At 9:47 am, while speaking to a police officer, because yes when your spouse dies, you must be questioned by the police immediately, one call did make it through. I didn’t recognize the number, but in those moments, I knew I should break my normal rule and answer all calls. “He’s dead??? Oh my God. Who’s with you? Are you ok? What the fuck is going on? Why the fuck am I reading this shit on Facebook? Taya, what the hell is going on?”

Facebook? I was confused. I hadn’t been on Facebook since the day before, so I certainly hadn’t taken the time in the last 90 minutes to peek at the site.

“I’ll call you back,” I screamed and hung up. I called my best friend and asked her to search for anything someone might have written and to contact them immediately and demand they delete it! I still hadn’t spoken to his best friend, or his godsister, or our godchild’s parents, or a million other people!! Why would someone post it to Facebook SO FAST?

I’ve been giving this a lot of thought, and while I can in no way speak for the entire planet, I certainly feel qualified to propose some suggestions, or dare I say – rules. How many RIPs have you seen floating through your social media stream over the last couple of days? Probably a few. Death is a fate that we will each meet at some point. The information age has changed the ways in which we live and communicate daily yet there are still large voids in universally accepted norms.

This next statement is something that is impossible to understand unless you’ve been through it.

There is a hierarchy of grief.

Yes, a hierarchy. It’s something that people either don’t understand or understand, but don’t want to think or talk about, yet we must.

There is a hierarchy of grief.

STOP! Read This Before You Post Another RIP on Social Media. There is a hierarchy to grief.
Share on X

Hierarchy is defined as 1) a system or organization in which people or groups are ranked one above the other according to status or authority, and 2) an arrangement or classification of things according to relative importance or inclusiveness.

What does this mean as it relates to grief? Let me explain. When someone dies — whether suddenly or after a prolonged illness, via natural causes or an unnatural fate, a young person in their prime or an elderly person with more memories behind them than ahead — there is one universal truth — the ripples of people who are affected are vast and at times, largely unknown to all other parties. A death is always a gut punch with varying degrees of force and a reminder of our mortality. Most people are moved to express their love for the deceased by showing their support to the family and friends left behind.

In the days before social media, these expressions came in the form of phone calls, voicemail messages, and floral deliveries. If you were lucky enough to be in proximity to the family of the newly deceased, there were visits that came wrapped with hugs and tears, and deliveries of food and beverages to feed all the weary souls. Insert social media. All of those courtesies still occur, but there is a new layer of grief expression — the online tribute in the form of Facebook posts, Instagram photo collages, and short tweets.

What’s the problem with that? Shouldn’t people be allowed to express their love, care, concern, support and prayers for the soul of the recently deceased and for their family?

Yes.

And no.

Why? Because there are no established “rules” and people have adopted their own. This isn’t breaking news, and you’re not trying to scoop TMZ. Listen, I know you’re hurt. Guess what? Me too. I know you’re shocked. Guess what? Me too. Your social media is an extension of who you are. I get it. You “need” to express your pain, acknowledge your relationship with the deceased and pray for the family.

Yes.

However…

Please give us a minute.

We are shocked.

We are heartbroken.

Give the immediate family or circle a little time to handle the immediate and time-sensitive “business” related to death. In the minutes and early hours after someone passes away, social media is most likely the last thing on their minds. And even if it does cross their mind, my earlier statement comes into play here.

There is a hierarchy of grief.

Pause and consider your role and relationship to the newly deceased. Remember, hierarchy refers to your status and your relative importance to the deceased. I caution you to wait and then wait a little longer before posting anything. This may seem trivial, silly, and not worth talking about, but I promise you it isn’t.

If the person is married, let the spouse post first.

If the person is “young” and single, let the partner, parents or siblings post first.

If the person is “old” and single, let the children post first.

If you can’t identify the family/inner circle of the person, you probably shouldn’t be posting at all.

Do you get where I’m going with this?

In theory, we should never compare grief levels, cast the grief-stricken survivors into roles, or use words like status and importance but we need to at this moment (and for the next few weeks and months). I’m referring to posting on your social media channels and those of relatives/friends of the deceased. The “RIP” posts started hitting my timeline about an hour after my husband’s death, and I certainly didn’t start them. This creates a sense of confusion, fear, anxiety, panic, dread, and shock. What’s wrong? Who are we praying for? Did something happen? Did someone pass? Why are there RIPs on your wall and I can’t reach you? Call me, please! What’s going on? That’s a small sample of messages on my voicemail and text inbox. I had to take a minute in the midst of it all to ask a friend to post a status to my Facebook page on my behalf.

Your love and expressions of support are appreciated and needed, but they can be ill-timed and create unintended additional stress. The person is no less dead and your sympathy no less heartfelt if your post, photo or tweet is delayed by a few hours. Honestly, the first couple of hours are shocking, and many things are a blur. Most bereaved people will be able to truly appreciate your love, concern, prayers and gestures after the first 24 hours.

There is a hierarchy of grief, and there are levels to grieving. Let those closest to the deceased set the tone for how they tell the world that their loved one has passed on. Ultimately, all roads lead back to them, so let’s give them a little breathing room. I’ve learned this from the inside, twice in the last four years, and I assure you that if we each adopted a little patience and restraint in this area, we would help those who are in the darkest hours of their lives by not adding an unnecessary layer of stress.

READ MORE AT THE FRONT PORCH

What are we pinning?

Visit Bonbon Break’s profile on Pinterest.

Pin it for later:

This post was syndicated with permission to BonBon Break Media LLC.

The post STOP! Read This Before You Post Another RIP on Social Media first appeared on BonBon Break.

While I am still very much in the throes of grief, there is so much I have learned in this short journey. I have had the privilege of forming bonds with some of the strongest of women, and through those, we have walked this ugly, heart-wrenching road together and hand-in-hand.

I have learned so many lessons through these bonds that I desperately want newly bereaved mothers and those close to them to know.

1. Feel all the feels. Cry. Mourn. It’s okay for your to feel cynical and bitter and bruised. It’s okay for your to feel hurt and frustrated. You can be angry at life. You can be angry at God. You can be angry at people (see point #2). It’s also to okay to feel happy and joyful. Don’t be afraid of that and don’t try to fake your emotions— even to yourself.

2. Expect people to inadvertently upset you. People will say things that are very upsetting. Just prepare yourself. By and large, they don’t mean to hurt. They will generally have good intentions, they’ll just be misguided. One tip? Find someone to laugh with about the infuriating things people say. It’s okay to feel like life isn’t fair. It’s actually natural. Feel your anger, because once you do, you can move through it.

3. Don’t be surprised when you just don’t care. About your appearance. About little problems. You’ll watch as the everyday nuances that used to consume your time disappear. It’s okay to only shower once a week. It’s okay to gain a few pounds. When you are in the throes of grief, you need to focus on the big things like staying sane, and let the other things slide.

4. You will hate social gatherings. Anything involving small talk and empty chatter will drive you crazy. You will receive unsolicited advice regarding your grief, hear complaints about everyday problems, and all you will probably be able to think about will be finding somewhere to hide— bathroom stalls, back rooms, your car. Give yourself freedom to take breaks without guilt.

5. It will make people uncomfortable, but don’t stop talking about your child. They were here. They were real. They are still your child. You are still their mother. No matter how uncomfortable it makes people to see your pain, don’t let that force you into hiding. The ones who matter will take you fully as you are, pain and rough edges and tears and all.

6. Heal on your own timetable. No one can tell you to move on. No one can put grief on a timeline. You are a unique person, and your experience is also unique. Pursue healing at all times and in small ways. Find someone you can trust to talk with. Seek counseling. Partake in healthy, stress-reducing habits. Lean on your faith. Put your grief toward a positive end. Note: Please never be afraid to take medication when depression and anxiety creep in. You have just gone through one of the hardest experiences in this world, give yourself a break. At least half of the grieving moms I know have needed medication at one time or another.

7. You are never alone. Find a group of moms that know. They are out there. Find people you can be brutally honest with. I truly believe the healing happens when we drop the facade. Be honest. Be you. Find people who get it. If you need a group, I will welcome you into mine.

8. Keep loving that child, no matter what. There is no love I have seen on this earth that best demonstrates unconditional and unfailing love than the love of a bereaved mother for her children. It’s a love that is stronger than death. It’s a love that continues whether they are in your arms or not.

If you are a grieving mother, know that you are never alone. You are so brave. You are so strong. You are doing a good job.

So much love to you.

Head to the Family Room

PIN IT FOR LATER:

This post was syndicated with permission to BonBon Break Media, LLC.

The post 8 Lessons Newly Bereaved Moms Need to Know first appeared on BonBon Break.

But I didn’t.

I didn’t go. Because I hate to go there.

The last time I was there was Christmas time. My parents’ neighbor had decorated Joey’s grave for the holidays.

Last week I wondered if I should go to see if the neighbor had removed the Christmas items yet.

But I didn’t.

I didn’t go. Because I hate to go there.

In fact, I hate a lot about the whole “grieving process.” I hate that it’s called a process.What’s to process? My son is dead, and I will never see him again.

And now I have something new in my parenting journey to feel guilty about.

It’s not enough that I regularly forget to ask my fifth grader for his discipline card on the weekends so I can sign it for its return on Monday.

It’s not enough that my third grader asks me to cuddle with him every night; but instead I am falling asleep in my toddler’s bed, also leaving Hubby with no one to cuddle.

It’s not enough that I don’t make my academically struggling first grader practice reading and math facts more often.

It’s not enough that my toddler gets way too much screen time while I am trying to “get things done;” and then I wonder, what in the hell did I even get done today? 

It’s not enough that I make the same mediocre dinners night after night.

It’s not enough that at least a couple times a week my boys have to dig dirty school clothes out of their hampers because mom hasn’t done any laundry in days.

And it’s certainly not enough that I am involved in, like, zero committees at the boys’ school.

There are so many ways I can make myself feel guilty about not being a good enough regular parent, much less a grieving one.

I mean, I see these beautiful blogs and Facebook pages dedicated to someone’s lost child. Foundations and organizations and movements and fundraisers and 5Ks and books and all of the wonderful things that other grieving parents manage to do to honor their children’s memories.

And here I sit, unable to even finish what I have started and making excuses as to why I can’t. Unable to even go to my son’s grave and remove some damned decorations that are four months old.

Because they are still there. Hubby’s mother told us they were on her last visit to the grave.

They are there, and I am not.

I would rather tuck my grief away in the privacy of my own mind. It’s safer there. Instead of feeding it, I can ignore it. Or only face it sideways rather than sailing directly at it – second star to the right and straight on till morning.

But that only feeds my guilt as well. I have actual plans, just like those other grieving parents do, but they get lost in my complete failure to execute them. The status quo is safer. Acceptance lies in status quo. Good memories lie here under which the bad have long been buried.

To change anything now would be akin to digging up the body, and that would just be too hard.

But it might also take away some of the guilt.

As I stand at Joey’s grave up on that godawful lonely hill, down the hill to the southwest is a stone in the shape of a butterfly. It belongs to a baby girl who lived only a month. 30 days on this earth. I often wonder how many of those days were spent in her mother’s arms.

Of the rare times I visit my own son’s grave, I often turn toward that child’s grave. It is always decorated with balloons and flowers and stuffed animals and holiday decorations.

And I feel guilty that I am not giving my own son those tributes.

But then I realize that child’s mother only had 30 days with her, none of which was a holiday or a birthday or any other special day.

I had six birthdays with my son. Five Christmases and Halloweens. Six Easter egg hunts.

Three first days of school.

We had vacations and trips to the park and proud moments watching him go off the diving board for the first time, and play soccer with his friends.

That little baby girl’s mom didn’t get any of that. She is getting it now, but only in the suckiest way imaginable for any parent.

Grief isn’t a competition. No one wins, and there is no judge awarding points for “Best Use of a Lawn Ornament to Spruce up a Headstone.”

No one is grieving better than you; just differently. 

As if we don’t have enough to feel guilty about as parents, we should not feel guilty about the way we manifest our sadness and grief. A very wise woman – who herself is a grieving daughter and grandmother – once said to me, “Just because you are not there at his grave every day doesn’t mean you don’t hold him here (she placed her hand over her heart) twenty-four/seven.”

And just like that, she took away some of my guilt, winning this grief round – for now.

 PIN IT FOR LATER:

This post was syndicated with permission to BonBon Break Media, LLC.

The post When You Suck at Being a Grieving Parent first appeared on BonBon Break.

Excerpt from Rare Bird by Anna Whiston-Donaldson

I get hundreds of messages from friends and strangers telling me the impact Jack’s death has had on them, in many cases making them more loving, attentive mothers who hold their children closer and take the time to really be present with them. It has been a wake-up call about how fleeting life is.

And shouldn’t we all become better people, because we know what’s important now? Isn’t that the lesson when someone we love dies? To cherish life? To love and appreciate one another, because we realize the time we have together is a gift?

But that’s not really what I’m seeing play out in my house. I don’t suddenly turn into some grace–filled, holy woman just because something horrific happened to my child. To think so would be as simplistic as thinking all moms whose kids have cancer are somehow braver than everybody else. Or that no mother with a multiply handicapped child can be a raging bitch. We are human. We are flawed. We are ordinary people thrust into less than ordinary situations, just doing what we have to do.

I’m far from perfect, even with my new perspective. I feel great love and I love, but I’m also irritable and overwhelmed. The sound of Tim chewing his cereal makes me want to crawl out of my skin just as it always has, even though I now know he could get hit by a bus tomorrow. Can’t I show him grace in the little things when he has shown me grace in the biggest thing of all, by not blaming me for letting the kids play in the rain? But Tim’s no beacon of sweetness and light either. He is short with me and defensive. And I can’t figure out the best way to relate to Margaret, as she swats away my hand or wriggles away from me when I try to pull her close.

It dawns on me that another injustice of loss is that it’s easier for others to talk about and process the loss of Jack than those of us who have lost the most.

They can gather at bus stops, over a meal, or in small groups to try to make sense of it. For those of us who fully realize what we have lost in losing Jack, not just a son and brother, but our son and brother, the pain is so deep it scares us to approach it fully. To try to give voice to our feelings, our longings for him, and our fears for the future seems too primal to put into words. Instead, our sadness comes out in small irritations and slights.

Mealtimes are tense. I think of family dinners past, some of which were wonderful, some of which were horrendous. I remember one in particular, when dinner was spinning out of control. Jack gagged on his broccoli, using his dramatic skills to their full extent. The microscopic piece of broccoli ended up on the floor. Margaret spit whatever she was eating into her nice doth napkin and kept putting a dirty, bare foot right on the table. Any attempt at civilized conversation failed.

I could tell from the look in Tim’s eyes that he wondered why he’d busted his butt to come home to this. After the kids left the table to run around out­ side, Tim looked at me and, using a rare curse word, said, ”I’m worried we’re raising assholes.”

“Well, I’m around kids all day, every day,” I replied. “Dude, they’re all assholes.”

And now I yearn for more ridiculous dinners like that one – bad manners, dirty feet, curse words, and all.

Instead, we sit in a triangle around the table, eating food prepared by friends and left in a cooler by the kitchen door. I try to train myself to reach for only three plates in the cupboard, but muscle memory is wired from more than a decade of reaching for four. I must remind myself each night: three, not four.

I sit alone under the window on the bench that Jack and Margaret used to share. Margaret has moved over into my seat, without a word. We hold hands, which now involves a long, awkward diagonal reach, and we sing a halfhearted “God is great, God is good, and we thank Him for our food.” Margaret starts whining about something, sounding more like a four-year-old than a ten-year­ old. I can tell Tim’s frustration is starting to build, because the two veins on his forehead-nicknamed the Tigris and Euphrates-begin to bulge. Dinner is going downhill fast.

I’m already in my flannel pajamas and bathrobe, and it’s not even six o’clock. Despite my exhaustion from living through the day, I swoop quickly into emotion-interpreter mode.

Avoiding all eye contact, I say to my plate, in a formal but neutral way, “I wonder if Margaret is getting tired of eating food that other families have cooked for us. With all the changes in our lives, it’s just one more thing she has no control over. And I wonder if Daddy is frustrated that we can’t eat dinner in peace without any crying and complaining. I wonder if he’s worried that every single dinner from now on will be like this.”

No one says anything in response, but the tension disappears. We eat.

Jack was a great emotional decoder. I think of the time a few weeks before the accident when he quietly cornered me in the upstairs hallway on a night Margaret had a friend sleeping over. “Alexis is a year older than Margaret, and you’re making them go to bed too early. I think that’s going to embarrass her.” He was right, but I hadn’t noticed a thing.

Jack seemed to have such insight into our moods, talking me down off the ledge and trying to explain to young Margaret that parents get angrier and yellier the later at night it gets, so if they were going to act up, earlier was defi­nitely better. I need him here to help us with all of this!

But we try the best we can without him. We look at dues for one another’s methods of coping, even though we don’t understand them. We try to decode what God’s purpose could be in giving us signs of warning before, and comfort after, but not bothering to save our son. We try to figure out how to act normal enough to make Margaret feel safe, while not pretending everything is okay. Because it’s not. The reality is, we just miss Jack. Our lives feel unnatural. We are shocked. Bewildered. Sad. Bereft.

We drive back from Margaret‘s soccer game an hour away. Soccer is the only thing we look forward to on these long, quiet,  empty weekends, when church is no longer a refuge but just something we endure. I guess it’s good she plays year-round. We have no baseball, no Boy Scouts, no youth group. Tim speeds along the highway and swerves a little, making me reach for the plastic handle above my head. From the backseat we hear Margaret say in a sarcastic voice, “Jack, we’re coming! We’re coming!” and we all laugh. Laughter has al­ways been one of our family’s greatest gifts. And it feels so good.

Excerpted from Rare Bird by Anna Whiston-Donaldson Copyright © 2014 by Anna Whiston-Donaldson. Excerpted by permission of Convergent Books, a division of Penguin Random House. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.

Anna Whiston-Donaldson, a suburban DC wife, mother and part-time bookstore manager, thought her first book would be about how to paint and restore furniture. On an ordinary September day, her 12-year-old son Jack was swept away in a neighborhood flash flood. Anna’s story of courage in the face of sudden loss and her surprising encounters with the supernatural after Jack’s death, shape this hope-filled story of rebirth. Rare Bird is not only for bereaved parents. This book is a gift to anyone who has looked up at life and thought, “This is not what I signed up for.” Rare Bird is moving, candid and eloquent, as it explores how to honor the tenderness of pain while acknowledging, as Donaldson writes, “that God is closer than your own skin…and you are
braver than you think.”

Anna was gracious and agreed to answer a few questions for our readers:

Q: Rare Bird is such a raw, emotional book to read – it must have been an emotional and challenging one to write. How did you get started, and how did you keep going?

A: I gathered up bits and pieces and ideas that I had in notebooks and on my blog and headed to a borrowed house near a pond. Then I cried for a whole day as I began to write. I did not know how to write a memoir, or how to establish a framework, so I just wrote about what was rising up in me: what the first few days without my son were like, how my husband and daughter were coping, and little stories about our family life. It was very difficult emotionally, but it also felt infused with love as I tried to put our simple family life into words.

Eventually I found a way to string it all together, in a loose chronological order. It is definitely a book about early grief, but I REFUSED to let myself end it at the one year mark, because I didn’t want to perpetuate the myth that grief somehow magically ends after one year. In my experience, and you’ll see this throughout the book, grief and love, pain and hope were co-mingled from day one, and this continued after one year for sure.

Q: How did you feel when you finished writing the book?

A: I felt relieved. I wasn’t certain that it was any good, or if it could be considered complete, but I was tired. I gave myself a cut-off date. I was ready to think about other things. After I turned it in, I stepped away for a long time, not re-reading it until it came out as a finished product. It is good to look back now at what I wrote. Not only am I proud of the memoir, I think it is healthy for me to compare where I was then to where I am now. A memoir is not an autobiography. Instead it is a snapshot of a particular period in life, with a few particular themes. Looking back on this snapshot, I see that today I am not exactly where I was when I wrote the book, and I assume I’m not where I will be tomorrow.

Q: Rare Bird is not just a book about loss and grief, it is also very much about love and hope. Did you set out for it to be so when you began writing it?

A: I didn’t really know. The publisher did not put any constraints on me, so I just let my grief unfold in real time. In that way, the book is very similar to  my blog, An Inch of Gray, but  with added details and description. I didn’t want it to be falsely cheery because there is nothing good about losing a child, but I decided to just write my experience and be myself. Love and hope somehow bubbled up from the very first day of the accident, and I chose to include that in the book. I wouldn’t have ever guessed that would be possible, but it’s what happened to me. And even though the book isn’t a tribute to Jack, and it’s not all about Jack, I think our love permeates the book.

Q: How does your family feel about Rare Bird?

A: My sister is my biggest cheerleader. She, too, lost so much when we lost Jack, and she fervently wants something good, some sort of redemption to come from our loss. She will shout about Rare Bird from the rooftops. Tim and Margaret are quieter about it, and more private. Fortunately, they were used to my having a blog, so it’s not too much a shock to their system that we might run into people who know our story. That said, I tried to make it clear in the book that I was writing about MY experience. Their experiences are their own.

Q:  What’s next? Will you write another book, and if so, can you tell us what it’s about?

Great question. Before Jack’s accident I was writing more and more about home decorating and DIY because my children had reached an age where preserving their trust and privacy was more important than blogging about them. After the accident, my writing focused on grief, and has for the past 3 years. I’m not sure what direction I’ll take next. Definitely open to ideas!

Buy her book now:

Anna Whiston-Donaldson – Anna is a popular blogger at An Inch of Gray. A graduate of James Madison University and Wake Forest University, she taught high school English for six years before becoming a full-time mom and writer. She lives with her husband, Tim, and daughter, Margaret, in suburban Washington, DC.

A former high school English teacher and bookstore manager, Anna began writing the blog An Inch of Gray in 2008 to share funny stories of life and motherhood and to find online community. After the sudden death of her 12 year old son Jack in 2011, Anna chronicled her grief journey in real time for her readers in order to reveal what grief is really like and to find healing for herself.

Her memoir Rare Bird: A Memoir of Loss and Love was published by Convergent Books, a division of Penguin-Random House.

Visit her blog, An Inch of Gray or her writing site, AnnaWhistonDonaldson.com

  

“Meet” Anna on BonBon Break LIVE on Tuesday, September 23 at 10 AM PST – Click here for details

CONTINUE READING IN THE FRONT PORCH

The post Rare Bird first appeared on BonBon Break.

Sometimes bad things happen to good people.  We’ve all watched from afar as someone we’ve known grappled with unimaginable tragedy.  We said our kind words, and helped the best ways we knew how, but in the end we returned to our normal lives. What happens when it’s YOUR life that was shattered?  What happens to the people who are forced to leave a funeral and walk into a new life that they didn’t deserve and certainly didn’t want?  “You Went to a Funeral and Then You Went Home” is a powerful piece that illustrates both sides of a family’s struggle with and loss to cancer.

ABOUT COURTNEY: Currently, I am a mom, teacher, writer, photographer, and dreamer. I used to think life was something to figure out, but losing my healthy husband to a very rare cancer, I learned it’s all about LIVING. Everyday, I try to forget about the future, and enjoy the moments of today, whether those moments are good or bad. At oursmallmoments.com, I write about life, loss, my kids, parenting a child with high functioning autism, and any other thought I decided to share. I have been featured in many online publications. I am teaching a photography course at BlogU this summer; and have an essay in the new hit anthology, I Just Want to Be Alone.

Follow Courtney on Facebook | Twitter | Pinterest |Google+ | Instagram

CONTINUE READING IN THE ATTIC

The post You Went to a Funeral and Then You Went Home by Our Small Moments first appeared on BonBon Break.