Dear Friends and Loved Ones....

It happened again today. It happens often, as a matter of fact. I said my son's name and was greeted with the awkwardness that has become very familiar to me. 

We lost our son in August of 2012, and since then, I have discovered that very few people know how to deal with our Grief. In the early days, they send cards, attend the service, maybe even bring food. As time goes on, the calls to check in stop, and inevitably, people move on. I get that, I'm fine with that. The part that I'm not so fine with is the lack of understanding on how to deal with parents of child loss as they continue their journey of Grief. Unfortunately, that's not their fault, since there is little out there by way of education on this subject. Friends and family have no idea how to help us, and sadly, we aren't in a place to tell them what we need for a long time, if ever, because we don't know what we need. We know what we want. We want our child back. So how can our loved ones help us deal with the fact that that isn't going to happen? 

How can they comfort us through not just the early days, but for the eternity that lies ahead without our child? 

First and foremost, you need to understand that losing a child is like no other form of Grief. It isn't like losing a parent, a sibling, a friend, or a pet. And yes, I've had people compare it to all of the above. For us, we lost our only child. In one instant, we lost everything. There are no more family photos, no weddings or grandchildren to look forward to. We will have no one to sit with us when we are old, and no one to pass on cherished heirlooms and memories to. We look around our home at the photos of our smiling son, and think about what will happen when we are gone. We wonder who will carry on our legacy, and who will make sure our child isn't forgotten. 

That is one of the hardest parts of losing a child. You worry constantly that everyone but you has forgotten your amazing child. This life that was so celebrated at birth, and through milestone after milestone... but there are no more celebrations now. No more milestones. Only memories. 

At the beginning of this post, I said that awkwardness has become familiar to me. Let me explain...

We lost our son when he was 18. We watched him grow from a helpless child, into a capable young man. We have stories and memories we enjoy sharing, just like any parents. But something happens after you lose a child. Suddenly people don't know how to talk about them. Are afraid or uncomfortable saying or hearing their name. Picture this: You're sitting in a group of your friends. Everyone is laughing and sharing funny stories of their children learning to ride a bike or tie their shoes. So, like any parent, you join in. You share a favorite memory of your child to a group of people you know and trust, and you are greeted with silence, or an immediate change of subject. The people around you no longer make eye contact, some even get up and walk away. 

Sounds unpleasant, right? Well it happens A LOT. And I would consider that experience one of the better ones. 

Since losing Zachary, I have parted ways with many loved ones. They just couldn't deal with it. Being around me was apparently too hard for them. I've also been left out of MANY family gatherings, and had a surprising number of invitations get "lost in the mail". I get it. It's weird. You don't know what to say, or IF you should say anything. You really just want things to go back to how they were before.
Well, I'm sorry to disappoint you, but once you've lost a child, you NEVER go back to the person you were before. When you've held your child's hand and watched them take their final breath... you're never the same again. No matter how much those around you might wish you would be. 

Also, we're going to talk about our child. Just as you talk about yours. We're going to share stories, and maybe even get emotional from time to time. I'm sorry if that makes you uncomfortable, but it's not exactly a tea party for me either. And for those of you who are worried about mentioning our son's name, because you don't want to "remind us" of our loss.... Did you think we had forgotten? Because, trust me when I say this, we haven't. There isn't a minute that goes by in any day that we aren't thinking about and missing our son. One of the few things that actually gives us comfort is knowing that you remember him too. We're never going to get to make new memories with him, but when you share your stories and memories, it's almost like we're getting to. Do you have any idea how big of a gift that is to us? Sure, we're probably going to cry, but those aren't tears of sadness. Not entirely anyway. They're tears of gratitude to you, for reminding us that you haven't forgotten our child. That you think of him too.
So please don't feel awkward. Don't walk away when we share. Don't leave us out of special events and celebrations. Laugh with us, cry with us, share with us. Don't make us feel guilty or shameful for doing what any loving parent does. And if you aren't sure what to say... ASK. It's ok. Our loss isn't a secret. We don't hide it. If you want to know about our son, we'll be more than happy to tell you about him. 

Zach with his first car. 

Dear Nationwide

If you were watching the Super Bowl yesterday, and chances are good that you were, you most likely saw the controversial Nationwide Insurance ad. If you didn't see it, and for some reason you wish to, you can view it HERE on YouTube. 
Here's what I have to say about it...

Dear Nationwide,
I understand and appreciate that you care about the safety of children. I do too. I think that educating the public about preventable household accidents is important, and should be addressed. But as with anything, there is an appropriate time and place to discuss these matters, and during the Super Bowl was not it. 
I'm guessing the people who created and approved that ad have never lost a child. Because if they had, they would have known and understood that seeing a commercial like that would be considered highly triggering for parents and families of child loss. Regardless of if that child was killed in a preventable accident or not. 
They would have known that after you lose a child, you struggle constantly, and that few things, if any, give you moments of peace and pleasure anymore. For many grieving parents, something like the Super Bowl was a chance to relax and enjoy a few hours of entertainment, ideally giving your mind a break from the unending pain of your grief. To be hit, so unexpectedly, with such a blatantly shocking ad, was just cruel. As parents of child loss, we know to avoid triggers. We heed warnings about content, and we limit our intake of negative stimuli. For your commercial, we had no such warning. Super Bowl commercials are almost always funny and lighthearted. Meant to make people smile and laugh, or maybe warm your heart. Your ad did none of those. Instead you took the opportunity to use shock value to try to garner attention for your company. Congratulations, it worked. Myself, along with millions of others, are talking about it. But at what cost? How many people, like myself, were emotionally body slammed by it? How many people, who were just trying to enjoy a sporting event, spent the remainder of their evening in tears, or in unimaginable pain from the unexpected blow to the heart?
Maybe you haven't lost a child, so you don't understand the guilt we parents feel. Regardless of if the death was avoidable or preventable. We torture ourselves with what ifs and maybes. Watching a silly football game could have been a small break from suffering for so many, and you destroyed that. You want to talk about preventable? Well you, Nationwide, could have prevented that ad from airing. You could have prevented needless pain and suffering for so many already tortured souls, by simply choosing to either air that ad at a different time, or including a content warning.
Personally, I have never been impacted enough by a commercial to use or not use a product or service. Until now. I can tell you with 100% certainty that if I currently had Nationwide Insurance, I would be changing companies. And based off of what I read on social media, I am far from alone in my feelings.
You had good intentions, but you made a poor marketing decision, and I hope that you learn a valuable lesson from it. Viewers are not just numbers on a chart. They are people. With fragile hearts, and real stories of loss. Protecting children is important, but protecting the human spirit is just as important. You could have easily got your message across any number of ways, without playing on shock value. Compassion, empathy, and understanding can go much farther. Something you should consider when creating your next big ad.

Written to you with a heavy heart by a grieving parent. 

My little family. Shortly before our son,
and only child, was unexpectedly ripped from our lives.  

My Double Life

I read an article yesterday about concealed depression, and it really hit home for me. While I don't consider myself depressed, I have found that many symptoms of Grief are indeed similar. And much like depression, I think Grief is something that needs to be talked about openly and honestly. I think people need to know and understand that those suffering a great loss may appear fine on the outside, but what's going on inside is an entirely different scenario. The thing is, people have expectations of those grieving. They expect and accept that you will be sad for awhile. A few weeks, maybe a couple months. But after that, they start to feel like you're just dragging it out. That it's time to move on. Of course, they'll never say that to you, but you can see it in their faces. You can tell by the way they react to you when you get upset. They stop asking how you're doing, and they avoid subjects that they fear might trigger you. 

I get that. No one wants to be around a Sad Sally or a Debbie Downer all the time. So we learn to conceal our feelings. We put on a happy face, and we pretend we are doing great. And you know what? People accept it, because that's what they want to see. They want you to go back to being your old self. They want you to be happy. But here's the real truth... That person we were before... they died with our loved one. And while we can still have moments of happiness, they will always be bittersweet for us, because we can't share them with the person we most want to. 

It's been almost two and a half years since we lost our son. And the pain of that loss is just as fresh as it was that day. The difference is, I've learned to hide it. Of course, there will always be times when I just can't keep it hidden. Things that will trigger a breakdown no matter how much I fight it. But the rest of the time I wear my mask. I suffer in silence. I lead a double life. 

The part I think that people need to understand the most, is that this double life is so hard to maintain. It's a fragile balance at best. And it's not just a double life in the sense that we smile when we really want to scream. It's also a war inside of our own mind. For example, when people share photos of their happy families, I really do enjoy seeing them. But at the same time, I am almost unbearably envious and angry. It's like I have multiple personalities fighting inside your head. When I hear people complain about their kids, I want to grab them and shake them. I want to yell at them to shut up and be grateful for that damn mess. But I also remember being that parent. I know that it's annoying as hell to have to pick up dirty, stinky socks off the kitchen floor day after day. When I see and hear people talk about the joys of being a grandparent, I'm genuinely happy for them. But I'm also heartbroken that I will never know that joy. When something good happens to me, or my husband, it's wonderful. But it's almost equally as painful, knowing that our son isn't here to share in the moment. And don't forget the guilt you feel when you are actually enjoying yourself. Why do I deserve to laugh and be happy, but my son doesn't? It's not logical, we get that. But good luck trying to explain that to your emotions.
And then there's the nightmares, flashbacks, and more. You're utterly drained from holding back your emotions all the time, but sleep comes at such a cost, IF it even comes at all. So most of the time, you're functioning on fumes. All these things effect our day to day lives. Our memory, our ability to perform simple tasks, our energy level, the way we react to things, the way we deal with relationships, our patience, and so on. Grief literally leaves no stone unturned. It worms its way into every facet and aspect of your life, and wreaks havoc on them all. 

This is my double life. And it's one that so many people live. It's true what they say... you never know what another person is dealing with. 

Just Not Feeling It Today...

It's just not a good day. I realize it's not even noon, so maybe it seems a bit too early to judge an entire day, but that's exactly what I'm doing. Because I know that it probably won't get any better. More than likely, my mood will significantly worsen as the hours roll on. That's just how it works now. Grief is funny that way. Sometimes there are bad days, and you just can't fake it...
And sometimes you feel it coming. It starts in your body. The aches and pains of grief build and build, and you feel battered and beaten. What little sleep you normally might get is more fitful than usual, and filled with vivid dreams and nightmares. You wake up more exhausted than you fell asleep, and you struggle to get out of bed. Once you force yourself to get going, you find yourself in a fog. Your mind is scattered, and focus is almost impossible. You isolate yourself from people, because you know that you won't be very good at pretending to be normal or "ok", and you don't feel like explaining why you aren't, because no matter how hard they may try, most people just won't get it.
Days like today it feels like you are constantly being barraged with triggers. Every song, commercial, and image just rips at your broken heart, and reminds you that it will never heal.
Memories play on a loop through your mind, teasing you with moments that you will never get back, and tormenting you with guilt, yearning, and sorrow.
Simple tasks become mountains that you fight to conquer. You can't eat, and if you try, you feel nauseous.
You feel angry, annoyed, and impatient. With the world around you, and with yourself. You want nothing more than to hide away and hope for it to pass.
You want to give in to the darkness, because it is easier than fighting. But you can't. So you keep pushing forward. Step after step through the quicksand. Two steps forward, and three steps back.
This is Grief. This is the reality that follows a great loss.
Today is just not a good day...

A Grieving Mother's Day

This weekend is Mother's Day. It will be the second one since losing my only child. I dread it. For weeks prior, I'm bombarded with touching and emotional ads, stories, and more about moms on the radio, internet, and television. I'd have to lock myself in a cave to avoid it. And while that sounds like a pretty great idea at the moment, it's not logical, or possible.
Mother's Day was always special for me, and not because of the gifts, or special attention. It was the one day a year, that my son made sure I knew how much I meant to him. The one day that I didn't doubt my motherhood status. It's not an easy job being a step mother. Anyone who has ever seen a Disney movie knows that it is often portrayed as an evil and wretched role. That was my biggest fear. Children love their parents without question. But a stepparent's love has to be earned. There are no guarantees. I loved my son instantly, and there was an undeniable bond between us from the start. But that bond had to be nurtured, and cultivated, in order to grow into something more. I never doubted my son's love for me. He was wonderful about that. But I always doubted whether or not I was a good mom to him. That I gave him everything he needed in that role. On Mother's Day, he always had a special way of letting me know that my doubts and fears were unnecessary. And the older he got, the more profound and meaningful they were. That was his gift to me. The assurance that I was a good mom. That I was HIS mom.
After you lose a child, people will tell you that you're still a mom. That you'll always be a mother. But for those of us who lose our only child, it certainly doesn't always feel that way. Sure, we still have motherly instincts, maternal feelings, and unconditional love. But we no longer have an outlet for them. There are no more booboos to kiss, no more words of wisdom to impart, no more proud moments to witness. It's like someone set a timer on my motherhood, and the countdown has ended. When people around you talk about being a parent, they often treat you as though you have no knowledge or experience on the subject. Maybe it's because they forget that you do, or maybe it's just easier than bringing up your child. Whatever the reasons, it is extremely painful. We raised a smart, independent, funny, warm, caring, hardworking, helpful, wonderful child. We watched him grow into an amazing young man. Please don't deny me that.
This Mother's Day, while some will wake up to breakfast in bed, I will wake up from the nightmares that plague my sleep, of my final moments with my son. While women everywhere are being treated to affection and gratitude, my arms will be empty, and my heart still broken. This is a Grieving Mother's Day...

                                         Precious memories and moments with my son...

God Free Grief

Since losing my son, it's come to my attention that nearly all Grief support groups, books, and even cards/gifts/etc. seem to be religious based. Trite religious niceties are also extremely popular at times of Grief. From the very innocent "I'm praying for you." to the more common, and in my case very much unappreciated, "God has a reason." responses, grievers are bombarded by religion. But what if you aren't religious? What if the idea of a God gives you no comfort? Then what?
I have no issues with religion. Whatever gives you peace of mind is fine by me. But in my case, religion does not do that for me. I don't consider myself an Atheist. I'm just not any religion either. I find no solace in the idea that God has some secret plan for me that required my innocent child to be taken. In fact, I'd feel pretty pissed off if I did believe.
The idea of Heaven, while it holds some appeal, is not that great to me either. For starters, depending on who you ask, most of us are not getting in. So that only makes me more upset, wondering if my son did, or if I will ever join him there. And where IS there? All I know is, it's too damn far away.
My belief is this:
Humans are made of energy. We know this. It is fact. We also know that energy cannot be destroyed. We've tried. It can be changed, but not destroyed. I believe that when a person dies, their energy changes. It is no longer contained in their bodies, but is instead distributed into the world. Their spirit/soul/energy never leaves, but remains with us always. This explains why we often feel them, hear them, smell them, and maybe even see them at times. THIS gives me comfort. The knowledge that my child is not in some far distant land, but instead is right beside me... THAT eases my heart and mind more than any Biblical passage, or Faith ever could.
Grief is an emotion. It isn't an illness that can be cured with a injection of religion. For those that reach for God in times of hardship and struggle, and feel eased... that's wonderful. But it is not a surefire fix for everyone. And shouldn't there be support for everyone during such difficult and painful times?
I've found many online support venues, and they all want to point me in the direction of religion. They say things like "We all question our Faith at times." as though I'm simply in a disagreement with God.
I don't feel heard, or supported. I feel judged, and isolated. I refuse to pretend to be something or someone I'm not, just to try and be understood and comforted. So I carry on, as I have for the last 20 months, with my God free Grief. Maybe someday others like myself will come forward, and we can help each other. Maybe someday Grief and God will not always be tied to one another. And if anyone knows of any articles, books, groups, etc. that might be helpful to me, I'd appreciate it.

 

The Grief Effect

Tomorrow will be 20 months since we lost our son. While I'm sure that seems like a long time to some, when it comes to child loss, that is barely the blink of an eye. In many ways, I think I am just now starting to come out of the fog. I think back over the past 20 months, and so much of that time is hazy and vague to me. Much of it I can't recall at all. And while the pain still feels just as fresh, I have learned to deal with it better, and for the most part, I can keep it hidden from the world.
That's the part of child loss that I think most people don't understand. 95% of it is unseen. If grieving parents walked around showing the world the emotions they were truly feeling all the time, we would be locked away in a psych ward in a second. The emotional turmoil is constant, and ever changing. One minute you could be remembering your child with joy and laughter, the next you could be cursing the Heavens. Anything can trigger a strong reaction, and while you may be able to stifle some of them, others will bring you to your knees.
Anger is a big one for me. I have to really struggle sometimes not to scream at people for what would seem like nothing. A careless remark or a casual complaint can catch me off guard and send me into a fit of rage. Many times I have to walk away until I can calm down, or remove myself from the situation, in order to avoid acting on these feelings. I have to carefully consider invitations and social gatherings now, before I accept. I have to be sure that I always have an escape route in case I start feeling overwhelmed. Things I used to love have now become situations ripe with triggers, and I find myself dreading events that once brought me so much joy. People who I once found merely tedious are now nearly intolerable, and people who I once adored have now become strangers. There is not one aspect of my life that hasn't been effected by my Grief. My past, my present, and my future have been permanently altered. I once dreamed of a day when I would see my son find true love, and dance with him at his wedding. Of a day when I would hold in my arms a grandchild with his/her daddy's mischievous eyes. Now I will never know what it feels like to do those things. I will never see my son celebrate his 21st, 30th, or 50th birthdays. I will never hold my husband's hand and watch with pride as our son teaches his son to ride a bike, or dance with his daughter.
Parents who lose a child are not just grieving for what we lost, but also for what we never had a chance to gain. Each day, as we see our friends and loved ones with their children, grandchildren, and great grandchildren, we are reminded again and again of what will never be for us. Each birthday party, wedding, anniversary, and birth, are milestones that were taken from us, and taken from our child.
The raw pain and unfairness of it all is something we live with every moment of our lives. It doesn't heal. It doesn't form a scar. It is a continuously reopened wound. Even moments of happiness are really just bittersweet moments. Joys that we wish more than anything that we could share with our child.
This is the unseen reality of child loss. This is the ugly truth that lives within each grieving parent. This is the Grief Effect, and this is my life now...

I'm Just So Tired...

You know what no one ever tells you about Grief? It's exhausting. Emotions have a way of sucking your energy, and leaving you zombie like.
Since losing our son, Grief has become a way of life. Losing a child is a loss like no other you can experience, and you don't ever get over it, or move past it. It becomes part of who you are, and effects every single thing you do. You learn to deal, and function, but the Grief is always there. I like to think of it as Functioning Grief. You go about your "normal" life as best you can, but everything is a struggle. From getting out of bed, to going to work, to dealing with people, to simply relaxing. Nothing you do is exempt from this struggle. And it is exhausting. Maintaining the Mask of normalcy is tiring in itself. To go about your day, smile, be polite, run errands, work, etc, all while fighting to not lose it... well it's flat out taxing. Emotional triggers are everywhere, non stop. The battle to not succumb to them, and to keep going will wear you out. And you know what happens when you lose the battle? Your emotions bubble to the surface, and overwhelm you. And when this happens, it is downright debilitating.
Since losing our son, I have felt tired constantly. And my normal insomnia has raged out of control. What precious few hours of sleep I might have gotten are now riddled with dreams, waking nightmares, emotional breakdowns, and more. I can't decide what's worse, sleeping or being awake. And it goes on, day after day, after day, after day. Just when I think I can't possibly feel any more weary... I do. And this winter has been such a harsh one, so add to this my standard case of Winter Blues, and suddenly zombies are looking like cheerleaders in comparison.
So what do you do? This isn't the kind of exhaustion that energy drinks or vitamins can fix. It's a mental, physical, emotional, heart & soul weariness that drains you, and leaves you wondering how a person can survive it.
I hear people complain about being tired, or needing a nap, and I think to myself "I remember those days." And I do. I remember feeling sapped after a good workout, or drained after an extra long work day. And I remember the feeling of waking up after a good night's sleep, and feeling refreshed and ready to attack the day. That feeling no longer exists for me. At least not now. Maybe someday I'll wake up to the sun shining, the birds chirping, and feel excited about the day ahead, instead of waking up only to remember that my child is gone, and that I have to make it through yet another day without him.
But for now, I'm just tired. So... very... tired...

My Mask...

There is a wonderful facebook page I follow, Silent Grief - Child Loss Support (Click here to visit the page.) that seems to know exactly what I am thinking most days. Today, they made a post about how grieving parents are Big Pretenders. This means that we often pretend to be ok, when in fact, we are far from it. I've talked about this before many times (most notably in this post), and I usually refer to it as my Mask. This Mask is something I put on every day, much like my make-up, jewelry, and clothing. I wear it to blend in, and to appear normal. Most often it is for the benefit of others. But recently, it's come to my attention that I may just be wearing it selfishly, too.
It's true that most people don't want to deal with the sadness of others. Whether they realize it or not, many individuals will actively avoid someone who is depressed, sad, angry, or hurting. And grieving parents are all of these things and more, all the time. So we are often avoided, shunned, and ignored. This is something I learned very early on in my Grief, and quickly adjusted to. Hence, my Mask. The more normal you appear, the less awkward and uncomfortable it is for those around you. But it isn't just about them. Many times, it's about me. I don't want to feel awkward either. I've seen the reactions I get when I say that I lost my son. It's like telling someone that you've got a bomb strapped to your chest. They slowly back away and then run as fast as they can in the opposite direction. The Mask keeps that from happening. I can just pretend to be normal, goofy, happy Teena, and no one is the wiser. Then when they learn about my son, they are less likely to judge me based solely on that fact. Yes, I am a grieving parent, and that is a HUGE part of who I am. My son is a huge part of who I am, and I would never pretend otherwise. I will talk about him, and sometimes I may get emotional for what appears to be no reason. These are also parts of me now. But there IS more to me, and I want others to see that too. So I wear my Mask. For them, and for me.
Last week, I was called upon for jury selection. I spent 2 days sitting in a courtroom listening to a judge, and a panel of lawyers ask endless questions, in an attempt to find a group of 14 people who could be unbiased. As I sat there, ready to explode, feeling overwhelmed, and looking for any means of escape, I realized something. I was not ready for this. Tomorrow will be 18 months since we lost Zachary. I have worn my Mask nearly every one of those days. And in doing so, I had begun to convince even myself that I was doing ok. But the thing is... I'm not. And the cold hard truth of it is, I never will be. I can fake it, wear my Mask, and pretend to be normal, but I never really will be. And sitting in that courtroom, praying they didn't call my number, I realized that. I knew that I couldn't sit through a trial for 3 young men, not much older than my son. I knew that even if I thought they were guilty, I wouldn't be able to look their mother's in the eye, and take their little boys away from them. I knew that I couldn't look at photos of injuries and trauma, and not see the face of my son in that hospital bed. But above and beyond all of that, I knew that I was not ok, and that I would have to admit that. Out loud. To a room full of strangers.
And that's exactly what happened. They called my number, and I walked to that chair, and when the judge asked me if there was any reason I could not participate in this trial... I said yes. And when he asked me to elaborate, I explained why. I admitted to him that I had recently lost my son, and I was not in any condition emotionally to be able to handle the stress of a trial. Luckily, he dismissed me immediately. But in that moment, looking him in the eye, I wasn't just admitting that to him... I was admitting that to myself. I'm not ok. I'm not fine. This Mask isn't really me.
I need to start taking the Mask off. Maybe not for long periods of time, but sometimes. Maybe just when I'm alone, or with certain people. This frightens me, but I know I have to do it.
While in the waiting room at the courthouse, I sat with the same group of people both days. We could sit anywhere, but we opted to sit by each other. On the second day, after chatting amongst ourselves, we discovered something. Out of 4 of us at the table, 3 had lost children. The fourth had lost a brother, so he also knew what grieving parents went through, he had seen it first hand. In the time since losing my son, I have only met one other person who had lost a child. Now here I sat with two. One had lost their child five years before, to cancer, and the other to suicide, 16 years prior. We talked. We cried. We shared stories, and kindness. For a few fleeting moments, I almost felt normal. I could honestly express what I was feeling and thinking, and these people understood. We had each removed our masks, and we had found a strange comfort together. So maybe I can do this. Maybe I can risk taking this Mask off from time to time, and test the waters. If three strangers can find each other in a room of hundreds, I suppose anything is possible....

Grief Triggers

I've touched a bit on Grief Triggers before, but I don't think I really explained it very well. This is something that I really wish more people understood, since it is a HUGE part of life for parents who have lost children. I often talk/write about our "new normal" and how different daily life is now, since losing our son. Grief plays a constant part in our lives these days, and Grief Triggers are everywhere. As we wander through this maze of life without our child, we are constantly bombarded with reminders of what we lost. These reminders are triggers. Things that trigger a strong emotional reaction, and can leave a grieving parent shaken, distraught, and fighting for sanity.
Triggers can be anything, and they can come from anywhere. Some are like a punch to the gut, and others can leave you crying uncontrollably. They strike without warning, and make navigating through life a very scary and unnerving situation. This is why falling into the "Black Hole of Grief" (read more about that here) is so easy and tempting for many grieving parents. To be able to block out the world, and all the painful triggers, can seem like a welcome reprieve from the constant struggle. Grief effects every aspect of your life. Not even during sleep (if you are afforded that luxury) are you free from it. Your dreams/nightmares are often haunted with reminders of your loss. And every waking moment is filled with pain. Physical, and emotional. You learn to compartmentalize your emotions, and you begin to function again. But you cannot block yourself off entirely. This is where triggers come into play...
Triggers come in so many forms, I could spend a week listing them all. And each individual is different, so their triggers are as well. Here are some examples from my personal collection:
*Movies & TV shows are always filled with trigger moments. From the funny father/son moments, to the happy new grandparents, and anything in between.
*Commercials are always good for striking a nerve. From the car ads talking about keeping your child safe, to the stressed out moms in minivans.
*Music. I used to LOVE music. Rarely went long without listening to it. Now I find myself driving or working in silence, rather than risk hearing a song that will rip open my heart, and leaving me crying at a stop light. (Yes, this has happened.)
*Stores. Like seeing his favorite snack on sale, and reaching for it, only to realize at the last moment that you don't have a reason to buy that anymore.
*Holidays and specific days can be triggers for numerous reasons.
*Social events are now like walking in a mine field. You never know when someone will say or do something that could set you off. From totally casual remarks about their children, to benign questions that can create an awkward and painful moment for all parties involved.
*Family gatherings. While you still want to be around your loved ones, being with large groups of people (related or not) is an invitation for triggers.
*Reading. Another once beloved pastime that is now riddled with triggers.
*Public outings are always tricky. You never know what you will see or hear.
*Social Media/Internet. Try casually scrolling through your news feed and seeing photos & videos of car accidents and not have it effect you. Not to mention the regular everyday things, like parental rants/brags, family photos, and more.
I could go on for days, but the point is, triggers can be anywhere, at any time. Sometimes I can go several hours without one, and sometimes I feel like no matter what I do, I am being assaulted with them, and there is no escape. Whatever pride I once had, was lost somewhere between crying over a bag of cheezballs at the grocery store, and apologizing to a dear friend for my angry reaction to their totally normal "stressed out mom" remark.
Life after losing a child is never the same. But I don't think people truly understand what that means. There have been times when I have had to cancel plans, leave early, and excuse myself from situations for what appears to be no reason. And while over time, I have become better at controlling it, there is no guarantee. This is all just part of our "new normal", and something I hope our friends and loved ones can try to understand.

 

The Compassionate Friends is a wonderful organization that offers help to parents who

have lost a child. To find out more about them, check out their website here.

My Holidays...

Let me start this by apologizing in advance. I feel the urge to do some serious venting, but I don't want to burden anyone with having to listen against their will, so I am going to do it here, where anyone who wants to, can choose to read it. I am apologizing because this isn't aimed at anyone in particular, and my intent is not to bash anyone, or cause guilty or hurt feelings. I just need to get some things off my chest.
I am a grieving parent. Whether you choose to accept that fact or not is up to you. No, I didn't give birth to my son, but that in no way lessened my love for him. We may not have shared DNA, but what we did share goes even deeper. My loss and my pain are VERY real. What others think and choose to believe means little to me. I know how I feel, no matter how much others wish to diminish my grief. I did not carry my son in my body, but I carried him in my heart and soul, and in every other way possible. I have no other children. He was my one and only, and with his loss came the loss of so much. I am no  longer a mom. While some people will tell you after child loss that you will always be a mother, in my heart I know those are merely words of comfort, not truth. A mother without a child, is just a woman. While my arms still ache to hold my son, and my lips still yearn to kiss his head, or share some maternal wisdom, those urges cannot be fulfilled. While those who've lost a limb describe phantom pains, I too, have phantom pains, for I've lost a part of myself that I will never get back. Every day since he's been gone has been hard. Indeed, some harder than others, but none have been easy. The holidays are some of the hardest. Holidays are for family. They are a time to rejoice and celebrate one another, and to hold close that which we hold dear. I don't want to rejoice. I see no reason for celebration. Instead I want to scream. I want to shout to the Heavens and beg for my son back. My list to Santa is short. I only want one thing. But no amount of begging and pleading will bring him back. There is no magic strong enough to grant that wish for me.
Christmas is a week away. While I choose not to celebrate, that does nothing to lessen my exposure to it. It's everywhere I look. Happy families smiling from the fronts of cards, excited children in the stores, stressed out parents, complaining about not having enough time left. You wanna talk about not having enough time? My SON didn't have enough time. My husband didn't have enough time with his little buddy. I didn't have enough time to tell him how much he meant to me, and how much I loved him. There is no such thing as enough time. I just want to shout "Screw your lists, and your errands! At least you still have your sons and daughters!" I want to... but I can't. It's not fair. I was once a stressed out parent, complaining too. I have no right to shame anyone for just being normal. But that's just it, I'm not normal anymore. THIS is my new normal. Being angry, being sad, being hurt, and overwhelmed.
And the worst part is... no one understands. Unless you've lost a child, you can't begin to relate. All grief is not the same. Period. A parent should NEVER outlive their kids. That doesn't mean your sadness over your loved one isn't real, or hard. It is, believe me, I know. I've lost grandparents, friends, and many loved ones. And I miss them. Sometimes terribly. But what I feel now is in a realm all its own. It is a grief the likes of which are indescribable and unavoidable. And it doesn't lessen over time. In many ways, it only gets worse. I will NEVER come to peace with it. My heart will never recover. You don't "move on" from losing a child. You continue to live. That is all.
So if I seem down, or angry at the holidays, I'm sorry. I do my best to keep it to myself, I really do. But sometimes it can be too much, and I may vent a little steam. I'm not asking you to "fix it", because you can't. Even the most well intentioned ideas, and suggestions will make no difference. I'm only asking you to be patient, be kind, and be compassionate. Please don't tell me that I still have so much to be thankful for, and to "put it into perspective" because I know what I have, and what I've lost, and I've had PLENTY of perspective, thank you very  much. While I may choose not to decorate or send cards, please don't think I expect you to do the same. I want you to be happy. I want you to be excited. I just can't be. Not yet. I am trying, I really am. And please don't stop including me in things. I may not always say no, and the time I say yes, might be the time that makes all the difference.
I miss my son. Every second of every minute, of every day. I want to talk about him. I WILL talk about him. And I want others to talk about him. Especially this time of year. Don't hesitate because you think it will make me sad, or because you think it will be hard on me. I NEED to talk about him, and hear you say his name. I need to know he is still on your mind, because he is ALWAYS on mine.

 

(Our son, Zachary, with his gingerbread train. This pic was taken in 2008.)