The Gift of Grief?

I found this post this morning browsing through facebook.  I think this is something that we can all grow from as we all go through moments of "GRIEF".  

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Good Grief: A Meditation of How Grief can be a Gift in Strange Package
By: Msgr. Charles Pope

As a priest I walk with a lot of people in their grief. It’s a regular part of priesthood. I remember back in 2007 how tough it was for me:

• The Deacon of my parish, Nerus, like a father to me, died after a long battle with cancer. His final words to me were, “I’m not so good right now, but I’ll be better soon.”
• My administrative and pastoral assistant, Catherine, like a mother to me, developed a rapid form of Alzheimer’s and within that year went from being at the top of her game to no longer recognizing anyone, within a year she was gone.
• My Parish bookkeeper, Shirley, also like a mother or an aunt, died suddenly.
• I was transferred from a parish I loved. This too was like a death, death by a thousand cuts.
• My father died shortly thereafter, after a long illness.
• A new parishioner lost her 4 year old nephew when, climbing on a dresser, it fell over on him and he was killed
• Another parishioner lost her 25 year old son, know well to us all, when he was shot to death.

All in a year. I remember telling God it was too much. And though I got no answer, I haven’t had a year like that since.   (story continued here)

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The Very Lonely Experience of Grief

By Sue Elvis

At an 18 week ultrasound our unborn baby was diagnosed with a diaphragmatic hernia. We were told our baby would probably not survive after birth because there was not enough room in his lung cavity to allow sufficient lung tissue to develop: he wouldn’t be able to breathe without the aid of a respirator. We prayed for a miracle but Thomas lived only 28 hours. He was born on 9^th November.

From my diary

26^th November

I saw Dr M. for the first time since Thomas died. I don’t know if she was going to say anything about our baby but I got out my photo box to show her anyway. Dr M. cried as she looked at the photos…

The receptionist, Jenny asked me how I was, on my way out. I told her we’d had our baby, and it was obvious that it hadn’t crossed her mind all was not well. She’d forgotten we’d had problems during the pregnancy. She was taken aback when I said, “He died two weeks ago.” Jenny also looked at the photos and she also cried. I was quite calm and dry-eyed and felt like the only person in control.

However moods change quickly and this afternoon I am weepy…

I remember how reluctant people were to bring up the subject of our baby. I wanted and needed to talk about Thomas but no one said, “Tell me about your baby. Tell me about Thomas.”  I took my photo box wherever I went, in the hope that someone would want to share the photos of our son.

I hadn’t seen Doctor M. for some weeks because she’d passed my antenatal care onto a specialist. When I went to see her two weeks after Thomas’ birth about another matter, I wanted to tell her about our son. I had my Thomas box with me and I wanted to show her all the sad but beautiful photos. I wanted her to take an interest in our baby who had so recently died. The doctor didn’t immediately ask about Thomas. I thought maybe she wasn’t going to say anything but I was determined to show her all the evidence of his fleeting life. I think I wanted Doctor M. to suffer too. I wanted her to feel my pain, to leave her seemingly happy life even for a few minutes and join me in my sorrow.

I was upset the receptionist Jenny didn’t remember that our baby was probably going to die after birth. How could she have forgotten something that we’d thought about every minute of every day for the last few months? And so I wanted her to feel our pain too. I wanted her to cry even a few tears, to relieve me of a few of mine.

I didn’t weep with the doctor or the receptionist. Someone once remarked that we only cry with those people with whom we feel comfortable, those we feel truly care about us and our sorrow. Maybe this is true.

When I returned home it didn’t take long for the tears to appear again. I was back alone with my grief. The doctor had probably dried her eyes and was attending to another patient. I’d touched her with my sorrow for a few minutes but it was my pain, not hers.  She couldn't really feel the depths of my suffering. No one can unless they have had a similar experience.

Grief is a very lonely existence.

But I found out that sharing experiences with other grief-stricken parents helped. We’ve all passed through that one way door of intense suffering. We all, without wanting to, belong to that exclusive club where the price of membership is so very high: the loss of a child. We all know the depths of the pain. And we all realise we are not alone. There is someone else who understands.

Please share my stories on my blog Sue Elvis Writes

Retreating from the Pain

By Sue Elvis

From my diary:

23^rd November

… This last week has been so miserable. Only a future without Thomas lies ahead… I’ve felt like retreating within myself…

Thomas died 11 ½ years ago after 28 hours of life. But losing Thomas wasn’t our first experience of grief.

 I had already lost four babies by miscarriage, one after the other in the space of about eighteen months, a few years earlier. So many cycles of hope and happiness and then sorrow, one after another. I was on an emotional roller coaster and I felt like I was going crazy.

After the 4^th miscarriage, my sister arranged to visit me. I came home from the hospital knowing we would soon have a guest in our home. I felt I didn’t have time to deal with the grief. I couldn’t cry and express my sorrow when I had a visitor to look after. I decided I wouldn’t think about the grief. I would leave that until later when I was once again alone. I stepped back from the pain. I didn’t cry. I didn’t grieve. I didn’t feel anything.

My sister returned home but the time for grieving seemed to have passed. I had retreated so far away from my pain, I couldn’t get back. Life went on. I functioned. I survived. I thought I was quite all right. It didn’t really matter that I’d never cried a tear over my lost baby, did it?

And then one day I was at a mothers’ meeting talking to my best friend. Somehow the talking turned to arguing and a torrent of anger flowed out of me. My startled friend couldn’t understand why I was crying uncontrollably and getting very upset over a trivial matter. I gathered up my children and stormed out of the meeting to the great surprise of everyone.

The anger and tears were nothing to do with my friend. She just happened to be there when the dam burst and the grief I’d kept locked up inside me for so many weeks came flooding out. It was time to face the pain. I couldn’t avoid the grief any longer.

When Thomas died, there was a great temptation to withdraw within myself again, to retreat from the huge burden of sorrow that was bowing me down. I just wanted to get away both from the grief and myself.

But this time, I admitted to a friend how I was feeling; “It would be so easy just to draw back until I can no longer feel the pain.”

“But Sue if you withdraw from feelings of pain, you will withdraw from feeling anything. You will not experience moments of joy or happiness or hope. And it is these moments, however short, that will keep you going along that long and difficult pathway to healing. Yes, you will not feel pain. But you won’t feel anything good either. You will feel nothing.”

I cannot say I never retreated within myself while I was grieving for Thomas. There were moments when I no longer cared about the future. I just wanted to escape the present. But these times did not last long. I fought my way back each time.

I had to feel. I had to have hope. I wanted to survive.

Please share my stories at Sue Elvis Writes

A Grieving Father's Thoughts on Suffering

I originally composed the following letter in response to an inquiry from an old friend regarding the deaths of two of our children. I share it now — despite much anxiety about such public vulnerability — in hope that these words may comfort other grieving parents.

Thank you for your message and prayers. The past two years have been very difficult, if I may understate a little. Burying Mary Bernadette was the most painful and sorrowful experience of my life. At 19 weeks in utero, just as we learned her gender, we learned she had a terminal genetic disorder called Trisomy 18. We prayed every day for healing and/or live birth, but God answered our petitions in the most mysterious of ways: He took her to Himself and healed her without granting us the opportunity to hear her cry. Mary Bernadette was born still at 33 weeks on July 26, 2009. It was especially heartbreaking to see our sole living child, Brighid, aware of everything, having to bury her sister while she herself was almost three years old.

Then nine months later, we experienced a miscarriage at around six weeks in utero. While a little less devastating — because we only knew of little Innocent for two weeks — it nonetheless reopened our deepest wounds. Again, Brighid has been fully engaged: just last week she told us Innocent was a boy. We still don't know if she had a dream about him, or what, but she speaks as if she saw him.

Regarding being less certain of things than we once were: it is the hope and hubris of youth, to impose our wills upon the world, to assert our ideas as certainties and to promote our ideals as truths. I have Faith — "the realization of what is hoped for and evidence of things not seen" — that God is Love, that Love itself is a mystery, and therefore God is the unending font of the mystery of Love. I mean to say, albeit in a wordy way, that I believe a healthy sense of mystery is not only permissible, but usually required for a mature, honest relationship with God. I'm not without my doubts, but neither was Saint Thomas, and though Jesus mildly corrected him, He did not reject Thomas for his doubt. Likewise, God did not abandon Job, even when he doubted and cried out at the injustice of being deprived of an objective good (his children).

I've been meditating on Job's story quite a bit. One mystery I keep coming back to: God withheld any response from Job until Job demanded an answer. Granted, God's response was a bit frightening, and definitely humbling, but also consoling (paraphrased): "I am God, the Almighty, maker of Heaven and Earth. You are not being punished. I have my reasons, and they are beyond you. Humble yourself and trust me. I will restore you." A very patient fatherly correction. Contrast that with God's response to Job's friends: "I am angry with you. You have not spoken rightly concerning Me, as has my servant Job. Let my servant Job pray for you; for his prayer I will accept, not to punish you severely." Not only does He call their "prosperity gospel" a lie, He calls Job His servant, and holds Job up as the standard by which his friends should measure themselves.

Suffering, like Love, is a mystery I don't pretend to understand. But we have found it to produce much Redemptive fruit in our lives and among our friends. Perhaps Job's suffering and restoration was meant as much for Job's redemption as it was for Job's friends' redemption. And perhaps God is working something similar in our lives, among our friends and family. I'm not certain at all, but the thought does give me Hope.

Mary Bernadette Victoria and Tiny Innocent, pray for us.

P.S. If you or someone you know is suffering the death of a child and/or infertility, I cannot overstate the consolation brought to us by:

The Apostolate of Hannah's Tears "offers prayer support and comfort to the brokenhearted who suffer the pains of infertility at any stage of life, difficult pregnancy, miscarriage, stillbirth, the loss of a child and the adoption process."

Naming the Child: Hope-Filled Reflections on Miscarriage, Stillbirth, and Infant Death, and its companion website.

The Shrine of The Holy Innocents: "Often children who have died before birth have no grave or headstone, and sometimes not even a name. At The Church of The Holy Innocents, we invite you to name your child(ren) and to have the opportunity to have your baby's name inscribed in our 'Book of Life.' Here, a candle is always lit in their memory. All day long people stop to pray. On the first Monday of every month, Mass is celebrated in honor of these children and for the comfort of their families. We pray that you will find peace in knowing that your child(ren) will be remembered at the Shrine and honored by all who pray here."

Mourning a Miscarriage

Prayers for a couple grieving the death of their unborn child. This booklet invites the grieving parents to express the sorrow of their hearts to the Lord of Compassion.

Mourning a Miscarriage: Prayers For a Couple Grieving the Death of Their Unborn Child

CODE: KMAM

Price: $2.95

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*the link goes directly to One More Soul*