myjourneysinsight

GRIEF 101 – PART 1

Posted on March 13, 2010 by Judy

ALONE

The wind is icy

Whipping through the dense, cold darkness

My eyes are misty

The stars are dim

I am alone

I’m standing numb and frozen

Wishing your arms could hold me now

But they can’t because you’ve gone

Out of my life

I am alone

I don’t understand what’s happened

A deep, dark emptiness is there

Why did you go?

What is left since you’ve died

I don’t know

I am alone

First off, I am a human portrait of grief.

I am a bereaved parent. I am grieving my five-year-old child, Jason, who died eighteen years ago.

I am grieving the challenges my children have faced.

I am grieving my parents who are still alive, but not like they used to be.

I am grieving my marriage. It started out with so much companionship and love, but has been lonely for me. Grieving is a solitary thing. Men and woman grieve differently.

I am grieving my best friend from college, Cheryl. She died of breast cancer in February of 2008. I suffered a lot by making the decision that I couldn’t leave my family to go see her before she died.

Finally, I am grieving the loss of the talented girl I was. I was a girl that had so much going for her. That girl was so joyful about life when she was young.

I am no different from other humans who are grieving. I believe I have a gift to describe those feelings in my music and writing. Because I write about my grief, it doesn’t mean that it is deeper than anyone else’s. I don’t believe in comparing grief. I used to do that, and eventually I learned that it wasn’t helpful. It never made me feel one ounce better to think my situation was “worse!”

I have been writing daily for this blog since February 17^th. I have not yet truly, I mean truly written my feelings about my son’s death. I have only just begun. I am moving toward that direction very carefully. Everything I have written has helped me to feel better. In only a short time, I have felt a new lightness within me. I believe I am healing!

For those of you that have experienced deep grief; I know you’ll understand. For those who have not, it might be very sad to read about. You might know someone who is grieving. Perhaps this will be helpful for you to understand what they might be going through.

I was a “poster child” at my chapter of Compassionate Friends. Everyone looked at me as a true, success story. I was able to actually laugh again after the death of my child. I didn’t wait long to do that. Laughter does not mean there is not intense pain.

I went on to have “subsequent” children. Not too many people who knew me then, were aware that I actually had to go onto another form of grief; the grief over accepting additional hurdles my childen were dealt. I needed to address those challenges, and considerable advocacy was required of me!

Recently, I’ve felt overwhelmed with the responsibility for my own parents and their needs. I have stuffed all my feelings away for a very, long time.

I hesitate to write the title I did, Grief 101! It sounds like I am a teaching a class. I wrote that title, because I was hoping to share and educate anyone that is interested in relating to my personal, grief experience. I am not the representative of anyone’s feelings, only my own.

My grief is mine, and it is a lonely journey. I cannot speak to the pain of other humans.

In order for me to survive my own pain, I have intimately shared my pain and my story with fellow “grievers.” That was what was most helpful for me.

For the rest of my life, whenever I hear or read about something tragic, I cry tears inside. That is because I know that with the death of anyone who is cherished, the lives of those who loved him or her are irreparably changed forever.

I carry many stories besides my own. In Compassionate Friends, which is a group for bereaved parents and siblings, we tell our stories over and over again. “Telling the story” helps to lessen the trauma.

“Telling the story” also lessens a bereaved parent’s greatest fear; that our child will be forgotten. I know my fellow griever’s children very well. I hope they won’t mind if I share. I am not positive of their childrens’ ages, but I am about the cause of death and their names.

There was the exquisite, six-month-old Adam whose mother laid him next to her after he had an attack of the croup. He fell asleep as she gently rocked him. When she woke up, he was dead.

There was three-year-old Matthew. He was running in circles in his living room with his younger brother chasing him. He fell down dead; his heart had stopped due to an unbeknownst, congenital defect.

There was beautiful Marc, who was in his twenties. He loved children and was so kind. One day he went to the movies to watch, “Dave.” He looked like he was dozing off. He died from a heart abnormality in that theatre.

There was Blake. He was a teenager who drove off to go skiing, full of life and promise. He had a horrible car accident on the way and never made it there.

There was six-year-old Stephanie. She had an ear infection and was on antibiotics. Her mom drove her older brother to school; she waved goodbye to her ill daughter. When she came back, her daughter was dead.

There was Debbie; she was in her early twenties. Debbie endured surgery after surgery her entire life because of Marfan’s Syndrome. She was always in pain. She told her mother the day before she died, “Mom, this hospital is going to kill me!”

There was a young sister. She had a brother with a heart defect. One day he died, and the brother she loved had disappeared from her world. Her parents would never speak of him again. She was not able or allowed to talk about it. From that point forward, her childhood was filled with sadness. When I met her, she decided after all the years that had passed (perhaps twenty) that it was time to address the grief. She joined me at the CP meetings. She cried when she told her story there for the very, first time after so many years!

I have a thousand more stories inside my head and heart like these. It’s different than reading them in the newspaper. That’s because I heard these stories told by the parents who this happened to – when it was fresh and excruciatingly raw.

When it was the first time, perhaps they screamed and wailed. Sometimes it didn’t matter that they had already told their story a hundred times. Their words were choked with tears and pain.

I’ve held their hands.

Sometimes it was their very first time of telling their story. They might go on to tell it a million times for the rest of their lives, or maybe not. Some people never tell their story. They keep a picture of their loved one somewhere; they silently carry their pain. That is my husband.

It was difficult was when I was a telephone volunteer for the organization. I answered the phone calls for those seeking support and a place to go with their pain.

The initial pain could be described as “shock and awe,” or disbelief.

After eight years of bereavement, I started collecting other stories. They are just different stories. They are also quite painful. I know the mothers in these stories well.

I was there.

There was the mother who had a non-verbal son. He was about ten years old. He was swimming in the pool where he had already defecated. I swam in that same pool five minutes, earlier.

His mother had tried very hard to get him to take his medicine, but he refused. She came to him poolside; he grunted that he wanted her to come into the pool with him. She was afraid of him; beaten down and tired of it all. She went into the pool because he wanted her to.

She had her clothes on!

I am tired now. I will write more about grief another time.

My calligraphy (done in college) of lyrics to my song, “More than you Know.”

“There is no timetable for grief”

Hypnotherapy taught me to be gentle with myself. I realized that my worries were based upon my experiences. The trauma left me in “warrior mode,” and this was deep within my subconscious where I had no control over it.

It has not been easy for me to change any of my programmed “mindsets.” I have many of those. Here is an example of one of my “mindsets” and how it came about.

“Skating on thin ice,” means I can never relax; I am always anticipating that something bad will happen. I need to be “ready” to deal with it, and obviously this has been a tremendous drain of my energy. I am very good at dealing with a crisis; I have had constant elements of that in my life.

I am going to share a true experience. It could explain my feelings about why I have often felt I was “skating on thin ice.”

I met one of my bereavement friends, Riva, at a support group that was for “general bereavement.” We were the only ones in that group who had lost a child. There were widowers, children who had lost parents, and even someone who had lost a pet.

Riva and I were scornful and disgusted about the other people in our group who were grieving a pet. We weren’t even sympathetic to those who had lost a parent. It was much later on when I realized that grief “cannot be measured,” it all hurts!

There is no point in comparing or measuring when someone is hurting. I was not always like this; I am ashamed to admit. But that is also human!

Riva and I did return to that group for a while, but it was mostly because of the leader. Her name was Eileen. She had lost a young son to leukemia many years earlier. Eileen was a therapist, but she no longer did private counseling. I begged her to consider seeing me. She saw my agony and despair.

I didn’t know how to go on living; it was so hard! Finally, I convinced her of how desperate I was, and she was willing to see me privately.

She gave me some advice that stuck with me. She told me, “Judy, grief is simply a matter of baby steps. You need to walk with someone – together! Someone who is suffering alongside of you and who understands how hard it is to face getting up each day. What about Riva?”

And so it was that I chose Riva to be my partner in grief, and we met often to discuss the details of our childrens’ lives and death. I met more bereavement friends through the organization Compassionate Friends a short while after that. Riva joined me at those meetings, and we no longer attended the “general” bereavement, support group.

Going back to the mindset of “skating on thin ice,” I will finish this story of how hopeful I was that Eileen, a fellow, bereaved parent and therapist would ease my pain.

Eileen and I had our first appointment scheduled for a Saturday morning. I was counting the days, hoping the agony inside would be eased somewhat by having this “expert at surviving grief” counsel me.

She had lost her young child so long ago, and seemed at peace with it. Ironically, I am the one now that is still trying to find that peace after 18 years.

I will never ever forget her frantic phone call on the Friday night before our appointment. Now I know why I have had the feeling that no matter how much tragedy I’ve had – there could always be more!

“Judy, this is Eileen. I am so sorry! I have to cancel our appointment for tomorrow. My oldest son was just killed! He was walking near some train tracks, and didn’t see the train coming. Oh my god, Oh my god!”

© Judy Unger and http://www.myjourneysinsight.com 2010. 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.

Posted in Grief Stories | Tagged acoustic guitar, Aging Parents, alone, compassionate friends, composing, creativity, death, death of a child, disabilities, disabled children, Friendship, grief, grief bereavement "Loss of a Child", GRIEF RELATED, Hypnotherapy, inspiration, loneliness, loss, lyric development, lyric writing, lyrics, Music, original songs, songwriting | 2 Comments

HEALING THE DAUGHTER’S HEART

Posted on March 9, 2010 by Judy

My beloved parents with me.

12:00 p.m.

It is lunchtime.

I had a flash. It was time for me to join the fourth support group in my life! I decided to call it ”Role Reversal with our Parents.” Actually, “Healing the Daughter’s Heart” was what ended up coming to mind.

Only last night when my father was eating dinner at our house, did I realize how far things have switched. I actually admonished my dad to stop “spitting” corn. He always argued with me about this one. I was upset because his table habits have made all my children run from the table.

There was a time when my daughter actually ate corn (her only vegetable, if you consider it one). Her excuse for stopping, was that she was too grossed out after seeing what my dad did with his corn. Even when I’ve tried not to look, the little chewed up pile on his plate was definitely gross. I always thought fiber was a good thing – but my father did not think so. When my dad encountered fiber in foods like celery or corn, he chewed them up and spit out the pulpy part.

Last night, I decided to speak up.

“Dad, I wish you wouldn’t spit the corn back on your plate. How about using a napkin?” As soon I said it, I realized he’d never do that. He hated to waste napkins. He always brings me over stacks of napkins from Subway or wherever else he goes.

“It isn’t spitting!”

Now it felt like I was dealing with a teenager; I couldn’t win! This role reversal was so new that I felt downright disrespectful telling my own father what to do.

Suddenly, my husband spoke and backed me up. I loved it!

“It is spitting, and if you eat with us, you’re going to have to stop it!”

This still gave me a pang, so that was why I needed this new support group. However, come to think of it, many people my age have parents that are aging. It’s universal. Therefore, the world is my support group! I am fortunate, I know. There are those that wish their parents were still alive to make fun of.

One of my worst moments when my parents lived with me was the time my dad had hernia surgery and another surgery in his “private area” (for a hydrocele).

Sharing this story is extremely embarrassing, and is one of those things to either laugh or cry over. I just feel like I have to share it. I am not worried about my dad feeling embarrassed that I shared something so personal, because he is the least shy person on earth when it comes to “human functions.”

On that traumatic day, I picked him up after his outpatient surgery, and brought him home. We were told that the catheter in his “you know what,” would need to be removed the following day. The choice was to either come back to have it removed in the doctor’s office, or to “extract it” at home. My dad preferred to do it at home.

I am not a doctor; I am not a nurse. I am just my father’s daughter who suddenly felt like a little girl again.

This “removal” was not for the faint hearted. There was a balloon on one end, and it was what held the catheter inside and kept it from falling out. The tube needed to be cut; then the balloon would deflate and the catheter could easily be pulled out.

My father is a hoarder. He doesn’t like to waste anything. He did not want to cut the tube; he wanted it to come out in one piece. For the life of me, I didn’t understand later why he wanted to save it in one piece for. The hospital wouldn’t “use” it again! Later on, I learned what the result was of not following these directions.

The next morning I was very nervous. I had to wait until my children had gone to school. It was time! My father and I went into his bedroom and I prepared myself. I closed my eyes, and he held onto my shoulders. He yanked on his catheter to pull it out himself.

Suddenly, my poor father let out a loud yelp, and began to hop around the room. There was blood shooting out from “you know where” in a stream, and I was definitely traumatized for life.

Since he wasn’t unconscious, I resisted calling 911. I breathlessly called the urologist and described what happened. I had to check to see how much blood was actually lost. It was then explained to me, how he was supposed to cut the tube. I didn’t know what to say when I was asked why he didn’t follow the instructions. I just trusted that my dad knew what he was doing!

I was very relieved when they told me over the phone that he would be okay. I was told that it was just more painful the way he did it.

I’ll say it looked painful!

I bathed my dad, and cleaned up the blood on the carpet and bed. This was just another example from my life the year my parents lived with me.

We love our cat, Angel, but she’s no angel when she pees in places she shouldn’t!

“Healing the Pet Owner’s Heart”

4 p.m.

Yesterday, Rosa told me if I give our puppy, Killer, turkey again and he gets diarrhea, I would be cleaning that mess up. And to think, I thought she worked for me!

Killer will not let me rest. He is whining; he is barking outside my door. I hesitate to have him on my bed. He left a huge pee circle for the third time on my oldest son’s bed. My husband admonished all of our children that it was their job to take Killer outside so he could go to the bathroom. Thank god there is one disciplinarian in our house! The kids are deaf to me. My kids love to pass things on to their siblings. When I see cabinet doors left open, bags of chips spilled out on the counter, it is always the “other,” the invisible sibling’s fault.

I have thought about adding some videos to truly capture this menagerie in our house. Every moment is filled with excitement. The cats are arching their backs, showing fangs, and letting out long hisses at this leaping Chihuahua puppy half their size. I keep hearing these shrieking yelps that stop my heartbeat. Before I run and check it out, I go to that place of . . .

The dog is dripping blood with a huge gash from the cat’s claws; emergency vet visit – oodles of money!

I look down and see only feathers, where the hell did the bird go?

The bird just poked out the puppy’s eyeballs; a blind, disabled dog is now my responsibility for life!

Oh my god, did I just sit on the cat, which was sleeping on my computer chair? (I did do that to our very first cat. Maybe I did kill it after all?)

Okay, I’m done sharing all my worries; I can now move on. I have discovered that the dog, Killer, does not like the blow dryer. Turn it on, he is barking and dancing on two back legs. Turn it off; he stops. I could create a whole circus routine with this!

Before I exit, here is my description of something yucky. I have to be so careful not to step in cat vomit. Sometimes it is daily (time for a vet visit to give the cat a cortisone shot), and sometimes it is weekly. Now I am dodging little, tiny rawhide sticks belonging to our adorable, new puppy, Killer.

I am barefoot, and I am careful. I am in the bathroom, and there is one on the floor, I pick it up; it is wet and sticky.

It is not a rawhide stick.

“Being Honest”

I am in an honest phase of my life. I am trying to be open. Sometimes openness gives me pangs; I’ve worried that I’ve upset my friends by sharing their email messages. I have also written personal things that my children wouldn’t like me to share. So far, they don’t care enough to even find out by reading my blog, but they might someday.

I’ve written about my husband; mostly it’s kind and honest words. He doesn’t care, as long as we get rich.

But my father? How would he ever forgive me for writing about my experience with him while he removed that catheter from his penis?

I love my dad! He also gave me $200 in cash last night. He wanted to pay for my son’s retainer, which I wrecked when I dropped it down the sink, and then ran the garbage disposal.

I had to face it. It was bothering me. So I faced it last night.

“Dad, I’ve been writing a lot of personal stuff. I hope you don’t mind that I found humor in that horrible, catheter incident I went through with you. I’ve now shared it with the world on the Internet!”

He looked at me and needed clarification as to what I was talking about it. I reminded him of it. He was totally un-phased. He prefaced his words with, “I’m not the man I used to be.” (He says that quite often.) I was so relieved!

Then he said, “Be sure to add to that story. My penis has never peed straight since! It shoots off side-ways!”

I love my father’s hat!

Tagged "sandwich generation", aging father, Aging Parents, Caregiving, catheter, father daughter relationship, father's love, Humor, humor children, humor daily life, my father, parenting, Pets | Leave a comment

MY RETREAT FROM WITHDRAWAL TO REFUGE

Posted on March 9, 2010 by Judy

THE SPECIAL MOMS – We were there for the baby shower for Kris in the center.

This morning I felt compelled to write about my “special moms.” It was easy for me to realize why; I have a dinner with them this evening. We are all excited to see how much the new baby in our group has grown. He is the only one that has been born to our circle of approximately, nine moms in the past seven years.

I would be surprised if any of these moms have ever read my blog. They are all too busy; some are just simply surviving at this moment. Just as I needed someone to understand bereavement, so it was with having challenging children.

In this group, we celebrate joy surrounding our children, and we also share how painful it can sometime be. I am the organizer for our group’s monthly dinners. I have always felt these “special moms” appreciated my planning.

I haven’t shared that much with them recently. It’s not that they haven’t asked; it’s just that I have been in a zombie shell for a very, long time.

The background for how I met these moms goes back to May of 2003. At that time, I attended a very special retreat. It was called “Healing the Mother’s Heart Retreat, and it was a one-day overnight for mothers of special needs children. I recently received an email about it happening again this year, and I always recommend this experience to other moms that are struggling with raising a special needs child.

The retreat is held in Montecito, California. It is in the most beautiful and peaceful of places. It is woodsy and quiet, and close to where there is a monastery. I believe the facility is also shared by other organizations that are there for meditation and enlightenment. A therapist, named Diane, runs the retreat. She has a younger son with Fragile X Syndrome, and lost her older son at the age of 17. His name was Andrew, and he was born at 26 weeks with severe cerebral palsy. He had resulting brain damage, and he died of respiratory complications. Diane is a wonderful therapist, and many moms I know have seen or are seeing her.

In 2003, I was in the thick of my advocacy battles. I was in full warrior mode, and living on adrenaline. My partner and mentor, Charlotte, emailed me support on a daily basis. I was not kidding when I share that I have boxes and boxes of files, emails, and reports about my children. All of my writing ability was put in that direction for years.

When I really need some good advice, I know I can always call Char. Like my husband, she didn’t obtain a college degree but she is an amazing success story. Despite her own learning disabilities, she has a terrific job and is doing well. She now lives in Sacramento. I can share that Charlotte is a young widow, and her older son is about the same age as my college-age son. She came into my life to teach me everything she could about how to advocate in life. She still lives by that motto, and I am forever grateful to her.

And so it was in May of 2003, I invited Charlotte, and treated her to go with me to the “Special Mom’s Retreat.”

I decided to bring my guitar; it was one of the very few times I have played in the last thirty years. I stayed up ridiculously late singing with women I had never met. Since most of my songs are from the 70’s, they knew them. I had also brought my extensive, typed songbook with me.

That very first day of introductions was draining and emotional beyond description. Each mother listed her challenges. When it was my turn, I started with Jason, and went from there to my living children. There was not one story there that would not bring another human to tears. We all called it a “sob-fest.”

I won’t write a whole lot more about this retreat right now. When I left with Charlotte on that Sunday, I carried with me a lighter load. I also had a typed sheet with all of the woman’s email addresses and information on it.

We had casually mentioned that it might be nice to have a reunion dinner in a month’s time. I actually found myself inputting the addresses (I had only recently started using a computer). I was proud to figure out how to do a group email. Somehow it just came natural to me to send out a reminder, and follow through with picking a date, restaurant, and time.

That first dinner, we all needed name tags to remember everyone. Charlotte didn’t participate much after that. She had gone to this retreat to keep me company. The retreat was really helpful for mothers coping with a new diagnosis and resulting grief. Charlotte had already gone miles ahead of us in that way; her sons were older already.

It has been almost seven years since that retreat. As far as I know, no other support group such as ours has formed. Through the seven years of getting together we have formed an amazing bond. We have scheduled “get-aways” to help us disengage from our stress every so often. These moms are fellow warriors and the “walking wounded;” coping on a daily basis with struggles that few people could understand. There have certainly been some painful divorces shared at our monthly dinners.

I have one of those pangs again . . .

I am recalling a painful memory from three years ago. My suitcase was all packed and I was ready to go. However, my mother was taken to the hospital that morning. I could not go to this get-away in Desert Hot Springs. How much I missed it! As I sat in the hospital with my mother, I thought of the spa treatments I was looking forward to. One of the other mothers pretended she was me, since I had already paid for those treatments. We were able to laugh about this later.

There has been so much progress made for all of us! There are so many stories I could share about what these mothers have gone through with their children. Patty’s story is extremely heartbreaking. She has a son at home who needs nursing care 24/7 because he was severely brain-damaged at birth.

When I decided my mother needed a private nurse while in the hospital, Patty was very helpful for me. Patty is also a singer in a women’s a capella group. Our group has gone to see her perform; it is simply an inspiring thing to experience.

While my mom was in intensive care in December, there was a day when I trudged into the lobby to sign in at the hospital. I was depressed, exhausted, and running on empty. As I signed my name, I read the name of another woman who I recognized had gone on the mom’s retreat with me seven years earlier! She was not a part of our core group of moms, but that didn’t matter.

I dragged myself to the PICU where it said she was going. I had so little time, and wondered if she would even remember me. At that moment of doubt, Chris, came out to see me. We hugged and hugged. I was able to cry with her.

After that, I stopped by to see her every other day or so. It was very helpful for me. Her son was very, very ill with pneumonia and possibly had resulting brain damage from the loss of oxygen. When he was found, he was “blue.”

All of this was on top of being powerful, large, and non-verbal.

One day when I went to visit her, I found out her son had been discharged. I have not spoken to Chris since this experience. It wasn’t important for me that she didn’t attend our dinners anymore. She was at that retreat and she was a special mom in my heart.

I was glad I took the chance to open up that day and get that hug I needed. We were both so human as we dealt with our ordeals. How much easier it would have been for me to have not gone to knock on the door of PICU – it brought back some traumatic memories for me of Jason!

I have also wondered what a coincidence it was that I arrived around the time she had signed in.

One mom in our group recently had a baby. She knew she was taking a chance of having another disabled child. My hat is off now to this courageous mom and dad. They have a non-verbal son and the resulting stress every day of their lives. We are all holding out breaths that this child will emerge unscathed from autism.

This new baby in our group is named, Jason. Jason means healer, and I would most certainly agree.

COMMENTS I’VE RECEIVED REGARDING THIS POST:

On Mar 10, 2010, Chris wrote:

Wow Honey,

That was amazing!!! Glad to hear your mom made it through!! I know you were scared. How is she doing?

Steph actually came out of all that better verbally. Kinda weird. His behaviors on the other hand have sky rocketed and we are looking at placement for a bit. I am also going through a divorce and would be completely unable to handle Steph by myself. UGGGH!! Life!

Take care and I hope to hear from you soon, Chris

On Mar 10, 2010, Patty wrote:

Hi Judy!

Thanks so much for sending this link to your wonderful Blog. Thanks also for the mention. Before becoming a “Special Mom,” I was an independent rep for directors, composers, animators, and graphic artists or TV commercials. Caring for Ryan who was an infant at the time and having constant seizures and for my mother dying of cancer became too much for me to handle and still keep my company viable, so I had to close the doors.

Before then, I was a professional dancer/singer. It’s been great to be able to sing again with my group. So when you brought your guitar to our first “Healing a Mother’s Heart” retreat, I thought that this was truly a healing retreat!

It was beautiful when you just started playing and singing. I remember you shared that you hadn’t picked up your guitar for a long time. Some of the mom’s joined in and some just listened. Either way, it was healing and joyous and so much fun.

Take care Judy and thanks again!

Love, Patty

On Mar 10, 2010, Diane Smith wrote:

Dear Judy,

Thank you for sharing your writing with me about the retreat. It is so gratifying to see in writing the impact of these yearly gatherings, which is a labor of love for me. The reverberations of your experience and ways in which you continue to connect in some way with that experience move me in a way that is profound.

I admire your courage in going to those long ago dark places as a way to come into the light.

Warmly, Diane

Diane Simon Smith, MPH, MA, MFT

www.dianesmithmft.com

Tagged Advocacy, Friendship, parenting, School district issues | Leave a comment

BYE, BYE, ZOMBIELAND – PART 1

Posted on March 8, 2010 by Judy

I’m with Jason in the back/center. The mother I ran into was in front of me.

“Definitely less tears”

I was shopping and I heard a voice call my name. It was a woman I hadn’t seen in many years. “How are you doing?” she asked. “Oh, and how’s your mom?” (Her mother knew my mother)

The voice that erupted from me, sounded so cheerful that I surprised myself. “I am actually great! Simply great!”

I shared with her that my mom had recently been on a respirator for two months. It had been quite an ordeal. I explained how my mom fell, had shoulder surgery, and then had complications from that surgery.

Then, I realized that I had just told her I was doing great! How could that be possible?

I explained, “You see, I have totally reinvented my life since this whole thing happened. I am in such a wonderful place now. I discovered my love for writing, and I’m feeling certain it will become something big!” I wrote down my blog site for her.

In case this sounded like I was completely self-absorbed, I was receptive to hearing about her children. Eagerly, she pulled out a picture of her 23-year-old son. She was glowing as she showed me his picture. He was recently inducted into the police department. I did not have any pictures with me. I used to carry a lot of pictures when my children were younger.

Now I want to share the back-story. This mother and I were both in the same mommy and me class together with our first-born sons. I had seen her infrequently through the years, and hadn’t mentioned this to her in a very, very long time.

My voice was soft as I said, “I went through his box just last week. There was a picture in there from our mommy and me class. You’re holding your son, and I am holding Jason. I’ve decided I am going to write about everything related to what I’ve gone through.”

She was kind, and agreed that it would be very therapeutic for me to write. She said she’d look at my blog.

I did not shed a tear at that moment. There were no tears now. I was certain that there were fewer tears left since I had cried so much. Because I had cried from grief day after day, week after week, and year after year – it gave me a perspective that there would never be an end to pain of this dimension. But actually, a day came when my tears finally stopped.

When that day finally came, it was ironic that I missed my tears!

My analysis was that when I held onto my grief, I felt that my beloved son, Jason, was close to me. I did not want to forget what I loved so much!

His smell, his touch, his voice – I had tremendous anxiety that I would forget what was once such a real part of my life.

When the tears stopped for me, it was only because I could no longer remember my beloved child as clearly. So now there was actually a different form of sadness. I felt farther away from what I was holding onto so tightly. But there were definitely less tears!

When I looked at the picture of this mother’s 23-year-old son in the market, it was a reminder that my child will never be 23! He will always be five years old, never to age another day.

Sometimes, the only way I could process the fact that my son was truly gone was to picture him dead. That might sound like the stuff of nightmares, but it was something that bereaved parents could easily discuss.

I have often tried and tried to imagine what he might look like now, but to no avail. When I have gone to that place, it becomes very confusing for me. Had he lived, I would not have had my daughter at that time, because I was so involved with his medical care and with my other son’s issues. Perhaps I might not have had other children. Who knows? Eventually, thinking about this became complicated.

So I’ve decided that my life played out a script for me. My current script has filled me with amazement. I live each day knowing that my life experiences have deepened me. I am fortunate that I am able to put into words what I have learned about grief. My situation was not something I chose for myself, but I have done as best I could with my circumstances.

It is often said that there is nothing worse than losing a child; it goes against the laws of nature.

After many years of comparing grief, I do not go to that place. I have met parents who have lost more than one child; there is no immunity from tragedy in this world!

I can feel the pain in my friend that lost the mother she loved so much. I feel a widow’s pain of trying to accept her husband is gone.

I realize that if I have the gift for words to help others understand; this is a compelling journey of redemption for me!

Grief changed me forever. When I pulled out of that old mommy and me picture from Jason’s memory box, I felt overwhelming sadness. I looked at the fresh-faced, young mothers with their babies, and my sadness was not only about the child I had that would never grow up. It was about seeing the innocent, unscathed person I was before my grief!

The experience of such gut-wrenching pain left me forever changed.

I am sad that lived in “Zombieland” for so many years. I lost out on truly enjoying life.

What propelled me forward was my love for my living children. Now I am passionate about sharing what I have learned, and what I continue to learn from other people around me. It is far better than suffering alone. Plus, I am truly enjoying life again.

“If no one ever read a single word I’ve written”

Today, I wrote about seeing a woman that knew me while Jason was alive. Just writing about the experience caused my old scars to begin bleeding again. I wondered if perhaps I should reconsider whether it was helpful to go back to those places.

I have enjoyed writing so much. It helped me to release some of the pain that I have been stuffing inside for many years. I am finally making sense of my life. I am not attempting to put a “positive” spin on what I write. Sometimes my writing is downright depressing!

The most amazing part of this recent, life journey, is how it is unfolding in such a precise fashion. I am grieving my dead child, and I am grieving my children’s disabilities and resulting struggles.

At the same time, I recognize what has been achieved by my advocating for my living children. It has been a challenging struggle to help them find their way. As a bereaved parent, it is never easy to see our children suffer. Many of the parents I have met, could never relax again. It is something we all know as part of that “club.”

Of course, the catalyst for everything has been my struggle with accepting the aging process and the resulting deterioration of my parents. My parents were such a source of support for me, and now I am responsible for much of their basic care. I’ve had the weight of the world on my shoulders, and I cannot continue to live that way without sacrificing my own health and family.

By sharing through writing, I feel lighter again. I celebrate my creativity, my energy, and my gift for writing. I am feeling that the more I write; the more there is for me to express. It is so freeing. If no one ever read a single word I’ve written, it wouldn’t matter. I have healed by doing this.

I began this blog, following my introduction, with the first post entitled “Reconnecting and Remembering.” It was interesting for me that I chose that particular story to begin my blog. I had many stories, why that one?

I believed it was important for me because it explained how I went from helping another bereaved mother, to cutting myself off from my bereavement friends when I became overwhelmed by my childrens’ disabilities. That story was also fascinating for me, because Lori became pregnant soon after her son died. That was partially due to my convincing her that it might be helpful, as it was for me after Jason died.

When Lori was with me, and together we saw her pregnancy test was positive; it was an amazing moment. I had helped another human, and I felt so moved and ready to take my own chance again. And with all the difficulties that I’ve had with my children; it was a very risky chance indeed. My youngest son is here as a result now.

Having another child was my way of affirming life, and having a way to express all the love that was within me aching to come out. All of this was from someone that really wasn’t sure she ever wanted children! Having another child after losing one, does not replace your child in any way. As my mother would often say, “You’ve lost a finger, and it doesn’t matter that you have others – it’s still missing!”

Watching my son’s passion for life has helped me heal. Most people have had great difficulty sorting out his passion out from his problems, but my son has touched quite a few people in profound ways in his short life.

My recent joy is seeing his problems melt away to expose the exquisite beauty within my son.

Lori did not have an easy pregnancy. She was very sick, and I used to pick up her older son from school. Her older son became close with my oldest son; after all, they had both lost brothers. It was sad that we drifted apart.

When I received a message from Lori, after she read about my experience “opening the box,” it reaffirmed how sharing my story was so very meaningful and healing for me.

Lori’s message was this:

Dear Judy,

Today while I had some down time I began reading your blog. First I have to say you are an incredible writer. I have to tell you reading about Jason’s box brought me to tears.

As probably all bereaved parents do, I too have a box. It is a hope chest that sits at the end of my bed. It’s like the elephant in the room that no one wants to discuss. Every day I look at that box. I sit on it to tie my shoes. I lay laundry on it, but I have not opened it in several years. I know by opening it and seeing all of Matthew’s things it will bring me back to a place I don’t think I am ready to go just yet.

Your writing has given me the courage to open it. I haven’t yet, but one day when everyone is out of the house and I am alone, I will take a step back in time and I will open the box and see my baby boy again and relive those old memories, the good and the bad.

Judy, you were my best friend and comfort when Matthew died. Now looking back I don’t know how you were there for me when Jason’s death was just a few years before. You are truly an amazing person dealing with everything life has handed you.

Keep on writing, and know I like your other friends, are enjoying every bit of it! Although we have not spoken in years, by reading your blog I feel so close with you again.

Lots of love, Lori