Strong Enough To Scream
Posted by Mishi Methven on Feb 26, 2012
Strong Enough To Scream
A new friend, Kristine Y., sent me an email with the following in it:
"Why do people tell us to be strong? Maybe because they hear it in the movies in such a motivational way, it seems that it does no harm or causes no interference in the grieving process. And then, people are always more comfortable when the grieving person does not give off the sense that he or she is falling apart. If the grieving person doesn't cry and express too many emotions, we wont feel too much either. The truth is that pain can be contagious. You cant be around someone in deep sadness, and not feel it, so if we put a lid on the grieving persons emotions, we wont have to deal with them ourselves.
But at what cost do we camouflage our grief? When we shelve our pain, it doesn't go away. Rather, it festers in a myriad of ways. We need to understand that strength and grief it together. We must be strong to handle grief, and in the end, grief brings out the strengths we never knew we had."
This could not have come at a better time, because for the past few days I've felt like the carefully constructed facade of "being ok" I've worked on for the last several months, is crumbling rapidly and I feel guilty about it. I keep avoiding making social dates because I don't feel like people want to sit down and just listen (again) to how broken I feel right now. I have a much easier time communicating my despair in blogs or emails than I do in person or on the phone. There are certain people that I can open up to, but most of the time I resort to crying only in therapy…or with Aimee late at night…or in the shower…or on walks. Even with people that I feel most comfortable with in the whole world, I don't like to fall apart. It's that silly word "strength", isn't it? That word that makes us feel as though to fall to your knees and sob will make others uncomfortable, will show your weakness, will create a scene. How we're taught when something horrific happens, to never talk about it lest we make others uncomfortable. Leave it in the past. The way that if you see someone out in public, a stranger crying, you just walk by, averting your eyes. How you say simply to someone who has returned to work after their husband died, "I'm sorry to hear about your husband". They respond with, "thank-you" and you follow-up with, "So, the meeting on Thursday will deal with the reconciliation of the 2010-2011 fiscal budget and…" Essentially brushing off this great tragedy. But it's okay, because they don't want to talk about it either. How sad that we've created this fear of showing emotion to one another. So many times on my walks I've wanted to show up on a friend or family members stoop, and just collapse in a puddle of tears. But I always stop myself. I feel like they wouldn't want me to "ruin" their day by doing that. That they wouldn't know what to do or say. That I would make them uncomfortable. That once I started I wouldn't be able to stop.
I've always thought the Christian way of grieving for people after they die in North America is fairly inhumane. You're supposed to go an sit through an emotional funeral service, say goodbye to your loved ones in 40 minutes or less, and then turn around and host a bunch of people at your home with food and chit chat. I can't tell you how many times I've stood at one of these "receptions", watching people greet one another with hugs and say over and over, "I haven't seen you in ages! How are you, what's new?". There is little talk or thought of the person who died, no space is created for tears once you step outside the designated "funeral" space. And once the funeral is done, your public show of grief is supposed to be over. You get three days of bereavement for the death of a child or spouse, and you're expected to go back to work, school, life, as though you're completely healed. In reality, you are never healed. You are never the same, you just learn to walk around with a huge hole in your heart and a mask over your face.
All these thoughts are starting to flood me because Stella has had a very slow week. We've had several times during these last 8 months when we've wondered, "is this it?", but that's not what I'm feeling right now. What I'm feeling is just profound sadness for what little my daughter has left. What little of herself, and what little time. Her speech has all but disappeared over the last 9 or so days. It's been the hardest part of her cancer so far. Without the ability to communicate verbally to us, we are, for the most part, stuck in this unbelievably sad and maddening vacuum of frustration. We keep trying to guess what she wants, but she just stares at us with her big blue eyes, unable to even tell us if we're right or wrong. I keep asking myself if I'm going to be strong enough to get through this next part--- the part where it's going to get very, very, bad and then Stella is going to slip through our fingers.
I had a nightmare last week that shook me to the core. In the dream, Aimee and I were at the zoo having a beautiful day with Stella--- just like we always used to. We got to a small hut-like area and a gentleman there held his arms out to our Stella. He took her and told us to come back for her in 45 minutes. We waved good-bye and Stella smiled and happily followed the man inside his hut. Aimee and I grabbed a drink and then returned to the hut. The man met us at the back door and handed us an urn full of ashes. "Here she is", he said to us. I woke up in a full anxiety attack, and it was hard to control and compose myself because the dream is truer than I often let myself think. One day soon---maybe in the next 8 weeks--- all we will have left of our Stella is ashes. How can I ever reconcile the thought of not holding my daughter ever again? For the rest of my life never feeling her warmth, smelling her head, letting her smile fill my heart. It's too much to bear.
I decided today that I am not going to be able to get through the foreseeable future without being able to grieve publicly, openly and loudly. I am not going to be healed three days after Stella dies. I am never going to be healed. I am not going to be able to control the flow of tears, the screams, the despair. I am not going to want to be hugged and coddled and pitied. I just want to be seen and heard as I lose the person I love most in the world.
And it is not because I'm not strong enough to stay silent and stoic. It's because I am strong enough to know what I need…and what I need is time, tears and truth.
Eating sprinkles!
Naptime for Sam & Poppa
Comments (38)
Val:
Mar 11, 2012 at 04:02 PM
Dear Mishi,
My heart aches along with yours. I have found with the loss of my son that grief comes in waves of mixed memories, regrets and heart wrenching feelings of anguish. I think that you do need the strength to only allow yourself to deal with the pain bit by bit as the waves of emotion hit. Your strength will allow you to stay afloat and yet feel over time all of the feelings of loss. It will also let you be there in the moments for Sam. Please do go to friends and family with your grief. I am still going to say I wish you strength.
Cat the Dog Walker:
Mar 04, 2012 at 12:41 AM
Hey there Mishi and Aimee,
Love you gals!!! Lucy understands...I read each of your blogs to her as she sits with her head on my lap. She totally understands!!! Come up to the dog park and scream out in the open. All the dogs will join in howling (me too).
Thank you for sharing...you are incredible and Stella is the luckiest girl in the world to have you as her parents. I believe your 'strength' has kept her with us much much longer than the 'experts' ever believed possible. My door is always open for you to stop by and scream - day or night.
Hugs, Catrina
Jess:
Mar 02, 2012 at 01:52 PM
Thank you for allowing me to share in this chapter in your life's book - the joy, the love, the tragedy of it all. Stella is a beauty, I love her, I think of you all everyday. I do believe it is "better to have loved and lost then not to have loved at all". You gave Stella to the world... I hope in time you will find her whisper in the wind and the will to keep going and find joy again.
jenn:
Mar 02, 2012 at 12:16 AM
Scream, throw stuff around, do whatever you need to do. Nobody can tell you how to grieve your child. You will always have a Stella shaped hole in your hearts. I pray that you find ways to cope with the grief that work for you. It will be a long, hard road; remember that you have friends and family to share some of the burden.
Colleen:
Mar 01, 2012 at 11:59 PM
I don't have any useful words to share about this journey you and Stella are on. It is your private experience and no one outside of you can judge you for how you handle it externally. People often make subjective judgements about others saying they "over-react/under-react" - it's crap - no one knows the extremity of what an individual experiences internally and how it is reflected in their behaviours. And its irrelevant isn't it? You are the ones who have to cope with your own journeys, the joys, and lately the immense grief and pain also.
We are all so very priviledged to be able to witness your journey, and stand by and feel the sadness and other feelings your story triggers in us.
Strong is not what needs to be measured here in my opinion, what to me is important is whether or not the community around you has the courage to continue to openly witness your raw experience - no one else has to endure the experience second by second for the rest of their lives - only you three are living it.
I don't know if I'm making any sense, but I really feel for you as so many do - I agree with what everyone has said about how strong you are - but what is more important to me is that you be allowed to feel all that you feel, express everything you need to so that you can process what you feel, and that you be supported fully as you go through this time of your lives and come out the other side able to be present for each other, to stay connected somehow to Stella, and to revel in your newest little one.
Thank you for your courage and ability to share and remind us all how important it is to love and live in the moments we have.
Lynn:
Mar 01, 2012 at 11:54 PM
I lost my oldest child, a son, December 28, 2009. He was 34, which means I had so much more time with him, then you will have with Stella. The thing is, it is never enough time. I was directed to your site by a friend of my son, Mark. I think to show me how lucky I was? To have had him for 34 years. Not enough time. I check in on you weekly, your thoughts, so different from mine, yet so much the same. Being strong is a curse. I am told all the time how strong I am, and I hate it. If anything, it makes me feel so horrible. Is this the sum of my son's life, that he is dead, and I am still alive, and strong? Cry, scream, hit someone, do what you must to survive losing your precious baby. You are so right about grief. A good friend told me recently that I make others uncomfortable because it always comes back to my Mark, my son. I felt so guilty, making my friends feel uncomfortable, and yet, so bitter. Damn everyone who has not gone through this pain. You will live, and laugh, and enjoy Sam. But you will always carry the "what if?" "where would she be now?" "what would she look like now?" "what would she say to me now?" "what if?"
We are strong because we have no choice. You are strong because you have no choice. You and Stella are loved by many. I am a 54 year old woman in another city, we have never seen each other, will never meet, but I love you and Stella, and I think of you all every day. Be at peace, however you find peace, we cannot change what is. All my love, Lynn
Dodge:
Mar 01, 2012 at 03:58 PM
We are all leaving on a bus someday, bound for somewhere. Stella Joy's bus is leaving soon, but it's been delayed So we're all at the station, and it's a long and prolonged goodbye. I hope that someday, when I am eventually faced with a similar situation, I am as fortunate as both of you and be granted a wish for a long goodbye. Thank you for being very unselfish with sharing your personal experience(s) of a universal reality. Just be reassured that in this plasma of existence that we all share, our thoughts and prayers are with you.
It was a privilege to have met Stella Joy and her family and I hope that in the best way I know how (photography), I lifted off some sadness, if only for a very short time.
Flo Bivens:
Feb 29, 2012 at 07:38 PM
Again, my heart aches with you. First, let me thank you for your letter...I was so amazed, awed, that you would write, even... could write. Told Christine, on blip.
It has taken me a day or two, for I am still bouncing off the wall with the same old mixture of emotions. Baby Boy was born Monday nite, about 11PM. Adoptive Parents arrived just after. JJ is now referred to as the Birth Mother. I visited hospital yesterday, wrapped those tiny fingers around my finger....and, inside I was sobbing my eyes out...kept my head down so nobody could see my trembling lips, or the tears welling up in my eyes. As I stood there, several minutes, I thought of you, and Stella, Sam...and how hard the mysteries of life are to handle...when they're on the rough side of the board.
When I left, after 2 1/2 hrs, tho I am very happy for the new parents (they are a delightful, energetic, successful couple...who insist we will always be 'part of the family')..I sat in my car, crying for at least 10 minutes before I could drive my heavy heart home.
This evening, reading your blog, tears are flowing...again...for all of us. Thank you so much for sharing...and I dread the dreaded day.
Always in my heart and prayers....flo
k.:
Feb 28, 2012 at 10:41 PM
Thank goodness this child has you to love her and hold her while on this earth, to tell us about her so that we can know her, too, and thank God that you will not let her be forgotten.
Kim:
Feb 28, 2012 at 08:41 PM
You do whatever you need to do and to hell with anyone who doesn't understand. I want to scream and cry for you and I don't even know you. Sending you big hugs.
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