Shock

Denial

Sadness

Numbness

Disbelief

Sick

Longing

Guilt

Anger

Exhaustion

A piece of your heart forever missing. Grief and mourning have many different dimensions and emotions.

And when your life collides with grief, and you’re knocked down by the sudden death of a loved one, the degree and power of grief is vast and all consuming.

Grief seeps into every pore. Like a giant, it overshadows everything you do, everything you say, everything you feel.

And, for a time, the ‘stop’ button gets pushed on your life and there’s no way to hit rewind….erase….fast forward!

Yes, grief consumes your world after a shock death. However, over time, and with support and through educating yourself and a lot of soul searching…you ‘can’ become like David and beat the Giant.

Over time, the numbness subsides and turns into awareness…of every little thing you are blessed with.

Your denial turns into learning to live with your loss….even if it is with baby steps.

Your sadness turns into joy…you start to see the gift of being alive!

Your anger turns into peacefulness in appreciating every little thing like sunsets and stars and a cleansing shower of rain.

Your exhaustion turns into vitality…and you want to experience everything life has to offer….you see the endless possibilities …and you get brave again.

But the longing, oh the longing, it never disappears….

A byproduct of grief, an ingredient in mourning, that lies in wait…always, simmering just below the surface.

Diana Doyle

savvydoyle@hotmail.com

The post What is Grief and Mourning? appeared first on Open to Hope.

Over 5 million!

That’s the number of minutes since my sister died…the minutes and moments she has missed out on in these past years. That’s a lot of time….ten years worth to be exact.

Ten years ago, my only sister Tarnia was killed in a car accident. It was the first clear day without rain, the last few days of the school holidays in Australia. My sister had decided since it had stopped raining, she’d take her kids to the beach. That day, my sister’s destiny was decided. I often wonder if it had of kept raining if she’d still be here. I will always wonder.

It’s been 3650 days that she has failed to enjoy things that I’ve been lucky enough to have been part of.

Things like watching her twin daughters grow into some frilly dresses she’d put away in their closets, ones I had the pleasure of admiring with her on our last visit together. Their first teeth, and steps.

Fraser’s first day at pre-school. It was my Mom’s hand he clung to as he shyly walked through the pre-school gate instead of hers.

And of course her eldest son, Alexander, graduating from Elementary School.

I got to witness all those, not her. I feel so privileged as an Aunt to have been a bystander in the crowd…proud, however sad that Tarnia never got to enjoy these things.

And there will be plenty more firsts to come as the years roll on, birthdays and Christmas and weddings……yes, there will be a lot more bittersweet days ahead. And that’s the realization after someone you love dies. Death is final!

There are no more goodbyes…or hellos. No more hugs or hostilities to deal with. No more memories to create or photos to capture moments in the future. However still questions with no answers as to ‘why?’

So today, instead of rambling about sadness and what I don’t have and more importantly, what Tone, Alexander, Fraser, Emerald and Charlotte don’t have either, I decided to write what “I’ve learned from her death”….I hope it helps someone, they are just my thoughts however………………

*Always validate your love for someone, tell them how you feel about them as you may never see that person again.

*Don’t let little arguments grow into big ones……please, please don’t hold grudges over silly stuff with family. You can’t go back and apologize once that person is gone….forever is forever!

*Create memories and soak in the times you are together with people you love

*Take photos, lots of them. My Mom would say “Diana, at the end of the day, all we have is our photos and memories.” That’s all I have now, some have the corners curled…or stains on them. But they are priceless.

*Don’t let money issues come between families and love, no money is worth a friendship or a family member. Money can only buy you materialistic ‘stuff’.

*Always, always wear a seat belt – Tarnia saved her children’s lives by strapping them in so carefully. I would whinge if I was waiting for her in the car, she always took so long. In hindsight, they are here today because of her careful, meticulous ways.

*Communicate….if there’s an issue with a family member. Tell them! And be honest. And then forgive them and move on.

*Spread happiness and love around. It costs nothing to be kind and has a way of coming back to you.

*Be there for the people who need you.

*Appreciate EVERYTHING you have or are gifted with.

*Don’t sweat the small stuff

*Never make promises you can’t keep. I still remember some people, even family, ‘promising’ to do this and that for Tone and my parents after Tarnia died. And I still remember they let my mom down when she was sick, so sick…….If you give your word, follow through with it!

*Be present and aware of all that you have, AND enjoy it!

*Slow down and simplify your life….take the time to smell the roses!

*Find your passion, or a passion. It will give you a purpose in life.

*Find your comfort things, or things that help you get through the tough days.

*Choose to have a good attitude each day….before you even put a foot out of bed.

*Regret nothing, don’t look back, always forward.

*Sometimes life is not fair…..”It is what it is”

*Live as if today is your last…it may be.

*Do things that make you feel alive….dance on that table at least once in your life!

These are just a few that I practice because of Tarnia’s death. I have a new guide in life now. One that’s come from experiencing the loss of loved ones.

The last time I saw my sister Tarnia she was in a white coffin, her beautiful dark hair fanned around her face. The image haunted me in my dreams for months. I never thought it would leave me.

The impression her death has had on me is forever….like death. And it’s through this lesson that I’ve learned to live! I am grateful to her for that. And will always miss what could have been.

Diana Doyle 2012

The post The First Clear Day Without Rain, Ten Years On appeared first on Open to Hope.

I held it in my hands like a newborn…..and I considered not opening it because what’s on the pages makes me cry. But I had to as the written memories inside are a treasure trove for my soul.

The book is from Hospice, from the saintly staff that cared for Savannah in her final months. Each person, even her doctor, wrote a tribute to Savannah about how she touched their life.

Inscribed inside its blue covers are words that have been carefully penned through tears and truths. Composed with an intimate understanding and involvement only those of us would recognize having had the extraordinary privilege of caring for someone in their final days.

I almost passed up the opportunity and honor of having Hospice in our house; that would have made a huge difference to our daughter’s comfort in the days that mattered most.

When Hospice gracefully entered our home, things were grim. I had a broken leg, Savannah’s feeding tube was leaking, her pain was increasing and her health was deteriorating. Deteriorating like everything in our lives…Savannah…our marriage….and her sister Dempsey’s patience at the lack of attention she was getting as a one-year-old.

I was a nurse. Couldn’t I do it all? As her mother, shouldn’t I have been able to? No! I finally admitted I needed help, and lots of it.

Hospice wasn’t a foreign concept to me. They’d cared for my adored mum in her final days. They took control of Mum’s pain with morphine. They showered her in a chair and fed her spirit with cheerful chatter each day while they made her bed.

However, I had a hard time handing over the reins of Savannah’s care to an unknown organization….to strangers. I was scared. Our 4 year old daughter was the most important thing in my world.

Looking back, I wish I had of let them into our world sooner, so I could play the most important role in Savannah’s life…simply being her loving mum. And hospice allowed me that honor in her last months.

They are such a dedicated group of people, like a team of vigilantes who do a job that requires extraordinary compassion.  To me, hospice staff have invisible wings. They are earth angels that give so much more of themselves than what is ‘medically’ required of them.

They provided not only a hospital bed that we put in our lounge room, but oxygen tanks, an air bed that circulated around Savannah’s fragile limbs to help prevent more bed sores…and the icing on the cake…liquid meds that was FedEx’d to our door.

Before Hospice, I had to stand in long queues at Rite Aid for Savannah’s medicine, then crush them and add water, mixing the different potions that were assisting in keeping her alive.

Then there’s the emotional side. These wonderful people became like family to us. One nurse, in particular (Julie!) witnessed the raw pain, the gut wrenching torture of Peter and I having to watch our daughter struggle to die. When I was at the lowest point of my life, when I didn’t think I could take any more, she would wrap her arms around me and allow me to sob and let out my grief.

I couldn’t have made the impact to Savannah’s final days that Hospice did.

The gift they gave me was time to sit with Savannah, to smooth her forehead and hold her hand and not leave her bedside. The gift they gave my child was a peaceful pain free passing to the other side…where there’s no more suffering for her.

And the book…well, sitting on my dusty carpet yesterday, reading the Hospice staff’s memories brought my daughter back to life. Amongst their words I found Savannah and what she meant to others, and it was like a warm hug. I closed the book and held it to y chest just like I would if she was here.

I’d like to leave with you with Julie’s words, her nurse.

“A letter to Savannah”

My dearest Savannah.

What I learned most in life was from your death. You taught me to appreciate life, and my family.

I savor every small thing, things like the sound of cracking from a bat when my son hits a ball, or my older sons snoring…which means his breathing.

I learned to relax and let all the chips fall as they may, and knowing not all is in my control.

Your bravery taught me not to fear death; it has helped me do better at my job. I believe that because of you, I have been able to handle many situations, many families and make their passing smoother.

I believe when you were born there was already a plan for you. In that short amount of time that you were on earth, you probably enriched more lives than an elderly person.

Your passing brought about pain that I never knew. In my selfish way, I wanted you to stay. I wanted to be able to see your beautiful face, your eyes….. Savvy you taught me in a short time without speaking even…..what some people take a lifetime to learn.

I hope your smile will light the way for me when it’s time to leave here.

I hope I find your strength, your courage, your bravery when I am faced with any challenge.

I loved you the moment I met you and I miss you everyday.

Diana Doyle 2011

The post Hospice Comforted During the Worst of Times appeared first on Open to Hope.

Mum never left the house without her strawberry blonde hair curled, her elegant high heels on and apricot lipstick. And when she graced a room, you noticed her. She smelt sweet, always wafting in Youth Dew perfume that infused into her clothing and permeated her skin.  That smell made me feel so safe.

The dreaded Mother’s Day is sneaking up on me.  And anyone who is missing a loved one, be it their mother or their baby will understand when I say dreaded.

You can’t avoid it, the happy advertisements are everywhere.  Even my in-box isn’t a sacred place anymore as email after email arrive announcing gift ideas…for example, from United Airlines – “Last minute gifts for your Mom — and my Facebook friends are changing their profile photos for smiling ones with their alive mothers! Even bloody Von’s supermarket’s flyer is covered in adverts of beautiful bouquets and Hershey’s chocolates “For Your Mom!”

Well what do we mum-less people do?  Or we mums who are missing our child? Or mums that desperately want a child?  You can’t hide!  It’s another hard day on the calendar to face each year. One of my hardest. It’s a bittersweet day and I’m trying not to let my mind wander.

Savannah made me a mother.  I was totally unprepared for the immediate love that enveloped me the moment I saw her.  And Dempsey, my joy, will help me to survive another Mother’s Day with her pampering kisses and her ability to anchor my heart.  However, my Mother’s Day hurts….my grief gets magnified….and while I do try hard not to let the pain get a grip on me, this week I’ve been weeping a lot.

On Sunday, I’ll miss Savannah and I’ll miss hearing Mum’s voice.  My mother, who was always smiling and positive.  She shaped my character…and while she never said, “Here are the tools Diana, I will teach you”… she led by example, with her passion for living and her encouraging philosophy on life.

I have to be thankful for having known her at all!  I am brutally aware that my sister’s twin daughters will never appreciate that exquisite moment when your mother transfers all her love into you in a hug. Nobody else gives that unconditional love that your mother can.

How does anyone else on this earth replace that?   How do we get through a Mother’s Day without missing the magic that is your Mum?   Well I don’t think you do.  I think you get through it the best way you can and hope, if you are lucky enough to have a child, or a husband, or a friend, or someone, that will make you feel special….then through your tears, smiles will emerge, which are food for your spirit and help remind you all is not lost.

When I was a little girl, Mum would wrap me up in her arms on her lap and say, “How did I get so lucky to get you!  You could’ve gone to some other mother!” And I find myself saying this now to Dempsey, who giggles and says “Muuummyyy!” and hugs me tighter.

So on Sunday, I’ll try to channel my mother’s magic into me.  And hopefully, set a fine example for my daughter…..to give Dempsey tools that she may need one day.  I know my mum lives on through me, as Savannah lives on through Demps and Tarnia will always be around with her four beautiful children.

I rarely smell my Mum’s Youth Dew perfume anymore.  Its’ an old fragrance.  However, a few days ago, at our friend Michelle’s house, her sweet mother welcomed me with a hug. And as I embraced her, my sense’s stirred. I realized she was wearing Mum’s perfume, and it was comforting!  I held her for just a few moments longer than I should have. and just for a second, I imagined she was Mum.

Diana Doyle 2011

The post Mums, Daughters and Mother’s Day appeared first on Open to Hope.

THE BEREAVED – May Williams Ward

In the next room, in the low chair,

In the soft dark, are you there?

I do not ask it when sun is laid

Through the checkered window in yellow plaid-

Then love this is past seems rich enough

And having had that, I can give you up,

But in the deep dark…In the low chair

In the next room, are you there?

I want you there….

This morning, while trying to rinse dried oats off Peter’s breakfast bowl, I looked over at Dempsey who was lost in a TV program. She was sitting on our sofa, munching on dry vegemite toast, in her jammies, her school clothes waiting to be slipped into, piled neatly next to her.

“Darling, you’re going to be late if you don’t get organized,” I whined at her.

“Mummy, come sit with me and watch,”  she said, patting the cushion next to her.

I filled the sink with the dirty breakfast dishes, dried my hands on a tea-towel and decided we had half an hour before we had to leave. I hate saying no to a simple request of spending a bit of time with her.  So I snuggled up on the couch beside her to see what had caught her attention so deeply.

She was watching “American Idol,” which I had TIVO’d for her last Wednesday night.

I had no idea watching this talent show would reduce me to tears….at 7.30 in the morning!  After all, it’s just a TV show right?  But it was soooooooooo moving.

And I find now, after experiencing grief, that these moments of unpredictable reactions to other peoples’ stories can transform me into a blubbering mess!  It’s that gift of compassion grief brings into your world, mixed and stirred with the craving for what my child who’s missing would have wanted out of life.

Watching some of the contestants live out their dream, and being told, “You’re going to Hollywood, Baby!”  had such a powerful effect on me.  You see, it’s the longing for Savannah that prompts the tears, the wondering, and the reflecting, and the not knowing what my little girl’s dreams were — that’s what constricts my throat with pain.

When she was alive, Savannah would say, “I want to be a dolphin trainer, Mummy!”  That was her dream, but I will forever wonder now what her dreams are, whether she would’ve been a dancer or a singer, a writer or a teacher, or just anything!  It’s that mystery and unfairness that I don’t get to know, or see, or experience WHAT she would’ve been, even how she would’ve enjoyed sitting with Demps and me watching bloody “American Idol”!

And I feel ripped off when these emotions hit.

The simple fact is I miss my child.  I miss the little things I can’t do anymore, like get a tight hug or even a smile from her.   I can say with confidence and conviction that I’ll feel like this until I die.  I can’t watch movies where they show little girls being reunited into their mother’s arms, or “Gray’s Anatomy” when they depict a storyline about curing a child’s disease.  It’s heart-wrenching, as I know my little girl will never be returned to me and will never escape what happened to her.

And I know I can’t change my circumstances. I will always be saddened sometimes, and curious, and that will always be part of being the mother of a child who died, that was stolen and that I’ll never see again.  But I can still dream.

You see, every night before I go to bed, I check in on Dempsey.  I stack up the scattered books she’s read that are laying on the carpet.  I gently pull the blanket up over her shoulders and tap off her touch light.

I gaze at Dempsey’s innocence, lost in dreamland, tucked up safe under the blankets. She will always be my miracle, and I know I’ll enjoy watching her live out her ambitions in this life.

However, some nights I see Savannah as she sleeps, the similarities to Dempsey are comforting. On those nights, I linger alone for just a bit longer and imagine.

Diana Doyle 2011

The post Wondering About the Dreams of a Lost Child appeared first on Open to Hope.

While in Australia over Christmas, I met a young woman, an outsider to my world, who knew nothing of my losses.  I don’t usually tell new people I meet how I’ve lost so many family members; it blows their minds.  But I’m glad I did with her!

In our little cottage in Australia, I have a photo wall of dead people. That may seem strange to some, but to anyone who is traveling this road through grief, it’s not so odd. I love my wall.  It has photos of family members that have died: my only sister Tarnia, my adored mom, and our daughter Savannah.

While I love the wall, I guess it’s confronting to some, maybe a bit morbid. But it’s no different to having them there if they were alive. It’s just that they aren’t!

My husband and I have decided to build a new home in Australia.  And the woman, Kim, who is handling our home plans had to meet with us to discuss the changes we’d made to the sketches.

During her two-hour consultation, we sat in front of my wall. Kim said: “It’s nice to finally meet you both….What brought you to this little country town anyway?”

I wasn’t sure whether to tell her about my sister, how after she was killed, we wanted to be near her children and my brother in-law.  But I did, and she was shocked and offered her condolences.  I pointed out the photo of Tarnia I have on my wall, and I could see in her eyes that she felt genuinely sorry for my loss.

After a few minutes of her absorbing my bombshell about Tarnia, we got back to business.

“So,” Kim said, “I see you’ve enlarged one of the bedrooms. Why was that?”

“That’s our daughter’s room, so we’ve decided to increase her space.”

“Okay, so how many children do you have?”

This is where it always gets tricky!  I’d already traumatized her with Tarnia’s story. Should I tell her about Savannah too?

I know people can freak out when you tell them; it’s like I’ve somehow grown two heads!  Some don’t know how to react, and I notice them shift in their chair, uncomfortable and not knowing what to say with the information that we had two children but one died.

So I decided not to go there, just to say we have one child, Dempsey. We discussed our house plans and while Peter stepped outside to take a call, Kim was admiring my photos on the wall, including a family portrait, with Dempsey AND Savannah in it.

I could see her mind ticking; she could clearly see there were two children in the photo. I have to admit, I was slightly amused that I knew what she was thinking: Who is the other little girl in the photo? I also knew she wasn’t going to ask.

A few days later, Kim had to phone me over some house stuff. I guess her curiosity got the better or her and that conversation went like this.

“So, Diana, Can I ask you a question?”

“Sure, what’s up?”

“I couldn’t help but notice in your family portrait that there are two children. Was the other little girl from a previous marriage?”

I had to smile…funny, I never imagined someone thinking that, especially since I had told her I’d been with Peter since I was a teenager.

So I decided to spill the beans, tell her EVERYTHING, how over three years, half my family had passed away!  Her reaction was shock, disbelief, amazement, and…support.

She went on to ask if I minded telling her what Savannah died from?  She also wanted to know how I coped, among other things. I found the whole conversation so comforting. Here was a complete stranger, a home consultant, giving me comfort that some of my friends haven’t been able to supply.

We chatted for almost an hour, not about trivial house plans but about our hopes and our fears. And I have to wonder why this stranger could talk to me about all this while some of my closest friends can’t?

I believe it’s because my friends feel that talking about Savannah or Mum or Tarnia will upset me, that somehow it will remind me of all the sad stuff.  In reality, I want my friends to take a moment to mention my lost one’s names, or tell a story of something they remember. It is soothing to the soul of anyone who has lost a loved one. It keeps their memory alive for us who remain without them.

So to any of you reading who haven’t lost a child, or a parent, or a sibling, or somebody special, I encourage you to talk about our loved ones.

And as for my new friend who is helping build our home, there’s a bond there now. The last conversation I had with Kim, she told me she hadn’t stopped thinking about me, Savannah or our chat.  She said it’s changed her priorities.  She also told me she had always wanted to go to Italy, more than anything – and that she’s going, this year, now!

Diana Doyle 2011

The post Stranger More Comforting to Bereaved Than Friends appeared first on Open to Hope.

As soon as I read it, the hair on the back of my neck prickled.  I’m afraid I have to disagree.  I thought to myself, “Well I must be abnormal!”  In spite of time….my grief is still there, like an unwanted guest who arrives unannounced.

It’s six years since Savannah died, almost ten this month since my sister was killed, and it’ll be eight years in November since my beautiful mom passed away. The grief from all of these losses still affects me.  In my experiences, grief doesn’t have a time limit, nor should it. 

Grief is defined in the dictionary as “keen mental suffering or distress over affliction or loss; sharp sorrow; painful regret.”  And that’s what it is, mental suffering, torture sometimes, a physical pain……some days I wish so much that I could take Savannah shopping, or watch her and Dempsey play, or fight, together.  It’s distress that we searched the world for a cure for her but couldn’t save her life and a sharp sorrow that I can’t simply kiss my child goodnight anymore. 

It’s also a painful regret that I should’ve taken her to more places and made her days more special, and taken more photos of her and her sister together.  How can there possibly be a time frame to when I will no longer feel these things for my beautiful girl who is no longer here!  No, grief can last a lifetime, in my opinion. 

How do you define grief anyway?  Especially over the loss of a partner, parent, sibling, friend, or god forbid, a child.  I think its irresponsible of anyone to say you should be healed or that your grief goes away.  I think everyone’s grief is different and we shouldn’t tell people HOW or WHAT they should be feeling after any length of time. 

Grief is like an amputation of a limb, although other people can’t see where the limb is missing. You grieve for that loss every single day.

The relationship you had with the person who died will sometimes define how intense or how long the intensity lasts.  I think the person who wrote the blog should’ve said that the intensity of grief changes over time (not put a limit on it).  Just because someone isn’t crying everyday or finding they can laugh again doesn’t mean they have moved on (hate that saying) or have recovered from a death. 

I don’t usually like confrontations so I wrote a kind comment on the blog.  What I should’ve written is that I think that particular article was a load of crap and it worries me that some people may read what she wrote and think there is something wrong with them if they still feel a deep sadness over a loss, yes, even after FIVE years!

Diana Doyle 2010

The post Grief has no Time-line appeared first on Open to Hope.

On this special day, I’m greeted with a huge dimpled smile from our daughter Dempsey, who sneaks into our room, usually with a present she has made for me, hidden behind her back.  The moment tugs at my heart strings, and I cry.

I cry at how lucky I am to have her in my life, and I cry that our other daughter, Savannah, who would be ten years old, isn’t with her sister, giving me a huge hug too and climbing into bed beside us.

If I go to the supermarket, I cry.  So, I’ve learned to stay away from the stores where people are queued at the checkout with colorful bunches of cheerful flowers, boxes of chocolates and cards for their mothers.

I cry when I think of my sisters’ four children, because they don’t have their mom to spoil.  And I cry when I think of their dad, Tony, who struggles on Mother’s Day because his wife is missing out.

I cry when I remember past Mother’s Days when I could simply pick up the phone and call my adored mom and tell her how much I love her.  And then I remember my mother’s words, her Mother’s Day gift to me that can never be taken away – and I find myself smiling!

I remember her lessons: to be grateful for the simple things that I’m surrounded with, like love, family, friendships, and the compassion I have for others who are struggling to survive through their Mother’s Day without their loved ones.

My mother celebrated every day she was alive with enthusiasm and gratitude for everything we are blessed with.  Like days when the sun streams in through your window or the smell of fresh jasmine.  She taught me attitude drives destiny, so I try each Mother’s Day to channel her positive outlook into my day.

It’s difficult not to have a pity party on Mother’s Day, but I find by lunchtime the day gets easier. I put on something pretty, try to put a smile on my face and embrace the irresistible love my daughter showers on me and be thankful that I’ve survived another hard day the best way I could.

Down the street from our house are cherry blossoms trees, which are in full bloom this time of year.  They were my mom’s favorite, a small reminder of her I carry with me.  I purposely drive by them, think of her and know she would be proud that I’m trying to pass her valuable lessons of appreciation on to my daughter for her future Mother’s Day!

The post Mother’s Day Brings Sorrow — and Joy appeared first on Open to Hope.

Five years ago, our daughter died. Savannah was only four. The grief I felt that day is still with me and still raw, but it helps me move forward and heal.

After she died, it was hard to accept that nothing had changed for anyone else. The sun still rose and set and people went about their business as usual, even though my own personal corner of the world would never be the same. I had to find a way out of it, or be trapped there forever. My new baby girl and my husband both needed me to remain among the living

For me, grief is almost a physical pain, like a wound that no narcotic can dull. It’s never totally gone and can surface without warning when you least expect it. Places like parks are especially hard on me, because I see little girls there who remind me of Savannah, which triggers a desperate longing for my daughter.

Also, when I meet new people and they ask me how many children I have, I still find it both difficult and awkward when I have to tell them that I had two beautiful daughters, but one of them died. It’s almost as hard on them, apparently. Some will just go silent, or blurt out an “I’m so sorry!” then quickly change the subject. And others will ramble on about death and heaven and who knows what.  So, mothers’ cliques at the park are not my favorite places to be, any more.

Every now and then, the grief-stricken find their sadness just comes on, and they have no choice as to when and where it will happen. A month ago, I went to a friend’s 10-year-old daughter’s ballet recital. I watched Layla’s magical performance with tears rolling down my face. The sorrow I felt was an automatic response to seeing little girls dancing, who are the same age as my daughter would’ve been now. I didn’t go to the concert thinking I was going to cry, or that it would affect me so strongly. But after drying my eyes and taking a deep breath, I felt calm, the pain abated.

Some memories of Savannah’s time with us will always make me feel sad. And that’s okay. I’ve learned it’s necessary to grieve, so I can begin to heal. But I also have recollections of her that make me smile. Like of the days when we’d sit under a shady tree on a fluffy blanket and read a book together. So, when I cry at memories of her screaming in pain, I have other happy memories to counteract them.

I’ve learned to notice and enjoy the little stuff more with my other daughter, Dempsey. Like watching her giggle at Tom and Jerry cartoons, listening to her read, sharing a game of snakes and ladders, or simply watching her sleep. Living with grief has made me appreciate everything life has to offer–forced me to take the time to slow down and enjoy each day and accept my sorrow as an integral part of who I am today, without letting it rule my life.

Reach Diana Doyle at savvydoyle@hotmail.com.

The post Mother Accepts Sorrow, Doesn’t Let it Rule Her appeared first on Open to Hope.

Making a habit of being happy and appreciative of what I have is my hope for the new year. Being fully present every day to enjoy all the wonderful things my life is full of family, friends, good memories, sunny days, loving, laughing and hugs. With those, I’ll be able to face any new challenges the next twelve months will bring.

Diana Doyle lost her sister, mother and daughter over a three-year period.

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Holiday times are an obstacle course of emotions for anyone trapped in grief.  For me, having lost a daughter, sister and mother in recent years, the feelings of sadness and heartache usually start as soon as the stores fill their aisles with sparkling decorations, fancy costumes or cards.  To anyone who has lost a loved one, these times are a strange blend of sorrow and joy.

We only had five Christmases with our daughter Savannah, which will never be enough. Nor will the New Year’s Eves we spent with my sister and our children and families.

And then there’s Mother’s Day.  How I hate Mother’s Day now!  I can’t call my adored mom to tell her how much I love her as I always did; my sister’s youngest two kids never even knew a mother’s love; and, even though I still have our precious daughter, Dempsey, Mother’s Day doesn’t seem complete for me if Savannah isn’t there to throw her arms around my neck and whisper in my ear that I am the best mom in the world.  Each holiday presents its own raft of emotional challenges-and sometimes, nothing helps soften the blows.

At these times, I find it best to give in to the tears.  I mourn my losses and allow myself to feel sad.  Letting tears flow is nature’s way of healing and I always feel better and stronger the next day.  Sometimes, I set the phone on answer mode and am kind to myself by buying chocolate or junky magazines, into which I can escape the real world for a while.

On the year’s “special” days, I know I won’t be surrounded by those I’ve lost-not in the physical sense, anyway.  But I can choose to remember the joy of past holidays with them and I can create happy new memories with remaining family and friends that will help me move forward.

This year, we’ll celebrate our Christmas holiday by hanging photos of those who are gone on our tree.  We’ll light a special candle for each one who’s missing and clink our glasses in toasts as we reminisce about them.  Some people I’ve spoken with about this find giving a gift to a needy child helps to fill the gap.  Or they volunteer some of their spare time to charitable organizations.

On our mantle, overlooking the dining room table on every holiday we celebrate, is the last photo of us as a complete family.  It takes me back to the time before we were untouched by loss, the time when we thought we’d live forever.  Everyone is smiling and so full of life-my sister pregnant with twins, Mom laughing as her wig slides sideways, and our angel Savannah showing off her frilly outfit, perched on my lap. When I look at that photo and recall that moment, I can relive the happy memory and smile.  I will forever be grateful having had that time.

So, during the various holidays of my year, I reflect on the past and do my best to look at what I do have instead of what I don’t.  I make a point to tell all I care about who are still in my life, how special they are to me.  I have the strongest feeling that those who have died are all watching, happy to know that I can go on without them and make the most of what life I’ve been given.

Reach Diana Doyle at savvydoyle@hotmail.com

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Until the year 2000, my life resembled a fairy tale.  I had a loving family, husband and an adorable two-year-old daughter.  Over the next three years, what seemed impossible back then, happened to me.

I lost three of the most important people in my life. My sister was killed in a car accident, leaving four little ones motherless; my mother was diagnosed and succumbed to ovarian cancer; and, most inconceivably, my previously healthy daughter, Savannah, died from a rare genetic disease.

Although each death was different, the tsunami of emotions was similar.  I felt like my life had become an out-of-control freight train.  Finding ways to honor the people that died helped me move forward in the grieving process.

Each relationship was different, so I honored each loved one differently. For my sister Tarnia, I planted a cherry tree that blooms with delicate blossoms around the anniversary of her death.  I also wrote detailed letters to her children, describing what she loved about them, her favorite perfume and other little tidbits that they’ll be desperate for in years to come.

For my beautiful mother Beverley, I bought a rose-covered photo frame and placed my favorite picture of her in it.  The photo reminds me of her spirit, and I smile whenever I look at it.  I wear something pretty for Mom on her anniversary and birthday, lighting a candle and placing a vase of roses next to her photo.

Savannah was the ultimate loss. We lost our future in many ways when she died.  Our daughter was cremated, which enabled us to create a special shelf in our family room where her urn sits alongside angel figurines, a rainbow candle we light and other presents friends have bestowed on us.

I wear a dainty, gold, heart-shaped locket designed to hold a bit of the ashes. “So, a small amount of what remains of Savannah’s earthly self is dangling over my heart every day.”  I find the locket to be healing.

Every year on her birthday, we release balloons into the heavens.  Letting go of them symbolizes her freedom from her painful disease.  We also planted a climbing rose bush that displays an abundance of white flowers most of the year, reminding us of our beautiful little girl.  We do something on those days that she would’ve loved, like going to a fun park, or sitting in the sun reading one of her favorite books with our other daughter, Dempsey.

I still buy a birthday card for Savannah every year and write in it about how I feel and what is happening in our lives.  Our surviving daughter will one day be able to read them.

I have a book-in-progress about this journey that I hope to have published.  Writing it has been a healing experience; I believe that I am honoring someone I love when I help others survive their grief.

I’ve read many ways people honor those who have passed out of our lives–some make quilts from their loved ones’ clothes. Some ask friends to send them a letter with a memory about the loved one.  Some, like me, light candles and think of the happy memories that will always live on in our souls.

However, the most profound way to honor someone who has died is to live, not just exist, but to try new things like skydiving or chasing your dreams.  Perhaps you simply noticing the glisten of morning dew on the lawn, or listen to the sound of children laughing.  Take a moment to be alive, in memory of those who can’t!

I know all of these things make me feel the person who’s died is somehow still alive – it’s something I can control and makes those difficult times seem a little bit easier.

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