Chicken Soup for the Grieving Soul

  She looked back at her hands. “Barry wants to go see her. He wants to say good-bye,” she whispered. “I don’t want to, though. . . .”

  I knew that Rhonda was reliving all the feelings of horror that she felt when she found her still daughter. “She won’t look the same as when you discovered her. She will be more peaceful,” I offered.

  After a good hour of mild persuasion, this young, frightened mother murmured, “Well, maybe I’ll just take a peek. . . .”

  Now I had to convince the staff at the small town hospital.

  A phone call had me discussing the situation with an administrator, the head nurse and a social worker, until finally I was connected to the pathologist. I explained the scenario to a shocked and very reluctant doctor. “But I’ve already autopsied that baby!” he exclaimed.

  “That’s okay. It just means she has some stitches. We can deal with that.”

  “But I wouldn’t want to see my kid that way!” He was incredulous.

  I wanted to say that he wouldn’t want to see his child dead either, but this family had to work around that reality.

  Persistently, I told him about my own sons, and how we had held them for hours. I could feel him starting to bend.

  “Well, all right. But you have to come, too.”

  “Absolutely! I’ll be there.”

  We parked our cars and as we walked toward the hospital entrance, I talked to Rhonda and Barry about the fact that men and women grieve differently. “After the initial phase, when you both support each other beautifully, men tend to not want to talk much about it. They want to get on with life and don’t feel that they can do so when they think about their child constantly. So they put it aside. Now women, on the other hand, will talk to anyone who will listen, and sometimes even if they won’t. They bring it all out, over and over, and heal from the inside out. The problem is, the mom thinks that the dad didn’t really love the child since he doesn’t seem to care. Whereas the dad thinks his partner has gone crazy because she is dwelling so much on it. The thing is, if you understand each other’s method of grieving, you can get through it intact, as a couple. Just realize that Mom needs to get her support elsewhere for awhile, probably from another woman. But you must be aware that you both loved the baby just as much, and you both will miss her terribly.” They walked in silence.

  When we arrived at the room where Sarah was, we were met by the pathologist. He was obviously anxious, seemingly nervous that this young woman would pass out, or sue him, or maybe both. I left Rhonda and Barry in the hall. “I’ll go in first.”

  I looked at the sweet baby in the bassinet. A bonnet covered the stitches on her head, and she was wrapped in a blanket. I noticed the area on her face where the blood had pooled after she died. I returned to the couple.

  “She has some mottling on her cheek. It just looks like a bit of a bruise. And you’ll notice that her lips look different— not as full. But that’s all normal,” I told them.

  Rhonda reached inside herself and gathered every ounce of strength she could find. She marched into the room, like a soldier to war, the pathologist close behind. The attending nurse picked up little Sarah, and Rhonda immediately reached for and cuddled her daughter.

  The doctor held his breath as Sarah’s mom looked her over carefully and then glanced up at me, her eyes shining with emotion. “I told you she was beautiful, didn’t I?” she beamed. The anger, fear and disgust visibly drained from the young mother. The transformation was miraculous, and the only adjective that could truly describe Rhonda now was peaceful.

  I left her and Barry alone with their little girl and walked into the hall with the doctor. He nodded at me, smiled and returned to his duties. After a while Rhonda realized that Barry needed private time with Sarah, and she joined me, closing the door behind her.

  As we left the hospital, a noticeably calmer Rhonda walked with us. She began to plan her baby’s funeral, even including an open casket viewing. Later, when Barry lifted their eighteen-month-old son to see his little sister in the casket, Mathew pointed to her and declared, “Baby!”

  And it was a serene, brave mom who stood at the front of the congregation and, with a steady voice, read a poem for her daughter.

  Rhonda and Barry brought another baby girl into the world and named her Kathreen. She and her brother are much loved and appreciated in a way that only parents who have lost children can understand. Every moment, including the difficult ones, is experienced with gratitude, thankful for being able to nurture the gifts that are their children.

  As is the way of the world, the events surrounding Sarah’s death turned what could be viewed as a tragedy into an extraordinary formation of hope. Rhonda began facilitating grief support for bereaved parents, even accompanying some while seeing their dead babies. As she learned more about bereavement, she started to perceive a correlation between poverty and infant mortality. Eventually, her journey led her to work for a large antipoverty group in British Columbia.

  Baby Sarah’s impact on the world in which she lived so briefly is profound. Although I had never met her in life, she touched my heart in the way of an old, wise soul. The love that she brought to this Earth has grown with its own momentum, and it’s spreading still, a gentle, healing wave, helping to wash away sorrow.

  It’s quite an accomplishment for one so young.

  Diane C. Nicholson

  Being There

  Do you know of someone

  Whose precious child has died?

  Perhaps she is a neighbor or friend

  With whom you can confide.

  You assume that she is suffering

  A tragedy so deep,

  That there is nothing you can do

  Since all she does is weep.

  You feel that if you see her

  There is nothing you can say

  That would make her precious child come back

  Or make the pain go away.

  And if by chance you meet her

  And have to face her grief,

  You’ll do your very best

  To make this meeting brief.

  You’ll talk about the weather

  Or the lady down the lane,

  But you’ll never mention her child—

  That would cause her too much pain!

  And when the funeral’s over,

  And all is said and done,

  You’ll go home to your family,

  And she’ll be all alone.

  She’ll go on, she’ll be all right, time heals—

  Or so it seems,

  While she’s left alone to pick up the pieces

  Of her shattered life and dreams.

  -OR-

  You can open up your heart

  And find that special place

  Where compassion and true giving

  Are awaiting your embrace.

  “Today I’m thinking of you in a very special way,”

  Or, how about “I love you!”

  Are some loving things to say.

  Sometimes a very simple task

  Like picking up the phone,

  Can help her feel not-so-quite

  Desperately alone.

  Whatever comes from a genuine heart

  Cannot be said in vain

  For the truth is, it’s these very things

  That lessen her great pain.

  And when you let her talk about

  Her child who is now dead,

  You’ll know this is far greater

  Than anything you’ve said.

  So will you reach out with all your soul

  And let her know you care?

  For in the end there’s no substitute

  For simply BEING THERE!

  Debi L. Pettigrew

  A New Strength

  When someone dies, you don’t get over it by forgetting; you get over it by remembering, and you are aware that no person is ever truly lost or gone once they have been in our life and loved us, as we have loved them.

  Le
slie Marmon Silko

  “What’s wrong, Mommy?” One by one, three small figures straggled into my bedroom, navigating through the darkness to my side of the bed. The ringing of the phone and my crying had pulled them from their sleep in the few minutes before sunrise.

  “Mommy’s very sad right now,” their daddy answered for me. “Mommy’s sad because your Grandpa Bastien died early this morning.”

  All three climbed onto the bed and started stroking me, each trying to comfort a pain I thought they were too young to understand. Three sets of innocent eyes stared helplessly up at me, watching unfamiliar waves of grief ebb and flow.

  They did not know their grandpa the way I had hoped they would. A gap of seven hundred miles saw to that. Their memories of Grandpa Bastien came from visits at Thanksgiving, long-distance phone calls and pictures displayed in photo albums. They did not know the big, strong man I knew and loved so much. And for once, I was glad their little hearts were spared knowing him so they would not feel the depth of losing him.

  None of them had ever seen or heard me cry so openly. Through tears I reassured them I would be all right but there was no way to explain the grief. There was no way to tell a four-, six- and eight-year-old how their mommy’s life had changed. In an instant I had gone from having a father to having memories. At that moment, thirty-four years of memories and pictures seemed small and insignificant.

  It would have been selfish to give words to my tears, explain to them that I would never again hear his voice, send him Father’s Day cards or hold his hand. No, I knew it would be wrong to make them understand this grief, so I held back the words and released only the tears. They continued their vigil, sitting quietly, patting me tenderly with little hands.

  As the first hint of morning light filtered through the blinds in the bedroom, they began to talk softly amongst themselves. One by one they hugged me and kissed me. One by one they scooted off the bed and left the room.

  Off to play or watch cartoons, I presumed, and I was glad grief had not touched their innocence.

  I felt helpless, though, watching them walk away. With one phone call, I had crossed this ominous bridge between my father’s life and his death, and I didn’t know how to return. I didn’t know how I would learn to laugh or play or be the mother they needed me to be in the midst of this grief. After lying in bed for what seemed like an eternity, I dried my eyes and decided I’d try to explain my sadness to them in a way they could understand. While still formulating the words, they walked back into the room, each with knowing eyes.

  “Here, Mommy,” they whispered in unison. “We made this for you.”

  I took the little package from eager hands and carefully peeled away a layer of leftover Christmas wrapping paper. Inside I found a note written by my eight-year-old: “To Mommy: We love you. Love, Shae, Andrew and Annie.”

  “Thank you,” I told them. “This is beautiful.”

  “No, Mommy, turn it over,” one of them instructed me.

  I turned over the note and on the other side discovered a paper frame, decorated with crayon lines and hearts, and inside the frame was a photograph of my dad, smiling his contented smile, hands folded across an ample belly. It was one of the last good pictures I had taken before he died, before sickness had taken the sparkle from his eye.

  My well-planned speech fell away, and I knew no explanation was needed. They understood my tears, and their handmade gift had given me new strength. As I looked at the picture, echoes of childhood memories flooded back, filling the emptiness. Yes, grief had touched my children, but they had their own special way of dealing with it. In their innocence, they taught me that the things I had thought insufficient, the memories and pictures, would be the very things to keep my dad alive.

  Kara L. Dutchover

  THE FAMILY CIRCUS®

  By Bil Keane

  “My grandfather is in Florida.”

  “That’s nothin’. Mine is in heaven.”

  Reprinted with permission from Bil Keane.

  The Wisdom of a Child

  You’re surprised when you find out that you’re going to make it. . . . There is some kind of ability we all have that just shows up on your front porch.

  Anonymous

  Never had life been so difficult. As a veteran police officer, exposed to the constant stress and pressures inherent in the profession, the death of my life partner struck a hammer blow that pitched me into the depths of depression. At twenty-eight years of age, my beloved Liz had suffered a perforated colon as a complication of Crohn’s disease and died tragically after several operations and six agonizing weeks in the intensive care unit. Our firstborn son, Seth, celebrated his fourth birthday the day following his mother’s death, and Morgan, our youngest boy, would reach his third exactly three weeks later.

  Liz, who had been a stay-at-home mother, excelled at cooking, housecleaning and all the other domestic chores that embellished our lives. In true macho-cop, chauvinistic fashion, I had taken her generosity for granted, never having time to take on any of these responsibilities myself. As a result I found myself suddenly, in the midst of my grief, thrust ranting and screaming into the role of maid, shopper, driver, launderer, childcare professional, cook and dishwasher. We had moved into a heavily mortgaged new home only weeks before Liz’s death, and our financial situation was already precarious. I soon realized that police work, with its rotating shifts, would necessitate a live-in nanny, further taxing my already overburdened salary. To my great dismay, the constant demands for attention from two preschoolers left me exhausted and irritated, until I began to resent their very existence.

  In the following days, loneliness and pain gave way to guilt, anger and, eventually, self-pity. I spiraled deeper and deeper into despair, and it wasn’t long before my body began to display its inner turmoil. Despite my efforts to veil my grief from the children, my eyes became dark and baggy, my weight plummeted, and on one occasion, the boys watched me spill milk all over the table as a quivering hand thwarted my efforts to fill a glass.

  Although I dreaded the moment, I knew at some point I would have to delve into the task of sorting through Liz’s personal effects, cleaning out the closets and boxing up her clothes and other belongings. One evening, the boys tucked away for the night, I began. Each dress, that scarf, this pair of shoes, one by one, evoked its treasured, if not painful, memory and feelings of overwhelming guilt. It was in a small fold, deep within her purse, that I found almost by accident a neatly folded, tiny slip of yellowed paper, its creases, tight and crisp with age, protecting a carefully printed message.

  “Dear Kevin,” it began, “these are all the reasons that I love you . . .” and as I read on, her words obscured by tears, my heart ached and my body shook with convulsive, painful sobs of loneliness. I had hit bottom.

  Slowly, in that hopeless fog of despair, I became aware of two small arms wrapped around my legs as I sat at the edge of the bed. A small voice asked in all the innocence of his three years, “What’s the matter, Daddy?”

  “I feel sad, Morgan, that Mommy’s gone to heaven, and we won’t see her for a very long time,” I said, struggling vainly for composure.

  “Don’t worry, Daddy, we’ll help you. When Seth and I get up in the morning, we’ll put the cereal on the table and all you’ll have to do is make the toast.”

  With those few, simple, loving words, my three-year-old child taught me a greater lesson than any other. His thoughts were sunlight filtering into the dreary, winter landscape of my soul, and I knew at that instant that life would be okay.

  Kevin D. Catton

  A Light in the Darkness

  Shortly after our fifteen-year-old son, Adam, died, I wanted to do something as a public remembrance of him. I needed to let the outside world know that we were grieving thoroughly for the loss of all that Adam was and all that he would have been. I especially didn’t want others to forget my son. Our house is nestled in a clearing in the woods and accessible only by a very long driveway. Passersby can
not see our house from the road. And so, on a blustery November day barely a month after he died, I tied a large white bow for our Adam on a tree by the side of the road at the end of our driveway. It was a sign of love, of hope, of sorrow beyond all comprehension. Throughout the past year, as the bow became tattered and worn, I replaced it several times and have even managed to grow a few white flowers at the base of the tree beneath that white bow. Little else that I have done for my son since he died has held as much significance to me as this white bow, which has come to symbolize Adam’s life, death and our grief.

  Just prior to leaving for a family gathering at my mother’s house on a Christmas day, I was feeling, as I regularly do, that I wanted to do something special for Adam. I made a luminaria with a gold angel on it; my husband, surviving son and I placed the luminaria under the white bow in the small flower garden. There, in the brilliance of a cold, clear Christmas afternoon, we lit a candle for our Adam. We added a second luminaria to burn in remembrance of all the children who have died. No one else could see the candles burning on that bright, sunlit day, but knowing they were there gave me a sense of peace. Last year, our first Christmas without Adam, the day had been unbearable; Adam’s absence had been so pervasive. This year, all afternoon while I was at my mother’s house, I thought of those luminarias burning by the side of the road for our Adam and all of the children who have died. I was uplifted and embraced by a sense of warmth I had not previously experienced.

  It became apparent that those luminarias had also been of great importance to my husband and surviving son, for that evening, as we were preparing to leave my mother’s house, we each wondered aloud if the candles would still be burning. Throughout the day, our thoughts of those luminarias had allowed each of us to endure the unendurable, and it now seemed crucial that the candles would still be lit when we returned home. My husband, surviving son and I NEEDED to see that very small flicker of light glowing through the darkness.