Tag Archives: greivingmom

Anger Rooted In Grief

A vine of sadness climbs up from the pit of my stomach. Rooted in the soil of grief, the offshoots extend through my limbs, each with numerous thorns protruding from them. Gripping sadness pierces my insides.

My memories of you are so difficult to feel. I can see them. When I allow myself to watch videos, I can hear them. I can’t feel them.

Sockless heels grazing my mid shins. I can feel that. It’s the only memory I can feel. It’s from your last day on Earth. You sat on my lap at my parent’s kitchen table just hours before your physical presence would be forever gone.

No longer can I feel your arms around my neck. I can’t feel your small body crashing into me or jumping on me. No more of your hair tickling my face. All of your physicality is gone from my life and my memories.

It’s been six years and I can only feel those bare heels on my shins. It’s not enough. I am angry, furious. Why doesn’t my body remember more of your physical presence? Why can’t I recall those nights when you would sidle up next to me in bed after a nightmare?

You are connected to so many beautiful days and memories in my mind but I want to FEEL them. All I have now is this vine of sadness, growing in me. I will make space for it and acknowledge it because the work I have done has taught me that it’s essential. I must feel to heal.

My work has also taught me that this is a wave. This is part of the grief cycle and I will come back around to the positive part of the cycle, but right now I am angry. Angry that my firstborn has been gone for six years. Angry that I only got to feel him with me, physically, for six years. Angry that that time in my life is over. Angry about these gnarly vines that are thick and twisted. Angry about the thorns that are piercing and painful. Angry that this vine will always exist inside of me. Angry that you no longer live outside of me.

Our spiritual connection will never fade, but I am angry that the feeling of our memories have.

The Truth About Inevitable Days of Grief

There are some days that you know will inevitably arrive. We all know that the day will come when someone we love will leave this Earth physically. When that person is a child, you may become obsessed with other days you know are in your future. The path of dreams you set out on when your child was born becomes decimated, and you are now forced onto a different path.

There are the major days we know will be hard – birthdays, graduations, marriages and births. These are days that bereaved parents dread. The thought of them evokes a stifling pain that takes one’s breath away.

Then there are less significant days as a whole, but more impactful in some ways. Most recently the shock of physical transformation has been thrust upon me. My angel, Christian, will forever be six years old. Not nearly old enough to say he lived a full life. Many coming of age experiences and milestones fell away in an instant when he was called to Heaven. Each one dropped into the sand, forever buried. So many major mountains never climbed.

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Photo by Trace Hudson on Pexels.com

This thought often plagues me. He was my oldest child of three so it is only in the past two years that his brothers have begun reaching milestones that he never did. His classmates, however, have been reaching them, changing and growing since the day he died.

As his classmates and friends age it has been difficult to hear of them celebrating birthdays that he may have been included in. It was difficult to watch them grow into the oldest class in the elementary school, have their special musical concerts, special field day events and finally move on to a whole new era in their life; middle school.

Yet, they still resembled their little Kindergarten selves. Recently, though, their faces have changed. The baby fat that once puffed out their cheeks has been chiseled. The hair, that mom was once responsible for keeping clean and neat, now sports gel and hip styles. Clothing choices have shifted and lets not get into the height changes! More than once upon seeing one of Christian’s friends I’ve gasped, shocked at their appearance. It stays with me and burrows into my heart.

This is the year. The year he would have made those stark transformations. Friends and relatives who don’t see him all that often would have been the ones to gasp. As his mother I would have had the privilege not to notice. It wouldn’t have taken me by surprise because the drastic nature of the change would be less visible to the eyes that saw him every day.

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It’s the question that haunts all grieving parents. Who would you be now? I want to know 11 year old Christian!! I want to see him, hug him, know his interests. I even want to be able to argue with him. How would his mischief be impacting my life now?

Facing such vast physical changes in his classmates makes it harder to see the commonalities between them and Christian. It tricks my mind into believing he never was a part of that group. They have left him behind physically. Never in their hearts, but they have surpassed him in age, education and now physical appearance. Each change breaks my heart a little more.

This is a day that I knew would inevitably arrive. It’s just so painful. The reminder of how definitive death is and all that it takes with it is biting. My heart cries out again that this can’t be true. I am supposed to be the mother of a middle schooler! I am supposed to be juggling the schedules of elementary and middle schools. I am supposed to be attending another child’s sporting events, musical performances and anything else he is interested in. But I’m not. I’m mourning him.

Yes, there is so much beauty in the pain. It’s been found unexpectedly, but it doesn’t numb the other side. The depth of the pain where no beauty can ever be found. Love to Heaven…