5 things my grief has taught me about other people

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When you're a person who is grieving loss, there are a lot of things you learn from that loss. You learn the whats and hows and whys and whens of your grief. You learn that everyone is grieving something or someone, and that grief shapes who we are and the choices we make.

But when you're a person living with really deep grief - the kind that you keep in a box that you never unpack because it's safer there - you learn more than you really want to know about other people. On the occasions that you allow that grief out of it's box or during the times that it rattles and roars to be free but you defiantly shush it instead, you learn about other people's perception of your grief.

And in turn, it teaches you a lot about yourself.

Some people will use your grieving as a reason to be thankful that they are not.

People read a blog post or hear my story and they comment with, "Thank you for sharing your story. I am going to go hug my own children tighter tonight." Sometimes, these are the same people who posted a rant about their children on Facebook that made you cry and ache so badly for your own.

Some people will make judgments about your grief. 

How you are grieving, how long it is taking, how often, when, where, under what circumstance - it's all up to the scrutiny of people who think they are experts in our grief. Usually, but not always, it's those people who never ask us about that grief who seem to have the opinion. They grieved one way and it worked for them, so it should work for you.

Some people are uncomfortable with your grief. 

These are the people who don't like tears, who think they have nothing to say to a grieving person, or think they need to "fix" your grief. Sometimes, they simply don't want to hear about it at all because they don't want to deal with your grief.

Some people forget that you are grieving. 

For me, this is the most dangerous kind. When they don't remember Joey's birthday or crapiversary or remember me on holidays or other grief-triggering occasions, I become bitter and angry that they don't care. 

Some people claim your grief as their own.

These are the people who come up out of blue and tell you a story about your loved one or something that made them think of him. They tell you they pray to him or that he is their guardian angel. And this is confusing to you.

I have been grieving long enough to make a study of how people treat my grief; and I have to admit that at first all of these situations made me angry and sad and bitter.

Maybe I'm still angry and sad and bitter; but at least now I have figured a little something out about other people.

Those people who are thankful needed that reminder. We all get caught up in the drama of our daily lives. Things are a big deal because we make them so. We often forget that, yes, life could be worse. When I tell my story, it reminds people of that. If I can help them be a more patient or loving parent, if only for a little while, I'm happy my grief has brought that; because, guess what? I need reminders, too. 

Those people who judge our grief are either grappling with their own or they have no idea what true grief really is. Someone once told me that he couldn't believe I didn't cry at my own child's funeral. I don't really know him, and I certainly don't know how he deals with his emotions. At the same time, he was never with me all the times I cried over the fourteen months of surgeries and radiation and chemo and the quiet moments alone with my grief.

Those who are uncomfortable with our grief I honestly don't consider as friends. This might be kind of harsh; but loving someone is hard, especially if it means dealing with the icky parts of their lives. Fortunately, grief provides the perfect opportunity to learn who your real friends are.

The people who forget that you are grieving have their own lives that don't have anything to do with yours. And I don't mean that in a bad way. It took me so long to figure this one out. Almost all of us have a "crapiversary (a death date)" of someone we love. How in the world can we possibly remember everyone else's trigger days? Because it's important to me, I try to remember other people's crappy days - another mom who lost her child to brain cancer, a school mom who lost her husband to a heart attack, and my friends who have lost parents and loved ones. It's hard and it takes work and sometimes I forget; but it doesn't mean I don't care. Nor does it mean that other people don't care. Yes, they offer prayers and thoughts and they move on; but who am I to say that they never think of me again and offer a prayer for me when they remember? I'm not constantly praying for everyone I know, but I do when I remember. That's all any of us can expect.

Those people that claim your grief are the biggest mystery to me. Perhaps they have had a deep loss of their own. Maybe it brings out a secret fear of theirs. Maybe they are just simply good-hearted, prayerful people that God has sent to take some of our grief. I'm not sure, but it goes back to everyone dealing with grief differently. The blessing is that these are usually the people who send a text or Facebook message on those crapiversaries or on those days that you really need to hear it.

Grief is ugly and it sucks, but it is inevitable for us all. I can't claim to be grieving any more than someone else is. I can't proclaim myself "chief grieving person," because I am not.

I talk about my grief and my sweet Joey because that's how I deal with all the things that have happened and all the feels that I am feeling. But I've also learned, through those closest to me who are also grieving Joey's death, the same strategy doesn't work for everyone.

I'm constantly trying to find a reason for my grief, and maybe one of those reasons is so I can learn to be a more empathetic person. Maybe that's one way my grief can honor the son I lost.

Moms aren't supposed to have favorites

"Mom," a whisper comes through the darkness, "Mom, guess what?"

"What?" I respond, knowing what is coming next.

"You're my favorite." My five-year-old snuggles against me, moving deeper under his fuzzy blanket. 

"You're MY favorite," I respond and hug him to me. 

Soon I hear the sounds of his steady breathing and preschool snores, and I leave the room to cuddle with my "other favorites."

*          *          *

Everyone knows that moms aren't supposed to have favorites. Oldest, youngest, middle child - we are not supposed to love one more than another. 

But ask any mom, and she will tell you that sometimes she likes one just a tiny bit more than the others. 

Not that we tell them that, but it's true, Maybe it's their age at the time, maybe it's their gender, maybe it's their interests and likes, or maybe it's simply that the other one is currently in kind of a butt head phase right now and we just can't deal. Seriously, though, I find that when one of my children is being particularly difficult, it makes the others look that much better. 

When my oldest son, Joey, was diagnosed with cancer, I was absolutely devastated as any parent would be. Adding to my devastation was the fact that he was my favorite child. Yes, it's true. I knew I wasn't supposed to have a favorite, but I did at the time. 

He was five, and five is so fun. It's a time of discovery and wonder, a time of moving out of the whiny "I'll do it myself, but HELP MEEEEEE" phase. They begin to be able to really do it themselves. They become fun little companions. They have minds of their own, but you are able to reason with them. Five is fun, and Joey was five.

He was also my first born and most desperately wished for child. I went through a lot to get him and his brother here. He was my little shadow, he was "so my boy" as he liked to tell me. And at the time, he wasn't the baby, he wasn't the whiny three-year-old, and he wasn't the brother with all the special needs. 

At the time. 

And that's just the thing - they all move in and out of favored child status at any one point in time. 

I'm sure many of you, like me, have ages that you've loved. My favorite baby age is between nine and fifteen months. They are sitting up and smiling and interacting and discovering, they are sleeping well and are easy to take on-the-go. They are fun at that age!

They go through some rough patches right when they get into school - second grade girls are tough and third grade boys - wow. Ten has to be one of my favorite ages. They are still sweet, beginning to mature, but not talking back quite yet. 

Right now at my house I have a new teenager - 13 - and an eleven-year-old, a nine-year-old, and that sweet five-year-old. There is something in which to find favor at all those ages, and times I think that it's quite all right to tell them "YOU are my favorite."

Thirteen at our house is atypical and sometimes difficult. It is autism and ADHD and emails and notes home from school. It is reminders to shower and brush teeth and take medications and study for that test. But it is also someone who will always take the dog out and appreciate what's for dinner. It surprises us with the ease at which it can call a classmate for homework advice or have a conversation with an adult guest. It gets every joke that's told and it provides some zingers of it's own. It's a knowing look, a helping hand, and a hope for what's to come. 

Sometimes, thirteen is my favorite. 

Eleven at our house is growing faster than I can track. Feet that bust out of school shoes less than halfway through the year. Feet that stink so bad I have to move off the couch to avoid them. It is blowing through a box of cereal every two days. It is being helpful and kind to everyone one minute and an absolute bear the next. It hasn't quite set those stinky feet firmly on one favorite thing; and it is embarrassed of it's mother sometimes. The other times, it wants to cuddle and look at cute dogs on Instagram. It's gaining momentum. 

Sometimes eleven is my favorite. 

Nine at our house is our biggest challenge. I am afraid we are messing nine up real good. Nine is torn between having just left little boy status behind and having not quite arrived at the big boy party. Nine finds it hard to control it's emotions. Nine still needs lots of reminders. But nine can realize when he's messed up. It can apologize and hug and make promises that it's still not sure it can keep. Nine misses the brother it barely knew. Nine is the only brother in the house who is a friend to every other brother, and it is the only dog walker in the house who will actually pick up the dog poop. Nine is charming. Nine will be okay. 

Sometimes nine is my favorite. 

Five at our house is the 180 degree turn - the one who came back around again. Five is the one who was born after we lost the other five-year-old. Almost like it started a new family. Almost like it took some tips from another five year old we knew. Five at our house knows it is cute, feels how special it is. Five at our house has one of us wrapped around it's finger. It has older brothers, so sometimes it says things it shouldn't or talks back because it seems like the thing to do. But five is also a helper, a doer, a confident little mayor who works a crowd like nobody's business. Five is everything this mom wanted another child to be - no pressure, of course, we'll see. 

Sometimes five is my favorite. 

I think it's okay for a mom to have favorites. Favorite ages, favorite years in school, favorite moments in time. The great thing about those kinds of favorites is that every child gets a turn to be one. 

And the great thing about those private moments like the one I shared above is that no other kid has to know you had it. Just your favorite at the time. 


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