I was just reading through our monthly newsletter from Parents of Murdered Children. Here are two good thoughts:
"When we are bereaved we may never live at the top of the mountain again. That's just the way it is. A part of us will forever be sad. But if we let our sadness be more powerful than our happiness, death wins. If we embrace our grief, express the pain, accept it and blend it into our lives, then the joy and happiness of the lives of our children will once again fill us with joy and happiness. Don't let death win; let the life of your child win. Embrace the paradox of grief."Rob Anderson
(on how to help someone through grief) "It is seldom about saying the 'right thing'. It is not our words the grieving and brokenhearted hunger for; it is our acceptance of them as they are now rather than our insistence that they be as they were. It is our sincerity and kindness and patience as they make their way through the darkness on their timetable, not ours. It's
Wednesday, December 16, 2009
Friday, November 6, 2009
This is me and Paul, Paul at one month old.Today I have no recent picture to post of my taller-than-me son and myself. Four years ago today he died.
When I was pregnant I got to hear his heartbeat through my belly and see grainy images of him on a sonogram.
When I died I had my arms around him as best as I could, with my head on his chest. I heard his last heartbeats, as I heard some of his first heartbeats.
Four years down the road, the pain is not as intense. I have "accepted" that I will not see him here again on planet Earth. But it does not mean I don't wish I could. I have an image of him....as I look out our front door, I can see him in my mind, as I saw him in reality so many times, walking home. Coming at me across the church parking lot across the street from our house. Black hoodie on. Hands mashed into jean pockets. Scuffling his big boots on the pavement. Head down, shoulders hunched against the cold wind.
I sometimes look out the front door and wish I could see him walking home.
I miss you, Paul. I wish you were here. I wish you could walk back home.
Saturday, October 17, 2009
In October of 2005, Paul, Analice, and I went to Pumpkin Junction. Paul was off work because he'd been in a minor vehicle accident and had a hurt neck. I am now so glad he went to the pumpkin patch with us because six days later he was stabbed, and died the following day. These are the last pictures I have of him. These are the last memories his daughter will have of him, as far as pictures to look at and stories to hear.
Monday, October 5, 2009
Saturday, April 18, 2009
The first picture is of Matt and Alexa and their new son. Matt is a friend of Paul's, our son who was killed 3 1/2 years ago. Matt and Alexa were in town and came by to introduce us to their son. They named their son, Paul David, after our son, Paul David. We are so touched! What a wonderful tribute! Thank you, Matt and Alexa!
The second picture is the 2009 butterfly sun catcher we received from the Midwest Transplant Network today. Every year we attend a memorial service sponsored by them. I now have four of these butterflies -- signifying four years without my strapping young son. And four years signifying the new life he gave to people who received his pancreas, liver, one kidney, and a cornea.
Tuesday, March 3, 2009
Today is my son's 23rd birthday. He is in heaven, so I can't bake a cake for him or wrap gifts. It is a tough day. He's been gone 3 years, 4 months.
Here is a picture of Paul with his daughter on her first birthday; the only one he got to spend with her.
Here is a picture of Paul when he was around one year old.
Here is a picture of Paul on his 5th birthday. His daughter just turned 5 last month.
Another picture of Paul on his 5th birthday.
Here is a picture of Paul with his daughter on her first birthday; the only one he got to spend with her.
Here is a picture of Paul when he was around one year old.
Here is a picture of Paul on his 5th birthday. His daughter just turned 5 last month.
Another picture of Paul on his 5th birthday.Sunday, January 18, 2009
I watched a movie today, P.S. I Love You. I cried through a great deal of it. It's a good movie, but if you've grieved, it is poignant and heartrending. I cried at expected moments, but there was one moment in the film that brought acute pain, and tears so thick I had to pause the movie. The woman found something under some furniture that was small, but brought back a beautiful memory of her deceased husband.
I was hit with pain, the kind of pain that happens when I run across something of Paul's that's unexpected, or finding that piece of trash outside (earlier post).
I was also struck by the REALITY of the movie, her grief and the way she dealt with it. But also, how everyone else dealt with her grief -- people want you to "heal" and "move on" and do things differently WAY before you are ready. So those feelings of anger surfaced when someone said to her, "Come on, it's been (how ever long)!!!"
In the economy of grief, the phrase really should be "It's been ONLY (how ever long)" and then give the griever a lot more time.
I was hit with pain, the kind of pain that happens when I run across something of Paul's that's unexpected, or finding that piece of trash outside (earlier post).
I was also struck by the REALITY of the movie, her grief and the way she dealt with it. But also, how everyone else dealt with her grief -- people want you to "heal" and "move on" and do things differently WAY before you are ready. So those feelings of anger surfaced when someone said to her, "Come on, it's been (how ever long)!!!"
In the economy of grief, the phrase really should be "It's been ONLY (how ever long)" and then give the griever a lot more time.
Thursday, January 15, 2009
This is my son in the summer of 2005, 3-4 months before he was murdered. He bought this old junker truck. Rebuilt the bed, rebuilt the carburator and transmission, and was in the process of doing other things when he was killed. We sold it to one of his friends. That friend doesn't come around anymore, so we don't know what happened to the truck. This is one of my favorite pictures of Paul!
Thursday, January 8, 2009
A lot of posts posted today!
If there is anyone out there at all reading this, my apologies! Because of the busyness of life, I forgot about this special blog I set apart for sharing my thoughts and feelings on grief. I didn't post on my "regular" blog either, for quite a while.
But life has calmed down some, I remembered my blogs, so I went back to my "regular" blog and copied and pasted any posts I've made on that about grief, and put them here.
I hope to do better by posting directly to this site about grief!
~Linda
But life has calmed down some, I remembered my blogs, so I went back to my "regular" blog and copied and pasted any posts I've made on that about grief, and put them here.
I hope to do better by posting directly to this site about grief!
~Linda
Jan. 6, 2009
I went to our parent's grief group tonight and enjoyed it more than usual because I've not been able to go for the past 3 or 4 months. It was a small group of long-timers, so our conversation was different than when newly grieving parents are there. Our pain is different than it was when our children first died. But unlike what some people think, it still hurts deeply and there is a hole that will never go away, and we have times when we struggle -- seem to go "backwards".
My father died eight years ago and I miss him very much and sometimes cry when there is a trigger. It is much different dealing with Paul's death; it has changed me, and still affects me in ways that makes some people uncomfortable.
In group we discussed Christmas and what we do to honor our deceased children, to somehow include them in the holiday. Seems like each of us have found our own ways. Buying the child an ornament to continue the tradition. Giving money to a charity in our child's name. LIghting a candle beside a picture. Making sure to share memories.We ourselves are doing OK in finding our ways to honor, to remember.
The problem seemed to be the extended families not wanting anything special done or the child's name mentioned. That caused the pain in our group, that there was no place left for the child among the extended family. That was not my hurt, thankfully, but I hurt for my friends. We also discussed the fact that many many people in our lives don't know why we still need to come to a grief group, why we still struggle, especially on the birthday, the death anniversary, and the holidays.It is hard to explain, and that is why we need the group. Everyone there automatically understands when you begin to speak. Even though our circumstances are different, we have a bond, a special understanding, a shared horror.
I am so grateful for our group! One couple is facing the SEVEN year anniversary of their son's suicide. They are leaders in our group, helping others to walk the path. Yet, this is a difficult time for them, they struggle. Many would say "they should be past that by now". No! They have healed in many ways, they help others, their faith is strong, they enjoy life, their daughter, and new grandbaby. But they will never stop struggling over not having their son with them, not understanding why he thought he needed to take his own life, to be horrified to know he was in that much despair and they didn't know.
And so we come to group once a month to listen, to perhaps share, yes even to laugh. Just to relax and be who we are and know everyone around the table "gets it". I am grateful for my grief group.
I went to our parent's grief group tonight and enjoyed it more than usual because I've not been able to go for the past 3 or 4 months. It was a small group of long-timers, so our conversation was different than when newly grieving parents are there. Our pain is different than it was when our children first died. But unlike what some people think, it still hurts deeply and there is a hole that will never go away, and we have times when we struggle -- seem to go "backwards".
My father died eight years ago and I miss him very much and sometimes cry when there is a trigger. It is much different dealing with Paul's death; it has changed me, and still affects me in ways that makes some people uncomfortable.
In group we discussed Christmas and what we do to honor our deceased children, to somehow include them in the holiday. Seems like each of us have found our own ways. Buying the child an ornament to continue the tradition. Giving money to a charity in our child's name. LIghting a candle beside a picture. Making sure to share memories.We ourselves are doing OK in finding our ways to honor, to remember.
The problem seemed to be the extended families not wanting anything special done or the child's name mentioned. That caused the pain in our group, that there was no place left for the child among the extended family. That was not my hurt, thankfully, but I hurt for my friends. We also discussed the fact that many many people in our lives don't know why we still need to come to a grief group, why we still struggle, especially on the birthday, the death anniversary, and the holidays.It is hard to explain, and that is why we need the group. Everyone there automatically understands when you begin to speak. Even though our circumstances are different, we have a bond, a special understanding, a shared horror.
I am so grateful for our group! One couple is facing the SEVEN year anniversary of their son's suicide. They are leaders in our group, helping others to walk the path. Yet, this is a difficult time for them, they struggle. Many would say "they should be past that by now". No! They have healed in many ways, they help others, their faith is strong, they enjoy life, their daughter, and new grandbaby. But they will never stop struggling over not having their son with them, not understanding why he thought he needed to take his own life, to be horrified to know he was in that much despair and they didn't know.
And so we come to group once a month to listen, to perhaps share, yes even to laugh. Just to relax and be who we are and know everyone around the table "gets it". I am grateful for my grief group.
Nov. 15, 2008
It was just a piece of trash, blown to the curb by our midwestern winds. Just lying there by the mailbox, an innocent piece of trash. No one else would have paid attention to it. But as I glanced down I felt like I was in one of those movies where the character has flashes of the past coming one after the other. It left me breathless and aching, this piece of trash.
Images of Paul flashed through my mind, one after the other, and that familiar "I can't believe he's really dead, how can it be?" hit me, and tears sprang to my eyes. I had to stop where I was and stare at that piece of trash, that crumpled, faded, empty box of Marlboro cigarettes.
I've learned to embrace those moments, those "grief bursts"; have learned to stop and FEEL the pain and aching loss and disbelief. To savor whatever memories come, to remember, to hurt, to cry.
At the end of the driveway, the wind whipping around me, tears running down my face, I looked down at a piece of trash and remembered my boy.
It was just a piece of trash, blown to the curb by our midwestern winds. Just lying there by the mailbox, an innocent piece of trash. No one else would have paid attention to it. But as I glanced down I felt like I was in one of those movies where the character has flashes of the past coming one after the other. It left me breathless and aching, this piece of trash.
Images of Paul flashed through my mind, one after the other, and that familiar "I can't believe he's really dead, how can it be?" hit me, and tears sprang to my eyes. I had to stop where I was and stare at that piece of trash, that crumpled, faded, empty box of Marlboro cigarettes.
I've learned to embrace those moments, those "grief bursts"; have learned to stop and FEEL the pain and aching loss and disbelief. To savor whatever memories come, to remember, to hurt, to cry.
At the end of the driveway, the wind whipping around me, tears running down my face, I looked down at a piece of trash and remembered my boy.
November 6, 2008, the three year mark of my precious son's death:
I have always loved the leaves at fall. Not so much the colors on the trees, although I enjoy them; but the leaves I enjoy the most are the dry ones on the ground. I love walking through a pile of leaves, hearing them crunch under my shoes. I have FOND memories of Swope Park in Kansas City, as a kid. My Dad would heap up a huge pile of leaves and my sister and I would run and jump into them, over and over and over. We have old home movies of that.
Most of all, though, I love dancing leaves. I can stand at my front door for quite a while, watching leaves dance down the street, across the yard & driveway, zip through the air.Today was extremely windy, even for the Kansas. The dancing leaves were everywhere! Some of them would blow in a straight line across my path as I drove, and I could hear them hitting the truck as I went through them. Other leaves danced in circles on the street, jumping up and down, swirling & twirling to unheard music. I was enchanted!
On the hill at the cemetery where the body of my boy lies, the leaves weren't doing a lot of dancing, but they did blow across the squares of land in random patterns (I know, I know, that's a contradiction, but that's how I saw it!). The wind howled around me as I changed the flowers in the vase, washed off the headstone, and sat a while pondering all that happened 3 years ago, and what life is like now.
Not a lot to say, but I can't let this day go by without saying SOMETHING. I can't believe it's been 3 years, I can't believe I've survived such a loss, I can't believe the mixture of sadness and peace I feel today.
I love you, Paul. Rest in peace.
I have always loved the leaves at fall. Not so much the colors on the trees, although I enjoy them; but the leaves I enjoy the most are the dry ones on the ground. I love walking through a pile of leaves, hearing them crunch under my shoes. I have FOND memories of Swope Park in Kansas City, as a kid. My Dad would heap up a huge pile of leaves and my sister and I would run and jump into them, over and over and over. We have old home movies of that.
Most of all, though, I love dancing leaves. I can stand at my front door for quite a while, watching leaves dance down the street, across the yard & driveway, zip through the air.Today was extremely windy, even for the Kansas. The dancing leaves were everywhere! Some of them would blow in a straight line across my path as I drove, and I could hear them hitting the truck as I went through them. Other leaves danced in circles on the street, jumping up and down, swirling & twirling to unheard music. I was enchanted!
On the hill at the cemetery where the body of my boy lies, the leaves weren't doing a lot of dancing, but they did blow across the squares of land in random patterns (I know, I know, that's a contradiction, but that's how I saw it!). The wind howled around me as I changed the flowers in the vase, washed off the headstone, and sat a while pondering all that happened 3 years ago, and what life is like now.
Not a lot to say, but I can't let this day go by without saying SOMETHING. I can't believe it's been 3 years, I can't believe I've survived such a loss, I can't believe the mixture of sadness and peace I feel today.
I love you, Paul. Rest in peace.
Oct. 25, 2008
And I quote, "It is not, therefore, the experience of loss that becomes the defining moment of our lives........IT IS HOW WE RESPOND TO LOSS THAT MATTERS. That response will largely determine the quality, the direction, and the impact of our lives...............recovery from such a (catastrophic) loss is an unrealistic and even harmful expectation, if by recovery we mean resuming the way we lived and felt prior to the loss..................Response involves the CHOICES we make, the GRACE we receive, and ultimately the TRANSFORMATION we experience in the loss."
Excerpt from "A Grace Disguised" by Jerry Sittser
*************************
In one week & 5 days, well really, one week and 4 days, plus the 5th day, my family will face the "it's been three years since Paul was hurt and died". So I'm re-reading this wonderful book on grief. It's the one that has impacted me the most. I say that two days are hard, because Paul was stabbed on November 5th, early in the morning, and we spent the entire day and that night in the hospital, making decisions no parent should ever have to make, and then just waiting for God's timing for him to die.
He died on the 6th, but honestly, the 5th is a tougher day for me.That was the hardest day, the day of facing what was going to happen, coming to terms with it, waiting for it.By the day of the 6th, I knew it would happen, knew that some good would come out of it by the organ donations. And he died early that morning, 5:05.
Grief is always there, it changes form and substance. But this time of year and certain dates force me to stop long enough to feel what I'm feeling and work through my emotions. So today I remind myself that I never will "get over it", but I can respond in a positive way.
And I quote, "It is not, therefore, the experience of loss that becomes the defining moment of our lives........IT IS HOW WE RESPOND TO LOSS THAT MATTERS. That response will largely determine the quality, the direction, and the impact of our lives...............recovery from such a (catastrophic) loss is an unrealistic and even harmful expectation, if by recovery we mean resuming the way we lived and felt prior to the loss..................Response involves the CHOICES we make, the GRACE we receive, and ultimately the TRANSFORMATION we experience in the loss."
Excerpt from "A Grace Disguised" by Jerry Sittser
*************************
In one week & 5 days, well really, one week and 4 days, plus the 5th day, my family will face the "it's been three years since Paul was hurt and died". So I'm re-reading this wonderful book on grief. It's the one that has impacted me the most. I say that two days are hard, because Paul was stabbed on November 5th, early in the morning, and we spent the entire day and that night in the hospital, making decisions no parent should ever have to make, and then just waiting for God's timing for him to die.
He died on the 6th, but honestly, the 5th is a tougher day for me.That was the hardest day, the day of facing what was going to happen, coming to terms with it, waiting for it.By the day of the 6th, I knew it would happen, knew that some good would come out of it by the organ donations. And he died early that morning, 5:05.
Grief is always there, it changes form and substance. But this time of year and certain dates force me to stop long enough to feel what I'm feeling and work through my emotions. So today I remind myself that I never will "get over it", but I can respond in a positive way.
Oct. 4, 2008
In my last post I wrote about the Victims Rights Week service we attended. I'd like to share the words to a song that is played on CD every year at this service. We are supposed to sing along, but most of us by then are too weepy, so we simply listen!
WE ARE THE SURVIVORS by R. Wright
There are those of us whose mothers have been taken from our arms.THERE ARE THOSE OF US WITH CHILDREN WE COULD NOT KEEP SAFE FROM HARM.There are those of us who've lived to see our fathers lose their lives.And each and every one of us survives.
CHORUS:We are the survivors, left behind to carry on.We are the survivors, joined together we are strong.We will speak out for our loved ones who were not given a choice.We are the survivors, hear our voice.
Maybe some of us have brothers who were here, but now they're gone.You can ask about our sisters, because their memory is strong.We are sons and we are daughters, we are husbands, we are wives.And each and every one of us survives.
REPEAT CHORUS
With a part of us that never heals, and a fear of the unknown,there's a strength in knowing through it all, we are not alone.
REPEAT CHORUS
In my last post I wrote about the Victims Rights Week service we attended. I'd like to share the words to a song that is played on CD every year at this service. We are supposed to sing along, but most of us by then are too weepy, so we simply listen!
WE ARE THE SURVIVORS by R. Wright
There are those of us whose mothers have been taken from our arms.THERE ARE THOSE OF US WITH CHILDREN WE COULD NOT KEEP SAFE FROM HARM.There are those of us who've lived to see our fathers lose their lives.And each and every one of us survives.
CHORUS:We are the survivors, left behind to carry on.We are the survivors, joined together we are strong.We will speak out for our loved ones who were not given a choice.We are the survivors, hear our voice.
Maybe some of us have brothers who were here, but now they're gone.You can ask about our sisters, because their memory is strong.We are sons and we are daughters, we are husbands, we are wives.And each and every one of us survives.
REPEAT CHORUS
With a part of us that never heals, and a fear of the unknown,there's a strength in knowing through it all, we are not alone.
REPEAT CHORUS
September 24, 2008
National Victim's Rights Week Observance
I don't travel this road much anymore. But when I do, usually twice a year, for these services, the memories flood back. Driving at night on the twisty road, feeling tired and yes, somewhat irritated. But you were too young to drive, and it was a good place for you to hang out in those days. And so I took you to and from the Perk on this winding road, through old pretty houses & trees.
I don't travel this road much anymore. You eventually moved on to other things, eventually were able to drive, eventually didn't hang out at the Perk. So I had no reason to drive down this road anymore.
I don't travel this road much anymore. Except for twice a year. We turn off the winding road, over the bridge, stop at the sign..........and there is the Perk. Under new management now, nonsmoking now. But we pass it by, no one to drop off, no one to wait for at closing time. No one playing guitar on the patio. We pass by.Just a block.......THEN we park. By a green field with a stone memorial. The Wichita Chapter of the Parents of Murdered Children organization. Your name is third from the bottom, far right, fourth panel
Other people are here tonight, many others, in our haphazardly arranged lawn chairs, most of us not knowing each other, but having a bond nonetheless. A horrible bond, one we never wanted.
Thanks to the homicide detective who spoke from his heart about the things he's learned from the family members of homicide victims. Thanks to the writers, poets, & songwriters who gave us the readings and songs we listened to....and cried through.
My best memory of tonight is watching the red candles flickering in their clear votive holders, lined up on top of the memorial stones, illuminating their small area as the sun went down. There is always hope. Somewhere. Somehow. Even though I'll never hear your voice or your laugh, or see you grow older -- cheated out of a growing mother/son relationship. Robbed of you by a man with a knife.
Still, there is hope.White balloons, shimmering in the dark sky, maybe a hundred of them, released at the same time, lifted by the wind to sail on to unknown places, carrying the names of our loved ones cut down at the hand of another. Tears, hugs, understanding eyes, pain............yet always, hope.
I miss you, Paul, and I will never get over missing you. This hole in my heart will never heal completely. My baby boy, my son. I lit a candle for you tonight. I released a balloon for you tonight. I cried for myself tonight. I remember you tonight. And tomorrow. And every day of every tomorrow of my earthly life. Until I see you again.
National Victim's Rights Week Observance
I don't travel this road much anymore. But when I do, usually twice a year, for these services, the memories flood back. Driving at night on the twisty road, feeling tired and yes, somewhat irritated. But you were too young to drive, and it was a good place for you to hang out in those days. And so I took you to and from the Perk on this winding road, through old pretty houses & trees.
I don't travel this road much anymore. You eventually moved on to other things, eventually were able to drive, eventually didn't hang out at the Perk. So I had no reason to drive down this road anymore.
I don't travel this road much anymore. Except for twice a year. We turn off the winding road, over the bridge, stop at the sign..........and there is the Perk. Under new management now, nonsmoking now. But we pass it by, no one to drop off, no one to wait for at closing time. No one playing guitar on the patio. We pass by.Just a block.......THEN we park. By a green field with a stone memorial. The Wichita Chapter of the Parents of Murdered Children organization. Your name is third from the bottom, far right, fourth panel
Other people are here tonight, many others, in our haphazardly arranged lawn chairs, most of us not knowing each other, but having a bond nonetheless. A horrible bond, one we never wanted.
Thanks to the homicide detective who spoke from his heart about the things he's learned from the family members of homicide victims. Thanks to the writers, poets, & songwriters who gave us the readings and songs we listened to....and cried through.
My best memory of tonight is watching the red candles flickering in their clear votive holders, lined up on top of the memorial stones, illuminating their small area as the sun went down. There is always hope. Somewhere. Somehow. Even though I'll never hear your voice or your laugh, or see you grow older -- cheated out of a growing mother/son relationship. Robbed of you by a man with a knife.
Still, there is hope.White balloons, shimmering in the dark sky, maybe a hundred of them, released at the same time, lifted by the wind to sail on to unknown places, carrying the names of our loved ones cut down at the hand of another. Tears, hugs, understanding eyes, pain............yet always, hope.
I miss you, Paul, and I will never get over missing you. This hole in my heart will never heal completely. My baby boy, my son. I lit a candle for you tonight. I released a balloon for you tonight. I cried for myself tonight. I remember you tonight. And tomorrow. And every day of every tomorrow of my earthly life. Until I see you again.
This summer, August 2008:
Been cleaning out the garage, going through boxes and boxes of our lives. Most of it has been thrown away or given away. What is saved seems special now -- but at one time so did the junk we threw out this time! Getting older changes one's perspective.
The Paul stuff was the hardest, especially his school notebooks and his toys. I stood in the garage, sweating & crying. What a waste the death of a young person is. So many smashed dreams and hopes!But I also got to enjoy some great memories! Bittersweet!
Been cleaning out the garage, going through boxes and boxes of our lives. Most of it has been thrown away or given away. What is saved seems special now -- but at one time so did the junk we threw out this time! Getting older changes one's perspective.
The Paul stuff was the hardest, especially his school notebooks and his toys. I stood in the garage, sweating & crying. What a waste the death of a young person is. So many smashed dreams and hopes!But I also got to enjoy some great memories! Bittersweet!
These are excerpts from an article in the Compassionate Friends newsletter called "Normal For Me".
Normal for me is trying to decide what to take to the cemetery for Christmas, birthday, Valentine's Day, & Easter.
Normal is also barely being able to think of Jesus dying on the cross because of what it did to His mother.
Normal is sitting at the computer crying, sharing with chat buddies how you feel since your child died.
NORMAL is feeling like you know how to act and are more comfortable with a funeral than a wedding or a birthday party. Yet, feeling a stab of pain in your heart when you smell the flowers, see that casket & all the crying people.
(I LOVE this one! I thought that no one understood how I've felt these past 2 1/2 years!!!) NORMAL is feeling like you can't sit another minute without getting up and screaming because you just don't like to sit through church anymore; yet feeling like you have more faith and belief in God than you've ever had before.(side note: I did begin going back to church 4 weeks ago. LESSON TO LEARN: in the economy of grief, the statement should not be "it's BEEN 2 1/2 years, for heaven's sake, so (insert action desired by friends)....". In the economy of grief the statement is "It's ONLY BEEN 2 1/2 years.....". This all takes WAY longer than most people want to be patient with a grieving person!
NORMAL is going to bed feeling like your kids who are alive got cheated out of happy cheerful parents and instead got stuck with sober, cautious people.
When newly grieved:
NORMAL is being impatient with everything but someone stricken with grief over the loss of their child.
NORMAL is being too tired to care if you paid the bills, cleaned the house, did laundry, or bought groceries.
NORMAL is not sleeping well because a thousand "what ifs" and "why didn't I"'s go through your head constantly. (as well as how the death happened, the hospital time, and the funeral)
And still true even now:
NORMAL is not being able to rest until you get the phone call that your living child has arrived safely at their destination.
NORMAL is disliking jokes about death & funerals; and bodies being referred to as cadavers, because you know they are someone's loved one's precious body.
NORMAL is your heart sinking when you see something your child loved, but he is not here to enjoy it.
NORMAL is wondering each year how to honor your child on his birthday.
NORMAL is telling the occurrence of the death as if it were a commonplace activity, and then gasping with horror at how awful it sounds...........and realizing it has become a part of our "normal", our life's story.
NORMAL is learning something new and knowing that your child would have been proud of you.
NORMAL is seeing your child's friends graduate, get married, have children..............while happy for them, it is heartbreaking, and you can't help but be envious.
NORMAL is watching your living child visit the grave, be without a sibling........and hurting that they have to live with this.
NORMAL is having sadness lurking behind every happy event in our lives, because he isn't here.
NORMAL is a punch in the stomach to see a boy built like him, dressed like him, walking down the street.
NORMAL is hiding all the things that have become normal, so that everyone around you will think you are "normal".
Normal for me is trying to decide what to take to the cemetery for Christmas, birthday, Valentine's Day, & Easter.
Normal is also barely being able to think of Jesus dying on the cross because of what it did to His mother.
Normal is sitting at the computer crying, sharing with chat buddies how you feel since your child died.
NORMAL is feeling like you know how to act and are more comfortable with a funeral than a wedding or a birthday party. Yet, feeling a stab of pain in your heart when you smell the flowers, see that casket & all the crying people.
(I LOVE this one! I thought that no one understood how I've felt these past 2 1/2 years!!!) NORMAL is feeling like you can't sit another minute without getting up and screaming because you just don't like to sit through church anymore; yet feeling like you have more faith and belief in God than you've ever had before.(side note: I did begin going back to church 4 weeks ago. LESSON TO LEARN: in the economy of grief, the statement should not be "it's BEEN 2 1/2 years, for heaven's sake, so (insert action desired by friends)....". In the economy of grief the statement is "It's ONLY BEEN 2 1/2 years.....". This all takes WAY longer than most people want to be patient with a grieving person!
NORMAL is going to bed feeling like your kids who are alive got cheated out of happy cheerful parents and instead got stuck with sober, cautious people.
When newly grieved:
NORMAL is being impatient with everything but someone stricken with grief over the loss of their child.
NORMAL is being too tired to care if you paid the bills, cleaned the house, did laundry, or bought groceries.
NORMAL is not sleeping well because a thousand "what ifs" and "why didn't I"'s go through your head constantly. (as well as how the death happened, the hospital time, and the funeral)
And still true even now:
NORMAL is not being able to rest until you get the phone call that your living child has arrived safely at their destination.
NORMAL is disliking jokes about death & funerals; and bodies being referred to as cadavers, because you know they are someone's loved one's precious body.
NORMAL is your heart sinking when you see something your child loved, but he is not here to enjoy it.
NORMAL is wondering each year how to honor your child on his birthday.
NORMAL is telling the occurrence of the death as if it were a commonplace activity, and then gasping with horror at how awful it sounds...........and realizing it has become a part of our "normal", our life's story.
NORMAL is learning something new and knowing that your child would have been proud of you.
NORMAL is seeing your child's friends graduate, get married, have children..............while happy for them, it is heartbreaking, and you can't help but be envious.
NORMAL is watching your living child visit the grave, be without a sibling........and hurting that they have to live with this.
NORMAL is having sadness lurking behind every happy event in our lives, because he isn't here.
NORMAL is a punch in the stomach to see a boy built like him, dressed like him, walking down the street.
NORMAL is hiding all the things that have become normal, so that everyone around you will think you are "normal".
June of 2008:
Balloons & RobberyBefore you panic, no we weren't robbed. The other morning I was reading the Zits comic in the paper. The mother & teenage son were having a time of laughter -- the punchline being that the only reason was because no one was around to see! I began to cry, thinking of Paul and how our relationship was improving, and how we had more & more good moments between us..................and I felt robbed.
I still feel robbed. Robbed of what was, robbed of what could have been, robbed of the relationship with my son, robbed of special moments, and robbed of growth in our relationship.That was what my favorite grief counselor calls "grief bursts". Healthy, but draining!
Today is Father's Day and we celebrated Gil, my husband, while missing my father (gone 8 years), Gil's father (gone 9 months), and Paul (gone 2 years, 7 months). We had a nice lunch out, then Laura took Gil to a movie while Analice and I played together and bought balloons.When Gil & Laura returned home, we filled out cards (all personal), attached them to our balloons, then let them go, with thoughts of Paul.
I am learning that when you lose someone so close, you can enjoy every happy moment -- yet they are all tinged with the emptiness of the loss, with the sadness that things aren't as they should be. Bittersweet. Happiness and sadness all mushed together!!!
Balloons & RobberyBefore you panic, no we weren't robbed. The other morning I was reading the Zits comic in the paper. The mother & teenage son were having a time of laughter -- the punchline being that the only reason was because no one was around to see! I began to cry, thinking of Paul and how our relationship was improving, and how we had more & more good moments between us..................and I felt robbed.
I still feel robbed. Robbed of what was, robbed of what could have been, robbed of the relationship with my son, robbed of special moments, and robbed of growth in our relationship.That was what my favorite grief counselor calls "grief bursts". Healthy, but draining!
Today is Father's Day and we celebrated Gil, my husband, while missing my father (gone 8 years), Gil's father (gone 9 months), and Paul (gone 2 years, 7 months). We had a nice lunch out, then Laura took Gil to a movie while Analice and I played together and bought balloons.When Gil & Laura returned home, we filled out cards (all personal), attached them to our balloons, then let them go, with thoughts of Paul.
I am learning that when you lose someone so close, you can enjoy every happy moment -- yet they are all tinged with the emptiness of the loss, with the sadness that things aren't as they should be. Bittersweet. Happiness and sadness all mushed together!!!
This is from a post I wrote on another blog on my birthday this past year, 9-1-08:
From the Compassionate Friends newsletter:SEASON OF MANY FEELINGS
Fall is a season of many feelings.
Autumn is here once again, as it comes every yearand with the leaves, my falling tears.
This time of year is the hardest of all.
My heart is still breaking, once again it is fall.
Memories once so vivid are seeming to fade;my time spent with you seems like another age.
This season reminds me of grief and of pain,but yet teaches of hope and of joy once again.
For the trees are still living beneath their gray bark,and you, my sweet child, are alive in my heart.
Written by Cinda Schake
****************I started my birthday yesterday by visiting the cemetery, leaving a nice fall bouquet at Paul's grave.it was a tough drive, I cried most of the way -- which I don't do every time I go out there.But every milestone brings up the emptiness and loss. Paul should have been bringing flowers to me...........
And today I was deeply touched by a gift from the mother of Paul's pancreas recipient. It is a Willow Treestatue of a mother and son. He comes about to her breastbone, has his hands in his pockets, leaning his head on her, and she has one hand on his head, one on his neck, holding him close.I cried, I love it. It says so much.Thank you, Susan!
From the Compassionate Friends newsletter:SEASON OF MANY FEELINGS
Fall is a season of many feelings.
Autumn is here once again, as it comes every yearand with the leaves, my falling tears.
This time of year is the hardest of all.
My heart is still breaking, once again it is fall.
Memories once so vivid are seeming to fade;my time spent with you seems like another age.
This season reminds me of grief and of pain,but yet teaches of hope and of joy once again.
For the trees are still living beneath their gray bark,and you, my sweet child, are alive in my heart.
Written by Cinda Schake
****************I started my birthday yesterday by visiting the cemetery, leaving a nice fall bouquet at Paul's grave.it was a tough drive, I cried most of the way -- which I don't do every time I go out there.But every milestone brings up the emptiness and loss. Paul should have been bringing flowers to me...........
And today I was deeply touched by a gift from the mother of Paul's pancreas recipient. It is a Willow Treestatue of a mother and son. He comes about to her breastbone, has his hands in his pockets, leaning his head on her, and she has one hand on his head, one on his neck, holding him close.I cried, I love it. It says so much.Thank you, Susan!
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