Do you want my grief?
Please, for a moment, take it please.
Hold it next to your heart,
feel it burn and tear you apart.
Please, I beg of you, ease my mind.
Give me sleep for just one night.
Get the flashbacks, the heart-stopping pangs.
The helplessness from losing my way.
Can you feel my grief?
Hold it close, it will bring you to your knees.
Your soul will yell, it will scream.
Can you hear it bellow while it takes your peace?
Your body aches, your mind stands still.
You live in the past, where things were real.
Help me, friend, I ask of you.
Take this grief for a day or two.
Just long enough so I can clear my head.
So I can feel like my child's not gone.....
Charla Norman
Monday, November 27, 2017
Saturday, November 11, 2017
An Explanation
This was shared with me by a dear friend from Starlight. An excellent tidbit of information for those who are grieving and also for those who are walking alongside the grieving.
In both sudden death and anticipated death, there is pain. However, while the grief is not greater in sudden death, the capacity to cope is diminished. Grievers are shocked and stunned by the sudden loss of their loved one. The loss is so disruptive that recovery almost always is complicated. This because the adaptive capacities are so severely assaulted and the ability to cope is so critically injured that functioning is seriously impaired. Grievers are overwhelmed.
...there was a sudden destruction of the world you used to know. There was no gradual transition, nor time to make changes in yourself, your expectations about your life, or your world. In sudden death you are called upon to face a massive gap between the way the world should be, with your loved one alive, and the way the world is. The person whom you loved, and who provided you with security, is taken away without any warning.
For survivors whose loved ones die suddenly, grief symptoms tend to persist longer. The physical and emotional shock that is a normal part of acute grief appears to be more intense and long-lasting. This may further demoralize you as you are trying to understand what happened to you and to cope with a drastically altered world, in addition to dealing with your feelings of loss and grief. You have the same grief tasks as all mourners, but you must cope with extra stresses that leave you relatively more depleted and disadvantaged."
Dr. Therese Rando
In both sudden death and anticipated death, there is pain. However, while the grief is not greater in sudden death, the capacity to cope is diminished. Grievers are shocked and stunned by the sudden loss of their loved one. The loss is so disruptive that recovery almost always is complicated. This because the adaptive capacities are so severely assaulted and the ability to cope is so critically injured that functioning is seriously impaired. Grievers are overwhelmed.
...there was a sudden destruction of the world you used to know. There was no gradual transition, nor time to make changes in yourself, your expectations about your life, or your world. In sudden death you are called upon to face a massive gap between the way the world should be, with your loved one alive, and the way the world is. The person whom you loved, and who provided you with security, is taken away without any warning.
For survivors whose loved ones die suddenly, grief symptoms tend to persist longer. The physical and emotional shock that is a normal part of acute grief appears to be more intense and long-lasting. This may further demoralize you as you are trying to understand what happened to you and to cope with a drastically altered world, in addition to dealing with your feelings of loss and grief. You have the same grief tasks as all mourners, but you must cope with extra stresses that leave you relatively more depleted and disadvantaged."
Dr. Therese Rando
Monday, November 6, 2017
Who Is a Grieving Mother
Who is a grieving mother?
She’s one who ignores a baby shower or birthday invitation one day, because the pain is still too raw.
And the next, celebrates the small milestones, for she knows how precious they are.
She’s one who boxes up a lifetime of mementos in an afternoon to spare her husband the pain.
Yet years later still can’t dredge up the courage to go through them again.
Who is a grieving mother?
She’s one who holds it together in the big things and falls apart over spilled milk.
Who loves deeply those closest to her, but keeps her heart guarded for protection from others.
She’s one who grimaces at the first laughs after loss, but later laughs louder than most.
Who finds joy in the simple things and relishes every day moments.
Who is a grieving mother?
She’s one held hostage by dates on the calendar and unexpected triggers.
And one who will always pause for sunsets, butterflies, and sweet signs from above.
She’s one who lets go of friends unable to support her.
And one who treasures those who didn’t walk away.
Who is a grieving mother?
She’s one who can experience an array of emotions on any given day.
And one who wishes tears would come when numbness covers her.
She’s one who screams at God one moment and clings to him the next.
Who didn’t expect her faith to grow so much from the most important unanswered prayer she ever spoke.
Who is a grieving mother?
She is one as complicated as the grief she carries.”
“Do not judge the Grieving Mother. She comes in many forms. She is breathing, but she is dying. She may look young, but inside she has become ancient. She smiles, but her heart sobs. She walks, she talks, she cooks, she cleans, she works, she IS but she IS NOT, all at once. She is here, but part of her is elsewhere for eternity.”
~author unknown
Wednesday, October 4, 2017
Grief is not a Process of Forgetting, but the Art of Remembering
Borrowed from a fellow loss mom ~
“A common misconception is that those who have lost a loved one will feel better if they just forget them, and so friends of the bereaved often believe it’s a good idea to avoid talking about them at all.
But grief is not about forgetting, because those left behind will never forget that their loved one died. Grief is a long process of remembering, as well as learning to live without that person’s presence in their life anymore.
So, when given the chance, acknowledge who your friend lost, say their loved one’s name, and if possible, share memories you have of their loved one.
“What you’re reminding them of is that you remember that they lived, and that’s a great, great gift.” {Elizabeth Edwards}”
Kendra Broekhuis
“A common misconception is that those who have lost a loved one will feel better if they just forget them, and so friends of the bereaved often believe it’s a good idea to avoid talking about them at all.
But grief is not about forgetting, because those left behind will never forget that their loved one died. Grief is a long process of remembering, as well as learning to live without that person’s presence in their life anymore.
So, when given the chance, acknowledge who your friend lost, say their loved one’s name, and if possible, share memories you have of their loved one.
“What you’re reminding them of is that you remember that they lived, and that’s a great, great gift.” {Elizabeth Edwards}”
Kendra Broekhuis
Thursday, August 31, 2017
On Silence & Suffering
Following, is an article from a blog I follow called "Mitchell's Journey". They are a bit further ahead (it's been a little over 4 years for them) in the journey, but I found it to be a very good read. It explains very well what we want those we love to understand about our journey. Pay special attention to the paragraph in bold letters, it's an important one!!
It had only been a few hours since I knelt at this very bed and whispered into my son’s ear how proud I was to be his daddy and that he didn’t need to hold on any longer. I knew he was tired yet didn’t want to leave for fear of hurting us. I also believe part of him didn’t want to leave because he loved to be alive – I mean, he truly appreciated life. I told my little boy how much I would miss him but that he would be okay and he didn’t need to be afraid.
I often hear parents agonize over saying goodbye to their children at the airport as they go to college, serve missions, or move to some other place. Though I understand the sorrow of saying goodbye, temporarily, to a loved one … I’ve come to know a deeper, inescapable, nearly suffocating sorrow when you must say goodbye to a child for life.
The morning sun had broken and I was still in a state of shock. Incredulous, I went back to Mitchell’s room, wanting to see if it was all a bad dream hoping to discover my little boy was still with us. My heart broke as I saw my dear wife sitting where Mitch once giggled just a few days prior.
Natalie was surrounded by everything that gave Mitch comfort in hopes of feeling close to him. I knew how much she loved her son and how devastated she was to lose him. Little Marlie, sensing Natalie’s suffering, jumped on her lap in the same way she tried to comfort Mitch when he was dying. Natalie closed her eyes and wept. She had a profound spiritual experience earlier that morning, under to cover of a winter’s night sky – but that didn’t take away the pain of losing him.+
This sacred room had become a spiritual train station and my little son had departed on a one-way trip. Though I said goodbye, I remained unsettled that I didn’t say everything my heart wanted to say.
Our journey with grief was just beginning and things would get worse … much worse … before they would start to get better. This photo was taken a little over 4 years ago. We have healed a great deal since, but we still mourn the profound loss of Mitch. Not a day passes we don’t think of him a thousand times. However, behind our smiles and cheerful dispositions are hearts that are still tender … still mending.
It wasn’t long after the passing of Mitch from heart failure, a neighbor/friend down the street received a heart transplant. I remember visiting him at the hospital while he was in recovery, with some of our neighbors. At one point, I had to step into the hall to weep a little. I was sincerely grateful this good man had a second chance at life – in fact, I wept for his family and prayed fervently he’d survive his own struggle with heart failure. So, watching him smile softly in his recovery room brought me great joy. But, without warning, the pain of my son’s loss to heart failure overcame me and I struggled to catch my breath. In that moment, I felt like a young child who missed the bus as I saw it drive into the distance … that overwhelming sense of doom and panic that maybe I didn’t do enough to fight the system that denied my son a transplant. Agony coursed through my veins like a drug and I was in emotional hell. As my friends and I left the hospital, they were oblivious to my silent suffering – and it was then that I realized after all is said and done, the journey of grief is traveled by one.
At what point does grieving the loss of a child become decidedly sad, improper, or morose? On the surface, such a question seems unconscionable. Except, the hard truth is there is often an underlying expectation that those who grieve move on at some point. There comes a point where observers no longer feel sad with that person, and they begin to feel sad for that person.
So, what does moving on mean? I know what moving on looks like for observers … at first, they feel deeply for a season but then their mind and attention shifts to other matters in their own life. That is as it should be. Everyone has their own set of struggles and in time, those issues take center stage in their lives – especially as time passes. Moving on for the sufferer is not so easy – particularly when it comes to the loss of a child. When someone becomes a parent, they are changed forever in ways that are difficult to describe. That little soul we ushered to life becomes a deep part of our identity and whatever happens to them, happens to us. When we lose them, we lose a part of us we can’t get back.
Observing how others respond has been interesting:
As time passes, some of those closest to us avoid conversations about our fallen child for fear it would make us sad. (Don’t worry, we’re already sad.)
Some are uncomfortable because they don’t know what to say or how to say it. (I’ve found the most helpful thing to say is, “I want you to know I care.”)
Others worry they’ll say something wrong and offend. (Perhaps the most powerful thing you’ll ever say is, “I’m listening.”)
Still others avoid talking about pain because of their own struggles with pain.
On the other side of the spectrum are those who think they have all the answers … they say things like, “Don’t be sad. Your child wouldn’t want you to be sad.”
Some, foolishly, will square their shoulders, look you in the eye and tell you they think it’s time to move on – as if their bold, armchair counsel can do in a moment what psychologists can’t do for their patients in months or years.
Whether people pull back or lean in, it seems to me all those things serve to further alienate the sufferer. They silence their pain and take it to a deeper place, far from view or criticism from others – often not knowing what to do or where to go. Sometimes that hidden pain becomes emotionally cancerous, other times it leads to deep depression, anxiety, or unspecified anger. This is can be a dangerous state of being.
I have discovered that for many who have lost a child, talking about them is a form of therapy. In part, it helps because we don’t get to make new memories with them – we only have yesterdays. Because memories are subject to fade, I’ve observed some parents want to talk about their loved one(s) – not so much that you won’t forget … but so they won’t. We cling to details because that’s all we’ve got and they are treasures beyond price.
Suffering is hard enough. Suffering in silence, harder still.
If you have a friend that suffers, lend an ear, a caring heart, and a soft shoulder to lean on. Even if their loss was years ago – no matter how well they hide their hurt, it is there. Letting them know they’re safe with you and that you care can help those who hurt work through their struggle. With your love and heaven’s help, perhaps they can put a few pieces back together.
It had only been a few hours since I knelt at this very bed and whispered into my son’s ear how proud I was to be his daddy and that he didn’t need to hold on any longer. I knew he was tired yet didn’t want to leave for fear of hurting us. I also believe part of him didn’t want to leave because he loved to be alive – I mean, he truly appreciated life. I told my little boy how much I would miss him but that he would be okay and he didn’t need to be afraid.
I often hear parents agonize over saying goodbye to their children at the airport as they go to college, serve missions, or move to some other place. Though I understand the sorrow of saying goodbye, temporarily, to a loved one … I’ve come to know a deeper, inescapable, nearly suffocating sorrow when you must say goodbye to a child for life.
The morning sun had broken and I was still in a state of shock. Incredulous, I went back to Mitchell’s room, wanting to see if it was all a bad dream hoping to discover my little boy was still with us. My heart broke as I saw my dear wife sitting where Mitch once giggled just a few days prior.
Natalie was surrounded by everything that gave Mitch comfort in hopes of feeling close to him. I knew how much she loved her son and how devastated she was to lose him. Little Marlie, sensing Natalie’s suffering, jumped on her lap in the same way she tried to comfort Mitch when he was dying. Natalie closed her eyes and wept. She had a profound spiritual experience earlier that morning, under to cover of a winter’s night sky – but that didn’t take away the pain of losing him.+
This sacred room had become a spiritual train station and my little son had departed on a one-way trip. Though I said goodbye, I remained unsettled that I didn’t say everything my heart wanted to say.
Our journey with grief was just beginning and things would get worse … much worse … before they would start to get better. This photo was taken a little over 4 years ago. We have healed a great deal since, but we still mourn the profound loss of Mitch. Not a day passes we don’t think of him a thousand times. However, behind our smiles and cheerful dispositions are hearts that are still tender … still mending.
It wasn’t long after the passing of Mitch from heart failure, a neighbor/friend down the street received a heart transplant. I remember visiting him at the hospital while he was in recovery, with some of our neighbors. At one point, I had to step into the hall to weep a little. I was sincerely grateful this good man had a second chance at life – in fact, I wept for his family and prayed fervently he’d survive his own struggle with heart failure. So, watching him smile softly in his recovery room brought me great joy. But, without warning, the pain of my son’s loss to heart failure overcame me and I struggled to catch my breath. In that moment, I felt like a young child who missed the bus as I saw it drive into the distance … that overwhelming sense of doom and panic that maybe I didn’t do enough to fight the system that denied my son a transplant. Agony coursed through my veins like a drug and I was in emotional hell. As my friends and I left the hospital, they were oblivious to my silent suffering – and it was then that I realized after all is said and done, the journey of grief is traveled by one.
At what point does grieving the loss of a child become decidedly sad, improper, or morose? On the surface, such a question seems unconscionable. Except, the hard truth is there is often an underlying expectation that those who grieve move on at some point. There comes a point where observers no longer feel sad with that person, and they begin to feel sad for that person.
So, what does moving on mean? I know what moving on looks like for observers … at first, they feel deeply for a season but then their mind and attention shifts to other matters in their own life. That is as it should be. Everyone has their own set of struggles and in time, those issues take center stage in their lives – especially as time passes. Moving on for the sufferer is not so easy – particularly when it comes to the loss of a child. When someone becomes a parent, they are changed forever in ways that are difficult to describe. That little soul we ushered to life becomes a deep part of our identity and whatever happens to them, happens to us. When we lose them, we lose a part of us we can’t get back.
Observing how others respond has been interesting:
As time passes, some of those closest to us avoid conversations about our fallen child for fear it would make us sad. (Don’t worry, we’re already sad.)
Some are uncomfortable because they don’t know what to say or how to say it. (I’ve found the most helpful thing to say is, “I want you to know I care.”)
Others worry they’ll say something wrong and offend. (Perhaps the most powerful thing you’ll ever say is, “I’m listening.”)
Still others avoid talking about pain because of their own struggles with pain.
On the other side of the spectrum are those who think they have all the answers … they say things like, “Don’t be sad. Your child wouldn’t want you to be sad.”
Some, foolishly, will square their shoulders, look you in the eye and tell you they think it’s time to move on – as if their bold, armchair counsel can do in a moment what psychologists can’t do for their patients in months or years.
Whether people pull back or lean in, it seems to me all those things serve to further alienate the sufferer. They silence their pain and take it to a deeper place, far from view or criticism from others – often not knowing what to do or where to go. Sometimes that hidden pain becomes emotionally cancerous, other times it leads to deep depression, anxiety, or unspecified anger. This is can be a dangerous state of being.
I have discovered that for many who have lost a child, talking about them is a form of therapy. In part, it helps because we don’t get to make new memories with them – we only have yesterdays. Because memories are subject to fade, I’ve observed some parents want to talk about their loved one(s) – not so much that you won’t forget … but so they won’t. We cling to details because that’s all we’ve got and they are treasures beyond price.
Suffering is hard enough. Suffering in silence, harder still.
If you have a friend that suffers, lend an ear, a caring heart, and a soft shoulder to lean on. Even if their loss was years ago – no matter how well they hide their hurt, it is there. Letting them know they’re safe with you and that you care can help those who hurt work through their struggle. With your love and heaven’s help, perhaps they can put a few pieces back together.
Thursday, August 24, 2017
I Just Miss You
What I wouldn’t give to go back in time to the moment where I last held you. Where I was able to kiss you and where I was forced to say goodbye. Because I would relive all the pain of what came after – for just one more moment with you. I would hold you close to my warm skin, with my arms wrapped tightly around you and I would breathe you in. I would soak in that moment all over again, even knowing it would be our last.
What I wouldn’t give to have a second chance. A chance to do things differently even though I know those things couldn’t change the outcome. But I’d do them anyway because I would do anything to try. There are a thousand different versions of how our story could have played out – and this version is the one I didn’t expect. I cannot undo what has already been done – but what I wouldn’t give to try just one more time.
I never knew missing someone could hurt so badly. I never knew that missing someone would change me so irrevocably. I never knew how deep and wide love could flood into my life. I never knew how precious this life was until I met you. I never knew just how much love could hurt until you left. And I never had a clue that the cause of insuperable pain could be narrowed down into four little words – I just miss you.
Your absence has flooded through every part of me. And like a flood, it has left cracks in my foundation. The flood of your absence has obliterated the core pieces of who I once was. It has cracked my heart wide open and my heart has bled with nothing but undying love. And it left me fighting to survive it all. But I would do it all over again.
Because our love is so much more than a flood of your absence. Our love is like a lighting that rushes through me. It has illuminated the darkest parts of me. It ignites my soul and has thundered through my life – pushing me to live a life full of you. For you. Because of you. You – the one who has changed me. The one who has taught me so much about this life and my ability to love with every cell in my body.
For you – I keep breathing, I keep fighting, I keep living. For you – I love more deeply and laugh more freely. For you- I cherish this one life I’ve been given. No matter the amount of pain and heartbreak. For you – because you exist in every corner of my soul. And your name has transcended from the title you were given while you were still here and into a feeling that describes your absence. Because on the days where I just miss you all I can do is utter your name. And when someone asks me what weighs heavy on my heart yours is the name that flows out. Nothing more is needed to describe what it is I am feeling because you are that feeling. The feeling of missing you, loving you, longing for you, and all the feelings in between. You are the reason they are there and you are the reason I feel them so profoundly.
I never wanted any of this. No one ever wants this. But I wanted you. And sometimes no matter how much we want – it isn’t enough to stop the waters from rising and the flood from sweeping into our lives.
So much time has passed and still some days there is a heaviness that weighs me down. I keep searching for the words to explain where it comes from or why it’s there. It feels so complicated yet the only words I can muster are – “I just miss you.” I miss you more than words can say and emotion can express. Everything I do has been washed by the waters of your absence. Even my heart beats to a steady rhythm of you and its echo rings through the space where you used to be. I have never known so much love, so much joy, and so much heartbreak, until you. And some days the only explanation for the suffocating pain that still lingers on is…
I just miss you.
-Still Standing Magazine-
What I wouldn’t give to have a second chance. A chance to do things differently even though I know those things couldn’t change the outcome. But I’d do them anyway because I would do anything to try. There are a thousand different versions of how our story could have played out – and this version is the one I didn’t expect. I cannot undo what has already been done – but what I wouldn’t give to try just one more time.
I never knew missing someone could hurt so badly. I never knew that missing someone would change me so irrevocably. I never knew how deep and wide love could flood into my life. I never knew how precious this life was until I met you. I never knew just how much love could hurt until you left. And I never had a clue that the cause of insuperable pain could be narrowed down into four little words – I just miss you.
Your absence has flooded through every part of me. And like a flood, it has left cracks in my foundation. The flood of your absence has obliterated the core pieces of who I once was. It has cracked my heart wide open and my heart has bled with nothing but undying love. And it left me fighting to survive it all. But I would do it all over again.
Because our love is so much more than a flood of your absence. Our love is like a lighting that rushes through me. It has illuminated the darkest parts of me. It ignites my soul and has thundered through my life – pushing me to live a life full of you. For you. Because of you. You – the one who has changed me. The one who has taught me so much about this life and my ability to love with every cell in my body.
For you – I keep breathing, I keep fighting, I keep living. For you – I love more deeply and laugh more freely. For you- I cherish this one life I’ve been given. No matter the amount of pain and heartbreak. For you – because you exist in every corner of my soul. And your name has transcended from the title you were given while you were still here and into a feeling that describes your absence. Because on the days where I just miss you all I can do is utter your name. And when someone asks me what weighs heavy on my heart yours is the name that flows out. Nothing more is needed to describe what it is I am feeling because you are that feeling. The feeling of missing you, loving you, longing for you, and all the feelings in between. You are the reason they are there and you are the reason I feel them so profoundly.
I never wanted any of this. No one ever wants this. But I wanted you. And sometimes no matter how much we want – it isn’t enough to stop the waters from rising and the flood from sweeping into our lives.
So much time has passed and still some days there is a heaviness that weighs me down. I keep searching for the words to explain where it comes from or why it’s there. It feels so complicated yet the only words I can muster are – “I just miss you.” I miss you more than words can say and emotion can express. Everything I do has been washed by the waters of your absence. Even my heart beats to a steady rhythm of you and its echo rings through the space where you used to be. I have never known so much love, so much joy, and so much heartbreak, until you. And some days the only explanation for the suffocating pain that still lingers on is…
I just miss you.
-Still Standing Magazine-
Wednesday, August 16, 2017
Thoughts From a Grieving Mother
I need to say his name without bringing everyone to tears.
I need his life to be included in the count of children, grandchildren, nieces and nephews.
I need patience and understanding when a wave of grief brings me to my knees, even if you think it’s been “long enough”. . . . .
I need kindness on birthdays and understanding on holidays.
I need to stay in bed and a reason to get out of it.
I need an extra hug and respect for my space.
I need someone to ask how I am doing and want to know the real answer.
I need a “handle with care” sticker for my heart. My emotions have been fragile since the day I said goodbye.
I need patience and reminders for my mind, part of it will always be somewhere else.
I need patience when I’m not being the friend, sister, daughter and wife I used to be.
I need you to accept that my grief will last until I take my last breath.
More than anything, I need you, your support (without judgment), your friendship, your understanding. . . . .
. . . . .a lifetime is an impossibly long time to wait to hold my child again.
-adapted from - fourplusanangel.com-
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