Roller Coaster Life
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From: Liliana on 6 Jul 2008 10:57 On Jul 4, 10:30 am, Jo in Ok <josi...(a)yahoo.com> wrote: > On Jul 3, 11:43 am, Liliana <xen...(a)rogers.com> wrote: > > > > > When people say their life is like a roller coaster, we think of > > extreme highs and extreme lows. With grieving the loss of a child the > > highs are really missing. Metaphorically the highs are a relief or an > > absence of pain for a while. Since I lost my son , the days are black > > and white and merge one into the other. I try wth all my might to > > experience some joy, in a sunset or a good book. I try with all my > > might to re-capture who I was, but I fail. I can't even come close. > > I try to remember who I was before I had children, and think maybe I > > can go back there, and remember me as a little girl or a teenager who > > had so much fun, and woke up each morning with such joy and > > possibilites. I try this mostly at night when I can't sleep. Who am > > I? > > I look at pictures of before, and my eyes are bright and shiny, my > > smile genuine, a soul that lived in paradise. > > You can tell now in the pictures, the smile is forced, the eyes are > > dull. All an act. > > I walk the familiar streets where I raised my children for over 30 > > years. I am the mother who lost a son. There she is, walking her dog > > poor woman. I wonder how she copes......if it were me.... I don't > > know what I would do? I feel the voices in my head, I see the look of > > pity. I am marked. > > How can anyone have any real "fun" with a mother who has lost a > > child. The words are guarded, the excitement is tempered. > > At the beginning friends would talk little of their own children. Now > > I hear about their upcoming weddings, their new jobs, how great they > > are doing, all the little family intimacies, and blissful family > > gatherings that I remember having. > > I don't fit in anymore, not really. I am the mother who has lost a > > child. See..... there she is... that poor woman... how does she cope.. > > ............................................................................................................. > (((((hugs))))) just wanted to say hi and send some hugs for you or > anyone else needing them....I have a few people that I guess you could > say pity me > or feel sorry for me...one lady just had an older senior age father > die and yet > she feels losing a child is way worse...I think us parents' just will > never be the > same anymore-never be "normal" or free,happy go lucky...when we > remember > our beloved child that has died before us, it brings pain and > bewilderment. > I also liked what Daniel said ," > They have forgotten that you have not forgotten. They cannot > remember > that you cannot forget." > We can't forget nor should we. We are here to keep the memories > "alive" > that our child did exist and he or she was this or that way...lovely > kids,silly > kids, and loved alot, meant alot and always missed > alot....Jo...Wally's mom- Hide quoted text - > > - Show quoted text - Jo, Time for us, and time for others is two different things, isn\t it. I see movies now from 1998, and remember that James also saw that movie, and look how different the movies are now I think. David Letterman is still on T.V. and Oh how we both loved to watch him. James would say he looked like a little Gremlin... and I watch Letterman still there getting older. Your Wally, my James, walked this earth, and now people rarely mention my son. Our remembering is in our bones, in our souls.
From: Liliana on 6 Jul 2008 11:01 On Jul 4, 8:28 pm, "Cindy's Mom" <jehedgec...(a)qwest.net> wrote: > On Jul 4, 8:30 am, Jo in Ok <josi...(a)yahoo.com> wrote: > > > > > > > On Jul 3, 11:43 am, Liliana <xen...(a)rogers.com> wrote: > > > > When people say their life is like a roller coaster, we think of > > > extreme highs and extreme lows. With grieving the loss of a child the > > > highs are really missing. Metaphorically the highs are a relief or an > > > absence of pain for a while. Since I lost my son , the days are black > > > and white and merge one into the other. I try wth all my might to > > > experience some joy, in a sunset or a good book. I try with all my > > > might to re-capture who I was, but I fail. I can't even come close.. > > > I try to remember who I was before I had children, and think maybe I > > > can go back there, and remember me as a little girl or a teenager who > > > had so much fun, and woke up each morning with such joy and > > > possibilites. I try this mostly at night when I can't sleep. Who am > > > I? > > > I look at pictures of before, and my eyes are bright and shiny, my > > > smile genuine, a soul that lived in paradise. > > > You can tell now in the pictures, the smile is forced, the eyes are > > > dull. All an act. > > > I walk the familiar streets where I raised my children for over 30 > > > years. I am the mother who lost a son. There she is, walking her dog > > > poor woman. I wonder how she copes......if it were me.... I don't > > > know what I would do? I feel the voices in my head, I see the look of > > > pity. I am marked. > > > How can anyone have any real "fun" with a mother who has lost a > > > child. The words are guarded, the excitement is tempered. > > > At the beginning friends would talk little of their own children. Now > > > I hear about their upcoming weddings, their new jobs, how great they > > > are doing, all the little family intimacies, and blissful family > > > gatherings that I remember having. > > > I don't fit in anymore, not really. I am the mother who has lost a > > > child. See..... there she is... that poor woman... how does she cope. > > > ............................................................................................................. > > (((((hugs))))) just wanted to say hi and send some hugs for you or > > anyone else needing them....I have a few people that I guess you could > > say pity me > > or feel sorry for me...one lady just had an older senior age father > > die and yet > > she feels losing a child is way worse...I think us parents' just will > > never be the > > same anymore-never be "normal" or free,happy go lucky...when we > > remember > > our beloved child that has died before us, it brings pain and > > bewilderment. > > I also liked what Daniel said ," > > They have forgotten that you have not forgotten. They cannot > > remember > > that you cannot forget." > > We can't forget nor should we. We are here to keep the memories > > "alive" > > that our child did exist and he or she was this or that way...lovely > > kids,silly > > kids, and loved alot, meant alot and always missed > > alot....Jo...Wally's mom- Hide quoted text - > > > - Show quoted text - > > ((((HUGS)))) to all of us missing our loved ones this day. I agree > with so much of what has been said. july 4th was always a time of cook- > outs and craft shows with my daughter Cindy. I am thankful for the > memories and that I can now, after a year and a half remember her with > a smile. but sad beyond words that we will not be making any new > memoires this year. Life is not fair or predictable, so we do just > have to try and go on living as was said and somedays it is harder > than others. thinking of all of you..Judy, Cindy's Mom.- Hide quoted text - > > - Show quoted text - HI Judy, In Canada we had our JUly 1st, celebration. I could see the fireworks from my balcony. There is so much to celebrate in this life, and before I was the type that would make a feast out of a crust of bread. Every day was special and a celebration. I hung on to that joy with all my might, almost as if I knew it would be taken away. I agree, hugs to all that have lost.... and peace..... and perhaps sometime, somewhere there will be a peace for us that surpasses all understanding.
From: Daniel on 7 Jul 2008 13:07 On Sun, 6 Jul 2008 07:52:42 -0700 (PDT), Liliana <xena.w(a)rogers.com> wrote: > . . . I am just so tired sometimes, and like a child want to >shout .. but it is so unfair!!! {{{ Liliana }}} It is so unfair. {{{ hugs }}} -- Daniel ( deltaechomike(a)usa.net )
From: MelMenzies on 9 Jul 2008 07:48 On Jul 3, 7:43 pm, Liliana <xen...(a)rogers.com> wrote: >Metaphorically the highs are a relief or an > absence of pain for a while. Since I lost my son , the days are black > and white and merge one into the other. Dear Liliana, I could cry for you. Your pain is so tangible, and you write of it so eloquently. As an author, myself, I know the power of the written word - but as a mother, I know the power of pain in the loss of a child. My daughter died as a young adult. Her death had not been unexpected. For thirteen years I had grieved - because she had 'lost her life' to the thrall of a heroin addiction. Every day of my life I expected the phone to ring to tell me she was no more: that she'd been found, dead in a doorway; or worse, that she had not been found at all but had quietly and irretrievably slipped from my life. When she finally straightened her life out, she did so dramatically. Academically, domestically - in every sense there was a turn around. She lived a happy, fulfilled life for five years. And I learned to let go the demons that had plagued me. Then one morning, came the phone call I had once dreaded so much. It was a worse pain than I could possibly have imagined - the more so, because it was no longer an expected pain. Like you, I experienced the sense of 'otherness', of isolation from a society that doesn't know how to deal with death; that shrinks from communicating at any meaningful level with the bereaved - because it has nothing meaningful to say. Yet you ask 'Who am I?', and in this respect I differ from you. I know little about you, your opinions, your philosophy on life, your belief system. Note I don't say 'or lack of' because everyone believes in something; we're unable to operate in a vacuum. But what I'm about to tell you is from my belief system, and it works for me, and has worked for hundreds of others. It's this. You are someone of worth. You are not defined simply by your relationship to a lost child, nor by your grief and loss. You are you. You are precious. And your worth is absolute. It does not depend on what you do. Nor on how you feel. Nevertheless, there is something you can do which will alleviate your pain. I know because I practice it daily. It's a verse which I adopted when my marriage broke up, and it stood me in good stead when my daughter went on her heroin binge. It's this: comfort others with the comfort we have received from God. 'I haven't received any comfort,' do I hear you say? Well you have, actually. You have a gift with words. At the moment you are using them to grieve, to look inward, to examine and re-examine the pain within. May I suggest, Liliana, that you use your gift to look upward and outward. To seek out others who could be comforted by your gift. To use it, not to reinforce your pain and theirs, but to encourage them, too, to look upward and outward. I have been writing for the past twenty five years. Books. Magazine articles. And now blogs. I took a course in counselling so I could help others. I learned to draw and paint so I could design cards with a verse of encouragement. I went to night school to learn how to be a public speaker - and gradually changed from a frightened mouse with shaking hands and quaking knees, into someone with confidence and joy. Yes, real JOY. Because it is such a delight when you know you have been used to lighten someone else's load. Yes, I still weep. Yes, I still grieve. How could I not? I shall never see my daughter marry or raise a child. I shall never feel her hand on my brow when I grow old and frail. But I know I shall see her again. And I've written a poem to that effect. A poem titled 'Death is But a Door.' You can find it in my latest book, A Painful Post Mortem,. It's a work of fiction. But it's based on what I have learned. And one of the prime lessons, is that we all have choices. We can choose to let our adversities shape our lives. Or we can choose to use them for others. And, in my belief system, for God. So, Lilliana, I have prayed for you this morning. That you will choose to let go of the pain. Choose to look up from your downcast state. Choose to look out instead of in. And I have prayed that you will find joy. Real joy. With love, Mel Menzies Author of: A Painful Post Mortem - a contemporary story of love stretched to its limits.
From: Liliana on 9 Jul 2008 21:03
On Jul 9, 7:48 am, MelMenzies <aut...(a)melmenzies.co.uk> wrote: > On Jul 3, 7:43 pm, Liliana <xen...(a)rogers.com> wrote: > > >Metaphorically the highs are a relief or an > > absence of pain for a while. Since I lost my son , the days are black > > and white and merge one into the other. > > Dear Liliana, > I could cry for you. Your pain is so tangible, and you write of it so > eloquently. As an author, myself, I know the power of the written > word - but as a mother, I know the power of pain in the loss of a > child. My daughter died as a young adult. Her death had not been > unexpected. For thirteen years I had grieved - because she had 'lost > her life' to the thrall of a heroin addiction. Every day of my life I > expected the phone to ring to tell me she was no more: that she'd been > found, dead in a doorway; or worse, that she had not been found at all > but had quietly and irretrievably slipped from my life. > > When she finally straightened her life out, she did so dramatically. > Academically, domestically - in every sense there was a turn around. > She lived a happy, fulfilled life for five years. And I learned to > let go the demons that had plagued me. Then one morning, came the > phone call I had once dreaded so much. It was a worse pain than I > could possibly have imagined - the more so, because it was no longer > an expected pain. > > Like you, I experienced the sense of 'otherness', of isolation from a > society that doesn't know how to deal with death; that shrinks from > communicating at any meaningful level with the bereaved - because it > has nothing meaningful to say. > > Yet you ask 'Who am I?', and in this respect I differ from you. I > know little about you, your opinions, your philosophy on life, your > belief system. Note I don't say 'or lack of' because everyone > believes in something; we're unable to operate in a vacuum. But what > I'm about to tell you is from my belief system, and it works for me, > and has worked for hundreds of others. It's this. You are someone of > worth. You are not defined simply by your relationship to a lost > child, nor by your grief and loss. You are you. You are precious. > And your worth is absolute. It does not depend on what you do. Nor > on how you feel. > > Nevertheless, there is something you can do which will alleviate your > pain. I know because I practice it daily. It's a verse which I > adopted when my marriage broke up, and it stood me in good stead when > my daughter went on her heroin binge. It's this: comfort others with > the comfort we have received from God. 'I haven't received any > comfort,' do I hear you say? Well you have, actually. You have a > gift with words. At the moment you are using them to grieve, to look > inward, to examine and re-examine the pain within. May I suggest, > Liliana, that you use your gift to look upward and outward. To seek > out others who could be comforted by your gift. To use it, not to > reinforce your pain and theirs, but to encourage them, too, to look > upward and outward. > > I have been writing for the past twenty five years. Books. Magazine > articles. And now blogs. I took a course in counselling so I could > help others. I learned to draw and paint so I could design cards with > a verse of encouragement. I went to night school to learn how to be a > public speaker - and gradually changed from a frightened mouse with > shaking hands and quaking knees, into someone with confidence and > joy. Yes, real JOY. Because it is such a delight when you know you > have been used to lighten someone else's load. > > Yes, I still weep. Yes, I still grieve. How could I not? I shall > never see my daughter marry or raise a child. I shall never feel her > hand on my brow when I grow old and frail. But I know I shall see her > again. And I've written a poem to that effect. A poem titled 'Death > is But a Door.' You can find it in my latest book, A Painful Post > Mortem,. It's a work of fiction. But it's based on what I have > learned. And one of the prime lessons, is that we all have choices. > We can choose to let our adversities shape our lives. Or we can > choose to use them for others. And, in my belief system, for God. > > So, Lilliana, I have prayed for you this morning. That you will > choose to let go of the pain. Choose to look up from your downcast > state. Choose to look out instead of in. And I have prayed that you > will find joy. Real joy. > > With love, > Mel Menzies > Author of: A Painful Post Mortem - a contemporary story of love > stretched to its limits. Thank you thank you thank you What beautiful hearfelt words. I have just read your post and am still absorbing all that you have said. I will respond... soon and I thank you Mel. |