Dear Grieving Gracie

Dear Grieving Gracie,

As I read through yesterday's comments, I heard a lot about feeling shunned by someone's behavior toward them. Is it possible that awkwardness, sadness and not knowing what to say to someone who has lost a loved one, silence even, may be mistaken as shunning? -Betty

Dear Betty,

You bring up an excellent thought. I do believe that many people feel deep sadness for our loss, and don't know what to say or do, causing them to stay silent or hold back. This is easily mistaken for shunning. The problem lies in that bereaved people can't tell the difference. The wound of an emotional heartbreak isn't visible and has nowhere to go, so it just stays there as an indescribable rawness with no mobility.

As an analogy, a broken leg is a visible wound. Although immobilized by a cast, when it hurts the patient can move about in an effort to find a comfortable position. With a broken heart, there are no muscles or surrounding joints to flex that will bring relief.

Further, visible wounds trigger instant compassion, but invisible wounds do not. We don't know what we don't know, right? If I can't see your pain, how do I know you're not just seeking sympathy (says Pastor Osteen)?

Some people in society play the victim card because it's a manipulation tactic they were taught as a child. But that victim card has nothing to do with grief. It isn't a light switch we use to manipulate those around us. We have no control over our profound sadness, nor do we have a date to look forward to when the cast is removed and life returns to normal.

Going back to the bereaved's inability to tell the difference between shunning or someone who shares our deep sadness but doesn't know what to say, my recommendation is to hug. Give a hug. Receive a hug. No words are necessary. If the recipient recoils from the hug, shrug it off and find a hug somewhere else. Hugs are a sign of true friendship. 

Warm regards and big hugs,

Grieving Gracie XOXO

Dear Grieving Gracie

Dear Grieving Gracie,

Do you ever have trouble with people once you tell them you have a child who died? I don't know if it is the way I say it, but it has happened enough where people I meet start talking with me and I tell them about me and my family. At some point I tell them I had a son who passed and almost immediately they walk away or lose interest in getting to know me any further. I am hurt and angered at the fact that most people push us away because they don't want to know what it is like to lose a child. I understand that what we are going through is inconceivable by people who have never experienced losing a child but shunning us is like pouring salt in my wound. Please help me understand this? -Kim, bereaved mother

Dear Kim,

Being shunned is a common problem all bereaved mothers face, no matter how long it's been. It really hurts to be shunned but it comes from a place of people simply not knowing what to say coupled with deep fear.

They don't mean to hurt us, I truly believe that. But the pendulum has swung so far the other way that those of us who mourn the loss of someone we love are accused of indulging in self pity. This notion is far from truth, and why we're working so hard to bring the pendulum back to a level of compassion where it belongs. It's an uphill battle, but I refuse to allow this way of thinking to be passed along to future generations.

My honest opinion is that you should never deny your loved one’s existence at the expense of someone else's comfort. That would be denying who you are, because your loved one is part of you. No matter how lovely someone is, if he or she doesn't want to get to know the whole you, that is a flaw in their character you can't fix. Sad, but true.

Our circles of friends are determined by how accepting they are of us as a bereaved mother. Our inner circle is comprised of those who are capable of holding that sacred space when we are experiencing a sad moment. They love us in spite of our fetal position on the floor.

The second circle sits outside the inner circle, and is comprised of dear friends who love us, and we love them, but they aren't capable of holding that sacred space in our time of need. They're the ones who suddenly need to get home to water the flowers when we mention our child. They love every part about us, except our grief.

The third circle are those friends who know and like us, interact with us and our families, but aren't comfortable being alone with us out of fear that we might mention our child.

The outer circle is everyone else we engage with, and are gracious to, but aren't part of our intimate lives and likely don't know our story.

Shunning happens in every circle except our sacred inner circle. Only there will we find true compassion and comfort in our time of need. For those in the other circles, they'll learn soon enough when their time comes, and although they weren't capable of being there for us, we'll be there for them. We lead by example.

This is a problem faced by many, and isn't limited to bereaved mothers or spouses. My belief is that you don't have to understand something to have compassion. I truly hope that through our collective efforts to bring that pendulum back down where it belongs, future generations will find better support.

Warm regards and big hugs,

Grieving Gracie XOXO

Dying to Play Social Media Game Blue Whale

"How do people survive this?" 

These are the words of a mother whose son died by suicide 15 days ago. 

I know, suicide is too sad to talk about. What if I told you there is a shocking new social media game called Blue Whale where participants win by dying?

There is.

The truth is that I debated long and hard about writing this post because there is just nothing uplifting about suicide. But when social media and Facebook Live are being used as a platform to gain 15 minutes of fame in brutal ways including suicide, I become guilty by association by turning the other cheek.

So I'm going to talk about it. 

Thankfully I'm not alone. Netflix has taken the courageous step of devoting a whole series to the subject. "13 Reasons Why" follows the life of a teen boy who struggles to make sense of a classmate's suicide. Although the series is embroiled in controversy for its graphic scenes, whether you agree or not, Netflix deserves kudos for being brave enough to spend millions on a subject nobody wants to address except by those who find themselves facing the real-life aftermath.

Also, big kudos to my friend and fellow author Chuck Andreas. Chuck shared his poignant story of unexpectedly losing his beloved wife Gloria in 2014 to heart disease in "Grief Diaries: Through the Eyes of Men," including the part where he felt lost, hopeless, and—yes—attempted suicide. Chuck has since turned his pain into purpose by speaking to kids (and adults) about his story with hopes of sparing others from taking the same steps. He's even gone so far to inspire and author "Grief Diaries: I Survived My Suicide Attempt." That takes guts. And yet who better to raise awareness than those who've walked the journey? 

When we find ourselves caught between a world who finds suicide too sad to discuss and yet we're up against a social media suicide game that's spreading around the world, what can we do? How do we stop the madness?

We can open the dialogue. 

We can talk about it and educate ourselves on how people young and old find themselves in a suicidal spot so we can learn the red flags and take action before they do. 

Talk about it. Be brave. Help stop suicide. 

And if you know someone who has lost a loved one to suicide, hug them for a really long time. XOXO

Why is grief self-indulgent?

On most mornings for the past 11 years, I've walked with my neighbor Evelyn in a cemetery—land designated as a burial ground for the dead. Some find that morbid or creepy, but I don't. I find it peaceful and serene; a place that affords excellent walking paths. The foliage changes every three months, and over the years we've gained friends along the way.

One of those friends was a lady named Karen. Most mornings Karen and her husband John walked their little dog Teddy in the cemetery. It was wonderful exercise for Teddy, and afforded Karen and John a tranquil time between the two of them in his final days before he died in 2009, the same year we lost our daughter Aly. Two years prior, in 2007, my neighbor Evelyn lost her nephew.

After John died, it became just Karen and Teddy walking in the cemetery. We didn’t see her every morning, but when we did the three of us stood and chatted not about our losses but about life. 

Oh, sometimes we chatted about our losses but that's the thing about grief. It’s part of life. 

A few months ago Karen died. While on our morning walk earlier this week, Evelyn and I stopped where Karen is laid to rest next to John. We stood there staring at her name etched on the granite and it hit us hard that we'll never again run into Karen on our morning walks. We miss Karen's easy smile and twinkling blue eyes, and her little dog Teddy too, but this is the cycle of life.

Which brings me to my question. If death, loss and grief have been around since the beginning of time, when did it become a topic so full of taboo? Public displays of mourning were once considered dutiful, respectful and a sign of good character. 

Now it’s considered self-indulgent and impolite, for we must spare others our suffering.

When did that happen? And why?

How I Found the Sun and a Stronger Umbrella

The story behind Grief Diaries

When I was a kid, I wanted to be a doctor. A brain surgeon to be exact. But life has a way of throwing us curve balls that force us down a different path. Sometimes those paths are most welcome, like mothering four wonderful children. My least favorite path? Losing a child. That path is a long and torturous one, and took me straight through the belly of hell.

My story began one night in 2007, when I had a vivid dream. I was the front seat passenger in a car and my daughter Aly was sitting behind the driver. Suddenly, the car missed a curve in the road and sailed into a lake. The driver and I escaped the sinking car, but Aly did not. My beloved daughter was gone. The only evidence left behind was a book floating on the water where she disappeared.

Two years later, on August 5, 2009, that horrible nightmare became reality when Aly died as a back seat passenger in a car accident. Returning home from a swim meet, the car carrying Aly and two of her teammates was T-boned by a father coming home from work. My beautiful fifteen-year-old daughter took the brunt of the impact, and died instantly. She was the only fatality.

Life couldn’t get any worse, right? Wrong. Hell wasn’t done with me yet. My dear sweet hubby buried his head (and grief) in the sand. He escaped into 80-hour work weeks, more wine, more food, and less talking. His blood pressure shot up, his cholesterol went off the chart, and the perfect storm arrived on June 4, 2012. In an instant, my husband felt a strange warmth spread inside his head. He began drooling, and couldn’t speak. My 46-years-young soulmate was having a major stroke.

He lived, but couldn’t speak, read, or write, and his right side was paralyzed. He needed assistance just to sit up in bed. He needed full-time care. Still reeling from the loss of our daughter, I found myself again thrust into a fog of grief so thick, I couldn’t see through the storm. Adrenaline and autopilot resumed their familiar place at the helm.

But I needed reassurance that the sun was on the other side of hell. As I fought my way through the storm, I discovered that helping others was a powerful way to heal my own heart. I began reaching out to individuals who were adrift and in need of a life raft. And a warm hug.

In 2013, I formed AlyBlue Media to house my mission. Comforting people who spoke my language, and listening to their stories, my mission took on a life of its own and came in many forms: a radio show, film, webinars, and writing. 

Oh, and a national convention. I wanted to bring broken souls together under one roof, regardless of their journey. I had many wonderful speakers, but the one I was most excited about was a woman who had faced seven losses in a few short years: Martin Luther King’s youngest daughter, Dr. Bernice King. I didn’t bring her to the convention to tell us about her famous father. We already knew that story. I wanted to know how she survived.

Over the course of that weekend, I was deeply moved by watching strangers swap stories and become newfound friends. These were stories born from hardship, yet were remarkable on many levels. Touched to the core, I set out to capture them into a book series aptly named Grief Diaries.

Over a hundred people in six countries registered, and the first 8 titles were launched in December 2015. Now home to more than 400 writers spanning the globe, Grief Diaries has 14 titles in print with 16 more due by the end of 2016. Another 20 titles are set to be added in 2017.

At the heart of it all is a beautiful village. I might be the engine, but they are the force that provides the fuel for our little engine that could.

Where am I today? 

Once a bereaved mother, always a bereaved mother. My heart is a bit like a broken teacup that has been glued back together. All the pieces are there, but they might not fit as seamlessly as they once did. Some days the glue is strong and unyielding. Other days that glue is wet, and threatens to spring a leak. Nonetheless, that teacup still holds water. Well, mostly coffee. Strong coffee. 

Life can sometimes throw a really mean curveball that blindsides even the strongest. It’s important to hold out hope that the sun can be found at the end of the path. But until you find it, it’s comforting to know you aren’t alone. And that is what Grief Diaries all about.

For the record, I have found the sun. Some days I marvel at its beauty. Other days it hides behind clouds. But I now know those days don’t last forever. And my umbrella is much stronger than it used to be.

Helen Keller once said, “Walking with a friend in the dark is better than walking alone in the light.” If you too are looking for the sun, visit our village for a hug and stay for the friendship. And share our page with others who need the same. That’s what were here for: to offer you a spot in the life raft until the storm passes, and the sun begins to shine once again. 

I'll even let you borrow my umbrella.

Warm regards,

Lynda Cheldelin Fell 

www.lyndafell.com

www.griefdiaries.com

Do you believe in after-death communication?

Do you believe in God, and the magic of heaven? Do you believe that love never dies, that the human soul transcends human death? Do you believe that heaven can inspire or comfort us?

I do. I dreamed of my daughter's death two years before it happened. Two years later that nightmare became reality when my fifteen-year-old daughter died as a back seat passenger in a car accident on August 5, 2009.

I arrived at the crash scene to find my precious third-born strapped to a backboard and draped by a stark white sheet. I knelt down beside her, paused for a second, and then sought her hand under the sheet’s edge. I sat there, with her hand in mine, for what felt like ages. For a brief moment, I looked up into the dark field that stretched before us, and that is when I saw her: my beloved grandmother, who had passed thirteen years before, had an arm around Aly and was gently leading her away. Aly was looking over her right shoulder at me as she walked beside the great-grandmother she never knew. Walking away from me — forever.

In the years since the accident, we have experienced countless events involving Aly. One time, our oldest son climbed out of his truck for two minutes. When he got back in, he felt a lump under his floor mat — a lump that wasn’t there just minutes prior. Lifting up the mat, he discovered one of Aly’s blue rocks. Her favorite color, she often painted fist-size rocks blue and placed them outside for the fairies. And now one was suddenly sitting under the floor mat of our son’s truck. It lifted his heart.

One night I was playing on my iPad. I began a fresh word game and waited for my device to dispense the new tiles. There they were, three tiles in perfect order, spelling out her name: A-L-Y. I smiled. How could I not?

I’m close to my family, including all my nieces and nephews. It’s was no surprise when my oldest niece went into labor with her firstborn on Aly’s birthday. But the shock came when an unfamiliar doctor entered the room to deliver the baby. The name on her hospital badge? Aly. Yes, Dr. Aly delivered my sister’s first grandchild on Aly’s birthday. What are the odds?

Our family’s list of unexpected incidences involving Aly could go on and on. But my family isn’t unique; our experiences are shared by many. Grief Diaries: Hello From Heaven is filled with 20 similar accounts of after-death communication from loved ones who had passed away. I applaud the writers for sharing such remarkable stories; one has to be quite brave to share such things, as not everyone believes in after-death communication. Some might even believe it is evil. How can something that brings so much comfort be evil? Comfort only comes from God, not disguised as sheep in wolf’s clothing.

One thing is certain: my faith is strong and unshakable. I believe in God and Jesus with all my heart. I also believe in the magic of heaven and the afterlife. I believe that there is more to life than meets the eye. I believe my dream two years before the accident was a heads-up from God, a divine glimpse into a path I couldn’t yet fathom. I believe my grandmother collected Aly that night in the field so I would know Aly was led safely to heaven following her tragic death. 

Do I think Aly’s rock under my son’s floor mat was a coincidence? No. Do I think that three tiles spelling Aly’s name in perfect order is coincidence? No, again. Can some of our experiences be chalked up to coincidence? Probably so, if one tries hard enough. But many of our experiences are so improbable that even coincidence appears to be a stretch. 

For some, no amount of convincing will make a difference. For the rest of us, Grief Diaries: Hello From Heaven will tell the tales of many who believe that after-death communication is alive and well, and so are our loved ones. 

Yes, I believe. I believe in God, the magic of heaven, and that love never dies. With all my heart. 

One laugh can scatter a hundred griefs. So can one dance.

This past weekend, my niece got married. I'm from a large family who has weathered some terrible heartaches over the years, some of which are still unfolding. Yet, in the days leading up to and the day of the wedding, our hearts were filled with nothing but joy. And when the music started, we danced the evening away, seemingly without a care in the world.

Did we forget the terrible life events we've weathered? Are we calloused to our struggles? Of course not. One never forgets ongoing hardships. But truth be told, although our hearts always carry the sadness of those hardships, my family embraces those moments of joy for all they're worth. I didn’t suddenly forget all my heartache. But the heart is capable of holding joy at the same time it holds sorrow. True story.

It's also an unspoken rule in our family that we refuse to be victims. Of anything. When people see me, do I want them to see the bereaved mother, wife of a stroke patient, sister of a cancer patient, so I can revel in the pity bestowed upon me? No. I want them to see me as an example of light, love and laughter. Because it gives them hope that no matter their own hardship, they too might laugh again one day. And they will.

Our family is just like any other family. Okay, so it’s filled with more than a little craziness, but otherwise we're just the family next door, with ups and downs like anyone else. But when we take a moment to look around, we're surrounded by blessings. And those blessings are what we choose to see.

So this past weekend, I danced with my family and enjoyed every second. Some of my family was missing. And my dear sweet hubby's stroke prevents him from enjoying the dance floor, which makes me sad. My heart hurts knowing that we'll never dance again unless it’s in the privacy of our bedroom. Being in his arms is the best feeling in the world for me. But one laugh can scatter a hundred griefs. And when you boogie with my family, you can bet there will be more than a little laughter, because most of us dance like an octopus with 24 arms. Another true story.

As news broke yesterday of yet another bombing, my heart was heavy knowing the untold number of people who now begin a journey our family knows well. It is an unspeakable journey, unlike any other. But try as we might, we can't fix it for them. And that hurts, too, knowing that there are no words that can make their fresh loss any less devastating. But I can pray for them, and wrap them in an invisible blanket of love and comfort.

And I can dance. So that one day, maybe they'll see that their hearts too will hold joy at the same time it holds sorrow. It will take a very long time for them to reach that point, but until then, I will be the best example of hope I can possibly be, by emanating light, love and laughter.

And a little bit of dancing. With my family. Because that makes me laugh. And one laugh can scatter a hundred griefs. True story.