In less than one month’s time, Nancy and I have been overwhelmed by the flood of stories shared so openly with us in person, via e-mail, on FB, and in this blog. Each has its unique shape and circumstance, but the nucleus revolves around love, loss and the challenges of remaining vertical for 5 minutes longer. We survive in increments, don’t we, one moment, one hour, one breath at a time. Last week, during several presentations and interviews for our book, I noticed that in each crowd, there was always one spectator lagging behind, needing to stay and whisper a few words into my ear. One was a young man in his early twenties, who walked me to my car and then quietly shared that both of his brothers had died only days before he was to leave for college. A day later, I lunched with a woman who tried for years to conceive, finally adopting a beautiful son, only to lose him to suicide a few years ago. Our e-mail boxes are filling up – we are obsessed with wrapping our arms around this most unthinkable circumstance of loss. My own family still avoids the grief-talk so these intimate exchanges, often times with strangers, are soothing and a balm to the crazy voices that haunt and torment me (us) without warning. Just as Nancy and I found safe harbor through our chance meeting, we invite you to be part of this family. With the holidays about to bombard us, it feels like an opportune time to make contact, start sharing survival strategies, build our community, and welcome each other into this club. Let us hear from you, whether it be in words, unfinished or run on sentences, stanzas of survival, or in your darkest hours. We await you, with open arms.
My husband put the fresno bee at the breakfast table where i set and it was your add. I was very glad to read it. I have not seen any support groups that i could contact…I lost my Daughter in Dec of 2008 and it was caused from drugs. She was 48. She left a 11year old daughter behind. My granddaughter has a dad, but he is a registerd sex offender.,needless to say i went to court and fought for her.. we are in our 70s and retired. (golden years). I dont talk to her much about her mother because she doesent want to hear it. She is a very bitter and angery child. She saw and heard too much growing up. I have not grieved and she has not grieved. We spend our time trying to please her, but she is so disrespectful…Our hearts are broken. FRAN AND DEWAYNE BASS…
Thank you for your candid and honest note, and for having the courage to write. Each of us has a story to share and my heart breaks in hearing yours this evening, but I want to assure you that this is a safe place to share both your hurts and hopes. When Nancy and I first met, I was at the 4 year marker and simply could not contain my grief any longer. Through our friendship, the grief was allowed permission to surface. Most people believe that by 4 years – we are healed, or at least far enough along the path of healing, when in reality, grief is still quite fresh, even then, don’t you think? The numbness is just starting to wear off, the permanence of loss is being realized, and in your case, you are also caring for a child. How are you surviving, Fran? Do you have someone you can talk to? Grief is exhausting, as is raising a child. I admire your commitment and determination to fight for the life of your daughter’s child. Tonight, know that we are wrapping our arms around you with friendship and support. We have often said that any way one gets through this is heroic. Tonight, you are the hero. Please stay in touch, share your thoughts on this blog, and feel the love from all of us who are navigating the muddy waters of grief and loss. Together, we will all get through this, I promise.
Dear Fran,
Your letter sliced me in two this morning. Rachel died on Christmas night, 2008, and I’m wondering when your daughter died. I am reaching out right now, not only to you, but to your granddaughter, who must be in such pain as I cannot imagine. Would she write to me, do you think? She could write to nancy@griefland.com any time, any day, and I will keep an eye out. I feel the need to grab her, hold her somehow. You say that you have never grieved, but Fran, there is no way (and believe me, I wish I were wrong), not to grieve. We feel the pain in every hour, in every day. Please let me hear more from you. And I will keep your little granddaughter in my heart, as well as you and your husband. Please write back. — Nancy
I’ve added a link to the Maria Shriver article and to your blog on the site that I created in memory of my 23 year old son who died almost 24 weeks ago. http://www.scoop.it/t/grief-and-loss
I look forward to reading your book.
Thank you so much for this message, and my heart is with you as you grieve the loss of your precious boy, Graham. I would love to hear your reaction after you read Griefland, and to know whether it touched you in any way. Please stay in touch, dear lady.
Love,
Nancy
I will gladly let you know my reaction to your book.
It’s clear by your response to me that you speak the language of bereaved parents: by mentioning the name of the child who has died. Other people don’t say my son’s name any more. As you know, the fear of your child being forgotten or having people act as if he didn’t exist is painful.
Not only is it painful, dear lady, it is excruciating because we are screaming their names in our hearts 24/7. There is no real healing here, and the best analogy I can come up with is that of having a debilitating illness or disease for which there is no cure. The pain and disease take its course, and as we get better at managing our self care, the symptoms might subside slightly with time and those horrible meltdown moments as I call them may perhaps be less frequent. Being in Griefland is very much like managing a case of diabetes. But what we can do for one another is show up, as you and I are right now. Right in this moment. To show up and let each other know that no one of us is alone in this, and that we can — and must — hold onto each other with all the strength left in us, to give each other the strength to get through one more day, sometimes one more hour. So with that said, know that I’m here for you. And by the way, Graham is a beautiful name.
Thank you. I’m glad I found you. I just wish that none of us needed this type of companionship.
Yet at this time in my life, there are very few people with whom I can be honest. They are almost all bereaved parents (except for a very few unusual friends who “get it”).
It’s a very lonely place to be.
Less lonely now, I hope, and it is painful to be this honest. We find ourselves in conversations with other mothers that we never could have imagined having before. Graham was a very handsome young man and his photo exudes a very peaceful energy. I don’t know what happened to him, but maybe it doesn’t matter. He’s gone and everything now is stitched with that color. That color of absence. Yet we still love these kids who are dead. Our hearts are still filled with love for them, and there is no way to let it out. But maybe this is one of those places you can come to tell us his stories: what he talked with you about, what mattered to him, how you believe he would have wanted to be remembered….and of course, I would love to hear all of these stories. Whenever you are ready. And if you never are, well…that’s okay, too.
You’re very generous. Your reference to the color of absence is so accurate. It is truly the lens through which I now view the world.
At some point I would like to share more about Graham. Ironically, he was the most private person I’ve ever known and would never have wanted to be discussed publicly. He abhorred gossip and would never ever share personal details about anyone. So he would not be pleased to see his name and photo (and I’ve sprinkled a number of photos of him at various ages throughout the grief and loss website) online. However, the site is for my benefit and for other bereaved parents and I believe he would understand how devastated I am to face the future without him.
I know you and every bereaved parent reading your blog understands this.
Yes, I do, and perhaps if he is listening or were here, I could tell him that we are being respectful of that privacy, that we cared about what mattered to him, that we are being careful with what you reveal about him. In sharing him with us, though, we also get to know Graham, and can share in his loss. Holding you close today….
I’m not sure how I stumbled across this site, one of many random searches I am doing to try and comprehend my life. I’m in the very first stages of grief after my son, my very first, much longed for baby was stillborn at 23 weeks last week…
I’m lost. I can’t find a word to describe the pain. I just don’t know.
I guess I thought I’d just say… That’s all.
Dear Anne, I’m not sure how you stumbled across it, either, but you are here now and that’s what counts. Yes, it’s nearly impossible to describe how lost and terrified you feel right now. How the air hurts, how noises seem so loud, how freezing cold you feel much of the time. It’s as though no matter what you look at or what you are doing, every single instant is colored by this event. I thought I was going insane when I lost my daughter on Christmas night, 2008. I still do at times. You have landed here in Griefland, but rest assured you are so not alone. We residents of Griefland are no strangers to the feelings you are experiencing, and remember, Anne, any way you get through the hours right now is heroic. Please keep writing to us, stay present here on the board. The only way out is through, they say, and in trying to connect with those of us here, you will find your own way of surviving this. Welcome, stay awhile, peruse the blogs, and know we are all part of a special community who shows up for each other.
Love,
Nancy
FINALLY!!! I’ve found you!!! I’ve thought I was going crazy for the past seven and a half years since my son died by suicide. And to be honest, I may have gone a bit crazy. Thank you for your honest insights, for your wisdom and for your thoughtful words. I would like to hug you both. I finally feel like someone “gets” where I’m at. *deep breath*
Dear Roberta,
Breathe, baby, breathe. You amongst friends, and nothing in Griefland that you say or do would ever make the inhabitants here think you were anything but a sane and grieving mother who lost her son tragically. If you feel crazy, well, then, so do I. How’s that? How could we be anything but when our hearts are broken into a billion pieces but are still beating? Hang onto us, Roberta. We promise not to let you go. Scream, cry, rant and rave, but don’t let go of my hand. Sometimes we crawl through the hours on hands and knees and other times, Armen calls them “un-days,” seem nearly normal, as though we’re just waiting for them to come home. Then some random event happens and knocks you to the ground all over again. Tell me your son’s name. What happened? Did you see anything coming or was this out of the clear blue? Can you send a photo of him or tell me what he looked like, what memories keep swirling in your head? Mostly I want to hear his name. Put it in capital letters!
Love you and want to hear more from you, frequently, Roberta,
Nancy