by Cindy Early, November 1999
The day my children died, I fell into the pit of grief.
My friends watched me struggle through daily life,
waiting for the person I once was to arise from the pit,
not realizing "she" is gone forever.
The pit is full of darkness, heartache and despair,
it paralyzes your your thoughts, movements
and ability to ration. The pit leaves you forever changed,
unable to surface the person you once were.
Some of my pre-grief friends gather around the top of the pit,
waiting for the old me to appear before their eyes, not
understanding what's taking me so long to emerge. After
all...in their eyes, I've been in the pit for quite sometime.
Yet, in my eyes, it seems as if I fell in only yesterday.
Not all my pre-grief friends are gathered at the top of the pit.
Some are helping me with the climb out of the darkness.
They climb side by side with me from time to time, but
mostly they climb ahead of me, waiting patiently at each
plateau. Even with these friends I sometimes wonder
if they are also waiting for the pre-grief me to
magically appear before their eyes.
Then, there are the casual acquaintances, you know the ones
who say, "hi, how are you?" when they really don't care or
or really don't want to know. These people are the people
who sigh in relief, that it was my child who died and not
theirs. You know...the "better them, than me" attitude
(not that I blame them for that sigh or attitude, I too
wish it happened to someone other than myself).
My post-grief friends are the ones who climb with me,
side by side, inch by inch, out of the pit of grief. They
have no way of comparing the pit climber to the pre-grief
person I once was. You see, they started at the bottom of
the pit with me. They are able to reassure me when I
need reassurance, rest when I need resting and encourage
me to move forward when I don't have the strength.
They have no expectations, no memories and no
recollection of how I "should" be. They want me to get
better, to smile more often and to find joy in life, but
they've also accepted the person I've become.
The "person" who is emerging from the pit.
by Erin Hunt
I am a member of a very exclusive club.
This club has very strict guidelines.
You must be in shock.
You must be in despair.
You must be depressed.
You can and most likely will be angry,
bitter and a little hostile.
You must cry frequently.
You must ask "Why?" at least several times daily.
You must be preoccupied and unable to concentrate.
You must wonder where all your friends have gone.
You must wonder if you will ever be totally happy again.
Oh, and you must absolutely have to be SAD,
physically and emotionally SAD.
I really hope you never become a member of this club.
You see, this is a grief club.
Members need not apply.
You are not given a choice, but rather are chosen.
But don't despair if chosen.
There is one more necessary guideline.
~ Hope ~ You must have Hope.
from the Empty Arms Newsletter, March 1999, Erie, PA
When you are bereaved...It is ok to...Scream in the shower,
Yell in the car, Pound on the steering wheel,
Cry anywhere you like.
When you are bereaved...It is ok to...Misplace little things
like your glasses or car keys. It is also possible to misplace
big things...Like your car.
When your baby dies...It is ok to...Still feel kicks,
Hear a baby's cry when you are alone,
Feel your arms ache, Avoid other peoples' newborns.
When you are bereaved...It is alright to...Get lost at the mall,
Put milk in the cupboard, Put toilet paper in the refrigerator,
Put ice cream in the oven.
When you are bereaved...It is ok to...Find a punching bag,
Beat up your pillow, Throw stones in the lake.
It is ok to...Talk to yourself, Talk to your baby,
Talk to your pets.
After your baby dies...You can say "no" to others.
You can cancel plans that you are not up to doing.
You can have a bad day.
It is ok to hurt. It is ok to grieve.
by Jane Warland, 1993
If you say to me "How are you doing?" with such sympathy in
your voice. I reply "I'm fine" and brush you off, because to
to talk about my loss with you today is just too painful.
If you see me and don't mention the loss that is consuming
my thoughts, I think you don't care enough, or are too scared
to mention it for fear that you might upset me.
You can't win with me.
If you say "I'm sorry your baby died", it is hard for me to
reply to that. What do you expect me to say? I want to say
"I'm sorry too!" or "It's awful", I want to scream "It's not fair"
But I won't because I don't want to upset myself today,
not in front of you. So I reply "Thank you".
That thanks means so much more than that. It means thanks
for caring, thanks for trying to help, thanks for realizing
that I'm still in pain. If you don't know what to say to me
that's okay because I don't know what to say to you either.
If you see me smile or laugh don't assume I must have
forgotten my baby for the moment,
I haven't, I can't, I never will.
Tell me that I look good today. I will know what you mean.
I'm getting good at picking up unspoken clues from you.
If you see me and think I look upset or sad, you are probably
right. Today might be an anniversary day for me, or some
event might have triggered a wave of grief in me.
If you don't say anything I'll think you don't care about me,
but if you do say anything, it might make me feel worse.
You could try asking if I want to talk,
but don't be surprise if I say no.
You can't win with me.
Don't give up on me, please don't give up. I need
your attempts however feeble, however trite
you might feel they are.
I need your thoughts. I need your prayers.
I need your love. I need your persistence.
I need all that but most of all I need to be treated normally,
like it used to be before all this happened. But I know
it's impossible. That carefree, naive person is gone forever
and I am mourning that loss too.
So you can't win with me.
