Making lemonade out of the lemons is partly how my brain works. When something is awful, after I’ve complained about it a bit, I’ll start looking for the silver linings. I have to. Otherwise the negative experience is for nothing.
While we all need a moment to acknowledge the crappiness of any given situation, if you allow yourself to marinade in nothing but the bitterness, that’s exactly the flavor your life and your personality will take on. I didn’t want to become bitter because of my loss.
After Lach’s death, sometimes the silver linings were little things…the ability to sleep soundly (even though it took me forever to fall asleep) or losing that 10 lbs that I didn’t really want anyway (even though it was enormous stress that kept me from eating). I was tremendously humbled and blessed by all the people that reached out to support us during that time. People gave so generously of their time, their money, their vacation hours, their thought, and their prayer. There was simply no adequate way to thank people like I wanted to. It didn’t take long for me to see that response from others as the hands of God reaching out to hold us during that time. That was Him, finding his way to us, through you. Each individual act of kindness and compassion was like a drop that, when combined with the others, created an enormous wave of support. To experience that first hand was part of the lemonade.
I truly believe I am a better person because of my loss. I still have plenty of work to be done, but I am more empathetic to others in their struggles. I have more peace. I am able to be more confident in taking care of my own needs and the needs of my family with less pull from outside pressures. I have a better understanding of what really matters in this life. I have a better appreciation of the temporary nature of our existence. The people in our lives and the situations we are in will not last forever, so I make an effort enjoy the people and things that I love while I have them.
I met others who made lemonade after their losses and taught me that it was possible. Lach’s Legacy is my lemonade stand…this Capture Your Grief project is a lemonade stand. Making a connection with a bereaved parent, the little notes that acknowledge that a care package, a connection, or that sharing my experience out loud has somehow made a difference—those things, like a little packet of sugar, sweeten the deal.
Creative Heartwork
I’ve found a few little creative outlets to help memorialize Lach. There is some comfort in having something physical to note that he was here. I have done a memorial garden, which is starting to fill in quite nicely. We planted some giant sunflowers that are almost ready to cut down so the boys can play with their sunflower-stalk-swords…I bet my 9 year old boy would have really loved that. Lach’s Legacy is one of my creative outlets to memorialize him.
Tattoos are something you find that many bereaved parents get and know that they want very shortly after the death of a child. It becomes a permanent visible piece of you to note the permanent piece of you that is no longer visible.
A dragonfly seemed like an appropriate choice for my tattoo. I wanted something that was a visible reminder that he is still near…he is just above the surface. It needed to be in a place where I could see it well. It is more for me than for anyone else. I wanted Lach’s initials included, but didn’t need it to be super-obvious that it is a memorial tattoo. We also had a miscarriage before Lach was born, and the little dragonfly is to note that little soul’s brief presence in our lives too.
Symbols and Signs
It used to be that I’d hear people talk about “signs” from their deceased loved ones and it sounded more to me like an over-active imagination…wanting something so much that they were creating meaning out of a circumstance that was nothing more than happen chance. When my Grandma died, the thing became watching for pennies sent from her. There were tons of penny moments. They were found in her pew at church as Grandpa went to sit alone in his usual spot, on his pillow, on the doorstep to their house where she would always come to greet us, falling out of a childhood book that she would read to us, rolling across the floor out of nowhere in an otherwise empty house, and many more. Some of those I blamed on just chance, some of those I wondered who might have planted it there, some of those just made me wonder if it was really possible.
Most of us are bashful to say much about these experiences. It sounds crazy. People think you’re making something out of nothing. I thought that. But then I was on the receiving end of some of those. At first, I put it off as just coincidence, but there are simply too many moments like that to be closed minded to the possibility that those things weren’t actually little hellos from heaven that were meant for me.
The dragonfly is the symbol that we came very quickly to associate with Lachlan. Shortly after he died I went for a walk with a neighbor and a dragonfly (a bug that typically has a very erratic flight pattern) flew right with us, lingering within a few feet of us for several blocks. On days when my heart ached the most, a dragonfly or many of them would cross my path. On my rainbow baby, Emmett’s, first birthday, I went for a run and there were dragonflies everywhere. Often I’d see a couple out on a run, but when I began to notice the unusual abundance of them, and started counting, there were at least a couple dozen more. One day my mom randomly found a penny sitting on her dragonfly solar light that sits in her front yard. More recently, as I was texting a group of bereaved mamas working on setting up a time to get together, I was interrupted by a text from my sister-in-law, with a beautiful picture of the canyon and the trees from Lach’s spot at the cemetery. She doesn’t usually hang out at the cemetery on a random week night. Just pure coincidence that of all times either of us could be doing those things, they happen to cross paths, or that she decided to send me that picture then and there? Maybe… or maybe not. Then the next day while I was visiting with those lovely bereaved mamas, as we were chatting, I glanced through the storm door to see the FedEx guy come up to the porch, set down a package, and almost tiptoe away. I wondered why he didn’t ring the doorbell like they usually do, but was glad he didn’t interrupt the conversation. I wasn’t expecting anything, and wondered what it was. When we wrapped up our time together, I opened the package. It was a beautiful garden dragonfly from a childhood friend who lives in Florida. Someone who I rarely get the opportunity to see or talk to. Just coincidence? Maybe…or maybe not.
One of the most profound for me was on Lach’s 8th birthday. I woke up thinking of my boy and as I sat in my usual spot to start my morning prayer, and I looked out the window to see this enormous dragonfly sitting on the side of the deck drying his wings. He was an impressive little dragonfly and being that he showed up on Lach’s birthday, I decided to take a picture. I started from inside and took a few through the window, then went outside to get a couple before he flew away. I often try to take pictures of the dragonflies I see, but they always fly away. I’ve never gotten a decent picture of one of them. But on this day, I crept closer and closer until I was taking pictures of this dragonfly from just inches away. Hmmm…why this unique experience with a dragonfly today of all days?
And then the next morning, I got a text of this video. Leah is my niece, born just 3 days before Lachlan died. She had spent the weekend with her dad, so had not been in a place where there was any discussion of Lach’s upcoming birthday. She woke up that morning and as she was opening her eyes, said to her mama that she had a dream about Lachlan, so her mom grabbed her phone and recorded as she described her dream. It’s interesting that she noted some ages of the kids, but they were older than they were in real life. Their age spans were accurate. When Talia will be 4, Emmett will be 7. More typically in dreams, things are all mixed up and strange combinations of people and events and places are all mashed up together. That’s weird that she would note the ages of the kids and that they are in the future, but still correct age differences. The other thing I find interesting is the WAY she tells the dream. She is obviously still sleepy, but she doesn’t tell the story in quite the same way as kids usually talk about their dreams. There’s something just a little different, as if she’s remembering something that actually happened….or maybe that’s just my imagination. ;) She's never talked about a dream like this before and has not done it again since then. Why in 7 years worth of nights, did her dream occur on the night of Lach's birthday?
I prayed and begged for a long time to have a dream of Lachlan…or, better yet, one of those very real night time visits that so many people describe. I wanted to see his face and know in one more way that he is happy and whole and well. Nothing. No matter how much I wanted it, no matter how much I prayed, I never got that dream. I was beginning to give up on the idea when one night I did finally dream of him. It wasn’t anything profound, I don’t even remember any of the details, but when I woke up, I had to realize that he wasn’t here and my heart ached that much more because of that experience. I thought I would find peace and happiness with a dream of him, and instead, it just brought heartache. My point is, that if those hellos from heaven are not happening for you, or not happening in the way you’d like, there just might be a reason for that. Maybe, just maybe, heaven knows your reaction better than you do, and only has your best interest in mind! My own dream of Lachlan brought heartache, but Leah's dream of him brought me smiles and warm fuzzies.
There is a book called “Rare Bird” that is a story written by a mother chronicling the first year after the death of her son. In there, she is talking to a friend who had a message for her from Jack, her deceased child. As quoted from the book, he said:
“Thank you for being my mom.” He is expressing so much gratitude in a cuddly blanket kind of way. “You will always be my mom. I don’t live in the sky. Why does everyone look up? I’m not up. I’m here (pointing to your heart).” He does not mean as a memory. He means alive in your heart.
Maybe…just maybe…they are closer than we think.
Surrender and Embrace
This is huge. I’m a bit of a control freak. I like to plan ahead. I like for things to go my way and I don’t adjust very easily to changes in plan. Once I’ve decided what I’m going to do, I’ll do that. If life is like a river, I was floating along quite happily, before Lach died and enjoying all of the little sights along the way. The course was predictable, I had a pretty good idea about what was coming even if I couldn’t see it…then out of nowhere I was blindsided by a steep and raging waterfall. There was no way to prepare for this and I suddenly found myself under the water, frantic, disoriented, and scrambling for a breath of air. I’m not sure exactly how it happened, but somehow, I emerged to the surface. When I looked around, the new scenery was not like what it was before. It was ugly and gray. I hated this new scene. I wanted to go back, but every moment pulled me further away from the old happy place, my comfortable and predictable stream. It took all my strength just to stay afloat. The harder I tried to fight the direction of the river, the more exhausted and helpless I felt. Despite the fight against the current, I was still not making any ground in my quest to go back. Surrender was the only real option.
To surrender to grief means to take each moment, individually, as it comes, without expectation of how I should think or feel. I found too many times that as soon as I started expecting to feel any particular thing, I would be blindsided by a different emotion. When I thought I wasn’t strong enough to get through a particular day, I’d unexpectedly have a pretty good day. If I thought I was getting better and was moving to a better place, I’d be swept under by a swift current of sadness. Fits of anger came out of the blue.
As I began to surrender to the journey, knowing I could never really predict it, I started to find some peace again. My goal became not to create an emotion or to change what I felt, but simply to acknowledge it for what it was and surrender to that. I still wanted the old scenery back
Surrender to the flow of the river has to come first, but that was the harder step for me. Once I stopped fighting it, then embracing it came more naturally. After I became willing to accept that going back was not an option, I became more willing to seek and find the new beauties around me. They were subtle at first, but the farther I’ve travelled from that treacherous waterfall, the more beauty I’ve been able to find. Very quickly I learned that reaching out the people on the banks of my river was very comforting. In the new course I’d taken, many of the people were people I’d never expected to be part of my journey, but they really are an amazing part. When I embrace this new course by sharing my experiences out loud, by offering bits of comfort to newly bereaved parents, by working to make a legacy that acknowledges Lach’s life, by sharing in the most difficult moments of some other people’s lives, there is an unexpected grace that makes it all worthwhile. Plain-old, every-day ordinary joys are visible again and Once I became willing to accept that going back was not an option, I became more willing to seek and find the new beauties around me. They were subtle at first, but the farther I’ve travelled from that treacherous waterfall, the more beauty I can find. And the joy of living returns in the willingness to embrace the new course that the river has taken.
Beautiful Mysteries
This prompt is designed with the intent to imagine who your child would be now and to tell a beautiful story about that. I always wonder what Lach would love to do, who his friends would be, how he would interact with his siblings, and what his personality features would be. It is a mystery, but I don’t know if I’d classify those daydreams as a beautiful mystery. They are always laced with the ache of not knowing for sure.
However, conjuring up ideas of what our glorious reunion will be like in heaven—that is a beautiful mystery. I’ve read lots of books on heaven and people’s near death experiences. I wanted and needed to know what “home” is like for my boy. It’s amazing how from so many different authors and experiences, the overwhelming peace and joy is a common thread to all of them. As a family, we often imagine what it will be like when we get there. We always get to hug Lachlan. We’ll see the room God and Lachlan have prepared for us. Together we might go for a ride in a kangaroo’s pouch, sit on a lion’s back, hold St. Michael’s sword, tumble in the soft grass without getting hurt, enjoy new and improved bodies, look into Jesus’ eyes and sit in the presence of God. No death. No pain. No crying. No tears. Ever. It’s hard to imagine, but I’m told it’s true. That’s a beautiful mystery. I can’t wait to see it with my own eyes.
Myths
“God needed another angel” or “God took my child.” Those are phrases that you often hear, and things that I’ve even said myself. As you’re scrapping for bits of comfort you take everything you can find and try it on for size…does this fit? Does this help?
It took me some time to be able to recognize that those catchphrases are really incongruent with the God I’ve always learned about. Our God is the God of Love, God of Mercy, the source of all good and only good. Separating a mother from her child and the premature death of a baby do not even whisper a hint of love, mercy, or goodness. Our response to the death, on the other hand, can be full of all of those things. God does not NEED anything. He is whole and complete in and of himself. He didn’t give me the incredible gift of this beautiful child to say, “Just kidding! I need him more than you do!” That’s rude.
We chose the reading from John chapter 11 of Jesus raising Lazarus from the dead for Lach’s funeral. I wanted Jesus to raise my baby from the dead. He didn’t. Surely everyone in Bethany who’d lost a loved one for many years following the resurrection of Lazarus wanted Jesus to save them from their grief and raise their loved ones from the dead too. He didn’t.
Even though a miraculous resurrection wasn’t part of the deal for me, there are some big things to take home from the story. I’m guessing Jesus is getting used to being blamed for the bad things that happen to people. Lazarus’ sister, Martha, did it too. When she met Jesus, her words were “Lord, if you had been here, my brother would not have died.” I know I said the same thing in response to Lach’s death. “Where were you?! If you were here this wouldn’t have happened!” While Martha might not have been saying, “you DID this,” her words were certainly as accusatory as mine were, blaming him for not doing enough to stop it.
When Jesus came to Bethany, he already knew his plan to bring Lazarus back. Knowing ahead of time that their tears were about to turn from tears of sorrow to tears of abundant joy didn’t separate him from the grief of the moment. He wasn’t aloof to their suffering with a “Chill out. Hold on. You’re all gonna be fine.” sort of attitude. He met them where they were, AND HE WEPT.
This tiny little verse says so much. It shows us God’s reaction to the suffering and death of the human experience. He weeps with us. He hurts with us. He suffers with us. Of course, he knows what he came to do, and he has a plan to take that hurt away, but that doesn’t stop him from being endlessly compassionate to our grief, our suffering, our losses, our hurt. THIS is the God I know—the God of Love, God of Mercy, God of goodness. This fits.
Being able to put those pieces together and to see God as my compassionate supporter and my comforter rather than the cause of my strife was a tremendous step for me in finding some peace for my tormented heart and it helped me to restore some trust in the God that I thought had betrayed me. My little boy died---and He wept.
Empathy
She showed up first. We were little more than acquaintances at the time. She knew of Lach’s death and she came. She had such a way about her that things seemed better when she was there. She stayed in the background but relieved me of the pressure of having to tend to people. She let people in, she answered the phone, she made coffee, and she gave us a ride to the hospital. We had been away from home for a week or two during the time of Lach’s funeral and burial. She called and asked if it would be ok to clean the house for us. As we were returning home, I couldn’t help but be a little anxious about this new normal that we were going to have to find, and that we were going to have to start back into the daily chores of living. It lightened my heart to find things cleaned and tidy. Lach’s room was untouched, his things as we left them, the fingerprints still on the mirror. There was a vase of fresh cut lilacs on the table, fresh fruit and a new gallon of milk in the fridge. Maybe it’s because she was the first one, maybe it’s because we didn’t know each other well enough that I might have expected it from her, maybe it’s because those things were outside the box of casseroles and sympathy cards, but those were some of my most memorable moments of empathy. Since then, we have grown to be good friends and she has continued to be a wonderful support for me along the way.
Empathy is as unique as the individual who is giving it. I think they key is just to do something! You don’t have to know the person well to give an incredibly kind and meaningful gesture, even if it is small and simple. Many people out of true love and concern make themselves available, “Call if you need anything. I’m here for you.” Even on the hardest days, I would let the dishes and the laundry pile up before I would ever call someone and ask them to do those things for me. People bring casseroles. They know you’ll have company that needs to eat even if you can’t. Those things are certainly appreciated, but the things that stood out to me were the things that were outside that box. Having someone take care of mowing the lawn, offering to take Westin for a couple hours, getting a group together to help us create a memorial garden for Lachlan, help in creating the memorials, Lach’s Legacy, and the Run for Their Lives, and even simply a coffee date and a loving conversation or a walk around the neighborhood.
Here are my tips on offering empathy to a newly bereaved parent:
1. Know that there is more going on than what you can see. From the outside, I may have appeared to be holding myself together. I may have been playing with Westin at the park, I may have been talking about my trip to the grocery store, I may have been working just like everyone else. But what was on the inside was something different. I was being eaten up inside that I could give Westin undivided attention without Lachlan there, that the grocery trip was too easy when you’re not wrestling a 10 month old while you do it, or that I could work without a baby in my arms.
2. Ask. Coming into a conversation with a newly bereaved parent can sometimes be scary. We are unsure of what to say or how to say it, we are afraid we might say something that will be hurtful. Keep in mind that grief is as unique as a thumbprint. There are some common threads, but no two people will look at any part of it the same way. What might bring comfort for one griever, may be painful for the next. Don’t expect to know what they might People who could come to me with an open mind and an open heart were always a blessing.
It was a relief to be able to talk about Lachlan without feeling judged or worrying about falling short of expectations, or feeling like I wasn’t doing it right because I wasn’t doing it as they thought I should. It was healing for me to have a conversation with someone who was willing to ask and ready to hear.
The questions you could ask to show your empathy and your love are endless: Are you able to eat? Are you able to sleep? What are some of the things that have brought you the most comfort? Is there anything in particular that has been hard for you lately? Have you thought about any kind of memorial? How are you feeling about going back to work? Are you finding it hard to take care of your other kids? Can I see some pictures of your baby? Tell me about him… Those kinds of questions helped me to know that someone cared, that they were interested in actually knowing my struggles and not giving any expectations on what I should think or feel or do. Share your own experiences of loss or grief, but remember that they are your own and what worked for you may not be helpful for them.
3. Do something. Pick out something you would like to do for them and ask for permission to do that. It was much easier to say yes to someone who said, “we would like to take care of your lawn for the next couple weeks, is that ok with you?” than to call someone to say, “my heart hurts too much today, will you mow my yard?” Remember that now every item the child has ever touched is sacred to the parents. They are the physical proofs that the child was there. Make sure to ask before helping with anything that is the baby’s. Even the unfinished bottle, the poopy diapers, and the dirty laundry. A time will come when those things will have to be addressed, but the right time to address them is different for everyone.
4. Remember. Remember birthdays and anniversaries. Remember that Thanksgiving and Christmas are happening without their child to share it with. Mother’s day is hard when you can’t hold the child who made you a mother. Remember times that you spent with the child and memories of the child. If you didn’t know the baby ask them to tell you about them. When you see something that makes you think of them, tell them that.
The Unspoken
Sudden and traumatic grief is such a strange experience. There is this split in mind and body that almost seems to make time stand still. Like oil and water, they separate. You see what is going on around you as if you are somehow separated from it, while at the same time living in it. I am reminded the Freudian concepts of the Id, the Ego, and the Superego. Other parents have alluded to this same experience, so I don’t think I’m alone, but explaining it in a way that doesn’t make you seem like a complete nut is hard to do. Maybe that’s why it’s often left unspoken.
When I first got the phone call, I was at work, showing a med student around. As I heard the words that told me Lach was in trouble, I didn’t say a thing to the student, but my body reacted. My heart was racing, my whole body was shaking and I ran. I bolted down the stairs toward the locker room and my keys. As I’m doing this, the voice in my head starts talking, “That was kind of rude. You didn’t even say anything to the poor guy. You left him standing alone there in the hallway wondering what to do next.” …I’m in the car and as I drove, my body still in panic mode…I drove like a maniac in desperation to get to my son, weaving through cars, driving in the turning lane, running red lights when possible. The voice in my head says, “Be careful. You don’t need to hurt someone else or yourself trying to get there. That won’t help anything. He’s got people taking care of him. Racing to be there won’t make a difference. Be reasonable.” I couldn’t listen to that voice…this was a matter of life and death. At one point I was forced to stop my panicked drive as I waited for a funeral procession to cross in front of me. The Voice says, “Maybe this is God’s way of telling you what’s to come. Wouldn’t that be a strange foreshadowing of events?” I didn’t dare believe that. I needed to hope that this was nothing more than an awful scare. I squirmed in my seat, desperate to move on. I wanted to honk, make a space to slip between cars, my world was slipping through my fingers. I couldn’t sit here and watch a funeral procession! I waited, unwillingly, while the possibility of death was planted into my being.
…We stood outside the daycare surrounded by emergency vehicles for what felt like an eternity. Waiting. No word. No update. When the EMT’s finally emerged with their eyes lowered and head shaking, I knew. Again, my body did its thing while my mind did something else. I dropped to my knees and started to dry heave. I thought I was going to vomit on the shoes in front of me. The Voice is removed from the experience. “This is a strange reaction. I wouldn’t have expected to do this. Why am I dry heaving? Is this what a mother is ‘supposed’ to do when she learns her child is dead? Am doing this because that’s what I saw on TV somewhere along the line? What are these people thinking of my reaction? Is this what they expected of me? Why am I even thinking these things right now?!” The voice pauses and I return to my body…I think I’m going to throw up.
The Voice continues, analyzing, wondering, commenting, but always as an observer, somehow removed from the emotion of the experience. Fast forward, we are at Lach’s funeral. Someone I know but haven’t seen in a while makes an appearance, my face instinctively flashes a smile. The Voice notes, “How can you do that? How can you smile right now? We are all gathered here for your baby’s funeral, remember? You might give the wrong impression. Do they think my smile means that I’m ok?” …I’m not ok. I can’t do this. I want to escape somehow. I have to do this.
…I’ve cried so many tears by this point, that the well must be momentarily emptied, because, strangely, my cheeks are dry. “Now, when people are here, gathered for the funeral, watching my every move, I am holding myself together. Does that mean they think I’m being brave or strong or that I’m handling this well?” I am none of those things, my body simply can’t produce tears fast enough to keep up with the demand…
This separation of mind and body continued for quite some time. Ever so slowly, I could spend more and more time with the parts working as a cohesive unit. Eventually my body began reacting in more predictable ways, and my mind started accepting the oddities and the unpredictable nature of the grief. That’s when the real “work” of grief begins.
Support Circles
When someone reaches out to me after the death of a child, it’s usually not the bereaved themselves, but close friends and family. I often get the question, what can I do?! How can I help? How do I be a good support person for these parents?
I truly admire those who are able to say that and to reach in to parents who are hurting. It’s not an easy thing to do. In our culture, we tend to want to avoid topics and feelings that are uncomfortable. Being a support person for someone who is grieving is especially hard because there’s no advice, no words, no deed that you can bring to the table to take away the pain. The path of grief is a lonely journey that can be travelled only by the griever. For a support person to understand that you cannot hurry them along the path of healing, but that you are simply there to sit and walk beside them as much as the path allows is essential.
For most people, it seems, that being allowed to talk about their loss and their hurt is the number one thing that is helpful. Don’t be afraid to ask about their baby, how they are doing, what they are struggling with, and what seems to help. Before Lach died, I didn’t understand that very well. If someone went through something difficult, but by outward appearances seemed to be doing ok, I didn’t want to ask, or say something about it in the case that I might be ruining an otherwise decent day. After Lach died, I learned that even if by outward appearances I looked ok, my thoughts were completely consumed by him in every. Single. Moment. Having someone ask about Lachlan or my grief, may have brought tears, but generally they were very welcome tears. It was a huge weight off my shoulders to be able to talk about what feels like the elephant in the room. To know that someone cares and they were willing to just BE with me in my grief lightens the load. If someone is really not in a place that they would like to talk about it, usually grievers will find ways to be brief in answering your questions and finding ways to suggest that this isn’t a good time.
Don’t let being scared stop you from asking. Let me tell you, even with living the experience of loss and making a point to reach out to others who have experienced similar losses, I am still scared every time I talk to someone new. What will I even say?! Nothing can make this better! However, I know that saying SOMETHING is better than saying nothing at all. The hardest step is just getting up the nerve to start the conversation. My best advice is to ask questions. Really hear them out. Don’t allow yourself to be judgmental when you hear their responses. Thoughts and feelings after a big loss are wild and crazy. They can be scary to the griever themselves. People often feel like they must be crazy for the thoughts that they have. Giving advice or telling people what to think or feel doesn’t meet them where they are and can be much more likely to be hurtful. Bring coffee, take a walk together, make a phone call and as much as you can, just listen with the intent to understand.
I really have been very fortunate in the support I’ve had in my grief. People from many different avenues in my life have reached out to us in one way or another to show they care. One of the places I have found the most comfort is in the company of other bereaved mothers. I learned very quickly that in general other bereaved parents had a different way of asking questions and talking about the loss. They tended to be very open, understanding of the craziness in my head, empathetic and encouraging. Since then, I have been fortunate to meet so many other parents who have had to say goodbye to their precious babies. Even when I am the veteran griever reaching toward someone in their new grief, there is comfort for me when they reach back. Even 8 years later, I find that telling my story and hearing the experiences of other grieving parents is therapeutic. For all of you who have been willing to reach back…thank you!
What it Felt Like
One of the ways I think of it is by imagining that every bit of information you have taken in from birth is a book in your own personal library of life. Every time you acquire new knowledge, new perspectives, new relationships, new faith, etc. you get a new book to put on the shelf as you go. (A bit like the memory balls in the movie Inside Out). Well, losing a child is like taking all those carefully placed books and dumping them ALL into an enormous heap on the floor.
I was amazed at how the death of a child uproots even some of the basic beliefs that you operate your systems of existence around. My world was an orderly place. You work hard for what you want and that’s exactly what you get. Bad things happen to other people. Death is an orderly event that happens to old people who are ready to go or to other people. By being good and seeking God, somehow the cosmos will give you only the good things you deserve.
On an intellectual level, I knew that wasn’t how it really worked, but in my own little bubble that’s how it had always gone and I hadn’t had any major experiences that forced me to bring what I knew intellectually to the level of my heart.
Then Lachlan died. My physical shelf still stood, but everything that was inside the shelf was now in a heap on the floor. I had to re-shelf and re-organize all of my books. I had to find a way to allow “The Death of a Child” to coexist in a universe with an “All-Loving and All-Good God”. There had to be a place for “Terrible Tragedies” to fit next to “The Things that Happen to Good People”. “Good Deeds” didn’t belong with the book about “deserving” anything different than anyone else—in fact, that book had to be removed completely. I had to find a place to keep the idea that I would have to live this life without the physical presence of my son…you get the idea. Where does my identity as “mother” belong when one of my children no longer walks the planet? Now I knew in a whole new way that there were no guarantees in life…my old organization system didn’t really work that way.
The job of putting the “books” back on the shelf is enormous and overwhelming. You can’t scoop them up in heaps and shove them back into the shelves and expect to have a functional system. You are really forced to pick up and evaluate every book one by one. Does this book still belong on my shelf? Can it fit in its old position? Does it need a new place? Where does this belong? Here’s a new book I’ve never seen before…where does that go?
The pain and chaos that comes with the loss of a child cannot be healed quickly. It is reconstructing and reorganizing life’s entire library of thought and experience one single book at a time. At times it may be with shaky hands and overwhelming uncertainty, at others it will come more easily. In one wobbly baby step at a time, with time and attention to the work, healing will come and a new and functional system can be established.
