Category: healing

this blog has been calling out to me again

February 12, 2008

family, grief, healing, life, loss

Four months have passed since I’ve written anything for this blog. Again, its not because I don’t have anything to say…life gets in the way. With Spring approaching, I thought I might be posting on here again. I’ve also just approved a few of the comments that have been piling up.

As I frosted Caleb’s birthday cake this Saturday, I was thinking about his birthday 3 years ago when Abby was still here and how she just thought it was the best thing in the world. Then she had her own birthday with her own presents 2 weeks later. Then poof, she was gone.

Then I was thinking about the doll cake I made for Mary in November, how Abby might like a doll cake too if she were here to enjoy it, but she’s not…so I started to cry.

1 comment on this blog has been calling out to me again
on painting Easter eggs

October 7, 2007

christianity, family, healing, moving on

My husband is watching football, the kids are in bed, and I’m on the computer doing a bunch of stuff. I’m listening to the music at Serving God and Family, a blog I discovered tonight by a mom who left a comment on my website about pregnancy and birth. I found encouragement and great reminders of how to be content while staying at home with my kids.

I also visited Nitty Gritty where I haven’t been in several months. Mommy blogger Jody describes herself as

I am a wife and mother of 5- four of them are at home and underfoot and one is in Heaven.

This one sentence describes me perfectly, although the similarities in our biographies probably end there except for our shared faith in the Lord. I always page down to the tag of “missing Teagan” to see what’s new and how she expresses her grief about missing her daughter who died when she was 4 years old in a freak accident. (sound familiar?) I came across this post about painting Easter eggs with her girls.

Reading about painting eggs with her kids just for the fun of it is timely for me. I just cleaned out the sideboard in my dining room to make room for some of the kids’ school stuff (homeschooling produces lots of piles of papers, clutter and books) and one of the things that I threw away was a couple egg decorating kits. This may seem insignificant except those kits have troubled me for 3 Easters now and I don’t want the same stress next Easter which is still a half year away; I want to start afresh. In March of 2005, I had purchased these things to decorate eggs with my 3 older kids. That never happened because my life turned upside down when Abby died the Tuesday before Easter.

The next Spring, the first anniversary of her death, I bought a bunch of eggs to do the decorating with my boys. I couldn’t bring myself to do it even though I know they would’ve had a blast. I put the stuff away. And then this year, I was determined to overcome this obstacle. I mean how hard can it be to dye some eggs? I hard-boiled the eggs, but again I just couldn’t do it. Abby was supposed to be here in all the fun. Plus, Abby had been 2, now Mary was 2. Mary was so much like Abby last Spring. I wanted both my girls here…

I did however, take the kids to an Easter egg hunt, something I was unable to do last year. I felt this was progress and I decided that I would make every effort to decorate the eggs next year.

So when I was going through things in my cabinet and I came across the egg kits, I decided to pitch them (not very frugal of me, is it?) I had to throw them away because when March and April come in 2008, I can start over with new egg kits. My kids and I will love decorating them, especially little miss Mary. You can ask me in another 6 months if we painted the eggs.

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better this year?

September 14, 2007

grief, healing, life, loss

This thing called grief lessens a little, definitely changes through the months. It’s always there, but it’s just not so horrific.

And yet as most things are better, there is one thing that remains unchanged. I think that every parent in the back of their mind is afraid of losing a child. But for me, that greatest fear has become a reality. And now I’m scared that I’ll lose another child. Although unlikely, it is within the realm of possibility. PLEASE NO! My baby is at the age where he loves playing in the toilet. What if he falls in when no one is around for a few seconds to pull him out? What if my crazy daredevil son falls out of a tree and breaks his neck? What if my other son falls off the ATV that he thinks he’s going to buy when he’s older? (now that one is a long shot–not the falling off, but the buying) What if I get pregnant and lose the baby? What if my 2 year old races toward the road, oblivious to the dangers of the street even though we have told her repeatedly not to go there?

This last example happened this week. We were all outside together. My toddler was riding her tricycle full speed down the driveway toward the road. Does lightening strike twice in the same place? Will the angel of death visit my house again? I screamed. She stopped, before going into the street. My husband scooped her up and took her in the house. I followed and screamed again. (not words, just the scream that comes from one who is terrified) My limbs were shaking; my breath was quick and loud. This is life. Living with the possibility of death.

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september mournings

September 14, 2007

family, grief, healing, loss

Sapphires and birthday cake. Cooler temperatures. Red leaves and orange leaves. These are things to look forward to in September. Girls in white dresses and blue satin sashes. (we just watched The Sound of Music) This ninth month of the year had always been my favorite because I was born in September.

Then September 11. The month wasn’t so nice anymore. I didn’t know anyone personally who died that day in 2001 when America was attacked. But those buildings collapsed and so did my security. So many lives gone.

Jump ahead three years. A phone call from my husband to let me know someone was missing. Suicide notes. Oh my God. How did this happen?

Then the approaching September of 2005, marking the half year anniversary of my daughter’s death. It was truly awful. I was nauseous all the time. I cried everyday. Each morning, I discovered more gray hairs than the day before. This thing called grief gripped me, consumed me, affected me. Whatever numbness that had protected me for a few months had worn off and the pain was deep. I wrote about it in six months in september. All I could do was the bare minimum for my family–putting food on the table and trying to keep up with the laundry. It was 6 months for my family since Abby died, a year for Jan since her husband died. These two anniversary dates took a toll on my psyche: I was emotionally exhausted and physically sick.

Then last September. Beth had just died in August. As I remembered how I had felt the year before, the grief seemed so foreign, and yet I had this new grief for Beth. I thought of her mother; another mother had lost a daughter. Plus I had several other issues bearing down on me. My mom’s heart health was deteriorating and surgery was looking inevitable. Barbara, my brother’s mother-in law, was dying. Jan was about to move away. I was approaching 10 months pregnant. I was just trying to have a baby. A reason to rejoice. Life was supposed to be happy. But I was surrounded by all this not-so-happy stuff.

Now to this year. Last month, the mothers of two of my friends died. One unexpectedly and the other a couple months after being diagnosed with cancer. I’m so sorry they are experiencing the pain of loss. My own mother is about to turn 60.

This September is a little easier than the previous two. It has been a time of reflection. I’m not nauseous and I’m not crying everyday. There are no gray hairs, or at least they’re not appearing in vast numbers. My tears have been for others as I watched profiles about 9-11 on TV. My pain is for the events of the twenty-second and wishing I could be with my Mom on her birthday and wishing I could see Jan this month. For my brother’s wife, the year anniversary approaches of her mother’s death close to the same time as her first child is expected to be born. So many mixed emotions for her, for me.

The emotions might be hard at times, but they’re definitely easier this year. Sweet memories have smothered my tears and made me smile.

1 comment on september mournings
breaking the silence

September 12, 2007

grief, healing, loss

It has been nearly 2 months since my last entry on this blog when I posted the painting of Abby. There are several reasons for this silence. I mean, how can I follow that? I am humbled by the love and time that Mary put into painting the portrait and I am humbled by the hundreds of people who have looked at it and the comments I have gotten both on the blog and privately. WOW, and thanks again, Aunt Mary.

It’s not that I haven’t had anything to say, its just that I haven’t had the physical or emotional strength to say them this summer. Today, I’m crawling out of hiding. I’ll see you soon.

2 comments on breaking the silence
a precious gift

July 18, 2007

family, healing

I told you a couple weeks ago that I was expecting a painting of my daughter to arrive. I’ve been keeping it to myself for awhile, but now I’m ready to share it with you. The UPS man arrived while I was on the phone. I had a hard time ending the conversation, so I was forced to wait somewhat patiently before opening the box that was practically weightless.

I carefully cut the tape on the box and pulled out the portrait that was wrapped in another layer of cardboard which was surrounded by packaged air (now that’s a genius invention). Then I even-more-carefully cut the tape on the second box. I was getting closer to seeing the painting, but it was covered in brown paper. I lifted the paper off the portrait carefully and slowly, wondering if it were the back or the front. I saw white canvas–obviously the backside I was looking at–so I flipped it over and started to peel away the paper.

First I saw Mary’s signature in the corner. Then I saw the pink outfit that Abby was wearing. Then her purse, then her hands clutching the purse. Then I noticed the strings hanging down from her hat. I continued lifting the paper until I could see Abby’s face and the hat on her head. Seeing the portrait just made me smile. That’s all. I loved it instantly. It’s perfect. I enjoyed it for a few minutes before showing it to my sister who was visiting.

Her reaction was different than mine. I could tell she was unsure about it. She didn’t think it really looked like her. So I took the portrait to the computer and loaded up this post and we compared them side by side. My sister changed her mind. The painting really did look like the photo. Therefore, the painting looked like Abby, only more so and grander. (does that make sense?) My sister said, “Wow, she’s really talented.”

If you read my last post, you might remember that I said it took me over a year and a half to settle on a photo. This was the picture that I wanted from the beginning, but I hesitated because she was so much younger looking in this particular picture than when she died. In this picture, she is still baby, still toddler. In her last couple months, baby Abby blossomed into a little girl. I kinda wanted the portait to be of the little girl rather than the baby/toddler.

I’m glad that I stuck to my first instinct and choice.

Now, I had a hard time taking a picture of the painting, and I might try again, but here’s the best I could get so far. I tried several settings on my simple point and shoot camera and took it from different angles and used different lighting, but I still had glare. I managed to get the glare off Abby’s face and to the side. I am thankful for my digital camera that let me immediately see my failed picture attempts so I could try again.

A perfect painting. Thanks, Aunt Mary. I will treasure it forever.

21 comments on a precious gift
a portrait

July 5, 2007

everyday life, healing, loss

One of my husband’s aunts has painted a portrait of Abby. She finished it several months ago and it has been “curing.” I assumed that we’d be bringing it home with us from our family vacation in September. And I wondered how we would keep it out of harm’s way in a minivan with 4 kids and all our stuff. I have been anticipating seeing the painting, wondering what my reaction will be. Will I cry uncontrollably or just smile and let out a contented sigh? Will it take some getting used to or will I love it immediately?

No longer will I have to wait until September. I have word that it is on its way and will arrive Monday or Tuesday. I’m feeling kinda nauseous. So much for having 2 more months to prepare for it. And yet, I’ve been contemplating it for quite some time. First for over a year and half, I was reluctant to choose a picture for it. How could I possibly pick just one photo; what if I chose the wrong one? After I finally made the decision, a month or so later, I heard that the portrait was finished and the artist was pleased with the finished product. Part of me has been happy that it has been curing 950 miles away! Out of reach, out of sight.

I am very excited, yet also very apprehensive! Please pray for peace. I’ll let you know how it goes.

3 comments on a portrait
Hannah’s gift: a book review

June 22, 2007

book review, christianity, grief, healing, loss

Maria Housden has gathered memories from her daughter’s life and woven them into a compelling story in Hannah’s Gift: Lessons from a Life Fully Lived. In the first few pages, I fell in love with Hannah, the little girl who wore red shoes who was diagnosed with cancer shortly before her third birthday. Through carefully chosen anecdotes, Hannah emerges as a delightful, precocious pre-schooler who is never silent, always making her desires known. Hannah embraced life with energy and understanding. Will, her five year old brother, wonders, among other things, how long it takes for a body to decompose as he faces the reality that his sister is going to die. Maria faces the truth about Hannah’s cancer and eventual death. She shares these truths about life, love and loss that she learned from her daughter. Throughout the book, Maria’s language is poetic. I found myself re-reading sentences, re-reading paragraphs, awed by the language.
Listening to the night, I felt poised on the edge of greatness, certain that the silence I was feeling was God.
and
I held my breath as long as I could, hoping that some feather of joy from this moment might lodge in my lungs today so it could drift lightly and unexpectedly into one of the dark moments I knew was ahead.
If you read Hannah’s Gift, you’ll smile, delighted by Hannah’s sweet antics. A minute later you’ll have to flick the tears that have fallen on your pages as the raw truth of cancer sets in. Read Hannah’s Gift and you’ll hug your loved ones a little tighter. Maria Housden was one of the parents featured in the documentary, Space Between Breaths.

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choosing to live after a loved one dies

June 7, 2007

christianity, grief, healing, loss

I heard Elaine Stillwell, author of The Death of a Child: Reflections for Grieving Parents, speak last week at a conference. She related a story about an elderly woman going to live in a new apartment. As the young man pushed her wheelchair, he told her about the lacy curtains and other things that he thought she would like. She squealed with delight and said that she loved it. He replied that she hadn’t even seen her new room yet, how could she love it? The woman’s response was that she had already chosen to love it. It didn’t matter whether she liked it or not. She had made the choice to love her new surroundings and be content even before she had seen them.

After Elaine told this story, she said that we all have choices in life. We can choose to live after the death of our child/children or we can choose to be depressed or be defined by our loss.

Elaine’s words reminded me of the day that my daughter Abby died and the choices that I made that day. I sat on my couch all afternoon and into the evening and I contemplated life. How on earth could I go on? At one point, it suddenly dawned on me that we had a funeral to plan.

Oh my God, I thought, we have a funeral to plan.

I went to the kitchen and leaned on my husband and said, “Funeral?” He said not to worry about it. His dad, a pastor, would help us take care of all those details. I went back and sat in the living room. I thought and thought. What would I do? I was still a mother. I had three living children. I had to mother my living children. That was the choice I made that day. I had to get up every morning and take care of my young children. They needed me. Some days it is much easier than others. Daily, I need to make the choice to master this grief rather than let it master me. And I find myself failing some days.

Another choice I made the day that Abby died was not be angry at God or blame Him for allowing her to die. Instead of demanding answers from God or asking Him why, I chose to rest in Him and find my comfort in Him. I did not understand, still don’t understand this Providence for our family. In the early days, I found comfort in reading the Psalms and I found myself “hiding in the shadows of His wings.” When I wrestle with my thoughts, I have to remind myself to go back to the resting, back to the Psalms.

Have mercy on me, O God, have mercy on me,
for in you my soul takes refuge.
I will take refuge in the shadow of your wings
until the disaster has passed. Psalm 57:1

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