Coming Up on Five Years

     Considering that it is coming up on five years without him, some people may be surprised to know that I do not fully comprehend the fact that my son is dead. Despite my lifelong belief in everlasting spirit, and numerous personal experiences of connecting to the invisible, I still shake my head in confusion. It is not about denial, nor a reluctance to access my emotions. And it is certainly not due to an unwillingness to understand. What I put it down to is the very real possibility that a mother can never fully make sense of the death of her child.
     I suspect that our brains are not hardwired for this scenario, nor is an after-market add on available either. Job loss, ill health, end of a significant relationship, death of a parent or friend - I believe that for the most part, we are programmed with the capacity to process these life events. But the death of ones child? How is it possible to reconcile giving birth to this precious being, then day in and day out fully invest oneself in his growth, only to be asked to live without his physical presence years later. I would venture to say that being able to fully comprehend the death of ones child is likely impossible.
     Of course, whether I fully understand it or not hardly affects the journey of living with this loss. Every day, every single day, it simply comes down to focussing on joy, love and gratitude as much as possible.

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Invisible Mothers

      This coming Sunday, mothers across the country will be honoured with brunches, gifts, phone calls and cards. Some will be lovingly remembered with flowers placed at their grave. Today, however, my thoughts turn to all the invisible mothers in my midst. The mother whose first and only child was born with serious health issues, to which he succumbed four months later. The woman whose mothering experience consisted of giving birth to a baby, then placing her for adoption, without any further contact. The mother of one who raised her child to his late teens, only to have him die before her.
     For these, and the many other invisible mothers, there will be no celebration. Instead, the day will hold sadness, what-ifs, and likely, pain. This Mother's Day, let us send them our love, and hope that their friends and family take the time to acknowledge them, as well. It will not change their circumstances but it may help heal these mother's hearts .
Image: Shutterstock
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Grandparents' Day

While checking the calendar last week, I noticed that today, the second Sunday in September, is national Grandparents' Day.  I had no idea that we had an official day designated in their honour.  As someone who loves celebrations, I wonder how I missed this since it's been around for almost twenty years.  I also noticed that this year, the holiday would fall on the 7th of the month, coinciding with my monthly Boal Memorial visit.  Connecting the two threads, my thoughts turned from celebrating, to perhaps marking the occasion slightly differently - it would be a fitting day to take my mother-in-law along to visit the setting of Michael's remains, as she had once expressed an interest, but never been.  That thought led me to once again consider the trials of a grieving grandparent.  In addition to having to process the pain of losing a grandchild, there is the added difficulty of bearing witness to their child's pain of grieving the death of their child.  For the most part, the grandparent's experience is endured with very little support.  So for me, this Grandparents' Day will embrace honouring the challenges as well as experiencing the joys of being a grandparent, because "coincidentally", it turns out that I will be spending time with my two little blessings this evening. 

Mizpah

I learned a new word today: mizpah.  I came across it while reading an online article posted on Death Cafe.  The word originated in the Bible and now connotes an emotional bond between two people who are separated (either physically or by death).  Up until now, I was unaware that a term used to describe this situation even existed.  Various scenarios involving mizpah come to mind. Parents sending a child overseas with hopes for a better future.  A best friend moving far away.  The death of a loved one.  It turns out that jewellery depicting this concept also exists, typically consisting of a coin-shaped pendant cut in two with a zigzag line.  A perfect image to hold onto for any being connected to another through mizpah.

Three Years In

Hi Michael,
   Mom here. Three years in, and it's still so hard living with this experience of a mother losing a child. No doubt there have been difficult circumstances in previous lives as well, but still, this is a tough one. I miss you so much.

   How are you doing? Are you considering coming back soon or do you need more time? I have no idea what the space between lives looks like. Maybe you'll still be there when I return.

   Thank you for continuing to stay close and helping me see the signs. The need to know you are near is still strong. I know you were watching earlier this week while I played some of your favourite music, loudly. A playlist compiled by your friends, largely made up of songs I had not heard before your death. I felt deeply connected to you while listening to the lyrics, which had spoken to you, and were now speaking to me. And once my tears had given way to dancing, I could see you smiling, and dancing too.
Love Mom ♥ 

Another Grave to Tend

This week, I was informed via snail mail from Germany, that an uncle of mine had passed two days before Christmas.  Sadly, he had smoked himself to death.  He and I were not very close.  Outside my handful of visits there, we had little contact.  Through my aunt's annual Christmas cards, I received updates on their lives.  And even though they were well off, it is likely that she would have considered it an unnecessary extravagance to give me the news of his passing via a long distance call.  And computers are not part of her world.  This aunt, now in her mid-seventies, is no stranger to grief.  She was a four-year-old child when her father died. As a young mother, she had buried her baby boy within days of his birth.  Some years later, her mother passed.  Then, nearly twelve years ago, she experienced the loss of her only sibling, my mother.  Now, with her only child living a fair distance away, and without any friends to speak of, she will understandably feel very alone. I hope she finds comfort in her religious beliefs, as well as support from her church.  And, as she continues taking her daily stroll to the cemetery across the street, to tend yet another grave, I hope she feels the presence of her God walking with her.

Soul Family

Another little one is making its way into our family.  One more soul who has decided that this particular family would be a good fit - devoted parents, loving aunts and uncles, two sets of doting grandparents, and a big sister paving the way.  Sweet child, whatever you have included on your to-do list for this lifetime, we will all do our utmost to support you fully, helping you achieve those dreams.  And of course, we will learn much from you, enabling us to fulfill our destinies too. 

The Mysterious Realm of Communication

My most recent evening at the ISA included a relaxing guided meditation, as well as a heartfelt message from my paternal grandfather, in German, of course.  About family, about love.  He spoke directly to me, no medium required, about the parent-child relationship and the various ways it has played out within our family over these past four generations.  Even though this man had died long before I was born, I instantly recognized his spirit and felt a deep connection as he shared his observations.  The ISA evening ended about a half-hour later than usual, and when I got in my car, the clock read 9:55.  After these sessions, I am usually home around 10 o'clock, and since it's about a thirty minute drive, I contemplated calling my husband to tell him not to wait up.  Then I thought about how exhausted he was and the strong possibly of him being asleep, so I decided against it.  When I arrived home, he was surprisingly still awake, and before I had a chance to tell him about my evening he told me about a strange incident that had occurred.  He had been watching TV in the den when he heard a beeping sound coming from elsewhere in the house.  As he approached the living room, he realized that the alarm was ringing on the clock in there.  We don't use the alarm feature and it had never spontaneously gone off - it had not even been touched recently.  He went on to say that it had happened at 9:55.  Obviously that had no significance for him until I explained what I had been doing at exactly that time.  For me, this was yet another new experience in the mysterious realm of communication.  Fascinating, for sure.

Diluted Experiences

Sharing a meal with family.  Sipping coffee with a friend.  Walking the dog.  Spending time at the playground with a child.  Out on a date with a lover.  Various scenarios offering invaluable possibilities for meaningful connection and engagement.  In the course of a day, observing individuals in each of these situations opting to dilute the experiences.  Choosing to direct energy and attention to lengthy cell phone communication with others instead.  Distracting them from the gift of the here and now.  Leaving me to wonder if they would consider taking up the challenge of being fully present.  Putting down the phone during those precious moments.  Embracing the opportunity to pick up their life instead.

Heartfelt Request

Preparing for morning meditation.  Focusing on the breath.  Taking longer than usual to get settled.  Once there, asking Michael's spirit to please continue staying close.  Visualizing our energies interweaving while sitting in this stillness.  Breathing the essence of him into my heart.  Very much needing his daily help while navigating this journey. Strongly believing in the existence of a spiritual law providing the availability of long term support in circumstances such as this.  Part of the contract when engaging in the experience of a parent losing a child. The bond between these spirits remaining especially strong and deeply attached.  Continuing to put out this heartfelt request nevertheless. Knowing the onus is on us to invite this help in.  They not wanting to overstep their parameters.  Waiting for our expression of free will instead. 

Moving On?

Moving on.  Well-meaning individuals tossing versions of this phrase into conversations.  With regards to grieving the death of my son.  "I'm glad to see you're moving on."  Implying leaving something behind.  As if putting it somewhere in the past is the answer.  Not relating to that concept at all.  Not moving anywhere.  Living with it.  Choosing to be in the present as much as possible.  Experiencing what is, right now. Extremely sad that Michael is gone.  Beyond description.  Living with that reality.  This not something that can change.  At the same time, loving the presence of my granddaughter.  Lucky enough to be kissing and holding her often.  Appreciating that immensely.  Grief and joy co-existing daily.  One not precluding the other.  Moving on?  Not part of the equation.

Comforting Communication

Enjoying a glass of wine in these waning moments of this summer solstice evening.  Alone with lights dimmed.  Cherishing the warm glow of a beautifully decorated candle.  One covered in a delicate swirling pattern of sage and coral.  Sitting here reflecting on the moving events at the ISA tonight.  Receiving a message from my son.  Him describing a forest scene with sun shining through the trees.  Exactly where I had been running this morning.  Making reference to our communication there.  Something we always engage in.  Expressing his joy in being able to stay connected.  Passing on encouragement.   Knowing I need it.  My mother coming through as well.  Later, taking my turn up on the platform.  Practising mediumship.  Bringing a message through for someone else in the audience.  Thankful to be learning to serve in this way.  Then upon leaving, speaking to a woman whom I had never met.  Learning she is also living with the experience of losing a child.  Finding great comfort in our conversation.  Both of us wondering aloud what this journey would look like without the spiritual awareness.  Agreeing it would likely be very grim indeed.  Instead, so grateful to know what we know.

My Son's Birthday

January 8, 1986.  The day my baby boy was born.  So many thoughts and feelings swirling around in my head and heart today.  Carrying that little life full of potential.  Expecting him to be a her.  Thrilled to be wrong.  Easiest baby ever.  Such a loving and playful child.  Growing into a confused, risk taking teen.  So many ups and downs.  Becoming a young man attempting to find his way.  Spending his last birthday in the hospital.  Having again walked to the middle of the bridge the evening before.  Contemplating suicide once more.  Then picking up the pieces and finding resolve.  Optimism and hope.  Twenty-five.  For years the magic number friends and acquaintances were repeating. Assuring me that often boys did not begin to mature until then.  For Michael, celebrating twenty-five birthdays would be all that he needed. There would be no more.  Cannot begin to describe what it feels like to be observing this day without him. 

Adapting to New Realities

Speaking to a woman recently widowed.  One of five mothers in my circle of friends and acquaintances dealing with this new challenge within the past year.  Conversation turning to the topic of grieving. Listening to each other's stories.  Comparing similarities and differences between our situations.  She, of course, missing her husband.  At the same time, imagining that losing a child would be more difficult to deal with.  Two words in particular striking a chord. Untimely death.  Not heard it expressed so succinctly before. Regardless of the particulars, all of us adapting to our new realities.  To the best of our abilities. 

Unique Journey

In discussion with other parents experiencing the loss of a child.  One mother mentioning something most can identify with.  Likely our biggest common denominator.  "The most important rule in life got broken."  Outliving ones child.  All of us branching out from there.  So many aspects influencing this journey of grieving.  Just as with any huge life altering experience.  The age of the child.  How she died.  The quality of life he was having.  The nature of the parent child relationship.  Family dynamics.  Personality traits.  Spiritual beliefs or the lack thereof.  Personal challenges the parent was facing in addition to this death.  Degree of available resources and support.  A unique journey for each one of us.  No two paths exactly alike.

Recovering Equilibrium

Two steps forward, one step back.  After many days of feeling predominantly optimistic and upbeat, the spirit falters.  Yesterday afternoon.  Several situations converging in a short space of time. Looking through old photos in preparation for a commemorative event later this week.  Listening to unsolicited excuses from a relative about how long it has been since getting together.  Planning Christmas Eve dinner.  Exploring alternate plans for Christmas morning.  All contributing to wearing down emotional reserves.  Tonight a candlelight ceremony at The Compassionate Friends.  The support group for parents who have lost a child.  Following through on a suggestion Michael made last month, I will attend.  This activity likely to provide emotional support.  Assist with recalibration.  Recovering equilibrium. 

Circle Gatherings

Meeting up in a church lounge.  The Compassionate Friends.  Each person there sharing a common experience.  Mourning the death of a child.  A close friend pointing out some time ago that I now belong to this "special club".  Reading in the group's literature that "there is no charge to attend, we have already paid our dues".  Appreciating the sentiment behind those words.  After the meeting, imagining the possibly of a circle gathering elsewhere sharing the pain of desperately wanting to have children but unable to.  Both grievous places to sit.  Of the two, preferring the one I am sitting in.

La Pietà

La Pietà.  Opportunities abound for feasting ones eyes upon this powerful image.  Statues and paintings of it exhibited the world over in churches, galleries and museums.  No religious beliefs required in order to be stirred by this scene.  At the core, a mother cradling her deceased adult son.  Of late, reflecting on that.  Recalling the memory of standing in St. Peter's.  Deeply moved by Michelangelo's exquisite marble piece.  Feeling the sorrow and heartbreak emanating from that statue.  Now focusing on another aspect.  One not as obvious to me before.  That of profound love.  Calling to mind the impossibility of such pain existing without the love that came before.  I am not Mary, nor was he Jesus.  There was no crucifixion.  Relating however to the essence of that experience.  That of a mother outliving her child.  Embracing the depth of that love.  Something shared by millions over the ages. 

Living with Death

Parents grieving the death of a child.  Sisters mourning the loss of their brother.  Friends deeply missing one of their own.  This morning's paper filled with stories mirroring ours.  Human beings dealing with these inescapable human experiences, each in their own way.  Learning how to live with death.  Something asked of each one of us the moment we chose to be born.

Sign of Summer

It felt closer to winter than summer while walking in this cool rainy weather.  And then I spotted them.  The salmonberries had arrived.  A welcomed sign of the season since childhood.  Those glorious orbs of orange and red adorning the bushes along the path.  A little later this year, and a little less sweet but there they were.  Some for me, a few for the dog, the rest for the bears.  As a child, picking these berries in the forests of my neighbourhood always brought such delight.  Thankfully, that joy of such a simple pastime has remained.