(Note from Doni: I met Lori Whitmore more than three years ago when her little “Cheddar” – her son Chad Whitmore – was sick, and I wrote a column about a fundraiser to help with the family’s medical expenses. Later, Lori took a photograph of a grinning little Chad who held a sign bigger than his body that said “Thank you!”
She brought it to me at work the day she came to place Chad’s obituary in the paper. I taped that photo by my computer monitor at work where I looked at it many times a day. It was a good lighten-up reminder, a visual prompt to help me keep life in perspective. I now keep it by my home computer for the same reason. I have a hunch I’m not the only one who uses Chad’s photo in this way.
Chad Warren Whitmore was born Jan. 5, 2000. He had Down Syndrome, which made him more susceptable to cancer. He was diagnosed with leukemia in 2004 and died March 12, 2005. He was 5.
The piece below was written by Lori Whitmore for one of Stanford Medical Center’s newsletters where it was published after the one-year anniversary of Chad’s death. I thank Lori and her family for sharing their story of profound love and loss with us. )
By Lori Whitmore
It has been a whole year since my Cheddar went to heaven. This “anniversary” as they call it has been a day thought of as a significant day of some sort. It is supposed to be a magic time of healing. At least that is what everyone says.
Now that the time is upon me, I find myself a bit at a loss for words. We’re doing OK; we’re getting on with our lives; we miss Chad, but keep him in our hearts. All clichés, I know, but clichés are rooted in truth. These are no exceptions. Grief is hard to describe because it’s so individual, so unpredictable, so ragged around the edges.
My family is different, yet the same. We each have many identities in our lives: mother, father, spouse, sister, colleague, friend. We move among these identities as needed, depending on whom we are with. When I am at home, I’m a mother and a wife. When I’m at work with my colleagues, I’m a professional. On the phone with my mother, I’m a daughter.
But “grieving parent” is a persona, too. Except it isn’t one with an audience or partner. It is a private persona. You can give yourself over to it, you can deny it, but short of these extremes, it’s challenging to integrate grieving into your life. I am still continuing the very real struggle to find the right way to grieve.
Sometimes I use “magical thinking” to help. I think of what it would be like if Chad ran into the room right now demanding ketchup or help at the pantry shelf to get a snack. What it would be like to have him demand a cup under his pillow before naptime or have his food positioned just right on the table and a towel laid just perfect under his bench before he will sit down to eat. How happy he would be to ride his bikes around his track his Daddy made for him in the back yard. How happy he would be to plan his next escape out the front door and how happy I would be to run after him down the street as he laughed at me.
Magical or not, it’s a comfort to keep Chad’s memory warm. The loss is just too much to handle all at once. Absorbing the loss over time seems to help.
Grieving is a lonely process. Our family all shared a common mission to take care of Chad when he was here. We were in the same boat, rowing in the same direction. Grief, however, is altogether different. We are alone now, each in our own boat, heading in our own direction. It is a shock after being so close, suddenly to find ourselves alone. It has been hard to stay glued together as a family now that our experiences are no longer shared, our emotions no longer lined to each other through Chad.
Don’t get me wrong. The bond is still tight. But it is definitely easy to understand how families drift apart in grief and just wander off in their own directions. When they finally look up, everyone around them is gone.
Grieving is so unique there isn’t anything to “hang” onto. There is no beginning and there is no end. You don’t “get over” the death of a child or “resolve” your grief into a neat little package.
This may sound strange, but I have often craved a how-to manual. I find it hard to believe that there really are different stages of grief. The word “stage” means progression and order. There’s nothing orderly or progressive about it. You’re fine one week (or moment) and uncontrollably weepy the next. Seeing parents and children at the park or store might delight or depress you. There is no telling. You walk through your days hoping that if you behave as if you’re fine, your attitude will come around to match. Some days it even works. But the idea or notion that you begin in denial, then move to anger, and after that a couple more stages I can’t remember, you finally arrive at peace and acceptance; well, that’s just not how it works.
Each of us has our own coping mechanism – our own drug of choice, so to speak. My daughter Sami’s clear drug of choice is denial. She is 16 and seems to live in a world where all kids are the same to her. She wants to think nothing bad has happened to her and she is not different or changed. This mostly works, except when some reminder punctures her bubble. Then she falls apart and can’t be consoled. She can’t believe that everyone around her is so insensitive, treating her “like nothing’s happened.” But missing the obvious is a special talent of Sami’s, as well as most teenagers. She will be OK eventually. She is just on the extended plan for getting there.
I’m not sure what my husband TJ’s drug of choice is. It is a whole list of things: computer solitaire, dog walking, silent contemplation and most definitely fishing in his boat. He is never content for long and gets frustrated easily. He wants to move to another house. He is a strong and happy and funny man when things are normal. My heart grieves for the man he used to be. He will come around, as well. I think TJ and his daughter like to take their time with things. I understand completely.
My drug of choice is purposefulness (and antidepressants!). As long as I am busy and engaged and doing work that matters, I’m fine. I threw myself back into work soon after Chad’s funeral and it has been a refuge and a Godsend to me. My colleagues are terrific, and like family. I also took up reading novels. Almost compulsively. At home, I’m the great communicator. I force interaction. I mean that, too. I probe, nag and generally ensure that the three of us talk. We’re each allowed to drift in our own little boats, as far as I’m concerned, just as long as the boats don’t drift too far apart. I am the one who draws us back together, keep the other boats in sight. Whether they like it or not! I am the Mommy Coast Guard!
We are trying to hard to keep taking pleasures in life. We play a lot of cards, try to laugh and make dinner together. TJ still goes on his annual guy trips, fishes a lot and watches his favorite TV shows. Sami still hangs out with her friends, tries to keep her grades up and keeps us on our toes!
Sometimes I find things in my home that convince me it is a belated gift from my son: Matchbox cars piled in my lamp, toys in the couch, magnetic letters under the fridge and stove. I recently found something that I had been missing for at least a year, or maybe two. Where was it? Inside of one of Chad’s socks in his toy box. My little man and his socks! Another memory that makes me smile. Everyone who knew him remembers him taking his shoes off and using his socks for hand puppets every time we got in the car! Even his memories are gifts to me and will be forever.
Chad is a child everyone should be lucky enough to have. I was that lucky one, and I will never forget it. I will never stop thanking God for making me a better person by having Chad in my life.
I wish I could say a proper thank-you to everyone for the cards, letters, visits, calls, memorials and gifts. It eases our burdens to know that we are in their thoughts. I hope everyone knows that even if they didn’t hear back from us, they know that their words and prayers are much appreciated.
It’s been a whole year since Cheddar went to heaven. I try so hard to stay out of this virtual fog I am in. I feel like a fraud at times when I smile. It’s not true that every day gets a little easier. It is true that time and distance are helping. For more than a year we stepped out of the normal stream of time and put our lives on hold.
We’re sticking our toes in the stream, now, and slowly slipping back in.
