• Events
• Resources
• Our Newsletter
• Our Library

Our Chapter Newsletter

Every two months, a printed newsletter is mailed to all registered members of the Manchester/Nashua chapter of The Compassionate Friends. Many have expressed finding great solace in the collected writings of these newsletters; we hope that you also will find some comfort.

---

We thank the following for their efforts in publishing our bi-monthly Newsletter:

Editor in chief

Shirley Cote — in memory of her son, Dan

Grandparent Editors

Steve and Mary Kyle — in memory of their grandson, Brendon

Sibling Editors

Tara Marandos — in memory of her brother, Tory

Heidi Wells Goyette — in memory of her brother, Geoffrey

Proofreaders

Bill Cote — in memory of his son, Dan

---

Obtaining a printed copy:  If you have not been receiving your newsletter, want a printed copy of a lost newsletter or want to become a registered member, please let us know by sending an email to:  contact@tcfmanchester.org

Information available at this website:  For purposes of respecting the privacy of our members, the newsletters will not be available online in their entirety.  However, you may view the poems and writings that have appeared in our most recent issue by scrolling through this page.  Alternatively, you may click on an item in the list below to "jump" to that item.

Collection of Poems and Writings
from our JULY/AUGUST 2010 Newsletter

Novocain

by Amanda Geisinger, McKayla's Sister

Awake.   Birds.   Crickets.   Wind in the trees.   I finally hear these things.   For two years I was asleep.   Asleep, like the long shadows outside my cloudy house, where the sounds of laughter fell silent against the drenched walls.   My senses were frozen: no taste, smell, feeling, or noise could penetrate the safe, bulletproof wall I built around myself.   My life had become a perpetual winter.   Numbness was all I felt.   Smells, like flowers blooming in the spring, freshly–cut grass in the summer, apple pie cooking in the oven in the fall, and the smell of the newly decorated Christmas tree in the winter, were lost.   I would stare out the bleeding windows, into a grey sunlight. Every day was the same as the day before.   I was on a train speeding blankly through a storm; everything outside the windows was a dark blur.   I kept my head low, and dove forward into daily life, never really understanding what was going on around me.

The storm lasted two years, and finally the sun breached the clouds.   I no longer saw the flashing lights.   I no longer heard the piercing sound of the heart monitor as her heart fell silent.   I no longer felt the coldness of her skin and the rough hospital sheet.   Instead, I began to see her smile.   I saw the way her eyes would glow and widen when she smiled or laughed.   I saw the look she made every time I hugged her spontaneously; rolling her eyes in a look of annoyance, but a smile appearing, erasing any of her unconvincing pretenses.   I saw my sister.   For the first time, I heard myself laugh.   The curtains opened and allowed light and color to fill my life.

It took two years to realize that after every freeze there is a thaw, after every winter there is a spring, after every ending there is a beginning.   I found the glue to piece my life back together.   I realized that even though the puzzle that connected my sister and me together was broken, it could still work.   A piece would always be missing, but the other half was capable of functioning and having fun.   The grey shadows disappeared, and sunlight took its place.   The occasional shadow would emerge, but I found ways to fight the shadows off and stay happy by keeping the warmth and light of the sun visible and strong.   The numbness, like Novocain, wore off and I was able to realize that even though this huge part of my life was missing, everything would be ok, and things would get better.   I found hope and strength.

My sister's death has been painful, but also encouraging.   I have transformed into a person I am proud of.   I have found who I am, and much of this has to do with the growth I experienced after her death.   I have developed a sense of self and confidence, none of which I had before my sister died.   This change and self-realization though, wasn't something that happened in a day.   Slowly, I began to wake up.   It could have been a number of events that spurred this change; whether it was excelling in school, getting my first horse, or celebrating traditions we had halted after her death, I realized things will get better, and everything will work out.   I can’t put a finger on what was the actual cause of this transformation.   It happened gradually.   I began to realize that there were plenty of things to look forward to, and it was possible to be happy and keep her in my heart.   I also realized that even though she died, I still had an entire life to live.   I decided to live this life for her.   For the both of us.   I will never have late night conversations under the covers with my sister, or sing incredibly ridiculous songs at the top of our lungs, but it will be these memories that carry me through life.   No matter what happens in life, things will always get better, they may never be the same, but it will get better.   Kayla and I

A Grandparent’s Lament

By Rabbi Earl A. Grollman (Taken from "Because You Asked", Hospice Foundation of America — lovingly lifted from the TCF – Bridgewater, NJ newsletter)

My seven–year–old grandchild was killed in a tragic accident.   We had such wonderful times together.   He was the shining light of my life.   And now he is gone.   I feel sorry for my daughter and son–in–law, but they have lots of support from caring friends.   No one seems to understand my agony.   Grandparents mourn too!

Rabbi Grollman responds: How true.   The grandparent–grandchild relationship is very special.   With quality time they provide the biggest laps, make few demands, and give many gifts.   It has often been said that parents aren't supposed to bury their children.   But neither are grandparents supposed to bury their grandchildren.   When a child dies, both parents and grandparents have lost a part of their future — one of the most horrific blows that human beings can endure.

There is the double assault of grieving for a grandchild while witnessing the suffering of your daughter and son–in–law.   Your grief work may be different.   Memories and attachments are not the same.   Each of you has been rocked in individual paths to the very depths of your being in the attempt to patch together the pieces of your shattered lives.   You must find a way to express what you are feeling or this suffering will stay inside you and fester.   Seek out those with whom you can share your heartbreak.   Pour out these emotions of grief and if necessary repeat them time and time again.   Perhaps keep a journal for your eyes alone to flood out your sorrow.   But most of all, talk.   Talk to your friends, family, clergy, neighbors, support group or a professional counselor.   How sorely you need their expressions of help, warmth, and understanding.

The death of your grandchild may also result in an even closer relationship with your daughter, son–in–law, and the rest of your family.   Recall the unforgettable memories of the past as you search for a meaningful future.   Even in your overwhelming despair, you will realize that part of that child's life will live with you forever.

"That Room" Becomes Home

by Mardy Burns, TCF – Independence, MO

The setting is a little strange.   "That Room" is longer than it is square.   The chairs are in an oblong circle, boxes of tissue are strategically placed.   Someone has made coffee and there are brownies or a cake — and all the pictures.

Sometimes you will walk into "that room" feeling as weak as a kitten, and sometimes as strong as a bull.   No matter how you're feeling when you see all those chairs, you think: "It's not possible; there can't be that many people who feel the way I feel!"   But little by little you watch the chairs fill in.

It's like being at your house with company, EXCEPT this room is a safe haven.   You feel secure, and there's a warm feeling in the room — the comfort of being accepted.   Here, you won't be judged by other people.   It is safe to take off your mask and let your feelings show, to share your thoughts.

Here you get an understanding smile and feel the comfort of a "meant" hug — the warmth of someone who really wants to know how you are doing, instead of asking: "Are you still dealing with this?" or "You're still going to those meetings?"

Here, you are accepted for the person you have become.   You won't hear: "I liked the old you better", or "I want the old you back", or "You're not fun anymore."   In "that room" they understand the "new" you who has survived the WORST thing that life can hand a person.

Before you know it, "that room" is more comfortable than any place you can think of.   I've been walking into this room for 12 ½ years now, and it is full of people who know me better and are closer to me than my own family.   They became my "new" friends, my "new" family.   What I have learned and shared with my new family has changed the pain I carry.   They taught me how to put my life back together, how to go on.

I will always miss my beautiful daughter, Sara; I will never forget her, and yes, my life will go on.   "That room" has become home.   I want to thank all of you for being here when I needed you the most!   Thank you for being here now; I couldn't have done this journey without you!   See you next month!

Your Pup and I

Fay Harden, TCF – Tuscaloosa, AL

Your old pup sleeps before the fire.
Muzzle resting on outstretched paws,
He twitches with a little yelp,
Reaching to a dream gone bad that he can't help.

A sound from outside jerks his head alert,
Ears listening intently,
Radar in search of your special step.
Not hearing the sound he wants, he looks hurt.

His head goes down with a sigh.
He looks to me with mournful eyes.
I declare I think that dog sometimes cries...
He, like I, never dreamed you’d be the first to die.

He misses you as badly as I.
Even old pups want to know why...
And they grieve, like us, for one last goodbye,
And tonight I joined him as he cried.

Five Habits of Those Who Grieve Well

Adapted from Jim Auer — Care Notes

We're accustomed to hearing or reading that someone sings well or plans well, and our elementary school card may have featured the classic, "Plays well with others."   The word well fits such verbs easily and naturally.   But "grieve well" may seem to be a contradiction or even a poor attempt at scornful humor.

It's not.   Grieving is a necessary task following the loss of a loved one or any other significant loss.   The idea is not to "get good at it" so we can take satisfaction in our expertise.   The goal of grieving well is to help yourself move through a difficult period of life as smoothly as you can, under the circumstances.   There are necessary tasks of grief that need to be accomplished and the goal of grieving well is to do so without unnecessarily prolonging the grief.   You ask how may I do this?

*Patience — We're not there yet and its okay!   Perhaps you have heard words from well meaning friends and family such as "moving on", "getting past this" or "getting on with life".   A friend who has experienced loss may have said, "It took me a good month before I felt like..."   You quickly count your own days, realize it's been longer than that since your loss and feel there's something wrong.

There isn't.   One's grief proceeds at a very personal pace.   Avoid comparing your grieving time with that of others.   More time does not mean more complete.   Quicker does not mean more effective.   The habit of patience enables you to be comfortable with grieving at your own pace.   It also enables you to deal with the sometimes roller-coaster tempo of grieving.   You will know that having a "bad" day after several good ones does not mean you have suddenly relapsed in the process of recovering from your loss.   Like a cold, stormy day after several delightful sunny ones, there’s nothing wrong.   It just happened.

*Perseverance — Keep on keeping on.   Perseverance is saying the same prayer yet another time, making yet another necessary phone call, responding to the routine needs of those who depend on you.   It's adopting a "one day at a time" approach to the process of grieving.   It is trying to "do the next right thing."   If you have already made it through a portion of your grieving, give yourself credit for persevering.

*Gentleness — Don't scorch, freeze, or crush the flower.   All of us like to think of ourselves as strong and capable.   A "mighty oak" or at least a "sturdy maple".   And most of the time, we are.   There are different kinds of strength, however.   One important kind is the strength to realize our fragility when it is the case.   The days of grief are like flowers.   They can be scorched with the heat of excessive activity.   They can be frozen by the icy, chilling mindset, "This will not bother me."   They can be crushed in the grip of too many obligations.   Gentleness is a very real type of strength.   There is a reason why a "real man" is known as a "gentleman".   It has to do with the real display of strength — gentleness.

*Awareness — Check the scenery (inside and outside) as you journey.   Keeping our eyes on the road is critical; but, if eyes and ears are glued to the road completely and exclusively, we can miss important things like landmarks, scenery, the status of the gas tank and the needs of fellow passengers.   While simply "doing the right thing" is essential, it should not produce shortsighted tunnel vision.

Awareness of how grief operates can come through reading about it and reviewing key ideas from time to time.   Awareness of the "big picture" will remind you of the positives that remain in your life in spite of your loss.   Spend some time with them and try to appreciate each one without adding "Yes, but..."   Awareness of the needs of others can help you get outside yourself and your own feelings for a while.   At the same time, turn some of your awareness inward.   Are you running on empty?   Do you have difficulty remembering the last time that you did something just for you?   Have you given yourself credit for making it this far?

*Trust — Accept the unknown future with openness.   When we've been hurt, our defenses go up to prevent more hurt from reaching us.   This reaction likewise accompanies the pain that comes with a loss.

Sometimes temporarily "shutting down" may be necessary for our own protection.   But at other times defensiveness wards off good things, including healing, rather than preventing bad things, such as more hurt.   Someone crouched down with arms tightly closed around the body is protected against a blow to the chest or face; but, he or she is unable to see, receive, and hold a gift or exchange a hug.   The habit of trust keeps up open to the gifts that life still offers, both during and after the time of grieving.

Trust that your life will again have meaning and purpose.

Take Heart.   You may be saying to yourself, "All this would be fine if I already possessed all of those habits.   But, I don't and it's a little late to start now — grief is already here."   You may well possess those qualities more than you think and even just knowing about them is a start.   See the truth for yourself in the words of Thomas Merton: "We have what we seek.   It is there all the time... and it will make itself known to us."

Newly Bereaved... Thoughts for you when you get depressed

TCF – Orange Coast, CA

Don't ever try to understand everything — some things will just never make sense.
Don't ever be reluctant to show your feelings — when you’re happy give in to it.
Don't ever be afraid to try to make things better — you might be surprised at the results.
There is always somebody there for you to reach out to.
Don't ever forget that you can achieve so many of the things you can imagine, imagine that!
Don't ever stop loving.
Don't ever stop believing.
Don't ever stop dreaming your dreams.

Newly Bereaved... Advice for summer healing

TCF – North Shore Boston Editor, Cindi Bolivar

Whether you are newly bereaved or you have been on this journey a long time, the change of seasons and the thoughts of coming "events" are hard but it is how you approach them that matters the most.

How will we handle vacation this year?   How can we go on vacation without our child?   How can I possibly have a good vacation without my child?   Why would I want to go on vacation without my child?   These are some of the questions we ask ourselves either knowingly or unconsciously and the answers are as vast as the way we grieve.   For my family it wasn't a question of whether or not to go on vacation the following summer (we lost our son December 2001) but it became a question of why shouldn't we go?   We had vacationed at the same place for 18 years and we started thinking about all the good times we had at the "pond" over those years.

For us it became a desire to "go back" and visit the place where our son had been happy and felt safe and secure — a place where we could go and just let go.   For both my husband and I and now our daughter and her family, the pond continues to be a place where we can go and feel close to our son because we know how much he loved it there.

It was hard that first year and even the next as we looked for him everywhere.   We chose to have a different campsite than we normally used that first year, but the next we moved back to our favorite campsite — it just felt right.   As hard as it was to return to the pond there was and is a peaceful feeling that comes to us there as we allow all of the good memories to invade our waking moments, and we open our hearts and head to those memories knowing that our son had been there and it was one of his favorite places to be....

As you make plans for the summer, whatever they are, know that you have to do what feels right to you — there is no right or wrong.   If you can, open your heart and follow it and let those stored memories carry you through.

Summer Thoughts

By Libby Gonzales, TCF – Huntsville, AL

Summer is a time when things naturally slow down, a time when many are waiting for the orderly routine of their lives to begin again.   For those of us in grief whose lives are already in limbo, it can seem endless if we let it.   Seeing children, babies, and teenagers is not easy for us, and in summer, we see them everywhere from shopping centers to beaches.   Everyone is out living, loving, and enjoying carefree activities with their children, and we want to scream, "It’s not fair."

I was sitting out on my patio one evening at dusk recently listening to the shouts of children outside playing, and I was crying as I remembered the sounds that my child used to make.   I became very depressed as I thought what a long summer this was going to be.

In my reverie, I was reminded of a recent comment I had heard at a TCF meeting.   "My child was such a loving, giving person.   He would not want me to waste my life being bitter."   I also remembered a good friend telling me to "count my blessings" and naming all the things I had to be grateful for.   I was furious at the time.   Nothing that I had to be grateful for could compensate for the fact that my child was dead.

Now, sitting in the twilight of this early summer evening, I begin to see things differently.   I am determined that this summer will not be an eternity, and that I can find plenty to do if I only take the time to look.   I am also going to try to enjoy the simple things that used to give me so much pleasure, like working in the garden and flowers.   I then decided to try to be grateful for the blessings that I have, like my husband, my surviving children, my job, friends, etc.

It's been almost five years for me, and I know that last year, this could not have worked.   Of course, I still have times of sadness.   I know I will always will, but I have decided that in the process of grieving, we close so many doors that the only way to recover is to reopen them gradually at our own pace.

I know I will never be the same person I was before the death of my child, but I hope eventually in some ways, I will be a better person because suffering can be beneficial if we learn and grow through it.   A year ago, I didn't feel this way, and I know the greatest tribute to my child will be to enjoy this summer as he could have done.

Take It One Day At A Time

From "Lead Me Home" by Carleen Brice

We can get trapped into thinking we always will feel this bad.   Grief is easier to manage if you take it bit by bit.   One way to do that is to live in the present.   Don't try to take on tomorrow.   If you feel like hell now, you only have to deal with this day.   If you can't even face a whole day, take it minute by minute.   Try not to get stuck in the past or jump ahead to the future.   Just focus on this day, this hour or this minute.   Pay attention to what you are thinking, feeling and doing.   Just focus on where you are now.   Breathe through it.   Pray through it.   If this moment is peaceful, savor it, but don’t be disappointed when it passes.   Unfortunately, just like the hard times, our happier times will end, too.   However, rest assured that eventually the happy periods will outweigh the bad.

What Does It Mean to 'Resolve Our Grief'?

Margaret Gerner, TCF – St. Louis, MO

Grief is defined as the reaction to loss and to 'resolve' something means to change or transform it.   Therefore, grief resolution means to change or transform our reaction to the loss of our child.   This definition says nothing about forgetting the child, not missing her or not wishing she was still with us, many years after the death.   It says we will think and feel differently about having lost him or her.

It’s been 20 years since my son, Arthur was killed.   I don’t hurt anymore when I think of him.   I am always aware that my family is incomplete and frequently I experience a feeling of regret of what might have been.   But I no longer think of Arthur every day or feel the searing pain of loss that I felt for so long.   I can remember what a beautiful child he was.   I can remember cute things he did.   I can remember the not–so–cute things he did, also.   I remember many precious things about him, but remembering does not hurt anymore.

Of course, not hurting does not mean that I don't care that Arthur is dead or that his six short years haven't affected my life — even today.   It says I have changed how I react to his death.   That's what 'resolving your grief' means.   It means that you can go through a day or week without intense pain and longing.   It means that you can think of the years you had with your child and smile.   It means that you can enjoy yourself again without feeling guilty.

It means that you can live and invest in new interests, even though they do not include your child.   It means that you can think of him without hurting.   It means that your reaction to your child's death is changed.   As one mother put it, "Now I can think of his life more than his death.   For me, that's resolution."

Change and Challenge

TCF – Appleton, WI

As I look back over the past six years since our son died, I realize how much I have changed.   When we talk about grieving, we often forget to mention that we grieve, too, for the person we were before our child died.   We might have been energetic and fun loving, but now are serious and absorbed.

Our friends and family miss the "old us" too, and their comments show it.   "Don’t you think it's time to return to normal?" or, "You don't laugh as much as you used to."   They are grieving for the person who will never be the same again.

Like the caterpillar who shrouds itself in a cocoon, we shroud ourselves in grief when our child dies.   We wonder, our families wonder, our friends wonder — when will they come out of it?   Will they make it through the long sleep?

What hues will show when they emerge?   If you' ve ever watched a butterfly struggle from the safety of the cocoon, you'll know that the change is not quick or easy — but worth the effort!

We begin to mark our struggle from the cocoon of grief when we begin to like the "new us".   When our priorities become different and people become more important than things — when we grasp a hand that reaches and reach in turn to pull another from his own cocoon, when we embrace the change and turn the change into a challenge — then we can proudly say, "I have survived against overwhelming odds.   Even though my child's death is not worth the change in and of itself, the changes and challenges give me hope that I can feel fulfilled again.   I can love again.

Blessings Inside Sorrow

Lisa Sculley, TCF – Jacksonville, Orange Park Chapter

There are blessings inside sorrow, or so I have been told.   I am not sure I always agree.   At times I can see the gifts I have been given.   Love... without measure... fills my heart when I think of you.   But I loved you then too, when you were in my arms, not in my heart.   And I miss you now.   The emptiness you left can never be filled, not by any blessings I might receive from sorrow.

And yet, still, I wonder.   Are there blessings?   Would I have known how much I cared for you... for your brothers, for your Dad, were it not for your coming, and so suddenly, softly, leaving, without a good-bye?   Would I treasure life I have remaining if it weren’t for your loss?   Certainly I loved and treasured before you left, but hasn’t my sorrow caused me to express that love and to treasure more highly those around me?   I KNOW I can't take for granted they will always be.

In the aftermath of losing you, when life lay crumbled around me... still was there not a glimmer of hope?   That life would go on, somehow, we would survive and build on the ashes of our broken hearts.   Building somehow in spite of our pain.   Mixing the cement of our love with tears, we bound ourselves together even more tightly than ever before.   And our love grows stronger.   And we have not forgotten.

What a bitter lesson!   And still, the emptiness will never be filled.   There yet remains a hole in my heart... and in all our hearts.   Dear son, we will never forget you.   The blessings inside our sorrow will never fill the hole you left in our fabric of our lives.   It remains open, a testament that you mattered, and that your coming and soft going made a difference.   And in that difference lies the blessing inside our sorrow.

We were blessed to have held you for a time, even though you could not stay.   And even through our tears, we smile at the memories.   And we know that you are not completely alone.   You shadow our lives, affecting them in big ways and small.   And though I would trade blessings in a minute just to have you back in my arms, I am indeed grateful for the blessings inside sorrow.

Grief

Becky Price, Josh's Mom, TCF – Rochester Chapter

Grief is a series of ever widening circles.   It starts with suddenness of the death of someone you love more than life itself.   And the circles spread out.   You are drawn down with the death, taken under the water, struggling for breath. You slowly rise back to the surface, starting to take in life again.   But the circles catch you unawares at times, slamming you with the loss all over again, dragging you back to the very bottom.   You never know when you might run into one of the circle's edges, or when they will pass right through you.   The circles go out as far as you can possibly imagine... for the rest of your life here.   You realize that they will never end.   Perhaps their strength diminishes, I'm not sure — but you know they will never, ever end.

Sea Glass

By Kristen Binder, from her blog, which she has as a tribute to her daughter Peyton, and her journey through life without her.

You can read her 'Sea Glass' post here:
http://onceamother.blogspot.com/2009/06/sea-glass.html