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From: Liliana on 3 Jul 2008 14:43
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.
From: Daniel on 3 Jul 2008 17:20
On Thu, 3 Jul 2008 11:43:44 -0700 (PDT), Liliana <xena.w(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.

Oh, Liliana, I'm sorry you're feeling so low. Sometimes I wish I
could remove all holidays from the calendar because they magnify the
fact that I am so far from the dumb-and-happy ideal shown in the
advertising. Sometimes I feel like I'm at a big public aquarium,
except that I'm in the water watching the rest of the world walk by.
Maybe I never *was* good at having a good time. What I try to do now
is practice being thankful. All I mean is that when something is good
I let myself say that it *is* good. I may not have any positive
*feeling* ("up" roller coaster) at all. Just, "Yes. This is good."

An example. We've been having wildfires here in California. Didn't
see the blue sky for about 10 days due to smoke. A few days ago: blue
sky. Simple thing. I make myself tell myself, "This is good." I
don't know why, but that seems to at least help me relax.

Deeper explanation by way of an anecdote. When Dad was in the
hospital the next to last time before he died my sister and I hijacked
a wheelchair and took him out. Beautiful day. Dad was very weak. He
would say, "Stop." We stopped. He gazed at a flowerbed for a long,
long time. Yellow flowers -- Mom's favorite. He was so quiet I
wondered whether he had fallen asleep in the sunshine. No, he was
quietly weeping. Saying good-bye, I think. And thinking of Mom.
Okay, so the point is, any patch of yellow flowers is enough to make
me weep (like I'm doing now!). The flowerbed no longer holds any
appeal for me. What for most people is an "up rollercoaster" is
instead, because of associations with the past, an instant ride down.
Today, I see the yellow flower and say, "Beauty. Harmony. This is
good. This is good." I don't have the simple child-like joy of the
past, but I am working on having a grown-up joy in the present. So
far, I don't think I would call it "joy" at all -- more like relaxed
awareness. But even that is better than gut-twisting pain.

>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.

Your intuition is spot on. We can't go back there. We know too much,
we have seen too much. The whole world has changed.

>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.

They have forgotten that you have not forgotten. They cannot remember
that you cannot forget. Something like that. That is true. But how
useful is it to go on comparing? [I know: if you're like me, you
can't help it. But (at least for me) there's a second step -- I find
myself comparing and then I *encourage* myself.] (This is starting to
sound weird, but I started and so I'm going to keep charging in
through the china shop . . . ) Because deep down I no longer envy
them. Even with the pain and the loss, my world is more real, and I
am more aware, and I have loved more deeply. I don't envy them. How
dare they judge me?! . . . Is that just egotistical talking? I hope
not. I think not.

>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.

Cope? I guess in the final analysis, you don't. You just go on
living. It's not fair. It's terribly wrong. James should be with
you still -- but that all changed. So we go on living, and try to
find ways to go on loving.

I will be thinking of you and James.

Peace,
--
Daniel ( deltaechomike(a)usa.net )
From: Jo in Ok on 4 Jul 2008 10:30
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
From: Cindy's Mom on 4 Jul 2008 20:28
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.
From: Liliana on 6 Jul 2008 10:52
On Jul 3, 5:20 pm, Daniel <deltaechom...(a)usa.net> wrote:
> On Thu, 3 Jul 2008 11:43:44 -0700 (PDT), 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.
>
> Oh, Liliana, I'm sorry you're feeling so low.  Sometimes I wish I
> could remove all holidays from the calendar because they magnify the
> fact that I am so far from the dumb-and-happy ideal shown in the
> advertising.  Sometimes I feel like I'm at a big public aquarium,
> except that I'm in the water watching the rest of the world walk by.
> Maybe I never *was* good at having a good time.  What I try to do now
> is practice being thankful.  All I mean is that when something is good
> I let myself say that it *is* good.  I may not have any positive
> *feeling* ("up" roller coaster) at all.  Just, "Yes. This is good."  
>
> An example.  We've been having wildfires here in California.  Didn't
> see the blue sky for about 10 days due to smoke.  A few days ago: blue
> sky.  Simple thing.  I make myself tell myself, "This is good."  I
> don't know why, but that seems to at least help me relax.  
>
> Deeper explanation by way of an anecdote.  When Dad was in the
> hospital the next to last time before he died my sister and I hijacked
> a wheelchair and took him out.  Beautiful day.  Dad was very weak.  He
> would say, "Stop." We stopped.  He gazed at  a flowerbed for a long,
> long time.  Yellow flowers -- Mom's favorite.  He was so quiet I
> wondered whether he had fallen asleep in the sunshine.  No, he was
> quietly weeping.  Saying good-bye, I think.  And thinking of Mom.
> Okay, so the point is, any patch of yellow flowers is enough to make
> me weep (like I'm doing now!).  The flowerbed no longer holds any
> appeal for me.  What for most people is an "up rollercoaster" is
> instead, because of associations with the past, an instant ride down.
> Today, I see the yellow flower and say, "Beauty.  Harmony.  This is
> good.  This is good."  I don't have the simple child-like joy of the
> past, but I am working on having a grown-up joy in the present.  So
> far, I don't think I would call it "joy" at all -- more like relaxed
> awareness.  But even that is better than gut-twisting pain.  
>
> >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.
>
> Your intuition is spot on.  We can't go back there.  We know too much,
> we have seen too much.  The whole world has changed.  
>
> >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.
>
> They have forgotten that you have not forgotten.  They cannot remember
> that you cannot forget.  Something like that.  That is true.  But how
> useful is  it to go on comparing?  [I know: if you're like me, you
> can't help it.  But (at least for me) there's a second step -- I find
> myself comparing and then I *encourage* myself.]  (This is starting to
> sound weird, but I started and so I'm going to keep charging in
> through the china shop . . . )  Because deep down I no longer envy
> them.  Even with the pain and the loss, my world is more real, and I
> am more aware, and I have loved more deeply.  I don't envy them.  How
> dare they judge me?! . . . Is that just egotistical talking?  I hope
> not. I think not.  
>
> >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.
>
> Cope? I guess in the final analysis, you don't.  You just go on
> living.  It's not fair.  It's terribly wrong.  James should be with
> you still  -- but that all changed.  So we go on living, and try to
> find ways to go on loving.  
>
> I will be thinking of you and James.
>
> Peace,
> --
> Daniel  ( deltaechom...(a)usa.net )

My dear Daniel,

You have made me think. What a beautful wise response you have
provided. I understand completely what you say. I am an only child
and little by little I am losing my family. When my father was dying,
I cared for him also. I promised I would look after him in his own
home and never bring him to the hospital unless re requested it. ON
the night he was brought to the hospital and I thought he must have
been in a coma , I told him "remember dad, when you told me the story
about your mother looking for you with a lantern in the night, when
you ran away due to a fight with your father, well dad, I told him,
your mom is looking for you right now with her lantern, she is waiting
for you to come home again. I saw a tear run down his cheek. Oh my
God, I thought, how much depth and pain must I plunge. I go on Daniel,
I must . You are right we have seen too much, felt too deep, Thank
you Daniel. I now look after my mother who has dementia, who was once
so clean and proud, and now I clean up after her. You know, perhaps,
I am mean spirited, but I am jealous of others, who have large
families and even then complain amongst themselves about looking after
their parents....... and doing other things,..... because they MUST
have their holidays, their time off, their cottages, their OWN time
with their families. I know I must stop feeling such hurt, such
anger, and like you, see the sky, the flowers, enjoy my two dogs which
I do. I am just so tired sometimes, and like a child want to
shout .. but it is so unfair!!!
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