Words Matter

Words have the ability to both hurt and heal. All of us know that, and yet we find ourselves saying hurtful things that we don't mean, often to the very people we love the most. We had a month long challenge at work last week,  and each of us choose something we wanted to improve on in our own lives. My challenge was not to "complain" at work or at home, for the entire month. I forced myself to think through everything that I wanted to say and decide both whether or not to say it out loud, and also whether or not it was kind, unkind, or even necessary. To say it was an eye-opening experience is quite the understatement. While I NEVER intend to be hurtful, I realized during the course of the challenge that my directness often comes across as complaining and can be perceived as unkind by the recipient if I'm not extremely careful. I learned all over again that "words matter", especially in the way that they are delivered, both in good ways and in bad.

After successfully finishing this challenge on Thursday, I was reminded again on Saturday that words matter for a very long time, albeit in a different way. While re-arranging my curio cabinet, I found a letter sent to us a couple of weeks after Mandy's death. I'd like to share it with you, not just because of the kind and wonderful things said about Mandy, but as a reminder of the lasting power of our words and actions. This lady did not have to sit down and pen this lovely, handwritten letter to us, yet she took the time to do so, allowing us a small glimpse into a side of Mandy's life and personality that we had NO way of knowing otherwise. When you encounter those who are grieving or struggling in some way, take the time to send them a note on FB, a quick text, or a card. Better yet, go somewhere and sit with them; listen to their words and really hear them for a change instead of trying to give them answers or guidance. Anything you can do to let people know they are loved and that someone cares for them is valuable; one small gesture could give them something to smile about during long and difficult days. That’s just a small part of what being Jesus is all about but it's an extremely important one. As for the words below, I know they most certainly made us smile again on Saturday (and yes, maybe shed a tear or two as well.)

September 17, 2006

Dear Mr. and Mrs. Harrell,

I was unable to attend Mandy's memorial service, but I want very much to write to you and tell you how very, very sorry I am for your tragic loss. 

I sat next to Mandy in the St. John's Choir. I've been a paid soloist there for many years now, and I have to tell you that her addition to the choir was nothing short of pure joy. She could sightread ANYTHING-I was always marveling at her tremendous confidence and musicality. Sitting next to her was such a great pleasure. 

And truthfully, we just adored her. We always wanted to see her latest pedicure and the latest pair of adorable shoes.....I think I was always touched at how she would talk to all the old, middle-aged women like we were just her friends-she never us feel like we were "old fogeys" or boring, silly old ladies. She was charming and sweet with a generous, kindly nature.  

That last Sunday, we were standing together in the back of the church, waiting for the service to start and the choir to process up to the choir stalls at the front. I noticed her new haircut that she'd gotten since I had last seen her. I whispered to her, "Mandy, your new haircut makes you look like you stepped out of a Renaissance painting-you look like a Renaissance angel." She just smiled-she was used to getting compliments and she never let them go to her head.

She is, of course, a real angel now- and more gloriously alive than any of us here. SO many people you have never met have cried with you these past heartwrenching days. We pray for your comfort through God's generous grace and love, and hope that the knowledge that Mandy touched the lives of many people in her short, sweet life will give you strength.

I picture her now, with angels resplendent in brilliant robes, gathered in heavenly choirs singing glorious praises to the Lord. And, as the chorus ends and they move with grace away from the light filled church, they gather around our little Mandy and ask to see her new golden sandals and her pretty pedicure. 

What a blessing she was to us. What a blessing she is to them now. God bless you and all of your family. 


PRICELESS-all because this lovely woman took a few minutes out of her busy day to minister to us through her memories of our precious Mandy. Be Jesus to those around you today in whatever way you can, and never think that there is nothing you can do, because even words matter.


P.S. Thank you for all of the kindness shown toward David and me as he leaves his position as Worship Leader at CBCFC. We have felt such love and gratitude in every word spoken-whether in person or via the many lovely notes we've received. Rest assured that each and every one those words will be carried in our hearts as we move to this next chapter of life. As I said above, words matter.  

What I Understand

Tuesday, September 5, marked 11 years since our precious Mandy died. Words can't begin to convey how much we miss her; it's a constant hole in our hearts that I suppose will never fully close. If we're honest, I guess we don't really want it to, because that might mean we've left her behind even though we know that is not the case. We appreciate how you indulge us (that means me) as we blow your newsfeed up with picture after picture....I know you've seen them all a million times, but they are all we have left until we see her again in eternity.

The moment you conceive a child, a part of your heart and soul belongs to that child FOREVER. Whether they never live a day outside of the womb or live until we are old and gray, having them die before us is perhaps the most painful thing a mother and father can ever face. Having experienced this, I feel obligated to walk with other hurting mommas that cross my path. I am not a counselor, and I can't take away the hurt, but I am willing to share the journey, even though it sometimes means I keep reliving my own. Certainly, I can't understand what it is like to watch your child die of cancer, or be killed in cold blood, or die before you ever get to hold them, or kill themselves via suicide or drugs, or even what it's like when YOUR child dies in a freak, tragic accident. All those situations are completely unique, but they all leave a momma spending the rest of her earthly existence missing a piece of her heart and soul.

Here are some other things I DO understand:

I understand that even when there is NOTHING you could possibly have done, you'll always feel deep down in your heart that your child's death is somehow your fault. 

I understand that you'll go over every single minute of your child's life and beat yourself up over and over for each time you weren't the kind of parent you wanted to be.

I understand that if there was an illness or accident involved, you'll wonder if you had just tried this treatment or asked the doctor to do this or asked them not to do that, maybe your child would still be alive.

I understand that you'll always believe that if you'd just prayed a little harder, God would have spared your child.

I understand that after one child dies, you'll constantly feel that you are failing your remaining children because you can't be the mom they want or need anymore.

I understand that you want to "fix it" for your other children or for your spouse and you never can or never will but you still keep trying. 

I understand that you'll feel as though you are failing your spouse, your other family members and your friends because you will NEVER be the person they once knew.

After 11 years, here are some other things I understand:

I understand that one day, you'll wake up and your child's death won't be the first conscious thought of the day. 

I understand that one day, you'll make it all the way to lunch, then dinner, then maybe a whole week without crying and know that it doesn't mean you've left your child behind or forgotten them.

I understand that one day, you'll laugh without feeling guilty because you "shouldn't" laugh after your child died.

I understand that one day, you'll be able to smile and not cry when you hear stories you've never heard about your child. 

I understand that one day, you'll be able to reach out to another mom who is grieving, not without crying, but with strength, grace and dignity to show them that they, too, will eventually be able to understand all these things as well. 

Jesus calls us to be His hands and feet to a world full of hurt and pain in whatever way we can. If I can do that by sharing the journey with another momma who has to walk this road for reasons neither of us will ever understand, I've given meaning to Mandy's death in ways that I could have never imagined. 

Regrets

I never saw Mandy after she died......I just couldn't do it. When we left the hospital, after she was officially declared brain dead, she was still hooked up to machines that were keeping her body alive so that her organs could be donated. I never went back to the hospital or saw her body again after the organ and tissue recovery, even at the funeral home. My heart knew that she was no longer in that shell. Even though the days after the accident are forever etched in my memory, I guess I somehow thought that if I didn't see her cold, lifeless and empty, it would be so much easier to remember her laughing, smiling, healthy and whole.  Some days, that is true; on others, especially leading up to the anniversary of her death, not so much. There is a raw physical pain associated with the need to touch her again; if I allow myself to go there, I can literally feel her head on the exact spot it always rested on my chest when we hugged. I so desperately want to believe in Heaven and the promise of a reunion (and on most days, I do believe that), but I will always feel a deep regret that I didn’t hold her and say goodbye just one more time.

To borrow a phrase from another blogger whose words always touch me, Chris Jones (Mitchell’s Journey on FB), I have worked hard to “turn my regrets into resolve”, attempting in word and action to give Mandy's death a purpose and to honor her legacy in all that I say and do while taking care of my family that still lives. I have promoted organ donation, created grief support groups and given scholarships, all very good things. However, I have failed miserably in my personal relationships at times, unknowingly and most certainly unintentionally. It’s a delicate balance to honor the person who died while still caring for the family that lives.......one that is fraught with opportunities to create permanent hard feelings and rifts that you don’t even realize have happened until the damage is done. Looking back, I can easily see these instances and also see how they have affected and continue to affect those I love, and I deeply regret hurting anyone. I am sure that for many years into the future hard feelings might come to light. I continue to discover ways that I have hurt those I love the most by dwelling on Mandy’s absence at opposed to living in the present joy of the day or event. However unintentional, it has been hurtful to all and I am profoundly sorry. I don’t think I am alone in this behavior; I suspect it is very common for someone who deeply grieves a lost loved one to be fixated on their absence, failing to recognize the pain that causes for those still present, but I honestly don’t know how in the world such behavior is to be avoided. I hear similar stories over and over from others who are grieving a significant loss, and if you have not been in that place, you simply cannot understand, nor do we want you to understand. Another regret to put in the books, but this one comes with a determined resolve to constantly be mindful of living in the moment and to cherish each day as it comes with those we love.

We found out that Mandy’s lung recipient passed away about 2 months ago....Dolores’ husband called me to tell me the news. She was a dear, kind lady who struggled mightily to come to grips with the idea that we lost our 18 year old and she benefited from that loss. I immediately asked Tennessee Donor Services for a “welfare check” on the heart, liver and kidney recipients with whom we have never had any contact, something they are allowed to do for a donor family from time to time. Unfortunately, we were told that Mandy’s heart recipient passed away almost 2 years ago. He would have been 17-18 when he died, as the transplant took place when he was 11. I grieve for both of these families as well as for myself all over again. I so desperately wish I gotten to hear her heart beat one more time, but I certainly respect their wishes not to meet us. Now they grieve a teenager just as we do, and we will be forever connected in both our grief and our children’s lives, even though we will likely never meet. As a side note here, if you are a transplant recipient reading this, please write to your donor family, even if it's just a short note that says thank you and allows for no other interaction. It will mean so much to them, even if they are not able to respond to you through their grief. Thankfully, 4 of Mandy’s 6 recipients are still alive and doing well and hopefully one day, we will get to meet the 2 we have not yet met. While I deeply regret never knowing the young man who received her heart, I continue to find comfort in the additional years he had with his family, and I hope that he and Mandy had a joyful meeting in Heaven when he arrived.

Our society gives people such little space to grieve......a few weeks and the griever is supposed to be “over it” and return to “normal”, even though there is no more “normal” for our families because our loved one is gone forever. I have 2 dear friends that I have met through my grief group who are coming up on death anniversaries, just as we are. It’s the last day we want to commemorate and the one day that we simply can’t pretend doesn’t exist in our world. It’s the day that we now use to mark time, because major life events either happened “before” Mandy died or “after” Mandy died. Time stands still on that one day each year, and we replay their deaths over and over, wondering how or if we could have changed the outcome if we had made different choices or if the person who died had made different choices. Most of the time, of course, the answer is “no” and we do mostly come to accept that this is true, but we’ll still always wonder sometimes...at least I will. Our minds dredge up every harsh word that was ever said, every time we wish we had given them something they wanted, every time we failed as a parent (spouse, sibling, child-you get the idea), every missed opportunity to play instead of clean house, to sit and talk instead of spending time on the computer or with a video game, the list goes on. Did we make the correct choices about treatment when they were ill or injured, should we have insisted the doctors do something differently or something more? For me, why didn’t I just say NO, you can’t go? What if, what if, what if, what if........these things play over and over in our heads and drown out, at least for that brief time every year, the carefully crafted and artfully presented facade that we show the world. The regrets can be overwhelming, even in situations in which we know we did our best, as most of us do. Those who grieve have developed various strategies for coping with these times. and I always tell people that as long as their coping strategies don’t hurt them or others, it’s OK. My strategy has always been to share Mandy’s life with the world through the 6 people who received her organs, through up to 50 others who likely received a tissue donation from her (ligaments, bones, skin), through the scholarships given to several very deserving young people in her memory, and to share my regrets, my pain, and my grief with my little grief group and through this blog, all while continuing to love and care for my husband, son and daughter-in-law as best I can. I don't want anyone to feel alone and misunderstood in their grief. Thank you again for allowing me the privilege to walk with you as you grieve, and hopefully we can continue to work toward healing and restoration together.

Unfinished Business

As we approach the 8^th anniversary of Mandy’s death (which is unbelievable to me), I have been thinking a lot about why grieving parents seem to struggle so much to move forward. Or, more accurately I suppose, why I have struggled so much to move forward since Mandy's death. I have come to the conclusion that the death of a child not only creates a void that can never be filled by anything or anyone else, it also causes a parent to forever have this sense of unfinished business. 

When our children don't outlive us, the circle of life has been violated. After all, aren’t parents supposed to die first? We hope and expect our children to grow up to be productive members of society and to make a difference in this world, so I think anytime that natural order is interrupted, it changes us in ways we could have never fathomed. We have to grieve for so many things.

• We grieve the loss of Mandy's physical presence. No more hugs, no more "I love you's", no more laundry (yes, we even grieve that!)
• We grieve for Matthew, who not only lost a sibling but also a close friend and confidant.
• We grieve every milestone Mandy didn't reach, especially as we watch Matthew and her friends reach them.While our pride is not diminished in Matthew, our hearts ache because Mandy is not with our family to share the joy we all feel in those accomplishments.
• We grieve the loss of our hopes and dreams that will never be fulfilled for Mandy.
• We grieve the son in law we will never have.
• We grieve the grandchildren that we will never have.
• We grieve for the grandchildren we will have because they will never know "Aunt Mandy".
• We grieve the sudden shift in the dynamics within our family unit. Matthew became an only child instead of the baby. We became the parents of an only child instead of 2 children. There was suddenly no longer a need to divide our time between two kids pulling us in two different directions. There was more money because there were now three of us instead of four to feed, clothe and educate.
• We grieve because sometimes, we can’t speak freely about Mandy. In the years since she died, Mandy has become the elephant in the room that no one wants to bring up. There is the constant fear that we have talked too much about Mandy, or maybe not enough. And then there's the group of people around which we can't really talk about Mandy at all because it just upsets them too much and we must respect their feelings.
• We grieve because as much as we would like to be the same, we have been forever changed. We aren't the same parents and it hurts us to know that we have hurt Matthew by being different. I can't be the same wife that David had before Mandy died anymore than he can be the same husband; truly, we are transformed in ways that we don't even realize or understand. It takes time to adjust to new personalities and new dynamics that are constantly changing in the midst of such profound grief.
• We grieve because we don't know how to answer the simple question, "how many children do you have"?
• We grieve everytime we meet someone new and realize that this person doesn't even know Mandy existed.
• We grieve because because we failed to protect Mandy as parents are supposed to do.
• We grieve every single time we failed Mandy, over and over again, because we can’t ever say we are sorry.

The death of a child forces us to close a chapter in our lives that we do not want to close. We fight, claw and scratch to keep from closing it, feeling as though we are somehow abandoning our responsibility to love and nurture Mandy as long as we are alive to do so. We will never stop being Matthew's parents, so why is it that people expect us to stop parenting Mandy, or at least trying to in some way? Continuing to “parent” a dead child looks different for all of us....honoring their memory through scholarships, or cemetery flowers, or little memorials at those special life events at which they should have been present. We become unreasonably attached to their ‘stuff” or their favorite colors or put little stickers on our cars and carry bracelets on our key chains. We build “shrines” in our homes to them, or sometimes instead we take down all their pictures and pack away all their things because we can’t bear to look at them. We become passionate advocates for causes they believed in or causes somehow related to their death. We obsess about whether the flowers still look OK at the cemetery, and why we can't get the grass to grow on their graves. We have to go to the cemetery on special occasions, even though we know they aren’t really there. We will talk to anyone who will listen about them when we know that we safely can, but not utter their name when we sense that it makes you uncomfortable. We hang on to cash register receipts and post it notes with their handwriting on them because we will never see that again. We cherish every memory, story and photograph that someone shares that we have never heard before. We even, sometimes, without meaning to do so, make that child into a "larger than life" human being that is a long way from being the real person that they actually were. We struggle to live in the present sometimes, because the present is simply incomplete without Mandy. Through all this emotion and turmoil, we do our best to move forward, cherishing the time we have with Matthew, Caroline, and each other, celebrating each milestone with them, yet living each day with the overwhelming fear that something will take one of them from us, too.

I wish that David and I could accept and reconcile the thought of no longer being Mandy's parents, but I think that's a quest that will go on for many years to come. This sense of "unfinished business" will likely last a lifetime. It may change and morph along the way but I doubt it will ever completely subside. My only hope is that others whom we love will know and understand that this doesn't in any way diminish our love for them or their importance in our lives in both the present and the future. Our hearts are big enough for everyone, both living and dead.