Am I a pushover parent? Grief sometimes wins.
Mourning the loss of a loved one, the end of your marriage or even the loss of a friendship all carry similarities of grief. Each is as unique as the person you’ve lost, but all grief carries the same traits. I devoted an entire chapter of my book, So You’re Divorced, So What?, to this concept. I walked through the stages of grief and offered my suggestions on how to move through them, but one important thing to consider is this: You don’t get over grief, you get through it. It’s not something that you deal with once and never to feel that loss again. It’s not linear and it never really makes sense. It’s fluid and flows like the waves in the ocean. Sometimes gentle and other times viscous and brutal. Each and every person will grieve their loss differently than the next.
I’ve shared before how difficult it’s been for me to attempt to guide my son through the loss of his friend at 7 years old to brain cancer, but honestly, in all my parenting years, this has been the challenge that keeps on giving. How do you do that exactly? Each year that passes, we process a little more and in different ways. Today marks the anniversary of the day Brock left us. This year, he stayed home from school and last year he was ready to be with other friends. Again, not linear. Today, he has spent the morning watching a sweet Christmas movie, he took a break from reality in some video games, went outside to shoot his pellet gun and we built a fort for the little girls in this house to enjoy this afternoon. He’s such a sweet boy. Kind, thoughtful and still missing his friend and struggling how to process the sad.
I typically try to follow my kids lead. I give them more grace than others think is necessary. It may appear that they rule the roost or call the shots, but like I tell them, I’m the one steering this ship. They may have more leniency with me than other moms allow for backtalk and general disrespect, but here’s what I know. There is no manual with parenting. Sure, I’ve read my share of parenting books from experts, but at the end of the day, no book, advice or even the child before them could ever adequately prepare me for parenting the child in front of me in that moment. What works for one of my children, doesn’t necessarily work for the next. So, I take all the advice in, absorb all the information I can and then take my kids’ lead on what they need from me.
I did read in a parenting book about divorce long ago that children will act out more with mom than anyone else because they know to the core of their being that unconditional love resides with their mom. They know without being told that no matter what they say or do, Mom will always love them. She is their safe space to release the emotions that are scary or don’t make sense. Have you heard it said that kids don’t say “I’ve had a rough day”, but instead they ask “will you play with me?” I don’t know how much I’ve actually believed this, but in the past two decades of parenting, I have done my best to remind myself of that in moments when they are having an outburst, even when it looks like I’m being soft or too lax to others watching me. It has given me the chance for an extra breath and take pause before reacting. The other day, I called my youngest daughter on it in a moment of exceptional sassiness. I asked her why she was so rude to me and not other people. She actually said, “because you’re my mom. I know you still love me.”
When it comes to helping my son navigate this grief process, that has meant that some days, I allow him to avoid his feelings altogether. Other times, I prod gently to encourage him to feel the sadness in tiny bits at a time. When we first told him about his friend going to heaven, his first words were “so, they didn’t find a cure?” It broke my heart - a child’s innocence and belief in the impossible shattered in an instant. When we pushed a little too hard to talk about it, he would come back with “It’s just too sad.” So, on the anniversaries and important days, I let him get lost in video games or stay home from school. I follow his lead. Even if this means he is taking advantage of the situation to avoid school that he hates. I’ll give him this pass because, you know what? His friend died and I can’t bring him back or take away his sadness no matter how many times I pray to God to let have his sadness instead. I can handle so much heartbreak and pain. I won’t break. I know I can survive it, but watching him hurt is worse than all the pain I’ve endured before now.
If you’ve navigated this territory and have any advice, please comment below. I’m sure I speak for others who are reading when I say, we are all ears. I may coach women how to grieve the loss of their divorce, but I feel out of my territory with this one, still, four years later.
“I can do hard things” kind of a day
I recently ventured back into the world that is online dating. One of the questions within this latest app is “If I could solve one world problem, what would it be?” My answer was simple: For mothers to never bury their children. It’s difficult when we look at social media today and all we see is death and hatred. So many “causes” to get behind that, at times, it seems overwhelming and impossible. I learned from Dean Graziosi that if you can determine what is the one problem you can solve that will fix so many other issues or concerns, it simplifies the complex. It is done by just by focusing on the One Big Thing. For me, if mothers really never had to bury their children, we would resolve so many of these complicated issues - police brutality, pediatric brain cancer, all cancer for that matter, racism, addiction and so many diseases.
Today, I stood by my friend who is burying her son. This day comes two years after she lost her daughter. She has outlived both of her children. She knows the horrendous heartache of addiction first hand. She has such strength and resolve for change that I can only imagine having the ability to muster. The Opiod Crisis in this country was intentionally created and it is oozing with greed and corruption. Addiction is a disease we don’t treat. Instead we criminalize it and abandon these families to private lives of despair. Today, when I signed his casket along with every other person there, I struggled to find the right words. I settled on: A life that’s been lived well is one that’s been LOVED. He was only 23.
I remember the first funeral I went to for a child. It gutted me. I was only 15 but the tiny casket was heartbreaking. I remember my mom said such strange things that day, the types of things the very religious often say: They are in a better place. They are with the Lord now. It felt so wrong and so removed from any place of genuine feeling. She has been at every funeral she’s ever been invited to. I never understood it but today I finally did. I can see the value of attending and how it benefits the people left behind, not the one who is gone. I was several years from becoming a mother myself at that first tiny person funeral, but I felt the pain of that loss that day. It was visceral and raw and wrong.
Nearly four years ago, I became friends with a mom who lost her son to DIPG. Our sons were friends and her loss was unimaginable, but helping my son grieve the loss of his friend was also unbearable. My heart hurt for my own child and I could only imagine the hurt she was feeling. Why do children get cancer? Why do moms have to bury their babies? She and I bonded over the closeness our boys shared. My first experience with depression came after this loss. It was a dark time and I struggled with my relationship with God so much. I took away from that experience the lessons of watching mothers be strong and courageous even when they have no desire to be. I learned about the type of dedication and tenacity that it takes to create a fundraising effort that makes a difference in the face of pediatric cancer research.
Thirteen years ago next month, one of my dearest friends lost her baby boy only 17 days after he was born to a dreadful disease, SMA. I wish I could say I was a better friend to her when she was in the murky grief filled early days, but I hope I’ve made up for it in every conversation we’ve had since that was filled with tears and so much love. I may not have been by her side as she laid his tiny body to rest, but I know of her pain and the heartache that came from losing her infant. We have spent many of the past 13 years discussing the aftermath of what is a mother trying to find her way to living again after she loses her child.
I just come back to the unjustness of it all. Whether it’s due to disease or addiction or hatred. The countless number of mothers who have buried their black sons in America is alarming. Black Lives Matter and police brutality may be widely debated and discussed, but it just breaks my heart. The more I shut up and listen, the more I learn about how deep-seated hatred runs through the veins of this country. It just puts on a different hat and we call it something else as the years progress. Racism is an ugly truth that still exists and it’s taking babies from their mamas. How can anyone stand to justify any action that results in a mother losing her child?
Today, as I stood by watching yet another friend say goodbye to her child, I just come back to: It’s just not fair. And even though no one ever told me life was supposed to be fair, this type of loss feels just plain wrong. On these hard days, I like to focus on what I have control over. What can I possibly do to help? Where is my choice in this human existence that includes so much pain?
I can choose love. I can do hard things because my friends need me. Today, I just hugged my friend and stood there beside her with no words. I can love on my friends when they most need it. I can do my best to be a light in a world that feels so very dark at times. One of my favorite quotes serves as an excellent reminder here.
“At the end of the day people won’t remember what you said or did, they will remember how you made them feel.”
I hope at the end of my life, my legacy is a room filled with those who say I made them feel loved.