Losing a Child
Introduction
By
Melody Beattie
I’ve known Corinne Edwards for many years from my work as a writer and her work as a television host, a writer, and now a coach and the author of a blog. She has generously provided this site with an article published in the Members Only section, When Your Husband Has Died — A Survival Guide, and now another article that I’ve decided to publish both inside for members and out here for passers-by. At the bottom of her article, you’ll find a link to her blog. This woman is definitely worth checking out. We connected in a mysterious way that was very much meant to be, and that connection has survived the years. So now I introduce to you my friend and colleague, Corinne Edwards.
You Will Never Get Over it
By
Corinne Edwards, Guest Author
We had a shocking loss of a young person in the family. My 21 year old son died in an accident. The next day, a friend came to see us. His son had been killed by a drunk driver. His words surprised me. They didn’t sink in until much later.
“You will never get over this. If you know this in advance, you won’t try. You will not struggle and condemn yourself for not succeeding.”
He was right. His words became a consolation. I stopped trying. That’s why I decided to write this article. I wanted to share my friend’s words with you. The old normal is gone. There’s a hole in your heart and your being that will never be filled.
I related to so many things the women confided. I read their stories – did the same things. I also felt my son around all the time. I went to psychics to try to contact him. I even attended a séance. I prayed for messages. I dreamed about him often. I imagined I saw him in a crowd of people. I wouldn’t let him go.
One psychic told me that those who have gone on to the other side are allowed to stay around for a while to help and comfort, but they won’t be here forever. I started feeling him less and less. I dreamed about him only once in a while. But he’s never left my heart.
After a period of intense pain, you’ll be different. The person you were is gone. It is an amputation. Eventually, a new person will emerge. It will be the new normal. A new life will start to take shape, but the limb you lost won’t grow back. You will have something in common with a soldier who bravely runs a marathon despite having a prosthesis for a leg.
As my friend said, you’ll never get over it.
This new person will have a life which includes peace, love and even laughter, community and new friendships. It can and will happen in your own time.
I believe there is a tiny gift inherent in every unspeakable tragedy. One is compassion. I could not have written that article for widows if I hadn’t experienced the grief of losing my husband. I would not have been able to connect.
Another gift is knowing how to help someone who’s in extreme pain.
The world doesn’t give you much time. You hear platitudes like “Life goes on” and “Thank God you have other family.” They say it as if another person can replace the one you lost. You get about two months to get over it. The truth is, they don’t know what to say. What they don’t know is that all they need to do is listen.
Part of the gift is giving someone else your time to listen far beyond the window normally allowed. You know they have no one to talk to. You reach out more. You know how important it is to tell the story, over and over.
The sharing of this gift, when you are able, will comfort you. You’ll stop struggling to get over it. You’ll trust that if you’re still on this earth, there must be a reason. The new normal person will find that reason. It may not exist yet, but every day it becomes more real..
© Corinne Edwards
Hi- I lost my son to suicide 6 years ago and it is true that you never get over the death of a child. He was 21 when he died and his suicide came as a total shock to EVERYONE who knew him. But you do learn to move on and live your life albeit in a different manner. We celebrate his life and mourn his death and are learning to live a “new” normal way of life without him because we have no choice. It does get better and you learn to live life on different terms.
Godspeed,
Cheryl
Hi Cheryl. One of the biggest problems I faced with my friends at the time was that they all wanted me to “return to normal.” Well, when my son died I instantly knew I’d never be the same again. I began a transformation bigger than any I’d ever been through. There was no way I could go back, and be the person I was — and yet I didn’t know who I was becoming. I learned to life LIfe not only on Life’s terms, I learned to live it by surrendering to each moment — first as a survival device, than as a new way to live. I also learned there was far more power in trusting what I didn’t know — living in the mystery — than there was by thinking I knew everything. Best — and welcome to the site. (I’m glad you’re here — but not happy you need to be here. And I cannot even begin to imagine what you went and are going through, but I’m sorry for the pain you’ve had to get used to living with.) Best, and stay in touch. Melody Beattie
Hi,
I lost my son, Matthew, to a heroin overdose on July 28, 2011. I was able to sit with him in his bedroom after he passed. I will keep my last moments with him forever in my heart. There is so much I want to say and don’t know where to begin. Addiction is a terribly disease and affects anyone who is close to the addict. I miss my son and am very sad that I didn’t really know him and won’t know him. The disease had him since he was 16 years old. He was 26 when he died. I’m having difficulty knowing how to not have him in my life. I know my life will never be the same since he is gone. But I’m having difficulty with what it will become.
Melody, your book \Codependent No More\ brought much awareness to me 15 years ago. When I read your book, my stomach hurt because it was me. Throughout the last 15 years I worked on getting better and had to divorce my addict/alcoholic ex-husband. I didn’t know how to divorce my son. I tried tough love but that didn’t always work for me. My son was a caring, loving son but the drugs got in the way quite often. I often wonder \why\ and could I have done something different. It hurts and I’m angry right now. It isn’t right a parent should out live their children.
Hi Deb. My heart goes out to you, and brings back those heart-tearing months after my son first passed. It’s been twenty-years, and those moments are still “a day away” depending on the triggers, or my feelings, or sometimes for no reason at all. I remember wondering, in the ICU ward after they insisted on shutting off the machines because he was brain dead, “What am I going to do with all this love, now that Shane is gone?” His absence left such a huge hole in my life and in my heart, and I can’t tell you honestly that the hole has been completely filled. I have learned to live with missing him. The pain isn’t that searing, debilitating, overwhelming pain that it was in the beginning. I will never be thankful about what happened, but I have learned to be at peace with my life, and I was and am not the same person I was before his death. i don’t think we’re meant to be (the same). A loss that intense shapes us, changes us, forever and the “why’s” of it, I doubt I’ll ever understand. Some people say that asking why is another way of saying, “This hurts really, really bad.” I do know this — that there is a way through, but it’s on a moment by moment basis, for each of us. What began as a survival device — living in each moment and then taking the next one as it came — became my new way of life. It has become more effective even than living “a day at a time.” It’s just an all-around horrific, tragic thing to go through. People are not meant to bury their children. I keep thinking to this day that it’s a mistake when children die first, before their parents — and sometimes I wonder if the mistakes don’t happen on the seventh day of the week — on God’s day off — when he relies on the hired help. I cannot make sense of it (the death of a child) no matter how I try. Then, I realize there’s much of life I can’t make sense of (which is why I call my blog, “Living in the Mystery.). It’s also why I’ve come to redefine faith as “radical faith” — believing God loves us, even when we’re not the lucky ones, the ones that made it through, the ones who were blessed, the ones whose child almost, but then didn’t die. For me, it’s been a whole new way of life, and redefining faith — and it’s taken a long time. But I also learned that it’s not wasted time, and grief isn’t wasted time or energy either. It’s become a holy time, a time when I was reshaped because I was raw putty in God’s hands. Then there’s the issue of being so angry at God, so furious about what happened. So many things to go through. I don’t want to overwhelm you — but I go out to the desert today and I wanted to respond to your post before I left. I was at clinic all day yesterday — and it’s a 4-5 hour round-trip drive. I just wanted you to know that I read your post, that I care, that I want to hear from you again as your go through the days and weeks and months ahead. You’ve come a long way already. For now, I want to tell you how sorry I am for your loss, and for the pain you’re living with. I don’t know how you feel — we can each know only our own hearts. But for me, time didn’t make it better. In the beginning, the passing of time made it worse — the expectations people had that I’d “be over it,” and people waiting for the old me to come back — I couldn’t live up to any of those. I had to focus on and do what was best for me — something others didn’t and couldn’t understand. So I give you permission to do that too (not that you need my permission). But it’s okay for you to do what’s best for you. There is no right way to grieve a loss that big. There are only two rules — don’t do anything to hurt yourself (including letting others hurt you) and don’t hurt anyone else (physically). Other than that, how you choose to deal with your grief is totally your choice. Please keep in touch. I’ll have more time online after I get the drive over with today, but know that you’re in my heart — and that there are many caring loving people on this site. They reach out to others. Many have lost a child. I’ve been blessed by all the people who have come to this site. And it’s a safe place to come and not have to live up to anyone’s expectations — you can come here and be who you are, say how you really feel — just be yourself. I’m sorry you need to be here at all, but I’m grateful you found this site. We’re also coming into a hard time (the holidays) — at least they are difficult for some. I’ve learned to let each moment and day just be whatever it is. Please know that wondering if there’s something we could have done to prevent it? That’s a symptom — a stage of – grief. The questioning is real, but it’s more a symptom than it is real. It comes with losing someone we love. No, there’s nothing you — or I — could have done to prevent the loss. We’re not in charge of timing of live and death. But the feeling that if only we would have, or wondering if we could have, is part of this new territory you’ve found yourself in. Please don’t take it too seriously when you start questioning that — just know it’s another stage of grief — feeling guilty, obsessing over our story and telling it time and time again, identifying ourselves by our loss — those are all important stages of going through a loss. It’s important that we allow ourselves to experience all the feelings, to tell our story as often as we need to — to ask as many questions, to get as mad as we need to, as well. It’s a messy process, this grieving thing. You will come through it though — whether you want to or not. I say that because I wasn’t sure I wanted to get through it in the beginning. I just wanted to see my son for five more minutes, to hold him again, and to know that he was alright wherever he is. Sorry for rambling — but I wanted to connect with you before I took off on this trip. I’ll be back on line, as I said, in a couple days. There’s a place on this site to tell your story. When you’re ready, you may want to tell it in more detail — or maybe not. Whatever feels right to you, go ahead. Look around the site. And please, please, be as gentle with yourself as you can. You’ve just gone through the worst loss that anyone can, and it’s going to hurt like hell for awhile. But you will make it through it. There’s a price we pay when we love someone deeply, when we risk opening our heart. If we’re called to pay that price, it’s going to be a steep one that we pay with deep pain in our heart. But I’ve come to believe that’s why we were given hearts and the ability to love — not to protect ourselves, stay closed off — but to go through life and end up with wounds and scars on our heart because we took the risk of learning how to love. That’s it — for now. Sorry to lay so much on you. Hope to hear from you soon. Melody Beattie
Meldoy,
Thank you for your thoughts and words. I too have to live moment by moment. Losing my son has been the most difficult time in my life. I never thought he would die of an overdose. I believed sooner or later he could have ended up in jail and was accepting of that consequence.
I have changed since his death and continue to change. I’m not sure where my path in life will go but hopes someday I have the ability to believe again. I’m overwhelmed easily with family requests of my time. This is a new feeling for me and I’m trying to not get angry with them. It has been a struggle. It’s like my compartments are full and won’t allow any more in.
I want to tell my story and in time will do this. I believe this is part of the healing process.
Hi again. I’m getting settled in — because of “losing one main road” what should have taken me two and one-half hours took ten hours to drive to get here. I’m not at all happy you went through the loss you did; I’m not glad you’re in pain. But I am glad that given what you’ve been through and are going through, you’ve found your way here. It’s a solitary journey that for the most part we each walk alone, but at least this gives us a place to be alone together. (Whatever that means.) Stay in touch. Melody Beattie
Has anyone else dealt with something like this? Jusitn had many friends, both male and female, but was not romantically involved with anyone at the time of his death. There were a couple of girls that he thought had potential, but had not told them of his interest. One of these girls has stayed in touch with me since his death and we have developed a friendship. I have never told her of Justin’s interest in her because I didn’t think it would serve any purpose. Today she told me that she had entered a relationship with a young man. Even though I’m happy for her, my heart is breaking. It’s not that I don’t want her to be happy, but at the same time, I so wanted Justin to be fall in love and get married and have children and I know that will never happen. It sounds so silly to me to even try to explain it, but I’m sitting here crying because I’m sad for him.
Donna, add it to the long list of “multiple losses.” Who they marry, what kind of parent they are (in my case, how many times will they go to chemical dependency treatment — he had the genes), what will he do for a living. The most shocking thing for me was when his best friend found me on facebook. Shane died when he and his friend were 12. His friend found me when he was 30. I was so stunned, and I realized that’s another loss. I never got to see what he’d look like as a man. So much. Don’t let anyone, even you, diss the importance of all of these. Melody
Hi Everyone! There’s is song that I heard everyday on the radio for about a month before Justin died. It’s called “If I Die Young” by The Band Perry. I was really moved by the song, but didn’t understand why I was hearing it so much and what that meant until Justin died. The first verse goes:
If I die young
Lord make me a rainbow, I’ll shine down on my mother
She’ll know I’m safe with you when she stands under my colors, oh and
Life ain’t always what you think it ought to be, no
ain’t even grey, but she buries her baby
Of course, I’ve been looking for a rainbow since his death and have been so disappointed that I haven’t seen one. Last night I was on my way to my first Bereaved Mothers meeting and there in front of me was my rainbow. It was like Justin was telling me he was watching me go to the meeting and I was doing the right thing.
Good song; good story. I’m glad you’re open to feeling your son’s presence. The journalist in me got in the wayfor a long time. Melody
Melody, I have learned so much from you that I have absorbed some of your coping styles and sayings. You lead me to some critical understanding that works for me too. I have been able to understand my needs quicker because you shared your grief work. So very personal yet I was able to get to some healing faster because you shared your path. Thank You so very much. I can relate to so much of what you shared and now realize that I have made some of your healing words my own! I didn’t realize that I borrowed so much of you because I have been in such a deep fog, thank you for shinning the light, Alicia
I just held the flashlight; you’re the one that walked the path. I’m really proud of you Alicia. You’re going through the hardest thing there is. Nothing, not ever, will be harder than this.
Donna, this is so moving! It is amazing how life was trying to prepare you for this tragic and profound loss! I can relate to your story in 2 big ways. My son died of an accident also and the week leading up to his death we had conversations about death, God, life after death, etc. It is not unusual for us to talk about probing topics but after he passed these memories took on new meaning, Somehow, did his Spirit know that he would be leaving his physical body soon? Also, soon after he passed, I told myself that when I see a RAINBOW I will stop and say hello to Dylan. I have placed a couple of crystals in my windows so I can do this a lot! A Medium told me that I will see a rainbow in the sky and that will be Dylan saying hello. I get comfort from this! I think you and I have several things in common; missing our wonderful sons being the biggest. I say the Serenity Prayer over and over and this helps me too. I hope you see lots of rainbows, Alicia
The night before Shane’s death, he came and stood by me at my dressing table. I had a very feminine, new cross in a box. He asked if he could have it. I thought he was joking. Then his tone got serious, and I knew he meant it, so I said yes. As he walked out the door to go skiing, and to the accident that would take him to the other side, he pulled down his collar and showed me the cross around his neck. “God is with me now,” he said. I had just seen the movie “Ghost” and was in the process of figuring out what I believed about life after death, etc. Nothing makes a mother think about it like wondering where her child is, and if he’s okay.
Melody, OH MY!!!!! I’m speechless. Shane took care of himself in a way that I am aspiring to do. God was absolutely holding his hand. Alicia
About a month before Shane’s death, we were visiting a different church and the preacher (I call him the Holy Man) was asking people to come up for a total body immersion baptism. In the interim, this chunky woman sat in front of us and he had put his gum on the seat, so every time she stood up and sat down, the strings of gum went up and down and I was trying to sort through how to deal with that — but when he heard about the baptism, he was up front before I knew what happened. Well, about three months ago, the Holy Man who presided over Shane’s funeral and that baptism found me on Facebook. He told me a story about the conversation Shane had with him — Shane was the only one who had questions about what this baptism meant. When he found out it meant he was now “One with God,” Shane said, “Cool. Let’s do it. I’m in.” I know he knew at a soul level. I even know from his birthday party a couple nights before his death — the things he didn’t say, the things he left unsaid. Something had told me to take off writing the entire year before and hang out with the kids — so I did. We did a lot of traveling, etc. I asked Shane if there was anywhere he wanted to go. He considered my question and said, “Mom, you’ve taken me everywhere I need to go.” I think we all know, somewhere deep inside, when it’s time to go home, especially kids who are still so real and honest with themselves.
Melody,
Thanks for your responses to my posts. It actually feels like there’s someone out there who cares! Today was a tough day. I am not a person who remembers my dreams, but I have been wishing and hoping and praying since my son died that I would have dreams about him and be able to remember them. Last night was my first dream about him. I dreamed that I was at the hospital and someone in the hallway that I didn’t know told me that he wasn’t dead but was in one of the rooms. When I went into the room his face was covered with bandages and even though I couldn’t see his face he could talk to me and I recognized his voice. Then I woke up…oh how I miss him! I want to see him, touch him, hear him, smell him. It all seems so far away….
You have many people here who care about you and truly understand. Some aren’t able to post, their pain is so raw. But they read, hear you and care. Know that in your heart. A quick story about the dream thing, then I have to work out, get to bed, and tomorrow is “spine clinic” day — my body fell apart these past years; one incurable and probably terminal illness (but it can be managed, and I’m not “sick” from it and will probably live long enough for something else to kill me); but had to have two discs replaced in my back … that was the worst thing physically I’ve ever been through but it’s a gift compared to being bound to bed or being in a wheelchair. So I’m grateful, but I have clinic once a month. Anyway, re the dreams. Don’t discount them. They’re more important than you may think. Sometimes I missed Shane so much I though the pain would kill me (and often wished it would.) Then I began to notice a pattern. I’d go to bed some nights when the missing was too much. The next day I’d wake up feeling much more calm and at peace. (this happened several years after Shane left). One night, in the middle of the night, I got a phone call in the middle of a dream. In the dream I was hanging out with Shane. We were just doing stuff, having a relationship, mother/son — having fun. That’s when I realized what had been happening. When I couldn’t take the missing anymore, shane would come to me in a dream. We’d spend time together, so when I woke up the next day, the missing would be somewhat relieved. Many people state that these are more than dreams — they’re the way we connect with someone on the other side. However, shane told me that had I known too soon I would have either slept all the time hoping to see him or I’d be in more pain after seeing him for a while. I needed to be not conscious of it, until I was a little more back into living my life. There’s a forum about making connections inside the site. You might like to read some of the posts — when and if you’re ready. There’s no forcing here. It’s totally “take what you want and leave the rest.” I’m glad you’re here Donna. Well, I’m not glad you had to be here, but I’m glad you found us after tragedy struck. You will come back to life again, some day, when your heart heals and you’re ready. I was so ticked off in the emergency room when they told me shane was dead. I counted the years until I’d be functioning at all again and realized I’d be an old woman by then. not only had I lost Shane and my dreams, I lost the best years of my life. But slowly I began to realize that grief isn’t wasted time. Important things are happening to us while we’re doing this thing called “grief.” It’s a sacred place, the Temple of Grief. It truly has changed me and the way I live. Plus I’m no longer afraid of death. I’ve been able to be there for so many people and help them die. I know it sounds gruesome, but they were so lonely and everyone else was afraid of them, they were so alone. I try to find every way i can to make this loss count — but it took years for me to get to that place. I was so mad at God. (I still have some unanswered questions about that though too, for God. That’s why I call my blog, “Living In The Mystery.” Because now, that’s what I’ve learned to do. My best. Melody
Wow! Living in the mystery! That’s it isn’t it? I have come to the conclusion that I won’t get my questions answered about why all this happened until I get to go before God and ask the question, but sometimes that takes everything I have to be ok with not having the answers now. I just never had a name for it until now. I also have those mornings when I wake up and am more at peace than I was the day before. Sharing your thoughts about that makes me wonder if Justin is coming to me in my dreams on those night and I just don’t remember it. The thought of being able to remember them when I am ready gives me a sense of peace about not remembering if that makes any sense. Justin was a kid that loved his mom and was not embarrassed to express that. That would so be something that he would do to bring me comfort without causing me pain. Thank you for sharing that insight with me. The thoughts you shared about The Temple of Grief really hit home for me. I was just telling my counselor today that I feel so protective of that Grief. If anyone makes a judgment or suggestion that I may not be doing “IT” right, I cut them out. I feel like I can’t give them the opportunity to judge my grief, but that causes me to isolate sometimes. So, I guess that’s why God brought this website and all of you to me. So that I could grieve without being judged. I’m so sorry to hear about your physical suffering, but glad to hear that you are going to therapy and taking care of yourself. You are a great example for me and I’m sure many others. I pray that in some smalll way I can be there for you as you are there for me. Have a blessed day. I will check in tomorrow night. Donna
I almost didn’t mention the dream thing, because I thought I wrote about it somewhere else on the site. I try to just spontaneously share what comes to me when I read each comment or message, but sometimes I think what I’m about to say is “stupid” or may sound like nonsense. Bottom line is, we all have the same fears and insecurities, when it comes right down to it. I’m glad you’re protecting yourself. I think when we go into deep grief, we should each be assigned a “protector” — but then, knowing the way life goes, we’d need someone to protect us from the protector eventually. No matter what, it looks like it comes down to taking care of ourselves, no matter how ragged we feel. I’m glad you have your therapist. She sounds like a good woman. Melody
Hi Donna. I’ glad that you keep coming back here. I remember when I first found this site. My loss was very new and I needed to connect here like I needed to breathe! I know that it is hard for you to breathe right now. It hurts to do so and you’re not sure if you really want to?? Breathe, just breathe. This is what my sister and friends told me. I don’t remember, things are still fuzzy, I read somewhere, maybe here, that we now know what a heartache is. Its real physical pain as well as emotional and spiritual. I know that you miss him now and always will. My hope for you is that you can sit quietly and listen. Go within yourself and look. He is there! I’m learning to be aware because Dylan sends me signs that he is still in my life and knows what is happening. Its not as good as having him in body but it is comforting. I find that my loss still defines me, Hello my name is Alicia and I’ve lost my 20 year old son. This process is slow for me and I listen to what I need. I won’t be rushed! I am healing yet no slower or faster than what I can do. I can laugh and enjoy people and things. But I have work to do. Grief is like my companion, I can’t put it aside for too long. I’m learning amazing things and I’m closer to some people than I was before. I’ m trying to say that I hope you take care of yourself and know that you are not alone. Some of us here can understand your loss and I’m here to listen and struggle along with you, Alicia
Thanks Alicia. It’s hard to me to allow myself to get too quiet. I’m afraid the pain will be too much. I know I will learn to do that, but I’m not there yet.
This is really to anyone who wants to read it — and I don’t remember now who mentioned it, but for about, oh, the first fifteen years after Shane died (or at least the first eight or nine), I introducted myself as, “Hi. My-name-is-Melody-and-my-son-died.” It came out in one breath and it was like it was one word. The hardest thing for me now is when people ask me how many children I have. (I no longer need to immediately announce I’m a bereaved parent.) But I wonder … will it make them uncomfortable? I consider Shane still living (his soul) — just on another plane. It’s complicated to explain, and I no longer need everyone to know immediately that I’ve lost a child. So, I mostly use my intuition, and then see where it goes. Just a “hi” to everyone too, and to let you know that I check in daily with this site and with all comments that post, respond to and/or approve them myself, and if you see a reply from me, it’s my own. Nobody makes replies for me in my name. This site is crucial to me. It’s my hope that it goes on long after I do so that people in raw grief and pain always have a safe and honest place to go, to feel, to be real, and to be who they really are. Melody
I lost my 26 yr old son in an accident 4 months ago. He was my only child. If losing him wasn’t horrific enough, I have lost my future too. I will never be able to watch him fall in love, get married, hold his babies for the first time, be a great father. I’ll never be able to spoil my grandchildren. EVERYTHING has changed! Breathing is a chore most days. Most of my friends seem to think that losing a child is contagious. They either don’t want to talk about him or just don’t come around at all anymore. I have a few precious friends that “get iti” and I’m making some new ones, but it is so hard to reach out or even reach back when they reach out. I call the telephone “my 100 lb phone”. I even have one “friend” who has chosen this time to tell me about my faults and how my choices are hurting her. Wow! Am I just turning into an ugly person who no one wants to be around, or are these valid feelings?
Donna, it’s not you. I promise. I thought life would be gentler on me because I was so raw I could hardly breathe and it felt like I’d been shot in the heart — but what happened was the vultures came to pick on my bones. People worked money scams on me. Some avoided me (seems most people don’t like a bereaved mother who deeply misses her child). Others wanted me to “snap out of it.” Most people here have their share of horror stories. It took me a long time to understand that if people haven’t been through, most just plain don’t get it — and don’t want to. It’s like they’re afraid it’s contagious. One brave soul, a friend who’d lost use of his legs, was able to come to the emotional place I was in. Other than that, I was pretty much on my own. You’re right — the losses multiply. Loss of our dreams, the things we planned and hoped for, really hurts. Then something will come out of the blue and knock us over. The doorbell rang one day about six months after Shane died. It was his school yearbook with a big picture of him on the front, while it contained pictures of all his classmates alive, who graduated from sixth grade. It was a beautiful gesture to dedicate the yearbook to Shane, but things like that can still knock the wind out of us. One day I was in a parking lot and looked up and realized I was in front of the restaurant where I took Shane and his friends for dinner a couple nights before he died (he died right after his 12th birthday). My heart hurt so bad I couldn’t move my arms or my body. I sat in the car, paralyzed — absolutely paralyzed with pain for almost two hours before my body worked again. I wish I could tell you it’ll just go away or it’ll soon be easy — but I’d be lying. For me, the second year was worse than the first. And then people would say, “Oh, you’re Melody Beattie. You’ll get through this in no time.” It still amazes me. I think people just can’t handle our pain, so instead of learning to comfort us, they try to comfort themselves somehow. What helps is to be selective about who we go around, and understand we don’t have to let anyone in who doesn’t feel right to us. Beware of scams. One place called and said if I donated $20,000 (or something like that), I could save one mother from losing her child by paying for the gas for the helicopter to fly donor organs to the child who needed them. It didn’t feel right. I checked it out with the state. People who knew about my loss had worked out this big scam to work me for the dough. We need someone to protect us, but if we trust the wrong person we then need a protector from our protector. But listen, you will get through this. No soon. Not easy. I know you don’t want to, don’t want to feel it. But just by typing two emails you’re doing more than I could have done. Ultimately, I learned how to live in the moment — different than a day at a time — but just be in each moment and let each moment be what it is. That hasn’t left me. I often now feel like I’m more at peace than people who haven’t lost almost anything. I also learned how to distract myself when the pain got to be too much. Sometimes doing something like taking a shower — even going into another room — or doing a crossword puzzle — would distract me from the pain. That’s not denial. It’s perfectly okay. Sometimes it’s necessary because it can feel like the pain will kill us, but it doesn’t. It just takes us to the edge. I also, when a friend stopped by and said that I was soon going to die if I didn’t start fighting for my life, made an unconditional commitment to life. I didn’t know what else to do, so I just typed up an agreement saying I was willing to live as long as I was alive, no matter what. That helped me get off the fence. It’s like there’s a path that opens up for each of us, bringing us this or that, enough to get through each moment, as long as we stay in that moment. Soon that path begins to weave a picture. We’re like putty in Life’s hands. It shapes us into someone new, someone different. I know people kept waiting for me to be who I used to be. That person is gone. Forever. An experience like that changes us forever and I believe it’s meant to. No, you’re not becoming a negative person. You sound like a compassionate person who is in a lot of pain and doing the very very best you can. It’s just plain unbearably hard and there’s no way around that, but we learn little ways to make it not quite so unbearable (eventually). Then we learn to live with deep missing — eventually. There’s a lot of things we can only see in the dark. Nope, it’t not you. and everyone on this site I’m sure will agree with me. Melody
Melody, you have shared about your dreaming previously. I dream every night and wake up knowing this but not remembering my dreams. I am borrowing from your experiences and choose to believe that Dylan and I are visiting even if I don’t remember it the next day. I’ve been thinking this for some months now. When I go to sleep, I pray to God that I have a visit with Dylan and that I remember it. I believe that I visit often but remember only 2 thus far! As always, thanks, Alicia
Alicia, you are such a gift to this site. It’s a gift that is a living tribute to your son. It keeps him alive, in all our hearts, and your pain helps make a difference. I know (or guess) that’s probably not a comfort to hear, as when I heard it said to me I always thought, “Great, but I’d rather have Shane back then be a gift to others,” — but that wasn’t an option. You’re a brave, strong, vulnerable, caring, honest woman and I’m glad you’re here. Melody Beattie
Shane always hated to see me cry. I think that’s one reason I don’t often remember my dreams, because if I was conscious of spending time with him, I’d miss him even more. At Christmas and my birthday, I tell God I want only one thing: one more minute with Shane. Someday I’ll have that again (where I can really see him). Meanwhile, I don’t want to go down being remembered as a quitter. This journey has been and still is too important to me. Plus, just in case reincarnation is real, I don’t want to go through this again. Melody
Donna, I am sorry for the physical loss of your son. There are no words for this pain. I’m glad that you found this site. There is a lot of information and support here. I lost my 20 year old son 11 months ago and it was almost too painful to read your story and to respond to you. I know how helpful Melody and Oyster Shell have been to me and I hope you get the same help. This is a difficult journey, one that I do not want but have to learn to cope with. We did loose much of our future, dreams, love and life! Yet, I am choosing to live. I am very patient with myself and I am not the same as I was 1 year ago. I am still traumatized! It is painful every single day, every hour! My friendships have changed and I am closer to my husband of 29 years! I am living one day at a time and do not fear for the future. My son’s Spirit has never left me and he has sent me numerous signs that he is well. I trust that we will be together again. I have accepted that it will take me a long time to really rejoin life and not everyone understands this. I choose to be with people who do and do not use my energy on negetivity. I’m not resentful but I’m moving away. You have to work on finding anything that will help or give you some comfort. It is WORK but it is possible little bits at a time. I’ve read lots of books on parental bereavemant and it helped to have my feelings validated. I go to support groups. I read a lot of books on Spirit and these help me to breathe. I’m approaching the one year anniversary of his passing and I am increasing my efforts to find comfort because I miss him so very much. My grief is about learning how to have a good life while living with a gaping hole in my being, because it will never go away but I’ve got some living to do, Alicia
Alicia, you’re a doll. Thank you for reaching out to Donna. I’m so proud of all of you. I cried for two hours after reading Donna’s story. It never ceases to amaze me how the door to that unbearable pain can open so fast, plus how painful it is to read the words about another person’s life being shattered. I’m just so very grateful for all of you, in your pain, for reaching out to others. It takes the very worst thing that can happen and uses it for good — like alchemy — changes dross into gold. I wish to God none of us had to go through this, but we did. But each of you are, bit by bit, getting back up again. Most of all youre learning to love and accept yourselves for exactly who you are and how you feel. You’re letting yourself have grief that is so appropriate to what you’re going through. Love, Melody PS — It’s you gals and guys who make this site work and make it a safe place for others to come to heal.
Melody, you were a lifeline for me! I want to share what you have given to me. It is priceless to know that I am not alone, Alicia
Please see the message above. It responds to both your comments. I’m so glad you found this site, as you add so much to it. Many people are in too much pain to comment, or they can’t find the words. I understand that; I was there too — that’s why I have so much admiration for you. But I also appreciate the other people here, too — even if they’re not ready to comment or actively participate. I can “feel” the club. It’s growing daily in numbers, actually soaring, as we provide a safe house for people who are raw with pain, so raw they can’t — as you say — breathe. It’s so nice even now for me to know I have someplace I can come to, be who I am, express how I feel, and not be judged. That’s one thing that was and is hard for me — when people label my grief as codependency, or ask why I wasn’t “over it” years ago. The difference is, I have more compassion now. I know they haven’t been through it. I no longer expect them to understand. Most don’t want to identify. They’re afraid, I think, that losing a child might be contagious. I’m as guilty of being that way before Shane’s death — of not understanding — as others are now. I hope I didn’t say too many stupid, hurtful things. I tried not to, and try not to judge. But loss is one thing it’s hard to understand and grasp unless we’ve been through it. It’s that way with anything in life — we haven’t walked in another shoes; they haven’t walked in ours. And while there are many similarities, there are also many differences in each of us — our backgrounds, upbringing, hopes, dreams, etc. That’s what ultimately makes it such a rich and interesting world. I’m thinking it’s just about time for me to go make another skydive. I’ll have to pray about it (and not tell my doctor). But it blows out all the gaskets — or all the “stuff” clogging the tubes. Colors are brighter. The world becomes more beautiful. And I’m more grateful for my life each time that parachute opens and my fee land on the ground. Plus, I always feel like I’m flying with the angels, and that it’s something (skydiving) that Shane prompted me to do after his passing. I know it’s something he definitely would have gotten involved with. I was so scared before i couldn’t even go sailing. He taught me about having fun, taking risks, and not being so blasted fearful. It’s still a lesson I need to remember. Melody
Thank you Alicia. I feel that you are the same for this site and often for me. Melody Beattie
Alicia, I wanted to say thank you also for reponding to my post. I didn’t know how to reply to you so all could see at the time, so I sent you a private message. I hope you got it. I also sent you a friend request. Thanks so much for being there for me.
Donna
Melody, it has been 4yrs since I lost my beautiful boy Scott, I know that I need to keep busy and active but I live in Canada where the wether is so cold in jan and feb it seems I can’t dress warm enough to walk most days. Today I feel I am back at square 1, I can’t stop crying and if I could I would curl up and never wake again. I know I have to get going, but I feel paralyzed to do it and evryday turns into another of nothingness. Last fall I was working out at the gym, walking (4mles a day) and had a smile on my face. Today here I am in a neverending day of doubt of myself and loathing anyone who tries to come into my life. No one understands what I’m going through.
I do (understand). Been there, and sometimes return and that’s one reason I left Minnesota. Could not take the cold and constant gray anymore. I don’t think I’d be alive now if I hadn’t moved. I needed the — whatever it is the sun does, the lack of triggers, and the sound of the ocean waves washing, one small piece at a time, some of the horrible pain away. I’m sorry you’re having a bad day but please know this: you are normal, fine, and okay. You’re just in the process of redefining your “normal” and you’re absolutely right — other people don’t understand. That’s why it’s so important that you do (understand) yourself. Peace, blessings, and may many angels guide you and hold you up — but I don’t have to ask for this; they already are. It’s that God awful weather coupled with your loss that’s getting you down.
I have “lost” my four precious children within a relatively short space of time but my children are all still alive and well. I have not seen my children for 2 years. I have tried to write them and they ignore me. I am still in shock at the huge loss – I don’t know how to deal with this, it is unbearable.
I don’t know the circumstances. I only know how I got through — by feeling my way through, feeling every dirty, stinking feeling that presented itself. You can’t control or change anyone else — but you already know that you can only change you (and sometimes we can’t change ourselves). Feel. Move into the feeling, even if you’re moving into pain. Resistance creates suffering. Hurt comes to pass. This situation will too (pass). I just can’t tell you when. Melody Beattie
Thanks, Melody, for publishing this post. It was the only good advice I ever got after my son, Mark, died.
As you age, you lose more and more poeple.
After you give this one a beat, perhaps you should consider this one.
I call it my accidental widows forum. I thought it was just an ordinary post and it now has 1500 widows on it. They help each other. I rarely comment anymore.
http://www.personal-growth-with-corinne-edwards.com/when-your-husband-has-died-a-survival-guide/
Please post when and if you think it would be valuable here.
We have to support each other.
I so love you, Melody and treasure our friendshp.
The feelings are mutual. Remember the first time we met in person? I’d been up at Hazelden speaking, got food poisoning or something the night before, and was going to pass on getting up at 5: a.m. (after being up clutching my gut all night) and flying to Chicago to do your tv show. But “something” got my butt to the airport — with no sleep and to your show. Later when we talked I learned it wasn’t a “thing,” it was a “who,” — you’d been asking your son Mark for a while to get me on your show. I’ve considered you a soul mate and friend ever since. Love, Melody Beattie
Yes, I’d do it over in a heartbeat! It is a joy to have mothered Dylan for 20 years. He passed in May 2010 and I still can not believe it. It hits me suddenly and I can not get air in my lungs. How could this have happened. I now know what it is to be a little crazy. I can get through today and I do not think about tomorrow. I am lucky to spend a lot of time alone because I cry and scream as much as I need to. I cry as I food shop, this is especially difficult because I no longer buy all that junk food. I have read many books on losing a child and I am grateful to have them. I am able to assert my needs because all my feelings and behaviors are validated in these books. I attend 4 support group meetings per week and my fellowship has given me endless love and support. I began these meetings 3 years ago but did not have any idea that I would need my new skills to deal with the loss of my child. God has been preparing me and has put all that I need within my grasp. I think of all people as Dorothy with the ruby slippers, we already have what we need. I have so much to be thankful for but at this time it is not enough. I want my son in this world. I get frightened to think that this brutal pain is with me for a long time. Will it wear me to the point of not wanting to go on? Ah, but I can only hope to survive today and trust that God will continue to lead me and that I will be human enough to recogonize the path. It may sound like I am trying to hurry my grief but this is not so. I love Dylan enough to hurt forever! I have a wonderful husband, adult son, and family/friends to help me and listen to my story over and over. I have so much to learn in this tradegy. Our world needed Dylan. He was so funny and intelligent. He was loyal and devoted to his family and friends. He touched many lives in his short life and I will love him always.
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Dear Alicia,
I lost my grand daughter in August of 2010. She was only a month and a day old. And although my daughter is the one who lost her baby, I have lost twice. The loss of our Ava has changed my daughter to someone new. I’ve found that I have had to relearn who she is and the child I raised is no longer the child I see. The intimate pain and loss is so deep that I too, still cry when shopping, I find it soothing most to sob when I hear water, like when doing dishes, showering, or walking in the woods near my home. We had her for such short time, and she touchedsomany people, that our whole family feels as you do, that if you had to do it over knowing the pain, an imfatic yes. I do understand what you mean about sadness and joy. Sometimes they roll together for me and I cry the joy she gave me and the safeness of knowing that when her mother was born I never for one second I would be planning her childs life celebration. So,Bless you, live with all the passion you can muster, cry as hard as you can, smile wider that you thought you could, and be at peace.
Denise, your words are beautiful to me. I am so sorry for this loss of your grandchild and the profound changes it is bringing about in everyone you love, including yourself. I do not understand life and I am grateful that there are people to be with you and your daughter, to love one another through this brutal loss. I count my blessings and I find love and support all around me. I hope the same is true for you. I have been accepting my pain and trusting that God is leading me. There are no answers to my questions so I am trying to do the best that I can today. My oldest son was telling me how destroyed he feels grieving his brother, his best friend. I offered that it is brutal and that just because he feels like this does not mean that he is not coping, this is what it is right now. I can imagine how painful it is to see your daughter in pain and to feel your own pain too. I hope that you find support and understanding here. In time, in our own way we will learn how to live. Thank You for talking to me, I really needed it today! Alicia
Have I told you all lately how proud, how very very proud I am, of all of you? You’ve taken the very worst life has given to you, and you keep coming back, turning it into healing and hope for others. Sometimes, it’s so damn easy to quit — to give up not just on Life, but on ourselves. In those times even our faith in God isn’t much help; in fact, it can make it worse. The more we know God, is real, the more we know whatever we love and lost could have been prevented — but God didn’t see fit to do that. We were allowed to go through this unbearable pain and we can’t see the sense of it — and it may never make sense while we’re here. But you keep coming back anyway, in love for yourselves and each other, whether you feel like it or not. I love you all, and I’m so proud of you for who you are. I haven’t been around much lately because Chip and I have redone all the websites plus built a new one, and added the store to this one. It doesn’t carry many products; I don’t want this to ever be a commercial site. The only products I’ll carry are ones I’m convinced and know will help you heal. But I’ve been keeping my eye on you from a distance. The sites are fundamentally done, although a good web site is never finished. Like us, it’s a “work in progress.” When we finished the sites, I felt like a puppet and someone had just cut my strings. I’ve been catching up on a lot of missed sleep. But I’m back. Going into the screenplay now — I need to rework the one I wrote and begin a new one. (This site isn’t about making money but I’ve still got to earn a living, like everyone else.) I just wanted to stop by and say “I love you.” Melody Beattie PS — Keep doing what you’re doing, because it’s working. Like they tell us in AA, “And more shall be revealed.”
Hi Melody, So much of what you write makes sense to me. When you wrote of grief being like multiple personality disorder, but with awareness, I thought of how I sometimes ask myself who is that person that goes to work and holds conversations with other people? Who is that person that (sometimes) gets excited about straightening up the mess that keeps building up around me? It’s as though I’m watching someone else go about the motions of every day life. The pain is always with me, though mingling now with this other person who wakes up every morning and attempts to turn it into a good day. Some are and some aren’t. Thanks so so much for this site. It’s such a lifeline. By the way, recently when I sign on the first page that comes up says “Dashboard”. I’m able to get from there to the right place. Not sure if that’s happening for everyone, but thought I’d let you know.
Thanks Oyster Shell. I watched myself (not totally aware until later though) create a “new me” who lived in another statee. I know had I stayed in Minnesota — where everything I saw triggered pain, the skies were gray most of the time, and there was no sun and ocean, I wouldn’t be alive. In order to create this “new me,” I had to get away from everything that pulled me and kept me attached to “the old.” No, I didn’t have multiple personality disorder, but whoever Shane’s death created is at least a “remodeled version” of who I was. Part of that became extreme sensitivity to the people around me. You know how when things are okay we can tolerate some irritating people in our crowd of friends? That was no longer possible for me. I was way too sensitive to my surroundings. Anybody with “bad vibes” or “toxic energy” had to go for me to survive. It (moving to California) also became part of my life path — and in retrospect, fit into my long term goals that I had written many, many years before. Re the site, we had an internal (person) error that crashed the sites. They weren’t infected or hacked — it was caused by something else. Chip is working fast and hard to solve all the problems it created, and I’ll let him know that’s part of it. Thanks. MB
“Aren’t you over that yet?” a friend asked less than a year after my son’s death. I don’t think I’ve ever spoken to this person again. Or maybe I have. I have learned to forgive people who don’t understand, who don’t know what to say, or who say the most God-awful things. I used to be one of them. Then my son died.
It doesn’t matter if your child is one month, still a fetus, twelve, twenty-one, or fifty-five. It’s still your child. A piece of your heart dies. As Corrine says, we lose a limb and the heart is a tough one to lose. Just caring about life again took me over eight years.
I like to think of grief as being similar to multiple personality disorder, only with awareness. I packed up and moved to California. Then, I grew a new me. I still miss Shane. In a second, it can be yesterday that he died. But the way his voice sounds dims with time. So does the sparkle in the memory of his eyes. I’m no longer furious about waking up each morning alive. But on the other hand, I no longer fear death. Someone I love and miss so much will be there, waiting to escort me into the Light. The older I get, the closer I come to that time. But I don’t sit around, longing for death. I live my life with more passion than I ever thought I’d feel again. I’m more at peace than most people, people who haven’t lost a child.
Surrendering to each moment and how I feel was the hardest thing to learn. When I can relax into who I am, it doesn’t hurt as much. If that’s as good as it gets, it’s good enough for me. I’ve learned there’s not that much difference between sadness and joy. When I say that, people roll their eyes or ask me what I mean. I can’t explain it other than to say — they’re both just feelings. They’re part of a rich life.
And I ask myself, if I knew I’d only have him for 12 years, would I still want him to have been born — knowing all the pain his death would cause. My answer is immediate. Yes. I’m a lucky woman. I am blessed. I know what it means to love.