Grieving Parent

Month: February 2012

  • What Do You Remember?

    What Do You Remember?

    Maybe it’s because we’re getting close to the anniversary of Richards’s death – it’s just a few months away. Or it could be because today is my birthday, and those family events cause me to reflect on the past. I’ve been thinking back on that time nearly three years ago, when we found out he was gone.

    It’s strange what I remember of that time, and what I don’t.

    The Night We Got “The Call”

    I still remember that awful night like yesterday. The conversation with the coroner lady. Making Debbie get her car off the road and safely parked before I told her. The heartbreak of telling her.  I remember telling my boss I was leaving work, and why. The drive home is clear, as is meeting Debbie in the driveway when I got home.

    All the details of that night are still with me. They’re burned into my brain, like a program on a ROM chip, permanent.

    The Next Day and Funeral Shopping

    Memories start getting cloudier after that first night. I remember going to the airport to pick Sarah up.

    I know many people stopped by our house early that afternoon, but I don’t know who anymore. We got food delivered from folks, including some country ham from Carriss’ store up the street, that one of our neighbors sent over. That was one of Richard’s favorites, and a must have for Christmas mornings.

    I know we went funeral shopping that afternoon. They didn’t have Richard back from the medical examiners office in Frankfort yet, but were expecting to get him later that afternoon.

    There were a lot of details to figure out. I pretty much deferred to Debbie and Sarah on the church readings, songs and such.

    We went downstairs and picked out a casket, then looked at the vaults to put the casket in. When the funeral director showed us one made from “football helmet” material, Debbie lit up. She was sure Richard would be pleased with that.

    I know we had many more visitors that afternoon and early evening. I don’t remember who.

    The Yard Crew Does Work

    The next morning, a beautiful Saturday, my family showed up with yard equipment. My siblings and sibling-in-laws, their kids, and my dad went to work getting our yard mowed and cleaned up.

    I remember feeling sort of put out about it at the time, because I was looking forward to the solitude of riding my mower around for a few hours. That was very selfish and dumb of me. All those people in my yard loved Richard too. They were in pain, and didn’t know of any other good way to help us deal with this.

    I love all of them, and I’m ashamed of myself for how I felt.

    More visitors and more food showed up at our front door. I don’t remember who or what.

    At The Visitation

    The next day was Sunday, and the first of two days I think of as “Showtime.” It was time to put on the best face we could, and send our kid off properly. It was the last thing we could ever do for him here – the last chance to be his parents.

    We spent most of the day at the funeral home for the Visitation.

    It’s all just a big swirl of colors and faces, sounds and voices, twirling around me. It all just joins together in a massive blur. A big fog.

    I recall a scene from the Wizard of Oz, when the tornado picked up the house with Dorothy. The house was up in the clouds, spinning around and around. I felt much like that, but I was inside the tornado and it was spinning around and around me.

    The details are completely gone – except for two things.

    The “Sorry For Your Loss” Man

    The first thing that stands out was something I thought was funny.

    We were standing in a receiving line of sorts, early in the day. Debbie, Sarah and myself, plus at least one of my sisters and my dad were in the line. We were greeting our guests. I was the last one in the line.

    An older man came through. I don’t know who he was. He may have known Debbie, or been married to someone that did. Or maybe he just liked going to funerals.

    I watched him as he made his way down our little line. He’d take the persons hand and say, “Sorry for your loss,” then move to the next person and repeat it, “Sorry for your loss.”

    I’m sure a lot of people told us they were “Sorry for your loss.”

    Something about the almost casual way he said, “Sorry for your loss,” and nothing more, reminded me of my youthful days playing sports. After a ballgame, the players of each team would line up facing the other team. We’d then walk past each other, and either shake hands or more often just slap hands and say, “Good game. Good game. Good game,” as we passed each opposing player.

    Maybe you meant it, probably not really, but it was just something you did. A tradition, part of the game.

    That’s how it seemed to be for the “Sorry for your loss” guy, and I found it humorous. Yes, I have a strange mind.

    The Message, Or The Messenger?

    The only other detail from that day I remember now involved one of my co-workers.

    She’s someone I think a lot of, but I would have classified our relationship as pretty casual. That day at the funeral home was the first time I’d seen her outside the factory we work in. It was the first time I’d met her husband.

    After introducing me to her husband we stood there chatting.

    She told me, “Remember what you believe in, and hold onto that.” I was tempted to ask her if she knew what that might be, because I wasn’t sure I believed in anything right then.

    There were hundreds of people at the visitation that day. Some of them I didn’t know, others I love dearly and they mean a great deal to me. I don’t remember anything they said.

    Another lady I worked with was there. She’s someone I was very fond of and I remember feeling a lot of comfort when I saw her. We talked for a long time. I can’t tell you a single word she said.

    That message, “Remember what you believe in,” somehow has cut through the clutter. Like a lighthouse beacon shining through the fog, it still whispers to me, “This way. Over here, follow the light.”

    Is it the message? Or is it the messenger that make those words stand out?

    We’ve never talked about Richard’s death, the funeral, or any of that stuff since that day.

    Still, I hear her say those words often.

    And I’m still working on it.

    At The Funeral

    Monday, and as Ed Sullivan used to say, time for “A Really Big Show.” The funeral. Show time again.

    Another day of swirling colored fog.

    The church was packed. I have the general impression it was a really nice service. If my kid hadn’t been laying in that oak box at the front of church, I’m sure I would have enjoyed it.

    I seem to remember Father Bill did a great job. He gave one of his best homilies, but the only reason I remember a word of it, is because it’s printed in the beautiful memorial book Sarah made for us.

    Once again two things cut through the mist. Neither of them is humorous to me this time, but one does bring comfort.

    Debbie

    We sat beside the casket at the front of church.

    You might guess, Debbie was crying. Not wailing. Not even sobbing out loud. She was mostly silent, the tears slowly dripping down her face.

    What I remember most is how her whole body trembled.

    We held hands through the service. I could feel the quaking as we touched one another. It lasted the entire service.

    And there was no way to make it go away.

    That’s burned into my brain too.

    Chris and Susan Go Solo

    As I said, the service is a blur, but I have the impression of beauty. I’m pretty sure the choir area was full of singers and they sounded really good.

    One song, and two singers in particular, Chris and Susan, made it into my lifetime memory bank.

    The choir sang In His Time. I’d never heard this song before, but it was beautiful. Chris and Susan each sang a verse solo.

    Though several years older than Richard, Chris also graduated from St X High School. So they had something of a connection. He was a long time member of the choir, but I’d never heard him sing alone before.

    Susan is the wife of our choir director at that time. She was part of our bell choir, but I’d never seen or heard her sing before. I don’t believe it’s happened again since that day.

    They both did a great job.

    These two people stepping out of their comfort zones like that, just to help us get through the funeral, and to make the service special to us really means a lot to me.

    Susan couldn’t even talk about later, when I went to thank her.

    I own them both a lot.

    What About You?

    Going through the darkest days of my life, you’d think I’d be able to remember more. But I can’t.

    Some things had great impact, and I’ll never forget them. Most is just a blur.

    What about you? What do you remember?

  • Go To The Top

    Go To The Top

    As a young family we didn’t take many big vacations. We decided shortly after Sarah was born to become a one income family, so money was always tight. Big vacations cost big bucks.

    There was also that little matter of my not wanting to travel much. Let me take a few trips around the yard on the lawn mower and give me a glass of iced tea – that’s what a vacation was supposed to be in mind.

    But I did get talked into one big adventure.

    By big, I’m talking about 5600 miles, 17 states and 21 DAYS away from home.

    Go West Young Man Family

    We started out with only one predetermined destination – the Grand Canyon. The rest of the trip was to be pretty freeform, only a rough sketch.  So if something along the way looked interesting, we often went to check it out.

    Early in our adventure we were driving across southern Colorado, enjoying flat plains covered in wild flowers. Snow covered mountains rose in the distance. We came upon a sign pointing to an approaching crossroad to our right.

    “Great Sand Dunes National Park,” it read.

    Hmmm, that might be interesting. Right turn.

    Great Sand Dunes National Park

    As the name implies, The Great Sand Dunes National Park features sand dunes. 39 square miles of them.

    Here’s an interesting fact we discovered on our trip – rivers in the west are full of sand, not water. I don’t know why they do it that way, but trust me, they do.

    So here’s what happens. The winds blow down out of the San Luis mountains to the west. They travel across the Rio Grande river, pick up sand and carry it across the vast mountain valley. When the wind strikes the Sangre De Cristo mountains on the eastern end of the valley, the sand falls out and piles up.

    It’s been doing that for centuries.

    The result is the vast dune field that gives the park it’s name. This is sand like you see in the movies, when they show people staggering across the desert, on their way to a hot, dry death.

    We arrived at the parking lot. A little dirt trail led off through the surrounding trees. There was no where else to go, so we followed it.

    The trail ended at a 30 foot wide stream. On the other side of the stream was sand. Sand as far as the eye could see. Sand in great rippling dunes, some as much as 700 foot high.

    It’s a pretty place. Picture pure, golden-brown sand, surrounded by trees and a stream. In the distance you see snow covered mountains. Postcards are born here.

    After removing our shoes, and wading the creek (man, that’s some cold water in there), we hit the sand. First we crossed a beach area, about 100 yards long.

    And Then There Were Dunes

    The early summer day was bright, the sky crystal clear and deep blue. The warm winds that formed the dunes was with us, and the temperature was climbing fast.

    I don’t know what picture comes to mind for you when you hear the word dunes. I’ve always thought of nice gently ripping sand. What lay before us were small mountains of sand.

    We climbed a 50 footer, crossed the valley on the other side, and climbed the next.

    Climbing these steep sand hills was a real workout. The sand under foot shifts and slides away as you walk. So you step up two or three feet, but slip back down a foot before you get dug in enough to hold your position. It’s hard work.

    Up and over and down, up and over we went.

    After about a half dozen or so of these these mini-mountains, we came to a deep valley. Up ahead, maybe a quater mile away, a huge monster dune loomed into the sky.

    We old people had exercised more in the past half-hour then we had in the previous month. The sand mountain in front of us was hundreds of feet tall. No way was I climbing that thing. We decided this would be a perfect place to put our blanket down and enjoy the view.

    The children, not being as wise as their parents, wanted to continue.

    “I want to go to the top,” pleaded Richard.

    A Plan Formed In My Mind

    “You kids go ahead and climb to the top. Mom and I will sit here and watch,” I said. No way was I climbing that thing.

    Off they went. Down the valley, and up the first hill, then up the next they climbed.

    Their progress began to slow. Sarah took a break. Richard kept going.

    As they crossed valleys between hills they often disappeared from view. They both took frequent breaks, but the distance between them grew. As they got farther away, it became hard for us to tell which of the many climbers on the dunes were them.

    Debbie grew uneasy.

    “Maybe one of us should have gone with them,” she said.

    “Us,” of course, meant me. No way was I climbing that thing.

    “They’ll be fine,” I reassured her.

    On they went.

    Sarah was taking longer and more frequent rest periods. The distance between them grew and they were now far apart.

    Richard was getting really far away, and it was hard to pick him out, as he disappeared in the numerous small valleys. I had to use the video camera, on full zoom mode, to watch him.

    Slowly, finally, he made it to the top of the monstrous dune.

    He stood, catching his breath at the top, looking back from where he had come. He then turned around and looked on the other side.

    “He’s not going down the other side is he? If he goes down the other side, I’m going to have a heart attack,” moaned his worrying mom.

    Richard headed off down the other side.

    “He’ll get lost! Someone is going to have to go up there and get him!” Debbie screamed.

    You know when she said, “Someone,” who she meant don’t you? No way was I climbing that thing.

    “Don’t worry so much. Richard will be fine. He won’t go far,” I told her. “He’ll be back soon.” No way was I climbing that thing.

    We sat down on the sand to wait. Debbie chain smoked, as I scanned the horizon for signs of my little Boy Scout. Fifteen minutes passed.

    “Someone is going to have to go up there and find him.”

    “Just have patience, he’ll be back soon,” I said. No way was I climbing that thing.

    Sarah finally made it to the top, rested, and began her return. Thirty minutes passed.

    No sign of Richard.

    Debbie, frantic now, said “You have to go up there and find him. NOW!”

    I was going to climb that thing.

    I packed the video camera/spotting scope over my shoulder, kissed my wife goodbye and headed off into the sand.

    The sun was directly overhead and very hot. I picked out a longer but slightly less steep route to the summit and trudged on in the boiling hot sand.

    Each of the successively higher hills became harder to climb. At each upward step my foot would slip back in the sand about half way.

    I reached the top of a dune about midway up the big hill. My calves were screaming. My lungs were screaming back at them.

    It was time to stop for rest.

    I spotted another man, about my age, fifteen feet away. His face was flushed red and he was sweating profusely. He was bent over, hands on his knees, breathing hard.

    “Nice little walk up here, isn’t it?” I casually remarked.

    “Huff, huff, wheeze,” he replied.

    “I didn’t want to come up here, but my kid went over the top and my wife said I had to come find him,” I confided.

    He shook his head in an understanding nod and said, “When you get there, send my kid back too. I can’t make it any farther.”

    I got a description of his son and left him alone as I struggled on.

    The sun was merciless. The sand was merciless. I was sweating like crazy.

    I hadn’t had a drink in hours. My mouth was parched. My tongue was so dry it began to flake away. My vision blurred.

    Overhead, buzzards circled in a greedy death watch.

    I could see the headlines now, “Man Dies Tragically, Attempting Rescue of Son on the Sand.”

    I staggered on.

    I reached the final valley. The last hill to the top lay on the other side. It was a huge mountain of a sand dune.

    I stopped for one last look back at Debbie, for I knew I may never see her again. I couldn’t tell where she was. In the vast ocean of sand behind me, all the dunes looked alike. The people were too small to identify from here. I realized, I could get lost up here.

    I wondered who Debbie would make come up here to find me.

    Turning back to the mountain before me, I raised the video camera for one last scan of the peak. Slowly, I panned the horizon. Over there to the left, just coming down from the top, was kid about the right size. I zoomed all the way out. Yes! It was him.

    “Richard, get over here,” I yelled.

    I sure hoped he could find his way back down from here.

    There is a valuable lesson to be learned from this little story. We had violated one of the most basic rules of parenting: be specific and always sweat the small details.

    When we gave Richard permission to climb to the top, we had failed to mention what top we had in mind. When he got to the top of the hill in front of us, he discovered it wasn’t the top after all, as there were taller hills farther on.

    Richard always liked to be the first one up the hill, to reach the summit first.

    I guess he’s still doing it.

    Photo credit NPS

  • Groovy Grieving Music

    Groovy Grieving Music

    Musick has Charms to sooth a savage Breast

    To soften Rocks, or bend a knotted Oak.

    I’ve read, that things inanimate have mov’d,

    And, as with living Souls, have been inform’d,

    By Magick Numbers and persuasive Sound.

    What then am I? Am I more senseless grown

    Than Trees, or Flint? O force of constant Woe!

    ‘Tis not in Harmony to calm my Griefs.

    Anselmo sleeps, and is at Peace; last Night

    The silent Tomb receiv’d the good Old King;

    He and his Sorrows now are safely lodg’d

    Within its cold, but hospitable Bosom.

    Why am not I at Peace?

    – William Congreve, in The Mourning Bride, 1697

    Music has emotional power. A good song can often touch our hearts, and express the feelings we can’t find words for. There seems to be a music genre for just about everything… so why not for grieving?

    Here are some of the songs that have touched me. Some are by grieving parents. Some were written for grieving parents. Some just seem to have a message we need.

    I have to give this quick warning though, grab a fresh box of tissues before you start listening.

    To Where You Are – Josh Groban

    This is one of those with an up lifting message. Maybe we need to hear that, “A breath away’s not far to where you are.”

    Precious Child – Karen Taylor-Good

    I was introduced to this song at our first Compassionate Friends Worldwide Candle Lighting. I doubt it’s an exaggeration to say I’ve listened to it a thousand times since… usually with tears running down my face.

    Here is the story of why the song came to be and some other interesting facts about it.

    You can get a CD single from The Compassionate Friends website. You can download a free mp3 of the song from Karen Taylor-Good’s website. I’ve done both.

    Where Beautiful Souls Go – P. Taylor Reed

    We met P. Taylor Reed at the 2011 Frankfort KY Compassionate Friends Regional Conference. She’s a grieving mom and she wrote this song as a tribute to her son Jeremy.  She performed it for us at the conference.

    You can read her’s and Jeremy’s stories, and purchase a single CD of the song at her website.

    Why by Rascal Flatts

    This is one of my favorite groups. Having a child die is so hard to deal with. Having a child die of suicide seems like it would add even more burden and heartache to an already unbearable event. This song explores that pain.

    As Long As You Love by Cindy Bullens

    Cindy Bullens is an award winning singer/song writer and the bereaved mother of Jessie, a cancer victim at the age of 11 . She did the soundtrack for the documentary Space Between Breaths. I couldn’t find a video with my favorite song from the album, Better Than I’ve Ever Been, but as I write this she’s offering a free mp3 of that song on her official website.

    You can get the soundtrack CD at the Space Between Breaths store. You’ll also find many of these songs on Cindy’s album Somewhere Between Heaven and Earth.

    You can learn more about Jessie and the The Jessie Fund, a charity that helps support children with cancer.

    Tonight I Hold This Candle” by Alan Pedersen

    We’ve met singer/song writer Alan Pedersen at both of the Compassionate Friends of Frankfort regional conferences we’ve attended. He’ll be performing at this year’s conference as well. His daughter Ashley died in a 2001 auto accident.

    He has been referred to as the James Taylor of grieving parent music. He currently has 4 CD’s which you can buy at his store.

    He tours the country with his Angels Across the USA Tour.

    ThePianoGuys with Craig Aven

    ThePianoGuys co-founder Jon Schmidt lost his daughter Annie in November 2016. He tells the story at start of the video and shares the song that helped him deal with his grief.