Struggling in the Valley

I remember very well the day that our founder, Joyce Floyd, gave this to me early in 2010 ..  I was really struggling with my son Bobby's death a few months before and truly wondering if I'd make it through this "process:"...  up one day for a few hours and then CRASH with a pain that was all consuming!!!! I'd traveled this road before in the early 70's when in 71 our daughter Randee Marie had died and then again the following year when our daughter Robin passed away.. But this time was worse, or so it seemed...  Grief is a mess and I'd forgottenhow long the roller coaster would last... but eventually the horrible pain does soften and peaceand joy will return to your life...I promise...  Cherie Houston

Frankly, grief is a MESS!  It’s like a never ending horrible nightmarish roller coaster ride, filled with horrifying twists and turns, steep drops and sheer cliffs.  It hurts so much that it leaves us gasping for breath and wishing for the comfort of a coma.  We wish we had died, but suffer the realization that we didn’t.  And that’s the trouble!  We didn’t die…we’re stuck in this living nightmare and we can’t see any escape route.  IT is a journey we never asked for and don’t want to explore.  Yet, we struggle in the VALLEY, hoping and praying for relief, only to discover that even our prayers seem to go unanswered.  It is a lonely and desperate time.

It seems endless and we grow weary of the storms and winds of grief.  Yet, the OTHER SIDE OF GRIEF sounds just as scary.  So many people have told us what we SHOULD and OUGHT to do in order to achieve recovery that it all seems to blur into emptiness.  They talk about ‘closure’ and we don’t even know what that means!  Does that mean you have to forever ‘close’ the story of your loved one’s life?  Or does it mean you should never again grieve?  Or maybe, it means you should not talk about your loved one anymore.  What does ‘closure’ mean and what does recovery mean?

NO ONE UNDERSTANDS although many think they do.  It is easy to grow tired of breathing and of coping creatively with the thousands of footsteps that have to be taken.

You have discovered that Death is an injury…..a severe and devastating psychological wound that causes great pain and trauma in the early weeks and months and years.  Yet, eventually, and over a great period of time, that injury does heal and you must then learn to live with the scar that is left.

Please, Yes, Do ask me about my child who just died (Part 1 of 2)

Thank you Pauline Emmett in Sneedville, TN for sending me the following to share..  She said it was sent to her last fall, shortly after her own little girl Cheyenne died as a result of a traffic accident…  And yes Pauline, in those first few months and years after the death of our child, you are so right - the following is so well written and very reflective of the way in which so many of us feel and can’t quite express.  Oh how we want to be asked our child who has died, we want and need to hear their name and know that they and we are not forgotten….…  

PLEASE, YES, DO ASK ME ABOUT MY CHILD WHO JUST DIED (Part 1 of 2)

By Katie Allison Granju – Knoxville, TN

You know how if you are a parent, you sometimes secretly allow yourself to “go there?” How you sometimes let your mind truly imagine – just for a heartstopping moment – how it would be if your child died? Or maybe you’ve had a terrible nightmare once or twice in which your child was lost to you forever in some horribly tragic and permanent way. You know that dreadful feeling? I used to have those “what if” moments and those occasional bad dreams just like all of you do, times when I tried to even begin to imagine the pain of one of my children dying in a car accident or from cancer or at the hands of someone evil and cruel. But then I’d shake my head and turn on the radio or roll over or do whatever it took to drive the dark vision and the momentary sick feeling of dread from my consciousness.

Then it actually happened to me; my worst nightmare, your worst nightmare – EVERYONE ON THE PLANET’S WORST NIGHTMARE actually happened. The most primal human fear became real for me, like some terrible horror movie leaping off the big screen and into my lap. My beloved, gorgeous, talented firstborn baby died after suffering terribly in two hospitals for five long weeks. He died a painful, cruel death, and in the last hours of his life, his father and I held him in our arms and tried to be brave for him as we assured him that he could go on ahead to the next place, and that we would be along to join him later.

But I wasn’t really brave at all. Inside I was screaming and wailing, and every fiber of my being longed to run out of the room and go find the nurse or doctor who would turn the machines back on.

So he died. And he’s gone. It’s been less than four months. Since May 31 (2010), I have done my level best to continue functioning on a day to day basis – for my other four children, for my husband, on the job, in the community. After a few weeks of complete shutdown following Henry’s death, I began to re-emerge back into the world because I knew I had to. I’m actually pretty proud of how well I’ve managed to hold it together and move forward. I hope I am setting a good example for Henry’s younger sisters and brother, who will undoubtedly suffer losses as adults themselves (although I pray to God that none of them ever experience the loss of a child).

Because I am trying to move forward and be strong, I think that on the surface, I must look relatively “normal” to other people. I go to work. I laugh. I sing along with the radio. I get haircuts. I sit in the bleachers at J and E’s games. I’ve even begun easing back into the occasional public social occasion, like lunches with coworkers and friends. This Sunday, I want to try returning to church (haven’t been able to go since Henry died).

But no matter how normal I look on the outside, the fact is that I just lost my child. He died. In my arms. As his brilliant mind swelled and swelled and swelled until it could expand no more. He opened his eyes once near the end, looking absolutely terror stricken, and then he was gone.

This is my reality. This is what I walk around thinking about every day. Even when I’m able to turn off the specific memories of what happened, there is a leaden hurt that lives in my chest all of the time. I hope and assume that one day, the pain won’t be quite so acute, but after all, it hasn’t been that long, so it’s normal, I think, that I am still hurting this much.

I have never known exactly what to say to someone after their loved one dies. It’s hard to know what to say, and every grief stricken person is different in what they want to hear from others. I know that I found it particularly difficult to know what to say when two people exceptionally dear to me lost their toddler son in an accident in 2005, and then later, in 2008 when my friend and coworker lost his gorgeous 6 year old daughter to cancer . Because losing one of my own children was so terrifying to me, I couldn’t figure out what to say to these parents who had had the Worst Thing Ever actually come to pass.

Part 2 of 2 continued on Thursday, April 5, 2012