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The Compassionate Friends
Brisbane Newsletter

April May 2006

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I’ll Never Be the Same
By Peggy Kociscin, Albuquerque, New Mexico

Confusion reigns within my heart,
Within my soul,
because I know I cannot ever be
The woman I once was.

How can I be complete and whole
When part of me is gone…
A special part … a precious part …
The part that was my son?

Conceived in love how gratefully
I bore you … filled with pride;
A bit of my heart, a bit of my soul
Went with you when you died.

One cannot lose a child to death
And still remain the same,
Untouched by tears of emptiness,
Undaunted by the pain.

The cruelest nightmares come to pass,
Life’s bitterest pill to swallow;
In light of this, I can endure
All else that’s yet to follow.

There’s nothing that can fill
the empty Spaces that remain;
I’ve tried and failed so many times,
I cannot try again.

No trying to regain the past …
That’s all a bitter sham …
It’s time that I resign myself
To being who I am.

To be the woman I’ve become
(No acting out a part) …
A mother with a shattered dream
And a broken heart.

Bereavement Magazine June 1991

Index



A Grieving Mother’s Story
By Krstine Nolan, TCF Atlanta Online

I lost my daughter, Sara, age 17 on December 5, 2002. You see, two weeks after I lost my daughter, my brother came to me with the idea of starting a non-profit organization. I was still in such a state of shock that I thought this was a great idea. Besides the fact that I had three other children to take care of, the youngest being 7 months old, I now had to run a non-profit organization and deal with the loss of my daughter.
Well, dealing with the death of Sara never came. My brother, having a lot of money and being very ambitious, didn’t seem to want me to be a “grieving mother”. I was told how to act at functions and was literally told that this was a “business” and he did not want my daughter’s pictures on the business cards nor me acting like a grieving mother. I would leave his office and sit in my car and cry hysterically many times. I sat at graduation ceremonies (my daughter should have been in this graduating class ) and watched my brother hand out scholarships and never mention my daughter’s name. I felt like I was dying! As time went on, I was doing all the leg work for the charity and my brother was funding it. I remember one day telling my brother that I could not run around like this anymore as I was having problems remembering where I was while standing in a store. He just blew me off!!
Months after Sara died, my husband and I moved. This almost killed me again. Packing Sara’s room, smelling her carpet, and another change in my life. No one from my family offered to help me, I felt so alone and lost. After getting settled in our new home, my mother fell ill and we moved her and my father into our home. I took care of my mother and my other children, still running the charity and now finding out I was going to have another baby. Still, no help from my family, I was truly losing my mind!! I remember my brother coming over one day and he saw some plaques that I was supposed to hand out the week before, laying on my table. He mentioned how I was not as organized as everyone thought I was. I wanted to scream at him that I was doing the best I could, but I never said anything.
Time went on and my brother was still doing his part of the foundation, functions that he wouldn’t invite me to or make me aware of and I was still running my part of the foundation. The last scholarships that we handed out, my brother ran the whole ceremony, although I raised all the money putting together a golf tournament on my own. My brother handed out the awards and also hired a “motivational speaker” who talked about lying in his hospital bed suffocating. My daughter died of positional asphyxia, she suffocated! All the while still no mention of my daughter’s name.
My brother also accepted a $50,000 endowment from a colleague of his to go towards the foundation. We have a tax I.D.# through our local High Desert Community Foundation, who help local non-profits and all money is channeled through them and they do all pay outs and so forth. Well, when they found out we received this endowment they wanted to know where it was. My brother informed them that he would be running his own charity and getting his own tax I.D. #, therefore, he would not put the endowment in our account. This truly jeopardized the foundation’s tax I.D.#. They wrote my brother a letter telling him to cease using “Sara’s Hope” name. My brother then emailed me saying that this was the ultimate insult and that in light of the fact that he produced the concept, the name and all the funding for the foundation he would not cease using the name and would allow me to continue using my own daughter’s name for charitable reasons.
This was the last contact I’ve had with my brother. Instead of fighting with him, I changed the name of my foundation and started a new web-site. The old web-site I created on my own—it took me 6 months to complete and I had to delete the whole site. While all this is going on, I gave birth to a new baby girl, we name “Sunshine”, as “You are my Sunshine” was Sara’s favorite song. Still not fully grieving over my daughter’s death.
Finally, this past Thanksgiving, something snapped in me. As I was sitting at Sara’s gravesite, alone, depressed and deeply wanting someone to understand (Thanksgiving was the last holiday we had with Sara, she passed away one week later), my phone rang. It was my other brother, who called to complain about everything under the sun, never asking me how I was. Then, my sister called. When she heard my voice, she asked if I was feeling “a little down” and then proceeded to tell me that my brother had just bought her a house. This was it for me. I didn’t talk to my sister or mom for 3 months. We are now trying to work things out. But, I have come to a major decision that I have prayed about for so long. I have decided to stop the foundation. I realized that I need to take the time to help myself first. I want to grieve. Never in three years since Sara’s death have I screamed or yelled or been MAD!! I have been walking around doing what everyone wanted me to do and acting how everyone wanted me to act. I decided that God and Sara would never want me helping others if it meant stress and sadness and not taking care of me and my other children.
I have learned that staying busy isn’t always the answer. No matter how busy I am, there is always a time when everything is quiet and I have to face the truth. The truth that I am a grieving mother and no one has the right to take that away from me! The truth that I haven’t grieved for three years and I need to let it all out before it kills me. The truth that my beautiful daughter died and I do get mad at God and everyone else! I am not perfect and I deserve the right to feel my pain. I have been holding all these feelings inside and they have finally come to the surface. I am not ready to be grateful for my 17 years with Sara—I wanted more. I am not ready to smile at our memories they are still too painful.
I am ready to face the truth though. I am a mother who lost her daughter—a daughter who meant the world to me. I am ready to cry when I feel like crying. I am ready to have “bad days” and not be afraid to show it! I am ready to shake my hands to the Lord and ask why why why and know that he won’t punish me for this. I am not stupid, I know my daughter died. I know that God has his reasons, but I don’t understand those reasons and I never will. I’m ready to say to someone who asks me how I am doing “I am having a terrible day” and not be afraid of their reaction. But, most of all, I am ready to tell the world, my daughter died, and I will speak her name whether they think it’s acceptable or not. I will say SARA SARA SARA as much as I want to. I will cry when I feel like it. I will admit that I have severe anxiety attacks and I shop too much and I am a clean freak—things that get me through.
Although no one in my family thinks I am normal anymore, I think I have done the best that I know how. There have been so many changes this last three years I don’t think I can take one more. I guess I just wish that my family would understand that there is no “normal” for me anymore. My moods change from one minute to the next. I am tired of being judged and being told that I need to move on. I will never move on, to me that means leaving Sara behind. I will move forward though, I think I already have just writing this. I will never be the same person I was before Sara’s death, I feel like I have two lives now. The life before Sara and the life after Sara’s death,
How do we do this as grieving parents? I don’t have the answers, but I know I’m willing to try. I have a lot to live for. A wonderful husband and four other children that need me. But, I will always need to keep Sara in my life too. She is a part of me and a part of the person I am. One day, I know, I will smile when I think of her, but that's when I’m ready.
For now, I will work out my anger and do what I need to do. I will always be Sara’s mom though, and I will always be ‘A GRIEVING MOTHER”.

Index



Keegan Rhys Hardy
28/11/02—9/2/03
Lovingly submitted by Fiona Hardy, TCF, Qld in memory of her son, whose anniversary occurred on 9th February, 2006.

Your tiny hand we ache to hold
Your smiling face to see
Our 10 week old baby boy
Who would have just turned three
The son God sent to us
The firstborn of our twins
His face each day we long to see
But up in heaven is he

Taken too soon Love always Mummy & Daddy

Loving you is so easy
We do it every day
Missing you is a heartache
That doesn’t go away
When life takes a wrong turn
And a baby has to part
There is nothing that I know of
To heal a parents heart
Love’s more than words can say
Missed with an ache that’s here to stay
There is no word to describe our life
as it is today
There is no word to describe a parent
Who has lost a baby
No word for all the pain…
My baby left us too early
But the memories will always remain

Loving you always Mummy

Index



Andrew Joseph Caltabiano
5/12/71 to 31/5/02
Lovingly written by his mother, Vera Caltabiano, TCF Qld for his fourth anniversary

It is four years since we lost our precious son Andrew as a result of a motorbike accident and I can truly say it has been a nightmare from which I would like to awaken from, but unfortunately cannot.
How do you prepare for such devastation to your life? How do you cope with such a life altering experience? In the beginning the pain was so intense that I prayed to the Dear Lord to let me join my precious son, I was of no use to anyone in this world.
With the help of my dear family, especially my sister and my Granddaughter Lucy, I knew I had to pull myself together, even if it was for their sake. I found solace in The Compassionate Friends, I looked at these lovely people who were much more down the track than myself and marveled at their courage. Would I ever be able to smile again someday? I made myself do things. It was so hard, it would have been much easier to curl up into a ball and die. I thought if they can do it so can I. They all offered such encouragement.
I learnt that it was all right to cry, there are no hard and fast rules with grief we are all different and so grieve differently. They understand that you do not “get over” losing a child but learn to cope with it as best you can. They understood that you have bad days and need someone to talk to and they are always there.
I feel that my wound is very slowly healing, but I know that the scar will always be there. When you lose a child whether they are young or old you lose a part of you that will never return. So if you are in early grief be patient with yourself, it takes a great deal of time to learn to live with your loss. Remember the greater the love, the greater the loss.

Index



MISSING FIRSTS

Whenever you talk to someone about the loss of your Child
they always commiserate with you,
Saying how sorry they are for your loss.
And I’m sure they are. So am I.
But I can’t help thinking.
What of my child and what she’s lost?
My daughter wanted so much from life.
She couldn’t wait to experience all those firsts, like,
The first day of school.
Her first school photo.
A first sleepover at a friends.
Her first birthday party invite.
Her first real boyfriend.
Her first kiss.
The first signs of boobs.
Her first dance.
Her first day at high school.
Graduation.
Her first driving lesson
Her first job.
The first car.
Getting married.
Having babies.
What of her dreams?
My daughter knew exactly what she wanted,
even if she didn’t always understand it.
She had so few firsts.
So what, she’s dead.
Someone will always say to me.
She won’t know that she’s missing these things.
But I know.

Lovingly written and submitted by Jeanette Gustafsson, TCF, Qld, 5/10/05

Index



Tears on my Pillow…..
30/3/87 to 23/12/04
By Kim Bauer, TCF Qld, loving Mother of Tyrone Patrick Fai Fua,

Time does not heal, a broken heart so sad
When once filled with happiness,
nothing seemed so bad.
Then came along a dark cloud,
that took my son away
Now life has no more meaning
it’s hard to go on each day.
No words could ever express,
how proud he made me feel
With goals and ambitions,
he made them all so real.
He had a lot to live for,
he was the best at what he did
And everyone who knew him,
knew Tyrone just loved to live. .
There are no words of comfort,
life will never be the same
For darkness sits upon me,
and there’s not a soul to blame.
It’s an ocean of emotions,
full of turmoil and despair
A sadness too hard to deal with,
a pain too hard to bear.
Yet through this sea of sorrow,
lives a memory full of joy
That memory being 17 years,
of a beautiful loving boy.
And in each of us Tyrone lives on,
forever in our heart
That treasure we will always have,
that only Tyrone could have brought

Index



THE SECOND TIME AROUND
By Richard Mirabile “We Need Not Walk Alone”, Autumn, 2005, TCF, Oak Brook IL, USA

As bereaved parents, our lives are marked by events that are characterized as “before” and “after”. In the past decade there have been three events that have changed my life forever. The first occurred on May 4, 1997, when my son Richard Jr died suddenly by suicide at the age of 24. He was about to enter basic training in the US Navy the next day. Life as we knew it came to an end. After the initial shock and denial began to subside, we began our very long and lonely grief journey.
My wife needed to find answers, was filled with guilt and anger, and needed to explore the whys and what-ifs. I began to read everything I could find that dealt with the death of a child, suicide, and grief. I tried to move quickly through the steps so that I could “get on with my life”. We all grieve very differently, but at the time I had no idea that this is normal. I tried to get my wife to move along with me, but it didn’t work. We eventually settled back into our jobs, and the subject of our son’s death often ended in conflict. As time marched on, my grief was neatly buried in a package that sat in a place nobody could find. My son was certainly not discussed at work, but I was functioning and felt I was doing okay.

The second event occurred about two years later, I was on a bus touring the West when I met a couple named Ceil and John. We were placed together for dinner and as pleasantries were being exchanged, the dreaded question surfaced: “How many children do you have?” Ceil later told me that the minute I hesitated, she knew I was a bereaved parent. The rest of the week was spent talking of my son’s life, his death, and my journey for the last two years. I had found people who really were interested in what I had to say. They didn’t change the subject and they didn’t run away. For the first time since my son died, I could talk freely outside of my home. Ceil told me about TCF, and with my promise to find a local chapter when I returned to Boston, we said our good-byes. She also told me of a TCF National Conference being held in Virginia the following year.
Ceil is a persistent person, and when I returned home I found the local chapter. To my surprise, I found that the meetings were held in the same parish where my son was buried.
I attended the first meeting and felt I had found a new home that was safe and loving. I could now tell my story to people who would listen and not judge.
The next year I attended my first TCF national Conference. One of the first people I met was a woman whose four children had died. I was overwhelmed by the numbers, the love, and the sharing that took place during those three days. I attended a workshop given by Rich Edler on “finding Joy Again:”. He spoke of gifts that we received from our children who die and about a new life with new meaning. He even suggested that we might become better persons because of what we had been through. I hadn’t experienced any of these gifts, but I was uplifted and hopeful. When it was time to leave, I was frightened to reenter the real world; it was painful to take off the badge I had worn the previous three days.
It didn’t take long for me to find one of those gifts. Shortly after returning home, I learned that the brother of a colleague had died. I knew that I must go and talk to her mother because I had been there and I could. I was frightened, but somehow the words just came to me. We talked of her pain and about TCF, and she soon became a regular at our meetings. For the first time, I saw something positive that resulted from my son’s death. My life once again had new meaning. I became more committed to and involved in TCF. I was learning that “helping is healing”, and the more I gave, the more I seemed to get back. More gifts arrived as I became able to speak and write about my journey.
November 21, 2004, brought the third event that further defined my life. We were sitting with four other members of TCF from different parts of the country at lunch discussing the upcoming 2005 National Conference at the Copley Marriott. My wife was with me and one other member of our chapter and, of course, my friend Ceil. Of the six of us, two had suffered multiple losses. On the way home we discussed how remarkable it is that people can go on and do remarkable things with their lives after suffering such loss. At that moment we did not realize we were also already members of that group of those who have suffered multiple losses. We drove by the mortuary in Boston, and I mentioned how horrible the journey to identify my son had been almost eight years earlier. At that time I did not realize that my daughter Lynn’s body had already been taken there. We arrived home to the news that our daughter Lynn had died earlier that day. The journey had begun once again. Our TCF friends arrived, and my friend Ceil stayed with us until after the funeral, giving up Thanksgiving with her family. We were surrounded by love and support, and I again realized what it means to be “a Compassionate Friend”. Little has been written about those who have suffered multiple losses. The impact has been devastating. Our family has shrunk by 40 percent. My surviving child, Libby, is 24 years old and has gone from being the youngest to being the only surviving child. There are now two empty rooms in our home. But some things are different from the first time we experienced loss. From the moment I heard of Lynn’s death, I knew that being newly bereaved the second time was the last place I ever thought I would be. I also knew that, as bad as I felt, it would not be like that forever. I had traveled this road before I knew that I was not alone, had acquired new tools, and had a very large family of TCF-ers I could lean on. I knew that my wife and I would grieve very differently, as we had before, but that was okay, and we would respect each other’s way of dealing with grief. And I also knew I must carry on my involvement with TCF in order to survive. I now had two children whose memories must be kept alive. Rich Edler had taught me that I could help because I had been there.
Because my family was that much smaller, we each had to do more to make Richard and Lynn proud of us. For the next six months I was kept busy with plans for the 2005 National Conference. It was a labor of love done in memory of my children. My wife and daughter also helped, and we all learned that “helping is healing”. I also realized that becoming involved with the conference was a way to postpone some of the pain and emptiness that I knew would resurface.
It was 12.30pm on Sunday, July 3. The 28th National Conference had ended, and most of those who had attended had left the hotel. I looked around to see if there were any more good-byes, to say, any more of those TCF hugs to receive before I left the world of understanding, comfort, and love. I had inhabited this place for the past three days and was reluctant to reenter that “other world” where we are invisible in our grief to most whom we meet. How difficult it is to take off the badges that we all wear so proudly, giving our children faces, as well as names. They are the tools we use to tell others our stories. I’d had the chance to visit and share with many friends. I had been educated, entertained, and wrapped in support. I had also had the privilege to serve on the conference committee and share my experience in a workshop. This work has helped to give purpose to my life and the lives of my children. Many members of our chapter experienced a TCF conference for the first time and we have shared our experiences. We have been brought closer by working together and walking in memory of our children. As I think of the last six months, I realize that this conference will stand as a very important part of my grief journey.
I had left that cocoon and once again was brought back to the realization that my grief is still very raw and I have far to go. But I also see that I walk with so many ready to help. I know that we may distract ourselves with work or other activities, take our grief in measured doses, and postpone our journey to regain some strength, but it is a journey that will still lie ahead. Darcie Sims talked about grief that after over twenty-five years is still just “under the surface”, ready to make its appearance at any time. As time goes on we become better able to manage the grief and place it in that spot when we need to.
November will be a difficult month for my family as we remember my son Richard’s 33rd birthday on November 16 and the one-year anniversary of my daughter Lynn’s death on November 21. Some years it is harder to give thanks than others. I have received many gifts this year. The best ones came with a badge, a child’s picture, and a TCF hug.

Index



Just Fine
“I’m just fine.”
“I’m just fine.”
People say it all the time,
But the words are oft so empty
Just like the nursery rhymes.

“I’m just fine.”
“I’m just fine.”
A friend’s career is on the line.
Drinking and self-medicating
— loneliness and emptiness combined.

“I’m just fine.”
“I’m just fine.”
A mother lost her son.
Suicide was brief and cold,
Her guilt is weighed in tons.

“I’m just fine.”
“I’m just fine.”
I’m no longer in control.
Anxiety and depression
Seem to be on a roll.

“I’m just fine.”
“I’m just fine.”
So hollow and not true.
O grant us God the wisdom
To really see this through.

“I’m just fine.”
“I’m just fine.”
The charades of words will end,
And with god’s grace and mercy,
We will find the peace
That only comes from Him.

Bereavement Magazine, October 1992

Index



A Fact
By James L Miller Bethel, Minnesota Bereavement Mag, July/Aug 2000 www.bereavementmag.com

Too much love,
Too little time.
But better that
Than loveless life.
So use the time
To give your love.
When time is gone
The love lives on.

Index



Stillborn
(The Death of my Grandchild)
By Barbara W. Laughland, Billerica, Massachusetts, Bereavement Magazine June 1991

This tiny soul has returned from whence it came,
Back to the shadow side to await rebirth.
Unborn, untried in this earthly plane of light and pain,
Your little form,
so perfect to behold,
was already deeply loved.
Many new threads had been added
to the tapestry of this waiting family.
I touch you with my heart,
and hold you,
This child of spirit,
In my memory for all my days.

Index





Memories of Loved Ones
Contributed by Patricia Cotterill, TCF Qld, mother of Rebecca, who passed away 25th December 2002, aged 25.

The time of concern is over.
No longer are we asked how we are doing.
Never are the names of our loved ones mentioned to us.
A curtain descends.
The moment has passed.
Lives slip from frequent recall.
For most the drama is over.
The spotlight is off.
Applause is silent.

But for us the play will never end.
The effect on us is timeless.

Say their names to us.

On the stage of our lives they have been both lead
and supporting actors and actresses.
Do not tiptoe around one of the greatest events of our lives.
Love does not die.
Their names are written on our lives.
The sounds of their voices replay within our minds.

You say they were our loved ones,
we say they are.

Say their names to us and say their names again.

It hurts to bury their memory in silence.
What they were in flesh is no longer with us.
What they were in spirit stirs within us always.
They are of our past, but they are part of our now.
They are our hope for the future.
You say not to remind us.
How little you understand we cannot forget.
We would not if we could.

Index or Top of Page

The Privilege
By Rhada j Artz, RN, York, Pennsylvania www.bereavementmag.com Jul/Aug 2000

Birth and death are milestones.
They are the greatest milestones in a person’s life.
Whoever had the opportunity or the invitation
to attend these events has been given a privilege and an honor.
This honor should be neither overlooked nor abused.
The honor should be neither denied or feared,
but embraced with an awe of the mystery of life.
To exist means we were born.
To live means we shall die.

Index

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