"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.

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.

Understanding the Griever: How Others Can Help

Here's a post I found that I wrote back in 2002 and decided today would be a good day to reprint it here.

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When I invited Martha to the gathering at my house, she accepted the invitation cheerfully. Martha was new to the area and so I thought this small potluck I was hosting would be a chance for her to get to know other women in our town. Martha stuck it out till the end, softly responding to each person’s questions about where she had moved from and the details involving her current job. It was not until the last guest left that night that she was able to utter her fears, “Oh, Alice, maybe I shouldn’t have come.” Then she fell apart in tears.

Martha’s son had died in a car accident in Tennessee a year ago. She had tried to hold it together during the whole evening, blocking her tears, until at last she had to let go. A private person, she hadn’t wanted to tell the others gathered about her son.

As she sat at my kitchen table with the tissues I supplied for her, Martha shared about her son Tony and her love for him. She needed to go over the circumstances which led to his accident that snowy night on a mountain road.

I well remembered how much my husband and I had needed to go over every detail at the one-year anniversary of our son Daniel’s death. We had to relive it all in order to get beyond the truth that we could not have prevented his death; we had not been in control.

To complicate matters, before coming to my house, Martha had just gotten off the phone with her sister. Her sister was excited over her upcoming marriage to John. Martha couldn’t muster up an ounce of happiness for her sister’s special day for the thought that her Tony wouldn’t be at the wedding was all consuming.

Then when her sister laughed and said, “If John’s dad wears that horrible toupee of his, I think I’ll die!” Martha felt her heart ache.

Martha was having a hard time dealing with what all of the bereaved must deal with – how a society can carry on as though we should be “fine” about the death of our loved one, especially after a year’s time and how we can keep on in a society which denies our grief and even pokes fun at death.

We do not live in a sensitive society, especially when it comes to understanding death and grief. Perhaps the use of certain phrases that have the word “death” in them, but don’t mean physically dying, proves that we are not “death sensitive.” One of Daniel’s oncologists answered my question of “Why do we make fun of death?” with “We often make fun of what we are afraid of.”

How many of these phrases that have to do with death and yet do not involve really dying have you heard this week?

Drop-dead gorgeous

A dead ringer

Deadline

Dead in my tracks

Almost died

Scared to death

Dying to see

Died laughing

To die for

She looked like death warmed over

It was like I died and went to heaven

We aren’t really speaking of death when we throw out these phrases. The girl who wore the t-shirt to the museum that said she was “brain dead” during school hours didn’t really mean she was either. Yet, it offended me and anyone else who has had a loved one who was medically brain dead. She thought it was cute. I wanted to leave the museum and cry.

Do others “get it?” Do they care? Some days their words may help; other times, their words sting. They may be well meaning, but they are at a loss as to what to say. Some say nothing and some say the wrong thing. And there are days when the arms of a church or family member may encircle you and make you feel included and loved. There are other times when you feel isolated from your family and friends.

It was stated to me many times that I should tell others how to treat me. I needed to give them wisdom in knowing how to reach out and help me. In the early months of grief, this can be one of the strangest things to have to do. It is like having a broken leg and telling the doctor how to fix it. Shouldn’t he know? Likewise, we are the hurting ones having just buried a loved one, shouldn’t the rest of society know how to help us? Why do we, when we are already in agony have to show people how to treat us?

If we don’t, they will never get it. If we don’t let them know that we need permission to grieve, they will continue on in their lack of understanding. If they say, “Well, he’s in a better place,” and you let it go, they will not know how that statement tears at your heart. But if you can say without too much venom in your voice, “But he’s my son and I want him here just like you want your son with you!” then you have done a great service to that person.

I wish that we could all be as truthful and articulate as my friend Peg from Wisconsin. She says, even now, nine years since Ross, her 4-year-old’s death from cancer, “I miss what he would have brought to the rest of my life.”

For the truth is, death is all around us. We are born to death. From the beginning of time humans have had to deal with their own mortality. But instead of accepting this, we joke, tease and try to avoid death. We use the phrase that the only two certainties of life are death and taxes and yet, we pretend death won’t get us.

To speak about death has been called the greatest taboo. Yet, really, even more of a taboo is to admit that grieving over the death of a loved one is real and important.

We want to shove grief out the door. People don’t want you to make them feel uncomfortable or sad when you cry. They want to see you smile and be like you used to be before the death of your wife or sister.

When asked by a coworker how she was doing one mother, who had just lost her son said, “I’m not doing as well as I was three months ago.”

“Three months ago?” asked the coworker, puzzled by this answer.

“Yes, that was before my son died.”

There is nothing wrong with saying, “Not so good today” when asked how you are doing. Sure everyone wants to hear that you are “fine,” but if you’re not, why lie?

However, we all know the setbacks to telling the truth. We struggle because, while at times we want to let others know how we really are doing (not well today, thank you), we want to be careful that we don’t get an earful of unwanted cliches or platitudes that wrench our stomachs and torment our minds.

There are other platitudes people say in order for them to have something to say or perhaps in hopes that these will make them feel better about your devastation.

“Just trust God.”

“God needed another flower for his garden.”

“Life isn’t fair, you know.”

“You’ll grow stronger and better because of this.”

“God never makes a mistake.”

Whether these are true or not, the bottom line is that they don’t help we who are grieving.

In the words of Joe Bayly: “I was sitting, torn by grief. Someone came and talked to me of God’s dealings, of why it happened, of why my loved one had died, of hope beyond the grave. He talked constantly. He said things I knew were true. I was unmoved, except to wish he’d go away. He finally did.

Another came and sat beside me. He didn’t talk. He didn’t ask me leading questions. He just sat beside me for an hour and more, listening when I said something, answered briefly, prayed simply, left. I was moved. I was comforted. I hated to see him go.”

People want us to “get over it” and to “move on with our lives.” These do not know the first thing about grief. Grief is not an illness or an act of stubbornness or a desire to be difficult. Grieving the loss of a loved one is a deep complicated inexplicable truth.

Over the next months I tried to help my friend Martha learn the ropes we bereaved parents all must learn – gently teaching and guiding others to understand the heart of a griever.

Copyright 2002 by Alice Wisler