You Really Wanna Know Mr. Osteen?

I keep getting asked how I am doing. I guess people think that because we are about to hit 18 months into the grief journey that things are just peaches and cream, rainbows and pots of gold. I am actually quite the opposite. I haven’t written on it because I have been trying to sort out this mind of mine that seems to be getting more frantic and loud. But after reading an article a fellow blogger shared about Joel Osteen’s views on grief, I had to share. Osteen believes that after a certain amount of time that grievers are only wanting pity. Well, Mr. Osteen, here is my response.

I am 18 months in this new life that God has dealt me. For 18 months, I have made sure to put others before myself. My children rarely see me cry. I make sure that each day they are not living in the shadow of their brother’s death. My husband and I have struggled to keep this family that was 5 and now 4 as normal as possible. We have struggled to keep our marriage strong when we have no words to ease each others pain and are lost as to how to be partners when our life is broken. I have to the best of my ability, and often failed, tried to keep up appearances at family events. I have tried to go to parties for other people’s children. I went back to keeping children one month after the death of my son. I never missed a school event with my daughter. I made sure my living son knew he was just as important to me as my angel son. If I was asked to do something, I 97% of the time did it. The other 3% I just mentally couldn’t. I never quit putting others before myself. I never said no when asked to do something for the church. I have smiled and tried my best to keep up a sense of the old life I had while trying to learn this new life. I will admit, I failed a lot. I failed my husband numerous times. I have even failed my children. I have horribly failed my sisters and mother. But I did the best I could to try to keep the hurt, sorrow, pain, and aching I felt to myself and not lay it on the shoulders of others.

So Mr. Osteen, do you really wanna know where I am at today in my grief? I am worse off today than I was the second the doctor’s gave me a time of death. I am worse off than the day we put my boy in his grave. In fact, 18 months of faking it and trying to be strong has taken a toll on me mentally and physically. I spend most nights tossing and turning. Releasing a days worth of built up tears. I do not want to attend any family events at all because my family is the broken link. I spend most days waiting on the clock to strike 5 so that kids go home and I can start my new rituals. What new rituals you ask? Well, Joel, can I call you Joel? I used to be very OCD about my house and life. The birth of my children’s half sister quickly let me see that this curly haired little toddler was winning the battle of messes. Now the OCD is back and I have the belief that if my house is spotless nothing tragic will happen to us again. My house was a little messy when we got the call of Richie’s accident. In fact, everything bad that has directly happened to us has come at a time when the house was a little untidy. I have been cleaning the house completely. Each room has been getting a deep cleaning. I dread having to get up in the mornings to take care of others. Nothing to do with them, I just can some days barely guide myself much less others. I hate answering the phone. People start conversations with “how are you?” I text very few people. Only the ones I can be real with get them. (A very short list) I am no longer the one at church that speaks to every single person. I sometimes fake reading something so that I do not have to socialize on Sunday mornings. I am exhausted by the end of Wednesday night Bible study because I have to fake happy on the bad days. I do not watch the news because it sends me into a tailspin of PTSD. I hate FaceBook because people seem to not understand that seeing wrecked cars and kids in the hospital bring back images that haunt me every single day. The sound of a train horn makes my heart leap into my throat. I only watch movies after they have been cleared by others for my broken mind to watch. TV holds little interest for me. The Travel channel is safe I have found. I hate 6:44pm on Sundays and the 29th of every single month. I feel as if I have won the lottery if I make it to 3:30pm on the 30th or a Monday and my living children are still living. I cannot eat chicken, mashed potatoes and corn in the same meal. Tried once and had almost had a nervous breakdown. I have started panicking about where my deceased son’s belongings are. Even though I know they are safely packed away in my guest room, I still have to go see they are there. I do this numerous times a day. It is all I have left that is tangible of him. I now get up numerous times to see if my living children are still breathing as they sleep. (They are 18 & 20.) A scratch on one of them has me thinking that the limb will be amputated and they will die. I text them constantly to see if they are safe. I text their friends if I do not get a timely response. I hate leaving the house other than once a week grocery shopping and church. I have certain things that we can not do on Sundays because if we do, one of my children will die. I am failing as a friend to the ones that are closest to me. I can’t remember when I last wished someone Happy Birthday when I was the one that was always the first. I cannot concentrate on tasks that are dear to me. I start projects and quickly lose interest.I spend some days pretending so convincingly to myself that Richie will be coming home that afternoon that by 4pm I feel like I lost him all over again. Sometimes I think that I put myself back into shock just to shut my mind off.

Even worst than the mental effects is the physical ones. I constantly have stress and tension migraines. I break out in bumps and itch like crazy if one thing starts getting out of the “new normal” I am enclosing myself in. I feel tired all the time but cannot sleep. And the absolute most terrible thing…. My heart constantly feels like it is constricting. It literally hurts all day every day. I believe my heart broke the day they told me Richie had passed. Since then I can feel it 24 hours a day. You really never know your heart is there until you experience a loss so gut-wrenching that you cannot even fathom it until days later. Then you are fully aware of its every beat. Every bloody thump against your chest feels like you are being stabbed. Do you understand the heart hurt Mr. Osteen? I am constantly on high alert, waiting on the next terrible thing to happen so my muscles are always sore. My nerves twitch. I have developed little ticks of nervousness. Some others never notice. I just feel like I am always in pain yet have no sickness.

Mr. Osteen, I have done it your way. I have not asked for self pity. I have hated conversations that revolve around me and my loss. I have put others first. I have not wallowed in my pain shutting myself off from the world. Where has it gotten me? It has gotten me no where. I am worse off than I was 18 months ago. I took care of everyone else and did not take any time for myself. So what am I to do now? Do I tell others that I need time now all this time later to be alone and grieve with no responsibilities? Do I continue doing what I am doing and hope it gets better? Quite a predicament I am in. There is no time limit on grief. Some parents lose a child and have another in a year later. Some can never imagine another child in their home. A wife can lose her husband and marry 6 months later. A husband can lose his wife of 60 years and pass away silently that night in his sleep from a broken heart. There is no book on grief. I hate the self-help crap people have been sending me. It would help to shove it up their wazoos. (I forgot to add the part about my quick temper being even quicker.) So please, Mr. Osteen, what do I do now that the way you wrote about does not work? You can email me your answer at mrsjschell@gmail.com. I will be awaiting your response.

No, I Am Not Living In Death

Isn’t that something odd to proclaim? I am not living in death. I have been accused of this a lot lately. In fact, I have friends and even family that say they can’t be around me because of this. I am just at a loss.

They seem to say that since the death of Richie that I only surround myself with other parents that have lost children or the people I have met through organ donation. Well, maybe I have. When I hear of another mother or father that has lost a child, my heart breaks for them. So yes, I reach out. When I lost my son, Stephanie, Angel, Lisa P. and Judy were at my side because they knew what I was going through. The way they told me that all I was feeling was okay helped me tremendously. It made me regret not knowing what to say and reaching out to them more when they were going through their personal tragedies. Now when I here of anyone going through what I did, I go to them, call them or send a card. I reach out after the funeral because I know first hand that it is harder then, Yes, I have reached out to people that I do not even know but have met through my blogging. In fact, Sherri has become a great friend and I have never even met her! The organ donation world has showed me hope. I see the stories of life continuing. It gives me great joy and a sense of hope to meet the people who are living because of a gift. When I meet a donor family, I feel a kinship of sorts. I know the pain of loss they are feeling and the great pride they feel for their loved ones who gave. I was once “new” to this world too. I know the confusion they feel at first. I reach out just to be a friend. I answer the questions they have or send them to someone who has an answer I don’t. I just listen most of all because that is what I needed when I started this journey.

I do not live in death. I am perfectly capable of separating death from life. I have been to plenty of things that I have never even said the words death, dead or dying at. I am very comfortable with telling a group of Moms what Richie did at age 2 without crying or wanting sympathy. It gives me a great sense of comfort to be able to talk about Richie as if he were still here with people. Just because I say his name in conversation does not mean I want pity. It simply means that I am telling a story about him just like I do Luke and Savannah.

It may seem as if that is the only ones I am around anymore are the ones I have met in “death”. This is not entirely my fault. I have watched as Jeff and I are left off some invite lists. Some that are very hurtful. We have watched as some family, close family, completely cut us out of their lives. And when you bump into them at the store? We get the “we have been busy” excuse. Jeff and I have not been to busy or grieving too hard to reach out to people. Even if it is a text or card, we reach out. Maybe our circle does include more “death” friends than longtime friends and family, but that is all we have most times.

I am still a friend, cousin, niece, sister and aunt. Jeff is still a friend, cousin, nephew, son and uncle. And whatever else you may call us. We do not want any pity. We do not want any one to feel as if they can’t be around me. We do not surround ourselves with death. But the death of our child is always with us. If We can’t handle being around someone or somewhere, we will bow out quietly and gracefully. We are not and do not want to live in death.

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UGH!

First I want to say that I am not wanting sympathy or anything! I am just posting this because I am having one of those days. I have to get the feelings out of my head, through my fingers. So please, don’t pity me and let my written emotional diarrhea begin!

It is only noon and I have already been through every emotion I can. I am angry, sad, happy, worried, hurt and all in between. I have no idea what has triggered this day. Maybe lack of sleep or a slight sunburn from the extremely fun day in the sun yesterday. Maybe it is guilt because I had fun yesterday. I don’t know what it is but I am just over it. I am missing my son so bad that it feels like I have been gut punched today. I am missing my living children because they are always gone living their life. I am upset that the boy was snappy at me this morning for no reason. Aggravated because the girl decided to wash clothes on the one morning I could sleep in a little. Frustrated because I have no clue what to make for supper with no desire to do it anyway. Depressed because I am just not wanting to fold the massive pike of laundry that has built up. The dog has been spazzing out and running up and down the hall all morning and when she does get still, she farts constantly. I am hurt because I feel like I do not get any recognition of pride from the ones I look for it most in. I feel like nothing I do matters to anyone around here. I feel like I am not as important to most of the people that I put first and on pedestals, I am sick of hearing about the latest Monticello scandal when people should be rallying around a little girl in town that lost her father in a senseless shooting. I want to go back to the beach. I want to go to the mountains and sit on my Uncle’s porch and have him tell me it’s all going to be okay. I want a back slapping hug from my Granny. I want to eat a bowl of strawberry ice cream with my Grandpa. I am wondering if I was as good of a Mom all these years as I should have been. Did I give my children all they needed growing up? Do they resent me because I could not give them all they wanted? I am worried about my Mother, what reason I cannot pinpoint. I feel fat. I feel ugly. I am mad at myself because I have those superficial feeling. I am at a loss to fix a relationship that just never comes easy. I am at a loss as to how to make some things at home better. I miss Dillon who has moved to another state. I miss my house being filled with teenagers during the summer. I am mad because I feel the empty nest. I just ate a handful of Cheet-Ohs so now I am feeling really fat. I feel like a failure as a friend for not being there for everyone like I should. I feel like I am too needy at times. I am tired of keeping things inside when they make me want to explode. I am terrified of making changes soon that will benefit me for the better but may upset other people. I am sick of saying yes. I dread saying no. I just want to go back to bed. I just feel UGH!

Catch 22 of a Grieving Parent

I had a wonderful weekend! I got to go away for the night with Jeff and have a very delicious meal at a little place we found. The next day I got to spend the entire day with Jeff, Morgan (Richie’s tissue recip), Rodney (Morgan’s Dad), Tracy from LifeLink and her husband Shane. We spent the day at Atlanta Motor Speedway with Joey Gase and his family and crew. I was having just the most wonderful time….. And then it hit me!

I was sitting up on the pit boxes next to all these great people watching the race which had gotten kinda dull. No wrecks, no pit stops. Just driving in circles. It hit me in the “down time” that I was only right there in that moment at that particular time because my son had died. I replayed over a year’s worth of events in my mind. The call, the hospital, the death of my child, donating his organs, the funeral, the crying, the pain, the letters to his recipients, the letters from his recipients, meeting his recipients…. The whole year flashed in a few seconds. I looked over at this beautiful girl sitting next to me that had received a gift from my son, Our paths would have never crossed if he was living. I looked at this lady from LIfeLink who I treasure as a friend. I would have never known her if he was living. I looked at the Donate Life car as it passed by us. I would have never even thought about being an advocate/volunteer for this if my son was living. Probably would have never heard of it. All this in this moment in my life would not be happening if my precious boy were still breathing and at home raiding my fridge! How sad to think that I only know these wonderful people because my wonderful amazing son is not here.

This is where the catch 22 of a grieving parent happens. We would trade all the breaths we are still breathing ourselves for our child to still be here. We mourn and cry every single day. We may not do it publicly. In fact, mine is usually done when home alone or between the hours of 12am – 4am (as you can tell from the bags under my eyes). But what are we Moms and Dads to do when we catch ourselves having fun and smiling? I still have two living children that deserve a Mom who laughs and smiles. What am I to do when the thought creeps into my head while having a family fun day with them of, “what if Rich was here?” Life goes on as everyone tells me. I feel like I am two-faced for telling everyone to live, laugh and love when I am feeling guilty at times for doing it.

Now, do not get me wrong, I cherish each and every single person I have met since our on D-Day. A whole lot of these people I cannot imagine not having in my life. But the thought more often than not creeps in my mind of what if or would I be? I would have not know the friendship from most. The smile and dreams of a young girl. The life of a grandfather trying to fill his grand-children’s life with love for as long as God allows. I have talked to some other Moms who are in my grieving shoes about this and they agree with me. We are all trying to live life like our children would want us to yet we get sucked back in with guilt when we are catching ourselves doing just that, laughing and smiling. Sometimes it does not hit me until hours after and I am in my alone time. Then as I reflect on the day, it hits me. I think I will forever be in this catch 22 of sorts. I will forever be in a never ending circle of grief. Like the car I was watching on the race track. In turn one, I am happy. In turn two, I am laughing. In turn three, I feel guilt for laughing. Turn four I have to pull it together and take a quick breather. And by the time I come across to turn one again, I am laughing. Forever in a circle, forever in a turmoil of happiness and grief.

How I failed my children

Yes, I the smothering Mother have failed my children! I have been wrestling with the regret of this and the guilt. How have I failed them you ask? I failed to make sure that my children grew up in the church. Yes, I have taught them about Jesus, God and read them all the stories. But where I failed was to take them to church every time the doors were open. I failed to give them the opportunity to hear the message from the pulpit. I failed to give them an altar to pray at. I failed to give them the chance to fellowship with other Christians.

Not only have I failed my children, but I have failed God. It says it clearly in the Bible:

• Train up a child in the way he should go: and when he is old, he will not depart from it. Proverbs 22:6
• And thou shalt teach them diligently unto thy children, and shalt talk of them when thou sitteth in thine house, and when thou walkest by  the way, and when thou liest down, and when thou risest up. Deuteronomy 6:7
• And, ye fathers, provoke not your children to wrath: but bring them up in the nurture and admonition of the Lord. Ephesians 6:4

There are many more that I could list. It says it repeatedly, teach your children, nurture your children and give them the instruction of the Lord. No where does it say just read them a Bible story at bedtime. Or stick them on the church bus to go to a vacation bible school one week out of the year. Nor does it say, take them when you feel like it or at the holidays. No it says that with diligence I am to instruct them.

I am very thankful that along the way in my children’s lives God has placed people in their path that have taught them better than I. I am glad that he brought people in their lives that taught them about salvation and led them there. The greatest gift I could teach my children in life, their salvation, I failed to it. Let me tell you, it is hard and painful admitting you failed your children. All that I have ever taught them in life means nothing compared to that. It is also very shameful to have to get on your knees and ask God to forgive you for not only failing your children but his. I have many times went and sat by my son’s headstone and asked for his forgiveness too. My children still with me know that I am truly sorry for failing them.

Now, how do I correct this bad pattern? We now attend church every time the door is open. I make sure the children know every Sunday. They are 17 & 20 so the habit of sleeping late and having a free Sunday has to be broken. I cannot force them to go. However, they do live in my house so it will now be a requirement. If I have to drag them DILIGENTLY until they go willingly, that is what I will do. I may have failed them in the younger years, but I will not fail them now. Nor will I let the pattern repeat itself when they have children.

I have failed. I have asked for forgiveness. I have been forgiven. And now I will not fail again.

I couldn’t fix this boo-boo

As a Mom, it is our job to kiss the boo-boos and solve all problems for our children. We are to put on the band-aids, give them a kiss and a popsicle and send them on their way. Anyone that knows me will tell you that I was always fixing mistakes they made or problems they had. Doing “forgotten” school projects in the middle of the night, love troubles, friend troubles, car troubles or just handling anything that arose with one of them. After I was taken back to see Richie the night of his accident, my first thought was ,”How do I make him better?” I knew that there was no band-aid or cream or popsicle I could buy to heal him. So I prayed. I prayed more than I have ever prayed.

At around three am that morning, we were allowed to see him again. This time, they let me stay in there longer than anyone else. They let me pull up a chair next to him and the nurse told me to hold his hand and talk to him. I asked the doctors and nurses all kinds of questions. Did they think of this? Did they check that? I remember apologizing to Richie because I didn’t know what to do to make him wake up. I even joked with him that if Grandma Maynard was here she would have asked him he needed to poop. She always thought a good poop could cure the deadliest of diseases. I even told him I didn’t think the black salve he hated us using was going to help. During my time alone with him, I think somewhere in the back of my mind I knew I wasn’t going to be taking my son home ever. In this time with him, I prayed every prayer I could. I even tried to make deals with God. Please take me instead. Please help my son and I will never ask for anything again. I even got selfish with the prayer of let him live just one minute longer than me. But my son was tough, he had survived a broken leg, hernia surgery, multiple “kid” injuries and of course a major car wreck years before. He could survive this. I mean heck, he broke both bones in his lower leg and figured out how to ride his bike with a full leg cast. Me and him together could get him over this hurdle. I would be by his side and not leave him until he walked out with me. I was his Mom, we could do beat this.

Now that it has been almost four months since his passing, each day I feel more and more guilty that I was not able to make him better. Even though I know there was absolutely nothing I could do to heal him I feel guilty. Did I not pray hard enough? Did I not send enough positive healing energy to his aura? Did I not ask the right questions? Did I not fight hard enough for him to live? I am his MOM! His Mom who is supposed to make all the bad go away, heal his hurts, scare the monsters out from under the bed and protect him always. I failed. My son will no longer be able to grow old and experience life because I didn’t for once in my life know what to do for him. I will never again be able to hear him call me Mum like he did because I couldn’t kiss this boo-boo and make it better.