Posted on May-08-05 at 06:26 PM (Eastern) by 67.1.57.199
I just wanted to take a second to let you know that I care about you and am sorry for your loss. Today is a bittersweet day and I know it can be rough. I want you to know that you are not alone.
I've shared this before, and have been told that it helped some people, so I am re-posting it. It's been published before. Please share it with whomever you like. Vanessa
The Power of Love
By Vanessa Houk
If someone were to ask me, "How can you possibly survive the loss of a child?", I'm sure I would just stare at them blankly and wouldn't be able to come up with an answer and yet August 29 will mark the five year anniversary of my son, Dylan's death. Somehow I am still here. When I think back to 1998 and the years that have followed, I remember many times when I did not want to be. Over the years I have tried to describe what that pain feels like, but I have come to the conclusion that there are no words for it. That void is huge.
Losing a child changes a family, changes a marriage. Love is powerful though, and ultimately that is what saved us.
Grief is private. Even though you can have people supporting you, nobody else can feel your feelings and nobody else can face that darkness. In some ways I felt like I had also lost my closest friend-- my husband who was simply unable to be my sounding board. He hurt for me and I hurt for him and collectively our pain was just too much to handle. So we learned to respect that and on the rare occasions when we talk about our respective grief, it is done cautiously. It is a great testament to our love and friendship that our marriage is still strong. Many marriages, when faced with such a loss, are not as fortunate.
I thought we were all mostly okay and then my four year old daughter came to me and had this conversation.
"Mom, we used to be so happy, huh?"
"Yes," I said. "We were happy."
"And then Dylan died and now we have all been so sad."
I nodded.
"Mom, when will we be happy again?"
Up until her brother's death, her world had been full of walks down the long, dirt road to the mailbox and watching for baby birds nesting in the trees near the cabin we lived in. The closest she had come to death was when one of mean momma cat's babies died. Nothing had come close to preparing her for this. Nothing prepared any of us.
That fall she could have entered pre-school, but the thought of sending her away, even just for a few hours was inconceivable to me. She was my reason for getting up and facing each day. When I wanted to hole up and stay home, she would cajole me to take her to the park so she could swing higher and higher. She pointed to birds and flowers and made me see beauty again. "Look at that!," she would say. And on the days when I could barely drag myself out of bed in the morning, she would be there. "I love you.," she would remind me. She kept me going.
We tried to reenact some sort of a life. Those months were a lot like trying to get around a large city without the benefit of a roadmap, or a guide. I was lost a lot of the time. I felt like a different person and my old life just didn't fit me anymore. I had to find new things to do. We moved away from Central Oregon and eventually made our way back home to Ashland.
Slowly, time passed and simple things began to ground me again. The taste of a perfectly ripe peach, seeing the ocean, the scent of baked apples and cinnamon. These tiny things added up and I found my way back. And I have learned that life is a gift and love transcends time.
