The Compassionate Friends Leesburg Chapter

 

Dear Leesburg TCF Members,

This is my last edition of the Leesburg Newsletter. What I have received from this group is immeasurable. You all supported and comforted my family and me in our greatest time of need.

Reaching out to all of you for five years has been a volunteer position for which I will be forever grateful.

 

I wish each of you continued healing. May you have more days filled with smiles and less days filled with tears. However, when you feel like crying, make time to do just that. What I’ve realized is that grieving the death of a child is a life-long task. I know that I will never “resolve” or “accept” Adam’s death. Adam died a tragic death at the beginning of his adulthood. I cannot dwell on the fact that addiction finally won its battle over Adam’s life. I try not to get stuck on the “whys” and the “what ifs.” My life goes on and I will continually learn to live with the pain of Adam’s death while honoring his life and remember the many good years that we had together.

 

May you be blessed with family and friends who are willing to walk with you in your grief. May your pain not be the central focus in your life. I wish you peace.

 

Fondly,

Theresa Heitz, June 2009

In loving memory of Adam Lewis Heitz (1982 – 2003)

 

I think of you each morning.

You’re on my mind throughout the day.

Each place I go, I remember when. . .

Dear God, please light my way.

 

Can I tell you that I love you?

Can I tell you I still care?

Can I tell you that I miss you?

This is all so much to bear.

 

Do you know that I’m still grieving?

Do you know I hide so much?

I wish that I could hold you.

I can almost feel your touch.

 

I think I’m doing “better.”

However that’s supposed to feel.

For one thing I am certain -

God’s grace will help me heal.

 

April 2009

~Theresa Heitz

 

 

A SPECIAL THANK YOU TO:

Bev and Bernie Elero, chapter leaders,

Anne Shattuck, treasurer,

Julie and Burton Simonds, web masters,

Tammy Fossett, infant/toddler coordinator.

 

Thank you to all of our members who came to the meetings on a regular basis. We all became “compassionate” friends during our darkest hours. Also, to those of you I have “met” only through email, thank you for your emails and notes of encouragement. Bereaved parents reach out to me, and I, in turn, reach out to other newly bereaved. This will be my life-long journey, all in memory of my son, Adam, who is so deeply missed.

~tmh, 2009

 

Somehow over the past three years I never healed. It always seemed like one of those obvious milestones, like growing up and getting your period – something your body just knows how to do and does it at a certain time. So after one grieves, they heal, right?

 

So your brother dies. Your entire world falls apart and you sit in some unrecognizable, new world, forcing yourself to breathe while leaning on any offered shoulders. That would be stage one, the catastrophic stage. Then there should be successive stages following, right? Like a town that’s been mauled by a tornado, there would be steps to get the town back to working order. I always thought of grief in the same way, consisting of stages designed to aid in the “healing process” and bring the person back to some kind of working order. Somehow in the past three years, I realized it doesn’t work like that. The first stage only lasted until I forced a smile. Of course it wasn’t the same smile as before, when I could say I had one sister and two brothers and not feel my pulse rise when asked to give their ages. No, this was just a smile that says “I’m fine, you don’t have to worry about me any longer”. To most onlookers, these two smiles were indistinguishable, and that’s when I took a detour in the “healing process” and started playing pretend.

 

No one wants to be “the girl who lost her brother” for very long, especially me. I don’t like pity parties and I also don’t like burdening others, making them feel as though they have to behave a certain way around me. So this game of pretend worked out pretty well at first. No crying in front of others, for if they saw, the secret would be out: I’m not made of steel. I would be weak, and back at step one. I wasn’t going back, I was determined to be okay. The stages stopped after that.

 

I’ve been in the playing pretend stage for a while now, and I realize it’s synonymous with lying. I lie that I only have two siblings, I lie about why I’m really crying. I lie to myself that I’m okay and to others. Somewhere along the line, I even started believing these lies. I’ll think of Adam and for a split second it feels like he’s still at rehab and I’ll see him soon. I have to stop and tell myself that he’s not coming home, that he won’t be at my college graduation or my wedding. I guess that’s just my way of holding onto him. I chose my own path to heal, and it just so happened that the end result wasn’t what I

planned. I get a lump in my throat every time I think that I’ve outlived my brother. We used to ride bikes together and build forts. I’m not about to let go of those memories, I’m not going to say goodbye. I still have the band-aid on so no one can see the wound, but it’s still there. I’ll keep it always.

 

~ Erin Heitz, 2006 Editor’s Note: Erin is now 24-years old and married. At her wedding in October 2008, Erin’s younger

brother placed a white rose in the pew with the other groomsmen, in loving memory of Adam.

 

 

If you think of me as gone forever, I will be.

If you think of me as sadness and tears, I will be.

If you think of me as your broken heart, I will be.

That's not what I want to be, but I will be.

 

If you think of me as memories to cherish, I will be.

If you think of me as laughter and joy, I will be.

If you think of me as your healing heart, I will be.

That's what I want to be,

please, let me be.

 

~ Author Unknown

 

 

The child asked, “Why do you cry?”

“Because I am sad”, I said.

“Why are you sad?” asked the child.

“Because Marc is dead and I miss him,” I replied.

“but Marc has been dead for more than four years

Why are you still sad?”

“Because the longer he’s gone, the more I miss him.”

“Will you always be sad?” asked the child.

“Yes, I replied, “but only sometimes.”

“Is this one of those times?”

“Yes,” I said.

“I love you,” said the child.

“I love you, too.”

And then we both smiled.

 

By Moe Beres, TCF Babylon, NY Nov. 1992