The Stormy Beach

The Stormy Beach

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I thought of this story because I was talking about protecting Philip, and because of how deeply we’re affected by the vulnerability we share with our kids. Because we do share it. I might be the one who’s supposed to be doing the protecting, but look at the price I pay if I can’t.

The summer when Philip was four or five and Natalie was two or three, we stayed overnight in Point Pleasant, NJ, with Janine and her son Jake. It was hot and sunny and sticky and when we got to the beach, it was closed. If there was such a thing as a triple-X red flag, it would’ve been flying. I’ve never seen a beach this way. The water was hurling itself at the shore, right up to the boardwalk. In fact, there was no shore; just a boardwalk and lots of hysterical water.

Do Not Enter or not, the beach wasn’t roped off, so we went down the boardwalk stairs just to gape. I’m a weather girl. Not as in, oh, it’s warm and sunny so we should get our asses out and do something. I mean as in ice storms, snowstorms (which my town has decided to call “snow events,” leaving me to wonder just what it is our Town Officials spend the better part of their time – and our money – doing), rainstorms, thunderstorms, storms of any kind. The more nature misbehaves, the better. Of course, all I know is the NY Metro area kind of weather, not the Storm-Chaser, Dorothy’s-house-flying-through-the-air kind. The ocean that day might not be classified as “weather,” but it was Nature being Really Exciting.

The five of us stood just under the boardwalk, Janine and I holding our kids’ hands. No one else was there because really, no sane person would’ve been. You could see what was going on from the top of the boardwalk; no need go down those stairs to get under it. But we did, and the panorama of that unobstructed wild ocean letting its white, foamy hair down and shaking it out with a vengeance was mesmerizing.

Possessed, I took Philip’s still-chubby four-(or five)-year-old hand and walked deeper into that maniacal frothing sea. I was both thrilled and terrified; for God’s sake, I wouldn’t know how to float in a bathtub, never mind do a free-stroke or a backstroke or any other stroke that was supposed to keep my head above more than about four feet of water; what the hell was I doing tempting fate?

Correction. What was I doing tempting fate with my child?

I’d say it was a modified version of that thrill-seeking thing that makes people jump out of airplanes or climb big, scary mountains. And I think that attraction, dangerous as it is, is the pull of life. It’s the need to have all your senses mobilized and attentive, so there isn’t you and the ocean or the sky or the mountain because you are the ocean and the sky and the mountain. I mean, you’re not thinking about anything except what you’re doing, and how peaceful is it not to have to listen to the damn whining voices in your head. It’s what I’d thought meditation was about, but I hadn’t the patience to get there by sitting around and trying not to think. And here was an unsought opportunity to shock myself awake.

We didn’t walk far. We couldn’t. The water rushed at us, smacking my shins and splashing up my thighs, then rushed back on itself, trying to take us with it. It was gorgeously, savagely, beautiful; it was The Call of the Wild that I wanted to answer, but I didn’t know how.

So I turned to go back to the boardwalk, and a few steps later I realized I’d let go of Philip’s hand. I had stood there marveling at the ferocity and velocity of that ocean and then I dropped my son’s hand. I don’t remember doing it, I just remember spinning around in shock and dread, to see that Philip had been knocked down to his hands and knees, and some woman was helping him to get up.

What followed was some eerie dream-like sequence where I moved toward her and she gave Philip’s hand to me and I took it, unable to see what I’m sure were her accusing eyes behind her sunglasses, unable to say anything because the enormity of what I’d done was already taking hold, because the roaring of the ocean wouldn’t have allowed me to be heard anyway. Then somehow I was back at the boardwalk, back to Janine, who hadn’t seen any of it. I didn’t tell her. If I had, I would have had to say, “I think I almost let my child die.” That he didn’t die didn’t change my carelessness. It wasn’t because of me that he didn’t die. It was because of that woman, whoever she was, wherever she came from. As far as I was concerned, she saved his life.

For years, right up until Philip died, I’d get slightly sick and slightly dizzy when I thought about that day. For just a second my stomach would lurch. I told Philip about it once, but he just shrugged it off. What did it matter to him? He didn’t even remember it.

But after Philip died, the truth of that day hit me, and it knocked me over like one of those big old waves did to him. My son wasn’t saved that day; I was. Because if he would have died then, I don’t know what shell of a person I would have become and what Natalie would have had to suffer because of it. Look; Philip was a young man on his own, and I couldn’t protect him from the choices he made, or the body he was given. But he is my son. He was vulnerable and I was helpless. That I can work through; and to a degree, I have. But if I’d lost him then? If he had died because of my carelessness when I was supposed to be taking care of him?

My heart is on its knees in gratitude. I was graced that day, and I understand the difference between the way it happened and what it would have been like if it had happened then. It’s a nightmarish way to get perspective. But if my son had to die, better it be with my conscience clear.

Submitted by Denise Smyth in loving memory of her son, Philip.

You can find out more about Denise Smyth and her son Philip on her blog, forphilip.com.

Just Let Me Be Sad

Just Let Me Be Sad

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We live in a world where – if you have the means – pain and suffering are to be avoided at all costs. People are always looking for the next “quick fix” to alleviate discomfort. Preferably with the least amount of effort required. In many cases, this means treating the symptoms while ignoring the root cause of the problem.

Our society is so uncomfortable with emotional pain that when someone dies, the outward mourning period is expected to end once the funeral is over.

When the bereaved do not cooperate with these prescribed time tables, they are often accused of “wallowing” in their grief. They are indignantly told to “move on” and “get over it.”

But is prolonged outward grief is a sign of weakness? Or maybe self-pity? Do they think the bereaved secretly enjoy the pain and the attention it brings? For those of us who have lost someone dear to us, we know none of this could not be further from the truth. If we could, we would give ANYTHING to not feel this pain.

The problem is our outward projection of sadness is an unwelcome reminder.

It represents all the negative emotions they’ve managed to stuff deep inside until the pain is suppressed. 

So which is healthier? Suppressing grief, only to have it lie dormant until some tragedy unearths it again – but this time stronger and more painful? Or to acknowledge there is no quick fix to alleviate the overwhelming pain of losing someone you have built your life – and in some cases, your identity – around?

Suppressing grief is like following the latest fad diet.

Everyone wants to lose weight quickly without exercising or changing  eating habits. Maybe you’ll pop some appetite suppressing pills and lose weight in the short term. But the chances of you keeping the weight off are slim. The reality is that the next time you try to lose weight, it will likely be harder than the time before.

The alternative means facing the harsh reality that transforming your body to a stable, healthy weight is challenging. It requires permanently changing your eating habits and amount of regular exercise. You likely need to readjust your expectations of what your ideal body should look like. Sadly, most of us will never look like supermodels or pro athletes. In other words, the second option is HARD WORK, but it has the greatest likelihood of becoming a permanent reality.

But if I’m being honest here, I have to admit that given the opportunity, I would have gladly chosen to bury the overwhelming pain when my daughter died. Suppressing pain and emotions is what I had done my whole life until that point.

The fact is the pain of losing someone I loved MORE than my own life was too much to bury.

I reluctantly – and resentfully – took on more pain than I could bear. I did so because I had no other choice.

For the first time in my life, I learned how to slowly take small steps with that unbearable load on my back. In support groups and counseling, I learned sharing my story and my pain reduced the load. Even if it was only a very slight amount each time.  

By reducing the load over months and then years, it became easier to carry. I have since come to understand that the load will never fully go away, but I have learned how to balance it with the rest of my life. And as time goes on, the balance will become easier still.

That is not to say that occasionally, the load won’t suddenly feel nearly as heavy as it did when my grief was new. And when it does, I’ll remember how to go back to taking small, careful steps until it feels lighter again.

To all those who cringe in discomfort when they see me experiencing outward emotional pain, I say this: just let me be sad.

My intention is not to make you feel uncomfortable. I don’t expect – or want – you to follow in my footsteps. But I do expect you to respect the path I have been forced to take on my journey through life. I truly hope you never have to carry this load yourself.

In the Garden

In the Garden

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During her visit in late spring of 2009, our sister Patsy planted a wonderful vegetable garden on the side of our house with the help of our kids. We had been wanting a garden for a while, so we watered and cared for the garden in anticipation of the carrots, tomatoes, cucumbers, zucchini, and other wonderful vegetables that would come.

The garden started producing its bounty in the summer, and we enjoyed fresh vegetables with most of our meals.

One afternoon, our daughter, Margareta, decided she was going to water the garden. In true Margareta fashion, she used her quirky sense of style and imagination. Dressed only in underwear (a common sight in our home), shoes, and a red super hero cape, she went out to water the garden with a water gun we had just gotten.  After seeing her head out the kitchen door in this getup, I followed her with the camera to see what she was up to with a smile on my face. Here is what I saw:

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I miss my beautiful girl with her vivid imagination and sense of whimsy. I think of these pictures often.

Submitted by Maria Kubitz in loving memory of her daughter, Margareta Kubitz.

The Isolation of Grief

The Isolation of Grief

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Now, I’ve never been a stranger to isolation. The kind that comes from feeling like you just don’t fit into your surroundings. But I’ve never felt as isolated as I did after the death of my daughter.

As a child, I was a shy, introverted person who felt different than the people around me. At the time, I never really knew why. I didn’t like the feeling of isolation, but I didn’t understand what caused it. So it just became a fact of life.

My shyness lessened over time, but remains a fundamental part of my personality. I’ve learned how to handle and enjoy various social situations. But I still prefer interacting with small groups or one-on-one conversations.

After my daughter died, my sense of isolation grew exponentially as a result of grief.

In the immediate aftermath of her sudden death, our house was filled with family and friends. They showed support by helping us do what had to be done. Things like planning the memorial and visiting the cemetery to secure a plot. Some helped work with our insurance company or write an obituary. Family and friends prepared meals, made sure we were left alone when we needed our space, gave us hugs, and shed tears with us.

The phone rang often. I found myself doing most of the talking when the other end of the phone was uncomfortably silent. People struggled to find the right words to say. Even in my numbness, I was able to understand the dilemma of “I’m sorry” doesn’t seem to be enough when someone has just lost a four-year-old little girl.

A few days after the memorial service, everyone went home. Less sympathy cards arrived in the mail until there were none. The phone stopped ringing. Our daughter’s preschool arranged a weekly meal donation and then my work did the same. The meals were a huge help, but eventually those stopped coming too.

We were left alone to figure out how to pick up the pieces of our shattered hearts and shattered lives. To find help, we went to counseling and support groups. But we were forced to accept the fact that life was going to keep moving forward without our precious girl in it. It was devastating.

That devastation led me to a self-imposed isolation from a world I could no longer stand to be a part of.

I didn’t want to talk to people who couldn’t understand my pain because I didn’t have the energy to explain myself. The sound of laughter or gossip produced outright anger in me. Everyday acts of going to work, chores, grocery shopping, or even something as simple as showering were agonizingly painful and almost impossible.

I wanted nothing to do with any of it. I found myself not answering the phone and not returning messages. When friends who weren’t sure how to help me invited me over, I politely turned them down.

I managed to make sure that I fed my surviving kids and took them to school and practices. But I was no longer the mom they were used to. They stopped wanting to talk to me about how they felt because they thought it would make me even sadder. My kids were frightened that not only did they lose their sister, there was a potential that they were losing the mom they thought they knew.

Over that first year after her death, the suffocating pain began to lessen. Though not by as much as I would have hoped. Everyday tasks didn’t seem so impossible anymore. I began to adjust to the “new normal” any grieving person must accept.

After a while, the isolation of grief began to change.

While I started answering the phone and accepting some of those invitations, I felt isolated in a different sense. I continued to think of my daughter and experience the pain constantly, but very few people talked about my grief or even mentioned her name any more. Even surrounded by friends, I felt completely alone.

Support groups and counseling helped. So did reaching out to other parents who had lost children. At that time, I preferred their company over others. I found myself part of the secret society of grieving parents who mostly keep their grief to themselves. They only tend to share their grief with those who are faced with the same loss and pain. I found that sharing my feelings with these people helped me immensely.

With the passage of time, I’m learning how to balance becoming fully reinvested in life while respecting my continuing needs for grief support.

I still look forward to support groups and talking with other bereaved people. But I also appreciate that when I allow myself to enjoy and appreciate everyday life, joy will come even without my daughter being physically here.

I still long for her to be at my side and to experience the wonder of watching her grow. But I know that she will always be with me in spirit. She is forever in my heart, my memories, and my thoughts. And these days, I don’t mind sharing that with anyone who cares to get to know me.

Fancy Girl

Fancy Girl

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We try to go to parades throughout the year, and many of them result in a collection of colorful mardi gras beads. Our daughter, Margareta, loved to wear them, as it brought out the “girly” side of her dual tomboy/girly girl personality.

Not satisfied with just wearing them around her neck, she would take her shirt off and put them across her back and around her arms, as if she had put on the straps of a backpack. When she started wearing the beads, we would remark how fancy she looked. She liked hearing it much, she started calling them “fancy beads”.

She would insist on collecting any strand of fancy beads she found in the house and hoarding them in her room. She loved them so much, she was buried with some of those beads so she could stay looking fancy forever. I keep some hanging around my rear-view mirror in memory of my fancy girl in her fancy beads.

Submitted by Maria Kubitz in loving memory of her daughter, Margareta Kubitz.