Chapter Leader in The Compassionate Friends Organization
MARIE LEVINE
Author of "First You Die: Learn to Live After The Death Of Your Child"
April 20, 2004

 

My credentials are a lot less complicated than most special guests. Simply stated, I am a bereaved parent. My just turned 22-year old son Peter was killed in 1993 in a horrendous auto accident while being driven home by a friend.

Now, there are a lot of professional counselors and therapists out there who can talk to you about the many "stages" of grief. I am not one of them. I am simply a Mom who enjoyed a fabulous 22 years with a terrific son who was robbed of his life and left me here to figure out how to go on without him.

It's interesting that today is the fifth anniversary of the disaster at Columbine High School in Colorado. I have often referred to that terrible day. Five years ago I was where those survivors are today.
Then, as now, it was the only story on the news. I sometimes think that was the very beginning of people recognizing how important it is to acknowledge the lifetime effect a child's death has on the survivors and how possible the impossible truly is.

 Today I'm going to talk a bit about my own experience. I want to share some of what I've discovered. I've discovered that even though your world seems to have ended, ( and indeed the world you've come to know has ended) it is possible to find a new "normal."

I've discovered that though we control very little in our lives we do have choices.

I've discovered that time is my friend.

And I've discovered that hope - the opposite of desolation can be found even when all seems lost.

And that it is the restoration of hope that signals we are on our way to the resolution of our grief after such a devastating loss. Life can be beautiful again. Losing a child is an indescribable experience. We all learn to live through loss in our lives. We start early and learn, as we grow, to recover from some truly devastating losses - our grandparents, our pets, aunts, uncles, mothers, fathers husbands, wives, sometimes even sisters and brothers.

We can lose our dignity.
We can lose our reputation.

All acceptable, recoverable losses in the grand school of life as we know it.

But losing a child is the ultimate life lesson. What we learn from this is that we are forever changed and because we know that most people live a fully accomplished life without ever having faced such a tragedy and only some seem singled out, it becomes our CHOICE whether the experience expands or diminishes us.

No loss can prepare us for the loss of our child. It's just different. It's a loss so unthinkable, so calamitous we fear even letter a thought of the possibility enter our consciousness. When we hear about someone losing a child we are immediately grateful it wasn't us. When it's someone we know, we don't know how to respond. When the uninitiated hears about someone who has lived through such a loss - they often turn away and shudder at the thought. "If it was me - I would die!" is the most common response.

Well, that is the first thing you learn. YOU DO NOT DIE FROM THIS!

You may think you should because you just want to be with your kid again and you are desperate to stop the pain. However, you survive and enter a whole new world - no longer a civilian, you are now an alien in this new place and your life begins all over again.

Disbelief becomes your constant companion. There is no comfort to be found. People try. They are terrified at the totality of your grief. The usual attempts to comfort us brings on a wholly different and unexpected set of responses. Anger, rage, impatience. We scare ourselves. And there is real fear. An almost paralyzing fear - because once you know the impossible is possible - everything changes.

Early grief is a time of agonizing confusion. We hurt so much and we have no resources to comfort ourselves. Nothing - no amount of preparation can prepare us for the totality of such a loss.

Be assured - every early response is okay. You may think you are going crazy because of the jumble of disconnected thoughts racing through your brain. But it's okay - it's called grief.

Peter was killed only blocks from home. Four young men in a car and only one died. The other three were only scratched. Go figure.

During my first barely surviving days my conscious loss was only of Peter. Peter was my only child. Trying to grasp the reality of his death was so consuming, I didn't realize how enormous the loss was. How much of me died too. He was everything.

It took time for me to realize that even more than Peter was lost. It wasn't long though, before the full scope of my loss began to be understood. I didn't even know if I was a Mom anymore. Certainly, I would never hear that word directed at me.

No more birthday or holiday celebrations.
No more shopping for presents.
No more listening to the events of his day.
No more buying his favorite foods.
No more photos.
No more phone calls.
No more being as important as a mother is to a child.

Peter was my future! Impossible but true. I had lost my future. From there the losses began to pile up.

A daughter-in-law, a wedding, grandchildren,
A comfortable old age surrounded by my expanding family.
Unconditional love, someone to leave everything to... all gone in an instant.

Not to mention the people in my life who would no longer be able or willing to cope with my torment and who would drift away and out of my life. I was clearly in uncharted territory. Or was I?

I began to read. I read everything I could find on death and dying. Especially on paternal bereavement. I began going to meeting of The Compassionate Friends an international support group for bereaved parents and siblings.

I became a prolific "journaler" making entries several times a day. Whenever thoughts of desperation filled my mind- which was very often - I would open my journal and begin to write to God - to Peter - to the fates. My journaling ultimately led to writing my regular column, and becoming editor of, a newsletter for bereaved parents.

And it was the response of those who read what I was writing that led to finally writing my book, “First You Die.�?So many reader said they felt I was writing about them. Ultimately I realized how universal our responses are even though each one of us has had such a unique loss.

I set to building memorials for my son.
A page in his college yearbook - that he never got to see.
A scholarship at his high school.
A Kitty Pavilio at an animal shelter we used to visit - Peter loved cats.
A bench in a neighborhood park.

Slowly I came to realize I had not been singled out. There were many like me. Walking the streets, riding the trains - looking like regular folks. But in truth, aliens, like me. Civilians cannot know about this place where everything is just a tad out of sync - like a film slightly off it's sound track.

Aliens go about their damaged lives trying to get their footing while re-investing in themselves. And for me - now childless, there was an added dimension to my grief.

Who was I?
What was I?
What would become of me?

So many terrifying possibilities. I'm sure many of you know the feeling. Those of us who have survived the loss of a child recognize in each other the same kindred spirit of war veterans. No need to explain. We simply understand.

Shortly after Peter died, I began to explore the possibility of a spiritual life. It just didn't seem possible that anyone as vibrant and alive and energetic as Peter could simply evaporate. I felt as though i had been cut loose, floating in the universe, unable to grab onto anything. I need to know if so much of what I was reading implied, there really could be another place for us.

My search soon lead me to a young, fairly unknown medium named James Van Praagh. I managed to get a private reading (don't forget - it was 10 years ago - haha) and the experience was life altering for me. James convinced me that Peter goes on. I write about that reading
 in detail in my book.

Being convinced that Peter's beautiful spirit continues restored my hope - that instead of traveling further away from him as the years pass - we are getting closer to being together again. Since that initial reading, I've witnessed so many of my bereaved friends receive information from the other side. I've watched and cried with them and been astounded at the evidence of an ongoing spiritual existence.

And my precious son has assured me on so many occasions that he is still with me. I relish those moments. Learn to recognize signs that your son or daughter are trying to let you know that they are with you.

And take comfort in the positive stories of others who have experienced some sort of message from the other side. I find I no longer need a message to be reassured of his ongoing existence. I think I know that it is as hard to get a message through from that side to us as it is to get a message across to them. The psychic airwaves are very busy these days! Especially with all that cell phone traffic!

During the past ten years I've met hundreds of bereaved parents and every newly bereaved parent that I meet brings me back to my earliest days. I never believed then that I would be able to go on and I know how impossible it seems to many of you. But everyone grieves in their own way and in their own time.

For those who are newly bereaved I would say that grieving is hard work. Don't put demands on yourself to "get better" quickly. You're not sick. You're broken. You can be mended but you'll always have a missing piece. You are not in control. Nothing in your experience could have prepared you for this. Take it one hour, one day at a time.

Don't listen to the advice of the uninitiated - even professionals I've met, who suddenly loose a child, admit they knew nothing until it happened to them.

Don't expect a miracle cure. There isn't one. A broken heart can only be repaired. Read all you can about people who have survived similar losses. Listen to their stories. Discover what those further along on the path have experienced on their journey. Learn from them. They were once newly bereaved.

You may discover that reaching out to help others who are newly bereaved, helping those who arrive here frightened and alone, may be your best therapy. Hope returns. You are not alone.

We are about to enter the second most difficult time of the year. The end of year holidays are difficult enough with "joy" being shouted from every rooftop. But for me, this time of year is even harder. Spring. As much as I love it again (I hated it for years) it still reminds me that everything returns ...except Peter.

With Mother's Day and Father's Day embedded in the season, I am reminded, too, of just how alone a person can feel. It's a season of complications and a magnifier of all we have lost. I always allow myself a little bit of a wallow at this time of year, until I see the first buds on the trees and the first sounds of the songbirds returning.

As the weather warms and brightens I can't help but feel glad I am still here to enjoy a beautiful day. And glad too, that I have gained the strength to reach out to those who have joined me on this terrible journey. Being here to lend a hand and hold out a light has restored my own sense of purpose and given me a means to measure how far I've traveled. I've met some extraordinary people along the way who have enriched my life and taught me lessons I might never have learned.

In July I'll be going to the National Conference of The Compassionate friends. I'll meet some old friends and make some new ones and keep learning new coping skills. And I'll talk about Peter and everyone else's kids .. the way we talked about our kids when they were here.

Being together with 2000 people who really understand what it feels like ... who can enjoy a good laugh as much as a good cry ...it's simply the best therapy. As your journey continue you will discover that you too have choices. Ultimately you can choose to despair or you can choose to relish the life you have left to live.

Remember, nobody gets out of here alive! In time we will all be together again. No need to rush.
And always know - our kids are watching and rooting for our survival. During the time we have left here in this life, we owe it to them to live our lives in tribute to their memory - to make them proud of us - for as long as we live, they too shall live.

Bless you all and thanks for "listening."

 

 

 

 

 Marie is the inspirational author of 'First You Die: Learn to Live After the Death of Your Child.' Inspired by the loss of her only child, this book has been acknowledged as a significant addition to the literature of bereavement.

For the past several years Marie has led the Manhattan Chapter of The Compassionate Friends, a self-help group for bereaved parents and siblings. She is currently organizing a TCF Chapter on Eastern Long Island.

For more information on Marie Levine's book, go to http://www.firstyoudie.com

To contact a Compassionate Friends Organization in your area go to http://www.compassionatefriends.org