Good Mourning Grief

A blog about my adventures as a grief warrior

Month: December 2024

My Prayer for 2025

December 29, 2024 / / 0 Comments

I started 2024 with a prayer for a softer year. We needed time to adjust to the multiple losses experienced in the previous period. My prayer was not answered. In fact, the Universe carried on bringing with it more losses, more bad news, more struggles. And ended with the news that one of my favorite people has a brain tumor.

When I shared this news with friends, two of them said that they are thinking of reviewing how bad they want to be friends with me.  I seem to be a beacon for death. Although we giggle, that is not true, it does seem that the last half decade has been overflowing with grief for us. To which I struggle to justify.  The why us? Our plate runneth over and still the servings come.

The past, and ongoing present has proved there is no escape from loss. The control we have is only how we handle it.  And I think we handle it well. Most times. We are open with our feelings; we carry those who have gone, with us in conversation and acts of honor. I am learning better to listen to my grief and what she needs. I am always searching for tiny specs of silver along life’s lining. 

And in between all this sadness, there have been happy moments of connection and celebration. I am not discarding those.  In fact, they are heightened when we live in a state of when will the next shoe fall. Gratitude is practiced. And appreciated. So, as I reflect on this year, the path we travelled has had turns and obstacles and the common denominator seems to be grief. Grief is walking beside us.

Moving into the New Year, I am going to remember this. That grief is not leaving. That it requires quiet times, slower days, and self-care. Grief is not the enemy; it is the continuation of love. How lucky am I to have a life filled with so much love. My prayer to the universe this year is not for less, but for more. More hope, more strength, more ability to walk better with my grief on the path with those I love who are here, with those who are going and with those who have already gone to the other side.

God, if I am a beacon, let it be to care for the broken. Including me.

The Proof Is in The Palm of My Hand

December 21, 2024 / / 0 Comments

I went into a store my daughter suggested I would enjoy, a witchy store full of gems, candles, spiritual interests.  I went in to find a carrier oil I wanted. I left with the most beautiful gift in the palm of my hand. A reading of my past and future by Carmina.

I didn’t plan for this reading. Some sense as I shopped, kept urging me to ask about it. The clerk told me they do all sorts of readings from numerology, astrology, intuitive, angel and palmistry. Appointments can be made, and the price is reasonable. I asked about palmistry. I had dabbled in that once, as a teen, and loved the idea that your life was pre-drawn in the lines of your hands.  Could I make an appointment for that type of reading.  She went to check and came back that there was an opening now.

Carmina shared with me that my left palm, that which illustrates the trials and triumphs predestined for me to experience were completed. And, as my age is over 50, we focus on my right hand.  The lessons I am still to learn. My right hand showed several things, many of which are typical struggles for an “A” personality…I have not slowed down, I have not practiced self-care enough, I have not learned to stand up for what I want/need. She pointed to small, faint lines on my hand that illustrates I am to learn and grow in these areas. She asked who or what I was angry with as she pointed to a puffy area with a deep line by my thumb and suggested I focus on that too. And then she said, “I want to talk about Poseidon”.

Apparently, the moon of your palm is about the underworld, the other realm, the connection to spirit. My heart line is a deep strong line running across my entire palm. But there is a break, a definite separation which outlines that I have lost BIG, that my heart has been shattered. And there is a second heart line, picking up from the broken line, which carries into the moon of my palm. She studied this line for a moment and said, whoever it is that you have lost, that is this line. This is the person who is connected to you indefinitely, who has been and will continue to help guide you, a sort of soul mate, a cheerleader of your destiny.

She caressed my hand and then looked out her window. She turned to me and said, “I have not seen such a line go so far into Poseidon’s area, you must understand how special this connection is. It is a connection to the other realm.” It was at that moment I felt I needed to be transparent with her.  I told her, “I think the line of which you speak, is about my son Zane.” She tilted her head. I said, “he was killed in 2018.” She let out a gasp and grabbed my hand and pressed on the point where the two lines joined. She told me that, if I didn’t already know, that this bond to my son came before this life and will continue. Forever.

Every grief warrior wishes to hear something like this about their loved one. The fact is, I sensed this before he was conceived. Our entire earthly experience as mother and son was something we both knew was special. Yet, having Carmina show me the proof of these feelings in the lines of my palm, was such a gift. I know now that any time I miss my boy, I need only open my palm and press the center of it to remind me of our eternal connection.

Then, POW, You Are Gone!

December 15, 2024 / / 0 Comments

When I found out my doctor was retiring, I burst into tears. He patted my hand and said, “Janica, I’m turning 70. Did you think I would never retire?” I moaned, “no I did not. I thought you’d work until one of us dropped dead.” He laughed, “I want to enjoy the last of my years, I want to travel, to not have to schedule celebrations and long lunches into only the weekends at best.”

He was my parent’s doctor and when I was looking for a new doctor, he became our family doctor.  He delivered my daughter.  He was there when my parents died.  When Zane was killed. When I was diagnosed with breast cancer, he hugged me and said, “we’ll get through this together.” And we did. He has always been there, through thick and thin. For all of us.

I jest that I am mad he is retiring because it has taken me years to train him to get on my program. As a person who needs to process my health challenges, study alternative healing and then decide what is best for me, my doctor respected that and indulged me.  “What will your herbalist suggest?”, he’d ask after explaining what my latest test results showed. His compassion for spending the time you needed rather than the time that was available, kept the waiting room full.  His nurse kept us entertained with lively conversation while we waited our turn. Doctor visits were not a dreaded thing. And all this will end with his retirement.

I’m not sure how to say goodbye to the man that has cared for my entire family forever. Being in my 60’s who will be the next doctor that I can trust to examine me and know what is normal and not for me. Your doctor is your most trusted ally. They are the person whose education and expertise will guide you through the physical and mental challenges life brings you. They play a big part in your longevity. His departure leaves me feeling vulnerable. And there it is.

A common characteristic of grief is the fear of more change, the dislike that we are not in control of what will be. My doctor is going to retire and of course I want him to enjoy life. The realization that the person who has cared for me, who I have trusted my life and the lives of my family with, will no longer be there is a big change. I am feeling loss. Plain and simple. And with loss comes sadness.

So, I am giving myself time to be selfish and feel like how could he abandon me in my golden years. Then I will pick up the phone and continue my search for his replacement.  To which I am confident I will find. This new doctor will be accepting me as a patient who brings with her multiple inflammatory conditions including an attitude that you better measure up, you got big boots to fill!

Dr. Pow; thank you for being the primary caregiver of our family for decades.  May the hope, the light and the confidence your support gave us be felt in your heart as you travel your new path. 

An Invitation to Light the World on Fire

December 8, 2024 /

Today, is World Candle Lighting Day. It is an annual event where one is asked to light a candle to honor the children who have left our earth too soon. Wherever one lives, when the clock strikes seven in the evening, a candle is lit, so that, by the end of the night, every home has a small light of fire sending a beacon of love to the Heavens.

Can you imagine what that might look like to our kids; looking down to earth and seeing the planet seemingly on fire by the beauty of this warm glow. That the entire world shares in the honoring of our children. The message that our love is still burning. That the memory of our lives together continues to light our paths.

I invite you, at seven tonight, your local time, to take a candle, any candle and light it or turn it on. Then as you look at its tiny flickering, remember them. Say their name. Feel their energy envelope your space. We know our children are not gone. We receive signs that they are here, loud and clear. Tonight, this action returns the message to them.  It says, “look at this place, ablaze for you to continue to shine now as you did on earth.”

Let’s light the world on fire.

Jolly Sweet Joseph

December 1, 2024 /

We live in a community where the average age is north of sixty.  Way north. Joseph, whose apartment is above us and one over, could be heard speaking on the telephone loud enough to hear himself to which the rest of us did too. On his 90th birthday, he bought himself a new car when he passed his driver’s license. I asked if he liked the new one and he said, “it’s the same car as my last one, just has more safety features I now need.” Joseph took a fall in his apartment recently, ending up in hospital with a head injury that he could not recover from. His absence is noticed in our building.

When we first moved in and met Joseph, we would see him often as we walked Tango. He would pull up to say, “hello. How are you. I’m fine.”  Every time. You knew Joseph was recently in the elevator because of the lingering scent of his cologne.  

He was flirtatious. He told me once that he envied Tango. I asked why.  He said, “because he can spend so much time with you.” He had a great sense of humor. When I had returned home from a trip to Mameo with my sister, I saw him on the street and told him about it. I went on my way, and he went into the garage and bumped into Jon.  Jon asked him what he was up to.  Joseph said, “oh, I just got back from Mameo.”  

“A kind, sweet man”. That is how everyone in our complex describes him. And he was. It isn’t that I knew him well.  I don’t even know if he has family nearby. I reckon I will learn this when we attend his funeral. But his passing does leave a hole.  The parking lot is quieter. The elevator has no distinguished smell. His TV and telephone conversations are no longer heard. It is, for me, a gentle loss.

What do I mean by gentle.  I suppose it is that my interactions with Joseph were casual, neighborly. We did not share stories or personal matters of the heart. We never had a drink together. Maybe, the number or the intensity of connections is relevant to the depth of love. And thus, the pain of loss feels softer when compared to other relationships. A gentle loss is not as heavy as the grief of other losses that I live with. It still hurts, but not as sharply.

And it does not take away from the enjoyment had with my brief conversations with Joseph. He was a sweet, older man whose character livened up our community.  I am truly, tearfully sad. I will miss him. After all a loss is a loss, even if it is gentle. I sit with my tea and remember him fondly and my heart smiles of the antics we all experienced with such a wonderful human. I feel blessed to have had the pleasure of knowing such a beautiful soul. 

Joseph, may you giggle with the angels.  Thank you for making each of us feel so special.

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