Ten years. Ten thousand sighs. Ten million tears.
Inconceivable that it could be so long, that I have carried on.
Unbelievable became the truth;
Grief became the norm.
But slowly inconsolable became absorbed
And glimmers of hope emerged.
Would there be new life one day,
Would I be glad I stayed?
I’m glad today.
And that’s all I have.
Posted in depression, grief, hope, losing a son, loss, pain, Parenting, sadness, suffering, suicide
Tagged grief, hope, losing a son, Loss, moving on, sadness, surviving suicide
Every day with your child was mother’s day. Every day you held them, fed them, scolded them, sang them to sleep, wiped their tears, changed their diapers, washed their clothes, agonized with them about their break-ups, celebrated their victories, supported their achievements, gave solace in their disappointments. Every day. And now no day is mother’s day. There is nothing more you can do for them, say to them, give them. No more hugs or advice. No more forgiveness for short-tempered outbursts, no more apologies for ill-thought-out judgments. Nothing. Mother’s Day is social convention. Mother’s Day is a lie. The emptiness is every day not just once a year.
I weep with you; I mourn with you. There are no useful words. Just a gentle suggestion: don’t stay by yourself on Mother’s Day. Allow someone else to share your pain. And if you can’t find someone to do that, then find a way of celebrating someone else’s day. Just don’t be alone with your sadness and loss.
Remember: You were a mother, even for a little while. You had the miracle of life in your body, in your arms, in your daily life. That was a great gift, a grace, undeserved. A hand was placed on your chest and that touch entered your heart as no other touch can. A child knew you as his or her mother. Knew that safety, that acceptance, that bountiful love. You did that. You gave that. That was precious. And those years, or months or even moments are yours to remember and treasure.
Posted in anniversaries, grief, loss, Mother's Day, pain, Parenting
Tagged death, family, grief, Mothers, pain, sadness
These past few weeks it feels as if the tsnumai is winning. Each day I feel as if it is pulling me down and I am struggling more and more for breath. I thought it would get easier after his anniversary passed, but then we moved towards his birthday and I realised it is on Mother’s Day this year: May 14th. I can’t seem to get past this. I want to write something for mothers who have lost children and who are facing mother’s day with that pain. Maybe that will help.
Posted in anniversaries, depression, grief, losing a son, loss, Mother's Day, sadness
Tagged depression, family, grief, Mothers, pain, sadness
In New Orleans we are very aware of the power of great waves pushed up by hurricanes. Driving along the coast recently I was reminded of this power and how much had to be rebuilt after Hurricane Katrina.
The loss of a loved one can be compared to the power of the hurricane tidal wave: it drags off someone we love and leaves devastation in its wake; the landscape of our life is forever changed. We look around and we recognize the pieces of our lives but they are all scattered, out of place. Some are damaged beyond recognition. Some merely broken. And the realisation that we have to rebuild everything again feels overwhelming, impossible, unreasonable. We just want to sit down in the midst of the devastation and quit. But we can’t. There are other people who have been made emotionally homeless along with us and we have to pick ourselves up for their sake and begin to build a new shelter, a new emotional home, a new sense of safety.
So we gather the pieces together, we reclaim our foundation and we start to rebuild.
It has been 12 years since Katrina and the coast boasts new construction on higher foundations. But in between the new houses are empty lots still unreclaimed, whose owners barely manage to keep the grass under control. Having given up and decided to rebuild their lives somewhere else the owners don’t even want to visit any more.
It has been ten years this March since my oldest son, Malcolm, died. My husband and I are still together, our emotional home has been rebuilt. We have hope and joy; we share holidays with our youngest son and extended family; we build new memories. But in our physical house, as in our emotional house, remains a room full of scattered pieces of Malcolm’s life. We visit his room, using it for hanging up shirts and holding boxes of Christmas items until they return to the attic. And on the bookshelves and in the locker remain pieces of Malcolm’s life that don’t fit anymore but we can’t part with. And that’s just how it is.
Originally written for my Traces of Hope blog, tracesofhope.wordpress .com
Posted in grief, hope, losing a son, loss, Moving on, Rebuilding, sadness, suffering
Tagged grief, Loss, Rebuilding, sadness
Pull back the veil of fate
Does it have to be this hard
Does it have to be this way
Am I too late
There’s another day
Speak to your power
Speak to your hope
Smoke another cigar
Light another fire
Pull back the veil of fate
Walk through that door
It’s not too late
We wait for you each day
We say your words each night
We need your voice
Unwrap your fate
Undo your choice
Don’t let it be too late
Posted in grief, hope, letting go, loss, Poetry, sadness
Tagged grief, hope, letting go, Loss, love, sadness
Once upon a time there was a little boy called Malcolm who had a mummy and a daddy who loved him very much. And he had a baby brother called James that he wasn’t so sure about at first, but who he grew to love and love.
Little Malcolm really liked to laugh and make jokes. He loved camping and fishing and making a secret language with his cousin T.J.. Little Malcolm had a giggle like his mother. But some days Malcolm was sad, and some days he was very, very sad. And the Sad inside him grew like a big rock.
When Malcolm was all grown and finished college he came back home top live and study some more. His baby brother was all grown up too and just starting college.
Time passed at home and Malcolm had some lovely days and lots of good friends. He went to Austria and took beautiful pictures. The sad inside him was still growing but there was room for the Happy, the Silly, the Serious, and the Helpful as well. Malcolm was helpful to lots of people, and even to his own mummy when her Sad became too big.
One day Malcolm began to feel that his Sad had grown too big; there was no room for Happy and Silly. But Helpful continued to smile a big smile so no one noticed. Then Malcolm began finding it hard to breathe because Sad was so big it filled up his whole chest.
Malcolm was so good at helping others but he hadn’t learnt to help himself. His smile was so big it could shrink other people’s Sad, but it didn’t help his own. If only he had believed he deserved help; if only he had believed he deserved people’s time and love. But he didn’t believe it. he never had.
Then one day the sad was too big altogether. It was bigger than Malcolm. And Malcolm did a very bad, very sad thing. He took a gun and shot himself in the heart. It was the only way he could think of to get rid of his giant Sad. But he didn’t get rid of it, he passed it on to his mummy and daddy and his brother and all his family and friends. And when he shot himself he killed his whole Self – the Happy, the Helpful, the Silly, and the Serious as well. Now there was nothing left of his beautiful smile.
And now Malcolm’s mummy and daddy and his brother James have a giant enormous Sad that is Malcolm-shaped and is sitting on their hearts and making it hard for them to breathe.
Posted in depression, family, grief, losing a son, loss, sadness, suicide
Tagged depression, grief, losing a son, Loss, love, sadness, suicide, surviving suicide
I feel like I am in an emotional loop, moving from funerals to anniversaries to funerals to Mothers Day to Birthdays, Deathdays … maybe it is time to set the calendar aside or maybe it is time to mark different kinds of events. I don’t know. I just feel stretched thin, emotionally translucent, yet somehow numb.
Today is Malcolm’s Birthday. He would have been 30. I like to imagine what he would have been doing, where he would have been living. Maybe teaching, with photography on the side. Maybe living in a cottage in Old Jefferson and coming over for Sunday lunch and leftovers to bring home. I like this fantasy. It warms my heart.