Category: Shared Grief (Page 1 of 23)

The Others in Pain

March 30, 2025 / Mama Fish / 0 Comments

I must share the aftermath of St. Patty’s Day this year. We did show up at our local watering hole with family and friends joining us. We did have too many libations, including the traditional shots of Jamesons. We ended up at home, pouring myself to bed to wake the next morning from a text from one of my ‘kids’. He wanted to add to my Facebook post but instead, sent it to me privately. I opened my social media to find a post my daughter made of our party, with her dad and I dancing in the background. I read his text and was trying to place how it was connected to this post. Then, a post I made popped up, and I remembered my cardinal rule to the kids, “don’t post drunk” and realized I had just broken that rule.

My post, in case you are one of the apparently few, who didn’t read it, was to Zane and said this:

“And the green in your blue-born eyes remind us we are Irish. And the whiskey drank in your honor remind us of your spirit. And the truth you are with my father are felt within my soul. My Parting Glass to you my son, will never be empty. Xo”

Jose’s text to me (and I have his permission to share) responded with this:

“And the everlasting laugh to which reverberates in my mind anytime I think of a time with you forever reminds me of how lucky I am to have known you. My heart breaks because now I have to remember you longer than I know you, but the memory of your smile teaches me the value of the good things in life.”

In our own grief, it is easy to forget that others are in pain. They too had a relationship to which they grieve. I recall a friend telling me, a year after Zane was killed, that his wife (who was like a sister to me), couldn’t get out of bed for a month because of her grief. One of Zane’s friends, the week of his death, thanked me for opening our home and said, “we don’t know where to take our grief. It helps we can come here.”

One of our close friends, who drove in from BC to escort us to all the ‘nasty’ appointments of identifying the body and organizing the cremation, broke down on our couch after everyone went home. Sobbing, he told us, “I was holding it in, to be strong and I think it just caught up now.” I remembered thinking caught up how?

I knew others were in pain. Of course they would be. Zane was the best friend, the love of so many. But in my own despair, I could not comprehend the depth. I could not compare it to mine. We are not supposed to compare grief. So, I didn’t. I just ignored the others pain. I had to. I couldn’t take on more pain than was already handed to us. And now, years later, I am starting to see, to feel what I knew at our own ground zero. The others are in pain. We will always be in pain. Together.

Jose’s sentimental and beautiful reply to acknowledge and agree with our pain was so moving. His vulnerability, or as he called it, “three beers deep feeling sad and sentimental”, captured the way many of his friends feel. And his recognition that one day your earthly connection can become shorter than the period that you were together in this life. That hurts.

I had Zane for almost twenty-seven years. I can’t imagine a time where I would have to say I have been without him longer than I was with him. Yet, for some of his close friends, that is the case. That is a new level of grief I had not considered. How agonizing the complicated pain with loving someone for longer than you have known them.

And yet, I know these kids will remember Zane for the rest of their time. How beautifully dark that is. To continue ‘being here’ for longer than you physically were through the love and remembrance of your comrades. May others find comfort in that their pain is a collective extension of the love for my son.

Raise the Parting Glass

March 16, 2025 / Mama Fish / 0 Comments

It is the day before St. Patty’s Day. A major holiday in our home. It started as a birthday party for my father, a true leprechaun in this life. It became bigger as Zane grew up, relishing and embellishing in all its magic. No matter where our family is on this day, we gather at some watering hole to toast being Irish. Truly, we are only a wee bit Irish (Scandinavian descent is larger) but that fact is ignored because we live and love like the Irish.

Last year the celebration began early and continued into the night. We brought the ‘dude’ as a symbol that Zane is partying with us. We hopped from one bar to the next, family and friends in tow, and I promised myself the next year would be quieter. I am older, and recovery takes much longer. So, this year, we have planned to live vicariously through the kids, meeting up with them at only one or two spots. Knowing us, that is probably blarney…. what is important is our honoring of this special day.

Traditions are the stitches that hold a group together. They are shaken, sometimes abandoned in grief. With the loss of a loved one who was the catalyst for a specific tradition, the details are obviously different. That is the most bittersweet part. We want to continue a tradition that we once enjoyed, but how do we do that when the one who led it is not with us. It takes courage. It takes perseverance. If I’m being honest, it takes a liquid shot or two.

What I noticed about this celebration, is the joy on my daughter’s face and the faces of Zane’s friends, who are now ours. There is a magic in the air, a lightness. This is a day one is expected to be jubilant, to celebrate with a raised glass to all that we have here and beyond. It gives us permission to believe in fairies and rainbows. It is a bright color, the color of life.

Zane always wore a tie on this day, it was that special. A green tie, of course. Our drinks needed to be tinted. A shamrock houseplant was purchased every year as were chocolate gold coins and Purdy’s mint bars. We still do these things each year, including pinching anyone who is not wearing a shade of green. That was Zane’s favorite as a young boy. He pinched my father every year, laughing that “Buppa didn’t have green on”. My dad did that on purpose; just to hear Zane laugh.

Oh God, how I treasure them both. St. Patty’s Day is an annual wake for me. To laugh, to cry, to shout at the Heaven’s of how much they are missed. My father, my heart’s first love, and my son, my heart’s last love. This day is a loud reminder of the pleasure they took in the company of good friends, with a cold beverage, a hot meal and the ability to dance to the music of life.

A toast to you both, two of my favorite reasons to raise a glass, any day.

If all good time that e’er we shared,

I leave to you fond memory;

And for all the friendship that e’er we had

I ask you to remember me;

And when you sit and stories tell,

I’ll be with you and help recall;

So, fill to me the parting glass,

Good night, and joy be with you all.

~An excerpt from “The Parting Glass”

Potions in My Grama’s Pantry

March 9, 2025 / Mama Fish / 0 Comments

I had a dream about my grandmother. She came to me with a concern. Something she wanted to remind me about and by the time I woke to write it down, it was gone. Only the word bergamot stuck with me. I’m not panicked about this dream, more curious, as the latest course I took was about which loved one is trying to reach you in support of something you need. Grama was that angel for me.

And I wasn’t surprised it was her to ‘show up’. Lately health is a hot topic in our home and Grama was all about good health. Born in the early 1900’s, she was ahead of her time. She went to university to study business. She opened a general store with that degree in Wetaskiwin. She was into alternative healing; in fact, I’m pretty sure if she was born earlier, she would have been considered a witch. She had potions for everything that ailed you.

Her teachings are the foundation of my healing beliefs. She taught us the phases of the moon. The power of the sun. Way before Tik Tok took over with popular guru’s announcing natural cures; my grama had taught us this. If you had a headache, you put peppermint on the back of your neck, grabbed a travel mug of water/lemon and headed out to the park. If you had an upset stomach, you chewed ginger and rubbed cardamon on your belly. I’ll spare you the yoga position that she advised would relieve gas. But it did! She was and is still one of my spirit guides, with a dream message for me. What about bergamot?

My grama suffered a broken heart. My grandfather passed a year before I was born. She lived out her days, a gloomy person, waiting, as she said, “for the Lord to take me home to Ernie.” She now lies next to her beloved in an Edmonton cemetery. And I wondered, did she ever try a potion for grief.

The oils to support grief are lavender and rose for anxiety, sandalwood and rosemary to manage moods, including anger. Cinnamon helps lift brain fog. Lemon and orange keep you going. All things found everywhere in my grama’s home.

Grama slept with a sachet of lavender under her pillow and wore rose water as her perfume. When my sister and I stayed with her, she would wake us each morning by placing a bowl of fresh cut oranges under our nose. There were cinnamon sticks in jars on the counter. I had no idea how hard my grandmother worked at her grief.

I knew she mediated, she prayed, she believed in angels. Oh, how I wish I had spoken to her about these things. Although, why would I have; loss was a stranger to me then. I didn’t know my grandmother before her grief. I only knew the version of her as a grief warrior. I didn’t consider that her life was bittersweet with the loss of her true love. I didn’t know why the aromatherapy was so important to her.

It is clear why she stepped forward as my guide to better wellness. We share similar health issues. We believe in the powers of aromatherapy. And grief brought to each of us the desire to connect to the heavens. She was my teacher of all things cosmic. And the why’s I did not know as a child, I clearly understand as an adult. She continues to teach me through my dreams. My blood pressure was high, and bergamot is the answer for that.

Grama would be 120 years old this month. I imagine her in Heaven, creating aroma concoctions for everyone. Thank you grama, for being my guide to stronger health and softer grief.

A Note to My Pen Pal

March 2, 2025 / Mama Fish

When a loved one passes, the biggest fear is that they will be forgotten. It is a universal understanding within the grief community of how important it is to say their name, to recognize their special days and to be present for such. I know first-hand the comfort I feel when someone shares with me a picture or a story of Zane. I do this for my grieving friends. Never to stop. And yet…

I have been perplexed by something that was missing, something I should have done that I couldn’t put my finger on. And then it hit me. I did not reach out to a friend to let her know I was thinking about her on her sons ‘angelversary’. So, this note, is my heart reaching out to her, an apology that my actions do not reflect my feelings. And I promise to change that.

Dearest “pen pal”

Where does the time go? I was five months into my grief journey, when your son passed. We didn’t know each other. I received a phone call from your niece, telling me that you had just lost your son and could she give you, my number. I said yes. I am so grateful that I did. You became my first friend to travel the unthinkable.

You didn’t live in my town. Ours was a modern-day pen pal relationship. Only deeper. Two mothers, struggling with their new horrific reality. We had a lot in common, learning to live without their daily presence at home, taking care of the dog that they loved, having to be strong for their sister who was inconsolable. Through email we shared our pain, our daily struggles of how to continue breathing, how to take one step and put it in front of the other.

My heart hugged every email, ‘how are you feeling today?’, it was ok for you to ask that. You already knew. I didn’t have to answer. I’d walk my dog, in my park, you would do the same with your dog, hundreds of miles away. Yet, in those early, dark days, I felt closer to you than many of those who walked beside me. Funny how a bond between two mothers sharing the same fate, become fast friends. Distance was irrelevant.

With you, the mask was off. The support was felt. The ability to be allies, miles apart, sharing the impossible task of keeping it together for everyone else, we gave each other room to say “I can’t do it” knowing we would do it. There was no judgement. Only empathy.

I thought of that late one night, and wondered when the last time was, I emailed you directly to check in. I ‘see’ you on social media, but I haven’t asked, “how is your grief?” And then it hit me. January was your month. The month you lost your son. And I started to cry. For you. For him.

I had broken the cardinal rule. When had I stopped communicating with you directly. My sweet friend, this is a note to apologize for not being present. For remembering you but not reaching out to you. For not calling you on those anniversaries that we should commensurate together. I carry you within my heart and promise I am always nearby in thought and with love. I will connect. ~J

Friendships are vital. There is a myriad of excuses as to how we can ignore these important relationships including our own pain immobilizing us. I believe that part of healing is found in the connections with those that walk the path with us; fellow grief warriors that understand and give you space to grieve, those are special. Those friends are the accessory to hope and another voice that speaks our loved one’s name.

Designing a Newfound Fun

February 23, 2025 / Mama Fish

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Grief When It Grows Up

February 9, 2025 / Mama Fish

When I was pregnant with Zane, I read every book I could find on how to have a healthy pregnancy, be a good mom, raise a respectful child. Not that reading prepared you for the raw details of motherhood, but no where in those manuals was a chapter on how to grieve if your child is killed. And not that anything can prepare you for the unthinkable. Now, my reading is about how to ‘move through’ grief and I am learning that I have done it all wrong.

My grief is in trouble. I didn’t practice solitude or self-care; I didn’t slow down for a moment. Rather I continued to perform, like a robot trained to do what is expected of me. Daily. Year after year. Having ignored it for so long, it has compounded to the definition of complicated grief. No wonder I feel lost most of the time. According to the experts, my grief has grown into a rebellious teenager because I did not properly care for it in its infancy. Who would have known?

When I had my mastectomy, I was told what to do to heal. I half listened; taking care of the side that had the tumor and ignoring the other side because it didn’t have cancer. I didn’t stop to think that that side too needed healing. After all, that breast was also removed. Two years later, I am still in pain, with keloid scaring and lymphoma that resembles a new but smaller breast on my right. The probability of me fully healing is narrower as I did not take care of myself in the beginning. Trauma needs to be dealt with when it happens, not years later.

The trauma of grief is no different. Giving yourself permission to stop and soothe your pain is a must. Saying no to what you don’t have energy for and yes to what comforts you is a must. Even when it doesn’t align with the expectations of your life before grief. What we tend to forget, is that our life has blown up. It is not, nor will never be, the same again. So why do we expect ourselves to live accordingly to how we did pre-grief?

After Zane was killed, I pushed through like nothing had happened. In shock, yes, but I pretended like it didn’t happen. He was merely away, at school, or on an adventure. He would be back. There was to be no big grief. I had too many people to care for. I had to go back to work. I had a dog to walk and a house to clean. I felt like I had to cater to every need socially and emotionally of my family. It was exhausting and at the end of the day, there was no time or energy to face my own grief. Oh, don’t get me wrong, I screamed alone in the car, I cried every day, every night. Every breath hurt. But I ignored it.

I watched life around me happen like it was a Netflix movie. Only I was part of that movie; playing a character that was unrecognizable as I continued living my life as it was before grief. I ignored my soul screaming out to what I now needed. I put myself into situations that were ok for others, but not for me. Simple things, like dinner out when I wanted to be alone. Late nights because the drinks carried on. This was my life before and I had enjoyed it so what was happening that I was becoming angrier and resentful? I wasn’t letting grief in, nor did I understand that it was to change me.

From this, the biggest lesson, and the one that I share with all my fellow grief warriors, is that your grief is only yours. It is like no other’s grief. And your grief needs to be cared for. It needs space. It needs to be recognized, heard and felt… I take full responsibility for my unawareness. My family ask often, what do I need, how can they help. The truth is I didn’t know. Only now am I starting to know. And the answers scare me because they are so unfamiliar.

The Cosmos, brought to you by Mike Dooley

February 2, 2025 / Mama Fish

One of my on-line spiritual mentors is Mike Dooley. Before Zane was killed, I had signed up for his emails called “A Note from the Universe”-whimsical emails about life. After Zane was killed, the messages became too real as if God himself was sending them.

August 8^th, 2018: the day after Zane was killed. I am in shock. I need him to come back. My eternal wish from that day forward is a life with him in it. I received this email:

“Be there, Janica. Go there now and never leave. Imagine that your dreams have already come true. Live your life from that mindset…not the illusions that now surround you.”

August 13^th, 2018: what should have been his 27^th birthday, became the day we gathered to celebrate his life on earth. I received this email:

“There are absolutely no worldly circumstances, Janica, under which you can’t or shouldn’t be making the very best of things. Including today…”

August 21^st, 2018: The agony, the disbelief, I can’t understand or accept how this can be. I receive this email:

“When you see things that pain you, Janica, that sadden you, or that make your heart ache, remember…you’re not seeing all.”

I unsubscribed. I wasn’t ready to hear about joy or that death cannot take the connection I have with my son. I was in too much pain. But the Universe kept sending me opportunities and months later, I started following Mike and signing up for his courses. The most recent course, he introduced us to Davidji, a meditation guru, who took us on a 21-day meditation journey.

In the privacy of my home, through Facebook, this California Santa welcomed us to “feather our nest as comfort is Queen”. Although it was a meditation journey, each day the lessons gave me tools to deal with my grief. Some of the teachings brought tears as the reality of my grief bubbled and other meditations brought strength, where hope quietly stepped forward.

We asked our selves, “who am I, what am I grateful for, what does my heart long for?” Then we sat still to listen for the responses to come. I am always changing, perhaps because, with grief, I am learning the new me. It makes sense and the realization that it is happening becomes acceptable. I am less frustrated with change. My grateful list is constant. What my heart longs for made me wince. I am not on the path that my heart longs for, but I can now see it.

We learned about forgiveness through meditation. Forgiveness for what we have done that we know of and that we don’t know of. For the hurt bestowed upon us. For the inability to change the past. This meditation opens your heart to how much pain is out there; how much pain is inside each of us that we carry. This meditation empowers you to be aware that there is more than one viewpoint.

I am a cheerleader for meditation; I believe it helps physically, mentally, emotionally and spiritually. I believe it increases our vibration and thus our ability to connect to our loved ones on the other realm. Davidji and Mike Dooley, together give a box full of effective methods to connect to our own cosmos, to live better with grief and to invite possibility in.

Living in The Color of Green

January 26, 2025 / Mama Fish

By each January, our family chooses one word they will use as their annual mantra. It aligns with where one hopes to go or feel with the opportunity of a fresh calendar year. The word is an individual word resulting from a reflection of the past times where one thinks of all that was good. And all that wasn’t so good. Of what one would like to change, or drop, or learn. It is an exercise that takes time and quiet to ponder the current path and possible directions one might go. The word chosen is symbolic of all those thoughts.

As a child, I used to have a superstition around how you felt and what you did on the eve of a new year, would be the overall feel to the next year. I dropped that superstition a long time ago and replaced it with a vision of what I want/need and a plan to achieve. All wrapped up in one word. This year my word is green.

It is about health. “Eat your greens”-I need more of that. I need more ways to be healthier for me and for those I care for. The word green brings with it a connotation that going back to my granola roots would be beneficial to my aging body.

It represents money, the realization that the desire for more to do more keeps us unbalanced. Sending a message to the Universe that I am open to ‘more green’ only means that I am open to new possibilities that align with what makes me feel secure and fulfilled. At work and at home.

Green is about energy. Good energy. It is the color of the fourth chakra, the heart. This chakra is about giving and receiving love for others and for oneself. I think a little self-love is something I want to practice more of. What would that even look like?

My family thinks it is interesting to have chosen a color, rather than a verb. I chose this word partly because it doesn’t dictate action. Although it could. It is soft and simple. It is flexible. It is inviting. It conjures up in my mind, sunny days, tree-filled parks, and a bounty of life. Warmer (and perhaps happier) times.

Green symbolizes what I wish to pursue. More time with nature. New growth, greater hope and a solid balance. And the color provides a little bit of luck to help me along the way.

The Little White Pill

January 19, 2025 / Mama Fish

I’m getting to know the new Arthur Child Cancer Care Centre at Foothills Hospital. It is a beautiful, new $50 million dollar complex that caters to the research, treatment and support of those diagnosed with cancer of any kind. I am learning that once diagnosed with cancer, one begins a battle that is life-long.

I got lucky, if there is such a thing with cancer. We caught it in its early stages. I chose a double mastectomy to ensure it would not come back. I took genetic testing to see if I had other possible cancers in my DNA. I took the oncotype test to determine if traditional chemo or radiation would help prolong my life. It wouldn’t so I didn’t have to go through that. All I needed was to swallow a little white pill for five years to ensure that my body wouldn’t make any more cancer-causing estrogen. But when I couldn’t get out of bed because of vertigo, and my body contorted into painful muscle tightening shapes and leaving the house was a risk unless I carried a plastic bag with me…I said stop.

Cancer is the unknown. It’s life threatening and when one has been given a diagnosis, it is difficult to think clearly. It is difficult to think at all. Treatment would be straight forward to blindly follow the advice of the experts. If only I wasn’t inquisitive. No one can seem to fully answer why five years. Even the experts have varying opinions. Some say five, some say ten, some say forever if it doesn’t seem to bother you. What happens after the five years? That is a varied answer too. “We can’t say”. What about testing in between now and then? “That’s different with every patient.” And what I learned and experienced about the side effects, is that they include hot flashes, headaches, bone loss, muscle pain and sometimes ovarian cancer! How is this part of a stay healthy regime? It baffles me.

It was at my recent physical that I shared I had quit my medication and was finally starting to feel normal. Two days later, the oncologist called and asked me to come in. “We are wanting you to try a different drug”, the young doctor smiled. Why? I asked. “Because we believe this is your best chance to live another ten years.”

Fear is the reason this pill becomes necessary. I don’t want to die. I have a lot to do before I travel off to the next realm. As I sat listening to her talk of the new plan and this pill and how we will be more vigilant with any side effects, fear had me agree to try again. I don’t know what this pill will do. It isn’t a promise I will be safe from cancer returning. It is more of a weak insurance policy. Yet, it is the only answer the experts have for me.

As I left the Cancer Centre with my new prescription in hand, I walked through the halls where other patients were travelling to their appointments. I am one of thousands battling cancer. Some of us are just becoming aware of the battle to be. Some of us are amid the battle. Some, like me, are battling to ensure it does not return. Wherever one is in the battle, it is a battle. It is so much like grief. It includes fear, sadness, hope and determination. It is exhausting. And like grief, it includes faith. Faith that I have the strength needed to travel the path I have been given.

A Letter to The Friends of The Grieving

January 12, 2025 / Mama Fish

At a social event, our friend who was just diagnosed with a brain tumor, had a person come up to him to acknowledge they knew of his condition. This person shared a story with our friend of their experience with a family member, also diagnosed with a brain tumor. It was a grave and pessimistic story that ended with she died. Our friend stood there, soaking in what he had just heard in absolute disbelief. Then, he pulled himself together and went up to this person and told them that this is not what anyone with cancer (of any kind) needs to hear. He concluded saying, “don’t tell that story to anybody else ever again.”

When our friend told us about this, we laughed. Good on him to have the courage to reflect and then act, replying with a direct WTF! STOP. YOU ARE NOT HELPING. We laughed because it’s how we would all like to react. The truth is, whether it is the loss of a loved one or a terminal diagnosis or a major life challenge given to us, grief arrives. And we are learning how to handle that. Yet, we have all experienced some well-meaning person give advice, share a story or give comments that leave us dumbfounded of how utterly far they are from truly understanding our reality. And in our grief circles we talk about this.

We also talk about the why such might have been said. We know it comes from the heart. We understand that this person means no harm. They are trying to relate to our unrelatable. I have said many times, it is us, the grief warriors, that need to educate those trying to support us. If I could hand out a letter to folks, when I began my grief journey, it might have looked like this:

Hello,

I am grieving and you are aware of that. I know you wish to help. In my confusion of what I am living with, it is difficult for me to know exactly how you could do that. So be patient with me.

Recognize my grief. Acknowledge you are aware of what I am living with. A simple, silent hug is usually best. Or tell me, “I’m sorry. I’m here for you.” Please don’t continue with how my loved one is in a better place or this is God’s plan for me.

Converse with me. I don’t want to be the elephant in the room to which everyone scurries to another place in discomfort. Smile at me. I am dealing with grief; I can still be capable of some social interaction.

Ask me not “how are you feeling” but rather “how are you coping” or how is your grief today”. Each day will be different for me, and I don’t want to feel like I need to say I’m ok when I’m not. If my reply is negative, I’m not asking for ideas to fix it. I’m asking for understanding. Reassurance that you are here if I need anything will comfort me.

I may want to talk about it. And all I want you to do is listen. I don’t want to hear comparative stories. I want you to just sit with my pain. To be comfortable with my tears.

If my grief is loss, I want you to talk about my loved one. Say their name. Don’t be afraid to upset me. I am already, will always be upset they are no longer living on earth. Hearing their name, sharing a memory about them lights up my day in a bitter-sweet way that I treasure.

Never judge where I should be in my grief. My grief is here to stay. My brain is learning how to accept my new reality. My heart is learning how to beat around this massive hole it has. Time does not exist within these lessons.

I am not my old self; I am becoming someone new. That is the uneasy and difficult part of grief. You and I wish that I could be the same, but that is not to be. My soul is learning of who I will become with this grief. You too must be strong and accepting of the new path to which I have been forced to travel.