Does grief always end in divorce?

"Many couples divorce after losing a child," offered one well-meaning friend after another in the months following our daughter's death in a car accident. I can't help but wonder why people feel compelled to share this with newly grieving parents. Meant to be comforting, it is anything but. Yet hear it, we do. And repeatedly. 

So why is it that two people who love each other until death-do-us-part might find themselves, in the aftermath of a tragedy, in divorce court?  Is it possible for a marriage to survive such devastation? If so, how?

In the immediate days and months after losing a child, both parents are in "the fog." They cling to each other as shock fills their days, and terror fills their nights like a never ending nightmare. The only way to cope with the fog is by relying upon autopilot: our brain is frozen in shock and horror, but our body continues to instinctively go through the daily motions of making dinner, doing laundry, washing dishes. We have to "go on" for the sake of the family. 

Although our body is busy managing everyday tasks, our heart and spirit are in the intensive care unit of Grief United General. Physically, our body keeps functioning. But the simple truth is that on the inside, we're hanging by a thread. And some are very close to needing life support.

In the early days of a loss, family, friends, and neighbors help care for the bereaved. But, as those of us grieving know all too well, intense pain lasts long after the meals stop coming. Further, whether physical or emotional, intense pain is all-consuming, and exhausting. Our entire focus remains on getting through the worst until the next wave hits. 

Now imagine living like this day in and day out for months and months. Just getting through the day is exhausting, leaving very little reserves for anything else, including our marriage.

Add to this the biological fact that men and women are just wired different. As young girls, women learn from older female relatives to talk, share, and discuss. In contrast, boys are often taught to hold feelings in; to "toughen up.” So the coping mechanisms we use during great hardship are vastly different. 

Grieving mothers often seek comfort under the wings of other communicatively nurturing females. Grieving men tend to shut down, preferring instead to find solitary comfort in the garage or escaping in long hours at work. 

And when grief shatters both of us into unrecognizable versions of our former selves, it can be a challenge to find mutually familiar ground again, if ever. 

These conflicting styles can cause a couple to separate from what started out as parallel paths, sometimes leading to a complete and permanent disconnect. 

But grieving parents can find satisfaction, even happiness, in a marriage given time and the right tools. My husband and I are living proof. Since losing our daughter, and through my husband's disabling stroke, a neuropsychologist helped us piece our life back together, and our marriage is stronger than ever. 

I feel that if we can not only survive, but thrive, so can other couples. Is it easy? No. There is nothing easy about losing a child. But with hard work, dedication, and determination, the storm eventually calms down enough to allow the sun to break through.

Bill & Julie Downs

Consider Bill and Julie Downs, who lost their son Brad, their daughter-in-law Samantha, and their son's best friend Chris to a drunk/drugged driver in 2007. Bill and Julie lost not just one loved one, but three in a single moment. 

As many men do, Bill wanted to be strong for Julie. But, in trying to do so, he denied himself the right to process his own emotions until he snapped. One day out of the blue, he told Julie he didn't love her anymore. 

How did they find common ground to repair their once strong marriage? Where are they today? Check out this video of Julie sharing their story on YouTube. Julie's Story. 

Next week we'll interview Bill to hear his side of the journey. 

Once upon a time, it was public perception that a high rate of marriages crumble in the aftermath of losing a child. But this is simply not true. 

Marriage can not only survive in the wake of losing a child, it can thrive. True story.

So next time someone shares baseless divorce statistics with you, ignore the well-meaning comment. Walk the journey together as husband and wife, seek support for you both, and hang tightly to one another as you ride the waves of pain together. 

Mark Twain once said, "Facts are stubborn things, but statistics are pliable." In the face of tragedy, ignore public perception and allow patience, compassion, and tenderness to fill your marriage until solid footing once again takes hold.

Bill & Julie Downs are founders of AVIDD, and co-authors of Grief Diaries: Loss at the Hands of an Impaired Driver, coming out May 30, 2016.

A dream or a premonition?

One night in 2007, I had one of those dreams, the vivid kind you can’t shake. In the dream, I was the front passenger in a car and my daughter Aly was sitting behind the driver. Suddenly, the car missed a curve in the road and flew off into a lake. The driver and I managed to escape the submerged car as it sank, but Aly did not. Desperately flailing through the deep murky water to find my daughter, I failed. She was gone. Aly was gone. The only relic left behind was an open book floating on the water’s surface in the exact spot where my beloved daughter disappeared.

The dream shook me up so much I sought out a psychic to put my fear to rest. And she did, for she didn't see the dream as a premonition or a heads-up from God. To her credit, I believe that she wasn't supposed to see the truth, because I would have quit living right then and there. 

Come 2009, Aly knew something was about to happen. Over that spring and summer, she repeatedly asked me, "Mama, we're always going to be together, right?" I never told her about the dream, but she was very concerned that somehow we would become separated. "Yes, Lovey. We will always be together," I reassured her each time, reveling in the love from my teenage daughter.

On August 5, 2009, my daughter, my third born child, died at age fifteen as a backseat passenger in a car accident. Two years after having that terrible nightmare, it had become my reality.

This summer marks the seventh year without our beloved daughter. But I've never forgotten that dream. But now, because of the book floating on the water's surface over where Aly disappeared, I now believe the dream was a glimpse into a divine plan, something bigger than myself. 

For you see, one morning last summer I woke with the idea of creating a book series for people in need of comfort. Not inspiration. Not instructions. Comfort.  

Not one book, but an entire series sharing peoples stories. 

Not just any stories; their sacred stories sharing the hardest moments of their life. 

Because I need to know others are out there, even if I can't see them.

And thus, this is how the Grief Diaries book series began. 

My idea didn't begin because of an open book floating on the surface where my daughter sank. No. It began following a convention where the power of people sharing their heartfelt losses with one another left me wondering what to do with such sacred stories.

Each story was so powerful, so heartfelt. Imagine what an entire series exploring such journeys would do for those in search of others who wear the same shoes? Yes, that's how Grief Diaries began as a book series. 

But the dream will always stay rooted in my heart. For now I truly believe it was a divine glimpse into something bigger than myself. 

I would give anything to go back in time and hold my beautiful daughter once again, but I cannot. She left this realm and moved on to heaven in order for us to fulfill our part. 

Honestly, some days I still struggle mightily with my loss. But it comforts me greatly to be surrounded by all the Grief Diaries stories. And I find solace in knowing that there is a purpose. A divine plan.  

A plan linking together the hearts of the heartbroken. Including mine.

God Handed Me a Script, But I Tore It Up and Handed it Back

On the night of the accident, I sat next to my daughter's body at the scene of the two-car collision. As I sought to find her hand under the white sheet, God handed me a new script. I handed it back. 

I wanted my old life, not a new one. 

I wanted my daughter to open her eyes, to say "Hi, mom." Surveying the blood spattered interior of the back seat, instinctively I knew that wasn't going to happen. Nonetheless, in the moment of shock and horror, and seeing my daughter's bare toes peeking out from underneath the edge of the stark white sheet, the mind is capable of grasping for straws. And I was going for the very last one. 

God again handed me the new script. I tore it up and handed it back. "I don't want your new script!" I yelled. I had a wonderful life as a mother of one college graduate, one college student, and two teenagers. My husband and I were even blessed with our first grandchild. Life was wonderful! So no need for God to go changing it. 

But I didn't win. God did. I had no choice but to take the new script. I ignored it for three years. Heck, I ignored life for three years. But when my dear sweet hubby's grief consumed him at age 46, and he suffered a life threatening stroke that left him disabled, I gave in and waved the white flag. There was nothing left of me. I was done. Exhausted. Here I was facing a new kind of grief, and I had hardly begun to process the first. 

God's script laid there for months and months. My heart broken in so many places, I had no energy to read it. The lines blurred together, the words indistinguishable. 

And then one day, out of rebelliousness, I picked it up. The first line said "When you help others, you help your own heart to heal." Seriously, God? I felt like a regressed teenager challenging a parent. I could hardly put one foot in front of the other, so how was I supposed to help someone else? But God failed to give instructions. I wasn't amused.

But I needed God, desperately. So I gave in. I waved the white flag. I was standing squarely in the belly of hell; I had nothing more to lose. 

I wasn't entirely sure how to go about this new script, but herein lies the answer: I didn't have to figure it out all on my own. One door opened, then two doors, then four. And so on and so forth. And now, six years after the loss of our daughter, and three years after my husband's life-changing stroke, I haven't figured it all out yet but God's script isn't steering me wrong.

Where am I now? Today, I help others. Because this helps my own heart to heal. 

There. I said it. Script accepted. God was right. 

For me, helping others comes in many forms today. One of my most joyous endeavors is Grief Diaries. When I set out last summer to compile stories of real life experiences, some questioned whether I had lost my final marble. Who would want to read tales of life's most challenging moments? Yet I knew, without a shadow of a doubt, that the collection was going to change lives around the world. 

I trusted God's script. And strangers I've never met handed me the most precious of gift of all: their own life experiences. They entrusted me to handle each with kid gloves, package them oh-so-carefully, and present them to the world for the sole purpose of helping others not feel alone.

And each stranger became my friend who enriched my own world with their story. So I no longer questioned the script. I just followed it, never once forgetting that every story I now held in the palm of my hand is sacred. Not just to the writer, but to the world. To me. Their stories are sacred to me. And to God.

Suddenly, this crazy book series about sharing true stories has given a platform to more than 650 writers. It feels good to share our real life experiences with others. Why? Because it helps both readers and writers feel less alone.

So it's true: When we help others, we help our own heart to heal. And that is what each writer is doing: baring and sharing to comfort strangers around the world.

Healing hearts by sharing journeys. 

Script accepted.

I Didn't Know

When you died, I didn’t know the pain could be this searing, like a hot blaze burning my soul.

That the depth of despair would be this jagged, like a razor sharp abyss or a bottomless hole.

That the sorrow would be this unspeakable, like an abandoned ballad void of all lyric.

That my family could recover from loss so unbearable, it was simply too hysteric.

I didn’t know that the sorrow would leave me exhausted, without any reserve.

That the world could be blind to my suffering, too uncomfortable to observe.

That it was capable of shattering my world so completely out of the blue.

That the fog was this thick, coating my life like dense viscous glue.

When you died, I didn’t know my heart would break open to bleed like a wound.

That the grief dance was this ugly, like two left feet cemented in gloom.

That I could survive a journey without purpose in view.

That my heart would know smiles and laughter not fake or askew.

I didn’t know that I would embrace a sunrise in all its glory every tomorrow.

Or that my heart would hold joy at the same time as sorrow.

When you died, I didn’t know that your death would propel me into a life full of gratitude and care.

That your death would be this heartbreaking, and compassion for others would be my repair.

Now I know.

-LYNDA CHELDELIN FELL

Tears are Hot

BY DEANA L. MARTIN

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

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. 

www.lyndafell.com | www.griefdiaries.com

My conversation with Martin Luther King's daughter about loss, hope

This past April I invited Martin Luther King's youngest daughter, Dr. Bernice King, to speak at the National Grief & Hope Convention.  The conversation we had far surpassed my expectations from a speaker, and I was honored and humbled to have an opportunity to sit down with Dr. King for an intimate discussion about her life.

Weathering seven family tragedies between the age of 5 and 25, Dr. King was charming yet candid about the lifelong effects of her loss and sorrow.  She also shared what brought her comfort and hope. 

I wrote about the conversation in Glen Beck's national network TheBlaze.  Here are the links to both parts.  "Walking with a friend in the dark is better than walking alone in the light."  - Helen Keller

PART I

PART II