Category: Feelings

11
Jan
2022

Silently Screaming..

categories: Feelings, Grief journey, Journey, loss, pain

Linda Reavy, Bryan’s mom

(Used with Linda’s permission)
I used this phrase yesterday with a dear friend. This is how I’ve felt from the first day. I had so much pain and rage inside, but nothing was coming out, only tears. I couldn’t find a way to let my sorrow escape, nothing I could say or yell could ever satiate the constant need to release my pain. Grief is like that waiter in the restaurant that’s constantly refilling your cup. Just when you think you’re done for the day, it fills right back up. You’re not seeking that refill, but grief finds you because that’s how sneaky she is.
I know reading this blog is not for everyone. It’s raw, unfiltered and gives a voice to my heart. Certainly if you’re looking for a feel good ending, I don’t foresee that. This is a day to day experience. As far as I can tell, if the past is an indicator, I’m just trying to survive in the healthiest way possible. You need to learn a whole new skill set in this grief business, it demands it.
My greatest hope from all this? That it sheds light onto this experience that the ones from the outside can learn about. That they can see that grief seeps into every crevice of our life. There isn’t an escape, it can be merciless. But having said that, I try to find hope and strengthen myself for this road I am on. It’s exhausting and it knocks you on your ass more times than you know. And when I let myself embrace my need to bawl my eyes out, I brace myself for the rest of the day. Time will never make this pain less palpable, less raw, less numbing. The only thing she does is give us the time to master the skills we need, turns us into the warriors us mamas eventually become. I hope to always make you proud my sweet Bryan.
Until I hold you in my arms again, my beautiful boy, Mama sits and waits her turn….here I am…here I am….

03
Oct
2021

The New Friend and Confidant

categories: Feelings, Grief journey, Journey, loss, pain

Carmen Van Horn

Today, I swam with the manatees. I spotted a mother manatee and her calf. I held my pose, and she swam under me. She stayed there and chewed her grass. As I continued to be still, she came up for air. I was frozen in awe, as her magnificent body lifted me. She moved over and there as I laid still, I realized that I was hovering above the manatee mother and calf. Did she know that I, too, was a mother? Did she know I meant them no harm?

On her beautiful back were scars. Where was the boat that had injured her? This tragedy became her identifying mark. The captain and crew called her “Scar.” She swam under me again, and I wondered if she could tell that I, too, had scars? Could she feel the deep pain that I carry?

I continued to be still and take it all in. She came closer to me as she lifted her great body from the water. She lifted me and I was eye to eye with her scars. Was I so light she did not feel me? Was I so fragile that she wanted to protect me? Our guide said to whisper our secrets to the manatee. So, I did just that. I spoke the names of my husband and children. I told her how I hurt inside because of my great loss.

She once more surfaced and gently carried me. Her nose peeked through the water, and she blew a little water in my face. I cannot be certain, but today I felt as though I made a new friend and a confidant. Someone who listened. Someone who understood my scars. Today I swam with a manatee.

Carmen Van Horn #duncansmom #forever20

12
Oct
2020

The Heart of Your Father

categories: Feelings, Grief journey, Journey, loss, pain

Vicki Carter

8/31/20

When your world falls apart,
Your heart is broken
You can’t take a breath
The worst has happened

How do you trust?
How do you believe,
That God is still good,
When nothing you see is good?

When the pain is so deep
You can’t reach up past the pain
He will reach down to you
Just trust the heart of your Father.

But God…
I know You are good!
I know You are faithful!
But the pain is so deep.
I can’t reach up past the pain.

My child…
You must rest in the pain
You must sit at My feet
With your head on My lap.
Trust the heart of your Father.

When the pain is so deep
You can’t reach up past the pain
He will reach down to you
Just trust the heart of your Father.

Yes God…
You are still good!
You are still faithful!
Even when the pain is so deep,
That I can’t reach up past the pain.

Then Lord…
I will rest in the pain
I will sit at Your feet
With my head on your lap
And trust Your heart, my Father.

When the pain is so deep
You can’t reach up past the pain
He will reach down to you
Just trust the heart of your Father.

06
Sep
2020

The Mighty Tree

categories: Feelings, Grief journey, Journey, loss, pain

Amparo Atencio

6/28/20

Not far from my house is a mile-long nature path that my son, Tony, frequently walked to reach a secluded quarry where the local teens would go to swim and enjoy their carefree lives on hot summer days. I increasingly turned to nature in the early days of my grief journey, so I chose this gravel path to walk in my son’s footsteps. I was striving to feel a connection with his spirit.

The walk provided solitude and time to process my emotions, which seemed to be the only solace I could find. One day as I walked, the gravel crunching underneath my feet, I noticed a giant oak tree with a much thicker trunk than the surrounding trees lining the path. Midway up, the large trunk separated into two massive limbs, forming a “Y.” This became my regular spot to stop and raise my gaze to the skies as I questioned, “Why?”

“Why did my son have to die?”
“Why did this happen?”
“Why did he not get to live out his life into old age?”
“Why?”

The leaves of the tree served as a canopy that muffled my cries in the spring and summer. The barren limbs during the fall and winter looked as forlorn and bereft as I felt. My walks continued throughout the seasons, and I continued to pause when I reached the giant oak. I railed at the universe until my anguish slowly turned to acceptance that there would never be answers to my “why” questions. Little sparks of fond memories began to surface and replaced the despair and deep sadness.

I remembered Tony’s passion for music. I remembered that becoming a paid musician had been his dream, his Plan A, his refusal to have a Plan B. I remembered the Battle of the Bands that he won with his band, Katalyst. I remembered that he realized his dream with the Delightful Desperados when they became the house band at a local bar and especially when they scored a gig for a New Year’s Eve party at Hilton Head, South Carolina – the final new year of his life.

I named the giant oak the Mighty Tree, as I contemplated its glorious branches. In them, I saw the image of Tony, the Funky Drummer. The two broad branches became his upraised arms before bringing them crashing down on the drum cymbals after an extended solo. Tears of love wet my face. The leaves of the tree in spring and summer became gentle caresses as they blew in the warm breeze, and the barren limbs during the fall and winter became his arms, raised in triumph, success, and joy.

I still walk this gravel path often and always pause at the Mighty Tree. I acknowledge the evolution of my lifelong grief journey. Now, I gaze at the tree and notice the scars of what it has endured. I see there had once been a third limb that emanated from the base of the remaining two limbs. This third limb was now a stump that had clearly been severed by a bolt of lightning. One day, I walked around the circumference of the tree and took note of its backside. A large gouge at the base showed burn marks where another lightning bolt had struck it, perhaps during the same storm. Climbing upward, a thick, furry vine of poison ivy wrapped itself tightly around the trunk.

And still, the Mighty Tree stands. It has survived the elements of storms and fire and more. Its strength cannot be denied. I, too, still stand. I wear the battle scars of grief: tears, a broken heart, a longing to share events with my son that will never be, a sadness and joy wrapped in the same heart at the realization that he will never experience the life progression events of his peers or of those who were younger than him when he passed.

The seasons of grief have evolved from despair to acceptance, to strength to carry on. I have gone from absolutely broken to standing strong, always identifying with the Mighty Tree in each season of grief. Still standing.

09
Aug
2020

In the Arms of Jesus

categories: Feelings, Grief journey, Journey, loss, pain

Becky Norris

My name is Becky. I am the mommy of Caleb Dalton Norris. I lost my precious little boy, and only child, suddenly on March 29, 2008. His birthday is April 26, 2004, so he was about a month shy of his 4th birthday when he passed. Caleb was a loving, beautiful little boy and touched so many lives in his short time on Earth. Caleb was autistic and had delayed speech, so he didn’t say a lot of words, but our bond didn’t require many words. I’ve always believed that Caleb was carried away safely to the arms of Jesus that night as I slept. I woke the morning of Saturday March 29th to find Caleb in his bed. He had passed in his sleep.

I’m now in my 12th year of my grief journey. This is not an easy life by any means. Personally, I believe the grief journey doesn’t end until we’re reunited with our children for eternity.

In the beginning, I felt completely lost and numb to life. After Caleb had been gone about two years, I ended up in an institution because I felt there was nothing left for me here. For years I struggled with my purpose in life after I lost Caleb. I believed being his mommy was my only purpose. Through the years, I’ve learned that grief can come out of nowhere and at any given time. But because of the deep love I have for him, I know that’s the reason I’ll grieve until I’m with him again. I now believe God does has a purpose for me. I try to help others in grief.

My life without Caleb has certainly been quite difficult at times. For many years I drank in an attempt to continue to numb my pain. I couldn’t see a life without him I’d never get the opportunity to watch him reach the milestones of life. But I finally came to accept that Caleb’s short life year was the will of God.

I do still have bad days that I miss him so much, but I’ve learned in this journey that I’ll always miss him until I’m with him again. He’s always in my heart and I think of him every single day, but my grief is not so intense now. My hope rests in knowing he’s always with me in spirit and that one day, we will never part again.

29
Dec
2018

Thanks for the Glasses

categories: acceptance, coping, Feelings, Grief journey, healing, legacy, memories

Tracy Bradshaw

Thank you, Sawyer, for being in my dream this morning. I would like to share with you all that I can remember and my interpretation too…

You and I were going on a cruise. I had checked myself in and stepped ahead to turn and get a picture of you checking yourself in by sliding a card much like a self-checkout at Kroger. I hit the button to turn on my phone and tapped the camera app wanting to snap your photo. I was quite puzzled when a picture of Your Uncle Todd popped up on the screen in camera mode. It was his picture caught in midair as if he was in the middle of a big jump. I chuckled at the photo and tapped to return to camera mode as you swiped your card to board the cruise ship. You placed a pair of black framed glasses on the white swim platform and said that you needed to get some things from your room. When you left, I noticed water lapping up on the platform. I worried that your glasses would be washed away. Just as I was thinking that very thought a wave came up and slid across the platform taking your glasses with it. I watched as they began to very slowly sink into the water. I reached for them and they seemed to travel in slow motion remaining just beyond my fingertips. When my arm was completely submerged in the water, I still hadn’t reached the glasses. I thought that you might not be able to see without them and decided that I’d dive in for them. I retrieved the glasses from the ocean water and returned soaking wet and hair dripping. I opened the ear pieces. They were stretched out too far. I recognized them as an old pair of my own reading glasses that I didn’t want anymore and realized that they weren’t yours at all. When you returned you were younger and smaller. You stretched out on your stomach on the swim platform in a tight outfit which may have been a tightly wrapped towel, but it looked much like a strapless dress. I slid my hand under the fabric between your shoulders and felt the soft skin on your upper back. I raised the material and found it loose though visually it appeared to be so snug.

My limited interpretation – Since the day you passed away, I’ve been trying to save you somehow. Your love, your memory, your personality, your presence; I cannot allow these things to pass away too. I thought by sharing you via Sawbear I was saving you, but in reality, I was saving myself. Sawbear keeps me going because sharing you through his eyes, heart, and adventures gives me purpose. You left the glasses for me, so I can see what is closest to me. That understanding has been just out of my reach for several years. I had to submerge myself in Sawbear before I could see what saved me. Thanks for the glasses.

I love you, Sawyer. I miss your physical presence so very much.

Love, Mom
11-17-18

21
May
2018

Unconditional Love

categories: angel, coping, Feelings, Journey, Love, poetry, sadness

Sharon Carmichael

“I will lend to you awhile” He said
A child to call your own.”
“To nurture and to care for,
Until I call her home.”

“To know her is to know, unconditional love,
This child of mine.” I say
“Thank you God for entrusting me,
With such a gift, I could never repay”.

“I searched far and wide,” He said
For a special family, for who she could belong.”
“Just love her with all your heart,” He said,
And help her to grow strong.”

“She has special needs” He said
And needs a Mama, Strong and True.
To walk with her, and hold her hand,
On this path, she has to go through.”

“She also needs a sister,” He said
To love and stand always by her side.
She looks at her sister, with love, and proudly tells all who listen,
“That’s “My Sister” with a smile.

“Thank you, for this family,” I say
That you have given me to cherish.”
But how can I endure the pain,
When you call her home to rest?”

“I don’t understand, “I say
Why so soon, she had to go?
I thought we had many more sunsets,
To watch as we grew old.”

I miss her smile that greeted me,
With the dawning of each day.
Whatever am I supposed to do,
Without the smile, that lit my way?”

My heart is broken, I feel so lost.
My life stretches before me, never to be the same.
There is an emptiness, that can’t be replaced.
My tears, they fall on my pillow, like rain.

“I know you have questions, Why?” He said
And I know My child, you are in pain.”
“ I see every tear you cry, And catch them,
As they fall down your face like rain.”

“Just know, as you were with her,
As she drew her very last breath,
I was also there to greet her,
As she came into my outstretched arms to rest.”

“Now she is singing in the Angel’s choir,
That beautiful smile upon her face,
I know you couldn’t imagine her to be,
In a more loving place.”

“I Thank God, “I say, “even through my tears”
“For this child of mine from above.”
“For to know her, was to have a gift,
From an Angel that gave me,
Unconditional Love

26
Jan
2018

Poetry from 2016

categories: bereaved, coping, Feelings, Journey

David Arnold

This is what I woke to spinning in my head this morning. It is about a group of mothers that have 1 thing in common the loss and bereavement of a child.

Yes there really is a group here in the surrounding area where these moms meet to help one another find a new path without their child in their life…..

The Listening Hearts

When a woman gives birth to a child her heart grows bigger in every way. As her children grows she prays everyday to keep them from harm in hopes that they will grow strong.

Then one day there comes a knock on the door, it’s the worst nightmare a mother can hear as she falls to the floor, she was given news that the child she did bore was found living no more.

Her heart gave out as she started to shout, what will I do, I can’t live without you?

As the days grew longer the nightmares got stronger and she found herself not wanting to live any longer.

Then along came a friend that said, “let me lend you a hand, I want you to meet other mothers like you that do not know what to do.”

These mothers they meet to find answers they seek, instead of the hand they find a new friend whose heart is broken just like them.

They listen with understanding and compassion to every word you are passing for they too, are hurting like you and are needing a new heart and asking, where do I start?

Listen, do you hear that beat?

It’s other mothers that are here now standing at your feet, and they greet you with kisses on the cheek. It is these other mothers who have lost their child’s hearts too and they now welcome you.

There is a bond that no one other than a mother of the Listening Hearts can hear as they tell you that you my dear are always welcomed here!

Listening Hearts where moms find others in a similar struggle, a bereaved heart that is missing a beat from losing a child.

31
Jul
2016

Letting Go of Expectations

categories: Feelings

Debra Reagan

What does this classic sliding tile puzzle have to do with grief?

I remember as a child trying to work the classic sliding tile puzzle. I could get ever so close to a completed puzzle, but could never get it completed without first letting go of my expectations of the process. I was reluctant to accept the fact that one had to be willing to “mess” up all the tiles before they could be put back in order.

I have found that grieving the loss of my child to be somewhat like that. No matter how I wanted to handle the grief with logic and order, I had to let go, not of my child or the love, but of the expectations of this journey. I had to learn to live in the moment at hand.

Don’t use your energy with the would have, should have or could have. And don’t waste your precious energy with expectations of others’ reactions and behaviors.

Grief is a wild and crazy roller coaster ride that requires energy. More energy than one can ever realize. I hope you travel your journey one step at a time and use this limited energy wisely.

04
Jul
2016

Why Am I Still Here?

categories: children's books, Feelings, Love, memories, shoulds

Tracy Bradshaw, Sawyer’s Mom

As a single mom, taking care of Sawyer was my purpose. Everything he needed emotionally, physically, and psychologically was up to me to provide. Getting him to practices, games, birthday parties, school, etc. was up to me. Making sure that he had a positive sense of himself, his lunch money, project materials, homework, signed permission slips and report cards, clothes, etc. was my lot in life. I loved him before I really knew him, so I was happy with this responsibility. It would have been my choice had I had one. The fact that he was a loving and touchy-feely person was an added bonus.

When his life was taken at nineteen years old, I was completely lost. Why am I still here? What will I do with my life? Where will I turn? When will I feel normal again? Who will I depend on to help me find my way?

I don’t remember when my first visit with Listening Hearts was, but I remember feeling like I had been with a group of moms who loved and lost. That was me, same as me, happy and sad. Their joys and pains were very much like my own. After several visits with this support group, one of the co-founders, Debra Reagan, offered to make me a bear out of two of Sawyer’s t-shirts. While I thought that was a very kind gesture, it took me months (maybe a year) to be able to turn over two shirts, as the material things were all that I had – I thought.

When she gave me my bear, and each scrap of material that wasn’t used from the shirts, the warmth in her eyes caressed my aching heart. She connected with this bear, and it was with tenderness and love that she presented him to me. He was delightful, yet he opened floodgates to my tears. The carefully chosen shirts represented Sawyer’s life as one was from his early years and the other from his later teens.

As time passed I wasn’t sure how I “should” be with Sawbear or if I “should” even call him that. I worried what people would think if I slept with him or held him too much. I hesitated to take him on family get-togethers or vacations. My face reddened, when I saw strangers looking as I took pictures of Sawbear. I went on a beach trip with my sister-in-law, and her love of Sawbear was instant like my own. She asked if she could sleep with him. She cuddled him, and her eyes lit up when I spoke of taking pictures of him. She didn’t care what anyone thought, and we set out to create a scrapbook of “Sawbear’s Vacation.” As I propped him against sand castles, pool floats, and chair backs, ideas would pop in her head to have him in the shade with sunglasses, in a kayak, and more.

Scrapbooks turned into self-made children’s books, and ideas for helping children became endless as I watched so many love and hug Sawbear. Like Sawyer, he is easy to love. To readers, he is accepting and understanding, helpful, and encouraging.

In answering my earlier questions, “What do I do with my life?” I reach out to help others going through trauma, entertain with a fun-loving character, and stay connected to a spirit I love. “Where do I turn?” I turn inward to memories and love and outward to anyone who listens or reads. “Why am I still here?” I am here because I have learned from a loving spirit, and I have the courage to share. “When will I feel normal again?” I will never be able to feel the normalcy that I once felt, so I will quit grasping for that. I will seek a new normal that includes Sawyer in every step and in every book. “Who will I depend on to help me find my way?” I will pray for guidance in my search to find a publisher, organizations, and children with a need for Sawbear. I will depend on Listening Hearts’ Moms, my friends, my family, my Church, and my community for support.

The material things are not all that I have. I have an ability to touch lives, an abundance of priceless memories, and a bonded love that knows no end.