Tuesday, January 28, 2014

Fade to black

I recently read an amazing article on things you should not say to Grieving Parents.  And it said so many things that made me stop and yell (inside my head anyway) "YES! THIS!  EXACTLY THIS!!!"

Considering the time of year, it's all on my mind.  In 12 days, it will be the 8th anniversary of Sophia's passing and what I have learned is that grieving, especially the loss of a child, is a grief that never heals.  Time can scab it over, lessen the intensity of the pain, but it takes one small memory, one small scent, one small anything and the scab is ripped off and the wound is a fresh, gaping wound again. 

I don't really talk about it all that often.  Of Sophia, yes.  I talk about her daily and think of her with every breath I take, but I don't talk a lot about how it makes me feel, because, well, it makes me FEEL. 

And feeling it is so painful.  There are moments from the day she died that are etched into a permanent memory of my mind.  Some significant, some completely unimportant and others are thoughts of regrets.  The star burst moments of strange clarity that I remember are all by products of physical and emotional shock and they will stay burned into my memory for all time. 

A friend of mine in California is going through a loss, a child not biologically hers, but such a part of her family that it's as if he were her own child.  And that is what really made me write this yearly blog a few weeks early. 

The quote I read that touched me so deeply was this:

 "My child died. I don't need advice. All I need is for you to gently close your mouth, open wide your heart, and walk with me until I can see in color again."

People say things meaning well, but often their words, instead of comfort, are a bitter root of hurt, self doubt, blame and pain~pain~pain. Having a friend who is just there is amazing.  Someone willing to let you talk about anything other than the child you lost, or talk about nothing other than the child lost.  Someone who doesn't place time lines and behavior codes on your grief.  Someone who doesn't think that there is a specific road map or timeline for grieving. 

I guess all my rambling here is just to offer hope for those in similar places.  Your grief is yours alone.  It's unique, it's evolving, it IS.  I implore you to grieve at your own pace, but I also implore you to continue living life. 

It's an unnatural bit of business burying your own child and nothing in the world can ever prepare you for the trauma that comes with it.  Nothing I can say or do will ever impact the truth of those words. 

So if you're a friend of someone who has experienced child loss, walk with them when their world is faded to black and the color seems gone from their lives.  And walk with them when they come to the spring of their mourning and they start to bloom in color.  And hold their hand in the moments it all fades back to black.  Be the color in their lives when they can't muster any of their own. 

Remember these words:
"You have not lived until you have done something for someone who can never repay you"

And I say that, because friends, I hope I NEVER have the opportunity to repay you in the same way, for walking by my side in the shadow of Sophia's death. I wish I had the power to stop child death for the whole world.  Being a friend to someone in this way is saddening, tiring, overwhelming and at times incredibly frustrating.  Please know, you're important to our healing process.  You're important to us.  We appreciate your shoulders, your ears, your hearts.  I try to use my own words here and in general, but sometimes other people say it so well.  And Henri Nouwen really pegged what I have been trying to say: "The friend who can be silent with us in a moment of despair or confusion, who can stay with us in an hour of grief and bereavement, who can tolerate not knowing...not healing...not curing...that is a friend who cares." We thank you friends for the tolerance and the endurance of a race that you are always in, sometimes the race is at a hydration station and it's a moment of rest.  Sometimes in a painful marathon that never seems to end.  Sometimes it's a hundred meter dash that is run so fast, so furious, you can't even catch your breath.  The catch here is the race has no end, has no winner.  It's a life long race of perseverance and endurance. We know you're with us and it means the world, thank you for running the race with us. 

"I wasn't prepared for the fact that grief is so unpredictable.  It wasn't just sadness, and it wasn't linear.  Somehow I'd thought that the first days would be the worst and then it would get steadily better-like getting over the flu.  That's not how it was." Meghan O'Rourke

For those of you who are interested (and honestly, I strongly urge you all to read it) here is the link to the article of parent bereavement:

http://stillstandingmag.com/2014/01/6-things-never-say-bereaved-parent/


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