"The Myth of Getting Over It." Steven Kalas

The following story was shared with me yesterday. I urge you to read this post in it's entirety.  Looking from the outside into a world he does not know. He truly hit the nail on the head!  

[quoted text] When our first child is born, a loud voice says, "Runners, take your marks!" We hear the starting gun and the race begins. It's a race we must win at all cost. We have to win. The competition is called "I'll race you to the grave." I'm currently racing three sons.

I really want to win. Not everyone wins.

I'm soon going on stage to speak before a crowd of parents and loved ones impacted by the death of a child. My address is titled, "The Myth of Getting Over It." It's my attempt to answer the driving questions of grieving parents: When will I get over this? How do I get over this? You don't get over it. Getting over it is an inappropriate goal, an unreasonable hope. The loss of a child changes you. It changes your marriage. It changes the way birds sing. It changes the way the sun rises and sets. You are forever different. You don't want to get over it. Don't act surprised. As awful a burden as grief is, you know intuitively that it matters, that it is profoundly important to be grieving. Your grief plays a crucial part in staying connected to your child's life. To give up your grief would mean losing your child yet again.

If I had the power to take your grief away, you'd fight me to keep it. Your grief is awful, but it is also holy, and somewhere inside you, you know that. The goal is not to get over it. The goal is to get on with it. Profound grief is like being in a stage play wherein suddenly the stagehands push a huge grand piano into the middle of the set. The piano paralyzes the play. It dominates the stage. No matter where you move it impedes your sight lines, your ability to interact with the other players. You keep banging into it, surprised each time that it's still there. It takes all your concentration to work around it, this at a time when you have little ability or desire to concentrate on anything.  

The piano changes everything. The play must be rewritten around it. But over time the piano is pushed to stage left. Then to upper stage left. You are the playwright, and slowly, surely, you begin to find the impetus and wherewithal to stop reacting to the intrusive piano. Instead, you engage it. Instead of writing every scene around the piano, you begin to write the piano into each scene, into the story. You learn to play that piano. You're surprised to find that you want to play it, that it's meaningful, even peaceful to play it.

Written by a man, his name Steven Kalas, not a bereaved parent, which is amazing in itself. Steven C. Kalas, M.Th. Born and raised in Phoenix, Arizona, Steven graduated from Northern Arizona University with a B.S. in Psychology and earned his Masters in Theology at Southern Methodist University.

“Everyday Miracles – Holy Moments in a Mother’s Day"

The following was sent to me the other day from my friend Debra. I am grateful for her friendship and thought I would share as no matter how hard you think it is to get through this day. "Grief is Important"
Debra had a good friend of hers read this at MargaretAnn's funeral.

It Will Change Your Life

By Dale Hanson Bourke

“Everyday Miracles – Holy Moments in a Mother’s Day” 1989

Time is running out for my friend. We are sitting at lunch when she casually mentions that she and her husband are thinking of “starting a family. What she means is that her biological clock has begun its countdown and she is being forced to consider the prospect of motherhood.

"We’re taking a survey,” she says, half joking. “Do you think I should have a baby?” “It will change your life,” I say carefully, keeping my tone neutral.

“I know,” she says. “No more sleeping in on Saturday, no more spontaneous vacations…” But that is not what I mean at all. I look at my friend, trying to decide what to tell her.

I want her to know what she will never learn in childbirth classes. I want to tell her that the physical wounds of childbearing heal, but that becoming a mother will leave her with an emotional wound to raw that she will be forever vulnerable.

I consider warning her that she will never read a newspaper again without asking, “What if that had been my child?” That every plane crash, every fire will haunt her. That when she sees pictures of starving children, she will look at the mothers and wonder if anything could be worse than watching your child die.

I look at her carefully manicured nails and stylish suit and think she should know that no matter how sophisticated she is, becoming a mother will immediately reduce her to the primitive level of a she-bear protecting her cub.

That a slightly urgent call of “Mom!” will cause her to drop a soufflé or her best crystal without a moment’s hesitation.  That the anger she will feel if that call came over a lost toy will be a joy she has never experienced.
I feel I should warn her that no matter how many years she has invested in her career, she will be professionally derailed by motherhood.

She might successfully arrange for childcare, but one day she will be waiting to go into an important business meeting, and she will think about her baby’s sweet smell. She will have to use every ounce of discipline to keep from running home, just to make sure he is all right.

I want my friend to know that everyday routine decisions will no longer be routine. That a visit to McDonald’s and a five-year-old boy’s understandable desire to go to the men’s room rather than the women’s will become a major dilemma.  That right there, in the midst of clattering trays and screaming children, issues of independence and gender identity will be weighed against the prospect that a child molester may be lurking in the restroom.

I want her to know that however decisive she may be at the office, she will second guess herself constantly as a mother. Looking at my attractive friend, I want to assure her that eventually she will shed the pounds of pregnancy, but she will never feel the same way about herself.  That her life, now so important, will be of less value to her once she has a child. That she would give it up in a moment to save her offspring, but will also begin to hope for more years, not so much to accomplish her own dreams, but to watch her child accomplish his.I want her to know that a cesarean scar or shiny stretch marks will become badges of honor.

My friend’s relationship with her husband will change, I know; but not in the ways she thinks.; I wish she could understand how much more you can love a man who is careful to always powder the baby or who never hesitates to play “bad guys” with his son. I think she should know that she will fall in love with her husband again for reasons she would now find very unromantic.

I wish my modern friend could sense the bond she will feel with women throughout history who have tried desperately to stop war and prejudice and drunk driving. I hope she will understand why I can think rationally about most issues, but become temporarily insane when I discuss the threat of nuclear war to my child's future. I want to describe to my friend the exhilaration of seeing your son learn to hit a baseball. I want to capture for the belly laugh of a baby who is touching the soft fur of a dog for the first time. I want her to taste the joy that is so real that it hurts.

My friend’s quizzical look makes me realize that tears have formed in my eyes.
“You’ll never regret it,”  I say finally. Then I reach across the table, and squeezing my friend’s hand, I offer a prayer for her and me land all of the mere mortal women who stumble their way in to this holiest of callings.

Debra Smith-Andersen  CEO/Founder
margaretannsplace

My own daughter was born the day after Mother's Day, a miracle, a holy moment an experience I shall never regret. "Happy Mother's Day many blessings and peace to all of you."