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

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

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.

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…..

Jean-Ann Washam