Universal Motherhood

I seem to be going through great changes at the moment, and like with all changes, I can't quite describe what is going on. So I think I won't write this morning. Instead, I've decided to post an essay I wrote shortly after Crista died.

Universal Motherhood
By Jo Chandler

When my beloved Crista died from cancer last year, I was thrust into a society of moms I didn't know existed. But there it was. The grief of every woman who has ever lost a child came crashing in on me that day.
And here it stays.
My entrée into this exclusive mommy’s club has given me insights I didn’t ask for. I know, for example, the anguish Terri Schiavo’s mother must have felt when she was forced to stand by, helpless, as a stranger stopped the nourishment that kept a semblance of her daughter connected to her. I get that her anger and determination had nothing to do with the ethics or morality hotly debated across the nation during her ordeal. Her despair was about losing her girl, her baby—the same despair I felt as I watched my vibrant Crista disappear by degrees. Crista was in pain. It was time for her to go. Still, I unreasonably and deeply longed to keep her with me. If only I could rub her feet and touch her face for one more day, one more hour.
When I look back on Cindy Sheehan’s demonstrations outside President Bush’s Texas ranch, I realize the protests had little to do with the politics of war. This woman was outraged at her impotence to protect her son from the forces of violent death, much as I was unable to save Crista from the ravages of cancer. Sheehan was determined not to let the world forget that hers was a mother’s beloved son. I feel that same determination every time I interject Crista’s name into a conversation with friends or tell a funny story about her too-short life.
And on the nightly news, when mothers in Iraq or Afghanistan (you can name the country, really) are seen wailing in the streets over the bodies of their dead children, I see more than images on a screen. I see myself. I hear myself. I feel myself. I’m just like those women because inside a part of me is always weeping.
These moms, sorority sisters of sorts, have been asked to bear the unbearable, accept the unacceptable and continue to function in a world that no longer makes sense.
Early on, my grief counselor assured me that in time I would heal, although I would never forget. The first year, she said, would be the hardest. The second wouldn’t be much better. Eventually, I would recognize the gifts that come from experiencing the worst thing that can happen. I remember staring at her in disbelief.
One of the first things that happens after a child’s funeral is a reorganization of relationships. Friends and family members divide themselves into two camps—those who are empathetic to your loss and those who don’t seem to have a clue. The latter group is prone to say things like, “Do you think you’re focusing too much on Crista’s death?” Or after a few months, “You mean you aren’t getting better yet?” My personal favorite is, “You don’t need counseling. You need to get out of yourself and help somebody else.”
Trust me, if we could we would.
Least helpful of all is when others compare our loss with the deaths of, say, their fathers, or with their divorces. My father and mother are gone. I went through a painful divorce. There is no comparison.
On the other hand, there are those people whose hearts ache for us, but who don’t know how to help. I can’t speak for all of my sisters in grief but I can recount kindnesses that have touched me and made my journey a little less lonely. One friend said that every time we get together, she would like to hear a story about Crista, and that keeps my daughter alive. Another bought me a lovely book. Still another who is uncomfortable talking to me about my daughter’s death (is she so afraid of losing her own son?) sends me cards at random intervals to let me know she hasn’t forgotten us. My brother calls just to say hello and that he’s thinking of me and loves me. So do my nieces. When I cry, my husband stops whatever he’s doing and sits with me. Amazing. My best friend Betty makes me laugh, listens when I need to talk and whisks me off on weekend shopping trips to Sonoma. And my stepchildren never forget their stepsister and never hesitate to let me know they love and miss her. These things matter and I cling to them, even now—especially now. Because the most frightening thing for bereaving mothers over time is that our children will be forgotten. Every thoughtful gesture—every phone call, every email, every mention of our kids’ names—keeps them present and alive. Nothing is more important.
As for gifts. Well, as incongruous as it may seem, blessings have come out of my loss. Not the least of these gifts is the generosity of the mothers I have met who share their journeys through the valley of grief back into the world of everyday life. They have shown me how to survive by their own courageous example. They have taught me how to smile again, even through my tears. They honor my grief. The bonds we forge can never be broken.
This isn’t a society of women I would have chosen to join. In fact, I would have run the other way. But, like it or not, I am one of them now. I am a universal mother. And I am honored to share their burdens as many have shared mine.

All kinds of grief

Everybody grieves differently.

That's the first thing they tell you after your child dies. I know one woman whose son died the same time as Crista (a year and a half ago) who still tears up, who still misses her son but who admits that most of the time she is okay. Another mother has been living this nightmare for two years, and she still takes Valium and Prozac just to get by. She also attends counseling and depression classes.

Me? I feel as if something has been ripped from my heart, leaving a huge crevasse of black in the space where my future should be.

Sometimes when I actually realize that Crista is no longer on this planet, I gasp with can only be called horror. Then I plunge into that darkness.

I woke up this morning thinking about how detached I was from death and grief before Crista left. I was thinking about my stepdaughter's friend. His name was Nick, and she was crazy about him. They were extremely close. Nick died in a climbing accident. Kristi was devastated. She still gets sad when she thinks about it, and it's been almost a decade. What struck me about my memory was how insensitive I was to Kristi's grief. I mean, I cared. My heart ached for her. But I had no idea how deeply bereft she felt. Now I know.

My niece Debbie's husband was killed on a motorcycle accident a few years back. I attended the funeral. I cried for Debbie. But until my own experience, I had no idea what she was going through, still is. On Thanksgiving eve, she and I talked for a long while about the fickle path our sorrow moves. For the first time since Steve's death, I understood the depth of her loss. I can't believe it took me so long.

When someone you love dies, counselors tell you you will eventually become strong and confident. They tell you there will be gifts. That's just wrong. But it's true. I'm beginning to see that the empathy I feel for these beautiful young women, whom I love enormously, is a gift, albeit a strange one.

At this stage, I suppose that has to be enough.

Today is a good day, which is amazing since less than a week ago I thought I would die--actually, I hoped I would die. But I didn't. And today is a good day.

To understand how amazing that statement is, you have to understand my relationship with Crista, my only child. I'll keep it brief.

Crista was not an easy kid, not an easy baby, not an easy teenager and sometimes not an easy adult. She was bright and beautiful and complex. During her teen years, long after my divorce from her father and his subsequent death from alcoholism, she "acted out." I understood the need for her to pull away from me. We we almost symbiotic. By age 15, she had transformed from a geeky brain child to a truly and amazingly beautiful teen. It was a transformation with which she was determined to take full advantage! She drank too much, slipped out of her window at night to meet her boyfriend and pretty much did as she pleased. I pleaded, reasoned, raged. But nothing I did made any difference. She was the center of attention (boys) and she was going to do as she pleased. Until I joined Tough Love.

If there was one thing Crista knew, it was that I loved her, adored her, was devoted to her. I think it was that love that allowed her to run wild, assured I would always be there waiting.

Her Tough Love parents and I did an intervention. Part of the plan was that Crista would live with her TL parents for awhile until we could sort things out. I told her she could come home with me right away if she would agree to live by the rules. Her answer was emphatic. "No." So I said, "Okay, Crista, I'll go home and get your clothes."

She said, "I'll go with you."
I replied, "No, Crista. I don't want you."

Where that came from, I have no clue. I only know that my gorgeous girl looked at me in disbelief. Her huge brown eyes filled with tears. And I left. When I returned, she said, "Mom. I want to come home." I said she could, but she had to follow the rules.

Just like that, it was over. My girl was home with me. She was safe. And her wild days were over. We had dodged a bullit. Never again, would we go through such tramatic times. And nothing, simply nothing, could hurt me so deeply in the future. We had made it. We were home free.

I was not prepared for came next.

I got the phone call on a Tuesday, I believe. I was living in the foothills with Crista's stepdad, Bud. She was teaching eighth grade English in Elk Grove, CA and living in Sacramento.

"Mom, I have pancreatic cancer. The doctor says I have six months to live."

I have to stop now.

All of a sudden my day isn't so good anymore. I'll write more later. Maybe tomorrow. I have so much to tell you. So much to figure out. I hope you don't mind sharing my journey through this thing called grief. I'm so glad you are there.