grief

Losing a family member is one of the most traumatic life events; Families must support one another to endure the five stages of grief and get through it together.

  • Lucinet Luna
    Published 14 days ago
    108

    108

    I am sitting in a dim lit living room at 6 in the morning, I am supporting my close friend in being the best version of herself, for her. We agreed we would wake up at 5:45 this morning and work on things, for her that is catching a moment of solitude while catching up at work: for me, I needed quietude.
  • Toni Hitchcock
    Published 14 days ago
    A complicated grief

    A complicated grief

    He was the most outgoing kid you could possibly meet. Walking through the school hall with him was like walking into Cheers - everybody knew his name. He was a smart funny lovable kid.
  • Michelle L McDevitt
    Published 14 days ago
    Goddamn Flowers

    Goddamn Flowers

    Flowers! God damn flowers! Just yesterday I had been saying how flowers are a temporary gift, and how I would rather have something that will last rather than flowers. Although they are pretty and do smell good, they die so quickly and are forgotten after being tossed in the trash just as quickly. When will I learn to keep my big mouth shut? January 1st, 2017 came paying no attention to my objection , and as the morning of the first day of this new year approached, I knew where I would be, and what I would be doing; same as the last new year and will be doing every new year henceforth. So, after working myself up in order to cover up my very old feelings of apprehension, fear, sadness, anger, frustration, and all the other emotions that one might feel beginning a 2nd new year with a trip to a cemetery to visit their child's grave to take down his Christmas decor. I left alone, not wishing to have anyone witness just another show of weakness and/or anger outbursts which was more likely than not to occur, and I just felt that I needed to be there alone today. The drive seemed to take forever, even though there was very little traffic, and the cemetary is just a short ways from my house. I pulled into this place of shawdows and began the long torturous journey to the very end of the cemetery. I knew it would be colder than it was when I set up the X-mas decorations, so I came prepared this time. I pulled up to the granite stone that marks the place where my babies ashes are buried, I took a deep breath and began to put on the many items that would keep me a bit warmer, and allow me to stay a bit longer to visit with my son. I removed the lights from the granite stone that no longer lit up. Then I removed the glittery branches, his christmas tree that no longer even had the cord attached at all, his stocking, which secretly I had hoped would be empty, but the candy and the special thing I had so carefully and thoughtfully hid inside had not been touched. I began to cry while going next to the red tree skirt that I had put not only as the base for the decorations, but I wanted to keep my baby as warm and protected from the cold breath of winter that I could. The makeshift blanket easily came off the granite, but would not budge from the concrete that held the stone in its place. I pulled even harder and to my horror, it ripped right where I had pulled. I gasped and yelled out the word "No". I always take special care to keep every little thing that is connected to my son in perfect condition so I can pack it and then label the box that it will be preserved in with the occasion and the year. I cannot say exactly why I do this, but I just know I have to do it. Pissed off, I went to find something I could use not only to take back what winter had destroyed, but also to rid my son from the ice that imprisoned him beneath it. Thank God my oldest son works construction and he usually left his work tools in the trunk. I opened the trunk and sure enough his tools were there. I grabbed a big claw hammer chuckling an almost sinister kind of laugh and returned to show who was the boss today! The ice was thick and had frozen itself to the granite, so much care had to be taken to remove the ice that hugged the bottom of the granite stone threatening to never let go. After quite awhile of using the claw hammer to slowly chisel away the ice, my fingers that held the hammer were beginning to hurt, and I was trying to figure out why that would be happening when I had put 4 pairs of gloves on to prevent that exact thing. I put the hammer down and walked to the car, that I had kept running in case I needed to get warmth quickly. And I needed warmth quickly at that point. But my fingers hurt even worse when I put them over the hot air on the dash. I rubbed my hands and began to wrap my hurting fingers in a dish towel I had brought with me to clean Seamus's resting place. He always liked things tidy. The towel felt like it was cracking my fingers into pieces. I swore a couple of times complaining to myself when it came to me, and I could hear my son laughing at me for being a dumbass and putting disposable gloves, like the ones used in hospitals, under fabric gloves. And I was a dumbass for not realizing that as the ice stuck to my gloves and began to melt through my layers, it would freeze the disposable glove and become an instant freezer. I might as well put my fingers in the snow and ice without gloves rather than than insulating the ice helping it to freeze the hell out of my fingers. I just mumbled the words " Ya, ya laugh at your mom as her fingers fall off from frostbite." Fixing the finger problem, I began to chisel again. It was a laborious task because I had to break the ice slowly and carefully in small patches so as not to hit the granite stone. This actually required precision and more swings with the hammer while I was barely able to see because of the many layers of clothing I had to put on to keep from getting hypothermia. I took a little rest and put my face next to the only thing that could get me that close to my son. I felt the sad words " Mom, you don't need to do this, and I would do it for you if I could" to which I replied silently " I know you would baby, and I want to do it for you, Seamus."
  • Tiffani Johnson
    Published 16 days ago
    To My Little One..

    To My Little One..

    This may be a hard read for some of you, maybe because you have experienced it, or maybe because you are terrified of it happening. Remember, be kind in all things, you never know what someone is truly going through. You never know who needs a little ray of sunshine or a sliver of hope. With that being said, in honor of Pregnancy and Infant Loss awareness month, I present to you, "To My Little One."
  • Kathleen Elizabeth Comfort-Steinbaecher
    Published 18 days ago
    A Storm is brewing

    A Storm is brewing

    I've found myself in states of deep sadness, then, in a moment anger rears it's head and I'm consumed with rage....who am I angry at? My son? Sometimes; myself? absolutely! However, a bulk of my rage is centered on every single person who is able to live their life without this pain and loss; those who laugh and smile, those who have no idea how painful and debilitating my life has become - I'm angry that they don't see! That "important" to them is their job, their money, what they will do for fun next weekend.... Does that make me a terrible person? Maybe I am, maybe my rage and depression do make me a terrible person....I'm certainly not the person I was; my blinders have been ripped off, and I see this world as it truly is - a depressing place filled with hate and sadness. Do I add to it by these feelings of rage and darkness? That, makes me even sadder and angrier if I do.... I have become a wheel that continues to spin and never goes anywhere. I have allowed the depression to place thoughts in my head that I would never voice...to voice them would alert those around me to lock me up and throw away the key. I write, it helps - it may be nonsensical and misunderstood, but it's mine, and it helps me purge the darkness for a little while. Tears are not cleansing, they are the byproduct of the deep wounds in my heart and soul; the bleeding of my wounds... I have become jaded and mean... not overtly, no, I hide my cynicism and nasty thoughts from others, but the real me, the new me, the broken me is not kind, is not happy for others, is not helpful....this me, has become a monster - an angry, cynical, sad monster. I don't care if someone dislikes me, I don't care if someone thinks I'm full of sh*t....I don't care about anyone or what they might think! No one knows me anymore....not the real me, not the person who at any given moment could slide into the abyss of depression and do what I've always considered to be the unthinkable.... it's no longer unthinkable, it's just there...it is a thought. I stuff that thought down, and refuse to take action, not because I'm noble or strong or any of the other things people have said to me - No, it's because I'm weak. I'm fragile and weak. I don't WANT to be this way, but once the blinders come off, you can't put them back on! There is a storm brewing in me, and when it unleashes, when I am unable to continue shoving it down, further and further; when it rises to the surface, I am afraid of what that storm will do. Will it provide me the strength to leave this sh*t hole of a world on my terms, or will it push me further into the darkness blocking all light from me? Is healing from a loss like this even possible???? I have become so good at making people believe I'm "doing better" .... what a joke! If they could see inside my mind they would cringe in fear and pain....it doesn't "get better," I've just learned how to become the robot that I am called to be. I love my children - both living and dead and living while one of my children isn't is like a puzzle that is missing a piece that brings the whole puzzle together.....I will never be whole again....never.
  • Misty
    Published 18 days ago
    Growing Up In A Religious Home

    Growing Up In A Religious Home

    As a young adolescent girl growing up in a religious home, I always wanted to be like the other kids. I wanted to live life as they did because I thought they had it better than me. I envied the relationship they had with their parents and I longed for the same closeness I observed.  
  • Christina St-Jean
    Published 19 days ago
    Chrissy Teigen, John Legend Lose Son Jack

    Chrissy Teigen, John Legend Lose Son Jack

    #ChrissyTeigen's latest tweet broke my heart.
  • Jaeger Boi
    Published 20 days ago
    Beautiful Family

    Beautiful Family

    I woke up to the familiar voice of my dad, I quickly grabbed my phone to check the time. It was currently two in the morning, I blinked away the lingering sleep left in my eyes, threw the covers off and began walking down the stairs. As I neared the bottom step I overheard my father speaking with my Aunt.
  • Kendal Thompson
    Published 20 days ago
    In my own skin.

    In my own skin.

    Out of the many tattoos I have imprinted on my skin, the ones linked to my parents seem to catch the most attention. The curiosity they spark always makes me laugh a little since my parents, like most, were the only ones against me getting tattoos in the first place. To be honest, I actually would have never placed myself as someone to get tattoos dedicated to their parents, but as my fathers health declined in 2007, a need for closeness within my family unit was sparked in me.
  • Emily Taylor
    Published 20 days ago
    Your Identity Redefined Through Death
  • Shelley
    Published 21 days ago
    When there are no words
  • Melonie S Shelton
    Published 22 days ago
    Rachel is on a cloud

    Rachel is on a cloud

    Rachel’s little, limp and precious body lay on the floor. Did she shoot the gun so hard she fell down, she wonders? Did she really just shoot her daddy? Rachel’s body feels weird, like when she is in the swimming pool and feels like she doesn’t weigh anything. She goes to scratch her back and feels something like a bug or a bird or something. Its wings! She has fairy wings! But wait, she looks down and sees herself lying on the floor. Are those angel wings? Did she fall asleep and is having a dream? As she looks down again she sees her daddy picking her up from the hardwood floor. She sees her body and the reddest blood on the floor. She sees her daddy’s shirt with red blood, her blood, as his tears splatter onto the blood turning it a pinkish color. But, but, but this isn’t what she meant or planned! She was going to shoot her daddy because he had been bad. What happened to what she planned? Daddy, or John is what everyone calls him, is just sitting in his chair holding her tiny body.