Author: Mama Fish (Page 15 of 24)

Comfort Found in a Vigil

March 6, 2022 / Mama Fish

My brother-in-law Dan passed away yesterday. I had the honor of sitting next to him, with his wife and son, as he took his last breath. Prior to that moment we spent two days chatting off and on, sometimes alone and often with family. This opportunity enabled each of us to have one last conversation so that, as Dan said, “there is nothing left to be said.”

My conversations with him centered around his boys, the love he has for my sister and my perception of where he will be going next. At one time, as we were sitting in silence, he said, “it’s weird; I’m laying here, and you are sitting there and there is nothing in between us”. I asked if there should be. He said, “no, I guess not.” I suggested if he had any bones to pick with me, he should now. He smiled. And then I said, “I’d like to share with you how grateful I am….” And proceeded to tell him of all the things he was to our family and how lucky we were that the Universe’s plan was to include him as part of our crazy clan. Then I shared with him what I would miss most. The annual tradition we had of pulling an April Fools’ Day prank on one another. We both have a dark sense of humor the rest of the family didn’t quite get. Each year we would try to outdo the other. We talked about which pranks were our favorite and then I shared with him the prank I had planned that would not be happening now. He laughed. He laughed so hard his oxygen mask fogged up. He turned to me and said, “oh yes, that would be a good one.”

His one regret was that he didn’t travel more. I told him that big travels for him were about to happen; his life was not over yet. This body was about to shut down but with that his soul will be able to go anywhere, filled with love and light and no more pain. He will travel. And as it seems to be something our family needs, we will each have a memory bead of his ashes, representing his body as it was on earth. As we travel, taking our memory bead, he will be with us. “That will be one way we can honor you”, I said. He smiled. Then I told him that I expect signs from him. “I get signs from Zane, baby feathers and license plate messages and Instagram pop ups. What will be your signs? So, I can watch for you”, I asked.

Knowing when death is coming does not make the death any easier. But the opportunity to share how we feel and how we will miss them, how we might honor them, sending them off with that knowledge seems to comfort both the person dying and the person who will be left behind.

Before he passed, Dan said to me, “April Fool jokes, that will be your sign”. I look forward to a lot of laughs coming my way.

Thank You for the Sympathy Card

February 27, 2022 / Mama Fish

I was going through some boxes as we continue to purge to fit into our tiny condo. I came across a card we would have received right after Zane was killed. It was from a fellow grief warrior who had lost her son decades before. She had enclosed a letter letting me know what I could expect. I had no idea then of the truth she spoke to. I was naturally in shock and numb to receiving her message.

She told me that the pain will get less. That I must grieve in my own way, there is no right or wrong way. And there is no timeframe. We will not get over the death, and that our friends who have not lost a child will not understand. Her words, only a grieving parent could say, and true to the experience I am living.

She learned to live on for those she still had here. She wrote, “As I think back all the memories that reminded me of my son were difficult, but they were also healing.”

Her letter closed with the final paragraph saying that with time she was able to forgive the driver who was responsible for her son’s death. And that hit me. Have I forgiven the driver who killed Zane? I feel no hate towards him. I have focused on how his mother would feel, I focused on the shared loss. But forgive him? Ouch. That is territory yet to be explored.

Reading her letter, her words reminding me that I am not alone, I felt compelled to write her back. I have never met this woman. She is the sister of a friend. So, I called my friend to ask for her address and I wrote. I let her know that her letter was read but not understood until now. That I have continued for the sake of my family here and that I live with Zane’s spirit, missing his physical presence with every breath. I thanked her for the card and the reminder that I live in a community of strong women, mothers, like her.

What do we do with the many cards we receive? Store them in a pretty shoe box. Or several pretty shoe boxes if needed. And in quiet moments when you are feeling strong, go through them. Toss the ones that are from people you don’t know or whose message grates you. (We all have received at least one of those, ‘all is well, you’ll get over this’ type of card.) Take pictures of some cards you like but want to toss. That way you have more space but keep the memory. And for those cards that resonate with you, let them resonate. Let yourself feel the message, feel any pain that message brings, knowing that you are here now and doing your best to be your best for your loved ones.

If you feel compelled to write back, I recommend you do. And like grief, there is no timeline to do this. Sympathy cards are given to express words of kindness and support. There should not be an expectation to reply; goodness knows we have enough on our plate, but there may be a card worthy of reaching out to say thank you.

As in my case, “Thank you Joyce, for sending a message, the foreshadowing of my new life. You were bang on. As only another grieving mother would know.”

Connecting Through Shared Stories

February 20, 2022 / Mama Fish

This past Super Bowl was a party at my daughter’s home with friends whom she inherited from Zane. It was the first bittersweet event of the year. It was a wonderful afternoon, each of us wearing our favorite team, bets placed, comfy chairs and lots too eat and drink. It was missing only one thing. Zane.

Zane had a close group of friends fondly referred to as ‘La Familia’. When Zane was killed, his friends adopted our family, bringing us in to be a part of what Zane loved to do and who he loved to be with. We all feel very lucky for that. We have been invited to birthday parties, BBQ’s, holiday events and social afternoons. We know the invite comes to us out of respect for our son. (The picture above is one of the many get togethers with some friends to share stories).

When you lose a child, their friends become an important connection. They share stories of adventures that you might not have known about. They hold a different perspective of our children; they were friends, not parents or siblings. If given the opportunity to sit and talk with them, take it!

Listening to shared experiences they had with your child is no easy task. And watching these young friends live the life that your child was robbed of is painful. I am secretly dreading the upcoming weddings and children of their own that will fill their life with love. And yet, I want to be a part of their happiness. I want to know more about my son’s life and hear how he affected his friends lives. These are the people that he chose to spend his time and energy with. Getting to know them, brings another dimension to who my son is. I want to hear his name and his friends are happy to share. It is a blessing that causes tears and smiles.

I was standing in the kitchen during half time and one of Zane’s closest friends came in to hug me. He said, “can’t you feel him? it’s like he is here with us” I agreed. He hugged me and when he pulled back, he said, with tears in his eyes, “I just really miss him…” “I know, sweetie,” I replied and hugged him again, “we all do”.

That evening I realized that maybe there is more to his friends including us than just out of respect for Zane. Perhaps they too feel that connection, through his family, that closeness to him. They too hear a different perspective, different experiences that we know of that Zane had not shared with them. Together, as a group, through conversations, there develops a well-rounded image of all that my boy was. And with our conversations continuing, of the person he will always be.

Getting Outside of Your Head

February 13, 2022 / Mama Fish

I had a pity party this week. A work meeting went sideways, demands of a new program, an extra project thrown into an already packed day had me driving in my car cussing at how unfair life was. As I pulled into the parking lot, I received a text from my sister. “Hey sis, which one do you like best?” And four pictures followed. Each, a different urn. I realized she was at the funeral home, arranging for her husband’s death. I started to cry.

In life, and very common for grief warriors, we tend to focus on what we don’t have, what we have that we hate and what we want that seems elusive. This thought pattern stunts our ability to see anything else; the good, the bad and the ugly of other things happening around us. I am not critical of this. The truth is we have been given the short straw and there takes an energy to care for others that we might not have.

One of the ways to deal with grief, we are told, is to volunteer. To get outside of our own head and thoughts by helping others. Research shows that volunteering increases empathy, distracts your grief and makes one feel good. I know, it’s what I sell in my job, the positive impact of volunteering. I also know, that living with grief, this desire is difficult, if not, sometimes, impossible.

How do we show up for others when the day-to-day tasks of work and life make it impossible to show up even for ourselves? I wonder if we started with those close to us. I wonder if we could muster the energy to reach out to a relative or friend or neighbor. A text asking how they are, or a loaf of bread dropped off with a note saying, “I’m thinking of you”. These small acts can be planned around our energy. They take not a lot of effort or commitment to ‘get outside’ of yourself and yet they connect us, and we feel good that we have noticed those we love. We feel good. In thinking of others, we also help ourselves.

Living in my own mess, the fact that my sister is living with anticipated grief, took a back seat to the mundane trials that will not be important nor remembered years from now. What will be remembered is me showing up for her pain. I must plan for this. What energy we have is dictated by a lot of factors, how we use it is our choice.

And with that aha moment, alone in my car, I replied to her. “I like the 3^rd one.” I finished my day and went home to make a pot of comforting chili to which I dropped off to her door the next day.

Finding Your Truth

February 6, 2022 / Mama Fish

I have been inclined to defend my thoughts and actions in the past while to current times or more specifically that grief has turned me into a bitch. I have become less tolerant; I say no more often, I exercise boundaries more often and feel less guilty about it. I am starting to practice self-care, still being kind to others but also to myself. I am looking at my life as if it were in a petri dish under a microscope and what I like I want more of. What I don’t like, I am losing patience with keeping around. It is a new and scary feeling.

I was told in grief counselling that around the 1.5-year mark after a child’s death, mothers begin to ‘find their voice’. We have been stripped of every ideal reality, every role we know of and are left to start again. Within this, it is common for us to find our truth.

Part of this finding involves the grief bursts and rage bursts. We are out of our body with grief. This is normal and practicing grounding is a suggested technique to help. It is simple and can be done anywhere without looking crazy.

Stand with your feet slightly apart and solid on the ground. Close your eyes. Feel the ground under your feet. Know the ground is solid, you are touching it, connected to its hold. It will not let you fall. Feel your energy flow through your body and down into your legs, your feet and into the ground, tying you to its earth. Feel this strength. It is calm. Solid. It can carry you. Breathe.

I practice this exercise lots. I find it works; the angry energy, the silent scream from inside travels through me and into the ground where it is soaked up and contained.

As we put into place new practices to survive, there is solace in knowing that we are not crazy. We are given permission to try new things and change it up to create a warm, comforting environment that supports our pain. We have permission to reflect on what we want, what we need, and how to change to receive that. That is enlightening.

I wrote to Zane about this.

“…so, we don’t really become bitches as I thought. We develop this gentle but firm presence, a sort of this is who I am take it or leave it attitude. All things you wanted for me. How ironic… so, I have chosen to look at this upcoming transformation as another gift from you.”

I am curious, who I will become when I find my truth. I do know that it will be centered around what Zane had hoped for me and what I had hoped for him.

Tattooing Grief

January 30, 2022 / Mama Fish

My daughter has over a dozen tattoos. Each one I would complain, “how can you do that to your body, you know it stays there forever”. To which she would retort, “my body is my life canvas, I am painting it”. Working with youth, my theory was (and still is) that tattoos are a way of expressing emotional pain.

Each year, since Zane was killed, I find myself at the table of my beautiful tattoo artist. The first year, Zane’s words, telling me he loved me were imprinted into my forearm. The second year was a feather on my ankle (a touch up of a teenage tattoo that I have regretted and wanted covered) and the third was an outline of the kids and I when they were younger. I have this year’s tattoo picked out.

A fellow grief warrior shared with me that she has a plan for not one, but two tattoos in honor of her son. She never had one before and didn’t really like them. She was perplexed that she wanted any, let alone two. I shared my story and she asked why do we feel an urge to do this?

I believe it goes back to my original theory. We live in emotional pain and a tattoo is a way of expressing to the world, “I carry loss”. The desire for a tattoo is common amongst those in mourning. I have come to believe that the choice of getting a tattoo is not the point, but rather the choice of what would you like inked for eternity on your body is.

What message do you want it to say? What do you want it to represent? Of course, it is about our loved one so it should contain something that they liked or were like or reminds you of a certain characteristic of them. I believe where it is placed is important, especially if you plan for more. (And I have found never say never to that idea!) Certain body parts are more sensitive like your ankle or rib cage where the skin is thinner so a smaller tattoo in those places might be preferred. Angel wings, butterflies or other mystical, message-carrying guides are also common to incorporate in a memorial tattoo.

Color is important. Bright colors bring a different energy than a soft watercolor or the subtle tones of grey. What was your child’s favorite color? What colors bring you a feeling of peace? Imagination and Pinterest are your friends as the ideas are infinite.

For me, there is no plan to stop this tradition, which I do each year before or on the day he was killed. I have told my family that it is something I feel I NEED to do and one year I might wake up and say enough. Until then, this ritual brings a weird calm; an annual testament letting the world know, “I am in pain”. And to Zane, it states, “I will never forget you. You are always with me”.

The Zombie That Is Grief

January 23, 2022 / Mama Fish

I am not sure if it is that the holidays are done and so we come into the New Year exhausted or if it is the overwhelming feeling of another year without Zane, but grief has depleted me. I toss and turn at night with cramps and twitches to wake late and force myself out of bed feeling more like a zombie than a middle-aged woman.

When I share these feelings with my fellow grief warriors, they nod their head in agreement and understanding. Getting through the holidays is hard work. We are exhausted. And here we are. New Year, new goals, new hopes all wrapped around our never-ending pain. How do we refuel?

In grief, we are taught to be kind to ourselves. We are told that if all you did was get out of bed or just kept breathing, to consider it a win. That’s how tough mourning is. So, we hold on to that; it sets the bar low to feel some sort of hope that we can manage another year. We are told to take care of ourselves. A tea, a healthy meal, a walk in a park, a phone call to a good friend and a great book to read are essentials. Choose one, choose a couple…keep a list next to you of what makes you feel good.

And mind your day. Make sure it includes self-care. Make sure it isn’t too full, especially of things that drain you. Be aware that you are depleted and give yourself permission to be ok with that, holding on to the reality that this too can pass. Or at least subside for a bit.

January is winter and its cold weather, short days and holiday hangover is a tough month. It brings out the zombie in you. Know this and choose to treat yourself softly. The spring will be here soon, promising to bring a new energy that will help move us forward along our path. Take care. Of you.

Exercising the Right To Die

January 16, 2022 / Mama Fish

Vera, the mother of a friend of mine, ended up in the hospital during the holidays and was told that her health was not good enough to return home. At a young 94 years, she did not see or hear well, and her body was not going to get better, thus a nursing home would be more suitable. Not wanting any part of that, she called in the family and MAID and selected the date and time she would ‘check out’.

If you knew Vera, this would not surprise you. An artist, in every definition of the word, she lived a full human experience as mother, friend, mentor and life-positive enthusiast. She laughed, she loved a cold gin and she painted everything she touched with an array of happy colors. Her motto was “be true to yourself”. No, it would not be fitting to have her stripped of her independence and art studio to finish her days in a place that she described as depressing. To each his own and for her, the end of the road would come when she could no longer live in her home. That day arrived and she enjoyed family and friends and even hospital food up to the last hour. She was ready. With her family around her, the doctor put her to sleep and off she went to meet up with her beloved husband, family and friends that had gone before her. Peaceful, beautiful and a bit surreal.

I went over to her home after to choose one of her paintings, a gift of her to keep with me. I hugged my friends and listened as they shared pictures of her of that morning and stories of how the experience was for them. And then they went back to cleaning and purging her home to get it ready for sale. I watched. Curious how life doesn’t ever stop for long. For them, it stopped long enough to hold her and wish her goodbye. They are grateful she went out on her own terms. They are grateful that they were able to say all that needed to be said. They are grateful there was no suffering. Truly, as far as death goes, it was a 5-star event.

So, what does the future look like for them? We know there will be grief; it is the other side of love, and she was loved. Does the ability to have a loved one die like that change grief? Does it make it easier? What will their ‘what if’ questions be like, if any? I have never known anyone who has experienced this type of death. I see my friends are sad. I see they are overwhelmed with the tasks at hand to get her estate in order. I see their strength as they gather to get the job done for and in honor of their mother.

I watch. This is the housekeeping of death; preparing for funeral, issuing the will, the robotic actions that we all must do when a loved one leaves. No matter how they leave. These tasks keep grief at bay until they are finished. Oh yes, I remember how this part was for me, like darkened glimpses of a bad movie.

I have put a bottle of wine aside for when grief settles in, I will be there to sit with their pain. And for Vera, my heart is happy for her. I know when I see a beautiful sunset or a field of daisies, the splashing’s of color, natures canvas, painted by the beautiful Angel Vera.

Packing My Invisible Suitcases

January 9, 2022 / Mama Fish

Since my brother-in-law’s grim diagnosis that the cancer has spread, he has gone back to work. And not just a nine to five shift. No, he has submerged himself, literally locked himself in his office to continue working against his doctor’s advice to quit his job and enjoy the last few months given to him. Classic denial.

In grief, denial is a stage we all experience. My brother-in-law could be spending this time writing letters to his wife to receive after he is gone. He could be mending fences with his son. He could be resting in hopes that taking care of his health might grant him extra time. Denial has replaced all these opportunities with the need to work rather than face his sentence. I get it. If he doesn’t think about it, it won’t happen. If he works hard, time will fly, money will come in, needed money to leave his family. It is almost heroic. It is also small picture. This is the sadness of denial.

I have often said that denial is the stage I could live in. It is a stage that protects my heart from the truth. It is a stage that allows me to ignore my hurt and bask in the concept (the hope) that this is not my reality. The reality that there is nothing you can do to change it. Denial shouts inside of you, “THIS IS NOT HAPPENING” as if this scream could change things. It is loud and upset with God. It keeps me from looking at the big, ugly picture. This is the anger of denial.

And so, when I watch my brother-in-law, I understand. He is living in the stage I go to when the pain is too much. I am patient with him. This is something he needs to wallow in; the denial of the truth that he will not grow old with his beloved wife. I get it. I just hope that he wants to examine his reality, if even for a couple moments, to ensure that when the time does come, he is leaving this realm personally satisfied in how he spent his last months.

I selfishly want him to leave this denial stage for just a bit. There are so many things I want to talk to him about before he goes. There are questions and shared memories and more laughs I want from him before he goes. Knowing he does not have long, I have invisible suitcases that I want to pack full of memories, conversations, understandings that will sustain me after he is gone.

We are told time is not on our side. Who really knows. Past the denial, he is ultimately aware of this. I must remember, this is his life, his time. I must respect how he wishes to spend it. So, I pack my invisible suitcases with all the love and fondness and the gratitude I have for him; folded next to all the things I want to say to him. When he is ready, I will open it up and share. And in the sharing, I hope for more memories with him to add to my suitcases. Alas, if time does not give me this, then I will open my suitcases in ceremony to share with the heavens. And that will have to suffice.

Putting on Yellow Rainboots

January 2, 2022 / Mama Fish

Here we are. 2022. A New Year. And yet nothing has changed. You are still there. I am still here. What will this year bring? More struggle, more sorrow?

What would you want for me? I know not that. And yet, here I am. Perhaps this year I will try something different. Something new. Perhaps this year I will put on yellow rainboots and splash in the puddles of my tears.

Perhaps I will hike, in yellow rainboots to new paths that I know we wanted to travel together. And I will carry my notebook, I will carry your camera. And I will write about these adventures.

I will take this year to notice the signs from you, from heaven, even more so. Your guidance will move me, in yellow rainboots, towards the sites we wish to go.

The rain can splash onto my yellow rainboots, each tiny drop bringing me a memory of you. A reminder that you are always beside me. That we walked this life together and that we still do.

Maybe, just maybe, this could be a better year with a pair of yellow rainboots. A sunny, yellow, symbol of hope. A comfortable, warm, protective apparel to move me forward.

Yes, perhaps this year I will find the strength to carry on with the help of a pair of yellow rainboots.