Author: Diane Neas

My visits with her are always unplanned and over far too quickly. I can ask as often as I want but seeing her will always be in her time. Not mine. And, I’ve had to learn to be ok with this. It’s difficult but I have no choice.

Once, I asked her why she didn’t come see me much. Was it because I was always so sad and it made her feel bad? Maybe she was tired of seeing me cry all the time. Possibly, she had better things to do than visit me when she knew there would always be tears. Quite some time passed before she could explain to me why her visits were brief and infrequent. All of it was just too damn hard.

Not seeing me, though. She needed to see me as much as I needed to see her. The situation leading up to all of this was so sudden that we’d had no time to prepare. Our paths had diverged, violently, and only after some time had passed were we able to reconnect. I needed more time with her, though.

It’s so far to travel, she said. I’m new and I don’t know everything yet. When I am able to come my energy is depleted within moments. I’d stay longer if I could . . . I just don’t know how to yet. But, I’ll learn. I promise.

But, I’d reply (there is always a but isn’t there?) but . . . we had plans. Hundreds of plans!

I know she’d say sadly. She would grow pale. Not pale in color. But hazy in appearance. Please don’t go, I’d yell and reach out for her only to feel the remnants of her solidness wash over my skin as a breeze does.

Damn it. We had life plans. We’d planned on life. I’d already given the world the best I had to offer: my children. They were meant to make it a better place. And, Becca had been on her way to do just that. She’d chosen to teach children.

During one of our visits, when I was trying so hard to fight the case for her death being an error someone “up there” had made, I said that to her.

“You were supposed to teach children, though, honey! There are hundreds of children who don’t know their life was just altered because you won’t be their teacher.”

“But, mom, I still get to help children.”

“How?”

“I’m waiting for them when they get here. Most of them are scared and don’t know why they aren’t with their family anymore. I make them feel safe and comfort them. It’s hard for them and I get to make it a little less so.”

I’m not sure if she explained it to me or just laid her hand on my arm and shared the information with her touch but I saw my Becca with the children. She’d pull them into her lap and hug them. Stroking their hair and singing softly . . . they’d bury their faces into the soft curve of her neck and relax. I’d seen her do this a thousand times with her brothers. Her hugs were healing. I need them now.

I just spoke to a friend who told me about a little boy who died today. I asked for his name so I could tell Becca to be watching for him. My friend shared his name and asked me to tell Becca that he likes his hair played with. I did. I know she knows what each child needs as she goes about helping them understand what’s happened.

My daughter is still the sweet soul I knew here. The soul I know is waiting for me. And, someday far from today, her brothers. I also believe she is helping as many children there as she was supposed to, here. I’d change this if I could, believe me, but my heart is happy that she is fulfilling one life goal. Even if it is in a way none of us expected.

My heart, however, hurts for the newly bereaved parents who didn’t go to bed last night expecting to wake up to this reality. They are facing the unimaginable.

Becca, please take care of their boy, honey.

Love your children. Hold them close. Don’t forget that they truly are a gift.

Last month, a comment was posted on one of my blogs titled “Just F!ck” that left me irritated. The comment, from someone in my distant past, was condescending, snarky, and meant to let me know that I am doing this grief thing all wrong. Do you know what my reaction to this was? Fuck.

I replied to the uninformed comment before I realized it came from someone I used to know. I kept it brief and non confrontational as I believe learning could take place. Indeed, it won’t.

Upon learning who the author was I became very angry. My anger was disproportionate to what had been written. A stranger could have written that and I would have been irritated then I could brush it off. Seeing as it was from someone who has a god complex . . . who’d belittled me for decades . . . who hasn’t lost a child . . . I didn’t.

I did, however, do some research about anger and grief. One is a natural by-product of the other. Yes, anger can become complicated and be detrimental to healing BUT it is also a portion of the entire process that must be confronted, acknowledged, and worked through in order to gain healing “that sticks”. This being said: working through anger does not mean it won’t reappear as you travel the child loss path. It’s not a one and done kind of thing.

I’ve often likened this journey to travelling through a decimated landscape. One that only slightly resembles the land you inhabited in the “before”. You will find familiar landmarks but they won’t be untouched by the grief. Everything you knew is changed forever. Is this not reason enough to feel periodically enraged? And, when that rage consumes you . . . you must feel it and work through it – UNTIL THE NEXT TIME. Because, there will be a next time.

Do you know why? For the rest of our lives there will be triggers that thrust us into the depths of anger. AND, THAT’S OK.

We have triggers that push us over the edge into renewed deep sorrow. This is to be expected. Ones that pull a happy memory from the back of our minds. How wonderful when this happens!! Jealousies can be set off when we see a whole family enjoying each other. Of course, because we were robbed of our future with our child. And, anger. Anger is just one of the dozens of emotions we will run across again and again as we continually walk toward our horizon. The emotions felt after the loss of a child are too enormous for us to completely work through them in one pass.

DON’T let anyone tell you how and when you should be finished with each of them. Not another grieving parent and, especially, not someone who has no idea what they are talking about! For lack of a better word – they are outsiders. They do not have intimate first hand knowledge of what the child loss journey entails. Therefore, the best thing for them to do is keep their mouths shut. The best thing for you to do is ignore them. Period.

The comment I referred to in the first paragraph had the general tone of “I know better” when it spoke of me “not being able to let go of anger would never allow me to move forward in TRUE healing”. To this sentiment I say: fuck that.

I have very close friends who have lost children and even they don’t know what depth, or width, of healing I have done in the past twelve years. I also have friends, who have never lost a child, that can not even begin to understand the energy it takes to heal as much as I have. So, someone who hasn’t spoken to me in over a decade has no place writing hollow words on my heartfelt sharing about grief.

The two things I wanted to write about in this blog are: 1) Anger is natural and there is no time limit as to when it should be gone. 2) People, especially those who have not lost a child, have no right to make any judgmental statement about where you are in the process. I guess there is a third.3) You have the right to tell someone to exit your life when they think they know better than you just how you should be grieving.

Grieving the death of your beloved child is fucking hard enough without some know-it-all telling you that you are doing it wrong. The weight of what we carry does NOT need to be increased by shame or guilt that someone else decides to heap onto your shoulders.

Each of our journeys, all started with the death of our child, is unique and our’s alone. We have our own order of when things are dealt with . . . our own timetable, too. There is no handbook as to how we are to proceed in the “after”.

Proceed in the way that feels right to you. Your soul will lead you in the direction it needs to go.

A friend of mine gave me an unexpected present this afternoon. She handed me a pink gift bag, that was heavy, and stuffed with glittery white tissue paper. Four items were in the bag: a little pink envelope containing a sweet note and gift card, a bottle of body wash/bath foam, a big bar of soap, and a bottle of lotion. All three are the same scent: Eucalyptus Spearmint. They smell amazing. She said, “That’s what I use . . . you always tell me I smell so good.” (Sidenote: she does) I couldn’t wait to get home tonight and wash the anxiety of the day away with this stress relieving scent!

Her gift made me feel cared for.

I have a very bad track record of not taking care of myself. Not so much self destructive behavior, though I know I’ve had a handful of years of that in my past, but of just not giving myself the care I give others. Somewhere in my twenties, after reading a book titled “The Courage to Heal”, did I realize this is a pretty common thing when it comes to survivors of childhood sexual abuse. The reasons we are this way are as varied as each individual story.

After digging through the layers of control my uncle used on me . . . I came back to one simple sentence he’d said to me over and over: you will never be loved because you will never be worth anything more than sex. When a child of four hears this, repeated over the years, it’s understandable that it’s ingrained in our self worth. So, I treated myself like I was not worth anything. For decades.

I was so bad I refused to look at myself in the mirror. When I did, I would always keep one closed so I would see as little as possible. Still, to this day, I catch myself doing it. I hate that I do it. But, it’s just part of me.

I’d give myself the bare minimum care. Quick showers. Hardly ever went to the salon. Cheap makeup. Goodwill clothes. (I still buy Goodwill clothes but that’s because I don’t like mass consumerism). I even allowed myself to scrape the bottom of the barrel in love and accept the bad treatment because, as my uncle said, I wasn’t worth loving.

Becca knew all of this stuff. When she was old enough . . . we talked about it. About my childhood and my uncle. The topic had come up because he’d just been released from prison and she started to ask me questions. She wanted to see his face. So I showed her. Her heart was broken for me. After that, she understood why I was the way I was. She realized I didn’t care for myself like I did everyone else. Becca, my beautiful daughter, took it upon herself to care for me in ways I couldn’t. She’d give me little gifts . . . always with words of love and support.

The last Christmas we had together she’d given me a basket of bath items from Bed, Bath, and Beyond. The scent was Brown Sugar Vanilla. All of it smelled delicious. She was so proud of herself for choosing the perfect gift and happy that she could help me see I was worth it. She made sure to tell me to “use it, mom, you deserve it”. I did. Even after she was killed I continued to use it. It was a tie to her. To her being alive. To her love for me. To our shared life and the bond between a mother and daughter. I would cry in the shower for my dead child while I washed with one of the last gifts she’d given me. Then, it was almost gone.

To me, the body wash and lotion were priceless. I had to save the last bit of it because another thing to her could not be gone forever. There would be no more intimate gifts, like this, from my daughter. None other would know the reason for the pain in my soul, watch me battle the demons that lived in my head, and support me in the fight and long journey back. She was gone. Her love for me was gone. She’d no longer be rooting in my corner.

I tucked the plastic bottles back in the rear of one of deep shelves in the bathroom closet. When I would open the door and see their shape against the wall I felt comforted. “Becca touched those” I would tell myself then cry.

There is no one in my life, right now, that would give me a gift like that. I thought. I have not boyfriend who would do so, or a family that remembers my birthday, and my boys (being boys and probably feeling creeped out by buying their mother bath items) don’t do it either. In full disclosure however: one of my sons girlfriends told him to get me bath bombs years ago – which I love – but don’t think it’s worth spending the money on. No pampering products for me anymore.

Then my friend brought me the little pink bag today. A present that says: you are worth taking care of. You are cared about. A gift of self care in a little bag that looks like it could have been chosen by Becca, herself. Pink, her favorite color at the time of her death, with glittery white paper. The memory of Becca’s purchase, twelve years ago, came rushing back.

After I got home tonight, and had let all the dogs out and fed seven hungry animals, I took the bag up to the bathroom and took a very hot shower. It felt like a hug from someone who cares about me. Of course, I cried. A combination of emotions ranging from missing my girl to knowing I can be loved.

I still have those nearly empty bottles that Becca gave me in 2006. My hope is to be washed with what’s left when I am prepared for cremation (or probably a green burial). To have the lotion smoothed onto my clothing before I’m cared for . . . for the last time. In my head, you see, we show up in Heaven in what we left this world in. I want to smell like Becca’s gift when I get there and I hold my daughter again. I want her to know I haven’t forgotten her. That I love all she did for me. That she is cherished and I never let her go.

Until then, I will let the people who love me . . . care for me when I can not care for myself. And, I’ll keep using this Eucalyptus Spearmint stuff until then.

Thank you Miya.

I started this piece in the morning of June 16th. Father’s Day. It’s no longer the holiday but I wanted to share this regardless. 

Today is Father’s Day.

A day I have not celebrated in over a decade. I have not been in touch with my family for almost twelve years. Don’t feel sadness for me, or pity, please. It was a choice I am thankful I made when I did. If I hadn’t . . . I know I wouldn’t be where I am now in terms of my healing and emotional health.

My family was broken. I am assuming, maybe incorrectly, that they still are. Being that my son was told, by my sister, half a dozen years back that “her” parents were not interested in seeing them as “their life was full and happy” as it was . . . I lean toward their continued dysfunction. Without going into great detail I will share a few facts. My father was physically abusive with me. To the tune of two (probably three) broken noses and his choking me to near unconsciousness as recently as the one year date of my daughter’s death. I was continually told that I pushed him to these actions. My mother scolded me, in an emergency room because of an injury caused by my father, for even thinking of making a police report and “getting him into trouble”. Abuse, neglect, indifference, blame. I’d had enough.

I often think of other “father figures” in my life. Not to me . . . but to my children.

My daughter’s father didn’t truly come into her life in any real way until after she was eighteen. And, only because, she pursued the relationship. They had three, maybe four, years spent as father-daughter together. During that time she got to know her baby brother so after her funeral I wanted to give her father something to give to her little brother. He and I were in my sons’ bedroom alone, talking, when I asked him if he regreted not having been in her life for a longer period of time. His response? “No. I am satisfied with the time we had together.” I was incredulous. I’m still saddened by his response.

Through his own actions, my sons’ father removed himself from their lives for a period of time by going to jail. A good portion of their younger years were spent without him. They’ve had years of anger with him, anger towards me, anger at their sister’s death, anger at circumstances but have come out on the other side, whole. I am in awe of them and know, if they choose to, will be great fathers some day.

Recently, I was scrolling through Facebook and stopped on an article that said losing a pet can be as difficult as losing a family member. As always, when reading this “fact”, I feel angered. I don’t know why I do it, but I read through some of the comments posted, and could feel myself getting madder. This time, I read a comment posted by a bereaved father who said he’d lost pets, and a son, and he could tell you which was worse. My heart hurt for him: both for his the loss of his child and because other’s were saying “don’t judge someone else’s loss”. I felt the need to let him know he was understood. So I responded.

I told him I could relate. That others who had not lost a child couldn’t. And, that I was thankful they couldn’t. But, that I knew his pain and shared his point of view. He ended up private messaging me and we chatted. We shared stories about of deceased children. How we lost them. The time that’s passed since they died. How we feel now. How we felt then. We have had good conversations.

It’s not often that I get to talk to a bereaved father so intimately. To hear about a man’s emotions after child loss is interesting. His words made me consider how the men in my daughter’s life had grieved her death. Not well, I told myself. But, after talking to this grieving dad, maybe I am judging them a bit too harshly.

Are they so different from grieving mothers merely because of gender? And, it it is because of gender, does the difference lie in our physical makeup or rather the emotional? Men are taught to be “strong” and “stoic” and keep their feelings to themselves. Crying is a weakness. Boys don’t cry. Crybaby. Young boys grow up learning what society will accept from them in reference to their emotional behavior.

If it’s not so much the nurture part of things . . . then is it nature? Do hormones play a part in how demonstrative each sex is? Women are said to be “more emotional” when they are on their periods. We are told that our hormones are out of whack during this time and that’s why we cry so easily. Or, get angry. Even rage. This is why we are irrational we are told.

Or, is it because we carry our child tucked under our hearts, for months before they are born? Is our son or daughter more real to us because we are physically bound together for nearly ten months? A father isn’t physically affected by the pregnancy which produces their child. Only the mother. Before the child enters the world . . . the mother has already felt the baby move separate from herself. The baby hears its mother’s voice from the inside . . . from all around them. Mother and child are in love with each other long before the father has a chance to forge that kind of bond.

I am not saying a father’s bond is less. Just different. How could it not be? So, in truth, I have no way to begin to understand what a bereaved father goes through. Maybe Becca’s father wasn’t being so callous afterall. I am going to have to give that idea more thought before I reach a conclusion.

I am thankful I got to talk to a grieving father just prior to Father’s Day. I am sad that I know another parent who has had to survive the un-survivable. I am happy to know my two sons will make much better fathers than the one I have.

There is now a deeper interest inside of me to understand the point of view of the bereaved dad. I think men suffer alone after this loss. They have to be strong for everyone else. They have to “fix it”.

This man told me he had written his first blog about child loss from the father’s perspective. I applaud him for his courage in opening up in such a transparent way. It takes courage to write about the ugly stuff. To lay pain open for the world to see. To be brave enough to say: damn it . . . I hurt and I can’t do this alone.

Maybe, if I’m honored, he’ll let me share one of his pieces of writing in my blog. I believe it will be helpful to so many people and informative for me. Pain connects grieving parents. When we find someone, who is like us, it’s easier for us to open ourselves and be vulnerable

My story, my loss and subsequent path, will hopefully be a survival guide for the unfortunate bereaved mothers (in the future) who stumble across my writing. I think his writing will be a guide for other fathers who have experienced child loss, too.

When we share our stories . . . we help others in numerous ways. Be brave.

Share your story tomorrow. I guarantee there is someone who needs to hear it.