Over lunch today, I found myself catching up on some of those blogs. Trying to see or gage where my old friends are in their journey, to see if I am still doing this 'grieving mother' thing correctly… on one for those blogs (http://www.maxmcfall.blogspot.com) I found this article by a man named Steven Kalas and his words brought tears to my eyes and took my breath away with how accurate someone who has not lost a child can be in describing this journey. Please take a moment to read it! It may be a bit lengthy, but it's SO good!
When you lose a child, grieving is a lifelong experience.
When our first child is born, a loud voice says, “Runners, take your marks!” We hear the starting gun and the race begins. It’s a race we must win at all cost. We have to win. The competition is called “I’ll race you to the grave.” I’m currently racing three sons. I really want to win.
Not everyone wins.
I’m here at the national meeting of Compassionate Friends, an organization offering support and resources for parents who lose the race. In a few minutes, I’m going to address Compassionate Friends. This is the toughest audience of my life.
My address is titled “The Myth of Getting Over It.” It’s my attempt to answer the driving questions of grieving parents: When will I get over this? How do I get over this?
You don’t get over it. Getting over it is an inappropriate goal. An unreasonable hope. The loss of a child changes you. It changes your marriage. It changes the way birds sing. It changes the way the sun rises and sets. You are forever different.
You don’t want to get over it. Don’t act surprised. As awful a burden as grief is, you know intuitively that it matters, that it is profoundly important to be grieving. Your grief plays a crucial part in staying connected to your child’s life. To give up your grief would mean losing your child yet again. If I had the power to take your grief away, you’d fight me to keep it. Your grief is awful, but it is also holy. And somewhere inside you, you know that.
The goal is not to get over it. The goal is to get on with it.
Profound grief is like being in a stage play wherein suddenly the stagehands push a huge grand piano into the middle of the set. The piano paralyzes the play. It dominates the stage. No matter where you move, it impedes your sight lines, your blocking, your ability to interact with the other players. You keep banging into it, surprised each time that it’s still there. It takes all your concentration to work around it, this at a time when you have little ability or desire to concentrate on anything.
The piano changes everything. The entire play must be rewritten around it. But over time the piano is pushed to stage left. Then to upper stage left. You are the playwright, and slowly, surely, you begin to find the impetus and wherewithal to stop reacting to the intrusive piano. Instead, you engage it. Instead of writing every scene around the piano, you begin to write the piano into each scene, into the story of your life.
You learn to play that piano. You’re surprised to find that you want to play, that it’s meaningful, even peaceful to play it. At first your songs are filled with pain, bitterness, even despair. But later you find your songs contain beauty, peace, a greater capacity for love and compassion. You and grief — together — begin to compose hope. Who’da thought?
Your grief becomes an intimate treasure, though the spaces between the grief lengthen. You no longer need to play the piano every day, or even every month. But later, when you’re 84, staring out your kitchen window on a random Tuesday morning, you welcome the sigh, the tears, the wistful pain that moves through your heart and reminds you that your child’s life mattered.
You wipe the dust off the piano and sit down to play.
Copyright: Las Vegas Review-Journal
How true these words are… I love the part where he talks about the way the birds singing even changes because I experienced that. Prior to losing Dex, I was a dreamer. I was a glass half full kind of gal… I was the crazy lady who stopped on the road to take pictures of the sunset or of an eagle sitting in the tree. I used to be moved to tears over the beauty of nature… even really green grass gave me goosebumps. After losing Declan I remember crying because the vibrant, rich colors of the world were no longer there to me. I remember thinking how sad it was that the world had turned gray… and that I was alone in that grayness. No one else could possibly know how different I felt… I had felt like "me" for 35 years and in one day, I felt like I had become someone else. If you think about that, you can begin to imagine how grief effects EVERYTHING in your life… your relationships, your parenting, your job performance… everything. You lose your child and in the same breath, you lose yourself… tough luck!
However, like this man talks about, slowly I began to figure how to be comfortable with who I had become in my grief. I feel like I have 'partnered' up with my grief and together we are walking this path… no longer do I wither in fear of it or wish it gone. It is my reminder of what I have lost and what I have survived. Yes, I am different… I am NOT the person I was before, but I have come to a place where I cherish the woman I am now and I know I will continue to change and evolve into someone even stronger. And although I couldn't tell you the exact date, I do remember one day when I saw a family of deer in a field and I pulled over and snapped a photo… without even thinking about it. I got back in the car, looked at the photo and bawled my eyes out… I was so thankful that I was finally getting my 'sight' back after his death. I hadn't even realized how much I had missed it until it started returning. "You and grief — together — begin to compose hope." That day with the deer… that was the my first glimpse of HOPE after losing Declan and it felt really good.
I am happy the majority of you will not understand what I am talking about… I am happy if you might be reading this thinking I am crazy… because that means you have not lost a child. If you are reading this and thinking, 'holy crap, that is SO true!' than I am deeply sorry for your loss and hope that your journey can bring you to a place that you can start to recognize HOPE again, because trust me, it's out there waiting for you.