The Garden of Grief
Sandy
Goodman
About a year after Jason died, I decided to approach our local city council and
ask their permission to develop a piece of city land along our recreational path.
Plan in hand, I explained to our town leaders why I wanted to create "Jason's
Park" and begged their approval. I expected a lot of questions and at best
a "MAYBE" at that first meeting. But as the now popular song goes,
I know what I was feeling, but what WAS I THINKING???
Here I was, a bereaved mother, asking permission to develop and take over the
upkeep of a 200 foot strip of land that was nothing but weeds and rocks. Grass
was afraid to grow there. Water had never touched it. And not only was I wanting
to do the work, I was willing to PAY FOR IT. They said "Yes. Yes,
you may do that Mrs. Goodman . . ." and Jason's Park was born.
It is now six years later, and the park looks better than it ever has. In the
beginning, nothing good grew there. Strewn with rocks and litter, only weeds
thrived in the dry cracked ground. There was nothing visible that suggested a
positive outcome. The first two or three years, improvement was slow. As soon
as one weed patch was taken care of, another one would overwhelm me. When one
flower grew and flourished, three shriveled and died. The sudden appearance of
wind and torrential rains often destroyed all progress.
Years passed, things began to change. Barren ground began accepting
new growth, new attachments. Trees became stronger, flowers brighter,
and life came back to visit. The need to be sole owner of Jason's
Park began to wane. Soon, there were other lives being remembered
there. A wall was built, not as a barrier, but as a celebration
of lives that mattered.
As I stood in the middle of the wild flowers this morning, I realized
that the transformation of this piece of land has mirrored my own
grief. In the beginning nothing good grew in my heart. Filled with
despair, the only thing that flourished in my soul was pain. There
was no semblance of hope, or signs of improvement on the horizon.
I would just make it over one hurdle in time to see three more
pop up in front of me. The sudden appearance of reality destroyed
any progress I had pretended to make.
But as years passed, things began to change. An empty heart began
accepting new thoughts, new relationships, new priorities. Love
became stronger, days brighter, and life came back to visit. The
need to be only "Jason's Mom" began to wane, and others
regained their importance in my life. Gifts appeared, not as replacements,
but as reminders that love never dies.
I began the journey of grief, just like Jason's Park, with nothing.
Time alone would not have produced the change I needed to make.
I have to work hard, plant new things, get rid of the old stuff,
nurture what I plant, and pour out enough love to grow a garden.
I have to accept that the task at hand, be it grief work or building
a park, will never be over. I must find joy in the "now" of
it. And most importantly, I must ask for help. No one should walk
the journey of grief alone, and well . . . while they are walking,
they might as well be pulling weeds.
Lovingly borrowed from
Love Never Dies, A Newsletter about the Journey from
Loss to Love
August, 2003
Issue #8
Sandy Goodman, Editor
THOSE OF US WHO ARE CHILDLESS
Many
of us attend support group meetings for one reason – a child
of ours has died. For some of us, however, the child that died was
the only child we had, and though our pain is certainly no worse
than those who have surviving children, there are differences. “We” will
never hear the work “Mom” or “Dad” again. “We” have
no hope of grand- children. “We” only have ourselves
to go on for. During the past seven years there have been many times
when I have cringed in meetings as a fellow bereaved parent inadvertently
hurt me. How can you as a compassionate friend help?
I
have listed some ways to make it easier for a parent with no surviving
child, to be comfortable at support group meetings.
When a parent with no surviving children is in your group, please
don’t bring out the pictures of your grandchildren. Save them
for someone who at least has the hope of grandchildren. We do not.
Though you may have special problems with your surviving child (children)
don’t expound on them. We would love to have any problem at
all.
Please don’t say, “I don’t know how you bear it.” That
is equivalent to someone who has not had a child die saying the same
words to you. We “bear it” because we have no choice,
just as you do not.
If you are fortunate enough to have another child, I am happy for
you. But please do not tell me the details of your pregnancy. For
some of us, that is not an option.
I understand that grief is not a contest. I know my pain is not
worse than yours, but it is different, and there are different bridges
to cross. Thank you for being compassionate to all of us.
Vicki, In memory of my son, Sandy
ALIVE ALONE SPRING, 1998
August Balloon Launch
The second annual balloon launch of the Northern Lake County Chapter
will take place at the Aug. 19th meeting at the Millburn Congregational
Church in Milburn. Please plan to participate.
Waukegan Chapter Balloon Launch
Pictures from June Balloon Launch
Balloon
Launch Pictures
THE GIFT OF LOSS
Most of you know that I lost my 8-year-old daughter Scout to cancer
on July 7, 07. The past nine months have been by far the most painful
of my entire life. I don't know that there is anything worse than
losing a child. At first, I didn't want to live-and this is typical
for parents who lose a child. In fact, many plan their suicides.
For months I woke up every day wishing that the world would disappear.
I tell you this not to elicit your sympathy, but so you will know
that it was from the depths of this kind of pain that came the unexpected
gifts I will talk about today.
I had thought that if Scout died, I would not be able to go on.
And yet here I am. And not only am I here, but I have learned more
in these past nine months than I ever thought possible. I feel like
I have undergone the most astonishingly rapid spiritual growth spurt
of my life-sort of spiritual boot camp, if you will. It's tough going,
but if makes for fast changes.
What have I learned?
1. I have learned that our culture deals very badly with death.
We ignore it, deny it, and avoid it as much as possible. This is
manifested in so many ways: the positive value our culture puts
on youth and looking young and feeling young (instead of valuing
the wisdom that comes with age); the measures we go to, to keep
people alive at the very end of their lives; the way we consign
dying and death to hospitals and funeral parlors, instead of allowing
these very natural and inevitable things to happen at home.
Why does this matter, our culture's denial of death? Because when
death comes-and it always does-we are shocked, frightened, unprepared,
at a loss. We don't know how to sit with someone as they die, comforting
them and supporting them as they make the sacred journey to the other
side. A dead body seems creepy to us because we have never touched
one before. We push aside grief and try to "move on" because
our sadness is uncomfortable to those around us, and to ourselves.
We don't know what to say when a friend or family member loses someone
close to them, and so we stay away and say nothing.
Compare our culture with this example:
Sobanfu
Some is an African healer and lecturer. She speaks about the way
grief is regarded in her culture. In her village, at any given time
there is a grief ritual-taking place. Anyone who is grieving is welcome
to come, to cry, and to feel together in a community of others as
a simple matter of course. The notion of avoiding this process and
these feelings is as illogical to them as avoiding a meal when feeling
hungry. Holding onto grief is likened to holding onto a toxic substance.
It is only through the acknowledgment and expression of the grief
that the health of the organism is restored.
And our fear of death is really an aspect of a larger concern: our
fear of loss. Think about this: "All relationships end." All
relationships end. I read those words recently and was struck by
the paradox that while this is so obviously true, we almost
never pay attention to it. It's too frightening; I think to live
daily with this realization.
In a strange way, embracing the inevitability of loss has given me
comfort: what happened to Scout and to me is not out of the order
of things, it is PART of the order of things. As my husband said, "Eventually,
if she grew up she'd have to say goodbye to us when we died. She
just happened to go first."
I've been reading a lot of Buddhist philosophy these past months,
and a central precept of Buddhism is that the source of human suffering
is an unwillingness to accept loss. But as Mary Oliver reminds us,
loss is a part of life, because change is a part of life.
So if I face my mortality head one, the next question becomes, “What
am I going to do with this life that I do have?”
The moment we fully acknowledge the inevitability of death is the
moment we fully feel the preciousness of life, because it doesn't
last. So life and death are parts of a whole - one can't exist without
the other. Which brings me to the next lesson I've learned:
2. Happiness is overrated.
I don't think the point of life is to be happy. I think the point
of being here on earth is to grow as human beings-to gain a deeper
understanding of and appreciation for all that is. And guess what:
we don't grow when we are comfortable. It is when we are challenged,
when we suffer, when we are uncomfortable, that we grow the most.
Now, you might argue that as we grow as human beings, we in fact
become happier-yes, happy in the truest sense of the word-not fun,
ha-ha, laughing at jokes happiness, but a kind of hard-earned happiness
that comes from experiencing both pain and joy, both life and death.
From realizing that they are parts of a whole. The happiest person
I ever met was a Holocaust survivor. My senior year in college I
took a course on Literature of the Holocaust, and toward the end
of the semester the professor invited this woman to speak to the
class. She had the most serene, genuine, warm presence I have ever
seen in a person.
3. I have learned to let go of what I cannot control (and to cherish
what I have).
This lesson was a gift that first came when Scout was diagnosed
with cancer in January 07. During those first days, as I sat crying
in her hospital room, I realized, "I cannot control the outcome
of this. But what I can do is love her with every ounce of my being
for as long as she is here." And I did that. I was also determined
not to allow the terror of losing her to distract me from enormous
gift of having her there right then. But the possibility that I could
lose her gave me the gift of a deep, attentive love with her. I remember
her asking me last spring, "Mom, why are you kissing me so much?"
Letting go of what we cannot control means also letting go of the
fantasy that somehow if we are good, if we are kind, if we believe
in God, if we make the right choices, then nothing bad will happen
to us. When Scout died, I wondered, "Why her? Why not some kid
who was a bully, who didn't have a happy life, who was dumb, whose
parents didn't care about them?" And I realized after a time
that the answer to, "Why me?" is "Why not me?" Nothing
makes me or my family immune from death or illness or injury. (And
of course the life of a kid who is a bully or not so smart or whose
parents don't care about him are just as precious as my daughter's
life.) But I suffered a loss of innocence: I realized I am not immune
from tragedy.
No, we can't control what happens to... but we can make do with
what we've been given. What really matters in life is not what happens
to you, it's what you do with it.
4. I have learned that when your heart breaks, it breaks open.
I think of it this way: each of us builds a hard shell around our
heart to protect ourselves from deep pain. (But in my vision, the
shell doesn't keep pain from coming into your heart-because the pain
is already there, it's an unavoidable part of life, because loss
is an unavoidable part of
life. Rather, the shell keeps the pain in, confines it, so we don't
have to think about it or feel it.) But this same shell also keeps
in feelings of deep joy and deep love and of peace, of oneness with
the universe. So, since my heart was broken from losing Scout, I
have experienced not only the greatest pain of my life, but also
the greatest love and gratitude I have ever known.
I find I am less interested in judging people, less willing to get
in the middle of conflicts, I spend less time speculating about people's
motives, more aware of and appreciative of the good qualities in
people. I spend more time amazed at and grateful for what life has
brought me-especially Scout. What a miracle that she was here, for
eight perfect years, that I got to be her mom.
In my extended family, there has been an astonishing change since
Scoutie went up. I have four sisters, and my mom and dad are still
around, and we have always been close, but with conflict. But since
July, each and every one of my sisters and both my parents have shown
an enormous generosity of spirit, not only toward me, but toward
each other. Scout's death changed my
parents' relationship, my relationship with my husband, and more.
5. I have learned that love is the strongest force in the universe.
I told this story at the celebration of Scout's life in September,
so some of you have heard it. In late August, my friend Marcie said
to me, "You are going through such an extraordinary time. What
are you learning?" I told her that I didn't know; I was too
deep in grief to see that yet.
Later that night I was lying in bed and suddenly the answer to her
question came to me-and it was so simple that I had almost missed.
The big lesson in all this, in Scout's illness and our struggle to
get her cured and our deep sadness upon losing her-the overarching
theme in all this is not loss, or cancer, or how unfair the world
is, but LOVE. As I lay there, I found myself actually grinning. My
love for Scout, and Neil's love and Leo's love and my sisters' love
for Scout, Scout's love for us, the outpouring of love that my family
received from friends and colleagues and neighbors: everything else
pales in comparison to that love.
Most importantly, I realized when I lost Scout that nothing, but
NOTHING, could take away my love for her, and so I would always be
connected with her in that way. Cancer could take away her body,
but it could not touch my love. Love can outlast time, distance,
and even death. It is, indeed, the strongest force in the universe.
As anyone who has suffered a terrible loss will tell you, I would
return all of these gifts in a second if it meant I could have Scout
back. But I can't have her back. A few months ago while I was swimming
laps, I thought to myself, "My life is over." And the universe
spoke to me-or maybe it was God, depending on your beliefs-and said
gently but firmly, "No, it's not over; it's just different." I
can't have Scout back--and so the important question is, “What
do I do now with what I have?” Here, now, in this life that
is so very different from the one I had, and from the one I wanted-and
this is where I find myself. Where do I go from here? I have these
unexpected gifts to help me along the way, and I feel they are gifts
from Scout.
*Delivered at the Wednesday chapel service at Manchester College,
April 2, 08.
Abigail A. Fuller
Associate Professor of Sociology and Social Work
Director, Peace Studies Program
Manchester College
aafuller@manchester.edu
~reprinted from Love Never Dies
http://www.loveneverdies.net
LESSON,
Sandy Goodman
In times of confusion
I look for you
Seeking your knowledge
Wanting the solace of your words
Somehow our roles have switched
It is now I who reach to you for wisdom
Like a child approaching a parent
Rather than you the son
depending on your mom
But perhaps your lessons
Were always there
and I was unaware
of what you had taught me
until my need for your teachings
became greater than my desire to teach.
LOVE NEVER DIES EZINE
A Newsletter about the Journey from Loss to Love
August, 2002
Issue #4
Rekindling
The Spark
Don’t let the chain of love end with you.
Clay Walker.
Carl believed in the Big Bang Theory - the bigger the bang, the
better the 4th of July celebration. He would orchestrate the whole
event- from how to get the biggest bang for the buck, to how to arrange
them on the street for the most fantastic show on the block. He had
this intuitive knowledge of how to run the whole event. Even his
sister Carrie would agree that Carl knew what to buy to make the
day special-although she always added her special order to the event!
So, as the day approached, the family would hit all the fireworks
stands in Visalia. You name them- we bought them! When it came to
putting the sparks in a 4th of July celebration, Carl was in his
element. For the finale, Carl would grab our ladder and have fireworks
on each wrung for one spectacular wrap up. At the end, when all the
fireworks were lit and the cleanup was done, the family carried this
glow inside our hearts. Oh how I wish those good times would return.
When Carl died, my spark for life was gone also. He gave sparkle
to my life. He put fireworks in the fun activities we did as father
and son. After his passing, I had no desire to reinvest in life.
It was so easy, so painless, at least I thought, to plop myself down
in front of the television and vegetate. Zone out!! Way out where
pain couldn’t reach me. I could numb myself and not think.
But like all solutions of this kind, the hurt would not be denied
in such a simple fashion. The hurt was not properly dealt with, only
pushed down. When it came back, it always came back with a vengeance.
My wounded spirit needed something to make it come back to life
again. Or, if not quite that yet, at least to feel the stirring of
life in me. As my wife, daughter, and I shared the early deep struggles
of living without Carl, ideas began to form. Our conversations took
us to a very unforgettable aspect of Carl’s life, that being
how he made an indelible impact on our lives. Carl gave us new dimensions
in love as he shared his triumphs and trials after his brain injury.
He fleshed out the meaning of charity when he so often gave his own
belongings to others, yet he was so needy. His examples sparked some
ideas, which will be shared later.
In our TCF meetings we say, grief won’t be denied. Well, grief
also needs a place to go. It needs to be dealt with appropriately.
Building on Carl’s legacy allows me to deal with my wounded
spirit constructively. Part of the healing of my wounds has come
in finding meaning in his short life and tragic, unexpected death.
If I can find a way to extract the meaning of his life and share
it properly, then I can deal more effectively with my wounded spirit.
Maybe start kindling a tiny spark. Getting back into the rigors and
routines of life has been slow. Achingly slow at times. I am now
seeing my recovery from Carl’s passing as a lifelong recovery.
Someone once said, “The journey of a thousand miles starts
with the first step.” Yep, that’s my journey-one step
at a time. I wish I could be all better again and back to my jolly
old self. It is not to be off course. A new me is here. Little acts
of kindness have created tiny sparks of life. After Carl’s
initial accident, I learned to take “someday” out of
the family vocabulary. Special family trips, vacations, and celebrations
were planned and done. Carl’s last spoken words are etched
in my memory forever. They are simple words. “I love you too,
Dad.” So conversations with my forever friend Debby and my
lovely daughter, Carrie, end with those words.
I would like to now share some ideas for kindling a spark in life.
Reinvest in life on your timetable. In the first year after a son
or daughter’s passing, much time is needed for dealing with
the loss and the overwhelming feelings that come with it. I said
the first year. It could be longer than that. At least it was for
me. I used to marvel at other who, when their children passed away,
accomplished great deeds like starting foundations for missing and
murdered children, or MADD groups. My timetable was different. I
started with little projects.
Learn to listen to that still small voice. Call it the gut feeling.
Grieving family members move on at different times. On the third
anniversary of Carl’s death, I heard that still, small voice
whisper, ‘Now.” I vowed to God, and to Carl, that I would
start a TCF chapter in Visalia. That still, small voice let me know
I was ready to take on the task of forming a TCF chapter.
IN TCF circles, the term stuck is used. It refers to grieving parents
who remain stuck at a certain point in grief recovery. They are no
longer growing through the grief recovery process, but have stagnated.
Here are suggestions to get unstuck and feel a bit of spark for
life again. Find a simple project that is significant of your child.
Plant a tree. Give a donation to a charity or church. Work in a soup
kitchen or rescue mission.
Find a way to tell your son or daughter’s story. This is so
important. This is a very cathartic experience. My healing occurs
for me when I write my columns. Debby echoes this sentiment as editor
of our newsletters. Don’t leave out the siblings of your child.
They enjoy writing memories of their brother/sister. Write that story
and submit it. It could even be a poem or a song. Recently, an older
member of our chapter wrote about his son, who died at 57. This father
worked a fulltime job and then came home to the fulltime job of caring
for his disabled son. That story touched several readers. They said, “Wow!
That’s our story. That’s how we felt. Tell the writer
he has helped us so much!”
Dedicate a newsletter to your child. Our newsletter reaches a wide
audience of readers across the country. The feedback is wonderful.
People read of our beloved daughters and sons and they are helped
in their own recovery. Each time hurting people reach out, they get
helped within. Finding that spark in life will not be easy, trust
me. It will even be necessary to re-ignite that spark. That’s
pretty normal. Each time the spark of life gets re-ignited, recovery
is a little easier. Be good to yourselves. ~Aaron.
~reprinted from TCF Atlanta Newsletter July/August 2002
http://www.tcfatlanta.org/JulyAug2002.html
YOUR NAME
No need to scan the newspaper
for your name
on the dean's list
or in the traffic fines . . .
no sign of it on a business card
or a marriage license
or even in the phone book.
instead your identity is marked
in stone
at the local cemetary
and at your park
and on our living room wall
beside a rose and your fishing pole.
no need to search for you
wrestling with your brother
or on the couch. . .
no sign of you at the dinner table
or in your car
or even on the telephone.
instead your presence is noted
in the wave of love
that sweeps in
when
the wind . . .
whispers your name.
Lovingly borrowed from
Love Never Dies, A Newsletter about the Journey from
Loss to Love
August, 2003
Issue #8
Sandy Goodman, Editor
Northern Lake County Illinois Chapter
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