Tonight's picture was taken in January of 2008. This was only six months prior to Mattie's cancer diagnosis. Rather hard to grasp really, especially when you see him in this photo. Mattie looked healthy and happy. Like a typical five year old. On the weekends we always went for a walk and we practically knew every nature trail and preserve in our local area. As you can see, Mattie found a stick along his journey that day. Not an unusual occurrence, since Mattie always came home with a prize. We had quite the stick collection in our commons area at one time!
Quote of the day: The most important story we'll ever write in life is our own-not with ink, but with our daily choices. ~ Richard Paul Evans
Last night I returned to the university that I used to teach at and gave a guest lecture about children and loss. The class was comprised of master's and doctoral level counseling students. Though the building I was in had been completely remodeled, that was about the only thing that was different. I suppose I could enter a classroom and just start talking, but to me it is always important to know who sits before me. So before discussing childhood cancer, Mattie Miracle, and the impact of a cancer diagnosis on a child and family, I wanted to know why each of the students enrolled in such a class. After all, this class is an elective, not part of the core curriculum. Loss is a very challenging topic for our society and frankly mental health professionals are NO different. It is equally difficult for many of them to discuss and process.
I have lectured about childhood cancer in MANY different settings now. Whether in a university, hospital, or at a conference. After I tell our story about Mattie (and of course I talk about other things as it relates to childhood cancer, but the reason behind my knowledge is always discussed first), take a guess at how many people usually say to us...... we are sorry for your loss???! Really, guess! Maybe you are thinking half of the audience or perhaps a third? Keep in mind I am talking to people either trained to deal with life threatening medical issues or those with counseling skills. Well the answer to my question is there is usually one or TWO people at the most who tell me they are sorry for my loss. ONE or TWO!
In fact after class last night, one young lady came up to chat with me. She was intrigued by my statement that grief books were not helpful to me as a parent who lost a child to cancer. So she wanted to know what kind of things would have been helpful to me early on. We discussed this for a while and then she told me she was sorry for my loss. So the question is why is this? Is it because this is an academic talk, or a talk in a more formal setting? Is it because people are taking in the information without truly grasping the profound emotions that underlie the content? Or better yet, do we put up defenses or protectors in situations like this so as to not break down and feel the pain? I don't know the answer to any of my questions, but this is a consistent observation I make at each of my talks. I know I am getting the content out and I am also hitting on emotions and feelings, because at times I can see tears and heightened levels of discomfort in those around me. I really think it is hard for others (even professionals who want to work in this field) to step outside their comfort zone and be human. As I told the class last night, doing grief work requires one to be uncomfortable at times (after all you are going to see and hear people in pain), to be open to listening, and to not have quick fix answers. Which is all quite problematic in our high tech/fast paced 24/7 world.
As I end the day today, I received a lovely message from my friend and colleague which brightened my evening. In her message she said, "What I admire the most is how you take your sadness and create joy for others just knowing that you are out there." When my friend signs her emails to me she typically says..... "Your friend in all ways and always." Which I absolutely love! May we all have a friend who cares for us in all ways and always. It certainly makes my grief journey a bit more manageable.
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