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.

'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

Moving On

I can’t tear myself away from my sadness today, and that isn’t likely a coincidence.  Yesterday was incredibly productive.  I made great strides in my job search and finished creating all the necessary forms required to apply for jobs in my field.  Today, on the other hand, I’ve done little more than think about Andy, talk to his candle, and try my best to function in spite of this sadness.  There’s a song by Kenny Chesney called ‘Who You’d Be Today’ that fits well– ‘Sunny days seem to hurt the most.  I wear the pain like a heavy coat.’  I’m definitely wearing that coat today.

Moving on is difficult.  New cities, new jobs, and new relationships with people who will never meet Andy.  A whole life that he will never be a part of.  I feel guilty, like I’m betraying him somehow.  Time and again, I’ve heard that those we love *want* us to move on.  They want us to rebuild our lives and regain some semblance of happiness.  Why, then, do I feel like moving on means giving up the role of mother?

Everything feels empty and hollow, like the hole that was created by Andy’s death can never truly be filled.  In all honestly, I don’t believe it can.  I’ve never really expected that it could.  How do you build a new life when your foundation is gone?  I feel like whatever I *do* build from here on out will simply be an illusion, just an impression of a real life.  I’ll take Andy with me wherever I go.  His pictures will hang on my walls, and his favorite teddy bear will be safely tucked away as though it’s waiting for him to return.  But in my new life, there will be nothing new for Andy.  I’m wondering if that will ever be a life at all.

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.