"You Don't Want to be a Member "
October 12, 2005
I returned recently from leading a weekend writing retreat on Emerald
Isle. Sounds delightful, right? Imagine lying on the sand, letting your
thoughts meander across the page, taking long beach walks, swimming. You
sit in a circle with others, sharing newly minted words. A breeze wafts
off the Intracoastal Waterway. The perfect weekend.
Yes.
And no.
Yes, the weekend is beautiful. But it's a writing group we all wish we'd
never needed to join. We're all bereaved mothers -- mothers who have
lost children.
The group started as a day-long workshop in Winston-Salem in 2002. A
local hospice, a church and a college sponsored the event. I had taught
a lot of writing classes but never an all-day workshop devoted
exclusively to dealing with grief over the death of a child. I planned
the day carefully, working with a psychologist on the schedule and
content. I knew that the material we were dealing with was incredibly
volatile and hard.
The workshop met in a board room, around a long table. The 14 women
participants ranged in age from mid-20s to mid-60s. Some were religious;
others had lost their faith when their children died. Some were never
believers. Most of the women had done little writing. For introductions,
each woman wrote briefly about the death of her child and then read what
she had written.
One woman had lost a baby to SIDS; another, one of her twin sons soon
after birth. There were mothers of adult children who had died by
suicide. A woman lost both of her children in a car accident -- and the
driver of the car was her best friend's older son. The friend was also
there, having lost her own younger son in the same accident. There were
cancer deaths, sudden deadly infections. My son had died in open-heart
surgery.
The room was freezing cold, but the women began to thaw and open up.
They wrote about their lives before and after their losses, about
funerals, about their children's legacies. They wrote about grief
craziness, about the hideous trauma mothers should never have to endure.
No subject was off-limits. We had all "been there."
At the end of the day, the women wanted to meet again.
We met for a morning writing session six months later, at a hospice
center. Six months after that we met for a weekend in the mountains, at
a cabin somebody lent us. Ever since, we've been meeting every six
months. We stay in touch, between meetings, by IM and e-mail, and
in-person visits when we can. We're scattered across North Carolina and
Virginia.
We'd give anything to have our children back -- we'll always be full of
regret and grief. But there is a special solace in this group that comes
off the pens of these women. Writing helps to shift perspectives,
increase understanding, give fresh meaning to what we all know is a
life-long struggle, a life-long gash in our hearts. Now, when we get
together, we are comfortable enough to tease each other. At times we're
irreverent. We laugh heartily, cry heartily, and share hearty meals.
This last weekend we had a new member -- Katie Gray, age 3 months, the
daughter of our youngest mother. She's a tough, happy baby and she was
our centerpiece. We all held her, shared in her care. She brought so
much joy and healing. Soon, we'll have another baby girl. Her parents,
who lost both of her older brothers, haven't met their baby yet; she's
being adopted from China. But she already has a name.
Her name is Hope.
