Sunday, December 23, 2012

Be prepared to help a child through traumatic times

NOTE: Although not related to my usual Baby Boom column, I wrote this piece as part of a story related to childhood grief. Hopefully people will find it helpful if they find themselves in the unfortunate position of needing the insight.

I got down on my hands and knees to peek under my aunt’s bed. The Siamese kitten peered back at me, and I called to lure her out. My best friend eagerly awaited the results of my quest because we both wanted to marvel at how soft her fur was.

Suddenly, I heard the front door open and my aunts walked into the bedroom.

“Sarah,” one of them said. “Your mom died. She’s gone.” She burst into tears and pulled me to her as my other aunt and friend cried quietly nearby.

And I just stood there. I never said a word. I never even made a sound and I was so still, it almost hurt to breathe.

There’s no doubt that my mother’s death from liver cancer would indelibly alter the course of my life forever. It is a constant reference point for me now from my childhood. There was Sarah before Mom died. And there was Sarah afterward.

Looking back now, I see some lessons that could have been helpful then, that I hope can be helpful to other families now. Childhood grief is an extremely powerful force, and most families and support networks are ill equipped to deal with the myriad ways in which a young adult will respond to losing a loved one. Each case is unique, each story precious to the survivor, who must carry the story with them forever.

In my case, my mother’s cancer advanced swiftly, claiming her life in less than a year — and only two months after her 40th birthday. I was 15 years old. She was a single parent, and I had no siblings, so after her prognosis was deemed terminal, I spent the remaining days of her life at her sister’s house or at my grandparents’ home, where my mother received hospice care.

During that time, I pretended as if nothing were happening. It was only real if I acknowledged it, I would tell myself. Maybe I expected a miracle to save her. Maybe my teenage mind just couldn’t comprehend such a harsh reality.

She died the week before final exams for my sophomore year in high school. The thought of returning to school made me nearly hysterical. All I wanted to do was sleep all day, watch TV all night in the dark and eat only when the physical demand became necessary.

They were the classic signs of depression, but I was too young to realize it, and those around me did not know how to help. I was numb. No one really talked to me about what was going on. After all, they were grieving, too, and no one had the right words.

But what would I have wanted them to say? What could they have said that would have helped or broken through the fog of my despair?

Here’s what I would say to the family of that lost 15-year-old, what I hope other families might say to their children:

Provide support: You don't have to have all the answers; just show them sincere love: “It’s OK that you’re hurting. You loved your mother so much, and I understand how hard this must be for you. Know that I will love and support you and am here for you.”

Don’t judge: Grief can be quick and intense or long and excruciating — it depends on the individual. As long as he or she seems to be processing the emotions of grief, anger, sadness intermixed with normal behavior, it means they are healing and they need the latitude to do so in their own way.

Put the child’s needs above your own: This is the ultimate sacrifice, but it is crucial to helping children immersed in grief. It doesn’t mean that you have to completely stifle your emotions, but you have to be careful not to scare the child, which can compound a negative emotional response. Remember, even though you might be hurting as well, you have the benefit of emotional maturity — a child doesn’t.

Talk about it: This is something that will stay with a child forever. Don’t treat it like a dirty secret that is never to be uttered. Let the child ask questions or express their feelings and make him or her feel safe in doing so. It will relieve a lot of anxiety. Adults, oftentimes, will unknowingly put pressure on children to “move on” or “get past it” or “think happy thoughts.” Let them know that it’s OK to feel sad, because they will — sometimes for the rest of their lives.

Reach out to school officials and counselors: Even though I returned to school three months after my mother died, it was all anyone talked about for the first week of the new school year and the stares from other students were downright agonizing. Don’t be afraid of being straightforward in asking that teachers and administrators do their best to be sensitive to your child’s delicate emotional process. Find out if there are resources for your child to talk to a school counselor if they have sudden feelings of panic throughout the school day or have trouble focusing. The child should have clear “safe havens” identified in times of emotional crises when you aren’t available.

In June, it will be 20 years since I lost my mother, and the benefit of time, maturity and perspective has helped me cope. But she is never far from my thoughts, and the painful experience of losing her — when we were both too young — affects me in more ways than I can describe. It underscores the need for communities to accept that children process grief, too, and that we need to be ready to help them through it. They are the most precious among us, and we should never let them feel like they are alone during one of the worst moments of their life.

It's incredibly difficult for me to put my story out there, but if it helps one child, one family, navigate the grief more easily, then it is totally worth it.

— Sarah Leach is assistant managing editor at The Holland Sentinel. Contact her at (616) 546-4278 or sarah.leach@hollandsentinel.com.


Sunday, December 16, 2012

In wake of Newtown tragedy, there is hope


I no longer understand the world — not that I ever did.
As I saw the reports continue to roll out regarding the school shooting in Newtown, Conn., on Friday, I felt sick to my stomach. Those poor babies, those poor, innocent people who tried in vain to protect them. The poor family of the perpetrator. It all seems so senseless.
My job didn’t help. You see, it was my job that day to monitor the story, to publish the updates on The Sentinel’s website as they became available and to plan the content for the next day’s paper. But all I wanted to do was run out of the building and drive to my son, pull him out of daycare and hug him until it hurt.
This isn’t the first tragedy I’ve handled as a journalist. I was an editor that had to manage a staff of 30 college students on Sept. 11, 2001; I was the front page designer for a major metro daily the day Pope John Paul II died and when the last shuttle disaster occurred and when Osama bin Laden was killed. It’s just an expected matter of fact when you commit yourself to this job: I take the people’s right to know seriously and do my very best to balance the wants and needs of people to inform them about their world.
But this time was different. This time was the first time I was a mother. And these were children — 6- and 7-year-old children. Before, I could sadly shake my head at the tragic events, quietly say prayers for lives lost or souls hurt. This time I could picture my son at that school. This time it was personal.
I posted a short sentence about my sadness that day on my personal Facebook page, because I felt the urge to say something. But as I watched my news feed, another feeling took hold — a different kind of grief. There were those who immediately called for banning guns. There were those who called for arming teachers. There were those who claimed the slaughter of those innocent lives was attributed to a lack of God in schools. There were those who called for committing all individuals with mental-health problems to institutions, no matter the severity of their illness. There were even those who blamed the media for sensationalizing the story, even though I would argue this event was so unbelievably appalling on its own.
It’s human nature to try to rationalize — to try to search for answers and assign blame. If we can point a finger or identify some neatly packaged solution, it assuages the unnerving sense of uneasiness that we might just not be able to foresee and prevent these things from happening again.
But life isn’t structured like a Paint by Number kit. There is no simple formula for eliminating horrific events from the world. These things will happen as long as humankind walks the Earth.
And someday I will have to explain to my innocent, sweet, little boy why people hurt each other like this. It scares me, because I desperately want to shield him from the atrocities of the world. I want him to believe in goodness, purity, love and kindness. But I know that’s not realistic and that I must allow him to find his way.
In my job, I see, hear and read about the lowest depths of human depravity; the random, freak accidents; the life-changing mistakes people make that affect countless others. I will never feel at ease sending my son to a mall, to a movie theater and, now, to school.
But I have hope. I can’t explain it, but there is this tiny, little light that shines within me. I am determined to love my family and friends as hard as I can in the short time I have with them. I am committed to helping my son navigate this complicated, often treacherous world with an open heart and mind.
And I will continue to hope that we can one day move past the knee-jerk reactions of explaining away these tragedies in order to dismiss them to get on with our lives. We need to start having open, meaningful dialogue with one another to solve a pandemic that is gripping our world. We are so fractured and divided — and so sure that we’re right — that we often don’t even listen to the other person, regardless of the issue.
No, I will never understand the world. But I have hope. It’s the one thing that binds us together, across nations and race, economic status and gender, age and political affiliation. We all hope for better, we all mourn for the lives lost in these senseless tragedies, we all yearn for answers. We just have to be honest with where that leads us and be open to learning tough but hopefully helpful, lasting lessons.
— Sarah Leach is assistant managing editor at The Holland Sentinel. Contact her at (616) 546-4278 or sarah.leach@hollandsentinel.com.

Monday, December 10, 2012

Christmas cheer is in overdrive

Boy, do I have it easy this year — Christmas-wise, I mean.

I can take the baby shopping for his bounty from Santa and he will be none the wiser come Dec. 25. But I know my days are numbered and that, much like a dazzling present under the tree, this experience is a once-in-a-lifetime gift to me.

As my husband and I snaked through the aisles of the local Toys R Us store recently, hunting for age-appropriate gifts, nothing short of the child apocalypse was unfolding before us.

Children were running up and down the aisles, weary parents were going through the motions to keep amped up tots under control, tykes were openly wailing throughout the store — after awhile it sort of became background music.

I’m beginning to understand that the most wonderful time of the year for a child is the most dreaded time for a parent. Between coordinating all the family and friend get-togethers, buying all the presents, cooking all the food and somehow managing to keep your child’s eating and sleeping schedule intact — lest we forget that daycare centers close for the holidays — it’s nothing short of a Christmas miracle that parents survive.

My plan of attack this year is to keep things simple. I established a window of time to accept invitations for events, but I will not schedule more than one event per day on a weekend — and everything is on a first-come, first-served basis. That way, there’s no hard feelings and it gives a sense of normalcy for the little one.

I want to work hard as to not overwhelm an 11-month-old with Christmas cheer. He is teething regularly and just had a third bout with a double ear infection, so the additional stress is unwarranted.

But that doesn’t mean the family is shut out. We will have my husband’s family Christmas party, where the extended family will gather for lunch. And my aunt will drive out from Detroit to spend Christmas with us and my husband’s parents. And meetings with friends are interspersed where this is time, but most of them understand the scheduling issues. After all, it’s been a year since I’ve been operating on the hours of 6-9 p.m. availability (but only with 48 hours notice so I can get a sitter). Sometimes I feel like a doctor’s office.

As my husband and I reached the checkout lane of the toy store, the clerk remarked at how well-behaved our son was.
“He’s taking notes from the others,” I said, motioning to the throng. “I’m counting my blessings before next year.”

— Sarah Leach is assistant managing editor for The Holland Sentinel. Contact her at (616) 546-4278 or sarah.leach@hollandsentinel.com.

Sunday, December 2, 2012

’Tis the season to be frantic

One of the perks of having my baby after Christmas was I got to have one more holiday season that was calm and rational.
Oh, how I miss those days.
But because I have a little one now — and especially because it’s his first holiday season — I can’t use the menagerie of excuses that have bought me sweet, sweet peace of mind and stress-free days.
Most people are surprised when I tell them that I’m a Grinch. It’s not that I don’t enjoy buying things for my loved ones or spending time with people. I just don’t like all the hooplah and work. Okay, and spending all the money.
Before kids, I could say, “We just moved into the house, so we’re busy unpacking,” or “I’m pregnant and I shouldn’t carry stuff,” or “I’m eating ice cream and couldn’t be bothered.”
But now we have to have the whole experience.
My husband insisted we cut down a real tree at a farm — suddenly my lifelike artificial tree wasn’t good enough. We must get the first personalized ornament. The stockings must be displayed just so. Everyone wants the wish lists, and my boys aren’t very forthcoming about what they want or need.
And what to do about Santa Claus?
There’s the parades to take in, the cards to be mailed out, the dinners to plan, the presents to buy, the music to play, the first photos on Santa’s lap. And who, oh who, will carve the roast beast?
I suppose it’s a blessing that we get a test run this first Christmas. If we forget something or totally bungle something else, he won’t remember his parents fumbling through the newbie routine.
That’s what makes Christmas so magical, though. To work so hard to create this special time of year for innocent minds and hearts. Knowing that he will have a blast tearing through wrapping paper for the first time. To see the delight on his face as he realizes that he has more things to play with.
That is what I call the most wonderful time of the year.
— Sarah Leach is assistant manager of The Holland Sentinel. Contact her at sarah.leach@hollandsentinel.com or (616) 546-4278.