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.
Thursday, January 8, 2009
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!
Thursday, September 6, 2007
If I could choose
If I could choose what today would be, it would look like this:
Getting my granddaughter ready for her first day of preschool.
Leaving early enough to go pick up her Daddy, my son, from his work site, so that he could
walk his daughter to her first day of school.
Taking pictures of the historic event; seeing the pride on my son's face.
But I don't get to choose. Death has left me with "settling for", not choosing.
And so I got my granddaughter ready for preschool.
We left in time to get to preschool and have some time for taking a picture -- of her only -- and finding her hook on which to hang her bag and for saying goodbye.
I cried some this morning, when my granddaughter was occupied. The ache in my heart stung deeply as I missed my son, and missed him missing this.........and missed my granddaughter having her Daddy around on such a special day.
And so in a half hour when I pick her up, I will give her the special gift I bought for her first day
of school and I will ask how her day was. I will keep any pictures she made, instead of giving them to my son.
I can't have what I want, but I will choose joy in the midst of the pain. Oh how I wish he could see his little girl today.
Getting my granddaughter ready for her first day of preschool.
Leaving early enough to go pick up her Daddy, my son, from his work site, so that he could
walk his daughter to her first day of school.
Taking pictures of the historic event; seeing the pride on my son's face.
But I don't get to choose. Death has left me with "settling for", not choosing.
And so I got my granddaughter ready for preschool.
We left in time to get to preschool and have some time for taking a picture -- of her only -- and finding her hook on which to hang her bag and for saying goodbye.
I cried some this morning, when my granddaughter was occupied. The ache in my heart stung deeply as I missed my son, and missed him missing this.........and missed my granddaughter having her Daddy around on such a special day.
And so in a half hour when I pick her up, I will give her the special gift I bought for her first day
of school and I will ask how her day was. I will keep any pictures she made, instead of giving them to my son.
I can't have what I want, but I will choose joy in the midst of the pain. Oh how I wish he could see his little girl today.
Sunday, August 26, 2007
"It’s the neverness that is so painful. Never again to be here with us – never to sit with us at the table, never to travel with us, never to laugh with us, never to cry with us, never to embrace us as he leaves for school, never to see his brothers & sisters marry.
All the rest of our lives we must live with out him. Only our death can stop the pain of his death. A month, a year, five years – with that I could live. But not this forever.
I step outdoors into the moist moldy fragrance of an early summer morning and arm in arm with my enjoyment comes the realization that never again will he smell this.
As a cloud vanishes and is gone,
So he who goes down to the grave does not return,
He will never come to his house again;
his place will know him no more. Job 7:9-10
One small misstep and now this endless neverness."
From Lament For A Son by Nicholas
Wolterstorff
This is becoming one of my favorite books. I read just a page at a time, pondering the thoughts
of this grieving father, feeling his feelings and his pain. I wish I could put things into words like he does. But I can't, so it helps to read what others have written.
Why are some days, some weeks, harder than others? I honestly don't know. I just know that
this past week has been terribly painful, the pain acute as Paul's face flashes across my mind so often. I have been so depressed.............but it is "grief depression", as I like to call it; just something that must be gone through.
I am so tired of grief, but don't see an end in sight. Because Paul will NEVER come back through the door again, never call me on the phone, never text message me, never drive up in his truck, never clomp through the house, never laugh at a silly joke, never make some awful concoction in the kitchen, never play with his daughter, never be there for his sister, never help his father paint, never, never, never................................
All the rest of our lives we must live with out him. Only our death can stop the pain of his death. A month, a year, five years – with that I could live. But not this forever.
I step outdoors into the moist moldy fragrance of an early summer morning and arm in arm with my enjoyment comes the realization that never again will he smell this.
As a cloud vanishes and is gone,
So he who goes down to the grave does not return,
He will never come to his house again;
his place will know him no more. Job 7:9-10
One small misstep and now this endless neverness."
From Lament For A Son by Nicholas
Wolterstorff
This is becoming one of my favorite books. I read just a page at a time, pondering the thoughts
of this grieving father, feeling his feelings and his pain. I wish I could put things into words like he does. But I can't, so it helps to read what others have written.
Why are some days, some weeks, harder than others? I honestly don't know. I just know that
this past week has been terribly painful, the pain acute as Paul's face flashes across my mind so often. I have been so depressed.............but it is "grief depression", as I like to call it; just something that must be gone through.
I am so tired of grief, but don't see an end in sight. Because Paul will NEVER come back through the door again, never call me on the phone, never text message me, never drive up in his truck, never clomp through the house, never laugh at a silly joke, never make some awful concoction in the kitchen, never play with his daughter, never be there for his sister, never help his father paint, never, never, never................................
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