Silent Periods of Grief: Normal and Perfectly OK

oday marks the eighth anniversary of my granddaughter's funeral.  Our annual week of painful memories will wind down this evening after I recall details of the luncheon and the multiple vehicles it took to get floral arrangements out of the church.

I know that it has been months since my last entry here and it's not because I haven't had time to update or that there's been a lack of inspiration.  Anyone who knows me is well aware that I always have an idea and something to say!  The other day I realized exactly why I haven't posted: I simply have not wanted to.  I wanted it all to myself for awhile.  It's quite strange for me and I can only blame it on yet another phase of my grief process.

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In fact, I wrote a piece earlier this week that remains scratched on the pages of a notebook that I use for original drafts.  It was inspired by an email I received on the day of the accident anniversary, encouraging me to submit an uplifting message in Kitty's memory for her family.  The email came from legacy.com, the obituary website, and, in short, I thought it was very nice that others would be invited to once again show their kindness and support for us.  Yet, that bit of my writing is still on paper, possibly never to be posted.

This weighs on me, my not wanting to add to my blog.  I feel guilty.  So, I need to assure myself that this silent period is OK.  It's just another step along my grief path.  There are no rules to grief.  My feelings and thoughts belong only to me and what and when I want to write is my personal choice.  No explanation needed.  

Rest assured, Kitty is always in my heart and on my mind as are my living grandchildren and the sorrow of other bereaved grandparents.  I cringe every time I see an obituary or hear a news story reporting the death of a child.  My heart goes out to the family.  And despite my recent reluctance to share, I am grateful for the many ways I continue to remember my granddaughter.

Since my last post, I accepted a volunteer leadership role at Children's-MN.  In November, both Mandy and I were invited to join a newly formed committee specific to the family experience in the pediatric intensive care unit at Children's.  These two new commitments bring my total number of meetings to an average of one per week.  Every meeting begins with introductions that require telling the group what brings us to the table.  Weekly, I am prodded to remember and to audibly report a condensed version of what happened to our family eight years ago this week.  Last Tuesday's meeting was especially emotional when Mandy shared that we were in the midst of anniversary week.

Changes of the seasons also provide an abundance of remembrance.  The winter snow gives us ample opportunity to visit Kitty at the cemetery where we shovel a path to her gravesite in order to keep a candle burning.  In the spring, we remove our formerly frozen-in decorations and clear the stone to make way for the growth of fresh grass.  Trimming around her marker happens almost weekly during the summer months.  Autumn is my favorite time of year, when decorations are left in place until Mandy or I switch from a harvest theme to a Christmas wreath, holiday knick-knacks and poinsettias.

Kitty is on my mind throughout every season, during every meeting and just as often as I think of every one of my other grandchildren.  Grief also is ever-present, in whatever form it bears itself, whether it chooses to express - or not to express - itself.  It's normal, it's natural and, most importantly, it's perfectly OK.   ​