Alice J. Wisler's Writing the Heartache Blog

How creating remembrance cards brought solace to me

2012-01-11T12:49:00.004-05:00

Here's a piece I wrote that was published at the online site I often write for, Writing for Dollars. I hope it'll help those of you with sorrow to produce something meaningful in memory of your loved one.

Create Your Own Line of Cards!
Five Tips to Help You Sell

by Alice J. Wisler

Until I reach the New York Times Bestseller List and get to wallow in cash, I’ll be looking for ways to make extra money. While I have some new ventures going, I wanted to focus on one that has been true to me over the years—my own cards!

Yes, I’m talking about glossy colorful postcards you can mail to a friend, just like the kind you buy in stores.

The idea came to me when I was on my porch thinking about my young son who had recently died. He was only four. Will people remember him in five years? Suddenly, through the autumn leaves and night sky, this verse came to me: “Who will remember those who no longer sing on earth? We, who hear their songs from Heaven.” I liked the verse and wrote it down. Next, came the interest in putting the sentiment into a card. I had a friend who had a whole line of cards on her website and so asked her for some advice.

Coming up with a line of cards to sell both online and during events is a way to generate income as well as add to your creative outlet. Here are five tips for getting started, motivated, and selling.

First you need to come up with a passionate plan. In addition to what you are passionate about (horses, roses or fishing), consider the market out there and potential buyers. Will your cards hold only photos on the front or will you add a short sentiment? Will they be note cards or postcards? Will you sell them with envelopes?

Spend time creating at a card website. I found that Vistaprint—http://www.vistaprint.com—is a great printer to use, offering quality merchandise. They often have specials and their customer service is wonderful.

Don’t rush this process of creating the best card you can. Be sure to spell all your words correctly. Do you want to use the stock photos at the printer’s website or do you want to upload your own pictures? A woman I met at a craft fair where I was selling my novels and cards had a line of folded note cards, each one with a different photo she’d taken in Ireland. There were quaint village pictures as well as those of nature. If you are an avid photographer, think of offering a line of cards with your own photos. Come up with some encouraging verses or a short poem, too.

Order a small amount at first. Make sure the name of your company or your name and website are printed on the back side of the card. Once the cards arrive in your mailbox, check them over. Make any necessary changes for your future orders.

Put on your business hat and set up a website. If you already have a personal website, you could add a page for your cards as I did. Decide the price of your cards (charge enough to make a reasonable profit) and which methods of payment to accept. I used PayPal or ask that a check be sent to my post office box. Will you give a discount if customers order in bulk? Bereavement organizations across the country get discounts because they order two hundred or more cards at a time from me.

Advertise! No one will know about your product until you tell them. Spread the word to family, friends and others in your address book. Send out a “Just Released” email alert to all you know. Social media is a great way to share your cards with others. Promote every chance you get without over doing it and being downright obnoxious. Business cards with information about your card company, links, a phone number, etc. are handy to have, too. To promote business, give some cards away and attach ordering details. Once folks like your cards, they’ll pass the word along to others.

The sky’s the limit! Take your time to create a top-notch product, advertise it, and watch the orders come in!

© 2011 by Alice J. Wisler, reprinted from Writing for Dollars

Alice J. Wisler, author of the Southern novels Rain Song, How Sweet It Is, Hatteras Girl and A Wedding Invitation (Bethany House), lives and writes in Durham, NC. On sunny days, she places her decorative tri-fold poster board with pictures and information about her novels out by her mail box. Email her for more ways to build your sales at wisler@mindspring.com. Visit her website at http://www.alicewisler.com.

How to enter a new year with a broken heart

2011-12-31T12:55:00.007-05:00

By Alice J. Wisler

As Dick Clark is about to countdown the hours to a new year, and friends and neighbors are chilling bottles of champagne for midnight toasts, many of us are wondering just what will be so happy about 2012. We recall easier times when we laughed more and enjoyed shouting "Happy New Year!" at the strike of twelve o-clock. We long for days when we had zeal and joy. Now are hearts are broken.

What has broken your heart? Is it the recent death of a loved one? When my four-year-old Daniel died in 1997, I dreaded holidays without him. My family picture was incomplete and I knew that this life I was thrown into without him was how it was going to be from now on.

Heading into your first new year without a loved one can be daunting. You know that this new year will be void of any memories of your special beloved. A new year, yes, but no new antics from your child, mother, or sister. Only recycled memories exist now.

What can you do to get through the ending of an old year when your loved one was with you before his death, and approach another calendar year without him?

Here are twelve suggestions to help with the transition from 2011 into 2012.

1) Bring your loved one into the new year by sharing a happy memory of him with those around you.
2) Speak his name. Again and again.
3) Make a dish in your loved one's memory. If you don't cook, buy a bag of his favorite chips, crackers, or snack food.
4) Think of resolutions for the new year that you want to make for yourself.
5) Consider doing something for someone else at the beginning of the new year, something that symbolizes your loved one's life.
6) Allow yourself tears. Buy a sturdy box of Puffs Tissues.
7) Allow yourself the gift of words. Jot down words that describe your loved one. Create a few lines or a poem about him.
8) Read passages from the Bible or a book that is uplifting and nurtures your soul.
9) Light a candle and keep it burning from the end of the year into the new year.
10) Send a helium balloon into the night sky, a gesture of sending a gift up to Heaven.
11) Know that even though your heart is broken, healing can happen.
12) Look for beauty in each day. Find at least three things to be thankful for. Start with thanksgiving for the love you hold for your deceased loved one. The love is always there, nothing can take it away.

Always.

Carrying Memories

2011-12-26T17:36:00.002-05:00

Christmas has ended, and the living room still has that unwrapped look. With the festivities now part of future memories, I anticipate the next hurdle: the start of a new year. The TV commercials romanticize champagne toasts illuminated by glowing candles. People make resolutions, hopeful that this brand-new unblemished year will be the one that fuels their successes.

For the parent who has lost a child to death, a new year can be daunting. The first New Year’s Day after my son Daniel’s death was scary. I wanted to hold onto 1997. Although it was the year he’d lost his battle with cancer and died, it was also the year he’d lived. 1998 would mark the first calendar year without him.

For some reason, the image of an old-fashioned wooden bucket came to me. With this item, I heard the word carry. That’s it, my newly-bereaved mind said. The key with a new year is to carry the old into it.

So here we are, on the brink of another year, a new decade, with fresh hopes and dreams. A clean slate. There are many things about 2009 I wish to forgive and forget, but I don’t want to ever forget my son.

Each year marks a year further from when I last held him, heard his voice, and saw his smile. I yearn to hug him, tell him how much he’s grown, and ask him what he’d like for dinner. My heart feels that distinct hollowness and sorrow that belongs to a mother without her child.

But the bucket I have isn’t hollow. It is brimming with memories and fondness, warmed with love and laughter; I hold it tightly.

Just as I carried Daniel’s four-year-old memories into 1998, now — fourteen years later — I will continue to carry them. And I will do more than just hold them, I’ll let them trickle out, forming their own glow, as I share this special boy with my world. “Wasn’t it funny when Daniel called adults redults? Do you remember how he gave stickers away in the hospital, and once when bored made a collage out of baby lotion and glitter?”

Daniel lived, he loved, and I believe he continues to live in Heaven.

So, get yourself a sturdy bucket and carry. Boldly carry the memories into the new year. Along the way, give yourself permission to forgive. Let the memories you recall be the brightest ones.

Listen. There is nothing to fear. Listen. Your child’s voice can be heard in your heart.

How the Cemetery Became a Place of Peace

2011-12-13T13:06:00.000-05:00

There’s the joke about the cemetery. “How many people are dead in there?” The answer: “All of them.” Or, “People are dying to get in there.” It brought a smile to my lips the first time a ten-year-old told me. But after my son died, I was wondering why there are so many jokes about death and being dead. “We joke about what we fear,” Daniel’s pediatric oncologist at UNC-Chapel Hill’s Hospital told me.

Well, I don’t fear the cemetery anymore. The movies and TV shows, especially around Halloween, like to depict the graveyard as a scary place with ghosts and goblins. For me, the graveyard is a place of peace. My children have named the one where four-year-old Daniel is buried Daniel’s Place. On cool autumn mornings I like to take a steaming cup of coffee and blanket and visit Daniel’s Place. Beside his marker I have created many poems about longing, laughter, memories, and hope. Beside his marker I have seen life through a misty, but realistic pair of eyes.

On his death date and birth date, we send up colorful helium balloons with attached messages. Often we add stickers of animated characters that he liked. We’ve eaten sweet slices of watermelon, spit the seeds as he used to, had picnics and played softball – all at the cemetery. For a few years after Daniel’s death, his father would go to Daniel’s Place every week to reflect while smoking a cigar. The cemetery is a part of our lives now. We’ve yet to see a goblin.

I travel to other places of rest. In New Bern, North Carolina, we took a trolley tour of the city and one of the stops was the cemetery. The stories of the Union and Confederate soldiers told by our guide were fascinating. But the words on the tombstones of children were what I remember the most. They used to write on the infant graves the exact age of the child who died – “Jeremy Hawthorne, infant son of Zachary and Millie Hawthorne, nine months, two weeks and three days old.”

In the nearby town of Hillsborough, my family and I took a walk through The Old Town Cemetery, by the Presbyterian Church. The city has deemed this place, constructed in 1757, a historical site. I’m sure one of the reasons is because fame has been buried here: the body of William Hooper, one of the signers of the Declaration of Independence.

While that impresses me, I am more taken with the engraving on the creamy white tomb of a young woman. Someone chose to inscribe the following thoughtful words and within the whole cemetery there is no sentiment that compares:

Sacred to the memory of Mary Shaw
24 years
March 9, 1840
She needs no formal record of her virtues on this cold marble. They are deeply graven on the tablets of many warm and loving hearts, in which her memory is tenderly and sacredly cherished.

I wonder what kind of friend, parent or spouse this Mary was. Truly many must have loved her, been devoted to her, and agonized over her early death.

Beauty is written within the walls of cemeteries for beauty was lived on this earth. Graveyards are places of remembrances, love and warmth. Cemeteries are not scary… …unless we fear what others will say about us and place on our stones when we are six feet under – perhaps there lies the anxiety. Will I be remembered lovingly? Will anyone miss me? Will friends and family sacredly cherish who I was to them? What legacy have I left behind?

While no one has been perfect and surely we leave behind those who may not have understood why we did the things we did like own a pit bull or hang our laundry out to dry at 2 a.m., hopefully we aren’t so far despised that one would choose to have inscribed on our tomb the words on the grave of Gussie of Ocanto, Wisconsin: Here lies the body of a girl who died, Nobody mourned and nobody cried. How she lived and how she fared, Nobody knew and nobody cared.

We all get one chance here on this terrestrial ball. Cemeteries speak of that loudly, yet solemnly. Near Daniel’s stone is one of an infant who died only days after he was born. What kind of life did he have? What kind of impact? His epitaph proclaims for all who learn from the words on tombs – in this generation and for those that follow – “We’re so glad you came.” I imagine his parents devastated over the brevity of their son’s life and yet, at the same time, delighted to have known him.

I prefer to take my coffee to the cemeteries. I do learn from the dead. Gone are my days of being ruled by fear and trying to laugh the inevitable off. At the cemeteries I learn how I can best live with each day I am given. Now.

[Written by Alice J. Wisler in 2000]

Surviving the Holidays After the Death of a Child

2011-12-13T13:01:00.003-05:00

That holiday-pang hit my stomach the first October after Daniel died. Greeting me at an arts and craft shop were gold and silver stockings, a Christmas tree draped with turquoise balls and a wreath of pinecones and red berries. What was this? And was “Santa Claus Is Coming To Town” playing as well? It was only October.

I had anticipated that Christmas and the holidays would be tough. In fact, I’d wake on those cold mornings after Daniel died in February and be grateful that it was still months until his August birthday and even more months until Christmas. I dreaded living both without him. I would have preferred to have been steeped in cow manure. At least then I could take a hot bath with sweet smelling bubbles and be rid of the stench. But bereavement isn’t that way. As those who had gone on before let me know, you have to live through it.

Christmas came. I did live through it. It continues to happen as do the other significant days of the calendar year. Daniel never arrives at any of them although his memory lives on. By incorporating him into these days of festivity, I can cope.

Some of you have your child’s birthday and/or anniversary day within the November through January season. These days, in addition to the holidays everyone else is celebrating, make the season even more complicated and painful, I’m sure.

I offer eleven tips I’ve used to survive the holidays. Some are my own suggestions and some are borrowed from the many who walk the path of grief.

1. Know you will survive. Others have done it and you will, too. Keep in mind that your first Thanksgiving, Christmas and New Year’s Day will not be easy.

2. Find at least one person you can talk to or meet with during the holiday season. Perhaps this person has gone through a few Thanksgivings and Christmases before and can give you some helpful ideas that have worked for her.

3. Things will be different this holiday season and perhaps for all the rest to come. Don’t think you have to do the “traditional” activities of years past when your child was alive. Your energy level is low. If no one in your household minds, skip putting up the tree. Forget spending hours making your holiday cookies.

4. Spend the holidays with those who will let you talk about your child. You will need to have the freedom to say your child’s name and recall memories, if you choose to do so. Your stories about your child are wonderful legacies. Tell them boldly again and again.

5. If going into the mall or stores brings too much pain, shop for gifts online or through mail-order catalogs. Thinking everyone is happily shopping at the malls with intact lives while your heart is crushed is terribly tough. Go easy on yourself.

6. Getting away from the house is an idea that worked for my family. The first Christmas without Daniel we went to a nearby town and lived in the Embassy Suites. The kids enjoyed the indoor pool and breakfast buffets. Christmases that followed were spent at a rented cottage on the shore and the Christmas we rented the beach house, we were able to invite extended family to join us. We all shared in the cooking.

7. Create something to give to those who have helped you throughout the year. I made some very simple tree ornaments with “In Memory of Daniel” stamped on them and gave them to friends that first Christmas.

8. Decorate the grave. Put up a plastic Christmas tree with lights. Sometimes being busy with decorating the grave gives a feeling of doing something for a child we can no longer hold.

9. Do something in memory of your child. Donate to a charity or fund in his memory. Volunteer. My oldest daughter Rachel and I volunteer at the Hospice Tree of Remembrance each December and share memories of Daniel as we spend this time together.

10. If your bereavement support group has a special candle-lighting service to remember the children in your area who have died, attend it. Doing something in memory of your child with others who understand the pain these holidays hold can be therapeutic.

11. Spend time reflecting on what the season is about. Everyone around you may be frantic with attending parties, services, shopping and visiting relatives. Perhaps you used to be the same way. Now you may want to avoid some of the festivities. Give yourself permission to excuse yourself from them. Light a candle in your favorite scent. Record some thoughts in a journal. This is great therapy, too.

One day you will wake up and it will be January 2. The holidays will have ended. You will have made it. If you are like me, you will find that surviving the tinsel has made you stronger and although you may cry, somewhere within you, you will feel that core of new steel.

[Written by Alice J. Wisler in 2000]

One Brave Cookie

2011-12-08T14:42:00.002-05:00

By Alice J. Wisler

In 1996 we had tickets for a three-week trip to Japan. As I packed for our trip, excitement filled me. I couldn’t wait to experience the reactions of my three kids as we flew to Japan where I grew up as a missionary kid. My picnic-plaid journal would record their words and their vacation memories.

My husband and I hoped three-year-old Daniel would be fully recovered from his surgery and back to his energetic self by the date of our June departure. It sure looked promising because the night of his surgery he did cartwheels in our grassy lawn, laughing with friends who stopped by to check in on him.

Right before Memorial Day when people were getting their coolers stocked for picnics, the pediatrician called with news. The lump on Daniel’s neck was not Cat Scratch Fever or TB as earlier presumed. The surgery from the previous day showed that my son had a mass that consisted of small round blue cells.

That weekend I became familiar with a childhood cancer called Neuroblastoma. At UNC Hospitals in Chapel Hill, NC, Daniel had another surgery, a Broviac catheter inserted through his body—into the right side of his neck and out his back— and the start of his first round of chemotherapy. The catheter was the line used to dispense his chemo. Nurses taught us how to flush the line, clean the area of skin it was near, and tape the catheter to his back for safety purposes. We also learned the names of chemo drugs and found out that the narrow cot placed alongside Daniel’s bed was not as comfortable as it looked. It didn’t really matter; hospitals are not known for places of rest, regardless of the type of bed provided.

Daniel’s prognosis looked good—for a kid with cancer. Over the months of week-long hospital stays, the tumor responded to the harsh medications. He lost his hair, he hated being bald. He made friends with the oncologists and nurses, teasing and laughing with them. He threw up and felt weak and tried to be brave. I recorded each day in my picnic-plaid journal.

In the hospital chapel he asked God to heal him. “Please God, take away my boo-boo.” He liked to hear how people around the world were praying for his health.

But on a balmy day in January after his chemo and radiation treatments ended, he felt weak. I took him to a scheduled check-up at the oncology clinic.

At nine his blood pressure was fine, but there was some concern about his blood counts. His hematocrit was dangerously low. The nurse was ready to take another blood sample to test again when Daniel complained of not being able to breathe. “I just wanna go home,” he told me. The doctor was called in; no pulse could be found.

Daniel was wheeled to the ER. He coded once he arrived, was resuscitated, and coded again. A staph infection was discovered to be the culprit.

Daniel lived on the ventilator in the PICU for five days. When the EEG showed he had no brain activity except for voluntary, I asked for another. But the second results matched the first, so we removed him from the ventilator, saying our good-byes. Yet Daniel’s heart and lungs continued to function.

Since the staff in the PICU could do nothing more for him, his oncologist asked that we consider moving him to a room on the cancer ward. “We want to take care of him and of you,” he said. “Daniel is our patient. We remember when he walked down the corridors swinging off his infusion pole.” I looked at my son, a calm figure with his eyes shut, morphine pumping into him. Surely, God would provide a miracle and Daniel would wake from his comatose state and jump on the bed as he had before.

When Daniel breathed his last in my arms on a cold night at the beginning of February, I was six months pregnant. My baby within kicked with life as my bloated and compromised child ceased to move.

I felt abandoned by God. I didn’t care to live. During the next days, I didn’t want another casserole or vase of flowers brought to my front door. I wanted my son back in my arms—a chance for him to live life outside hospital walls with a new crop of hair as he played with his siblings.

Instead, I would have to learn to survive his death. It would mold me, push me, shape me, and change me. I would feel God’s presence again. In time, I would walk with a new faith, one harbored within a broken heart.

Under the Mesquite: A review

2011-11-16T12:33:00.006-05:00

Under the Mesquite by Guadalupe Garcia McCall is a small book with a large dose of beauty and poignancy.

Written in a poetic style, Guadalupe takes us through her family life in Mexico and Texas as she deals with a horrifying truth: Her mother has cancer.

I could relate to the foreign feelings Guadalupe has as she skirts between her birth land of Mexico and the less familiar United States to where her large family relocates. I grew up as a missionary kid in Japan, and had to straddle two countries and two cultures---the land of my citizenship (USA) and the land of my childhood memories (Japan). I also know the anguish of a loved one diagnosed with cancer. My son Daniel was three when the malignant tumor was found in his neck.

Of course, I love words that wrap around my heart. And this novel has many scenarios that speak to me, particularly the ones that deal with the emotions Guadalupe experiences from the demise of her mother's health.

"Tears run down my cheeks without my permission,leaving hot trails on my face like rivulets of melting wax from a candle burned much too long. But I don't want to hide my feelings anymore. I'm tired of acting, tired of pretending that everything's all right when it's not."

"Our bare feet cold on the old linoleum, we huddle and cry together, fingers, hands, and arms all intertwined. We are tangled up like three rambling rose vines yet torn apart inside. . . . We know Mami's gone."

Guadalupe's world crumbles when her precious Mami breathes her last, but her wise father encourages her to visit his mother in Mexico for a change of scenery. Reluctantly, Guadalupe goes. Under a mesquite tree, she pens ". . . a whole new batch of poems, poems filled with memories and hope, because that's what Mami would've wanted."

Although Under the Mesquite is slated for young adults, I feel it's a captivating read for adults of any age. Guadalupe finds comfort in writing, something that has always come easily for her. As an advocate for writing from pain and loss, I applaud her for using pen and paper to bring inner healing.

Do yourself a favor and absorb this story of a teen's world and how she grieves her mother's death and manages, somehow, like many of us, to embrace the strength to carry on.

Order from Amazon or from Lee and Low Books.

~ Alice J. Wisler
[I received a copy of Under the Mesquite from the publisher in return for my honest review.]

Why writing from heartache matters

2011-10-23T19:13:00.004-04:00

People know I'm an advocate for writing through heartache. Perhaps some might feel I have nothing better to do than to harp on how healing it is to pour words onto paper. But the truth is, I wouldn't be ringing the writing bell if writing hadn't been such a friend to me. Friend? Writing was more than a friend. When my son Daniel died, writing saved me.

I wrote of agony and listlessness, of tears and heartbreak. I wrote under a weeping willow tree until it became too dark to see. As I went through my motherhood tasks minus a child and about to give birth to another, I found respite in the dark days knowing that there would be time for me at the end of the day----time to head to a park and write. Nothing was taboo within the pages of my journal. I wrote freely and honestly. I wanted to shed the tight skin that choked me with despair and dread.

And as I wrote, I found nuggets of hope, reasons to be grateful in spite of my loss, and new discoveries about myself. My journal held it all---not telling a soul. Her secret-keeping capacities gave me permission to write openly. The only way my journal was read was when I choose to share parts of my entries with my husband or a friend.

Among the many benefits of writing, is the ability to gain wisdom and beauty from your own words. The broken heart produces lovely poetry, raw, but real. The crushed spirit cries out and views the world through new lenses, allowing for less judgement of others, and more acceptance and forgiveness of self.

Over the years, not only have I taken ideas from my journal and formed them into articles and poems for publications, but I've incorporated bits of grief and loss in all four of my Southern novels. When someone reads something I've written and writes to tell me what it meant to him or her, I know it is because I do not shy away from expressing the pain in my own heart.

Writing not only heals us, but our words also help others. And then we are blessed that we've been able to bring some solace to those around us. It's a mini cycle, a good one, like a circle of love.

Much beauty has emerged from a heart that has been crushed. Don't be afraid to let that beauty shine in your works of writing from the heart. You will be inspired at how writing can become a brave new friend.

Join me at the Hospice of Frankfort in Frankfort, Kentucky, on November 5th for an all-day writing workshop, "Writing through Life's Losses". We will give particular focus to getting through the holiday season when each day may be a struggle due to grief and loss.
To sign up and read details, head over here.

~ Alice J. Wisler

Alice J. Wisler Reads from A Wedding Invitation 09/29 by Alice J Wisler | Blog Talk Radio

2011-09-29T15:29:00.000-04:00

Listen in!
Alice J. Wisler Reads from A Wedding Invitation 09/29 by Alice J Wisler | Blog Talk Radio

Novel Rocket: Staying inspired is daunting

2011-09-28T19:03:00.000-04:00

Novel Rocket: Staying inspired is daunting: Alice J. Wisler grew up in Japan as a missionary kid in the sixties and seventies and now writes Southern fiction from her home in North Car...

I'll Sing to You in Heaven

2011-09-26T14:55:00.005-04:00

I found this when I was cleaning out a desk drawer in my office. It's always a good idea to clean.

I'll Sing to You in Heaven
Written 8/14/2004

When the dragonfly meets
with the enchanting moon
on spun threads of gold
under willow limbs
and memories
of laughter and sorrow,
crickets and frogs play.
Yet I can only recall
the four years of you
as a little boy
holding my hand ---
there is no picture
of what you are now.

Autumn leaves tapering,
silent frost,
spring to thaw wounds---
where have the years gone
on this summer eve in August
when you would be twelve?
I blow kisses to the stars
in hopes you feel the love
for you is just as vast
as when you were here
waiting to blow out the candles,
before I had to sing to you
in Heaven.

~ Alice J. Wisler

Birthday Reflections Around Daniel’s Grave

2011-08-31T14:39:00.007-04:00

August 25, 2011

With the threat of Hurricane Irene looming over North Carolina, I left my post at the computer where I’d been tracking the weather and ventured to Daniel’s Place, known to most as Markham Memorial Gardens.

“Pack a picnic,” my oldest daughter said, and we agreed to meet at noon at the gravesite.

Purposely getting there early so that I could walk my daily mile and have time to reflect on the significance of the day, I laced up my tennis shoes. Today was my son Daniel’s birthday. I had not seen him in nearly fifteen years. His grave was one of the ones under a swaying oak tree.

I began to walk, the sun on my back. Butterflies and dragonflies flitted around as I noticed the artificial flowers on the tops of the rows of graves and wished that I could magically turn them into fresh bouquets. I was waiting and hoping for some words, some line I could use to write my annual poem or article on this special day. Over the years, I’d composed many birthday words, using the agony of his death and the joy of his life to inspire me. Yet today, I felt nothing new or fresh to work with.

If people knew how hard it is to live another birthday without my son, I thought, they’d be surprised. I bet most think that after all these years, time heals the jagged wound of grief. I thought of those who early on had wanted to stop me from grieving. They believed that by prayer and scripture verses about God being near that they could whisk away my pain.

I wanted to tell them that it was biblical to weep and to groan. We don’t have to look far to see that life is not as it could be. We long for a world without evil, illness, disasters, and devastation just as the psalmist does in the Book of Psalms.
Yet, even so, there were those who wanted to take my grief from me. They wanted to coat over it like the workmen recently did when they used machinery to repair the streets in my neighborhood. These men filled the cracks and rough edges with tar to make the surfaces smooth.

I was not made to be smooth! I was a mother with a mother’s heart, a heart full of love for my child. Were they denying me of the love God had placed in my very core for my son? If so, they were denying God. God gave this strong love to mothers. In my opinion, this love is the most pure human love available on earth. This love nurtures, cares, heals, comforts, provides unconditionally, and weeps. To stomp it out is impossible. It beats on and on, even when the object of its love is no longer in sight. Daniel had breathed his last on earth, but as long as I lived, I would love as a mother for her son.

My eyes filled with tears as I continued my walk. All these years, I’d felt misunderstood. I had let others try to push aside my love, which of course, comes with sadness from missing my child. I had grimaced when well-meaning folk tried to make light of my sorrow by saying I would see Daniel again in Heaven, and then felt guilty for not letting that knowledge make me want to smile.

Seeing Daniel again on earth is what I wanted. I wanted him here, growing up with my other children. I wanted my oldest, who remembers him best, to be able to have Daniel as her sibling. The two younger children had never known him and they had missed out on a funny, sweet boy who was generous in his care for others. I wanted to watch him blow out the candles on his fifth birthday cake, his tenth, his sixteenth, and his cake today. Telling me not to miss him because I’ll see him again in Heaven was missing the point. I will not be his mother in Heaven, making him grilled cheese sandwiches, buying him Cocoa Puffs, and listening to his accounts of his first day of high school or college. For although the Bible reveals little of our next life, it’s not going to be a repeat of this one. A repeat of this one! That would not be heavenly at all. We’re not going to be in little families as we are on earth, or married, or getting older with body parts that sag, or having to put up with neighbors who don’t mow their grass.

So I moan over what I lost. I ache because it is no more. There are chapters in Daniel’s life that I wanted to share with him here, like his first day of kindergarten, teaching him to read, and the other many milestones other parents get with their children.

I continue to love my son and wish he had not died from cancer treatments at age four. What mother wouldn’t feel the same? If there is one, I don't want to have coffee with her!

I let the sun dry my tears and when my daughter Rachel arrived, we ate lunch. For dessert, we munched on Teddy Grahams because Daniel loved those. We placed a ceramic pig on Daniel’s marker, and laughed, remembering how Daniel slipped and fell at a petting zoo, and was bitten by a prized hog. We hoped the upcoming hurricane would not destroy our piggy gift when her predicted winds made their way inland.

Then we sent a helium Happy Birthday balloon into the air and watched it bump into a tree limb, get stuck, and slowly free itself to make the journey into the blue sky. We watched that balloon as it sparkled in the sunshine until we could see it no more.

Then we parted. We returned to our jobs, back to our daily routines, as we had so many times before—without Daniel. But as always, we carried him with us—deep within our hearts with those rough edges.

~ By Alice J. Wisler

Missing You: From Brian to his son Jason

2011-08-19T13:40:00.005-04:00

Here is a poem from one of my Writing the Heartache online students. Thanks, Brian Asci, for your willingness to let me post your work here in memory of your son Jason.

Missing You

Future plans of time together
Sharing the memories past and future
Gone in an instant
With no warning.
Time has passed since you left me behind
But memories of happy times together,
Happy thoughts and silly stunts are what remain,
Not just anguish and pain
You were and will always be
A son, a friend, and
Most of all a big part of me.
You know I speak to you daily
Although it’s not the same.
I miss your smile, Your laugh,
you’re smart remarks
And anecdotes
One day I know we’ll meet again,
but until then I miss you son,
More than you’ll ever know.
Last but not least I miss the messages
Left On my phone,
“Has anyone told you they loved you today Dad? I do, I do.”

~ Brian Asci

YouTube!

2011-08-19T11:59:00.004-04:00

So I decided I'd do what others have done and create a writing video for YouTube. I used photos either Carl or I had taken and music from Enya. Please take three minutes of your time to click on this link and view my lastest work, What do I get out of it? Hopefully, you'll be convinced that writing from heartache is healing and has many benefits.

Emotions in grief writing

2011-08-05T10:58:00.012-04:00

If you came to my workshop last Saturday, you participated in talking about emotions that come out of writing. I stress these emotions because as writers, sometimes the feelings that surface surprise us. We wish to deny them because they can crop up as ugly or unpleasant. I want you to know that you are normal. Yes, it's normal to feel the following when you are dealing with life's losses---denial, shock, weakness, guilt, and irritability, among others.

An illustration of what we experience as grievers is the The Grief Wheel, pictured here. This image, showing our emotions due to loss as a wheel, is symbolic. By using a wheel, we see that our emotions are not linear, they circle. We might feel we've finished with regret or sleeplessness only to have them reoccur months or years down the road. We might spend weeks dealing with anger or loss of appetite. My advice to you about your emotions is: Take your time, don't rush.

As you write out your feelings in a journal or through my Writing the Heartache Online Workshop, above all, be gentle to yourself. Don't judge or criticize (plenty of others around you are probably doing that). Freely and honestly write and as you release your thoughts onto paper, do not fear the emotions that may catch you off guard. Make time to cry. Allow for puffy eyes; just avoid mirrors for a day.

Set out on a walk. Exercise helps your body move and your mind to unclog. Try to walk at a nice park or garden. Take in the beauty. Carry a notepad and pen in case you are gifted with words for a song or a poem. Walking can get the creative juices flowing.

Continue to make writing out your pain (and joys) part of your weekly life. After thirty days, hopefully, writing through your heartache will be a wonderful new habit! And keep the Grief Wheel on hand so that you can be reminded that your emotions are normal.

Reunion Heart Necklace

2011-07-15T09:28:00.009-04:00

My friend, Dianne, has designed a lovely necklace called the Reunion Heart.
Dianne and I were part of the same writing group when she came up with the idea---her dream---to have these necklaces available for those who had a loved one die.

Here's a poem she wrote that explains the meaning behind her necklace:

Since Heaven has become your home
I sometimes feel I'm so alone;
and though we now are far apart
you hold a big piece of my heart.

I never knew how much I'd grieve
when it was time for you to leave,
or just how much my heart would ache
from that one fragment you would take.

God let this tiny hole remain
reminding me we'll meet again,
and one day all the pain will cease
when He restores this missing piece

He'll turn to joy my every tear
and when I wear this necklace near
it will become my simple way
to treasure our Reunion Day.

Please read more about this necklace and see other items at the online store here.

Tribute at Grand Canyon West

2011-07-14T17:27:00.012-04:00

Most people don't believe this story, but I'll tell it anyway.

Seven years after Daniel's death, I received a phone call from the funeral home in Durham, NC.

"Is this Alice Wisler?"
"Yes."
"We have your son's ashes."
"His ashes?" My mind spun. Then what had I buried seven years ago in that little lamb urn? "But I buried him." The words came out slowly.
"These are the extras."
"Extras?"
"Sometimes," the woman at the other end assured me, "There are more than what fit inside the urn."
Gulping, I nodded into the phone.
"Would you like them?"
Would I like them? What mother wouldn't want the leftovers?

I made the trek across town and picked up a white box that had Daniel's name on a card inside. The box was heavy, and I was eager----in a strange sort of curious way--- to look inside. At home, I opened the box to view fragments of bones. I'd never seen ashes up close and was amazed at how chalky, gray, and dirt-like they are.

For seven years, I kept the box of ashes inside my bedside table.

As I worked on a novel (yet to be published), I created a scene where the mother of a young deceased boy spreads his ashes over the Grand Canyon. She crosses the United States from North Carolina to Arizona by RV.

And then, they say that truth can be stranger than fiction, the day came when we planned a trip out West. My husband booked us on a bi-plane flight from Boulder, NV to Grand Canyon West with a helicopter ride into the Canyon and then a trek on a pontoon boat down the Colorado River. "Take Daniel," he encouraged me. "You can do like the woman in your novel."

Thinking that was a great idea, I packed some of Daniel's ashes in a small bottle. I'm an avid watcher of the show, Locked Up Abroad and I hoped that no authorities would think the contents of the bottle were suspicious as I went through the security check before boarding the aircraft to our first destination of Las Vegas.

On Saturday, July 2, we set out on our Grand Canyon experience. A bus picked us up at our hotel in Vegas, taking us to Boulder City where we got on a bi-plane that flew us to the edge of the Grand Canyon. Next came the scenic helicopter ride into the Canyon, my daughter Liz seated next to me by the pilot, Carl and my son Ben seated behind us. The helicopter took us to the sloping edge of the Canyon where we walked down to the dock. A pontoon boat waited. This part of the journey was the most meaningful for me. This was where I would do what I'd never done before, and what so many have done---scatter a loved one's ashes.

As the tour guide talked of the mighty Grand Canyon, I slowly placed the ashes into my hand. I let the sun warm them, and then dropped them into the chilly Colorado River.

What a privilege to have this experience, to pay tribute to my son on a July day fourteen years after his death.

Upon my return to North Carolina, I composed the following poem about this adventure, one I know Daniel would be tickled to hear and one that will always be a tender caress around my heart.

Saturday Tribute on the Colorado at Grand Canyon West

Cold even in the height of summer
this river runs more shallow
than a mother’s daily sorrow
Your ashes brittle in my hand
No match for the winsome kid
who once sailed down the cul-de-sac
in a vibrant plastic car
One prayer
One benediction
into the waters you stream
Bones that once embraced the
sweet laughter of yesterday
Join, my child, merge
Energize this Canyon presence
As my empty fingers shield
teary eyes from a blazing sun
in heaven I imagine
your loving gaze
mesmerized by this tribute
You always loved adventure.

~ By Alice J. Wisler

Pamper Yourself this July!

2011-06-23T15:58:00.003-04:00

Last year I took a leap of faith and hosted two all-day grief writing workshops in North Carolina. I've taught my "Writing the Heartache" Workshops at other people's seminars, but never on my own where I was responsible for locating the venue, serving lunch, advertising, etc.

I'm happy to announce that this summer I will offer another all-day workshop in Raleigh, NC. "Gateway Through Life's Losses" will be held at the Raleigh-Cary, NC Hampton Inn and Suites' Capital~Piedmont Room on July 30th from 8:30 AM to 4:15 PM.

This is a workshop for anyone who wants to write from any kind of loss (divorce, death of a loved one, financial, etc.) or from broken relationships. The grief/loss scope is wide.

Writing therapy is a wonderful gift you can give to yourself this summer! One of the participants from last year said that she had taken care of so many, now it was time to take care of herself and pamper herself with the workshop.

I've created a page on my website with all the details.

Please spread the word to all your friends and family in this area who could benefit from a day of healing, health, and hope.

Write for your health!

2011-06-12T11:23:00.007-04:00

Friends,

We are rounding up the last lesson for my five-week online Writing the Heartache Workshop. I am amazed by the wonderful poems, essays, and letters the attendees have written during this course. I love the accounts of how writing has helped people better cope with life's challenges and traumas.

Writing brings clarity to our minds and freedom as well. Releasing our pent-up feelings onto paper is therapeutic. Somehow when we can freely express ourselves, our problems don't loom as frightening.

The next Writing the Heartache Workshop will be offered online in July. I hope you will join us July 18th through August 19th for a course that offers lessons to help you express your grief. If you are going through sorrow due to the death of a loved one, frustration from a broken relationship, or anguish over the loss of a dream, finances, or career, consider this course. Each week I send out a new lesson to your in-box and all week you can ponder on it and then complete the assignment and send it back to me. This course is open to all.

Come write for your health!

Learn more at my website.

Parents want their child to be remembered

2011-05-31T17:46:00.003-04:00

Don't be afraid to ask a bereaved mother about her child . . .

When You Ask....

When you ask about him

leave your fears at the door

Your questions open each window

watch the sunlight stream in

I see his infectious grin

the soft hand inside mine

Come, sit, let me tell you

these times are too rare

When you ask about him

you release permission

And I need this sunshine

like daily bread

I can warm these rooms

with the life-giving memories

When you ask about him

you bring the flowers that never die.

~ Alice J. Wisler

Triggers

2011-05-23T10:55:00.007-04:00

I met the midwife who delivered my youngest at the post office the other day. How did this woman who had not seen me since I gave birth fourteen years ago recognize me? She didn't; but she saw the magnet with my name on it on the side of my Jeep. How wonderful to connect with her and talk about that morning when Elizabeth slithered into this world so quickly that the midwife barely caught her!

Of course, fourteen years ago also holds another significance. Daniel, age four, died three months to the day before his baby sister entered the world. This season holds the joy of Elizabeth's birth and the anguish of Daniel's death.

This time of year is also filled with other memories as it was Memorial Day weekend when Daniel was diagnosed with neuroblastoma. I recall even all these years later (fifteen to be exact) of a red van filled with a happy family on their way to a church picnic and our family in our dusty green van, on the way to the hospital.

Families who have had to deal with cancer in their children have lots of dates to contend with. There's diagnosis and grueling treatment, surgeries and transplants.
Then there are death and birth dates. The cycle with its triggers can affect every single season.

What does a parent do when the triggers slap, sting, or wound? I believe that acknowledging them is key. Shoving them under the carpet only makes for a lumpy floor. Be aware that there are seasons which are hard to grapple with, even years later.

Gravitate toward those who, like you, know the pain of losing a child. Know you aren't alone with your emotions.

Write. Spend fifteen minutes putting your thoughts onto paper. Pour out your sorrow, your frustration, and your longing to hold your child. If blissful memories occur, include those. Write freely; write honestly.

As long as I am alive on this earth, I will miss my Daniel. I will wish for his smile and life with me here. I will never understand why he had to die at age four from cancer treatments. I will see other intact families and need to, on occasion, shield my eyes from their cohesiveness, their unity.

There are times I will be blindsided, confused as to why I feel so glum or removed
from what is happening around me.

Most of all, I will strive to be grateful for the short time I had with a little boy who continues to teach me about loving others, bravery and that, yes, it is possible to watch one video, particularly Toy Story, six times in a row.

Guest post from a writing course attendee

2011-05-02T17:24:00.000-04:00

I HOPE
By Michele W.

Since Jenna’s death, I have learned to hope. Or at least I try to hope, because I don’t know what else to do. I know that life will never be the same without my daughter, and so I need a glimmer of hope to continue on without her.

A few days ago I was shopping for a birthday present. It was for my son’s friend, a little girl turning five. My daughter died when she was five, and I was overwhelmed with the task of looking at pink and purple and little girl things. I wandered away from the toy section and saw a t-shirt with the word “HOPE” across the front in bright yellow, all capital letters. I was strangely drawn to this shirt—I felt like I needed to own this shirt. I felt like I needed to wear this constant reminder across my heart, so that whenever I see my reflection I can instill in my heart that word—HOPE.

I HOPE that the remaining three in my family can hold on to each other tightly. I hope that the problems in my marriage caused from years of stress, grief, and loneliness can be resolved. I hope that we can stay together because we love Jenna and we share special memories of her. I hope that Braden will work through his own grief and that he will always love his sister, and that I can be the loving, patient, and attentive mother that he needs.

I HOPE that someday God will give me a glimpse of what Jenna’s new life is like. I hope that even though Jenna did not want to die and leave us, that now she feels free from hospitals and tubes and pain. I hope that someday I’ll understand why God chose to allow my daughter to experience such suffering and die, and that I’ll know that prayers offered up for her were answered.

I HOPE that a cure for cancer will be found soon. No parent should have to choose to poison their child with chemotherapy and radiation, in hopes that she will get to live. No brother should have to wish that his sister was alive so they can play together. No family should have to bury their child.

I HOPE that I will survive. My heart is broken and aching. My smiles are forced. Nothing in life is definite anymore. I now live day to day.

I HOPE ….

Counting Blessings Through the Tears

2011-04-27T17:38:00.003-04:00

The other day I thought about blessings. I tend to be the type of person to see the proverbial glass half full, but not yesterday. Or Monday, or whatever day it was.
I just saw despair, no hope. Worry became my companion, especially at 2 AM. Through my tears, my husband made dinner. My kids did their chores. The new puppy went outside to do his business. And I began to think, don't let these things go unnoticed.

I made a list of what I was grateful for----simple things like the puppy knowing when to slip out the doggie door. I continued to add to the list---a friend who listened to me, another person signing up for my online workshop, a beautiful sunset, a garden of fragrant peonies.

My problems still mounted, but suddenly, they were not all I saw.

I thought of how even the Bible promises we will have trials and tribulations.
But, it also promises that God will be near, never abandoning, even when we
are tired of living with ourselves.

Have you stopped in your anguish to count the blessings? Have you been surprised at how many there are?

I hope so!

Start jotting them down on a notepad. In your sorrow, don't forget these treasures. You can't afford to miss out on them.

Too Much Life

2011-04-15T12:41:00.004-04:00

Spring is a time of year when beauty abounds, especially here in the piedmont region of North Carolina. But I recall one spring when the delicate dogwood scraped against my heart, causing my delicate grief to ignite into anger.

Why?

Why were the dogwood, azaleas, and oak trees full of new life when my son was dead?
How could I bask in the lush aromas and vibrant colors when my heart had been ripped from my chest? Why couldn't the God of creation bend down and breathe life into my young Daniel's limbs, into his lungs?

I never got the answers.

Daniel's been gone from this earth for fourteen springs, and each spring brings me back to that first one, just six weeks after his death. Ironically, Daniel died on Groundhog Day, the very day those little critters are watched to see if their shadows are seen, to decide how much more winter is left and when spring will arrive.

Every spring I remember the agony of the first without him. That first one when I wanted to cover my head and eyes and shout, "This is too much life!" I'm grateful for time and for what I have done with the years so that the pain is not as fierce as it once was. Thanks to all the grief work I've done, I can enjoy the profound beauty of spring.

Yet it will never be as it once was. For now, my favorite parts of the season are seeing the purple wisteria hanging like scarves from the limbs of pine trees and the deep purple irises that bloom by my back door. The new leaves on the weeping willow planted in Daniel's memory are also signs I look for. These connect me to not only life, but to grief, loss and death. For none of these blooms last forever; spring must make way for summer and then fall, when leaves wither and die, new ones awaiting birth the following spring.

Join us for Writing the Psalms!

2011-03-08T12:43:00.005-05:00

Brand New! Writing the Psalms

I'm happy to announce a new online writing workshop called, Writing the Psalms. The first three weeks of this course starts Monday, March 14th.
Sign up at my website.

What the course is about:
Digging into the psalms provides an excellent way to be stirred by language, emotion, imagery, and God's faithfulness and wonder. By using the templates of the psalms from the Bible, you will create your own custom-tailored psalm of praise and psalm of woe. Discover how composing a psalm can energize your writing, and your life.

How it works:
The course will be offered throughout the year and will always start on a Monday and end three weeks later on a Friday. Alice will send your lesson to you via a Microsoft Word file. Read the lesson and work on your assignment, sending the completed assignment back to Alice at the end of the week. Alice will offer suggestions and critique on your work.

Course Outline:
Week One: We'll take a look at the various types of psalms, their backgrounds and their authors. Selecting a few, we'll focus on language, imagery, and meaning.

Week Two: Using a template, we'll create our own psalm.

Week Three: In our own style, we'll create a psalm of woe and one of praise.

This course is open to everyone. I hope you'll join us today.

Guest Post: Elizabeth McAlister--Psalm 6

2011-03-04T10:50:00.005-05:00

I'm offering a new writing workshop, Writing the Psalms, which starts March 14th and runs for three weeks. More about the course can be found by clicking here.

Elizabeth McAlister read about my new workshop and was willing to share her story about Psalm 6 with us here. Thank you, Elizabeth.

Sometimes I feel like screaming. I’m not 100% sure why, but I’m certain it has to do with grief. It feels odd because, though I feel like screaming, my mood is what I would consider good. Maybe the good mood is a thin mask and my true emotions are fighting to come out? Maybe it’s my subconscious wanting to scream because, while I’m outwardly showing relative happiness and productivity, IT KNOWS THE TRUTH. But yeah, some of those psalms about wailing … my heart, my soul. Deep inside, I can feel it trying to come out. I can feel the tears wanting to flow. All this would happen if I let it. If I let it. No, I’m not bottling it in. Trust me, there. The hole in my chest that appeared when Keith died varies in size from day to day and, sometimes, moment to moment. Some days it’s a huge gaping hole. Some days it’s a pin-hole. Most days it’s somewhere in between.

Then I found Psalm 6. Most of it is very appropriate. Verses 2-7a. I don’t believe God’s angry at me, as in verse 1. I also don’t believe enemies are out to get me, as in verses 7b-10. I wish I could feel the confidence of verse 9, though. “The Lord has heard my plea; the Lord will answer my prayer.” He didn’t hear my plea or answer my prayer the night I asked Him to please not take my baby. A dear friend lovingly and boldly argued that, yes, He did hear my plea and, yes, He did answer my prayer. He just didn’t answer it the way I wanted Him to. And He didn’t TAKE my baby.

1 O Lord, don’t rebuke me in your anger or discipline me in your rage.
2 Have compassion on me, Lord, for I am weak. Heal me, Lord, for my bones are in agony.
3 I am sick at heart. How long, O Lord, until you restore me?
4 Return, O Lord, and rescue me. Save me because of your unfailing love.
5 For the dead do not remember you. Who can praise you from the grave?
6 I am worn out from sobbing. All night I flood my bed with weeping, drenching it with my tears.
7 My vision is blurred by grief; my eyes are worn out because of all my enemies.
8 Go away, all you who do evil, for the Lord has heard my weeping.
9 The Lord has heard my plea; the Lord will answer my prayer.
10 May all my enemies be disgraced and terrified. May they suddenly turn back in shame.
(New Living Translation)

The Psalms have been wonderful for me through this. Early on, we met with our pastor and I told him that I was so angry at the time, I didn’t want to pray. I knew I needed to, but I was too mad at God. Our pastor suggested reading through the Psalms and letting them be my prayers until I could pray again. Psalm 6 has been a really good one. “Have compassion on me for I am weak… my bones are in agony, God! My heart hurts – there’s a gaping hole where my son should be. How long will it be before I feel “normal” again? Will I ever feel normal again or is this my new normal? God, rescue me from this pain. I’m tired of crying at the slightest of triggers. I’m tired of trying to drive home while my tears blur the traffic around me. I’m tired of coming home with red-rimmed eyes and having my 8 year old daughter look at me and ask, ‘Are you missing my bubby?’”

I said earlier that God didn’t hear my plea the night Keith died. I know that’s not true. The pouty child inside me – the one who didn’t want to give up her most precious possession – doesn’t like to hear me say that. I can imagine her stomping her feet and screaming, “He didn’t hear me! He DID NOT!” I can also hear the gentle, parental response, “Yes, sweetheart, I did,” as I remember all that He did in the midst of it all. A neighbor who’s a NICU nurse, came running – we knew for sure someone in the ambulance was honestly trying their hardest to save him. Church friends crowding the ER, the ones who stayed with us, the ones who went to our house to tuck baby items away until we could handle them again, the one who paid for us to stay in a hotel that night, the ones who came and loved on us – who still love on us. The biggest one? My husband & I excused ourselves to finally decide on burial or cremation. As soon as we were in agreement on burial, his phone rang. A church member had a plot they wanted to give us. I later learned that it and the plot next to it had been bought several years ago. One spouse, though, didn’t want it and to this day, insists on cremation. When they heard about our loss, they gave it to us. It was bought YEARS ago even though one didn’t want it. In that instant, they knew why they had bought it anyway. God knew it would be needed before we even knew it existed.

He has heard my weeping; He has heard my plea; and He is answering my prayers for wholeness and peace. I still miss by sweet little baby boy. I still feel that hole in my chest. I still miss the feel of him in my arms, his hair on my lips as I kiss his head. BUT, I know He has a plan and, somehow, someway, this too will work for good.
~ Elizabeth McAlister

The Party I Never Wanted to Attend

2011-02-10T12:10:00.011-05:00

Have you ever not been invited to a party? Everyone you know gets an invitation. You wait for yours. It never arrives. The day of the party comes and goes. No one even called at the last minute to say, "Oh, so sorry. I'm not sure what happened to your invitation, but please come." You think of all at the party, having fun without you. You don't feel as lovely or as important or loved. You second-guess your friendships. You wonder if it is your fault for not being the friend you thought you were.

On the other hand, have you been invited to a party you didn't want to attend? And gone anyway? Perhaps obligation got the best of you. Or it was your boss's birthday and you had to be there. If you expected to keep your job.

When my son died, I was ushered into a party. Some call it a club because it lasts longer than a party. This club goes on for a long time---the rest of my life. This is the club for all who have had a child die. Members, like me, never signed up to join. We would have been elated never to get that invitation. But one day, the doors opened and we were inside. The doors keep opening and others enter. No one wants to be there. The punch served upon arrival is sour and the refreshments all taste like moldy bread.

We second-guess ourselves. How could we have let our child die? We doubt God. Did I do something to make God mad and in revenge, he took my son? Other children with tumors and illnesses and victims of car wrecks are still alive. Am I unlovable? Thoughts bang around our heads like destructive tools.

We weep. We are lonely and listless. We watch others having fun---our old friends with intact families---and know that we are not. In fact, will we ever smile again? Is this it, for the rest of our lives?

Gradually, people start to talk to us at this club. One crawls over from a corner, wipes his face and extends his hand. He talks of his beautiful daughter and how she took too many pills one cold day. She never woke up. He asks about you and you say your son died from cancer treatments. You go into great detail about all the procedures and medical terms that doctors kept using about his condition.

You meet others. Some are enjoying a bowl of ice cream and you wonder how they can be happy about eating. You are offered some. "No, not today, thanks," you say.

Others introduce themselves to you. They ask about your child and you explain the last days of his life, how the infection crept into his chemo and radiation compromised body and could take it no more. As the tears burn, people hug you. One woman says with compassion, "He had a great mama," and you wonder why she thinks this, but you hope it's true.

Time passes. Someone asks you what your son's name was and what he liked to do. All you see is his body on a white sterile bed.

Later, someone talks about her child carrying out the recycle each week, but hating that chore. You remember. "My son slid down a recycle bin one winter when it snowed. He and his older sister had so much fun."

Others smile. They want to know more, and soon you have shared stories about your son, how he gave away stickers in the hospital and learned to pee in the bushes.

You are offered a dish of ice cream and you accept. The ice cream is chocolate with nuts and as you talk and smile; each bite seems to give you a boost.

Slowly, you ask about the others and their children who died. You see faces light up as they talk of their daughters and sons. You learn names, birthplaces, likes and dislikes. A woman tells a joke her child loved, and you hear a strange, yet familiar sound. It is that of your own laughter!

You are part of this parental bereavement club because of death, but you will be able to thrive because of life. Your child lived, and loved, and is forever remembered. You will tell his story, and in so doing, you will live as a hero of your own.

Simply Trying

2011-02-10T09:48:00.007-05:00

When a child is gone from our life, it's the simple situations that are sometimes the hardest to handle.

My Daniel Buttons went off when I volunteered to help out at our church's Date Night. Couples dropped off their kids and I was assigned to take care of the two and three-year-olds, that potty training age. Before I could fully understand why, tears lined my eyes. The more I watched one little boy talking and playing, the more it became clear. This kid did not look like my Daniel, but he talked like him and his mannerisms were similar. I whispered this to my daughter who was with me on this volunteer night. Telling her that this child reminded me of her brother made my eyes fill again. Elizabeth was born after Daniel's death; she'd never met him and yet, now, was able to capture some of who he was in a little boy we had just met. This is all so crazy, I thought, and wiped my eyes. I'm in charge here. Hold it together. You can't break down.

I know what set my heart into a tailspin. But others may never understand. Unless. Unless they, too, have had a child die.

Whether it be praying for a sick child, or watching a child eat watermelon, or hearing a song, I'm reminded of days gone by.

Little do people realize that triggers zap a bereaved parent throughout the day, and just how exhausting getting through a newly-bereaved day can be. It's the simple
things--seeing a child, or a toy, or a box of cereal, or hearing a voice. These produce emotions and to act on them or to try to shove them aside is the constant dilemma we face.

Parents are going through a lot more than meets the eye. If we were to vocalize each time a trigger or button went off, we could be saying things like this to our coworkers all day:

"Are you eating a grilled cheese sandwich? Daniel thought they were called girl cheese."

"The picture of your granddaughter is beautiful in that Cozy Coupe. Daniel and his sister used to ride in one down the cul-de-sac."

"I know all about how hard it can be to get a kid to go to bed at night. Daniel was getting out of his bed all the time to come downstairs."

After awhile, our coworkers or friends would probably be sick and tired of hearing about our child.

But they don't realize, the memories are all we have now. I can't go home and make a grilled cheese sandwich for my son or watch him ride in the Cozy Coupe or even fight with him about bedtime. Ever. Again.

I compare it to playing a game where tennis balls are lobbed at me. I use my racket to swing and hit them aside so that I can continue on with the game. But swinging at these unexpected balls is exhausting.

Then there are the not pleasant thoughts that are trigged when coworkers bring up topics like suicide or disease or teens and drinking. To them, these are entities that have not entered their doorstep. They are out there--someone else's child they've read about in the news. Whereas for the bereaved parent, these or other difficult entities have taken away our child.

No wonder they call this road of bereavement rocky!

I find it helps to write some of the situations and the emotions down. Release the bottled up feelings in this way. Write down what you would have liked to have said to that person who said something that hurt you. But you refused to say anything at the time--you just let her words be one of those many tennis balls that you hit out of your court.

Grieving parents have a lot to handle each day. Most people are not aware how much energy it takes to combat what goes on in our hearts and heads.

We are simply trying to do the best we can. God, please give us this day what we need to walk this journey. Amen.

The last day you were alive

2011-02-01T17:33:00.003-05:00

Fourteen years ago, this was the last full day you lived. It was a seasonably warm Saturday outside the hospital, and inside the institution, the windows didn't feel as cool as they had earlier. I kept hoping you would not leave us, although it was evident that there was no more life for you here on earth. Time was running out. I prayed more earnestly for a miracle---if God could part the Red Sea, surely he could breathe more years into my little boy.

You were still in the white bed, except for the seizures that were more frequent. I hoped they were signs of energy. You had been still for ten days. Movement on your part must be a positive. I knew you could open your eyes and cry, "Hey! I had a long nap."

The day before you died, I hoped for this, and more.

Before you died I was like the other mothers with little boys. I could say, "They grow up so quickly."

I didn't shed tears when Eric Clapton sang, Tears in Heaven and when Elton John sang, Daniel.

Before you died, I didn't think about whether or not you would know my name in Heaven. Eric's contemplation did not have significance for me. Elton's words, "Your eyes have died, you see more than I," were only words. They had nothing to do with your fading blue eyes that once flickered with mischief and riddles.

Once, I held your hand in one of my own and innocence in the other. But the day you died, innocence, well, I had to let it go. I still hold onto you, though, sweet son. And I do believe you will know my name in Heaven.

Fourteen years ago today was your last full day on earth. I used to believe that fourteen years was much too long for a mother to still miss her child.

But that was all before you died.

The Long Corridor

2011-02-01T17:32:00.001-05:00

"How can I remember his life without the impact of his death?"

This is not like hitting a large pothole on a dark road and being caught off guard. It cannot sneak up on you because every year the familiar dates do not change. When I get a new desk calendar in January, I mark his dates. My son Daniel was born August 25th. And he died February 2nd. Both of those days have a heart drawn around them.

What continues to surprise many bereaved parents is the long corridor that leads up to the anniversary day of a child. How do our bodies and minds know that the date is approaching? I often tell people that I could be on a deserted island without my calendar, but my mind would still know.

The anniversary date of a child's death wreaks havoc with all our senses as we remember. The date of his death is not like his birthday, where as painful as it is without him, we can celebrate that he was born. The anniversary date is the flipside, reminding us that it all ended. Anniversary dates mean saying good-bye. No more memories. Gone. Finished here on earth. It's over.

We try not to let it take its toll. After all, most of us do not seek to dwell on every detail that killed our child. We hear the world say, "Still? It's been ten years." Or twelve, or like me, fourteen. Even so we wonder why we get this knot in our stomach as flashbacks snap before us on our memory's picture screen.

"The days leading up to Ethan's death anniversary date of January 19th are like this long corridor I have to walk alone. I even sometimes forget the dates leading up to the 19th are going to be hard," my friend Brina wrote to me recently about her infant son.

How well she described it! We replay those events that lead up to our child's death. Even years later, we still think that if we could have changed one or two of those circumstances, we would continue to have our son or daughter. Could have, should have, would have. Those are the phrases we learn early on not to say. But we still say them. If only. Why didn't I?

The days leading up to that marked date on the calendar can be lonely, painful, agonizing, irreverant. Yet each year we have to walk through them, until, at last, the day passes, and we are on the other side of the long hallway. For now. Until next year.

The first years without a child are all gut-wrenching, and when the anniversary day looms, parents wonder if they can survive another year. As time goes on, the harshness softens to some extent. Yet I've heard parents say that certain years were harder than others. My friends Gene and Linda just experienced fifteen years since Steve, their only child's, death. Because Steve was fifteen when he died, this particular year marked fifteen years with him, and fifteen years without.

I think of Stephen King's The Green Mile and what walking along it signified to the inmates. They plodded along that long corridor until they reached a chair. By being strapped to that chair, they would be removed from this world.

We parents re-walk that mile every year. Yet it is not we who sit in the chair, it is those memories of our child who died. The call is given, the act is done, and breath stops. There was nothing we could have done to prevent that action. Nothing, no loophole, that we can find, to bring our precious child back to us.

And so we walk. Scenes from years ago grab us like horrific nightmares, only we know we will not wake up and find our child safely in bed. We are still bereaved and that is why, year after year, we must make that lonely walk.

As Christians, we believe in life after death. This brings much comfort. Yet, I must emphasize that walking the mile is still treacherous, at times scary, and sorrowful, despite the promise that our child is experiencing the magnitude of Heaven. For those who want to say, "Be glad he is in Heaven," I would like to add, "Yes, but I want him here. Just like your child is here with you, living each day as part of your family."

For the corridor is not about life after death or that we will again be reunited with our child, it is about the truth that death, plain and vast, occurred, and every year we are impacted by this horrendous truth we cannot escape. Some of us have more events along their corridor, especially those of us whose child was hospitalized, had medical procedures, or suffered before his last breath.

Is there a way to make the approaching days easier? My friend Brina called a friend and planned to attend a chapter of a grief support group in her area. In December, Pam sent out an email message letting others know that the anniversary date of the death of her daughter Paula was around the corner.

Pushing aside the pain and need to be heard is not wise. Reach out, and hopefully, those you reach out to will help to shoulder the monumental walk. Cliches don't substitute for comfort. Loving the broken-hearted is always a good practice.

This year I plan to invision God holding one of my hands and Daniel holding the other as I make my way through the flashbacks from January 22 leading up to February 2, 1997.

And I will continue to follow the advice of my four-year-old Daniel during his own demise: "Deep breaths, deep breaths. That will help me."

Carrying Memories into the New Year

2010-12-30T11:22:00.005-05:00

When it's time to seal away an old year and uncork the new one, I usually feel excited, anticipating what is in store. A new year brings new adventures, and with these come hope. Hope that a fresh year will begin with beauty, be filled with beauty, and end with even more beauty.

In 1997, I entered the year with hope that my son Daniel would finish his treatments for cancer (neuroblastoma) and become a healthy boy of four once again. Instead, Daniel took a turn for the very worst. He got an infection, went into a coma, and died in my arms on February 2.

When 1997 ended and people were making new year's resolutions, eagerly anticipating another 365 days, I could not join them. I did not want 1997 to end. Heading into 1998 would be entering a new year without Daniel. As each day passed, it was one more day since I'd last read him a story, bathed him, or laughed with him.

Since his birth, I'd begun five new years, each one, with him and my other children by my side. But now, he was gone.

I knew I'd have to find a way to enter the new year with him. I imagined a basket, made of a heavy weaving, like one we'd received a floral arrangement in when Daniel was born in 1992. On slips of paper, I wrote single words and strings of words to capture events and sayings Daniel had experienced. Some were funny, some tender, but above all, each one made me smile.

I would carry both figuratively and literally these pleasant memories of my son into the new year.

There was no fear that he would be forgotten or that the next year would be void of his memories.

He would not make any new memories in 1998, but I would carry the old with me.

With the church bell’s ringing
the New Year enters
echoing the days of yesteryear.

Memories of happiness
the smiles of our children,
the sunlight within each face.

Who will remember these dear ones
far from our yearning arms?
Who remembers all they were,
the way she danced, the hat he wore?
With the old year gone
will they no longer be known?

We will remember them, each one.
We will hold them in our hearts
as we carry memories into this New Year.

We will allow the memories
to make us laugh, to make us sing.
Their lives will fill the air
as the church bells ring.

~ Alice J. Wisler

Christmas Blah Revisited

2010-12-30T11:19:00.003-05:00

I posted this on my other blog, Alice Wisler, but wanted to add it to this blog for all my readers here.

Christmas 2010
~ Alice J. Wisler

Another Christmas. Here I go again . . .

Gearing up to this season, there were the nuisances from living (basically, things not going how I wished they would) that many of us face. I’ve learned to adapt to most of those because I’ve had lots of years of living to adapt!

Yet, what got to me was that feeling of apathy as I set out to do the inevitable—fight the crowds at Christmas shopping. I felt lifeless. Joyless.

What’s wrong with me? Why do I feel so ho-hum this Christmas?

The songs on the radio didn’t help. I couldn’t get excited over hoping for a white Christmas of wondering what Santa would bring me from his sleigh of goodies. And that was even after I realized he had to bring me something; I’ve been pretty good this year.

I decided that I needed to combat this mood with gratitude, so I counted my blessings. I have so many, including five kinds of tea in the pantry and a computer that works, and is currently, virus-free. With kids and a husband who love me, what was the problem?

When Mariah Carey sang, "All I want for Christmas is you," the words stuck, lodging in my heart.

Of course. I was missing my son, Daniel, and the desire to have him here, was heavy. Without his mother’s permission, Daniel would spend another Christmas in Heaven.

Putting on a pair of earrings and a scarf I love in hopes that they would make me feel festive, I set out to shop. With so many decisions to make, I took my time, the lump of blahness still filling my heart like the lumps of coal the naughty kids are threatened with.

It was while standing at the boxed chocolate that one word came to me. Write. I teach writing through grief and what amazes me, is that even after all these years since my son’s death, I sometimes forget that I need writing to help me cope.

Just knowing how helpful and healing writing is for my soul, I smiled, grateful that once this shopping ordeal ended, I could slip behind my computer and pour out my sadness.

Yes, I was missing Daniel. Yes, it has been thirteen years since he breathed his last. And, no, Christmas will never be complete without him here.

However. I typed that word really big. In spite of it all, or because of my loss, perhaps, I have learned. If Christmas is just a feel-good occasion with a romantical (this is a word, I know, my husband used it once and I told him it doesn’t exist, but some old Oxford dictionary agrees with him that it does) side, then no wonder I feel empty. If it’s about feeling warm and cozy or about being excited over a tree with presents underneath, then I feel cheated.

Because I don’t feel warm and cozy. And, compared to the rest of the world, I live in an affluent society; I don’t need more things.

Except for the gifts that cannot be purchased by humans. Peace. Self-less-ness. Humility. Grace. Forgiveness. The ability to forgive others. Over and over.

These lavish gifts were given. They came on a night halfway around the world thousands of years ago. These are the treasures that do more than sparkle and dazzle. These are what my aching heart need.

Christmas again. A season where so many promises are made on TV, telling me that all will be merry if I just bake the right cookie or buy the silver sedan for my loved ones. Of course I don’t buy into those notions. Yet, I would like to feel at least a little Christmas cheer.

And, lo and behold, I do! Because I’ve taken the gift of writing and used it to guide me into a peaceful realization! The conclusion has been the same every year since Daniel’s death: I am broken, frail, and wounded. There are days I’m tired of being me and wish some gracious, loving, carefree woman would take over.

There was a time when I was able to focus less on the Christmas story and the hope it brings, and more on the fleeting exhilaration of decking the halls and having a cup of eggnog. But no more. My son’s demise and death made me appreciate the birth of Jesus Christ more. I know what it is like to struggle, to suffer, to sink into sorrow.

For in the birth comes God with us: Emmanuel. Love Incarnate stooping down to meet us in our nasty conditions, in our pain, our shame, and blahness, so that we can have those valuable intangible presents he bestows. These are the priceless gifts the world with all its fortune can never master. Great blessings of His Heaven!

"How silently, how silently, the wondrous gift is given
So God imparts to human hearts the blessings of his heaven
No ear may hear his coming, but in this world of sin
Where meek souls will receive him still, the dear Christ enters in.

Oh holy Child of Bethlehem, descend to us we pray
Cast out our sin and enter in, be born in us today
We hear the Christmas angels, the great glad tidings tell
O come to us, abide with us, our lord Emanuel." ~ From “O Little Town of Bethlehem”

To read more about writing through grief, check out this article: How to Use the Tool of Grief-Writing to Heal
http://www.associatedcontent.com/article/115539/how_to_use_the_tools_of_griefwriting.html?#comments

This Must Be Where Mothers Go

2010-12-03T17:21:00.000-05:00

As mothers of children who have died, we want to be understood as we trek through this journey of bereavement. I hope my poem speaks of the need we have to remember our children, to doubt, to grieve, and most importantly, to love.

This Must Be Where Mothers Go

This must be where mothers go
flowers fresh upon the grass
hiding the heavy soil
pounded by remorse and guilt

Where cloudy eyes and misty cheeks
see no light and lack the warmth
as questions of doubt fill
every labored breath.

This must be where mothers go
recalling horrifying nightmares
captured in the disbelief
that it could happen to them.

Yet--one touch, a whisper, a "tell me"
and the circle widens to radiate
the soul lifting, the sun
pushes back threatening clouds.

No strangers, these women speak
until soon, memories of each child
fill the stars as love abounds
free and stronger than any sorrow.

A landmark, the sacred tree where
comfort swells as leaves rustle
Mothers remember their hands
once held all that was precious.

Here the children still dance
now in fragile hearts
where names are spoken
Nothing dies, where mothers go.

~ Alice J. Wisler

Poetry by a Writing the Heartache Online Workshop Student

2010-11-22T21:44:00.004-05:00

Resting Place

She’s been laid to rest
Some visit and some don’t
For many it’s just too hard I guess
Everyday her daddy brings fresh flowers
Caring for this space
He wonders why . . . Oh God, with all your powers?
Her Resting Place
In the granite stone
Is her name and pretty face
There we bring pictures, trinkets and some of her favorite things
Just trying to make her feel not so alone
Reminding her how much we love her and how much her loss still stings
As the rose petals wilt
They are sprinkled upon her
Like a deep red quilt
Momma is too far away
To see her everyday
But Momma never stops thinking
Of her little girl in every way
Momma is reminded this not a test
Their little girl has been laid to rest

~ By K. O.

BlogTalkRadio and The Holidays

2010-11-05T17:13:00.006-04:00

I decided I needed to do another segment on my Writing the Heartache BlogTalkRadio Show. Since the holidays are approaching, the theme will be Getting Through the Holidays. When you are newly bereaved, sometimes that is all you can manage. No tinsel, no fruitcake, no bells----just get me through these sad days over onto the other side. I'll talk about the value of writing during the upcoming Thanksgiving and Christmas season.

Be sure to tune into the show on Wednesday, November 10th at 1 PM EST by clicking on this link.

Guest blogger

2010-10-14T12:33:00.010-04:00

Joanne took my recent online Writing the Heartache Workshop and for one of her assignments, created this poem in memory of her son, Jim.

Precious Moments By the Sea

By Joanne Lose (Jim’s MOM)

The sun sparkles on ocean waves
Clear, bright and aqua blue
They walk along the lapping shore
Toes covered in a sandy glue

I watch as they walk on
Listen as the stories unfold
Laughter bounces on balmy breeze
They are precious to behold

This memory finds me often
The perfectness of us three
Sealed in my heart forever
Precious moments by the sea.

~*~*~
You can read more about Jim and the justice his mother and friends seek here .

Next Writing the Heartache Online Course --10/18-11/19

2010-09-22T11:11:00.002-04:00

The next online Writing the Heartache Workshop starts on October 18 and runs for five weeks. This will be the last course offered this year, so sign up now!

Duirng our time together we will cover the following aspects of grief-writing:

1. Week One: Introduction - Getting to Know You
2. Week Two: Introducing Your Loved One Through Poetry
3. Week Three: Writing a Letter to Your Loved One and to Others
4. Week Four: Writing for Change - The Essay
5. Week Five: Writing for Publication

Guest post by Deb K.

2010-08-17T17:43:00.001-04:00

Things I Wish I Knew
~ Deb K.

Why is it that in death people become larger than life? Why do we think about all
the things we didn't do and gloss over all the things we did. Why does time always
run out quicker than we think? What do we do with the pieces of themselves they
leave behind and the pieces that remain of us?

How do we answer and deal with people who aren't comfortable with our fragments, who
want us to be whole, and who we were, not just a shadow of ourselves. How do we keep
going when each day seems harder than the one before? How do we heal our broken
hearts? Do we?

I think about each person I have loved who has died. Each person whose dying left me
struggling with the same questions as the one before. I wonder why the answers are
so hard to find. I wonder if they weren't, would it matter anyway.

I wonder what they are thinking. I wonder if they are thinking. Do they miss me,
like I miss them? Do they feel the pain I am feeling? Does believing they are in a
better place take away my right to grieve? Do I really believe they are in a better
place or are those just words I have learned to say?

The Radio Show, Writing the Heartache: Honoring the Memory

2010-08-12T14:16:00.001-04:00

Listen to today's Writing the Heartache Show to hear how parents honor the memory of their children.

Writing the Heartache: Honoring the Memory

Write with us!

2010-08-08T17:39:00.010-04:00

August 21 is a significant date. It's the day that my son Daniel was due. He didn't arrive that day. He clung to the womb and waited another four days, pressing heavily against my sciatic nerve. When he was born on the 25th---a healthy nearly ten pound baby---all my pain went away. Joy and excitement filled my heart.

Four years later, the pain would be back---a different pain---consuming me both physically and emotionally. On February 2, 1997, Daniel left Earth for a journey to Heaven. His body had weakened due to a small blue cell tumor, and from all the treatments involved to rid his little body of it.

This year on the 21st, the second Writing the Heartache All Day Workshop will be held. I'm looking forward to welcoming all who join us to write through the funny memories as well as the painful ones. I anticipate hearing the stories of each participant as we write poetry, essays, letters, and learn how to cope with sorrow. We'll learn to write from mementoes and photographs. We'll see the value of journaling and writing for publication and advocacy.

Please head over to my website to read more about the day and to register for the course.

I hope to see you there!

The Second Writing the Heartache All Day Workshop

2010-08-01T20:37:00.006-04:00

The second workshop to focus on writing for healing, health and hope will be held at the Hampton Inn in Cary, NC on August 21 from 8 AM to 5 PM. Writing the Heartache is a workshop that is a gift you give yourself. Experience a warm atmosphere with others, who like you, desire to place pen to paper and write from heartache.

The day will be filled with instruction on journaling, letter-writing, essays and poetry. There will also be time to talk about writing for advocacy and publication. Bring photographs and mementoes, and we'll write using these prompts.

Don't miss this opportunity to discover what a wonderful tool grief-writing is and can continue to be in your life! Give yourself this day of inexpensive therapy.
Learn more about the workshop and sign up.

Hope to see you there!

Writing the Heartache All Day Workshop

2010-07-22T16:55:00.012-04:00

The event was awesome. The dynamics within the group of nine was great. We wrote, ate, talked, shared, cried, wrote some more, and discovered a lot about ourselves.

We plan to have the next workshop in either Cary or Burlington, depending on who can attend. The dates will be either August 21 or September 18, 2010. Let us hear from you with your preferences. Check your calendar and email Alice at info@alicewisler.com

Interview

2010-07-20T14:03:00.001-04:00

Read the interview with me and get a recipe for Biscuits and Gravy. Mom2Mom : Meet Alice | Mom 2 Mom

Welcome, Guest Blogger, Colleen

2010-07-19T09:38:00.003-04:00

The following is from Colleen B. Readers, please feel free to leave a comment
as Colleen would love to hear your thoughts.

++++++++++++++++++

On June 1, 2010, my father died. My expectation was that I was gong to be terribly
sad and possibly thrown back into the depths of grief. Although I have been sad, I
haven't experienced the level of grief that I expected or that I feel might have
been expected of me. I have actually wondered if something was wrong with me.

I didn't experience the death of someone that I truly loved until I was in my mid-
thirties when my grandparents died within a year of each other. I had spent my
summers with them through most of my childhood, but work and family had made our
visits fewer over the years. I remember being very sad for a time, but life as I
knew it returned to normal very quickly. It wasn't until almost fifteen years
later, on 01/01/01, that life changed forever. My 19 year old son, Andrew, choked
on a gummy candy while sitting in his car outside of a gas station. Andrew's
brother and friend had gone in to pay for the gas. When they returned to the car
Andrew was unconscious and could not be revived. That is the day that a big part of
my heart died, and I learned that a broken heart really does hurt. The grief
journey after the death of a child is an incredibly difficult one. It changes you
forever. Even though I have certainly improved over the almost ten years since
Andrew's death, that experience has left its scar. Now I'm never totally sure how I
will react to the constant tragedies that happen in the area where I live. There
have been at least twenty young adults that have died since Andrew, and five of
those were his friends. These deaths knock me off my feet, but I think I have been
left with less sadness for the people who had an opportunity to live a full life,
even though I know they were well loved by many, and I know their families suffer
the loss.

I guess this leads me back to my dad. For the last two and a half years he had been
in a nursing home living a life he tried so hard to avoid. Luckily he didn't
realize that he was one of those "old people" that he was always pointing out to me.
Over the last five years we were called numerous times to the hospital and told he
probably wouldn't survive the night, or he probably only had two days to two weeks
to live, or the next illness would certainly be the last. In mid May when he
stopped eating we were once again told that he most likely wouldn't survive more
that two weeks. It was hard to take it seriously because we had heard it so many
times. Death for him was a release from a body and mind that no longer worked. He
was 90 years and 9 months old, and I just keep thinking that he lived over 71 years
longer than my son. I'd love to know if others have felt these same things. It
would help me to know that others have had the same feelings.

This Saturday

2010-07-14T00:27:00.005-04:00

As many of you know, my journal was a beloved friend to me when my son died in 1997. I took it everywhere. Since then I have written and found such healing through putting words onto paper.

Across the USA, I've taught about the value of writing through pain for healing, hope and health. I've heard some tender stories and learned from fellow writers who also grieve the death of their loved one.

A dream for me has been to host an all-day grief-writing workshop and this Saturday, it is going to happen! The Writing the Heartache Workshop takes place from 8 AM to 5 PM at the Country Inns and Suites in Morrisville, NC (near the RDU Airport). While my focus is on the life and death of my son, Daniel, others who have not lost a child, but a significant loved one, have taken my online classes and found them to be therapeutic. Those with broken relationships also find meaning in writing through the lessons. Let's face it, writing is great therapy!

I hope you can join us his Saturday, July 17th! Feel free to email me with any questions. info@alicewisler.com

Welcome, guest blogger, Sandy!

2010-07-11T14:08:00.001-04:00

The Missing Piece
By Sandra P.

For the first two years after my son Jason died, I wrote daily. Writing truly did save me. Heartache, pain, questions and grief, spilled all over countless pages. Without the ability to write all of the words I could not say aloud, I don’t know what would have happened to me.

After those two years, I gradually stopped writing and I’m not sure why. I still can’t read many of the raw, heartbroken words I wrote during those days. Since then, I’ve been able to write very little about anything – including my son. So maybe writing will help again. I desperately want it to help. I want to write myself into the next stage of my life. I want to write to continue to heal.

Right now, it just makes my heart hurt almost as much it did during those first months. My throat is tight. Tears are just below the spilling point. But it also feels somehow comforting, in spite of the hurt. It feels like I am connecting, just a little, once again with the son I love so deeply and miss so badly.

My heart still grieves for Jason; my firstborn. My arms ache to hold him again. I long to brush the hair out of his big, brown eyes and tell him how much I love him. I want to talk with him about all the things that only he and I cared so much about.

During the last eight years life has gone on, even though I’ve often wished it wouldn’t. I look back and feel almost as though the years since his death have been some sort of dream – or nightmare. Even though I’ve continued to function, to love and be present for my living sons, to work and earn a living, to smile, to pretend I am doing fine – I realize that my life is largely a façade. I am not who people see on the outside. I am not the easy going, relatively happy person people think I am.

Inside, I am still crushed. Now, much of the pain is a dull ache, instead of sharp, jagged and raw. There is a part of our family and a piece of my heart missing. And I am left with many more questions than answers.

I still pray but I no longer think I know much about God or His purposes. How could the God I’ve loved for so long have allowed this? Why wasn’t I a better mother? Why wasn’t his heart condition ever diagnosed? Why didn’t I try harder to make him go to a doctor? Why didn’t I see that something was wrong? He was an adult, but I am his mother. Mothers protect their children – always. And I failed. I did not protect him. I could not save him. Why why why?

All I’m left with are memories and questions that can never be answered. And, I just now realize, quite a bit of anger.

Guest blogger this week is: Mary Helen

2010-06-29T13:46:00.006-04:00

My Great-Aunt

One thing I loved about my great-aunt Martha Pearsall was her perseverance.
If you had asked her about it, she probably would not have thought it meant her, but it did.

She was born in 1892, the only daughter in her family. She had four brothers, one of whom was my grand-father. She had lived through World Wars I and II, Vietnam,
The Great Depression, and who knows how many hurricanes. They were known as “great blows” to her or bad storms. It was in later days that they were called hurricanes.

She dated some, but never got married. She planned to marry a salesman, but her family put a stop to that. She took care of her parents until they died in the 30s of cancer. She then lived with her brother James Franklin. His wife died in 1938 of a cerebral hemorrhage and she helped raise his family.

She saw many changes in her life, but she lived life as it came. She had had malaria as a child and occasionally had relapsed. That meant days of laying and taking it easy although she continued to cook for herself. She was a great cook and could cook ham hocks, fresh vegetablea, or canned or frozen ones like fresh tomatoes and turnip greens.

She was a good gardener and loved her plants. I would help her garden, hoe trenches, and then later see the seeds that grew wonderful dahlias, zinnias, poppies, etc. She taught me flower arranging and to appreciate them. With five kids, our family had few flowers. I also helped her hoe her regular garden and bring in items. I even helped her wash clothes the old fashioned way, with running the clothes through the wringer and boiling water.

She had an arsenal of old National Geographic’s and Reader's Digests. I spent many afternoons after school reading in her living room while she cooked dinner, which I usually sampled some of. She occasionally made a great orange, apple salad and a black walnut cake. She cracked the nuts with a hammer to get to the insides. It was difficult to do with their thick skins.

Aunt Martha lived with the furniture, house hold goods, and other things she inherited. She enjoyed reading and kept up to date on things. She had strong opinions on a few things. She had a sense of history and had photos and letters from civil-war dates on, which I often read and looked at. She got me interested in history.

I never heard her complain of her life. She stayed in the present. She was appreciative of any help she got, but she also gave to others---her wisdom, her love of flowers, her help to others, like me, a loner, in need of a safe place to explore and learn.

With all she had seen, she continued to live each day, doing what needed to be done, and passed that heritage on to others and myself.

She taught herself to sew at age 30, made clothes that remained classics. She fixed her hair each night, brushing its long length even up to her death; occasionally washing it when it was warm enough she could sit and let it hang lose and get done. She waited patiently for it to dry as she waited patiently for someone to repair something. She knew things did not often happen quickly.

Patience and perseverance marked her. She had a few questions of faith and did not see herself as one who had all the answers. Yet she continued on and on until her 97th year. The last two of which were spent in a nursing home, where she had her garden growing outside her room.

Aunt Martha was a special person in my life. Now, I wonder how she did it. She did it because she had to, it was what happened, it was life. Life was to be lived through. I once asked her about World War II and she told me about the rationing of things like sugar and material for clothes. That was the way it was. You just did what you had to do, no whining no complaining.

She even took care of an unknown sailor's parrot (green South African) for years, knowing he would not return for it. Soldiers camped on the church lawn across from her home waiting to be shipped to Europe from Wilmington. Of course, my great-uncle's teenage and college daughters were attractive and next to the house was his general store. Censored letters to and from soldiers by the girls were to be found in one of their rooms.

Her home was a treasure trove, her life was too, although she would never have claimed any fame or seen herself as a beloved character in my life story and others. I am thankful to have known her and hope I learned from her those same characteristics--living simply, taking life as it is, trusting God for what I do not understand, bringing some beauty and balance into the world, not questioning, but having faith, continuing on till the Lord calls me home.

I had the privilege of singing In the Garden at her funeral. I knew she had entered her final garden, the one with her Lord, and I was comforted.

~ Mary Helen Pearsall

Guest Blogger, Charlotte Stevenson

2010-06-24T10:31:00.006-04:00

Welcoming one of my online writing course students, who said it was fine to place her full name along with her essay here. Thank you, Charlotte, for sharing this with us.

~*~*~*~
I wish the world knew that grief is a living emotion from the heart and soul, not always limited to or reserved to draw upon only when we have lost someone to death. Grief and sorrow can be felt at times even when we have not lost someone we loved. These are tangible emotions that make up and create our life experiences just like fear, love, hope, joy and a host of others. Without having grief and sorrow we would never know joy. We would have nothing to compare it to. All of these emotions whether good or bad give our life events meaning and purpose.

One can have sorrow and experience grief over the loss of not being able to attain something such as not being able to have children. This can cause someone grief. The loss of a relationship or friendship or failed expectations can indeed cause one to suffer. The thought of what “could have been” in so many situations is one that people grieve over daily at times. And when someone trusts in something and lives their life according to an ideal and then they find out that it was a lie, this too, can cause grief.

Watching ones children suffer can cause sorrow and grief because we wonder if there was something we could have done to alleviate their suffering or ailments. Failure to do the right thing or live up to ones’ own or others expectations of us can leave us feeling sorrowful as well. I believe grief is a condition within the heart which helps us to define our very being. Pondering the thought makes me wonder: Can one really fully know great heights of joy without experiencing sorrow of equal depth? Is it truly possible to have one without the other?

The trade-off of a life lived without grief, sorrow or suffering would be a cold, apathetic existence void of all emotions which would be quite empty and pointless. It is far better to know grief in all its painful rawness and therefore receive its counterpart fullness of joy, than to not know either at all. Certainly, in a perfect world we would wish that no one would have to endure pain and grief. However, that not being the reality, it is comforting to know that God does send us comfort along the way to sustain us. As His word promises us in Psalm 30:5: "Weeping may endure for a night, but joy comes in the morning."

~ by Charlotte Stevenson

Call to Listen In!

2010-06-20T17:19:00.005-04:00

On June 24th I'll share some favorite grief poetry on my Writing the Heartache BlogTalkRadio. I would be delighted if friends and fellow-grievers would call in before the show and tell me some poetry that's been meaningful to them. Sharing Our Words is the name of this segment for that day, and if you want to call in, let me know before the show starts by calling (347) 855-8990. Have the poem ready that you wish to share on the air. It can be a poem you composed or one someone else wrote that speaks to you. Or send the poem to me at: wisler@mindspring.com with Poetry in the subject line and I'll read it on the show.

Even if you don't feel up to calling in, be sure to listen to the program via your computer speakers.

Sharing Our Words
June 24th
1:00 - 1:15 PM
Writing the Heartache BlogTalkRadio

When Fathers Weep At Graves

2010-06-16T15:29:00.003-04:00

I see them weep
The fathers at the stones
Taking off the brave armour
Forced to wear in the workplace
Clearing away the debris
With gentle fingers
Inhaling the sorrow
Diminished by anguish
Their hearts desiring what they cannot have
To walk hand in hand
With children no longer held
To all the fathers who leave a part
Of their hearts at the stones
May breezes underneath trees of time
Ease their pain
As they receive healing tears
. . . the gift the children give.

~ Alice J. Wisler

Comforters From The Past

2010-06-14T20:35:00.005-04:00

Here's something I found in the Cromwell CT's chapter of Bereaved Parents' April/May 2010 newsletter that I wrote six years ago for my own e-zine, TRIBUTES.

~*~*~*~*~

The word comforter makes me first think of a large quilt carefully and skillfully
sewn by a little ol' lady who sits in a rocker and lives somewhere outside of Chattanooga.

The image of something warm to spread over me on a cold night is secure. The comforter envelops me as I sleep, gently resting over me to keep me comfortable.

People make great comforters, too. They may not be sewn like a quilt, but they are just as secure and warm, just as gentle and comfortable.

When a child dies, we need comforters. There are plenty who recite the platitudes. You know of those lines—"He's in a better place" and "God needed another angel."

While our anger may boil at those who don't know what to mutter and so choose from that swamp of ill-cited sayings, there are others. There are the ones who know how to offer a shoulder to cry on, bring flowers, and have pain in their eyes—-those who let themselves ache with you.

Sometimes a comforter knows how to respond because she has had a child die. Ah, yes, these are the ones who can help out so wonderfully. I was blessed to have many good comforters. Some I am still friends with. Others were solace-personified and then I lost contact with them.

So you can imagine the joy I felt when I was reunited with two of my past comforters the other week. While at work at the portrait studio, there stood Lisa, a woman who had taken our broken family under her wing and had literally fed us, listened to us, and although she did not know Daniel, understood. She, years before us, had a child die.

Then an email arrived from another Lisa. She had also had a child die, just months before my Daniel died. She was the one I talked to on the phone and from her I received a helpful grief book in the mail. New to the bereavement journey, we shared much heartache at the same time.

During one week, two comforters from the past again entered my life. This time, after eight years since the death of my son, I was not as needy. My heart was not beating faintly nor were my eyes puffy from nights of crying. Yet, what an impressive reminder of those who helped me get through the months of agony after Daniel died from cancer treatments.

It caused me to think of others who were significant in helping our family as we moved through the horrors of new grief. I was grateful and hoped that I'd never forget how time with a newly-grieving person is time well spent.

Are you new to this journey of bereavement? I pray you will find someone to hold you and listen, even offer you a cup of your favorite tea. Has it been many years since the death of your child or sibling? You can be the fabric that shields a new griever from some of her day-to-day anguish. Your comfort and concern will go far and be remembered for years to come.

And I got to talk about Daniel . . .

2010-06-09T08:28:00.003-04:00

Yesterday, I was a guest on Lucy's show and it was an honor! I was able to talk about my son, Daniel---his life and death. You can listen today for a chance to
get two of my books for free.

Listen to internet radio with CWA Radio on Blog Talk Radio

Guest Blogger, Michele

2010-06-08T13:44:00.001-04:00

Sometimes it takes someone else’s perspective to show me how my family is dealing with the fall-out from our daughter’s death.

After Katie died from relapsed neuroblastoma in August 2008, we all picked up the pieces of our lives and tried to move as best we could. Every day I still question how well we are doing that. Every day I remind myself that our fourteen year old daughter lived life out loud - each day was precious whether it was pain filled or not, so I absolutely cannot waste a day that I have been given.

Still, it is hard. Curling up and sleeping seems like an awfully good idea on a regular basis. But, I have a career, we have another child, we have a marriage to work on, and even though being with Katie again seems like the only goal I have sometimes, she would be absolutely livid for us to give up.

So, back to someone else’s perspective. Socializing, going to events, participating in life - well, we make ourselves do it. Last night we went to a baseball game for our local team. It was just Erika and me, because Mike had to work. We ended up sitting with friends, talking, laughing. Erika had to wait for the end of the game to get the players to sign a baseball. I ran into another friend, catching up, who commented how much he loved watching Erika skipping around, laughing, smiling and so happy. He knew what we had gone through, and loved to see her enjoying life.

While we have to make an effort to show up and live, it seems to be paying off. And I also think we are honoring our Katie in the best way - by living the way she did, each day.
~ By Michele Krize

The Healing Power of the Pen

2010-06-06T23:24:00.003-04:00

The first year after a death of a child is like having the
worse noise possible running through your head each
day and night. There is no way to turn the horrendous
sounds off because there is no off button.

I wrote through that noise. I wrote from the heavy bag of
emotions bereaved parents must carry--anger, guilt,
sorrow and confusion, all the "what ifs" and "how comes"
and "whys."

I wrote of longing for a blond-haired boy with blue eyes
who laughter brightened hospital rooms. A quiet spot
under weeping willows at a local park is where I carried
my pen, journal and pain. As I wrote over the course of
many months, I was, although I didn’t realize it at the
time, providing therapy for myself.

Some days when the weather did not permit a trip to the
park and my body and mind harbored excruciating pain,
I shut myself in a room, away from my other children
and husband. I’d grab my journal and let the
experiences of the day and my feelings freely emerge
onto each white page. Grammar didn’t matter,
penmanship went out the window. These aren’t a
concern when you are writing to survive.

Writing the heartache, complete and honest, is a way of
healing. Our cry is, "Help me with this pain!" We find
ourselves lamenting as King David did in Psalm 13:2,
"How long must I wrestle with my thoughts and every
day have sorrow in my heart?" David wrote many of his
psalms starting with anger and agony and gradually,
ending with hope.

Writing can do that for us. We enter into our
devastation, get a good grip on what our struggles are
and something about seeing them on paper causes us to
realize the pain is not only within us anymore. It is
shared, even if only on a sheet of notebook paper. It is
documented and the more we write, the better we are
able to understand and deal with our intense sorrow.

Some people think only the creative types write, when in
reality, writing through the pain is available to anyone
who has suffered the loss of a child. "I don’t have time,"
many say. "What will I write?" others wonder. The blank
page scares some because they think they have to fill it
with something profound.

But just writing a memory of your child or a few lines
about how you felt after he died is a notable start. If we
think of writing as a private endeavor and an effective
tool, not a paper to be graded by a high school English
teacher, we will conquer many of the doubts about our
ability. In time, we will see that writing helps us become
better in tune with our feelings and thoughts. It clarifies
our lives and gives us understanding.

Other reasons to take the time to write are:
• To experience personal growth.
• To leave a legacy or a keepsake so that there
will be recordings of what and who our child
was.
• To demonstrate a way of cherishing our child.
• To feel a connection to our child as we
remember the things we shared here on earth.

We also are honoring our grief, our pain and what has
happened to us. We are validating its existence. As
studies have shown, writing is healthy for our minds and
bodies.

Professor James Pennebaker claims that writing
actually helps the physical body when the writer is able
to open up, by sharing deep feelings on paper over a
period of time. In his study, half a group of students at
Southern Methodist University in Dallas, Texas, wrote
their heartfelt thoughts and feelings about a stressful
event from their lives; the other half wrote about
superficial topics. Each group wrote for twenty minutes a
day, for four consecutive days.

Before writing and immediately after writing, blood
pressure and heart rates were tested and a galvanic skin
response was done. Six weeks later, the students had
their blood tested again.

The group that had written about trivial topics showed no
sign of changes. But the group that had poured their
pain onto paper, claimed writing had actually calmed
them. Their skin was drier after writing and both heart
rate and blood pressure had decreased. Their blood
work even showed an increase in lymphocytes, the
white blood cells that work to keep the immune system
healthy.

Writing through the heartache of losing a child is some
of the best therapy I have found on this journey. I didn’t
know how helpful it was. I just knew I needed to
organize any thoughts and get them out on paper. Now,
four years since my four-year-old son Daniel’s death, I
see that when all the evidence is presented, there is no
reason not to write. It causes dim skies to light up when
not only the pain, but also the love and cherished
memories, are recorded.

~ Alice J. Wisler
(Published in the Durham Herald-Sun in April, 2002).

Healing Ink

2010-06-03T17:27:00.001-04:00

A weeping willow tree, one flowery journal, two pens (in case one ran out of ink), and a box of Puffs tissues. Those items stayed close beside me. In my early confusion over the loss of my son, these objects never ignored my grief or told me to “get over it”.

When it grew too dark to see underneath the stringy weeping willow, I carried my pen and journal inside a house that seemed too empty, and wrote some more. At night, I woke to grapple with turmoil, with the noises in my head, the flashbacks of the cancer ward, the cries of my son. I wrote the ugly words—“why?” and “how come?” before I could sleep again.

I scribbled through myths and clichés. I unleashed resentment and longing. I addressed prayers to God.

And, surprisingly, I discovered. Some of the confusion slid away, some of the guilt abandoned me. There was nothing I could have done to spare my four-year-old’s life. Even my love had not been strong enough to destroy that infection that flared inside his tiny body. I was human and really not as in control as I wanted to believe. I would have to live with that.

I began to understand the new me. She was a tower of strength and compassion; she was tender and vulnerable, realistic, with just the right touch of cynicism. She needed protection from too many plastic smiles; she could not go long without a hug or sharing a story about a blue-eyed boy with an infectious laugh.

My written words healed me. And I jumped at the opportunity to tell others. I’d found comfort and clarity. I smiled at my husband and three young children, and at last, I didn’t want to run my van over the cliff; I wanted to smell the peonies and taste the salt from the ocean on my skin.

The beauty about grief-writing is that no one has to read it. You don’t have to worry about a teacher correcting your spelling or grammar. There’s no grade, no pass or fail. No one cares if your letters are sloppy. It’s written by you and for you. And, yes, it works.

• Find a secluded place to write where you can think clearly without distraction.
• Write, at first, for your eyes only. It doesn't have to be shared with anyone.
• Write to chart progress for you to read years down the road.
• Write with the feeling "I will survive this."
• Write to identify your emotions and feelings.
• Write to help solve some of the new situations you must now face.
• Think of your journal as a friend who never judges and who can never hurt you.
• Write your spiritual struggles.
• Write to rebuild your self-esteem and your self-confidence.
(From Down the Cereal Aisle: a basket of recipes and remembrances by Alice J. Wisler)

May 20 Topic: Building Self-Esteem After Loss with Alice Wisler

2010-06-01T13:59:00.000-04:00

Thanks, Gloria and Heidi, for the interview. May 20 Topic: Building Self-Esteem After Loss with Alice Wisler

From WRAL.com

2010-05-29T13:07:00.002-04:00

Writing the Heartache All Day Workshop

(Community)

http://www.alicewisler.com/workshops.htm

Come to an all-day grief-writing workshop on July 17 from 8 AM to 5 PM at the Country Inns and Suites near the RDU Airport. Facilitated by Durham author Alice J. Wisler, bereaved mom and award-winning novelist, discover how to make writing through heartache benefit you. Guided instruction on poetry and other forms of writing. Catered lunch, coffee breaks, and snacks included. Write for health, healing and hope!
Register today: http://www.alicewisler.com/workshops.htm

1 - Writing the Heartache
Sat, Jul 17: All day from 8am-5pm
Click here to see the posting on WRAL

The language of the heart

2010-05-28T16:42:00.001-04:00

I remember when I told my boyfriend I felt vulnerable in our relationship. Actually, I wrote the word in a note. He told me I'd spelled vulnerable incorrectly. How was I to know it had a "l" after the "u'? When I said the word, I never acknowledged that sound.

Seems as a missionary kid growing up with strange English being spoken and mixed with my own mother's made-up words and Southern phrases, I often was not sounding like a native speaker. To add to my confusion, the English bookstore in Osaka, where I bought many books, sold books printed in England. Not only did I have to deal with Japanese-English, Momisms, and Southernisms, but there was the Queen's English. Those Puffin paperbacks put "u" in so many words that when our spelling tests at Kyoto International School rolled around, I never knew what the proper spelling was for color and favorite.

I guess I was always a little off-kelter, a little lost in the crowd. At five-foot-nine with blond hair, I stood out. Literally.

Things haven't changed. While my spelling is more sound on most days (on other days I rely heavily on spellcheck), I am still vulnerable. And on days like these, my sadness surprises me.

For you see, it's been thirteen years. And after that length of time, apparently, a mother isn't supposed to miss her son anymore. Which makes me feel even more of a freak.

Here in the US, this is Memorial Day weekend, a time of celebrating with hamburgers, dunks in the pool, flags, lemonade, and retail sales.

All I can do is remember the sound of the pediatrician's voice--a real native American speaker, educated at the finest schools---telling me that my son had cancer. I remember the curtains in the family room were light blue with dots. I remember how weighty and big the phone felt in my palm. That was fourteen years ago, and yes, I recall it better than yesterday.

Some days I feel like steel, toughened by this bereavement thing. Watch out world, here I am! Look at me, I am courageous and bold and compassionate and capable. I am a survivor!

Today I am annoyed by the mail, text messages, the woman who cut me off in the grocery store, and especially my own tender heart.

I have traveled far on this rocky road. I'm no longer angry at the doctors, friends who failed, family members who did not step up to the plate, or even God. That is washed away--forgiven, as I've forgiven myself.

But today, on the beginning of this weekend that will never fade from being Diagnosis Weekend even if it is called Memorial Day weekend by everyone else, I am reduced to tears.

Vulnerable. No matter how you spell it or pronounce it, it sits right there underneath my ribcage, lodged in every crevice of my heart.

I miss you, my Brave Cookie. I miss sitting by the pool and cooking you a hamburger. Perhaps by this age, you would have learned to like pickles and even called them pickles----not radishes, as you used to do.

On days like these, the language of the grieving heart sounds the same--yearning for what might have been.

Writing the Heartache All Day Workshop Classified Ad - Durham Events Community and Events | InetGiant Durham, North Carolina Free Advertising Website

2010-05-27T12:32:00.000-04:00

Writing the Heartache All Day Workshop Classified Ad - Durham Events Community and Events | InetGiant Durham, North Carolina Free Advertising Website

Sign up today and receive a discount!

We welcome guest blogger, Kit Tosello

2010-05-26T20:24:00.010-04:00

Unexpected Comfort
Guest post by Kit Tosello

FYI: When you’re a mom and you have a personal crisis, the world doesn’t stop.
You try to keep the balls in the air. You wash dishes and drive kids to school and say, "Have a great day, honey!" But your arms feel extra heavy and each word you speak takes deliberate effort.

And then there’s the hole. I discovered that grieving was like a dark gaping hole in the ground, luring me to its edge, daring me to confront my deepest hurts.
I had watched as my Mom gracefully shed her broken earthly body, and danced into heaven three days before last Christmas. It was a divinely beautiful, spiritually affirming moment.

So I looked up, beyond the ceiling of the yellow-painted hospital room and whispered, "Congratulations," and then I looked back at her delicate face – my mother’s face – for the very last time.

Then I collapsed into my twenty-year-old daughter’s arms. "I’m so afraid," I whispered.

"Of what?" she asked softly.

"Of tomorrow," I sobbed. "And the next day, and the day after. Of life without her."

During Alice Wisler’s online course, I found that writing kept me away from the pit. It exposed the monsters under my bed for what they were: fears and insecurities that lost their power when exposed to the light.

I’m sad today. My once-bouncey blonde cherub, who melted his Grandma’s heart when he curled up sweetly next to her while she napped, graduates from high school next Friday. I can’t hear Mom’s voice saying how proud she is of him. But I can scrawl my disappointment here on this page, before God, and find unexpected comfort.

About the writer:
Kit's blog, The High Desert Home Companion, is a "Kitchen Designer's take on life in Central Oregon." Visit her blog and read more.

The Daniel Journal

2010-05-22T12:08:00.003-04:00

I embraced it; I loathed it. It was a cloth bound book with blue and red swirled flowers on the cover. Inside were the raw words from my heart and soul.

Once it was filled with crisp, lined pages. That was the day it was gifted to me by my three-year-old son Daniel’s oncology nurse. That day it was just a pretty journal. Daniel smiled as I thanked this nurse for her thoughtful present.

Months later, this object contained sentences no one wants to ever write.

Never far from me, I lived for moments when I could take respite from my days to visit with this book. No longer clean and white, it was stained with tears, full of questions, anger, agony, and sorrow.

I’d kept a plaid-covered journal when Daniel was diagnosed with neuroblastoma. That was a journal where hope lined the pages because I was certain that with faith and prayers, chemo, surgeries, and radiation, my son would be cured of his aggressive tumor.

After Daniel’s funeral, I knew that the blue and red journal would never hold hope. Life, as I knew it and wanted, had ended. With Daniel gone, I only wanted the floor to open up and swallow me, taking me away from pain and misery.

The floor never opened. But the journal was there every day, allowing me to deposit whatever I needed onto the numerous pages. I wrote under a weeping willow tree at a local park, at a secluded booth in my favorite coffee shop, at stop lights. I wrote when I was frustrated with those who didn’t care about my brokenness, and when a stranger sent a card to comfort me.

When the pages ran out, I purchased another journal, and then another. I never expected one journal to be able to contain the entire volumes of my heartache.

My journals of the early years after Daniel’s passing sit in a bag in my closet now. I know that at anytime I could open one, and read. Yet, I don’t. Although much stronger now, thanks to my journal-writing, I still don’t want to face that woman who didn’t want to live.

The blue and red journal is more than a journal. This gift I received became a gift to myself and my sanity whenever I opened it to release parts of my torn heart.

While I often hated having a reason to have to write in it, I will always be grateful that it was there for me-never judgmental, never belittling, never preachy. Writing made me a believer that putting pen to paper is one of the best resources we have as humans for healing.

Because as I wrote, this journal provided me with something I didn’t think it ever could or would. Hope.

~ Alice J. Wisler
[Reprinted from Open to Hope and AliceWisler.blogspot.com/]

Announcing a day of healing and hope in North Carolina!

2010-05-20T16:28:00.010-04:00

All Day Writing Workshop

Discover how you can use writing for healing and hope!

Those of us in it know that grief can overwhelm us. Writing about our emotions calms our nerves, lowers our heart rate, and decreases our blood pressure. The tool of writing through the pain of heartache provides a respite for our sorrow and coats us with a soothing balm. No wonder writing has been called an essential tool for healing.

Writing the Heartache All Day Writing Workshop

When: Saturday, July 17, 2010

Time: 8 AM to 5 PM

Instructor: Alice J. Wisler of Daniel’s House Publications (BSW, award-winning novelist, cookbook author, first place winner of Carolina Woman poetry contest 2001, workshop leader, conference speaker, writer of grief-related articles, Open to Hope contributor, former Tributes and LARGO newsletter editor, and designer of remembrance cards)

Where: Country Inn and Suites near the Raleigh-Durham Airport 201 Airgate Drive, Morrisville, NC

What’s provided:

* All day workshop with instruction on writing from the grieving heart

* In-depth teaching on writing poetry, letters, essays, and keeping a journal

* Guided writing sessions

* Pen and notepad

* Mid-morning coffee/tea and snack break

* Light catered lunch

* Mid-afternoon coffee/tea break

* Gift for all attendees

* Two future follow-up online critique sessions with Alice

Objective: To learn how to use writing as an effective tool for healing and hope. While the primary focus of the workshop is on writing after the death of a significant loved one (spouse, parent, sibling, child, friend), some take the workshop to write about broken relationships.

Feel free to bring: Up to three pages of poetry or a piece you’ve written pertaining to your loss.

Cost: $130 per person if payment received by 6/20; after 6/20, $140 per person

Bring a friend and save! $240 for you and your friend ($20 savings)

For all past attendees of the online grief-writing course, Writing the Heartache, take $25.00 off the price and pay $105.00 per person.

Seated is limited, so please secure your spot today.
To register, go to this page of Alice's website

Teaching Others How to Help Us

2010-05-19T09:06:00.012-04:00

I wrote this article in 2001, but I still find it useful today. I hope that you will, too. ~ AJW

You Can Help A Grieving Heart

Oh, we can talk about the best cold medications and if cherry cough syrup tastes better to kids than orange. We can recommend preschools and sneakers. But the hardest part of parenting is the least often discussed. The roughest aspect of being a parent is losing a child.

Then we clam up. We don't want to hear. We are threatened. If her child died, mine could, too. What can we do when parenting goes beyond the normal expectations? What do I say? friends ask me with a look of agony in their eyes. I feel so helpless. I can't empathize, I haven't had a child die.

You can help. You don't have to stand there with a blank stare or excuse yourself from the conversation. You can be informed so that you will be able to reach out to a friend who has lost a child.

Jump into the midst of things and do something, says Ronald Knapp author of the book, Beyond Endurance: When A Child Dies. Traditionally there are the sympathy cards and hot casseroles brought over to the bereaved's home. But it doesn't end there. That is only the beginning of reaching out to your friend or relative who has recently experienced the death of a child of any age.

Here are 15 tips you can learn to make you an effective and compassionate friend to your friend in pain:

1) Listen. When you ask your friend, How are you doing today? wait to hear the answer.

2) Cry with her. She may cry also, but your tears don't make her cry. She cries when no one else is around and within her heart are the daily tears no one sees.

3) Don't use any cliches. Avoid lines like, It will get better. Be grateful you have other children. You're young, you can have another baby. He was sick and it is good he is no longer suffering. There will never be a phrase invented that makes it all right that a child died.

4) Help with the care of the surviving children. Offer to take them to the park, your house for a meal, to church. Say, May I please take Billy to the park today? Is four oclock okay with you? Don't give the line, If you need me, call me. Your bereaved friend may not feel comfortable with asking for help.

5) Say your friend's child's name. Even if she cries, these are tears that heal. Acknowledging that the child lived and has not been forgotten is a wonderful balm to a broken heart.

6) Give to the memorial fund. Find out what it is and give, today, next year and the next. Show you want to keep the child's memory alive.

7) Some mothers start to collect items that bring comfort after a child dies; find out what it is your friend is collecting and by one for her. My son liked watermelon and we have many stories of watermelons and him. So now my house has assorted watermelon mementos----a tea pot, a dish towel and a soap dispenser. Many mothers find solace in collecting rainbows, butterflies and angels.

8) Send a card (I'm thinking of you is fine) but stay away from sappy sympathy ones.

9) Go to the grave. Take flowers, a balloon or a toy. How honored your friend will be to see what you have left there the next time she visits the cemetery.

10) Don't use religion as a brush away for pain. Stay clear of words that don't help like, It was God's Will.

11) Don't judge her. You don't know what she is going through each day, you cannot know of the intense pain unless you have had a child die.

12) Stay in touch. Call to see how she is coping. Suggest doing something together but if she isn't up to it, give her space.

13) Read a book on grief, focusing on the parts that give you ideas on how to be a source of comfort for your bereaved friend.

14) Know she now has a hole in her heart, a missing piece due to the death of her child. Holes like these never heal so accept this truth and don't expect her to get over this loss.

15) Remember that with the death of her child, a part of her died - old beliefs, ideals, etc. Her life has been forever changed.

Even as you participate in the suggestions above, you will still feel uncomfortable. It has been three years since my four year-old Daniel died, and even now when I meet a newly bereaved mother, I am uncomfortable. Talking of the untimely death of a child is never easy for anyone. However, avoiding reality does not bring healing. You will provide many gifts of comfort along the way when you actively decide to help your grieving friend. When my friends and family acknowledge all four of my children, the three on this earth and the one in Heaven, I am honored. Each time it is as though a ray of warm sunlight has touched my soul.

Further Reading:

When A Child Has Died: Ways You Can Help A Bereaved Parent. Bonnie Hunt Conrad. Fithian Press, 1995.

When Your Friend Is Grieving: Building A Bridge Of Love. Paula Darcy. Harold Shaw Publishers, 1990.

Beyond Endurance: When A Child Dies. Ronald J. Knapp. New York: Schocken Books, 1986.

Slices Of Sunlight, A Cookbook Of Memories: Remembrances Of The Children We Held. Alice J. Wisler. Daniel's House Publications, 2000.

Down the Cereal Aisle: A Basket of Recipes and Remembrances. Alice J. Wisler. Daniel's House Publications, 2003.

~ Alice J. Wisler copyright 2001

A testimony of the power of the pen

2010-05-17T13:12:00.000-04:00

Mourning the Death of a Relationship Through Writing the Heartache

Those words are not a dramatic statement, but are a beginning of acknowledging the loss of someone who lives yet acts as though you are dead.

For those who have experienced the loss of a loved one who has not died, there is hope and relief in the form of the Writing the Heartache workshop. For years I thought I was crazy; having assumed that the grief that never seemed to end was all in my head. Writing the Heartache showed me that the assumption was wrong; I wasn’t crazy, I was continually grieving.

For years I have been beating myself up for the choices made by another over which I had no control or influence. I had been blaming myself for causing the whole relationship to collapse. I had believed the lies, the tormenting taunts that if I had been a better sister, if I had done more to help her, if I had been there, if I had been more mature, if If IF. When you let the “ifs” take over, they conquer your whole life. If is only a possibility, it is not the truth, it is not an accurate reflection of what was nor is a suggestion of what will be.

The workshop is just as powerful when you are grieving the loss of a relationship as when you are grieving the loss of a person when you open your heart to the ministry of writing, open your mind to seeing another perspective and open your spirit to the ministering of God through the gift of writing what is in your heart.

When I first signed up for the workshop, I hoped it would help. Throughout the workshop I discovered a whole new reality than the one that I had believed in. I was able to see truths about myself, my sister, and my situation that I was not able to see before; as well as putting the past into perspective which I could not have done otherwise.

Pouring out the grief onto paper brought more healing than talking allowed for me. The words flowed freely and by releasing them, they lost their sting, their power over me and any affect they once had.

The assignments given were not complicated, but asked you to look into your heart, to see beyond the obvious and let go of those things that hindered you. When you put your heart in black and white you can see a whole palette of possibilities you could not see before. It is as though you are seeing the situation for the first time in Technicolor.

This workshop does not guarantee that you will share your epiphanies with the one who is gone from your life. There is no guarantee it will ever be made known to anyone but you. I do not plan to show these writings to my sister. This is something I did for me. It was worth every hour spent, every tear shed, and every heartache rending me again to gain the freedom and self-forgiveness. At the end of this workshop I can see my sister more clearly, I have a new perspective about what really happened, but more important I know myself better and can see a deeper truth about who I am.

This workshop is a gift you give yourself. It will continue to make a difference in your life long after you stop remembering you ever completed the assignments. Five weeks are an investment in yourself that never ceases to give rich dividends.

~ Written by one of the attendees of my Writing the Heartache online course and used with permission for this blog.

A little about why it works

2010-05-16T17:32:00.000-04:00

I've been writing my pain out in one form or another for thirteen years now. I have journals, spiral notebooks, and computer files to prove my heart brokenness. In addition to writing, I've taught, shared, gone on retreats, led seminars and workshops. I've told women and men across the country that writing is an essential tool for healing as I've encouraged grievers to put pen to paper.

It works. And I continue to be amazed that a narrow pen and skinny notebook can serve as therapist, instructor, and healer. When we write from our pain due to loss, we release the bottled-up agony and let it loose on the pages. And what we learn is that the emotions are no longer loose, wandering about, uncontained. For once we spill them onto the page, they become clearer, believable, and we even gain understanding of why we feel like we do.

Writing from our heart's deep core is some of the best therapy there is.

It sounds simple, almost too simple. But I am one of its most avid advocates. As Alice Walker once said, "Writing saved me."

I want others to experience the benefits writing gives us---a gift, ready to be untied. And like many gifts, when you use it, it not only blesses you, but has the potential to be a blessing to others.

Writing the Heartache Online Course is for you!

2010-05-13T17:32:00.001-04:00

When Daniel died, writing took on a whole new meaning for me. Writing was my sanity, my lifeline to coping with the tragedy of losing a child to cancer. There were times I couldn't wait to rush to the shelter of my home so that I could pull out my pen and journal and pour out my heart. In the early days of grief, I needed a way to organize my muddled thoughts, work out my emotions, and scribble my prayers and fears.

Writing is an essential tool in grief. Writing calms us, lowers our blood pressure, slows our pulse, and keeps our minds from going crazy. When we can write out our feelings, they no longer loom large and out of control. By putting them on paper, we have contained them to a workable space in our journal. We can read them over and over and analyze, or we can choose to never look at our words again. Whatever our decision, the act of writing from our broken heart is healing.

My next Writing the Heartache online course starts May 24th and runs to June 25th. In these five weeks, I'll send participants assignments to complete via email. When these are sent back to me, I'll offer critique, support, and suggestions. We'll discuss writing for publication as well.

Outline for Writing the Heartache Writing Workshop
1. Week One: Introduction - Getting to Know You
2. Week Two: Introducing Your Loved One Through Poetry
3. Week Three: Writing a Letter to Your Loved One and to Others
4. Week Four: Writing for Change - The Essay
5. Week Five: Writing for Publication

Welcome to a new blog: Writing the Heartache

2010-05-13T17:19:00.000-04:00

Folks,

Thanks for joining me here, and welcome! This is the offical blog for Writing the Heartache!