I KNEW I WAS GETTING BETTER
by Mary Cleckley
Almost all, if not all, of you are here because you are seeking
ways to get past the pain of losing somebody you loved better than
yourself. Well, that pain will eventually become a part of who
and what you are, and you will learn to live with it. I haven't
found a way to totally make it go away, but it cer-tainly is nice
to know that it does get better, and it doesn't have to consume
a large part of every day. I can't tell you exactly when I reached
that point, but I do know I welcomed it because it allowed me to
get on with my life.
In order to get to that place I had to learn to give up some thoughts
that had become a familiar way of thinking and looking at things.
All those feelings had seemed a justification for all the pain
I had been through. It turned out they weren't a justifica-tion
at all. They were more like a heavy weight around my neck that
held me in that mindset that didn't allow room for my recovery.
After some time, just a few simple things helped me to start
my life in a different direction. I real-ized then that I was getting
better when my tears were no longer an all day affair. Oh, I still
shed them all along but I'd move around and risk some-thing else
getting my attention but I no longer sat all day bemoaning all
that I had lost.
I knew I was getting better when I realized who I had left was
just as important as who I had lost. This realization came to me
not too long after my son died. I had invited a psychiatrist in
the Atlanta area to speak at a meeting just before Mother's Day.
He had not lost a child but shared the story of how he and his
two younger siblings had been de-nied any joy for life from their
mother who had ex-perienced the premature loss of her first two
chil-dren. He told of how most of his young life had been spent
trying to find ways to make his mother happy, always trying and
always failing, and always feeling that it was his fault for failing.
I came home that night determined that my surviv-ing daughter
was not, many years down the road, going to lament the fact that,
no matter how hard she had tried, she was unable to create any
joy in my life. I had recognized her importance.
I knew I was getting better when I realized that the guilt that
I felt for the responsibility for my son's death was not legitimate.
I had such foolish thoughts that said if I hadn't invited him over
for dinner that night, he wouldn't have been where his accident
occurred. It was all my fault. It took some time for me to realize
that, if I hadn't invited him over for dinner that night, he would
have had his accident some place else, and I would have felt guilty
for that. It was a no win situation. Feelings of guilt were not
legitimate and I could let go of them.
I knew I was getting better when I was also able
to let go of the anger that had plagued me since my son's death.
You know, anger really does eat the container in which it is held.
My greatest an-ger was directed toward my two best friends. When
I was able to sit back and think about the relationship with them
both long and hard, I real-ized that my part of the friendship
with one of them was for me to listen to her problems time and
again but, when I needed her to listen to mine, it was then I knew
she didn't have the depth of character to understand what I was
going through.
I knew too, that telling her would not magically make her aware.
It was my decision to let go of her. The other friend I felt was
worth a try, even though I had written her and told her about my
pain and my need for her support to no avail. So, when she called
me one day long distance, she said, "Mary, I think you're
angry with me." I said, "Oh yes. Do you want to talk
about it on my nickel or yours?" She said "Mine." So
I told her how mis-erably she had failed me.
She cried and said she was so sorry, that she had no idea how
bad it was for me, I told her she still didn't know, that I had
only given her an inkling of how bad it was, but I didn't ever
want her to fail anyone else that she cared for so miserably again,
and I forgave her and let go of the anger for both of them.
I knew I was getting better when I learned that my misfortune
was one of the worst, but it wasn't the only worst.
I knew I was getting better when I learned that,
because one bad thing has happened, it doesn't give me an immunity
to other bad things, so I'd better appreciate what's left for me.
I knew I was getting better when I learned that man is not made
so that he can hurt with the in-tensity of fresh grief forever;
that it will eventually get better, whether you want it or not.
Not as good as it was before, but better than fresh grief.
I knew I was getting better when I learned not to go to dry wells
looking for water. People who don't understand your needs are like
dry holes. They have nothing to offer you in the way of sus-tenance.
I knew I was getting better when I learned that helping others
who had been unfortunate enough to lose a child was the most helpful
thing I could do for myself.
When I had learned all of these things,
that was when I knew I was getting bet-ter.
Did I say back there that these changes were sim-ple? Looking
back, they weren't simple at all, but certainly worth striving
for, for learning these things are the best and kindest things
you can do for yourself. I assure you that it will be worth the
effort when you too can say "I'm getting better."
~reprinted with permission of Bereaved Parents USA, A JOURNEY
TOGETHER NEWSLETTER
Waiting for Answers
Years ago
I left my first meeting of The Compassionate Friends and drove home in tears.
My son, Max, had died a few short weeks before and I had been anxiously awaiting
this evening. These people must have some answers, I thought. With paper and
pen in purse, I was ready to take notes and do as they prescribed. I should
do anything to ease the ache in my soul. But when I walked out into the spring
air later that night, I felt betrayed. I hadn't heard any answers. Instead
of learning how to leave my grief behind, it had been confirmed, made more
real with expression. I knew I would miss Max forever. Now I wondered if I
would grieve forever. Would it always be this way, a flash of pain aligned
with every memory? During the next months and years, I attended TCF meetings
and conferences, read books, raged, kept busy, sometimes spent the day in bed.
I wrote, cried and talked about Max. Slowly, I discovered the answers I had
long feared were true; yes, I will grieve forever, and yes, my memories will
often provoke tears. But something had changed. My grief was now more forgiving,
my tears almost sweet with memory. Max's life took shape again as the anguish
of his death began to recede. If I would always miss him, I would also always
have him with me in so many ways. I wanted to carry his memory into the future;
the joy, the lessons, and the inevitable pain. How could I do otherwise? As
I walked to my car after the first meeting, the TCF chapter leader caught up
with me. "How can I stop this pain?" I asked. She put her arm on
my shoulder. "Just do what feels right to you," she said "Listen
to your heart. And we'll be here to listen too." Sometimes
the best advice is none at all.
Mary Clark, TCF, SugarLand/SW Houston Chapter
Newly Bereaved...
There is a wide variation in time for recovery, just as there is
a wide variation in our grief experiences. How long it will take
each of us to reach this point of being comfortable is impossible
to predict, and different for each of us. I think much of the timing
has to do with how effectively we have faced and worked through
our grief. Because I did not grieve in a healthy way for many years
after Arthur was killed, I had to begin to grieve properly six
years after to reach a point where I feel no pain at the thought
that Arthur is dead. My daughter, also a bereaved parent, had the
support of TCF and reached a comfortable point in a much shorter
time.
I know that what I have said is hard to believe. For that reason
I would suggest that you accept this with blind faith for the time
being. Then, when the pain becomes more devastating than usual,
think of what I have said. Think of it as a rope hanging "out
there" for you to grab on to. Think of it as a rope of hope.
Recovery is the end of this terrible journey.
Margaret Gerner TCF, St. Louis, MO
Why?
Why? Every bereaved parent I know finds himself or herself using
this word much more after their child's death than they did before.
Why my child? Why so young? Why that way? Why now? Why?
Most of the answers that society offers us are in-adequate at
their best and inappropriate at their worst. Maybe the real answer
as to why can be found in the words of a bereaved father from
more than forty years ago.
Earlier this month at the memorial service for the six firefighters
who died in Worcester, Mass, Senator Ted Kennedy said, "In
1958, my father wrote a friend whose son had died. And since then
that letter read and re-read, has helped our family endure through
the most difficult times. In 1944 my oldest brother, Joe, had been
killed in World War II and my father referred to that when he wrote
these words.
"When a loved one goes out of your life, you think of what
he might have done with a few more years and you wonder what you
are going to do with the rest of your years. Then one day, be-cause
there is a world to be lived in, you find yourself part of it again,
trying to accomplish something - something that your son did not
have time enough to do. And, perhaps, That is the reason for it
all. I hope so."
Perhaps that something is working to prevent an-other suicide or
traffic death. Or becoming an ad-vocate for organ and tissue donation.
Or getting involved in your church or community work, a fa-cilitator,
steering committee member, or chapter leader in TCF. A big brother
or sister, the scouts, a teacher's para-pro.
Or maybe because your grief is so new, you have-n't found that
something yet. The timetable is yours and yours alone. It takes
as long as it takes. So whether you've found your something or
are still searching, perhaps ultimately that is the an-swer to
the question why….I hope so.
~written by Pat Malone and read at the Lawrence-ville Chapter TCF
Candle Lighting
A FRIEND IS A TREASURE
A friend is someone we turn to,
When our spirits need a lift.
A friend is someone we treas-ure,
For our friendship is a gift.
A friend is someone who fills our lives,
With beauty, joy, and grace.
And makes the world we live in,
A better and happier place.
Borrowed from Newsletter of The Compassionate Friends, Inc.
Atlanta Area Chapters
January - February 2000
TREASURES
Is this the first day
when you can bear to remember
how
you smiled together,
that day in spring,
that morning
in the rain?
Are you discovering
how many gifts of comfort
he left behind,
this child who died
too soon?
His life is gone,
but he endows your time
from this day
forward,
with all the faithful treasure
of remembrance.
~words of Sascha from her book Wintersun
Dedicated with love to our son, Craig, on his Birthday, January
14th.
Judy and Joel Blumsack, Sandy Spring, Ga
Northern Lake County Illinois Chapter
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