Category: Journey

Time: A Mother’s Point of View

MaryBeth Cichocki

There is a saying that time heals all wounds. People tell you to give it time. Time will help. As if time has the magical power to help you forget that your child is gone. As if they have a clue as to how it feels to walk around with half your heart missing. All time has done for me is to deepen my already intense pain. All time has done is rob me of the blessing of watching my sons grow old together. Time passes and I realize that I haven’t heard your voice or seen your handsome face for 8 years.

Time is not my friend. Time has become a painful march of family birthdays and holiday celebrations that are no more. Time deepens the grief as reality seeps in reminding me that this emptiness will be a part of my soul forever. Weeks have turned to months. Months to years. Yet my grief refuses to loosen its grip on my soul. Grief has taken over every cell of my body. It pulses through my veins with every beat of my heart. Breaking it again as I recognize that memories are all I have left of you. Happy times when life was as it should be. Family barbecues, laughter and love. My two sons enjoying each other’s company as siblings do.

But time doesn’t have a clue. It marches on and with each new day comes the pain of knowing there will be no phone call or visit today, tomorrow or forever. Time is like that crack. It starts small and barely noticeable until it transforms into an enormous undeniable rupture separating life into the before and after.

As time passes people forget. Returning to their normal lives afraid that grief is catchy. Friends disappearing into the sunset. Running as far and as fast as they can. As if I’m contagious. Time is a great teacher. It teaches you who gives a damn.

Time does nothing to lessen grief. It does everything to magnify it. I now understand those things I took for granted like having all the time in the world to say the things I wanted to say, to do the things we dreamed about doing were never under our control. Time fools you into thinking you will always have more.

Time marches on and doesn’t care who it mows down as it marches. It has no respect for the grieving heart.

The only thing I want to do with time is have it rewind. Go back to the time when you lived. I call it a do over. A time when my heart was whole. A time when life held joy and hope not pain and regret.

Before your death I wanted time to slow down. I complained that time was going by too quickly. Days and months were flying by. I wanted time to give me more moments to enjoy life. To allow the seasons to change slowly allowing the beauty of each one to linger longer.

Now time can’t move fast enough. I want the holidays to fly away and be gone. Birthdays too. I want my head to spin and not have time to know my reality and the pain it continues to bring.

I was never afraid of getting older. I take care of myself. I’m physically active, not bad looking for a sixty something mom. Aging didn’t really bother me. Although it does feel like I was only thirty a few days ago. I’m not high maintenance, never worried about a new wrinkle popping up as I’ve earned every one being the mother of two boys. Now I want to close my eyes and be eighty. I want to be closer to the time I will see you again. I want to see your face and hear your voice. I want to be able to hold you and tell you it’s ok. Matt, you were a beautiful man with a terrible, misunderstood disease. Prior to your death my time was spent keeping an eye on you.

Before your death time was of short supply. Working and trying to keep you safe took every second of every day. Now time is empty, standing still, endless.

Time has also taught me a life lesson. I have no control over it and what it may bring. We’ve all heard the saying In Gods Time Not Ours. Now I finally get it. Time does not belong to us.

The gift of time for me is a double-edged sword. Sharp and cutting one minute. Peaceful and too quiet the next. I’m learning that time stops for no one.

For as long as I have left, I will cherish those beautiful memories and wish I knew then what I know now. I would have stayed longer and cherished our time sitting together by the sea. I would have hugged more and argued less. I would have fought harder to save you.

Living through time without you is hell. I’ve read that “Life isn’t a matter of milestones, but of moments.”

Until we meet again, I will treasure the moments we’ve made in the time we had together. Precious moments that time cannot erase 💜

Forever Young

Carla Steedley (my niece, Andy’s cousin)

You left the world too early and we couldn’t say goodbye. 
The news hit all of us so hard, all we could do was cry.
We’ll always hold you close to us, and keep you in our hearts. 
We lost so much time with you while we were apart. 
There are so many memories, though, that we can hold real tight 
Like when you’d sing your favorite song, my “Pepsi Land Delight.” 
Your cute blonde curls, and great big smile could brighten up our days. 
And oh the many sleepovers when we would laugh and play. 
The hours we would spend outside, you always loved to hide! 
Your Scooby Doo Underoos, the big wheels we would ride. 
You were such a good big brother, and she loved you so much. 
You could always calm her with your hugs, or just your touch. 
I wish we could’ve had more time and weren’t robbed of you. 
Things would have been so different, I know you would have too. 
Now you’ll stay “Forever Young,” be happy and be free. 
I know that you’re with Nanny, and she’s happy as can be. 
One day we’ll make up for lost time, til then we hope you know 
How much we always loved you, how it hurt to let you go. 
We’ll remember you each day, we’ll think of you with love. 
And we know you will watch over us, in Heaven up above. 
We love you Andrew Wayne Rowe, and we all count the days 
Until we are reunited, and once again, we’ll play. 

Andrew Wayne Rowe 
08/11/1980 – 02/14/2019

The Metamorphosis of a Green Thumb

Amparo Atencio

Before Tony’s death, I did not have a green thumb nor any interest in gardening, whatsoever. In my healing journey, it has become my passion. Thinking retrospectively, I see its origins and progression.

No longer able to take care of him, I nurture the living beings in my garden.

No longer able to see him mature and grow, I watch the seedlings shoot upward to their full potential.

No longer able to feed him, I give sustenance to the birds and the bees and other pollinators who come.

I pull weeds from a choked and anguished flowerbed, transforming it into a place of peace and serenity. The weeds symbolize my heartbreak in the aftermath of the early days of grief. As the days become months and then years, I slowly find my way to the peace that soothes my soul.

My penchant for planting perennials rather than annuals allows me to see a rebirth, as the circle of life continues in my garden, year after year.

Sometimes, when I have been working especially hard in my garden, I feel it in my lower back. I wipe the sweat off my brow from the physical labor that reminds me of the childbirth labor I felt in my lower back giving birth to Tony.

It makes sense to me now that my plants and my labor have everything to do with maintaining my connections with my beautiful, beautiful boy.

Life is Like a Jar of Pickles

Mary Beth Cichocki

Since my youngest son, Matt’s death, I’ve been living not just with complicated grief, but also with PTSD.   There are days when the slightest noise has me hanging from the ceiling.   I struggle with feelings of not knowing where I fit in anymore.   There are days I question my role here on earth.   His addiction kept me crazy but his death left me broken and questioning life.

The old me left the day he did and the new me struggles with who I’m supposed to be now.   It feels like being transported to another place where you don’t understand the language.   You constantly get lost and find yourself looking for something familiar.

I’ve learned that very few people understand when I try to explain what it’s like to be me. They think I should be back to my pre-grief state.   That life should just return to normal and drag me with it.   What they don’t and never will understand is that profound loss slices you in half.   You become the “before” and the “after” pieces of your tragedy.   As time passes the “before” you drifts further and further away.   Leaving you with an identity that even you can’t identify with.   You long for the old you but know the road back to finding her again has imploded.

I find it harder and harder to remember the woman I was before Matt’s  death.   The girl who laughed at the stupidest of things.   Who would even laugh at herself.   I remember looking forward to little things.   I remember having happy hours and bon fires.   I remember having lots of fun.   I remember a reflection with bright eyes and a natural smile.   Now I see a silhouette in a fog slowly drifting away.

Trauma changes you.   It unravels you.  It takes you to the darkest of places.   Things you once thought would never happen have happened leaving you hanging from that mental cliff clinging to the last piece of your soul.   The “before” you has been sucked away and the “after” you lay in pieces at your feet.   You try to make sense of this “after” you, but the pieces are hard to fit together.   Like a puzzle that just doesn’t make sense when a large part of it is missing.

I was with a friend one day.   This friend totally gets where I’m coming from.   She understands when I say the “before” me has vanished and this new “after” me is still struggling to fit.   Like a pair of old jeans that once felt like home now rewoven and uncomfortable.   She has survived her own trauma.   The assault of breast cancer on her body and mind.   Like me the “before” her was totally destroyed and replaced with an “after” person she continues to try to identify with.   We both grieve the women we once were.   We often compare notes on how things continue to have a trickle down effect on both our lives.

During one of these conversations she said something that gave me an Ah ha moment putting a true perspective on what I’ve been living with since my son’s death.   Without even knowing how profound this statement was and how it would impact me for the rest of my life she calmly looked me in the eye and said, “Once you become a pickle you can never go back to being a cucumber”.    

Yes, I know it sounds like a crazy thing to say in the midst of an emotional conversation, but when you really think about it, it’s the most insightful statement I’ve ever heard about who you become after you live with grief or survive a trauma.

The transformation from cucumber to pickle can never be reversed.   Everything used in the process leaves a permanent mark.   The same with grief, whether it’s over the loss of a child or the loss of a healthy you, it leads you through a process that can never be undone.

There are days when the world can be sweet, then without warning an unexpected trigger can turn everything dark.   Just like a jar of pickles we never know how the day will taste.   Will it leave us with an unpleasant bitterness or a fleeting moment of unexpected pleasure.  We never know how the “after” effects of grief  will play out as we navigate unfamiliar territory.

It continues to amaze and comfort me that a simple statement had the power to validate what I feel on a daily basis.  It also brings me extreme comfort knowing that I’m not the only pickle trying to find my place in the glass jar called life…..

Silently Screaming..

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….

The New Friend and Confidant

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

The Heart of Your Father

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.

The Mighty Tree

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.

In the Arms of Jesus

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.

A Mother’s Memories of Her Incredible Son

Jean-Ann Washam

You are the first thing I think of in the morning and the last before I go to bed. Nothing can prepare a mother for the loss of her child. July 19th will be one year since the accident that claimed your life. It has been a hard journey. However, I am grateful for the 18 years I had with you. I remember the day you were born. I called you my little man because you were tiny and had a lot of extra skin. Who knew you would grow to be 6 feet tall towering over me?

I cherish every memory of you. You challenged me to be a better person. I knew early on I would just have to hold on for the ride. This became evident with my first parent teacher conference. Ms. Babely shared that you raised your hand and told her she could teach the lesson that way but then proceeded to tell her how you thought the lesson should be taught. You were one smart cookie and excelled academically. I flippantly told you if you scored a 33 on your ACT, I would buy you a car. Imagine my shock when you did. I am most proud of how you used your gifts to help others. Peer tutoring was a part of your routine early on. At graduation, your teacher told me that some students would not have received their diploma without your help.

You were also fiercely loyal. Once a friend always a friend. You valued friendship and family more than anything. I miss our home being the hang out and the smell of Philly cheese steak sandwiches as your friends packed into the kitchen. God gave me the insight to enjoy those moments, even the sink full of dirty dishes I always found the next morning.

You were far from perfect, but you were an incredible son. I miss your smile, the smell of your cologne and the way you called me Jeanie Weenie. I miss your tennis matches, you helping me put up the Christmas decorations, our lunches at Elsazon and calling you every day on my way from work. I mourn who you would have become and unfulfilled dreams. I have cried countless tears for you, but God has given me a comfort that I cannot describe. HE has and will continue to sustain me until I see you again. #Forever 18

Jean-Ann attends Listening Hearts’ Morristown gatherings.