Winter Dreaming
by Sheila Simmons TCF Atlanta Sharing Line
Winter sun slants down, no warmth in its rays
Warm spring is sleeping, under the snow she lays.
Barren tree branches dance
in time to the cold winds song
Nights are dark and oh so long.
But your memories are my blanket of warmth
And I pull them close to me,
waiting for spring to come forth.
A time of warm breeze, to chase away the cold
But now in the winter,
warm memories I hold.
Five Years Later
What I Have Learned
By Tamie Dodge, Atlanta Chapter, TCF
January
14 will be my daughter, Jessica’s, fifth angel
date. She passed away on Jan. 14, 2004, only 16 years
old. I remember shortly after her death wondering if
I would feel the same depth of sadness after five years.
I am not sure why I focused on five years. I suppose
that – back then – it seemed impossible that
she was gone five seconds and could not imagine life
still moving forward into years.
I remember my sister asking me shortly after her death, “What
have you learned from this?” I remember thinking
that that was a very odd question. At that time, all
I had learned was what the horrible depth of true grief
was like and how little control I really had over the
most important things in my life, the well being of my
children.
In a way her question upset me, even though I did not
tell her that. It upset me as I felt she was trying to
analyze my grief the same way she analyzed her divorce.
She has a Masters Degree in Psychology and she has a
tendency to over analyze many things to the point that
I feel she loses touch with people’s true emotions.
I now look back and ask myself that same question. What
have I learned from the experience of losing a child?
• I will still
say that I learned that we can try to control the things
that are most important to us, but only to a point.
• I learned that we have little control
over the things that we cannot predict.
• I have learned how to be much more
compassionate toward all people as we just don’t know what their experiences
have been.
• I have learned how not to take anything
for granted.
• I have learned to tell the people
I love how I feel on a regular basis as you just never know what the future
will hold.
• I have learned what is truly precious
in life and it is not summed up in things, but people.
• I have also learned that I have
much more to learn and my search for all of the answers will last a lifetime.
Jessica has taught me so many things, both in life and
in her death. I miss her with all of my heart, mind and
soul. I can still see her so clearly in my mind. In my
mind I can still hear her belly laughs and smell her
fragrance. For this I am eternally grateful. I just pray
that if I am still here on this earth 20 years from now
I can say the same thing.
Jessica, I love you, miss you, want you back more then
I can say. I hope you are dancing with the angels.
Another Year Without My Child
By Annette Mennen Baldwin In memory of her son,
Todd Mennen TCF, Katy, Texas January 2007
It’s a new year and I am marking it, for the fifth
time, without my child. Last month was the fourth anniversary
of his death. This is one more milestone in the journey
of a bereaved parent. The new year brings the promise
of new adventures, happiness and prosperity to others.
To bereaved parents it adds another dimension to our
loss. It also brings the opportunity to look at where
we are and how far we have come.
I remember the first New Year’s Day without my
son. What an empty, hollow feeling I had on January 1,
2003. My world had ended, the shock was still systemic
in my mind and body, and I counted the days since he
last walked, talked and laughed on this earthly plane,
dwelling on the passing of days, hours and minutes since
the moment of his death. I was frozen.
Looking back at that time, I recall just how the pain
felt; unlike other pain, the pain of losing a child is
never forgotten. I feel the familiar jolt that rocked
my mind and body each time I awoke to remember that my
son had died. I remember the misery of slogging through
endless, meaningless days. I remember the tears, the
second guessing, the anger, the guilt. I remember it
all. I still bounce in and out of those emotions; this
will (Another Year Without My Child continued from page
4)
never end. It has moderated greatly, but it never ends.
Now I am more focused on my son’s life. Details
about his life spring into my mind....happy times, maturing
times, good times and funny times. I remember it all
with the clarity that only a mother can possess. And
so, that is how I will begin this new year....remembering
the life of my child but never forgetting the loss.
I am a different person than I was before my son died.
I feel as though a lightening bolt struck me on the day
of his death, and now I perceive the world from a different
vantage point. I have simplified my life from what it
once was.
I have many new friends who share the experience of
losing a child; I have permanently removed old friends
from my life who simply couldn’t accept my grief
and were fearful of talking about my child. I have a
new under- standing of the problems that other parents
face... problems that a mother of one never has to address.
I have become more solidly spiritual. I have gone through
Dante’s seven circles, walls and gates of hell
and emerged as the unique person I should have been all
along. People change. Bereaved parents change a great
deal.
I no longer dread each new day. I no longer weep silently
every night. I no longer ache from head to foot with
the pain of losing my child. I read, I write, I stay
active in the community. I work in my small business,
doing what I want to do and what I must do. I go to museums,
to movies, to stage plays. I listen to music, watch television
and work in my home and yard.
Amazingly, my word recall and memory are returning.
Forgetting names, events, people, destinations and other
critical factors of daily life was something I dealt
with for over three and half years. I thought I had lost
my mind until I started talking to other parents. I have
begun doing memorization exercises.....something I probably
should have done three years ago. I am learning that
the journey through grief lasts for a lifetime. Each
stage is different, each sudden, poignant memory is paralyzing
and each new day brings an opportunity to evaluate progress.
Much has changed during the past four years. Much will
change throughout my life. Each of us experiences the
loss of our child at the deepest level of our psyches.
Yet each of us comes to this place with a different set
of experiences and a unique genetic composition. I cannot
compare myself to others. I can only mark my tiny steps
forward with a sense of wonder at the resiliency of the
human mind and spirit while simultaneously accepting
that I am not in control.....at any moment a flash of
the past might bring me to my knees. I have learned to
go with it.
I have found hope for the future. It certainly isn’t
the future I had envisioned. There will be no late night
talks with my son, no holidays or birthdays shared, no
participation in my son’s children’s lives,
no cards, no handmade gifts. That door was closed by
lawsuit happy former in-laws who have no standing in
my life today. I have crawled through the minefields
and dodged the bullets of some pretty mentally unbalanced
people and survived. I have faced the abyss of losing
my only child while enduring the cruelest of sniping,
the worst of intentionally inflicted pain. I did none
of this with grace and finesse.....I merely got through
it. I survived. I became stronger by letting go of my
anger. I found hope by remembering the goodness that
is my son and by leaning on friends who had lost their
children. These friends were there for me when I so desperately
needed the comfort of kindred souls: Compassionate Friends
who reached out to me gave me the glimmer of hope when
all seemed forever lost and living was almost intolerable.
Now the healing process has completed its circle. I
am here for those parents who need me. Strangely this
helps me to heal as well. I reach out to others who are
new to the process of grief, and I tell them that there
is hope.
One day the sunrise will again be beautiful and you will
find peace within yourself. You will remember your child’s
life, you will honor your child’s life and you
will forever be changed by your child’s death.
But always, always, your child will remain in your heart.
This is my truth to all who wish to know. Lean on us,
for we have been where you are today. We will walk with
you on your journey toward hope, peace and resolution.
It is in this place that the healing will begin.
This
is a new year.
New Year's Resolutions for Bereaved
Parents
I Resolve:
- that I will grieve as much and for as long as I feel
like grieving and I will not let others put a timetable
on my grief.
- that I will grieve in whatever way I feel like grieving
and I will ignore those who try to tell me what I should
or should not be feeling and how I should or should
not be behaving
- that I will cry whenever and wherever I feel like
crying, and that I won't hold back my tears just because
someone else feels I should be “brave” or “getting
better” or “healing by now”.
- That I will talk about my child as often as I want
to, and that I will not let others turn me off just
because they can't deal with their own feelings.
- That I will not expect family and friend to know
how I feel, understanding that one who has not lost
a child can't possibly know how it feels,
- that I will not blame myself for my child's death,
and I will constantly remind myself that I did the
best job of parenting I could possibly have done. But
when feelings of guilt are overwhelming, I will remind
myself that this is a normal part of the grief process
and it will pass.
- That I will not be afraid or ashamed to seek professional
help if I feel it is necessary.
- That I will commune with my child at least once a
day in whatever way feels comfortable and natural to
me, and I won't feel compelled to explain or justify
this communion with others.
- That I will try to eat, sleep and exercise every
day in order to give my body strength it will need
to help me cope with my grief.
- To know that I am not losing my mind and I will remind
myself that loss of memory, feelings or disorientation,
lack of energy, and a sense of vulnerability are all
normal parts of the grief process.
- To let myself heal and not to feel guilty about feeling
better.
- To remind myself that the grief process is circuitous
that is, I will not make steady upward progress and,
when I find myself slipping back into the old moods
of despair and depression, I will tell myself that “slipping
backward” is also a normal part of the grief
process and these moods, too, will pass.
- To try to be happy about something for some part
of every day, knowing that, at first, I may have to
force myself to think cheerful thoughts so that eventually
they will become a habit.
- That I will reach out at times and try to help someone
knowing that helping others will help me get over my
depression.
- That even though my child is dead, I will opt for
life, knowing that is what my child would have wanted
for me.
By Nancy A Mower, TCF Honolulu, Hawaii
A Letter to My Brother
A part of me, my only sibling,
You alone hold the history of my youth.
The barbeques at Grandma’s and fishing at the dam,
The Easter egg hunts, and sparklers on the Fourth.
When little, we fought like brothers sometimes do,
But more often played, and laughed, and teased.
I tried to be what I thought a big brother should be,
And you played the younger equally well.
Then we reached that age when interests differ;
I thought you were too crazy and wild,
And you were sure I was too uptight.
Neither of us planned to get together,
Thinking we would always have the time.
It was only when they came to tell me,
After leaving a note on Mom’s door,
And again, I had to be the big brother,
To let her know you weren’t coming back.
For a while I believed it should have been me,
Since I had failed; I hadn’t watched over you.
And it was so hard to see how much Mom hurt,
Wondering if there was something I could have done.
But then I finally realized, probably with your help,
That I did nothing wrong; it was just your time.
The love we’ve always had will never leave,
And the memories we share will always be alive.
So even though I’ll always be the big brother,
I realize my baby bro has some special gifts now,
And I want to thank you for being that rascally angel
Who often lets us know he’s always around.
By David Ardenall
From We Need Not Walk Alone, the national magazine
of The Compassionate Friends
Dancing in the Rain
The
following article was written by Julie Short, a member
of the Southeastern Illinois chapter of TCF. She wrote
it “in loving memory of Kyra.” The article
is reprinted from the Summer 2008 issue of “We
Need Not Walk Alone.”
The words “it is what it is” continually
run through my mind. Our worlds don’t often turn
out as we imagined. My handsome prince didn’t come
and rescue me as a teen. He didn’t whisk me off
to a beautiful castle where he treated me like a queen.
We didn’t have four beautiful, healthy children
or live happily ever after.
In fact, my life journey hasn’t been at all like
I had imagined, with the exception of one beautiful daughter,
Kyra.
I was only six months into my grief when I attended
The Compassionate Friends national conference in Boston.
I remember grudgingly agreeing to attend a workshop titled “Another
Day, Another Opportunity.” I thought, I don’t
want to go to that one, because at the time, another
day was just another opportunity to feel great pain and
anguish. But something was pulling me to attend the session,
so I went and was so grateful that I did, because it
has helped me to find a new goal. One of the most memorable
things the workshop presenter said was that until we
are able to let go of our child’s physical death,
we cannot embrace their spiritual essence. It has been
four years since Kyra’s death, and I can now say
that the farther I walk from her death, the closer I
feel to her. The pain is still evident, but to feel her
presence again is wonderful. I first felt it on the beach
at Cape Elizabeth in Maine. I felt her spirit cry out, “I
am free! Come and dance with me.”
Kyra loved to dance. The country music song, “I
Hope You Dance,” was released before she died.
I told Kyra that I dedicated it to her and gave her a
plaque with the words inscribed on wood. The words in
the song speak of not giving up when life becomes hard.
I thought then that I had gotten it for her, when actually
I think it was meant for me and other bereaved parents.
The word dance seems to be etched into my mind.
Recently, a friend shared a quote she had come across: “Life
isn’t about waiting for the storm to pass ... It’s
about learning to dance in the rain.”
Wow – what awesome words! The image of a storm
is a good analogy in understanding our grief. Storms
can come from nowhere, like a tornado, seemingly destroying
everything in their path and leaving our lives in complete
and utter shambles. The darkness and dreariness stay
while lightning continues to flash, stabbing our hearts
with pain. Thunder clamors constantly, reminding us that
our children are gone. We can walk in fog for what seems
like years as the sleet and frigid cold freeze us in
our tracks. The wind howls, imitating our screams and
wailing. The rain seems to be endless.
Others, who haven’t lost their children, who are
living in sunshine, cry out to us, “Come in out
of the rain.” They don’t understand that
often we’re just not able to move. The storm has
become our world, for however long we need or choose
to live there. My own experience of grief tells me that
our lives will always be stormier than they were before
the hurricanes came and took what was most precious to
us. But, we do have a choice. We can stay hunkered down
under the false protection of denial. We can lock ourselves
up in a protective shell and never come out. Or, we can
learn to dance in the rain. However, each bereaved parent
must decide what feels best to them.
I find myself thinking, “It’s hard to
crawl, walk or breathe without her and she wants me
to dance?! She must have forgotten all those times
I tried and she said, “Mom you can’t dance!” Then
I realize that she’s not referring to my ability
when I hear, Dance, mom, dance! Dance in the rain.
Dance because you can’t change what has already
been done. You have the choice to sit it out or dance.
Listen for the music, keep your eyes wide open, go
forward, follow the music and dance. Follow me. I am
not behind you. I am in front of you. I’m free
and I am dancing.
She taught me to hear the music and her song continues
on. Without it, I couldn’t dance.
I believe if we allow our children to lead us to dance
in the rain that they will eventually dance us out of
the severe storms of pain and into the sunshine of peace.
And when the skies are gray because
I went away Put on your dancing shoes, grab your umbrella,
and dance
A Beginning
One day you wake up and realize that you must have
survived it because you are still here, alive and breath-ing.
But you don’t remember the infinitely small steps
and decisions you took to get there. Your only aware-ness
is that you have shed miles of tears on what seems to
be an endless road of sorrow.
One day – one glorious day – you wake up
and feel your skin tingle again, and you forget just
for an instant that your heart is bro-ken…and
it is a beginning.
~Susan Borrowman, TCF, Kingston, Ontario
Northern Lake County Illinois Chapter
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