It's that day again. The first day of school! I don't know about your house, but it was a first day of school miracle here. With two boys, one in 6th grade and one in 10th, the fact they woke up ON THEIR OWN, were not only downstairs and ready before they had to be (with everything they needed, even), but ate breakfast and got out the door on time, without nagging, left me both flabbergasted and tickled pink at the same time. It made the hassle of shopping, organizing and trying to get them to participate in preparation quite rewarding at 6:30 this am. If only it could last all the school year...
Speaking of pink, this day is never an easy one. As I watched my youngest head off to the bus stop, so independent and SO excited to be in middle school, I couldn't help but wonder, as I always do on the first day of school, what it would've been like if his twin sister was racing him to the bus stop. That's the way it was supposed to be, you know. With her pretty new back to school dress and platinum blonde hair in a ponytail with a pink bow. Giggling as they shared yet another exciting adventure together. I was supposed to be back to school shopping for girly things. The clothes, the shoes, the backpack, the school accessories, the dance or gymnastic outfits. We were supposed to get our toes painted together and get her hair cut. I was supposed to hug my three babies and send them off for another year to learn and grown. She was supposed to come home with her brother, telling me all about her middle school adventures and what sports or clubs she wanted to try out for or join. I was supposed to get a hug and kiss from my twins, my son and my daughter.
Instead, my boys got on the bus and I drove to the cemetery. To visit my daughter's grave. There is pink there, among the trinkets and tributes left for her. There is no backpack. No new shoes. No pretty new clothes. No pink hair pretties. Dreams of watching her dance and jump and play died nearly 9 years ago when she did. I sat there. I stared at her headstone. I felt guilty I've neglected the flowers the past few weeks and they've died in the heat. I saw the resilient roses on the rose bush and smiled. There will be pink! She always was persistent...
I felt a heaviness in my heart. I asked, to no one in particular, why? Why was I robbed of the joy of raising a daughter? Why were my boys robbed of their sister? Why was it MY little girl and not yours? Why do I have to wear these shoes? They are ugly and tight and they hurt like hell. I will never, ever be able to get them off. When everyone is posting back to school photos and complaining about something or other, I am sitting at my daughter's grave site. Alone. Alone with my sadness. My guilt. The pain of what could have been but will never be. I won't ever get another hug from her. I'll never run my hands through her silky hair. We won't ever giggle over the power of pixie dust. I just have to keep putting one foot in front of the other, walking further away from the last time I held her. Heard her voice. Smelled her scent. Snuggled her.
I sigh. Tears spring to my eyes. For some reason, I'm always surprised by how easy it is, if I let myself just stop for a moment, to feel the pain. As years go by, you get good at keeping it under the surface so you can function and live life. Yet it's always there. Just like those shoes. They seem to pinch a lot harder on these trigger days. Perhaps it's because on these days, the pain of her loss swells, making the walk that much more painful.
I'd give anything to give away my shoes. The truth is, none of you want them. I don't blame you. The trade is not a fair one. It's not even one I'd wish upon my greatest enemy (if I had one). It's my path to walk. I accept it. I have no choice. That doesn't mean I don't feel the pinch of my too tight, ugly and permanent shoes. It doesn't mean I don't want to give them away.
It just means I want you to remember, I'm not alone. There are thousands of other parents who wear this style of shoe and who feel this pain. They may not say anything about it, but they may be cranky. They may not call you back. They may cut you off in traffic. They may yell or overreact. It's because they are hurting. Please remember them. Me. Us. We have many days like this every year.
So please, don't make fun of our shoes. Walk with us in them. Just for a moment. You are lucky. You can always take them off...
Showing posts with label coping with death of a child. Show all posts
Showing posts with label coping with death of a child. Show all posts
Wednesday, August 28, 2013
Saturday, January 19, 2013
Coping with the death of a child and supporting their parents
What happens in the "My Child is Dead" club should be known by everyone in the Universe. This is not fight club. This is I can't believe I'm living this nightmare club.
The club shouldn't be a secret. It shouldn't be hush-hush. It should be talked about, shared, supported and know across the land. We are hurting. We need love. Understanding. Non-judgmental and unconditional support. We need to be listened to, not told what to do or how to feel. We need time. We need tissues. We don't need to eat, sleep, 'get over it' or 'move on'. We don't need to hear how much better off they are, how it was somehow for the best or at least they didn't suffer or are no longer suffering. WE are suffering. WE are hurt. WE need to walk our own road, at our own pace, in our own way. WE will never, ever be the same. We are not bad, stupid or neglectful parents (though depending on the circumstances of our child's death, some say we are. I don't have to tell you how painful THAT is). We are parents who loved our children and now they are gone. Time may heal, but it doesn't cure.
Joining a club is typically a positive experience, one made voluntarily and with great enthusiasm for the subject. Not so with our club. We are a unique group. We are the club no one ever wants to belong to. We are the person you never want to be. We are the person some of you can't handle being around, because we 'bring you down'. Because YOU can't deal with our pain. We have no choice. We are parents who've had to bury our own children. We didn't expect to join this club and we are beyond pissed that we had no choice but to become a part of it.
To the members of the club who have reached out to me in comments on my blog post about Meghan's Angel day, on her Facebook page and through her Web site, I most sincerely, lovingly and with an open but heavy heart welcome you to the club. I've heard from so many of you who are also members. Far more than I ever expected. Some, very recently have lost your children. You've lost your unborn babies, infants, toddlers, teenagers or adult children. They've been lost to cancer, accidents, suicide and medical illness. None of us ever expected it would happen to us. Yet here we are.
All of you have commented that in reading my words, you realized you were not alone. You realized you had similar feelings and experiences you felt the pain, the guilt and the anger. Some of you have never shared with anyone how you felt or feel, especially beyond your spouse. It helped to validate how you felt and that you were not alone. That you were not 'broken'. You've all done the same for me. We are bonded in our grief and our love of our children. Our experiences are different, yet similar. We walk this road together in spirit. I've tried to answer you all individually, I'm so sorry if I haven't. I've read all of your words and said prayers for your children and your families.
This post is for both those who have lost children and those who support them in their loss. We cannot bring our children back to us in body. What we can do is honor our feelings, remember them and the joy they brought to our lives, preserve their memory and love them always. Many of those who lost children or grandchildren, especially recently, have asked how I coped. Does it ever get better or easier? Is it a life sentence of guilt, pain and depression? Will my marriage survive? How am I going to do this? I hope to help answer some of those questions for you here.
Disclaimer: This is going to be a long post. Very long. Although about the loss of a child, much of what I say here is appropriate for any loss of a loved one.
Of course, I can only speak for what I found helpful and that which worked for me. Know you will find your own ways of coping, processing and integrating your child's death into the rest of your life. It is my distinct hope that in sharing what I've done the past 8 years to keep Meg's spirit alive in our family, the growth and change her death catalyzed in me and how I've gone through the stages of grief it will help you who is reading this. Either in your own journey in living your life with a spirit child or in your role supporting a loved one who is. Please take from this only that which resonates with you and leave the rest.
You already know about my experience of Meghan's Angel Day and how I honor her memory and remember her death ever year. If you are new here, read my post from December 18th. You already know about how Meghan's Hope began, what it is and why I devote so much time and energy to educating others about the dangers of furniture tip-over and child safety. It is how I continue to mother her. It is how I honor her life and her death. It is perhaps, her purpose in my life and yours. In her death, in sharing her story, she has saved thousands of lives, at least I hope so. That brings me some peace. It doesn't lessen the pain of her loss any.
So, what is the experience of losing a child like? It's a living hell. You've not known pain until you've held your dead child. Until you've seen their tiny lifeless body in a casket. Until you've attended their funeral, buried them and came home without them. You can never, ever know what it's like unless you've experienced it. Don't ever pretend to *know* what it's like. Don't ever say you understand how that person feels unless you've lost a child yourself. Even then, your experiences and feelings could be very different. That which comforted you may not provide any comfort and in fact may anger another person. Please think before you speak. That is my first piece of advice.
Don't touch their stuff without asking first:
The day she died, neighbors held vigil at our house. One of them was a police officer. He wisely told the women who, in wanting to do something to help, wanted to clean for us. He told them not to touch anything, the house needed to be exactly as I left it. They had no idea what or where Meghan's memory would be for me and I needed to have that part of normalcy untouched. I am so grateful for his words. I went to that last cup Meghan drank out of in the sink and held it, smelled it, put my lips where hers had been. If they had washed it, that opportunity to reconnect with one of the last things she touched would have been forever lost. In a similar story, my mom, in trying to be helpful, vacuumed Meghan's room a few days after she died. I was pissed. I never told her. Sorry, mom. She vacuumed up bits of Meghan that day. Her hair, her skin, her smell. The energy of where she last lay, played, died was disturbed by the vacuum. I couldn't have known I'd feel that way. Neither could my mother. Let it be a lesson, parents, especially mothers need to touch, feel, smell their children. I sniffed her shoes, her clothes, the floor. Anyway I could connect with her, I tried. I still do.
Many people are unsure what to do with their child's room and 'stuff'. Nothing, until you are ready. Some people have kept their child's room exactly the way it was left the day they died for decades. Others tweak it over time. After about a year, we took Meg's day bed down. We moved her dresser and I moved my scrapbook and beading supplies into her room. It's now 'our' space. Some of her toys are still there and other little bits of her. Pictures she drew, a box she painted, her hair pretties. Other things I've packed away and ritualistically go through periodically. That was what resonated with me. The windows still bear her finger prints. The lamp that was on her dresser still has the creased lampshade from when it fell the day she died. It's a blend of her life, her death and my love for her. A place for me to be with her, to channel creativity, to meditate to just *be* with her, for it was the last place she was alive in our home and for me, it's sacred.
Don't hound them about eating:
I lost 20 pounds in the two weeks after Meghan died. I had no appetite. Everyone told me I *had* to eat. Fuck that I told them. I ate enough to survive. Every person who told me to eat only pissed me off more. I picked at egg nog, sweets, and pasta. My go to comfort foods. I did greatly appreciate the non-stop food train that came to our house for weeks after she died. That is so helpful. I, nor anyone else in my family, had to worry about cooking or cleaning for weeks. I'd eat a small bit. Food arrived, fully prepared, often hot, the containers it arrived in were either disposable or left on the porch the next day to be quietly picked up. What a Godsend. Do that. For weeks, if not months. There are great services out there like Lostsa Helping Hands and Meal Train to help organize it. Eventually, I began to eat more. I slowly regained the weight, but it took years. I was not overweight to begin with but I was not anorexic. I just ate a lot less. I had no appetite. Depression will do that to you.
Some people will have the opposite reaction. They'll eat non stop and gain weight. We all cope differently. For a time, it's to be expected. Be sure you get regular health care check ups in that first year.
Sleep may be elusive or all you want to do:
I couldn't sleep. I later learned I had PTSD. Every little noise I had to investigate, because I never heard the dresser fall. I checked on my kids every half hour to be sure they were still breathing. I'd lie in bed at night, desperate for sleep but unable to. I closed my eyes and relived everything about her death. I'd pull the car over frequently to be sure the kids were breathing when driving. I was afraid to cross railroad tracks. I lived in constant fear of something happening to one of my other kids. Several people suggested sleeping pills. I was petrified to do that. I already had tremendous guilt about not waking up and saving Meghan, the thought of chemically knocking myself out and potentially not hearing something that could save one of my other children was unbearable. Besides, I don't tolerate medicine in general and I avoid it unless necessary. It may be very helpful and appropriate for others, it just didn't resonate with me.
How do you prepare for their wake, funeral and burial?
This is really a matter of personal and religious preference. Some people will choose cremation and a memorial. Meghan was baptized Catholic. We chose a one session wake, funeral mass and public commitment ceremony/burial at the cemetery in our town.
We were told to call the local funeral home in town to make arrangements. I called the afternoon she died. They already knew about her death and were expecting my call. I swear the woman I spoke to was crying as I spoke with her. We met the next day. They asked that I bring clothes for Meghan and a blanket of hers. I chose her favorite outfit. Pink, sparkly pants with big flowers on them, a pink shirt and her white fleece hoodie with a kitty on it. Pretties for her hair and pink slippers I had gotten her for Christmas for her feet and of course, pink socks. I brought the blanket she slept with every night, a pink, flowered fleece blanket. See a theme here? :-) The director explained to us what to expect. We decided upon calling hours and a time for her funeral. He helped us to write her obituary. He called the florist to meet with us that day (it was Sunday) and we arranged a time to pick out a place for her at the cemetery. We chose a prayer card for the guests of her calling hours. The entire experience was surreal. He chose a casket for her. He simply asked if it was OK if he chose, since there were not many options and he knew how difficult it would be for us to go into *that* room 24 hours after our daughter had died. The one he chose was perfect and beautiful and fit for a little blonde angel.
He called us the next day to let us know she was at the funeral home. Because her death was accidental, an autopsy was required. So she went from the hospital to the medical examiner and back to the funeral home. He told us we could come see her whenever we wanted to. We went early the morning of her calling hours with immediate family to see her. This was so important. We opted to do it in stages. Her dad and I saw her first, laid out in the casket. Then we invited the boys in with us. Then our parents, siblings and friends in that order. We took pictures of her that I later scrapbooked. We had hours to be with her, cry, talk amongst our selves and prepare for the public viewing later that day. We brought some of her things and pictures to display, my husband made a slide show of pictures of her and our family to be looped, we made a CD of her favorite music to be played in the sound system. Those who came to pay their respects were probably a bit surprised to hear an array of Disney tunes and Mambo No. 5! :-)
The calling hours were for 3 hours. It was non-stop. We were blown away by those who came. We stared at her, cried, laughed a bit and comforted our friends and family more than they did us at that point I think.
Her funeral mass was as beautiful as it could be. I've written about it before, so I won't elaborate here. We also had it photographed. You can see it in pictures here with a gorgeous song called 'Visitor From Heaven' Please take a few minutes to watch it, even if you are afraid it will make you cry. It speaks volumes more than I could ever write.
Innate and mundane stuff will piss you off
You feel as if you are operating in slow motion, everything is foggy. It's hard to feel anything other than sadness. If you smile or laugh, you almost feel guilty. If someone else is smiling or laughing you hate them. How dare they be happy when you are in so much pain?
You find the mundane things you used to enjoy either don't hold the same appeal or are downright annoying now. Seeing other children who look similar, act similar or seeing children's things your child would have liked can rip your heart right open. I can't tell you how many times I'd have something in my hand to buy for Meghan before I realized she was dead, weeks and months after she died. I couldn't even walk past the little girls clothing section of stores for a year without dissolving into tears and feeling like I got kicked in the gut.
I partially cope with this by purchasing trinkets for Meg's special place at the cemetery, her memorial garden at our home or buying something she'd have loved and donating it to a charity.
Trigger Days and Being Blindsided
There are certain 'trigger days' when you can expect a resurgence of emotion. They are the difficult days. The firsts of the first year are usually the most difficult and expected. For a while, for me, it was every Saturday. Meghan died on a Saturday. I was hyper-aware of days, times and how it correlated to the day and time of her death and my experiences that day. Much like a mother remembers her birth story and the birth day of her children, she remembers their death day. At least I did.
Then it was the 18th of every month. She died on the 18th. Even now. Every 18th day of the month, I think of her angel day. Now it's nothing more than 'another 18th' without her. But at first, it was a marker of some kind emotionally and I was more aware and it hurt more on the 18th's.
The big ones of course are holidays, Mother and Father's day, the child's birthday and their death day. I was surprised how much my own birthday was a trigger for me. Then there are things like the first day of school or what *should* have been their first day of school. Going through the milestones of your other children, without the one you lost, wondering what it would be like if they were there for this event, or their own graduations, proms and other rites of passage. You can prepare for them in some ways, but in others you can't. I found I dreaded them. The anticipatory grief was almost worst than the actual grief and pain of the day.
You will be blindsided at times. You'll think you're fine, having a good day, going about your business, even years later, and then, out of the blue, something will pull at your heartstrings. A song, a person, something you heard, a child that looks like yours did, it could be anything, anytime and anywhere. It's to be expected, and even now, 8 years later, it still happens once in a while. Not nearly as much as it used to, but I expect it will happen forever. For me, a year or so ago, it was a Seventh Generation ad. There was a little blonde girl wearing a pink shirt looking through a washing machine door. My heart nearly stopped. She was a ringer for Meghan! Blew my mind. Her brother asked how it was possible she was living somewhere else doing magazine ads!
Counseling is helpful, Depression is normal for a time - Please LISTEN
The loss of a child is up there on the life stress scale. You have every right to be depressed and for the better part of the first year. It's an expected grief reaction. It's not something you get over. There is help out there. The Compassionate Friends is a bereavement support group especially for parents who have lost a child of any age. They have a wonderful Web site and local chapters that offer support meetings. There is a national conference every year and a walk to remember, where walkers carry the name of your child. This year it is in Boston. They sponsor a candle lighting memorial around the world in memory of the children gone too soon so that 'their light will always shine' on the second Sunday of December. I can't recommend them enough. For parents, siblings, grandparents and friends.
Grief counseling is tremendously beneficial. It can help you express and validate your feelings. Help you navigate and process grief. It's a process. Many people find it helpful. I did. Sometimes, anti-depressant medication is helpful, too. I strongly recommend it be used together with talk therapy. Far too many primary care physicians are willing to write prescriptions without understanding why that person is requesting or needing them and without appropriate follow up.
As a friend, offer to listen. Give them permission to call you anytime, anywhere, for any reason. You may hear the same thing over and over. Listen. Only offer your opinion or advice if they ask for it, especially initially. Hug. Say I'm sorry. Be there. Offer to help by doing housework, shopping, cooking, errands. Don't be afraid to say their child's name, ask what they are thinking or how they are feeling. It's ok to cry, yourself.
How do you answer the question, "How many children do you have"?
It may well depend on the day, how you are feeling and who is asking. In the first few weeks after she died, I'd just cry if anyone asked. Avoiding human interaction was my chosen coping strategy at the time with anyone who didn't already know. Thankfully, I'm pretty well connected with some pretty amazing people, so I had a lot of support and understanding around me.
Many people don't acknowledge to strangers that they've lost a child. It may be too painful to say out loud or, many of us simply don't want to have to deal with the person who is asking's discomfort at our answer. It can be emotionally exhausting to deal with the fallout of such an unexpectedly loaded question for both parties. I think that's unfortunate. Our children's life and death both deserve to be acknowledged.
In my professional bio, I say that I am the mother of 3. Two boys who walk this earth with me, and a daughter who flies with the angels. Most of the time, when asked, I say I have 3 children and leave it at that. What if they ask a more specific question, like how old are they or are they boys or girls? Then, I typically say I have 2 sons and a daughter. I often elaborate on my own and say my youngest son and my daughter are twins, but she died when she was 3 and give the current ages of the boys, because, well, at that point, full disclosure is easier. You'd be surprised how expressions change and that abruptly ends the discussion. Some say nothing. That hurts the most. Some say they are sorry. I appreciate that. Some ask how she died. I tell them. They are often moved to tears. Sometimes, it provides an opportunity for discussion about safety. Sometimes, I end up comforting them.
Some relationships will change
Death has a way of showing you who your true friends are in life. There are those that are there for you when it's sunny, but it's those who can sit with you through the storms, through the flood of tears, the violent tornadic winds of emotion and offer you a life preserver of unconditional and non-judgmental support that are your true friends.
Family and friends will all cope differently. Some cope by not coping at all. They avoid contact with you. They don't want to talk about your dead child. They dive into their work or hobbies. They become 'busy' and unavailable. You may find that fundamental differences can no longer be dealt with. Some people you were once close to may drift away and those relationships may end. Others may become closer and stronger. New relationships will blossom, perhaps with those who've had a similar loss or experience.
I lost some really good friends after Meghan died. Some family members became closer, others more distant. I found some new, really amazing friends. I am grateful for all of them and what they brought to my life in the time they were an active part of it.
People often ask me about their marriage. Will our marriage survive? I don't know the statistics. I do know nationally, the divorce rate is over 50%. Whether or not your marriage may survive may well depend on how that child died, if blame is placed on the other parent or if there was already animosity in your relationship. If your marriage was anything but perfect before your child died, it's going to take a lot of work and understanding to weather the storm of losing a child. It will take open and honest communication, understanding, perhaps some individual and couples counseling and tincture of time. Be gentle with each other. Be honest with each other. Talk. It may actually make your marriage stronger. It may not. The general advice is not to make any drastic changes for at least a year after the loss of a child because it takes time to process the grief.
My marriage did not survive. It's a long and personal story and not one I have the intent of ever sharing in a public forum. Suffice it to say that our marriage was in trouble before Meghan died. Her death certainly did not help that at all. There were fundamental reasons why our marriage failed. It was NOT because Meghan died. Her death did catalyze a tremendous change in me, my beliefs and my view on life. The decision to end my marriage was not made lightly, but it was, in the end, the best thing for all of us.
And for those who asked, I recently re-married. I, of course, never expected to marry again. In a twist of fate and the way the Universe works is amazing way, he was actually at Meghan's wake. He was a friend of my sister's, although I did not know him until years later. He had also seen her alive, a year before, at my sister's wedding. He is now the proud step-dad of an angel. He spoke of her in his wedding vows to me. Not a dry eye in the house...
What about 'signs'
Yes. I absolutely believe in signs. This could be, and probably will be at some point, a post in and of itself. I am highly intuitive and clairsentient and somewhat clairvoyant. I always have been and sometimes it scares the hell out of me. I have felt Meghan's presence, that of other deceased loved ones, and in my work the presence of the deceased loved ones of my patients when they are near death themselves. I've been introduced to many who have crossed over by their still living loved ones in the hours and days before they themselves died.
I have only 'seen' Meghan in spirit once. The night she died, in my grandmother's arms. Truth be told, part of me really wants to see her in spirit and part of me is afraid. Probably why I haven't seen her since. Her twin used to see her all the time. He talked to her and played with her. He still gives me messages from her.
I've had many experiences of signs from Meghan. Details of which I'll save for another time and place, but the thing I see the most are heart clouds in the sky. There is an album of some of my favorites on her Facebook page. This one was at her brother's soccer game, near their birthday.
Ways to preserve the memory and creating new traditions
This is a very personal thing. Here is a list of some of the things I have done or that people have done for me that I loved.
Perhaps the greatest gift you can give someone who has lost their child is remembering them out loud. Say their name. Talk about what you loved about them. What you remember about them. Send a card every year on their birthday, their angel day, Mother and Father's day. Let them know you are thinking of them. That you know it's a difficult day for you, even if it's years and years later. I promise you, their parents are already thinking of them. To know their child was not forgotten is the best gift.
Specific to Meghan, the greatest gift I can receive now is the sharing of her story.
If you are a parent who has lost a child, the greatest gift you can give yourself is patience. Allow yourself to feel what you feel. Know it's a process. Connect with those who you feel called to. Be gentle with yourself. Know your child's spirit and light will always live in your heart. Let it shine!
I could write so much more, and will someday. Hopefully this has been helpful on some level.
Wishing love, light and peace to all of those who have lost a child, a loved one or are supporting someone who has.
The club shouldn't be a secret. It shouldn't be hush-hush. It should be talked about, shared, supported and know across the land. We are hurting. We need love. Understanding. Non-judgmental and unconditional support. We need to be listened to, not told what to do or how to feel. We need time. We need tissues. We don't need to eat, sleep, 'get over it' or 'move on'. We don't need to hear how much better off they are, how it was somehow for the best or at least they didn't suffer or are no longer suffering. WE are suffering. WE are hurt. WE need to walk our own road, at our own pace, in our own way. WE will never, ever be the same. We are not bad, stupid or neglectful parents (though depending on the circumstances of our child's death, some say we are. I don't have to tell you how painful THAT is). We are parents who loved our children and now they are gone. Time may heal, but it doesn't cure.
Joining a club is typically a positive experience, one made voluntarily and with great enthusiasm for the subject. Not so with our club. We are a unique group. We are the club no one ever wants to belong to. We are the person you never want to be. We are the person some of you can't handle being around, because we 'bring you down'. Because YOU can't deal with our pain. We have no choice. We are parents who've had to bury our own children. We didn't expect to join this club and we are beyond pissed that we had no choice but to become a part of it.
To the members of the club who have reached out to me in comments on my blog post about Meghan's Angel day, on her Facebook page and through her Web site, I most sincerely, lovingly and with an open but heavy heart welcome you to the club. I've heard from so many of you who are also members. Far more than I ever expected. Some, very recently have lost your children. You've lost your unborn babies, infants, toddlers, teenagers or adult children. They've been lost to cancer, accidents, suicide and medical illness. None of us ever expected it would happen to us. Yet here we are.
All of you have commented that in reading my words, you realized you were not alone. You realized you had similar feelings and experiences you felt the pain, the guilt and the anger. Some of you have never shared with anyone how you felt or feel, especially beyond your spouse. It helped to validate how you felt and that you were not alone. That you were not 'broken'. You've all done the same for me. We are bonded in our grief and our love of our children. Our experiences are different, yet similar. We walk this road together in spirit. I've tried to answer you all individually, I'm so sorry if I haven't. I've read all of your words and said prayers for your children and your families.
This post is for both those who have lost children and those who support them in their loss. We cannot bring our children back to us in body. What we can do is honor our feelings, remember them and the joy they brought to our lives, preserve their memory and love them always. Many of those who lost children or grandchildren, especially recently, have asked how I coped. Does it ever get better or easier? Is it a life sentence of guilt, pain and depression? Will my marriage survive? How am I going to do this? I hope to help answer some of those questions for you here.
Disclaimer: This is going to be a long post. Very long. Although about the loss of a child, much of what I say here is appropriate for any loss of a loved one.
Of course, I can only speak for what I found helpful and that which worked for me. Know you will find your own ways of coping, processing and integrating your child's death into the rest of your life. It is my distinct hope that in sharing what I've done the past 8 years to keep Meg's spirit alive in our family, the growth and change her death catalyzed in me and how I've gone through the stages of grief it will help you who is reading this. Either in your own journey in living your life with a spirit child or in your role supporting a loved one who is. Please take from this only that which resonates with you and leave the rest.
You already know about my experience of Meghan's Angel Day and how I honor her memory and remember her death ever year. If you are new here, read my post from December 18th. You already know about how Meghan's Hope began, what it is and why I devote so much time and energy to educating others about the dangers of furniture tip-over and child safety. It is how I continue to mother her. It is how I honor her life and her death. It is perhaps, her purpose in my life and yours. In her death, in sharing her story, she has saved thousands of lives, at least I hope so. That brings me some peace. It doesn't lessen the pain of her loss any.
So, what is the experience of losing a child like? It's a living hell. You've not known pain until you've held your dead child. Until you've seen their tiny lifeless body in a casket. Until you've attended their funeral, buried them and came home without them. You can never, ever know what it's like unless you've experienced it. Don't ever pretend to *know* what it's like. Don't ever say you understand how that person feels unless you've lost a child yourself. Even then, your experiences and feelings could be very different. That which comforted you may not provide any comfort and in fact may anger another person. Please think before you speak. That is my first piece of advice.
Don't touch their stuff without asking first:
The day she died, neighbors held vigil at our house. One of them was a police officer. He wisely told the women who, in wanting to do something to help, wanted to clean for us. He told them not to touch anything, the house needed to be exactly as I left it. They had no idea what or where Meghan's memory would be for me and I needed to have that part of normalcy untouched. I am so grateful for his words. I went to that last cup Meghan drank out of in the sink and held it, smelled it, put my lips where hers had been. If they had washed it, that opportunity to reconnect with one of the last things she touched would have been forever lost. In a similar story, my mom, in trying to be helpful, vacuumed Meghan's room a few days after she died. I was pissed. I never told her. Sorry, mom. She vacuumed up bits of Meghan that day. Her hair, her skin, her smell. The energy of where she last lay, played, died was disturbed by the vacuum. I couldn't have known I'd feel that way. Neither could my mother. Let it be a lesson, parents, especially mothers need to touch, feel, smell their children. I sniffed her shoes, her clothes, the floor. Anyway I could connect with her, I tried. I still do.
Many people are unsure what to do with their child's room and 'stuff'. Nothing, until you are ready. Some people have kept their child's room exactly the way it was left the day they died for decades. Others tweak it over time. After about a year, we took Meg's day bed down. We moved her dresser and I moved my scrapbook and beading supplies into her room. It's now 'our' space. Some of her toys are still there and other little bits of her. Pictures she drew, a box she painted, her hair pretties. Other things I've packed away and ritualistically go through periodically. That was what resonated with me. The windows still bear her finger prints. The lamp that was on her dresser still has the creased lampshade from when it fell the day she died. It's a blend of her life, her death and my love for her. A place for me to be with her, to channel creativity, to meditate to just *be* with her, for it was the last place she was alive in our home and for me, it's sacred.
Don't hound them about eating:
I lost 20 pounds in the two weeks after Meghan died. I had no appetite. Everyone told me I *had* to eat. Fuck that I told them. I ate enough to survive. Every person who told me to eat only pissed me off more. I picked at egg nog, sweets, and pasta. My go to comfort foods. I did greatly appreciate the non-stop food train that came to our house for weeks after she died. That is so helpful. I, nor anyone else in my family, had to worry about cooking or cleaning for weeks. I'd eat a small bit. Food arrived, fully prepared, often hot, the containers it arrived in were either disposable or left on the porch the next day to be quietly picked up. What a Godsend. Do that. For weeks, if not months. There are great services out there like Lostsa Helping Hands and Meal Train to help organize it. Eventually, I began to eat more. I slowly regained the weight, but it took years. I was not overweight to begin with but I was not anorexic. I just ate a lot less. I had no appetite. Depression will do that to you.
Some people will have the opposite reaction. They'll eat non stop and gain weight. We all cope differently. For a time, it's to be expected. Be sure you get regular health care check ups in that first year.
Sleep may be elusive or all you want to do:
I couldn't sleep. I later learned I had PTSD. Every little noise I had to investigate, because I never heard the dresser fall. I checked on my kids every half hour to be sure they were still breathing. I'd lie in bed at night, desperate for sleep but unable to. I closed my eyes and relived everything about her death. I'd pull the car over frequently to be sure the kids were breathing when driving. I was afraid to cross railroad tracks. I lived in constant fear of something happening to one of my other kids. Several people suggested sleeping pills. I was petrified to do that. I already had tremendous guilt about not waking up and saving Meghan, the thought of chemically knocking myself out and potentially not hearing something that could save one of my other children was unbearable. Besides, I don't tolerate medicine in general and I avoid it unless necessary. It may be very helpful and appropriate for others, it just didn't resonate with me.
How do you prepare for their wake, funeral and burial?
This is really a matter of personal and religious preference. Some people will choose cremation and a memorial. Meghan was baptized Catholic. We chose a one session wake, funeral mass and public commitment ceremony/burial at the cemetery in our town.
We were told to call the local funeral home in town to make arrangements. I called the afternoon she died. They already knew about her death and were expecting my call. I swear the woman I spoke to was crying as I spoke with her. We met the next day. They asked that I bring clothes for Meghan and a blanket of hers. I chose her favorite outfit. Pink, sparkly pants with big flowers on them, a pink shirt and her white fleece hoodie with a kitty on it. Pretties for her hair and pink slippers I had gotten her for Christmas for her feet and of course, pink socks. I brought the blanket she slept with every night, a pink, flowered fleece blanket. See a theme here? :-) The director explained to us what to expect. We decided upon calling hours and a time for her funeral. He helped us to write her obituary. He called the florist to meet with us that day (it was Sunday) and we arranged a time to pick out a place for her at the cemetery. We chose a prayer card for the guests of her calling hours. The entire experience was surreal. He chose a casket for her. He simply asked if it was OK if he chose, since there were not many options and he knew how difficult it would be for us to go into *that* room 24 hours after our daughter had died. The one he chose was perfect and beautiful and fit for a little blonde angel.
He called us the next day to let us know she was at the funeral home. Because her death was accidental, an autopsy was required. So she went from the hospital to the medical examiner and back to the funeral home. He told us we could come see her whenever we wanted to. We went early the morning of her calling hours with immediate family to see her. This was so important. We opted to do it in stages. Her dad and I saw her first, laid out in the casket. Then we invited the boys in with us. Then our parents, siblings and friends in that order. We took pictures of her that I later scrapbooked. We had hours to be with her, cry, talk amongst our selves and prepare for the public viewing later that day. We brought some of her things and pictures to display, my husband made a slide show of pictures of her and our family to be looped, we made a CD of her favorite music to be played in the sound system. Those who came to pay their respects were probably a bit surprised to hear an array of Disney tunes and Mambo No. 5! :-)
The calling hours were for 3 hours. It was non-stop. We were blown away by those who came. We stared at her, cried, laughed a bit and comforted our friends and family more than they did us at that point I think.
Her funeral mass was as beautiful as it could be. I've written about it before, so I won't elaborate here. We also had it photographed. You can see it in pictures here with a gorgeous song called 'Visitor From Heaven' Please take a few minutes to watch it, even if you are afraid it will make you cry. It speaks volumes more than I could ever write.
Innate and mundane stuff will piss you off
You feel as if you are operating in slow motion, everything is foggy. It's hard to feel anything other than sadness. If you smile or laugh, you almost feel guilty. If someone else is smiling or laughing you hate them. How dare they be happy when you are in so much pain?
You find the mundane things you used to enjoy either don't hold the same appeal or are downright annoying now. Seeing other children who look similar, act similar or seeing children's things your child would have liked can rip your heart right open. I can't tell you how many times I'd have something in my hand to buy for Meghan before I realized she was dead, weeks and months after she died. I couldn't even walk past the little girls clothing section of stores for a year without dissolving into tears and feeling like I got kicked in the gut.
I partially cope with this by purchasing trinkets for Meg's special place at the cemetery, her memorial garden at our home or buying something she'd have loved and donating it to a charity.
Trigger Days and Being Blindsided
There are certain 'trigger days' when you can expect a resurgence of emotion. They are the difficult days. The firsts of the first year are usually the most difficult and expected. For a while, for me, it was every Saturday. Meghan died on a Saturday. I was hyper-aware of days, times and how it correlated to the day and time of her death and my experiences that day. Much like a mother remembers her birth story and the birth day of her children, she remembers their death day. At least I did.
Then it was the 18th of every month. She died on the 18th. Even now. Every 18th day of the month, I think of her angel day. Now it's nothing more than 'another 18th' without her. But at first, it was a marker of some kind emotionally and I was more aware and it hurt more on the 18th's.
The big ones of course are holidays, Mother and Father's day, the child's birthday and their death day. I was surprised how much my own birthday was a trigger for me. Then there are things like the first day of school or what *should* have been their first day of school. Going through the milestones of your other children, without the one you lost, wondering what it would be like if they were there for this event, or their own graduations, proms and other rites of passage. You can prepare for them in some ways, but in others you can't. I found I dreaded them. The anticipatory grief was almost worst than the actual grief and pain of the day.
You will be blindsided at times. You'll think you're fine, having a good day, going about your business, even years later, and then, out of the blue, something will pull at your heartstrings. A song, a person, something you heard, a child that looks like yours did, it could be anything, anytime and anywhere. It's to be expected, and even now, 8 years later, it still happens once in a while. Not nearly as much as it used to, but I expect it will happen forever. For me, a year or so ago, it was a Seventh Generation ad. There was a little blonde girl wearing a pink shirt looking through a washing machine door. My heart nearly stopped. She was a ringer for Meghan! Blew my mind. Her brother asked how it was possible she was living somewhere else doing magazine ads!
Counseling is helpful, Depression is normal for a time - Please LISTEN
The loss of a child is up there on the life stress scale. You have every right to be depressed and for the better part of the first year. It's an expected grief reaction. It's not something you get over. There is help out there. The Compassionate Friends is a bereavement support group especially for parents who have lost a child of any age. They have a wonderful Web site and local chapters that offer support meetings. There is a national conference every year and a walk to remember, where walkers carry the name of your child. This year it is in Boston. They sponsor a candle lighting memorial around the world in memory of the children gone too soon so that 'their light will always shine' on the second Sunday of December. I can't recommend them enough. For parents, siblings, grandparents and friends.
Grief counseling is tremendously beneficial. It can help you express and validate your feelings. Help you navigate and process grief. It's a process. Many people find it helpful. I did. Sometimes, anti-depressant medication is helpful, too. I strongly recommend it be used together with talk therapy. Far too many primary care physicians are willing to write prescriptions without understanding why that person is requesting or needing them and without appropriate follow up.
As a friend, offer to listen. Give them permission to call you anytime, anywhere, for any reason. You may hear the same thing over and over. Listen. Only offer your opinion or advice if they ask for it, especially initially. Hug. Say I'm sorry. Be there. Offer to help by doing housework, shopping, cooking, errands. Don't be afraid to say their child's name, ask what they are thinking or how they are feeling. It's ok to cry, yourself.
How do you answer the question, "How many children do you have"?
It may well depend on the day, how you are feeling and who is asking. In the first few weeks after she died, I'd just cry if anyone asked. Avoiding human interaction was my chosen coping strategy at the time with anyone who didn't already know. Thankfully, I'm pretty well connected with some pretty amazing people, so I had a lot of support and understanding around me.
Many people don't acknowledge to strangers that they've lost a child. It may be too painful to say out loud or, many of us simply don't want to have to deal with the person who is asking's discomfort at our answer. It can be emotionally exhausting to deal with the fallout of such an unexpectedly loaded question for both parties. I think that's unfortunate. Our children's life and death both deserve to be acknowledged.
In my professional bio, I say that I am the mother of 3. Two boys who walk this earth with me, and a daughter who flies with the angels. Most of the time, when asked, I say I have 3 children and leave it at that. What if they ask a more specific question, like how old are they or are they boys or girls? Then, I typically say I have 2 sons and a daughter. I often elaborate on my own and say my youngest son and my daughter are twins, but she died when she was 3 and give the current ages of the boys, because, well, at that point, full disclosure is easier. You'd be surprised how expressions change and that abruptly ends the discussion. Some say nothing. That hurts the most. Some say they are sorry. I appreciate that. Some ask how she died. I tell them. They are often moved to tears. Sometimes, it provides an opportunity for discussion about safety. Sometimes, I end up comforting them.
Some relationships will change
Death has a way of showing you who your true friends are in life. There are those that are there for you when it's sunny, but it's those who can sit with you through the storms, through the flood of tears, the violent tornadic winds of emotion and offer you a life preserver of unconditional and non-judgmental support that are your true friends.
Family and friends will all cope differently. Some cope by not coping at all. They avoid contact with you. They don't want to talk about your dead child. They dive into their work or hobbies. They become 'busy' and unavailable. You may find that fundamental differences can no longer be dealt with. Some people you were once close to may drift away and those relationships may end. Others may become closer and stronger. New relationships will blossom, perhaps with those who've had a similar loss or experience.
I lost some really good friends after Meghan died. Some family members became closer, others more distant. I found some new, really amazing friends. I am grateful for all of them and what they brought to my life in the time they were an active part of it.
People often ask me about their marriage. Will our marriage survive? I don't know the statistics. I do know nationally, the divorce rate is over 50%. Whether or not your marriage may survive may well depend on how that child died, if blame is placed on the other parent or if there was already animosity in your relationship. If your marriage was anything but perfect before your child died, it's going to take a lot of work and understanding to weather the storm of losing a child. It will take open and honest communication, understanding, perhaps some individual and couples counseling and tincture of time. Be gentle with each other. Be honest with each other. Talk. It may actually make your marriage stronger. It may not. The general advice is not to make any drastic changes for at least a year after the loss of a child because it takes time to process the grief.
My marriage did not survive. It's a long and personal story and not one I have the intent of ever sharing in a public forum. Suffice it to say that our marriage was in trouble before Meghan died. Her death certainly did not help that at all. There were fundamental reasons why our marriage failed. It was NOT because Meghan died. Her death did catalyze a tremendous change in me, my beliefs and my view on life. The decision to end my marriage was not made lightly, but it was, in the end, the best thing for all of us.
And for those who asked, I recently re-married. I, of course, never expected to marry again. In a twist of fate and the way the Universe works is amazing way, he was actually at Meghan's wake. He was a friend of my sister's, although I did not know him until years later. He had also seen her alive, a year before, at my sister's wedding. He is now the proud step-dad of an angel. He spoke of her in his wedding vows to me. Not a dry eye in the house...
What about 'signs'
Yes. I absolutely believe in signs. This could be, and probably will be at some point, a post in and of itself. I am highly intuitive and clairsentient and somewhat clairvoyant. I always have been and sometimes it scares the hell out of me. I have felt Meghan's presence, that of other deceased loved ones, and in my work the presence of the deceased loved ones of my patients when they are near death themselves. I've been introduced to many who have crossed over by their still living loved ones in the hours and days before they themselves died.
I have only 'seen' Meghan in spirit once. The night she died, in my grandmother's arms. Truth be told, part of me really wants to see her in spirit and part of me is afraid. Probably why I haven't seen her since. Her twin used to see her all the time. He talked to her and played with her. He still gives me messages from her.
I've had many experiences of signs from Meghan. Details of which I'll save for another time and place, but the thing I see the most are heart clouds in the sky. There is an album of some of my favorites on her Facebook page. This one was at her brother's soccer game, near their birthday.
Ways to preserve the memory and creating new traditions
This is a very personal thing. Here is a list of some of the things I have done or that people have done for me that I loved.
- A gift made of hand or foot prints. We have the ones given to us by the ER nurses, I made reverse molds of the plaster heart hand and foot prints and gave them to family as ornaments. Another person made a stained glass plate of her hand/foot prints for us
- Jewelry for mom: I was given a mother and child necklace, several bracelets with Meghan's name, a tiny tag necklace with the names of ALL my children, and lots of angel pins. My all time favorite piece is a pin made from one of her last drawings, given to me by a good friend. We refer to it as 'potato Duncan'. Another one of my favorite pieces is an angel wing necklace. They are called Brooke's angel wings and Brooke is the survivor of a head injury from a furniture tip-over. Her and her mom now make these necklaces to raise awareness and funds to pay for her medical bills. http://www.brookesangelwings.com/
- House decor - we received lots of angels. They are all over the house.
- Keepsake gifts. I scrapbook. My scrapbook friends made a Tinkerbell pink picture frame of Meghan and wrote a poem inspired by a finger painting her brother had done after she died. I'm looking at it right now. Another friend made me a scrapbook page about Meghan and another an entire scrapbook about her.
- Pictures - there are pictures of Meghan all over the house. In her room. Pictures of her with her brothers in their rooms. I made both of her brothers a small scrapbook album of just pictures of them with their sister.
- Ornaments - every year, Santa leaves a Tinkerbell ornament in her stocking. Her twin usually hangs it on the tree. This year, it jumped off the tree and shattered. Instead of getting upset, we laughed and said, "Oh, hi Meggie! Guess you didn't like that one."
- A memorial garden - I have one area that is a Meggie garden. Pink roses, a butterfly bush, kitty garden statues and Tinkerbell decor abound.
- Personalize their cemetery plot: if your cemetery allows, make it about the child. We chose her stone carefully. We choose flowers in colors she'd like. There are always kitty and Tinkerbell trinkets. We bring new decor now and then. Bird feeders and colorful twirly things in the summer time. A pink tree at Christmas. A bunny and a basket of eggs at Easter. A kitty pumpkin at Halloween. You get the idea.
- Celebrate their birth day: Meg was a twin, so we still celebrate her brother's birthday every year. It is exquisitely painful to me on this day, probably the second hardest day of the year for me, because I see one where two should always have been. I bring her flowers and a balloon. Every year since Meg died, we have a family cupcake picnic at the cemetery on their birthday. We sing happy "bird" day with a suet cake. We eat our cupcakes. We blow some pixie dust to the heavens and then we run around sill,y just like she used to, and sing "Tinkerbell all the way". Anyone else at the cemetery that day thinks we're nuts. We don't care. It's about Meg, remembering and celebrating HER essence, her joy, her spunky-ness. What better way than to emulate her?
- Gifts of honor - I received many notices of masses in Meg's honor, memorial candles with her prayer card on them, a tree planted in the Children's Forest in Israel, donations made in her memory to charitable organizations and especially to the Sterling Animal Shelter, where they received so many donations, they renovated their kitty adoption area and named it after Meghan.
- Quilt: I wanted to have a quilt made of some of Meghan's clothes. Someone quickly volunteered. Although I hated to part with that box of clothes, the gift I received in return is beautiful and now I can wrap myself in her in a way. I can tell you what every scrap was from and what I or she loved about each item.
- Incorporate their life into yours: Perhaps this is best noted as how I involved Meghan in my wedding day. We had a chair for her. I had a tiny picture of her on my bouquet. We had her special candle centerpiece that we lit as we said the '5 candles' poem. We had a memorial slide show.
Perhaps the greatest gift you can give someone who has lost their child is remembering them out loud. Say their name. Talk about what you loved about them. What you remember about them. Send a card every year on their birthday, their angel day, Mother and Father's day. Let them know you are thinking of them. That you know it's a difficult day for you, even if it's years and years later. I promise you, their parents are already thinking of them. To know their child was not forgotten is the best gift.
Specific to Meghan, the greatest gift I can receive now is the sharing of her story.
If you are a parent who has lost a child, the greatest gift you can give yourself is patience. Allow yourself to feel what you feel. Know it's a process. Connect with those who you feel called to. Be gentle with yourself. Know your child's spirit and light will always live in your heart. Let it shine!
I could write so much more, and will someday. Hopefully this has been helpful on some level.
Wishing love, light and peace to all of those who have lost a child, a loved one or are supporting someone who has.
Saturday, December 22, 2012
Fly High, Fly Free
December 22. Three days until Christmas! The excitement of the children. The festive decorations. The parties. A gathering of family. A joyous time of year.
Unless you have to plan or attend a funeral. I encountered a funeral procession just this morning. Hello trigger! Not that it wasn't already on my mind, it just sort of slapped me in the face. Eight years ago, I was the one in that first limo. It's so difficult.
You've probably figured out by now that grief involves rituals. At least for me. In order to heal, one must move forward, yet must never forget. My therapy is writing. I do promise you, my posts going forward will not all be about Meghan or about topics that make readers uncomfortable or move them to tears. That is not my intent. It is my hope that in sharing my experiences of this week eight years ago, that it not only helps me heal, but that it gives you a sense of what the depth of such a loss is. That you might have some insight into what might be going on inside my heart and head and indeed in the hearts and heads of anyone who has lost a loved one during this season or during their 'anniversary' week, whenever that may be. That you understand that this is not about reliving the pain because I can't move forward. It's about sharing my pain, my experiences, so that we can ALL grow, heal and move forward. It's a process. One that involves remembering even the difficult days. There is no right or wrong way. This is my way. Once again, I thank you for walking with me.
Funerals are a ritual in which we, those left here on earth, have a formal chance to say good-bye. It's a ritual of closure. The burial of the physical body or for some. It's a celebration of their life. A chance for all those who knew them to gather and share. To remember the joy and laughter they brought to our lives. It's a bittersweet mixture of laughter and tears. It's a chance to gather in support of those left behind, that they need not grieve alone.
With the funerals of the 20 children lost in the Sandy Hook School shooting last Friday so prevalent in the media this week, I know many people are feeling for those families. I saw the media there and thought what would I done if it were my child. I'd have run out there and told them to go the hell home and let us mourn in peace! Families need privacy. To be surrounded by friends, family and loved ones. To feel as if they can truly grieve without it ending up on the evening news or the front page of the paper. No one needs or wants their '15 minutes of fame' to be in such a personal moment of grief and pain. I feel for those families. On so many levels.
This is what the media can't show, could never know.
The morning of Meg's funeral we met at the funeral home for our last goodbye. We all had one last chance to see her. Our immediate family said goodbye, one by one, then left to get in their cars for the processional. We were the last. We said our goodbyes. I kissed her one last time. We all took a pink rose from an arrangement by her casket. The director asked if I wanted her blankets or kitties. I said no. No sooner were we in the limo and I regretted it. The casket had already been sealed. She would've wanted them I rationalized. But of course, she didn't need them. She was not there. Only her body was. To this day, I really wish I had them...
The hearse pulled out of the driveway with her little white casket surrounded by her pink and white flowers visible through the windows. Our family limo followed. The boys thought it was pretty cool to ride in a limo! I remember the traffic that was stopped on our town's main road at the intersections as we traveled the mile to the church. Everyone knew it was her funeral. It had been in the paper. We are a small town. I distinctly remember one woman bowing her head in her car, visibly crying, and make the sign of the cross as Meggie passed her car. That's what moved me to tears first that day.
Our little processional arrived at the church. The parking lot was overflowing. I thought it odd, not that many people could have taken the day off to come. We watched the last few people enter. Then we walked in as a family of 4, instead of 5. The church was packed, standing room only. Nearly everyone was crying. All eyes were on us. I held my boys hands. I was numb. My head was spinny again. I saw nothing but the red pointsettas at the altar.
Then, Meggie came in. We were asked to place the pall, a decorative cloth, over her casket. Her father and I did so with a little help from the boys. When we were finished my husband briefly placed his head on her casket in a moment of grief. Her twin, who I was holding in my arms, very quietly said "it's perfect". And we took our seats.
There were two priests and a Deacon, my uncle, who had baptized her, officiating. He delivered the homily. A neighbor did a reading. Then, instead of another reading, a song was played on a CD player. It was called "Visitor From Heaven" by Twila Paris. It was beautiful and moving. I don't remember much from the service. I remember our priest asking if we wanted them to wait to decorate the church for Christmas until after her funeral the day before. I said of course not! I remember him giving me the choices for readings and hating them all. I remember the choices for songs being easier and more appropriate but not what I really wanted.
I had asked a friend at the last minute if she'd take a few photos. Again, so the boys would have them to refer to should they ever wish to since they'd likely not remember. I scrap-booked all of the photos from her wake and funeral. It was good therapy for me. I look at it every year this day. My oldest son has never wanted to look at it. Meg's twin has looked at it twice with me.
After the service we returned to the limo to wait for everyone to get in their cars for the very short drive to the cemetery. I remember watching the people pour out of the church, being surprised to see some of the people there that I did. I was touched.
We made the slow and short journey to the cemetery. I remember seeing the officer stationed there to stop traffic fighting tears off. I believe he was one of the first people at our house the day she died. I was later told he had just had a baby girl himself.
As we gathered at her 'special place' at the cemetery for her burial, a brief prayer was said. Her twin was holding a stuffed cat he had received as a gift the day before. He wanted to play in the snow. When it was over, I took the pink rose we had taken from the funeral home and placed it on her casket. I remember saying "You always wanted to fly my angel, I love you". Her twin placed his flower. And another. And another. He asked if he could go in the special place with her. As if my heart could have broken any more that day... Slowly, others did the same with flowers and left us alone.
I remember the funeral director coming to me and asking which way we wanted her body to lay relative to the 'head' stone. He said he only asked because although it made no sense, having her head away from the road seemed a more peaceful rest. I agreed and laughed. She'd really have a 'foot' stone! Sounded about right for Meg. He handed us a bag of some of the things we had on display at the funeral home for the wake and hugged us. We headed for home while they buried her casket.
We listened to that same CD of Meggie's favorite music in the limo. We arrived home to "You can Fly". Her twin couldn't wait to get out of the car and immediately threw himself into the snow and attempted to make a 3-year old snow angel. A fitting tribute! We went into the house to find it full of family and friends and neighbors. The food, my God, the food! To be honest, although I understand the ritual, the last thing I wanted to do was be social. I wanted everyone to go the hell home and leave us alone. I had to make the boys lunch. Ham cut with a Christmas Tree cookie cutter. It was the only way they'd eat it. I think I hid in my room most of the rest of that afternoon. I just didn't want to be social. What a stupid tradition, I thought. Of course, it was more for everyone else than it was for me. The support was definitely appreciated, I was just done and needed to be alone.
Eventually everyone left. Not a moment too soon. In the quiet, we looked in that bag. Aside from the things we provided like the CD of music and pictures, we found an heirloom Bible, a Merry Christmas From Heaven ornament, bookmarks with her obituary laminated to them, the guest book from her wake, the extra prayer cards and the beautiful tribute tile with her picture and a poem the director's wife had made for us. All gifts from them. I was so touched by their kindness and thoughtfulness.
We later learned that they gifted us her funeral as well. Such a kind and generous family.
We were and are so blessed to live in the community we do. The support, even 8 years later, is still there. In fact a neighbor called me just last night to ask how I was doing, knowing it was a difficult week for me.
December 22nd will always be a 'trigger' day for me. One I endure with a heavy heart. It is a day of significance in my life, even though everyone else who was there has likely forgotten or simply doesn't remember this was the day unless I mention it. That's OK I understand that. My heart is heavy. The day your bury your child is only second in painfulness to the day that they died.
That said, she had a beautiful service and a beautiful day. I am so blessed to have had her in my life the 3 short years I did. She truly was a visitor from Heaven.
As her Uncle Larry wrote on a note card to her that afternoon, "Fly High, Fly Free!" She got her never-ending wish, she will forever 'fly in the sky', only now, it's among angels. I'm the mom of an angel. One of the happiest, most loving and sweet and yet loudest little angels you might have ever encountered. Her light is bright and her love boundless.
Close your eyes and feel her. Can you? I can.
Unless you have to plan or attend a funeral. I encountered a funeral procession just this morning. Hello trigger! Not that it wasn't already on my mind, it just sort of slapped me in the face. Eight years ago, I was the one in that first limo. It's so difficult.
You've probably figured out by now that grief involves rituals. At least for me. In order to heal, one must move forward, yet must never forget. My therapy is writing. I do promise you, my posts going forward will not all be about Meghan or about topics that make readers uncomfortable or move them to tears. That is not my intent. It is my hope that in sharing my experiences of this week eight years ago, that it not only helps me heal, but that it gives you a sense of what the depth of such a loss is. That you might have some insight into what might be going on inside my heart and head and indeed in the hearts and heads of anyone who has lost a loved one during this season or during their 'anniversary' week, whenever that may be. That you understand that this is not about reliving the pain because I can't move forward. It's about sharing my pain, my experiences, so that we can ALL grow, heal and move forward. It's a process. One that involves remembering even the difficult days. There is no right or wrong way. This is my way. Once again, I thank you for walking with me.
Funerals are a ritual in which we, those left here on earth, have a formal chance to say good-bye. It's a ritual of closure. The burial of the physical body or for some. It's a celebration of their life. A chance for all those who knew them to gather and share. To remember the joy and laughter they brought to our lives. It's a bittersweet mixture of laughter and tears. It's a chance to gather in support of those left behind, that they need not grieve alone.
With the funerals of the 20 children lost in the Sandy Hook School shooting last Friday so prevalent in the media this week, I know many people are feeling for those families. I saw the media there and thought what would I done if it were my child. I'd have run out there and told them to go the hell home and let us mourn in peace! Families need privacy. To be surrounded by friends, family and loved ones. To feel as if they can truly grieve without it ending up on the evening news or the front page of the paper. No one needs or wants their '15 minutes of fame' to be in such a personal moment of grief and pain. I feel for those families. On so many levels.
This is what the media can't show, could never know.
The morning of Meg's funeral we met at the funeral home for our last goodbye. We all had one last chance to see her. Our immediate family said goodbye, one by one, then left to get in their cars for the processional. We were the last. We said our goodbyes. I kissed her one last time. We all took a pink rose from an arrangement by her casket. The director asked if I wanted her blankets or kitties. I said no. No sooner were we in the limo and I regretted it. The casket had already been sealed. She would've wanted them I rationalized. But of course, she didn't need them. She was not there. Only her body was. To this day, I really wish I had them...
The hearse pulled out of the driveway with her little white casket surrounded by her pink and white flowers visible through the windows. Our family limo followed. The boys thought it was pretty cool to ride in a limo! I remember the traffic that was stopped on our town's main road at the intersections as we traveled the mile to the church. Everyone knew it was her funeral. It had been in the paper. We are a small town. I distinctly remember one woman bowing her head in her car, visibly crying, and make the sign of the cross as Meggie passed her car. That's what moved me to tears first that day.
Our little processional arrived at the church. The parking lot was overflowing. I thought it odd, not that many people could have taken the day off to come. We watched the last few people enter. Then we walked in as a family of 4, instead of 5. The church was packed, standing room only. Nearly everyone was crying. All eyes were on us. I held my boys hands. I was numb. My head was spinny again. I saw nothing but the red pointsettas at the altar.
Then, Meggie came in. We were asked to place the pall, a decorative cloth, over her casket. Her father and I did so with a little help from the boys. When we were finished my husband briefly placed his head on her casket in a moment of grief. Her twin, who I was holding in my arms, very quietly said "it's perfect". And we took our seats.
There were two priests and a Deacon, my uncle, who had baptized her, officiating. He delivered the homily. A neighbor did a reading. Then, instead of another reading, a song was played on a CD player. It was called "Visitor From Heaven" by Twila Paris. It was beautiful and moving. I don't remember much from the service. I remember our priest asking if we wanted them to wait to decorate the church for Christmas until after her funeral the day before. I said of course not! I remember him giving me the choices for readings and hating them all. I remember the choices for songs being easier and more appropriate but not what I really wanted.
I had asked a friend at the last minute if she'd take a few photos. Again, so the boys would have them to refer to should they ever wish to since they'd likely not remember. I scrap-booked all of the photos from her wake and funeral. It was good therapy for me. I look at it every year this day. My oldest son has never wanted to look at it. Meg's twin has looked at it twice with me.
After the service we returned to the limo to wait for everyone to get in their cars for the very short drive to the cemetery. I remember watching the people pour out of the church, being surprised to see some of the people there that I did. I was touched.
We made the slow and short journey to the cemetery. I remember seeing the officer stationed there to stop traffic fighting tears off. I believe he was one of the first people at our house the day she died. I was later told he had just had a baby girl himself.
As we gathered at her 'special place' at the cemetery for her burial, a brief prayer was said. Her twin was holding a stuffed cat he had received as a gift the day before. He wanted to play in the snow. When it was over, I took the pink rose we had taken from the funeral home and placed it on her casket. I remember saying "You always wanted to fly my angel, I love you". Her twin placed his flower. And another. And another. He asked if he could go in the special place with her. As if my heart could have broken any more that day... Slowly, others did the same with flowers and left us alone.
I remember the funeral director coming to me and asking which way we wanted her body to lay relative to the 'head' stone. He said he only asked because although it made no sense, having her head away from the road seemed a more peaceful rest. I agreed and laughed. She'd really have a 'foot' stone! Sounded about right for Meg. He handed us a bag of some of the things we had on display at the funeral home for the wake and hugged us. We headed for home while they buried her casket.
We listened to that same CD of Meggie's favorite music in the limo. We arrived home to "You can Fly". Her twin couldn't wait to get out of the car and immediately threw himself into the snow and attempted to make a 3-year old snow angel. A fitting tribute! We went into the house to find it full of family and friends and neighbors. The food, my God, the food! To be honest, although I understand the ritual, the last thing I wanted to do was be social. I wanted everyone to go the hell home and leave us alone. I had to make the boys lunch. Ham cut with a Christmas Tree cookie cutter. It was the only way they'd eat it. I think I hid in my room most of the rest of that afternoon. I just didn't want to be social. What a stupid tradition, I thought. Of course, it was more for everyone else than it was for me. The support was definitely appreciated, I was just done and needed to be alone.
Eventually everyone left. Not a moment too soon. In the quiet, we looked in that bag. Aside from the things we provided like the CD of music and pictures, we found an heirloom Bible, a Merry Christmas From Heaven ornament, bookmarks with her obituary laminated to them, the guest book from her wake, the extra prayer cards and the beautiful tribute tile with her picture and a poem the director's wife had made for us. All gifts from them. I was so touched by their kindness and thoughtfulness.
We later learned that they gifted us her funeral as well. Such a kind and generous family.
We were and are so blessed to live in the community we do. The support, even 8 years later, is still there. In fact a neighbor called me just last night to ask how I was doing, knowing it was a difficult week for me.
December 22nd will always be a 'trigger' day for me. One I endure with a heavy heart. It is a day of significance in my life, even though everyone else who was there has likely forgotten or simply doesn't remember this was the day unless I mention it. That's OK I understand that. My heart is heavy. The day your bury your child is only second in painfulness to the day that they died.
That said, she had a beautiful service and a beautiful day. I am so blessed to have had her in my life the 3 short years I did. She truly was a visitor from Heaven.
As her Uncle Larry wrote on a note card to her that afternoon, "Fly High, Fly Free!" She got her never-ending wish, she will forever 'fly in the sky', only now, it's among angels. I'm the mom of an angel. One of the happiest, most loving and sweet and yet loudest little angels you might have ever encountered. Her light is bright and her love boundless.
Close your eyes and feel her. Can you? I can.
Tuesday, December 18, 2012
Be with me. Just for today.
For once, I'm at a loss for words. Maybe not so much at a loss, but there are so many things I want to say that I just don't know where or how to begin. I guess it makes sense to start at the beginning. This post is less about words and more about feeling. It's about emotion. It's a glimpse inside my heart, not my mind.
Eight years ago this morning, I woke to a nightmare. One that will really never end. My 3-year old beautiful daughter was found lifeless under her dresser. Somehow she managed to tip it over on herself while we slept. We did not hear it fall, for it fell onto her. She was unable to cry. She died in minutes while the rest of our family slept, her airway compressed by a drawer under the weight of the dresser. Her dresser is pictured below. When most people see it, they are flabbergasted, expecting it to have been a much larger piece. Many of you may know this story already. What you probably don't know, is what I'm going to share here. I will thank you in advance for being with me this day in my grief.
Every year on her 'Angel Day', the anniversary of her death (or 'Angelversary' as we refer to it now), I allow myself to participate in my own ritual of remembrance. I eagerly wait for the rest of the family to go off to work and school so I can have time alone with Meggie. It's difficult to go back to that day, yet it's important to me. Important that I allow myself one day to grieve, to really grieve, to honor my feelings from that day to this day, to reflect on my life and how it's changed as a result of her life and of her death. It's the one day I allow myself to really *be* with the pain, to remember and re-live the details of that day. For in the pain of it all, were absolute angels who helped us through.
It always starts with an overpowering sense of guilt. I am, by nature, an early riser. That day, I wanted to sleep in. In fact, our entire family did. Every year on the anniversary, I wake early and get up. My heart heavy. I desperately wish I had that day, too. Had I gotten up earlier, when she first woke up, she'd still be here with us. Instead, I told her it wasn't time to get up yet and it was still time for sleep and I went back to bed. She was apparently playing in her room instead of sleeping as she often did before it was 'get up time'. Add to that, the fact that if we had secured her dresser to the wall, like we had taller and heavier pieces of furniture in our home, she would not have died.
The fact that I failed as a parent to keep my child safe (partially because of my own selfishness in wanting to sleep) and that resulted in her very preventable death is something I have to live with for the rest of my life. I'm sure I don't need to tell you how much that hurts. IT COULD HAVE BEEN PREVENTED! *I* could have prevented it.
Then, I read some of the letter I began to her on December 28th, 2004. It's now 397 pages long. It is a painful reminder of what I felt during those days, weeks and months after her death. It's also a reminder of how Meghan's Hope began and grew and of the love and support we received from so many. I'm so glad I wrote it, for I've forgotten many of the details of those days and had I not recorded it in my letter to her, I'd likely not remember it now. It always moves me to tears. I'm always surprised by what I've forgotten. Yes, they are my own words, but it brings everything back. I actually need that. There was a lot of goodness in there that came out of the pain. The kindness of friends, family, neighbors and compete strangers were gifts that helped us endure the hell, who walked with us through the pain. My depth of my gratitude for them is difficult to convey.
I, of course, add to the letter each anniversary and periodically during the year. With the social media tools available today, I also write about it here and on Facebook and Google+. I vow to somehow turn the letter into a book. I don't know when I will find the time to do it, or what exactly I will write, but it is inching ever closer. My hope in sharing all of this, is that it will touch someone, somehow, that will be compelled to DO something about it to prevent it from happening to a child they know and to share the information with everyone they know.
My ritual then turns to time in her room. Her dresser is still there. It has many Meggie items on top of it. Some made by her, some given to me in memory of her. It is now secured to the wall. The irony kills me.
Her room is still her room in many ways, but it also a room for me. For us. It's the place where I scrapbook and do my bead work. Neither of which I've actually done much of the past few years, but I enjoy being in her room. My scrapbook table is actually in the place her dresser was when it fell on her. Artwork by Meg and her twin hang on the wall. Her twin brother actually will go in there once in a while to read or listen to his iPod. He needs to be near her energy, too.
I stand in the doorway to her room and pause. I close my eyes. I allow myself to remember my husband screaming my name "Kim, oh God, KIIIIIMMMMM" and being woken from a deep sleep knowing instantly something horrible had happened from the tone of his voice. I remember running into her room, seeing her tiny, beautiful body, pale and blue, lifeless on the floor. He had thrown the dresser off of her and placed her on the floor. I remember my older son, then 6, literally freaking out by her head, crying and yelling "What happened to Meggie...is she OK .. mommy make her wake up, MAKE HER WAKE UP!" I remember doing CPR, simultaneously begging her to come back to us and yet knowing in my heart it was already too late. I remember her twin, also just 3, kneeling at her feet, quietly saying, "Mommy, Meggie not wake up". It was not a question. It was a statement of spiritual fact. He knew.
I remember my husband falling down the stairs trying to get the door for what he thought were the EMT's, but was actually a young neighbor who was an EMT who heard the call on the police scanner. I remember him walking into the room behind me and audibly gasping. I remember the EMT's arriving, taking over CPR, running frantically into my room to change my clothes, (I still have the sweatshirt I last held her in. I can't bear to part with it) running outside in bare feet to yell to ambulance to ask which hospital they were taking her to and then flying to the car and nearly running over neighbors who were already flocking to our house to help and support us as I backed out of the driveway.
I have no idea how I drove. I shouldn't have. I had no idea how to get to the hospital, yet I managed to get there. It was a Saturday. All I could think was "it's been more than 6 minutes", although none of us knew how long she was under the dresser, knowing on a soul level she was gone, but hoping beyond hope that they would get her back. Miracles happen, right?
I remember, very vividly, walking into the ER at the local community hospital. By then, I was having chest pain. Like really serious chest pain, I was pretty sure I was having a heart attack from the stress. My heart was breaking. Literally. I felt it. It hurts. Like hell. I can actually still feel the visceral pain of it when I allow myself to fully go back to that day. I felt like I'd pass out, my head was spinning, my vision was fuzzy, my legs were as heavy as cement. Walking was such an effort and so very slow and unsteady. I have no idea how I managed to put one foot in front of the other. I really thought I was dying myself right then. I remember the girl at the check in desk, telling her I was here and my daughter was just brought in by ambulance. She told me they'd be right with me and not to worry, she was sure it would be OK. I literally almost slapped her across the face. I wanted to scream at her, "She's dead! What the hell do you mean it will be f*cking OK?!"
I remember the little room, the kind woman (a nurse or chaplain maybe) who sat with us. Who brought me ginger ale and tissues, which I asked for in the hopes it would quell the nausea and keep me from passing out because it is nothing short of a miracle I did not hit the floor. She prayed with us, because clearly, we needed it and there was little else we could do. I remember talking to our neighbor, also an ER doctor, who was part of the team caring for her. The look on his face said everything, but they were opting to Life Flight her to a trauma hospital. He said it didn't look good but they were not giving up yet.
We were allowed to see her before they took her. I was vaguely aware of the many people around her, yet all I saw was her beautiful face. I ducked under someone's arm and kissed her, stroked her silky blonde hair and told her I loved her. That I would see her at the next hospital. I remember thinking she'd have loved the helicopter ride. She always wanted to fly. There were tears in the eyes of the staff tending to her. A few posted on her guest book of the Web site later and their words were so sweet and kind. I remember one nurse saying she promised me Meggie was well loved and deeply cared for by everyone who tended to her that morning in the ER.
One of the EMT's drove us to the next hospital. I remember trying to sit in the car seat in the back seat, unable to process that I should remove it and sit in the regular seat or even figure out how to remove the car seat. I just stood there and stared at it. The EMT did it for us. He was a wonderful man. We tried to call at least one family member to let them know what was happening so they could share with others. I called to see how the boys were doing since we left in chaos, essentially leaving them with people they barely knew. I was told our babysitter, who knew them well, was already with them and the entire neighborhood was in our house holding vigil. Family was on their way to our house. It gave me some peace of mind that I needn't worry about them.
When we arrived at the trauma hospital, we were lead to the God-awful room. You know the one. Where the priest is waiting with you and your family to hear the words you don't want to hear. It wasn't long before a very uneasy looking resident and the trauma chief, who had on a lovely Christmas tie (odd what you remember), said something to the effect of "blah, blah, blah...I'm very sorry, but Meghan had died". It was like the Charlie Brown voice. Slow and distant and mumbly. They really didn't tell me anything I didn't already know, but now it was official. There was no more hope. It was over. My baby girl was gone forever. I couldn't have hurt anymore than I already did. So I bowed my head, took a deep breath, and asked to see her. I'm sure I cried but I don't remember. All I wanted to do at that moment was to see her. It was but a few minutes before the nurse came back and said we were allowed to see her.
Let me say, the pedi trauma nurses rock. How they do it, I'll never know. The priest accompanied us. Quite frankly, I found him irritating. I'm not sure if was just my reaction to her death or if he was really annoying. He did not comfort me at all. He read the 23rd Psalm. It took every ounce of my being not to tell him to shut up. It did NOT help. He left. Rather, I dismissed him, thanking him, but not sure what for.
Meggie looked so peaceful. A true sleeping beauty. If only a kiss could really bring her back to us! I actually wish we had a picture of her then. She was SO beautiful and so at peace. Her color was better thanks to an hour+ of CPR. They asked if they could call anyone for us. I couldn't remember phone numbers. I couldn't even dial a phone. They got me a chair so I could sit by the phone and they looked up numbers. They dialed for me. They held the phone to my ear because I was shaking so badly I couldn't even hold it. How do you tell your parents their granddaughter is dead? They stood behind me with their hands on my shoulders and rubbed my back while I told my parents. I think they also talked to them since I was likely incoherent. They called my uncle, the Deacon who baptized her, and asked him to come for me. All I could tell them was his name and what town he lived in, they did the rest. When he came, I sobbed into his belly. It was the first good cry I had. He was my spiritual comfort. Then I looked up at him and smiled through the tears, a comforting thought and connection coming to me. "She's with Gram!", I said. We knew she'd take care of her.
They asked if I'd like to hold her. Of course, I said yes. I'd have held her forever if I could have. They got me a rocking chair and they placed her in my arms. They covered us both with a warm blanket. I rocked her and held her little hand. So delicate and tiny. So sweet. I stared and stared and stared at her face. It was so surreal. How could she really be gone? I kissed her. Often. I talked to her. I cried. But mostly, I stared at her and loved her. The nurses gave us our space but checked on us often.
The nurses asked if we'd like to make hand/foot prints for us and the boys. They helped us paint a hand and a foot pink and purple and 'stamp' several pieces of paper with them. They hang to this day in her brother's rooms. They made a little soft plaster heart and together we imprinted a hand and a foot. They added a little pink bow. It sits on our mantle now. They placed her back on the bed. Other family members were invited to see her and say good-bye. Then we had a bit more time with her. After about an hour and a half, they gently encouraged us to say goodbye. This was as much from a practical physiological stand point as it was psychological for us in need. We were blessed to have all that time alone in the trauma room with her, with no one else in the ER that morning. For that, I am grateful.
I left the hospital with a cardboard box that had the painted hand/foot prints, a lock of her hair and the plaster heart. My own heart shattered into a zillion pieces. The social worker handed me a brochure on grief. I just stared at it in disbelief. As if this little piece of paper was going to help at all.
I remember it was a beautiful day for December. The sky was blue, it was in the 40's. I glanced at the sky. Were you up there, Meg? I wondered where our car was as we waited for my BIL to get his car. The EMT had driven it home for us. I stood there in complete shock. Getting irritated at the smiles on other people's faces. I hated that their child wasn't dead and mine was. It was surreal. How was I going to tell the boys? How was I going to do this? How could I be living this nightmare? OMG, I have to plan a funeral. For my daughter! This couldn't be real. Yet, I knew it was. So painfully real.
I had to come home and tell my boys, on the kitchen floor of a neighbors house, where they immediately clamored into my lap hoping for good news, that she had died. The pain on their faces exponentially deepened my own pain. How could a 3 and 6-year old comprehend the death of their sister when their parents were struggling so much? We came home, without our Meggie. And our lives have never, ever been the same.
I sat on the couch and stared at the Christmas tree, snuggled with her twin. I sat. I stared. That's all I did. For hours. I couldn't function. I didn't want to function. Family wisely left me alone. They gathered down stairs and did their own grieving. I think there was pizza. We went into Meggie's room. Her twin gently and methodically cleaned up all the clothes she had thrown all over the room, put her toys away. All on his own. When he was done, he quietly said, "There". He continued to talk to her and play with her. It was comforting to know that just maybe, he *could* still see her. My husband turned the dresser to the wall so the drawers could not open and it couldn't tip again.
I was starting to get pissed. When darkness fell, I went outside and swung on her favorite swing under the stars. I wondered what they looked like from the other side. I thought about how she always wanted to 'fly in the sky!' I started to cry. Sob. Loud, uncontrollable sobs. Finally. I was able to release that pain, the grief, the sadness of the day. God and the Universe got a loud what for that night, directed toward the sky. I screamed, I cried, I threw myself on the ground in complete and utter despair and sobbed some more. Neighborhood dogs barked like crazy at my outburst. I didn't care. My daughter was dead. It was wrong. It was unfair. It was my fault. It hurt. So. Damn. Much.
I come back to the present now, and sit on her floor. I take out her jammies. The ones she was wearing that day. Cut off by the EMT's. I lay them out on the floor. They look so small now. I lay next to them. I imagine she's with me. Can you see her? I touch them. I smell them. I cry. Because although she may be with me in spirit, she is not here physically. I miss her.
I open the 'purple bin'. The one that holds all the cards and little gifts we received, the trinkets left for her, the guest book from her wake. I go through them. Bolstered by the outpouring of love and support we received. I go through her clothes. Remembering what she loved about each thing. What I loved about each thing. I hold the little red velvet skirt with white embroidery and the black turtleneck sweater I bought for her to wear for Christmas that year. It still has the tags, for she died before she could ever wear it. She'd have been so pretty in it! I hold the Marie, the cat from the Aristocats, one of her favorite movies. A Christmas gift she never saw either, but would have been SO excited to have. I slept with one of her stuffed kitties last night.
I wrap myself in the quilt made of her clothes, I snuggle one of her stuffed kitties, I smell it, hoping to smell her again. Of course now it's been too long, but I still try. I look at her windows, still smeared with her finger prints, now dusty and even a wee bit moldy in spots, yet I cannot bear to clean them. I close my eyes and I quietly try to be with her. Her memory, her spirit, her essence. There are tears. There are smiles.
There are more tears. I open her dresser drawers and wonder how the hell she managed to tip it over. What was she doing? Why was she doing it? What did she think? What did she feel? Was she scared? How a zillion other things could have happened and she'd have survived, but the pure physics of the situation instead led to a tragic outcome. I ask an unanswered, why? Why her? Why me? Why this way? Why at all? The why's get more angry and insistent. Why, why, why, why WHY?!
That was only the beginning of a long and painful road, 8 years long today. One I will walk for the rest of my life. Without my daughter. One that *I* could have prevented.
So, when people ask me why they should secure their furniture, I'd like to tell them this story. I'd like for them to feel what it's like to live with the pain, the guilt, the hole in your heart. Maybe if the words don't compel you to do something, perhaps raw, visceral emotion will. Perhaps knowing what your life might be like if you don't will motivate you. I don't, of course. Who would listen? Besides, it takes too long and is too painful to re-live that often. Feel free to direct them here if you think it will help motivate them to action.
Here is my rant: What really pisses me off is knowing people who know us, who knew her, who came to her wake and funeral, who have heard her story, who have children or children who visit their home and still choose to do nothing. The people who I ask to share the links to her Web site and Facebook page, especially on this day, and don't. That hurts me. Deeply. I don't get it. I just don't. I'd be lying to say there are not times where I wonder WTF? Why not their kid? (and immediately hate myself for that thought) Why mine? Why not try to help someone else even if you don't believe it's a risk for you or your children? Everyone has furniture. Nearly everyone has a TV. Every child is at risk. And why the hell do so many people think 'it' can't happen to them? Ignorance is not bliss! It's stupid! If it can happen to me, it can happen to you. It doesn't matter who 'you' are or what 'it' is!
I'll never know all the answers. The simply answer to why Meghan died is because her dresser was not secured. $5 and 15 minutes would have saved her life. It's that simple. Why she died when dressers have fallen on so many other children who were luckier and were not injured is not for me to answer. I'm glad for them that they were so fortunate. I hate that it was my daughter and our family that were the ones who it happened to and had deadly consequences.
All I can do now is try to educate as many people as I can about these dangers so it never happens to another child again. So no mother ever feel the pain I do. So no one need bury their child because of something that could have easily been prevented.
No one should have to experience what I did 8 years ago today. No one. If everyone secured their furniture and TV's, no one would ever know the pain of this tragedy again. Just do it.
So, I ask you. Have you shared Meghan's story with everyone you can? Have you secured ALL of your furniture and your TV's? Even if your children are older, do younger children visit your home? You must consider them, too. Have you 'liked' the Meghan's Hope Facebook page so you can be informed of all manner of child safety information? Have you been to www.meghanshope.org? What about those at the homes of friends and family where your child visits, are furniture and TV's secured in their homes? Yes? Thank you, thank you, thank you. No? I'm sorry, but WTF is wrong with you? Most days, I don't judge. Today, I do. Today, when I'm so deep in the pain I just can't fathom why anyone wouldn't do anything they can to avoid ever knowing this horror. I just don't get it.
Current statistics are that 71 children are injured every single day from a falling piece of furniture or TV. More than 30 every year lose their lives. Even one death or injury is too many. I am not the only parent who has lost a child this way and none of us knew of the dangers or thought it could happen to us. This is why I want you to help me raise awareness. These numbers are likely underestimated due to reporting methods as not all of these injuries and deaths are reported as being due to tip-over accidents. They can ALL be prevented! You can see an infographic here.
Thank you for listening. Now, "You listen to Meggie"! (which is what she was telling me when this picture was taken just weeks before she died)
December 18th, 2013
It's now been 9 years. When I first posted this, I intended for the few people who read my blog (mostly friends) to understand what I went through on this day and to compel them to share her Facebook page so lives could be saved. In a matter of days, it went viral. It is my hope, with your help, that will happen again this year. So many more people are aware of these dangers now, but so many more are not. You all have more friends on Facebook than you did a year ago and they have more friends and so on. Think of all the lives that could be saved! Thank you for your help!
I've also begun that book. I've got several chapters written and hope to have it print by this time next year. Thanks to all who have supported and encouraged me. It is also my hope that with your help, we'll never have to hear another story like Meghan's. That no more children will die from falling furniture or TV's.
~Kim
Eight years ago this morning, I woke to a nightmare. One that will really never end. My 3-year old beautiful daughter was found lifeless under her dresser. Somehow she managed to tip it over on herself while we slept. We did not hear it fall, for it fell onto her. She was unable to cry. She died in minutes while the rest of our family slept, her airway compressed by a drawer under the weight of the dresser. Her dresser is pictured below. When most people see it, they are flabbergasted, expecting it to have been a much larger piece. Many of you may know this story already. What you probably don't know, is what I'm going to share here. I will thank you in advance for being with me this day in my grief.
Every year on her 'Angel Day', the anniversary of her death (or 'Angelversary' as we refer to it now), I allow myself to participate in my own ritual of remembrance. I eagerly wait for the rest of the family to go off to work and school so I can have time alone with Meggie. It's difficult to go back to that day, yet it's important to me. Important that I allow myself one day to grieve, to really grieve, to honor my feelings from that day to this day, to reflect on my life and how it's changed as a result of her life and of her death. It's the one day I allow myself to really *be* with the pain, to remember and re-live the details of that day. For in the pain of it all, were absolute angels who helped us through.
The fact that I failed as a parent to keep my child safe (partially because of my own selfishness in wanting to sleep) and that resulted in her very preventable death is something I have to live with for the rest of my life. I'm sure I don't need to tell you how much that hurts. IT COULD HAVE BEEN PREVENTED! *I* could have prevented it.
Then, I read some of the letter I began to her on December 28th, 2004. It's now 397 pages long. It is a painful reminder of what I felt during those days, weeks and months after her death. It's also a reminder of how Meghan's Hope began and grew and of the love and support we received from so many. I'm so glad I wrote it, for I've forgotten many of the details of those days and had I not recorded it in my letter to her, I'd likely not remember it now. It always moves me to tears. I'm always surprised by what I've forgotten. Yes, they are my own words, but it brings everything back. I actually need that. There was a lot of goodness in there that came out of the pain. The kindness of friends, family, neighbors and compete strangers were gifts that helped us endure the hell, who walked with us through the pain. My depth of my gratitude for them is difficult to convey.
I, of course, add to the letter each anniversary and periodically during the year. With the social media tools available today, I also write about it here and on Facebook and Google+. I vow to somehow turn the letter into a book. I don't know when I will find the time to do it, or what exactly I will write, but it is inching ever closer. My hope in sharing all of this, is that it will touch someone, somehow, that will be compelled to DO something about it to prevent it from happening to a child they know and to share the information with everyone they know.
My ritual then turns to time in her room. Her dresser is still there. It has many Meggie items on top of it. Some made by her, some given to me in memory of her. It is now secured to the wall. The irony kills me.
Her room is still her room in many ways, but it also a room for me. For us. It's the place where I scrapbook and do my bead work. Neither of which I've actually done much of the past few years, but I enjoy being in her room. My scrapbook table is actually in the place her dresser was when it fell on her. Artwork by Meg and her twin hang on the wall. Her twin brother actually will go in there once in a while to read or listen to his iPod. He needs to be near her energy, too.
I stand in the doorway to her room and pause. I close my eyes. I allow myself to remember my husband screaming my name "Kim, oh God, KIIIIIMMMMM" and being woken from a deep sleep knowing instantly something horrible had happened from the tone of his voice. I remember running into her room, seeing her tiny, beautiful body, pale and blue, lifeless on the floor. He had thrown the dresser off of her and placed her on the floor. I remember my older son, then 6, literally freaking out by her head, crying and yelling "What happened to Meggie...is she OK .. mommy make her wake up, MAKE HER WAKE UP!" I remember doing CPR, simultaneously begging her to come back to us and yet knowing in my heart it was already too late. I remember her twin, also just 3, kneeling at her feet, quietly saying, "Mommy, Meggie not wake up". It was not a question. It was a statement of spiritual fact. He knew.
I remember my husband falling down the stairs trying to get the door for what he thought were the EMT's, but was actually a young neighbor who was an EMT who heard the call on the police scanner. I remember him walking into the room behind me and audibly gasping. I remember the EMT's arriving, taking over CPR, running frantically into my room to change my clothes, (I still have the sweatshirt I last held her in. I can't bear to part with it) running outside in bare feet to yell to ambulance to ask which hospital they were taking her to and then flying to the car and nearly running over neighbors who were already flocking to our house to help and support us as I backed out of the driveway.
I have no idea how I drove. I shouldn't have. I had no idea how to get to the hospital, yet I managed to get there. It was a Saturday. All I could think was "it's been more than 6 minutes", although none of us knew how long she was under the dresser, knowing on a soul level she was gone, but hoping beyond hope that they would get her back. Miracles happen, right?
I remember, very vividly, walking into the ER at the local community hospital. By then, I was having chest pain. Like really serious chest pain, I was pretty sure I was having a heart attack from the stress. My heart was breaking. Literally. I felt it. It hurts. Like hell. I can actually still feel the visceral pain of it when I allow myself to fully go back to that day. I felt like I'd pass out, my head was spinning, my vision was fuzzy, my legs were as heavy as cement. Walking was such an effort and so very slow and unsteady. I have no idea how I managed to put one foot in front of the other. I really thought I was dying myself right then. I remember the girl at the check in desk, telling her I was here and my daughter was just brought in by ambulance. She told me they'd be right with me and not to worry, she was sure it would be OK. I literally almost slapped her across the face. I wanted to scream at her, "She's dead! What the hell do you mean it will be f*cking OK?!"
I remember the little room, the kind woman (a nurse or chaplain maybe) who sat with us. Who brought me ginger ale and tissues, which I asked for in the hopes it would quell the nausea and keep me from passing out because it is nothing short of a miracle I did not hit the floor. She prayed with us, because clearly, we needed it and there was little else we could do. I remember talking to our neighbor, also an ER doctor, who was part of the team caring for her. The look on his face said everything, but they were opting to Life Flight her to a trauma hospital. He said it didn't look good but they were not giving up yet.
We were allowed to see her before they took her. I was vaguely aware of the many people around her, yet all I saw was her beautiful face. I ducked under someone's arm and kissed her, stroked her silky blonde hair and told her I loved her. That I would see her at the next hospital. I remember thinking she'd have loved the helicopter ride. She always wanted to fly. There were tears in the eyes of the staff tending to her. A few posted on her guest book of the Web site later and their words were so sweet and kind. I remember one nurse saying she promised me Meggie was well loved and deeply cared for by everyone who tended to her that morning in the ER.
One of the EMT's drove us to the next hospital. I remember trying to sit in the car seat in the back seat, unable to process that I should remove it and sit in the regular seat or even figure out how to remove the car seat. I just stood there and stared at it. The EMT did it for us. He was a wonderful man. We tried to call at least one family member to let them know what was happening so they could share with others. I called to see how the boys were doing since we left in chaos, essentially leaving them with people they barely knew. I was told our babysitter, who knew them well, was already with them and the entire neighborhood was in our house holding vigil. Family was on their way to our house. It gave me some peace of mind that I needn't worry about them.
When we arrived at the trauma hospital, we were lead to the God-awful room. You know the one. Where the priest is waiting with you and your family to hear the words you don't want to hear. It wasn't long before a very uneasy looking resident and the trauma chief, who had on a lovely Christmas tie (odd what you remember), said something to the effect of "blah, blah, blah...I'm very sorry, but Meghan had died". It was like the Charlie Brown voice. Slow and distant and mumbly. They really didn't tell me anything I didn't already know, but now it was official. There was no more hope. It was over. My baby girl was gone forever. I couldn't have hurt anymore than I already did. So I bowed my head, took a deep breath, and asked to see her. I'm sure I cried but I don't remember. All I wanted to do at that moment was to see her. It was but a few minutes before the nurse came back and said we were allowed to see her.
Let me say, the pedi trauma nurses rock. How they do it, I'll never know. The priest accompanied us. Quite frankly, I found him irritating. I'm not sure if was just my reaction to her death or if he was really annoying. He did not comfort me at all. He read the 23rd Psalm. It took every ounce of my being not to tell him to shut up. It did NOT help. He left. Rather, I dismissed him, thanking him, but not sure what for.
Meggie looked so peaceful. A true sleeping beauty. If only a kiss could really bring her back to us! I actually wish we had a picture of her then. She was SO beautiful and so at peace. Her color was better thanks to an hour+ of CPR. They asked if they could call anyone for us. I couldn't remember phone numbers. I couldn't even dial a phone. They got me a chair so I could sit by the phone and they looked up numbers. They dialed for me. They held the phone to my ear because I was shaking so badly I couldn't even hold it. How do you tell your parents their granddaughter is dead? They stood behind me with their hands on my shoulders and rubbed my back while I told my parents. I think they also talked to them since I was likely incoherent. They called my uncle, the Deacon who baptized her, and asked him to come for me. All I could tell them was his name and what town he lived in, they did the rest. When he came, I sobbed into his belly. It was the first good cry I had. He was my spiritual comfort. Then I looked up at him and smiled through the tears, a comforting thought and connection coming to me. "She's with Gram!", I said. We knew she'd take care of her.
They asked if I'd like to hold her. Of course, I said yes. I'd have held her forever if I could have. They got me a rocking chair and they placed her in my arms. They covered us both with a warm blanket. I rocked her and held her little hand. So delicate and tiny. So sweet. I stared and stared and stared at her face. It was so surreal. How could she really be gone? I kissed her. Often. I talked to her. I cried. But mostly, I stared at her and loved her. The nurses gave us our space but checked on us often.
The nurses asked if we'd like to make hand/foot prints for us and the boys. They helped us paint a hand and a foot pink and purple and 'stamp' several pieces of paper with them. They hang to this day in her brother's rooms. They made a little soft plaster heart and together we imprinted a hand and a foot. They added a little pink bow. It sits on our mantle now. They placed her back on the bed. Other family members were invited to see her and say good-bye. Then we had a bit more time with her. After about an hour and a half, they gently encouraged us to say goodbye. This was as much from a practical physiological stand point as it was psychological for us in need. We were blessed to have all that time alone in the trauma room with her, with no one else in the ER that morning. For that, I am grateful.
I remember it was a beautiful day for December. The sky was blue, it was in the 40's. I glanced at the sky. Were you up there, Meg? I wondered where our car was as we waited for my BIL to get his car. The EMT had driven it home for us. I stood there in complete shock. Getting irritated at the smiles on other people's faces. I hated that their child wasn't dead and mine was. It was surreal. How was I going to tell the boys? How was I going to do this? How could I be living this nightmare? OMG, I have to plan a funeral. For my daughter! This couldn't be real. Yet, I knew it was. So painfully real.
I had to come home and tell my boys, on the kitchen floor of a neighbors house, where they immediately clamored into my lap hoping for good news, that she had died. The pain on their faces exponentially deepened my own pain. How could a 3 and 6-year old comprehend the death of their sister when their parents were struggling so much? We came home, without our Meggie. And our lives have never, ever been the same.
I sat on the couch and stared at the Christmas tree, snuggled with her twin. I sat. I stared. That's all I did. For hours. I couldn't function. I didn't want to function. Family wisely left me alone. They gathered down stairs and did their own grieving. I think there was pizza. We went into Meggie's room. Her twin gently and methodically cleaned up all the clothes she had thrown all over the room, put her toys away. All on his own. When he was done, he quietly said, "There". He continued to talk to her and play with her. It was comforting to know that just maybe, he *could* still see her. My husband turned the dresser to the wall so the drawers could not open and it couldn't tip again.
I was starting to get pissed. When darkness fell, I went outside and swung on her favorite swing under the stars. I wondered what they looked like from the other side. I thought about how she always wanted to 'fly in the sky!' I started to cry. Sob. Loud, uncontrollable sobs. Finally. I was able to release that pain, the grief, the sadness of the day. God and the Universe got a loud what for that night, directed toward the sky. I screamed, I cried, I threw myself on the ground in complete and utter despair and sobbed some more. Neighborhood dogs barked like crazy at my outburst. I didn't care. My daughter was dead. It was wrong. It was unfair. It was my fault. It hurt. So. Damn. Much.
I come back to the present now, and sit on her floor. I take out her jammies. The ones she was wearing that day. Cut off by the EMT's. I lay them out on the floor. They look so small now. I lay next to them. I imagine she's with me. Can you see her? I touch them. I smell them. I cry. Because although she may be with me in spirit, she is not here physically. I miss her.
I open the 'purple bin'. The one that holds all the cards and little gifts we received, the trinkets left for her, the guest book from her wake. I go through them. Bolstered by the outpouring of love and support we received. I go through her clothes. Remembering what she loved about each thing. What I loved about each thing. I hold the little red velvet skirt with white embroidery and the black turtleneck sweater I bought for her to wear for Christmas that year. It still has the tags, for she died before she could ever wear it. She'd have been so pretty in it! I hold the Marie, the cat from the Aristocats, one of her favorite movies. A Christmas gift she never saw either, but would have been SO excited to have. I slept with one of her stuffed kitties last night.
I wrap myself in the quilt made of her clothes, I snuggle one of her stuffed kitties, I smell it, hoping to smell her again. Of course now it's been too long, but I still try. I look at her windows, still smeared with her finger prints, now dusty and even a wee bit moldy in spots, yet I cannot bear to clean them. I close my eyes and I quietly try to be with her. Her memory, her spirit, her essence. There are tears. There are smiles.
There are more tears. I open her dresser drawers and wonder how the hell she managed to tip it over. What was she doing? Why was she doing it? What did she think? What did she feel? Was she scared? How a zillion other things could have happened and she'd have survived, but the pure physics of the situation instead led to a tragic outcome. I ask an unanswered, why? Why her? Why me? Why this way? Why at all? The why's get more angry and insistent. Why, why, why, why WHY?!
That was only the beginning of a long and painful road, 8 years long today. One I will walk for the rest of my life. Without my daughter. One that *I* could have prevented.
So, when people ask me why they should secure their furniture, I'd like to tell them this story. I'd like for them to feel what it's like to live with the pain, the guilt, the hole in your heart. Maybe if the words don't compel you to do something, perhaps raw, visceral emotion will. Perhaps knowing what your life might be like if you don't will motivate you. I don't, of course. Who would listen? Besides, it takes too long and is too painful to re-live that often. Feel free to direct them here if you think it will help motivate them to action.
Here is my rant: What really pisses me off is knowing people who know us, who knew her, who came to her wake and funeral, who have heard her story, who have children or children who visit their home and still choose to do nothing. The people who I ask to share the links to her Web site and Facebook page, especially on this day, and don't. That hurts me. Deeply. I don't get it. I just don't. I'd be lying to say there are not times where I wonder WTF? Why not their kid? (and immediately hate myself for that thought) Why mine? Why not try to help someone else even if you don't believe it's a risk for you or your children? Everyone has furniture. Nearly everyone has a TV. Every child is at risk. And why the hell do so many people think 'it' can't happen to them? Ignorance is not bliss! It's stupid! If it can happen to me, it can happen to you. It doesn't matter who 'you' are or what 'it' is!
I'll never know all the answers. The simply answer to why Meghan died is because her dresser was not secured. $5 and 15 minutes would have saved her life. It's that simple. Why she died when dressers have fallen on so many other children who were luckier and were not injured is not for me to answer. I'm glad for them that they were so fortunate. I hate that it was my daughter and our family that were the ones who it happened to and had deadly consequences.
All I can do now is try to educate as many people as I can about these dangers so it never happens to another child again. So no mother ever feel the pain I do. So no one need bury their child because of something that could have easily been prevented.
No one should have to experience what I did 8 years ago today. No one. If everyone secured their furniture and TV's, no one would ever know the pain of this tragedy again. Just do it.
So, I ask you. Have you shared Meghan's story with everyone you can? Have you secured ALL of your furniture and your TV's? Even if your children are older, do younger children visit your home? You must consider them, too. Have you 'liked' the Meghan's Hope Facebook page so you can be informed of all manner of child safety information? Have you been to www.meghanshope.org? What about those at the homes of friends and family where your child visits, are furniture and TV's secured in their homes? Yes? Thank you, thank you, thank you. No? I'm sorry, but WTF is wrong with you? Most days, I don't judge. Today, I do. Today, when I'm so deep in the pain I just can't fathom why anyone wouldn't do anything they can to avoid ever knowing this horror. I just don't get it.
Current statistics are that 71 children are injured every single day from a falling piece of furniture or TV. More than 30 every year lose their lives. Even one death or injury is too many. I am not the only parent who has lost a child this way and none of us knew of the dangers or thought it could happen to us. This is why I want you to help me raise awareness. These numbers are likely underestimated due to reporting methods as not all of these injuries and deaths are reported as being due to tip-over accidents. They can ALL be prevented! You can see an infographic here.
Thank you for listening. Now, "You listen to Meggie"! (which is what she was telling me when this picture was taken just weeks before she died)
It's now been 9 years. When I first posted this, I intended for the few people who read my blog (mostly friends) to understand what I went through on this day and to compel them to share her Facebook page so lives could be saved. In a matter of days, it went viral. It is my hope, with your help, that will happen again this year. So many more people are aware of these dangers now, but so many more are not. You all have more friends on Facebook than you did a year ago and they have more friends and so on. Think of all the lives that could be saved! Thank you for your help!
I've also begun that book. I've got several chapters written and hope to have it print by this time next year. Thanks to all who have supported and encouraged me. It is also my hope that with your help, we'll never have to hear another story like Meghan's. That no more children will die from falling furniture or TV's.
~Kim
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