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A Stone Called Son

Since our son's death in 1999, I have been involved with The Compassionate Friends. It is a non-profit organization for bereaved families and the people who care about them, following the death of a child.

Every day on Facebook TCF poses a question regarding how we handle the  issues involved in grieving and surviving our child's death.

Questions in the last few weeks included: 

  1. Have you been able to find meaning in your life since the death of your child, sibling, or grandchild?
  2. As the one year mark since our daughter's death is nearing . . . we become nervous and defiantly not anticipating the date. What does one do on the one year "anniversary"?
  3. How well do you feel this saying applies to bereaved families after a child dies? 

"From the outside looking in you can never understand and from the inside looking out you can never explain." ~ author unknown 
  4. How have you handled your child's room? 
  5. What did someone do after your child (sibling, grandchild) died that really touched your heart?

I have responded to a lot of these questions from my experience on the TCF Facebook page and it is interesting to me that I had already discussed them in more detail in my forthcoming memoir, Leaving the Hall Light On, about my son's mental illness, suicide, and how our family survived. 

Here is my response to Question No. 5 above:

One night right before the first Thanksgiving after my son's death my next-door neighbor left a basket on my doorstep. She said in her note that she dreaded the holidays after her mother died, so she gathered a few things to ease the holiday season for me. Her thoughtfulness certainly helped - and for quite a long time. Among the items inside was a poetry book about coping with the loss of a love, a journal, a candle, a box of absolutely delicious chocolate covered graham crackers, a little silk pillow with the word Heal on it, and a smooth gray stone. Early on this stone became my biggest comfort as I describe in this poem:

 A Stone Called Son

I sleep with a stone.

It's gray and small enough

to fit in the palm of my hand.

One side is smooth, the other

has the word, son, cut into it.

And when I put the stone

in the crook of my index finger

I can read the word with my thumb.

I like to place it between my breasts

and feel its coolness on my chest.

It quiets the pain in my heart

and slows down my heartbeats

so I can rest.

Sometimes I hold it all night

and find it in my fist when I wake.

When I'm not sleeping it sits next to my bed

on a tiny silk pillow imprinted on one side

with the word, heal.

Well, it takes time.

A healing pillow and a stone called son

can't do all the work.