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

Part 2 of 2 - Continued from Sunday, April 1st, 2012

By Katie Allison Granju – Knoxville, TN

And now I am one of THOSE parents, and I find that I am in almost daily contact with people who are well aware that Henry died at the beginning of the summer, but who likely just don’t know what to say to me, just as I used to not know what I should say when faced with the parent of a dead child. How do I know that people are unsure what they could or should say to me regarding Henry?

Well, I base this observation on the fact that about 90% of the time, people I see socially or happen to run into or whatever simply don’t address the fact that Henry just died at all. The subject never comes up in any way, shape or form. They don’t ask me how I am doing. They don’t bring up his name. They don’t invite discussion of my grief or loss in any way. And I have to tell you, that feels really weird and painful to me. If I spend time with a friend or acquaintance who is aware of Henry’s death and that person doesn’t touch on it in any way, or if they act like everything is all hunky-dory-normal with me, it feels completely bizarre. It’s like there’s a big, dead elephant in the room that nobody dares touch.

I totally understand that people are afraid of hurting or upsetting me if they mention anything related to Henry’s death, and I in no way want to make anyone feel bad for NOT mentioning him (I’ve been there with being unsure of the protocol when dealing with a grieving parent, remember?). But I am here to tell you that only a few months past my child’s death, I absolutely want and need to still be asked on a fairly regular basis how I am doing and how the other kids are doing.

I welcome questions about how the criminal investigation is coming along because that makes me feel like people still care whether anyone is held accountable under the law for what happened to my child. If we both know you read a sensational and disturbing story about my son on yesterday’s front page of the local newspaper, please go ahead and bring it up. That’s far better than us both wondering what the other one thinks about what was written in the story and in the online comments appearing below it.

In other words, when you run into me at the grocery store or go out to lunch with me or drop by our house, please do say Henry’s name out loud. Invite me to say it too by asking me about him; I welcome the opportunity. Basically, what I am saying is that I would like it very much if people would actively acknowledge in whatever way they are comfortable that I am still in the fairly acute phase of parental grief. Please don’t act like what just happened didn’t happen. That hurts.

I am different. I am changed. I am in pain. It’s okay to acknowledge that. Acknowledgement won’t make me feel worse; it makes me feel better. And don’t worry; if you are thoughtful enough to bring the subject up, Henry’s death doesn’t have to be the only thing we discuss when we see one another… or even the primary thing we discuss. But just hearing a genuine expression of concern with the words, “how are you?” from someone who then takes the time to actually listen to my answer without flinching or turning away makes me feel much more whole and sane. When people proactively ask me how things are since my child died, it helps me to feel like Henry didn’t just vanish without a trace.

So yes, please do ask. It’s totally okay to mention the fact that my teenage son died not so very long ago. In fact, it’s more than okay. If you care about me, I still need you to ask.

Again, thank you to Pauline Emmett in Sneedville, TN for sending me this wonderful article to share, which Pauline received 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)

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

Sweet Dreams

~ Author Unknown, but dedicated to her daughter Rachel

SWEET DREAMS

Last night I held you in my dream

And rocked you in my arms.

I sang to you a lullaby

As we snuggled to keep warm.

It felt so natural and real,

That when I was awakened,

I rushed to be with you, my child,

But knew I was mistaken.

Your life was ended way too soon;

As if it had just started.

Somehow I know I must go on,

Although we’ve sadly parted.

Your pain and suffering is no more;

Your soul’s found peace at last.

Someday I hope to join you and

Live our dreams of past.

THE BOAT

I've heard this :story: several times since I joined our Moms Bereavement group in November 2009, shortly after the death of my son Bob who had ceelbrated his 36th birthday just a few weeks before with his wife, 2 little boys andmy husband and I...  To this day it continues to remind me of the different phases of our journey and whether we are grabbing someones hand to help pull us into the boat or we are extending our hands to someone who needs help - it emphasizes again the critical importance of surrounding ourselves on this journey with others who understand, who will listen to our pain, to our stories... no matter how long it's been since the death of our children, we all need "a hand to get into the boat" and catch our breath...  I can't say thank you enough to the many hands who have helped keep me afloat through the years... and I hope in turn my hand has helped someone else.....Cherie Houston

~ by Samantha Adams, BP, Australia, in loving memory of her son, James

THE BOAT

When we lose our children, we begin a journey. It starts on a stream and each one of us gets into a boat. At first, the river is too fast and unfamiliar. We have no strength to put in the oars, but gradually we learn to row. Sometimes the current is too strong and we drift downstream again.
torrents, overcome and continue on our journey.

At times, it seems so hard– others gain courage to go on. We can look back and see others just getting in the boat and help them too, always there is someone to help us row. We are never alone in our river of tears.

And some day, when we’ve rowed and rowed, we will reach a dock and there will be our children to greet us. They will help us ashore and tell us they knew we could do it. We owe it to our children to be the best people we can.

Our children have always known that we strived to be the best people we could be.  They know they had wonderful parents, parents who loved them and still do.    Yes, we are left behind - but by living the best life we can we honor their memory.. 

So keep rowing on that river of life, and know that your child or children are always there with you.

Never Forgotten

I love this story, because it reminds me that it healthy to ensure that our children who have gone before us are not forgotten.  Yes, it's OK to remember them and speak their name and share their stories - it's up to us be sure they are remembered..  

Most of us never hesitate to talk about our children and or grandchildren who are thriving, so why are we hesitant to speak of our "angel children" those who are no longer here...  And for me personally, I choose  to focus on, remember and speak of their lives, no matter how short, not how they died...     

~ by Vicki Tushingham~

I recently had an experience that touched my heart and I want to share it with you. 

I have a new job as General Manager of a private tennis club.  My first week at the club, I met a member known to all as “Old Bill.”  Bill is 92 years old and perfectly independent and active.  He comes to the club most every Friday, enjoys lunch and, weather permitting, a game of tennis.  “Old Bill” likes to talk, and we became fast friends.  He told me how he had lost his wife a few years back and how he misses her, particularly so, he said, because it was just the two of them.  Bill then went on to tell me that he and his wife had lost their only child when she was 8 ½ years old.  He asked if the story was boring me;  I assured him it was not, because I too, had lost my only child. 

Bill then sat down and told me the story of his little Shirley’s life and death, just as we all tell our stories at support group meetings.  He had the same need to tell it again as we all do.  But he told it with pride and joy blended with the sorrow of his loss.  “She was a beauty,” he said, “and bright as a button.”  If she had lived, she would be 70 years old today; she’s been gone 62 years.  In turn, I told him of my Sandy.

Though I cried for Bill’s loss of Shirley as I do for all of us, I was comforted by the confirmation that, while decades pass, our children are never forgotten.  I’ll now know of a little girl named Shirley, who will always be loved and never forgotten by her dad, and as I pass this story along, you too will know “Old Bill’s Little Shirley.”

Each grief journey is unique

~ by Cherie Houston

Today I remember my son Ric and his twin sister Randee Marie, who were born 41 years ago yesterday, March 16th, 1971... Yesterday Ric celebrated his 41st birthday - he is a wonderful husband, father, son and loved more than he knows... Today, 41 years ago, Ric's baby twin sister, Randee Marie died March 17, 1971 - they were born very premature - 12 weeks, so it was a miracle that Ric survived, but he thrived and is now a dad to 2 wonderful children of his own..  Life is amazing and we never know what's in store, because as I remember my beloved daughter today, I also celebrate the birthday of Ric's youngestr child, his little girl "Randee Marie" - yes RandeeMarie was born March 17th, 2003 - 32 years to the day that her name sake, her dad's twin died... There's no doubt, despite the sadness, life certainly can be incredible....

No matter who or what we are – male, female, young or old, rich or poor , despite our race, ethnicity or religion, throughout our lifetime, we will each be impacted by overwhelming & devastating loss, it will sadly happen more times than we’d like to imagine, and that is simply the reality of living and loving ..

During each of these journeys, as we adjust to the death of someone we truly and deeply loved, we will realize that this isn’t a task or skill that we can simply master so that it will be easier in the future. No, grief is simply something we warily learn to adjust to and live with and we must face the reality that each loss is and will also be unique.

Another reality is that as the months and years go by on this journey of grief, each of us must and will find our own way of dealing with the pain and the daily challenges that are a result of our grief journeys.. Yes, in time, the heartbreak will begin to heal and further into our journey, we will even learn to find peace and joy, but despite what others may tell us, there will never be a return to the normal that existed before that loved one died. No, despite all the clichés about "time heals all", our hearts will never be the same as they were before, they will forever be very different.

Personally, I think that a result of the harsh reality of this grief journey, that as our hearts heal, in some respects they become softer, more compassionate and bruise more easily… But, they also grow – they get stronger allowing us to face those bruises and challenges that we thought impossible and as our hearts change, they actually allow for more love than we ever thought possible. Yes our hearts and minds will change, and we have to be willing to accept those changes..
Sorry - there is no cure for this “affliction” we call grief, we can't simply walk & raise money and erase this journey.. The path we take during this journey will be different for us all, and sadly enough we will all make this journey several times during our lives for parents, siblings, friends and for all too many of us, it will be a grief journey for our children who go before us... but each and every one of these journeys will be unlike the other. No, no two journeys will be same, each and every time we make this journey it will be different from the last, they are each unique. Reality is, that grief is not a learned skill, no matter how many times we make the journey, we can never fine tune it and become prepared, so that the next time, and yes there will be a next time, there is no way to complete the task of “grieving” and getting thru it more quickly…
For me, each and every time I’ve made this journey I’ve realized I must be patient with myself. It is so hard for others to comprehend what this horrible loss and the resulting grief journey feels like... When I've tried to describe how I feel to others, I liken this grief journey and learning to cope with the deaths of my 3 children, as to having woken up one day, all alone in the middle of a foreign country - no idea how I got there.. Not only am I alone (yes I have family but they are far away in their own reality), but here, I don't know my way around, I don't know the terrain so I can't prepare for the struggle of climbing the rugged mountains that lay ahead or sliding down the slipperly slopes; I don't know or understand the language so I find it so difficult to communicate even my basic of needs to those around me...
But despite being dropped in this foreign land, I also know that I can't simply stand still. No, instead, each day I must force myself to move forward just a step or two. I have to learn another word or two, so others can hear and understand me… Eventually, I will learn to accept that this is where I now live, there is no going back and it will never be the same. No I will never be who I was before each of my children died. But in time, and with patience, I will learn the terrain, recognize the intersections and begin to understand the language…

Be patient –don’t rush the journey – because if you do, most find that it will become more difficult and complicated in time. So go easy – tread lightly – it takes time to become acquainted with your new and unfamiliar surroundings, but in time, you will and you will learn to smile when you look back.
So remember and take heart, that despite the overwhelming heartache we experience on the grief journey, that life is wonderful and despite it all, it's better to have loved & lost than to have never loved at all...  There's no doubt, despite the heartaches, life certainly is amazing...

Cherie Houston ~ In Loving Memory of my angel baby, Randee Marie Wood  March 16-17, 1971

Believe

~ by Betty Stevens

BELIEVE

Crocuses poke their heads through the crusty snow

To let us know the long, bleak winter is ending

And Spring will come again.

So, too, the long bleak winter of your

aching, breaking heart will end and

Spring will come again one day.

Be patient ~ but believe it~

Your Spring will come again. 

In the Springtime of Your Grief

~ by Judi Fischer, TCF, Cleveland, Ohio

Spring has fragile beginnings; a tiny shoot of green that emerges from the cold earth, a hint of pastel against the brownish grass, a bud that awakens with the morning sun. Sometimes spring comes so quietly we almost miss it, but once it begins, it is impossible to ignore the daily growth and change. The morning sun brings sounds that were not there before. The breeze carries warmth that invites us to venture outside of ourselves. A promise is released with the budding and blossoming surrounding us. Hope emerges for the beginning of a new season; change is in the air.

What we experience in the springtime of the year is what we can experience in the spring-time of our grief. There begins to be a growing radiance. The radiance is not just around us; it is within us. A gradual warming of the heart silences the chill of intense pain. The natural unfolding of the grief process moves gently to remind us that we will survive. Life is changing and growth emerges through the changes. The song of our hearts that seemed off key begins to experience a harmonious blend of the past and the present. The songs of the birds invite us to join them in a celebration of a new life. In the springtime of our grief, there can be a new song for us to sing. It will be a song we composed through the heart-ache of loss.

Optimism for a better day may awaken us one morning. Hearing laughter and discovering it is coming from within ourselves gives us promise for today. Dreams and hopes for a better tomorrow shine brightly with the morning sun. Surviving the winter of our grief with the openness to embrace change is a decision to embrace loss and integrate its impact into the fabric of our lives. It can be a willingness to explore new possibilities that create a different landscape to behold.

We can make a decision that we will begin to appreciate what we still have, not just focus on what is missing. We will know when we have made that decision. Something buds; something opens. The harshness of winter is softened with new life and new growth. It is not something we can force; it is something that unfolds when the time is right.

The springtime of grief arrives with no dramatic entrance, no flashing lights. The stillness of the beauty unfolds and captures our attention. It is happening around us, but it is also happening in us.

If spring has already crossed the path of your personal journey of grief, rejoice! But, if the chill of winter remains in your heart, be encouraged; spring is on its way. Look for it, expect it and it will be yours to experience around you and in you!

REFLECTIONS ON MARCH

~ Dayton Robinson, Tuscalossa, AL

March is a month of renewal. The dormant trees begin to stir, the birds optimistically sing of Spring; the winds, sometimes violent, wake us up; perhaps we need a “shake” out of our winter lethargy; an awakening. 
There is that urge to plant, to nourish, to grow a tree or a flower. There is the primordial urge to feel your hand digging in the warming earth. Perhaps we plant because we know that someone will see the results, as we have enjoyed the results of others’ work. It could be called a debt of renewal, a repayment for that which we have enjoyed. As we nourish small seedlings, we visualize the end results. That tree may die, as our children did. That tree may flourish beautifully, or it may meet ultimate disaster, but if that tree does well, it could be a source of great pleasure and of beauty for many coming years. We can believe that a seedling will be a glorious tree enjoyed by many. It’s a nice dream.
“To all things there is a season” and as life goes by, we simply cannot afford to miss the season, the renewals, the chances for new growth. Regardless of our grief’s and regrets, life goes on, and we must try not to miss a season. Life simply will be, whether we participate or not. Someone will benefit from constructive growth, if we can find the energy to make the effort.
Severe grief, for a time, reduces our interest and our ability to participate fully in life. With a low energy level and little initiative and with our hopes for the future severely damaged, it requires great effort for the bereaved to learn to again enjoy the small things that make up most of our lives. Our hopes for the future are so damaged that there is little incentive to work today for the future. The things that exist today comprise the basics of our future. We run a risk and a danger of missing the good things that are to be, because we do not have the wish to participate in the things that are today.
Although we need a time of some withdrawal, some time to ponder the unanswered questions, some time to heal, we also need to be aware of the lives that are passing. Regardless of our grief, life simply goes on, and there is much good that we risk losing if we stay too long in a state of suspense of the present and a sad review of the past.

A part of learning to “accept the unacceptable” is to learn to make the effort to sort out the good memories and take them with us into a future that will be happy again.
There comes a time when the harsh winter of our damaging grief will give way to some awakening, a time when we, like nature, can shake off some of the lethargy and see and feel the renewals life offers. Our choice is to remember that we could not control the advent of disaster. We can only control our response. Our choice is now only in the way in which we respond to the necessity to pick up the threads of our life and go on.
We owe it to ourselves to make a positive effort. We can hope that those buffeting winds of March can help us awaken to the renewals of Spring and put the “winter of our disaster” in its place, now a part of our ongoing lives.

Kite Memories

KITE MEMORIES

~ Marcia Alig, TCF/NJ

Brushed golden by the sun

A kite flies free above greening meadow,

Drifting lazily until it turns to catch the eddy of

A flock of trumpeting geese homeward bound.

Fragrance of early Spring flowers

Makes me giddy with the thought

That You too fly unfettered to drift or chase dreams,

Dreams beyond imagination,

Unrestrained by life or expectations.

Now I cherish each kite that rises to the wind

Because it fills me with memories,

Memories of your gifts of love.

BUT….only sometimes…..

I wonder whether you remember, too.