Category: Shared Grief (Page 20 of 20)

My Father found death very difficult.  He once told my mother, at a time when one of his relatives died, that he would not attend the funeral.  My mother said:

“Norm, you have to go, it’s family”

To which dad replied, “Why?  He won’t be coming to mine!”

He was a builder.  He built everything from tables to cars but his specialty was relationships.  There are some people who love unconditionally and without reservation. My father embodied this. He believed that a stranger was a friend you had not met and that family and friends were one and the same.

He taught us to laugh. In his last year, their roof needed replacing and the salesman was explaining the difference between a 20 year roof and a lifetime roof. My father stopped him quick and said;

“Good God man, I don’t buy green bananas, why would I want a 20 year roof?”

My father was my hero.  He left this earth just before his first granddaughter was born. I believe he went to pick her out for me. That was 25 years ago.

We keep him alive through stories and he lets me know he is near with a fallen feather found on my walks.  He is always loved, always missed.

On this day, the day to celebrate the man who helped raise us, I just want to say; “Thank you Dad”.

The last kiss I gave to my son was at the crematorium.  I whispered into his ear, “Please find a way back, I need you.” 

As we were leaving the building I stepped over a piece of paper lying in the middle of the doorway.  My husband picked it up and handed it to me.  First, it was odd to see; the building was quiet and it was an extremely clean, new building.  I’m not sure how the paper got there at all.  Second, I didn’t understand why my husband felt the need to pick up a piece of litter and then hand it to me to deal with! 

By now we were in the parking lot and the sun was shining.  I looked down at the paper and it was a sticker.  It had a little boy on it that had Zane’s hair color and a dog beside the boy, much like our own dog.  And the sticker read, “Just yelp for help.” 

I laughed.  Our whole family laughed.  I looked up to the skies and said;

“Ok Zane, I ask for signs you are still with us and then I step over the first one!  I promise I will always look for your signs!”

When you are grieving you always look for signs.  The need for confirmation that our loved ones are still with us becomes an obsession.  Signs bring comfort, they bring hope.  Not many of us grief warriors will accept a more rationale like once you start to notice something you see it more often.  We believe that the signs come from our loved ones to remind us they are near or that they have a message for us. This belief is much more palatable. 

I call them postcards from my son.  Some of them make me cry, some of them make me laugh and all of them make me feel more connected to him.

Have you ever had something go so wrong, it blew up everything you knew to be true about yourself and the world around you?  Grief does that.  It beats the crap out of you, picks you up and throws you into the new day.  Every day. 

My son was killed. It catapulted my family into a community of mourners.  It is where I live now.   If you know love, you will also know loss.  Here, I share stories of great loss, the struggles of mine and my fellow grief warriors. This is also a place of hope and discovery.  It is a place to explore how we might be able to one day whisper, Good Mourning, to our grief. 

When I was young I wanted to be a singer.  I wanted to travel and live in the fast lane and not have any obligations.  My dolls had a nanny and there was a boyfriend in my imaginary life.  No husband. Flash forward several loves, a failed marriage and I am engaged to a man who wants a family.  My life changed from “will I have kids” to “when will I have kids”. 

No one knows how they will be as a parent until you are one.  My pregnancy was difficult.  The energy of my unborn son raved havoc on my health, becoming gestational diabetic and sentencing me to bed from 6 months on.  I became addicted to soap operas and had conversations about my favorite characters with my growing belly.

At 6 pounds, 4 ounces, this little man became my purpose.  I relished in my new role.  I read every book, took every course, I even started a mom and baby program in my community.  He was my little buddy.  We cooked together, watched Days of our Lives together, played together.  He was my sidekick. 

When his baby sister came along, four years later, he became my co-parent. And along the journey, his friends became my ‘other kids’.  I became “Mama Fish” and both my children have shared their friends with me. I am lucky.

When Zane was killed our home filled with dozens of these kids, racing over to hold us and to cry together.  And they have stayed in touch.  I receive cards and texts on special occasions and on not so special days…just checking in with me.  They share how they honor my son and how they miss him.  They share new things in their lives and although it hurts that Zane is not here to experience these same things, I am grateful that they want me to see how they are turning their grief into good mourning.