It's A Powerful Thing To Be Seen

My own grief experience

My sister Sara was a beautiful 9lb black-haired baby and while the birth of the child should be filled with joy, February of 1989 was arguably one of the worst moments of my parents' lives. At 9 months pregnant and due to give birth any day, my mom noticed a heaviness, Sara had stopped moving. Just seven months after her death, my mom created and ran the very first Camp HOPE weekend, serving 50 children right off the bat. My baby sister was, and will forever be, the strong and stable roots from which Camp grew.

Here is where I get vulnerable

35 years ago my sister died, she was stillborn and I was one and a half. I'm sure I have cell memory. While my mom and dad poured all the love they had into me, their only living child, there is no way my little body didn't take in the powerful grief and sorrow they were experiencing after the loss of my sister, and the anxiety they faced when my mom became pregnant again with my brother John. I knew just enough at just 18 months old, to look up at my crying mom and ask if she was okay.

Besides that cell memory though, I didn't actually experience a lot of grief, not then and not now. I was too young. Do I wonder who she'd be? Absolutely. Would she have curly hair like mine? Would we be best friends? Would I have nieces and nephews? I think about her often and wonder about the relationship she and I would have had. I miss her. But do I have the deep sadness and ache that comes with grief? Not really.

One of the reasons Camp HOPE is so powerful is that most of our volunteers have also experienced the loss of a loved one. A loss so devastating they're no longer the same person. From losing a child to suicide after a long battle with depression, to dealing with the experience of finding their parent dead from an overdose, to the gut punch of hearing your best friend died in a drunk driving accident, our volunteers come to Camp HOPE with the same harsh experiences as our campers. I, on the other hand, do not.

I don't necessarily hide the fact that my sister died when I was young, nor do I try to pretend that my grief is more powerful than it is. However, being the executive director of a grief camp as someone who has not experienced the same intense grief of the children and families attending Camp HOPE is a source of anxiety for me. How can I stand in this position and tell people they're going to be okay, when I've never walked in their shoes?

Because I know they are going to be okay.

I've seen it. I've seen the change in our campers after only one short weekend. I've heard countless stories from our volunteers who came to Camp as kids, who grew and flourished alongside their grief. I've watched my mom and dad walk through life without their baby.

Maria Loy Carson - Sister - Stillborn

Now again, I don't hide the fact that my sister was stillborn, but I also don't always announce it. What I do make sure I do at every camp is write "stillborn" on our Camp HOPE board. This board has all the volunteers and campers names written, and next to their name is the person who died and how they died. It remains in the dining hall all weekend for every person to see, normalizing death and showing campers that they aren't alone.

Maria Loy Carson - Sister - Stillborn

Maria Loy Carson - Sister - The roots of Camp HOPE

It's a Powerful Thing to be Seen

For those of you reading this blog who have not joined us at Camp, we have a candlelight ceremony on Saturday night. This is by far one of the most powerful events that we have at Camp. After having a full day of fun, sharing, processing, and joy, campers have the opportunity to yet again, say their loved one's name. This time to the entire group.

No one is pressured or expected to say anything at Camp HOPE, but the opportunities are there and the candlelight ceremony is no different. I'm always given the beautiful gift of beginning the ceremony with youth campers. To set the stage and lead by example I start the circle by saying, "I always light my candle in honor of my sister, but this Camp I've been thinking a lot about my [insert grandparent here]." I make this gentle transition every candlelight away from my sister because I don't have any memories of her, but again, I don't announce that. After sharing, I light the candle of the person stilling next to me and the circle continues.

During our spring Camp, I closed the circle by expressing how proud I was of all the campers and volunteers. Sharing isn't easy. As all the campers left to watch movies, play night volleyball, or chill in their cabins making bracelets and listening to music, a little 8 year old camper came up to me.

"Your sister was stillborn."

It was a statement and I was a little taken aback. It's not something I shared.

"My brother was too," she continued.

She must have seen it on the board. I smiled gently, "I'm sorry. It's a weird type of grief, isn't it?"

"Yes. And I miss him a lot." She said.

I nodded, "Me too." She hugged me and walked away to be with her group.

As I choked back tears I had a moment of realization. While she needed someone who saw her fully and shared her experience, I may have needed that too. I will forever be grateful to that beautiful little soul, it's such a powerful thing to be seen.