In Memory Of
Corey Christopher James Michelle Marie James
1983 - 2003
Full NameCorey Christopher James Michelle Marie James
Born16th June 1983 31st March 1981
Passed Away17th August 2003 17th August 2003
20 Years22 Years
Normal is having tears waiting behind every smile when you realize someone important is missing from all the important events in your family's life. Normal for me is trying to decide what to take to the cemetery for Birthdays Christmas, Thanksgiving, New Years, Valentine's Day, July 4th and Easter. Normal is feeling like you know how to act and are more comfortable with a funeral than a wedding or birthday party...yet feeling a stab of pain in your heart when you smell the flowers and see the casket. Normal is feeling like you can't sit another minute without getting up and screaming, because you just don't like to sit through anything. Normal is not sleeping very well because a thousand what if's & why didn't I's go through your head constantly. Normal is reliving that day continuously through your eyes and mind, holding your head to make it go away. Normal is having the TV on the minute I walk into the house to have noise, because the silence is deafening. Normal is staring at every child who looks like he is my child's age. And then thinking of the age he would be now and not being able to imagine it. Then wondering why it is even important to imagine it, because it will never happen. Normal is every happy event in my life always being backed up with sadness lurking close behind, because of the hole in my heart. Normal is telling the story of your child's death as if it were an everyday, commonplace activity, and then seeing the horror in someone's eyes at how awful it sounds. And yet realizing it has become a part of my "normal". Normal is each year coming up with the difficult task of how to honor your child's memory and his birthday and survive these days. And trying to find the balloon or flag that fit's the occasion. Happy Birthday? Not really. Normal is my heart warming and yet sinking at the sight of something special my child loved. Thinking how he would love it, but how he is not here to enjoy it. Normal is having some people afraid to mention my child. Normal is making sure that others remember him. Normal is after the funeral is over everyone else goes on with their lives, but we continue to grieve our loss forever. Normal is weeks, months, and years after the initial shock, the grieving gets worse sometimes, not better. Normal is not listening to people compare anything in their life to this loss, unless they too have lost a child. NOTHING. Even if your child is in the remotest part of the earth away from you - it doesn't compare. Losing a parent is horrible, but having to bury your own child is unnatural. Normal is taking pills, and trying not to cry all day, because I know my mental health depends on it. Normal is realizing I do cry everyday. Normal is disliking jokes about death or funerals, bodies being referred to as cadavers, when you know they were once someone's loved one. Normal is being impatient with everything and everyone, but someone stricken with grief over the loss of your child. Normal is sitting at the computer crying, sharing how you feel with chat buddies who have also lost a child. Normal is feeling a common bond with friends on the computer in England, Australia, Canada, the Netherlands and all over the USA, but yet never having met any of them face to face. Normal is a new friendship with another grieving mother, talking and crying together over our children and our new lives. Normal is not listening to people make excuses for God. "God may have done this because..." I love God, I know that my child is in heaven, but hearing people trying to think up excuses as to why healthy children were taken from this earth is not appreciated and makes absolutely no sense to this grieving mother. Normal is being too tired to care if you paid the bills, cleaned the house, did laundry or if there is any food. Normal is wondering this time whether you are going to say you have three children or two, because you will never see this person again and it is not worth explaining that my child is in heaven. And yet when you say you have two children to avoid that problem, you feel horrible as if you have betrayed your child. Normal is avoiding McDonald's and Burger King playgrounds because of small, happy children that break your heart when you see them. Normal is asking God why he took your child's life instead of yours and asking if there even is a God. Normal is knowing I will never get over this loss, in a day or a million years. And last of all, Normal is hiding all the things that have become "normal" for you to feel, so that everyone around you will think that you are "normal".
18 Apr 2008
A BEREAVED PARENT’S WISH LIST
A BEREAVED PARENT’S WISH LIST 1) I wish my child hadn’t died. 2) I wish I had him back. 3) If I cry and get emotional when you talk about my child, I wish you would know it isn’t because you have hurt me. My child’s death is the cause of my tears. You have talked about my child and you have allowed me to share my grief. 4) I wish you wouldn’t “kill” my child again by removing his pictures, artwork or other remembrances from your home. 5) Being a bereaved parent is not contagious, so I wish you wouldn’t shy away from me. I need you now more than ever. 6) I need diversions, so I do want to hear about you, but I also want you to hear about me. I might be sad and I might cry, but I wish you would let me talk about my child, my favorite topic of the day. 7) I know that you think of and pray for me often. I also know that my child’s death pains you too. I wish you would let me know those things through a phone call, a card, a note or a real big hug. 8) I wish you wouldn’t expect my grief to be over in six months. These first months are traumatic for me, but I wish you could understand that my grief will never be over. I will suffer the death of my child until the day I die. 9) I am working very hard on my recovery but I wish you could understand that I will never fully recover. I will always miss my child, and I will always grieve that he is dead. 10) I wish you wouldn’t expect me “not to think about it” or to “be happy.” Neither will happen for a very long time. 11) I don’t want to have a “pity party” but I do wish you would let me grieve. I must hurt before I heal. 12) I wish you understood how my life has been shattered. I know it is miserable for you to be around me when I’m feeling miserable. Please be patient with me as I am with you. 13) When I say, “I am doing okay” I wish you could understand that I don’t “feel” okay and that I struggle daily. 14) I wish you knew that all of the grief reactions that I’m having are normal. Depression, anger, hopelessness, and overwhelming sadness are all to be expected. So please excuse me when I’m quiet and withdrawn or irritable and cranky. 15) Your advice to “take one day at a time” is excellent advice. However, a day is too much and fast for me right now. I wish you could understand that I am doing good to handle one hour at a time. 16) Please excuse me if I seem rude, that’s certainly not my intent. Sometimes the world around me goes too fast and I need to get off. When I walk away I wish you would let me find a quiet place to be alone. 17) I wish you understood that grief changes people. When my child died, a big part of me died with him. I am not the same person I was before my child died, and I will never be that person again. 18) I wish very much that you could understand my loss and grief, my silence and my tears, my void and my pain. BUT, I pray daily that you will never understand!
06 Feb 2007