Lost children

Top: Chris; bottom: Stephen and me

 I don't often write about my two sons who have passed away, but I was looking at pictures of all sorts, and I realized that I still have a great deal of sadness around not having them in my life any more, even after all these years. I stumbled upon a scrapbook filled with pictures of Chris' wedding, and I realized I couldn't even open the cover and look at them. I like to think that I am completely over their loss, but it's not true. I guess you never are really healed of such loss, you just learn how to cope.

Another thing I have lately come to realize is that I owe it to my lost babies to keep their memories alive. Although it's been more than half a century since Stephen died, he still continues to be a part of me, an infant whom I loved immeasurably.

He was a perfectly healthy year-old child until he contracted spinal meningitis. It killed him within hours, and within a day, my life had changed forever, along with Chris' life (he was not even four at the time), and my husband Derald's life. I fell into a huge pit of grief and felt as though my own life has ended. But of course it didn't. I have a memory of Chris telling me not to cry, he would go up to heaven to get Stephen and bring him back. Looking back on that time, which ended with me divorcing Derald and me trying to get back to some semblance of normal life and not doing it very well. I still regret that I was unable to mother my remaining child properly and how much he also suffered because of my grief. Somehow Chris turned out just fine, in spite of how much he went through. 

I have a memory of Chris waiting in front of our home for the school bus to take him away for the first day of kindergarten. He wore of look of stoicism, dressed in his new clothes and shoes, and I cried as he boarded the huge yellow bus. These days kids don't do that anymore; I would have driven him to school and waited for him to disappear behind the school walls.

Bad things do happen; how I respond to them defines my character and the quality of my life. I can choose to sit in perpetual sadness, immobilized by the gravity of my loss, or I can choose to rise from the pain and treasure the most precious gift I have: life itself. —Walter Anderson

Chris was forty when his wife, Silvia, called me from Germany to tell me he had died. He had been jogging with his squadron when he fell over with a heart attack. He died right there in sight of his fellow soldiers, but they were unable to revive him. I like to think he didn't suffer but lost consciousness quickly. 

I traveled to Germany to attend his memorial service and spent some time with Silvia, whom I had never met before. She had been married previously and had a young son, but he didn't speak any English, so I didn't get to know him well. Silvia, however, was wonderful to me and we spent some sad time together. I was there for almost a week, I believe, and was able to address his fellow soldiers and get to know them a little, too. I was almost sixty when he died, and now I am an octogenarian filled with old memories.

Not only have I outlived my two sons, but also my parents and one sister. Neither of my parents made it out of their sixties; Daddy died at 62, and Mama at 69. It was heart disease that took both of them, too. Chris got bad genes from both sides of his family, but he seemed healthy and had recently passed a physical. He died in 2002, so it's been almost a quarter century, but I still cannot open an old scrapbook and look at pictures of that happy day when he married Silvia.

My life has not followed the path I expected it to follow, back when I was a young mother of two beautiful young boys. In my life I have amassed many regrets, but none as large as the failure I brought into my son Chris's life. I wish I had been a stronger person, but I was only 22 and not very cognizant of any alternatives I might have had. There was no such thing as a support group for grieving parents, not where I lived anyway, and I managed to muddle through. 

I retired from my job and career in 2008 and moved to the Pacific Northwest from Colorado and fell in love with the beautiful green, lush countryside. We have always been happy that we made the move, and I am still able to enjoy getting out and hiking around the area. As long as that is true, I know where I will be spending many of my days. The Senior Center here in Bellingham is one of the best, and it offers many activities for older people, so I think I will be fine for however much time I might have left. You cannot escape the inevitable decline of physical abilities, but you can find ways to continue to be engaged and involved in life's pleasures.

So long as the memory of certain beloved friends lives in my heart, I shall say that life is good. —Helen Keller

And I continue to be inspired by Helen Keller's incredible life story. Her ability to find joy and peace, even missing what most of us consider to be life's greatest pleasures, to be able to see and hear, is inspiring. How can I continue to harbor grief when so much of life calls to me to be grateful? Gratitude is taking a moment to reflect on how lucky you are when something good happens, whether it's small or big.

And the magic of the internet allows me to spread gratitude far and wide, to my beloved virtual family, and to all others who share life's joys with one another, and with me. Until we meet again next week, dear friends, I wish you all good things. Be well.