In this expression of grief I used a journey through a mountain range to describe the ups and downs, the length, and the incredible frustrations of my grief journey. Many people have told me that it accurately describes their grief as well.
by Mindy Wilsford
Copyright © 2003 Mindy Wilsford (used with permission)
Before we go through a loss like this, we assume that grief is like falling into a deep hole. We think we will start climbing a ladder and as we get closer to the top things start getting brighter and brighter and we keep feeling better and better until we finally step out into the sunshine where the birds are singing and beautiful music is playing and our grief is over and we are then officially “over it”.
Instead, I have found it is like being plunked down into the middle of a mountain range. We start on the top, with the breathtaking view, when life is wonderful. We are just walking along, basking in the sun and the beautiful scenery when suddenly we fall off a cliff. Now we are lying in a deep, deep valley: bruised, confused, hurt, scared, and lonely. We soon realize that there is no easy way out, no rescue in sight. The only way out is to do it ourselves.
So we start working our way up the mountainside, sometimes walking, sometimes crawling, and often stumbling. It is very hard, very discouraging, and very exhausting work. Finally we reach the top and see the sun again for a while. Maybe the top will be flat and we’ll get to spend a little time up there enjoying it, or maybe it is very steep and as soon as we get there we have to start back down the other side into the next valley again.
The one thing we notice is that there are mountains as far as the eye can see. Somehow, we have to make our way through them if we are ever to get out. That thought can be overwhelming and cause us to give up for a while. But eventually we realize once again that the only way out is to keep going, so we start again: down one mountain and up the next. And sometimes on the journey, after a particularly hard stretch, we think, “I’m so glad I finally made it through that.” And then we stop and look around and realize that we’ve been here before! All this work and we’ve gone in a circle and we’re going to have to do it all again!
And sometimes as we are climbing, we look up to see if we are getting any closer to the top, and we see a boulder heading our way. If we are fortunate, we manage to avoid it. But usually we can’t, and it hits us head on and sends us tumbling back down to the bottom.
Sometimes when we are in the deepest part of the valley, we just sit, exhausted. And we might notice some things around us that we never saw before: flowers and animals and a gentle breeze in the cool of the valley. There is a world down in the valley that we never even knew existed, and there is beauty in it.
And sometimes at night, when all is quiet, we can hear the others who are in the valley weeping. And it is then that we realize that we are not alone, that others are making this journey too. And we realize that we share an understanding of the journey and of the world of the valley that most others don’t. And it gives us strength to start the climb all over again.
Sometimes as we are climbing the mountain, a helicopter may come by with some of our friends in it. Seeing us struggling up the mountain, they shout encouraging things like, “I know just what you’re going through; I went on a hike once.” And “At least you have your other kids to make this climb so much easier.” And “You are so strong; I know I couldn’t make this climb.” Or they ask, “When will you finally get over these mountains and be yourself again?”
And we try to tell them about the journey and the world of the valley, but the sound of the helicopter drowns us out and they can’t hear us. They throw down some food to give us energy, and it does, but some of it just pelts us on the head and makes the climb even harder. And then they leave, and we breathe a sigh of relief that we can get back to our climb in peace.
As we make this journey, we start to notice that we are becoming a little bit stronger. When we get to the rough patches we now see that we are shaken but don’t always fall. We find that sometimes we can walk upright now, instead of just crawling. And sometimes we can see a rough spot ahead and manage to find a better way around it. And once in a while we crest a mountain and see that the top is very flat and very beautiful, and we get to spend quite a while resting and recovering on the top before starting down again. And we notice that we are getting closer to the edge of the mountains; they seem to be getting a little smaller. The mountains are not as tall, and the valleys are not as low or as wide. In fact, we can now see the foothills, and it gives us hope.
And throughout this journey, we see the others who are traveling it as well, sometimes at a distance, and sometimes up close. And we encourage each other to keep going and to watch out for certain things. We talk about the journey and the world of the valley. Finally, someone else who understands! And we cry together when it is just too hard. And sometimes, we catch a glimpse of someone who has made it to the foothills. And we are so excited for them, and we become even more determined to keep going because someday, we too, will make it to the foothills.
So my point is this: everyone starts on a different mountain. No two journeys are the same. Some people spend a lot of time in the valley at first, and some have more time on top of the mountain. But we will all be both on the mountains and in the valleys. And we will all someday make it to the foothills. I promise.
I wrote this story to describe how difficult it is for those who have lost a baby to see other healthy babies being born.
by Mindy Wilsford
Copyright © 2003 Mindy Wilsford (used with permission)
The class had just gotten the news: they were going to the circus! Most had never been to the circus, but a few had, and they told the others what it was like and how much fun it would be. Each day they learned something new about the circus: studying the animals they would see, reading about the entertainment, and discussing the food. They learned the history of the circus and watched a video that one of their classmates had taken when he was there last year. Soon it was all everyone was talking about. Day by day the excitement grew as the date approached.
Then, a week before the big day, one of the students was informed he wouldn’t be able to attend. No reason; he had done nothing wrong; he just couldn’t go. And even though he pleaded and cried, the teacher would not relent. The student was stunned and crushed. “How could this be? Surely there must be a mistake. I’m supposed to go, too.” But it was not to be. He would not be going to the circus.
The other students in the class felt bad for him and commiserated for a while. But soon they tired of it and went back to excitedly discussing the upcoming circus. “After all,” they thought, “it’s sad that he can’t go, but there’s nothing we can do about it. Besides, he can always go next time.” Unsure of how to act, he tried to keep a brave face and pretend that he was OK. He listened to them talk about the circus and even joined in sometimes, sharing about what he had learned. But sometimes he couldn’t do it anymore, and he had to leave to hide the tears that were welling up in his eyes.
And when the day of the circus arrived, he was totally lost. “Should I pretend I don’t care? Should I go and wish them well? Should I just stay home and cry?” His mother told him he needed to be a big boy and be happy for everyone else who was getting to go. So he joined the class, reluctantly, wishing he were anywhere else but there. And he did his best not to ruin anyone else’s fun. It was very obvious that he was not enjoying anything about the day, but everyone else, preoccupied with the excitement of the event, didn’t notice it. Most were simply so exuberant that they just chattered on and on about it.
When they got to the gate, as everyone jostled for position to get in, he quietly stepped aside. And after they went in, their laughter echoed in his head as he fought that sad, sick feeling. It just wasn’t fair! All he could do was watch them, listen to them, and hear from them. HE should be at the circus, too. That was the loneliest day of his life.
When the day was over, he stood there, forcing a smile, feigning interest, as they told about the day’s events and showed him pictures. They were so excited and eager to tell about their day, and all he could think about was how hard it was to not be a part of it. He deserved to go as much as they did; how it hurt to not be able to! But somehow they didn’t seem to understand that, as they continued to talk about the circus and show their souvenirs. He felt like such an outsider; he wanted so badly to share in their joy, but he just couldn’t. It was still too hard. Someday he would be able to, but not yet. And he looked forward to that time because no one would be happier about it than him.
I’m so sorry we didn’t get to go to the circus.