Happy birthday, my child

Dear Lovey,

It's hard to believe that 23 years ago today you birthed from my womb into our waiting arms. I can't help but wonder what you would look like now, what you would have accomplished, and what goals would be in your cross hairs next.

Would you have reached your dream of the Olympics? Would you be graduating from Stanford?

One thing is for certain—in the short time you spent here, you taught us to use compassion to make a difference. I've tried to model myself after you, and like to think you would be proud of the person I've become, even though my heart is heavy on days like today. 

More than ever I yearn to wrap both arms around you, steal a kiss from the top of your head while secretly taking in the smell of your hair. I want to feel the softness of your teenage skin. I want to make jewelry with piles of pearls, crystals, and elements spread across the table between us. I want to rock out to music together on the way home from the pool.

These are the things I think of every day, but they're especially tender on days like today.

Most days I want to spare the world my pain. But in moments like this I want the world to know that grief is okay.

I want them to know it is okay for me to be sad, that my heart hurts years later and I will cry, but they should not be frightened of that. 

I know there will always be some who lack compassion and cast judgement against my sorrow, but they do so only out of fear for their own grief not yet experienced.

One day they too will learn that great sorrow stems only from great love.

So Lovey, on your birthday today I make you two promises. First, I will never be angry at those who tell us to get over it. Their judgement is cast out of fear, and I cannot be angry at fear. Second, I vow to cover the brokenhearted who are stung by such words with love and compassion so they don't feel alone. 

Because loneliness on this journey surely turns a tender heart bitter.

And a bitter heart in a living person is more tragic than a tender heart in a dead person.

Lovey, you had a premonition that we would soon be separated. I don't think you were afraid to die. I think you feared for the grief I would face.

But there is no need for you or anyone to fear my grief.

It is the worst journey imaginable, yes. But I am a better person because of it. 

It has taught me to see outside my own world.

It has opened a vein of compassion that never runs dry.

It has taught me patience and grace in the face of judgement.

My world, blessed with loving family and friends, has grown even richer with new friends who are old souls of the very best kind.

It's your birthday today, and yet I feel like it is I who has been given gifts—gifts of purpose amid pain, gifts of kindness amid judgment, gifts of helping others to help my own heart to heal.

I am not afraid of the grief I now bear. For without grief there would be no need for hope. 

And hope is the best gift of all.

Happy birthday, Lovey. I love you.

Love,

Mom  XOXO

A Christmas Poem

A poem for all my friends and family with heavy hearts.

T’was the night before Christmas, when all thro' the house
not a creature was stirring, not even a mouse.
Lost in deep slumber, tucked warm in our beds,
our hearts were heavy as memories danced in our heads.

What are loved ones doing in heaven on this night?
Are they sending us kisses by the moon’s magical light?
Or do they dance among the gifts sitting under the tree
waiting for family to open with laughter and glee?

I tossed and I turned, caught up in my sorrow
And finally got up before the clock struck tomorrow.
What was I searching for in this quiet hour?
I didn’t know; I just felt lost in sad dour.

As I sat in the dark watching the tree all aglow
I pondered a small glass of top-shelf merlot.
Would it ease my sorrow, bring joy to my heart?
Oh, how I wish I could find some kind of jumpstart.

And that’s when I spied it, a book on the shelf;

it sat right next to my grandson’s red-suited elf.
The book beckoned me, and I knew in my heart
that the comfort it offered would sweetened my tart.

I opened the book and made some new friends
and followed their journey through bumps and the bends.
I read about their tears, fears, and feeling insane
and learned how they survive through the terrible pain.

Inspired by their determination to go on in spite of their loss,
I marveled that my heart now felt less cross.
How could it be that such stories, so broken,
could soothe my own heart from words written, not spoken?

I realized then why the stories touch me so deep inside.
It’s a gift from each writer to readers who’ve cried.
The stories, as hard as they are, offer little gifts of hope.
They say “We’re with you; you aren’t alone as you cope.”

I finished the book, and the top-shelf merlot.
My heart felt lighter than it did hours ago.
I made my way back to my cozy-warm bed,
laid down and pulled the covers up to my head.

As my family continued in deep slumber,
I marveled that angels in heaven must be a large number.
No longer was my heart heavy with sorrow
because I now knew I could face another tomorrow.

If my friends in the book could cope and survive
I reasoned that perhaps I could at least try.
As slumber overtook me, I drifted off to sleep.
Feeling less lonely now, I had no need to count sheep.

One final thought drifted through my sleepy head
as I laid there tucked in my cozy-warm bed.
What are loved ones doing in heaven on this night?
Are they sending us kisses by the moon’s magical light?
Or do they dance among the gifts sitting under the tree
waiting for family to open with laughter and glee?

Yes, I believe they are.
Merry Christmas to me.

By Lynda Cheldelin Fell
12/24/2016

Pregnant, Cancer, & the Power of Prayer

Today's good news is that it's my sister's birthday. For most, that isn't a huge deal but for our family it’s cause for big celebration. The fact that she's here to celebrate at all is nothing short of miraculous. 

Ten years ago at age 37 my sister Stacy was diagnosed with aggressive stage 4 breast cancer with bone mets. It was just before Thanksgiving, a festive time of year, and we were busy preparing for the family feast and annual gingerbread decorating contest. Suddenly we all found ourselves in shock, and in full-on panic mode: the big C had invaded our family.

Just when we thought the news couldn’t get any worse, it did. They discovered my sister was pregnant, and the cancer was fueled by her womb’s hormones. Her prognosis was past grim—she needed to abort the baby immediately. It was her only hope to buy time. But she refused.

I won't give you the spoiler here; you'll have to read the national article I wrote nearly two years ago to find out the rest of the story. But one of the miracles for me personally is that my sister is my poster child for courage and faith. When we lost our daughter three years later, despite a body full of cancer, my sister knelt on hard concrete to put warm socks on my feet as I sat in shock. Two years later when my dear sweet hubby suffered a terrible stroke, my sister was directing nursing staff to put my hubby in a private hospital bed (she succeeded). 

Stacy with newborn Jazzy in 2007

She's not there just for me—she's a prayer warrior and is there for every one of us in our time of need. And she does it all without a single complaint about her own fate.

So October 24 is a time when my family reflects on the miracle that my sister is here to see another birthday. It's also a day for us to silently thank the thousands around the world who took time to pray for a stranger whose very life, and that of her 3 girls, was at stake.

Praying for a friend or stranger is the ultimate gift of love. If my sister's story doesn't convince you in the power of prayer—well, it doesn't matter. Because she'll pray for you anyway.

Happy birthday, sis! I love you!! XOXO

Jazzy with her mom in 2011

P.S. At the end of the article is a short video you don't want to miss!

#FindingHope #GoodNews #NewsAntidote

Stacy with her girls in 2015

Stacy's girls 2015

My sisters and I at my niece's wedding June 2016

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