I haven't posted for a few days. It's been a busy time: I had my birthday last Thursday (which was nice - I started a post about it but never finished, perhaps I will some time), and I've been getting ready for tomorrow, and Christmas.
Tomorrow, it will be one year since Sam left us so suddenly. I can't believe how quickly the time has passed. I still have moments of not believing; of thinking he'll walk through the door any moment. I know he won't, but something keeps me wishing.
I thought I'd be more upset, but I guess it's just me. I'm sad - no more or less than I was before, but I'm not crying much (still). We'll see how it is tomorrow.
Right from the start, I vowed that I would not wallow in grief. I would allow myself to be sad, but I would honour Sam's memory by being positive.
I think I've done that pretty well, and I feel good for it. I think it's helped the people around me too. It doesn't mean that I have lots left to help others through their own grief/problems, but it has meant that we can remember Sam in positive ways.
Tomorrow will be no different. We have invited people over - anyone who remembers Sam and would like to spend some time sharing memories. I've called it 'Celebrating Sam Day', and it will hopefully be full of good food (I've got together some Sam favourites - he did like food!); great company and good memories.
I do plan to write about it at some point. Bear with me for a couple of days, because I've got to work Thursday and Friday, and then it's Christmas. I'll post about the day when I can.
Before I go though, I wanted to thank you once again, dear readers. As you know, this blog has been an important part of my journey through grief, and I have been blessed to have your support along the way. I don't know where my blog will go from here, but I do know I'd like to keep writing it. I hope you'll stay with me.
Thanks again.
Showing posts with label grieving. Show all posts
Showing posts with label grieving. Show all posts
Tuesday, December 21, 2010
Friday, June 11, 2010
Another funeral
It was pretty awful.
I'm going to say now that I hate that it always comes back to Sam, but then again, it's always going to, isn't it?
I am very sad for my friends, and very sad for the group of people who are close to them and their daughter, who now have to start grieving. She was a lovely girl, and it was obvious by the number of people at her funeral that she was very well loved.
I had only met her a couple of times. I remember her as sweet, and gentle and very friendly. Her funeral was very moving and lovely, with some beautiful moments - when her mother, brother and sisters got up and spoke; when one of K's friends spoke beautifully; when one of her teachers spoke the words many people were obviously thinking.
When they were describing her, I was reminded of myself as a teenager. She was always trying to help people, always smiling, didn't like seeing people unhappy, wanted to be friends with everyone, not just one little group of people (and sometimes some of those little groups got angry with her). That was what I was like at school too. It's what I'm like now too, sometimes. Her birthday was 2 days before mine, too. Perhaps it's a Sagittarius thing.
But I have to admit, my thoughts did keep coming back to Sam. Their funerals were so different, and yet so similar. I certainly cried more at K's funeral than I did at Samuel's. Lots more. Especially afterwards.
I guess there are going to be lots more times that I feel this overwhelmed by grief. And it will be a long time before things are good or normal.
I'm having a day off today because I just feel so drained. I've had a little cold on and off for a few weeks now, but it's not really that. I think it's been building up for a couple of weeks now. I've got a terrible headache that is probably stress related, and my body just feels so sore and tired. I'm sure it's all stress, but I'm just going to have a quiet, nothing day.
Looks like Oliver will too.
When we picked him up yesterday after the funeral, he said "so many people are dying". I thought: what a sad thing for a six year old boy to have to be thinking about.
But I've gotta admit, it's exactly what I was thinking too. First, of course there was the Sam thing, which we're all having trouble adjusting to. Then there was my best friend's grandmother last week (which was sad, because of how my friend was feeling, but a different kind of sad, because, after all, she was 90). Then there was K. So much death. Too many unnecessary deaths!
I guess he's worried about who's going to die next. I know that thought's always in the back of my mind. I told him that people die all the time, it just happens that lately it's been people that we know. I also told him that no one we know is likely to die any time soon.
He didn't ask any more questions, and was fairly chirpy after that, so hopefully it's not worrying him too much.
But we're going to have a day off together today. I know it sounds like I'm a terrible mother, not sending him to school, but I don't care. He has got a weird looking rash on his arms, so I will take him to the doctor, but really, it's more of a mental health day for both of us.
I'm going to say now that I hate that it always comes back to Sam, but then again, it's always going to, isn't it?
I am very sad for my friends, and very sad for the group of people who are close to them and their daughter, who now have to start grieving. She was a lovely girl, and it was obvious by the number of people at her funeral that she was very well loved.
I had only met her a couple of times. I remember her as sweet, and gentle and very friendly. Her funeral was very moving and lovely, with some beautiful moments - when her mother, brother and sisters got up and spoke; when one of K's friends spoke beautifully; when one of her teachers spoke the words many people were obviously thinking.
When they were describing her, I was reminded of myself as a teenager. She was always trying to help people, always smiling, didn't like seeing people unhappy, wanted to be friends with everyone, not just one little group of people (and sometimes some of those little groups got angry with her). That was what I was like at school too. It's what I'm like now too, sometimes. Her birthday was 2 days before mine, too. Perhaps it's a Sagittarius thing.
But I have to admit, my thoughts did keep coming back to Sam. Their funerals were so different, and yet so similar. I certainly cried more at K's funeral than I did at Samuel's. Lots more. Especially afterwards.
I guess there are going to be lots more times that I feel this overwhelmed by grief. And it will be a long time before things are good or normal.
I'm having a day off today because I just feel so drained. I've had a little cold on and off for a few weeks now, but it's not really that. I think it's been building up for a couple of weeks now. I've got a terrible headache that is probably stress related, and my body just feels so sore and tired. I'm sure it's all stress, but I'm just going to have a quiet, nothing day.
Looks like Oliver will too.
When we picked him up yesterday after the funeral, he said "so many people are dying". I thought: what a sad thing for a six year old boy to have to be thinking about.
But I've gotta admit, it's exactly what I was thinking too. First, of course there was the Sam thing, which we're all having trouble adjusting to. Then there was my best friend's grandmother last week (which was sad, because of how my friend was feeling, but a different kind of sad, because, after all, she was 90). Then there was K. So much death. Too many unnecessary deaths!
I guess he's worried about who's going to die next. I know that thought's always in the back of my mind. I told him that people die all the time, it just happens that lately it's been people that we know. I also told him that no one we know is likely to die any time soon.
He didn't ask any more questions, and was fairly chirpy after that, so hopefully it's not worrying him too much.
But we're going to have a day off together today. I know it sounds like I'm a terrible mother, not sending him to school, but I don't care. He has got a weird looking rash on his arms, so I will take him to the doctor, but really, it's more of a mental health day for both of us.
Sunday, May 30, 2010
The ups and downs
Yesterday was kind of rough. We had one of those 'I really miss Sam' days, where tears come easily and regularly. We knew there was no avoiding it; so early in the day Anthony and I sat down to watch the DVD slideshow of photos that we had played at Sam's funeral. We cried all the way through it (Oliver was out), but it was a good release. And a good chance for a cuddle.
When I went grocery shopping later, I deliberately put my headphones on, so that I wouldn't have to talk to anyone. I used to hate it when people did that, I thought it was so rude. But it's amazing how much your perceptions change after someone close to you dies.
Like the smiling thing, behaviours that once made me cranky are behaviours that I now adopt myself. We never think about the whole lot of things we don't see when we look at others (and neither should we, I guess): that there might be a reason they look so grumpy or sad; that they have headphones on and look away when you catch their eye...
And then there's the way that people react when you talk about kids. In the past, whenever I've talked about my kids with a group of people, there's never been a little thought in the back of my head that maybe one of them might be that person who can't have kids.Or that might have lost one.
Now, that person is me.
On the whole, I try very hard to push my feelings aside when I talk about kids with others, or just focus on Oliver.
But sometimes it can get to be too much. When people talk about how much their kids are pissing them off, or getting in the way of stuff they want to do (like I have heard too many times this week from too many different people), all I can think about is 'at least you still have them'.
Usually I don't voice this thought, but instead find a way to change the subject or extract myself from the conversation. Though yesterday I did speak up, to someone very close to me who was already feeling vulnerable, and I regret that.
The other thing that I hate to see is strangers being horrible to their children. As a teacher, I was already hypersensitive to this, but I am even more so now. I have seen many examples of this over the past few weeks, and it all just adds up.
There are so many people in the world that shouldn't be parents, and sometimes it really gets to me. Why do they get to have kids when I can't? Not that it's the kid's fault; all I feel when I ee them is a mixture of pity and sadness, that they won't have the kind of life they should have.
But I get so angry at their parents, and probably their parents, and the shitty, crazy, mixed up world, that has its priorities all wrong.
So I think this ishow I ended up where I was yesterday. A combination of events and experiences, on top of a crazily busy week where many people did (and didn't) live up to my expectations of them (including one I have posted about before, who completely, very disappointingly, dropped the ball), the whole end-of-inquest thing...it's a wonder I did'n't go completely off the rails!
But, dear reader, it's out of my system now, so don't worry too much about me. Back to livin'...
When I went grocery shopping later, I deliberately put my headphones on, so that I wouldn't have to talk to anyone. I used to hate it when people did that, I thought it was so rude. But it's amazing how much your perceptions change after someone close to you dies.
Like the smiling thing, behaviours that once made me cranky are behaviours that I now adopt myself. We never think about the whole lot of things we don't see when we look at others (and neither should we, I guess): that there might be a reason they look so grumpy or sad; that they have headphones on and look away when you catch their eye...
And then there's the way that people react when you talk about kids. In the past, whenever I've talked about my kids with a group of people, there's never been a little thought in the back of my head that maybe one of them might be that person who can't have kids.Or that might have lost one.
Now, that person is me.
On the whole, I try very hard to push my feelings aside when I talk about kids with others, or just focus on Oliver.
But sometimes it can get to be too much. When people talk about how much their kids are pissing them off, or getting in the way of stuff they want to do (like I have heard too many times this week from too many different people), all I can think about is 'at least you still have them'.
Usually I don't voice this thought, but instead find a way to change the subject or extract myself from the conversation. Though yesterday I did speak up, to someone very close to me who was already feeling vulnerable, and I regret that.
The other thing that I hate to see is strangers being horrible to their children. As a teacher, I was already hypersensitive to this, but I am even more so now. I have seen many examples of this over the past few weeks, and it all just adds up.
There are so many people in the world that shouldn't be parents, and sometimes it really gets to me. Why do they get to have kids when I can't? Not that it's the kid's fault; all I feel when I ee them is a mixture of pity and sadness, that they won't have the kind of life they should have.
But I get so angry at their parents, and probably their parents, and the shitty, crazy, mixed up world, that has its priorities all wrong.
So I think this ishow I ended up where I was yesterday. A combination of events and experiences, on top of a crazily busy week where many people did (and didn't) live up to my expectations of them (including one I have posted about before, who completely, very disappointingly, dropped the ball), the whole end-of-inquest thing...it's a wonder I did'n't go completely off the rails!
But, dear reader, it's out of my system now, so don't worry too much about me. Back to livin'...
Saturday, May 15, 2010
Just a rant...
Why can't this be a dream?
I had a really bad dream the other night (causing me to wake up at 4.30am!), where someone I love dearly had died. At the time, I woke up truly believing it, and was quite worried until I talked to them.
I wish I could wake up to find out Sam was still alive.
I hate walking past his empty, cold bedroom every day. I hate it, but I need to do it. It's sometimes the only way I feel close to him.
I hate walking through the shopping centre and seeing teenagers having fun and causing chaos (just like he used to do with his friends on Friday nights).
I hate walking out of a movie (last one was Iron Man 2) thinking 'Sam would have liked that'.
I hate seeing ads for new TV shows that Sam loved (like The Gruen Transfer). And wondering why I go out of my way to watch Top Gear only now, when I used to let him watch it alone.
I hate knowing I'll never get to teach him how to drive. I had already been making plans to give him my car.
I hate seeing ads for colleges and high school open nights, and knowing he won't ever get there.
I hate not knowing what to do with his ashes.
I want him back, and it's not fair.
I had a really bad dream the other night (causing me to wake up at 4.30am!), where someone I love dearly had died. At the time, I woke up truly believing it, and was quite worried until I talked to them.
I wish I could wake up to find out Sam was still alive.
I hate walking past his empty, cold bedroom every day. I hate it, but I need to do it. It's sometimes the only way I feel close to him.
I hate walking through the shopping centre and seeing teenagers having fun and causing chaos (just like he used to do with his friends on Friday nights).
I hate walking out of a movie (last one was Iron Man 2) thinking 'Sam would have liked that'.
I hate seeing ads for new TV shows that Sam loved (like The Gruen Transfer). And wondering why I go out of my way to watch Top Gear only now, when I used to let him watch it alone.
I hate knowing I'll never get to teach him how to drive. I had already been making plans to give him my car.
I hate seeing ads for colleges and high school open nights, and knowing he won't ever get there.
I hate not knowing what to do with his ashes.
I want him back, and it's not fair.
Friday, April 30, 2010
The Reason
We got some news about Sam's death yesterday.
(Attention Reader - Please be aware that the contents of this post may be distressing or disturbing).
I'd actually been expecting it to take a lot longer, so I'm not sure if I was prepared for it or not. I was at work in the morning when I noticed Anthony had called. I keep my phone with me for the time, but never answer it when I'm teaching. As I was standing there talking to a class, I noticed that it kept ringing and buzzing messages, so as soon as I could I prevailed on the teacher nearby to keep an eye out, and then popped around the corner and called him (by this time there were 2 text messages and 3 missed calls so I knew it was important).
Anthony was very upset, and told me he had just heard from the detective in charge of the investigation into Sam's death. By now I was pretty upset too, and all I could think about was going home and hugging him (so glad this didn't happen while I was in Melbourne!). I called the executive, who (thankfully) came down straight away and I just ran out of there. I have never left work so quickly, but I knew if I didn't I was going to fall apart right there in front of all the kids.
I cried all the way home, because Anthony had already told me what was going on. And when I saw him I cried a lot more.
So this is what we know:
Sometime during the night of the 21st/22nd December, Samuel vomited. He was a very deep sleeper, and was probably sleeping on his back, and the official (so far) word is that 'he asphyxiated on the contents of his stomach.' I believe the other term for this is 'aspirated'.
That's it.
I am a little torn. While it is good to know what happened, I'm also a little (pissed off? frustrated? disappointed? devastated?) that it was this stupid little thing that killed him. Not a condition (like a heart attack or an aneurysm or an asthma attack), but an event. A stupid, one in a million, crazy accident. One minute I feel like screaming, and the next I feel so flat. It's not that I wanted it to be some glamorous, exotic cause of death, and I definitely didn't want it to be something that I'd have to watch Oliver for, but it just seems so...I don't know...pointless.
Don't get me wrong, it's good to know what it was that took my beautiful boy away from me. It does help to ease some of those little twinges (What could I have done differently? What if I had/hadn't....?), but it doesn't really make me feel any better.
There's nothing we could have done. Samuel did vomit more than others (and was sometimes pretty disgusting about it, as I have posted previously), but as my GP said when I spoke to him today, short of lying down next to him every night and watching him sleep (which I can tell you now Samuel would NOT have allowed!), we couldn't have prevented it.
There's nothing suspicious about it: he didn't eat anything unusual that night; he didn't drink or take drugs; his 'blood' results came back clear; there was (as far as I know) no sign of an allergic reaction; it was just vomit. It's a one in a million thing - it hardly ever happens to people who are not drunk, on drugs or severely ill anyway, but I guess Samuel was always destined to stand out, to not be 'one of the crowd'.
The more I think about it though, the more I think that it opens up a whole lot of other questions. How could someone sleep through that? Wouldn't your body wake you up? I know I've woken up in the past to vomit, and I'm sure Samuel has too. What was it that caused him to vomit? Did he have some kind of gastro? Was it an allergic reaction to something (although I don't there were signs of it)?
I really hope that the Coroner is able to shed some light on this.
So, we're back down again. I feel like the grief has started all over again. I was sick already (I did end up having sinus infection, and have just started antibiotics), I feel worse now. My head is pounding and I feel nauseous. I'm going to stay home have a bit of a rest tomorrow. I know people will probably think I'm bludging, or wonder why I'm making a fuss, but I can't help it, it's just the way I feel. As I've said before, I don't know the rules on this grieving thing, but I do know how I feel.
(Attention Reader - Please be aware that the contents of this post may be distressing or disturbing).
I'd actually been expecting it to take a lot longer, so I'm not sure if I was prepared for it or not. I was at work in the morning when I noticed Anthony had called. I keep my phone with me for the time, but never answer it when I'm teaching. As I was standing there talking to a class, I noticed that it kept ringing and buzzing messages, so as soon as I could I prevailed on the teacher nearby to keep an eye out, and then popped around the corner and called him (by this time there were 2 text messages and 3 missed calls so I knew it was important).
Anthony was very upset, and told me he had just heard from the detective in charge of the investigation into Sam's death. By now I was pretty upset too, and all I could think about was going home and hugging him (so glad this didn't happen while I was in Melbourne!). I called the executive, who (thankfully) came down straight away and I just ran out of there. I have never left work so quickly, but I knew if I didn't I was going to fall apart right there in front of all the kids.
I cried all the way home, because Anthony had already told me what was going on. And when I saw him I cried a lot more.
So this is what we know:
Sometime during the night of the 21st/22nd December, Samuel vomited. He was a very deep sleeper, and was probably sleeping on his back, and the official (so far) word is that 'he asphyxiated on the contents of his stomach.' I believe the other term for this is 'aspirated'.
That's it.
I am a little torn. While it is good to know what happened, I'm also a little (pissed off? frustrated? disappointed? devastated?) that it was this stupid little thing that killed him. Not a condition (like a heart attack or an aneurysm or an asthma attack), but an event. A stupid, one in a million, crazy accident. One minute I feel like screaming, and the next I feel so flat. It's not that I wanted it to be some glamorous, exotic cause of death, and I definitely didn't want it to be something that I'd have to watch Oliver for, but it just seems so...I don't know...pointless.
Don't get me wrong, it's good to know what it was that took my beautiful boy away from me. It does help to ease some of those little twinges (What could I have done differently? What if I had/hadn't....?), but it doesn't really make me feel any better.
There's nothing we could have done. Samuel did vomit more than others (and was sometimes pretty disgusting about it, as I have posted previously), but as my GP said when I spoke to him today, short of lying down next to him every night and watching him sleep (which I can tell you now Samuel would NOT have allowed!), we couldn't have prevented it.
There's nothing suspicious about it: he didn't eat anything unusual that night; he didn't drink or take drugs; his 'blood' results came back clear; there was (as far as I know) no sign of an allergic reaction; it was just vomit. It's a one in a million thing - it hardly ever happens to people who are not drunk, on drugs or severely ill anyway, but I guess Samuel was always destined to stand out, to not be 'one of the crowd'.
The more I think about it though, the more I think that it opens up a whole lot of other questions. How could someone sleep through that? Wouldn't your body wake you up? I know I've woken up in the past to vomit, and I'm sure Samuel has too. What was it that caused him to vomit? Did he have some kind of gastro? Was it an allergic reaction to something (although I don't there were signs of it)?
I really hope that the Coroner is able to shed some light on this.
So, we're back down again. I feel like the grief has started all over again. I was sick already (I did end up having sinus infection, and have just started antibiotics), I feel worse now. My head is pounding and I feel nauseous. I'm going to stay home have a bit of a rest tomorrow. I know people will probably think I'm bludging, or wonder why I'm making a fuss, but I can't help it, it's just the way I feel. As I've said before, I don't know the rules on this grieving thing, but I do know how I feel.
Monday, April 26, 2010
Time to grieve
Is there a time limit for grief? Do I have a certain amount of time before I have to 'just get on with it'?
Lately I've been reading and hearing about other people's experiences with grief, and they are inevitably confronted by people who think they should be 'over it'. Sometimes not long after they have lost someone, sometimes years later. Thankfully I don't have too many horrible, inconsiderate people in my life saying these kinds of things, but it has certainly got me thinking.
To me, 4 months isn't that long. Sometimes it feels like a lifetime ago that Sam was here with us, and other times I can feel him, hear him, see him, like he was here only yesterday. But the times when I realise, when it really hits me, that I won't see him again -ever- that's when the grief hits full force.
It doesn't cripple me. Well, not in ways that stop me from functioning completely anyway. But it does manifest in ways that will probably affect aspects of my life or my relationships with people.
And how long can I sustain that? How long can I ask people to put up with it, before they get sick of it and start telling me 'get over it' or ' you should be over it by now'? (yes lovely readers, people have actually said these things to the grieving folk I mentioned earlier).
It's going to have an affect on my health. I know I'm not looking after myself very well - eating too much crap (or just too much), drinking too much, not talking about things when I should, not exercising enough...all of these things will have an impact that I'll have to address at some stage, but how can even begin to get my head around my weight issues etc when I am still trying to get my head around losing one of the great loves of my life?
And I don't want to go out partying. Not really. There are of course times when I enjoy a night out, but they don't happen often. Mostly because I don't want to be away from Ollie or Anthony for too long. I don't want to drink and dance and pretend everything's OK. I want to stay at my house where it's safe and I know where everyone is and what they're doing.
I don't even really want to work. I used to love teaching so much, and sometimes I still do, but the rest of the time I just don't feel like I'll do it justice. I'm certainly not prepared to put in the kind of hours that I used to, and when I think about it, that's probably going to restrict my career path. I'm not going to get promoted with that kind of attitude.
Thankfully I don't feel like this all the time. There are times when I do the right thing, take care of myself a bit better. Times when the grieving part of me shrinks back a little.
But it always comes back. How long will it go on I wonder? It's a rhetorical question I guess. I know the answer. It never goes away, it just gets smaller or easier to deal with (well that's what people say anyway). But what if it takes me too long? What if I lose some other things in that time?
It'll pass (or it'll fade at least), but I don't know when that will happen. Please don't tell me, because you don't know either. Thanks in advance though, to those of you that I know will stick it out with me.
Lately I've been reading and hearing about other people's experiences with grief, and they are inevitably confronted by people who think they should be 'over it'. Sometimes not long after they have lost someone, sometimes years later. Thankfully I don't have too many horrible, inconsiderate people in my life saying these kinds of things, but it has certainly got me thinking.
To me, 4 months isn't that long. Sometimes it feels like a lifetime ago that Sam was here with us, and other times I can feel him, hear him, see him, like he was here only yesterday. But the times when I realise, when it really hits me, that I won't see him again -ever- that's when the grief hits full force.
It doesn't cripple me. Well, not in ways that stop me from functioning completely anyway. But it does manifest in ways that will probably affect aspects of my life or my relationships with people.
And how long can I sustain that? How long can I ask people to put up with it, before they get sick of it and start telling me 'get over it' or ' you should be over it by now'? (yes lovely readers, people have actually said these things to the grieving folk I mentioned earlier).
It's going to have an affect on my health. I know I'm not looking after myself very well - eating too much crap (or just too much), drinking too much, not talking about things when I should, not exercising enough...all of these things will have an impact that I'll have to address at some stage, but how can even begin to get my head around my weight issues etc when I am still trying to get my head around losing one of the great loves of my life?
And I don't want to go out partying. Not really. There are of course times when I enjoy a night out, but they don't happen often. Mostly because I don't want to be away from Ollie or Anthony for too long. I don't want to drink and dance and pretend everything's OK. I want to stay at my house where it's safe and I know where everyone is and what they're doing.
I don't even really want to work. I used to love teaching so much, and sometimes I still do, but the rest of the time I just don't feel like I'll do it justice. I'm certainly not prepared to put in the kind of hours that I used to, and when I think about it, that's probably going to restrict my career path. I'm not going to get promoted with that kind of attitude.
Thankfully I don't feel like this all the time. There are times when I do the right thing, take care of myself a bit better. Times when the grieving part of me shrinks back a little.
But it always comes back. How long will it go on I wonder? It's a rhetorical question I guess. I know the answer. It never goes away, it just gets smaller or easier to deal with (well that's what people say anyway). But what if it takes me too long? What if I lose some other things in that time?
It'll pass (or it'll fade at least), but I don't know when that will happen. Please don't tell me, because you don't know either. Thanks in advance though, to those of you that I know will stick it out with me.
She was no longer wrestling with the grief, but could sit down with it as a lasting companion and make it a sharer in her thoughts. ~George Eliot
Sunday, April 11, 2010
...and then there's the unhelpful. 2nd try.
OK, so this one might be a little heavy. Sorry. But I must keep my promise to be honest and say everything that's on my mind. And it's time I said it.
Anthony and I have both changed since Sam died. Some of it for the better (Anthony is much more open and willing to talk; I have a much better approach to the work/life balance), but there are things that I notice that are not better. Some of it I have already spoken about and started addressing, some of it is stuff that will take a long time to work through.
Try as I might, I can't shake the bitter feeling I get sometimes. I get so angry about Samuel's death; how unfair it is that he had to go. Especially when there are so many people who waste the time they have. Samuel had so much potential. It sounds cliched but he truly could have done great things. He had the talent, the intelligence, the temperament, (some of) the drive...but it was all taken away from him. It makes me so angry to see people wasting the life they are lucky enough to have. Yes we all take things for granted, overindulge, make mistakes, but we function. We contribute to society: we create, we reproduce, we help each other, we share, we love, we LIVE. We're not perfect, but we're not a drain. But there are plenty of people that are.
One of these people is someone close to me. I get so angry with the way they let their life go past; hiding behind substances, making excuses and never taking responsibility for their actions. I know it's wrong to judge them (god knows I'm not perfect), but I can't help myself. Why should they have this life to waste when my beautiful boy didn't even get to live a fraction of his?
Before Sam died, I was fairly ambivalent about it - their life, let them f**k it up. For the most part I left them to it. But since he died all I feel is anger and resentment. I know this is not healthy for me, and for the most part I let it go, but there are times when I can't ignore it.
A lot of it is a protective instinct that I have noticed appears more often. I guess this is natural. I only have one child left with me now, and I am absolutely terrified of losing him as well. I am conscious of it though, I want to balance my need to protect him with my desire to let him have a happy, adventurous and full life. But I can protect him from people who are inconsistent and unreliable. When it starts to affect my life, and the lives of the people I love, that's when the tiger in me comes alive.
Recently, Oliver and I were going to meet this person. I had told Oliver we would be meeting them, and he was very excited; gathering all the things he was going to show them, to play with them. When we arrived I was told they 'couldn't handle' seeing us. OK, yes, it can be hard to see us. We're going through this grief thing, but goddammit, we are the ones that lost Sam! We're all going through this stuff. Surely it's better if we all go through this together?
The worst thing was, less than a week before, this person had offered to babysit Oliver. I had (politely) declined, knowing this person's tendency towards inconsistency. I find it difficult to accept such up and down behaviour, but there's no way I'm going to subject a grieving 6 year old boy to it. I can only imagine the confusion and terror he must feel sometimes. He is still so young, but having lost Samuel so unexpectedly: one minute fine, playing together, the next gone forever; must play on his mind. When someone he has come to care deeply for is one minute there, the next minute gone, it must be at the very least extremely disappointing. He doesn't express it in so many words, but he does say and do things that lead me to think this is the case.
I know this particular example sounds like nothing, but there is a lot more of this stuff in our history: one moment all smiles and wonderful companion, the next MIA without a word. I can't put my son through that! He's just lost his brother, one of the most important people in his life! He needs people to be there for him. All the time. Not just when it's convenient, or it doesn't hurt them.
Is it too much to ask? I don't think so. Oliver has so many people in his life that are there for him all the time. His friends and their parents go out of their way to include him; Anthony's brothers, foster sister and sisters-in-law organise special days, travel long distances to visit him, buy him special presents, write him letters and call him just to say hi. His teachers (and all the people at his school) try so hard to make school comfortable for him. His grandparents have gone above and beyond to make him feel special and loved and wanted. Even many of my friends (some of whom never met Samuel and don't really know Oliver) are welcoming and kind and generous. Every one of them is there when they say they'll be there. They all have problems, they are all grieving themselves, and they probably all find it hard to see us sometimes, but they know how important it is.
To me, anything else comes across as selfish. We all have faults. We all have weaknesses. We're all struggling through this world that's sometimes crazy, disappointing and damn hard, but the difference is that we don't let it stop us from living. And those of us that do, well sorry, but I don't have time for people like that. But that's OK. Because they don't have time for me either.
Anthony and I have both changed since Sam died. Some of it for the better (Anthony is much more open and willing to talk; I have a much better approach to the work/life balance), but there are things that I notice that are not better. Some of it I have already spoken about and started addressing, some of it is stuff that will take a long time to work through.
Try as I might, I can't shake the bitter feeling I get sometimes. I get so angry about Samuel's death; how unfair it is that he had to go. Especially when there are so many people who waste the time they have. Samuel had so much potential. It sounds cliched but he truly could have done great things. He had the talent, the intelligence, the temperament, (some of) the drive...but it was all taken away from him. It makes me so angry to see people wasting the life they are lucky enough to have. Yes we all take things for granted, overindulge, make mistakes, but we function. We contribute to society: we create, we reproduce, we help each other, we share, we love, we LIVE. We're not perfect, but we're not a drain. But there are plenty of people that are.
One of these people is someone close to me. I get so angry with the way they let their life go past; hiding behind substances, making excuses and never taking responsibility for their actions. I know it's wrong to judge them (god knows I'm not perfect), but I can't help myself. Why should they have this life to waste when my beautiful boy didn't even get to live a fraction of his?
Before Sam died, I was fairly ambivalent about it - their life, let them f**k it up. For the most part I left them to it. But since he died all I feel is anger and resentment. I know this is not healthy for me, and for the most part I let it go, but there are times when I can't ignore it.
A lot of it is a protective instinct that I have noticed appears more often. I guess this is natural. I only have one child left with me now, and I am absolutely terrified of losing him as well. I am conscious of it though, I want to balance my need to protect him with my desire to let him have a happy, adventurous and full life. But I can protect him from people who are inconsistent and unreliable. When it starts to affect my life, and the lives of the people I love, that's when the tiger in me comes alive.
Recently, Oliver and I were going to meet this person. I had told Oliver we would be meeting them, and he was very excited; gathering all the things he was going to show them, to play with them. When we arrived I was told they 'couldn't handle' seeing us. OK, yes, it can be hard to see us. We're going through this grief thing, but goddammit, we are the ones that lost Sam! We're all going through this stuff. Surely it's better if we all go through this together?
The worst thing was, less than a week before, this person had offered to babysit Oliver. I had (politely) declined, knowing this person's tendency towards inconsistency. I find it difficult to accept such up and down behaviour, but there's no way I'm going to subject a grieving 6 year old boy to it. I can only imagine the confusion and terror he must feel sometimes. He is still so young, but having lost Samuel so unexpectedly: one minute fine, playing together, the next gone forever; must play on his mind. When someone he has come to care deeply for is one minute there, the next minute gone, it must be at the very least extremely disappointing. He doesn't express it in so many words, but he does say and do things that lead me to think this is the case.
I know this particular example sounds like nothing, but there is a lot more of this stuff in our history: one moment all smiles and wonderful companion, the next MIA without a word. I can't put my son through that! He's just lost his brother, one of the most important people in his life! He needs people to be there for him. All the time. Not just when it's convenient, or it doesn't hurt them.
Is it too much to ask? I don't think so. Oliver has so many people in his life that are there for him all the time. His friends and their parents go out of their way to include him; Anthony's brothers, foster sister and sisters-in-law organise special days, travel long distances to visit him, buy him special presents, write him letters and call him just to say hi. His teachers (and all the people at his school) try so hard to make school comfortable for him. His grandparents have gone above and beyond to make him feel special and loved and wanted. Even many of my friends (some of whom never met Samuel and don't really know Oliver) are welcoming and kind and generous. Every one of them is there when they say they'll be there. They all have problems, they are all grieving themselves, and they probably all find it hard to see us sometimes, but they know how important it is.
To me, anything else comes across as selfish. We all have faults. We all have weaknesses. We're all struggling through this world that's sometimes crazy, disappointing and damn hard, but the difference is that we don't let it stop us from living. And those of us that do, well sorry, but I don't have time for people like that. But that's OK. Because they don't have time for me either.
Sunday, February 14, 2010
How can we help?
This is a question we have been asked a lot. That, and "I don't know what do to/say", have been the words we have heard over and over again.
At first it was really difficult for me to respond. I didn't know what the hell to do either! And there's really nothing you can say either. It happened, it hurts like hell, we're so numb that we don't even register half of what's going on, there's nothing anyone can say.
Having said that, it was nice to know people were around. We received at least 100 cards, and just knowing that people 'had us in their thoughts' was strangely comforting.
What did help
We were overwhelmed by the support we received from people (as was mentioned in this Canberra Times article). It has always been hard for me to ask for help (even harder for Anthony I think), so I never knew the answer to 'what can I do?'.
Some people took matters into their own hands, and these were the things we found most helpful:
But what do we talk about??
I have a feeling (and it may be paranoia) that a few people avoided (or are still avoiding) us because they just don't know what to talk about. That's OK, I understand it would be difficult, and I'm not offended or particularly upset about it). The answer to that is everything. It was great to hear about things other than what was going on at our place, but it was also great to talk about Sam and what was happening too. The thing with that is, I guess, that we were able to guide the conversation around those topics. I don't mind answering questions or talking about Sam. In fact I'd rather that than sit with someone who looks uncomfortable and obviously wants to ask a question. So it was nice to sit with people and have real conversations that covered everything, including memories of Sam and stuff about his death, but also including other topics.
The sticky subject of money
We received financial support (in the form of donations) from lots of people. This was perhaps the hardest part for me, but also the most helpful.
Few of us plan for funeral expenses, but saving for your child's funeral is not something that ever crosses your mind. We're not broke, but we do have a fairly low income comparatively, and this expense was overwhelming.
When the funeral director suggested we ask for donations to cover expenses, I was a little worried. I am a proud person, and as I have already mentioned, I don't like asking for help. An appeal so public seemed horrific!
But he assured us that many people do it, and the people I have spoken to since say that it was actually a good way for them to feel like they were helping us. And it did really help to not have to worry about money when we had much bigger issues facing us.
So thank you again to all those people that helped us in any way. I am still writing thank you cards (I know some people have said 'it's not necessary' but it's important for me to do it), and hope that I don't forget anyone.
At first it was really difficult for me to respond. I didn't know what the hell to do either! And there's really nothing you can say either. It happened, it hurts like hell, we're so numb that we don't even register half of what's going on, there's nothing anyone can say.
Having said that, it was nice to know people were around. We received at least 100 cards, and just knowing that people 'had us in their thoughts' was strangely comforting.
What did help
We were overwhelmed by the support we received from people (as was mentioned in this Canberra Times article). It has always been hard for me to ask for help (even harder for Anthony I think), so I never knew the answer to 'what can I do?'.
Some people took matters into their own hands, and these were the things we found most helpful:
- Meals: a couple of people made, bought or organised meals for us. Cooking was the last thing I wanted to do, and it was important to keep eating nutritious (or comforting) foods. A couple of friends also made us cakes and slices, which were handy to have around, as there were always people dropping in.
- Groceries: Anthony's brothers were the best at this. They would come over with a bag of groceries (simple things to cook like pasta or stuff to feed the people that were visiting), or were happy to pop out for milk or toilet paper or anything we had run out of.
- Chores: Now many of you know I'm not the world's best housekeeper, so not only did I have to deal with the embarrassment of having people come into my dirty, messy house, but I also had to deal with them cleaning bits of it. But it was helpful to have someone do the dishes or fold the washing. I was even less inclined to do it than normal.
- Entertaining Oliver: Some of our friends and family took Oliver for outings. This was great for him because he got some "normal time", but also good for us because we had some time for talking/grieving without having to 'put on a brave face' for him.
- Messages: People kept leaving little messages for me on Facebook, or sending emails. These were great as I didn't have to talk to anyone if I didn't want to, but I didn't feel isolated.
But what do we talk about??
I have a feeling (and it may be paranoia) that a few people avoided (or are still avoiding) us because they just don't know what to talk about. That's OK, I understand it would be difficult, and I'm not offended or particularly upset about it). The answer to that is everything. It was great to hear about things other than what was going on at our place, but it was also great to talk about Sam and what was happening too. The thing with that is, I guess, that we were able to guide the conversation around those topics. I don't mind answering questions or talking about Sam. In fact I'd rather that than sit with someone who looks uncomfortable and obviously wants to ask a question. So it was nice to sit with people and have real conversations that covered everything, including memories of Sam and stuff about his death, but also including other topics.
The sticky subject of money
We received financial support (in the form of donations) from lots of people. This was perhaps the hardest part for me, but also the most helpful.
Few of us plan for funeral expenses, but saving for your child's funeral is not something that ever crosses your mind. We're not broke, but we do have a fairly low income comparatively, and this expense was overwhelming.
When the funeral director suggested we ask for donations to cover expenses, I was a little worried. I am a proud person, and as I have already mentioned, I don't like asking for help. An appeal so public seemed horrific!
But he assured us that many people do it, and the people I have spoken to since say that it was actually a good way for them to feel like they were helping us. And it did really help to not have to worry about money when we had much bigger issues facing us.
So thank you again to all those people that helped us in any way. I am still writing thank you cards (I know some people have said 'it's not necessary' but it's important for me to do it), and hope that I don't forget anyone.
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