Author: Mama Fish (Page 18 of 24)

Three Years Later

August 8, 2021 / Mama Fish

I woke up August 7^th, the day marking three years since Zane was killed. I poured a tea and sat in the early morning light and wrote to Zane. “I went to bed last night, begging you to stay out, to not be on the road as if somehow that plea could take us back in time and I would wake up from this nightmare”.

At three years, shock is not the right word. Disbelief is better. Anger is still the number one emotion. Hope is the same; that I will be able to have a relationship with him in some new cosmic way. Loneliness has increased alongside heartache. The messages from friends and loved ones who say they hold us in their thoughts are comforting. I am grateful that they remember.

Our family discusses how the last three years have been. We agree that the first was numb; we are only now starting to remember the details of that year. The second was brutal because shock is less which leaves you feeling the pain of grief more accurately. The second year also brought with it the realization that grief will be with us, for the rest of our lives. And that is disturbing. It leaves you to try to come to grasps that you will never be the same.

So, what does the third year bring? I am thinking we should take the learnings and the awareness of our last two years and start to shape our new beings. We can’t escape grief. It is a huge and everlasting part of our make-up now. Maybe the third year will offer us a bit more strength to face our grief and build around it. Maybe it will introduce us to ways we can do that. Maybe we can hope that this is the year grief doesn’t beat us up as often. (Although I will not hold my breath about that.)

Whatever it does or doesn’t bring, it is here. And we summon the courage to face it.

The Place of Delusional Bliss

August 1, 2021 / Mama Fish

I was having a quiet morning in my chair when I heard the sounds of laughter coming through my window. I turned to see a young man opening the door for his friend, entering our building. His friend, whose back was turned to me, was a spitting image of Zane. The hair, the physical build, the clothing style, even the white legs…It was so him. And in that relaxed, peaceful moment my brain went to the impossible place, the place of delusional bliss.

I jumped up and my heart raced a happy beat. Oh, I thought, what a lovely surprise. Zane’s coming for brunch. I can’t wait to hear about his week. I went towards the door, to open it for him, awaiting one of his incredible hugs. This is the place of delusional bliss.

It lasts only seconds before reality comes back to slap you across the face. I stood there, looking at the closed door, the knowledge that there would be no footsteps coming down the hallway, no “hello mama” opening my door. And suddenly my place appeared a little darker and the silence grew a little louder. I sat back down in my chair. I closed my eyes to imagine if Zane had walked in. What would he tell me? What would he want to drink? Where would he sit? I pondered these as the place of delusional bliss was now gone.

Most of us get these delusional blissful moments. It is the first moments of the morning when you wake and your brain has not yet connected you to the ugly truth. It is the sight of a stranger who appears like your loved one. It is the sudden smell of something that was of them like the smoke of a pipe or a perfume. These moments last only seconds. But with it comes the feelings of the joy, the love that we once had when they were physically with us. And these moments remind us that they are still within us. These are feelings that will never be removed or forgotten or replaced. And that understanding brings its own bliss.

I relish in these moments. Yes, the second after I realize it is not real, the pain comes back. But the pain of our grief will always be. We know that. So I will take as many delusional bliss moments as the Universe wishes to send me. And I will take them with a grateful and joyful heart.

We Must Lead the Way

July 25, 2021 / Mama Fish

A mother in my grief circle posted it was her son’s first year anniversary and none of her family acknowledged it. She felt guilty that she was upset with them for this. The overwhelming response (from those of us who know) was that this reception is sad but true. People forget. They move on. They expect us to do the same. And this societal belief isolates us, deepening our grief.

Our society does not know how to handle grief. We like it to be wrapped up with a beautiful tribute at a tearful funeral and we then ‘move on’. This is for many reasons. Our loved ones don’t want to see us hurting. They feel powerless that they can’t make us feel better. They miss the person we were before the death. It is from a place of care that our loved ones try to hurry us along in our grief and get past it and back to ‘normal’. A normal we will never be able to go back to.

This desire is hard on us who are grieving. We too want to be our old selves. We wish life was normal but as that will not be now; we struggle to find new ways to go forward with this grief. It is difficult. It is work to mourn and learn who you are becoming with grief as part of you now. This journey will cause friends to fall to the side, adding to our loss. The friends that stay with us, these are our angels.

I recently had a chat with one of my angels in her new space. I had looked forward to seeing her. She met me with a hug and a tour of her creative room and we sat to catch up on life since we last spoke. She makes things so very natural. We share the frustrations of our current climate, the hopes for new projects at work and the status of what our kids are up to. And the true beauty of her is that our updates include Zane. In her quiet and loving manner, she will speak of him and ask how I am doing with my grief journey. She is interested and asks what I am presently doing to honor him and offers possibilities. Her visit comforts me and I leave with a refreshed calm.

I am grateful, and lucky to have friends like her. I listen to my fellow grief warriors who feel alone that they have no person such as this. I can’t imagine. It adds to one’s grief. It must. It demonstrates there is work we need to do to help our society understand and respond to grief better. We must help our loved ones be brave with the discomfort that comes with speaking of what has hurt us most. We must lead them in conversation, reassuring them that we want to speak of our beloved. That we need to speak of our beloved. We must remind them of special occasions of our beloved and share our desires and our expectations of what we need from them for these dates. It is up to us to lead the way because the alienation that comes from not sharing our grief or ignoring our grief is not good mourning. We need more earth angels, like my precious friend, one of the few whose soul needs no training on how to be such a wonderful support.

Magic at Stampede

July 18, 2021 / Mama Fish

I anticipated the return of the Calgary Stampede and it did not disappoint. Stampede was an annual event for the kids and I. Each year, on Kid’s Day, we would head down to play the midway games, eat mini donuts, shop in the BMO Centre and try the new icky dish and then go home. As the kids grew, I would go home alone and they would stay to meet up with friends and do the rides. And then, as they reached adulthood, Nashville North was added to their “must do” list. Yes, Stampede in our house is the biggest event of the year. A holiday like no other and because of this it is also my biggest trigger.

Stampede was Zane’s gig. He anticipated it like a kid at Christmas and cried when the tents came down. He spent every free minute (and every saved penny) on the grounds. So keeping up this tradition without him is no easy task. The first year we went, every game, every smell screamed at me, “He is not here”. I ended up going home and crawling under the covers. When Stampede was cancelled the following year I suggested it was ok. “If Zane couldn’t be here, Stampede shouldn’t either”.

This year, I looked forward to going, to giving Stampede another try. Jon and I took Payton and her fiancée. We brought ‘the dude’, Zane’s essence, too. This year felt different. Partly because we left the fear (and masks) of the past year behind, but it was more than that. The energy of the people, the sunshine, the live music, the smell of corn dogs greeted us at the gates. We played our favorite games and won prizes. There was chatter about Zane being our lucky charm. You could feel him. And then my biggest, unexplainable sign confirmed this.

The kids were in line to get Alligator Tail bites. Yea, we tried every weird food there and enjoyed them all! Jon and I went to get a table on the roof top. As we were standing at our table, my back toward the grounds, I looked into the construction going on behind the fence. There was nothing there. No people, no stored items, just dug up dirt and cement. As Jon and I chatted, from the side I could see something floating up from the construction site. I looked over to see one perfect bubble floating up. I gasped. Bubbles are Zane’s thing….loved blowing them and always kept a bubble wand in his car! I grabbed Jon’s hand and said, “Look, look over there!” I went over to look to see where it could be coming from. There were no other bubbles, no persons near, no bubbles from another site, nothing. I started to cry. “Oh, my God, Zane is here. He is letting us know”. And the bubble floated up towards us and then up higher into the blue sky. Jon and I were silent. Both of us were smiling. I said to him, “my heart, my heart….it is filled with my boy.”

When you receive a sign such as this, you do not distrust it. You do not check into the realistic possibilities of how it could have happened. You do not question it. If you do, the magic is lost. What you do is accept it as a sign from your loved one. You receive it with a glad heart as a confirmation that they are with us. And you celebrate it. Which is what we did and this magic made my day. It filled my heart with the love of my son and the joy that Stampede brings our family. Even now.

Waiting for the Answer of How

July 11, 2021 / Mama Fish

Recently I was honored to have the opportunity to sit and listen to a fellow mom who lost her son earlier this year. When the police came to tell us about Zane, they began by saying, “We are here on behalf of Zane”. My (new) friend was told, “His death is under investigation”.

There are many levels of grief. When Zane was killed we were told what happened. There was no question of how he passed. The coroner’s report came back relatively fast with what we had been told in black and white. We had those awful answers and knowing the cause of death, our questions became focused on the why and what if. We had the answer of how.

How is the one first answer you need; the manner to which my child left this earth. When you don’t have an answer, grief is put on a whole other level. All the other questions arrive and are complicated because you can’t begin to comprehend when you don’t have any idea of what happened. It is sheer madness exaggerated.

As we sat in the sun sharing stories of our children, of how the police came, of how our other children found out…we shared tears and a few giggles, creating a bond that ‘others wouldn’t get’. There is comfort found in shared grief. We talked about how we honor our child and what we do for ourselves to make it through the days. Grief is a solitary journey. Yet when we share our journey with those on the same path, we discover similar happenings and we begin to understand we are not totally alone. This awareness brings a silent strength to face our grief better. And she has to confront this grief, while waiting to hear what happened to her child. That takes extra strength.

I admire her beauty. She carries her head high and lives with a trust that the answers will come. And while she waits, she puts one foot in front of the other with her son as her driving force, wanting to honor him and do right by him. She is a noble example of how one can practice good mourning.

When No One Knows Your Truth

July 4, 2021 / Mama Fish

At our new place, no one knows of our truth. No one here is aware that we have ‘lost a child’. One neighbor, who has seen Payton come by a few times, asked if I only have a daughter. I said, “oh no, we have a son too”. It is the truth even though the assumption would be he is alive. And that is what I like about here.

There is some sort of peace that comes with people not knowing my story. It doesn’t include the apologies or misguided questions and comments. Grief, even when shared with friends, has a solemn energy. The energy is different with the illusion that our life is normal, even though it is far from normal. And it isn’t that I have lied; it is that no one has asked any questions that I would have to share our story in order to answer them.

And then it happened. We were taking Tango out for a walk and our neighbor had a friend over. The friend recognized us. Her daughter dated Zane for years and actually lived with us for almost two years before they broke up. They stayed friends and I took her in as my own. To this day she keeps in touch and is like a big sister to Payton. The mother hugs us; we have not seen her since long before the crash. She tears up but says nothing about Zane. I am relieved. We comment on how long it’s been, how fabulous we all look and then we leave to walk the dog.

I told Jon I was a bit saddened. We know she will tell our neighbor what happened. My bubble is no longer and my new community will know of the hell we live with. I am not sure why this bothers me. I have no illusion of what my reality is. Perhaps what I have enjoyed is the fantasy of others not knowing and therefore thinking that my boy just hasn’t come over yet for anyone to see. This unawareness was ok for me; it was an unexplainable cushion for my grief. It was a feeling that I will miss.

I will carry on, anticipating the “I just heard” to which I will reply (yet again), “thank you, yes, it is unimaginable….”

Grief and Gratitude

June 27, 2021 / Mama Fish

I kept a gratitude journal for over a decade. I taught my children to do the same. In some small way, recording five to ten things of what you were grateful for that day seems to put things into a better perspective. When you are grieving, gratitude is difficult.

As we unpack in our tiny condo, I came across a journal of Zane’s. The first entry, he had written, “today, one day becomes day one” and each day he had written 10 things he was grateful for. His family, his friends were at the top of the list on many days. Some days he was grateful for a social day on a summer patio and other days his gratitude included having a home and a thick woolen blanket to snuggle in. What I enjoyed about this journal was that he counted his blessings and his life was full of big and small experiences that brought him comfort and joy.

He had a months’ worth of writings in this journal. I pondered ripping the pages out and giving the journal away. I am trying to create more space in this small home; every item needs a place and a purpose to stay. I would keep his writings, which would take up less space than the whole journal would. And then I remembered what I am learning; if you want to see signs, you have to be open to them.

I have not been very grateful lately. I am consumed with move, work and complicated grief. Actually, I have become quite good at complaining. Zane was always telling me, “you have to do with joy” and that, quite frankly, has been lost in the last years.

So I took finding this journal, specific to recording gratitude, as a sign. Here is my boy reminding me that I have a whole pile of things to be grateful for…and I better start writing them down daily to refresh my attitude. I am picking up where his last page ended. And each day, I will list what I am grateful for.

Zane, you will always be top of my list. Thank you.

Did you get my change of address?

June 20, 2021 / Mama Fish

The night before possession of our house, we gathered to say good bye. It was quiet and somber. We walked through each room, sharing stories of favorite memories. Tango went off into the yard, Jon and Payton went upstairs and I was left in the basement alone for a moment.

I sat on the floor of Zane’s empty bedroom. I closed my eyes and I asked him to join me. I thought of all the conversations we had in this room; of all the plans he made to change up this room at his next birthday. I thought of all the parties he had with friends and the many sleepless nights at his desk studying for the next exam. This was his suite we called it. It was his place. It is the room I will miss most of all the rooms in this house.

We gathered outside, next to the tree that Zane had planted in grade 3, each of us with a shot of Jameson’s to toast our home, the memories made here and to Zane. And with that we closed the doors and went back to our new abode.

When I first found this condo, through a dream with Zane, it was to be my healing place. I am not sure what that meant; I just knew that coming here would be of value to my mourning. Every night I would pull up the real estate listing and fantasize about living there. I would be with the dog. My husband was not usually a part of it; grief is a solitary journey. I had this little place decorated in my mind. I had each of my beloved possessions placed perfectly in its tiny spaces. It brought me comfort to play this game after a long tiring day.

Alas, here I am. Reality is that I share this space with Jon. Reality is that many, many compromises were made and saying goodbye to several beloved pieces was not a choice. I am so grateful to my sister and daughter for ‘adopting’ the things that I could not bear depart with but had no room for here.

I listen to friends and family and I hear that they are hopeful I will heal here. This has forced me to move Zane’s things, albeit they are still with me or in storage. The move puts me in a new place that has no reminders of all the memories I cherished at the old home. And yet those did come here with me; memories do not have a fixed address. They move easy.

I found solace in being in the place my son grew up in and knew. Grief does not live in a house; it lives in your heart. And although I am comfortable and enjoying the reduced work that a small space brings, my grief is as big as it has always been. In fact, there is a new emotion attached to my grief; the fear that I will not have the same feelings of connection with my son that I had there.

So I ask for signs to let me know he has my change of address. Sitting on my new patio, in the quiet sunny afternoon, a bunny comes through the complex and hops right up to our place. It sat still, looking up at me and not moving. Even the dog noticed but stayed quiet. I whispered, “Thank you Zane, and keep the signs coming.”

Living with the Dot

June 13, 2021 / Mama Fish

When we ignore our grief, when we distract ourselves or refuse to acknowledge it, the invisible pain of these actions create havoc worse than facing it in the first place. At least that’s what the experts tell us.

My therapist drew a dot, in the middle of a piece of paper. She said this is your grief, the first moment your grief arrived. As she said this she kept pen on paper continuing to press in the shape of the dot until it bore a hole through the paper. I liked her analogy. Yes, my grief has ripped a hole in my being.

Then she drew a small circle from this centre, explaining this is time, the days that go on. She said; “when something happens, a memory or just breathing, you are drawn back to the centre”. She drew the line back to the dot. She continued drawing circles around the dot, each circle of time extending a little further away from the dot but with lines going back to the dot. This illustrated that triggers never quit but, with time, it takes longer for the line from that outward circle to reach back to the dot. I think it was to be a map of realistic hope. If I believed this, then yes, I would always have grief, I would always have triggers bringing me right back to that centre of pain but with time it would lessen.

I have had moms who have lost a child decades ago tell me ‘the pain never goes away but it does get softer’. When you are new in your grief this sounds impossible. Even now, 2 ½ years later, there is no sign of fewer triggers or the intensity of them. Grief teaches you patience.

This is where ‘embrace the pain’ comes in. If we don’t face this centre dot, this boiling point of grief, if we don’t mourn, we become stuck in ‘the dot’. If we are stuck, then we are unable to experience the lighter moments that occur in the lines circling our grief. And that is where we need to be to live our lives and fill our purpose; with grief as a part of which we are now but new things brought in to give us moments that are (hopefully) less painful.

How this looks and how fast this happens is an individual thing. The point is to strive towards this. Good mourning is learning to live with ‘the dot’.

When Graduation is Taken Away

June 6, 2021 / Mama Fish

Last year, and again this year, high school graduation is different. Mothers rant about how their child is ‘ripped off’ of a graduation that was to be a gathering of classmates and friends to celebrate. This grates on the nerves of some fellow grief warriors; the retort is at least their child is here to graduate. Death robbed us of this.

Zane took University in stride. He wanted to ensure he had a life balance so planned his courses accordingly stretching a 4 year degree into 7. He purposely chose to have all his favorite electives completed in the last year to finish with a slow and enjoyable end. He was to graduate in June of 2019. He was killed in August of 2018.

It was the first action I took in honor of my son. He was just a few electives short of getting his degree. A letter came from the President of the University that included his condolences and recognizing that our son was on the Dean’s list for his efforts. He mentioned a posthumous degree and included the name of the staff member that could give me more information. I called her right away.

It was no easy feat; in fact it took months of trips to Court and the University to make this happen. I was relentless and would not give up which included a meltdown in the Court bathroom (after application rejection number two) and the support of Nicole, the University staff member who pulled me back on to the ledge several times with extended deadlines and reassuring phone calls. She was one of my Angels.

In the end, I gave the honor of crossing the stage to my husband. It was a Father’s Day gift. Our family sat front row, watching Jon step onto the stage and shake hands, and accept Zane’s degree. We took pictures there of us and of Ryan, his friend and study-buddy; they were supposed to graduate together. And in a sense they did. Then we came home to share a quiet, reflective drink in my boys’ honor.

So, I get the frustration of any graduate who is entitled but can’t be in a collective group and shout to the heavens “we did it”. Graduation is a rite of passage that was earned from years of stress, late nights and hard work. How we envision it should be and how sometimes it actually is can be sad. It can be downright heart-wrenching. This is the only time that this graduation will happen and the graduates are robbed of it due to something out of their control. It is a loss.

This understanding brings a bit of compassion for the mothers who share on social media the angst of their child not being able to celebrate in a fashion they had expected. They are reacting to loss. And as one mother who has experienced the biggest loss of all, oh, how I get it.