I am a grieving mother and I am a mother who raised a little boy who was a joy to the world. In my memories and in the messages my son delivers with amazing regularity is where I heal.
Since the death of my son in 1987, I have learned much about dichotomies of grieving. For starters, parents often belabor which words to use in reference to our losses. There is no right or wrong, just decisions we each need to make for what is best of the worst for us. I usually say I have a son who has died. Some prefer euphemisms like departed, lost or passed. Others insist on no softening to the blow.
I "have" a son who has died. Some say "had." Some are tormented by how to answer the question "How many children do you have?" Adrian is still my son; I am still his mother. Whether there is an afterlife, that remains true.
I am fortunate to believe he does live on as a spirit, because Adrian has convinced me with numerous synchronistic signals: his name spoken when I enter a room or turn on the television; signs with his name appearing on a wall in a restaurant, on a steel locker on a flatbead truck, on name tags; Happy Birthday sung just as I enter a market – on my birthday.
Unlike most parents, I rarely speak of the manner of Adrian's death, because, too often, loved ones who have died become forever identified by their exit rather than by their life: "Oh, she was the one who drowned; he died of cancer at 10; oh, he was driving drunk at 18," others say with a vivid image in their mind of the dead or dying.
I want my son remembered as the little boy who offered to share his bottle with me when he was just an infant; as the only toddler on the block who learned to camp it up when he took a tumble because all the other children came running to comfort and coddle him. Adrian was my Zen-master teddy bear who calmed my fears of how I could manage raising a third child. He loved talking with adults as much as he loved other children. Adrian was a talented artist, musician and writer, adored by teachers, by school administrators as well as by peers. He was creative, imaginative, curious and kind.
I am a grieving mother, and I am also a mother who raised a little boy who was a joy to the world. In my memories and in the messages my son delivers with amazing regularity is where I heal.
The physical loss presents unending sorrow. Yet, the distress does not prevent me from experiencing joy, nor hinder my growth. If anything, it compels and propels me to seek pleasure and satisfaction – sometimes with a vengeance. I know not to linger too long in my loss; at the same time I must not deny its influence and continuing effects in my life.
This country has had many great tragedies in recent years which have left thousands in bereavement. Individuals in grief are forced to make choices about how they will incorporate their loss into their lives. Though they may never speak of their grief with you, they carry it until their death.
Emotions present as unpredictable shape-shifters. Each person's experience is unique, even in the same family; and each day changes. One will carry their feelings silently while another will wrap it round them like a loud, red shawl. Others will throw themselves into a related cause to ease their pain and frustration.
If you desire the confidence of a bereaved person, the best thing you can say is, "I am here to listen if you care to talk."
But with that, you will do yourself and them a disservice if you cannot listen and let go. If you need for their thoughts to be as you think they should be, both of you may feel uncomfortable, or worse, with the disclosure. Their experience may be completely different than what you expect. Their feelings may not be what you think yours would be. And then, tomorrow, they may feel very different, and so may you.
Grief sometimes strikes like dry lightning. Grief is fickle, confusing, unpredictable and obstinate. There is no one way to define, explain or express it.
There are many resources for the bereaved on the internet and in communities around the world:
The Compassionate Friends assists families toward the positive resolution of grief following the death of a child of any age and provides information to help others be supportive.
Memory-of offers forums for the bereaved and a place to create a Web site in your loved one's name for a nominal fee.
GriefNet.org is an Internet community of those dealing with grief, death, and major loss.
December 30, 2001, I began the message below to my son in his other world. I think it's ready to send:
Years go on and my grief challenges me like a severed limb. My center of gravity is changed, yet I function and thrive and move in new ways.
Some think I've grieved too long. They have preconceived notions about how I should think of you now. Some think I shouldn't think of you at all. But I am grateful for our relationship, especially for your guidance and dependability. Whenever I need a sign, I don't have to wait long before I feel your presence. Whenever I need direction, you point the way. Some get those messages from their God. I have never felt that to be true for me. Perhaps you are God's emissary.
I've seen birthdays, Christmases, graduations, weddings, babies born without you here to share the celebration.
We have new cars you'd think are cool, or dumb; movies you'd want to see, 'course you see it all I suppose; music you'd love or hate; new clothes; new coffees, but none of these for you. Though in spirit you grow, your body is frozen in time.
I used to fear slipping away from you the child, afraid I would forget, but memories come stronger into focus as my love and knowing you as a spirit continues.
Your friends are adults now: sometimes happy, sometimes miserable; in love, out of love.
They are musicians, poets, teachers, 9-5ers, parents. Some travel. You might be surprised by those clinging to their roots. Still, you'd know them by their childhood gestures, a tip of the head, even their walk remains the same, just with longer legs.
In my thoughts and dreams you come at any age. And, often you come to me in spirit – brilliant essence of warmth and light. You guide me and bring me presents I cannot prove came from you, but in which I've learned to believe.
You've resolved your conflicts as I desire to resolve mine. You see clearly where I cannot. You have distance from the pain I wish I could expel.
And I wonder if you are absolved of your wrongs. Are you free from sorrow for what your loss does to me? Have you felt the pain I didn't want you close enough to see?
This is progress for me, to not hold you away from my tears, and to let a speck of me want you to ache for me, at the same time as I suffer guilt for wanting it.
I don't want to be better, wiser, kinder for knowing this pain. I am not grateful for these lessons. I flunk gratitude. Bring back ignorance, I beg.
More years with you in spirit than with you in body. How can I suffer less? Nothing is erased. Time is multiplied. I am still your mother, you are my son who grows no older, though you are my champion, my guiding light.
Though joy bores deep in my soul, opening my senses opens them all. To feel music lets in pain; receiving my soul back into my body to dance and sing unleashes anguish I'd bound in numbness; and I am stuck in years of healing.
Since the death of my son in 1987, I have learned much about dichotomies of grieving. For starters, parents often belabor which words to use in reference to our losses. There is no right or wrong, just decisions we each need to make for what is best of the worst for us. I usually say I have a son who has died. Some prefer euphemisms like departed, lost or passed. Others insist on no softening to the blow.
I "have" a son who has died. Some say "had." Some are tormented by how to answer the question "How many children do you have?" Adrian is still my son; I am still his mother. Whether there is an afterlife, that remains true.
I am fortunate to believe he does live on as a spirit, because Adrian has convinced me with numerous synchronistic signals: his name spoken when I enter a room or turn on the television; signs with his name appearing on a wall in a restaurant, on a steel locker on a flatbead truck, on name tags; Happy Birthday sung just as I enter a market – on my birthday.
Unlike most parents, I rarely speak of the manner of Adrian's death, because, too often, loved ones who have died become forever identified by their exit rather than by their life: "Oh, she was the one who drowned; he died of cancer at 10; oh, he was driving drunk at 18," others say with a vivid image in their mind of the dead or dying.
I want my son remembered as the little boy who offered to share his bottle with me when he was just an infant; as the only toddler on the block who learned to camp it up when he took a tumble because all the other children came running to comfort and coddle him. Adrian was my Zen-master teddy bear who calmed my fears of how I could manage raising a third child. He loved talking with adults as much as he loved other children. Adrian was a talented artist, musician and writer, adored by teachers, by school administrators as well as by peers. He was creative, imaginative, curious and kind.
I am a grieving mother, and I am also a mother who raised a little boy who was a joy to the world. In my memories and in the messages my son delivers with amazing regularity is where I heal.
The physical loss presents unending sorrow. Yet, the distress does not prevent me from experiencing joy, nor hinder my growth. If anything, it compels and propels me to seek pleasure and satisfaction – sometimes with a vengeance. I know not to linger too long in my loss; at the same time I must not deny its influence and continuing effects in my life.
This country has had many great tragedies in recent years which have left thousands in bereavement. Individuals in grief are forced to make choices about how they will incorporate their loss into their lives. Though they may never speak of their grief with you, they carry it until their death.
Emotions present as unpredictable shape-shifters. Each person's experience is unique, even in the same family; and each day changes. One will carry their feelings silently while another will wrap it round them like a loud, red shawl. Others will throw themselves into a related cause to ease their pain and frustration.
If you desire the confidence of a bereaved person, the best thing you can say is, "I am here to listen if you care to talk."
But with that, you will do yourself and them a disservice if you cannot listen and let go. If you need for their thoughts to be as you think they should be, both of you may feel uncomfortable, or worse, with the disclosure. Their experience may be completely different than what you expect. Their feelings may not be what you think yours would be. And then, tomorrow, they may feel very different, and so may you.
Grief sometimes strikes like dry lightning. Grief is fickle, confusing, unpredictable and obstinate. There is no one way to define, explain or express it.
There are many resources for the bereaved on the internet and in communities around the world:
The Compassionate Friends assists families toward the positive resolution of grief following the death of a child of any age and provides information to help others be supportive.
Memory-of offers forums for the bereaved and a place to create a Web site in your loved one's name for a nominal fee.
GriefNet.org is an Internet community of those dealing with grief, death, and major loss.
December 30, 2001, I began the message below to my son in his other world. I think it's ready to send:
Years go on and my grief challenges me like a severed limb. My center of gravity is changed, yet I function and thrive and move in new ways.
Some think I've grieved too long. They have preconceived notions about how I should think of you now. Some think I shouldn't think of you at all. But I am grateful for our relationship, especially for your guidance and dependability. Whenever I need a sign, I don't have to wait long before I feel your presence. Whenever I need direction, you point the way. Some get those messages from their God. I have never felt that to be true for me. Perhaps you are God's emissary.
I've seen birthdays, Christmases, graduations, weddings, babies born without you here to share the celebration.
We have new cars you'd think are cool, or dumb; movies you'd want to see, 'course you see it all I suppose; music you'd love or hate; new clothes; new coffees, but none of these for you. Though in spirit you grow, your body is frozen in time.
I used to fear slipping away from you the child, afraid I would forget, but memories come stronger into focus as my love and knowing you as a spirit continues.
Your friends are adults now: sometimes happy, sometimes miserable; in love, out of love.
They are musicians, poets, teachers, 9-5ers, parents. Some travel. You might be surprised by those clinging to their roots. Still, you'd know them by their childhood gestures, a tip of the head, even their walk remains the same, just with longer legs.
In my thoughts and dreams you come at any age. And, often you come to me in spirit – brilliant essence of warmth and light. You guide me and bring me presents I cannot prove came from you, but in which I've learned to believe.
You've resolved your conflicts as I desire to resolve mine. You see clearly where I cannot. You have distance from the pain I wish I could expel.
And I wonder if you are absolved of your wrongs. Are you free from sorrow for what your loss does to me? Have you felt the pain I didn't want you close enough to see?
This is progress for me, to not hold you away from my tears, and to let a speck of me want you to ache for me, at the same time as I suffer guilt for wanting it.
I don't want to be better, wiser, kinder for knowing this pain. I am not grateful for these lessons. I flunk gratitude. Bring back ignorance, I beg.
More years with you in spirit than with you in body. How can I suffer less? Nothing is erased. Time is multiplied. I am still your mother, you are my son who grows no older, though you are my champion, my guiding light.
Though joy bores deep in my soul, opening my senses opens them all. To feel music lets in pain; receiving my soul back into my body to dance and sing unleashes anguish I'd bound in numbness; and I am stuck in years of healing.
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