More Comfort from Ann Hood

I wrote about attending a group meeting of bereaved parents shortly after Caitlin died. I attended too early after her death, but there was a special guest speaker, Ann Hood. I thought I would hear words of encouragement and see parents who survived and were thriving despite the death of their children. I left talking to myself, repeating the words "unacceptable" over and over. I found myself in a room of pain and received no "comfort" from Ann Hood.

Of course since then, I've grown a great deal and I understand that the grief group is likely the only place many parents can grieve openly, and that what I saw was not my future for everyday of my life. I'm still irritated that I get selling emails from Ann to sell her books, because it reminds of that most awful day. So, how did I receive more comfort from Ann this time?

A hug, "I'm sorry," and a look of sincere understanding.

I had not intended to attend a dedication ceremony at my place of employment, but when I happened upon the event as I was leaving the library, one of my students showed me the program. I glanced at the list of a series of speakers, and a name caught my eye--Ann Hood. I stayed, not to hear the dedication, but to hear Ann's speech. I wanted to hear that she could deliver an uplifting speech and I wanted to stop being angry with a stranger--one who has written beautiful books of which I have read one.

As I sat listening to the speeches of gratitude, and the listing of accomplishments, I stared down at my hands and felt that familiar horrible longing for being somewhere else. Somewhere where I was not a professional women, but a mom at home complaining about not being fulfilled. I see a little hand wrap her hand over mine. I feel my daughter's hand upon mine and I close my eyes. She leans her head against my shoulder and pushes it into my chest--that snuggling mothers cherish. And I rest there with my dream--or was it an angel visit--it felt real and I didn't seem to be actively imagining it--rather the images, the physical sensations came to me. I hear her tell me through love that "it's OK, I'm here." I exhale and open my eyes and wait for Ann's speech.

It was short and lovely--about books and libraries. There was sincerity in her words and she was smiling and I saw a bereaved mother who was surviving and finding a way to thrive. I had my computer and camera for later work and I snapped a pic, because it seemed to be a part of my grief journey. I thought about introducing myself to her, but was sure there wouldn't be an opportunity. While everyone was moving past the jazz combo, working their way toward the refreshments, I took the quickest way out. And it happened that Ann came down the podium steps at that time.

I walked up and introduced myself. "You don't know me, but I was at the parents' bereavement group meeting about a year ago, and I wanted to thank you for what you've been doing for bereaved parents." She smiled and let me hold her hand. "My daughter had only been dead 11 weeks so it wasn't a good thing for me at the time, but thank you." "Oh, I'm so sorry," she responds, and gives me a big hug. "Well, I know you aren't here for this, but I wanted to say 'thanks.'"

I was afraid she'd think I was a crazy person, but I shouldn't have worried. I think bereaved parents know that at any time you will feel grief and you will encounter others on a similar journey. And there is comfort in that.

An interesting side note: I had an appointment in a nearby city that evening and missed the exit I needed. In winding my way to my destination, I found myself in slow moving traffic on side city streets. At one point I come to a complete stop, and I look around--and see the congregational church where that bereavement group meeting was held.

Comfort from Ann Hood

Click here to see a Youtube video to get a sense of what comfort a bereaved mother might find in Ann Hood's writing. She reads from her book, "The Knitting Circle." I haven't read that one, but did finish "Comfort: A Journey Through Grief" last night.

"Comfort" by Ann Hood

In just weeks after Caitlin died, I heard of a non-denominational group that helps bereaved parents cope, and so I attended a meeting on "How to Cope with the Holidays" with a special speaker, Ann Hood. Truth be known. I didn't care about the topic. After all, I wasn't even aware that there were holidays. The day after Caitlin's funeral we had Thanksgiving dinner at my house. It was surreal. The years of holiday dinners kicked in and we celebrated being together as a family, and for me her death loomed over it all. But we were thankful to be together, that I remember. I smiled that day.

Oh, dear, I've lost focus. . . .

So, I go alone to the group session. I entered already tear-stained and shaking and hunched over--a posture I held for months and still sometimes return to when the grief folds me again. I'm greeted by two lovely women, leaders of the group and bereaved mothers. They welcome me and ask about Caitlin. I answer, but I don't remember the rest of the conversation. I'm introduced to others and Kleenex boxes are placed in the several places in the center of a circle of about 30 chairs. I'm introduced and seated next to a pregnant woman, whose first child died as an infant from SIDS. This mom had flowing red hair and her love for her child radiated from her. We talk and I feel this hope that I'm sitting next to a baby. Yup, I felt comforted by the presence of a baby I couldn't see or hold, and wasn't mine. But, somehow it was proof on some level that babies could live. That was an anchor for me, the growing baby.

Oh, dear, I've lost focus again . . .

There were more than the usual number of chairs, because of our special speaker, Ann Hood, who wrote "The Knitting Circle" and the not yet published "Comfort." We were there to hear her story and hear some hope and feel some comfort.

The meeting starts We passed a rock with butterflies painted on it and as each parent held the rock, they told raw and painful stories of their dead children and their grief became as hard and cold as that rock. As the butterflies fluttered to each shaking bereft hand the cold hard pain continued to pummel me. When I received the rock, I remember saying something that identified who I was and that I was Caitlin's mother and she had died just a few weeks earlier and then I stared at the stone butterflies and remembered how the symbol that was once hopeful throughout my life was now stone. The beautiful gold butterfly earrings my husband gave to me with a smile and sweet words, "They made me think of you and your spirit." The butterfly icon I used when I first posted a care message on Caitlin's page for family and friends far away with the message, "A beautiful butterfly for a beautiful girl." And the baby onsies with butterflies on them.

"And I'm scared," I said, "I'm so scared." The stone butterflies layed their heaviness into the hands of the parent to my right and though there were 10 more stories, I was deaf. I hear a dull roar and could only remember the weight of that stone in my hands and the weight of Caitlin's dead body in my arms, when I looked at my husband and whispered, "She's not here anymore. I can feel it. She's not here anymore."


Oh, dear, I must focus . . .

The speaker, it was her turn. The stone was in her hands and I thought, "OK, now here is where I will hear some comfort. I'll see some evidence that I can survive this." The dead cold stone drew out her story of the death of her child. We heard the sad details and the devastation it visited upon her and her family. And my pain becomes unbearable and the meeting is over. I hug one woman and leave with the stories pounding inside my ears and crushing my heart. And a rock gives way and I find myself swept away in an avalanche of death rock and stone.




I leave with ax desperately swinging and trying to anchor it somewhere to save myself. I hear me talking to myself, trying to self-sooth with a mantra of "This is unacceptable. Unacceptable. This is unacceptable." I found myself in my car, holding my keys and trying to remember what to do with them. And grateful only for the landing.








What of "Comfort" by Ann Hood? I may discover that another day.