Category Archives: grief

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Learning to Lose Love (When people you love are disloyal)

Learning to Lose Love

LoyaltyThe Loyalty Firm 2Never let anyone diminish youLearning to Lose Love

To delve through this heap of trash piled high before my eyes

From the cold dark black reaper who brought down our blameless lives

How could I have borne his children? Played the virulent role of wife?

Those I loved and raised through sunshine and tears

Carried in my body nine months; love endlessly through years

Tried to mull through all the mire; should have left once more than many times

But you love(d) him so it seemed no matter what or why

You have no conception of the countless nights I cried… and died

Survival often times dictates that we create our own reality

And you live yours as I do mine… and for me it’s desolate right now

Since my very soul, it bleeds.

For I am a person of flesh, blood and bones, no validation needed, I am me and me I own.

But words defy how icy cold I feel to be me standing endlessly alone.

And I don’t have to agree with your philosophies, principles or how you live your life

I discern you are you and though I feel it is unequivocally fundamental to have been loyal and true

I will never beg for the same gifts of trust, respect and loyalty from a superfluous you.

I won’t ask those things of anyone but I know what’s right for me

And degradation and betrayal choke my life-blood, currently to an insurmountable degree.

And it will do the same to you because, as you will someday see

Perhaps long after I’ve departed from your life, maybe for eternity

You have blamed, berated, and slandered me for every adversity in your life

I’ve allowed you to smash me down to nobody and worship the “powers” that you perceive to “be”.

And for those insolent trivial persons you bashed in my skull and left me here to bleed

Only when karma comes around to you will you wake up and see the deed

And it’s all so dirty, not so pretty, so I’ll remove myself and hold my peaceful solid ground

And I’ll stand for what I believe; and care not a scrap for the (crap) that they fling around.

Because words cut deep for a little while and indifference prickles my heart

But disloyalty can never be quite ever squared for it breaks the foundation of unconditional love

Without which we all crumble around into the sacred ground that used to house our hearts.

Sharon Lynn Van Meter

Copyright May 22, 2013

Rain In My Mind

Seems my brain collides

With everybody’s rain

And it pours

                        And it pours

                                                   God it pours

How can I soak up the excess?

Clean out the chaos?

                            I’m in a nightmare

                                                      Wake up

                                                                 Wake up

My life is written everywhere

                                                     In bits and pieces 

                                                                          Of the sky

                                                                                           I live

                                                                                                    I die

I give my best 

But it’s never good




The walls are tight

They punch me




Knock out my breath

 I want out of this mess

                                   Out to live



                                                                     My life 

You screwed me


                     And he did

                                        And he did

                                                              And he did


My thoughts come crashing






I’m killing you 

Out of my mind





My brain collides with everybody’s rain

And nobody sees my pain









Sharon Lynn Van Meter

Copyright 2012








My insides are turned out

And I ache from the fear

Of not owning the truth

And the lies I hold dear

To my lost bleeding heart

In insane desperation

Struggling with my mind

To maintain a raw separation

From your deceptive eyes

And the truth in my heart

That pulls me out of your hands

And tears my world all apart

Sharon Lynn Van Meter

Copyright 2002





This silence would be deafening

But for the thunder in my heart

My mind wanders through the stardust

To secure that elusive flickering port

I speak in desperation to my heart in undertones

But my insistent words of wisdom

It consistently bemoans

Sharon Lynn Van Meter

Copyright 2005




Your hair and heart were a lot like mine

And your puppy-dog eyes smiled and shined

You didn’t try to hide

The blatant sarcasm that was life

And your voice cast murky shadows

On dishonesty revealed

In the goofy jokes that you told

Like only you could tell

Your contagious silly laughter

Brought me to convulsions

Doing puzzles on the hardwood floor

In front of the picture window

Dreaming happy ever after

Throwing revulsion out the door

And the sun shone in our eyes

Drawing faces and profiles

Seems like you are every other memory

That snicker of amusement hanging

Right below the surface and that pain

Over the top, I can feel it even now

The desolation and disgrace

The need to love but not know how

A confusing ride of pain and glory

Singing together with ‘Ol Hank

Drunk as Cootie Brown…

Another chapter to the story

My kindred spirit-you said you

Were the black sheep; well there were two

Of us, my friend, born two years apart

Yes we could have been mystical twins

So dear to my heart and I felt the grave injustice

And I despise the universe

For all the dirty curves it threw to us

And I never said goodbye

Little brother, but I got down on my knees

And cried in the middle of the road

And when they laid you in that box

I just couldn’t let you go

And why should I eat when you couldn’t?

And why should I get out of bed today?

I dreamed last night I tried to save you

In vain and I ran so fast but I couldn’t run away

And I could feel the tears explode

But now I am awake and they hang here in my throat

And I ache so much that I can’t feel

Anything but this disgusting

Taste of garbage I keep Shoving down my throat

Did you know that pee Wee left me?

About eight months after you went away?

Guess the cold black weight just got too heavy

and he took a rope and flew away

And I wonder why I’m still breathing

Guess I keep holding on to something

The kids, the promise, the faith that I am near

To holding you both forever

In the sunshine while we sing

But right now all I want to do is crawl

Right down beside you both

And hold you till I die

And I don’t feel a thing

But this sheepish- black alone

For the other part is gone

They buried it with you and him

In the cold hard earth and stone

And where is the beauty

You tried so desperately to discover?

I’m still fighting for the injustice

You tried so frantically to uncover

I guess your music, writing, and art

Were all you had to show

Of what was broke and buried deep inside

And that’s why I write these poems

To reveal the love and pain I try to hide

I miss you little brother, more than you can ever know

And I seek deeper comprehension in the beauty of your art

Of the loneliness that surrounded you forever incognito

And in essence I uncover the gentle splendor of your heart


Sharon Lynn Van Meter

Copyright 2004






Take My Breath Away

Gravity battles centrifugal force as she maneuvers the small sports car around the sharp curve in the road. The speedometer tops 110 miles per hour as her foot grinds the gas pedal even further into the floor. But her mind is moving even faster than the car; scattered thoughts twirl like a hurricane inside her brain. The tiny beads of perspiration which cover her forehead belie the chill of tiny goose bumps rising on her arms. Her antenna is attuned to every little nuance inside of the automobile although the eerie unattached feeling which is insidiously engulfing her mind invokes an atmosphere of surrealism. She stares blankly ahead, eyes unflinching, with only one sentence turning over and over in her mind; “Please God, let him be alright.”


“Mrs. Rhoades, your son has been involved in an accident.” The sinister words cut through the numb chant, threatening to break her frozen resolve. Her pulse was racing as she anxiously anticipated the words that would follow. “Thrown from his motorcycle…” Her knuckles had turned blue as her fingers clutched the phone tighter, waiting. “…critical condition…”  Those words had ground her world slowly to a halt, her oblivious co-workers had suddenly seemed to freeze: the sounds of the keyboards tap, tap, tap… the ringing of the phones, the buzzing of the voices.  All faded into a sluggish distant groan, somewhere faraway. “MercyHospital Emergency Room,” the unattached voice on the other end echoed.


Where is her coat? She glances briefly around the interior of the car, not finding it. However she is thankful for the brief momentary diversion of sweet normalcy in her thoughts. At least she has her presence of mind. Her brain is still functioning. Breathe deeply, in and out.  Just breathe. Minutes drag like eternity as she circles the parking lot searching desperately for a parking space. As she plunges the car into an empty space she comes too near to the car in the next space and cannot open her door. She thrusts the gear switch forward into park and her fist accidentally hits the radio button.


Jessica Simpson blares out “Take my breath away”, literally taking her breath away as she is taken aback to another night nearly eighteen years ago when Berlin sang that same song; it was the night that her son was conceived. She was powerless to the seductively exotic demeanor and captivating dark looks of the Spanish pre-med student. Three months of breathless romance had left her temporarily oblivious to her fiancé, who was off at N.Y.U. Her mind races over that night as she jams the car into reverse and then propels it back into the empty parking space. She is momentarily haunted by the deep brown eyes which her son inherited along with the small sexy mole on his right cheek, in almost the same identical spot as his father’s.


She feels she is going crazy as she allows the words to shroud her “Turning and returning to some secret place inside.” Two enchanting weeks later, her fiancé’ had returned and she ended the affair. She had married, moved to New York with Randy and had never seen her Latin lover again. Guilt had prevented her from revealing to him that he had a son, and guilt had in turn eaten her alive like a cancer for the rest of her life. But how could she have told him? She had felt obligated to Randy; after all they had been high school sweethearts. She had never again seen the man who had taught her the meaning of true love. She had heard that he had went on to become a very successful surgeon or something…Her thoughts jerk back to the present hellish nightmare as she turns off the ignition, terminating the song as well as her brief sojourn into the past.


 The harsh yet mysteriously comforting sterile smells of alcohol and iodine hit her sharply in the face and seem to swallow her up as she rushes into the hospital emergency room; That’s just a front, she thinks fleetingly. That intense smell merely covers up the real smells of sickness and …She shakes her head fiercely, pushing the dreaded word resolutely from her mind. No. God, please let him be alright. Please. Please. Please. She repeats for the millionth time.


“May I help you?” a stiff elderly nurse inquires.


Yes, they called me. My son was brought in. Trevor Rhoades,” her shaky voice sounds strangely foreign, as if it belongs to someone else.


The nurse’s face seems to soften knowingly at the sound of the name, the corners of her lined mouth turning down in a feeble attempt at a smile. “Yes we have him. Are you alone, dear?” Her voice is suddenly like melted butter which is somehow ominous. ‘Oh no, she is trying to prepare me for the worst.’, Rachel thinks.


“Where is he? Can I see him?” She breathlessly pushes past the nurse, who grabs Rachel’s arm in a firm grip, a contradiction to the old woman’s frail looking demeanor.


“Hold on, honey. Is there no one else with you?” Rachel shakes her head. “Maybe you’d like to wait for your husband…?”


“My husband and I are divorced.” She hears the anger in her voice, knowing not where it comes from, “He is in New York. My son and I just moved back…” Her voice breaks helplessly, “Please, I have to see my son. Where is he?” She looks searchingly past the older woman down the long white and black checkered corridor surrounded by doors on either side, some closed and others slightly ajar. She hears faint moaning and muffled crying from behind those knowing doors, sounds of pain and fear.


“Come along, then. The Doctor is with him now and they are preparing him for surgery.” She speaks in the rapid tone of a seasoned nurse who has become a professional at combating time and fate. “I’m afraid he has suffered a traumatic head injury …” She pauses as she pushes the magical button on the wall which swings open the huge intimidating double doors. “He is in intensive care, right this way. Doctor Rodriguez will explain to you more. He is the surgeon who is going to operate on your son.”


“Operate?” She echoes feebly, her mind attempting to register this rapid onslaught of information. But, even before she has time to think or speak, the nurse has opened the door to a glaringly white room and she follows her inside. She blinks at the extreme brightness as she enters the room and her pulse races as her eyes land on the outline of her son lying on a stretcher in the middle of the room. There are doctors and nurses in white all around him along with numerous tubes and massive machines.


Before she can make her way across the floor to her son, a tall dark man steps in front of her, blocking her view, and extends his latex-gloved hand. “Hello, Mrs. Rhoades. I am Dr. Rodriguez, head of neurosurgery. Before you see your son, I would just like to assure you that he is in the best of hands and we will do everything possible for him. He is in critical condition and it is imperative that we operate as soon as possible.” His familiar enunciation sends shivers up her spine and she abruptly looks up at the doctor, forcing herself to speak.


“But, what happened? They said he was in an accident…is he going to be alright?” Her voice becomes strangled by the lump in her throat. She gazes into the dark brown eyes and seizes the instant flicker of recognition. Her eyes travel down the right side of his cheek to rest on the small dark mole. The trembling inside of her now has taken control of all of her muscles, and she begins to visibly shake from head to toe. The room starts to spin like a merry-go-round and she cannot seem to catch her breath, which is like dry sand cutting through her throat. The words turn round and round in her mind “Watching in slow motion as you turn around and say ‘Take my breath away’…”


“My son…you don’t understand…” she sobs breathlessly, as she falls helplessly into him, her hot tears against his white coat. Her voice whispers hoarsely into his ear “Enrique”…the name somehow rolls off of her parched tongue. She looks up into his searching dark eyes, pleading “Please save my son…”


His strong hands gently grasp her body to him in a long ago familiarity that defies the hands of time. “I understand,” he says evenly in a voice meant only for her ears. “Rachel, I know,” his deep voice soothingly strokes her.


Their eyes lock in a knowing embrace; words are no longer necessary. The nauseating feeling is replaced by a warm and downy cloud as she spirals into sublime oblivion in his exonerating arms, the words wrapping around her soul;

Never hesitating to become the fated ones…

Through the hourglass I saw you,

In time you slipped away.

When the mirror crashed I called you,

And turned to hear you say

‘If only for today I am unafraid’…

Take my breath away…

Sharon Lynn Van Meter

Copyright 2004




The Hosptial

I wasn’t looking forward to working the graveyard shift again and was dragging my feet. I’d been on the ward for over a year and loved babies, but it could get a little monotonous sometimes. I was stationed with the head nurse, old lady Crotchet and our only male nurse, Jenderlaps; why in the hell would a man want to be a nurse? Geeeez. Me? I was the token Hispanic. My credentials sure hadn’t landed me the gig; I’d slid through nursing school by the seat of my minority-laced pants. I’d dubbed this place “Our Lady of the Worthless Miracle,” but for some strange reason, I had a feeling something was about to go down tonight. I stuffed my crap on the bottom shelf of the blue-white checked cubicle and did a quick once over.

The scene around me was pure chaos. Doc Killjoy and the resident, Doc Dubiouse, stood inside the adjoining cubicle huddled over a patients chart; their faces grave. The attending pediatrician, Dr. Lousitup and the Anesthesiologist, Dr. Heven, were rushing a newborn to NICU. A lady appeared out of nowhere. She asked breathlessly, “Is that the Hewitt baby?” Dr. Lousitup muttered something, hauling-ass down the hall with the incubator.

She shot over to my station. “I’m Ms. Van Buren. They just took my daughter in for an emergency C-Section. How is she? Was that the baby? ”

Nurse Crotchet downed a shot of plain black adrenaline and disappeared through the double doors of the OR.

Mrs. Van Buren was a petite, soft-spoken blonde, probably in her mid-forties; she looked tired. “Why did they perform the C-Section so soon? The doctor last night said they had to wait at LEAST eight hours after the second steroid shot before they could even THINK about taking the baby!”

I glanced over at Doc. Killjoy and Doc. Dubiouse and they just turned their friggin’ backs to me. She focused on them; I was merely the vehicle. Nurse Crotchet returned, announcing the daughter was doing fine. Ms. Van Buren’s son-in-law, Mr. Hewitt, followed; His face belied her words.

Doc Lousitup scurried up, explaining that the baby’s lungs were very small for twenty five weeks. Mrs. Van Buren asked if they could “administer respiratory assistance.” He said they couldn’t because the lungs were so small. She couldn’t understand the logic in that, but all he said was he’d “work on the baby for the next hour.”

Then Mrs. Hewitt was wheeled from OR, poles and tubes dangling everywhere. She sure looked messed up and kept on asking for her baby. After they went into her room, Nurse Crotchet said she was assigning me as her floor nurse; that witch hated me from day one.

Dr. Lousitup returned, summoning Mr. Hewitt and Mrs. Van Buren. Using almost the proper amount of respect, he explained that since the baby’s heartbeat had stayed at twenty five, they’d decided to “terminate resuscitation efforts.” They had “called it;” the baby was dead. They’d only worked on her for twenty minutes; I couldn’t believe it! I looked at Nurse Crotchet. Her mouth was hanging wide open, just like mine.

I followed them back to the room. He was big as a line-backer, but Mr. Hewitt wept like a little boy as he held his wife’s hand, “Baby, she didn’t make it.”

Mrs. Hewitt’s pretty face was all scrunched up; her petite body trembled. She flailed her arms, jerking loose her IV. “I want my baby! Why can’t I have my baby?”

Mrs. Van Buren tried to calm her down, but could hardly speak. She turned and ran from the room, meeting Doc. Killjoy outside the door.

She stared at him, wide-eyed; her voice shaking, “Why did you operate? The baby’s heartbeat was normal before. You were supposed to wait for that steroid shot…”

“Do you think I like getting up and coming here at four in the morning to perform a C-Section?” Doc blurted.

Mrs. Van Buren, “So did she have Placenta Abruption?”

“I don’t know, did she?” He said.

“I was standing in the examining room six weeks ago when you told her she did!” She accused. “You drew us a diagram, for God’s sake!”

Standard hospital procedure was to “allow a deceased baby to stay with the mother if the mother so desired.” I could easily understand why Mrs. Hewitt did not “desire” this and so I was sure surprised when Mrs. Van Buren took me aside and asked to see her “granddaughter.” She was taken to the empty room next to her daughter’s. I went along with Nurse Crotchet to get the baby and bring her to the room.

One lone rocking chair sat in the middle of that big, empty room and in it sat Mrs. Van Buren, her nose red and her eyes swollen the size of enchiladas. She was so petite, I thought she’d disappear in that big chair, but she carefully took the bundle from Nurse Crotchet. She gently unwrapped the blanket and there she was; a beautiful miniature doll dressed in a lavender dress, bonnet and booties.  “She’s perfect,” She breathed.

I held my breath; I couldn’t take my eyes off of them. I felt it was going through all of our minds; just thirty minutes ago this little baby had been alive, just like us. It was hard to explain something like that, even more hard to understand. Mrs. Van Buren brushed her lips across the tiny, little face. She held the teeny-weeny fingers in her hands, and then removed the booties, counting each little toe. She took the bonnet off and I saw the dark shiny wisp of hair. She cuddled the baby, whispered, and rocked.  I guess she forgot we were even there and we quietly slipped out of the room, gently closing the door.

“She’s saying goodbye. Somebody had to do it.” Nurse Crotchet sniffed gruffly. It was the first time I ever saw her cry.

I thought about the last few years I’d struggled in nursing school and about Doc Killjoy and Doc Lousitup with all of their medical degrees. Suddenly, they didn’t seem so superior anymore. I nodded at Jenderlaps with new respect as I followed Nurse Crotchet back to the station. And I held my head a little higher.

Sharon Lynn Van Meter

Copyright 2009