Showing up for Someone

I thought I'd share one of the most beautiful examples of holding space for someone that I've come across in my grief work. I hope it will inspire you today the way it did me.

Yesterday I posted about the difficulty of grievers to identify and express specific needs they have, and how sometimes that makes people (me!) make vague offers to help that end up sounding empty and not actually supporting anyone.

These vague offers often feel too risky, because they lack specifics ("Let me know if you need anything"), and the griever doesn't know whether their request will be accepted or rejected, if they ever muster up the energy to put a request out there at all. Grievers already feel incredibly vulnerable, and this can make it worse.

Years ago, right after Rare Bird came out, I met with a newly bereaved mom and dad in their home. Their 15 year old daughter died by suicide, and they wanted to talk to someone a little farther down the road of grief.

The mom told me that 2 friends from church, in those early days of shock and despair, told her they would be available to take a walk with her two days a week.

They said they would show up at the end of her driveway every Tuesday and Thursday at 9 am. If the mom felt up to it, she could come out and walk with them. They could talk about her daughter, talk about insignificant things, or not talk at all. If she didn't feel like walking that day, no hard feelings, but they would keep showing up.

Then, they went to the family calendar hanging on the kitchen wall and wrote "Walk 9am" on all the Tuesdays and Thursdays for the next several months.

When we feel supported, we can use our depleted energy to grieve, process, remember, and ultimately find a path forward. When we don't feel supported, we can expend our precious energy being angry at the people who let us down. Believe me, I've been there! This is why support is crucial.

This mom felt seen and supported. She got out of the house into the sunshine and the rain at time when walking on her own may have made her feel too exposed and vulnerable. Her friends' commitment to showing up and spending this time with her week after week, month after month, was an important acknowledgment that something significant and earth shattering had taken place. Not just in her family, but in the world, because we are all connected.

They bore witness to her pain.

Doing so is not easy, by any means, but it is loving and often remarkable.

5 Ways You Can Help a Grieving Friend

It seems like an important time to share this again. Grief is disorienting and lonely. You can make a difference.

Note: *for health and safety reasons, during the pandemic, you may need to be creative in the ways you reach out. 

1. Show up. Go to her house for a hug and show of support. Make visits brief, and look for cues as to whether it’s time to leave. If you see a tangible need, whether it’s for a jumbo pack of toilet paper or a dress for her daughter for the funeral, take care of it. I’ll never forget my friend Robin taking my broken glasses out of my hand and getting me a new pair to wear to my mother’s funeral. Go to the funeral, whether in person or virtually. You may feel like just a face in the crowd, but your presence is important. Then, mark your calendar for a few days or a week afterward to show up in a different way, such as stopping by with a latte and a hug. Do it again. Your friend will likely need you to initiate for a while, but if you remind yourself to “Just Show Up” physically and emotionally, you will help her heal.
2. Memorialize and honor. Honor your friend’s loved one by attending events such as a vigil and any charity events held in his or her name. If you knew the loved one, write down your memories and give it to your friend. But it’s okay if you didn’t know the loved one—you are here to support your friend.  You belong! Yours could be the face she needs to see. As you support your friend in her grief, you will get to know more about her loved one, and that will help guide you in other ways to reach out such as donating to charity, planting a tree, giving a book to a library, or through a small gift. A special piece of jewelry, a book, a candle, a photograph of her loved one, or even a cozy robe in her loved one’s favorite color help your friend feel closer to her loved one, even as their tangible connection feels like it is slipping away.
3. Listen. Your quiet presence or silent hug means more to your friend than any grand gesture or the "perfect" words. Showing up for a friend is scary because we are terrified of saying the wrong thing. That’s okay.  Words are next to useless at a time like this, so give yourself a break. A simple “I’m so sorry” or "I love you" and your presence are priceless. Your intention is pure, and your friend will be able to sense that. “Do you want to tell me what these past few days have been like?” might be a way to give her permission to open up if she wants to. But silence is okay, too. If you feel the words "At Least" moving from your brain to your mouth, force yourself to be silent.
4. Remember: Remember the birthday of the deceased, and the anniversary or the time of year of his or her death. Call, text, or send a card. “I’m thinking of you today as you miss your mom.” Or, make a note to reach out on important holidays such as Mother’s Day or Father’s Day or other holidays that would be particularly meaningful to your friend. This could be the first day of school, or the opening day of baseball season. Don’t worry that you will be reminding your friend of her loss on those days. She is already thinking about it, and your quick card, email, or text will let her know you are too. Find a way to bring up the loved one’s name in conversation. The more you do it, the easier it gets, “I watched the Yankees play last week and thought of Jack.” “Your mom really loved summer, didn’t she?”  This helps your friend know that even though time has passed, you still remember that her life has changed.
5. Don’t give up: Your friendship may feel one sided for a while. You may be tempted to back off, give your friend space, or let your friend reach out to you once she knows what she needs. You may even feel a bit let down that she seems to be relating to others more than you these days. Perhaps she has formed bonds with others who have experienced a similar loss and you are wondering what this means for your friendship. The key is to keep letting your friend know you care. Let go of expectations of how/if she will respond. Grief is extremely isolating and lonely, and if you can stave off some of that by being consistently present even if that is through texts, and (unreturned) phone messages.  Yes, your friend has changed due to her experience, but she still loves and needs you. And if you are willing to walk beside her in her grief, you both will be richer for it.

Show up.

Memorialize and Honor.

Listen.

Remember.

Don’t Give Up.

I'm Here

One of my favorite things for 4 year olds is the "basement play date." That last year of preschool before kindergarten opens up a child's world to the wonders of playing with someone else's stuff in the treasure trove of a basement or a playroom. Sometimes it even means going home from preschool in a friend's car, having a snack in an unfamiliar kitchen, and playing until mom picks you up hours later. Almost a whole day away! It's exciting, scary, fun, and an opportunity for growth.

The pandemic began shortly before Andrew turned 4. Now he's almost 5. So we were on the cusp of this magical stage right before everything changed. We canceled his birthday party at an indoor play place. (Sometimes I think this whole mess is my fault because as a germaphobe I threw caution to the wind to plan that kind of party in the first place!) Preschool shut down, and I became his primary playmate. 

If you ask Andrew today what his heart desires, it is to play inside a friend's house, and to have a friend come inside ours. Sitting inside McDonalds again is also pretty high on the list. In 10 months he has gone inside a Dollar Tree once, but no other stores or restaurants. 

I was thinking about all of the things he's missing and that I'm missing for him: church, sporting events, hugging his grandparents, and play dates are just a few. He has been resilient and adaptable, and I am so proud of him. I know for sure that I won't have to "play Legos" forever which, unfortunately, doesn't mean "build Legos"-- there are battles and backstories and I never seem to know what is going on, just that the clock seems to slow to less than a crawl when it's happening. 

Many, many people have lost so much more than my little guy. Jobs, physical and mental health, homes, food security, and a year of education slipping away and leaving those with "less than," with even less. 

And most especially, the death of family members.  

The death toll of covid is so VAST it is natural to start tune out, to not see each loss, each life as unique and precious. What seemed inconceivable in early March, is a daily reality that keeps getting worse, at least for now.

It's normal to see what's in our own home, our own families, and our own circumstances. I think it's valid and healthy to acknowledge and let my heart ache a little for some of the small losses of opportunity my little guy has had, and be genuinely sad that my big girl's college experience looks nothing like we'd all hoped. 

But when Andrew is finally playing in a friend's basement, and I am out of the lonely fog of my current circumstances and on to my "next thing," I want to remember them. Your grandma. Your sister. Your uncle. Your spouse. Your friend. 

This community has stood by me and honored Jack's death as significant for many years. Even as time has passed and the smaller issues of life have crept back in, you have said, "I'm here. Jack matters." 

I know I'm on Facebook and Instagram constantly and have been very quiet on the blog.

But I'm here. Your person matters. 

Calendar Pages

I was talking to a good friend yesterday, whose young husband died suddenly a few years ago. I wanted to know how the new rhythms of the pandemic were affecting her family. How had they coped during the complete shutdown? "I mean, grief is already so isolating," I said.

Her reply landed deep inside me, because I recognized my own experience there. "It's been okay. In a way I feel as if the rest of the world has been catching up to where I've been for a while. That they are getting a taste of grief."

She didn't mean the many, many families whose loved ones have died from this brutal illness, a number that is unfortunately climbing by the day because our country does not have a well-coordinated plan on how to address Covid-19.

The "taste" she was referring to was the swift wiping clean of the calendar pages. When everything shut-down in mid-March, people took a sharpie and drew through weddings, work trips, school days, and social events and had to surrender to the uncertainty of when and if things would ever return to "normal."

People struggled to find a daily routine and felt rudderless when the rhythms they'd always known of work and school and even identity were upended. Jobs they thought they could count on disappeared, and they were separated physically from the ones they loved. The world outside their doors felt confusing and even dangerous.

And so it is with grief. Grievers know the stark Before/After well. They know the disorienting feeling of having a plan for how things were going to be, how one's life would look, then being left with the uncertainty of how to move forward when life turns upside down.

I remember my sister scrambling to find a new wall calendar for us right after Jack died, because the one on our kitchen door scrawled with things like, "Jack/Margaret dentist", "Boy Scouts", and "baseball practice", in all its normalcy, belied the shattered state of the family inside that door. It wounded us us with the could-have-beens. Each plan cut us to the bone.

Grief requires an adaptability and flexibility that is not innate or comfortable, right at a time when you are feeling ill-equipped to exhibit either. It requires a letting go of the expectation of how things were going to be, when your instinct is to clench your fists and try to hold on with all you've got. We deny and resist our pain as much as we can, but at some point we have to face it.  The longer we resist, the longer it lasts.

Grief is messy.

As is life in a pandemic.

It's important and even healthy to acknowledge our losses. To say, "I hate this! This is terrible! I wish it were another way!"

But when we continue to cling to the way things were, or the way we wanted them to be-- whether we are doing it because life is "unfair", or even in the name of "personal freedom" we can spew our grief, or our germs, on others.

Both are harmful; one can be deadly.

I Can Only Imagine

On September 11, 2001 I sat in the parlor of our church with my besties from my moms' group. We were so happy to be together after a summer apart. It was my chance to show off newborn Margaret, while 2 year old Jack played happily in the nursery. In the room that day we had a flight attendant, a woman whose husband worked at the Pentagon, another whose sister worked in the World Trade Center, and another for whom the Oklahoma City terrorist attack was not just an abstraction, but a reality. Her husband was the only one who called and said, "Get home now. This is terrorism."

As the news unfolded, we tried to take in what we were hearing, yet for the most part, we continued in our meeting. It didn't seem real. I looked at our agenda items, and crossed them off one by one. Later, as people fled Washington DC, some on foot, Tim chose to stay at work in his office, 3 blocks from the White House. It didn't cross his mind to come home early.

Our passivity seemed stark to me. As we learned more, I became certain that if told that everything was fine and to return to my desk at the Trade Center, I would have done so. It worried me that I didn't seem to have much of a survival instinct. I remembered back to childhood when my brother and sister would chase me and I would just stop. I knew they'd catch me sooner or later, so why not make it sooner?

When we heard of flight attendants and passengers fighting back, of fire fighters trudging up flight after flight of stairs toward the danger, I tried to picture myself in their position of bravery and self-sacrifice and couldn't.

Of course trying to inject myself into these scenarios was futile. It's similar to when I hear someone say, "Well, I would have gone all Mama Bear on them..." when discussing a scenario related to a child. Maybe. Perhaps. Maybe not. How do you know?

I would have liked to have believed I would have plunged into a raging creek after my dying son, not sat quietly in our kitchen waiting for news. I would have imagined Tim would have run to the creek, yet he came quietly to the door, shattered, confused, saying, "What do I do? Should I go down there?"

For all of the heroic acts of that terrible day 18 years ago, surely there were ordinary acts too. People sitting at their desks, trying to make a phone call. Those not processing, wondering if the whole work day would be a waste. Making nervous jokes. Weighing the options of climbing down 60-plus flights of stairs in high heels versus waiting until everything was resolved. It was the final few moments of a world where steel buildings didn't fall. Right before people had to make a terrible choice of staying in a burning skyscraper or leaping out of one.

Or maybe it was really the "during" but not yet the "after."

And when the after came, and we were able to imagine scenarios, so inconceivable a short time before, our country came together in the magnitude and sacredness of the horror and loss of life and promise. We put small differences aside. We talked to strangers. We hung out American flags. We went to church. We honored the pain and grief.

18 years later, domestic terrorists hunt down and murder our children in school. Our children spend time training for and injecting themselves into scenarios such as deciding whether to be brave and try to confront a shooter. How to block a door. Whether to throw their bodies on top of each other. Or whether to crouch and pray for survival.

I try to imagine if we'd been told in September 2001 that our great country would be losing kids this way, not just 2 years post-Columbine, but 20. We would surely have pictured ourselves coming together in love and bravery, putting all differences aside and finding a way to protect our children.

But sometimes what we imagine we would do is not what we do.

It's Beginning to Look a Lot Like Christmas

 Tim, Jack Margaret 2006

Tim, Andrew, Anna, Margaret 2017

Andrew is VERY excited about Christmas. He has been a little more "hands-on" with our two trees than I'd prefer, but so far breakage has been minimal. Without a peep from me about Santa, he is very much on board with the jolly guy delivering him a fire engine down the chimney in a few weeks. I'm guessing he got this intel from Mickey Mouse and Llama Llama on TV.

We've also been reading books and talking about Baby Jesus. Last week Andrew messed with a present I bought for a local charity. When I asked him about it, he said, "I think Baby Jesus came into our house and broke it." Wonder if he thinks Jesus used the chimney? It was pretty funny.

Guess who else is looking forward to Christmas?

ME.

I wanted to let you know that, because some of you are in the early days and months of grief, and the holidays are something to be endured, ignored, slogged through, and merely survived, not enjoyed or anticipated. It is hardly conceivable to you that someone who has endured great loss as you have would be able to look forward to ANYTHING again, let alone precious family traditions. I see you. I hear you. I understand that at a deep level. All you can do at this point is hold on and be gentle to yourself. If I can provide any measure of hope to you, I want to do that. And if hope seems like far too much, I want to bear witness to your pain.

Many others of you were with me those first few years when I showed up for holidays in order to be there for Margaret and to continue family traditions. It was brutally painful. You prayed us through those days. Thank you.

Last week, as Margaret and I hung ornaments, she said, "I love Christmas! The decorations, the music, everything." I was shocked and happy to hear this. First, because teenage girls tend not to express a love or appreciation of much, but also because I'd wondered whether Christmas was ruined for her 7 years ago when her childhood became a clear Before/After.

My own optimism is enriched by the opportunity to experience the joy and magic of Christmas with a small child again, but it is not BECAUSE OF THIS. Some factors have been the passage of time, giving myself permission to mourn, and an eventual re-framing of my thoughts about death. I see death as a transition now, versus an ending. Just as Margaret's Christmases faced a transition, a very painful one, when Jack died, they did not end there. In death, Jack transitioned to heaven, but nothing about him, except his physical presence has ended.

In the early years, naturally so, I grieved his physical presence mightily. Having a toddler to kiss and snuggle again reminds me even more of what it is like for a mother to be so physically enmeshed with a beloved child as to know every part of him/her. No part of Andrew is foreign to me.

My own thinking has landed at there being a time for everything, and that although I do not understand why Jack's time here on earth, or my mother's, was so short-- and why mine is longer, I am learning to accept that. The brittle bag of bones I felt like just a few years ago has been replenished with life and hope, despite new wrinkles and the scars I carry. This is not something that can be forced or rushed, and you will NEVER find me pushing it on anyone else. Forced peace, inflicted gratitude, and faked acceptance is not helpful or healing.

Instead, I will just say I'm really looking forward to the holidays this year. And if you are not, I see you, I care, and you don't need to be a smidge different to be here with me.



**p.s. A Hug from Heaven is Amazon's #1 New Release in Children's Death and Dying books! Email me at ahugfromheavenbook@gmail.com if you would like me to send you a signed copy with FREE shipping and a photo sleeve for your loved one's picture.

**p.p.s. Right now I am having an online Stella and Dot party to raise money to support families whose kids are in cancer treatment. Please treat yourself to something awesome and help Stillbrave Childhood Cancer Foundation at the same time!

Holidays and Empty Chairs

This piece by John Pavlovitz really spoke to me, so I thought I'd share it with you. I've been thinking of so many people who will face an empty chair these holidays, through death or estrangement. And, with the devastating fires in CA, many, many people won't even have a home, or a chair this year. How traumatic and disorienting that must be. If you are struggling to be grateful or to "make merry" please be gentle on yourself.

Undated Hand Turkey From Jack:

Dear Mom and Dad

Thank you for:

            Being great parents,

              Taking care of me, 

            Loving me forever.

A Welcome Balm

Thump, thump, thump.

I could hear the balls hit our basketball hoop and then the ground. I couldn't see them from my kitchen table a few feet away, because I'd taped temporary paper shades on the glass in the door and over all the windows.

One by one, my new friends-- friends who had each had a son die-- turned the handle and came inside. They'd parked in the crowded driveway we shared with our neighbors, dodged the basketballs in our carport, and come to our grief support group.

"I don't know how you do it!" they each said to me.

This was a phrase they'd likely heard themselves many times. How did they make it through multiple rounds of chemo with their precious boys? How did they tell their sons they weren't going back to school? How did one go into her son's bedroom to wake him, but find him dead?

They knew they were not made of stronger stuff than other moms. They'd just been thrust into unwelcome, nearly untenable situations that they couldn't run away from. They knew that grieving moms are just people doing the best we can.

But that night they said it to me, quickly piecing together that the boys playing outside my door were the ones who were with Jack when he had his accident. While I'd never experienced hospitals, blood draws, invasive tests, toxic treatments, and having Jack lose his beautiful hair, I was experiencing something excruciating as I saw Jack's best friend, and his new best friend, bond and live and play right in front of me, day in and day out. The stark contrast between these living children and my dead son was almost too much to take, and these mothers' hearts recognized that in an instant.

I talked about this with my pastor and friend, Glenda. I felt terrible for feeling angry and uncharitable toward children-- so jealous and petty. My magical thinking would have one of them die, while Jack would live. This was so far from how I wanted to be-- Anna The Super Griever who spread her love and warmth like fairy dust-- but it was real, and raw, and exactly where I was.

There would be no warm and fuzzy tv special about how I'd taken the boys in as my own, cultivating a surrogate mom role to make up for losing Jack.  Nope. So, I piled guilt on top of my anger and grief.

But I wanted to feel my pain and anger and not cover it up by pretending like everything was okay--faking kindness and compassion that wasn't yet there. Grieving Jack felt too holy for anything other than truth and light and 100% honesty.

After hearing all of this, Glenda touched my hand and rubbed it gently. She said, "If your hand is raw and in pain, there is nothing wrong with finding a balm to soothe it. To coat and protect it as it heals. That's not weakness. You don't need to feel guilty. That's just taking care of yourself."

I honestly couldn't think of one thing that could be a balm in the colossal missing and longing for Jack. But as those early days turned into months, and then into almost 2 years, a balm came into view.

I was healing, I could tell, but the pain of seeing the two boys multiple times a day continued to be incredibly painful. I made the difficult decision to move our family to a new house, even if it meant dragging Tim and Margaret along with me. It was not a savvy financial decision. It was very hard on Margaret as it represented her leaving her childhood behind. It meant driving over the creek where Jack was found multiple times a day. It meant leaving Jack's room behind.

But it was a balm.

Of course I still felt grief and pain while I healed, but that rawness, that fresh pain anew every single day, was coated by a bit of distance, just as ointment buffers and protects a wound.

This month it will be 5 years since we moved. Our windows are bare and the light streams in.

I was not a bad griever, or a bad person, for recognizing my need and doing something about it. For letting myself off the hook of being the comforter for everyone else, including my neighbors.

If you are hurting right now, feeling the sting of loss and disappointment or dreams unrealized, perhaps you, too, could find a balm. Something unexpected and sweet that doesn't numb you from your experience, but gives you a bit of a buffer of protection.

Is your balm to decline from going to baby showers or weddings? Is it to walk away from a friendship that causes you nothing but pain? Is it to log off social media for a good long while?

I don't know, but I send you love as you consider it.

When has Saying "Calm Down" ever Calmed Anyone Down in the History of Calming Down?

I was honored to give a talk on Friday to a Christian networking group. I spoke about finding hope in grief, and I used my personal experiences to illustrate strategies that I have found helpful in the midst of great pain.

My first point was to LET YOURSELF FEEL THE PAIN/LET YOURSELF GRIEVE.

One of my greatest hopes in writing so much about grief for the past 5 years, is that I can help grievers and those people who are trying to support/understand them navigate grief in healthy ways. And truly, this kind of understanding is needed for ALL of us, for we will all grieve in this lifetime.

I bring this up today because there are many people in our country grieving what feels like a sudden and unexpected loss, and there are many others saying, "Move on!" "Get over it!" "Let it go!"

Yes, one of the ways in which we do find hope amidst great pain is in letting go of things eventually,  --primarily an expectation for the way we thought things would/should be. This is something that often comes with time, but it is never effective if INFLICTED on someone else.

If we do not let ourselves feel or acknowledge grief, it festers, it rots, it grows. Acknowledging pain and brokenness does the opposite.

I have friends who were not able to be around my pain in losing Jack. It spoke to their deepest fears of losing a child of their own. And perhaps the messiness of my grief made them uncomfortable. I became "other". They wanted me to get better, fast, and maybe not talk/write about it so much. But if I had stuffed my grief, shoved it away, and MOVED ON, not only would I likely be in a much darker place now, I also would not have used my hard-earned (yet unsought) wisdom in service to others.

You see, pain that is tamped down or stifled says, "I've been hurt. This isn't fair! I want to hurt others so they will feel as miserable as I do!" Pain that is let out into the light, into the world, says, "I'm hurting. I will not calm down, sit down, shut up, or pretend that everything's okay. My grief is not on someone else's timetable.  I may not get the time machine I long for, but I will look ahead right now to see how I can help someone else."

That is what is going to happen. Pain that is let out in the air, not tamped down, will effect positive change.

Sure, the "losers" will eventually "let go" of their expectation of victory for their candidate. I don't believe that's the crux of what's going on anyway. But, if given the opportunity and RESPECT to feel their feelings, just as every griever deserves, they will be able to channel this disappointment into not pretending everything is okay, but rather into continuing to work for/fight for what they believe is right in a world that feels upside down to them right now.

That's what I'm thinking today.

But first I need to say I am sorry.

I am sorry for any role I may have had in not understanding pain that has gone unacknowledged or festered for many years and that may have led to an election outcome that I didn't expect.

I am sorry for oversimplifying here when I share my heart with you, and if for any reason you feel carelessly lumped into one category/one motivation/one issue when I write about the election, I am sorry for that, too.

I am sorry if linking election grief to the grief of losing a loved one causes any of you more pain than you are already experiencing. I promise that's not what I'm trying to do.

And I'm sorry if saying I will not pretend everything is okay in our country right now causes anyone to think that I am someone who wants to stir up trouble, or that I am a whiner.

For something is already stirred up in this country we love, that is for sure, and I won't be quiet and I won't calm down if there is ANYTHING I can do to help make it better, whether that makes people uncomfortable or not. My biggest fear is that we will stop paying attention to what's going on, and before we know it, what felt outrageous a year ago, or a month ago, or a day ago, will start to feel normalized. That's one of the greatest risks of calming down.

My trust is in God alone, not in any man/woman or office.

Yet I believe that God calls me to look beyond my own comfort/privilege/security to the needs of others, to not numb myself, to stay engaged with eyes wide open, and to call out prejudice, hatred, and injustice when I see it.

 Calmly or otherwise.

Gentle: When Being Kind to Yourself Does NOT Mean Living in Denial

So it's prom season again.

My Facebook page is filling up with gorgeous photos of my friends' kids and their dates. They look sparkly and happy, but the images sting because Jack won't be at prom. The pictures come in dribs and drabs at first, like early spring flowers, but when our local high school hits prom night, my feed will be full.

And it should be.

Friends need to be able to show off their children's milestones, as I did with Margaret's Confirmation two Sundays ago, and the stream of Baby Andrew pics I've been inundating you with.

Expecting people not to post happy moments like prom seems excessive and ungracious to me. And what about baseball team photos, Easter Egg hunts, college visits, and first day of school photos? I mean, where would my censorship stop? Sharing joy and documenting milestones is part of doing life together.

So instead of wishing the photos weren't there, because they remind me of what Jack is NOT doing this spring, I ask myself, "What can I do to be gentle on myself?" whether it's about prom, Christmas, or some other important event, of which there are many. National Siblings Day? Dear Lord.

Perhaps I can decide I need to stay off social media for a few weeks when I know it will be roughest. I am not willing to log off permanently, because social media has been key to me for acknowledgment, support, connection, and healing since losing Jack. Or, I can decide to dip my toe in and look at the photos, seeing if I can experience gratitude that I have friends in my life who are willing to share the good times, and the hard times, with me. One approach isn't better than the other, and each day is different.

In the same vein, perhaps some readers of An Inch of Gray and my Facebook page may need to step away for a while because of Baby Andrew's birth. My sweet little late in life bundle brings joy and wonder to many, but could also bring great pain to those who are in the trenches of baby-loss or infertility. I applaud anyone who is gentle to herself in this small way, stepping away when needed-- life is hard enough as it is.

Gentleness can take many forms. It could mean limiting one's exposure to certain friends who leave you feeling hurt, depleted, judged, or misunderstood, or declining to attend a baby shower or family gathering because it's just too difficult right now. It could mean skipping a school meeting or event now and then or choosing to go to a different grocery store, one that is not laden with memories. I have one friend who is very involved in her family's church, but she does not sit in the sanctuary during worship because that is where her son's funeral was held. She has not opted out of worship entirely, or of God, or community, but she does this one small thing to be gentle on herself each week.

Opting out of some things does not mean a person is living in denial-- it can be a form of self-care. Avoiding certain grief/pain triggers does not equate to avoiding life. A hurting person has many hours in each day to confront loss-- it's inescapable really-- but that doesn't have to mean diving right into the fire at every single opportunity.

Self awareness is always a good way to be gentle with ourselves and understand ourselves better. I mean, if we'd never cultivated any self-awareness, we might have thought it would be a great idea to attend that one ex's wedding in our late 20's, you know, the one with the open bar?!

Some triggers are obvious, and others more subtle.

When my family moved 2 years ago, our new house's location meant we would have to drive, an average of 6 times PER DAY, over the stretch of creek where our son's body was found. A house in almost any other section of town would have let us avoid the creek altogether, or encounter it maybe once a month, but that is not where we ended up. Fortunately, the creek is no longer a grief trigger. I can drive over it again and again, see the cross a friend erected the morning after Jack died, whisper, "Love you, Baby." or "Love you, Jackie" and go about my day. Perhaps driving over it so many times has actually helped diminish the pain seeing the creek could cause-- a kind of exposure therapy, I suppose. Moving out of our old neighborhood was one big way we found of being gentle on ourselves, even though we knew it would be daunting and expensive. Driving over the creek is one result of that move, but fortunately, it has not been too difficult for us.

My triggers may be very different from yours.

Being gentle could mean staying home from church on Mother's Day with a pint of Ben and Jerry's, or going ahead and attending church and giving yourself permission to cry openly or duck out early.

Gentleness does not have to always be opting-out of things, but could also be OPTING-IN. It could be calling a friend and saying, "Next Wednesday is going to rough on me, and no one really knows that, but I am going to want some companionship. Could you be with me?" Pro-actively letting others know how to help us, and giving them the chance to care for us well, is a form of OPTING-IN. My sister usually OPTS-IN to an ice cream cake on the crapiversary of our mother's death, forks and sharing optional.

OPTING-IN could mean finding the perfect, foul-mouthed friend who will let you be snarky, sarcastic, or irreverent for a while, hissing, "Screw prom!" (or class parties, or Valentine's Day, or kindergarten orientation), knowing that you'll rejoin the well-mannered classes after you've vented for a while. It could mean OPTING-IN to a family gathering or memorial, knowing that it will be draining and hard, but giving it the small chance to open you up more or feed you in some way.

OPTING-IN could be finding an absolutely different thing to do, such as traveling somewhere exotic on Christmas Day, joining a writer's workshop, or taking up running. Often, when you have lost much, trying something new isn't as scary as it once was.

Life is hard. Life is Good.

And an important part of life is caring enough to learn ways to be gentle on ourselves.

Have you discovered ways to be gentle on yourself?

On Coming Alive Project!

Today is a special day!

72 people who have endured great loss, yet are finding beauty in the ashes, have come together to share with YOU today!

Please join me over at #oncomingalive to read these stories. No quick fixes. No platitudes. Just real people sharing real stories of gratitude, grace, and putting one foot in front of the other! You may even see a familiar face.

We have snow coming down, and with a cup of hot tea by my side, I know what I'll be doing today.

The Winter of my Discontent?

Today is my 23 week prenatal appointment!

I'll let you know how it goes. As of now I'm still in my robe, trying to stay quiet in case Margaret is asleep, when in reality she is probably hunkered down in her room with her computer. She is the early bird, I'm the night owl, and the teenaged sleeping all day thing hasn't hit her yet.

Sleep continues to elude me.

My routine is to try to go to bed around midnight, but I'm restless and awake until at least 2, usually 4. During the time between 12 and 2 I get up about three to four times to go to the bathroom. I know I should be "storing up sleep" during this trimester, as if that even works, but instead I feel sleep deprived, draggy, and uncomfortable.  Two years of poor sleep before pregnancy haven't helped either. I'll ask the doc today if she has any advice, but really I just wanted to share some of what has been running through my head during those waking hours when all is not calm, all is not bright.

Of course I'm worried about whether I'll be able to mother a baby again. I saw a newborn baby last week. The tiny-ness! The vunerability! The gaping portal of need! In my head I know I can do it, and I'm trusting the process, but lack of sleep whispers doubt and doom into my head in the night.

Oh, and did I tell you we are going ahead with our kitchen renovation? The one that predates this pregnancy? When we found a great kitchen remodeler last spring, he said he couldn't start the project until January. "That sounds PERFECT!" I replied. "We have nothing going on early next year!"

It doesn't seem so perfect right now, because I am thinking that the third trimester, a house in chaos, and you, know, a possible blizzard or two might push me over the proverbial edge. I don't know. I figured if we waited until after the baby came, we would likely never get around to it, but I'm still apprehensive about the dust, the noise, the lack of a working kitchen for 8 weeks, and how to keep the dogs from being traumatized. I want the kitchen, I just don't want to have to GET THERE, you know, and I feel greedy and "things-y" for bringing this problem on myself in the first place.

Our family likes structure and order, and I think this will be a challenge for all of us, pets included, barreling right up against the biggest game changer of all-- the new baby! Is it too much? I think of all of the Christmas decorations to put away,  a kitchen to pack, furniture to store, and a baby room to figure out, and I wonder why I wanted to redo the kitchen in the first place, when right now I kind of want to torch it all. Then there's the expense. We chose to remodel the kitchen before I found out how much having a baby would cost under our insurance plan. The numbers are staggering. So the thoughts churn as I toss and turn, eventually waddling from bed to bed, couch to chair, hoping to find a comfortable place to sleep. I think the lack of sleep is what caused my shingles to flare up again last week.

Although I am not a morning person, and never have been, I do understand that things always seem brighter in the morning, or at least by mid-morning. Because now it is 10 am, and my be-robed self has a much better attitude than I did in the night. The dogs are snuggled together on a dog bed at my feet, Margaret gets to go to a cookie baking party later, and the temp is in the 50's in December!

And we are NOT going to think these crazy-warm temperatures portend a blizzard on kitchen cabinet delivery day in February, right?

Vertigo

I've been dealing with vertigo for about two weeks now. First come the bed spins, the whoosh in my ears and my stomach when I try to sit up, and then, once upright, the strange, loopy way of looking at the world.

I wonder, why do the trees lunge and dip for me, when I suspect they are still standing at attention for others?

Mid-way into the second week, I begin to feel so much better. Driving is okay. My balance returns.  It is a relief to feel almost like myself again, to know the vertigo is a temporary affliction that leaves me pretty much clinging to my bed during the regular end of the school year craziness-- so that's kind of a win.

In some ways, the vertigo took me back to the early days of shock and grief.

Back then, there was a real sense that the world I was looking at was a different one than others saw. I remember the leaves on the trees being so astounding clear and individualized, and the sky so alarmingly blue, that I felt extra vulnerable, as if I'd somehow stepped outside but forgotten my skin. People and things moved all around me, but felt separated from me, as if we were all running smoothly on conveyor belts, turning this way and that, like the maid in the Jetsons. I craved connection, and stability, and the way things were before.

My house and yard looked exactly the same, as did my pretty little town, but a growing awareness that something horrific had happened, right here, made it all feel seem off-kilter and sinister. The old world of school, and work, and kids, and church ceased to exist in a flash, in a moment. The new upside down one, of learning how to outlive a precious child, flashed its skewed existence at me day after day until I could begin to get my bearings.

It would take months and months of living with a profound sense of vulnerability and disorientation for me to begin to feel a little better. Of course it was a new self that emerged, standing not-quite-upright as before, but stable enough to face the challenges ahead as the future spun before me in a new, unwanted direction.

Broad Strokes

My friend Theresa asked if I'd paint some furniture to sell in her charming store in downtown Falls Church, VA. As you may know, I haven't painted furniture since the week of Jack's accident. It has just seemed so empty and meaningless to me.

I wrote toward the end of my book about noticing Margaret get excited last summer just seeing me carry old paint cans up the stairs at the old house. She was hoping I was up to my old tricks, most likely because that would somehow take us back to at least SOMETHING being the way it was before.

I wasn't sure if Theresa's appeal for "help" was along the lines of the Dowager Countess of Grantham and Mrs. Hughes constantly digging up causes and people for Isobel Crawley to assist as a means of getting her interested in something other than the blackness of her grief, or whether she genuinely was backlogged with painting projects.

Either way, with her encouragement, I stepped away from the computer for a few weeks and picked up the paintbrushes. It felt awkward. My brushes had grown stiff, so I had to buy new ones. It was a different kind of paint, not what I'd used before, and I didn't know if I'd find a rhythm with it.

Margaret sat on the leather couch as I spread flattened moving boxes out on the family room floor to protect it from spatters. We watched American Idol and Downton Abbey as I opened a few cans and started testing the paint. I talked about how it was different, how I didn't know if this was going to work out at all. After a while, she asked if she could try her hand at painting a little too, so I gave her some pointers and let her pick the color for the next piece. We sat on either side of a tiny doll cradle, painting it together, talking about our TV shows.

My pushing through fear to write a memoir did not impress her one bit. Blog conferences and the new business cards I bought (but am too wimpy to hand out) that proclaim, "Anna Whiston-Donaldson, Writer" don't merit a second glance.

But the back and forth of our brushes, and seeing me do something that links us both to an earlier time-- a time when we were yet unscathed by a level of pain and longing so profound that despite my best efforts still rarely forms words between us-- felt good to her.

And to me.

 

 

A Gift for Yourself or Someone You Care About

For some time now I've been making a list of books that have been helpful to me on my grief journey. I'm not finished yet (grieving or reading) but I wanted to share with you today a little book that is profound, powerful, and comforting. I would recommend it as a gift for anyone grieving the loss of a loved one. It has been in my bathroom (TMI?) since shortly after Jack's accident and has spoken truth to me and helped me have hope.

"Healing after Loss: Daily Meditations for Working Through Grief" by Martha Whitmore Hickman is a classic daily devotional. Each day starts with a quotation, poem, or Bible verse and is followed by several short paragraphs about grief. Each entry ends with a one line prayer or promise such as, "I will relax into the memory and spiritual presence of my loved one, and feel at peace" or "As often as I need to, I will tell my story."

The writing is conversant yet stunningly beautiful and gives the reader hope that healing (not forgetting!) really is possible.

Frozen

My shoulder started hurting for no good reason around Thanksgiving. I guess it's because I'm getting old. I told my friend Jane that I was babying it a bit because I was afraid I'd torn something, and she said, "Don't baby it! That's the worst thing you could do. You might end up with a Frozen Shoulder." She gave me exercises, which of course I didn't do.

Poop.

So, this week I finally dragged myself to a doctor and found out I have....a Frozen Shoulder! Yippee! Right after giving me a shot in the shoulder and referring me to a physical therapist who would then recommend the exact same exercises Jane told me about two months ago, the doc sat down for some chit chat.

"What do you do for a living?"

I recently quit my job managing a small Christian bookstore, so I tried out something new:

"I'm a writer."

I've never said that before. It sounded strange, maybe a little bit of a stretch, but it felt good, too. I hadn't anticipated the next question, even though it was an obvious one.

"So, have you written any books?"

"Well, yes, my first book is coming out in September." Now, THAT felt great to say!

But why oh why wasn't I ready for the next question? I know I need to get used to speaking about my book. I need to not be embarrassed or ashamed about the subject matter. I need to believe that there is a reason I've been given the chance to tell my story, and that it can't help anyone if I don't share it.

Deep breath: "Well, it's a memoir about losing my son."

"Oh, I'm sorry. But I sure won't be reading it. I don't DO tragedy."

The doctor's words did not offend me. He was on the spot, in that little exam room. He had plunged into something uncomfortable and scary, when all he wanted was a few seconds of small talk. And his thoughts were not so very different from ones that I have voiced before. I mean, who wants to DO tragedy, if they can help it?

I remember that when Jack was born almost 15 years ago, I abruptly stopped watching some of my favorite shows, most notably Law and Order SVU. I just couldn't take the depravity of the world and the way it made me feel so vulnerable, especially since I had a little one to take care of now. No longer fascinated by the dark side of the human experience, I wanted to shield us from it any way I could, and covering my eyes and ears seemed like a viable option. I had to seriously limit the Oprah book club books I read, too.

I understand that the doctor doesn't want to read my book. I totally get it.

Then today, at my first physical therapy appointment, the therapist asked me how many kids I have. I had already cried when it felt like she was breaking my arm, and more tears trickled out when I said, "I used to have 2, but now I have 1." It's not what I expected to say when asked this question, as if Jack had ceased to exist in a "poof!" but it's what came out. Usually I just say "2" and leave it at that, but she and I will be seeing each other 3 times a week for a while, and I didn't want to make her feel even more awkward later with follow-up questions if I had led her to believe I had two healthy kids at home with me.

It's interesting, because in the next months, I'm going to have to figure out how to talk about what I write about. I'll have to get out behind the screen and actually talk to people. I'll be attending conferences and meeting people, and eventually promoting my book. Not only am I a horrible sales person, "Umm, you, uh, wouldn't want to buy some Girl Scout cookies, would you?" I am also reluctant to put people on the spot and make them uncomfortable.

They are such natural questions, "What do you blog about? What's your book about? How many kids do you have?" but they freak me out. The last blog conference I went to, I brought a stack of business cards that I was too chicken to give out, when people asked what I blogged about, I said, "Uh, Life," and when I wasn't hiding in my room, I tried to stick very close to people who already knew my story.

I'm thinking my honest yet awkward answers to the doctor and the physical therapist were important baby steps for me.

Do you have any suggestions? Is there a way to know if someone just wants a quick, pleasant interaction versus the truth? Do I use the same gauges I use in determining whether someone really wants to know how I'm doing or is just asking to ask?

The Thankful Book

I thought I would share one of our family’s Thanksgiving traditions with you. We travel every Thanksgiving, and I wanted a way to document some of the things we were thankful for, but I didn’t want to cart around anything bulky on our road trips. In 2007 I ran across a little book at The One Spot in Target. I threw it in my purse and carried it around for a full week, knowing that if I took it out, I’d most certainly forget to pack it for Thanksgiving.

This will be the 7^th year we will pass the little book around the table at my aunt’s house and each write something in it we are thankful for. Each year that I’ve remembered to bring it has been a little Thanksgiving miracle in itself. But I’m so glad I did, especially since our son Jack is no longer here to write in the book.

Two and a half months after the accident, we were faced with our first Thanksgiving without him. We brought out the little striped book, realizing that although we still had things to be thankful for, our loss was so enormous, so painful, so staggering, that we had to dig really deep to even sit at the table with his empty chair, let alone write in the book. My sister, Liz, wrote the only thing she could muster up that day, being thankful for “modern transportation” so we could be together in our grief.

We laughed and cried as we looked back over Jack’s entries, as each year he spelled it “thankfull” instead of thankful. I saw the years he was “thankfull” for Legos, and family, and even ‘dough,’ a little joke he started making when he was in kindergarten. Jack was quirky. He rarely had an answer you would expect. I asked him why he had said dough. Was he talking about money, a la the Welcome Back Kotter era? No, the kid was really just thankful for dough-- you know, the kind they hand out to play with at Italian restaurants while you wait. Ok. Then there was the year he was thankful for Prester John, a legendary Christian King from the 12^th Century whom none of us had ever heard of. Quirky, right?

I treasure the little book, and love looking back over it.

The entries aren’t long and detailed. On year my nephew just wrote, “you people” as his contribution. Last year our daughter Margaret wrote, “I’m thankful for Shadow (our dog), family, cousins, grammar, and a house/food.”

This Thanksgiving, two years after our horrible loss, I am able to consider many more things that I’m thankful for, including the inexplicable joy that creeps into our days as I realize that 12 short years mothering my son were preferable to a lifetime of never knowing him at all. I am thankful I am able to breathe more easily and see the years in front of me not as a bleak, miserable life sentence, but as a time for more memories to be made and more growth to come as time marches me closer to being with him once again.

When I was getting out the Thanksgiving book this year, I saw a craft Jack had made in school. And I was grateful for whichever teacher or room mother forced him to do it. You know, the good old, ‘trace your hand and turn it into a turkey’ craft where you write down things you are thankful for? It says,

 

Dear Mom and Dad

Thank you for:

            Being great parents,

            Taking care of me,

            Loving me forever.

 

I think the word choice is perfect, because that’s how it is, isn’t it? Even though times will change and certain cherished ones no longer sit in the chairs around the table, our love for them never ends. It truly is forever.

 

Happy Thanksgiving.

 

 

 

Community

I think of community and wonder if it’s really necessary for so many to suffer together. I mean, Tim, Margaret and I have to suffer because Jack was ours. Grieving is the price we pay for loving him so very much. But the sadness that slammed a tiny school, descended on a town, and spread throughout this country and beyond through friends and social media? Is that sadness too much to put on others?

Is it right to want others to share our grief with us? To walk this path by our sides? Or is that asking too much?

I really hate to use a drowning analogy because my oh my how I’ve been struck over the past year with how many hymns, praise songs, and even references to grief refer to drowning. Ick. That’s a lot for me to take. Last week Margaret and I counted 5 songs in a row on our Christian radio station dealing with storms, waves, being pulled under, drowning and floods.

Ugh.

However, there is an image that keeps coming to me when I think of community. It is of our little family huddled together out in the middle of a pond on very thin ice. It’s lonely out there. And the weight of our grief and longing for Jack are so heavy, bearing down on us, the pond starts to crack.

Then I see us getting down on our bellies, and spreading our arms and legs out, almost as if we are embracing the ice. Friends, those we have met and those we may not meet for a long time spread out too, grabbing onto our hands or our feet, until we’ve redistributed the weight, making a web or a snowflake pattern that reaches to the far edges of the pond and keeps us safe. Tim’s and Margaret’s and my weight remains the same, but we don’t go crashing through.

I’m not sure if that’s really how ice works. Or grief works. But there is a real feeling of blessing and relief that comes from being connected to others in grief and pain.

Thank you for that today and always.

For the Record

I'm going to pick up Jack's medical file from the pediatrician today. I needed Margaret's for some back to school stuff (yes, it's only July!) and I figured there was no need to leave Jack's there anymore.

No need.

I'm writing this BEFORE the pick-up, because knowing me, the aftermath will be more conducive to sitting in the parking lot reading and crying than sitting at this desk writing.

As parents, we all try to keep meticulous records of shots and well baby visits. We keep folders full of speech therapy notes, report cards, scout awards, and test scores. We track medications and side effects and weigh the pros and cons of every decision.

I found my own yellowed shot record from when I was a baby, written neatly in my mom's small handwriting. With 3 kids within four years of each other, Mom didn't get around to filling out my baby book, until after I found it EMPTY in 2nd grade. It was not unlikely to see grocery lists and phone numbers scrawled on the back of report cards and other important documents in our house, because the probability of finding both a working pen and a blank piece of paper within reach of our kitchen wall phone was highly unlikely.

But our shot records? Were completely filled out and filed away carefully. For they were our tickets to summer camp, sports, and eventually, college. They showed that even in the chaos of busy family life, there was a sense of constancy and order.

For Jack, I have folders full of documents, plus a journal of hopes and dreams I kept for him as baby and young child. We have all of his school work, because he loved to look back through it. We have our family Christmas card from each year, one for each child, tucked in a folder to give them as adults.

I pretty much know what Jack's medical chart will look like. Nothing too unusual, aside from his hovering below "0" on the weight chart. At one point I had them write, "Dad weighs 140-145" across the top to let it be known I was not starving my son. But the doctors were never too concerned with his weight because it was...consistent. Jack was Jack was Jack.

There will be many positive strep tests, administered never after a sore throat but always, for him, when he seemed listless, and a quick touch of his forehead and a glance at his "sick eyes" would let me know something was up.

There will be the physical from 2 years ago when both kids got to go down an office corridor we'd never seen before-- The Secret Hallway! We waited and waited and the kids managed to follow my admonishment of "Don't touch ANYTHING!" while still entertaining each other with their games and making the doctor smile when he saw how much they enjoyed each other.

I know the chart will say Jack weighed exactly 70 lbs, because when I took him in 3 days before the accident because of stomach pains, we discovered after a summer of situps and pushups and increased eating, he had finally gotten out of the 60's just in time to enter 7th grade!

The chart probably won't reflect how Jack was so very ticklish, that any manipulation of his midsection brought in a bevy of witnesses, because his laugh was so incredible, and his smile so big, it was actually entertaining to see him writhe on the table for a bit.

I think in a way, a child's orderly medical file can seem a sort of talisman against the bad in the world. We may hold the belief that if we stay on the proper schedule, with dental cleanings and check ups and specialists when needed, that our children will be okay. And with the many advantages of our Western world, thankfully, that is very often true.

Until it isn't.

Until a standard WBC test comes back awry.

Until neighborhood fun turns to shit in a way no one would ever have imagined.

Until...

Until...

Until you are forced to realize that life is not what you thought it was. That the control you thought you had was an illusion. Until you learn the secret that so few people know or even want to know: that this world, with its joys and its sorrows and its structure and its chaos is really just a sorry imitation of how the world was meant to be.

And you will long for that other world, while still living here in this one. And you realize now that fear is pointless because whatever it is you feared is not what you now face. And all that fear and planning didn't keep tragedy at bay. And you learn to live in this exact moment more than you ever have before because try as you might to grasp it, the past has slipped through your fingers, and the future you face is unrecognizable.

And you continue to keep up your folders and files and the structure of your life, because you find comfort in the rhythm of it. And you will keep living and loving and never giving up because that is who you are, but you'll have one foot poised waiting for when it is your time to blow this popsicle stand, and when that time comes, you will have no fear.

The Storm

It's been a weird weekend over here. Friday night's storms ravaged our area, as they did so many other regions. I didn't even know the storms were coming until late Friday night.

It reminded me so much of that terrible day in September. Those storms were rain, rain and more rain, as opposed to the crazy wind and lightning we had on Friday night, but the way they grew out of hand with so very little warning was eerily similar. I feel like when a snow storm is coming, or a hurricane, that's all anyone can talk about around here, but that has not been my experience with other storms.

For instance, in September, I had heard NOTHING about the potential of flash flooding until it was too late. This was very different from all of the extensive hurricane talk of the previous week.

On September 8th, I just went to work and plugged away in my windowless office until it was time to pick up the kids from school. I am assuming it was similar for many people that day. The lack of awareness led to an almost carnival-like atmosphere as the kids in our neighborhood traipsed off of school busses into the rain, got soaked, and invited my kids to play that warm afternoon.

Similarly, last Friday night, Tim's softball team cluelessly played all the way up until 10:30 pm, leading to very dangerous drives home through the worst of the storm.

By the time Tim made it home safely, our power was already out, and the three of us tucked ourselves in bed as we have for the past 10 months since the accident. Crazy storm. Little warning. No power. How could we not compare these experiences?

Saturday was a beautiful, hot sunny day, just like the day after Jack's death. People walked outside, blinking in the brightness, taking stock, wondering what exactly had happened.

This time, I was just one of the many people talking about power outages and whether our milk had spoiled. 10 months ago, I was someone whose life and future had been forever altered, whose heart had been broken.

And as I learn more about this storm, I now know people died. So I'm praying today for those who unwittingly and unwillingly joined the shittiest club on earth this weekend. I am so, so sorry.
***


"This is the last sentence Morrie got out before I did: 'Death ends a life, not a relationship.'" Mitch Albom, Tuesdays with Morrie