Welcome to Little Stars Lost

I’m writing this blog to honor the memory of my son in the best way I know how– by using his death as a means to help others who are dealing with tragedy.

In part, I hope to chronicle my own experience in coming to terms with grief and loss.  I’ve found it extremely helpful to find out how others ‘cope.’  I’ll also post helpful sites, reviews of books, and other bits of information focused both on the loss of a child and on grief in general.

Grief is both a shared and an isolated journey.  I hope this blog becomes a place where others who are grieving can find company and solace in the midst of even the darkest days.

Click here to light a candle at Andy’s Memorial Website.

Miracles

At Hanukkah, we celebrate the miracle of a light that kept burning long after its fuel was gone.  Just like the light in the Temple long ago, the lights of our children will burn on and on.

Each night, I light Andy’s candle with the shamash before lighting the candles of the menorah.  The glow of those candles is so soft and beautiful.  It reminds me of two very different, but equally sacred miracles.

Just a Reminder

Today (Dec. 13) is The Compassionate Friends Worldwide Candle Lighting.  My best friend and I will be attending a formal service held by a chapter of Bereaved Parents of the USA in conjunction with TCF.  However, there will be private ceremonies all over, ranging from a few close family and friends to one person lighting a candle at home.  7:00 PM in each time zone is the designated time to light a candle.  The candles burn for one hour, so that as each region’s candles burn out, another region’s candles are lit.

Chances are, if you’re reading this blog you’ve either lost a child or are helping bereaved families through their loss.  Even if you don’t have personal experience with this loss, please light a candle at 7:00 PM in your time zone to honor the memory of children who have died.  Our children’s memories, with our help, will light up the globe.

Thanks to The Compassionate Friends for hosting such a beautiful vigil and peace to all bereaved families on this day.  Together, we get through this, even if it’s only second by second sometimes.  Our children are not forgotten.

The Compassionate Friends

Snow

Alan didn’t like snow.  We saw very, very little of it anyway.  He did like the rain, though.  In fact, both of us did.  We’d wrap up in wool blankets and sit near the front window looking out over the busy street I lived on, watching the steam from hot tea fog up the glass and wondering where the people walking below us were going.  Some were, no doubt, heading to the nearest subway station, which was only a short walk away.  Some were moving towards families and homes, some were wandering through the City, and some were probably wandering through life.  At the time, Alan and I were set.  We had our beautiful son, and Alan had basically taken up residence in the apartment I shared with my mother and younger sister.  We were a family, in spite of the complete and utter craziness that overtook us from time to time.  Andy made our family complete.

I think of Andy as a snowflake now.  He drifted into our lives like snow falling softly through the air.  As unique as a snowflake, he was the little person who could only have been made by Alan and me.  No other people could have formed him.  Andy sparkled in our lives for a while, his smile and his eyes as bright as the sun glinting on newly-fallen snow.  The sun became too hot, though, and my little snowflake melted away.

At the funeral, I kept asking everyone where the men were taking my son and why they were taking him away.  I explained to my friend D that I didn’t want them to take him away.  The helplessness I felt at that moment still consumes me from time to time.  This was my little boy, and they took him away.  There was nothing I could do to shield my little snowflake from the storm that swept him into the wind and left me searching through the atmosphere for that one beautiful little snowflake I know I’ll never see again.

The Power of Music

I’ve written about several songs over the course of this blog.  Music really is so powerful.  It can bring comfort to us when we hear songs our children liked or songs that remind us of them.  It can even be comforting when we’re listening to the words of other bereaved parents flowing out like teardrops set to music.

All my life, I’ve been a Beatles freak.  My parents had all of their albums, and I probably knew all of the lyrics by the time I was born.  Andy’s father and I used to dance to most of the songs from the Hard Day’s Night soundtrack, barefoot and laughing so hard we couldn’t breathe.  Alan probably sat through that movie many more times than he would have liked.  When my media player shuffled round to some songs from the Sgt. Pepper album this morning, I thought absolutely nothing of it.  Until the song ‘A Day in the Life’ came on.

‘He blew his mind out in a car.’  I’ve heard that song and that line many, many times before.  This morning, though, it sent chills through me.  I screamed out loud.  Everything replayed in my mind– seeing the bodies, reading the accident report, seeing the damage done.  The guardrail on the side of the road was mangled for months after the accident.

We were fortunate (I think) that the people who oversaw the funeral were able to mend Andy’s body enough for us to have an open coffin.  There was a bruise on his little face that couldn’t be covered well, but his body looked somewhat peaceful.  In my shock, I could pretend that this meant his last few minutes had been peaceful as well.

I woke up with Andy on my mind this morning.  I miss him terribly every day.  Most of all, it’s the promise of his future and all of the opportunities he would have had if he’d been given the chance to grow up.  I miss the little person he was, and I miss the man he’ll never get to be.  I hurt for me and for the others who held Alan and Andy so close.  Most of all, though, I hurt for Andy.  He’ll miss out on so much.  Children should not die.  How do we put back together a world that has been broken by the reality that children *do* die?  How do we mend our lives when we can’t mend theirs?  It’s a question that should never have to be asked.

Thankful

I have so much to be thankful for.  I lost my son, and I’ll never face anything harder.  For a while, I wanted to die, too.  Even though I still miss Andy every hour of every day, I’ve found some beauty in my life again.  Just typing that makes me feel guilty.  All of us who have lost children, though, have to surround ourselves with the love and support of the people in our lives.  We have to push through somehow.

And for the people in my life, I am thankful.  For those who’ve sat and cried with me, I appreciate the depth of feeling and respect you show my son’s memory.  For those who’ve laughed with me, I appreciate your courage.  Not everyone is comfortable laughing with a bereaved parent.  It takes true courage to understand that we need laughter mixed with the tears.  And for those who’ve been absolutely silly with me, thanks for bringing sunshine to my life when days are dark.  For you who have done all of that, all I can say is I truly owe my life to you.

I’m thankful for eight years as well, even though there should have been so many more…

Candles

I wrote this poem a few days before last year’s TCF Worldwide Candle Lighting and wanted to share it here.

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Candles

A candle lit

For a flame extinguished

Gone so soon

Drifting like smoke on the wind

Dancing through our minds and memories

Glowing in our souls

~~~~

Warmth remembered

By aching arms

Always reaching for what they cannot hold

Crying out in the dark of night

Searching for those who’ve gone

~~~~

A candle lit

For a flame extinguished

A light that will never fade away

New Year’s Eve

This feels like new year’s eve.  The old me died with my son, and the new me was born that day.  Another anniversary down, though.  This afternoon, once 3:30 had passed, I told my best friend that the current version of me had started existing at that time three years before.  Three years.  I haven’t seen or heard my son in three years.  It doesn’t seem possible sometimes.

I let myself fall apart for a few minutes this afternoon, hoping to feel better, but as it turns out, I felt no release at all.  I just felt like crying for hours longer.  I felt like it would consume me, and like it might not be a bad idea to let it.  Tears don’t come easily for me, even in the face of horrible pain.  When I do cry about Andy’s death, though, I sometimes feel worse than before.  My best friend compared it to stopping a sneeze.  As he said, it hurts to stop a sneeze.  Stopping my tears just increases the pressure further, sometimes.

But this New Me has things to do.  She has work to attend, errands to run, and so many other things to stop her staring at the hole in the center of her life.  She knows that stopping means looking at the face of loss.  This New Me just passed her third new year’s eve, though, and on this first day of her new year, she finds herself look back once again.

I’m told that one day I’ll spend more time looking forward than back, but from where I stand now, that doesn’t seem possible.

The Last Day

I’m trying to keep it together.  I’m trying not to let myself think about things so closely that they overtake me.  And I’m irritated with myself for feeling like breaking down.  Technically, it’s just another day on the calendar.  Three years ago today, though, my son died.  Three years ago at 3:31 PM.

At 3:30 PM, he was alive.  At 3:31 he was not.  I’m still confused.

TCF Annual Worldwide Candle Lighting

The Compassionate Friends sponsors a candle lighting event on the 2nd Sunday of every December.  It is such a beautiful and moving ceremony.  From large gatherings to private family observances, ceremonies are held worldwide.  We honor our children on this night, allowing ourselves to focus, even if only for a day, on our children who have died.

This year’s Candle Lighting will be held on Sun. 13 Dec.  I encourage everyone to participate in any way you can. For more information on the Candle Lighting Ceremony, go to this page.

To find a scheduled ceremony in your area, visit this site: TCF 2009 Worldwide Candle Lighting Services.

Broken Hallelujah

There’s a certain emptiness to life after you’ve lost a child.  I was watching a show on television last night, and it ended with a bit of the song ‘Hallelujah.’  I’m not sure who the song belonged to originally, and many people have done versions of it.  Still, the one I like best was actually the one played on the show.  The singer is John Cale.

Every single time I hear this song, I stop.  It gives me chills.  There’s a verse that really spoke to the bitterness I’m feeling as the anniversary of Andy’s death grows nearer.  I feel like grief has taken up residence, replacing the version of love I knew before.  I find myself walking the floors of my grief over and over again.  It will definitely get much better than it is now.  January will come.  The holidays will be over, and another death anniversary will have passed.  I’ll have got through it one more time.  Like every other bereaved mother out there, though, in the back of my mind, I’ll still hold a broken Hallelujah:

Maybe I’ve been here before, I know this room

I’ve walked this floor

I used to live alone before I knew you

I’ve seen your flag on the Marble Arch

And love is not a victory march

It’s a cold and it’s a broken Hallelujah.