Diane Neas

You Can’t Stop A Boulder

Once a week I have the opportunity to talk to other grieving parents. I don’t always avail myself to said opportunity, but when I do, I am stunned at what we have in common. No matter how we lost our child . . . many feelings are universal.

The one that is most often mentioned: guilt. We find a way of taking whatever happened and making it our fault. One mom shared a story with me. The story is of a little boy who was sleeping soundly in his bed. One night a boulder, that had been firm in the side of the cliff for hundreds of years, came loose. The massive rock rolled down the hill, gaining speed, eventually crashing through a wall. Instantly killing a little boy as he slept soundly in his bed.

How had the boulder become free? A storm, years prior, had caused the river to flood and weaken the earth in that area. Somehow, the surveying team missed the danger when they inspected the area for homes. Four years later, the boys parents had chosen the home because of it’s good school system and close neighborhood. It had taken them a long time to find the perfect place to raise their child. As a condolence, people said that there was no reason for this to happen, it was after all, an act of God.

Those of us who have lost a child know what the parents did to themselves, don’t we?

They blamed themselves for their son’s death. If they hadn’t chosen that house, on that hill, with those rocks that had seemed so beautiful in the sunset, he would still be alive. If they’d never left their previous home then this would not have happened. For the rest of their lives, they will carry the guilt of what happened.

When I listen to other parents talk about the death of their child, I am amazed at how easily events can be described in a way that illustrates their responsibility. As their words spill from their mouths . . . I want to cry out: It’s not your fault!! Yet, I do it to myself, too. I can manage to weave the recounting of Becca’s death into a tale that makes me the guilty party. Why do we have such an intense need to be culpable. Society isn’t blaming us, we are blaming ourselves.

I’ve heard parents say if they hadn’t sent their child to school that day, they wouldn’t have died in a bus accident. Or if they had kept them home when it began to snow, their child’s car wouldn’t have skidded off the road. If they’d said no to going to the movies, their child wouldn’t have been drinking in the parking lot and succumbed to alcohol poisoning. The truth is, as parents, we can do everything right, and it still doesn’t matter.

If you are reading this, and haven’t lost a child, please don’t become terrified of allowing your child to live. You can not wrap them in a cocoon and keep them safe. If we are alive, we have to live life. Don’t change that. But, please, if you know someone who has lost a child and is struggling with this massive, and very common, guilt . . . share this with them.

A lot of times we won’t listen to ourselves, but it helps to hear it from someone else. We can let the guilt go.

Our children would want that for us.

Being A Mess Is Expected

Valentine’s Day. For me, it’s never been about flowers and a dinner date. When I think about true love . . . my children are the image that forms in my mind. I love them completely and unconditionally. As all parents do.

Happy Valentine’s Day Becca, Gabriel, and Matthew. You are my greatest loves. You always will be.

I wish that holidays didn’t now have a depth of sadness to them. I miss the ones that were nothing but joy. Sigh.

Over the weekend I moved, leaving the house where were a family for the last time, and starting a new chapter. Being so busy, I’d forgotten today’s holiday was just around the corner. Her absence didn’t hit me, again, until this evening. Then it floored me.

It made moving seem like a horrible mistake. I’m not in a room she’d recognize. How could I leave the walls that echoed our laughter? What was I thinking?

I’m a mess. A complete mess. So many emotions tumbling over me. I almost feel like I am going to lose the vise like grip I generally have on things.

I might. I have before. I’m sure I will again. It’s inevitable. Especially when they railroad car each other and pile up.

A new home. Valentine’s day. And numerous other triggers throughout the week. It’s exhausting.

I’ll have a lot to write about in the coming months, that’s for sure.

Until then, love each other well. Deeply and completely.

You’ll hear from me soon.

Understanding Others

I often wonder what people see when they look at me. Does my pain show on my face? Is my exhaustion apparent in how I carry myself? One woman told me that I had haunted eyes and it was difficult to hold my gaze. I can understand her point. Who wants to face the death of a child unless you absolutely have to? I wouldn’t.

I didn’t notice it immediately, but eventually the fact that people would become uncomfortable when I talked about my daughter revealed itself. They’d avert their eyes, start to fidget, and attempt to change the subject. Awkwardly cutting conversations short when they didn’t want to hear what I was saying. Many of my friends stopped calling altogether. At first, I was angry. I felt abandoned. What happened to all those who promised to “be there” whenever I needed them? I would reach out . . . but my hand would comeback empty.

For a long time, I let the anger build. I told myself that I would never treat someone else like that. But how could I be sure? Then one day, when I was outside in the sun planting flowers, I had an epiphany. My sad eyes and broken heart were just too much for some people. And that was nothing to be angry about. If I didn’t have to live in a world in which the death of children existed . . . would I choose to voluntarily? Probably not. It can be a dark and lonely existence. If all of my children were alive, would I want to be reminded, often, that child loss occurs? I doubt it. So, if I can’t be certain that I would handle the situation differently, how can I judge others?

This realization was very freeing for me. I didn’t have to carry the weight of anger toward anyone. I could just let it go. Doing so helped me to be more able to deal with the things I had control over. The things I could do something about. I couldn’t change people. I had to meet them where they were, even if they couldn’t seem to meet me where I was. In a place that is so terrifying it’s hard for them to imagine.

The sun shone a little brighter that day.

The day we realize that we are not responsible for other’s emotions, or actions, is the day we start to put all our effort toward healing ourselves. We deserve this. Women, especially, have difficulty putting themselves before others. From an early age, we are taught to be givers. We need to add ourselves to this list. Find what you need to heal and do it. Every day.

Each of us has a switch inside that we must search out and flip. The “thing” that is going to cause a shift in our thoughts and move us toward wholeness. We can have a hundred people around us, never be physically alone, but that won’t help. The work we have to do . . . we have to do in the quiet moments inside of ourselves.

This doesn’t mean that we can’t lean on others, we can. And we should. We just have to understand our hardest work will be done within our own minds and hearts.

However, search me out if you need to. I am always here.

Confronting Guilt

Guilt is a monster that demands to be fed. No matter the cost . . . it’s going to find what it needs and take it from you. We are better served by looking it in the face and asking it’s reason for existing. There is always a reason. Often times, the reason isn’t our responsibility. Especially the reason our child died. But, somehow, we still carry the guilt.

The moment my daughter was killed I was sleeping restlessly in my bed miles away. Earlier in the evening, while I was at work, an ominous feeling settled on my shoulders. I tried to shake the feeling of impending danger but I just couldn’t. Even going so far as to tell my manager I wouldn’t be back to work there again. How did my subconscious mind know this? And if it was going to warn me . . . why not go all the way and tell me exactly what was going to happen so I could stop it?

As I lay safely in my bedroom, as my sons slept downstairs, my child’s life was ended by a drunk driver. Why did I go to sleep? How could I not pay closer attention to the feelings I was experiencing? I knew my boys were home that evening. They had no plans. I should have called my daughter and made sure she was alright. I had time. I left work near midnight. She wouldn’t be killed for just over two hours. If I’d acted . . . she might still be alive. If I had demanded she tell me where she was, then driven to get her, she would still be alive. If I’d picked her up and brought her to my home, tucked her into bed next to me . . . she’d still be here.

As her mother, I should have known this was the possible outcome of the night. I didn’t. Was this because I am not a good mother? Or I didn’t love my child enough? I failed her. I cost my daughter her life. And I have to live with this truth for the rest of my life.

When talking to others, and expressing this thought, I’m always told I have no responsibility for her death. (But I do.) I wasn’t the driver who chose to drive after drinking. (But I could have changed the course of events.) Physically, I had no hand her dying. (But I should have known my child was in physical danger.) You see how our mind works? How we can find a way to feel responsible for something we had nothing to do with? The weight of the guilt we carry can crush us and force us to our knees. It lives in our chest so fully we can’t take a deep breath. Our heart beats are restricted and our blood flow is weak. We are dying, ourselves.

Guilt will take what it needs, and we are left to exist on what’s left, unless we confront it. It’s parasitic existence must be ended. In truth, we most likely, couldn’t have stopped our child from dying. In our heads, this fact is acknowledged. Our hearts, however, don’t always know this. We spend our life, our child’s life, keeping them safe and preparing them for a future of their own. We baby proof our homes, walk them to school, get vaccinations and physicals, feed them healthily. Teach them about strangers, lock our doors at night, talk to them about safe sex. Their safety is entirely our responsibility. Except, when it’s isn’t.

I’ve not met another grieving mother who didn’t carry some guilt. It’s part of the whole package. Emotions you didn’t know you would experience. That you don’t know how to deal with. As I’ve said before: you can’t heal what you don’t acknowledge. Find the source of the guilt. Where you tell yourself you went wrong. And look it in it’s eyes. Question it. Examine it.

When it doesn’t have an answer for you . . . tell it to go.

Bound By Love

Just look at those two in the photograph above these words. My twin sons. The reason I’m still here. My babies. When they were placed in my arms just after birth, I looked into their new faces and thought “well, there you are!”. I felt as if I’d known them my entire life and had just been waiting for their arrival.

Raising boys was so different than raising my daughter. I’m not sure if that’s because of their gender or the fact there were two! Either way, they kept me busy.

There’s a special love between mother and son. Not any less than what you have for a daughter, just different. My happiest memories are those in which the four of us are together. Those were perfect days.

I’ve written about how much I feel I’ve failed at being their mother after Becca was killed. They won’t admit it. Maybe because they don’t want to cause me pain and guilt. Or possibly they truly don’t believe I did. I am not sure I deserve either kindness. But I have it. And I am grateful.

A few days after she died, the boys came back home. They’d been taken to their father’s to protect them from as much as possible. I remember feeling ambivalent when they came in and hugged me.

I thought “I can’t love them anymore. I love them too much and if something happens to them, also, I won’t survive”. What mother does that, right? A normal mother would have grabbed her children and held on for dear life. Not me. I wanted them far away because to love them was just asking for more pain.

I’m ashamed of this fact. I’ll never be completely rid of the shame I carry for these thoughts. Even now, writing this, I wonder who’ll judge me harshly. That, I do deserve.

In a pharmaceutical induced haze, I latched onto the idea that my children die. To keep the boys alive, and safe, I couldn’t love them. What I love, my mind told me, wouldn’t survive. The insistent voice in my head, the one put there by an abusive uncle, told me I wasn’t worthy of happiness. I listened.

I kept my beautiful sons at arms length. It seemed, to me, that letting them go would be easier this way. And they’d have a life.

I’m sharing this part of my journey because it’s true. It’s ugly. Shameful. Disgusting. But true. We, bereaved mothers, have to be able to share what’s in the darkest corners of our minds. You can’t heal what you don’t acknowledge.

My sons are now twenty three. The age Becca was when she was killed. I have to “talk myself down” some days because I’m pretty sure the world is going to take them, too.

I’m not sure when my mind started to realize that I could love them. That I do love them. But I’m so very thankful it did.

Gabriel and Matthew are incredible young men. They haven’t had an easy life, yet they don’t allow that fact to harden them. Through their understanding, and never faltering love, I’ve learned that I am worthy. Happiness can be part of my life again. The voice has little power these days.

The day she was born, Becca saved me. My boys have saved me numerous times, times I couldn’t save myself. They are my absolute best that I’ve added to this world.

Learning to love completely, with abandon, can happen again. Don’t hold yourself back because you think it’s safe. That this will protect you, and your heart, somehow.

Let the love of those around you begin to stitch your wounds closed.

We are made to love.

After

Grief can cloud our world so completely we become hopelessly lost. Lost to those around us. To life and the world. Sadly, also to ourselves. We exist in a place that is shadowy and unfamiliar.

We exist in a place that is shadowy and unfamiliar . . . full of sights and sounds we never knew before. For a time, we stay stuck in the moment balanced between when our child was alive and their death. We try to reach back and find the few seconds before we knew the truth. We lower our heads and weep. When we look . . . the entire world has changed forever. There are some bereaved mothers who never find their way back.

For a time, we cope. There is always a flurry of activity around death, especially in the days just after it’s arrival. People rush in to care for us. Food is prepared to nourish our bodies. Words of comfort are said to nourish our souls. The wagons have circled and for a time we feel protected.

Then time starts to move away from the day that changed us to the center of our being. The phone falls silent. All the condolence cards we are going to receive have been opened. No more prepared meals, it’s time for us to begin caring for ourselves again. With great sadness (and often anger) we watch as other’s lives to back to normal knowing ours never will.

This is when we realize the rest of our life is in front of us and we better figure out what we are going to do with it. So . . . we try. Remember, we are lost. I liken it to being dropped into the center of a landscape that has been blown apart by an atomic bomb. We see things that we know we should recognize, but we don’t because they have been altered enough to be unidentifiable. In our memories, we know these things should exist, but no matter how hard we look to find them, they can no longer be located. Pieces of what remains are scattered at our feet so we desperately try to put the past back together again. Make it whole. Know this: it’s easy to get lost here, crawling around on our hands and knees trying to find the smallest part of our former life. Not until we realize that this is a futile effort will we be able to embrace the life that we hadn’t planned on.

I think there is a hidden place in every grieving mother’s heart where she hasn’t quite admitted that her child is dead. It’s too difficult. So, there is a small place where our child still laughs. Where we let our minds imagine what they would have been some day. A quietness that allows us to hold them and stroke their hair. We visit this place, but not too often. The anguish is too suffocating. I often visit here. Just for a while, though. When I leave and close the door I know I will be back again.

During my days, I will continue to build my life. I won’t try to replicate the one I had before my daughter died. I’ll never be able to do so. However, the pieces of her I still have, I will carry them with me each day and use her to decorate my life.

Be patient with us, we are trying.

Painted Wishes

As I write this, I’m sitting in my bedroom, with the late afternoon sun warming my back. The walls glow with a golden yellow hue that is calming to me. All around me are paintings I’ve done. Bright colors. After Becca died, I couldn’t sees colors anymore. Thankfully, now I can.

I was always an artist. But I didn’t always create. Being a single mom to three left me little time. As the children grew older, I started again.

The days following her death I felt like a caged animal. Pacing around, I needed someplace to put my anguish. So I attacked a new canvas. Painting released pressure.

I had an image in my mind of saying goodbye. The four of us under a huge tree heavy with luminous white flowers. Becca in a glowing gossamer dress. We’d hug and say a proper goodbye. Her wings would unfurl asks she’d ascend into the clouds.

Death doesn’t always allow time for farewells. So I decided to paint the reality I wanted.

I worked on the 3 ft x 4 ft canvas for a week. Then I couldn’t anymore. I put down my brush, turned my canvas to the wall, and put it out of my mind.

Until the day I knew it was time to finish it. Which I did. All of it except for my beautiful Becca’s face. To allow my eyes to linger on it filled me with new pain.

I entered “Our Becca” into a local show. I was repeatedly asked why my daughter was unfinished. My answer? Because I’ll never be finished saying goodbye to her.

Not until I say hello, again.

Low Tides

In the spring of 2002, my daughter did something not many teenage girls do. She asked me to go on spring break with her. I was shocked. And elated! We decided to go to California so I bought the tickets. Before we knew it . . . we were on our way!

The flights were grueling. After eleven hours of layovers and travel, we landed in Los Angeles. Exhausted, we fell into bed and into a deep sleep. Early the next morning Becca gently shook me awake and asked me to walk down the beach with her. In the cool morning air, we quietly walked down to the edge of the Pacific Ocean. Together we stood there and took in the incredible vastness of the world. Becca said she wanted people to know she’d been there. Bending over, she wrote her name in the wet sand. I lifted my camera to my face and took the picture you see above.

A decade and a half later, that’s all I want, too.

A few days after Becca was killed I started to write her letters. Letters turned into writing down all the memories I have of her so they wouldn’t be gone when I die. Which eventually took the form of a book. A book I am currently putting together. Spending long hours going over my writing can be very difficult. Stir up emotions that were settled for a time. Some days, it’s just too painful.Most days, actually.

Somewhere along the way . . . others started to help me remember her by writing her name in various places around the world. When my friends travel anywhere, they thoughtfully send me a picture of Becca’s name in a new location. People I’ve never met in person have done the same for us. I’m humbled and in awe that people are taking the time to help me keep my daughter’s memory alive.

This is what we want. We need to know that our child won’t be forgotten. They were here.

Shortly after Becca died I wasn’t even sure if she’d ever been real. My mind was in the protective fog that envelopes us after a tragedy. At times I was convinced she had just been a beautiful dream. Now, I do all that I can to put her name in the thoughts of others. That’s where she is now. No longer flesh and bone, she’s made of memories and the love we carry for her. She exists because we exist. And we remember.

In the past three days, two people have sent me photos of my daughter’s name on the beach where they are visiting. Places I’ve never been. Stretches of sand my daughter will never visit. When people walk by, and see her name, they won’t know who she is . . . but my baby girl is thought of and that is what makes my heart happy.

Thank you, all of you, who remember my beautiful daughter. You have no idea the healing it gives my broken heart.

Empty

In the spirit of full disclosure, I want to share a very real fact: I am not as “healed” as my blog might make me appear. It’s true, I have learned much on my ten-year journey upon this path. I haven’t learned it all . . . and actually, every day I come across something else I need to face. This. Is. Exhausting.

Trudging along this path wasn’t my choice. I had a much different journey planned for our lives. As I know you did. Full of light, not the shadowy landscape into which losing a child plunges us. Today is one of those days when the darkness never really left as the sun rose this morning. Somehow, it clung to me and I just couldn’t shake it. As I write this, the sun has almost set and I am glad the day is nearly finished. Dusk has mixed with the ever present shadows and I feel sorrowful. I am glad this day is almost over.

Today is one of those days when the darkness never really left as the sun rose this morning. Somehow, it clung to me and I just couldn’t shake it. As I write this, the sun has almost set and I am glad the day is nearly finished. Dusk has mixed with the ever present shadows and I feel sorrowful. A state we all learn to live in.

Surviving the loss of a child is the hardest thing we will ever experience. We will be doing the healing work every single moment of the rest of our lives. Even as we slumber, our minds are trying to completely accept our new reality. It’s not often we get a restful night of sleep. The best time of the day is the moment we wake up. That split second before we remember the truth. As we push the bedcovers aside, still weary with the weight we carry, we place our feet on the floor to start another day.

This is an undertaking that must both be done in a solitary state, and with others who understand. We need time alone . . . but just as important is time spent with those who can relieve us of a portion of the weight for just a few moments. I’ve found, even when I can hand my pain to another, I have a needy desperation waiting for it to come back to me. The sorrow is proof that we loved. Our aching empty arms remind us that they once held our child. Our tears will bring forth echoes of laughter. This is the truth of being a bereaved mother.

I wish I had words of inspiration this evening. I don’t. Words of encouragement perhaps. When you have a day that is more difficult than you ever thought it could be . . . remember it’s not going to last. The night will come . . . then sleep. Waking up in the morning, willing to try again, is true bravery. Be gentle with yourself. You are doing very hard work.

When I post this, I’ll close the computer, shut the lights off, then stop to kiss the marble urn that holds my daughter’s ashes. I’ll say “I love you my Becca. I miss you.” then I’ll rub my finger across the picture of her as a baby. The one with the smooshy face. If I am lucky, she’ll visit me in my dreams when she’s finished stringing stars together.

Weary, I’ll lay my head upon the pillow with her name. Tomorrow, I will try again.

You will, too.