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.

Everywhere

In my job, I come across student-written essays every day.  For the past two weeks or so, at least one of those essays has been about the death of a young person.  I’ve read essays about teenaged cousins and siblings, children of all ages, nieces, nephews, and friends.  Sometimes I’m surprised the human species is still producing.  Our youngsters seem to die far too often.

Reading these essays over and over has left me shell-shocked.  I feel like the walking wounded; I suppose bereaved parents *are* the walking wounded.  The world is darker sometimes, though.  It’s so hard to read the work of the newly-bereaved, because I know the suffering they are going through and the awful realization they’ll face that the pain really doesn’t go away.  It’s also hard to read the work of people who lost children many years ago, because their pain shows me that the road I’m walking doesn’t have an exit ramp.  Pain is everywhere.  On days like this, it’s so hard to believe that hope is everywhere, too.   I wish I could wrap up every bereaved parent out there in a warm, soft blanket to ease their suffering and calm mine, as well.  All of my love and strength goes out to the parents who are reading this.  I am so sorry for your loss and hope you can find comfort here.

All Over Again

Since Andy died, I’ve only been to one funeral.  Funerals aren’t pleasant for anyone, of course, but they seem even more difficult after you’ve lost a child.  Stepping into a funeral parlor is like stepping back in time.  My mind flashes back, and I see Andy’s and Alan’s coffins clear as day.  I hear the priest (Alan was Anglican) reading the funeral rites.  I feel the searing pain coming back vividly.  And I don’t want to put myself through that.  Maybe it’s a selfish thought, but it’s how I truly feel.

A dear friend of mine lost his mother on Thursday.  She was 94, and her death was expected.  I know that doesn’t make it easier and is no comfort at all to my friend, and I would *never* say those things to him.  It makes sense, though.  His mother died first.  She died peacefully after a very long, full life.  Andy died in a horrible car crash, having lived only eight years.

Tomorrow is my friend’s mother’s funeral, and I’m just not sure I can attend.  I feel guilty for not being able to stand by him through this, but I also know he is part of a very large family and will certainly not be alone.  Since my son’s death, it’s hard for me to console even those I love with all my heart.  I do what I can, but sometimes that’s nothing at all.

Anyone else find it difficult or impossible to attend funerals or comfort grieving people who have not lost a child?

Stuck Inside

Growing up, I dealt with childhood trauma.  My parents were abusive to the point that I wondered sometimes if I’d survive.  I’m all grown now, of course, and the trauma is in the past, but it still affects me.  That said, my emotions are stuck inside today.  I feel like I’ll break into bits if I don’t find a release, but nothing’s coming.

Trauma survivors face a whole set of issues regarding parenting.  Obviously, we didn’t have the greatest of role models.  I’ve said before that my parents taught me exactly how *not* to raise a child.  I remember looking at Andy when he was just a few hours old and wondering how anyone could hurt something that beautiful.  Trauma survivors sometimes become abusers themselves, but I don’t quite understand that pattern.  Everyone says it happens because trauma survivors go back to what they know.  Still, I remember what it feels like, both physically and mentally, to be hurt by someone you trust and love.  Having Andy gave me the chance to protect one child and make certain he didn’t go through that.  I was probably a bit overprotective, even.

Back to tonight, then.  I feel like crying.  Actually, I feel like burying my head and sobbing until I can’t breathe.  I feel at fault– Andy was mine to protect, but in the end, I couldn’t protect him at all.  I wanted him to grow up surrounded by hope and love.  I wanted him to feel safe.  And even though I realize he *did* feel safe and loved, I still feel at fault.  I’m bitter tonight, wondering once again why a child who was so loved was taken when other children live with horrors every day.  No child should be hurt, and as bad as it seems to say, I’m angry that many abusive parents will get more time with their children than I got with my son.

Thinking back on my childhood makes me want to take every abused child in the world and show him or her that things *can* be better.  I want to give them the opportunity I can’t give my son.  Children should not suffer at the hands of adults.  Children are sacred, and those of us who have lost them understand more than anyone that they are gifts.  They should be cared for and loved unconditionally.

Happy New Year

Tomorrow brings the start of another year without Andy.  It’s a daunting thought, so I break it down into bits.  A month here, a week there, sometimes just an hour.  The year brings hope as well, though.

This year I hope to honor my son’s memory in every way possible.  I hope I can live my life in a way that makes him proud.  I wish for peace and comfort to all who are grieving for their children, and love to surround them on the coldest nights.  I wish for days remembering Andy’s laughter and nights remembering his little sighs in sleep.  I wish for him in any way I can have him.  And I wish for peace that isn’t likely to come in my waking hours.

To everyone reading this whose greatest New Year’s wish is to have your child with you again, I send my warmest thoughts and love from another parent who is wishing the same.  May our children grace the year to come.  Our memories of them will always be our greatest comforts.

The Hour of Lead

Andy has been on my mind all day.  I woke up, as I usually do, thinking about him.  The thought of his death lingered all day, though.  It settled in like a fog, and even the bright afternoon sun that blinded me as I went about my errands couldn’t drive the fog away.  Now I’m trying unsuccessfully to sleep and thinking about the difference I felt today.  It was a softer pain.

On bad days, my grief feels like a hot knife searing straight through me.  At Andy’s funeral, I felt like something was being torn away from me physically.  Maybe I was feeling that final pull of a mother falling away from her child.  That feeling haunts me on my worst days.  I feel it as acutely as I did on the day my son was buried.

Some days I can distract myself enough that I become numb.  The thought of Andy’s death is always with me, but like many others who are travelling this road, I’ve learned to function around it.  I’ve quite literally been brought to my knees by grief a time or two, but the pain of today settled in differently.  It was intense, but it didn’t double me over.  It felt more like lead than fire.  It was heavy and dark, and it weighed me down.  Unlike the more acute pain, though, this pain didn’t take away my ability to function.  I just functioned more slowly.

A stanza from an Emily Dickson poem is running through my mind tonight:

This is the hour of lead

Remembered if outlived

As freezing persons recollect the snow–

First chill, then stupor, then the letting go.

That last moment before the coffin was lowered or the ashes were spread becomes the pivotal point of our lives– the moment when everything changed so terribly and completely.  The hour of lead.  I wonder sometimes if those of us who have lost our children will remain in that hour forever.

Merry Christmas

I’ve never claimed the title of Christian, and I probably never will.  Still, I’d like to wish a peaceful and loving Christmas to all of my readers and their families.  Cherish every minute.

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.