Author: griefmom

I am a mom to 3 wonderful boys- 2 on earth and one in heaven. I am married to a wonderful man who happens to be the love of my life. I am privileged to work with young moms as they learn to parent. I'm Catholic and have faith that I will one day see my son in heaven. This blog is about my journey- as I figure out who I am in the face of an unimaginable loss. Life is difficult but beauty can be found after the struggles. The struggles, in fact, make life even more beautiful.

Comfort Zones

When I think of comfort zones I think of coziness. Like sitting wrapped up in a blanket in my house. It’s hard to leave that place where everything feels warm, safe, and comfortable.

Recently I jumped out of my comfort zone. I should probably backtrack a bit. Before Gabe died I had contemplated looking into some sort of career change, and I felt drawn to health care careers. I looked at options at our local community college and thought just maybe I could do something different. I realized, though, that with 3 boys and the not so easy health things those boys had to deal with I couldn’t really go there. Not yet. So I set that aside and continued with life. Then Gabe died. My memory felt like it was erased and the smallest tasks seemed like huge obstacles. EVERYTHING was harder to do than it had been before. Day to day life took so much energy and focus that I just told myself I couldn’t even think about anything different. It wouldn’t work. And really it felt like it would never work. Like I would forever be in the exact place I was and nothing would get better.

As time moved on, though, my memory slowly started to get better. Daily tasks didn’t take quite as much out of me, and I started to realize that I couldn’t let the fact that my child died be the one factor that determined how the rest of my life would go. I couldn’t let Gabe’s death force me to stay in that comfort zone (although admittedly even my comfort zone was a bit uncomfortable and tainted with grief).

In early September I stepped WAY out of my comfort zone and I started volunteering in a nearby Physical Therapy and Occupational Therapy clinic. I knew I needed to get SOME sort of experience in a medical setting to see how I liked it, and I went to a place where I knew some of the people and where those people had helped me with my own physical pain a few years ago. I interacted with only adults (VERY far from my usual day since I work with children under 5!) and I really, really enjoyed it. I went in knowing NOTHING. Really, I knew nothing. It was extremely humbling and I’d be lying if I said I really didn’t feel cut out for it in the beginning. But I pushed myself a bit and kept it up. I had my last day about 2 weeks ago and I feel like I have grown more than I thought I could. I’m still fine tuning my path and discerning what’s next. 

I’m still not quite sure exactly where I hope to end up but my volunteer experience helped me find some clarity. I know that this process will be as S-L-O-W  as it needs to be- it’s not just change but there is grief mixed in that change which makes it challenging. Wherever I end up, I know that I am so grateful for the many hours I spent in that clinic with the amazing people who work there and the wonderful patients I was able to meet. I’m so thankful for the opportunity to step out of my comfort zone and begin to see what I may be capable of.

Pompeii

But if you close your eyes
Does it almost feel like
Nothing changed at all?
And if you close your eyes
Does it almost feel like
You’ve been here before?

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=wPplKM1zJ8Y

Those words. I was in the car on the way to an appointment with my youngest and he was picking the music from my phone. There are some songs I haven’t listened to much since Gabe died, because it hurts. This is one. It was one of his favorites- Pompeii by Bastille (though I’m linking the Anthem Lights version-that was his favorite because of the percussion!) Those words just describe this journey so well. Here we are 2 years and 7 months since we said goodbye, and sometimes it really does feel like nothing changed at all. Sometimes it feels like he would be sitting in the car singing along, or ready to walk through the door at any minute. I think to others it probably seems crazy. I mean 2 years 7 months seems like such a LONG time! Getting close to three years. In that time one of our kids has moved from middle to high school. The other has moved from elementary to middle. I am looking at the possibility of going back to school (I’ll share about that when I’m ready), and my middle is learning how to drive.

A lot has happened, but it still feels like just beneath the surface everything is still the same. If I imagine hard enough he is right there. And I think this is why others don’t can’t understand child loss (and really I think very untimely spousal loss is probably the same way). To others healing should be further along because so much time has passed. To those not as impacted (those not living in the home) I might seem stuck in my grief. But this isn’t about being stuck. It’s about navigating this life- allowing my own happiness but also giving a certain respect to the fact that grief that impacts every facet of my life. It’s about being there for my surviving children and helping them navigate those same things.

So I will keep going. Moving forward each day in this surreal world that maybe one day will feel a bit less surreal, but for now at 2 years 7 months the surface is just barely scratched. But if you’re worried rest assured- I’m not stuck, I’m just grieving.

 

Faith

“They had faith that God would do what they could not see or control”

 

I really need to remember to keep a pen and notebook accessible during church. This phrase took over my thoughts during Mass on Saturday night a couple of weeks ago. It was near the beginning of Father Miguel’s homily, and it just kept repeating in my head. Partially because I wanted to remember it to write down, and partially because it just really struck me.

As I sit down and type it out I’m not even really sure where to go with it. So many things come to mind with that phrase. It is hard to have faith. It is extremely hard to have faith when things go wrong. When a child is sick, when you lose a job or face financial struggles, when you move far from friends, when a parent dies, when a child dies. My boys and I have been through all of the above. Those things test you. Why are there hardships? Why do kids get sick? Why do kids die? And HOW can those things be overcome? How can we even survive through such hard times?  I don’t have the answers but I do know that Faith has helped us get through.

I’m no stranger to scary and sad things. Those things I mentioned above? They are not easy things to go through. Not on their own, not clustered with other things. As I look back on each of those things they all felt fully devastating. Especially that last one. How can you keep going when a child dies? It doesn’t seem possible. How can you have faith that God will have a hand in the future when something awful happens?

I really don’t know how I can have faith, but I do know that having faith- in God, in Heaven, and in knowing that I will see my child there one day- has helped me get through. I honestly can’t imagine going through those struggles without faith. If I didn’t have any faith then the signs that I have seen around me that are clearly sent from Gabe would be meaningless (I’ll write about those eventually). If I didn’t have faith then sitting in the cemetery next to his grave would be horribly depressing and unbearable, but it’s not.

I do have faith, though. And on those very sad days when all I want is for my sweet boy to still be here, I know that although I can’t be near him he is in the most amazing place. He is pain free, worry free, and happily looking down on me. And I have faith that one day I will get to see him again. 

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Growth

The wound is the place where the light enters you
-Rumi

Lately when I hear a quote I like it just stays in my head, allowing me to meditate and ponder the meaning. I’m not sure if this is a good thing or not, but anything goes with grief so I’ll just go with it. I heard this quote in the movie “A Wrinkle in Time”, which we were watching as a family last night. 

I think being wounded can be a gift. Now anyone reading this who is new in grief probably wants to throw something at the computer for that last sentence. A gift?! Being wounded is a GIFT?! And maybe it’s not the actual being wounded part that is the gift (I won’t ever see Gabe’s death as a gift), but the things that come from it can be.  Gift may even be the wrong word. Catalyst is probably more appropriate. Being wounded is a catalyst, and that catalyst can bring some good things. Over time light enters through that wound and encourages change and growth. 

Sometimes I think we need to go through something difficult in order to reach our full potential. A shift deep inside that changes our perspective and helps us develop skills to see the world in different ways. We develop different ways of interacting with people, different interests, and even different goals. Eventually you can ponder that wound that has hurt you so deeply and make something good. 

That horrible, ugly wound can start a beautiful process- but only if you let it. Only if you let it. And letting that process happen is not easy. It would be far easier to let that sadness take over and stay that way forever. It would be much easier to look at that wound and allow it to stay the same. But for me that’s not an option. 

So I will continue to allow the light in, a little bit at a time. I will continue to develop those skills and goals and see where those things will take me. I’ll continue to feel sadness as that wound heals, but also learn to respect that wound for the catalyst that it has been and will continue to be for me. This wound, the death of my child, will shape the rest of my life but it doesn’t have to take it over. His death was not a good thing, but the changes that come to me from it can be. 

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**I wasn’t really sure where to fit this in, but it’s a good illustration of what I said above. When Gabe had his last surgery he was sick. His testing looked pretty good but he was tired. He would rest his head on his hand at the dinner table, lay down on the floor or couch whenever he could, and didn’t have the energy for endless bike rides. To make him better he had to have surgery again. He had to be wounded. It was difficult. I remember those days in Boston at the hospital. I remember the weeks at home where he just wasn’t himself. But within about 6 weeks he had super human strength and energy (or so he thought!). Enough energy for a significant bike crash 7 weeks post op. I’m pretty sure the thought he could conquer the world. He grew physically and emotionally after that surgery. It was a very difficult process for him but it was needed. That huge wound on his chest allowed the light in for him.**

Senior Night

I knew it was coming. Senior Night. A few months ago the schedule for the marching band season was released and there it was. It was supposed to be tonight but due to a miserable forecast for tonight it was moved to last night (thankfully!).  

This is one of those milestones  I had been dreading. Much like other milestones it is something that happens for his friends, but not for him. It is so hard to want to feel happy for those friends but at the same time sad and angry that he didn’t get a chance to be a senior.

So last night I knew they would mention him, but it was my choice whether or not I wanted to go on the field with the other seniors and their parents. I chose to sit in the stands. Before the game Mr. Nash gave Gabe’s dad and I the same flower given to the other seniors (hello, tears!) and we waited. After everyone was lined up they began and this is how Gabe was recognized:

Gabe Chester. . . .
Tonight we honor Gabe.  This would have been the start of his senior year, but Gabe was taken from us in his freshman year.  Gabe gave all of himself in everything he did and was a great friend to everyone he knew. Gabe was a member of the Marching Knights’ pit percussion section and was also involved in the Boy Scouts, theater production and loved to skateboard around Dayton.  He is truly missed.

It was sad and as perfect as anything can be in that situation. I was glad I didn’t go down onto the field. It would have been far more painful to stand there without my child in front of me as everyone else was recognized, their future plans announced along with their names.

This is the start of some very difficult things. Soon it will be graduation, and then his friends will go to college. Then the rest of life will continue on for them. Those things will be so painful. But as with everything else we will muddle through and somehow survive.

Today I placed his carnation on his headstone. So very different than the future I wanted for him, but I’m still thankful for those 15 years and the impact he made.

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Suffering

Talk about timely. I think God is probably trying to tell me something with this one, so I’ll share. The past few days I’ve been thinking a lot about suffering. There are so many things that bring about suffering, but I think having your child buried in the ground is probably one of the top things. There are other things that are extremely painful, but that is the one I know about. So that is the one I discuss.

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This theme of suffering has really been floating through my brain. I feel like I’m getting to a point in my grief where I know that there will always be grief, but I’ve decided it won’t ruin me. It’s taken a lot to get to this point- lots of suffering, lots of crying, AT LEAST two cemetery visits week, and 85+ entries in my journal (which I almost exclusively write in at the cemetery). The cemetery is where I do my best thinking. I cry too, but I think. I contemplate life, death, my family, and the future. I contemplate how to go about continuing to live with my firstborn son buried. I contemplate my friendships, my work, and whatever else comes to mind. It’s a quiet and fairly deserted place. I can work through my suffering there and not have to worry about what anyone else thinks about it. It’s usually pretty peaceful and except for the occasional black bear visit it’s safe!

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But back to suffering. As I said this has been on my mind, and this morning we had a visiting Priest- and it’s like he was talking directly to me. His name is Fr. Jay Biber, and he is a retired Priest from Lexington. His homily (aka sermon) was about suffering. He discussed how we all go through suffering in our lives. And God gets us through it. We suffer and we move forward. Now going through grief I know it’s not a linear process. Sometimes I may take one step forward and three back, but I can say that most days I don’t suffer the way I did even a few months ago.

The thing that Fr. Jay said that really jumped out at me, though, was something he said at the end. I had to dig for a pen to write it down so I probably did not remember the words correctly, but here is the gist:

“I don’t have the answer for you, but I’ll be here while you walk through it”

(edited to add the actual quote: Thanks to a friend who wrote it down!
“I don’t have an answer for you, but I’ll go there with you”)

He was speaking to the children in particular at that point- how even a child can put their arm around a suffering friend and say those words. But those words mean a great deal to me. Because over the past 2 ½ years I have had several friends who did that for me. They didn’t (and don’t) have the answers. They couldn’t (and can’t) take away that suffering. This journey is mine alone. But they have been here, walking with me, as I walk through my own suffering. By walking with me in MY suffering and acknowledging it, they eased my pain a bit. They couldn’t take it away or rush the process but they have helped me ENDURE it. And for that I will be forever thankful.

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Happiness…it’s there somewhere

Life is complex, full of complex emotions. From when we are little children we learn about feelings- that we can be happy, or sad, or angry, or frustrated, or any number of different feelings. What we aren’t taught though, is that we can have different feelings at the same time.

Grief brings those mixed emotions to a new level. Some of the grief related emotions that have been so frequent for me have been sadness, anger, frustration, confusion, fear, worry, and emptiness. But what about happiness? WHERE does it fit in? Because when a child dies it is sad. It is out of order and not the way life is supposed to go. So HOW can I allow myself to be happy when my child’s life was cut short? At first the happiness was tainted with sadness. Every bit of happiness had a bit (or more than a bit) of sadness lurking just beneath the surface. As time has passed there has been more genuine happiness. The sadness is still close by but not quite as overwhelming.

I’m writing about this to process for myself, but also for those of you who are on this journey and maybe not as far along. I’m writing because it really, truly felt early on that there would not be any more genuine happiness. It didn’t seem possible. Sure I could laugh and smile, but it wasn’t real. I felt like I would have a sad cloud hovering over me for the rest of my life.

It feels a bit wrong to feel this happiness again, but I know I can’t be sad forever. I have a life to live and although part of that life is gone, the rest is still there waiting to be figured out and it’s alright for happiness to make it’s way in. This doesn’t mean I’m magically all better, or that my grief is gone. THAT will always be present. It just means I’m getting better at living with it. I think that’s progress and I’ll take every bit of progress I can get.

 

 

 

Two and a half years

Time is a tricky thing. Sometimes it takes forever for time to move forward. Sometimes it just slips by so fast and you wonder where it has gone. For whatever reason, this 2 1/2 year milestone is hitting me hard. It’s been 2 1/2 years since Gabe got a great report from his cardiologist. Everything looked great on April 7. His EKG showed no changes beyond his normal (not typical normal, but his normal). His heart was “very photogenic” that day, the tech said as she looked at his heart. He was watching “Big Hero 6” on the TV while they scanned him, a movie where the older brother dies. Ouch. Little did I know that the next day the older brother in our home would die.

It’s been 2 1/2 years and it STILL doesn’t make sense. My heart still won’t accept it. I have so many moments where it still feels like it just happened. Like he was JUST here. Like it was 2 1/2 months ago, not years.

I know sometimes it probably seems like I’m wallowing in my grief, but I think this is completely normal- if anything can be normal after burying a child. I’m not wallowing. The problem is that even though it seems to the world like it’s been 2 1/2 years, in my brain it feels like it just happened. Because he was JUST here.

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Rediscovering Me

Grief hurts. It hurts you down to the core and changes things that seem like they will never change. When something that is such a huge part of your being is taken away things change. I don’t really think it’s possible to not undergo change after burying a child.

 

I lost myself on April 8, 2016. Throughout the past 2 years and 5 months I’ve been trying to find myself again but sometimes it seems like it’s not really working. Sure there are still parts of me that are there, but many are not.

 

I’m at a bit of a crossroads. My child died. But I didn’t. So from this point on I have to live the best life I can. It’s painful to realize that. It HURTS to somehow be OK with trying to make the most of this crappy situation. It hurts to somehow be OK with moving forward at all. My feet want to stay firmly planted in grief, but I know that’s not how the rest of my life has to go. So I’ll keep walking forward, one step at a time. I’ll surround myself with those who are sensitive and empathetic, and patient as I figure things out, because anything less would dishonor that beautiful child and his amazing conquer the world spirit.

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Puzzle

Something that I have realized is difficult to convey is the impact that grief seems to have on the brain. It’s a crazy thing- this grief- that touches every part of life. I discussed this a bit in this entry:   “I Forgot” https://wordpress.com/post/whaticantcontrol.com/93. Lately though I realized a good way to describe it.

Picture your brain as a jigsaw puzzle with thousands of pieces. Most of the time those pieces stay connected allowing us to function. Sometimes small things happen and a piece is moved and has to be put back. We adapt to that small thing. But what about the big things? The REALLY big things? When Gabe died it’s like someone took that puzzle that was so neatly assembled and broke it up. Every single piece. Nothing was connected, nothing could function. Nothing beyond the basic physiological functions anyway. And even those were way off. I needed medication to sleep, and a simple cold a few weeks later became pneumonia. So really I couldn’t function. I was alive, and I was here, but that was about it.

As time progressed small pieces started clicking back together. Each section that was reassembled was not always noticeable, but gradually the pieces started to stick together. Eventually the corners and all of the edges were in place. Now at 2 years and almost 5 months (that date will be Saturday Sept. 8) I can look back and see how much progress I have made. It couldn’t be rushed, it just had to happen. I am in a much better place now than I was a year ago, or even just a few months ago.

As time continues to pass I know those pieces will continue to come together. It FEELS like they are clicking together faster and easier. I don’t think they will ever all be back, but I am much more confident now that my brain will adapt to these gaps and I’ll move forward. One puzzle piece at a time.

**The picture above is from our home in Broadway. Gabe was carving his pumpkin and he was frustrated. I used it because it conveys how frustrating it can be, especially early in grief, to not be able to do things that you think should come easy. I love that picture. I remember that day and have many other photos. But that one is my favorite. I also love that it shows his fingernails. He had an anxiety disorder and with that came something called pica. He ate things. His fingernails, even to the day he died, were about half the size they should have been because he would bite them so aggressively. He ate many other things too, but the nails are one of the things I will always remember about him**

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