In the Glow of Moonlight

In the Glow of Moonlight

by

You were like a sun in my sky;
big and bright and brilliant
as I orbited around you.

Your radiant love enveloped me
like a blanket of warm sunshine
on an otherwise cloudy day.

We lived and laughed and loved
as that clichéd saying goes;
when the world still made sense. 

But then it all suddenly disappeared;
like a sun sucked into a black hole,
extinguishing your brilliant light.

It feels cold here in the darkness;
a chill so pervasive, it rattles my bones
and burrows deep in my soul.

Noisy, jumbled thoughts and echoes
of screams and sirens and panic;
continually pleading, “What if…?”

I wouldn’t call this ‘living’ any more;
merely existing while waiting to die
for years after your death.

Yet there are too many signs from you
I can no longer ignore or write off
as merely coincidence.

It’s as if each one whispers in my ear,
“I’m here, Mama, I’ll always be with you;
just look for the moon instead.”

So each night I search for your light,
some days your moonlight fills the sky;
sometimes there’s only a sliver. 

No matter the moon’s phase, I know
it’s illuminated by your brilliant light
that once filled my sky.

I’ll always long for the sunlight I lost,
but I’m learning to live, laugh, and love
in the glow of moonlight. 

What It’s Like to Lose A Child (The Journey of Bereaved Parents)

What It’s Like to Lose A Child (The Journey of Bereaved Parents)

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From the moment we found out you were coming into our lives, we felt electric: a mix of excitement, adrenaline, and a dose of fear for good measure. We dutifully began plotting the course of our lives together – starting with milestones like Kindergarten, puberty, graduation, career, wedding, and grandchildren. Then we began making our maps more detailed with our hopes and dreams for you. We prepared as well as we could for your arrival.

On the day you came into our lives, we held out our loving arms and said softly, “Welcome. We’ve been waiting for you.”

We stared into the vast universe reflected deep within your eyes with awe and wonder. You were a part of us; an extension of our very being. As you stared back into our eyes, a feeling of intense love for you took root in every cell of our body. This was true, unconditional love with no boundaries and no end.

Our lives were more meaningful with you in it. You gave us a greater sense of purpose and a profound sense of responsibility. Your life was ours to protect; ours to mold and guide. We needed to teach you all that we knew; try to help you avoid making the same mistakes we had made and afford you every opportunity to make your unique mark on this world. We wanted to make sure your life would become better than our own.

In return, all we asked from you was your continued unconditional love, because it felt wonderful. Better than anything else in this life of ours.

We did the best we could as parents, but weren’t perfect. There were plenty of mistakes intermixed with successes. We got off course of our map here and there and had to identify some new routes, but the destination was always the same: we would take care of you until one day you would take care of us.

At that point we would say goodbye and leave you to be on your own. By then you would have a family and be following your own map. We’d leave happy in the knowledge that we made the world a better place by bringing you into it.

But then the impossible happened. You died before we did.

On the day you died, our hearts shattered into a million pieces, as did the world around us. We were left in a dark, unfamiliar place where pain filled every cell of our body where your love once lived.

The air around us was now hard to breathe. Gravity was stronger than before, and the simple act of sitting or standing used up all of our strength and energy. Our map had disintegrated and we were hopelessly, utterly lost in the darkness of horror and misery.

Amid the darkness, familiar hands grabbed ours. Voices of family and friends guided us as we fumbled about in this strange new world, not knowing what to do. These family and friends all gathered around us to ceremoniously say goodbye to you.

And yet we couldn’t. The words never made it to our mouths. We were sure this was all a mistake – a nightmare that we would wake up from and find you standing over us smiling and laughing. We cried out for you, but got no answer in return.

As our family and friends left us to be on our own without you, the familiar world we once knew began to reappear around us.

And yet it was very different than before. We could interact with it, but we couldn’t touch this world because we were trapped in a bubble of despair. Most people couldn’t see our bubble. To them, it looked as if we were the same person we were before you died – maybe sadder, but basically the same. They expected us to quickly go back to our old routines and be our “old selves”. But they couldn’t see our bubble, and that we had fundamentally changed.

Inside that bubble, everything felt overwhelming. Our reactions to common sights and sounds were different than before. Laughter and joy made us angry and sick to our stomach. We were filled with resentment that the world itself hadn’t ceased to exist when you died.

Happiness was now out of reach, and we felt as though we’d never get it back. Some of us didn’t want it back if you weren’t there to share it with us. Even when we were surrounded by people outside our bubble, we felt hopelessly alone and misunderstood.

We became excellent actors worthy of an Oscar. We learned to pretend we were better and back to “normal” for the benefit of those around us. “Fine” is how we mostly answered the question of, “How are you?” We looked desperately around us for people who actually wanted to hear the truth. We were not fine.

When you left us, you took a part of us, and the void it left still ached with a pain so unbearable, we couldn’t find adequate words to describe it.

A few people could see our bubbles; most of them lived in bubbles themselves. Unlike the majority of people in the world around us, these people had the ability to reach inside our bubble and embrace us with understanding. We didn’t have to pretend to be okay around them. We could break down and cry as loud and long as we needed to without worrying about making them uncomfortable. We found a sense of community that we had lost when you died.

But none of this made the pain go away.

Over time, small cracks began to develop in our bubbles. These cracks let more light into our dim world. The air that came inside was easier to breathe. The gravity lightened a bit.

It still hurt to be alive in a world without you, but we began to learn how to adjust to it so that it wasn’t as debilitating as before.

Many of us learned to pry open the cracks in our bubbles a bit more to let in even more light and air. This changed the chemistry of the atmosphere inside our bubble from that of despair to a mix of memories and longing for you. We learned how to feel happiness and joy once again, even though it never made the pain deep within us subside. We began to learn how to better function in the world around us while still in the confines of our bubbles.

Our bubbles never fully go away. They change over time and may shrink considerably, but the pain will never leave us. This is because the pain was created by – and coexists with – your love that took root in every cell of our body when we stared into your eyes that very first time. And sometimes, we can momentarily release the feeling of pain by focusing our attention on you and the love you gave us that still lives in our bodies. You remain with us and a part of us.

The fact is we would have died for you. We would have gladly given up our own lives in a heartbeat if it meant you could have continued living. But no one has ever learned how to go back in time to make that sacrifice.

So we are left to live and breathe in a world without you. We have to create a new map that takes us into uncharted territory. We do this in your honor, and in honor of our family and friends that remain by our side.

We will continue down this new path until we take our own last breaths. And when we leave this world and head into the unknown, we hope to see you there with open, loving arms and hear you say softly, “Welcome. I’ve been waiting for you.”

©Maria Kubitz 2014

Learning How to Smile Again

Learning How to Smile Again

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When my daughter died, the pain was overwhelming. The belief I could ever feel any ounce of happiness again felt ridiculous.

In those early days of grief, the mere idea of being happy didn’t just feel impossible, it felt wrong.

One evening during the first year after her death, my husband insisted I sit down with him and our boys to watch a funny TV show we’d watched for years. My husband knew that after their sister’s death, our boys needed life to return to as “normal” as possible in order for them to cope and feel safe. That didn’t just mean regular daily routines – it meant a return to the personal interactions with us they were used to.

Begrudgingly, I sat down to watch the show. During the show, something was so funny that for the first time since her death, I actually felt the urge to laugh. Instead of laughing, I bit the inside of my cheeks to force myself NOT to smile.

The idea that I could ever be happy again felt like a betrayal of my daughter.

The logic (or lack thereof) was this: if I allowed myself to be happy, it would mean that I was okay with the fact that she had died. Looking back, the self-imposed state of misery served several purposes.

First, it was a matter of basic survival. The pain of losing a child is so overwhelming and intolerable. Many people say they feel numb early on. I think it’s similar to the body’s natural defense mechanism of passing out while experiencing severe physical pain. When my initial numbness started to wear off about three months after her death, I tried to maintain it by suppressing my emotions. Since I couldn’t pick and choose, that meant trying to suppress ALL emotions, not just the pain and guilt. In reality, this misguided effort only suppressed everything BUT the pain and guilt.

Second, when my daughter died, life as I knew it ended. I was living in a world that suddenly felt alien and intolerable. Not only did I feel like I could never be happy again, I felt outright angry that people around me were happy. To smile, laugh, and have fun again felt like it would mean that there was no longer the possibility that I would wake up from this nightmare I was in. It would mean that I would have to accept that she really did die and life really did go on without her. But I couldn’t “move on”.

In a convoluted way, the pain had become the biggest connection I had to my daughter.

I could no longer see her, touch her, hold her, or hear her sweet voice. Family and friends stopped talking about her because it had become too painful for them. The pain of missing her was what kept her present in my thoughts almost every minute of my waking hours. It’s what I talked about at the support groups I went to. Talking about her was painful because she was no longer here, but it meant I was still talking about her. I was acknowledging the continuing importance of her place in my life and in my heart.

Before my daughter died, I’d heard the old adage that those who’ve died wouldn’t want to see us living in sorrow and misery. I didn’t fully understand or appreciate what that meant until I was faced with it myself. Sorrow and pain will come no matter what. However, we often allow ourselves to get stuck in those emotions when it feels like they’re the only connection we still have to our loved one.

Over time, the notion of happiness as a betrayal of my daughter faded.

At some point, I gave myself permission to smile and to be happy again. I don’t think there was any specific moment I can pinpoint. Instead, it was a slow realization that life was going to go on without her physically here whether I liked it or not. It helped that I still had four other children – one born after she died. The joy and happiness that they bring into my life is undeniable.

The pain of losing my daughter has not gone away, but it does not occupy as much room as it once did. I chose to allow myself to smile and be happy again. And I chose to focus less on her death and more on the happy memories of my daughter’s life. I choose love and happiness, and can’t think of a better way to honor her memory.

Dragonflies, Ladybugs, and Signs From My Daughter

Dragonflies, Ladybugs, and Signs From My Daughter

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As a toddler, my daughter adored animals. We had three cats of our own, but she loved all animals. With the exception of spiders and wild animals, Margareta always took the opportunity to hold or touch any animal she could. She loved going to petting zoos with goats and sheep, even when they were aggressively trying to get food. And whenever we saw ladybugs, she insisted on having them crawl on her. Margareta loved ladybugs so dearly, we included a picture of one on her grave marker.

Soon after her death, signs took the form of animal sightings.

A few weeks after her death at the age of four, I took her older brother to his soccer game in a neighboring town. Emotional but still very numb, I sat down on the sidelines on one end of the field away from the other parents. While the teams warmed up, I noticed a swarm of dragonflies in the air about 10 to 15 feet in front of me.

It’s important to note that I’ve always been fascinated by dragonflies, though rarely seen them in person. Until that point in my life, I’d seen less than a dozen in person and usually at a water source. As I sat transfixed by the sheer number of dragonflies so close to me, I immediately thought of my daughter and how thrilled she would have been to see them. The dragonflies stayed over the field for almost the entire game.

A few days later, I was in my home and was startled by a “knock” on the picture window next to me. I turned to see a large dragonfly had hit the glass as it was flying straight towards me. After gathering its bearings, it landed on the bottom of an outdoor light fixture to rest.

The feeling suddenly came over me that this dragonfly was my daughter “visiting” me. 

I slowly walked over and opened the door. I whispered how much I loved her and just stared. After a few minutes, I closed the door and walked away. That dragonfly stayed there for over an hour before it finally flew away.

That event was the beginning of many, many dragonfly sightings. I see both live and artistic representations of them since the death of my daughter. I know now that many people experience dragonfly sightings after the death of a loved one. Whether they are messengers from the afterlife or just a symbol of death and rebirth, the sightings are special to many people.

Almost every sighting has happened when I’ve been intensely struggling with grief or when my thoughts are focused exclusively on her.

I’ve also had similar experiences with ladybugs. Sometimes they land on or close to me when I’m intently thinking of her. Other times I will feel the need to glance somewhere specific, only to find one like a needle in a haystack in its surroundings.

For example, while on a walk with my son, he asked me out of the blue what I would do if Margareta suddenly appeared in front of us. After discussing it, I turned my head toward our neighbor’s house for no apparent reason. My gaze zeroed in on a lone ladybug upon a leaf on a tree. Without knowing where to look, it would have been easily missed.

Another time, my sister-in-law was visiting and we had been talking about my signs from Margareta. On our way to the car I felt the urge to open my mailbox even though I knew there was no mail. There, sitting on the cold metal in the dark was a ladybug under the lid.

Are these really signs from my daughter?

Could these events be my daughter channeling her energy from some other dimension to control these bugs or nudge me to look their way? Yes. Could skeptics be right and these sightings are nothing more than pure coincidence? Yes. Regardless of what anyone thinks, they mean something very special to me.

Every time I have one of these experiences, it is as if my daughter has caressed my cheeks in her little hands, kissed me on the lips, and then given me a big bear hug. They are the equivalent of hearing her sweet voice say, “I love you mama, and I’m right here with you no matter what.” I treasure these “signs” and look forward to every single one of them.

A New “Normal” After My Child’s Death

A New “Normal” After My Child’s Death

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What exactly is “normal” after a child’s death? Our daughter, Margareta, died suddenly a month after her fourth birthday in September 2009. On that day, in those moments, the world as I knew it shattered. Years later, I am still learning how to pick up the pieces.

I live my life as “normal” as I can. My activities as a busy mom of four active boys haven’t changed (chef, chauffeur, drill sergeant, nurse, circus ringleader, etc.). I love my family and still experience genuine joy and happiness.

But lurking below the surface is a pain and longing so deep and profound that it defies description.

The activities of everyday life usually keep these intense feelings of grief at bay. But in the quiet moments, or if something triggers me, emotions can suddenly overwhelm me like a sneaker wave on an otherwise calm day at the beach.

It can cause me to cry for no reason. Or sap my energy completely. It can rob me of any ounce of patience for seemingly “trivial” matters, and cause my brain to short-circuit and become forgetful. Sometimes it can make me feel like I’m going crazy. The list goes on. Holidays and celebrations involving family and children continue to be significant triggers for me.

My new “normal” includes regular trips to the cemetery. My new normal means having to think about how to answer the question “how many children do you have?” based on if I’m ever going to see this person again. Or cringing every time I hear, “Are you going to try for a girl?” when someone sees me with all my boys. It means looking longingly at girls in the park that are about the age Margareta would be and wondering what she would be like now?

The new normal means learning how to live with a pain that will never completely go away, but will soften over time.

Time alone will not heal this wound. Unlike the early days of grief, it might be feasible to stuff these feelings down inside and actively keep them at bay. But the longer I push the feelings away, the worse they get. Instead, I choose to acknowledge them and figure out how to accept them as part of my life as it currently is.

I seek out support from various resources on a regular basis, which helps, but it is still a slow healing process. One of the greatest sources of working through my grief is talking about it. I also love talking about my daughter, Margareta. Sharing stories about her — and all my kids for that matter — is one sure fire way to bring a smile to my face.