Panic

Due to absolutely horrible driving conditions, my best friend and I were unable to attend the Compassionate Friends Worldwide Candle Lighting this year. I panicked. All of those emotions and thoughts I try to shove down through the year get released on that day. All of the asking why and wanting to scream in anger comes to the surface. The day is raw. The pain feels fresh. However, as I said in the previous post, the Candle Lighting is one of the most comforting experiences I’ve had since my son’s death, and I needed that release.

My best friend and I did light a candle (or rather, turned on a battery-powered candle) in his living room at 7:00 PM last night, but it didn’t feel like enough. I missed the sense of community and the sharing of our children. None of us actually knew each other’s children before their deaths, so this is our time to share our children with people who, though they’ll never meet them, love them just as we do.

For those of you who did get to attend a Candle Lighting Ceremony, I hope you found it peaceful and comforting, as well. It’s our start to a holiday season that can be excruciating, but it’s also a reminder that we are not alone.

2010 Worldwide Candle Lighting

This year’s Worldwide Candle Lighting, sponsored by The Compassionate Friends is Sunday, Dec. 12. This event is a candle light memorial for children who have died. It is so beautiful, and even though it’s also very painful, this ceremony makes the holidays so much easier for me. Everything turns toward family and celebrations during the holidays, and it’s good to have one day to devote completely to my son. Everyone at that ceremony understands exactly why the holidays are never whole and not quite as happy any longer.

Ceremonies are held all over the world, sometimes in large groups and sometimes within one family. The ceremony I attend is held by a local chapter of Bereaved Parents of the USA in conjunction with Compassionate Friends. Our ceremony includes music and poetry readings, as well as a talk by a grief counselor or someone in a similar role. We have a table set up where our children’s photos or other mementos are displayed proudly next to their candles. There’s also a slideshow of our children and an angel tree where we hang ornaments with our children’s names on them. It’s like a holiday spent with our children who are gone.

There is so much pain in this loss, but at the Candle Lighting, I feel like I’m wrapped in a blanket of comfort. I highly recommend this ceremony to anyone who has lost a child or who has been affected by the loss of a child.

Visit The Compassionate Friends page about the Candle Lighting to find an event near you. May your holidays bring you peace and love.

Birth and Rebirth

The Pagan festival of Midsummer is approaching, and as someone who follows the Wiccan way, I’m preparing my celebration. Midsummer represents the height of the sun’s power (in the Northern hemisphere), and the holiday is associated with the Mother Goddess in the fullness of her pregnancy. After the Summer Solstice, though, we move into the waning year. The days start getting shorter as we head toward the shortest day of the year on the Winter Solstice.

That cycle reminds me of what it’s like to lose a child. A mother’s body builds up through the fullness of pregnancy. Like the earth in Spring, we give birth to these new and beautiful little beings. The seasons pass far too quickly, though, and the death of our children lands us in the darkest day of the year. It becomes the darkest day of our lives.

Reading through some of my material on Midsummer, I came across this passage: “In Scotland, the use of the cauldron, a Celtic symbol of life, death and rebirth is important to the Sabbat that honors Cerridwen, the crone Goddess who tends the cauldron. The cauldron is present to remind revelers that the sun is not truly dead, but will be reborn from this cauldron of rebirth from the Goddess at Yule.” *

There should not be a need for rebirth; my son should never have died. Still, I lean on my faith to remind myself that he will never be truly gone. Birth and rebirth. The Universe spirals in what can sometimes seem like a chaotic cycle. Watching the patterns in nature as it works through the order of its existence reinforces my belief time and again that order still exists in this world, even though mine has been turned completely inside out.
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* From Edain McCoy’s book “Sabbats” published by Llewellyn Publications, 2003.

And Then It Hit Me

Mother’s Day, that is. It’s hard to take this pain sometimes, and Mother’s Day is hell. I feel like I’m standing in the middle of a row of rotating blades. The bond of mother and child is special and certainly does deserve celebration. It’s just so difficult for those of us who are missing our children. The day is filled with anything else *but* peace.

For me, Mother’s Day is a time of reflection. I think back on Andy’s little life and remember the defining moments. I remember the little moments, too. I try to immerse myself in who he was, hoping a tiny bit of that will come through in me. My memories of him are double-edged on days like Mother’s Day. They bring me comfort, because they surround me with him. They bring pain and anger, too, because they remind me that my reason for celebrating Mother’s Day is gone. Like most bereaved mothers who lost their only child, I worry that my role as mother ended when my son died. I know I’m still Andy’s mother and always will be, but the outside world doesn’t see a child at my side. I feel like my role is diminished, shoved aside sometimes even by those who are important in my life.

But I know I’ll get through another Mother’s Day. And I hope I know Andy is watching me. I’ll send all of my love to him as always and ache to hold him, as always. The role of mother is sacred. I’ll carry it, and my son, with me for the rest of my life.

Peace and strength to all mothers who are facing this day without their children. May you be surrounded by your love for your child and the memories of the time they got to share with you. Please know you are not alone on this dark and difficult road. So many of us are traveling alongside you, even if we’ve never met.

Happy Birthday

…to my beautiful child. He would be 12 today. My heart aches to have him with me. I just hope, wherever he is, that he is safe and happy.

Andy, my beautiful child, I love and miss you more than I can say.

Happy Mothering Sunday

…to all my readers in the UK.  As many of you know, I grew up in England.  Even though I have restructured this blog and attempted to Americani(z)e my spelling, I remain proud of my heritage.  My memories of Mothering Sunday are lovely.  Having raised a younger sister, my memories actually stretch back to life before Andy as well.  Now that both my sister and Andy have passed on, Mothering Sunday comes with a particular sort of ache.  Blessings and warmth to all who are celebrating this holiday with holes in their hearts.  May your memories be kind.

Survival

I came across a quote this morning on Twitter, and it reminded me of what we deal with as bereaved parents– “Damaged people are dangerous.  They know they can survive.”  We’ve been through the worst of the worst, and we’re still standing, still moving through our lives, even though a piece of us is gone.  From the outside, it doesn’t seem possible.  From the inside, it doesn’t seem possible sometimes.

St. Patrick’s Day is coming up.  It’s my absolute favorite holiday and how my son got his middle name.  It’s a holiday about love and luck.  I still consider myself lucky and honored simply to have known my son.  He was a great kid, and today I can smile as I say that.  Tomorrow it might make me cry.  I feel as though I’ve made it through one more hurdle, though; I can think of Andy and *smile* now.  The pain doesn’t quite cut through me as sharply, most of the time.  At one time, even the slightest thought of him made me double over in pain.  All I could focus on was his death.  Although the times are still hit and miss, it’s nice to know that thinking of his life can make me laugh once again.  I can hear his little cackle from when he was very young.  I can remember the sound of his voice on the other end of the telephone line, giggling at some joke I or his father had made.  I can hear his baby sighs and his “big boy” determination.  And I can smile.

My son gave me so much hope and happiness during his life, and I’m trying now to reconnect to those emotions through his memory.  Life has been black more days than not since Andy died.  I’m hoping for blue skies that last longer than a couple of days now and happiness that isn’t followed by guilt.  I love my son with all of my heart and soul, and I will always do so.  It’s time, I think, to very carefully allow some hope back into my life.  People have often told me that Andy would want that for me, and it made me furious.  Most of these people didn’t even *know* my son.  Now, though, I’m starting to feel his love again and realizing that, in so many ways, he’s still very much a part of my life, and I can’t imagine a life with him that doesn’t include hope.

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.

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.