Love After Death

I love you to the moon and back.

I love you beyond tomorrow.

Love. Love for kids. Love for our kids.

Who knows how deep it is?

Who knows better than a bereaved mother?

With the births of my first three children, I loved them in all their red-faced fuzziness. By the time my fourth child was born, I knew I loved her more than ever.

Did I love her more?

No, but I knew of the depth of my capacity to love.

What had changed?

My second child, Daniel, had died just three months earlier.

And with his death, I realized how great and vast and powerful and consuming a mother's love is for her child. And that once a child is gone, there is a fierceness to love, to love that continues, but has no living-on-earth object of love.

It's been nearly eighteen years since Daniel died from cancer treatments in 1997.

Every single day my love has grown for him and for his siblings.

I know the ache of loss and absence and that both of these bring you to a new understanding. Love goes on after death. On and on. And it is a kind of love that can take your breath away.

I knew I loved my children before Daniel left us, but I wasn't aware of how pulsating and immense this love was.

If you have lost a child to death, you know just what I mean.

If you have not lost a child, you think your love is already great. It is, I will not deny that. It is growing as all living things grow. But you can not know how your love can make you yearn so much for one who is no longer there by your side. You cannot know the extent of longing for one you will no longer see----even if only at Christmas because he lives overseas. This love can only be experienced in this way after you have had to say good-bye.

There is something about the permanency of death that makes us realize how much we can love because once that child is gone from us, we feel the sorrow of life without a living person to give that love to. But it's more than that, we recognize how devastated we are without this person in our lives and now entwined that child is to us. Even in death.

What irony that it takes death to discover this love.

Is it true then? She/He who has lost much, loveth more? Or does she just understand the ocean-like quality of love more completely?

Hug your children.

Cherish the memories.

Love.

Why Spring Can Make You Sad

Spring. Buds, blooms, color. Thick coats of yellow stuff. Pollen. It's invaded, giving me a headache right between my eyes. Tears come at unexpected intervals.

But I love the flowers and warm weather, so it has to be more than allergies that make me sad this spring. Spring comes in full force in North Carolina. It starts with daffodils at the end of February, and by April, central North Carolina is a decorated beauty queen.

Yet sometimes that can be too much color at once. It's not just color, it's other things. Oh, it's always other things when it comes to the death of a child.

It's Easter----that special holy day that sometimes falls at the end of April instead of in March (March is when nature is just easing away from winter and not as colorful). But when Easter falls on April 20th as it did this year, well, that's almost too much to take in.





The dogwood and azaleas show off their gorgeous flowers and my mind sails back to memories of laughter, eggs, and a three-year-old boy with a mouth covered in chocolate and hands equally as stained. It's Easter 1996. Who knew it would be his last Easter egg hunt, his last Easter to ask about angels pushing away the stone at Jesus' tomb?

Grief is part of my life now. Grief became a resident when Daniel took his last little breath. I hate it when people think you can get over it. Grief follows me everywhere now, although not as obvious as it once was. Sometimes it wears a camouflage cloak or hides in the shadows. I think it's been tamed, like a domesticated kitten. But when spring is at its finest and the smell of wisteria is in the air, grief lurks like a wild animal. It claws at my heart strings. It makes me have to go out and buy another box of tissues.

We didn't know he had cancer during our festivities that Easter of '96. It was a month later when the swelling in the left side of his neck would have a name other than, "Maybe allergies."

We were naive and innocent back then. We didn't have a clue that spring could be just as harsh on the heart as winter.

Now I know that spring, in spite of all her stylish beauty, can fill a mind with ugly reminders of a cancer diagnosis. How I wish that cancer had not knocked on our door that spring.

I like to remember Daniel at age four as an energetic kid. I like to look at photos of him with hair and smiles. But the truth is, cancer stole all that at the end. Daniel was a bloated child, unconscious, comatose, and covered in bed sores when I held him last.

Some memories I have to swing at, push them away.

Some memories are more sad than sad.

This Easter I cried. I sat in church as the choir sang and something happened. For the first time since Daniel's death, I felt comforted by those words people are always trying to comfort you with: "You'll see him again in Heaven." All of the times before when people had tried to comfort me with, "You'll see him again," I struggled because I wanted him here with me now. I also believed that my life with him as my little son had ended; there would be no more of me being his mother, watching him grow, teaching him how to read or how to ride a bike. Did people not realize that? Were people too ignorant to grasp that family reunions where families will recreate the life from earth in the heavenly places isn't going to be?

But there in that pew, I thought, it won't be a repeat of earth, but at least I will see him. And Daniel and I will be two people among billions of others, all free from pain and tears, all in new bodies.

So I sat in the pew trying not to let the tears soak my dress, thinking about meeting Daniel as an older person, as an equal. In Heaven. And the choir sang that Jesus is risen.

It's a mixed up life we bereaved parents live. It's joy at having had our child, but it's a big ball of sorrow right in the gut at losing him. Joy and sorrow. And grief. You have to know that grief is not a bad thing. It is an inevitable resident after the death of a child. And being sad at spring doesn't mean you can't enjoy an iris blooming in your garden. It just makes you more in tune with how life works and how love is.

And sometimes you have to take a break from all the color.

~ Alice J. Wisler 2014 ~ For more about living through grief and loss and love, read Getting Out of Bed in the Morning: Reflections of Comfort in Heartache..

The Hole in the Heart Club

There are too many of us. We extend all around the globe. Each of us has lost a child. Whether it be from a car accident or cancer, a gun shot or by suicide, these children are gone from us, having taken a part of our hearts. A hole is left. We miss them like crazy.

Some days we think we are going crazy. Crazy from missing them, from wishing, from wondering. Crazy from wanting to hear their laughter, their voices. A little mad from the yearning, from the questioning---why?

We are the Hole in the Heart Club. We didn't ask to become members. We loved our children.

We still love them.

But for whatever reason, that wasn't enough. Our love couldn't save them.

So we remember. Laughter, gestures, funny sayings, food stories, vacation tales.

Sunday is National Children's Memorial Day. On this day every year we light our candles in a worldwide celebration of those young lives who once graced our days with love and laughter. We join as one voice to let the world know that a child gone much too soon is always remembered.

Always.

"Who will remember those who no longer sing on earth?
We, who hear their songs from Heaven."

I will be lighting my candle in memory of the love and life of my four-year-old son, Daniel.

I love you, Wild Boy.

* Songs From Heaven * red oak plaques can be ordered from Carved By Heart.

Grief During the Holidays: Surviving

Survival, getting through, trying not to think too much . . . Yes, believe it or not, I'm talking about the holidays. Handling them after the death of a significant loved one can be brutal. The heart is filled with anguish and no amount of festivities can ease the pain.

Many want to hide, or close their eyes and not wake up till January 2.

We put so much emphasis on making the holidays happy and joyful, that often we wonder why those sentiments are so important for us. Can we have a season that is more reflective? Can we dare to let ourselves and others shed tears even while hanging the twinkling Christmas tree lights? Can we be real?

Deep down we know that Christmas is not all about unending joy because of a new diamond or a skateboard or even a BMW. Christmas is the gift of God with us. He came as a baby to live among us in this sad world. He wants to be with us during those times when we feel sorrow, regret, and even when our hope dwindles. He wants to be our hope.

Here are a few tips that I've found helpful on how to deal with the Christmas and New Year's season. These are especially for those who are new to this rocky path of grief and loss.

Remember Your Loved One Don't neglect his memory and all he means to you. Do something in his honor---write a poem, give to a charity he liked to support, bake her favorite Christmas cookie.

Write About It Journal a few lines each day if you can. Writing releases pent-up frustration.

Think of Others Chances are, you are not the only one who is missing a loved one and days gone past. Reach out to others who are also having a difficult time this season. People are laid off, lose loved ones, and hurt from broken relationships every December. You can listen and extend concern. That gesture will help your friend and help yourself.

Take it Slow You don't have to accept every invitation for each musical program or dinner. Don't overextend. Wherever you do choose to go, take plenty of soft tissues.

Get Plenty of Rest Don't burn the candle at both ends. Get the sleep you need. Grieving takes a toll on the body and so can the season before you. Replenish your body with the best sleep possible every night so that you have energy to face each day. Things go better with sleep.

My prayer is that God will be real to you this season and meet you in your grief.

Want to hear more about tips on getting through the tough part of the holidays? Join me for The Vital Connection on WHKP radio on Monday, December 3rd, 2012 at 10 AM EST.

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."