Author: Mama Fish (Page 20 of 24)

How to talk to the dead

March 21, 2021 / Mama Fish

The hardest part of grief is the thought that we will never be able to see or speak to our loved one again. This is the unacceptable truth we face and thus we look for ways to disprove it or to lessen the pain with such practices like finding signs that we believe are from our loved ones.

In Mary Bertun’s book, “The 21 Day Doorway Across the Veil”, she shares with the reader how to connect with your loved one who is on another realm. Guided by her son Chas, through stories and tips, each day is an exercise in communication and reflection with space in the book to journal your experience.

I truly enjoyed this book. With the daily practices, I found meditations and reflections more meaningful. Her suggested focus of thoughts brought back flashes of childhood memories I had forgotten and gave me a deeper insight to my own being. I did find a connection to Zane, receiving messages from him through these meditations. An example was day 8. The thought focus was about joy, which on this particular day I was in tears. During my mediation (with my eyes closed), my computer made a sound that surprised me. I opened my eyes to glance over and a Pinterest photo had popped up that said, “Let’s visit Banff.” Banff is a favorite of Zane’s and mine. It is a place that brings both of us joy.

Some days it was a visible sign, like that and some days it was a thought that came into my head like a knowing I did not think of but rather someone just said it to me. I will choose to believe it was Zane on this day, because the words were as he would have said. He knew the mountains bring me joy. The message of how to change my tears to joy was crystal clear.

The practices taught in this book brought me both clarification and comfort. We are told our loved ones are always with us so why not seek ways to practice new ways to reach them? What is there to lose? Thank you Mary.

The Arrival of How

March 14, 2021 / Mama Fish

I gave birth to two children. I am ‘mama fish’ to many more. Friends, boyfriends, girlfriends, that my own children have brought home and I have adopted like rescue puppies. Our home was filled with a variety of personalities that sat at our kitchen island. I would feed them, listen to their dreams, their drama, and their hopes. I keep in touch with them to this day. They have all grown into beautiful young adults experiencing life in ways unique to them and I relish in their shared stories.

This week, as I was shopping at Safeway, my daughter called me in hysterics. She asked if I was sitting down. No, I was pushing my cart of food, mask on, in a hurry to finish. She blurted out that one of these boys, one she had dated and stayed in touch with as friends, was found dead.

The floor came up to meet me. I gasped. I moved my cart to an aisle where no one was in so I could take off my mask. “What the hell?” I asked…I needed to rehear it. How does this happen? How can this loving child be gone? How did this happen to someone so young? How did we not know? How…

I think that how is where grief is born. It is the word that we utter as the pain and confusion of this reality arrives and the need to understand becomes a basic priority. It is what our brain needs to know to face what is happening. We want this word answered as if in some way, answering it could change things. The answer might bring hope and a clue to fix this. And yet, when a child dies, the how…every how to this question brings only one truth. Your child is dead.

Our heart is more complicated and less accepting. It doesn’t care of the how. It asks why. And it is the answer to this question that seals our fate as a grief warrior. The answer to the why is a never-ending question we keep reliving because we know how but we will never be able to understand why.

When You Lose a Child You Have Not Met

March 7, 2021 / Mama Fish

The unbreakable bond of motherhood begins when we are told we are pregnant. In my second trimester, I had some unusual spotting and was sent for an ultrasound. This was my first pregnancy and I was a ‘high-risk’. I asked the technician if everything was ok. She said nothing. She asked me to go to the change room and wait. I sat there, wearing the blue paper gown, hand on my tummy, waiting to hear the fate of my child. I had never experienced fear as deep or hope as high as in that moment.

She tapped on the wall next to my curtain and called my name. I poked my head out. She smiled and said; “Your baby is fine”. I sat back on the bench. Relief filled me and suddenly I was crying. The assurance that my child was ok, that this little life growing inside me was still here.

I share this experience because the memory of that day came flooding back when I received the news that my nephew’s fiancé had a miscarriage. I didn’t even know they were pregnant. They had invited us over to which their plan was to share the happy news. Instead of an announcement of joy, we received a call that the unthinkable happened and they needed a little time alone. They are grieving.

I am at a loss. I learned of both the pregnancy and the death in the same call. I want to run over but they have shut the doors and unplugged in their deep agony. Their choice is such a different way of grieving than the one we made where dozens of friends and family came through our doors when Zane was killed.

Yes, everyone grieves different. And yes, you will not know how you will grieve until you are there. I naturally thought, as every parent would, that I would die right on the spot. Instead, we were welcoming Zane’s friends into our home with open arms. My husband sat next to these friends, asking for stories and soaking in the memories they shared. And we could do this because we had 26 years of experiences with our son. My nephew had only months of knowing that he was to be a father and dreaming of what that would be like.

Now, they will begin to hear all the usual things one says about such a loss; you are young, you can have another child, it wasn’t meant to be, and you will get past this. Because what else do you say to a couple whose lost a baby they hadn’t met? The truth is whatever their future will contain, that life, that baby, is no longer an earthly little bundle of joy but rather a spirit of energy they cannot dress or hold.

A loss is a loss. Regardless of the age of your child, this type of loss is catastrophic. It sends you to live in a world where all the hopes and dreams and expectations are gone for that child and for your life as it would have been with that child. I ache for them; for being so very young in their journey to have to experience this type of pain.

So, I did what we do when we don’t know what else to do. I made soup and muffins that I will drop off at their door. I will wait until they are ready to be hugged. And in the meantime, I will share their pain from a distance.

Our First Conversation across the Realms

February 28, 2021 / Mama Fish

A colleague asked if I remembered what I was thinking the first day we received the news of Zane’s passing. Everyone is different. For me, it was vague. I remember just snippets of that day. I went back to the letters I wrote to Zane after the crash and found this one.

Dear Zane,

The day of the crash I kept repeating, quietly but out loud, three things. “It’s ok, I know and, yes”.

Why these? In my deep and earth shattering shock of the unbearable news given to me, why would I quietly, calmly repeat these words over and over?

Was I talking to you? You were here, even then, to let me know? Does that make sense? And what were you saying to me that had these answers?

I always say “it’s ok” to those in pain or dealing with change of no choice. Was I telling you it’s ok? That I know you are still here. I know you are ok. I know that you are moving on to where you are supposed to be. Yes, it’s ok that this is the plan?

No. I do not feel that way. Now. But I wonder, in that day that cut open, raw day, if I did know better? If some how you were there to say, this is what happened. And I said, “It’s ok”. And you said, “I’m off to the next realm” and I said, “I know” and you said “ok?” and I said, “yes”.

And perhaps in my sheer grief that conversation happened but my brain can’t remember the details. It was a conversation our souls had. And it’s why I was so calm, so quiet, so (temporarily) absent from pain. Or maybe so deep in pain. Either way, I know it was a conversation we were having. An understanding that you gave me, to which, in my present pain, I must find and hang on to.

Over the last year, I am learning that I can still have a relationship with my son if I meet him halfway. Zane believed we are energy, souls having a human experience. He would talk about how souls vibrate at a much higher level than humans; of how the mind uses such a small capacity of its’ potential. This belief has inspired me to place hope in the practice of raising my vibration level to receive more.

At first this sounded too sci-fi trippy for me but what do I have to lose? I mean, how happy are we when we dream of our children or see a sign that we believe they sent? Why wouldn’t you want to have more of those, daily dosages of connection. Albeit, a physical hug is what we will always wish for, since fate stole that from us, what could other possible ways to unite with our child be?

I believe that my words uttered repeatedly that day, hours after we were told he was killed, was a conversation I did indeed have with my son. It was the first of many to come.

We Speak From Our Place of Experience

February 21, 2021 / Mama Fish

My husband and I attended a social gathering very soon after Zane’s crash. The hostess introduced us to a woman who had lost her son a year before. The woman said to me, “Wait until you discover the blessings of this”. I was incensed. What the hell did she mean? How could there possibly be blessings of this loss, of the pain I knew I would forever feel.

She was ahead of me in her grief journey. She had a year of the shock weaning and her strength building that she could see the signs her son brought her. I had no idea. Until I too, received signs and yes, they are blessings.

Very recently, a friend lost her husband to cancer and I heard myself say, “Embrace the pain”. After, I realized how cruel this might have sounded to her. She is probably nowhere near a point of wanting to embrace anything but her husband. And what I meant was about something that I am learning to do 2 years into my journey. She is just starting hers. And with this I realized; we speak from our place of experience.

When we offer condolences or a supportive word we can only draw from what has happened in our own lives. And we typically speak in the present tense, how we are feeling or coping now. This may be why some comments seem inconsiderate. Would I have said that to my friend if we experienced loss at the same time? No. Because I would not have the experience I now have. Could I have remembered what I needed or wanted to hear 2 years ago? If I had, my words would have been totally different. It also might have been more helpful for her.

Moving forward, I am going to try hard to remember to think of where on the journey a person is at before I share a comment that might come across harsh. I may add a preface to my comment such as “from where I am at now” or “in my experience.” Or maybe I just listen.

And how can we minimize the sting of receiving insensitive comments? We can remember that the person is not trying to be malicious; they are trying to show empathy. We can remember they are hurting for us. We can remember they want to lend support. And, we can remember their place of experience (time and type) is where they are speaking from. It is the only place we know of.

Sweetening Sorrow

February 14, 2021 / Mama Fish

When Zane was a toddler, as most parents do, I would bribe him. “If you are good while we shop for groceries we can go to Bernard Callebaut after,” I would say as we entered the store. He was always good. He couldn’t wait for the milk chocolate sucker in the shape of a bear. Flash forward to Easter and his Aunt sends the Zeller’s chocolate rabbit special. Zane took one bite off the ear and spit it out. “What ‘dis?”; he said with disgust. It was then that I realized what I had done. I had instilled a taste of expensive chocolate in my 2 year old. There was no going back.

The holidays, Valentine’s included, are rough for grief warriors. It takes energy, sometimes more than we have, to face the empty day, the missing part of our past traditions that can’t be the same now. Valentine’s is the first of these after the New Year to face. And when I remember this, it gives me some understanding as to why we are all a bit edgy and short tempered lately. It’s the anticipation of another upcoming holiday without my boy.

I need to change this. I ‘host’ holidays but without the excitement and interest I used to have. I know Zane would want me to celebrate and enjoy special occasions. He used to kid me about decorating the house and sending cards for every type of holiday. “Just another reason for my mom to party,” he would explain to his friends. And he was right. We are, or were, a social house. And maybe we still are…just not as loud, or not as easy as before.

So, how do we bring back joy to things we used to love doing? I believe we have to incorporate things our loved ones cared for. What brought your child joy on Valentine’s Day? Was it a trip to the local chocolate shop? Was it decorating cards to hand out to friends? Was it baking cookies to dip in caramel sauce? What if we could push past the pain, and instead of not doing these things without our child, we continue to do them in honor of our child?

We know that when we share stories and things that our child loved, we feel better in that moment. They will always be a part of our lives so why push the traditions they loved into past tense? Why not include what they liked in our present celebrations. This could be good mourning.

I am going to buy some really good chocolate to share. I’m going to open a bottle of his favorite red and order the heart shaped pizza. And maybe, with attitude and practice, the joy Zane would want for me will come.

To Change the Room, or Not

February 7, 2021 / Mama Fish

Zane was living at home when he was killed. He was finishing school and wanted to move out when he didn’t have school and car costs…the plan was after graduation. We had developed a suite for him downstairs and it was like his own little apartment. His friends would kid him about why would he ever want to move out. It was convenient and it gave me more time with him than most mothers had with their young adult children who had moved out. In hindsight, his living at home was a gift.

There is no right way to do grief. That includes what to do with your child’s belongings. Some have left the room as is. Others have taken everything down but a few mementos. I have friends whose child was not living at home, who have created a space in their home of all their child’s favorite things as a place to be with their memories and their child’s spirit.

We have not touched Zane’s room. His laundry basket still sits there with a load of dirty laundry to be done. His bar fridge holds his water and Gatorade bottles. His room is as it was two and a half years ago. I keep the door shut and I still knock on it before I enter. My therapist suggested opening the door to his clothes closet just slightly, putting my hand in to touch a shirt or two and then closing it again. She felt that it might get easier doing repetitive ‘touch-ins’ which would then enable me to start packing up his things. I can open the closet fully now but I am not ready to box his belongings.

My husband has suggested we paint it. Or make it into a guest room. When in his room I give thought to this, to what could be options. The answer is always, “we will do nothing, it is Zane’s room.”

When I enter his room, the smells and his invisible energy and the sight of how life was when he stayed here wraps around me and pulls me in. I will sit on his bed and look around and I can almost see him sitting next to me, remembering the conversations we had. “I’m thinking of moving my bed to the other wall…” or “where should I hang my picture I bought at Stampede?” He is so very real in this room.

The resistance to change his room is not something I want to face. Changing his room into whatever that might be, is too big a task for my heart to consider. I am not sure when I will be ready. I am not giving it a deadline; I will know when it is time. For now, if I see a plant or a candle or a book that he would enjoy, I buy it. And I add it to his room.

When Grief Comes without Warning

February 1, 2021 / Mama Fish

The black Toyota Scion parked next to my car set me off. This was Zane’s car…the driver was his age. I cried all the way to the grocery store. I fixed my make up and went inside to shop. Then the song came over the intercom. A song Zane shared with me and the words sliced me in half. I am crying, bent over the shopping cart, hoping no one will come down the aisle while I try to pull myself together.

Joey, the cashier, asks me how I am doing. “Fine, thank you”, I say and turn my head so not to cry again. He tells me about how his staff can’t figure out why he smiles all the time. How he is happy because it is so much lighter than being sad. He says he is an empath. And that was all I needed. I burst into a full-on raging sob. I am apologizing as he is asking me what’s wrong, am I ok. I am crying how I just lost my son and he was an empath, how he would say these sorts of things and how life now sucks…

I felt for poor Joey, that sweet, smiling empath. I am sure he needed an energy bath after my tantrum. He holds my hands and whispers; “I’m sorry for your son”. I apologize, again, and ask him to keep smiling. He is a light for all of us. I leave, sobbing all the way to the car.

Mourning is good for us-it is grief expressed. I should be really good at it. But I seem to be worse. I am a shell; a now, aching, pressured, and screaming mess. I can’t fix this. The biggest thing I need to fix, I can’t. The pain is unbearable.

I wrote the above experience in my journal in April of 2019. 8 months after Zane was killed. Flash forward another 21 months and I am having a bad day, struggling with grief and find myself grocery shopping, albeit in a different store, and a similar song comes on. My eyes fill with tears. But this time is different.

This time, time has passed, although it still feels like yesterday. I have had (lots of) practice with handling grief bursts in public. I have had training reaching out to my son on his new realm. I have a better realization of what are signs, postcards, being sent to me. I am more secure in my belief that Zane is still with me. So I say, quietly, out loud; “hey Zane, love this song, need you here to listen to it with me”. I hold out my hand to my side. It is my way of feeling how my son would have held my hand. It gives me reassurance. And I take my moment. And yes, I stand in the aisle hurting, grief crashing down on me. But this one time, I am not drowning. I feel my son. I know he is near and I take a deep breath to push my cart forward. And I thank Zane for helping me through this moment.

I can’t say this happens every time. I can’t say it happens often. But when it does, I am grateful the waves of grief are not all consuming. These manageable moments strengthen my hope that I may have the ability to move forward. With the memories of when Zane was physically here and the new memories I experience with him in spirit.

Distracting Grief with On-Line Learning

January 25, 2021 / Mama Fish

Nature is a great teacher we do not pay attention to enough. In the cold winter months, nature appears to do very little, hibernating and resting, preparing for the coming of the warm spring. For those of us living in colder temperatures, this is a good month to snuggle inside. Although with current times we have been snuggling alone for too long, which makes one feel restless.

Maybe this is a time to think about, dare I say dream about, something we have always wanted to try. Is there a hobby you have always wanted to take up or something you wanted to learn? Maybe you could learn a new language or take a course in self-discovery or how to paint. The internet is filled with courses available for every interest and most of them are free or affordable.

For those of us grieving, on-line learning can be doable. It doesn’t require going out into the public and the energy it takes to make small talk. On-line courses are usually self paced so you can learn when you feel up to it. They are usually short in length. They usually have a forum to share if you so choose through a Face Book group or comment section giving you the option to be social. It is a comfortable way to try new things without a major commitment.

I have taken two courses. One introduced me to a group of like minded people who I engage with over social media. The other was a 7-day clutter challenge. Each day you learned of a possibility of why we hang on to our stuff. It introduced a sort of spiritual help to assist in looking into the emotion or belief of these hesitations, all designed to help one declutter better. Beyond the usual does it have value, is it beautiful, and is it meaningful measure to keep or chuck, this course instructed you to meditate before beginning. The meditation had you visualize being in the room and gazing upon each individual item and remembering where it came from, and noticing that immediate reaction to it. Does it give you energy when you think of it or take away energy? If it takes away, get rid of it. Zane’s room was on this list. His whole room gives me sweet memories and a bittersweet energy so it stays just as it is. The bonus of this course was that my husband got involved and decided to take the initiative for his areas of the home. Who knew there was carpet in his home office? And it has become (a new) habit for him to put away his clothes. Bonus!

These quick courses are a distraction from grief. They are a topic of personal interest and require a short attention span. I feel productive that I have accomplished something of interest to me. So, while it is cold and blowing outside, I snuggle into a cozy chair with my lap top and take in my lesson of the day. This gives me energy that I can use or store away for a future sunny day. It also gives my grief a break. And that is good mourning.

A Dose of Disbelief

January 18, 2021 / Mama Fish

The first year I was totally numb from the shock of what happened. The second year I found much more painful, much more ‘real’ as the shock softened. Then, the magic of disbelief set in. You will be told that time will soften your grief and that with time you will be able to accept things and learn to live with your new normal. Broken but put back together in some emotional way to be a different person who is still capable of living life to its fullest. And although I do believe there is truth to this, I find that this advice makes us hurry, makes us judge how well we are healing. It makes us feel guilty that we are not moving fast enough. And it brings on feelings of fear; we don’t want to move away from our loved ones. It brings on guilt, how can I be happy without my loved one? It brings on a new pain, realizing the eternal impact that this death has in our life.

This is why disbelief feels therapeutic. When our hearts cannot face the reality for one more second, disbelief can set in to comfort us. How many have said, “I am waiting for him to come home” or “I believe I will see her on some busy street. “ Our brain knows better. But our heart beats with this incredibly strong hope that this is not the plan for us. At one time, our heart believed in Santa and the Easter Bunny. Our heart believes in love, in a higher power. Our hearts believe in what we cannot see or explain so why can’t my heart believe that my loved one is not truly gone from this life?

Disbelief lives within our hearts as a sort of morphine that flows through us when the memory becomes unbearable. We use it to keep from screaming out in pain. We use it to feel only what we can bear to feel for that moment. Disbelief can support our grief by reminding us that we don’t have to fully accept our grief today. We can take our time. We can go at a pace that is slow.

It is obvious that disbelief does not change how things are. Because we live with BIG grief, we can learn to use our emotions as tools to help us cope and disbelief works a bit like Advil. It can bring temporary relief. And like any other ‘medication’, it should not be overused. Disbelief is a coping tool, not a solution.

I use disbelief on days that I am exhausted or that my grief has crippled me and taken my strength away. I say out loud, “he’ll be back”. Or I look into the mirror and whisper, “don’t go there today…” And then I plod on, numbed by the disbelief that I am living the unimaginable and with that, I get through another day.