The Writing Mamas Daily Blog
Each day on the Writing Mamas Daily Blog, a different member will write about mothering.If you're a mom then you've said these words, you've made these observations and you've lived these situations - 24/7.
And for that, you are a goddess.
Tuesday, June 12, 2007
Loss Counselor
Loss Counselor
Yesterday, our former babysitter called to tell me that her boyfriend had died in a car accident in London. She was looking for guidance and trying to make sense out of his untimely death. Even with my credentials as a mother who lost a child, I felt my blood pressure rising and my self-critic kicked in.
How should I know what to say? What if I offended her Catholic faith? I reminded myself that the worst thing you can say to someone who is grieving is to say nothing, so I took a deep breath and searched for the right words.
“Let the thoughts come to you, and try to notice little messages. They come in all forms --- a song on the radio, a stranger’s words that remind you of Robert, or a warm feeling surrounding you. But don’t worry, there’s no right or wrong here. No one can tell you how to feel and I don’t want to do that either.”
I told her that even though I knew Aaron was with me after his death, I was still devastated. No amount of divine promise could change that aching reality. “Don’t be too hard on yourself if the answers don’t come through right away, but try to stay open to signs.”
As I hung up the phone, I felt the lingering pit of Carmen’s grief and wondered if my words had been helpful.
Later that day, I stopped by our local Starbuck’s for a “cookie,” -- code for ‘mommy needs caffeine.’ As I pulled Cameron’s stroller around our tiny table, I noticed an acquaintance from several years ago, when we were both pregnant with our third children -- Aaron and her son were born three weeks apart. We rarely saw each other these days, but I could always count on Elizabeth to say Aaron’s name out loud, which I so appreciated. As soon as I waved, she left the ordering line, squeezed between the cramped tables, and breathlessly got to the point.
“My sister suffered her own tragedy last month, and I’ve been thinking of you,” she said. I prepared to offer my e-mail or phone number, but Elizabeth wasn’t finished. “I just wanted to tell you that I remembered what you told me about Aaron’s death -- how it affected your ability to think and how physical a loss it was. You shared so much and I just wanted you to know that it made a real difference in how much I could be there for my sister.”
I thought back to my conversation with Carmen and smiled.
I think someone else was listening, too.
By Kimberley Kwok
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Yesterday, our former babysitter called to tell me that her boyfriend had died in a car accident in London. She was looking for guidance and trying to make sense out of his untimely death. Even with my credentials as a mother who lost a child, I felt my blood pressure rising and my self-critic kicked in.
How should I know what to say? What if I offended her Catholic faith? I reminded myself that the worst thing you can say to someone who is grieving is to say nothing, so I took a deep breath and searched for the right words.
“Let the thoughts come to you, and try to notice little messages. They come in all forms --- a song on the radio, a stranger’s words that remind you of Robert, or a warm feeling surrounding you. But don’t worry, there’s no right or wrong here. No one can tell you how to feel and I don’t want to do that either.”
I told her that even though I knew Aaron was with me after his death, I was still devastated. No amount of divine promise could change that aching reality. “Don’t be too hard on yourself if the answers don’t come through right away, but try to stay open to signs.”
As I hung up the phone, I felt the lingering pit of Carmen’s grief and wondered if my words had been helpful.
Later that day, I stopped by our local Starbuck’s for a “cookie,” -- code for ‘mommy needs caffeine.’ As I pulled Cameron’s stroller around our tiny table, I noticed an acquaintance from several years ago, when we were both pregnant with our third children -- Aaron and her son were born three weeks apart. We rarely saw each other these days, but I could always count on Elizabeth to say Aaron’s name out loud, which I so appreciated. As soon as I waved, she left the ordering line, squeezed between the cramped tables, and breathlessly got to the point.
“My sister suffered her own tragedy last month, and I’ve been thinking of you,” she said. I prepared to offer my e-mail or phone number, but Elizabeth wasn’t finished. “I just wanted to tell you that I remembered what you told me about Aaron’s death -- how it affected your ability to think and how physical a loss it was. You shared so much and I just wanted you to know that it made a real difference in how much I could be there for my sister.”
I thought back to my conversation with Carmen and smiled.
I think someone else was listening, too.
By Kimberley Kwok
Labels: Kimberley Kwok
Stumble This Post
