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There is something about losing a child that I
think surpasses all other loss. It is out of order, it is a true challenge to
survive.I once heard a Chinese blessing -
Father dies, son dies, grandson dies. I thought - That's a
blessing? That's horrible. But now I understand the Chinese blessing all
too well. When you lose a child and you see how devastatingly reversed the order
is, the words of the blessing suddenly make perfect sense.
When you lose a parent or a grandparent, you lose a
part of your past, when you lose a spouse, you lose a part of your present, but
when you lose a child, you lose a part of your future. And the guilt crashes in
by the tons. You have always tried to protect that child - it was your
responsibility as a parent; so of course, you immediately start thinking,
why couldn't I have stopped this? Why couldn't I have done something -it was
my responsibility to protect him.
Stephen died on April 13th, 1997 at the age
of eighteen. He hated driving and had only had his driver's license for four
months. He had a little Ford Ranger truck that had a camper on back. The camper
had been removed so he could move a bedroom suite. He went around a curve and
maybe because the truck was lighter without the camper, he lost control. He hit
a tree head on and he died instantly. The steering wheel became a battering ram
to his heart, severing the pulmonary artery and almost severing the aorta.
I felt guilt that the camper was off, I felt guilt that
I hadn't been with him more hours learning to drive, I felt guilt that he was
driving at all, I could have driven him everywhere he wanted to go -forever.
Guilt came to live with me. Time does not heal all wounds. People die from
wounds if the bleeding isn't stopped and I didn't think I could stop the
bleeding. I looked to my friends, hoping to hear some magical words of healing,
but that certainly didn't happen. I found myself in unknown territory and no one
spoke the language.
It's all German to me…
Stephen and I spent Christmas of 1991 in Germany. I
bundled up to go for a walk one morning and Stephen, thirteen at the time,
asked, "Are you sure you want to go for a walk? You don't speak the language."
I assured him that I would be fine. The sidewalks were
slick with ice in places, so I walked a little slower than usual. Other people
were out walking and some nodded and I nodded back. A few said
"Good morning" in German and I said "Good Morning"
in English. It worked just fine.
Then there was a man, small in stature, across the
street from me, who started to wave his hands and shout at me and I couldn't
understand a word he said. He seemed a little frantic and he began to shout
louder. I shouted back in English. He shouted louder in German. This really
didn't work. I felt shards of ice hitting me and I realized that he was trying
to tell me that an ice-chipping machine of some sort was coming up behind me,
clearing the sidewalk.
I tried to move quickly when I realized what was
happening, which only resulted in my losing my balance and I went sliding, arms
flailing like an out of control bird, until I finally hit the ground. The little
man ran across the street to me. The man on the ice- chipping machine went right
on down the sidewalk. The little man helped me up and brushed off my jacket. He
patted my shoulder and looked at me inquisitively and I saw the concern in his
eyes. I nodded in answer to his unasked question that I was all right. He nodded
and smiled and we felt victory that we had communicated. Then, having held it as
long as he could, he began to laugh hysterically. He waved his hands in apology
and I shook my head, letting him know I took no offense at his laughter and
laughed with him. We must have looked like idiots. He patted my shoulder again
and began to walk away, still laughing and waving. The scene has stayed with me
all these years.
In April of 1997, I was back in that exact situation.
But I was at home, in Georgia, where the people should speak the same language I
did. Everyone who heard the news of Stephen's death came running to my side,
with concerned looks on their faces, but the words they spoke made no sense.
Just as with the little man in Germany, the expressions on these people's faces
spoke for themselves. They had come to try and help me up after this horrible
catastrophe, but they didn't speak the language.
One friend said, "Well, at least he died quickly."
German to me. What do you mean? My child has
died. There are no at leasts that can make this
better.
Another said tearfully, "I know how you feel. My
daughter just got married and the empty room is horrible. Sometimes her mail
still comes to the house and I take it upstairs and then I remember - she's not
there." As she wiped a tear, I wanted to scream, "I have a daughter who is
married, I can assure you there is a difference. I can pick up a phone and call
her. Don't you get it?"
Later, I would stare at teenagers that reminded me of
Stephen, sometimes stopping in my tracks at the mall, just to pretend that it
was Stephen, just for a minute, until the teenager turned and I saw their face.
"But you know it's not Stephen," my friends would say, looking at me as if I
had, indeed, cracked.
I told them that I hated the grocery store because
seeing the food he liked hurt so bad. "But you have to go to the grocery store,"
they would shrug. I was alienated from them. They didn't speak the language.
I would tell them that I felt Stephen around me and
they would say, "You know, I think you imagine that to make yourself feel
better."
I would tell them that I had a dream about him and that
I felt so good when I woke up, it was as if he had really been there. They would
nod, obviously humoring me.
Just as the man in Germany couldn't help it that he
couldn't understand me and I couldn't help it that I couldn't understand him,
the people saying these things hadn't lost a child and they couldn't speak the
language. And while they were telling me that it was best that my son had died,
that he might have been a vegetable had he lived, their son was safe at home in
their room and I didn't speak
their language. Who were they to tell me how I should feel, how
thankful I should be that Stephen had died quickly and that he wasn't a
vegetable? Just how thankful would they have been had this happened to their
child?
I met other parents who had lost children. One lady had
lost her son to a kayaking accident. She said that people said to her countless
times, "At least he died doing what he loved." He didn't want to die doing what
he loved, he wanted to do it again and again.
People who had lost children to illness said they were
told, "At least he isn't in pain anymore." But the parents had wanted the child
to get better and not be in pain anymore, not die.
Charlie Walton says in his book, When There Are
No Words -
if there is one method of communication that does work in times of grief, it
is the hug. The comfort content of words is hit or miss…but sincere hugs always
make clear statements.
He says that people come, meaning well. The
best thing you can do for yourself… and for your long term relationship with
those who seek to comfort… is to turn off the sound. Just as if you were
watching them on television and could lean forward and turn the volume down to
zero. The important thing is the picture. You need to see that they have come.
They have come with pain on their faces. They have come with faces yearning to
speak comfort.
Finding those who do speak the language…
I needed desperately to talk about Stephen and validate
the love I still felt for him, I needed assurance that he would not be
forgotten, but many people shied away from even mentioning his name. It was as
if they thought that when they mentioned his name it would make me
remember and it would make me sad. As if I could ever forget for one
moment…
I learned a lot during this horrible time. I learned
one should never start a sentence with
at least while talking about death. There is no comfort in that. So
many times, these two words are used and the person saying them means well. When
an older person has died, people will say
at least they lived a long life. And yes, we should be
thankful for that. We who have lost children certainly realize that is a lot to
be thankful for.
Nonetheless, to the young adult who has just lost her
treasured grandmother, there is no comfort in
at least at the moment. The loss is still there and grief is there,
even if the grandmother was 110 years old. The grandchild needs to talk about
the grandmother, about things that happened between them, funny things, sad
things, anything to validate their love and to stress that person's significance
in their life and as listeners, we need to acknowledge that importance.
The same applies to anyone, any age, who has suffered
loss. They need to talk about what they have lost. Listening is the key word,
not offering advice, not trying to make it better, because really and
truthfully, there are no words that will make it better. Grief will always have
its stay and that's only normal. Total absence of grief would not be normal.
People will say -
they're in a better place, you should rejoice. But it's normal to
not feel a whole lot like rejoicing because you still want that person here with
you. Even the Bible says there is a time to weep and a time to laugh, a time to
mourn and a time to dance. Grief will have its stay.
Older grief is kinder. This is fact. This was something
told to me again and again by a group of people I met who could understand the
language. This group is called The Compassionate Friends. They understood the
horror of the grocery store, the phantom faces in crowds, the stranger that you
stand and watch as long as you can see him, just because he reminds you of your
child, the moments and the dreams where you feel that child near you. We spoke
the same language. They had lost a child and so had I. We understood each other.
I highly recommend this group to any bereaved parent or sibling and there are
chapters nationwide.
The Compassionate Friends can be contacted by phone at (630) 990-0010 or
on the Internet at
http://www.compassionatefriends.org
I also learned a valuable lesson from the members of
this group.
Reach out and help the next one and that is what gets you through. I
didn't learn this through their words, I learned it through their actions.
Anyone who has lost a child is a wounded warrior. They haven't miraculously
recovered; they aren't over it. I hate those words when used in conjunction with
surviving a child. There is no
over it. Survivors of a child simply have a map on survival and they are
willing to share. They tell you what helped them and they try and show you the
way.
We who understand the language speak of our children in
the future tense, not the past tense because we know they are in our future, we
will see them again. This is why I decorate my tree at Christmas without fail. I
have met so many parents who never put a tree up again after having lost a
child. I am not in that group. Although a Christmas tree is a German tradition
and not directly associated with Jesus being born in a stable in Bethlehem, I
know the connection. And I know I will see my son again because of what
Christmas represents - the birth of Jesus. Therefore, in my house we will
celebrate Christmas fully and without fail. It will be a house where
grandchildren can come and enjoy Christmas the way grandchildren should at their
grandmother's house.
Every year of my children's life, we made picture
ornaments. So - there is a picture of Stephen every year of his life on my
Christmas tree as well as his siblings. Someone asked me how I can do that, how
I can put those pictures of him on the tree without losing it emotionally. The
answer is simple. I celebrate every moment, every day, every month, every year
that I had with Stephen. And that tree is a testimony to that and a reminder of
what a wonderful life we had together.
Obstacles along the way…
There are many obstacles along the road to surviving
losing a child. It certainly does not happen overnight. There is the room, the
clothes, all those belongings and all kinds of emotional demons. Stephen and I
were in the midst of a life changing experience - my marriage to Ron - when he
died. Ron and Stephen were remodeling the basement for his room, knocking out
walls and choosing carpet samples. Stephen chose blue carpet and he decided on a
futon so he could have more room than he had with his queen sized bed. The
carpet was ordered, the futon was ordered. He and Ron talked about what the room
would look like, where he needed the outlets, how big a closet. He helped Ron
put the ceiling up, we began to move stuff from our old apartment. Things were
piled everywhere as we waited for the carpet and the futon and the final touches
on the room.
Stephen worked with Ron on the room on Thursday night,
he went out with his friends on Friday. The futon was due to come in on Monday,
the carpet on Thursday. The room was almost ready. Stephen went to spend the
night with a friend on Saturday. He couldn't sleep and he left in the middle of
the night to come home. April 13th, 1997. He missed the curve, it was
a curvy road, he lost control, he was an inexperienced driver, he might have
looked away for a minute to change the radio station, just didn't see the curve,
swerved to miss somebody……maybe even a dog… the words will always echo in my
head, the speculation as to why he wrecked. But the final words, the horrible
truth - he hit a tree head on and died instantly.
The futon came in Monday, the carpet came in Thursday.
Stephen never came home. So - there wasn't a room to make a shrine of, really.
Now I see that as a blessing, at the time it drove me crazy. Ron and I finished
the room for him, the carpet was installed and we put the futon in there as
planned and I drown in guilt. But since Stephen had never occupied the room, it
might have made it easier in the long run. I know it made it easier to move.
I still have his things in our new house - his baseball
cards, trophies, a chest with some of his clothes in the guest room, his
wrestling figures and Gremlins and Star Wars figures in the basement. His old
books are on the bookshelf in the basement and the grandkids read them as well
as the books that belonged to their mother and their other aunt and uncle. As
each book was labeled years ago with the owner's name, occasionally you'll hear
one of the grandkids say, "Hey, this was Uncle Stephen's book. I bet he liked it
just like I do." And so Stephen lives on. I like this interaction much better
than those books being packed away, untouchable because they were his. There is
not an overwhelming shrine in my house, just enough of Stephen's stuff to feel
as though he, too, still lives with us. There are pictures of him scattered
throughout the house. He is a part of our lives and always will be.
I had never planned to part with one item of clothing,
but Stephen's friends inadvertently solved that. Stephen was dating a French
exchange student when he died and she left a few weeks after his death. She had
planned to stay longer, but needed the comfort of home. She asked me in a kind
and apprehensive voice the night before she left if she could take something of
Stephen's with her. I said yes and let her choose. She chose a tee shirt, one
that reminded her of him and I admit I cringed, but later when she wrote me, I
was so glad I had done it. She told me that she had kept the tee shirt with her
in the cabin of the plane, for fear that her luggage would be lost. She told me
that she slept in the shirt and she dreamed of Stephen when she did. What better
way for me to part with that shirt? It meant something to her, she cared about
Stephen and she treasured the shirt. That was much better than me packing it
away in a chest. So - when others asked, I gave.
Six and a half years later…
Six and a half years later, I can say that I am
thankful that Stephen didn't suffer.
Six and a half years later I can say that God has
surprised me by bringing me as far as He has. I never could have imagined it.
Six and a half years later, a lot of the guilt has
subsided.
Six and a half years later, I still cry because there are days when I miss
Stephen so badly, when I wonder what he would look like at twenty five, how his
voice would sound, if he would be married, if he would have children of his own
- a little boy that looked like him, perhaps.
At the same time, I realize that God has surprised me with a gift of
survival, a will to live and a smile that maybe will comfort others along the
way. I realize that there is still so much here to live for and though it seems
hopeless at first, many bereaved parents find this to be true and live very
happy lives. Our surviving children need us more than ever and other people need
us, not just our children. We were left here for a reason, we may not understand
it, but our chores aren't through here.
Yes, I could sit here and cry and say over and over
why did this have to happen, why me and continue to mentally bash my
head against a wall as I did for a long time or I can choose to live. Wanting to
own the title of worst possible situation is not healthy. If you win, you've
made yourself the winner and it shouldn't be a coveted prize. You may gain the
sympathy of the world, but what does that really give you? I'd rather be a
survivor and try to help someone else do the same.
We can't always control what happens to us in our life,
but we can control our reaction to it. Someone told me when Stephen died that I
would never see rainbows in true color again, that they would be faded. I do not
find this to be true. I see rainbows in Technicolor - because of what I still
have here in this life and because I know that Stephen is just on the other side
of that rainbow, smiling down at me, proud of me for surviving.
In memory of Stephen Beam
July 17, 1978 – April 13, 1997
Written by his
mom, Marcia Carter
Author of
Stephen’s Moon
Marietta,
Georgia
TCF Chapter
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