Saturday, September 19, 2015

Tears are Hot

Written January 2012, one year after losing both children in a car accident.  Deana is now the Vice President of Cry for Me No More, a nonprofit organization serving thousands around the country.  She and her husband raise their sole granddaughter, who was in the car behind Deana's daughter and son.

I never really noticed how hot tears are as they roll down my face. Sure, I have cried many times before you died; but you leaving made time stand still and life feel so surreal.

Shock, numbness, nausea, and pain so severe I was certain I would die. 

Can’t they see it? Surly they can. No one acts as if they can see it. My heart hurts so badly, my soul aches; my breasts hurt yearning for my children, how can that be? Why can’t they see it? Why can’t they help?

Who am I now that my children have gone? Where am I now that your voices are no where to be heard? There are no phone calls with crises to fix. No more reasons to give you money today. No problems that only Mom knows the answers to.

It’s been a year now since you went home, and I find myself feeling so alone. Who will care for me when I am old? What of my future? Where have my dreams gone, your college graduations, your careers, your weddings, the holidays at your homes?

Since you left I struggle with so many questions.  Am I still a mom? I have no children now, so how could I possibly be a mom? What if I had bought four new tires for the car instead of two? What if I had not given you gas money to make the trip?

I never noticed how hot tears are as they roll down my face. As I cry for missing you both as I often do, the tears fall in slow motion symbolic of how today it’s still so unreal.

It seems like yesterday I received that dreaded call.  "I hate to have to tell you this," he said on the phone. At that moment I knew what I was about to hear would change my life forever. 

I knew what he was about to say I could not bear.

But for some reason I did not know you were dead; I thought mothers were to know those things, a feeling, a hunch. I had so much guilt that I didn’t know my babies had died when I was in that meeting 10:30 that morning.

My first thought when I heard his voice was that you made him call because our granddaughter, our "baby girl," had died and you could not tell me yourself because of your broken hearts and your personal shock. But then I heard those dreaded words that I will never forget.

"Amanda and Logan have been killed in an accident."  Or maybe he said, "Amanda and Logan are dead."  Or possibly even, "There has been an accident, and Amanda and Logan didn’t make it." I don’t recall the exact words, but the end result was all the same.

I never noticed how hot tears are as they roll down my face. As I cry today, one year later, I cry more for me and our little girl not having you in our lives for I know you are home now and we will be together again one day.

I thank you for leaving your baby girl here with me; I thank God daily she was in the car behind you. We have each other and we will make it through and create a new life together as you meant us to.

Caring for her has helped me to heal that part of me that asked if I am still a ,om. My answer today is yes, I am a ,om of 3, 2 of my children live in heaven and I have one precious little granddaughter who lives here with me.

The year has gone so fast; I can’t believe I write this now one year later.  In some ways I feel no different. The pain is still immense; my heart still hurts, my soul still aches, the physical pain still remains.

But the difference is today I have seen the other side; I have experienced joy where last year I believed I never would again. I have laughed and smiled and played as we used to do. I strive daily to go on in your memory, with your love as my inspiration as you would want me to.

Some days I even forget to notice the temperature of the tears as they fall down my face. 

For once more they are healing tears.  Tears of joy, tears of anger and tears of sadness, they are not only the tears of a mother's broken heart.

In Loving Memory of
Amanda Suzanne Mills 12/15/85-1/20/11 and Logan Robert Mills 5/27/89-1/20/11
One year after their transition home.
Written by their Mother

Deana L. Martin

Thursday, September 17, 2015

A Village of Loss, a Village of Love

This morning as I sat down at the computer with coffee mug in hand, I was instantly mesmerized as I reviewed a Grief Diaries entry describing a loved one’s suicide:

“The level of devastation and confusion after a loss like this is completely beyond description. There are no adequate words to describe the deep ocean of ache that washes over you as relentlessly as waves are washed over the shore. Looking back, I only remember a series of blackened days. Moving through each day felt like moving through concrete. I couldn’t understand why everyone’s world was still turning while mine had come to a shuddering halt. I wasn’t there; I was suspended in a world that wasn’t reality, a world where Hannah was still alive. I couldn’t understand why everything was unfolding as if she had died.”

Feeling the purity of the emotions, the words stole my breath.  

The entries to the Grief Diaries, a book series about loss, come in all day long. Yet every entry mesmerizes me by the candid rawness.  The contributing authors, baring the good, the bad, and the ugly, leave nothing to the imagination.  

Their individual stories unite into a sacred collection of recorded memories. Accordingly, I handle each entry with kid gloves, as if the very words themselves are fragile.

Will other readers feel the same way I do? Will the deeply profound stories touch their hearts the same way they touch mine? 

Some people might shudder at reading such stories. Some, seeing only sadness, will turn away from the raw beauty. 

Yet I see a treasure chest yielding a legacy of comfort, healing and hope.  The kind of legacy that can only be created by a rich collection of voices. 

And every voice is valued.  

The 70 authors collaborating on this series readily swap thoughts, support and cyber hugs. And I can’t help but admire our little group. A village of kindness, compassion, and support where cultural differences and societal imperfections have little bearing. Here in this village we all speak the same language of loss, and every journey is honored. 

And I feel overwhelming gratitude at sharing their brokenness. And humanness. And love.

For grief is ultimately all about love. 

And I am grateful. 

Copyright © 2015 Confessions of a Grieving Mother. All Rights Reserved. |