Grief & Led Zeppelin

I work online, and during my shift, I set the computer’s media player to shuffle through various songs on my hard drive. A few days ago, a Led Zeppelin songs from the album Physical Graffiti circled on. I froze. I don’t even remember what the songs was, but it stopped me where I sat. For a minute there, I was brought back to November 2006. The pain swirled around me so heavily that I became groggy and disoriented. I was back in That Day having That Phone Call in That Office. So many things bring me back so easily, even now.

Every morning of the year Andy died, I took a 3-mile walk, Led Zeppelin blasting through my MP3 player, and just enjoyed watching the neighborhood awaken. There’s something so ironic about that now. The day of Andy’s last sunrise started just the same as all the others, and by that evening the whole world had gone black.

Now, three and a half years later, I can come out of those fogs quicker. The song ended, and this new version of life went on as it always does.

Click here to listen to the song ‘In the Light’ from Physical Graffiti

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.

Refrain

Today I had the first meeting regarding my future career.  The past few weeks have been absolute hell in terms of grief, and I’ve been forcing myself to go on with my current job and all the things that make a life.  Throughout the entire meeting, though, I kept telling myself to refrain.  Don’t look at the children’s art that decorated the walls and think of Andy.  Don’t listen to the person talking about her children.  And above all, don’t let concentration become impossible.  Chin up.  Push forward.  Keep moving on.

Walking back to my car, I had some lines from the Beatles song  ‘Hey Jude’ running through my head– ‘And anytime you feel the pain, hey Jude, refrain.  Don’t carry the world upon your shoulders.’

That’s the goal.  Refrain.

'Precious Child'

Today has been a particularly difficult day for me, and a friend pointed me in the direction of the song ‘Precious Child’ by Karen Taylor-Good.  It is so perfect in describing the wish of all grieving parents.  Our children are still the center of our lives, and they will always be.  You can download a free MP3 of the song on Ms. Taylor-Good’s website.  I’ll post this link under the music category as well.  Italicized below is the song’s chorus.  Hope this brings comfort…

In my heart, you live on

Always there never gone

Precious child, you left too soon

Tho’ it may be true that we’re apart

You will live forever…in my heart

Bereaved Fathers

If you have any resources for bereaved fathers, please contact me with the information.  I’m finding it quite difficult to dig up information specifically targeting that group, and since my son’s father died in the accident with him, I have no personal experience other than the conversations I’ve shared with bereaved fathers through TCF.

Alan Pedersen’s site EverAshley Music is an excellent resource for bereaved parents in general.  He writes about his experience in losing his beautiful daughter, and his music is so perfect for many of us.  His song ‘Tonight I Hold This Candle’ sums up quite eloquently the feelings of both hope and pain that I felt at last year’s TCF Candle Lighting Ceremony.  It was played while we lit the candles, and it made the task a bit easier some how.

Alan, if you find your way to this blog, thanks so much for your work.  You honor your daughter in such a beautiful way.  Thank you for sharing her with us.

And You Survive?

There’s a line from the Natalie Grant song ‘Held,’ which I’ve mention before on this blog, that really strikes at the center of me– ‘…how it feels when the sacred is torn from your life, and you survive.’

That line always makes me question the definition of the word ‘survive.’  In black and white terms, it means to continue living.  I wonder sometimes, though, if any of us get to that stage.  My hopeful side wants to say yes, we do, but on some days my life seems to have been cut as short as my son’s life.  I’ve read and heard many, many times that the parent dies with the child, and to some extent, I believe that.  I’ve written quite frequently about how life is muted now, and that goes far at describing this new sort of existence we take on when our children die.  Most of the other bereaved parents I’ve talked or emailed with place the word ‘cope’ in quotes.  It’s definitely a good concept, but is it possible?

This past week was very difficult for me, and by Friday I was exhausted.  Even though it wasn’t something I’d planned to do, I started talking with my best friend about the day-to-day things involved with living with the loss of a child.  As I wrote in an earlier post, a friend told me the trick was to distract yourself from your loss well enough that you *can* carry on with the daily activities.  It’s always there, though, and it affects everything.  Not a day passes without something reminding me of Andy, sometimes in good ways and sometimes in very painful ways.  There’s also that horrible knowledge that you are out-living your child with every passing day.  It gets overwhelming to think of living for the next 30 or 40 years with that loss and that knowledge.  It’s the ultimate in unfair to us as parents, but even moreso to our children.  We live with their loss just as we lived with their presence, whether they were grown and had started families of their own, lived a distance from us, or lived just down the hall.  It is an unbreakable bond, even in death.

A brief aside to those supporting bereaved parents– many of us *want* to talk about our children’s lives.  We want to share the funny stories, the favorites, and the unique qualities that made our children who they were.  We want to hear their names spoken to know they haven’t been forgotten.  Yes, sometimes talking about even the good things can be painful.  Sometimes it even leads to tears.  Still, many of us feel relieved in recognizing our children’s lives and knowing that they still matter in our lives and the lives of those who cared about them.  Thanks for riding such a difficult road alongside us.

You're Gone

It’s a song by the group Del Amitri, and it struck me this morning as frighteningly appropriate.  The lyrics, for the most part, are not explicitly about loss, and the bridge hints more towards romantic loss.  However, the randomness of Justin Currie’s somewhat anguished singing of the line ‘and you’re gone’ fits well for a loss that follows you everywhere and creeps up at such random times.  The verses have a sort of desolate feeling.  The song just feels tired.

I’m wondering if perhaps Justin (lead singer and frequently songwriter) has experienced a loss that left him feeling collapsed in its wake.  Based on another of his songs, ‘Sleep Instead of Teardrops,’ I’m guessing he has.  Music brings me quite alot of solace.  The words of others fit so well sometimes.