It's an odd phenomenon what happens when your child dies. You become an oddity to quite a few people. People's reactions, statements and judgments are magnified more than one can imagine and can pierce a grieving parents heart like an arrow.
First, understand there is no rule book to guide us on this journey. And since every parent's experience is different from the next, we can only hold each other's hand but cannot tell another exactly which direction to go. Hopefully that made sense. Although I am not alone, my journey is mine to walk alone. Even Harrison's father is walking a different journey than I am.
With that said, we each handle how we live with our grief differently. On my car, it states "My Angel: Harrison 11/97-3/14." Why I felt compelled to do it I don't know, but I did it. It draws attention and sometimes people will come up from behind and intentionally look inside my car, while driving, to see what I look like I am guessing. At first I would become slightly agitated. But I have come to learn I put it there and can expect people to react how they do. Others don't have a rule book either.
Staring is common. My daughters experienced it a lot in elementary school when Harrison first died. They felt singled out and like every one was talking about it. My oldest daughter has learned to not mention it to anyone, even to a friend going through the same heartache of losing a brother. My youngest daughter doesn't mind sharing as much anymore.
People tend to shy away from a crying, grieving parent, like we might be contagious or crazy for that matter. I had a doctor hardly want to touch me when he found out about my son. As a nurse, I found this one of the most offensive things to happen to me. Although, words hurt more than actions. Keep that thought in mind.
Crying, my friends, is as natural in life as laughing. As I've said before, society does not like grieving parents to cry. It's good for us to cry...healthy mentally and physically. It doesn't mean we are weak, not healing, unable to function, unable to work, not living, etc. It means we are on a journey of loss. The reality is we will never stop crying, tears are always just a moment away. Certain things--a song, memory, smell--can trigger a tear. It's not a step back, but a reminder of our love for our child. Please don't steal that from us.
Instead, support us. Hug us, ask us for a memory, cover our job for a couple minutes, or just get a tissue. Something, anything, but judgement, fear, staring, running, anger. I can assure you we already feel negativity for so much and don't need help in that department. Most of us have lost family and friends when we started this journey and somewhere along the way. Hard to believe but true.
I always say it takes a village to raise a child, it takes a village to bury a child. No one should have to walk the journey alone. We need as much support as possible to help us find a new normal. No we will never be the same, but we can live again. Help us along the way instead of hindering us. Please...
Thursday, June 8, 2017
Tuesday, May 30, 2017
Flowers Forever
It's hard...
It's hard to go to the cemetery to visit Harrison sometimes. I'm sad and embarrassed to say I may go a month or so without visiting him.
Just typing that sentence breaks my heart for him. It's not right.
Why is it so hard? Some days I understand my sadness and I forgive myself. But other days I cannot.
Before the death of my son, I would think a mother would visit her child as often as possible. I would have told people "I'd go all the time." Being in love with my children as much as I am, it would of just seemed natural. But that thinking is wrong, so wrong.
Just the drive to the cemetery is gut wrenching. That is not even including the thought of buying flowers knowing the purpose of the purchase. Some days I just want to cry and tell the cashier why I have to buy them. I want to release the pain and grief.
I arrive and get my "cemetery bag" out: granite polish, garden shears and cleaning cloth. I can't have my baby's headstone dirty...it's all I can do for him. Put water in the container, cut the stems of the flowers. Busy work to keep from thinking about the reason why I'm there.
And then it hits me: Oh my God, my baby is dead. I lay down on him, usually crying as hard as you can imagine. On a couple of occasions, people have come over to check on me due to my crying. I cry, and I play our favorite songs, songs that make me think of him.
I apologize for not coming earlier. I repeatedly tell him I love him and how unfair it is and that I miss him. I ask him to come home.
But the hardest part, which I would never of imagined, is leaving him there. That's the hardest part.
I made him a promise yesterday when I saw him: he will have flowers forever from now on. I will never not go to visit him. He will never be alone again.
It's hard to go to the cemetery to visit Harrison sometimes. I'm sad and embarrassed to say I may go a month or so without visiting him.
Just typing that sentence breaks my heart for him. It's not right.
Why is it so hard? Some days I understand my sadness and I forgive myself. But other days I cannot.
Before the death of my son, I would think a mother would visit her child as often as possible. I would have told people "I'd go all the time." Being in love with my children as much as I am, it would of just seemed natural. But that thinking is wrong, so wrong.
Just the drive to the cemetery is gut wrenching. That is not even including the thought of buying flowers knowing the purpose of the purchase. Some days I just want to cry and tell the cashier why I have to buy them. I want to release the pain and grief.
I arrive and get my "cemetery bag" out: granite polish, garden shears and cleaning cloth. I can't have my baby's headstone dirty...it's all I can do for him. Put water in the container, cut the stems of the flowers. Busy work to keep from thinking about the reason why I'm there.
And then it hits me: Oh my God, my baby is dead. I lay down on him, usually crying as hard as you can imagine. On a couple of occasions, people have come over to check on me due to my crying. I cry, and I play our favorite songs, songs that make me think of him.
I apologize for not coming earlier. I repeatedly tell him I love him and how unfair it is and that I miss him. I ask him to come home.
But the hardest part, which I would never of imagined, is leaving him there. That's the hardest part.
I made him a promise yesterday when I saw him: he will have flowers forever from now on. I will never not go to visit him. He will never be alone again.
Monday, May 8, 2017
Sticky, Gooey Love
Here I am, 43, a mother of 4, mother in law and step grandmother. It is amazing how life goes; how life proceeds. What did I think life would be? Where did I think I would be? I am full of questions.
I am a mom, which I find to be the greatest gift, job and learning experience I could ever ask for. Four beautiful children, each one different in their own ways. It reminds me of the end of The Breakfast Club, how one's a jock, one's a prom queen, and so on. How could I even put in one word my thought about each child.
I know I have one I would simply refer to as "the gentleman." I stand in awe when it comes to his passion, compassion and coolness. Relaxed and gentle just at the right times. When you hold your infant for the first few weeks, and wonder all the things your child will do and be...flash forward to today, over 20 years later. And he is better than I wondered, imagined, hoped for in life. And handsome, so handsome, but smart and witty as well.
My "wise, old soul." Ah, just his presence felt majestic to me. He could command a room simply by walking into it. The gift of wisdom and the ability to converse with anyone about anything I admire in life. Never afraid of speaking his mind and his truths. And within, a compassionate, understanding soul which will never leave my heart. To big to go under the radar.
The beautiful "queen bee." Such a joyous time learning the ways of raising and loving a daughter. The beauty in her eyes, her smile, can melt any heart in a matter of moments. Such poise and grace seen from simply sitting and sharing a cup of tea, to the times when she is standing for battle on the field. Her kindness makes her beauty all the more evident. The beauty cannot be denied, and it is enhanced by her love for those who matter most.
My biggest surprise and "California princess" never ceases to amaze me in life. Those gorgeous, hazel eyes with hints of brown, looking into my heart to find the perfect words to say. The fireball she is explodes wisdom and curiosity. But just as easily, calms to provide a soothing hug, overflowing with love. She never fails to amaze me with her smarts and kindness. And her keen attention to detail for loving us.
I never expected to be here, 43, mother still madly in love with her children. I felt selfish and self absorbed in my younger years. And now I would give my everything, my all, just to see them smile. Just to see their eyes light up. To hear a laughter from love so sweet, it feels sticky and gooey.
That's what being a mother means to me. A constant surrounding of dripping, fluffy, sticky, gooey love between me and my angels. Love never ending, with arms strong and large enough to hug us all, even during out hardest times. Our strength and love are challenged. But our love seems to always prevail!
Monday, May 1, 2017
Getting Over It
Everyone grieves in different stages, at different times. Some longer than others. But I am growing weary of those who want me to be completely done with my grief. I cannot. I will not. And I won't allow anyone bully me around it, either.
Think about what you are asking me to do when you say, "Get over it!" Or "Enough already!" How could one ever request a mother to get over the loss of a child? Get over putting a child they've carried for 9 months into the ground? Get over never touching, seeing, holding, hugging their flesh and blood? Get over the most horrid nightmare a parent has? How does one ask that of a mother?
I cannot get over it. My grief will live for as long as I am alive. It's not about getting over it as much as it is about learning to live life with it. I'll be the first to admit it is the most difficult thing I've done...am doing. I am not a role model of how to deal with the loss of a child and I don't claim to be. But I am not the worst person either. I am tired of being judged and bullied for my grief and depression. I assure you all I am doing the best I can.
I find strength in love. Love from my children and family. And there is still so much work to do. I haven't accepted the fact my loving son is not with me. It kills me to this day. It is a thought that never leaves me...ever
I ask for a bit of understanding as a tear rolls down my face, or when you hear a sniffle. Just a hug or two, or maybe a "It's ok to cry." Not made to feel I am a horrible person because I do cry in public or have horrible grieving days. I am human and a mom. A mom on a terrible journey. I am learning I am not alone. But if you are a by-stander, please have a little sympathy.
Think about what you are asking me to do when you say, "Get over it!" Or "Enough already!" How could one ever request a mother to get over the loss of a child? Get over putting a child they've carried for 9 months into the ground? Get over never touching, seeing, holding, hugging their flesh and blood? Get over the most horrid nightmare a parent has? How does one ask that of a mother?
I cannot get over it. My grief will live for as long as I am alive. It's not about getting over it as much as it is about learning to live life with it. I'll be the first to admit it is the most difficult thing I've done...am doing. I am not a role model of how to deal with the loss of a child and I don't claim to be. But I am not the worst person either. I am tired of being judged and bullied for my grief and depression. I assure you all I am doing the best I can.
I find strength in love. Love from my children and family. And there is still so much work to do. I haven't accepted the fact my loving son is not with me. It kills me to this day. It is a thought that never leaves me...ever
I ask for a bit of understanding as a tear rolls down my face, or when you hear a sniffle. Just a hug or two, or maybe a "It's ok to cry." Not made to feel I am a horrible person because I do cry in public or have horrible grieving days. I am human and a mom. A mom on a terrible journey. I am learning I am not alone. But if you are a by-stander, please have a little sympathy.
Tuesday, February 28, 2017
Eve of My Most Hated Month
I sit here, in bed, on the eve of the month I hate the most: March. Why? Its the month death stole my precious son!
It's amazing how our emotions can change based on something so simply as a day. Think about when you were a child and you counted down the days until your birthday. The excitement of knowing you would have presents and cake; knowing the day was to be all about you. And don't even get me started on Christmas.
When your expecting a child, the milestone days of first heartbeat or the first ultrasound. Even the thrill you feel when your about to announce it loved ones. Sometimes I could hardly contain myself and would just blurt it out too quickly. I am sure some of you have done the same thing too.
After you children come along, you can't wait to see their faces on special days. Can't wait for it. The point is, our feelings get tied up in days and usually it is the happiness of a good day. But I never imagined dreading not only a day, but an entire month.
Harrison died March 30, 2014. I HATE that day. I HATE March 30 forever. The second worst day is March 31, 2014. For it is the first day in my life I spent a whole day with my son dead forever. Its harsh to read those few sentences, right? Hard for me. So understandable why I would hate those two days; why I would dread those days. But why the whole month?
Because I feel I was cheated out of time not spent with Harrison during the month of March. But also, some of the best memories with Harrison during the month of March. It brings a smile to my face and warmth to my heart when I think of the things I remember during those last few weeks with him and his siblings. And even more joy when I remember our special time alone, which is a rarity in a house with 4 kids.
As beautiful as my good memories of March 2014 are, they are not enough to override the torturous memory of seeing my son on March 30, 2014. So tonight, an hour from the worst month of the year, I am full of anxiety, anger, confusion, numbness, sadness, emptiness, loneliness, pain...
I am a mother without her child and it's just wrong. And the entire month of March reminds me of this more than any other time of the year EXCEPT for November 13.
It's amazing how our emotions can change based on something so simply as a day. Think about when you were a child and you counted down the days until your birthday. The excitement of knowing you would have presents and cake; knowing the day was to be all about you. And don't even get me started on Christmas.
When your expecting a child, the milestone days of first heartbeat or the first ultrasound. Even the thrill you feel when your about to announce it loved ones. Sometimes I could hardly contain myself and would just blurt it out too quickly. I am sure some of you have done the same thing too.
After you children come along, you can't wait to see their faces on special days. Can't wait for it. The point is, our feelings get tied up in days and usually it is the happiness of a good day. But I never imagined dreading not only a day, but an entire month.
Harrison died March 30, 2014. I HATE that day. I HATE March 30 forever. The second worst day is March 31, 2014. For it is the first day in my life I spent a whole day with my son dead forever. Its harsh to read those few sentences, right? Hard for me. So understandable why I would hate those two days; why I would dread those days. But why the whole month?
Because I feel I was cheated out of time not spent with Harrison during the month of March. But also, some of the best memories with Harrison during the month of March. It brings a smile to my face and warmth to my heart when I think of the things I remember during those last few weeks with him and his siblings. And even more joy when I remember our special time alone, which is a rarity in a house with 4 kids.
As beautiful as my good memories of March 2014 are, they are not enough to override the torturous memory of seeing my son on March 30, 2014. So tonight, an hour from the worst month of the year, I am full of anxiety, anger, confusion, numbness, sadness, emptiness, loneliness, pain...
I am a mother without her child and it's just wrong. And the entire month of March reminds me of this more than any other time of the year EXCEPT for November 13.
Saturday, February 25, 2017
All Who Left
For me, there is this weird connection between Harrison's death and the end of other relationships at the same time. It was like many things I cared about came to an end. One I cannot get back; the other I cannot get back either.
Harrison is gone. I know that. I am reminded of this every aching moment of my life. There is not a single instant that goes by. Even when I am happy, I think "He'd love this."
We recently acquired two new English bulldogs. See the summer before Harrison died, I bought my boys an English bulldog, Cayenne. It was theirs to keep up with, but all of ours to love. And boy did he! Everyone did. And then Harrison died. It still boggles my mind how my son died before the dog. Shannon, Harrison's older brother, took up the slack. And now the dog will be 4 this summer. He is a great dog. Does well around others (although those who know him are aware he gets a bit personal). Does great with little ones. Cayenne is just great!
So I broke down....actually the kids broke me down....and bought 2 English bulldog puppies. I know, lots of work Cayenne is doing fabulous with them. The kids are quite joyful to have them. I mean, who couldn't smile and all too much fur puppies really. Cumin and Basil are their given names. Yes, spices...don't ask.
Harrison is gone. I know that. I am reminded of this every aching moment of my life. There is not a single instant that goes by. Even when I am happy, I think "He'd love this."
We recently acquired two new English bulldogs. See the summer before Harrison died, I bought my boys an English bulldog, Cayenne. It was theirs to keep up with, but all of ours to love. And boy did he! Everyone did. And then Harrison died. It still boggles my mind how my son died before the dog. Shannon, Harrison's older brother, took up the slack. And now the dog will be 4 this summer. He is a great dog. Does well around others (although those who know him are aware he gets a bit personal). Does great with little ones. Cayenne is just great!
So I broke down....actually the kids broke me down....and bought 2 English bulldog puppies. I know, lots of work Cayenne is doing fabulous with them. The kids are quite joyful to have them. I mean, who couldn't smile and all too much fur puppies really. Cumin and Basil are their given names. Yes, spices...don't ask.
But it should all be happy times. But all I can think of is who is missing: Harrison! He would have loved this. He would have been holding them all the time.
And it leads me to others important people who left me at my lowest time of my life. Yes, people do that. And I realized I cry for missing everyone...all of them. Those who are gone and won't ever come back. And I don't want back those who it was so easy to walk away from me at that time. I don't know why. But there is this thought if they made me happy before Harrison left, maybe they could after. I know it is wrong. And I know it is not true. But my heart is begging my brain to please TRY ANYTHING to fix it!! ANYTHING!! I can't explain it. Help me.
But I do want back my son. He would want to be back. To comfort me, remind me what's important, and who's not. And give me that hug I so incredible need right now.
I love the puppies........
Thursday, February 23, 2017
Emotions Like A Channel Flipper
No one said it would be easy. And I knew they were right. But most were just saying it to say something to me because of the awkward moment of the conversation, right? It's the moment when all is silent when they found out my son died. And then it is a mountain of questions, comments and what they feel are good wishes.
"How did he die, if you don't mind me asking?" "Did you see him?" "Know he is with God." "You know you will see him again." "Every day you get better and better; you will see." "So does this mean you only have 3 kids then?" "I don't even know what to say." "I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm sorry." "And you didn't know he had a heart problem?" "You didn't catch it?" "Well, at least you luck because he died and you know where he is. Not like a parent who's kid is kidnapped and you don't know were the kid is!" "I completely understand. My cousin died before." "I can relate; my father just died."
I don't mind people asking me how. No, we did not know he had a bad heart as there was no way of knowing. I do not get better and better every day. And maybe he is with God, but I am pretty sure the best place is to be here with us...those who absolutely love and adore him like no other. NO I don't have 3 kids, I have 4 and always will. No, my son not kidnapped and I count my blessings because it looks like he died peacefully. I know where to find my silver linings in such a horrible situation. And no, my son dying is NOTHING like your cousin, nephew, father, mother, grandparent, niece, or any other person.
Losing your child is a unique loss all together. I made him, he grew inside of me for 9 months. I was his everything. I raised him, cared for him, taught him. My goodness I am so in love with him. No, its not the same as losing anyone else. And you can't convince me otherwise.
As a matter of fact, no two people who walk this journey have the same journey. It is different for every single one of us. We are all lost, hurting like no other. But yet all the same.
My emotions lately have been changing and all over the place. It reminds me of flipping through channels on the tv. One moment I happy, the angry he's gone, then completely numb, then just a flood of tears which burn my so dried out eyes.
I am walking this journey alone. I am alone. I am strong, but my kryptonite is the death of one of my beautiful babies. And it's killing slowly.
"How did he die, if you don't mind me asking?" "Did you see him?" "Know he is with God." "You know you will see him again." "Every day you get better and better; you will see." "So does this mean you only have 3 kids then?" "I don't even know what to say." "I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm sorry." "And you didn't know he had a heart problem?" "You didn't catch it?" "Well, at least you luck because he died and you know where he is. Not like a parent who's kid is kidnapped and you don't know were the kid is!" "I completely understand. My cousin died before." "I can relate; my father just died."
I don't mind people asking me how. No, we did not know he had a bad heart as there was no way of knowing. I do not get better and better every day. And maybe he is with God, but I am pretty sure the best place is to be here with us...those who absolutely love and adore him like no other. NO I don't have 3 kids, I have 4 and always will. No, my son not kidnapped and I count my blessings because it looks like he died peacefully. I know where to find my silver linings in such a horrible situation. And no, my son dying is NOTHING like your cousin, nephew, father, mother, grandparent, niece, or any other person.
Losing your child is a unique loss all together. I made him, he grew inside of me for 9 months. I was his everything. I raised him, cared for him, taught him. My goodness I am so in love with him. No, its not the same as losing anyone else. And you can't convince me otherwise.
As a matter of fact, no two people who walk this journey have the same journey. It is different for every single one of us. We are all lost, hurting like no other. But yet all the same.
My emotions lately have been changing and all over the place. It reminds me of flipping through channels on the tv. One moment I happy, the angry he's gone, then completely numb, then just a flood of tears which burn my so dried out eyes.
I am walking this journey alone. I am alone. I am strong, but my kryptonite is the death of one of my beautiful babies. And it's killing slowly.
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