Good Mourning Grief

A blog about my adventures as a grief warrior

Author: Mama Fish (Page 1 of 26)

The Spirit of Spring

April 20, 2025 / / 0 Comments

Spring, where grass will become new & green

The signs from our loved ones will be seen

In butterflies, dragonflies & nature’s delight

Of morning suns & stars at night.

Spring brings with it a message of hope,

Bright colors & chocolate to help us cope.

The scavenger hunts of years reminisced

Bunnies & petting zoos we never missed.

Tables set with favorite culinary dishes,

Family & friends gather with springtime wishes

And bubbles will blow into the air

To let you know,

We know you’re there.

We gather, we laugh, we toast & cheer

For the warmth of company, afar & near

I enjoy this time, as the truth is told

Spring is the spirit of grief on hold.

A Hug from The Mountains

April 13, 2025 / / 0 Comments

When my daughter and I planned our weekend away so close to our birthdays, we decided to make it into a birthday celebration.  Just the two of us. A trip to enjoy the mountains, to shop, try a new restaurant or two and to rest. Both of us have been going at full speed and we needed this time to rejuvenate.  I couldn’t wait. 

We left for our weekend on the 11th, the date of the day that my father passed away.  That was thirty years ago. There is something surreal about that. He had passed just before Payton was born. I spoke at his funeral. And went on to lose my Godfather the next week, my own birthday the following, and then gave birth to his first (and only) granddaughter. We toasted to my dad on our sunny patio, facing the mountains, with a chardonnay. A fitting start to a spiritual weekend.

The weather graced us with a full moon and then lots of snow. The first night I woke at my usual 3 a.m. from the brightness of the moon shining into my room. It is the ‘pink moon’ and symbolizes the importance of renewal, hope, balance and growth. Fitting to be in my magical place to feel this. I heard Zane’s voice, “get your camera, mama, don’t miss this.” And so, I spent the first night snapping pictures with the spirit of my boy.

The next day, the snow arrived.  It was a bit surprising, since the previous forecasts were sunny and warm. We adjusted, took out the umbrellas and headed out. A magical day started with mimosas, then shopping, a shared lunch, more shopping and dinner. The conversations melted away the hours. Not that my daughter and I have ever had a shortage of topics to speak of, but this day, included the sharing of past encounters that may or may not have helped shape us into who we are now, sitting in front of one another.

It makes sense that our past shapes our future. What our relatives went through, their stresses become part of our own make-up. We reminisced about our own family history and how this may have made an impression on her pre-birth. And how it included that each of us were forced onto this shaky path after Zane was killed to handle unbelievable grief.

We shared the discussions we have had with others who lost a child or siblings and the unspoken responsibility of supporting those who follow our own fate. We talked about tips, quotes, and antidotes to the incredible pain we live with. And as we chatted, I was reminded of the strength within my daughter, for others. Her desire to shelter those from the pain that was bestowed upon her. I heard her testimony of how tired she is and yet, the need to stay strong fuels her to go on. And I went to bed with a heavy heart. This is her life. I cannot change this. Ever. For either of us.

When someone you truly love is taken away, you change. You become a person who must survive.  How you do that becomes a unique journey. But each grief warrior finds a way to face the questions to which there are no answers. Each finds a way to travel a path of eternal heartbreak. Each finds a way to stand and keep upright. And, most importantly, each of us finds a way to re-open our hearts to those in our life and those who join us through their own personal loss.

This trip, Canmore reminded me of its deeper side. The power of the mountains. The solid, breathtaking, can’t be shaken rock solid symbols of how we can stay calm and carry on. The area that became my salvation, my son’s happy place, my husband’s playground. And this weekend, I saw, has become my daughter’s guiding light.

Towards A Home Sweet Home

April 6, 2025 / / 0 Comments

One of Zane’s close friends, who calls me “Ma”, has been a part of our family for over twenty years. A self-proclaimed orphan, he spent a lot of time at our home because of the dysfunction of his own home. I watched this brave young soul rise above every challenge when most would have thrown in the towel.  I have had the honor of cheering him on over the decades and am quite proud of our bonus kid. I have said forever that he needs a place to call his own to really heal. Last week I received an invite to view a house with him. He was finally ready to buy.

This experience was a deja-vu for me to the time where my son-in-law invited me to help pick out his wedding suit. Both experiences were ones I had planned to experience with Zane. Instead, I find myself living vicariously through his friends. The house hunting triggered memories of Zane and I planning his first home and all that it would be. It had to be near nature, it had to have a great kitchen, it had to be accessible to his friends and family and it had to have a vibe that brought him peace. The plan was he would graduate, travel, then move into a home of his own.

As I walked through the first place we looked at, it felt odd. It was more like a family abode, rather than a bachelor pad. I had promised myself not to have an opinion but rather be another set of eyes, so I walked through with him watching his reaction and sensing his energy. He didn’t like the place either.

The second home we stepped into had a calmness about it. It had a magnificent kitchen and a modern feel with a backyard backing onto a pathway, lots of trees, large (new) windows that lit up every room. And each light switch had a dimmer on it; a bonus he giggled about. I knew this was the one. I kept quiet until he said, “I’m thinking I really like this…” and I squealed with joy.

Later that night, I received a text that he was putting an offer in. I crossed my fingers. The next text said, “I GOT IT”. I hit dial, and we cried and laughed over the phone at his dream coming true. When I hung up, I continued crying for the loss that Zane did not have the same ability to purchase his own place. Fate had other plans, but they did include the ability for me to be a part of finding the perfect place for one of his best friends. Gratitude can be found in bittersweet moments.

The night ended with one last text. A photo of my bonus kid’s celebratory drink. He likes scotch. And the ice rock in the glass was one I had given out at a birthday party for Zane. The word wobupa etched into it. A favorite word of Zane’s meaning “I am not afraid”. I texted a reply, “you have a buddy looking over you”.   And I have a strong sense my son will be visiting his friend in his new place of peace and joy.

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.

Designing a Newfound Fun

February 23, 2025 /

In my grief community, we have been talking about how spontaneity and fun are important to intuitive development. A friend suggested “fun” was a word foreign to her and I agreed. In fact, each grief warrior I speak to has admitted that fun is not in their vocabulary since the loss of their child. A sad but true sentiment to which is contrary to the stories we share of our kids and how much fun they were, they had, they brought to the life they shared with us.

Zane was the epitome of spontaneous fun. Every morning at breakfast I would experience belly laughs or shake my head, “oh no you didn’t” as he shared of the adventures he had the night before. He was known to jump over a fence or a bar bench to grab the attention (and hopefully the phone number) of a pretty girl. He bought a camera strap once, showing me its uniqueness by putting it on and running back and forth in our yard.  He asked if I saw why, it was so cool.  I said I wasn’t sure, but I noticed it kept the camera from moving.  “Exactly!” he grinned. Why was that important, I asked. “Well, I might have to run from someone wanting my camera when I’m snapping pictures downtown” he said. He winked. Apparently, that had already happened.  He had escaped, but felt a tight strap would be useful for future outings. I shook my head.

If that happened to me, fear would not let me try again. But Zane, and the experiences he had, good and bad, were all part of life. He welcomed it. He encouraged it. He relished in it.  And I sat on the sidelines, living vicariously through his antics, loving every moment.

They suggest when a loved one passes, that we live in manners that reflect who they are. If we carry on unfulfilled dreams they had or take up a hobby they had enjoyed or try to build in the things they loved into our own lives, it honors them.  It keeps them alive.  Zane’s zest for living your best life was his legacy and one each of us tries to keep in mind. “Live it up, you are alive” he would say.  It is that line a friend had silk screened onto t-shirts for the family to wear at his celebration. His eternal message to us to celebrate each day.

Trying to have fun is risky for grievers. We don’t know how. We are afraid that if we find ourselves laughing, enjoying the moment, it lessens our grief. And yet, it doesn’t. In fact, finding ways to have fun softens grief. Bringing into our own life, things that we can enjoy, turns grief to its other side to face us.  That side of love. Yes, bittersweet, but what if the memories, the mimicking of our loved ones in ways that make us smile, also causes our loved ones to smile from their place in Heaven.

The stories shared from the mothers that I sit with, of their children’s life on earth, are colorful. And when we share the stories, we do end up laughing at their antics, shaking our heads in awe. It is worth the risk to explore how we can continue their vibrancy through our own actions. To have fun, as each of our children did. As our children would want us to do.

In the past, when I was enjoying something, like a new recipe or putting out peanuts for the squirrels to join me for happy hour, Zane would hug me, relishing in my joy.  He would say, “awe, mama, you’re so cute.” It was amusing to him how I found fun.  I am going to try to bring that back. For me and for Zane to witness. I can’t see me jumping over a bar bench for anyone. But with the right group, I might try dancing on a table. I have picked up Zane’s camera and promise to continue his love of photography.  Although, his funky strap I can’t see needing.  Perhaps, baby steps are needed when designing a newfound fun.

Love & Grief by Emily P. Bingham

February 16, 2025 /

The wording on the back cover of “Love and Grief” by Emily P. Bingham, was the reason I chose this book to read. It suggested that it helps “soften the pain…and maintain a lifelong connection” to our loved ones. Emily’s grief journey began when her husband passed of cancer when he was thirty-two. She claims in the first chapter that she survived her grief by exercising. I laughed out loud. Anyone who knows me knows I’m allergic to any form of physical exercise. How would this book be a good read for me? I read on and was glad I did.

The book is about her business moveTHRU and the six concepts of grief that she teaches to help with your grief journey. She defines the types of grief; the feelings it brings and includes twelve tips to maintain your lifelong connection.  All in the first part of the book.  I was hooked. The second part was about movement, and I thought here it comes…she’s going to tell me to sign up for a gym class.

I hesitantly kept reading, only to find that movement was more so about my feelings than my physical body. This chapter was about moving forward with your pain. Moving forward, not staying frozen. It was about our grief-averse society and how to live within its misunderstandings. It was about shifting your criticism to curiosity and changing the narrative of their death.  She writes, “No, you cannot change the fact that your person died…but you can change the tragic trajectory moving forward.  You can write the next chapter in a way that honors your deceased loved one and integrates them into your life…” The idea of changing the story, more so, continuing their story in a way that honors them and brings them forward with us is inspiring.

Exercise was brought up in a list of suggested activities to help one to move through common emotions. Subtle, simple ways for anyone to attempt. For instance, sadness can be supported through a walk in nature or meditation.  I already do that! Anger is about screaming into or pounding a pillow.  I already do that! She also suggests visiting a rage room which is now high on my list of things to do this year. Her moveTHRU method is an acronym to help you feel your pain and move forward with it to the love it also holds. This is an exercise even I can get into.

The last two parts of her book are about how we are forced to adapt to our life and by doing so, expand. This is always where I get stuck. How the death of Zane will morph me into this joyful being that has a clearly defined purpose and thrives within the newfangled world of grief tainted joy. I feel stuck. And then what I realized, reading this book, is that I’m not really stuck. I am doing the work. Somewhere I assumed there was a deadline where I would be that big and better version sooner than this.  But there is no time limit on any part of grief. And if I believe that love is the other side of grief, that they are one, then growing and expanding is not a contract to be completed. It will be my whole lifetime; writing my story and within that, the next chapters that honor my loved ones.

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