Category: Shared Grief (Page 1 of 23)

Regrets That Masquerade

June 1, 2025 / Mama Fish / 0 Comments

My wish, when I turned thirty, was to have fewer regrets in my next thirty than I did in my first thirty years. I felt I failed. When I look back on my first thirty years, the regrets I had are so small compared to the regrets in adulthood, specifically motherhood. In my first thirty years I was young, learning, supposed to make mistakes. After thirty, you are expected to be grown up and raising the next generation so one better be complicated free. Yes, I realize this is unrealistic; idealistic expectations are the doorway to regret. I read the posts about how your first born ‘grew up’ with you as you learned to parent. Your second one shares with you a sense of freedom or adventure you wish for. Both are true for me.

Regrets can be powerful teachers in the lessons of life. In grief, they can also become a trap that snares any chance of healing. Exploring what is a regret, my list includes things that have happened that I had control of and some I had no control of. So, are they all regrets? I regret not putting a tire swing on the tree for the kids. Why? They had lots; the lack of a tree swing did not alter their development. Get over it. I regret moving to a new community albeit we returned. So, mistake fixed. I regret telling Zane to go and enjoy that night he was killed. I think the things that I say I regret are the things I will never know if they were the decisions that forged the path to where I now travel on.

Pondering my feelings, meditating with my angels, as I often do, I came across a quote. “Regret is the only wound the soul does not recover from.” Could this be why I feel stuck? It encouraged me to think about if what I am feeling is regret (I was in control) or disappointment (out of my control). Then I read the author of this quote was Sarah Ban Breathnack. She wrote Simple Abundance, a book I read over and over, and that Zane knows is my all time favorite. And I knew that her quote came to me, through Zane. Perhaps it is not regret that I am feeling, perhaps the emotion is disappointment.

Regrets are all the things said or unsaid, done or undone that we no longer have a chance to fix. Or at least we feel we have no chance. And sometimes we don’t. And I think that is where disappointment lies. Part of grieving is that your heart explores every corner, every aspect of what might have been done differently to not have ended up here. The truth settles into your soul disguised as regret, but really it is disappointment of what we wished was to be is not ever to be.

In the end, the answer is always one could have done more. Death takes that away. The quote sent to me is a reminder that if I wish my soul to heal, I must understand that I have no real regrets. I used the daily strength given to me to do my best. With that, whatever came to be, it cannot become a regret chained to me to cause more angst. The regrets I thought I carried are just disappointments that I did not have more time, more experiences with those I love.

Grief’s Visit In The Waiting Room

May 25, 2025 / Mama Fish / 0 Comments

The long weekend ended with a trip to the Rockyview Hospital when my blood pressure kept rising and the pain in my chest made it impossible to breathe. An overnight calamity of tests, I was sent home for bedrest waiting for a cardiologist to call for more tests. Any feeling of whoa-is-me was silenced when I began listening to the stories of the other patients around me. It brought people watching to a whole new level.

A woman had brought her brother in, just before us. I overheard her telling the nurse that he was suicidal and she was afraid, not knowing what to do.

A couple next to us, sat quietly and at one point, he reached over to pat his wife’s hand and whispered to her, “how many times do you need to go through this with me?” She smiled and replied, “we just need you to get well.”

A mother sat across from us with her young daughter. I overheard her on the phone, “I am in the emergency. Every time she pees, she says it feels like sharp prickles.” Whatever was the diagnosis, the little girl came out eating a popsicle and the mother was in tears.

An elderly man is told that he has an ulcerated bowel that requires immediate surgery but not without complications. I hear the nurse ask the wife if she understands what DNR means and if his last wishes are in order.

Grief is palatable in the emergency ward of a hospital. You are not there by choice. It is not a quick fix either. The long waiting increases the agony. As a human sponge of other’s energy, I could feel my blood pressure continue to rise, my heartbeat pounding out of my chest. When the nurse called my name to insert an IV into my arm, he said, “you appear anxious.” I just stared at him. What did he mean by that? Of course I was anxious. My blood pressure is 217/109. How did I get here? It was a quiet, pleasant day. I was resting. I worked on a puzzle for God’s sake, not a marathon.

As we continued to sit waiting for the next test, I overheard a conversation that hit me hardest. It was a teenager whose friends had brought him in. We wondered what his reason might be; his hand was covered in blood like he had punched something. He was wrapped in a blanket and appeared in shock. I heard his friend call the mother telling her what happened. It wasn’t a bar fight or a prank gone wrong. The three were hiking and the trail ended with a waterfall cascading down twenty feet to the ground below. He had slipped and fell over the falls, to the bottom and lay unconscious in the water below. His friends climbed down to his rescue but couldn’t carry him. So, one stayed with him, the other ran to find cell reception and call for help. It took the helicopter six hours to find them and pull them to safety.

As the boys sat there, the one who had rescued his friend, said to him, “hospitals get me, but I guess I should get used to them. I will be seeing them a lot from now on.” I thought to myself I wonder if he is planning on a medical career of some kind to state that. And then his friend gave him a friendly nudge with his shoulder and said, “hey man, it’s dialysis. You’ll get through.”

The waiting room in ER fosters a weird reminder of how delicate life is, how fast it can change and how important good health is. Grief sits in the emergency room, quietly waiting to rise or to leave.

As the doctor summarized my test results with me, he said, “I am wondering about your SLE” Exhausted, and trying to focus, I asked, “SLE?” “Your lupus”, he answered. He continued, “your heart may be effected by that so the cardiology tests we have referred for you will confirm it is just that.” I thanked the good doctor and went to the bathroom to change out of my hospital gown. I looked in the mirror. My lupus? You mean this quiet ‘condition’ I have had for years that has never caused me grief. My heart is vulnerable because of lupus?

I have struggled with poor health all my life. I have fibromyalgia, never slowed me down. I have conquered cancer. Lupus is different. I was told that lupus blows up your heart. There is no cure, it is only manageable. How do I manage living with a broken heart. Literally, a broken heart. When I walked out the emergency doors in the early morning, nothing had changed but everything had changed. My vision of who I am, how strong I am does not align with the reality of my condition. Grief comes in many forms. With my hospital visit, a new form of grief rose and followed me home.

The Gifts My Mother Gave Me

May 11, 2025 / Mama Fish / 1 Comment

I had a drink with a girlfriend this week who was telling me about her mother, who is almost a hundred years old, that she asked where her parents were. My friend had to tell her that they died, long ago. Her mother was confused. My friend has been down this path before with her mother-in-law before her death and although it is a bit different, my sweet friend is stepping up to the plate of mothering the mother, once again. I left our social afternoon reflecting on my own mother.

We joke in our family that dad, being Irish was the warm one. Mom, being of Scandinavian background, could be cold. She believed in everything proper, from manners, to dress, to lifestyle. A culture she learned by her own mother. My sister and I were taught these lessons and have thrown most of the ideals out the window by chance or by choice.

My mother and I had our trials as most do, in fact it wasn’t until my father passed away that our relationship took a turn from mother/daughter to good friends. And when we received the diagnosis that Alzheimer’s was the reason she was ‘having a little memory problem,’ our roles switched, and I became her mother.

At first, we faced her mental decline with humor. When Zane handed me a phone number, she had taken for me, it was a combination of letters and numbers and more than a ten-digit number. I told him, “I can’t phone this person back, what the heck is this?” To which his reply was, “I know mom, I told her it made no sense, and she got mad, so I thought, she really isn’t my problem, she’s yours”.

I left work multiple times because mom had locked herself out of the house and was panicking. The problem was that she was calling me from her landline inside the house. There was no convincing her that she was safe inside, she believed she was locked out. So, I would leave work and by the time I got to her house, all was forgotten. She would open the door with a big smile and say, “oh Janny, how nice to see you, are you here for tea?” Yes, mom, I came for tea.

When an old friend came out to visit, and ended up moving in, our relationship took a new turn. I felt more like a mama bear and my mom saw me as her girlfriend. One day, as I sat with her, she shared how he was able to perform but not “finish”. My jaw dropped. My mother the prude, the same woman who insisted we were never allowed to utter the word sex, asking me for advice on how to…I can’t even say it.

I needed help. I enlisted the services of the Rockyview Senior Care Centre, and a handsome young social worker became my best ally. With his guidance and resources, my mother and I travelled the path of this debilitating disease together. She said to me, “I am afraid of this.” And I replied, “Me too, but you will not be alone. I will be with you.” It was not easy. In the end, mom was placed in a home, for her own safety. My brain knows that was the right move. My heart, to this day, questions the solution.

Seventeen years since she left earth, and I still struggle with my emotions from that period. I could not keep a sense of humor with the insanity of the disease. I was not angry with her; I was scared and overwhelmed and sad that the last years of her life were not recognizable by her. With Alzheimer’s, you lose your loved one twice.

I hold tight to the solace I carry within me, the beauty of her lessons as my mother. The joy to be with friends and family around a table of food and wine. The comfort of a home that is neat and orderly. The strength in raising a family and the courage to face great loss. I carry the lesson my mother demonstrated that we do not choose fate; it serves us and the only control we have is to face it with grace.

Another Mother Now Knows Today

May 4, 2025 / Mama Fish

I have always found Bereaved Mother’s Day curious. To have a day (the Sunday before Mother’s Day) that recognizes women who have lost a child. It started in Australia and began with a focus on babies who passed of S.I.D.S., a miscarriage or stillbirth. Over the years, it has spread world-wide as a day for all mothers who have lost a child; a day that is an opportunity to talk about them, to find support to know that they are not alone. Also importantly, the hope of this initiative is to have people start talking about loss such that the notions around death become less taboo.

So, I take this holiday and each year, I reach out to my grieving mother friends to let them know I am thinking of them on this Sunday. And then, the following Sunday, I will reach out to my other mother friends who are enjoying the day with their children still here on earth. This year, I reached out to my friend who is experiencing her first Mother’s Day without her son. And I know what that feels like.

My first Mother’s Day without Zane here was surreal. In fact, when I look back, the entire month of May did not exist. I mentally checked out. That year, I spent all my energy going to battle with the courts to obtain guardianship to have access to Zane’s personal documents to ensure that he would graduate from university as was the plan before he was killed. It was complicated and carried with it its own grief and I was overwhelmed. But I digress.

I remember certain dates in the beginning of our journey, including Bereaved Mother’s Day, which went unnoticed by my family as they dealt with their own grief. So, this day has become my day with Zane. Over the years, I have instilled quiet moments of honor, remembrance and even celebration. Bereaved Mother’s Day has become for me, a day to celebrate being Zane’s mom. All the wonder of his soul coming into my life and all the many beautiful experiences we shared during his short but impactful time. And it is a day that I honor the strength of my fellow mothers who too find a moment to wish that fate was different. And thus, I put a note into a card and dropped it in my friend’s mailbox. Her first Bereaved Mother’s Day. I wish it was not so.

I hate that she now knows about her new and special Sunday. The one before the popular one that will have her crying in the Hallmark aisle as the colorful cards taunt you a happy day. But it might help her to know this is this day where the whole world recognizes she is remembering her beautiful boy, and the memories he has left her with. And not that any of us need a special day. We live and breathe the life and loss of our children. Bereaved Mother’s Day is really a statement that the world acknowledges the unimaginable levels of anguish experienced by mothers who have loved, lost and continue to be women of strength and hope to their families. My sweet girlfriend is now one of those.

Why Her Thirty Is So Strange

April 27, 2025 / Mama Fish

April is always a busy month for our family. We commemorate fourteen birthdays of those we love. But this year, on top of birthdays, life has been crammed full of family visits, family drama, health concerns, new homes, job losses, new jobs, moves and my daughter turns thirty.

We joke that her entering this new decade will be a year-long celebration starting this weekend and carrying on throughout the year which includes a trip to Iceland and Ireland. And yet, our little drama queen has decided that this year is to be a quiet start. She has a desire to re-energize. She wishes to bring this birthday in, not with the typical “I’m getting old” fanfare, but rather a relaxed celebration of all that she is truly grateful for.

When planning what her 30^th would be like, she said, “I am not going to complain I am getting older, I am not going to joke that my youth is dead. Zane did not see this birthday. I get how lucky I am.” And that hit me. And I can’t shake it. She is right, and her upcoming celebration of the day she was born, and the number of years that the Universe has graced her are not taken for granted.

Payton, as a little girl, was a tomboy. She admired her brother, had crushes on many of his friends and grew up knowing that she was never alone. Zane was her big brother, her cheerleader, her advisor and they relished the times together. Zane’s empath qualities guided her to become a beacon for many. Payton was and still is the advocate for the underdog and the hero for anyone in despair. Her adventures have shaped her, her styles have changed, and her heart continues to grow. She will always be my little girl. She is forever Zane’s little sister.

And I think that is why this birthday is different. I remember when I went into a new decade without Zane on earth. The hollowness in my heart grew deeper. The ache of continuing without him seemed louder. I think, without her knowing this, my daughter is experiencing the same. It is so hard to move forward with the realization that life was physically shared with Zane ‘last decade’. Her soul knows this before her brain does. I am sure it is the subconscious reason for a birthday with no fireworks.

As her mother, I am in awe of her, of the strength she shows with all the tragedy our family has experienced and continues to receive. She carries the grief of loss of so many family members who sustained her throughout her childhood. Especially that of her brother. She has sat at the funerals of many family members and friends and has spoken tributes on their behalf. She continues to make room to honor each of them. All before she turned thirty.

There is nothing that can be said about this. It is life. My heart screams that I cannot change this, I cannot comfort her. My belief is that it is part of her soul plan. And how beautiful her soul, that it can hold the light for so many when the darkness has come to her so often.

My sweet daughter, my wish for you is that you will never forget that the heavens are filled with loved ones who watch over you, shower you with strength and hold you safe. And that the person at the forefront is always your brother.

The Spirit of Spring

April 20, 2025 / Mama Fish

Spring, where grass will become new & green

The signs from our loved ones will be seen

In butterflies, dragonflies & nature’s delight

Of morning suns & stars at night.

Spring brings with it a message of hope,

Bright colors & chocolate to help us cope.

The scavenger hunts of years reminisced

Bunnies & petting zoos we never missed.

Tables set with favorite culinary dishes,

Family & friends gather with springtime wishes

And bubbles will blow into the air

To let you know,

We know you’re there.

We gather, we laugh, we toast & cheer

For the warmth of company, afar & near

I enjoy this time, as the truth is told

Spring is the spirit of grief on hold.

A Hug from The Mountains

April 13, 2025 / Mama Fish

When my daughter and I planned our weekend away so close to our birthdays, we decided to make it into a birthday celebration. Just the two of us. A trip to enjoy the mountains, to shop, try a new restaurant or two and to rest. Both of us have been going at full speed and we needed this time to rejuvenate. I couldn’t wait.

We left for our weekend on the 11^th, the date of the day that my father passed away. That was thirty years ago. There is something surreal about that. He had passed just before Payton was born. I spoke at his funeral. And went on to lose my Godfather the next week, my own birthday the following, and then gave birth to his first (and only) granddaughter. We toasted to my dad on our sunny patio, facing the mountains, with a chardonnay. A fitting start to a spiritual weekend.

The weather graced us with a full moon and then lots of snow. The first night I woke at my usual 3 a.m. from the brightness of the moon shining into my room. It is the ‘pink moon’ and symbolizes the importance of renewal, hope, balance and growth. Fitting to be in my magical place to feel this. I heard Zane’s voice, “get your camera, mama, don’t miss this.” And so, I spent the first night snapping pictures with the spirit of my boy.

The next day, the snow arrived. It was a bit surprising, since the previous forecasts were sunny and warm. We adjusted, took out the umbrellas and headed out. A magical day started with mimosas, then shopping, a shared lunch, more shopping and dinner. The conversations melted away the hours. Not that my daughter and I have ever had a shortage of topics to speak of, but this day, included the sharing of past encounters that may or may not have helped shape us into who we are now, sitting in front of one another.

It makes sense that our past shapes our future. What our relatives went through, their stresses become part of our own make-up. We reminisced about our own family history and how this may have made an impression on her pre-birth. And how it included that each of us were forced onto this shaky path after Zane was killed to handle unbelievable grief.

We shared the discussions we have had with others who lost a child or siblings and the unspoken responsibility of supporting those who follow our own fate. We talked about tips, quotes, and antidotes to the incredible pain we live with. And as we chatted, I was reminded of the strength within my daughter, for others. Her desire to shelter those from the pain that was bestowed upon her. I heard her testimony of how tired she is and yet, the need to stay strong fuels her to go on. And I went to bed with a heavy heart. This is her life. I cannot change this. Ever. For either of us.

When someone you truly love is taken away, you change. You become a person who must survive. How you do that becomes a unique journey. But each grief warrior finds a way to face the questions to which there are no answers. Each finds a way to travel a path of eternal heartbreak. Each finds a way to stand and keep upright. And, most importantly, each of us finds a way to re-open our hearts to those in our life and those who join us through their own personal loss.

This trip, Canmore reminded me of its deeper side. The power of the mountains. The solid, breathtaking, can’t be shaken rock solid symbols of how we can stay calm and carry on. The area that became my salvation, my son’s happy place, my husband’s playground. And this weekend, I saw, has become my daughter’s guiding light.

Towards A Home Sweet Home

April 6, 2025 / Mama Fish

One of Zane’s close friends, who calls me “Ma”, has been a part of our family for over twenty years. A self-proclaimed orphan, he spent a lot of time at our home because of the dysfunction of his own home. I watched this brave young soul rise above every challenge when most would have thrown in the towel. I have had the honor of cheering him on over the decades and am quite proud of our bonus kid. I have said forever that he needs a place to call his own to really heal. Last week I received an invite to view a house with him. He was finally ready to buy.

This experience was a deja-vu for me to the time where my son-in-law invited me to help pick out his wedding suit. Both experiences were ones I had planned to experience with Zane. Instead, I find myself living vicariously through his friends. The house hunting triggered memories of Zane and I planning his first home and all that it would be. It had to be near nature, it had to have a great kitchen, it had to be accessible to his friends and family and it had to have a vibe that brought him peace. The plan was he would graduate, travel, then move into a home of his own.

As I walked through the first place we looked at, it felt odd. It was more like a family abode, rather than a bachelor pad. I had promised myself not to have an opinion but rather be another set of eyes, so I walked through with him watching his reaction and sensing his energy. He didn’t like the place either.

The second home we stepped into had a calmness about it. It had a magnificent kitchen and a modern feel with a backyard backing onto a pathway, lots of trees, large (new) windows that lit up every room. And each light switch had a dimmer on it; a bonus he giggled about. I knew this was the one. I kept quiet until he said, “I’m thinking I really like this…” and I squealed with joy.

Later that night, I received a text that he was putting an offer in. I crossed my fingers. The next text said, “I GOT IT”. I hit dial, and we cried and laughed over the phone at his dream coming true. When I hung up, I continued crying for the loss that Zane did not have the same ability to purchase his own place. Fate had other plans, but they did include the ability for me to be a part of finding the perfect place for one of his best friends. Gratitude can be found in bittersweet moments.

The night ended with one last text. A photo of my bonus kid’s celebratory drink. He likes scotch. And the ice rock in the glass was one I had given out at a birthday party for Zane. The word wobupa etched into it. A favorite word of Zane’s meaning “I am not afraid”. I texted a reply, “you have a buddy looking over you”. And I have a strong sense my son will be visiting his friend in his new place of peace and joy.

The Others in Pain

March 30, 2025 / Mama Fish

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

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”