Good Mourning Grief

A blog about my adventures as a grief warrior

Month: February 2023

Holding the Black Balloon

February 26, 2023 /

My nephew recently attended the funeral of a friend of his who passed away of an accidental overdose. It was his tenth friend that died this way. He knows of another five young adults that have left earth in the same manner.  I’m not sure what part is the saddest. That funerals from this cause of death are so many, that we seem numbed to the frequency of such or that my nephew has buried more friends in his short life than I have in mine. Both are equally tragic. Most importantly, another family is thrown into a lifetime of grief and will never be the same.

March 6th is called black balloon day. Created by the family of Greg Tremblay, in memory of his passing in 2015. It is a day to stop and consider how many lives end unnecessarily through substance abuse. A day to remember those who are in pain and grieving from this. A day to create awareness to prevent future overdose. A day to further the conversations to learn more of this hushed epidemic.  They symbolize this day with a black balloon. And encourage you to be creative, to post a balloon on social media and share how this day effects you.

For me, this day is about the many (new) friends I have in my grief community. The parents who have lost a child to drugs. Their stories of their beautiful, larger-than-life children whose desire to experience life at its fullest was too short.

This day is about my fear for my own family members who struggle with addiction, and on those very bleak days I go to bed with only the control to pray to God, they make it.

This day is about being angry that there seems to be no solution. And the continued hope that there will be one.  There must be one. We are losing too many.

And this day is about the man who tried but failed to overcome his addiction and, in his actions, killed three people, including my son. 

The symbol chosen for this day; the black balloon is fitting. A balloon, filled with either one’s breath or helium to represent the growth of life, blowing it up big. The color representing the agony and despair of what addiction can bring. But the most important detail of this balloon, I believe, is the ribbon.  The simple thread which ties the balloon to an anchor. Secured, so that it won’t float away to the heavens. The ribbon, a symbol of confirmation that no matter how hard or how long one’s fight against drug addiction is, there will be someone there holding on.

Loss and Lessons Learned

February 19, 2023 /

We live with grief. Emily Graham does too.  In her book, “Confessions of Child Loss”, Emily shares with us the death of her seven-year-old son Cameron. Her story is an honest recalling of how being thrown into the community, the “Child Loss Club” changed her outlook on life.

She shares with us the dark side of what happens when grief moves in. How it numbed her emotions and had her struggle as she needed to continue being there for her two daughters. She talks about the fears of forgetting him and the questions from strangers of how many kids do you have.  What happened to your son? The grief bursts that accompany these conversations.

She speaks the universal language of the grief community and reveals how time and a desire to never say goodbye to Cameron brought her forward. She shares what wonders can come to be when we believe that they are still here. The signs, related to Cameron like the number 12 showing up in unexplainable ways; seeing synchronicities supported her change of thinking from ‘he is gone’ to ‘he is here still’.  With that belief, she began talking to her son’s spirit, playing games in the car with his energy, and looking for more signs. Which she received.  She tells us this brings a shift into your brokenness. For her, these activities inspired her to strive to be a better version of herself.  

Emily writes that grief does not end, but that from her experience, it will change.  She gives five suggestions to help you alter your grief.

  1. Redefine your grief experience.
  2. Lean into the pain.
  3. Reach acceptance…not the same as approval. We are not ok with it, but we must accept what happened.
  4. Self care is critical.
  5. Connection to our child…the relationship continues after death, talk about them, bring them forward with you.

Personally, I struggle with suggestion number 3. She is farther ahead in her journey than I am, so perhaps with further time I might get there.  Suggestion number 5 is what I found the most exciting.  It coincides with a line in her book, my favorite line, giving hope.   “You no longer have to live without them.  You can live with them in a different way.”  Here’s to that.

Between the Setting of the Sun and Moon

February 12, 2023 /

After Zane was killed, I started journaling my dreams. Somewhere I had read that dreams were the gateway to the other realm and that if you started recording them shortly after you woke, your intuition would increase. It became a nightly practice to shut off the external world, meditate and drift off to another possible adventure with my boy.

I had forgotten of the many dreams I had of Zane then. Each dream had a different scenario and Zane was different ages, but the ‘life like’ feeling of him being there was the thread of each one. I wrote about his laugh and his mannerisms and his role as my confidante. The dreams were of make-believe happenings; a conference we attended together, or our first home but he was a teenager, or Zane as a father of a 6-year-old girl. I would journal the dream details in the morning before they were gone.  Each incident was as if he visited me and each time I would wake, I would have a feeling of peace.  He was close. He was tangible. And I began to look forward to sleeping, knowing that we would be together. And then I quit dreaming.

When grief is new, we pray for visits from our loved ones while we sleep. We revel in the bitter-sweet joy they bring when they do happen and pout when days or weeks go by without a dream of them. Why do the dreams not happen? What became of my dreams that after the first year or two were less and less frequent? Why did I stop journaling?

I believe it is because our grief is no longer raw. Time pulls us away from the significance of being able to sit in the shock of our grief. The influences of others and demands of ‘moving forward’.  We quit practicing the techniques we learned that connect us to spirit. Our ability to keep things simple and open to the other realm gets put on a shelf because our daily grind demands our attention.  We become tired; battle worn.

We tend to complicate our lives with too many thoughts, or we get back to old habits rather than the new ones that dream journaling need to be practiced to be its best.  Like meditation. Like being still. Like listening to the silence or the melodic tunes of HZ music.  All of these we know bring us closer to spirit, but we become too busy or feel too hurt to keep it up.  And then we wonder why we are not visited as much. We forget what Rumi tells us, “Death has nothing to do with going away.  The sun sets, the moon sets.  But they are not gone.”

Dreaming about our loved ones is finding that spot in between the setting of the sun and moon.  Where our loved ones wait to visit us. It is we that must raise our consciousness to a higher level to open up the possibility of connecting. We must make this part of our daily exercise if we want to continue a new relationship with those we love.

My journals inspired me to record my dreams again. The recollections of these visions, time spent with my son on another level of awareness, reminded me that he is still in my life. He is waiting for me to meet him under the stars to laugh together until the moon sets and the sun awakens.

Suited for Grief

February 5, 2023 /

My (future) son-in-law asked me to accompany him to purchase his wedding suit. He is having it tailor made and was going to finalize the details and be measured. I was happy to go along. It was planned we would go to his appointment and then go for a drink at his favorite watering hole. As I sat at the table waiting for him to come out of the changing room, it hit me how typical this type of afternoon was when Zane was around.

The little spontaneity I enjoyed in my life usually happened with a call or a text from my boy. “Hey ma, want to meet me at Earl’s for a drink?” The answer would always be yes. No matter what I had going on, I dropped and raced to meet him.  It was special he wanted to hang out with his mother.  “Want to grab a bite?”  “I’m going car shopping, want to come?” I loved those times.  Bonding at its best. Now, here I was, with the fiancé of my daughter who also happens to be one of Zane’s best friends, watching him choose the fabric for the lining of his suit, and asking my opinion.

How strong we can be in an instant. I could feel the pangs of heartache within me, and I pushed them aside with a firm, “not now”. I wanted to relish in the experience. It was so special; it was a transferred moment I should have had with Zane. The sweet of my bitter-sweet life. I was not going to let grief take this away from me.

Grief does not always have to be in the front seat.  Yes, we live with our grief, but time grows power to be able to say “I know you are there. Please give me this moment and then I will listen to you.” By consciously speaking to our grief, we lessen its grip, and it can sit in the back while we experience joy of the life we still have.  This is an exercise that gets stronger with practice. It is a way to live harmoniously with grief, rather than always fighting it. A compromise perhaps, but small joy is better than no joy. I can build on that.

After the suit fitting, we met with another close friend of Zane’s to have that drink.  My grief, quietly in the rear, letting me have this reprieve to soothe my heart.  We toasted to the upcoming wedding, and the appreciation that we were all together. And we were. This was a typical setting Zane would have arranged and knowing that was a sign he too was at our table. 

I am very lucky to have had so many spontaneous moments over the years with Zane. I continue to be lucky that his friends have adopted me.  Whether they know it or not, their invites to include me are suited for my grief.

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