….or maybe a week since I wrote here? I don’t even know. What I do know if I have been faking my way through life and it seems like it’s working, at least for now. The tears have slowed down…but I know they’ll be back.
My day starts like this: I get up and brush my teeth, walk to my home office and work for 10 hours straight. When it time to get off, I log off and go take a shower.
Then, I make something quick for dinner or order take out, only to keep the husband fed on a timely schedule. I take my dinner in the bedroom, turn on the TV and watch anything I can find. I usually take a FaceTime call with my youngest daughter at some point….and I get to see my baby grandson for a few minutes, but I feel guilty for not wanting to talk. I listen, but I don’t say too much.
Come to think of it, I barely talk to anyone anymore. Not even the people who live here.
Anyway, after I eat and take the call, I continue to watch TV until my husband comes in to go to bed, from watching TV in the living room, and I turn off the light. I stay up on Facebook until midnight and then, go to sleep.
In the morning, I get up and do the exact same thing again.
It is large and it is hard to get around it. Yet, we squeeze by with, “How are you?” and “I’m fine.” and a thousand other forms of trivial chatter. We talk about everything else except the elephant in the room. We all know it’s there. We are thinking about the elephant as we talk. It is constantly on our minds.
For you see, it is a very big elephant. But we do not talk about the elephant in the room.
Oh, please, somebody say my child’s name.
Oh, please, say it again.
Oh, please, let’s talk about the elephant in the room.
For if we talk about their death, perhaps we can talk about their life.
Can I say their name and not have you look away?
For if I cannot, you are leaving me alone in a room….with an elephant.
I’m sitting in my car, waiting for my youngest daughter to finish up with my grandson’s 4 month checkup. Alone in my thoughts….
It just hit me that I am one of two people still alive on this earth that knew Courtney from the moment she was born until the day she was taken from me. And yes, I feel like she was taken from ME.
Of the two people who have known her her whole life, obviously as her mother, I got to spend the most time with her. I spent more hours and days with her than anyone in her life…and I probably spent more time with her than I did with anyone else in MY life, come to think of it.
I guess that explains why it seems like no one else has been AS affected by the loss of her than I am. I know there are those that hurt over her, that miss her and that love her.
Don’t get me wrong…I’m not discounting that.
But she was PART of me.
I just ache everyday. I can’t breathe. I feel electricity surging through all my nerves. It’s like I can FEEL my hair. My stomach is in knots all the time. My heart feels like it will stop at any moment. My chest hurts. Sometimes, I want to eat, sometimes, I don’t. I fight destructive urges daily. I’m a disaster.
My mom, she tells a lot of lies. She never did before. But from now until she dies, She’ll tell a whole lot more. Ask my mom how she is, And because she can’t explain, She will tell a little lie Because she can’t describe the pain.
Ask my mom how she is, She’ll say that she’s alright. If that’s the truth, then tell me, Why does she cry each night?
Ask my mom how she is, She seems to cope so well. She doesn’t have a choice, you see. Nor the strength enough to yell.
Ask my mom how she is, “I’m fine, I’m well, I’m coping.” For God’s sake mom, just tell the truth. Just say your heart is broken.
She will love me all her life. I sure loved her all of mine, But if you ask her how she is She’ll lie and say she’s fine.
I am here in Heaven, I cannot hug her from here. If she lies to you, don’t listen. Hug her and hold her near.
On the day we meet again, We’ll smile and I’ll be bold. I’ll say, “You’re lucky you got in here mom, With all the lies you told!”
At first you are in shock, and then you are in denial. And pretty soon reality puts your emotions on trial. You lose so much, but the first thing you lose is your smile. To others you seem okay, but you really are not. The grief that you feel is only the start. Because your child now lives only in your heart.
You treasure each picture, that is all you have got. You cling to memories that you thought you forgot. You know your life will never again be the same. You pretend things are okay, and you hide your pain. You just want someone to mention her name. So you can imagine that she is beside you again. Sometimes you feel like you are going insane.
You still feel all alone, even when in a crowd. Others can speak of their children of whom they are proud, but to talk about your child, somehow isn’t allowed. So your child’s memories are hidden under grief’s cloud. You just want to mention her name out loud.
With each day you are reminded of all you have lost. And how much your loss has ultimately cost. Your child’s hopes and dreams have been tossed. So before you judge, keep your fingers crossed, That you never know the pain of a child’s loss.
You hold back tears, because they would be a stream. You cry every day, but you really want to scream. “My child mattered, how can people be so mean?” You pray for a visit, or vision in the form of a dream.
So before you tell me some over used silly cliche’, like “She is in a better place” or “Things are better this way”, think about what you are about to say. I really mean it when I tell you, that I hope and pray, that you never know how I feel each and every day.
Since losing Courtney, my heart has literally ached every single day and it feels like there is just a gaping wound in the center of my chest. It’s almost like I can feel air flowing through it. It is the size of a man’s fist. I can FEEL IT. There IS a hole there.
Today, a new sensation started. Not only am I feeling the aching, burning and physical longing in my chest, it seriously feels like it’s bleeding. Actually bleeding. To the point where I have unconsciously put my hand on my chest to see if my shirt is wet…multiple times.
How does someone live with this?
How do I live without my firstborn child?
She has been with me my whole adult life. I became an adult when I was 5 months pregnant with her. She taught me how to be an adult and how to be a mother.
How am I ever going to be OK without her here?
How do I live with this hole in my chest…and on my life?
What is Normal after your child dies? Normal is having tears waiting behind every smile because your child is missing from all the important events in your life.
Normal is feeling like you can’t sit another minute without getting up and screaming, because you just don’t like to sit through anything anymore.
Normal is not sleeping very well because a thousand what if’s & why didn’t I’s go through your head constantly.
Normal is reliving the day your child died, continuously through your eyes and mind, holding your head to make it go away.
Normal is having the TV on the minute you walk into the house to have noise, because the silence is deafening.
Normal is telling the story of your child’s death as if it were an everyday, commonplace activity, and then seeing the horror in someone’s eyes at how awful it sounds. And yet realizing it has become a part of your “normal.”
Normal is each year coming up with the difficult task of how to honor your childs’s memory and their birthdays and survive these days.
Normal is a heart warming and yet sinking feeling at the sight of something special your child loved.
Normal is having some people afraid to mention your child.
Normal is making sure that others remember your child.
Normal is everyone else eventually going on with their lives.
Normal is weeks, months, and years after the initial shock, the grieving gets worse, not better.
Normal is not listening to people compare anything in their life to your loss, unless they too have lost a child. Nothing compares.
Normal is realizing you do cry everyday.
Normal is being impatient with everything and everyone except someone stricken with grief over the loss of their child.
Normal is sitting at the computer crying, sharing how you feel with other grieving parents.
Normal is being too tired to care if you paid the bills, cleaned the house, did the laundry or if there is any food.
Normal is asking God why he took your child’s life instead of yours.
Normal is learning to lie to everyone you meet and telling them you are fine. You lie because it makes others uncomfortable if you cry. You’ve learned it’s easier to lie to them then to tell them the truth that you still feel empty and lost.
And last of all…
Normal is hiding all the things that have become “normal” for you to feel, so that everyone around you will think that you are “normal.”
Losing a child is the loneliest, most desolate journey a person can take and the only people who can come close to appreciating it are those who share the experience … the dues to belong to this club are more than anyone would ever wish to pay. No one wants to belong to this club either. The following five tips can be your compass to help you navigate how to give support to grieving parents on a sacred journey they never wanted to take.
Remember our children.
The loss of children is a pain all bereaved parents share, and it is a degree of suffering that is impossible to grasp without experiencing it first hand. Often, when we know someone else is experiencing grief, our discomfort keeps us from approaching it head on. But we want the world to remember our child or children, no matter how young or old our child was.
If you see something that reminds you of my child, tell me. If you are reminded at the holidays or on his birthday that I am missing my son, please tell me you remember him. And when I speak his name or relive memories relive them with me, don’t shrink away. If you never met my son, don’t be afraid to ask about him. One of my greatest joys is talking about Brandon.
Accept that you can’t “fix” us.
An out-of-order death such as child loss breaks a person (especially a parent) in a way that is not fixable or solvable — ever! We will learn to pick up the pieces and move forward, but our lives will never be the same.
Every grieving parent must find a way to continue to live with loss, and it’s a solitary journey. We appreciate your support and hope you can be patient with us as we find our way.
Please: don’t tell us it’s time to get back to life, that’s it’s been long enough, or that time heals all wounds. We welcome your support and love, and we know sometimes it hard to watch, but our sense of brokenness isn’t going to go away. It is something to observe, recognize, accept.
Know that there are at least two days a year we need a time out.
We still count birthdays and fantasize what our child would be like if he/she were still living. Birthdays are especially hard for us. Our hearts ache to celebrate our child’s arrival into this world, but we are left becoming intensely aware of the hole in our hearts instead. Some parents create rituals or have parties while others prefer solitude. Either way, we are likely going to need time to process the marking of another year without our child.
Then there’s the anniversary of the date our child became an angel. This is a remarkable process similar to a parent of a newborn, first counting the days, then months then the one year anniversary, marking the time on the other side of that crevasse in our lives.
No matter how many years go by, the anniversary date of when our child died brings back deeply emotional memories and painful feelings (particularly if there is trauma associated with the child’s death). The days leading up to that day can feel like impending doom or like it’s hard to breathe. We may or may not share with you what’s happening.
This is where the process of remembrance will help. If you have heard me speak of my child or supported me in remembering him/her, you will be able to put the pieces together and know when these tough days are approaching.
Realize that we struggle every day with happiness.
It’s an ongoing battle to balance the pain and guilt of outliving your child with the desire to live in a way that honors them and their time on this earth.
I remember going on a family cruise eighteen months after Brandon died. On the first day, I stood at the back of the ship and bawled that I wasn’t sharing this experience with him. Then I had to steady myself, and recognize that I was also creating memories with my surviving sons, and enjoying the time with them in the present moment.
As bereaved parents, we are constantly balancing holding grief in one hand and a happy life after loss in the other. You might observe this when you are with us at a wedding, graduation or other milestone celebration. Don’t walk away — witness it with us and be part of our process.
Accept the fact that our loss might make you uncomfortable.
Our loss is unnatural, out-of-order; it challenges your sense of safety. You may not know what to say or do, and you’re afraid you might make us lose it. We’ve learned all of this as part of what we’re learning about grief.
We will never forget our child. And in fact, our loss is always right under the surface of other emotions, even happiness. We would rather lose it because you spoke his/her name and remembered our child, than try and shield ourselves from the pain and live in denial.
Grief is the pendulum swing of love. The stronger and deeper the love the more grief will be created on the other side. Consider it a sacred opportunity to stand shoulder to shoulder with someone who have endured one of life’s most frightening events. Rise up with us ❤️
Some days, I pretend that I am dealing with your death alright. I can usually hold back the tears and try to force myself to accept that you’re gone. It doesn’t really work. But it’s become my daily goal, to fake out those around me so they think I’m OK.
I try to force myself to believe the cliche words that get thrown around, about how only the good die young and how God takes His favorites first. About how it was your time and how everything happens for a reason.
But most of the time, I don’t buy in to that “silver lining” attitude and all I can feel is anger. Hurt. Betrayal. Brokenness.
I’m sorry that I can’t be strong all the time. I know you always said I was the strongest women you knew. Well, turns out I’m not, babygirl.
Most days, I feel like I hate the world and every person inside of it. Most days, I’m bitter about the way life turned out. Most days, I just want to end my pain, because the thought of going through another day without you just kills me.
I’m sorry that I can’t walk around with unflinching hope when I know how fucked up this world is. I’m sorry I’m not perfect. I’m sorry I carry so much anger inside. And yes, that anger is what I feel with ever beat of my heart.
I’m pissed, because you left your family behind. You left people who still needed your love, your voice, your hugs, your kisses. People who cared about you more than they cared about themselves. People who would do anything to have one more minute with you. People who needed to learn from you.
I’m pissed, because I keep seeing these stupid-ass people running around without a care in the world and acting like they are invincible. The same people will possibly be living for decades longer than you had the chance to.
The goodness in your heart should have earned you more days, months, years. It should have earned you time.
I’m pissed, because you deserved better. You deserved to celebrate more milestones. You deserved to see the people around you grow up. You deserved to marry the love of your life. You deserved to have a baby of your own. You deserved to grow old yourself and pass away peacefully in your sleep after ninety years of living your best life.
I’m pissed, because it’s not fair. That sounds whiny to say, childish, but it’s the truth. What happened to you wasn’t fucking fair. What happened to us, your family, wasn’t fucking fair. Nothing about your death was FUCKING FAIR.
I miss you. And I hate that I miss you, because I shouldn’t have to. I should be able to call you up. I should be able to knock on your door. I should be able to see you on FaceTime whenever I want. I should be able to know it’s you bursting in the front door, before ever laying eyes on you.
You should still be here, right now, sending me texts to ask how to do this or that…or even to complain about your messy brother. You should still be here, right now, giving me a reason to laugh instead of cry. You should still be here, right now, alive and well.
No matter how many cliches are thrown at me, no matter how many of those sayings that I read in an attempt to find some semblance of comfort, I will always believe that your death was just bullshit.
I will always believe that there was some sort of mistake, that you didn’t deserve it. That you were robbed of so much….of everything.
I will always believe that you deserved so much more.
I love you, Courtney. I hope you know just how much.
Dancing in the Sky 