Get on with it

One of my new friends linked to this article on her blog. She lost her son last month and reading her thoughts has been painful, yet therapeutic. I remember that anguish...that pain so searingly fresh. Being unable to do anything, think anything, be anything other than PAIN. Not believing that you will ever be able to breathe normally again, or walk through the world without feeling like a foreigner...an alien race, or being able to feel peace or hope or happiness again. Ugh...its just so hard. Its like being burned all over your body...you can't do anything for them. Just existing hurts. Even healing hurts them. Every little touch, gesture, hug hurts, even if you don't mean for it to.

Reading this article brought back so much, too...and shocked me. What's shocking to me is that he gets it...how did he realize all that without going through the process himself?! When he said grief was holy...it resonated within me. YES. That was exactly what plagued me for so long...knowing that this process was important, even the dark, crazy, scary moments...but not knowing exactly why. Most people only want to deal with the comforting, easy-to-swallow, peaceful moments. Some didn't understand when I said I couldn't shouldn't and wouldn't do that. I *had* to feel all of it. It was SO HARD, but I look back and treasure those moments, in a way. Its hard to explain...but he does it in this article.


When you lose a child, grieving is a lifelong experience
written by: Steven Kalas
ReviewJournal.com

"When our first child is born, a loud voice says, "Runners, take your marks!" We hear the starting gun and the race begins. It's a race we must win at all cost. We have to win. The competition is called "I'll race you to the grave." I'm currently racing three sons. I really want to win.

Not everyone wins.

I'm here at the national meeting of Compassionate Friends, an organization offering support and resources for parents who lose the race. I'm wandering the halls during the "break-out" sessions. In this room are parents whose children died in car accidents. Over there is a room full of parents of murdered children. Parents of cancer victims are at the end of the hall. Miscarriages and stillbirths are grouped together, as are parents who have survived a child's suicide. And so it goes.

In a few minutes, I'm going to address Compassionate Friends. This is the toughest audience of my life. I mix with the gathering crowd, and a woman from Delaware glances at my name tag. Her name tag has a photo of her deceased son. My name tag is absent photos.

"So ... you haven't ... lost anyone," she says cautiously.

"My three sons are yet alive, if that's what you're asking me," I say gently.

She tries to nod politely, but I can see that I've lost credibility in her eyes. She's wondering who invited this speaker, and what on earth he could ever have to say to her.

My address is titled "The Myth of Getting Over It." It's my attempt to answer the driving questions of grieving parents: When will I get over this? How do I get over this?

You don't get over it. Getting over it is an inappropriate goal. An unreasonable hope. The loss of a child changes you. It changes your marriage. It changes the way birds sing. It changes the way the sun rises and sets. You are forever different.

You don't want to get over it. Don't act surprised. As awful a burden as grief is, you know intuitively that it matters, that it is profoundly important to be grieving. Your grief plays a crucial part in staying connected to your child's life. To give up your grief would mean losing your child yet again. If I had the power to take your grief away, you'd fight me to keep it. Your grief is awful, but it is also holy. And somewhere inside you, you know that.

The goal is not to get over it. The goal is to get on with it.

Profound grief is like being in a stage play wherein suddenly the stagehands push a huge grand piano into the middle of the set. The piano paralyzes the play. It dominates the stage. No matter where you move, it impedes your sight lines, your blocking, your ability to interact with the other players. You keep banging into it, surprised each time that it's still there. It takes all your concentration to work around it, this at a time when you have little ability or desire to concentrate on anything.

The piano changes everything. The entire play must be rewritten around it.

But over time the piano is pushed to stage left. Then to upper stage left. You are the playwright, and slowly, surely, you begin to find the impetus and wherewithal to stop reacting to the intrusive piano. Instead, you engage it. Instead of writing every scene around the piano, you begin to write the piano into each scene, into the story of your life.

You learn to play that piano. You're surprised to find that you want to play, that it's meaningful, even peaceful to play it. At first your songs are filled with pain, bitterness, even despair. But later you find your songs contain beauty, peace, a greater capacity for love and compassion. You and grief -- together -- begin to compose hope. Who'da thought?

Your grief becomes an intimate treasure, though the spaces between the grief lengthen. You no longer need to play the piano every day, or even every month. But later, when you're 84, staring out your kitchen window on a random Tuesday morning, you welcome the sigh, the tears, the wistful pain that moves through your heart and reminds you that your child's life mattered.

You wipe the dust off the piano and sit down to play."

Tulips

My cousin planted tulip bulbs last year for Gavin's birthday...they recently bloomed and she sent me some pictures! It made my day...I love that others are still remembering my little guy!

slipping

The other day I was sorting and organizing family pictures on our computer when I ran across a file of home videos. There were a bunch in there of Gavin. I decided to watch one. It was the first time I've watched one since he died. It was like watching a stranger. How could that be my Gavin? My little boy?

I was really shocked at how sick he looked. I never really understood why others always thought he was on the brink of death, but now I do. He never seemed that yellow to me. His tummy never seemed that big (at least not when we were at home...our hospital trips were a different story). I was surprised by other things, too...how much I had forgotten about him...how much didn't trigger any memories for me. It felt like none of it was real, like it never really happened.

I am starting to forget things about him. How he sounded, how he moved, how he laughed, how he looked at me. Its inevitable...it happens to all of us, even when our children are still here. Can you recall exactly what it was like when your child was a newborn? A 1 year old? etc...

I hate that he is slipping away from me. That he is slipping away from all of us. The other day Evienne asked how to spell his name. It made me sad...had it really been that long since she's seen his name or had to write it down? His name was so perfect...it held so much promise, so much life. We spent so much time and energy trying to find the perfect one...and now its just a memory. It makes me sad that he only got to use it for such a short time.

It hurts so much that our family isn't complete anymore...I want all my children to be lined up together. I want to name them off one by one. But instead there is just a space where he used to be.

The loss is real, even for Mormons.

 A friend linked me to this article Grief is OK- even for Mormons, and it was so comforting to read.  

"Unlike the Savior, we do not have the ability to raise our deceased friends and family from the grave, but we do have the full range of human emotion -- a gift, I'm certain, God intended for us to experience -- and grief is part of that. ... In the meantime, they will grieve, cry, mourn and confront their testimonies head on. And I think that's OK.""

Sometimes it seems like because we believe in eternal families and life after death, that it gives us a free pass to not grieve, or worse, to expect others not to grieve. Mormons pride themselves on having "happy" funerals. The reason being, we 'know' we will see them again someday, so why mourn? We should celebrate their joyous reunion with their loved ones who have gone on before, and look forward to our own reunions with anticipation. Yes, we will miss them, but having our gospel knowledge is comfort enough.

So at a Mormon funeral you'll notice its not customary for everyone to wear black, its a colorful affair. You'll notice more "happy" tears than sad ones. Its not uncommon for funerals to feel more like family reunions, and you're more likely to hear laughing and reminiscing about the past than silence in respect for the dead.

When I was a younger, I remember feeling a sort of pride that we could treat funerals this way. It was almost like we were more enlightened, we didn't need to debase ourselves with weeping and wailing and gnashing of teeth. We didn't need to drape ourselves in black and keep our heads lowered. We knew the truth!

When someone dies of natural causes at the end of a very long fulfilling life, this reaction isn't so troublesome. In fact, I think most people would want their loved ones to celebrate their life, than to mourn their loss. But sometimes, I think we take it too far. True, it does make attending funerals much more pleasant. No need to burden oneself with the uncomfortable feelings of grief and loss. But who is the funeral really for? What is the real purpose? I think the desire to comfort has led some people to forget that they are there to mourn with those who mourn, not to make them smile and forget. The funeral is for the ones who were very close to the person who died, and need to express those feelings of loss and grief.

At my father's funeral when I was 18, I remember being "strong" and "brave". I greeted people, I shed "happy" tears, I reminisced. I thought that was what I was "supposed" to do. But the moment that meant the most to me was when a long time friend walked straight up to me and wrapped me in her arms and cried. Finally all the pent up emotion was released. I cried and cried, and felt more comfort in that moment than in a million "brave smiles" and "happy stories".

And then seven years later, I was standing in front of Gavin's casket before they closed the lid. I wanted to throw myself over his body and hold him and weep. But I kept thinking, 'We don't do those kind of things at funerals. Its not proper." So I didn't. I remained "strong" and "brave" and played my part well. But I was wrong. I should have cried. I should have held my baby one last time. I should have showed my true feelings.

I felt so upset the day after Gavin's funeral, and didn't really understand why at first. I felt like I was supposed to be "okay", and that Mormons shouldn't grieve (at least not publicly). That my next part to play should be to get up at Fast & Testimony meeting and testify that everything was okay because I 'knew' the truth. But the truth was...the truth didn't matter. It didn't make me feel any better at all! I wanted to weep and wail and gnash my teeth. I wanted to drape myself in the blackness that I felt all around me. I was feeling the loss, and nothing was going to make that "okay".

I realize now that those feelings are not just okay, they are sacred. There is nothing more sacred than the love a mother has for her child. And the expression of those feelings, of that incredible loss, is pure and real. Those who shut themselves off from those feelings, from expressing them, and also from helping others to bear them, are missing a fundamental part of humanity. Feeling the Loss explains it so well:  

"Even though Jesus knew that Lazarus would rise, He did not arrive at the tomb with smiles and assurances that all would be well. The loss was real. It is because He wept at the grave of His friend that I feel I can reach to Him with my own losses."

Jesus could have simply strolled in and rose Lazarus from the dead immediately. But He didn't. He wept with them. He felt the loss. He bore their grief, and grieved himself. Why? I believe He did it to show us that grief is a sacred and necessary part of life and death.

Its okay to feel sad. Its okay to cry. Its okay to mourn and grieve. The loss is real. Even for Mormons.

I miss...

...little boy flip flops. And little boy clothes. And little boy toys. Every time I go to the store I try not to look at the clothes, but I can't seem to help myself. Sometimes I just stop and stare at an outfit that would have looked so cute on him. It takes all my will power not put it in my cart. What would I do with it?! I don't know...put it in a box in the top of a closet, I guess. I just want to HAVE it. I want to buy it and hold it and look at it and cherish it. But I know its too cruel.

Sometimes I see him in Olivia. If I look at her out of the corner of my eye, I can almost pretend it IS him. Just for a few seconds... Sometimes I hold her and close my eyes and try to remember. I run my fingers through her hair and wish they had those same little curls.

2 weeks

Today Olivia is the same age as Gavin when he died. Two weeks exactly before her 1st birthday. By this time he had already died. We had left the hospital and I was in our hotel room begging God to either let me sleep or let me die. He didn't grant me either one. The next morning his doctor came to our room, sat on my bed and held me in her arms while I wept. She told me I had to live for the baby that would be coming soon...our little girl, our little Olivia. She reminded me that all the parts that made Gavin special would also be in her. That she shared the same parents, the same DNA...a part of him would live on through her. 

I keep looking at her hands and feet, trying to remember what his looked like. I hold her and try to remember what it was like holding him. I think about how happy she is and how much she's growing and learning, and how playful and stubborn and curious and cute and just...how alive she is...and it makes me so, so, so sad that Gavin doesn't get to wake up tomorrow morning. That he didn't get to live. Tomorrow I will have had her longer than him. It still doesn't feel real. How can my brain still refuse to accept it?

 

Windows

I liked this post I read on a blog I frequent. It is so honest.

"Give me a Break"
http://sixldswriters.blogspot.com/2010/02/give-me-break.html

And I LOVE this comment that followed by "broken":

"And like you mentioned so aptly, there is beauty to be found in the shards of broken lives and even dreams. The Lord is picking up our scattered pieces every day, placing each one delicately into a brilliant stained glass version of ourselves, perfectly suited to the warm touch of a smiling sun.

Stained glass is stunning, even though the glass itself may never come to that realization. But those of us looking on thank you for the beauty we see through you.

We are all windows, transmitting ever more brightly the passing light. And as our broken pieces are lifted up into a better frame, the glass becomes a more beautiful mirror of our perfect selves, waiting for us just on the horizon.

So broken is a miracle in progress."

So beautiful and poignant. I would like to put a stained glass window in my house somewhere to remind me of it. Maybe there's my miracle??? Its me. The fact that I am broken, but still alive and breathing and sometimes happy. That is indeed a miracle.