Sleep was the only peace I had. When I woke in the morning, if I was lucky, I had about two seconds of peaceful awareness before I remembered again that my son had died. It was the same every morning for weeks and weeks. Now, nearly four years on I can’t actually remember when that morning feeling of dread disappeared. It just did…somehow.

I wanted to know that answer too. I needed to know how long the intense and debilitating pain, the fresh pain of grief and loss was going to last. I needed some timeline in order that I could somehow traverse the hours, days and weeks hopefully to a time when I would feel better, when the tears would stop, just a little. A friend gave me a lifeline, an old copy of an Edgar Cayce book on crisis. There it was in black and white. A major crisis will take three months minimum before you can begin to feel any semblance of order again in your life. If only it were three months. Even though that estimation was in no way the end of my grief, it did give me hope that the terrible pain I was experiencing would not last forever and I can honestly say it hasn’t. Our emotions are raw and ragged in the early days of grief, but over time the intensity of feelings change and evolve as the days move on.

What I have learned about grieving is it takes so much longer than we think or expect and depends on so many different things. This can include your relationship to your loved one, the support networks you have, your personality and any previous losses. It is different for everyone and we can swing backwards and forwards on an emotional pendulum as our feelings fluctuate from moment to moment. Good days will be interspersed with awful days of longing, missing and sadness. Days where you wallow and cry, surrounded by a stack of scrunched up tissues. There are times when it can feel like you are wandering around in a dream like state of disbelief, as if they were never in your life at all, and then it becomes real again and the pain returns. That is normal – that is grief.

Elizabeth Kubler Ross famously describes the stages of grief but I prefer William Wordens premise that to heal from grief we must:

1. Come to terms with the reality of the loss

2. Experience the pain of grief – feel the feelings

3. Adjust to a new environment without our loved one

4. Reinvest emotional energy in life

How we do that and when is something that only you will discover and determine for yourself on your own journey through grief. Dealing with grief is different for everyone and it is not a simple process. The terrain is complicated and unpredictable, but you will do it. You are much stronger than you think.

On my own journey the first year was the hardest. The memories of those early times recede, but when coaxed spring easily to mind. The never ending tears, the feeling of acute and raw emotional and physical pain. I described to a friend that my heart was hanging out of me in tatters, and that’s truly how it felt. I recall the terrible longing for him that could never be satisfied. Then there was the torrent of unpredictable and intense emotions: the shock, disbelief, anger and guilt. I struggled to cope with the minutiae of life and the insensitivities of others, and my intolerance for their trivialities. As a friend said, it was a year of firsts. The year of having to face birthdays, holidays and the dreaded anniversary date, my new environment and one that I never ever wanted.

I cannot say how long grief will last, but I can say that the intensity of grief does soften over time; you will not feel that raw and frayed emotion for ever. It does change. Crying lasts but might be less frequent and sometimes catch you by surprise when you thought you had cried as much as you ever could. Gradually the sun will come out again and you will start to take pleasure in the little things. Small things may bring a smile and one day you will forget just for a moment and in that moment you will begin to heal as you re-engage in life once more.

Your life will be changed forever, as a result of your loss, sometimes in ways you could never have envisaged and looking back you will not believe that you are and have survived. There is no end to this grieving journey; each day is a journey in itself. Grieving is a solitary excursion but we are not alone; our loved ones are with us, in our hearts where they will stay forever.

Maureen Hunter has experienced loss and grief in her own life when her youngest son died following a car accident in 2006. She shares her experience as a way to help others in their own journey through grief and is an active member of The Compassionate Friends.

She also is the owner of Esdeer, an online store specialising in gifts for grief and loss. Meaningful and unique sympathy gifts. Esdeer also has as a number of gifts designed to bring comfort and inspiration during difficult life transitions. It is her wish that during a very difficult time, she can make it a little easier for friends and family to express caring by selecting a meaningful and compassionate gift.

Visit http://www.esdeer.com.au

Article Source: http://EzineArticles.com/?expert=Maureen_Hunter
http://EzineArticles.com/?How-Long-Does-Grief-Last?&id=4929029

Topic: Helping Children Cope with Death and Grief

Dear Shipra,

I am so sorry to hear about the loss of your father. Grieving is so painful and very hard to deal with.
We have just released a new website called http://www.memorialebook.com where you can create a FREE memorial ebook about a loved one. It is simple and easy to create and a wonderful way of sharing your loving photos and messages with family and friends. You can invite people to contribute into the book and once the book is completed you can download a copy to your own computer or get it made into a hard copy book.

Let memories live on FOREVER.

Regards Carin Hetherington
Memorial eBook

So sorry to hear about your dad. Your grief is so new that it may take a lot longer to begin to heal. Talk to friends, relatives, neighbors, anyone that can help you deal with your loss. My prayers are with you and your mom during this difficult time.

… and the time came when the risk it took to remain in a tightly closed bud became infinitely more painful than the risk it took to blossom.

~Anaïs Nin.

Dates are peculiar things. The 22nd of September will always be memorable for me, for instance. Whenever the clock strikes 8pm on that day it’s almost like I have a minute’s silence for a time when a previous life ended and the new one began.

The ‘Non-Existentness’ of Death Doesn’t Fit Well

As living beings we cannot comprehend the ‘form’ of death. (And by death I don’t just mean loved ones who’ve died; I’m talking the death of anything or anyone special to us, for instance, divorce as a prime example – the relationship ‘died’.) Death is in many ways a sort of ‘nonexistingness’ that just doesn’t fit with our schemas in an existent world. We cannot deal very well with the gap of ‘not seeing’ that once-acutely special person, relationship or thing anymore. It is beyond our truest understanding and recognition. The pain diminishes with time and processing but the mystery of that loss never does.

But what makes it possible for us to overcome this ‘blackening’ phenomenon known to all of life is new life; a life now differently defined, holding respectfully to the past but not bound by it.

‘Timing’ Issues in Grief

The journey that takes us through grief into the moment of pain past even the pain of previous – that pain of staying solidified in the grief as opposed to breaking out to blossom – is not bound by time or anything we might propose. It simply arrives.

Earlier, I referred to the significance of dates; these now as markers for progress through the grieving process.

It is dates that provide us with a yardstick to progress. We encompass the entire spectrum of ‘returning’ emotion; painfully considered dates that now bring more calm perspective – beyond the blackening, on past the whitening, and now into the reddening, we marvel at how time’s seemed to have changed.

But times haven’t changed; we have. And thankfully so.

We have grown adept at fitting ourselves to this new form of living – that life thereafter. No longer do we hear ourselves repetitively saying the same things over and over. That time has finished. And we are thankful for it, for it was intrinsically part of our grief. We’re also ravenously thankful for those dear ones that listened.

POST SCRIPT: For those already enveloped in their grief – blackened or whitened as the case may be – keep something like this tucked under your pillow as a hope for that day when colour returns majestically to your world. This is because it will.

© 2010 S. J. Wickham.

Acknowledgement: Abigail Carter, The Alchemy of Loss (Sydney, Australia: Hachette, 2009). Ms. Carter’s three-division structure, “The Blackening,” “The Whitening,” and “The Reddening” is a great way to look at the journey through grief to eventual recovery unto a place where life truly begins again – most often with better perspective. Anaïs Nin’s quote is taken from Ms. Carter’s book.

Steve Wickham is a Registered Safety Practitioner (BSc, FSIA, RSP[Australia]) and a qualified, unordained Christian minister (GradDipBib&Min). His blogs are at: http://epitemnein-epitomic.blogspot.com/ and http://tribework.blogspot.com/

Article Source: http://EzineArticles.com/?expert=Steve_Wickham
http://EzineArticles.com/?Beyond-the-Blackening—Finding-Your-Way-To-New-Life&id=4940936

Hello,

I’m Shipra and I’m 27 yrs old. I lost my dad 2 weeks back due to an unexpected heart failture 15 days ago. I gt married 4 months back..Everything seemed to be so perfect , I was supposed to go next month to UK fr higher studies. Everything ws set and my dad ws happy abt all tht I was doing.
Fate snatched him frm us forever. All happened so suddenly tht even today I feel if I call him, he will answer the phone.
My heart aches and my tears dont seem to stop. More than myself its hard to see mom in this state. I’m the only child in the family and my feelings are a mixture of guilt and sadness.
I miss him so mch, everyday when I wake up to the reality tht my dad is no more, I feel sick and feel like nt waking up at all.
As the time is passing, my grief is getting even more painful. I’m trying bt feel helpless in overcoming it.

My husband signed out on terminal leave for retirement on July 12th 2010 and on Friday July 16th he came home drunk (so I was told) I laid him down and check on him an hour later, he said he was okay. I went to bed woke up Saturday morning and made him breakfast, when I went to wake him up he had passed away in the night even though my mind knew he was gone I still attempted to give him CPR logic told me he was gone but my heart would not let go. I called 911 and he had been pronounced dead between 4am and 5 am. it took me 5 days to decide where to bury him and it took me 21 days to do paper work from the Army they finally made me come in to do it. I can’t move any of his belonging and his clothes still hang in the closet, his uniform pants still lay where he took them off. To add to the pain his kids are all interested in how much money they can get. Not one has asked about him or what he stood for. I have however heard from them to ask about borrowing money. I am so shattered and I do not know where to go next. His parent hate me cause I did not call them right away. I decided it was best to let the army tell them. I just want him back and I want our life back and until I get closure I do not think I will ever sleep through the night. I am so blessed that I have great parents who have supported me every in every way. I am now all alone and feel like I am in a maze and can not get out!

“I love you my hero, husband, best friend, my biggest supporter. RIP my love!

Scott,
Thank you for your kind words and thoughts….I guess as Roseann mentioned….”we all get it” that come to this site.
I also worry that I’m going to forget something about Chad and I never want that to happen. I’m constantly looking at pictures of him, I keep them everywhere. I want to get one of those “in memory” writings for my car…..and then I think will people think I’m over doing it?? I try to think of others that have lost and have continued to go on and how they have been able to do it (such as yourself)…..I’ve always been “the strong one” of my family and friends….I’ve always been the “holiday” person…..now I just don’t feel like anything is easy and fun anymore.
I continue to have hope though and continue to look for signs that Chad is still with us in some way. He loved the Red River Gorge in KY and I plan to go there again next month and sit and talk to him.
I would like to hear your poem your wrote for James if you feel like sharing.
Thanks again…..
Chad’s Mom

Hi kathy,
My seventeen year old son passed away three years ago. The pain does not go away. As far as my other children feeling I only care about Samuel. I have found they absolutely do understand. THey will actually help you in the long run in dealing with a pain that will never go away. No one can truly understand that unless god forbid go through the loss of a child.

Remember they to are grieving. Listening to them some times helps to understand how much they really do understand your pain as a mother is very great.

Here is what my Daughter wrote about how she felt.

Written By my favorite writer! Kaisa McCrow August 1, 2008 – Friday And every day, something I never felt before. My body always knew I couldn’t lose my brother or sister. My body knew it would crush my heart, puncture my soul, and make me lose my mind. My body has always absorbed the anxiety and the fear, which has persisted for the entirety of their existence. It has given me a child and young adulthood of perpetual readiness, because all of my pores and senses and energies have lived in overdrive, teeming with the need to protect them. My eyes have always remained slightly affixed to Sam’s silhouette, living his adventures in my peripheral vision, my shoulders tensed to turn and respond. My ears heard and still hear, Kristen’s pain and joy lived through her quick and plentiful words, and her shrieks and laughter that I want to listen and know the difference between. My gut churned to deal with all the possibilities, all the ways that their happiness and safety is out of my control, while my bones ached to be strong enough to protect them. My heart has pounded with the fervent readiness to reach beyond my body’s physical capacity, and has pumped blood to my irrational brain, pulsing my being with the self written message, that if something ever happens, I will be there to save them. I am so silly. My body can never save them. The only thing that MY body can do is save itself. And it did. The shield that encased me was not a conscious cloak, but a bodily reaction, the way you don’t choose to grow a scab or a callous- your body, without complaint, does that for you. In this way the shield is almost physical and tangible- I certainly feel it. It is nearly visible to my friends who can see me operating almost like normal behind it, as if behind those fogged up shower doors. I am inside, and I can only see out as well as they can see in, which dulls reality enough that I can make it. My body gave me this shield so that I might survive. But it has been a bit too long. My intrinsic self can’t let my mind or body play anymore tricks on me; and now this slow delay of realization, the eventual absorption and recognition of loss, the giving respect to the fact that my something-akin-to-happy existence will always be accompanied by this elephant sized pain that is stuffed into my veins-it all has to start oozing out. Never like a flood-gate, it won’t ever pour out of me like that. For all of the usual intensity of my emotion, and my willingness to share pretty much anything, the truth of this pain is slower and more like suffocation. No floodgates. Instead, it is the slow 15 minutes it takes to give blood, that expendable bit of life force dripping its way out of you and pooling, warm and dark, into a bag that will eventually hang heavy. Just as slowly, do I realize that I can choose to open up my own foggy door and peer to the stark world, and test my toes out on the shocking, cold, floor. I can pick some nervous holes from the loose threads of my armor until some light shines through, then brace myself for the eventuality of my whole self, squinting with the pain of the sunlight, truly feeling the breathtaking, blinding, enormity of loss. After a year, carrying what has been protective armor is now just feeling heavy and burdensome. Many thanks to my miraculous body for taking care of me, wrapping me, swaddling me, lulling me, and giving me time to get ready to stand next to my grief with no barrier in between. One year ago today, my unconscious body readied me first with a dream. I dreamt that my brother went down with that bridge in Minnesota, the I-35W that collapsed on August 1st of last year. In the dream, realizing my unimaginable loss left me sobbing and grateful that he was still there when I woke up on the morning of August 2nd. Two days later, he wasn’t there anymore. Was I able to accept that fate, in that moment, because I felt like I had been warned in a dream? And could I have been? The genetic predisposition that made this happen to him are the same genes that run through me, we are created of the two same beings- could my body have known? Did Sam’s? We have often spoken of the remarkable peace that accompanied Sam down to San Diego, as if he had already completed a series of tasks and was ready for the Next Big Thing. And then the next big thing came. Sam died. This disorganized thought is operating much at the same speed as my ability to understand that my brother died: its disconnected, it only makes sense from time to time, its rife with emotions that are balled up in me that I may never quite be able to explain. Except now, even though I may not be able to explain them, I am at the very least, feeling them. A year of repeating the standard tune, “he died doing what he loved, ” and “he lived harder than most people that age, ” are replaced with me, my mouth agape and speechless, staring shocked at a world that exists without Sam. He actually isn’t here. O my God, my brother is gone.

This was written by my favorite writer; Kaisa McCrow I know that I can survive anything, because I would have picked any set of shitty, unwanted scenarios before the death of one of my siblings. But thank God that the protective forces of my body have let me take this long to realize what has happened, because if I had felt it all at once, I would have died too.,

To Kathy

I, too lost my 22 year old son. Last November, he died due to his body’s extreme reaction to H1N1 virus. I also felt so alone, being unable to talk to my husband, who was acting like nothing happened. I know he was grieving in his own way, but he had nothing to say to me when I tried to talk to him about our loss. Our daughter was internalizing all this. So there seemed like there was no one to turn to and talk or cry or scream about it. I started to just talk to God about it. I realized He lost His only Son. He would listen, He was there any time day or night. No matter what I said or if I just cried, He was there and I knew He was holding me. I felt such comfort reading the Bible. Then I found this site and realized I was not alone at all. Unfortunately, there are millions of devastated people represented by each person who posts on this site. So many who had lost loved ones, who were lost themselves, wondering if they would make it through this valley of grief. I’m not alone, but I will not stay in this valley forever. I asked God if the heaviness of this pain would lift and He promised me He would lift it. And He has, I no longer sob at every thought of my son. I am starting to remember good times and the pain of the bad times is receding. I can’t change any of it. But I can find a reason to keep on living. Some days are still difficult and I have yet to reach the one year anniversary of his death. But I know that I will absolutely not be alone on that day or any other. You are not alone either and I will pray for you, Kathy.