grief
Losing a family member is one of the most traumatic life events; Families must support one another to endure the five stages of grief and get through it together.
Comfort Food
Yesterday, I was walking around the house with a little black cloud raining emotions all over me. The diagnosis of cancer could be very real and I settled down in my recliner with the ominous thoughts reeling in my head. Oddly, I don't feel like the diagnosis will be cancer, but I know the doctor wouldn't say it if it wasn't a possibility.
Sheila L. ChingwaPublished 3 months ago in FamiliesSomehow, Someday
Outside is black, Daddy's not here. Outside is a sweet magnolia smelling place, Daddy's not here. Outside stars burst, fall, disappear, just like Daddy. I wait. I know, even if alone on the mattress on the floor he will be back; when the pink preludes the autumn sun's rising, Daddy will be here. I don't move; I don't sleep; I don't know how to call Mamma. Just when the orange, pink and yellow mix into hues I vow to paint someday Daddy comes in and falls onto the mattress. He said- "hey little Bird". I smell something stinky, his hair is thinning and it's longer on one side than the other. It's a red brown and I wipe it away from his sunken, deep sleep eyes. I look at him, his belly rises in it's nakedness and falls; he is covered in reddish hair on his stomach and chest. I see his pants on the floor and sneak over to check the pockets; I found about three dollars and some change and put them in my suitcase which was packed for my trip back to Mamma before he ever came home. I take some pencils from the table, I smell his cologne by the old porcelain sink and I even put a dash behind my ears. He is snoring and red-faced. I can't see a clock anywhere and I begin to worry; how will I know when to get on that airplane back to Mamma? I quietly open the door from the third floor apartment and sneak downstairs to the big door that opens to the autumn skies. I see nothing but white frost on the big leaves, a squirrel or two scampering busily and look for anybody that can get me home. Sitting, cold and hungry, a woman comes out of the apartment house to warm her car. She is a teacher and must start out early. She asks me what in the world I am doing sitting outside without a coat; " where is your daddy?" she pushes on. I said something like somehow he fell asleep and I think today I am supposed to go home to my Mamma. The woman has a scowl and ushers me inside. She takes me into her apartment and gives me a big glass of orange juice; she said she'd be right back. A fat black cat jumped up on the table and purred around me; the colours of morning made a dizzying dance upon her kitchen's stucco wall. I felt okay, not like a cry-baby, but not like a "fix it alright" kinda girl either. Then the door opened and there was Daddy with my suitcase with the teacher woman pushing him in toward me. His hair that I'd fixed had covered half of his face and he had tears in his small, blue eyes. He said he loved me and the teacher was helping me get to my plane on time, he cried a lot and held me too tight. I left him there, short three dollars and some change, a couple of pencils for me to cherish hidden in my bag and said nothing. I fled, I flew, yet I would return. For no matter how much his drunken, lousy time with me was, it was all mine, at least for awhile. When I got back to Mamma I would never talk 'cause I guess something was wrong with me. I just said everything was fine. I guessed, somehow, someday truth would prevail. I never doubted that one day my Daddy would remember and say, "I'm sorry Little Bird." I truly believed with all my heart he would come to me and beg me to forgive him. Why do you think that is? I knew what goodness was; I was good. He wasn't doing good things so he had to know it was his obligation to give me some peace, right? Naw. He went on and kept finding more kids, more families, holding onto our pinkie swear, our father-daughter bond that could not be broken. He used me, to lie, to cheat, to steal, to be nothing more than his soldier. I saw those skies turning dark, deep blue, grey and black; I knew it was gonna be hard times coming for him, not once, not twice, not even three times, just more and more dark, with nobody to hear me. I would learn that my truth would not matter to him, or to any, but I would know the smell of his cologne behind my ears, the rise and fall of his chest when he came back as the sun rose, the sadness of his failure to give me, his beloved daughter all that I deserved. I don't know why anything matters, goodness, truth and love are always so contrite. I lay far away from the memories of youth, of Daddy's promises and forgotten love; I do feel the edge, the blisters from his sickness, yet, in an addictive way, I crave his praise. Somehow, someday, truth prevails. Or does it?
My Legacy Dogs
This personal story is about the love between a Mom and daughter who love their dogs. In The Beginning Let me share with you a very emotional story of how Tiger and Lady came to be my dogs. Tiger and Lady were my Mother’s Cavalier King Charles Spaniels. We had always owned Cavalier King Charles Spaniels when I grew up. Through the years, Mom and I had owned 6 Cavaliers between us!
Echoes of Laughter in the Halls of Grief
Grieving Gone Wild About a year ago, my father died. Six months earlier, my children’s father – my ex-husband – passed away. Fifteen months before him, I lost my mother. Amidst these profound losses, I also grieved for the passing of my four beloved Brittanys and four cherished chickens, each of them an integral part of my life, each departure adding another layer to my sorrow. Nine years ago, the pattern of loss began when I witnessed a young woman's death right before my eyes. Death, it seems, has been a constant.
Xine SegalasPublished 3 months ago in FamiliesThe loss of the last parent.
Well, made it through the first year without you in my life. Did know what to do when you passed away, All the plans that had to be made just to get you back to NJ.
Teressa RosallPublished 3 months ago in FamiliesEternally Burdened Soul
This content has undergone editing and critique with the assistance of artificial intelligence (AI) tools. One singular event in my life will forever be a haunting presence, an indelible memory that lingers until my last breath. It is a constant companion, unforgettably etched into every corner, conversation, and emotion. Those who have faced similar traumas likely understand the enduring impact, recognizing it as a force that shapes the entirety of one's existence. In my case, the childhood assault, perpetrated by a significantly older sibling who should have known better, stands as a painful testament.
BraveheartchroniclesPublished 3 months ago in FamiliesThe Attempt
This content has undergone editing and critique with the assistance of artificial intelligence (AI) tools. Throughout my entire life, I held the belief that my parents were extraordinary. I proudly shared with teachers, friends, and co-workers how supportive and caring they were, emphasizing their heroic qualities and the goodness derived from their life's work. My unwavering confidence in portraying them as heroes might have been genuine, or perhaps it was a narrative shaped by my limited understanding and perspective. In my small world and through the narrow lens with which I viewed life, they appeared to be heroes. However, my lack of love and limited experience left me without a true understanding of what constitutes a good person or a good parent.
BraveheartchroniclesPublished 3 months ago in FamiliesNavigating Uncharted Grief
It has been 11 years, 11 months, and 4 days since I lost my daughter, Joy – my source of joy. This marks my initial attempt to articulate how my life transformed and what it's like to navigate through the profound grief that I never imagined I would face. Consider this a preliminary reflection, a broad stroke across the canvas of my experience. In the journey ahead, I plan to delve into the depths of each phase of my grief.
Ivana MolinariPublished 3 months ago in FamiliesA Small Town Bass Player
A man with crazy hair and glasses sits in the front row at church, nearest to the hastily constructed stage. Across his lap rests an off-white bass guitar with tattered stickers stuck to its body. His Bible rests against the red velvet fabric of the pew, directly to his right. He doesn't notice me as I watch him, because he is too focused on the tune that he plays. His left hand glides across the fret board. With the fingers of his right hand he plucks at the strings; clearly, this bass player doesn't use a pick.
Jessie McDonaldPublished 3 months ago in FamiliesThe broken bond I never had
In the quiet town of Willowbrook, where whispers of the wind echoed through the streets, lived a young girl named Lily. With a heart heavy and burdened, she grappled with the ache of a broken bond she never had the chance to forge. Lily's world had been colored by the absence of her father, a man she never truly knew but missed more than words could convey.
Martina MarriottPublished 4 months ago in FamiliesFor My Tío
One thing about my tío, he was too funny. Was. I hate the past tense so much. To commemorate his life, I'd like to share one of my favorite memories of him with you all.
Angel AdagioPublished 4 months ago in FamiliesThe Hummingbird
Are you that little hummingbird? The one with the hazel colored plumage and the energy of youth. Wouldn’t it be nice to know that when you shuffled off your mortal coil, your story was not yet done. Reincarnation, yes, surely that’s right, right? If not for you, then for me. So that when I find myself on a dusty path on a beautiful blue sky day , and up ahead I spot the captivating dance of a hummingbird sipping from the red and purple wildflowers, darting to and fro and in and out of the foliage around me, but never straying too far; can I assume that it’s you? Always moving forward, often times guiding, sometimes forging her own path. Yes that seems like you. Although the vessel that carries you has transformed, I have to believe I would still sense your soul.