As bereaved parents, we have a line of demarcation in our lives. This line is like no other. Other people define their lives by that one big career step, move or degree. But in other people’s lives, things are different. We are not like other people.
We experienced a clearly defined moment in time when everything changed. The tectonic plates of our lives shifted at one moment on one date of one year. Nothing will ever be the same. We definitively mark the time before and after our child died. Life was different before our child died. It was easy; it was filled with promises of tomorrow, accomplishments, setbacks, goals set and achieved and happiness that abounds in the natural order of life. But our basic assumptions were shattered and our world turned inside out at that one moment in time when our child died.
Can we ever feel as optimistic about life as we did before that moment in time? Will we ever again believe that one day we will feel balanced, optimistic and serene?
We certainly can, and most parents certainly do. As you read the articles in this month’s newsletter about the journey through grief, consider the gentle optimism that presents itself in these parents’ words. Each of these parents has walked this lonely road. Each has come through the darkest, rockiest valley into a gauzy sort of light which gradually crystallized into a true sunshine as time moved forward. How did they do it?
Insight is offered in these parents’ stories. We must do our grief work, face our demons and stand them down. We must talk with others, set limits on what we will tolerate, and hold our line. We must seek counseling, attend seminars, attend TCF meetings or other offerings that give us the support of parents who have lost a child or help us in acquiring skills to cope with our pain and loss.
We must take grief breaks in the beginning and for the first year or two. We must take care of ourselves physically, mentally, and emotionally.
But most of all we must keep our child with us as we complete our life’s journey. How we choose to complete our journey is unique. The common denominator that all of us share is the need to find a precious flicker of hope which we can nurture and coax to a radiant glow. We all find it in different ways and at different times on our grief journey. But, rest assured, we all find it. I call it “my little light.”
One day you will feel the burden lifting. You will laugh about things your child said or did. That moment will gently envelop you. There is hope. Let your little light glimmer and then glow.
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You hit it right on the head!
My son went with me to hear some Christian bands not long after he was out of rehab for his addiction. It is a good memory that night and the time we had together. Yesterday I heard one of the singers from that night on the radio and the song was “if you could see me now, I’m not who I was”.
It sounds very cheerful and good I’m trying to focus less on my grief now and more on my son now free from the bondage of addiction and in a better place so this song is perfect that that. ☺️♥️
Thank you so very much, Annette.
Although my son died in a motorcycle accident, he, too, suffered an addiction to drugs. Sometimes when I’ d visit him in TX we would attend NA meetings together. But the addiction he struggled with did not define who he was. A friend of his decribed him after he was gone, saying ” He had a heart as big as a hot air baloon ” That, he did. God bless you, my friend. Our sons suffer no more.
Thank you for sharing your words. I particularly appreciated the line, “….we must keep our child with us as we complete our life’s journey.” I truly believe we honor our child’s memory in doing this, and in some way, it reinforces our continued purpose as a parent.
Thank you Annette – it’s exactly how it feels, and perhaps something only a grieving parent can understand. It’s 7 1 days since I lost my beautiful girl as a result of SADS – and I know that my life will never be the same. I grieve for her and for the man that I used to be.