In the Glow of Moonlight

In the Glow of Moonlight

by

You were like a sun in my sky;
big and bright and brilliant
as I orbited around you.

Your radiant love enveloped me
like a blanket of warm sunshine
on an otherwise cloudy day.

We lived and laughed and loved
as that clichéd saying goes;
when the world still made sense. 

But then it all suddenly disappeared;
like a sun sucked into a black hole,
extinguishing your brilliant light.

It feels cold here in the darkness;
a chill so pervasive, it rattles my bones
and burrows deep in my soul.

Noisy, jumbled thoughts and echoes
of screams and sirens and panic;
continually pleading, “What if…?”

I wouldn’t call this ‘living’ any more;
merely existing while waiting to die
for years after your death.

Yet there are too many signs from you
I can no longer ignore or write off
as merely coincidence.

It’s as if each one whispers in my ear,
“I’m here, Mama, I’ll always be with you;
just look for the moon instead.”

So each night I search for your light,
some days your moonlight fills the sky;
sometimes there’s only a sliver. 

No matter the moon’s phase, I know
it’s illuminated by your brilliant light
that once filled my sky.

I’ll always long for the sunlight I lost,
but I’m learning to live, laugh, and love
in the glow of moonlight. 

Gifts From My Daughter on Her Birthday

Gifts From My Daughter on Her Birthday

by

Today is my daughter’s birthday.

If she were still alive, Margareta would have been 10-years-old. This is the sixth bittersweet celebration of a life that was over after four short years. Four years of blissful ignorance of the impending tragedy that took her life. Our hearts will ache because she is not physically here with us to blow out the candles on her cake. But today, we choose to remember all the love she brought into our lives during those four short years. We will celebrate her continued daily presence in our hearts and minds.

I can no longer buy presents for my daughter on her birthday. Instead, I’d like to share with you a few of the gifts she has given me. Not hand-written cards or tokens of her love during those four years, but gifts of wisdom she has brought into my life.

The gift of acceptance.

Most of my life, I struggled to try to change things that were not mine to change. I tried changing others. Their behaviors, their thoughts, and their reactions. Only to be disappointed every time. I tried changing the past by rewriting it in my head. I tried changing a future that hadn’t occurred yet.

Basically, if it didn’t bring me a sense of security…I tried changing it.

Margareta’s death helped me truly understand that most of what happens to us in this life is not ours to control. Only when we accept what we cannot change (and what is not our part of our responsibility anyway) can we find happiness and contentment.

The gift of appreciation.

I used to think I was an appreciative person. But then I lost one of the most important people in my life and realized just how unappreciative I had been. I understand now that embracing the little things we usually take for granted makes all the difference in the world.

Savoring that kind word or hug a little longer. Noticing a smile on a stranger’s face. Knowing that every day could be our last makes it that much more meaningful and important. I now better appreciate what I have versus always wanting something else; something more. This level of appreciation brings with it a sense of inner peace I always craved but never knew how to achieve.

The gift of courage.

For the longest time, I never felt strong. I didn’t feel strong enough to stand up for myself or leave toxic situations and relationships. I felt I was a victim and learned to play that role really well.

But when the worst actually happens to you – and you survive it – you discover a source of strength within you that you never knew existed.

In my journey of grief, I have begun to discover my courage. Courage to believe my needs matter just as much as anyone else’s. Courage to try to always speak my mind even if I fear the reaction it may cause. Most of all, the courage to learn accept myself for who I am instead of trying to become the person I thought others wanted me to be. I’ll never be perfect. I’ll always be a work in progress. But my daughter’s life – and death – has taught me that life is too short to try to be anything other than who you are at this moment. It has given me the freedom and courage to do what it takes to follow my dreams.

While my dream of watching my beautiful daughter grow will never come true, I will continue to create new dreams that are inspired by all the gifts she has given me.

Happy birthday, sweet girl. Words cannot convey how much we miss you.

Lost in the Forest of Grief

Lost in the Forest of Grief

by

There is a common expression, “You can’t see the forest for the trees.”

It means you can get so caught up in focusing on what is right in front of your face, you lose sight of the bigger picture or perspective. It is very easy to do.

Every day we must react to the multitude of things that are thrown our way. Things from our job or many other responsibilities. If you’re anything like me, your mind is almost constantly churning. I often feel overwhelmed by all the different things that seemingly need my attention every minute of the day.

It’s easy to get stuck living moment to moment, seeing only the “trees” that represent the immediate activities and emotions of your life. It’s often hard to view the entire forest that represents your overall life.

We can lose sight of the path we have taken so far, and the direction we want to head in the future. And we can unexpectedly be thrust into a life we didn’t plan for…or want.

My 4-year-old daughter, Margareta, died suddenly in 2009. And I found myself transplanted into a thick grove of new, unfamiliar “trees” in the forest that is my life.

These trees were big and scary. They grew so thick and tight, they blocked out any trace of the light from the sky. While I had some sense of direction in the previous area of the forest I inhabited, this grove of trees filled me with an indescribable pain and left me groping in the dark. I desperately tried to find a way out and back to the area I was before. But I could find none. I was lost in the forest, overwhelmed with grief.

Each humongous tree that surrounded me represented a painful feeling or emotion that I was forced to grapple with.

These trees signified feelings of guilt, helplessness, hopelessness, isolation, disbelief, despair, torment. And too many more to list. Every time I tried to force my way out of this grove of trees, I was just left bruised and battered and stuck. It exhausted me to the point where I would just fall down and sleep for long periods of time.

After remaining in this grove for quite a while, my eyes adjusted to the darkness. Now, when I looked, I could make out the trees in the distance that once surrounded me. But they were out of reach. There was no path I could find to go back. It was all irrevocably blocked by the horrible reality of Margareta’s death.

I resentfully resigned myself to the understanding that I was stuck in this grove of darkness and despair. I tearfully understood that the life I once led would never come back. Once you feel this level of pain, it is like innocence lost forever to the harsh realities of life.

Then a strange, unexpected thing happened.

Instead of fighting to escape these trees of grief by squeezing my way out, I forced myself to accept them.

I embraced them as a representation of how much love I still have for my daughter. In doing this, I discovered I could climb these trees; grasping each limb on their thick trunks. I worked to express my feelings about those trees in counseling, support groups, and writing about it. Each time I did, I could climb a bit higher to where the branches thinned out and let light and fresh air in.

Over the course of several long years, I climbed all the way to the top of that grove of trees. And from that vantage point, I could see that all hope was not lost.

I could see the forest of my life. The path I had taken to get here and different ways I could move forward and out of this thick grove of grief trees. But it would take work and dedication. It would take a new perspective on the meaning and purpose of my life. And a willingness to accept that it will never be the path I intended to take.

I slowly climbed down the outer branches of that grove, trusting that they would not break and let me fall. I climbed down with a new understanding. While all of these trees in my forest of life appear to be separate from above the ground, their roots are forever intertwined below it. These intertwining roots of good and bad, love and pain, happiness and despair strengthen my forest and keep it alive and thriving. We cannot truly understand and appreciate each of these feelings without having experienced their opposite.

So as I continue to make my way through my forest of life, I find that I experience things on a deeper level than before.

I choose to focus my attention on the trees that bring the most meaning to my life. These trees usually represent relationships, passions, and feelings of purpose.

I no longer am certain of the path my life will take, but I know that no matter what happens there will always be a way forward. And if I get lost among unfamiliar trees, I will once again embrace and climb them to remind myself of where I came from, where I am now, and where I can go from here.

And you can too.

What It’s Like to Lose A Child (The Journey of Bereaved Parents)

What It’s Like to Lose A Child (The Journey of Bereaved Parents)

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From the moment we found out you were coming into our lives, we felt electric: a mix of excitement, adrenaline, and a dose of fear for good measure. We dutifully began plotting the course of our lives together – starting with milestones like Kindergarten, puberty, graduation, career, wedding, and grandchildren. Then we began making our maps more detailed with our hopes and dreams for you. We prepared as well as we could for your arrival.

On the day you came into our lives, we held out our loving arms and said softly, “Welcome. We’ve been waiting for you.”

We stared into the vast universe reflected deep within your eyes with awe and wonder. You were a part of us; an extension of our very being. As you stared back into our eyes, a feeling of intense love for you took root in every cell of our body. This was true, unconditional love with no boundaries and no end.

Our lives were more meaningful with you in it. You gave us a greater sense of purpose and a profound sense of responsibility. Your life was ours to protect; ours to mold and guide. We needed to teach you all that we knew; try to help you avoid making the same mistakes we had made and afford you every opportunity to make your unique mark on this world. We wanted to make sure your life would become better than our own.

In return, all we asked from you was your continued unconditional love, because it felt wonderful. Better than anything else in this life of ours.

We did the best we could as parents, but weren’t perfect. There were plenty of mistakes intermixed with successes. We got off course of our map here and there and had to identify some new routes, but the destination was always the same: we would take care of you until one day you would take care of us.

At that point we would say goodbye and leave you to be on your own. By then you would have a family and be following your own map. We’d leave happy in the knowledge that we made the world a better place by bringing you into it.

But then the impossible happened. You died before we did.

On the day you died, our hearts shattered into a million pieces, as did the world around us. We were left in a dark, unfamiliar place where pain filled every cell of our body where your love once lived.

The air around us was now hard to breathe. Gravity was stronger than before, and the simple act of sitting or standing used up all of our strength and energy. Our map had disintegrated and we were hopelessly, utterly lost in the darkness of horror and misery.

Amid the darkness, familiar hands grabbed ours. Voices of family and friends guided us as we fumbled about in this strange new world, not knowing what to do. These family and friends all gathered around us to ceremoniously say goodbye to you.

And yet we couldn’t. The words never made it to our mouths. We were sure this was all a mistake – a nightmare that we would wake up from and find you standing over us smiling and laughing. We cried out for you, but got no answer in return.

As our family and friends left us to be on our own without you, the familiar world we once knew began to reappear around us.

And yet it was very different than before. We could interact with it, but we couldn’t touch this world because we were trapped in a bubble of despair. Most people couldn’t see our bubble. To them, it looked as if we were the same person we were before you died – maybe sadder, but basically the same. They expected us to quickly go back to our old routines and be our “old selves”. But they couldn’t see our bubble, and that we had fundamentally changed.

Inside that bubble, everything felt overwhelming. Our reactions to common sights and sounds were different than before. Laughter and joy made us angry and sick to our stomach. We were filled with resentment that the world itself hadn’t ceased to exist when you died.

Happiness was now out of reach, and we felt as though we’d never get it back. Some of us didn’t want it back if you weren’t there to share it with us. Even when we were surrounded by people outside our bubble, we felt hopelessly alone and misunderstood.

We became excellent actors worthy of an Oscar. We learned to pretend we were better and back to “normal” for the benefit of those around us. “Fine” is how we mostly answered the question of, “How are you?” We looked desperately around us for people who actually wanted to hear the truth. We were not fine.

When you left us, you took a part of us, and the void it left still ached with a pain so unbearable, we couldn’t find adequate words to describe it.

A few people could see our bubbles; most of them lived in bubbles themselves. Unlike the majority of people in the world around us, these people had the ability to reach inside our bubble and embrace us with understanding. We didn’t have to pretend to be okay around them. We could break down and cry as loud and long as we needed to without worrying about making them uncomfortable. We found a sense of community that we had lost when you died.

But none of this made the pain go away.

Over time, small cracks began to develop in our bubbles. These cracks let more light into our dim world. The air that came inside was easier to breathe. The gravity lightened a bit.

It still hurt to be alive in a world without you, but we began to learn how to adjust to it so that it wasn’t as debilitating as before.

Many of us learned to pry open the cracks in our bubbles a bit more to let in even more light and air. This changed the chemistry of the atmosphere inside our bubble from that of despair to a mix of memories and longing for you. We learned how to feel happiness and joy once again, even though it never made the pain deep within us subside. We began to learn how to better function in the world around us while still in the confines of our bubbles.

Our bubbles never fully go away. They change over time and may shrink considerably, but the pain will never leave us. This is because the pain was created by – and coexists with – your love that took root in every cell of our body when we stared into your eyes that very first time. And sometimes, we can momentarily release the feeling of pain by focusing our attention on you and the love you gave us that still lives in our bodies. You remain with us and a part of us.

The fact is we would have died for you. We would have gladly given up our own lives in a heartbeat if it meant you could have continued living. But no one has ever learned how to go back in time to make that sacrifice.

So we are left to live and breathe in a world without you. We have to create a new map that takes us into uncharted territory. We do this in your honor, and in honor of our family and friends that remain by our side.

We will continue down this new path until we take our own last breaths. And when we leave this world and head into the unknown, we hope to see you there with open, loving arms and hear you say softly, “Welcome. I’ve been waiting for you.”

©Maria Kubitz 2014

Signs From Bill

Signs From Bill

by

I lost my ex-husband, Bill, (father to my 3 children) last July 2013. The grief struck me hard. He fought the disease of addiction. The addiction won the battle. He was just so tired and took his life. I too have seen signs via several ladybugs and one dragon fly. I believe wholeheartedly it was him trying to comfort me and let me know he was ok. I found aliveinmemory.org via a search on ladybugs and afterlife. I believe more than ever in life after death now.