Good Mourning Grief

A blog about my adventures as a grief warrior

Month: January 2024

Break From Current Reality

January 28, 2024 /

Lately my soul has been yelling louder than usual. The stresses of life are paramount and although I would not want to be doing anything differently, I needed a break. So, I ran away to the mountains. With the blessing of my family, I went solo. When I arrived, I had to unpack my overnight bag including the guilt for wanting to be alone. I am complicated.  I opened my journal and wrote to Zane.

“I have run away to the mountains.  Our refuge. My sis worried why I did, “it’s not like me”, she said. I did feel guilty that I wanted this to myself for a decadent two nights. But it was more a need than a want. My soul is screaming so LOUD lately and I have not had one second of solitude. It is the quiet I need to recharge. I had to go. And the silence of the condo here is blissful.  I can feel my heart slow down. Here, my thoughts are realizing that I will get to each of them, one at a time. There is no need for them to push and shove!  The mountains are powerful, and I can feel their magic envelop me.”

My stay included listening to my soul and following her lead. I slept in late. I ordered a breakfast smoothie of strawberries and basil. I did a bit of work and then closed my computer and went into town to shop. I lingered. I came back to pour myself a gin and tonic.  Not any gin and tonic.  The gin was Zane’s favorite. Hendricks. I sipped it as I walked around the trails that we took Tango on. I cried unapologetic tears for the past walks here, that I had with my son and my dog. I cried, for the new walk I was on this moment with each of them in spirit. I took pictures of my moment.  I shared them with my husband and daughter, grateful that this moment I am taking they approve of. They wish this for me. It makes me cry harder.

My stay included laughing at a (non-Hallmark) movie, a little condo housework, magazine reading and meditation.  All things I have identified as things I need to help me keep friends with my grief.  It also included things I didn’t think I was capable of in my emotional state. I ordered take out at a local restaurant and rather than having it delivered, I sat at the bar and waited for it. Something Zane had taught me. He had said, “Mom, if you are feeling insecure going to a bar by yourself, walk in, walk up to the bar, and sit down at the bar. The bartenders like to chat, and you look like you own the place.”  I had a wonderful conversation with the young man who took my order, about his life in this town since he moved here in 2005. Thank you, Zane.

The other thing I noticed was as I waited for my dinner order, the music playing was a song that was upbeat, one Zane would play. My family knows that I can’t do music since his death. They politely turn it off when I enter the room as listening throws me into an emotional meltdown. I heard the song, and before I could react, I noticed that my foot was moving to its beat as I gazed at the mountain outside the bar window.  I was ok. My boy was with me. So, I listened to it. With no tears but rather a bee bop of head and shoulders as the song played. Yes, I am ok when I am in the mountains. It is where my son lives.

This reprieve confirmed what I already know. One must listen to what one’s soul needs and oblige. For me to be my best for me, my family, my friends, my career, and this earth, I must take time to spend with those I love on the other realm.  Each of us needs a break from our current reality to recharge, reflect and redirect. For me, the mountains are calling, and I must go.

Old Blue Eyes

January 21, 2024 /

There was a holiday season, a long time ago, where we visited two friends often. Then health, travel and kids took priority and we saw each other less.  Every time we got together it was like picking up where we left off.  That is the way of good friends.  Time means nothing.  Until it does.

The last time I saw our friend, we were walking Tango. He pulled up beside us and we chatted about life, the age of our dog, the battles we all were going through with our health.  He was concerned about my cancer; how my recovery was going.  He didn’t want to talk about his own battle with cancer. His health “was pickled with the scotch I drink” he’d laugh. His blue eyes twinkled. They were always filled with a light, a love for those around him.  It earned him the nickname, ‘old blue eyes.’   “We must get together soon,” I said as Tango pulled on his leash to let me know it was time to keep going. “Yes, we will”, he waved goodbye.

The news of his death came as a shock. It shouldn’t have, but it did. Another friend I somehow felt would be around forever.  Or at the very least until we had that next drink we were planning.

His physical absence will be missed by a very large community. His soft demeanour, sense of humor and love for family and friends attracted a big group of admirers that relished in his company. We were lucky to be a part of that. He is the man that sent a card to us, each birthday, death anniversary and holiday of Zane’s, letting us know he will never forget him and how lucky we are to be loved by our son. I treasured his kind gesture, honoring our son in such a tender, personal way. That was so typical of the kindness he showed. He was always just a call away and if the porch light was on, the door was open to come in and enjoy a drink.

His passing hit us all hard.  Even my daughter burst into tears. That’s how special he is. That’s how deep the impact of his friendship is. We are taught that grief is the price we pay for love. And as we sit quietly together, grief joins us. And yet, somehow, the love our friend had of this life spills over us, washing us with a sense, a reminder, that the game is not over, only the course has changed.

“In golf and life, it is the follow through that makes the difference.” My sweet friend, you were a sure hit, making a difference as your soul gathered many to enjoy the beauty of this life.  May we continue to see you at tee time!

Savoring Tiny Moments of Clarity

January 14, 2024 /

This week has been nothing I had written in my calendar to be. It all changed when I answered the phone to hear the frantic voice of my friend’s son. “Dad went for a walk and got lost. We can’t find him.” The local weather dictates staying indoors and somehow my friend has chosen to go for a walk and is nowhere to be found. This is brain cancer.

His son did find him, and we began to work as a team, spending a whole day in emergency, pleading with doctors, and then working with home care, social workers, lodge staff, trying to put parameters in place to ensure my friend is safe. It has not been easy, and it has been all consuming.

One afternoon, it was just him and I. We talked about doctor appointments and what results we hope for. Memory recall lasts only minutes, so the conversation is repeated. He is so very positive about life, about finding a cure. “One step in front of the other,” he says. I ask him, “have you given any thought to if the doctor says there are no more treatments they can do?” I ask this because we know this is the case. He looks into my eyes, and I gently touch his arm. “Just for a minute, go there and tell me what you think.” He ponders this. I am not sure how much understanding he has about this notion. He looks up and says to me, “well, what will be will be”. I lifted my coffee cup, and we clinked as if to toast the moment.

 The doctors have said that the end-of-life stage has begun. But we know better. End-of-life does not exist. It should be defined as end-of-earth. We knew 16 months ago when he was diagnosed that this day would come. Somehow, all that knowledge does not make it any easier for us. And the person who we love we now watch, slowly, losing his brain power, not knowing what is happening in his own life. It doubles the grief.

The days are spent in hyper mode calling the experts, driving to appointments, the worry about support…it makes the time go by fast and at the end of each day, we are more like caregivers than friends and family. My friend senses this.  It confuses him as to why we have all these new people coming to visit. Why he must spend time in hospital waiting rooms. Why he must spend the cold weekend at his daughter’s house. He doesn’t understand it is because he can no longer rationalize what is best for his own safety and comfort. This is pre-grief, the early stages where we know the inevitable is near, but we are too busy in the present to be present.

I suggested to his son that we need to focus on the moments of clarity.  These moments are few and far between and will continue to become fewer and farther but right now we have these moments. We must stop thinking in these moments of the grief, of the future. We must open our hearts to feeling the moment. Really feeling the blessing of the moment.  These moments will become the memories, kept in our heart, for the days after grief arrives to stay.

“Shattered”- by Gary Roe

January 7, 2024 /

If more reading was one of your New Year’s goals, pick up a copy of Gary Roe’s book, “Shattered”.

I am not sure when I read this book or if I wrote about it before.  I can’t seem to find proof of either happened. And yet, when I open this book to share, I know I have read and written about it.  So, what the universe is doing with tricking me into thinking I haven’t, led me to believe that perhaps there is something about this book that is worth repeating.

What one can expect with this book is truthful, applicable learning of a community who shares grief.  Divided into 6 categories, Gary takes the reader through each emotionally charged area with stories, facts, questions to ponder and ideas to try to support your grief.

It is worth a second read and when I reread it, I got even more out of it.  Different time, different stage, I leaned into the idea that negative thoughts and self medicating is natural, I don’t have to be brave. I empathized with the parents whose physical ailments are real but the energy to heal is not there. I heard that my anger is about the loss of so very much and most importantly, it is ok to be mad. Mad is good. Mad is about acknowledging the unfairness, the insanity of having to live without the physical presence of our child.

This book is a must read. A repeated read. Gary brings through this book, a reminder that grief is an individual journey, but we are never alone.

Thank you, Gary, for taking the courage to write on a subject that had not hit you directly. Thank you for working with and sharing with all of us, your compassion for our pain. Thank you for identifying the dark feelings our society feels should be ignored or fixed. Some things can’t be fixed. Thank you for reassuring us that we will never be the same and that is ok. Thank you for giving us hope that one day, there might be moments we will not cry in pain but rather in joy.

I don’t believe that I will ever heal, ever get over, ever get pass my loss. But I find a small comfort in the words of others who travel the same path that peace can be found. Gary’s work, and the collected stories inside his book truly support good mourning.

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