compassionate friends | MY JOURNEY'S INSIGHT

Posts Tagged ‘compassionate friends’

YOUR HAND WAS THE ONE HOLDING MINE

March 24, 2013

This photo of my son, Jason after his first open-heart surgery reminds me how it is possible to laugh and smile despite difficult circumstances.

I share here some recent music. One of my favorite songs that I wrote at the age of 19 is called “How We Don’t Care.” I will post a story for it soon. Clicking the blue links below play recordings of my song:

HOW WE DON’T CARE INSTRUMENTAL

Life was getting difficult for me. My eyes hurt. It seemed that everything about my eye condition had accelerated. Only a week before, I saw a specialist outside my HMO. It turned out that the fogginess that bothered me was actually a result of seeing through the cloudy edge of my remaining cataract; it wasn’t just a floater that I was told I’d eventually get used to.

For two months it bothered me how I wasn’t getting used to it. I just couldn’t stand the irritating curtain in my eye. Then both my eyes began to hurt and the pain gnawed at me. When I shared this with my friend, Dr. Sam, he encouraged me to push my HMO to do something sooner. Otherwise it was two weeks until my appointment. I share our correspondence below, with his words in brown:

Judy, I would certainly advocate getting this done sooner. Tell them that you are essentially visually disabled until the procedure is done. It’s only 12 days away, but it sounds like it will be a long 12 days, can you go through a patient ombudsman? After all, your HMO should have been on this much sooner. It was only because you went out of the system that you discovered you needed this done. I’m so sorry it’s getting worse! I know you have that big art project; feel better and let me know how it’s going! Sam

I wrote this message to my primary doctor:

Hi Dr. , I was given an appointment on April 1st. The problem is my condition is worsening and in both of my eyes now. I feel like there is a gray curtain in my vision. It is very uncomfortable and my eyes are watering all the time. Can you please contact the head of ophthalmology? He denied my request for an outside opinion and is allowing me to suffer – because now I have information from a doctor outside this HMO stating that my condition is treatable. I am more than willing to see a different doctor, or even go to a private doctor. I really don’t want to go on disability for a problem that is correctable when quickly treated. Please find out if I can have this taken care of ASAP! Thank you!

I received a phone call giving me an appointment a week sooner. I shared the news with Sam. He wrote back:

You might want to verify that it is an appointment at which you will be treated. Show up with a white cane and a German Shepherd that should help! Sam

Thanks, Sam. Good idea. I’ll call tomorrow. I have to steel myself to face a doctor who might be pretty huffy that I complained and was demanding. It’s only my life that has been totally affected by this. I’ll remind myself of that. It was so bad tonight. I had dinner with friends and sat there in a fog. It was hard to converse or think.

Judy

You were advocating for your health; every patient has the right to do that. It’s your vision that is getting worse, not his, and you are paying your HMO to take care of you. They dropped the ball here!

I share links here to my story about how I reconnected with Sam when he left a message on my blog. We dated in high school:

YOU’RE NOT THE ONE

I REMEMBER THE FUN

A video snap from my prom date with Sam in 1975 when I was 15 years old. Sam’s car is parked in the same spot where my car is now parked!

Memories I treasure, being outdoors when I was in my twenties.

Now I was counting the days. My nerves were frayed. I cried easily and had a constant headache. I forged ahead on my illustration assignment, but my eyes were constantly hurting.

It was Saturday and I had only four more days until my appointment. I thought about going to Urgent Care because of my pain. I wished I could just go to sleep and wake up the day I’d be treated. As discouraged as I felt, I held onto the knowledge that I’d have relief soon.

Although I felt like hibernating and staying in bed, I decided to stick with my routine. I drove to see my mother at her nursing home for our weekly Saturday lunch outing. As I sat trying to hold it together, my mother continuously beamed at me. Her dementia did not allow her to converse anymore, but I could still feel her love. I tried hard not to appear distraught.

It was after I dropped my mother back at her nursing home that I received the phone call.

It was so beautiful and amazing that it left me breathless.

I believe God definitely sent me a message to help me.

While looking for pictures of an old friend to add to my story, I found more beautiful pictures of Jason to share on my blog.

I wrote my story with flashbacks interspersed. They are in purple italics.

“Judy, it’s Jeanne! Do you remember me?”

My heart skipped a beat as I yelled, “Are you kidding? Of course! I would never forget you!”

It was three days after Jason’s funeral. I was numb and in a fog. But Jeanne and her husband Josh were at the door. They had come over to make breakfast and I was so grateful to see them. I was filled with desperation. There was no one else who understood my desolation – no one. It was because Jeanne had experienced a stillbirth many years before; to me, she was an expert about grief. Her explanations comforted me and I could never get enough. But it always led to the same place. I needed to know when the agony would subside. Sadly, it had only just begun.

Jeanne was crying as she said, “Judy, I was thinking of you and looked you up on the Internet. I have been reading your blog. Oh my god, you had me crying and laughing! I saw Jason’s pictures, heard your music and caught up on your life. You are such an incredible person and a gifted writer. I am so excited about where you are going with your life. I couldn’t wait to call you!”

Then that explained the 200 views I had on my blog one day last week. I knew someone was reading a lot of pages and I had a premonition about it. I often wondered about certain people from my past and hoped to hear from them someday. Jeanne was definitely one of them.

Jeanne explained why she had looked me up. It was because of her anniversary of the heart for Jillian. Her beloved little girl would have been 25 years old had she lived. She said, “There’s no one I can share that day with anymore. My ex was the only one and that’s over. But then I thought of you; I went on the Internet to look you up.”

I told Jeanne I had a calendar with events marked on it. Her daughter’s anniversary of the heart was there and whenever I saw it, I always remembered Jeanne and what she taught me about grief through Jillian’s death. I would never forget how much she helped me during my horrible grief.

I wailed to Jeanne – I couldn’t smell Jason anymore. I was forgetting him! Jeanne was patient and gentle when she said she had felt the same way. She said that the fear of forgetting was very real. I cried and cried to her.

Jillian had died on the day she was born. I remember Jeanne breaking my heart when she shared how Josh carried his tiny dead infant daughter throughout the hospital so he could show everyone how perfect and beautiful she was.

I wasn’t feeling better. I wished I were dead. The only time I felt better was when I was with other people suffering the same way. I went to support groups several times a week; I searched high and low for them. Some support groups weren’t specifically about losing a child and weren’t as helpful for me. But it was better than nothing.

I wanted Jeanne to tell me about the group that helped her so much after her loss. I begged her, but she kept hesitating. After constantly badgering her, she finally told me why. She said, “Judy, I don’t want you to go this group. I’m concerned that you might say that your loss is greater because your child lived five years. This group is for infant loss, and there are people there suffering through miscarriages. If you say your loss is greater that would be very hurtful for them.”

I always remembered her words. I have written a lot about grief and about grief comparisons. It breaks my heart recalling how Jeanne and Josh were there for us, while constantly hearing from my family, friends and even from me how their loss was not comparable to mine. I totally readjusted my thinking after I healed from my grief. I do not believe in comparing grief anymore.

Both of us continued babbling. Jeanne’s tone was firm when she mentioned that she wanted to talk to me about my singing. She reminded me that I had performed at her wedding. I’d forgotten! It was the one and only time I had ever done something like that. She gushed to me about how much she loved my voice. My presence and the song I played at her wedding was something unforgettable to her. It was such a unique and beautiful song, but I no longer remembered how to play it. I wasn’t sure when to mention to her that I knew about her divorce because I had run into Josh.

I loved playing 70’s songs. Judy Collins had a sensitive, sweet song named “Since You’ve Asked.” I was extremely honored to play it for my friends’ wedding. The wedding was held outdoors and it was a warm day. There were orchards and sweet blossoms that intoxicated me as I gently fingerpicked my song and sang from my heart. It was a beautiful moment; singing next to my good friends with their eyes locked in love.

We talked about what had happened to our mutual friends. I had met Jeanne and her husband Josh at a workshop called “Making Marriage Work.” Just writing those words gave me a pang in my heart. Perhaps the class did work somewhat, as I had stayed married for many years through tribulations that most couples broke apart from. And the class did not work for Josh and Jeanne either.

Six years ago, I was shopping at the market when I heard a voice behind me. I was stunned; it was my friend Josh whom I hadn’t seen in seven years. I couldn’t believe it. He had gone through gastric bypass surgery and lost over 100 pounds; I hardly recognized him. He told me that he had gotten divorced and lived in the area. I took his business card and a week later I invited him to dinner at our house. My husband and I caught up with him over that dinner. I felt very sad when he talked about Jeanne. I realized that I was hearing only one side of the story. As he spoke about the deterioration of their relationship, most of his words flew over my head because it sounded so painful. Even though my husband and I talked about seeing him again, it was the last time we saw Josh.

Jeanne told me she certainly understood about the sadness of divorce after a long marriage. It was then when I told her how I had seen Josh. Because of my openness, I mentioned that I hadn’t believed the negative things he said about her during our reunion with him. I did not tell her what he said. But I regretted that remark instantly. Her voice revealed she was hurt as she brightly said that she had never said anything negative about him. She didn’t feel that it was fair for him to have done that. I certainly agreed.

We continued talking for a long time, until it was time for both of us to hang up. As I said goodbye, I felt exhilarated and looked forward to seeing her and catching up more. She didn’t live too far away from me.

Later that day, I tried to remember why my husband and I had lost touch with Josh and Jeanne. We had been close friends for about 20 years. At first, I thought it had to do with the problems I faced with my living children. For at least a decade, I was so encompassed with their challenges that there was little time left in my life for friendship. Then I remembered that they moved to another state and that truly was the reason. But they did end up moving back and I last saw them at my fortieth birthday party, which was a surprise for me.

This was from a camping trip. My husband and I stayed close for many years with five couples from a workshop we attended called “Making Marriage Work.”

This is Jeanne on a camping trip. My husband and I stayed close for many years with five couples from a class we attended called “Making Marriage Work.”

Jeanne’s phone call meant so much to me!

It gave me the strength to cope a few more days until my eye appointment.

Up until her phone call, I had been prepping myself. I didn’t want to burst into tears when I went to the appointment with my eye surgeon. I didn’t want to yell either. I was overwhelmed with my eye discomfort and it deeply burdened my life.

At 53, I always felt rather young to have had cataract surgery, despite all the years of playing tennis in the sun without sunglasses.

But one of the first things Jeanne and I talked about was the fact that she had also had cataract surgery. It reminded me that it wasn’t as rare as I thought.

She said she not only had cataract surgery, but she also experienced the same complication I had.

Below is an explanation I found on Wikipedia:

The crystalline lens capsule is retained and used to contain and position the Intraocular Lens Implant. Months or years after the cataract operation, the crystalline lens capsule can become opaque. This happens in about 30% of eyes, and it can happen months or years after the cataract surgery. A laser capsulotomy is used to reduce this opacity of the crystalline lens capsule after cataract surgeries.

Jeanne said it was awful for her too, but a laser treatment had fixed it completely on one eye. Her other eye would need it soon. I listened because it was so amazing for me.

Her timing stunned me. Sometimes I believe there are no coincidences in life. This was one of those times.

I received a wonderful message and it was a beautiful moment for me receiving her phone call. Jeanne had counseled me during a horrible time during my bereavement. She was my mentor and I was her desperate pupil. Now I was someone who was reaching out to help others who were grieving.

I took in what that meant.

I savored it and lifted myself back off the ground.

It turns out that this picture I have with Jeanne was the last time I saw her.
This was taken at my fortieth birthday party, which was 13 years ago.

© 2013 by Judy Unger and http://www.myjourneysinsight.com. Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from this blog’s author and/or owner is strictly prohibited. Excerpts and links may be used, provided that full and clear credit is given to Judy Unger with appropriate and specific direction to the original content.

Tags:Cataracts when in fifties, child's death, compassionate friends, crystalline lens capsule, divorce after a long marriage, eyesight and aging, Friendship, friendship and grief, grief, grief bereavement "Loss of a Child", GRIEF RELATED, infant loss, inspiration, laser capsulotomy, loss, marraige and friendship, memories of friendship, mother daughter relationship, reconnecting, reconnecting with an old friend, separation, stillbirth
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IT FEELS SO DARK, THE SKY IS GRAY – PART 2

January 31, 2013

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I’ve had my share of hurdles in life. Sometimes, I wonder why challenges continue to nip at my heels; it’s been one thing after another for years. But I have always prided myself for coping well and maintaining a positive attitude.

Two weeks ago, something unexpected was thrown at me. It was insidious that it happened just as I was feeling better about life in general.

Navigating living separately from my husband after 31 years of marriage was already enough for me to deal with. But as I sat eating my lunch on a lovely Saturday, I experienced a strange sensation in my left eye and watched an inky black blob snake across my field of vision. It curled into many interesting shapes until it became a shower of tiny black dots. After that, the visual field in that eye became gray.

I drove myself to Urgent Care right away.

Two years ago, I experienced a severe burn on my arm. My father died last May. I’ve had three cataract surgeries in the last six months. My mother continues to deteriorate with her dementia.

None of those challenges depressed me like this one. This one knocked me to the ground.

I found myself lying there, and it was very hard to get up.

I was distraught because my left eye annoyed me every second of my day. It felt like gray gossamer webs were inside my eye. My brain screamed loudly, “You cannot see and this is intolerable!”

Three ophthalmologists examined me since my “incident.” What happened was that the vitreous gel in my eye shrunk and pulled away from the eye wall. It did not tear my retina (for which I am thankful), but there was blood involved. I was told that this was a normal part of the aging process and I would adjust to my large new floater. The blurriness was a result of the blood that would eventually be reabsorbed.

I was calm at all of my appointments except the third one. That day, I saw the eye surgeon who performed my cataract surgeries. I cried to him. He probably felt he was comforting me when he said my condition would eventually improve. But he said that I wouldn’t notice improvement for months and it would take a year before the grayness and blurriness diminished.

I put on sunglasses and cried as I drove home. My eye surgeon had made many optimistic statements, which I wanted to hold onto.

My condition was normal.

I didn’t need eye surgery for a retinal detachment.

Eventually, things would improve.

But at that moment, my vision was cloudy, so I wanted to close my eyes. I dreamed I’d awaken with decent eyesight. I couldn’t stop crying. Suddenly, I had entered a new tunnel of grief.

I plodded through each day and suffered more than I had in a long time. I wasn’t sure how I could overcome this!

I decided to write something that would utilize tenants from hypnotherapy. It was about ways that I could look at my situation. I began with simple sentences that I heard in my mind. I thought of ways I could reshuffle the words in order to help myself feel better.

My blurry gray vision.

I hate it! It hurts to open both my eyes and look at the world. I can’t stop crying. I want to curl up and go back to sleep. I pray I’ll wake up and it will be better.

Can I live with

my blurry gray vision?

My answer is, “NO! I cannot live with this.” But, I have no choice about it and nothing can change it. Yet, it is so annoying and distracting. It screams over every other thought in my brain. Why do I have to live with this? I have too many questions, and none of them are helpful.

How

can I live with

my blurry gray vision?

I have no idea how I can function with this. I am struggling. I want to cry and complain, but since I hate to do that – it’s best that I hide from the world. Too much patience is required for this. I want the time to pass so I can see again.

I wonder

how I can live with

my blurry gray vision.

There are many people in the world who have adjusted to a loss of eyesight – my own mother has macular degeneration. If they could adjust, then I could also. How fortunate I am that I have a condition that is likely to heal and improve.

A photo with my father, taken when I was 15. He died eight months ago.

All my self-talk wasn’t helping and I was still miserable. I listened for my inner voice. When I heard that voice, I received quite a lecture.

My inner voice told me this:

You keep telling grieving people to “hold on to hope” and “hang on.” Listen to your own words about how it will get better someday.

Your misery is a reminder that you did not have adequate empathy.

Healing from grief detached you from the suffering. Therefore, this is a lesson for you.

When someone is suffering, knowing that the pain might get better some day scarcely alleviates the agony in the moment.

Remember when you wrote that healing is about acceptance and change?

That is exactly what you need to do! The aging process is about accepting that our bodies will never be young again.

Stop looking at the gray and find color in a different way. Close your eyes if you have to!

Below is my correspondence on a grief forum that took place several weeks before my eye injury. My words are in bold.

Message on a grief forum:

What if you aren’t feeling God around you at all? I am very angry with him and have many questions. I ask my questions out loud all the time. Well, I yell them.

My faith is shattered.

I think it is fairly impossible to find faith when everything you believed in has been shattered. The death of your beloved son is senseless and tragic. Allow yourself to feel all of your feelings. Express them. Yell and scream; cry and question. Don’t let anyone tell you it is wrong!

Denying those feelings leads to numbness. You are moving forward in your grief now. This is part of it. You may never find your faith again. But you wrote shattered – not gone. One day you might decide to pick up the pieces. When and only when you are ready.

Thanks, Judy. This process is getting harder not easier…. the more time, the more pain. It hurts to breathe. I lost my Mother when I was 18 and was devastated…. but this loss has crushed my soul.

I think there is a horrible realization that comes after the first year. Perhaps it has come to you already.

We live in a world where people think you can get on with your life and get over grief quickly. It is impossible to do this with the loss of a child. I have connected with many bereaved parents. My take is that the first year is a horror with all the “firsts” – the first Mother’s Day – the first Birthday – every holiday is torture.

Then comes the second year – it isn’t better. That is when the horrible realization comes. It is worse – not better. How is that possible? It continues into the third year and on and on. The years go by. One day that horrible realization turns into the sad fact that there is no going back. Acceptance still seems impossible and our child never ages. Each milestone hurts, especially when friends the age our child was grow up. I would think “he would be graduating this year, or driving, or going on his first date.”

I was told 7 years until the agony subsided. It is hard to hang on. Surround yourself with people who understand. Allow yourself any moment of peace or comfort. I have always said that my survival of grief was my greatest achievement in life. I don’t know that many people survive this kind of loss intact. Your soul is amputated, crushed and mutilated. You are still bleeding.

One day the bleeding will stop. Just keep reminding yourself that your son is holding you close and wanting you to survive this. Don’t believe that by finding comfort and moments of peace, you are forgetting him. Do whatever you can to survive and feel better.

I am certain you will emerge into sunshine. Grief is different for everyone and perhaps it won’t take 7 years. For me, the process of healing started slowly before that, but I wasn’t willing to acknowledge it. Look for signs of healing and you will see them. But now it is too soon.

Love, Judy

© 2013 Judy Unger and http://www.myjourneysinsight.com. Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from this blog’s author and/or owner is strictly prohibited. Excerpts and links may be used, provided that full and clear credit is given to Judy Unger with appropriate and specific direction to the original content.

Tags:compassionate friends, death, death of a child, discouraged, eye issues, eyesight and aging, floaters, grief, grief bereavement "Loss of a Child", GRIEF RELATED, having hope, healing, healing and grief, Hypnotherapy, inspiration, loss, optimism, Ordinary Life, retinal blood, separation, writing
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HOW IT FELT WHEN YOU WENT AWAY

January 26, 2013

BLOG TABLE OF CONTENTS

My post title is a line of lyrics from my song “More Than You Know.” I read those lyrics at my son’s funeral, but I composed my song when I was 19.

Clicking the blue link plays my song:

For several days, I have read the anguished words written by a newly bereaved mother across the world in South Africa. I believe it was no accident that I discovered Tersia’s blog a few months ago. Another good friend of mine who reads my blog told me that my sharing of Tersia’s story has moved her deeply. I understand. There is something so affecting when someone writes about death with such honesty. None of us are immune from dying, but many people live their lives without confronting that hard truth.

Comments on Tersia’s blog continue to pour in, and I am awed reading those beautiful messages. The tremendous love and compassion extended to her are incredibly touching, and there are even messages left by people who learned of her blog from mine.

When I wrote my story about my son’s death, it was 18 years later. The memories were sharp, as if my son had just died yesterday. When I attended Compassionate Friends’ meetings, I wrote a page or two as therapy – such as the one below:

This mother is writing about her experience as it is unfolding. I cannot imagine anything more heart-wrenching!

I have a lot more I want to share about this. But I begin with Tersia’s own anguished words. Her post can be accessed by clicking the blue link below:

Vic has left home for the last time. . .

WORDS FROM A NEWLY BEREAVED MOTHER

Tuesday, January 22, 2013

Tonight is the first night since Vic’s death that I truly experienced the “emptiness” of the house. I kept listening for the sound of Vic’s little feet shuffling down the passage…

The house has been so busy. In the days preceding Vic’s death, the boys went to stay with friends and family. Vic’s suffering was too horrible for them to witness. I was in such a dazed stupor and fell asleep next to Vic with my head next to hers, and my hand on her heart whilst the minister was saying a prayer….

I knew on the 16^th that Vic would die by the weekend. She was still able to communicate with her eyes. Thursday, Dr. Sue came to see Vic.

“It is close,” Sue said.

Murky red urine dripped into the catheter bag…Vic’s eyes no longer closed completely…Her eyes had “broken”…she was gasping for breath.

We decided to let the boys come and say their goodbyes…Someone, I am not sure who, went and fetched the boys from school. The boys walked into their Mom’s room. Their eyes were wide and sad as they lay with her and whispered into her ears. They softly kissed her and walked away. It must have been the hardest thing they had ever done.

I lay next to her with my hand on her heart. Her little heart was pounding against the palm of my hand. Vic was fighting with every fiber in her body to stay alive. Vic was dying and I was helpless.

I could not save my child.

Vicky with her boys when they were little.

Thursday, January 24, 2012

I sat and listened to Vic’s breathing. She was motionless and her eyes were slightly open. Her feet, hands and arms were cold. The rest of her body was burning up with fever and her little toes had started discoloring.

I washed Vic. I had started cutting open her shirts so her little chest was covered. I was too scared to move her – scared that she would fracture and that it would cause her more pain. I put deodorant on her and baby powder. A light spray of Estee Lauder’s “Beautiful” finished off her beauty routine for the morning.

I lay next to my beautiful child. My hand was on her heart and my head right next hers. I could hear her breathing becoming more and more shallow. I whispered words of comfort and love to Vic – non-stop….

“I love you angel child…There is nothing to be scared off….It is almost over baby! I love you so much,” I repeated the words over and over again. I could feel her little heart beating softer and softer under my hand.

Her little chest hardly moved. Her breathing was so shallow! And then it stopped! For a couple of seconds there was no movement. No heartbeat. No breathing. And then a tiny little flutter…and then nothing! Just nothing!!

I heard someone wailing. It was a terrible sound. It was me.

Part of me had just died.

Friday, January 25, 2013

For a long time after Vic had breathed her last breath I lay next to her. I touched her face and hugged her close to me. Something I could not do in life, as I may have fractured a bone or two. Everybody left me alone with Vic. I was so grateful for that precious time with my angel child.

I dressed Vic in her favorite pajamas. It was so difficult trying to dress her limp body. Although I knew it did not matter anymore I was scared I would hurt her. Years of conditioning I suppose. Her back was still so warm from the fever that had racked her body. Her hands, feet and face were cold to the touch. I brushed her beautiful hair.

Then I realized that the boys could not come home until Vic had been “removed”. I phoned the undertakers and requested that they send their people to come and fetch my child. I lay with her for a further 30 minutes. I held her tight and cried for her. I just wanted to die.

Just before 1 p.m. the undertakers arrived. I was torn. I did not want her to go but I could see that her beautiful soul had left her body. It was no longer my beautiful baby girl who lay in that bed. In death, Vic looked like a stranger…yet I felt that if Vic left that room she would forever be gone. Strange…

The undertakers walked into Vic’s room. They were so smartly dressed in dark suits, white shirts and red ties. They wheeled in a gurney and meticulously folded up the outer cover to reveal a plastic sheet. They lowered the gurney to the same level as Vic’s bed and took her from my arms…

Someone said, “Be careful. She breaks bones easily…”

They lay Vic on this horrible plastic sheet and covered her in it. I still want to die just thinking of it. My beautiful baby girl, who only deserved Egyptian cotton, wrapped in hard plastic!! They quickly replaced the cover and zipped it close. I think my sobs were driving them mad. Vic looked so tiny on that darn gurney! Tiny and dead!!

Minutes after one my baby girl left home for the last time. Never again would she grace us with her presence. Never again would she shuffle down the passage, never again would we hear her laughter or her cries of pain.

Vic left home – forever.

A TRIBUTE TO VICKY BRUCE

Where do I start? How do I begin a farewell when I still can’t believe you’re gone? How do I say goodbye to a part of my soul? The day you were born I experienced this UNBELIEVABLE rush of love. I was smitten from the first second I lay eyes on you.

You came into my life and changed me forever. Over the years people have complimented me for being a good mother but I truly cannot take credit for that. You were born good, and great and amazing. You were the one who taught me lessons in life. I believe you are an angel God sent to teach me. You taught me how to be myself. Most of all you taught me about life and how to live.

When you were diagnosed with Osteogenesis Imperfecta at the age of 18 months, the doctors told me I should wrap you in cotton wool and wait for you to die. You are the bravest person in the world. You rewrote medical history. You defied death for so many years… You mocked bad news and a poor prognosis…

You made me so proud. You have always been my greatest pride and joy. At school you excelled as a pianist. As a mommy you were an example to all. As a dying person you were brave beyond words.

I’m not sure how I can live this life without you. You worried about me just as much as I worried about you. You fought so hard to stay alive. You fought until you gave your very last breath. You did not want to leave your boys. Your sons will honor you every day of their lives with their actions.

No one will ever forget you. You made an incredible impact on the world. Your dream of a Hospice for Alberton has been realized with Stepping Stone Hospice, and ironically you were Stepping Stone’s first death…. Thousands of people will benefit from your dream and compassion in years to come.

Vic, I miss you so much already and I don’t know if I can take this pain anymore. How can I be sad when you brought me so much happiness? How can I be sad when I feel like the luckiest person on earth to have been chosen to be your mother? How can I be sad when God gave you to me for 14,019 days, 20 hours and 15 minutes? I thank God every day for the time we shared together.

So now we must bid you farewell. It is your time to run, free from pain and suffering. We will always love you. We will never forget you.

Rest in Peace my Angel Child.

© 2013 Judy Unger and http://www.myjourneysinsight.com. Tersia Burger and http://www.tersiaburger.com. Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from this blog’s author and/or owner is strictly prohibited. Excerpts and links may be used, provided that full and clear credit is given to Judy Unger with appropriate and specific direction to the original content.

Tags:Caregiving, child's death, compassionate friends, death, death of a child, dying, end of life, Friendship, grief, Grief and Bereavement, grief bereavement "Loss of a Child", grief Friendship, GRIEF RELATED, hopelessness, Hospice, impending death, inspiration, loss, loss of a child, love, lyric development, mother daughter relationship, motherhood, original songs, palliative Care, sadness, songwriting, terminal illness, terminally ill, writing
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I’LL TRY HARD NOT TO CRY

January 24, 2013

BLOG TABLE OF CONTENTS

When I listen to my most recent musical creation, I am taken straight to heaven!

Clicking the blue link, will play my song:

My post title is a line of lyrics from my song “Never Gone Away.” Many of my songs have evolved and changed. I was amazed how at the same time I decided to do a new arrangement for “Never Gone Away,” I befriended a mother and her dying daughter.

My song turned into something completely different from where it started!

I have tried and tried to find a replacement line for “I’ll try hard not to cry.” Those words are not really positive, but they are honest.

Denying tears is very common. Since the feeling behind my song was about a mother saying goodbye to her dying daughter – I channeled what I imagined was the mother’s tremendous stoicism.

After my son died, I released my stoicism and constantly cried when I was alone. My favorite places to cry were in the shower or when I was driving. I wrote that during my bereavement, I cried enough tears to fill an ocean.

I believe in tears. I think crying is a healthy outlet. Tears lead to healing and releasing them are very important. But somehow, as the years went by – I stopped expressing myself in many ways. I preferred to deny tears, and soon ended up feeling nothing at all.

I appreciate my life now so much because I can express my emotions after decades of a zombie-like existence.

Although I do wish I were more joyful; I have no doubt that I will be again. Currently, I have extremely stressful circumstances in my life. I feel confident that I am coping as I continue to compose, write, edit my book, as well as support two teenagers.

Recently, some of my friends have remarked to me that my blog has been too sad. I even heard this: “There are plenty of suffering people in the world; reaching out to them is unhealthy and is bringing you down.”

I do realize that my friends are concerned about me; their intentions were caring. However, I feel I must disagree.

I feel a kinship with bereaved people.

For people who have not truly suffered, that might be difficult to understand. It is unimaginable unless you’ve experienced the torture of trying to get through every second of your day while your mind screams out in pain.

I have written about ways to help and connect to grieving people. But sadly, many people prefer to run the other way. Connecting is the last thing they want to do.

The irony is that grief is random and can strike anyone. No one knows when he or she might join those awful ranks.

My kinship with bereaved people is all related to my healing. I reached out to other bereaved people even when I was in terrible pain. That is why I often recommend that grieving people hold the hands of others who are grieving so they can crawl forward together. I know that it was very helpful for me.

And now that I am much father along on my grief journey, I can offer so much more and receive back even more.

I have a wonderful way of looking at what I can do to help people grieving.

I am a butterfly.

My wish is to help those who are suffering understand that the darkness of grief could be a cocoon from which some day they will emerge. There are no guarantees, but I offer that possibility.

I am sincere when I say that I am not suffering anymore over my child’s death. I feel peaceful on his birthday and death anniversary. I have reached a place of acceptance!

I still cry when certain memories surface and even while singing. I allow it because I treasure those beautiful emotions. When I think of my dead child, I am uplifted into peacefulness and spirituality.

When I wrote the lyric line “my lovely light, just not in sight,” I allowed my subconscious to channel those feelings.

Helping grieving people reminds me of my blessings.

Instead of bringing me down, nothing has ever lifted me up more than knowing I have made a difference for someone who is in terrible pain.

Sometimes, life holds challenges at every turn. There are many forms of grief and pain. It is appropriate that I am hurting as I wade through a divorce, watch my mother deteriorate with dementia and cope with eyesight issues.

At this moment, I am grieving other things in my life. That is why I have announced that I am still healing. I achieved clarity with my friends’ concerns. It was understandable for them to feel that way, because I even wrote on my blog that: “I absorbed their pain.”

But I realize that I carry only my own pain dealing with current challenges, which has been lightened as I help others.

The process of healing accelerates for me with the knowledge that I am capable of healing!

I celebrate that I’m no longer anguished over my son’s death anymore. I allow for tears and celebrate my ability to inspire others to heal.

For me, nothing could be healthier!

This is a picture from Jason’s last birthday, 4 months before he died.

I love seeing my big smile (this is from when I was 18), which I plan to never lose.

I continue to share my recent musical creations. Recently, I expanded upon one of the songs that will be part of my audio book. It is an arrangement of a guitar instrumental piece, which I named Farewell. It was recorded in 2010 and my story about it was named MY FAREWELL TO MUSIC.

The word “farewell” stirs up memories of a poignant goodbye. I’ve said before that I believe life is all about arrivals and departures.

A big thank you is due to my childhood friend, Steve de Mena, who is responsible for creating fabulous mixes of my songs on Protools, in addition to sharing and teaching me the program.

Click the blue link below to play my song:

FAREWELL-1/20/13 Guitar Instrumental

I enjoy reading other people’s blogs. One special blog that has been especially helpful for me is: Daily Divorce Meditations. The author, Dee Dee Wood recently commented on my blog, which really touched me. She wrote:

Judy… every time I re-read this story about the loss of your son… I just want to reach through the computer and hug you as hard as I can… D.

Today, when I was writing this post, I stopped for a moment to read her blog. It knocked me over because her words related perfectly to what I was writing! Here is a portion of what she wrote:

Being of service, being the light in someone else’s day, putting my own problems aside to share my strength, hope, experience with others, reminds me to be grateful for the day, and how much I have to give to those in need.

Sometimes I can be oblivious to what is really going on inside of me, until I have some type of revelation. Overwhelmed by too many commitments, struggling with issues regarding my self-esteem, worn, tired, straying from my spiritual path, it is as if my Higher Power suddenly throws someone directly in my way, who says the exact words I need to hear, or gives me exactly what I need in my life, to have a moment of clarity that brings my true world back into focus.

january-22nd

On my last post, I had a Facebook exchange with a woman named Carol. Our on-line conversation continued the next day. I share her words now (in brown).

Hi Carol, It was nice to hear from you. By the way, yesterday I mailed you a CD.

    OMG, YOU MAILED IT YESTERDAY? I AM LOOKING FOR IT, GIRL!     I am so excited about getting your CD.     My husband listened to some of your songs and he loved what he heard and wants more! LOL

That’s beautiful that your husband listened!

I love all your songs, but I need to understand how to read a blog. I don’t have much experience there, but I will learn. I love you, Judy. You will never know what you have opened my eyes up to. I have written songs since the age of 13. I stopped writing, since my son died. No, even before. I have tons of stuff I have written, just scared to show anybody. But you lit a fire underneath me.    

Don’t overwhelm yourself. Just remember, writing can start with a simple memory. I started my blog by reconnecting with a woman whom I helped with grief only two years after my son died. She continues to be very supportive of my writing.

You know, I have won awards for some of the writing…nothing that means anything. Just little things .

No award is a little thing! You have talent and it has been latent. Now those seeds can grow. I  lived for 30 years without my songs. I did rewrite lyrics for my son’s funeral to help myself get through it. But in 2010, I picked up my guitar at a very low point. My mom was ill and I felt completely alone in the world. Music healed all of my pain. I rediscovered my songs and then started writing new ones. I progressed so much in such a short time. But most of all, I discovered joy again. My songs erupted and I wrote a song named “The Unknown.” It expressed how unhappy I was with my marriage. Then I wrote a song to help me find my courage.

I never believed much in God, but decided that I was blessed by this gift. I am going to get through any challenge because music helps me! If I can help you, then God is allowing me to spread my blessing. I share to help others feel better and inspire hope. Carol, please know that your gift is waiting to be reopened and to shine. It never left and will blossom as you express and free yourself from pain!

I don’t know where to start…

Why don’t you start a blog? Just write and write – it’s kind of like a journal. You might also find other people reading your words and responding – it grows and grows!

Wow, this sounds like a great idea… but you’re going have to walk me through it.   I love you, Judy.

I love you too, Carol. I will gladly help you. There’s no way you can fail! I was just writing a story about why I am so involved with grieving people. I am perfectly fine with what I’m doing and if people find it sad, they can read something else!

All your stuff, is absolutely amazing.       I am divorced and am remarried.  I cheer you on to share the beauty that is in your heart with others.  You are a beautiful thing.

Thank you for believing in me. I actually believe someday I will reach a lot of people. For me, the destination is not as important as the journey. I am staying positive despite unbelievable challenges. I wasn’t meant to be exposed or find fame until the time is right. God continues to bless me with more knowledge and my voice has also improved since I didn’t sing for 30 years.

Leaving my husband was the only way I could do this; to have the courage. I believe I will even touch more people than just those who have experienced grief. There are a lot of divorced women who will be cheering me on!

You have had to overcome challenges that even I don’t know I could have done.

Thanks, Carol. I go back and forth between writing to you and writing my story. Writing to you is part of my story and crystallizes everything. It doesn’t bring me down when I can inspire you to rise up. That was what I was writing about!

Tonight, I had a friend help me in my new digs set up a microphone for recording. I have a lot of songs that need new vocals. Once I get my book done, I’ll be starting a second one with lots more songs!

Judy, I will never judge you, just encourage you, edify you and pray for you, because I know you would do the same for me. I have not scrolled through all my poems, all my songs, until I met you. You have actually inspired me to write again. My husband can’t believe it.

Then I thank you for adding to my beautiful story about why I love what I am doing. It’s all about love. I healed from my grief because of my love for my son and what he wanted for me. You will heal, Carol. It is so hard – but I see it!! I am going to go to bed now – but I have a smile on my face.

The best part about writing is that it is so healing. I waited 18 years, but if you can do it after six years – you can inspire even more people about healing!

Recent email message to a friend:

Sunday, January 22^nd

It was so nice of you to be concerned about me. I have not been emailing my friends as much, but I have been writing a lot for my blog. I am still in limbo as far as signing a divorce agreement.

Lately, I’ve been reaching out to other grieving people to offer comfort. A friend told me that it probably wasn’t good for me to do this because it was “bringing me down.” But the truth is that I am down and helping people gives me a lot of satisfaction.

I have not felt great physically. Today, I had a bad experience. I saw something black go into my vision – then it dissipated into threads and my vision was foggy in that eye. I went to Urgent Care and the ophthalmologist who examined me said it was a large new floater and there was retinal blood in the back of my eye. But my retinas were intact and eventually I would get used to this new floater, which I’ll add to my collection. Ironically, it looks like a music note!

My vision is so annoying and looks worse than before my cataract surgery. 50% of the vision in my left eye looks brown. I’m trying not to let it make me miserable, but it hasn’t been easy.

I can share that I have been doing wonderful things musically. I’ve created about five new arrangements in the last few months. Last week, I wrote a beautiful new song and I love it. I’ve also started taking voice lessons with a new teacher. She is wonderful and I hear so much improvement already!

So that is my life in a nutshell. I hope you are doing well. You know I often think of you and care about you very much.

Love, Judy

Ps. My mother continues to hang in there, but when I saw her yesterday, she did not look well. She had mild pneumonia and a urinary tract infection last week. On Saturday, I visited her but she would not open her eyes to look at me. I have done well accepting that she has left my life.

Tags:"sandwich generation", acoustic guitar, Aging Parents, Caregiving, child's death, compassionate friends, composing, creativity, death, death of a child, dementia, floaters, Friendship, grief, grief bereavement "Loss of a Child", GRIEF RELATED, guitar, healing and grief, healing from grief, helping others, hopefulness, inspiration, instrumental music, instrumentals, loss, lovesong, lyric development, lyric writing, lyrics, mental-health, mother, mother daughter relationship, mother's illness, Music, musical arrangements, musical inspiration, optimism and grief, original songs, songwriting, spirituality, uplifting music, writing
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YOU’RE MY ANGEL

January 19, 2013

BLOG TABLE OF CONTENTS

My newest song emerged one week ago. I have never written, nor arranged a song this quickly. It gives me chills!

I finished the arrangement today and sang a vocal with my old mic. I could hear cars rumbling in the background! But because I feel so inspired, I don’t care about revealing something that isn’t a “final product.” I am also sharing an acoustic version of my song, where I simply sing and play my guitar.

Clicking the blue links plays audio:

ANGEL IN THE SKY ACOUSTIC

ANGEL IN THE SKY INSTRUMENTAL

LINK TO VIDEOS ON YOUTUBE

ANGEL IN THE SKY

My love for you grows over time

with every song and every rhyme

I dream about your sweet embrace

your sparkling eyes; your beautiful face

You are my angel in the sky, like a butterfly

you flew away and couldn’t stay

we had to say goodbye

love can never die

so you must know I miss you so

my angel in the sky

Your precious smile glows in my mind

you uplift; and are my gift

When I die; you’ll take my hand

my lovely light, just not in sight

You are my angel in the sky, like a butterfly

you flew away and couldn’t stay

we had to say goodbye

love can never die

so you must know I miss you so

my angel in the sky

My energy lately has been directed toward reaching out to comfort grieving mothers. I joined a Facebook group and have been writing messages of hope. I am certain that reading about all of the children who were “Angels,” inspired me to write my song.

Last night, I noticed that one mother was sharing songs and inspirational videos. I wrote a message to her that I had songs I could also share; I figured she was someone who could appreciate what I had to offer.

How beautiful that by offering her comfort, I was blessed with a response that lifted me up. Her words were like a soothing balm that eased my doubt and gave me back my dream.

My dialog with Carol started when I shared my song “Beside Me Always.” She announced to the group that she had listened to my song and her words are in brown.

A woman named Judy just gave me a link to her beautiful songs. I just listened to one and it was beautiful.   

Thank you, Carol! I find that music is something that has comforted me. My son died 20 years ago and I started to sing again in 2010. I compose music and it has helped me to heal from my grief. Your words mean a lot. I just wrote a new song this weekend and I am thinking you would like it. I named it Angel in the Sky. If you have an email, I’ll send it to you.

Thank you! I just listened to one of your songs on your blog. But there was no way I could share it. How come? It is beautiful. Do you have a link to YouTube?

I do have one live performance on YouTube, but I haven’t gotten around to putting anything else there.

I already found it and left a comment for you. I truly love your music. Oh my god, you are gifted. Your songs are so comforting. Can you send me the song you were talking about? Angel in the Sky?

It’s unfinished, but I already sent it to your email. I am not selling my music yet. I’ve concentrated on creating an audio book to tell my amazing story. I healed from grief when I allowed myself to sing again after 18 years. All of my music is from my heart and Jason (my angel) inspired many of my songs. Thank you for appreciating my music. If you have an address – I’ll mail you a CD! (Free, of course) 

It’s funny, but just last week both my sons insisted that I would become successful if I put videos on YouTube. I’m a bit shy about how I look performing, but I do love sharing my music.

My total focus is to help others heal as I have!

GIRL, PARDON THE CAPS, BUT YOUR SONS ARE RIGHT! I am going to check out my email. Love you, girl. Be back after I listen. Hope you’re still on here.

I am smiling because it is wonderful to offer hope and inspiration. I understand the hell of grief. It is an amputation of the soul and there are few words to describe it.

Sometimes, I wonder whether I can make ends meet by doing my music and writing. But I feel certain that I have been blessed with a gift to help others and I plan to continue doing it as long as I can. Feel free to share my music and words.

My music and book will be available in a few months. And then, I’ll plan on doing more promotion and YouTube stuff. Thank you again, Carol! 

Oh my god! I have tears running down my face. I just wish I could share it. My little sister needs to hear Angel in the Sky. She lost her son last year to Leukemia.

Also Judy, your vocals are fine!

Please post this song to my Facebook. I would buy your CD in a minute. Without the blink of an eye. My nose is all stopped up. But in a good way. Your voice is totally unique. You know how Adele’s voice is unique? Yours is the same way.

Now I am crying. I am so insecure about my singing voice. Thank you!

Judy, I have lost 9 people in the last six years: My son, my dad (four months after my son died), two friends, my mom, my aunt, grand mom and my nephew. God and music have saved my life.

Carol, you have had a lot to deal with. I am sorry. All of those losses are hard and that is a lot in 6 years. Your father dying 4 months after your son is heartbreaking!

I wasn’t religious, but when music came to me my life was filled with joy. I’ve decided that god blessed me and I am very spiritual now. I don’t care if I die tomorrow. I believe my writing and songs will live on.

Let me listen to all of it….it soothes my soul.

I usually write a new song every other month. My passion is having my songs arranged, but I am certain that what I spend on my music will come back to me. It makes me happy and after living with sadness for so many years, I feel I deserve it!

My 16-year-old son tells me to be realistic; that I won’t be able to support myself with music and writing. I just keep telling him that I will succeed. For me, success is about just touching one person; that is enough for me. You made my night, Carol.

Judy, if I wanted to sponsor you, or help you, how would I do it?  I am just a middle class person, living paycheck to paycheck, but I believe in you.  I believe in your music and your heart. How could I help?  I would love to send at least $20 a month to just help. I want to see your music on the store shelves.   

Oh, Carol, thank you for your kindness. Your words are all I need to help me continue.

I have faith and what you’ve said is worth more than money. I’m inspired to keep going knowing I’ve touched you.

This picture was taken when I was visiting my parents. I could not have imagined then that 25 years later I would be living in my childhood home, which is on the right side of this walkway.

Tags:acoustic guitar, angel in the sky, child's death, compassionate friends, composing, creativity, death, death of a child, Friendship, grief, grief bereavement "Loss of a Child", GRIEF RELATED, guitar, inspiration, loss, lovesong, lyric development, lyric writing, lyrics, Music, original songs, performing, precious smile, singing, songwriting, sweet embrace
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YOU’LL TOUCH SO MANY OTHERS

January 9, 2013

BLOG TABLE OF CONTENTS

Jason’s baby book. My first-born child died at the age of 5.

Jason Unger is sunshine in our lives. Admittedly those first months and year were the most difficult times I’ve ever faced, but my love for our beautiful boy gives me happiness I’ve never known. Jason is a sweet, delicate sensitive boy – he’s like a flower you never want to let go of and yet you only want to experience being around him because he brings so much joy. Because of Jason I know the world will be brighter.

I know, because it’s that way for me.

My blog post title is a line of lyrics from my song “Never Gone Away.” I have been very affected knowing that a mother and daughter are close to being separated by death. My song is dedicated to them and I will write more soon.-

I do believe there is nothing more meaningful than leaving something behind that touches other peoples’ lives. It is especially poignant when it happens without dying, too.

This February, it will be three years since I began writing this blog. I plan to release my audio book soon that tells the story about how I healed from my grief through rediscovering my music.

Creating my book was a huge undertaking and I hope that my songs and stories will touch and comfort many people. I also plan to create a second audio book that will be a continuation of my story. I have begun a new phase in my journey while coping with separation and divorce after 31 years of marriage.

Lately, I haven’t written much about myself personally. But I do love writing. I wait for inspiration to hit me and I sift through ordinary moments looking for things that I find touching.

Sometimes, it’s as simple as gleaning joy from seeing my two teenage children adjusting to our new living situation. Both of them were very sad to move from the home where they grew up in.

Yesterday, when I was taking a shower the water went from burning hot to icy cold several times. I screamed and was not in a good mood when I came out. When I muttered under my breath, my teenage son immediately told me that no complaining was allowed in our new digs. I wonder where he heard that?

Then, he began to lecture me in a serious voice and said that his sister had taught him the “proper technique.” He explained (as if I were a dumb child) that all I needed to do was first turn the cold-water knob slightly and add the hot water to it.

His words were, “Mom, I’ve had perfectly fine showers and if you would just listen to me all would be fine.”

I worked hard to keep every muscle on my face in check, but a smile began to form. Inside I was screaming the word, “Hallelujah!”

He had actually listened to his sister and was complimenting her. Finally, my two children were in agreement and getting along! I was also happy to know that both of them had accepted our crappy shower.

One of the harder aspects of my separation has been dealing with so many changes. Most of the changes are for the better. There are many things about my former life that I do not miss. I do not miss the blaring television, the dog yapping and the parrot screeching; though I do miss the sweet kisses from that Conure, with whom I used to shower several times a week.

When I separated from my husband, I also separated from my oldest son. My housekeeper of 23 years, Rosa, was left without a job.

My oldest son, who is 22, has gone through a great deal of grief losing his grandfather and dealing with our divorce. I know he misses his sister and me, and because Rosa was like his other mother, he misses her too. My son has been a wonderful role model to his younger brother and they see each other on the weekends. I find myself getting quite teary whenever my oldest son expresses his love and concern for me, which he does quite often.

Rosa is very close to all of my children. She cared for them from infancy on; she was there on the day I brought each one home from the hospital. Our parting of ways was inevitable and I am grateful that the transition went very smoothly. But I have been lonely without having Rosa there to talk to. She truly understood about my reasons for leaving and I’ve missed seeing her on a daily basis. One night a week, we reunite. It’s very special for both of us. Thankfully, she has adjusted and her new life has been going well.

Rosa began working for me shortly before my second son was born (he is in her lap). She primarily took care of him and was not with me when Jason died, because she was visiting Mexico at the time.

“Three special women in my life”

I have been blessed by loving three very special Latina women in my life. I mentioned Rosa.

The second one would be Miriam, my mother’s companion. Miriam continues to keep my mother thriving while in a nursing home. She spends six days a week with my mother and has been such a blessing to our family.

The third special woman I have loved is named Lupe.

There are times when I can look into my past and feel like I am a time traveler. Some moments are so crystal clear, that I can feel the impact even though many years have passed.

Long ago, I never expected I’d need a housekeeper. But when my first child was born with a serious congenital heart defect, I was not equipped to cope with his illness. Just remembering his infancy gives me chills. Jason’s defect was called “Transposition of the Great Vessels.”

I have shared many items and pictures on this blog and I am going to share more. At this juncture, I’ll share some images that are not flattering. But they do tell my story. Because I gained over one hundred pounds during my pregnancy, I was very overweight at that time.

In this picture, Jason’s scar is clearly visible on his chest. He had open heart surgery at 2 and ½ months of age.

In this picture, Jason’s scar is clearly visible on his chest. He had his first open heart surgery at 2½ months of age.

Lupe was a young girl who came into my life a few weeks after Jason was born. The memory of meeting and hiring her is still quite vivid for me.

Jason was constantly crying. Lupe picked him up and he became quiet. Although she spoke not a word of English, she handled Jason like a pro.

I hired her on the spot. I did not speak Spanish, but somehow Lupe and I managed to communicate. Gradually she learned English from me and became fluent. Later on, the same thing also happened with Rosa and I.

I wrote briefly about Lupe on my post named: JASON MEANT “HEALER”

This morning, I was editing a song for my audio book with headphones on. I cocked my head, because I thought I heard an instrument I hadn’t noticed before in the mix.

Then I laughed, because it was the musical tone from my cell phone ringing nearby. I missed the call and didn’t recognize the number, but I decided to call back.

A woman answered and she said, “Judy, it’s Lupe, do you remember me?” My voice jumped an octave as I told her I most certainly did. I was so glad I had called back!

For half an hour we were laughing and crying; sharing about our lives. The last time we had spoken was perhaps a year after Jason’s death.

That meant we hadn’t spoken in almost twenty years.

It turned out that Lupe’s son had helped her to find me on the Internet. My phone number was on my illustration website, which I had only recently updated a week ago. Before that, the phone number wouldn’t have worked.

Lupe chuckled and said, “Judy, my family has asked me why I’ve saved pictures of Jason and your family for all these years – why I didn’t throw them in the trash. But I told them that your family was my family back then! They know everything, because I’ve talked about Jason many, many times. Remember how he wouldn’t eat?”

Of course, I remembered.

In this picture, Jason is giving out Halloween candy.

Lupe and I continued to reminisce. I told her how amazed I was that she figured out so many creative ways to feed him. Jason was extremely small and when he died at the age of five he only weighed 33 pounds.

As we talked, I noticed there were tears pouring out from my eyes. They rolled and puddled upon my chest. Lupe told me she had found my blog and cried while reading my story about Jason.

I never imagined what my future held; that the young girl who cared for my sick cardiac child would be calling me all these years later.

Then Lupe said that it was important for me to know that Jason had definitely affected her life. I choked on my tears when she said, “Judy, there was something so special about Jason and I will never forget him.”

This phone call was indeed a gift. Only the day before, I had called a friend whose daughter died three months after Jason. I wanted to wish her a Happy New Year and share that I had moved. My friend thanked me for my call and said that I was the only one who remembered.

Now I was receiving my own blessing. I couldn’t believe it. My dead child, who had only lived five years, had made an impact on another person.

I savored the phone call and eventually it was time for me to go. Before hanging up, Lupe said she’d email me a picture of her family. I let her know I would do the same. It turned out that Lupe’s children were close in age to my children. She had maintained her marriage and I was happy for her.

I remembered how she was such a frightened young girl when she started working for me. At that time, she was twenty years old. One day, she told me that an abusive boyfriend had knocked out all her front teeth. She was beaten up many times before she left her country.

Now, I was especially glad to hear how her life turned out.

A few hours later I received Lupe’s email, which included a message and a beautiful family portrait.

I cried and cried. It was because grief surfaced about the end of my marriage when I read her words.

Grief amputated my soul. Grief was excruciating and torturous. My marriage suffered.

I spent the rest of my day going through Jason’s box to search for pictures of Lupe.

As I explored, so many memories came back to me. Not all of them were sad. I laughed aloud when I saw the black and white photos where Lupe as a joke had switched Jason’s outfit with another infant girl she was also watching. My dear friend, Joni, had come for a visit and Lupe insisted we could go out for dinner and come back while she watched our babies. When we came back, it took us a few minutes to realize the gender differences!

In Jason’s baby-book, I came across something I wrote under a section called “mother’s message.” My words described Jason as a beautiful flower.

It was so beautiful that I started crying again. I knew tears were good – better out than in.

Healing from my grief never meant that I couldn’t cry remembering him.

My son is an angel and I will continue to sing for him.

On January 8, 2013, Lupe wrote:

Hello Judy,

This is my family. I would love to see a photo of your family, as well. I am so happy to hear from you. I apologize for all the years that have passed without me contacting you, but believe me, you and your family always crossed my mind. You know how much I love all of you.

Judy, you were truly a blessing from God that I needed at the time, and I still cannot thank you enough. I remember how sweet you and Michael used to treat each other and I learned a lot from you two. That is the reason that my family is so strong up until today. It hurts me to know that you and Michael are going through rough times but I understand. There are so many memories of us that I remember as if it were yesterday.

I love you, Judy. I can’t wait to hear from you again.

Love, Lupe

Dearest Lupe,

I was so touched by your beautiful phone call and email. Of course, I didn’t forget you! You have no idea how much it meant to me – to know how Jason touched your life. Yesterday, I realized that I didn’t fully tell you how much you have meant to me, also.

I was such an inexperienced first-time mother when you came to work for me. I learned incredible things from you and was grateful for the comfort you gave Jason. He loved you dearly and depended upon you. We were both connected to him and I could understand why you would feel like he was your first child.

The experience of Jason being unable to eat and your ability to feed him will be forever burned into my mind. It was an unending task and I could not have done it alone. My mother shared that with me, too, and I miss her very much.

When the time came for you to move on in your life – it was difficult for us to part. But you were supposed to leave when you did - it was better that you didn’t experience the grief in our home when Jason died. It was especially sad for the grandparents; you cannot imagine.

The fact that you are married with a beautiful family makes me so happy. For you to give credit to my husband and I is very beautiful. As I cope with my divorce, I try to have a perspective that all of those years were not wasted and unhappy. There were parts that were good enough to touch you, for example. That is meaningful and inspiring; it makes me cry.

Just as you moved on to a new life when it was time – I am doing that now. Sometimes, our journey takes us to places we never expected to go; such is mine. I carry memories of Jason with me. You are there, too, Lupe. I will never forget you.

Love, Judy

Tags:child's death, compassionate friends, congenital heart defect, death, death of a child, Friendship, friendship and loss, grief, grief bereavement "Loss of a Child", GRIEF RELATED, inspiration, loss, memories, motherhood
Posted in Grief Stories | 2 Comments »

HOW CAN I BELIEVE?

January 7, 2013

BLOG TABLE OF CONTENTS

I love illustrating butterflies and this is an assortment I’ve named “Fantasy Butterflies”

I share here an instrumental of a very special song, which can be heard by clicking the blue link below:

MORE THAN YOU KNOW INSTRUMENTAL

My post title comes from the lyrics to my song “More Than You Know.” The full line is, “How can I believe when the warmth of you did leave?” It actually refers to my ability to go on living after seeing my five-year-old son dead. That image haunted me for years; picturing his open eyes and blackened lips. His body was ice cold and I held onto him and didn’t want to let go!

Not too long ago, I wrote about Relinda. She is a grieving widow and her writing has moved me very much. More about her and her unsparing words are on my post entitled: YOU HAVE NO HOPE.

Today, another widow left a comment on Relinda’s blog:

Dear Relinda,

I have been reading through your blog, so much of what you’ve said could have come from my hand. My husband left our life one year, four months and four days ago, but I’m not keeping track.

This particular blog about the “vacation” really struck me more than the others. This life I find myself in isn’t comfortable, it has no warmth, no appeal, it isn’t mine and I want to go back home. But home isn’t there anymore, it’s an empty lot – the house is gone and only the memories of it remain.  Like you I am so tired of all the bullshit lines we feed ourselves – truth be told the only way any of this could get better, would be if I had a time machine and went back to when my life was mine. I hope someday that maybe those of us that just exist will feel a little life once again.

Karen

I want to share Relinda’s post and then I want to respond. Relinda’s post title is a link back to her blog.

Vacationing in Hell

This is the longest vacation I have ever experienced. It began the day the doctors said there was nothing more they could do. It continues years later. I always thought of vacationing as an escape from the monotonous realities of everyday life. Vacationing in hell is much different. It is a place where you accept the realities and disappointments that come with living, embrace them wholeheartedly and recognize that it is a vacation from which you will never return home until the day you die. Welcome to hell.

Astonishingly, my house looks the same if you overlook the absence of laughter and the immaculate kitchen. That is the first thing you notice upon arrival to hell—the silence. It is so loud that when I enter a room, I can hear my heart pounding inside my head. Ironic that silence is actually the loudest noise in the universe. Sometimes I can hear echoes of laughter from my real life. It is very faint. There was so much laughter in this place before that I suppose it is inevitable that some imprint seeps through the walls.

There are not fires and brimstone as depicted in sermons. There are the usual disappointments, but new ones surface each day. Disappointments such as realizing you will never again know the simple joy of sharing a banana split with your best friend in the world. Disappointments such as knowing that you will never again experience the fun of dancing in the rain with someone you love. Disappointments such as knowing that every trip you make will be alone. Knowing that any accomplishment you reach will never be celebrated is one of the harshest disappointments.

I want to return from my vacation in hell, but it was a one-way ticket. “Life is what we make it.” If I had fucking known that, I would have molded it differently. I would still be whole. I would not have buried you. I would not dread waking each morning.

“Time heals all wounds.” Bullshit. Some wounds cannot be healed, especially while you are vacationing in hell. “Prayer fixes everything,” really? Because it did not work so well for me. I think we pull cute little quotes such as these out of our asses while under the illusion that they make people feel better. They do not.

So, here I am, sending you a postcard from hell. The weather is lovely this time of year. All I really want is to go home though. I want a ticket home. Perhaps there is some type of lottery in which one can win a ticket home. If only someone would send me home. I cannot get there myself. This vacation blows.

©Relinda R.

Dear Karen and Relinda,

You will not hear me say, “Time heals.” I have said that hearts can heal and it happens unconsciously. Even joy is possible, because that happened for me.

That is not the same thing as expecting that time will heal us. I do believe that time lends some anesthesia to the gut-wrenching pain, but for those who succumb to their grief it is too late. Grief certainly wrecks lives and destroys a person’s health over time.

Healing from grief is torturous hard work. Many people don’t believe they will heal and I was one of those people. Healing isn’t about fixing anything so that it goes back to how it was. Those scars are forever. And nothing heals when it festers either. In my fourth year of bereavement I wrote: How can my heart ever heal when it continues to bleed? The answer was that it couldn’t!

Take your postcard from Hell, Relinda and put it somewhere. It will be a postcard to remind you of the place where you never want to go back to. Your own words unconsciously gave your post a perfect title. You see; a vacation is a place to visit. One does not associate a vacation with living somewhere.

That is true. You are not really living.

You cannot go home either. There is no home for you to go back to.

That is the sad nature of grief. We grieve for the person we lost that we loved. Then we grieve for our former life and the innocent, naïve person we were before grief slaughtered our existence.

Therefore, your post title was a perfect description of where you are right now.

I do not know about your personal grief or anyone else’s. I share my optimism because with grief there is so little. We live in a world where grieving is supposed to quickly end; we’re told to just “get on with our life.” Amazingly, there is a belief that after one year a person should be “over it.” Those platitudes such as “time heals,” usually aren’t coming from someone who has suffered a loss of a magnitude such as yours.

It has been three years for you. I can share what I’ve observed through my connections with many bereaved people. I’m talking about people who seriously wanted to die.

The second through fifth years are quite horrible. I don’t usually like to go to a place of honesty about how many years I suffered with grief. But I still remember when another bereaved mother told me that it took seven years for her to live without extreme agony.

That was absolutely true for me, as well.

I think the reason the second year and those that follow are so hard is that the reality has truly begun to sink in. The first year is all about coping with the horror. By now though, it has become apparent that the horror is permanent and goes on forever. That is quite impossible to grasp.

How do you cope with the hell? You just do the best you can, and the two words I often used to help myself were: hang on. Surrounding yourself with people who understand is important. Expressing your pain is also helpful and you do that very well.

I am sorry for the horror you are living with. I am sorry for anyone entering this vacation in hell.

I am waiting for you to write the post with the title “Moving into my new home.” You get to leave the horror and move to a place that is quite different from where you began. I do hear some hopefulness with your words, “I want a ticket home.”

Your ticket will come. One day, it will arrive. Of course, many people succumb to grief. But you write with such clarity, so I see you as someone who will make it. You’re never going back but you are going to somewhere that won’t be hell.

Trust me.

Recently, I wrote about a widower named Joe. Part 1 is on my post:

I’LL LIVE WITHIN MY BROKEN HEART.

JOE’S GRIEF JOURNAL – PART 2

I begin Part 2 with Joe’s reply to another widow’s message on an Internet grief form. His words are in brown:

I miss my husband’s company, his big frame, his hairy belly I would love to touch and the warmth his body put off in the bed; the kisses on the forehead as he headed to bed. Mostly, I miss the feeling of comfort when I could snuggle up to his back and feel safe.

I miss that big bushy beard and the way it felt between my fingers. The hugs that I thought would never end but improve even more as we got older. I miss his snoring. I also miss his rough cut up scarred hands so big yet so gentle.

January 12, 2011 Joe wrote:

I understand that longing. I don’t want to sound salacious, but sometimes I just miss my wife’s body, the feel of her and the physical closeness. I feel terribly touch deprived since she died. It hurts as bad as my heart some days.

April 7, 2011

I’ve lost my lifetime mate. I have been altered on a cellular level. I have a cancer that can’t be seen. It’s still there, however. It is just as real as the kind that one can see under a microscope. It’s the daily leaching of my heart energy, the daily uphill struggle to take the next step, the daily difficulty of functioning with the burden of being in a totally foreign condition where I’ve never been before: alone.

I am not in denial, I don’t believe in pretending to have a positive attitude. I believe in being honest with myself. That’s not easy all the time. I look forward to a time of feeling something other than sadness and loneliness and depression.

April 30, 2011

My doctor told me yesterday that I am living in a fantasy world, just because I said that I want my wife back. I know that I have to go on and live a new life without her. I just am not ready to do so.

People who haven’t been married and truly bonded just don’t understand that the feeling really is like a part of me has died, too. While some may say that’s not a healthy way to feel, all I can say is that it’s real for me.  I want to feel better, to feel peace again. I have periods of time when I seem to be doing pretty well. Then, out of nowhere something triggers me and I can barely function.   

I will never feel the old “normal” again and that tears me out of the frame some days.

June 13, 2011

I’ve been feeling a soft kind of sadness somewhere between my chest and throat. When I finally inquired of it, it is about thinking that if I had paid more attention to my wife’s symptoms I might have intervened months before she got so sick that she had a heart attack.

It’s a kind of self-flagellation thinking. It’s a part of the way I wish something were different even if I have to blame myself for how things turned out.

This is another teary phase that will last a few days and then pass. I’m not concerned. I’ve become accustomed to the ache in my sternum.

June 13, 2011

Dear Joe,

Your writing always touches me. Only a week ago you offered comfort to someone else on the forum who was suffering. I have often felt that by helping others with their grief, I have helped myself, too. Perhaps you didn’t even realize that as you offered comfort.

Your awareness and honesty as you write about your grief is very moving. Even though you might feel what you have said is self-flagellation, you are just processing whatever wishes you have about changing the outcome of your wife’s tragic death. I used to feel that way when my son died after heart surgery. I had to make a lot of decisions about which type of heart valve to use and even wondered if a different surgeon could have changed the outcome.

Expressing all of your feelings is helpful to heal. I love that you understand that with your last sentence knowing your tears would pass.

There’s only one thing I want to tell you, though. Don’t believe that you will always be accustomed to the ache in your sternum. I want you to know that someday the ache will fade, not completely, but enough to find joy in life again. Your expression of feeling through writing and love for your wife will heal you and others someday, too. I am certain of that.

Keep writing.

Judy

June 16, 2011

I’ve been saying my heart is broken for two and a half years.

Monday morning it quit on me. I had a heart attack. I was flown to a hospital and got a stent inserted in the offending artery. Doctors think I’ll be able to return to full activity in a few weeks. Man, that attack really hurt.

While my physical heart seems to be healing my metaphorical heart remains broken. I’m not stuck in grief all day as I once was, but I still drive into a hole in the world with regularity in which her absence is the essence of my whole experience.

I don’t think that will ever change. I chase her in my dreams, but she remains just out of reach. I miss her in this world but there are no changing facts. She’s dead.

One good thing came from my heart attack. During the helicopter ride, I was able to let go and allow myself to die. I always thought I would release myself to death given the chance but a part of my mind doubted I had the courage to do that. At least now I know I have the balls to die. I know I can release this life if given the chance.

Although this post is long, I want to share Joe’s story about how he met his wife, Beth. It is very moving and adds a lot to his words about grief:

  I turned fourteen in July of 1959. Fourteen was when puberty was just hitting its full stride in me, unlike today when kids seem to grow up so fast.   It was coat weather already in early October. The day was sunny, but winter was a breath away.

I was playing basketball with my friends.   We were all interested in girls and the topic of that mysterious gender dominated the conversation. None of us knew too much, weren’t experienced with girls beyond fumbling exploration, and didn’t have a clue about emotions. Although we knew there was a connection between our gonads and the opposite sex, we weren’t sure what the real deal was.

  I had kissed a girl once. She lived next door and I kissed her as she was taking out the garbage. I didn’t feel anything and wondered what the big deal was. I had touched the pubescent bumps on the chest of a girl named Becky, too. But that experience left me flat as well. Like I said, the opposite sex was a mystery.   Late that afternoon, I was with my friends when we all went to Eighth Street where this new girl lived.   It was dusk when we arrived at Beth’s house. My friend boldly knocked on the door and a girl came out on the stoop; a girl like none I’d ever seen before. She had black hair, dark horn rimmed glasses, a red sweater and charcoal slacks over penny loafers. I still remember feeling like I was going to swoon.  

Beth was a member of the Student Council, part of the Latin Club, active in our schools social calendar and a straight A student. He said everyone liked her, even the teachers. Seeing her, knowing she was what we referred to back then as a “good girl”, and knowing I was a cigarette smoking, school skipping, just skating by grade wise half-assed punk I couldn’t imagine there was anything reciprocal possible from this vision I was seeing. I just stared, dumb struck by her beauty and the sound of her voice.

She smiled easily, laughed quickly and was smart and articulate; just the kind of girl who was way out of my league.   I don’t know how long we stood there. Time seemed totally irrelevant. I was transfixed and at the same time broken-hearted. I was totally smitten by a girl way out of my reach. For the first time I sensed that the connection between my maleness and the female of the species was visceral and real. My heart ached with unnamed emotions and my pulse raced from an overload of hormones. I wanted to leap with joy and cry in agony because I felt like I was completely in love with the perfect girl who was absolutely and forever unattainable.

  When the talking was over, Beth had gone inside to her parents beckoning. I walked home, stopped at a small corner store and bought a pack of Lucky Strike cigarettes, a spice pie and some Orange Crush soda. Between my hormones and the sugar and nicotine I was higher than a kite all the way to my house.   I barely slept that night. Every time I closed my eyes I saw that girl, the face and the clothes and the sound of her…I didn’t know what it all meant, but I knew I felt stuff inside of me that was entirely different from anything I’d ever felt before. I was swirling with confusion and hope and despair.   

The next day I went to school and as I stood at my locker, one of my friends came up to me.   ”You son-of-a-bitch,” he swore at me.   I was flummoxed. “What the hell did I do?” I asked, not understanding why my friend was angry with me.   He sighed. “Beth has your initials pinned to her sweater,” he said.  

I almost fainted. I suddenly knew what “weak in the knees” meant.   ”No she doesn’t,” I answered him disbelievingly. I thought he was pulling some kind of cruel joke, making fun of me because he could see that I was totally taken with the new girl.    “You better believe it,” he said and as soon as I had my books he led me down the hall to where Beth stood at her locker. When she turned to smile at me I could see “JB” in brass letters pinned to her chest.

  I think I may have lost consciousness for a moment. I don’t remember what happened next. All I know is what began in 1959 continued to 2008. We were bonded in a relationship that took us from pubescence to old age. That was the day it all began for us. I can still picture her on the steps of her house and I can still see what she wore. I can still remember the intensity of that moment, the moment when the mystery of the opposite sex deepened and my life really began in earnest. I loved her then beyond my ability to describe. I miss her today in a way I have no words to express.

And, I still have the brass initials that she wore and kept in her jewelry box all of these years.

April 4, 2012

It’s been over three years now and I am beginning to feel a sense of healing. When I remember my wife now the memory is warmer, filled with a sense of love that the pain overshadowed for a long time.

  I am fully in support of each person taking as long as it takes…not to be bullied into compromising their grief and feelings of despair. I am here to say that even if years pass, so too, eventually, does the terrible feelings of loss.   

I will never be the same person I was before my wife died, but I’m becoming okay with that. I am more than ever convinced that by feeling everything that arises in me I will eventually see that energy move and change into something else. Despair becomes melancholy, suicidal thoughts become manageable sadness, and loneliness becomes a strange contentedness with my own company.

May 23, 2012

My wife has been gone for three and one half years.

I am no longer suffering the way I was. Sure, I miss her still, think about her, but I’m no longer driven by my sadness.   Additionally, I had another piece to my agenda. I promised myself that no matter how lonely I got I would not bring someone into my life just to fill the empty space.

Honestly, that was as hard as following my feelings into their darkness.   I think I have held to my integrity, kept my promise to myself, and I have remained alone. Until a few weeks ago, that is. I met someone in quite innocent circumstances and to my surprise I actually felt something toward her. Confused, excited and acting like an adolescent, I approached her and confessed what I was feeling. She’s been a part of my life for a short while now and I like her presence a lot.

I’m glad I waited. Even if this new relationship falls apart I can still learn a lot about my ability to feel love again…I’ve no guilt about loving again.   I am the last person who thought I’d have any happiness in a relationship again. I didn’t believe the people who encouraged me.

I thought I was the poster boy for grief and being alone for the rest of my life.   I might still end up alone, but I’m aware I’m capable of feeling good stuff again. Thank you all who have been here with me during these last three years. It’s been a bitch, but maybe my life has turned a corner.

I hope someone will find encouragement in this writing.

Tags:child's death, compassionate friends, death, death after a long marriage, death of a child, death of a spouse, Friendship, grief, grief and optimism, grief bereavement "Loss of a Child", grief Friendship, GRIEF RELATED, healing from grief, hope, hopelessness, inspiration, loss, loss of a husband, loss of a spouse, loss of a wife, love, lyric development, maintaining hope, Music, optimism, original songs, relationships, sadness, songwriting, widow, widower, writing
Posted in Grief Stories | Leave a Comment »

HOW WILL I EVER SAY GOODBYE?

December 20, 2012

BLOG TABLE OF CONTENTS

The link below is for a recent performance of my “song in progress” at Kulak’s Woodshed it North Hollywood.

NEVER GONE AWAY-ACOUSTIC PERFORMANCE

AT KULAK’S WOODSHED ON 12/21/12

Every time I sang the words “How will I ever say goodbye?” I felt tears fill my eyes. My son’s death was something I had not consciously anticipated, though he was sickly with his heart defect.

What would it have been like to be with my child knowing he would soon die? I could not imagine!

I wrote to a mother last night. She was anticipating that soon her daughter’s suffering would end and she would be entering the black hole of grief.

Wednesday afternoon:

I came home from working with George. My newest song arrangement was so magical that I could hear it playing continuously throughout my day.

This was a very special song. I wrote it in 1980 for my good friend, Marge before she left to go abroad for a year. Marge was also in my thoughts recently when I contacted a new voice teacher, Kimberly. It was through Marge that I had heard Kimberly sing.

When we met.

I knew the memory of Marge’s smile would definitely stay with me while she was gone and my song was originally named “You’ll Have Never Gone Away.” I was grateful for our friendship. I let Marge know that she would always be a part of this song, though I planned to revise it. I decided there was a new story to tell with my song.

First, I gave my song a shorter title of “Never Gone Away.”

I pictured a mother getting ready to say goodbye to her daughter who had suffered so much. What could she possibly say to her as she was dying?

I decided I would channel their love in order to revise my lyrics. Then I would give them my song as a gift.

Wednesday night:

Dearest Tersia,

Today, I worked on an older song and it became very meaningful for me. My song is about saying goodbye and letting go. It had me thinking of you. I am going to dedicate a revised version of this song to you and Vicky. It will be called “Never Gone Away.”

I don’t have a vocal for it yet and may not have it finished in time. Just know that when it is finished, you and Vic inspired me. I cannot sing it now without crying.

Even without lyrics, the music speaks. I have a karaoke of it and I’m attaching it here. I hope my music is a ray of light in your darkness. This song is for both of you.

Thursday morning:

Dear Tersia,

Last night when I was listening to my song, I realized something. You could help inspire me to better revise my lyrics. Right now, the chorus feels complete. It goes:

I know that soon you will leave me

How will I ever say goodbye?

There’s so much you’ve left me

It’s hard not to cry

And when you’ve left you’ll still be with me

In all the songs I’ll long to play

Every time I see a smile

You’ll have never gone away

But I need some help for my verses. I know you’re not a lyric writer and I’ll compile the lyrics. But you are the one who could really make this song weep. All you need to do is write your feelings to me and I will put them into the verses.

Do not craft, nor think. Write from your heart as you did about even wanting to remember the smell of Vic’s vomit. Love, Judy

My father saved so much of my old artwork. This drawing is from middle school.

I belong to a club that no one ever would want to join – the one for bereaved parents. There was no mistaking my pain this past week when I thought of all the new members resulting from the tragedy in Connecticut. I read something written by another bereaved mother who said it so well that I couldn’t imagine writing anything better than what she wrote.

In the Days Following a Child’s Death: One Mother’s Perspective

Children died Friday. They died in schools, on highways, in hospitals, and in their own homes. On Friday, their mothers joined a sisterhood I’m in. They are now one of us. We are one. By now, she is exhausted. She discovered early-on one of the hardest truths. Sleep is cruel. She longs for it because it offers her hope of escape, and in it she can still see her son or hear her daughter’s voice. Yet in it, she also re-lives the words no parent wants to hear, and by now, she knows there is no escaping them. They reappear in her dreams, and she cries out in her sleep or bolts upright in bed hoping it was just a nightmare only to rediscover her living hell. By now, she has discovered the cruelest of sleep’s tricks, that when waking, there is a foggy moment of forgetting that precedes the remembering, “My child is dead.” Each time she remembers, she feels the same knife to her heart she felt when she first heard the words, and she has felt that knife again and again and again by now.

The rest of this amazing post can be read by clicking the link below:

In the Days Following a Child’s Death: One Mother’s Perspective lettersfromdonna on December 17, 2012

On Dec 19, 2012, Judy wrote:

Tersia, it meant so much to me that you found the time to read Jason’s story and to share my words.

On Dec 19, 2012, Tersia wrote:

Dear Judy, Thank you so much for reaching out to me. I finally read your Jason’s final journey, and I wept for you. I did however realize that in a weird and convoluted way there is a purpose behind all our grief. You reach out to people in a similar situation to you were in, and I am starting a Hospice. You touch peoples’ lives and souls with your beautiful words and voice. Jason has brought peace and consolation in peoples’ lives – through you. Thank you!

Love and light, Tersia

“More than you know”

By tersiaburger

I have received a couple of very touching emails from Judy Unger. I am an avid follower of Judy’s blog, myjourneysinsight.com. I have sensed from Judy’s blogs that she has suffered deeply. I have however always avoided reading her posts on her son Jason’s death. Somehow it is too close to home.

This week I received another caring email from Judy. Tonight I read Judy’s post on her child, Jason Mark’s journey:

http://myjourneysinsight.com/category/death-of-my-child-jasons-story/.

I wept for Judy.

With fresh, tear-filled eyes, I reread my email. I listened to Judy’s beautiful song and went to lay with my child. I held her gently and told her how much I love her. She is having a bad day and is feeling very frail.

Once again I share this remarkable woman’s caring email with you. Her words are flattering and the email personal. Yet I am compelled to share this email…I hope that you will listen to her beautiful song. Thank you dear Judy for baring your soul and showing your compassion. Thank you for reaching out to me!

Below is Tersia’s most recent post:

I don’t want to die by tersiaburger

Today has been a very, very bad day. Sr. Siza was here when Vic had a violent vomiting spell. Yesterday Vic fractured a vertebra again. Her pain is out of control. Her breathing was shallow.

“I don’t want Jon-Daniel to see me now, Mommy. It freaks him out when I can’t breathe,” Vic pleaded.

I lay behind her back, gently holding her whilst the tears wracked through her little body.

“I don’t want to die, Mommy. If only I can live for another year… But I am so tired!” Vic softly cried.

“Do you think we will be able to do Italy, Mommy?” she asked after a long silence.

“I hope so Baby. I think we must take the boys with us…” I replied.

“Oh, Mommy, can we? We don’t have to go for a long time…” Vic said.

We lay quietly for a while. Vic trying to breathe through her nausea and pain and I contemplating how I am going to pull off this Italy thing… Just imagine flying with a caseload of injections and a litre of morphine syrup…

“Mommy, I don’t care what you do with my ashes… It was so hard putting my father’s ashes into that wall of remembrance! Are you going to be okay, Mommy?” Vic cried.

My heart stopped. This was so out of the blue…” You will always be with me. I will not put you into any wall,” I said.

“I will be your guardian angel.” Vic said.

“I know but remember I will need some privacy… ”I said.

“Don’t worry, Mommy! I will make sure my father doesn’t peep as well,” Vic laughed through her tears.

“I am scared, Mommy…”

“I am scared too, Vic…”

© Judy Unger and http://www.myjourneysinsight.com 2012. Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from this blog’s author and/or owner is strictly prohibited. Excerpts and links may be used, provided that full and clear credit is given to Judy Unger with appropriate and specific direction to the original content.

Tags:anticipatory grief, Caregiving, childhood friendship, compassionate friends, composing, creativity, death, death of a child, dying, Friendship, grief, grief bereavement "Loss of a Child", GRIEF RELATED, Hospice, impending death, loss, lovesong, lyric development, lyric writing, lyrics, mother daughter relationship, Music, original songs, right-to-die, singing, songwriting, terminal illness, writing
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HOW CAN MY HEART EVER HEAL?

December 10, 2012

BLOG TABLE OF CONTENTS

Recently, I shared how I have been deeply affected reading a blog about a mother named Tersia who is caring for her terminally ill daughter, Vicky.

Because I subscribe to her blog, I receive by email other people’s comments. They continue to pour in and the expressions of love and support take my breath away. Recently, I mailed Tersia and Vicky a CD of my music and words. I honestly was shocked when Tersia found the time to respond and took me up on my offer to share it with her.

Tersia is an excellent writer and conveys a lot with only a few words. Here are some recent excerpts of her heartfelt words:

Vic’s Final Journey

Now it is only a matter of time. Vic’s organs are slowly shutting down. My child is gently being eased into death.

The entire day it echoed through my mind “we cannot stop this. It is happening”

Vic is calm and serene.

“Next year my mom and I are going to Italy” she told Sue today.

“Then I can die…”

“We will find a way my love” Sue said…

“It is closer than she realizes,” Sue said to me at her car.

“Do I tell her?” I asked.

“No, her body will…” Sue said.

I cannot bear the thought of living without Vic.

I am too tired to write anything that makes sense. I just need to record today. I never want to forget today.

I want to remember how I felt when I lay with my child this afternoon. I want to remember her tears when she spoke to her sister. I want to remember the smell of her vomit. Maybe it will make it easier to accept later on.

On December 10, 2012, Judy wrote:

Dearest Tersia,

I’ve read all of those beautiful comments to you and still don’t know what to write myself. I am bursting with sadness for the hell you and Vic are going through.

It reminds me of when I wrote my song “Set You Free.” I’ve written many songs that have helped me, but this one is very special. I’m attaching it by email, because the package with my CD’s will take a while to arrive.

I love both of you from across the world. Your spirits shine right through cyberspace.

Love, Judy

Dear Judy

You are truly an angel. Thank you. I cried when I listened to the words of your touching song. You have a beautiful, soothing voice, and it was balm to my soul.

Thank you for the package. Words fail me.

Love, Tersia

Clicking the blue link below plays my song “Set You Free”

Vicky’s son carrying his mother

Dearest Tersia,

Your words meant so much to me! I am awed that you were even able to find a moment to listen. And on top of that, you took the time to write to me and that is unbelievable!

When you enter the darkness of grief, keep remembering the words to my song. A clock is ticking loudly. I remember that sound. I heard it before my son died and later on my father.

In some ways, the shadow of death is a curse. It brings suffering. But there is also an upside, which I know you are deeply appreciative of. Before you enter the darkness of grief, you have an opportunity to say goodbye.

I pray Vicky’s pain will end soon and I can feel the shining light of love from across the world. It is glowing and holding you both, as the time grows closer.

I wish you never had to bear this pain. No mother should ever bury a child.

And children should never have to bury their beloved mother who died without growing old. (I was choked with tears when I read how Vic went to the orthodontist with her son despite being so sick.) I don’t know all of your family, but certainly her siblings are bearing this pain, as well. I am so sorry!

Vicky’s essence will always remain with you. Letting go is so, so hard.

And you already know you must set her free, Tersia.

Love, Judy

On Dec 9, 2012, Brenda wrote:

Judy, does the pain ever really end? I don’t think so, but I find myself at a point so low right now that I am driving my family away. I spent the day trying to be the “great mom” I was before and it was so hard. It seems everyone else is unhappy when I am miserable, so I pretend to be ok. At this point, I’d rather have them happy than not have them at all

I cried when I heard your song. As you said, we just have to hang on. It does help me to express my pain through music, poetry, prose, stories…any healing is better than none. It is just so wrong that a wonderful child was taken from a caring mother for no reason, when there are people who are left here making people suffer. Why are they left here and we and our kids pay the price? It just all seems so unjust and beyond comprehension to me.

Brenda

Brenda,

I do believe life is precious and no one knows how long he or she will live. My son’s life was short with only five years. When I am dead and gone, it would be a shame if I gave up my life because of grief for my child. We don’t even know what happens with death. Perhaps, your son is watching you from above and is absolutely fine.

The part of life that I have the hardest time accepting is suffering. Death is better than intense suffering.

Because no one knows, we just assume our child will outlive us and it goes against the laws of nature when a child dies. But many things happen, and there is no control. That is part of nature, too.

I know too well about pain. You have every reason to be angry. I wrote a poem called “The Ache in My Heart.” It was written four years into my bereavement, at a time when I had little hope of ever feeling better. The last line of my poem was, “How can my heart ever heal – when it continues to bleed?”

I began to heal when I changed my thought process. I had to actually believe that healing was possible.

Do not assume your grief journey ends here. If you do, you will remain stuck. I wish you could find ways to be gentle with yourself and remind yourself that healing is possible.

I am so sorry for what you have gone and are going through. When I read your message about how you spent the day trying to be a good mom – I was thinking, “How about being good to yourself?” You said you were pretending to be happy in order not to upset your family; I have done that, too.

Even now, sometimes I pull out my hair trying to deal with two teenagers in this small apartment. Separation and divorce are another form of grief and I am hanging on until things get easier. I use the term “hanging on” quite often to describe how I coped with intense grief. It still helps me with my current situation.

With songwriting I cannot pretend. Singing allows me to share my true feelings. Music healed me of so much pain!

“Thoughts equal feelings”

Brenda, what has really helped me is an excellent tenant from hypnotherapy. The statement is: “Thoughts equal feelings.”

What we tell ourselves definitely affects how we feel!

An example is that when you tell yourself that you don’t think the pain will ever end – that is just not helpful for you!

You reinforce that by looking for ways that the pain continues stabbing you.

Another way of looking at the pain is in reverse by thinking instead, “I wonder when my pain will end?”

Imagine how it might feel to have freedom from your pain. Suddenly, you might see yourself looking more for signs that you are healing.

They are there if you look for them!

This is such a simple concept and can directly improve how you feel. I use the power of positive thinking to cope continuously with life.

I will never forget my son, and I grieved for many years. But my suffering did not bring my son back to me!

For such a long time, I felt closer to my son with my sadness. I believed that if I allowed myself happiness he was farther away. Guilt is a terrible thing.

Stop worrying about your family and their happiness. I did that for decades and stayed in an empty marriage with a man who ignored me. When you take care of yourself, you will bring much more into the world and ultimately, to your loved ones.

Do not depend on others to fill your space. That leads you to disappointment and anger. Anger is an impediment to healing. That’s why I suggested love as an antidote. Find reasons to forgive and do it in your son’s memory with all the love in your heart. This will allow you to leave disappointment behind.

Do continue to cry and talk about your son. Keep writing. And stay close to other grieving people who understand. I am farther along in my journey and my purpose is to give you hope. You will find that when you hold hands and help other people grieving as you are, the pain will diminish. You will discover how much farther you can go toward healing.

I would love to share another song with you – about the pain. It’s called “So Real.” It always makes me cry. I wrote it for my son, but cry singing it because I’ve lost my mother to dementia over the past few years.

Love, Judy

Clicking the blue link below, leads to my song “So Real” and more words about grief:

IT ALL SEEMED SO REAL

My coop’s walkway 50 years ago.

Not everything has been easy, but I’m still smiling.

Tags:"sandwich generation", butterflies, butterfly, child's death, compassionate friends, composing, death, death of a child, grief, grief bereavement "Loss of a Child", GRIEF RELATED, guitar, healing, healing from grief, hope, Hypnotherapy, inspiration, loss, lyric development, motherhood, Music, original songs, pain of grief, singing, songwriting
Posted in Healing and Hope | Leave a Comment »

ALL I HAVE LEFT AFTER THE DEATH OF MY CHILD

December 5, 2012

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After my father died this past May, I found many beautiful portraits of Jason that I had lost. I am grateful for these pictures.

Lately, I have found myself writing many pages while I cope with my newfound separation after a long marriage.

When I am not writing, I take walks to clear my mind. And I am reading. On the Internet I have discovered beautiful words from people who are also writing about their pain as I have. Yesterday, I read a particularly sad and honest poem. It pummeled my heart with words that honestly expressed the devastation resulting from intense grief.

I know that commenting to share what I’ve experienced with my grief journey probably makes little difference to someone who is in unbearable pain.

I hesitate to write anything that would upset someone in grief. My optimism must be terribly irritating and annoying; many of my statements sound impossibly simple and childlike.

And I certainly remember when nothing helped me at all.

There was a time when I gave up hope of ever feeling better. That is why I am so insistent upon sharing my message. I thought I had given up hope, but instead . . .

Hope waited for me in the wings.

A few days ago, I mentioned to a widow that grief was like a roaring wildfire that destroyed everything in its path. I love metaphors and that was a perfect one to help me describe my own healing.

After my child died, the fire that burned through my soul was a horror beyond anything imaginable. I wished I had been consumed, but instead the fire gleefully tortured me with severe burns. I awoke blistered and everything familiar was gone.

A fire leaves a forest blackened and ugly. The possibility of a devastated forest ever recovering its former beauty seems remote.

But with time, a tiny sapling can break through the ashes. Sometimes, wildflowers bloom, and their existence is only possible because of the heat that allows them to germinate. There are things that can only grow as a result of the devastation a fire brings.

I suffered from that horrific fire. I knew that fires were a part of this world; they happen and were random. But I was very angry. I never expected to personally witness the horror or experience it.

But the fire that tortured me did not destroy everything – it did not destroy my love.

My life was as gray as ashes for almost two decades. I devoted myself to my children and my parents. I coped by simply going through the motions for many years. I was alive but not really living, but my love kept my spirit going.

The most amazing part of my story was when I reached a point of exhaustion and acceptance of my fate, something appeared in the ashes of my forest. One day, hope fluttered down from above.

It turned out that when I least expected it my ashen forest began to grow again. Like magic, colors and sounds reappeared. I looked around and noticed the forest was completely different from what I had remembered.

Because it had been so long since I’d heard beautiful sounds and seen gorgeous colors, I found my new surroundings breathtaking. It was not the same forest, but that didn’t matter. My appreciation was limitless because my drab life was over.

The hope that waited in the wings kissed me and took flight.

I thanked her for waiting.

Jason drew this while in preschool. For me, I see an angel with a beautiful heart. Jason died from his congenital heart defect.

A painting of mine that was part of a memorial for Jason.

Below is the powerful poem I read that inspired me to write about whether joy can be found again after suffering with intense grief. The author’s name is Beebee and I’ve provided a link to her website with the title of her poem below.

TILL NOTHING WAS LEFT

This poem is not for my precious son

Whose death  took everything from me

that I hung onto, believed in

It is for those who can’t see that I am still here

But I have been forced to live in a world

Where there  is not glimmer of light at the end of the tunnel.

I’m so tired of it all, so tired of the lies

The further I fall, the higher you rise

It takes all I have, each moment I try

I give and I give, till I think I will die

I’m sorry that I was never enough

My heart is long dead; the road’s been so rough

All that I have, I have given to you.

And what have I left? No joy and no you

Just leave me here in my prison, my home

Cause when you are here, I still feel alone.

Not a thing I’ve endured, suffered, survived

Has helped you to notice, that I’m still alive

I still feel, I still hope, I still love, I still try

Somehow through the darkness, I still survive

Take just one heartbeat, one touch, one breath

And remember I will love you till nothing is left

Dear Beebee,

I have no idea how long it has been since your son died. But your words have taken my breath away. My eyes are filled with tears. Your sorrow is endless. You think you have nothing left and there is no light in your tunnel. Well you are wrong. You have so much inside that is pouring out of you. It is your love for your son. Your expression will keep him alive in a way that will someday inspire you and the pain will ease into something else. It will happen.

My son died 20 years ago. I’ll never forget him. I died inside to be with him for such a long time, but now I’m alive because I understand that my suffering has given me clarity about life. Our time here is unknown. Each moment is precious and grief robs us of our own life.

Celebrate your beautiful son’s life by finding joy again. It is possible. I never would have believed it would ever have been for me. I held out hope and waited. Don’t give up.

Dear Judy,

It has been 6 years since he died. I have my moments when I feel strong; I fake my way through dinners, activities, but I just lost so much when I lost him, my health, faith, and the closeness with my family. I became angry and when I didn’t get the kind of support I felt I needed and it just got worse and worse. My poem is a way to try to let go of some of that. I have moments of hope and moments of complete despair. Thanks for your encouragement. I had serious doubts about putting this blog on here. I almost feel like I shouldn’t have; I have gotten so many comments that make me feel like I have saddened others…beebee

Dear Beebee,

Six years is a long time and the horror is still there. Your soul has been amputated. Like an arm missing, you’ve adjusted and carry scars that no one can visibly see. And that adjustment will continue. Even with family support, no one bears your personal sorrow but you.

I believe that the whole point of writing is HONESTY. What else is there? You are expressing feelings that are true for you. No one else can feel what you are going through and it is your gift to find the words to express yourself. People who don’t like sadness can read something else.

Please don’t ever stop yourself because of concern about what others think of your writing. Believe it or not, the more you express your sorrow, the lighter you will feel. Keeping your sadness inside is a heavy cross to bear. Release your pain and share. You will find there are many other people who will appreciate your words. I did.

Your poem is amazing. It succinctly says what every bereaved parent has felt.

The only part that is missing is the ending where you discover that there is hope. You will always remember your son. But it won’t be because nothing is left. It will be because you fill up the empty space again with something else. It will happen. He is with you inside – never imagine that he has left you.

Dear Beebee,

I feel compelled to write to you again. First off, thank you for allowing me to share your poem and exchanges on my blog. I think it will touch and help many other bereaved people.

When I first read your poem, I knew little about your situation. I left a hasty comment not knowing how long it had been since your son died. But I felt I had to comment right away, because I was blown away by your poem and heartbreaking words.

I have read more now on your blog. I read your responses to certain comments left by well-intentioned people. Your words yielded great insight for me.

I want to write to you about it.

You mentioned how you were very angry with your family. Their lack of understanding and support has certainly added to your anguish. It sounded like your family’s love was not unconditional – that you’d have their support if you followed their religious beliefs. I am very sorry about that.

For myself, I am not religious, but definitely consider myself spiritual. I do believe religion is personal and would never tell another human how to pray. I only pray with my own heart. Therefore, when someone commented with a suggestion that implied finding God and another person mentioned an excellent grief counselor, I’m not surprised that those comments triggered your anger.

You already knew that their intentions were good and they only wanted to help you. When a person finds something that helps him or her, they wish to bestow it upon someone else. I am that way with my music. It helps me and I love sharing it.

Sadly, they don’t even have a clue how to ease your anguish.

My grief ripped a huge hole from my heart. I was blessed to find something that filled my aching abyss; it was my writing and music. Writing was extremely helpful for me to heal from my grief. That was why I encouraged you not to worry about making others sad. Your writing is going to help you heal and that is far more important!

I want you to know something about me, too. I never tell anyone “I know how you feel.” I don’t believe that it is possible for any human to know what another person is feeling!

However, I can say that I’ve been in your position. My anger over the loss of my child was impossible for me to contain for years and years. I was livid because the torture of grief had wrecked my life and I was certain my torment would last until my last breath. That belief isolated me and kept me sad.

I had more children after my loss, which helped to ease the ache. When people implied that it was a “replacement” for my dead child it made me furious. I couldn’t handle anyone telling me for the millionth time how time would heal and I let them know it.

Healing is a word I use often for myself. It implies a wound and I consider my wound from my son’s death to be an amputation of my soul. Grief was not something I recovered from – I had to adjust to it. I was tortured and then my scars left me numb for eighteen years. I did not believe I would ever feel joy again in my life.

Now I want to address your poem and what I saw in your words.

Obviously, you loved your son so deeply. You would have died for him if you could have. You wish you were dead sometimes so you could be with him.

You are dying inside every single day because of your grief.

With your poem, you are speaking to your son. With your last breath, you want him to know how much you loved him and how that will continue until the day you die.

Your poem’s title is “Till Nothing Was Left.” But if you died tomorrow, here would be what was left after your son died:

ache and emptiness

anger and fury

isolation and loneliness

torment and torture

I could go on and on finding words. I’ve used as many as I could find in a dictionary to describe the amputation of my soul. Since you wrote that you have hope, I am going to speak to you with honesty and risk your becoming angry.

If your son could speak to you right now, you know he would want you to heal. You must try to let go of the anger. It is poison in your soul. It is time for you to move forward.

Healing left me with only one thing . . .

I was left with love.

Sometimes my scars still throb and I have the memory of pain.

But love fills my ache, emptiness and isolation. Love soothes my anger and fury about my fate. Love allows me to accept other people’s good intentions to help me.

When I remember love, it lifts me up. My love for my son is pure and far preferable to the wreckage I had before. Love transcends everything and anything.

It has allowed me to help other grieving people. It heals and it lives on beyond physical death. Now my son never has left. I love him every moment of my life.

I always remember how much my son loved me. He would want me to remember that. I remind myself of his love every time I take a breath.

With my last breath, what will be left is love.

That is the legacy I wnat to have after the loss of my child.

Excerpts of a comment in response to what I wrote on Beebee’s blog:

Hello Judy

I’ve read your comment here. I really have a problem with love. You say love is healing: whom and why? When will it happen? Maybe I am stupid; I just have questions. Surprise me! Please don’t tell me that love will find its way. Think of a bit more original answer.

Frank

Hi Frank,

I welcome your response. Perhaps love doesn’t sound original. It was an emotional response that I wrote to Beebee, because her poem indicated total despair. But because I have also experienced the death of a child, I wrote what I did from my own personal experience. My remark was about feeling love on two levels: 1. Self-love to continue living, and feeling love from what my child would have wanted for me, his legacy.

To find a purpose after such a horrific loss as one’s child is beyond imaginable. I wrote more about this topic on my own blog, and perhaps you might read that and then comment some more. I actually elaborated on my comment because I didn’t want it to sound simplistic.

I really don’t see a “love bandage” that adequately eliminates all pain during an amputation of the soul, which I believe deep grief causes. Anger was definitely something I experienced and is one of the many stages of grieving. Unfortunately, many grieving people stay stuck in this stage. It has been six years for Beebee. I wanted her to try to move beyond her anger. She didn’t seem to realize that there was hopefulness for her to heal. I believe it gives hope knowing that another bereaved parent who suffered deeply could heal. I am that parent!

There are many things that I did to help myself heal and I also share that with my message of hopefulness. Sorry if you find my answer unoriginal. I don’t write to be trendy. I write from my heart and holding onto love honestly was the way that I achieved peace. For people who are suffering, I wish they could find that also. I represent someone who never believed it was possible, and I truly feel that the love from and for my child inspired me to go on.

Just because someone has died and is not physically there, doesn’t mean that you can’t project love to and from them.

The concept I’m suggesting could also apply to other things besides bereavement, when you consider self-love brings a more complete human into a relationship. For me, I decided that my own happiness was not tied to other people anymore and I made significant changes to my life as a result!

Comment in response to what I’ve written on Beebee’s blog from another grieving parent:

Judy, I like what you write, but I would also like to know how to get from feeling ache and emptiness, anger and fury, isolation and loneliness and torment and torture to feeling love. I feel love all the time, but with my son gone – there is no place for all that love to go. I also want to feel his love for me, not just mine for him. I need him back. I don’t know how to transform all of this to something less raw and painful.

I’m glad you wrote your thoughtful comment, because it allows me to explain further what I’ve written. I did not want to sound simplistic. My perspective about grief has come after many years of suffering. Unfortunately, I don’t believe there are shortcuts when working through grief.

I could not transform myself when my soul was being amputated!

My life-blood was pouring from me and nothing could stop it. There aren’t enough ways that I could describe what you clearly are suffering through – the absolute horror of having to accept that you will never again see the person you so deeply loved. I use the word amputated because a piece is missing and will never regenerate. Perhaps that is why some people are unsympathetic; they cannot see your soul has been eviscerated!

In order for me to function again, I had to compensate by searching for a reason to go on living.

For a long time, I crawled slowly. As you know only too well, it was raw and painful. What gave me a reason to continue living, were the other people I loved in my life. Also, I reached out to find fellow grieving people, which helped me greatly during my grief journey.

My anger was part of the process, and I wasn’t able to put a “bandage of love” over it. I am not telling bereaved parents not to be angry. I was furious at God and at the circumstances I was dealt. I believe that anger is a stage of grief that is necessary to come to grips with the horror.

But it is possible for anger to diminish as grief is worked through. I didn’t want Beebee to give up hope and remain stuck with her anger!

Throughout my grief journey, it was my child’s love and my love for him that kept me moving forward.

I have met many people who could not let go of their anger. The result was that they ended up becoming bitter. I did not want that to be my legacy. My child loved me and I reminded myself that he wouldn’t have wanted me to become that way.

Eventually, I let go of anger and what was left was quiet sorrow and sadness. After that, I was simply numb. I didn’t really look forward to anything and felt like the best part of my life was over. My soul was scarred and I felt doomed to live that way for the rest of my life. Many people fall into this category.

I cannot know where your grief journey will lead or how long it will take you. Right now, there are destinations that you might never imagine reaching.

The irony was that I thought my road ended with my scars, but I was wrong. My message is to give you hope.

I found out that I could be happy again!

More than that, I was not suffering over my child’s death any longer. What was amazing was that when I reached that place, I really did discover that my child never left me. Throughout my journey, he was holding onto me.

I do believe I’ll see him when I die. It gives me comfort when I face my own death someday.

Now I understand, that with every tear I cried, he cried too.

I just know my child is celebrating that I am able to smile again.

Tags:acknowledging grief, adjusting from grief, child loss, child's death, compassionate friends, death, death of a child, Empathy and Grief, grief, grief advice, grief bereavement "Loss of a Child", GRIEF RELATED, healing from grief, hope, inspiration, loss, loss of a child, Music grief bereavement, overcoming grief, religion and grief, surviving grief
Posted in Grief Educational | 9 Comments »

PAIN LEFT A HOLE

November 28, 2012

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She was blinded when she emerged from the tunnel. For so long, she anticipated the glorious moment, of raising her arms to the sky and basking in the sunshine.

But instead, she could barely open her eyes. The sun was too bright and the light blinded her. She tried to adjust to the light, but her eyes still hurt even after a few days. She began to realize that her eyes were very different now, so many changes had happened while she was in the tunnel. Now she felt much older and weaker, even though not much time had passed.

It was also hard to straighten up after crawling for so long. But her music still helped her and was her nourishment. Each song infused her with hope. Finally her eyes adjusted, and she realized the tunnel opened up to a precipice. There was nowhere else to go as she stood at the edge of a cliff. Not long ago, she had clearly seen that vision. In her mind, she easily pictured herself leaping off the edge and soaring, without any fear of falling.

Yet now, she was terrified she would fall. She imagined that it couldn’t hurt nearly as much as the pain in her heart. Finally, the brightness was too much. She decided to retreat back into the tunnel. It wasn’t time to fly yet. Perhaps she might never fly. It occurred to her that something had changed. She had stopped dreaming.

I wrote my parable above while in an emotional and teary state; I know I’m depressed. I realize that I am grieving the loss of my 31-year marriage, though I know the pain is temporary while I adjust. I’ve begun looking into divorce support groups and counseling. I made a breakthrough of defeating laziness by taking several walks across the street from my new abode. I lived in this coop until the age of 21 and have memories of attending the high school across the street. As I walked and listened to my music, I began looking at the sky and trees. My heart felt lighter. I took a few pictures with my cellphone to add to my blog.

I finally received news from my doctor that the results of my holter monitor were not serious. However, I have great benefit from the wisdom of my good friend, Dr. Sam, whom I reconnected with not long after I began blogging. Dr. Sam and I dated in high school and he found my blog after I wrote a story about the “first song I ever wrote.” He suggested I delve deeper into the results to be absolutely certain that my irregular heartbeat wasn’t dangerous. I have followed his advice and am waiting to hear back from my doctor.

Last week, I began something new and started reading other blogs under topics such as grief, divorce and loss. I discovered that reaching out helped me to feel less isolated. I made a few wonderful connections, and perhaps “wonderful” isn’t the best description. I was riveted by a blog where a mother and daughter were desperately coping with the daughter’s excruciating pain and impending death. It broke my heart and grounded me back to appreciation for my circumstances.

I believe that I was meant to read this blog; it has affected me greatly. I was drawn to it after seeing a picture of the daughter’s pain-filled eyes. Do not follow the link below, unless you are prepared to cry.

Below is a link to that blog:

Mommy can you feel how sore it is?

I also began corresponding with another woman coping with her divorce. We had a lovely exchange:

On Nov 27, 2012, Valerie wrote:

WOW, Judy! YOU are TRULY amazing! Thank you so much for sharing this song with me. I agree with you wholeheartedly about why some people stay together for fear of the unknown. I believe I stayed longer than necessary for just that reason. I was married 19 years and also stayed for my child and that has been a sadness I can’t yet explain, because instead it turned his world upside down. I have often times beat myself up thinking….IF ONLY I would have waited just ONE MORE YEAR…then our child would not have had to go through all this. And then I tell myself…. BUT, you did NOT know what would happen so it is NOT your fault…you were doing what you thought was best and God knows your heart.

At any rate… I have thoroughly enjoyed reading about you and also am very honored you shared this song with me. Thank you again for everything, Judy.

Valerie

Hi Valerie,

I have been feeling very emotional and teary, lately. I have three children (16, 19, and 22) and they have been deeply affected by this divorce.

I only moved out a little over a month ago, not long after having 3 eye surgeries related to cataracts. I’m 53 and couldn’t believe I had to deal with eye surgery just after I told my husband I wanted a divorce. It was several months before I could move out, plus, I am still adjusting to my new eyesight.

I was an artist for 30 years, but have embraced writing and music for the last 2 years. Although I share everything on my blog, I plan to release an audio book with a music CD soon. My book is about my healing from grief through songwriting. I speak of the pain of losing my child, as well as dealing with the loss of my parents. I do all of my own editing, illustrating, writing, composing and speaking. I’ve spent a great deal of time learning recording and editing techniques for the stories and music. I’ll be releasing it in two months.

All this week, I progressed with writing my second book (which will include my song “The Unknown”). That book is going to focus on love and loss resulting from relationships. I do believe that separation and divorce has it’s own unique grief process. I am far lonelier than when my child died, twenty years ago I had my parents to support me and I received a lot of sympathy. Now, I am really on my own. Perhaps that is why I appreciated your words so much.

What I have done by leaving was to follow my heart. I could have stayed with my marriage and continued writing my book. I certainly would have had financial security, but then I couldn’t write from my heart with honesty. It tormented me, because I was keeping my unhappiness a secret.

But I have a lot of faith in my writing and music. I believe I can really help other people with my courage and honesty. It’s hard now, but I am going to trust that it will get easier.

By the way, after typing to you this morning, I was inspired to write a blog post. I edited our exchange and took out details about your situation. Please let me know if it is okay to share your words.

Judy

Ps. No more “if only’s.” You are 12 years ahead of me – you were married 19 years and I was married 31. I wasted so much of my life being sad. Life is too precious to have regrets about things we didn’t know at the time. Clarity is a gift.

Hi Judy,

You can absolutely use what I’ve said. I am in awe as I’m digesting what I’ve just read. You’re not just an amazing songwriter and singer; your writing is outstanding, as well. I am so thankful to have met you. I am extremely encouraged and believe life is going to get a whole heck of a lot better!!!!

Thank you for sharing this with me. I am truly honored to read it and be a part of it. I hope your day has been very inspiring.

Warm regards, Valerie

Thank you, Valerie. I’m laughing because I don’t feel like a great writer – I’ve found so many typos and mistakes in that draft I sent you!

I am going to fix it and post this. Your encouraging response gave me a big smile!!!! I am honored to have your honor and I think life is going to get a whole lot better for both of us. Write me any time.

Today I felt encouraged because my lawyer called (it will cost me a bundle, though) and she seemed very protective of me. I liked that.

Take care, Judy

LOL! No worries on typo’s. I do drafts all the time and always do a spell check before posting. In my opinion…. typos have nothing to do with being a great writer. That’s what spell check is for. A great writer is made from what flows from their heart. And you have a wonderful way of sharing just that. I’m so glad you’re going to post it.

I’m beyond thankful that my ex and I agreed on that and decided to get a mediator so that we could agree on our divorce and the settlement therein so we could split what the attorney’s would take from us. Divorce is never easy and attorneys make it worse, in my opinion.

Have a blessed evening and write any time.

Valerie

I wish my husband hadn’t gone “the attorney route,” but he felt he had to. It will probably end up benefiting me. Our process of forming an agreement hasn’t even begun. I will be glad when it is over. I pray there isn’t too much wreckage from the aftermath.

Two weeks ago, I performed at Kulak’s Woodshed on an open mic night.

This blog link is for “Doyle’s Widow.” It was heartbreaking for me to read this grieving woman’s words. Here are excerpts:

I reluctantly abandon my dreams—my dream of growing old with the man I love with all my heart, my dream of becoming a writer, my dream of happiness, and my dream of helping others. I buried the largest part of my dreams the day I buried him, but vestiges drift in the aura surrounding me. Those vestiges are slowly drifting away. I surrender to the dreamless existence, which offers only emptiness. I had such a big heart. I feel as though my heart is shrinking. I still feel, I still absorb the sadness of others around me, but I no longer feel that I am capable of helping them.

My dream of becoming a writer, while still looming around me, has died for the most part. So few people actually read what I write. A friend said it is because my writing is so depressing, but I do not believe that. My writing is just not as good as I thought. He was my biggest fan and his encouragement drove me. I read everything I wrote to him, regardless of how long. He would praise me and sometimes, even make suggestions. I am not a narcissist, but I admit that his devotion encouraged me to continue writing. Now, I suppose I write because I began writing as a little girl and believed it was my destiny. I do not believe that anymore. I am beginning to believe that my destiny was to have 20 years of bliss with the man I love, and then be plunged into darkness for atrocities I committed in previous lives. To endure this hell for the remainder of this life is my destiny.

I once thrived in helping others. I could often find the right thing to say or know just when to listen. Now, how can I help others when I cannot even help myself? All I am capable of now is absorbing their pain, but with no resolutions to absolving it. I have become useless. There it is—I have no purpose anymore. I merely exist.

I illustrated this as an exercise demonstration for an art student years ago.

I want to share an exchange with an Internet grief forum. It began with John comforting a fellow griever with a statement of “things will get better over time.” Jane responded and told John he couldn’t understand the depth of her pain – the loss of a child. What he was saying seemed like platitudes to her. John responded that he knew about pain because his grandfather had hung himself and his sister died when a truck crushed her. Jane wrote back to once again reiterate that although John meant well, he still couldn’t imagine the difference of losing a child.

On Nov 25, 2012, Jane wrote:

Dear John,  I am not making light of your grief. Grief hurts no matter how you put it. I know you miss your grandfather and sister and I am sure the pain is almost unbearable at times. The loss of your own child differs greatly from other family members. I have lost both of my parents, 2 in-laws, and my best friend, but all their losses together don’t even come close to the loss of my child. It is very difficult to explain but to see that little life you brought into this world, die in front of your own eyes is something I cannot deal with most days. I wish you comfort and peace in your losses but I hope you can understand losing a child is the worst possible pain. I would take any form of cancer or death for myself first, anytime, any day.

I don’t care what age your child dies; they are still your child, your baby, and your reason for life. It has been 20 months for me since I lost my 30-year-old son from Sudden Cardiac Arrest. Every day is different and some days I wish for my own death to take me to him. People often tell me “they understand.” I had one person tell me they understood as they recently lost a pet. I wanted to punch them. NO ONE understands unless they have been through the loss of their own child. Spouses, siblings, parents, those are different types of grief.

A somber watercolor I painted while I was in college.

From: Judy Unger

Subject: THE WORST PAIN

On Nov 27, 2012, Judy Unger wrote:

Dear Jane,

There are people who die from their broken heart every day – that wish to join your dead son is a powerful one.

When my 5-year-old son died, I searched for understanding and sought out other bereaved parents. I was about as “grief-centric” as they come, certain that my grief was the worst in the world. No one could feel my anguish – I could hear my little boy calling “Mommy!” and I kept seeing his cold corpse in the ground. I wanted to bring him a blanket. His dead face filled my days and nights. I could barely go on.

I felt that even if parents had lost a child, they couldn’t understand my pain. I didn’t think a miscarriage or a stillbirth could compare to my level of grief. I even would have told you that it was easier for you losing your adult son – you had more memories to treasure. I had to deal with a room full of clothes and toys that tormented me; reminders of my loss.

I say this because all of those beliefs translated to extreme isolation. It didn’t comfort me or help with my pain. My son died of a heart defect. When I befriended a woman whose daughter died from the flu, she told me that her loss was worse because she had no preparation and I did!

Gradually, I opened up to understanding that there is a lot of pain in this world. In my own lifetime, I have grappled with other forms of grief. I had surviving children with special needs, sick parents and currently I’m going through a divorce. When I remember that I’ve had worse pain with the death of my son in the past, it minimizes my feelings and doesn’t give me permission to feel.

It may be true that the loss of a child is THE WORST. But no one can truly know another persons’ pain.

I want you to heal. Your pain is unbearable. It is worse than anyone else’s because no one else loved your son as you did. I look forward to the day when you’ll know that having THE WORST pain is over. It won’t be as horrible. Hang in there.

Love Judy

Tags:"sandwich generation", child's death, compassionate friends, composing, coping with divorce, Daily Life, death, death of a child, death of a spouse, divorce, divorce after a long marriage, divorce after long marriage, divorce and separation, gray divorce, grief, grief bereavement "Loss of a Child", GRIEF RELATED, impending death, impending divorce, inspiration, loss, widow
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I’LL SAY A PRAYER

September 26, 2012

BLOG TABLE OF CONTENTS

Clicking on the blue link below will play an instrumental version of my newest song, which I’ve named My Dream:

Despite my seeing with one eye, I carried on over the past week. I attended a funeral for a good friend’s father. My friend, Marge, was so thoughtful and arranged to have someone drive me. The woman whom I spent the day with was someone I already knew. Her company was delightful and it was very meaningful for me to gain insight from her. She had gone through two divorces.

Before the graveside ceremony, I took a walk to find Jason’s grave. In only ten days, it would be twenty years since my son died.

I remembered how I could not find his grave the last time I was there. This time, there wasn’t a fallen tree covering it. Still, I walked and walked and knew I’d be close to it when I reached an area with other childrens’ graves. For ten minutes, I walked in circles up and down a hill. Just when I was about to give up, I found it.

My heart skipped a beat to see Jason’s familiar gravestone. I noticed how the grass arround it was overgrown; I dusted the stone off so I could read his name. For several minutes, I closed my eyes and allowed the sunshine to warm me. I imagined I could remember his voice and strained to feel his presence.

There wasn’t any pain, only peacefulness, as I carefully walked back to rejoin the funeral service I had come to attend.

I was very close with my mom throughout my life.

I was dreading the phone appointment from the Social Security office. I had called two weeks earlier to inquire about my mother receiving a death benefit due to my father’s passing. The person on the phone wanted to speak to my mother and told me to bring her into a Social Security office. I explained how difficult that would be because she had severe dementia and was in a nursing home. I decided instead to set up a phone appointment. I would bring her to my house and give it a shot – maybe she would miraculously answer some simple questions.

My mother was on Medi-Cal, and thankfully her nursing home cost was covered. The amount of the death benefit would pay for less than one week of her companion’s care, which my brothers and I paid for.

Miriam is unbelievably loving to my mother. She loves me too, and relieves me of so much.

I was so blessed to have such a wonderful companion for my mother. Her name was Miriam. Miriam brought my mother to my home a few minutes before the expected phone call. My mother looked relaxed and beamed at me with love, although she was gaunt and appeared tired.

I spoke very slowly and carefully as I explained to my mother that we would be receiving an important phone call. I let her know she would need to answer some simple questions. I wished I were a better actress so none of this would have been necessary. That way I could have pretended to be my mother on the phone and saved a lot of trouble. But six months earlier, I had tried to switch her Social Security bank account over the phone. The agent I spoke with caught on quickly and told me my voice was “too young” to be my mother. I was such a horrible liar!

A perfect opportunity for me to share a photo of myself when I was 10. I was about to perform in a play and my role required me to cry. I was told that I was very convincing.

I was direct and watched my mom’s expression as I tried to explain the reason for the phone call. It hardly seemed worth it. I surprised myself when I said, “Mom, dad died four months ago.”

She looked startled and replied emphatically, “Let’s wait. I know he’s coming and will be here soon.” She tried to stand up from her wheelchair as she said, “I need to go to see him.”

A beautiful picture of my parents, before they were married. They were married for 61 years before my dad died this past May.

At that moment, the phone rang and I was surprised when the lady said that it would be fine to only speak with me. I answered all of her questions. Then I asked her, “Don’t you need to speak with my mother? She’s right here. I thought that was the reason for this appointment.”

She was very empathetic and told me that it wasn’t necessary. But she said she could certainly say hello. My mother was watching me intently, so I decided to let her say hello. This lady from Social Security was so caring that I began to get quite choked up.

As I held the phone to my mother’s ear, her hearing aid began whistling. I couldn’t hear what the lady asked her, but my mother answered with, “Well, whoever you are – you’re young like I wish I were!”

I hung up the phone and reached over to squeeze Miriam’s hand. We were both laughing.

With relief that this was over, we all ate lunch together. As Miriam ate a salad, she also fed my mother carefully. My mother was now on a pureed diet due to the results of the “swallow test” she had been given the week before.

Being with Miriam was so comforting during this time in my life. Every day was fraught with turmoil, and my poor eyesight didn’t help. Miriam understood my pain so well as she struggled in her own life. She made me appreciate my circumstances because my children were older than hers and I had more financial resources.

Earlier that week, I shared my newest song with Miriam. She said that when she listened to it, she felt so peaceful and that it helped her. We began to talk about our dreams.

Miriam was very close with her father. Although he lived thousands of miles away and she hadn’t seen him in a long time, they spoke every day.

She said, “Whenever my father has hugged me, I always felt something amazing. His hug is warm and comforting; special in a way I cannot describe. I am safe. I have never, ever had that feeling with anyone else. I dream that someday I could discover that feeling again.”

I understood.

“My Life Became Clear”

In the waiting room, I closed my eyes and allowed the instrumental music of my most recent song composition to uplift my soul. I could listen to it over and over and each time the chords sailed in the chorus, my heart felt like bursting.

When she called my name, I had to strain to be sure because I was still listening to my music. I grinned, because I often felt like a teenager with my IPod glued to my ears. If she only knew how soothing my music was for me!

The optometrist had an Irish last name – Murphy. She had clear blue eyes and asked me how I was; I wasn’t sure how to answer her question. I told her, “I am in a living hell right now because I have only one eye that can see. And my eye that does see is so strong that I cannot read anything with it.”

“Well, we’ll address that today,” she said confidently.

She thoroughly examined both my eyes. When she was finished she said, “Your eye that was operated on sees perfectly,” and then she added, “It will only get better, too, because it’s still healing.”

Then she shared that she had also had cataract surgery while in her fifties. I thought I was such an aberration, but I kept hearing it wasn’t as unusual as I thought. She said, “I wasn’t as nearsighted as you are, but I have loved the results from my cataract surgeries.”

It turned out that the whole purpose of this appointment was to decide how strongly to correct my remaining eye. It was an opportunity for me to have choices by wearing a soft contact lens to simulate the correction I would be having in two weeks.

I was floored when she said, “By the way, I hardly see an astigmatism. By next week, it might be completely gone. You must be sure not to wear a lens though, for five days before the appointment for those measurements.”

That meant five days of hell again, of seeing with only one eye. But I reminded myself that I had gotten through 13 days already, and those five days would take me to the finish line.

Then she added, “Your surgeon was smart to redo these measurements. Doing things this way, has allowed you to try out several mono-vision options. And by the way, you were really smart to have not worn your hard lens before coming to this appointment!”

I asked her, “Will I be charged for today’s visit?”

She replied, “Normally, you would and I was going to check with my supervisor about it. But, there’s no need. You will not be charged for this at all.”

Now I was really glad that I had waited to send my complaint letter!

I planned to send it so I could avoid the $1,000 extra charge for that astigmatism correction, which I hadn’t been told about initially. If this eye had been my first eye, I felt I would have suffered far less because I could have worn my glasses. I also anticipated I would be charged for contact lenses that would only be worn a week. Being a warrior had wasted a lot of energy and was another lesson for me.

The optometrist came back with a soft contact lens and placed it on my eyeball. I blinked and felt dizzy for a moment. My world came back into focus! I began to cry, but wiped the tears quickly so she would only think it was because of the lens.

Before I left, she made another appointment for me to return in a few days. She wanted me to try another lens correction that would give me increased close up vision. Then she introduced me to a kind older man who instructed me on the proper handling of soft contact lenses.

As I drove home, I was in awe again at how beautiful it was to be able to see with two eyes. I was completely choked with emotion.

It was then when I clearly heard my father’s voice.

He was chuckling and he enthusiastically boomed, “You see what a wonderful eye surgeon you have – I told you! It was a good thing you used him!”

I was so glad my father was smiling from up above – instead of worrying about me. I drove and cried softly as I felt him hugging me.

I celebrated having two eyes with eyesight, even though it would only be until the weekend. I came home to find a check in the mailbox that I had been waiting for. My smile became bigger when I received a call asking me if I could play tennis on Friday morning. I had missed it so much and it would probably be a month before I was able to play again. My day was just getting better and better.

It was the Yarzeit or Jewish anniversary of Jason’s death day. I put out a memorial candle for him.

I decided to attend services at my temple; this was something that I did so infrequently that I could count only a few occasions where I had gone into temple in the last 25 years. I sat with a good friend and she held my hand. Being able to see made such a difference. On the following day, my temple had invited me to share my music for one hour. How wonderful it would be to have my eyesight for that!

My gratitude for my life was overflowing. I cried tears of joy as I stood up to say a memorial prayer.

EXCHANGES WITH A GRIEF FORM: (My words are in blue)

I’m so sad for you, Judy, and crying as I’m typing this. Life is so cruel.

Please don’t be sad or cry for me. I am moving forward in my life now as I leave my sad marriage.

My father’s recent death freed me. I feel his love guiding me to make this change in my life. I am so enthused and joyful about sharing my healing music and my message.

I share my sad writing because it feels shallow to tell others “you will heal someday.” First, I need to express how I lived through that god-awful life-wrecking pain – and then I can share how I’ve come out of the tunnel. I’m in a different tunnel now. It requires courage and I feel inspired about where I’m going.

Thank you for your message. Even though life is cruel, there is beauty to be found if you search for it.

Love, Judy

I wrote the message below as part of a continuing dialog with a woman who recently lost her son.

Thank you for your kind words. It amazes me that you have been so compassionate and helpful to everyone on this forum, while struggling with your own agonizing grief.

I’m glad you shared that your son was an optometrist. I will carry that thought with me as you try to cope with his senseless death.

Your words about grief bring it all back for me, too. You are living through the endless replaying of your son’s life and death. I described it as “the opera of my son’s life and death.” Only someone who has gone through that truly understands the torture of it.

It would be a good time for you to find a grief companion. I know it takes effort, but you need to find someone who is currently going through this. Not a family member, of course. If you had someone else to stay close to with your feelings – you would have a hand to hold that will ease your suffering. There are people out there that are going through this as I write to you. It’s not enough to write to this forum. You must attend a support group and look to find someone you can partner with.

Remember this – because I believe that will help you more than anything. It will take pressure off of your son and husband. You can call and scream and take baby steps back into the living with someone going through this, too.

You will know when you are ready.

On Oct. 6 of this year, it will officially be 20 years since my son died. As the season is beginning to change, I celebrate once again how much I have healed. I will always carry the amputation of my soul inside of me but I am peaceful. My life holds promise and I am grateful for the gift my son gave me, which inspires me to help others.

Love, Judy

Your story is my story, the only difference being, your son was 5 and mine was 34. The sadness is overwhelming and the pain never-ending.

The reason I keep writing to this group after twenty years of grief is to inspire hope. Of course, you know how it went with losing your mother so young – I am certain that was horrible. Eventually, you adjusted. But this is different. It is beyond horrible!

The sadness is overwhelming and you will always carry the memory of this pain. But the pain will end. It will – I promise. Please hold onto that.

Grief is about crying, screaming and crawling. You carry on while the world goes on around you. I used to cry in my car whenever I drove anywhere. I would wipe away my tears and no one knew. This went on for years and years. I hated to wake up in the morning and wished I were dead.

But when the pain ends – you find yourself in a different place. It is a place of strength and appreciation. Perhaps when our life ends, the mystery will be solved and we will see our dead loved ones again. Until then, we are still alive and need to find a way to get through this. That is what they would want for us.

I am not a religious person, but I am going to pray for you. Even if the tiniest increment of your pain diminishes – it will be cause for celebration. Allow it and do not feel guilty!

Keep writing about your grief. Your own words will remind you someday of your progress.

Love, Judy

I took this picture before leaving the cemetery. The image spoke to me. It was about seeing new growth on an older tree.

Tags:Aging Parents, Caregiving, cataract options, cataract surgery, cemetary, child's death, compassionate friends, composing, courage, dealing with the loss of a long marriage, death, death of a child, dementia, Friendship, graveside, gravestone, grief, grief bereavement "Loss of a Child", GRIEF RELATED, guitar, having hope, inspiration, loss, mother, mother daughter relationship, mother's illness, Music, my dream, original songs, performing, social security office
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