Good Mourning Grief

A blog about my adventures as a grief warrior

Month: September 2020

Remembering Autumn Leaves

September 28, 2020 /

As I walk our dog in the park, the ground is covered with the colored leaves of Autumn.  As his little feet toddle along our path, the rustling sound of the leaves pulls me back to a time when Zane was just three.

We would walk down to the neighbourhood park while we waited for dinner to cook. Together, we would make big piles of fallen leaves and then jump into them, lying on our backs and laughing.  We would look up at the skies and take turns pointing at clouds and naming what they looked like. 

I can still remember the crunch of the dried leaves underneath us.  The musty smell of the ground tickled our noses.  The sound of Zane’s young giggle as he jumped back up to say;

“Mimi, let’s do one mo time.”

I can remember the deep joy, the love of those afternoons together. He was my little buddy; it was the two of us. The memory of those fall afternoons live with vivid detail forever in my heart.

This particular memory hit me hard this season.  I am not sure why.  I have walked through the leaves many times before.  But this time, something about that memory filled my heart with the cold ache of missing the past.

Grief has no pattern of what memory may bring comfort and what memory may bring you to your knees.  Memories often come in random fashion and the day, the mood, the level of grief has the memory leaving you smiling or crying or both.  It is called ‘riding the wave of grief’. Sometimes it is a gentle whisper. Sometimes it is a hurricane, crashing in and leaving you to gasp for breath.  There is no play book of which memory will come in as a whisper and which will come in as a storm.  There is no set schedule. We must be ready for either. 

I hope that your memories fall gently this season.

What are you really wishing for?

September 21, 2020 /

I bought a battery operated pillar candle that had a timer.  I placed it on a small patio table by our front door.  I had it timed to go on a little before Zane would come home from work, around midnight.  He enjoyed listening to podcasts sitting next to its artificial flame as a way to unwind after a long busy shift.  For the first year, after the crash, I would go to the door before bed and see it shining, waiting for him to come home.  And I would whisper, “Love you, miss you, wish you were here”.

The number one wish for grief warriors is “I wish you were here”.  Lately I’ve been thinking about this.  Does this wish negate our belief that our loved ones are always “here”?  If we believe, to any depth, that they are at peace, in a better place or free…is it selfish to wish them back to here?  We want them here because we miss them.  We want them here to share (more) life with us. We want them here so that we can hear their voice, their laugh. We want them here because we miss hugging them.  But when we say “I wish you were here” we are telling ourselves they are not here…and good mourning is all about looking for signs that they are still with us.  Our loved ones are always here with us. We must believe this.

Perhaps our wish should be more about what we are really wanting, really missing.  Maybe the wish is actually for us.  Perhaps we should reword this wish.  Perhaps we should be more specific.  Maybe the wish YOU is really about I. I wish I could hear your voice here.  I wish I could see you here.

With my grief, I have found it helps when I believe to my core, Zane is still here.  Although his (new) spiritual form I wish was not reality, it is a form to which I am still his mother and he is still very much a part of my life. And for this belief to be solid, I can’t say wish you were here.  I must tell myself he is here.  So I have changed my wish.  And at night, when I look out the door, I now whisper, “Love you, miss you, wish I could hug you here”.

The Silent Demands of Grief

September 14, 2020 /

 I have always been an A-type personality.  It has caused physical illness and mental struggles and yet I keep living my life like a squirrel caught in traffic. The upside has always been that I get more done than the average person. I am organized and I take on the world, so lots to do.  But is this an upside?

I have been told by everyone in my life, current and past, that I need to slow down. How do you do that when you are engrained to do all for all in only a 24 hour period each day?  That has been my struggle.

Now, with grief, it is so much more difficult.  It is complicated.  My grief demands my time.  It demands me to sit and cry and ponder the ‘what if’s’ and pine for yesterday.  It does not take note of the growing task list and the time ticking to the deadlines for work projects, social engagements or personal goals.  It shows up unexpected, it never leaves and it is loud.

When I try to ignore it and focus on what needs to be done, it becomes tricky.  It messes with my memory and I begin to forget obvious things, like my friend’s name or that dinner was in the oven an hour longer than needed.  It seeps into my muscles and bones causing arthritic flare-ups. And yet, I move on, ignoring it and the side effects it brings.  And when I do that, my grief becomes angry and I become short tempered, snapping at the poor dog because he is taking too long to sniff the grass. And if I don’t pay attention to how busy I am, my grief then crushes me with a tidal wave of emotional pain, triggered by something I didn’t expect and the  tears come and the day shuts down.  And the guilt sets in.

Grief cannot be put into your day timer at a convenient time to experience it.  You cannot schedule grief.  If you try life becomes complicated and harder to cope. Grief demands that you pay attention to it.  Thus, we must plan our day to be gentle.  Our schedules cannot be over loaded.  Our social life must be simple with a plan to exit if need be. Our calendar needs room, every day, for grief to be addressed.

As a text book A-type, I must accept that my grief keeps me busy.  And my grief is a priority.  It is ironic that through my grief, I may also learn how to slow down.  

Pictures Immortalize

September 6, 2020 /

It took one phone call to one close friend of Zane’s to fill our home that day.  In a matter of hours, over fifty people came through the front door, bringing food and drink and tears. I watched Zane’s friends, many who we knew since they were babies, have a shot of Jameson’s in honor of our son.  They laughed. They cried. They hugged.  They shared stories of Zane and reassured us how much our son loved us.  “We were his all”.  They stayed until late that night. One friend, as he left, hugged me and said;

“Thank you for opening up your home to all of us.  It is the only place we can find comfort right now.”   

His words reminded me that we were all in pain.

Zane’s friends are inherited blessings. They brought pictures of Zane and the adventures they shared.  They brought letters and stories Zane had written.  They left them with us.  The pictures adorn our walls now and the letters and memorabilia given to us bring us comfort. We would not have these without his wonderful friends.

Some people have troubles with pictures.  We have one friend who asks us each time they see Zane’s picture up if it is slowing our healing down.  Some grief warriors can’t look at any pictures.  It’s kryptonite.  There is no right way to grieve.  For us, I have Zane’s pictures and his belongings naturally scattered around the house.  As if he was still living with us.  I find comfort in these reminders that he is and will always be a part of our life.

Pictures and items of our loved ones are filled with their energy.  They hold the essence of our child.  They are a snapshot of an experience they had, one of their stories.  These stories are now one of our shared memories.  His pictures bring me back to that happy time and place.  I can feel grateful that he laughed and had such fun times. 

Yes, certain days his pictures are painful when my grief is crashing in.  But it is not the picture that brings this grief on.  I don’t need a picture to remind me that there will not be another snapshot to frame.  Zane’s things are proof that my son was involved, adventurous and loved. And when I hold his things or look at the pictures, I tell my grief that.   

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