Good Mourning Grief

A blog about my adventures as a grief warrior

Month: March 2025

The Others in Pain

March 30, 2025 / / 0 Comments

I must share the aftermath of St. Patty’s Day this year. We did show up at our local watering hole with family and friends joining us. We did have too many libations, including the traditional shots of Jamesons. We ended up at home, pouring myself to bed to wake the next morning from a text from one of my ‘kids’.  He wanted to add to my Facebook post but instead, sent it to me privately.  I opened my social media to find a post my daughter made of our party, with her dad and I dancing in the background. I read his text and was trying to place how it was connected to this post. Then, a post I made popped up, and I remembered my cardinal rule to the kids, “don’t post drunk” and realized I had just broken that rule.

My post, in case you are one of the apparently few, who didn’t read it, was to Zane and said this:

“And the green in your blue-born eyes remind us we are Irish. And the whiskey drank in your honor remind us of your spirit. And the truth you are with my father are felt within my soul. My Parting Glass to you my son, will never be empty. Xo”

Jose’s text to me (and I have his permission to share) responded with this:

“And the everlasting laugh to which reverberates in my mind anytime I think of a time with you forever reminds me of how lucky I am to have known you. My heart breaks because now I have to remember you longer than I know you, but the memory of your smile teaches me the value of the good things in life.”

In our own grief, it is easy to forget that others are in pain. They too had a relationship to which they grieve. I recall a friend telling me, a year after Zane was killed, that his wife (who was like a sister to me), couldn’t get out of bed for a month because of her grief. One of Zane’s friends, the week of his death, thanked me for opening our home and said, “we don’t know where to take our grief. It helps we can come here.”

One of our close friends, who drove in from BC to escort us to all the ‘nasty’ appointments of identifying the body and organizing the cremation, broke down on our couch after everyone went home. Sobbing, he told us, “I was holding it in, to be strong and I think it just caught up now.” I remembered thinking caught up how?

I knew others were in pain. Of course they would be.  Zane was the best friend, the love of so many. But in my own despair, I could not comprehend the depth. I could not compare it to mine. We are not supposed to compare grief. So, I didn’t. I just ignored the others pain. I had to. I couldn’t take on more pain than was already handed to us. And now, years later, I am starting to see, to feel what I knew at our own ground zero. The others are in pain. We will always be in pain.  Together.

Jose’s sentimental and beautiful reply to acknowledge and agree with our pain was so moving. His vulnerability, or as he called it, “three beers deep feeling sad and sentimental”, captured the way many of his friends feel. And his recognition that one day your earthly connection can become shorter than the period that you were together in this life. That hurts.

I had Zane for almost twenty-seven years. I can’t imagine a time where I would have to say I have been without him longer than I was with him. Yet, for some of his close friends, that is the case. That is a new level of grief I had not considered. How agonizing the complicated pain with loving someone for longer than you have known them.

And yet, I know these kids will remember Zane for the rest of their time. How beautifully dark that is. To continue ‘being here’ for longer than you physically were through the love and remembrance of your comrades. May others find comfort in that their pain is a collective extension of the love for my son.

Grieving Room by Leanne Friesen

March 23, 2025 /

My latest read was about how many spaces our grief needs and how to build room for each. Leanne, a Pastor who tended to her Parish in their times of joy and sorrow, found herself personally dealing with grief, when her sister passed away after a long battle with cancer. Grief knocked the foundation of all she knew. Her book, Grieving Room, is the story of her journey to which she shares with the reader the different spaces that we need to give grief. It was one of the best written ‘how-to-survive-this-pain’ I have read.

Each chapter is about an area you need to make room for and how, through stories of her and her relationship with her sister, family and church members. And although, she explains at the beginning, that as a Pastor the book will have a faith-based thread to it, her references to the Christian bible are told in a story format such that the lesson has more of a spiritual tone rather than a religious one. For example, she writes about the popular belief that if you have enough faith in God, you’re loved one will be healed. She writes of how in fact it isn’t about believing and then receiving a miracle. The miracle sometimes is just more faith. Faith for strength. Faith for the ability to be there for our loved one. Faith for the possibilities of what will be next for them and for us. It is about having faith that more faith will be given to us.

Her chapter about giving room for rage made me laugh out loud. She shares the story of how angry she was her sister had died and how it infiltrated into her job. She gives the example of walking behind two elderly ladies at a weekend retreat. The ladies are sisters, laughing and walking arm in arm. Leanne followed behind them, furious that she was robbed of the same life with her sister.  She writes, “I was angry that they were flaunting their sisterliness all over the place, right under my nose! I remember consciously resisting the urge to shove these old ladies in the mud.”

Her chapter about giving permission to not have room for more is a coping mechanism that many grievers do not adhere to.  I know I didn’t in my early grief. Leanne reminds us that “grief gives you a constantly full glass.”  Our ability to face even small challenges, to accept another appointment or request, will ensure that your grief will overflow. She talks about what it does to our bodies and the need for more rest, more alone time, suggesting we schedule it into our calendars. She reaffirms that reserving time to grieve does not mean you have to cry all night. It is about making time to sit with our grief and acknowledge the numerous facets of our loss.

The book ends, like most grief therapy books, that you will come to a place where the pain will become softer. A room for redemption, she calls it. A place in your life where the grief you carry, can be a supportive tool for others.  I call it the land of bittersweet.

Some books related to death are not suitable in the early stages of grief; the message might be too extreme to comprehend. In my earlier years, I could not read about how one day I will experience a new and joyful existence. I still don’t really get that concept but Leanne’s writing is an easy and comforting read that is palpable at any stage. This is the book that gives you hope. And the tools to build room for that hope.

Raise the Parting Glass

March 16, 2025 /

It is the day before St. Patty’s Day. A major holiday in our home. It started as a birthday party for my father, a true leprechaun in this life. It became bigger as Zane grew up, relishing and embellishing in all its magic. No matter where our family is on this day, we gather at some watering hole to toast being Irish.  Truly, we are only a wee bit Irish (Scandinavian descent is larger) but that fact is ignored because we live and love like the Irish.

Last year the celebration began early and continued into the night. We brought the ‘dude’ as a symbol that Zane is partying with us. We hopped from one bar to the next, family and friends in tow, and I promised myself the next year would be quieter. I am older, and recovery takes much longer. So, this year, we have planned to live vicariously through the kids, meeting up with them at only one or two spots. Knowing us, that is probably blarney…. what is important is our honoring of this special day.

Traditions are the stitches that hold a group together. They are shaken, sometimes abandoned in grief. With the loss of a loved one who was the catalyst for a specific tradition, the details are obviously different. That is the most bittersweet part. We want to continue a tradition that we once enjoyed, but how do we do that when the one who led it is not with us.  It takes courage. It takes perseverance. If I’m being honest, it takes a liquid shot or two.

What I noticed about this celebration, is the joy on my daughter’s face and the faces of Zane’s friends, who are now ours. There is a magic in the air, a lightness. This is a day one is expected to be jubilant, to celebrate with a raised glass to all that we have here and beyond. It gives us permission to believe in fairies and rainbows. It is a bright color, the color of life. 

Zane always wore a tie on this day, it was that special.  A green tie, of course. Our drinks needed to be tinted. A shamrock houseplant was purchased every year as were chocolate gold coins and Purdy’s mint bars. We still do these things each year, including pinching anyone who is not wearing a shade of green. That was Zane’s favorite as a young boy. He pinched my father every year, laughing that “Buppa didn’t have green on”. My dad did that on purpose; just to hear Zane laugh.

Oh God, how I treasure them both. St. Patty’s Day is an annual wake for me. To laugh, to cry, to shout at the Heaven’s of how much they are missed. My father, my heart’s first love, and my son, my heart’s last love. This day is a loud reminder of the pleasure they took in the company of good friends, with a cold beverage, a hot meal and the ability to dance to the music of life.

A toast to you both, two of my favorite reasons to raise a glass, any day.

If all good time that e’er we shared,

I leave to you fond memory;

And for all the friendship that e’er we had

I ask you to remember me;

And when you sit and stories tell,

I’ll be with you and help recall;

So, fill to me the parting glass,

Good night, and joy be with you all.

~An excerpt from “The Parting Glass”

Potions in My Grama’s Pantry

March 9, 2025 /

I had a dream about my grandmother. She came to me with a concern. Something she wanted to remind me about and by the time I woke to write it down, it was gone. Only the word bergamot stuck with me. I’m not panicked about this dream, more curious, as the latest course I took was about which loved one is trying to reach you in support of something you need. Grama was that angel for me.

And I wasn’t surprised it was her to ‘show up’. Lately health is a hot topic in our home and Grama was all about good health. Born in the early 1900’s, she was ahead of her time. She went to university to study business. She opened a general store with that degree in Wetaskiwin. She was into alternative healing; in fact, I’m pretty sure if she was born earlier, she would have been considered a witch. She had potions for everything that ailed you.

Her teachings are the foundation of my healing beliefs. She taught us the phases of the moon. The power of the sun. Way before Tik Tok took over with popular guru’s announcing natural cures; my grama had taught us this. If you had a headache, you put peppermint on the back of your neck, grabbed a travel mug of water/lemon and headed out to the park. If you had an upset stomach, you chewed ginger and rubbed cardamon on your belly. I’ll spare you the yoga position that she advised would relieve gas. But it did!  She was and is still one of my spirit guides, with a dream message for me. What about bergamot?

My grama suffered a broken heart. My grandfather passed a year before I was born. She lived out her days, a gloomy person, waiting, as she said, “for the Lord to take me home to Ernie.”  She now lies next to her beloved in an Edmonton cemetery. And I wondered, did she ever try a potion for grief.

The oils to support grief are lavender and rose for anxiety, sandalwood and rosemary to manage moods, including anger. Cinnamon helps lift brain fog. Lemon and orange keep you going. All things found everywhere in my grama’s home.

Grama slept with a sachet of lavender under her pillow and wore rose water as her perfume. When my sister and I stayed with her, she would wake us each morning by placing a bowl of fresh cut oranges under our nose. There were cinnamon sticks in jars on the counter. I had no idea how hard my grandmother worked at her grief.

I knew she mediated, she prayed, she believed in angels. Oh, how I wish I had spoken to her about these things. Although, why would I have; loss was a stranger to me then. I didn’t know my grandmother before her grief. I only knew the version of her as a grief warrior. I didn’t consider that her life was bittersweet with the loss of her true love. I didn’t know why the aromatherapy was so important to her.

It is clear why she stepped forward as my guide to better wellness. We share similar health issues. We believe in the powers of aromatherapy. And grief brought to each of us the desire to connect to the heavens.  She was my teacher of all things cosmic. And the why’s I did not know as a child, I clearly understand as an adult. She continues to teach me through my dreams. My blood pressure was high, and bergamot is the answer for that.

Grama would be 120 years old this month. I imagine her in Heaven, creating aroma concoctions for everyone. Thank you grama, for being my guide to stronger health and softer grief.

A Note to My Pen Pal

March 2, 2025 /

When a loved one passes, the biggest fear is that they will be forgotten.  It is a universal understanding within the grief community of how important it is to say their name, to recognize their special days and to be present for such. I know first-hand the comfort I feel when someone shares with me a picture or a story of Zane. I do this for my grieving friends. Never to stop. And yet…

I have been perplexed by something that was missing, something I should have done that I couldn’t put my finger on. And then it hit me. I did not reach out to a friend to let her know I was thinking about her on her sons ‘angelversary’. So, this note, is my heart reaching out to her, an apology that my actions do not reflect my feelings. And I promise to change that.

Dearest “pen pal”

Where does the time go? I was five months into my grief journey, when your son passed. We didn’t know each other.  I received a phone call from your niece, telling me that you had just lost your son and could she give you, my number.  I said yes. I am so grateful that I did. You became my first friend to travel the unthinkable.

You didn’t live in my town. Ours was a modern-day pen pal relationship. Only deeper. Two mothers, struggling with their new horrific reality. We had a lot in common, learning to live without their daily presence at home, taking care of the dog that they loved, having to be strong for their sister who was inconsolable. Through email we shared our pain, our daily struggles of how to continue breathing, how to take one step and put it in front of the other.

My heart hugged every email, ‘how are you feeling today?’, it was ok for you to ask that. You already knew.  I didn’t have to answer. I’d walk my dog, in my park, you would do the same with your dog, hundreds of miles away. Yet, in those early, dark days, I felt closer to you than many of those who walked beside me. Funny how a bond between two mothers sharing the same fate, become fast friends. Distance was irrelevant.

With you, the mask was off. The support was felt. The ability to be allies, miles apart, sharing the impossible task of keeping it together for everyone else, we gave each other room to say “I can’t do it” knowing we would do it. There was no judgement. Only empathy.

I thought of that late one night, and wondered when the last time was, I emailed you directly to check in. I ‘see’ you on social media, but I haven’t asked, “how is your grief?” And then it hit me. January was your month. The month you lost your son. And I started to cry. For you. For him. 

I had broken the cardinal rule.  When had I stopped communicating with you directly.  My sweet friend, this is a note to apologize for not being present. For remembering you but not reaching out to you. For not calling you on those anniversaries that we should commensurate together. I carry you within my heart and promise I am always nearby in thought and with love.  I will connect. ~J

Friendships are vital. There is a myriad of excuses as to how we can ignore these important relationships including our own pain immobilizing us. I believe that part of healing is found in the connections with those that walk the path with us; fellow grief warriors that understand and give you space to grieve, those are special. Those friends are the accessory to hope and another voice that speaks our loved one’s name.

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