I was co-facilitator at Hospice in Whitehorse, Yukon, for a group of children whose losses included friends, sisters, and brothers…but mostly mothers, fathers, and especially grandparents.
Each Saturday the group opened with candle lighting and then we’d go around the room and each child and facilitator would say their name, their age, who they lost, something special about that person, and then have a quiet moment of memory reflection to feel the love-light inside.
When it came around to me I heard myself saying, “My name is Melanie and when I was twelve-years-old my brother-in-law died and he was very special to me. And when I was twenty-seven-years-old, my oldest sister died and she was a great friend.” Each week as I said this and reflected, I felt I was touching a very raw part of myself.
It was also at this time that I sometimes left my infant daughter at home in the care of her father. I began to notice that each time I left her behind, I felt devastated and fearful that I shouldn’t be separating from her.
Also during this time I found myself thinking a lot about my brother-in-law, Larry, and trying to remember what it was like when he died. How did I respond to his death? I couldn’t come up with much. I know Larry had meant a great deal to me. I remember following him around and wishing he were my brother (before my sister, Marlene, married him when I was seven) and looking forward to his hugs and smiles after he read me bedtime stories. I adored Larry and I remember the last thing he said to me was that he was going to teach me how to dance. Of course, that never happened because he died shortly after.
As I thought about it, I realized Larry had given me more affection than some of my own family members. Slowly a connection was becoming clear to me. My feelings were becoming even more intense. The children’s grief group was bringing to the surface all the grief I never shed for my brother-in-law. What shut me down even more is the fact that I had never been allowed to go to Larry’s funeral. And nobody had talked much to me about what had happened when he died. I just remember Marlene being completely distraught. No one comforted or supported me and I had kept the confusion, the pain, the sorrow and loss inside because I never knew “the whole story”. My only attempt to express my feelings was a story I started to write in school…and never finished. That’s probably why, after my sister Cindy died, I had to research her life and death and eventually compile it into a detailed story of understanding for myself in order to heal.
In my next Blog I’ll share how I dealt with those long-ago feelings that surfaced because of the children’s group.
Melanie Hack
Author of Who Killed My Sister, My friend
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TV Shows and Clips about the Death of Cindy James
Those who do not know how to weep with their whole heart don’t know how to laugh either.
— Golda Meir —
May3, 1898-Dec 8, 1978
Melanie Hack
Author of Who Killed My Sister, My friend
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TV Shows and Clips about the Death of Cindy James
“Can I see my baby?” the happy new mother asked.
When the bundle was nestled in her arms and she moved the fold of cloth to look upon his tiny face, she gasped.
The doctor turned quickly and looked out the tall hospital window. The baby had been born without ears. Time proved that the baby’s hearing was perfect. It was only his appearance that was marred.
When he rushed home from school one day and flung himself into his mother’s arms, she sighed, knowing that his life was to be a succession of heartbreaks.
He blurted out the tragedy. “A boy, a big boy… called me a freak.”
He grew up, handsome for his misfortune. A favorite with his fellow students, he might have been class president, but for that. He developed a gift, a talent for literature and music.
“But, you might mingle with other young people,” his mother reproved him, but felt a kindness in her heart.
The boy’s father had a session with the family physician. Could nothing be done?
“I believe I could graft on a pair of outer ears, if they could be procured,” the doctor decided.
Whereupon, the search began for a person who would make such a sacrifice for a young man. Two years went by.
Then his father said, “You are going to the hospital, son. Mother and I have someone who will donate the ears you need. But, it’s a secret who it is.”
The operation was a brilliant success, and a new person emerged. His talents blossomed into genius, and school and college became a series of triumphs. Later, he married and entered the diplomatic service.
“But, I must know!” He urged his father, “Who gave so much for me? I could never do enough for him.”
“I do not believe you could,” said the father, “but, the agreement was that you are not to know… not yet.”
The years kept their profound secret, but the day did come. It was one of the darkest days that ever pass through a son. He stood with his father over his mother’s casket. Slowly, tenderly, the father stretched forth a hand and raised the thick, reddish-brown hair to reveal that the mother had no outer ears.
“Mother said she was glad she never let her hair be cut,” he whispered gently, “and nobody ever thought mother less beautiful, did they?”
Real beauty lies not in the physical appearance, but in the heart.
Real treasure lies not in what can be seen, but in what cannot be seen.
Real love lies not in what is done and known, but in what is done and not known.
– Author unknown –
Melanie Hack
Author of Who Killed My Sister, My friend
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TV Shows and Clips about the Death of Cindy James
“My mother passed away 15 years ago, of CANCER, nothing else, of the bone. It was a long painful fight for her. It was especially hard to tell my dad when I was diagnosed with breast cancer last year, as I did not want him to feel he was going thru it all again. Due to new medicines, such as Herceptin, I have a good prognosis to be around for a long time. Although I do not dwell on death, it definitely crosses my mind more. I try very hard to keep perspective on what is important to me to impart to my kids, family and friends. I am still saddened by my mom’s death but it is always so enjoyable to come across a picture or old video and see her smiling face.
Thank you for your caring.”
– Judith –
Melanie Hack
Author of Who Killed My Sister, My friend
Read an excerpt now
TV Shows and Clips about the Death of Cindy James
Loving and then “letting go” is one of the toughest lessons I’ve ever faced in my life.
But it’s a lesson every one of us confronts at some time.
Most relationships are limited in time; People die. Pets die. People leave. Sometimes pets are given away because they elicit allergies. Grown children move away….
We change our hearts or our minds or our interests in people.
We grow. We move on. And sometimes we make a decision to leave people or pets behind and regret it later.
It’s simply a fact of life that relationships change. And if we can accept it…and not take it as a personal assault…it would help us deal more successfully with separation and loss.
In order to help release yourself from suffering and to ease and expand your life, try cultivating your ability to let go.
From birth onward you have a wealth of experience with endings and changes. (That doesn’t guarantee an ability to handle them well.) Many times separation and loss can threaten you at your roots…at your ability to survive…creating a primitive anxiety about not being able to survive a loss. I felt that way when Cindy died. I’d experienced losses in my life, but the death of my sister was something that took me to the edge of life. Although I continued to function outwardly, after her death I’d really shut down inside. Honestly, at one point I didn’t care if I lived any more! –Life seemed completely meaningless. And I felt I had nothing to give. And I didn’t care!
Some people who reach the point I did often have relationships tinged with great need—they may cling and may not be able to act or express themselves, or they may demand too much or too little.
When a relationship ends or you get rejected or you experience a loss, abandonment or desertion (or even experience a fear of those things), you can be hit with feelings of anger or failure.
And if you haven’t learned to tolerate sadness or anger, or the many moments of emptiness in life, you can lose self-sufficiency and/or become uncompassionate or callous. So instead of avoiding the natural feelings that accompany parting, you need to be able to separate and still feel whole and satisfied with yourself and with those from whom you part.
Try to face an issue directly, communicate about it, and let go of having to be “right”. –Doing all these things can help you cope and survive.
Good-byes hurt—But they don’t need to be devastating.
I know when you’re in the depths of grief it’s hard to believe the hurt will pass, but it will—especially if there is a clear choice not to turn the pain and grief inward and into long-term suffering.
Be gentle with yourself.
Melanie Hack
Author of Who Killed My Sister, My friend
Read an excerpt now
TV Shows and Clips about the Death of Cindy James
“How did you possibly get over the death of your sister when you didn’t even know what happened to her,” asks my husband who, along with our two children and I, is grieving over the recent mysterious injuries that led to the death of our family cat, Tiger.
“We don’t know if Tiger was hit by a car or kicked by a horse, or…” he pauses, “Severely kicked by someone…and that infuriates me to think someone could do such a thing to an animal even if they were angry about them wandering into their yard!”
“Oh…I hope that isn’t one of the possibilities in what happened to Tiger,” I respond knowing full well some people get completely out of control when their property is breached. It is a horrifying thought for me that a human would have hurt Tiger and then left him like that…to suffer such pain while they did nothing!
“We’ve had dogs wander into our yard and I’ve chase them away. But I would never kick them,” he adds emphatically.
“So how did you deal with the unknowing about Cindy’s death?” he continues. “My stomach is all tied up in knots because of what happened to Tiger…the unknowing…the possibilities…the suddenness…the anger…the sadness…the emptiness…I can’t fathom what you had to go through with Cindy’s death,” he adds.
I had met him four-and-a-half years after my sister’s death. He never knew Cindy. And never having a pet dog or cat when he was growing up, he never really understood a grief like this. Sure he had experienced his grandfather’s death four years ago, but that had been so different…somehow expected and not really mysterious, so he had coped and moved forward.
“Well, I find it never goes away…the wondering that is,” I try to explain. “The pain of loss slowly gets better, but even now I don’t like to dwell on it too much because the mystery part can drive you crazy and there’s nothing you can do about it. I had to find a way to channel the negativity, the unknowing, the questioning, the anger, in order to move beyond it. That’s why I just had to research all the details relating to Cindy’s death and compile it into a book. It was my cleansing…my release…my way of letting go. My way of trying to understand and make sense of it.”
“Well the children and I are still pretty shaken up over Tiger’s death and I don’t know what to do to help them,” he sighs.
“Yes, it’s very difficult,” I add. “I still can’t believe it either.”
“If I find out someone kicked Tiger, I’ll be furious,” he spits.
“Hey…It’s so good you are being honest about your feelings,” I say as I hug him. “And,” I continue, “If we help the children express their thoughts, their feelings and their grief… we’ll manage just fine. We just need to ask them what they need us to do to help them heal. Really listening to them is a huge part of all this.”
“Maybe we could go to the SPCA,” I add, “And give some love to homeless animals as we all heal. Then when we’re ready we could adopt one. I’d love to have a cat again, but not just yet because I know we can never replace Tiger with his amazing personality…and I don’t want to just fill the void…I want to share my love for another pet when we can concentrate on it for the personality it has.”
“The house just feels so empty without Tiger,” my husband adds. “Even I want another pet! I miss how he used to sit on my desk when I worked at the computer. How he….”
Melanie Hack
Author of Who Killed My Sister, My friend
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TV Shows and Clips about the Death of Cindy James
Do we want him cremated? Or do we want the clinic to dispose of his remains? No. We want to take him home and let the children say goodbye and bury him in the back yard. Through teary eyes we wrap Tiger’s lower body in a bag and securely tape it around his tummy. (Sometimes when animals die their bowel and bladder relaxes.)
For the 30-minute ride home I cradle Tiger in my arms. Wrapped in a red blanket, his body stays warm. I gently stroke his cheeks. His eyes are open. The color has drained from his nose and his lips…and his ears are starting to feel cool.
What do I say to the children?
“Hi. We’re on our way home. Are you ready for basketball?” I ask through the cell phone.
“Yes. How’s Tiger?”
“Tiger was badly injured…maybe hit by a car or kicked by a horse…his left bone is snapped in half near his hip and when the broken end flipped over it poked through his skin and that’s what caused the gash and bleeding we saw…”
“Are you bringing him home…or is he going to the clinic here?”
“No, we’re bringing him home. He was badly broken and bruised and swollen and in a lot of pain…we had to euthanize him. I’m sorry.”
Silence…“What’s that?”
“He isn’t alive any more.”
“Oh.” Weeping.
I want to crawl through the phone and make it all better! “We’ll be home soon…”
…
It’s starting to get dark. With determination my ten-year-old son digs a four-foot hole in the backyard so his beloved cat can be buried.
“I can do it,” he chokes through tears.
While my thirteen-year-old daughter carries rocks beside me, I bring Tiger’s half-wrapped and now stiff body to the burial site.
“Do you want to see his wound?”
“Yes…please.”
I explain why he is partially wrapped and as we unwrap him, expecting the worst, we discover no mess. Only his left leg can be moved because of the break…the rest is stiff.
“Oh. Tiger. I’m so sorry this happened to you,” my daughter, an aspiring doctor, says as she examines his severe injury.
For several minutes the children stroke Tiger’s back and head…say goodbye…give him kisses and love…
“OK…We can bury him now.”
While my son makes sure the hole is of perfect dimensions, I place Tiger’s whole body into the bag and secure it with tape. My son takes his cat and lovingly places it at the bottom of the hole. We share stories of Tiger’s antics—how he would jump on the door to try to turn the knob to get out…how he chased a bigger cat out of our yard…how he played fetch like a dog…how he “talked” to us when he was hungry…how he forced his way onto our laps and purred…
Gently I cover the bag with rocks that are the size of my hand. We each place a shovel-full of dirt into the hole and then my son fills it in. Just as he pats the top with groundcover, a gentle rain begins to fall. It mingles with our tears.
“See ya, Tiger.”
Melanie Hack
Author of Who Killed My Sister, My friend
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TV Shows and Clips about the Death of Cindy James
When we picked up our white and orange kitten, Tiger, our hearts swelled. For nine months we played with him and loved him and watched him grow—A deep bond took root. He was so smart, so funny, and so loving.
Many times he went in and out of the house during the day but he always came inside before bedtime.
Then one evening he wasn’t home at dark—such a sense of panic we felt. Had he lost his way, was he playing with friends—was he actually OK?
So out on the deck we placed his bed and beside it the food dish too—in case he showed up quite late and needed to crash out there.
At dawn we checked…we called…we pleaded. But nothing we heard…no sign. It wasn’t until several hours later when the children were playing Around the world with the soccer ball that I heard, “Mom. Tiger’s home. Come see.”
So outside I sprinted, eager to greet him, and noticed a bloody back end. Without arousing panic I told the children we needed to bring him inside.
His eyes were glassy. He wanted no food. We gently laid him on the carpet. While my daughter lovingly tended to his face with kisses and words of comfort, my son prepared a warm, damp cloth to separate the matted bloody fur so I could clip it away to get a look at the damage. It didn’t look good. I thought perhaps an animal had attacked and Tiger managed to get away with gashes, but I also suspected a broken bone although I couldn’t feel one. Had he been hit by a car?
Off to the vet in another town we trudged because it was Saturday and the local vet was closed. Preparing for a basketball tournament and expecting Tiger would ultimately be OK, the children stayed behind but sent along their love. The vet examined, she shaved, she x-rayed, and then we knew—his bone was broken by the hip. The end had flipped and poked through the flesh and that’s what caused all the blood. As the site swelled the bone had retracted, taking dirt inside with it. Had a horse kicked him? He was terribly bruised and in a lot of pain and we knew what we had to do. As much as it was a painful decision, we knew it was the most humane thing to do. As I took off his collar and showered him with kisses and love and dropped my tears in his fur, he started to purr so strong. Did he sense what was about to happen? He looked me straight in the eye and seemed to relax in my hands.
The vet cleaned a spot on his back leg and gave him the lethal injection and I felt the purring vibrations stop as he died.
Instant heartbreak.
What a difficult decision to make and follow through on. He probably wouldn’t have survived we heard. And even with his left leg amputated, if indeed it could have been accomplished, his chance of survival was small—infection. It was a miracle he had dragged himself home. He must have wanted to say, “Goodbye” and “Thank you” and die wrapped in a blanket of love.
I still can’t believe he’s gone. I want him to jump up on my lap.
Man, I miss him so!
Melanie Hack
Author of Who Killed My Sister, My friend
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TV Shows and Clips about the Death of Cindy James
I Wish
I wish you hadn’t died this way.
I wish you could have stayed.
I wish there was another way
I could have eased your pain.
I never will forget your love.
I wish that you could know
How much my heart is aching so,
Because you had to go.
Within the stillness of the night
I felt your pounce with might
You kept my toes so warm,
Oh yes, you really were delight!
My fluffy, funny, furry friend
To Heaven I will send.
And there you’ll be surprised to find
Your bones shall now be mend.
Oh, how I wish…
– Bro –
Melanie Hack
Author of Who Killed My Sister, My friend
Read an excerpt now
TV Shows and Clips about the Death of Cindy James
This is for the mothers who:
—Have sat up all night with sick toddlers in their arms, wiping up barf laced with Oscar Mayer Wieners and cherry Kool-Aid saying, “It’s okay honey, Mommy’s here.”
—Have sat in rocking chairs for hours on end soothing crying babies who can’t be comforted.
—Show up at work with spit-up in their hair and milk stains on their blouses and diapers in their purse.
—Run carpools and make cookies and sew Halloween costumes—And all the mothers who DON’T.
—Gave birth to babies they’ll never see—And the mothers who took those babies and gave them homes.
—Hang their children’s priceless art collections on their refrigerator doors.
—Froze their buns on metal bleachers at football or soccer games instead of watching from the warmth of their own cars and that when their kids asked, “Did you see me, Mom?” they could say, “Of course, I wouldn’t have missed it for the world,” and mean it.
—All the mothers who yell at their kids in the grocery store and swat them in despair when they stomp their feet and scream for ice cream before dinner—And for all the mothers who count to ten instead.
—All the mothers who sat down with their children and explained all about making babies. And for all the (grand)mothers who wanted to, but just couldn’t find the words.
—All the mothers who go hungry, so their children can eat.
—All the mothers who read “Goodnight, Moon” twice a night for a year. And then read it again, “Just one more time.”
—All the mothers who taught their children to tie their shoelaces before they started school. And for all the mothers who opted for Velcro instead.
—All the mothers who teach their sons to cook and their daughters to sink a jump shot.
—Every mother whose head turns automatically when a little voice calls, “Mom?” in a crowd, even though they know their own offspring are at home…or even away at college…or have their own families.
—All the mothers who sent their kids to school with stomach aches, assuring them they’d be just FINE once they got there, only to get calls from the school nurse an hour later asking them to please pick them up. Right away.
—Mothers whose children have gone astray, who can’t find the words to reach them.
—All the mothers who bite their lips until they bleed when their 14 year olds dye their hair green.
—All the mothers of the victims of recent school shootings—And the mothers of those who did the shooting.
—The mothers of the survivors, and the mothers who sat in front of their TVs in horror, hugging their child who just came home from school, safely.
—All the mothers who taught their children to be peaceful, and now pray they come home safely from a war.
What makes a good mother anyway?
Is it patience? Compassion? Broad hips? The ability to nurse a baby, cook dinner, and sew a button on a shirt, all at the same time?
Or is it in her heart?
Is it the ache she feels when she watches her son or daughter disappear down the street, walking to school alone for the very first time?
Is it the jolt that takes her from sleep to dread, from bed to crib, at 2 A.M. to put her hand on the back of a sleeping baby?
Or the panic, years later, that comes again at 2 A.M. when she just wants to hear their key in the door and know they are safe again in her home?
Or is it the need to flee from wherever she is and hug her child when she hears news of a fire, a car accident, or a child dying?
The emotions of motherhood are universal and so our thoughts are for young mothers stumbling through diaper changes and sleep deprivation—And for mature mothers learning to let go; For mothers who children have died and for children whose mothers have died; For working mothers and stay-at-home mothers; For single mothers and married mothers; For mothers with money and mothers without.
This is for you all. For all of us…
Hang in there. In the end we can only do the best we can.
Tell them every day that you love them.
And pray and never stop being a mother…
Please pass this to a wonderful mother you know.
Happy Mother’s Day.
– adapted from Suzanne Beaudoin –
Melanie Hack
Author of Who Killed My Sister, My friend
Read an excerpt now
TV Shows and Clips about the Death of Cindy James