I admire those who have been through something similar and are still able to get on social media right away because it was too difficult for me. It took me awhile to even look at all of the kind messages people sent me online because my mind was blurred with grief and nothing anyone said at that time was good enough for my grieving heart.
When I finally decided I was ready to come back, it was for multiple reasons. One of them was that I needed resources. I needed help. I needed perspective from those who had done this or who were going through it right then like I was.
I remember jumping on the computer and searching online for any sort of personal reference to stillbirths. The hospital had given me a list of in-person grief groups I could attend, but for some reason I couldn't bring myself to go and open up to a circle of strangers - even if they had been or were trudging through the trenches too. I think that was the denial part of grief talking me out of it. That, and fear. But one day when I got on Facebook, I saw a message from a girl in my ward. She had linked a blog post authored by a woman who had just announced she was pregnant with her rainbow baby. Although I was skeptical, I clicked the link which led me to find more posts. Posts of her grieving her first child. And I couldn't get enough. It was like I could have written them, and it felt so good to know I wasn't alone. Someone else had gone through this too, had the courage to share, and provided some relief. I thought, "I'm not crazy for feeling all of these things!"
I'm not crazy.
I clung to those blog posts. And then when I found more blogs written by women who had also lost one of their children, I clung to those as well. Then it was my turn. Four months after Alma passed away, I found the courage to log into my blog and write a few posts. Six months later, I changed my blog's name. The month after that, I shared Alma's story.
Looking back on some of my old posts, I am amazed by how open, vulnerable, and raw I was in my thoughts, feelings, and experiences about Alma. I shared a piece of my heart with the world. And in the process of trying to help even one person, I was able to help myself too and gain a greater relationship with my Heavenly Father than I ever had before.
However, a couple of years ago, I found myself at a crossroads. I felt like my blog had become just about Alma and that people were probably thinking, "Man, just get over it. Why do you feel like you always have to talk about him?" So I stopped writing so much about him. I began to lack the courage to be so open, but I guess, in a way, deep down I was also ready to stop writing about him so often. My perspective and healing had changed. The grief was still there, but it had slightly...shifted.
A blogger I followed once shared what she called her, "Piano Post." In it she shared an article describing personal, daily grief, which continues to resonate with me.
STEVEN KALAS:
When you lose a child, grieving is a lifelong experience
When our first child is born, a loud voice says, “Runners, take your marks!” We hear the starting gun and the race begins. It’s a race we must win at all cost. We have to win. The competition is called “I’ll race you to the grave.” I’m currently racing three sons. I really want to win.
Not everyone wins.
I’m here at the national meeting of Compassionate Friends, an organization offering support and resources for parents who lose the race. I’m wandering the halls during the “break-out” sessions. In this room are parents whose children died in car accidents. Over there is a room full of parents of murdered children. Parents of cancer victims are at the end of the hall. Miscarriages and stillbirths are grouped together, as are parents who have survived a child’s suicide. And so it goes.
In a few minutes, I’m going to address Compassionate Friends. This is the toughest audience of my life. I mix with the gathering crowd, and a woman from Delaware glances at my name tag. Her name tag has a photo of her deceased son. My name tag is absent photos
.
“So … you haven’t … lost anyone,” she says cautiously.
“My three sons are yet alive, if that’s what you’re asking me,” I say gently.
She tries to nod politely, but I can see that I’ve lost credibility in her eyes. She’s wondering who invited this speaker, and what on earth he could ever have to say to her.
My address is titled “The Myth of Getting Over It.” It’s my attempt to answer the driving questions of grieving parents: When will I get over this? How do I get over this?
You don’t get over it. Getting over it is an inappropriate goal. An unreasonable hope. The loss of a child changes you. It changes your marriage. It changes the way birds sing. It changes the way the sun rises and sets. You are forever different.
You don’t want to get over it. Don’t act surprised. As awful a burden as grief is, you know intuitively that it matters, that it is profoundly important to be grieving. Your grief plays a crucial part in staying connected to your child’s life. To give up your grief would mean losing your child yet again. If I had the power to take your grief away, you’d fight me to keep it. Your grief is awful, but it is also holy. And somewhere inside you, you know that.
The goal is not to get over it. The goal is to get on with it.
Profound grief is like being in a stage play wherein suddenly the stagehands push a huge grand piano into the middle of the set. The piano paralyzes the play. It dominates the stage. No matter where you move, it impedes your sight lines, your blocking, your ability to interact with the other players. You keep banging into it, surprised each time that it’s still there. It takes all your concentration to work around it, this at a time when you have little ability or desire to concentrate on anything.
The piano changes everything. The entire play must be rewritten around it.
But over time the piano is pushed to stage left. Then to upper stage left. You are the playwright, and slowly, surely, you begin to find the impetus and wherewithal to stop reacting to the intrusive piano. Instead, you engage it. Instead of writing every scene around the piano, you begin to write the piano into each scene, into the story of your life.
You learn to play that piano. You’re surprised to find that you want to play, that it’s meaningful, even peaceful to play it. At first your songs are filled with pain, bitterness, even despair. But later you find your songs contain beauty, peace, a greater capacity for love and compassion. You and grief — together — begin to compose hope. Who’da thought?
Your grief becomes an intimate treasure, though the spaces between the grief lengthen. You no longer need to play the piano every day, or even every month. But later, when you’re 84, staring out your kitchen window on a random Tuesday morning, you welcome the sigh, the tears, the wistful pain that moves through your heart and reminds you that your child’s life mattered.
You wipe the dust off the piano and sit down to play.
Copyright: Las Vegas Review-Journal
Steven Kalas is a behavioral health consultant and counselor at Clear View Counseling and Wellness Center in Las Vegas. Contact him atskalas@reviewjournal.com.
My piano, persay, continues to shift. A few years ago, it made me feel almost like a broken record sharing about Alma. But now I'm realizing that he is part of my play and my story, and he will always be a part of my life, even if the grief is no longer obstructing my view and I'm not constantly banging into it.
Instead of writing every scene around the piano, you begin to write the piano into each scene, into the story of your life.
So now it's time. It's time to come back and write the piano into the story of my life. It's time to open myself up again, to weave the hope back in, and help others (and myself) in the process. Because hope is there and healing is possible.
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