Walking Each Other Home
Candlelighting at Bloedel for our children
Hannah’s birthday was last week. She would have turned 26 years old, but she’s been gone for nearly 14. It’s hard to imagine an adult Hannah, especially given how debilitated she was from her brain cancer and its treatment. I prefer to think of her as whole and well and six feet tall!
Before our family dinner honoring Hannah, I spent my morning in grief. Grief group that is. This summer, I co-led an 8-week program with my friend, Robin, another bereaved mom. This summer group was comprised of all bereaved parents, bringing all manner of loss among their adult children – sudden death, suicide, homicide, medically fragile death, Covid, and pneumonia. When Robin realized we had enough people to run a bereaved parent’s group, she asked me to co-lead with her. As a wise person once told me, “Only someone who has gone through it or is going through it will understand how you feel.” So true.
Robin and I often left our sessions feeling drained and heavy from the intense grief that was present among our group members. Every week as we processed the session, we took deep breaths and thanked each other for sharing in this experience. While there are other highly qualified facilitators in this Bloedel grief program, we always acknowledged that to lead a group of individuals who have lost children, it takes someone who has walked that path. Robin and I were also uniquely placed in that it has been nearly fourteen years since we each lost our children, Matthew and Hannah. We have survived, learned resilience, figured out some coping strategies, and gained some peace, which enabled us to carry the weight of other parents who were newly down this road.
These other parents have also been a gift to me. Whether individually or in group, I end up sharing some of Hannah’s story with other moms who are grieving. When life feels inevitably fragile or difficult, I can even lean on these women for support. In the Bloedel group program, as well as in IVC’s Compassionate Companion’s one-on-one support, it’s supposed to be me doing more of the giving. But as I have gotten to know these individuals, I have gratefully received gifts, hugs, music, and compassionate ears. Sometimes they offer a new perspective or a new understanding that helps me on my sad days.
I miss Hannah and will always wish she was physically here to celebrate her birthday with us. The day was not as heart-wrenchingly painful as it was years ago. Not as much as her last birthday, not as much as the year she relapsed, and not as much as the first year she was gone. But it still hurts. In two weeks, we’ll have our annual “Leo Party”, where we honor all of the family members born in August: sister-in-law, Linda, nephew, Chris, Chris’s step daughter, Allyson, Hannah, and me. Hannah loved being part of this Leo subset of the family. I recently found a new stash of pictures of Hannah that I’ve put on display in our dining room. The photos don’t take her place, but we can remember her and share our stories of her too-short life on earth. In our group, we call it Restorative Retelling, sharing stories and memories of our loved ones. It can turn pain into loving remembrance.
I am frequently amazed at the capacity and resilience of people going through the worst time of their lives. How well a bereaved person is doing often depends on them being brave enough to share their hearts and let people in. There is a time for self-isolation and withdraw, but on balance, healing also comes from being with others, listening, and sharing memories with those who are also hurting and grieving. Robin’s favorite Ram Dass quote sums it up: We’re all just walking each other home.