**This was borrowed from a blog I follow so, not my own words, but they could be as they so accurately put into words what we are feeling.....the feeling that since we are Christians, we should automatically be "all better. This couldn't be further from the truth.**
My son died. He died suddenly, without warning. On that warm day in May, the lives of so many people changed when my son’s life on this earth ended. He was the strong one in the family. He was the oldest brother and the one that the others looked up to always. He’s gone and our hearts are broken and life will never be the same again!
It is now going on two years since Mike died. Life has gone on for most everyone except his immediate family. For us, the pain is real. The pain is cruel. The longing for Mike overshadows every day in a million different ways. Our lives changed permanently when Mike died, and yet………..
I’m finding it so hard to grieve openly without others pointing a finger and letting me know that I should be stronger than this.
“Stronger than what?,” I want to scream over and over again! “How strong should I be? You walk in these shoes a day and tell me how strong I should be!”
I don’t understand. I really don’t. I don’t ever remember myself criticizing another for mourning the loss of a child. In fact, I often wondered how they were able to function.
I think part of the problem with my open grieving is others are so used to me being the strong one, that they want to snatch away my right to grieve! They selfishly want me to be strong for them!
Some days I feel like wearing a banner across me that says, “Every mother has the right to grieve her child. Every mother needs to grieve the loss of her child because that is her last way of showing her love for her child.”
There is a place in my heart that feels like there is an open wound. It hurts. Some nights when I’m getting into bed I sit on the edge of the bed and let out several long, deep mournful sighs. Oh, how much it hurts deep within to know that my son died and is never coming back to this earth! I will feel that open wound inside of me until the very day I die. Why? Because I am a mother who nurtured this child inside of me before he was ever born. I held him close to me for months after he was born feeding him, rocking him and singing him lullabies. I wiped his nose and gently rubbed his back through many feverish nights.
I was there to calm him when he had nightmares. I was there to cheer him on when he was struggling and felt self-defeat. I washed his clothes and cooked thousands upon thousands of meals for him and did it because I loved him. I watched him grow into a fine, young man.
Then he died, and my heart broke. And, now people expect me to be strong and not show my grief.
Please don’t misunderstand me. I’m not constantly sobbing. I don’t always have a tissue held to my nose. My eyes aren’t swollen shut every day from crying. I go to work every day. I enjoy family and friends. I love cooking and gardening.
But, I am also walking around with an open wound in my heart that painfully hurts day and night, and when I do cry or express my sorrow I expect to be respected and given the support I need to grieve in my own way.
What a shame that parents of child loss often feel like they must put on a happy face and mask their grief! How wrong it is to ask a parent who has had a child die to “Buckle up. Be strong. Put that behind you and move on!” I don’t expect people who have never felt this pain to fully understand. That’s an impossibility. But, I do expect to be given supportive freedom to grieve as my final way of expressing my love for my son. Grief is the longest good-bye a parent will ever say. If only others could understand how important this final good-bye is to a parent!
Monday, December 19, 2016
Saturday, October 22, 2016
What Bereaved Parents Wish You Understood
1. I wish my child hadn’t died. I wish I had my child back.
2. I wish you wouldn’t be afraid to speak my child’s name. My child lived and was very important to me. I need to hear that my child was important to you also.
3. If I cry and get emotional when you talk about my child, I wish you knew that it isn’t because you have hurt me. My child’s death is the cause of my tears.
4. Being a bereaved parent is not contagious, so I wish you wouldn’t shy away from me. I need you now more than ever.
5. I might be sad and I might cry, but I wish you would let me talk about my child.
6. I wish you wouldn’t expect my grief to be over in a certain amount of time. I wish you could understand that my grief will never be over. I will suffer the death of my child until the day I die.
7. I am working very hard on my recovery, but I wish you could understand that I will never fully recover. I will always miss my child, and I will always grieve that my child is gone.
8. I wish you wouldn’t expect me to “not think about it” or to “move on.” Neither will happen, so don’t frustrate yourself.
9. When I say, “I’m doing okay,” I wish you could understand that I don’t “feel” okay and that I struggle daily.
10. I wish you knew that all of the grief reactions I’m having are very normal. Depression, anger, hopelessness, and overwhelming sadness are all to be expected. So, please excuse me when I’m quiet and withdrawn or irritable or cranky.
11.. I wish you understood that grief changes people. When my child died, a big part of me died as well. I am not the same person I was before my child died and I will never be that person again.
12.. I wish very much that you could understand …understand my loss and my grief, my silence and my tears, my void and my pain.
But, I pray daily that you will never understand.......
2. I wish you wouldn’t be afraid to speak my child’s name. My child lived and was very important to me. I need to hear that my child was important to you also.
3. If I cry and get emotional when you talk about my child, I wish you knew that it isn’t because you have hurt me. My child’s death is the cause of my tears.
4. Being a bereaved parent is not contagious, so I wish you wouldn’t shy away from me. I need you now more than ever.
5. I might be sad and I might cry, but I wish you would let me talk about my child.
6. I wish you wouldn’t expect my grief to be over in a certain amount of time. I wish you could understand that my grief will never be over. I will suffer the death of my child until the day I die.
7. I am working very hard on my recovery, but I wish you could understand that I will never fully recover. I will always miss my child, and I will always grieve that my child is gone.
8. I wish you wouldn’t expect me to “not think about it” or to “move on.” Neither will happen, so don’t frustrate yourself.
9. When I say, “I’m doing okay,” I wish you could understand that I don’t “feel” okay and that I struggle daily.
10. I wish you knew that all of the grief reactions I’m having are very normal. Depression, anger, hopelessness, and overwhelming sadness are all to be expected. So, please excuse me when I’m quiet and withdrawn or irritable or cranky.
11.. I wish you understood that grief changes people. When my child died, a big part of me died as well. I am not the same person I was before my child died and I will never be that person again.
12.. I wish very much that you could understand …understand my loss and my grief, my silence and my tears, my void and my pain.
But, I pray daily that you will never understand.......
Friday, August 19, 2016
Big, Old, Ugly Boxes (Quite Contrary)
I have shared this before, but I'll share it again. It so accurately describes what we are going through as we continue to walk the path of grief that God has set before us. It's been over a year since Austin was taken from us and brought to heaven. While we DO find comfort that he is perfect in heavenly glory, that fact does not automatically make our pain go away. This is a "band-aid" saying that many think will make us "all better".... but he is still gone. Our arms still ache to hold him and hug him. He is not at his place by our table. Our new house does not have a bed for him. His belongings are not in a closet and dresser, but rather in large plastic totes in the corner of our bedroom. He (again) will not grace the doors of Heritage Christian School's fourth grade classrooms in a little over a week. Everywhere we look, there is a gigantic gaping hole where he should be. It hurts to see this hole everywhere we look. This hole is NEVER going to go away. Austin will ALWAYS be gone from our family and from our lives. We will ALWAYS grieve him and it won't EVER get easier. I feel like there are many in this world that believe that you "get over" grief, and I must admit I used to be one of those people. I always thought that as long as they looked like they were doing well, they must be over it. I've since found out that I couldn't be more wrong. Especially when you lose a child. When you lose a child, you don't just lose them on the day that they die, you lose your future. You lose every single event that your child would have potentially been involved in. Though the pain may get a little less sharp and the edges less jagged, it will NEVER go away. As pointed out in the following article, the pain is like a box. Sometimes it feels like it's a huge, heavy box, while other times it is smaller and we are able to handle it a bit better. However big it is, it is ALWAYS the same heavy weight. My hope is to bring to light what it actually feels like to lose a child, and to put it into perspective for those of you who may think like I thought before we lost Austin.
P.S. Pay special attention to the paragraphs in bold print. These tell it like it is.
Big old ugly boxes (Quite Contrary)
Let's get one thing straight, I am no expert.
I only speak as one with experience.
In these last few weeks and months, I've been watching as many people I know and love are fighting against loss. Some of us let others know our struggle, some of us quietly struggle alone... against the loss of love, hope, possibility, normalcy, health, future, ... the 'some days'.
Grief -- Our response to loss...
in a finite world...
when we were meant for infinity.
One year (to the day) after a child I loved was killed, I attended a class. I was a trauma nurse and needed to be re-certified in trauma medicine. As it happened, the class was held on the one year anniversary of that day I would rather forget. I went through the class in a fog, ticking down the minutes and hours until it would eventually mark the anniversary of the moment we lost someone we loved...
And then, it was time for me to test.
I walked into the exam room to a mannequin on a stretcher. And the instructor stated the scenario of this imaginary person who I needed to treat. So I did. I assessed him head to toe, intubated him, treated him...and ultimately saved this mannequin's life. All while seeing the child on the stretcher who I could not save. The one where I was too late.
Completing the test, I looked up at the instructor. Swallowed the pain, took a breath through the hurt, and dared her to fail me through my tears.
The sun came through the windows. The students in near-by rooms finished testing. And the instructor just looked at me. Then she put down her pen and simply said, "You have walked the same path as I have."
She went on to tell me that she could tell that I was carrying grief. And after telling me her story of loss, she said this:
"I'm not going to tell you that it will get better. It won't. I'm not going to
tell you that it happened for a purpose. It didn't--at least not for any
purpose that we will understand. Right now all you know is that it's too
heavy to carry.
What I will tell you is that you will always carry it.
You will never be rid of it, but...
...you do learn how to carry it.
Right now, it's like you have your arms wrapped around the biggest,
heaviest box ever. And all your time and energy is given to that box.
Struggling with it, sweating against it, trying to somehow live your life
with this big, huge, painful box that you are forced to carry right in
front of you.
There will come a day when the box is just as heavy...but it is smaller.
And maybe you are able to fit it into a backpack where finally
your hands are freed up to help you manage the rest of life.
And then there will come a day when the box gets even smaller,
...but still just as heavy. And maybe then it's small enough
to fit in your pocket where no one else knows that you are
carrying this heavy weight around...except you.
But...you will always have this box. Some days it's bigger than others.
And it is always...just...as...heavy."
Then she gave me the trauma certification because I nailed that test and saved the heck out of that mannequin's life.
So what?
I only need to tell you these things so that I can tell you the next part.
Rewind a little further -- one week after this person I loved died, I went back to work. I worked nights. The day shift nurses came in just after dawn and I gave my patient report to a battle-ax of a nurse. She was the definition of "old school". Hard core. Had been a nurse for 40 years or more, would put you through it until you had proven yourself worthy. Only then did she let you see that she was just a bleeding heart of a person. She watched me as I gave report and once I finished she said (somewhat rudely, I might add), "Are you finished? Get your purse."
So I did...because anyone knows you do what an old nurse tells you to do. And she didn't say a word. She walked me out the doors of the ER, down the hospital driveway, across the parking lot, and finally when we got to my car she slapped my butt then turned and went back to work.
And it was one of the most meaningful things that anyone had done for me when I was struggling with my big old box of grief. She offered her silent acknowledgement that I needed someone walking next to me in my sadness.
That instructor was right. My grief is in a smaller box. Still heavy but contained enough where I can even take it out and examine it from time to time. Some days, that box blows up and I have trouble carrying it again. But now more often than not, people might not realize that I still carry it.
Again, so what?
I'm not going to tell you that it will get better. I won't say that this was all for a purpose. I won't even tell you that there is a 'right' way to get through loss. There isn't. There...just...isn't.
But I think we all need to pay attention to these big-old-ugly-grief-boxes that people carry. We need to stop trying to look over it or around it or anywhere else. We need to stop trying to gloss over it or attempting to put a bow on it to make it prettier. We need to pay attention and see it for what it is--a big ugly awful thing that none of us want...but all of us will be called to carry at some point in our lives, maybe even more than once. Because those who are trying to carry that grief can't see anything BUT their loss. Not even if you try to put a bow on it.
I only tell you these things so that I can tell you this last part: That I have walked a similar path as you. Where, "How are you?" feels like the wind got knocked out of you. And where, "He's in a better place now," only brings rage and isolation. And, "It happened for a reason," brings fear of the future. Those ribbons and bows do...not...help.
Here's something else I've learned on this journey, God never wanted us to carry those grief boxes either. He has promised us so much more than any of this pain. And he nailed that promise on a cross.
So, if I see you straining against the heaviness of loss, I'm probably not going to slap your butt. I'm also not going to offer you any ribbons or bows. But I will walk next to you however I can so you aren't alone in your struggle.
Romans 8:37-39 (NIV)
No, in all these things we are more than conquerors
through him who loved us.
For I am convinced that neither death nor life,
neither angels nor demons,
neither the present nor the future,
nor any powers,
neither height nor depth,
nor anything else in all creation,
will be able to separate us from the love of God that is in Christ Jesus our Lord.
Friday, August 12, 2016
I'm Not Moving on From, I'm Moving on With
Bereaved people should “move on” from grieving the loss of a loved one, right? Scholarly publications call this idea misguided, a myth. However, many people must still believe it - and say it in private conversations - because I have read countless articles and blogs expressing anger and pain around it. In a raw and eloquent Facebook post, Kay Warren addresses the suggestion that she and her husband should be moving on from the loss of their son Matthew, who died of suicide. “The truest friends...[are] willing to accept that things are different,” she writes. “They’re ok with messy and slow and few answers....and they never say ‘Move on.’”
To me, this “moving on” concept makes no sense at all. In fact, my brother - who died just over two years ago - is the person I least want to move on from, because he is the most gone.
Where did it come from, the idea that one should completely separate from a loved one who has died? How is it still in our collective consciousness, given that it works for absolutely no bereaved person I know? Why do I not see it written down in advice articles? Perhaps something instinctively feels wrong about advising people to move on - wrong enough that we don’t offer it as written advice, but entrenched enough that we still find ourselves saying it.
I think it feels wrong because it is impossible.
In recent years, research has revealed information about how our relatives and close friends, our life experiences, and our traumas change us physically and psychologically. Mothers and children exchange cells during pregnancy and at birth, cells that may remain in the other person’s body and play a role in health down the road. Stress and trauma can permanently change DNA in the cells of the traumatized person, in such a way that the altered DNA is heritable, often resulting in children who are more likely to experience stress-related psychiatric disorders. In education, carefully designed short-term interventions can lead to radical shifts in attitude and behavior that change how students think and work.
Our lives change us, often permanently. People and experiences become part of us at a cellular level. How, then, are we to be expected to “move on” from a child, a life partner, a sibling, a close friend, a parent who has died? How could I set aside the parts of myself linked to my brother? You might as well ask me to cut my own heart out with a knife, leave it by the curb, and then continue walking down the road. It is impossible.
What, then, is possible? For me, it’s noticing the thoughts and emotions that come up from moment to moment and sitting with them however I can. What that looks like changes all the time. I talk about him, or I stop talking. I cry in my car, or I go running. I pore through old photo albums, or I put all the albums away. I notice when his favorite songs come up on my shuffle, I write about memories, I text his friends, I take walks alone, I escape in work, I wallow in old e-mails. I show up, day after day, and I try to understand.
Caregivers who study the process of grieving refer to integrated grief - an enduring state of grief in which the loss, your understanding of it, and your emotions around it become incorporated into your life over time. Integrated grief doesn’t mean forgetting the person or setting aside the pain. On the contrary, it sustains the bond by including both the agony of loss and the positive memories. I believe this is what I am instinctually doing - trying to integrate my grief. As I slowly realize I cannot be connected to my brother how I once was, I am creating a whole new web of connection between us - a web that needs all the threads, good, bad, and ugly, to stay strong.
I have family and friends whom I love and care for, multiple work responsibilities, and personal and professional aspirations for the future. I want and need to be able to continue. So, yes, I move on - not from, but with my brother. Moving on with him gives me a chance to live.
Sarah Lyman Kravitz
To me, this “moving on” concept makes no sense at all. In fact, my brother - who died just over two years ago - is the person I least want to move on from, because he is the most gone.
Where did it come from, the idea that one should completely separate from a loved one who has died? How is it still in our collective consciousness, given that it works for absolutely no bereaved person I know? Why do I not see it written down in advice articles? Perhaps something instinctively feels wrong about advising people to move on - wrong enough that we don’t offer it as written advice, but entrenched enough that we still find ourselves saying it.
I think it feels wrong because it is impossible.
In recent years, research has revealed information about how our relatives and close friends, our life experiences, and our traumas change us physically and psychologically. Mothers and children exchange cells during pregnancy and at birth, cells that may remain in the other person’s body and play a role in health down the road. Stress and trauma can permanently change DNA in the cells of the traumatized person, in such a way that the altered DNA is heritable, often resulting in children who are more likely to experience stress-related psychiatric disorders. In education, carefully designed short-term interventions can lead to radical shifts in attitude and behavior that change how students think and work.
Our lives change us, often permanently. People and experiences become part of us at a cellular level. How, then, are we to be expected to “move on” from a child, a life partner, a sibling, a close friend, a parent who has died? How could I set aside the parts of myself linked to my brother? You might as well ask me to cut my own heart out with a knife, leave it by the curb, and then continue walking down the road. It is impossible.
What, then, is possible? For me, it’s noticing the thoughts and emotions that come up from moment to moment and sitting with them however I can. What that looks like changes all the time. I talk about him, or I stop talking. I cry in my car, or I go running. I pore through old photo albums, or I put all the albums away. I notice when his favorite songs come up on my shuffle, I write about memories, I text his friends, I take walks alone, I escape in work, I wallow in old e-mails. I show up, day after day, and I try to understand.
Caregivers who study the process of grieving refer to integrated grief - an enduring state of grief in which the loss, your understanding of it, and your emotions around it become incorporated into your life over time. Integrated grief doesn’t mean forgetting the person or setting aside the pain. On the contrary, it sustains the bond by including both the agony of loss and the positive memories. I believe this is what I am instinctually doing - trying to integrate my grief. As I slowly realize I cannot be connected to my brother how I once was, I am creating a whole new web of connection between us - a web that needs all the threads, good, bad, and ugly, to stay strong.
I have family and friends whom I love and care for, multiple work responsibilities, and personal and professional aspirations for the future. I want and need to be able to continue. So, yes, I move on - not from, but with my brother. Moving on with him gives me a chance to live.
Sarah Lyman Kravitz
Friday, August 5, 2016
Forever Changed
by ©Nathalie Himmelrich
I know you care for me and am so glad you’re reading this. I know that you can’t fully comprehend, nor would you want to, what it means to be a bereaved parent. Honestly, I’m still finding out for myself. To live without my child is not something I ever wanted to learn and yet it’s what I have to.
I see that you want me to feel better. Let me assure you, you’re doing the best you can to soothe my pain, yet it is here and will be here… until it lessens. It won’t ever go away completely and this is ok. Can you be ok about it with me?
I hope you will have the courage to remember my child with me until we part. Please remember this: You may speak her (or his or their) name, you may remember her birthday or anniversary with me, whether that is by sending me a text message, card or flowers – it doesn’t matter, it’s the thought that counts.
Please do not fear my tears or my sadness, it means that I’m thinking of her or missing her. It’s not that I am permanently broken or sick, just broken-hearted and grieving. Please have the courage to sit with me and my pain, without needing to fix it.
At times I might say ‘I need some time to myself’ but more often, I do appreciate you being here, even without any words, keeping me company or doing something with me. Other times I might need distraction and I might even laugh and experience some joy and then feel guilty again and cry in the next moment. It’s ok, this is life and death: complex and paradoxical and not always to be understood.
You probably feel that I have changed. You might even hope and wait for me to return to the ‘old me’ again. I’m sorry but that won’t happen. I’m forever changed. Losing a child is like losing a limb. Even though the scars of the amputation will heal, it’s a permanent change and as much as it sucks, it is what is. I have to get used to it. Will you bear the chance to get to know me as your ‘new normal friend’?
I’ve chosen you as my friend because you have a big compassionate heart, yet I know it’s (almost) impossible to understand the unimaginable. Don’t say things like: “Wouldn’t it be time to move on?” or “At least you have…” I know you might say those kind of things in an attempt to support me. I know you’re well-meaning yet I’ve become sensitive and certain sentences are like shards of glass on an already wounded heart. Even if you don’t understand, would you allow your heart to reach out and trust the sensitivity of my broken heart? (For examples on what to say instead, click here.)
I might not be up to celebrating pregnancy news, I might even feel jealous of those lucky mothers who are joyously carrying their children. It’s not that I’m mean, it’s because my heart longs for my child and seeing those mothers with their children is a reminder of what I don’t have.
With time and healing, I will be sad less often or cry less often as at the beginning. This does not mean I’m ‘over it’. My child lives on in my heart and I will never get over the fact that I’m never to hold her hand in life. Please do not confuse my healing with ‘been there, done that’. My child might have gone with the wind, yet I’m still searching the world for signs of its fleeting presence.
Thank you for being here for me and with me.
Thank you for being my friend and having remained my friend through this.
Thank you for creating a new friendship with my ‘new normal’ self even though we wanted everything to remain as it was…
Thank you for remembering my child and therefore honouring me as her mother.
I know you care for me and am so glad you’re reading this. I know that you can’t fully comprehend, nor would you want to, what it means to be a bereaved parent. Honestly, I’m still finding out for myself. To live without my child is not something I ever wanted to learn and yet it’s what I have to.
I see that you want me to feel better. Let me assure you, you’re doing the best you can to soothe my pain, yet it is here and will be here… until it lessens. It won’t ever go away completely and this is ok. Can you be ok about it with me?
I hope you will have the courage to remember my child with me until we part. Please remember this: You may speak her (or his or their) name, you may remember her birthday or anniversary with me, whether that is by sending me a text message, card or flowers – it doesn’t matter, it’s the thought that counts.
Please do not fear my tears or my sadness, it means that I’m thinking of her or missing her. It’s not that I am permanently broken or sick, just broken-hearted and grieving. Please have the courage to sit with me and my pain, without needing to fix it.
At times I might say ‘I need some time to myself’ but more often, I do appreciate you being here, even without any words, keeping me company or doing something with me. Other times I might need distraction and I might even laugh and experience some joy and then feel guilty again and cry in the next moment. It’s ok, this is life and death: complex and paradoxical and not always to be understood.
You probably feel that I have changed. You might even hope and wait for me to return to the ‘old me’ again. I’m sorry but that won’t happen. I’m forever changed. Losing a child is like losing a limb. Even though the scars of the amputation will heal, it’s a permanent change and as much as it sucks, it is what is. I have to get used to it. Will you bear the chance to get to know me as your ‘new normal friend’?
I’ve chosen you as my friend because you have a big compassionate heart, yet I know it’s (almost) impossible to understand the unimaginable. Don’t say things like: “Wouldn’t it be time to move on?” or “At least you have…” I know you might say those kind of things in an attempt to support me. I know you’re well-meaning yet I’ve become sensitive and certain sentences are like shards of glass on an already wounded heart. Even if you don’t understand, would you allow your heart to reach out and trust the sensitivity of my broken heart? (For examples on what to say instead, click here.)
I might not be up to celebrating pregnancy news, I might even feel jealous of those lucky mothers who are joyously carrying their children. It’s not that I’m mean, it’s because my heart longs for my child and seeing those mothers with their children is a reminder of what I don’t have.
With time and healing, I will be sad less often or cry less often as at the beginning. This does not mean I’m ‘over it’. My child lives on in my heart and I will never get over the fact that I’m never to hold her hand in life. Please do not confuse my healing with ‘been there, done that’. My child might have gone with the wind, yet I’m still searching the world for signs of its fleeting presence.
Thank you for being here for me and with me.
Thank you for being my friend and having remained my friend through this.
Thank you for creating a new friendship with my ‘new normal’ self even though we wanted everything to remain as it was…
Thank you for remembering my child and therefore honouring me as her mother.
Monday, July 11, 2016
Thursday, June 2, 2016
One Year
My precious Austin,
It’s so hard for me to fathom that you have been Home for 1 year. Twelve long months you have been gone from our family and from our home. I still vividly remember the events of that day. Your excited smiles as you got off the bus for the last time, so excited to start your summer of fun. Going to the library to pick out books and sign up for the reading program. Going over to Kierra’s house to play with plans to play there many more times. Excitement for a trip to Legoland in Chicago and a week at Lego camp in August. We found out that day that this is all they were…..just plans. We found out that day that our plans are not God’s plans. As we were getting ready to help dad with a landscape job, God was preparing to take you home. He was putting the final touches on your mansion and readying the saints and angels to welcome you home. At about 5:35 PM on June 1, God used the means of a Honda Insight and your apparent failure to look both ways, to begin walking you Home. I remember thinking that you couldn’t possibly die, because your heart was still beating and you were still breathing. At that time I didn’t realize how very badly your head was hurt. I was preparing myself to spend much of my summer with you in the hospital, helping you to get better.
Bits and pieces of the scenes that followed will forever be etched in my mind. I remember them like they happened yesterday. Being notified by a stranger that my “baby had been hit” and being confused because our “baby” Gracie was right in front of me, and then realizing that it was you that had been hit. Running out to the front yard and asking Todd if you were still alive. Hearing the sirens of the emergency vehicles as they came to try to help you. Trying to call your dad and nearly dropping my phone because my hands were shaking so badly. Answering questions asked by police officers, paramedics and firemen. Hearing the fire chief call to dispatch Aeromed, making me realize just how badly you were hurt. Friends and family showing up out of nowhere. Our pastor arriving to read God’s word and pray with me. Asking to see you in the ambulance and being told I had to get back so the Aeromed chopper could land. Running to meet your dad. Watching Aeromed lift off and head to the hospital, and Uncle Andy taking pictures to show you when you got better. The ride with Mr. Zuverink to the hospital that seemed to take forever. Waiting in the tiny room behind your trauma bay with our family. Not being able to see you and only receiving updates through the hospital social worker. Finally talking to the surgeon who told us they had given you four units of blood and you were still bleeding somewhere. Being told you would be rushed in to surgery to try to find the source of bleeding. Finally getting to see you, and seeing how badly hurt you looked. Touching your hands and talking to you, but not getting any response. Walking with you down to surgery. Sitting in the waiting room surrounded by friends and family as you were in surgery. Being told that your spleen and liver were damaged, but had been repaired. Finding out that you had fluid around your heart, so they were bringing in a cardiac surgeon. Meeting with the cardiac surgeon who was able to repair a hole in the artery across your heart, and felt you would have a good recovery. Feeling relieved and hopeful that they had been able to fix your heart. Meeting with the neurosurgeon, and knowing by my first look at him that things were not good. Hearing that the swelling in your brain was too much and the neurosurgeon “didn’t see how you could survive”. Screaming “no, no, no, no, no” as we realized just what the neurosurgeon was telling us – that you were too hurt to live on this earth anymore. Pastor Eriks coming into the room and reading and praying with us. Going out into the waiting room into the arms of our family and telling them that you would not survive. Your dad being strong and leading everyone in singing “Praise God from Whom all Blessings Flow”. Crying and collapsing in your daddy’s arms. Being angry and not wanting to sing because we had just been told you were going to die. Wrestling myself away from your dad to get away from the singing and running down the hallway. Telling grandma that I couldn’t live without you and trying to think of ways to go with you. Sitting in the hallway staring at the floor with Grandma and Aunt Erin for what seemed like forever, until Dad and the surgeon came and told us we could finally go see you. Walking into the room in the PICU and seeing all the people working on you and all the machines you were hooked up to. Touching your hand and talking to you, but not getting a response. The doctor pulling dad aside and telling him that your brain was swelling even more. Getting ushered out of the room so they could do a cat scan on your head. Meeting in the consult room with the doctor, nurses, our parents and our pastor. The doctor telling us that there was nothing they could do, that your brain was hurt too badly and that even with all the lifesaving measures they were giving you, you would eventually die. The doctor encouraging us to make a choice no parent should ever have to make, to keep you alive on machines, or to discontinue all life saving measures and let you go to Jesus. Pastor Eriks talking with us and assuring us that you would be in heaven, that you would see Jesus, that Jesus would welcome you with open arms and that you would no longer be bruised and battered, but would be perfect. Feeling completely defeated at the choice we had to make. Feeling an unmistakable peace when we thought of you healed and perfect in the loving arms of our Father. Not wanting to be with you to watch you take your last breath. Suddenly feeling an unmistakable peace and wanting to be the one to walk you through heaven’s doors and into the arms of our loving savior. Telling the doctor of our decision to let you go Home. Climbing up onto your bed, wrapping my arms around you and feeling your strong heartbeat. Watching the nurse discontinue life support and feeling your heart beat for the very last time. Knowing you had gained the ultimate victory. Pastor Eriks reading scripture and praying with us. Feeling unmistakable peace. Touching your face, kissing your cheeks and holding your hands for the last time. Feeling how cold you were and covering you with the blanket before we had to go. Walking the long corridor with the hospital chaplain. Leaving the hospital in the dead of night, knowing we would never see you alive outside of those doors again. Coming home to your brothers and sister, sleeping and oblivious to how our world had just shattered. Climbing into bed and trying to sleep, to no avail. Waiting for your brothers and sister to wake up. Telling your brothers and sister that you had gone home to heaven to be with Jesus. Watching our faithful Father work in your siblings to give them understanding and peace that we too wanted to find.
The week following your home-going was one of the worst weeks of my life. No parent should have to make the decisions we had to make. When to have your visitation, what kind of casket to lay your body in, what kind of flowers would adorn your casket, and when to have your memorial service. Going to the cemetery and picking out a plot to lay you to rest, picking out a passage and songs for your memorial service, picking out an outfit for your viewing, and thinking of the words that would tell your story for your obituary. Meeting with over 600 fellow friends and family at your visitation, seeing you laying there so still and cold and having to leave you in the care of a funeral home every night. The week following your death was also one of the best weeks of my life. As I look back on that week, a year ago, I remember feeling an unmistakable peace, and the amazing grace of our heavenly Father holding me up when I would have otherwise been curled in a ball on the floor. God used our family and our brothers and sisters in Christ, to physically and spiritually hold us up. They brought us food, watched your siblings, gave us hugs, cleaned our house and pulled our weeds. Most importantly they stormed the gates of heaven and implored the throne of grace on our behalf. They prayed for us and thought of us continually. God used them to walk with us through the most devastating event in our life. We are so thankful that our Father is faithful to his promise to NEVER leave us or forsake us.
Here we are a year later. The pain and hurt still cut deep. We are still struggling to pick up the pieces of our shattered hearts, trying to see the purpose God has for our lives. We know he has a purpose, even though it is so hard to see. And so we press on. We continue running this exhausting race we call life, with the ultimate goal of our reward in heavenly glory. We know the grace of God is real. We have experienced it in a very real way in the past 12 months. This is what we continue to cling to. God’s promise that His grace IS, and will continue to be, sufficient. That He will supply just enough grace to make it through the next minute. Though it is still so incredibly hard, we are learning, one small step at a time, to live without you. I never thought I’d be able to say that. I didn’t want to learn to live without you. It was an incredibly daunting task that was laid before me, and yet, by the grace of God we ARE standing and living today. We still grieve you and we always will. There will always be a gaping hole in our family where you should be, but we find peace in knowing that you are with Christ, that you are no longer hurt and no longer have to struggle against sin, and that you are PERFECT. Your death was not an accident. God was not busy somewhere else when you forgot to look the other way. He was carrying you as you ran across the front yard, as you flew aboard the Aeromed chopper, as you went through emergency surgery and as you laid in the PICU looking so hurt. Then in His PERFECT love for you, He tenderly gathered you, his precious lamb, in His arms and brought you home. We long for that day, when at last, we get to gather you in our arms once again, the day when we too are HOME.
Until we meet again my precious boy,
Mommy
It’s so hard for me to fathom that you have been Home for 1 year. Twelve long months you have been gone from our family and from our home. I still vividly remember the events of that day. Your excited smiles as you got off the bus for the last time, so excited to start your summer of fun. Going to the library to pick out books and sign up for the reading program. Going over to Kierra’s house to play with plans to play there many more times. Excitement for a trip to Legoland in Chicago and a week at Lego camp in August. We found out that day that this is all they were…..just plans. We found out that day that our plans are not God’s plans. As we were getting ready to help dad with a landscape job, God was preparing to take you home. He was putting the final touches on your mansion and readying the saints and angels to welcome you home. At about 5:35 PM on June 1, God used the means of a Honda Insight and your apparent failure to look both ways, to begin walking you Home. I remember thinking that you couldn’t possibly die, because your heart was still beating and you were still breathing. At that time I didn’t realize how very badly your head was hurt. I was preparing myself to spend much of my summer with you in the hospital, helping you to get better.
Bits and pieces of the scenes that followed will forever be etched in my mind. I remember them like they happened yesterday. Being notified by a stranger that my “baby had been hit” and being confused because our “baby” Gracie was right in front of me, and then realizing that it was you that had been hit. Running out to the front yard and asking Todd if you were still alive. Hearing the sirens of the emergency vehicles as they came to try to help you. Trying to call your dad and nearly dropping my phone because my hands were shaking so badly. Answering questions asked by police officers, paramedics and firemen. Hearing the fire chief call to dispatch Aeromed, making me realize just how badly you were hurt. Friends and family showing up out of nowhere. Our pastor arriving to read God’s word and pray with me. Asking to see you in the ambulance and being told I had to get back so the Aeromed chopper could land. Running to meet your dad. Watching Aeromed lift off and head to the hospital, and Uncle Andy taking pictures to show you when you got better. The ride with Mr. Zuverink to the hospital that seemed to take forever. Waiting in the tiny room behind your trauma bay with our family. Not being able to see you and only receiving updates through the hospital social worker. Finally talking to the surgeon who told us they had given you four units of blood and you were still bleeding somewhere. Being told you would be rushed in to surgery to try to find the source of bleeding. Finally getting to see you, and seeing how badly hurt you looked. Touching your hands and talking to you, but not getting any response. Walking with you down to surgery. Sitting in the waiting room surrounded by friends and family as you were in surgery. Being told that your spleen and liver were damaged, but had been repaired. Finding out that you had fluid around your heart, so they were bringing in a cardiac surgeon. Meeting with the cardiac surgeon who was able to repair a hole in the artery across your heart, and felt you would have a good recovery. Feeling relieved and hopeful that they had been able to fix your heart. Meeting with the neurosurgeon, and knowing by my first look at him that things were not good. Hearing that the swelling in your brain was too much and the neurosurgeon “didn’t see how you could survive”. Screaming “no, no, no, no, no” as we realized just what the neurosurgeon was telling us – that you were too hurt to live on this earth anymore. Pastor Eriks coming into the room and reading and praying with us. Going out into the waiting room into the arms of our family and telling them that you would not survive. Your dad being strong and leading everyone in singing “Praise God from Whom all Blessings Flow”. Crying and collapsing in your daddy’s arms. Being angry and not wanting to sing because we had just been told you were going to die. Wrestling myself away from your dad to get away from the singing and running down the hallway. Telling grandma that I couldn’t live without you and trying to think of ways to go with you. Sitting in the hallway staring at the floor with Grandma and Aunt Erin for what seemed like forever, until Dad and the surgeon came and told us we could finally go see you. Walking into the room in the PICU and seeing all the people working on you and all the machines you were hooked up to. Touching your hand and talking to you, but not getting a response. The doctor pulling dad aside and telling him that your brain was swelling even more. Getting ushered out of the room so they could do a cat scan on your head. Meeting in the consult room with the doctor, nurses, our parents and our pastor. The doctor telling us that there was nothing they could do, that your brain was hurt too badly and that even with all the lifesaving measures they were giving you, you would eventually die. The doctor encouraging us to make a choice no parent should ever have to make, to keep you alive on machines, or to discontinue all life saving measures and let you go to Jesus. Pastor Eriks talking with us and assuring us that you would be in heaven, that you would see Jesus, that Jesus would welcome you with open arms and that you would no longer be bruised and battered, but would be perfect. Feeling completely defeated at the choice we had to make. Feeling an unmistakable peace when we thought of you healed and perfect in the loving arms of our Father. Not wanting to be with you to watch you take your last breath. Suddenly feeling an unmistakable peace and wanting to be the one to walk you through heaven’s doors and into the arms of our loving savior. Telling the doctor of our decision to let you go Home. Climbing up onto your bed, wrapping my arms around you and feeling your strong heartbeat. Watching the nurse discontinue life support and feeling your heart beat for the very last time. Knowing you had gained the ultimate victory. Pastor Eriks reading scripture and praying with us. Feeling unmistakable peace. Touching your face, kissing your cheeks and holding your hands for the last time. Feeling how cold you were and covering you with the blanket before we had to go. Walking the long corridor with the hospital chaplain. Leaving the hospital in the dead of night, knowing we would never see you alive outside of those doors again. Coming home to your brothers and sister, sleeping and oblivious to how our world had just shattered. Climbing into bed and trying to sleep, to no avail. Waiting for your brothers and sister to wake up. Telling your brothers and sister that you had gone home to heaven to be with Jesus. Watching our faithful Father work in your siblings to give them understanding and peace that we too wanted to find.
The week following your home-going was one of the worst weeks of my life. No parent should have to make the decisions we had to make. When to have your visitation, what kind of casket to lay your body in, what kind of flowers would adorn your casket, and when to have your memorial service. Going to the cemetery and picking out a plot to lay you to rest, picking out a passage and songs for your memorial service, picking out an outfit for your viewing, and thinking of the words that would tell your story for your obituary. Meeting with over 600 fellow friends and family at your visitation, seeing you laying there so still and cold and having to leave you in the care of a funeral home every night. The week following your death was also one of the best weeks of my life. As I look back on that week, a year ago, I remember feeling an unmistakable peace, and the amazing grace of our heavenly Father holding me up when I would have otherwise been curled in a ball on the floor. God used our family and our brothers and sisters in Christ, to physically and spiritually hold us up. They brought us food, watched your siblings, gave us hugs, cleaned our house and pulled our weeds. Most importantly they stormed the gates of heaven and implored the throne of grace on our behalf. They prayed for us and thought of us continually. God used them to walk with us through the most devastating event in our life. We are so thankful that our Father is faithful to his promise to NEVER leave us or forsake us.
Here we are a year later. The pain and hurt still cut deep. We are still struggling to pick up the pieces of our shattered hearts, trying to see the purpose God has for our lives. We know he has a purpose, even though it is so hard to see. And so we press on. We continue running this exhausting race we call life, with the ultimate goal of our reward in heavenly glory. We know the grace of God is real. We have experienced it in a very real way in the past 12 months. This is what we continue to cling to. God’s promise that His grace IS, and will continue to be, sufficient. That He will supply just enough grace to make it through the next minute. Though it is still so incredibly hard, we are learning, one small step at a time, to live without you. I never thought I’d be able to say that. I didn’t want to learn to live without you. It was an incredibly daunting task that was laid before me, and yet, by the grace of God we ARE standing and living today. We still grieve you and we always will. There will always be a gaping hole in our family where you should be, but we find peace in knowing that you are with Christ, that you are no longer hurt and no longer have to struggle against sin, and that you are PERFECT. Your death was not an accident. God was not busy somewhere else when you forgot to look the other way. He was carrying you as you ran across the front yard, as you flew aboard the Aeromed chopper, as you went through emergency surgery and as you laid in the PICU looking so hurt. Then in His PERFECT love for you, He tenderly gathered you, his precious lamb, in His arms and brought you home. We long for that day, when at last, we get to gather you in our arms once again, the day when we too are HOME.
Until we meet again my precious boy,
Mommy
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