When Love and Laughter Play the Tune

It's those tapes that want to ruin our lives.

When we've lost a loved one, the tapes of the last moments play in our heads like a broken record that never stops its scratchy noise. The music is the worst we've heard---loud and grating. There is no off-button. The noise is made up of our thoughts that cause us to contemplate the last words spoken by ourselves and by our loved one. We think of how it could have gone differently and how if it had, our loved one would still be alive. Over and over we ask, why did it have to end this way? If only . . . . If only I had taken him to the hospital earlier. If only I had watched him more closely. If only I had known more about the disease or his friends or the event where he was in danger. We scream into the night. We think the constant-playing tapes will kill us. Exhausted, we want to shut off our minds.

As we go over in detail the last moments with our loved one, we want to believe the moments could have been orchestrated differently.

Control is the loud tune that plays in rhythm with If Only. The two work together. We have been led to believe that we have control. We think it is ours. We wore our seat belts and ate our vegetables, were kind to our neighbors (even the nosy ones) and bought toys for our children. We shouldn't have to be going through this confusion, this ache, this despair. Our loved one should still be here with us. Instead, we are now living a life without him or her and wondering how to face each day. For whatever reason, we have bought into the myth of power, control, thinking we could play God in our lives. We ignore the soft voice that asks, "Did you get to choose your place of birth, or height, or color of your eyes?"

To try to make sense of our confusion and illusions, we journal. Page after page, we fill them with questions like: How long does this pain last? When will I get back to the old me? For help, we read the lives of others who have been on the bereavement journey. We marvel at their survival and at the same time wonder how they have done it. Can we do it? Can we journey year after year without our child, our spouse, our parent, our friend?

We put the journals and books aside, and go back to the If Only and Control. Over and over the frantic tunes play as we continue to live the last days. While the re-living the last days seems detrimental, the truth is, it is necessary. It's called process. Our brains need to process what has happened to us in our loss. Eventually----and I don't know how long eventually is---the tapes wear thin. We forgive ourselves, we realize control is a myth, we realize it is not up to us to have control over when someone takes his last breath. We acknowledge we are not God. We may never understand why our loved one died when she did or the way she did. We may never get the answers we want on this earth. But one thing we know, until our last breath, we are going to have to figure out how to make this bereavement journey work.

On a day where the sun pushes past the clouds, we hear the laughter of our loved one. As we drive to work, we recall a road trip with our significant other. In the parking lot, we remember a joke our son told. The laughter feels strange to our ears. A smile expresses the memories we carry in our hearts. The next day we may be back to listening to the If Only tapes, but once again, on another day, a fond memory slips through. She did like to bake oatmeal cookies, he did give the best hugs. And we trod on the journey, clouds and sunlight, dreariness with glimpses of hope. And we are progressing. Day after day, we embark on the rocky path, finding our footing, discovering what we need, learning and growing.

And one morning, we find ourselves thinking: Maybe I will survive. Maybe, perhaps, I might even thrive again. And in the meanwhile, we savor the laughter and the love. They are what fit inside our hearts; their tunes are worth carrying and playing over and over again.

Pockets of Grief

Grief comes unexpectedly. Most of us recognize this. But sometimes for those of us who are seasoned grievers, we are surprised when the pockets of grief fill. We think we have control over our feelings of longing and yearning for a loved one who had died.

The Christmas tree was up, bright decorations sat on the coffee table, and some hung from shelves. Christmas tunes played as I prepared for our family's Christmas Eve gathering. I put plates of cookies, dates, and cheese on the dining room table.

Then why did a sudden deep sadness fill the kitchen? I felt like my bones had been carved out and sorrow had been pushed into them. This is a cheerful season, I thought. What's wrong with me?

When my son Daniel first died, Christmases were nearly impossible to celebrate. My husband and I took our three young children someplace away from our home so that we did not have to be in the very house where Daniel was missing. The absence of our four-year-old was too much to handle during a time of festivities. I wanted to be able to close my eyes the week before Christmas and not have to deal with any of the celebrations until the week after the new year. But we know that's not possible, and so like other grievers, others who have had to bury a child, I had to learn how to adapt and adjust to the holidays.

It's been 24 years since Daniel's death. So no wonder I was surprised this past Christmas season when I felt overwhelmed with emotion.

Fortunately I had two bereaved parents, friends of mine, to text. I sent each of them separate text messages. They assured me that my grieving was normal. “Accept yourself in your beauty and brokenness,” wrote one.

I know that many people feel discouraged and depressed around the holidays, and that we need to be mindful of the fact that others around us are lonely and aching. Just because they are cheery decorations, family and friends, and even Christmas songs and hymns that speak of joy, doesn’t mean that all feels well.

In this new year you may have moments of sorrow. Don't deny them, acknowledge them. I find that writing helps. A journal or just any old slip of paper and a trusty, comfortable pen are great tools to use as you spend time writing. Write from your pain. Share a happy memory about your loved one. See what develops.

And one more bit of advice that I like to give, advice that has helped me, be sure to buy sturdy and soft tissues. Because when the tears come, our eyes deserve the best.

Grieving the loss of a loved one never leaves. Even when we think we have the pain tucked away, it can arrive unexpectedly. Don’t run from it; embrace it, if you can. We grieve over a person because we love. What a blessing it is to have had this special person (child, parent, friend, spouse) to love on Earth and to continue to love long after he/she is gone.

When Writing Heals

I believe in many things, simple and grand.  I believe in inspiration that comes on a walk on a fall day, that a cup of strong Earl Grey with milk can make almost any bad morning better. I believe in the power of love manifested through the life, death and resurrection of Jesus Christ. I believe that when you can forgive---even those who don't ask you to---you are freer than any soaring eagle.

And when life takes a dangerous and sorrowful turn, I believe that pen and paper can heal. As we honestly and freely unleash our heartache onto the page, our hearts and minds go through  transformations. We see our pain on paper and we view it in a new way. From there, as we continue to write, we become stronger, more able to cope and adjust to our situation. This writing for healing is a sacred gift. It has saved me from the moment my four-year-old son died.

I have watched and learned as I've unveiled deep things in my writing.  I've solved problems, understood, gained new perspective. Writing to heal is an extraordinary phenomenon.

I'd love for you to write with me.

My new online writing classes have a few spots open.  I have one class starting September 17 and one on October 22.  Each course is 5-weeks long.  I send out new lessons to your in-box each Monday. You have all week to write on your own, when it's convenient for you. Learn more about my Writing the Heartache Workshop here at my website

Be inspired in the power of writing as you listen to this video that was so kindly created for me by a young man named Wes.

And after that, share here in the comments below how writing has been an avenue of healing for you in your life.

Fellow Grievers, be that advocate!

When an appendage is removed from a person, a lot of adjusting has to take place.  After the surgery and sutures heal, sometimes physical therapy is needed.  The patient has to learn to adapt without a finger or arm or leg.  Eventually, a new lifestyle is mastered.

As parents with children removed from us through death, we have to learn a new lifestyle, too. We adapt.  We adjust. We cope.  But some days we cry and wonder why the world seems to want to shut us out.

There is no way that a parent who has not lost a child to death will ever understand the pain, the agony of absence, and the multitude of emotions that are attached to living without a son or daughter. It's just impossible.  I've never lost a limb (in the real physical sense) and I would never pretend to understand my friend Stella, who lost both legs when she was hit by a car.

Yet other parents feel the need to act like they get our pain.  They sit with their healthy children surrounding them and tell us not to be so sad.  "It'll get better."  "You'll be okay."   "He's in a better place."

You want to fight back and tell these parents that they don't get it.  But instead of trying to get them to understand your grief, there are more dynamic ways you can choose to spend your time.  Educate.  Be an adcocate.  Teach others in a way that they might be able to comprehend.  Share with them how they can help you to make the world a better place.

Did your child die from an overdose?  What leads to a life where one might die in this manner? What misconceptions do people have about teens and drug usage? Become an advocate for better awareness in this arena.

My son Daniel died from cancer treatments at age four.  September is National Childhood Cancer Awareness Month, a month when I reach out via social media to let others know that kids can get malignant tumors.  Kids can be born with cancer from no fault of their own or from their parents'. And yes, little children do die from cancer.  Parents are empathetic in helping me get the word out because they realize that cancer shows no mercy to age, color of skin, or socio-economic ranks.  If they are realistic, they know that any child can get cancer, just as any child is capable of dying from any disease or sudden accident.

I''ve written articles for magazines and newspapers about what striving for a cure means to me as a mom whose three-year-old was diagnosed with neuroblastoma, and what it means to thousands of parents across the country. I wear the gold ribbon as a visual to show my desire to fight for better clinical trials and for a cure for childhood cancer. And I think of  my sweet bald-headed Daniel who called himself a Brave Cookie.

Find your place of passion and let others know about it.   Use your energy, be fueled by it, even if it stems initially from angst at others' ignorance.  Be that advocate in your child's memory! Let your lifestyle be one that encompasses the need for change.

Dear Santa, just get me through the season!

It's that season again, the one where we are supposed to feel joyful. Excited, as the commercials on TV tell us that new cars and diamonds bring happiness. Festive, as recipes for desserts circle social media. In love with our extended families, even though we haven't spoken to them since last Christmas.

But what if you just feel blah?

The problem with feeling like Scrooge is that we think we're alone. That's because few are brave enough to step up and admit, "I hate this season." "I want to sleep it away." "I don't care about any of it."

My psychiatrists friends are busy this season, not with baking pies and going to parties, but with clients who ask for help. "Just get me through Thanksgiving and Christmas," one of my friend's patients said.

When the season presents itself as a huge undertaking and there is no energy for it, sometimes that's all we ask: Just get me through it.

Forget the shopping, the sales, the glitter, the fun.

I remember feeling like that for the first Christmases after Daniel died. Take a dirty rag, wipe the sky and everything around me with it, and that was how I felt. To avoid the usual Christmas tradition, which Daniel would no longer be part of, we left Durham. Our first Christmas was in Greensboro at an Embassy Suites. The next was in the Outer Banks, the third without him was at a beach in Virginia. We left the house where Daniel had celebrated four Christmases and did something different.

And we lived through those early agonizing holidays without him.

Those experiences help me to see that others also find Christmas to be hard. You don't have to have had a death of a precious child to feel distraught during the season. You might be going through other calamities----the loss of a marriage, a job, declining health, or the loss of even hope.

Perhaps deciding not to believe the myth that everybody else has great plans or is happy will help as you make your way through December and into the new year. Perhaps journaling will benefit you as you pour your frustrations and fears onto paper. A meditative walk might give you new focus.

Others might suggest reaching out to those who are less fortunate is the answer. But when you're trying to hold your life together, you may not have any ability to reach out to anyone. Praying might even be more of a wrestling match than a time of solace and mercy. You might just want to put on a slow song, set the timer and give yourself permission to cry for five good long minutes.

This season could be just plodding through one day at a time. I'm no psychiatrist, but from my own sorrow, I would say: Allow yourself to plod. Not feeling joyous at Christmas is not a punishable crime. Besides, to be honest, no one is experiencing every day of the month with bright smiles and sugary bliss, even those who appear to be.

The season will end, and at the end, you can say that you survived. It might not seem like a big feat, but deep down, you will know that it's a big accomplishment. The skills you discover might come in handy for other times when life is tough.

After all, life is all about adjusting and adapting. To live is to struggle. Don't believe anyone who tells you that life is meant to be a bowl of happiness.

Even the son of God, whose birh we celebrate at Christmas, came into a suffering world to suffer. He knows just how dismal being human can be. And He reaches out to all, offering peace, love, and hope.

~
Struggling with getting out of bed in the morning? This little devotional might help.

When a mama walks her memory of tears . . .

Yesterday marked the beginning of the end. 17 years ago, Daniel went into a coma. His last words to me were, "Mommy, I just wanna go home."

Words can't describe the agony of what life was like for us at that time. And who would have thought that 17 years later, the disbelief of what he went through and what we went through would still cause me an intense pain. I feel I have been punched right in my heart.

The word shouts at me: Why?

Why didn't I cuddle him then? How could I have been so naive? The doctor and nurses couldn't find a pulse. I should have picked him off that bed in the cancer clinic that day and spent time hugging him and telling him how much I loved him and how I would miss him.

But I was naive. I didn't know.

I walked with them as they wheeled him into the ER. At six months pregnant, I tried to keep up. I was confident that they would be able to help him as they had over the eight months since his diagnosis.

How foolish I was.

I feel the sadness of that day and the days that followed. My veins are like ice. I can barely type. The enormity of that journey paralyzes me. I want to push those days aside, but I know that with each revisiting of them at this time of year that leads up to his February 2nd death, I learn something new.

His death continues to teach me.

So I take my own advice and write him a letter. The words come slowly, but they do appear on the computer screen.

Dear Daniel,

I was clueless.

I didn't know that you would ever leave me. It was not an option, so I didn't dwell on death. I believed you'd live. I believed you'd spring back up and be okay. Any boy who can climb up a bunk bed at age three, fall off and be undaunted should be able to defy anything.

I could kick myself for my trust that God would heal you.

That last sentence sounds sacrilegious.

But I won't delete it because it's true.

Yet, if I had let death be part of my thinking, would I have been any better off?

What would it have been like to live with the fear of death ever since your diagnosis?

I lived with hope and belief.

Should I kick myself for that?

Can I look at who I was then with the seasoned knowledge that I have now? Is that fair to that woman of 36?

Guilt. Regret. Remorse. If only . . .

I hope you know that if my love could have saved you, it would have.

But it was not enough.

You are home with Jesus now. Some place I hear is magnificent but my earthly mind is too little to comprehend Heaven.

On earth, you will always live in my heart.

Every year I go on a pilgrimage as I remember the days leading up to your death. It is my path of tears. Sometimes, I push aside the remorse, and just let myself bask in the person you were----energetic, beautiful, tender, lively, humorous, generous, and you and I both know it----downright exasperating at times.

Remember the time you poured baby lotion and glitter glue over a piece of paper and then opened a small box of Cheerios and stuck them to the paper? What a work of art! I should have kept it for the hospital wall of patient masterpieces.

We were all so weary living your cancer with you. But we were always hopeful.

Even when you breathed your last in my arms, I believed you would rise up.

We didn't call you Wild Boy for nothing.

I vision you, if you could, coming over to me to wrap arms around me and tell me, "Mommy, I love you. No regrets."

And perhaps that is what I will focus on today.

XOXOXOXOOX
Mommy

Our Universal Fear-----Death

Tyreic Hemphill died in a car accident on Friday. He was sixteen.

My husband said that I didn't know him well enough to write a blog post about him. Most of the time, my husband is right.



But as I went on my daily walk today I couldn't avoid the push that I felt within my aching heart to write. Writing is my therapy, and after my walk, I knew I needed to put my anguished thoughts into written words. In fact, as I saw kids playing in the side streets and as I crossed Hope Valley Road, all I could think of was how frail we all are and how fleeting life is.

Whether we like it or not, death is present in every day of our lives. The fear of it can coil around us. Each time a loved one dies, we are reminded just how short life can be and how we have no control of when or where our last breath will take place.

True, I didn't know Tyreic. But there are things that I do know. I know what it is like to have that universal fear---death. I know what it is like to bury a child gone much too soon. Sixteen years ago my own son died at age four.

My youngest two, Ben and Liz, went to school today wearing red in honor of Tyreic. I thought of them and the other kids at Jordan High School having to go through the day without Tyreic. "How was the day?" I asked when my children came home. "It was depressing," Ben said. "Each class was quiet and solemn."

I ache for Tyreic's parents. I wish no parent ever had to be part of this parental bereavement club. It's one of the clubs no one wants to be initiated into. I remember meeting Tony, Tyreic's father, at Rogers Herr where my kids went to middle school. And I recall driving Ben to Tyreic's birthday party back when they were both in middle school. It was a paintball party and Ben had fun. Tyreic did, too. And Tony enjoyed being part of the party; he got covered in paint and laughed a lot.

I hate that Tyreic will never have another birthday. I hate that every fall from now on his family will have to recall the days before his last one. NC Highway 55 will no longer be a regular road, but one that will forever be a reminder of death. They will never be normal again, that has been stripped from them. All in one split second. Gone.

I hate that death has now separated them from their son.

I wonder how they will survive.

I wonder how any of us survive without our vivacious, funny, loving, and bright children.

Others might think they are exempt from death because they eat vegetables or wear seat belts or never stay out past midnight. We like to believe that we can sidestep death. "The death of a child happens to other people," we think.

We also like to believe that parents who lose a child can be comforted in knowing their child is not forever gone, but having passed through death to life, to a forever life in Heaven. While this belief can be solid and of solace to many, to the parent who has to live without his or her son or daughter, it doesn't replace the desire to hold a child. No parent should have to outlive a child. We parents expect to grow old with our child, continuing to share our lives with each other.

There is no way to make the death of a child right or good or happy. I don't understand why some try by quipping thoughtless platitudes. "He's in a better place." "God only takes the best." "You'll see him again in Heaven." I have heard them all.

What can we do as maneuver through the next weeks? We can reflect on Tyreic's life. We can be grateful that he was with us, that he lived and loved and taught us and was a son and brother and friend. We can let his parents know that he will be remembered always.

One day we will be able to focus on the fun memories of him. One day we might be able to laugh.

But right now, we just need time to grieve, to ponder, and to reach out especially to those who love him, those he has left behind. Death separates us from the ones we cherish, but the power of our love keeps us strong in spite of our frailty.

~ Alice J. Wisler

He was just a little boy . . .

It's that time of year again. That time when the yellow raincoat hanging in my closet feels as heavy as my heart. Everyone else is older now and with each passing year, this raincoat looks smaller than it did when he wore it. How could he have once been so small?

I look into the face of my son, that cute photo I took when I was just taking another picture of a child. Back before I realized that it would one day help to heal my heart.

There is so much I don't know. I don't know why Daniel spoke of Heaven so fondly. We never told him that he was going to die. I suppose it was because I never believed he would. Not until the very end after the staph infection shut his body down and the EEG confirmed what I did not want to hear. My son was brain dead.

Prior to that he looked into the sky one day and shouted, "I wanna go to Heaven!" His father and I looked at each other, speechless. No, no, our expressions conveyed. Not yet. Get well first and live and then die an old man.

I don't know why he wasn't able to die an old man. I don't know why he didn't even get to learn how to read.

He memorized. He memorized a complete book of jokes. And Maurice Sendak's Nutshell Library collection. "I told you once, I told you twice, all seasons of the year are nice for eating chicken soup with rice." He laughed at Pierre who got eaten by the lion and said, "I don't care." He loved for people to read to him. Curious George Rides a Bike. Are You My Mother? Where the Wild Things Are.

He spat watermelon seeds, built towers with Legos, loved Cocoa Puffs, and gave stickers to the doctors and nurses. "Because," he said, "you give presents to your friends."

After the doctors said there was no more that they could do, I kissed his cheek and whispered to him that he could die. "People tell me to let you go. To let you go. To say good-bye. You can go." The words sounded too harsh; no mother should have to tell her child that he is allowed to die. Quickly, I added, "But not yet. Not yet."

A bald-headed boy in a comatose condition, bloating on a sterile bed was better than no boy.

Each morning when I woke from the bed by his, I was relieved that he was still with us. Today was not the day I would have to deal with death. Not today. Not yet. I talked to him, I told him that I loved him. I told him he could die and I told him not to.

My mother was reading to him from a children's book about a boy who took a star from the sky and tried to keep it in his bed. But the star didn't belong in his bed and began to lose its light. At last, realizing that the star needed to be in the sky once again, the boy let the star sail back up to the heavens. "You can go, too," my mother whispered to Daniel.

Minutes later, our Daniel star left us. After only four years, his body had served its purpose. It was no longer needed. His spirit freely flew, sailing up to Heaven.

No more cancer, no more tears! "There are no tears in Heaven," he'd told me one day. Then he turned and asked me why.

"Jesus is there and there is no sadness when you are face to face with Him," I said.

There are no tears in Heaven, but there are plenty on earth. Especially when I hear Elton John sing Daniel or when somebody mentions Buzz Lightyear from Toy Story. Or when it's just an ordinary Sunday and the choir sings Amazing Grace.

I never thought he'd die. I always clung to healing, to health, to growing up with him, not without him. To more walks in the rain with him in his raincoat. To more times of him running out to greet the ice cream truck with all the change he could gather from the kitchen drawer.

I expected more birthdays, more kisses, more laughter. I wanted to send him off to kindergarten; instead I send kisses to Heaven. I take pictures of sunsets and sunrises, oceans and flowers, plant memorial gardens, and search for butterflies and rainbows. And I see the gap he has left between his older sister Rachel and his younger brother Ben and his sister Liz----the one he never met.

But after Daniel died, I remembered that I'd had a dream about six months into his treatment. He was climbing a ladder and the top of it was shaded by clouds. He was smiling, happy, no tears, no pain. He waved at me and continued to eagerly climb with a surge of energy. The next morning I shared the dream with my mom and my friend; their faces were sullen. What was wrong with them? My dream was a clear indication that Daniel was going to go from being ill to being free. His smile was a sure sign that he was going to be healed from the disease. We would have more of life here together.

Now I know that the dream was showing me that Daniel was climbing up to those clouds and beyond---beyond what I have ever experienced----where those who aren't around us anymore to share jokes live. I had wanted to keep him, hold onto him, I wasn't ready to let my precious star go back to where he came from.

I still want him here. With us. But I imagine Heaven is too wonderful to leave and once you are there, you are the happiest----your most perfect and content self----the way you were meant to be.

I love you, Daniel. I miss your bright blue eyes.

But your star shines bright. Especially tonight on your 21st birthday.

In memory of Daniel Paul Wisler: August 25, 1992 ~ February 2, 1997

Update on the Sandy Hook Comfort Project: What does it mean to lose a child to death?

The outpouring for the families in grief and loss from the shooting at Sandy Hook Elementary School in Newton, CT has been amazing. People are eager to donate books as an act of love to those mourning the loss of loved ones.

Originally the plan was to send a book (Getting Out of Bed in the Morning: Reflections of Comfort in Heartache) to Sandy Hook for each family who had been affected by the tragedy in the loss of a child--young (student) or adult (teacher). That was a meaningful act of comfort, and thanks to each of you, that goal has been accomplished!

When I read again the message from Lisa Schorp (the woman with the vision who posted on my Facebook page last Saturday), I noted that she said it would be great to be able to send copies of my book not only to the families at Sandy Hook Elementary School who lost a loved one, but to all the families. I suppose I overlooked that part of her message because it seemed too big a goal.

This project has morphed. That is amazing to me. Thanks to the generous donations that have come from all over the USA and Canada, we can send more books. The local churches in Sandy Hook can use copies of Getting Out of Bed in the Morning for their libraries and others in the devastated community can benefit from a book on hope and healing in the midst of loss.

When do we send this gift of love? Although the media is consumed with reports of what is going on now in the Newton community, we know from past experiences that the "hype" will soon dissipate. Humans are like that. We tend to move from one news-breaking event to another.

But the families who lost loved ones are only at the beginning of their journeys . . . When a child dies, the world stops for a parent. The first weeks, even months, are like living in a fog. When that anesthesia wears off, the reality kicks in.

My child is gone. He is not coming back.

Ever.

Parents need help and support for the rest of their lives. I continue to cherish those who have walked this bereavement trail with me. It's been fifteen years since my son Daniel's death and I still yearn for his smile and hug.

Right now we plan to send the books after the first of next year.

Here is what we are looking at:

1. An autographed book with the name of each child who died for the child's family

2. One of my Songs from Heaven empathy cards with each book

3. A letter with the names and hometowns of each of the donors (that would be you all) for each family

Thank you, each one, for your donations to this Sandy Hook Comfort Project.

If others would like to donate, click on this link and scroll to the end of the post.

The Long Corridor

"How can I remember his life without the impact of his death?"


This is not like hitting a large pothole on a dark road and being caught off guard. It cannot sneak up on you because every year the familiar dates do not change. When I get a new desk calendar in January, I mark his dates. My son Daniel was born August 25th. And he died February 2nd. Both of those days have a heart drawn around them.

What continues to surprise many bereaved parents is the long corridor that leads up to the anniversary day of a child. How do our bodies and minds know that the date is approaching? I often tell people that I could be on a deserted island without my calendar, but my mind would still know.

The anniversary date of a child's death wreaks havoc with all our senses as we remember. The date of his death is not like his birthday, where as painful as it is without him, we can celebrate that he was born. The anniversary date is the flipside, reminding us that it all ended. Anniversary dates mean saying good-bye. No more memories. Gone. Finished here on earth. It's over.

We try not to let it take its toll. After all, most of us do not seek to dwell on every detail that killed our child. We hear the world say, "Still? It's been ten years." Or twelve, or like me, fourteen. Even so we wonder why we get this knot in our stomach as flashbacks snap before us on our memory's picture screen.

"The days leading up to Ethan's death anniversary date of January 19th are like this long corridor I have to walk alone. I even sometimes forget the dates leading up to the 19th are going to be hard," my friend Brina wrote to me recently about her infant son.

How well she described it! We replay those events that lead up to our child's death. Even years later, we still think that if we could have changed one or two of those circumstances, we would continue to have our son or daughter. Could have, should have, would have. Those are the phrases we learn early on not to say. But we still say them. If only. Why didn't I?

The days leading up to that marked date on the calendar can be lonely, painful, agonizing, irreverant. Yet each year we have to walk through them, until, at last, the day passes, and we are on the other side of the long hallway. For now. Until next year.

The first years without a child are all gut-wrenching, and when the anniversary day looms, parents wonder if they can survive another year. As time goes on, the harshness softens to some extent. Yet I've heard parents say that certain years were harder than others. My friends Gene and Linda just experienced fifteen years since Steve, their only child's, death. Because Steve was fifteen when he died, this particular year marked fifteen years with him, and fifteen years without.

I think of Stephen King's The Green Mile and what walking along it signified to the inmates. They plodded along that long corridor until they reached a chair. By being strapped to that chair, they would be removed from this world.

We parents re-walk that mile every year. Yet it is not we who sit in the chair, it is those memories of our child who died. The call is given, the act is done, and breath stops. There was nothing we could have done to prevent that action. Nothing, no loophole, that we can find, to bring our precious child back to us.

And so we walk. Scenes from years ago grab us like horrific nightmares, only we know we will not wake up and find our child safely in bed. We are still bereaved and that is why, year after year, we must make that lonely walk.

As Christians, we believe in life after death. This brings much comfort. Yet, I must emphasize that walking the mile is still treacherous, at times scary, and sorrowful, despite the promise that our child is experiencing the magnitude of Heaven. For those who want to say, "Be glad he is in Heaven," I would like to add, "Yes, but I want him here. Just like your child is here with you, living each day as part of your family."

For the corridor is not about life after death or that we will again be reunited with our child, it is about the truth that death, plain and vast, occurred, and every year we are impacted by this horrendous truth we cannot escape. Some of us have more events along their corridor, especially those of us whose child was hospitalized, had medical procedures, or suffered before his last breath.

Is there a way to make the approaching days easier? My friend Brina called a friend and planned to attend a chapter of a grief support group in her area. In December, Pam sent out an email message letting others know that the anniversary date of the death of her daughter Paula was around the corner.

Pushing aside the pain and need to be heard is not wise. Reach out, and hopefully, those you reach out to will help to shoulder the monumental walk. Cliches don't substitute for comfort. Loving the broken-hearted is always a good practice.

This year I plan to invision God holding one of my hands and Daniel holding the other as I make my way through the flashbacks from January 22 leading up to February 2, 1997.

And I will continue to follow the advice of my four-year-old Daniel during his own demise: "Deep breaths, deep breaths. That will help me."

Entering the new year with old memories

Christmas has ended, and the living room still has that unwrapped look. With the festivities now part of future memories, I anticipate the next hurdle----the new year. The TV commercials romanticize champagne toasts illuminated by glowing candles. People start to make resolutions, hopeful that this brand-new unblemished year will be the one that fuels their successes.

For the parent who has lost a child to death, a new year can be daunting. The first New Years' after my son Daniel's death was scary. I wanted to hold onto 1997. Although it was the year he'd lost his battle with cancer and died, it was also the year he'd lived. 1998 would mark the first calendar year without him.

For some reason, the image of an old-fashioned wooden bucket came to me. With this item I heard the word carry. That's it, my newly-bereaved mind said. The key with a new year is to carry the old into it.

So here we are, on the brink of another year, a new decade, with fresh hopes and dreams. A clean slate. There are many things about 2009 I wish to forgive and forget, but I don't want to ever forget my son.

Each year marks a year further from when I last held him, heard his voice, and saw his smile. I yearn to hug him, tell him how much he's grown, and ask him what he'd like for dinner. My heart feels that distinct hollowness and sorrow that belongs to a mother without her child.

But the bucket I have isn't hollow. It is brimming with memories and fondness, warmed with love and laughter; I hold it tightly.

Just as I carried Daniel's four-year-old memories into 1998, now---thirteen years later---I will continue to carry them. And I will do more than just hold them, I'll let them trickle out, forming their own glow, as I share this special boy with my world. "Wasn't it funny when Daniel called adults redults? Do you remember how he gave stickers away in the hospital, and once when bored made a collage out of baby lotion and glitter?"

Daniel lived, he loved, and I believe he continues to live in Heaven.

So, get yourself a sturdy bucket and carry. Boldly carry the memories into the new year. Along the way, give yourself permission to forgive. Let the memories you recall be the brightest ones.

Listen. There is nothing to fear. Listen. Your child's voice can be heard in your heart.

Eleven Tips to Deal with the Holiday Tinsel

That holiday-pang hit my stomach the first October after Daniel died. Greeting me at an arts and craft shop were gold and silver stockings, a Christmas tree draped with turquoise balls and a wreath of pinecones and red berries. What was this? And was “Santa Claus Is Coming To Town” playing as well? It was only October.

I had anticipated that Christmas and the holidays would be tough. In fact, I’d wake on those cold mornings after Daniel died in February and be grateful that it was still months until his August birthday and even more months until Christmas. I dreaded living both without him. I would have preferred to have been steeped in cow manure. At least then I could take a hot bath with sweet smelling bubbles and be rid of the stench. But bereavement isn’t that way. As those who had gone on before let me know, you have to live through it.

Christmas came. I did live through it. It continues to happen as do the other significant days of the calendar year. Daniel never arrives at any of them although his memory lives on. By incorporating him into these days of festivity, I can cope.

Some of you have your child’s birthday and/or anniversary day within the November through January season. These days, in addition to the holidays everyone else is celebrating, make the season even more complicated and painful, I’m sure.

I offer eleven tips I’ve used to survive the holidays. Some are my own suggestions and some are borrowed from the many who walk the path of grief.

1. Know you will survive. Others have done it and you will, too. Keep in mind that your first Thanksgiving, Christmas and New Year’s Day will not be easy.

2. Find at least one person you can talk to or meet with during the holiday season. Perhaps this person has gone through a few Thanksgivings and Christmases before and can give you some helpful ideas that have worked for her.

3. Things will be different this holiday season and perhaps for all the rest to come. Don’t think you have to do the “traditional” activities of years past when your child was alive. Your energy level is low. If no one in your household minds, skip putting up the tree. Forget spending hours making your holiday cookies.

4. Spend the holidays with those who will let you talk about your child. You will need to have the freedom to say your child’s name and recall memories, if you choose to do so. Your stories about your child are wonderful legacies. Tell them boldly again and again.

5. If going into the mall or stores brings too much pain, shop for gifts online or through mail-order catalogs. Thinking everyone is happily shopping at the malls with intact lives while your heart is crushed is terribly tough. Go easy on yourself.

6. Getting away from the house is an idea that worked for my family. The first Christmas without Daniel we went to a nearby town and lived in the Embassy Suites. The kids enjoyed the indoor pool and breakfast buffets. Christmases that followed were spent at a rented cottage on the shore and the Christmas we rented the beach house, we were able to invite extended family to join us. We all shared in the cooking.

7. Create something to give to those who have helped you throughout the year. I made some very simple tree ornaments with “In Memory of Daniel” stamped on them and gave them to friends that first Christmas.

8. Decorate the grave. Put up a plastic Christmas tree with lights. Sometimes being busy with decorating the grave gives a feeling of doing something for a child we can no longer hold.

9. Do something in memory of your child. Donate to a charity or fund in his memory. Volunteer. My oldest daughter Rachel and I volunteer at the Hospice Tree of Remembrance each December and share memories of Daniel as we spend this time together.

10. If your bereavement support group has a special candle-lighting service to remember the children in your area who have died, attend it. Doing something in memory of your child with others who understand the pain these holidays hold can be therapeutic.

11. Spend time reflecting on what the season is about. Everyone around you may be frantic with attending parties, services, shopping and visiting relatives. Perhaps you used to be the same way. Now you may want to avoid some of the festivities. Give yourself permission to excuse yourself from them. Light a candle in your favorite scent. Record some thoughts in a journal. This is great therapy, too.

One day you will wake up and it will be January 2. The holidays will have ended. You will have made it. If you are like me, you will find that surviving the tinsel has made you stronger and although you may cry, somewhere within you, you will feel that core of new steel.

Today's Broadcast

What an honor to be on Gloria and Heidi's show, Healing the Grieving
Heart. If you missed the show, aired on Voice America, you may click here and it will take you directly to the program. Turn on your speakers and you can listen to the entire hour show.

Isn't technology wonderful?