The first year after child loss can be deeply confusing. You’ll feel pain you’d never imagined. In fact, you’ll begin to wonder if you understood grief at all, because what you’re currently feeling feels like nothing you’ve ever felt before.
Initially, there’s just so much to do. Then, the questions begin. You wonder how, why? Nothing seems real, it’s like you’re walking in a daze; neither here nor there while attempting to be in multiple mental spaces at a time. The same repetitive tape keeps rolling in your head over and over, and you being to wonder if you’ve lost your mind.
Sometime during that first year, you say to yourself, “I’m doing okay, better than I thought I’d be.” Then, the second year is within view and the waves come rolling in; harder than ever. The anxiety is overwhelming and you begin to realize, you’re just coming out of the fog. That’s what the first year after child loss is like. It’s like big, overwhelming fog of disbelief and questions.
Suddenly it’s real. Year two is the punch.
Year 1 {The Fog} – The First Year After Child Loss
This is part of a series of posts called A Grieving Mother’s Diary. Each post (representing a particular year) includes five excerpts I wrote during that year. May you find solace in knowing you’re not alone, Friend. Blessings to you. – Rachel
Day 1
I didn’t write a single word; not a single one.
Day 2 – “Bye, Mom.”
“I DID ALL THE THINGS I USED TO DO FOR HIM WHEN HE WAS TWELVE AND WONDERED WHERE THE TIME HAD GONE.”
Yesterday, I ran my fingers through my son’s curly, dark locks for the last time. I hugged his still, lifeless body and kissed his blotchy skin. Then, I said goodbye.
I wish he’d looked at me. I wish he’d said, “Bye, Mom.” But, he was gone. I was too late. They covered him, rolled him out and gave me their cards. I cleaned his room, washed his laundry, folded his clothes neatly, and sorted through his books.
For those few moments, I felt like Mom again. I did all the things I used to do for him when he was twelve and wondered where the time had gone. His room is clean. His school books are ready to go. I could even make a hot breakfast for him in the morning. A fresh batch of coffee is easily brewed. But, I know it’s too late.
I woke up this morning and checked for his car, like every morning. But, this morning it didn’t ensure me his safety. It simply reminded me that his room was clean, his laundry was folded, his books were ready… but he was gone.
I love my Joshua. Every sacrifice, every tear I’d gladly do over a thousand times again. I am so proud of you, Josh. You always seemed to get back up. You had a tenacity that was honorable and I couldn’t have asked for a better son. Your brothers couldn’t have asked for a better brother, and your friends were changed because they knew you. I wish I could have protected you. I wish I could have been there. Know that I love you dearly.
Tuesday, September 20th, we will come together and remember Josh on his 21st birthday. Everyone is welcome. This will be a short time of remembrance and healing. Thank you all for helping me remember my baby.”
This was the beginning of several posts. It was the beginning of several nights wishing I’d been there, wishing I could see my son just one more time. Feel free to join me on this journey. It is filled with joy, laughter, and of course sadness. But, in the midst of it all, there is HOPE.
xoxo,
Rachel
Day 80 – 280,000 Steps Without My Son
“I HAVE TAKEN APPROXIMATELY 280,000 STEPS WITHOUT MY SON; OBLIVIOUS TO WHERE I AM HEADING NEXT. JUST A MERE 80 DAYS AGO, I KNEW EXACTLY WHERE I WAS HEADING AND I KNEW THE SAME FOR HIM.”
I’m not sure why I’m still using Josh’s keys. I drove his car the week after he passed. The double muffler sports car was a no go, but the keys I could do.
The large clip is much easier to find in my purse. I canceled his gym membership over a month ago. I’m not sure what to do with his membership key chain. I can’t seem to get rid of it. His toothbrush just sits there.
It’s been 80 days since my child passed. That’s 6,912,000 thoughts that begin with “Why?”; 187,200 breaths. I have taken approximately 280,000 steps without my son; oblivious to where I am heading next. Just a mere 80 days ago, I knew exactly where I was heading and I knew the same for him.
But, there’s this whisper in my ear that says, “Rachel, you can.” After several churns, I begin to remind myself that I can. I can take that next breath. I can walk another step forward. The steps of a good man are ordered by the Lord (Ps.37:27) and I know he will direct me. I can smile, for the joy of the Lord is my strength (Neh. 8:10).
I will praise Him because He has not changed. He’s just as worthy as before. He still hears my prayers and works on my behalf. I submit my plans… my will and I will trust Him. “The Lord is my strength and my shield; my heart trusted in Him, and I am helped: therefore my heart greatly rejoiceth; and with my song will I praise Him.” (Ps. 28:7)
Sometime today, I’ll open my front door with Josh’s keys; his gym membership tag rocking side to side. I’ll think of his toothbrush just sitting there. But, like clockwork, I’ll hear those sweet whispers, “Rachel, you can.” — Lord, thank you for your grace. You are good. You supply everything I need at the right moment. Thank you for the beauty you are supplying out of the ashes.”
xoxo,
Rachel
Day 208 – The Pit
“I’M SURE IT WAS A SIGHT TO SEE. BUT, WE KNEW THE TRUTH. WE WERE MORE ALIKE THAN EYES COULD MEET.”
“This weekend, I wiggled down into the pit. I wallowed in the mud and grime and gently leaned on the dirt covered walls. I met a friend in that dark, lonely pit; shared some crackers, cheese, bananas and tomatoes.
The dreariness was gone for those moments. The shallow pit of despair, with its cramped confined quarters, seemed lighter. There, on the sidewalk, we sat; one cleaned and showered, the other filth covered and slightly able to peer through his shame. I’m sure it was a sight to see. But, we knew the truth. We were more alike than eyes could meet.
Through his shame, he shared his story: loss of health, loss of work, loss of home, loss of family, loss of… hope. I listened to my new friend. Together, we sat in the pit together as he shared. At some point, I confessed. I slowly leaned closer and whispered, “me too.”
I’d been rejected a time or two. I’ve lost a home. I’ve sat in my driveway and sold my children’s belongings. I know it’s hard. I’ve been separated, confused about what would become of my family. I’ve lost a son of whom I was entrusted to protect. I’ve fallen so many times, I believe I’ve lost count.
Yep, I’ve been in the pit before. I’m there now. But today, I’m here for you. I’ve crawled down here to tell you that you’re not alone. You’re not forgotten. Look around. Do you see all those people walking by? I know they look normal; like they have it all together. But, most of them are in their own little pit just like you. They’re barely making it, wondering if there’s an end to their hopeless situation.
The only difference is that they continue to put one foot in front of the other. Why? Because they remember. They remember a time when they felt hopeless; a time when relief seemed like it would never come. But, they kept walking; slowly placing one foot in front of the next.
That’s what I’m doing. I’m going to keep walking; not because the future looks bright. Far from it. I’m going to keep walking because I remember when He lifted me up from the miry clay all those many times before. He replaced my hopelessness with a hope I could barely comprehend and gave me beauty for ashes that I knew I didn’t deserve.
My friend, get up. Try to remember. Try to remember the time you’d wake in the morning, shower, and spend the day roofing houses. Do you remember? Try to remember the man that proudly provided for his family. Now, remember that you’re still that man… with or without the stuff and God loves you all the same. He’s waiting for you, you know? He’s been here all along. But, it’s time to get up. You can do it. Slowly place one foot in front of the other. Just remember.
As I got up and left my new friend there on the sidewalk, I couldn’t help but wonder how many times he was going to hear those words that day. Once, twice, maybe three? I don’t know. But, something told me that he hadn’t heard those words in a long time.
If that’s you, I want to tell you that you’re not alone. You are still the same person regardless of your losses. Your worth has not changed. You are not defined by your circumstances. You are valued. Your input matters and you are needed in the game of life. It’s time to get up. It will feel awkward, perhaps a little shaky. Just keep moving. Slowly place one foot in front of the other. He’s waiting for you. He’s waiting to replace your ashes for beauty and grant you incomprehensible hope.”
I wrote this many, many days ago, and I can tell you I’m still getting up… and that’s perfectly okay. I’ve learned that getting up is a process. Learning to walk again doesn’t happen instantaneously. But, God counts the crawls, and the weak, shaky steps. They all count. There’s HOPE.
xoxo,
Rachel
Day 346 – The Song of the Bereaved
“..SOFTLY UNDERTONED BY A SWEET LULLABY OF STRENGTH AND SOLITUDE; FULLY COGNIZANT THAT NO MAN CAN TURN BACK THE TICKING HANDS OF TIME.”
Some days, I just don’t have the words. No single word… or clumps of words, precisely scrambled together, could possibly convey my heart.
The yearnings of my heart seem to speak a different song; one of bewilderment coupled with a deep, quiet knowing. It’s a song of scratchy, uneven rhythmic melodies, softly undertoned by a sweet lullaby of strength and solitude; fully cognizant that no man can turn back the ticking hands of time. The time I first held you. The time I cleaned your worn, skinned knee. The time I scolded. The many times I said, “I’m so proud of you!” And the clock kept ticking.
Some days, I just don’t have the words. The swirl of thoughts stop inconsistently, as I glance at what’s passing through at the moment. Your first ice cream swirl. Your first burger. Your first Ollie. Your first goodbye. Your last goodbye… I never heard. I never heard you grumble with disdain. I never heard you say, “I can’t.”
Some days, I just don’t have the words. Regret. Anguish. Pain. They crush me. The boulder of defeat begins to roll upon me. But, then… the scratchy melodies begin. A quiet, sweet knowing enters my soul. And I remember, I never heard you say, “I can’t.”
Josh, I can. I will. I’m sorry. I love you.
Love,
Mom
The Song of The Bereaved
Do you have a song in your heart; a song of jagged melodies, undertoned by determined strength? The first year after child loss is scary; so much is different. Sing the song of the bereaved. Don’t let the fear stop you. Sing the song you’ve been given. You can. You CAN do this. There’s hope for you today.
Blessings to you, Friend,
Rachel
© Rachel Blado www.OnTheWayToWhereYoureGoing.com All rights reserved.
