EMBRACING THE INVISIBLE KINSHIP OF COMPASSIONATE FRIENDS

 

Every morning following the death of my son I awoke and thought, "my child is dead." The enormity of that realization each morning was crushing, the momentary shock was like a knife in my heart.  I would drag myself out of bed and shed silent tears.  My life was forever changed: my only child's life had ended.  The unfairness would rock me into hyper-consciousness as I began my day.  Living was a major effort.

Initially I could only cling to my sanity.  After the shock passed, the depression and anger had me in a vise grip.  My moods would swing every morning, afternoon and night.  I would retreat into myself, irrationally lash out at others and then retreat back into myself.  My mind would wander, I made silly mistakes in my work, I couldn't recall names of people who had been in my life for years and my word retrieval was at the bottom.

After two and a half months of this grim routine, I attended my first Compassionate Friends meeting.  A friend drove me and guided me along into the meeting.  I was in a haze.  The only contribution I could make was to tearfully say my son's name.  But I continued to attend.

As the newly bereaved, I was given the gift of wisdom from those who had been on this journey much longer than I had been.  After several meetings I began contributing little bits.  I still wept each time I talked, but I was talking.  This was a major breakthrough for me.

Despite the negativity that enveloped me as I let go of my life before the death of my son, I continued to attend Compassionate Friends meetings.  I missed my son's ability to soften the vitriolic attitude of others who were in his life.  Now I was on the firing line.  I began sharing my experiences, the horrors of being sued for the wrongful death of my own child and the ache I felt for a once normal relationship with my son's children.  Life was forever altered...for my grandchildren and for me.

The "wise ones" guided me along this path of grief.  I learned to live in the moment.  I learned to place no expectations on others.  I learned that once burned is twice warned in human relationships.  I learned that I could survive if I chose to do so.  I also learned that to extend my compassion to others was to participate in my healing.

Eventually I wrote an article for our Compassionate Friends newsletter and gave it to the editor.  Then I wrote another, and another, and another.  Then I began printing the newsletter.  Each step, each little contribution brought me closer to sanity.  I was participating in the effort to help others in their journey of grief, and in doing this I was helping myself on the journey.  I was working with those who had made this journey and survived.  Perhaps I, too, would survive.  Then I was asked to be the editor of the newsletter.  At first I was fearful of this responsibility, but then I realized that I could, in some small way, help others whose children had died.  And in offering that help, I could further my personal healing.

It's been 2 years, 8 months, and 10 days since my son, Todd, was killed in a car accident.  My husband, who was driving, has worked very hard to retain his sanity.  I have learned to help him in that struggle.  I have learned to accept my relationship with my granddaughters was forever relegated to pure insignificance after my son died.  I have learned that money is the alpha and the omega for some people and the pain they inflict to get money is justified in their minds.  I have learned to accept life as it comes.  I am the director of my life and no others.

How am I traversing that road from pure shock to accepting new normalcy?  How do I keep my child with me and let go of the horrifying, life altering changes associated with his death?  How do I deal with the stupefying actions of others that followed my son's death?  The answer is as simple and as complex as the grief and compassion that lives within each parent whose child has died.

Through the efforts of the "wise ones", I found comfort and hope.  The comfort offered by those who have lost a child is unlike any other we will experience.  Their loss is the same as ours: the unspeakable, the worst nightmare, the darkest fear of every parent has now transformed into their reality.  Their compassion is real.  Their suggestions are gentle.  Their wisdom comes over time and is the culmination of experiences which bring the realization that each of us progresses at a different rate, grieves in a different way and deals with life from a different perspective.

Those who have been here and choose to return, to relive the pain of their child's death in order to help others are the nucleus of our organization.  And so, as each day goes by, I learn from others that I must learn for myself.  My truth is unique.  Each truth is unique.  Each parent is unique.  Each child is uniquely remembered by bereaved parents and every member of our Compassionate Friends group.

I realized this week that my first thought of the day doesn't overwhelm me like it once did.  My child lives in my heart.  I have learned to live with that reality.  It is my hope to help other parents find this tiny vestige of peace.

~Annette B. (TCF – Katy, TX)