Archive for child

Anna’s Story

Posted by Carla Cheatham on

August 7, 2018

I first met Anna Fuller McCall a couple of years ago when I spoke at MD Anderson Cancer Center, where she serves as an RN. I’m grateful she agreed to share her thoughts and memories on the 30th anniversary of her beloved husband, Richard’s, death and the birth of their son the following month. I trust you will be as touched by her story as I was.

Photo of Anna and Richard on their wedding day in 1987.

Tonight I am reflecting on the last 30 years. I can’t believe it has been 30 years since the love of my life Richard, died. At the time I couldn’t imagine surviving another day much less 30 years. But God has been good and here I am. God’s grace is amazing.

There were times I was angry, times I could not stop crying, times when the depths of depression threatened my very existence,but God was always there. Raising a child is a scary process and it was even more frightening to do it alone. I wasn’t perfect, far from it, but Richard’s son turned out to be a wonderful, loving, kind, gentle man…so much like his father.

Many say time heals all. Not with grief. I still miss him, I still have days when I cry. They are fewer,and most days when I remember him I smile. But no, grief does not end. However I think it is one of the reasons I have such a passion for my work. I deal with death and dying on a regular basis. Although one person’s grief isn’t the same as another, it is a common ground. A certain compassion and empathy come from that shared pain.

So, tonight is one of those times. One of the times the grief is raw and the tears are falling. I know they will end and I will be fine. But every so often the love that I have for him just runs out of my eyes for a bit as my arms ache to hold him and my ears strain with the desire to hear his sweet voice tell me how much he loves me.

But I am so blessed to have our son. He was never granted the opportunity to meet his father, but he is so much like him. I know Richard is so proud in him as am I.

Photo of Anna and her son JB (Jay Roberts).

When I was in the hospital in early labor (one of multiple times) Richard would rub my swollen belly and speak to our son, “Now JB (Jay Roberts), I know you are in a hurry to get here and I can’t wait to meet you and hold you. I have so many plans for the three of us, but you ain’t cooked yet. You gotta stay in the oven a little longer son.” Amazingly, the contractions would ease and the monitors would stop their crazy chatter as my precious son was soothed by the voice of his Daddy. Once when things had settled down, he stepped outside to calm his nerves with a smoke break. Before he got back the contractions were going crazy. One of the nurses ran outside to find him (no cell phones back in those days) so he could come back in to talk to JB -and it worked. He refused to leave the room after that no matter how bad he wanted a cigarette.

During my pregnancy, the TV show Alf (about an Alien Life Form) was quite popular. Burger King was giving away a series of Alf stuffed toys in their kids meal. Each week he would stop by and get the newest addition to save for JB. One day a young boy asked, “Can I have that toy? It is the only one I am missing.” Richard smiled and said, “I’m sorry this is for my son, but wait there for just a minute.” He returned to the counter, bought another complete meal (with the Alf toy the boy desired and gave it to him with a smile (on both their faces).

Anytime I was hospitalized, Richard stayed with me at night. We couldn’t afford for him to be off work, (truckers only get paid when they are working) but as soon as he finished he drove that huge rig to Women’s hospital and searched for a parking area and walked (sometimes quite a distance) to see us. He always curled up in the bed next to me because neither of us slept well apart. One morning an old nurse came in (as I reflect back she was probably the same age I am now) and said, “Now honey, this is just how she ended up in this condition in the first place!” We both laughed so hard we cried. Before he left that morning he assured me that when it came time for delivery he would be there no matter what! He said ,“Baby, I’ll make that rig burn rubber to get here and God help anyone who tries to stop me! I will be by your side the entire time. We will bring our son into the world TOGETHER!” He then kissed my big belly and spoke directly to JB, “I have to go to work now, take care of your momma, no surprises, no trying to break out early. Don’t you dare show up with out me! I love you son!” He then kissed my belly, and kissed me and left for work.

By far the hardest thing I ever did was to be wheeled to the delivery room, a little over a month after that conversation, with only his photo for comfort. I had my family there, I could never have survived without them, but I wanted and NEEDED Richard. God granted me grace and despite the delivery being an emergency C-section, we both survived.

Richard was truly an amazing man. I so wish JB could have met him in person -but he will one day.

It helps me to reflect on and share the beauty of Richard’s heart. This by NO means covers it all. It is just a small glimpse of a wonderful, loving, and kind man.

RIP my love, until I can hold you again in my arms – I LOVE YOU, ALWAYS AND FOREVER! – 💜

For more information about grief and resources on grieving, go to hospicewhispers.com

Rev. Dr. Carla Cheatham spent years working in hospice and palliative care and is now a trainer, author, and consultant for professional caregivers around issues of presence, boundaries, self-care, compassion fatigue and resilience, healthy teams, ethics, and more. Learn more about her trainings at carlacheatham.com

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Tags : bereavement, child, Death of a loved one, grief, guest blog, sharing our stories, support

When the Tree Just Wont Come Down: Creatively Holding Onto Memories

Posted by Carla Cheatham on

February 15, 2017

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When the Tree Just Won’t Come Down: Creatively Holding Onto Memories

They got her home just in time for Christmas. It was her favorite holiday.

She loved nothing more than to see the decorations and lights glisten on the tree, with memories shaped like 5-year old’s handprints and sports figurines. Each one had a story, of the 42 years she had with him until 3 years before, and of their 4 kids and 8 grandkids.

My friend was exhausted from long weeks at the hospital until the doctors said it was time to go home with hospice care, but she was determined to get the tree up for her mom. She was too tired to say “no” when we showed up to help.

As her mom slept off the ambulance ride home in the next room, with a baby monitor on her bedside table, my friend directed us in putting together the tree, covering it with twinkling lights, and making sure the favorite ornaments were front and center.

The durable medical equipment company arrived and set up the oxygen unit and other equipment in the living room, with the hospital bed sitting in the middle of all the activity, directly facing the tree. After the nice young men left, we worked together to get her mom into the electric bed where she could be adjusted to both her comfort and that of those caring for her.

She was too weak to do more than smile at the dazzling display in front of her, but her eyes caressed each story hanging from metal hooks and yarn loops and glistened with love and pride for those whom she loved.

One last time, she enjoyed the sounds of her family’s laughter and delighted squeals ringing out over the crumpling paper and once-a-year songs and holiday specials. She absorbed all of this with her eyes now closed, lifting her nose to catch wafts of freshly popped corn, dressing, spiral-sliced ham, and pumpkin pies brought and shared around her by family and friends.

Three days later, more nice young me came in and carried her mom gently from her bed, as the family quietly wept and walked her out to the dark van.

The medical equipment and unused supplies were packed and moved. The bed went last. But the tree still stood.

“Not yet…”, my friend said.

“Not yet.”

“I just can’t.”

“I’m not ready.”

We understood.

Her beloved had an idea, and invited our help. From a box in the attic, construction paper hearts cut carefully by small pairs of stubbed scissors and two generations of tiny hands over the course of 40 years came down. Macaroni necklaces on red yarn, and other valentines, found their way to dangle amongst the twinkling lights of the tree.

We carefully wrapped Christmas on February 13^th, putting the boxes not too far away just in case this was too much, too soon.

When she came home, she stopped where her mother’s final bed had been, facing the tree. Too full of emotion to speak, her eyes caressed each story hanging from metal hooks and yarn loops and glistened with love and pride for the memories of the mom whom she loved.

“It’s perfect”, she said.

For a full year, family and friends in various groupings would come take part in this ritual of re-decorating the tree for holidays, anniversaries, and birthdays. With each one, there was more laughter, fewer tears.

The bitter never left, but there were fewer cracks left for it to dwell amongst the loving memories that kept her alive in and among them, glistening so vibrantly inside that the outside ornaments finally weren’t needed anymore.

The tree eventually went down after one more Valentine’s Day. They were ready. It was time. And it was all perfect.

Rev. Carla Cheatham, MA, MDiv, PhD, TRT has served hospices as a chaplain and bereavement coordinator. She’s the Section Leader for the Spiritual Caregivers Section of the National Hospice and Palliative Care Organization and an adjunct professor at the Seminary of the Southwest. Through her Carla Cheatham Consulting Group, Carla provides training and consulting for professional caregivers nationwide. She is the author of Hospice Whispers: Stories of Life and its companion volume, Sharing Our Stories: A Hospice Whispers Grief Support Workbook. Her next book, On Showing Up with Suffering: Others’ and Our Own, is set to publish in 2017.

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Let Grief Lead You by Your Finger

Posted by Carla Cheatham on

February 8, 2017

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By Rev. Dr. Carla Cheatham, 4-minute read.

I have been spending a lot of time with a child in my life, recently, and the experience has given me a bit of a different perspective on the way we interact with our grief.

My early career was in child and family therapy and my time in parish ministry meant I was constantly around children. I’ve always had the joy of being “Aunt Carla” to a lot of my friends’ kids and grandkids. I’ve been a baby-rocker and even children’s coach at times in my career. I understand the developmental stages children go through to develop a strong sense of self and security within their world.

I’ve spent the past 10 years working at the other end of life, supporting patients and loved ones in the face of a terminal illness. My professional focus, therefore, has been largely on grief and psychosocial-spiritual healing.

Last week, something clicked between these two worlds of mine in a way that is still sinking into my heart and mind.

The child with whom I’ve been spending time is clearly in the stage of developing autonomy and beginning to initiate more within her little world. She frequently clasps her tiny hand around my forefinger and tugs with all her might, as she leans the full weight of her slight toddler frame in the direction she wants me to go. In her lilting voice, insistent with excitement, she tells me, “M’ere”.

If ever I hesitate even for a moment, or move too slowly for her taste, she becomes even more demanding, “M’on!”, and puts both hands around my fingers to pull harder.

She takes me to where she wants to go and shows me what she needs me to see. She tells me all about whatever treasure or trouble is consuming her focus and commanding her attention, just as she commands mine.

On one recent trek, being led on her latest urgent adventure, I smiled at the preciousness of this moment. I could see this young human developing before my eyes and finding her way to a sense of calm interdependence in this world, neither needing others too much nor being isolated behind a guard of total independence.

I heard in her voice how crucial this locust shell, or whatever she needed to show me, was to her. I felt how much it meant to her building psyche to know that she could influence a grownup to come with her, and count on them, on me, to see and understand what was of the utmost importance to her in that moment.

I knew it wasn’t about the dead butterfly she was leading me to stoop over and examine, or the favorite book she wanted to lead me to so she could plop into my lap while I read to her. It was about the connection, about creating a sense of safety that her voice had power, that she could trust herself to find what she needed, dare to ask for it out loud, and count on others to respond when asked. She needs to know that what is important to her will be important to others, if for no other reason than because she is important to them.

She needs to know she has safe space within which to explore and practice; that there are boundaries of containment that will not let her go too far and a finger to cling to that will not let go until she’s ready; that she is not a nuisance or too much or too needy or too shameful to scoop up and snuggle and be held until she’s ready to move on her own, once again.

Here is what we know from developmental psychology—that if a child’s initiative is squelched, controlled, or punished, the child will come to feel insecure and guilty, as if they are a nuisance. This will prevent a child from feeling safe within the world, and within their own skin.

They will shut down in shame and out of self-preservation, since there is no one there to respond to the protestations expressing their need. They will learn not to trust or feel hope. Their creativity will be squelched and their spirit will get small, even as their body grows.

Creativity, hope, and trust are important elements in grief. As we seek to build a new life without the one who (or thing or ability that) is no longer there, we need to have a sense of self, of trust, and of hope in other connections to ground ourselves in this world. As we revise our narrative to find meaning and make sense of our loss, we need to be able to creatively re-imagine our world, lest we become stuck in our former one.

As this tiny human being earnestly pulled me with her on her journey, I caught a glimpse of grief personified. When I have allowed my grief to take me by the hand, lead me where she needs to go, tell me what she needs me to hear, pause to sit and reflect on memories as colorful dead butterflies, plop down in a beanbag to hold her gently with the comfort of a good book, she trusts me and moves freely without shame exactly where she needs to go.

As I rest when my grief tells me she needs to rest, eat when I know that it is time for that to be important, listen intently to both her words and her silence, bring her into the light of safe connection with others or sit with her as she hides for a time in the cool darkness of a blanket fort, I’m telling my grief that I do not see her as a nuisance or too needy or too much.

I sweetly tell her that she is valuable and worthy and even normal and that the way she feels is completely understandable; that bullies who do not understand or who lash at their own fears of grief by lashing out at or shaming her have no room in her world, so we are to avoid them out of self-protection.

I let her know that she is not alone, that I will not abandon her, and give her the hope that someday she will feel the fullness of safety and love and belonging once again. And until she does, I am with her.

When I allow my grief to lead me by the hand, its innate wisdom knows exactly where to take me. By following it, I give it the space it needs to safely develop to a new and even healthier place.

Of course, a healthy parent makes room for a child to lead and explore and initiate while also providing boundaries for a sense of safety. Bedtimes are needed. Good food must be taken in. Personal grooming is important. Chores must get done.

But I never again want my grief to feel as if it has no room in this world or that I resent it. I do not want to set either of us up for it to shut down in shame or push back hard on me in rebellion.

I want it always to tell me what it needs me to know, to feel seen and heard, shown up and well cared for, and to have hope that, over time, peace will outgrow fear and despair.

For what it’s worth.

Peace,

Carla

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The Dance of Trauma and Grief: Day 30 of #31DaysWithGrief

Posted by Carla Cheatham on

January 30, 2017

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31 Days of Walking with Grief: Others’ and Our Own

Day 30—The Dance of Trauma and Grief

This is a month-long series to support persons grieving and those who love them. It includes content from “Sharing Our Stories: A Hospice Whispers Grief Support Workbook” available through Amazon and wherever books are sold.

On Day 6 of this series, I wrote about The Many Faces of Grief. As this 31 Day series draws to a close, I want to say a bit more about the intersection between Trauma and Grief.

Grief related to loss is an expected part of our lives. We know that we and others age and that changes will come, including the death of others and even our own. We don’t like to think about it and, though on some level we know to expect it, it still stinks and causes sadness, distraction, and other symptoms that usually pass within weeks or months to a couple of years.

Trauma is not something we naturally expect. Traumatic experiences or events that cause physical or emotional harm can overwhelm our capacity to cope and the effects can be lasting, leaving us terrified and feeling vulnerable, powerless, and unavoidably distracted.

When speaking of the interaction between trauma and grief, we’re still working out the details.

Some grief experts believe that all loss results not only in grief but also trauma, as the loss is traumatic in and of itself. Others disagree and believe loss may involve and/or lead to trauma, such as a death in a car accident, but not all loss meets the criteria of traumatic loss. Therefore, not all grief will contain trauma but some grief could be traumatic.

More agreement exists that the experience of trauma will naturally result in grief in addition to traumatic distress. Trauma often involves a lack of trust, safety, feelings of normalcy, and it challenges our existential beliefs about how the world should be. Those losses contribute to grief that must be mourned in addition to the trauma from which the person must recover. Therefore, most agree that all trauma involves some form of grief.

Teasing out the relationship between trauma and grief is important because the treatment interventions differ between the two.

Grief support typically involves reminiscence and other means of helping the person accept the absence of the deceased while creating a new way of connecting to the person’s memory and moving on with life in a new way.

Trauma is most often treated using cognitive behavioral and/or physiological interventions designed to help the person feel safe once again and cease the intrusive replays of the traumatic event.

When both are present, the key is determining how to treat both and in what order. In some cases, treating the severe distress of trauma must come first so the person can feel safe enough to do any further work. There seems to come a point, however, when the person must grieve the losses resulting from the trauma before they can let go and continue healing.

I spent a great deal of time healing from a traumatic event and was doing pretty well, but then deep grief arose to which I had to attend. Once I did, I achieved an even deeper healing and freedom than ever before. It profoundly impacted my professional work by giving me a greater perspective and more profound respect for the importance of the role of grief in trauma.

In the Day 26 post in this series about the Myth of Moving On, I shared William Worden’s Tasks of Mourning. There is a general agreement amongst grief experts that a combination of factors influence the depth and severity of our grief and Worden’s model is one those most frequently used.

There are many ways these factors may combine, or collide, to result in traumatic grief. If the death was the result of an accident, natural disaster, crime, or sudden and unexpected illness, for example, the seemingly capricious nature of the death can significantly complicate our grief. A grandparent’s death from a long-term illness can be much easier to wrap our heads around than a drunk driver crossing the yellow line and killing a child.

Losing support from someone on whom we depend financially, physically, and/or emotionally can pull the rug out from under us and can be experienced as traumatic as it threatens our security. The death of someone similar to us in some way can also hit too close to home, leaving us feeling unsafe in the world and experiencing the loss as traumatic.

I once performed the crisis debrief for student medics who were the first responders after a significant tragedy at a campus. These students performed beyond admirably, earning the respect of the “professional” responders who showed up to relieve them as rescue efforts continued.

Many were already fairly seasoned as paramedics and EMTs, but seeing their classmates who looked and dressed like them, whom they even recognized from campus and classes, was just way too much. It blasted past their natural defenses, the mechanisms that protect us from being constantly afraid of something happening to us, and made them come face-to-face with the uncertainty of life.

That, as much as anything, was what they struggled with as they mourned their classmates and dealt with the trauma of the tragedy.

Whatever our story, whatever loss we’ve faced, it is important to recognize any trauma that may be involved, complicating our grief. I, like others, resist the use of the word “abnormal” grief, because we do not wish to pathologize an understandable response to inordinate circumstances. If trauma has been a part of your experience, it is worth seeking support for the grief related to the losses that accompanied the trauma.

Getting the proper type and amount of support is important, and certainly understandable and well-deserved. I hope you find what works best for you and your unique situation.

Peace,

Carla

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Living with the Misunderstanding of Suicide: Day 29 of #31DaysWithGrief

Posted by Carla Cheatham on

January 29, 2017

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31 Days of Walking with Grief: Others’ and Our Own

Much of the poetry in Sharing Our Stories was written and graciously offered to the workbook by my friend, Janie Cook. I thank her for agreeing to open her tender heart, once again, and share it with us. You can learn more about Janie and her story at the end of this post.

Day 29—Living with the Misunderstanding of Suicide

by Guest-author, Janie Cook

To lose a loved one to suicide creates a uniquely complicated grief – one that is often deeply misunderstood, because to take in why someone would die this way requires opening up to their immense psychic pain. Society wants to avoid facing that pain, that fear, and in so doing creates a stigma around suicide that shrouds it in secrecy and isolates those who grieve in silence.

Stigma reveals itself in the language society has adopted to describe a death by suicide. The common phrase we hear is that someone “commits suicide “– similar to the way we talk about “committing” a crime or a sin – instantly labeling that person and negatively characterizing their death. Add to that, the judgmental facial expressions, the shame cast upon your loved one and the walls that go up around you as you try to live with this loss and you see the obstructive and destructive impact stigma can have.

Our family has tried to be patient with these comments and see them as a misunderstanding. We try to remember and have compassion for the fear behind them and then, with as much kindness as possible, offer our words of love in describing who our son was and the lethal impact of his acute, untreatable depression.

There is a Hebrew word that has helped me immensely to deal with this part of my mother’s grief. Part of the Jewish Passover Seder ritual ,called the Haggadah, is the word “dayenu” (which means “it is enough” or “it is sufficient”). “Dayenu” is repeated as the refrain in a Passover song that celebrates each one of God’s liberating acts as though it alone would have been enough to bring peace. This song strikes me as a powerful celebration of any one of the moments in our lives when we recognize Love’s gifts as whole and complete.

So, when the stigma of suicide announced to me that Matt’s death was inappropriate to talk about, not worthy of being grieved and therefore woefully misunderstood, I heard healing in this word, “dayenu”, and wrote my own verse to the song:

Matt lived his life in love,

Dayenu.

He gave himself away for those he loved,

Dayenu.

He is remembered with deep-hearted kindness and gratitude,

Dayenu.

He left this life loving us,

Dayenu.

And if we are the only ones who understand,

Dayenu.

More About Janie’s Story, from the Introduction to Sharing Our Stories:

Many of the poems were contributed by friend and colleague, Janie Cook, and are shared with her gracious permission. Janie and her husband have two children—a son and a daughter—and live in Austin, Texas.

Their son, Matt, died of depression through suicide that claimed his life in 2007. They experienced the sudden death of a child and the complicated grief that persons experience when society heaps stigmas born of ignorance and fear on the families of those who make this choice.

It broke their hearts, but also broke their souls open to greater compassion, love, and understanding. It led Janie to begin working as a facilitator of grief groups and to share her experience with others who are mourning, especially after the death of a child, through her blog at livingwiththelossofachild.blogspot.com.

Again, many thanks to Janie, and others, whose words are shared throughout this text.

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Sibling Grief: Day 24 of #31DaysWithGrief

Posted by Carla Cheatham on

January 24, 2017

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31 Days of Walking with Grief: Others’ and Our Own

Day 24—Sibling Grief

A friend said to me last year, “When you write your next book, PLEASE include what it’s like for us siblings. We always get left out!” So many dynamics come up around the death of a child that it can be impossible to address them all. The experience of the other children in the family often gets missed.

What it can be like…

Some siblings are close and loving. Others argue and fight. Most are a mixture of the two. If the child was a confidant or companion, that loss could be deeply felt. Losing a roommate or having your own bathroom may seem like a dream, until it comes by way of death and you’re sleeping alone in a way too quiet room. If the children weren’t close, guilt, which is already common for children to feel about a death of someone around them, may arise.

Regardless of how close they were, the sibling’s whole life has been thrown into turmoil. Parents and grandparents are distraught and often distracted, the comfort of routines and visiting with friends can disappear, new grownups are in and out of the home at all hours and the phone rings off the hook, things are happening that they just can’t understand.

Perhaps the child who died had an illness that already took time and attention away from the sibling and they resented it, or even felt relief that the turmoil around the illness and trips to the hospital and constant disruption were finally over. Either of these can prompt guilt in a sibling.

As life tries to move forward into a new normal, the child is having to adapt, as well. Sometimes, children adapt quite well. They grieve as much as they are able to in the moment and then can continue to grieve over the years as they cognitively develop and can handle more.

It can also be very hard for them to feel invisible while everyone around them grieves, and supports the parents’ grief while forgetting about the needs of the children. Siblings can feel pressure to grow up faster than usual to be more self-sufficient, emotionally and physically. They may try to make their parents feel better, and struggle when they can’t.

The vacuum left behind…

They may even try to make up for the vacuum left by their brother or sister, working to fill their shoes or fill the role they played in the family dynamic. Some parents may inadvertently put pressure on the child to do so. Feeling the incapable of being like their sibling, or even the pressure to try, can lead the child to feel incompetent, inferior, and never good enough.

One man, whose older brother died when the man was 6 years old, struggled for years with the magical thinking children can engage in to try to cope that told him if he was just good and loving and easy enough as a child, his mother would be happy again. Of course, that wasn’t rational. Of course, he couldn’t make that happen. And of course, his young mind felt responsible, and that small part remained with him for decades, until he finally dealt with it.

Siblings have has also come face to face with death in a way that most of us do not until we are much older. Being exposed to the existentially expected death of an elder is one thing. Facing the death of someone closer to our own age can leave us feeling even more threatened and insecure.

It’s jarring to realize that we aren’t immune and it really can happen to us. Blissful ignorance of threat can be adaptive, and having that illusion of safety lifted can be traumatizing in and of itself, leading to a sense of impending doom.

It never ends…

As the child ages toward adulthood, there can be a feeling that life is never allowed to be “normal” again. The cloud that comes with the death of a child in the family follows them through every meal, every trip, every holiday and gathering; their absence can’t help but be felt.

Then there are all the anniversaries of the death, when the child would have graduated, going to the weddings of the child’s friends, and on and on. The potential for triggers are constant. It is a heavy burden under which to grow up. And then to be an adult caring for aging parents without the added help the sibling may have been, yet another reason to feel put upon or abandoned.

Some do not see it that way. They find meaning in all of it that gives them hope and even a life purpose. They find comfort in the deeper perspective, wisdom, and compassion that can come from being around death and suffering.

Whatever your experience, I’m certain I’ve not comprehensively captured it here. The hope is to prompt persons to have a deeper understanding of what the experience of sibling grief might be like so we will all be less likely to ignore or miss supporting a grief that often remains faceless and hidden.

How to be present for a grieving child…

If you are around a child who’s sibling has died, here are a few quick tips to remember:

As always, avoid cliché’s or imposing theology or meaning on a child.

Do NOT use euphemisms like, “They went to sleep” or “on a trip” lest they freak out the next time they or a loved one gets sick or travels. Use the real words.

Don’t force or push them to talk. Leave blank paper and colors or colored pencils around for them to draw or write. Perhaps ask them to draw a picture for their loved one or of what they think it is like for their sibling now. Invite them to write their sibling a letter. Allow them to place the picture, letter, or other tokens in the casket with their loved one if they wish.

Children learn and process their feelings through play. They may even play “coffin” or “death”. Don’t be alarmed. This is normal as they try on what it might be like for their sibling. So long as they aren’t scaring themselves, its usually helpful.

Don’t force anything. If the child is 5 years or older, we typically suggest allowing them to decide what they want to do about the funeral or memorial service. If they are under 5 years, parents are encouraged to make the decision they feel is best, knowing what they know about the child.

If a child insists on being present but is denied, they can feel left out or like there is a secret happening that can be far scarier in their imagination than in reality. If they don’t want to go and they are forced, it can be traumatizing. If they do go, have a safe adult prepared to focus on them, while other grownups are grieving and distracted.

If you know the death is coming, have a special box of toys and coloring books prepared that are new to the child. Have a grownup with whom the child feels safe prepared to focus their energy on being present with the child somewhere nearby, but out of earshot while other grownups may need space to grieve openly in a strong way that may scare the child.

Refer questions to the parents. You’ve no idea what the parents wish to teach the child about why bad things happen or what happens after we die. Confusing the child with multiple messages is not helpful.

Get comfortable saying, “I don’t know”. You don’t have to have all the answers.

Don’t tell a child G-d did this, lest they learn to resent or feel afraid of a deity.

Don’t tell the child, “You have to be extra good/strong/brave/etc.” No, the child has to be a child and grieve exactly as they need to without grownup expectations being put upon them.

Be present, be open, don’t over-share horrific or graphic details, stay calm, and give them room to talk or be quiet or play or vent whatever emotions come up for them.

Again, this is far from a comprehensive list. Being with a sibling of a child who has died or is dying can be challenging, but the gift of simple presence can remain with that child for a lifetime, because someone refused to let them be invisible.

Trust yourself. You’ll do better than you think.

Peace,

Carla

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Parental Grief: Day 23 of #31DaysWithGrief

Posted by Carla Cheatham on

January 23, 2017

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31 Days of Walking with Grief: Others’ and Our Own

Day 23—Parental Grief

As close as I can understand…

I tread gently when speaking of any grief I have not personally experienced. I did learn how amazing it is to love a child as a step-parent over a period of years.

I will never regret a single 2:00 a.m. wake up because of a nightmare. I’ll never begrudge even a moment of gently holding back her long hair with one hand as she puked up her toenails while worriedly calling the doctor for an appointment with my other. Every second was worth loving her.

I got a small taste of what it is like to lose a child when my relationship ended and I had no legal right to see this small, funny, brilliant, kind, beautiful human whom I absolutely adored. I did not give birth to her, but I felt the umbilical cord cut, grieved deeply, and miss her still.

As much as it hurt, and it did hurt too much to breathe for a very long time and I still get misty-eyed and choked up when I speak of her, I took comfort in knowing she was still alive. I imagined the others who would come into her life to love her. I prayed for her daily, and do still. I smile when I remember moments and antics. I wondered about her learning to drive, what high school was like for her, where she’s chosen to go to college and what she’s finally (for now) decided she wants to study and do and be for her career.

For me, knowing she was and is still in this world, and trusting the universe to care for her made it all easier to accept, because I trusted she was happy, had a future, and that perhaps I may even get the chance to see her again someday.

I can barely imagine that pain being even an ounce bigger by having to live with the death of a child.

We don’t compare pain, but acknowledge each grief’s unique features…

In Sharing Our Stories: A Hospice Whispers Grief Support Workbook, I wrote the following:

“We don’t compare grief, lest a person minimize their own pain if they believe it to be somehow less challenging than another’s experience. For example, some may say, ‘Oh, they’ve had it much worse than I have.’ This can lead a person to not feel as if they have a right to grieve as deeply or as long as they may need to. It can also leave them feeling guilty or ashamed about how they feel….

While we do not compare, there are forms of grief that have unique characteristics that challenge us in diﬀerent ways, such as grief related to a trauma or a sudden death. The death of a child or other young person can pose such a challenge for us…

It is natural for humans to think that parents will not outlive their children. When it does occur, it poses an existential challenge—something that ﬂies in the face of how we believe the world should be, how we make sense of things, and how we understand questions of existence and meaning and suﬀering. We may hear, or find ourselves saying, ‘Parents should never have to bury a child,’ or ‘Children should be able to grow up and live out their whole lives.’”

(from Sharing Our Stories, pg. 99-100)

Because the death of a child can so challenge our sense of the way the world should be, our defense mechanisms may come up even more strongly to try to make sense out of it all or to decrease the impact we feel about it. But we must guard against our discomfort causing them even more damage and trauma.

What to avoid when speaking to a parent who is grieving…

Here are a few things to remember when interacting with parents of children who have died, whether before or after birth:

Children who are stillborn or miscarried are no less valued and no less loved by their parents. Do not minimize this loss. Honor the death and find ways to show up well for these parents, as this form of grief commonly falls in the category of Disenfranchised Grief.

Ask, “What is their name?” The child is still very much present in their parents’ hearts and minds, so referring to them in the past tense can feel harsh or disrespectful.

If you do ask about the child’s age, be sure to NOT make it appear in any way that a younger age makes it somehow less traumatic to the parent. This is minimizing and dismissive. It can be tempting to use this information to feel like, “Oh, well they were only 2 months old, so that mustn’t have been that bad. I mean, it’s not like they…(insert excuse to make the pain not that bad, here).” Don’t injure them further by saying such insensitive things to decrease your discomfort. As I wrote in Sharing Our Stories, “Grieving parents often state their child’s life cannot be measured in hours, days, or years, but by the love their presence generated in the world—however long they were physically with us.”

Do not tell the parent in any way how they should feel, what they should think, what they should believe, or how they should act or respond. There are no right or wrong answers here, or with any grief. Each person must do whatever they need to find peace and meaning and should never have meaning imposed upon them,

Examples of imposing meaning, as well as cliché’s and theologizing to avoid, are:

“God needed another angel.”
“God was saving them from some worse experience later.”
“They were too good for this earth.”
“Well, at least you have (or can have) other children.”

There are more, but any parent whose child has died is probably ready to scream right now being reminded of or hearing these, so I hope this gives you an idea.

As always, if a parent’s form of coping is to believe any of these, it’s okay to affirm their feelings and beliefs that are getting them through, but make certain such words come from THEM. If it’s not helpful for them, the opposite of not helpful isn’t benign, it’s traumatic and damaging. Don’t risk it.

It is always safe to say, “I wish I knew what to say. I’m so sorry I don’t. But I care and I’m here, however and whenever you need.” Then follow that statement up.

Offer to run an errand. Offer to care for the house/kids/animals/yard. Invite them to lunch and be prepared to listen the whole time if they need to talk, without needing to jump in and speak over them. Let it be their space.

When you leave messages, make it clear that there is no pressure for them to respond, but to do so only if it is good and helpful for them; that you won’t take it personally, at all, if they do not do so. Let them know it is a simply given offer with no expectation on them in any way. And mean it!

So much more to say…

There’s so much more that could be said. Whole books and blog series and websites are devoted to this topic. For now, I will leave you with one of the many poems contributed to the Sharing Our Stories grief workbook by Janie Cook.

Janie’s own son, Matt, died of depression through suicide that claimed his life in 2007. She graciously offered her work to me from her blog, LivingWithTheLossOfaChild.blogspot.com:

First you try to take in all that is lost . . .
the dreams that will never be,
the deafening absence,
the precious reminders of the presence of this child
that literally rip a hole in your heart each time you see them
and, at the same time, you try to take in all the amazing gratitude you feel . . . ,
for the unforgettable moments you have been given,
for the vivid memories that replay like a beloved movie in your mind, and
for the amazing gift of a love as immense as this ?

Janie continues:

Grief is so confusing! It is packed with both of these heavy opposites. So, we careen from one to the other like a marble in a pinball machine – bouncing first one way then another. It is enough to make you crazy! It does make you crazy.

I carry an image in my mind of what healing looks like. It is standing with both feet planted firmly on the earth, arms outstretched, palms up . . . holding the son I have lost in one hand and the son I have been so graciously given to love in the other.

In my better moments, I am balanced between these two truths. And, I believe that healing is learning to keep this balance until it becomes so familiar to us that we do it without thinking. . . . gently holding one reality and then the other . . . . accepting the truth of both.

~Janie Cook

May those who love someone whose child has died find support to help you support them. May those of you who know what it is to face the death of a child find comfort and peace as you find your way in your own time.

Blessings,

Carla

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