by jphilo | Jul 24, 2012 | Different Dream, Grief, Spiritual Support
The Bereaved Parents Club
Guest blogger Scott Newport belongs to a club no parent wants to join—the Bereaved Parents Club. In observance of the month, Scott sent this post and a poem to share with you.
Did you know July is Bereaved Parents Month? Yeah, I found out the hard way when my son died a couple of years back. Each month that passes, I find there is no escape or relief from the grief our family endures. I have found that writing helps me to better understand the sadness and be able to continue on with the ones of us left behind.
One of my poems about grief was published in We Need Not Walk Alone, a magazine published by The Compassionate Friends organization, back in the spring of 2011.
As my Different Dream has come true in life, I will continue writing, and I will keep living the dream I never expected or even wanted. But I would never go back to the dream I had before Evan.
Anyway, in honor of this month I wanted to share the poem about grief with you.
Garden of Grief
Grief is like a wild vine growing
It thrives in all conditions
Drought or floods have little effect
As I see the serpent navigate
I wonder if the new buds emerging
Are going to be venomous flowers
Or another shoot
Headed in another direction
Each thread of its being
Searches for cracks to fill
Or innocent prey
Soon to be entangled in its hold
I tried to prune it one day
But all it did was become
Stronger, my mistake
Leave a Comment for Scott and other Bereaved Parents
Many of us don’t belong to the Bereaved Parents Club, so we don’t know how Scott and other members of the club feel. But we can leave messages of support for them, messages to remind them that people care about them, their children who died, and their grief journey. So leave a comment for Scott and other parents living a very different parenting dream than they expected.
Thanks, Scott, for sharing your heart with us!
Do you like what you see at DifferentDream.com? You can receive more great content by subscribing to the quarterly Different Dream newsletter and signing up for the daily RSS feed delivered to your email inbox. You can sign up for the first in the pop-up box and the second at the bottom of this page.
Scott Newport is a carpenter who has a vision for unwanted, damaged wood. His finds are treasures to his soul. Each discovery he makes unfolds into a beautiful piece of furniture for which he finds a home, usually with a child or caregiver of a child with special needs. He writes about the life lessons he learns from his 3 children, especially from Evan who died in November of 2009 after 7 years of joyful life. To access all of Scott’s guest posts, click on the magnifying glass at the top of the page and type “Scott Newport” in the search box.
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by jphilo | May 3, 2012 | Different Dream, Grief, Spiritual Support
In yesterday’s post, guest blogger Scott Newport described his practice of “scooping up things” during a recent trip to the Everglades. The practice began three years ago as a means of coping with his grief after his son Evan died. Today, Scott completes the story by sharing how the compassion of his living son, Noah, allowed him to scoop up a bit of joy.
Scooping Up Things, Part 2
From the Most Irritating No-See-Um
to the Greatness of the Full Moon
When I got home at about 11:00 that night, Noah was still up.
“Hey Dad, did you miss me?”
“Of course son! When I get home from the presentation I have to give tomorrow, I’ll tell you all about my trip.”
Saying good night, I gave him a hug and we both went up the stairs to bed. Even though I’m just a carpenter, on occasion I’m also a presenter for
state-funded training seminars for parents and caregivers of
chronically ill children. Because of Evan, I’m something of an expert
there.
Whispered Fears
Early the next morning, my wife Penni came down the stairs and said,
“Noah told me one his teachers from the middle school was going to
call.”
Immediately I had a bad feeling. Maybe everything Noah has been
through over the last few years—losing Evan—has finally taken its
toll. Maybe he got angry at another kid. Maybe he pushed one of his
buddies. Whispered fears raced through my head.
Penni continued, “She
called yesterday.”
“Well? What did she say?”
“She said that there’s a needy family in the community that’s looking
for a child’s bedroom dresser. Noah told her we have one.”
I Can’t Go in There
In less than a second I knew which dresser Noah had in mind. It was
the one in the bedroom I hardly have the courage to walk into. I give
myself permission to look though the French doors to the intensive care unit
where Evan and all his medical equipment lived. I can’t go in there.
It is still too overwhelming. Evan’s favorite blanket still lies in
his crib—the crib where I found him dead and lifeless.
Penni didn’t say it, but her blue eyes spilled out the love she has
for both her boys. And as she walked away, I knew she loved me too. I
just stood there and held back my tears. I still can’t even talk to my
wife about Evan’s death.
Scooping Up Tears
Later, at the end of the all-day seminar, I got up to give my
presentation. Wiping tears from my eyes, I told the story about Noah
and how he is transitioning through his grief and his life as a young
boy of thirteen. The whole room was in tears with me. I scooped up
each tear-filled smile sent my way.
You see, the things I scoop up
aren’t all minnows and moonbeams—sometimes they are profoundly
painful.
“I could never have given away Evan’s dresser,” I told the group of
people sitting in front of me. “It would have been another loss for me. But because Noah was the one who decided it was okay to give away
the dresser, I was okay with it. That sorta surprised me.”
Scooping Up Pride
On my three-hour drive home, I realized how proud I am of Noah. Like a brilliant, full moon, Noah’s spirit shines brightly. I believe I will
gaze with wonder and appreciation at his life again and again and
again. I’ll probably never give up my scooping up habit—but I bet
that, even years from now, Noah’s gift will stand as one of my best
finds ever.
Thanks, Son.
Do You Need a Moment?
Do you need a moment to scoop up your own tears? Go ahead. Take your time. When you’re done, leave a comment about your thoughts. Think of them as more things for Scott to scoop up as he deals with the loss of his sweet son Evan and rejoices in life with Noah.
Part One
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by jphilo | May 2, 2012 | Different Dream, Grief, Spiritual Support
Guest blogger Scott Newport recently returned from a trip to Everglades National Park. During the trip, he employed a technique to deal with grief over the loss of his son, Evan. In today’s post, Scott explains how he used the practice of scooping up things during his trip down south.
Scooping Up Things:
From the Most Irritating No-See-Um
to the Greatness of the Full Moon
I just returned from an adventure to the Everglades National Park with
one of my high school buddies. He and I go way back. When we were
sixteen and first got our driver’s licenses, $1.20 would buy
two gallons of gas, just enough to get to his house and back.
Before I left for Florida, I made sure to give my son Noah a big hug
goodbye. This trip was going to be my first real getaway since the
birth of my other son, Evan.
Evan would have been ten this year. Since
I was going to be gone for three days, I wondered if Noah would see my
absence as another loss. I know any time he goes away for the night, I
feel a loss. I think once you have lost a family member, you realize
the unthinkable can come true.
On the flight from Michigan to Florida, Noah continued to be on my
mind. He’s such a great kid, but I often worry if surviving the death
of his younger brother will one day manifest in a negative way. So
far, Noah has turned to positive outlets for coping.
Scooping Up Things
For me, my main survival skill has been what I like to call “scoopin g
up things.” I can make it through each day if I embrace the simple
things in life. With every breath I inhale, I scoop up in my mind what
I think has value. I do this almost unconsciously as I go about my
daily work and routines. And of course, this trip would be no
different—of course I’d be looking for things to scoop up, examine,
and save.
On our first night in the Everglades, my buddy and I camped on an old
Seminole mound fifty miles from the isolated boat ramp from which we’d launched. We saw alligators everywhere, floating silently in the
meandering waterways or sunning their gnarly black bodies on the muddy banks as we motored past. Soaring black vultures circled overhead and long-legged white herons waded in the brackish water. When we stopped to eat lunch, I sat at the back of the boat. While no-see-ums swarmed around my head I searched for anything that may be lurking around the boat.
Scooping Up Beauty
My eyes immediately spotted a family of tiny translucent minnows darted between the roots of the far-reaching arms of the mangroves. With every organ of their thinness exposed, I wondered how long the minnows would live; how long they had been alive.
On shore, ancient lemon and banana trees were visible among the thick foliage, evidence of indigenous families that used to live there. The smell of those trees was something I had never experienced before. Overwhelmed by the process of scooping up these things, I took a deep breath, grabbed my notebook, and started to jot down my thoughts.
Before my trip, I thought that the night sky over the Everglades would
be full of brilliant stars but, in fact, the moon is so bright the
stars are dimmed. On our last night in the Everglades, the full moon
was king, opening a whole new day in the darkness for me to scoop up
my treasures. As we poled my buddy’s flat boat around the spider’s web
of inlets, ripples on the water glistened smoothly as they rose and
fell, radiating away from our boat. We couldn’t see any alligators,
but we heard their midnight rumbling noises resonating for miles.
Scooping Up Words
I felt like my time in the Everglades could provide me with a lifetime
of storytelling material.
After paying three dollars for a much needed shower at the little
store by the boat launch, I said goodbye to my friend and headed for
the airport.
On my flight home, I opened my notebook and gazed again on the
Everglades. The descriptive words and phrases I had written down while
on my buddy’s boat took me back in a flash. My short notes and childlike sketches made me smile and reminisce. I was sure to get a dozen poems out of the scribbles. Even though I took pictures on our adventure, I prefer
words on a page when it comes to sharing my trip with my friends and
family. Words seem to better capture the simple things I scoop up. The
young girls seated next to me must have thought I was nuts as I kept a
silent smile on my face during the whole flight.
Share Your Grief
Though I’ve never been to the Everglades, the images Scott scooped up and shared made me feel like I was there. Tomorrow, he’ll describe how his son Noah helped him scoop up joy enough to bear the grief of his loss for one more day. Scott knows that sharing your feelings is one way of coping with grief. So feel free to leave a comment about the grief you bear and how you deal with it. Remember, you are not alone.
Part Two
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by jphilo | Apr 3, 2012 | Different Dream, Grief, Spiritual Support
Welcome to Gillian Marchenko, the newest guest blogger at DifferentDream.com. To see what Gillian looks like, visit our guest blogger page and scroll down until her smiling face and bio comes into view. To launch her presence here, she uses a lovely metaphor of darkness and light to describe how she grew to accept and love her daughter who lives with Down syndrome.
Darkness and Light
My two oldest daughters and I are at a museum. We see several exhibits: a man-made tornado, a 1950s coal mine, and Christmas trees from around the world. But we find ourselves most engaged standing in front of a warming space enclosed with plexiglass, watching a baby chick hatch from her egg. “Mom, look! The egg is going to hatch!” my ten-year-old squeals. Both girls scoot in front of a few adults for a better view.
The egg tips and rolls, and we ooh and aah like we are watching fireworks. It cracks, and we become midwives, urging the chick to emerge. Come on, baby! Come and meet the world! Soon, there is a hole and a pale, pointed beak connected to a scrawny, wet head pushes through. What a beautiful way to be born, I think, in warmth and safety, under a light as bright as the sun.
Five years ago, our third daughter was born. Her experience was polar opposite from the chick’s. She came three weeks early via emergency caesarean section beneath icy, iridescent lights while I was under anesthesia and my husband paced the waiting room. Right away, there was a suspicion of Down syndrome. A blood test confirmed the diagnosis days later, thus catapulting me into a cavernous grief over the loss of the daughter I expected.
At the museum the chick slips out of the egg, surprised and slack, and looks around.
I spent the first year of Polly’s life depressed. “When will I stop feeling like this? When will I love my child?” My life had been eclipsed. I was in darkness.
“Be patient. Give yourself time. Let the baby change you,” friends said. “One day you will love your child fiercely. You will wonder how you ever felt differently. God has given you a gift in your daughter.” I tried to heed their advice. Deep down, though, I thought perhaps God had shifted my life like a shadow.
Polly is now five years old. She tells knock-knock jokes and loves to bat at T-ball. She creates imaginary worlds upstairs with her sisters during long, rainy days at home. As soon as she could smile she lit up the darkness inside me. She is a daily reminder of God’s love and care for me. He gave me the daughter I didn’t know I needed, to understand more deeply his bright love for me.
If only I could go back in time and have a do over. I want to go to the hospital and hold myself as the frightened mother. “It’s OK. You’re going to love her. I promise.” I want to talk softly to the lady hiding from her life. “Hold your baby close. Don’t worry.” I missed so many tender moments in my grief.
But I cannot discount the beginning of our story together. I believe the purpose of darkness is partly for me to appreciate the light.
At night, Polly likes it when I sing to her before she falls asleep. I put my head against hers, and gently stroke her thick ash hair with my fingers. You are my sunshine, my only sunshine. You make me happy when skies are gray. I stop for a moment to clear my throat.
“Mom, more…” Polly urges. “More.”
My daughter is a walking, breathing metaphor of the importance of darkness and light. You’ll never know dear, how much I love you. Please don’t take my sunshine away.
Every good and perfect gift is from above, coming down from the Father of the heavenly lights, who does not change like shifting shadows.
James 1:16-18
~ Gillian
Darkness and Light in Your Life
Thank you, Gillian, for so transparently sharing your struggles during the first year of Polly’s light. Thank you for assuring other parents their darkness can change into light. Thanks to those of you who want to leave a comment about how you left the shadows of uncertain love behind you. To hear more of Gillian’s story, go to www.GillianMarchenko.com.
Do you like what you see at DifferentDream.com? You can receive more great content by subscribing to the quarterly Different Dream newsletter and signing up for the daily RSS feed delivered to your email inbox. You can sign up for the first in the pop up box and the second at the bottom of this page.
by jphilo | Dec 1, 2011 | Different Dream, Grief, Spiritual Support
5 Tools to Overcome Special Needs Grief
Laurie Wallin is at DifferentDream.com today. She’s sharing from her heart about the special needs grief she’s experiencing this holiday season. She also shares five strategies to help her (and you) ride the waves of grief that accompany this season of joy.
5 Tools to Overcome Special Needs Grief
Holidays have a different feel for us as special needs parents. There’s always a hint of grief, whether simply in the fact that our child can’t stand unassisted to place that ornament on the tree, or their mood disorder prevents participation in the school holiday show.
Or, sometimes, it’s acute. Something that’s dug a hole through our sense of joy and wonder this season. Grief can sneak up on us when we least expect it.
Do You Have Any Pictures of Your Kids?
This happened to me the other day, suddenly. In the middle of a meeting where we discussed things that seemed safe—topics seemingly unrelated to the tender place in my heart. A friend asks an innocent question: “Do you have any pictures of your kids?”
“Of course I do!” I reply, pulling my phone out and scrolling through snapshots filled with grins and antics that animate life in a family of six.
Except in the photos it’s only… five.
Screen after screen I scroll through faces. Dozens of images… and she’s not there. Has it really been that long?
And the tears ambush me. Hot and bitter. I curl over, laboring to breathe through grief that blurs images in my hand. Where is she?
Where is my little redhead?
She’s in a center for children who hurt deeper than their families, doctors, and specialists can manage to heal. She’s in a place that’s not home. As we unpack decorations and bake pies this holiday season, she will miss more photos. She’s already missed so many. She’s missing our life… and we’re missing hers.
Your Grief May Surprise You, Too
As holidays unfold this year, your grief may surprise you like that, too. In the middle of a mall. In a meeting at work. Driving down the street past a favorite place. A reminder that the pain isn’t really gone. It’s just waiting for a little air to breathe. One small crack of a window and it floods in again. In those ambushed moments, we can still see good this holiday. We can fight the despair with powerful tools that strengthen grieving hearts.
5 Tools to Overcome Special Needs Grief
- Get a grief buddy. Take a friend to coffee and ask if they’d be your “I feel like crap today” friend. Someone you can email or text or just call and know they’ll listen and won’t need you to smile and have it all together. And someone who loves you enough to tell you it’s time to get up, give the Kleenex a break, and let the good in too.
- Find a comforting book, CD, or Scripture passage for this season. Read it every morning as you awake, allowing yourself permission to cry, question, and sometimes just feel numb. Choose to trust that resource to inspire and strengthen you… to fill in the gaps the tears leave behind.
- Go for a walk. Plan some time each day to get your heart pumping, whether it’s a walk around the block, vigorous house cleaning, or popping in that exercise video for 20 minutes. Endorphines released in your body will lift your mood and allow you a healthy way to expend the grief energy that sometimes feels overwhelming.
- Invest in others who are struggling. Give an evening to a battered women’s shelter, collect shoe boxes filled with personal care items for poor kids abroad, write letters to service men and women deployed across the world. Others are grieving this holiday, too. As we reach out, we remember we’re not alone.
- Plan quiet moments in your holiday busyness. The grief will surge, so give yourself space to let it. Make a 6-week calendar and plan events through the end of the year with your family, making sure there are days—even stretches of days—that are unplanned. Just allowing space in your schedule keeps away the stress that exacerbates a broken heart.
This season may feel different for me, my little girl, our family. It may be different than normal for your family too. But the joy that marks it can still be ours—real, deep joy and peace—when we let ourselves do what we need to care for our hearts.
In comfort,
Laurie
How Do You Ride the Waves of Special Needs Grief?
Is grief part of your holiday season this year? What tools help you cope? This is a safe place to share your grief and the strategies that give you strength to go on. Laurie and I would love to hear from you.
Do you like what you see at DifferentDream.com? You can receive more great content by subscribing to the quarterly Different Dream newsletter and signing up for the daily RSS feed delivered to your email inbox. You can sign up for the first in the pop up box and the second at the bottom of this page.
Laurie is the mom of four daughters–two adopted with developmental delays, mood disorders, and ADHD. A former junior high teacher turned speaker and life coach, she loves to learn, laugh until their sides hurt, and help women be courageous in life.
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by jphilo | Oct 21, 2011 | Different Dream, Grief, Spiritual Support
As was mentioned yesterday, October is Down Syndrome Awareness Month. In honor of the occasion, guest blogger Ellen Stumbo wrote a two part series about how she reacted when her daughter was diagnosed with the syndrome. In Part 1, she described her initial reaction to the diagnosis. In Part 2, she shows how she adjusted to and embraced the different road her daughter would travel.
Down Syndrome Awareness: A Different Road, Part 2
I realized I was screaming. My sobs came from deep within my soul, and the anguish echoed around me. Yet, no one heard me. I felt totally and utterly…alone. I was lost.
After a while, the tears had been drained from my body. Without their constant veil, I was able to see more clearly, and a glimpse of light peered straight ahead. My heart started beating fast as I allowed myself to hope. I dragged my feet through the mud, I climbed over the branches, I held my breath, and I pushed the heavy vines out of my way.
A burst of light blinded me. I rubbed my eyes and slowly opened them. And here, in this path, there too was a gate. There was nothing spectacular about the gate; it wasn’t fancy, and it was certainly not impressive. It was a simple wooden entrance, with a wide open door. Yet, it was so inviting, so peaceful, so comforting. My heart was immediately drawn to it. Without hesitation, I walked through.
The beauty stunned me. The air was deliciously refreshing and the trees seemed to touch the sky. The sound of birds reached my ears. It was not a common bird song; it was music of the soul. The melody was so beautiful that it welled up inside me and I thought I might burst with joy! The flowers were unlike anything an ordinary person could imagine. If anyone were to make a bouquet with these, there would be no worthy recipient to be found, except for God Himself. And the colors, oh the colors! These shades could only be found in Heaven…and on this road. I paused. What I saw before me was magnificent. I felt humbled. This road was paved with glimpses of God. My heart was overflowing.
I knew I would be taking this road at a slower pace, there was hardly a defined path. We would be facing the wilds as we made our way through. Every step would be a new discovery that would reach all my senses. Things would take longer here, but that would make them more meaningful. I knew, that as I witnessed miracles, I would not dismiss them as natural and expected milestones. I smiled.
I realized then, that God was standing by me. He had been with me all along. Somehow, in my tears and anguish, I had lost sight of Him. I fell to my knees. He knelt down beside me and grabbed my face. He gently cupped it in His hands. He looked at me tenderly, “Certainly, this road will not always be easy, and you might not see me, but I will be with you in every step. And your heart? It will forever be changed; for this child will touch you in ways you didn’t know were possible. Your understanding and experience of life and of My love will never be the same. I gave you this child, because you needed her, and she needed you.”
He took me by the hand and helped me to my feet. With a grin on His face that made His eyes sparkle He added, “I love you, and I give good gifts to those I love. This child that I have given to you is mine, my beloved one, and a vessel of my love.”
I stared into the open, unknown space before me, allowing myself to feel the warmth of my baby girl as I held her close. She would lead the way. I wanted to begin the journey. I lifted my foot and started walking. Walking into the wildness and beauty of the road.
Need Some Tissues?
Oops, I forgot to tell you to get some tissues before reading Part 2 of Ellen’s series. Take all the time you need to compose yourself. Then, thing about how you have adjusted to life as the parent of a beloved child with special needs. Imagine how your experience could encourage a parent who just received a diagnosis and leave a comment if you like.
And thank you, Ellen, for sharing your heart with us. Because of you, there’s not a dry eye at this house.
Part One
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