TCF Logo

The Compassionate Friends
Blue ButterflyNorthern Lake County Illinois Chapter

TCF Logo

 

January Newsletter

 

  

snow

Chapter Leader
Notes
From
Darlene

           
           As we start into this New Year, I would like to introduce myself. My name is Darlene Muno and I have just taken over as the new Chapter leader. I have been with our group for almost ten years now. I have gotten to see a lot of changes in our group and meet many people.

The 10th Anniversary of my son Andrew’s death just passed in December. He was 12 years old when he died in surgery. I believe be-ing involved in the Compassionate Friends has helped me get through the last ten years. It never has been easy but knowing there are others who feel the same as I do or have gives me great comfort. As I look back I have come a long way since my first meeting.

Starting another year is always hard for me, but I am looking forward to sharing another year with my Compassionate Friends.

When Bad Things Happen to Good People

With all the submissions to the Sharing Line regarding faith, I remember especially my early grief. When someone told me that it was "God's will", "He needed another beautiful flower for his garden", "It was her time to go," (my blood still boils at that one). I remember numbly nodding my head, too shocked to really think about what was being said to me. As I started to thaw some from my numbness and thought back on those statements, I became so angry at God I couldn't believe it. How dare He take my precious child! How dare He bless me with her and then point His finger at 15 1/2 years as if to say, "Time is up and I am calling in the loan. I am taking her back with me." I loved and cared for her with all my heart and soul and then she was taken away in an in-stant, as if a hand reached down from heaven and plucked her out of my arms. My anger and hatred toward the drunk driver was replaced with my in-tense anger at God; after all, according to every-one else, He made the decision to take her away from me.

Then I read When Bad Things Happen to Good People. I know from talking to others that there were many different responses to that book, not all favorable. But for me I found in those pages what I was looking for. I think it helped that the author, Rabbi Harold Kushner was also a bereaved parent. The part that spoke to me was where he wrote that it is not God who sits up in Heaven making the choice whether someone will live or someone will die. What God did do was give man free will to make their own choices and decisions. That, in my instance, the drunk driver responsible for the accident that took my Nina decided to have too many drinks at a bar and then he de-cided to get into a car and drive and through his negligence caused the death of my daughter. Rabbi Kushner says that God was aggrieved as well to see the pain and hurt that her death caused all of us who loved her, and that He stood along side us and cried with us, there to comfort us in our sorrow.

I am sure there are many other interpretations that others got when reading that book, but that is the one that I needed. Obviously, we don't all get the same out of something we read and have our own opinions especially on matters of faith. But this was what spoke to me and it has helped me when I have my times of anger and loss of faith. This interpretation fit with the loving God that I was brought up to believe in. This is the one that I needed to put aside my anger at God. On another note, has anyone felt a stab in the heart when you listened to someone talk about, for example, what happened to me the other day, "So-and-so's daughter was playing at the beach and they couldn't find her. Luckily, someone spotted her under the water and rescued her just in time. Obviously, her guardian angel was watching out for her and it wasn't her time." Ouch! When I hear things like that said, I start to say to myself, "Where was Nina's guardian angel?" I don't have an answer for that one yet, but it happens often enough that I hear someone mentions that so-and-so had a close brush with death and when it didn't happen that some superior being or guardian angel was watching over them and spared them, as if they were worthy and my daughter wasn't. Does anyone have these same feelings and if you do, what do you think? Any suggestions would really be appreciated to help when I wrestle with this.

Cathy Seehuetter, Nina's forever mom, TCF St. Paul, MN ~reprinted from TCF Atlanta Online Sharing

Seasoned Grief
By Eva Lager ~ TCF, Perth, Western Australia From We Need Not Walk Alone, Spring 1999 Issue

There used to be a point to summing up a year just past not as a personal accomplishment but as a
reflection. Leaving previous hurts behind was welcomed and the sensible thing to do. I thought I was getting wiser as I was getting older. With new years clean and full of possibilities, becoming another person seemed simple, another chance at getting it right, like a redemption, being forgiven for having blundered or been found wanting. But death changed everything, without permission. Resolutions, made sincerely and broken quickly, offended my need to hold on to the past, to rewind life, fast backwards, so I could capture what I had lost. Still, time went on, regardless of my pleas. And when exhaustion set in, as eventually it must, I understood there would be another future, not the one I thought I had the right to expect but one where I dared carry hope in my heart again. © 1999 by Eva Lager

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

 

 

 

 

   

Home | Credo | Meetings | Newsletter | Map | Grieving Process | Remembrance | Candle Lighting | Affiliation | Donations

Small Monarch Butterfly Contact Chapter Leaders:  Rick or JennySmall Monarch Butterfly

Page Last Updated:  08/05/2002