On the eve of a fresh new year, I find myself looking inward, reflecting on moments small and large, happy to be intact and still in one piece, despite moments during 2012 when I felt more like a fragmented Picasso than human. It comes with this territory, one I’ve grown accustomed to over time. Nancy wrote a Facebook post earlier this month that started out, “How am I doing?” It’s the burning question everyone asks the grief-stricken, isn’t it? They want to hear that we’re managing well, that there are pockets of healing and serenity, that we are resuming some sense of normalcy and getting on with life. Yearning to see us whole again, ’ back to our old selves’ - friends and family quiz us regularly.
Going public with our sorrow, writing “Griefland,” and navigating the treacherous terrain with spectators watching from across the border, has been a life-altering experience. Stripped naked, our words honest and direct, the sacred veil of darkness lifted – revealed an unwavering commitment not only to each other, but also to this growing community that includes you.
When we began this journey, we told ourselves that walking through the fire would either melt or reinvent and illuminate us. On the cusp of 2013, we have somehow rejoined the human race, both of us realizing that every single minute is a precious jewel. We breathe the moments in, knowing that if we don’t, they will be gone forever. Nancy wrote, “Memory is a strange thing, as is grief. It morphs with time. Grief changes shape and the memories we have of our loved ones also morph, change shape, become more magnified, details become sharper, then fade into oblivion.”
Wherever you may find yourself along this path of grief and heartache, we embrace your every step, extend our arms for you to hold, balance with, touch, and feel. Let this human contact serve as a reminder that you are still alive, still breathing, and never alone in this place we call Griefland. Above all, continue walking with us as we venture toward the heart of the city to discover light.
Here it is January 2013. It will be two years on April 14th that I lost my precious 33 year old daughter to an ugly, rare, incurable cancer. I feel like I go from nervously anticipating the anniversary of her passing in April to nervously anticipating her birthday on August 24th.
Thank goodness the holidays are behind us. I will never really enjoy them again. I go through the motions only because I have three precious young granddaughters whose eyes light up during the holidays. I need to share their joy. Other than that, which is very important, I would not do one thing for this time of the year.
My daugher Carrie delighted in these special times. She was like a little kid. She loved all the family Thanksgiving and Christmas traditions…preparing our special Italian cuisine, spending hours decorating sugar cookies from the recipe we found years ago in a Sesame Street cookbook, and decorating their house and their tree with the memorable homemade items from years past and special ones she was collecting after her marriage,
It’s just too sad. Had the family over the Sunday before Christmas and prepared my mom’s special eggnog that Carrie loved to prepare in her own home. It is always comforting to have my immediate family around me but there is always a very great void…Carrie is gone. Lovely, smilling, chatty, beautiful Carrie…whose presence always lit up a room, whose bubbly personality engaged everyone. She was a dream child, the daughter everyone would like to have and I was privileged to have that special gift for a short 33 years.
I always feel a dark cloud over me…even in a croweded room. Crowds…I hate them now and try to avoid them as much as possible. I don’t like to be with strangers who ask me about my children…I am always moved to tears. I stay at home at night and escape to recored television programs. I carefully choose what I am going to do and especially with whom I will share my days. Lunches and coffees with dear supportive friends help…other so called “friends” who told me after a year that I should be “over it” I have chosen to delete from my llife. My husband is just here, can’t understand why I still cry and am sad. Men…react so differently from women.
Carrie’s husband continues to be a large part of our lives although he is trying desperately to move on. He has a wonderful woman to help him find some joy again in his life. I am happy…he has been through such tragedy and sorrow…he deserves some happiness…and Carrie would be the first one to want that for him.
But in the end…Carrie is gone and we are heartbroken, sad, still grieving family with beautiful memories and a deep faith that help us through each day. I look forward to the day when I will join Carrie in heaven. I know she is at peace, no longer suffering and in God’s glorious light…but I miss her more than words can ever express.
Anne, when you talked about crowds, it resonated with me. I think I really can’t be in crowds ever again, especially if they are small and comprised of people who really don’t know what this process feels like. I had a really bad experience in December at a holiday gathering and it taught me something, which is that I have to stay more to myself in December. It is such a power month and never will be the same. When you talk about Carrie, I feel the intense love you have for her. And it reminds me all over again how crazy making this journey is because we are in fact, still in relationship with our dead child. I am glad to hear that Matt found some happiness again, and yes, she would so want that for him. They had a great marriage and relationship and she would not want him to be miserable and lonely his whole life through. But as moms, how are we supposed to do the same thing? Or can we? Does this ever get easier? I maybe should know the answer to this,but I don’t. I only know that your post today is going to help me get through this one hour, this one day. And maybe that’s why we’re here still — to help buoy each other up or just crash land on the floor next to you so you won’t be alone. And we can get up when we’re good and ready, and not before. — Love, Nancy
I have spent the better part of today reading the post on this site and have been moved to share my experiences and maybe bring another point of view to this horribly dark,long , lonely road that we are all traveling.
On November 18 2012 on typical Sunday we were all gathering around watching TV and having a nice relaxing family day. My daughter Cricket was feeling a little under the weather and just snuggled in her chair and hung out. She had a little fever but nothing that set off any alarms. I gave her some Motrin and tucked her into bed, kissed her goodnight and told her I loved her. Before closing her door I told her she could stay home from school and we could go to the doctors in the morning if she still didn’t feel good. That morning my new wife, we got married in April, got up to go to work. She heard my daughters alarm going off and went in to turn it off. That is when my/our nightmare began. Sometime during the night my wonderful daughter, the light of my life and joy had passed away. My 16 year old sunshine had gone out and left me behind.
Coming up on the 2 month mark of my grieving and my soul still aches for the emptiness in my life. I new I would always miss my girl, but I never thought that I would just be in physical pain over her loss. My mind runs wild I can barely sleep and my whole body feels like I one gigantic knot.
Not every moment now is filled with dread. I have had days that were almost pleasant. I have good moments of memory and thoughts. Our first baseball game, her first formal dance, the wonder in her eyes on Christmas. These things have all brought smiles to my face.
Then other moments it like being punched in the soul. I cant breathe, my chest hurts all I want to do is scream and cry. This isn’t the way it is supposed to be. What about graduation, college,the wedding, my grand children?? Who am I?? For 16 years I have only wanted to be Crickets Dad. From the beginning it was just my Cricket and I. From late night feedings to long drives at 2am because even then she liked cars and they would put her to sleep. To those first wonderful steps and the other many wonderful moments. So who am I now???? I don’t want to be anything but her Dad. so what now?
My new wife has been wonderful and so supportive. My daughter had just started calling her Mom and she is mourning more for what was to come than what was. She has only known my daughter for a few years and has 3 wonderful children of her own that I love but they aren’t my Cricket. Her pain is different and that is ok, its supposed to be. So I try to get thru every day one day at time as I know we all do. Sometimes its minute by minute, others it is hour by hour. But I just wanted to share a fathers grief and a story of a wonderful girl who is playing in Heaven wrapped in the good Lords embrace and hopefully having a catch with her Grandpa’s
I wish you all peace and prayers, you are all in my thoughts.
Dear Bryan, I’m so glad you have written here today and know that you are not alone, although I realize that doesn’t make any of this any easier. Your beautiful Cricket is gone, and this horrific “new normal” is excruciating. I do agree that unless you have gone through this it’s a very hard thing to imagine, how anyone ever survives it, or whether they do. Your pain is palpable, and I’m wondering what happened to her, what the fever was about. But then even reasonable explanations don’t help us get through this. I am just so glad you wrote, because believe it or not, your post has helped me get through today a bit more easily. I have been vacillating between seeming almost okay at times, and then retreating to griefland again, content only among those of “my new tribe,” where I feel safe and understood. Where I can rant and rave and no one will call 9-1-1. Bryan, how are you getting through this? Your grief is so fresh and thank God you have your wife. I have my husband, too, but like you, he was Rachel’s step father, so his grief is very different from mine. What is holding you up? How are you managing this? In our book, we liken the grief process to a case of diabetes. It is like a disease that you live your entire life with, and you just get a little better at self-care. I wish I could give more comfort to you today, because I feel like no matter what I say, it won’t be enough. Never enough. I am so so sorry to meet you here, and yet, since we are here, let’s celebrate the power of coming together, of holding each other up. You can hold onto me. I won’t fall over, I promise.
Wrapping my arms around you, dear man,
Nancy
Nancy,
Thanks you for your response and ind words they do help and all hugs whether real or imagined always help ease the soul. I wish the same for you and kind words if I could hold you in my arms so that we both could just cry and understand each others pain it would be the least that I could do.
It was only last week that I received the word from the Medical Examiner about what actually happened that horrible night. She has labelled the cause of death to be natural causes. Her test and results have determined that my daughter died of Acute Bronchialitis and Acute Broncho Pneumonia. Apparently this can come on quickly without presenting normal or classic symptoms. My daughter never complained of anything, no cough, no chest pain no difficulty breathing. There were no warning signs that it was this serious. She went to sleep and sometime during the night just stopped breathing. They do not think she suffered.
How I am I dealing with this? What is holding me up? I really don’t know. I have my faith, my knowledge that my wonderful girl is safe and warm in Heaven helps. As any Father would want his little girl to be safe and happy, but I don’t understand why it can’t be with me. I try to hand things to God like I have been taught to do, but I miss her so much that it physically hurts. I have an amazing network of support from friends, family and people like you who I don’t even know , but I know better than people who I see every day. Because you and I share an unbreakable bond of grief that to many people can understand. I have a support group from Compassionate Friends that meets once a month. I am in counseling every week. I journal to my Cricket. I cry, I cry. I cry and sometimes I try to smile and remember that beautiful smiling face. So how am I dealing with this? I just am, I just take one day,one hour, one minute at time.
Thank you for being here, I wish peace and as many hugs as you need to make thru the day. If you need a hand to hold while we walk down this very long dark road, know that mine will always be out there for you to grab.
Oh, Bryan. I remember when Rachel’s autopsy report came. You would think a troop of therapists would accompany it, or that the post man would knock on the door and somehow prepare you for this lovely little report. No such luck. There it was, and I got to read all the hideous details, imagining the procedure, and it makes you want to throw up. I cry too, Bryan. I cry a lot, and in fact last night fell apart again because I had a really unpleasant conversation with my mother. I did not come from the most loving or understanding family unfortunately and this makes it harder at times. So you see, you and other members of what I call the “cemetery club” are the only ones who I feel safe with. It’s good that you journal and write to Cricket. Unlike you, who seems to have some faith in the divine, I lack that gift, and it seems the only faith I have now is in the human spirit to survive the worst of blows any human being can experience. The people who write to me telling me how they are surviving this horror are heroes, are my “gods,” because they are not giving up on themselves or their other loved ones who still need them, yet they suffer horribly from hour to hour sometimes. I cannot believe God needed Cricket if he does exist. What can the meaning be in all this? I think about this a lot, what we are supposed to be learning, if in fact there is any lesson here at all. Why were we chosen to suffer so much? Were we in fact chosen? All I have come to really see is that grief needs to be honored, in any way, shape or form it comes in. As you grieve today, imagine that I am at your feet, washing them, as Jesus did for his disciples, and honoring your feelings in this way. It’s all I have to give. I would love for you to describe her to me. Make me see her in my mind’s eye. What color were her eyes? What do you miss most about her? If you could have her back for one moment, what would you want her to know? Thank you for writing again and come back as frequently as you need to. That’s why we’re here. To help each other through, because the only way out is through.
Love,
Nancy
Dear Bryan,
Isn’t it odd that we meet under these circumstances? As you mention, we now all share an unbreakable bond forged from loss. We are forever changed. I’m approaching the 8 year marker of losing my son, Alex, and yet, there are still days when the wound and heartache feel so fresh and exposed. My daily mantra is “I am still standing.” This journey is unlike anything else. We survive in five minute increments, don’t we? Some days the moments and memories are crystal clear and other days, the entire world feels blurred, fuzzy – it’s like we are standing outside of things and watching some other poor person struggle through the tsunami of emotions, the reality of ‘gone.’ And then, that punch in the gut arrives.
Be gentle with yourself, Bryan. Another one of our male friends shared how different this journey can be for a man. There is a constant expectation to ‘get on with business,’ ‘toughen up.’ Well, let me grant you permission right here and right now to navigate this journey however you can, because any way you get through this is heroic. Thank you for making contact and sharing your soul on these pages. You now have two more of us walking with you, reminding you to breathe, grabbing hold of you when you start to teeter. I hope this place becomes a safe haven where you can write your head off, share beautiful thoughts about Cricket, rant and rave, vent and rage, share the journey – good, bad and ugly, all the while knowing you are surrounded by friends who speak the same language.
Warmest of hugs, Armen
Armen and Nancy,
Thank you both for your kind thoughts and words they are much appreciated and taken very much to heart.
Now to my wonderful Cricket. Let me first say that all parents say they have a special bond with their children, but for my Cricket and I it was beyond that. I can’t count how many people, even my new wife, have said that they had never seen a parent and child be so close and in sync with each other they way we were/are. Cricket was a wonderful spirit and soul. From her pretty, long brown hair(which she had just dyed blonde LOL, but she was still beautiful) to her brilliant blue eyes that always glittered like she knew something that you didn’t. She was very quiet if she did not know you, but always would speak politely and softly if addressed. Cricket loved all things geek. While other girls her age were about make up and fashion, she loved Dr. Who and comic books.Cricket had a voice and love of music that would bring tears to your eyes when she sang and would touch your soul. She would always choose t-shirts and jeans over a dress, and always wore her denim hat that was as much her as her quirky little smile. Very romantic at heart she loved Twilight and any other romantic movie that came along. One of the last things she did was the Thursday before her passing she went with her Grandmother to a Twilight marathon. On the other side she loved baseball and we regularly went to games. I thought she was very solitary outside of her family and close friends but at her service at our church that seats maybe 100 people, so many people who had touched by my Cricket were there that it was standing room only and people lined the entire church. Many kids from her school came and actually spoke in front of everybody about their love for Shea and how she had touched their lives. At 16 years old she still would hold my hand in public even hug me in front of her friends. In all of my life I have never felt more loved by a person even my own parents.
So I could write for every telling you all about this wonderful girl. She was my redemption, my salvation, my strength, my Cricket. I hope this gives you a good image of my Cricket.
A quick note about my faith. Without my faith I don’t think I could carry on. If there was not a Heaven and my little girl just stopped existing, well there would be no point to anything. Knowing that she is safe and happy helps me go on every day. It is bad enough that she is gone, but if she were gone forever that would just be too much. I had a dream weeks after her death. Cricket was very much into teaching children and at Church would always be found in Sunday school teaching the little children about God. After the shootings in Connecticut is when my dream, for lack of a better word, occurred. I walked into a parking lot and there were 2 white school buses surrounded by children. In the center of all of the children was my Cricket. She was helping all of the children get organized onto the buses and was talking to each and seemed to be assuring each one that everything was ok. Then she looked up and saw me, she smiled that quirky little smile and walked over and hugged me gently and said it was going to be ok. That was when I woke up. So yes my faith is strong and I try to hand things to God, because I need help and he will see us thru. But also because I have to believe that such a good soul could not just stop existing, for that would be just a loss that would be too much to bear.
Thank you both for you friendship, you will always be in my thoughts and prayers and never far from my hugs and love.
Bryan
I love hearing about her, Bryan, how she liked jeans over dresses and baseball. I can hear how much you miss her and how very hard this is to keep going. Sometimes we do it on hands and knees. Your dream gives me such hope today, and thank you for your words about faith. It must have felt as though she was making contact with you and still giving of herself to others, beyond this life. What a beautiful dream. It’s a gift to have been able to see her there. I have not had many dreams about my Rachel, but when I see her, they are so vivid, and it feels like we have touched each other again. Today I am keeping you in my thoughts and holding you close. Know that you are cared for, and that the pain you are experiencing means a great deal to both Armen and me.
Love,
Nancy
:November 19, 2012 was officially the worst day of my life. This was the day that the awful nightmare began, the day all of the light left my life, my heart broke and the tears started.
Now it is January 19, 2013 two months later. The nightmare continues, my heart is still broken and the tears still flow, very often with now warning what so ever. To be honest the pain is still there as it will always be, but the world is not quite so dark all of the time. I have found a few moments of smiles and even the occasional laugh.
My soul aches along with the rest of my body,my spirit still drags on most days. But I have started the process of getting thru. I have learned the pain will always be with me, long with the sadness, but I can choose to not let it overpower me. Sometimes it may overwhelm me, but I will not let it overpower me. My Cricket would not be happy with me living in darkness and her light was too bright for me to live any other way. I know there are days that the darkness will return, the days the tears just wont stop, but that is ok to.
Today I choose to take the first small steps to getting thru. I am tired, physically,emotionally,spiritually and worn to the core. I start today trying to find one reason everyday why I should smile, one reason why my Cricket does not me to be sad. Today I have to give myself a break, I can’t fix this. I have to allow myself good days as much as I allow myself bad days. Today I will try to take one step more forward than I do backwards. For my Cricket, for my heart, for my soul and for me. Today and every day I will miss my Cricket an that is OK.
Love and Peace to you all
Your two month marker, and how I remember that one well. I am wrapping my arms around you, Bryan, and letting you know how courageous I see you today. You are already talking about moving on (not forgetting, not avoiding, not ever thinking of her again, which is not possible, but moving on, which speaks to the strength of the human spirit to survive), gaining a bit of strength, not blaming yourself for anything, allowing yourself to laugh, if only once in awhile. Most of all, I am inspired by your ability to express your feelings, to cry when the tears well up, when you seem to be okay for a bit and then see or hear or smell something that knocks you to the ground. You are crying, sitting there for as long as you need to, and then getting back up. You are my hero today, Bryan, dear man. You are grieving, but letting the waves come, pass through you, experience them fully and then let them go. This is the best any of us can do. It’s the avoiding the feelings that is poisonous, that prevents us from moving forward with life. It feels so strange, doesn’t it? To have one foot in Griefland and the other in the world of the living, feeling like now you are not entirely sure where you belong or want to hang out. Thank you for continuing to write, and know that this is a “safe house,” where you can say absolutely anything and it will make sense, where you can feel “normal.” We are a community that helps each other keep standing up at the end of the day, and when one of us falls, we’ll be there to sit on the ground with you until you’re good and ready to get back up. Holding you close today, Bryan, on this 2 month marker of Cricket’s death. — Love, Nancy
So today there is snow on the ground and a silence that only comes with winter mornings. Peace seems to rule the day, everywhere except my heart. Today as I look out at the snow I really miss my Cricket.That happiness in her eye at all of the white. Her happiness at knowing that today would be a family day and nobody would leave the house. It would be a day of games and movies, laughter and fun. Maybe it would last long enough for there to be no school on Monday!
Today the tears fall and my chest hurts along with my whole body. I feel like I just want to cry all day. I pray for help to lighten my load today. I am just not sure that I can handle it all today.. I miss her smile ,her laugh just the feeling of her in the house. I feel alone, lost ,scared, unsure of what is to come. Today I am just very sad and I ache for the emptiness in my life.
Bryan,
I’m so sorry that your Cricket is gone. Unfortunately, I know just how devastated and bereft you feel. My 23 year old son was killed 35 weeks ago and I miss him with every breath I take. January 24th was his 24th birthday, the first birthday in 24 years without him. It has been excruciatingly painful and sad. Everything seems empty and pointless.
I wanted you to know that you can find other bereaved parents on the site that I’ve created in memory of my son.
http://www.scoop.it/t/grief-and-loss
It’s a collection of blogs, articles, videos and more that I’ve been curating … all by and for bereaved parents and siblings. It’s 10 pages long now and there are many blogs that I think you might find “comforting”. While each of us grieves alone and in our own way, it also helps to know that there are others who understand by virtue of having been through a similar experience. When I read another parent’s blog, I see that I will be able to survive, although I am forever changed and I will miss my son forever.
Bryan and Graham’s mom,
I’m reading these posts from you today and once again am blown away at our collective spirit and will to survive the worst blow that can happen to anyone. If I could do or say something to ease your heart, Bryan, I would do anything. And yet our memories and love for our children are what sustain us, in a strange way. I was watching a film last night with my husband about a science fiction plot, a futuristic society in which people can visit a clinic and have their most painful memories and loved ones “erased” from their memories, from their brains, from their entire thought processes. As though the person never existed at all. But they would be relieved of the grief of the loss. As I watched this, I asked myself if I would want to erase Rachel from my memory banks, from my mind. The answer came back almost immediately: NO WAY!! With all this heartache, all this torture, all this loneliness, and this grief, I am still her mom, I still love her, I still have images of her revolving in my mind and heart continuously. Without my memories, without having had her in my life, I would be a shell. Even with all the pain, I am a better person for having had Rachel in my life. So today I wake up with a newfound reason for being alive and for loving her. I can remember the good things, the fun times, the laughter, the love, the hugs, and the heartache. They are all intertwined. Love to you both today. I’m holding you close to me. — Nancy
I have been looking for days for a site for a Dad dealing with the loss of a child.
My 16 year old daughter passed away without warning on November 19 2012 and the nightmare began. I have found support with different groups and people but as we all know, we are the only ones that can understand what we are going thru. Unless you have lost a child this pain, this darkness, this life is not something that any can understand.
I searched the internet trying to find anything that would help me cope. There had to be something that would explain why my chest hurt, why my whole body was one big knot, why I could not breathe or sleep or eat. In my last search I found over 3,000 websites or blogs for mothers who have lost children, really try it.
Now I don’t want to take away anything from anybody. But until recently I was a single father, I do not need a mothers point of view. I needed something to help me. I did not give birth to her but I changed the diapers, I did the feedings, I drove the car at 2am because that was all that would put her to sleep. I bought her first bra, helped do her make up at her first formal. I did it all. So where was my help, my guidance?
I have started my own journal, and have felt the calling that this needs to be remedied. So maybe someday I will have the book or blog whatever it ends up being, so that another Dad can find a path thru this. Know that it is ok to cry, scream, be mad, rage at the world and feel like you just want to die because it doesn’t matter anymore. Know that it is ok to go to work when you just want to lay in bed and sob. That is ok to if you don’t want to go to work and stay home and sob. That there is no right way to grieve and if what you are doing is right for you, well guess what? Then it is the right way for you. There is no time limit on this. We will always feel the pain, the emptiness, the darkness. But we will go on, somehow, someway.
My daughter is safe and sound in Heaven, wrapped in love and happiness. Isn’t this what every father wants. It just hurts that it is not my arms that hold her, not my arms that keep her safe.Not my ears that hear her laughter or my eyes that see her smile. But one day I will and that is the day that I LIVE for.
Peace to you all
A quick little note to my last post as the header got cut off somehow.
I made this post on another site that I had found called the Grieving Dad Project and thought I would share it here. In my header I pointed out the fact that this was the only site that I had found for a fathers point of view and that it was worth a look. I also mentioned how much Griefland has meant to me both emotionally and spiritually. Nancy and Armen have been the spark that started the flame of desire to start writing things from a Dads perspective. I hope that my post did not offend anybody, it was not my intention to take away anything from a mothers loss. I re read my post and realized that some of it had been cut off and just felt the need to clarify. You all mean so much to me and have helped so much, I just wanted you to know how much I appreciated you all.
Thank you and love you all
Bryan, I have been wanting to respond to you for several days, and frankly, I had no idea what to say. Your post had been haunting me on my way to work, as I taught my classes up here in Washington, it resonated with me at stop lights, passing colleagues in the halls. It’s as though we are all part of this very weird club that no one wants to join, but once you’re in, you’re in for life, and we seem to be able to “recognize” members of our new tribe. Today I want a silver bullet that will ease the deep well of grief and pain and anguish you are feeling. I can’t. I just can’t give any words of wisdom. I can be here for you however. Know that every word you write is going straight to my heart, that your words stay with me through the rain, sun, grey cloudy days, that I feel we our destinies are all entwined. Somehow, for some reason, we are all in Griefland. The only thing I might say is that I am four years out on my journey, and there are days when I find myself breathing freely, I can walk my dog around the lake and say hello to people and feel almost normal, I’m beginning to laugh with friends again, when I could never have envisioned that four years ago, and if someone had told me (and she did) that I would laugh again, I didn’t actually believe her. But it is gradually, ever so slowly, coming to pass. Maybe those words will help you see there is a light at the end of the tunnel. You feel so desolate now, and it doesn’t feel in this moment that anything will ever change. But grief really does change, Bryan. It morphs over time. Time does not really heal, but it changes the way we experience grief. Keep writing to us, as often and as much as you like, whenever the spirit moves you. We are here for you. We care. I care.
For Bryan,
I hope you continue to find peace and comfort to guide you through these painful days of grieving for your daughter, Cricket. Armen and Nancy have been compassionate friends and guiding lights to me through our email conversations – and certainly via the pages of GRIEFLAND. My stepson passed away in November – suddenly – specific details not yet revealed as the coroner’s office has no sense of time and what it means to grieving families. That said, while my stepson has been a deeply loving and integral part of my life for 12 of his 22 years what I feel is so very different compared with what his father is experiencing. The circumstances of my stepson’s death have left my husband with myriad unanswerable questions with which he struggles. However, we have developed some routines which make it palatable to participate in the day such as meditation twice a day and when we can together, he listens to music a lot, put together a “playlist” of music that helps him go deep into the place he needs to be, he draws which is its own meditation, he is very physical – surfing, bike riding, working out, gardening. The physical release of energy is so important – it may not take the place of screaming from your gut like a warrior but it helps. Screaming from one’s gut like a warrior is a primal release that our “civilized” society does not honor – but try it if you are so inclined. My husband and I have a strong lifeline between each other – it has helped us both, certainly. Sometimes, though, I can’t help him – can’t reach him. And I honor that place, too. At first it scared me – but I read something in one of Nancy’s passages in GRIEFLAND about when she was sitting in the dark and her husband came home and he put his arms around her and sat silently with her in the dark.
You are reaching out – you want connection – and you have found voices and open hearts who feel you.
Peace, light and compassion to you, Bryan.
stephanie
Stephanie,
Thank you so much for taking the time to share with me/us. My daughter passed in November as well and it the darkest nightmare and hardest, longest road that I never imagined I would walk. I have yet to come to balance with my new normal, that is my life without my daughter. Some days are good, like yesterday, some days aren’t, like today. Its like you begin to feel like you are getting a little better, a little farther down the road and then you get swept up again.I just don’t understand sometimes why it is this way. I want to step forward, I am trying to not let it overpower me, it sometimes overwhelms me but I wont let it overpower me.
Music was big to my daughter and I. She sang in choirs both at Church and school as well as on stage in shows and plays. I never really know from one day to the next how music is going to effect me. Some times it brings my a smile and good memories and other it quickly brings tears and sorrow. Its is this unpredictability that seems to bring me down the most. I do something or go somewhere that we used to do together and I am fine and then the next time I am wreck and just can’t handle it. I never thought about the physical pain and the mental anxiety that would come with grief. I have suffered physical pain that would make most men crumble and it is not something I even used to consider in my life and had no fear of. Now my whole body hurts, my shoulders ache, my chest gets tight and I just feel like everything is spinning out of control. I am always tired and just feel like I have been in a fight for months. I can feel the tears and sorrow build up and even when I want them to sometimes they just wont come, and then when they do I feel they wont ever stop. The anxiety is a beast I can’t even seem to get my mind around. I have developed and anxiety about my own health that I am slowly getting back under control. Having my daughter pass away without warning has brought home how fragile our lives our,. How can a 16 year old just pass and my 44 year old, rode hard, beat up body just keep going?
On another note, my wife wanted to pass on that your post really touched her and helped a lot. She was my daughters step mother as well an your point of view was something that really touched her so Thank you.
I hope that you find peace as well and know that you and your family are in my thoughts and prayers as well’
Bryan, can I ask you if you have consulted a physician for the chest pains and anxiety? Both Armen and I have suffered with anxiety attacks for years, and at least for me, I am on medication that helps me get through the day. I don’t want to offend you if you have already considered this and passed on it, but the anxiety would eat me up alive if I didn’t have meds to control it so I can get through my work days. We have also suffered a myriad of other symptoms such as hair loss, hives, blurred vision, chest pains that feel like we’re having a heart attack (why not, since our hearts have been shattered into a billion pieces?), dizziness, nausea, and panic attacks that have made me feel like I’m in immediate and life-threatening danger. I don’t take the meds all the time or continually, but when I need them, or before going out to see anyone or do anything remotely social, I do take one. And it’s funny you are having a bad day today, because it’s strange, but Sundays are always harder for me, and I’ve never really understood why. Why this day. Today you are my hero and inspiration, Bryan, because despite the bottomless pit of grief you are wrestling with today, you are here, showing up, writing to us, helping all of us who are reading this. You are in my heart today, dear man. Give your wife our love as well. Neither of you are alone on this journey.
Big hugs, Bryan,
Nancy
Nancy,
I must tell you that your words always bring some light to my life. Knowing you are there and that other people are feeling the same things is such a blessing.
I have had a complete work up and the wishes of my family doctor, who is a wonderfully caring man has actually just called after hours and on his own to check on me and my wife. I had an EKG, and Echocardiogram a Stress test on a tread mill and a complete physical and the only thing was GERD and Vitamin D deficiency. So basically he said he is not worried about anything. My last appointment was last week and he said the thinks I am on a good road to recovery.
As for medicines yes I have some but I fight taking them to much, according to my wife, but I know I do to. To me they just were not the way I wanted to go. I was also afraid they would not let me grieve or that I would forget Shea. My Doctor gave me some Ativan for an on need basis at .5 mg. Thanks to your input I actually just took one
. Sundays and Mondays are my worst days. Sundays are Church day. Its was such I big part of our lives, I really notice that Shea is not here every time we go. It tends to make me sad for the day. Mondays of course are hard because that is the day that my nightmare started.
I am glad that others have the same symptoms as I have. Not that I wish these things on anybody, especially you my wonderful friend. But to hear of you having the exact same things just brings I kind of peace to my heart that I hope you understand. I have been so blessed to find you and to make this connection with another parent who is going through the same things.
I cant’t wait until I can afford and fin a copy of Griefland so that I may see more of the children that drive you and get to know my friends in this new land better. YOU are MY hero and your words have soothed my soul and my heart more than you can know, well actually maybe you do and for that I am thankful.
I am deeply sorry for your loss and that such a wonderful heart and kind person has had to travel this road, but I am glad that i found you on this path and that you are here is this new land that I have become a citizen of.
With hugs and wishes for peace and strength,
Bryan
Dearest Bryan, these physical symptoms are common among us Griefland dwellers, and you are not the only one to report them. Some of them are quite terrifying, as it feels like you have had some type of mild stroke or brain damage, or heart attack. And Bryan, there is absolutely no way on God’s green earth that you will ever, ever forget or cease to grieve the loss of your beautiful Shea. And I thought you had already read the book so if you are having trouble finding a copy, do me a favor and write to me at my private email address, which is nancy@griefland.com and I’ll make sure you get a copy.
Love,
Nancy