Category: Shared Grief (Page 11 of 23)

2023 is here!

January 1, 2023 / Mama Fish

The New Year has arrived. It brings with it the unresolved despair and worries that 2022 had. It brings with it, the leftovers of resentment and anger that I can’t seem to reduce, no matter what I do. It brings with it the deep sadness that I have another year ahead of me without hearing the laughter of my son.

2023 also brings with it the need to change. My cancer treatment now includes hormone therapy with debilitating side effects that can be reduced with exercise and less alcohol. I have never exercised a day in my life. Walks with Tango are meditative rather than physical. And those who know me, know that wine is a dietary staple. 2023 does not seem promising to be the year that things are going to get easier.

We know in grief that distractions are a good thing. We are aware that we live with grief forever, so purposefully placed distractions are necessary. They give a reprieve to emotional pain. When properly placed in our daily lives, they build strength to face the intense waves of sorrow. Distractions bring clarity to the importance of the people with us, to our current events; they are reminders that life is still ours to experience and share.

I find that I am happy when my focus shifts from my personal pain to moments of connection. When I am preoccupied, brushing my dog, writing to a family member afar, visiting a friend. Short intervals, but important ones. My grief is distracted when I am hanging out with my sister or my daughter; no matter what we do, I find myself feeling better. And a favorite pastime is a sacred moment with Zane when we connect across the realms.

There is something to be said about receiving a sign or a message from our loved ones. The impossible happening; their ability to reach through the veil to let us know they are here. It might be a feather or a dime or a number sequence. When it happens, there is a frozen second in time where the heart feels them, and the soul knows it is a visit. There is nothing quite like it. It is the ultimate distraction.

Grief warriors are taught to ‘say their name’. When given the opportunity to speak their name, to share stories about their life with others, it engages our grief. By talking about of our loved ones, their presence comes alive, and they seem to be with us. Speaking of and about our missed ones is a healthy, needed diversion that works. It is also the most basic way to honor them.

Thus, this year, 2023 does carry the baggage of previous years, but it also carries new possibilities of distraction. The hope that visits from our loved ones come often. The tending to ways we can honor and continue their legacy. The seeking of quiet moments when we can hear the voices of our past guiding us into our own future. The strength we need to face the challenges of a new year. And most importantly, 2023 carries with it the love our children gave us that can ease our aching and fill our broken hearts with peace.

Dear Santa,

December 25, 2022 / Mama Fish

All I want for Christmas is silence.

For with silence, I can hear my soul speak. I can hear it whisper there is a plan that all is to be ok. In the silence, my head empties of the racing tasks I have yet to finish and replaces them with dreams of possibilities. With silence, the shouting that pulls me in different directions subsides and makes clear what is my true calling.

Silence, when it sits next to me, brings me closer to those who are on the other side. I can feel their cheerleading. I can hear their laughter. I can recognize their love. In the silence.

Dear, dear, Santa, I wish for silence that comes wrapped up in quiet mornings with my first coffee, the fire warming the room and the dog lying at my feet. I wish for silence that comes in moments between meetings where I am drawn to step outside and recharge. I wish for silence that comes in the ability to stand and listen to the birds, to the water hitting the shore and the wind through the trees. Silence, I now believe, is what will wrap its arms around my grief and lift me up to a more revitalized version of who I have been this year.

I wish, Santa, for multiple touches of silence. I wish for the benefits that the silence brings. The peace and hope it can bring. The strength it creates inside. The clarity that comes within silence. I wish for this, for myself, my family, and my friends.

~Christmas 2022

A Message in December

December 18, 2022 / Mama Fish

Zane wrote a poem for a friend who died of an overdose. At the request of this friend’s mother, Zane read it out loud at the funeral. The title was “If you sedate, don’t expect to wake”. It was a harsh poem about addiction and the ramifications it brings. Including death.

I’d like to start by removing the stigma of this topic. Addiction has many connotations, none of them are pretty. I have many friends, wonderful parents, good people who have lost a child to addiction. They lost a child. They will be in pain for the rest of their life. And yet, because of the nature of their child’s death, there is a social stigma, a sideways look, and innuendos of how they failed. My mother used to say, “by the Grace of God, go I”. A line fitting for the smug person who believes that it would never happen to them. No child declares when they grow up, they want to be an addict. And I have never met a parent who didn’t struggle, trying to save their child.

My children have seen more friends die at a young age, than our generation did. Our family has experienced addiction on both sides. We have had friends and family members battle this disease, lose to this disease and we lost Zane to a man who was an addict and chose to drive that night. No one is untouched by addiction. CDC informs us that over 108,000 died of a drug overdose between April 2021 and April 2022. The number keeps rising. Addiction is the pandemic that continues to go ignored.

The truth is we are all connected, and the village has a problem. Something is wrong and we all need to fix it for the sake of our children. Let’s first agree that addiction can happen to anyone. Let’s open our minds to alternate ways to healthcare besides dispensing opioids and narcotics without any assessment or follow up. Let’s open our hearts to those struggling (the addict and their family) and offer our love and prayers. Let’s open our wallets and support the organizations that are trying to find answers and those that are helping heal the broken. Let’s believe that there is an answer. And let’s become a part of that answer. For the sake of those who sedate and will not wake.

December belongs to all of us. As we celebrate the holidays, the magic of the season and experience all the warm and fuzzies, we are reminded that it is Drunk & Drugged Driving month. I am of the belief that if we had fewer people self-medicating, we would have fewer people driving impaired. I’d like to focus on healing those in pain, rather than punishing them. We are all vulnerable.

Candle Lighting Day 2022

December 11, 2022 / Mama Fish

I am to light a candle today

In honor of, in remembrance of you

As if somehow not lighting it

I would forget you.

I have lit a candle every day,

Over two thousand days.

I light this candle,

In honor of you, of us

Of our life together.

I light this candle,

As an offering of hope

That you may see it and know

I am thinking of you.

I light this candle because

You are loved.

The flicker reminding me

How you enjoyed dancing through life,

Taking in all its’ pleasures.

I light this candle because it is like the brilliance of you,

How your smile shined, and your laugh lit up the room.

I light this candle because the moment

Reminds me that its scent, the smoke flickering

Is carried into the heavens, to you,

As a sort of spiritual connection.

I light this candle because its glow is warm, like your hug.

I light this candle because I am your mom

And I want to do something for you,

So, I light it.

Not just on candle lighting day

But every day.

Mindfulness and the Empty Chair

November 27, 2022 / Mama Fish

We recently celebrated American Thanksgiving. I always enjoy it more as it has a tone of a quieter enjoyable holiday, compared to the Canadian Thanksgiving and the upcoming holiday season that brings with it all the commercial hoopla. American Thanksgiving contained no fuss. We shared KFC and M&M’s buffet with our daughter and friends. We toasted to things we can be grateful for and shared wishes for things to come. All in all, I did not feel the typical intensity of grief that accompanies traditional celebrations.

That does not mean our pain is any less. In fact, currently both emotional and physical pain are at an extreme. And there is always the empty chair; the place that Zane should be at. Yet, that night, there seemed to be a sense of calm as if grief had chosen to sit in the corner and leave us alone for a bit. Even the empty chair didn’t seem as empty. I pondered why.

I am not sure how to explain it, but it was like we paused life that night. We had no expectations. There was no pressure about making this holiday dinner all things we think it needs to be. We were in the moment, together. We were a group that shares sorrow and joy. We talked about our boys, not in past tense but in how they fill our life, still. The attitude was like the boys were there, sitting in their chairs, joining in the conversation. This brought an air of peace.

I wonder how we can repeat this with the upcoming holidays. We know that the holidays make grief bigger. We know the empty chair at the table shouts this is not right. Grief warriors hate the holidays. And for good reason. Yet, the holidays are always going to come around and I don’t want to be the emotional mess every time. I don’t want my daughter to be the emotional mess every time. Can this not be fixed. Can we do something to fill the empty chair.

Mindfulness is about being in the now. Not reliving the past, nor fretting about the future. When we practice mindfulness, our anxiety is reduced. Our breathing becomes deeper. Our focus centers around what is happening right there; what you have created is experienced. Our Thanksgiving dinner was a combination of no pressure, good food and drink and all of us being there in spirit. We did not talk about the upcoming what ifs. We did not reminisce about the level of how much we miss our boys. We sat, in the present moment. We were subconsciously mindful.

Grief is a part of our lives. Perhaps we can practice mindfulness during the holidays to help ease the pain that these times bring. We will always miss our loved ones. We will never forget what has happened, our reality. But if we can try to create moments that are filled with what brings us peace and then sit still in those moments, perhaps this practice can bring us closer to truly feeling our loved ones in the chair beside us. And if that can be the feeling, then the chair is not as empty.

The Necklace

November 20, 2022 / Mama Fish

I have been purging the many bins we put in storage when we moved. These were items we did not use but one day might. They are items once loved, but not anymore or gifts we received and keep although we don’t need or want any longer. It is easier to store than to purge. Then there are the bins that contain the kids’ baby stuff. It’s these bins that get me. Especially Zane’s.

I was the mother who scrapbooked their entire life. One book for the school years for each child, another of life in general. I had a photo album for each of random pictures they might enjoy. The intent was to give it to them to share with their mates and their children.

I giggle when I go through Payton’s. I put aside mementos to share with her. I pack up precious dresses that she once wore, for her (future) baby. It is melancholy but a sweet melancholy. She is here to share these memories with me and to hold the physical reminders in her hands.

With Zane’s, each quote, I read of the things he used to say to me, I begin to cry. In a calendar of his 4^th year, I had recorded on Mother’s Day that Zane hugged me. He said, “this is your first gift Mimi, do you like it?” And then the following month, I said to him I was wondering what to get his father for Father’s Day. And he answered, “what about a hug? You liked yours”. Each of these quotes, each picture, I am flooded with what was happening at that time. All the joy and wonder of his wee life. His favorite camp shirt, his teddy bears, his beloved mickey mouse jacket.

He would not take that jacket off; it was his favorite. The soft brushed cotton now feels like silk with all the years of wear. It is still in great shape. I hold it up. Was he really this small once? And as I bring it in to hug it, I can feel him and from deep inside me escapes a wail of pain and the flood gates open wide.

As I am bent over the bin in tears, something shiny catches the corner of my eye. It is a silver box. I put the jacket down, wipe my face with the back of my hand and reach in to pick it up. I open it and find a necklace. It is a silver heart with turquoise insert. I recognize it. The memory of Zane comes alive, and I am sitting next to him. He is showing me this necklace. He is in his early teens. I asked who’s it for. He says, “I’m not sure. I thought it was for my girlfriend but that’s not it.” I said it was pretty and anyone would enjoy it. He smiled.

I never knew what happened to that necklace. He never said. And I don’t know how it ended up in a bin of his baby things. Did Zane know that there would come a day that I would be missing him as I went through his baby things, to find this piece which would bring me comfort in that moment? I am sure he did not. But he did know then that he was meant to buy that necklace and he did. He knew not who it was for but that it was for someone, and he was comfortable buying it knowing only that. He believed the answer would reveal itself in due time. That was all he knew. And it was good enough.

Sitting alone, holding this piece of jewelry, I smiled. Maybe it was for me. We just didn’t know it at that time. Maybe the Universe gave Zane an intuitive push to buy and hide the necklace in his baby things. Maybe Zane did, thinking someday, the two of us would find it when we were going through his things together. The Universe knew better. I put it on and smiled. “Thanks Zaney, for showing your love in so many magical ways.”

Letting Love Ease Grief

November 13, 2022 / Mama Fish

I’m not sure who dictates how much goes onto one person’s plate, but I wish they’d recalculate. This year has been brutal on our family. The loss of Dan, my cancer, the loss of Kim, the life and death health struggles of close friends, and now two more friends want to check out.

We heard of their desire back in the spring. Both suffer major health ailments and life is no longer the quality they hope for. After much conversation, we convinced them to investigate moving back to Calgary into an assisted living community and enjoy our health care support as well as the love of their family and friends here. They liked that idea. I was relieved. We found a place and made plans to fly them out to see it. These are lifetime friends who, when we are together, none of us remember that our health is crappy, and we are in pain. There is laughter and shared memories and time flies in their company. Their friendship is therapeutic. This was a good solution for however many days or years they have left here. Then we got a call from their son. Assisted death is back on the table. Why?

A cat scan showed two more tumors in our friend. He is done. He is too tired to struggle for the slim chance that he may last a couple more years. His life has been a good one and he wishes to go out on his own. She feels the same way about her health, although hers is better. I think it is that she does not want to be here without him. They are two peas in a pod and have never been separated.

There is a part of me that gets this and then there is the selfish side of me that screams, NO. I don’t want anymore loss in my life. Especially when it is chosen. I don’t want to have to be at another funeral and taking care of estates and personal wills (we are the executors) and selling their home. I am sick. I don’t have enough energy to get out of bed lately. I can’t do this. Grief steps in and blinds me. It zaps the energy and the understanding that I have friends who are suffering and want to end it.

Grief is a personal journey, and can be at times, a selfish journey. When it is loud, it consumes us to think only of ourselves; that life is unfair, we are hard done by and why me. It is at this time, that we must stop and let love come in. Love takes grief into its arms and holds it. It whispers, “everything will be ok. We got this.” It opens our eyes to a larger understanding and stirs up empathy within our hearts to listen and not judge. Love can calm grief.

So, I sit in my chair, and I listen to love. I think of the many wonderful memories I will always have. I feel gratitude that I have these friends and I ask for strength to be with them when they carry out their wishes. I feel my grief lessen and the energy I will need peeks over the distant horizon of my own anguish. I tell grief that I am aware it does not leave and thank it for momentarily letting love ease its sharp edges.

The Highest of Bittersweet

November 6, 2022 / Mama Fish

We have been planning my daughter’s engagement for months. Every detail from décor to menu centered around her and her fiancé’s love of horror films, the reason the engagement party was held on Halloween night. It will be her wedding day, next year. Halloween is also the favorite holiday of her brother’s.

I had no idea as we planned, excited about each part, how this event would affect me. I thought I was good. It was about them. It was not about Zane. And yet, at the end of the night, I am in hysterics on the drive home, grief exploding inside me as I cried out how much I miss Zane. I gasped through my sobs, “this is the highest of bittersweet”. I was not prepared for this reaction in the least.

My husband, who gets and has been witness to my grief bursts firsthand, joked it being about the alcohol. (He knows the truth of grief; he lives it with me). And my retort was, there is always alcohol in our house, and I have not had this feeling other times when the same or more was consumed. Albeit I am sure it does not help; I cannot blame the entire episode on the fact I had ‘too much’. Sometimes a grief burst will happen in the morning, getting groceries with a coffee in hand. We don’t blame the coffee. Sometimes it happens in a park during a dog walk, we don’t blame the dog. No, I do believe that the triggers of grief are more soulful than what you are consuming or doing. Grief is sneaky. It waits in the corners of your life to come out, sometimes when you know it will, and sometimes it surprises you.

How do we prepare for these dreadful surprises? We are told when we are attending events that we know might trigger our grief, to have a plan b. Make sure you have an exit plan. Stay for a shorter time or don’t go at all. (My husband would add, don’t drink wine with jello shots!) But what do you do for those other events that these ideas can’t be used. How do I not attend the wedding of my daughter? How do I not attend the baby shower of a friend’s grandchild? I am still here. These are the sweet moments of life I used to relish. They will still happen, and I want to be a part of them. They are also the moments that my grief uses against me. Reminding me that Zane will never have an engagement party to plan. He will never dress up for Halloween again. And I will never have a mother son dance at his wedding. These are the sharp bitter moments that the sweet moments remind me of. The irony is suffocating. All the work to learn to live with our grief and feel joy again is deflated in each sweet moment because grief reminds us that how we live is also bitter. Painfully bitter.

Maybe time will help. I’m not sure about that. After all, it has been four years, but Halloween night, I ached, and I cried to the heaven’s as if it was the first night. Maybe, what will help, is just being aware of this reality. Maybe just knowing that yes, I will have sweet moments that I will not want to miss but with sweet moments there is a bitter side. Maybe acknowledging that, truly, deeply accepting this is how life now is. Maybe that will prepare me for the ascend to the highest of bittersweet moments. And perhaps, if I remind myself that Zane is still here, standing next to us during these moments, I can begin to enjoy them more and ache less. With time and practice, maybe I can lessen the height of bittersweet.

A Toast to Kim

October 23, 2022 / Mama Fish

Kim and I sat together on his patio one sunny Ontario afternoon. He and my sister-in-law, Shalley, had just moved into their renovated bungalow overlooking Rice Lake. There was a flurry of people arriving; loud chatter and food being prepared for the masses. It was a typical day for Shalley, her desire to celebrate each moment morphs a quiet family dinner into a community potluck every time! I enjoy this but it was a new concept for Kim, a quiet and gentle soul whose love for Shalley brought him many new adventures.

He looked over at the semi-organized chaos and said to me, “is it always like this?” I patted his hand and said, “yes, always, but you’ll get used to it”. His face was thoughtful. He took a sip of his beer.

Kim did get used to it. In fact, he relished in it. The open-door policy to which a non-stop parade of family and friends would land to bask in their hospitality. Kim, in his chair, engaging you in light conversation of an array of topics, a good and insightful listener, always with an “oh yea” affirmation accompanied by a soft chuckle.

Kim’s way of letting everyone else take center stage while he cheered and applauded you makes you feel special. His quiet demeanour refreshes you. Young and old love to be close to Kim-his soul inspires.

And like he lived; Kim passed one beautiful morning. Quietly, peaceful, in his favorite chair with his dog by his side. It was unexpected. But then Kim was an unexpected bonus to our family. We will miss his physical presence, the escorted country-side tours in his Model-T car, the afternoons hanging out in his man-cave.

Family and friends will gather to share stories and celebrate the person he was on earth. As the crowd grows bigger, the laughter and conversations will rise to the heavens where Kim will be watching. Perhaps with a cold beer. I can hear him say, with a warm smile, “it’s always like this”.

Thank you, Kim, for motivating the rest of us to appreciate the beauty of a sunrise, the wonders the day might bring, and to understand the peaceful joy of a sunset over the still lake. I look forward to visits with you from your new realm.

Finding Your New Normal

October 16, 2022 / Mama Fish

At a recent check-up, my nurse expressed I was healing slowly but assured me things would get back to normal in a month or two. I left the hospital thinking how many times I have heard this. “When things are normal.” What does that even mean?

In grief, normal leaves our lives the day our loved one dies. Those around us wait, hope, and encourage us to get back to normal. They want, sometimes need us to be the way we were. Change shakes up normal. That can be scary for everyone. It also puts an invisible guilt on those of us trying to get back to normal but not able to; we begin to think what’s wrong with me.

I started to remember about how futile my attempt to get back to normal has been. First with my grief and now my current physical health. Nothing will ever be normal again. Normal, for me, was killed four years ago and if I had any hope to believe I would get it back, that was removed with a bilateral mastectomy. I am so far away from the normal I lived before all this, that the idea of ever having it back angers me because I know it is impossible. It brings up the questions all over again of why and life plans and how do I get past this? Typical questions anyone of us ponders when faced with an unwelcomed twist.

The truth is there is no normal after a major change. It exits loudly and with no compassion that you yearn for things to be the same. Life becomes so different from what normal was that any resemblance of before is lost. This is a common feeling for those having no choice but to face the changes fate hands them that are life-altering.

So, let’s quit trying to be normal. We are not the same person that was aligned with that normal. We are different now. In our grief journey we are discovering new things about ourselves. We are finding new ways to cope. We understand the need for change. Change from what was normal. Changes that enable us to survive and hopefully, one day, thrive. Let’s take this empty hole, this day, this life and let’s look for what can be molded into a new, and yes different, but tolerable normal.

What would that look like for you? What little things could you bring into your daily routine that eases your pain and can become a new normal. Grief trains us to take small steps. What small steps can you make towards a new normal? We can look at this as an opportunity to bring into our lives pieces of comfort that we didn’t before because of a hundred excuses. Throw away those now. We have a solid excuse to create a new normal. Take what life has given to you, and design a new normal that honors you, honors your loved ones. Find a normal that fits the changes you did not ask for. Maybe with a little faith your new normal will have less stress, more peace, and a bit of joy.