Author: Judy

What Rules My Heart?

 

Good question . . . I am not sure these days. I just confided to a friend that I am carrying some deep resentments and her response? “it’s understandable…but just don’t let it ‘rule your heart.'” Good advice, hard to control.

Rule my heart . . . I can’t decide if my heart is numb or in overdrive. It is either a boat that won’t start or one that is in the water spinning wildly out of control as if it has nobody at the helm.
Maybe that is it. My heart is a boat in the water that I used to think I had well under control. Then on December 7th, I hit a crushing wave that threw me away from the controls and now the boat is spinning totally out of control and I can’t seem to get back to my feet to regain control of the vessel.
I think that I’ve stopped trying to get back up; there is no use in trying. I am just hoping to run out of gas

Some things can’t be redeemed . . . at least not in this life.

 

The hardest thing about this grief process (besides it sucks!) is that is has recently dawned on me that this is my new reality and there is no changing it; I can’t go back.

I realized that there are a lot of things that can go wrong in life from which you can recover. If I dropped out of school, making me a drop-out, I could always go back and finish and I’d no longer be a drop-out. I could marry and divorce and feel as though I had failed at marriage. I could still re-marry and feel like a successful life-partner. Even if Christopher had gone down the wrong path, he could have turned around and made a great impact on the lives of many. Death is different.
Losing a child, however, cannot be overcome; it cannot be undone. That has been a harsh reality these past few months. I’ve described it as a kind of unbelief. It isn’t that I didn’t from day one know that this was permanent, but that reality continues to set in in new an unexpected ways. I will always be a mom of a son who died. There is no way to change this, now, fact.
No matter what I learn about this reality, I don’t like anything about it.
My friends of great faith would probably be disturbed at my words, that this situation can’t be redeemed at least in this life. As I told a friend today, it feels like this life is all that matters. He was kind to acknowledge that the this life is all that matters right now.
I see these friends post statuses on Facebook that would make the great men of faith proud and I am glad for them, but I think that they would be offended to hear me say that those spiritual platitudes don’t work for me anymore even if I still believed every word of them. They are just too simplistic to address a pain as big as the one that I have known for the past eighteen months and continue to experience in new and equally horrific ways.
Anyone dare to argue with me?

The Tenacity of Disbelief

 

Tenacious is an adjective, “holding fast; characterized by keeping a firm hold.”  


Disbelief is a noun, “the inability or refusal to believe or to accept something as true.”


In my case, I would say that my inability to believe that my reality is that my son died is holding firm.  I don’t refuse to believe, but I don’t seem to be able to grasp as fact that this is the way that it is going to be forever.  I just can’t seem to believe it.  

Where does that leave me?  

I have no idea.

A friend, whose perspective I appreciate a lot, said that he is not sure that it will ever be believable in this lifetime.  My response?  That is not the right answer.  I just don’t know how a person can go though potentially 40+ years of living not able to accept their personal reality.  I have struggled through 18 months so far and have not enjoyed a whole lot of it.

I totally can see me moving forward . . . after all, I am starting a doctoral program in just under three months.  Ready or not, the future is coming.  What I need to figure out is what to do with this part of my reality.  I think that the issue is that it feels very all or nothing; either I am moving forward or I am living in the reality of my disbelief.  It is like I have two worlds and I can’t seem to have a foot in both at the same time.

I know that this isn’t making much sense, but this whole experience doesn’t make much sense, if you ask me.  

I just don’t know what to do with all this emotion . . . it is either on or off; it seems like there should be a medium.  

I hate this.

The Graduation Night that Wasn’t

 

Tonight is the graduation for Tallahassee’s Lincoln High School.  Christopher should have been there tonight, although he was not a student there when he died.

Christopher had been attending an alternative high school in Tallahassee, the Academy for Academics and Technology.  Due to budget constraints, that school was closed at the end of the 2007-2008 academic year.  Truth be told, Christopher really wanted to finish out his high school career at Lincoln.
So hear I am at home, rather than at the graduation that should have been, but wasn’t to be.  Know that I know that Christopher is not in heaven wishing to be at the Tallahassee Leon County Civic Center for a too-long ceremony.  He is where he’d rather be, I know that, but it doesn’t change the fact that I miss him so much and would so prefer to have him here.   Call me selfish; I won’t argue.
You know, when you have a child, it is like instantly that you begin to envision the future milestones, high school graduation just being one of many.  You never imagine that these things won’t come to pass; you just assume that everything will progress according to the “normal” script.  
I have found that there is no script for the life that you have left after the death of a child.  I have met people who try to tell me when I will “turn the corner” on this grief.  They don’t know squat.  
Truthfully, I don’t know squat; I just take it a day at a time.  
I have no choice.

Unrealistic Expectations

 

I have to admit, I have a lot of unrealistic expectations of the people around me.  I have found that people in a similar situation have similar such unrealistic expectations.  Actually, I saw this in myself after talking to my cousin.  It is so easy to recognize in others; I had to look at myself to see if the same thing were in me and it was.  Let me explain.

I hold it against people when they don’t understand something that there is absolutely no way that they could understand.  The grief of losing a child who has grown into a person that you know and really like.  I enjoyed who Christopher had become.  Of course, I loved him, but I was so very thankful that I liked him and really enjoyed him.  
People don’t know what to say to me, what to do for me.  A neighborhood family, with whom I have not been very close in recent years, sent me an graduation announcement for their daughter who is finishing high school this year.  At the same time, Christopher would have/should have been graduating.  I see such an invitation, sent without any apparent realization that I am grieving not being able to celebrate with my child, and I want to just scream, “Are you freakin’ crazy?”
When I step back and pause before crying out, I realize that their lives are going on.  And they should as they haven’t lost what I’ve lost.  There is no way that they can know the pain that I know.  It is unrealistic to think that they would.  I’ve often said that this is probably the only experience in my life that I honestly wouldn’t wish on my worst enemy.
I am so very sensitive to people who, even in jest, complain about their kids . . . about them coming home from college with all their stuff . . . about anything.  I want to scream out, “Do you know how fortunate you are to have your kids?”  Truth is they don’t; I didn’t as much as I would now.  
I’ve always heard that you don’t know what you have until you have lost it.  I think that is true.  One thing that I have been thankful for is that I almost lost Christopher around his 16th birthday; we really struggled as a family.  But what that difficult time did was give me an appreciation for the last 15 months that I had Christopher here.  I enjoyed that time with him in a way that I couldn’t have had we not been estranged for a brief period of time.  I knew what it was to not have an enjoyable relationship and I was so very thankful for the good times we were enjoying.
People can’t understand and they don’t know what to say.  Truth is, they will never say the right thing, as far as I am concerned.  I need to extend them grace.  I don’t want them to understand.  Nobody should have to understand.  
And another thing I have to realize is that just be cause my world has changed and as a result, I have changed, doesn’t mean that anybody else is going to change or has changed.  People who didn’t know how to deal with emotions before aren’t going to magically  be sensitive and insightful and yet I am disappointed when they don’t “get it.”  I was disappointment with there were family and friends who I think “should have known” and didn’t even as much as acknowledge the difficulty of special days such as Adoption Day or Mother’s Day.
I need to let go of these unrealistic expectations.  It is hard as I keep finding them.  They are all over the place, successfully pulling me down.  I need to take the power back and mange the expectations so that I don’t have to manage more pain.  I have enough pain to deal with, thank you very much.

Surprised by Grief

 

I have gotten pretty good at anticipating “sad.”  Like today, for example.  I knew that I’d be attending the dedication of a bench on campus in memory of one of my Social Work classmates who died in a car accident last March.  I know that I found such events to be full of mixed emotions because on one hand, it is reassuring to see the love of family and friends, but the reality is that the whole event is the result of a tragic loss.  So, I knew that to attend such an event would evoke sadness as I could empathize with this family’s loss.

But, later after that event, I attended the FSU College of Social Work’s Convocation.  I did this purely out of support for my many friends who are graduating with their MSW tomorrow.  As I was taking a picture of my dear friend, Jessica, I enjoyed a sense of pride and excitement on her behalf.  After I sat back down, I realized that this was just a glimpse of the joy that I should be experiencing this month when Christopher should have been graduating from Lincoln High School.  
This severe grief was a surprise.  I expected to feel this way near Lincoln’s commencement activities, but not when I was watching my peers graduate.
I think that I just need to accept that there are going to be sad time, some which can be anticipated like our adoption day and Christopher’s birthday, but that there will there will be others than remind me what could have been or what I think should have been.  
I told a friend of mine today that this entire process is so very surreal; there are times that I just can’t believe that this is my life.  I will forever be a parent whose child died.  This event doesn’t define me, but it certainly will always be a big part of who I am and to some extent who become.  
This whole thing really stinks.

Miracle of Adoption

 

This past Sunday, I “celebrated” the 14th anniversary of Christopher and I becoming a family through adoption.  Have you thought about what that means?  Fifteen years ago, Christopher and I were virtual strangers.  Today, I know that we will be connected through eternity.  Isn’t that amazing?

Nobody every thinks twice about referring to the miracle of birth, but what about the miracle of adoption.  I have met a lot of children throughout my life, many of whom have not had parents who were willing and/or able to parent well.  Christopher is the only child that I felt the love for from the day I met him.  I can recall going to work the following morning declaring my love for this child I had met the previous evening.  He wasn’t even the child I was going to meet, but he “happened” to be there.
I guess the miracle in my life as it relates to Christopher is not really about me or my connection to him.  For me it is about the reality that it was a God-ordained relationship from the very first day.  This reality was confirmed throughout the process that led to Christopher being placed with me 5 months later.  Christopher had been presented to several seemingly more suitable families, but they weren’t the parents chosen for Christopher.  I was that parent.

During our prayer time in Church on Sunday, I realized that as special as Christopher’s adoption is to me, I have been adopted by the God of the Universe.  It amazes me that He might remember the day that He brought me in to His family with the same joy and delight I feel about the day that Christopher and I became a family.
Christopher is with Him even now.  That is the miracle of the hope and reality of the salvation, adoption into the family of God, that is offered through faith in Christ.  
That, my friends, is a miracle.

Good friends, good memories . . . bittersweet . . .

 

I am in N. Georgia, heading back home today.  I spent the last two days with the two girl friends who were connected to Christopher.  Probably it is more accurate to say that he was most connected to them.  One has the same love of music that Christopher had and the other has the same kind of whit.  It has been a good weekend with lots of fun memories, but it is bittersweet with a heavy dose of sad.

This coming Sunday is the 14th anniversary of Christopher and I becoming a family.  It is our adoption anniversary.  I remember that day like it was yesterday and I wouldn’t trade it for anything, even if I had known then what I know now.  
But I am so glad that I didn’t know then what I know now.  It would have been such a distraction to enjoying the ride.  When we celebrated Christopher’s adoption, the theme was “We’re Under Weigh”  I didn’t know how appropriate that theme was!  Parenting is much like a boat ride – there are smooth seas mixed with a lot of choppy waters.  In our case, we hit an ice burg on December 7, 2007.  By early December 8, I was the only survivor on board.  As bad as that sounds, it works for me.
The ship that launched 14 years ago, is still operational.  The family that Christopher and I built goes on, maybe not in this world, visibly, but it goes on.  First of all, Christopher is alive and well with his Savior in heaven; we have been separated for a time, but I have certainty that we will be reunited when I get done here.  Secondly, the mom that I officially became that day lives on.  There is no way that I could, even if I wanted to, go back to who I was before Christopher came into my life.  That person doesn’t exist anymore and for that, I am thankful.
But the person that Christopher enabled me to become is missing a piece now.  There is a void where he is supposed to be.  I miss his presence in my life.  I miss the person that he was and the relationships that I enjoyed sharing with him.  
That is what has been hard this weekend.  Not only I am incomplete without his presence, but he is missing in my relationships.  He bought so much to so many that made us all better and I miss seeing that, watching it, enjoying it.  I miss the person that Christopher was and the man I believed he would become.  I just miss him.
But, he doesn’t miss me the same way.  He is not in heaven wishing he was here.  He is very satisfied there.  He has a perspective that I can only imagine.  That is what keeps me going, “I know that I know that I know that that I know that my Redeemer lives” and therefore, I will see Christopher again and our family continues on.
I have much for which to be to be thankful, but it is okay to be sad.  It doesn’t mean that I don’t believe all that I know.  It is just my reality.  They can go together.  If Jesus was sad when his friend died, and he knew much more deeply than I can even imagine, then I’m okay.
As a friend said, “I don’t worry about you.  I know you and I know God.”  
More importantly, I know God and so did Christopher.

How could I forget . . . . even for a moment?

 

I was at a sporting event tonight when one of the participants was hurt and laying out on the floor.  As it turned out, I was sitting next to the injured woman’s parents.  As I talked to the mom, I learned that her daughter had always been involved in sports, but had never been injured beyond needing stitches.  At this point, we were concerned that she may have broken her leg.

Trying to be empathetic, I indicated that I couldn’t imagine who hard it must be to watch this from a distance and that I had never been in her situation.  Then it dawned on me; I saw my son in the hospital unconscious.  Within five hours, I was told he had died.  I saw him laid out in a casket and then we had a funeral.  
In retrospect, I was astonished that for a brief moment I didn’t remember that trauma; I couldn’t imagine her pain in seeing her daughter her, not knowing the outcome.  But I do know that.  I hate that I know that, but I do.
That is my reality and I’ll never escape being a mom who has buried a child.  No pain is worse – at least I can’t imagine anything worse.
My cousin, whose 30 year old son was killed by a drunk driver just last August described the pain well.  She had always been very close to her parents, never living further away than next door.  Both of her parents have passed away.  She was trying to describe to her friend  the pain of losing her child.  She said to her friend, “you know how hard it was for me when my parents each died.  On a scale of 1 to 10 . . . . no, that won’t work.  On a scale of 1 to 100, losing my parents was a 1; losing Kevin was 100.”
I, fortunately, haven’t lost anybody else who is very close to me.  Let me tell you however, that if it can be worse than this, I don’t have a chance. 

God’s better than Dr. Phil

 

I have found myself, for lack of better options, with Dr. Phil on the TV in the afternoon.  He fascinates me because there is nothing particular special about what he says; he states the obvious.  What I like about him, though, are two things.  First of all, he appears to deeply care about the children.  He all but tells the parents that he is not there for him, but he cares about the kids.  I like that.  The other thing he does that I like, is that he rarely seems to try to make people feel stupid.  When he gets them to admit what they are doing that doesn’t make sense, rather than calling them out, he says, “So, how’s that working for you.”  Of course, it isn’t and they know it, but he lets them say it.

Yesterday, he had on three families with obese children.  I mean we are talking 117 pounds at 5 years; 80 at 3 years and; 185 at 10 years of age.  As he talked to the parents, his whole point was they needed to be the parent and get rid of stuff from the home so that it was not an issue.  They had to be willing to take on the tantrums for the sake of their children.  He didn’t care about them – they were the parents – and had to suffer the pain to save their child.
Which brings me to God.  Today is Good Friday; the day that Jesus was crucified.  God suffered the pain of watching His Son die and I can tell you from my experience, there is no greater pain.  He did it to save you and me.  He was willing to suffer (as was Jesus, Himself) for our sake.  I don’t understand it, but I am so thankful for it.
I hear people say that they could live the Christian life if God would just do such-n-such.  I don’t get it.  Surely, I go to Him in prayer and tell him my desires, but I am not going to withhold myself from Him, waiting for Him to prove his love.  He already gave me Jesus; how much more do I need?
But we have needs and God knows it.  I have come to see if Dr. Phil can care about these children who are not related to him, who are total strangers, why would I doubt that God cares about me.  I am his child.  He cares about me more than any parent on this planet; He cares about me more than Dr. Phil.  Imagine that.
The “problem” comes when I have to reconcile some hard truths.  “Jesus loves me, this I know.”  Jesus is the greatest evidence I could ask for of God the Father’s love for me.  I don’t yet know quite how to put the loss of Christopher into the contest of all that love.  I see it from Christopher’s side, but from my view, it doesn’t work so well.
I supposed that really, as a parent, if I really believe that Christopher is better off, then that is enough for me.  I need to be willing to suffer for the sake of my child.  God is my perfect example.  
It is an issue of focus.  When I focus on my loss, I get very down.  If at that point, Dr. Phil asked, “so how’s it working for you?”, I’d have to say not so good.  If I can focus on the reality of heaven for Christopher even now and the certainty that his early departure is just an interruption in our relationship and I will see him again, then things are much better.
It is hard, though.  April 26, just 2+ weeks away marks the 14th anniversary of Christopher’s adoption.  I need to try to turn that into a day of focusing on “right stuff.”
I covet your prayers.