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.

Hopeful Healing

A couple of people have emailed me asking about the blog I kept for my son, Andy.  It was attached to another blog, and I separated them simply because it felt like the right thing to do.  It’s minute by minute sometimes.  This blog, then, is the newly designed Hopeful Healing.  I hope you like it and continue to find comfort here.

Despite the word ‘hopeful’ being tied to it, that blog was getting very dark.  I did import most of the content, but for whatever reason, things started to get suffocating.  My son’s memory deserves a bright, welcoming blog where I can ‘introduce’ him to others as the lovely light he brought to my life.

My apologies for getting lost in cyberspace for a bit there.  Here’s the new contact information as well:

Email:  grey_rain@lycos.com

Yahoo IM:  grey_rain2001

Nearing *That* Day

Sunday marks the third anniversary of Alan’s and Andy’s deaths.  I’m not sure how to handle it.  After three years, it stills confuses me.  First comes the fear.  I anticipate that day with such great fear that it literally leaves me shaking sometimes.  This year, the fear has been followed by sadness.  It’s a deep sadness that almost feels numb.  That’s something I think is unique to the loss of a child– feeling very deeply but being numb all the same.  It’s self-protection.  We can’t handle all of that emotion at one time.

I’m not sure what I expect of that day.  It changed my life so harshly.  It took away what I loved most.  I’m angry with it.  Just a number on the calendar, but I feel like cutting it out.  Maybe if I cut the date off the calendar and burn it, things will be different.  Maybe coloring over it with dark black permanent ink will erase it.  I hate that day.  I want to yell at it and demand an answer.  It just sits there on the calendar staring at me, though.  Daring me to look at it and remember.  What that stupid day doesn’t understand is that I’ll never be able to forget it.  Even if I went completely blind, the day would simply burn itself into the back of my eyelids.

I hate that day.

Beside the Ocean

Last Tuesday I stood beside the ocean.  I felt the cold wind blowing in my face and watched grey clouds drifting over the waves.  For me, standing by the ocean somehow makes everything feel better.  The ocean is so expansive, and next to it I feel a bit inconsequential.  Life feels a bit less random. 

The ocean has its own song, and I always try to listen for what it’s saying.  I stepped away from the group for a brief moment, closed my eyes, and concentrated on the sound of the waves and the wind.  I let myself get caught up in the rhythm of the atmosphere and felt connected. 

It was beautiful and painful all at once.  I pictured Andy standing beside those waves with me and imagined what it would be like to hear his laughter in that mix as well.  Times like that, I feel such a need to hold him that my arms literally hurt.  The other side of that is the ocean seems to act as a sort of timeless bridge between dimensions, and I felt closer to him than I have in a while.  It’s that wonderful yet frustrating feeling that he’s just on the other side of my comprehension.  Maybe he *was* part of the ocean’s song that day.  I know he’s always with me in spirit, but maybe the ocean brought him even closer.

Bad Days

I am *very* fortunate and happy to say that today has been more than just tolerable.  Yesterday was hideous.  I took a few minutes to write out what a bad day feels like and emailed this bit to my best friend:

It occurred to me that, if I’m to get anything I need to do actually completed today, I should attempt to write things out. I was amused this morning by the old ‘two steps forward, one step back’ saying. Saturday really was a good day, and yesterday wasn’t bad, either. Now today I’m back in the pit of hell. Two steps forward, one back. Tomorrow will likely be better. The Pit of Hell days are fewer now, which is *amazing.* I thought I’d try to write out what one of those days are like, both to get it out of my head and to work out something that might actually be useful to someone else someday. Maybe. We’ll see.

I know days like this as soon as I open my eyes. There’s an English expression– like moving through treacle– that feels appropriate here. It’s like I’m moving through some sort of thick, sticky substance that is fighting to keep me still just as hard as I’m fighting to move. My legs and arms feel as though they have weights tied to them. I woke up at 5:00, sat up very briefly, and literally covered my head when I lay back down. The weight was too much, and I fell under it. I never thought grief could actually be paralysing until this.

By 7:00, I could keep my eyes open. The sunrise looked dark. That’s a really strange phenomenon– grief making sunlight seem dark and warm temperatures seem cold. Maybe I just want the outside world to reflect how I feel inside. Things are muted overall, but on bad days, things are absolutely desolate. On good days, I can appreciate beauty, but it isn’t ever *true* beauty any more. That no longer exists, nor does true happiness or security. That’s not to say I never feel happy or experience beauty. It’s just a different *kind* than I experienced before Alan and Andy died. Everything is tainted.

After abandoning any hope that this day was going to be tolerable, I sat up and started reading a book on parental bereavement. In a way only bereaved parents can truly understand, surrounding myself with information on this subject is the only way to soften the edges even a little on the really hard days. On the other hand, I absolutely cannot deal with real-time bereavement information, like newscasts or telephone conversations. I have to put things in context of books or online discussion groups. I seek out information from parents who have been on this trip longer than me and who can provide a calming perspective. That may be selfish of me, but if it’s one thing I’ve learned through all of this, it’s that I have to concern myself with my own needs first and foremost.

Eventually, I did make it out of bed. Quite a bit later, I actually made it out of my room. Beyond that, I’m guessing nothing spectacular is going to come out of this day. I will not let myself crawl back in to bed, shut out the lights, and wait for the day to be over, though. I will make myself go through the motions. And the pain will come along for all of it.

That’s what the bad days are like– pain follows me everywhere I go, almost a physical presence in itself. Getting out of bed comes with the knowledge that Andy ran out of mornings. Being out in the world reminds me that he can no longer be a part of it. Even moving forward in time feels like I’m stealing from him, since he got so little time for himself. I wonder why I was allowed to keep living while this beautiful child had to die. Andy’s death represents the ultimate of unfair, out-of-order chaos. Now I see the world through that lens.

Part of me knows that, just in case he *can* see me somehow, I have an obligation to him to live my life well. I just have to figure out what the purpose of my life and the world at large is at this point. For now, what gets me out of bed on days like this is sheer force of will. I’m waiting for the day when I’ll actually feel there’s something to get out of bed for, and I’m told by those farther along that that day truly will come. It just seems to be a lifetime away from here.

Welcome to Little Stars Lost

I started this blog to honor the memory of my son Andy in the best way I know how– by using his death as a means to help others who are dealing with tragedy. Now, it will also become a memorial for my daughter Madeleine, who was stillborn on Dec. 27, 2010. My children will be a part of me forever.

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.