A Bereaved Parent's Wish List
Author Unknown (But if anyone knows who wrote this originally, I would love to credit them with it in this note)
1. I wish my child hadn't died. I wish I had him back.
2. I wish you wouldn't be afraid to speak my child's name. My child lived and was very important to me. I need to hear that he was important to you as well.
3. If I cry and get emotional when you talk about my child, I wish you knew that it isn't because you have hurt me. My child's death is the cause of my tears. You have talked about my child, and you have allowed me to share my grief. I thank you for both.
4. Being a bereaved parent is not contagious, so I wish you wouldn't shy away from me. I need you more than ever.
5. I need diversions, so I do want to hear about you; but I also want you to hear about me. I might be sad and I might cry, but I wish you would let me talk about my child, my favorite topic of the day.
6. I know that you think of and pray for me often. I also know that my child's death pains you, too. I wish you would let me know things through a phone call, a card or a note, or a real big hug.
7. I wish you wouldn't expect my grief to be over in six months. These first months are traumatic for me, but I wish you could understand that my grief will never be over. I will suffer the death of my child until the day I die.
8. I am working very hard in my recovery, but I wish you could understand that I will never fully recover. I will always miss my child, and I will always grieve that he is dead.
9. I wish you wouldn't expect me "not to think about it" or to "be happy". Neither will happen for a very long time so don't frustrate yourself.
10. I don't want to have a "pity party," but I do wish you would let me grieve. I must hurt before I can heal.
11. I wish you understood how my life has shattered. I know it is miserable for you to be around me when I'm feeling miserable. Please be as patient with me as I am with you.
12. When I say, "I'm doing okay," I wish you could understand that I don't feel okay and that I struggle daily.
13. I wish you knew that all of the grief reactions I'm having are very normal.
14. Depression, anger, hopelessness and overwhelming sadness are all to be expected. So please excuse me when I'm quiet and withdrawn or irritable and cranky.
15. Your advice to "take one day at a time" is excellent. I wish you could understand that I'm doing good to handle life an hour at a time.
16. I wish you understood that grief changes people. When my child died, a big part of me died with him. I am not the same person I was before my child died, and I will never be that person again.
17. I wish very much that you could understand - understand my loss and my grief, my silence and my tears, my void and my pain. But I pray daily that you will never understand.
I have come to realize a few things in the past few days:
One, working out is one of the most therapeutic activities I've found for grief.
Two, sometimes it's the people who you never expected to be there who are some of the most supportive and understanding people ever.
Three, I feel that there are some people in my life who would love nothing more than to "fix this" or even sweep it under the rug and pretend that we never had a son, and/or that he never died. At this point, I don't need to be around people who want to sweep it under the rug and pretend that it never happened. I also don't need to be around people who are going to perpetually try to fix this or try to do something to make it better. I need to be around people who understand that they can't. Those seem to be the people who "get" most of all that letting me talk about him, about my anger and my depression and specific triggers for both does me more good than almost anything else can.
I want to end this with an extremely heartfelt thank you...beyond thank you, actually...to all the people who know that this can't be fixed and are perfectly willing to just let me talk and get it out; to the people who are my workout buddies and share in my "active therapy" each week; to the people who understand that this will be an ongoing process for probably the rest of our lives, and we will never truly be "over" it; and to the people who periodically check in each week, 2 weeks, truly asking how we're doing and wanting to hear the real answer to that question. We have amazing family and friends, and even in all the lowest moments we have, not having the support we have would make all of this so much worse.
Tuesday, July 27, 2010
Monday, July 26, 2010
What started out...
What started out to be a blog about my journey through my 1st pregnancy has now turned into a blog about our journey through grief. Two months and 1 week after giving birth to a beautiful baby boy, he was taken from us in the early morning hours by SIDS.
The past almost 2 months have been an emotional roller coaster ride. Some okay moments followed by extreme lows. We've run the gamut of the grief stages and back again. Even now, almost 2 months later, there's some occasional denial that I was ever pregnant, much less had/have a beautiful son; some anger at God, at other people for seeming to not care what we're still going through, anger at ourselves that we didn't have the power to change what happened, even some irrational anger that so many other people have babies who have passed the main time frame for the most danger when it comes to SIDS; bargaining that with the next child we have, we'll be more focused on us and him/her than other people, we'll take more time, enjoy the process more, not get as upset or impatient when he/she cries, ask for more help...and the list goes on and on; depression over the silence that pervades our home where coos and grunts and cries used to be, over the fact that even though he lives on in our memory and our hearts, he isn't physically here to hold and hug and cuddle and kiss and watch; and even some acceptance mixed in with everything else, that maybe there was/is a bigger reason for all of this...maybe his soul wasn't ready yet, and he came too early, and about a million other maybes that give us some comfort and hope for the future.
In closing, this was the change of a lifetime...we are both forever changed by the small angel we were allowed to have and hold for a short time, and he will forever be a part of us.
The past almost 2 months have been an emotional roller coaster ride. Some okay moments followed by extreme lows. We've run the gamut of the grief stages and back again. Even now, almost 2 months later, there's some occasional denial that I was ever pregnant, much less had/have a beautiful son; some anger at God, at other people for seeming to not care what we're still going through, anger at ourselves that we didn't have the power to change what happened, even some irrational anger that so many other people have babies who have passed the main time frame for the most danger when it comes to SIDS; bargaining that with the next child we have, we'll be more focused on us and him/her than other people, we'll take more time, enjoy the process more, not get as upset or impatient when he/she cries, ask for more help...and the list goes on and on; depression over the silence that pervades our home where coos and grunts and cries used to be, over the fact that even though he lives on in our memory and our hearts, he isn't physically here to hold and hug and cuddle and kiss and watch; and even some acceptance mixed in with everything else, that maybe there was/is a bigger reason for all of this...maybe his soul wasn't ready yet, and he came too early, and about a million other maybes that give us some comfort and hope for the future.
In closing, this was the change of a lifetime...we are both forever changed by the small angel we were allowed to have and hold for a short time, and he will forever be a part of us.
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