Good Mourning Grief

A blog about my adventures as a grief warrior

Month: February 2021

Our First Conversation across the Realms

February 28, 2021 /

A colleague asked if I remembered what I was thinking the first day we received the news of Zane’s passing.   Everyone is different.  For me, it was vague.  I remember just snippets of that day.  I went back to the letters I wrote to Zane after the crash and found this one.

Dear Zane,

The day of the crash I kept repeating, quietly but out loud, three things.  “It’s ok, I know and, yes”.

Why these? In my deep and earth shattering shock of the unbearable news given to me, why would I quietly, calmly repeat these words over and over?

Was I talking to you?  You were here, even then, to let me know? Does that make sense? And what were you saying to me that had these answers?

I always say “it’s ok” to those in pain or dealing with change of no choice.  Was I telling you it’s ok?  That I know you are still here.  I know you are ok. I know that you are moving on to where you are supposed to be.  Yes, it’s ok that this is the plan?

No. I do not feel that way.  Now.  But I wonder, in that day that cut open, raw day, if I did know better? If some how you were there to say, this is what happened.  And I said, “It’s ok”. And you said, “I’m off to the next realm” and I said, “I know” and you said “ok?” and I said, “yes”.

And perhaps in my sheer grief that conversation happened but my brain can’t remember the details.  It was a conversation our souls had. And it’s why I was so calm, so quiet, so (temporarily) absent from pain. Or maybe so deep in pain.  Either way, I know it was a conversation we were having. An understanding that you gave me, to which, in my present pain, I must find and hang on to.

Over the last year, I am learning that I can still have a relationship with my son if I meet him halfway. Zane believed we are energy, souls having a human experience.  He would talk about how souls vibrate at a much higher level than humans; of how the mind uses such a small capacity of its’ potential. This belief has inspired me to place hope in the practice of raising my vibration level to receive more.

At first this sounded too sci-fi trippy for me but what do I have to lose? I mean, how happy are we when we dream of our children or see a sign that we believe they sent?  Why wouldn’t you want to have more of those, daily dosages of connection.  Albeit, a physical hug is what we will always wish for, since fate stole that from us, what could other possible ways to unite with our child be? 

I believe that my words uttered repeatedly that day, hours after we were told he was killed, was a conversation I did indeed have with my son.  It was the first of many to come.

We Speak From Our Place of Experience

February 21, 2021 /

My husband and I attended a social gathering very soon after Zane’s crash. The hostess introduced us to a woman who had lost her son a year before. The woman said to me, “Wait until you discover the blessings of this”.  I was incensed. What the hell did she mean?  How could there possibly be blessings of this loss, of the pain I knew I would forever feel.

She was ahead of me in her grief journey. She had a year of the shock weaning and her strength building that she could see the signs her son brought her. I had no idea.  Until I too, received signs and yes, they are blessings.

Very recently, a friend lost her husband to cancer and I heard myself say, “Embrace the pain”.  After, I realized how cruel this might have sounded to her.  She is probably nowhere near a point of wanting to embrace anything but her husband. And what I meant was about something that I am learning to do 2 years into my journey.  She is just starting hers.  And with this I realized; we speak from our place of experience.

When we offer condolences or a supportive word we can only draw from what has happened in our own lives. And we typically speak in the present tense, how we are feeling or coping now.  This may be why some comments seem inconsiderate. Would I have said that to my friend if we experienced loss at the same time? No. Because I would not have the experience I now have. Could I have remembered what I needed or wanted to hear 2 years ago? If I had, my words would have been totally different.  It also might have been more helpful for her.

Moving forward, I am going to try hard to remember to think of where on the journey a person is at before I share a comment that might come across harsh. I may add a preface to my comment such as “from where I am at now” or “in my experience.” Or maybe I just listen.

And how can we minimize the sting of receiving insensitive comments? We can remember that the person is not trying to be malicious; they are trying to show empathy. We can remember they are hurting for us. We can remember they want to lend support.  And, we can remember their place of experience (time and type) is where they are speaking from.  It is the only place we know of.  

Sweetening Sorrow

February 14, 2021 /

When Zane was a toddler, as most parents do, I would bribe him.  “If you are good while we shop for groceries we can go to Bernard Callebaut after,” I would say as we entered the store.  He was always good.  He couldn’t wait for the milk chocolate sucker in the shape of a bear.  Flash forward to Easter and his Aunt sends the Zeller’s chocolate rabbit special.  Zane took one bite off the ear and spit it out.  “What ‘dis?”; he said with disgust.  It was then that I realized what I had done. I had instilled a taste of expensive chocolate in my 2 year old.  There was no going back.

The holidays, Valentine’s included, are rough for grief warriors. It takes energy, sometimes more than we have, to face the empty day, the missing part of our past traditions that can’t be the same now.  Valentine’s is the first of these after the New Year to face.  And when I remember this, it gives me some understanding as to why we are all a bit edgy and short tempered lately.  It’s the anticipation of another upcoming holiday without my boy.

I need to change this. I ‘host’ holidays but without the excitement and interest I used to have. I know Zane would want me to celebrate and enjoy special occasions. He used to kid me about decorating the house and sending cards for every type of holiday.  “Just another reason for my mom to party,” he would explain to his friends. And he was right.  We are, or were, a social house. And maybe we still are…just not as loud, or not as easy as before. 

So, how do we bring back joy to things we used to love doing? I believe we have to incorporate things our loved ones cared for.  What brought your child joy on Valentine’s Day? Was it a trip to the local chocolate shop? Was it decorating cards to hand out to friends? Was it baking cookies to dip in caramel sauce?  What if we could push past the pain, and instead of not doing these things without our child, we continue to do them in honor of our child?

We know that when we share stories and things that our child loved, we feel better in that moment. They will always be a part of our lives so why push the traditions they loved into past tense?  Why not include what they liked in our present celebrations.  This could be good mourning.

I am going to buy some really good chocolate to share.  I’m going to open a bottle of his favorite red and order the heart shaped pizza.  And maybe, with attitude and practice, the joy Zane would want for me will come.

To Change the Room, or Not

February 7, 2021 /

Zane was living at home when he was killed. He was finishing school and wanted to move out when he didn’t have school and car costs…the plan was after graduation.  We had developed a suite for him downstairs and it was like his own little apartment.  His friends would kid him about why would he ever want to move out.  It was convenient and it gave me more time with him than most mothers had with their young adult children who had moved out.  In hindsight, his living at home was a gift.

There is no right way to do grief.  That includes what to do with your child’s belongings.  Some have left the room as is.  Others have taken everything down but a few mementos.  I have friends whose child was not living at home, who have created a space in their home of all their child’s favorite things as a place to be with their memories and their child’s spirit.   

We have not touched Zane’s room.  His laundry basket still sits there with a load of dirty laundry to be done.  His bar fridge holds his water and Gatorade bottles. His room is as it was two and a half years ago.  I keep the door shut and I still knock on it before I enter. My therapist suggested opening the door to his clothes closet just slightly, putting my hand in to touch a shirt or two and then closing it again.  She felt that it might get easier doing repetitive ‘touch-ins’ which would then enable me to start packing up his things. I can open the closet fully now but I am not ready to box his belongings.

My husband has suggested we paint it. Or make it into a guest room.  When in his room I give thought to this, to what could be options. The answer is always, “we will do nothing, it is Zane’s room.”

When I enter his room, the smells and his invisible energy and the sight of how life was when he stayed here wraps around me and pulls me in.  I will sit on his bed and look around and I can almost see him sitting next to me, remembering the conversations we had. “I’m thinking of moving my bed to the other wall…” or “where should I hang my picture I bought at Stampede?” He is so very real in this room.

The resistance to change his room is not something I want to face.  Changing his room into whatever that might be, is too big a task for my heart to consider.  I am not sure when I will be ready.  I am not giving it a deadline; I will know when it is time.  For now, if I see a plant or a candle or a book that he would enjoy, I buy it.  And I add it to his room. 

When Grief Comes without Warning

February 1, 2021 /

The black Toyota Scion parked next to my car set me off. This was Zane’s car…the driver was his age. I cried all the way to the grocery store.  I fixed my make up and went inside to shop. Then the song came over the intercom. A song Zane shared with me and the words sliced me in half.  I am crying, bent over the shopping cart, hoping no one will come down the aisle while I try to pull myself together.

Joey, the cashier, asks me how I am doing.  “Fine, thank you”, I say and turn my head so not to cry again. He tells me about how his staff can’t figure out why he smiles all the time.  How he is happy because it is so much lighter than being sad.  He says he is an empath.  And that was all I needed. I burst into a full-on raging sob.  I am apologizing as he is asking me what’s wrong, am I ok.  I am crying how I just lost my son and he was an empath, how he would say these sorts of things and how life now sucks…

I felt for poor Joey, that sweet, smiling empath.  I am sure he needed an energy bath after my tantrum.  He holds my hands and whispers; “I’m sorry for your son”. I apologize, again, and ask him to keep smiling.  He is a light for all of us.  I leave, sobbing all the way to the car.

Mourning is good for us-it is grief expressed.  I should be really good at it.  But I seem to be worse.  I am a shell; a now, aching, pressured, and screaming mess. I can’t fix this.  The biggest thing I need to fix, I can’t.  The pain is unbearable.

I wrote the above experience in my journal in April of 2019.  8 months after Zane was killed. Flash forward another 21 months and I am having a bad day, struggling with grief and find myself grocery shopping, albeit in a different store, and a similar song comes on. My eyes fill with tears.  But this time is different.

This time, time has passed, although it still feels like yesterday. I have had (lots of) practice with handling grief bursts in public.  I have had training reaching out to my son on his new realm.  I have a better realization of what are signs, postcards, being sent to me.  I am more secure in my belief that Zane is still with me. So I say, quietly, out loud; “hey Zane, love this song, need you here to listen to it with me”. I hold out my hand to my side. It is my way of feeling how my son would have held my hand. It gives me reassurance. And I take my moment. And yes, I stand in the aisle hurting, grief crashing down on me.  But this one time, I am not drowning.  I feel my son.  I know he is near and I take a deep breath to push my cart forward. And I thank Zane for helping me through this moment.

I can’t say this happens every time. I can’t say it happens often. But when it does, I am grateful the waves of grief are not all consuming.  These manageable moments strengthen my hope that I may have the ability to move forward.  With the memories of when Zane was physically here and the new memories I experience with him in spirit.

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