a thousand times.
~Anita Shreve, The Weight of Water
Every time I tell the story of Dominic, it helps to keep him real.
It reminds my heart that he lived, that he mattered, that he matters still.
Read the rest here: Why We Have to Tell Our Stories & Why We Need Someone to Listen
Can we just admit that life is hard?
Can we stop hiding our sorrow and pain and struggles and difficulties and let people in on what’s going on?
I truly believe that if we did, we’d all be better for it.
Because no one-really, truly no one-is spared from some kind of problem. And for many of us, it has nothing to do with our own choices. It’s visited upon us from the outside.
It comes out of nowhere, happens fast and suddenly consumes every aspect of our lives.
If you are a believer in Jesus, you might think you should be immune to these hardships. You might do a quick calculation and decide that, on balance, you’ve led a pretty decent life and certainly God should notice and spare you and yours from awful tragedy.
Or you might look around and notice all those who leave hurt and heartache in their wake and wonder why they seem to live a charmed life while death and destruction have visited yours.
Read the rest here: Scripture Journal Challenge: Earth Has No Sorrow That Heaven Can’t Heal
Maybe I’m just old and tired.
Maybe it’s grief brain or my autoimmune disease or some other biological issue of which I’m ignorant.
But I just don’t have the energy to be on guard, to defend my “territory”, to argue with everyone who might hold a different opinion or who might be experiencing life from a different perspective.
Read the rest here: I’m On Your Side. Whatever Side You Land On.
There are some things I’d like you to know about grief.
Things I didn’t know until I was the one walking the Valley of the Shadow of Death.
Things that can help you companion me and others compassionately, wisely and graciously.
Read the rest here: What I’d Like You To Know About Grief
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?
Read the rest here: Surviving Grief Anniversaries
I first shared this a couple summers ago when I was actively working my way through several piles of boxed up memories.
I’d love to report that I whittled it down to a manageable few but I can’t.
I’m going to pretend it was lack of time that kept me from doing a better job but truth is it was mostly lack of heart.❤
I’m pretty sure I’m not the only bereaved parent who has boxed up things post loss and left them untouched for years.
Life kept moving at a fast pace after Dominic ran ahead to Heaven and it’s only been in the last couple of years that I’ve had the time to even consider going through his stuff.
Time alone was not enough to push me toward doing the hard work of deciding what to keep, what to give away and (most painfully!) what to throw away. But various circumstances forced my hand and I’ve spent much of the last year digging through stuff and digging up memories.
To be sure, not everything has a direct connection to Dominic.
Read the rest here: Digging Up Memories, Laying Down Dreams
I absolutely understand that when people say things like, “Just think of all the wonderful memories you have” or “He brought you so much joy” they mean well.
Because it’s true-I have beautiful memories of Dominic. And he DID bring me great joy.
But I had those things BEFORE he was beyond my reach.
Read the rest here: But I Had All That BEFORE!
I was surprised at myself.
When we cleaned out Dominic’s apartment two weeks after he left us, I couldn’t throw away a thing.
Even though it meant boxing it up, carting it down the stairs and loading and unloading it onto our trailer, I DIDN’T CARE.
If it was his, if his hands had touched it, his body worn it or he had placed it in the cabinet or fridge, it was coming with me.
The only thing I left in that space was the empty echo of his fading presence.
I brought all the rest home.
Read the rest here: They’re Not Just “Things”
I wrote this post after hearing a radio interview in which the guest said, “You can only hold onto what you refuse to let go of” in reference to clinging to what was truly important in life.
It struck a chord deep in my heart because as the weeks turn to months and then to years, I’m realizing I must hold onto every bit of Dominic that I can.
Because no matter how much I wish it were different, time has a way of washing our minds clean of things we don’t cling to with both hands.
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.
Read the rest here: You Can Only Hold On To What You Refuse to Let Go Of
Ninety miles an hour-that’s how fast my mind can go from here to there.
From what’s in front of me to what’s behind me.
From laughter to swallowing sobs.
We sit in a living room surrounded by toys and playing with children, talking about life and love and plans and people. The little brown face that turns his eyes to mine looks so much like Dominic I have to suck in my breath.
Giggles. Squeals. Cars running up and down my arm and around my feet.
I will never see Dominic’s children.
Read the rest here: A Peek Inside a Grieving Mother’s Thoughts
I originally shared this years ago-when grief was newer and nearly every day meant tears.
I’m stronger now and better able to carry this load called “child loss”. But if I’m honest, the missing is greater, the longing keener than it was in the early days when memories were still fresh and easily retrieved.
Still, there are places and things that draw my heart right back to the fresh faced little boy, the smart aleck teen, the ambitious, courageous and accomplished young man that was Dominic.
❤ Melanie
Every room holds memories. Every footfall echoes past days. Every window frames some precious vignette in my mind’s eye.
Inescapable.
Most days I’ve learned to turn down the volume. But today it would not be denied.
Read the rest here: Flashback
The calendar is relentless. There’s no respect for seasons of mourning or grief anniversaries or weeks of sickness or unexpected early births of grandchildren.
The sun rises, the sun sets and another day is crossed off into history.
So somehow-without my permission-I find I’ve woken to mark the ninth anniversary (do you call such a horrible thing an anniversary?) of Dominic’s death.
It’s humbling to realize I (and my family!) are not only still standing but flourishing. It’s horrifying to comprehend I’ve continued to live and breathe for 3285 days since Dominic left us.
Most days are pretty good.
Today is hard.
❤ Melanie
When the numbness wore off (maybe around six months) I remember vaguely wondering what years down the road would feel like.
I tried to project the “me” of that moment into the future and imagine how I might deal with life changes, new circumstances, an empty nest, grandchildren (if there were any) and growing older alongside the heartache of burying a child.
But just as it’s impossible to comprehend how the addition of a child utterly transforms a family, it’s impossible to understand how the subtraction of one changes everything just as much.
We are all so very different than we would have been if Dominic were still here.
Life most likely wouldn’t be any more perfect because we would each grow and change, find common ground and find points of conflict, make new memories and drag up old hurts.
Still, none of us would carry the deep wound and traumatic injury of sudden and out-of-order death.
THAT is impossible to ignore. Even nine years later it’s a red flag, a sticky note, an addendum to every family gathering and holiday.
So we carry on.
Like generations before us who have walked this world dragging loss behind them, we keep going. It shapes us but doesn’t limit us. It informs our views but isn’t the only thing that molds our opinions and frames our choices.
My faith in God’s larger and perfect plan helps me hold onto hope even as I continue to miss my son.
But today is a hard day and I don’t think that’s going to change as long as I live.
I’m getting better at remembering Dominic’s birthday in ways that honor who he is and the man he might have become. I can’t say I’ve figured out any good way to walk through the yearly unavoidable and unwelcome reminder of the day he left us.
I’m learning to allow the grief waves to simply wash over me without resisting them.
Eventually the hours tick away, the day is over and I find I’ve survived yet again.
thelifeididntchoose 