Unbreak My Heart - AKA everyone's guide when someone you love loses someone they love

Spend all your time waiting
For that second chance
For a break that would make it okay

There's always some reason
To feel not good enough
And it's hard, at the end of the day

I need some distraction
Oh, beautiful release
Memories seep from my veins

And maybe empty
Oh, and weightless, and maybe
I'll find some peace tonight

In the arms of the angel
Fly away from here
From this dark, cold hotel room
And the endlessness that you fear
You are pulled from the wreckage
Of your silent reverie
You're in the arms of the angel
May you find some comfort here

"Arms of the Angel" - Sarah McLachlan

Today I sat in the baptist church of my childhood. The church where my grandmother, Lucille, sat every single Sunday - eyes bright and ears ready for the gospel. The church where her sister Jewel both worked and worshiped. The church across the street from my Aunt's house - both current and past. Don't try and figure that one out. There's just something about a good old Southern Baptist church to bring you to your knees. But, this wasn't a Sunday sermon. It wasn't a wedding. It wasn't even Reverend Shaw Moore from Footloose bringing down the fire and brimstone warnings of dancing and carrying on and whatnot. It was a funeral. Of a young person. A young person the ages of my three children, one of whom has also gone from us already. Tragic.Unfathomable. Gut-wrenching. The names in this story have so definitely been changed to protect the innocent - except my grandma's name really was Lucille and one of her sisters really was Jewel. But that is all you need to know about today. There is a mom and a family and an extended network of loved ones grieving this night and they deserve all the anonymity we can give them. So there. But back to the church. I sat in a pew with three of the most beautiful souls that ever graced my old high school. See, the funeral was for the son of an old friend. And we four old friends just happened to wander in and find each other, in support of our other old friend. Thank goodness. I was not looking forward to doing my ugly crying in that pew alone. And I needn't have worried. It was oddly cathartic and even slightly therapeutic; the pats on the knee..the little hugs...lots of sweet gestures meant to let me know they understood how hard it must be to go to a young person's funeral when your young person already had a funeral. As we stood outside waxing poetic about the past and better times, one of my sweet friends told me how she couldn't wait to end this stressful Friday with an awesome margarita tonight. And then, it happened. I opened my mouth and weird stuff came out. "I'm going to drink a bottle of wine and write a blog entry about what to say to people who've lost children." So, here we go! The wine is yet to be uncorked. But it's there. Just in case. Gentlemen, start your engines. All the things you ever wanted to say to someone who's child passed away, but you weren't sure if you should. Or shouldn't. This, of course, is just my interpretation. No two people have the same experience with any of life's foibles. That's my disclaimer and I'm sticking to it .Let's do this in list format, shall we? But first, a quote written by someone I don't know about a topic I consider myself to be an expert on.....

"A wife who loses a husband is called a widow. A husband who loses a wife is called a widower. A child who loses his parents is called an orphan. There is no word for a parent who loses a child. That's how awful the loss is."

-Jay Neugeboren - An Orphan's Tale 1976

1. Please, please, for the love of God...please don't ignore us. Maybe it was 100% completely my imagination (quite possible) but I sort of promise you that I remember walking through WalMart and seeing people I knew. The moment they realized who I was, there was a flurry of movement and shuffling and buggy maneuvering, and power walking. Away. From me. Is it comfortable to talk to someone who's kid just died? Hell, no. But, odds are the person in question will avert your eye contact and you will get to breathe a sigh of relief. If not...oh well. Tears will pour from our eyes and snot will run from our nose, but we'll be so grateful you walked up. And, guess what? You'll feel amazing after the fact. You will understand how much it meant to us. You'll be like a superhero. Trust me. Just hug us and say, "Been thinkin about you."

2. The BIGGEST fear a person who lost a child has is the fear that everyone in the universe is going to forget them. Crazy, right? I promise you it's the truth. We want...no, we NEED to talk about our lost children. We need to say their names and, more importantly, we need to HEAR their names spoken. If there's one thing I advocate for anyone whose friend has gone through this travesty, it is this: suck it up, buttercup. Call them. Go by. Sit a spell.  Say these words, "Tell me more about________." Then just sit back and listen. If you really knew this precious angel they miss so much, add in this line, "You know, the thing I always remember about ________ is this...." Again, that's a total superhero move. Your cape is in the mail.

3. Death does not discriminate. It knows not the human distinctions of race or wealth or religion or gender. Death suffocates the living. Death definitely does not adhere to any human imposed timeline. All the things you may have read about the stages of grief? Evil eyes, hexes, voodoos AND hoodoos to those foolish thoughts. People who go through the loss of a child will be sad forever. Period. End quote. Repeat. Sad forever. And ever. I am not trying to depress you. What I am trying to do is to tell you not to ever say these words, "One day you'll feel better." If your child died and you said this to someone, ya lied. If you did not lose your child, please just don't ever say this to another person. Here's the deal. Wait......this is a segue to #4, so read on, my friend.

4. What does it feel like to lose a child? The night my daughter died, I started screaming the moment the doctor told me she was gone. Only problem was, no sound was coming out of my mouth and I had a blank stare on my face, so I'm told. But, in my head, I was screaming. In my head, I was vomiting on the floor in the fetal position. In my head, I was swinging a baseball bat at every breakable object I could see. I can't tell you what it feels like because there are no words to convey what it feels like. After staying to meet the organ donation team, my husband took me home. I demanded he take me to my daughter's room where I put on my daughter's pajamas (she was 16 - I do not recommend this if your daughter is much smaller than you, Sorry. Feeble attempt at humor). I sat in her bed and watched her favorite movie and screamed into a pillow. For hours. And hours. And hours. Almost 8 years later, here's what I know about grief. You may quote me on this. I think I wrote it. If I did not write it, I guarantee the person who did write it lost a child and does not mind me using this quote. 

"Grief over someone who died is like walking into the ocean for the first time. If you've never walked into a crashing wave, your feet will fly out from underneath you and you'll tumble, end over end, into the water. It takes your breath away and it stings your eyes and you can't breathe properly for a good bit. It will happen, just like this, over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over. One day, a year from that moment or 5 years from that moment or 25 years from that moment, you'll walk into that same ocean. This time, when the waves crash against you, you won't lock your knees. The waves will ALWAYS crash against you, but you'll bend, just the tiniest amount. And you won't fall. And that makes all the difference." 

5. There is no grief hierarchy. This, in my opinion, is the most important thing I need to tell you. See, it's the one I struggled with for the longest time. People called me. They emailed me. They texted me, back when you had to hit that "7" button four times if you wanted an "S". See, there's humor in death, folks. Anyway, I was insulted. My daughter was 16 when she died. She was being courted by colleges. She was set to attend a medical conference for high school students who were interested in being doctors and had the GPA to back it up. She received a letter from a private Catholic college that did not guarantee but did mention the word "scholarship." She was basically an adult. She was important. To me. HOW DARE YOU COMPARE THE DEATH OF MY PRECIOUS ANGEL TO THE DEATH OF YOUR: ______________________. Now I'm crying because I see how wrong I was. Words you could insert into the blank above include but are not limited to: grandparent, parent, best friend, infant, fetus. The list knows no end. I am so so so so so so sorry. I get it now. May I explain it to you? Cause I think this is a game changer. The worst feeling you've ever felt is the worst feeling you've ever felt. End of story. If you've never experienced loss before and your grandparent dies, it hurts like shit, pardon my French. If you've managed to make it to middle age and your parent dies, God help your soul. See? Here's one better. Grab a kleenex. From the minute we women learn we're pregnant, our imaginations go into overdrive. Within the first 24 hours, we've named our baby, we think we know the gender, we're planning weddings, imagining grandchildren, dreaming of family vacations and holidays and picnics and first steps and bat mitzvahs and first communions and college entrance exams and, and, and, and, and, and..........and we see you, precious little one. We see you. And we love you. And you belong to us. And when you don't get to come home with us or don't get to take that first breath, it hurts. Just as bad, I pray. Because if it hurt worse it would mean something else bad happened to you. So, to wrap this one up, me thinking your loss was less than my loss is equivalent to me saying I wish you'd lost more so you could know how I feel. And, I love you. I do not want you to lose anything. So enough of that crap, right?

Hours have gone by as I've written this. I did not drink a bottle of wine, though I do hope my friend had the best margarita of her life. As the sun sets on this day, I'm looking ahead to April 12th, the day I lost my daughter. Eleven days from now, I'm taking a mental health day. I may stay in my pj's. I may work in the garden. I may watch "our" movies: The Little Mermaid, The Wizard of Oz, PS I Love You, I Am Sam, Juno...... Then again, I may do any number of things. I guarantee you tears will be shed. But, I won't fall down. See, I learned to bend my knees. That has made all the difference. Go hug your kids right this minute. Here's a virtual hug for you. <3

Chynna, I miss you. Here's something for you:

"Where you used to be, there is a hole in the world, which I find myself constantly walking around in the daytime, and falling in at night. I miss you like hell,"  -Edna St. Vincent Millay