Author: Mama Fish (Page 21 of 26)

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.

When Solitude is Absent

May 30, 2021 / Mama Fish

With my current busy schedule of work, move and family, I have not had any time alone. I know when I am this busy, I really need to practice healthy habits, so diet, sleep and little or no wine currently is my status quo. And yet I seem to be getting worse. I blamed this on the stress and then I realized I have had no solitude.

Solitude is a buzz word. We are told that solitude brings you clarity and calm; it is the key ingredient to mindfulness. When you live with grief, it is much, much more than a thing to try. It is essential to keeping a balance between grief and complex grief.

So often in our grief we don’t want to think, and therefore taking time out is not a desirable option. But it is a tool every grief warrior needs. Spending time alone is not about being an introvert or extrovert. It is not about being lonely; it is about being alone. There is a big difference.

Solitude can be practiced in a multitude of ways. You can meditate, write, walk, read a book or take photos. It can be time spent on a hobby like sewing or scrapbooking. It can be time set aside to quietly honor our loved one. It does not take up your whole day; twenty minutes or an hour is all some might require. The important thing is to unplug and make solitude a part of your routine.

When we take the time out of each day to be alone, it enables us to quiet our brain and let what needs to come into our thoughts arrive without interruption. This practice gives you time to feel, to face and reflect on your grief. Also importantly, it gives you time to check in with yourself. What do you need right now to help you through the day, the upcoming week? It gives you time to plan your next steps to ensure you are doing what is best for you and yours, including our children across the veil.

Some moments of solitude can be painful, but like a grief spurt we know these moments are now part of our life. And the storm will pass, we keep breathing. What I find is that the more I take time to be alone, the higher my vibration rises. It brings clearness and a feeling of refreshed strength to carry on. And that is good mourning.

Pictures of Loss

May 23, 2021 / Mama Fish

Grief comes back to haunt you when you move. As we come to the final round of preparing to leave the home we raised our children in, I am in awe of the endless amount of sentimental clutter that I have no room for. I have my grandmothers, my mothers and my own china. I have blankets and linen from aunts, grandparents and great grandparents. I have furniture that my grandfather made, my grandmother cared for, my father made and my mother loved. I realize I have been blessed to be the caregiver of their valued items for so many years. And then there are all of Zane’s things.

Each item holds not one but many cherished stories of its history and its purpose. Each item has been with me for over 30 years…some since I was a child. Giving up the material things we love brings grief with it. I am saddened that I no longer have the capacity to keep these things and somehow, because of this, I feel like I am failing those I love who have moved on and left me with their personal possessions. This is about my son, about my parents, about all those I have lost whose material items stay with me.

This is a new grief I had not experienced before. This grief is a slap-in-the-face sort of feeling that there is a concrete end. In my new place, these things will never be. Only the memory of them will be. And that brings me back to the centre of my grief around losing not just the items, but the person attached to these items.

The imprinted energy will be gone. The physical touch will be gone. The visual sight…wait, can I keep the visual sight? And then it hit me. I wrote about this (Grief Hits home); it was a suggestion to take pictures of each thing I must ‘leave behind’. What if I have a collection of photos (at the end of the day) of all the cherished items that when I am missing them, I can look at the picture and see their glory? So, I have been doing that. I have taken a picture of each item that I will not be taking with me.

Yes, I am strategically taking what I know I can’t leave behind without regret. And then there are some that I am leaving behind that I hope I won’t regret. (But I will have their picture). And then, there is still some, and probably too many, but these things I will bring with me. And in my new place, in some future time, I will have the ability to release them to their new life. Just not now.

The items that I have said good-by to, I have found comfort when I find them a new loving home. My Aunt’s beloved dresser is getting a face lift (thank you Karen) and will find a new home. The island sold to the single father who said he was going to use it to do his rice wraps on for his children brought comfort to me. The young woman who took Zane’s bathroom shelf said “it is the piece I have been looking for to fit in my home”. That made me smile.

Each of these items has a picture which honors them by creating a scrapbook of sorts of all of them that will include their moving away story. And with that choice, I am finding some peace.

“A Broken Heart Still Beats”

May 16, 2021 / Mama Fish

I had no idea before Zane’s death how large the community I now live in was. To lose a child is unthinkable, unimaginable so we don’t spend any time thinking that…God forbid. But when it happens to you, when you are thrust into this nightmare reality, you discover parents of similar fate. And, I have found, there are too many parents here. Way too many.

Anne McCracken and Mary Semel, both women who have lost a child, have gathered a collection of writings (A Broken Heart Still Beats) that illustrate the shock and pain of losing a loved one. Each of the twelve chapters has an array of people who poetically share their grief. Most are about the loss of a child; others refer to the loss of a spouse or family member. Grief is grief. And this book shares the raw and honest feelings of those experiencing such grief.

I found this book comforting on certain days and other days I couldn’t bring myself to read one more tragic entry. What I did find interesting about this book is the common feelings of loss; not just of our loved one but also of us. I related to the struggles of the soul searching path to find meaning of why and what now. It was interesting learning of how others experienced grief and the effect it had on their lives. Forever.

I knew of Eric Clapton’s beautiful song, “Tears in Heaven” and felt even more connected to him when he was quoted as saying, “I have to pay my respects to that boy, in my way, and let the world know what I thought about him”. We all want to honor our loved one.

I had no idea that William Shakespeare had lost his only son Hamnett nine years before the writing of Macbeth. Is this why Macduff asks first about his children, then his wife? I always called his writings bitter sweet, I felt he turned each scenario into something sad. I now understand.

I couldn’t understand Clementine (Winston Churchill’s wife) who could not speak of their daughter Marigold and whose little sister grew up having no idea of the identity of the picture of the young girl on her mother’s dressing table. Grief affects us all.

This book is a literal community of fellow grief warriors, reminding us that we are not alone. It is a good book to have on your shelf that confirms our understanding that after your child dies, a broken heart still beats.

Once a Mother, Always a Mother

May 9, 2021 / Mama Fish

There is something innate about being a mother. It is a knowing of the responsibility bestowed upon us to care and protect this tiny spirit. And as it grows, our life is filled with sleepless nights and worry and a million decisions of how best to nurture this growing human being. Life revolves around our children. Our identity becomes, “I am mother”.

When your child passes, your whole being is shattered, including the answer to, “am I still a mother?” I no longer have a child that I can physically hold or care for. I no longer have a child that I can snap pictures of or dream future experiences for. All the factors about being a mother, as society has defined a mother to be, are gone.

My fellow grief warrior moms struggle with the questions asked by strangers, “do you have children? How many?” Our angst comes from how much do we want to share and how much can we share without breaking down? We must remember, once a mother, always a mother.

I believe that the role of mother is one bestowed upon us for OUR lifetime. And therefore, until my last breath I am a mother. I have welcomed into my home and my heart several kids I call my own; I gave birth to two children. I relish in the role of mother. It is a position of care and influence and love. It takes work, fret and prayer to carry out this role. The benefits are many, out numbering the heartaches. Including the biggest heartache, death.

When asked would you be a mother if you knew losing your child would be part of the plan, the answer is a strong, hell yes. I gave birth to Zane. I am his mother. I will always be his mother. Death does not change that. What it does do is change being his mother from a traditional role into something new. That is the hard part.

How do we mother our child’s spirit? We honor them. We protect their memory. We say their name. We believe that they are still with us and we learn new ways to reach out to them. We celebrate what should have been, like holidays and milestones and everyday favorites. We are their mother.

“Do you have children?” The answer, for me, is “Yes, I have two”. I will always have two.

A Day For Bereaved Mothers

May 3, 2021 / Mama Fish

I learned last year that the Sunday before Mother’s Day was titled Bereaved Mother’s Day. This day is specifically for mothers who have lost a child. I am not sure what the point of this is. It singles us out as who we now are but there is no fanfare or card or acknowledgement protocol. I did receive one text from a friend that she was thinking of me today. Did she know? Some of my fellow mothers have no idea this day exists. Should there not have been a memo we received telling us about this day that focuses on moms who have lost a child? Should there not be some sort of awareness campaign about this day? About the significance of losing a child?

My “mother’s day” went about like any other day. I made brunch for Jon and a friend as they brainstormed a new business idea. I did the laundry and cleaned the house. We went and picked out flooring for the condo. The kids came over to do their laundry and tell us about their weekend. I’m about to make dinner. And not a word about today was mentioned. They don’t know.

This is no fault of theirs; there is no blame about this. In fact, if such a holiday is to be, perhaps we, the grieving mothers, should be claiming this day a bit louder. Maybe this is a day to stop and recognize where I am and why I am. Maybe it is a day for us to share our pain or at least how we are feeling. Or maybe, it is just the way it is supposed to be. Maybe today is about taking time to be alone and think of your child that has left this realm. Maybe it is a time to reach out to other grieving mothers with a hug. Maybe it is a time to cuddle up and cry. And maybe this is good enough as the next Sunday is the official Mother’s Day to which accolades and flowers and phone calls will arrive celebrating motherhood.

I am just confused with this holiday. Do we need one special day that recognizes us as a grieving mother? Is that not what we are every day? I feel that Bereaved Mother’s Day has the same undertones as grief. It is a day that people don’t know what to do with. It is confusing; it is not really shared or promoted. It is awkward and ambiguous and personal. Just like grief.

To my fellow grief warriors, those mother’s who, like me, get up each day and continue to live and care for others, in spite of the pain and anguish of such loss….big hugs to each of you. And a reminder, that we are in this together.

It’s OK To Be Broken

April 25, 2021 / Mama Fish

A girlfriend reminded me of something I told her. I said, “I am broken. I will always be broken. And I am trying to learn how to live broken.” She brought it up in the context of us moving away from Zane’s childhood home and that this would be a good thing for me. She said, “It’s time for you to heal, to move on”.

We have all received the comments, “it’s time to move on” or “she wouldn’t want you to be sad” or my favorite, “I need you to be the same person you were before”-there’s a concept!

Although painful, I realize these types of comments come from the heart. Friends and family care and they don’t want to see me hurting. They too miss Zane. And they miss who I was before he was killed. None of us like change and death is the biggest change of them all.

What they don’t realize is that you can’t fix this. Death has put us into a state of grief for the remainder of our days. Some days will be better than others. Some days will bring laughter and joy…I look forward to that. Some days, actually a portion of every day, I am not ok. Something comes along and reminds me I am broken. Something shows up to remind me I am not, and cannot, be the same person I was.

The simple fact is we are broken. We can’t get over it or get past it. We are broken. What we do with our brokenness is what is important. How we bring daily practices and new ways of being into our lives is what will help soften our grief. But remove it? Put it behind us? That is not possible. Grief will always be a part of our new make-up. It is the other side of love and we have loved deep, therefore we will grieve deep.

And that’s ok. Grief is hard work and part of the work is accepting our brokenness. If you try to hide or fight it or ignore it, it will hit you harder and in many ways. By accepting it, I can face it and then I am able to explore ways that it will fit into my life such that I am not a blubbery angry mess every hour.

When something is broken and you glue the pieces back together, it is not the same as the original beautiful piece. With care and love and time, it can take a different, but still beautiful shape. Friends and family need to give us patience, and a lot of it, as we redefine ourselves to accommodate our grief and develop into a person that carries brokenness with individual style and grace.

Things We Leave Behind

April 18, 2021 / Mama Fish

As the process of moving continues, my heart becomes heavier. The work seems endless, a purging of decades of items purchased or given that has filled three levels to the ceiling. Only a third can come with me. And that might be too much. And with each long day done, I crawl into bed hoping that what I have had to leave behind will not come back to haunt me. This is especially true with Zane’s things.

Clearing out his room was by far the hardest room to do. I would only be able to tolerate a short time, a few things to sort before the memories of these belongings and what they meant to him would bring me to my knees in tears. With that, I would close the door to his room and come back another time.

In the end, I have a box of games and books and leisure items that I will share with his friends. I have packed all his clothes and will decide another time what the fate of each piece will be. Some will be shared, some will be made into pillows or a quilt or maybe another bear. (My memory bear, made out of one of his favorite hoodies, is a treasured piece that sits on my bed). I threw out or donated his toys he kept from his childhood; well, a box of favorites is coming with me. I am taking his desk and his bed, hoping it will fit in my tiny new abode. We packed his collection of wines to enjoy with family and friends on special occasions. His room is now ‘staged’ to sell. He would be pleased how tidy it is.

His bathroom was even harder than his bedroom. I left that to last. Opening his drawer to find his toothbrush and hair brush, waiting there for him to wake up and use them. His box of contact lenses; he had just renewed his prescription. His cologne and deodorant; I closed my eyes, sprayed it into the air to smell how he would smell after a shower. His daily routine in this bathroom; I can hear him singing in the shower. I can see him rubbing the hair crème between his hands and placing it perfectly to shape his hair. He spent more time on his hair than I did on mine! None of his personal hygiene items will be taken with me. There is a sad finality around this. Packing up his stuff drives home the fact that he will not be stopping by to pick them up. I will not be helping move them over to his new place. This is it. And that takes a lot of energy.

The hardest thing I will be leaving behind is the imprinted energy of my son growing up and living in this home. I wish I could bottle the energy to open and breathe in his smell, to see his clothes on the floor or the school work scattered on his desk. I wish I could bottle the sound of his laughter as he beat the latest video game. The emotions and the memories of my son’s life in this home now must reside in my heart.

Perhaps that is why the whole in our heart is so vast; there is a lifetime of photographic moments that fill it.