Living with Loss

Rule your mind or it will rule you."  — Horace What a powerful thought when applied to grieving.  It made me think... When grieving, one must rule their mind, or grief will rule. Grief is sadistic and insidious.  Grief cares not for the heart. Grief is selfish. Grief smothers your breath, steals your joy,  eclipses your soul.  Grief is powerful.  Grief will hijack your thoughts and  take you down  a treacherous path     of haunting memories  and lost dreams. Grief is a part of you,         never separated,                    never disentangled.                             Grief must be trained and controlled. Grief must be guided, cultivated, refined,  embraced, loved, accepted, respected, &  held.    mwlambeth   © 2021

  Wyatt It's been over ten years since we said our final goodbye to the human form of our son. Following his death we created a nonprofit organization to help support the Wyatt Lambeth Legacy Welding Scholarship at Lively Technical College. Through this foundation, we granted $500  scholarships to 38 students in the Lively Welding Program and distributed multiple  grinders and Georgia boots.  The scholarships have been a healing salve and each donor, each recipient, and each person who applied for a scholarship was and is a valuable part of our grief journey. Selecting recipients was challenging and we always wished we could give more, could help more. Ultimately, the gift is knowing we do what we can and each person who received a scholarship, a grinder, or a new pair of boots, was one step closer to the future he or she set in motion.  In our hearts we are confident Wyatt would be pleased to help his fellow students in this way.  While we have dissolved t...

My friend died. Its been a few months now, but in the process of grieving, that is not a long time. In my life, I haven't lost a lot of friends, so this path is a bit uneasy for me. Yet, with this loss, as with the others I've experienced, I can't help but first be grateful for the gift of a unique and wonderful life. I miss her laugh, her visits and telephone calls that always began with "hello sweetie." I miss singing at the top of our lungs to old time rock and roll, dressing up at Halloween and driving around at Christmas to look at the lights. This was my friend with whom I shared most of my life, from early childhood to well into my 50s.  My friend with whom I slugged through adolescence, and dared and dreamed a brief bit of our twenties. Ultimately our differences tore us apart and there was a long period of separation of our daily lives. We did not separate ourselves out of hatred or disdain, we simply recognized we had become very different people fr...

Sitting on the roadside this evening, I balanced my camera and tried to take a picture of the moon. It's a special place under the light of the moon. We have shared time together, sacred time. It was the moon that guided us home after Wyatt died, my heart knew it was him following us as the dark winter night carried on for hours. We've had many a conversation, me and the moon.  We are usually alone so we can talk. But tonight was different. There were others with us. After Wyatt’s death we quickly found shelter in the world of others who had lost a child. We, all different, knew similar pain. The parting gift of our children was bringing us together as friends who could hold each other in the darkness of grief and beyond. As I said, the moon and I were not along tonight. Do you see them, the children who brought us together? There they are. Our beautiful children dancing in the sky.  Greeting us with love. I know y...

Yesterday I spent the better part of the day going through my son's things. I am the mother of an only child, thus I was want to save every little item he ever created. I recall from my years in a strong and wonderful support group there was this recurrence of the year seven. It seemed to me, people had the capacity to act at the seven year benchmark.  We are in year seven and I finally have the capacity to work my way through 20 years of memories. Coincidence, possibly. It doesn't matter why, it just is.  This time, seven years later, I was able to manage the memories and not quickly turn into a puddle of tears. I consider this a gift. I am grateful for capacity. I have come to this point by way of consistent support and love from family and friends, through counseling and medication, through exercise and meditation, through prayer and faith. The sources of my persistence are nearly endless.  When the fear takes hold, the pra...

"Ring the bells that still can ring Forget your perfect offering There is a crack in everything That's how the light gets in" ~ Anthem by Leonard Cohen

I was thinking of when I created this blog and named it.... Living with Loss, I knew I would have to live with this loss, but at that time I wasn't living, I was surviving. It was a goal of sorts… but also a mission to keep breathing. It is only now, over six years since the death of my son that I have begun to know how to live again. The sharpness of those first months and years have softened and the pangs of grief strike less frequently, though when they do they rage with vengeance. What a journey of emotion these past six and half years have been from overwhelming and consuming grief, disbelief and shock, depression and fear, finally acceptance and the incorporation of the loss into our lives.  I remember in the first months after Wyatt's death, I would walk through the house and tell myself he had gone on a very long trip to a place far, far away. He was unable to contact me and I unable to contact him. I later learned counselors think this is a poor method for ...

  Some of us gathered to remember our children, it was a sad and beautiful thing. As we stood in the chill of a Florida evening and shared memories of our children, they were with us in a way. Each parent shared an item that evoked memories, stuffed toys, food, photos, or some memento and then explained why they brought that particular thing. How wonderful children are, and not just the child himself or herself, but all the joy and wonderment they bring to our lives and to our world. We are a world filled with millions of unique souls. I feel so privileged and honored to know these children in such a special way, that these parents, once unknown to me, have embraced my pain and hold me in their supportive arms. They stand beside me today, and will be with me tomorrow or a decade from now, for they walk in my shoes. I deeply care for each of them, I want to help carry their burden and share this sorrow with them. There is healing that comes from shar...

When Wyatt was a little boy and didn't feel well, he often struggled to explain what or where or how he hurt. What does it feel like, I would ask. "It's blue pain," he replied. As a mom, this frustrated me so because I knew something was ailing him, but " blue " pain didn't help me in determining what was wrong and how I could soothe him. I lamented over this many a time as he used this term for quite a while.  I finally determined it just meant he didn't feel well. As an adult we may have an off day where we just feel like hunkering down in the safety of a blanket, and escaping in the words of a good book. There are times we just need to be, not think, care, or worry... just be. Blue pain is not obvious. Blue pain is encompassing and nefarious. Grief has become my blue pain. Grief doesn't present itself so prominently any more, like a stomachache or headache;. This grief used to strut around like a rooster. I knew its ...

Watching the one you love die due to traumatic injury is trauma itself. The death of a loved one is so difficult to integrate into our lives. When that loved one is a child it can be more challenging because a child’s death comes with a uniqueness that makes incorporating the death into our lives very difficult. Our own beliefs and personalities can drive how we manage the grieving process. As a child I observed many people deal with the death of a loved one. I guess I adopted some of those things as my own. My parents never shielded me from the reality of death and for that I am ever grateful. But, there is still a personal learning curve and there are moments of witnessing death that sit upon my heart which I’ve never forgotten. I recall the young man in high school who died from leukemia, his open casket, the ball cap on his head. I recall crying from deep within my soul. Though I did not know him well at all, for years I went to visit his grave. I don’t know why, I just...

I just washed the sheets and as I made up the bed the side of top sheet fell across the bedrail. The thought of death rushed crossed my mind, the white sheet across the bed, the body on the bed, the hospital, the goodbyes, the pity of it all.  So often the slightest of thing will bring a totally unconnected thought, yet be so tightly entwined in my grief. This life full of simple daily actions is filled with little sparks that fuel the fire of horrors that fill my mind. I just wonder when that will stop. That ritual drive to work fills my stomach with bile and angst every time. The sight of a young man with curly brown hair sends my heart to rushing. The smell of the hardware store never fails to cause my knees to buckle, the acrid smell hits my nostril and my stomach turns, the tears well in my eyes and I want to run away, far away. It's like it was all yesterday. How can one escape the face of death when everything around is covered in its shroud. The river flow...

That moon called to me last night. During the first year or two of Wyatt's death, I often sat outside at night, just me and the moon. I would sit there for however long we needed together. I would cry and then somehow feel better after I talked to the moon as if it were Wyatt. Sometimes, I would wake at 2:00 in the morning and go in the back yard and sit under the light of the moon. The moon would peek through the trees as if playing a game with me. I would challenge myself to get a clear view as if we were having a conversation. Last night that moon called me again; I wrapped myself in Wyatt's quilt and sat under its brightness and talked to my boy. It's been a while since I've done that; it's not easy, it takes a lot to open your heart enough to feel the sorrow.  I had to cry. I had to tell him I missed him. After a bit, I came inside and as I went to close the window shutters, I looked out and there was the beautiful moon shining in the window ...

When we share time with our children, explore life through their eyes and enjoy simple moments, we are blessed with some pretty awesome gifts, both for them and for us.    On this fourth anniversary of Wyatt’s death, we choose to remember his life and all the joy he brought to our world. This world is a better place because he was here.   We are better people because he was our son. We choose to remember his life; forever our beautiful boy, our Little Warrior. The Little Warrior When choosing his name, we always knew our son must have a strong name, for he would be strong, not just in muscle but in will and temperament. His name could not be common nor could it be odd, this name had to describe him, give him the character distinctive to the person we knew he would become. We never really came to a decision and as my belly grew to an enormous size the question of his name was still unanswered.   My projected due date came and went.   Jim’s gra...

  I looked new grief in the face today. I hurt. I saw the pain, the hopelessness, the deep sorrow of grieving a child. His eyes were tired, and then he laid his head down on the mailbox that stood between us, my neighbor and me. The fatigue of grieving covered his face and his body was bent with the heaviness of it all. This is his second loss, the twin to the son he lost thirty years ago. This one comes with trapping and thoughts unlike the first. It’s hit him hard. There are no more children, his wife is dead. He’s alone. He’s lonely. He’s sad. I ache for him. I want to make it all better for him, but I know I can’t, this is his journey. He says I’m strong. He sees me breathing, walking, he believes me to be strong. I share that my times of wailing and crying are done in private, and it hurts so badly to open your heart and allow the sorrow to be, to know the absence, to acknowledge the death, to understand all that was lost and to have it seared into the soul and vanq...

When this journey began three and half years ago the anguish that filled my soul was so intense and so encompassing, there was nothing that could enter my mind but the horror of death and the absence of life. My soul was engorged with grief. It seemed writing was my balm, an outlet to share my hurt and the cathartic flow of words somehow released the pain. Yet now, words have no solace. Now, the grief is different, its changing to a more erratic and unpredictable creature that tucks neatly in the center of my life, lurking for the opportunity to jump in my face and throw me back to the reality of death. It's very sinister using hope as a weapon. Being blanketed in sorrow was easier, knowing nothing but sadness is simple; living with grief and weaving it into the fabric of life is daunting. Just when you think your moving forward, grief attacks and the silence of life's emptiness booms in my head. Hope dissipates. I understa...

There was a single cloud sitting in the sky, it seemed as if it were again he and me. For a moment, I felt so close, but ever fleeting the cloud disappeared as did the feeling of he and me. Quickly it drifted and vanished. No more he and me. Just like that, gone quickly,   silently,   mysteriously,     forever, gone.      

I've been harboring these woeful thoughts for quite a while now, pushing them to the deep and dark places of my being. I know it's not healthy, but what is a person to do? Living goes on and like it or not, I'm a part of the living. I know all the psychological precepts of how suppressing our emotions can bring disastrous consequences and for a while I somehow made myself believe that I was coping with this tragedy of ours. I know now it was false coping and how seriously dangerous that can be. Apparently, the emotions were just simmering in my gut, bubbling every now and again bringing out a little tear or short cry. I thought maybe the grieving that was so absolutely exhausting and encompassed my being with tormenting agony was over.  I could in fact go through the days and manage my self enough not to cry at the innocuous objects that frequently spark my memories to light, sting my soul, and remind me he's dead. I am pretty good at showing that facade,...

Wyatt would have been 23 this year. While his birthday has now passed, I can't help but feel multiple emotions about his death. I am trying, really trying, to not allow his death define my life; yet, as I breathe in those thoughts of gratefulness and thankfulness of being his mom, I breathe out the anger and resentment that I had to see my beautiful boy lay dead in a hospital bed and say goodbye to my only child. It's unacceptable to me, maybe even unfathomable. Those first weeks and months after Wyatt's death, I told myself I would believe that he had gone on a long trip...Montana or Alaska or someplace he wanted to visit.  That following his visit he decided to live there and I would not see him for a very very long time. That he was in remote wilderness where he could not contact me nor I him.  He was just away. I know now that is probably not too uncommon for parents whose child dies, but I've also learned it is a useful coping mechanism that shepherds us through ...

I was going through some things today, cleaning and organizing. At first, it was fine; after a while, it broke me. Being a bereaved parent it's difficult to do most any task that involves pieces of the past and not have it conjure an emotional response. Frankly, my emotions can spark with the most mundane and benign thing; it does not have to relate to Wyatt to strike the proverbial chord, but today it was. Nothing dramatic, not photos, videos or audios, I was going through some Christmas cards we received from the year after Wyatt's death. I got through about one third of them when it hit me and thrust me to the floor in heaves of nausea and screaming through the tears. I began to wail and sob and ache at the absence of my child. It can't be, it simply can't be. But, it is. After a while, the wave of sorrow and sickness subsided so I could continue with my task, I laid down amid the various papers and books and began to look through them. I found...

The death of an only child leaves an indelible mark on the soul. There is a vacant place in living that is never filled, never eased. I know that now; if I live to be 110, it will be true then. When your only child dies it's one thing, when your only child dies before he had children of his own, it's another thing.  I'm not saying any loss of a child is greater than another; on the contrary, they all come with unique challenges. It's just that that when life prances around shouting "look at me, look at me" with the young boy walking around the lake holding his mom's hand, grandma tucking her granddaughter in at night, graduation ceremonies and proms, tournaments, plays and recitals, weddings, new jobs, and babies, they all make it so painfully clear how my time with all of that is over. Stolen. With most things in this life we have a choice, but not this. This is not my choice. This is so different from something we choose, it's not what job to take or...