"I can't imagine!" When some of us can

When a young man recently died in a car accident a few weeks ago, people looked at me and said,  "I can't imagine."

After hearing this sentiment a number of times, I said to a friend, "We don't want you to try."

People, especially fellow parents, go through life thinking that a dead child happens to other people.  I know I did. I had no clue what burying a child entails. 

Face caked with tears, flat on the ground, struggling to breathe. Hopeless. Meaningless.  Questions that will never have answers.

That is what losing a child does to you.  It's like being forced to wear a thick skin that covers every ounce of your skin and never comes off.  The first months after the death of a child are literally living a nightmare. Only there is one difference.  You don't wake up.

Eighteen years ago my son took his last breath.  I held his bloated body----swollen from fluids----touched his bald head----hairless from eight months of chemo---and watched the life escape his lungs.  He was my boy, my cherished Brave Cookie, my sticker-sharing-joke-telling second born.  He loved Toy Story, Little Foot,  and his siblings.  He once told me that he didn't want anything bad to happen to his mommy. He was four.

Up until that moment, I couldn't imagine either.  I thought God's comfort was big enough to hold me and take away my anguish, despair, agony, and sorrow. When my cousin lost her seven-year-old to a rare type of cancer four years prior to Daniel's death, I thought God would remove all her pain and wrap His arms around her so that she would be clenched in a special embrace and be given special powers to sail through the heartache.

But the pain of losing Daniel was so vast that I felt no comfort, no peace, no serenity. I was angry at God for not answering our prayers and Daniel's prayers for healing from his malignant tumor. In addition to my devastation, I now knew what my cousin had been through. She came to Daniel's funeral; I didn't realize what that took for her to do until much later.

I went to bed at night crying and woke up in tears.  I had no idea how I was going to live without my child. A hole had been ripped into my heart.  I was sure I would die from a broken heart.

They say that there is no time in Heaven.  I believe that grief is not part of time.  I think that grief is timeless, that the ache of missing a child does not fade with the passing of years.  

I haven't seen Daniel in eighteen years.  I'm now a seasoned-veteran of grief. How have I managed to come this far?  What seemed impossible on February 2, 1997, has been possible----I have survived!  But out-living a child is never easy and is daily work. Bereaved parents must work at it---contrary to popular belief, there is no sailing through. We learn to adapt, combat the platitudes, rediscover a new faith and trust in God, cultivate relationships, and all the while, continue to tell others about our sons or daughters.  One quote I like says, "I thought I would teach my child about the world, but I ended up teaching the world about my child."

Writing through the fears, sorrow, and yearning has helped me, and therefore, I've become an advocate for grief-writing. I pull others into my tribe, facilitating workshops, teaching what has worked for me. We write for hope, for health, for healing. I fight against easy answers, I challenge people to look at life differently. Allowing yourself to relinquish continual uncertainties into the hands of a God of Mystery is the ultimate freedom from trying to figure it all out.

I'm in good company.  Some of the best relationships I've made have been after Daniel's death with those who "get" me.  They, too, have lost a child to death.  We never utter small talk; our conversations are as real as red clay dirt, messy sometimes, but heartfelt. We stand together and lift balloons into the sky and light candles at Christmas.  

My husband and I carve memorials from wood. Our personalized plaques have been ordered by bereaved parents all over the world. 

My world expands; my grief for others who have to bury a child too soon grows. I see the photos of their children year after year on Facebook and know they are trying to do the best they can. 

This is the life unimagined. This is how we live.

Guest Post: Anne Payne

I asked my friend, Anne Payne, if I could share her poem on my blog today.  So glad she said I could.  Here is a guest post from her, including her beautiful flower photo.

~*~*~*~

Today, May 13th, marks the third anniversary of my oldest daughter, my firstborn, being ushered into her eternal home. I wrote this poem during the Writing the Heartache grief workshop by author Alice Wisler, a grieving mom herself. Writing has been instrumental in the grief process and I haven't shared much of it, but today I wanted to share this poem. Amy had delicate hands and she loved to have them held. And I loved to hold them. I miss that. I miss her.

hands

tiny and weak

your newborn hands,

cradled protectively

within my own,

sweet kisses from my lips

cover them in prayer.

slender and cool

your delicate hands,

entwined  gently

within my own,

hot tears and desperate kisses

blanket them in prayer.

warm and strong

your beautiful hands,

reaching out

enfolded safely,

for all eternity

held by Another.

creased and worn,

my cold hands

rest empty,

wet with tears

and

silent prayers.

 By Anne Payne

April 24^th 2013

Guest post: Betty Winslow

Gone

By Betty Winslow in memory of her daughter, Lisa










When the door opened, my world rocked on its axis.

The uniforms said my daughter, my firstborn, was dead.

Gone.

Time stood still as I absorbed the scream inside,
then rushed by as I went to tell my world.

Gone.

Her damaged body was put into the earth unseen.
My arms ached to hold her just once more.

Gone.

The shock wore off as the pain wore on and on,
but God’s song filled the hole His call to her had left.

Gone.

Someday, I’ll hear His voice calling me.
I’ll leave this place of sorrow and I’ll join them.

Gone.

Guest blogger: Connie Stevens

Today I welcome Connie Stevens to the Writing the Heartache Blog. Good to have you here, Connie.

~*~*~*



After my son died in 2006, my writing took a hiatus. I couldn’t find it within me to create anything, much less a happily-ever-after. So I fell back onto the profusion of Post-It notes stuck throughout my Bible on which I had scribbled down my thoughts, prayers, devotions, and those precious nuggets God gave me during the months of our cancer journey. These heart lessons became lifelines, pulling me from the depths of my grief, and for months I worked rewriting those notes. The compilation turned into a collection of devotionals that was rejected by every publishing house to which I submitted. Despite discouragement blending with my ongoing sorrow, I decided perhaps the writing of the devotionals was purely therapeutic—part of my own healing process. But I was still at loose ends, not only in regards to the direction for my writing, but also my own self-identity.

While I was comforted by God’s constant assurance that Jonathan was Home and safe and whole and cancer-free, there was a raw, gaping wound in my heart. Jonathan was healed, but I wasn’t. I wasn’t a mother anymore, I wasn’t a caregiver anymore, and it seemed I wasn’t a writer either.

The story I had begun at the time of my son’s illness languished in my files. When I pulled it up and looked over the storyline, it read as though someone else had written it—someone I didn’t know. The characters were strangers—Who were these people? Nothing about the synopsis felt familiar. I closed the file and stared at the blank screen.

I sought God’s face and asked, “Lord, where do I go from here? If You want me to continue to write, show me. How do I pick up the shattered brokenness of my heart and assemble the fragments back into a whole?”

Leaning on the Lord’s strength, I made myself pull that barely-started manuscript back out. If He was still calling me to write, He would give me the story and help me breathe life into the faceless characters. So I labored over the chapters, but no matter how long or hard I worked, there was still something missing.

Later that year I took my hollow story to a novelist retreat. One of the workshops, taught by the best-selling, award-winning author, DiAnn Mills, was about injecting more emotion into the opening scene. She started out by instructing everyone to take a sheet of paper, close their eyes and think of the worst thing that ever happened to them. Blindsided, I sat paralyzed for the space of several seconds. What could be worse than sitting at the bedside of my only child and watching him take his last breath? Then DiAnn did the unthinkable: she instructed us to write out the scene.

I stared at the blank paper. Could I actually craft the words to depict the events of that moment when I said my last goodbye? I had never considered writing it all out. Writing the devotionals had been different. They were kisses of truth God taught me during the darkest days of our cancer journey. But forming the words to spill my most heart-rending emotions onto the page—could I do that?

Oh God, how do I slice open my heart and lay it bare and vulnerable, throwing light on the hidden, secret places of my grief?

I pushed the pen across the paper and the words began to flow along with my tears. DiAnn stepped quietly to my side and gently whispered if the exercise was too hard, I didn’t have to do it. It was then I realized that, yes, I did have to do it. For more than three years since Jonathan’s Home-going, I had kept my deepest sorrow shuttered away when all the while God was patiently waiting for me to simply trust Him with my most private emotions.

Through the vehicle of putting words on paper—and some gentle prodding by a godly mentor—my imprisoned emotions found freedom. The scene spilled out, barely a trickle at first, but gaining momentum, until a waterfall cascaded forth. I wrote it all—the pain, the conflict, the bewilderment, the guilt, the anguish of my heart--until I was spent.

Then DiAnn told the class to use those same emotions and rewrite the opening scene of our stories, and give those emotions to our characters. For the first time, I saw my character breathe. Her pulse pounded in my ears, and her tears flowed down my cheeks. Her voice echoed from my heart when I infused her with those intimate emotions I’d kept sequestered for so long.

I had not considered my fiction writing as an outlet for the feelings I’d bound up. I had come to realize people didn’t understand the depth of my grief, and that was okay. I didn’t expect them to understand. I praised God they didn’t understand, and prayed they would never understand. But here was a way—cracking open the doorway to allow people to glimpse a shattered heart and perhaps in doing so, they could gain a new perspective into compassion.

2nd Corinthians 1:3-4 says, Blessed be the God and Father of our Lord Jesus Christ, the Father of mercies and God of all comfort, who comforts us in all our tribulation, that we may be able to comfort those who are in any trouble with the comfort with which we ourselves are comforted by God. God does not comfort us to make us comfortable. He comforts us to make us comforters. If God can use my grief to minister to another heart, if He can use my writing to illustrate compassion, then I’m willing to let Him have all of me. He has made anew my perspective into the direction for my writing, and He didn’t waste a single one of my tears.

~ By Connie Stevens
Connie Stevens lives with her husband of forty-plus years in north Georgia, within sight of her beloved mountains. She and her husband are both active in a variety of ministries at their church. A lifelong reader, Connie began creating stories by the time she was ten. Her office manager and writing muse is a cat, but she’s never more than a phone call or email away from her critique partners. She enjoys gardening and quilting, but one of her favorite pastimes is browsing antique shops where story ideas often take root in her imagination. Connie has been a member of American Christian Fiction Writers since 2000. You can read more about her books at this Amazon link.

Connect with Connie:
Website & blog: www.conniestevenswrites.com
Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/ConnieStevensAuthor
Twitter: @AuthorConnie

Latest releases:
Threads of Time Also at Amazon
A Place of Refuge

Easier than what?: A mother looks at life without

There's a part of me that died that winter's night.

Illusions. Myths. Platitudes. An old way of looking at faith and life. My future as I'd anticipated it. The ability to be "normal".

A part of me died when my child breathed his last.

I suppose that a part lived, too.

The hope that life can be okay again. That by treasuring my son and the memories of who he was, I can be his memory keeper. I share him and because of this, the world can be a brighter place.

Oh, I have learned the value of so many things. Yes, I can still see the glass half full. My Daniel lived; he loved. I keep all that in my heart.

But every so often this extroverted person I once was just wants to retreat and be alone with her pen and paper. Talk to God. Walk alone on the beach. Not have to play nice or join in the conversations about other people's children. Or other people's small problems that they get so worked up about.

Sometimes so much gets bottled up inside me and I have to let go.

I cry over simple things. Or just feel overwhelming sadness. Over the years, I don't struggle to "feel better". I know how to let these emotions run their course. It's okay to be sad. It's all right to step away from the crowd. And if I grow frustrated that I can't always participate like others can, that's fine, too.

I channel my frustration by writing. I write from the turmoil and as I do, I've been able to produce some beautiful things.

So the question is raised: Does it get any easier?

Easier than being woken to tapes in your mind that replay the horror of watching a four-year-old die and you are helpless to save him? Easier than aching for his hand in yours? Easier than shopping for everyone else and not being able to surprise him with a toy?

You can't erase love. Love remains just as strong and passionate as it was when he was with me on earth.

It's not easy to love for the rest of your life someone you can't see and can only feel in your dreams and memories.

Life does go on. Problems continue to find you. The other children you have have bad days and your mother's heart aches. Life ain't for wimps.

But you know that. It's chiseled in your core. You know a child can die.

And that when he is gone, it means forever on this earth. No more picnics. No more smiles. No more watching all your children grow up together.

Does it get any easier?

Yes.

No.

It depends on the day of the week, the time of the year. Some days you think you're strong. While other days, especially those insignificant days, you feel like a puddle.

It's all about adapting. Adjusting. Knowing when to bring the tissues.

Perhaps that's what becomes easier. Our ability to cope. Not our ability to live without. Just cope with the without.

The Value of Sending Balloons Up to Heaven

[Post was first posted at Hub Pages 2012]


A balloon is not just a bunch of air contained in a casing and made to bob in the atmosphere. A colorful balloon can hold a deeper meaning. Balloons are significant for conveying messages and love up to Heaven.

When my four-year-old son died, I found a renewed beauty in balloons. By composing a message on a piece of paper, I could attach the paper onto the balloon string, tie a knot, and send the balloon into the air. What a way to convey my feelings to my son! And not only that, but by watching the balloon sail into the sky, up over the trees---where I could not go on my own---I felt comfort.

My messages always end with "I love and miss you, Daniel". Some parents write a message of apology or remorse, asking to be forgiven.

I like to go to the graveyard where my son is buried. Sometimes I hold a balloon memorial with friends and family on significant dates. On cue, we unleash a couple of balloons into the air. We shield our eyes from the sun and watch until the last balloon has disappeared from our sight.

Masses of helium balloons going into the air are both a profound and lovely sight. The volume of them lifting into the heavens speaks to the broken hearts remaining on earth.

Have you lost a loved one? Consider sending a balloon with a message into the sky. Watch your balloon soar and your spirits lift. Find the healing that comes with the release of a simple balloon of remembrance into the beyond.

Love lives on.

Book Review in The Christian Chronicle for Getting Out of Bed in the Morning

I haven't posted here in a long time. This year, I vow to give this blog just as much attention as I give my Patchwork Quilt Blog. Which isn't terribly much, but better than I have been taking care of this one.


Below is a book review I found today and wanted to share it. Not only does John Dobbs review my devotional, but other grief and loss books, too. For the full article at The Christian Chronicle, go here.

Alice J. Wisler. Abilene, Texas: Leafwood Publishers, 2013. 176 pages. $13.99. Order your copy here.

~*~*~* REVIEW

For those who desire a daily companion to encourage them along the journey of grief, "Getting Out of Bed in the Morning: Reflections of Comfort in Heartache" by Alice J. Wisler is a good choice. Wisler, a well-known Christian novelist, writes 15 years after the loss of her 4-year-old son, Daniel, to cancer. This book is written as a daily devotional and is divided into sections that accompany one along the path of loss and sorrow.

Each of the 40 devotionals offers Scripture, encouragement and prayer. At the end of each chapter is a thought to consider during a daily walk. The devotions speak to various familiar aspects of grief in a gentle but helpful manner.

This could easily become the book that friends may keep on hand to give to those who suffer losses. It has an excellent message, is easily read and contains practical suggestions for each day that will be a blessing to those who have suffered losses. I look forward to sharing it with others.


~ JOHN DOBBS is preaching minister for the Forsythe Avenue Church of Christ in Monroe, La. He and his wife, Margaret, have two children, one of whom died in 2008 at the age of 18. Dobbs travels and presents a Bible-based seminar, “Getting Acquainted with Grief.” Contact him via his blog, JohnDobbs.com, for more information.

Is it a cheap shot? "You'll see him in Heaven"

It was not the first time someone told me this and I suspect it won't be the last.

Talk about bittersweet.

I suppose I should explain. I'm talking about when people hear that your child died and immediately----I mean without even pausing to take in a breath----say, "You will see him again in Heaven."

Is that supposed to make it all okay?

Tell me, what exactly do these kind folks mean when they toss out that line?

If I were to watch a mother or father crying over the loss of an infant that only breathed for a few moments or a son or daughter who lived to be forty, I would never say that line.

It's a cheap shot. My opinion. To me, it makes it seem as though there is no reason for tears. Or makes it seem that if I had real faith, I wouldn't be sad.

Don't get all ruffled up now. It's not that I don't believe. You see, I do believe in Heaven. I wish more was written about it in The Bible. On many days I wish for just a glimpse. When I'm at the ocean and the breeze blows and the waves dance against the shore, I feel I'm closer to Heaven. Or when I go for a walk and the scents and sights of spring fill my vision, I think, "Ah, this is heavenly."

I believe when people die they go to Heaven. The criminal on the cross next to Jesus was promised he would be with Jesus in paradise. Love is perfect there because the Creator of love, God the Father, lives in Heaven. There is no sin, no sorrow, no tears and no human frailty in this place of eternity.

Yet sometimes I wonder if those who tell me not to worry, that I'll be with my son again in Heaven, are not using their God-given mind to think, to ponder.

Do you really think I am going to be serving animal crackers and reading bedtime stories to my Daniel in Heaven?

There will be reunions, yes. But I will never be Daniel's mama on earth again. Gone is the dream every mother holds and that is to watch her little baby grow up. That ended for me with Daniel's death at age four. When he died, so did my need to buy Cocoa Puffs for him.

I was thirty-six then. I'm fifty-two now. That's been a lot of time for me to wonder and pray and think, and oh, yes, bite my tongue. Especially when well-meaning folk try to cast off my pain by quipping, "We'll just think, you'll see him again in Heaven."

"If Heaven is going to be just like earth where I have to take out the trash, worry about paying bills, and discipline my kids, I don't want it," a mother said to me.

Some seem to think Heaven is an extension of earth. That Heaven to many will be a repeat, only without mosquitoes and a place where consuming a pound of milk chocolate won't make one fat. Many act like it's going to be where I can see my Daniel again as he was on earth. Folks, that little body that took a beating to cancer is gone. It is no more. The Bible promises we'll get new bodies, and I imagine that they won't age. In fact we probably will all look the same age----young and flawless, like the women in all those Oil of Olay commercials.

So before you tell a mother who is sorrowful over the death of her dreams, who is questioning who she is now without her son or daughter, who dreads Christmas because it means one less stocking to fill, who has seen her family diminish in size, and who has a hard time putting one foot in front of the other on most days---even years later----THINK!

There are so many healthy and nurturing ways in which we can comfort each other. Consider them. Instead of giving a pat, "Well, you'll see your child in Heaven," why not sit down, hold a grieving mother's hand, and listen?

You just might cry when you hear her aching heart. Don't you think Jesus would be weeping if He were seated next to her, too?

She knows she'll see her child again in Heaven. Right now she needs more than that reassurance. She has to learn how to live the rest of her life without him. She has to conquer sleepless nights and inappropriate comments, criticism, and push herself to believe that she will get a day free of tears.

Let her know that she is going through the hardest journey a mother ever goes through.

Let love coupled with understanding be how you bring comfort.

~ Alice is the author of five inspirational novels and the new devotional on grief and loss, Getting Out of Bed in the Morning: Reflections of Comfort in Heartache. Read the reviews and order a copy here.

[This post was first posted at Alice's Patchwork Quilt Blog]

Getting Out of Bed in the Morning in the Durham Herald-Sun

A devotional of ‘comfort in heartache’

Alice Wisler hopes to help others deal with loss with ‘Getting Out of Bed in the Morning’


BY DAWN BAUMGARTNER VAUGHAN; dvaughan@heraldsun.com; 919-419-6563


DURHAM —

In the wake of the death of her 4-year-old son Daniel in 1997, Alice Wisler formed a grief organization to help other parents. Also an author of several fiction books, Wisler’s latest is a devotional. “Getting Out of Bed in the Morning: Reflections of Comfort in Heartache” (Leafwood Publishers, softcover, $13.99) is a collection of 40 devotionals for those dealing with various kinds of losses in their lives.

The idea for the devotional was formed as Wisler, who lives in Durham, went on walks, and each devotional includes ideas for contemplation while on a walk. It also includes a prayer, Bible verses and Wisler’s own personal stories of life and loss.

Daniel, who died after eight months of cancer treatments, would have been 21 now. The anniversary of his death is Feb. 2. What Wisler’s book shows, and what she experiences, is that “there is a God that sustains us through misery.”

What’s helped her be sustained is being around other believers who encourage and support her, Wisler said. A member of Blacknall Presbyterian Church, which she joined in 2002, Wisler has found that other members are willing to learn about Daniel and acknowledge his death.

“Bereaved parents want acknowledgement,” she said. They’re still grieving their child and still missing their child, always. Parents don’t want a pity party, Wisler said, just the acknowledgement that attending something like a celebratory event is hard.

Through donations, 106 copies of “Getting Out of Bed in the Morning” were sent this week to Newtown United Methodist Church in Connecticut, the community where 20 children and six adults were murdered at Sandy Hook Elementary School in December. Victims included church members.

Writing has been a form of solace, great peace and hope after her son’s death, Wisler said. She hopes people will find encouragement from her book, with a message to point to God. It helps to see what God has to say about bereavement, grief and fear, she said, and “how we can live in spite of the suffering.”

Below is an excerpt from “Getting Out of Bed in the Morning: Reflections of Comfort in Heartache” by Alice J. Wisler:

(Pages 44-47, devotion Seven)
“Rescue Me!”

. . . my eyes are dim with grief. I call to you, O Lord, every day; I spread out my hands to you. — Psalm 88:9

Observing a temper tantrum in a child is no easy feat. We watch a child asking for a cookie, and then when denied she continues to beg, and then the begging leads to wailing. Nine times out of ten, kicking and screaming follow. Sometimes the only way to stop the escalating behavior is to pick the child up and hold her until she, at last, is exhausted and settles in her parent’s arms.

As adults, often we’re still like a child. We vacillate between wanting to pull away, storm out, go our own way, and wanting to be rescued from ourselves. Somebody hold me, help me take my eyes off of me and my dilemma and focus on something else.

At times, like a child, we get to a place where we are totally out of sorts, unable to even see or think clearly anymore. Life seems to have swallowed us whole. We are in dire need of help. Open your eyes and look to the One who is standing beside you, His arms outstretched. He wants to pick you up and hold you until your tears and frustration cease.

When a mother came back home from a Mary Kay party with more makeup on than she usually wore, her four-year-old daughter stood at a distance for a moment before running into her arms. Then smiling into her face, the child said, “I know it’s you, Mommy! I know you’re in there.” While you might put on a new façade in the form of a different hairstyle or article of clothing, you can’t fool those who are closest to you. They still recognize you. How much more acquainted with you is God! He knows you better than you know yourself. He loves you more than anyone ever can or will.


Reflections to Ponder
Close your eyes and spread out your hands. Lift them up over your head. Stretch them out in front of you, palms up. Imagine God reaching out for you. Spend a few moments in silence. Listen for God’s stirrings in your heart. Close and then open your hands as though you are giving your concerns over to God. Read aloud Psalm 88:9: “. . . my eyes are dim with grief. I call to you, O Lord, every day; I spread out my hands to you.” In response to this verse, read also Psalm 18:19: “He [the Lord] brought me into a spacious place; he rescued me because he delighted in me.”

If you feel overwhelmed by what you feel your life is lacking or what you think is not right, jot down your concerns. Sometimes releasing your pent-up discontent helps because you are getting it out of your mind and letting the paper hold the weight of it. What troubles you? Can you put your fears on paper? Do you believe that the Lord will counsel you as you seek Him (Ps. 16:7)?

Prayer:
Save me for I am drowning.
Save me for I worry.
Save me for I fear.
Save me for I am consumed with despair.
Save me, O God.
You have rescued me
from drowning, from worry,
from fear, and from despair.
Thank you, O God.

When You Walk:
Find a park to walk to and a place to sit. On a note pad, list what you know about God to be true. How will you implement these truths in your daily life?

[Excerpt courtesy of author and Leafwood Publishers]


WHAT: Author reading, “Getting Out of Bed in the Morning: Reflections of Comfort in Heartache” by Alice J. Wisler. There will also be soup and cornbread.
WHEN: 10 a.m. to noon, Feb. 9
WHERE: Blacknall Presbyterian Church Fellowship Hall
1902 Perry St., Durham

Printed in the Durham Herald-Sun in the Faith and More section / January 31, 2013
Copyright 2013

To read reviews and order Getting Out Of Bed in the Morning, click here.

Time Heals? I Am Still Caught Off-guard (repost)

Here it comes . . .

After all these years, I didn't expect it to hit me. Hasn't time wiped away the surge of grief?

To another mother (one who gets grief because her son died, too) I wrote:

"The roller coaster ride is about to begin . . . Actually, it already has and for whatever reason, has caught me off-guard. Why do we think we can escape the memories of such sorrowful days? Why do we think that time takes care of restoring our eyes so that they will no longer shed tears? And oh, when other moms speak of trite scrapes and bruises their children have had, why do we still gasp at what we have endured?"

On a recent morning, seated among other moms, the conversation turned to kids and their childhood illnesses. I tried to listen, but when the comments were made of how bad one mom had had it, all I could think was: But your child was rescued. Your child lived.

Memories of Daniel's last days that led up to his death bombarded me as I tried to add to the topic without talking about his demise. I spoke of a time my husband and I got hepatitis A shortly after Daniel was born. How hard it had been to nurse him and hold him then. How weary it was to care for him and his older sister Rachel when my internal organs ached and I was the color of mustard left out in the sun.

But as I shared this bit of history, my heart was not fooled. My heart knew that story in comparison to Daniel's cancer-related death was a mere walk in the park.

Years ago I would have acknowleged my pain, making sure people knew of my son's death and the agony it brought. This day I didn't feel the need to. After all, these mothers knew of my loss. Surely, one of them would suddenly remember that I had watched my son breathe his last breath. Or even if they didn't mention it, that was okay.

I would be normal today. After nearly sixteen years since my child's death, couldn't I push the thoughts of rushing to the ER, of watching his bloated body aside? Couldn't I have a normal story to tell?

It didn't help that the day was drizzly. I drove home from the gathering with an acute awareness of the scar on my heart. I felt lonely, distant from those who knew not of the continual sorrow bereaved mothers face.

Yet, I was not lonely for long. Those who have also buried children gone too soon, were waiting to greet me in this wonderful world of cyberspace. Their virtual hugs and words of understanding gave me the consolation I needed.

And as I write in my new book, Getting Out of Bed in the Morning, "Bottled up grief can make our hearts heavy; sharing it with a friend, even the friend of a journal, can alleviate some of our confusion, frustration, or loneliness."

I am not a freak. I am not crazy. And I am not alone.

I am a mother who misses her Daniel.

Yes, even after all these long, long years.

And to me, that's what is perfectly normal.

~ Alice J. Wisler

To order a copy of Getting Out of Bed in the Morning, visit Amazon.

[This was first posted at my Patchwork Quilt Blog.]