Part I - The Journey
Before we go through a loss like this, we assume that grief is like falling into a deep hole. We think we will start climbing a ladder and as we get closer to the top things start getting brighter and brighter and we keep feeling better and better until we finally step out into the sunshine where the birds are singing and beautiful music is playing and our grief is over and we are then officially "over it"!
Instead, I have found it is like being plunked down into the middle of a mountain range. We start on the top, with the breathtaking view, when life is wonderful. We are just walking along, basking in the sun and the beautiful scenery when suddenly we fall off a cliff. Now we are lying in a deep, deep valley: bruised, confused, hurt, scared, and lonely. We soon realize that there is no easy way out, no rescue in sight. The only way out is to do it ourselves. So we start working our way up the mountainside, sometimes walking, sometimes crawling, and often stumbling. It is very hard, very discouraging, and very exhausting work. Finally we reach the top and see the sun again for a while. Maybe the top will be flat and we'll get to spend a little time up there enjoying it, or maybe it is very steep and as soon as we get there we have to start back down the other side into the next valley again.
The one thing we notice is that there are mountains as far as the eye can see. Somehow, we have to make our way through them if we are ever to get out. That thought can be overwhelming and cause us to give up for a while. But eventually we realize once again that the only way out is to keep going, so we start again: down one mountain and up the next. And sometimes on the journey, after a particularly hard stretch, we think, I'm so glad I finally made it through that!! And then we stop and look around and realize that we've been here before! All this work and we've gone in a circle and we're going to have to do it all again! And sometimes as we are climbing, we look up to see if we are getting any closer to the top, and we see a boulder heading our way. If we are fortunate, we manage to avoid it. But usually we can't, and it hits us head on and sends us tumbling back down to the bottom.
Sometimes when we are in the deepest part of the valley, we just sit, exhausted. And we might notice some things around us that we never saw before: flowers and animals and a gentle breeze in the cool of the valley. There is a world down in the valley that we never even knew existed, and there is beauty in it. And sometimes at night, when all is quiet, we can hear the others who are in the valley weeping. And it is then that we realize that we are not alone, that others are making this journey too. And we realize that we share an understanding of the journey and of the world of the valley that most others don't. And it gives us strength to start the climb all over again.
Sometimes as we are climbing the mountain, a helicopter may come by with some of our friends in it. Seeing us struggling up the mountain, they shout encouraging things like, I know just what you're going through; I went on a hike once. And, you are so strong; I know I couldn't make this climb! Or they ask, when will you finally get over these mountains and be yourself again? And we try to tell them about the journey and the world of the valley, but the sound of the helicopter drowns us out and they can't hear us. They throw down some food to give us energy, and it does, but some of it just pelts us on the head and makes the climb even harder. And then they leave, and we breathe a sigh of relief that we can get back to our climb in peace.
Part II - The Journey
As we make this journey, we start to notice that we are becoming a little bit stronger. When we get to the rough patches we now see that we are shaken but don't always fall. We find that sometimes we can walk upright now, instead of just crawling. And sometimes we can see a rough spot ahead and manage to find a better way around it. And once in a while we crest a mountain and see that the top is very flat and very beautiful, and we get to spend quite a while resting and recovering on the top before starting down again. And we notice that we are getting closer to the edge of the mountains; they seem to be getting a little smaller. The mountains are not as tall, and the valleys are not as low or as wide. In fact, we can now see the foothills, and it gives us hope.
And throughout this journey, we see the others who are traveling it as well, sometimes at a distance, and sometimes up close. And we encourage each other to keep going and to watch out for certain things. We talk about the journey and the world of the valley. Finally, someone else who understands! And we cry together when it is just too hard. And sometimes, we catch a glimpse of someone who has made it to the foothills. And we are so excited for them, and we become even more determined to keep going because someday, we too, will make it to the foothills.
So my point is this: Everyone starts on a different mountain. No two journeys are the same. Some people spend a lot of time in the valley at first, and some have more time on top of the mountain. But we will all be on the mountains and in the valleys. And we will all someday make it to the foothills. I promise.
Good evening.
August 7, 2007 started out as any other Tuesday. After a pretty normal morning of rushing around, my husband, Steve and I left home with our 4 ½ year old son, Bear, in tow. In our driveway, we kissed each other goodbye, we said “I love you” and we drove out of our neighborhood together. Steve turned right to take our son to preschool and I turned left to go to work. I had no idea that I’d just kissed my husband and best friend of nearly 10 years for the last time. And I didn’t know that 24 hours later, I would be struggling to find the words to tell our young son that his Daddy had died and would never be coming home.
Anyone who doubts what a 4 ½ year old child is able to comprehend wasn’t there the morning I told our son his dad had died. I didn’t know that a child was capable of such heart wrenching, guttural sounds and I knew, in that second, that I had truly broken his young heart. That moment will forever be with me. My husband and I were a team, in every sense of the word and without him, I worried I would never be enough for our son and I worried that he would never be whole or happy again.
For the next several months, Bear and I navigated our journey of grief the best we could. It was all I could do to get out of bed each day and if it wasn’t for Bear, I wouldn’t have. I didn’t know how to help our son through his emotions of sadness, anger and frustration. I asked friends and family for advice, I read books on grief, we snuggled and talked about Daddy, we’d look at picture albums hour upon hour. His heart was broken – he even wore a band-aid on his chest, over his heart. He was struggling and I wanted him to talk to me about what he was feeling. I’m 41 years old now and I can barely put my feelings of grief into words -- how in the heck could I expect a 5 year old to do that?
Shortly after my husband died, I found an online support group for young widows. I found an incredible amount of empathy there – so many young people widowed, just like me. I finally felt like I wasn’t alone and they understood where I was coming from. We don’t have any family in Arizona and, at the time, I didn’t know any other widows with young children in the Phoenix area. My son was the only child I knew who had lost a parent and I felt very alone and isolated. I thought that if I could find other children who had been through a similar loss, it would help him just like meeting other widows had helped me.
Around Christmas of 2007, I found Stepping Stones of Hope and in March of 2008, Bear attended Camp Paz at School, a one day camp held at a local elementary school. I remember driving to the school, scared to death to leave him for the day. What if these people don’t know what they’re doing? What if he comes home more sad and angry than he is now? Lisa Weyer, the Executive Director at the time, looked me in the eye that morning and said something I will never forget. “You need to have the courage to allow Bear to have his own grief experience.” I remember walking back to my car, without my son, praying that I’d done the right thing in leaving him there for the day.
Eight hours later, I was relieved to see a smiling, confident and joyful little boy – very unlike the angry, sad and frustrated boy I’d seen for the previous 7 months. I finally saw the twinkle in his eye that had virtually disappeared the minute I told him his dad had died. Grinning ear to ear, he couldn’t wait to tell me about his day and he proudly showed me the contents of his big, brown grocery bag FULL of goodies. He happily pulled each item out of the bag and told me about them -- each item was connected to his Dad in some way. His colorful mask… The night-shirt with a drawing depicting a memory of playing baseball with his Dad ironed on the front… His painted butterfly… The baseball themed blanket, donated by Project Linus. The outline of his body, on butcher paper, with a band-aid placed over his heart because that’s where he hurt the most… All of these items have become cherished possessions in our home.
He was able to talk about his Dad all day – to other children who got to talk about their moms and dads, grandparents and siblings who had also died far too soon. Finally, he had a support group of kids who got it. And for the first time since my husband died, I felt like our son was really going to be okay after all.
Bear will be 7 in a few months and, thankfully, most of his friends don’t understand what it’s like to have a parent die. His friends come to school on Monday morning, telling of the fun things they did with their Dads over their weekend. Bear can’t share those same stories. Other Daddy’s are at their soccer practices, Cub Scout meetings and birthday parties. Bear believes his Daddy is watching those things from Heaven and hasn’t drawn a picture of him since he died that didn’t depict his Dad with angel wings. Other Daddy’s are teaching their boys the ins and outs of baseball, football and hockey.
He’s stuck with a Mom who still gets confused on how many innings there are in a football game. If you were to ask him what he misses most about his Dad, he’d say playing baseball in the backyard, snuggling on the couch and most of all wrestling. He’s told me I can have a boyfriend again someday – but “Mom, they’ve got to be able to wrestle.”
My family was given a gift the day I was challenged to have the courage to allow Bear to have his own grief journey and we’re both looking forward to attending Camp Paz in a few weeks to continue our journey. The Camp Paz at School one day program was an important tool for my family to be able to begin moving forward. As a mother of a grieving child, I am so grateful to Dr. Finch for seeing a need 10 years ago and filling that need.
After Bear attended Camp Paz at School, I called the Stepping Stones of Hope office to see if there was a fund I could donate to so that other children could attend camp, regardless of their family’s financial situation. I was surprised that after so many years of Camp, that no one had set up a fund like this. I feel strongly that all children grieving the loss of a loved one deserve an experience like Camp Paz, so I established The Steven M. Turner Memorial Scholarship Fund in honor of my late husband.
Families that need financial assistance are asked to pay what they can and my husband's fund picks up the rest. It is funded entirely through donations.
To date, I am pleased to report that the Turner Fund has collected over $6,000 in cash donations to help grieving children and their families attend Camp Paz. All donations made to the Turner Fund are used to benefit Stepping Stones of Hope, and 100% of every dollar has been specifically earmarked to help a child or adult to attend Camp Paz. It is my hope that in the very near future, The Turner Fund will be able to sponsor a Camp Paz of its own.
I’m also pleased that over $2,000 of the silent auction items presented tonight were donated on behalf of The Steven M. Turner Memorial Scholarship with 100% of the proceeds going to Stepping Stones of Hope.
I hate that my husband died. I hate that my son will grow up without his father. I hate that I know about Stepping Stones of Hope.
As a mom, I’m grateful that Stepping Stones of Hope does exist. And, as a wife, I am proud of what has been created with the Turner Fund and all of the families we will be able to help in my late husband’s memory.
Thank you.
