The Loss of a Child
I have found a group called M.S.A. on Facebookand it is a second home to me. There are so many…
I have found a group called M.S.A. on Facebook and it is a second home to me. There are so many supporters for this terrible disease. People know what is happening. I can ask questions about this illness and there are so many hugs.
My first home is here at WP so I feel especially blessed to have such a large, extended family coming from all sides.
My daughter and I were able to speak for a few minutes last night. I asked her questions that I did not understand, and it felt so good to have her take the time to answer me. I don’t always like the answers I am told. I don’t think any of us really want to face that giant wall of knowing we are facing death of a loved one.
Yesterday I learned that another precious adult child was taken to heaven. The mother posted her loss. The grief that is in a parent to lose a child before they, themselves have taken leave, I would think would be devastating.
My Grandma has lost two of her daughters to God. Each time it happened my Grandma would say the same thing. ” It should have been me first, not them. I am the Mom.”
I can’t say that I know exactly what she is feeling as I am blessed to have my own children with me, but I can feel her pain.
My loss of words could not be spoken to Lucille but I am able to write in word what I feel. I wrote her this poem this morning and I thought, maybe my friends here at WP would like to see it also.
It doesn’t seem right
It doesn’t seem fair
We give birth to a baby
He is with us every where.
We grow older
He grows up
He brings us smiles
As he sips from a cup.
Our hair begins to gray
He is thriving in school
We tear as he graduates
He has learned every tool.
We settle into retirement
He is told he is ill
We take our morning coffee
While he takes his pills.
Then one day we cry
As he left our arms for God
We stand at his grave
And look down at the sod.
It doesn’t seem fair
It doesn’t seem right
That we are still standing
But he lost his fight.
In dedication to
Honestly evaluate the way you respond to crisis situations. Are you happy with the way you react?
The Daily Prompt
Oh brother, what a topic for me to have to write on. I bet you all can’t wait to see the answer to this one, right? Anyone who knows me knows that I panic first, think later, and accept last.
I didn’t used to be like this. I remember once upon a time I used to laugh at everything and even laugh off events in my life. Then serious things happened. Divorce, illness, death. These things started to place a thumb print on my heart and soul.
I started wondering about my own life as I sat closely to others who were in the dying process. I got to the place that I wanted to be working anywhere that death was not even standing around the corner.
All I wanted to do was be happy and laugh and care free. Like I was when I was a kid and I was speeding by on my bicycle. My pig-tails flying in the wind. The clatter of my tickers on my bike spokes and the tassels on the handle bars. Wow look at them go!
What happened though didn’t make me content. It was a pretend game where no one won. I needed to be me once again. The facts are that I do love taking care of others. I do like knowing they depend on me. I like knowing they feel secure in my hands.
But with this does come a side-effect. Too much war paint on the face. Too many scars and too many memories of loved ones gone by. I tend to be over active in my mind when something odd is facing me. I tend to worry I may lose the one I love. When I lose a patient or a client, I fall hard. I give my heart 100%.
This can be a bad side-effect but it is who I am. I would rather be me and have the support of my blogger friends, than to pretend that I don’t give a hoot. I want other people to know that I care.
I will end this with sharing a vision of a patient I once had;
A female patient in her nineties. Quiet, very seldom spoke. I was filling in at a nursing home where I once worked through an agency traveling all around my home state working for short-staffed facilities.
This was a lovely lady with pure white thinning hair and big adorable blue eyes. Her skin so frail that if you touched it you could end up with torn skin. I was privileged to work with her for five days. She was dying and she knew it as well as I did. When ever I had time I would go into her room and sit with her. I would hold her hand and say nothing. Her family I didn’t know anything about. All I knew was that she was alone. In her last moments, she said in her very frail voice, “Honey, you have been my angel. You have been sent to me to keep me company until I died. Don’t ever change who you are”. With these words spoken, they were her last. I cried like a baby. Staff came in and left and commented to me about getting used to this. It happens all the time. But for me, each time is the first all over again.
I am who I am. Over reacting at times. Looking for support to you. I have good days and bad days, but one thing that will never be a crisis in my life is the lack of caring… because that is just part of who I am.
She was sitting on the swing, that was surrounded by many weeping willow trees. Her feet
slowly moving back and forth, giving the movement a mere whisper for anyone to notice. Her head bent downward, and tears falling from her eyes, as the funeral home was here picking up her father who had passed away only moments before.
Grief gripped at her heart and tore it wide open, letting feelings of sadness and dismay pour out. Her father had been her idol her entire life, and now he was gone. Only early this morning, she had held his hands and used her soothing words to comfort him. She knew the pain that he was suffering, but she also realized her own pain that was rising up over the boiling pot, had to be much worse than anything he could be feeling.
He could not do this to her. He had rescued her when she was but a little child. When she looked up into his eyes, and he smiled at her, this assured her that he was all she needed in her life.
With him, there was security, and love, a child and a father’s love. There was nothing more important to this child, than being with her daddy. He was Superman, capable of fixing everything that breaks little girls heart, and now he was gone.
As she sat swinging, she looked out over the trees, and asked God why he had taken him from her. She had grown up to believe that God was a good God, and he could fix pain better than even her own daddy.
Who would be her hero now. Who would she turn to in times of grief, or run to with good news, only to know she would see the smile that made her feel so secure and needed. She heard many birds up in the trees singing, and she felt angry, as she didn’t want them to be celebrating his pain being over. She wanted the world to quiet and feel her own loss.
The hearse came and the hearse left, leaving behind the screaming, for only herself to hear. She got up out of the swing, and casually walked to the water’s edge, and watched the reflection of herself in the rippling waters, asking the shadow who she was. For what she saw was a tall woman, who carried herself with a grace all of her own. She saw her own eyes looking back at her, but could not find the tears, the same tears that were dripping from her own eyes.
As the water softly moved she imagined herself lying on top of it, floating out to bigger waters, being lifted by God, to go to where her daddy had gone. She searched and waited for a sign that told her it was alright to step into the dark shadows and drift away, but no sign came.
She let herself fall gracefully to the ground, her fingers entangling with the soft blades of grass. She buried her head close to her body and she wept a daughter’s grief. She poured all of her sadness and pain into the black earth, until there was left behind nothing but dry dirt.
It was over, be strong, be courageous. You are the eldest child, there is much to be done. She pulled herself to an upright position, and using her arm as her blanket, she wiped the tears from her eyes. She looked out over God’s beauty, having found no answers, and stood up and walked back towards the house. She found herself alone, as she walked the old too familiar path of the grounds.
No one was in the house and she slowly picked up the phone and started making the calls to inform others of the sad news. Life does move on, but it takes time to heal. For some, kick back is smoothly running, and for others the grief still remains ever-present.
Filling the void, left in the heart, is a chore, and sometimes hidden behind faces, waiting for a day to fully grieve the loss, only to be found still carrying this heaviness many years later. Well wishers and foods came and went, and once again, she found herself, thinking of her daddy wondering what she should do next. How would he be handling something like this if it had happened to him.
Then she snaps into reality and realizes he didn’t know how to deal with pain either. Many times she had visited him to find him sitting on the swing, gently using his feet to move the swing, staring off into space, and looking closer, you could see the feelings that had risen in a man’s heart, with after flow of tears falling. This was what he had felt, and this is how he reacted when he lost his own wife in earlier years.
The trickling effect of life being born and ending, had made its way down the path of a family generation, and now it had stopped here, marking its territory on the only children left, the last of the generation.
Life moves on, smiles come and go, chatter still continues, but the void left behind in my own heart still burns with pain. I love you daddy and I miss the comfort of you being near me. I hope you are doing fine up there in heaven. Give mom a kiss for me, and in no time at all, we will all be a family together.
I have been writing for a month today, and have discovered that it is a wonderful way to release stress, to be able to voice through words, what I have felt and never been able to say. As time goes by, and I have retained more and more followers, it hit me today, that although there are many topics, titles, different lengths in our stories, we all are human and we all want the same thing. It doesn’t matter if you have been following me from the beginning, or you started following me yesterday, our words still express the same thing. A yearning to be accepted and loved. We come in to this world from dust. The first person our eyes meet are the ones who love us and will stick by our side for ever, right? Or wrong. Some of never make it to that home we were meant to go, for one reason or other. Some of us don’t make it to see the world as a child will see it. Some of us always have the same parents through out our lives, some have one, or maybe multiple parents. We learn in school we get rewards. A gold star, our name chalked on the black board. A monetary reward for good grades, maybe a restaurant of our choice for work well done. Elementary days are the greatest. Life is exciting, we make new friends, we discover new things our parents never taught us. Then there is a bridge you cross over. Called Middle school/high school. For some of us, that is a very difficult bridge to cross successfully. Classes become harder, more home work is put upon us. Puberty is in full swing. Our hearts begin to feel feelings we have never experienced and our bodies become unglued. Friendships change, leaving us to ponder on what is wrong with us. What did we do or say wrong. Individuality starts to play a major role in our lives. Somewhere,somehow, no matter how many parents you had. or where you were lived, or how you were brought up, for a brief moment in time, or for some much longer, we yearn for what we once had. That gold star, that feeling of being loved. The need to feel accepted. Our worlds become shaken. Some folks turn to drugs, some to alcohol, some to shrinks, some to early death, and then there are us, the writers. We are able to take all that has happened in our lives. Our needs, desires, our wants, and we have been able to successfully put these in words. We have become loved, and needed by each other, and we get that gold star through acknowledgement of our postings. I am more proud of me today than I have ever been. Expressing myself and having a group of followers is all I needed to feel complete. Someone understands me. They have felt my pain, or happiness, or confusion. Thank you fellow writers, for being in my life. You may not know me personally, but you understand me, and accept me for who I have become today.
I am sorry I am posting another story. I can’t help it today. I think of the things that I feel are tragic. Kids getting sick, car accidents, speeding tickets, court dates, divorce, alcoholics, drug users. Losing a job, never having enough money, being hungry. There was a day, not long ago to me, that I felt the way I feel today. The loss of my father, my hero. Never to see him again. Missing him, never hearing his voice again. I did manage to move on with support from family and friends. I am opening up my heart, slicing it right down the middle, so you can see all it holds. Pain, my heart holds the pain for my brother, because his pain is on over load. Tears. My heart has many tears flowing through it, because my brother’s tears have fallen all day and mine have followed his. Grief. My heart holds grief, because my brother keeps telling me that he doesn’t want to live. That his tremors have won. In my own personal life, I have had sorrow. A loss of my parents, a friend or two throughout the years. A job loss. Having no home at all. Scarcity in food. I hurt, but I healed. Holes in my heart closed. Life moved forward. I am now forced to the largest challenge in my life. For today, I have had to introduce the wheel chair into our daily lives. A gait belt for better support. News was announced that social outings were going to be limited. My challenge is to watch unstable walking, aggressive tremors, seeming to worsen each month, soft-spoken words, drooling, slow movements, choking, swallowing, the use of canes, walkers, I have been beaten down by this wicked disease. My heart feels like it can break no more, until this moment. My brother came out of his bedroom, telling me he was watching The Ten Commandments. Tears were pouring out of his eyes. I could barely hear him speak. I bent down close to his face and asked if he could repeat what he had just said. He told me, that the show really bothered him. I ask him why. He said, I am tired. My tremors make me tired Terry. I can’t do anything anymore. I can’t even change my own bed sheets. The tears became stronger and stronger, and I heard him choke out the words,,,,,,,,it makes me think that I am going to see Jesus soon.