grieving mom – Page 20 – Sunshine, Angels and Rainbows

Pictures

We’re leaving on vacation tomorrow and I had promised Darcy that we would work on a scrapbook of her and Benny. Of course I forgot to print out pictures, so here I am at midnight uploading to Wal-mart in my frenzied last minute panic.

I just sent 187 pictures to be printed. 187 memories of my family complete. 187 times when we were whole. 187 times before the accident that made us a family of 3 again.

I don’t often go here, because it hurts too damn much, but I’m sad tonight. I think some part of me goes about my day playing a part, as if Bennett didn’t exist. What an awful way to live my life. It’s too hard to remember what actually happened, so I think I’ve processed it as if he’s gone away. Not tonight.

I’m looking at these pictures and it devastates me so much to see my kids together. That will never happen again, Darcy will grow older in pictures alone. She has a brother that she doesn’t get to see, or touch or laugh with. There is no feeling on earth worse than this right now.

I know that I had it all and now it’s gone, he’s gone. I cannot get Darcy’s comment out of my head when I told her to play by herself, ‘but mom, I had a brother.’ It’s brings so many happy, painful memories to my mind. I cannot stand being alone in this house with her, it reminds me too much of what’s missing.

I had a son. His name was Bennett. I miss him.

Empty Arms

I’ve been realizing that I have two hands again. I have just recently realized that my arms are empty. Sure Benny was walking and doing his own thing, but he was still getting picked up and held (mostly as I was chasing him or trying to get him off of something). I have arms that ache to hold my toddler.

I really miss that feeling, of having someone in my arms while trying to do a million other things, ‘octopus mom.’ I hate the fact that I have two hands to fill the dishwasher, or carry laundry up and down the stairs.

When I’m around other toddlers and babies I need my fix. I need to smell that baby smell, feel their soft skin and snuggle with their rolls. I cherish my time with Evie and Rory and every other little one that I’m so blessed to have in my life. I would carry Darcy around, but she’s too big now (which I hate).

I spent so much time looking forward to my kids being independent, that now that Darcy is, it sucks. She’s going into 1st Grade! Why must she grow up? I hate this.

NO, it doesn’t get easier!

I wanted to share this from a fellow blogger. It’s as if she’s reading my mind.

Broken Mothers Club

I am now, as of 3:30 today, seven months into what a fellow blogger calls devastation day. I have always just called it “that day” or the day my son “left us”. Her way of saying it seems the most fitting lately. I feel like a nuclear bomb went off inside me that day and I will never be the same, ever.

For seven months now, people have been saying will get easier. It will get better. The pain will seem to slowly ease. Well, guess what? It doesn’t! At least not for me. People keep saying how strong I am and how I have just “picked myself up by the bootstraps and kept going.” No, as I have said before, I am an expert faker. I can smile to your face and scream and cry on the inside.

Wanna know the real harsh truth. Seven months in and it…

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Sometimes…

About 8 years ago, my 3 Day walking team and I put out a cookbook. I was going through it tonight looking for something and found these words that I wrote,

“sometimes people just pass through our lives and only stay long enough to make a difference.”

How very true indeed. When I think about all of the lessons that my children have taught me about life and love I feel lucky. They changed me, they changed my marriage and they made us a family. They made my life whole.

So my life is a little bit more like a donut now, there’s a big piece missing from the center, my munchkin is gone. I never thought that I would have a boy, it seemed such a foreign idea to me because I had two sisters. It hurts to remember all of the laughter that that little boy brought into my life. How coy he was when he smiled and how ridiculous he was when he tantrumed (it really was quite funny). He made me so happy and balanced out his sister. They were yin and yang. Maybe it was because they were so young yet, but they rarely fought. Most of the time Benny had Darcy in stitches, laughing hysterically over some antic that he had pulled. He was a performer and comedian and could have done so many amazing things with his life.

Today I was cleaning in my room and Darcy was behind me every time I turned around. I finally told her she needs to learn to play by herself for a little bit. I was picking something up off the floor when she said to me, ‘it’s because I don’t have a brother anymore to play with.’ It was a good thing that I was bent over so that she couldn’t see my face. How does one even respond to that? It was like someone physically stabbed me, it hurt so much. I wish I can make it all better, but I can’t.

Benny taught me happiness and laughter. Everything could be funny with him around. He taught me about patience like never before. He taught me about having a little boy and loving a son. Mostly he taught me life is short, there are no guarantees, how presumptuous of us to assume that there is a tomorrow. His life changed me, his death changed me. I miss the laughter and smiles. I miss Darcy’s playmate.

Rant

I am angry. I am disappointed. I am so fucking tired of the people in our lives letting us down. People who are supposed to be there for us, take care of us. I’m so tired of lowering my expectations. It is unfair. I’m so tired of fixing their fucking issues. I’m tired of the immaturity, the inability to be responsible for anything!!

For the life of me I do not understand how. I really don’t. How people can continuously fuck up their own lives and the lives of everyone else around them, yet nothing ever happens to THEM. Unbelievable.

End Rant.

‘Normal’

This was sent to me by my friend Sue…very appropriate

Are You Normal Yet?” — A Mother’s Response

This moving letter was sent to me by a mother whose son had died 18 months ago. She got a call from a friend who wanted to go out with her, BUT the defining question was, “Are you normal yet?” This is the response given by the mother. Pay close attention to her words. She shares a lot of wisdom for those parents who are grieving the loss of a child, as well as for those who want to know what to say to grieving parents.

“I awoke this morning feeling so great. It’s been a year and a half since my 18-year-old son died, and I can finally say that I’ve worked through the grief and I am back to normal. Thank you to everyone that told me to take all the time I needed. Time certainly does heal all wounds. Now, maybe you can tolerate being my friend again as I am now the same person as I was before my son died.
And, you were right to tell me that Danny is in a better place, and that I must feel good knowing that he is not suffering any more. I do hope your children go to that better place as soon as possible so you, too, can experience such comforting thoughts.
And, thank you for telling me that you know just how I feel as many of you (my friends) have experienced loss. Loss of parents, grandparents, and even pets. At first I felt so alone and my pain so minimized by your words, but after time and getting over the initial year-long shock, I realize that the loss of a child is no more profound or devastating than that of your beloved pet. Thank you for setting me straight and making me realize that loss is loss. And, that someone who loves their pet dearly suffers the same devastation as that of a parent who loses a child.
On a couple of occasions over the past 18 months I have shared with some the overwhelming sadness in my heart, and all-over physical pain that can threaten at any given time to debilitate me. I was criticized and told that these feelings were not okay. I was informed that Danny didn’t want me to be in pain and that he would be very unhappy if he knew the extent of my suffering. Thank you for that admonishment, as of course you do know better than I. I really appreciate the guilt that I was perhaps making my son unhappy even in heaven.
Oh, and as so many of you have pointed out, at least I have other children. Yes, loving my other children and tending to their needs sure makes losing Danny so much easier to handle. Whenever I expressed any upset at the hurtful, insensitive support, I was quickly told I should appreciate the fact that people mean well and that sometimes they just don’t know what to say. Thank you for pointing this out. I now realize that along with my heavy burden of grief, I must also make sure that I smile and say ‘thank you’ no matter what is said. The grieving parent must not ever upset the well-intentioned by being honest!
I think it’s about time grieving parents tell the truth!! We don’t need to be bullied into being okay with whatever is being said just because it is well-intentioned. There is rampant grief illiteracy among the
vast majority of people. The only ones who can bring about change are the grieving parents, so let’s start by being honest about cruel, hurtful, minimizing platitudes. We can do so kindly and tactfully. I appreciate that you care and that you mean well. Your support means a lot to me. Your words, however, are painful to hear. Let me share with you what would be helpful.
What grieving parents would appreciate:
Ask about our child – anything is fine. Don’t act like he never existed. Trust me, you may think you are reminding us of our pain, but you’re not. Our pain is always there.
1. Share a memory you have of my child.
2. Send me flowers on his birthday or his death day. Those are hard, hard days.
3. Grieve with us. Listen to us. And, most of all be willing to learn. We don’t need advice. Again – we do not need advice. Just remember him.
4. Know that I am forever changed, and accept that fact. I will never be just like I was before. This grief is different than any other. We know because we have lost pets, parents, and grandparents, uncles, aunts, and even spouses and siblings.
Our hope and our task are to learn to balance the pain and incorporate it into our lives. In order to survive it at all, the grief must become part of who we are forever.”

Bereaved Mother

Benny’s Garden

After the accident, Parker had these grand ideas about creating a garden/zen like space somewhere in our yard. If you don’t know my yard, it’s the kind where wild things grow, where nature takes over and landscaping is a battle. When we bought our house some ten years ago, the yard was so overgrown you could barely see the front of the house. I remember walking through the backyard and feeling like I was in the book ‘The Secret Garden.’

For years we’ve tried our best to tame our wild things. For years we’ve also tried our hand at a vegetable garden to no avail. We tried to grow them in pots from seeds, than seedlings with no success. This year I figured that if my soil could produce such beautiful flowers and an abundance of weeds, logically it would be the best place to grow our vegetables.

Parker borrowed a rototiller and built raised beds. Darcy and I had planted seeds back in March and some of those we were able to transplant, but most of them didn’t make it. We had tried sunflowers, but they also were sun fried and wilted. So while Parker was on the Great Race we planted cucumbers, peppers, tomatoes, sweet potatoes, strawberries, squash, corn, pumpkin and beans from seedlings. I really had no clue if this would work or what would grow, so Darcy and I planted a little bit of everything. We put up some netting, watered nightly and sat back and watched the garden bloom! It finally worked!

Darcy and I began calling this our ‘Benny Garden.’ I hung my wind chimes out on a tree nearby and bought a large metal sunflower and hung it on the fence. We moved our ‘Benny light’ that was given to us by a stranger from the roadside memorial and put a little picket fence complete with pinwheels, Benny’s favorite.

At the same time we bought the seedlings, we bought more sunflowers and tried again to grow them in pots. I eventually moved the pots over to the vegetable garden and was excited when the sunflowers actually began to grow! What was even more exciting were the sunflowers that were mysteriously growing in both raised beds. The only ones that we had planted were in the pots and now 10+ sunflowers have started to sprout up everywhere in the beds inexplicably. Perhaps inexplicably isn’t the right word. Once again, my little man’s work.

Just when I feel like I haven’t gotten a sign in awhile, something so concrete happens. People say that it’s happening because we are open to it, but I would say it would be hard to miss what’s happened in the last 9 months.

Storyland

Last weekend we escaped to New Hampshire. I say ‘escaped’ because Parker and I had 2 blissful days alone. We could actually start AND finish a conversation uninterrupted, stay up late, and go to a restaurant without a kids menu. I love Darcy and try very hard not to take a moment of my time with her for granted, but it was a nice break.

Tara and Chris met us with the kids on Friday and we ventured to Storyland. We already did Disney, so I was unprepared for my reaction in Storyland. Maybe it was because Darcy was around the same age as Benny the first time we took her, maybe it was because there were a million little blond eyed angels with curly blonde locks, or maybe the numbness is starting to give way to reality. Whatever the case, it was tough.

You can’t really dwell on it when you’re running around with three very energetic kiddos, so once the moment happened, something would distract me and I would be on my way. We had a really great time and it was so nice to see Darcy really break out of her comfort zone and exhibit some confidence. We had a blast.

When we were sitting in the condo I noticed that Chris’ bag had the number 88 on it, the bag that we took around to the park and hiking. We were also lucky enough to hear Benny and the Jets on the way to our Sunday hike to the river. Darcy and I always sang that song to the dude, and it’s probably how his nickname came about. There’s those signs again. It was comforthing to know that he was there with us, I just rather it be in person…

8 Months ‘AA’

I’m angry. I’m angry and I’m sad. We sat down to update our pictures in our picture frames. We will never have pictures of Benny past 17 months old, he will forever be frozen in time. I will never know what he would have looked like because he will never grow up. When he was born I remember the nurse holding him and asking him if he would be the one to cure cancer or create world peace. We will never know what amazing things he could have done with his life. I look at Darcy and she just seems so damn grown up. I miss having my little guy around. Like Parker said the other night, I just want to blow raspberries on his tummy.

It’s been 8 months. I don’t know how this happened. When we hit 17 months we will have lived without him the same length of time that we lived with him. We’re almost halfway there. It kills me inside. I don’t know why this happened to us. I don’t know why it was him and not me. I don’t know why I’m here again. My grandparents, my aunt, my uncle, my God parents, my mom and my son. Maybe I’m cursed. Maybe this is hell and I don’t even know it. Sure feels like it some days.

8 months. There’s that number again. November 8th, the day he died; May 8th, the day we buried him; June 18th, the day the water main broke; 88, Parker’s car number on the Great Race. I’m not sure yet the significance of 8. I know that turned on it’s side it symbolizes infinity. How ironic a sign of infinity in this case.

I look at my physical scars, mostly healed now and I’m frustrated. How do I look the same 8 months later on the outside? There are a few scars, but nothing that really tells the story of the accident on my body. How is that possible? Why am I spared? There are days when I feel that I should carry the scarlet letter A on myself, for accident.

I’m scared to meet new people because I don’t want to answer the question about how many children I have. It feels wrong to not mention Benny. It’s easier when people just know, although if I have to listen to another person ask me how I’m doing, I might scream. How do you think I’m doing 8 months after watching my son die? I know they mean well, it just gets tiring. I’m tired. Of all of this.

8 months and I’m still numb. 8 months and I still don’t understand.

Heavy Heart

This year I’m going to do the Breast Cancer 3 Day – again. Over a decade ago I started this journey for my mother as I tried to wrap my head around why I had to say good-bye to her so early. I signed up by myself and took a deep breath. I wasn’t the type to take on something new by myself, so this was a huge step for me, but I was committed.

The most amazing thing happened during that first walk, I met some of the most amazing women. This feels like an understatement. I have spent the last 10 years walking, sharing, crying and laughing with these ladies. We created our own little family in which we raised our kids and continued to grow closer. These ladies and their husbands sat by our sides, held our hands while we cried in November and helped to take over arrangements. I cannot explain the type of bond we have formed. I am forever thankful for my BFF family.

After the accident, I debated not walking this year. My heart wasn’t really in it at first, I wasn’t sure if I could commit to the fundraising or training. I was so focused on what I had lost, yet again. It felt like so much in my life had changed, I wasn’t sure if I could do this walk again.

I know now that I NEED this walk. I need something to work towards. I NEED to not give up. I switched cities so that I wouldn’t have to face my fellow 3 Day walkers that are familiar with my kids and so that Tara could walk with me. It will be weird, to not be surrounded by my Boston 3 Day friends, but I’ve accepted it. It will be awful to not see Benny cheering me on in pink alongside his sister.

My kids are such a big part of this walk. As much as I do it in my mom’s memory, I always got involved because I was so scared that my kids might one day lose me to cancer, I never in a million years thought that I might lose one of them. I need to find a purpose again, to remember what I started all those years ago and why it’s still important to me.

It’s with a heavy heart that I walk this year. Will it be hard, yes, it will truly suck. I feel robbed again by life. This walk is such a symbol for my life now though, putting one foot in front of the other. http://www.the3day.org/goto/sheri2014