Time rushes on.
When you bury a child, you realize this. Your feet are firmly planted in the quicksand of grief while the rest of the world goes on as though nothing has happened. Oh, yes . . . there are those precious ones who will stand there with you for a bit, but eventually, they are able to move on. And there you stand, alone, wanting to fight your way out, but with no clue how to do that.
That was me 24 years ago, as my baby girl left this world without warning.
About a month ago, I witnessed via Facebook the descent of two parents into the quicksand. A vibrant young man I knew flew to heaven without so much as a “see ya later” to any of the people who loved him. A seemingly healthy young man went to sleep one night and never woke up.
Dave was well loved. His Facebook wall was inundated with memorials and testaments to the person he was. Hundreds, there in the quicksand with them, surrounded his parents, and they were comforted.
By the end of the day, as I watched the newsfeed ticker, most had gone back to their daily business: playing games, posting pictures, and “liking” statuses and memes. They were still in the quicksand, but starting to find their way out.
His funeral was held in a large church to accommodate the many who showed up to pay their respects. His parents heard testimony after testimony of the way their son had influenced others in a positive way. Yet, I suspect most of those in attendance were anxious to get out of the mucky mess of grief by then. They were getting closure, saying their goodbyes, and going on their way.
Like Dave’s parents, I never expected to bury my own child. It was March 1989, I was 24 years old, and I was pregnant with my second child. I was healthy, and there had been no complications with the pregnancy whatsoever, or any indication that anything could be wrong.
I was days away from my due date when, over the course of a weekend, I noticed the baby moving less. By Monday morning, I felt nothing at all and grew concerned. A trip to the doctor resulted in an ultrasound that confirmed my worst nightmare. My baby had died.
I had never experienced the loss of anyone really close to me before, so I had no concept of grief. In addition, the shock of losing my child—in the moments when I thought I would be celebrating her arrival into the world—was paralyzing.
I remember the days after my daughter Alyssa’s funeral. There were still a few who called regularly, but as the weeks wore on, those calls were fewer and farther between. At times, I would get downright angry that everyone else was able to move on, but I was still very stuck in my grief.
I was so grateful when a friend from church told me about The Compassionate Friends. I was then living in Columbus, Nebraska, and there was a chapter located there. My friend even offered to accompany me to my first meeting. I met people who were in various stages of grief; most were still in the quicksand like me, but there were a handful of people who were further down the path.
Listening to them offer hope and encouragement was like a lifesaving rope thrown to me. In the year that followed, there were times when I clung to that rope, but there were also times it seemed hopeless, and I would let go. The monthly anniversaries, Mother’s Day, Christmas, her birthday . . . those were the days when it seemed as though the grief might swallow me up.
What was most difficult for me on those days was when no one else seemed to take notice. I was never sure if people were just unaware, or if they thought I should have moved on by then. I admit, I usually thought the latter, which probably wasn’t fair. Once I started letting others know I needed support on those days, I found that most were willing to acknowledge my grief and console me, even though they didn’t understand.
Recently, my friend Beth Miller described her parental perspective after the loss of her son: “One of the things I have held close to my heart . . . how great it is to have words of comfort at the moment, but how truly valuable it is to have a friend to hold your hand as you work toward redemption.” Beth says, “Some of the most precious notes and memorials came months and even years after we lost Evan. God used some of those moments to remind me, ‘You may feel those around you have forgotten, but I haven’t forgotten.’”
To my friends who knew Dave, I issued this request on Facebook: “Put a reminder in your smartphone for a month from now to send his parents a card or a message. Put that reminder in for holidays like Mother’s Day, Father’s Day, birthdays, and a year from now. Because I don’t know when Dave’s parents will get out of the quicksand, but it won’t be Monday (the day of the funeral), and they will need a helping hand.”
Every year, my sweet mother sends me a card on Alyssa’s birthday. This year, she wrote this: “Alyssa Marie would be 24. Hard to believe. I just wanted you to know I never forget her. I know you don’t either. She will be in our hearts forever. I love you, Mom.”
My mom is one of those people who keep me from falling back into the quicksand. I’m grateful for the people in my life with their arms around me, standing between me and that pit of despair, simply by remembering.
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Thank you. I needed this. I needed this now. My daughter, Charnice was a 27 year old journalist in Washington DC. On Wednesday May 27, 2015 she was shot and killed as she returned from doing a story. I recently acknowledged that I am not there yet. I realize now, I am in the quicksand. Although that rope has been thrown out I learned to publicly smile and grab the rope but privately sink deeper. Your article has given me words to express what I feel. I have never received counseling but was recently offer help at my church. I also learn that the problem stems from the understanding that my husband and I handled the grief differently. So now, I trying to get out of the quicksand. Thank you for hope.
Francine