When I read your comment on my last post about Gavin, my heart broken wide open--just as it does every single time I hear of another mother thrust into this unimaginable land the two of us now inhabit. You've joined a club to which you never in your dreams would have imagined you would belong--and you're now asked to survive every parent's worst nightmare. I want to reach out to you, put my arms tenderly around you, hold you, and whisper, "I know. I know. I know. I am so sorry." How I wish I could. Thanks for reaching out. I now how hard that can be. I WISH I had discovered your post earlier today--as I'm just now racing out the door and really haven't any time to say all that I want to say to you right now. So, for now, I'm going to post something that I wrote a couple of months ago to another mother I met on a grief forum/support group I belong to. I encourage you to visit this site: beyondindigo.com . The pain you're in is as deep as a mother's Love, and as precious and unique as is your relationship with your beautiful son. You may find some understanding and comfort in the stories of other mothers who have posted on the site. I'll write more tonight or tomorrow. Until then, you'll be in my prayers. I promise.Dear Cory's Mom,
I am sad to think of another mother out there grieving over a beautiful boy gone from her life. I am so sorry and send you love and understanding.
We too have lost a son, our only son--by best buddy in this world. On June 17th (Gav passed away on Father's Day) it will be two years, so I've been through at least one anniversary and am coming up on the second. I still think about Gavin many times during every day, but I do that with my living children, too. That's just what mom's do, isn't it?
As far as anniversaries go, this is what I've learned: At first, we are aware of how many days it' been since they left us, then as time moves on, our awareness of 'that' date stretches out to weeks. More time passes, and I find I'm still aware of the 17th of every month, and try to go a little easier on myself, take a little more time to remember that I'm still healing and acknowledge that. Anniversaries are important. They give me time to remember to honor myself as someone who has experienced a great loss.
On the one year anniversary of Gav's death, we made sure that my daughter, his sister, was visiting with her husband and little boys. We had lots of pictures of him out and we talked about things that he loved and the things that we loved about him. We shared a good meal. We had a family prayer. I had a big bouquet of balloons and we took them out into the front yard and whispered messages 'for Unkie' into them, one at a time, and then released them and watched them float up to heaven. (I know, environmentally stupid--but it's what we needed to do, so I released them with prayers that no creatures would be hurt.) As I watched each grandson whisper his messages into his balloon and send it heavenward, I felt a little more of my pain release. It was good to hear them speak his name and to realize that as we continued to do these types of mini-memorials with them, his memory would live on in their hearts.
I just recently lost my brother Bart, the other 'Golden Boy' in my life. His birthday is coming up on the 21st of this month. His widow and I are going to fly over to Hawaii to share this time together. We plan to visit the bay where my Bart and Gavin anchored before they sailed together to the mainland. We plan to picnic on the beach there and find a beautiful spot to throw a couple of leis into the ocean. We'll sing Happy Birthday and have cake and let our little grandsons blow out the candles. We'll do these things because they're uniquely significant to both Gavin and Bart's lives--and to us. I told my sis that she can cry all day if that's what she feels like doing. Nobody's going to hurry her, judge her, or tell her that "Bart wouldn't want you to cry." (I think that kind of talk is BS. Sorry, but I know Bart would want her to heal, and when we lose someone, tears are a part of healing.)
Anyway, these are the kinds of things I've found to be helpful. You'll find your own--those things that will be significant to your love for Cory. But I encourage you to use the day to celebrate his life on that day. The kinds of things that will act as meaningful reminders to those of you who love him that Cory lives on in your hearts, that he will NOT be forgotten, that it's OK to speak his name and remember his life. And it's OK to cry when you need to.
Now there's just one more thing that I need to post for me. On Saturday, more than 18 months since Gav's death, we finally cleaned out his car. We've found someone who needs it and we're giving it to her in his name. Afterwards, I stood in the laundry room and hugged a shirt that Gav had left in his trunk . . . how long ago? Long enough that his smell was missing. I searched for it, buried my face in that shirt, tried to imagine it there. It wasn't. But I did feel him in the thin, smooth cotton against my cheek, and I held it tight to my chest and cried--hot, yearning tears. I don't resist them when they come. In many ways, they're part of what I have left of my boy, and it's good to feel them on my face, taste their salt on my lips.
If, as a fellow grieving mother, I could leave you with one message it would be this: Your longing for Cory won't ever leave you. You're going to learn to accommodate it and 'live around' it, but it will stay with you until the day you die and the two of you can hold each other again. Not everyone around you will understand this. That's OK. Hopefully they won't ever get their turn to understand. But for you, it's important that you to know that it will always be there. And that doesn't mean that you're weird or deficient in any way-- You're simply (and significantly) a mother who has lost a child. Anniversaries will come and go. Some will be harder than others. You'll learn to have joys--even though you still miss him, and you'll learn to get on with a good life--even while you still miss him. But please, always give yourself permission to do those things that honor this truth: He is your son, and he is gone, and you miss him. And its right that you do.
Hope some of this helps a little. I'll keep you in my prayers. I know I couldn't do any of this without the Lord.
Love,
Annie, Gavin's Mom
We too have lost a son, our only son--by best buddy in this world. On June 17th (Gav passed away on Father's Day) it will be two years, so I've been through at least one anniversary and am coming up on the second. I still think about Gavin many times during every day, but I do that with my living children, too. That's just what mom's do, isn't it?
As far as anniversaries go, this is what I've learned: At first, we are aware of how many days it' been since they left us, then as time moves on, our awareness of 'that' date stretches out to weeks. More time passes, and I find I'm still aware of the 17th of every month, and try to go a little easier on myself, take a little more time to remember that I'm still healing and acknowledge that. Anniversaries are important. They give me time to remember to honor myself as someone who has experienced a great loss.
On the one year anniversary of Gav's death, we made sure that my daughter, his sister, was visiting with her husband and little boys. We had lots of pictures of him out and we talked about things that he loved and the things that we loved about him. We shared a good meal. We had a family prayer. I had a big bouquet of balloons and we took them out into the front yard and whispered messages 'for Unkie' into them, one at a time, and then released them and watched them float up to heaven. (I know, environmentally stupid--but it's what we needed to do, so I released them with prayers that no creatures would be hurt.) As I watched each grandson whisper his messages into his balloon and send it heavenward, I felt a little more of my pain release. It was good to hear them speak his name and to realize that as we continued to do these types of mini-memorials with them, his memory would live on in their hearts.
I just recently lost my brother Bart, the other 'Golden Boy' in my life. His birthday is coming up on the 21st of this month. His widow and I are going to fly over to Hawaii to share this time together. We plan to visit the bay where my Bart and Gavin anchored before they sailed together to the mainland. We plan to picnic on the beach there and find a beautiful spot to throw a couple of leis into the ocean. We'll sing Happy Birthday and have cake and let our little grandsons blow out the candles. We'll do these things because they're uniquely significant to both Gavin and Bart's lives--and to us. I told my sis that she can cry all day if that's what she feels like doing. Nobody's going to hurry her, judge her, or tell her that "Bart wouldn't want you to cry." (I think that kind of talk is BS. Sorry, but I know Bart would want her to heal, and when we lose someone, tears are a part of healing.)
Anyway, these are the kinds of things I've found to be helpful. You'll find your own--those things that will be significant to your love for Cory. But I encourage you to use the day to celebrate his life on that day. The kinds of things that will act as meaningful reminders to those of you who love him that Cory lives on in your hearts, that he will NOT be forgotten, that it's OK to speak his name and remember his life. And it's OK to cry when you need to.
Now there's just one more thing that I need to post for me. On Saturday, more than 18 months since Gav's death, we finally cleaned out his car. We've found someone who needs it and we're giving it to her in his name. Afterwards, I stood in the laundry room and hugged a shirt that Gav had left in his trunk . . . how long ago? Long enough that his smell was missing. I searched for it, buried my face in that shirt, tried to imagine it there. It wasn't. But I did feel him in the thin, smooth cotton against my cheek, and I held it tight to my chest and cried--hot, yearning tears. I don't resist them when they come. In many ways, they're part of what I have left of my boy, and it's good to feel them on my face, taste their salt on my lips.
If, as a fellow grieving mother, I could leave you with one message it would be this: Your longing for Cory won't ever leave you. You're going to learn to accommodate it and 'live around' it, but it will stay with you until the day you die and the two of you can hold each other again. Not everyone around you will understand this. That's OK. Hopefully they won't ever get their turn to understand. But for you, it's important that you to know that it will always be there. And that doesn't mean that you're weird or deficient in any way-- You're simply (and significantly) a mother who has lost a child. Anniversaries will come and go. Some will be harder than others. You'll learn to have joys--even though you still miss him, and you'll learn to get on with a good life--even while you still miss him. But please, always give yourself permission to do those things that honor this truth: He is your son, and he is gone, and you miss him. And its right that you do.
Hope some of this helps a little. I'll keep you in my prayers. I know I couldn't do any of this without the Lord.
Love,
Annie, Gavin's Mom
4 comments:
Jocelin facebooked me and told me to look. It is late but I am glad to know you. Thanks for your words and for the link. I will look it up. I am so grateful for all the mothers that have helped me. Wynette
You are truly enlightened and inspiring! I love the collage of Gavin How fun to do. No one could understand like one who has been there. I do so hope your day is as wonderful as you have made others. Love ya cuz
What a giving person you are, Annie. I am one who is truly inspired by you. I love you and your loving soul!
Annie: I tried to put my feelings down in April about losing Bryce. It was very therapeutic. It was his 6 month mark yesterday so I posted them on our family blog. It is long but maybe you will see some things that have meaning for you...if you are interested. kimwyn.blogspot.com
I have a friend that lost her son about 6 years ago in a climbing accident in Alaska. She came to comfort me and said...you never really get over it. It has surprised me how many times I have heard that from mothers and I have appreciated it so much because I know that they understand. Thank you! Wynette
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