Wow. We think we can hide our feelings from our other children, but we are blinded by our heartache and good intentions or exhaustion. The night my son died, I wanted to lay down and die, too, so I understand that this respondent is likely not being melodramatic, but stating the truth. That night, however, rather than throw back vodka and pills or reach for my service revolver, I did what I had advised other grieving parents to do, in my role as a police grief counselor:

• Stay together. The first night, on the living room floor we made beds of mattresses and blankets and we all slept together. Our children need, first and foremost, our presence in the aftermath of a crisis.
• Call a friend to come over and stay with you with the children. They can do things we are too absent to do, like make meals or answer the telephone. This gives us time to be with our other children. I called my pastor and my best friend, and the pastor spent time with my kids while I went for a walk with my friend. When I was sufficiently shored up so that I could face the kids without sobbing incoherently, he and I went back to the house and then both stayed with me and helped me help my children through the first night.
• Talk with the children. Make then central to the conversation, not eavesdroppers. Tell them, in age-appropriate ways, what you know when you know it. This lets them know that you realize they are suffering a loss, too. They are not ghost children.
• Be ready to deal with raw emotions and expect anger… lots of anger. My conversation with my children was relatively straightforward: Daniel died in a car accident; no alcohol or drugs, just loose gravel. It wasn’t a suicide,  murder, stupid blunder or dare. We didn’t blame him or ourselves because there was nothing any of us might have done differently. Still, one daughter prayed very seriously to change places with him and expressed a sudden and intense hatred for her own life. In the coming months, I grew very worried that she actually was becoming suicidal. She was filled with anger without any logical place to put it. She hated that his death derailed everyone’s life. She missed him and wanted him back. Wearing a cloaking mask of anger was the only way she could endure so much sorrow.
• Consider that your surviving children have just lost their childhood. Just as life will never be the same for you again, it will never be the same for them again, either. From now forward, they will see family dynamics change and their role in it will change. Some of it will be their doing but much of it will be assigned by you. This news has created a real void and they fear how the void can or won’t ever be filled. We must acknowledge that they are often the lost grievers in the room, as adults approach parents and move away from them, not knowing what to say.
• Know that a code of silence may hide grief but it does not dispel or dilute it: it creates a damn and behind a damn….. Imagine you are the child of whatever age who wrote the message above to me. If you were that person, what could you do? Could you approach your mother when you so fear that she will put words to what you suspect — that she’d rather be dead than stuck on earth now with you? We inadvertently try to hush our children, thinking it is best for them or for us, but it is not. Likewise, they lock away their questions and fears because they do not want to hear the answers they fear, or because they do not want to add to our grief. We must help them express fears and doubts and needs and wants. They are not dead and they need us now more than ever.
• If you are just going through the motions — if you wish you could die — get professional help. NOW. Do it for your surviving children, who have lost a sibling and now are living with the ghost of a brother or sister among the walking dead. While it is natural and “normal” to want to die in the aftermath of a child’s death, it’s also natural and normal to die during a heart attack, but we’re smart enough to call 9-1-1 when we see someone falling over gasping for breath. If you would have done anything — anything — to save your dead child, you have a chance now to do everything - everything — to save your surviving child or children. Get help, please get help.

Imagine it was your child who wrote the suggestion for this advice, because maybe it was.

Thanks for stopping by the watering hole today, and I hope you found at least one thought of value for you. Please let me know your thoughts and insights, worries and hopes as you move through this most difficult time of transition.

• Communication breakdowns.
• Differences in how to grieve.
• Turning to alcohol and drugs or other people as a primary source of comfort.

Typically, in the aftermath of a child’s death, one partner may be floundering while the other thinks that working on a marriage is just too much to take on. But the question remains: Is your marriage strong enough to weather the most unimaginable stress of all?

The best predictor of future behavior is past behavior, but even the best marriages crumble under a stress the magnitude of losing a child. This abyss is deeper than bankruptcy, more wounding than marital betrayal, more demoralizing than a lost job. Losing a child is harder than losing a partner to incarceration or even to death. Bereaved parents hold the highest divorce rate on record. So how can you best protect your own marriage or relationship?

Shaky marriages may be shaky because they have weathered storms that the best marriages have never faced, so there is no predictor which marriages will survive the loss of a child and which will crumble. Communication is critical, and it is hard to manage when you may be feeling too exhausted for deep discussions or threatening disclosures of “real thoughts”. Still, when you can be truly heard without judgement or dismissal, you have the best chance to build or keep the strongest union.

Self-Quiz: How do you really feel about the hard issues?

There are clear subject areas where communication tends to break down following the loss of a child. Couples may have differing expectations or desires, and areas in which they may express or feel grief differently. The following questions are intended to help a grieving parent flesh out  sensitivities. Taking this quick self-evaluation independent of your partner’s influence, and then being truthful and non-judgmental in any discussion of their feelings in turn, is one way to facilitate a discussion. Warning: a few parenting questions are especially painful to consider and some may be insensitive to your particular situation; for that reason, I have listed them last and flagged them in red.

True or False?

1. I don’t have the energy or interest in evaluating our marriage in any real depth at present.
2. Comparing myself to my partner, I am (quicker) or (slower) to anger now? [Choose best answer]
3. Comparing myself to my partner, I am (more expressive) or (less expressive) of sorrow right now? [Choose best answer]
4. I feel some blame, even if the world judges me blameless, for my child’s death.
5. I have financial concerns that I am hesitant to raise in the aftermath of our child’s death.
6. I agree with the decisions made for dealing with our child’s belongings.
7. I want to talk about our child (more) or (less) often than we do. [Choose best answer]
8. It is easiest for me to grieve (with) or (without) my partner present at this time. [Choose best answer]
9. I would like to consult an outside, independent counselor for individual or couples grief support.
10. I prefer to keep my thoughts private at this time; no counseling; it’s still too fresh for me.
11. I privately hold someone to blame for my child’s death, whether or not I have addressed those feelings aloud or publicly.
12.  The person I feel most comfortable talking to right now is _________________ because ____________________.
13. Any difficulties in our marriage that I acknowledge today existed before our child’s death.
14. I feel a need for (more) (less) (status quo)  involvement with religion right now. [Choose best answer]
15. My way of coping with pain right now involves self-medication (drugs or alcohol) or prescription or over-the-counter drugs.
16. I have faith that our marriage will still be intact a year if we continue on the path we’ve set together now.
17. I would rate our marriage a ___ on a 10-point scale right now, with 1 being the weakest and 10 being the strongest.
18. I would eventually like to have more children, if possible. 
19. I feel a need to be more protective with regard to our surviving children.
20. I feel somewhat distant or removed from parenting at the moment, as if I am just going through the motions right now.

If you feel your marriage is in trouble….

You have a few options. One is to focus on the marriage and actively work on it with a partner who is also actively working on it. If that isn’t an option, hopefully you do have the option of working on your own issues and giving your partner space to grieve in their own way. Try not to make important decisions the first year because everything will be magnified as you make your way through the first milestones, or the second or even third years. There is no timetable for healing or coping, and this is the most significant grief work you will ever do.

There is no playbook for grief or a “right way” or “wrong way” to do it (though some ways are healthier and less self-destructive than others). My best advice is to be kind to one another, and patient, and present. My second best advice is to seek professional grief counseling, individually or as a couple, because it’s kind of like going to the dentist; you can prevent a lot of cavities with preventive visits for checkups.

I hope you find a little help here. Thanks for stopping by the watering hole and please, share your comments, stories about your children, or suggest topics you’d like me to consider writing about. This is, after all, your site. 

Jody.

If you are beginning the first “Happy New Year” since the death of your child, 2012 will bring many painful dates to muddle through. As you look ahead at a new calendar, you likely and rightly see an emotional minefield laid out before you. But please believe that somehow, some way unknown to you now, you can survive it.

Birthdays are particularly hard. January 28th, Daniel’s birthday, is one of the mountains I’ll be forced to climb again in the near future. I know I will awaken wanting to remember his smell when he was a baby. I will (again) review a mental video of past birthday parties. I can reach for a scrapbook of fading photographs, recalling how he changed from year to year, birthday to birthday, but that isn’t the same as sharing just one more birthday candle with him.

I understand now, years after his death, that the sharpest pain I will struggle with every January 28th for the rest of my life is my impotence to undo his death or to barter him back. I can’t change his past or my future without him.

Facing your loss on days you used to circle on a calendar with joy but now anticipate with dread is a real challenge. And yes, you will suffer more some days than others. But you also can move a few steps closer to the knowledge that your loved one still has a place with you and can be taken into the future with you. And every day, you’re getting one day closer to comprehending where and how your worlds now intersect.

What can you do to promote healing — versus scab picking?

Plan ahead what you intend to do on the most predictably difficult days — birthdays, Mother’s Day, Father’s Day, Grandparent’s Day, etc. — and take control of each one. Here are some suggestions to chose from.

(1) Build in private time to actively honor your love for your child, which is unwavering and eternal.

I include time for spiritual reflection and renewal. I don’t include anyone in those moments who would only agree to it due to a feeling of obligation. I don’t bring in people who never knew my son to witness it, either. It is a closed circle so that I don’t have to explain how I’m feeling, justify it, or have it absolved or “understood”. My feelings simply are what they are and that is a private matter for me.

Sometimes I go to church with a close friend and pray; sometimes I go to a park and take a walk and let the sun shine on my face. Sometimes I sit alone in my car and cry, but that is okay. Sometimes I call a daughter first thing after waking up that morning and together, we remember him aloud, or I kneel on my knees, alone in my bathroom, and whisper my plans for the day to him.

(2) Determine how, this year, you are going to honor your child’s life — and then do it.

Loving another person is the greatest gift we can bestow and the greatest gift, in return, that we can be given. So when that is lost to us, how can we do as Dr. Seuss suggests (my favorite mantra): “Don’t cry because it’s over; smile because it happened”?

We can honor that it happened by putting something physical in the world to represent it.

My favorite thing to do is to plant a tree, to put a living thing in the ground that can provide shade to generations that will outlive me, as I had hoped he would. I imagine Daniel would like that, and so that is something I can do — not in January in Wisconsin, but in the spring. To every thing, there is a season. I can buy a tree and have it put in a favorite dog park or plant a rosebush in the front yard. I can plant a tree at my daughter’s house this year, if she wants one, without saying why. It’s no longer important to me that the world listens when I murmur his name; only that I continue to say it and the trees continue to be planted.

(3) Understand that grief is hard work, and dealing with it is even harder work. Open your mind to new routes and tools.

If climbing a mountain was easy, everybody would do it. You didn’t volunteer to climb even a bunny hill of grief, but suddenly you find you’re a member of the club nobody wants to join — the bereaved parents’ club — and our specialty is climbing mountains because, well, because they are there, blocking out the sun and all of the light we once knew. The mountains are dates on the calendar, and yes, I guess you could sleep through them, with enough sleeping pills, but guess what? Those mountains just slide over into the next day. And the next.

The safest way to mountain climb is with a climbing partner. This site is meant to help you — I am here to help you, along with countless other bereaved parents who have climbed a few mountains of their own in recent years; they can (and will) weigh in and offer practical help. We’re listening for your invitation to offer a hand or a thought or a prayer.

Along the way, if you can manage it when your heart feels most frozen or splintered, try to open your mind to new ways of experiencing the world. Challenge boundaries and truths. Explore and test your relationship with your faith or spirituality or truest beliefs about the meaning of soul and existence. Close your eyes, listen with your heart, and turn your face toward life. Your life. In this way, we can take your hand and share your burden.

Thanks for joining me at The Watering Hole. Your comments are appreciated.
JGP

Not all of us welcome traditions and expectations or even joyous homecomings while caught in the grip of grief for a child, and that’s natural. Oftentimes it is the fact that the world goes on… that we go on… without the child that is the most private and painful  insult we feel. Holidays, especially, are meant to be shared with family and friends. Each one  — from Christmas to Valentine’s Day to Mother’s Day and birthdays — shines a unique spotlight on absent family members.

If a brother is serving overseas in the military, or a sister is in prison during the holidays, we still hold a mental chair for them at the table. It’s natural to talk about them, wonder about them, and try to reach out to them through cards and whatever other methods we have. So that begs the question of who could ever be more absent and unreachable than a dead child? And when it’s the third year or the fifth and other family members don’t want to bring up the child’s name again, to “move on” — what is a parent to do who still aches over that empty chair?

The holidays can also represent a guilt train on which we hold the first ticket sold. “How can I celebrate when my child is dead?”

If you can, stand back from what is happening to you and around you as the holidays encroach to ask yourself a few questions about how you want to carry your missing child into the holiday to give them “presence”, too.

• Are you wanting to remember your child privately or publicly, involving other family members or friends?
• Is “remembering” another word for “honoring”  the dead child above the celebration? This is what happens when holidays are turned into subsequent memorials for the child. And if that is your intent, or the family’s intent as you struggle through the first, second or even tenth holiday of its kind, that’s fine — if everyone acknowledges that goal. What is not fine is to turn a blind corner and find yourself at the intersection where  you want to host or attend a memorial (even a mental one, where the child is discussed and remembered) when others may be gathering for more traditional or straightforward reasons, like to have a family meal and light-hearted talk. You may be hurt and surprised that they may purposely steer away from your child out of consideration for you and others.
• Can you “remember” your child (whether your actual child or niece, nephew, grandchild or friend)  without  jumping in the hole in the sidewalk (see that post) to revisit the pain of the passing or absence? Are you ready for that?

Two planes of existence?

It’s my own experience that initially holidays make a grieving parent a bit schizophrenic. We are physically at one celebration, but oftentimes find ourselves mentally revisiting past celebrations or thinking of how this actual celebration could have been, if our child were present. Tears come unexpectedly, while making a favorite dish for the dinner, or seeing another family member who would be about the same age as the child — or seeing another pregnant woman (women often understand what I’m saying here).

It feels wrong to not buy a gift for the child. Or have their picture in the album (or posted on flicr). It is HARD and no one else knows how to help us through it.

This is a very natural stress point for marriages, too. One partner may deal with holidays very differently than another, and not even want to discuss it. Or a partner may feel impotent to comfort the other, as they are negotiating difficult white water rapids, too. Grandparents don’t know what to do or say to mitigate their own grief. It may feel as if you are the only one suffering or even aware that the child is gone, but that is not true. Everyone around you is walking on eggshells, too, even if you don’t know it — and they may take pains to make sure you do NOT know it.

Tip to other family/friends: Saying “I’m aware the holidays may be especially painful for you without [child's name], and I want you to know that I remember and miss him/her, too,” is a GIFT you can give and mean. You won’t be bringing up thoughts that aren’t already front and center  in the mind of the parent/grandparent/aunt/uncle (etc). This also gives them “permission” not to “spoil your holiday” if they need a few private minutes with you to remember their child and talk about the child or how they are feeling.

So, how do you “get through” or (better yet) “celebrate” a holiday without your child?

You have options for creating a holiday you can live with, or skipping the holiday altogether. And yes, you’re an adult and you actually can “skip” a holiday, but I would suggest that if you do, it is to be authentic to what you are feeling, and not a shield to hide from what you are feeling. Cancelling a holiday (versus celebrating it a different way) is the most radical option, and is best done after a lot of inclusive thinking — thinking about everyone involved, and especially any siblings of the child — because holidays are a part of life and your journey did not end. Your physical journey with your child ended.

Adapting to that distinction is difficult but necessary to move on with your own journey, and to make peace with the beauty and wonder of the relationship you felt, and likely still feel, with your child. It’s moving to the ultimate celebration of a life which Dr. Seuss so aptly put as “Don’t cry because it’s over. Smile because it happened.” It’s getting from tears to smiles that is the hard journey, and it takes time.

Assuming you want to at least “get through” the holiday, here are a few suggestions.

• Before you go to the gathering, or sit down alone with your own holiday thoughts and post a message about your child here. I’m understanding and accepting (even encouraging) of ongoing tributes. Share a favorite story about your loved one — holiday or not. Celebrate that it happened, with your online supporters here, and you can do that here anytime, any day. I’m here for you, and other bereaved parents are here for you, too.
• Light a candle for your loved one. This doesn’t have to have religious overtones, if that makes you uncomfortable. Celebrate and remember the light they brought into your life.
• Buy your loved one a present in the form of a bench in a park. A name on a tile. Plant a tree. There are some places (my local dog park, for example) that has the opportunity to do a reasonably priced memorial bench. If you can’t afford it all at once, put a little money aside at significant holidays and birthdays until you can. This way, they didn’t fall off you “buying list” forever, if giving gifts is part of what you love about your holidays.
• You might make a special memory (in private memory of your child, as a tribute). If your child died at an early age, consider doing something extra meaningful and fun for the siblings, if any. Too often, feelings for them are pushed aside by the feelings for the missing child, and they can feel that keenly.
• If you child was a young adult or adult when they died, is there a small scholarship you could offer to subsidize a child being able to attend of football game or a play or an event your child enjoyed? Hint: Check with The Salvation Army in your area; they can coordinate outings for children who otherwise couldn’t go.
• Share a holiday prayer which includes your loved one at the family dinner table.
• If you child is brought up by someone else at the table, and it takes you or others by surprise, be prepared in advance to ask everyone to tell a humorous story about your loved one if appropriate to the age of your child. This relieves pressure and steers discussion away from the death details.
• Review what you want from the holiday and get rid of things you’ve always done that don’t contribute to that. Do you really have to peel potatoes? If you love cooking, yes. If you don’t, get rid of the burden and buy one of the real mashed potato products already at the grocery store. Get rid of “obligations” to give you more time and energy for the activities that really bring you joy, and this will go a long way toward bringing the real meaning of  the holiday to the surface again.
• Have a Plan B. Tell family that you’ve made two plans and if you need to leave, leave. Don’t back away from true feelings (versus hiding) and be respectful of your own true  feelings as well as those of others.

 Have something to add to this list? Chime in!

Thanks for joining me at The Watering Hole. Your comments are appreciated.
JGP

Nothing quite moves us to want to believe in an afterlife like the death of our child (or our brother or our sister, parents, or a beloved friend). We need to imagine a place for them to be (other than in a hole in the ground or similar situation) that is still close to us, even if it remains outside of our grasp. A good place to be. No… a “better” place to be than the hell they’ve left us in. We want to find a little relief in the idea that they are, conversely, in heaven… by whatever name we call it.

I’ve just finished reading the bestseller The Lovely Bones by Alice Sebold – “the story of a life and everything that came after”. It’s now a movie as well, though I haven’t seen the movie. I don’t know if I want to, because I so enjoyed the book – you know what I mean – and the novel moved me in ways I may not even understand for years.

The author expressed my hope that my beloved son Daniel has an eternal soul and energy, and that he is a being that continues on, on another plane of existence parallel to mine, even though his body was destroyed in a car accident.

The novelist explores the concept of heaven and constructs one for the main character, Susie, after Susie is murdered as a young adult. I think what I most enjoyed is that the parents did not discuss their complex feelings of loss in the book. Susie expressed them ever so much more eloquently than we can express them ourselves. She understood them, from her vantage point of watching  and seeing them in all of their complexity; she was invisibly present. She watched them with great understanding and god-like compassion. She intuitively understood their true feelings and thoughts. Through her narrative, she described about 100 of the thoughts, missgivings and missteps that I shared with both of her parents  in the aftermath of my son’s death.

I also am thrilled by the author’s concept of Heaven, which again jibes with my heart. She described my hopes for my son even better than I could have imagined them myself. She took away the murky water that has stood between me and my vision of heaven, and made it clear.

May it be so.

What is heaven? Since at least the 11th century, Wikipedia sources inform me, “it has typically also been used to refer to the plane of existence of an afterlife (often held to exist in another realm) in various religions and spirtual philosophies. Heaven is often described as the holiest possible place, accessible by people according to various standards of divinity, goodness, peity, faith or other virtues.”

Lots of words. Lots of judgement. Lots of theology.

Because my son is deceased, and my parents and grandparents, and a brother as well, I long to know what heaven really is. I long for it to be a spiritual plane in which we all would be in harmony with, and not separated from, God and the universe, with all the souls that contribute to the knowledge and experience of the greater whole. I want a Heaven that offers the most beautiful music, most beautific colors and sights. And, of course, eternal love and connectedness.

Two planes of existence?

I can’t change the dimension I live in to accommodate this other dimension that I feel around me, though I wish I could –  but I take comfort in the idea that the two planes intersect because of the love I will forever feel for my family, regardless where they are.

Like the main character of the book, who spent much of her energy trying to communicate with the still living, Daniel communicates with me and I “hear” him and I “see” him.

I bought a printer for my computer – a computer I’ve used for two years. The printer began running through a cycle at odd times, and then it occurred to me that it cycled most often when I was daydreaming, thinking about Daniel. The computer, more often than not, was turned off – though sometimes the computer was on. Regardless, the printer continued to have the print head move across the carriage one to three times, and sometimes more during each episode. It did not resemble a pre-programmed cycle, as it was always random, and always different.

It does not do it every time I think of Daniel, nor on demand or when I wish. But once a day, then a couple times the next day, then not at all, then again a few times in a day, it will cycle. The times change. The tone changes. My husband initially dismissed it as an internal glitch — intil I bought another printer and that printer, too (different make and model) began doing the same thing when hooked up to the computer, regardless if the computer was on, regardless whether the printer was was the primary “default” printer or listed as an alternative or second computer.

Need more convincing? A few days ago, I was playing FarmVille on Facebook, my diversion after a long workday. Right before opening a mystery gift, I thought of Daniel and the fact that the game has hot air balloons, which are very rare. I already had one, and seeing it on my landscape just before opening the mystery package, I thought, “Wouldn’t it be amazing to have two? Can you send me another, Daniel?”

The balloons really are rare. Most of my Farmville neighbors, many who are at much higher levels in the game than I, have none. But Daniel and I share a hot air balloon experience that has been noted by psychic mediums and written about in an earlier blog. And guess what? Yep.

Bingo! The mystery gift revealed itself and yes, it was a hot air balloon. I laughed and cried at the same time.

Coincidence?

No. We’ve had documented experiences with Daniel after his death, witnessed by others and so obvious that they can’t be dismissed. He is with us on this plane, in another form of energy.

Lovely Bones. If you haven’t read it yet, let me warn you that it will be extremely painful to get through, and yet exquisitely beautiful to experience. For me, it was a slice of heaven on earth.

Thanks for joining me at The Watering Hole. Your comments are appreciated.
JGP

When my son Daniel (then 16) died 20 years ago, well… I still cry over that. And I cried a river (or so it felt like to me) when I was 18 and standing beside my grandmother’s casket many years before that. What changed, then, for the family members following my son’s death?

There were very few tears for my mother, when she died 10 years ago. Or for my father or step-father, or an aunt and uncle, when they died. I cried a little, but I didn’t feel very much. I pushed those feelings way, way down and made funeral arrangements or attended services as a gesture of comfort to other family members.

Grief sometimes comes out sideways

Between all of those later family deaths, a business acquaintance died. I fell apart at his service, approaching the coffin. I cried so hard that his wife (and her friends) probably wondered if we’d ever had an affair. No. We’d only had one lunch together beyond professional emails.

Others may have thought my obvious distress at that funeral was because he died of cancer; maybe I couldn’t hold back survivor guilt or empathetic tears. But no. I think I cried because it was emotionally “safe” to cry there.

Also, his death had been somewhat unexpected. He had cancer, but he was young and seemed to be rebounding.  So I wasn’t as prepared as I thougt in terms of “goodbye”. Yet I also knew I could cry without my knees buckling, without my heart freezing in my chest. I could cry without having to bury part of myself with the body in the coffin. Still, I could not stifle my sobs. I did try; no one wants to make a fool of themselves at a colleague’s funeral or become a distraction. But I could not stop crying throughout the service.

Grief…. I am often unpredictably under-whelmed or overwhelmed by it.

What is “over the top” grief?

A very responsible young man bought an English Bulldog puppy — an expensive investment. But he loved the dog and things seemed to be working out. Life got more complicated when this young man met and married my daughter, who is not fond of snorting, knee-riding, slobbering dogs. And this dog, it seemed, could knock squirrels out of trees with his farts.  Whew!

A year later, there was a new baby and two careers with differing shifts, a new home (with lots of stairs and new carpets) and “the baby is napping but the dog needs to go out”. They tried a few placements for the dog, but he was always sent home.

Finally my daughter called, at her wit’s end, asking if I would take him. I had just bought a tiny golden Pomeranian but agreed to help them out. Though only three years old, he already had the usual breed problems of airway constriction, hip joint pain, and arthritis.  But our new little bitty puppy was very social, and the bulldog at least might offer companionship for him — with a lot of initial supervision.

The dog settled in almost immediately and he and the little doggie became instant best friends. We soon discovered the real joy of his companionship and general good nature.

Fast forward six months: my son-in-law wants his dog back on a trial basis. Their child is older, he has upcoming vacation time, and he misses his pet. My daughter is still uncertain about it, but marriage is compromise.

Result? I’m grieving the pending separation as if were an approaching crisis. When my son-in-law said he wanted the dog, I said “sure” but later, alone, I paced the floors, distraught. Old feelings surfaced,  like “maybe I don’t deserve to keep him with me”. I wondered how that fit into God’s plan and why I was chosen to take him in and to love him, only to give him back?

Sound familiar? It was the same guilt and anger I had felt, secretly, after my son died.

Later, I marveled at crying over returning a dog to his rightful owner when I barely cried over the death of my brother. And I wondered, not for the first time, what is wrong with me? When will my reactions to separation ever return to “normal”?

What is a “normal” grief default setting?

Giving back the dog represents, to me, the loss of a beloved presence in my daily life. Because I didn’t see that separation coming, I couldn’t prepare myself emotionally in advance by compartmentalizing and turning off those strong attachment feelings. Nor will I be able to after the fact.

Instead, I fell into a familiar and dreaded pit — and that pit is a deep, dark hole.  There is little light in this hole, and so everything feels magnified and larger than life.

After my son’s death, I instinctively put up a force field to protect myself from feeling grief of that magnitude ever again (or so I hoped). At the slightest hint that a loss could be on the horizon (when my mother was dying of cancer, for example, or when a romantic relationship seemed sure to fail), I turned “off” emotionally. But when a surprise loss hits me upside the head, I still feel like a mosquito trapped in a bug zapper. I fall into a profound sadness and my tears fall.

The polarization of feelings, and the resulting emotional roller coaster, is natural. It’s important to know and acknowledge that. This dilemma of loving too little or caring too much may be with me (and possibly you?) forever. Coping with a traumatic separation often means reliving it for a bereaved parent — or learning to sidestep it. It’s hard to “manage” it. Let alone “deal with it.”

Distancing ourselves from grief is a natural way to protect the core – and everything the body does instinctually, mentally and physically, is intended to protect the core life energy. But grief will not be denied. It will be expressed, eventually. Bottled up or shut “off”, it may resurface as an extreme reaction to a loss of a job, a lost opportunity, or a returned pet. I believe that accepting or understanding that altered reality – a changed part of ourselves – will help move us toward a more peaceful and sane existence, and to a greater compassion for ourselves.

And really… can’t we use any help we can get?

Point this week: Go easy on yourself. Be compassionate and understanding about the depth and breadth of the loss you have suffered.  Then work to identify your patterns and to address any problems you become aware of.

 That quote, attributed to Pamela Dugdale, begins to scratch the surface of the complex relationship we have with siblings.

 When a child dies (regardless of age), a sibling’s loss is significant, because who we are is rooted in our early childhood and in the people central to that childhood. Even if the child is not yet old enough to realize a sibling has died, they will in the future, and that knowledge or loss will in some way impact their life.

The relationship is private to the two involved. Whether it was a “normal sibling rivalry” or “closer than usual” or even “estranged”, the descriptive phrase can’t predict the depth of the loss. The potential combinations of challenges for the surviving person are almost limitless.

 When I did death notifications as a police crisis interventionist, I insisted that siblings be present before I would tell the parents why I was there. Many parents automatically assume that children can’t cope with death, and so they want to “protect” them from discussions about it. But I really emphasize that experts advise bringing children into the discussions as quickly as possible, despite our own intense sorrows and misgivings, so that their anxieties and questions can be addressed, too, and so that they will know that we honor the fact that their relationships are important to the adults in their lives, regardless of their age.

 When a sibling dies, a minor child often immediately has many questions and anxieties, most of which center around “What is going to happen to me now?”

 “Am I going to die next?” 

If the language chosen to explain or interpret the death of a child is vague – “God took your sister to be an angel” – the younger child very possibly will develop anxieties about being taken away from the family, too, by some mysterious force. If they (before) believed or trusted in a God, (now) they have been given good reason to fear an all-powerful boogie man. “Your brother now sleeps in heaven,”  may cause them to develop sleep disorders.

“Your sister died today, and we are all sad and sorry that it happened,” is the most obvious statement, to be followed by the most age-appropriate information for the child as to how or why it happened.

The point is to prevent potential distresses by being honest with the child now, about the current true situation, and by that act, to best help them face the understanding that their sibling is gone, and will not return during their lifetime. However, they are safe. And wanted. And loved and supported in their loss and grief.

 “It should have been me.”

 This is a very, very common thought that a child may have, but may not verbalize to anyone else, which leaves them very much isolated with this new belief. 

After a sibling dies – unless the sibling lived a very publicly ill, disturbed or addicted life – accolades abound for the dead child: They were so good. They were so smart. They were so young and innocent. They were so accomplished. They were so beautiful. They were so loved. And then… then, there is the child left behind. Now they may literally be left behind again, forgotten as crowds of people collect, left to flitter in and out of the shadows.  

They are not left behind because of neglect or lack of concern — but because there will be sensitive conversations and confusion and people to greet and hug, casseroles to put in the refrigerator, calls to be made. There will be distractions and duties and details. And sadly, there will be a forgotten child, or a momentarily misplaced child, perhaps, as everyone gathers to remember the other child.

Peripheral adults (the other child’s teacher, a work aquaintance, a neighbor) who normally greeted this child with a cheery “Hello” may now even avoid making eye contact with them because they don’t know what to say to a child in this situation. You understand, but your child may well interpret this as a further sign that the adult secretly thinks “It should have been you instead.”

And why not? If your surviving child already believes this, they are looking for validation of the belief. After all, they are the child who may have only yesterday punched or teased the beloved child. This is the child who may have left them alone, in danger. The child who may have survived a crash. The child who may have had nothing at all to do with the death in any way, but now is alone in the same way a parent is alone with their grief.

 We really can’t get inside that grief and take it away from them. Nor can anyone else really and fully appreciate how deep the grief is. But we can honor that they are grieving, and be there for them as much as we possibly can.

They must be assured the death is not their fault, even if they do not openly say that they believe it is. And they need to know that in a family, there was no “best” child, even if the other child was older, more accomplished, or younger and more innocent. A child was not taken away because they were “bad” or left with the family because they were “good” — it is not a matter of right or wrong, but a matter of illness or accident.

“What if something happens to my parent(s) now?”

 This is very closely tied to the “What happens to me, now?” question. It’s the “What could happen to me NEXT?” question.

All children, by and large, lives in a pretty ego-centric world the first decade or two. If a sibling’s death is an early, first experience with the death of relatives or friends, do expect it to be especially traumatic, as it opens a young person’s eyes to (1) their parents’ mortality and (2) their own mortality. A child may become more clingy to a favorite grandmother or not want to lose sight of another sibling. They may regress in terms of maturity and need a lot of comfort and routine – at the very time neither are in very great supply. Whether two or 52, they may want to reconnect or to be surrounded by family in a meaningful way following a sibling’s death.

What can we do?

 The hardest thing a parent, step-parent or grandparent, aunt or uncle, is asked to do after the loss of a child is to be present. Yet it is the single most important thing you can do for surviving children. 

We want to hide. We want to retreat. We may even want to die ourselves.  But we must deal with the needs of the surviving child or children at the same time we are grieving the most and deepest for the lost child. We have to help them step out of the shadows and we want to surround them with the light and the warmth of our love – even when we don’t have the energy to do much beyond absorb our own shock. We have to be mindful to shine that light for them.

We also have to be diligent and mindful of what well-meaning people are saying to them. We have to be clear in our language, our message, our faith, our love – even when all of those things are being most tested and words like “dead” and “funeral” and “forever” almost gag us.

If we can’t do it ourselves, perhaps we can ask a best friend or another family member to become the sibling’s advocate; to be sure that, in their eyes, the child is not forgotten and gets what they need, while we tend to the other pressing details of the day.

The subject matter is too painful and too complicated to cover in one blog, so I’ll be adding posts as we meet again at The Watering Hole. I hope you’ll join me in offering your thoughts, experiences, and insights.

Jody.

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No. Yet we dwell on that question.

“Why” will not be known to us. Going down that road of questioning gives us no relief. This is a more straightforward truth: Because you loved, you grieve. Because you grieve, you suffer.

How can you bring the Past with you into the Future, without your child? That’s really the trick of survival. It isn’t managing to live in the past, with a phantom, or going into the future alone. Mental survival is the ability to bring your precious moments with that child with you, and all the memories and love that you gave and received.

But the path is difficult. There are deep holes in the sidewalk. We stumble over our grief and fall into many holes on the way to Tomorrow. We don’t necessarily even want to go there – into another Tomorrow — without our child. That avoidance of our own future defines our truest grief, for we cannot imagine a future without our child – certainly it is not the future we would choose or desire.

In the 1970s, I bought a book of poetry that has become much more meaningful to me since my son died. I’d like to share Portia Nelson’s (1920-2001) Autobiography In Five Chapters with you now.

I walk down the street.
There is a deep hole in the sidewalk.
I fall in.
I am lost — I am helpless.
It isn’t my fault.
It takes forever to find a way out.

I walk down the same street.
There is a deep hole in the sidewalk.
I pretend I don’t see it.
I fall in again.
I can’t believe I’m in the same place.
But it isn’t my fault.
It still takes a long time to get out.

I walk down the same street.
There is a deep hole in the sidewalk.
I see it is there.
I still fall in — it’s a habit.
My eyes are open; I know where I am.
It is MY fault.
I get out immediately.

I walk down the same street.
There is a deep hole in the sidewalk.
I walk around it.

I walk down a DIFFERENT street.

The hole in my imaginary sidewalk is my grief. I try to take different streets, but some of those have potholes, too, and I don’t always see them before falling in. Some materialize under my feet – I’ll be driving my car, and the song “Daniel” – sung at my son’s funeral – will play on the radio, and I’ll be ambushed by tears. I can’t seem to build scar tissue deep enough to avoid that hole when I don’t even see it coming at me. It is not my fault and so I have learned to accept my tears and not hold myself up to a standard of “coping” beyond my ability.

On the other hand, another road that I choose to go down involves Daniel’s other funeral song. I listen to at least 10 different versions of “Danny Boy” on my I-Pod some days. Eva’s Cassidy’s version is one of my favorites (published after her early death). It brings me comfort. Especially the lines But come ye back, when Summer’s in the meadow… Tis I’ll be here in sunshine or in shadow. Oh Danny boy, oh Danny boy, I love you so.

My daughter’s name is Summer, and so this has two meanings for me — and my loving my boy will always be a present-tense verb.

What are the holes in your sidewalk?

Before you can avoid them, you have to recognize or acknowledge the figurative holes in your sidewalk.

Some predictable holes are acknowledging sympathy cards or deciding what to do with your child’s possessions after the death. You see the holes gaping wide before you, and yet you fall in. Some falls are unavoidable. They are a fact of life – and death. No one can patch them for you or ease the injury to your heart from the fall.

Other holes loom ahead, and you can make out their shadow or outline. The birthdays and death anniversaries. The first “without my child” experiences or holidays. Will you fall in the same hole every year, or will you go down a different street? Find new ways to honor and celebrate the life and meaning your child brought into the world?

My advice, if you can’t avoid the street, is to plan the best ways to cushion those falls in advance, or ask for help getting out of the hole once you fall in.

I hope you find a little help here. Thanks for stopping by the watering hole and please, share your comments or suggest topics you’d like me to consider writing about. This is, after all, your site. 

Jody.

I think it was with those insights that he wrote The Fall of Freddie the Leaf. It was a great influence on me, after my son Daniel’s death, and since then, it has helped to explain the value of a young life cut short in terms that even children can understand. My Daniel, like the one in Freddie’s story, had an old soul’s wisdom, even though he died at 16. I believe he already understood the story in a way I’m still trying to fully appreciate myself.

Dr. Buscalgia’s life was spent spreading a message of the importance of giving. In that spirit, I’m sharing the story of Freddie with you today.  I hope you find something in the story to ease your suffering, even for a moment.

The Fall of Freddie the Leaf. A story of life for all ages (by) Dr. Leo Buscaglia (1982)

Spring had passed. So had Summer. Freddie, the leaf, had grown large. His mid section was wide and strong, and his five extensions were firm and pointed. He had first appeared in Spring as a small sprout on a rather large branch near the top of a tall tree.

Freddie was surrounded by hundreds of other leaves just like himself, or so it seemed. Soon he discovered that no two leaves were alike, even though they were on the same tree. Alfred was the leaf next to him. Ben was the leaf on his right side, and Clare was the lovely leaf overhead. They had all grown up together. They had learned to dance in the Spring breezes, bask lazily in the Summer sun and wash off in the cooling rains.

But it was Daniel who was Freddie’s best friend. He was the largest leaf on the limb and seemed to have been there before anyone else. It appeared to Freddie that Daniel was also the wisest among them. It was Daniel who told them that they were part of a tree. It was Daniel who explained that they were growing in a public park. It was Daniel who told them that the tree had strong roots which were hidden in the ground below. He explained about the birds who came to sit on their branch and sing morning songs. He explained about the sun, the moon, the stars, and the seasons.

Freddie loved being a leaf. He loved his branch, his light leafy friends, his place high in the sky, the wind that jostled him about, the sun rays that warmed him, the moon that covered him with soft, white shadows. Summer had been especially nice. The long hot days felt good and the warm nights were peaceful and dreamy. There were many people in the park that Summer. They often came and sat under Freddie’s tree. Daniel told him that giving shade was part of his purpose.

“What’s a purpose?” Freddie had asked.

“A reason for being,” Daniel had answered. “To make things more pleasant for others is a reason for being. To make shade for old people who come to escape the heat of their homes is a reason for being. To provide a cool place for children to come and play. To fan with our leaves the picnickers who come to eat on checkered tablecloths. These are all the reasons for being.”

Freddie especially liked the old people. They sat so quietly on the cool grass and hardly ever moved. They talked in whispers of times past. The children were fun, too, even though they sometimes tore holes in the bark of the tree or carved their names into it. Still, it was fun to watch them move so fast and to laugh so much.

But Freddie’s Summer soon passed. It vanished on an October night. He had never felt it so cold. All the leaves shivered with the cold. They were coated with a thin layer of white which quickly melted and left them dew drenched and sparkling in the morning sun. Again, it was Daniel who explained that they had experienced their first frost, the sign that it was Fall and that Winter would come soon.

Almost at once, the whole tree, in fact, the whole park was transformed into a blaze of color. There was hardly a green leaf left. Alfred had turned a deep yellow. Ben had become a bright orange. Clare had become a blazing red, Daniel a deep purple and Freddie was red and gold and blue. How beautiful they all looked. Freddie and his friends had made their tree a rainbow.

“Why did we turn different colors,” Freddie asked, “when we are on the same tree?”

“Each of us is different. We have had different experiences. We have faced the sun differently. We have cast shade differently. Why should we not have different colors?” Daniel said matter-of-factly. Daniel told Freddie that this wonderful season was called Fall.

One day a very strange thing happened. The same breezes that, in the past, had made them dance began to push and pull at their stems, almost as if they were angry. This caused some of the leaves to be torn from their branches and swept up in the wind, tossed about and dropped softly to the ground. All the leaves became frightened.

“What’s happening?” they asked each other in whispers.

“It’s what happens in Fall,” Daniel told them. “It’s the time for leaves to change their home. Some people call it to die.”

“Will we all die?” Freddie asked.

“Yes,” Daniel answered. “Everything dies. No matter how big or small, how weak or strong. We first do our job. We experience the sun and the moon, the wind and the rain. We learn to dance and to laugh. Then we die.”

“I won’t die!” said Freddie with determination. “Will you, Daniel?”

“Yes,” answered Daniel, “when it’s my time.”

“When is that?” asked Freddie.

“No one knows for sure,” Daniel responded.

Freddie noticed that the other leaves continued to fall. He thought, “It must be their time.” He saw that some of the leaves lashed back at the wind before they fell, others simply let go and dropped quietly. Soon the tree was almost bare.

“I’m afraid to die,” Freddie told Daniel. “I don’t know what’s down there.”

“We all fear what we don’t know, Freddie. It’s natural,” Daniel reassured him. “Yet, you were not afraid when Summer became Fall. They were natural changes. Why should you be afraid of the season of death?”

“Does the tree die, too?” Freddie asked.

“Someday. But there is something stronger than the tree. It is Life. That lasts forever and we are all a part of Life.”

“Where will we go when we die?”

“No one knows for sure. That’s the great mystery!”

“Will we return in the Spring?”

“We may not, but Life will.”

“Then what has been the reason for all of this?” Freddie continued to question. “Why were we here at all if we only have to fall and die?”

Daniel answered in his matter-of-fact way, “It’s been about the sun and the moon. It’s been about happy times together. It’s been about the shade and the old people and the children. It’s been about colors in Fall. It’s been about seasons. Isn’t that enough?”

“That afternoon, in the golden light of dusk, Daniel let go. He fell effortlessly. He seemed to smile peacefully as he fell. “Goodbye for now, Freddie,” he said.

Then, Freddie was all alone, the only leaf on his branch. The first snow fell the following morning. It was soft, white, and gentle; but it was bitter cold. There was hardly any sun that day, and the day was very short. Freddie found himself losing his color, becoming brittle. It was constantly cold and the snow weighed heavily upon him.

At dawn the wind came that took Freddie from his branch. It didn’t hurt at all. He felt himself float quietly, gently and softly downward. As he fell, he saw the whole tree for the first time. How strong and firm it was! He was sure that it would live for a long time and he knew that he had been part of its life and made him proud.

Freddie landed on a clump of snow. It somehow felt soft and even warm. In this new position he was more comfortable than he had ever been. He closed his eyes and fell asleep. He did not know that Spring would follow Winter and that the snow would melt into water. He did not know that what appeared to be his useless dried self would join with the water and serve to make the tree stronger. Most of all, he did not know that there, asleep in the tree and the ground, were already plans for new leaves in the Spring.

You may recognize more than one of these internal scripts:

• I have failed my child.
• I can’t live without seeing my child’s face.
• I can’t live in a world where my child is a statistic now.
• No one needs me now. My life has lost purpose.
• My future – as a mother, as a father, as a step-parent, as a grandparent – died with my child.
• I have regrets for things not said/done/realized before the death.
• I should have prevented it.
• I am alone. Other people grieve, but cannot share MY grief or make it less. They do not understand the depths of my grief.
• My energy is gone. My will to live is gone. All around me, I see and feel the sadness and emptiness.
• The world failed me. God failed me.
• I am only living now for my other (children, spouse, partner, family, friends, profession). I am no longer living a life worth living for me.
• I failed my child. (It usually begins and ends with this).

 This dialogue around the question “why live?” is the best I can manage.

I am alone.

You are not alone. You are there and I am physically in another space and time, but we are together now, and I am reaching out to you.

I want to die. My soul was lost alongside my child’s physical existence.

Your death will not mediate another death. It will, however, contribute to the grief already in the world. Please reconsider.

The rest of the world is not my concern right now. The absence of my child in my life is my focus and reality.

Time is a dimension. Is there is a psychic energy that outlives death, in another dimension? If so, the possibility of eternity takes new meaning. You may have eternity to be with your child in your future. You also may have a purpose and meaning for your life and journey in the here and now.

I don’t believe that. Even if I want to, my pain prevents me from hoping for anything now. I hoped and expected to be buried before my child.

We all hoped and expected that. And there are many of us here now, with you in spirit and in pain, but still present to be here with you. We are asking you to step back from the edge for today. For this morning, this afternoon, this evening. Whatever time brings you to the edge now. Please step back.

I can’t do this. I can’t bear this any longer.

You can. It is a choice for you. No one can think clearly from a position of pain. We respond, instead, reflexively. This hurts – make it stop. You need time to grieve between the loss and scarring. The suffering, misery, heartache, sorrow, anguish and nothingness will diminish, but that is too far ahead for you to see now. So focus on this minute. Step back from the edge and chose to live this minute and you can do it. You can. Choose it.

My child is dead. I can’t believe it. I can’t process it. I can’t accept it.

What you feel is the finality of a door slamming shut. It stuns, shocks and bewilders. The door is death. I see the death, too, like a door in a door frame. Turn the door it its frame sideways. What is on the other side of the door? Nothingness? Happiness? Reunion? What are you seeking?

Anything would be better than this. Even nothingness.

Step back from the edge. If you lack faith, you are seeking it, even if it is only a questioning about what lies on the other side of the door. Here is a beautiful expression of my faith: When you come to the edge of all the light you have known and are about to step out into the darkness, faith is knowing one of two things will happen… there will be something to stand on or you will be taught how to fly (Richard Bach). 

This moves me toward the Footprints in the Sand assurance: A person is walking on a beach with God; they leave two sets of footprints in the sand behind them. [Says Wikipedia:] “Looking back, the tracks are stated to represent various stages of this person’s life. At some points the two trails dwindle to one, especially at the lowest and most hopeless moments of the character’s life. When the person questions God about this, believing that God must have abandoned his follower during those times, God gives the explanation: ‘During your times of trial and suffering, when you see only one set of footprints, it was then that I carried you’.

If you can’t find faith in a higher authority right now, can you find the ground to stand on, the permission to be carried, or the wings to fly above this misery without abandoning yourself and your next purpose? It sounds easy and patronizing, even borderline intrusive to ask you, but I know it is hard. I ask you sincerely to try.

I don’t know….

You don’t know. Step back from the edge. You can. Choose to step back and if you have nowhere else to put your trust, put it in those of us who continue to do this day after day. We are here and we have scars, but we have love and light in our lives again, too. If not healing, we promise you scarring. And we keep our children’s memory alive and their presence real in the world with every breath we take. Please. Step back from the edge.

Contact the author for permission to link or post; copyright 2009: Jody Glynn Patrick