My tears feel warm on my cheeks now—
Not burning hot.
Is this a sign I’m “getting better”?

When I cry now I am almost often alone.
In the car, in the shower.
Or sometimes taking a walk.
I do not cry in public or feel as much panic.
Is this a sign I’m “getting better”?

I sleep the night through sometimes
And awaken without tears—for awhile.
They come now while I’m brushing my teeth.
Or making coffee
And are always gone before I say “Good morning.”
Is this a sign “I’m getting better”?

Yes, I think so—but when does the pain end?

Perhaps when I no longer ask
Is this a sign I’m “getting better”?

Shirley Blakely Curle
TCF Central Arkansas

~ Stephanie St. Claire

For parents, the death of an adult child is a singular anguish

It is a parent’s worst nightmare. And for Dr. Stephen and Elizabeth Alderman, it came in the midst of what seemed like a dream.

The Aldermans and their three kids, Jeffrey, 31, Jane, 28, and Peter, 25, as well as Jeffrey’s wife Tobey, were vacationing in the Provence region of France in September to celebrate Stephen’s 60th birthday.

Peter, who worked in the financial-services division of Bloomberg L.P., returned to the U.S. on Sept. 8 to prepare for a conference that was being held at Windows on the World, on the 106th floor of 1 World Trade Center.

The conference was on Sept. 11.

“We knew right away that there was no hope for him,” says Elizabeth.

Their anguish was exacerbated by the fact that they could not get a flight home to Armonk, N.Y. (Michael Bloomberg sent his private jet for them.)

“While we were in France, we decided that the best way to memorialize Peter was to do something for his friends,” says his mother.

So on Sept. 19, the Aldermans threw a party at their home, replete with champagne, kegs of beer and food, for 125 of Peter’s friends from all chapters of his life.

“Two kids drove 2 1/2 days from San Francisco. Someone came from Oregon. He had friends from kindergarten who came,” says Elizabeth.

No one’s grief can be presumed to be greater than anyone else’s, but there is something special in a parent’s loss of a child, with the wrenching reversal of nature’s cycle of generations.

Says Patricia Loder, executive director of the Compassionate Friends, an international organization for bereaved parents and siblings, with 600 chapters in the U.S.:

“When you lose a grandparent, you lose part of your past. When you lose a spouse, you lose part of your present. But when you lose your child, you lose part of your future.”

Many of the more than 5,000 people killed in the terrorist attacks of Sept. 11 were adults in their 20s, 30s or 40s, with young children and proud parents.

As they begin adjusting to their tragically new and different life, bereaved parents often feel isolated because their loss makes others so uncomfortable; people simply don’t know how to respond.

Dr. Robert Baugher, a death and grief specialist in Seattle, says, “It’s so important for support people to be good listeners. That means you shut your mouth.

Do not start a sentence that begins with ‘At least,’ as in ‘At least he wasn’t in pain’ or ‘At least he led a full life.’

Your job when dealing with someone who’s bereaved is to let that person be in pain.”

Bereaved parents often say the best and most healing comfort is found in the presence of other bereaved parents.

“I’m not sure I would have survived without the Compassionate Friends. I was fairly convinced I was going nuts,” says Patrick Malone, 59, of Snellville, Ga.

“I was sitting across the table from a man who started talking about what he experienced that first year, and it was like every thought I was having had gone through his head. I was so comforted. People there will listen to your story as many times as you need to tell it.”

Kathy and Patrick Malone’s son Lance, 25, died in a motorcycle accident in 1995.

One thing they both experienced is that at some undefinable moment, they were able to give support to others, to listen and comfort.

“People always want to know which is the worst year,” says Kathy.

“I don’t think there’s an answer to that. Every year is different.”

Michelle Bodwell, 29, a marriage and family art therapist in Pasadena, Calif., lost her brother Chris when they were teenagers.

She found that her parents’ grief tended to overshadow her own. People would always ask her how her parents were doing and fail to direct the question to her as well.

“Siblings are often the forgotten grievers,” says Bodwell.

“Now I encourage people to teach others what they need from them.”

The pain never goes away, but there comes a time when people don’t feel paralyzed by it at every moment.

Karl and Sue Snepp of Tucson, Ariz., make a point of being with their daughter Karen every year on the anniversary of the death of their son Dave, who died of thyroid cancer in 1988 at 32.

“Last year we went to Hawaii,” says Karl, 70.

“That was where Dave wanted his ashes scattered, so it has become a special place for us.”

Much as the Aldermans did after Peter’s death, the Snepps celebrated their son’s life.

“We remembered Dave, and we snorkeled and swam, and we had a great time.”

by Heather Von Tesoriero

TIME Bonus Section/Generations/Bereavement
October 22, 2001 Vol. 158 No. 18

In the rising of the sun and its going down,
We Remember Them.
In the blowing of the wind and in the chill of winter,
We Remember Them.
In the opening of the buds and in the rebirth of spring,
We Remember Them.
In the blueness of the skies and in the warmth of summer,
We Remember Them.
In the rustling of the leaves and in the beauty of autumn,
We Remember Them.
In the beginning of the year and when it ends,
We Remember Them.
When we are weary and in need of strength,
We Remember Them.
When we are lost and sick of heart,
We Remember Them.
When we have joys and special celebrations we yearn to share,
We Remember Them.
Sp long as we live, they too shall live, for they are part of us,
We Remember Them.
From the Jewish Book Of Prayer

Do not stand at my grave and weep.
I am not there, I do not sleep.
I am a thousand winds that blow.
I am the diamond glints on the snow.
I am the sunlight on the ripened grain.
I am the gentle Autumn’s rain.

When you awaken in the morning hush,
I am the swift uplifting rush,
of quiet birds in circled flight.
I am the soft stars that shine at night.
Do not stand at my grave and cry:
I am not there, I did not die.
Author: Unknown

I lost my keys.
I lost my paper.
I lost my hat.
I lost my pen.
I lost my glasses.
I lost my comb.
I lost my iPod.
I lost my hair.
I lost my car.
I lost my cat.
I lost my dog.
I lost my job.
I lost my house.

What did you lose?

I lost my son.
Author: Al Coonrod

Albert, of course, was known by his friends as ET. He got the nickname after the movie was released and he was constantly told to call home as he went about his business and fun with his friends.

Lucy
Nov 1996