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.

Lessons from a Balloon-sending Mama

On your 29th birthday, I make my pilgrimage to the grave. Carl parks the Jeep and at your marker, I wipe away the brittle patch of cut dried grass. There's a strip of blue painter's tape stuck to the side. It's in Rachel's handwriting. We love you, Daniel. You've inspired so many people. I take a photo of your oldest sister's note and smile, sending a text to her so that she can see my appreciation.

I put a bunch of red Dollar Store Gerber daisies in the dirt by your marker. They aren't my favorite color Gerbers, but they were the best looking plastic flowers the store had. I take another photo of your grave and wish I could take a photo of you instead. I probably have the largest collection of grave marker photos that any mother has ever accumulated. They span my life over the last twenty-four years since you left us.

I walk over to Solomon's grave. When I found his marker years ago, I shed tears. From II Timothy 4:7 the words are enscribed: I have finished my course. I have kept the faith. If the day wasn't so hot, I would amble over the grass to visit Taylor's grave because his is one that also has touched my heart. We're so glad you came. Beside your grave is Audrey, who has only the year enscribed on her marker. And a large heart. I assume she, like Taylor, died the day she was born.

Under the shade of a tree, I sit on your Thomas the Tank Engine towel and pour into a cup orange-grapefruit seltzer water. The liquid is welcomed. I had planned to stay a longer time seated on the towel, coming up with something profound to write. But the afternoon is hot and humid. The dashboard of the Jeep, says it's 97 degrees F. Carl sits in the Jeep because it's cooler there.

I come to the cemetery with rituals that I have gathered over the years since you've been gone. One is to walk the premise. I have a pair of new tennis shoes on this afternoon. What better place and day to break them in. Briskly I make the round, and am grateful for a breeze. I remember when this location made me feel shame for not having been able to keep you alive. I never expected to have grown from my visits here. I never knew solace at my son's grave was possible. The years have been hard; the journey filled with sadness, but the lessons I have acquired are nothing short of priceless.

After my lap, I write a note to you on a slip of paper. It is my usual note about loving and missing you. On the back of it, Carl writes some words. I peek to see he has written. His words are: Too bad I never got to meet you. He has drawn a heart and signed his name. The love he shows for me by coming with me on this cemetery pilgrimage shouldn't be overlooked.

Inside the Jeep, together we string the note (I've punched a hole in the sheet with a pen) to another Dollar Store purchase----a red star balloon filled with helium.

And then we walk to the center of the cemetery as I hold tightly to the string. "Happy birthday, Daniel," we both say. I release the string which allows for the balloon to jet away from me and climb into the sky. We stand watching the wind do its part as the baloon travels. Soon it's blocked by two large oaks. Carl steps to the left and I follow so that we have a better view. We watch, eyes shielded from the August sun, until the balloon becomes a dot and then vanishes from our sight into a distant cloud.

Twenty-four years of lifting balloons into the sky, my symbolism of releasing love, of watching something perform what I cannot---an item sail into the sky on its own, climbing closer to Heaven. Twenty-four years of an ache that will not leave. I love you, Daniel. My love for family and friends has grown over these long years, so it makes sense that the love for you has increased also. I love you today and I will love you more tomorrow.

And those are a few of the lessons that grief has taught me.

Songs From Heaven

One night after my son Daniel died, I was out on our deck, thinking of him. When wasn’t I thinking of him? Who is going to remember this little four-year-old who ran outside naked to pick tomatoes from the garden? I wondered who, besides me, would recall his laughter and kisses—his life had been too short. Then the words, almost as though brought to me from Heaven herself, came: “Who will remember those who no longer sing on earth? We, who hear their songs from Heaven.”





The verse was first placed on glossy postcards with stars, and shared with those who had also had children die. But it expanded to anyone who had lost a loved one. A woman was sent one of the Songs From Heaven cards when her husband died, and to this day, she keeps it on her fridge door because it brings her solace.

Years later, when my husband and I opened our Carved By Heart shop, we created a plaque with the words. How meaningful it would be if people could add the name of their loved one under the verse that meant so much to me and to others. The plaque could be for either indoor display or outdoor, like at a gravesite, or in a garden. As orders came in, we were grateful to be able to offer these plaques to others with holes in their hearts.

We also thought of a plaque that could encase a memento (a shell from a beach trip, a trinket from a vacation in the mountains) as well as a color photo of a loved one. The plaques could tell the story of a special day or a week, and so our Story of a Memory plaque was designed.

Our memorial plaques are made of solid red oak, carved with love. We want to encourage others to recall their memories, whether they were many or few—it is important to remember with love.

Stop by our shop to see the remembrance items we have for you. Email us with ideas you’d like to see on a plaque. Our slogan is, “If you think it; we carve it.” We enjoy working with customers to create something memorable and fresh. Visit us at Carved By Heart.

~ Alice J. Wisler, author of Getting Out of Bed in the Morning: Reflections of Comfort in Heartache, speaker, writing instructor, blogger, and mom to Daniel (August 25, 1992-February 2, 1997).

Sending a bereavement card to show you care

Bereavement cards, or more commonly known as sympathy cards, offer comfort and love to those who have had a loved one die. Most people send a card immediately after learning about the death. However, sending a card months later, as well as on a significant day of the year, is also appreciated. Those grieving want to know that you are thinking of them and aware of their loss throughout the year.

Songs from Heaven is one bereavement card you can send, letting the recipient know that you are remembering with them. On the front of the
postcard is a verse, and the back has ample space to write a note. The cards are sold in packs of ten, with white envelopes.

Venture to this website to learn more.