Telling Ones sorrow often brings comfort – Pierre Corneille (circa 1640)
Telling ones sorrow seems to be such a simple concept but one we all struggle with. It’s not easy to go to the pain and relive our experiences. It took me a long time before I could openly tell my story. I probably had a million reasons why I wouldn’t talk about it, but here are a couple of main reasons why I wouldn’t tell my story:
1. I truly thought if I didn’t talk about it I could tuck it away into a dark corner of my mind and it would just go away.
2. It hurt too much.
3. I thought I was being weak and I should be able to control my pain.
4. I never really discussed other difficult things in my life, no reason to start now.
5. I felt a lot of guilt and I really didn’t want to let others know how “terrible” of a dad I must be by not being able to protect my children.
6. I was taught to deal with “stuff” on my own.
7. I didn’t think there was anyone out there that was willing to listen to my problems.
8. I didn’t want to burden other people with the issues I was having.
9. Talking about my children’s death wouldn’t change the fact that it really happened.
10. I was embarrassed that I would start weeping in front of others when I spoke of the losses.
These are just a few of the reasons that come to mind today. Like I said above, I am sure I had many many reasons for not sharing.
I have since learned that this quote is very true. Telling your story is an important part of releasing the pain the goes to the core. Pain I never realized existed. Pain that cannot be explained with words. You have to walk in the shoes of a grieving parent to understand this pain.
Do you have excuses for not telling your story?
Do you have ideas you would like to share with other on how to start telling their story?
I had a million excuses for not telling the story of Colin’s death and yet they all boiled down to the same excuse…telling his story felt like I was giving a piece of him away and I was not willing to let any more of him go since all I had left was his story and my memories. Now I started my own blog where I talk to him and share thoughts, things I (and his sister and Mommy) do, and just try to share him as much as possible so a greater number of people can help keep him “alive”.
As for helping someone else tell their story, I would say treat your story like a painter treats a blank canvass…just start. Once the fist mark is made on the canvass, it isn’t so intimidating since it is no longer this blank thing staring back at you. You will find that once you get over your fear to start, your story will pour out of you, and you will have shared some of the most beautiful and terrifying things you never knew you had in you. Once you do, you will feel less alone in your grief.
“your story will pour out of you, and you will have shared some of the most beautiful and terrifying things you never knew you had in you.” Very well stated Steve.
I have also started a blog and find it to be a constructive outlet for my thoughts and feelings. It also helps those who read it get a better idea of how painful losing my son Charlie is for us. I’ll never be able to describe the depths of our pain in words but it gives them a look into our hurt. It also, more importantly to me, serves as a living and working memorial to Charlie.
If it is ok with you, please share your blog URL. I would like to read a about Charlie.
Steven
Sure thing. Here you go. http://offthedivingboard.wordpress.com/
I’d like to read about Colin if you’re willing to share as well.
Bryan
sure, Kelly has it linked here…Colin’s Corner
I’ve been fortunate, I think. Initially it was hard to tell someone my daughter had died, but as time went on, it became easier for me and I think several things had an influence on that. Some of my thoughts here may not fit with the “norm”, but they are my thoughts and feelings nonetheless.
First of all was the overwhelming support from not only family and close friends of ours, but from the many, many people, a lot of them total strangers, that showed up at her memorial. As I shook each person’s hand, accepted their words of sympathy and listened to their stories about Allison, I couldn’t help thinking that we had raised one hell of a daughter.
The second thing is that I am a very strong believer in the power of positive thinking. I believe very strongly that while one must prepare for the worst that life can throw at you, thinking positive things makes positive things happen. Losing my only child was the worst possible scenario I could have imagined, and I thought about it off and on through the years as she grew into her own. Now that she is gone, the only things I can remember are the postive things…the way she made friends so easily, her good grades in school, her bright smile, her marriage to a wonderful man and they shared, so many things to list…
I find it very difficult NOT to talk about her now…that’s all I want to do, is talk about her and the way she had about her that positively affected so many people. Her light shined so brightly here on earth that God called her to his side to help so many others. I truly believe that.
Recently I had the cable guy out to fix the cable box. As we were talking about mundane things, he asked about my family. I explained that we had just moved in, the reasons for moving here, which included telling him about the passing of Allison. That gave me the opportunity to tell him about her and her penchant for collecting all things Christmas, as that was her favorite holiday.
I don’t go around initiating conversations about Allison, but I do not shy away from the questions when asked. She was and is a vital part of my life and she inspires me to live my life in a positive way. We recently had to put down her first dog, Penny, a chiuahuah mix. There’s no doubt in my mind that Allison met Penny in heaven and they are happily playing together again.
I still have my days…and make no mistake I miss Allison every single day. I do get depressed at times and sometimes feel like, “What’s the point? I’ve lost my only child. Who cares about us now? We have no future. We’re it…we’re done…end of the line.” But these moments almost always come at a time of negativity, when something isn’t going my way, when there is high stress situations.
But a good night’s sleep and the beginning of a new day will almost always bring me out of it. My attitude is that Allison is gone and there’s absolutely nothing I can do about it. I can choose to wallow in self-pity and agony, or begin to embrace life again and remember Allison for the angel on earth she was.
I choose the latter.
John,
I too choose the latter. It is not always easy to do, but I refuse to accept the alternative.
Thanks for sharing your thoughts on this issue.
Peace.
Kelly
You have to walk in the shoes of a grieving parent to understand this pain. This is so true.
July 18 is here again and though the pain never ends. Some of the things written above are so true. I will always have the guilt of not protecting my son. Rest in Peace Charlie July 26 1986 – July 18 2005
Jack,
I hope the day was kind to you. I have thought about you throughout the day. I know how hard these days can be. I am glad you were able to find a connection to this posting. Peace.
Kelly
I came across your blog by accident this evening; during browsing for a good couples’s communication article during grief and loss. Telling a story that has such a horrible ending is difficult but here goes. I lost my second child Hazel on July 1st 2011 in my arms after two amazing weeks with my beautiful girl.
At first glance it would seem to an outsider or a clueless husband that having another C-section at 38 weeks for our second daughter would seem like a no-brainer. Far from it actually; since the beginning of pregnancy #2 my wife has been adamant that she wants to try a VBAC. Well like most men I wasn’t really sure what I thought about her decision, but being married to a super strong willed woman I knew I wasn’t going to change her mind. By about a month prior to labor I would say I had subscribed to it. Labor went pretty standard this time; about 9 hours later we were pushing. All of the sudden; the doctors were having issues getting baby Hazel on the monitors. We weren’t that concerned since it was during pushing and Hazel had been known to move around a lot. But then all of the sudden when they went to check the face/dilation one of the doctors noticed that there was no fluid and they wheeled Emily out without saying anything. We found out later the actual C-section took about one minute and they basically had to rip my wife’s tissues as opposed to cutting. Hazel was found in my wifes upper abdominal cavity, surrounded by blood and not breathing. My wife’s uterus had burst, and after baby was recovered the doctor actually had to piece my wifes uterus back together. My mother-in-law and I were the only ones in the room aside from the nurses when they wheeled Emily out.
I was scared and uninformed for several hours about either my wife or daughter until a young resident came to my bedside to explain what had happened.
Hazel was rushed to the Children’s Hospital and was there until she went to Heaven. She was put on a cooling blanket to keep her temp down so we could prevent any further damage to her brain. Her heart, lungs and other organs all seemed fine. Then devastation: an Brain ultrasound was done and revealed severe brain damage disallowing her from having a meaningful life.
After that we got to see our daughter for about two weeks before she left for Heaven.
Why am I angry I ask myself. I’m able to accept that Hazel passed:”we did have to make some unbelievably tough decisions on her life limiting condition.” But what now: we found out only weeks after that it will be unlikely at a year minimum that Emily’s uterus could sustain another baby and even if so complications would be possible for both my wife and any future offspring. That just adds to my frustration. Aside from “why me,” I ask this void in my heart and mind : will it always be there. This is one of those times that you can’t really “deal” with things but you just have to “live with this.” Well maybe I’m capable of “living with this,” but my life is still in shambles, I’m reminded of what I’m missing everytime I see a new baby boy/girl and also of what I may never have again, although we have had a friend offer surrogacy if my wife and I can not have another child. I’m kind of allover the page with my e-motions, coming in waves with ferocity and then just as whimpers when I hear a song/read something like your blog and even purchasing something in the checkout line of a supermarket. I’ve tried counseling and that seems to be working, but I am still at a loss for words and what exactly I should be feeling. I haven’t exactly been eating well or sleeping well, but I also don’t feel like Hazel is on my mind, eventhough her presence is very much eerily with me. I just found your blog tonight and all the stories even from several years ago have been helpful, thank you for making a concerned effort to help others that have gone/or are going in my case through this treacherous path of sorrow and disgruntled and incoherent thoughts/feelings. I hope this blog can help me through this tough journey for as long as I must travel it.
“…but I am still at a loss for words and what exactly I should be feeling…”
John, I understand that feeling all too well. I was in a daze for quite a while until I found this blog and it has helped me tremendously to come to grips with the way I was feeling. As anyone here will tell you, there is no right or wrong way to be feeling. That confused me at first, then I came to realize that each of our experiences are unique to the individual experiencing them. Your loss is different from mine so we are going to have different paths to walk in our grieving process. You lost your daughter after two weeks and I lost mine after 23 years. That doesn’t soften the blow of losing a child, but it changes the way we grieve about them.
Another factor is the manner in which we lost them. My Allison simply fell asleep and never woke up, a victim of a rare disease called Hashimoto’s Disease that was never diagnosed. I didn’t have to go through the added stress of hospitalization and all that entails, so therefore I grieve differently than you. That doesn’t mean that I loved my daughter any less or more than you loved yours, it just means that the circumstances of our loss were different, therefore we grieve differently.
I’ve found that by confronting the grief head on, acknowledging it, and pushing THROUGH it, it helps. I tried denial for a while, but just got more depressed as time went on. I’ve learned a lot about the grieving process from this blog and the people here and I hope you stick around, share your thoughts with us and let us help you get through the worst nightmare of your life. In my mind, talking about your loss is the singlemost helpful thing you can do.
John