Gannet Girl

To My Readers:
I have been blessed with a little on-line community of grieving mothers whose blogs I read day after day. They help me so much, because they often are able to put into words what I am feeling but cannot express. They also comfort me. Yesterday, one of the bloggers, Gannet Girl, asked us to tell her our stories, because she had questions in the aftermath of her own son's death one year ago. The following Question and Answer format is my response to her.

To Gannet Girl:
Yesterday, after I read your post, I gave you my quick comment. Your questions continued to echo through my day, so I sat down in the afternoon and wrote out my long answer-- a summary of my experience of the last year. It took me about two hours, amidst flowing tears and various interruptions, to get it all down. Then I accidentally hit some button on my new, capricious, over-sensitive computer, and it all disappeared. I closed my computer in total defeat with the thought, "I don't think I have the strength to do that again."

Tonight, however, after I read Karen G's Q & A format, I decided "I think I can do that"! And she's right, you do deserve answers. I, too, want those kinds of answers, so I simply appreciate the opportunity to share my experience on the very poignant issues you raise. I hope my answers aren't too depressing, and I hope it helps you in some way.

Gannet Girl's post:
"There is only one thing I want to know. I want to know your story, and yours, and yours. I want to know how you survived, or didn't. I want to know about those hours after 4:00 in the morning, when you wake up and stare at the ceiling, or read email, or try yet another Russian novel. I want to know what it was like when your child died, what it was like when the world broke apart. I want to know what it is like when you climb a mountain or drive to the coast and your child is not with you. I want to know whether your laughter feels different, whether your sight has changed. I want to know what you have to say about this part of the journey, this minute, knowing full well that in the next one your words might be completely different. I want to know about the moments when sheer, raw courage takes over ~ the moments when you put your feet on the floor next to the bed and stand up. I want to know how we are going to do this for years to come."

"I want to know how you survived, or didn't." I have physically survived, but emotionally, I am not so sure how much of me has survived. I feel I am a shell of my former self. It seems the area most impacted is my ability to relate to others, even my family. It's hard for me to socialize, difficult to make small talk, and tiring for me to extend myself. I do what I need to do, but it feels exhausting and I can only do these things for a short time. My husband and I have long silences between us now. It's as if we are tired of the same sad words. We try to help each other and take life very slowly now. We can't take much pressure.

I used to be a counselor on a church staff. Helping people was my life and a great joy, but I can't do it much now. I also used to be a big help to my daughters and my grandchildren, but now I find it exhausting and I am not able to connect with them as I would like. This makes me very sad because these are all of my favorite people, and I hate that I can't be more there for them. It's a cruel irony to me that the loss of one of my blessings makes it so hard for me to enjoy the rest of my blessings.

"I want to know about those hours after 4:00 in the morning, when you wake up and stare at the ceiling, or read email, or try yet another Russian novel. " Bedtime is my worst time of day. Like Karen G, I have flashbacks, which turn into obsessive thinking, replaying things over and over again in my mind, endlessly. I still occasionally experience shock and ask myself if all this really happened. I work very hard to not feel anything at night. I don't drink or take sleeping aids, but I have a rigid "no think" rule at bedtime. I also have a dvd player with headphones that sits on my bedside stand, and as soon as my sad thoughts start, which they do every night when the light goes out, I turn on the dvd and watch something funny like Seinfeld. This also works at 4 am. I have honestly felt like I wouldn't survive the night with the pain in my heart. Everything is easier in the light of day. As far as reading Russian novels, I haven't been able to read much of anything for a year and I have always been a voracious reader. It just requires more sustained attention than I can muster.

"I want to know what it was like when your child died, what it was like when the world broke apart." Joey's death was sudden and unexpected. We had been with him four days prior and had a truly wonderful time together celebrating his sister's college graduation. I hugged him goodbye at the airport and he flew back to L.A.-- and I never spoke with him again. It hurts me just to write those words. He died in his sleep from heart failure, ultimately a complication from epilepsy, though he had no seizure. We were never warned of this possibility and the shock of it still stuns us, as he was fit and healthy and vibrant.

The worst of it was that he lived alone and laid in his bed for two days. That one still torments me. When he didn't appear for a social event, one of his friends went and checked his house and found him. We were at the movies when his friends called us, and my husband grabbed my hand and pulled me out of my seat and took me to the lobby, and told me the words, and I collapsed.

We had to fly to L.A. and when we got there, he was already at the morgue and we couldn't see him till the next day, which was horrendous to us. The mercy was that so many friends were there waiting with sheltering arms for us. After that, it was just a series of painful, unspeakable decisions about his remains and his belongings, and planning a memorial services. All of it still very, very traumatic for me and difficult to ponder.

"I want to know what it is like when you climb a mountain or drive to the coast and your child is not with you. I want to know whether your laughter feels different, whether your sight has changed." This is the worst part for me. You get through the rest of it only to have to face the crushing reality that your child is gone and you will never speak with them again in this life. Your dreams for them are over, your future as a family is totally changed. It's empty and unnatural and overwhelming to suddenly face life without them. I hated that I couldn't reach him by phone or email, or ever see him again. Now I talk with him anyway, and I send messages via Jesus and that's an improvement over the unbreachable brick wall I initially felt separated us. I was crazy with the void of his absence, like I wanted to jump out of my skin. Every one of us hates doing life without Joey, and our hearts are in heaven, though we are still on earth. Every single thing that made up our life has changed. Nothing was left unscathed.

"I want to know what you have to say about this part of the journey, this minute, knowing full well that in the next one your words might be completely different." I don't feel like my life is in my control anymore. It's uncomfortable to me that my feelings change so much and that I have difficulty putting it into words so much of the time. But that's just the way it is. That's why I blog so many pictures of events and the grandkids. I just can't put all the feelings and changes into words. It falls into my catch-all basket broadly labeled "grief behavior".

"I want to know about the moments when sheer, raw courage takes over ~ the moments when you put your feet on the floor next to the bed and stand up. " Packing up my son's belongings was the hardest single thing I have ever done in my life; next to that, doing his memorial services, which I can't even think about, and then packing up our own things and moving cross-country to be with our daughters. I wish I didn't have to do any of it and these things took all my strength and raw courage. I haven't recovered from them. There is so much loss and sheer will power in these actions that I can't even bear to think about them.

"I want to know about the moments right before that, the moments of sadness so deep that you cannot push your feet out from under the covers." All the time-- longing, missing, yearning, aching. Crying so many tears, and still I can't cry hard enough to empty them. There is always a new supply. I don't even bother wiping them away anymore. They just dry on my cheeks and down my neck and on to my chest. The monotonous soundtrack that runs behind our life now: Joey's gone, Joey's gone, Joey's gone. I'm accepting that I have a broken heart that will never heal, and life will never be really good again, but I also feel so deeply, sadly, dismally disappointed by it.

"I want to know how we are going to do this for years to come." For me, truly one day at a time. My faith in God and Heaven has grown, and I am counting on His promises to wipe every tear. I am trusting in God to make this okay one day and that somehow gives me hope for the future. I know now that Jesus came for one reason and that was to destroy Death. I long for that.

For the every day, I keep it as simple as I can. I find it soothing to immerse myself in beautiful things: nature, sky, sea, mountains, trees and flowers, beautiful music and lovely little moments, and in the sweet hugs of my children and grandchildren. Those are the things that help me face the future.