The Grief Project- August 1, 2014

Welcome to the Grief Project The first time that someone close to me died was in November 2010. My best friend of 10 years, Michelle, “Shelly” died at the age of 41 from Lung cancer. She fought a two year battle and I, as an adopted caregiver for her young son, fought right next to her. She died before she was able to do so many things. She did not want to die. Her body could not fight anymore and it gave up. At the end, she withered away to the arms of God as the sun was pushing its way to a new day. I was mad at death. I was sad because of death. I was afraid of death. I was not happy that I was introduced to Death that day. Little did I know it would soon find its way into my life in ways I wish were not true. I will never forget the way I felt when Michelle died. The sky was a clear, azure blue and the occasional passing cirrus clouds floated by as I passed out parking passes to patrons at work. I was grateful to be outside. The sound of wind, traffic, and work were able to distract me from the searing pain my heart was feeling. The air around me was cool and leaves swirled around me like rain. The cold wind whipped my tear-stained cheeks, but I held my tears in. I had to work and I would cry later. I planned Michelle's funeral, picked out her attire, the funeral home and cemetery. Her obituary was the first one I ever wrote. I wanted to write it. It was my final gift to her. A few day later, I wore a black dress, held her son’s hand and walked with her husband and son down a packed church isle and I wept inside. Not only did I weep for the loss of my best friend, but I wept for her husband and son too. There were so many things that she would never see. She would not see him graduate Pre-K and sing a line from the alphabet song, or watch him lose his first tooth. She would not see him learn to finally ride his bike with no training wheels or catch his first baseball in the soft catcher’s glove I bought him for his 6th birthday. She would not see the elation in his face when he finally learned how to write his name. She would not see him grow tall and strong, or kiss his first girlfriend at the front door. She would not place his graduation cap on his strong-minded head and watch him graduate or walk off to his college dorm no longer letting her kiss him on the cheek. She would miss it all in a physical sense and see it only from that floating cloud. The list could go on forever.

The night she died, I sat her son in my lap and told him, even though he could not yet grasp the concept, that mommy had gone to heaven to live with Jesus. I told him as my mom told me that when we die we become a star and when we miss them so much out heart hurts, we can look up in the sky, find the brightest star and wave to them. I bought him a blue balloon, his mother’s favorite color and a few weeks after her death, we let it off to fly to meet her in heaven. Grayson later told me that his mommy was sitting on a puffy, white cloud eating a bowl of her favorite vanilla ice cream with long, flowing blond hair. He also said that when you go to heaven, there is no cancer or pain and its "sun-shiny." The beauty of Grayson's mind helped me initially grieve, smile and know his mom's light watches over him everyday. Michelle’s death changed me. It made me tougher, but not in a good way. I spent an entire semester in therapy trying to wrap my head around death and I came out no better than when I started. I took my pain from her death, wrapped it up in a little ball and shoved it to the side. I told myself I would come back to it later and try to work through it. I still grieve her death to this day and every time her precious son hugs me and calls me his “little sister,” I don’t understand death. I need more answers. Now, after the most tragic seven months of my life, I am finally starting to understand death, grief, and pain and trying to find a way through its abyss. This is the Grief Project.