Good Mourning Grief

A blog about my adventures as a grief warrior

Tag: #motherhood

The Necklace

November 20, 2022 /

I have been purging the many bins we put in storage when we moved.  These were items we did not use but one day might. They are items once loved, but not anymore or gifts we received and keep although we don’t need or want any longer. It is easier to store than to purge. Then there are the bins that contain the kids’ baby stuff. It’s these bins that get me. Especially Zane’s.

I was the mother who scrapbooked their entire life. One book for the school years for each child, another of life in general. I had a photo album for each of random pictures they might enjoy.  The intent was to give it to them to share with their mates and their children.

I giggle when I go through Payton’s.  I put aside mementos to share with her. I pack up precious dresses that she once wore, for her (future) baby.  It is melancholy but a sweet melancholy.  She is here to share these memories with me and to hold the physical reminders in her hands.

With Zane’s, each quote, I read of the things he used to say to me, I begin to cry. In a calendar of his 4th year, I had recorded on Mother’s Day that Zane hugged me.  He said, “this is your first gift Mimi, do you like it?” And then the following month, I said to him I was wondering what to get his father for Father’s Day.  And he answered, “what about a hug? You liked yours”.  Each of these quotes, each picture, I am flooded with what was happening at that time. All the joy and wonder of his wee life. His favorite camp shirt, his teddy bears, his beloved mickey mouse jacket.

He would not take that jacket off; it was his favorite.  The soft brushed cotton now feels like silk with all the years of wear.  It is still in great shape.  I hold it up.  Was he really this small once?  And as I bring it in to hug it, I can feel him and from deep inside me escapes a wail of pain and the flood gates open wide.

As I am bent over the bin in tears, something shiny catches the corner of my eye.  It is a silver box.  I put the jacket down, wipe my face with the back of my hand and reach in to pick it up. I open it and find a necklace.  It is a silver heart with turquoise insert. I recognize it. The memory of Zane comes alive, and I am sitting next to him.  He is showing me this necklace.  He is in his early teens.  I asked who’s it for.  He says, “I’m not sure.  I thought it was for my girlfriend but that’s not it.” I said it was pretty and anyone would enjoy it.  He smiled.

I never knew what happened to that necklace. He never said.  And I don’t know how it ended up in a bin of his baby things. Did Zane know that there would come a day that I would be missing him as I went through his baby things, to find this piece which would bring me comfort in that moment?  I am sure he did not. But he did know then that he was meant to buy that necklace and he did. He knew not who it was for but that it was for someone, and he was comfortable buying it knowing only that. He believed the answer would reveal itself in due time. That was all he knew. And it was good enough. 

Sitting alone, holding this piece of jewelry, I smiled.  Maybe it was for me.  We just didn’t know it at that time. Maybe the Universe gave Zane an intuitive push to buy and hide the necklace in his baby things. Maybe Zane did, thinking someday, the two of us would find it when we were going through his things together. The Universe knew better. I put it on and smiled.  “Thanks Zaney, for showing your love in so many magical ways.”

Strength Arrives When Needed

May 29, 2022 /

I had a conversation this week with a mom whose youngest son is graduating from high school. She reminded me of all the things a mother does to ensure that this day is one he will celebrate and think fondly of for years to come. It is a ‘duty’ that most of us go through. The challenge she has is that her oldest son didn’t get this chance. He died before he graduated.

Her son wishes to include his brother in his graduation as much as one can incorporate one from the other side. And thus, the shoes, the outfit, the plans his brother had for his own, the younger son now wants to have. This is good mourning for him. And his mother gets it.  So, with every task, every detail, she plans and creates with her son.  There is a smile on her face and a let’s do this attitude that her son needs. However, inside, she is screaming so loud her head pounds. The pain of having to face and recreate what her oldest wanted, should have had, penetrates with every breath. This is when strength is needed.

Grieving requires strength.  You are straddled between two places. You are here, on earth, a life with responsibilities, the people who count on you, but you are also on the other side. The place where your loved one has gone to, and with them a piece of you has gone too.  We are to focus; we are expected to continue to be the adult, the caregiver. And we must, it is our role. Parenting, while grieving, requires extra strength.

There are many times that your grief must be ignored, must be put on the shelf, for the sake of your other children. You tell yourself that you will go on for the other kids. You tell yourself that they need you.  And they do.  They REALLY do. But they will need you when you think you can’t possibly get out of bed. They will need you when you want to be alone. They will need you to help them mourn, even if their way is not the best way for you.

Strength in grief is what gives us the power to see each day with hope. It enables us to help our children mourn. This type of strength comes from the parental need to protect and provide for our children. It comes from deep within our soul. It comes from our heart, the love for our precious family. It comes when needed, giving us the energy to be there for those we love. 

Graduation day will come.  It will be beautiful; full of rituals and tokens that bond two brothers for eternity. And mom, after all this, she can take a walk into the fields of her back yard, thanking God as she cries, for strength when it is needed.

Mother’s Day Message

May 8, 2022 /

A mother in one of my support groups asked, “when speaking of your child who has died, do you say, I love them, or I loved them?” A profound question but one that brought up the struggle of where your child is now.  They are not here, so past tense is appropriate, but they are here still in spirit so present tense feels more comforting even though it is more confusing.

This same question falls into the category of other questions that are difficult to answer.  How many children do you have when one has died? How old is your child?  Do you refer to their current age, if they were still alive, or do you refer to their forever age?  And the biggest question, am I still a mother.

In grief we learn that we must take our time and that every path is different. We know that what works for one, might not work for the other. Let’s take these lessons into account to answer the tough questions. I have found what works for me one day might not work for me another day.  It depends on my energy, where I am, and who I am speaking to. 

Here is what I believe. First, no question, I am his mother and will always be. No one takes that away; it came as my eternal right when I chose to give birth to him. And because I gave birth to him, he will always count as one of the children I have, no matter what his mortal status is!  The other answers require a bit more self-reflection.

How old is he? I find that in my grief community I am very comfortable to say Zane is forever 26. They get that. My answer changes with those I don’t know.  Currently my reply is, “I have a son who should be 30 but was killed when he was 26 and a daughter who just turned 27”.  This reply is to the point, the truth and tells the story of me as a mother.

Being comfortable saying that, I realize that I do keep Zane in the present tense.  I HAVE a son. I LOVE my son. Why would I put such an important person into a past tense? Because our society does. When our loved ones die, our society dictates that they are gone. They have left for a better place, to be with God, whatever your definition of ‘eternity’ is. They are in the past. But as a grieving mother we know better.

Every breath we take we are painfully aware that we cannot hold our child. But we also know, and we receive signs to assure us of this, that our children are still here. They are connected to us through a spiritual umbilical cord that death cannot sever. Being a mother of a child who is on the other side requires new learning of how to connect, how to care for them (through honoring them) but we learn, because we are their mothers.

My message to you is simply this. You are your child’s mother. That has not changed. That will never change. You are mother of their body and now their memory, their spirit, and their legacy. Your work is the same as that of mothers of earthly children.  We listen and watch for them, and we send our love to them through thoughts and wishes and actions. Your love for your child will always be present tense.

Preplans of our Souls

October 24, 2021 /

It is said that we arrive on earth having already chosen our family and our path as part of what we need to learn and to teach with our days here on earth.  When that is achieved, we leave.  Earth is a school of the spiritual realm.  And a very difficult one at best.

Understanding soul plans brings some peace to me.  We fret over the questions of why and what if, that allude to “how could I have controlled this from happening?”  Soul plans remind us we have no control over such.  Our power of control has only the capacity to strive towards our desires, our goals, choosing our actions and our reactions to what we meet on our path.  The big picture we had already planned.

The people who we meet, our families, our friends, even our associates, play a part in shaping us. If we are open to when these people arrive and how we feel around them we begin to understand ourselves better.  We begin to see patterns of behavior that we can reinforce or remove. Our connections, on a soul level, are to bring us enlightenment. I think that is a pretty cool concept. Who doesn’t want to be a better version of themselves?  Who doesn’t want peace and purpose?  According to soul plans, the idea to embrace what life gives you and learn from it and share this with others is why we are here.

I have had mothers ask me, if this is true, why would I choose to be a grieving mother?  To which I reply, why would your child have chosen you?

If soul plans exist, I can’t imagine how that conversation would go. This tiny spirit had an agreement with you to come here as your child, knowing they would leave first.   Who would agree to such pain? And yet, here we are.  I wonder if the mother in our soul, the caregiver we are, agreed because of love. Perhaps we knew this child would need us in the most universal way and we agreed because of love. And perhaps, just as big, we needed them. This love transcended across the realms into this life as mother and son. Love was what brought us together, to experience a multitude of emotions, learning and supporting each other’s spirit to grow.

Pondering this, I wrote a letter to Zane.

“…If what I read is true; if we as spirits make a plan before we arrive on earth as humans, we knew each other before we were mother and son.  We each had our lesson to learn, and we chose each other to come together to experience this. Your life of adventure and discovery and pushing the limits, an example to the rest of us, a reminder to live life fully. What lessons you taught us.  Thank you. And what, my sweet son, were the lessons you learned…”

We will never know if a soul plan is a real thing.  For me, I try to put the why am I in this role on a shelf.  I am not sure it will ever make sense. But the idea that I had known Zane before brings hope I will play another role with him again.

Once a Mother, Always a Mother

May 9, 2021 /

There is something innate about being a mother. It is a knowing of the responsibility bestowed upon us to care and protect this tiny spirit. And as it grows, our life is filled with sleepless nights and worry and a million decisions of how best to nurture this growing human being. Life revolves around our children.  Our identity becomes, “I am mother”.

When your child passes, your whole being is shattered, including the answer to, “am I still a mother?” I no longer have a child that I can physically hold or care for. I no longer have a child that I can snap pictures of or dream future experiences for. All the factors about being a mother, as society has defined a mother to be, are gone.

My fellow grief warrior moms struggle with the questions asked by strangers, “do you have children? How many?” Our angst comes from how much do we want to share and how much can we share without breaking down?  We must remember, once a mother, always a mother.

I believe that the role of mother is one bestowed upon us for OUR lifetime. And therefore, until my last breath I am a mother. I have welcomed into my home and my heart several kids I call my own; I gave birth to two children.  I relish in the role of mother. It is a position of care and influence and love.  It takes work, fret and prayer to carry out this role. The benefits are many, out numbering the heartaches. Including the biggest heartache, death.

When asked would you be a mother if you knew losing your child would be part of the plan, the answer is a strong, hell yes. I gave birth to Zane.  I am his mother. I will always be his mother. Death does not change that. What it does do is change being his mother from a traditional role into something new. That is the hard part. 

How do we mother our child’s spirit? We honor them.  We protect their memory. We say their name. We believe that they are still with us and we learn new ways to reach out to them. We celebrate what should have been, like holidays and milestones and everyday favorites. We are their mother.

“Do you have children?” The answer, for me, is “Yes, I have two”.  I will always have two.

Remembering Autumn Leaves

September 28, 2020 /

As I walk our dog in the park, the ground is covered with the colored leaves of Autumn.  As his little feet toddle along our path, the rustling sound of the leaves pulls me back to a time when Zane was just three.

We would walk down to the neighbourhood park while we waited for dinner to cook. Together, we would make big piles of fallen leaves and then jump into them, lying on our backs and laughing.  We would look up at the skies and take turns pointing at clouds and naming what they looked like. 

I can still remember the crunch of the dried leaves underneath us.  The musty smell of the ground tickled our noses.  The sound of Zane’s young giggle as he jumped back up to say;

“Mimi, let’s do one mo time.”

I can remember the deep joy, the love of those afternoons together. He was my little buddy; it was the two of us. The memory of those fall afternoons live with vivid detail forever in my heart.

This particular memory hit me hard this season.  I am not sure why.  I have walked through the leaves many times before.  But this time, something about that memory filled my heart with the cold ache of missing the past.

Grief has no pattern of what memory may bring comfort and what memory may bring you to your knees.  Memories often come in random fashion and the day, the mood, the level of grief has the memory leaving you smiling or crying or both.  It is called ‘riding the wave of grief’. Sometimes it is a gentle whisper. Sometimes it is a hurricane, crashing in and leaving you to gasp for breath.  There is no play book of which memory will come in as a whisper and which will come in as a storm.  There is no set schedule. We must be ready for either. 

I hope that your memories fall gently this season.

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