Tami Lund & a Mother’s Ramblings

The sunshine makes me feel better. It’s cold (it’s March and I live in Michigan, after all), but it still feels good to sit outside. Okay, maybe not good, exactly, but certainly calming. Soothing. Maybe even healing, if that’s truly possible.

You see, I lost my son this month. He was thirteen years old, and he made the very permanent decision to leave our world. I will never understand why, and frankly, I don’t want to. Understanding, having answers, isn’t going to bring him back, so I have no interest in dwelling there.

I have a daughter also. She’s ten. On the verge of all that teenage angst we all go through, and which my son could not handle. I’m sure you can imagine how afraid I am, worried about how we are going to make it through the next few years. I doubt I will breathe normally until she is fourteen, at least. Probably more like forty.

I’ve been cleaning my house, cleaning up after all the company, and cleaning in general. I’m one of those people who, when it’s time (okay, past time) to put away the Christmas decorations, I still leave out all the snowmen and snowflakes and mittens and anything that is more winter than Christmas. Except it’s March and spring has officially arrived and I’m a stress cleaner, so now I’m packing all those things away. And in the process I broke down in tears (again) because I’ve realized how incredibly hard Christmas will be this year. Not only for the obvious reasons (only one kid to celebrate with, only one kid in the traditional jammie pic, only one… everything), but also because of all those homemade decorations I’ve kept over the years. And all the personalized ornaments.

I’m also one of those people who loves, loves, loves personalized ornaments. And every single year, I’ve deliberately purchased a new ornament for each of my two children, with the intention of giving the baubles to them when they get married, so they can start their own traditions. Now, at some point down the line, my tree won’t be nearly as bare as it should be.

I didn’t mean for this to become such a melancholy post, although I will admit, writing is therapeutic. Shocking, right?

We’re going to keep on living. I mean, we don’t have a choice, right? My husband and I are pulling together; this is not going to tear us apart like I know it could so easily do. We are going to figure out how to help our daughter cope, how to help her live, help her be happy; and yet, somehow figure out how not to smother her, which I suspect could be dangerously easy to do. But we won’t. I hope.

One thing I will mention before I go, in the midst of a terrible tragedy that no parent should ever have to live through, I will say, we discovered an amazing support network. We knew we had friends, of course, and we knew they were pretty damn special. But we could not remotely comprehend just how truly blessed we are, until this happened. Everyone has rallied around us—our neighbors, our families, our co-workers, our friends, my author friends, most of whom I’ve never met in person. Everyone. We have had so much support during this incredibly difficult stage of our lives, I am humbled and stunned and so incredibly grateful. I could not have gotten through this without them—you all.

So thank you.

Tami Lund Headshot 2014

Tami Lund is an author, a wine drinker, and an occasional depressing blog post writer. Normally, however, she writes happily ever afters, one book at a time. Feel free to stalk her website: www.tamilund.com

14 thoughts on “Tami Lund & a Mother’s Ramblings

  1. Tami, I know any words I leave for you here will be insufficient. My heart aches for you and yet I am so inspired by your family’s bravery. I don’t think anything in this world has frightened me as much as the prospect of my sons hitting their teen years and a part of me greets every day with trepidation. Will my support be enough to help them through their problems? I pray it will. I’m sending you lots of virtual hugs, always, and hope your writing will continue to help you heal.

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  2. Oh Tami, I am so, so sorry. My heart aches for you and your family. Thank you for sharing your story and reminding us of how precious and fragile life is.

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  3. Tami, I couldn’t get through your post without crying. No mother should have to face such a terrible loss. My heart bleeds for you. If you need a vacation in the sun, I live in South Florida, and you and your family are most welcome. Deepest condolences.

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  4. Thank you for sharing your story with us, Tami. It’s the world’s greatest sorrow to go through what you are going through. Know that the world, anyone who hears about your story will feel your pain, even though it may only be in their imaginations, not necessarily their reality. Our hearts pour out to you and your family to help you heal.
    Bless you, your husband, daughter and son. May your memories of him keep him close to you, and help you cope when you need them. Go through what you need to get to the other side. We are all sending you positive healing prayers and thoughts.

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  5. Tami, I am so sorry for your loss. Thank you for sharing your thoughts and feelings because, as I hope it helped you to share your grief, I’m sure you will help others who live your grief. Your courage is inspiring. Keeping you and your family in prayer.

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  6. You put it so beautifully. You have a way with words and I couldn’t help but think about my own daughter’s brush with death. It’s hard to know just what to do, say, be when all you want to do is help (not smother). I’ve found myself afraid many times since that one day…afraid of what she says or doesn’t say. Afraid she’d try again and praying that things all work out.

    I’m sending you hugs and my own prayers for healing, because I know it’s always two steps forward and one step back. Memories have a way of making you laugh and bringing tears to your eyes. But most of all, they reinvigorate the love in your heart.

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  7. There are no words. I can not even begin to fathom what your family is going through. The emotional struggles as the mother, after carrying your baby for nine months and developing a bond no other person can compare to. The balance between finding time for your own grieving while also being there for your daughter. And your husband. The urge to run away and hide and mourn in solitude while feeling guilty because others need you as well. The urge to never be alone and hover over your daughter, your husband, your loved ones, never knowing if this will be the last time you’ll ever hug them again. All while the world continues to operate around you as if your universe didn’t just come crashing down on you.

    In the past two months we’ve had a death in the family and my son was diagnosed with type 1 diabetes. I felt what I mentioned above, and what I experienced is only a tiny fraction of the pain that you’re going through. Following your posts, reading your story, has made me more grateful and thankful for what I have, and less sorrowful for the multiple crises that have bombarded us. I don’t know how you’re doing it, how you’re able to write cohesive sentences and get up every day, but I marvel at your strength–even though you may not be feeling strong these days.

    I’m rambling because I don’t know what to say, but I want to say something. As you said in your post, this experience can make or break your family, and it sounds like you’re working your tail off to bring everyone closer together. I commend you, respect you, and admire what you’re doing.

    Signing off from my ramblings,
    Hugs and a toast to finding strength in our weakest moments,
    Marianne

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  8. Thank you for sharing this. My son went to school with your son, and it is so sad and I can’t stop thinking about you and your family and what you must be going through. Even though I don’t know you personally, I shared your blog post on my Facebook page because I felt it was beautifully written, the way you express a part of what your going through. I am so very sorry for you loss and I send you lots of love.

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  9. Pingback: Intro-Extrovert… I’m So Damn Confused – Tami Lund

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