For most of us, the upcoming holiday season will be difficult. It doesn’t matter if your child died last month, last year, 5 years ago or over 10 years ago. We never forget what the holidays were like when they were around: the joy, the laughter, and the delicious meals. Anything they were a part of will always be in our hearts. We will never forget them or the time we were fortunate to spend with them.
Each year I make a plan with five ideas in mind that were given to me by a friend.
First, I predict that the most difficult parts of the holiday season for me will be seeing the joy on a child’s face just as I used to see it on my child: the first time she got to put ornaments on a Christmas tree, the first time she got to go caroling, or later on, the first time she got to bring a gift to a senior home. I will also not be able to buy a gift for my child, even though I’m sure I know what she’d want. Just going shopping, knowing I’d see that special light in her eyes when she opened the package was a great feeling.
Second, the most difficult people to be with might be those who have children my daughter’s age. They now would have children of their own, and I dream of what it would be like for my child to have her own family. I have been to dinners with those who have no surviving children and, although it is sad, at least I don’t have to listen to all the news about the children and grandchildren.
Third, words that would be helpful for me to hear would be my child’s name in a conversation. I don’t want others to forget her. I never will. And when her name comes up and a story about her is told, it is like music to my ears. Memories are all I have now, and I cherish anything that someone else remembers that I may not have known or that triggers another story that I can personally tell.
Fourth, my support people (those who can hear my grief) are my husband, relatives and very dear friends. My husband (not my daughter’s father and never met my daughter) likes to hear stories and is very supportive of anything I may want to do or in her honor. For example, he always accompanies me to the cemetery whenever I feel like going, and he knows how important doing little things in her honor or memory is to me. A few relatives and very close friends are also comforting with thoughts, words and deeds that make me feel good.
Fifth, this year I want to include the following traditions in my holiday celebrations: I want to have people over for dinner who I enjoy being with, particularly those who knew my daughter and are not afraid to bring up her name in conversations. I also want to help disadvantaged kids. I am collecting items and money to buy things for them that they need, according to various organizations. And finally, I’m considering helping serve Thanksgiving and Christmas dinners to those who are homeless. Volunteering is always rewarding.
Think about these five ideas and what has happened in your life. Then fill in these phrases and sentences for your own personal holiday plan, and you may find it a rewarding season for your family and others.
Sunday, November 27, 2011
Sunday, November 20, 2011
A Thanksgiving Remembrance
I always enjoyed Thanksgiving each year and the good foods offered from family members along with the holiday cheer, laughter and love. Our family was small: my daughter Marcy, my husband, my mother-in-law, my parents, and my step-brother’s family. The 10 of us enjoyed the festivities each year at one of our homes, all of us taking turns every few years to prepare the turkey.
The last Thanksgiving we spent together in 1993, a few months before my daughter died, was especially nice. She had just gotten married and she and her husband drove in to be with us. We had so much fun, but there are two things that will stays with me always about that particular Thanksgiving and always puts a smile on my face.
The first happened after dinner. Marcy and her husband went into the guest bedroom and took out the trundle bed, pushing it together, I could see her unhappy face. “What’s the matter?” I asked. “We were just married a month ago,” she said, “and you expect us to sleep in two different beds!” She was serious! And I just laughed. “You’ll have a lifetime of sleeping together,” I said. “This one time of being a few inches apart won’t matter.” Little did I know they would only have four months together before the car accident.
The second incident happened when they were leaving a few days later. My husband put a U of A sticker on the back of her car as they were backing out of the driveway (she was an ASU graduate). She saw us laughing, knew something was up, stopped the car, got out and went around to the back, saw the sticker, took it off, put it on “our” car and drove off waving and smiling. It was so typical of Marcy and my husband, who always teased each other. My heart overflowed with love for her wit, sarcasm and generosity. It was a time of happiness I will never forget, since it was the last time I ever saw her in a family setting.
Now when Thanksgiving rolls around, we usually spend the time with my best friend and her family. It is always nice to be with them, but Thanksgiving is no longer a holiday I look forward to. Everyone but my husband and I have a family member there. They are all laughing and talking about the latest gossip or stories from the children and grandchildren. I don’t have anything to share, so I just sit and listen. I smile at the stories. I know they don’t understand how much I miss Marcy and how I would love to tell a story also. I don’t expect them to understand or acknowledge her; it’s been 17 years. They are not bereaved parents. But it’s hard just the same and always will be.
Thanksgiving is a holiday for us to give thanks. I thank God I had Marcy for 27 years to enjoy, hear her laughter, see her tears, smell that perfume she loved so much, and always touch and hug her. Yes, I still have something to be thankful for on this and every Thanksgiving: my beautiful daughter that I will always love and cherish.
The last Thanksgiving we spent together in 1993, a few months before my daughter died, was especially nice. She had just gotten married and she and her husband drove in to be with us. We had so much fun, but there are two things that will stays with me always about that particular Thanksgiving and always puts a smile on my face.
The first happened after dinner. Marcy and her husband went into the guest bedroom and took out the trundle bed, pushing it together, I could see her unhappy face. “What’s the matter?” I asked. “We were just married a month ago,” she said, “and you expect us to sleep in two different beds!” She was serious! And I just laughed. “You’ll have a lifetime of sleeping together,” I said. “This one time of being a few inches apart won’t matter.” Little did I know they would only have four months together before the car accident.
The second incident happened when they were leaving a few days later. My husband put a U of A sticker on the back of her car as they were backing out of the driveway (she was an ASU graduate). She saw us laughing, knew something was up, stopped the car, got out and went around to the back, saw the sticker, took it off, put it on “our” car and drove off waving and smiling. It was so typical of Marcy and my husband, who always teased each other. My heart overflowed with love for her wit, sarcasm and generosity. It was a time of happiness I will never forget, since it was the last time I ever saw her in a family setting.
Now when Thanksgiving rolls around, we usually spend the time with my best friend and her family. It is always nice to be with them, but Thanksgiving is no longer a holiday I look forward to. Everyone but my husband and I have a family member there. They are all laughing and talking about the latest gossip or stories from the children and grandchildren. I don’t have anything to share, so I just sit and listen. I smile at the stories. I know they don’t understand how much I miss Marcy and how I would love to tell a story also. I don’t expect them to understand or acknowledge her; it’s been 17 years. They are not bereaved parents. But it’s hard just the same and always will be.
Thanksgiving is a holiday for us to give thanks. I thank God I had Marcy for 27 years to enjoy, hear her laughter, see her tears, smell that perfume she loved so much, and always touch and hug her. Yes, I still have something to be thankful for on this and every Thanksgiving: my beautiful daughter that I will always love and cherish.
Sunday, November 13, 2011
Infant and Miscarriage Loss Book
Children die at any age for any reason. One group of mothers whose stories seem to be less written about is those who have a miscarriage or lose a small baby. Melissa Eshleman of Norway has written a new book “Always Within: Grieving the Loss of Your Infant” in hopes of helping families deal with the loss of a pregnancy or an infant.
Besides a series of stories from those who have endured this type of loss, Eshleman also offers insight from her own experience, losing her son when he was just four days old. She says that losing a pregnancy or infant is such a devastating experience for parents and families, she hopes this book helps in the grieving process. She added, “It’s like having a compassionate and caring support group right at your fingertips.”
The book has stories of more than 20 parents who have dedicated their time and energy into recounting the difficult moments and events following their losses. Each chapter includes helpful advice from parents and thoughts on what family and friends can do to provide support during this difficult time. There are also ideas on how grieving parents can help keep their children’s memories alive through the years, as well as comforting poems, quotes and Bible verses.
Eshleman lost her infant son, Lucas, in 2001. Afterwards, she joined a number of infant loss groups, finding that she could accelerate her own healing process by helping others. Because she knows first-hand the challenges of dealing with such grief, Eshleman said she wanted to fill the void of information that parents need after they lose a baby so suddenly.
“When I lost my son, I was like a lot of parents in that I had no idea where to turn or what to do. I felt alone in my grief,” she said. “It took me too long to find infant support groups and to find comfort in reading the stories of others.”
Although a Norway author, her book can be ordered online at Amazon.com and Barnes and Noble.com.
Besides a series of stories from those who have endured this type of loss, Eshleman also offers insight from her own experience, losing her son when he was just four days old. She says that losing a pregnancy or infant is such a devastating experience for parents and families, she hopes this book helps in the grieving process. She added, “It’s like having a compassionate and caring support group right at your fingertips.”
The book has stories of more than 20 parents who have dedicated their time and energy into recounting the difficult moments and events following their losses. Each chapter includes helpful advice from parents and thoughts on what family and friends can do to provide support during this difficult time. There are also ideas on how grieving parents can help keep their children’s memories alive through the years, as well as comforting poems, quotes and Bible verses.
Eshleman lost her infant son, Lucas, in 2001. Afterwards, she joined a number of infant loss groups, finding that she could accelerate her own healing process by helping others. Because she knows first-hand the challenges of dealing with such grief, Eshleman said she wanted to fill the void of information that parents need after they lose a baby so suddenly.
“When I lost my son, I was like a lot of parents in that I had no idea where to turn or what to do. I felt alone in my grief,” she said. “It took me too long to find infant support groups and to find comfort in reading the stories of others.”
Although a Norway author, her book can be ordered online at Amazon.com and Barnes and Noble.com.
Sunday, November 6, 2011
"Good Job, Mom"
My daughter always asked me, “Mom, when are you going to write the great American novel?
I would smile, first thinking of how good it made me feel to know my daughter Marcy considered me a good writer. Then thinking, “Could I really do it?” Of course I could. “One day, I said to her. “One day.”
I never dreamed that my great American novel would first turn into a tribute to my daughter in the form of a book on surviving grief and end up being a catharsis for me. I never dreamed I would, ten years later, continue to want to help others and write a second book on surviving grief, still dedicated to my daughter.
I find whatever I do in life now is a reflection of how I want my daughter to be proud of me. “Good, job,” I can hear her say. She would say that a lot, whether I won an award, bought a new car, or dressed fashionably in her eyes. When she and her fiancé went to Maui and stayed in my newly purchased condo in the early ‘90’s, she wrote in my guest book, “We loved it here. It’s perfect. We plan to come back soon. Good, job, mom.” Of course, it was never to be. She died less than a year later.
When I speak at a bereavement conference, write an article for a magazine or decorate my home, my husband says, “Good job.” And I smile, always thinking of how Marcy would have agreed with him.
I believe our children who have died are always with us in one way or another. I believe they guide us when we have important decisions to make. I believe they watch over us when we need them by our side. And I believe they encourage us to do important things in life to make us better people.
I can still feel Marcy hugging me when she was leaving for the airport the last time I saw her. Her body felt so soft as she leaned into my outstretched arms. As she walked away, I thought, “This beautiful person was my creation, and boy, did she turn out to be special.” She turned once to wave and all the enthusiasm, vibrancy and love emanated from her to me, as if she was telling me this would be the last time we’d be together. I never foresaw that. Only love poured from me to her.
Will I write the great American novel? Perhaps. One day. I’ve got a lot left to do in my lifetime, one of them being to fulfill Marcy's request. She will always be in my heart, continue to guide me and be there for me every step of the way. I hope I will make her proud and hear her say in my mind one day when I finish that book, “Good job, Mom!”
I would smile, first thinking of how good it made me feel to know my daughter Marcy considered me a good writer. Then thinking, “Could I really do it?” Of course I could. “One day, I said to her. “One day.”
I never dreamed that my great American novel would first turn into a tribute to my daughter in the form of a book on surviving grief and end up being a catharsis for me. I never dreamed I would, ten years later, continue to want to help others and write a second book on surviving grief, still dedicated to my daughter.
I find whatever I do in life now is a reflection of how I want my daughter to be proud of me. “Good, job,” I can hear her say. She would say that a lot, whether I won an award, bought a new car, or dressed fashionably in her eyes. When she and her fiancé went to Maui and stayed in my newly purchased condo in the early ‘90’s, she wrote in my guest book, “We loved it here. It’s perfect. We plan to come back soon. Good, job, mom.” Of course, it was never to be. She died less than a year later.
When I speak at a bereavement conference, write an article for a magazine or decorate my home, my husband says, “Good job.” And I smile, always thinking of how Marcy would have agreed with him.
I believe our children who have died are always with us in one way or another. I believe they guide us when we have important decisions to make. I believe they watch over us when we need them by our side. And I believe they encourage us to do important things in life to make us better people.
I can still feel Marcy hugging me when she was leaving for the airport the last time I saw her. Her body felt so soft as she leaned into my outstretched arms. As she walked away, I thought, “This beautiful person was my creation, and boy, did she turn out to be special.” She turned once to wave and all the enthusiasm, vibrancy and love emanated from her to me, as if she was telling me this would be the last time we’d be together. I never foresaw that. Only love poured from me to her.
Will I write the great American novel? Perhaps. One day. I’ve got a lot left to do in my lifetime, one of them being to fulfill Marcy's request. She will always be in my heart, continue to guide me and be there for me every step of the way. I hope I will make her proud and hear her say in my mind one day when I finish that book, “Good job, Mom!”
Sunday, October 30, 2011
For Bereaved Grandparents
This is Part 3 in a 3-part series of feelings expressed by the bereaved who belong to Compassionate Friends chapters all over the world. This writing is from a grandmother’s perspective, a completely different view. She is from Missouri. All Compassionate Friends chapters welcome grandparents as well as parents and siblings to their meetings and national conferences..
I am powerlessness. I am helplessness. I am frustration. I sit here with her and cry with her. She cries for her daughter and I cry for mine. I can’t help her. I can’t reach inside and take her broken heart. I must watch her suffer day after day and see her desolate.
I listen to her tell me over and over how she misses Emily, how she wants her back. I can’t bring Emily back for her. I can’t even buy her an even better Emily than she had, like I could buy her an even better toy when she was a child.
I can’t kiss the hurt and make it go away. I can’t even kiss a small part of it away. There’s no Band-Aid large enough to cover her bleeding heart. There was a time I could listen to her talk about a fickle boyfriend and tell her it would be okay, and know in my heart that in two weeks she wouldn’t even think of him. Can I tell her it’ll be okay in two years when I know it will never be okay, that she will carry this pain of “what might have been” in her deepest heart for the rest of her life.
I see this young woman, my child, who was once carefree and fun-loving and bubbling with life, slumped in a chair with her eyes full of agony. Where is my power now? Where is my mother’s bag of tricks that will make it all better?
Why can’t I join in the aloneness of her grief? As tight as my arms wrap around her, I can’t reach that aloneness. Where are the magic words that will give her comfort? What chapter in Dr. Spock tells me how to do this? He has told me everything else I’ve needed to know. Where are the answers? I should have them. I’m her mother.
What can I give her to make her better? A cold wet wash cloth will ease that swelling of her crying eyes, but it won’t stop the reason for her tears. What treat will bring joy back to her? What prize will bring that “happy child” smile back again?
I know that someday she’ll find happiness again, that her life will have meaning again. I can hold out hope for her someday, but what about now? This hour? This day? I can give her my love and prayers and my care and my concern.
I could give her my life. But even that won’t help.
Margaret Gerner
I am powerlessness. I am helplessness. I am frustration. I sit here with her and cry with her. She cries for her daughter and I cry for mine. I can’t help her. I can’t reach inside and take her broken heart. I must watch her suffer day after day and see her desolate.
I listen to her tell me over and over how she misses Emily, how she wants her back. I can’t bring Emily back for her. I can’t even buy her an even better Emily than she had, like I could buy her an even better toy when she was a child.
I can’t kiss the hurt and make it go away. I can’t even kiss a small part of it away. There’s no Band-Aid large enough to cover her bleeding heart. There was a time I could listen to her talk about a fickle boyfriend and tell her it would be okay, and know in my heart that in two weeks she wouldn’t even think of him. Can I tell her it’ll be okay in two years when I know it will never be okay, that she will carry this pain of “what might have been” in her deepest heart for the rest of her life.
I see this young woman, my child, who was once carefree and fun-loving and bubbling with life, slumped in a chair with her eyes full of agony. Where is my power now? Where is my mother’s bag of tricks that will make it all better?
Why can’t I join in the aloneness of her grief? As tight as my arms wrap around her, I can’t reach that aloneness. Where are the magic words that will give her comfort? What chapter in Dr. Spock tells me how to do this? He has told me everything else I’ve needed to know. Where are the answers? I should have them. I’m her mother.
What can I give her to make her better? A cold wet wash cloth will ease that swelling of her crying eyes, but it won’t stop the reason for her tears. What treat will bring joy back to her? What prize will bring that “happy child” smile back again?
I know that someday she’ll find happiness again, that her life will have meaning again. I can hold out hope for her someday, but what about now? This hour? This day? I can give her my love and prayers and my care and my concern.
I could give her my life. But even that won’t help.
Margaret Gerner
Sunday, October 23, 2011
If Only They Knew
This is the second is a 3-part series of parental thoughts of their child who died. This one is from a Compassionate Friends chapter in Australia.
If they only knew that when I sometimes weep quietly, it’s not in self pity for what I have lost; I weep for what he has lost, for the life he loved, for the music which filled his very being…for the poetry which moved him to tears, for the beauty about him that daily fed his soul, for the exhilaration and excitement of flying the skies, of searching for his God in the vast space of the universe. For all that, he loved and lost, I cry.
If only they knew the feeling of deep grief, the emptiness, the dull pain, the endlessness of death, if only they understood the insanity of the platitudes so freely spoken: “time heals…you’ll get over it,” “it was fore the best…” “God takes only the best,” and realized that these are more an insult than a comfort, that the warm and compassionate touch of another means so much more. If only they knew that, we will not find true peace and tranquility until we try to stand in the shoes of others. If only they knew that we will not be understood until we learn to understand compassionately, and we will not be heard until we learn to listen with hearts as well as minds.
If only they knew that when I speak of him, I am not being morbid. I am not denying his death, I am proclaiming his life. I am learning to live with his absence. For 26 years, he was a part of my life, born, nurtured, molded, and loved; this cannot be put aside to please those who are uncomfortable with my grief. If only they knew that when I sit quietly, apparently content with my own company, I am not self-indulgently unhappy, dwelling on things which cannot be changed. I am with him, I am seeing his face, hearing his voice, remembering his laughter, recalling his excitement and joy in life. Please allow me this time with him, as I do not begrudge you your time with your children.
Jan McNess
If they only knew that when I sometimes weep quietly, it’s not in self pity for what I have lost; I weep for what he has lost, for the life he loved, for the music which filled his very being…for the poetry which moved him to tears, for the beauty about him that daily fed his soul, for the exhilaration and excitement of flying the skies, of searching for his God in the vast space of the universe. For all that, he loved and lost, I cry.
If only they knew the feeling of deep grief, the emptiness, the dull pain, the endlessness of death, if only they understood the insanity of the platitudes so freely spoken: “time heals…you’ll get over it,” “it was fore the best…” “God takes only the best,” and realized that these are more an insult than a comfort, that the warm and compassionate touch of another means so much more. If only they knew that, we will not find true peace and tranquility until we try to stand in the shoes of others. If only they knew that we will not be understood until we learn to understand compassionately, and we will not be heard until we learn to listen with hearts as well as minds.
If only they knew that when I speak of him, I am not being morbid. I am not denying his death, I am proclaiming his life. I am learning to live with his absence. For 26 years, he was a part of my life, born, nurtured, molded, and loved; this cannot be put aside to please those who are uncomfortable with my grief. If only they knew that when I sit quietly, apparently content with my own company, I am not self-indulgently unhappy, dwelling on things which cannot be changed. I am with him, I am seeing his face, hearing his voice, remembering his laughter, recalling his excitement and joy in life. Please allow me this time with him, as I do not begrudge you your time with your children.
Jan McNess
Sunday, October 16, 2011
Communicating With My Child
For the next three weeks I’d like to share with you three parent’s views on the death of their child. All appeared in newsletters of a Compassionate Friends chapter somewhere in the world. This first one is from California and the mother here talks about conversations she has with her child.
Eighteen months ago, I dedicated a bench to Philip. It’s in a space Philip would like, out in the natural world, with abundant wildlife and wonderful views across hills and sea.
I go there often to spend time alone with my beloved son. I sit on the bench, look at the vistas, and remember our family as it used to be. I talk to Philip. I make him promises. I ask for his guidance. I muse on what his life would be like now. I tell him how deeply I love him, how missing him gets harder with each passing year. I tell him about his brothers, about his sister-in-law and his little nephew, both of whom he never met. I tell him how important he is to us. I tell him that we will never forget him, that though our lives are five years past his death, we still think of him all the time and want him with us. I tell him that I am having a terribly hard time accepting that he has died, and that I am doing the best I can.
I have no idea if I am communicating with a Philip who has survived death or with myself, who hopes he has. Sometimes I think I feel an impatient nudge, a sort of, “Get on with it, Mom, it’s not what you think” message. Sometimes I feel his arms around me in compassionate understanding. Sometimes I don’t feel any response at all.
I am grateful for these private times with my child. Whether he lives on in some other sphere, and how I hope he does, or whether he resides only in our deepest heaerts, there is an honoring of him in these conversations, a recognition of his existence and its importance, that matters very much to me.
I believe that we all need to find our individual ways of keeping the channels to our children open. My conversations with Philip may seem odd to some people, but they are right for me. I encourage you to honor your own private ways of communicating with your beautiful child, whatever thay are. If you are searching for the channel that will work for you, consider what some other bereaved parents have found helpful: poetry, painting, journal writing, hiking in the natural world, daydreaming, music, meditation, lighting candles, wearing a deceased child’s clothing, sitting in his/her room, playing a sport she/he loved, and many others.
May the time spent in Private dialogue with your child bring you peace-filled moments, a renewed sense of connection, and strength to continue the difficult journey we are all on.
Kitty Reeve
Eighteen months ago, I dedicated a bench to Philip. It’s in a space Philip would like, out in the natural world, with abundant wildlife and wonderful views across hills and sea.
I go there often to spend time alone with my beloved son. I sit on the bench, look at the vistas, and remember our family as it used to be. I talk to Philip. I make him promises. I ask for his guidance. I muse on what his life would be like now. I tell him how deeply I love him, how missing him gets harder with each passing year. I tell him about his brothers, about his sister-in-law and his little nephew, both of whom he never met. I tell him how important he is to us. I tell him that we will never forget him, that though our lives are five years past his death, we still think of him all the time and want him with us. I tell him that I am having a terribly hard time accepting that he has died, and that I am doing the best I can.
I have no idea if I am communicating with a Philip who has survived death or with myself, who hopes he has. Sometimes I think I feel an impatient nudge, a sort of, “Get on with it, Mom, it’s not what you think” message. Sometimes I feel his arms around me in compassionate understanding. Sometimes I don’t feel any response at all.
I am grateful for these private times with my child. Whether he lives on in some other sphere, and how I hope he does, or whether he resides only in our deepest heaerts, there is an honoring of him in these conversations, a recognition of his existence and its importance, that matters very much to me.
I believe that we all need to find our individual ways of keeping the channels to our children open. My conversations with Philip may seem odd to some people, but they are right for me. I encourage you to honor your own private ways of communicating with your beautiful child, whatever thay are. If you are searching for the channel that will work for you, consider what some other bereaved parents have found helpful: poetry, painting, journal writing, hiking in the natural world, daydreaming, music, meditation, lighting candles, wearing a deceased child’s clothing, sitting in his/her room, playing a sport she/he loved, and many others.
May the time spent in Private dialogue with your child bring you peace-filled moments, a renewed sense of connection, and strength to continue the difficult journey we are all on.
Kitty Reeve
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