Birthdays & Anniversaries

Is Today Still His Birthday?

by Elizabeth Lorber Gassvill, Arkansas

Right now, Bob and I are in a one-step-backward phase. I suppose because Joe’s birthday would have been this week. (Is it okay to say his birthday IS this week?) It’s strange how much of our lives are involved with the little markers of his living—his birthday, his Sunday school picture, his college graduation, how proud we were of his special honors certificate, and how much he enjoyed the Fourth of July.

Yesterday I baked an apple pie. It reminded me of the day, a month or so before he died, when I

came home form shopping to find a bowl of sliced apples and a note saying, “Just a hint for Mom’s World Famous Apple Pie!” And so, I peeled the apples yesterday through a blur of tears.

Now, spring has come again. I used to greet it with such joy! Now, that joy is tempered with sadness, because he used to bring us the first dandelion and the first violet of the new season.

Sometimes, memories are not enough. We want Joe to BE again, instead of wandering the by-ways and paths of our hearts and memories. We want the pain to go away so those wanderings will no longer be tinged with loneliness and tears. We know we must accept his death, but acceptance comes slowly. Most nights we can sleep again, but not all of them. Most days we can manage well, but not always, We still have moments of railing against a God who allowed this to happen—but without as much conviction as a year ago.

We take comfort where we can—happy memories of life with Joe. He was an artist and had a great number of paintings purchased by people around the Midwest. We take comfort in knowing these paintings bring joy to their owners. A friend of Joe’s wrote to tell us that she knows Joe is now in charge of painting God’s rainbows—so we take great comfort in each and every glorious rainbow decorating the sky.

When Joe was growing up, we had an extra lot with a terraced hill. Children for blocks around used the hill for sliding. We take great comfort in a note from a former neighbor who tells us that twenty-five years later children who never knew our son still refer to the terrace as “Joe Lorber’s Hill”!

Each of our prayers ends with the hope that Joe has found the peace he needed and longed for so badly. Knowing he has found it brings us some measure of comfort and peace, too. Bob and I are so grateful for the grief group we found shortly after our son’s death. The numbness of the first few weeks, the wracking pain that followed, the “why” that kept us sleepless and physically and mentally exhausted...all eased by the wonderful people and family who, through their own grief, helped ours.

One of the most beneficial things about the meetings is the opening of the lines of communication at home. Following the meetings, we have talked and cried and laughted together far into the night. It helps us realize how much we love and need each other to get through this.

I have read that if we do not grieve, we do not heal. One of the hardest parts of this experience has been friends (and even some family) who tried to make it “all better,” who wanted us to be “normal” again. We lost some former friends who were no longer comfortable with us, but we gained many new friends who understood and who stood by us during some very dark days.

Out of the loss and pain and tears, one thing stands out that offers comfort. That is acceptance. This includes acceptance that our “why” may never be answered. We cannot place our grief in a neat little package and tie it up with answers to “why.” Sometimes “why” leads to more “whys.” Sometimes, “why” leads to bitterness and blame and endless circles of “what if.” The truth is that our loved one is gone, and balanced against that, the “why” eventually becomes unimportant.

It includes acceptance that life without our loved one is possible. In the early stages of grief, this feels unthinkable. It feels as if we are forgetting our loved one, until we realize that we will never forget. He is always just one thought away.

It includes acceptance that though life can never be the same, it can be filled again with happy memories of the one we lost and enjoyment of ones who still surround us with love and understanding each day.

There is no time table for acceptance, just as there is no time table for grief. Acceptance does not mean no more tears. It does not mean no more dark days. It does mean that the gentle spring rain, the flowers of spring, the beauty of fall can still be shared with a loved one who roams the pathways of our hearts and minds always.

May the peace of acceptance be yours!

Taken from Bereavement Magazine Inc. March/April 1996

Happy Anniversary

By Beckie A. Miller

Glendale, Arizona

At this writing, if I count the times I have lit a candle in his memory so that we, his family, can acknowledge the day without necessarily using the words, it adds up to thirty-four times. Thirty-four holidays, birthdays, Mothers' and Fathers' days, and anniversary dates of his murder.

An eighteen-year-old, cut down in the prime of his life. A time when he was just crossing over the border of childhood to manhood and all the wonders that transition would encompass. Instead, he crossed over on a journey he took alone, and we were left behind, broken and aching for him.

       Usually, as I light the candles, I speak to him, saying things such as, "Happy Birthday, dearest Son. I love you." The anniversary date of his death always brings me to an abrupt halt as I try to decide what to say while lighting a candle in honor of the child who will never grow old.

What can I say about the unholy day that brought such incredible horror to our doorstep? What can I say to the endless pain his passing in such a brutally, inhu­mane way has left us? What can I say to the weight of a grief that begins weeks before the anniver­sary date, and on the actual day, I feel as if I have gained fifty pounds overnight? I crawl out of bed with the heavy emotional weight drag­ging my feet - my heart.

Any parent who has lost a child, anyone who has lost some­one dear in his life, knows what I mean. No one else can understand the magnitude - both the physi­cal and emotional grief that drains

so completely from the inside out and outside in.

           This year, five-years after his death, it suddenly comes to me.  The perfect words – the only words that can possibly work for this day of emotional hell – are simply, “Happy Heaven, Honey!”

THE ANNIVERSARY 

I’ll smile for you, my son, today

Tho’ tears will not be far away.

I’ll try to recall the happy years,

The laughing times

Before the tears.

I’ll call upon a distant star

And ask each raindrop where you are

Your spirit lives - I do believe

Today I’ll smile -

I will not grieve.  

- Lily de Lauder, TCFIN.Hollywood, CA

ANNIVERSARY OF THE LOSS 

An anniversary is a time to remember. When you plan for a time of remembering —for reminiscing about past events, sharing a song, poem, or reading that evokes a special memory — you celebrate the person you have lost. 

REACTIONS: A month or two before the anniversary of the death, it is not unusual to have unexpected and unwelcome flashbacks and upsurges in grief. It seems all the grief-work accomplished to date becomes undone as we subconsciously relive all the events again. The reactions are frightening and confusing. It is not uncommon to experience insomnia, nightmares, physical complaints, or an incredible irritability. 

We dread the anniversary date, yet we suppress the feelings. Each day is a reminder that one-year ago “we were together,” and we know what is coming next: THAT DAY. 

Even many years later, it can have an impact on how one feels or behaves. We all have an unconscious time clock within us that keeps track of anniversary dates. It is very common for someone who is experiencing an inexplicable increase in symp­toms to later realize that it is the anniversary of a significant event. It can be pre­dicted that experiences later in life may temporarily resurrect intense grief resulting from earlier losses; a recurrence of “normal” grief. 

COPING WITH ANNIVERSARIES: It is a fact that the first anniversary date is going to be difficult. If you learn to accept this, then you won’t feel so bad about feeling bad. If other words, if you expect to feel bad, you can face your fears and take action. 

WHAT MAY HELP: 

•            Get away from reality. Take a day off work. Read, swim, relax in the sun, do something different to help build memories with                 living loved ones.

•            Get the family together.

•            Have a special memorial service.

•            Accept notes, calls, or visits from friends.

•            Light a candle or plant a tree to honor the loved one.

•            Make a trip to a favorite place.

•            Visit the cemetery.

•            Prepare food that was most enjoyed by your loved one.

•            Dwell on the positive.

•            If you plan for the day, you will be in charge of your circumstances — rather than your experience controlling you.

•            Be gentle and patient with yourself. Don’t expect too much. 

RECOGNIZE THAT: We need to tell our story.

We will never forget the one who died.

We will never again be the same.

We will recover.

            LEARN HOW: To manage the hurt and pain.

           To be nurtured by hope. 

THE BENEFIT OF RITUALS: Rituals can help us to release the bound energy in our psyche, and give us a feeling of relief and release from that which was causing our pain. They help us to walk in balance and in reverence. 

Life in the presence of grief is new and different. Honoring that difference through ritual may make its painful aspects more bearable, as one attempts to recreate a meaningful existence. Despite the fact that we might choose to have it otherwise, life and death, joy and sorrow, are integral parts of our experience as human beings. The experience of each enhances the knowledge of the other, thereby enriching our ability to live more fully. 

Our pain temporarily weakens us, but the healing promotes inner strength and brings with it a new confidence and purposefulness. Each year, the anxiety, pain, and dread will bec ome less. It will become a fact you learn to live with. We don’t like it, but eventually we come to some peace with ‘it. 

Tears may be dried up, but the heart   Never. 

Marguerite deValois 

Good Samaritan Hospice

Bent but Not Broken   

To the mother who has lost her only child, or has no surviving children, the thought of Mother’s Day sends a stabbing pain that only the ones of us who are in this situation can understand. We begin to notice Mother’s Day cards slipped in right after Valentine’s Day, along with the Easter cards. Even before Easter, the TV advertising starts. We try to blot this out, but our subconscious keeps reminding us: the day is coming closer 

For the first two years, we celebrated Mother’s Day for my mother and sister very quietly. The third year after my daughter’s death, we decided to go to a local restaurant featuring a nice buffet. We arrived early, hoping to avoid the crowd. A very flustered hostess greeted us, and found a table for us. The tables had been pushed close together to accommodate more people. It was already becoming very crowded. She asked the question:

“How many mothers?” It was then we noticed the flowers she was carrying. Someone managed to stammer out “Three — three mothers.” She handed us each a flower while glancing around to find a table for the next group of people. She didn’t notice the one she handed me was pretty battered. 

My sister wanted to give me hers or get another “No, it’s OK,” l said. The stem was bent, but not broken com­pletely. A wilted~ tired flower was hanging from the stem. 

I brought it home, and propped it up in a glass of water to revive it You see, I could identify with that flower As a mother without my child, I have felt so bruised and battered. Somehow, through all the pain, tears, and loneli­ness, like the flower, I have been bent but never quite broken.

  Donna Frechec

TCF, Enid, OK