Category: Grief journey


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….


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


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.


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.

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.

Apr
2019

Kyle

categories: bereaved, Connections, Grief journey, loss, relationships

Deb Moroney

Just got off the phone with an old friend that we lost connection with many years ago. Living miles apart and each of us raising our families plus just life in general one never thinks about how important friendship really is. Upon responding to my friend’s text message from earlier today I decided to just call her and see what it was she needed to know about some things here in Tennessee. After the usual “Oh my God, how long has it been!” introduction she casually asked how I was doing. I never thought anything about this question until the next one. She then asked “So what is Kyle doing now?” I know it seemed like forever before I answered but it caught me off guard. I heartbreakingly told her what had happened to Kyle 22 months ago. At first it takes you back to the first day when all you can think about is the accident and trying to understand what has happened. My friend was shell shocked to say the least! She felt horrible for not knowing about our loss but I tried to reassure her that it was okay because not everyone is up on social media even today. I’ve always believed that the more I talk to others about Kyle the easier it gets. Not always true in circumstances like this. I’m just sorry that I didn’t call them and tell them myself when it happened but I know my brain wasn’t working properly and when the fog started to lift it just seemed hard to remember who I had told and those I hadn’t. Maybe someday it will get easier but not right now. My heart is still broken in a million pieces. Not a minute of a day passes that I don’t think of Kyle. I go to sleep and wake up multiple times thinking of him. As a mother probably would checking on her newborn baby, I guess I can only relate my wakefulness periods during the night to my time spent with Kyle. I pray daily that others won’t have to experience this terrible emptiness. However it seems to happen even despite my prayers. I ask Kyle to always watch over us, to help guide us along our journey, and to give us the strength to get through each day. Please ask us about him! As painful as it might be, we both enjoy telling his story. As for my friend, I pray she can hug her now college age children more tightly and overlook the little things in life to focus on the true meaning of their gift of life and love.
Peace to all and hugs to my dear son, Kyle. My Z Boy!
Deb (ZBOYMOM)

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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


Jul
2018

First Blog Post

categories: blogger, Grief journey, Journey, loss

spsksl3@yahoo.com

Losing a child doesn’t permit you to ever be the same person you were before again. It is forever losing parts of your life. The past becomes memories that each have different meaning now. The present becomes exhausting, discouraging, and heavy to carry. The future holds both shattered dreams, uncertainty. You lack a piece of the meaning being a mother had. Even with other children, losing one leaves a huge hole in your identity. There is a common constant thread which is that you hurt in ways and depths that you never could have grasped before as possible. The dark tunnel of this journey doesn’t always show a distant light at the other end.

Grieving mothers need support that no one can understand until they are forced to travel the same path. It is different for a other than a father. We are the caregiver and nurturer. We have most likely carried and given birth to our child. The journey is not the same for a mother whose child was lost suddenly as it is for the mother that has watched their child battle a disease. Nor are feelings the same for a bereaved mother of a child of a young age lost to cancer who can protect them from knowledge about what may lie ahead. As a mom of a young adult fighting of the vicious beast of cancer that wasn’t an option for me. That mother also has a child that doesn’t understand what is happening, why they feel are going through surgery or scans, staying in the hospital, being made to feel sick from the “treatment”. My son Jordan was diagnosed at the age of 22. He was 5 mos from graduating college, practically sitting front and center to every nightmare ahead via google search. I dealt with too much knowledge creating anxiety beyond what anyone knows. Jordan his so much, so well because of his humility and a love for his friends. He tried to protect others from his pain. But as his mom, in the trenches of his care, the research for that 1 break that might cure him, I was right beside him at 2, 3 or 4 am when he woke me “freaking out”.

As I close this 1st post, I know that you may think it doesn’t apply to you because you don’t have children yet or all of yours are fine. But I would truly appreciate it if you would allow me to prepare you, just in case, someone someday that you care about is walking in my shoes. Just in case, that something which I would never want any of you to have to endure happens and you yourself are thrown on this same road with your child. But know for certain that I am here willing to help you with what I have learned and experienced because I wish I had someone like me available to hold my hand and listen to my thoughts when I became a grieving mother that understood this world all mothers of child loss now live in.


May
2018

Mother’s Day Trail Message

categories: Connections, Firsts, Grief journey, holidays in grief, Journey, Mom, signs

Debra Reagan

May 15, 2007
This article was originally published on www.opentohope.com, a website whose mission is to help those who have suffered a loss to cope with their pain and invest in the future.

The first Mother’s Day without our son, Clint, was approaching. He had passed away the summer before, but the weight of grief was still heavy. So far, we had made it through each day by taking one slow, encumbered step at a time. Each morning for several weeks prior to the upcoming holiday, I noticed a little sports-type car parked near my car in the parking garage at work. Apparently, it was parked there on a long-term basis because it started to gather dust. After a while, the thick dust became a target for graffiti- some of which was amusing, and some was distasteful. One was even a negative message to a mother. Despite the fact I did not appreciate some of the comments written on the car, it reminded me of Clint and the activities of young people. The car remained there unmoved and untouched day after day. Considering the anxiety of the impending holiday, I did not give the car too much thought.

When the dreaded Mother’s Day arrived, my husband, Alan and I decided a hike to the top of one of our favorite peaks in the nearby national park. We had been avid hikers, but now even the simplest activity seemed to take more effort and energy than we had. We have had some adventures on our hikes, but this time our only goal was to get past another painful holiday without our youngest son and perhaps to be tired enough to finally get a few hours of peaceful sleep that night.

Just as we arrived in the trail parking area, approximately 35 miles from our home, we decided to take a different route to the top of the trail than the one originally planned. After several hours of uphill hiking, our bodies were beginning to feel the aches and pains. We were beginning to doubt we could even make it to the top because we knew this was not an easy hike. Then we came upon the following message written in large letters in the dirt, Happy Mom’s Day, Love from Your Sons. I was taken aback, and my heart began to beat a little faster. I thought, “Could this be for me?” The rest of the hike my thoughts bounced between belief and disbelief. I could not remember Clint using the words Mom’s Day instead of Mother’s Day, but it would be like him to shorten it. Another point that raised doubt in my mind was the signature of sons instead of son. Then I thought to myself, “After all I do have two sons, perhaps Clint had included his brother in the message.” I had a point and counter-point for each thought. Nothing like this had ever happened to me before. I thought to myself, “I don’t want to miss a message from my son. But on the other hand, I don’t want to seem like a foolish old woman.” I pondered many thoughts. I could not imagine who else could have left the message, because we had started hiking early and had not encountered any other hikers. Also, none of our family members or friends knew where we were hiking that day.

With little discussion about the message, we continued our way to the top. Once there, we had our lunch. Inside the fire tower, someone had left a book about the area in memory of his or her family and others had turned the book into a journal for recording messages. We left our own little message and cleaned up our lunch items. On a clear day, this hike offers some spectacular views, but this was an overcast day. A little disappointed by the lack of views, we started down the trail. Just then the clouds parted, and the sun came out. For that brief time, we enjoyed God’s beautiful handiwork displayed by nature. The cloud cover returned and silently we hiked back to our car somewhat contented and exhausted. Yet, the nagging doubt of the message remained in my mind.

When we arrived home that evening, we found a card in the mailbox from a friend of Clint’s. The sweet and thoughtful friend had written on the outside of the envelope, “Happy Mom’s Day.” This touched me deeply. I thought, “Could this be my confirmation? Was the use of Mom’s Day instead of Mother’s Day a sign?” The rest of the weekend my thoughts continued to bounce. I wanted the trail message to be for me, but how could I be sure?

Time does not stop for grief and a new workweek began. As I pulled into the parking garage and started to swipe my entry card, I had the quick thought, “If the message along the trail really was for me, the distasteful messages on the car would be gone because I shouldn’t pick and choose which messages are for me.” I park in a large multi-level parking garage, so at this point I could not see the dusty message-laden car. As I turned the corner and continued, I chuckled to myself about my absurd thoughts. “Of course, the distasteful messages would still be there and the whole weekend was just filled with coincidences.”

As I got closer I could see the car was still there, but to my shock all the writing on the car had been wiped clean. It did not appear to have been moved or washed, but it had been cleared of any writing. I had not said anything to anyone about the car or my thoughts, not even my husband. So, I smiled, wiped away the tears, and enjoyed the warm feeling of connection. I joyfully thought to myself as I walked into work that morning, “Okay, I get it. The message on the trail was for me.” For a while that day, the burden of grief would be a little lighter.