Author: Carolyn Perrin

She swallowed hard and bit her bottom lip, all in an effort to keep it together. It wasn’t about her today or what she had been through, but she knew that pain all too well. It was more challenging than she had imagined, not only feeling for her husband, but grieving a friendship she had treasured for years. She watched her dear friend’s husband as he mingled in the crowd, smiling, answering questions, giving and receiving hugs. Here he was celebrating the life of his wife of many years. He had been her caretaker for the past few years now, there for every appointment, every need, every loss and even an occasional small gain. He was a warrior. They were only in their sixties, watching their family grow with grandchildren full of promise and their love was a gift they had looked forward to. Now though, it had all changed. Their loving, giving, full of life grandmother was gone. He continued to greet friends and family as if he was on a mission. His emotions in check but voice starting to quiver he welcomed all of those who came to support his family. The service was perfect and I’m sure she was incredibly pleased with the celebration of her life. It was special because she was a warrior too.

When you lose a spouse it is completely life changing. All losses affect you in different ways mostly due to your relationship with the loved one. I think spousal loss is a unique challenge that you can only understand if you’ve experienced it. I think for most, we expect to grow old together, to tackle the difficulties of aging, to survive the empty nest, careers goals reached, children grown and in their own lives, the excitement of grandchildren, more time, less worry, and overall a simpler life. One of my most difficult times in the beginning and even now is when I see the little old couples hand in hand in the store, in church, wherever. I tear up even now, over six years later. I had imagined that would be us, but life changed abruptly and without warning I was alone.

Unfortunately, many do not get to experience these times, It may be illness, accident or thousands of other reasons, but all of a sudden you are thrust into a world where you never thought you’d be. Age doesn’t matter except for the responsibilities you are left with. Life as you knew it is over and the future is uncertain. It is as if someone just burned down your house around you and left you standing amid the ashes. All color is gone and the black and white image before you is frightening. Everything you knew and built is different now and will never be the same. It can’t be because part of you that was half of a whole was burned in the fire.

As you awaken in the morning, it is your first thought. The missing is physically painful in the beginning. You often awaken to fear and anxiety about what is to come. How do you fill the other half? It feels insurmountable. You fix your coffee, breakfast or whatever your morning routine is and find it more difficult. You forget things, drop things, can’t remember the simplest detail, but you have no choice but to keep moving. So that is what you do…you continue life as if it is all normal, go to work, take the kids to practice, hand out Halloween candy, sit alone in the church pew, surrounded by thoughts of what you thought your life would be.

Depending on where you are in your life, you may have work, kids to get to school, or dozens of other what used to be normal tasks. If you are young and you have children, your heart has to be stretched so incredibly thin to grieve, support them in their grief, try to make the abnormal seem somewhat normal. It’s a huge job for young parents. Helping them handle and understand their grief must feel like a mountain to climb and their future could depend on it. So you put your grief on the shelf and help them navigate their new and different life. How do you bring back the color to their world when yours has been shattered?

If you’re older, you may have nothing to do and no one to do nothing with. Those “Golden Years” you heard about are not nearly as shiny as you imagined. . When you are going through life as a couple, each person has roles and makes their contribution to the relationship. One may make household or financial decisions while the other keeps the family calendar and makes sure everyone gets to the dentist. It sounds so simple, doesn’t it? It was. Now it is all you, every task, every chore and every decision. One of my biggest meltdowns was a blown lightbulb on the porch. It wasn’t my job to fix the light or take out the trash or to be concerned the vents under the house were open or closed. That was his piece, not mine, and now I realized everything was mine. I dropped down to my knees and sobbed because this was not the plan. How do you make a half a whole? It was a bad day.

Sure you may have grown children to assist, but they have their own lives and they are grieving too. Many don’t ask for help because they feel like it’s a burden. You’ll hear “they are so busy” or “they worked all day”, but truth is the grieving widow/widower wants you to just know what they need. They are too overwhelmed and too sad to be able to ask.

Grief is the tool we use to survive our losses. It comes into your life when you don’t know what you need. It’s there to gird you when you lose your balance, to catch you when you fall, to sit next to you on the long, lonely nights, and to ride beside you in the passenger seat while the song on the radio causes you to sob like a newborn. It’s there when you tackle all the firsts, it’s there when you smell a familiar scent that brings a memory to mind and it’s there even when it’s been an ok day, just in case. You see, grief is there because love was there. The one thing I know for certain in this life is my love for my family and friends is deep and eternal. As we get older, loss is inevitable and I am now watching old friends lose their spouse and each time I feel physical pain in my heart. If you’re lucky enough to have not experienced a major loss, I’m happy for you. For most this isn’t the case so we link arms and keep trudging down life’s road in hopes of finding peace as we continue the journey.

Written in memory of my dear friend Kathy Collins.

Dear Grief,

You barreled into my life fifteen years ago today. I didn’t want you in my life. I wanted no part of what you had to offer. I fought you with everything I had, until I was too weak to fight anymore.

When you knocked at my door, I didn’t answer. I ignored you, but you came in anyway. I think I had probably met you before, but didn’t realize it. When I was younger, there were instances in which I’m sure you dropped by, but I didn’t know you personally, so I didn’t pay attention. This time it was clear you weren’t leaving. Matter of fact, you brought a bag and it wasn’t an overnight bag. It was a huge trunk which must have had everything you needed because you had no intentions of ever leaving.

My initial reaction was to ignore you. I had so much to do and my heart was so heavy. There wasn’t room for you in my head or in my heart, but there you were. You were there when the sun came up as I fought sleep and my tear stained pillow showed a restless night. You were there as I poured my cereal, sitting quietly in the corner as if to say, “I’m here when you’re ready”. As I dressed for work, you followed me from room to room and I felt you were intrusive.

At work, you watched me from afar as I juggled bringing new life into the world while grieving my precious daughter. You were in the car heading home with me while I cried so hard that I had to pull over because eyes don’t have windshield wipers. As I lay my head on the pillow, exhausted from being up all night and fighting my emotions as I did my job, you even followed me to the bathroom when it became too much to bear and I would sob uncontrollably in the safety of that small space.

You showed up everyday, every meal, every moment I was experiencing and I realized you weren’t going anywhere. You unlike so many in my everyday life weren’t going to leave me no matter how hard it got. I had a huge support system, but eventually they all returned to their own lives and picked up where they left off. That, of course is the normal course of things. I, on the other hand, sat in the middle of the world where a bomb had exploded and destruction was all around me. The ashes were deep and I could feel the heat as everything around me continued to burn. It seemed there was nothing left.

That’s when you came and sat with me. You took my hand, stained from the ash and held it tight. You, without saying a word, told me you’d always be with me. It was as if I’d found a friend among the rubble. I felt relieved I had someone to lean on that wouldn’t be affected by my tears. I didn’t have to pretend with you. It was softer with you in my corner.

I began to look forward to seeing you in the morning and sharing my day with you. You helped me protect myself when the world became overwhelming. You helped me protect others from me as my emotions heightened. You accompanied me everywhere, always keeping a low profile, never leaving my side. At work, you sat close by, at home you began to make yourself at home, even cuddling up with my favorite blanket.

As time went on, you were my invisible roomie and I tried to return to life in a different way. As I tried to discover the “new me”, you stood close for those times it was just too much and it was often too much. I fought hard to regain my footing, but often stumbled and you were there to catch me. I realized no one really understood, just as I didn’t understand what they were going through. What I did realize was this, everyone has something and we often never know what that something is. As alone as I felt, I realized many are fighting a battle we aren’t aware of. You taught me that everyone’s story is different and this was mine.

In time, with a lot of personal work, I found peace again. I found helping others helped me and that’s where I put my energies. Eventually from the ashes I saw hints of new growth. Little seedlings of hope emerged and the landscape began to change. Instead of what was no longer there, I began to visualize what was left. It was a new and different life, one I hadn’t ask for nor imagined, but it was mine and I had to try and make the best of it.

In the years that followed, you stayed with me, but often you were able to sleep in or bow out of events. Often I would forget you were there, concentrating on the present and looking less in the rear view mirror. As I regained my footing, you had to resurface again and again as additional losses occurred. This time, I buckled you in the seatbelt next to me and welcomed the company. We rode that coaster together and you even got me to let go a couple times and raise my arms high, taking a chance on being fearless.

I am here because of you, my forever friend. Grief, you taught me survival skills, you taught me to be fearless and you taught me that life is short and we need to make it the best it can be, regardless of the challenges we face. I thank you for being there through the ups and downs of my crazy, wonderful, challenging, difficult life. I am happy to have you and occasionally when you find me with a tear stained pillow, or mascara streaks on my cheeks, it is just a reminder that love never dies and grief is forever.

With love and gratitude,

Carolyn

Lindsey’s mom

She methodically got in her car, backed out of the driveway, took a right and proceeded to drive to work. It was the same route she drove everyday and had been taking for the last 31 years. It used to be in the evening and she would see families out if the weather was nice. If not, she would notice houses closed up tight, keeping the cold at bay. There were always those walking their dogs or maybe just taking a stroll. Now that she worked in the daylight hours it was different. She would see those first emerging from their homes, some heading for work and of course kids of all ages waiting patiently for the school bus. She realized not much changed day to day on her route, but today was different.

As she passed through the familiar neighborhood, she glimpsed a young woman with two children in tow. One looked eager to get where she was going and was several steps ahead. The second girl seemed to be lagging behind. As she watched, she noticed the child was crying and would take a few steps and stop, drop onto the sidewalk, refusing to go further. After bits of what looked like serious conversation, she would rise to her feet and start again. After a bit, it repeated itself, stop, cry, drop to the sidewalk arms crossed and a flat refusal to continue. This continued as the woman lost sight of the little family. Her head was spinning as she continued driving and in an instant, it came to her that this was much like the grief journey.

If you are familiar with my writing, the woman driving to work is me. I have been driving the same route, parking in the same lot and working on the same floor for 31 years. I have been with the same company for 46 years and have no plans to change. I’ve lived in the same zip code for the last 35 years so I guess you could say my life is predictable.That is until its isn’t.

The woman driving the car is a mom, a nurse, a sister and a friend. She is also a bereaved mom, a bereaved daughter and a widow, all of which were not predictable. She goes to work everyday and is just like everyone else. She smiles, she laughs, and she does everything everyone else does. If you met her you would never know the pain she has endured.

Fourteen years ago on this date, my daughter died and life hasn’t been the same since. Of course it can’t be. This change is one that you doesn’t allow you to return to normal. Many call it the “new normal” and I hate that term. There is nothing normal about living the rest of your life without your child.

I have learned to live without her in my physical world, but what is it like after 14 years? Do you get over it? The answer is a resounding “no”. You learn how to carry it, live with it and mostly how to incorporate it into your everyday world. You do that because you have no other choice. Survival requires it and you want to survive for the others who love you and you love so dearly.

Grief is much like the little girl above, you take steps forward and boom, it hits and you have to stop and catch your breathe. Tears may flow, your body aches as you long for them. Your mind races as you try to remember their voice, their laugh, their smile. You are frozen for a minute just like the little girl on the sidewalk. In a bit, you rise and take steps forward again never knowing when it will hit again and it will hit again. Sometimes it’s like a warm summer rain, present but not uncomfortable, sometimes it’s a torrential downpour and you don’t know if you’ll survive it. Thing is, you do and you continue to drive that same route to work, do what you need to and smile and laugh just as if it wasnt there. You become amazing at wearing a mask, it’s almost an art form. It protects you from others and it protects others from you.

So what is it like after fourteen years is the question. When I wake in the morning, she is always the first face I see. As I go through my day, there are times it isn’t foremost in my thoughts, but those times are few. Her face is the last thing I see at night when I close my eyes to pray. I pray for those suffering loss, I pray they find the way forward, I pray they have the support they need.

I live the life of a bereaved mom and if you know anyone who has lost a child of any age, you know it is a challenge every single day. In the beginning I called it life without parole, but that sounds pretty awful. While I say it is a struggle, you can find joy again, but it takes work. You have to want to get better and you have to work to do so. Everyone needs different things to find their way. For me, I needed purpose and I found that trying to help others find their way out of the storm. It helps me if one person takes something from something I say or do. One sentence. One thought sometimes is all it takes to change how you feel.

Am I over it is not really a question. Deep love cannot be erased so deep love is eternal. My love for my daughter grows everyday. I love that I was her mom. I love that she realized her dream of becoming a mom. I love how deeply she loved her family. I loved how she never hung up without saying I love you. I love that we had this beautiful little family of five for as long as we did. I’ll never not miss her, I will love her til the day I take my last breath. I believe I will see her again and that’s what it’s like after fourteen years. The missing is physically painful, but life has to be rebuilt around the loss. I have tried very hard to do that, but sometimes I’m that little girl on the sidewalk…I have to stop, sit with my grief and eventually I’ll move forward.

She entered the room reluctantly, head bowed, tears cascading down both cheeks, dropping on the front of her flowered shirt. As she slowly raised her head, her eyes locked with a woman with shoulder length blond hair. At that moment she knew she was in the right place because the woman’s eyes reflected the same pain she was feeling at that very moment. It’s as if her eyes could talk and they were saying “sit with us. You’ll be ok”. She scanned the room through her moist eyes. There were mostly women with a few men sprinkled here and there. They were old and young and in between, parents and grandparents, family members and friends and she noticed they all had one thing in common…they had sad eyes. As she met eyes with each person, she wondered, “Would she survive?”

I’m sure if you follow my blog, you recognize the woman entering the room. That woman, of course, is me in the first 2 months of my introduction to “Grief”. I entered that room full of bereaved parents and I didn’t want to be there. I didn’t want to be one of them. They actually held conversations with each other, even smiling and laughing at times. How could they do that if they had lost their child? It didn’t make sense. It felt wrong and disrespectful. It was upsetting to see and even more to feel there was a lighter feeling in the room as they conversed. Did they enjoy being there, that wouldn’t make sense. Then the meeting began.

It explained how the meetings are structured and what to expect. It talked about there being possible smiles and even laughter. The leader explained that going to more than one meeting was necessary to see if it might help. Then came the Round Robin and as a stone passed through the hands of this group of people, who had lost their children, each one told their story. It started with a name, followed with the age at the time of death and usually ended with how this terrible tragedy had almost destroyed their family and all of this was accompanied by a barrage of tears. You notice, I said almost, because here they were sitting together trying to help others newer to grief. Some were far down the road, others were still in the early years of trying to make it make sense. The one thing they all had in common was the desire to make the path for others a little less treacherous by what they had learned so far.

Each one shared what had helped them in those early years. Each one offered something I thought was gone forever and that my friend was “Hope”. It wasn’t the kind of Hope one looks forward to like a birth or a wedding. Not the kind of Hope that one has for a future, but instead it was Hope of survival of the horrible bomb that just dropped on your life leaving nothing behind but ruin. Most of your life wasn’t even recognizable and you felt like a ghost of your former self. There was no color, just black and white with shades of gray as the colors blended. It was similar to the field after a battle, bodies lay everywhere, in pain, crying, and hands outstretched looking for help.

Here is where the Calvary arrives with food, nourishment, emotional, physical and spiritual help. The Calvary for me was The Compassionate Friends. Parents helping parents. Those in pain offering assistance to others in whatever way they can, an ear to listen, a heart to open and a mouth to share their journey with others. This is how healing begins, recognizing whatever gift you have to help others. Not monetary, not physical, but it is instead the gift of giving to others and one of the greatest gifts is that of time, time to care, time to share, and time to sit with someone’s pain. Those are gifts that cost nothing, but are the most valuable of all.

How are these parents from that first meeting you ask. They are out living their lives, continuing their careers, raising families, entering retirement and on and on. They survived because you aren’t really given a choice. The decision they had to make is how to live the rest of their lives. Do they hold onto that emotional pain forever or do they choose to do whatever is necessary to find joy again? I personally believe it is a choice we have to make on our own. Is it enough to just be alive or do I want to thrive? Some think it to be an impossible task, but I personally disagree. There is so much to live for and no matter what the circumstances, there is Hope that one day that physical pain will lessen and be replaced with memories made and memories to make. This is my Hope for myself and for anyone and everyone on this journey with me. I never said it was easy, I just know it is worth it.

Happy Birthday to my daughter, Lindsey, forever 29. She is and will forever be loved and remembered.

He took the tiny baby from the doctor’s hands. She was so small, so delicate. Her tiny features were perfect, ten fingers, ten toes, perfect little body and all of it topped off with a mop of dark hair. He was nervous this second time around. He had attended the birth of his first child, but this time he lowered the tiny baby into a warm water bath. She was crying, not thrilled to be thrust into this cold, scary world, but as her pudgy little body slipped gently beneath the surface of the warm bath, the crying ceased and there was a calm that came over the entire delivery room. Another miracle made.

Today marks thirteen years since my daughter, Lindsey, died. It feels like an eternity since I heard her voice, kissed her cheek, felt her arms around me as we hugged that day, not knowing it would be our last time. It was Easter of 2010, a beautiful day, as we had dinner together and I left for work. Three days later, she was gone and nothing would ever be the same. I would never be the same.

The loss of a child is like an explosion. It destroys everything around it, leaving nothing but rubble in its wake. There is nothing left that is recognizable and what is left will never return to its previous state. The smoke billows all around, the sky is dark, and it feels eearily quiet.

Eventually it is safe to enter the area where the explosion occurred. . Carefully you step softly, you look around you. You survey the damage. You wonder if you’ll ever be able to rebuild what is lost. Do you give up and throw away what is left or do you reach down and find a little piece of something that was part of your life before the explosion?

That’s what it’s like to lose a child. Everything in those early days is dark. There is no color in your world. It is as if you are playing an old black and white movie. As you look around your world, you recognize small pieces of you. It’s not the same, but it is part of you and who you were. As time goes on, more bits and pieces begin to surface. The part of you that was destroyed starts to regenerate little by little. Often no one can see it but you or maybe you are afraid to let others see it. You are afraid to feel, sometimes even afraid to love.

It is a difficult journey and everyone’s journey is unique to them and to their loss. It takes strength you don’t have, energy you can’t muster and internal drive that you lost along with your child. How do you accomplish this, it’s much too hard.

In my case, it was a choice to give up or give in. Live or remain dead inside and miss all that life has to offer. That day 13 years ago, brought me to my knees. Today I drop to my knees for a different reason, to thank God for my incredible daughter. I am grateful for my 29 years. Would I have liked more, absolutely. I was there when she took her first breath, got her first tooth and took her first steps. I was there to love her through some tough times. I was there when she walked down the aisle to marry her best friend. I was there when she had her son and love of her life. I was there for it all and I am so thankful for that. That is why I drop to my knees now.

Carrying grief and gratitude is a difficult task. Sometimes the load shifts and you lose your balance. Sometimes you just lose your footing and sometimes you fall to the ground. Some days are easier than others. That is just the way it is and you can’t change it. What you can do is to rebalance your load and when you feel the weight shift, stop and take a minute to feel. Follow that by straightening the load and setting out again. You’ll never be completely balanced because the weight of the load will change. As you continue on your journey your load will lighten. You’ll unpack the things you don’t need anymore and you’ll balance the rest with your memories.

My load now is not nearly as heavy. My journey will never be over and my life will never be the same, but what I carry with me every day are my memories and they are lighter. What I carry is my undying, never ending love for my daughter. What I carry is my continued zest for life. I want to live for her and to live for what I still have. I want to be able to see her when we meet again and I know we will. I want her to say. ‘Good job mom, I’m proud of you.”

I miss my daughter and not a day goes by that I don’t think of her and how blessed I am to be her mom. Although life comes with pain sometimes, the journey is worth it if you have love and give love. When you love this deep you grieve to the same depth. Grief is not a bad thing, it’s just a best friend with no other place to be.

Lindsey, I love you. I miss you and I will see you again….I will be forever grateful I got to be your mom.

I think the most difficult part of loss is not the obvious, but instead, the learning to live without that loved one. Everyone dreads those initial painful days filled with funeral details, people everywhere, more food than you can find room for and the feelings of disbelief that this is now a reality. Depending on the type of loss, you are now thrust into an alternate universe filled with nothing but pain. It is as if nothing will ever be ok again.

After the initial shock there is a feeling of carrying a backpack full of boulders. Everything feels heavy and it makes you so tired. Sleep becomes like a firefly, you chase it but can’t quite catch it. Every time you get close to the light, it flitters off in another direction. Your brain is fuzzy, there is no clarity to your thoughts and it is like driving in a dense fog, seeing only your windshield and not much beyond. You are not sure what’s ahead or if or when it will clear up. You are scared.

Now you are exhausted, feel lost and afraid. Does this sound familiar?

Loss of a spouse is like rowing a boat together, going forward, riding the waves, feeling the strength of the teamwork and all of a sudden there is a huge storm with giant swells, gale force winds and torrential rain. When the storm is over, there you sit alone in the boat, adrift, at sea. There you sit alone, unsure, exhausted stranded on the sea of life and all around you is the rubble left of your previous world.

My experience with loss of a child is a little different. I couldn’t even see the windshield the fog was so dense. Everything was a blur and the heaviness felt as if I’d never be able to bear my own weight. I thought I would never be any different than I was at that moment. As time passed and the fog started to lift I saw the world around me had not changed, just my piece of it. I would watch the hustle and bustle as everyone continued functioning as they always did. I couldn’t understand how they could do that when my world was turned upside down. Over time and with a lot of work, I realized that my life needed to continue too, although different, there was still life to live. Even though my little family was changed forever, there were many new milestones and memories to make.

I’d like you to meet my friend . His name is Grief and he is very complex. He is that person you didn’t invite to the party, but he rudely showed up anyway. He is uncomfortable to be around. He talks loud and causes disruption wherever he goes. At first, you just want him to leave as quickly as he arrived, but eventually the fog lifts and it becomes very clear that this is your new reality. You look around and he has unpacked and made himself at home. Grief is here to stay.

Now that you have this uncomfortable roommate, you have to find a way to make this arrangement work. Gradually you clear some drawers and move things around so he is more comfortable. You start to appreciate him a little and don’t feel quite so alone. His presence starts to comfort you and as you wake in the morning, you are glad he is here. When you sit down to eat, he sits with you. At last when night falls, he cuddles up beside you as you start to chase the fireflies.

Grief becomes your friend forever. You realize you can’t do it without him so he rides in the car, goes to work with you and sits beside you at special events. If you accept an invitation, it must include your plus one. As you start to rebuild your life, grief is by your side, picking you up when you need it and kicking your butt when you need that.

Trying to find your way is like trying to place a square peg in a round hole. It doesn’t fit and you don’t fit. Everything is different, every experience is different and happiness now seems like it is forever out of reach. You aren’t sure what you want or how to achieve it. Those closest to you may treat you as if nothing ever happened. This is probably because you wear the “I’m ok” mask really well. Sometimes you are so incredibly good at it that it is easy for people to forget. You make it easier if they don’t have to think about it. You often make it easy for them to think you are “ok”.

Truth is, eventually, you are “ok”. but being ok doesn’t mean you have left it all behind. It’s not packed away in the overcrowded attic like your old trophies. Instead, it is in your mind, it is in your very soul, but most of all it is in your heart. The human heart is powerful. It can hold all the love, all the missing, all the pain and all the memories at the same time. The heart is where you store all those feelings, some good and some not so good, but the heart is tough and can expand however much it needs to. Sometimes the heart feels light much like it did with that first love. It can also be shattered into so many pieces you think it can never be repaired. When that happens, your friend “Grief” shows up with the Tacky Glue and helps put it back together. It’s not the same, it can’t be. It has lumps and bumps and eventually scars over. That scar is the healing and the scar never goes away just like the love never goes away.

At this Christmas Season, I want to say I loved you then, I love you now and I will love you forever.

To all those missing someone this Holiday, take the time to remember and celebrate your loved ones. It doesn’t matter how long their life or how they died. Nothing matters but the love and truly “love never dies”.

She met eyes with the newly bereaved mother, there was instant connection and they collapsed into an understanding embrace. The tears flowed and the pain returned her to the day she became that mother. She knew what was ahead, she knew it was treacherous terrain and she knew sometimes there would be stumbles and falls. Some days would feel like they’d never end and some days would vanish from her mind. She knew every road was different and the journey had no end. She knew there would be twists and turns and sometimes she would feel lost and alone. Yes, she knew and she knew it would take everyone and everything to reach a new and different place, one she never wanted to find. She knew, because she had been there before.

As I looked into the eyes of my friend, they were the eyes I had looked into hundreds of times before, as I met many just embarking on their grief journey. I remember my own vision seemed clouded and blurry and although I functioned quite well, I was just going through the motions. I wasn’t consciously deciding anything, I was merely a participant in my own life. Sort of an autopilot or robotic movement that moved me physically, but the emotional part of me was nonexistent. That was, of course, until I stopped and realized what had really happened and that life was changed forever.

When you are thrust into the world of grief, it is scary and unnerving. There are no guidelines, no rules, no timeline. It is as if you are dropped alone on a desert island and the challenge is merely to survive. It is not to have a nice home, food on the table, or a nice car. It is to wake up, get through the daylight hours as best you can, and to finally close your eyes hoping tomorrow will be easier, then gently escaping into sleep. New grief is like new shoes, uncomfortable, confining, often painful and all you really want is to slip back into the old ones. The fit was right, they were soft and maybe a little loose in places. You don’t want those to be thrown out, you may even protest a little. you loved those shoes, but now you are not given a choice and you are forced to wear the new ones, like it or not.

When the fog starts to lift, you become keenly aware of life around you. You watch people go about their day as if nothing ever happened. The world continues to turn and you feel like it’s revolving around you and you are stationary. Your feet are heavy, your legs feel paralyzed so you just stand there, still, immobile, frozen in place.

Eventually, you start to look around again and your next question becomes “what now”? Of all the newly bereaved I have been honored to sit with in their pain, every single one has asked me what to do to get better. There is no real answer to this question because it is different for every individual. So much love was felt and now so much pain. The first thing that I think you have to realize is this…Love never dies. Regardless of the circumstances, love is forever and deep love is going to be accompanied by deep grief.

The next hurdle becomes incorporating the loss into your everyday life. Many believe healing is “letting go” or “leaving behind” the person you loved. Nothing is farther from the truth. This was my biggest fear in the beginning. I was so afraid that any step forward was away from my daughter. I, through lots of hard work, realized it was the exact opposite. I learned to take her with me and she travels with me everywhere I go. She is at every holiday, every event, every milestone, the good, the bad and the unexpected. She is a driving force in my everyday life. Her force is from within while my two surviving daughters are my driving force from without. Her spirit is as strong today as it was the day she died.

This brings me to “what now”? That is the challenge I found the most daunting. I didn’t have a cause, I couldn’t build a building or provide a scholarship. I needed to find my “what now” and I starting looking into the eyes of those families hurting like mine. I started reaching out and trying to learn ways to help someone navigate this lonely journey. If I could help one person then that helped me to heal. I have been so blessed to share the best moments in life through my work as a nurse in Labor and Delivery and I have been blessed to share the worst moments of life through not only my work, but through my grief work. It is an honor to help bring a baby into the world. It is an honor to sit with someone in their hours of grief. It is an honor to hold a hand as a loved one passes. It is an honor to be the person someone looks to for comfort and advice in their darkest hours. I have been blessed to have all of these experiences and even though my own road gets a bit rocky at times, someone who understands has always been there for me. I am honored that you read my blog, just my take on the grief journey, the words of a bereaved mother, daughter, wife and friend.

On October 9, 2021, Alan Pedersen, father of Ashley, will take you on his journey from tragedy to triumph. He will share how he used his most devastating moment to find the “what now”. If you are local, please join us. It will be a day that you will remember forever.

The fourteen year old fresh-faced teen got ready for church like she always did, crisp ironed dress, dressy shoes, hair combed and clipped to keep out of her eyes. It was a normal Sunday morning as she began the short walk to the little church on the hill. She couldn’t wait to see her friends in Sunday School followed by church. She loved her pastor, he seemed more like a grandfather to her or at least what she envisioned a grandfather to be. He was gentle and kind and had a way of telling stories that made you feel you were there, in the moment, living out the story with him. She scooted into the pew, sitting with friends and their parents, quickly grabbed the Hymnal and marked the pages listed in the bulletin. She then settled for the next hour of worship, song and feeling happy at being a part of this group of people. They were adults that taught her in Sunday School, chaperoned camp in the summer, led Training Union and anything and everything that was needed for the youth in the church.

As the service came to a close and the final hymn was started, she felt a push forward. That was odd she thought as she looked over her shoulder and saw nothing there. It happened again and she began to feel pulled toward the front of the church. People were going forward to accept Jesus and while she had been thinking about it, she wasn’t quite sure what that meant or even if she was ready. She felt it again, but more forceful this time. It was as if she couldn’t hold back and she slid out of the pew and walked the aisle to the waiting arms of her beloved pastor. Her life would change forever.

This young teen was, of course, me. This is a story I have only told to my closest family, probably 4 total people, until recently when I shared it with my Sunday School class. Why did it feel that the time was right? Why now? Why them?

Religion and faith have always been a very private thing for me. I don’t know what made me feel that way or was I afraid to share with others? The world is a tough place and I learned very young not to discuss religion or politics unless you wanted to see unrest. These subjects can become so passionate that it can destroy families and friendships. I don’t think I was afraid, but I just didn’t feel it was their business and frankly, I didn’t want their opinion. I was my own person and didn’t feel the need to broach the subject.

Today, I feel like I want to tell you about how I feel God has worked in my life. It’s totally ok if you don’t agree and I respect that, but I want to share my journey. If you don’t believe or are skeptical, please humor me, and read anyway.

That young girl grew up in a simpler time or so she thought. Her mother was something special and she knew it from the beginning. She had no idea how hard her mom’s life had been or how she persevered. She just saw goodness in her and in how she helped others. I believe God gave me this mom to show me love and compassion for others, love of family and loyalty to all who helped you on the journey. She gave me an incredible work ethic and a respect for the wisdom of the ones who walked before us. She taught us to take care of each other and to always remember to live life with purpose and intention. My mom taught me “God is great” to say before meals and “ Now I lay me down to sleep” to say as my head hit the pillow. She was truly my hero. I still say that prayer to this day, because everything she told me was true.

In 1970, the phone rang and informed my mom that the Marshall University football team had been killed in a plane crash. My brother was on that team. It was discovered in the next few hours that he had left the team the week prior and was not on the plane with his beloved teammates. I remember the shock and sadness that surrounded that time. I remember my beloved pastor showing up at our door, even though mom wasn’t attending his church at that time. I’m sure there was grief everywhere, but I don’t remember that part. What I do remember is praying my brother was safe and praying for all the families of his teammates and the little baby that was at our house that Sunday before who in an instant lost his daddy.

Throughout my life, I remember good times and tough times and in those tough times, I remember praying for whatever the need was. Sometimes I may have prayed selfishly for what I wanted or wanted to happen. I know I didn’t say enough thank you’s for all the good things in my life. I, like many, resorted to prayer and looked to God when I needed him the most. Now I know I should have been more diligent when things were good to show my appreciation. See, I know He is there, I know He cares for me and I know He will never let me down, but it falls to me to do the right thing, to make the right decisions and to depend on Him all the time, not just the lean times.

I have never been great at letting go and placing things in His hands. I am working on that. My husband always joked about me being “controlling” “Type A” he said. He was right about that and in the last few years I have learned a lot. Here are a few things I’ve learned.

I have learned you can’t control what happens to you, just how you respond to it.

I’ve learned that a long healthy life is not promised and you need to live each day to the fullest.

I’ve learned that no matter how bad things are, there is a silver lining somewhere, you just have to look for it.

I’ve learned that being a Christian is a life style, not just on Sunday, but everyday.

I’ve learned you don’t have to tell everyone you are a Christian, because your behavior is obvious to others.

I’ve learned that while I don’t want to make waves, it’s important to say how I feel.

I’ve learned to pray for the outcome I hope for, along with being able to handle a different outcome with grace and acceptance.

I’ve learned to say “Thank you” for my many, many blessings in what seems like a challenging life at times.

Most of all I’ve learned that no matter what happens, the world goes on. There are bumps on every highway and as time passes, they often get more treacherous and dangerous. Sometimes they cause you to run off the road, maybe have an accident. You couldn’t always see the road ahead, maybe you didn’t see the danger, or maybe you did and drove it anyway. Maybe, just maybe, you thought you were in control.

I’ve learned I’m not.

The ball has started rolling down the mountain, first at a slow pace and a gradual incline and then suddenly it started picking up speed, twisting and turning as if on an old mountain road. It hasn’t reached the bottom yet, but I know it will. It’s just a matter of time. So I will wait patiently in anticipation, knowing it is imminent. That ball is just a big old mass of grief that always returns at the beginning of Spring.

My life changed on the first day of Spring in 2010. Lindsey, my 29 year old daughter, died suddenly. It was Easter week. In March 2013, my mom died at 85 years of age, we buried her on Easter week. Along came April 2019 and my beloved husband of 46 years died and the next day was Easter Sunday. You see, for me, this is a series of events that has caused me to collapse and recover, only to collapse and recover again and again. The moment I thought I had my feet firmly planted in my new life, boom it hit again. So today as I put new flowers at the cemetery, I started thinking about the series of events that have brought me to this place. I wasn’t sure how I felt and honestly, I felt numb.

As I took the long road home, I began to assess my life and what it’s like to be me. I became overwhelmed and as my eyes started to well up, I felt an intense amount of gratitude. In this blog, I want to express gratitude for everyone and everything that has brought me to this moment.

To the hoards of people who stood in line to see us when Lindsey died, I thank you.

To the friends that stayed by my side, doing anything and everything to get us through the day, I thank you. To the one that sacrificed her own health to be there, I thank you. To the one who came from out of town leaving her own family and sat in silence beside me, I thank you. To the one who never left my side, at times sleeping on my floor, I thank you. To the one who always shows up at just the right time and does whatever is needed, I thank you. To the neighbors and friends, old and new, who showed up with food, flowers, cards, a cherished hug, I thank you.

To the first person that hugged me and helped me find the Compassionate Friends meeting, I thank you. To the faces I saw and still see in that room that gave me Hope, I thank you. To those I met along the journey who helped me find my way, eventually giving me the strength to help others, I thank you. To those I met at conferences that showed me you could survive and thrive, I thank you. To the one that carries my daughters name around the country helping others, I thank you.

To the doctor that sat down and held my hand and shared a personal story of grief and survival, I thank you. To the doctor that encouraged me to give myself grace and accept help, I thank you.

To my coworkers who came, cried with me, sent cards, sent gifts and let me be me when I returned to work, I thank you. To the patient who asked me how many children I had on my first night back, I thank you. To the patient who asked if she could pray for me because she felt I had something heavy on my heart, I thank you.

To the person who taught me that grief is emotional pain and that you can let go of that pain carrying your precious loved ones memories with you, I thank you. To the Grief Recovery Methods founders, I thank you.

To the throngs of nurses with the tears flowing, who watched my first grandchild heading to the NICU 17 years ago with a grim prognosis, I thank you. To those who cared for my daughters with difficult and uncertain pregnancy complications, I thank you. To the NICU nurses who felt our pain and continued to do their job with amazing results, I thank you. To the Neonatologist that smiled at me and said, “she is going to be alright”, I thank you. To the doctor who never gave up trying to get a healthy baby, sacrificing her time off to care for my daughters, I thank you. To the doctors whom I’ve been with for over 40 years now and have supported me in every way and who always show up, I thank you.

To the resident with the bright red hair that sat with me at the hospital in December of 1981, after we had learned our 3 year old had a life threatening disease and might not survive, I thank you.

To the friend who reached out and got Rick appointments that would have taken months to get, I thank you. To the team in the clinic at VCU that offered him a smile and renewed hope, I thank you.

To the people who learned of Rick’s illness and reached out to offer help and hope, I thank you. To those who braved the long lines to speak to us and give us hugs and memories, I thank you. To all his high school friends and childhood friends who reached out during his illness, it meant more than you will ever know, I thank you. To the few that got to visit and took the time to sit with him and share stories, I thank you.

To his childhood friend who decided retirement meant going into the ministry, who visited and comforted us in those last days, even helping us renew our vows, I thank you. To the church family I have found and lift me up, I thank you.

To those who knew and loved my mom and share their stories, I thank you. To someone special who sung her favorite hymn in her last hour, I thank you.

To all those grieving a loss of any kind that have allowed me to share that space and their hearts, I thank you.

To those who read my blog as I share my pain, my joy, my triumphs along the way, I thank you.

To Rick’s family for loving us and supporting us, I thank you. To my family for the continued love and support, I truly thank you. To my grandchildren for making me smile and laugh and showing me unconditional love and joy, I thank you.

To my girls, Amanda and Tiffany, I think you are amazing and I thank you. At the end of the day, we may be here and it may be hard at times, but I believe, with all my heart, we will be together again.

So although Easter week is a challenge for me, it is the epitome of Hope. It is the promise of forever, it is renewed beginnings. To God for giving me this wonderful life and this amazing family, I thank you.

Wishing everyone a peaceful and beautiful Easter morning.

The minute I realized I was grieving an immeasurable loss, I began to read everything I could find on grief and grieving. It was almost an obsession to find the directions for navigating this emotion. I remember my daughter commenting “There should be a book of instructions for this. It should tell you what to expect as the days pass, how you’ll feel, what you’ll be able to do or not do, where you will be able to go and when the pain will start to lessen.” Will you be able to pick up life as you knew it before the loss or will life never be the same. Clearly, I know the answer to that now, but I didn’t know then.

I read about grief and healing and began to recognize myself in each and every chapter. Some mention types of grief, some stages of grief and some even have stories from grievers. The one thing they all have in common is this…Grief is something you can’t control. You can try and you can fight it and at times you think you have it under control…just to be brought to your knees in an instant, crying the tears you thought you no longer had. The predictable thing about grief is “It is unpredictable”.

A common theme in the many books, blogs, websites, podcasts etc. is an analogy to the weather. I have come to believe there is no better comparison than this.

Life begins usually in a very positive way. Birth, itself, is a miracle. I know this because I have witnessed thousands of births in 40+ years of nursing. It is most often happy and joyous, much like a beautiful sunny day . With the sun comes warmth and a feeling of hope. This usually means getting outside if you can, enjoying nature, playing with the children, all of the things that bring joy. People are smiling, families are together, neighbors talk over fences to catch up. The sound of laughter resonates from every direction. Can you see this scene in your mind? I sure can.

This is when life is going along, things are calm, somewhat normal even, then, boom life events happen and the sun disappears behind the clouds, the winds start to blow and everything you were feeling is gone, in an instant, gone. It is replaced with cold, damp rain and a feeling of uncertainty. Normal tasks become more difficult, smiles are replaced with sadness. You feel pinned in, you find it difficult to see the opening in the clouds. Isn’t this much like the way we feel in grief. It’s as if someone took our sunshine away and honestly, they did.

Eventually the fog lifts and the sun ever so gently appears again, bringing with it all the good feelings and sunny days, however, there are times that cold, damp rain is more like a tornado or a hurricane. It slips in unnoticed and wreaks havoc on our life. It rips off roofs and destroys foundations. It is like an angry mob destroying everything in its path, with no thought as to the aftermath. How will we pick up the pieces, how will we go on. How extensive is the loss? Sometimes it’s small and sometimes it’s insurmountable. Where is the book with the directions? Where do we go from here?

Doesn’t this remind you of the grief journey? Sometimes it is slow and steady and gradually you lose bits and pieces of your life. Other times, it is that tornado, ripping apart your life from the foundation up. Over the last eleven years, I’ve heard many ask if it was easier on loved ones if they knew death was coming and they had more time to say the things they needed to say or was it easier when it was sudden with no warning at all. The answer to that is this…It is all hard and whatever is happening to you is the hardest of all.

Life has its ups and downs. Life has its dreary days, but the thing about the weather is this…the clouds lift, the rain stops, the winds cease to blow and the sun returns sometimes bringing with it a rainbow. You see, we have to weather those dreary days in order to see the sun again. We have to feel the cold damp rain in order to appreciate the feeling of the warmth on our face. The storms will always come, but so will the sun.

Enjoy your sunny days, whether they be long or short, enjoy them like you never have before. Make memories. Feel the warmth and listen to the sounds of Spring. Cherish the moment so that when the storms return you will be ready, umbrella handy and the memories you stored of those sunny days will sustain you once again and keep your eyes peeled because you may even see a rainbow.