pmco

Where you used to be, 
there is a hole in the world,
which I find myself constantly walking
around in the daytime,
and falling in at night.
I miss you like hell
~Edna St. Vincent Millay~ 

WHEN YOU SEE A BUTTERFLY

When you see a butterfly,
Think of me.
When you see a shadow,
Don’t be afraid.
When you see a light,
Think of good things.
But, when you see a butterfly,
Think of me.
When you see a cloud,
Don’t be afraid to try and grab it.
When you see a raindrop,
Open your mouth,
Let it fall in.
When you feel a hand touch you,
Don’t jump away.
When you get all tingly,
Let the feeling last.
When you feel loved,
Cherish it forever.
But, when you see a butterfly,
Think of me.
When you feel like you’ve lost your
way,
Remember I am there to guide you.
When you feel like no one is there,
Make sure you know I am.
When you feel like I am gone forever,
Make sure you feel like I am there.
When you think you’ve grieved too
much,
I know there’s always another tear.
But when you see a butterfly,
Think of me.
For you know that I am always with
you,
In every way, shape and form.
I am always there to protect you,
Even through dangerous storms.
Know that I am right behind you,
In whatever fate decides to put you
through.
For I may be gone,
But I am around
So, when you see a butterfly,
Know I’m always there. 

Anniversary Reactions







Anniversary Reactions



Our subconscious mind is a ruthless timekeeper where loss is concerned. It is as if we have a calendar within us. Often without even being consciously aware of the date, acute pain surfaces, and we begin to feel terrible, but we don't associate the emotional pain with the loss that happened long ago. At other times, even though we are very much aware of the reason for the pain, it is still intense, and feels as if it will last forever.

What helps survivors deal with anniversary reactions? Sometimes, simply becoming aware of the date can help reduce the pain. Since anniversary reactions may come up decades later, this is more difficult than you might imagine. 
unknown author




Long and lonely grief road. 
We do not have to walk alone!

Mother's Day is Sunday, 
and I Am Hurting.



Mother's Day is next Sunday, and I am 
having a hard time with it again. I was hoping that this year would be somehow different, and it would not hurt so much. Logically I feel this way, but my heart does not understand. I miss Krystal. Pure and simple and extremelly painful. Everywhere I see advertisements for Mother's Day, and it hurts that my child will not be here to spend Mother's Day with me. She will not be here to spend Mother's Day with her twin sons, Daniel and Andrew. That tears my heart open with pain. I told myself that I was somehow "stronger" this year and Mother's Day was not going to get me back in the pit. You know the pep talk -"It's just another day.  I will be gratefull for all the blessing I have and concentrate on blessings and not loss." Alas, the pep talk can not fool my heart. I find myself back in the pit. I know I am extremelly blessed with three precious, living daughters, a wonderful, best-friend-husband, delightful grandchildren, and wonderful, supportive friends. I truly am thankful for them, and I love them dearly and enjoy them for the true treasure each of them is to me. However, each person we love is an unique individual, and we can not replace one person with another person.  People are not Legos in the tapestry of our lives and person can not can be replaced by another Lego. In a painful nutshell, nothing, absolutely nothing, can replace the ABSENCE of Krystal's PRESENCE. Nothing or no one. My heart is breaking.

My heart also goes out to all bereaved Moms who have lost their treasured child(ren). The picture and poem below are in remembrance of your precious child(ren) and my Krystal for Mother's Day. I will be sending you gentle thoughts and love on Mother's Day. 


Dear Mr. Hallmark 

Dear Mr. Hallmark,
I am writing to you from heaven, and though it must appear
A rather strange idea, I see everything from here.
I just popped in to visit, your stores to find a card
A card of love for my mother, as this day for her is hard.

There must be some mistake I thought, every card you could imagine
Except I could not find a card, from a child who lives in heaven.
She is still a mother too, no matter where I reside
I had to leave, she understands, but oh the tears she’s cried.

I thought that if I wrote you, that you would come to know
That though I live in heaven now, I still love my mother so.
She talks with me, and dreams with me; we still share laughter too,
Memories our way of speaking now, would you see what you could do?

My mother carries me in her heart, her tears she hides from sight.
She writes poems to honor me, sometimes far into the night
She plants flowers in my garden, there my living memory dwells
She writes to other grieving parents, trying to ease their pain as well.

So you see Mr. Hallmark, though I no longer live on earth
I must find a way, to remind her of her wondrous worth
She needs to be honored, and remembered too
Just as the children of earth will do.

Thank you Mr. Hallmark, I know you’ll do your best
I have done all I can do; to you I’ll leave the rest.
Find a way to tell her, how much she means to me
Until I can do it for myself, when she joins me in eternity.
unknown author 



Dear Reader,  I do know if your own Mom is alive to celebrate Mother's Day with you. My Mom died in 1997 and of course, I miss her, but it is not anything like the grief of losing my precious Krystal. The picture and poem below are for our sweet Moms on Mother's Day.



Mother's Hands

Dear gentle hands have stroked my hair
And cooled my brow,
Soft hands that pressed me close
And seemed to know somehow
Those fleeting moods and erring thoughts
That cloud me day,
Which quickly melt beneath their suffrage
And pass away.

No other balm for earthly pain
Is half so sure,
No sweet caress as filled with love
Nor half so pure.
No other soul so close akin that understands,
No touch that brings such perfect peace as Mother's hands. 

written by W. Dayton Wedgefarth

I wish you a gentle and peaceful Mother's Day. 

Krystal Duss's Mom, Jo Ann Webb 

And If I Go, While You're Still Here






And if I go, while you're still here...
know that I live on,
vibrating to a different measure
behind a thin veil you cannot 
see through.
You will not see me,
so you must have faith.
I wait for the time when
we can soar together again,
both aware of each other.
Until then, live your life to the fullest
and when you need me,
just whisper my name in your heart,
...I will be there. 

written by Emily Dickinson, American Poet 

What is Loss?


What is Loss?

I resent
What loss represents
I resent
What great loss presents

So what’s the fuss about loss?

Waiting!
Debating!
Contemplating!

What is loss?
Something you care about
Taken away from you by force
Creating total unforgivable chaos

Thinking!
Blinking!
Seeking!

What is loss
It is a minus instead of a plus
Hence the unmistakable fuss
Death and sickness build up great grief
Loss brings despair instead of relief
And in loss itself I have no belief

I resent
What loss represents
I resent
What great loss presents

Loss! An inequitable cause
Thrown on you without a toss
So you become very cross
Because in your life you realize, you are never the only boss!
Written by: Sylvia Chidi
--






"The world is a dangerous place, not because of those who do evil, but because of those who look on and do nothing." - (Albert Einstein) 



In memory of Krystal Long-Duss
(Kina's younger sister who was killed by a drunk driver 12-10-03)

Sisters Forever!



L to R - Karen, Krystal, Kina, Kelly


Sister's Forever!

Echoes of each other's being.
Whose eyes are those that look like mine?
Whose smile reminds me of my own?
Whose thoughts come through 
with just a glance?
Who knows me as no others do?
Who in the whold wide world is most like me-
Yet not like me at all?
My sisters!

poem by anonymous author modified by 
Kina, Krystal, Karen and Kelly's Mom, Jo Ann Webb

Grief Is A Tidal Wave.

Grief is a tidal wave that over takes you, smashes down upon you with unimaginable force, sweeps you up into its darkness,
where you tumble and crash against unidentifiable surfaces, only to be thrown out on an unknown beach, bruised, reshaped.

Grief means not being able to read more than two sentences at a time.  It is walking into rooms with intention that suddenly vanishes.

Grief is three o'clock sweats that won't stop.  It is dreadful Sundays, and Mondays that are no better.  It makes you look for a face in the crowd, knowing full well the face we want cannot be found in that crowd. 
 
Grief is utter aloneless that razes the rational mind and makes room for the phantasmagoric.  It makes you suddenly get up or leave in the middle of a meeting, without saying a word. 

Grief makes what others think of you mot.  It shears away the masks of normal life and forces brutal honesty out of your mouth before propriety can stop you.  It shoves away so-called friends, and rewrites your address book for you.

Grief makes you laugh over people who cry over spilt milk, right to their faces.  It tells the world that you are untouchable at the very moment when touch is the only contact that might reach you.  It makes lepers out of upstanding citizens.

Grief discriminates against no one.  It kills. Maimes.  And cripples.  It is the ashes from which the phoenix rises, and the mettle of rebirth.  It returns life to the living dead.  It teaches that there is nothing absolutely true or untrue.  It humbles.  It shrouds.  It blackens.  It enlightens.

Grief will make a new person out of you, if it doesn't kill you in the making.

from Companion Through the Darkness by Stephanie Ericsson

The Whale - A Grief Analogy



If you read the front-page story of the San Francisco Chronicle, you would have read about a female humpback whale who had become entangled in a spider web of crab traps and lines. She was weighted down by hundreds of pounds of traps that caused her to struggle to stag afloat. She also had hundreds of yards of line rope wrapped around her body, her tail, her torso, a line tugging in her mouth.

A fisherman spotted her just east of the Faralon Islands (outside the Golden Gate) and radioed an environmental group for help. Within a few hours, the rescue team arrived and determined that she was so bad
off, the only way to save her was to dive in and untangle her. .. a very dangerous proposition. One slap of the tail could kill a rescuer.

They worked for hours with curved knives and eventually freed her. When she was free, the divers say she swam in what seemed like joyous circles. She then came back to each and every diver, one at a time, and nudged them. Pushing them gently around, she thanked them. Some said it was the most incredibly beautiful experience of their lives.

The guy who cut the rope out of her mouth said her eye was following him the whole time, and he will never be the same.

May you, and all those you love,
be so blessed and fortunate...
to be surrounded by people
who will help you get untangled
from the things that are binding you.
And, may you always know the joy
of giving and receiving gratitude.

As I wiped away my poignant tears, I couldn't help but think about how when we are bereaved, we are tangled in webs and restraints, similar to the whale's, that threaten our very existence. Every part of us is
immobilized in pain, and we are held captive, incapable of freeing ourselves.

Often, we feel as if we are swimming (and even drowning) in a foreign place where we don't recognize the surroundings, and we aren't sure whether we can trust those who may come and try to rescue us. We
don't know how to free ourselves, and we find it difficult to believe that anyone else can free us either. We are sometimes so frenetic that "one slap of the tail" could "kill" our would-be rescuers!

When we are lucky, along comes someone-like the fisherman in the story-who cares about us and views us with compassion (but who has no idea of how to help us), and that caring soul goes for aid from
those who are experienced with our kind of pain and distress.

The whale waited for hours, but sometimes we must wait for days, weeks, even months (which must have seemed that long to the whale) as well. Finally, help arrives on the scene for us, but we are so entangled
in our grief that even our mouths are impotent. We don't believe we can communicate with our caregivers and even if we could, we have no idea what to tell them. We don't know what we want or need beyond
our passionate desire to have our loved ones "back again."

Eventually, many who are captive finally give in to exhaustion and frustration and decide to relax a bit while cautiously "watching" to see what kind of help might be offered to them. Caring and compassionate
souls can then approach carefully and begin to cut away the things that are, tangling our minds and souls. Gently, patiently and very carefully, they persistently work away at their live-giving task. It often takes a
long time, but if we don't fight their efforts, if we just cooperate by staying still and waiting for them to help us, we find that we can be free at last! It doesn't actually happen suddenly at all; it takes time and
work and courage, but it is worth the wait and the trusting. When we are finally released, we must remember to not just swim away and forget our champions. Instead, like the grateful whale, we need to hang around for awhile and gently nudge our heroes, offering our thanks and gratitude for their brave and unselfish work on our behalf.

There are lots of "heroes" like those who saved the whale: Counselors, authors, speakers, funeral directors, friends, family members, co-workers, medical professionals, clergy, and even (sometimes
especially) publications like Grief Digest magazine. With time, patience and trust, eventually we can swim free in the ocean of life and even give back some of the love and effort that was lavished on us.

by Andrea Gambill
Grief Digest April 2007

Death Ended Your Child's Life,
But Not His or Her Relationship
 to the Family 



In 1983, I wrote a two-part article for the [National TCF] Newsletter called "Commitment to Survival" in which I
described parent bereavement as a complex process that includes mothers and fathers maintaining a relationship with their dead child. Specifically, I wrote: "Death ended your child's life but not his or her relationship to the family" and "You give up the old person who was physically connected to a now deceased child and make different connections with your child 
who has died."

I received many letters describing how bereaved parents had been criticized and even ridiculed by others for
expressing their continuing love and connection to their dead child. You told me you copied the articles 
and sent them to friends, relatives and people in the work place to let them know that it was "normal" to want to talk about your child. You
also told me that in your opinion, maintaining a sacred bond to your dead child was vital to your well being.
From 1983 to the present, I have conducted a number of studies with both bereaved parents and siblings. Findings from these studies indicate the ongoing connection you have to your dead child is a catalyst and an enduring energy which sustains one through the most intense time of grief and gives survivors the courage to face loss that bereaved parents and their living children must endure. The deep pain of grief comes with a deep introspective searching for answers to agonizing questions about why your child's death had to be part of your life and about your shattered dreams. Research shows that this period of grief is characterized by feelings of hopelessness, profound sadness, aching loneliness and a belief that you will not and cannot ever be happy again. Physical reaction may include fast heartbeats, shortness of breath, and a sense of fear or panic that more bad things will happen to other loved ones. Many bereaved parents expressed feeling angry, blaming themselves and others for their child's death. You spoke of being preoccupied
with endless thoughts and feelings about the circumstances surrounding his or her death and the difficulty of coping and adapting to your new, permanently changed lives. You said that this was a time of "feeling confusion about who you were, not knowing yourself anymore and feeling detached from others" and how these thoughts and feelings demanded and used up the little bit of energy you had each morning.

Grief work is infinitely private, painful work. Part of you died with your child and now you must struggle with letting
go of your old self as you endure the unknown of who you will become. One newly bereaved parent described this
process by saying, "I liked who I was before my child died. I don't like who I am now. I barely know myself."
In the beginning of grief you were consumed with the myriad reminders of your child's life and death. As time
passed, you found occasional peaceful respites from grief as the episodes of deep grieving gradually became less frequent and intense. Finally, you described knowing you were having more good days than bad. This marked the beginning of leaving behind some of the suffering and sorrow of intense grief and having the energy available for keeping and cherishing the love and connection you have to your dead child. Surviving the struggle with death and finding life again renews energy and is manifest in your becoming stronger and better able to cope with your loss. You gain a realization of having become more tolerant of yourself and others and becoming a part of life again. The hardest work of becoming a survivor is learning to live without the physical presence of your dead child while
simultaneously learning to live with his or her emotional and spiritual presence. You find that meaning in your life is
derived from your relationship to those you love, including your dead child. The legacy your child has left is a love that
transcends time and space. 

by Nancy S. Hogan, RN, PhD
Dr. Hogan is an Associate Professor at the University of Miami
(Reprinted from the TCF National Newsletter)
-Reprinted from the Nashville April 2007 Newsletter

The Compassionate Friends Credo



We need not walk alone.

We are The Compassionate Friends.

We reach out to each other with love, with understanding and with hope.

Our children have died at all ages and from many different causes,

but our love for our children unites us.

Your pain becomes my pain just as your hope becomes my hope.

We come together from all walks of life, from many different circumstances.

We are a unique family because we represent many races and creeds.

We are young, and we are old.

Some of us are far along in our grief, but others still feel a grief so fresh

and so intensely painful that we feel helpless and see no hope.

Some of us have found our faith to be a source of strength;

some of us are struggling to find answers.

Some of us are angry, filled with guilt or in deep depression;

others radiate an inner peace.

But whatever pain we bring to this gathering of The Compassionate Friends,

it is pain we will share just as we share with each other our love for our children.

We are all seeking and struggling to build a future for ourselves,

but we are committed to building a future together

as we reach out to each other in love

and share the pain as well as the joy,

share the anger as well as the peace,

share the faith as well as the doubts

and help each other to grieve as well as to grow.

WE NEED NOT WALK ALONE

WE ARE THE COMPASSIONATE FRIENDS!


The Compassionate Friends has been a life line for me since Krystal was killed by a drunk driver. At TCF, I have found true friends who KNOW the agony of losing their precious child(ren) or siblings.  We who have lost our children or siblings speak a "different language" from those who have not suffered this ultimate tradegy. We are family - we understand.  Those further down the grief journey share what has helped them survive and work toward building a "new normal" without our child(ren) or sibling in this world. Consider giving TCF a try.  We suggest that you go to 3 meetings before you decide if TCF is for you.  
With gentle thoughts and gratitude to my dear compassionate friends who have been a light in the darkness for me.
Jo Ann Webb, Krystal's Mom

No Name For A Parent Who Loses A Child









No Name For A Parent Who Loses A Child

A Child who loses a parent is an orphan.
A Man who loses his wife is a widower.
A Woman who loses her husband is a widow.
There is no name for a Parent who loses a child,
For there is no word to describe the pain.
by unknown

 Remember Our Child and Sister, Krystal.





It has been said that the more deeply we loved,
The more deeply we grieve. 
Our love cannot be measured
In the ways we show our grief.

There is no “formula” for grieving.
No pattern to which we must adhere. 
Our grief is unique - 
As was our child and sister - our Krystal.

We ask this of you, our friends,
Do not be afraid of us, because we grieve openly.
Do not avoid us, because we often shed tears.
Do not shun us, because we choose not to speak.
And please, do not forget us, because we cannot forget our child and sister - our Krystal. 

Please be there for us to share the tearful times,
The lonely times, the times of talking,
And the times of silence. 

Our child and sister lives on within us.
We want her memory to live on within you. 

We lovingly speak her name often.
Can you do this, as well?
Can you look at Krystal's pictures and see her inner and outer beauty
As we do everyday?

Can you do these things for us, our friends?
For us and for our beloved child and sister - our Krystal? 
by Jo Ann Webb, Krystal's Mom

We Only Wanted You! 



If we could have a lifetime wish 
A dream that would come true,
We'd pray to God with all our hearts
For yesterday and You.
A thousand words can't bring you back
We know because we've tried...
Neither will a thousand tears
We know because we've cried...
You left behind our broken hearts
And happy memories too...
But we never wanted memories
We only wanted You. 

by Unknown

The Club
 



In January, 1987, my husband and I became members of a very exclusive club. We had been only vaguely aware of its existence, and we thought that surely a chapter in a city the size of ours wouldn't have many members.
We had seen a few people who belonged to the club, but we didn't seem to have anything in common with them, so we didn't really get to know them. Occasionally, we read stories in the newspaper about new members being initiated into the club, but it didn't seem likely that we would ever be eligible to join, so we paid no attention.
The price of membership is so dear that we couldn't imagine being a part of the club. We must have realized in the backs of our minds that people didn't choose to join and pay the dues – it was done for them somehow. In fact, no one really has any idea of how members are selected. There are a lot of theories, but much of the time the theories come from non-members who don't understand much about the situation.
The "club" we are now in (although it is not an organized group), is known as "bereaved parents." The cost of our membership was the life of our son, and we, like all other members, have no idea why we were selected for membership.
No one wants to be in this club. Even now, months afterward, inside our hearts and minds we continue to fight membership, but there is no resigning from it. It is an automatic lifetime membership. There was no way to avoid it – we did the best we could to keep our son safe. For fourteen years, we guided him through dangers, only to have him die in a seemingly minor auto accident. Though we lay awake night after night, and think of it day after day, there is no answer as to why we have been thrust into this select group. We hate it and we cry out in protest, but there is no way to change it.
We have learned a lot since our membership began. We now understand much about the other members. In fact, we seek to be with them, to have regular get-togethers, to discuss our membership, and try to understand its value.
Sometimes, those outside the club are afraid of us, fearing that if they come near us or talk with us, they will be selected to become members too! Acquaintances often try to ignore the membership, pretending that it doesn't exist. They seem to think that will make things easier, and then the members won't feel "different," but it really only makes things much worse.
So many times, I have wanted someone to say hello or to tell me she has been thinking of me or to mention something about the absent child who still lives inside me and overshadows all my thoughts. I have heard people say, "I don't want to upset her, or remind her of her son, or say something that will make her cry."
I want to tell them: "The only way you can make me feel worse than I already do is to pretend that it doesn't exist or that it isn't as deep and painful as you surely know it is.
"Have you ever experienced the feeling of having one terrible incident go through your mind, day after day, week after week, month after month, wondering why it happened and how you could have prevented it? Well, don't worry about reminding me of my son. I am thinking about him nearly twenty-four hours a day.
"Sure, sometimes my mind is temporarily distracted – it would have to be to function at all. But if you think there is even one day that goes by without my child's death tearing up my heart, then you have no idea what this club is all about.
"I appreciate your talking about my child, or at least letting me talk about him. He was a very large part of my life, and ignoring him now will really hurt me. It makes me think that you feel he's no longer important because he's gone. It hurts to think that people don't want to think about him or remember good things about him, just because he has died.
"I understand that you don't want to say anything that will make me cry. That sounds kind, and I used to feel that way too, but now I know better. I'd rather the tears didn't come when you talk to me because I know they may scare you away, or at least make you very uncomfortable. But I've learned how useful and necessary they are. If I go too long without tears, my body builds up a terrible pressure from the pain of the grief. If you will allow me to cry in your presence, perhaps I won't have to cry alone, wondering if anyone else remembers, or even cares, about my loss.
"You can't know what will make me cry – sometimes I don't know, myself. Some days I stay dry-eyed through nearly everything. Other days, the slightest thing will start the tears – things you could not possibly imagine or anticipate. Not all the tears are tears of sorrow. Even in the midst of my anguish, I sometimes cry tears of joy and relief because you have reached out; because you have confirmed that my son was special; perhaps because you have shared with me some precious memory about him which I had not known before.
"Please don't run away from me. Don't pretend his death never occurred, or even worse, that he never lived! I still love him, think of him, need to remember. Please share with me and we will both feel better.
"I am learning that God is not punishing me. He did not cause the death of my son. But, He can help me to grow through this experience – to become stronger and wiser and more caring, if I have some help. Initially, when I was told by a church member that I would change and grow stronger through this experience, I wanted to scream that if it meant giving up my son, I didn't want to change or get stronger. But I know I have no choice about that now – he is gone. Now my choices are to either let God and friends help me to become better, or I can choose to allow this grief to destroy me."
“I have to experience the grief. I can't pretend it doesn't hurt, or hurry it along. That's what membership in this club is teaching me. I am choosing to allow God to take an unspeakable experience and use it to start life again – in a new and better way.”
by Karen Gover, Bereaved Mom

Losing a Piece of Me 



Imagine someone has opened your chest with clawed hands,
grabbed your heart in a crushing grip and torn it from your body.
But you do not die. 
You remain alive, in agony.
Agony that will continue for days,
weeks, months and years.
This is what it feels like 
when your child dies.
This is how I felt when 
my son Dale died,
age two years and one day.
To hold the limp body of 
my precious child in my arms
and feel its emptiness was pain that defies words.
I sat cradling my beautiful child, knowing that I
would never again see his smile,
hear his laugh
or feel his hand clinging to mine.
I would never again hold his warm body close and breathe in the scent 
of his hair. 
I would never
know the person he would have 
grown up to be.
I walked from the room knowing that I had seenand held my child 
for the last time ever.
I wondered why I still lived,
and how I was supposed to keep going.
I wanted to die; I wasn't suicidal - it's just thatthe only way 
to end my pain was death,
and I ached to hold him 
in my arms again.
Never again will I feel 'whole'.
My whole future is flavored 
by the loss of my son.
A part of me went with him,
and a gaping hole exists that his warm
presence once filled.
I asked questions that no one could answer;
Why did he die?
Why not me instead?
Death has struck close to me once -
what if it happens again?
What do I do now?
How will I manage?
Why am I still here?
I rode an emotional roller coaster.
One moment I felt I was managing well -the next I was curled up in a corner
pleading with God to take me, right now.
I went for long periods 
where I did well and thought,
"Okay, I've accepted it."
Then out of the blue, it hit me anew -
"He's dead. God, he's really dead."
And I began a new round of grieving.
Gradually, I found that the lows
weren't quite as low 
as the previous ones,
and that I rose from them quicker.
Then just when I thought I was cruising on a level piece of track,
it dropped out from under me yet again.
I did this over and over and over,
but living with it gradually
 became easier,
and I even found that I could live a 'normal' life again,
although it was a new normality.
I will never forget Dale.
He will live forever in my heart
and in my memories.
Death makes him no less
 a part of our family.
Living with the fact that my child has died does not mean forgetting.
It means knowing and accepting 
that he is gone,
but still holding close those
 precious memories.
It means that my love for him
 does not change,
but that I don't allow my grief
 for his death
to over-rule my life forever.
It's about remembering that Dale
 would not expectnor want me 
to spend the rest of my life in misery.
My new normality is not necessarily 
an unhappy one.
Dale's life and death is part of what makes me who I am.
It has had an immense impact on the way I look at life,
and although I wish he was still here,
I know that I have grown from my experience. Dale's official date of death is the 2nd of January, 1995,
the day he was taken off life support,
but I tend to think of the real date of his deathas the 31st of December, 1994,
the day he drowned.Even though his heart had been started again,
he was gone.
As I write this, it's the 30th of December, 1998;
Dale's 6th birthday.
I wonder what he would look like now,
and imagine him playing
 with his brothers,
even as I sit here writing
 about his death.
We tend to celebrate his birthday rather than his death-day.
To us it's more important that he was born than that he died.
We choose to celebrate his life,
not his death.
It means more to us
that he was here
than that he left.
Remember?
Always.
Love?
Eternally.
Forget?
Never.
by Tammie Thompson, Bereaved Mom

He is in the pupils of My Eyes:  He is in my Body and Soul.



It is time for me to go, mother; I am going.
When in the paling darkness of the lonely dawn you stretch out your arms for your baby in the bed, I shall say, “Baby is not there!”- Mother, I am going.
I shall become a delicate drought of air and caress you; and I shall be ripples in the water when you bathe, and kiss you and kiss you again.
In the gusty night when the rain patters on the leaves you will hear my whisper in your bed, and my laughter will flash with the lightning through the open window into your room.
If you lie awake, thinking of your baby till late into the night, I shall sing to you from the stars, “Sleep, mother, sleep.”
On the straying moonbeams I shall steal over your bed, and lie upon your blossom while you sleep.
I shall become a dream, and through the little opening of your eyelids I shall slip into the depths of your sleep: and when you wake up and look round startled, like a twinkling firefly I shall flit out into the darkness.
When, on the great festival of puja, the neighbors’ children come and play about the house, I shall melt into the music of the flute and throb in your heart all day.
Dear auntie will come with puja presents and will ask, “Where is our baby, sister?” Mother, you will tell her softly, “He is in the pupils of my eyes, he is in my body and my soul.”
by Rumi, poet